Genesis. Volume 2

October 23, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Evening. Arthur sat at the kitchen table and stared at his hands. They lay before him on the worn oilcloth—pale, with chewed nails and a dark rim of dried blood beneath them. He didn't remember when he'd hurt himself. Maybe yesterday, when he'd gripped the dagger shard. Maybe an hour ago, when he'd tried to scratch something onto paper. Time had lost meaning, turned into a thick, murky sludge that flowed past without touching him. Two days since they'd returned from Chicago. Two days without sleep. Two days of looking at his father and not recognizing him. A sheet of paper lay on the table—pristine white, save for a gray fingerprint in the corner. Arthur had meant to write a list: what needed to be done before London. But the pencil had rolled to the floor that morning, and his fingers wouldn't obey. They just lay on the tabletop, foreign, like everything else. In the living room, the television murmured—a newscaster reading the news in a flat, faceless voice, the words dissolving into white noise. Mark sat in his armchair and stared at the screen, but Arthur knew he wasn't seeing a thing. Just sitting, as he'd sat for days. The way Arthur himself had sat. Sofia was washing dishes. Clattering plates, clinking forks—too long, too carefully, as if the cleanliness of those plates depended on something vital. Arthur could hear her breathing—heavy, with a wheeze. She wasn't crying. She just wasn't sleeping. Lisa was at the clinic. She'd had surgery, plates inserted, and tomorrow she was supposed to be transferred to Brookfield's local hospital. Jenny had said it would take months for her arm to recover. And she'd also said that Lisa was already learning to draw left-handed—tracing circles in her hospital notebook, crooked, trembling, but still circles. Arthur imagined his sister—right-handed since age five, holding a pencil before she could hold a spoon—trying to close a line with her left hand. The line she'd drawn on that stage had saved them all. And now she was learning again. For them. He didn't know what to feel. He'd stopped feeling altogether. Right after the dagger exploded, there had been pain—sharp, like a blade slipping under his ribs. Then numbness, heavy and cottony. And now—emptiness. Smooth, cold, like Julian Fairfax's eyes when he sat in his chair and stared at the wall. "I'm becoming him," Arthur thought. "Empty. Sealed. Only there's no monster inside. Just emptiness." He looked up. On the wall hung a photograph—the whole family at Lisa's birthday party. His mother, Lisa, himself. And his father—smiling, alive. Arthur stared at him and didn't recognize him. The features were right, but they didn't come together. Like a puzzle missing its center piece. "Arthur." He didn't turn. His mother's voice was quiet, but something new rang in it. Not exhaustion. Not fear. Resolve. "Arthur, look at me." He turned his head. Sofia stood in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on her apron. Her face was pale, dark circles under her eyes. In one week, she'd aged ten years. But her eyes burned. "Your father said you asked him for communication logs." Arthur nodded. "Why?" "To track Kane. He uses the old Fairfax lines. If I understand which channels are still active, I can..." "You can't." Sofia stepped into the kitchen. "You don't even know how a telephone exchange works. You just want to do something. Anything. So you don't have to think." "That's not true." "It is." She sat down across from him, the chair creaking under her weight. "You haven't slept in two days. You haven't eaten. You look at your father like he's a stranger. And now you're asking him for logs so you can play detective." "I'm not playing." "Then what are you doing?" Arthur fell silent. There was no answer. He did want to do something. Anything. Just so he wouldn't sit idle. Just so he wouldn't look at his hands. Just so he wouldn't think about the face that was gone. "I have to..." he began. "You have to what?" Sofia cut in. "Save the world? Stop the Sleeper? You're a child, Arthur. You're sixteen. You should be going to school, dating, arguing with your father about a broken headlight. Not..." She faltered. Her voice cracked. "Not what, Mom?" "Not burying yourself alive." Arthur looked at her. He wanted to say she didn't understand. That he wasn't a child anymore. That war didn't ask for age. That if he stopped, he'd lose someone else. Lisa. Max. Jenny. Emma. Everyone. But the words stuck in his throat. Because she was right. He hadn't slept. Hadn't eaten. Looked at his father and didn't recognize him. And the only thing left was to demand logs and build plans that might never work. "Can you hear me?" Sofia asked. "I hear you." "Do you understand what I'm saying?" "Yes." "Then answer me. Why do you need the logs?" Arthur dropped his gaze to his hands, to the dried blood beneath his nails. "Because I can't sit here and do nothing," he said quietly. "Because if I stop, I... I'll fall apart." "Fall apart?" "Inside." He touched his chest. "Here. I don't remember his face, Mom. I look at Dad and I can't remember what he looks like. I know he's my father. I feel it. But I can't see him." Sofia was silent. Her face grew even paler. "When the dagger shattered, it took the memory. The warmest one. I didn't know which one until I saw Dad on the doorstep. I looked at him and didn't recognize him. I knew who he was. But his face was... empty. Like I could see the outline, but inside there was nothing." "Arthur..." "I tried to remember. All night. I closed my eyes, looked at photos. In the photos, he's there. I can see his face in the photos. But in my memory—no. Like someone cut him out with scissors." Sofia reached out and covered his hand with hers. Her fingers were warm, rough from endless dishwashing. "It will come back," she said. "In time." "No." Arthur shook his head. "The dagger took it forever. Jenny said so. That's the price." "Then you'll make new memories." "Mom..." "You will make new ones." She squeezed his hand. "Right now, you look at your father and don't recognize him. But you will. Because he'll be here. Every day. Tomorrow, the day after, a month from now. And one day you'll wake up and realize his face has become yours again. Not the one that was stolen. A new one. The one you made yourself." Arthur looked at her. Tears stood in her eyes, but she didn't cry. She held on, the way she always had. "You're strong, Mom," he said. "I'm a mother. I don't have a choice." They sat in silence. Outside, darkness was falling. In the living room, Mark changed the channel, and the newscaster's voice gave way to music—old, unfamiliar, with a soft vinyl crackle. "You need to eat," Sofia said. "I'm not hungry." "I know. But you need to." She stood, walked to the stove, and ladled soup from the pot into a bowl. Steam rose from the broth, carrying bits of carrot and noodles. She set the bowl before Arthur. The smell was warm, chicken—the smell of home, which he'd nearly forgotten. Arthur picked up the spoon. Raised it to his mouth. Took a sip. He couldn't taste it, but the warmth slid into his stomach and spread from there. He took another sip. Then another. "Thank you," he said. "Don't mention it." She sat beside him, her hand on his shoulder. Arthur ate, feeling her warmth, and for the first time in two days, he felt like he wasn't alone. After dinner, he went upstairs to his room. Sat on the bed, staring at the wall, unsure what to do next. He didn't want to sleep. Couldn't draw—he didn't know how. Couldn't read—couldn't focus. His thoughts scattered like cockroaches from light. There was a knock at the door. "Come in." Max. He looked pale, dark shadows under his eyes, but he was holding up. His hands—clean—were shoved in his jacket pockets. "Hey." "Hey." "Your mom said you weren't eating." "I ate." "She said you weren't eating properly." "I ate properly." Max walked into the room and sat on the chair by the desk. He looked at the papers spread out—lists, maps, Lisa's drawings she'd left before leaving. "Getting ready for London?" "Yeah." "We leave in five days." "I know." "You haven't slept." "Neither have you." Max paused, then said quietly: "I can't look at my hands." "Why?" "Because I remember what they looked like covered in blood. Rachel's blood. It was everywhere. On my fingers, on my sleeves, on my face. I looked at her and felt... relief." "She betrayed us." "I know. But that's not an excuse." "It's the only one we have." Max looked up at him. There was pain in his eyes—not hurt, but exhaustion. "You've said that before." "And I'll say it again." Silence. The room was thick with it, only the clock ticking on the wall and the clatter of dishes downstairs. "Arthur." "Yeah?" "Do you really not remember his face?" "Really." "And what do you feel?" "Nothing." He paused. "That's the worst part. I should feel pain, fear, despair. But I feel nothing. Just emptiness." "Like Jack." "Like Jack." Max clenched his fists—his knuckles cracked. "We'll find a way. Kane said he could bring your memories back." "Kane is lying." "And if he's not?" "Then the price will be higher than I'm willing to pay." Max wanted to say something, but the door opened again. Mark Walker stood on the threshold. He looked terrible—pale, with red-veined eyes, unshaven stubble. He hadn't slept. He'd barely slept since Arthur came back. "Arthur," he said. "I need to talk to you." Max started to get up. "I'll go." "Stay." Mark shook his head. "This concerns both of you." Max sat back down. Mark entered, closed the door, and leaned against the wall—too tired to stand straight. "Your friend Liam called today. He said you're flying to London in five days." "Yes." "He said it's dangerous." "Everything we do is dangerous." "He said you might not come back." Arthur looked up. He looked at his father. At his face—stranger and familiar. At his eyes—green, just like Arthur's. "We'll come back." "You can't know that." "I can. Because I don't have a choice." Mark clenched his fists. His face flushed—not with anger, but with helplessness, that particular helplessness of a father who can't protect his son. "You're my son," he said. "You shouldn't be fighting. You should be studying, going out, falling in love. Not..." "Not what, Dad?" "Not burying yourself alive." Arthur looked at his hands. At the dried blood under his nails. "It's too late. I'm already buried." Mark stepped toward him. Arthur thought his father would hit him—or hug him. But Mark just stood before him, looking down. "You're not buried," he said. "You lost a face. But you haven't lost yourself." "How do you know?" "Because I'm your father. I know you better than you know yourself." Arthur wanted to argue—that his father didn't know him, that he never had. But the words stuck in his throat. Mark dropped to his knees—right on the floor, awkwardly, heavily—bringing himself to his son's level. "Look at me." Arthur looked. "What do you see?" "I don't know." "Look closer." Arthur looked closer. The shape of his head, his chin, his hairline—all familiar, correct, but inside there was emptiness. "I don't see," he said. "I'm sorry." "Don't apologize." Mark placed his hands on Arthur's shoulders—hot, heavy. "You don't see because the dagger took the memory. But that doesn't mean I'm not here. I'm here. I'm beside you. And I'm not going anywhere." Arthur looked at him. At his green eyes, at the wrinkles around his eyes—the very ones he couldn't recall. "You look like me," Mark said. "Same eyes. Same jaw. Same stubborn line to your mouth. When you're angry, you clench your jaw just like I do." "I know." "So you remember." "I remember words. Not the face." "Then remember now." Mark squeezed his shoulders harder. "Remember my eyes. My wrinkles. My smile. Make a new memory. One no one can steal." Arthur looked at him. At his face—stranger and familiar. At his eyes—green, like his own. At the wrinkles around his eyes—the ones he could no longer summon from memory. "I'll try." "Don't try. Do it." They sat like that—father and son—looking at each other. Max was silent. The room was quiet, only the floorboards creaking somewhere above. Later, when Mark had left and the door closed, Arthur was alone. Max sat on the chair, motionless. "How are you?" Max asked. "I don't know." Arthur rubbed his face. "But I think I'm starting to understand." "What?" "That a face isn't the main thing. What's inside is what matters." Max nodded. "Is that you being wise?" "That's me being tired." They both smiled. Weakly, without joy. But it was the first smile in days. There was another knock—soft, hesitant. "Come in." Sofia stood in the doorway. An old robe, her hair loose, her face like someone who hadn't slept in days. "Arthur, may I come in?" "Of course, Mom." She walked in, sat on the edge of the bed beside him. Max started to get up, but she stopped him: "Stay. You're part of this family too." Max sat back down. Sofia looked at Arthur for a long moment, then spoke: "Your father told me what you said. About the face." "Mom..." "Let me finish." Her voice was firm. "You lost your father's face. That's terrifying. I can't imagine what it's like to look at someone and not recognize them. But you need to understand one thing." "What?" "You're not alone. You have us. You have Lisa, Max, Jenny, Emma. And if you shut yourself off, you won't lose a face—you'll lose us." "I'm not shutting myself off." "You're not sleeping. Not eating. Sitting in this room staring at the wall. That's shutting yourself off." Arthur wanted to argue, but he couldn't. She was right. "What should I do?" he asked. "Live." Sofia took his hand. "Not survive. Live. Eat, sleep, talk. Even if you don't want to. Even if it hurts. Because if you stop living, you really will lose yourself." Arthur looked at her hand—warm, with chewed nails, with a simple gold ring on her ring finger. "I'll try." "Don't try. Do it." She stood, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. Her lips were dry, warm, smelling of the kitchen and exhaustion. "Goodnight, son." "Goodnight, Mom." She left. Max stood up. "I'll go too. Early start tomorrow." "Why?" "We need to get ready for London." "And tonight?" "Tonight—we sleep. Your mother's right. We need to live. Not survive." He walked out. The door closed. Arthur was alone. He sat on the bed, staring at the wall. His mind was empty—but not the emptiness from before. A different one. Quiet. Still. He lay down, pulled the blanket over himself. Closed his eyes. Outside, the wind was blowing. On the hill, in the Genesis mansion, a gray light burned. Someone with a red eye was watching the city. "We'll come back," Arthur thought. "I promise." He fell asleep an hour later. And he dreamed of nothing at all.