—the vanishing of silence—
by Keenen Davis

WARNING
This novel contains strong language,
drug use and some adult situations.
 Viewer discretion is advised.

THIS IS A PREVIEW, WHICH DOES NOT INCLUDE 1:2-4.

Book One
part one
There are people in this world, different people, that have been marginalized and crucified since the beginning of time. We don’t ask to be born different. It’s almost unnoticeable, but we pass you on the streets every day. If you knew we were different, if you knew we were psychic, you’d treat us like everybody else does. Like we’re lowdown, spendthrift, good-for-nothing wastes of space. Instead of being considered human, we are considered weapons because of experiments the Operatives’ Division conducted in the early 1800s. According to Division’s research, about 20% of a civilization has psychic abilities, although each individual has one exclusively. Three percent of that twenty are called MIs, a term derived from the Latin multiplex ingenio, multiple abilities. These statistics label us according to what our abilities are. Watcher, Pusher, Sniffer, Bleeder, Porter, Wiper, Shifter— the list is illimitable. Division gave us those names while experimenting in an underground laboratory that, according to our Constitution, isn’t legal. They’ve been trying to accomplish what the Germans tried during World War I, to turn us into weapons for a psychic blitzkrieg all under a psychic commandant. Germany ultimately failed. Now Consigahria’s picking up the pieces.

Red and blue lights rotate like a helicopter’s rotor. Muffled sirens are shrieking, and I can feel their auras. They’re surrounding me, screaming deafening commands into my ears that I can barely hear. My entire body hurts, and I’m sure it’s beyond recognition by now.
“Do you hear me, boy?!” I can hardly make out the words from the ambience. “I asked you your name!! Are you suddenly deaf?!” His rough voice echoes. And then there is an ear shattering scream, and the cold pavement suddenly punches me in the face. Or his baton. Same difference. Everything is starting to fade to black, and my heart rate’s slowing. I feel relaxed, but I know my body is still in pain, an indescribable pain that one would have to experience to fully comprehend its intensity.
“He’s had enough,” a female voice calls to him. “It’s time to stop.” I feel the cold plastic of the man’s baton kiss the back of my head, and it hurts, but not as bad as I expected. “Stop, Ralph, before you kill him!”
And suddenly everyone is gone. I can’t see anything. Not physically, and not psychically. Black.

My head pulses intrusively, bringing me back to reality. I open my eyes to a reddish-pink sunrise as I grip my head. Ow... I am in a room I’ve never seen before, a room with pure white walls on which hang pictures of oceans and random diplomas. I look around. There’s a television in a cabinet surrounded by a few candles. I’m lying in the comfiest bed I’ve ever had contact with, and there is something cold pressed against my forehead. To my right is a shimmering machine I’ve only heard about from my friends who have been to this place. I’m looking at an electrocardiograph machine—I’ve studied them from time to time when I was younger. It gives a steady beep, which means my heart is beating. I seem to be healthy. But I’m lying in a hospital. Great. My awe turns to sorrow as the sobering fact reoccurs to me. I’m in here because of the Operatives’ Division of the Just Monocratic Commonweath of Consigahria.
My family, it seems, have always had a vendetta against majestic forces, especially Division and the police, and the same resent is likewise. My uncle always described them as the enemy, and now I knew why. I don’t know how long I have been here—I hope it was just over the night—but the last time I was on the streets, I was buying a bag of silencium from my friend Brendan. Shortly after, we were both arrested and interrogated. “What’s in the bag? It looks like crystal meth.” They didn’t even let us explain what it was. Instead they wanted ID. I didn’t have my ID card with me, but Brendan gave his at the double. An officer got in my face and demanded I give him mine, and I told him as gently as possible that I didn’t have it. Suddenly he drove his fist into my solar plexus, causing me to double over, gasping for breath. I still felt the tingle… And yet, Brendan would see this as punishment for disobedience, which was definitely a credible excuse for assaulting a civilian in the eyes of the First Legislation. Brendan’s father was a legislator, so Division couldn’t keep him for a misdemeanor for very long. His father would always bail him out.
After Brendan was arrested and carted to jail, I was told to stay on my hands and knees. It was almost like the officer truly believed I was lower than him. I raised my head to look at him, to get a good look at his face because I’d refused to look at him before this. In response, his steel-toed boot made contact with my jaw, and I howled out in pain, doubling back. He then pinned me to the concrete by my throat, screaming obscenity after obscenity, and forcibly turned me over so my jaw and gullet would rest on the cold concrete as he shouted insult after earsplitting insult. A sharp pain shot through my spine, and my toes went numb. It hurt. He pushed my hands into my lower back and put his knee on the back of my skull in a military-grade lock. The sound that left my mouth was piercing—I didn’t even recognize that I’d made it—and the carbon dioxide leaving my lungs had a bitter, iron taste. I didn’t even resist when next cold metal rings latched themselves to my wrists. I was bound. Abused.
I didn’t even resist when the officer sat me up and demanded my name. But I was lightheaded and didn’t hear him at first, so he slapped me, and my glasses shot into the distance like a bullet. Once again he demanded my name. Now, remember, my jaw was almost broken because this dude kicked me in the face… I tried to enunciate my name, but it only came out as a broken, grotesque whisper.
Assuming I refused to answer him, he drew back as if I’d pulled a gun. He moved like oxygen. You feel it moving around you and changing the temperature around you, but you can’t see it. Just then I felt the worst pain a human being can ever experience. It was unbearable. My skin felt aflame, and my vocal cords let out an inhuman bellow that I didn’t authorize, which brought me back to the pavement, the coldest, hardest, bleakest pillow.
A knock on the door tears me from my reverie, and I shut my eyes. My psychic ability allows me to see things a normal person wouldn’t, so I base my Camera above the door and watch a blonde woman walk in. She’s wearing a Division uniform—black running shoes designed to look professional, flexible black slacks, a white polo shirt, and a black trenchcoat with the officer’s insignia on the lapels. But this you never see in this part of Consigahria—this woman was wearing sunglasses. Maybe if I pretend I’m asleep, she’d leave me alone. Most Division operatives are psychics, however, and I don’t know her ability. So I try to keep my heart rate down, breathing deeply, slowly, while my Camera watches her.
The woman picks my jacket off the floor and notices it’s bloodstained. She rubs two fingers up and down the lapel where there is a little blood and smells it, causing her eyes to roll to the back of her head. She’s a Division Sniffer.
She speaks into her lapel.“This blood is from yesterday, July 20th.” That must have been the date of my arrest. Or rather, my initial hospitalization. Or both.
Generally, a Sniffer can smell an object and tell you where it’s been. She walks to the sink underneath the cabinets in the corner of the room and washes her hands. The cabinet has a diploma that catches my eye, but I have to squint to see it: Greetings from Vermillion City. I was brought to Vermillion City? My injuries must have been substantial, because I was transported about 130 miles southeast of where I was. I must have been airlifted.
“I know you’re not asleep,” she says in a calm voice as the water hisses against her hands. I figured she would. “Sit up,” she commands. I don’t move. “I said, sit up.” I still don’t move. She speaks into her lapel. “He’s awake and code 10.”
The door opens again, and a man dressed in the same outfit comes in. “Don’t make this difficult, Gabe.” He knows my name. He doesn’t sound or look like the one who arrested me, but I don’t trust it. For all I know he could have Shifted his face and voice. I just lay still. Then suddenly, something wraps itself around my body near my chest, and it sits me upright! I open my eyes as the cold towel drops from my forehead to my lap. My Camera instantly disables itself, revealing the man staring right at me, pupils bright red, like when you shine a Flashlight into a dog’s eyes, and sending his Shockwave to bind me. He is a Mover, a telekinetic. The man sets his jaw and gives me a cold stare. “Insubordination is punishable by a night in prison, Gabe. Even you know that.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?!” I scream at him.
“Interrogation Specialist Martin Daese. Pleasure. In short, a Division operative. The equivalent of your local police force…just much more…” He flashes a sadistic smile. “…powerful.”
“We only want to help you,” the woman adds.
“I don’t need help from you,” I spit, “and fuck your police bullshit!”
“I didn’t say you needed my help,” he retorts with a snort. “We actually need yours. You know that silencium that you purchased at Krat's Club earlier this week?” My silencium… I go wide eyed. “Of course you do. Well, we had it tested, and the results are back. Would you mind telling me why your friend added an additive to it? You ought to know that’s illegal.”
“He didn’t add an additive,” I lie. “He was only keeping it for me. I went to Rose City to visit family, and I couldn’t take it with me. So I had him hold it until I returned.”
“How curious that you would pay him for that,” the man snorts. “You had a tenth of an ounce of marijuana in your pocket at the time of your arrest. That’s illegal too, by the way, which means you're probably lying.”
“A tenth of an ounce isn't illegal,” I strain out, “and I'm psychic—”
“Shut up,” he snorts. “I'm tired of your lies.”
Damn! He thinks I'm lying!
The only additive I added was harmless potassium, but yes, adding additives to silencium is illegal. But not for the reason they give you. According to the First Legislation, it’s illegal because it’s dangerous to any life. The real reason is, any additive can cause a chemical reaction that can strengthen your ability. Silencium is meant to stifle them by affecting your aura. If at birth you’re determined psychic, silencium is injected, which is designed to bind to your DNA and cause a gradual slowing of heartbeat and eventually death. The first dose of silencium causes you to convulse, and if you survive, they administer solvendium, which reverses the effects, but doesn’t get rid of the first dose. Why the drugs? Because the leaders of our nation who run the First Legislature are afraid of a psychic uprising.
I stare at the man with a heated glare as I calculate this in my head, and I don’t say anything else in response for a second. His next comment tears me from contemplation.
The man's expression softens a bit. “Tell you what,” he grumbles with a glower. “You tell me what was added to it, and I’ll make sure you aren’t charged with obstruction of justice. You’re already being charged with resisting arrest, possession of a controlled substance, insubordination and obstruction of investigation. I trust you’ll, uh…make the right choice.” He turns to walk out of the door, and the wall grazes his pocket. Metallic clinking.
My syringe.
“Uh, I need that,” I blurt out.
He freezes and shoots a glare at me. “Need what?”
“You have my syringe. I need it.”
“For what, shooting heroin? Do you think I’m that stupid? Damn druggie.” He sets his jaw, and he finally releases me, and then heads for the door. I stretch my arms. Like every other majestic I’ve ever seen—presumptuous and aggressive. I feel adrenaline instantly pump through my veins. I’ve seen this before. If I tell him no, I’ll never get the syringe back. If I tell him yes, I’d be lying, and he would add that to a list of grievances. I don’t have time to weigh the consequences.
“First of all,” I accuse, “I need that syringe, because if I don’t take my silencium, I will start deteriorating soon. Because you didn’t give it to me, you would be responsible for my death, right, sir? And second, you already took my weed, less than the previously decided illegal amount of an ounce, which I need as a pain suppressant so I can work and keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. You took that from me, which is probably why I have a migrane. Are you people trying to kill me?”
He stops just a foot short of the door. “This is evidence,” he half-shouts. “I have the right to take it if I have probable cause.”
“Okay,” I retort. “And this evidence pertains to what case?”
He hesitates before raising his voice, head turning in my direction with a lethal red halo. “The one where you will stand accused of resisting arrest, possession of a controlled substance, insubordination and obstruction of investigation! You little cretins are all the same!” His hands start sparking, giving me the signal that I’ve made the wrong choice. He glowers at me before storming to the door.
“Martin, calm down,” the woman beseeches him.
“Woman, I dare you!” he snarls at her, pointing a finger at her before psychically ripping the door open and stomping out like a child whose video game was just taken away.
“Forgive him,” the woman adds solemnly. “A psychic civilian killed his wife a couple years ago. The place smelled like cannabis.”
I eye her in awe. She’s actually apologizing for him? Of all the 3,000 majestics in this city, finally approaches the one Division operative with a heart. “That’s none of my business,” I murmur, “and that’s not my fault. Although...” My head pulses again. “Ngh!...” Ow. “Although, I probably am never getting that dime back, huh?”
She ignores that last question. Of course not. “The person who killed her,” she continues, “is actually behind bars right now serving a life sentence, so at this point, it’s nobody’s fault but his. But he still holds that grudge against all psychics and stoners alike, so don’t take it personally.”
“Whoa, wait a minute.” I give her a fault-finding squint. “Are you telling me this goofy-looking jackass comes out of nowhere like a cat out of a bag and calls every psychic in his vision a maggot, just because one of us screwed up and killed his wife?”
“Basically,” she drones, looking bored of the same old story. “It’s a traumatic thing.”
“The hell it is!” I half-shriek. This just made my day. “I’ve been through trauma time and time again, and I’ve never singled out a group and figured: oh, one of them was arrogant, so everyone who looks like him is arrogant as well! I mean, I dislike law enforcement, but instead of bashing every majestic I see, I ignore them! You have to be kidding me that he’s acting childish over the death of one person! And on top of that, he’s a Division operative? What is Goddard thinking?” I start laughing, and she grimaces at me.
“Clearly, none of your loved ones have died,” she sighs.
“Oh, that is so not the case,” I gasp. “I’ve lost countless cousins, my little brother and my parents because of majestics who thought they were breaking the law. The consequence of the exact opposite shouldn’t be much different.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t belittle a Division operative. Goddard is actually in the building.”
“Goddard? Let the bastard come! Gooooooddard! Oh, Goooooddard!” I call his name in singsong. I doubt Goddard’s here—there’s no reason!
The woman raises an eyebrow at me and cross her arms as someone knocks on the door. My heart drops into my stomach, choking off my laughter. The door opens, and in walks a tall black man. This would be Jamaal Goddard, Division’s commandant. Oh, crap. He eyes me hard, his pupils dilating and going back to normal quickly, a tool Pushers use called a Flash, and I can almost feel him read my past like a journal.
“I warned you, kid,” the woman says.
“So this is the kid my Watchers were telling me about,” Goddard says with a thick Jamaican accent, staring into my eyes, still Flashing. “Identify yourself. And don’t lie to me.”
“Go to hell,” I hiss, staring him down. He asks who I am because my ability hides that information. I won’t let him past. If he gets through, he will be able to access any memory of his choosing.
He stops Flashing for a second, his lip twitching lethally, before his pupils dilate to completely engulf his eyes, and suddenly my mind goes blank and fuzzy. “Tell me your name,” he commands, his voice echoing.
My reply is instantaneous and impulsive, the response effectively Pushed out of me. “Gabriel Pitocchelli.” I try to shake my head and rid myself from his spell, but I can barely move. I feel my eye twitch as his pupils slowly go back to normal. I turn away, scowling at the invasion as it waxes and wanes within seconds. Damn…
“It’s useless to resist me, Gabriel,” he says, his voice a low cheetah’s growl. “I’m the strongest Pusher Division has ever known, and they don’t keep me here wasting my time because I’m pretty. Now tell me why you’re here. If you don’t tell me willingly, I’ll force you to tell me.”
“That’s against the law,” I say, closing my eyes. “Consigahria’s Constitution prohibits any psychic from obtaining information—”
“Should I leave, sir?” the woman asks, cutting me off. I eye her, cold.
“No, Miranda, stay. This will be good practice for you.” Goddard speaks like I’m some kind of equipment designed for training cadets. Nothing else is said, but you could almost hear the woman’s aura reacting to something. I can only imagine she’s being Pushed. She follows directions and approaches me, as I predicted earlier. I set up another Camera, in the corner behind Goddard so he can’t Push me too.
“Where’s your friend?” she asks. I look up at her as Goddard has a seat nearby.
“You’re asking me?” I snort.
“We asked the police officer who kindly detained him for us,” the woman answers, “but sadly, they couldn’t be of much assistance. After he got there, someone Shaded him and he got away. It was actually quite impressive. Illegal, of course, but impressive. So we presumed you’d know his whereabouts. You do, don’t you?”
“Of course not!” I hiss. “How could I if I was knocked out shortly after he was in custody?”
“You’re a Watcher,” she drones.
What?! How the hell did she know that?! I can feel my heart drop a few more inches.
As if responding to my question, she adds a hint of excitement to her next statement. “Division has records of every psychic alive.”
I lie through my teeth. “I-I’m only a second generation. I can’t tell you where he is, but I can tell you where he might be.”
“You’re lying, Gabriel,” Goddard drones. “If you wanted to, you could tell me where anyone is. You have a very strong potential. A few of my Watchers say you’ll rival them, but in the end, you will be assimilated into Division as one of them. Lying is pointless, even to you.”
I look at him and blink, unconvinced, and remember he’s a Pusher. He’s able to make any lie he fabricates into the truth. As soon as I look into his eyes, they start Flashing. I look away.
“I, for instance,” he continues, “don’t have the patience, the time, or a reason to lie to you. You can make all the difference in our world. If only you knew about your mother.”
I shoot a furious look to him. “How dare you speak of the woman you cold-bloodedly murdered?!”
“It was an accident, Gabe,” he says, a passionate flame burning in his eyes. “Mistakes are made, and maybe a few lives are sacrificed in the process, but if it means saving a million more, I’ll take that chance. I’m in Division for a reason, Gabe.” He blinks at me. His eyes haven’t even shifted. “She was one of our best Watchers—that’s what you didn’t know.”
My eyes again go wide, before I catch his lie before it hits home. “You’re a liar.”
He takes a plastic card from his pocket and clears his throat, and a rainbow aura surrounds it as the woman levitates it to rest on my lap. It’s a Division Operative Identification Card, and it has her picture on it. Her name. Her rank. Even her ability. I look at Goddard, and in his eyes is a kind of remorse one only feels when they've lost someone close to them.
“Your mother was one of the best Watchers I had ever recruited,” he continues, “and I’m glad I did. She put up one hell of a fight. She helped catch some of the world’s most dangerous criminals. If she hadn’t have joined, you never would have been born. In fact, she would have died much earlier than what was destined.”
I look down to the bed as this sinks in. She used to be a Division agent? Sudden depression washes over me. Whoa...
“If you’d like, I can take you to her portfolio,” he says.
“Her portfolio?” I say, tears starting to form in my eyes. “What is that?”
“It’s a file we have that tells you about her entire life, her family, where she lived and when, who her children are and their whereabouts, and how she died and where.” He gets up.
“Yeah, I’d like to see it,” I say. I’ll take advantage of this opportunity. My mom died when I was seven years old. I sit up and set my feet on the floor. Goddard opens the door, and in walks two gentlemen in FBI-esque uniforms.
One of them speaks up immediately. “If you get up from that bed, you will do as we say immediately as we say it as a suspect who is cooperating. This will cut your sentence in half. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“You also were arrested earlier this week for resisting arrest, possession of a controlled substance, insubordination and obstruction of investigation.” I feel my stomach sink at the charges. “You have the right to remain silent. If you refuse this right, anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during investigation. After arrest always comes trial, in which if you don’t have an attorney one will be prearranged for you. Do you understand your rights?”
I nod again. I forgot they had to read you your rights of legal arrests as they arrest you.
The two men approach me and stand over me. I can see my reflection in their sunglasses, which make it damn near impossible to see even the whites of their eyes.
“Stand,” Goddard commands. I do as he says. “Take this boy to A151.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” the men say in unison.
“Turn around, little man,” the taller one says. I reluctantly do as he says. What is he doing? He handcuffs me. Of course. I don’t resist. “At this time, you are not under arrest. I’m detaining you for our safety,” he says as the other one puts a pair of glasses on me. They’re made of metal, and the glass lenses have a strange aura-manipulating effect. They curl around my ears, presumably so they don’t fall off.
We enter the hallway, and the two men walk behind me, one in my left flank and the other in my right flank. Goddard and the woman follow closely behind—you can hear their formal shoes clack against the linoleum floor. The hallway is lined with Greek pillars that have busts and pictures on them. The walls are littered with documents and pictures. We turn the corner. Now I know where we are. On the wall just before an elevator is the Division’s logo. This must be the headquarters. It was rumored to be in Vermillion. We enter the elevator, where they don’t let me turn to face the doors.
“Miranda,” Goddard tells the woman, “please ready a PMC report and have it sent to my office.” I wonder what a PMC report is. Maybe an acronym of a Latin phrase that means withdrawal or something. I try to focus my energy to peer into the future, but I find I’m drawing a blank. Odd. Are these glasses inhibiting my ability? That’s incredibly threatening. I look at the woman, who walks in the opposite direction into a nearby office, entering the dark room and closing the door behind her. I must have done it in a threatening manner, because both men constricted my wrists as if I’d try to get away.
Goddard enters the elevator and presses a button that reacts with a high-pitched ping, and the doors whoosh closed. The elevator heaves before it ascends up its chasm.
“Uh…why can’t I turn around?” I ask.
“Shut up,” the man at my right flank says.
I blink, confused, but don’t disobey. A couple minutes later, the G forces gently slow, and the doors open. They take me to a desk, where the man whispers in a different language I can’t understand to the receptionist.
“Turn around, Gabriel,” Goddard says behind me.
I turn to find Goddard’s pupils completely dilated, and suddenly the world fades to a black nothingness. I wake up tied to a post God knows how later, standing there completely naked. Um... I’m at the end of a blank hallway with white walls. I look around to find I truly am completely alone.
I close my eyes as if I’d wake up from this dream, and when I open them, Goddard is standing there just a few inches from my face. I jump out of my skin.
“Jesus H. Christ!” I pant. “Are you trying to give me a freaking heart attack?”
“Shut up,” he commands.
“Why am I tied to a post?”
“You’re going to die today.”
I pause, assuming I misheard him. “Fuck you say?”
“You’re going to die today, Gabe,” he repeats as the steady drumming of marching fades into audible range.
My heart sinks, threatening to fail. Miranda, the woman, walks in behind him, her heels clacking against the floor. “He is confirmed to be their son, and Grames confirms that he will indeed try to overturn Division if allowed to live.”
“What?!” I had no intention of overturning Division! How did this go from my arrest to my execution?!
“Dumb ass,” he growls. “Did you really think I was going to lead you to your mother’s ‘portfolio’? You must be stupider—or more weak-minded—than I thought. I murdered both of your parents because they were meddlesome idiots, and you’re going to join them soon enough, like father, like son.”
In the distance down the hallway, a group of people wielding assault rifles rounds the corner. Oh, shit! My pulse quickens, and I suddenly can’t breathe.
The assault rifles are in the operatives’ arms, and hatred is in their heartless eyes. They stand parallel to each other, standing perfectly still, while I shiver here. I look down, hoping this is just a dream.
“Goddard!” I shriek, tears threatening to fall. “This is messed up! You sick, sadistic son of a—”
“Ready!” Goddard commands, cutting me off, his voice echoing off the walls. The men suddenly aim their rifles at me, the guns making a sickening sound as they cock. “Aim!” The men steady their weapons.
I knew what was next. The very last words I would ever hear. He wasn’t even going to let me to my last words. No rights. None. None at all. I let a few tears fall. This is it. “Fire!”