23: Made

Made

~ZEV~1

He could feel Sasha staring at the side of his face. He kept his eyes on the dirt road ahead, not because he needed to, but because he couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze and possibly see her rejecting him. She'd already been through so much and now he was throwing this at her?

But she wasn't going to understand the rest without knowing this. He had no choice. The moment he'd decided to get her out from under Nick's nose, he knew he'd have to tell her. All of it. 

Five years ago, he'd had a plan to do exactly that. 

After the first time they'd slept together—the first time she'd slept with anyone—he'd been so in love, so determined to figure out how to make it all work out with her, he'd decided to reveal it all. It was the one thing he was never to do, under any circumstances. But he was going to do it for her. And somehow Nick had figured it out. He'd made sure that moment never came.

Well, Nick could get fucked. If she was going to reject him, she was going to do it knowing the full story of who—and what—he was, what he was capable of, and what he'd done. 

But here he was, shoulders hunched and unwilling to meet her eyes because he was a coward. His heart raced. 

He'd imagined telling her this countless times. In countless ways. Never like this, though. He'd even dreamed about this moment—and had nightmares about it too.

In the good dreams he'd seen her eyes soften and her voice become gentle. She'd asked, intelligent, probing questions, then gathered him into her arms and kissed away his fear.

In the nightmares, she'd shrunk away from him, screaming.

Now, here they were, for real… and she'd gotten very quiet. 

He risked a glance at her from the corner of his eye, but she wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking at the road ahead, too. Her lips pressed tight. 

"Explain what you mean?" she asked calmly. 

He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, then gave her the biggest, deepest secret of his life: His existence.

"For a long time, the government has been experimenting with combining the DNA and genetic material of humans with animals. The original goal was to create soldiers that could fight better and longer than a normal human. 

"They had a variety of results, some good, some… really not. About fifty years ago they had some real success—human beings that look like human beings but aren't. They have the senses and some… capabilities of their animal counterparts."

He braced and turned to look at her, found her staring at him, her face unreadable. "They call us Chimera. And we're real."

She just stared. He waited, but she didn't say anything.

"Sasha," he started with a sigh, but she blinked and shook her head. 

"Keep going. Tell me."

He took a deep breath and turned back to the road. "Okay… so, those early experiments were encouraging, but the resulting Chimera couldn't reproduce. Making us is very expensive and a little… unorthodox. So, they wanted to find a way to increase our numbers that wasn't so difficult. Over the next twenty-five years they tried a lot of different things. Then… then they made me."

"They made you."

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Scientists, mostly. Some animal researchers, and genetic engineers… there was a whole team, I guess. I don't know. I haven't met them all."

"And what did they make you? I mean… what were they trying to do? This super-soldier, or whatever?"

His hands tightened on the steering wheel so that it flexed under his grip. He had to force himself to be careful or he was going to break it. "Sort of. Their goals had kind of shifted by the time they got to me." No pun intended, he thought. But it was too soon for that part. 

"Shifted to what?"

"By that time they didn't just want mindless fighters anymore. They wanted people who were… better."

"Better at what?"

It was hard not to smile. "Everything," he said sheepishly. But she didn't return his smile. 

"Can you be specific, please?"

He sighed. He'd tried over the years to think of ways to tell her this that wouldn't sound like something out of a science fiction movie. But he'd come up blank.

The only thing he could think to do was show her. "Can I have your hand for a second?" he held out his palm. It was an unintended echo of the moment earlier in the night… the moment when she'd turned away and cut out his heart. 

She stared at his open palm, then met his eyes confusion and fear mingled in the shadows of her gaze. 

He sighed. "I won't hurt you. I want to… smell your hand."

"Smell it?" Her shock—and juvenile gross-out expression would have been funny if he weren't serious. 

He just nodded and waited. A moment later she slid her fingers into his hand. He almost kissed it. But instead, he lifted her palm and held it to his nose. She was tense and resisted when he might have brought it close enough to touch his face, but it didn't matter. He had what he needed.

"I guess French toast is still your favorite?" he said quietly, surprised by the wave of nostalgia, the dozens of images he had of her grinning at him over a syrupy plate from their high school days.

She blinked. "Yes, but you knew that. Good guess."

"Do you think I guessed you had it for breakfast this morning—with breakfast sausage and… bananas.. Interesting choice." 

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