The Flip

1 ▸ The Prisoner

Next vacation, check out Warsaw, Poland (1944). Bloodbaths aside, it′s pretty neat.

Bullets ricocheted off the ruins of the cathedral, our backs pressed against the crumbling stone columns of the narthex we had stolen refuge in, under siege by relentless fire.

″Find an exit,″ I told Baylor, scanning the battlefield for the spârc, ″we′re sitting ducks.″

He nodded, manic excitement glittering in his cerulean eyes. ″Four against a battalion,″ he chuckled, squinting through shrapnel as he unloaded a magazine, ″tell me the odds.″

″Not good,″ muttered Milo. ″But make that five,″ they said in unison, as a duplicate materialised beside him.

I glimpsed the bombs from a mile above the cracked roof. ″Quinn,″ I called out, as the air crackled and split before me. She formed from the mist, not unlike the electric sparks that bounced off Milo′s body each time the Splice cloned himself.

″I see them,″ she affirmed, eyes on the sky. ″It′s an airstrike.″

″Jesus,″ Baylor huffed, ″they didn′t have to.″

Classic Baylor. He made the bombs sound like door gifts. ″I′ll take care of them,″ I said. ″I just need a boost.″

″Here.″ Quinn offered me her hand. I took it, feeling a surge through my body as her abilities became mine. Mist, the colour of her eyes, circled our entwined fingers like tendrils as I absorbed her magic. ″Hurry.″

I let go, gripping Baylor′s left bicep before abandoning cover. I felt a second surge, this time through my tendons and muscles as they hardened like Kevlar. ″I′ll be needing some of that,″ I told him, smirking as I shot into the air.

″I′m all yours,″ came my boyfriend′s voice, lost in the deafening demolition of the cathedral′s roof as the first of five bombs hit. I absorbed the blast, streaking across the sky like a comet. I felt all the heat, but none of the burn.

My armour sizzled. I sailed in an arc over the cathedral, hitting each bombshell seconds before it reached the ground. Instead of reducing the structure to dust and detritus, they detonated like fireworks.

My toes brushed the left spire, flames dancing across my face and body. My eyes, ringed by fire like a sun′s corona, flitted across the battlefield. I had underestimated the battalion we were up against.

Earlier, I had seen the Nazis as tiny, infrared specks as I scrutinised the square. Now, as I beheld them from above, I saw that their army stretched the streets that led to the central plaza, armoured tanks forming blockades as their artillery blazed.

I knew we could take them, but time was against us. Our mission had been simple; get in, get the spârc, get out. In less than an hour, the timegate would shift. Missing that window meant being trapped in 1944 until we located it, if we even could.

I tried the least sensible thing; diplomacy. ″Fellas!″ For a moment, they ceased fire and turned their dumbfounded heads to the sky. ″My friends and I are tourists,″ I trailed, to no avail; they focused fire on the flaming, flying boy.

Barrels rose as reticles adjusted, shells crumpling against my skin and armoured suit. ″Fine,″ I grumbled, crossing my arms in a swift gesture. It looked as if their tanks had been tied like puppets to my fingers, for they flipped on their sides and spun through the air.

I lowered myself onto the steps that led up to the cathedral, glimpsing both Milos sidelong. In a flash, the armoured tanks collided. Metal crumpled in an agonising screech, more gruesome than the sound of nails raked across a chalkboard.

″Kamikaze,″ Baylor observed, sliding an arm around my shoulders as the smell of gasoline filled the air. ″Nice one, babe.″

″Cut the PDA,″ said Quinn, as the wreckage ignited, ″there′s more of them.″

Indeed. For each tank I had decimated, three had taken its place. Gravel churned beneath their chain links, rocks and bombshells crushed as they cut through the army of soldiers. I backed up, shoulder to shoulder with my team as the Nazis tightened their ring around us.

″Great,″ one Milo grunted, the other finishing his sentence, ″any ideas?″

″I′m fresh out of those,″ I admitted. Beside me, Baylor bounced on his heels, fists up and ready to throw hands. ″Babe, stop.″

″I′m not about to surrender to these jerks,″ he protested. ″Yo, I need to speak to the boss!″

″Oh God.″ Quinn sighed through gritted teeth. ″Here we go again.″

In response, the frontline parted for a single Panzer III tank. From the hatch rose a man in a grey uniform tunic, but his moustache needed no introduction. ″Hail Hitler,″ I mumbled sarcastically, jabbing Baylor in the ribs.

″Oh, shit.″

″Übergebe,″ he commanded through a bullhorn, in the same mesmeric tone that made him one of the most influential and feared orators in history.

″Surrender,″ Milo translated. I often forgot the Splice was omnilingual.

″Fat chance,″ Baylor snorted.

″Ich weiß, dass du wegen des Jungen gekommen bist.″

″Kêton,″ came Milo′s strangled voice, edged and intimidated. ″He knows why we′re here.″

″Impossible.″ I shook my head, but the certainty in Hitler′s voice crushed mine. ″How?″

I know you came for the boy. He knew, even though he couldn′t have. ″It′s 1944,″ said Quinn, reading my mind. ″No one knows we exist.″

Our trips through time had gone unnoticed in history for millennia. Even these soldiers, despite having glimpsed and battled us first hand, would soon forget the encounter, courtesy of the Faze; a force that had shrouded the spârcs from humankind, until now.

Once more, the sea of soldiers parted. Men in metal suits hauled a shackled, dishevelled boy. He was stark naked, save for a tattered loincloth. Scars, both old and fresh, mauled his bare torso. His wrists and ankles were bound, rings like shallow cuts encircling them.

″It′s him,″ I said, under my breath; at first sight, no one would notice anything peculiar about him. Dark, ashen hair framed his face, high cheekbones gaunt from starvation. His skin had been abused, eyes bloodshot and bruised; it was those eyes that gave him away.

Like the eyes of all spârcs, they sparkled like stardust. Cobalt. I sensed the storm inside him and knew instantly why his captors bared no flesh in his presence. I felt the air fizzle and crack, charged as if a billion ions had materialised in the atmosphere.

His eyes were windows into a maelstrom of raw, untameable power. I found myself almost whispering as I spoke. ″Milo, tell them to free him or we′ll level their entire army.″

Both Milos swallowed hard, but relayed the message nonetheless. ″Freir ihn oder sterben.″

Hitler′s laugh, a nasty, mocking sound, sent chills up my spine. ″Nein.″

On command, the entire army aimed at the prisoner′s head.