Lyle throws his head back and cackles. It reminds me of the first day I saw him, shirtless in the street and hurting people. A manic energy is building inside him as he speaks. “No, you little dumbass. The Gatling guns. A new standard. Human beings, perfected by our own technology. Only to be wielded by the chosen few. Not by the sheep but by those who are better. Those who are willing to make it to the stars through blood.”

“Oh,” says the kid.

The teenagers are glancing at each other now. Panic starting to build. Lyle keeps going. My teacher instincts are kicking in, and now I’m thinking about how to get the two of them out of here.

“I won’t lie and say the procedure isn’t painful, because it is. Gonna be a lot of bleeding. Lot of drilling and sawing. When it’s over, y’all gonna have a big old mark right here.”

Lyle taps the dot on his temple.

“Everybody is going to know exactly what you are. Only they won’t know what you’re capable of. Not at first.”

The smaller kid is starting to squirm under his duct tape. His breath is coming in quick shallow gasps. It’s pathetic and I don’t want to see Lyle torture them anymore.

“So you see, guys,” I interrupt, “you don’t want to do this. Why don’t you just go back home and forget about it?”

Shaking my head at Lyle, I kneel next to the blond kid’s chair. Start ripping off the duct tape.

“C’mon, what’s the matter?” asks Lyle, throwing his arms out.

“Well,” squeaks the small one. “Can we get it so that … I mean, we can’t have anybody know.”

“Whatcha talking about? Spit it out, kid,” says Lyle.

The big one blurts, “Can you do it without the maintenance nub? On the temple? Otherwise our folks’ll find out. We’ll get in trouble. You understand, right? I mean, we don’t wanna be amps.”

That word “amp” just seems to lie there like a dog turd on the carpet. I urge my fingers to move faster on the duct tape. These kids are brainless and Lyle is unpredictable and the whole combination is going to explode any second.

Lyle chuckles harshly. “Amps, huh. We sure wouldn’t want that. Talk about wanting your cake and eating it, too. Ain’t that right, doctor?”

“Meaning no disrespect, sir,” says the blond one.

“No can do, little amigo,” says Lyle. “No nub means no fixing the implant. Have to cut your head open every time we need to adjust the contacts. Besides, you gotta coat that thing with bio-gel. Otherwise the inside of your brain scabs up until the whole thing shuts down. Lights out.”

A knock comes from the flimsy door, hard enough to shift the walls of the whole moldy trailer. I hear the wet wood splintering.

“That must be our nurse,” says Lyle.

He dances across the room and yanks the door completely open. At first, I think it’s dark outside. Then I realize the Brain is standing in the doorway, huge and slump shouldered. Both the kids blink in fear, trying to grasp the size of this human being.

I finish freeing up the blond kid. Move on to the smaller kid. Curious faces are gathering in the clouded window.

The Brain steps inside, plywood floor groaning under his weight. He says nothing. Leans forward to avoid brushing his bald head against the mold blooming on the ceiling. In this enclosed space, the sound of his breathing is epic. It’s like being locked up in a room with a prehistoric animal.

The kid in front of me starts squirming harder.

Lyle shakes his head at me. “Wanna do good cop, bad cop, huh?” He holds up three fingers on his right hand, preparing to activate his Zenith. Three. Smiles at me, lowers a finger. “All right then.”

Two.

“No, Lyle,” I say. “Why?”

One.

“We’re sorry,” sputters the younger one, wriggling to get his hands free. “It was his idea. He dared me to come.”

Zero.

Lyle’s eyes go hard and mechanical. Like somebody blew out the candle in a jack-o’-lantern. Face gone slack, he spits out his words in a torrent. “Did you little reggies think you could just show up here and we’d welcome you in? Make you one of us?”

And then Lyle’s face is inches from the blond kid. I blinked and while my eyelids met, Lyle moved. I keep tearing at the duct tape, frantic now.

“You can’t be one of us,” says Lyle. “You haven’t got the grit. Your hearts are full of fear. You dumb fuckers belong in that field, holding on to a spotlight like it was your dick. Afraid of the dark and for good reason. You better keep that spotlight burning bright. Because there’s something out there in the dark. Something dangerous. Not fully human.”

Lyle smiles and his canines flash. There’s that dullness again in his eyes, like he’s acting or watching this unfold on television.

I’m done. The kids are both free.

The smaller one looks over my shoulder at the window. I follow his gaze and see Nick’s face. He’s got the Rubik’s cube in one hand and the windowsill in the other. A moist Band-Aid still clings to his forehead. No emotion on his face. I can’t tell if he’s happy to see these bullies punished.

“Enough,” I say. “C’mon, Lyle.”

I reach for Lyle’s shoulder, but he isn’t there. Now he’s standing in the middle of the room. The way he moves is sickening, fast.

The little kid’s lips are shaking. “I’m sorry about Gunnin’ Billy,” he says to me. “He told us to watch the field.”

The bigger kid shoves him, and the little guy shuts up.

Only now do I realize my opportunity.

“Billy?” I ask. “His tattoo. What does it mean?”

No response.

“Answer me,” I say, “and I’ll make him stop.”

Blurry faces crowd the window. Lyle doesn’t look, but I know he sees them. He’s putting on a show for those gathered outside.

Lyle breathes in hard through his nose, savoring the fear. “It’s me out there in the dark, boys. Me and mine. And we’re not human. Not like you. We’re better than human. Better than you.” Lyle taps his temple. “Scared little rabbits. I can feel your hearts all aflutter. I can make them freeze up just by thinking about it.”

The blond kid has started shaking. The trailer is warm and moist as the inside of a fresh-cooked biscuit, but he’s got his sunburned arms wrapped around his torso and his elbows are bouncing around like he’s riding in the back of a pickup truck.

Lyle curls two fingers back and makes his right hand into the shape of a gun. He steps back, extends his arm all the way, and lowers it. Points directly at the middle of the blond kid’s heaving chest.

“What’s the symbol mean, kid?” I ask. “Elysium? The EM? What?”

I’m a ghost to Lyle, invisible. Not part of whatever show is playing in his mind.

“Ready to die, kid?” he asks. “The United States Army gave me this power. They did this to me. Took away my life and made me good for one thing: killing.”

The little one has started crying. Eyes closed, hands unbound but down at his sides anyway. Helpless in the shadow of the Brain. “It’s a secret club,” he blubbers. “They call it Elysium. Billy and them have special meetings and stuff. Only the ones with the tattoo get in. I don’t know nothing else.”

“Shut up!” shouts the big kid.

Eyes half lidded, Lyle presses his fingers into the big blond kid’s chest. “You are going to die today,” he says.

The blond kid whimpers, shaking uncontrollably now. “Please,” he’s trying to say in a strained whisper, “please, no.”

“Who’s in charge of Elysium?” I ask.

“Vaughn,” whispers the blond kid. “Billy knows him. He’s the boss. The spotlighters are out there because he said so. Please.”

Lyle lifts his hand. Then he abruptly drops it, presses his fingers into the kid’s chest. The kid takes a deep breath and holds it.

“Boom!” shouts Lyle, and bursts into a hyena cackle.

The blond kid shrieks. Keeps shrieking. Goes rigid and slides off the chair onto the soggy floor. Scrabbling and screaming. Eyes open but blind. His little friend slumps, sobbing in his chair.