Free Broken Angels by Harambee K. Grey-Sun

that those moments were gone, irrecoverable and irreplaceable. And I can tell you, from experience, that elements of fiction are necessary help heal certain wounds, improve certain conditions; they can save the little personal worlds of most men and women, and maybe even save the bigger one.”
    Several moments of silence passed after Zel stopped speaking. Robert felt like he’d been punched in the stomach and, in spite of it, wanted to say he was sorry. But, beneath it all, he also felt that Zel was still missing the point. There was a rage within. Within Darryl, definitely. Within Zel, maybe—maybe once upon a time. But in his partner, Robert knew there was still a self-loathing, a hatred for his very existence and everything he’d done before he lost his family, everything he’d done before he was left alone. Just like Vastion felt when he found out he was the seed of a false god, a god who made its worshippers sick, worshippers who in turn made their god sicker. Vastion coped by setting out to push the worshippers to indulge in acts that would consume them all. Zel coped by making complicated and dangerous toys, and would do so until the White Fire Virus consumed him. And Darryl? Whether it was mere hypnotism or more like a lobotomy, Robert knew it was wrong for Darryl to screw with anyone else’s mind, with or without their consent. And who knew what else he was doing with them? Hell, what were these women and men going on to do after Darryl had his way with them? Robert believed these so-called acts of charity were far worse than any one-night stand. After all, Vastion, the promoter of sexual terrorism, was Darryl’s poetic prophet. But Robert just didn’t know what more he could say to Zel at this point.
    The toymaker broke the silence.
    “Maybe you should meet with Vince, talk all this over with him. He can give you far greater insight than I possibly could.”
    “Yeah,” Robert said. “Maybe. Or maybe I should just—” He felt a sensation on his right wrist and looked at his watch. “Damn it.”
    “Problem?” Zel asked, rising from his seat.
    “Maybe. Adam wants to see me.”
    “Oh, must be important,” Zel said as Robert rushed toward the door. “If he’s sending you back out into the field, I’ll be here if you need to come back and borrow a yo-yo or something.”
    “Thanks,” Robert replied over his shoulder, “but I hope I won’t need to.”
    He stepped through the sliding door and entered a hall of The Burrow. With the exception of a couple of agents from other Watcher units, it was empty. Normal for a Saturday afternoon, and most other afternoons.
    The Burrow served as the central office of the Isaac-Abraham Institution and was comprised of three secure, mazelike floors located deep underground, beneath one of Northern Virginia’s many shopping centers. Like the toymaker’s workshop, the compound was a world apart from the greater world beyond it. Inside of its reinforced walls were things most people in the outside world would never see and would probably never understand. The IAI did, however, share the organizational structure of many other Washingtonarea nonprofits: a board, an advisory committee, and “researchers” like Robert.
    The Burrow housed offices for advisory committee members, conference rooms, and special training rooms for Watcher agents. In addition to more traditional offices, the Institution’s nine board members had their own personal workrooms. Zel, Adam, and some of the other board members even had their primary living quarters—fully furnished apartments—in The Burrow. There were also spare rooms that Watcher agents or “special cases” could use on a temporary basis.
    Adam Smith, the chairman of the board, had the initial idea for the IAI, primarily because he had no idea what had happened to his own children, or if he ever even had any. Like Robert, and Darryl, and Zel, and most everyone associated with the Institution, Adam was a victim of the White