They say the revolution will be televised. Cassie guesses that they only mean that if the revolution isn't top secret. On the other hand, the revolution is colored in neon markers on black paper. What does anyone expect from Cassie's prophecies? She's fifteen, almost sixteen; her birthday is in a week.
The revolution is in a week too. It's early. They're not ready. Also, she's totally going to get shafted for birthday presents.
"Fuck the revolution," mutters Cassie. Nick's snoring on the couch in their hotel room. He's leaving her alone with her visions. He's not awake and giving her grief about having the potty mouth to end all potty mouths, or tell her she's too young to talk like that. Even if she's not, and she's seen worse than she's ever said. Whoop dee fucking doo, she's a watcher.
She can see the future. The future sucks. She slumps back in her chair. She's in the kitchen, which is only separate from the bedroom by virtue of having yellowed linoleum instead of dingy carpet. She doesn't even get her own room, because they're on the run and there are only so many times they can use their abilities before they get caught. Getting caught? Possibly Cassie's worst nightmare ever. Worse than the tiger, even.
It's Nick's fault anyway. He says something or does something, and she doesn't stop him in time. That's what brings everything down. It all builds up into a moment of rage that has Cassie narrowing her eyes. She snatches up the nearest thing, a bright pink marker she used to draw rivers of blood, and hurls it across the room. Her aim is shit, though. It hits the wall and makes a dent, before landing on Nick's head and waking him up.
He bolts upright, crying out in alarm, and flings his hand out. Rainbow distortion shimmers out, shooting at the door, which buckles. "Wha--"
"False alarm," says Cassie. She crosses her arms and props her feet on the table. "It's not Division. Just a really sucky prophecy."
"Can't you ever make a good prophecy?" asks Nick. He's always a jerk when he wakes up, plus it's her fault, so Cassie ignores the grouchy face and sticks her tongue out at him. "What about a prophecy where we win the lottery?"
"I had one of those, but a Division agent killed us and stole the winning ticket," says Cassie. She smirks at him.
"Really?" asks Nick, staring at her.
"I just said so, didn't I?" said Cassie. Not really. But how's he going to know? "Who's the watcher in this partnership?"
"Good point," says Nick. His jaw cracks when he yawns, then he pushes himself up and stumbles over to the smallest coffeemaker she's ever seen. She hates stupid little cheapass hotels. "What's our next move, then?"
He starts coffee brewing. Cassie plans on stealing the first cup, and he'll let her do it. Nick lets Cassie get away with anything. He knows what it's like for her, at least about being alone in the world. Except neither of them are alone, not any more. It's her and Nick, always on the move, plus Kira, Emily, Hook, and Pinky meeting up with them when they need to. It's just her and Nick right now.
Hell, even Pop Girl gets in on the act sometimes. She's got the best phone money can buy, and the ability to see what phone number Cassie's going to have every time she changes phones. They still hate each other, but less than they hate Division. Division is supposed to be the American department in charge of capturing and killing off , but they think they're in charge of the world.
As the last living member of the Pop family, Pop Girl is pretty damn determined to keep Division out of her territory. Cassie's pretty impressed by how ruthless she is. She just wishes Pop Girl would spill when Cassie asks what her name actually is. "Pop Girl" just sounds so generic.
"Your ex-girlfriend thinks it's the right time to rally the troops," says Cassie. She rubs her eyes with one hand and holds up her sketch book-slash-photo album with the other, and tries not to look as exhausted as she feels. It's got pictures of stick-Kira in what's supposed to be kickass stilettos and leading whole army of mind-controlled shock troops into the revolution.
Kira never quite got over those three days she spent thinking she was a Division agent. No one's forgiving Carver for pushing all those memories of being an agent into Kira's head. Her ruthless streak never existed before Carver. Cassie resists the urge to sing "ding-dong, the witch is dead." It's too easy.
Besides, she's going to need Kira to be ruthless. Just not right now, and not fighting a pitched battle. That's, like, twenty steps further along in this whole 'take down Division' plot they've cooked up.
"Is it time to rally the troops?" asks Nick. The coffeemaker gurgles and spits out light brown liquid into the pot. She gets a flash of the future, sees herself stealing a mug of lukewarm coffee from Nick and swigging it all down, then her future fast-forwards to her leaning over a toilet and puking her guts up.
Maybe Cassie will let Nick have the coffee after all. He can eat food that's been hanging around for a month. She sees him drinking the coffee and then eating three hot dogs an hour later, and he's just fine.
"I told you it was going to take years, didn't I?" says Cassie, making it sound like that was the stupidest possible question to ask, even if it isn't all that dumb, not really. The future can change; no one knows it better than her, and she knows she made Nick learn that lesson too.
Cassie flips the page and shows Nick her next picture. Orange, green, and yellow stick bodies everywhere, with stick-Kira drawn in blue on top of the pile, kickass stilettos and Xs over her eyes. Cassie's got scribbles of pink blood all over everyone, because she doesn't have red that works for her sketch book. Not that she's looked. Her visions are creepy enough, right?
"So that's a no," says Nick. He grabs the full pot and a mug and stumbles over to the table where Cassie's sitting. "What the hell are we going to do about it?"
Cassie's smile spreads across her face slowly, because she's a smartass and a know-it-all, and she's got an answer to this one. "I always have a plan," she says. "How do you feel about nail guns?"