Caged (The Idyllic Series Book 1)

by Amy Johnson

  “Hold still,” the male says, placing his hands on each side of my head. The female joins him, placing a metal contraption over my eyes. I clench them closed, but the machine clamps down on my eyelids, prying them open again.

  I thrash, ignoring the growing nausea from the dizziness. I’ve heard of this test. I know exactly what they’re about to do, and even the thought of it sends my body into a wild panic.

  I can’t look away as the male reappears over the top of me holding a dropper in one hand. The clear liquid inside hangs from the end of the dropper in one pregnant drop. The smell of it drifts down to my nostrils, strangling me with strong notes that I can’t name. The machine squeezes, and the drop falls into my left eye.

  I scream as pain erupts behind my eye. My eyelids strain to close themselves and tears flow out of the corner. A slight hissing sound fills the air, while grainy white clouds take over my vision. I jerk at my arms, panting heavily.

  “Solution 564 is not safe for contact with human irises,” the male says, reaching behind him to pick up another dropper. This one is filled with a light pink liquid that has a bad smell. My eye starts watering before he even lets the drop fall.

  When he does, though, I suck in a fearful breath, bracing myself for the worse.

  There’s no fire. Instead, an intense cold spreads across my right eye. Pain stabs through my cornea, jamming itself deep into my skull.

  “Does it hurt?” he asks, and I nod as much as I can with the machine over my face. “Note, solution 565 is not safe either.”

  He walks out of sight, returning with yet another dropper. This liquid is both white and unscented, and even though I brace myself for pain, nothing comes. He lifts the machine up momentarily, and I blink several times.

  When I do, my vision clears and the pain is gone.

  The process continues on for five more rounds. One liquid burns the skin off of my eye, leaving me screaming and crying. Another causes my eye to swell up, and the cybernetic has to pry it open with his cold hands. After every group of two, he heals both eyes and straps the contraption back on my face to repeat the process.

  Out of the twelve different solutions, only one of them has no effect.

  When he removes the metal caging over my face, I sigh in relief. My eyes are dry and tired. It hurts to blink, but I can’t stop myself. Tears streak my cheeks, wetting the blanket of hair spreading under my head.

  “Draize eye test complete,” the male tells his partner, stepping to the side.

  “Noted,” the female says. “I will start the Local Lymph Node Assay.”

  She steps towards me, pulling a service machine behind her. She lowers it down over my abdomen. Hundreds of needles line the bottom of the machine, catching the bright lights in the room and reflecting it back at me.

  “Have you met all the preparation requirements for the assay?” the male asks her.

  “Subject 23 has been held in isolation for five days, and she has no visible skin lesions. We have withheld food from her so that she falls into the proper weight category. I have also strengthened the dosage on all chemicals to eliminate the need for multiple tests and subjects.”

  “According to my database, the assay can take days to show results,” the male states.

  “Yes, but the heightened dosage will speed up the results.” She waits for him to nod and then adds, “May I begin?”

  He nods again, turning away from her to type on a computer screen.

  She finishes lowering the machine, and a loud click tells us both that it is locked in place. She presses a button, and I tense up at the hissing of the service machine coming to life.

  Suddenly, the needles thrust themselves into my stomach. I scream, throwing my head backwards into the table. My hands clench into fists, but I can’t move. A thousand knives press further into my stomach, pushing through my muscles and around my spine. They eject fiery liquids into my skin and then pull out again, drawing my back up with them.

  The service machine beeps, and the female machine hurries to move it away from me.

  The pain lingers, and I glance down at myself.

  Beads of blood line my stomach. The ones near the edge tilt over and trickle down onto the table. The cybernetic produces a towel and wipes the blood away, ignoring my whimpers of pain. The red liquid streaks across my skin, prompting her to wipe it several more times. With every slow movement, my whimpers grow, becoming full blown tears.

  I can feel tiny flames growing like volcanoes beneath my skin. They wriggle like worms, wrapping themselves around my intestines and lungs. As I watch, boils grow up on my stomach, tight with puss and blood. The cybernetic watches with her arms hanging limp at her side.

  “Five out of a hundred are unsafe,” she tells us.

  The male machine ignores her, continuing to work, while I wait for her to give me the healing injection.

  The five unsafe chemicals creep across my body. Hives spread over my shoulders; my throat begins to swell up. The boils on my stomach send jolts of pain with every ragged breath I take. An itch begins to settle along my legs, and I twitch them back and forth in an effort to quench it.

  Finally, the female walks across the room, returning after a moment with a syringe of what I can only hope is the medicine. She injects it into my thigh before setting the needle back on the counter.

  The medicine moves through my body with a speed that snails could beat. Both of my legs are numb by the time it kicks in and I gasp for breath through my swelling throat.

  Once it hits my bloodstream, though, the effects amaze me. Within seconds, feeling returns to my limbs and the boils on my stomach shrink. My throat returns to its normal size and I watch the hives fade into nothing more than pink dots. I raise my head up and inspect my stomach. Scars pock the surface, matching the slick white circle on my thigh.

  The female returns after a few minutes, removing my restraints and pulling me into a sitting position.

  “Stand,” she commands, holding the switch again.

  Why would I fight her after the Hell I just went through?

  I push off the table and my knees buckle under my weight. She catches me with a rough hand gripping my upper arm. I wince in pain, regaining my footing so that she will let go. Yet, she doesn’t.

  We leave the second cybernetic behind as she leads me back to my cell. The door opens at our approach, and I am pushed inside. I stumble forward, catching myself on the mirror.

  The room seems smaller than before. I lean against the wall, tilting my head up and closing my eyes. I turn my back to the mirror and slide down into a sitting position. My bare back squeals against the glass, heating up at friction’s golden touch.

  I replay the machines’ conversations in my head. Five days. I’ve been in this room for almost a week. In that time, I’ve undergone hair, eye, and skin testing, and I’ve done it all on an empty stomach. The stench of the water under the grate makes me dry heave, and I bury my face in the corner of my elbow.

  Chapter 6: Submissive

  Eden

  The hunger returns hours later with a vengeance. I can only know time is passing because I’ve begun to count up to sixty instead of just ten. When I reach sixty, I use my jagged fingernails to etch a white line in my thigh.

  The white lines give way to red whelps, which swell and puff out like caulk. The stinging pain distracts me from the fatigue and hunger though, so I don’t complain.

  I’ve just drawn the two hundred forty-fifth tally mark when the speaker overhead crackles. My hand freezes, and I glance up.

  “Your testing period is complete,” the masculine voice states. The lack of accent and the unmistakable growl in every syllable tells me its Eins. I pull my legs up to my chest and shiver. “Your training period begins now, Subject 23.”

  The door beeps, and I jump as it slides open. A cybernetic stands in the frame, holding a long metal rod. One end of the tool is shaped like a checkmark, curling at one end and standing straight up on the other. The sharp metal glints
in the cell lights.

  I press myself up against the mirror, panting.

  “Get up,” the cyber commands. Checking both of his hands for the black box, I shake my head. If all he has is that metal stick, I might stand a chance. I could run under his legs and bolt towards the exit, or I could plunge his weapon through his metal chest cavity.

  When I shift my legs around to position them under me, he swings out with the rod. The curved end lands in the crook of my knee, digging itself into my skin. He jerks the tool back towards himself, pulling me across the floor. As he pulls, the hook digs itself deeper into my skin and sends crimson rivers down my pale leg.

  The desire to run vanishes. My bravery is lost, replaced by the realization of his choice of weapon.

  It’s a bull hook.

  He pulls me all the way out into the hallway before twisting the hook and freeing it from its hold on my skin.

  “Stand,” he orders, and I scramble to my feet.

  He presses the dull end of the bull hook into the small of my back.

  “Walk, Subject 23.”

  I do as I’m told.

  The long hallway holds dozens of metal doors on each side, which are identical to my own cell door. None of them can be distinguished from the others, and as I walk, my vision swims with the repetitive pathway. The feeling of his spike in my back drives me forward as it blends with the feeling of being lost.

  Screams seep out of the doors, blending with the nauseating smells mixing in the hall. Like my own cell, everything smells like urine and sweat. Flies gather on the seams of the doors, buzzing along the floor. They chase after us, microscopic tongues tasting the fresh blood running down my leg. I fight the urge to swat at them, too afraid to do anything other than walk.

  Finally, the hallway ends, splitting in two different directions. I glance to my left, and a white door greets me. The entire scene brings a poem to mind, but I lose it among the panic building in my chest.

  The cybernetic smacks my left rib cage with his stick, and I turn towards the right side of the fork. The ninety degree turn leads to a shorter, cleaner hall. At the furthest end, it turns out of sight to the right.

  The hall only holds two doors. Black, painted letters on the metal inform me that these are training rooms.

  The cybernetic prods me towards the second door, and it slides open at our approach. I tiptoe forward, shivering against the cold tile floor.

  There are floor to ceiling walls made of padded cushions. Three walls merge seamlessly into the floor; one wall is a two-way mirror. There’s no metal or machines, but there’s also no bed or table.

  Still, the amount of space amazes me. I gasp for breath, feeling the knot of tears rising up in my throat. If I had the energy, I would run around the room simply because I could.

  The door slams shut behind me, and I spin around to face the metal frame cut out of the white padding.

  Sudden suspicion washes over me. What if this is a trick? Are they standing behind that mirror and waiting to laugh at my joy? Are they about to burst back in here and take more skin samples?

  I want nothing more than to walk around the room and stretch my unused muscles, but it seems too good to be true.

  So, I take a seat in the dead center of the room, crossing my legs in front of me. I wince as my heartbeat races in the fresh cut from the cyber’s hook. Blood stains the white cushions under me, gathering in the valleys between each puffed up square.

  I resume my counting, numbering the squares on each wall and calculating the area and perimeter of each.

  When I reach the third wall, the door beeps. I turn my head back towards it, only to feel the breath catch in my throat.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight,” Eins says, striding into the room. His black suit contrasts with the surrounding arctic desert, and the single red eye beams from its socket. Zwei stands behind him, arms crossed over her chest, showing every tooth in her mouth as she smiles down at me. Unlike the average machines, their teeth show a dull yellow color. Are those real human teeth?

  I push backwards away from the two of them as Eins smacks his own bull hook against an open palm.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he coos, following me in slow strides. “We’re just here to train you.”

  “Train me for what?” I whisper, but my voice shakes.

  Before I have a chance to fight back, he lashes out at me, landing the hook in my ribcage. I grit my teeth as he jerks me forward, sending me face first at his feet. He twists the hook free, kneeling down in front of me.

  “Lesson number one,” he hisses, gripping my chin and forcing me to look up at him, “don’t speak unless I ask you a question. It’s none of your business what we’re training you for. You’re our property now, Subject 23.”

  I shiver against his rank breath and the pain spreading through my ribs.

  In his grip, helplessness sinks into every corner of my being, taking over my body. I made it through the tests with unbreakable resolve, but everything in here is different. These are mind games, played with manipulation and fear.

  They win the fear game because I’m terrified of them. The fear numbs me, crippling my heart and muscles.

  “Play along, and this will go by really quickly,” Eins says, standing up and stepping away from me. I push myself up off the floor, wincing in pain. “The sooner we’re done here, the sooner you can be put into long-term research. I’m sure you know what happens after that.”

  Breeding.

  Eins motions for Zwei who strides forward with a flip of her platinum blonde hair. She sits down in the floor beside me, arching her back with princess posture.

  “When you sit, it will be like this,” she says, rolling her shoulders back and holding her chin high. I mimic her position, puff my chest out, and sit up straighter.

  Sitting like this makes my back hurt, and I fidget, waiting for them to tell me to relax.

  Eins circles me like a wild dog and sizes me up with unnerving eyes. With an extension of his hand, he digs the bull hook into my left armpit, jerking me even straighter.

  “Roll your shoulders back,” he says, and I do, biting back tears.

  Blood drips from my elbow onto the white floor. He wrenches the hook out, and I yelp in pain.

  “That’s much better. Now, slouch, and do it again when I say so.”

  I exhale and let my body relax. Zwei smiles at me and glances up at her partner behind me.

  When he snaps his fingers, I hurry to fix my body and straighten my shoulders.

  I jump when the bull hook appears under my chin. At first, just the cool metal of the rod presses into the tender skin there. Eins lifts my face up.

  “Perfect. Next, Zwei.”

  The female in front of me rises to her feet, pulling me along by my wrists.

  “You will stand with the same elegance,” she says as she spins in a small circle.

  “Why?” I mumble, but no sooner than the words leave my lips do I realize my mistake. Eins smacks the back of my knees with the stick, tearing it across the already bleeding skin. The hook rips through my flesh, and I collapse onto the floor.

  “Never ask questions. I thought I already made that clear,” he hisses as he kneels down beside me and pulls me back onto my feet by the elbow. I struggle to hold myself up, swaying where I stand. The pain spreads through my legs, and my toes squish into the blood gathering on the slick, padded floor.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper and the lake in my eyes breaks through my dam. Tears streak down my face.

  “Oh, Eins, you made her cry,” Zwei says, but glee fills her voice.

  “Like I care. She needs to learn. Idyllic have to be perfect, Zwei. Null will accept nothing less.”

  Eins crosses his arms, handing the tool off to Zwei.

  “If you have a better method,” he continues, “then you do it.”

  “With pleasure,” Zwei says with a beaming smile at me across the too-short distance between us. “Sit, 23.”

  I hurry to do as I’m told
, trying to remember just how arched my back was the last time.

  Zwei digs the hook into my left armpit. A strangled sob is forces out of my mouth. She straightens me up and then orders me to stand again.

  I stand, sit, stand, and sit in endless repetition. Every time, Zwei finds something wrong, some reason to dig the hook into another part of my body. I gasp for breath. Blood covers my legs and back and trails down my shoulders and neck.

  Desperation and helplessness replace the hunger and fatigue. Each time, my feet move faster and my back arches straighter. The perfect posture becomes muscle memory, and by the twentieth time, Zwei hums in approval.

  “Eins, darling, I think she’s mastered the art of standing and sitting. We should give the poor Mensch a break.”

  Eins sighs, drawing a needle and syringe out of the inside of his suit jacket.

  “If you insist,” he says, grabbing my arm and plunging the needle into my forearm. Compared to the hook, this pain feels like being caressed. I watch as he injects the white liquid and withdraws the needle.

  “Enjoy your break,” Zwei says, tapping the bull hook against the padded wall. “We will see you in the near future.”

  They walk out of the room and I stagger over to the wall, sinking to the clean floor. I inspect my countless wounds, tiny rips in the skin. The lacerations look like jagged stripes and cover my legs and arms. I peer into the mirror to see my back, not surprised that I look like a blood-covered tiger there as well.

  The healing medicine works fast, numbing my wounds and sealing them up before my eyes. It does nothing for the drying blood, though, so I pick at the red flakes and flick them across the room. My hunger returns, chewing through the walls of my stomach.

  I resort to counting the tiles again. The counts from before Eins and Zwei came in are lost to the training, so I start all over.

  Four hundred seventy-six white squares cover the walls. I tilt my chin up and begin to count the ceiling tiles when the sound of metal scraping against itself fills the room. My hands rush up to cover my ears, and I look around the room for the source.