by Elle Park
I don't know how long I'm supposed to stay like this, my movement confined and my senses—minus my sight—uselessly alert, but it's really not that bad. Although there isn't any water flowing down my skin, nor is there a locked door or a sheet of curtains, I'm slowly lured into a familiar state of mind, one where I'm afforded the time to simply be, to just exist. It's sort of paradoxical, the way places and situations where I am at my most defenseless, my most vulnerable, bring me a sense of safety and comfort—regardless of how disillusioned these notions may be. And the only explanation I can think of is that more than my body, more than my physical well-being, it is my mind that I wish to protect.
Bruises heal, wounds close, and scars fade. Pain is endurable. Tingling skin and burning cheeks, flesh imprinted with angry fingerprints, a couple of weeks of restrained breathing—I'll heal. I'll be fine. It might leave me with a broken, battered body, but I would still be me. Now, if my innermost thoughts and feelings—the things that truly form my identity—were to become exposed and exploited... well, I can't imagine much that would leave me more vulnerable than that.
An uncomfortable sensation jolts me from my thoughts.
It reminds me of the mild electrocution I experienced just the other day, except this is more muted, somewhat numbed. I have no idea what it's supposed to be doing to me, but it appears between irregular breaks, and then in equally inconsistent waves. After a while, though, I get used to it, and I would happily spend the rest of the day wrapped in my contemplative bubble, but am once again interrupted—this time, by the robotic voice.
"Twenty percent unlocked. Session logged."
The pressure on either side of my head and the base of my neck instantly vanish, and my bed steadily tilts forward until I'm back on my feet. Once the mold deflates and flattens, releasing my body from its secure hold, the glass screen slides open.
As soon as I step out, I recognize the obvious changes in the room. Every inch of the floor is now covered in sturdy, blue mats, and our group appears to have doubled in numbers. I also get the feeling that, unlike us, these new additions aren't exactly new to this world.
Physically, they don't look too different from us—just a few years older, maybe—but the aura they're emitting is another story. Both sides are dressed in the same dark outfit, but while we, the rookies, are testing our limbs in the oddly comfortable but still awkward attire, they're standing side-by-side with their hands clasped behind their backs, a mix of confidence and unapologetic intimidation seeping through their pores.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Nolan asks, looping my arm through his.
"What does?" I mutter, untangling our limbs with ease.
"Having someone in your back pocket."
Normally, I would assume it does. Having the right connections is a significant form of currency in our world—one that is often more influential than money itself. Whether they were born with deep pockets or they paid to expand their reach, as long as they can fit those from both high and low places, people can get almost anything and get away with nearly everything, all while slithering up the proverbial ladder in life. So, yes, although my pockets were only ever big enough to fit my own two hands, I'm sure it feels pretty damn good.
Except, this isn't a normal situation.
Not to mention, I don't even know what it is exactly that Milo or whoever else is covertly doing for me behind the scenes.
None of this is my doing, and I'm forced to submit to the ministrations of my crazy, irritating, blue-eyed mop-head of a puppeteer. It's frustrating, to say the least, because it's usually me who's pulling the strings, lining up the dominoes, writing the show and directing the play. For someone who needs to know everything, who needs some semblance of control, I really don't know much right now.
I'm not sure if Nolan was expecting a reply, but fortunately, Lacey speaks before I'm given the chance to.
"Considering what you now know about yourselves, it should come as no surprise that daemons are not the only supernatural beings walking this earth. Maevons, velmons—you'll learn more about them in due time, but they are not the ones you need to be concerned about. It is the voraks that you need to watch out for," she says, the tone of her voice both stern yet level, not letting us believe she is anything less than completely serious.
Not that anyone would have doubted her to begin with.
"But we start with the basics here." Finally deciding to acknowledge our curious stares, she addresses the newest members of our group with a brief jerk of her chin. "These are the maevons I just mentioned. Until you are ready to move on to the next level, they will also be your trainers. Do as they say without question, without complaint.
"You will bleed, you will bruise, you will break more bones in these next few weeks than most people do in an entire lifetime, but if you can't get through a little pain without bursting into tears, then you don't have what it takes to become a plant, let alone a tracker. Just know that getting into The Academy was the easy part. You're here by default because of what you are, but these next few months will determine what you become."
Meeting our blank faces with a tired sigh and some unintelligible muttering, she pairs each of us off with one of the trainers. Then she leaves—to where or to do what, I don't know, but she disappears inside the steel elevator at the back of the room.
"We'll start with evaluation," my trainer says in a no-nonsense tone. It's almost strange to hear him talk, as he seemed more like a robot than a human—though, technically, he's not even that. "Push-ups," he taps the watch on his wrist, "ninety seconds."
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT'S LIKE HIGH-school all over again—except, merely participating isn't enough. Here, they actually care about the numbers, and they clearly don't have to hold back on the criticism. After a round of push-ups, squats, planks and crunches, I've learned that, despite my past efforts in both my school gym and my small bedroom, my overall physical fitness needs a lot more work than I’d like to admit.
I'm not normally in the habit of comparing myself to others, but it is of some consolation to see that I'm not the only one enduring this supposed training. Grunts and groans can be heard around the room, and heavy pants are warming the previously cool air as we strive to use muscles we didn't know we had.
Now my trainer is pointing me toward one of many bare doorways. "One hundred meters. Sprint," he says simply. When I'm slow to follow his order, he taps his watch with impatience. I'm about to ask where this door leads and what I'm supposed to do when I'm done, but he cuts me off with a quick shake of his head. "Go."
So, I do. And as soon as I pass the threshold, I find myself in some sort of tunnel. The walls are a metallic gray, and the floor makes a smooth, single-lane track for me to run on, while an invisible source of light illuminates my path from above.
It doesn't take long for me to reach the other end, but when I pass the open frame, I'm forced to do an incredulous double-take. More than a little confused, I don't feel entirely relieved when I realize I'm not imagining things.
I'm sure the track was perfectly straight, yet it's as if I ran a full circle. I don't understand how, but I'm currently standing in front of the door I first ran through, which means the tunnel's exit is also its entrance.
My trainer's face is as stony as ever, yet with a single twitch of his brow, he manages to convey his disappointment as if he were screaming it from a rooftop. Both he and Nolan—who is, as usual, acting like a bored five-year-old—appear unconcerned with my most recent revelation, so I file it away into the back of my mind.
I ignore the fact that the back of my mind is getting more crowded by the minute.
Approximately ten seconds after I come out of the tunnel, I’m sent right back in. It doesn't take too long for me to realize that this is not another one-hundred meter lane. Although it's difficult to keep track of distance in here, as the consistent design almost makes it seem like I'm running in place, I know that the exit should have been visible by now. With no end in sight, my le
vel of exhaustion is growing unbearable.
Despite the fact that I'm jogging—his only instruction was to run, not sprint—an icy pressure is filling my ears, a growing weight is crushing my ribs, and my legs are slowly but surely turning to lead. My strides are growing shorter, and I don't even bother trying to breathe through my nose.
I can't be sure of how much time has passed, but after what feels like hours, I finally see—never did I think I'd say this literally—the light at the end of the tunnel. As soon as I step out, a white, fluffy towel hooks around the back of my neck, propelling me forward into a waiting chest.
I don't have to look up to know who it belongs to.
"Hey, soldier. Here, this will cool you down," Nolan says with a grin, holding out an open bottle of water. Instead of passing it to me, he splashes some over my head before chugging the rest of it down himself. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he hums. "Yeah, that's good. Nice and cold."
I don't have the energy to manage a glare, let alone actually speak words. But for what it's worth, he's right. The rolling droplets feel nice against my flushed skin—so much so that, rather than pat them dry, I let myself revel in the temporary chill.
"Moving on." My trainer is wearing black, padded mitts—slightly smaller and flatter than the kind you'd find in a boxing gym—and each has a circle drawn in the center: blue on one, red on the other. "If I call red, you hit red. If I call blue, you hit blue." He acknowledges my shallow nod by immediately voicing a color, but when my knuckles meet the bright target, I stumble backwards from the unexpected resistance. My trainer, on the other hand, looks as if he didn't even feel it. I might as well have punched a wall. "Harder. Spread your legs further apart—your stance is unstable. Use your whole torso when you swing—you're putting too much strain on your wrist." Well, at least I know he's capable of using more than a few words at a time.
His comments continue like that, critiquing my speed, strength, and pretty much everything his narrowed eyes can catch—which I'm starting to think is literally everything. I'm not sure how long I've been beating the padded targets, but my arms now feel both sore and numb, heavy and weightless. Just grazing the mitts is a painful struggle, and, thanks to my rapidly flickering gaze, I'm on the verge of becoming cross-eyed.
"That's enough for today."
I have never been so happy to hear someone's voice.
Lacey is standing near the back of the room, her polished appearance drastically sticking out in the sweaty, panting mess that is us. "These doors will lead you to a cafeteria. Eat, behave, do not cause me any unnecessary problems. We'll continue in the morning," she says, already disappearing through the elevator she just stepped out of.
Everyone breathes a heavy sigh of relief, walking as fast as they can—which, due to our grueling workout, isn't very fast at all—toward their anticipated freedom. Unlike the open doorways that connected to the running tunnels, this time, there are actual doors lined on the walls. They're sleek, black, and instantly glide open at the press of a palm.
"Oh, good. I was getting hungry," Nolan says, practically dragging me forward with an arm draped over my shoulder. Considering my physical state, I really do need the push.
Passing through the threshold, we leave behind the gray tiles and are instead welcomed with a sparkling white. There are no lines or patterns or an obvious joining of pieces. It's as if the entire interior of this room has been clothed in a single, uncut material, making it difficult to spot the defining crevices of the walls, floor and ceiling. Long, glistening tables are attached to the left wall, perfectly spaced out in neat rows, the steel slabs extending an impressive distance. Shamelessly ignoring grumbled complaints, Nolan squeezes us into a busy line of people.
We're standing in front of a lengthy counter, moving sideways like impatient crabs. Heads bob and shake in response to the women—and man—stationed behind the bar, eagerly waiting for their orders to be served.
"Yes, Taco Tuesday is here to stay," Nolan cheers, our trays clattering as he nudges me forward. "There were those who tried to bring me down, to squash the meaning of hopes and dreams. I would wake up at the crack of dawn with smudges of ink across my cheek, my eyes red and drooping, my back cracking like old man Jenkins. But alas, I prevailed," he whispers, his allegedly once red eyes now clear and bright. Raising his arm in a strong salute, he mashes his lips together, staring wistfully into the distance like a long lost war-hero. "I prevailed."
"That's a pretty darn long way of saying he went through enough paperwork to fire the Pope just so we would have to eat some tacos once a week."
"Ah, Nancy," Nolan sighs happily, "I've missed you."
"Says the boy who didn't bother to visit the poor, old lady who treated him like a grandson," the older woman admonishes from behind the bar, her gray curls visible through the thin hairnet. She tries to harden her tone, to play the part of a disappointed grandma, but even Mr. Langley—a regular at the diner I was so swiftly fired from—without his hearing aid would be able to catch the fondness in her voice, coating her words with an undeniable warmth.
"We both know you are neither poor nor old," Nolan tuts, "but for what it's worth, there wasn't a day that went by when I didn't think about your culinary sorcery."
"Well, you're here now," Nancy declares, sprinkling a mountain of cheese over his six chicken, beef and pork tacos. "Let's get some food into you," she dumps a pile of guacamole onto his tray, "you need to fatten up—like Milo."
His eyes widen at the remark, head swinging as he looks around us like a paranoid whistle-blower. "Nancy," he straightens, giving the woman a scolding look, "you know how sensitive Milo is about his weight. Now, you give me a plate of your specialty nachos, and I forget this conversation ever took place," he says, raising his brow meaningfully as he taps his tray with a demanding finger.
Nancy slides him his bribe, muttering something under her breath. They share a few more quick, easy comments before being forced to stop, pressured by the growling stomachs—and mouths—growing louder behind us. Having successfully filled our trays, we manage only a couple steps before I realize we're still shuffling behind a loose string of people. The queue is short, so it doesn't take long for me to realize what it is we're waiting for.
It really just looks like a soda dispenser—albeit a very sleek and very modern soda dispenser, covered in a simple matte black and glowing displays. With a brief scan, I'm able to discern that there are a total of four different drinks to choose from—and not a single one of them is soda. Whether you press the button for A, B, AB or O, what you'll get is a rich, hearty flow of blood. The deep crimson liquid streams down in a smooth, even current, neither splashing nor bubbling as it fills each glass with mechanic perfection.
Nolan hands me a glass from the constantly replenishing stack, loading his own with a gush of O. Remembering his description of the other types, I order the same, opting for the safety of what I already know I like—though, I'm still getting used to the fact that I actually like blood, filtered or not. Chosen beverages in hand, we make our way to one of the more vacant tables. Taking a seat across from each other, we go through our usual routine of me eating while he takes turns between wolfing down food and listening to himself talk.
"I tell you, Kaia," he gulps after a few hasty chews, "I was just a boy when I left this place. And now, I return a man," he says, swiping his hand through the air like an artist canvassing a scene.
"Your friend seemed surprised to see you," I begin, carefully folding my used napkin. "Why didn't you ever visit?"
"I gave them time to miss me," he shrugs, "you know what they say—distance makes the heart grow fatter."
"Fonder," I correct, watching as he munches on a handful of nachos, washing it down with a long swallow of red. "Distance makes the heart grow fonder."
"Tomato, potato," he says, dismissing his error with yet another error.
Skipping last night's dinner and this morning's breakfast has apparently taken its toll on me. The f
eeling of my stomach churning uncomfortably—which, fortunately, goes unheard thanks to the enthusiastic chatter in the room—urges me to eat more than I usually would've.
It's on my third taco that I nearly choke.
And it has nothing to do with the food itself, but rather the abrupt change in atmosphere. The air is still, heavy—like someone went and froze time itself, trapping a lively, boisterous scene in a single photograph. I'm familiar with this tension. It's the suspended moment of both uncertainty and clarity, when tiny bumps pucker your flesh, hairs rise on the nape of your neck, and an unknown force kicks you straight in the gut.
Shit is about to hit the fan.
"Watch your mouth," a voice growls.
I wasn't paying enough attention to witness the beginning of this confrontation, but it isn't hard to guess what happened. A boy with broad shoulders and a dark buzz-cut is standing a few feet away from one of the tables, a tray held in his now clenched fists. He's glaring down at a short, willowy hipster, a splatter of red staining the short distance between their feet.
"Or what? Let me guess—you'll kick my ass?"
Their trays fall to the ground, clattering loudly. The jock lunges for Hipster Boy's collar, but for whatever reason, that's about as far as he gets. Flinching, he grips the back of his skull. "What the—" His eyes narrow as he looks around the room, scanning each face for something I'm not yet privy to. The collection of gasps and murmurs only adds fuel to the fire, and his scowl deepens into the universal expression worn by those up to no good.
Unsurprisingly, all hell breaks loose.
