by Elle Park
Despite the fact that we were already treated during the ride here, the maevons don't instruct us to get off of the cots—which, unfortunately, makes sense for one of us.
Brandon, whose body is no longer actively bleeding but still looks as if it was thrown into a meat grinder, has yet to regain consciousness. Whatever happened while I, myself, was semiconscious remains a mystery, but the longer his eyes stay closed, the more I find it harder to breathe—not because I care what happens to him—I don't, not really—but because I'm starting to believe that I had something—or everything—to do with his current state.
"All right, guys, thanks for the ride, but I'll take it from here," Nolan says, hopping off the cot he was perched on.
He takes a step toward me, but one of the men intercepts him in an imperceptible flash. "That is against protocol."
"Protocol? That still exists?" He shrugs. "Well, anyway, I wasn't going to mention this, but," he pauses, chuckling to himself, "you might have heard of me. You see—" All at once, four doors appear and open, and like trains on a railroad, each cot begins to roll toward them. Just as my head crosses the threshold, I hear him yell out, "Don't worry, sweets. I'll come get you as soon as you're done with your check-up."
The doorway seals, and I'm left alone in another cube. Oddly enough, I find myself wishing for the already small room to shrink even further, for the walls to cave in until the space can accommodate nothing more than my own body. Some might feel trapped—suffocated, even—but at least I'd be trapped in my own world, where only I exist, and where I am everything. It wouldn't be me against the world, because I would be the world.
Maybe then there would be nothing to be sure of and nothing to be unsure of. Maybe then I wouldn't have to question everything, because there wouldn't be an answer for anything. Maybe then I could stay lost forever, because wherever I go, whatever I do, I'd always have myself to return to.
But here, in this world that's impossibly bigger than myself, I'm chained yet untethered, with a set destination but without a sense of direction. I have no power against those who do, and now, I barely have control over my own body, too. I go where I'm pushed and pulled and whichever way the wind blows. I'm not a seed that can grow roots and bloom, though—just a balloon that has to float until it pops by branch or crow.
Bursting the bubble around my thoughts, a woman walks in and greets me with a smile. Unlike most of The Corporation's employees that I've met so far, she appears old—in her late sixties, maybe—and rather friendly. Judging by her all-white scrubs, I'm assuming she's the one who's going to perform my check-up.
I expect her to flash a light in my eyes and check my pulse, or at least prod the closing wounds in my legs, but all she does is instruct me to get changed.
"Everything you're wearing now—including everything in your pockets—must be dropped into the chute," she says, pointing behind my head. "I'll be back as soon as you're dressed."
I wait until she's gone before landing on my feet, finally noticing what's on the wall I couldn't see. It's the same shelf I saw on my first day in The Academy, and it's even holding an outfit identical to the one I wore during my training. Just to the side, there is a steel chute—though, unlike the one at Nolan's house, which had to be slid up to open, this one has a cover that I have to push to access.
Since she didn't give me an exact time, I change as quickly as I can, worried she'll burst in when my pants are around my ankles or my head is stuck in my shirt. True to her word, she reappears less than three seconds after I dump my clothes down the chute—which, if that was how she knew to come in, I'm glad I did it after I was fully dressed.
She offers me another smile before thumbing through her tablet. The second her finger leaves the screen, the cot I was lying on makes its descent, instantly creating room for something else to take its place. It's a mix between a bed and a machine, and it reminds me of the training pod I used to spend hours at a time in.
"All right, dear. Hop on in," she says, nudging me with a gentle grip on my arm.
I do as she instructs with slow, cautious movements. Once inside, the domed cover falls over me, and it might be due to the absence of restraints, but I start to feel strangely relaxed. After a thin, red beam scans me from head to toe—making three rounds in total—the cover lifts, and I'm prompted to crawl out the same way I crawled in.
"Now, you'll have to wait here until you're brought in for questioning—standard protocol," she says casually, already walking away from me. "Shouldn't be too long, I think, but feel free to take a seat."
With those parting words, she leaves me behind with nothing but a chair. It's not particularly welcoming, considering it's the same one I fell off of during the Cage Match, but I sit on it nonetheless. I might as well give my legs a break, after all, as I have no idea what this supposed questioning might entail—it might be a torturous interrogation, for all I know.
So, I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
I wait until the allegedly short wait becomes an unbearably long one. I haven't exactly been counting down the seconds, but judging by the stiffness in my back and the tingling in my thighs, I assume I've been sitting here for the better part of an hour.
Strictly speaking, the time itself is not what I'm finding difficult to endure. I can stay glued to this chair all day if I needed to, but it's my mind that won't stop fidgeting. The possibility of what awaits me is exploding behind my eyes like fireworks—and, like fireworks, it's just too loud and too bright for me to ignore.
Suddenly, it's as if I'm in an elevator—except, I don't know if I'm going up or down, left or right. The shift in both the air and my body is subtle, but I might as well be upside down on a roller coaster right now, because my heart drops to my stomach in a loud thud of unmistakable dread.
My cube is now inside a room—and it's not empty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
IT'S ABOUT THE size of a high-school classroom, so not ridiculously large. Mahogany walls surround us, and the floor is a pristine burgundy. Most of the space is taken up by a long rectangular table made of a thick, sturdy wood, the veneer aged but finely polished. There are seven seats, and all but one are occupied.
I can recognize everyone here as the people from the Cage Match—specifically, as the members of The Union. At the time, the situation didn't allow for me to properly observe them or make any detailed assessments, but sitting in front of them now, it's clear to see that there are underlying divisions within the supposedly unified group.
Although there is an odd number of seats, no one is sitting at the head of the table—unfortunately, my cube is at the other end, giving everyone a clear view of me—possibly because it would indicate an imbalance of power. Nolan's father, Alan, is sitting on the side with the empty seat, along with the woman and the giant. On the other side is Lei, whose eyes are more piercing than I remember, Frederick, whom I clearly remember because of his obvious animosity, and, finally, Stoic Man—a name I just now came up with for the man whose voice I have yet to hear.
It's not just the seating arrangement that gives the impression of estrangement, though. While some are harder to read—namely, the woman and Stoic Man—and some appear pleasant enough—Alan and the giant—Frederick's fingers are knit together in what looks like a bone-crushing grip, his glasses jerking with every twitch of his cheek.
"How's it going, my friends? Sorry I'm late. I had an important matter to discuss with Nancy—now, whether it had something to do with tacos, I'm not authorized to say," Nolan babbles, speaking up before anyone can get a word out. "So, what's this about, anyway? Not to sound rude or anything, but I am a little tight on schedule at the moment."
"Yes, it appears you've been very busy."
"Have you been keeping tabs on me again? How many times do I have to tell you, Freddie—you don't have to keep looking out for—"
"That's Mr. Drexel to you, boy," Frederick snaps.
The woman, who has been drumming her
fingers against her chin, rolls her eyes. "Look, can we save the foreplay for when I'm not here? I'm late for a fitting."
"Yes, let's get this over with, shall we?" Alan agrees.
"Very well," Frederick sniffs, a barely concealed sneer tugging at his features. The look is directed at Nolan, which can't be good. Although, the fact that I'm here in this room is already a bad premonition. "As a courtesy to you, a fellow member of The Union," he grits his teeth as he says this, "we've decided to hold off on a formal interrogation of Miss Riley, and instead give you a chance to personally explain the situation."
"Sure thing, sure thing," Nolan says, plopping down into the empty seat. "So, what situation are we talking here?"
Alan sighs. "Son, if there's something you haven't been telling us, now is the time to come clean."
"Well, father, every boy has his secrets."
"Enough with the riddles!" Frederick snaps, hands smacking the table as he comes to a stand. "First the Cage Match and now this! Two boys are dead, Mr. Drake, and their only connection is her," he keeps his glare trained on Nolan, but his arm stretches to the side as he points an accusing finger at me.
Two boys are dead.
But Brandon was treated during transport. Yes, he was unconscious, but he was no longer bleeding. He was healing. He was getting better. And the boy from the Cage Match—Nolan said the case was closed because they couldn't get anything out of him... Of course, how would they get a corpse to talk—or, worse, a vorak? Is that what happened? Did they turn into voraks, only to be killed again and turned to ash? I try to remind myself that how they died doesn't matter so much as why they died, but then I remember that I might be the reason for both.
I also know that, whether directly or indirectly, intentional or unintentional, three people are now dead because of me. And having no control over myself, having no memory of my actions, having no conscious thought—they're all just excuses that make me no better than a vorak.
"Huh, I was wondering where she was," Nolan muses, meeting my eyes for the first time since he entered the room. He doesn't keep the contact for long, though. "Anyway," he shrugs, once again facing Frederick, "you're scratching up the wrong tree, Rick, because none of us know what happened during the Cage Match—not even Arty."
"And as for the recruiter?" Lei asks, his nasally voice layered with loud suspicion.
"Well, the report does show that his injuries were consistent with those made by a vorak," Alan says, playing with the knot of his tie.
Lei hums. "Yes, the same creature he was trained to kill."
"He didn't become a tracker for a reason, is all I'm saying," Nolan says, picking at his sleeve.
"And you and your friend just happened to be there when he was attacked?" The giant asks, though it doesn't sound much like a question.
"We tried to help him, but alas, we were too late—couldn't even save the girl he came to recruit, unfortunately."
Frederick grunts as he sits back down. "And how do you explain the bullet wounds that not just your recruit but you, yourself, sustained? Why would Mr. Daley shoot the very people who tried to save him?"
"Hey, I'd ask him if I could," Nolan says. "To tell you the truth, it did hurt my feelings a little bit, but I'm trying not to take it personally." He shrugs. "I mean, there's no better place to go crazy than on the verge of death—am I right, or am I right?"
Even from inside the cube, I can tell just how tense the room is. Frederick is positively seething, but before his head can explode, an unexpected sound breaks through the stretched silence.
"Octavia," Alan says. "Octavia." When the snoring woman doesn't so much as flinch, he sighs, only to lean in close to her ear and hiss, "Oh, shit!"
Instantly, she gasps, her smoky eyes snapping open. "What?" She twists her head from side to side, evidently searching for something specific. "What happened? Did someone die? Damn it, what did I miss?"
I feel like I'm sitting on a seat of thorns and broken glass, and she somehow managed to fall asleep? Seriously?
"Now is not the time for sleep!" Frederick shouts, the skin above his collar flushing red.
She rolls her eyes. "Why are we still here? Am I being punished?"
"Well, I, for one, don't see any reason to prolong this meeting," Nolan says, coming to a stand. "Everything has been explained and answered, has it not?" He raises a brow, already stepping away from the table.
"Oh, no, Mr. Drake," Frederick chuckles darkly, "Mr. Gonzalez may not have found anything conclusive with Mr. Daley or Mr. Keefe, but perhaps he wasn't looking in the right place—or at the right person."
"First of all," Nolan frowns, raising his index finger, "don't you ever get confused with all of your misters? I mean, is it really necessary? We do have names, Fred," he says, huffing. "And second—"
"Enough!" A long vein is now sticking out of Frederick's forehead. "You are free to leave if you wish, Mr. Drake, but Miss Riley is not to be excused until Mr. Gonzalez has examined her." He pauses to take a calming breath, slowly unfurling his clenched fists. "Only then shall we resume deliberation."
I didn't even notice the screen embedded in the length of the table, but a single tap of his finger is all it takes to drown my cube.
Once again, I'm surrounded by nothing but milky white. I have no way of knowing whether I'm currently being watched, or if I've been transported to a different setting altogether. I'm still rooted to my chair, my hands neatly folded atop my thighs as I stare blankly into space. It's unnerving, but I don't allow my eyes to wander, not wanting to unknowingly meet the gaze of The Union—if they're even here, that is.
After a certain—or rather, uncertain—amount of time, I'm given my reprieve when, like the switch of a light, the solid white of the walls become replaced with clear glass. I don't know whether I should be relieved or worried that The Union is nowhere in sight, but regardless of where they are, finding out where I am currently takes precedence.
It looks like some sort of lab or clinic. My cube seems to be right in the center of the room—one that would be a lot more spacious if it weren't for the collection of machines surrounding me. The glossy devices, inky floor, and slick, wide screen embedded into one of the steel walls exude a modern and immaculate feel, which is why the long, wooden table, strewn with piles upon piles of folders and loose papers, sticks out like a sore thumb—not to mention the familiar man mouthing soundless words at me.
He looks about the same as he did the last time I met him. His dark hair is trimmed and combed, and he's wearing a button-up beneath his wrinkle-free sweater. Pressed slacks, polished shoes, and a telltale white coat completes his outfit.
I can practically see the light bulb going off in his head when he realizes I can't hear him. Immediately, he fumbles with his tablet before looking at me expectantly. "Hi, hello," he stutters, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses higher up his nose. "Can you hear me?"
Unsure if he can hear me, I merely nod.
"Good, good. Kaia, right? I don't know if you remember, but my name is Arturo. Welcome to my personal lab," he says, spreading his arms wide. It's as if he's had one—or five—too many cups of coffee, his nerves frayed and sparking. "I was told you're to be my top priority, so we better get started with the examination."
As he taps the screen of his tablet again, my cage begins to shrink until it's the size of a cozy shower stall. Just like at the sorting room that first directed me to The Academy, a blue laser zooms up and down my body, presumably scanning me for every bit of information it can find—though, I doubt it will find anything that the red-beam machine already didn't. After a few seconds, the stripe of light vanishes, and the cube expands to its original dimensions.
"This will only take a second," he says, pointing to the large screen on the wall. The previously blank display is now turned on to show a graph of neon lines reminiscent to those on a cardiac monitor. "Fascinating." Another few taps, and the screen switches to a new picture. I don't comprehend what I'm seeing at first. It's just a clear
sphere marbled with black smears, slowly rotating like a dwindling globe. "I've never seen anything like it," he gushes—and by his awestruck voice, I don't doubt it.
He approaches me, his nose nearly brushing the surface of my glass enclosure. Up close, I can see that his eyes are of a stark gray, and there is something in its depths that I've yet to decipher.
His intense stare is making me feel more than a little uncomfortable, and I quickly think of something to say that will break him out of his trance. "Are you a daemon, too?" My random question is met with what might be a flinch, but it's gone before I can be sure.
"No," he ducks his head, "I'm a velmon." I find myself more interested in how he said what he is, rather than what he said that he is. It's almost as if he's embarrassed—though I don't know why he would be. It's to my understanding that their unofficial rank is considered below daemons but above maevons, and if The Union is handing me over to him, surely he must hold some respectable position. Clearing his throat, he lifts his gaze back to mine. "But if my theory is correct, you're not a daemon, either—at least, not a pure one. I'll need to run some tests to confirm, though."
"Good idea, buddy." Both our heads snap in the general vicinity of the voice. I'm not at all surprised to see Nolan approaching us with long, easy strides, munching on a half-eaten panini as he waves at us with an air of nonchalance. "There's something about Nancy's cooking that just makes you feel so warm and gooey inside, don't you think?" So, while I'm about to be subjected to tests of an undisclosed nature, he went to The Academy for a toasted sandwich. Makes sense.
"Nolan," Arturo greets, his smile dropping as he begins to look around the room with nervous vigilance. "You know you're not supposed to be in here right now."
"I do," he nods, swallowing a barely chewed chunk of his food, "which is why the guys up there think I'm in the cafeteria. Well, I was in the cafeteria, but they think I'm still in the cafeteria. Those old geezers—believing everything they're told." He laughs, shaking his head. "I mean, I could probably tell them I'm spending the night in the cafeteria, and they wouldn't even question me. What does that say about them?"
