He didn’t reply. He sat at the front in all of his classes, determined to make a good impression. Why should this be any different?
“You strike me as a very attentive pupil.” The man’s pale eyes observed him with clinical interest. “I’m curious, how did these videos make you feel?”
This was a test, he realized. The supervisor was analyzing every word and expression, but what was he searching for? What was the desired response, and how would the results of this test later affect him?
“I felt nothing, sir,” he said, which was the truth. Whenever he watched the videos now, he felt empty. It was the same during solo viewings, when he was given drugs that made his head fuzzy and hooked up to machines that monitored his brain activity and heart rate.
The few exceptions to his apathy had occurred only during the nights he watched the videos alone. Twice now in the last month, after swallowing the pills they had given him, a warm, soothing euphoria had overwhelmed him even as carnage erupted across the TV screen. Once, his body had behaved in a way that embarrassed him, but he didn’t like to think about that. It felt wrong.
“In the first video, why do you think they killed the man at the end?” the supervisor asked.
He gave it some thought, and said, “He had nothing else to provide them. As soon as he confessed, he lost all value. Otherwise, they would have kept him as a hostage.”
“That’s correct,” the supervisor said, smiling at him. “You may go now, A-02. Roll call begins in ten minutes.”
As Two walked out to the courtyard, he thought about his own value. If D-12’s death had taught him anything, it was that no matter how much his instructors praised him, he was expendable. He had been born to obey, and regardless of what he accomplished in the world outside the Academy, he would always be a proxy acting on the orders of others. If he could no longer serve, there would be no reason to keep him alive.
What he planned to do tonight would jeopardize everything. One mistake and he could lose his future in an instant. But there was no value in a future where he had stood by and done nothing while Nine got hurt. She was everything.
By the time he found his place at the front of Subset A’s line, alongside nineteen other subjects, the sun had already fallen past the horizon. The pleasant fragrances of pine trees and roasted meat filled the air. Soothing smells. Familiar ones.
Over the crests of the pine trees, he saw the indigo silhouettes of distant mountains. He had heard once that the peaks were called San Juan, or something like that. It seemed funny in a frustrating sort of way that the mountains had a name but he must earn his.
A single whistle blast captured his attention. He lowered his gaze to the concrete platform at the center of the courtyard, where a couple of wooden tables were placed. Now, a man sat at one of them, sipping from a thermos.
While pre-dinner drills could go on for hours, depending on the situation, it was rare for the supervisor on duty to remain standing for even half that time. Usually, the longer meetings only happened when the Leader was here, which was seldom more than a bimonthly occurrence.
“Mark time, march!” the man barked.
Two marched in place, enjoying the sound his boot heels made on the packed dirt in rhythm with two hundred other pairs of shoes. Someday, he would be the one giving orders. Just the thought sent a thrilling shiver racing down his spine. That was right. He would be the one sitting there, under a full moon as smooth and white as a pearl.
“Repeat after me: I will serve the Project with pride and dignity until the day I die,” the man shouted.
He smirked, repeating the phrase in a loud, clear call. He wouldn’t just serve Project Pandora—one day, he would lead it. It was his destiny.
“I am strong,” the man said, and the crowd echoed his words. “I am loyal. I will work hard every day. I will obey.”
The drill dragged on. His legs began aching, and his stomach growled in hungry discontent. Even when throbbing pain settled deep into his shin bones, he maintained his perfect posture, refusing to allow exhaustion to lower his own personal standards. Besides, it made him feel better being in constant motion, even if it meant marching in place and going nowhere. He had always found enjoyment in repetitive exercises, losing himself in doing the same thing over, and over, and over again.
A guard came around to count their numbers at the beginning, then did it again thirty minutes later. Apparently, someone had lost count.
“Subject Two of Subset A,” he said, once the man reached him a second time. He smiled as he heard Nine give her number and made eye-contact with her when he glanced in her direction.
He could only see her profile, but it was still a pleasant sight. She stood under one of the stadium lights. In its bright glow, her flaxen hair possessed a faint golden undertone, like the fragile mica clusters he sometimes found after heavy rains. Beautiful.
His smile faded as Reynard passed her. The man whispered to her and slipped something into her hand. She stiffened, and though she kept her expression placid, her hunched shoulders and averted gaze revealed her discomfort. She no longer wore the jewelry that Reynard had given her.
“Subset A, dismissed!” the man with the thermos said.
Two followed the rest of his subset back into the main building, marching in lockstep.
That night, he was too anxious to eat his dinner, even though he had felt ravenous during roll call. As he rehearsed what he would do and say to Reynard, he played with his cornbread, breaking it into crumbs between his restless fingers.
Then, as Nine sat down across from him, it occurred to him that his lack of appetite would arouse suspicion. He needed to act natural, like he had nothing to worry about.
“Slow down or you’re going to choke,” she said as he shoveled chili into his mouth. She brushed her silky hair out of her face. The food caught in his throat as his gaze lowered from her amused smile to her breasts. Even though her baggy uniform obscured her shapely figure, he could easily imagine how she looked without her clothes on. He had seen her before.
“That’s my intent,” he said between bites, using his spoon to scoop up the cornbread crumbs and sweet sauce. The chili was as delicious as always. Maybe even better than usual, actually, even though it settled like cement in the bottom of his stomach.
She glanced around the mess hall, then reached into her pocket, pulling out a small rectangular object wrapped in shiny gold plastic. The word “Twix” was written in red across the package.
“He gave me this tonight,” she said. “It’s candy.”
The last candy that Mr. Reynard had given her had been called a Butterfinger, and before that it was a Hershey’s bar.
“Twix. What’s with these names?” He took the candy from her, turning it over in his hands. The treat showed no signs of tampering, and there was still a cushion of air trapped between the wrapper and its contents.
“Want to share it?” she asked as he gave the candy bar back to her.
He didn’t want her to eat it in the first place, but if everything went as planned, this would be the last of Mr. Reynard’s gifts. They might as well make the most of it.
He smiled, reinforcing his mask. “Sure. Thanks.”
She tore open the wrapper and gave him one of the chocolate sticks inside. He took small bites, savoring the candy’s taste and crunchy texture.
It was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten, even better than the Butterfinger bar. As he licked the chocolate from his fingers, he saw Mr. Reynard watching them from the mess hall door. The candy’s sweetness congealed like blood on his tongue.
I’m never going to let you touch her, you sick bastard, Two thought, offering the man a pleasant smile. I’ll destroy you if it’s the last thing I do.
Reynard stared for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the front of the room. A holstered gun hung from his tactical belt, alongside a steel baton and a canister of pepper spray.
While he didn’t know Reynard’s history, he was con
fident that he could defeat the man in close combat. Most of the guards here were retired police officers or military veterans who had been dishonorably discharged. They had training, but they probably didn’t practice regularly.
Two, on the other hand, had been taught how to fight from the moment he could form a fist, and sparred every day as part of his training regimen. He had never crippled anyone, let alone killed, but he had the necessary skills and the determination. He knew he wouldn’t hesitate when the time came for murder.
“Someday, I’m going to eat these Twix things every day,” he said, turning his attention back to her. He tried not to think about how, if he failed, there would be no more candy, no more Nine, nothing at all. Just the dark, boring hole of a loaded gun, and then an even deeper darkness.
“Oh, really?” She grinned. “Don’t you mean we are?”
He smiled at her. It was their shared dream to leave the Academy and start a family together. Logically, it was the most rational future. Why have subjects marry strangers, unrelated to Project Pandora, when they could instead marry each other, creating power couples with no need for secrets?
In the corner of his eye, he watched Reynard leave the mess hall. No doubt continuing his patrol.
“I need to go pee,” he said, rising to his feet. “Can you watch my tray to make sure nobody steals it?”
“Sure,” Nine said.
“Thanks.”
“But don’t take too long or I might eat your cupcake.”
He picked up his cupcake and licked the frosting off the top before setting it on her tray. “It’s all yours.”
“Ew, no thanks,” she said, returning the dessert to his plate.
“Just think of it as an indirect kiss.” With a smirk, he turned on his heels and walked out of the mess hall, through the same door that Reynard had passed through just moments before. As the door swished shut behind him, his smile chilled, then fell from his lips entirely. The frosting’s sweetness curdled on his tongue.
Ever since Nine had received the bracelet, he had learned all he could about Mr. Reynard. From the rumors, he knew that Reynard was an equal-opportunity predator who preyed on boys and girls alike, though he seemed to favor the latter, and blondes in particular. Still, ease of access appeared to trump sexual preferences for the majority of Reynard’s victims had been political or corporate subjects without consistent tactical training. Not the sort of teens who would know how to put up a good fight against an authority figure.
If the man wanted an easy target, he was about to get one.
He caught up to Reynard near the entrance.
“Mr. Reynard,” Two said, “do you have a minute?”
Reynard turned. He was a tall, cadaverous man in his mid-thirties, with a square face pierced by a pair of dull hazel eyes. His light-brown hair was cut into a bristly thatch.
“You’re from Subset A, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “I’m Subject Two, sir.”
“What is it?” Reynard asked, resting his hands on his waist.
“I know what you want, sir.” He kept his gaze lowered, his chin bowed. By hunching his shoulders and clasping his arms in front of him, he fabricated a convincing illusion of subservience. His eyes flickered to the man’s face only long enough to see him smile, then looked away again.
“And what is that?” Reynard asked, sounding amused.
“The same thing I want. A friend.” He glanced up. “You can bring stuff in from outside. I can…help you.”
Reynard stared.
“I’ve been watching you for a while now, sir,” Two said softly. “You have needs, and I have them, too.”
He had spent the last three weeks exhaustively plotting how he might get rid of Reynard and had eventually come to the conclusion that entrapping the man was his best option. He had always been good at hiding his true feelings and falsifying expressions. He was confident that he could bait the man and lure him to somewhere secluded, before finishing him off for good.
After a moment of silence, Reynard cleared his throat. He glanced around the empty hall, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. His tongue slid over his thin lips, moistening them nervously, like a subject who had been caught napping during a lesson. “What do you want?”
“Actual food,” he said, and when Reynard chuckled, so did he. “And some art stuff, maybe. I like to draw.”
Reynard nodded. “Tomorrow night, meet me outside the barracks after lights out.”
“Understood, sir,” Two said, smiling.
Case Notes 4: Subject Two of Subset A
Under the moon’s ashen gaze, Two followed Mr. Reynard deeper into the forest. Twigs snapped beneath his feet. Among the drifts of damp leaves, he spotted rocks of all shapes and sizes. Volcanic pumice. Creek stones eroded into smooth lozenges. Broken slabs of flint with jagged edges sharp enough to slice flesh.
Many of the rocks would make good weapons, but he did not bend down to pick them up. He kept his hands at his side, fingers loosely spread. Any unusual behavior on his part would arouse suspicion. He must feign subservience and weakness.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s just a little bit farther.” Reynard took a thick cigarette out of an inner pocket of his jacket. “Have you ever smoked?”
“No, sir.” He had no interest in tobacco or the nasty clove-scented cigarettes that the Leader favored.
“Try this,” Reynard said, holding it out to him.
He hesitated. He didn’t want to put his lips on anything that was in the man’s pockets, but at the same time realized that it was necessary for Reynard to let his guard down. Besides, now he could finally figure out why adults found cigarettes so appealing.
“It’ll make you feel good.”
Two propped the cigarette in his mouth like he had seen the Leader do, and waited patiently while Reynard searched for, presumably, a lighter.
“Just inhale,” Reynard said, lighting the misshapen tip for him. “That’s good.”
As the smoke filled his lungs, he began coughing. His throat tightened, trying to expel the foul vapors. Ugh, it tasted disgusting!
“Easy now.” Reynard smiled. “Try again. Trust me, you’ll love weed.”
“What’s weed?” he asked once he had regained his breath. He spat into the dirt, grossed out by the cigarette’s taste. How could anyone enjoy inhaling smoke in the first place? So disgusting.
Laughing, Reynard shook his head. “Kid, I’m going to teach you so much. Go on, do it again.”
“No, thank you. I don’t like the taste, sir.”
His smile tightened. “I said try again. Try not to cough it all out this time.”
After a brief hesitation, Two did as he was told. This time, he managed to keep the smoke down for a couple seconds before being forced to breathe out. Still didn’t taste any better, but at least he was getting the hang of it.
The forest darkened. He blinked, but it didn’t help. As he handed the cigarette back to Reynard, he experienced the strangest sensation of his eyes growing too big for their sockets. He tripped over a branch but caught his balance, and for some reason that struck him as absolutely hilarious and he began laughing.
“This place is so cool,” Reynard said, stopping in front of a small brick building. So cool. The description sounded forced somehow, like he was trying to relate to Two even though he was twice his age.
At the sight of the one-story, windowless building, Two’s laughter shriveled in his throat. Someone had once told him that it was a water-treatment facility, but everyone in his subset thought that it was a prison. The place where bad subjects went in and never came out.
“I don’t want to go in there.”
“Don’t be a wimp.” Reynard tried to pass him the cigarette again, but he wouldn’t take it.
“I feel weird.”
“It’s called being high. You’ll get used to it.” Reynard extracted a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the door. He held it open. “Come on, don’t be a baby. Yo
u’re fifteen, right? What are you afraid of?”
He licked his lips nervously, staring into the darkness. The moonlight failed to illuminate past the threshold. Reynard’s presence was revealed only by the glow of the cigarette propped between his spidery fingers, burning like a cyclops’s eye.
Taking a deep breath, he entered. All around him, machines pumped in synchronization. Water churned through pipes bolted to the walls.
Even with his mind clouded, adrenaline sharpened his senses. He took in his surroundings immediately, just as he had been trained to do. A pile of rubbish was stacked against one wall. Pipe sections and loose bricks. Nice weapons, but how was he supposed to reach them without attracting attention to himself?
“Nobody will disturb us here,” Reynard said, closing the door.
A safety lamp on the wall filled the room with a faint crimson glow. The wire-enclosed bulb was crusted with dirt and cobwebs, dimming the light so that the corners of the room were bathed in shadows. In the ruddy glow, the rumbling pipes and pistons appeared strange and sinister, like the guts of an aged war-machine, clogged with blood.
Staring at his grimy surroundings, he imagined the man bringing Nine to this place. In his mind’s eye, he saw her trembling in the clammy darkness, her arms wrapped defensively around her slim, pale body.
And like that, his fear was replaced by the purest rage.
“Don’t be nervous,” Reynard said as Two turned to face him. The scarlet light reflected off his snaggleteeth, turning his smile cannibalistic. “This will be enjoyable for the both of us.”
Then Reynard grabbed his face and tried to kiss him.
The putrid taste of smoke and old meat filled his mouth as Reynard’s tongue skirted across his teeth. As he pulled back, the man’s fingers tightened around his cheeks. Ragged nails dug into his skin.
In his panic, his training fled him, replaced by much baser animal instincts. Blood filled his mouth as he bit down, hard.
Reynard reeled back, pressing his hand against his lips.
“You little bastard.” Reynard lowered his hand from his bloodied mouth. “You bit me.”
Hades Rising Page 4
