Hope is always the last emotion to die. I’ve studied every inch of this cell and have come up with nothing but the realization that aggression of any kind gets the door open. Nothing else has worked. The people behind the glass are looking for something, but I don’t know what it is.
I should have died with my uncle.
The lights flicker off, and I instinctively reach into my pocket for something which isn’t there.
I need fire, not for the light, but for the warmth.
“Subject 117. Stand and put both hands on the wall.” The voice is muffled and comes not from the black box but from the other side of the door.
I want to be rebellious, but I don’t know if this is the time.
Fuck it.
“No, I think I’m fine where I am.”
The door opens, and I watch as the young man from earlier walks in. His suit is spotless, and his hair is styled slightly to the left. “May I sit?”
Why does he look so weak?
I push off the chair and take a seat on the bed. “Since when do you people ask for my permission for anything?”
He smiles and sits down in the chair. “Do you know who I am, 117?”
I lean back against the wall. “Does it matter?”
He shrugs. “Maybe—maybe not. My dear old dad used to tell me that knowledge was power and that we shouldn’t stop trying to learn. The more we know, the more useful we are.”
“Forgive me for being blunt, but I don’t care who you are. I don’t care about this place. I just want to go home.”
“117—”
I shake my head. “Stop calling me that. I’m not a number. I have a name.”
For a long time, there is only the buzzing of the lights over our heads. Neither one of us says a word. The man reaches under his jacket and pulls out a carton of cigarettes. My uncle had a small stash which he only smoked on special occasions. Rolled tobacco was rare in the bunkers–a vice only a handful of people indulged in.
“Do you want one?” He shakes the carton.
This man is full of himself. I couldn’t tell how arrogant he was when he was standing behind the glass.
“No.”
“You say that a lot.”
I watch as he pulls out a Zippo and lights the end of his cigarette. “Would you comply with people who are detaining you for no reason?”
“No reason? Is that what you think?” He laughs. “Like it or not, you are just a number. Your name isn’t real.”
“I don’t—”
“Of course, you don’t understand.” He takes a deep inhale of smoke. “You’re an experiment, nothing more. Something broken which we’re all trying to fix. That, and you have cost this facility a lot of money.”
I slide to the edge of the bed. “My name is Petra Pavlova.”
“You are a synthetic being whose sole purpose is to help us understand human nature on a scientific level.” He squishes his cigarette into the table. “And you broke out of your experiment. If you want to go back to your little bunker, then you must complete rehabilitation.”
The bunker isn’t real, though.
I don’t believe him. There isn’t enough evidence for me to believe anything he says. His words are just that—words. I take a deep breath and look towards the door.
“What is your name?” I smile. “Or do you have a number as well?”
He starts flicking the lighter between his fingers. “We are all numbers to one database or another. My name is Bullock.”
“Bullock? What kind of name is that?”
“This isn’t about me, you know? I want to see you return home.”
But home is an illusion.
There is no doubt in my mind that he has several restraining cubes on his person. The question is, can I get to him before he has a chance to use them? There’s only one way I can get the door open.
I think I’m ready to be a rebel.
My shoulder is still sore, but I think I can probably close the distance quick enough.
The next few moments happen in slow motion.
The lights flicker, and I get ready to vault from my seat to his.
“You know…” He looks down to light another cigarette.
I move.
“…I wish there was a way—”
My left foot connects with his face.
He falls backwards and rolls out of his chair.
Little specks of red make a faint arc on the white walls. After a few moments, the droplets follow gravity’s pull and look more like a rough candy cane pattern than anything else.
He’s out cold.
I pick up the lighter off the ground as the door opens. There are vibrations which match the footsteps of the orderly. I expected this. It’s all about recognizing the patterns. One beam of light settles on me as I reach into Bullock’s jacket and pull out two grey cubes.
Now I have ten seconds to figure out how to use them.
“Hey!” An orderly appears in the doorway and my mind begins racing. He moves and I’m just not fast enough.
The orderly hits me hard and I fall back, straight into the blood-speckled wall. My shoulder seizes, and I find myself pocketing the cubes rather than using them. There isn’t time to figure this out. I just need to get out that door and run.
“Subject 117—”
I step back and place a foot on Bullock’s throat. The orderly stops advancing.
“Power down.”
Silence.
“I said power down!”
“Petra, stop this nonsense.” The black box speaks as the glass reveals Doctor Nelson on the other side. “This situation isn’t good for anyone. Yourself included.”
I press my foot harder into the soft tissue around his neck. “Power down. This guy is an asshole, I have no problem—”
Gunshot.
That’s when I feel it—the sharp sting of a bullet.
I stagger back and clutch my left thigh. A blue, viscous liquid seeps between my fingers.
What is this? This isn’t blood.
Three men race past the orderly and tackle me onto the ground. There is shouting, and the black box continues to speak, but I don’t hear the words.
That is when I feel it, the last tug in my chest. My body tenses and shakes. I am crying, but there are no tears.
Why are there no tears?
I don’t understand what is happening.
“Subject 117.” One of the men forces me onto my stomach while another binds my wrists behind my back. “Comply.”
For a moment, the world seems to be moving in slow motion. Each second is heavy, and I can’t help but wonder what it means. The white walls have been replaced by several colours now. The patterns are random—chaotic.
So much blue.
Maybe I’m not crying because I am incapable of it.
Hope has finally died.