Rage

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

H atred isn’t just an emotion. It’s a vile creature, a weight that sits inside your chest and slithers through your lungs to infect you from the inside out. It erases every smile, every laugh, every good thought you’ve ever had until the only thing you know is the fires of cruelty. You stare into the abyss of evil, and you turn it into a dragon that must be slaughtered.

All around me, the carefully controlled breathing of the other trainees is loud in my ears. In the beginning, I thought I hated them too, when our handlers and the doctors had pitted us against each other, forced our bodies into painful positions of either fight and survive or resist and suffer.

Most of us had fought each other because we’d seen what had happened to those who hadn’t. Pacifists have no place in hell.

I stare at Director Devine as he makes his way to the stage. He’s an older man, a man I know all too fucking well. A couple of the younger trainees squirm in their seats, but Cyrus and I remain motionless, waiting for the snake to strike.

My upper lip trembles with the need to curl back as Director Devine turns abruptly and faces the room. He gazes out over the top of our heads, scanning over the collection of trainees he called to the meeting room. My breaths come faster as he draws nearer to me, and when his gaze meets mine, I clench my hands into fists at my sides.

His eyes—the same color as my own—aren’t in their usual flat and emotionless state. I stop breathing. Director Devine’s lips are curled up at the corners, and he shifts with a restlessness I’ve never seen from him. He’s excited about something, and that’s never a good thing.

“Welcome, my children,” he says.

“Hello, Director.” The flat greeting rises over our heads, each voice combining into one until there’s no difference in sound. It’s empty, hollow, but the Director responds as if we had all professed our undying love for him.

His smile widens, and he passes a hand over the hair he slicked back away from his face before stepping towards the edge of the stage, keeping a solid three-foot distance from the lip.

“It’s a pleasure to see you all today. You’re all looking so healthy and strong,” Director Devine states before pausing and nodding as if to an inaudible question. “It gives me hope,” he continues, “that our next experiment will prove successful.”

The harsh squeal of a chair leg sliding across the tiled floor shrieks into the room. No one moves, no one says a word, yet we all feel the sudden cloud of destruction over our heads.

I dark my eyes to the left. Our handlers remain where they are, stone-faced and giving no hint as to what the Director’s plan could be. I look to the right to find Cyrus completely focused on the Director.

“As is common in many experiments to further the future of our people, we rely on business partners and investors to help us provide for you,” Director Devine continues, dragging my attention back to him. “Those same partners have requested proof of the quality of their investment.”

Sweat beads along the back of my neck and over the top of my forehead. My lashes flutter, and I swallow reflexively, trying to keep the vomit back. The Director’s gaze moves over Cyrus with careful detachment, but when he pauses on me once more, his lips curve upward.

Please, I silently beg. Please, no. Whatever it is, it’s not good. Whatever he wants from us, it’s dangerous. I can’t breathe. I turn my head as black and white spots dance in my vision. How is everyone else breathing when there’s no air in the room?

“I’m sure,” Director Devine says, “most of you will prove quite successful.”

Stones weigh down my gut, and for the first time since he arrived at Imperium, Cyrus lifts the mask in front of the monster who houses all of us and glances at the doors. The exit.

I shake my head when he glances my way. Surely, they’re locked. The only other way out is behind Director Devine, and that’s on purpose.

The Director continues, not bothering to comment on Cyrus' sudden break from the norm. “Today’s test will be this,” he explains as he strides across the stage, stopping at one end and holding a hand out to the handlers. One of them—a burly man with a sagging jawline and a bald head—steps away from the wall to place a small black box in the Director’s palm.

With a smile, Director Devine waves the handler away as he opens the box and holds up a small silver square, barely the size of my pinky nail. “A copy of this technology has been implanted into each of you. I’m sure you’ll recall undergoing surgery recently…”

Someone gags, the sound a loud noise in the otherwise near-silent room. Surgery. Yes, we’d had surgery—many of them. Not a single one of them had been voluntary, considering we only knew of them after we’d been drugged, usually in our daily rations, and then woken up after the fact … if we woke up at all.

“This technology, although an impressive advancement, is quite fragile outside of a host’s body, but on the inside…” Director Devine’s smile is brilliant and gleaming, even as he drifts off, his meaning clear. “It’ll be the next military weapon, the next video game, the next everything . But first—” He puts the chip back in its box. “First, we have to prove its effectiveness.”

Heat steals across the back of my neck, jolting my whole body. A gasp escapes my lips as I jerk and cry out. Several others respond as that damn technology implanted within our bodies is activated with all the subtlety of a lion ripping apart its prey. Despite my own yelp of surprise, I hear nothing from the man next to me. Cyrus remains silent.

I glance over at him even as I reach up to feel the back of my neck. I hadn’t even noticed the new little bump under the surface of my skin—skin that’s now coated in sweat and hot to the touch. Cyrus continues to watch the Director, and when I look back to the older man, it’s to find him returning Cyrus’ stare.

Gritting my teeth, I repress a groan as the heat drips slowly down my spine, little droplets of molten hot lava burning a path through me.

It hurts.

“Each of you has a controller—one of our investors,” Director Devine continues, though no one aside from Cyrus is really listening anymore. “Unfortunately, as we have twelve investors and twelve of you, I will not be participating in this test. There’s no one for me to play.”

Play as in … us. They’re playing us, like we’re fucking characters in a game. My throat swells in horror and fear. I try to stand, but my legs don’t move. I try again and again, but my body refuses to respond to my mental commands.

Horror descends when I realize the test has already begun.

Testing my limbs and muscles, I work through what I can and can’t do at rapid speed. I can turn my head—look up, look down—but I can’t move my fucking arms or legs.

“What the fuck?”

“Oh my God.”

“Please!”

The cries of distress come from the others as they, too, break their rolls as unfeeling trainees fill the room. It’s pointless.

Director Devine moves to the door behind the stage, stepping down as the stage lowers into the floor, creamy white tile replacing it. As if on some sort of signal, the handlers begin to file out of the room one by one. Director Devine remains behind as they do, his eyes finding mine, his smile coolly confident.

“Good luck, children,” he says before he strides out the door, letting it slam closed behind him. A loud click lets us know it when it locks. We’re trapped.