Chapter 2
EVALUATION PENDING
A swift elbow to my ribs ends my moment of self-reflection, followed by the overly warm fluorescents that signal we have to get moving.
“Maysie!” Juniper groans, bumping me out of the way with her hip.
“Other people have to get ready.” She’s fumbling with a pin in her hair, fighting a losing battle against the auburn curl mountain.
I stumble back, giving her space to work as I run through my mental checklist again.
There’s no clock in here, which certainly doesn’t help the panicked chaos that has become my morning routine.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “That hurt, y’know.” She giggles in response, motioning for more pins. I slide a few off our shared dresser and pass them to her.
Brielle’s hovering in the bathroom doorway, toothbrush half in her mouth, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Is this really happening?” She garbles through the brush, already drifting back to the sink.
“What do you mean?” I ask, half-listening, half-panicking. Socks. I need my socks.
She flutters into the room, hands gripping her hem tight enough to leave wrinkles. “Like what if he’s just toying with us?”
“Avery said it’s real.” I offer, sifting through my sheets to find the pink hair ribbon I forgot to remove last night.
June flashes a wicked grin, the fluorescents glancing off her skin with a warm sheen as she side-eyes Avery. “Well, Avery’s always—”
“It’s real,” Avery interrupts, throwing a glare June’s way. She’s the only one of us actually ready. Skirt perfectly pressed, lavender headband framing her golden hair, hands folded nicely in her lap like she’s in the running to be voted world’s cockiest statue. “Mister M told me last week.”
That tracks. Mister M would hand over his ID badge if she asked nicely.
“I’m not awake,” Ivy informs us from inside her blanket. It’s more of a muffled decree than a statement. “Therefore, it’s not real.”
“Profound,” June mutters, dragging a comb through her curls. “Maysie, do I look like I tumbled out of a ventilation shaft?”
“You look like you fought the ventilation shaft and won,” I say, not looking up as I dig in my drawer for my other flat, coming up with nothing but a single sock and a crumpled paper June scribbled faces on and left under my pillow last week. “Has anyone seen—”
“Your shoe?” Bri pauses mid-pace, looking me over. She turns in a small circle that somehow checks all four corners at once. “I saw it last night. Maybe under Ivy’s bunk?”
I nod a thank you at her. Sleek black hair halos out from the blanket where Ivy’s splayed out, still half-asleep.
I nudge her leg out of the way so I can peer under the frame, which makes her hiss, “Five more minutes.” I roll my eyes, craning my neck to get a better view.
Not there, of course. My head conks against the ladder to June’s bunk when I try to stand.
“Ow!” I wince. “I will be so grateful when I never have to see a stupid bunk bed ever again.”
“I second that!” June calls from the bathroom.
If Avery’s right, this will be our last morning in this room. The training wing is on a different floor of the facility. Different ballgame. Hopefully, similar rules.
We’ll still be together, thankfully. I’ve grown quite close to my four pod-mates. Sharing a tiny bunkroom and spending twenty-four-seven with the same people will do that to you.
The door swings open, hinges groaning as all four of our pod enforcers file in.
Vance at the front, armed and dangerous with a clipboard, ready to bark commands.
Ralston’s trailing him, clutching a silver velvet box like his life depends on it.
Colt lags behind, practically dragging a reluctant Ryder by the arm.
Ryder, naturally, is about as awake as Ivy.
He’s fumbling with the buttons of his dark uniform jacket, one boot still untied.
Four men who aren’t men so much as boys. Older than us by only a year or two, if I had to guess. They provide round-the-clock surveillance, though we’re rarely graced with the presence of all four of them at once.
“Line up,” Vance orders, pushing up his glasses.
We shuffle into a crooked line. I tug on Bri’s sleeve as she slips beside me. She squeezes my fingers once—our comfort signal. My right foot drags, heavier with only one shoe; the other gone to some void that swallows things when you need them most.
The enforcers jump straight to work, not bothering to wait for Ivy, who’s just now rubbing the sleep from her eyes and sulking toward the bathroom.
Vance takes our right arms one by one, noting our wrist-cuffs’ vital readouts before powering them down. Colt collects the cuffs, stepping away to put them on their chargers. I rub the raw skin on my wrist, ignoring the sting and the discoloration blooming in a cuff-shaped ring.
The relief is short-lived as Colt returns with five daytime cuffs, passing two to Ryder, who peels himself off the wall and follows. Colt stops in front of Juniper, motioning for the wrist she has pinned behind her back. She sticks her tongue out. He rolls his eyes and puts his hand out, expectant.
“June—” he starts.
She groans, extending her arm at a snail’s pace. “Y’know, maybe we wouldn’t get so many blisters if we swapped which wrists they’re on every once in a while.”
Vance clears his throat. “As I’ve said a thousand times, the cuff’s readouts are more accurate on the dominant arm.”
June huffs, then smirks. “I’m suddenly feeling like a lefty,” she announces with a flourish of her other arm.
Colt laughs, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works—”
“No, no,” I interrupt, crinkling my nose in amusement. “You should let her try. I’d love to see miss lefty attempt her workbook reflections.”
June turns to me, slapping a hand over her mouth with a fake gasp. “Maysie! You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“June,” Colt repeats, hand still outstretched.
“Fine,” she concedes. He snaps the cuff on as soon as she’s close enough.
It blinks once, then settles into a solid green that says she’s synced and steady.
Colt nods at me as he strides past to Brielle, who’s already waiting, palm up.
Ivy stumbles out of the bathroom just in time for Ryder to place hers.
My cuff always has the most issues syncing, so I have the daily privilege of going last. The doctors say it’s nothing. They say my pulse is fainter, so the system takes longer to detect it. Which is all well and good until I’m stuck waiting in the medical wing for a manual sync.
When it’s finally my turn, I bite my lip hard to distract from the shock that hits me as it boots up.
The cuff will send pulse waves until it connects—which could take seconds…
or minutes. Worst case, it may not sync at all.
Colt offers me a sympathetic smile, shaking my wrist to help the system deduce I’m alive.
When it finally hits green, I exhale a pent-up breath.
Ralston approaches next, withdrawing the enamel pin that bears my designation, 214, from the velvet box. He nods wordlessly, and I pull my brown hair back so he can affix it. To my relief, he manages to do so without poking me. Once it’s straight, he moves down the line.
Two minutes later, the morning ritual is complete. Five cuffs swapped. Five vitals taken. Five pins placed. Five girls ready to tackle whatever’s coming next. Well…more like four. Ivy is still nodding off in my periphery.
Just as the enforcers step back, the door opens again. The air goes taut the way it always does when he appears.
Our omnipotent mentor, Mister M, doesn’t enter so much as glide, as if the room hangs on his every word.
In a way, it does. Mister M has overseen every part of our training since we were brought into the advancement program.
From meals to drills to enrichment, he’s there, typically barking orders.
Always eager to call out even the slightest misstep.
Despite his attitude, it’s hard to deny his charm. Mister M is polished in every sense of the word. Golden brown hair styled to the nines, with matching gold-flecked hazel eyes that catch on every light, granting them a permanent perverse glint.
His attire matches the other mentors: dress pants, collared shirt, and a tailored jacket that frames his form perfectly in hues of crimson and black. Every mentor seems to have their own color palette; Mister M clearly favors red.
Which is convenient, because I just so happen to hate the color red with every fiber of my frail being.
Always have. To the point where Mister M claims it was one of the first things I said to him when I woke up from my reset.
He always tells the story in the same playful lilt, yet he offers no explanation for why I got to start my new life stripped down to nothing but a number and a meaningless hatred for a primary color.
“Good morning, girls,” he announces, words dipped in sugar that doesn’t hide the edge beneath. Mister M strides down the line, hands clasped behind his back, humming a low tune. His gaze lingers on Bri’s trembling hands.
He smirks.
“Try not to faint, Brielle. The floor is hard. It won’t catch you.
” Bri flushes pink. He reaches down, tugging the ribbon out of her hair and dropping it into her hand.
“Try again,” he says, waving her off. Tears well in her baby blue eyes as she flees to the bathroom.
His attention cuts to June. “Wipe that grin off your face. You look like you’re waiting to be punished. ”
“Maybe I am,” June mutters under her breath.
His face contorts into a sneer. “Believe me, you’re not half as interesting as you think.” He moves to Ivy, still half-slouched and in yesterday’s uniform. He tilts his head in what could only be described as annoyed amusement. “Did they wake you too early, darling? You look half-dead.”
Ivy narrows her eyes. “I’m awake.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, already turning.
Avery earns a nod of satisfaction; he tips her chin up with one finger, and she smiles. “Perfect. As expected,” he says.
I force my breath steady as he turns to me.
“And you—” His gaze travels down and catches on my left foot. “Try not to lose half your wardrobe before the door even opens.”
My face burns. “Yes, sir.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Mister M.” The words are chalk on my tongue. I make myself stand taller, forcing a smile like I can take a joke. Only it’s never a joke when it’s from him. At least, not one anyone else finds funny.
“Beyond your lack of footwear, you look…passable.” His attention has already flicked past me. Passable. That’s better than usual. I’m used to “boring,” “uninspired,” even “average” if he’s feeling generous. He doesn’t care much for me, but I do my best to appease him whenever possible.
Vance clears his throat in what, for him, is a gesture of announcement. “Pins placed. Vitals recorded. Cuffs charged and synced.”
“Good,” Mister M says. He steps back to take us all in with one sweep of approval that never quite reaches me. “As you may have heard, today is an important day. You’ll be advancing to the training wing.” His gaze snaps to June. “Should you pass today’s tests, of course.”
“I look forward to it,” June quips, chin tipped up in defiance. Mister M hums, unimpressed.
For 183 days, we’ve been in a phase they like to call intake. A messy in-between where the board members and doctors decide if we’re truly worth the time and effort. While it’s true that we were saved, our spots in the program aren’t guaranteed, and they don’t let us forget it. Ever.
Though, no one ever tells us what happens to girls who fail.
He pivots to me, leaning in a bit too close for comfort.
“You have thirty seconds to find your shoe before I make you hop to breakfast.” The spark in his eyes tells me he’s not joking.
I gulp hard. Nod. And turn, scanning the room for the thousandth time.
Mister M herds the other girls into the hall, sparing me a sidelong glance. “Better hurry.”
Ralston clears his throat from behind me. I turn to see him plucking my shoe from where it was apparently wedged behind the dresser. Relief floods my chest. I whisper my thanks and grab it from his hand, stumbling into step behind Ivy.
Shoe found, day saved. Catastrophic mistakes avoided: four. Five if you include covering for Brielle’s broken paintbrush last week…but we still got punished with corrective drills, so “avoided” might be a stretch.
I tug the flat on in an incredibly ungraceful half-hop, half-step combo, and spare one final glance back at the bunkroom I’ve called home for six months. No matter how today goes, I have a sinking feeling that I’ll never see it again.
Mister M halts us just short of the dining hall, turning to face us with cold efficiency.
“Remember,” he starts, smirk spreading wide across his lips. The gold in his eyes dances like tiny flames.
“You’ll be perfect today. That’s what you’ve been training for. That’s what’s expected of you.” His gaze slides down the line, catching on each of us. “Perfection.” His eyes sharpen, landing squarely on me. “Or nothing at all.”