Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Emilia
My stomach twists tight, the same way it has been doing since I woke this morning in my rickety single bed. I fight the urge to bite my lip, unwilling to give anything away, even as my heart pounds against my ribcage. Beneath the table, my thumb fiddles with the sleeve of my black top.
I’m in one of the interview rooms in the old police station; one of the few buildings they rebuilt after the war tore the city apart.
The rest of the year, I suspect it’s used for interrogations.
Out of the corner of my eye, a dark stain smatters across the walls, taunting me, daring me to try and step out of line.
“Miss Emilia Burton?” The short, stocky man in the left chair leans forward, elbow resting on the table, eyes scanning the file in front of him.
“Yes.” My voice wavers, despite my best efforts. I swallow, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my shoulder and setting my arms on the table, feigning a neutral expression. The woman on the right smiles, her own gaze dropping to my file.
“Excellent,” the man says. “Shall we begin?”
Slowly, I nod.
“I’m Phoebe,” the woman tells me softly. “And this is Steve.” She gestures to the sniffling man, who barely glances up from the file. “We’ll start with some generic questions. Is that okay?” she asks, her smile practiced and false.
I nod again.
“Your age?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Parents?”
“Dead.”
“We know that, dear. What were their names?” Phoebe presses gently.
“Richard and Jane Burton,” I reply, drawing my arms back and letting them fall into my lap. I trace the seam of my sleeve, banishing the image of my parents to the back of my mind.
“Any siblings?”
“Jake Burton.” His name catches in my throat. “Dead.”
“Any other living family?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her voice is effortlessly soft.
My jaw tightens, and I avert my gaze down, tracing the divots in the table, counting them to keep my breath steady.
Steve isn’t deterred. “Your birthday?”
“24th May.”
“Okay, Emilia. Thank you for sharing that.” Phoebe’s fake smile widens, whilst Steve flips the page, scribbling something I’ll never see.
I should return her grin. I should lift my head, meet their eyes, and show them a trace of the obedient girl they’re looking for. Instead, I just keep my hands in my lap.
My answers are short and clipped. I give them one or two words as their questions dig into my past… my family, medical record, where I lived, what happened to me when the war broke out. Each answer feels like giving away part of myself.
“Now it’s time for some of the more interesting questions,” Phoebe says, tone lighter than ever. “Ones that will help us find you a soulmate. Isn’t that exciting?”
I lift my eyes to hers, but disbelief twists my lips before I can stop it. She looks genuinely thrilled, bright-eyed, as if this is the most important day of her life. My lips part, but no words come out, my tongue frozen by the absurdity of it all.
Her brow lifts, a flicker of impatience tainting her eyes as she shakes her head and draws a clipboard from her briefcase, flipping past the first page.
“What was your favourite subject at school?”
“My favourite subject?” I echo, my tone scornful.
“Please answer the question,” she says. The smile on her lips is strained now, her patience thinning.
My chest tightens. “Uhh... maths, I guess?”
I haven’t thought about school in years, and even back then, I never cared how I performed. Lessons blurred into one, especially after the war. My education in the State’s miserable version of school ended over two years ago.
They nod, scribbling it down and venturing into music, sport, recreation, and the State assigned job that fills my days. My answers are tentative, absolutely terrified of falling into a trap.
“What is your opinion on the population crisis that affects us following the war?” Steve’s tone shifts to something darker, testing me. “And how do you think we should combat it?”
These are trick questions. These questions are designed to sort us—the weak from the strong, and the obedient from the dangerous. I tighten the grip on my sleeve, forefinger brushing against the seam over and over.
I protect myself and lie.
The interview drags on for another hour before I rise, thanking them for their time in a monotone voice. Phoebe’s smile sweetens, almost smug, as though she’s won.
Turning, I pull the heavy door open, stepping back into the stark white corridor.
My heels click loudly against the floor, and an echoing thud from behind has my stomach jolting before it drops clean out of my body.
A hulking Enforcer, close enough to smell his overpowering cologne, escorts me back to the waiting area.
The boys are questioned elsewhere, at the old university library. I’m certain it isn’t as bad as this place.
I slouch into a hard, blue chair in the clinical room, rows of identical seats filling the space around me, half filled with girls.
A brunette beside me glances my way, a crease appearing between her brows. I know her from somewhere… maybe English class back before the world went to shit. She may have sat next to me once, maybe we even used to speak.
None of it means squat now.
I shift in my seat, the plastic cold against my thighs.
We’re just two insignificant girls who somehow survived to see this hell. Just two tiny dots in a real-life experiment.
“You’re Emilia Burton,” she says quietly.
I don’t dare glance at her. My hands hook under my thighs as I stare down at the tiled floor.
“Yeah.”
“It’s… Briony,” she says, tone tentative. “From school. We had French together.”
My brow lifts, and slowly, I look at her and force a small smile.
Her own widens, hesitant but warm. “I’ve seen you around… back at the house, but I didn’t want to disturb you. I…” she trails off, teeth catching her bottom lip before continuing. “You were so popular. Didn’t ever speak to me.”
My ribs tighten. I shift on the chair, plastic creaking, but I don’t look away.
I remember.
Briony Travis. I sat next to her and copied her work every lesson. I think I probably spoke to her a grand total of three times in the two years we shared a desk.
“I was so envious of you,” she says, voice light.
“Don’t be,” I mutter, tearing my gaze back to the floor. “None of that means shit anymore.”
A better person would apologise to her.
“Well,” she says quietly and gently. “You’re still beautiful.”
Her warm words burrow into my chest. A smile tugs at my lips.
I meet her eyes once more. “You are, too,” I say honestly.
Her eyes brighten. “How did you find it in there?” she asks, nodding towards the interview rooms.
I frown. “Hard. I’m not sure I answered any of it correctly,” I admit. “You?”
She nods, visibly swallowing as her smile slips. “Terrifying,” she says. “What if they pair me with someone horrible?” Her eyes drop, hands writhing together in her lap. “Someone who doesn’t like me? Doesn’t respect me? Hates me, hits me, wants me dead…” She gulps as her chin drops to her chest.
Her words hang in the air, twisting my chest. I want to tell her it won’t be that bad, but that might be a lie, and we both know it. Instead, I settle for the cold, brutal truth.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” I reply.
“But—”
“Quiet!” A deep, fierce growl cuts through the room, reverberating off the glass, loud enough to shatter any remaining fragments of calm in the room.
The other girls whimper, Briony jolts beside me, and my body is only a millisecond behind. The Enforcer’s eyes bore into us like we’re the shit on his shoe, standing near the far wall, broad-shouldered and threatening.
My fingers coil around the sharp edges of the seat. We drop our eyes at once, the air thrumming with fear, leaking from the pores of every girl around me, my own included.
It’s at least fifteen minutes before my arms stop shaking.