12. Jersey
JERSEY
The plastic beneath me creaks as I shift for what feels like the hundredth time under Evaluator Phillips’ unrelenting scrutiny, the chair’s strategically placed bolts managing to scrape against my bones no matter my position.
He stopped asking questions five minutes ago, and has just been staring me down with his dead eyes ever since.
I tug the cuff of one sleeve down over my hand, slipping it inside to hide my mangled cuticles and prevent myself from continuing to pick at the already raw skin.
Kenzie warned me about the psychoanalysis after I told her about my appraisal yesterday.
She keeps telling me not to worry, but it’s hard not to while waiting for them to assign my fate.
They’ve run every test, picked apart every flaw, but surprisingly, no one has mentioned the enforcer I stabbed before making a run for it.
Surely that means he’s alive, right?
It must be some form of domestic terrorism to kill an entity of The Registry– probably a ticket straight to becoming a human buffet to some scientist’s fire ant collection.
The fact I’m still here, being appraised, must either mean he’s alive or they don’t know I killed him.
Or maybe they all know, and they know that I know that they know, so they’re pretending to not know to keep me paranoid…
If that’s their play, it’s fucking working. I’m spiraling hard into the paranoia web they’ve woven around me.
My fingers curl in beneath my sleeve, thumbnail picking at the ragged skin around my cuticles as I will my pulse to slow and this seemingly endless evaluation to be over.
Breathe out, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. In, two, three, four.
I startle when Evaluator Phillips suddenly hums to himself, slamming his laptop shut and reaching for the phone on his desk. The corners of his mouth lift into a cryptic grin that offers exactly zero fucking context clues about what’s coming next for me.
He murmurs into the receiver, answering whatever questions being posed with mostly 'yes’ and a few ‘refer to my reports’ before hanging up.
“Good luck out there, A311,” he says with a curt nod as he pushes to his feet, rounding his desk.
Wait, what?
My face screws up in confusion, but I quickly force my expression back to neutral as my head cranes to follow him across the room. He never bothers to look back as he pulls the door open, disappearing into the hall without another word.
Soo… do I just stay here?
“A311,” Miller barks, my head snapping to see his large form crowding the doorway.
“Are you lazy or just stupid?” he spits, his narrowed gaze carrying more contempt than I’ve ever found waiting for me in the mirror.
I know it’s aimed as an insult, but that’s not even what annoys me– it’s that I don’t know what the fuck he’s even talking about. I wasn’t given any instructions or orders.
Is it a prerequisite to be a shitty as fuck communicator in order to work in this place or what?
My lips part, prepared to ask what the hell his malfunction is, but I quickly think better of it. This is not the hill I die on. Instead, I exhale a sigh and wait for him to continue gaslighting me.
“Fucking worthless,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.” He pivots on a heel and stalks out the door, leaving me to scramble to my feet and hurry after him.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I follow him through the biomedical unit, unease skittering up my spine as he takes a right at the end of the hall– the opposite way from where we came. “I thought that was my last evaluation?”
“Shut the fuck up and keep walking,” he growls over his shoulder.
A set of stainless steel doors swing viciously towards me as he shoves through them before stopping in front of a second set of doors.
These are frosted glass, ‘Procedure Room 1’ emblazoned across them in big block letters.
He swipes his badge over a keypad affixed to the wall and the doors whoosh apart.
My eyes narrow as the overly bright lights click on, refracting off of every white and stainless steel surface in the medical suite.
A door across the room opens, a doctor stepping inside. White coat, middle-aged, and unremarkable in every way. Apparently, The Registry has a type.
“Is this the implant or Buyer’s Stitch?” the doctor asks, maneuvering a silver table beside the white padded chair in the center of the room.
My whole body goes rigid.
“Implant,” Miller states.
The doctor nods, turning his attention to me. “Remove your shirt,” he instructs, pulling a sterile tray from a cabinet.
My breath stalls, eyes flicking between the medical tools on the table as the doctor snaps on a pair of latex gloves.
“Shirt off and take a seat,” he repeats, irritation bleeding into his words
I hesitate, my mouth running dry and my shoulders curling inward on instinct.
“Now, Asset,” Miller growls, shoving me.
I pitch forward, stumbling to catch myself on the cold vinyl chair before reluctantly lowering down to sit on it. My fingers curl around the hem of my sweatshirt, pausing in reluctance, but the sound of Miller’s gun shifting has me quickly pulling it off overhead.
Goosebumps pebble on my arms as cold air skates over my exposed skin.
Then, without warning, the back of the chair abruptly lowers.
The doctor looms over me, grabbing my arm and yanking it above my head.
Metal clinks as he fastens my wrist into place, then swipes something wet and cold over my inner bicep.
Settling on a chair beside me, he lifts a syringe into the air, my eyes squeezing shut while my heart lurches into my throat.
If I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist, right?
I inhale sharply at the initial pinch as he implants god-knows-what into my arm.
All the brazen bullshit with The Registry’s officials and enforcers doesn’t shock or scare me anymore. It’s still painful and degrading, but I’m far past desensitized to the physical trauma. The jarring part about being here at the Vanguard is the fucking gaslighting tactics they use.
Codes and abbreviations. No clocks. The natural light that comes in through the windows doesn’t do much to help identify the time when we’re being pulled for appointments night and day.
I’ve been here for what feels like a week, but honestly, it could just be a freaking day.
It’s the not knowing that’s the worst– the uncertainty slithering around my spine and tightening as paranoia seeps into my marrow.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
I hope I get auctioned soon.
The thought settles in my consciousness like a mic drop. I hate that the idea of being sold off to someone is more appealing than being in the care of the people who literally run this city. I fucking hate this place. And that tiny taste of freedom was enough to make me greedy.
The wheels of the doctor’s stool squeal as he scoots back, yanking me back to the present.
“Done,” he announces, giving me a curt nod– like violating my consent is a routine item on his checklist. “Have it noted that it takes about a week to be fully effective,” he adds, discarding his gloves as he stands.
“Without knowing exactly what supplement was being used prior, there will likely be a lapse in coverage. But if she goes to a breeder, removal will restore fertility almost instantly.”
Bile crawls up my throat. I promptly shove away the thought of being some sicko’s fleshy incubator, instead focusing on the subtext in the doctor’s statement– that I’ll soon be going to the auction block. It’s a chance to feel sane again, even if the price of sanity is a new Guardian to serve.
“All yours,” he tells Miller before leaving through the same door he entered from.
Miller steps in closer, mouth set in a scowl.
“I don’t know who you’ve sucked off to get cleared for auction,” he snarls, stomping his foot on the floor.
The back of the chair slowly rises to bring me upright, my arm still restrained above my head.
Miller reaches out, his stubby fingers clamping onto my breast and squeezing roughly.
“But I’ll have my turn,” he says, the words dripping with both malice and promise.
My stomach churns with revulsion. It’s clear this man has never touched a woman that was willing. Thank god I won’t have to suffer him much longer.
He reaches up to unfasten the restraint on my wrist, static rushing through my veins as my arm falls limply to my lap.
“Sure,” I huff, the comfort in being assigned to auction giving way to a false sense of bravado.
His hand lashes out again, gripping my face. “Watch who you’re talking to, Asset.”
Before I can think better of it, my teeth sink into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes go dark, regret smothering my satisfaction in an instant.
“Stupid bitch,” he spits, his hand rearing back before his palm cracks against my cheek.
My head snaps to the side, pain blooming across my face.
“Let’s go,” he sneers, his hand clamping over the fresh incision on my bicep as he yanks me up.
Before I can even find my footing, he shoves me to the floor, pain erupting in my skull and the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. I recoil with a whimper as his boot stomps down beside my face before he turns and crosses the room.
“Now!” he barks, swiping his key card to open the door.
Eager to curl up in bed and escape into the recesses of unconsciousness, I quickly pull my sweatshirt back on, pushing to my feet with a wince and following him into whatever level of hell I’ve unlocked now.