Change || The Promised Neverland

⚜ Chapter Thirty-Two: Mask ⚜

<< What good does that mask do? >>

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Despite the horrors that lay within, Lambda was oddly beautiful.

[Name] ran one hand down the walls, humming to herself. Somehow, she still remembered the tune, her singing staying on the same key as always. Her tone never faltered, as if it were coming from a recording.

Her room in Lambda was considered normal, without the context of where it lay. The white sheets were never dirty, always folded neatly over her bed. There was no smell, just a clean, fresh, air. The gray paint never chipped off of the walls, not like there was any need for it. Was it to make her feel more comfortable?

Pfft. As if. [Name] was the sheepdog. There was nothing that paint could hide from her. [Name] saw the dirtiest, the grittiest parts of Lambda, or at least, the aftermath. Pain still lingered in her head from the repeated seizures that she had. Hatred still brewed after watching the children she practically raised drop dead like flies.

She wasn't sure how she knew, but each time she stepped into that sickening playroom, one child would be removed, with a new, identical one taking its place. After half a year, none of the original inhabitants remained. [Name] knew that they were gone, killed.

Nobody had explicitly told her this, but she knew that those drugs were killing them.

Lambda had no reason to cover up its tracks. They were clear, bright as day, as if no one had been trying to hide it in the first place.

A faint sound of chains stalled her for just one bit. The weight of her music box, which had once seemed foreign, was now camouflaged. [Name] barely noticed it.

Bringing her hand from the wall to gently caress the music box, [Name]'s mind went back to the key Smee had given her. Up until now, she hadn't used it. Did she know why? Of course not. Sometimes, her mind confused herself, if that made any sense.

[Name] glanced at the clock. 7:30 PM (19:30). Perfect timing.

Moving away from the wall, and instead to her bed, [Name] pulled out a chessboard. The pieces were in a small, black drawstring pouch.

"Another chess game?"

[Name] tilted her head at the nonchalant question. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," the scientist moderating her said, "but you're known for asking your overseers to play chess with you. Don't you get bored?"

"No," [Name] set down the board on her table, already beginning to set it. "Puzzles and books are all boring once you know the stories and answers. Chess, though, is a game against another person."

"I see."

"Which color do you want to be?" [Name] asked, folding her hands.

"Either is fine."

"I'll be black, then," [Name] hummed, switching the chessboard around. "Your move."

As the scientist told her which moves to make on his side of the board, [Name] took the time to analyze his playing style. She internally sighed as she quickly figured out that the scientist was merely entertaining her. He wasn't going as far as to go completely easy on her, but [Name] could tell that his moves were elementary, not much thought behind them.

This scientist was no different than the rest of them.

Most of the scientists she'd played with merely played around with her. They never actually tried. [Name] beat them easily. Norman was a lot more challenging than this. Norman had a winning streak against her (at the moment, the record was 40 wins to 38.)