8-1-0-9

Prologue

– 1947 –

My feet swung over the cement floors as I waited for my handler. I didn't know how old I was, but I knew I was a kid. I couldn't reach the floor from the chair I was sitting on, and I couldn't be bothered by the cold. From what I could figure, it was from whatever they shoved into my blood. I remember it being like I was burning alive and freezing to death simultaneously. I was screaming out my tiny lungs until the pain knocked me out.

When I had woken up from it a week ago, I knew I was different. Everything was more colorful to my small mind, and I could hear the distant murmurs of men in another room. I wasn't as cold as I was the day before that, and could almost see the way one of my minor bruises on my arm was healing. I'd look away to do something for a few hours, and when I'd look back the bruise would be half gone.

Though right now, I was having a staring contest with a beaten up man who was sitting in a cell across from me. He was slumped against the wall on the floor, his dark shaggy hair reaching the tips of his ears as he clenched and unclenched his metal fist. It gleamed eerily in the dim lighting of the single bulb above us. I've seen him before on multiple occasions, or sometimes heard him screaming until his voice gave out. They were going to do his conditioning today, from what I could recall hearing over the past few days.

I tilted my head at him before blinking, looking around before sliding off my chair and stepping towards his cell. I had then realized I wasn't short as I'd thought, but the chair was tall. So maybe I wasn't so young, either. The man sat more upright upon seeing me, his brow furrowing as he swallowed thickly. I sat down on the cement just in front of the bars, wrapping my tiny hands around them. "Hi," I whispered, my voice a little scratchy and tinged with an unfamiliar accent. "Do you have a name?"

The man blinked back before turning away, shaking his head. "I... don't know, kid," he barely uttered back, his voice a lot worse than mine. It sounded like he had a dry throat.

That made me jump up from my spot on the floor and go back to my chair, grabbing the glass of water I had sitting beside it. I came back to the man and reached through the bars, holding the glass up to him. He stared at me for a long time before pushing away from the wall, his movements slow and cautious as he gently took the drink from my hand.

     "I don't have a name," I spoke up after he gulped down some of the water. "They like to call me 'kid', much like you did. Sometimes 'Eight-one-'o'-nine', whatever that means." My tongue pressed to my cheek as his eyebrows shot up.

     "What... what's the date?" He asked reluctantly, almost breathlessly while scratching at his head before handing the cup back to me with a small 'thank you'. Needless to say, I was kind of glad he didn't retreat back to the wall.

I tilted my head again. This man didn't seem to know anything. "March tenth, Nineteen-forty-seven," I answered carefully and slowly, narrowing my eyes curiously at him as he blinked slowly and let out a hurt breath.

     "How'd you end up in this place?" He whispered, his voice straining and his gentle blue eyes growing weary. I knew he was beyond exhausted — much further gone than the average person could handle. He'd been up for over a week, and his gaze was full of pain and misery. "You're so... young."

I shrugged as if that bit of information didn't mean anything to me. "I was born here." His eyes became wide as saucers at my words. "I don't know how old I am, either," I added quietly.

     "You look maybe... I dunno, ten," he tried, sighing deeply as he studied my face. "Maybe you're older than that, kid. It's hard to tell when I've seen what they do to you."

     "What do they do?" If he'd seen me, how'd I not notice him before?

He shut his mouth then and there, seemingly having to catch his tongue before he could spill any more. I moved closer to show I was listening and waiting, hoping it would prompt him to keep talking. "You don't need to know," he decided to say, his words a near inaudible whisper. "Not that. I can't..." He shook his head, his dark hair flaring out a little as he crawled backwards, his metal hand clinking against the cement. "I can't tell you. Not when you're so young..."