The Mission

Chapter Eight

Josephine POV:

"Okay, everyone," George claps his hands. "You can call me George. I'll be training you all. It'll take time, but that's normal. Let it take whatever time it needs to get you ready."

The room is chaotic, everyone disheveled, and 'George' expects us to focus on the training, even though it feels like it will never happen.

"Today, there won't be any training," George declares. "Instead, you'll continue submitting tests. As far as I know, today is the final day for test submissions. And starting tomorrow, we'll begin the actual training."

"What tests?" Noah's face reflects the confusion shared by all of us. "And what do you mean by 'continue'? What were you doing to us?"

"Well," George leans in, "I believe they haven't informed you yet. We induced a month-long coma to subject you to various tests. Our goal was to uncover everything we need to know about your nature."

"How you do such thing without our permission?" I oppose with a glare.

It's like, I am starting to believe that we are object, that we are now something that belongs to them. First, the options they gave us which it's obliged to choose joining. Then, forcing us to stay and fight with them, for them.

The sense of agency slips away, replaced by a duty we never asked for.

"Sweetheart," he says, "I have nothing to do with this. I'm just here to train you. Now, please, get yourselves ready. Everything you'll need will be in the bathrooms. You have ten minutes; Doctor Helen will be waiting for you."

🕸🕸🕸

I wonder if they notice our absence, not finding our dead bodies.

The girls' bathroom sprawls, its expanse filled with rows of showers and an abundance of hand basins. The walls, pristine white canvases, bear delicate green designs—subtle patterns that belie the turmoil within.

Emily stands there, her eyes wide with fear, pupils dilated like dark pools. She's no ordinary girl; intelligence radiates from her, a beacon in this unsettling place. Her terror is palpable, etched into every line of her face.

Me and Emily change, slipping into the clothes they've left for us. It's like a uniform: a crisp white shirt paired with black pants and comfortable shoes. The fabric clings to our skin, a reminder of our vulnerability.

Emily's dark blue eyes meet mine, and in that shared gaze, a silent understanding bloom's—an unspoken pact formed in this sterile room.

"We'll never see our families again," she says "we are stuck here forever. Do you think we'll fit here?"

"Our situation here will deteriorate."

She beams with a foolish grin, tears shimmering in her eyes.

The clock ticks down, and Doctor Helen awaits. We'll step out of this bathroom, ready to face whatever lies beyond. Fear may cling to my skin, but determination burns in my hearts.

We step out of the bathroom, and beside it, the male bathroom awaits. Liam, Noah, and Sam emerge, clad in the same uniforms as ours.

Liam quips, "Ladies, loving the coordinated ensemble! Clearly, we all have impeccable taste." His playful tone adds a touch of humor to the moment. "Seriously though," Liam continues with a smirk, "if we were any more coordinated, we'd have to start a boy band."