Other Angels (1/4)

Six: Mr. Z

I mutter about how annoying Nikolas is and how I'm going to rip him to shreds when Trainer Prescott isn't looking and make it seem like a badger got to him. I press my thumb to a small pane of bulletproof glass and wait as it scans my fingerprint. The thing beeps once and glows green and I hear click! as the locker unlocks.

I open up my putrid green locker. I stand in the locker room, a huge white room with high windows and ceilings. The showers are off to my right, chrome doors and white self-cleaning tiles. I fling out my running tank, my running shoes, and my running shorts. I quickly change and throw in my combat boots, my training vest, my training top, and my olive cargo pants and put a socked foot on the white bench and slip on my right shoe. After a quick moment of consideration, I flip out my hunting knife, sheathe it, and throw it under my clothes.

I tie up my other running shoe and slip out my vital checker. It's a smooth, aluminum square the size of my hand but half as thin and has a touchscreen. It checks my heartbeat, hydration level, BMI, etc., and it also checks what I am capable of doing. I press the cold touchscreen on my chest, where my heart is supposed to be, and two minutes later, it vibrates. I quickly scan the list, my resting heartrate at 57 beats per minute, my oxygen level normal, and I go all the way to the bottom of the list.

"Am I capable of running five miles nonstop?" I ask the vital checker.

The screen goes black for a moment and it says, "Barely."

Fuck. The machine's definition of "barely" and my definition of "barely" are different. The machine's definition of "barely" means "you are most likely going to die within five minutes post activity."

I say, "Goodbye." and after a buzz I slip the thing back into my locker. I slam the door shut, pure rage displayed on my face. I stomp out of the room, fuming.

I go outside, the late spring afternoon sun already warming up my skin. I've been told only once this camp is located in the Sierra Nevadas, some mountain range between two places. I'm considered stupid, since I've only gotten eight years of education. The normal people are required to get at least ten. I feel angry. It's not our fault we're freaks. It's totally out of our control, and they're punishing us for it.

I stand on the blacktop for a minute, my thoughts going haywire with anger. Calm down, Somerset, I tell myself. Get your shit together. I take deep breaths and stare at the track. It's a quarter mile rubbery oval, with green grass growing around it. To the right are thick copses of towering trees, and thick, towering barbed wire fences topped with electric volts, metal razors, and other fun things surround and enclose the outer area.

The blacktop goes for another five yards and it turns into cement steps leading down to the track. Trainer Prescott stands, looking like he's enjoying the weather, at the bottom of the steps. The afternoon sun turns his light brown hair gold. His blue eyes seem to glow, and for the first time since I've met him, at the beginning of the year, he seems relaxed. I've always known him as handsome man, but not breathtakingly so, like Lucien or Nikolas, and he's handsome in a cold, scary way. But seeing him at ease, his lips almost smiling, it makes him look far more handsome than Lucien or Nikolas combined.

His gaze flickers to me and almost immediately his face melts into an stern frown. I sigh and walk over, questions buzzing in my head. Is Trainer Prescott required to be tough and intimidating at all times? Why is he training us? Is he forced to, or did he have a choice? Did I just see Trainer Prescott's soft side? He seems to have two attitudes. I shake my head. He's so mind-boggling and complicated.

"Is there anything wrong, Soldier Somerset?" Trainer Prescott barks.

I straighten up and salute. "No, sir."