DAMAGED.
That's what the society calls us, the prisoners, the ones who are feared and hated. We are parasites of our Intelligence Bodies, the carriers of the plague. At least, that's what the Majarlikan military forces said. Of course, it's a fabric...
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P O L L U X D O M I N G U E Z
I crash a fist against the mirror, leaving my reflection with a web of cracks. Pain dances around my quivering knuckles as my blood crawls out the wounded part, creating channels dropping on the sink, cutting across its glossy white surface. But the pain is nothing compared to the pain of conceding to High Head Athan Sandoval's directive—that is, to execute my partner, J-Mark Greil. He suspects that we're spies, and he's not wrong with that.
I grit my teeth, glaring at my reflection's watering eyes. It's all my fault. I don't know exactly how Athan discovered it, but it's all my fault. If I had turned down J-Mark's plea, he wouldn't have to associate me in spying the Black Unicorn and get himself caught. Now, by sunrise, I'll be executing him myself to prove my loyalty to the organization.
A sudden twitch of regret numbs me. I prop myself with my hands against the edge of the sink, clasping it to prevent myself from landing unto the white-tiled floor. The smell of chlorine injecting the air doesn't offer any help, it snakes its way in my nostrils, spurting ache in my head. With trembling fingers, I hastily turn the faucet and let the water wash off the scarlet channels in my right hand. I tentatively rub the wounded part, careful not to add more damage to the battered flesh. After a short while, I wiggle the remnants of liquid off my hands and reach for the knob to get myself out the comfort room. Flapping my lids to clear away the haze in my eyes, I slam the door behind me. A puff of breath escapes my lips as I try to compose myself before heading towards the elevator with my hands balled into fists in an effort to regain my posture.
The execution will be held underground, but J-Mark is still confined at the twelfth floor, so I press twelve when I'm in. It only takes a few minutes before the doors crack open. As expected, the corridor is washed in white, no doors at either side. A set of elongated fluorescent lights slightly flicker overhead, giving me the impression that the building is consuming a great amount of electricity, especially on this floor. Two guards in navy blue uniform linger at the end of the corridor where a solitary chamber awaits. Their guns are tucked in their holsters, waiting to be snatched and to be used to plant bullets in my chest or head, should I make a wrong move.
I let my boots hammer the granite floor as I approach them. When I'm halfway through, a badge becomes visible on their chest. It's chiseled with the face of a black horse, a silver horn has sprouted out its forehead.
We exchange a smile of recognition before they start checking me, patting my body for any hidden weapon. Discomfort dives in my blood as the other one, whose name—I still remember—is Courvinny, travels his hand down my back. Before he could pat my GT7 revolver, I crash my elbow against his jaw and spin to smash Octavio's ribcage with the heel of my massive boot. He stumbles towards the wall, crouching in pain as I pull out the revolver. I quickly turn to Courvinny in time with the eruption of his gun, bullet grazing a part of my left ear before cracking on the wall behind me. He fires again, and I quickly dodge out of target. I aim my weapon to him and pull the trigger, marking a spot on his leg. He screams in pain, his gun clattering to the floor. I kick it away, ricocheting to the wall afar. Octavio is still down, propping on one arm, kneeling while vomiting blood. I don't intend to kill them, but it looks like I damaged Octavio's ribcage severely. I never thought that my boots could be deadly.
Choosing to ignore their growls, I slap a palm on the hand scanner. Thankfully, it still recognizes me—meaning, I wouldn't have to chop a wrist from one of them. As soon as the metallic door slides open, I toddle in. When it slides back to place behind me, I heave a breath, taking in the overall look of the room. A machinery chugs behind a cylindrical glass where J-Mark is steeped in a luminescent liquid, naked. It appears that he's asleep. Plastic tubes poke out from some of his parts, blood streaming through them where the ends meet to a rounded machine beside him that beeps in time with the miniature bulb twinkling one after another—red, blue, green, red, blue.... His head is covered with metal plaiting where wires jut out from it as if they're replanting his memories.
I clap a hand to my mouth in both sinister and disbelief. They're experimenting on him.
I travel my eyes to the left, to where the abandoned screens are showing his nervous system, his brain, some green texts or codes I can't fathom. But, where are the Elytorphs? On the opposite side are controllers and buttons in varying sizes, a panel with what looks like a keyboard juts out the wall.
I march towards J-Mark, but a hologram stops me on my track. It bleeds from an ocular light above the screens nearest to the ceiling. I furrow my brows as Athan slowly materializes into view. He's all blue—effect of a hologram. His hair is combed to the back of his skull. Stubbles dotting his jaws and chin. Hawk-nosed. Odd wrinkles in his neck. He's wearing a collared uniform paired with slightly fitting slacks. Rubber shoes protect his feet. A Black Unicorn badge is planted on his right chest.
"Just as I thought, Pollux," he says and cackles to himself. "My suspicion is right then.
"You're a spy, just like this man here," he rambles on and indicates a finger to J-Mark—as if he is truly here—then points to the door behind me. "Those weaklings, you should've killed them. Why haven't you? Won't you pay us back for your grandmother's death?"
I fist my hands to my sides. So grandma didn't commit a suicide, they killed her.
