Underworld (#TheWatty's2017)

Chapter 3

I'm awake.
A gentle beeping noise is emitting softly to my left, and there is a small light on a nightstand at the foot of the hospital bed, giving me enough light to make out my surroundings. I seem to be in a hospital room. The beeping is coming from a portable heart monitor attached to the IV stand-thingy. LED lights look like they were hastily hammered onto the ceiling. The room itself - at least, the walls and ceiling - are without corners, mainly because it's shaped like a cylinder. The walls look like rusted aluminum or steel. Adornments attached to the 'walls' are far and few, except for a pain chart and a calendar. Freaking calendars, man.
Not that this is vitally important to my situation right now.
I force myself to snap out of my mental funk. I still haven't figured out where I am yet. But I remember quite perfectly what happened to me before I was drugged and blacked out. People altering my tattoo in some fashion for some reason.
Speaking of which, it stings. I end up jostling my arm when I turn to get a look at my surroundings, and the pain around the area of infliction is still red and tight with lingering pain. There's even a little blood seeping through the stark white bandages.
They bandaged me. They haven't killed me yet. Two very key facts here.
Obviously, I was rescued from death. I don't know if the Guy- With-No-Name has anything to do with these people, but considering that they both spoke of getting me away from the task force, I know I'm just gonna have to go with a yes. And then they changed ... what was it she said?
Just change the year. The rest she can live with.
They changed the year on my tattoo. The year of my death. Meaning that, without my permission and without any motive that I can tell of whatsoever that would benefit them, they are ... helping me prolong my death. Who are these people?
As if I mentally conjured them up, the door straight across the room swings open and the red-haired woman who held me down the night before is here. It jars me for a moment because she's in .... scrubs. She's a nurse. Who held me down and told me to shut up. How nice of her.
She doesn't even look up at me as she walks in and kicks the door shut with her heel. She's studiously studying her clipboard, which must contain some pretty vital information regarding my health if she's so serious about it, even as she walks straight to my IV. She glances at the heart monitor, then back to her clipboard, then jots something down. I clear my throat.
"Ma'am?"
She huffs out a little breath through her nose. "Hang on, hon," she says in one of those sultry voices that makes you wonder if her voice is natural or if she's a smoker. "Let me finish up here and check your vitals."
As she reaches out a pearly, perfectly manicured hand out for my wrist, I say, "Ma'am, I have to pee."
She cuts her dark eyes at me. She has the kind of face with the protruding cheekbones and the even skin tone (pale as a freaking glowing ghost) and the full lips and the haughty eyebrows with absolutely no freckles to speak of. If looks could kill.
She flicks her flaming jaw-length hair away from her face. "You're gonna have to wait a sec, hon."
Not that I really have to go; I just need to get up and get a look around, to scout around. I think she can tell.
"Okay," I say as steadily as I can manage. It comes out more  pathetic than I intended.
The tips of her cool fingers probe at the arteries under the skin of my wrist. She mouths something to herself as she does, and when she's finished, she scribbles it onto the clipboard.
Finally, she looks at me. Her brows reach toward each other, forming a little line between them as she contemplates me. She gently reaches over me and tucks in the sheet a little more snugly around my body.
"Where am I?" I blurt out.
She gives me a look. "Better not to ask questions here."
"Hey lady," I say, trying to keep the warble firmly tamped down, "I have a right to know-"
She cuts me off before I can get another word in. "Listen," she whispers, quietly but firmly, "you being brought here has caused a bit of a ruckus around these parts, and right now, there's a lot of extra security right outside that door. You might want to keep your mouth shut for the time being while your here. Capiche?"
I swallow. "Yes ma'am." My throat feels like sandpaper.
Standing up briskly, she turns as if to go, but then pauses. "It's best this way, alright?"
I don't quite understand what she's saying, but I nod and repeat, "Yes ma'am."
She nods brusquely, then spins on her heels. However, she jumps and stands eerily still, glaring at the door. I follow her line of gaze, and I realize that we are not entirely alone.
Standing on the threshold of the door is a tall brunette around my age. She leans against the door frame, watching us with an inscrutable expression.
I look her up and down. She's got to be close to 5'10", but I can't be sure, and she has broad shoulders. She's definitely strong. Her frizzy curls are tied up tight into a long ponytail, and her round face gives no sign of emotion away. I scan her face. Freckles sprinkle her high cheekbones with her naturally arched eyebrows on top of that. Her eyes are large and dominate her face, a swirling mix of cerulean and bright green. She's wearing all black: black cargo pants, black flak jacket over a skin-tight black shirt, and black combat boots. There's no logo or label anywhere to indicate what affiliation she has. To add to that, there's a gun holster attached to her belt.
She looks like one of task force. But she can't be. They usually have logos with TASK FORCE printed across the front. These people rescued me.
Right?
The curvy brown chick ignores me entirely, however, and turns to my nurse. "Siobhan," she says crisply, "Thanks for holding her for us."
Siobhan just raises an eyebrow. On her, it just looks insolent. Her expression screams Like I have a choice.
The brunette steps in and reaches around behind her to quietly shut the door with a snick. Before she does, I can actually see a little light and the sounds of bustling, like a crowd of people.
"So," the brunette crosses her arms, "this probably goes unsaid, but this is not to be discussed with anyone. That's an order right right from Creed herself." Siobhan lifts her chin. "And if I don't agree with this?"
"Honestly," the brunette says, "You don't have a choice. You're relieved of this patient; she's coming with me now."
She says it like that's that. It's a clear dismissal if I ever heard one. I have a feeling she doesn't get told no often.
Siobhan keeps her steely expression firmly in place, but her eyes dart over to mine, and for a second, I can see just how apprehensive she is about this whole situation. Clearly, something about this is top secret and definitely important. The fact that she is nervous enough about being involved means it's also dangerous. Nerves flutter in my stomach. Crap. What have I gotten myself into?
Siobhan spins around and hangs the clipboard up on a hook on my machine, then briskly marches out the door without a backward glance.
I am in big trouble.
The brunette watches her go, and when the door swings shut behind Siobhan, she turns to me. "Hi," she says, still with that no-nonsense tone, but it's not like she's snapping off orders anymore. "My name is Alaura," she says, "I may have a few questions to ask and things to explain."
I don't answer. Best to let her do most of the talking.
Alaura raises an eyebrow at my silence, but continues as if she never stopped for a response.
"You are being held here as a sort of Witness Protection after the gun fight and rescue operation last night. We are here to protect you from the government's task force and the laws they impose on you. We are not here to harm you in any way." She enunciates that last part very clearly. "Before we can allow you to ask questions and us to safely provide you answers, you have to answer one question for us, okay?"
Knowing I have to give her some sort of answer, I nod, hoping it's not a question that might put me in a bad position.
"Okay," she says. The direct eye contact is unnerving. "You have every right to refuse our services and return back to society on whatever terms you wish. We are not holding you as a prisoner. We will even help you with your reintroduction back into mainstream society by helping you develop fake IDs and birth certificates, as well as some cash to get you started. However, if you would rather stay, then I promise you that you can rebuild a new life without ever having to worry about whether or not your time is up. As a people, we are here to fight the system, to give you a new home, and a chance to lead a new life."
I stare at her. Honestly, what sort of response am I supposed to give her after all that?
There's no way that I am going back, or even can go back. It's just not in the cards. I want to see my mom badly because I know that she must be worried sick over my disappearance, but I can't just rush back out there and expect to live long. I know this is my best bet. Even if it doesn't look like Candyland from the outside.
I return her steady gaze as firmly as I can and tell her, "I'll join you."
She smiles, and only then does she actually seem more approachable. Slowly, as if she's approaching a sleeping wild animal, she walks around to the side of my bed and sits down, carefully making sure she doesn't sit on my legs. She folds her hands in her lap, and gives me a contemplating expression devoid of any suspicion. "Before I ask you your name," she begins, "I would advise that it's always wise to consider that as someone who wants to erase any aspect of their old life from their new identity, it would be better to go all the way. You know. Change everything."
Change everything, she said. Including your name. New name, new identity. Simple.
I find myself looking away from her. I don't know what I want to be in this new life, or who I want to be. This isn't simple at all.
I find myself looking at the calendar. It's sad and dingy now, still on the month of June. A day has probably passed, so today would be a new month, no longer June. The first day of the rest of my life.
"July," I say. "My name is July."
She nods once. She doesn't even seem to bat an eye at how unusual my name is. Maybe she gets that a lot.
She gets off the bed and walks away to knock twice on the door.
"Listen," she says as she approaches the foot of my bed, "we are going to take you to a more secure location, and then I promise that we will answer all of your questions there. Right now, we just have to move you."
And with that, the doors open, and series of people all in the same black get-up as her come in and commence removing my IV and getting me out of the bed.
"We are going to Lethe where you will be given a new identity and a new look. Only few people will know your original look."