Gods Under The Dome

20.1

《A Different Day, Another Cage》

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Central Sector, Upper Level - The Brights

The Capitol building might as well change its name to Facility 2.0 given all the damned similarities between the two. They both toted stark, white walls with long, meandering corridors but where the Facility was designed to be bleak, in hope of stamping out any daydreams its occupants might have had of escape, the Capitol is meant to be an architectural masterpiece, melding modernity with an old-world sense of elegance.

For me, the effect of either place is the same - a breakout of hives and mild diarrhea coupled with a shitload of seething rage.

They don't call us hostages, though, since we're not allowed to leave,  that's what we are. We've been branded liabilities inside the Capitol's walls, and as such we're to be escorted everywhere we go, much like in the Facility. Our guards are Militia, donning full garb -  black cargo pants, matching turtlenecks. They're noticeably lacking any weaponry, and AA-loaded visors, to better perpetrate the lie that we're valued visitors and not prisoners, but I've seen what they pack in their thigh satchels - enough yards of razor wire to decapitate a herd of cows.

I think the precautions taken with us are stupid, and I've voiced those concerns, loudly, during mandatory group therapy. The Capitol is outfitted with a labrythine network of cameras and bugs. If Sin took a massive dump on the opposite side of the building into one of the metallic fiscus planters, there'd be at least three cameras capturing the whole thing real-time while a bug recorded any accompanying audio. But as the Potentials, we're seen as things needing protection. Mostly, from ourselves.

After six days of captivity, I'm about ready to pull my hair out and bolt for the door, no matter how futile an escape effort would be. But I've kept it together this long, I could do so for a few more hours. After this therapy session comes to an end, we'll be expected to present our choice to the Council. Later today, some of us would be draped in the gauzy, white robes of Future Councilors and swear fealty to the FUA. The rest of us would face expulsion.

I feared some of us might choose the Council. After all, though these therapy sessions were conducted under the guise of helping us adjust to life after having lived among wanted terrorists for several months, I knew it for what it was: aside from killing me slowly from boredom, each session was just a way for the Council to spew more of their rhetoric at us.

We were told if we accepted re-entry into the Liar program, we would be absolved from our sins. Our hands would be wiped clean of any blood that may have stained them. This line of talk seemed to spark something inside Lilly and she'd asked the doctor about it who'd insisted, "Blood spilled with purpose could never be considered a sin."

I worried some of my fellow cockroaches might trade carapace and antennae for the gilded thrones and gold embellishments of an FUA councilor. Exchange one pile of shit for another.

"Allison?"

I fold my arms over my chest in an effort to find some semblance of comfort while my ass cheeks hang over the edges of the plastic nuisance of a chair and the double-breasted blazer chases the breathe from my lungs. I lean forward, hoping the fabric will split and I'll have that long-awaited moment of relief, but the fabric's expensive, thick. It wouldn't catch fire, much less tear. Would-be Councilor attire. Truly, the best of the goddamned best.

I shove two fingers between my throat and the starched collar of the cream blouse I'm wearing underneath the blazer, and tug.

"Allison," Dr. Aronson says again. "Stop fiddling with your uniform."