Subject 15

Chapter 2

I dug my nails into my scalp as the pen scratched against paper. This couldn't possibly be happening. In the tank and out I came, suddenly able to disappear at will. Disappear for real, just like how the others ignore me.

None of it feels right. My skin isn't my own, it's so unfamiliar. Maybe I'm just being crazy, maybe it was all the time I spent in the tank and I've lost my senses. But still. Something is definitely off.

"How are you feeling fifteen?" mother asked softly. I turned my head to one of the room's cameras, and sighed before returning to her.

"Like I'm in someone else's body," I said hoarsely, wincing at the sound. After the discovery of what had been done to me, I cried and cried, even attempted to throw the desk chair at her. It didn't work, being so upset my hands went right through the plastic. But our guards came in anyway, white uniform and zappers, ready to put me back into line. 'Only the best discipline for the best of children,' as mother always said. It gets the job done I'll give her that much. "And almost like I'm not breathing," I muttered.

She frowned, pen's movements becoming more jagged. "How would you describe that? As if it's difficult to breathe or... in the way that you're not intaking air?"

I opened and closed my hand as I thought about it, and couldn't find the right words. "I guess like I'm not even intaking air," I said with a grimace. My veins are awfully clear.

Her frown deepened, and she exhaled as she finally looked to me again. "I can assure you that you're breathing, fifteen. My best guess is that your brain just isn't used to being the way you are yet." There was silence as I played with my hand some more, which was far paler than I remembered. "It's just about time for meal, take a few moments," she ordered, gathering data and turning to leave the room. But something was bothering me.

"Mother, what do you mean by 'the way you are yet?" I asked after her strong posture in the door way. She turned, pointing, "well being extraordinary of course." With that she was gone, and I was once again left to my many thoughts. Although this time it felt quite empty, aside from one burning me. I do not believe she had meant extraordinary in the way that the word means.

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The kitchen is just as silent as ever. It's not much of a homey room, but that's the best word I know for it. Similar to everything else in our home, the walls are plain with not a spot of color or personality. The tiled floor is the only thing of difference, aside from us, but it's only a shade of grey. Two guards stand at the iron door, zappers angled to their left shoulder. I like to call them Gary and Jerry. Makes them less scary.

Right now siblings 83, 71, 96, 49, and 14 are sitting with me. Squirming only slightly, frowning at the familiar feeling of cold plastic. They keep glancing at me, eyes traveling over the snow of my entire appearance. I'm sure that if they were further away, I would only look like a white patch of nothing. Might as well be. I'm not entirely sure what our numbers are for, maybe the amount of tests we've been through, or even to label the child count, whatever it is for it makes remembering names remarkably easy.

83 is the darkest among us, quite the opposite of my current state. Right now his eyes are yellow, and he's covered in bruises. We know him to be the most resilient of us, but he's dealt the worst punishments. 71 is my favorite sister, and the only one that is nice to me. She's small, quick, and faster to insult you. It's how she stays happy. Her hair has been untouched, which is surprising considering all of us have had a chop at some point, and it's black strands fell to fair chestnut skin. Beside her sat 96, and he towered over 71. The experiments on him are mainly to improve muscle mass, so the boy is the size of an ape. 49 is the oldest of us, we don't know by how much, only that he just is. Well, we know that and the fact that I'm the youngest. Mother doesn't tell us that much.

I move my attention to 14, and frown slightly at his stance. He seems jumpy, almost in defense, and his skin is also littered by purple marks. The worst are under his eyes, by lack of sleep or something undetermined. He won't even touch the meal on his plate, but I can't blame him. We eat the same thing every day, every first, second, and third. I poke at it now, watching the grey, flavorless blob wiggle. I know that it has all the things we need, nutrients, protein, vitamins, and such, but that's about all it has going for it. Our cups are plastic, to stop us from accidentally hurting ourselves, and are always filled with water. He slowly takes a sip, and winces.

"Fourteen, what happened," I whisper, concern present in my own hoarse tones. He continued to stare at his food, but something tells me he wasn't really looking at that. I went to ask again, only for him to look up at me, and I noticed how skinny he seemed.

"I was ineffective," he murmured sourly, stabbing the blob with a finger and biting the chunk. "Mother didn't like it. I'm sure she-"

Suddenly he was snatched out of his chair, being yanked toward the door by Gary and Jerry. He screamed, the awful noise causing all of us to clutch our ears. He kicked and clawed, scratching at the impenetrable uniform, before Jerry punched him. He went limp, and I fought growing tears while he was dragged out of the kitchen door.

I'm sorry 14, I shouldn't have asked.