The fluorescent lights click on with a buzz. It's six o'clock in the morning. My sleep bleary eyes itch with protest, so I rub them with my knuckles as I toss the dark blankets and sheets aside to swing my legs to the cold steel floor. My back muscles ache as I sit up, still sore from the previous day's exertion. I lean back, to try and stretch the ach away with a grunt.
I reach my arms up as far as I can, stretching a different direction, pain piercing through my shoulder blades. Giving up trying to shake away the twisting ache in my back, I stand up with a yawn, and glance towards my white porcelain sink. The floor is ice cold, as always, and I already miss the little warmth I'd created in blankets. I shuffle sleepily over to my sink to get through the morning routine.
Brush teeth, rinse, use mouthwash, rinse, wash face, rinse, comb hair and braid, take medication, then wait for breakfast.
I had always found it very odd that I was the only one who had long hair and was not allowed to cut it. I had tried that once, after seeing all of the others' shaved or nearly shaved heads, and faced the consequences for it. I was taught to take good care of my long hair, brushing it regularly, using hair products in the showers, and letting my handler trim the ends once a month.
My handler always complimented me on how shimmery and soft my hair was, and how well I had taken care of it. Her head wasn't shaved, but her light auburn hair was only shoulder length. I still found it very odd.
As I stood, staring at my pale face in my mirror, my eyes roving my plain features. {INSERT SHORT DESC OF CHAR LATER}. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my food tray slip quietly through the panel in the wall and onto the small table behind me, across from my bed. I stare for a moment, observing the contents on the tray steaming. Steel table, with one steel chair, next to the pure white plaster wall, with the slot just above the surface of the table. On the table, there is my tray of food, steaming with heat, and the singular lamp with my pad of paper and writing utensils.
Directly behind me is the door with the rectangle window that my handler opens to lead me outside, to the training and testing rooms, to the offices, and the communal cafeteria. There's endless hallways beyond that door, like a maze of white and gray. I'm glad that my handler is there to lead me to where we need to go, I would certainly get lost without them.
One time, many years ago, when my first handler led me outside of my room, I glanced over my shoulder and saw a number on a silver plaque next to my door that read "6379". I had asked my handler what it meant, but he never responded. When we came back, later that day, the number was gone. I still remember it though, but I don't tell my handlers, because it's my little secret. It's just a number, it won't hurt anything to know.
There are lots of other rooms, doors with rectangle windows with the silver plaques with numbers on them, but the numbers are always too hard to read when I walk past them. Their windows are also always dark when I pass them, and I can never see anything inside. I don't ask my handlers about the other rooms, I'm afraid of the answer more than I am curious, but I don't really know why.
I know there are others similar to me in the complex, but I've never seen their rooms, or where they go after communal meals or training exercises or activity time outside. The others are different, for sure, but similar. They each have special privileges, like I do. I've only spoken to another like me only once, but now they keep us separate. I'm not too sure why.
A loud knock on my door yanks me from my thoughts abruptly. I quickly take a seat by my food and pretend to have been eating, I don't want to get in trouble for seeming ungrateful for the meal. My door swings open, and my handler appears in the doorway, followed by a stranger.
An older man in a long white coat, buttoned all the way up, stepped quietly through the door. My handler's jacket has always been a dark, navy blue, almost black. It wasn't always the same jacket, or even a jacket when it was the warmer months, but it's always been the same color. This man's coat was startling, in its bleached and drastic difference. I felt a sudden chill in the room when the White Coat stared at me.
"Here she is, Doctor. Just as you had asked, flawless and intact. She's even been started in the training courses required. Making excellent progress." My handler was speaking to the "Doctor" White Coat, his voice was cold and lifeless, strictly absent of any inflection or emotion. It was the very first time I've ever heard him speak that way, and it was frightening, he seemed like an entirely different person than the one I'd come to know.
My handler suddenly snapped his gaze to me. "O'Zealy, at attention." He snapped, his voice still frigid. Responding nearly instinctually to the command, I hardly realized my body had moved at all. "Attention" is a command we are taught when we begin basic training. It means we are ready to listen and learn. When we are at attention, we do not speak unless spoken to and we do not move unless we are ordered to or given permission. We can sometimes be at attention for hours at a time. I only remember one time when I had to wait for hours to be given permission to move freely. It was during a testing session, when our handlers were simply seeing how long we could hold attention.
"This is the good doctor, Daniel Cathers. You will call him Dr. Cathers, and listen to any orders he gives you. Is that understood?" My handler's voice pulled me back from my thoughts again. It was always posed as a question, but I knew better than to ask any or to ask why. Questions were usually ignored, or answered with punishment. I stood up straighter and gave a tense nod of acknowledgement. This must be a demonstration, because I was not rewarded, like usual, for obedience. My disappointment must have shown, because my handler whipped out his snap stick against my arm, cracking against the thin fabric of my sleeve.
The unexpected crack caused me to flinch for a heartbeat, but I was able to bring my reaction quickly back under control, following the things the training sessions had taught us about pain. Reactions are simply an animal instinct and can be overcome through focus and willpower. The pain will still be there, but it can be felt later, when there is no need to be alert. Block off the pain and focus instead on the next course of action, whether retaliation or defense, and force all energy into that.
My pain flickered across my features for a heartbeat before I was back in control. The Good Doctor did not seem impressed. He strode in closer and gave me a cursory glance. Standing in front of me, and nearly nose to nose, he was much younger than I had first guessed. Short blonde hair, piercing crystal eyes with steel frame glasses, pale skin and a small scar on the right side of his chin. He's taller than me, but slightly shorter than my handler, and has much less muscle mass than either of us.
The Good Doctor snatched my right wrist and tugged my arm close to his face, examining my forearm and the marks there. He seemed displeased and dropped my wrist, practically tossing it away from himself. He then turned his frown on my handler.
"Prep it for WF series two. And do not forget your orders, or your place here, this time, officer." The Doctor's words were short, and condescending, laced with a threat aimed at my handler. As the Doctor began to leave, he paused next to my handler, and muttered something that I did not hear, before he swept from the room and briskly down the hall.
My handler was stiff for a couple heartbeats more, then quietly shut the door.
"You did well. At ease, O'Zealy." The gentleness I had become familiar with had returned to his voice and features, as he smiled and set a small cookie on the tray next to my breakfast. "Sit and eat, quickly. You have a busy day ahead of you. Dr. Cathers wants you to start a special training today." He spoke softly, which was comforting after hearing the complete apathy in his voice from earlier.
Obediently, I sat at my small table and ate all of the meal that was provided to me. Scrambled eggs, a slice of ham, buttered toast, a bowl of mixed fruit, and a glass of milk. Sometimes we get things called pancakes. They're flat and fluffy sugar bread topped with different fruits, and sometimes we get to have this white fluffy cream on top too. Pancakes are usually reserved for special days, or rewards for a good training session or test.
My mind wanders as I eat, munching occasionally on my cookie. My handler quietly roams the small room, tidying what little there is to tidy. My head begins to feel swimmy and the lights wobble, growing dimmer. I try to take another slow bite of my eggs, when I realize my arm has gone numb. My fork falls to the table and I start to fade into unconsciousness. I feel my handler's strong hands on my shoulders, holding me up against the back of my chair as my head dips. Then everything slowly falls away into a dim, fuzzy darkness, swallowing me whole.
The first conscious thought I could really pin down was the fact that I was not where I expected to be. I'm uncomfortable, and freezing cold, there is no warmth at all from my blankets. 'I must have tossed them off in my sleep,' I reason with myself. My head is spinning like a top and there's a ringing in my ears, a painful piercing noise as if someone was blowing on a dog-whistle directly into my face. I'm laying face down, on my stomach with my head facing my right shoulder. My foggy thoughts faded away as I drifted back into the sweeping blackness of unconsciousness.
What felt like a couple seconds to me, was most likely a couple hours, because when I began waking up again, my thoughts snapped into crystal clear focus. Still on my stomach, still freezing cold, but I can now feel that I am moving. I can see the lights behind my eyelids, shine and then fade and then shine again, as we passed under them at a brisk pace. I could feel that my back was exposed to the open air, and my skin felt cold, but my back muscles themselves felt like they were on fire.
It was an itching sensation at first, that quickly exploded into a powerfully painful, fiery, and tearing feeling, all throughout my entire back. I had been able to ignore it, but this sensation is most likely what pulled me back into
