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My world ended when I was twelve. Elle’s ended when she was six. I can’t remember how long ago that was. Six years? No. I glance at the nearest tray station where a reedy guard decked out in a ketchup uniform is lingering, hand resting on the hilt of his baton. He’s not watching me but my skin prickles with nerves anyways. I fiddle with my spoon, mixing the top layer of dried-out oatmeal in with the goop underneath to make it look like I’m busy. Someone, somewhere, hums an achingly familiar melody.
I was supposed to be remembering something.
The lullaby. Not the lullaby, the year. The number seven. That’s it, I’ve been in the Compound for seven years.
"Hey, Trick, pass the salt."
My head snaps up, and I correct my posture. There are no saltshakers in the compound but I slap Maverick’s waiting hand anyways.
Experiments are packed into the cafeteria. Body odor clots the air, and the fluorescent lights have washed everything and everyone a lifeless, grey shade. The low drone of conversation fills the room. I rub my ear, grimacing. I guess no one was humming after all.
"Welcome back to the present." Maverick elbows the air next to my ribs. "Say hello to the new guy." He juts his sharp chin at a lump across the table from me.
I shove my glasses higher on my nose. "New kid?" I glance up again. A pasty, pudgy guy stares at me from the other side of the table. His hands rest folded over his bowl of porridge, and the metal clamped around each of his wrists is a sure sign that he's a newbie. Only two types of people in here wear shockers: instigators on probation, and first week newbies.
"Name's Trick," I say, reaching across the table with an open hand. The newbie takes it as well as he can with his hands tucked close to his body. If he stretches too far outside the circle of motion that the shockers allow, he’ll get zapped. I’ve never worn them, but I’ve seen them in action. It doesn’t look fun.
"Dieter," he replies, giving my hand a sweaty shake. I pull away and wipe my hand on my loose shirt. I'm used to Elle or the Whitecoats touching me, and none of them have particularly warm skin, let alone sweaty palms. Dieter gives me a sheepish grin. Baby fat makes his cheeks freakishly cherubic. How old is he, twelve? Bet that grin will be gone before the month-end.
"So, Trick, while you were up and away in wheresville, the rest of us were filling Dieter in on the compound. He was wondering what your power was." Maverick, as usual, drags me back into the conversation before I have the chance to slip out of it. I shovel a spoonful of tasteless porridge into my mouth.
"Enhanced strength," I say around the porridge.
Dieter cracks a bigger grin and shakes his head like he doesn't believe me. I can't say I'm surprised. I'm not exactly the poster child for Bruno's Big and Buff, if you know what I mean. I’m shorter than most guys, and all lean muscle where other strength Enhanceds have bulk. The glasses don’t help either, thick and heavy as they are.
To my right, Maverick snorts. "My man, I would not judge this particular book by its cover."
Dieter gives him an uncertain look, and so do I.
"Even if its cover is a scrawny nerd."
Ah, there's the dig. I 'playfully' shove Maverick. His mouth drops in surprise as he pitches off the bench and meets nothing but empty air to slow his fall. He lands hard on the stained concrete, his elbow catching the brunt of the fall with a thud. Despite the probable bruise, he cackles while he picks himself up. He’s an ass.
“For real, what do you do?” Dieter leans in, body relaxed. It’s as if this is a normal conversation between friends. In which case, he would be the most well-adjusted newbie in this place. It took me months to accept what had happened and assimilate, and back then I was a hell of a lot more talkative.
"I told you.”
“Prove it.” He lifts his wrists, presenting the shockers. The bands holding him are thin and shiny new against his soft flesh. I eye the shockers and Dieter, gnawing the inside of my cheek. I could pop them in and out of place without too much effort. The Redcoats might not even notice a dent that small. Might. I’m about to tell him no when he scoffs and drops his hands. “You can’t do it. I knew you were lying.”
By the end of his sentence I reach across the table. Dieter jerks his arms back in surprise, and I roll my eyes. "Relax. I'm not gonna rip your hands off." I lean forward again and grab a band. A simple pinch, a twist of the fingers, and voila, the shocker is split wide open. All he has to do is keep it in his lap.
Dieter's eyes grow wide, his mouth is wider.
"You weren't kidding!" he gasps, stretching his free hand way above his head. Moron. Does he want to get in trouble?
"Put that down!" I hiss, lunging to pin his hand. He’s too fast, arching his back as he revels in the new freedom. Good grief, he's going to attract the attention of every Redcoat in the cafeteria.
"I can move again," Dieter gushes, “you have no idea how long I’ve been stuck in those things.” He looks happy, and I want to smack him. I lunge, trying to seize his waving arms, but someone beats me to it.
Dieter freezes as a pair of meaty hands clamp down on his shoulders. The Redcoat drags him out of his seat and spins him around. The experiments sitting at surrounding tables have all twisted around to watch.
"Mr. Paxton, it would seem that your shockers are a tad loose," the Redcoat snarls, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. Dieter's gone from hyper-excited to downright terrified in less time than it takes Maverick to tick people off—which is to say, not very long.
"I can explain, sir, I can explain." His face flushes almost the exact shade of the Redcoat's uniform.
He better not rat me out.
"Can you?" The Redcoat leers. "Well then, explain away, Mr. Paxton. I'm all ears."
A hush falls over the surrounding tables. Beside me, a short, dark-skinned guy shifts over subtly, moving out of the potential line of fire. I spare a glance at the Redcoat's nametag and almost feel bad for Dieter. This particular Redcoat has a reputation for being ruthless. I, personally, have never seen someone with quite the same level of permanent Monday morning blues. The dude seriously hates his job, and us.
Dieter swallows hard and wrings his fleshy wrists. He cuts a look at me. I shake my head microscopically and duck to examine the scraped tabletop. I cannot afford to get in trouble. If I get caught up in something, the Whitecoats will take me off my pain meds. Or worse, take Elle off hers. My mouth goes dry as the image of my sister curled in a ball, choking on screams, flashes through my head.
Never again.
"It was Hendrix!" Dieter jabs a sausage finger at me. "He snapped the band, sir."
Idiot.
I bow my head, silently cursing out Dieter. I can feel the Redcoat's eyes boring holes in my skull.
"Mr. Sanchez." He draws out my name like it's a weapon. I lift my head just enough to peer at him, feigning meekness.
"Yes, sir?" I keep my voice low and respectful.
"Did you break this lovely pair of shock restraints?"
"No, sir," I answer immediately. I’m not about to put myself and Elle on the line because some newbie can’t keep his trap shut. I cannot, and I will not. As a general rule, most Redcoats only get to know the powers of troublemakers, and I've never been one of those. It's a safe bet that this Redcoat doesn’t know I could have easily broken that stupid metal bracelet.
By now, the cafeteria is silent. Maverick is on the floor still. He has one hand on the bench, and his eyes dart from the Redcoat to me. He's tense. I'm more tense.
"Hmph," the Redcoat huffs. He pulls a new pair of shockers from the utility belt at his waist, and my heart rate kicks up a notch. I don't dare move.
Then the Redcoat turns back to Dieter. "Mr. Paxton put your hands above your head," he grumbles. I bite my lip. He has to know there’s still a shocker on Dieter’s other wrist.
"Wha—but he—I—" Dieter stammers.
"Paxton!" the Redcoat barks. Dieter's hands shoot into the air, the band clears his head and every fiber in his body snaps tight in a massive convulsion. He wails the moment the pulse ends, clutching his burned wrist. He looks to me, tears in his eyes, all but begging me not to let the Redcoat hurt him more. I turn away. Maybe next time Dieter won’t be that reckless.
The Redcoat slaps new shockers on him and steers him towards the nearest exit. Every eye fixes on the pair as Dieter is frog-marched out of the cafeteria to receive his punishment for being unrestrained. The steel door slams shut with a boom, and the usual clamour makes a slow return to the cafeteria.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
