OTHERS (Formerly The Scarlet Effect)

19 - Sector A

After passing through a few hallways, all of which appear identical, we come across a room labeled with an "I"—I assume for "installment"—as the guy had mentioned earlier to the intercom. The bot swipes a card and the door glides open. She tugs me inside, leaving no room for gentleness, and I'm alone.

Aloud, I hear, "Aurora Jane Mayfield, age eighteen, birthday September fifth, height of five foot, five inches, weight of one-hundred and thirty-seven pounds, ID number 5." These words echo in the room around me and I flinch, wondering where the voice derives and how in the world my personal information got leaked to this place.

In the corner of the room, a figure emerges. It's a male bot with the same face and white leather suit as all the others. The idea of having him—a machine—do anything to me speeds up my breathing.

"Please sit in the chair," he says calmly. He actually had the decency to say please. That's a first for this place. Still, I bite my lip, uncertain. I wish Travis was here with me. He'd know what to do, how to react. He'd find a way to get us out. But he's...

Nervous, I turn around and search for the handle to the door, but am unable to locate it. It's all electronically powered by codes and sensors. As useless as it might be, I frantically bang my hands against it, hoping someone from the outside will set me free. There must be more than one human here.

I spin and see the bot closing in on me. "Don't come any closer," I warn, pressing my back into the door. My heart is beating out of control.

"Please sit in the chair," the guy repeats, his legs robotically jutting out as he takes each step toward me. His hands remain at his sides for now.

"No. You don't understand. I need to get out of here. I don't belong here," I cry. "Please. Please, let me go."

I wince when his body is a foot away. "Response not recognized," he claims, and lifts his arms to seize mine. "Please sit in the chair."

I shake my head, tears surfacing as he pulls me toward a chair, which looks to belong in a dental office. I hate how white and plain everything is here; there's nothing for me to think about, nothing to take my mind off what's about to happen. I'm helpless and left with only my thoughts.

He presses a button on my chair to recline it. I clamp my jaw shut, taking in stuttering breaths through my breathing device as I lean back. There are no monitors, tubes, nor needles around to detect my well-being throughout the procedure. Just a humanistic machine.

"One moment," he says flatly. Leaning back, I'm unable to see what he's doing, but I hear him mess with the mechanism above me, just to the right of an extremely bright light. My vision becomes obsolete if I stare too long, so I face the wall until the guy takes my head in his hands and centers it with the headrest.

You're not going to die, I tell myself.

In a matter of a blink, I hear a loud ZAP! as a flash brighter than lightning strikes in the room. I scream out of fear rather than pain, and start wiggling around. Above me, the intercom comes on, causing me to freeze. I assume it's because I'm now to be led to another room.

"Is that it?" I ask, gasping. I rise to my feet and distance myself from the robot, or whatever it is, before he can do anything more.

A few yards away, he meets my eyes. "Please specify your question."

"Is the procedure finished?" I try again.

"Yes," he assures, and retreats into the corner to step on the blue pedestal. There, he stands blank-faced and silent until the light in his eyes goes dark and he turns grey.

I glance around, wondering what I'm supposed to do now. I'm hoping the sooner I'm done with the tests they want me to endure, the sooner they will release me.

Something beeps at the door and the guy with the blue streak in his hair walks in. I scoot out of the way, but can't ignore the information exploding into my brain with his presence. When I see him and stare for a few seconds, a holographic chart appears to his right, and floats beside him, revealing his ID number and more. All of it is blurred out except for his ID, which is 1, and his title: Head of Sector A.

"Get up," he commands in a monotone voice as he struts into the white room.

"So if you are—"

He holds a turquoise-gloved hand up to stop me from speaking. "What is my name?" he inquires.

My eyes narrow. I don't know his name; it's blurred out. Same for his origin, age, and date of birth. "I only know your identification number."

"Come with me," he instructs after a small nod, moving no further on the topic of his name. Perhaps he was checking to see if the microchip thing worked. I'm guessing it did. I've obviously never had holograms appear before me like this.

"Where are we going?" I ask before we step into the corridor.

"You ask too many questions," he states, and grips onto my forearm to lead me back into the sea of cloned robots.

"Well you don't answer any of them," I retort.

As we pass rooms on my right and left, I try to see what's inside of them, wondering if I'll spot Travis or Katie experiencing the same tests and procedures as I am. After all, they could be here and not dying.

"Did you take my friends, too?"

It's almost comical to think he would respond.

We stop at a room labeled "C-1." As I mull over what the "C" may stand for, he completes the security measures for the door to open by typing in a code, sliding a card, and removing his glove to scan his pale hand. The door is also manual unlike any of the doors we've crossed paths with before, so he thrusts it open with a small grunt and hauls me inside. I gasp at what I see and take a step back.

C stands for cell.