Ash and Cinder

1| Trick

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. 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, careful not to touch me. "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?"

A pasty, pudgy guy ogles 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 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. I'm shorter than most guys here, 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. "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. 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.