Centry [dis-continued]

Chapter 2- seven

I wouldn't say there were a lot of us. I wouldn't say there were a few of us either. In my division, there were thirty-nine of us. Thirty-nine souls undergoing painful training. We'd refer to it as cruel daily torment because thats what it really was. In my batch, there were seven of us, three guys and four girls. We were all similar in age, varying only by a year or two at the most. It's May of 2064. Normally we'd wake up at around five in the morning and be fully dressed by six. I'd be up by four, sitting in my small metallic room with barely no space to walk. Each room only had a bed, a small rectangular table, a small clock, and a metal chair. Normal people would think of it as some kind of jail room. I'd be there on the bed reading a magazine I managed to pick up on one of the routine observation runs by the edge of the city. It was a travel magazine and despite having read it a thousand times, I still enjoyed it. I had nothing to do.  It was the only thing "fun" I had, ever. When the hour came to prepare for the day, I'd hide the magazine in the vent on top of the room.The vent panel had these small slits. I had to jump from the bed and hang from that thin silver pipe on the ceiling to hide and get my magazine from that vent. It was a routine I really had to follow. I mean...if someone saw it and news got to the division head, all my dreams of seeing the world will be beaten out of me. Come five o clock, I head out of the room, closing the metallic bunker looking door and head down the hall. Nothing to see there really. The hall was a grey-ish dull tunnel like maze containing nothing but pipes, vents, and rooms like mine. I'd go down the hall with the others to the end of the east wing, the shower rooms. The five of us would head to the guys room to the left. We'd shower side by side like soldiers in a military camp. Sometimes, David would start talking about the outside world and how much they'd want to live there but the five thirty bell would cut conversations short, much to our discontentment. When we'd get out, we'd normally see the girls in a line, ready for the gruesome day, much to our amusement. Going back the way we came, we'd come to a stop by the door, the larger bunker door that leads to the training room.
It looked like normal training rooms, a lot of equipment, space, and weapons...a lot of weapons. There was a target practice area at the right end of the room and body building equipment by the left. At the center are the dull blue pads on the floor where we'd practice our combat. When we'd line up by the door awaiting the division head's command.
Well, we're all lined up so its as good a time as any for introductions. The eldest of the eleven, David....David Karigan. We call him Dace. He's as American as they get. The classic bright blue eyes with a black center, the long blonde hair combed sideways. If you spend as much time as we do with him, you'd notice a small mole to the left of his forehead, hidden by a thin layer of hair. His eyebrows are strangely a darker shade than that on his head. I still think it's weird. For an eleven year old kid, he was in great shape. You'd notice that his build isn't too big. I'd say it was just right. Don't let that fool you though. He's crazy strong.
His beginning was rough too. His tragic story, abandoned by a monastery a year after birth. Parents...gone. Remember when I said that adoption was not big in our city. Well, it isn't really big anywhere anymore. After the Central Takeover, mercy and compassion wasn't as big in people as it was before. I'm not saying every soul you meet is actually a heartless robot. Its just that their hearts shrunk. All people care about nowadays is their own. David was soon surrendered to the government, to Central. He grew up like the cliche big brother type, a natural born leader. He cared for us, probably the only one that did.
Cathy Clive was our big sister. The government named her and got her last name from her mom...I'll get into that in a bit. She was also eleven but she didn't really look like it. She had short jet-black hair. She had these big serious black eyes that matched her externally cold demeanor but when you'd get to know her, she's pretty much the same as Dave. She cares about all of us...More than any of us actually think. Her lips were more thin than plump, which you'd notice since she's bitting them all the time. She was thin but not to the "nothing but bones" point. She had the same story as me basically. Dads gone and left, which explains the "lacking a last name" problem and mom died during birth. She wasn't born in West Nexus like all of us. She was born in Archaic, a city south from here. You could tell from the name that it's an old place. Full of pre-Central buildings and houses, or so I'm told. She was transferred here when she was four and was the last of us seven to arrive. She grew up with trust problems. The "dad leaving" thing didn't help. If you knew that, you wouldn't question why she's so cold and stoic. Normally she'd have this dull look, one that you normally feel sorry for with her eyes just looking down and her hair running down her face, covering half of her eye. But there are times she smiles and when that happens, damn...it cheers us all up or at least, most of us
Obadiah Summers was who one might say, the black sheep. He'd normally stay away from us. I was never really sure what his deal was. Was it just the way he was or did he really hate us. He always had this messy black hair with a defined cowlick by the back. Sometimes it would be covering those eyes, those vengeful and hateful black eyes that seem like an evil void of torment. Honestly, I don't mean to describe him as horribly as I did but they're the only words that fit. His eyes are even more emphasized by his pale white skin. Aside from that, he'd look like an average kid but...let's face it. A ten year old shouldn't looks like a felon. His past, don't know. No one does. Each of our pasts was told to us during the personalIty assessment we had a few years back. We told each other about our history...all but him.
Sarah Lane and Laura Bland, the inseparable duo, were the youngest of the seven. They were eight and nine, in that order. Their rooms were beside each other by the north wing. Through the years, a friendship was born. They'd talk when they had the time, which was about an hour each day after supper. They'd try to finish it quickly to make the time. Sarah was a redhead. Her hair could probably reach her elbows but you'd rarely even notice. It's always in a bun. She had a sharp nose, not shocking from her half Asian ancestry. She was a freckled kid. The girls would call her strawberry and with all I've told, you'd understand. You'd look into her dark brown eyes and you think she was the only happy one out of the seven of us. Well...she was the optimist in the group. She was the funny one. The one quick with quips much to our dull demeanor. The only thing quicker than her comedic remarks was her trigger finger. Her sharp eye and steady hands lands her a fast bullseye. She was one of the best in the division.
Laura Bland was the only non-American in the batch. She was a Brit born here. Her hair was composed of different shades of blonde and was a bit over shoulder length. Her cheeks bones were defined below her eyes. Her lashes were long, enough to make people think it fake but it wasn't. She had a smile that highlighted the upper set of teeth she had and a bit of gum at that. She had a good figure with a bit of muscle which was just right for her. She was a fighter and good at it. Sarah planted some seed in her and now, they're basically the same, optimistic jokers. She's serious when the time calls for it though, they both were.
Then came my closest friend, Frey Fisher. She was ten and a few months younger than I was. She didn't act her age though. She acted like a mother...to all of us. She spoke kindly even if angered. She had this kind aura all the time. She had the look to match. She didn't really look like a fighter. She had these peaceful eyes. A glance would tell you all about her. Her brown hair was always tied up like Sarah's. Her smile was always subtle but I always noticed when she would. She'd always look like this kind soul, out of place in a place like this, a Sentry Institute. Well, I'll tell ya...this place is for her. Under that smile, she hides a lot of blood lust. She was a kid of a Chaotic. She got used to all the violence the world could give. At the age of five, her parents were assassinated in front of her. Shot by a Sentry through an open window. They didn't hide their identities well enough I guess. Knowing that no relative would take in a Chaotics kid, the government took her. She's been with us ever since. She grew up with that darkness inside her. It doesn't consume her but we all know its there, hiding.
Then there's me. It's a little late for introductions but better late than never. The names Trevor...Trevor Knight. I'm a little younger than Obadiah but mere months don't really matter. Looking at the mirror, I can tell you I've got thick black hair, normally combed up...I hate the feeling of it on my forehead. I got the blue American eye set, a bit darker than David's. I'm one of the tallest but it doesn't really matter. Who cares about an inch or two, right? Well, you know all about my past so that's that. What I didn't tell you is that I'm a bit of a problem child myself. I'm the most unstable of the seven. I'm hiding some major bloodlust too.
I had a problem with authority when I was younger. That authority was the old Division Head, Terry Brenner. I hated him. He was assigned mainly to me. I had my personal disciplinary tormentor. I was a curious about the outside. I'd try to sneak out but every time I'd get caught by the cameras. There're a lot in the vents and the halls and stairways. I'd get caught and get a hell of a beating with that metal baton he loves so much. He'd take me to the training room and beat me until I bleed. There were times I would hear some of my bones crack. I'd only hear them crack because the pain I was feeling at the time was unbearable that there wasn't room for any left. When I'd get my weekly checkup, I'd find out about some broken rib or swollen vein. One day, it all changed.
It was about two years ago. I got caught scaling the vents and the next day, got a damn hell of a beating. Then, it happened. My body moved in its own. I grabbed the baton and flung it to his head. He kneeled from the pain and I kicked his throat. Next thing I know, I was above a bloody suffocating mad with a broken nose and a bleeding forehead. It took me a couple of seconds to soften my grip on his neck. It's been different since. I never saw him again. People started to treat me more like a killer than a kid and I don't blame them. I almost killed the guy...Heck...I don't even know if he survived that. The staff gained a new found understanding of us though. We're not innocent. We've been trained to fight and kill with no remorse. We're not children. We're death personified.