All I hear is my feet shuffling along the floor as I creep deeper into the L-shaped room. A charcoal black desk with a glimmering teal pattern on its front emerges into view on my right, serving as a heavy contrast to the all-white room.
Sitting behind the desk is a guy with a matching suit—black with turquoise stitching, which subtly smolders as if electricity pulses through the fabric. It looks like if I were to touch the blue, my fingers would sizzle to bits.
Maybe I'm getting him mixed up with the others, but something about this guy is familiar. Unlike the others, he has his own look—a more squared-off jaw, a wider nose, and slightly bigger eyes. His ears don't perk out as far as the others' do either. Plus, his hair is black. Jet black, with a thick highlight of teal streaking across the left side of his head.
He tilts his face up at my arrival and his blazing blue eyes stare at me, waiting. The more I stare back, the more I feel like I know him.
Wait.
I do.
He participated in my capture. He was the one from the cornfield who tackled me to the ground. The one who took me hostage and dragged me to this foreign place. He stole me from Travis and Katie. He has answers. And he's guilty as sin.
"Sit," the guy commands in a deep, level voice. He gestures to the chair in front of the desk, but its thin metal frame looks anything but appealing.
"What is this place?" I blurt out. He knows exactly where we are.
The guy raises an eyebrow at my disobedience and says, "Unfortunately, I can't release that information to you." His eyes shift before adding a half-hearted, "Sorry."
"What is that supposed to mean?" I question venomously and cross my arms. "Why can't you tell me?"
He shakes his head. "I just can't."
My lips press harder together the more irritated I become. "I know who you are."
The guy drags his eyebrows down toward his nose. "You do?"
"You took me, so I know you know what's going on. Don't play dumb. I'm not buying it."
He clears his throat, but doesn't verbally respond.
"Where is this place? Why am I here?" I try again.
The guy stands and hits his hand against a button near him, releasing the vents above, and points at my mouthpiece. "You can take that off," he says, fully ignoring my questions.
So I ignore him back.
He rolls his eyes when I don't remove the breathing device and begins to orbit me like a moon around a planet. Maybe he's assessing me. Analyzing my brain functionality. My health. What if he's a doctor?
No. He's definitely too young. Maybe just a year or two older than me.
He crosses his legs and arms formally as he leans against the edge of the desk. Not a doctor, but certainly not a robot, like the others. He's human. I'm positive.
"Aurora Mayfield, the newest and final addition," he announces, smacking his lips. "Welcome to the club."
My frown sinks deeper at his mention of my name and at the term "addition." "How do you all know my name? Medical record? I didn't have any ID on me. Did you run my bloos through some system? Did you draw my blood?"
The least he can do is answer that.
He holds up a finger, the way a genius would when deciphering a complex math problem, and says, "Everyone in this compound knows who you are, though the bots just distinguish you by your numerical identification. You see, we all have microchips, which are constantly being updated," he explains, using his hands.
"Microchips?" I shake my head. No, these are not the questions I want to ask, nor want to be answered. I need the more important ones discussed first. But before I can fire off another, he starts.
"Upon creation, each bot is infused with a microchip, as are we when we are...captured." I can tell he didn't want to use the last word, but he must have decided there was no nice way to say, We took you without your consent.
"Why was I captured? Wait. Did you say we? I thought..." I squint, wondering if I'd mistaken him to be who I thought he was. No no no...he took me. He and someone else...one of those robot-people.
Aurora, you're talking crazy.
"Why am I here? Is this a hospital?"
He shakes his head. "No, this is not a hospital. But I can't say any more." I watch as his eyes shift upward, to somewhere on the ceiling before fixing on mine again.
"But—help me! Why did you take me? Why am I here?"
When I realize he's going to completely avoid giving me further answers, I plunk down in the hard chair and hang my head, the stupid breathing device not allowing me to comfortably cover my face with my hands. My mind then commences shutdown at the overload of this otherworldly discussion: the microchips, the robots, all of it.
"Good," he acknowledges once I sit, like an animal having completed a trick. "Now, the main purpose of you coming to this room is simple. Since I collected you, you will reside in my sector," he explains.
I close my eyes to slits. "Collected me? You kidnapped—"
He slams his hands against the desk with a deafening smack, causing me to shrink further into the chair. "Stop!" he shouts, his face reddening.
I cringe, never having felt more lonely than I do at this moment.
"To you, I go by Number One. That is my identification. You will later meet Number Two, Three, and Four. First, you will undergo the installment of your microchip. After that, you will go through a series of tests so that we can monitor you in every way possible." On the wall behind his desk are rows of turquoise buttons. His eyes meet them briefly before he walks over and presses one, simultaneously speaking into a nearby mic. "Number Five is to report to Room I of Sector A for immediate installment."
As he talks, his back to me, I start to sweat. Paranoia falls over me at the thought of what he will do next. Is he going to hit me? Scream at me more when he turns back around? I have the feeling he is the passive-aggressive type. A single look makes you feel dead.
The man—do I actually call him Number One?—spins around and frowns at the sound of my panting. He scoffs and does a slight eye roll, and I try my hardest not to let it get to me.
"Command accepted. An escort will arrive in five seconds," the intercom spits out.
Five seconds? To get me?
After I hear a familiar beep, in walks a teal-haired female who stops just a couple feet away from us and stares directly ahead. Her flawless, hourglass-shaped body is dressed in white leather and wedged heels, though the leader seems totally unaffected by her perfection—even if it is artificially created. She makes me think about how hideous I must look right now. The last time I formally showered was in the rain with Travis...
"I'm not leaving," I argue.
He gives me a mean smile as the woman grabs my wrist.
"Hey! Stop! Please tell me what's going on here!" I hate it, but I'm pleading now as I struggle against the girl's grasp. "Who are you people?" The girl wins and directs me out of the room as the guy stands there and waves me away.
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.