Chapter 3
As if this answer had been expected of me, a section of the wall melted into nonbeing with a high pitched keen, and a smooth path of illuminated floor lighting the way, as if I needed directions. Hesitantly, I stepped onto the path way. My cowboy boots and calves were bathed in a soft, white light. I walked down the path with false confidence. Pretending I wasn’t afraid of what was through that doorway. Pretending I wasn’t scared that Viola would be hurt. Pretending that I knew everything would be alright.
Everything would be alright. It had to be.
So on that encouraging note, I stepped through the flawless door frame. As soon as I crossed the threshold, the doorway behind me mutely closed up, leaving the severely diminished light as the only thing to note me of it’s disappearance.
I felt fear prick at my stomach, but I stoically ignored it, continuing on down the narrow, sleek walled hallway. My stomach churned in unease as I spotted a glimmer of luminous light.
My pace quickened somewhat, my resolve hardening. There was no going back.
There was no going back.
Finally, I reached the end of my passage. Light cascaded over the entrance way. Blazing, natural, and refreshing.
“Jaylen,” I was greeted instantaneously by a man in an impeccable black and white suit and styled hair. He was young, maybe twenty-five at the most.
“Thank you for joining me for breakfast,” he said primly, gesturing sweepingly to the large, oval table that was fitted in the exact center of the spherical room, shaped to match. It was gently lit by a disturbingly red chandelier, bathing us in the colour of blood. It occurred to me that this illumination was nothing like the light I had seen from the exterior of the dining room. Although my surroundings appeared to be white, the taint of the lighting drastically changed this view.
I blinked in uncontained surprise. I certainly hadn’t expected this particular welcome.
To shocked to protest, I slid into the chair at the tip of my end of the table.
Nodding,-in thanks or satisfaction, I could not tell- the man sat at the other tip.
“Voices carry well in here, so I shan’t worry about hearing you,” he said casually. True to his word, his voice floated across the table with ease.
I swallowed hard, staring forcibly into his grey eyes. Behind the initial glitter of sociability lay a flat, uncaring determination. His mouse brown hair had been been combed back with utmost care, set above his full face and thin lips. He could be handsome, but he held no appeal for me.
“I am Mr. Smith, pleased to make your acquaintance,” Mr. Smith said, smiling with a conviction that barely reached his eyes. He seemed pleased by my wide eyed, vulnerable appearance.
But appearances can be deceiving.
“Smith is the name of a man who does not wish to attract attention, sir,” I said quietly, timid with a hint of cool confidence.
Mr. Smith’s easy smile faltered for a moment, but he regained his composure so quickly I nearly missed it. Nearly, but not quite.
His stumble in posture infused me with the smallest morsel of hope. Mr. Smith’s bravado seemed to be no more then show. He was young, inexperienced, and maybe even scared. He could have smiled wider, or raised an eyebrow. He even could have laughed. Only he didn’t.
I thought all this through in the fraction of a second before Mr. Smith began his practiced dialogue once again. I felt like an actress on scene who didn’t know her part.
“I would presume you are wondering why you have been brought here,” he asked, delicately lifting a glass of rose wine to his lips.
All these words and phrases, ‘presume’, ‘make your acquaintance’, ‘shan’t’ hinted at Mr. Smith’s goal. He wished to sound sophisticated, high up, even threatening. I fought back the urge to respond with brutal honesty. I had to play the part of a quiet, fearful girl. Quiet and fearful girls are less of a danger then bold, snarky ones. I was more likely to gain information in this manner. I normally wasn’t the manipulative type, but I didn’t seem to exactly be a guest of honour here.
“Of course, sir. Anyone would want to know where they are and why,” I say cooly, slumping my shoulders in an effort to [Reduce??Minimize] my 5”7’ frame. Mr. Smith examined me with a scrutiny I wasn’t quite comfortable with, as if he didn’t quite believe my little show.
Mr. Smith took in a small breath before he advanced. “The Agency needs something from you, Jaylen,” he said, taking on a slightly mysterious air. I watched him carefully, measuring his words. The word ‘agency’ and the conviction in which he said it caught my attention. I’d never heard of an Agency before, not outside of my books.
“What could I possibly do for you?” I asked doubtfully. In my mind, I added, And why should I? But I kept that comment in the confinements of my head. Undeterred by my doleful demeanor, Mr. Smith continued his tirade.
“You have the ability to do things you’ve never imagined in your wildest dreams,” he murmured, his gaze intent on my own. My doubt and suspicion steadily grew at his smooth, persuasive tone. I had no idea what he wanted from me, and I had the feeling I wasn’t going to like it. It was becoming more and more difficult to play my role of a vulnerable girl. I decided to cast it off, figuring I may as well ask my questions more directly, as I was used to.
“Why should I do anything for you? What do I have for you and how in the world would it benefit you and the ‘Agency’?” I asked, my voice bold, outright, and suspicious. Mocking, even. I had forgetten my fear here, tucked it away, drawing myself up to my full height once again. My eyes questioned Mr. Smith as much as my words and tone did.
Mr. Smith looked slightly taken aback, disappointed, but not the least bit surprised. He raised an eyebrow at me, and silently watched me for several seconds. The ruby luminance danced off of his irisis as he shifted slightly forward in his seat.
“Oh, I think you’ll be quite agreeable when you learn,” he said chillingly. A shiver ran down the length of my spine; something in his tone was distinctly threatening.
I refused to let Mr. Smith know of my discomfort. “You only answered one of my questions, Mr. Smith,” I reminded him, tapping the dark table in front of me with my forefinger.
Mr. Smith narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “You’ll learn the answer to those in time,” he told me smoothly, betraying nothing. I scowled, crossing my arms. I hated it when people answered me in riddles. Was it that hard just to tell me the straight answer?
“I’d advise you to eat something, Jaylen, but obviously you have your own ideas about what’s right,” Mr. Smith told me scathingly, popping a blueberry in his mouth. “I have no idea when we’re planning to feed you again.”
A part of me wanted not to eat anything just to defy him, but reason was working it’s way though. It was true I would most likely need my strength to get through this ordeal, and I truly had no idea when I would get my next meal.
So instead of snapping back a clever retort, I flashed Smith a smile, and delicately picked up a fork. “Of course,” I said graciously, my voice sickeningly sweet. “I wouldn’t want to offend such a … generous host.”
Mr. Smith, apparently, wasn’t impressed. “You’re not quite as bright as they made you out to be, it seems,” he told me, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes in appraisal. “We have your friend, girl, don’t forget that. One would think that you didn’t know what we plan to do with her.”
Pretending to ignore him, I picked up a silver, intricately engraved fork and looked down at my plate for the first time since entering the room. Only I didn’t really see it. I was seeing Viola. My mind raced in thought. The Agency, whoever that was, wanted something from me. My first though is how ridiculous that is. I couldn’t possibly have anthing to offer these people. I was physically and mentally able, but I wasn’t elite.
However, my largest concern was his talk on Viola. Their plans for her?
Leverage, I thought. They want to use her as leverage against me. They knew I would save her before myself. My heart beat faster at the thought. They would do . . . What, to her if I didn’t do as I was told? Hurt her? Kill her.
My blood ran cold and I instantly rebuked the thought. Surely the moral fiber within the Agency wasn’t so low that they would do something as morbid as to murder an innocent girl. It scared me very badly, and my had wobbled slightly where it clung to the bare table.
I steered myself away from such [disturbing??Distressing] thoughts and focused on the next unanswerable question that leaped into being the moment my mind was distracted: What did the Agency want from me? I couldn’t possibly imagine what I had to offer them. Would they ask me to kill somebody? A chill ran up my spine at the thought and I shook my head internally. They wouldn’t make me do that. Would they?
I berated myself for answers, but found only that I had none. Giving up until further information could ease the circles run in my mind, I concentrated on my food. Laid out artistically on my plate was an assortment of foods. A thin crepe, slathered with whipped cream and maple syrup and stuffed with a variety of berries beckoned to me, next to a rather enticing pile of small, but well done pancakes. In a small bowl to my right was a ripe fruit salad with everything from strawberries, to pomegranates, to mangoes. Yum, I thought, forcing myself to take the first bit of crepe slowly and properly. I couldn’t appear as a pig in front of Mr. Smith, which would be exactly what he would think if I picked it up with my hands and devoured it all in three bites, which was my first instinct.
This impulse caused me to question how long I’d been out for. I hadn’t any way of telling the time, nor the date. I ate half of my crepe, which was delicious, savouring the sweet of the maple syrup as it clashed with the whipped cream and the slightly sour berries. I had assumed it had only been a couple of hours, but in reality, I had no way knowing. I wiped my face carefully and then looked up at Mr. Smith.
“How long has it been since I was last awake?” I asked him carefully, trying for casual. I didn’t want to give away anything of my thoughts or emotions.
“Two days,” he told me without pause, not even bothering to look up at me from his meal. “This is the morning of the third.”
I nodded in acknowledgment and returned to my meal, mulling this over. It didn’t surprise me in the least, but I needed to know what it meant. If I wasn’t mistaken, the prick in my arm before I went out meant they’d drugged me. Why the Agency would want me out cold for so long was beyond me, but I was sure they had their reasons. I chewed on a bit of pancake, struggling to wrap my mind around this mess I found myself in. It wasn’t easy. I was sure it hadn’t sunk in yet, and the moment it had, I would have a complete melt down. I peeked up to see Mr. Smith watching me. I hurriedly looked back down, glad he hadn’t noticed. The trepidation I felt was significantly milder than I’d imagine I’d feel after being kidnapped, and told I had to do something for people I didn’t know on pain of my friend’s maybe life.
For a couple of minutes, all I could here was the clink of cutlery and silverware.
“You seem to be taking this disturbingly well,” Mr. Smith murmured quietly, nearly too low to hear. I decided it was safest not to respond to this, so I ignored him, pretending like I hadn’t heard.
When I finally finished, a good twenty minutes later, I felt a whole lot better. No longer famished and wrung dry, I was now sufficiently sophonsified. I lifted my gave up from my plate, looking defiantly into Mr. Smith’s eyes.
“So. What happens now?” I asked coolly, folding my hands in my lap. I saw a flicker of a genuine smile pass across his lips, the first real betrayal of emotion I’d seen him display.
“You will be escorted to your rooms for the moment,” Mr. Smith began. He seemed to be far more friendly after his morning repast. However, at this remark, my face deepened into a frown.
“You mean the prison for psychopaths?” I asked, wrinkling my nose at the thought of returning back. Mr. Smith shook his head, his eye twitching at my less then flattering description of my past room.
“No. We have arranged new living quarters for you now that you have awoken,” he informed me, suddenly standing, sending his chair skidding backwards. “Philip!” he said, seemingly for no reason. I was about to tell him he was a nutball when another invisible door morphed its way into the wall. A man, or a boy, really, stepped through it. He was maybe sixteen, my age, and quite nervous looking. He said nothing, only looked at Mr. Smith anxiously.
“You are to accompany Miss Neuf to her new suit,” Mr. Smith ordered him smoothly. He seemed quite comfortable with giving commands, as if he’d been doing it all his life. Who knew, maybe he had been born to some gaudy, rich parents who spoiled their child.
Philip nodded, and looked at me. Or, rather, he looked at my nose.
“This way, Ma’am,” he murmured nervously, clasping and unclasping his hands. I smiled tentatively, immediately warming to his agitation. I decided I liked him, but I would go carefully. I wasn’t about to give my trust to anyone here.
I walked over to him, not bothering to spare so much as a glance for Smith. Philip turned and rushed back through the way he came, teetering on the edge as he waited for me. I hurried behind him, stepping gingerly through the doorframe.
~~~~ ♦ ~~~~ ♦ ~~~~ ♦ ~~~~
I found myself in yet another hallway. Long, and, guess what? White! Whoever designed this place must be painfully boring. The lack of colouration was starting to make my eyes hurt. The only thing with pigment I’d seen since my arrival had been my breakfast. Even classy Mr. Smith’s suit was only black and white.
And that horrible red chandelier that had engulfed the world in flaming luminance.
We walked in silence for a while, with no sound but the dull thump of our feet against the ground. Eventually, I just had to ask a question that had been buzzing around my brain. It wasn’t important, but it was annoying.
“So, Philip. Nice name, it sounds . . . Noble. Any reason your parent decided to name you such a name?” I asked conversationally. Philip glanced over at me, but I had no chance to read what I saw there.
“Please, call me Beats,” he said quickly, like he wanted to get it out before his courage scattered. I raised an eyebrow, a quirky smile creeping onto my lips. The first genuine one in two days.
“Beats? Why Beats?” I continued to interrogate him, mystified. Beats looked at me shyly, as if he was unsure he could tell me. I was tentative about my ongoing conversation with this boy, but he was so tense. It was affecting me, even, causing my muscles to start tighening and giving me a stress headache. No wonder. I hadn’t exactly had an easy morning.
“Because I like music,” he finally mumbled, fiddling with his hands.
“Music, huh? What kind?”
“Any, really. Rock, jazz, alternative …” Beats started to relax as he spoke, his step becoming freer, and his tone more enthusiastic. “I write lots of music, and I like to mix it, too.” he informed me, smiling. I smiled back cautiously, his enthusiasm catching.
For nearly the entire way to my new rooms I tried kept him talking about music. Inevitably, however, we wandered off the subject and into more personal affairs that seemed to make him uncomfortable.
It turns out he is a sixteen year old orphan who is forced to serve the Agency, and his pay check is his life, as he puts it. He creates and remixes music whenever he gets the chance. He mostly works in the kitchen, but he does have a room here that he rarely visits. He earned his nickname from his old friend who died a couple years back.
I was really starting to enjoy his company. He was funny, shy, and eager to please, and quite a chatter box once you got him going. It was a relief to have a break from my ridiculous situation. I hadn’t really realized how tense I was until I relaxed.
All too soon, we turned in front of an actual door. It was, of course, plain white, with a gold handle waiting, freshly burnished until it shone.
“Well, here we are,” Beats said, sounding significantly more cheerful then he had when our conversation had begun.
I nodded and turned to smile at him. “Thanks, Beats. What do you normally do now?” I ask, curious about his strange life.
Beats shrugged. “If I don’t have anything to do, I go back to my room and listen to some music,” he told me simply. I nodded and bit my lip, my smile lessening a little. I really didn’t want to be alone right now. I had the feeling if I was, I would collapse under the weight of responsibility. I was fearful that perhaps I would never get back up.
“Do you want to hang out now?” I asked in a rush, trying for casualness, but it probably sounded more desperate. Beats blinked in shock, his head coming back.
“Sure,” he said, sounding pleasantly surprised by my offer. “I’m off for the rest of the day, and they seem to be giving you quite a lot of freedom.”
My grin relaxed and widened again. “Thanks, Beats,” I said, my relief nearly tangible.
Beats smiled shyly at my thanks. “Hey, no problem,” he told me.