THE DOZEN

TAG DAY.

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THE DOZEN.
TAG DAY

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NONE OF THE subjects knew who operated the facility they resided in. If someone were to ask, at first thought they'd vaguely respond, "the government," but they didn't know specifically. The Director hardly showed his wrinkled, weary face, but he and his title sounded important enough within the conversations of his acolytes.

In the face of that imaginary question, they'd answer, "Whoever the Director is," after giving the blunt question some thought.

However, alas, no one was asking.

It was mostly for the best that it remained an unasked question. It was such an uncomfortable thought, it was almost harrowing just to keep it internalized; plus, there were greater unknowns they dwelled on, like what exactly they were even doing in an underground institute. Not a single one of them had the slightest clue as to what project they were a part of, but it still managed to consume them entirely. Their lives consisted of nothing more than tests, experiments, and overall inhumane treatment.

Some didn't necessarily mind. Of course, a significant portion of their tests were unbearably painful, but it ranked higher in comparison to their lives before the project.  There was Subject Three, a young man composed of heart monitors and stale ramblings of apathetic doctors, who was only hours away from accepting defeat in the war against cancer when he was offered a position in the project and a second chance at life.

The decision was more than easy, perhaps just a little overwhelming. The numerous doctors had made it very clear that his remaining time was gradually decreasing, but then a few men in suits approached and claimed they could save him. And just like that, he was alive again; just not officially. Lucas Mitchell had "died" in Boston, Massachusetts at exactly 16:21.

His grave was empty, simply there to add to the illusion that he rested beneath the earth, but the news that no one was placing flowers atop his facade was a little more than disheartening.

And then there was Subject Nine, undocumented, unborn – officially a stillborn. At 19 years of age, her eyes had only ever seen bland facility walls and sympathetic gazes of scientists. Some favoured her, (usually because they could not have children of their own, and her presence allowed them to have experiences that attempted filling the gap), and it was from them that she discovered she was sold to the government at birth to relieve her parents' debt of $150,000, whatever that insignificant number meant. Such things held no meaning to her.

Other subjects had a more somber decision to make: life as an inmate, being reduced down to nothing but your inmate ID number or life as a prisoner of an agency who promised to protect and serve, reduced down to whatever number they decided to tattoo on your inner forearm. A thief, a murderer, two best friends who, in spite of their good intentions, managed to create a lethal drug - all had chosen the latter.

Amongst a crowd of undesirables and tragically desirables, Subject Eight seemed to be the most ordinary. They were all dressed in skintight jumpsuits, hair tousled and unkempt; as to where she was clad in her Sunday best. She wasn't even entirely sure how the other eleven subjects fell into the hands of the government, but from what little her father told her, she was glad she didn't know all the details. She was very much pleased to be there simply because her father asked her to be, in comparison to the hints of other subjects' involuntary containment she'd picked up, but would've preferred to have arrived before "Tag Day."