Chapter 2:
12:48 AM
Claustrum Institutes
85 feet beneath the Regnum castle
Subject M never knew how long he was going to be someplace when he was told to "await." Once, when he was four or five, McGee had "forgotten" to come get him until the following morning. Mikey had been so afraid of disobeying that he didn't move a muscle the whole time—not even for food or the restroom. When Dr. McGee eventually came back and saw him standing there—fist in watery eye, nose running and shorts soiled—he had taken it upon himself to severely punish Michael.
Of course, it helped that McGee had, in turn, been harshly reprimanded by the king himself.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed only that by the time the door squealed open his medicine had kicked in, leaving him mercifully numb. M understood though that had it not been January 1st his injuries would have been neglected as they healed improperly. His oddly shaped ankle and slight limp from the time Doctors McGee and Gifford had taken turns releasing the brunt of their frustrations out on his (roughly) eight year old self attested to that. In fact, with that particular incident, they'd simply left him in his cell for months until the bone had awkwardly healed itself. The two pitiful meals Subject received a day were the only things assuring him that they hadn't forgotten or left him to die.
So he relished in his freedom. For the first time in many years Michael felt completely pain-free.
"Are you ready?" St. James asked mechanically from the doorway.
"Yessir." Subject rose to his feet obediently as the doctor spun on his heels and disappeared from sight.
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In grievous silence they finally came to a stop outside The Room—the one place Mikey hated more than the surgeries or punishments or experiments. More than the pain or E and H or Cuffs. The room where he said hello and, sometimes, if the doctors where feeling generous, goodbye.
Michael watched as Barnaby gripped the knob, twisted at a speed of agonizing slowness and eventually managed to push the door open. He wondered how the doctor's hands remained so steady when M's shook violently at his side. Subject trailed behind St. James as they entered the room.
It was oddly formed with eight sides, which was just about the only thing Mikey liked about it. Once he had asked Dr. Bayliss what shape it was but the only explanation offered was the pursing of his lips as he said, "That is irrelevant to your purpose, M, so you don't need to know."
It was pretty empty, with only a threadbare couch that sagged in on its peg legs and the secret shoe box Michael had stashed under a loose floorboard.
A girl—about his age but, considering he didn't know what that was, he couldn't be certain— was pacing one of the walls; her fingertips skimming the brick and making Michael's own tingle with the memory of having done the same when Barnaby had dumped him here on his first day. Her chestnut hair tumbled down her shoulders in natural curls and freckles were strewn almost randomly across her nose and cheeks.
Mikey had met enough boys and girls during his time at the Institute and most of them had been afraid and trembling as he came in to explain the situation to them. Except maybe Johnny who had looked half anxious, half angry. Michael felt something—he didn't know what—contract in his chest, dropping down to lodge itself in his feet. Best not think about Little John.
He studied the girl. She certainly didn't look frightened. In fact she was muttering under her breath, cursing the "idiotic, no-good man" who brought her here. No. She wasn't afraid at all.
Michael looked up at Barnaby uncertainly. He was smirking. "Good luck with this one, M," he whispered to the boy. Mikey grinned timidly. That was almost friendly.
"Subject R!" St. James called into the room. The girl stopped, spun around and with hard sea green eyes, scowled. "Meet Subject M."
With that he gave Michael a shove inside and hurried to save himself, exiting without so much as a backward glance. Mikey wasn't surprised. No one liked briefing the newbies so when McGee had a stroke of genius one night—"Why not just make, M, do it? 'S not as if he's human like us anymore so, he'll have no trouble at all."—it didn't take much for everyone to jump on board.
M shook his head and cautiously approached "R." All the kids reacted differently. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they cowered. Sometimes they yelled. And a few times, when the new Subject was bigger than M, which didn't take much, they lashed out on him in a fury of flying fists and ripped flesh.
"Hi," he said, carefully, when he was close enough to be polite but far enough that he felt safe. The girl was a head shorter than M but he never liked to be in arms reach of anyone. Just in case.
She regarded him warily, her eyes skimming over him. "Who are you?" she asked, apparently not one for pleasantries.
That was okay was okay with him.
"Subject M," he replied, sticking out his hand. He breathed out a sigh of relief when she didn't shrink away but instead, after a short hesitation, gripped it easily.
"No," she said as she dropped his hand. "I mean your real name."
"That is my name," he insisted.
She rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm Emberleigh Rose."
He barely held back a wince. He hadn't wanted to know that. Still, he reminded himself, chances were he was looking at a dead man . . . er, girl . . . the least he could do was be nice to her. It was selfish to not risk his heart in friendship on her last few days.
"Michael," he conceded. "My name is Michael."
She didn't exactly smile, but the corners of her mouth fluttered for just a fraction of a second. "There. That wasn't so hard. Now. Michael. Where are we and what's going on?"
He cleared his throat and shifted. "It's a long story," he turned and plopped down on the couch, perfunctorily.
She followed him but instead of taking a seat she crossed her arms stubbornly and frowned down at him. He shifted where he sat and silently begged her to sit down. Fortunately, it only took a few seconds of the awkward height difference to bring her floating down next to him.
"As you're probably aware, Regnum is at war," he started.
She looked at him in mild annoyance. "Everyone knows that. It's kinda hard to miss."
He continued on as if she hadn't interrupted, "As the battle escalated and more lives were lost King Arden grew desperate. He needed to end it but if he surrendered to Malum then he knew his people would be enslaved, he would be giving away the crown to a spiteful man who would slaughter Arden's people. So he built Claustrum Institutes here, under the castle. He takes orphans—kids no one will miss—" She looked a little offended but didn't deny it. "And he attempts to change them, make them better. Perfect super-soldiers Malum can't ward off."
"I don't understand," she said.
Mike smiled uneasily. This was usually the turning point in a Subject's reaction. "Watch this," he said.
And then he was gone, leaving behind only a quick swish of rushing wind that tugged her hair after it as if in invitation to join. A second later he was back, holding in the palm of his hand his only possession. "Do you like to read?"
Emberleigh jumped to her feet and retreated a safe distance, her eyes suddenly wide and fearful. "That—that's impossible!"
"And yet it happened," M said.
"But—but—what are you? Superman?"
"Why would my being Superman make this all suddenly possible?" he asked. "No. It's like I said. They change us. We're soldiers."
"So . . . there are . . . more of you?" her words came out sluggish and her eyes looked a little dazed, all rebellion squashed out of her like a fragile beetle under his reluctant boot.
Michael looked away, his stomach withered inside of him. "Every year a new orphan is selected for the program," he admitted softly, "but there are only three left. Four including you."
"What?" R's breath was definitely coming thinner now. Mikey knew from experience she was going to faint.
"Subject E and Subject H are in Bellicus, fighting in the war. You probably won't ever meet them as they left for battle almost two years ago and haven't been back since," he said, shivering despite himself. He hoped for her sake she never came across them. Their cruelty almost rivaled the scientists'.
"How . . . how do they . . . how are you . . .?" she stumbled back over and fell rather ungracefully to his side. He was glad. It would have been no trouble to carry her had she dropped where she stood thanks to his overdeveloped strength but he avoided physical contact whenever he could.
"A lot of tests and surgeries and experiments," he answered her unfinished question.
"Exper . . .? Does it . . . hurt?" she looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading.
He swallowed. He didn't want to tell the truth. He didn't like the reality she was going to be facing here pretty soon. He wanted to give her hope—didn't they say if a patient had hope chances of survival were higher? But what good was giving it to her if the doctors would just come along and steal it away? No, she needed to be prepared.
Plus, McGee had coached him in what to say the very first time he filled in a Subject and he grimaced, remembering the time he'd wondered off the beaten track and said something non-scripted.
So, it was with an apology written in his expression that he looked down at his hands—webbed with hundreds of white and pink scars—and said truthfully, "Every day."
He knew when she didn't reply that she had given in to the pull of unconsciousness. Barnaby was right. She wouldn't last long.
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