Page 23 of Broken Embers

The others were bad—no denying that: all bright white lights, endless corridors, cold hands, colder smiles. But there were people. Scientists, guards, technicians, and other voices echoing down the halls. Here? It’s a fucking tomb.

The building is massive, but I’ve seen no more than six other people since I arrived. Maybe ten if you count the ones in passing. The corridors stretch forever in silence, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only consistent company.

They haven’t tested me today for the first time since I was taken.

I know that should be a relief, but it’s not. I can’t help feeling a little freaked out. I keep thinking, is this all some kind of test? Some fucked up way of testing me in isolation? Is them not testing me a test? I’m used to a rhythm now: morning wake-up, shower with eyes on me, breakfast, hours of assessments.

Always some new flavor of test—Rorschach, pattern recognition, IQ puzzles dressed up like logic games. Half the shit they throw at me, I’ve seen before. And I now know why my father insisted on teaching Tara and me how to get through endless different tests of that kind. He used to train us on how to beat those kinds of evaluations. How to appear average 101. We must always appear capable. Full of potential, but not exceptional enough to raise flags. We just thought he wanted us to lead normal, everyday lives until we felt ready to show the world who we are—on our terms.

I know it was the way Tara was heading. She wanted to be a physics professor and get tenure. Tara had big plans. I swallow, thinking about my sister as the lump burns in my throat. The only good thing about being here is that I’ve managed to find out they don’t know where she or my mother is. While still a constant source of worry for me, at least I know these fuckers don’t have them.

My mind drifts back to my father’s training. Now that I think about it and know what I know, I realize he wasn’t just trying to keep us seem average so we could live an everyday life, he wasn’t just training us forifmy frightening aunt ever found us—he was preparing us forwhenYelena and the RMSAD found us.

While I’m still angry with you and Mom, Dad,I sniff away the pain that still rips through my heart thinking about my father, the man who gave his life for mine,I understand why you and Mom did what you did. I’m grateful for all you taught us. I still think you should’ve been honest with us.

I wipe the tear off my cheek and compose myself, reminding myself I’m being watched. Blowing out a breath, I pick up another sad grape and pop it into my mouth. If I’m honest, the tests have kept me from getting bored, and it felt good beating them again.

But it also allowed me to assess the RMSAD black ops division. As no one knows I can speak Russian, they used it as a go-to language to discuss me and other things while I was in earshot. I sigh, thinking of how they have tried to trip me up to find out if I’m pretending not to speak Russian. But I just didn’t take the bait and kept my well-honed ‘I’m oblivious’ look.

“I can’t let them know what I’m capable of, little one,”I whisper, while dropping a grape onto my lap so I can address my stomach without seeming obvious.“I don’t want them discovering you.”

I shudder picturing the operating and other medical rooms Helga (not Tubby) took me to see. Now I’m wondering what kind of tests they’ll run on me here. So far, they haven’t taken any body fluid samples. Or at least not that I know of.

Something bangs in the distance, I jump, and my head swivels towards the door.Fuck this place!It’s different. It’s too quiet. Too… clinical, and not in the way you’d expect. It feels like a hospital, complete with psychiatric wards, straight out of a post-apocalyptic movie. I want to say all it’s missing are the flesh-eating zombies, but honestly I’m thinking there might just be some in this shitshow of a place.

Even Tubby—sorry,Helga—the one guard who doesn’t glare at me like I kicked her dog, admitted it’s not a regular RMSAD site. Said this building was “repurposed.” Said there were stories about it. Said this is where therealexperiments happened. Some of the worst rumors about the RMSAD’s “ghost projects” started here.

The worst part? I believe her. The shit I’ve seen and heard over the past five days is fucking unbelievable. How could anyone be a part of this and sleep at night? Fuck, my mother used to be a part of this.

I shake my thoughts away. While I’m stuck in here, there is not much I can do about it. But fuck, when I get out, I’m going to burn this fucking black ops frankenstein division to the fucking ground.

My eyes catch the large house at the other end of the grounds looming like a shadowy threat through the windows. Helga told me the General’s family lives in that house. I think I was more surprised to hear he had a family. I thought he was a cyborg. Who the hell moves his family into a black ops site?

One that doesn’t want them to leave! I answer my own question. They are probably all genetically enhanced humanoids waiting to procreate with another pure genetically altered humanoid to form a little family of genetic fuckwits.

I sigh and glance around the room once again. I’m alone in this massive dining hall that I could probably fit three of my school’s mess halls into. I shudder and my skin crawls as I swear I can feel the souls of former people like me sitting around here.

I’m freaking myself out even more. I guess I should try and eat my nighttime snack—a bland fruit bowl. It’s not bad. I’ve just never been a fruit girl. Give me pancakes, bacon, maple syrup, and black coffee, and I’m golden. This crap? Grapes and melon, and a slice of kiwi that tastes like it’s been through customs twice?

But I eat it. For the baby. I don’t let myself touch my stomach, not in public, not even when I’m alone, because if they find out I’m pregnant—really find out—I don’t know what the hell they’ll do. And I’m not willing to find out.

I’m halfway through a slice of something orange when someone crashes into my table.

Fruit flies everywhere when the table is thumped and upends my tray, and suddenly I’m soaked. Something cold and sticky slides down my chest and pools in my lap.

“What the fuck?!” I shoot up from my seat, heart leaping into my throat. Jesus, there’s an entire mess hall, and my table is the one that gets knocked into.

My head shoots up as I realize someone walked into my table, and my eyes meet a young woman about my age. She looks like she stepped out of a Hot Topic Goth edition that hasn’t updated its inventory since 2008.

Combat boots. Torn black leggings. A baggy black hoodie layered under a cropped leather jacket. Her hair is dyed black, but streaked through with purple. Her lipstick is dark, her eyeliner sharp, and her face? Her face is flushed with embarrassment.

“Oh shit—fuck—I am so sorry!” she blurts, and her Russian accent wraps around the words in a way that almost makes them musical. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, I wasn’t looking—shit—I didn’t even think anyone was in here.”

My chest rises and falls as I fight the instinct to bite her head off. But the look on her face… It’s not fake. She’s not here to test me. She’s just… awkward—and uncannily human, not some robotic, science-y type.

And probably the first remotely genuine human I’ve seen since I was taken.

I exhale sharply and brush a sticky chunk of pineapple off my shirt. “It’s fine,” I mutter. “I mean, if you planned to douse me in a fruit cocktail and start a turf war, congrats—you nailed it.”

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