Page 171 of Rage

Imperium

By: Lucy Smoke

Chapter One

Five hundred and forty-seven days. That’s how long I’ve been in Imperium. Some days, I find it hard to remember what life was like on the outside. In some ways, it was harder—so much stimulation, so many people, so many choices to make. Still, even if it was harder, at least it was kinder.

Behind the walls of Imperium, things are gray. Not physically, of course. The walls are a pale cream, the floors bleached tile, the ceiling a collection of light, stone-colored plates interrupted only by the long bulbs of harsh lights stationed every few feet to keep the long, narrow corridor lit all the way down.

My “handler”, as the Director calls our caretakers, walks me down the long passageway until we come to a fork, where another trainee like me is standing with his own handler at his back. The second my eyes connect with his—green and brown and gold—my heart threatens to pick up speed.

It’s only due to so much practice that I manage to keep my face placid and reticent. Our handlers are our monitors, but I don’t trust anything in Imperium. There’s no telling if they’ve put digital scanners in the walls, floors, or ceilings to take any opportunity to examine our interactions.

The handlers greet each other with silent nods before directing the two of us down the next hallway.

“Cyrus,” I say in greeting to the other trainee.

Cyrus glances my way, meeting my gaze. His eyes strike me again, driving a knife straight through my chest with how they swirl and shift under the fluorescent lighting. “Eris,” he says my name in an appropriate monotone before directing his attention ahead once more.

The following footsteps of our handlers echo down the corridor, their standard issue, flat, nonslip shoes making only the whisper of a sound despite them both being large men built heavy with muscle. How else is Imperium to keep us all in one place? To keep us so docile?

My jaw clenches and unclenches as I work against the urge to look at Cyrus, to stop this farce and ask if he knows why they’re calling us in now, what they’re planning to do next.

“I’m tired, Cyrus…”

“I know, baby. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. We’ll get out of here.”

“When?”

“Soon, baby … soon.”

Tears prick at the backs of my eyes, the sensation a burning itch as I recall our secret conversation from the night before. I’d cried in his arms then, holding him as if he was a life raft and I was adrift in a great big ocean. Soon can’t come fast enough.

Together, the two of us march down the hallways and passages, directed every so often by our handlers at our backs, before we come to a crossway we need to navigate. I used to think they were constantly changing and building more tunnels, but now, I know the architects of this lair had made everything so uniform simply because they wanted to keep us confused, keep us from knowing where we were at any point. It’s a miracleany of the lab technicians, handlers, or others know how to get us from our rooms to the training and testing facilities.

The footsteps behind us seem to grow louder, our handlers picking up their pace and forcing us to do the same. We’re getting closer. My fingers twitch, and I catch myself just before I reach out, seeking Cyrus’ comfort.

Five-hundred and forty-seven days I’d been down here. Although some of the other trainees had willingly complied and even applied to be part of the program, there were others, such as Cyrus and myself, who hadn’t.

“How much farther?” I demand, glancing over my shoulder.

“Keep walking, head forward,” my handler barks, a deep growl in his tone. It’s not the first time I’ve broken protocol. We’re never supposed to talk back or demand answers, but my heart is thrumming in my throat, and hot and cold waves pour over my back with each step.

I peek at Cyrus out of the corner of my eye and bite down on my lip before I realize what I’m doing and quickly release it. Though there’s no hint on his face that he’s angry at my handler’s disrespectful nature, the heat burning in his gaze as he glares ahead speaks for itself. I trail my eyes down the staid gray scrubs, our standard uniform, that hide what I know is a shredded body.

He’s not as wide as our handlers, and when he’s completely covered as he is now, anyone might mistake him for a weakling. I’ve seen firsthand how much he’s not. The weak in this place get weeded out early, and we’ve survived here the longest.

My eyes freeze at the dark splotch peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt. A bruise. Anotherfuckingbruise. I glance back, looking over my shoulder this time at his handler—my eyes narrowing as I search for bruises of his own.

Handlers are often encouraged to torment their charges to keep them from becoming weak. Cyrus wouldn’t have taken ahit without retaliation. Before I can find any evidence, however, a hard shove to my back nearly sends me sprawling across the floor.

Cyrus’ arm shoots out, preventing me from losing my balance, but a snarl rips past my throat.

“Keep. Walking.” My handler barks the words in a dead tone. I clench my fists and straighten. A moment passes. I want to kill him, slice his throat open and drain the blood from his body as I watch the light in his eyes go out. But not here—we can’t risk being completely cut off. There’s too much at stake now. We have too much to lose.

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I close my eyes and breathe, trying to relax all the muscles in my face. I put one foot in front of the other and start marching forward. Cyrus’ arm falls away from me as he starts walking alongside me. My movements are awkward and stilted but, eventually, they even out.

I want to reach for him again, feel the warmth of his skin on mine, remind myself that we’re not just lab rats. We’re people. We’re human.

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