by Elle Park
Nolan makes a move to place his hand on the low of my back, but I intercept it with ease. My rejection of unnecessary physical contact, along with a single raised eyebrow, elicits a childish pout, his bottom lip jutting out as he leads me toward the elevators. Almost instantly, the doors glide apart, allowing us entry. We're carried up with a slight floating sensation and a muted whooshing sound, thankfully absent of any tacky music. A gentle ding alerts us to our floor, and we step out into a hall with glossy gray walls and dark charcoal doors. We don't walk far, though, as we come to a stand in front of the first door we see.
"This whole floor is reserved for the employees of The Corporation," he says casually, nodding and smiling at a guy who just walked out of the room to our left. Judging by the confusion on the guy's face, they don't even seem to be acquainted. And judging by the guy's hurried steps, he doesn't particularly want to be.
I realize I should be wary, if not outright fearful, of entering a hotel room with a guy whom I still don't know nearly enough about. One night spent under the same roof does not equate to blinding trust. And although he seems to be twice the child that Henry should be, I know firsthand how deceiving appearances can be. Still, I can reluctantly admit that if Nolan wanted to harm me, he already had plenty of chances to do so. And while this doesn't mean I'll completely lower my guard, it—along with all of the strange, impossible things I've been exposed to—is enough reason for me to follow him through this door and get some much needed answers instead of turning around and walking back into a life that's no longer mine.
With determined curiosity, I watch as he presses a palm flat against the door, a bright blue glow framing his hand. A clear but quiet click is heard before he turns the handle. He steps inside first, holding the door open while I scan the view from just outside the threshold. The interior has much the same theme as the rest of the hotel—slick, modern luxury in cream marble, spotless glass and black leather. Blinking away my observations, I quickly follow suit and move through the open frame.
I wish I could say I'm not surprised.
CHAPTER SIX
THE HOTEL ROOM is not a hotel room.
Similar to the contrast between the exterior and interior of Nolan's house, I suddenly find myself in a completely unexpected setting. Nearly every inch is covered in a lustrous, milky white, sharply contrasting with the varying shapes and sizes of moving color. Brushing off the hand at my back, I realize we're now standing in one of several long lines, Nolan having been subtly pushing me forward.
From kids who come up to my knees, to people several decades older, those in front, behind, and on either side of me are of a truly diverse crowd. With no single race, gender or age, the only common factor between us is that we're all human—or not, if what Nolan told me is true.
Everyone is conveying some sort of emotion. Many—mainly, the teenagers—appear curious, almost excited. The children, like me, don't seem to know what's going on. But unlike me, they're already bored with the big, white room, their small bodies twisting and tangling as they tug at the hands firmly clasping their own. Several people are conveying fear, but the majority are openly consumed with apprehension. And all these faces, with such differing physical traits, are painted with a nearly identical mask of wide eyes and slack jaws.
I also notice that each person is standing in pairs, and it's clear to see who was brought here and who did the bringing. Other than all having hit puberty, the apparent veterans are much like everyone else, ranging from goths and skaters, to men and women in suits and heels. But the real difference between the two groups lies in their attitude, their behavior.
Whereas their partners, for lack of better word, resemble lost meerkats, whatever these people are feeling are on the opposite side of the spectrum. Many are expressionless, either staring straight ahead or glimpsing at their phones. Others, like Nolan, are completely calm and carefree, joking and chatting as they tap trembling shoulders in hollow consolation.
Speaking of, the boy nearly glued to my hip is casually glancing around the room, whistling a tune I bet he can't even hear over the collective rumble of voices, the different pitches bending and crashing in loud, unintelligible disharmony.
As we continue shadowing the bodies in front of us, I can now clearly see what we're actually advancing toward. At the head of every line is a short stall, and each one is occupied by someone who looks about two seconds from death—with none other than Boredom as their killer. Next to it, stands what's shaped like a wide telephone booth, the makeshift box made of a steel frame and glass panels. It seems to be a walk-in body scanner of some sort, with a thin, blue beam skimming over each pair that enters.
The more people that disappear through the booth, the closer we get to the front of the line. There are only two people left before us when I notice the balding man in our stall growing increasingly... uncomfortable.
Thick, sausage-like fingers tap impatiently at the glossy white surface as trails of sweat flow freely down the blotchy skin at his neck, soaking through the—now translucent—material of his white button-up. The escalating severity of his quivering form gives the impression that there's a local earthquake only he is subjected to.
I'm about to point out the suspicious, outright weird sight to Nolan, but realize his attention is already on the man, and he's watching with barely concealed amusement. There appears to be a tick at the corner of his lips, and he's choking back gurgles of laughter in deeply annoying coughs and whines. Then, peeking at his watch, he mumbles just loud enough for me to hear: three... two... one.
Just as he reaches the end of his countdown, the pair in front of us are waived through, the man typing at his keyboard with unnecessary force. At that moment, a steel elevator at the far back wall opens to reveal a very familiar silhouette. The short, portly body approaches us with a false nonchalance, and I recognize him as the guy who electrocuted me yesterday at the house.
It soon becomes clear that Nolan and I aren't the only ones acquainted with him, as the man in the stall sighs with evident relief, his bulky shoulders slumping a few degrees.
"Milo, can you take over for a minute?" His eyes are desperate and pleading when he leans into the tech. "The red is really running through me today," he whispers in a strained voice. Hearing the beginnings of a refusal that sound a little too scripted, he's already exiting the enclosed space, words tumbling out in a rush. "Thanks, kid, I owe you big," he says, nearly tripping over his feet as he makes his escape. With surprising speed, he runs into the elevator Milo walked out of less than a minute ago, hopping in place as the doors slide closed.
"Told you it would work," Milo says quietly, settling into the newly vacated spot.
"Never doubted you for a second, brother." Nolan is no longer bothering to swallow his laughter. Then, taking a few wheezing breaths, he composes himself with great difficulty. "All right," he clears his throat, "ring us through."
This time, I let him press his hand against the small of my back as he urges me forward and into the open entry of the booth. There's a transparent wall splitting the booth in half, but instead of stepping into what's presumably his side, he follows me into mine.
Nodding, Milo's fingers fly over the keyboard, his eyes focused on the sleek monitor in front of him. The blue beam I saw earlier skims over us from head to toe, and he looks around the room conspiratorially before hunching over and attacking the keys once again. Though it's not unexpected, as I watched those before me go through the same thing, I still find myself flinching when we abruptly begin to descend. The panels around us go from glass to steel, starting from the bottom until it's all that surrounds us. Almost instantly, the wall in front of us glides open like a door, allowing Nolan to gently push me through.
Whereas the previous room was all white, this one is covered in a pristine gunmetal gray, both walls and floor made up of large square tiles. I can recognize a few faces from the lines I was standing in a few moments ago, and, notably, the few children, men and women are nowhere to b
e seen. There are only about twenty or so people here, but all around my age.
Teenagers, ranging from youthful fresh faces to those caked in layers of makeup, litter the open area, some nervous to be without their escort, and all curious as to what they're doing here. Already, they are forming groups among themselves, the familiarity of cliques probably bringing some sort of comfort in this unfamiliar place. There are preps, jocks, geeks, misfits... and me.
I personally don't identify with any of the basic groupings—never really have, I think. Always adapting to my changing surroundings, blending in with the people around me, interpreting gestures and expressions, speech and behavior, and then arranging my own accordingly. The constant sensitivity, alertness—they weren't born from a desire to belong, but rather the instinct to survive and, eventually, the potential to thrive.
Currently, though, I'm not entirely sure what part I'm supposed to play. There are so many things to consider, such as what the most advantageous role would be, how long we're supposed to stay here, or whether I'll be seeing these people again, because, if not, there's really no reason to form a particular image or draw any lines. The only time I need to act is when there's something my audience can give me. As of yet, I don't see what they have to offer.
More importantly, there's something that has been nagging at the back of my mind for the past few minutes. During my initial observation, I noticed the absence of chaperons—or guides or whatever they are—but my own is still here, appearing, as always, completely in his element. His loosely interlocked hands are dangling at the base of his spine, and he's looking around the room as if he owns the place. I also get the feeling he's distracted by something—though that something seems to be coming from his own hidden thoughts.
"So, what was that all about?" I ask, slightly impressed at the way his features instantly clear, but unimpressed with his suddenly innocent expression. "Your friend just happens to come down right when it's our turn?"
Turning his head away from me and staring off into the distance—one of his signature moves—he breathes out a heavy sigh. "Kaia, Kaia, Kaia," he shakes his head, "are you suggesting that I, Nolan Drake, hatched a plan to deliberately take you here during rush hour, knowing that Bobby, our dear friend with a troubled bladder—especially with the something-something that may or may not have been dropped in his flask—wouldn't be able to take a break, just so Milo could take over and be the geek that we know and love, and wave us through without suspicion?" He pauses, not because he's out of breath, but purely for dramatic effect. "Because that's exactly what I did," he says, evidently proud of himself. He's now facing me again, chin raised just a fraction with pride as unadulterated glee replaces his previously rueful look. "You don't have to worry about a thing—Milo's got us covered. Just stay by my side and let me do the talking. Oh, and if anybody asks, you have a fire orb."
"Do I?" I ask in a hushed tone, unsure as to why I'm even bothering when there's no one within hearing distance of us.
"Do you what?" He responds, matching my lowered voice with airy whispers, his brows furrowed in confusion.
"Have a fire orb?"
"Of course not," he says, laughing. "But it's one of the most common ones, so you won't stick out. And as much as I would love to see Bambi butt some heads, don't get into any fights. You have nothing to fight back with—at least, not that we know of—so when you lose, everyone will think you're a loser, and then I might have to pretend I don't know you, because what if they start to think I'm a loser—"
"All right," a clear voice rings out, thankfully putting an end to both Nolan's monologue and my misery.
All at once, conversations stop and heads turn, startled gazes searching for the speaker.
It doesn't take long to find her.
The woman boasts a glowing, ebony complexion and even darker hair that's cropped intimately close to her scalp. A white, form-fitting dress clings to her sizable curves as she walks toward us from the other end of the room, the clicking of her red-tongued heels sounding especially harsh against the wary silence.
"I'm Lacey, the manager of this unit. Before we begin, I will confiscate your personal belongings—there will be no use for them while you're here—and you will change into appropriate attire." She taps the screen of her tablet, and a line of doors instantly sprout on the walls surrounding us. "Press your palm against any of the available doors until it opens. Step inside the enclosure, and change into the provided uniform—that will be the only thing you step back out with. Leave everything else inside. You have three minutes." When no one makes a move, she raises a brow. "Now you've got two. Clock's running—as should you."
Everyone jumps as if the floor is burning, but there's still an evident wariness in their hurried movements, each unsure as to whether this is one big joke. Their fingers flinch against the surface of the doors, and arms practically pop out of their sockets when they slide open. One by one, they cross the mysterious threshold, the walls closing shut behind them.
After a nudge and a wave from my nonchalant recruiter, I follow the lead of my new peers. Just like when Nolan touched the door of the hotel suite, a blue glow leaks from beneath my hand, followed by a soft but distinct click. The room I enter is about the size of a spacious coat closet, covered in smooth ivory and radiating a warm light—a far cry from the black and gray expanse I was standing in a second ago.
The lower half of the back wall protrudes into a make-shift shelf. On it, sits a neatly folded pile of black—black tee, black pants, black shoes, black sports-bra and black underwear. These people—whoever they are—clearly aren't a fan of color.
Uncomfortable with stripping completely naked, I switch one piece at a time until I'm fully clad in the tight but stretchy clothing—my own discarded ones now occupying the otherwise bare sill.
Walking out the same way I came in, I immediately crash into Nolan's chest, my nose nearly breaking in the process.
"Easy, Tiger," he chuckles, his elbows locking in line with his shoulders, "I just thought you'd like a familiar, pretty face to be the first thing you see—you know, to remind you that not everything here is plain and boring and plain."
"How considerate," I mutter dryly, checking my nose as he checks me out.
He shrugs, flashing a lopsided grin when his wandering eyes meet mine.
Once everyone is back in the room, Lacey resumes her speech. "Your recruiters explained what you are, why you're here. By now, you should have a basic understanding of the power that you, being a daemon, have. But know that without control, power is nothing—worse, it becomes a weakness, which makes you a liability. That is unacceptable. Until you prove to be an asset, you will not be stepping one foot outside of this academy. Until you are trained, disciplined, and in control, this is the world you will live and breathe. And if you are revealed to be incompetent, there is no guarantee you will make it out alive. If, at any point, you fail to meet my standards, you will immediately lose your chance of becoming a tracker and will instead be transferred to an appropriate unit. The worse you do here, the less options you will have anywhere else."
Ignoring the shocked gasps and gulps sounding throughout the room, she once again thumbs through her tablet. Almost immediately, tall, vertical capsules spring out from behind the walls.
"These training pods allow you to exercise your orb, helping you to improve your ability and gain the control that you need," she explains, though it does nothing to ease our furrowed brows. "Get in, get comfortable, get used to it, because you will be inside them for several hours a day, every day, until you are no longer deemed as the equivalent of a highly sensitive set of explosives." Visibly impatient with the many blank faces staring back at her, she barks, "Starting now."
Finally hearing words that they can actually make sense of, the clumps disperse into messy trails, hurried footsteps conflicting with hesitant expressions. I watch with interest as the occupied pods slowly begin to tilt backwards, nervous tension bleeding through the clear glass.
> "Just keep your eyes closed until you're standing again," Nolan murmurs behind my ear, propelling me forward with a gentle grip on my shoulders. Turning around, I'm about to ask him to clarify, when I realize there's a partition between us.
Before I can make much sense of what is happening, I feel myself sinking into a foam-like surface that's neither hard nor soft. It's like a shallow bed of wet concrete, just deep enough to mold to the contours of my body. Once I'm perfectly snug and immobile, the capsule begins its smooth descent, angling my view toward the ceiling. I'm lying flat on my back when Nolan's head emerges from above the transparent dome, his breath drawing clouds on the otherwise pristine glass.
"Identifying subject," a robotic voice says. A familiar blue laser begins scanning me from head to toe, the bright tint unable to mask Nolan's strangely nervous face. "Kaia Riley," the voice blurts after a few long seconds. "Fire orb."
Something attaches to both my temples and the pulse at my throat, and it feels both similar yet different to the disks that Milo stuck on me yesterday. Whatever it is has Nolan instantly relaxing. He sneaks a glance behind him before quickly turning back, cupping his hands around his mouth as he tries to convey a silent message—only for it to be obscured by warm fog before I can even make out the first syllable. Moving a few inches to the side, he makes another attempt, followed by another. He tugs at his hair, clearly frustrated, and I wouldn't be surprised if he ripped a few tufts out. As if the thought just struck him, the whites of his knuckles instantly ease, timid fingers patting his scalp as if checking for bald spots. He shakes his head and scrunches his face together, pointing a stern finger at his now closed eyes. Assuming there's a legitimate reason for his persistence, I reluctantly shut my own until I'm staring at the inside of my eyelids, waiting for something—anything—to happen.