by Elle Park
It's as if everyone got whipped by a bucket of ice-cold water, immediately jolting to their feet. What's even stranger is that barely any of them are standing still. Instead, many are backing themselves into the wall, some are writhing on the ground, and others are desperately clutching various parts of their body, branding their fingerprints into their skin.
I feel like I'm in a goddamn psych ward.
And Nolan, of all people, seems to be the only sane one here besides me.
"Come on, Sweets," he says, tugging me out of my seat. I didn't even notice when he left his. "Trust me, you do not want to get caught up in this."
For once, I believe him whole-heartedly.
"What is... this?" My eyes flicker back to the chaos surrounding us, the scene growing freakier by the second.
"Oh, did I not tell you? It's a long story, really..."
His mouth is moving, but the sudden roaring in my ears makes it hard to make out his words. And I don't know where it's coming from, either. Catching something in my peripheral, I peel my gaze from his face, hoping I'll find the cause of my near-deaf state.
I definitely found it, that's for damn sure.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ALREADY BRIGHT room is now lit in flames, and I can't tell if it's the vibrant hues or the heat of the blaze that's making my eyes squint, the burning sensation drawing tears to the surface.
The inferno is a living, breathing entity—a monster born for destruction. It's breathing down our necks, licking at our limbs and snapping its jaws as it prepares to swallow us whole. And yet, I seem to be the only one aware of this larger-than-life presence.
Most of them are lost in the maze of fire, but the few people that I can see aren't responding like I'd expect them to. One girl is scratching herself raw, another is screaming at an invisible person to stay away, and the jock—who is now topless—is howling in pain, grinding his bunched shirt into the lower part of his abdomen.
Do they not realize we're about to be burned alive?
"Kaia?" Nolan's lips just barely graze the shell of my ear, but the unforeseen touch, along with the ringing volume of his voice, practically has me jumping out of my skin. Stepping back to a respectable—but still close—distance, he stares at me as if I'm the crazy one. "Hello, earth to Kaia—whoa, easy, Sweets. Not that I don't like your sudden aggressive display of affection, but... All right, all right. Since I can see how impatient you are to feel me up..." He wraps his arms around my waist, grinning down at me like the lunatic I suspect he is. "No need to be embarrassed. It's my fault, really. I'm just too irresistible for my own good."
He was waving his hand in front of my face, unaware of my fast approaching panic attack. It was all fine and well until he decided to swing his entire arm as if he were waving the American flag on the Fourth of July. Without thinking, I yanked him toward me, our bodies colliding so harshly that, for a second, I mistook the beat of his heart for mine.
Technically, I am the one who initiated this… intimate position, but it was only so that I could postpone our involuntary cremation—which is a pretty valid reason, as far as I'm concerned. Nolan, on the other hand, doesn't seem fazed in the slightest.
"Are you blind or insane?" Even in this close proximity, I practically have to shout for my words to reach him, to stand even a chance against the thunderous rumbling. We're trapped in a lethal tower of fire, and the walls are quickly closing in on us. "How are you not freaking out?"
He frowns. "What are you—oh," he nods, his face clearing, "okay, tell me what you see."
"What do you mean? I see what you—what everyone—should see." I sound frantic to my own ears—hysterical, if I'm being honest.
"Tell me what you see," he repeats.
"Fire."
"Fire," he hums, “all right, now tell me where it is."
Is he trying to distract me from our impending death? Because it's not working.
My skin already feels charred, and it's hard to breathe. Maybe this is a good thing, though. Maybe I'll pass out before the flames can touch me.
"Don't move," I yell when, to my absolute horror, he tries to ease out of my hold. I grip him so tightly that I'm surprised I don't feel his bones splintering.
"Kaia," he says calmly, and his unwavering blue eyes appear even icier here in the pits of hell. "You have to relax. None of this is real." Even I can't do the whole imagine-a-better-place thing. Not here, not now. "Trust me, babe, there's no fire."
To prove his point, he walks right into the gut of the inferno, instantly turning himself into a human torch. The horrifying sight has a piercing scream ripping through my heavy, smoke-filled lungs, and it's echoed by a terrified screech from Nolan. Even with his fingers splayed out across his face, the panic in his eyes is as obvious as the fire in this room. Then, after a few frantic swivels and clumsy shuffling of feet, his hands drop and his shoulders sag in relief.
Relief?
"Oh, God, you scared me," he says, rubbing a palm over his heart. "Please, don't scream like that unless you see someone drop dead. Hell, I think I almost dropped dead."
But he did almost die. Just now. Even now. He's burning alive.
Isn't he?
Through his flickering cloak of heat, I can just barely make out his features.
And he's... smiling?
"See? I'm fine," he shouts, spreading his arms wide. He's about to step toward me, when his head suddenly snaps to the side. "What the..."
Just as my body ignites, the flames become extinguished.
My knees buckle, and I crumple to the ground without resistance. I wheeze with each inhale and hiss through every exhale, but I don't even care because it feels so good to actually breathe fresh, untainted air.
The sinister glow of what might as well be the sun itself has miraculously vanished, but even more baffling is the state of the room. Considering the size and intensity of the blaze, everything should have burned down into unidentifiable ash. But the backdrop of the cafeteria is still a gleaming white, and everything that comes with it—the steel benches, the blood dispenser, the food counter—is just as slick and shiny as it was when we first entered.
It's the people who are a mess.
Nobody—besides Nolan, whom I'm beginning to think is the exception to everything—is on their feet. Some are on their backs, some on their sides, and many, like me, are on their knees. It's clear I'm not the only one struggling to adjust to reality. And I don't know whether we shared the same experience or not, but I feel certain that during these past few minutes—or however long we were fighting with our own minds—every single person lived and breathed a nightmare that no one expected to wake from.
Getting a grip on my bearings, I realize the significant oversight in my initial assessment. What I assumed was unshed tears coating my eyes, turns out to be plain, cold water, and it's raining down from the ceiling that I clearly remember being bare from the series of sprinklers it currently boasts. My clothes are wet, my body feels heavy, and my hair is sticking to my face like limp spaghetti on a wall. Further into the cafeteria, in the kitchen behind the counter I previously dismissed, are clouds and coils of a smoky gray, and I'm wracked with a wave of dry-heaves as the traveling fumes hit my nose.
Finished with my painful bout of retching, I'm left with a question that I should but don't know the answer to.
Was there a fire or not?
There's only one person here who might be able to tell me.
"What the hell just happened?"
He flinches at my question, then winces at my don't-even-think-of-bullshitting-me face. "Well, you see, I guess I kind of forgot to explain the whole orb thing. Actually, it's ironic that someone used their fire orb on you, because, you know," he leans in, cupping his hand against my ear, "you're supposed to have a fire orb," he whispers, chuckling as if we were sharing an inside joke. Seeing my unamused expression, he clears his throat. "So, anyway, orbs are what—"
"Dinner is over. All trainees shall proceed to their rooms."
A m
an with a bulbous head and beady eyes is standing by one of the far end tables, hands clasped behind his stiff back. There's no visible microphone, but his booming voice reverberates around us as if it's connected to surround sound speakers. His sharp features seem to be arranged in a permanent scowl, the array of creases deepening as he makes a visual sweep of the room and its intimidated occupants. At the lack of movement, he taps his foot impatiently, unlocking his hands to take a glance at his watch.
"To access your chambers, simply press your palm against any of the available doors. You may leave your trays where they are." When everyone begins to do as he says, dragging their feet as though wading through water, he finishes his introduction with a warning. "And it will do you well to remember that this is not your local high school. Fighting and using your orbs is strictly prohibited outside of the training grounds. Children who cannot control their temper will have no chance of becoming neither a tracker nor a recruiter—and if that is you, rest assured that you will be transferred from The Academy to The Factory, where you will spend your time regretting the fact that you will be nothing more than ordinary."
Okay, then.
Coming to a stand, liquid drops roll down my cheeks, but they're just a product of the puddle in my hair. With my hand stretched out, I notice the ceiling has stopped spitting at us, and the sprinklers have silently retreated back to their hiding place. Once everyone else leaves, the man approaches us.
"Mr. Drake," he greets, the arch of his brow almost touching his receding hairline. "What a... surprise. I see you haven't changed much," he says, eyeing Nolan's casual outfit with obvious distaste. To be fair, he's wearing cargo shorts and a graphic tee that says "caution: hot, do not touch".
"And I see you have, Mr. Jenkins," Nolan replies, fingering the ends of his muddy hair. "Ever thought of implants?" He tilts his head, observing the older man's sparse comb-over with a frown. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he clucks his tongue. "I can make a call, if you'd like."
The man, Mr. Jenkins, doesn't appear very grateful for the offer. I can practically see the fumes seeping through his pores, his previously pale, speckled skin now an impressive beet red. "That won't be necessary," he finally says, grinding his teeth so forcefully that I half expect them to crack and crumble. "May I ask what brings you here today? It is to my understanding that you have no interest in involving yourself with the administrative side of The Union. Has that changed, perhaps?" He asks, wary suspicion coloring his tone.
"Well, someone's got to keep you on your toes," Nolan says easily, grinning at the man as if they're best buddies. "I'm just kidding, Mr. J. Jeez, come on, you know me. By the time I'm sitting behind a desk, you won't be alive to see it." He laughs, then registers what he just said. "As in, it'll be a long, long time before that happens, because you'll live a long, long life..." He's beyond salvation at this point, but the man decides to let it go—which is probably for the best. For all of us.
"Very well," he grudgingly accepts, finally making his leave. Pausing, he peers at us over his shoulder. "I trust you will send my regards to your father."
"You bet I will." Nolan nods, staring after the retreating form. His unwavering smile only drops when Mr. Jenkins disappears from our sight, his shoulders sagging in evident relief. "Oh, man," he sighs, "that was tense." Locking our elbows together, he guides me toward one of the several doors that we first entered through. "And did he seem mad to you? I swear I felt some negative energy back there," he says, gripping my hand before flattening it against the black surface. "No? Only me?" Once the door slides open, he releases his hold. "Well, whatever," he shakes his head, "in you go."
"What about you?"
"I'm going home," he replies, his statement coming out more like a question. "The rooms are too stuffy here," he sniffs, "and I'm, like, ninety percent sure Henry has separation anxiety—he won't admit it, but that's just who he is. Anyway, you really should go to bed because they make you wake up at the most ungodly hour," he says, shuddering. "Not to worry, though, little birdie. I promise I'll be here bright and early just for you."
It's weird, but as I hover near the doorway—the portal that will transport me to a room of assumed solitude and away from the boy I'm not sure how to label—I can't help but feel a little uncertain, almost uneasy. It goes as soon as it came, but that brief flicker of emotion—one I've yet to interpret—is enough to lock me in place, my body twisted rather uncomfortably.
I don't realize I'm frowning until I feel a thumb pressing into the space between my brows. Nolan is staring at me with a concerned look on his face, his eyes searching mine for answers I don't have. He seems to understand, though, as he flashes me a smile before stepping back.
"I know, I know. You don't want me to leave," he says, chuckling. "But the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you'll see my pretty face. Now, don't be upset that I'm not reading you a bedtime story, because, you see, my suave voice combined with fairy tales would really do a number on you. Trust me, you'd get all hot and bothered before I could say once upon a time..."
If his goal is to physically repel me from him, he's successful.
Instead of dignifying him with a response, I show him the back of my still soaked head, all traces of hesitation gone as I step through the open frame.
"Night, Sweets," he says, just before the door closes behind me.
I pretend I didn’t hear the smile in his voice.
CHAPTER NINE
I'M WOKEN BY the sound of an alarm I did not set. The steady beat seems to be coming from both everywhere and nowhere, with no physical source for me to shut off—or, preferably, smash against the wall. Fully aware that the intrusive blaring will destroy any and all hopes of sleep, I’m forced to relent to this unwelcome wake-up call.
Getting out of bed takes longer than it probably should—and not just because I'm reluctant to leave the warmth and comfort of the cloud-like mattress, but because I'm now alert enough to feel the evidence of yesterday's activities. My body is practically dead weight, and pain shoots up my limbs every time I so much as twitch. I even have to pace my breathing, as I quickly realized that the rise-and-fall of my breaths puts more than a little strain on my tight abdomen. So far, enduring the cries of the never-ending siren is more tolerable than attempting to stand—let alone walk—but before I can revert into a throbbing puddle of aching joints and quivering muscles, the awkward, hovering, frozen-in-place position turns out to be too much for my current physical state.
My arms instinctively flap and flail, but my efforts are futile. With a high-pitched shriek I didn't know I possessed, I crash to the floor in a swift, ungraceful heap. My jaw locks on impact, and I gnash my teeth as I choke down what would have been either a pathetic whimper or a guttural groan. Still in the exact pose that my fall first created, finding little to no comfort in the hard marble that, unlike my new bed, does not mold perfectly to the contours of my body, I realize something very important.
The alarm has turned off.
I have no idea how or why, but instead of questioning it, I allow the blanket of silence to fully envelop me and my stiff, heavy body.
Speaking of heavy, it's getting increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open. I can feel the tides of sleep threatening to pull me under, and I would happily let myself drown if not for the loud, inconsiderate hook yanking me back to the surface.
Muttering curses that would shock a nun dead, I peel half of me off the floor, ignoring the kinks in my back as I stretch my legs out in front of me. It goes quiet once more, and for a few moments, I stay completely still, afraid I'll set the alarm off if I so much as sneeze. Just as I'm about to lower my guard, it comes back yet again, and I'm almost certain the volume has picked up a few notches. Thanks to this ear-shattering, nerve-frying pattern, I get the sneaking suspicion that the beeping won't stop until I leave the room.
Resigned to trade one misery for another, I come to a stand, moving at the speed of a ninety-year-old with arthritis—and with strained grunts and sighs, I sound
like one, too. Once I'm up on my feet, I drag myself toward what I'm hoping will be the cure to my pain. Thankfully, it's a short distance.
My room, although not nearly as big as the one at Nolan's, is definitely not stuffy. It's more of a suite, really, with an open-space concept and simple, modern furnishings of white, gray and black. The bedroom and bathroom are separated by nothing but a partial wall of frosted glass, with just a bed on one side, and a toilet, sink and shower on the other.
The liquid heat pelts down into my flesh, slowly unwinding my tightly coiled muscles. I don't know how long I stay like that, subjecting myself to the powerful spray of hot, almost boiling water, but it's long enough for my skin to turn as red as a raw strip of steak. Regardless, I could probably stand here until welts form and blisters pop, but as it turns out, the only thing to pop will be my eardrums.
If I never hear that alarm again, it will be too soon.
Using the basic toiletries that I found sitting on the marble counter, I make quick work of washing myself, rushing through on auto-pilot lest my noisy friend decides to return.
Just like last night, when I first stepped into the room, a set of neatly folded clothes is waiting for me at the foot of the bed. It's not the same tee and sweats that I slept in, but rather the stretchy, skin-like outfit I wore in training. I slip them on without much thought, not wanting to delve into how they came to be here.
Throwing my dried hair into a tight ponytail, I press my palm against the door, not entirely sure of where it will take me. Fortunately, it appears that I won't be running laps or throwing any punches just yet.
"You sure took your time."
Nolan is sitting in the same seat as yesterday, hunching over what appears to be his own personal buffet. Bowls of fruit, plates of pastries, and stacks upon stacks of syrup-soaked pancakes decorate a good half of the long, steel table, waiting to be demolished. Judging by the swell of his cheeks and the workings of his jaw—which almost looks like it’s vibrating—it won't be long until the dishes are cleared, save for some crumbs and sweet, sticky residue.