by M. A. Phipps
“I, personally, couldn’t care less,” he says. “But, you see . . . my superiors do care. They are not pleased with that little display of yours.”
Peering down at my shaking hands, my eyes dart in a manic fit between them.
That’s not possible. I’m in complete control. I couldn’t of—
The memory of what I’ve done rushes through my body like a chill. I see it all. I see it again as if it’s happening now.
Could I have killed those people without even knowing it?
Without realizing it?
Turning away from Dr. Richter, I work to suppress my confusion—unwilling to let him notice my lapse in control and afraid of what will happen if he does manage to see it.
The distance I’ve gained in the past few moments shrinks as he takes a frightening step forward. He puts himself in front of me—our bodies so close that goosebumps prickle my skin from a combination of disgust and panic. His fingers graze my chin, tilting my face until I’m forced to meet his awaiting gaze.
If there’s one thing about him that I admire, it’s his ability to read people.
Especially when they’re hiding something.
“I’ll ask you again,” he growls in a low voice. “What happened back there?”
My thoughts surround the soldier before focusing on the man I keep seeing in my head. They both pleaded with me, although, I can’t help feeling they had very different reasons for doing so.
Swallowing the growing lump in my throat, I choke out a raspy breath. “I just lost focus.”
Dr. Richter drops his hand. He moves back to widen the berth between us as his eyes search my face for the obvious lie. I look away, hoping he won’t see it.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
I tighten my trembling hands into fists.
“There isn’t—”
A high-pitched squeak escapes my lips when his hand wraps around my neck. He throws me back against the nearest wall, causing black spots to flicker across my vision the instant my head slams into the concrete. I try to breathe, but my lungs refuse to work.
The words spit through his clenched teeth as he snarls like a vicious animal. “Don’t toy with me!” His fingers continue to crush my throat.
I gasp for air, helpless beneath his touch, despite the power raging inside of me. As he leans in close, I glimpse the sick pleasure in his hooded stare. There’s no doubt that he’s enjoying every second he gets to watch me squirm.
The breath from his next words touches my lips with the heat of fire.
“You are insignificant,” he breathes, “and if you can’t do the job, I will do it for you.”
His eyes fix on the metal collar surrounding my neck. Another warning. One I’m willing to bet he’s prepared to act on. The trouble is, I have no way of knowing if it’s an empty threat or if what he’s implying is actually possible. With the way the collar functions, it wouldn’t surprise me if he programmed some sort of puppeteer feature into it. It would’ve been foolish of him not to. If you choose to create a monster, you need to have a way to maintain dominance over it, and such an attribute would give him that power.
Besides, Dr. Richter is the type to have a backup plan.
Still, regardless of how much I hate him—how much I despise his very existence—I don’t want to find out if he’ll live up to those threats. I’d prefer to do whatever the State tells me to do than deal with the alternative, which I’m guessing is why he hasn’t already acted on his warnings. He enjoys asserting his dominance over me, and truthfully, I’d rather live with my actions than let him violate me any more than he already has. At least this way, even if I am a murderer, I’m also more than just a lifeless marionette being pulled by her strings.
My expression seems to be enough to convince him that we’ve reached an understanding. His grip on me loosens, and my body crumples to the floor as he takes a step back.
Clutching at my neck, wheezing breaths pass through my lips, pounding against the inside of my bruised throat. A grimace distorts my face, and looking up, I watch Dr. Richter as he straightens his glasses. His hands glide along the front of his coat, smoothing out any wrinkles, and his demeanor is calm as if the past few seconds never occurred.
In an impassive voice, he says, “See that it doesn’t happen again.” He then moves away from me, making for the door.
My fingers prod at my tender skin. My jaw locks, grinding my teeth together. A number of emotions overwhelm me in this moment, but the thought of how pleasurable it would be to kill him is what consumes me.
I think of him on his knees, begging me for mercy.
I think of myself, denying him that very kindness.
The deaths I’ve caused over the past few years are meaningless in comparison to what his would be. I was aware of what I was doing when I took those lives, and yet, I felt nothing. I simply did what I had to do.
Killing Richter would feel good, and that wouldn’t be nothing to me. Plus, it would be so easy.
All I would have to do is snap his neck.
The door to the room opens, and I only have a fleeting instant to decide whether or not to act.
Kill him here.
Kill him now.
Forget everything else.
In the end, I do nothing. My eyes trail after his looming figure, watching with bitter disappointment as he retreats into the hallway. The door closes behind him, reminding me of my failure and leaving me alone.
A deflated feeling washes over my body as I tell myself why I haven’t killed him a thousand times before, and why I never will.
The reality is, without Richter, there’s no cure. Without Richter, there’s no control. As much as I loathe him and the State, I fear the thought of what this disease can do to me even more.
My fingers move to touch the collar around my neck. A peculiar sensation flips my stomach, turning my attention to a lingering thought that’s been bothering me for a while now.
I may do what Richter asks for the sake of control, but I also know there’s another reason for this. There’s a reason that doing what he wants is important. There’s a reason control is important.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in. The idea of it plagues me, scratching at the back of my brain.
For the first time in so long, it feels as if the memory of why I’m really here is trying to return to me. The problem is, at this moment, I can’t remember what that reason is.
With a heavy sigh, I lean my head back against the wall. Annoyance tears through my body, forcing me to acknowledge the growing cause of my unease. Pushing aside the thought of control, and of whatever it is I’m trying to protect, I’m finally allowed to face the far more menacing reason for my submission. It’s something I’ve refused to admit, mostly out of shame, but now that I’ve laid myself bare, there’s no going back.
I have to accept the truth, regardless of what it is.
My lips tremble as I come to the daunting realization that I crave this power. Once I was weak, but now I’m strong and invincible. The knowledge of that is like a drug racing through my system, and it fills me with an aching need, even in spite of the horrific consequences of my every action. It’s why I don’t fight back against Dr. Richter. It’s why I do his bidding, even if I don’t agree with the outcome.
I don’t enjoy killing. I don’t enjoy being this abomination, and the truth remains that I’d rather die than be his puppet for another day. However, as long as I’m alive, the pull of this power is irresistible, tempting me in a way I can’t ignore.
Inhuman.
Emotionless.
Powerful.
A monster.
They’re all pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that make me what I am. I can’t avoid the truth any longer. Besides, it’s as Dr. Richter always says.
Control comes at a cost.
The armored truck hurtles forward, bouncing over every possible bump in the road. My back collides with the metal interior more than once, making it difficult to focus o
n anything other than the roughness of our journey. The Enforcers accompanying me remain still in spite of our jarring transport, and their motionless stance makes them appear more like statues than living people. The only movement that gives away their unease is the occasional flick of their eyes—no doubt watching me for any sign that might indicate another meltdown.
At least, that’s what the rumors are calling it.
I keep my gaze fixed ahead, staring at the wall across from me. My fingers graze the black leather and mesh panels covering my thighs, my nails tracing small, unconscious circles as they scratch against the fabric. The sound is hypnotic, lulling me into a calming state not all that different from sleep. My vision goes hazy as I lose myself to its depths, allowing my thoughts to wander.
Considering what happened the last time I was sent out on a mission, I should be concentrating on the battle ahead. Instead, I find myself dwelling on the past. Particularly on the events that have transpired over the course of the previous month.
Following my accidental mass slaughtering, Dr. Richter pulled me from combat to run tests on my collar and ensure there weren’t any faults that may lead to a more permanent loss of control. Control that we’ve both worked so hard not just to achieve but to maintain.
I was out of commission for five weeks in total—an inconvenient length of time to the State who, for once, have had to fight their own war instead of expecting me to do it for them. They still took the information they needed from me to pre-empt potential attacks, but in terms of my other abilities, I was sidelined. Of course, when Richter couldn’t find any problems with the collar, he had to reinstate me. His superiors demanded that I return to active duty, and he had no plausible excuse not to comply.
This mission will be my first engagement since then.
I recall my brief exchange with him prior to leaving this morning—no more than an hour ago. As I approached the group of Enforcers waiting for me by the back entrance of the DSD, he pressed something small and hard against the palm of my hand. Looking down, I saw a communicator identical to the one I had discarded.
“Try not to lose this one,” he said.
I could sense the irritation behind those words, but there was also a level of strain there as if he was concerned about the upcoming battle. As if he was concerned about me.
I’m well aware that wasn’t the case. It was never me he was worried about—it was his position within the hierarchy of the State. After what occurred on my last mission, it’s not surprising he seemed nervous about the possibility that it may happen again. Then, of course, there’s the other obvious consideration.
What it might mean for him if I don’t come back.
“Make sure to take the offered transport this time.” In a threatening voice, he added, “That’s not a request.”
I nodded in acknowledgement but remained silent. Our eyes locked, sending a shudder along my spine, and desperate to put distance between us, I turned to scurry away. However, before I could take a single step, his hand clutched my upper arm. With an aggressive jerk, he yanked me hard against his body—pulling me close until our faces were only an inch or so apart.
“Don’t disappoint me,” he hissed in my ear.
As I peered up at him, the tension hanging between us was almost tangible in its intensity. The sensation, which bordered the fine line between terrifying and unbearable, only subsided when he released his grip.
Moving out of his reach, I hurried toward the open doorway, for once finding the escape of war appealing. With every footfall, I could feel his eyes burning into my back—watching me right up to the moment the doors of the armored truck clanged shut behind me.
The hard metal siding smashes into my shoulder as the tires speed over another bump. The impact pulls me back to the present, redirecting my train of thought to the upcoming mission. In spite of my calm and collected exterior, I feel anxious. Or as close to that as I’m able to comprehend in my current state.
I try not to think about it, focusing instead on the varied noises around me. Straining my ears, I pick up on the hum of rubber finding traction against the tarmac, the roaring sound of the wind, and what sounds like shouting. The truck begins to slow, alerting me that we’ve once again arrived at the airfield.
The vehicle skids to a full stop, and within seconds, the doors swing open with a metallic screech. A beam of light assaults my vision, blinding me in the time it takes to raise my hand. Blinking away the glare, I watch the Enforcers’ silhouetted bodies as they disembark, disappearing, one by one, as the heavy soles of their boots stampede across the ground. The sinister sound echoes through the interior of the truck, driving me out before it has the chance to consume me.
As I step down into the dirt, a profound revulsion tears through my body. My lips purse, forming a tight seal around the nausea that threatens to spew across the pavement. My heart rate increases in response to my sudden disgust.
Around two dozen Enforcers stand at attention beside the truck, spaced apart evenly in a set of straight lines. My eyes follow along their perfect formation until I spot the last of them at the base of the loading ramp. Facing each other, their raised arms meet in the middle, forming a path to the awaiting helicopter.
They never move or look up, but that isn’t what disturbs me. Instead, I’m unnerved by the mocking salute—much like the one Dr. Richter gave me at the DSD all those weeks ago—that suggests we’re on the same side.
As if I chose to be here.
Was this his idea? Another way to remind me that I’m property of the State and can never fight against him, no matter how much I might try to?
It takes every ounce of self-control I can muster to prevent myself from reacting to this degrading spectacle. That’s what he wants, after all. What he thrives on. The pleasure of knowing he’s won.
The thrill of finding yet another way to parade his power over me.
Swallowing my pride, I push forward. My feet never falter as I pass beneath the overhanging canopy of arms, and my expression is calm to show how little this insult affects me. Still, I breathe a sigh of relief once I emerge from the pathway.
For the first time since I became the State’s puppet, I find myself feeling eager to board the helicopter. Sprinting up the loading ramp, my movements are rushed and agitated as I lower into my usual seat at the front of the cargo hold—just a few feet behind the cabin. My eyes drop to the floor when the Enforcers file onboard, filling the empty space.
The buzzing hiss of straps tightening and the soft click of belt clasps reverberate through the metal interior. Considering my proximity to the cockpit, I can also hear a muffled voice announcing that we’ve been cleared for departure. The deafening drone of the rotors drowns out all other sound.
Leaning back, my lungs expand as the ground beneath us disappears. My stomach flips on itself in response to the sudden weightlessness that surrounds me, although I wonder if there’s something more to what I’m feeling.
Ever since my unconventional examination with Dr. Richter, things haven’t felt quite right. The dreams, the hallucinations, and the visions have continued, leaving me with a nagging impression that I’m missing something important.
But what?
Without any idea what to look for, I’m once again faced with that deflating uncertainty. The sensation is draining, and I shake my head in an effort to rid myself of it—determined to spend at least a short while in peace. My eyes glaze over as I stare at a nonexistent point in the air, trying hard not to think. Fatigue washes over me, encouraging my mind to empty itself of every thought, every memory, and every inclination to see the future.
Gradually, I feel the mental shift into a different level of consciousness—somewhere between sleep and awake where nothing and no one can touch me. I abandon the unusual distress I’ve felt over the last month as well as my anger and hatred toward Dr. Richter, even if only for just this moment.
I have no idea how much time passes as the serenity of this trancelike state reli
eves me of the demanding burden on my shoulders. I give into it, no longer aware of the Enforcers or even the sound of the thundering rotors as they carry us farther away from who I used to be and closer to who I was always destined to become.
“Project W. A. R.,” I hear a familiar voice whisper to me.
My voice.
Lifting my eyes, I half expect to see my distorted reflection again, much like I did in that dream. Instead, I find myself back in the cargo hold amidst the noise and crowded bodies heading for war.
A tired breath expels from my lungs as the last of the fleeting daze leaves my body. Reality rushes back to me, bringing my discarded emotions and the awareness of my surroundings along with it.
A soft tickling draws my attention to the inside of my wrist. Following the sensation, I glimpse my fingertips brushing across the skin, tracing a pattern along a jagged protruding line in the flesh.
I never noticed the scar before. Raising my arm, I bring it closer to my face. However, the proximity does nothing to remind me how I got it.
In a hesitant movement, I elevate my other hand, and I’m surprised to see that it’s trembling.
Steadying myself, I carefully drag my fingernail along the length of the damaged skin. Fragments of memories lying dormant in the depths of my mind explode to the surface in response to my touch, engulfing me in a single vision.
First, I see a large shard of broken mirror slicing into my naked and scarless wrist. Deep crimson-colored blood pools from the wound as my growing nausea grips every nerve ending in my body.
The vision then changes, transporting me to a dank and musty room where I can only just make out the bleary figures standing in front of me. I feel myself swaying. Looking to the floor, my eyes fix on the puddle of red drowning my feet.
A blinding light pulls me away. My body feels heavy, and I get the distinct impression that I’m asleep—or close to it. Someone is leaning over me, but the shape of their silhouette is all I can see.