Chapter 3

“Log, I-I don’t know. It’s August second of twenty-thirty-eight. This lab. I feel like I’m being held hostage here. Not literally! It’s just…I’m beginning to worry her, Ellie, I mean. S-she’s been highly off recently, lashing out at me with every tiny suggestion, saying she knows what she’s doing. She also left the facility for the first time in months, and came back with a gun, saying that it’s just for self-defense. Self-defense against what? Is someone trying to get in here? Do I need to let someone know? But how? We also haven’t heard anything from the outside world in ages, and Ellie’s the one who memorized most of the passwords to the computers, and I can’t find that password book. I haven’t browsed the web in ages, not since our routers went down, and we have not been able to fix them since. We barely have any reception down here unless I go all the way up to our flat where our personal router is. Even then, it’s close to nothing. Now that I think about it, she hasn’t told me anything new since late May, when we were told funding would be cut if there weren’t any successful chips in August of this year. They already cut our funding once, back in February of last year. Series 09 is close, but not successful. This project can’t fail. Hoping to hear from someone soon.

“I also took some time off of work to walk around the facility check-in. Everyone just looks so anxious. It also seems like all of the soldiers are rather resistant to the tests. First, they lightly yank away from me. Then, they protest at every small request and are now giving Ellie some nasty glares. Even when we leave the testing room, everyone is just oddly quiet. We only have two other researchers left, but they don’t even talk to me anymore. Half of the candidates left, so there's only, I’m not sure, maybe seven or six of them. While I was looking around, I noticed something odd. I don’t even recognize one of the faces, and his records have gone completely missing. I try to comfort him, but he keeps pulling away from me. Ellie says he has a bad case of PTSD, but I’m beginning to doubt that. She keeps telling me that I should just stay away from him altogether, and I don’t blame her. Is there something I’m doing wrong? There has to be a reason why they’re acting like this.

“I’m getting concerned, but I don't know how to bring it up to Ellie without her lashing out at me. I just want to know what’s going on.”

The odd silence that welcomes me into consciousness makes me nauseous. A large mattress hugs my aching body; I can’t tell if it’s memory foam or just mold, but it’s so comfortable that I can’t find a reason to investigate. My wounds are gently dressed by the sheets, and all of the muscles that used to be tense are finally relaxing.

This is the most comfortable I've ever felt on my mattress. Wait. Is this even my mattress? Is this even my cell? No, it isn't. Where am I then?

I jolt up to have my wrist yanked by a chain of zip ties attached to the bed frame. The tie grates along the metal bedframe as I try to sit up on the unusual bed. How long have I been asleep? What did Malva do this time? I reach for my hair and feel my curls still be at their same length, sighing in relief.

"Damn," I hear a voice say, "Be careful, or ya’ might spra’n ya’ wrist."

I scan the room to find memorabilia from my cell, but even the tick-mark calendar on the wall is gone. This definitely isn't my cell. It’s about the same size, with the one bed that holds me and a desk. The bright florescent lights illuminate the mold growing on the corner of the beige room’s walls, and the water stains trail along the ceiling. The smell of sewage reeks out of the bathroom hidden off in a separate room only a couple of feet from the wall adjacent to the exit. Even though this place is decrepit, which was a given no matter where you were in this facility, this room is in better condition than my older one.

The Déjà vu once again begins to kick in, and it’s similar to the one on the hospital floor. This room is for an individual, not too compact to freak out someone claustrophobic, but rather cozy in an odd way. Your own little haven to take a nap between tests and make a temporary home. It was nice while it lasted. This place is not like that anymore, and it never will be. My chest tightens with my anxiety crawling back as those pleasant memories start to fade.

As I continue to scan around, one thing that sticks out more than anything is the door. Despite the dorm-like layout of the room, it is still a sizeable looming metal door with a glass window. Something else is wrong with it. What is it? I jump at the realization that there's no lock.

I can’t believe it. Is this another chance to escape? I jump out of bed and try to pull it with me towards the door, but it’s no use. Someone had bolted the bed to the floor with old rusty screws. I keep yanking at the chained bed, hoping for something to come loose.

“Good idea. Maybe they’ll magically come loose if ya’ pull hard enough!”

I look across the room to see a man, not any older than me, sitting backward on the desk’s swivel chair, giggling at his own sarcasm. Has he been watching me while I sleep?

His voice seems so familiar, like a distant memory. Who is he? Is he like Lily, another assistant? No, he doesn't have that weird symbol anywhere or a lab coat. Instead, he has a pair of torn-up jeans with sneakers that look like they have plenty of miles on them, but, neither looked nearly as bad as his plain white t-shirt. The collar has a relatively large rip, the stitching coming apart as time goes on.

Something about him rings a bell, but I don’t know what. He’s not as scrawny as Lily but not too muscular either; however, he has some rather broad and defined shoulders. His tawny skin has lost pigment from a lack of nutrients, and there’s a rather large scar on the front of his neck.

Something about it tells me that the cut was recent, as the wound just finished scarring over. The clean slice is almost a perfect line across his Adam’s apple.

His hair is an unhealthy, home-done, bleached blond down the middle with natural black sides, brushed down and forced to be straight. The roots haven’t been touched in a while, causing a black line around his hairline. The long face has a sharp jaw darkened by a faded black from a faint five o’clock shadow, accompanied by a long, bridged nose. His eyes don’t look baggy or tired like the other people I’ve seen around the facility, and one of his square eyebrows has a large scar on the side, creating a hairless slit. Could he possibly be an experiment?

My own forgotten memories twirl with the out-of-place nostalgia. Something about him disturbs me, not in a creepy-guy-at-club way. I’ve seen that face somewhere before, but something more personal resonates. A deep guttural hatred for him broils. It’s not fearful like Malva, but violent. Imelda’s thoughts go rampant as they continuously repeat, “he ruined everything.”

I snap out of the rage once I realize this guy didn’t get tied to anything, and he can easily walk out from the unlocked door. Maybe he can help me get out! I point at the zip tie, waving my hand to bring him over.

“Oh, yea’, ‘bout that.” He takes a pair of scissors out of his pocket, jokingly dangling it back and forth. “Yea’ no thanks. That’s kinda’ the opposite of what I’m suppose’ ta’ do.” He giggles a bit to himself, “But hey! At least ya’ got a bit of company! We got, oh I don’t know, maybe a couple minutes till she come back.” He tosses the scissors a couple of times and then shoves them back into his back pocket.

What’s this guy’s deal? He can’t help me? Isn’t he an experiment just like the rest of us?

"Ya’ don't remember me, do ya’?"

I get the sudden urge to look down at his hand: the label "CO309" written in familiar handwriting was tattooed into the back of his palm, and a dark red J burned onto his hand. I take a moment to glance down at my hand. It is the exact same scarring as mine. He lightly chuckles, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. I quickly glance back at him. He’s glaring at his scar as well, lightly picking at the scabbing tissue.

"Oh yeah, that means we successful. Ya’ know Malva and her theatrics, her whole ‘I’m right and you’re wrong!’ blah blah blah; but le’me explain something to ya’.” His voice drops into low and grating vibration, almost threatening. He inspects me with a stern face and a stare just as sharp as Malva’s. “We may both be successful, but what separates me from you is that Dr. Malva likes me, and not cha’. That's why I'll live, and ya’ won't."

A wave of coldness flows through my body, and I give him a puzzled look. Successful? What does that mean? His mouth widens into a large Cheshire smirk, and he begins to laugh, low and sinister.

"I’m just pullin’ ya leg! Jeez ya’ look like you’s just seen a ghost! Do ya’ really not remember me?” He jests, his voice transitioning from the low bellow to a more velvety and cheerful tone, “How could cha’ forget this handsome face!" He pulls back the bleached center hair, raising his other arm in disbelief as he kicks the chair around. I can tell he's trying to get me to laugh, but honestly, my brain is so dead I don’t even release a chuckle.

"No, nothin’?" He says, continuing to giggle. He looks a lot brighter than before, and his smile makes him look friendlier. At the same time, it actually kind of scares me. How much must this guy have gone through to smile and laugh in such a horrible place like this? He must be pretty mentally gone. "Alright, alright, enough jokes, the name's Coroz. And you’s…?"

That name sounds so familiar. Where have I heard it before? I think Malva mentioned him back at that exchange in the hall with Lily. He waits in anticipation for an answer, so I try to loosen the chains and sign "J-A-D-A."

"Oh...le’me see ya’ hand."

He jumps up from the chair and strides over to the side of my bed. With a quick swipe, he yanks my wrist closer to his eyes and quietly reads what's on it.

"JA209. Oh! You’s the one who took my number! I see, I see…kinda. Well that doesn’t matter much right now. What was ya’ name? JA209." He continuously repeats it while pacing around the cell. "JA209, you’s part of the ninth series. Congrats!” he says, lifting his hand to flash his tattoo. He jumps around the enclosure on his toes, “Lily told me your name! Think, think! JA, what could that be short fa’?” He looks up at me and asks, “Jennifer?" Before I can even answer, he looks away and sighs, “Nah! That would be a JE, not JA. How funky would that be? Two Jennifers down here! Ha! I remember ya’ name was somethin’ weird, what was it?” He keeps pacing around the cell and mumbling to himself, “Jessica? Jasmine? Julia? Nah, wait it sounded like an H right? That spanish ‘J’ to ‘H’ thingy” He finally snaps his fingers, spinning around one foot to turn towards me. He shouts, "Oh! Jada! Am I right?"

I nod my head up and down. How the hell did he know?

"Yeah! You’s that Jada girl I keep hearin’ all ‘bout! God, Malva always complains how much of a pain in the ass ya’ are! Now I see why! Ya’ literally just woke up, and you’s was ready to throw hands! I can’t imagin’ what cha’ must’ve been like when ya’ ran around the facility! Wait, wait, wait! Is it true that ya’ kicked her in the stomach?”

I nod my head again in embarrassment; it was stupid enough as is. I don’t need some stranger reprimanding me for it.

Coroz begins to crack up, then falls to the floor and curls up, tears running down his face from so much laughter. “Nah! There no fuckin’ way!” he wheezes. He gets up from the floor and runs back and forth in the cell, trying to contain his laughter. At this point, he's laughing so hard that no noise is coming out of his mouth, just a high-pitched squeak. He leans against the desk because he’s too weak to stand upright. “Dumbass!” he repeatedly mumbles under his breath. With whatever oxygen he has left, he leans his head back as far back as possible, whipping the blond portion of his hair around, and shouting, "You’s so dead! Oh-ho my god you’s so dead! Oh ya’ have no idea!" A screech of laughter fills the cell before returning to his silent laugh.

During his chaotic episode of laughter, my ear latches onto a door opening in the distance, followed by the sound of heels tapping down the hall. Large droplets of sweat slides down my forehead, and my palms turn into a small pond. I’m hit with the sudden realization that I just barely escaped getting murdered. Malva had a gun pressed against my head not too long ago, and she was ready to blow my brains out on that floor if it weren’t for Lily. Now I don’t know what she has planned for me. I do know one thing for sure; she’s not going to be as lenient with me anymore. I need to watch everything I do with full attention. Every breath, movement, and step I make should be done like she has the gun against me again. I now remember what Malva told me before she made me pass out with that wipe.

“We will have a long conversation when you wake up.”

I know she’s coming for me. There’s no denying that. I just wonder what she could possibly have planned for me after I got her so angry. She didn’t kill me in the hall because she promised Lily, but there’s no saying what’s next. I just hope if she kills me, it’s quick and painless. The heels get closer and closer until they stop right in front of our cell.

The door swings open violently. It’s not low enough to grind on the floor and slow down like the one in my room, so it slams against the wall with enough force to chip it. Coroz, startled by the loud boom, abruptly stops laughing, and the room falls silent. Malva gives a glare cold as death to both of us. I don’t even dare look back. If she’s here to kill me, I don’t want her to be the last sight I see.

At a moment's notice, Coroz once again breaks the silence with a sarcastic, "Hey Blondie! How ya’ doin?"

My heart drops. Blondie. Blondie! Why in the world do you think that would be a good idea to call this psychotic person blondie! I just nearly escaped from her putting a bullet through my brain, and I’m scared to move because I think she’s here to kill me in the most brutal way she can think of. And here comes this idiot calling her blondie!

Malva's eyes snap over to him, a look of disgust as she reaches into her lab coat. God, I know she's about to take out the revolver and shoot him dead in the face. His brains are going to splatter across the walls just like the man who ran by my cell! I don't want to see someone get killed right in front of me again! I close my eyes tight to avoid the horrific scene which is about to unfold, instinctually curling my legs in to get away from the scene as much as possible, but nothing happens. The sound of plastic hitting the ground and rolling across the floor breaks the silence. When I open my eyes, there is a Rubik’s cube, not even a foot away from Coroz.

“Thanks for shufflin’ it,” he laughs in amusement while picking it up and investigating it out of excitement.

"You're welcome," scoffs Malva. "And don't call me blondie again."

"Alright goldie locks," he snickers, beginning to shuffle the cube around.

"Or that."

"What? Ya’ want me to call ya Ellie?"

Malva’s face remains a similar dull expression, but her ears gain a bit of redness.

“Aw shit! Too far, huh?” Coroz snickers.

She reaches into her pocket, grabs hold of her gun, and snarls, “Say that again.”

“Oh c’mon! Ya’ know ya’ can’t get rid of me! I’m the best subject, am I righ’?”

Malva sighs in disappointment. “Why did it have to be you?” she questions.

“ ‘Cause I am one lucky bastard to make such great friends with ya’ and Jenny!” he says sarcastically.

“Don’t call her that name. You know that gets on my nerves,” Malva growls.

“Oh! Don’t call her that name! Ya’ know that gets on my nerves!” Coroz sarcastically intimidates Malva’s voice, “Ya’ funny when ya’ try to be scary Malva, ya’ know that?”

“You are so annoying, you know that?”

“But ya’ gotta admit, at least I’m funny,” Coroz shoots a finger gun and a wink at Malva.

Malva drops the gun in her pocket and puts out her hand, “Give me the scissors.”

“Sure thing mam-“

"And stop with the stupid nicknames!" Malva snaps as she yanks the scissors out of his hand. Coroz’s smirk flinches off for a moment but soon retreats. I don’t know who this guy is, but he's definitely not like the rest of us. Malva shuffled the cube for his entertainment. She did a favor for someone? The only person I could think that Malva would somewhat be nice around is Lily, but they did have their own conflicts even when things were better. Something’s going on between these two because only another insane person would be able to joke around Malva without fearing for their life.

The room goes silent. Malva’s attention soon snaps over to me. She’s calmer than before, but I can tell she still wants to put a bullet in my head.

"Did she try to do anything?" asks Malva.

"Nah, not really, she might have bruised ‘er wrist with that tie, but that's ‘bout it," replies Coroz, fidgeting with the cube.

Her eyes look over to me, watching me as I shiver. Her glare strikes fear into me in a way I’ve never felt in my life. Of course, before, I was scared when she would glare in my direction. It was different this time. She’s tried to kill me on purpose twice now, both of the times I was lucky to barely survive. I got out of the first one because she missed my head and got my leg instead; the second was because of Lily’s negotiation.

I wonder what she did to Lily. Did she keep her alive? Or maybe she did just double-cross her again and shoot her while I slept on the floor? Because if Lily is dead, that probably means I’m the next.

Malva shuffles over to me and takes out a zip tie from her pocket. Releasing me from the ones attached to the bed, she stops for a moment to recognize my hand’s trembling motion, lightly cradling her hand around mine. Malva makes eye contact with me for a split second, but I shoot my eyes away; I don’t even dare try to look at her. I think if we stared at each other long enough, I would just burst into tears out of pure fear that my facial expression was showing something that was not to her liking. I’m already on thin ice, and I’m not going to risk giving her more of a reason to put my head on a plate.

As Malva starts to snip the zip tie attached to the bed, Coroz asks, “Wha’ happened with Lily?”

“What do you mean?” she questions.

“I heard y'all talkin’ on the floor above. I thought ya’ put her away.”

Malva ignores the comment and releases me from the restraints, fitting my hands behind a new tie.

“I heard the shots, Malva. Did ya’ actually-“

“No,” Malva interrupts “No Coroz. I didn’t.”

Coroz lightly chuckles, “Seriously? After this whole mess, ya’ still can’t get rid of her, huh?”

Malva takes a deep breath and barks, “You don’t understand my position, ok? So shut up and let me take care of this.”

Coroz sighs and slouches deeper into the floor, shuffling the cube like a child who was just told they were not allowed to have dessert.

Malva grabs my arm, yanks me up from the bed, attaches new zip ties, and then begins guiding me towards the door. Before we leave, Coroz breaks the silence with a heart-stopping question, "So, ya’ gon’ kill her or what?"

Malva and I make eye contact. I instinctually pull my eyes away from her glare and swallow hard, waiting in anticipation for her response. She glares at me up and down again, scanning at me the same way she did when I had a gun against my head.

"As I said, we're going to have a friendly talk, then we will see."

We will see. My heart pounds out of my chest as those words ring in my ears. My life hangs in the balance of that one sentence. I don’t know if I want to live long enough to see all the terrible things Malva could have planned for me, or if I’m scared of her ending my life where I stand.

Just before she escorts me out, Coroz once more blurts out, "Ya’ really don't remember me, don’t cha’?"

My mind goes rushing through all my memories to find him, and he seems so familiar. That horrific hair bleach disaster, it’s so recognizable, yet I don’t know from here. His voice is like a dark nursery song that plays over and over in my head, but it still doesn't register. His face haunts me like a dream that I’ve forgotten in the past. I know I’ve seen it before but from where? Everything is so familiar. Who is he?

"Aw man!" He sighs, lightly putting down the partially solved Rubik’s cube. "Well, I will say..." He lets out a sly grin as his voice drops to the more profound and grittier tone he used before he introduced himself. He mutters, "You did look fine in that blouse."

Blouse? What blouse? The last time I wore a blouse was during the tour. The college tour. That guy, it can't be. There's no way. As Malva tugs my arm to pull me out of the cell, I freeze in my step as the puzzle pieces fall together in my mind; no wonder he seems so familiar. Coroz was one of my kidnappers.

He menacingly waves goodbye as Malva finally gets me to move and shuts the unlockable door behind us.

We walk down the halls for what feels like an eternity with nothing but silence. The sound of our footsteps and the clattering of her revolver with the other objects floating around her pockets fill the empty hall. Even this new hall is new compared to the one where I previously resided in. It’s much longer; my last hall only had a couple rooms, while this one stretches to at least thirty. We turn the corner to find a couple of mini-testing rooms and offices, then turn again to find the same bright elevator. We step into the elevator once again; she slips the purple-painted key in and clicks the button for the fourth floor.

The illuminated room spins around me as I try to find my footing in all of this. The fact that I'll be in the same cell as my kidnapper is nerve-racking enough, but what do we have in common that would get us both burned on our hands? Maybe I won't even go back because she'll kill me when we get there. Where are we going? Are we even going anywhere? Is she just bringing me somewhere else to shoot me? No, it doesn't make sense. She’s not reluctant when it comes to attacking people in front of fellow test subjects.

If we do get somewhere, will she shoot me in the head? Or in the chest, so I'll bleed out and suffer. Maybe she won't even shoot me with her revolver. I did do some things that got her pretty pissed off: kicking her in the stomach, running around the halls alone, and tackling her. Now I'm on her bad side; my chances of getting out are getting slimmer than ever. Maybe she'll find a more painful way to kill me, make me suffer. Poison me, so I have a slow and painful death. Is gunfire not a miserable enough way to go? That time Malva shot me in the hall, it burned like hell, and I honestly wish I was dying so the pain could stop. Even now, I still feel a lighting burning sensation as I try to hide my limp. Trying to imagine that pain in my chest for more than five minutes is just unbearable, I can’t think of a worse way to die. God, what other awful ways can she kill me? Bash my head against a wall until I bleed out? Slowly cut me a million times and miss my veins on purpose? Overdose me to the point that I get a hemorrhage? Keep me awake as she takes me apart bit by bit? Break every bone in my body until I’m a sluggish mess?

"Jada."

I snap out of the tormenting ideas to see a door open, Malva gesturing to exit. I take a few slow steps out, and the doors click shut behind me.

This is not what I expected at all; it’s a cafeteria? It’s a pretty tight one, to say the least, but the place is jam-packed with long rectangular tables, and eight plastic chairs at each one. The floor is a smooth tile, covered in crumbs and so much dust it can fill the cavities in between.

There are tracks in the dust of Malva’s heels, which she’s imprinted relatively recently. The residue of older tracks still remain, but have been covered once again in dust. Three pairs of feet come to the same area, only to turn into a ball of skid marks and long dragging lines towards the exit.

Off to the side, many more chairs are stacked up against the wall, wrapped together in cobwebs. More cobwebs cover the tables in a thick white coat, binding the table to the chairs. The metal that covered the kitchen window is now a darker grey, as it stayed in place as time went on, and a good layer of dust laid between the cracks; the rust covering the crevices and joints makes it nearly impossible to open. There’s a table in front of the elevator that someone had cleaned up, and two chairs sit at either end. Malva pulls me over to one end and pulls out the seat.

"Please, take a seat," Malva commands in a polite yet strict tone. Maybe she's trying to get me comfortable so I won't struggle once she kills me. It’s hard to breathe, as though somebody pushed a stone down my throat. Now that's a lousy way to die. I shuffle over to the table and sit in the chair, feeling the sweat of my legs begin to soak the dry and dusty plastic.

Malva walks up behind me and grabs my shoulder; my body goes cold. I quiver in her grasp, my palms turning into sweaty mittens. She reaches under my arm with the pair of scissors and takes the zip tie off my sore wrists. The release of them is unsettling. Wrong feels like a more appropriate word to use in this situation. This freedom feels threatening like she’s testing me once again. I’m not going to risk anything right now, and I don’t have anywhere to go even if I want to try running.

She sits on the other side of the table and glares into my eyes for a good ten seconds, contemplating something in that twisted mind. Malva lets out a deep sigh.

"Let's finish this," Malva bellows as she proceeds to take the revolver out of her pocket. I jolt so hard that I nearly fall out of the seat, gripping the sidebars to try to balance myself. This is it, I knew it! I'm going to die. She's going to kill me. Right here, right now. I can clearly see that she filled all five chambers. Shit, she's going to shoot me multiple times. This is it. This is where I die.

Then, she does something I could never have guessed. She places it on the table and slides it to me. "Go ahead," she says, staring at me with tired eyes.

What? What does she mean by that?

"If you hate me so much, go ahead. Get rid of me."

I look at the gun, then her. She doesn't mean what I think she means, does she? Malva leans closer to me and sighs, "Just shoot me."

I glare down at the loaded gun. This is no test, no joke. Malva is serious. No, she can't be. Why? Why would she just give up everything? Shouldn’t this be the other way around? I just did some things that ticked her off, and now she’s giving me a gun and telling me to shoot her? This can’t be right, and this isn't the Malva I’ve been tortured by.

"Grab the gun." She commands in a horrifically calm tone. My arm’s heavy as I follow her steps, questioning if I understand everything correctly. The gun has disgusting warmth from her hand still on it, her sweat mixing with mine. I glide my hand across the weapon; certain areas are cold as ice while other sites have residue of a moist heat still looming on it. My pointer finger wraps around the trigger, feeling it push back as I lift the gun. The weight of the firearm is dreaded; I don't know how, but I can feel something heavy emitting from it, pulling my heart out of my chest. I can only think about how many lives she has taken with this gun. Something deeper resonates with it. A deep guttural fear hooks onto this gun, something poetic about this moment: but this fear has no connection to me. Whoever Imelda is, her fears, regrets, hatred, and anger grasp onto this weapon, calling at me to lift it. There’s a reflection within the barrel: a reflection of someone who can take a life in an instant if she wanted to, and on the opposite side, Malva. The weight of the gun pulls my entire arm down as my finger wraps around the trigger.

"Jada.”

My attention turns to Malva; she's leaning far back into the chair. Her arms are crossed with a look of annoyance spread across her face. I can’t believe it. I have her gun in my hand, and yet she doesn't move a muscle. It’s as if someone drained all emotions from her face. She looks like someone who has just given up. No, my mind is playing tricks on me. There’s no way this is real.

"You just need to shoot," she sighs.

Looking into her eyes, something rushes through me. It’s powerful yet terrorizing. I can very quickly take this person's life and leave, become free once more. I begin to wrap my hands around the gun, one sweatier than the other. The barrel clatters as my arms start to tremble again. I shake my head, trying to knock all the fear out of it, forcing my hands to stop shaking. An invisible third hand wraps around the other two, lifting my arms to aim for her head.

A phantom-like hand lays itself on my shoulder. Imelda’s thoughts once again reappear in the back of my mind: “I need to keep fighting.”

I need to show no fear. I need to stop being Malva’s lab rat and just go through with this, no hesitation. I just need to shoot and get out of here.

Over and over again, the thoughts take over every idea in my head with a repeating phrase, “Do it.” The invisible hand begins to press down on my own, pushing my finger closer to pulling the trigger.

Just do it. I can leave right here, right now. I just need to shoot.

I just need to shoot.

I need to shoot.

Shoot.

A woman’s voice abruptly appears as a whisper in my ear: “Pull the trigger.”

I spring out of the chair, kicking it back and keeping my aim at Malva. This isn’t me. These aren’t my actions. The invisible hand wrapped around the gun presses down with unhinged aggression, trying to take over. The muscles in each of my fingers begin to move on their own, but I’m able to keep control over my trigger finger. My brain pulses in my skull with an instant migraine as I fight the invisible hand from completely taking over mine.

I can't shoot her. I don’t know where these thoughts are coming from, but they’re not me. I’m not doing this! Stop it! Don’t! Without thinking, I slam my head against the metal table, snapping me out of the violent trance.

My hands open like a giant lock, dropping the gun and hearing it clatter against the table. The loud crash of the gun on the table gives me a sense of relief, hitting me with the realization that I haven't been breathing. I pick the chair up and sit down, leaning on the table to regain my breath.

Even though Malva is psychotic, I can't kill her. She is still a person, and I would still be a murderer. If I tried to get out this way, I would never forgive myself. This wouldn’t be a heroic act or a good deed; it would just be pathetic, cold-blooded murder. It’s almost animalistic to go through with this, an animal killing another animal to survive. I shouldn't; no, I couldn’t kill someone else for my greed.

I shove the gun across the table towards Malva, getting it away from me before making a stupid mistake and letting Imelda’s thoughts take me over again.

I watch as Malva's hand reaches over to pick up the revolver and slither it back to her side of the table.

"Look at me," Malva commands. I can’t get my eyes off the table as my vision blurs in and out of focus. She snaps her fingers in front of me, and I’m finally able to pull my heavy head up. She points the gun to the table right in front of us.

Malva fires the gun once, letting the explosion ring through the cafeteria. The trembling I’ve been holding back hits at once as my entire body retracts. I unravel myself to find something’s off. Not a single hole or indent pierced its way into the thin table.

“Blanks,” Imelda’s thoughts say, “Fucking. Blanks.”

Blanks? So it was another sick test. A sense of relief flows through me, knowing that I didn't or wasn't able to kill someone. But at the same time, it's horrifying to think that Imelda convinced me to consider it, even for just a second.

The high-pitched screech of a tea kettle comes from the kitchen; Malva gets up and attaches a zip tie between me and the table. She then enters the door next to the rusted-out metal window and enters the kitchen. With the tight zip tie back onto my wrist, a million questions run through my head.

What the hell was that test for? I stare at the gun across from the table, pondering what just happened. Blanks, they were just blanks. I was stupid to believe she would give me a chance to shoot her.

And what came over me? These thoughts were nothing but just ideas that seemed out of place and memories that weren’t mine. It was only just a couple hours ago that I learned they were indeed not mine, but rather some woman named “Imelda.” Then I saw this mysterious Imelda ghastly appear before me, and something took over my hand.

She was trying to convince me to kill. Her thoughts helped me in the past, telling me where to run and making things a little more clear. Now, I don’t know what she wants from me. It doesn't matter now; I just hope I made the right decision.

Malva walks back from the kitchen, holding two steaming mugs. “We only have green tea left,” Malva says as she places a cup of tea in front of me. I hover my face over the steam and let the aroma glide into my nose. I’m not sure if I can even call this tea; it’s the same contaminated water I’ve been drinking but with some pleasant matcha. I’m desperate just to chug it down, but should I trust this? Maybe she’s trying to poison me.

Malva sits down on the opposite end, sipping the scorching tea away. I don’t understand how this lunatic can drink that in this heat. She then looks up at me and asks, “Well?” I don’t trust it at all, am I supposed to believe that she’s trying to do some sort of good deed now, after all the crap she’s put me through? Even within these twenty-four hours, there are plenty of reasons why I shouldn’t drink it. I push the hot cup away from me.

She sighs, “Calm down.” She places down her cup and switches it out for mine. It’s half-empty already. If she was willing to drink that much, then maybe it’s not poisoned after all. I struggle to pick it up with my left hand. Malva didn’t consider how difficult it would be to hold a mug with my dominant hand attached to the chair, but eventually, I get a grip on the handle. It burns my tongue and lip, but I don’t care enough to stop. It warms up my already burning body, and I close my eyes to enjoy it. It’s luxurious, finally being able to have something besides bread and that disgusting, sewage-contaminated flavoring in the water. The undissolved matcha at the bottom slides into my mouth, ending the heavenly experience with a bitter taste.

"I never really got into coffee,” Malva remarks, “Tea was always my addiction. I used to drink three of these cups every day, and it emptied my wallet fast. Dr. Lilywise, however, was addicted to coffee. She would drink maybe five cups a day. That poor woman could never sleep unless she swallowed one of those prescription strength sleeping pills. But I’m pretty sure you know that already.” She stares calmly across the table from me, stirring the tea around with her finger. I can tell she’s been slowly sipping it, unlike me, who chugged the thing down like a teenager with beer at a frat party.

Malva places the tea down on the table and removes the single blank from the revolver barrel, leaving the other four real bullets inside. She then pulls out and opens up a small box, saying, “Jada would never try to shoot me. She’s too much of a coward for it. So I know you’re in there.”

There’s no way she knows.

Malva holds me in a cold stare as she states, “Imelda, you’ve hated me since day one.”

A tear plunges out of my eye as my heart drops to my stomach. The room around me begins to spin, and the sound of my heartbeat pounds in my ears. My nerves mix with those of Imelda’s in a flurry of terror. Someone in my brain is trying to puppeteer me from the inside out.

“Jada -” Malva replaces the blank with one bullet, “-do you know why we need you here? Was that explained yet?” Malva closes the empty box.

What kind of question is that? Of course I don’t know why I’m here or the purpose of these tests and surgeries. I have no idea why you stab me with weird needles and connect me to large terrifying devices in a dark room. I sure as hell don't know why you buzzed all my hair off; or why you burned the hell out of my hand after giving me a tattoo that looks like a five-year-old did it. Or why you shot me in the leg and nearly shot Lily in the head. Or why you’re keeping someone’s child in a cell. Or why do you hold any of us here! I especially don’t know why there’s some weird person in my head, telling me what to do and encouraging me to kill you. I don’t know why I have these odd nostalgic feelings in rooms I’ve never seen in my entire life. At this point, I feel like I’m going insane by the minute, so an explanation after months of absolute bullshit would be helpful!

I bobble my head no and feel my aching brain slide side to side.

“Well, here’s the remains of project W.H.I.P” she says, surveying the cafeteria. “I guess you can hear me, right Imelda?”

I nod.

“Well then, Imelda, how…unfortunate we had to reunite like this. And to think that getting rid of you would be as simple as a bullet, but I guess not even death can get between you and your plans.” Malva looks at her gun, rotating the chamber with her thumb as she looks for what she wants to say. “It feels like ages ago when we could just work on our experiments without all of…this. Imelda, you remember those times, right? When we were just a couple of scientists and a handful of soldiers, such as yourself. Did you know the government promised us that if we could make even a bit of progress, they would continue to fund our research? A-and I mean they did, for a bit before they shut us down. They said the same things you did. Called us crazy, sadistic, even insane to think we could get it to work. Those damn bastards set us up to fail, and then you tried to stop us with your little stunt; but, your little plan failed. The whole world was out to stop us…no…to stop me. But guess what? None of you stopped anything. The 09 series is finally complete. At least, I hope it is.”

Excuse me, but what the actual hell is she talking about? This is the explanation she gives me? I don’t believe her lies for even a second. I’ve been put through hell and back in this disgusting facility, and she’s trying to convince me that people actively came in here on their own? Did they know what they were getting themselves into?

My train of thought is immediately cut off as a flood of Imelda’s memories fills my head. One of them is a memory of elevator doors gliding open, not into the decrepit hell I’ve known, but rather a pristine facility. Everyone smiled and waved at her, welcoming her to the brand-new lab. There was excitement within the soldiers' chatter as curiosity spread among them. Some people said that this project could change modern-day warfare. Others said the government shouldn’t have even started this project. Sure, tensions were high between us and other countries, but if news were to get out about this project, a full-out war could break loose. However, that concern only spread among those who believed this technology could even work, they just came here in hopes of avoiding the draft. The idea of a weaponized mind was too far into the realm of fantasy to ever come true.

At some points, the lab assistants mentioned the term “Weaponized Human Interpolation Program”, which was a common phrase until it got replaced with “W.H.I.P.”

The dots connect in my mind as I realize why I didn’t recognize most people here; they came before us. They’re all soldiers like Imelda, who first came here when the facility first opened up.

The only exception is Coroz. When it comes to Coroz, Imelda has no idea where he came from. He just showed up one day.

I watch as Malva takes out a small touchscreen tablet from one pocket and a device from her other one. It looks like a hearing aid with a long cord and a needle at the end. I’ve seen that damned device plenty of times, the tester, as they call it.

It’s the prize possession to the testing room. Just the sight of it is enough to give me flashbacks to their disastrous tests.

Malva walks over to me and grabs me by the shoulders. “Hold still,” she says as she places the small device in my ear and I feel the needle slowly puncturing into my mid-back over the surgical scar. It stings like hell as it continues sliding deeper into my flesh, until it scratches the small object under my skin. In one push, a click reverberates throughout my spine as the needle snaps into place with the object. I hear a beep in my ear and brace for some sort of pain, but instead, my vision becomes blurry as my eyelids grow heavy. It’s a pleasant surprise compared to the testing room.

Malva begins to tap the tablet, and the noise echoes in the earpiece. “Can you hear me?” she says, holding the tablet up to her mouth. The sound of her voice doesn’t originate from the earpiece but rather echoes from inside my mind. I nod as I begin to swing back and forth, my consciousness slips away from me. “Good,” Malva states as my eyelids finally fall shut but soon open to a new world.

Where am I? A flat field stretches out before me with no end in sight. The empty sky and floor are the same gradients of soft colors slowly transitioning from one to another: blue, purple, pink, red, green, and so on. My vision tries to find an end to this subliminal realm, but it looks as though the sky melts into the floor; the further I glare, the less I can tell the difference between them. Dense and humid air compresses the large field as though I’m being held underwater, yet still able to breathe. Claustrophobia overwhelms me, even though the place is empty and too big for my eyes to find an end.

It reminds me of an old childhood memory when I was about ten. I was playing in a jumpy house with my sister for her fifth birthday, and we tried doing a race, who could run the fastest circle around the house. I slipped, got stuck in the corner of it, and started screaming my lungs out. Every time I tried to get out, I only sunk deeper. The next thing I knew, my head was in between two balloons, and I couldn’t breathe. My dad had to run in to get me out, and I think I could have suffocated in that corner if it weren’t for him. This weird world reminds me of being trapped between those balloons.

The floor is soft yet hard at the same time, almost like a newly trimmed lawn. It fills the in-betweens of my bare toes and the arch of my feet, keeping its firm mold but adapting itself around my small movements. I take a couple of steps around, feeling the ground keep its grip on me as much as possible before my foot finally loses its connection. Looking upon the infinite plane, I hear Malva begin to talk in my head.

“Jada, I need you to think of an object and pretend you're holding it.”

I try to process what she just asked me to do but only become more confused. What is she trying to make me do? I look up at the sky, trying to find some way to talk to her. I’m standing here like an idiot, shrugging my shoulders into the infinite sky; maybe she will get the hint.

“Jada,” she says in a stern voice, “Close your eyes and focus on what it would feel like if you held some sort of object, any object I don’t care.”

I close my eyes to follow Malva’s commands, but nothing comes to mind. I keep forcing my brain to think of something to hold, but my mind is too burned out to process anything. Malva slams her fist down on the thin metal table, “Anything! Come on, Jada! Think of, oh I don’t know, a knife! Let’s start small, a knife!”

I dig to the very back of my memory. What does a knife feel like? It’s small, and the handlebar is metal? No, I think the handlebar is made of plastic. My fingers begin to curl around something. A warm plastic handlebar fades into my grasp. The metal dots are a piercing cold against my hand as it slowly becomes a reality. The more I remember the feeling, the more it floats into my grip. It’s too real, the feeling of my hands molding to the shape of the coarse plastic handle.

I open my eyes to find a small kitchen knife in my hand. It has a very familiar light baby blue handle, and the blade is recently sharpened and cleaned like it’s brand new. It is an almost exact replica of my mom's knife in her kitchen. There’s no way; it’s not possible. I turn it over to find a scratch on it; it’s not in the exact spot but enough to where my memory remembers. Where did this come from? Did I just make this?

“Great! Amazing!” says Malva in an analytical, almost condescending tone. A pen scribbles something down; she taps the tablet several times to ensure it works. The taps ring in my ears as loud as a gunshot. “Think of something bigger, an ax or something you can replicate!” she commands.

I need to think of something quick. I don’t want to get Malva pissed off again. The only thing that comes to mind is my father’s machete. Back when we lived on a farm, he loved that machete more than anything else. It was the perfect all-in-one tool, from harvesting our rye to shaping the bushes in front of our house. I only have a few memories from it since we sold the farm when I was ten, but I can still see it clear as day.

The more I thought of my father’s multipurpose tool, the more it came to life. A handlebar begins to appear in my hand, slowly fading into and out of reality. I try to keep my focus on it and go to the very depths of my memory to find it. The leather of a light caramel handlebar gently slides into my grip as the immense tool weighs down in my hand, and the coarse leather fills my palm. I quickly grip it with all my strength and open my eyes.

In my hand is the large machete, cleanly polished and beautiful, sharp silver. The blade's edge sharpened to be as thin as paper. I rub my thumb against the blade, feeling it pull the ridges of my finger up. The handlebar is perfectly curved to a comfortable shape in my palm, rolling around to a curve at the bottom. My breath slows down as I stare at the weapon, which was just created out of thin air, examining it over and over again. It’s a replica of my father’s, but smaller to fit my size.

I swing it around a couple of times, still trying to process how this was possible. It’s dense but surprisingly aerodynamic as it slices through the air in a sharp, yet elegant manner. A wave of joy and power rushes through me for the first time in months. I continue to slash it around a couple of times, feeling its lightweight pull me in every direction. Like a child with a new toy on Christmas morning, a smile prints on my face that won’t wipe off. I stop only to hear Malva gasp in amazement.

“Astonishing.” Malva gasps.

“Hello?” a voice says behind me.

I slowly turn around, tightly gripping the new blade. Behind me stands the woman that I saw in the hall. The ends of her hair and fingertips glitch with movement and her black combat boots melt into the ground, connecting her to the infinite plain.

She takes a couple of steps towards me, her boots keeping their connection to the ground; she lightly smiles, “Hey kiddo! You’re here!” Her voice glitches with every change of pitch, doubling and lowering with every vowel. “I-I have been watching so long, but I never expected to actually meet you. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to meet you for the longest time but I-I just didn’t know how not to freak you out.”

She slowly takes a couple of steps closer. Who is she? Is this another one of Malva’s sick tests? I wait for some memory or emotion to take over my mind, like every other time I see someone new, but nothing comes to me. She begins to walk faster, with more confidence. I jump back from her, pointing my machete at her to keep a distance.

She quickly takes a step back for a moment and raises her hands, “Kid, I’m not a test. I have nothing to do with Dr. Malva, so please, just put down the machete. You need to listen to me.”

How did she know what I was thinking? Is she reading my mind?

“Yes, Jada, I can hear what you’re thinking. I know you’re confused, but I can explain everything if you put down the machete and listen,” she commands in a stern, yet calm voice. I loosen my grip on the handle. “Those strange thoughts you’re getting, that’s me talking to you. A-and those weird Deja vu moments around the facility, those are me too.” Her voice glitches and echoes at a slower pace with every stutter “My name is Imelda Tan, and as bizarre as it sounds…I believe I’m dead. I-I-I don’t know how long I’ve been dead, time moves differently here within the chip. A night out there in the real world is about 20 minutes here; so seconds must translate to minutes, and minutes are hours. I’m getting off track here. All that matters is my consciousness must have somehow mixed with yours after I…I…died.”

That disconnected sense of grief once again fills my heart as a tear tries to escape my eye. Imelda takes a deep breath, holding back her own tears, and a sense of ease flows through me as though I had taken a deep breath myself.

Imelda says, “The best way I can put it is that I’m a virus within your chip. That-that sounds bad now that I say it out loud. It’s not a bad thing, it just means that I-I don’t have my own body. Whatever’s left of my consciousness has been seeing through your eyes, and my memories seem to have got-got-got’ten mixed with yours as well. I-I-I-“ her hand leaves illusionary traces of doubles as she raises it to her chest, looking for a way to wrap around the words to explain what she wants to say. “I’ve been trying to help you get out of here.”

No, there’s no way you’re real. I thought I was just seeing things in the hall.

“Jada listen to me, I’m real and I’m here right now. I know this is weird and scary for you but trust me when I say I don’t-don’t-don’t! want to hurt you. And I’m sorry for what happened with the gun. I-I didn’t know that I could move your body to th-that extent, and I didn’t mean to. Just please listen to me when I try to communicate. I’m going to get you out of here, ok kiddo?”

How can I trust you? I barely know who you even are.

“Listen kid, we don’t have much time. Like I said before, I’m dead. I was shot, and my body is rotting somewhere in this facility, so if you want transparency here it is: I’m not supposed to be here. I should be resting in peace, or something like that, but since my time has been extended by pure fucking luck I have cho-cho-chosen to use it to get you out of here. I don’t know the extent of what I am, and I owe you a long explanation. They know I’m in here now, and I know they’re going to try to kill me again, so this may be my only time to talk to you directly.”

Imelda, this is too much to process.

“I know, kiddo,” she continues. “There are a couple of things I need to tell you before you go. Do not plan anything with Coroz; he will turn on you in an instant if it means he gets Dr. Malva or Dr. Lilywise on his side.“

She’s talking too fast for me to keep up.

“Whenever you get the chance, tell Dr. Lilywise I’m with you. You’re right. Dr. Lilywise is our best opportunity to get out of here; she wants to leave as bad as you do. Please do not ask me how I know, that’s a long story. I understand if this is too much for our short amount of time, but I might not be here once you come back. So please, try your best to remember all this information I’m telling you, ok?”

I nod my head, not absorbing this mass amount of information. Imelda takes a couple of steps closer until she’s right in front of me.

“Jada, I-I ma-a-ay not have too much time, but I promise I will get you out with whatever life I have left. I just need you to do your best to get that little girl out of here, the one in the detention hall. You can’t leave her behind with Malva; she’ll continue to torture her if neither you nor Coroz are here. But to do this, we need to stop Dr. Malva and Dr. Lilywise from any more experiments. If we don’t, more people will become victims, and this cycle will never end.

“I’m sorry to put so much pressure on you, but you’re the only one who can do this. My wish, as a dead woman, is for you to please do your best. Ok?” She chokes on the tears she’s holding down, “And I will do my-my-my best to be with you, every single step of the way. I’ll hang on to these last moments of my life to guide you out of here alive. And before you go-“ she quickly steps forward and wraps her arms around me, holding me in a tight hug. “You got this. I know you don’t know who I am but please, all I want to see at the end of this life is for you to stop this chaos, you’re the only one who can.”

I hesitate at first but then sink into her embrace, dropping the machete on the floor next to me. I slightly wrap my arms around her as I finally grasp that I’m not alone.