They are my livestock. My collection. My insurance policy.
My finger stops tapping. I lean forward, my elbows on the polished obsidian console, and survey my kingdom. Men move in their little boxes. Some pace, others lie on their beds, staring at the featureless ceiling, lost in whatever pathetic fantasies of rescue or revenge they can conjure. One is doing push-ups. Weights are provided during their two-hour daily outdoor allowance. Sunlight, fresh air, and rigorous exercise are, after all, essential for maintaining prime physical and mental health. A sickly specimen is of no use to anyone.
Today, I need a specific kind of specimen. Today, I play God.
The two guards flanking the door behind me are so still they might as well be part of the architecture. They are clad in black, their faces impassive behind tinted visors.
My gaze drifts from screen to screen. Any one of these men would work. They are, all of them, a perfect match, which is why they’ve been allowed to live. If you can call this existence living.
A childhood rhyme, absurd and trivial, bubbles up from the depths of my memory. It feels appropriate. The ultimate decision reduced to a sing-song jest.
“Eeny, meeny, miney, mo,” I murmur, my voice a dry rustle in the humming silence. My finger, long and pale, points at each screen in turn, a modern-day Roman emperor condemning gladiators to their fate. “Catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go…”
My finger moves like a metronome of fate while the guards stand motionless.
“…Eeny, meeny, miney…”
My finger slows, hovering over a screen near the centre. Cell 12. The occupant is sitting on the edge of his bed, head bowed, examining his hands. He has good posture. Strong shoulders. Thick, dark hair shot through with notable strands of silver. He looks well-bred, even in his synthetic jumpsuit. There’s a defiance in the set of his jaw, even in repose.
I remember that defiance. I remember his face the day I finally caught the fucker.
“…mo.”
The word hangs in the air. I let the silence stretch, savouring the moment of decision, the sheer weight of it. This is power. Not the crass power of a bullet or a bomb, but the quiet, absolute power of choice over life and death. I own the air he breathes, the food he eats, the very rhythm of his heart. And now, I own its final beat.
I don’t turn. I don’t need to.
“Cell twelve,” I say, my voice clear and devoid of the previous whimsy. “Bring him to the white room.”
One of the guards acknowledges the command with a single, sharp nod that is more a tilt of his head than anything else. A soft chime sounds as the orderis transmitted. On screen 12, a section of the wall in the cell hisses open. The man looks up, his body tensing instantly. Two figures in black, identical to my guards, enter. He doesn’t fight. He knows it’s useless. He stands, allowing them to secure his hands behind his back with plastic ties, and is led out. The cell door seals shut behind him, and his screen goes blank, replaced by the facility’s stark insignia.
I lean back in my chair, a slow smile spreading across my face.
Oh this is perfect, a delicious twist of fate I hadn’t even anticipated when I began my selection.
I rise and smooth down the front of my tailored navy suit. “Come,” I command the remaining guard, and stride from the observation room into the stark white hallway beyond. The walls are the same luminous, non-porous material as the cells, curving seamlessly into the floor. It’s like walking through the inside of a giant, sterile egg.
The “white room” is the antechamber to this little underworld. It contains two chairs and a table, all bolted to the floor, all white.
It is a place of conversation.
Of revelation.
Of breaking.
I take a seat and wait. The door whispers open, and the guards bring Pearce in, forcing him into the chair opposite me. They remain standing behind him, hands resting on the shock-prods at their belts.
He looks older now. Stress ages a man wonderfully but his eyes are the same; a sharp, intelligent blue, currently blazing with a hatred so pure it’s almost admirable. He scans the room, then me, his mind clearly working, calculating odds, searching for weakness.
“You,” he finally spits, the word dripping with venom.
My grin widens. “Hello, Pearce. It’s been a while. I trust the accommodations have been to your liking? The chef tells me the quinoa and grilled salmon was particularly good this week.”
He strains against the plastic ties, the muscles in his forearms cording. “Go to hell, Macrae.” He spits my father’s surname like it’s an insult, like my paternal side doesn’t hark back to clans and dynasties far greater than his could.
“Tsk. Such ingratitude, after all the care we’ve taken. The vitamin D supplements, the personalized training regimens. We’ve invested a great deal in you, Pearce. In all of you.” I lean forward, folding my hands on the table. “And today, that investment pays its dividend.”
His eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
