Gemma kept her gaze high to avoid staring at thewrong placesand followed like cattle—again, she realized—into the next room, where the only source of light was a red glow from an archway on the opposite side.
This can’t be good.
One by one, the female competitors stepped through the archway, each held for a two-minute pause near the entrance. When it was Gemma’s turn, she discovered why.
Within seconds of entering the glowing, red chamber, the floor moved Gemma forward of its own accord.
“Okay, then,” she mumbled.
“Please stand still,” a robotic voice instructed via her biochip.
Hot water and blue soap suds sprayed from all directions, dousing Gemma from head to toe in what felt like molten lava. She held her breath and tried not to scream. What possible diseases did the Systems think they were eradicating by boiling twenty-year-olds?
For what felt like hours this continued—until the glowing chamber pulsated blue.
Oh no.
Ice-cold water cascaded from the ceiling, and the sudden change in temperature made Gemma shriek. Whoever made this sanitizing contraption needed to be sent through it one hundred times. In a row.
Finally, the glow turned to white, and Gemma was met with cool air that helped to dry away water that lingered on her skin. But by the time she reached the exit, stray droplets still glided down between her butt cheeks.
Inside the next area, the now-shivering girls were lined up where their identities were checked against the system. They were provided severalsets of bras, underwear, and dull-gray uniforms, which were ghastly one-pieces and zipped up from below one’s navel to their neck.
Gemma’s nose scrunched. Just by looking at it, she knew it was going to be scratchy.
Once her entry was confirmed, her fibroglass ring was updated with the appropriate privileges. She received her clothing and hurried to a spot where she could privately dress. After being naked for at least twenty minutes, it was nice to not feel so vulnerable anymore.
She ran her fingers over the numbers on the left collarbone of her uniform then quickly glanced at the others. Each person was marked with a different, three-digit code.
Seems I’m 1-3-4. I wonder what Nadine had been.
Gemma quickly braided her still-wet, dark brown hair using a hairbinder that had been provided amongst her other supplies. Some of the girls seemed to care about painting their faces with chroma, but Gemma didn’t have time for such frivolous things. She was here for one reason, and one reason only.
To kill Rami.
Gemma stepped through the doors into the dormitory, her eyes widening as they scanned the massive room. Their living quarters housed all in one vast space, males and females together—over two-hundred people at least.
Her stomach sank. Staying unnoticeable was going to be harder than she thought.
Gemma fidgeted with her poison ring as she wandered down the aisle between black, metal bunkered beds that lined the west and east sides of the room. At the foot of each was a set of two drawers marked either “top” or bottom.”
At least they gave us some semblance of personal space.
Gemma eyed the raven-haired girl whom she’d run alongside on the way here and snorted.
No way I’m sleeping anywhere near her.
The north end of the room contained two doors, a gigantic electroglass screen with the time and number of contestants that remained between them. Gemma marched toward the screen, away from the entrance to where she might stay hidden, and stopped where a guy with messy, light brown hair leaned against a set of drawers. He observed thechaos of people arguing over where they wanted to sleep, his arms crossed over his chest and his face impassive.
The more easygoing the person, the fewer questions they asked. He’d make the perfect bunkmate.
Gemma walked up to him and pointed with her thumb at the beds. “You have a bunkmate yet?”
He turned his head toward her. “Say again?”
“Has anyone taken the other bed?”
He shook his head. “Nah, it’s all yours. Well, the top one at least. Already claimed the bottom.”
