The creatures are moving up her torso now. Climbing up her chest. She gasps. Locks eyes with him.
“I see,” he says, tilting his head at her. “Someone lied to you.”
Her eyes widen.
“You were misled,” he says, holding her gaze. “I am not kind. I am not forgiving. I do not care about your life.”
As he speaks, the scorpions creep farther up her body. They’re sitting near her collarbone now, just waiting, venomous stingers hovering below her face. And then, slowly, the scorpions’ stingers begin curving toward the soft skin at her throat.
“Call them off?!” she cries.
“This is your last chance,” Warner says. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”
She’s breathing so hard now that her chest heaves, her nostrils flaring. Her eyes dart around the room in a wild panic. The scorpions’ stingers press closer to her throat. She flattens against the wall, a broken gasp escaping her lips.
“Tragic,” Warner says.
She moves fast. Lightning fast. Pulls a gun from somewhere inside her shirt and aims it in Warner’s direction and I don’t even think, I just react.
I shoot.
The sound echoes, expands—it seems violently loud—but it’s a perfect shot. A clean hole through the neck. The girl goes comically still and then slumps, slowly, to the ground.
Blood and scorpions pool around our feet. The body of a dead girl is splayed on my floor, just inches from the bed I woke up in, her limbs bent at awkward angles.
The scene is surreal.
I look up. Warner and I lock eyes.
“I’m coming with you to get J,” I say. “End of discussion.”
Warner glances from me to the dead body, and then back again. “Fine,” he says, and sighs.
ELLA
JULIETTE
I’ve been standing outside the door staring at a smooth, polished stone wall for at least fifteen minutes before I check my wrist for a summons.
Still nothing.
When I’m with Anderson I don’t have a lot of flexibility to look around, but standing here has given me time to freely examine my surroundings. The stretch of the hallway is eerily quiet, empty of doctors or soldiers in a way that unsettles me. There are long, vertical grates underfoot where the floor should be, and I’ve been standing here long enough to have become attuned to the incessant drips and mechanical roars that fill the background.
I glance at my wrist again.
Glance around the hall.
The walls aren’t gray, like I originally thought. It turns out they’re a dull white. Heavy shadows make them appear darker than they are—and in fact, make this entire floor appear darker. The overhead lights are unusual honeycomb clusters arranged along both the walls and ceilings. The oddly shaped lights scatter illumination, casting oblong hexagons in all directions, plunging some walls into complete darkness. I take a cautious step forward, peering more closely at a rectangle of blackness I’d previously ignored.
It’s a hallway, I realize, cast entirely in shadow.
I feel a sudden compulsion to explore its depths, and I have to physically stop myself from stepping forward. My duty is here, at this door. It’s not my business to explore or ask questions unless I’ve been explicitly asked to explore or ask questions.
My eyelids flutter.
Heat presses down on me, flames like fingers digging into my mind. Heat travels down my spine, wraps around my tailbone. And then shoots upward, fast and strong, forcing my eyes open. I’m breathing hard, spinning around.
Confused.
