Chapter 2: The Whisper of Death
They call it "New Room." It's white.
It's not the soft white of Recreation Room 3. That was a padded white, made to protect us from the walls. This is a hard white, painted cement, made to protect the walls from us. It smells of bleach and cold metal. The light here never turns off. It makes it hard to know when to "sleep," but my body knows anyway.
My bed is bolted to the floor. Four steel screws. The weld on the back left leg is shoddy; I can see the micro-fracture from here. Three well placed kicks at the correct angle and it will yield. The leg would become a lever.
With the lever I could break the window, but the window is plexiglass. Inefficient. Too much noise.
The door is a better system. It's solid steel, but the lock is electronic. The wiring runs through the left wall, right here. The wall is hollow at that point. I could use the bed lever to puncture it and rip out the wires. But that's also noisy.
The steel toilet in the corner is the best option. The rubber seal at the base of the door is worn. If I flood the floor and short circuit the door's electrical contact, it will fail. Estimated time: four minutes.
But I don't do it. Waiting is more efficient. I don't yet know what is on the other side of the door.
The door opens. The sound is a metallic squeak.
It's "Scar." He's the man who took me from the other room. He comes in with my food. A metal tray.
I don't see him. I see his "seams."
He's a system, like the door. A flawed system.
He measures 1.90 meters. He weighs 112 kilos. Dense muscle. But he moves poorly. There's a 3 millimeter limp in his left ankle. Almost invisible, but I see it. It's an old fracture that never healed correctly. If I strike him there, his balance will shatter. His eyes move first, then his head. He telegraphs his intentions.
His pulse is visible in his neck, right where the burnt skin meets his jaw. It's a strong beat. I could use the metal tray. The edge is thin. A clean cut to the jugular. He would be dead in 45 seconds.
He sets the tray on the floor and steps back. He watches me. He knows I'm calculating him. He knew it in the recreation room. He thinks I'm an animal he can train. He thinks that if he gives me an order, I will follow it.
I don't think about these things. They simply happen.
My heartbeat is an instinct. Breathing is an instinct. Seeing the seams of the world is an instinct. I can't turn it off, just as I can't stop breathing. And I don't want to turn it off. It's the only thing that is truly mine.
But I won't kill him.
Killing him is what he wants me to learn to do. He wants me to be the weapon he saw in the Recreation Room. I hate being told what to do. He wants me to become his tool. He wants to possess my instinct.
And killing him now would be inefficient. It would bring more guards. I don't know how many are in this hallway. It is not the path to freedom.
So I take the food instead. Food is efficient. Freedom is efficient. Killing him now... is obedience.
I take the tray and start eating. "Scar" watches me for five more seconds and then leaves. The door closes with a dull thud.
I chew the tough meat. My instinct is mine. And it will wait.
…..
"Scar" doesn't touch me again. He now sends two anonymous Caregivers to my cell. They smell of sweat and fear; the scent of Subject Twelve is still fresh in their minds. They lead me down identical white hallways. More humming fluorescent lights. This place hates darkness.
They push me into a different room. This is the "School." There are no toys here. Just a table, two chairs, and the woman from the observation room.
"Scar" calls her "Doctor." She is the nervous system of this place; he is the muscle.
She tries to smile at me. She fails.
"Hello, Jonathan." Her voice is too high, like a startled bird. "We're going to learn new things today."
I see her "seams." Her pulse is 112 bpm. She's afraid of me. She smells of fear and something sweet and fake. Her masseter muscle, the one in her jaw, is trembling. She is lying. We are not here to learn. I am here to be measured.
She sits me in a cold metal chair. "Scar" stands in the corner, arms crossed. A patient predator. He watches.
The Doctor takes out a large drawing. It's a man made of lines. "This is the human body, Jonathan," she says, her voice singsong and false.
She treats me like an idiot. Like a normal 4 year old child. I am not a normal child.
She points to the center of the chest. "Here is the heart," she says. "This is where a person lives, Jonathan."
Wrong.
I shake my head.
The Doctor stops. Her fake smile freezes. "What's wrong, Jonathan?"
"No."
My voice sounds rough. Like rusted metal. I don't use it much. She glances nervously at "Scar." He nods, ordering me to continue.
"That's a pump," I say, pointing to the heart. "It's noisy. Slow. Weak." I move my finger to the base of the skull on the drawing. "The 'person' lives here."
The Doctor turns pale.
"If you touch it," I continue, "it turns off. It's the switch."
She drops her pointer. The click of the plastic hitting the floor is loud in the silent room.
"Scar" pushes the Doctor out of the room. She practically runs. He steps closer. His eyes no longer hold surprise. They hold... approval. That is worse.
He gives me a wooden knife. It weighs 150 grams. The balance is wrong, all the weight is in the handle. It's a stupid toy.
He rolls out a practice dummy made of hard canvas. It's filled with sand and marked with red dots. "Hit the vital points," he orders.
I stand still.
"Do it, Subject Seven!"
My instinct screams. It's easy. Eye. Throat. Kidney. Groin. Temple. Thirty ways to do it.
My hand twitches.
But it's an order.
I feel a heat in my chest. It's my instinct. It's the only thing that is mine. And he is telling me how to use it. He is trying to put a leash on it. He wants to possess my instinct.
And I hate orders.
"No."
The slap is fast. I see it coming. I see the muscle in his shoulder tense before his arm moves. I could dodge it. But I don't. I let him hit me.
The pain is bright. Taste of copper in my mouth. I fall to the floor.
"DO IT!", he roars.
I stand up slowly. My killing instinct is now focused on him. KILL HIM!, it screams inside my head. Use the wooden knife on his Achilles tendon. He will fall. His temple will be level with my knee. Knee strike to the temple. He will die.
But I stop.
If I kill him now, I am obeying my instinct, but it is an instinct that he provoked. It is still his leash.
So I do nothing. I stand still, looking at him. It is the only rebellion I have.
…..
"Scar" doesn't take me back to my white cell. He drags me down a different hallway. The smell of bleach changes. Now it smells like something else. It smells like wet fur, urine, and fear. It is a thick smell, the smell of death nearby.
He pushes me into a metal room. There is no furniture. Only a steel cage in the center. The floor is stained.
Inside the cage, there is a dog.
It is small, with matted brown fur. Pieces of skin are missing, revealing pink, irritated flesh. It is trembling, curled up in the farthest corner. When it sees me, it rises on shaky legs and lets out a growl. It's a weak sound, more a death rattle than a threat. Its ribs are visible beneath its skin.
"Scar" stands behind me. I feel his presence, his smell of sweat and metal. I don't need to look at him to know he is smiling. He drops something onto the cement floor. Clang.
I look down. It is a short metal stick, like one the Caregivers use in training. But this one is different. One end has been sharpened to a cruel, shining point.
"The dog is sick. It's useless," says "Scar." His voice is flat, emotionless. "Kill it."
The order is simple. Clear.
I look at the dog. The dog stares back at me. It's too scared to growl now. It just trembles.
And my instinct, my constant whisper, sings.
Easy.
The dog's seams are bright and clear. It's a broken system, easy to dismantle. The skull is thin just behind the ear. If I stab the stick there, the brain will die instantly. Fast. Painless. Or the eyes. Or a quick blow between the ribs to puncture the lung. So many ways. My brain shows them all to me, ranked by efficiency.
The dog whines, a sharp, pathetic sound.
"Scar" waits. I can feel his impatience. He wants to see the monster from Recreation Room 3. He wants to see the "genius" who turned off Subject Twelve's switch. He wants to see obedience.
But I stand still.
It's an order.
It's his order.
He wants me to kill. He wants me to obey. He wants me to confirm that I am the tool he believes I am. The heat returns to my chest. The hatred. But it's different now. Clearer.
I look at the trembling dog. Then I look at the sharp stick.
And suddenly, I understand.
I don't hate killing. "Killing" is just a word. It's a solution. It's neutral, like breathing. The instinct that tells me how to kill the dog is just a part of me, like my hand or my eye.
What I hate is him. I hate "Scar." I hate the white walls, the smell of bleach, and the hum of the lights.
I hate being forced.
They want to take my instinct, the only thing in this world that is truly mine, and put their leash on it. They want to possess it.
If I kill this dog, I earn his approval. If I earn his approval, I become his tool. I become his dog. And if I become his tool, I lose the only thing I have left.
My choice.
The dog whines again, a sound that scrapes my ears.
"Scar" takes a threatening step behind me. "Do it, Subject Seven! Kill!"
My killing instinct screams: KILL HIM!
But it doesn't mean the dog.
And for the first time in my life, I realize I can choose. I can say 'No' to "Scar." And I can say 'No' to my own instinct.
…..
I look at the dog. Its body is trembling, but its dark eyes are fixed on me. It sees a predator.
I look at "Scar." He is standing behind me, his posture tense. He sees a weapon.
I look at the sharp stick on the floor. I see a tool.
My killing instinct is still screaming inside my head, a sharp, feverish whisper: KILL IT!. It is "Scar's" order. It is the most efficient solution to the problem. The dog is noisy, scared, and a target.
"DO IT NOW, SEVEN!" "Scar" roars.
The dog, reacting to the shout, lunges. Its weak teeth aim for my arm.
But for the first time, my choice is faster than my instinct.
"No."
The word is silent, spoken only inside my head. No to "Scar." No to the dog. No to my own instinct.
I move.
Instead of using the sharp point of the stick, I kick it. It spins in the air and I catch it by the sharp end, leaving the blunt handle pointing outward.
The dog leaps.
I don't aim for its skull or its heart. I hit it. A single, quick strike. My wrist twists, channeling the force of the impact not into its ribs, but into the brachial nerve in its shoulder.
There is a howl.
It is a sharp sound, an explosion of pain and surprise. The dog falls to the floor in a heap. Its front paw is limp, useless. It is whimpering and writhing, but it is alive. The system is down, not broken.
Silence.
The only sound is the dog's whimper and the drip of water from a pipe in the ceiling.
I turn around slowly to look at "Scar."
His face is not pleased. It is a dark red color. The scar on his jaw stands out, pale against the reddened skin. He understands what I just did.
I did not fail to kill the dog.
I chose not to.
"I ordered you to kill it!", he roars.
His hand moves fast. I see it coming. I see the muscle in his shoulder tense, I see the shift in his weight. I could dodge it.
I don't.
His slap hits me with the force of a brick. My head slams against the metal bars of the cage. The taste of copper floods my mouth. I fall to my knees, the cold cement against my skin.
"INSUBORDINATION!"
He kicks me in the stomach. The air rushes from my lungs. "USELESS WEAPON!"
He hits me again.
As I fall to the floor and curl up, a strange, clear thought cuts through the pain.
I am smiling inside.
I have won.
For the first time, I was in control. I demonstrated my skill (I instantly incapacitated the dog). But I denied him my obedience.
My killing instinct is mine. My control is mine.
"Scar" keeps shouting, but I don't hear him anymore. I'm listening to the dog's whimper. The sound of something I chose to let live.
They think they are teaching me to be a killer. They are wrong. They are giving me the endurance to withstand pain. They are teaching me to control the murder.
And one day, I will use that control to kill them all.
But not today. Today, the dog lives.
That is my true rebellion.