THE LAST BOOK

The following is a 1v1 roleplay, with kris0the0girl and NotAFlyingToy.

Year: 2076

From the perspective of the former United States of America, now known as The Districts



Government type: Dictatorship, previously a Socialism-run Democracy. May even be considered a monarchy of sorts, with the supreme Justice set up as the deity of the dystopian society.

Government hierarchy:
Supreme Justice
Responsibilities entail rigid control of the entire country with its four districts (divided by time zones). Position is given by birth right. Justice is allowed to create, pass, and veto various laws with or without the consent of a council. It is up to the existing Justice to decide whether he/she wants to have councilmen to refer to.

District Justice
Immediately responsible for the maintenance and control of their specific district. They hold no power except to enforce the laws established by the Supreme Justice, and are responsible for maintaining their districts as well as providing soldiers for the government.

County Justice
In charge of specific, divided counties within the districts. Each County Justice is allowed a certain number of 'GRIMS' (Genetically Reinforced Insertion Mechanized Soldiers) to help 'keep the peace'.

GRIMS
Perhaps the hallmark of this society, the GRIMS, are a group of specially trained, brain-washed soldiers who have been hand-picked by County Justices, approved by the District Justices, and eventually sent to the Capitol to receive their 'treatments' in order to become the soldiers they were selected to be.
GRIMS can be anyone that the government deems as 'Reject material'. It could be a birth defect, or a bad attitude, or a loud mouth, but if a 'citizen' is collected to be turned into a GRIM, their memory is wiped, and their 'defects' repaired. Families of lost loved ones often disappear.
GRIMS sometimes cling to what they can remember, those that do are usually run, which they do well due to the training they were given and form groups amongst themselves, the rogue GRIMS stand apart from the pack by wearing elblems which depict a blacks dog head. Mind you however, they still can't remember anything and some of them are as monstrous as their 'lawful' counterparts. They are called DOGS.

REAPERS
Occasionally, brain-washing can go wrong, causing the super-soldier GRIMS to go rogue, insane, or regan their previous memories. This is not allowed, of course, and that's where the REAPERS step in. R.epossession E.chelon A.pprehending P.ersons with E.xtreme R.elapse, specialise in the capture of these rogue GRIMS. A common nickname for these even more highly trained soldiers is the GRIM REAPERS, obviously enough. Although they are mostly limited to control of GRIMS, they are occasionally used for control of unruly crowds of citizens when local district police and GRIM forces prove to be unsuccessful, though there has only been one documented case of this happening in The District's history.

REAPERS

District Task Force
A mixed group of volunteer and 'influenced' members of society who have gone through a rudimentary training program in order to act as the District's Secret Police. They dress in civilian clothing, and carry concealed weapons, exacting justice as they see fit. However, they have to answer to the GRIMS, and ultimately their County Justices for their actions. More often than not, though, seemingly 'illogical' punishments go unhindered.


Populace:
The general consensus of society is a controlled one. The people go about their day-to-day jobs, working at assigned locations with assigned income and assigned spaces to work. Every block of time is accounted for in each person's day, and they are closely monitored for discontent and grumblings. The police force of the Districts largely outnumber any other work-group in any given district.
The only thing not looked after in the people are crimes. They are dealt with harshly and without mercy, as dictated by the Supreme Justice and District Justice, respectively. The most troubling of issues, the bane of the District Justice's existence, is an unsolved crime for any amount of time.


Lifestyle:
Most of what we now enjoy and take for granted are very much absent in the Districts. Music, most forms of television (except those funded by Supreme Council). Even books are outlawed, deemed "dangerous" by the Supreme Council. With all this security, they would most certainly not have access to weapons.
Those that deny the restrictions live in apartment complexes with false floors loaded with recreational drugs, stones and baseball bats, the sons and daughters beyond the command of the Districts. The GRIMS have a hard time trying to deal with them as every apartment complex they bust another sprouts up months later, though at a smaller grouping, usually consisting of students and adults whose loved ones have been stolen or beaten to death, or worse.

Foreign Policy:
For the most part, The Districts' foreign policy is quite simple: keep any and all notions of different, 'fair' societies out, and keep all the notions of their own society in. The government is decidedly neutral to all other countries. Some goods are imported and exported, but it is heavily regulated and controlled. Nothing but the bare neccessities are imported for the population in order to keep them alive. However, it is known that the Supreme Justices will import exotic goods and luxuries for themselves at their own discretion; some have partaken in this liberty, others have not. Occasionally, the Supreme Justice will reward the more loyal/dependable under-Justices with less expensive luxuries. Examples of what past Supreme Justices have imported are (listed in order of most to least occurences): Concubines, aphrodisiacs, exotic pets, rare delicacies, and rare paintings, ETC.

Essentially, there is an "Iron Curtain" around The Districts. No foreign products ever reach the general masses without extensive, lengthy processing and 'decontamination' by the Developmental Preservation Bureau (DPB). The DPB strips down food goods (both imported and local), adding a large amount of preservation hormones and apathy-inducing chemicals, while also jam-packing the food with the maximum amount of nutrients for the least amount of food (in order to feed the nearly one billion 'citizens' while not having to spend large amounts of money for large amounts of food). Any tools or equipment that is manufactured in The Districts or imported are also put through a 'quality check' by the DPB. These items are painstakingly analyzed for any irregularities or 'surprise uses'; namely, any item that may possibly be used as more than a bludgeoning weapon is stripped down to the very basic properties needed for its specific use, otherwise, these items are destroyed.

The Resistance

Early on, this wasn't anything more than unique individuals who showed a dislike, even a hatred of the rules enforced by Supreme Council. They were dealt with swiftly and harshly, without mercy. However, since the original group of dissenters have spawned a second - and in some cases, a third - generation, these groups have proven to be much more organized. Because of the lack of any sophisticated weaponry, the Resistance, nicknamed "Dogcatchers" by some of the populace, rely almost solely on their ability to hide. Fronts are created. Trap doors are utilized. The sewage system, one of the few places in the Districts that are hard to police and even harder to maintain patrols, are often a hotspot in the Resistance's plans. These are used to sleep, hide, and traverse, however. An attack from the Dogcatchers is a very rare sight, unheard of in the early years. In essence, there are three types of resistance.

Passive Resistance: People who horde things from the old times, keeping memories and trinkets that are from the "unsavory" history. Among the many examples are DVD's of Walking Dead, paintings from Van Gogh, Beethoven's Symphonies, violent video games.
Open Resistance: The group of people who have spoken out against the government and are in hiding. The term "open" in this case is very misleading - the fact that these group of people still survive is an insult and a statement against those they see as "oppressors", and thus that's what they try to do. Survive. The Patriot is a big example of this.

Insurrection:
Dog Catchers fall under this role. Usually, combinations of the first and second 'labels' of resistance lead to the third, an declaration of war against the government. These are the people who arm themselves with rocks and fists, who run through sewers and fear for their children. These are the people who will face down an army of GRIMS to defend their turf. These are the council's worst nightmare.

THE PLAYERS

Marten Jamison (played by: NotAFlyingToy)
Code name: Six

Pre-GRIM


Post-GRIM


Avery Jennings (played by: kris0the0girl)
Code name: Five

Pre-GRIM


Post-Grim

I sense eyes watching. Fingers curl towards my palm. I can't move. Something's holding me down. My heart is racing. I'm sure they can see it. But who are they?

Who am I?

The room was bathed in white light, illumination coming from panels mounted to the walls. It diffused the beams evenly across the ceiling, reflecting off of the mirrored tiles that had been mounted, framing the medical monitors that hung over six evenly spaced gurneys. Each gurney was occupied, the sheets pulled back, exposing the figures in a manner as cold and clinical as the room they were kept in. Intravenous lines were attached to their wrists, monitors measuring their heart rates and tubes inserted directly into their abdomens for nourishment. There were three men, and three women, lined up in no particular order. They were all unconscious.

Or so it seemed.

Breathe. Open my eyes. So much light. Why is it so cold...

Her eyes cracked, crusted from days of being heavily sedated. Her hair, which had at one point hung to her waist in a thick, black curtain, had been all but shaved off, leaving nothing but choppy, matted tufts that plastered her cool, damp forehead. She shifted her arms, her fingers curling and uncurling, focussing on the ceiling as she attempted to focus past the glare of the light and on her own reflection.

She shouldn't have opened her eyes.

What am I?

Sharp pain errupted at the base of her neck as she slowly turned her head to the side, toward bed number six. Another one. Like her. Was she the only one awake? Alive? Her mouth was so dry. She couldn't form words. She could only lick at her lips, trying to supplement moisture, but they were as cracked as the ceiling tiles. So stiff and cold...

The parasite already has my mind, I think. I can't remember yesterday, I can't remember what happened today. Blurred shapes and colours are the codes I live by, strange sounds invading my brain and cold, metallic surfaces beneath my palms are what grounds me. The Parasite is worming it's way inside my head, and I can feel the end drawing near.

Who am I?

The harsh lighting revealed red beneath his eyelids, scattered colours and shapes that refused to take any kind of recognizable form. He breathed in, sharp and deep, and felt his lungs expand, felt them take in far too much air as the pain rushed into his body, woke his mind further from his sleep.

Drowning on air, drowning without an identity. All I can think, is who will they contact when I’m gone?

He panicked, then, the breaths not coming deep enough, his body willing to stretch and fight off the restraints that held him, firmly, to the table. But it wasn’t working. Every time he attempted to move a limb the pain was there, in exhuberant amounts, pushing back just as harshly as if someone had erected an invisible wall. This silent torture continued, stretching out.

I can’t move, I can’t scream. Can’t do anything but think. Think about how strange it is not to be thinking.

Most of the battle was waged in silence, the deep lacerations in all four of his limbs causing mind-numbing pain, and yet he didn’t make a sound except the shallow breathing and slight tilt of his head. He was prepped for surgery on that metal slab, and his eyes finally took a break from the pain to land beside him, on a girl who was watching him with curious eyes.

Does she know who I am? Does she know who she is? Where she is?

A name was on the tip of his tongue, M something, but it was gone just as quickly. He didn’t make a sound, just held her stare, his eyes wide and frightened, for the first time in his short memory.

I'm awake. Awake and alive. So is he...

Her eyes never left his, even though, out of the corner of her vision, she could see the lacerations they had cut into his arms and legs. The fingers of her left hand lifted, her hand shifting so she could grip the edge of the gurney, turning her head a little more to the side as she attempted, once more, to like her lips.

He looks so frightened...

The doors at the end of the hallway pushed open, a team of surgeons walking into the room in HAZMAT suits. The clatter of their boots caused the woman to flinch, her eyes squeezing shut a moment before reopening to connect with the young man's gaze in the bed opposite of her. If he had looked frightened before, she was almost certain that she had matched his fear with her own.

Three surgeons went to his bedside, and three of them went to hers.

"She's awake," one said in a strangely robotic voice, reaching for the woman's chin and turning her back so that the figure could look down into the woman's eyes. The female in the bed did not see emotion behind that other pair of eyes. These eyes were like glass, flat and terrifying.

"Turn her on her side," the figure said, releasing the woman's chin and going to undo the restraints on Avery's right wrist and ankle. The tube feeding was turned off, and she was rolled to her left side. Her flaccid arms were carefully tucked against her chest, hips adjsuted so that her spine curved. The whole time she had her eyes fixed on the other man's gaze, right up until the point where the surgeon took a wide-bore needle and stuck it straight into the space between her first and second vertebrae.

Her pupil's dilated, tears springing to her eyes as she grimaced in pain. Her hand gripped the bars, but she wouldn't look away from him. She couldn't.

He seemed to be the only one who was concerned.

“This one’s awake, too. Must be that damn raid. The drugs are wearing off too thin for these two.” Metallic voice, dead voice. Reminded him of a rotting fish.

He grunted as they spread his limbs wider, stretching the lacerations up his body, tearing them open, slowly. He broke eye contact with her briefly as his mouth opened in a silent scream, the breath escaping him in one giant woosh. In front of him there was a man in a HAZMAT suit – or woman, it was hard to tell – with a large needle, pressing it into his skin. Two more sensations like it –like cool ice down to his bones – appeared in both legs, and then a third in his other arm.

With a swift motion, they reopened his chest, glancing down at his ribs as they were exposed. He didn’t watch, he couldn’t watch, just looked at the girl in the bed beside him, locked eyes with her, didn’t let go. Fear was gone, now – washed away from the constant ache as he retreated deep inside his own head. He imagined himself in a white tux and her in a black dress, walking down a red-sandy beach. He imagined streetcars and buses, things from his past he was calling upon with rapid need, hoping against hope that he would just retreat far enough to see what they were-

CRACK.

The pain was nearly irrelevant, now, a system overload was incoming. Why hadn’t he passed out yet? A single, watery tear leaked from his eye, blurred the vision of her eyes, never failing from his gaze. They stared at each other like they were the only two people in the world.

In some ways, we are.

He screams, but no sound comes. I want to scream too, but I’m so dry, so empty inside. What is his name? Why are they hurting him? Why are they hurting me?

The needle was meant to paralyze her, and as the medicine took its course, she could feel her body beginning to lose the capacity to move independently. It was not an anesthetic, however. She could feel them pressing the scalpel against the base of her neck, slicing open skin, digging through bone, exposing the delicate nerve endings of her spinal cord beneath.

The only indication of her distress was the spike in her heart rate, which the surgeons ignored. She took deep, gasping breaths through her nose, tears spilling down her face, her limp figure slumped, completely helpless to the torture they were putting her through.

Through the darkness, the haze of nothingness, a single word came forward, like it was written in stars.

“Avery,” she forced, a moan following the statement as something slid inside of her, causing her to go as rigid as a board.

But the meaning couldn’t be plainer.

I am Avery. This is wrong. Don’t let me forget that this is wrong.

Mmatthew. Maurice. Matthias.

He spent the time in between gasps of pain trying to connect his identity, connect the M floating through his brain and conscience to other letters that formed the main part of his personality, the blurry lines of a Foodstamp card that he was issued, a driver’s licence that he knew he received.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Still, he tried. Tried desperately. In between flexing fingers that seemed broken and sluggish and feeling what they were doing to him – everything they were doing – his life was coming at him in large flashes, like the windows of a passenger train, the quick glance of the inhabitants of someone else’s ride before they disappeared beyond the tracks.

A little girl cries, sitting in a sand dune. I can still feel the material of her dress, the resistance of her skin, the force of my shove. Sarah, I think. I liked her in grade five.

The feeling of a crate on my calloused palms as I heft it, straining against it, the feelings I’m receiving from having dropped my hormone pills down a sewer accidentally while working. Anger, frustration. I don’t like it. I don’t like hefting this crate of shrimp for people I’ve never seen.

The tears drying on my cheeks as I look at a group of people for the last time. I think… they’re my family. But I can’t make out their faces, really. I don’t know who they are, but I see the face of the woman I was assigned to reproduce with. I see the blurry lines of my children. I don’t know them.

Who was the little girl’s name, again, who I pushed into the sand? What was I carrying while feeling frustrated? Who was I looking at while crying?

What was the first letter of my name?

---------------------------------------------

Project Director Jack Cleeson breathed out heavily against the mask of his HAZMAT suit as he finished injecting the nanites into subject GX-006, pausing to rest a palm against the man’s naked thigh, thanking the lord that his particular suit was equipped with a thicker piece of glass, harder to see through.

He could hide his drying tears.

He hated this part. He hated it, even through the suppressed emotion he was being force-fed as a leader of the Grim project. The way that the patient’s confused and scared expressions twisted and turned as they tried in vain to remember why they were here, who was working on them, and what they were going to do with this information.

He turned to one of his assistants, turning on his helmet mic. Nobody in the room could hear him but those wearing suits. “For god’s sakes, Gordon, give him the sedative. He’s had enough.”

The shorter man immediately twisted a valve. GX-006’s eyes slowly drifted shut. Jack found that his hands were shaking. “Let’s get this done.”

---------------------------------------------

No. Cannot sleep. Cannot leave the girl alone. Cannot be alone. Never. Never. Never.

His eyes were drifting into little squints, his brow furrowed, but still, he stared at her. Stared….

Doctor Joanna Bryans leaned in close, connecting the wire framework with GX005’s delicate neural synapses that had already been prepped for this procedure not two weeks previously. Where Jack had acquired a soft spot for the new assignments, Jo had forced her emotions to the back of her mind in a most militaristic fashion. She fixed the metal plate over the back of the incision she’d created, drilling the attachment directly to the female’s cervical vertebrae. The connection worked like a plug, and was created for the purpose of a new technological advancement they’d recently perfected.

It was a full-faced helmet, designed to enhance 005’s neurosensory components. She would be able to see in a full 360 degree spectrum. Her hearing would be enhanced, and her sense of balance perfected. 005 was already built to be the viper of this new GRIM generation, with speed and accuracy beyond comparison, but this new feature would only make her that much more deadly.

“Bring over the helmet.” She said firmly. “She’s ready.”

A piano..I remember playing. My parents were so proud. Mother put flowers in my hair…

They weep now. Bitter tears. They tell me they never knew me. They are spared. I am taken away.

They tell me I know too much. I don’t remember what I know. I remember a man…he hates me. Hates me for what I know.

She could feel them cleaning her up with a cold cloth, the smell of alcohol making her eyes and nose burn. Through her tears she could see him, the other man, gazing at her. They’d never broken that stare, but she could see him fading. Her heart lurched, panic evident on her features. She wanted to reach out to him, but her body refused to respond.

She could hear them walking over, and something was fixed to the back of her head.

A high-pitched whine whistled in the woman’s ear, and her body became stiff, her pupils constricting to pinpricks as her vision went white. The man disappeared. She could see nothing.

I’m alone…

“Careful with her,” Joanna said. The female was rolled to her back, obviously experiencing an incredible amount of stress as her body adjusted to the new connections. She was rigid, and her arms had to be lowered back to her sides, her figure straightened. Joanna reached to smooth back the hair away from the girl’s brow, a little concerned at how unreactive she was. But the scientist knew this would soon pass.

They took the front of the mask, prepping to seal the female in permanently, but not before another, final, breathless word passed the female’s lips.

“No..”

The mask was locked in place, a hydraulic hiss confirming this fact. Joanna stepped back, smiling to herself, and spoke into the comm system.

“Good job, team. Making great progress.”

Shrimp and wood cooking in the sun, the smell of oil on the sea, the rocky waves lapping against the wooden dock. Who am I? Where was I born? Who are these people that infect my memories, leaving me confused, grasping at invisible strings to know their identities, put names to their faces? Where are these places that have dozens of other men, grunting and pulling at crates of fish we can't eat and weapons we can't have and goods we can't even wonder at? Where are these crates going? Why am I here? What's the purpose of being in these locations.

Why are they fading so rapidly? Why can't I hear what seagulls sound like, anymore? Why can't I conjure a picture of my supervisor - was I working there? - or my wife or my children? What is going on?

What the hell is going on?

He was still lying on the table, fighting the sleeper agent, when his nose was filled with metallic scents. He had just seen her fitted with a macabre mask when a cool burning sensation washed over him from the inside out. He made a small sound, a squeak, through his open mouth. Static washed over his vision, making it foggy, forcing his head to stoop lower, chin touching chest. No matter what he did, now, his eyes couldn’t see her, the girl with the helmet, lying beside him. He couldn’t see her eyes anyways, and she most certainly couldn’t see him.

“Christ, he’s still conscious. Give him another dose.”

“Why, doctor?”

“Just do it. It’s easier if he isn’t conscious.”

Another squeeze into his respiration system, and he was out, floating amongst voices that were disjointed, disorganized. He grew tired of trying to clasp strings, invisible strings that held no answers for him. He let them go, fluttering in the winds of his brain. He stopped trying to remember, and embraced eternity.

“Good night, Six.” – the last words that floated into his conscious as he dreamed.

It seemed as if everything was going according to plan. The new Generation of GRIM soldiers were responding well to their treatments. 005 was acclimating to her adjustments, and showed some excellent proficiency in hand to hand combat. 006 had reflexivity and strength that went off the charts, and 001’s IQ was far beyond the scale of any normal mental acuity exam.

But there was one particular raincloud that was disrupting her unusually good mood. Jack.

Her heels clicked on the polished tile floor as she made her way down to the Director’s Suite for a private meeting with the man. He wanted to talk to her, about what, she didn’t know, but she could hazard a guess.

She’d seen the way that he’d looked at the experiments.

Wrapping her fingers around the doorhandle, she gave it as sharp twist, and pushed the door inward, walking over the plush carpeted floor before taking a seat in one of the great winged armchairs facing a roaring fireplace.

Jack Cleeson was staring into space, up at the ceiling of his office, his hands tucked behind his head, threading through his salt and pepper hair. His thoughts were mainly centered around the experiments that were sitting – no, lying – downstairs, sleeping caskets without an open date. He rubbed a hand over his face, deep in thought.

He called the witch from Snow White a while ago, to discuss a sensitive matter, one that he felt needed to be addressed before certain… events, were relayed back to the upper echelons of the District authorities. He felt that he needed to tackle the problem at it’s source.

The door opened, and Satan herself took a seat at one of the chairs, facing the fireplace, completely disregarding him. With a sigh, he turned and walked towards her, standing behind an identical chair, his hands resting on the back of it.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, quietly, as was his nature. His fingers tightened nervously on the upholstery, mouth tightening behind his bushy beard, frazzled and unkempt and most certainly not regulation. Such were the perks of working underground, far away from prying eyes.

"I do hope that the nature of this meeting is important enough to drag me away from my research." Her clipped tone rang with an accent, dark eyes shifting to meet Jack's with undisguised annoyance. "005 is making excellent progress, just as we hoped. Her reflexes are beyond measure, as I'm sure you've heard. District Justice Ferrald is considering creating a line of helmets like hers. He believes every GRIM should be fashioned with one." She seemed quite proud of herself, and was unafraid to show it.

"Why don't you sit, Cleeson? You seem to be on edge, and you deserve a rest just as much as the rest of us."

He laughed at that, and moved around the chair to sit. “To the point then, as you say, we both have work to do.” He leaned forward, examining her closely. “I feel as if the treatment of our patients should be called into question. I fear that at the rate we are going, we are doing more harm than good. I wanted your approval before I sent this message through the system to the lower-downs.”

Joanna lifted a brow. "You do realize that the experiments," she said with emphasis, "At the end of all of our modifications, won't have the capacity to express emotion?" She stood from her chair, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing back to the doorway, where a pair of guards had appeared. "What you don't know is that I've already spoken to District Justice Ferrald on this matter. I told him about your concerns, and he acted accordingly." Nodding to the guards, she watched them come forward, grasping the man by his arms in order to restrain him.

"He feels as if your beliefs threaten the security of our system and what we are setting out to accomplish. But don't worry, we've already called in a replacement. Everything will go forward as planned." She smiled rather wickedly as the guards began to encourage Jack to go back with them.

He allowed them to take him. What more could he do, really, than allow himself to be dragged forcefully from the room, kicking and screaming. As he was dragged, though, still half in shock, he thought of the preparations he had made.

He thought of the gift that he had left number six. He thought of the casket that now suddenly had an opening date.

He thought of revolution.

---

Six woke up in a glass bubble.

His ribcage felt like it couldn’t expand properly, his head was throbbing around his implants, the few parts of his body able to feel pain registering it to the highest capacity. But he was no stranger to the pain – even welcomed it, occasionally – and controlled it, held it inside, along with the festering rage of being awake and conscious when they tore his soul from his body.

He was lying, facing upwards, in a bubble of glass. His restraints were attached to the outside of the bubble, leaving his wrists suspended slightly in the air. He tested them with a small amount of strength, found them wanting. His brain whirred, thinking. They wouldn’t just leave him here without proper restraints. Which means he’d been drugged. Which means it had worn off.

Interesting how that keeps happening.

He didn’t move, feigned unconsciousness, as was his normal defensive mechanism when it came to these types of situations, happening far too often for his liking. He turned his head, slightly, to take in a familiar sight;

The helmeted head of his partner. Five.

He watched her, silently, knowing that at any minute, they’d be breaking in the doors, rushing forwards to see why they were awake. They had to know how flimsy these restraints were, had to know they wouldn’t last long. He was ready to make his move.

He just needed them to come at him. (Bro.)

This wasn't right.

Her eyes opened to the ceiling above, and all around, in a complete circle. The back half of her vision was clouded by the pillow her head rested on, but off to either side and above her she was able to see clearly, and at precisely the same time. Sensitive hearing picked up the sound of Six's heart rate increasing, mimicking her own,and she allowed a slow exhale to stream from her lips. Beneath the mask, she was cool and well-ventilated, but that didn't prevent the feeling of claustrophobia from setting in. Gently, she pulled against her restraints, feeling the loose polyester fabric of her jumpsuit rubbing against her skin.

Six was looking at her. To let him know that she was aware, she slowly turned her head so that she appeared to be looking at him too, even though she'd been watching him from all angles.

After weeks of experimentation, of augmentation testing and tentative training sessions with her new capabilities, Five, or Avery as she preferred to call herself, was more than ready to get out of this bed. But not to work for the Districts, no...to work for her own freedom, and to take Six with her, to keep him safe if she could. They were in this together.

From deep within the bowels of the facility, an alarm began to sound.

Avery gave an almost imperceptible nod to Six, then faced upward, drawing her legs up and flipping herself over so that she was crouched, though her hands were still firmly fixed in the shackles.

"Let's get out of here." she said, her voice sounding hollow coming through the transmitters on the outer surface of the mask.