ARC10

Chapter 5.4

Purely out of instinct and hardened combat reflexes, we both jump to our feet, ready to meet the intruders. Our bodies react, but our minds are still in a nebulous cloud of bliss.

Before I can fully grasp what is happening, maroon robes swoop down on me. A guard in an ash-gray militia uniform yanks me away from the couch and tosses me to the floor. I try to pull myself away, but he's as well-trained as I am. We've sparred so often, he knows my every move.

Another pair of hands shove Kai down and hold him back with strenuous swings of a fire-red, buzzing rod.

He writhes on the floor after each blow but doesn't make a sound.

With a sweep of my legs, I send my captor crashing on his back. He pulls himself up and rushes toward me again. As I scramble to my feet to help free Kai, another gray-clad escort pulls an arm back and socks me in the gut. I tumble away.

I don't notice the hand around my wrist that drags me to the corridor until the skin on my back encounters the harsh scrape of the metal grates. I gaze into the room to catch the two Maroon Coats and one militia escort surround Kai.

Kai spasms on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest. The red flash from the rod flies from the ceiling and assaults Kai's brown skin again, and again, and again. His eyes find mine in a swift click of betrayal.

It's the last thing I see before being dragged around the corner and immersed into the public walkway.

The horrible image from the girl on Level 7 barrages the front of my mind. Her image replays over mine with Kai's eyes flashing their pain like lightning. My legs mimic hers as they kick the air. Her hysterical shrieks become mine as they reverberate off the URE, joining the remnant voices of the deafening cries of the women dragged to their doom before us. The bruises on our wrists and the fiery red welts on our skin from the burning scrape are our new war medals we'll never take off. The forceful pull of the Maroon Coats snaps me out of my haze.

I then realize that, like the girl on Level 7, I'm naked from the waist up. With my arms stretched above my head and my body forcefully towed through the metal floors, my breasts are red, raw, and heavy with abuse.

My PAHLM pulses rapidly in my sweaty hand. It reminds me to calm down.

Staring at the people with open mouths, pointing fingers, and eyes alight with sadistic mirth, I find it impossible to remain calm.

The vibration in my hand quickens.

Almost forty residents of Level 3 have already gathered to witness the spectacle. Men and women in various states of dress stare with mouths agape at the Maroon Coats hauling the limp body of a girl before them.

Even a few gray-shrouded clergy stand at attention and tap their hands around their chests in the sign of the 'H' at this girl who is about to be sacrificed for the Lady's cause. "May the Lady be with her," I hear them murmur.

Everyone lines up along the walls for the show. But they won't get one if I have any say in it. Summoning what little dignity I can muster from the empty chasm in my chest, I become dead weight. The Maroon Coat stops when he realizes there's no struggle left. Standing, I pull myself out of the his grasp.

"Get off," I spit out, holding my wrist to my chest.

We halt in the corridor. The two militia stare at me, and I look at the faces of two men I'd trained with only this morning. Two men whom I'd been able to flatten in seconds.

I don't think this display could get much worse.

Unsheathing his rod and sparking it to life with a deep humming electric current, the one on the left urges me forward. "Sorry, Captain. Orders are orders. I know you of all people understand."

The tingle of the rod shudders down my spine. It's just to show me who's boss if I try to run. I'm not going anywhere. Glaring at my comrade, I hoist myself behind him, waiting for this party to move again.

I hold my head as high as my imaginary dignity will allow it. I don't feel more superior or confident than I initially imagined I would. The Maroon Coat and two militia escorts crowd me into the elevator. Like I'm a prisoner surrounded by the enemy. Like I'm an ice cube between two tongues of fire.

The elevator ride lasts almost thirty seconds before it jolts to a stop and the doors glide open.

There, in a sterile, bright lab with machinery buzzing with punctuated beeps, a collection of other men in maroon lab coats gathers. Their eyes fixate on me.

"Put her in," one says, pointing left and returning his focus to his PAHLM in front of him.

My comrade nudges me on the shoulder.

He looks at the hallway then at me. "Good luck in there, Captain." His encouragement is harsh. All I want to do is return the swift punch in the gut. I don't need his sympathy.

I proceed to a small, white hallway. On one side, a dark bench faces a row of blackened windows. At the other end, a large metal door.

Warren sits at the end of the metal bench, his steel leg sticking out and his enormous gut heaving like the labored breathing of sick cow. He folds his arms over his chest and rests them on his bulging middle.

"You've done this to yerself," he says from his seated position with a menacing leer.

I want to laugh. "And I'd do it all over again."

"You're filth, Lorn." He leans in closer to glower at me with his crusty face. "You don't deserve him."

"Maybe you should be telling him that."

The door beside Warren reveals another small room, bright white and sterile with a little maroon cot, low to the ground and lurking in the corner.

Dean sits on cot with his elbows resting on his knees.

He elevates his head and squeezes his hands in a gesture I know to be his nervous tick. I appreciate that he looks me in the eyes instead of the breasts.

"All yer waiting made this a right-damned spectacle. You dragged my boy this way. This is yer fault." Warren sniffles and wipes the back of his liver-spotted hand across his bulbous nose.

I want to vomit on his hideous face.

I turn my back on him and stare at Dean.

Dean's eyes focus somewhere on the floor near his boots. He grips his hands tightly between his knees.

The chill of the hallway slaps me into the horrible reality of the moment.

The room is so white, so unnaturally bright, it feels slick—like standing on the edge of a clean, cold, porcelain bowl. Someone pushes me in.