Enhancement

- - 8 - -

"B-But d-don't c-c-count on it-t-t."

My body freezes over again, control withdrawn from me. The door of our cell glides open, and Stephen and I march out, submissive and afraid. What is going on? How much worse can our situation get?

Pairs of inmates equidistant from each other file into the hallway, stiff and solid. I never truly considered the possibility of other people being contained in the Enhancement Project. But staring me in the face are inmates just like us.

The only girl within my vision blinks wildly, scanning the hall. My eyebrows furrow, even though they don't move an inch. And then it clicks; this girl must have this figured out. The only thing we can control is our blinking.

All the prisoners forcibly morph into two distinct lines, our feet stomping in sync as we shuffle around. Stephen's robotic presence stays next to me. I hope he's mentally awake and comprehending his surroundings.

Then we march.

My feet follow the pair in front of me, all of us barefoot. I can't help but notice the swishes of the wrists in front of me as they leave black trails through the air.

I focus on the blinking girl's tattoo, reading her number.

398

My eyes dart to her partner's wrist.

397

My stomach drops to my toes, and I suddenly feel the need to swallow. But I can't. No footsteps sound behind me. No one follows Stephen and I. We are numbers 399 and 400: the end of the line. The worst available prisoners.

Sorted by numbers, our army of inmates marches down the remainder of the hall. We filter into a large room with high ceilings and pale floors. Platforms and pale ladders overlook the room, menacing and icy. Screeners line the walls, their red armor bent over prisoners strapped to cold metal tables. As they expertly tattoo their frozen victims, I watch black ink slosh in all the container, lethal and deadly.

The buzzing of syringes fills the room, sending chills up my spine. I try to make my feet move, to run away, to hide, but they continue marching. They're not my feet anymore. The Enhancement Project controls them.

In unison, our line of prisoners takes three steps forward. My stomach knots, nervous anticipation rushing through my bloodstream. After every fifteen seconds, we take three more steps.

Seven more pairs in front of us. Impossible amounts of dread fills my body. Why is this happening? Why are there 400 people being controlled by experiments? Is this what the Enhancement Project is really about? Enhancing the control of a bunch of Screeners and scientists? To turn teenagers into robots?

Six more pairs of feet.

Then five.

I steal a glimpse of the next experiment we're approaching: a group of finely-dressed scientists. With their glistening AirPads and sharp fingers, they document discussions as their mouths move. One scientist, a dark-haired but balding man, uses his AirPad to direct the prisoners in front of us to different tattooing stations.

I want to smash the AirPad into a millions shards of glass. It's horrible that the lives of 400 people depend on a single piece of technology in between some scientist's hands. Humans aren't just lab equipment or tattooed numbers; we're people.

Bile tickles the back of my throat. I was right; scientists are the creators of the Enhancement Project. They're the ones with the AirPad, but how? Why? When will enough control be enough for them? Do they ever stop to think about the terror they're forcing into everyone? Is terror exactly what they want, or do they prefer the power?