Forged

The swoosh of a door sliding open reminds me of Union Central, Frank’s base of operations in Taem. The commotion and smells are cut off as the door closes behind us and the lighting—even from beneath my blindfold—changes. It is bright here.

 

I try to keep track of my path, but there are too many turns, plus a few levels. My escort pushes me—hard—and I fall to my knees. A door slams. It’s pitch-black now. Even after I use my still-bound arms to pull the blindfold off I can’t see much. I feel my way around the room. Maybe two wingspans by another two. Windowless. One door, locked.

 

Not a room. A cell.

 

I shout for a while, but no one comes. I wait, and that does no good either. I sit with nothing but my thoughts and the welt on the back of my skull.

 

I should have listened to Blaine’s warning, should have known Emma being in Pine Ridge could mean nothing good. But I couldn’t walk away. That was the beauty of her as a lure. Frank—the Order—knew this. After seeing Emma, I couldn’t not investigate.

 

I rest my head against the wall. I wonder if Gage has made it back to the bookshop yet. I wonder if the team is ready for him.

 

My throat clenches.

 

The worst part is not that I am alone and terrified, but that I am helpless. I understand why Bree broke down when she was isolated in Burg’s tunnels. Helplessness weighs on a person, and in tight quarters, it’s downright suffocating.

 

 

I fall asleep leaning against the wall, and the unadorned room is lit when I wake, pale on three sides, a mirrored wall opposite me. I look far less tired than I feel.

 

“Morning, Gray,” my reflection says.

 

I flinch, knocking my head against the wall. There’s no mirror, just something—someone—far worse.

 

Forged Me stands.

 

“Where are the others?”

 

“They’re safe,” he says. “And they’ll remain that way so long as you cooperate.”

 

My insides curl. Blaine. The last thing I said to him. The way we spent the past few days fighting.

 

Forged Me plucks at a fraying thread along the cuff of his uniform. An Order uniform, which means we’re likely in an Order facility.

 

The Compound.

 

I wasn’t on either boat for long, certainly not long enough to travel across the whole of the Gulf or get to any domed city. The place we docked, the way the noises echoed and boats were loaded—that must have been the shipping center, the channel of water cutting inland and slipping beneath the Compound itself. I feel foolish for not putting it together sooner.

 

I assume I slept through the night, that it is now Wednesday, two days prior to the first Friday of March, the day of our planned inspection. If Gage didn’t get to the team, could they be on their way to me right now?

 

“Now I want you to listen to me very carefully,” Forged Me says. “Gage gave us some disturbing news. He said Badger was planning to infiltrate an Order establishment and that you would be involved. He believed the strike would happen this week. Do you know anything about that?”

 

He looks so much like me. Identical. Down to the shape of his nose and the shade of his hair and the way his colorless eyes are veiled in shadow from being so deep set. The last time I saw this Forgery, our team was fleeing from Burg. He slit Jackson’s throat and then went crazy when our team slipped free. The image of him screaming as our car tore away from Burg’s wall—back arched and arms outstretched—is seared into my memory. There is nothing I can do to sway his beliefs. Unlike Jackson, he is a newer model, an F-Gen5 like the Forged version of Emma we encountered. Forever loyal to Frank, a slave to his orders.

 

“It would be ironic if your goal was this establishment,” he says, “seeing as you’ll never leave it.”

 

I keep my face as blank as possible.

 

“I will get answers from you,” he snarls, “and it won’t be pretty. Are you sure you don’t want to speak up while you’re still in possession of all your limbs?”

 

Is this what I sound like when I speak? Harsh? Emotionless? Threats bound to every syllable? I stare up at him, attempting to appear indifferent. I can’t let him see that I’m terrified or he’s as good as won.

 

“Fine. Just remember that you picked this.”

 

He winds up and kicks me in the stomach. I’m still coughing when he leaves.

 

 

Someone reblindfolds me so that I can be moved. We ascend two levels, but I can’t keep track of all the turns before or after the stairs. Now, with my legs and arms strapped to the corresponding parts of a chair, the blindfold is torn off.

 

The room is excruciatingly bright, but windowless. One wall is made of mirrored glass, and overhead lights glare, bouncing off it and the honeycombed floor tiles. I blink a few times, adjusting to the brightness. Behind me, I can hear someone shuffling through cabinets, and when I glance at the mirrored wall, I see the back of a white lab coat, its wearer hunched over to study something on the counter. A tray of menacing-looking tools waiting beside my chair catches my attention next. The restraints holding me in place seem suddenly tighter.

 

Directly in front of me, my Forged counterpart sits with one foot resting against his opposite thigh. A notebook is propped against his bent leg.

 

“Let’s try this again,” he says. “I want the details of whatever mission you were about to attempt with Badger, and I want the names of everyone involved.”

 

I say two words to him, one of which is a swear.

 

“Now really, Gray. There’s no need to be so hostile. Here, I’ll even compromise with you and table that question for now. Fair? Let’s start with something smaller: the location of the press that keeps printing papers with our face on the covers.”

 

For once, I’m happy Adam kept so much information from me. I can’t answer this question even if I wanted to.

 

“Nothing?” the Forgery continues. “How about one measly name? An Expat or insurgent AmEast citizen. Anyone you want. High ranking or low. You give me the name, and I’ll jot it down.”

 

He is so smug, so relaxed. I can tell he’s not going to drop the interrogation. Interrogation. I’m in an interrogation room. The tray of tools at my side becomes much more ominous.

 

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