He nods. “Fine. If I had a choice of anything to do with the rest of my life, I’d want to be a paramedic. I like the idea of the adrenaline, but also that I’d be able to help people. I’m really bummed that it’s too Nice a profession for a Bad. I like comic book movies but I can’t be bothered to read the books themselves. I spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about my parents. Actually, the amount of time I spend thinking about them isn’t embarrassing, but what I think is. I’ve convinced myself that I was stolen from them and that they’re out there right now, desperately hunting for me. I know it’s optimistic bullshit, but no matter how hard I try I can’t shake that image of them. Lastly, the thing that scares me the most about this whole thing is that for me to survive, you have to be destroyed. Like, best-case scenario for you if you lose is mind-wiping, and even that’s unlikely—so I’d probably be sending you to your death. The fact that I want you to go through that so I don’t have to terrifies me, man. So … what about you?”
The rational side of me is telling me to keep my mouth shut, to use the information he gave me to derail his efforts to make Juliet fall for him. It’s also possible everything he said was a lie, a way to get a head start before the game has truly begun. I shouldn’t trust him. Yet this other, louder part of me is looking at the guy in front of me and seeing something other than competition. Someone who knows how I feel. Someone who’s been through everything I’ve been through. Someone I don’t have to lie to because we both know what we are.
I look down at the table. “Most people think I’m a kind person, a genuine Nice, but I know I’m not.”
“Why is that?”
“I … I know the cost of my survival and I still really want to live. So I guess all you need to know about me is that I’m capable of hurting you to ensure I win. I’m dangerous, I know I am.” I catch his stare and hold it. “You should be afraid of me.”
“If you’re not a nice person, why are you a Nice?”
“They think I’m Nice, and I’m not in a position to correct them. Do you think they’d let you switch if you wanted to become a Nice? They have plans and expectations for all of us, and I want to survive, so I’ve learned to act like I am the boy they want me to be. So far it’s worked out pretty well.”
The light on the ceiling flashes.
He points at it. “Well, that’s us. I guess this is it for now. So say good-bye to this face, Nice guy, and I’ll see you out there, I suppose. And don’t feel bad about trying to win. I think that’s the only way we’ll make it through this with our sanity intact. Let’s give it our all and let her decide. That way she kills one of us, and neither of us has to feel guilty. Because I wouldn’t be able to cope if I had played any part in killing you, even if you wouldn’t feel bad about killing me. So do we have a deal? We’ll both give it everything we have? No regrets, no backing down, and no guilt when she makes her choice.”
I wish my brain worked like that, like I could just say no regrets or guilt and then not feel it. But I know myself, and I know the guilt will crush me if I win and he dies. Still, he wants to pretend it’s that simple, that our emotions can be contained by a spoken contract, and I’m willing to entertain him. Plus, if I’m being totally honest with myself, I want to keep pretending for as long as possible that I don’t care at all that he could die because of me.
So I accept his offer, and it feels like the contest has truly begun.
CHAPTER
THREE
I’m naked on a steel slab. I’m nothing more than a chunk of beef. Meat to be sliced and chopped and turned into something usable. All offcuts will be discarded.
My arms and legs are bound to the table, encircled by freezing stainless steel bands. The bands pinch at my wrists and ankles, pulling at the strands of hair they trapped when they snapped shut. Above me are two circles of white light. A man wearing a surgeon’s mask advances toward me holding a black marker. He places the tip of the pen right on my hairline, then scrapes it across my skin, all the way down to the middle of my eyebrows. I close my eyes slowly and lick my dry lips.
He tilts his head to the side, inspecting my face. He reaches forward and grabs my bangs. “We’ll change his hair. And his eyes. Get the needle.”
I strain my eyes to keep watching him. Like looking at him is going to stop him.
A nurse swings a boxlike metal contraption around so that it hangs above my face. It’s attached to a long metal arm that connects to a white machine that stands beside the table. I stare right into the pointy ends of two shiny silver needles. I exhale and try, unsuccessfully, to make my body stop shaking.
“How blue do you want?” asks the nurse.
The doctor peers into my right eye. Even though he’s wearing a surgeon’s mask, I can smell his breath, which reeks like the bottom of a garbage bin. He moves across and looks at my other eye.
“As blue as the ocean. I want her to think of water when she looks him in the eye.”
“What about his jaw?”
He moves his gloved hand up and grabs my chin. He yanks my head to the side, and his cold fingers run along my jawbone. His grip tightens and he slowly turns my head in the other direction, so that I’m looking at the wall with the door. It’s white and has no door handle, like every door in the LIC. His fingers jab in harder, like he’s trying to separate my jawbone from my skin.
The grip fades, and my head lulls back into position.
“It needs to be stronger.” He jabs the pen into the tip of my chin. “We’ll need to cleft this a little bit.”
“And his body?”
“I can hear you, you know,” I say. “And can I suggest something? I always wanted my ears to be level. They’re a bit lopsided, as you can probably tell. So maybe you could, you know, fix that?”
“Be quiet,” snaps the doctor. “Speak again and I’ll do everything without painkillers.”
I close my mouth, instantly regretting my decision to speak. What was I thinking? Nices don’t challenge authority. Ever. I’m nervous, so I hope he’ll let it slide, but I have to be better. Mistakes like that in the real world will get me killed.
He huffs, then places his hand on my chest and pinches some of the hair that’s growing there.
“This,” he says as he makes a fist, gripping a few small strands. His hand lifts up, and my chest rises up with him until my bonds stop me. He keeps pulling until the hair rips out. I drop back down, squirming in agony. “Needs to go.” He jabs me in the gut. My body bends forward, but the bonds catch me and snap me back into place. “Other than that, he’s in fine physical condition. His muscles are of adequate definition to create arousal.”
“What about his …” The nurse looks down at my crotch.
No no no.
“Are you a child? Are you talking about his penis?”
She nods.
“Well,” he says. “It’s not very impressive as it is, is it?”
My flight instinct kicks in, and suddenly all I can think about is getting out of this fucking room. Ignoring the pain in my wrists, I pull as hard as I can, trying to free my hands. All I end up doing is flailing. What can I do? I can’t just lie here and let them do this to me. I start to buck and kick, hoping desperately that a miracle will happen and something will break and I’ll be free.
The doctor places his gloved hand on my chest and presses down hard, stilling me. My rabbitlike heartbeat thuds against his palm.
He leans in close. “That’s what you get for snark. Now, team, are you ready to begin?”
“Yes sir,” they answer in unison.
“Good. Then let’s start with his eyes.”
The doctor grabs the big white machine with both hands and pushes it into position above my right eye. Then, with his smile obvious in the pinch of his mask and the twinkle in his eyes, he places a mask over my nose and mouth.
Blackness swirls.
I splay my palms.
Kick my feet.
Finally, the black takes over.