They came for me the next morning.

A Fully-Fermented opened the door, nabbed my arm, and yanked me out into the hallway. I could feel the inhuman strength in its grip, the precise efficiency. Like factory equipment processing meat.

The same metal from the cell comprised the hallways. The lights zapped and sizzled with flies, growing louder as we approached and then quieter as we passed by. My thoughts followed the same oscillating trajectory, rising on waves of forced hope and sinking with despair.

We stopped in front of a double-door painted with kitschy bowls of bright-colored fruit, bottles of wine, and snaking white steam over bread loaves. A rainbow of crooked words arched over the door.

The Kitchen.

With such utterly bizarre decor, I almost expected to find an old-fashioned stove and gaudy aprons draped from hooks inside. But when the Fully-Fermented pulled the door open and pushed me through, a giant empty hall greeted me—almost a colosseum. Metal walls rose up ten feet on all four sides before giving way to... earth. Chunks of rock and roots jutted from packed soil extending thirty feet above the metal wall.

Buried this deep underground, even Ether would never find us.

A flicker of light drew my attention all the way to the top of the soil. There a series of blinking lights illuminated tangled chords and whirring engines.

The Chef.

The door behind me opened again, and more survivors filed in. They stared at the surroundings, shuffling their feet and scratching their arms. A few exchanged pained imitations of smiles—smiles that said, I'll scramble over your dead body the minute you fall.

When their eyes flicked to me, the lone Southie in the group, they didn't even attempt a smile. Their faces hardened and lips pursed.

There would be no camaraderie here.

I examined the far wall again and located the lowest protruding root, just a couple feet above the wall. With a running start and a couple steps against the wall, could I reach that high?

Before I could consider further, the door reopened, and a different type of footsteps approached. An off-kilter stagger. Seconds later, the Overcooked arrived.

The Fully-Fermented slipped out behind the Overcooked so quickly the substitution resembled a transformation. Uniforms to rags, gas masks to snapping jaws, precision to aggression, and structure to chaos.

The Overcooked launched toward us.

And I spun around and ran.

My feet slapped the metal ground, my shins cramped, and my lungs seized up in protest. Ahead of me, the far wall rapidly approached, but with each step forward, the wall seemed higher.

Behind me, the screams began.

Flesh shredded, bones crunched, and the cries pierced my eardrums. I flinched at the sounds but refused to turn back. I could not save them. I could probably not even save myself. But this slim possibility of saving the world was the best I would get.

I leaped at the wall.

My boot struck metal, and I propelled myself upward, swiping both hands toward the lowest root. My hands scraped through crumbling soil, and I slipped down, knees and hands thwacking the metal floor. Behind me, the screams strangled off, and the Overcooked found new prey. Closer prey.

Hopelessness sapped my energy. My spine curved forward as though unable to support my weight. On the ground, yet still falling.

Pathetic, said my father's sneering face.

No. I would not give up so easily. Neither the monsters behind me nor the monster in my mind would tear me down.

You're a survivor, Southie.

The roar of sound behind me faded to a distant, garbled static. I planted one foot in front of me, and I rose. Then I sprinted forward and launched myself at the wall. My feet slapped the wall once, twice, in quick succession, and I grasped the lowest root in both hands.

A quick exhale of mingled triumph and disbelief escaped me. I shoved my feet against the wall to swing upward once more and snagged a rock.

But then a hand closed over my boot.

I flailed both feet, cracking the Overcooked's nose, but the hand still clutched tight. Then a second Overcooked grabbed my other foot. My fingers slipped to a single rough corner of the rock, and I clamped my thumb over my fingers to hold on. Still, my fingers inched off of the rock.

Seconds from giving up, two bangs cut through the blur of gruesome sound, and both hands released me. I twisted my neck to see the door swing shut behind a figure in the same gas mask and pressed uniform all of the Fully-Fermented wore.

But one pant leg hung loose.

Bang! Another approaching Overcooked windmilled its arms before flopping onto the ground.

"Go, Zaf!" hollered Rekkan. 

My perfect, sexy Rekkan.

Adrenaline surged through me. I readjusted my grip on the rock and swung up to snatch the next root. Brittle strands snapped beneath my fingers, and I clawed at the dirt to pull myself up a bit farther. With one more tug, my foot cleared the wall and connected with the root my hands had first found.

More gunshots ripped through the air behind me, along with screams, snarls and snapping bones. I shot an automatic glance over my shoulder. Though Stogg had told me the Implanted could not attack anyone with a microchip, spotting Rekkan untouched in the center of the room filled me with a relief.

Then a wave of vertigo swept over me, and my stomach flipped and palms began to sweat.

Fuck, that was a long way down.

I forced myself to focus on climbing. The next root to grab, the next crevice to dig a toe into, the next rock to push up from. I planted my feet on higher holds to relieve some of the pressure from my throbbing forearms.

But as the blinking lights and whirring machinery of the Chef neared, I ran out of holds. No roots, no rocks, no firm soil. Five feet of crumbling dirt separated me from my goal.

And thirty feet separated me from the metal ground below.

I sucked in a deep breath, fighting to control my twitching forearms, pounding heart, and sweating hands. Readjusting my grip, I evaluated options. So focused on my next move, I barely noticed how silent the room had fallen.

But the Fully-Fermented noticed.

When I glanced back up toward the Chef, a dozen gas masks obscured my view, leaning over the edge to watch me. The one in the center aimed a strangely-shaped black gun at my forehead. A sleek cylinder replaced the barrel, and the broad hand-shaped trigger appeared innocuous—more like a children's toy than a weapon.

A microchip implanter.

The pit dropped out of my stomach, and I imagined it splattering thirty feet below. This was it. The end of life as I knew it. Even Ether will fall in the Third Phase. I closed my eyes and whispered a final soliloquy.

"Shit, I'm fucked."

"Congratulations," said the Fully-Fermented, stressing each syllable equally. "And welcome to the team."