6 YEARS LATER

Sometimes I have this dream. It's recurring, it repeats itself, I have it every couple of times in a week. It's confusing, but over time it has become familiar in its own bewildering way, sometimes it's even some source of comfort to me. It's familiarity, that's all.

In my dream, there is a wood. I can see the leafy green background, almost smell the woody, damp smell of the trees. It must have been after a shower, because the moist scent of rich earth is in my nostrils. I don't know why it's so vivid, so real, so colourful, as if I can stretch out my hand and touch it.

I am running in the dream, towards a stream just on the horizon. I can feel someone pushing me, hurrying me towards it. Behind us is the sound of heavy footsteps, panting, a scent of sweat. I don't know why, but I feel like we're being pursued, me and the person pushing me. I want to look back, but something keeps me from turning my head, forcing me forwards.

There are tears on my cheek, I'm afraid, my feet are throbbing in my boots, my cloak is ripped and torn, and still the person keeps thrusting me forwards. Then all of a sudden the person pushing me is jerking on my arm, pulling me to a stop, and dragging me down onto the cool tangled grass, so we're both lying face-down, and the person rolls on top of me.

I can only see the dirt, then, smell the rich soil. The breathing of the person in my ear. The murmured prayer. And then the person's weight is gone, I hear someone scream my name and then all goes black.

                                                                                                 ~

I wake.

The room is small, the walls are whitewashed, I can see a painting of flowers hanging above my bed. They're blue, a watercolour, a little faded, framed but with no glass covering it. They've removed everything that gives us a cutting edge.

My sheets are white, with a floral pattern, the bed is medium soft. A chair nearby, with my clothes hanging on the back of it. A window that doesn't open, a faded curtain covering it. In the old times, this would have seemed like a college bedroom, for rent.

I sit up. I don't bother to ponder over my dream, it's already too familiar for me to think much of it. I've tried, when I was younger, but there's no point in thinking about it now. Getting out of bed, I advance my feet into the pool of sunlight that seeps through the window. Slide my feet into old leather boots, the material worn thin, the leather moulding itself to the shape of my feet as I step into them. Black tights, black tunic, a blue robe that is pulled on over it. The tights and tunic fit my body snugly, a bit too tight, I run my hands over my ribs as I pull it on. I can feel the bones underneath the skin.

The robe, though, it's thin and loose, draping around my body like a pillowcase. I've seen a few videos of the times before, though, in World History; the people in ancient China used to dress like that, and to imagine myself like them is a slight comfort. It billows around my body like a cloud, thin and floating.

I pull the curtain back from the window. I can see the walls surrounding the building, high and forged of concrete and iron, unbreakable and unmovable. Impenetrable. The great iron fence rises sky-high, the cold dark metal against the blue of the sky. The grass is green, but wilting slightly, I can see it from here.

Sometimes I just feel so trapped.

I wish I could leave. But this is the only home I've got, and I'm not to complain.

A dark cloak is drawn over my blue habit, the hood hides my face. It's specially designed, so that the sides of it are in the shape of wings, hiding the sides of my face. The cloak is fastened at a small catch at the throat, the hood is black and the wings are white. The wings are blinkers, concealing some part of my face but leaving the eyes uncovered, so I can see only directly ahead.

Draped in black, I descend the stairs. I look like some character out of a horror movie, wrapped in black with white cloth covering my face. The heat is stifling, I never like the heavy cloak, it weighs down my shoulders, but it's standard issue. They turn up the heat too much these days.

Other figures, black cloaks over their differently coloured habits, walk along near me. Most of them walk in twos, a few stop and take a good look at each other to confirm it's there partner before moving on together. We have partners here at Solum, our partner is who we train with, learn with, eat with. Fight with. In desperate situations, your partner could be the difference between life and death.

I descend to the next level, and a figure, draped in white, not black, is waiting there. He is my superior, that's why he's wearing white instead of black, and he doesn't have any wings across his face, only a hood, encasing his features in shadow. I stop in front of him, peer at his face through the tunnels of heavy white cloth. Yes, he is the right one.

"Good morning to you, Infinity," he says formally, addressing me by my title.

"And to you, Zechariah," I answer.

We stare at each other for a few heartbeats, each trying to outlast the other. I refuse profusely to be the first one to speak. Finally he says, "Well, shall we?" He jerks his head towards the stairs.

"After you," I answer.

He looks like he might say something, but he thinks better of it and turns towards the stairs. I follow him, shadow doubling light.

My name is Lenora. Here, they've given me the title Infinity. Don't ask me why, I don't know any better than you do. It just exists, just as they give all of the enhanced members a title. Most of them are neutral, flat, like Stone, Maiden, Dawn, Eclipse, that sort of thing. Zechariah, my partner, is one of the few who actually get to choose their own title.

We go down to the Red Room.

Everything here is defined by colours. The rooms, the groups, us. Each subject, every one of us under the rule of Solum, are called Eyes. The name comes from how they define us, our eye colours. Our eyes tell them which kind we belong to.

There are the Kaleidoscopes, their eyes blending from brown to green, who are the most numerous of us, the least dangerous, and take up about half of our number. Then there are the Golds, with yellowish-amber eyes, taking up about a quarter of us, and are slightly more dangerous than the Kaleidoscopes. Then the Violets, their eyes a frightening purplish-lilac. There are only five, Zechariah is one of them.

And then there's me. The only remaining one of my kind.

The only Silver.

Well, as I was saying, everything here is sorted into colours. The Kaleidoscopes go to the Rooms painted green and brown from training and practice. They have to split up, since there are too many of them. The Golds go to the Gold Rooms, the Violets go to the only Violet Room. The most enhanced of us, the ones with the most potential, are in the Red Room.

They're still trying to find out why my kind is so rare. Why I'm the only Silver. They say I've got enormous potential, but I'm not using it right. Whatever they mean by that I have no idea.

Zechariah, though, he's got enormous potential. He's their top student, their prize pig, their weapon on the great battlefield. Me, I haven't learned to control my powers yet. That's why they paired me with him, so he can teach me how to use my powers. What a joke. I don't even know what my powers are.

As if he can tell what I'm thinking, Zechariah reaches up and tugs at my sleeve. "Come on," he says. "We're going to be late. And you don't want to miss a session."

Hidden behind my white wings, I scowl and follow him swiftly along the staircase, then down a polished wooden corridor. We come to a heavy oak-carved door, draped in red cloth. Zechariah stops and knocks on it. His fist makes a heavy thumping sound as he thuds on the cloth, one, two, three times.

"Enter," calls a voice.

Zechariah tugs the heavy wooden door open and we slip inside.

The room is richly furnished, and it doesn't look like a room designated for training or learning. It's like a parlour from the old days, the ones that don't exist anymore. A velvet sofa with armchairs sitting by a crackling fire. The walls and floor draped in scarlet cloth, with amber and brown and gold swirls painted on them. The fur carpet is so deep that our feet sink right into them. A crackling fire smoulders beneath a marvel mantelpiece, above which hangs a painting of a woman.

This painting is an object of fascination for us, a magical presence, because like mirrors there are very few pictures in the building. It's the only picture, in fact, that shows a person. This one shows a dark-haired woman, with pale blue eyes, so pale it could almost be called grey, a shade different from my own. She has pale skin, full lips, she's pretty, her curls spilling onto her shoulders. A blue laced dress, with a white hem, the same blue as the pale winter sky. Laughter is in her face, jubilance and exuberance radiates from her face. Her front teeth jut out slightly, but otherwise she could pass for beautiful.

But we only see her half of the painting. Her arms are wrapped around another person, we can see from the way she's holding them out, but the other half of the painting is covered in a heavy red satin cloth.

Opposite us is a large window, one that takes up almost the entire wall. Two heavy red curtains are swept to either side of it, and before the glass stands a man. He has snowy white hair, wearing a black suit, his back turned to us.

"Good morning to you, Infinity, Zechariah," he says in his deep voice. It's rich, and I'm braced for it, though it hits me with full force.

The man turns towards us, and I take an involuntary step backwards. His eyes are protuberant, black and empty, and his thin lips stretch into a thin smile.

This man is Dr. Crowley. The master and king, the ruler of Solum. All of us live under his rule, heads bowed, eyes meek, subjecting to his presence. We bow down before him, we do not dare make a sound, we are all afraid of those terrible black eyes.

I am afraid.

What is he doing here? The Red Room is often left to ourselves, except for a random doctor or someone else, maybe a caretaker. What does he think he's doing?

I feel like an intruder.

"I shall leave you in peace to train, my young friends," he says, reaching out to pick up a thin book on a table. The book is black, covered with leather, he tucks it under his armpit and moves to withdraw from the room. Zechariah and I part to make way for him silently, I dip my head slightly as he passes. I can feel his piercing eyes on me, seeming to reach all the way through my white wings, searching my face with an icy razor-sharp gaze.

I hope he doesn't notice my shudder.

He reaches the door, turns the doorknob and looks back. "Oh, and Lenora," he says.

I stiffen; he called me by my first name.

"Yes, sir?" I answer, hoping my voice doesn't tremble. I fail miserably. I think I can see the corners of his lips curl up in a small sneer.

"You should hurry up," he says. "We don't have much time left."

I begin to tremble.

"Just saying," he says, smiling serenely. "Good day to you both."

He steps outside the door, closes it, he's gone. A chilling air seems to press on both of us, me and Zechariah. We both know what he means. He means by powers, my inability to use them.

"Infinity?" whispers Zechariah.

I'm shaking, I can't look up.

"Lenora," he says quietly.

I look up.

"I'll teach you," he says. "I'll teach you everything I know. We have to hurry."

I don't answer him. My blood is pounding in my ears, I can't breathe, I can't speak. I know what happens to those who can't live up to Solum's expectations. I've seen them, hands cuffed behind their back, shoved into the back of a white van, driven off. I remember their screams.

No, that won't happen to me. If I get punished, I will bear it. If I get dragged off... I won't get dragged off, I tell myself, I intend to last. I have no plans to be eliminated today. I will maintain my place on the chessboard.

"Lenora?" Zechariah says.

I look up. "Yes."

"We should start."

I glance out of the window. I can see the sun shining a little.

"Yes," I agree. "We should." I look back at him. "Begin, then, Zechariah."

He's staring at me with unfathomable eyes. I flinch back at the violent shade of his violet eyes. But then the colour of his eyes seem to soften, slightly. He smiles a little.

"Call me Niro," he says.

Note

I threw this story together with a lot of complicated elements, so I'm sorry if you can't guess where this story is heading. I'll keep uploading chapters, so hopefully this will all make sense in time. Meanwhile, don't forget to comment, and stay tuned!