Chapter 4

We're marching off somewhere. I feel the barrel of a Sentinel's rifle pressing against my back—a light touch laden with a solemn warning. President Finley breaks away from our group, walking through the translucent aura around the Capital City. The energy weaves through the skyscrapers, wrapping around the glass towers and twirling toward the artificial Sun named after Eorius.

Everything here is a clone of the old world. Malls boasting bright storefronts sit proudly in their section, arranged around a sculpture of President Finley. Pastel shophouses are framed by their yellow pillars, and their rainbow-colored louvers are made to look like every child's dream. From the arching windows, metallic embellishments cascade down the cobblestone path, only to find the walls of the next shophouse in its conquest. Picket fences and faux plants surround the alfresco dining areas. The smell of freshly brewed coffee escapes the revolving doors of a nearby café.

We used recycled materials from the scrap yards for these buildings. If the colorful paint was stripped away, all of this would look no better than a concrete graveyard. Since we couldn't go back to what it was like in the old world, we tried to make the shops look close enough to what we remembered. Eventually, we hope to cram the structures together until we can't see outside. The best thing would be to paint The Sanctuary's glass and never face the bleakness again, but Proxy wouldn't allow that.

Jax and I fall into step. No one says a word, and the silence weighs on us as we keep walking.

"We can't be here," Seth murmurs. The color drains from his face, and he slowly falls behind the group, only shuffling along when a Sentinel prods his back. Jax raises a questioning brow as we stop outside a white building. Its edges and planes are stark against the colorful backdrop. Only a flickering sign on the roof breathes some life into the windowless block.

The Gene Bank.

As we approach, the glass doors slide open and let us into the freezing interior. I pull my cloak tighter around me. The biting air scrapes my skin, and I pick up the pace, breaking into a half-jog to keep up with the Sentinel leading our group. Through the transparent walls, researchers dressed in white coats dissect us with gazes like they're expecting us to be afraid. I hold their stares with silent defiance. One face bleeds into the next, all of them a vision of almond-shaped eyes, perfectly straight noses, and sharp jawlines. They never blink, not even as the door opens to the next room. Blinding lights flood my vision like the flash of a camera.

Incubators line the walls. Babies swaddled in thick cloths lay peacefully asleep in their toasty wonderland. None of them have names; only serial numbers stamped on their feet. Black veins snake around their faces like meandering cracks, and their discolored skin is gray beneath the warm lights.

I'm about to reach them when another researcher walks through the door. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and she adjusts her glasses on her crooked nose. Slapping the clipboard against the incubators, she reads off the signs attached to the machines. "Three days, five days, six days, four days, two days," she pauses at the next child, "and one hour till death. None have survived beyond a week."

Her fingers dart across her tablet. The walls transform into transparent panels to reveal more rows of babies trapped within their death cocoons. More researchers move row after row, recording something on their tablets before checking on the next child. They offer her a greeting that's barely audible over the staccato of beeping monitors. Another researcher slides the panels open and shoves a thick file in her hands. "Cleo, it's time."

Cleo turns to us. "Some people have a new kind of mutation in their reproductive cells, and this is what will happen to their children." She lets out a shaky breath. "That's why we're preparing a set of Trials for the real immunes. We want to see how your bodies react to certain variables. After that, your cells will be altered and added to the Gene Bank. We'll create the next generation from there, and hopefully, we'll find a way to save the false immunes too."

Krystal narrows her eyes as she steps towards her, lips curled in disgust. "I thought they were shot and left in the snow. Proxy killed them all, and you suddenly care about them when a new batch shows up?"

"Also, Proxy has planned to use us for a long time. The Gene Bank wasn't built in a day," I say. My words stir the others, and there's a slight murmur of agreement in the crowd.

Cleo scrubs a hand over her face but doesn't answer. As the Sentinels lead me outside, I clamp my mouth shut after they shoot me dirty looks. We make our way down the hallway and push open a concealed door in the wall. Cleo stays next to our group, sighing as we walk down the endless flights of steps. The Sentinels' torchlights don't help me see much, especially since I'm stuck behind the taller people blocking my way. My fingernails scrape against the walls while the others push me closer to the sides. Knocking against the wood, I listen for other hollow compartments. So far, there's been no luck.

"If I were you, I would've kept my mouth shut," Seth rasps. "Don't challenge anything they tell you, and don't make this difficult, Aria."

I resist the urge to lash out, clenching my fists until my hands ache. My voice dips sharply. "If you're a false immune, you know your life is over, and it sucks. I don't want that for anyone, but I am wondering why my parents weren't given another chance like this. Why do we try for some people and decide that others just aren't worth the effort?"

"You don't know what you're saying, and Krystal is just digging her own grave."

"No, Seth. You don't understand what I'm saying, and I'm not expecting you to."

Pain flashes in his eyes. He fixes his gaze ahead, but his mind is elsewhere. Deciding not to push it further, I focus on the musty smell of the hallway and the cobwebs sticking to my ankles. Splinters dig themselves into my fingers, but the stinging sensation seems like a dull throb as my skin heals.

There's no light at the end of the tunnel.

Girls and boys are split into separate rooms. There's nothing else except a few benches and a small window. Though I can't see the cameras, a soft whirring betrays their presence. The Sentinels toss a black garbage bag of gray testing uniforms. Each has our name printed on the top left-hand corner, and it looks almost the same as what we wore at the Institution.

"One minute. That's all you get," the Taser Sentinel says. He slams the door, and the digital timer above starts ticking, counting down from 60 seconds. We quickly slip on the new clothes, and I try not to think about how itchy the material is. Stuffing our old garments back into the bag, we huddle in a corner and wait. I'm starting to fidget at the heavy footsteps.

Beyond these walls, I think I hear someone killing an engine. The Taser Sentinel's voice drifts past the paper-thin walls, but he's speaking in a language I don't understand. It's like Jax's code words that he learned in his Sentinel training, just that it's mixed in with a string of numbers. Still, the door doesn't open. The ground shakes, and the ceiling folds away to reveal the open sky. Distant shouts and protests pound against my eardrums. The floor moves higher until the hot air kisses my face. Sweat beads on my forehead slip down my face until my hair clumps together.

President Wright stands on stage. With her head held high and a hand on her hip, she brings the microphone to her thin lips. "I present to you the next generation of Trial candidates."