Prologue

4 years old

My mom was a rocket scientist. My dad an important lawyer.

They're going to come save me from this place. They're searching tirelessly to find me.

I just have to hold on.

I sniffle and drag my knees closer to my chest. If the institute messes me up, they won't me anymore. So I have to remember.

But I don't think I remember how to be their daughter. I hardly remember the name they gave me. I don't remember their voices. I don't know what they look like.

It's been a year since the docs took me. I remember hunger and gray walls and the cold of the city. And then white walls and loneliness and the thermostat that always stays set at 72.

But it's really hard to be strong because Michelle's gone. She was the only nice doctor but they made her leave 'cause she was too nice.

When she came, she always told me stories about my parents. How smart they were at their big important jobs. How lovely they were, how they always made sure to give me an extra scoop of ice cream for dessert. How they miss me so much and are looking for me every day. But I don't think they're coming.

Michelle always said I had lived with my family in a big fancy apartment. But I don't know what an apartment is.

And I'm not sure I had parents at all.

Michelle would rub my hair and coo at me. I was so mature for my age, she'd say. I know you're going to do just fine here, baby. Her smile always looked a little sad, though.

And when the doctors told me Michelle won't be coming 'round anymore I cried. So they locked me in isolation because good subjects don't cry. I think we make them feel a little sad too.

Isolation's cold. The tile floor is hard and the doctors will pick you first to get samples. The walls are all white and make me think it's snowing. Buried under a blanket of cold, freezing to death but numb. Peaceful.

I rub my tears and lie down on the cool floor, spreading my arms and legs wide like I'm making a snow angel. The doctors don't realize isolation doesn't feel so much different whether you're in it or not, not when no one else really likes you. 

"S, h, i, veee, a" I whisper softly to myself. The melody is short and sweet. "That's my name. An S and an H, an I and a V and and a A. Shiva"

I hear the click of the door and I sit up. The door slowly swings open, creaking and groaning like Gemma's cries in the evening, when we're all trying to go to bed and she won't be quiet. I wince.

Doctor Lucas is standing there. He looks down on me with a slight sneer and grabs me by the arm. "Come, child."

He walks me down the hall, his long strides making me stumble at his feet. He drags me up. "If you're not going to cooperate, we might have to send you right back to isolation after, twenty-two E."

I stay quiet. He'll get mad if I "talk back," so I continue run-walking behind him to the lab. When he takes his hand away, there are fingerprints on my upper bicep, a pale mauve. 

"Lie on the table." I do as he says. I wait for him to attach the gas mask to me so I can go to sleep. I see him preparing a dose with an orange fluid, peeling the plastic off a new needle and filling the thin tube.

He turns around and sees me eyeing the mask, dangling from the ceiling.

"Not today, twenty-two. We need you awake."

My eyes widen. Awake? 

I want to leave. I want to run away. But the doctor's coming and he's doing the buckles that tie me to the bed and I squeeze my eyes shut. He ties them so tight all I can move are my knees and my elbows and a little bit of my head.

They chafe against my wrists and ankles, rubbing the skin. 

There seems to be a bit of lightning in my muscles, making them want to clench and get me away. The dark of the back of my eyelids calms me, but I can see the doctor's lamp hovering over me, slightly to the side. It looks like a moon, burning through the thin stretch of skin over my retinas.

I almost don't notice when the doctor pokes the needle through the skin of my upper arm, a sharp bit of pain that fades away just as quickly as it came.

I hear him stepping away, probably towards the observation room.

And just like that, the pain rips through me. I scream.

Fire rushes through my blood, igniting my skin from the inside out. My veins flood black, bulging out and I struggle against the constraints.

"Stop, stop, stop, PLEASE!"

I'm not aware enough to know I'm hardly making sound, my vocal cords already ripped to shreds. It doesn't take me long to stop thrashing, instead lying quietly and twitching, lost in my own mind.

It takes what feels like hours for the pain to abate, and by then, I'm hardly conscious.

I can vaguely hear the doctors hovering over me, taking notes on their brown clipboards. 

"Solution (S)-B533533 failed. Subject shows no visible signs of improvement."

I try to claw at them, and in my mind I do, but the doctors ignore me.