Chapter 1

Today I met the boy. The one who's gonna be my Link.

The doctors say we're together 'cause we're both weak, 'cause we'd drag anyone else down we'd be Linked to. But I don't think that. I think they're blind.

It's not important to have a good Ability, though me and Boy could certainly use one. It's important to know how to use whatever you have. 

Most of the other subjects are stupid. They've got telekinesis and teleportation and invisibility and they're wasting their Ability on throwing things and skipping the stairs and stealing from the others.

I don't know about Boy, but I'm always eating a little better than the others, being graded a little kinder. An extra cookie and a few extra points that mean I'm never stuck in isolation.

It's because these things add up. I'm going to be a little stronger every day, have a little more energy for the Games, and I'm going to top the leaderboard once they add it in next year. 

And Boy? I'll make him come with me. If we manage to Link up quick, I'll be able to turn him into someone who isn't a complete embarrassment by June. 

Just watch.

But right now I'm not so sure. Boy's looking a little afraid of me, so he can't be too stupid. But I don't need someone frightened of their own shadow as my "other half." Most importantly, what does he even have to bring to the table?

"What's your Ability?" I ask. 

Boy looks down. "Wolf." His hands clasp together, fingers rubbing at his knuckles. Some predator he is.

And it's fine. It's perfectly fine. I can make this work. Maybe I was fudging the truth when I said Ability didn't matter. But it doesn't always. It won't when it comes to me. 

"I'm an eighth generation Shifted." I say. It's important to give back what you receive. It says so in all those videos the doctors make us watch. The videos also say that we should be grateful to the doctor's for punishing us, 'cause they're making us better, but I wouldn't go that far. 

And it's not like being an eighth generation Shift is anything to be ashamed of, necessarily. My Ability's just exceptionally minor for eighth. The barest nudge of thought, not even enough to change an opinion.

It just means a long, long time ago one of the people living in the Other realm, the realm right on top of ours, had a kid with one of my ancestors. The closer you are to your Shifted great-great-etc grandparent, the higher likelihood your Ability will be strong.

Werewolves like Boy are a bit of a special case. They exist twice. Once as a wolf in the Other and once as a human in the Real. Despite this, they're pretty useless because of their lack of control.

To be a wolf with human thought is a delicate thing, after all. And I don't need an animal on my team.

I think, discounting our poor levels, me and Boy would be an excellent fit. A mental-type like me and a physical-type like him should be a match made in heaven.

I look at Boy expectantly. It's his turn to say something. That's how conversations work, isn't it? Boy stays silent.

I huff softly. That's fine. We don't need to talk, then. We'll be Linked whether we like it or not. And we'll see if Boy'll talk to me then.

Just when I'm about to ask the doctors to leave, Boy opens his mouth.

"What are you called?"

Oh, yeah. Names. I think Boy's the type to get hurt in the feelings if I call him Boy to his face. I'd probably be hurt if he called me Girl, but that's not important. He should show respect to the person who's gonna peel him off the floor. 

Even if our names are just numbers, they're just as important to us as the names that would have been given by our parents. It's the one thing we own.

"Twenty-Two E." The twenty second test subject of the Epsilon Period.

"That's a nice name." 

What are you talking about, Boy? 

Sharing your brain is gonna be fun alright. 

"I'm Thirty-One Delta."

Neither of us seemed to know what to say then. We ended up sitting there quietly for the rest of the session. It didn't really feel like a bad quiet, though. Okay, I'm lying—I felt so awkward. 

I resolved to make a list of things to talk about for our next session.

Thirty-One, however, didn't seem to mind the silence.

We're unalike, I think to myself. He's timid, and afraid, and maybe a little stupid.

But no matter our paths, somewhere they'll intersect. We only have to find that point. Unless they're parallel, that is.

I didn't see Thirty-One again for two days. On Thursday, they brought us to the session room again. The doctor who brought me told me "I'm really sorry about this, Twenty-Two, but Thirty-One's been… uncooperative. He might not want to talk after a day of isolation, but I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

He's one of the nicer docs. He likes to pretend he gives us choices, and he likes to "empathize" with us. He even remembers our names without checking the tags on our necks.

The doc unlocks the door. Thirty-One's not here yet, so I sit on one of the benches along the walls.

The room's pretty plain. The Institute's not being funded to make us happy, after all.

Beige walls, some abstract art. Some seating. 

They have to give us something though, or they'll never get us to "Harmonize," the first step of the linking process. That's why there are objects littered across the floor, pencils and paper and legos.

I hear the second the doctors sense Harmonization, they'll stab everyone with needles, stab, stab, stab and toss you into the machines. Nobody remembers what happens afterwards, though. You just wake up and can't think your own thoughts until you forget that you and your Link were ever separate.

Thirty-One came after one hour, twenty-three minutes, and forty-seven seconds. He was disheveled, his dirty blond hair covering his shiny, powder-blue eyes. His cheeks were stained with tears. 

"Did you fight them?" I ask. The doctors, I mean.

Thirty-One sniffles.

"You shouldn't do that. You're never going to win." I continue staring at him. He stands just in front of the door, the poor lighting failing to illuminate his expression.

Thirty-One finally speaks. "I know."

I frown at him. "Then do better. Don't be a problem for me."

Thirty-One seems about to burst into tears. I don't know what to do. I was just giving him advice. I awkwardly pat him on the head.

"It's ok. You won't do it again."

Thirty-One turns his bright, bright eyes at me. "You don't understand. I had to. And I'd do it again. They were going to take Sixt—"

"So what? I don't care about whatever reason you had. I just want you to tell me you won't repeat your mistakes."

"They would have killed Sixteen! He would have died!" If I broke every time someone was going to die, I would be in pieces each smaller than a grain of flour. And I would be dead. I don't have the power to make myself worthwhile if I misbehave.

It's cold, but Thirty-One needs to learn a long-overdue lesson.

"So? You gonna get me offed too? All you're going to do is get us killed or punished. You can't help whoever Sixteen is; the doctors already decided his fate weeks ago."

The doctors always know who's falling behind, who's not improving as fast as the others. They just let them keep going, keep running themselves ragged, and don't give them special treatment. Eventually, it's enough that they don't wake up one day after testing.

It's unusual that anyone's surprised.

Thirty-One doesn't say anything, just looks down angrily. His fists are clenched. We're never going to Harmonize at this rate.

"Just get over it and move on. Sixteen's already gone. Don't be like him. Tell me your hobbies in order from favorite to least favorite so we can get this over with."

"Why are you like this? How can you not care about anyone else here?" Wolf's so silly. Do I have to walk him through it step by step?

"Are you telling me all those kids you're protecting would do the same for you? Would fight the institution, get locked away, and lessen their chances of harmonization for you? Would they die for you?"

I continue. "The doctors built this place like a game. The only way to win is for everyone else to lose. It's as simple as that. So don't care about them. Care about me. We can't win without each other."

"He was my friend!" He shoved his hair off his face, eyes seething, "I wouldn't have wanted him to die for me."

I understand how Thirty-One feels. Well, mostly. I've never really had a friend since Michelle, but I understand what it's like to lose someone.

But I don't know how to say that, so I slide off my bench to the floor and drag a piece of paper towards me. 

"I'm sorry," I write. It's silly, but I don't know how to say it aloud without sounding insincere, or too loud, or letting my voice wobble. Thirty-One was supposed to be my ally, my friend. We were supposed to be the same; friendless.

Thirty-One's eyes stay hard. "Are you apologizing so I'll calm down or 'cause you mean it?"

Despite his anger, he looks pathetic. His hair falls into his face, his eyes are still red and puffy. But I won't forget he's a wolf. He will bite.

Good.

I finally speak. "I'm sorry Sixteen's dead, and I'm sorry you're sad. I wish you wouldn't be."

Thirty-One waits a moment and sighs. "That's good enough, I guess." He sits down next to me. "We're going to be together forever anyways. I want to work with you too."

I look down at my sheet of paper and write "1)."

"Can we talk about hobbies then, now?' We've probably only got five minutes left after Thirty-One spent so long in isolation.

"No."

I cross out the "1)."

 "Okay."