Chapter 3

 Thirty-One and I get a training slot every other day, so I don't see him until Saturday.

He's late.

Again. 

They moved our sessions to a different room. Guess that other one was too good for us.

In this room, the yellowed fluorescent lights buzz constantly and the windows are frosted and barred—it seems like a cruel joke. They left us some hard wooden chairs in the corner of the room that are dusty enough to be the seat next to me and Forty in Poli-Lang. 

The chair turns out to be a crappy mix of wood and plastic with metal hard metal legs that burn silvery-cold against my legs and leave an indent. My eyes prickle familiarly. 

This isn't any obstacle towards success. But the indifference towards Thirty-One and I bothers me. Like they've already decided this is how much we're worth.

I shift in my seat. The clock is the only thing moving in this room frozen in the 1980s. Isn't that ironic?

Tick, tick.

Tick, tick.

I have nothing to do but sit around wondering if Thirty-One will ever come. If he's actually going to try and give us a chance. 

Times like this, I have to wonder if the universe hates me to pair me with such an emotional kid. 

I can't imagine Thirty-One is purposely trying to sabotage us. It's his life too. But after all these times I've tried to connect with him, I can't imagine this is all accidental. Maybe he's still in the cafe enjoying time with his friends rather than ensuring he'll ever see them again in the future. 

Thirty-One's in Delta, which has its own court, and I would guess he would be around equal to Chat, an Epsilon count, based on how important his "friends" sound to him. Considered friendly, yet weak. Someone who bought their title rather than inherited it. But I hear Delta's court isn't called a court; it's a parliament. So Thirty-One would be a minor officer.

Not that the "parliament" is much better than Epsilon's court. Just 'cause everyone can vote doesn't mean everyone gets told when the vote is. Or where it is. Just because they have elected representatives and officers in charge doesn't mean they should think they're better than us Epsilons.

The only way to gain a court title is to be supported by either other titled kids or enough of the peasants. A title just means people will listen to you. Just like the Delta parliament, it's all based on whether you can get others to believe you have power, and in that, you do. Epsilon peasants and Delta "civilians" basically have the same amount of power.

Unfortunately neither the court nor the peasants like me.

The door opens. I look up to see Thirty-One standing in the doorway, clearly devastated. Again. What now?

He looks even more heartbroken than the last time I saw him, if that's even possible. His eyes more tearstained, his cheeks more red. His lips shudder. My heart hurts a little bit.

"They killed Forty-Five." Tears stream down from his prismatic eyes. We both sit silently. A moment for another child who escaped this circle of Hell we were raised in. He suddenly got louder, "I hate this place! I really hate it! I really, really hate it!"

Use some stronger words, why dontcha.

He breaks down. "Why do they do this to us?" 

"There's nothing we can do," I whispered, feeling somewhat sorry, and slightly I-told-you-so. I wish he stopped caring so much. And crying so much. It's all very tiring. I don't know how to treat people who cry.

"How can such heartless people exist? We have to learn to feel okay while they stab us with those stupid needles just to be able— and allowed to digest our lunch every day! And Fourty-Five's dead! First Sixteen, now Forty-Five." He was sobbing now, tears pooling in his eyes and dropping on his shirt, his fists clenched with noone to punch.

"Sorry. But we can't do anything. I hate that he's dead too and I hate that they're killing everyone but this is why I don't make friends. And I really am. Sorry, I mean." Someone dies practically every month. I can't give you any more passion than this, Thirty-One. Would love to. But I can't.

I'm tired too.

He was inconsolable now, curled up by the wall. I could see him sobbing, his back quivering and shaking. He was distraught, his breathing rapid and shallow. Okay. Enough of this. I'm not going to go through this every session.

"Look." Thirty-One didn't look up. "I said LOOK!"

"What?" His agitated voice was muffled through his clothes.

I lowered my voice, "We have to stick together. I know it's not fair. If you haven't figured it out yet, no one likes it here! So Forty-Five's dead!" He looks up, tears cascading down his blotchy brick-red cheeks, but I don't wait for him to say anything.

"Do something about it. Train so you can protect your friends! Train so you don't die either! That's the only way to do anything about this!"

He stared me square in the eyes. "Don't die, okay?" He finally says, his breath rate slowing down. "Promise me."

I can't look away at this moment. His eyes are so blue and sad and fierce, like azule fire. But pale and more opalescent.

"I promise. But you have to promise me too. Actually try to survive. Put your head down so we can get through this. And one day, we'll go out and do missions together. We'll be outside, far from the Institute." I don't finish my sentence. He knows what I mean to do next.

Thirty-One smiles softly. "Fine."

I offer him a hand up, so he can sit in the chair across from me.

"Fine, then."

Thirty-One found me the next day at noon, in the same seat as the day before. My legs swung under the seat, the only indicator of my anxiety and every time they swung backward, they were welcomed by a scrape from the sharp metal edges of the seats. 

It's the clock, again, that has my attention. The second hand spins around in circles and the minute hand inches along. There aren't any digital clocks at the Institute. Only mechanical clocks the doctors make us reset ourselves during daylight savings. The doctors never spare us a second, always making us calculate, even if it's as inane as only supplying analog clocks. Or no calculators. Or memorizing hundreds of languages we'll never use outside of class.

And now it's one minute till Thirty-One should be out.

Fifty Seconds. Fourty.

Thirty.

Twenty.

Ten.

Two.

He's here.

He's not even crying. You could think he's even happy to see me, by the way he's not bawling for once. Progress. That's progress. I smile at him with teeth. He comes in and slumps in the seat across from me. His hair is convoluted and wheaty with darker peanut strands littered across his hair.

"You know what else I hate about this place?" Thirty-One is moody. Wonderful.

My smile fades and I sigh, long and hard. "What?" I say. 

Not again. I just want to make progress. Is that too much to ask?

"These names."

"Do you even remember the one your parents gave you? Your name I mean." The ground was white with small amounts of gray and black marbled into the cold floors.

"Yeah." The room was also slightly brighter than usual. The sun filtered through the window, the lights less flickery.

"Same. What's yours?" I was genuinely curious. Maybe this'll make him become fond of me. I mean... it would also be nice to be called by a real name. 

Thirty-One grinned, his eyes all squinty. "I'm Ruel!"

"I'm Shiva." I tried to hide my smile, rolling my eyes up into my skull. 

Ruel clearly saw right through my act, "Cool name!" He affirmed, eyes laughing at me. 

"Let's call each other by these names now." I crossed my arms, "You're welcome," I huffed, half-smile clear on my face.

"Okay, Shiva."

"Okay, Ruel."

"You wanted to train?"

"Yes!" I lit up, smile broad.

Maybe I can knock some sense into him.