One more minute, I reassured myself, just like I had the minute before, and the minute before that, the passing time a constant squeeze on my sanity.

  I didn’t know how long I was supposed to be down here. It could’ve been forever, and no one would care. No one outside the institution, anyway. They didn’t take much notice of what happened in here, what with us being out of sight and out of mind and all. Most people lived their lives blissfully unaware of life within these walls. These walls containing every Relegate raised to work and die in their confines, repaying a debt we apparently owed for the terrible crime of being alive. Because this country had decided our broken DNA, and the medication we needed to live with it, was a drain on its resources.

  I didn’t make a habit of begrudging them for it but with every new ache growing in my bones it became more and more tempting.

  A new needle puncturing my leg sent me seething.

  One more minute. One more minute.

  Surely at some point it would be true. Galton would have to come back for me eventually.

  But a voice in my head reminded me that no, he didn’t. To be fair, I wasn’t sure which would be worse. I didn’t want to lie here, forgotten and hooked to this blasted machine forever, but I didn’t much like the alternative.

  I knew what waited for me when Galton returned. He’d let me go, sure, but it wasn’t really a life worth going back to. A life of work quotas and dying rasps I couldn’t do anything to stop. The thought of returning to it made my already empty stomach heave. It made my skin clammy and my heart race far beyond what could be considered healthy.

  Which was what he wanted, for my mind to digest the worst scenarios that my imagination could hand to me on a silver platter.

  He’d been my doctor for years, not that any of the doctors at the Vocafeum Institution for Relegates were worthy of the title, and knew me more than I knew myself. After years of overseeing my punishments for every small act of defiance, it’d be hard for him not to.

  The contraption he’d set me up to clung tightly as a second skin, making the simple act of breathing nigh on impossible. No matter how deep I took each breath, my lungs were never satisfied with the little air that diffused across the microscopic holes in the metal.

  It was a funny old thing, moulded perfectly to my face, the top cut off before it could cover my brown eyes, which stared back at me in the mirror that lined every inch of the room but the floor, as well as a wild mess of blonde hair I’d cut a while ago with stolen scissors.

  The strait jacket cutting into my skin was overkill though, and coupled with the rushed hack job would make anyone who saw me think I was some wacky scientist, which to be fair was a look I might’ve been able to pull off on a good day. But is it ever a good day when you’re hooked up to a million tubes all measuring different parts of you?

  My vitals flashed on various beeping machines, each indicating how well my body functioned, showing my heart rate, blood oxygen levels and which compounds my body produced too little or too much of. Galton made sure I understood it all just enough to know that there was something wrong with me.

  A door sized cut of mirror slid open, and a tall doctor with a mop of dark hair that barely covered his large forehead walked in, followed by an assistant who was busy tapping notes on his cyb-screen, a sleek silver pad that could let its user do pretty much anything.

  “How are you feeling, Ayla?”

  Never mind speaking of the devil, apparently thinking about him was enough for a summons.

  Galton must’ve been in one of his good moods to call me by my actual name instead of the number tattooed on my arm, which was the staff’s go-to as far as names were concerned.

  “I’ve been better,” I huffed, muffled by the mask.

  He adjusted his glasses and distracted himself with a reading from one of the machines, which he must’ve been very impressed by because he immediately beckoned the assistant over to note it down.

  “Yes, well,” he said, his attention wholly on his shiny new toy, “I’d expect you to feel guilty after the spectacle you made of yourself. And keep making. If our experiments didn’t yield such useful results I’m sure the director would have sent for you years ago.”

  And no one came back from a visit to the director.

  Not even the woman I stood up for when they tried to take her away for being short on her work quota one too many times.

  The action seemed small now. Useless. A hollow cry that would forever go unheard.

  But giving up was a lesson Galton’s School of Being a Good Test Subject had yet to teach me, despite his efforts.

  He stepped forward and took off the ropes that tied me to the chair, leaving big burning marks that would serve as a reminder of my failure, and then unfastened the jacket and mask.

  Its metal tang lingered as my head spun at the sudden rush of air in my lungs.

  We stared at each other for a moment, as he searched for any sign of weakness, any sign that this time he’d broken me.

  He found none.

  “We’ve been through so many treatments,” he sighed, “Too many.”

  Treatments, experiments, punishments. There was no difference in the strange world of the institution.

  I hated myself for flinching as I remembered them all, as the scars they’d left burnt anew.

  No wonder this room was lined with mirrors. Listen, I was not the best-looking girl you’d ever seen but there wasn’t much about me I couldn’t stand to see in the mirror. Except the scars snaking around different parts of my body. Those I didn’t like. They ran deep, and red, and ugly. It was by some miracle they were easily covered so I didn’t have to acknowledge them too long. Until moments like these, anyway, when Galton wanted me to remember. Remember how and why they were there, in the hopes that it would stop me repeating the things I did to earn them. As if a permanent reminder of my punishments would make a difference.

  He swiped the cyb-screen from the assistant’s hands, a weaselly man who didn’t dare object, eager to please his boss, and began typing.

  “I enjoy being challenged, but I also enjoy overcoming those challenges. It’s in both our interests for this experiment to be a success, to show that even our most troublesome occupants like you can be brought into line.”

  It should have been easy, to always do as the wardens said, turn a blind eye to every little injustice, but trouble was an old friend, and it always made time for me.

  Galton waved a dismissive hand, shooing me out the room before I could say anything back.

  “You’re free to go.”

  I didn’t move from my seat.

  “What about my medication?”

  He sighed, looking up from the cyb-screen. The light emanating off of it highlighted the big dark circles around his eyes.

  “Medication is payment for work. Did you work today?”

  Admittedly no, not physical labour, but my muscles, stiff from being stuck in position for so long, would argue I might as well have.

  “No,” I answered with a sigh of my own.

  A day or two without medication wasn’t the end of the world, I’d live. I was lucky in that respect. For so many Relegates, the congenital defects they’d been born with were lethal if they passed a single day without treatment.

  “Then there’s your answer. I trust you won’t need the wardens to escort you on your way out?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good,” he said, returning to his cyb-screen to type up his notes, and I exited the room ready to go back to my usual routine.

  Vocafeum sat between two hills on the moors, hidden like a dirty secret in the southwest of Saxanglain, our glorious country.

  Glorious was one word for it. Isolated, unbearably humid, and corrupt were others, none of which helped the stink of sweat that wafted through the med wards every day.

  The stark walls of the basement floor amplified the artificial lighting so much it took a while for my eyes to adjust again as I made my way to the lift at the end of the hallway.

  “State member number and destination please,” it said in a soothing female voice.

  “VC2104 for the first floor, thank you,” I told it, and without a sound, the electromagnetic waves pushed the lift up to the ground floor.

  I made two steps out before I saw Niles leaning against the wall with two bags at his feet and his arms crossed like a disapproving big brother.

  A very big brother.

  Niles stood almost an entire foot taller than me, and years of being posted as a blacksmith filled out his muscles, making him unrecognisable from the boy I’d met when we were seven.

  He was strong, and kind, but his was the strength and kindness borne of pain, like bread that earned its hardened crust under the blasting heat of an oven but remained soft and warm inside.

  “You’ve got to learn to pick your battles,” he said, his voice rough from the smoke of Vocafeum’s forges.

  “You sound like Galton.”

  “Really? Galton said pick your battles?” He raised his eyebrows, which arched smoothly over his deep brown eyes only a shade lighter than his frizzy hair.

  “More like don’t pick any,” I wavered, “But I have no intention of doing so.” I almost patted him on the cheek but decided against it.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “I’ve heard that before. You know, you don’t make any enemies if you keep your head down.”

  “You don’t make many friends either.”

  I smiled and tried to change the subject.

  “We’d better get to work, Mondays are always busy in the med ward and Ramya will flay me alive if I risk being late.”

  He picked up the two bags at his feet which clanked full of heavy metal.

  “Here, allow me,” I said, taking one off his hand, and instantly it hit the ground.

  “Ayla I don’t think-”

  “What’s in this thing?” I gasped, pulling on the bag and moving it an inch across the white tiled floor. Progress.

  “We don’t have all day, why don’t you let me carry it?”

  “No, there’s two bags and two of us, even with my maths skills I can work it out.”

  I pushed, throwing all my weight into it, but it barely budged.

  “At least I can actually carry them. Substitute that into your equation.” He gave a teasing smirk, “Here.”

  He scooped it up with one hand and slung it over his shoulder.

  “How?” I asked, slack-jawed.

  “Try using a hammer twelve hours a day for ten years and you just might be able to too.”

  “Maybe I will.” I grinned. “Make one today and I’ll be carrying three bags in no time.”

  He rolled his eyes as we started walking, and my mind already geared into planning mode for an escape attempt.

  Not a real one, mind, only a fool would try to break out through Vocafeum’s impenetrable defences, but it was nice to daydream. Most Relegates daydreamed about wealth or love since both were in short supply for us, but honestly I’d settle for a hut by the sea, living out my days in peace. Niles and Ramya would come visit and we’d go swimming every weekend and tell each other stories next to a dying midnight fire.

  Like I said, a fool’s daydream.

  “Stop it,” he warned.

  “Stop what?”

  “Thinking about things you’ll never have. People like us can’t afford to get lost in pipe dreams.”

  The pain in his eyes was too much for someone as young as him. As young as we both were. I pressed a hand on his forearm.

  “I won’t get lost. You’ll never lose me, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I skipped to keep up with him, “I’ll always be here for you. When you get another pain crisis. When you’re hungry. When you’re tired. Always. And one day, I’m going to get you out of here, whatever it takes.”

  Niles’s pain crises were caused by sickle cell anaemia and served as part of the reason I wanted to help him where I could. Over-exertion or stress increased the risk of crescent-shaped red blood cells lodging in his veins, causing periods of unimaginable pain that lasted anywhere from minutes to days.

  “How sweet. Now get a move on. You don’t want to break your promise straight after making it.”

  I nodded and skipped all the way to the med ward, a large set of rooms with white curtains streaming down the full-length windows, dispersing light across the fully-occupied beds.

  “Another day in paradise,” said Niles, “See you when they give out the dinner rations.”

  I hugged him goodbye before he pulled away and I gave a two-fingered salute as he left.

  “Another day in paradise,” I repeated, taking a deep breath and immediately regretting it.

  Chamber pots from the night before still hadn’t been cleared out yet, and the assistants carried out more than their fair share of soiled or bloody sheets.

  Coughs, sneezes, and groans came from every direction, some from the beds, some from the floor where more often than not people would have to sleep if beds weren’t available.

  Doctors in white coats checked each patient up and down, assessing them for their ability to work and whether they needed to be kept here for longer.

  In the back of the large room, I spotted Ramya giving a patient the all-clear. She was a doctor reaching middle-age, who used to be a leading expert in several fields working at the Estate before she got into an accident, landing her in a wheelchair. They wouldn’t let her work at the Estate after that, and moved her here, but unlike the rest of us she didn’t have faulty genes, meaning she was spared experimentation, and got the choice of working as a warden, doctor, or in admin, and was paid with money, as opposed to medication and two meals a day. With doctor being the closest to her expertise, she chose it and became my boss just as I entered the workforce aged seven. All the bosses were Typics. Customs could be bosses too, but they seldom took it upon themselves to work in the institutions.

  “Good morning,” I greeted her. She looked up from her work with the smallest hint of a smile hidden by pursed lips.

  “Back from the dead so soon?” she asked.

  “Not dead yet,” I replied, arms open wide, “So what’s on the schedule today, doc?”

  “You can start with changing the bedsheets, then I need you to do inventory on the medicine rations.”

  “No problem.” I started towards the newest empty bed.

  “Ayla?”

  I turned around quickly at the warning in her voice and saw her adjust her plait, which she only did when she had something difficult to say.

  “Yeah?” I asked cautiously.

  “You need to stop putting yourself at risk,” she began in an authoritative tone undermined by her glassy brown eyes giving away her concern, “We weren’t sure we’d see you again this time. It’s not fair to make us worry for your life every time you kick up a fuss. Put aside your pride and think of your friend who stays up at night wondering if every time he sees you might be the last.”

  “It’s not a pride thing,” I started to argue, but buried the instinct, instead taking a deep breath to steady myself, “It’s- I couldn’t- I won’t sit back and watch while the wardens give out horrible punishments for the smallest crimes. Not even crimes, accidents sometimes.”

  Her brown eyes shone with pity, creasing the wrinkles that were just starting to form around her eyes.

  “You know,” I continued, “The other day I watched them drag a girl to the experimentation room for dropping a pile of rocks from the quarry. It wasn’t even her fault, one of the other Relegates tripped her up.”

  She said nothing, instead looking out of the window to follow a singular metal mag-road track that stretched beyond the horizon, to the world beyond the wildflowers and forests that sprouted across the hills on the moors.

  “You can’t win every battle,” She muttered after a short while, before turning to face me again, “Come with me.”

  I walked behind her as she rolled to another patient’s bedside.

  Scars marked his face, the ebbing of his heartbeat beeped on the monitor as his breath rattled in his heaving chest next to the instruments piled onto a tray, including a couple of ominous looking syringes.

  “What happened to him?” I asked.

  Ramya set to work replacing stitches hastily sowed by another doctor.

  “Tractor accident in the crop fields. We’ve managed to stabilise his internal bleeding, I’m waiting for the institution’s approval on using our trauma foam rations to fix it properly. For now all we can do is keep him comfortable and stable.”

  She held out her hand, so I gave her the syringe.

  “Can’t you operate on him yourself?”

  “The chances of it being a success are too slim with conditions like this.”

  She didn’t need to tell me. I’d seen the operating room more than once and it didn’t instil much confidence. The people who worked on the med ward, we tried to keep it in a decent condition, but with the waiting list growing faster than the doctors could perform the operations, keeping it hygienic was a task fit for a hero.

  “You’ll find a way to help him,” I told her, “I know you will.”

  She kept staring at her patient.

  “I admire your optimism.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, tilting her head towards the beds. “It means you get the work done faster. Look sharp Pickering, it’s a brand new day.”

  She moved on from the man to some other patient not far away, as I set myself on changing the bed sheets next to him.

  A brand new day indeed. The rising sun shone like a promise, expelling the shadows of the night as it streamed through the flowing curtains, curing the night’s hangover with its warmth.

  I even dared let out a little whistle and a small dance as I folded a bed sheet in half, making a perfect crease, and daydreamed of life beyond the hills, in the big cities where people were free to do as they wished, choose their own futures for themselves, and were happy.

  I was so busy daydreaming I didn’t even see the warden coming straight for Ramya, followed by a group of others.

  Their heavy boots clobbered the floor with laser guns swinging in the holsters at their sides.

  “Dr Banavan!” He stood to attention beside her, towering above everyone in the black uniform all the wardens of the institution wore. “Come with us.”

  “Good morning, nice to meet you,” she answered with pointedly exaggerated politeness. “May I ask why?”

  “It’s an order from the Chancellor.”

  “I see. Let me guess, he doesn’t want his wife to find out he sent her best friend to an institution.” She pursed her lips and braced her hands in her lap, staring at him with the intensity of a light bulb about to blow.

  “I won’t go. Let the Chancellor deal with the consequences of his actions.”

  The guard definitely didn’t like that.

  He drew up even taller, if that was possible, and matched her staring with a steel gaze.

  “You think you’re smart making a stand like this?” he snarled, “The choice is yours, come willingly or forcibly but either way you will come with us.”

  “Ramya,” I interrupted, and ignored the warden who’d snapped his attention to me. “What was that you were saying about how you can’t win every battle?”

  She kept her attention focused on the warden.

  “There are some lines even I won’t cross. That man took everything from me. This is just another kick in the teeth.”

  Time seemed to slow down, and I felt that familiar tug on my heart. The tug that felt so right until I got punished for acting on it.

  Here we go again, I thought, and lost control of my mouth.

  “That settles it then. She’s not going.”

  I challenged the warden’s stare with a tilt of my head and a smile, and balled up my fists to look braver than I felt.

  And I really thought I’d last longer this time.

  If it had been anyone else, I might’ve been able to keep my mouth shut, but this was Ramya, and my sense of self-preservation wasn’t strong enough to overcome the need to defend a friend.

  “Galton’s project, I presume?” he inquired with an infuriating smugness. “You really do follow your reputation for sticking your nose into other people’s business. But I have no use for a guinea pig today.”

  He grabbed Ramya, pulling her in her chair towards the exit.

  My vision clouded with red.

  Before anyone knew what I was doing, I lunged for the syringe, too quickly for the wardens to react. Heck, even I couldn’t stop myself in time as the needle sunk into his skin and I pushed the plunger.

  The two of us looked at each other for a few long seconds, mirroring expressions of shock as he commanded two words.

  “Get her.”

  And fell to the floor.

  What had I just done?

  The others creeped towards me, knowing there was nothing I could do as my fate loomed ever closer.

  “Ayla,” Ramya called from behind me, swallowing a bubble in her throat.

  “Yes?” I answered.

  “Run.”

  Then many things happened at once.

  Ramya rolled forward onto the front warden's feet. While he was distracted, holding his foot in pain, I sprinted and climbed onto the beds, jumping across them as fast as I could. I may have stepped on a few people and yelled ‘sorry’ behind me as I made my way to the door.

  In all fairness, I was running for my life.

  I jumped down from the last bed in the row and ran straight into the corridors of Vocafeum. It took one second for me to turn left.

  I sprinted down the tiled hallway and made another left at the end, only to find more wardens waiting for me and about to raise their laser guns. Not wanting to face the nasty ends of those little suckers, I did the only sane thing and bolted for the nearest door, locking it firmly behind me.

  A set of blue stairs stretched up and down to various floors. In the end I chose to go up since if it came to it I could always jump off the roof, which wasn’t the most reassuring thought but I was gonna take whatever I could in that moment.

  I took them two at a time, my lungs already burning like a balloon about to burst. You’d think I’d be fitter than this but apparently carrying heavy laundry works your muscles, not your cardio.

  The roof got closer, but then I realised they’d be expecting that, so I decided to exit on the top floor.

  I poked my head out into the hallway and saw a group of wardens running for me at the left end, so tried to go back down the stairs to find more coming up like the institution had announced some kind of open season on pure, innocent Relegates who so happened to have maybe accidentally taken a step too far.

  Vocafeum was a perfect trap, designed to stop people from getting out, so of course they’d catch me eventually, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try my luck.

  The fire alarm hung on the wall, a red beacon of hope.

  What did I have to lose?

  Bracing myself, I pulled it and ran into the hallway, pursued by both groups of wardens, and tried to open another door as the fire defence system kicked in, showering the place with water, soaking into my shirt, hair and skin.

  The door sprung open and I leapt inside, realising too late that the room was a dead end.

  The wardens were already upon me, and there was nowhere else to hide, so I slammed the door shut and locked it, using the opportunity to gulp big breaths and look for a way out.

  Instead, I saw a mop and cleaning products. In my glorious wisdom I’d chosen a storage room with only one door that was currently my only barrier against oncoming doom.

  It wasn’t completely hopeless though. I could use the mop as a weapon couldn’t I? Or spray the cleaning products in their faces and use the distraction to keep running?

  The doorknob shook. This was it.

  I’d go out in a blaze of glory then.

  I armed myself with a bucket for a helmet and a mop for a sword. Pathetic as it might’ve looked, it wasn’t as if I had many other options.

  More boots pounded the floor coming closer and closer and I heard the beeping of laser guns being loaded above the shouts.

  The lock did its job for about two seconds before wood ripped on metal with the most ear-grating crack, and the door came down.

  I charged and got a face full of gas with the putrid smell of animal pee.

  You know, I’d always expected karma to finally wreak havoc on my life but forcing me to breathe in such a horrible smell was especially rude.