negative feelings for them. Because I blamed them for Dad’s long absence.
But now . . . yeah, now nothing made sense.
Finally Jag slid the pencil into the spiral binding of his notebook and shoved it under his pillow. I sat next to him, staring through the bars into the corridor. How could I get us out of here? I swallowed my doubt, determined not to give in yet. I would think of something.
Jag threaded his fingers through mine and leaned toward me. The tension drained from my body as I enjoyed the same comfortable silence I’d only experienced with Zenn. Iforced the thought of Zenn away. Tagged and sentenced to the Association, my past life was just that—in the past. I only wished it didn’t make me feel so empty.
“You do smell like a guy,” Jag whispered, his voice soft in my ear. His breath trickled down my spine. His fingers filled the spaces between mine perfectly.
“Shut up,” I managed to say, but my voice sounded breathless. Surely he noticed the effect he had on me. I wasn’t that good at hiding it. We’d only been living in the microscopic cell together for two days, but I felt a connection with Jag somewhere inside—somewhere I hadn’t known existed until I met him.
I slid off the bed and settled onto the floor, my hip bone grinding painfully into the unyielding cement. Jag leaned over the side of the bed. “Vi?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll help you.” His hand rested on my shoulder as I fell asleep.
For the first time in, like, forever, I might have been able to sleep all night, but the whirring Mechs roused me before it was light. Jag didn’t stir, even amidst the creepy Mech-chatter—unusual for his light sleeping habits.
The Mechs (three of them) escorted me to an elevator(totally old tech) and we rode to level one (at least I’d fallen asleep with my shoes on). I couldn’t have managed a descender right then, so I was thankful. The doors opened into a room flooded with the whitest of lights. I squinted as the advanced tech-buzz assaulted my senses. Way more than cloudy vision, this was like going blind because someone was hacking with a sharp object from inside my head.
Several white-coated people loomed over me because I’d fallen to my knees. Something snapped in my brain, but by the time I realized what was happening, I couldn’t react. They bound me at the ankle and wrist, strapped me to a stretcher, and wheeled me under even brighter lights.
They were tagging me.
“Don’t move,” a doctor said through a face mask. “This won’t hurt if you stay still. Otherwise, I promise it will hurt.”
Not afraid of trouble but terrified of pain, I stayed still. The damn transmissions had made me a chicken by the age of six.
Cold hands unstrapped my left wrist and drew a line around it with a black marker. The ink absorbed my flesh. That doctor was the foulest liar on the planet. Because the surgery skin boiled away a one-inch strip of skin. And that hurts.
Willing myself to look, I saw my tissues, tendons, and bones. No blood spilled out, controlled with the surgery skinand a hemal-recycler one of the doctors dabbed on my wrist. The blood congealed into little globs that he shook off into a tray.
Gloved fingers snapped the tag around my wrist like a bracelet, securing it with a tiny knot next to the bumpy wrist bone. Blinking sensors and a long bar code took the place of my skin.
Permanent jewelry from hell.
“No one will see it,” she explained. “Only our tech. We don’t want to make your life completely miserable.”
“Too late,” I growled.
Another doctor approached with a long needle. That did it. I thrashed and kicked and cursed. Hands restrained me, and someone slapped on another silencer.
I squeezed my eyes shut and rolled my head to the side. My heartbeat strummed in my ears and mouth. The needle stabbed hot into my wrist and the regrowing skin itched as it covered the tag.
Five minutes, and I was marked for life.
I wondered how much of this tech my dad had
But now . . . yeah, now nothing made sense.
Finally Jag slid the pencil into the spiral binding of his notebook and shoved it under his pillow. I sat next to him, staring through the bars into the corridor. How could I get us out of here? I swallowed my doubt, determined not to give in yet. I would think of something.
Jag threaded his fingers through mine and leaned toward me. The tension drained from my body as I enjoyed the same comfortable silence I’d only experienced with Zenn. Iforced the thought of Zenn away. Tagged and sentenced to the Association, my past life was just that—in the past. I only wished it didn’t make me feel so empty.
“You do smell like a guy,” Jag whispered, his voice soft in my ear. His breath trickled down my spine. His fingers filled the spaces between mine perfectly.
“Shut up,” I managed to say, but my voice sounded breathless. Surely he noticed the effect he had on me. I wasn’t that good at hiding it. We’d only been living in the microscopic cell together for two days, but I felt a connection with Jag somewhere inside—somewhere I hadn’t known existed until I met him.
I slid off the bed and settled onto the floor, my hip bone grinding painfully into the unyielding cement. Jag leaned over the side of the bed. “Vi?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll help you.” His hand rested on my shoulder as I fell asleep.
For the first time in, like, forever, I might have been able to sleep all night, but the whirring Mechs roused me before it was light. Jag didn’t stir, even amidst the creepy Mech-chatter—unusual for his light sleeping habits.
The Mechs (three of them) escorted me to an elevator(totally old tech) and we rode to level one (at least I’d fallen asleep with my shoes on). I couldn’t have managed a descender right then, so I was thankful. The doors opened into a room flooded with the whitest of lights. I squinted as the advanced tech-buzz assaulted my senses. Way more than cloudy vision, this was like going blind because someone was hacking with a sharp object from inside my head.
Several white-coated people loomed over me because I’d fallen to my knees. Something snapped in my brain, but by the time I realized what was happening, I couldn’t react. They bound me at the ankle and wrist, strapped me to a stretcher, and wheeled me under even brighter lights.
They were tagging me.
“Don’t move,” a doctor said through a face mask. “This won’t hurt if you stay still. Otherwise, I promise it will hurt.”
Not afraid of trouble but terrified of pain, I stayed still. The damn transmissions had made me a chicken by the age of six.
Cold hands unstrapped my left wrist and drew a line around it with a black marker. The ink absorbed my flesh. That doctor was the foulest liar on the planet. Because the surgery skin boiled away a one-inch strip of skin. And that hurts.
Willing myself to look, I saw my tissues, tendons, and bones. No blood spilled out, controlled with the surgery skinand a hemal-recycler one of the doctors dabbed on my wrist. The blood congealed into little globs that he shook off into a tray.
Gloved fingers snapped the tag around my wrist like a bracelet, securing it with a tiny knot next to the bumpy wrist bone. Blinking sensors and a long bar code took the place of my skin.
Permanent jewelry from hell.
“No one will see it,” she explained. “Only our tech. We don’t want to make your life completely miserable.”
“Too late,” I growled.
Another doctor approached with a long needle. That did it. I thrashed and kicked and cursed. Hands restrained me, and someone slapped on another silencer.
I squeezed my eyes shut and rolled my head to the side. My heartbeat strummed in my ears and mouth. The needle stabbed hot into my wrist and the regrowing skin itched as it covered the tag.
Five minutes, and I was marked for life.
I wondered how much of this tech my dad had
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