The last time I saw anyone from the outside world who wasn’t a warden, a guard, or a doctor in the Facility was as the Marshals dragged me out of my home—that person was my sister, Molly, who was crying and pleading with me not to go.
That was my last day of freedom; I was taken to the station, where I confessed to my crimes. I was tried by Happy and then taken to the Facility, where they cut first into my wrists, implanting a magnetic core coiled in cobalt, and then into my chest, where they attached the device to my heart. This was my first Delay—every inmate of the Loop is subject to this surgery, as it’s how they control us and how they prevent riots and escape attempts.
I fight off these thoughts; they are unhappy memories of the end of my real life and the beginning of this routine, this repetition of days where nothing ever happens and nothing ever changes and, if the World Government has its way, nothing ever will.
“Happy,” I say, glancing to the screen.
“Yes, Inmate 9-70-981?” the screen replies.
“Panoptic playback: Day 733 in the Loop. Time: 11:45 a.m.”
“Right away,” the screen replies. The stats and figures melt away and are replaced by the footage from the Panoptic camera implanted in my head. I hear my heavy breathing as I finish my final sprint from the pillar to the door. The footage ambles over to the joining wall and collapses.
“Yo, Maddox.” My own voice, calling out over Tyco’s screams and Pander’s singing, is met by silence. “Maddox, you there?”
As I watch the footage, I feel the hurt creeping up on me again, but I fight against the tears this time.
Finally, I hear it, Maddox’s voice, weak and broken.
“I think they finally got me, Luke,” he says, the words trembling over the wall.
“What are you talking about?” I hear my own voice come back, full of humor, sure that my friend was messing with me.
“I don’t think I’m going to make it to the Block. Probably a good thing.”
I watch the footage, remembering the way my already-racing heart had begun to sprint inside my chest as the reality sank in.
“Maddox, what’s going on?”
“The eyes, Luke, they’re not taking.”
Maddox had been the only person who could get away with calling me Luke, and hearing him say it again is too much for me.
“Stop footage,” I say, my voice hitching against the onrushing emotion. “Playback. Day 4 in the Loop. Time: 11:30 a.m.”
“Of course,” the screen replies.
I watch the footage. Me tentatively stepping out into the yard, physically shaking as the screaming voice of Tyco Roth promises to kill me.
“That you, new guy?” Maddox’s voice calls out.
I look over to the bare dividing wall. The footage shows this. I stay silent.
“My name’s Maddox, and I’m guessing you’re the Luka Kane that the psychopath keeps yelling about? Ignore him, he’s clearly got a goddamned screw rattling around in that empty head.”
I walk over to the wall, placing a hand against the metal. “Yes, I … I’m Luka Kane.”
“Luka Kane,” Maddox repeats, “nice to finally meet you, neighbor.”
“Why does that boy want me dead?” My voice, so hollow and scared. So young.
“Who the hell knows?” Maddox replies, so bright and self-assured. “Who the hell cares? He can’t get to you.”
“Inmate 9-70-981,” Happy interrupts me as I watch the screen, “you have two minutes of your daily allowance of memories remaining.”
“Playback,” I reply. “Day 6 in the Loop. Time: 11:39 a.m.”
“Of course,” Happy says.
The new footage is displayed: the yard, the joining wall, Maddox’s voice coming over to me.
“The thing is, you might as well get used to this place, Luke, old friend. Relax, get comfortable. If you’re really unlucky, you’ll be here for a very long time.”
“Unlucky?” I hear myself reply, my voice now more recognizable than the terrified, unsteady stutter from Day 4.
“That’s right,” Maddox declares. “We’re rats in a lab, man. There’s nothing good waiting for us at the end of all this.”
“So why bother taking the Delays?”
He’d laughed then. “I ask myself that every time. Do you know how they do it? How they execute us?”
“I assumed it was the heart trigger,” I say.
“They use Deleters. Have you ever seen one? They look like big tennis rackets without strings, but if any part of you goes through the middle, it gets erased into tiny, microscopic pieces. Next Delay, let’s see if you’ve got the willpower to face Deletion.”
The screen fades to black. “You have reached your daily allowance of memories.”
“Fine,” I say. “Can I have some privacy?”
“Of course,” Happy says, and the screen goes blank.
I tell myself to stop reminiscing about Maddox. Thinking about him over and over won’t do any good, it won’t bring him back.
I lie back on my bed and grab my book from beneath my pillow. Within five words I have disappeared back into the vivid world, and I’m immersed fully. This is better than the Lens could ever be, better even than LucidVision and its dream-manipulation technology.
Two hours pass before the sliding panel in the door to my room opens and I hear Wren’s voice.
“Happy birthday, Luka.”
I’m snapped out of the story, but I can’t help smiling at the sound of her voice.
Wren started at the Loop just over a year ago. The warden before her was a bitter old man named Forrest Hamlet who would spend approximately five seconds yelling questions at me before shoving the afternoon meal through the gap in my door, slamming the hatch shut, and disappearing for another day. But the truly horrible thing about Forrest was that I actually looked forward to seeing him. The Loop taught me to never underestimate the power of loneliness; it can make you miss even the most horrible circumstances.
Wren is different, though. Yes, she’s an Alt, but she’s not like the others; she genuinely cares about the inmates and our mental health.
“Thanks,” I reply, sitting up and turning to face her.
“How’s the book?” she asks, her blonde hair falling perfectly across her green eyes.
“Amazing,” I tell her, marking my place with the piece of fabric I tore from a pillowcase and putting it down. “Really amazing, one of the best so far.”
“Yeah, I love that one,” she says, smiling. Her smile is so beautiful; of course it is, she’s an Alt, which means her parents paid for her to be beautiful and genetically flawless before she was born, along with at least a dozen technological improvements, but for some reason that smile seems so real, so natural. “Wait until you read his fantasy series, it might be his best.”
“Can’t wait,” I say.
Wren stretches her arm through the hatch—this is forbidden, and the screen on my wall turns red and Happy’s voice speaks firmly: “Infiltration. Lockdown in five seconds, four, three …”
I stand up quickly when I see the red-and-silver wrapping paper covering the small parcel in Wren’s hand. I take it and stare at it as she withdraws her arm and the warning voice ceases.