Chapter Two — Kept

I am a voluntary prisoner who knows every crack, every grain of dirt upon the floor, and exactly how many steps it takes my slim legs from one side of the confines of the room to the other. I can’t leave until the storms are over. The risk of anyone seeing me is great. But, we are apparently running out of time, because Dyllian is sure my silver armlet is a honing device.

It is day three and I haven’t slept. It doesn’t seem to bother me for some reason. Looking around, I have rearranged the entire bunker, washed my filthy clothes, and theirs. Moved the two beds, and even tried to build a third out of the stack of wood piled up in the corner, only to be reprimanded due to resources being scarce around these parts. Wherever these part may be.

‘Spring is upon us’ Dyllian keeps reminding us. With it, it brings summer and the scouting season. Aecker spends most of his days gathering extra water, wood, and food for their third roommate―me. I can’t find it in me to tell him that I am not staying. The more times he sneaks bundles in for me, the worse I feel.

For three days, I have seen him get home from scavenging with extra food for me. We share a meal, he gives up his bed yet falls asleep quickly, while I lie awake staring at the roof, trying to dig up my memories. Before I know it, he is up again and out the door to guard the east wall’s perimeter. I pretend to sleep. I don’t know how to help―I feel like a user, a taker and completely inadequate.

His brother, Dyllian, does not speak to me, only gives me these disturbing looks. He knows that when the storms are over, I have to leave. But he, too, feels conflicted; he can see his brother’s delight in having me around. He knows it’s unfair that I should be sent away because of a stigma, with no actual proof. He doesn’t have to say it. I can see it in his eyes when he sees Aecker and me together.

Yesterday, Dyllian came home early. We tried to cut the bracelet off. He thinks I am something called a Tracker, and that my armlet will inform the others of where I am; compromise their entire base, which will lead to the death of thousands of innocents in the underground city of Cupola. But the damn thing is really stuck, almost as if it has grown into my skin. It is a part of me, my past. My hidden identity.

***

Early morning has come, and I am up and cleaning again. The sound of the bristles sweeping over the concrete floor is soothing; the feel of the broom in my hand, humbling. It feels useful somehow to watch the broom kick up dirt and sweep it away. I sweep and sweep, until I am sweating. It feels good to feel the cramp, the pull of my muscles in my arms and sides. It reminds me that I am alive, that I am some part human. It becomes a game, the harder I pull, the tighter the cramp in my sides. Then I get carried away and break the damn pole in half. As I lean over to pick up the metal piece that holds the brush to the pole, I notice a gap in the wall. The left side is jutting out a tiny bit. A secret door?

“I’ve brought something to keep you busy while the Gatherers get ready for the Scouts.”

I jump up and spin as Aecker’s voice kills the silence.

“I see you have been sweeping again,” he says with a smile from the door, staring down at the two halves of the wooden pole in my hands.

“Sorry.” I shrug, embarrassed.

He is carrying a huge, black backpack on his back. Placing his dust mask on the table, he strips the sifter, and throws the filter bag in the burn shoot. Immediately, the blue flames light up the room, painting the walls in a hue of indigo, then glittering white as the flames die out. My fingers find the soft skin of my bottom lip, pinching softly. I’ve come to know this as a nervous trait of mine. The longer I stay, the more he grows attached, and the harder it feels to tear myself away from him. Aecker unzips the bag and hands me an object. For a moment, I keep my eyes on the backpack.

“What’s in the bag?” He has never brought much of his finds to their bunker.

“Treasure.” His smile lights up his entire face, eyes glowing like stars in the dim overhanging light, and for a second I feel as if it’s him that is the light in the room. It leaves my pulse racing as I take the square object from him. He eagerly starts digging up the entire contents of the bag. The object is hard and old looking, with symbols and pictures on the top and yet more symbols at the back. It’s some kind of forgotten language. But the object has layers, thin layers upon more thin layers of symbols, stacked inside two harder bindings.

“It’s called a book.” He snorts.

“Hah.” I throw the useless object on the mattress, eager to see his next so-called treasure, dearly hoping it is something worth drinking or eating.

“Hey,” he says, looking at the book, shoving more book-like objects into my hand.

“You have a whole bag of these things?” I stare at him blankly as the books pile up in my hands.

He frowns, ignoring me. “Have you chosen a name yet?”

“Opel,” I say.

His face beams. “I love it.”

I feel relief and joy at his statement for some unknown reason.

Unpacking the bag, he then leans down to stack the books beneath the bunk where I saw the gap in the wall earlier.

“How did you come up with it?” His voice is muffled as he reaches in deep beneath the metal frame.

I realize then it’s where he hides his ‘treasures’.

I shrug. “Not sure.” Then ask, “What’s with the books?”

He slips out from under the bunk, looking way too eager. “They are for reading.” His long, delicate fingers push his hair back from his forehead, where I see a bruise the size of a fist yelling at me.

“Oh, no.” I move closer. “What happened?” Suddenly I am touching him, his skin smooth and hot beneath my touch. When I finally realize what I’m doing, I pull back. My stomach feels like I have just fallen, it flips and burns delightfully. It is wrong and I force myself to pull back even more.

“Don’t you worry yourself, angel, I took care of him.” His hands move away slowly as my body reacts agreeably to his pet name for me. “Sorry, I forgot you’re allergic to human contact.” One side of his full mouth twists up mockingly.

He doesn’t understand how it feels when we touch, the conflict it causes within me. It’s delicious, warm, exhilarating, but I am beyond scared―it is way too tempting. I cannot explore a human that way. I am too close, but it feels too good to be any kind of right. It makes me appear weak, although I don’t understand why I think this way.

“I didn’t mean to,” I mumble, my feet shifting uncomfortably while I look down, feeling somewhat regretful of my response toward something he and I clearly can’t stop. It’s as if we need to interact in this manner, there is no other way for us to be around each other. More reasons for me to leave as quickly as I can.

We stare at each other, its awkward―us. Conversations and interactions seem jagged, like a wheel that is starved of much needed oil in order to keep moving forward. We have not reached our freewheeling moment, yet. And if I can help it, we won’t.

I sit down on the bunk, my fingers twirling the loose strings of the blue trousers uncomfortably. I don’t know why I feel like I need to go, like it is wrong for me to be here. Is it something his brother said? Can it be true? Am I his enemy? Did I track him to kill him and expose their base? I wish so hard for my memory to return that sometimes it feels like my head will explode. Like I am forcing myself to remember something I don’t really want to. Automatically, my hand rubs over the lengthy scab on my forehead.

“Still no memories?” He joins me on the bunk, but stays at least an arm’s length away from me.

“The other day…” When Aecker looks up at me with those gorgeous big eyes, I can’t seem to find it in me to hurt him.

“Tell me,” he demands.

“When you were out, Dyllian…”

“Did he hurt you?”

Shaking my head, I look at my twirling thumbs and ask, “What did Dyllian mean by ‘I was your enemy’?” I spit out, even though I think I understand its meaning fully. I act dumb so he’s forced to say it out loud. I want him to admit it. We don’t belong together. Because... I can’t. I cannot bring myself to give it up, the feeling of flight and beauty, of meaning something to someone as beautiful as him.

“Well, it’s probably obvious to you by now that we are in hiding.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s more than that.” I watch his eyes carefully, which bleed from shimmering gold to a dull brown.

“We are Outlaws, hunted by Trackers sent by the Suzerain. The new head of ST. Trackers are highly trained militia forces that have been sourced from selected pure bloodlines, and coded with perfect DNA―cultivated hunters, to become the killers of the Inborns. Plain and simple, Trackers are beasts that know nothing other than to complete their mission.”

“Wow, you didn’t have to be that blunt with the girl, cousin.” A voice pulls our attention.

“Whoa, Noah!” Aecker jumps over my legs and hugs the stranger named Noah.

Over the brim of Aecker’s shoulder, Noah’s piercing dark eyes find my face with a forceful chill. I smile poorly, my eyes shifting to the floor in an attempt to escape his hurtful gaze.

“So, this is the girl everyone is talking about.” He pulls away. “She’s prettier than I imagined a Tracker to be. I guess it would make sense to use something this tempting to trap things like us.”

“I am not a Tracker,” I say.

“Okay, so then... what are you?” He moves closer.

“Hey, bro.” Aecker moves to block his advance toward me, his hand resting on Noah’s chest.

“Chill, dude. I’m intrigued. The news has traveled right to the northeast wall. I’m not here to steal your girlfriend.” He pushes him off.

Aecker gazes at me thoughtfully, hand caressing his chin. “Word moves fast, considering.” He looks at me, then garbs Noah’s arm. “I’ll come see you later, okay? I have to unpack and get her ready before Dyllian and Thorn return for the assembly tonight.”

“You kicking me out? Your own cousin!” Noah gives me one last darting look before they round the corner.

I don’t trust him, and I can tell the feeling is mutual. Their voices become softer the farther they travel down the tunnel. Deep in thought, I stare at my silver armlet, tight and broad across my wrist, suffocating me with all its stupid associations. Pretty, tempting murderess thing…

It would make sense to call me a Tracker, wouldn’t it? My over-obsessiveness with gathering information about the people I come in contact with, going on what Aecker said to me earlier, about me being a stalker. It would explain why I feel a strange sense of familiarity where he’s concerned.

But why, why would I have followed him and not completed my mission? Or had I been interrupted by something, or someone? Was my mission—perhaps as Noah had just implied—to seduce, infiltrate, gather the information needed, and then flee? Is this why I feel the deep urgency to explore Cupola, to find out how these people have survived and remain hidden from the rest of the world? What went wrong? Who attacked me? I could only imagine that being a Tracker meant I had training of some sort.

But, more than anything else, why do I feel the need to separate myself from humans? If I am neither a human nor a Tracker, what am I?