ACT I SCENE I
AGAMEMNON

"The gods play their games,
mortals pay their price."

     SHE COULD hear a slow, annoying drone; like the perpetual hum of a malignant vector in search of fresh blood. All she knew last was that the anaesthesia had put her under back in the chamber. The smell of rust and damp forced her mind back into a state of awareness. Discomfort was something that she was well acquainted with, making her body tense instinctively as she felt his familiar presence reach out to her with restless trepidation.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"No," she shot back.

Then she inhaled sharply and retched. Her eyes flew open and darted around to take in her surroundings. It was dark with only a faint blinking red glow that came from somewhere high above her. She swallowed back the acidic taste in her mouth as her trembling arms pushed herself upright. Everything around her shook and rattled, her stomach churned as she careened upwards.

She turned from side to side, feeling lost and disoriented, then she saw it. One word, six letters, stamped in bold. It flashed in front of her eyes each time the red glow illuminated it. She stared, transfixed, and felt a tightly coiled ball of anger unravel in her chest. Her face contorted into a deep scowl as she finally realised.

This was a mistake. Her fists slammed against the metal mesh and a furious scream tore through her vocal cord. She should have known better, the thought kept racing through her mind. Nausea swelled and threatened to rise up her throat again.

"No, no, no..." she moaned, grasping her head in despair. She could already feel the effects of the device in her brain like a plug being pulled. Her identity, as she knew it, was disappearing—slipping into the cracks and crevices of her subconscious. Soon, she would forget.

She slumped down to the floor and felt hot wet tears stream down her cheeks. "You were a mistake," she could hear another voice in her mind. She hugged her knees to her chest as sobs wracked through her entire body, and waited for the ride to end.

     There was a jolting boom and the box grounded to a sudden halt. The doors of the lift were wrenched open in perfect synchrony and bright light invaded through the opening. Loud voices suddenly filled the air, voices that felt familiar but she couldn't quite place or recall. "What do we have—" they stopped abruptly into a stunned silence. She felt like she was waiting for a death sentence when two heavy footsteps landed inside the lift.

"Hey, you good there?" someone asked.

There was a brief pause.

"She's bloody out of it. Someone throw down a rope."

She finally had a look at his face. He was young, in his teens, with blonde hair and round brown eyes that were full of concern. There was a tiny scar on his cheek, the only thing that marred his smooth face. She managed to move her head left and right; the rest of her body refused to respond.

He hooked an arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her back before lifting her up in one swift motion. With adept hands, he tied the rope around her waist then there was a tug and she was carefully lifted out of the box. The next thing she knew was the crinkle of grass beneath her body and the heavy scent of earth. It reminded her of lying down on picnic blankets and eating sandwiches, warm hugs and soft kisses. Then voices suddenly erupted all around her at once.

"Is that... a real girl?"

"Is she pretty?"

"Let me see her!"

"Hey!" A deep voice cut through the air. "No one touches her, you got that, slintheads?"

Mumbles of disgruntled consent rippled around. She opened her eyes and stared up at an expansive clear blue sky. Her eyes scanned their periphery, at the faces of the boys looking down at her, and felt a twang of familiarity.

"Fresh air makin' ya feel better?" The blonde kid popped back into her view.

She opened her mouth to speak, taking in a deep breath and feeling it scrape the insides of her throat. Her reaction was instantaneous as she went into a violent coughing fit. The boy pulled her upright and patted her back.

"Don't die on us," he was telling her. "We've never had a girl come up before. Kinda exciting, actually."

She looked up at him in bewilderment then felt like a veil was being pulled away from her eyes. She remembered snippets of her life—sleeping in a tunnel, the smell of disinfectant and the warmth of woollen blankets. The memories flowed past like a gushing stream, each one not quite connecting with the next.

She remembered faces.

"Can you tell us your name?" the blonde was asking her again. "Mine's—"

"Newt?" she interrupted him.

"What..."

The girl scrutinised his features, feeling as if she had known him for ages but had no such evidence to back it up. She could match his face to a name, but that was all her brain could do. It was like having selective memory. Where did she meet him? How did she know him? Did they use to be friends? There were no answers to any of these basic questions.

"Newt," she repeated, more confidently. "That's your name... right?"

His face was scrunched with a mixture of emotions, shock and fear being the most prominent of all. Apprehension started to rise from the pit of her stomach, then someone grabbed her from behind and spun her around. Fingers dug uncomfortably into her shoulders as she looked into a hardened face with dark heated eyes. "What did you just say?" the boy asked, emphasising each word.

"Alby...?" The name slipped out of her mouth.

He stumbled away from her as if burnt and the boys circling them broke out into agitated whispers. She looked around at them with her heart stuck in her throat and eyes widened with unease. A tall, bulky boy stepped forward from the cluster of onlookers and pointed at himself.

"What about me?" he asked her.

"...Gally."

"Bloody hell," Newt swore under his breath behind her.

"Somethin' ain't right here." Alby shook his head in perturbation. "Is this a trick? Did they do this on purpose?"

She wanted to ask what he meant by that but Newt was pulling on her arm. The boy looked at her with large, hopeful eyes when she turned to him. "What else do you know?" he asked breathlessly.

"That's all..." she replied numbly.

"Are you sure?" he pressed. "Try to think. Hard. Think really bloody hard."

"I'm telling you that's all I know," she snapped at him. "I can't even remember who I am!"

"Then how do you know our names?" Gally asked demandingly.

"I-I don't know!" the girl exclaimed, flustered at their overbearingness. "I just do, okay? I can give a name to a face. But I don't know where the heck I am or where I came from. What is even going on here?!"

"Alright, calm down," Newt told her and exchanged looks with the other boys. She paused to look at him, finding her chest suddenly heaving with emotion. "You haven't given us your name."

"It's Cassandra," she answered almost reluctantly. "Like the Greek princess."

"Well, Cassandra, like the Greek princess." Newt stood up and wiped his hands on his pants, then held one out to her.

She looked up at his face, squinting against the sunlight behind him. There was something in his relaxed demeanour that put her back at ease.  He hoisted her up onto her feet and she inwardly winced. She was well aware of every single pair of eyes on her and it made her feel self-conscious.

"Welcome to the Glade."

A sudden jolt of fear struck her heart but she had no idea why. The Glade, as it was called, looked completely peaceful and idyllic. Then she lifted her eyes and noticed it; the tall looming walls that encircled the entire compound. She took a step forward, straining her eyes at one of the gaping entrances directly opposite her. Someone was running towards them from beyond the walls.

"Hey, who's that? Isn't it too early to be back?"

Her feet started off on their own as if drawn by some inexplicable force. Newt was about to go after her but Alby held a hand out to stop him. "Wait. I want to see what she's gonna do next."

She ignored them and made her way across the field but she knew that they were watching her carefully, following her every movement. Breaking away from the throng of boys, she started to run.

Her heart swelled with anticipation and something akin to longing as the towering walls reared closer towards her. She could now make out the figure that was running in her direction. He was tall and muscular, wearing a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off his strong arms. His facial features were Asian, and his black hair cut short.

The boy stopped just inside the Glade and bent in half to catch his breath. Sweat stained his clothes and slid down his creased forehead in beads. She slowed down to a jog until she was a couple of feet away from him then stopped. He was panting and muttering curses in that strange slang she could barely understand.

She knew him, but not like how she knew the others. It felt different, more profound. As if she had known every intimate detail of his life before, but it was now lost to the amnesia—save for a persistent feeling of ache in her chest. Finally, he felt her stare and looked up.

"What the shucking hell?" He laughed breathlessly. "They sent up a girl?"

She took a hesitant step forward as her heart drummed nervously against her chest. The boy straightened himself and squinted at her through sweat that clung to his lashes.

"Did they finally send a TV up with you too? What are you doing here?" he asked, dragging a hand across his brow. "Where's the others?"

"Minho?" Her voice shook as she uttered his name, stirring something inside that had been covered in ancient dust.

He froze and his face fell, gaze flicking towards her once more. This time, there was wariness in his eyes. "Did someone set you up to this?" he asked uncertainly.

She shook her head as something indiscernible squeezed at her heart. It was a bizarre experience that she would never be able to explain despite the fathomless sorrow she felt inside of her. As if seeing a childhood friend once more after years of separation, yet she could not muster any memories to the forefront of her mind. She was just afraid that he would vanish before her very eyes like smoke. An indescribable ache radiated from the centre of her chest and she clutched at the folds of her shirt, bending over with a sharp intake of breath as the emotions seared through her flesh.

"Hey, what—" He pulled her hand away. "What's wrong with you?"

"I-I don't know..." she gasped. "It just—hurts."

"You're hurt? What the hell did those shuckfaces do to you?" He grabbed her shoulders and examined her for injuries.

"No—" She pressed her palm tightly against her sternum. "My heart..."

"Someone get a shucking Med-jack here!" he yelled at the boys in the distance. "She's having a heart attack!"

"What?" somebody yelled back with incredulity.

"Wait, Minho," she called anxiously, fingers grasping at his arm. He was undeniably real and he turned back towards her in confusion. Cassandra looked into his brown eyes, searching for a clue; something, anything. She knew it was there, just beyond her reach. The sound of childish laughter amongst the soft drizzle of rain. Warm hands clasped together under the splatter of a rising dawn. A daisy kissed by the glow of the golden sun.

An electrifing pain suddenly exploded from every darkened corner of her mind and her face crumpled from the strain. It felt like a searing hot knife was twisting through her brain cells, then specks of light erupted in her vision before she blacked out completely. Her body crumpled to the ground.

"Whoa! Oh, man. Hey, you stupid shuck-faced shanks! Someone help this chick out!"

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