THE NEWSROOM | THE SURFACE

3 SECONDS AFTER MY WARNING

SILENCE. AND THEN CHAOS.

I black out as soon as the confession leaves my lips. A warning I pray wasn't cut short.

Pure adrenaline courses through my body as angry hands reach for the shell of me. I feel like I'm watching myself in third person as my entire life implodes. My gaze fixes on Alexander's arctic stare behind the cameras, an eerie shadow slicing his features in half.

I force a mocking grin, a surge of pride adding a degree of authenticity to my expression. Alexander signals to his goons with a single wave of his hand and they propel me forward, the force making me nauseous. I'm ushered to the foyer of the building, a steel mobile prison awaiting my arrival just outside.

He saunters my way, a look of disappointment painted on his face. "You were my prodigy," he whispers. "A brilliant mind wasted by your sympathy." The word drips off his tongue as if toxic to his health just by speaking it.

A character trait he would do well to try on every once in a while.

Being this close in proximity to Alexander gives me Deja Vu. I've forced myself to forget my affiliation with him. He's put on this persona for the past few years, striking fear when he can into everyone on the Surface just to push his own agenda. Unfortunately, he's managed to rise in position and is the one person who holds hundreds of lives in his hands.

And the rest of us? Just accessories to his perfect crime.

His eyes analyze me thoroughly, lips pulled into a thin line. I search for any sliver of humanity in the golden pools of his irises, but to no avail. The boy I once knew is lost. It takes me a moment to find my words.

"Helping you experiment on people wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I started studying science." We were so close then, two kids in love with discovering how the world works. But when tragedy strikes, there are two effects it can have on a teenager.

Mourn and move on... Or spend the rest of your life trying to get even. Alexander made his choice and hasn't looked back since. And I couldn't do anything to save him. A chilling smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth and I get the feeling that I'm right where he wants me.

"And you think lying to those poor souls every broadcast kept your little hands clean? I'm excited to report that your research has been oh-so-instrumental in the progression of Project Bunker. The Chemical was finally synthesized last night, so we're right on schedule."

My head spins at this news and I find it hard to remain steady on my feet, even with my arms in the grasp of his guards. "How did you get my research?"

He chuckles at my question, giving me the confirmation I feared. "Our little rendezvous wasn't what you thought it was." With that, he snaps his fingers and I'm being pushed forward again, headed straight toward the van that holds my fate.

Alexander opens the back doors himself, eyes burning a hole in my heart as I'm forced to take a seat. "I never should've trusted you," I scoff. He is no longer Alexander True to me, but another person entirely. One so blinded by their sorrow that he can't see the harm he's causing. For a moment, I swear his expression softens. But it's all a facade.

"I'll admit, you're right about that. But there is one thing you're sadly mistaken about. That little announcement you made did nothing to stop my plans. Enjoy your ride," he chirps, observing his nails with his eyes as cold as ever.

And just like that, I'm left to wrestle with my thoughts.

Although I've been the reporter of the so-called war, I've never actually been that in the know. I've been fed every word of every report I've ever given. Whether I believed what I was speaking didn't matter. I had a job to do. But I couldn't stand the lies anymore. I couldn't stand by while Alexander attempted to find closure for his grief in the worst way, and at the expense of hundreds of innocent lives.

His words ring in my head as if playing through a loudspeaker. You think lying every broadcast kept your hands clean? What hurt the most about his question was that it confirmed what I'd already realized. Confirmed the motive for my warning moments earlier.

That I am no more innocent than him, or anyone else involved in Project Bunker. Reinforcing the lies—and convincing myself that they were true—is just as manipulative. I push flashes of the nightmare from my mind, focusing on the little details in front of me.

My wrists are tied together with translucent cuffs, an electric blue current running through them every few minutes. The same reinforcements hug my torso, disappearing into the wall of the van on either side of me. I'm surrounded by pure white marble, a stark contrast to the steel.

There are empty seats on either side of me and a screen spanning the length of the cabin sits at eye level. At first, I can't seem to understand the letter combinations flashing off and on the screen. Then, I remember where Alexander and I first met. I remember our first love.

Science.

Suddenly, the foreign language before me becomes much clearer. In the midst of what appears to be a random sequence, a few repeated combinations jump out at me.

AR-COTIV

Ar stands for Argon. As soon as it clicks, my mind begins calculating the code on autopilot. Argon's atomic number is eighteen. Next is Cobalt, with an atomic number of twenty-seven. Titanium is twenty-two and Vanadium is twenty-three.

18. 27. 22. 23.

I cycle through the numbers in my head, the last piece of the puzzle falling into place. He knew making the hyphen what it meant to be would be far too obvious. A decimal. Perhaps they're coordinates. In fear of losing momentum, I lock onto the next combination, finally putting my memorization of the periodic table to good use.

BA-BEACOS

Barium. Beryllium. Actinium. Osmium. 56. 4. 89. 76. The last sequence I see is all too familiar, a word Alexander made up to commemorate the inception of the System. The day that the supposed war began. The lie that I've been upholding for a decade, and just barely purged my soul from.

LACARU

Lanthanum. Calcium. Ruthenium. 57, 20, 44. May 7, 2044. He's mocking me, knowing it would only be a matter of time before my analytical tendencies would get the best of me. Calling me the author of the deceit. As if on cue to my revelation, the screen goes black, an image of a map stretching before me seconds later.

The inner city is far behind us now, a red pulsing dot moving steadily along a singular road. We're headed straight for a large building of some sort, notated by a square. My head pounds at the anticipation, Alexander's unpredictable nature lighting a fire in me.

I need to get out of here. And fast.

I shift my weight and lean forward as far as I can in an attempt to break free. To my surprise, the pressure against my waist cuff sends a violent shock through my body. Stars dance across my vision and a whimper of pain escapes my throat through gritted teeth.

A deep chuckle from the front of the van pulls me back to reality. They must know I tried escaping. I scan the area again, eyes darting back and forth in search of my saving grace. And then I see it. The cuffs around my wrist are joined by a small metal device fashioned in the shape of a curved x. On either side are positive and negative symbols that tell me all I need to know.

The cuffs are using electrochemistry, like a battery. And so is the waistband.

I take a closer look at the dormant handcuffs in the seat to my right, praying that this works. I manage to pin the metal between two of my fingers, pulling it closer to my body and flipping it to the side with the negative charge. I clamp my eyes shut, exhaling the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding before slamming it against the translucent waistband around me.

Just as I'd hoped, the negative charge interrupts the force field before shorting it out completely. I'm free.

I bolt for the doors of my prison and ram my shoulder into the doors. The force pushes the inactivated cuffs into my own, setting my wrists free as I tumble onto the open road. I holler in pain, pebbles of gravel embedding themselves into my skin. My ankle pulsates and a tingling sensation creeps up my leg, but there's no time to assess my injuries.

The horizon stretches before me, the inner city just a picture from a postcard. I weigh my options, adrenaline coursing through my veins with every desperate step. Heading back to my apartment simply isn't an option. The building is probably crawling with Administration Officials, and I shudder at the breach of my privacy that I'm sure Alexander is enjoying.

Heading to the labs would be risky. Alexander's words play aloud in my head for the second time. Our little rendezvous wasn't what you thought it was. Retrieving my research and destroying the Chemical he's getting ready to release on the Bunkers would be a losing game. I'd be dead before I could reach the second floor.

Tires screech behind me and the engine of the van roars in anger. They're coming back for me and there's only one place I have left to go. A place I've been hyper-aware of all my life, but never actually visited myself. A place, I realize, that I'm only yards away from.

The Bunker.

I remember the first time I visited the entrance like it was yesterday. I'd just finished my broadcast, and a colleague invited me to ride along to witness the ration delivery. For some odd reason, I was nervous. Nervous to see the process used to keep the people beneath the surface alive. If that's what we could call it.

I spent the drive recalling the names I'd memorized from the files in the lab. A handful of faces were burned into my imagination, unwilling acquaintances whenever talk of the bunkers would come up. At the time, I saw nothing wrong with the way the world worked.

Nothing wrong with the position Alexander had secured in the system. At the time, we were closer than ever. I was the only one with complete access to him. Complete access to the boy I once knew. But it was short-lived.

It was five years into my reporting career. Five years of denying the offer he'd bring to me every day. Join me. We can make the world a better place. It was his lifelong dream. But little did either of us know his true intentions. When his parents were taken from him, that was the last straw. The event that caused him to take his mask off and show the world who he really was.

Show me. A snake who finally shed his skin.

I snap out of my daydream, locating the clear cylindrical entrance to the bunkers feet ahead of me. The van is still on my heels, closing in with every passing moment.

Five. I steal a glance behind me, meeting the gaze of a familiar face. It can't be.

Four. My mind reels, wondering when he replaced the soldier in the driver's seat. His snake eyes burn with fury. His gaze doesn't falter, focused on the prey that's been in front of him for years.

Three. I run into the glass cylinder, frantically searching for the translucent keypad that will grant me access. Access to the very place I've kept running. To the people I've kept in captivity.

Two. A faint chirp alerts me of the keypad's location. I push my thumb against the screen and rush inside, the break in the glass disappearing just as quickly as it appeared.

One. The snake readies his fangs, prepared to sink his teeth into the mouse before him. To suck the life out of it once and for all. Before he strikes, I kneel, pressing my thumb against the rusted metal trapdoor beneath me. With another chirp, I'm given an escape, engulfed in darkness before the snake's venom reaches my bloodstream.

⏳

PAIN.

It's the first thing that greets me as I drop ten feet to the dirt floor below. I scream in agony, the fire welcoming me to the very place I visit every night. I blink rapidly, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness I'm sitting in. If I've learned anything about Alexander True in the past hour, it's that he'll do whatever it takes to go through with his project.

Anything to avenge his parents. Anything to hurt me.

But I know he wouldn't come down here alone. Calculating the distance from the bunkers to the inner city and back, I figure I've got about ninety minutes before all hell breaks loose. I help myself to my feet, gripping one of the ladder rungs I failed to use upon entry. My first few steps send lightning bolts through my legs, the adrenaline beginning to wear off.

I try my best to ignore it, realizing that this is as far as I planned ahead. As far as I could, given the situation. As I reach an intersection, the hallway before me becomes bathed in a red glow, an alarm sounding above me. Off in the distance, I can hear shrieks of fear, the symphony propelling me forward.

I make my way toward the screams, a large red number painted onto the right wall stopping me in my tracks. A knot forms in the pit of my stomach, a chilling realization washing over me. I'm staring at the number I've seen in my nightmares. In the one I had just last night.

17.

Without a second thought, I turn in place, the doorway sitting on the opposite wall leading to the room I visited just twenty-four hours ago. The first thing I notice is the wall full of yellowed pages. Every detail I discover after that sends chills down my spine.

The stacks of books and videotapes precariously stacked on the desk. The rusted lamp guarding the room. The unmade bed in the corner.

Beyond the screams rising and falling in the halls of the bunker behind me, I'm focused on the last detail that will confirm this is the room. The room from my nightmare. I walk over to the wall slowly, almost afraid of uncovering what I know to be true.

The first line I read causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand in alarm.

I dream of sunlight on my hungry skin

I waste no time searching for the two words that address me by name. It only takes a second to find them. And then, I skip to the bottom of the page, a luxury I didn't have in the nightmare because of the explosion. It finally gives me an idea of whose room this is.

Of who's been writing to me the entire time.

A name and face I can finally connect the dots to.

Ezra Grey.