I gasp awake, taking in huge gulps of air. My body jolts upright on a cold metal table as pain shoots through my lungs. With blinding amounts of effort, I groan, my voice echoing through the room. The sound intensifies in the pounding silence. Already a headache begins to form behind my temples, beating into my skull like a hammer.

I crane my neck, looking around the harshly-lit room. The area is completely empty besides for myself and the table I'm laying on. I squint in confusion. The room is foreign to me.

"What the heck?" I mumble under my breath. My voice strains because of the aches in my body. I look around the room again before carefully touching my sore ribs. I can barely tap them without my hands shaking. They hurt so bad.

I writhe at the pain, laying back against the cold table again. Everything bone hurts and stabs and suffocates me. I breathe in a few shallow breaths of sterile air, the effort unbearable. What on Earth is going on with me? Where's my apartment? Where's my SkyTrain?

Recollections of the Train accident flood my mind, but they don't explain why I'm in an unfamiliar room. As the table freezes my backside, I try to remember how I got here or why.

My mind wanders. Maybe I should just slide my eyes close and drift away into an eternal sleep, forgetting I ever woke up here... but where is everyone? My ribs throb in empty response. I know I need a doctor, yet no one is here with me. Unjustified fear pounds through my chest. I soon realize I can't fall asleep... I'm too scared.

I shiver against the table. Slowly sitting up again, I skim my thumb across my clothing: a skimpy hospital gown paired with my bare feet. Maybe this is a hospital? Something deep inside me flutters like a nervous butterfly. This must be some kind of a sick dream. There's no way this is real.

I lug my legs over one side of the table, my back and ribs igniting. I pant again, digging my nails into my palms. I've never been in this much pain before, and it makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. Once the flares of pain settle down, I feel my heartbeat pumping in my ears. The lack of sound is tortuous, threatening.

A chilling voice shatters the silence of the room. "Welcome to the Enhancement Project," the voice draws out.

"W-What?" I say. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, warning me to run but I know I can't. I hurt so much I can't move, can't breathe. The eerie voice continues its speech as I search the room for a nonexistent exit. I'm afraid of everything, even my own injured body.

"Your compulsory assessment will begin now."

Compulsory assessment? I think stupidly, wasting valuable time I didn't know I had. The wall in front of me shifts to transparency. My insides twitch when I see who's strapped to a table behind it, crying.

Nicolette. I immediately leap off of the table, gasping hard as adrenaline speeds up my heart rate. "No, no, no! No! Nicolette! Nicolette, no!" I'm half-yelling at her terrified figure.

I panic. My legs buckle underneath me as I throw my weight onto them, but I somehow manage to stumble across the room, hollering in pain. I beat against the glass window, calling Nicolette's name, but she doesn't see me. Nicolette pinches her eyes shut, attempting to keep her tears under control. Every muscle I move to get Nicolette's attention feels like concrete blocks crashing on top of me. My effort levels drains away, and I barely keep from collapsing on the ground.

The eerie voice returns. "Opening gas vents."

A yellowish gas releases from the two floor vents near Nicolette's table. The gas swirls through the air, curling and churning. I punch the glass with my fists, screaming louder and louder. The gas fills the room without hesitation. As Nicolette opens her eyes, the first wave of gas touches her skin. A scream from the back of her throat pierces my ears.

This isn't a dream. This is inhumane torture so real I can hardly believe it. My knees weaken.

Nicolette's voices gains five octaves as she screams, yanking her arms against the restraints. Her breathing becomes more panicked as rashes form on her skin, swelling her throat. I want to vomit, but she screams so loudly all I can do is scream back to her and cry. The room fills with gas so thick Nicolette disappears from my view. I bang on the window, fighting the pain while calling her name.

I'm crying so hard I can't breathe. All I can see is the yellow gas pressing against the glass, dense and deadly.

Please Nicolette, please hang in there, I plead. Each of her shouts send a sharp stab into my gut, and I let out a sob. Nicolette screams again, and I screech back for her, more tears arising from me.

"You have two choices," the icy voice says smugly over Nicolette's protests.

"Spit it out!" I yell at the ceiling, my voice catching in my throat.

A section of the wall next to the window slides open to reveal a needle and syringe filled with a clearish liquid. A holographic grid hovers in front of the syringe, protecting it. "Cure your pain or save Number 389?"

"W-What?" I exhale in disbelief. What kind of choice is that? My answer leaves my mouth immediately as I turn back to the gas-filled room. "Save Nicolette."

The voice doesn't respond nor does the gas clear out. The stupid speakers are taking their time on purpose. I turn to the ceiling and yell, "Get rid of the gas!"

"Opening ventilation ducts."

The yellow gas quickly leaves the room, revealing Nicolette's stiff body. Her skin is covered in fiery rashes and pustules, parts of her face and throat swollen. The sight is barbaric, and I begin to feel nauseous. I weakly bang on the glass again, calling Nicolette's name. She doesn't move.

"Wrong choice," the voice says. "You have failed your compulsory assessment." The compartment with the syringe seals shut, and the swish of a larger door behind me opens in response. I spin around to face people in full-out lab coats and gas masks rushing into the room, heading straight for me.

I scream, swinging my right fist at one of the masks, knocking him off-balance for a second. Another man punches me hard in the gut, forcing the air right out of my lungs and setting my ribs on fire. I hunch over in pain, gasping for air as my vision fails me.

The hazmat workers pin me to the table as I fight their grip. I protest, straining against the belts and buckles fastening around me. My wrists and ankles are locked down first, then my torso, then my elbows and knees. Screaming loudly, the pain magnifies with every second of clawing and swinging.

"Why-- the heck-- are you doing this?" I scream. The masks ignore me, filling my nostils with the smell of latex gloves. One worker locks a belt beneath my chin while another lifts a briefcase from the floor, opening it with a click. "Let me go! This is illegal!"

I growl between my teeth as the latex hands adjust my restraining belts. The loose belt around my neck is yanked tight. I stare at the ceiling, trying to remain sane as my eyes water in surrender. What's going on? And why? Why is this happening to me?

I turn my head to watch a third gas mask slide a needle-and-syringe device out of the briefcase's padding. Black liquid fills the syringe, and somehow I know it will kill me. I yank harder against the belts, keeping my eyes on the syringe. "Let me go! You can't do this to me!"

Fear builds in the pit of my stomach as I panic and strain against fate. I let out a desperate cry for them to stop as I wrestle the belts.

"Hold still, Number 400," a masculine voice commands. All six gas masks rush around the table, hovering over me and grasping my arms with their gloves. I try to pull my arms out of their grip, but their spidery fingers refuse to loosen. The man with the syringe switches on his device. The needle vibrates, sloshing dark liquid within its container.

I scream at the top of my lungs, protesting and crying and holding on for dear life. I am the next Nicolette, and I will die, this time from the black poison instead of yellow gas.

"Stop! Someone help me!" I rasp, air draining from my weak lungs, "I'm going to die, help me! Stop them!"

The syringe bends towards my wrist, and its needle grazes my skin. I scream, the pain too unbearable. I can't keep the tears from running down my face and staining my skin. "Please stop! Someone help me! Please!"

But no one rescues me. For what feels like hours, the hazmat workers draw on my wrists with the syringe, ignoring my pleas for them to stop. I fight their intents the entire time, spitting profanities as they pretend I'm mute. Tears dry stiffly on my cheeks in thin streams, reminding me I'm still human. There's still hope; I'm not dead. I just have to think.

When the suited men finally finish their task, they stare at me with greedy satisfaction. I glare at them with sudden fury.

"What's wrong with you people?" I yell at them, my skin stinging and my ribs igniting, "Let me go, you evil psychos!"

The blur of a glove hits me in the face, and my grunt echoes around the room. Hot pain inflames my cheek.

"Enough from you, 400," the worker growls. "Enough!"

The six masked people roll the table out of the room, pushing me down a maze of skinny halls. I merely half-resist their control, the punch combined with my injured ribs crippling me.

Refusing to surrender, I attempt to topple the table, failing miserably at doing so. My ribs hurt too much when I shift my weight, and I'm crying too hard to focus. I dizzily keep track of all the left and right turns the table makes, counting seven of them. The workers stop in the middle of a hallway, a part of the wall drifting open. The vertical movement of the door reminds me of my apartment window at... home. Home. A new type of pain lights up inside me.

The masked men quickly dump me into the tiny pale room, pushing me off the table when they unshackle me. I fall face-first onto the ground with another painful burst of my ribs. I thrash on the cold floor as the door locks shut.

Crawling to the nearest wall and sitting against it, I fold my legs to my chest and stare blankly ahead of me. Why is this happening? And why me? I think, not bothering to wipe wet streams from my eyes. My neck itches from the belts, irritating my temper.

"Oh, another inmate," a relaxed voice says from my right. I leap out of my skin, turning towards a brown-haired teenage boy. He laughs lightly at my expression, unaffected by my fear. From his seat on the floor, he scoots closer to me. I freeze, eyes wide.

The boy makes a sudden grab for my wrist, grasping it between his fingers. I yelp in pain, commanding him to let go, but he doesn't. With a few jerks, he turns my wrist over with both his hands. His pointer finger rests right below a "400" inked into my reddened skin. He taps it twice before letting me pull my arm away.

"Nice to meet you, too, Number 400," the boy says sarcastically.

I give him a crazed look, my mouth open in disbelief. "Are you insane?" I say as accusingly as I can, clearing my scratchy throat.

"No," he replies with a simple grin. His eyes linger on my neck, and I brush my fingers along the itchy marks the belts left behind on my throat. They're more visible than I though they'd be.

"Be careful, 400," the boy says. "Next time they won't bother fighting you. They'll kill you instead."

-- -- -- -- --
okay, so that escalated quickly. but admit it, you're curious and want answers. luckily the next chapter is right here -->

meanwhiles, i just can't even right now. i just-- wow. this chapter was intense. what were your reactions at what parts of the chapter? every comment is a vote to save holland from an imminent death-- JUST KIDDING! gosh, you make me sound like a murderer...