《A Different Day, Another Cage》

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Central Sector, Upper Level - The Brights

The Capitol building might as well change its name to Facility 2.0 given all the damned similarities between the two. They both toted stark, white walls with long, meandering corridors but where the Facility was designed to be bleak, in hope of stamping out any daydreams its occupants might have had of escape, the Capitol is meant to be an architectural masterpiece, melding modernity with an old-world sense of elegance.

For me, the effect of either place is the same - a breakout of hives and mild diarrhea coupled with a shitload of seething rage.

They don't call us hostages, though, since we're not allowed to leave,  that's what we are. We've been branded liabilities inside the Capitol's walls, and as such we're to be escorted everywhere we go, much like in the Facility. Our guards are Militia, donning full garb -  black cargo pants, matching turtlenecks. They're noticeably lacking any weaponry, and AA-loaded visors, to better perpetrate the lie that we're valued visitors and not prisoners, but I've seen what they pack in their thigh satchels - enough yards of razor wire to decapitate a herd of cows.

I think the precautions taken with us are stupid, and I've voiced those concerns, loudly, during mandatory group therapy. The Capitol is outfitted with a labrythine network of cameras and bugs. If Sin took a massive dump on the opposite side of the building into one of the metallic fiscus planters, there'd be at least three cameras capturing the whole thing real-time while a bug recorded any accompanying audio. But as the Potentials, we're seen as things needing protection. Mostly, from ourselves.

After six days of captivity, I'm about ready to pull my hair out and bolt for the door, no matter how futile an escape effort would be. But I've kept it together this long, I could do so for a few more hours. After this therapy session comes to an end, we'll be expected to present our choice to the Council. Later today, some of us would be draped in the gauzy, white robes of Future Councilors and swear fealty to the FUA. The rest of us would face expulsion.

I feared some of us might choose the Council. After all, though these therapy sessions were conducted under the guise of helping us adjust to life after having lived among wanted terrorists for several months, I knew it for what it was: aside from killing me slowly from boredom, each session was just a way for the Council to spew more of their rhetoric at us.

We were told if we accepted re-entry into the Liar program, we would be absolved from our sins. Our hands would be wiped clean of any blood that may have stained them. This line of talk seemed to spark something inside Lilly and she'd asked the doctor about it who'd insisted, "Blood spilled with purpose could never be considered a sin."

I worried some of my fellow cockroaches might trade carapace and antennae for the gilded thrones and gold embellishments of an FUA councilor. Exchange one pile of shit for another.

"Allison?"

I fold my arms over my chest in an effort to find some semblance of comfort while my ass cheeks hang over the edges of the plastic nuisance of a chair and the double-breasted blazer chases the breathe from my lungs. I lean forward, hoping the fabric will split and I'll have that long-awaited moment of relief, but the fabric's expensive, thick. It wouldn't catch fire, much less tear. Would-be Councilor attire. Truly, the best of the goddamned best.

I shove two fingers between my throat and the starched collar of the cream blouse I'm wearing underneath the blazer, and tug.

"Allison," Dr. Aronson says again. "Stop fiddling with your uniform."

Sweat runs down my face, despite the air whistling through the overhead vents. I sigh and withdraw my fingers, accepting defeat.

In lieu of a pen and clipboard, the doctor taps her feet against the marble floor to punctuate her annoyance.

I lean back in my chair. "Wish you'd stop calling me that," I say, bunching up the hem of my skirt. My knees make a sound akin to velcro being unstuck as I pull them apart.

The doctor snorts. "Calling you what?"

"Dont't play oblivious. You know that's not my name."

The guards standing watch at the door shift their guns from their left to cradle them against their right. They grimace as sweat drips into their eyes, darkening circles spreading around their necks and under armpits. It must be miserable wearing the complete military-issued uniform in a room with an underperforming AC, but if you sided with bastards, guess you got what you deserved.

The leather seat Dr. Aronson has shoved herself into for today's session, gives a little squelch as she shifts her weight. With a fat finger, she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her cheeks flush.

The little amount of lip she has, pulls into a line. "I couldn't help but notice you're not wearing your FUA pin." She moves her legs, which sounds like someone wrenching apart two greased up hams, before crossing one over the other. "This is the third time this week." She straightens and heaves her enormous bosom forward, her blouse's buttons pushed to their limits. Tujo's eyes bulge at the sight. If he were any more obvious, drool would be hanging off his chin in thin, glossy strings. Lilly would usually reprimand his behavior with a quick jab to the ribs or gut, but she keeps her gaze on Aronson, hopeful, enraptured.

The doctor clears her throat, the universal sign she wishes to hold my attention again, so I oblige her. "Gold was never my thing," I say, shrugging despite the discomfort the movement lodges between my shoulder blades. "Always seemed best suited to adorn small-dicked men and withered, empty women." I nod at the gold necklace looped around her thick neck.

She grimaces and shakes her head, a grouping of veins writhing under the skin of her neck like dying maggots. Sixty-some years of frown lines sharpen across her forehead and around her mouth, each one an extension of her irritation. The laminated ID badge, featuring a sour-faced her in profile, swings from the lapel of her lab coat.

Sighing, Aronson, folds her hands on her lap, and begins to talk, her words little more than air being leaked from a tire what with how pursed her mouth is. "Lashing out today, too?" She smooths a few strands of uneven fringe out of her eyes. "You're always one to redirect. Never want to confront the truth."

"If you're so aware of my MO, why insist on having these pointless meetings? Can't you crawl back to your boss, and when you're done licking his ass, let him know that this shit isn't working?" I kick up my feet and plant them on the glass table in front of me. It looks expensive, much like the rest of this room with all its gold embellishments so I hope my soles are tough enough to give it a few scratches. The holo-player, situated in the table's center, gives a little shake at my added weight. I kick at it with my toe.

 A stretched, upside-down reflection of Dr. Aronson smiles at me from inside the bulbous player which means she was frowning at me, again. "Just because therapy hasn't worked for you yet, doesn't mean the other Potentials don't feel differently."

I gulp as she scans the others, situated in a crescent around the table, opposite me. On the first day of therapy, six chairs had been arranged in a line, all facing the larger doctor's chair. I'd purposely moved mine opposite the others, placing a barricade between myself and them. After Nol--I clench my hands in my lap-- I just couldn't bring myself to...to be near them.

A hiss of breath escapes Aronson's mouth as she drags her fingers along the armrests of her chair. She'd come to hate when I caused our sessions to stagnate.

So, taking the initiative to correct my wrong doing, I slam my heel down on the table, causing the holo-player to jerk upward. Aronson grimaces. Folding my hands behind my head and giving her a smile, I say,"You know, you keep frowning like that and eventually your face will freeze that way. Why look at Marava--" Marava grunts. Quint's got his arm draped over hers, his fingers stroking her gently. Nol had similarly touched me, though nothing ever so brazen and in public, but he'd caressed me, warming my skin where ever his fingers had tread. My skin prickles and suddenly the room feels much colder than before. I'd never have Nol's warmth again. "She scowled so much," I bite my inner cheek, hoping the pain draws me back from the precipice of tears I'm inching toward. That I'm always inching toward every time I think of Nol, which, over the past week, had been every waking moment. "that's just how she is now."

Aronson's upper lip trembles as her eyes narrow on me. I focus on the sparse patches of black hairs dotting her chin and neck. "Allison--" She glares at me from over the tops of her glasses.

I snarl and lurch forward, slamming my fist onto the table. Pain shoots through my wrist and I wince, though I manage to remain focused on Aronson.

Out of the corner of my vision, Lilly recoils, her brother's hand going around her arm and squeezing. Ever since Nol died, they hadn't been able to look at me. My blood boils and I whip my head toward them. "Didn't know you guys aspired to be geologists," I spit.

Lilly's shoulders shake as she raises her head, throwing me a wet, pleading look. "What?" She gnaws on her lower lip. Tujo throws an arm over her and brings her into him. Ever the protector.

"Yeah. What the fuck's that supposed to mean, Allison?" Smug satisfaction causes Tujo to smirk.

Wanting to lessen his bravado, I throw my hands over my head and chuckle. He arches his eyebrows. "It's just," I begin. "that you've both become so interested in the marble here. Always staring at it. Figured it must have awakened a passion in you for rocks. Can't think of another reason why neither of you can look me in the goddamned face--"

Tujo jettisons to his feet. The guards stiffen and step forward. Aronson shoos them back to their post. "You've become such a bitch!" Tujo huffs, his face blotchy and red, like it'd been submerged in liquid fire. "Ever since Nol's accidental dea--"

Lilly tugs on his sleeve. Tujo freezes, mouth agape. His shoulders slump and whatever he'd meant to say next he swallows and returns to his seat.

I set my jaw and lean forward. "Nol was murdered," I say, my voice low. It takes everything I have to temper the anger with which I want to spit my words at him. "By Dove," My insides revolt as something slimy and thick rises in my throat. I swallow and continue. "By the very Council, you can't wait to become part of."

Lilly shifts in her seat, her face flush, as she gropes at the fabric of her jacket.

Aronson raps her fingers across the chair's armrest."There you go again, Allison," she says. "Lashing out because you're unwilling to face your Truth." Dr. Aronson wipes her forehead with the back of her hand before trialing it up to her temple where a small dot sits on her skin. She taps it causing the lone holo-player in the room to flicker to life. A column of light shoots toward the ceiling. "If you can't confront the issue on your own, and refuse to do so here," Dr. Aronson slashes the air in front of her face. "Then I will force you into that confrontation." The beam of light dwindles until it's nothing more than a pinprick hovering an inch above the holo-player's glass eye. "This is for your betterment." Dr. Aronson drags a finger left to right, and the dot of light bursts outward.