Thirteen bolted upright at the sight of a white ceiling. He whirled, taking stock of the near empty room. Apart from the thin mattress and bundle of blankets, nothing accompanied him inside. Where...?

Memories of the recent events flashed back in his head. The fight out in the streets, the soldiers with abilities, Kevan collapsing from overusing his ability, Thirteen rushing to help the boy and paying the price for it. And now, Thirteen woke up in a room.

He might as well be back in the Game. Was he?

Gritting his teeth, he swung his legs off the bed and padded towards the door at the opposite end. The handle cranked with ease. The door opened outward without any resistance. He glanced down, noticing the ultra-large clothes were replaced by a fitting, albeit tasteless, combination of a vest and loose trousers. His boots vanished, reminding him of the coldness of the floor and how it stung the heels and ankles.

The corridor outside resembled the fortress' hallways. For a second, he expected a flurry of people in multi-colored jackets to rush across in a mindless dash. Instead, silence greeted him, along with the faint smell of corn soup and freshly-baked bread. What was that about? Most importantly, where were the others?

His finger reached his ears, determined to revive the comms stuck to it. The tips touched skin. No softbuds waited for him on either side. He patted himself down, searching for any sign of pockets or nooks he might have deposited miniscule things. Nothing. The trousers were only concerned in covering his lower half, and his vest lost all its sensibilities. What were these good for, then?

A curse flitted out of his lips, vanishing into the stale corridor air in weak hisses. He needed to find them, and fast. They didn't have a lot of time, and Jacqueline might not be in New York anymore by the time they get out of here. That was, if they get out of here. He didn't even know where in the world this was. Were they still in Paris? Back in Venice or Geneva? What if Primeva brought them into remote areas far, far away from where they needed to go?

This wouldn't do. He has to keep moving. His bare feet thumped over the immaculate marble floor in quiet scratches. The corners of the hall watched him from all angles, each one mounted with camera lenses. He glanced straight into one, daring The Corrector, or whoever was watching, to come out and deal wiht Thirteen themselves. Would it be guards? An invitation for tea time? Or would it be The Corrector, himself, opening the floor for negotiation?

That ass could present their terms all they wanted. Thirteen would never agree with what Primeva had to say. They lost all their right to express their thoughts and values as a company as soon as they started harming innocent human lives. Maybe even more, if their patent technologies in animal and plant science prove to be nothing but crap. The Founding Chip, at least, proved to be real. Thirteen wouldn't be here if it wasn't.

He tramped east with the other way leading to a dead end. Overhead, bright pinlights guided his way. Was it still day time or had the moon risen long after the sky plunged into darkness? How long was he out? Were they even in the same century?

A wide space opened up at the end of the corridor, depositing him into a disarray of tables, metal stairs, and cubby holes punched through every floor, leading to more winding corridors. What was this place, and why did Primeva felt the need to stuff them here? Were the others in the same facility?

Black-clad guards were absent in the ground floor nor in any other rungs guarding the walkways in higher floors. Not like they were unsupervised. Like the Game, there would be eyes everywhere, watching from the veils of anonymity and mystery. He just has to find one and exploit the bigger system.

He craned his neck to the ceiling, or at least, a version of it. The floors appeared to go on forever, climbing higher and higher until it converged to a white point in the horizon. If a facility stood as tall as this, shouldn't it be known to the entire world, including what it contained? Primeva couldn't keep it quiet for long. Unless it wasn't on the surface, but rather, beneath it.

"Markel! You're here too!" Jocasta's voice speared across the floor, garnering his attention towards a table hidden between a host of other busy ones. A pale hand followed by her white hair bobbed in and out of the line of colorful heads. He glanced at the slew of faces he wouldn't ever remember, noting how they were dressed alike. Eventually, he made it to the table and sank into the empty space deliberately left for him. His shoulder brushed against a boy with wild, pale blond hair, glum, sunken eyes, and thin lips.

"The last thread of luck," Alon muttered underneath his breath, picking on a yellowish goop on his plate. His chin rested on his palm. He didn't have his headphones. Did Primeva think he'd use those to break out of the facility? Not him. Thirteen had the best chance of making out here with a toothpick. "We're in the same place, and then, what? Primeva has us, anyway."

Ji-yeon, with her hair stuck in a tight bun, frowned from beside him. "We owe it to Slate and Dishari to keep going," she said. "We're close to bringing them down. We can't stop now."

The boy beside Thirteen snorted, his hair barely obscuring the manic smirk on his lips. "I'm sorry to butt in, but you're doing what?" He chuckled. "Primeva must be laughing on their bed of roses watching you say that with such conviction."

Ji-yeon glared at the boy. "Who are you supposed to be?"

Thirteen had to give it to her with her English turning out better when she was pissed. The other people on the table ignored their exchange, carrying on their mindless chatter or staring balefully at their goop. The boy hummed, extending his hand towards their midst. "Noak Summers," he said. "I'm from Trial 01920."

"Three trials away," Thirteen blurted, gaining the Noak's attention. "We are from the twenty-third."

Seeing a more sensible option for a conversation other than a glaring girl, Noak turned to Thirteen. "Are you all escapees?" the boy asked. "Either you're really lucky or really crafty to pull that off."

Thirteen shrugged. "How about both?" he replied. "What is an escapee?"

Noak bit the inside of his cheek. "Those who escaped the Game without winning," he said. "None of us here wanted to die, so we searched for clever ways to get out. Didn't you do that as well?"

"A version of it," Jocasta jumped in when Thirteen whirled to her for help. He understood what Noak said, but the words ran out in his head. "Markel got us to stop fighting and look for a way out of the Game. Together."

"Huh," Noak breathed. "It wasn't everyday we get inmates with that story. And we get a lot of inmates."

Alon looked up from his plate and glared at the boy. "You seem to know a lot about all of this," he said. "What's your deal?"

Noak rolled his shoulders. "Three trials away is a long time to learn all you can about the world you're recycled into," he said. "Most of them came from the earlier inmates who have been here forever. Most had already died, either by Primeva's hands or natural causes. Fights tend to break out in this place easily, and your ability has to fit into the schema that has developed. It's stupid, if you ask me."

Ah, a society has formed within the walls of this prison. The story continued in the same way—the oppressed rose up through the ranks to become the oppressor. Shouldn't they focus their energy on breaking out with their abilities instead of staying underneath Primeva's thumb like leashed dogs?

"I know that look." Noak's eyes never left Thirteen's face after all. How long was this boy staring, and what did he see in Thirteen's face? "You're wondering why none of us dared to escape this facility when we had the guts to escape the Game before."

He leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his palms. "Simple," he said, fingers tapping discordant rhythms against his cheeks. "Some of us tried, and we didn't like how it ended up. Word travels fast in this metal bubble."

"What will happen?" Jocasta interjected.

Noak stuck a lip out. "A few years back, someone from the earlier trials went through a phase, breaking out into a mad dash towards the restricted elevators. The walls started shooting him, and when the guards arrived, they flayed his body with electric shocks until his brain burst. Rumor has it that his blood remained on the floor where it happened. A neat reminder for those of us who are planning to attempt something."

That might not be true, concocted by Primeva just to scare the inmates into submission. Or maybe it did happen, just overinflated and told over and over such that some details started changing and rumors took on a different shape. Superstition was possible if enough mouths passed it around.

"Then, why do they stick us here?" Two asked, reminding Thirteen of his presence. His plate sat smoothed out in front of him. Leave it to the boy to avoid wasting food as much as he could. Where would Thirteen get a serving for himself? "They could have killed us back there, when they captured us."

The boy had a point. Those special ops in Venice seemed eager to eliminate them. Did The Corrector get a change of heart? Why?

Noak licked his lips. "Primeva still has use for us," he said. "Pop us into a machine that erases memories, and we'll be good as new. We may have escaped once, but once they're done with the brain-wipe, we'd have nothing to go on. All of us here..." He jerked his chin at the abundance of the crowd around them. "We're simply waiting for our turn."

"What then?" Ji-yeon threw her hand in the air in an exasperated wave. "They clean our brains, but they can't remove our abilities, can they?"

"That's why they slot us into their units anyway," Noak replied. "With a fresh mind, we would be just as good as an ordinary soldier working to advance Primeva's goals."

Thirteen's eyebrows raised. "That was why those soldiers in Paris had remnants of abilities," he said. "It might have been weaker and more subtle, but it's there. I know an enhanced human when I see one."

"What would be the difference with the Game's winners?" Alon scratched his head and shoved a yellow blob into his mouth. Did that come from the soup? What was that?

Noak leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "They are the ones sent across the globe for whoever needed topnotch security detail. Politicians, world governments, intelligence offices, celebrities—you name it. They didn't have their memories wiped, but they chose to serve Primeva anyway," he said. "There have been defectors, and they were booted here the minute they showed the slightest doubt in what they're doing. The cycle goes on."

"And they have been doing this since the 50s?" Jocasta breathed. "Talk about dedication."

"This is where they get their money from," Noak answered. "With this kind of project, it will literally fall onto their laps. Or rather, in Jean Jacques Shaw's lap."

Thirteen whirled to Noak at the sound of the name. "He was really the owner?"

Noak looked at Thirteen as if he was asked if he had a tail. Well, with that face, maybe he had one. "I don't know what rock you're living under, man," he said. "His family had been doing this for years. They're basically an empire. It's a wonder his daughter decided to disappear and make a run for it. Good for her."

"You mean Jacqueline Shaw?" Jocasta perked up.

The blond boy nodded. "Though, after what her father did to her, I don't really blame her." An air of question hung in the air, forcing Noak to continue on that thought. "Some of the older batches told us Jacques performed an enhancement on her. On his own daughter. Sick, right?"

"Very," Alon whispered, having been shocked into silence.

Thirteen's mind went back to what Declan Conway said. Jacqueline disappeared from the public eye for years at a time, and when she returned, the people around her almost didn't recognize her. As if she had become a different person. As if she wasn't quite Jacqueline Shaw anymore. And after each disappearance, she became less and less of that girl. So when she disappeared for real, who's to say those sightings were real and not some impostors looking for their five minutes of fame? How in the world would they track someone going by the name of a long-dead girl?

And how did that strange girl in Montrouge know about Jacqueline, seeing as she called their target in her obsolete name? What was she doing in Paris, despite clearly not being from anywhere near France?

"Did you travel a lot before Primeva captured you?" Thirteen asked aloud.

Noak flicked his gaze towards the ceiling. "A bit, yeah," he said. "Why do you ask?"

Thirteen grinned. Let him hope it was more of a friendly countenance rather than a conniving kind. "What is the most ideal route to New York?"