Between Two Worlds
Is it time to die?

The stark expanse of the corridor stretches before me, its alabaster surface gleaming under the harsh lights. Dragged along its length, my attention was anchored to my brother, rendering me blind to the unfolding panorama ahead. Encased within this sterile passage are numerous chambers, partitioned by transparent barriers. A quick count reveals at least five, but the hallway’s considerable length hints at more hidden beyond my sight.

Each transparent division is marked by a solitary figure, their faces pressed against the cool surface. These are the other women, the so-called fortunate chosen by the lottery. Their expressions are a mosaic of despair: some etched with sorrow, others twisted in rage, and a few resigned to their fate. I watch as fists pound against the unyielding walls and mouths move in silent pleas or curses—no sound escapes their confines, confirming my fear of their soundproof nature.

Isolation is to be my new reality, severed from any semblance of human connection for an indeterminate future. The thought chills me more than the clinical coldness of my surroundings.

My reverie is shattered by the approach of Ghemin soldiers, their presence slicing through the corridor’s oppressive silence. Each is armed with a weapon that speakes of finality—a laser gun with deadly intent. Their measured steps echo ominously, a grim reminder of the control they wield over us all.

I can see the soldiers stopping outside of the room across from mine. One soldier pushes some numbers on a keypad outside of the room, there is a few seconds delay and then the door slides open. A different soldier marches into the room and a few seconds later, marches out, with a tight grasp on the poor occupant’s arm. I watch as they march her down the hall and then out of sight.

I turn away, and slide down the wall, to a seated position. The walls start to feel like they are closing in, again, so I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. Nope. That doesn’t help, either. I turn around and look back out the clear wall. Movement, from a room not far from me, catches my eye. I turn and see a young woman who appears to be my age, waving and mouthing something. Her hair is dark and stringy like she hasn’t had a bath in weeks. Her eyes are round, brown, and full of fear. I watch her lips moving for a while before I figure out what she is trying to say.

“Help me. I don’t want to die.” she mouths over and over.

With a heavy heart, I close my eyes and let out a weary sigh, acknowledging the stark reality that there’s no salvation I can offer her. My own predicament binds me, leaving me powerless and adrift in hopelessness. When my eyes flutter open once more, I consciously steer my gaze away from her, an act of self-preservation in this bleak environment.

Time trudges on, and within the span of an hour, the Ghemin soldiers return. My heart sinks as I observe them halt before the room of the girl with unkempt hair. She recoils in terror, but her fear is no shield against them; they soon have her in their grasp, dragging her down the corridor without mercy. As they near my room, she extends a trembling hand towards the transparent barrier, her fingers trailing a poignant streak across its surface. What hope did she harbor that I could intervene?

Neither girl makes their way back to their quarters, which only serves to deepen the well of questions within me. What fate befalls them at the hands of the Ghemin? Do they endure torment for these soldiers’ twisted amusement, or is their demise swift and merciful? The day wears on, marked by the relentless procession of girls being taken by the Ghemin until, inevitably, they stand before my door.

Panic surges through me as I instinctively retreat from the wall, pressing myself into the furthest corner of my cell in a futile desire to vanish into oblivion. But escape is not within my grasp. Instead, I’m confronted by the cold grip of a soldier on my arm, his forceful pull compelling me to move lest I suffer injury. With great reluctance, I step forward, yielding to their control to spare myself further pain.

I ponder my fate, questioning if my end is near. Drug through endless corridors, I desperately seek an escape route. Resignation is not an option; I must attempt to flee. As we approach the main entrance, I muster all my strength to break free, but the guard’s grip only tightens, dragging me beyond the reception. There, the grand display still broadcasts a Ghemin articulating in an unfamiliar tongue. My gaze locks onto the screen as we pass; the image shifts, and the Ghemin’s laughter fills the air. Does he observe me? Is this screen also a window for those beyond? Rumors suggest some screens can transmit as well as receive, allowing observers to view us as if we were mere projections.

“Your time has come, Rayanna,” murmurs a voice, barely a breath yet heavy with finality.

I pause momentarily, my struggles ceasing as I scan my surroundings. The voice seemed to emanate from the colossal screen before me. What on earth? Is he addressing me directly?

“Indeed, it was I. Your demise shall be a spectacle I relish!” the voice booms. It gestures towards me, its laughter escalating into a frenzied cackle.

“Identify yourself! How is it that you know who I am?” I demand, my voice echoing against the screen.

“Silence, deranged one,” chides the Ghemin soldier clutching my arm.

My gaze shifts from him back to the screen, only to find that the Ghemin there no longer seems aware of my presence. It’s as if he’s merely reciting from a script, in a tongue foreign to me. How peculiar. It must be a figment of my stressed mind. Resigned to a fate of madness in my final days, I exhale a heavy sigh.

I am hauled through labyrinthine corridors, each turn a monotonous echo of the last, before being unceremoniously thrust into a vast, sterile chamber awash with blinding luminescence. The omnipresent white assaults my retinas, demanding a painful period of acclimation. Gradually, the starkness ebbs away, and a dreadful realization dawns upon me as my gaze settles upon the chamber’s centerpiece: a Spartan bed, minimalist in design yet sinister in implication, equipped with restraints for wrists, ankles, and head. An involuntary shudder courses through me as I ponder their purpose — a preparatory measure for some insidious procedure, no doubt. My trepidation mounts when my eyes catch sight of a table adjacent to the bed, an ominous array scattered with instruments of precision, their edges catching the light.

I require you to remove your contaminated attire and don the sterile robe,” declares a Ghemin from across the chamber, perched upon a dark rotating seat. His gaze follows me as he pivots. Unlike his peers’ customary slate-hued armor, his garb gleams in alabaster. “We may proceed with simplicity or difficulty; the decision rests with you.”

“My choice is neither; my choice is survival,” I retort, spinning on my heel in a futile attempt to flee. Alas, a duo of Ghemin sentinels block my path, seizing my arms to escort me toward the cot.

“It appears we opt for the arduous route. Your kind baffles me. A century has passed, yet not once has one of you eased our burden.” He averts his gaze briefly. “Disrobe her, attire her in the gown, then secure her.”

“Release me! I refuse to die!” I cry out, thrashing in desperation to break free.

Stripped of dignity, they force the coarse fabric over my head, each movement a battle of wills. I thrash and fight with every ounce of strength, refusing to submit quietly to this undignified end.

“Fear not, for death is not the destination I seek for you. It is in the name of science that we embark on this journey,” declares the Ghemin from the shadows.

A soldier’s grip sends me crashing onto the sterile sheets, pinning me with an iron hold as his comrade secures the bindings. Once they are convinced of my imprisonment, they vanish from my sight, leaving me alone with the sterile tiles above. A chilling thought crosses my mind as I spot a crimson stain above—how did blood ever reach there? But some questions are better left unanswered.

The Ghemin, clad in white, looms over me suddenly. “A minor sting will be all you feel before darkness claims you. With fortune’s grace, dawn’s light will greet your eyes anew. Only a quarter of subjects endure what comes next. Should you join those ranks, a new chapter awaits you. Fortune be with you,” he intones.

A piercing pain lances through my neck, followed by an infernal heat that spreads rapidly. I twist away, desperate to escape the agony. As shadows encroach upon my consciousness, a single hope flickers—that Wolfe might yet find freedom.

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