“Heaven's gates won't open up for me
With these broken wings I'm fallin'
And all I see is you.”

- Nickelback, Savin’ Me

 

            I feel as though I’ve been sleeping for days on end. But really I guess what I’ve been doing can’t exactly be classified as sleeping. What it was is more or less my mind floating somewhere in that midnight void between awake and asleep – blind to reality.

I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s going on. I can hear voices, but only faintly, muffled as though shoved underwater. I am dimly aware of a cold, hard surface pressed to the back of my skull, making my skin ache with the bitter sting of it.

“<NEW TARGETS.>” The cold, metallic voice jars into my consciousness, catapulting my mind from its peaceful state and awaking it to this noise-filled havoc that seems to be raging around me. “<PRIORATIZING…>” I try to force my eyelids open, to seek out the source of this rude, robotic voice that so unkindly woke me from my dream-state, but they are heavy. Oh so heavy…

I finally get one eye open, but I almost immediately flinch and close it again. Bright lights sting my vision, even behind closed eyes. My hands clench into fists, and the bite of my nails digging into my palms steels me to whatever horrible reality may be awaiting me when I open my eyes.

“<PREPARED TO ATTACK.>” The robotic voice again grates against my hearing, causing another visible wince. I slowly and laboriously blink open my eyes, struggling to adjust to the blinding whiteness of the fluorescent lights above me, buzzing sickly. Through a dark miasma of mist and smoke that shades my sight, I can just barely make out several dark, looming forms that seem to be of robotic shape, with a domed head and a single electric blue eye. An instinctive shriek slips out of my lips as I try to sit upright. Try.

But I am unable to. Looking down, I see that around my waist, wrists and ankles are thick brown leather straps that prevent me from moving. Just freaking awesome. I have no idea where I am, and suddenly I’m surrounded by robots and too-bright lights, held down to what looks like a thick metal table. Great…

The robot closest to me says something, and immediately I can tell that it’s not the same robot that spoke before. Alarmed by this – by the fact that there may be another deadly robot nearby – I whip my head frantically about, my vision cut into strips by thick, messy strands of my burnt sienna hair. But I can’t see anything.

Now a different worry enters my mind: am I going crazy? Is this just a vivid dream? Then, when I feel a sharp pinch in my arm and look down, I know it’s real. One of the robots has plunged a long, sharp needle into the sensitive skin on my inner elbow, right into my vein. I scream, more out of fear, and bat frantically at it, eventually forcing it to go away.

I desperately wrack my mind for something – anything – that can explain this. I force myself to go through facts in my head, as we had been taught by the Security Watchers.

My name is Wynter Asben. I am seventeen years old. I live on 115 Anza Street in Truesdale, Miami. It’s the 2nd of January, 2025. And there, I lose my train of thought. My mind is scattered, elsewhere. I scramble to recollect my thoughts, but I am unsuccessful. Mainly because the robot is advancing menacingly on me again, needle in hand. I start to writhe, kicking and screaming as best I can considering my throat feels as though someone massaged it with sandpaper.

Then I remember. Very recently, there was a rule put in place by the Council, the people who lead our country. Miami is really all that’s left of Earth, after the great nuclear war that rocked the world and completely obliterated every other country fourteen times over.

It was a miracle we survived.

The rule the Council put in place is this: at the age of sixteen, each teenager must have a chip implanted in their arm, which signifies their loyalty to the Council. This chip shall be called the Mark.

At first, the rule of the Mark was simply a suggestion, something that would turn a simple citizen into something of a pet for the Council – a Labrador Retriever to do their bidding. It disgusts me. Or, rather, disgusted me. I don’t know what’s going on now, if that rule is even still valid.

There were a lot of rebels. I was one of them – I have been stubborn ever since I was born, my mom told me. Then, when the rebels started not only rebelling against the Mark, but also the Council as a whole, the suggestion became a rule. Everyone had to get the Mark. They thought it would get rid of the rebels.

It only made them stronger.

I was still in the ranks of the rebels, voicing my opinion just as loudly as the others around me, moving like a tide and surging forward as if we wanted to simply knock out the Council. But at that point I was starting to doubt these people. Did I really need to rebel against the Mark? Sure, I didn’t want to be someone’s ‘property’, but still…

My mind whirls, and takes me back to the most recent memory I have other than waking up on this cold, hostile table with nothing but my clothes. And it comes back to me as easily as though it had been only a few minutes ago.

“Mom, what’s going on?” My voice sounds panicked, and it scares even me. My eyes watch furtively as the Security Watchers grab my mother’s and sister’s wrists, wrestling them out of the way as the biggest – and scariest – of them advances on me.

I stumble back, tripping over the debris that rains down around us. The Security Watchers had stormed our house, throwing at least three grenades – I lost count – into our house, destroying not only the kitchen but also at least half of the upper floor. I have no idea why, but basing off the way they seem to be focused on me, I have an odd, sick feeling in my stomach that tells me it has something to do with my rebellion against the Mark.

My mother’s robin’s-egg-blue eyes fix on me, begging me not to fight them as the one Security Watcher grabs my wrist. He has a needle in his hand, and I am immediately clued in – rather harshly – to what is happening.

They are either destroying or forcing the ones who don’t have the Mark to get it. And I am their main target. Why? I don’t know. How has my world come to this? I wish I knew.

The last thing I remember is hearing my mom’s voice calling to me, “Don’t fight it, Wynter! It’ll be fine!” Then the world went black.

I gasp, my eyes – bright blue, like my mother’s – stretching wide as the robots and the glaring white lights swim in and out of focus, black pressing in on the edges of my vision. I start to feel light-headed as I realize; the Council has grown from being a beneficial hierarchy to being a tyranny.

A tyranny that is hell-bent on destroying all the rebels.

Just as I am forcing my confused and rather stressed brain to work, I hear from the dark hallway to my left – which frankly I didn’t notice before – an agonizing wail that is almost as painful as the chilling robotic voice on my hearing. I flinch, but the robots either don’t hear it or they feign ignorance to the desperate howl.

I have never heard anything as distressed as the cry from down the hall, and I am somewhat selfishly flooded with relief as I realize I am not the only rebel here, in this situation.

“<LOST TARGETS.>” I curse under my breath, as the cold robot voice returns, this time with a rather loud, rather harsh vengeance. My head is starting to hurt, but a couple seconds later I am immediately thankful for the mystery machine that keeps talking, for this time it captures the attention of the robots around me. They all simultaneously turn their heads toward the same hallway that a couple seconds ago the scream had come from.

It clicks in my mind that whoever had screamed is the ‘target’ that this robot was talking about. And whoever it is, is probably a rebel. And probably someone I know. That means – much to me chagrin – I am instinctively compelled to save them from the horror that is the Council.

I sigh inwardly, thoroughly fatigued of my situation, though I should have been panicking and screaming in terror. My mom always said that I was usually calm in the face of danger. I am suddenly overcome with a feeling of guilt as I think of my performance earlier when the robot stuck the needle in me. I can tell just by the lack of sting – which is a symptom everyone who got the Mark recounted – that I pushed it away in time that it was unable to transfer the chip.

I slip off the bonds around me – they were too big anyway – and slide off the table while the robots continue to stare unenthusiastically down the hall, making small, symmetric whirring noises. They don’t hear me as I sneak past them; my small size gives me the advantage of light feet and a natural swiftness. I’ve never really noticed it nor used it to my advantage before, but now I don’t think I have the capacity to be any more thankful for it.

I wait in the shadows, my back pressed firmly to the wall, my lungs feeling as though they are about to pop as I hold as much breath as I can in them. The robots eventually turn back to the metal examining table, and for a few seconds don’t process that I'm not there.

And I don’t want to be around when they figure it out. I bolt out of the room as fast as I can – silence isn’t an option in a situation as dire as mine.

I skid through the halls, my brand-new sneakers slipping and sliding on the linoleum that covers the floors – even though it has been around 180 years since it was invented, it is still the most popular and apparently the most functional way to do floors.

When I finally reach the yawning entrance of an empty-looking room, where the same whirring noise that my robots were making sounds louder, I grab onto the doorframe for dear life, not wanting to fall.

I give myself a few seconds to regain my bearings and look around, back down the hall to make sure the robots aren’t following me. There is no sign of anyone, automaton or not. Nodding slightly to myself, rather proud of how I handled the situation, I step away from the wall and peer furtively into the black room.

At first, I see nothing. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, and when they do I instantly have a selfish wish that they hadn’t.

In the room, staring around with menacing red eyes – one bigger than the other – is a large, blue-and-black-painted robot. It has claws for hands and a large cylinder on its chest that looks somewhat like a fan or ventilation system. Either way, that’s not what truly catches my eye.

Huddled in the corner of the room, eyes wide and mouth halfway open in what appears to me to be shock, is a young boy of about my age. He is tall and fine-boned, and one slender hand is pressed over his face, only his bright green eyes visible. His messy blonde hair is mussed and lying over his forehead in dirty waves; this room is a lot filthier than the one I was in. In fact, when put into perspective, mine was more or less a five-star hotel room compared to this one.

Dirt is smudged over his slacks and button-down shirt, and it adorns his face like badly applied makeup, several shades too dark for his fair skin. I instantly feel bad for him – especially if he is a rebel like me.

The robot moves over to the side of the room opposite the boy, with a grace that denies it’s large and somewhat bulky form.

I slip through the dark as the robot occupies itself with a (non) human-shaped blanket draped over a box in the corner of the room. Hoping not to startle the boy, I gently tap his shoulder, though I periodically glance from him to the blue robot.

His head whips around to stare incredulously at me, and his mouth drops further open. I know he is going to make some sort of noise, so I slap my hand over his mouth, stretching my eyes wide as if to warn him. To strengthen my point, I shoot an incisive glance over to where the robot is now making what seems like angry noises, turning back to the center of the room.

It won’t find much there; the only thing in the room other than us is a small, square table with papers strewn across the top of it. It’s two drawers are hanging open and half-off their hinges. The evident signs of a struggle. Well, that and the dried blood that crusts the area below the boy’s nose and at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m here to help,” I breathe to him as I slowly lower my hand, brushing off the dried blood that is on my palm on my pants discreetly. “Are you…a rebel?” He seems startled by this question, as if I am asking him if the last meal he ate was a dog biscuit.

“Yes,” he finally says – and I am immediately flooded with mingled happiness and relief – his green eyes glinting as if he can tell what I am about to say.

“Good.” I grab his hand, taking no time with formalities, and pull him as quickly and quietly as I can from the room. I am more worried about this blue robot following us than I was about the silver ones that were in my room.

The boy stumbles slightly, but I only tighten my grip on his hand, determined to get us out of there. And quickly.

I pass the room I had been in before, and risk glancing askance in the room, only to find it devoid of any robots – silver or blue. I say nothing of this to the boy as I propel us both down one of the hallways, though I have no idea where it goes.

Anywhere is better than in this hellhole.

I push my legs to run faster, and I hear the boy panting behind me, his feet stumbling. When I do, I start to wonder; why am I not tired and tripping over my own feet? My brain answers itself: adrenaline. I’m too pumped up and rushed to even stop and think about becoming tired and clumsy.

I see a door outlined by light at the end of the next hall I turn down, and almost instantly my heart starts fluttering like a trapped bird finally freed, madly flapping its wings. I sprint to the end of the hall, tugging the boy so he is closer, not wanting to lose him to this maze of robots and eerily empty halls.

I do the first thing that comes to mind when we reach the door – I throw myself shoulder-first into it. Which, ironically, is a mistake, because this was the only door that was unlocked. Fan-flipping-tastic.

As I skid painfully across the ground, my shoulder getting bits of gravel and dirt imbedded in the skin, I can tell I will be bruised and bloodied later. I tighten my grip on the boy’s hand, not wanting to let go and lose him, especially now.

When we finally come to an abrupt halt, I dare open my eyes and glance down at the boy. I wince as I do so; I must have pulled something in my neck during our crash and burn. He is lying on his side, his one free arm wrapped around his stomach, coughing.

Speckles of blood pepper the gravel ground in front of him, and I cringe even more. I don’t like the sight of blood – I never have.

“Are you okay?” I ask as I slowly, laboriously, sit up, holding my neck as best I can with my position. Other than the blood he’s hacking up, he seems to be okay. Well, as far as I can see.

“Y-yeah…” His voice is strained as he too pulls himself into a sitting position, wiping most of the blood, dried and fresh, off his mouth. Then he stops and eyes me curiously, as though I’m a dog that just appeared out of nowhere and dragged him from a snowdrift. “Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Wynter.” I’m not about to hide anything from him; he may be my only ally and friend now that the Council has gone insane. “You?”

“I don’t really have a name,” he says slowly, frowning as though deep in thought. “But last I remember my friend called me Keegan.” I nod a bit, I remember my sister mentioning a Keegan that her friend’s older sister knew.

“We need to get away from here. Far away,” I say absent-mindedly as I turn my head and squint at our surroundings, trying to figure out where we are. The wasteland we sit in is like nothing I’ve seen before.

Then the reality of things really hits me. We need to run. We need to hide – hide from everyone, friend or enemy. Because we are different. I am different. The outcast. The rebel. The glitch.