The other side of the door is standard fare for a hospital wing as much as it isn't. To start, the door that I was able to see from the previous room was actually just a facade, and behind it were a series of steel bars and locks that would make a bank vault blush. The real door is seriously thicker than my forearm is long, and it’s currently left open for me to casually walk out of. I am either worth more than my weight in gold, or this is designed to keep people in rather than out. 

This new, noticeably crescent-shaped room beyond the threshold has a soft white industrial look, obviously painted over bunker-thick concrete walls. I can imagine the intent was to make it either more inviting, or just easier to tolerate being in for a long amount of time. I am a bit surprised how well-lit it is with just two lines of recessed lighting, one tucked into the corner where the ceiling meets the back wall, and another running through the center of the ceiling lengthwise. Without anything hanging from the ceiling it has an almost retro-futuristic feel. I think I kind of like it actually. 

In front of me, standing rather sternly with his arms crossed yet simultaneously looking indifferent, is General Fletcher and a cadre of more normal looking guards. They’re wearing correctional officer blues, and kitted out like well-funded prison guards. I can see what looks like a series of sleek silver and white metal desks covered in monitors, with displays ranging from medical tracking output to what looks like spreadsheets or dossiers. 

I scanned the ones I could see, but neither a face nor a name sprung out that I recognized.

“Looking for someone?” Fletcher flicks his eyes between the dossiers and myself with an almost searching look in his eyes.

“Uh, no.” I stammer a response, “no, I’m not.”

The moment seems to slink along, like him and his guards are judging my reaction. They’re digging. Trying to keep my guard up, I simply look around the rest of the room.

There are several other unbelievably large doors beyond my own. Five to be exact. Each with a large blue number indicating the room, from 1 to 5. My door must be 6. 

I don’t bother checking, not that I get a chance. Fletcher makes some militaristic motions with his hands to the guards and they flank me and start ushering me out of the room towards a set of double doors. Beyond the doors I see a featureless corridor. Even greater unknowns to be forcefully ventured unto.

I take one last look back at the room I was in and see a large overhead TV above the hospital room cell thing I was in. It has multiple camera outputs of the room from more angles than the single camera I had noticed would give. A ball forms in my throat and then falls into the forming pit in my stomach as I realize that there were more hidden cameras. I suddenly feel small and helpless, like corralled cattle or packaged meat. 

I keep myself quiet as we move deeper, past a handful of doorways and corners. We finally make it to our “destination” and I get to add a new dimension to my mental layout of this place: Up.

I guess it could be called an elevator but it is really more of a lift. Its entrance is a rolling fire door, galvanized steel slats already lifted up above our heads as we make our way into the room. Yes, room. The entire lift could fit an entire bus or three with the ceiling an impressive distance above us that has me crane my neck a little bit to see it. The walls of the room lean at a noticeable tilt outwards. One wall, at a steep incline, is covered in chains, weights, and cables.

The machinery makes no indication of acknowledgment like rattling or groaning as we walk onto the lift. Not that with the size of the machinery it would have even been expected to. This seems to be a lift built for heavy equipment or... I consider where it is situated, connected to what appears to be a medical bay area that sprawled around us as we made our way to it... it was built to transport large amounts of inmates upward.

The massive lift feels oddly barren with just me, General Fletcher, and our entourage of guards. One guard fiddles with the controls of the lift and all those mechanisms finally acknowledge us. The lift moves up. Slowly.

Great. A long elevator ride. All in painful, oppressive silence. The clicks of the lift tick like a countdown.

===~~~===

===~~~===

===~~~===

“This is the intake area where those medically cleared are,” Fletcher starts before being interrupted momentarily by the lift stopping, “taken for final processing before being let into gen-pop.”

This is totally just a security checkpoint at an airport. The visual similarities are kind of eerie, liminal.

“Don’t mind the fact that the area is empty as it’s only manned during periods of new resident intake. Please follow them,” he points to several guards that begin to disperse themselves into the inner workings of the room, “they will get you the things you need.”

I don’t respond to him. It's not that I don't mean to, I am just not very capable of entertaining responses to him while taking in every bit of my new world. There are several queue lines, all flanked by tables and inspection equipment forming a corral around the lines. A few offshoots lead towards holding cages.

“Not that you’ll need much.” He interrupts my observations, pointing to a section of the room. There are several stations with piles of clothes and shoes like the ones I’m already wearing. Next to them are trash cans pretending to be laundry baskets.  They expect the people coming in to undress here in line with– wait, I look around the area a second time to make sure. Yeah, no place for privacy.

No public disrobing for me, though. They already took that dignity from me at some point when I was unconscious. At the same time, I guess they spared me the pain of having to strip off the clothes I came in with and leave them in a pile here. I have nothing to lose. Nothing to give. I don’t even have my own clothes from before. I was wearing that gray t-shirt and red flannel combo, tired jeans and slicked back hair, thinking I was some kind of handsome shit then. The image comes to me without prompting and is like a gut punch to the brain. I feel my skin crawl as the image tries to worm itself deeper. It feels wrong, I don’t want it. Why don’t I want it? That is me, but it’s not me. I’m just me. Just me. The me in the moment, right? Right?

Fletcher spares me further thought with a firm touch on my shoulder. I look up at him, feeling oddly like I’m out of breath. I think I might have been starting to hyperventilate. He’s pointing out in front of me. I do my best to clear my thoughts as I follow his direction to a guard standing at a kiosk of some sort, near the end of the processing line.

Moving closer, the guard has a rough yet entirely clean shaven face with the exception of a thick black mustache that is full of professional indifference. He has been calling for me with some simple Misses and I just didn’t process that he was calling for me with them. Was he annoyed with my apparent deafness?

“This is Officer Ruiz, and he will get you your necessary inmate identification band and information.” I simply move forward to the kiosk and try to make sense of the words being said to me. Ruiz stares at me in-between typing in the kiosk with a screen I can’t see. He hasn’t said anything yet and the conversational void makes me nervous. What is he typing, what is an identification band?

“Slowly reach your left arm over to me above the kiosk,” Officer Ruiz says to me flatly. The kiosk’s height is just enough that I can do this without straining upward on my toes. I’m shorter than I used to be, and this reminds me of that again.

“This is your identification band, it will stay on your person at all times. It tracks your position within the facility at all times. This specific band will stay firm against your arm so it can track your biometrics as well. If it cannot, it will alert the system.”

Before Ruiz gets the band secured properly on my arm, General Fletcher puts his arm onto mine, stopping it from being secured. Surprise flashes across Ruiz’s face, the first time the man has shown any emotion at all, and I feel my anxiety rise more.

“Give her a G.P. band,” Fletcher almost too conversationally orders.

Ruiz is visibly taken aback again for a second time, “but, per regulation set by Dr. West, we are to put her in a PEST band. We’ve seen her get out of restraints with a UTPE”

“Are you to follow his orders or mine?” Fletcher interrupted Ruiz before he could continue the challenge.

There was not even a pause before Ruiz responded, “Yours, sir.”

“Then put a genpop band on her.” Fletcher reiterated.

“Yes, sir.”

I just keep my arm out. Without another word, Officer Ruiz gets a different arm band and puts it onto my arm. It doesn’t sit firmly against my skin like the other one was supposed to, but it’s still tight enough to not be able to be pulled off my arm without breaking my hand. As he fastens the latch, I can feel an internal mechanism momentarily slide into place, solidifying it into a nearly perfect metallic oval. On the armband is an ID number: 1T61803

Ruiz sees me looking at my arm band and finally continues talking as he did before, the same indifference from him washing through the moment. I’m too distracted by the armband to read into it this time.

“That is your ID. It is tied to your information that is within the Resident Tracking system. You are expected to know this ID and respond to it as if it were your own name.” He pauses for a moment.

I nod as respectfully as I can.

“It also tracks several other things you will need for your day to day life here, such as your stipend usable at the commissary and special access to certain privileged areas. That is all for your intake for now, Miss Hannah. Follow the guards to your new housing location.”

He was pointing down the room to General Fletcher, who has since walked to the exit of the room after his intervention about the bands. At this point, I’ve been getting pretty good at just following orders when they come from people in charge, so off I go. I absently wonder what the acronyms for the armbands mean as I walk.

Once I reach the General he begins to lead me through the doors into more unremarkable hallways. As we walk, I start to notice that the guards have been giving us a wide berth. I am now beginning to realize that I’ve been receiving what appears to be special treatment from General Fletcher. He’s been talking about little things in the prison while I listened but didn’t process. I am too distracted trying to figure out what his ploy is here. Eventually he notices my inattentiveness and stops whatever I can guess is his version of small talk.

“I am taking a risk being lenient with you. You were supposed to get a PEST, a Potential Escape Security Tracker band.” He taps the band on my arm, sending small goosebumps up to my shoulder as the metal shifts against my skin. “Sometimes though, the best way to create a safer place is to use a little thing the security officials like to call worthless: Trust.”

What’s the gambit in trusting me? I’ve been silent enough and finally find my voice.

“Why though? I’m a prisoner, so what do you gain from trusting me?”

General Fletcher gives me a bemused look.

“Is looking a gift horse in the mouth really a good idea then?” He chuckles, “but you are right. I simply have more than just managing this detention facility to keep in mind and I just have a sense for these things. I can trust you, isn’t that right Hannah?”

I nod at him. He’s right, though. More lenience would probably be good in these circumstances, all things considered.

“What do I owe you for the lenience then?”

“Being a good, orderly inmate. Perhaps once you remember more of your time before your stay here you can enlighten me.” He knows more than he lets on, more than what was put into the system, I can feel it. He knows I didn’t tell him the truth of who I am.

But I couldn’t just tell him that. I’m not Ethan. I can’t go back to that, I don’t know why. I just simply can’t. I am Hannah now, and that’s what I am sticking with.

“Either way, I am trusting you to make the right decision yourself.”

“Thank you, sir. I can do that.” There had to be an opening in this somehow. A way out of here, forcefully, or by some clerical process? 

Conversation comes to an end here as we reach a series of cage bars with several full height turnstiles. It is a security checkpoint, something that in hindsight were oddly lacking prior to this point. This must be the line; everything on this side is clerical and everything on the other side is the cage.. Through the bars I can see this next room is large, but it’s hard to make anything out.

Moving through is uneventful as the noticeably more well-armed security guards just let Fletcher pass unimpeded with me in tow. More details of my future become clear as I move my way through the checkpoint and into the room proper.

I’m not sure if I should call this a room now that I’m in here though. I move towards the metal barred railing and lean forward over its edge slightly to get a better view. I can see this massive circle with doors evenly spread out along the outside walls. I am at the top of a hollow structure that is several stories tall. Five to be exact, each one lined with balcony hallways just like where I am.

Directly ahead of me is an inverted tower that hangs from the center of a convex ceiling circled by a solid light panel imitating evening daylight. The tower breaks the full line of sight of the rest of the floors and extends down another floor or so before terminating out of sight. Where there aren't reflective windows it’s painted a very clean white and blue with an emblazoned governmental style crest of a dove holding a bright blue spear in both feet.

The bottom floor looks like a community center with an unlimited budget. Couches with TVs in little recessed spots separated from more gym-like areas with other recreational options. Spread amongst everything are inmates who– whoa that girl is glowing! And is that guy floating?

“Welcome to Panopticon Cerulean,” General Fletcher’s words slam into my brain’s visual processing like an overly enthusiastic dog greeting someone at the door. It takes a moment for my brain to switch gears back to paying attention, “-kind of atmosphere, it’s your new home.”

He smiles like this is some grand exhibition he’s showing and not a gilded cage. A really nice, well furnished, gilded cage. While I fight to roll my eyes at him I fail to stop from frowning too.

“Fair enough,” Fletcher deflects my souring mood, “it’s not much further to your room. It’s on this floor, just down that way a bit.”

We make our way like a quarter around the circle. I could have counted each door but what’s the point, I’m sure I’ll get enough time to know exactly how many doors there are in the future.

“Residence 23F5. Your new home,” He stops and interacts with a panel next to a very secure looking door. The door opens, “Go on and make yourself comfortable. I have other business to attend to now, so this will be my farewell as well.”

I languidly obey. I can hear the clicking steps of Fletcher walking away, leaving the door open so I close it myself. It clicks loudly as it gently shuts. Loud enough that I pause for a moment to listen for anyone else in the apartment. If the talking from General Fletcher wasn’t enough someone would have heard at least the loud click from the door. I don’t hear or see anyone else in this cell masquerading as a two bedroom apartment though.

I take this moment of solitude look around but by this point I’ve stopped processing details of my surroundings. All I can think about is that I’m actually alone for probably truly the first time since I’ve woken up.

All of this is getting to me in a way I am not used to. The all-of-this piling up and pushing on my brain and my chest. The pressure is building behind my eyes and I can feel the tears moving their way to the front. This isn’t fueled by panic. It’s something else, something more than from my past.

Through my tear clouded vision I make my way into the one room that I see open. It has no personal effects in it so I assume it's mine. I stumble onto the small bed on the far wall and curl into a ball.

I can’t stop it. The bawling. It just pours out of me. It is from everything and directed at nothing. I don’t know how long I go until the teardrops run dry. The emotional weight slowly lifts out of my chest and runs down my face. It leaves an empty basin, the sadness a memory momentarily etched into the topography of my soul. I sit myself up and cradle the pillow on the bed between my knees and chest.

I may be more flexible, but the boobs get in the way a little bit. I ignore the fleeting fluttering in my gut from that and sit in my pity.

I have no idea how long I spent crying, but I’m sure I spend twice that amount of time staring at the floor catatonically. Ah yeah, I’m totally a fighter. Little push and I’m a mess.

I hear the cell door click open at the other end of the apartment.