Elysium Capital, City of Fioro

It was a special day.

Streets and sky flared to life.

And it was all for her.

Every single pretty thing.

“Princess, we’ve arrived.”

Now, if only she had been allowed to actually enjoy any of it, then it’d have been perfect.

As per usual, Seijuro’s chauffeur opens the car’s door without waiting for a response.

Barraged by an incoming wave of sound created by the atmosphere of Fioro’s night festivities, screams, congratulations, questions, and music, Seijuro nearly has her senses overwhelmed as she forces herself to smile toward the cameras, reporters, and smiling people flanking the walkway lead from her car.

Seijuro’s chauffeur beams, invitingly gesturing for the young princess to leave the car after a practiced curtsy. It is a fake smile, something Seijuro has no trouble seeing through, given the woman’s obvious dislike for her.

Still, her chances of a successful escape by bolting in the opposite direction and losing herself midst the festival organized in honor of her fifth birthday are close to null.

“I was informed the Princess’s favorite cake was commissioned. We wouldn’t want to keep it waiting, right?”

“Will I be allowed to eat it?” Seijuro asks, searching her chauffeur’s expression for signs of deception.

“Will you…? Of course! As much of it as you want, I’m sure of it!”

Fool. Father would never allow Seijuro gluttony, and the woman would’ve known of it had she been paying attention instead of staring slack-jawed at Seijuro’s bodyguards all the time.

Still…

She won’t find her cake anywhere else, for as pretty as the city shines tonight… how good it smells… and how awesome it would be to dance midst the lights…

Seijuro pouts. She is convinced this is a plot to imprison her for the rest of the night, away from the actual fun, but what other choice does she have when the evil chauffeur has made of her cake a hostage?

The glow of relief washing over the woman’s expression as Seijuro finally steps out is obvious.

“This way,” the woman guides, politely refusing to answer any questions as she leads Seijuro inside and most likely away from any fun she might have had tonight.

A big lobby, full of well-dressed people, live music, and drinks, awaits their arrival. Many approach Seijuro and the small procession of retainers at her reels, but she recognizes from the expression of her chauffeur that none of them are important enough to warrant more than a passing curtsy and a thank you for their happy birthdays.

Soon, but not soon enough, Seijuro finds herself staring at elevator doors closing in between the party and her procession.

“How many stops?” she asks, knowing from experience she’ll be expected to be seen, if not heard, by at least a portion of the guests who traveled across vast distances to eat of her cake.

Fools. They should’ve ordered some of their own, from the safety and comfort of their own home. And then she’d have been able to eat right away, instead of wasting her time in this farce.

“Miss Aston, I know you wished to take part in the festival outside, but please try and understand many of these people have traveled across seas to see you. Seeing your smile would make all the difference for them.”

Expression unchanged, Seijuro looks at her, locking their gazes directly and daring the woman to ignore her question again. “How many?”

“…Five stops. It’s the minimum we can get away with.”

“I’ll be counting,” Seijuro warns, hiding her small sigh of relief as she glances the other way. By having the woman commit to a number, she at least avoided the worst-case scenario.

Five stops. Not the worst. Maybe a couple of minutes… At most?

Eternity. Seijuro is now sure to understand the concept better than most. An eternity of curtsies, new faces, and names she forgot near instantly only to have them replaced by new faces and names she cares even less to see and hear.

She tried. She really did. But now her feet hurt, her stomach is angry, and some unimportant fool has taken yet another five minutes of her night to blabber about things they’re too stupid to realize nobody cares about.

“When do I get to execute people?” Seijuro asks out loud, purposefully interrupting at least three conversations around her.

A couple of people laugh, the chauffeur woman is at a loss for words, and Seijuro blinks innocently, her expression the one she uses to get away from saying and doing things she most definitely shouldn’t be saying or doing.

Her chauffeur’s horrified expression is definitely worth it, as Seijuro stares at her in a way she thinks a queen might after she has decided someone needs a bit of executing in their routine.

“R-right!” the woman says, laugh and smile now visibly strained, “Isn’t she adorable? I’ll be sure to bring your concerns to His Majesty’s attention, Mister Cox, now if you’d pardon us…”

She gives him a pleading look.

“No, no, I’m the one who’s sorry for taking up so much of your time. Princess Aston.”

The man bows, smiling despite the chilly stare Seijuro bestows him.

Finally, finally, her servant decides she has had enough of torturing Seijuro, and they beeline towards the nearest elevator, excusing themselves as they pass by people who didn’t have a chance to personally ruin Seijuro’s night yet.

Well, they’ll have to wait for a retry next year. Maybe, if they’re lucky, Seijuro might even smile at them.

Seijuro’s smile instantly fades once her chauffeur clears her throat, matching the elevator doors closing in front of them.

“Now you smile? Seriously?”

Seijuro shrugs. Oops?

One of the bodyguards laughs as her chauffeur throws him a death glare, and Seijuro realizes she might be walking on a tightrope. After all, everything will be for naught if she isn’t allowed to eat her cake because one of the servants decided to tattle on her. Father would be less than amused, she’s sure of it.

They wouldn’t… right?

“Princess,” her chauffeur starts, in a tone serious enough to attract the princess’s gaze. “Where have you heard of… Executions?”

“A movie,” Seijuro confesses, “I know we don’t do those anymore; I was joking. You won’t tell my father, right?”

The woman’s expression softens. “Of course not, love. We’re almost there, all right?”

Seijuro hides a small smile of triumph from the foolish, gullible woman.

Crises. Successfully. Averted.

The elevator opens its doors, revealing a party room not much different from everything Seijuro has experienced so far if not for the open sky above, beyond a domed ceiling of reinforced glass, a noticeable decrease in the number of guests per meter cubic, and a positively huge cake dominating much of the space available.

Seijuro swallows.

So close. Yet so far.

“Julissa! Thank you so much… I hope she wasn’t much trouble?”

“No trouble at all, Your Highness.”

Seijuro’s chauffeur, Julissa, curtsies very low upon the approach of another woman; a woman of familiar silk black hair, gentle black eyes, and snow-white skin.

Mother.

Aiko Tanaka Aston smiles at Seijuro, eyes gleaming with emotions far too complex for words.

Love.

“The truth, Julissa. We both know it’s impossible she hasn’t caused any trouble on the way here.”

“I wanted to see the festival. And I’m hungry,” Seijuro interjects before any disasters could befall her young self.

Aiko sighs somewhat exasperatedly, her expression knowing. “In that case, we’ll continue this conversation later. Julissa, if you could…?”

Nope, they won’t. Not if she can help it.

“Of course, Your Highness. Miss Seijuro, what-”

“Cake!” Seijuro answers, interrupting the question before it could ever be asked.

To that, Julissa throws her queen the most desperate, hopeless look Seijuro has ever seen from the woman.

“I believe, my queen, Julissa has done quite enough for the night.”

Short blond hair. Green, piercing eyes. It is impressive, really, how many different shades of red Seijuro has discovered by observing Julissa’s expression in the presence of her father.

“Sir Liam!” Julissa curtsies, a fumbled motion which nearly ends up with her face against the ground. “Your M-majesty, it’s no problem, really…”

The woman’s voice eventually fades under Liam Aston’s stare, the one Seijuro is used to facing off against and losing.

“Go home Julissa, grab a change of clothes, and try to have some fun at the festival. Watch the parade, if you can. It’s an order.”

Seijuro’s jaw drops. Julissa gets to enjoy the festival?! Julissa?!

“She’s not getting cake if she leaves now,” Seijuro declares, throwing the woman the most betrayed look she can muster.

How dare she trap her here, then go out to hog all of the fun to herself?! This is so not fair!

“If it’s an order, then I suppose I have no other choice,” Julissa says, never taking her dreamy eyes away from Liam.

Needless to say, being ignored infuriates Seijuro even more.

“Go, we’ll take Seijuro home ourselves today; You don’t need to bother coming back,” Aiko completes.

Seijuro stares daggers into the woman’s body until the elevator’s doors have closed in between them, giving the princess one last glimpse of the exhilarated expression on her chauffeur’s face.

“Seijuro.”

“Yes, Father?”

Begrudgingly, Seijuro stares up to meet his eyes, finding there the same type of love she has grown used to from her parents, given it for granted, really, even during the times she knows to have let them down… such as now.

“You know there’s a specific time to eat the cake. We’ve gone through this before.”

“Well, nobody ever consulted me over the creation of such a horrible rule. Once I’m queen-”

Before she can protest, or react, Seijuro finds herself captured, kissed, hugged, and squeezed, all at once and much to her distaste.

“Mother!”

“Aiko.”

“You know I can’t help it when she speaks like this!”

“Anyway,” Seijuro continues, doing her best to ignore her mother’s huge smile, and the fact she’s most likely not going to touch the ground for a while still; not that she particularly minds not having to walk or stand for a while. “Once I’m queen, every hour shall allow the eating of cake. Every. Hour.”

There it is. The same look he used to subdue Julissa. A mix of disappointment, sternness, and love. Seijuro clenches her jaw. Suck tricks will not stand today. Not when she has already lost so much.

“Love,” Aiko interjects softly, giving the man a look of her own, a look which melts Liam’s stern expression very fast.

Liam smiles. “Very well, young lady. Since the actual queen has vouched in your name, I might be convinced to allow an exception… If, and only if, you’re able to give me a name for each floor.”

Seijuro considers the possibility of lying, though only briefly. Lying to her father has seldom worked in her favor in the past.

“I don’t remember,” she admits dejectedly, too tired and hungry to even attempt a couple of names from memory. Father would want the names attached to floors, too, she knows, and could easily check by asking one of her bodyguards if she had been right or not.

Liam nods, his expression as if the outcome was clear from the begging… Which flares Seijuro’s temper instantly. Perhaps she couldn’t remember all of their names and faces, but one from each floor…

“Ambassador Panova, third floor.”

Funny name, funny beard.

“Princess Miksa Zita, tenth floor.”

Annoying woman, touchy. Pretty dress though.

“Verawati Devi Sanjaya,” Seijuro repeats, as close to the real pronunciation as she can manage, “Twentieth floor.”

Weird name, no title… Or was the title a part of the name?

“Oliver Byrne, Fioro Council Member. Thirtieth.”

Whatever that means. He smelled weird.

“And Ambassador Arseni. Fortieth.”

Pleased with herself, Seijuro stuffs out her chest, smugly grinning towards her father.

“She actually did it,” Aiko murmurs, shocked, as she exchanges arms in order to better stare Seijuro in the eyes, “Did you go through five floors, sweety?”

Seijuro nods. Had she not been tired by the long day, she’s sure she’d remembered more than one per floor, but as long as she is allowed to finally eat her cake, then little else matters.

“I thought… I thought she might be able to,” Liam says, undeniable pride in his voice, “Hard to think she’s five today.”

Seijuro catches a glance exchanged between her father and one of her bodyguards, where the other man simply nods, eyes wide.

“My little genius!” Aiko exclaims, planting another enthusiastic wet kiss on her cheek while Seijuro shrugs.

“Cake?”

Seijuro has trouble maintaining her focus. While licking her fingers clean, she finds herself lazily drifting her gaze throughout the room toward some of the other kids who were unfortunate enough to have been locked in here with her, only half listening to her mother’s voice and the many pleasantries exchanged among the guests.

Kings, queens, presidents, dukes, dictators, princes, and princesses… An empress and an emperor, though Seijuro is not quite sure what those mean, exactly. And many other titles she has trouble understanding.

Meh. At least the music is nice.

Seijuro looks at the band playing near one of the corners, then at the lit sky at their back, feeling her heart beat faster over the view.

She wiggles, then twists, until her mother dignifies a tired smile in her direction.

“I thought you had fallen asleep already.”

Wordlessly, Seijuro points in the balcony’s direction.

“Oh, fireworks! I didn’t realize… Could you…?”

“We’ll look after her, Ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

Released from her mother’s embrace, Seijuro suddenly realizes the ground is a colder and harder place than she remembered it to be, but Aiko has already turned back to a conversation about cars being banned in the city, perhaps in the country, sometime in the future.

Does that mean Julissa will lose her job? Seijuro doesn’t want that. She’ll have to ask her father later about it.

Nobody stops her as she walks across the room, which Seijuro is grateful for. Her feet still hurt, for some reason, and she is far too tired to pretend she cares about these people, or to pretend smile at them.

Pretty.

A breeze gusts over her warm skin, cold enough to bring a shiver from the young princess, but she’s too entranced by the explosions of light to care. The balcony is made of glass, and the city extends below her feet.

They’re forming… things?

Other terraces across the city, of similar height, end up attracting Seijuro’s attention, and she notices many of them have parties going on atop them, as far as she’s able to see.

She never realized how big…

The world, the sky, the city. Even when the ground is far enough below to turn the parade into little more than colorful lights moving in between buildings, Seijuro realizes she still can’t see the end of Fioro at the horizon, only more buildings and lights.

So many people. Her people, according to her father.

Seijuro glances at her feet, at the annoying, offending shoes around them, and narrows her eyes. If she were to take them off, she’s sure somebody would force her to wear them again, but…

She’ll have to be fast. And she’ll have one shot at it.

Seijuro approaches the glass railings, as casually as she is able, pretending to be entranced by the lights… then kicks in rapid succession, hoping it’ll be enough to send both shoes over the edge. Then she blinks.

What?

One of Seijuro’s bodyguards, a woman, stares surprised at the pair of shoes she caught midair, half a second before one of the men could.

But… they were behind her?

The woman smiles at Seijuro, somewhat smugly, before carefully dropping the shoes near her feet.

“You can keep them off for a bit, but your father would kill us if we actually let you throw them over the edge.”

“And to think we were trained to stop bullets…” one of them murmurs, shaking his head as he returns to his usual position at the princess’s back.

What just…? She didn’t see them moving. It doesn’t make sense.

The woman fixes the princess’s hair, still smiling at her, before returning to her place among the others as Seijuro clenches her fists, earlier joy forgotten in the light of her shattered pride.

It was a perfect plan. It should have worked. Stupid bodyguards.

“You’re not afraid?”

Great. Exactly what she needs now.

Seijuro throws daggers with her eyes at her father as he approaches, confusion written all over his face.

“What? What did I do?”

His gaze moves to her bare feet, and the pair of shoes discarded next to them.

“Were they bothering you?”

Seijuro nods, everting her eyes. Now he’ll make her wear them again, and it’ll be hours before she has another chance to take them off.

Liam laughs.

“You remind me so much of your mother,” he says, grabbing a surprised Seijuro as he holds her in his arms to face the city below. “A free, indomitable spirit. Most of these so-called world leaders pale over the idea of stepping onto a platform so reinforced it’d sustain the weight of another building on top of it, while my five-year-old daughter walks atop it as if fearing something had never occurred to her before.”

Seijuro shrugs. Personally, she thinks the glass floor looks neat.

“Do you like it?” Liam asks after they have taken a moment to admire the view.

Seijuro nods, somewhat sheepishly. Father usually isn’t so… nice, and now she doesn’t quite know what to expect anymore.

“Which part?”

“The lights,” Seijuro says, “The buildings, the sky. The people look small.”

“Yes. Yes, they do. Do you understand what this all means?”

Seijuro shakes her head. Should she?

“You will, in time.”

After a while, Seijuro realizes her father has no intention of scolding her about one thing or another and ends up resting her head against his body with a yawn, still staring at the city below.

Her father’s words echoing in her thoughts, Seijuro finds her eyes harder and harder to maintain open.

One day, Seijuro swears as her consciousness gradually slips her grip, she will be faster than her stupid bodyguards.

 

***

Elysium Outskirts, Excavation Site Fifty-Four

Carl uses his tongue to wipe some of the sweat accumulated on his upper lip, only to have another raised and unceremoniously emptied coal container into the cart to his left bring a familiar twinge of pain to his back and another wave of sweat down from his brow.

The inside of the protective suit is hot, hot enough to soak his skin after an hour or so of wearing it, but not so hot he’ll dehydrate before the end of his shift.

Intended. Everything’s intended.

“Fuck!”

His partner’s voice, slightly mechanical sounding, interrupts ever so briefly the otherwise constant detonation noise of digging machines in the background, and Carl glances across their cart to realize Abraham has dropped his own container of coal, spreading half of it over the cave floor.

Carl rushes in to help.

“Thank you…”

Abraham’s voice sounds apprehensive, and he glimpses around the giant cavern through his dirty visor before squatting with Carl. At the distant end of the cave, the digging machines can be seen at their endless mining, intertwined by workers and prisoners taking care of their maintenance and ensuring the lines of coal containers sustain their steady pace.

“Sorry… I know I’ve been slopier lately.”

Carl should remember to suggest a change of post for them next time he has a chance to. Something less physically demanding, at least for a while. Something that’ll pay less, but allow their bodies to recover somewhat. They both need the break.

In tactical agreement, the men ignore the next wave of coal containers and start pushing the cart, although it is only about eighty percent full, toward one of the many tunnels exiting the cave, tunnel twenty-two, in their case.

“Your mike… broken again?”

Carl nods; He doesn’t know why it keeps happening. The suits are different every shift, and Abraham’s has seldom shown problems in the past.

Both of them grunt from the effort, rails making it possible to push the mostly full mining cart, but far from easy. Another intended feature, perhaps.

“Last one for the night, right?”

Abraham sounds hopeful. Carl would’ve hated to disappoint him, but thankfully, he doesn’t have to; the number at the corner of his vision displays less than five minutes left before nine, the end of their shift.

He nods, and Abraham grunts. The man could’ve activated his own clock, of course, but the burden of knowing exactly how much of his sentence is to be paid every day provides, in his words, more suffering than its worth in convenience.

Long after nine, Carl and Abraham finally reach one of the groups of elevators heading for the surface. Luckily, one of them is already full enough to go up, and they stop only for long enough to pull the corresponding lever before guiding the cart in its direction.

‘Prisoner Carl Spencer, number 8459... 821 kilograms of coal, no Ether detected. Added 31 credits.’

Though expected, the System’s emotionless voice still causes a chill to descend his spine. Even after all of these years, it still feels different, colder, somehow, than the voice he grew up used to hearing before being sent here.

“Motherfuckers lowered the price again, didn’t they?”

Carl shrugs, ignoring the large platform as it comes to life around them, initiating its long ascent toward the surface.

Nobody needs coal anymore, is what he’d have said, not for the first time. Not in Elysium, and not for a hundred years or so now. Exported, most of it. Between renewable, nuclear, and Ether, there really isn’t much of a need for the excavation sites to work at their full capacity anymore.

Though prisoners still need something to do, he supposes, and mining coal all day keeps them securely away from the perfect world Aston has built for themselves.

“Thank the Gods… I fucking hate the employees’ elevator.”

Carl nods. They were lucky to grab one of the platforms almost ready to go.

“I heard some of the others talking in the morning. Princess’s birthday or something,” Abraham says, then snorts, “It’s amazing they still care.”

Not much else to care about in here, really. The capital must have stopped for a day or two, he is sure of it; parades, parties, festivals, the whole city brought alight for a while. He wouldn’t have minded the frivolity of it all if it meant being able to show it to Sa-

No. He’ll see her soon. Such thoughts will make what’s to come harder to accept.

After a while, the surface’s light becomes visible from the ascending platform. Knowing what comes next, Carl and Abraham head out of the way as the carts begin to head out on their own.

Abraham is the first to take out his helmet, revealing a forty-year-old man with gray eyes and slightly dark skin, blinking as he adjusts his eyes to the well-illuminated complex around them.

Carl does the same.

On the way out, they finish removing their protective suits and drop them in a container close to the exit, which is half filled already. Later in the day, a machine will come and take the suits to be washed. Clean ones will be waiting for their next shift.

Now in their gray, covered-in-sweat uniforms, both men breathe a sigh of relief, until Carl notices a guard with his visor turned toward them, doubtlessly about to tell them to move along.

“Let’s go,” Abraham whispers, also having noticed the guard.

They walk up to a constant stream of men and women in gray uniforms, coming in and out of the mines at the respective beginning and end of their shifts, and head toward the closest exit to the living areas.

Both of them could use a much-needed shower, water, bathroom, food, and sleep. More importantly, by now, Sara might’ve woken up, which means she’s waiting for him.

“Idiots,” Abraham comments when, halfway to the dorms, some start to divert from the flow.

Vending machines with snacks and drinks decorate the walls on the way, and it is toward them the deviants’ head. Phrases like “We care about you!” and “Your mental health is important too!” are written above or over the vending machines, some of them scratched or painted over.

They’re old, Carl figures, much older than even the oldest prisoner in the place, and would be considered a relic of a bygone era in the outside world.

Here, they serve their purpose.

“No saving them anymore, poor fools,” Abraham continues, although it is easy for Carl to notice the hidden desire in his eyes, the tiredness, and hopelessness, the man strives to overcome by voicing his thoughts out loud.

Carl heard Abraham talking about the family he left outside only once, which he now realizes, was nearly three years ago. It must be hard for him to think of them.

He wondered, not for the first time, how close his friend is to his second chance. A year? Two?

He could ask, of course. But having come to know Abraham, he understands the man is most likely not keeping track of the numbers on purpose, avoiding the constant count and recount of days and the agony that would come from it.

One could live rather comfortably from their winnings as a digger, Carl figures. Two hundred a day on average, even after all the recent cuts. Enough for a warm meal, a hot shower; enough to save for a decent mattress down the line, some soap and shampoo. Snacks, soda, if you’re feeling up for it, and some connection to the outside.

Except, for a million, a prisoner could buy back their freedom, a second chance, really, with a new job waiting for them outside, and some support until they were able to start over, a fact endlessly advertised throughout the entire complex in golden numbers. Needless to say, any credits spent on food or better accommodations won’t do any favors to a prisoner’s savings.

Thirteen years, ideally, and a digger could be free. Five thousand days, two hundred a day, for those who’re able to put up with the cold water, bland food, and hard mattress for that long. Less than that, for those whose sentence makes for better jobs available.

“Carl?”

There is fear in his friend’s eyes, fear for him, and fear for himself, once Abraham notices Carl has stopped to watch the machines and pauses his rushed walk to stare at him. By far, they’re the worse source of wasted credit for the prisoners, with dozens, sometimes hundreds of credits wasted on frugal moments soon to be regrated.

“Today is a special day,” Carl appeases. A specific machine finally attracts his attention, and he heads in its direction.

“Special day or not, this is a bad idea, Carl!”

Abraham follows after Carl, though his eyes are wide. Carl doesn’t blame him, they’ve both seen it before, how it starts small, a can of soda after a hard day of mining at first, turned into thousands of credits down the drain month after month.

“Is it your birthday or something?!” Abraham seems to be considering dragging him away by force. “Listen, we can commemorate a hundred birthdays when we’re out of here! It isn’t worth it!”

Normally, he’d have waited for later, away from most eyes to do something of the sort. But soon, it won’t matter, and Carl wishes to spend as much of their time left together, without having to sneak away in the middle of the night for this.

Once Carl touches a specific section of the glass, the System’s voice sounds inside his head, almost instantly, ‘Prisoner Carl Spencer, number 8459, you have selected “chocolate”. Would you like to spend 50 credits of a total of 203.146 to buy “chocolate”?’

“Yes,” Carl answers, and, almost instantly, a chocolate bar falls from the machine’s opening with a thump sound. Carl picks it up, before turning and walking away.

“I’m okay,” he reassures Abraham, who continues to give the sweet in his hand suspicious glances as if it might jump into his mouth on its own.

“Well… Aren’t you going to eat it?”

“No.”

Carl doesn’t elaborate. His thoughts are far away, considering words he might say, how he might explain to her without lying, that they’ll never see each again, not before her memories of him have mostly faded to nothing.

Once it’s over, Carl decides, he’ll explain everything, to Abraham, who deserves the truth, and anybody else who might care to see a grown man crying.

“I guess this is it. See you tomorrow?”

A crossing in the path breaks their silence, and the men lock gazes for the first time since Carl went off-path. Living Area Three, and Living Area Five, written on the walls of each route, indicate where they usually separate for the day, often meeting for breakfast before their first shift in the morning.

“I’m still here, you know. It’s a special occasion. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

Abraham’s eyes are filled with uncertainty, but he doesn’t speak, offering a curt nod before going on his way.

On his way to his dorm, Carl’s mind is a million kilometers away, though he still notices the gazes aiming his hand. Some are filled with envy, some are heavy with pity, but most are simply expressionless.

He did try to spend as few credits as possible during these years. Some of the guards helped with things he needed from the outside, a debt Carl doubts he’ll ever have a chance to pay, though words alone cannot express his gratitude. He also needed help during his shifts, from some of the girls he trusted enough to watch over her for a couple of hours when she was still too young to stay alone.

They’ve had more time together than they had a right to, Carl tries to convince himself. She deserves better, better than him, certainly better than this place could ever offer. A miracle will not happen again, and he needs to put himself enough together to enjoy her smile one last time, one last night.

Carl freezes, smile half-formed in his mouth.

No.

“Sara!”

Carl screams. Runs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s well aware it’ll hardly matter. He’d have burst inside, however, had the men in uniform in front of his door not used their bodies to stop his charge.

“Let me through! She’s my daughter! You have no right-”

Something cold touches Carl’s forehead and he feels his muscles loosening all at once. His knees hit the ground, his expression slacking, bleak.

“We mean the child no harm, please remain calm. Your chip will reactivate in a couple of seconds, but we will deactivate it again, if necessary,” one of the men speaks against his ear.

“Papa!”

A girl with long blond hair and clear blue eyes runs through the dorm’s door, gaze wide and face pale. As his senses return, Carl immediately resumes his attempts to escape.

The last, fourth uniformed man stops Sara dead in her tracks by grabbing her arm, ignoring her screams as he swipes several curious onlookers with eyes colder than ice. His white uniform is dirty, which means he must have fallen during the attempt at stopping Carl’s initial charge.

“Sara! Sweety! Look at me! Look at me! It’s going to be okay; You hear me?!”

“Gods, what sort of cheap drama is this? Let them meet each other, it won’t change anything. The damage is already done.”

Once released, Sara crashes into Carl’s embrace immediately, her scared sobs cutting deep, bloody wounds into his heart.

“Who are you?” Carl asks, eyeing the woman who left his room, tablet in hand and high heels clapping against hard stone, either of which would have been enough to give away her higher position; if the fact they followed her orders without questioning wasn’t already enough.

“Prisoner Eight-Four-Five-Nine, are you aware of your situation? Of the child’s situation?”

“P-papa?”

Carl clenches his teeth. “Y-yes. I am aware.”

“Then you know who we are. A piece of advice? Make your words count.”

The woman glances at her tablet and swipes at something, apparently having given the problem for solved.

Carl swallows. “There must have been some sort of mistake. I was told the extraction was supposed to happen… W-was supposed to happen tomorrow. The surgery-”

Carl hugs Sara tightly, pressing her against his chest. The woman doesn’t look at them, her laugh hollow.

“A mistake? Certainly. Several, in fact. But our schedule is hardly one of them.”

“P-please. Give us a couple of hours… She doesn’t need to be scared like this. I’ll explain thin-”

“You should’ve already explained,” the woman cuts in, meeting his gaze frostily, “You were well aware of the procedure, and had plenty of time to prepare. I don’t know what sort of circus they’ve been running over here to allow this to happen, and I don’t care, but I was tasked with solving the problem, and that’s what I’ll do. You have a minute, Mr. Spencer, which is a minute and five years more than you should’ve been allowed to have.”

As Carl holds her gaze, he considers begging, explaining that Sara is his daughter, that he’ll never be ready to be separated from her. He considers pointing out that somebody told him he still had one more night with her, that he’d have missed his shifts today, consequences be damned, if he knew they’d be here earlier.

Which is exactly why they lied to him. To keep him in line, from doing something stupid.

“Sara? Sweety?”

She had recovered enough to stare over the group of strangers with huge blue eyes, but at the sound of his voice, looks for his gaze with visible terror.

“Papa, are these people about to take me away? D-did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, no.” He’s the one who did something wrong. And now she’s about to pay for his sins. “These people, they… They’ll take you to a better place, to have an education and… A n-new family. A g-good family.”

Hearing his voice crack, Carl hates himself. He needs her to trust them; she doesn’t deserve a life of misery because of his choices.

“But why?” Sara whispers, “I don’t want to… I want to s-stay… I’ll stop complaining, I sw-wear I’ll b-be good, and-”

“Sara.”

This is it. The hardest thing he has ever done. The cruelest. Perhaps the only good and right thing in his twisted life. He won’t fuck it up.

“Sara, listen to me, okay? These people… These people are good people. They’ll take you to a better place, they have to, because your papa… Your papa can’t give you what you need.”

He cups her face in his hands, forces their gazes to remain locked together, burns the memory of her features into his mind, every cranny and curve and line.

“So… Be good… Don’t try to run away…”

Carl’s voice fades, as he kisses his girl’s forehead, mostly to hide his own tears.

“Papa…”

Sara’s voice trembles and stops as her small body loses its strength and falls flaccid into Carl’s arms.

“Sara…? Sara! What have you done to her?!”

“A sedative. It’ll make the trip easier for all of us.”

The woman gestures to one of the men, who steps forward and points something at Carl’s forehead, rendering his protest stuck in his throat.

Perhaps it was for the best. He’d have tried to fight them, he is sure of it, and the unnecessary fight might have hurt Sara.

“If it serves of any comfort, the surgery will be long over before she has awakened.” Her gaze happens to fall over the chocolate bar, long forgotten where it was dropped, and her mouth twists with visible distaste. “In a place which has much better to offer.”

Choiceless, Carl watches as his daughter is taken from him, her limp form offering no resistance.

His best mistake. He’ll never regret her.

“Have a good night, Mr. Spencer. We’ll care for her.”