In The Clear: Prologue I

CW: Mentions of torture.

Time passes differently here.

Rory sits at the edge of the bunk, her legs swinging to a melody that doesn't reach the small room. She doesn't know how long it's been silent. She doesn't remember when the last meal set was delivered nor the last time she laid down to sleep. It all blurs together the moment it happens, like some strange extended memory.

It's likely been months since they escaped The Cut with the help of the Protestors, perhaps even years. For the time being they're still being kept separate from the rest of the Towers. The last time they spoke to Levi - or perhaps the time before - he could only repeat that the Commander thought it was best this way. It feels like he hasn't visited in a while. Rory doesn't know if that feeling is a lie.

"What day is it?" Val asks numbly. She leans forward to find them seated with their back against the headboard. This is one of the only games that keeps them occupied. Nothing else makes the passage of time feel even remotely natural. Rory used to count days by the meals that were delivered. Lately, they've been so scattered it's impossible to.

Sometimes they receive a single lukewarm meal. More often than not, it's a wrinkled grocery bag filled with odds and ends that are mostly edible. The pair simply have to make do until the next delivery.

Pretending to know the day by holidays, birthdays, or anything else is the only thing they can think to resort to.

Rory struggles to remember her last answer. She used to write them down, but every strip of paper they'd found in the room is either full or too damp to write on. She closes her eyes for a moment before it finally comes to her. "New Year's Day."

"We should decorate." Val is aware of the monotonicity of their voice as they struggle to their feet. Despite there being little else to do but sleep, they can't seem to push past their exhaustion. Still, this is always the best part of their day.

If, in fact, it is a new day at all.

Truthfully, Val doesn't know and neither does Rory. This room has no windows and seems to always keep the same frigid temperature. They can't even be certain whether it's winter or summer outside of this place. Val supposes it doesn't matter.

They glance at Rory as she rises carefully from the bed. Val lifts half-damp pieces of paper to the wall by their bunk bed and they stick without need for tape. That's probably best because they don't have any. The pair spent a lot of time going through the meager crates and storage bins when Rory finally became well enough. Still, Val feigns searching for more decorations.

It feels like insanity. Perhaps, that's exactly what it is.

They've long stopped mentioning what will happen when they are finally allowed out. They've even stopped daydreaming aloud about what the rest of the Towers might look like. In the days, months, or years that they've been locked in this room, those things have become too painful to think about.

Neither of them want to say it, but the obvious truth is staring them in the face.

They're never getting out.

- CW -

Time passes differently here.

Most often, there's nothing but sterile white for Lev to watch. It's always bright in this room. He can't remember a time when it wasn't. Lev finds it hard to believe that a light switch even exists. He can't recall a time where his eyes didn't burn along with the rest of his skin.

In time time since he was pulled from the set by FFN and imprisoned here, it's been hard to remember he's human. He feels like a lab rat if lab rats were the most hated beings on earth. The people in white coats that match his walls march in with clipboards and woodburners. Lev believes they're all the same person. Truthfully, he doesn't care if they aren't just as they don't seem to care that he's human.

He has nothing to prove to them.

They can't break him.

Lev thinks of time in chunks of similar events. There was the medicated fog as doctors pried at his deadened limbs. There was the period of tight restraints that threatened to choke him, once made of metal and later some kind of thick fabric. There was another round of drugs that made his whole body feel like it was an immovable rock on the hospital cot.

And then the burns. That's how he measures time now.

Lev's starting to lose count of how many. Unlike everything else, he hasn't been able to get used to the blistering pen held against his skin. He can't stop the screams that crack his chapped lips or the tears that boil in his eyes. He can't even pull up his sleeve to count how many reside there. He thinks they know that.

That's why they haven't stopped.

They think they're getting somewhere, just as they seem to believe a mirage of familiarity will shatter his resolve. When he isn't seated beside Lev, he can almost believe the boy isn't real. There are enough torn memories searing through Lev's mind to corrupt it. Some days it feels like he's trapped in a nightmare. Others, it feels like he's already dead.

Lev knows that he isn't. This is worse than death and it never ends. He was never one to believe in heaven or hell, but what surrounds him now is neither. This is a limbo that's been specifically crafted for him. Lev should by all accounts be dead, but someone's decided not to allow it.

They want him to tell them where The Protestors are. Lev hardly knows what that name means anymore.

The only thing he knows for sure is simple, raw, and devastating.

He's never getting out.

Time passes differently here.

Bronte flips the page of the book laid out neatly in front of her, though she's read not a word of it. Her eyes burn heavy with the brightness above her and the throbbing in her temples. The chair beneath her is rigid. She raises her eyes and someone stares back. Her lips smile without permission.

It's you. Bronte doesn't know who her mind is referring to. There's a dull ache as the recognition continues. He looks kind, familiar. Bronte thinks she's seen him before. His name finally comes forward and she's never been so certain.

He walked into the large room, his expression far younger than it appears now. Bronte glanced up, her own hands folded and trembling on the concrete table. He caught her eye for less than a second before he walked quickly to an empty seat to wait.

Bronte remembers that place. It's where she was before she came here. It's where she nearly died. Yet, Bronte does not fear the memory. It simply exists as she herself does. A whole picture with every piece held firmly together.

Something's missing. Eden feels the empty space beside her as she lays on the wrinkled sheets. Her hand reaches out stiffly but there's nothing there. She holds her fingers there a moment longer but they touch nothing. Eden forgets that she'd been looking before her palm can even reach the mattress.

No thought sticks around. No position either. Eden finds herself often between memories, sitting somewhere entirely new when she'd sworn she was just laying in bed. The gaps don't frighten her. Nothing does.

She doesn't know the strange boy who speaks to her. He may not even exist until once again Eden finds herself staring into his dark features. She doesn't speak. She hasn't been able to since…

Eden doesn't know. Maybe she never did.

And that thought doesn't bother her.

Lior doesn't care for the people that watch him. He remembers the boy that visits, but not many of the words he speaks. It's as if most of them are locked away somewhere deep inside of him. It's where all the missing parts must go, but he's not sure. Lior can't feel them. He doesn't know what they are or what to call them.

He only knows they're locked away.

That's okay.

No.

Lior's eyes run slowly along the perimeter of the small room. It's familiar. The boy sits across from him. His lips move and Lior hears the words, but they're gone a moment later. His own tongue responds but Lior can't hear them. His body moves automatically, slowly, but he has little control.

It's growing, though. His finger twitches on the table, but no one seems to notice. It's fast, unlike any action his foreign body chooses for him. Every day Lior wakes up with more grating pain above his ear. It feels like something's wrong, but that in itself is a victory.

His body is returning to him. Whatever they did to him is slipping and they don't seem to notice. Lior moves his finger again, but shockingly his whole hand responds. His gaze slowly turns to the other hand. It refuses his command.

It doesn't matter. One is enough.

It takes too long for the onlookers to realize before Lior's fingers clumsily grasp the wire burrowed deep in his skull. Blood sprays the table in front of him and the strange boy recoils as it splatters across his cheeks. Pain is the first thing Lior feels. It pulls a scream from his lips as the device loses its tight grip on him.

Lior sees the floor right before he collapses against it. Blood slides down his temple and coats the ground where he lays. Red is all he can see as shouts erupt around him. The taste of iron creeps in through the small smile that pulls at his cheeks. The pain doesn't matter. The blood doesn't scare him. Nothing does.

He hears more than the strange people think. There's no other way to stop them. If Lior doesn't take this chance now he might never get another. They'll realize their control is faltering. They'll fix it the moment they do. They still might, but if he doesn't try all he can do is accept the only remaining option.

He's never getting out.

A/N: Long time, no see!

Here we are, the official start to the final installment of The Cut Verse. For those of you who've been following In The Core, you know that submissions have been open for the past few weeks. That being said, the official deadline is January 9th, 2023 at 12PM EST for anyone still interested! All details are on my profile.

For those of you new to the verse without time to read over 500k of prequel (I get it), send me a PM and I can direct you to my verse summary. This prologue will likely not make much sense without it. A lot has happened in the past two years and the subplot has gotten pretty intricate. That being said, you are more than welcome to submit without prior knowledge. I won't tell you how to live your life.

If you'd like to run a concept by me or have any questions, feel free to shoot me a PM or find me on discord. I'm excited to see what everyone comes up with and start this next journey very soon.

Until next time!

~ Olive