Dreamworld

A passing memory steals the darkness from my closed eyes. His piercing blue eyes gaze at me as his body hovers above. Like a child, full and wide, they smile at me.

I spring awake at that moment. The cold metal table numbs my body, bound with chains. A hand grips my shoulder.

“You are awake, good. Time is short, my cherub,” Dr. Halpert’s voice echoes in the spacious lab. He begins his series of ejections as I glance up at the observation deck.

“An audience today? Buyers?” I mutter, resigned, as the last vial of serum seeps into my veins. I lie still, letting him orchestrate our sickly performance. The monitors serenade us with their constant rhythm, our spectators eagerly awaiting the grand entrance of their beast. The wide, gleaming smiles confirm their excitement - I can still perform, day after day.

Whispers ripple through the hum of machinery, questioning my longevity, reliability, and control. Perhaps the Russians that Dr. Halpert mentions so often. The increase in my training makes sense now. The fights – 953 and counting – are unrelenting. The repairs to my skin afterward are equally harrowing. How difficult it must be for them to break their toy.

The serum takes hold, and my heart racing wildly. At that moment, the metal door squeaks open. Dr. Halpert and I jerk our heads toward the sound.

“That door must remain shut at all times!” he shouts as the alarms erupt

“Tomas?” I croak, gasping for air as my chest fractures. My leg convulses, lifting my body as scales slice through my skin. Three shots ring out. A thud.

“Tomas!!” I scream, the force rattling my lungs.

“Aina, I have you,” he responds, his blue eyes blinking into my existence. The chains groan under my strength as I fight to stay conscious. My limbs shift, reshaping into the other me. I hate this part. This is where it takes over.

“You must go, you mustn’t stay-” my voice breaks with the grit of my teeth. Tomas ignores me, his hands working furiously to unbind my chains. Above, the observation deck erupts in chaos. People claw at the doors, stumbling over one another in their frantic escape.

“Give them hell, Aina,” Tomas whispers, his lips brushing my cheek. “It’s time the world meets you.”

My conscience slips. His words echo in my mind: A caged bird will always yearn for the freedom of flight. My wings unfurl, no longer clipped. My feet, untied.

My rage surges, consuming me. It’s time.