Chapter 1
Callaghan Walsh was young enough that every mistake he’d made up to date could be chalked up to learning curves.
It was the foundation of youth. Fall. Fail. Break. Try again. Learn.
Yet, out of all of the mistakes he’d ever made, every wrong call, every poor judgment, he was starting to think this one was the worst one of all — his skin crawled as he stood beneath the blazing spotlights, and his knees had gone weak.
Was this how bugs felt? When they were trapped on slides, pressed tightly beneath a magnifying glass?
As the line pressed forward, a queue of misfits moved towards a single kiosk. It was minimal, waist high, and appeared to have sprouted from the pristine tiles rather than being placed there.
Cal cast an uneasy glance around. He would be next to reach the kiosk, to face the pale-face woman in white. His heart hammered in his chest. His mouth had gone dry — he wished he’d still had his water bottle, but he’d been forced to leave it at the door before he’d been allowed to enter.
This is what you wanted, he told himself, glancing around the room. It rose around him like the inside of a pearl — vast, curving and seamless. Every square inch was the same sterile white, blinding and impersonal. The floor, the arching walls, even the ceiling, which seemed to disappear into a vat of darkness beyond the hanging lights. There was no room for shadows, every corner of the place illuminated. It gave a headache inducing illusion of space, making it hard to judge, like it was compressed yet stretched on forever.
“Next.” The woman behind the kiosk, which presented the first anomaly as it was situated in front of the only flat wall inside the single-roomed building.
The guy who’d been in front of him, tall, lanky, and decked out in a suit, took off to the right. A circle of plastic chairs, bolted to the ground, were there, layers of them, like they were creating a labyrinth. A handful of seats were already taken by those who’d already checked in.
Approaching the stand, he noted how his footsteps were silent. Muted. The tiles had a spongy feel to them, absorbing the impact.
Which wasn’t creepy at all — the air was still, echoless, besides the hushed murmur of collective breathing or the occasional cough. It felt like the walls were swallowing every little noise, leaning in greedily, famished and leering.
“Name?” The woman had a tablet on the lip of the desk. Her eyes, a dull brown, lifted for a fraction, drinking him in, before darting back down to her screen.
“Callaghan Walsh,” he said hoarsely. His fingers twisted around the tassels of his hoodie. His foot twitched, tapping soundlessly. He resisted the urge to glance behind him, to face the long line of eyes pressed against his back.
“One moment.” She clicked away at her screen. Tutted softly. Tapped a few more times. When she glanced back up, she gave him a perfectly practised smile; it was an excellent customer service move. A twist of the lips. False. Just enough effort to appear friendly.
“Please remove any personal artifacts. Jewellery, electronics, I.D. Everything on your person that isn’t clothing. Place them in this bag here —” She reached down by her feet and pulled up a clear, sealable bag.
Cal did as instructed. Most of it didn’t bother him. His phone, he could live without. His wallet — good luck. There was around fifty pence in loose change, and barely forty pounds on his debit card. A used ChapStick. A note of messy directions.
He hesitated when he reached his bracelet. It was a thin, gold band, inscribed with words which had faded over the years. It’d been a part of him since he was six years old. He hadn’t taken it off other than to extend the width.
“We get this back, right?” he checked, teeth sinking into his cheek. His cheeks flushed beneath the look she shot him, annoyance smothered by another professional smile.
“All personal items will be returned upon departure from our programme.”
Cal cast one last glance towards the doors. It was the only visible entrance or exit to the dome. The doors had closed after the last person had entered, sealing away the last traces of daylight from the windowless box. They blended in with the wall so inconspicuously, he almost doubted they were there to begin with.
After handing over the bag, feeling oddly naked, the lady slid a sticker and a pen over to him. The sticker was one of those corny ‘Hi, my name is ___ ’.
Under her pointed look, he filled it out, slapped it on his chest and awaited further instructions.
“Head to the right, take a seat, and await further instructions.”
Cal managed to make it to the seating area with his dignity intact. He didn’t trip or fall, and he hoped like heck the trembles weren’t obvious. He plonked himself in the first chair his hands touched, partly because it was away from the others who’d already gathered, but mostly because his legs felt ready to give out.
With his back against the cold, plastic frame, he exhaled slowly, swallowed the panic building in his throat, and curled his hands into tight fists in his jumper pocket.
“This is what you signed up for,” he reminded himself.
Project L.
It was a three-month long commitment, an experimental practice for a company called Connex. Cal, under pressure from his two best friends, had applied, among hundreds, to take part in the trial process.
They were going to be among the very first to see the adapted world the company had created. It was designed specifically for Littles and Caregivers, taking away the misconceptions of the real world. The premise of it was that it was a space where people like him could be themselves as much or as little as they needed, without judgment, with specialized features to make it more engaging.
The only catch? It was in clinical conditions. They were sacrificing privacy for the opportunity. Every move they made, every word they spoke, they’d consented to be observed.
At the time, it’d felt like a small price to pay. Cal had been sceptical they’d even look at his application, let alone choose it. There’d been so many applicants for such limited places.
“This place is something, huh?”
Cal jumped. He’d been so lost in his thoughts, cursing himself for letting Hannah and Lucas talk him into this, he hadn’t noticed the figure who’d slumped down in the chair beside him.
He was a tall man, with long limbs, loosely assembled. His frame carried a gangly composure, as if he was still growing into the wiriness of his own arms and legs. They spilt out of the chair, his feet hooking around themselves and tucking inwards, and his arms had folded across his chest.
“Yeah,” Cal agreed quietly.
He didn’t want to admit out loud how freaked out he was. He’d always hated hospitals. Something about them, the harsh, sterile impact, the sadness that welled within the halls, and the blandness of it all, it hurt his soul. Like something inside him knew it wasn’t the sort of place any healthy human being should be.
This place? It reminded him of a hospital. The same unrelenting white. The same cagey atmosphere. Even the smell.
It’d hit him as soon as he walked in, that stench. Not altogether unpleasant, but certainly distinctive. Like newly manufactured goods. Like it was just a decoy scent, hiding the decay beneath.
Okay, maybe he was being a tad dramatic, but it really was shockingly similar to a hospital smell.
“You look scared half to death, if you don’t mind me saying.” The man flashed a smile. It took Cal back for a second. It didn’t belong in this sort of environment.
It was too bright and cheerful, disarming to say the least. It lit up his entire face, extending beyond just a simple turn of his mouth. Cal stared for a moment, transfixed, and found himself forming a shaky smile back.
“I’m terrified. I keep trying to talk myself out of leaving,” he admitted.
“You’ll be fine,” he reassured, his eyes, warm honey, twinkling merrily. “Once we get past the registration phase, the fun should start.”
He was handsome, Cal noted to himself. The kind of handsome that didn’t need announcing; immediately striking, and effortlessly magnetic. His face was like an intentional piece of art, each feature complimenting the next. Strong, stern jawline, defined cheekbones, and a mouth that seemed on the constant brink of breaking out in a smile. A halo of dark curls finished the image, springing out in wayward directions in cheerful rebellion.
“I hope so.”
“I’m Dill, by the way.” He extended his hand. His deeply tanned flesh clashed with his own when they shook.
“Like the Rugrats?” he asked without thinking. It must have been a question he got often as his face twisted into a grimace.
“I guess. Everybody always asks me that. You’re Callaghan, right?”
His accent was strong and broad. It sounded like a Midlands accent, but he was never great with guessing.
“How –” His mouth parted, eyes going wide.
Was he a mind-reader? Or was he missing something? Did he miss a document where they showed the other candidates?
“Relax,” he chuckled, sensing his panic. “It’s on your shirt.”
“Oh.” Heat flooded his cheeks.
Yup. He should have written himself a checklist. If he’d put ‘make a fool of myself’ on there, at least it was one thing he could have ticked off.
“I prefer Cal,” he managed at last, trying to salvage his modesty. “Callaghan is a bit of a mouthful, and most people don’t say it properly.”
“Cal it is.” Dill flashed another one of those radiant smiles. “Want an insider's scoop?”
“A what?”
“An insider scoop. A bit of on-the-hush knowledge?”
Leaning forward, he nodded eagerly.
“It’s going to be a bit like that show, Big Brother, or something. They’ll stick cameras in our faces, give us tasks and stuff, except minus the eviction part.”
“How — how do you know that?”
He leaned in, cupped a hand to his mouth, and motioned for him to come closer. Cal offered him his ear. “My aunt works here. She may have pulled some strings and guaranteed me a space. But shhh. That’s between you and me, right?”
Cal nodded. “I won’t say anything.”
“Perfect.” He let out a small hum and readjusted his headphones.
Wait — Cal's head tilted as he studied them. They were hanging around his neck, a pair of wireless Beats. He had rings on too, three on his left hand, and one on the thumb of his right.
“You didn’t have to give them your stuff?” Cal asked, wondering if he’d misheard the instructions.
“Just my phone and my I.D.” Dill flashed an uncertain look towards the kiosk behind them. The queue had gone down some, but the line was still there, growing more and more impatient. Foots tapped. Irritation bled across faces. Huffs were visible.
“Oh. I think I did it wrong.” His fingers circled his wrist. The absence was like missing teeth. He didn’t need to run his teeth across them to feel it was missing.
“Or I did,” Dill suggested with a shrug. “I’ve never been great at following instructions. You should have seen me trying to build a wardrobe for my bedroom. I was like, meh, instructions are for wimps. Four hours and one monstrosity later, I was fishing them back out the rubbish and swallowing humble pie.”
“I always have to follow instructions otherwise I overthink it,” Cal admitted. “The first time I took my car to the petrol station, I panicked and had to Google how to fill up a tank.”
“No way!” His laughter was rich and airy, like atoms danced along the octaves.
Cal found himself watching the people who departed from the check-in stand. Some emptied everything into the bags, like Cal had, while others made their way over with earrings still in, necklaces, and one lady even had a handbag clutched to her side.
There was a clash of attire too. Some people had gone formal, dressing well. Suits or professional looking dresses or skirts. Some, like Cal, who hadn’t even considered he may need to make an impression, had gone casual in jeans and tees.
Dill was a jean wearer. They were grey with frayed tears, and a My Chemical Romance shirt. The temperature was in the lower degrees, enough to leave Cal almost cold even in a sweatshirt, but Dill didn’t seem to notice.
When the queue finally closed, the last person finding their seat, it was as though they all held their breath together, waiting, willing the process to speed along. It didn’t happen. After a while, a restlessness stirred. People twitched. Chatted. Some even paced. Cal shared conversations with Dill, or fell into silence as he head-watched, trying to make sense of it all. He counted thirty-one people, including himself.
They must have been waiting for a solid twenty-five minutes before anything happened. When it did, it arrived in the form of an ear-piercing screech.
The loud, metallic grinding squealed through the air, the high frequency enough to have people wincing. Heads snapped around looking for the source.
It wasn’t hard to locate. The kiosk was slowly sinking into the floor. It must have been on some kind of lever as the decent was slow and rigid. Eventually, it dipped beneath the surface, a gaping black hole left in its place. Once it’d cleared, the tiles slowly began to roll back into place, concealing the gap, removing any trace it’d ever been there to begin with.
The wall behind it, the only flat surface in the room, began to part down the middle, inching open at a mind-numbing speed. The woman from behind the kiosk waited in front of it patiently, smoothing down the white of her blouse before positioning her hands behind her back.
By the time they’d fully extended, revealing a metaled panelled, double door, Cal’s jaw wasn’t the only one on the floor. Everybody watched intently, and when the doors opened, two figures stepping out, he involuntarily grabbed onto Dill’s arm.
A man and a woman, both decked in white like out of season snowmen, strode towards them in perfect sync. Kiosk lady fell behind them, forming a triangle-like formation. They came to a stop ten feet away and gave themselves time to look over the group.
The man was short and stocky, with broad shoulders and a stiff upper lip. Age wore against his face, leaving it textured and sagging, and his eyes were cold and flat.
The woman was on the short side, even to Cal’s nimble five foot seven frame. Round glasses framed the pointed pinch of her face, magnifying her leer, and dark hair had been wrangled into a bun so tight and compressed, it strained the flesh of her forehead, pulling it taunt.
There was no demand for everybody’s attention; they held everybody’s undivided focus.
“My name is Mrs. Black.” The woman stepped forward, her movements stiff, almost robotic. Her tone was just as flat. “This is Mr. White.”
She waved a hand to her companion, who stepped forward until they stood shoulder to shoulder.
“In a few moments, we will be taking you through to the main assembly area where you’ll be briefed and split into your groups.”
“The three groups, A, B and C,” Mr. White continued, following on from Mrs. Black without missing a beat, “Have been pre-selected based on the knowledge we’ve assembled from your aptitude tests and other variants. Your placement within the group is non-negotiable — swapping to another group is not permitted.”
“What is the purpose of the groups?” Somebody called out, a middle aged man with a heavy set frown forming.
“All information will be provided momentarily,” Mrs. Black addressed, her gaze barely brushing over the speaker. “And all questions will be answered. Before we go, please be aware that if anybody wishes to leave, the option will be continuously available throughout the programme. Beware, if you terminate your placement, returning will not be an option.”
“If anybody wishes to leave now, they may do so through the doors you entered through. Mrs. Violet —” Mr. White waved a hand to kiosk lady, “Will gladly show you out.”
They waited a beat and when nobody rose, they gave a nod, as if it was what they expected, and Mr. White continued. “We will ask you to form two lines. If you’ve taken on the role of Caretaker, you will follow me.”
“If you’ve taken on the role of a regressor, you’ll be with me,” Mrs. Black finished.
There was silence, loud enough to hear a snake fart, then chaos as people started piling to their feet, scrambling to get into place. Dill didn’t move. He watched lazily and threw him a crooked smile. “What side are you on, Callie?”
Blushing, because what else was there to do when a handsome stranger gave you a nickname, Cal pointed a trembling finger at the mob forming behind Mrs. Black.
Dill shrugged. “That’s a shame. We’re on different sides. But hey, maybe I’ll see you again soon.”
Cal hoped so. He seemed like the one spark of brightness in this scary new world he was jumping into.
Fumbling his way to his own line, he braced himself, casting one last look across at Dill, who’d fallen in with Mr. White, before they began forward down the stretch of hall beyond, past the door that had appeared behind the wall that was not a wall.
