CHAPTER 17 — INTAKE

  Feeding Hall

  The feeding hall stretches long and narrow, metal walls closing in from both sides. The ceiling hangs low. Pipes and hoses descend in straight lines, evenly spaced, like veins lowered from a body too large to see.

  The air smells of iron and disinfectant. It presses against the skin. Breathing feels shallow here.

  Children stand in a single line.

  No voices.

  Only the pumps.

  PSHH.

  PSHH.

  The sound repeats at fixed intervals. It never changes.

  Aden stands beside Unit Fourteen. Their shoulders almost touch. Not enough to count as contact. Enough to feel heat through fabric.

  Above them, hoses sway slightly as they lower. The motion is slow. Mechanical. Inevitable.

  A guard walks behind the line. His boots strike the floor in a measured pattern. His baton taps against his palm. Once. Twice. Again.

  The hoses lock into place.

  Ports at the neck open with a soft click. Cold touches skin. The gel floods in.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  It is thick. Grey. Heavy.

  Fuel.

  Nothing else.

  Aden feels it slide down, cool against his throat. There is no taste. No warmth. His stomach tightens anyway. The body reacts even when the mind stays still.

  Beside him, Unit Fourteen does not move.

  Her eyes remain forward. Jaw set. Breath even.

  The pumps continue.

  PSHH.

  PSHH.

  A child two places down shifts his weight. Too early. His shoulder rises. A small movement.

  CRACK.

  The baton strikes.

  The sound snaps through the hall. Sharp. Final.

  The child gasps. The line does not break.

  Unit Fourteen’s fingers twitch once.

  Aden notices.

  Not the movement.

  The delay before it.

  A fraction too long. A response held, then released.

  Above them, the ceiling pulses. Light dims and brightens in a slow cycle.

  Aden adjusts his breathing without thinking. Inhale shorter. Exhale longer. The rhythm settles.

  Unit Fourteen turns her eyes just enough to see him. Not fully. A glance without permission.

  She notices him noticing.

  They do not speak.

  Further down the line, children lean forward as instructed. Feeding hoses slide into ports. Some hesitate. Most do not.

  No taste.

  No warmth.

  Unit Seventeen stands three stations ahead. His shoulders shake once. Then still.

  He hesitates.

  CRACK.

  The baton strikes his head.

  The sound echoes differently this time. Hollow. Wrong.

  Unit 17 collapses. Knees hit metal. Hands catch late.

  The pumps do not stop.

  PSHH.

  PSHH.

  He forces himself back up. Jaw tight. Breath fast, then slower. The body finds its pattern again.

  Two stations away, Aden watches Unit Seventeen’s hands shake.

  Then stabilize.

  The guard does not look back.

  Unit Fourteen glances at Aden.

  Aden looks away.

  The gel continues to flow. Cold weight presses inward. His chest feels full. Too full.

  Above, hoses sway. The ceiling pulse repeats. The sound of pumps fills every gap where thought might enter.

  Aden keeps his eyes forward.

  He counts nothing.

  The pumps shut off.

  Silence falls too quickly. Ears ring.

  Children detach hoses in unison. Ports seal. The line moves.

  Boots march. Metal echoes. Order resumes.

  Unit Fourteen looks at Aden again.

  Her gaze lingers half a second longer than before.

  Aden steps forward with the rest.

  He walks as if listening to something that has not sounded yet.

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