CHAPTER EIGHT — SEPARATION
The yard felt louder now.
Not in the way alarms were loud.
Not in the way doors slammed.
This was different—it echoed with something she didn’t recognize yet.
Laughter.
Rin didn’t wait for a second suggestion.
“Okay! Okay—everyone here!” she called out, already tugging Huika a little closer to the small group she’d been with earlier. “We’re playing a circle game!”
A few of the other kids groaned playfully. One rolled their eyes. Another shuffled over anyway.
Keil hovered just behind Huika at first, not interfering, just present. Leaf stood off to the side, arms crossed, clearly pretending he wasn’t part of it.
“What kind of game?” one of the boys asked.
“The one where you pass it,” Rin said confidently. “But if you drop it, you have to answer a question.”
“That’s not fair,” someone muttered.
“It is if you don’t drop it,” Rin shot back.
They formed a loose circle on the artificial grass. The fake sky looped overhead, clouds repeating their slow drift. Somewhere behind them, a guard shifted position, watching without interfering.
Rin held up a small rubber ball someone had smuggled into the yard weeks ago and somehow kept hidden from confiscation.
“Okay,” she announced. “You pass it fast. No throwing too hard. And if you mess up—question.”
She looked at Huika. “You just copy what we do, okay?”
Huika nodded once.
The game started slowly.
Pass.
Catch.
Pass.
At first, Huika only watched, eyes tracking the ball carefully. Rin exaggerated her movements when passing to her, making it easier to follow. Keil stepped subtly closer, adjusting the circle’s spacing without making it obvious.
The ball came toward Huika.
She hesitated—but her hands lifted in time.
It bounced off her palms and fell to the grass.
A collective “oooh!” went around the circle.
Huika froze.
Rin immediately crouched beside her. “It’s okay! That just means you get a question!”
Huika blinked.
“What’s your favorite color?” one of the kids asked lightly.
Huika stared at them.
Rin quickly leaned in. “You can just point. Or…” She scanned the yard, then pointed upward. “Blue? Like the sky?”
Huika followed her finger.
The sky.
Too perfect. Too clean.
She slowly lifted her hand and pointed at it.
“Blue!” Rin declared happily. “See? Easy!”
The game continued.
This time when the ball came to Huika, she caught it—barely—and the circle erupted in applause like she’d done something extraordinary.
Keil grinned. “Told you.”
Leaf, from his position near the edge, rolled his eyes. But when the ball was tossed too wide and nearly hit Huika again, he stepped forward without thinking and caught it mid-air.
“Careful,” he muttered, tossing it back properly.
A few rounds later, it was Leaf’s turn to drop it.
Rin’s eyes sparkled. “Question!”
Leaf sighed. “Make it fast.”
“Who do you hate the most here?” someone joked.
Leaf shot them a glare.
Rin quickly waved her hands. “No no no, nice questions only!”
Leaf muttered something under his breath.
Keil smirked. “What’s your favorite thing to do during yard?”
Leaf hesitated.
Then, quieter: “Sit.”
The circle laughed—not cruelly. Just amused.
Huika watched all of it.
The teasing.
The laughter.
The way no one pushed too hard.
She began to understand something.
…
Time slipped by faster than anyone expected.
The artificial sky didn’t change suddenly. It never did. It eased into it—blue thinning at the edges, softening into a pale yellow that bled slowly into muted orange. The clouds continued their loop, perfect and repeated, but the color shift was enough.
Yard time was ending.
No whistle.
No announcement.
The children felt it in their bodies before they consciously noticed it.
Laughter tapered into smaller sounds. Running slowed into walking. The edges of games dissolved naturally, like no one wanted to be the last one moving when the guards decided it was over.
Keil and Leaf had settled near one of the artificial trees again, sitting side by side without comment. Leaf leaned back against the trunk, arms folded loosely. Keil rested his elbows on his knees, watching.
Rin was in the middle of explaining something dramatically to Huika, hands waving in exaggerated gestures. Huika followed half a second behind, trying to copy the movements with growing confidence.
Keil smiled faintly.
Then he stood.
He brushed his hands against his pants and called out, voice calm but carrying just enough.
“Rin. Huika. Time’s up—we better line up.”
Rin turned immediately. “Kay!! We’re coming!” she shouted back, already jogging toward them. “Come on, Huika!”
Huika nodded.
“…Mhm,” she said.
The sound was low—barely there—but it was a sound all the same.
Leaf was already on his feet. He didn’t wait for anyone. He didn’t look back. He simply turned and started walking toward the forming line.
Keil watched him go and sighed lightly. “Despite hanging out with us,” he murmured, half to himself, “he still leaves first.” He smiled and shook his head, then turned back toward the girls.
“Had fun?”
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Rin nodded immediately, slightly out of breath. “Yeah—hehe.”
Huika was panting softly too. Her hair stuck to her forehead slightly, eyes bright in a way that didn’t exist this morning.
She gave a small nod.
Keil noticed that too.
“Good,” he said quietly.
Rin looped her arm through Huika’s again without thinking. “Come on,” she added. “Before the guards start getting annoyed.”
Keil stepped into place beside them as the yard settled fully into order.
The lines formed with practiced ease—rows of children standing shoulder to shoulder, faces forward, feet aligned. The guards had shifted closer now, presence heavier at the edges.
The orange sky dimmed another shade.
They walked back the way they came.
Artificial grass gave way to smooth flooring. Open air gave way to corridor hum.
Shoes echoing as they moved back into the hallways, the artificial sky sealing itself away behind them as the doors slid shut once more.
Conversations died out.
Huika walked between Rin and Keil this time.
No one looked back.
As they were guided back toward their sector, the ease of yard time began to peel away.
No one forgot what came next.
The hallway stretched longer than it had earlier. The hum returned, louder now that laughter had faded. Shoes echoed in uneven rhythm, and the line tightened without being told to.
This was always the part.
At the end of yard time, they were *sorted.*
One by one.
As they turned the last corner, the familiar sight came into view—three, maybe four researchers standing at intervals along the wall. Guards posted beside them. Clipboards glowing faintly in sterile light.
Children ahead of them were already being called out.
A name. A number.
A pause.
Then a guard stepping forward.
The ones taken tried to keep their faces neutral. Some succeeded. Some didn’t. The ones left behind watched the floor.
This time felt different.
The air was heavier. The line ahead was quieter than usual. More anxious. Shoulders tighter. Fingers twitching. One boy near the front was visibly trembling, trying to steady his breathing.
Rin’s arm tightened instinctively around Huika’s.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, though her voice wavered just a little. “You’re still new. They don’t usually pick new ones right away.”
Huika looked at her.
She had felt this before—yesterday, the day she was chosen out of line. The uncertainty. The waiting.
A bead of sweat slipped down her cheek.
Behind her, Keil stepped closer.
He always hated this part.
Everyone did.
But Keil hated it differently.
His expression didn’t change. He kept the same calm face he wore for the others—steady, welcoming, protective. The kind of face that told Rin and Huika *it’s fine* even when it wasn’t.
Deep down, though, something burned.
He hated not knowing.
He hated being unable to stop it.
The line moved forward.
Another name called.
Another child stepping away.
And then Keil saw it.
Not the researchers first.
The heels.
Black. Polished. Unmoving.
His stomach dropped.
No.
He looked up slowly—and saw her sitting behind the researchers, legs crossed, posture relaxed as if she were observing a performance rather than participating in it.
Too late.
His face shifted—subtle shock, quickly masked.
Then the voice came.
“Huika,” it said smoothly.
A pause.
“And… Keil.”
The tone dipped at his name. Not loud. Not sharp. Almost playful.
Dr. Althea Morvane.
She sat comfortably, scrolling through a newly issued advanced clipboard, the screen reflecting cold light against her face. A faint smirk curved her lips—small, precise, unkind.
Rin’s grip faltered.
Her arm began to tremble before she realized it. She loosened her hold on Huika, not meaning to, just reacting. Her throat tightened. She wanted to say something—to apologize, to warn, to promise—but the words wouldn’t come.
So she did what she’d learned to do.
She fixed her posture.
Eyes down.
Mouth closed.
She couldn’t even look at Huika.
Guards stepped forward immediately.
Keil didn’t resist. He never did. He already knew the motion—step out, hands visible, no sudden movements.
Huika didn’t.
She froze for half a second.
Keil reached back without looking and locked his fingers with hers.
Firm. Grounding.
He squeezed once—small enough not to draw attention, strong enough for her to feel it.
She followed.
Dr. Morvane watched them approach.
Her eyes were as lifeless as ever—cool, clinical, assessing. There was no anger there. No visible cruelty. Just interest.
The kind of interest someone might have when observing an experiment behaving slightly differently than expected.
To her, the children were data.
Variables.
Reactions.
And as Huika and Keil were pulled from the line together, the hallway seemed to narrow around them, swallowing the space they had occupied only seconds before.
Rin didn’t look up.
Leaf did.
Just for a moment.
Then the line moved forward again.
As if nothing had happened.
Keil and Huika were pulled cleanly from the original line.
No announcement. No explanation.
A guard’s hand shifted slightly, redirecting them without force—but with certainty. They were guided toward another corridor branching off from the main hall, where a second line was already forming.
This one was quieter.
More rigid.
This wasn’t the line for routine vitals. Not the weekly check. Not the behavioral scans done with bored expressions and quick notes.
This was the scheduled line.
Hand-selected.
Measured in advance.
The children and teenagers here stood differently—some stiff with familiarity, others trembling because they didn’t yet understand what familiarity meant. No one asked why they were chosen. That question had long stopped being useful.
At the end of this corridor was a wing that didn’t bother pretending to be gentle.
Bright lights. Stainless steel surfaces. Doors that sealed too tightly. The air colder here—filtered, clinical, humming with restrained precision.
Beyond these doors, separate authorities operated in quiet competition—Biology, Genetics, Neurological adjustment, Behavioral recalibration, Containment—each sovereign within its domain, each observing the others without speaking.
This was where bodies were opened to improve compliance.
Where skin was parted to insert what the system required.
Where behavioral thresholds were tested, recorded, corrected.
Where something could be implanted—not to heal, but to monitor.
The line moved forward slowly.
His grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt—but firm enough that she would know he was there. His thumb brushed faint circles against her knuckles without him realizing he was doing it.
Huika followed because he moved. Because the line moved. Because stopping wasn’t an option. Her other hand hung at her side, fingers twitching faintly. Her eyes tracked everything—the white walls, the sealed doors, the lights that were colder here than anywhere else.
She didn’t understand this part yet.
That was almost worse.
The line inched forward.
Keil noticed something that made his stomach drop further—older faces ahead of them. Kids who had been here two years. Three. They stood quieter. Less reactive.
And mixed among them—new ones.
Fresh arrivals.
Like Huika.
Understanding hit him all at once.
The new ones weren’t here for evaluation.
They were here for *something* else.
His jaw tightened.
*Shit…*
He thought to himself.
He looked down at Huika.
She looked back at him, confused, waiting—like she always did when she didn’t know the rule.
Keil swallowed.
“…I—” He tried to say something. But nothing came out.
His mind raced ahead of his words—images of sterile rooms, cold tables, restraints that weren’t called restraints. He hoped they’d be gentle. Hoped they’d explain. Hoped—foolishly—that they’d use something to dull the pain.
He tightened his grip just slightly, grounding himself as much as her.
…
The sound came first.
Sharp. Measured. Unhurried.
Heels against polished floor.
Every older child in line recognized it before they saw her.
Dr. Althea Morvane stepped into view, three researchers trailing behind her like quiet shadows. Their posture was precise, hands folded behind backs, tablets tucked close to their chests. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
Althea stopped directly in front of the line.
“Welcome, my sweet little children,” she said warmly, her voice lilting with something almost affectionate.
The newer children blinked at her. A few straightened instinctively, confused but hopeful. The word sweet did something to them. Made their shoulders lift, just slightly.
The older ones did not move.
They knew better.
They knew her smile was practiced. That her kindness was curated. That behind the polished tone and gentle phrasing lived something colder than the sterile air of the wing.
Her eyes drifted along the line slowly.
Assessing.
Selecting.
“Remember me?” she asked lightly.
Her gaze paused—precisely—where Keil and Huika stood.
Keil felt it land on him like weight.
Huika didn’t understand the tension, but she felt the shift in the air. The way bodies around her stiffened. The way breathing changed.
Althea began walking in front of them, heels clicking softly as she moved down the line. She wasn’t rushed. She never was. The researchers followed at a respectful distance.
“Today,” she continued conversationally, “we’ll be conducting some additional check-ups.”
Her hands folded neatly behind her back as she turned, pacing slowly.
“We’ve welcomed quite a number of new arrivals recently,” she said, tilting her head slightly, as if sharing an inconvenience. “And it would be terribly difficult for us dear…”
She paused, tapping a finger lightly against her chin as though searching for the perfect word.
“…caretakers,” she finished with a small laugh.
The new children shifted uncertainly. One swallowed.
“Our new friends,” she said sweetly, “will be undergoing a simple procedure. Something we call injecting.” She smiled wider. “It may sting a little. Just a little. But I assure you, it’s quite bearable.”
Her eyes did not warm when she said it.
Keil’s hand tightened around Huika’s arm without him realizing.
He knew what that meant.
The memory surfaced—cold table, sterile air, pressure driven too close to bone.
A tracker. Embedded small. Close enough to bone to make removal difficult. He remembered the smell of disinfectant, the pressure near bone, the way they’d told him to stay still.
Althea continued walking.
“And for our older friends…” Her gaze swept toward those who had been there two years or more. “You’ll be visiting a different department today.”
Her lips curved faintly.
“Think of it as… developmental advancement.”
Behind her, one of the researchers adjusted their tablet, the faint glow reflecting across their lenses.
The older children did not look relieved.
Some would be taken for thorough examinations—blood, reflex, tolerance. Others would not be so fortunate. Some would enter rooms where their bodies would be studied for modification. Adjustments. Genetic recalibration. Something added. Something awakened.
Something irreversible.
Althea clasped her hands together once.
“Now then,” she said brightly, “let’s not keep anyone waiting.”
Guards stepped forward immediately.
The line split down the middle.
New to the left.
Older to the right.
Movement began.
Huika’s breath caught as she felt the line shift. She was gently guided toward the group of new children. Her fingers slipped from Keil’s grasp before she understood why.
She looked up at him.
For the first time, her face openly showed it.
Worry.
Keil met her gaze, something raw flickering behind his calm expression. He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
He wanted to say something reassuring.
He couldn’t.
He felt powerless.
A guard stepped between them, directing Keil toward the other side.
They were pulled apart.
Dr. Morvane fell into step behind Keil.
“So tense, subject K3R5,” she said lightly, as if commenting on the weather. “You mustn’t look so distressed.”
Keil kept his eyes forward.
Her heels echoed once more as she matched his pace.
“Don’t worry,” she continued softly. “You’ll see her again.”
A pause.
“And I promise you…”
Her voice lowered—silk wrapped around something sharp.
“She’ll receive a very… very special treatment.”
