This is a collaboration of two short stories I wrote for the backstory of one of my mentor characters in my dystopian novel, Protectors. Due to the intensity of these snippets, these stories may not be good for younger viewers.
Content Warnings: A man uses fear and physical force to try to break the will of a teen boy.
***
To admit to fear was considered weakness. But right now, Dylan didn’t think he could lie well enough to convince anyone else wise.
The room was dark. Everything was dark since they took him. But this was a different kind of blackness— the color of silence, a tormenting wait with only a promise of nothing good coming from the end.
Still, scared as he was, Dylan kept his shoulders stiff, and his chin raised.
He’d tried to undo the cuffs that had kept him chained since he’d been kidnapped. He’d only succeeded in making his wrists bleed. They were smart— Mildecan had taken enough people to know what sort of tricks they would try.
So he sat in the darkness, waiting. Thinking.
This was a change from the past five days. He’d spent those in a cell, all by himself with no human contact outside of whoever slid his single meals through a slot in the door. He’d tried speaking to them, but they never answered.
Today, someone did. A Level One Kolonant soldier with his face shielded by a techglo mask. He was given new clothes, and by electrogun point told to put them on and come with him.
That had been hours ago. They’d left him in this dark room, told him to wait for the Kommando. The head of Level One Patrols.
What the Emperor’s elite army general wanted with him, he didn’t know.
Suddenly, light split the darkness, and his handcuffs unlocked. He gripped his torn hands and blinked rapidly as a single light bulb clicked on in the room, revealing a metal desk.
Sitting at the desk was a man. His armor was blue, marking him as a Level One, and by the finely detailed tech lining it, he guessed that this was the Kommando.
The techglo mask peeled away, revealing the face of a man about midway through his life— forty, fifty perhaps. It was impossible to tell the true color of his hair in the dim light— black, or maybe brown. His dark eyes and hooked nose gave him a predator sneer akin to a vulture.
He watched Dylan with that cold gaze, silent as stone.
Dylan willed himself not to look away. He set his jaw and stared back, not twitching a muscle.
The man’s gaze threatened to suck his soul away. Like if he let himself slip for one minute, he would be gone to the blackness forever.
Remember who you are. He clenched his jaw tighter, numb hands curling into fists. You’re Dylan Keller and no one can change that.
Maybe this guy thought he could take advantage of him because he was a kid. But he’d had his share of bullies, and he wasn’t about to go down without a fight.
So he and the man continued in their silent staring match. Sizing each other up. Waiting for the other to waver.
Then, a slow smile crept across the man’s face. “Impressive.” He shifted back in his chair, hands folded. “You have quite the gumption.”
“What do you want with me?” Dylan hissed, keeping his voice low so the Kommando couldn’t hear him shaking.
“And to the point as well! Interesting.” The man stood up, the light casting unearthly shadows across his pale, hard face. “My name is Alexander Saljar. You are here because you have been chosen.”
The word sounded like a snake slithering between his teeth. Dylan tensed, mostly to hide the shiver racing down his spine. “Chosen for what?”
“Ah. That is the question.” Saljar stepped closer, his metal-armored feet clinking against the floor. “Chosen for one of the highest honors in Liberty City, of course.”
Dylan stood up, so he could be eye to eye with this man. “And that would be?”
“A soldier of the state, of course.” A dangerous gleam flickered in Saljar’s beady eyes. “What is your name?”
The way he asked sent his gut twisting into knots. Dylan thought of not responding, but the Kommando’s gaze bored into his soul, and finally he choked out, “Dylan Keller.”
The minute the word left his lips, Saljar slapped him, his metal-covered hand raking gashes in Dylan’s face as he tumbled to the floor. Blood filled his mouth as he bit his cheek.
He coughed, looking up toward Saljar. The Kommando loomed over him, cast in shadows except for his frenzied, predatory gaze.
“Wrong.” He hissed. “You are not Dylan Keller anymore. Dylan Keller is dead. You are a number now. T15A1642. You respond to Fifteen, and nothing but Fifteen.”
Dylan spat out blood, growling. “Not much of a name.”
He shouted as Saljar’s armored boot met his ribs. Firecracker explosions of agonizing pain seized his lungs, sending him gasping for air.
“The first rule of being a soldier— take orders from your superiors.” Saljar said, his voice crackling with an underlying rage.
Dylan clenched his fists as stars danced in his vision. He dragged in one ragged breath after another, wheezing.
He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe?
Black spots began taking over. The kick had broken his ribs— it was like trying to breathe with a fire brand in his side.
Can’t… breathe…
Get up.
The voice in his head was and wasn’t his own. It was his voice, but different. Fiercer.
Don’t let him see you fall apart, Dylan. Get up.
He didn’t want to move. But he could hear Saljar’s satisfied chuckle, his amusement at having finally broken him.
Get. Up.
He drew in as deep of a breath as he could muster, and got his knees under him. His ribs throbbed, then exploded with agonizing fire.
He pressed his hands to the cold floor, trying to steady himself as nausea rocked his body.
GET UP.
One foot under him. Then the other.
He stood, lifting his chin, squaring his shoulders, staring Saljar down. Vertigo gripped him and he almost stumbled, but he kept breathing. Kept standing.
He didn’t say a word aloud to the Kommando, but he glared, hoping he could read the message in his head.
You will never own me.
Saljar’s thin eyebrows rose, as if he was shocked that Dylan was still trying to defy him. “A soldier with fire.” He mused. “Very interesting.”
“I…” Dylan coughed, spitting blood onto the floor. The dizzyness was getting stronger by the minute, but he forced himself to stand firm. “I will never…give in to you.”
Saljar smiled. His deep chuckle echoed through the metal room like the laugh of a ghost.
“That is what they all say, Fifteen.” He murmured. “But every man has a breaking point. And you… you are but a child. Do you think you have what it takes to stand against the pain that awaits you if you continue to defy me?”
He leaned in so close, Dylan could smell the rot in his breath. “I can promise, it will make your life very miserable.”
He stepped back, looking down at Dylan. “Now, tell me again, and please, don’t make it hard on yourself. What. Is. Your. Name?”
Every muscle in his body went rigid. He was going to pass out if this man kicked him again, but he forced the words out.
“My name is Dylan Keller.”
Saljar roared and grabbed his shoulders, slamming him into the wall. His thin, metal-cla fingers dug into Dylan’s throat until his neck crackled.
“You are treading a very thin line, boy.” Saljar’s voice was nothing more than a hissed whisper. “It is only by some miracle that you are here instead of halfway across the ocean on a boat to Andwen. If you give me any more sass, I will personally make sure that your death is as slow and painful as possible. Do I make myself clear?”
Black edged his vision. Fear gripped him at the thought of dying like this. Throat crushed. Suffocating slowly.
“Yes.” He croaked.
The Kommando released him, leaving Dylan sagging against the wall, gasping. His ribs burned furiously now— tears threatened to fall, but he held them back.
“Good.” Saljar straightened his armor. “You will be escorted to your new quarters. No more shenanagins, hm? Am I clear?”
Dylan couldn’t speak. His throat was throbbing, and he wanted to cough, but that would only make his ribs hurt more.
Saljar opened the door and two Level One Patrols stepped into the room. “New recruit. T15A1642. He begins training tomorrow, so do something about his injuries, then have him marked.”
The two Patrols seized him by the arms and shoulders. Dylan bit back a cry of pain, too weak to fight back.
“That’s more like it.” Saljar smiled. “The sooner that you learn to submit, the easier your life will be, Fifteen.”
The guards began dragging him out of the room. Dizzy as he was, Dylan forced his eyes to open. Forced himself to stare Saljar down.
The last thing he saw before the door closed was the brief flash of surprise on Saljar’s face.
Dylan smiled, then let his head drop. His body felt like it had been run over by a truck. How long had he been in there?
But he’d survived. He’d gotten back up.
He wasn’t broken.
Yet.
The pain was too overwhelming. His mind was starting to fade into unconsciousness, snippets of his past playing in his mind.
Of his sisters.
Of his parents.
Of Bay.
He choked when he saw her, purple and black hair soaked from the storm as her brown eyes widened, watching him be dragged away from where she hid in the shadows.
He was supposed to rescue her. Supposed to be her protector, give her a place where no one could ever hurt her again.
Instead, he was here.
And the last thing he thought, before he finally passed out into the dark and pain, was a single promise.
I’m going to fight back, and I’m going to find you.
No matter what it takes.
***
The first sensation that Dylan knew as he was waking up was something cold stinging his back, a burning along his arm, and the tight smothering of being unable to breathe.
He jolted, felt hands grip his arms, and instinctively thrashed against it, trying to sit up. Why were his arms so weak? Why was it so hard to move? Where was he? Last he remembered…
He couldn’t remember anything. It was all blurry.
He thrashed harder, trying to free himself, get away.
“Ho, buddy!” A friendly, deep voice said. “Don’t try to move too fast. I just got the bleeding to stop.”
Bleeding?
He blinked, trying to remember where he was, but everything felt sluggish. He finally eased a bit, waiting for his mind to clear so he could form a plan, panting softly from the exertion.
“That’s better. I know you’re probably pretty confused, but fighting back is only going to hurt you more.” The voice said, with a mix of amusement and sarcasm. The cold stinging resumed— Dylan realized it was a cold, wet cloth, tapping at sore spots on his back.
His ribs were throbbing now, and with the pain, everything came back.
His kidnapping.
The imprisonment.
The meeting with the Kommado.
Breaking his rib.
His promise.
He struggled again, biting back a shout as he jarred his broken ribs, although the pain wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been last night. Large hands gently pinned him, immobilizing his arms.
“What did I say?” The voice tsked. “Fighting is only going to hurt you. Not like you can get very far anyway. The Enhancements still need time to work.”
Dylan finally managed to turn his head so he could actually see what was around him. He was in a metal room with lot of bunks. The man— or more accurately, teen boy— sitting next to him was a few years his senior, with a youngish face and a hulking stature. Short buzzcut black hair, tan skin, and dark, amused eyes. He wore a simple black t-shirt and gray-green cargo pants, and his hands alone looked like they could crush steel.
“Where am I?” Dylan gasped, suddenly feeling jittery all over. Like his skin was coming alive and trying to crawl off his body.
“Trainee Barracks number seventeen.” The guy replied.
Trainee Barracks?
Did he mean trainees for the Patrols?
“I can’t be here.” He muttered, trying to get up.
To his surprise, the big guy stepped aside. “Go ahead. Try to get up. You’re not going to be able to walk for at least another fifteen minutes. As I said, you’ve been sleeping for a while, but the Enhancements take a few minutes for your body to fully accept.”
Dylan wasn’t listening. He was trying to stand up, but he couldn’t move his legs. It was like they were strapped with weights, or he was trying to move through syrup.
“What…” He gasped, finally giving up after several minutes of trying to sit up. “What’s wrong with me?”
The big guy sighed, shaking his head. “Newbies. So many questions. Can’t blame you.” He sat down, working on the wounds on Dylan’s back again. “Enhancements. Every Patrol gets them. It’s some sort of special injection that enhances your strength, speed, and mental calculations.”
The idea of something like that being injected into him made Dylan’s skin itch even more. He struggled again. “I want out of here.”
“Join the club.” The guy muttered. “But take a look at your wrist. See that number? No one gets out of here, compadre. You’ve just gotta accept it and try to survive.”
Dylan managed to shift his arm forward and saw the line of black numbers marching across his arm, the skin still inflamed from tattooing.
T15A1642
“What…” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. “What do they mean?”
The guy leaned over. “T stands for teenager. 15 is your age. A…” His eyes flickered with interest. “A stands for what they’re going to train you for. And 1642 means you’re the 1,642nd prisoner to be assigned in that age bracket and role.”
One thousand six hundred and forty-two prisoners came before me? The number was boggling.
He lay there quietly for a minute, too exhausted and sore to keep struggling. He eyed the tall guy. “What’s your name?”
The guy didn’t meet his gaze. “My number is T13A0543. I’ve been here long enough to have my name, but we’re supposed to use numbers with the new recruits.”
Thirteen.
He gave his number. Not a name.
The conversation with the Kommando came roaring back like a blunt force trauma headache.
“You were thirteen when they brought you in?” He asked.
He clenched his jaw, began putting something stiff and dry on Dylan’s back. “Yep.”
“How old are you now?”
The guy finished, sat up. “Eighteen.”
Five years.
The idea of spending five years in this place made Dylan start struggling again. “I can’t be here.”
“How many times do I have to say it? You don’t have a choice.” The guy stood up, twisting his wrist as if to look at a watch. Instead, a holographic panel popped up. “The Enhancements should be done working now. You can try to stand up.”
His skin still twitched like crazy. Dylan slowly sat up, noticing that the gashes on his back were bandaged now. He shook his hands, trying to dispel this nervous tension crawling along his veins.
“Twitchy?” The guy smirked. “Yeah, that’s one of the side effects.”
Now that he was standing up, Dylan noticed exactly how tall and built he was. Far more muscular than what an eighteen year old boy should look like.
“Did these… Enhancements?” He involuntarily shuddered, but forced himself to stay upright. “Did they… help you get like that?”
“It’s not going to do this to you, if that’s what you’re asking.” The older boy said. “I was one of the first generations to get the Enhancements. They were… stronger than expected.” He opened and closed his hands, as if contemplating the superhuman strength contained in them. “You think you’d love to have this much strength until you realize that what was your light touch before could kill a man.”
The haunted tone to his voice was unmistakable. Dylan swallowed nervously, pushing his brown hair out of his eyes. It was starting to stick to his forehead from the sweat.
“That shouldn’t happen to you though.” The guy said. “They’ve figured out the Enhancements to a T now. Very few side effects.”
He pointed to a pile of clothing. “That’s your trainee uniform. Put it on when you’re ready. I’ll explain everything to you over time. Don’t want to overwhelm you.”
Well, that was a joke. Being ripped away from everything you knew wasn’t overwhelming?
“Isn’t there any way to escape?” Dylan whispered.
The taller man glared at him, fierce enough to make Dylan shiver a bit. “Dangerous words, compadre. I’d suggest keeping such thoughts to yourself. The Wall has many ears.”
His mind was too foggy to comprehend that last statement, although it was getting sharper by the minute. “But… my family…”
Bay. Her face was bright and clear in his mind. He needed to find her.
“There is no family anymore.” The soldier’s voice was flat, hard. “They killed them. All of them. Standard procedure.”
Dylan’s heart staggered. He blinked. “They… what?”
“When they ask too many questions, they kill the family off. Keeps the soldiers from believing they have anything to come back to.” The taller man didn’t look him in the eyes when he said it, and his voice was horrifyingly robotic.
Dead.
Dylan sank back, numb.
“Get used to it, Fifteen.” The guy sighed. “Welcome to the underworld. This is our normal, and soon you’ll learn to accept it.”
“My name…” Dylan hissed, looking up to glare down the older boy. “Is Dylan.”
Something— admiration? Pity?— glinted in the soldier’s dark gaze. “You’re a fighter. I can see that. But fighters don’t live long here. Death is never quick by their hands— it comes slowly, and painfully. Conform to what they want, and you can have your name back. Until then… you’re Fifteen, not Dylan.”
“I can’t accept that.”
“Then live with it.” The older boy shifted. “I have to get to a debriefing meeting. You stay here, rest a bit. I’ll come back and show you around later.”
He turned to go. The idea of being left alone in this sterile room was almost more terrifying than having the hulking boy standing over him.
“Hold up.”
The soldier stopped, turned. “What is it, compadre?”
“At least tell me your name. I don’t want to call you Thirteen.”
The boy hesitated, glancing at the walls as if guns would shoot him down the moment he said it. “Fine. But you can only use it in our personal quarters.” He stepped closer and held out his hand, as if to shake. “Baltzar. My name is Baltzar.”
He shook the boy’s large hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Baltzar.”
There was a flicker on Baltzar’s face at hearing his name spoken— a spark of light. “I’m glad to meet you too… Dylan.”
Then, as if it never happened, Baltzar marched down the hallway, leaving Dylan alone on the bunk.
He shivered, feeling colder than he had before.
His family was dead.
His name was dead.
And he’d lost Bay.
He stared at the metal ceiling. How had all of this happened? Why was it happening?
He didn’t have an answer.
But Baltzar was right. He was a fighter.
And he would never conform to this system.
***
To find out what happens next, sign up for my email list to get a free copy of Dear Cards, an epistolary short story about a young man fighting for his morality in a world where he’s forced to kill to keep his life.
Oh my goodness, Allie, my heart hearts so much for him!! Amazing job!