Peering around at his classmates, Samm can sense through the link that everyone in the room is human. All of them are laughing, smiling, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of sound that makes his head hurt. He knows that he should talk, at least-nod, or try to fit in. He doesn't know how. Life was so much simpler in the army, where orders were given, fulfilled, and given again. Samm is clueless when it comes to the "real-world" where being human and animated is the norm. Someone taps his shoulder, and he whirls around with fists at the ready. "Whoa, easy tiger," says the stranger.
Samm's pheromones are pumping messages like crazy, but the girl looking back at him is obviously not a threat. She recoils only slightly at his raised hands, crinkling her tanned nose in a foreign expression. "Wow, sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you."
Samm realizes that he probably looks threatening and very not-human, so he slowly lowers his arms. "Hi," he tests.
"Hi there," she smiles. "My name's Austen, it's nice to meet you."
The girl reaches her hand across the desk. Samm stares at it. "I'm Samm," he says flatly, before adding, "M"-thinking at the last minute he should try to include some sort of last name.
Austen draws her eyebrows together and pauses before phrasing the next question-Samm takes this as a bad sign. "You're new here, aren't you?"
Samm decides humans have a knack for pointing out the obvious. He takes it as a statement, not a question, and says nothing. The girl Austen waits, but then one of her friends pulls her over into conversation. Even though the girls are whispering, Samm's enhanced hearing picks up their words easily. "Austen, who is that guy? He is so hot!"
It takes a second for him to understand that "hot" does not refer to his physical body temperature. His heart drops in his chest. Samm wants to remain as under-the-radar as possible, but already he's gained gossip status. Inwardly he moans. Crossing his arms, he hunches his shoulders against the onslaught of growing female curiosity. He hears his name spreading like wildfire, passing from person to person. If they had the link, they would never have to talk like this.
Samm shifts nervously, crossing and uncrossing his arms. Finally he resigns to pulling at his shirtsleeves, ensuring that they cover the tattoo on his wrist. "P.01316496" The P stands for Partial, obviously-and as a whole the brand has no function other than to discriminate between the two races: Partial and human. The tattoo keeps Samm out of restaurants, stores, and a host of other facilities that cater to "the public." Below the string of numbers-just under the skin-is a microchip that he uses to swipe in at the mines each evening. He shudders at the thought of the mines. Cramped. Dark. The smell of sweat and dirt combining with link info to create an utterly depressing atmosphere. Samm's chest tightens; although he would never admit it to anyone, he is all too familiar with claustrophobia. Even in the whitewashed classroom, the walls are a little closer than he would like; the crush of bodies neatly arranged in desks feels almost oppressive.
Out of the corner of his eye, Samm notices someone staring at him. Self-conscious, he realizes that he is gripping his desk with white-knuckle force. Letting go quickly, he buries his face in his hands. Ignore them, he repeats over and over. He feels so alone. Everything is foreign to him without the link. He begins to regret coming to the school when a hush falls over the class. "Good morning everyone, and welcome to your senior year of high school!"
A few whoops rise from the crowd of teenagers, and peeking between his fingers Samm sees a young woman standing at the front of the room. Maybe late twenties, but he's only guessing. In a sing-song voice, she continues, "I'm your homeroom teacher Ms. House. Now, before we get started there are a few things we need to take care of."
Samm's heart sinks when he sees a bulky man enter the room, a security badge gleaming on his chest. The teacher tells the class lightly, "We are looking for a young man named Samm. Is he in here?"
He feels twenty pairs of eyes on him, and whispers erupt around the room. Samm shifts in his seat, trying to hide behind the boy in front of him. Too late. He senses the pheromone and is powerless to stop himself. Come, it beckons. Come. It is an order. He cannot disobey.
Samm feels his legs moving, his feet shuffling in response to the link. No, no, no. He tries so hard to resist, but the command is unyielding. Come. No! His fingers cling to the edge of the desk, as though they can hold him in his seat. "There!" a man's gruff voice breaks his focus.
Spotting Samm's frantic scrabbling, the security guard bears down on him now with gun in hand. Come. Come. Come. Come. The order only intensifies as the guard approaches, and unwillingly Samm finds himself standing, the handgun pressed securely against his temple. "Filthy scum," the guard hisses. "On your knees."
It is no longer the pheremone that Samm obeys. Fear and humiliation creep into his movements as he slowly kneels. Trying not to look at the faces of the students around him, he hears their whispers, "Oh my God, it's a Partial."
Samm's face reddens. He doesn't need the link to understand the animosity behind those words. "Yes, this is a Partial."
Samm looks up briefly to see the red-faced security guard glaring at the class. Catching his glance, the stocky man-a certain Officer A. Roberts-jabs the muzzle of his gun deeper into Samm's forehead. "Disgusting. This is a half-breed. A mutt. A mutation. He is a disgrace to humanity, and a danger to mankind. Remember that."
With every word Samm can feel his blood boiling. Anger pours out of him. "Partials are nothing like us. They don't feel. They don't think. They're programmed to do whatever we tell them. This boy," here the officer pauses, glaring at Samm for emphasis, "is an animal. A dumb, stupid, useless animal."
Samm keeps his eyes lowered, but his muscles are tense. Another word will set him off. "Show it to me boy," A. Roberts demands.
Obediently Samm raises his arm, exposing his branded wrist. Roberts' next move is fast and unanticipated. Whirling around with a wicked right hook, his pistol butt lands squarely on Samm's jaw. Gasps all around. Pain. Surprise. Danger. Following the momentum of the impact, Samm's head hits the ground with a solid thud. "Filthy Partial."
The words barely escape the officer's lips before Samm is on his feet. A quick feint to the right and he has Roberts' arm locked tightly in his grip. Pulling the man into his body, Samm twists him into a rough choke, his gun clattering to the floor. Samm has the man's head firmly in his grip. One move and it will all be over.
The class is so quiet, Samm can hear the faint flutter of rapid heartbeats. Fear. Scowling at the class, he realizes that humans and Partials are not so different. They both hate each other. Briefly he meets Austen's shocked gaze. In her eyes is a mix of emotion so entirely human Samm cannot begin to fathom its meaning. He breaks first, turning his attention to the officer so entirely at his mercy.
Looking at the class, then at its pathetic excuse for "protection," Samm addresses the class with five blunt words before stalking out.
"Remember who won your war."