Grass tickled my face and made me open my eyes. Why was I lying outside? What happened? Carefully, I sit up. There are other people lying around me. They are all teenagers. One by one they all wake up from their sleep. What are we doing here? Why are we here? I try to remember what I had done before I fell asleep, but there is only emptiness in my mind. Is this a dream? When you dream, you can't remember how the dream started either.
Wait a minute. Why do I know that? I close my eyes and concentrate on my thoughts. Cities, countries, people. I can remember all these things, but nothing about me personally. Nothing about my parents. Did I have siblings? Pets? I don't know. How could that be?
I open my eyes and look at the other teenagers around me. I stand up and walk toward the boy closest to me.
"Hey," I begin indecisively, rubbing the back of my neck in embarrassment, "Do you know where we are?" The boy looks at me in confusion and then looks around. I, too, let my gaze wander. We are lying in a glade. The glade is surrounded by huge walls. Behind us is a forest. In one corner is a stable with several pigs in a fenced area in front of it. Next to it are fields where various plants are growing. I recognize tomatoes and wheat.
"No, I can't remember," the boy finally answers me. Slight panic and unease are reflected in his face.
"Who are you?" he asks me anxiously.
"I am... Pytho," I answer him. The name makes me feel uncomfortable. Something is not right. Is that really my name? Why can I remember my name, but nothing else. How old am I? How tall am I? I hold my hands in front of my face to deal with my surging emotions. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. What has happened? I shake myself. One of the others must know why we are here. I take my hands off my face and blink a few times. There are scars on the side of my thumb on my left index finger. They are very pale and I look closer. Sure enough, the scars make a word. Kill.
What does that mean? Am I supposed to kill someone? The word sounds strangely familiar. As if it has been said to me many times. I rub my thumb over my finger in an attempt to make the scars more obvious. But nothing changes.
Around me, more and more young people rise up. Some run toward the walls, others curl up on the ground. Some cry, others stare apathetically into space. The more I watch the others, the more I realize that none of the others know what happened.
I look again at the boy in front of me. He, too, has gotten up in the meantime and is looking around anxiously. What is that?
"There's something written on the back of your neck!", I say louder than necessary, since I'm so surprised by it. Is it a clue?
"What does it say?" the boy asks, confused, turning to me. I carefully spin him around again and push his hair aside and read aloud.
Property of WICKED. Group 0, subject 037.
Death by blood poisoning.
The bystanders look at us, startled, and check each other's necks for similar tattoos. In fact, every single one of them has such a tattoo on the back of their necks. All of them are similar. They say that we are property of WICKED and belong to group 0, along with an individual number and a cause of death. My number is 050, it's the highest number. I'm trapped here with forty-nine other juveniles. But that is not the most noticeable thing about my tattoo. Unlike the others, it doesn't say the cause of my death, it says 'The Survivor'.
