THE ORDERS

He remembered the day he was named. Thunder echoed through the air, and a heavy storm took over the wasteland outside. He couldn't remember why, but he had sneaked out to watch it. An old wooden house could not muffle the wailing sky, nor the soft humming creeping up from some unknown place within the walls. He didn't want it to, either. The creaking floor below his feet followed him to the windowsill, where he jumped to reach his seat. He set his sight on the deep blue sky and the muddy ground on the streets, and time became meaningless. The humming turned into singing; the thunder brought lightning, and among the brown and blue of his surroundings, white appeared.

It would have been great if what followed could have kept that same amount of detail. Shadows lurked through the main door, pushing it open and running inside. The darker ones went past him, and the lighter ones stayed nearby. There were cries and yells, but he couldn't make out who they were. They could have been his own.

Among all the confusion, there was a moment that remained unchanged. The woman, whose blurry face he could still not decipher, had a kind and tender smile. She knelt to look him in the eyes, and somewhere in the raging sea contained within them, she found inspiration for his name. William—a standard, good-enough name, but not his own.

His lips parted to deny, to reject it and tell the woman that his name, which was erased from his mind, would stick with him. However, the eerie silence became overwhelming. There were no yells, no cries. The storm continued raging outside, but the singing had died. In its stead, a horrendous symphony of bullets appeared under his feet, shaking up the house to its core, and tearing down the little resistance he had left.

"MUM!"

The agonising cry of a child excelled at waking William up, though perhaps not in the way he would have preferred. His head slipped off someone's shoulder, and in no time, he smacked it against the table. His breaths picked up to match his pounding heart. A fire had overthrown the last seconds of his dream, leaving him begging to know more. Who had shouted? Had it been him? His mother, his family, had they died in the chaos of bullets and fire? Was that what had made him a soldier? An orphan with nowhere to go? A child whom nobody would even spare the minimal amount of sympathy for?

"Hey, hey, calm." George rubbed his back with calm motions, slowly driving William's attention back to reality. "Nasty nightmares, eh? We get those every now and then. Better not to give in to them. They love playing games with your brain."

A bitter taste infiltrated the back of his mouth at the thought of it. The storm, the song, and the cries, all a nightmare. He couldn't accept it. It had to be real. Otherwise, he would have to accept he still knew nothing about himself. That, out of desperation, his mind had given him the scraps of a foreign concept to every soldier—family.

"Had a good nap, sunshine?" asked Rowan, a wide grin playing across her face. "You were out like a light after eating. So sad, you're so cute when you're sleeping. And George was just whining about his shoulder going numb, too. What a pity."

Not knowing what to say, William glanced over at George. "Sorry about that."

George smiled at him, but wasn't given the time to say a thing. Mae claimed everyone's attention before he could. She dug into her pocket and took out a plain white envelope. Judging by everyone's reactions, it likely contained the orders. There was no other reason for most, even Henry, to straighten up and neutralise their faces.

Mae caught him staring and showed him a flickering smile. "Got here when you were asleep. Don't worry, nobody read them. We still have a few hours left, so we voted to let you rest a bit more." Somehow, even that little amount of consideration amazed William, though he couldn't meddle in such thoughts for long since his new leader carried on. "Anyhow, since we've got a birdie, I'll repeat how this goes. I read it, you listen. No comments, no jokes, no nothing until it's over. That attitude must be kept at all times during the mission. No bickering will be permitted and anyone who goes against the Sanctuary's or my own orders will be severely punished. A single mistake can kill any of us, and it will if we're not careful. Got it?" All soldiers nodded. "Birdie?"

Though it took William a minute, he ended up nodding along too. He was in no position to defy Mae's authority. His single self-given task had been to escape, and he had failed miserably at it. If he were to be honest, he wouldn't want her position, nor did it seem as if anybody was any more capable or willing to take it. Everyone had probably accepted since a long time ago Mae's leadership, and he had just begun to understand why. Her analytical stare would have made him agree to anything out of fear of falling in her bad graces if he didn't.

"Good." Without another word spoken, Mae disregarded the world to concentrate on the note, which she frowned upon reading the first line. "Reports of Crank sightings around the city's borders have come in for the past week. It's been estimated that about twenty of them are hiding somewhere on the outskirts of the abandoned town two days away from here. It's a long way off, so we'll be taken to a Berg Station on the other side of the sandhill. We have to ask for pilot Abraham when we get there. He'll get us to the town and back. It should take us about a day to get back. Questions?"

"Why there again?" Henry asked, though it seemed more of a complaint than an actual question.

Leen dropped her head on Bea's arm, the shoulder being too high for her to reach. "You'd think the Sanctuary would have learned to block the access to some places around there. How do Cranks even get there? The Scorch goes on for miles. Where do they even come from? The City's no haven, but it's safe enough."

"When are we scheduled for departure, Mae?" Bea asked, her arm discreetly rubbing Leen's back until it could hug her waist with no soldier noticing. Except for the birdie, whose 'soldier' title had yet to dawn on him with its full force. "They can't be thinking of sending us out at midnight, right? Last time they did that..." She glanced at William for a split second, a brief amount of time, but long enough for him to notice to what lengths the soldiers were hiding information from him. "We were in big trouble."

Mae sighed. "A few hours past midnight."

"At least we'll get proper sleep, that's something," said Flor.

"Yeah, I was expecting to be shoved into the Berg right now, so that's already a bonus." George took advantage of having William off his shoulder to stretch. "Well then, if there's nothing else, I think I'll go to bed. Anyone care to join?"

Rowan gave William a subtle push. "Why don't you take the birdie with you? He ought to know what a proper bed looks like."

Images of the wooden house got back to him in harsh waves. The windowsill felt comfortable enough; he was sure. It had a tiny pink pillow over it, like someone had known he would be there and had prepared it beforehand. Perhaps it wasn't a 'proper bed', but as far as he could remember, it was the second best to one. It was odd. He had only just dreamed of that house, the singing and the storm, yet he missed it dearly. Like a kid would miss their home.

Henry took it upon himself to be William's personal guide, while George preferred to watch and laugh discreetly. There was a story, or at the very least, a short anecdote for every room and hallway they passed by. Some were praise-worthy, others got a snigger at best. What William couldn't ignore, even while trying, were the half-mentioned names of people he had not met yet—probably never would. Half of them seemed to be boy names, the other half, he wasn't so sure. Prying would not get him anywhere, so he remained quiet and took in George's decayed eyes whenever another name would be abruptly cut off the anecdote.

His tattoo itched with every step. The half-finished names echoed in the back of his mind, as if he was supposed to know them. They were nearing the medical wing, presumptively halfway to the soldiers' quarters, when William shut his eyes and tried to picture the names. He repeated them, over and over again, to no avail. It was maddening. The dream about the wooden house, the day he could swear had happened somewhere in the distant past, had skyrocketed his hopes to unreachable levels. Even if he wasn't getting over himself and he had remembered something about himself, that did not mean it would happen again. He could stay months, even years, racking his brain trying to remember some half-finished names, and he would likely get nowhere.

The soldiers' quarters stood in front of him, right on time. His hopes were dangling by a string, and there was nothing he would rather do than get some sleep. Whether he would get 'nightmares' or not, it didn't matter. All he wished for was closing his eyes for a while, going to sleep and forgetting all about WICKED, the soldiers, and his 'DEFECTIVE' status. They could wait.

If only the quarters hadn't been as disappointing as they were. The small area, which Henry swore that had once accommodated a dozen soldiers, was now crowded with useless bunk beds. Within the shoe-box room, there were exactly five rows of four bunk beds each, every row aligned to the centimetre. Before he could ignore it and nod off to sleep on the first bed he came across, George told him all about their schedule, or rather, their off-schedule procedures; where they showered, the time for meals, a sort of 'free time' that they spent training against common sense, and, most importantly, where they slept. Each soldier shared a bunk bed with another. George had once had a partner, some little girl named Joan, whom they had unfortunately lost during a mission two weeks ago.

"I've always slept on the bunk bed... But you can have it if you'd like," said George. "I get those stupid nightmares too anyway, so I don't mind."

Somehow, William took note not to pay much attention to any soldier's words. They were as valuable as paper. George could go on about his nightmares, the missions, or the crazy people out there that made everyone so afraid, but the disappointed look in his eyes wouldn't wash off. "Funny you say that. I move a lot when I sleep, so, um... yeah, you can have the top bunk, mate. I'm alright down here."

"Thanks, birdie." George smiled softly. "Still, if one day you want to switch up, just let me know. We're bunkmates from now on."

"Alright, don't fall in love just yet," joked Henry, his destination set on the bunk bed in front of George's. "It's explanation time."

"For the love of whatever the fuck we hold dearest," repeated George, causing William to groan softly. He had almost managed to forget that he had said that hours ago. "So, please, birdie, settle down, relax, and let us tell you all about your bright future."

William sat down on his bottom bunk. The soft mattress wouldn't have been a giveaway, but a couple of stains and markings across the metallic support definitely were. He had to remind himself that he wasn't the first one to make use of that bed. Other kids had slept there. They had thought of home, family, and a future. They had cried over their losses and felt overjoyed at their wins. And at that moment, what was left of them? A couple of markings on the ladder, a juice stain under the sheets, and the creeping hopelessness attached to their bed's new owner.

"Remember the Cranks? The crazy humanity-lacking people?" George asked, forcing William's attention back to the conversation. "Well, they were once as sane as you and I. There's some... illness, virus, whatever, out there that's making people go nuts. If the Cranks don't kill you, they can and will do anything to turn you into one of them. We've lost many people that way. Some turned into Cranks out there, others came back and attacked us. We've killed many of our own, birdie. Way more than I'm willing to count..."

At the intense silence, Henry opted to take over what George could clearly not gather enough strength to continue. "Sometimes they would keep their sanity for long enough to beg us for a clean death. For others, it would be mercy. We've seen it all, birdie. This place, Sanctuary or not, is tainted with our blood."

William's eyes trailed down at his arm. His sleeves weren't long enough to cover his entire tattoo. Soldier Five, property of WICKED. Soldier, what a cruel title to have. "Why are you telling me this?"

Henry leaned over the side of the bunk bed, his sight lost in the pattern of his palms. "Because we know what it's like being the birdie. Look, it's fine. You want to remember. That's the same for all of us. If only we could remember our family, if only we could remember our home... It's maddening. We've had kids have breakdowns during missions before, some of them begging for their parents to rescue them. Of course, nobody's ever showed up. We keep on killing, and we keep on dying, and that goes on and on. Like a vicious circle. But you can either accept that and use up the now to cry and whine about our pathetic lives... or you can go out there and get killed for it."

"We like you birdie," said George. "And like I said, we've lost enough people. So, if you want to be alone to cry, tell us. We get it. But, please, don't wait until those things are in front of you. You lose time and next thing you know, you're dead. Not worth it."

An image of the wooden house on fire flickered across William's mind. His sight was immediately set on his tattoo. He wished to cry; for his mother, for his lost home, for whatever else he had left behind that he knew nothing about. The title 'soldier' wouldn't shake off in any other way. He had to prove to WICKED that he was something more than an emotionless killing machine. That he, as well as the rest of the 'soldiers' were what they ought to be—teenagers. He reminded himself of the cries, the yells, the humming's death, yet nothing made him shed a single tear. No matter how horrifying his reality could be, what bizarre scraps of a past his sleep had gifted him, or how frightening the future promised to be, he remained still.

"I want to cry," he mumbled, his hands covering his eyes as if the slight pressure could get tears to bottle up. "I really want to."

"It's okay, birdie." George bent forward, his arms engulfing William between them despite their not-so-large height difference. "Some of us didn't until the mission was over. You might be one of those."

William let go of his eyes to rest his head properly on George's shoulder. "I hope so."

"He might not cry at all, though." Henry shrugged it off. Even when George sent him a death glare, his signature mocking smirk wouldn't wash off his face. "I mean, he has to be the 'DEFECTIVE' one for a reason, right?"

"That's what I don't get..." William replied, patting George's shoulder to let him know it was time to let go, which he did reluctantly. "What do yours say?"

"Ugh, nothing important." George lay back, his eyes fixated on the bed above, before glancing back at William. "Soldier Four. Property of WICKED. Status—NON-DAMAGED. I'm a pale freak, so it's written in black ink, not white."

After a curt nod, William had his sight set on Henry. "What about you?"

"More or less the same," Henry replied. "Soldier Three. Property of WICKED. Status—NON-DAMAGED. Mine is in white ink like yours. Wouldn't be legible if it were in black."

William could hardly refrain from frowning. "What does 'NON-DAMAGED' even mean?"

"No clue," said Henry. "I'm not willing to find out either."

When William naturally wanted to continue pressing for answers, a pat on his shoulder told him he should cut it short. George smiled down at him, the hand on his shoulder warm and reassuring despite the lack of sense for it to be like that. Before he knew what he was doing, a smile had taken over his lips, and soon all three boys had wished each other a good rest.

The silence was unbearable at first. William tossed and turned on his bed, hoping for exhaustion to knock him out. When he thought it was at his hand's reach, an image of the burning house smeared across his mind, and just like that, it was gone from his grasp. He did everything he could think of, having a brief stroll across the small room before bed between them, but nothing worked.

Henry's breaths got louder by the minute, driving William into a corner. Either he fell asleep soon, or he didn't at all. He shut his eyes tight and ignored the snores and the soft humming to beg sleep to take him. Then, as if someone had turned on the lights, a bright colour flickered in his mind. It was quick, though not enough to go unnoticed. Someone with ice-blue eyes like his own was staring at him; tears bottled up within their wide and frightful look. He couldn't see anything else. No double-take, no way to revisit the memory. Only the vague memory of an exhausted mind's likely hallucination. Worst of all was—he couldn't go back to sleep after that.