Before Heaven

Chapter 3

II

Day four.

I'd still hoped, ever slightly, that my parents would see reason, fly back, and get me. Of course that didn't happen. Looking up articles on the internet first chance I got notified me immediately that they were already cashing in on the fame that their "hero son" was bringing them.

Yellow journalism was a b***h. I really hated my parents in that moment.

The typical day in the Nest was divided into a sort of program on its own. There were opportunities for us to simply lounge about in our rooms (there were various sectors of the Nest dedicated to halls containing of small little rooms with white rooms and box televisions with only around five channels available during a day of good network). Moreso, there were what was called "community sessions." What these sessions were varied; games, "get-to-know" moments, presentations, and occasionally just moments for us to hang out in one of the several lounge rooms the Nest provided. It was rare every applicant was gathered in the same room at once; that was mainly reserved for the stuff like assemblies, which outlined to us the nature of the course, the program's supervisors, and what was expected for both us and the course. Essentially, after two months of preparation, we'd all be put into the simulated environment to live out the remaining two months under the effects of the energies of the other world. That was what gave some people pause; of course something like this would be risky. Red Clover had a way of mincing their words and making us feel secure in the reality that we weren't, though; they said we'd been injected with "numbing agents" that would slow down the effects of the Phantom if we happened to be infected. We were all sure it would. Regardless, we were all under constant surveillance; if something went wrong, we'd be pulled out of the environment to receive treatment. That's what they told us, anyways. At the end of the simulation, Red Clover was supposed to use the results of this project for a whole slew of future stabs at Heaven that would, optimistically, result in the use of taking the requisite energies from Heaven itself to be made into an anti-virus. To say it was a long-shot was filled with a metric ton of dubious, probably illegal practices was unquestionable. It was all approved by the Association, however, whom themselves had gotten noticeably extreme about the fighting of the Phantom. "Shooting infected in the street" kind of extreme. Controversy was boundless. Aside from the numerous security checks, the CEO of the Association himself, Mason Summers (Chayne's spouse, whom with he was in a devoted – if oft distant – relationship with) was supposed to fly in at some time to talk to his life, perhaps regulate affairs for a bit before giving his little stamp of approval and flying back to New York. Everything down to the nitty bitties was planned out and written in fine cursive lettering, and a hundred circumstances for what to do if something went wrong – and a hundred more for if the project was, in fact, a success – had been meticulously outlined by Red Clover in the two years it took to develop both the project and Paradise itself. Of course, nobody let us know of what some of the deadlier scenarios would be and how Red Clover would deal with them. Of course, everyone on signed on with clear knowledge of the risks; Red Clover was simply going to throw off the gloves and blame legal affairs if something happened to us.

I suppose life in the Nest, bar the various forced community sessions, presentations, and interviews, wasn't shaping out to be all that bad. The food was actually pretty damn decent (everything was laid out in a sort of buffet during the breakfast, lunch, and supper areas, with snacks able to be bought from the Nest's various cafeterias, one of the vending machines in between, or, hell, even a cute little Arby's-esque bistro; we were told some companies sponsoring the program integrated their own services into the Paradise complex itself to be used at our leisure) and none of us would certainly be going hungry. There were ways to pass the time; there was a swimming pool (a fairly small one, but regardless), a library, the aforementioned bistro, an arcade – which I admit made my eyes light up – a few services, all the like. I reasoned I'd be spending most of my time cooped up in the pool, the arcade, or in my designated room. We were all encouraged to socialize as much as we could, as that itself was one of the main aspects of the program, but I was averse to that sort of stuff. It'd likely be a monotonous few months and I'd be right pissed at Mom and Dad once they came to pick me up.

That's what I thought going in, anyways. Everything changes. Conceptions are challenged. That's the mystery of life, isn't it?

The alarm went off on the morning of the fourth day. My room consisted of a bed, a desk with an in-built computer, a charging outlet for my phone, and a rather uncomfortable bed laid right next to the pale white wall. My eyes red with tire and a few specks of irritation, I groggily stood up and gave the alarm a good smack to shut it off. 7:00 AM; the time was displayed in garish, ugly red numbers on the clock's display. It was better than a clock that ticked every time a second went past, though; the big-ass, noisy one in my house's kitchen had caused many a troubled night. I sat up and shuffled about in bed for a bit, feeling like my eyes were leaking out of my skull and a pervasive laziness tumbling about through my system. Two minutes passed. There was a sudden rap on the door and Harlow's fat little face peered in, letting in an on-rush of light from the outside which irritated my eyes further.

"Good morning, #21," he said, condescendingly referring to me by my number rather than my name. It was the little bits like those that made me hate him more. "Awake just on time."

I flipped him off.

He laughed. "Don't be sour, now. Today is a free day. No more interviews or assemblies today. Breakfast is being served in our two cafeterias. Treat yourself."

Harlow pressed a button on the side of my door and a loud buzz ripped through both the hall and my ears for a second as a red light blinked on and off. That was just part of the mandatory check-up we all got each morning and night. Couldn't have anyone missing, after all.

I headed right off to one of the cafeterias. I was fleet so I'd be able to get my breakfast and get out – I wasn't keen on staying to talk with anyone. I'd just take my breakfast (an omelette, preferably) on a tray and get back to my room.

That was the plan, anyways. When I got to the cafeteria, to my displeasure, I found seven people – two already in line to the counter – were up. I recognized all but two of them; the two I didn't recognize were at a table together. The one sitting down on the right side of the bench with a massive hamburger in hand – not a very appropriate breakfast choice – was hulking, quite large around the waist, with a white, vaguely stained shirt and some beat-up jeans. He had thick dark skin, a rather noticeable scar on his left cheek, his skull large and bald with a sort of sheen to it and his eyes comically beady and small for his head. He was wearing a name-tag – something we all wore – marked #37. Below that was his name: Arno Conde. Beside him was his trembling companion, a lanky, stringy Asian fellow with grimy black hair, frameless glasses, and a checkered shirt with some skinny black khaki pants that practically stuck to his bony legs. He was pitifully short compared to Arno, who stood about 6'1 at least. I recognized him as Ken Rokuru, #45. He was one of a few people who had applied to the program who didn't speak any English, Chinese, or Spanish, at least not anything more than some rudimentary, basic forms of them. He did speak Japanese, though – and never said a word otherwise. This was the first time I'd seen him with Arno, though, but one glance told me they were pretty damn inseparable.

Budding friends already. Glory.

The other one I didn't recognize, sitting on the other side of the crappy blue tables of the cafeteria by the right wall, was a woman of about twenty-five, her blonde hair made into a series of exuberant curls and some prism-cut faux-sapphire earrings dangling from her pierced earlobes. She was in an outfit a good bit more flashy than anyone else I'd seen so far; she had a silvery twill blouse covered in sequins, a gold-covered choker, and pale pink, poofy culottes, her fingernails painted violet and dotted with little sparkles in the polish, a beautiful fat ring on her wedding finger topped itself with another expensive jewel. She showed quite a bit of skin, her midriff bare, and she seemed quite proud; I could see her covering herself in sparkling diamond fragments and twirling in a dark room to let her sequins sparkle like a disco ball. She was engaged in conversation with Arno and practically chewing his ear off. Even though I wasn't really paying attention to what she said, I could tell her voice certainly had a sort of flair to it, a weird, pompous arrogance to it that spoke of rich people. Celebrities. Hollywood stars, tabloid magazine cover models, lavish upper-class who couldn't give one s**t about the people suffering of the Phantom. I was reminded of my parents and I very quickly began to hate her. Her name tag had been swallowed by the sequins on her blouse, but I could still make it out with a bit of effort: #52, Daria Cosgrove. Arno seemed to just mumble and nod every once in a while as Daria yapped his ear off like some over-eager dog, Ken occasionally whispering something in Arno's ear. I had no idea why they were talking. I didn't really want to.

Eventually, the two people ahead of me got what they wanted and left, the first setting himself on a bench and the other heading out of the cafeteria, probably to go to her room like I wanted to do. I walked up and painlessly ordered an omelette and some chocolate milk. The person attending the counter walked off into the kitchen and walked out a moment later with the requested items on a tray. It was a little bizarre; I'd been expecting to be given a number or something to wait so the omelette could be cooked first. Maybe it'd been pre-made? Regardless, I took the tray in hand, politely nodded and gave my thanks to the clerk, and started to walk out. I was just about to take my steps out of the door into the hallway when another shape suddenly stepped in front of me and we collided.

I tumbled back and, to my dismay, I felt the tray leave my hands. My eye twitched a bit as I sat up. The chocolate milk was still intact, thank God, but the perfectly-good omelette had flipped off the now upside-down tray and stuck to the floor. What a bloody waste. My gaze turned to the person who'd bumped into me, beyond irritated at this point.

I'd only seen them once, during the first assembly. They were albinistic, their eyes a dim, skylark blue and their hair a short, powder-white bob-cut that didn't reach any further than the ends of their head. They were slim, underdeveloped, and stood a good few inches shorter than me. They dressed as if they were ready for winter; they had a black tuque on, a gray, silk-knit sweater on over a blue polo shirt, and sweatpants loose and warm enough to be used as bona-fide snow pants. Their name-tag read "#59: Alison Witzenberg."

From what I'd glossed, Alison – or Alice, as they insisted they wanted to be called – was sort of a bizarre case, even among the seedy people the program had rounded. They were something of a mystery; their father was presumed dead, their mother refused to establish contact with anyone who reached out to her, and all records had stated Alice had been living on their own for about two years in Quebec City. They vehemently denied that they were a girl and insisted on going by gender-neutral pronouns; they looked pretty damn androgynous to match that and they put quite a bit of effort into looking so. The prospect that anyone could identify with a gender outside of male or female baffled me to an extent, but I figured it was wise to keep my mouth shut. Alice hadn't divulged much information in the interviews, even when pressed; regardless, they seemed to be kind enough. Most strikingly, they were my age. Fourteen – born in February, a month after me – but unlike me, they'd willingly applied. For whatever reason, thirteen was the youngest someone could apply at, so Alice was let in. God knew why.

Alice stood themselves up, dusted themselves off, and took a second to look at the tray and then me before registering what had gone wrong.

"Excusez-moi!" they exclaimed, a bit shrilly.

I blinked, vacantly. "Pardon?" I said in a horrid French accent.

Alice suddenly laughed. "Excuse me for that that," they said, suddenly seamlessly switching to English in an androgynous, Quebec French-accented voice. "I'm a... little more used to speaking in French. Language laws and everything."

I raised my eyebrow. "Language laws?"

"That's Quebec for you," they chuckled. "Can't tolerate the Anglophones." Alice seemed to squint, then suddenly seemed to recognize me. "Wait... Aren't you Mr. Jackson Winters?! Of the Ice Couple?"

I deadpanned. "Yeah. You're about the millionth person to recognize that. Want a bloody consolation prize?"

Alice giggled again, good-heartedly. "No, no. I was just really surprised you got into the program. My name's Alice. Sorry about your omelette there."

I shrug, picking up my chocolate milk. At least I wouldn't have to shake it now. "Uh-huh. It's alright."

I started to walk off, not bothering to pick up the tray or the omelette. To my annoyance, Alice followed.

"Really. I am," they said, in an bizarrely innocent, sincerely voice that tempted me into stopping and turning to face them. "How old are you, by the way?"

"Fourteen," I said. "Same age as you. Read your profile once I learned another kid came aboard."

"Ah," Alice said. "Well, I was interested in the project. Blew my mind when they confirmed there were reports of another world."

I didn't buy it. "So you're not just here for the money or the media attention?"

"Non," Alice said, briefly lapsing back into French before clearing their throat. "None of that matters to me, much. I just came here to make some friends. See what I could contribute."

I scoffed with an air of slight sarcasm. "You're already having a hell of a better time than me, then."

Alice frowned. "You're not having a good time here?"

"Hell no," I said, starting off again as Alice walked beside me, apparently ditching whatever previous intention they had of going to the cafeteria. "My parents sold me out here and they're lapping up the attention as we speak. Figures they don't already have enough of it. If you read any articles claiming Mom and Dad's 'hero son' is valiantly risking his life and free time to the ends of this project, don't buy a word of it. I'm here against my will and I'm gonna say some s**t once I get back home, both to my parents and the press that keeps exaggerating this stuff."

I sighed. I still didn't believe the reporters would care. Nor would Mom or Dad. Once you were famous, you either cracked under the fame or it got to your head. There was no alternative – and it had definitely gone to the Ice Couple's head. Pretentious assholes.

"That's... too bad, Jackson," Alice said. The tone with which they said so made me stop. It sounded sincere. Completely genuine, actually. I wasn't used to sincerity. It was always either a "some time later, kiddo," from Mom or Dad, or a superficial "that's too bad" from someone like Harlow. Alice actually seemed to empathize.

"It really is," they continued. "I'm sorry about that. You can hang around me, if you want. Nobody else around here except Jen is our age."

I raised an eyebrow. "Jen?" I said, not recognizing the name.

"#7," Alice explained. "Jenny. Don't know her last name, but she's fifteen, and Mrs. Tara Waits herself actually brought her here from somewhere in Arizona. She's been quiet and nobody really knows anything about her... From what I've seen, she's lonely."

I smirked. "And I guess you want to befriend them?"

"If it'll help her," Alice said, "I sure will. Same with you. If you're feeling used or sold out, I'm here for you if you want."

I nodded to myself. First impressions were coming off much better after the omelette incident. Alice seemed quite nice. They said everything with a degree of childish honesty that made me trust them immediately. I gave them a smile.

"Consider us friends, then," I said.