Solari

Fiction; an excerpt from a journey of self-discovery within a sci-fi prison

“Take off your clothes.”

Subject M takes a deep breath as he stares at the glass separating him from the faceless team of researchers. He knows the sooner he complies, the quicker it’s over. He knows this. It’s just…check-up appointments are so humiliating. He always chokes on the sterile air inside the examination room, a room that’s so tiny that he can just barely stretch out his arms. It makes him feel cornered. Trapped.

That doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Strip.

His fingers are numb as he fumbles to unbutton his standard-issue shirt. The scientists’ cold gazes bear down on him as he pulls his pants to his ankles in one quick motion, his boxers along with them. He stands there, tense, as the researchers scrutinize him down to the tiniest freckle on his body. In all the time he’s been at Razarck’s Facility for Education and Research – and it’s been so long that he lost all sense of time long ago – he has never gotten used to their intense stares. He swallows thickly and fights to suppress a shiver as a cold breeze wafts his groin.

“Turn,” one of the scientists tells him over the loudspeaker. He turns; 45 degrees, not 90. He made that mistake once. He’s never made it since.

“Discoloration on the inner left thigh,” a deep, clipped voice notes, “2.3 millimeters from the injection site. Presumably contusions from the needle.”

“Record the color as #28282B,” a stern female voice says. A muted chorus of click-clacks follows. Subject M stands perfectly still, breathing thin, shallow breaths. The walls of the examination room seem to be closing in on him.

“Turn.”

He does. He hears one of the scientists chatting about reshaping the burnt cities on the Outside, and he forces himself to tune them out. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Ignorance is how you survive.

Once the examination is done, he is instructed to put his clothes back on before the guards escort him back to his containment room at the end of Wing A. After he’s locked inside, he lies on his barren cot, closes his eyes, and tries to forget the feeling of the scientists’ scrutinizing eyes on him. He drifts into a restless sleep.

He’s woken by loud scuffling in the hall outside his containment room.

“Let go of me!” a girl shrieks. It’s a voice Subject M’s never heard before. She grunts and there’s more scuffling. He imagines her struggling to break free of the guards’ iron grip. The guards, as always, are silent.

There’s a loud BEEEP, and the containment barrier next door slides open. The girl yelps as they shove her inside and lock the door behind her.

“Subject designation?” one of the guards asks.

“Y9921,” the other replies. The first guard nods and taps the designation on his tablet before they head back to the wing’s entrance. They’ve barely taken one step when the girl – Y9921 – starts furiously pounding on the door, shrieking profanities at them and the oppressive Terrion Regime. They ignore her, and their footsteps grow quieter.

Ah. This one, Subject M deduces, is going to be a ranter.

Most of his neighbors over the years hadn’t talked much. If they did, they usually fell into three categories. There were the ones who ranted about how the world could be so cruel, the ones who whispered frenzied mumbles to themselves, and the ones who screamed wails of agony. Some people fell into more than one category, or even all three. Their cries were always muted through the concrete walls and the reinforced glass, but he could always hear them echo through the air vent above his cot. Subject M had learned by now to mostly tune all of them out.

Not that he gets many neighbors, these days. His cell block is the oldest in the building. It isn’t optimized to hold as many people as the newer wings.

He tries to ignore this new subject’s ranting. She’s clearly a young revolutionary, a passionate one if her rabid ranting is anything to go by. He doesn’t know much about the rebel movement outside Razarck’s, but he hears it mentioned here and there, enough to know that it exists.

They come to collect Subject Y9921 for her first appointment the next morning. (They were getting close to 5 integers, now. Subject M sighs through his nostrils.)

Not many people try to talk between rooms. It seems pointless when you can’t even see who you’re talking to. This is why Subject M is surprised when one day after she arrived, he hears the voice from next door ask through the vent, “What’s your name?”

Subject M wonders who she could possibly be talking to.

Then her voice speaks again, louder this time, “I know you’re over there. I saw you before the guards shoved me in my cell.” Subject M’s heartbeat picks up even as he furrows his eyebrows in confusion. Her voice is clear enough for him to determine that yes, she is in fact talking to him, but why?

She asks again: “What’s your name?”

‘Name’…The word sounds familiar, even though he’s pretty sure he’d never heard it before in his life. “My name?” he asks and wonders if he spoke loud enough for the vent to pick up.

Apparently, he did, because the voice responds, “Did I stutter?” A pause, then a scoff. “What do people call you?” She sounds impatient, now.

Oh. That, Subject M knows. “They call me Subject M.”

“I didn’t ask what they—” A frustrated growl, then a sigh. “Forget it. It was a stupid question, anyway.”

The conversation dies down to an uncomfortable silence.

Subject M tries the word on his tongue. ‘Name’... He likes the open, rounded feeling of it. It’s something he’s never felt before, like pushing up against walls to find there were never any in the first place. He silently whispers the word to himself again, a smile growing on his lips.

He thinks about this feeling late into the night.

It’s an Off Day. That much is clear as soon as Subject M wakes up. His brain feels like sloshy mush, thoughts getting tired before they could connect and lying down to take a nap instead, and by the time they wake up he’s forgotten he’d had any thoughts at all.

He blinks. He feels drool dribbling down the corner of his mouth onto his pillow but is powerless to stop it. He should get up. His limbs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds. Of feathers or tar? No. Sticky butter? He giggles, and it comes out a gurgle. His legs are sticky butter sticks. Haha. They’d turned his legs into sticky butter sticks.

At least it’s only an observation day today, or at least, he thinks it is. His brain isn’t the most reliable on days like these. He hopes they don’t come jab him with somethin’.

The cell’s glass door’s blurrier than usual. The puddle of drool on his pillow’s bigger. These are all things he’s noticed. Yes. His brain sloshes around in his skull. It’s so heavy…

There’s a BANG from the right wall, and his head pounds. He doesn’t notice his hands moving until he’s clutching his forehead. The banging noise comes again, and he moans. When it comes a third time, he can’t take it anymore.

“Would y’knock it off already?” he slurs the question.

“No,” A harsh voice says through the wall, and right, it’s the new girl, Subject Y9921. “I need to hit something. Somethings. Many things.”

“Bhuh?” he gets out, bleary. His hands make it dark… he thinks he likes the dark, right now…

“The fucking nerve of them! To try and stick something up my–!” She lets out a frustrated scream instead of finishing her sentence and there’s another loud BANG on the wall.

He flinches. “Make it stooooooop,” he moans.

A pause. Static hums in his ears.

“The fuck’d they do to you?”

He hums, relaxes his grip on his head. ‘Is nice, the cool dark like an ice pack on his mushy mind…

“Hey! I’m talking to you, here!”

For once, a spark connects in his mind, and Subject M blinks, his glazed eyes clearing. He sits up on his cot and rubs his eyes. “Sorry. What?”

“You sound fucked up. What the hell’d they do?”

“They didn’ do anything,” he says, trying to hold onto the brief flash of clarity as long as he can. “’Is just an Off Day for me.”

“An ‘off day?’”

He nods even though she can’t see him. “A Brain-Drain day. Slow, sluggy day. Brain no worky day.”

“And you get these regularly?” There’s a strange tone to her voice, now.

“Sometimes.”

She pauses for a moment, before she says, hesitantly, “You know that’s not normal, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, “but ‘is jus’ a part of bein’ me. Y’don’t last ‘long as I have here withou’ some side effects.”

He pauses, then clarifies, “They put chem’cals. In my brain. Brain didn’t agree with them and went ploop.” He blows a raspberry. “An’ they fixed me. Mostly. But ever since then, I get days where my brain goes ploop all o’er again. Sloshy washy.” he cackles. “Sloshy washy!”

A thick silence stretches between the two, but it’s mostly lost on him. His thoughts have gotten lazy again and gone back to sleep – slip slosh – and he barely notices when his eyes slip shut along with them.

“’M sorry about yesterday,” Subject M says into his hands the next day. He always gets the worst headaches after Off Days. He can feel his temples pulsating under his palms, throbbing under his thumbs.

“What’re you sorry for?” Y9921 asks with a strange tone, that same one from yesterday that he can’t quite put his finger on. He imagines her still lying on her cot, just like him.

“Don’t be stupid. You know what for.”

“Your Brain-Drain day?”

He hums an affirmative as he clutches his head tighter. He can’t even remember what exactly he said to her, which is nothing new, of course – his memory of those days is always foggy at best – but he could remember a lot of banging and shouting. His head throbs harder at even their memory, and he massages his temples with a groan.

There’s a pregnant pause.

“How long have you been here?” she finally asks.

The thing is, Subject M had asked himself that question several times over the years, and the answer is that genuinely doesn’t know. Somewhere in the back of his mind, that registers as scary. He smothers it. He can’t afford to think about it too much. Ignorance is how he survives.

“I don’t know,” he says, “But I’ve been here for as long as I can remember.”

“How far back can you remember? Did they mess with your memory on top of everything else? Give you amnesia, or brainwash you, or something?”

Oh, I wish.

His heart jumps at the traitorous thought. No, he shakes his head frantically, Can’t be thinking like that. Thinking like that is dangerous. Accept your lot in life. He takes a deep breath. “No. I’ve been here since I was a kid. I know I was one of the first subjects here, since my letter doesn’t have any numbers. Means I was one of the original 26.”

“But that was…that was 15 years ago.”

Ah. So that’s how long it’s been. It feels strange, to know exactly how long he’s been held here. He isn’t sure whether it feels much less than that or much, much longer.

A heavy silence. Subject M keeps nursing his head.

The next time she speaks, Y9921 sounds shaken. “You really can’t remember the outside world?”

“Not really,” he says. He only has one hazy memory…Glass shattering, a woman screaming. His mother…? Shadows towering over him in a dark room, a gunshot sounding off. Once. Twice? He doesn’t know. A man yelling…?

Gah! He hisses and hunches over. It hurts too much to try and remember any more.

They sit in silence for a bit. Subject M shuffles under the scratchy cover on his too-small cot. Finally, Y9921 asks, “Are they monitoring us?”

“They have video cameras in each of our rooms.” he says.

“Do they record audio?”

“I don't think so. They don’t wanna listen to screaming all day long.”

A pause. And then:

“…Let’s leave.”

“What?” His eyes widen. She couldn’t possibly be serious. No one escapes from Razarck’s. It isn’t possible.

“You heard me.” she says. “You must know more about this place than anyone. If anyone would know its weaknesses, it’s you. You don’t have to live like this. We could run.”

“That’s impossible. It would be suicide–”

“Everything’s impossible ‘til you try it. I’m not dying as some kinda lab rat, and neither are you,” she says, adamant, “I won’t let you. The Solaris never gave up on their brethren, and neither will I.”

Subject M bites his lip. His heart flutters. The idea of even trying to escape– no. Stop. It’s too dangerous.

He’s been quiet for a while now, he realizes. Y9921 must realize it, too. “You know about the Terrion Regime, right?” she asks.

“Of course I do,” he says. Everyone does. Without the Regime, Razarck’s wouldn’t exist.

“What about the Solari movement?”

He frowns at the unfamiliar word. That’s the second time she’s mentioned it. “Is that the rebellion?”

She hums. “Do you know why it’s called the Solari movement?”

“No.”

“It’s named after Gavon and Astrid Solari, the power couple that started the rebellion.” she clears her throat, effecting a dramatic voice. “When Sylvia Razarck incinerated the cities surrounding the capital, they weren’t content to stand idly by while she forced citizens to submit to her will. They rose up from the ashes of their home and said, ‘TO HELL WITH YOUR TOTALITARIAN REGIME!’, and when no one was brave enough to stand with them, at first, they stood by themselves anyway.

“The Regime hunted them like dogs, but the Solaris were always one step ahead of them. Whenever the guards thought they’d tracked them down at one of their safehouses, they’d find it abandoned. The Solaris spread their message loud and clear, and each time they slipped through the Regime’s fingers, other citizens grew bold enough to rally behind their cause. Soon, they had an entire movement behind them: ‘The Solari Movement’.” she pauses for effect.

Subject M’s heart stirs in his chest. To think anyone could be so brave…It was stupid. It was incredible.

“The Solaris stood against unimaginable odds and were able to make a difference,” she continues in a softer voice, “I don’t see why we can’t do the same.” She pauses, before adding, “My name’s Zera, by the way. That’s what they call me, outside of here. Thought you should know who you’re living next to.”

Zera… so that’s what a name sounds like. His ears thrum.

To hell with it.

He feels like he shouldn’t say this. He feels like he really, really should. “…They do maintenance on the surveillance system once a month,” he says, and his heart sings, “The cameras are down all day.”

“Then that’s when we escape. When they can’t see us.” Y9921 – no, Zera – says, determined.

“It’s random. No one knows when they do it each month.”

“Can you tell when the cameras are off?”

Most couldn’t. Subject M could. “There’s a small light on the back that turns off when they’re not recording.”

“Well, then we can still coordinate some kind of escape! Until then, we plan. If we miss our window this month, we can always try again next month.”

“You still haven’t told me how we’re supposedly escaping.”

“Well, you haven’t given me any ideas yet!” Zera huffs. “The vents are too small to climb through, but do the cells have any other weak points? The examination rooms, the operating rooms, anywhere?”

“The walls are solid concrete. There’s no way you can dig through them in one day.”

“Who says we’d have to dig? One of us is bound to have some kind of freak experiment scheduled for that day. When the guards come to escort whoever that is to the lab, they kick their asses, steal their key card, and let the other person out!”

Subject M gapes. “You can’t. Those guys are massive!”

“We don’t have to fight the guards. We just have to slip their keycard out of their pocket while they’re not looking.”

“That doesn’t matter!” He shudders a sigh. “Look, there’s only one way out of Razarck’s. And it’s not somewhere you ever want to be.”

“Well? What is it?”

Subject M stares at the wall. “The incinerator. That’s the only way out.”

Zera chokes on her words for a moment. Her confidence falters. She swallows. “…R-Right. Yeah. I guess it would be stupid if we could just waltz out the front door…” he imagines her scratching her head sheepishly. “Well, they’ve gotta have somewhere they dump the ashes. It can’t be as heavily guarded as the front and back exits. We find that, that’s our ticket out.”

“How would we get to it? The place is crawling with guards. We’d be spotted in seconds!”

“We’d get disguises. Steal lab coats, or something. We’d have to hide our faces somehow, but we can figure that out…Maybe those safety goggles the scientists wear?”

“They don’t need to see our faces to recognize us. It doesn’t matter how massive those goggles are. I’ve been here for as long as I can remember. They’ve seen every possible part of my body. They know who I am. They know who we are. Goggles won’t hide our bodies.”

Zera goes silent. She could see, now, Subject M could tell. Her naïve hope is just that: hopelessly naïve.

Subject M doesn’t know why he got his hopes up. He knows any dreams of escape are hopeless. So many bodies have gone into the incinerator, never to be seen again. One day, it’ll be him in that smoky room, his lifeless eyes staring up at a blank gas mask as heavy black gloves unceremoniously shove his body into the furnace. They’re like death personified, coming to collect their victims. His stomach turns cold whenever he hears heavy breathing through a gas mask, sees their bulky black forms wheeling a bloody gurney through the halls outside the exam rooms.

…Wait. Something clicks in Subject M’s brain. “…They wear protective gear in the incinerator.”

“Yeah, and?” Zera asks.

Hope is beginning to dawn in his heart again. It beats hard, like it’s trying to escape itself, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. “Big, heavy gas masks. Heat resistant clothes. The protective gear is bulky. They wouldn’t be able to identify us underneath it. If we can find a way to swipe some of those…”

“Yeah! Yeah yeah yeah!” Zera exclaims, regaining her enthusiasm. “That’s perfect! We get ahold of those and a gurney, and no one’ll be able to tell us apart from anyone else. We can ball our old clothes up and put them under the gurney’s sheets to make it look like a body and wheel it into the incinerator. Then, there should be nothing stopping us from reaching the back lot.”

“What if someone else is in the incinerator when we go inside?”

“Then we play the part until they leave.”

“What about after we get out? Razarck’s is surrounded by a plasma fence. What would we do about that?”

“Hm. Good question. Does it go underground?”

“I don’t know. We wouldn’t be able to dig too far before they discover we’re missing, anyway.”

“Well, if we can’t go under, we go over.”

“And how will we do that?”

“Shit, I don’t know! But we can figure that out, yeah?”

Subject M lets out a nervous laugh. The plan is rough around the edges, yes. Very rough. But it has potential. It… might actually work, with some more planning. Zera laughs too.

“So… are you with me?” she asks once their laughter dies down. He can hear her smile in her voice.

For the first time in his life, hope shines in M’s eyes. “I'm with you.”