uniforms.
“Name?”
The woman who sat behind the first table sounded bored. When Lucas didn’t answer immediately, she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.
“Name, please?” She folded her hands on top of her clipboard and looked up at him from behind the rim of her protective white mask.
“Luca—,” he stammered. “Just Luke.”
“Wonderful.” She tapped her pen impatiently against the form in front of her. “And do you have a last name, Just Luke ?”
Bo stepped toward him and shook his head furiously. Don’t give them your real name , Bo’s eyes said. Lucas squared his shoulders. He was tired of keeping that part of him quiet. Foster kid, or not, he had family out there, and to deny his name was to deny his blood.
“Larson,” Lucas said with his head held high. “Luke Larson.”
“Wait your turn, gray,” another masked soldier shoved Bo back with the butt of his gun.
“Okay, Mr. Larsen,” she said not looking up as she scribbled on her paper. “Any dietary restrictions, allergies, or pre-existing medical conditions we need to be aware of?”
“No,” Lucas said firmly. “I am—”
“He has asthma,” Layla chimed in. Lucas hadn’t even noticed as she and Jazz made their way over from the line of women on the other side of the room. “Bo, here, is diabetic and my daughter, Jasmine, has Down’s Syndrome.”
“Seriously?” Bo glared at Layla, but she was so busy trying to wrangle Jazz she didn’t notice.
“Gray number 219, asthma, got it.” She scribbled something on the form and then turned the page.
The top of the next form was marked Camp Seco Designation- Pending Retinal Scan. There was a large empty box at the top of the page labeled administrative notes .
Below that was a section of fine print Lucas was sure the human eye could not discern. What had him worried were the last four, bold letter lines at the bottom of the page. Each had a checkbox next to it that spoke of finality.
Adaptive (Include Compatible Pair Match)
Draft
Drone
Extraction
Whatever that last one was, the word alone made his skin crawl. He tried to get more info, but the woman caught him snooping. She cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes at him, then tilted the clipboard back so he could no longer see the documents it held.
“Now,” she said, adjusting her mask. “Any special skills or contributions?”
“Like what?” Lucas narrowed his eyes in confusion. “I’m nine.”
“It’s on the form, kid. I have to ask,” she droned without looking up. “Examples include, but are not limited to, military combat training, medical or paramedical education, law enforcement instruction, mechanical or technical proficiency, nutritional planning or meal prep, marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat, etcetera.”
“I am really good at the claw game. Oh, and I can touch my nose with my tongue,” Lucas smirked and stuck out his tongue to demonstrate.
“Right.” The woman shielded her page, drew a mark at the very bottom, and closed it before Lucas could see. Once complete, she pulled the papers free of the clip and slid them into a plain, beige folder. At the top of it, she wrote Larson, Luke, and then dropped it onto the pile next to her. “Please remove your shoes and proceed to station two.”
As the boys made their way around the room, they were slowly stripped of everything that represented the outside world. Their clothes and shoes were confiscated and dumped into a rolling bin marked incinerate . They were outfitted with a set of baggy, gray scrubs and a pair of equally depressing paper-thin slip-ons.
“We look like freaking mental patients in this crap,” Bo whispered tugging at his over-sized scrub top. “And why are these guys all wearing masks. They think we have the swine flu or something?”
“Less talking, more walking, grays,” another soldier said palming the weapon at his hip.
From there, each of them had their blood drawn and a metal cuff snapped around their wrist. The
“Name?”
The woman who sat behind the first table sounded bored. When Lucas didn’t answer immediately, she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.
“Name, please?” She folded her hands on top of her clipboard and looked up at him from behind the rim of her protective white mask.
“Luca—,” he stammered. “Just Luke.”
“Wonderful.” She tapped her pen impatiently against the form in front of her. “And do you have a last name, Just Luke ?”
Bo stepped toward him and shook his head furiously. Don’t give them your real name , Bo’s eyes said. Lucas squared his shoulders. He was tired of keeping that part of him quiet. Foster kid, or not, he had family out there, and to deny his name was to deny his blood.
“Larson,” Lucas said with his head held high. “Luke Larson.”
“Wait your turn, gray,” another masked soldier shoved Bo back with the butt of his gun.
“Okay, Mr. Larsen,” she said not looking up as she scribbled on her paper. “Any dietary restrictions, allergies, or pre-existing medical conditions we need to be aware of?”
“No,” Lucas said firmly. “I am—”
“He has asthma,” Layla chimed in. Lucas hadn’t even noticed as she and Jazz made their way over from the line of women on the other side of the room. “Bo, here, is diabetic and my daughter, Jasmine, has Down’s Syndrome.”
“Seriously?” Bo glared at Layla, but she was so busy trying to wrangle Jazz she didn’t notice.
“Gray number 219, asthma, got it.” She scribbled something on the form and then turned the page.
The top of the next form was marked Camp Seco Designation- Pending Retinal Scan. There was a large empty box at the top of the page labeled administrative notes .
Below that was a section of fine print Lucas was sure the human eye could not discern. What had him worried were the last four, bold letter lines at the bottom of the page. Each had a checkbox next to it that spoke of finality.
Adaptive (Include Compatible Pair Match)
Draft
Drone
Extraction
Whatever that last one was, the word alone made his skin crawl. He tried to get more info, but the woman caught him snooping. She cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes at him, then tilted the clipboard back so he could no longer see the documents it held.
“Now,” she said, adjusting her mask. “Any special skills or contributions?”
“Like what?” Lucas narrowed his eyes in confusion. “I’m nine.”
“It’s on the form, kid. I have to ask,” she droned without looking up. “Examples include, but are not limited to, military combat training, medical or paramedical education, law enforcement instruction, mechanical or technical proficiency, nutritional planning or meal prep, marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat, etcetera.”
“I am really good at the claw game. Oh, and I can touch my nose with my tongue,” Lucas smirked and stuck out his tongue to demonstrate.
“Right.” The woman shielded her page, drew a mark at the very bottom, and closed it before Lucas could see. Once complete, she pulled the papers free of the clip and slid them into a plain, beige folder. At the top of it, she wrote Larson, Luke, and then dropped it onto the pile next to her. “Please remove your shoes and proceed to station two.”
As the boys made their way around the room, they were slowly stripped of everything that represented the outside world. Their clothes and shoes were confiscated and dumped into a rolling bin marked incinerate . They were outfitted with a set of baggy, gray scrubs and a pair of equally depressing paper-thin slip-ons.
“We look like freaking mental patients in this crap,” Bo whispered tugging at his over-sized scrub top. “And why are these guys all wearing masks. They think we have the swine flu or something?”
“Less talking, more walking, grays,” another soldier said palming the weapon at his hip.
From there, each of them had their blood drawn and a metal cuff snapped around their wrist. The
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