I can only remember one thing about the day I was chosen to be a Bellator. I was relieved. Most aren’t. No one wants to go out into the Old World, full of bloodthirsty vampires. They’d rather stay an Adepti, which is everyone else besides the Watchers, Highers, and Bellators. They are the average ones, the ones that don’t stand out, don’t have to risk their lives. And they prefer it that way. They prefer the Highers rules, no matter how harsh they are, if it means living in the security of The Colony. And since the Highers built The Colony, they are the ones who have the power to make rules and enforce punishment against behavior they don’t see fit.

Like for instance, looking at one straight in the eye.

A cloud menaces over me as I get changed and return to the hospital. I’m all clean and sparkly and no longer smell of dirt, blood, and river water. My black hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail and I’m dressed in the standard colony uniform: black jeans and a black t-shirt.

When I arrive, Monarch is injecting a shot into Maci’s IV. Her eyes are open now, her red hair a tangled halo above her head, beads of sweat dripping down her pallor skin. Maci’s a Bellator too, but a newer one, and one of the youngest, rounding in at the very young age of seven. I blame myself for her being in here, although Monarch insists it had nothing to do with me.

Still, I was the one asked to watch out for her and ten minutes into her first session, she blacked out and smacked her head on the floor. I should have been watching her more carefully. The first session as a Bellator is the hardest because it exerts the body more than we’re used to.

“Hi, Kayla” Maci says in a frail voice.

I pat her gently on the head, feeling a small connection with the kid because we’re both orphans. “How are you feeling?”

She gives a small smile. “Better. Maybe I can even go back to my room soon and get back to my training.”

I smile back, reassuringly, but I secretly feel sorry for her. The poor kid looks like death, and I don’t think returning to her room, or to her Bellator training, is in her near future.

Monarch feeds one of her tubes with a shot of black liquid. I watch it drift down the tube, disappearing into her skin. Her heart rate slows, until it’s nothing more than a soft murmur. By the time he’s finished, she sleeping again.

I hop onto a bed and roll up my sleeve for my shot. “Stab away.”

“Well that was quick trip to your room and back,” Monarch jokes, setting the needle down on the metal tray.