The Infinity Project

Waking up in a hospital, being spoon-fed lies be her mysterious captors, being stuck with a group of teenagers, with no memories of her life before, but flickering remnants of a car crash. Things aren't looking good for Kira. On top of that she has to deal with sudden powers, and a mysterious dark force that has taken hold of her.
With betrayal looming at every corner, can Kira save herself and her friends, or die trying?

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1. Chapter 1

Chapter  1

 

 

After what seems like months of sleep, I finally come to full consciousness. My vision warps and swims, blurring then refocusing. My arm stings, the one with the IV. I try not to flip out. I've always hated needles, but an IV is particularly terrifying. A sense that, that is far from my biggest worry settles over me. 

A feeling like my nerves are all being set on fire consumes my body, spreading from the IV’s entry point. Ice courses through my veins, flowing like a frozen river of frigid pain. I blindfold descends upon my vision, and I can no longer even see the warped and blurry outlines I saw before. 

I drift in and out of awareness, but I finally manage to get a firm grip on reality, and tune into voices coming from somewhere to my left. Or maybe it's my right. I don't know, and frankly I don't care. I'm more interested in what those voices have to say.

“Subject is not responding. Increase dosage.” A sting pierces my left arm, the IV-less one. I resist the urge to scream, as I can't, while fire courses down my limbs. I begin to kick and flail, but I am tied down to the hospital bed. I cannot move. 

My legs are forced still then secured down, preventing my kicking. The doctors, at least I assume they are doctors, race to pin my arms as well, and I scratch blindly at them.

I cannot see. I'm blindfolded. I cannot scream or speak, for a rag is stuffed into my mouth. What's all this for? I dig into my memories, but come up empty. 

“Subject has responded violently. Proceed to tranquilize.” The same voice as the first, which I recognize as female, carrying a tone of importance and dignity. A powerful woman. Despite being gagged and tied down, the feminist within me rises up, spreading a warm feeling through my limbs. 

Rage almost over powers me. It is strong and undeniable, a pulsating flame fuelled by the desire for violence. Then slowly the urge to fight and anger dissipate, as I fade into a drug-induced sleep. 

|||

Slowly I come to again, this time with limbs free of binds. The blindfold and gag are gone too, and I can observe my surroundings. 

Pale blue walls. Metal cabinets. I can tell I'm in some sort of hospital, but the room is almost empty. No people. No furniture. Just a bed and some cabinets. Nothing more. No chairs. No doctors or nurses. Not even an autonomy poster on the wall. 

Puzzled, I try to recall my last solid memory, but my brain is like a file cabinet after a flood. All the files—memories—were either water-damaged or out of order. 

Slowly, I hear a door creak open. I struggle to raise my head to see who has entered, a pain lacerating down my neck. 

“Good morning, Kira.” A voice greets. An all to familiar female voice. The one that rings with commandingness and supremacy. 

“Morning.” I rasp, my throat hoarse from lack of moisture. 

“Get up. You're coming with me.” I don't want to, but her tone tells me there is no room for negotiation. She pulls the IV out of me, and I feel a wave of relief at its absence. It wasn't exactly painful, but it was bothersome. 

With a muffled groan and several gasps of pain, I haul myself out of the hospital bed, then drop to the floor like a limp puppet, with no puppeteer to animate me. 

“Ouch!” I shout as my skull cracks against the base of the bed, a harsh metal frame. 

“Get up.” The woman commands with a scoff, and I force myself to my feet. 

“What's going on? What happening to me?” I demand.

“You're coming with me. Where I will explain—very briefly—what is going on. Then you have some questions to answer.” 

I follow the woman out of the room, and through the desolate halls of the old hospital. My eyes struggle to focus, but still I study her. She has brown hair cut off in a harsh bob, and piercing grey eyes. She is short and slim, with fair skin except for freckles dusting her cheeks. 

I try to track where she leads me, but I was never good with direction. We take a left, and then a right. Now another right followed by a left. 

Finally, we duck into an office-like room. Two brown chairs sit facing each other on an angle, on opposite side of a coffee table. The walls are a dirty mint green, the floor grey. 

She motions for me to take a seat, and I plop down in the chair opposite to her. She quickly follows, facing me with her watchful grey eyes. 

“My name is Dr. Saleron. What is the last thing you can remember, before the hospital?” 

That's a good question. What is my most recent memory, that is not of the bland confines of a hospital room? Why am I here anyways? 

I dig deep into my brain, sifting through all the old memories until I find one that appears fairly recent. 

I am in the car with my parents. The radio is softly humming one of my favourite songs, so I lean over to turn it up. I chat with my mother from the backseat, careful not to distract my father, who's driving. 

We chat back and forth, not a care in the world. But then a squealing noise engulfs the quiet drone of the radio and the engine’s rumble, as my dad slams on the brakes. Another car skids directly in front of us, and it’s too late to stop what's about to happen. 

We careen into the other car, smashing into it in a crunch of metal. My parents are killed instantly. I am emplaned by shards of flying glass and bits of aluminum or steel or some kind of metal alloy. My head smashes into the seat ahead of me, and in a haze of pain I slowly lose consciousness. 

“I-I’m in the car w-with my parents. T-the car th-then c-crashes, and everything a-after that is a b-blackness.” I silently curse my nervous stutter. It signals how scared I am. 

“Can you tell me anything more about the crash?” Dr. Saleron demands, and I nod, digging back into the memory. 

It was a Tuesday morning, and despite the clouds that had plagued the sky earlier it is now clear and sunny, as well as sweltering hot. 

We were on our way to meet a friend and head down to their cabin by a lake. 

“I-i was Tuesday.” I state blandly. 

“Where were you going.” She interrogates. Her voice is cold, but it has am incredibly faint undertone of sympathy. She knows something that I don't. 

“To visit a family friend’s cabin. Why does it matter?” 

“I already know all this. I need to check your memory, so please dredge up as many details as you can about that incident. What happened before. The conversations you had. Your emotions.” 

“Okay. Wait how do you already know this?”

“I read your file.” Aw she's read my file—oh wait, file for what? Why do I have a file? “Just tell me what you can remember.”

I nod, forcing myself into the world that is my memories. 

I am mildly bored, my biggest concern how to survive the midsummer heat. As I climb in the car, I begin to talk to my mom about all the different guys that I thought were hot. 

Of course, I wouldn't want to date any of them, but that didn't mean I couldn't look. We buckle up, chatting about superficial things like boys and makeup. 

I feel happy, it's like a disease buzzing inside of me. Then the car begins to slide out of control, and mind-numbing terror grips me. All my nerves fire at once, as pain both emotional and physical pain me in it's deathly grip. 

I recount that to Dr. Saleron, and she nods in vague interest, taking notes on a clip board. 

“Now will you please explain to me why I'm here!?” I exclaim, looking her directly in the eye. I knew if she was to study my eyes, she would find them honey-brown and filled to the brim with blazing anger and terrible hate. 

She sighs, then proceeds to speak. Her words are terrible words, words that shock me beyond compare. 

“Kira, you're here because you died.” 

I laugh. And continue to laugh, until a sharp pain shoots down my arm—the knee that the IV had been on—and shuts me up. 

“I died? So I'm dead right now?” That can't be. This can't be what the afterlife is like. I didn't even believe in the afterlife, but if I was dead and experiencing this, then it had to be the afterlife. 

“No, you're not dead. In the car crash, you died. The ambulance was rushed to the sight, and they managed to revive you. They bandaged you up, and for a while it looked like you'd be fine. But then you slipped into a coma.” I nod, pretending I understand what's going on.

“So you're saying I died, was brought back to life by a team of doctors, only to fall into a coma?” This time she nods. 

“When you finally came out of the coma, you had major amnesia. You had shattered your spine, and would never have been able to walk again. You were blind in one eye, and had a strong chance of losing sight in the other.” She states. 

“Then how come I just walked here? How come I can see perfectly?” I demand, a strange feeling that's a mix of urgency, panic and confusion swims up through my core, causing my heart to beat like crazy. 

“My team took you. You disappeared from the face of the earth, all your hospital files disappearing with you. Here, we fixed you up.” 

I nod, but another question burns deep in my brain. I know the answer to it, but I need confirmation.

“What about my parents?” Dr. Saleron’s face turns sympathetic, her grey eyes noticeably softening. 

“The accident killed them. There was no chance for them to survive. The damage was to severe.” 

I swallow. I had known the answer, but hearing it made it all the more real. It was definite now. No room in my mind for painful speculation about them surviving. No room for anything, in fact. All that occupied my mind now was their final moments, how my mom had launched a terrified smile in my direction just before the other car hit. 

She had known that she wasn't going to make it. She just hoped I would. 

Silently, tears start to fall, until I am all out sobbing. Dr. Saleron clearly doesn't know how to handle the situation, so she offers to take me to my room. 

At first I despise the idea of going back to that empty room with its uncomfortable metal bed. Then Dr. Saleron explains that I have a proper room, a bedroom. 

There's something just not quite right going on here, but I agree to go to my ‘room’ nonetheless, wiping away those stubborn tears. She leads me down desolate corridors, a right, then a left, then straight until we reach a wing with thick metal doors on either side. 

I am led to one marked ‘AI7’ and Dr. Saleron swipes a keycard through a lock mechanism, causing the door to klick open. She pushes it wide, and gestures for me to go in. 

“I'll come retrieve you in the morning.” She states, then slams the door closed. I take in the room, and am surprised by what I see. 

The floor is uneven cement, painted black. The walls are also clearly concrete, but it's almost disguised by hanging posters. Posters for some of my favourite bands, movies, tv series and books. It's clear that whoever designed this space, knew I'd be staying here. 

There's a bed over against the right wall, facing towards me. The bedspread is black like the floor, made out of a strange nylon material. There's also a metal desk pushed up against the left wall, with the same orientation as the bed, with a rather uncomfortable looking steel chair. 

There's a small window, high up and barred over. No light filters in, so it must be nighttime. The hight of and metal bars over the window makes me wonder, what were these rooms originally used for? A LED light buzzes from the centre of the ceiling, giving off a surprising amount of illumination. 

I turn my eyes towards the bed’s mattress, imagining how soft it is. Would it be threadbare and lumpy? Or plush like a cotton cloud?

Looking at the bed makes me realize just how tired I am, and I flop down, tumbling into sleep in am matter of seconds, no time to assess the comfort level of the mattress. 

I am in a deep, dreamless sleep for most of the night. Then I get the sensation that I am being moved, without even using a muscle. Sort of like when you fall asleep in a car, you're vaguely aware of the car moving. The feeling eventually dissipates, and for a while I'm left again in a dreamless blackness. 

Then finally, I begin to dream. 

I am back in that room, my eyes wide open as I stare at a team of doctors. They insert a needle into my arm, injecting me with some clear liquid. I beg them no, but it does nothing as I feel a cold burn sweep through my body. 

“She's still showing no response. Switch to PE12.” I recognize this voice, it's Dr. Saleron. Confusion plagues me. I tell myself it's just a dream, but it seems so real. 

“Are you sure?” A new voice peeps up. “Using that might cause the AI7 to kick in, and then there would be to different serums with the same effect running through her body.” The new speaker is a younger woman, with red hair and fearful brown eyes.

“And so? The whole point of this experiment is to get it to work! If the PE12 causes the AI7 to work, then that's great. We know how to activate it now, and we'll bring in another one to work on until we perfect it.” Dr. Saleron again, but there's something different in her voice. Iciness. Determination. Obsession. 

“Preparing shot of PE12.” A completely new voice, distinctly masculine. I look up into a gruff face, chin sprinkled with stubble. He has dark blue eyes and his face is squarish, framed by greying hair. 

I feel another prick in my arm, and a fiery pain shoots outward from the injection sight. 

I look into the doctors faces. Expecting. They are expecting something. Something from me. 

Nothing happens, and another shot pierces my arm. 

“No response. Send her back.” 

Then the dream fades and I am left in blissful blackness for the rest of the night.  

I awake to a pounding on my door. I jerk out of bed, racing over to the cool metal doorway. 

I try to open it, en realize it's locked. From the outside. Why would I be locked in, in my own ‘room?’

Dr. Saleron stands on the other side, and I watch through the small window as she swipes her card and pushes the door open. Her brown hair is styled, but the tiredness in her grey eyes tells me she's more than likely just waking up. 

“Come on. Breakfast time. And you get to meet your companions.” She states in greeting.

Companions? What an interesting word choice. Thrilled by the prospect of meeting another person, or from the ‘s’ on companions, a group of other people, I follow Dr. Saleron through the winding corridors. 

 
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