THE DARKEST MINDS: OASIS

Unlike the others I couldn't remember what it was like before the pandemic-the outside world was a big blank space in my mind, no the ocean beat that out of me, drowning the little memories that I had instead all I can remember was the sound of boots in the morning, the disgusting smell of smoke and sot, the yells of anger as the reds fought with the soldiers and the sounds of metal dragging across pavement was my earliest memories and for a long time I thought that it would be my only memory's but then he showed up and I felt a fire that I thought had been snuffed out reignite.

Like all the other reds he showed up her chained and muzzled and as per ritual the soldiers hanged up on him but unlike the others who had tried to burn them he fought without his abilities he instead fought with his hands, feet and teath which got him in trouble and punished but not the worst.

I didn't think much of him after all we are all the same the camps would break us all down eventually.

That night I was expecting him to burst into tears like all of us had done or lash out but it never happened he would just whistle in his bunk tunelessly before he would go to sleep he seemed to be at ease as the days went by and oddly enough the kids inside began to feel at ease his uncaring attitude towards the camp and his tuneless but ambient whistles started affecting the others however not all of them felt the same and one day one of the older reds couldn't stand it and confronted him one night.

"What's your problem." He asked as he stood at my bunk unluckily I shared the bunk bed with the new red, I was on top and he was on bottom and from experience I knew that when red fought you move out of the way unless you wanted to get burned.

"And what problem would that be?" He asked as he got up from his position on the bunk while I hopped off of mine and claimed a spot where I was save but I could still watch the interaction.

The older Red scowled, his fists clenched at his sides. "You walk around like this place is a joke," he spat. "Like none of this matters. Like we aren't stuck here rotting while they wait for us to break." His voice was sharp, simmering with frustration that had clearly been building for days.

The new Red just blinked at him, stretching his arms above his head as if he had just woken up from a nap. "That's because it is a joke," he said simply. "You just haven't figured out the punchline yet."

Murmurs rippled through the barracks. Even in the dim lighting, I could see the way the other Reds were watching now, waiting to see how this would play out. Some of them looked wary, others hopeful. The older Red, however, only looked more pissed off.

"You think this is funny?" His voice wavered slightly, though with anger or something else, I couldn't tell. "They'll break you, same as they broke the rest of us. You can act like you don't care, but it's only a matter of time before you're just like the rest of us."

The new Red tilted his head, considering the words for a moment before a slow, crooked grin spread across his face. "Maybe," he admitted, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the conversation. "Or maybe I'll be the first one to laugh when the joke finally lands."

The older Red didn't appreciate that answer. His nostrils flared, and I could see the tension winding through his body, his hands sparking faintly at his sides. He wasn't just mad—he was ready to fight.

"You think you're different?" he snapped. "You think you're untouchable?" He took a threatening step closer. "Let's see how funny you think it is when you're on the ground choking on your own blood."

I felt a ripple of unease pass through the room. Fights between Reds weren't uncommon, but they were usually quick, desperate bursts of frustration—over scraps of food, stolen blankets, or just sheer boredom. This felt different. It felt like something more.

The new Red, to his credit, didn't flinch. He just sighed and scratched his chin, looking more inconvenienced than intimidated. "You wanna take a swing at me?" he asked, sounding almost amused. "Go ahead. I won't even fight back." However after saying that he got behind the red and grabed him by his neck and before the older red could react he began slamming the reds face against the metal bunk over and over the older red tried to fight back but as his nose broke the flames began to sputter out and not long after the only noise you can hear from the cabin was the sickening crunch of the older red's face being broken, my bunk now dirty with the reds blood but that wasn't the worst part instead it was the smell of burning flesh, we watched as the smoke rised from beneath the new reds hand as he slammed the red aginst the metal bunk.

The room was silent, the stench of burnt flesh seeping into the air, thick and suffocating. I could hear the sickening squelch of the older Red's face being pounded into the cold metal, his body jerking involuntarily. But it wasn't the violence or the brutality that froze me in place. It was the cold, uncaring look on the new Red's face—like this was just another thing to get through, another task on his list. His expression was empty, not a hint of rage or frustration. He was just… doing what needed to be done.

I'd seen Reds snap before, heard the sounds of fights breaking out when tensions ran too high. But this? This was different. It was calculated, almost clinical. He wasn't fighting back with rage or fear like the rest of us. He fought like he didn't care at all—like he was in control of everything. Even the flames seemed to obey him.

The older Red's body went limp, his blood staining the floor, but the new Red didn't stop. He just kept slamming him down, each thud against the metal bed frame sounding louder than the last, until the room itself seemed to shake from the force. I wanted to look away, to turn my back on what was happening, but I couldn't. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the sheer violence, from the complete brutality he displayed.

Licking the blood and burnt flesh from his hands he turned around as he addressed the rest of the kids in the cabin, "crying never helped anyone or anything it only prevents others from geting a good nights sleep after a hard day of labor, if you let this place break you then keep it to yourself." He said as he grabbed the unconscious red and dragged him across the floor however he stopped midway.

"Umm can anyone tell me where this one sleeps?"

The cabin was silent. No one moved, no one even breathed. The new Red's eyes scanned the room as if he were asking a simple question about the weather, his voice calm, almost detached, but it cut through the room like a knife. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

I glanced around the cabin, meeting the eyes of the others. No one dared to answer. No one could. The brutality of the fight, the way he just destroyed the older Red without hesitation, had rendered them speechless, paralyzed by the rawness of it.

Finally, one of the younger Reds, a boy barely fifteen, timidly raised his hand. He was shaking, his face pale as a ghost. "I… I think he sleeps next to me," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper, like he was afraid of even speaking.

The new red nodded before hauling the older red on top of the bunk and with a push he pushed the older red off causing the red to hit the bunk next to it makeing the reds face even more bloody, next he took off his shirt and scrub the blood from the floor before putting it back on.

The room remained motionless, as if time itself had frozen. The new Red's calm demeanor was like a pressure pressing down on everyone, making it difficult to breathe, to move, to think. His actions were so detached, so utterly controlled, that it was impossible to decipher what kind of person he was. Was he broken? Or was he something far more dangerous than any of us could comprehend?

The younger Red who had spoken up, still shaking, had returned to his bunk, clutching his knees to his chest, eyes wide in disbelief. But even in his fear, I saw something flicker—something like admiration. Or maybe it was fear itself that had twisted into something that looked too much like respect.

Walking back to our bunk he took my blood stained bed and put his own bed on mine and my bed on his bottom bunk before laying down, I had thought that he would take my top bunk but instead he just laid back down on his own.

The room remained deathly still, the weight of what had just happened settling heavily over everyone like a suffocating blanket. The smell of blood and burnt flesh still lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of stale sweat and desperation. I could hear the others breathing, shallow and uneven, but no one dared to speak, not even the whispers that usually followed after a fight.

The new Red settled onto his bed with that same eerie calm, his hands still stained with blood. He didn't seem to notice the eyes on him, the silent tension that gripped the room. He just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm, as though what had just happened meant nothing to him. And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

I turned my eyes away, unable to look at him anymore. I had never seen anyone fight like that—not with such calculated coldness. I didn't know what to make of him. He was dangerous, yes, but there was something else about him, something that made me feel… uneasy, in a way that wasn't just from the violence. It was his indifference. The way he didn't care, not about the camp, not about any of us. He just existed. And that was terrifying.

In the quiet, a slow realization settled in my gut: he wasn't just different in how he fought. He was different in every way. He didn't let the camp break him because he didn't need to break. He was already something else, something the camp couldn't touch.

"I would get back into your bunks unless you want the soldiers to see y'all awake at lights out." He said as he put is hands over his head.

Slowly, the others began retreating to their bunks, their movements cautious, mechanical. Even the younger Reds, the ones who usually took longer to settle down, scrambled under their blankets like frightened mice. The only sound left was the quiet creak of rusted bunkframes and the distant, rhythmic hum of the security lights outside.

I climbed into my bunk, feeling the stiffness in my limbs, my hands trembling as I curled them into fists against my chest. Below me, he lay still, unbothered, like he hadn't just beaten another Red half to death with his bare hands.

I turned my head, staring at the cracked ceiling above me, my mind racing despite the exhaustion settling into my bones. My stomach twisted, not with fear, but with something I couldn't quite place. Unease? Fascination?

I wasn't sure.

The scent of blood still lingered in the air, mixing with the stale sweat and burnt flesh. It should have made me sick. Instead, it just made my pulse pound louder in my ears.

Unable to sleep I stayed up for most of the night just thinking about what had happened a few hours ago when suddenly I heard the bottom bunk creek and the new red walked silently to the restroom and unable to control my curiosity I followed him, barely catching the door before it closed but what I saw made me gasp in surprise.

The uncaring Red was no more, instead I watched as tried desperately to control his breathing while scrubbing at his blood stained hands, quiet trimmers passed through his frame.

His breath came in uneven, shallow gulps as he scrubbed at his hands like he could wash away what had happened. The blood, the smell of burnt flesh—it was still there, clinging to his skin like a second layer. He dragged his nails against his palm, pressing so hard I thought he might tear himself open, but he didn't stop. His whole body trembled, shoulders shaking as he gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe.

I had never seen him like this.

Just hours ago, he had been untouchable, calm, calculated—someone who didn't flinch even as he shattered another Red's face against the metal bed frame. But now? Now he looked like he was falling apart, barely holding himself together.

Turning his head he looked back at me and his eyes where bloodshot, "you know this is a mirror." He asked as I stood there frozen his voice was different now, a heavy, southern accent coated his voice that was almost as shaky as his body.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as I tried to process what I was seeing. The boy who had just beaten another Red half to death now looked like he was the one barely holding on. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, his fingers still scrubbing at his hands even though the blood had long since dried into the creases of his skin.

He stared at me through the mirror's reflection, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine. His expression wasn't the cold indifference he'd worn before. It was something else—something raw, something that made my stomach twist.

I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say, but he beat me to it.

"You should get back to bed," he muttered, his accent thick and unsteady now, like he wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. "Ain't nothin' to see here."

But there was.

This wasn't the same person who had stood over that older Red without hesitation, who had spoken with such cold authority that even the most hardened kids in our cabin had fallen silent. This was someone who had stripped away that mask, revealing something underneath that I didn't understand.

Something broken.

I took a step forward before I could stop myself, gripping the edge of the sink next to his. "You're shaking," I said quietly. My own voice sounded foreign to me, like I wasn't sure if I should be speaking at all.

He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head as he turned the faucet on, letting the water run over his hands. "No shit," he muttered, voice low, barely above a whisper. His fingers flexed under the stream, the water turning pink as it washed away the last remnants of blood.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The sound of the water running down the drain filled the silence, mixing with the distant hum of the camp outside. The dim fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, casting shadows across his face. His bloodshot eyes flickered toward me in the mirror before he looked away, jaw tightening.

I should have walked away. I should have done what he said—gone back to bed and pretended I hadn't seen any of this. But I couldn't.

Instead, I stayed where I was, watching as he flexed his fingers under the water, his breathing still uneven. The mask he'd worn so effortlessly before was gone now, and I realized with a strange sort of clarity that this—this moment right here—was the most real he'd been since he stepped into that cabin.

I watched him for a moment longer, the way his fingers trembled beneath the running water, the way his shoulders tensed and relaxed in uneven intervals, like he was fighting himself on whether to hold it together or let it all fall apart. The mask was gone, but that didn't mean he was ready to let someone see what lay beneath it.

I hesitated before speaking. "You didn't have to do that."

His fingers curled slightly, the tendons in his hands going taut before he slowly loosened them. He exhaled through his nose, a short, sharp breath, then turned the water off with an almost too-controlled motion.

He met my eyes in the mirror again, that heavy southern drawl creeping back into his voice. "You think I didn't?" Laughing humorlessly as he turned around."I don care, not in the slightest, yeah it mightta been unnecessary maybe excessive but then again it's not like any one ganna stop me." Signing deeply he walked past me.

"I am about to break that kid's neck to make it look like he broke it on the bunk bed and clean up the blood by our bunk, I suggest going back to bed."

Mira stayed rooted in place, watching as he moved past her, the weight of his words pressing into her chest like a stone. He didn't look back, didn't hesitate—just kept walking, like what he'd just said wasn't something that should have made her stomach turn. And maybe it should have. Maybe she should have felt something more than the dull thrum of unease settling in her bones.

But she didn't.

Instead, her fingers curled against the cold porcelain of the sink, the phantom sensation of static clinging to her skin, a sharp reminder of the electricity that never truly settled inside her. She could still hear the faint, uneven breaths he hadn't quite managed to hide. The mask was back now, firmly in place, but for a brief moment, she had seen beneath it. And what she saw—what she felt—was something that unsettled her more than his words ever could.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she turned her gaze back to the mirror. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting shadows under her eyes, making her look even more hollow than she felt.

She should go back to bed. Pretend like none of this had happened. Like she hadn't heard the way his voice cracked, just barely, beneath all that forced indifference.

But her feet didn't move.

Instead, they carried her forward, out of the bathroom and into the dimly lit cabin. The air was thick with the lingering scent of blood and sweat, and for a moment, all she could do was stand there, watching as he crouched beside the body.

His movements were methodical, precise—like he'd done this before. Like this was just another task, no different from the drills they were forced through every day.

She should leave.

But instead, she whispered, "Do you want help?"

For the first time since she'd met him, he hesitated.

His hands, already reaching for the body, stilled for just a fraction of a second. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. But she did.

Then, slowly, he turned his head, looking at her through the strands of dark hair that had fallen into his face. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—they burned.

"No." And then I herd the crack as he did what he said he would do.