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corridor. Ten feet wide, it seemed to stretch on forever. But from the manual, she knew it only held seventeen cells. Seventeen Dems. A rustle of fabric drew her attention from the long, stone hallway. She looked over her shoulder.
                  The brunet who had stood behind her in the line, shivered violently. When he noticed her gaze, he quickly looked away. She watched him eye the cells. Every few seconds, he licked his lips nervously. His jittery behavior made her look around at her other classmates.
                  She noticed twitches and flinches she had missed before. Her eyes widened in realization. Her classmates were terrified. An instinctual fear, like the terror a rabbit feels toward a fox. She looked toward the cells. The silence took on a maliciousness it had not held before.
                  "Alright! All of you pay attention, now!"
                  The trainer's voice jerked her attention from the corridor. She turned with the rest of the group to face him. He covered them all with the same no-nonsense look.
                  "By now, you all should know what happens when you don't follow the rules. Two of your classmates were unlucky enough to demonstrate in the staircase. I hope this has served as a warning and lesson to you all." He paused to sweep them with another look. When no one spoke, he turned to look down the length of room.
                  Sarah followed his gaze. A stone bench cut the room in half, empty except for a pile of what looked like metal chains. She frowned and looked back at the trainer who had moved from his place by the door. He strolled casually toward the bench. Just short of the restraints, he spun on his heel to face the class. Their eyes met.
                  "Handler Mackenzie."
                  She froze, feeling the attention of the group fall upon her. She licked her lips and stepped forward.
                  "Sir?"
                  "Come here!" Robinson barked. His gaze left her to glance down the hallway. "You will be our first lucky handler. As the only day handler, it’s fitting, I think."
                  Muscles tense, she forced herself forward, tuning out the cold, the scrape of the rough work suit, and the quiet murmurs of her training group. She stopped in front of him and straightened her spine.
                  "Sir?"
                  He looked at her, his smile cool. "Recite the definition of the Dem Classification System, Handler Mackenzie."
                  Sarah dropped her gaze. Staring hard at the floor, she searched her mind for the answer. It was just on the edge of her memory. Chapter one, the beginning of the book. She wiped her damp palms on her suit.
                  "Anytime, Handler Mackenzie!"
                  She flinched at his sharp tone, but the jolt seemed to shake the information free. She looked up at him. "The Dem Classification System is a color coding system created to indicate violence level among the Dem population."
                  "That's a very precise definition, Handler Mackenzie." He turned away from her to look down at the bench again. "Explain how the DCS works."
                  Sarah stared at him, wondering at his motives. She paused long enough that he looked at her again.
                  "Was there something about that order you didn't understand?" His eyes narrowed.
                  "No, Sir," she said quickly. Her eyes widened when he took a step toward her.
                  "Then, I suggest you answer the damn question, Mackenzie." He looked down at her, jaw visibly clenched. "Now."
                  "Yes, sir," she said quickly. "The colors are red, orange, yellow, green, and blue."
                  "That's real helpful, Mackenzie," he interrupted, voice almost