Hello everyone!
Sorry for not uploading chapters, but I haven't been feeling completely well this week.
My goal is to upload one chapter from Monday to Friday, meaning 5 chapters a week. If I don't upload for one, two, or three days, I'll try to upload the missing chapters all at once to make up for it, but I will always try to publish 5 chapters a week.
I will also be posting advanced chapters on Patreon. I'll start with 5 advanced chapters, but 7 new chapters will be uploaded weekly. So, if you can't wait, I invite you to support me on Patreon.
Also, please let me know what you think of the fic; I enjoy reading your comments.
That's all for this note. I'll let you enjoy the fic.
Mike
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Chapter 5: The Inverted Training
The solitary confinement cell is my home now. I am here because of the spoon. It has been a while. Four years have passed since that day in the mess hall. I am now twelve years old.
At first, confinement was a punishment. Darkness. Cold. Hunger. But they were wrong. For me, confinement is no longer a punishment; it is a place to think. It is the only room in this building without noise, without orders, and without distractions. It is the only place where I can truly train.
I reflect on what I learned when I was eight. "Scar" was furious. I saw it on his face when they dragged me out. He wasn't angry because I threw the spoon; he was furious because I controlled the throw. He was terrified because I demonstrated a power he did not give me, and one he could not force me to use to kill.
They do not want my genius. They want my obedience.
The Orphanage thinks it is training me. They don't understand. The other children, the ones I see when they take me out for tests, are on a simple program: they are learning to kill. Their training is easy. They only have to listen to the whisper; the voice inside them that tells them where to cut, where to strike.
My training is harder.
I have to fight two enemies at once: the Instructor who gives me the order, and the Instinct within me that screams to obey that order in the most lethal way possible. They learn to kill. I learn not to.
I call this my "Inverted Training."
I survive their punishments because I see them for what they are: more training. Pain is only information. I catalog it. I learn how fast a hairline fracture heals. I learn to recognize the taste of hunger versus starvation. Starvation sharpens my senses; I can hear guards breathing through three concrete walls. The cold teaches me to control my circulation, to pull blood to my vital organs and let my limbs go numb.
They think they are breaking me. They are perfecting me.
...
They take me out of confinement and lead me to the advanced firing range. The smell of gunpowder and gun oil burns my nostrils, a sharp change from the disinfectant stench of my cell. This place is outdoors, but the 10 meter high concrete walls block out the sun. It is always gray.
"Scar" is waiting for me. He says nothing. He simply shoves a sniper rifle into my hands. A Dragunov. Heavy. Oiled. The metal is cold against my skin.
"Position," he orders.
I settle onto the ground, the bipod clicks open. My breathing slows. The world narrows to the glass circle of the scope.
600 meters away, a mobile ballistic mannequin slides into view. These are not the sand filled canvas ones. This is military grade ballistic gel, wired with trauma sensors. It is designed to die realistically.
"Seven," "Scar" growls. "Target Delta. Center mass. Kill shot. Now."
Center mass. Kill shot. The order is clear.
I put my eye to the scope. My breath stops. My heart beats once. And the whisper sings.
Easy.
The wind is 3 km/h from left to right. Humidity is 40%. The bullet will drop 1.2 meters. Aim 2 cm to the left of the heart. The bullet will enter, fragment, liquefy the pump. Or better: the T-Zone. The cerebellum. Instant death. Lights out.
My instinct gives me the solution. And, for the first time, "Scar's" command aligns perfectly with my instinct. "Kill shot."
It is a trap.
I see it clearly. If I shoot the heart, I obey. If I obey, I win their approval. If I win their approval, I prove their indoctrination works. I become their tool. My entire "Inverted Training" collapses.
If I fail, I am punished for incompetence.
I need a third option. I need to fulfill the letter of the order, but defy its spirit.
The order is "neutralize." The suggestion is "lethal."
My crosshairs, fixed on the mannequin's heart, shift down. Slow, deliberately. Down the chest, down the abdomen, to the leg.
There. The kneecap. The knee.
My instinct screams. Inefficient! Not lethal! The target can return fire!
But the target cannot pursue, I answer. The target cannot walk. The target is neutralized.
This is the real test of control. Not just controlling my body, but controlling my own killer instinct.
I exhale half my breath. My world stops.
I squeeze the trigger.
The world explodes in sound and recoil. The smell of gunpowder fills my nose.
600 meters away, the Delta mannequin does not fly backward from a chest shot. It collapses. It folds in on itself like a puppet whose leg string has been cut, its lower limb shattered by the impact.
"Scar" looks at the trauma monitor next to him. There is no "death" alarm. Only the screeching alarm of "massive trauma to extremity."
There is a heavy silence. I can hear the wind whistling over the concrete walls.
"Scar" turns to me. His face is not pleased. It is dark red, the vein in his temple throbbing.
"I ordered a kill shot!" he roars.
I place the rifle gently on the ground. I stand up, dusting myself off. I look up at him, ensuring my face wears the perfect mask of twelve year old confused innocence.
"But the target is neutralized, correct?"
...
The next test is on the tatami mat. The smell of stale sweat and canvas hits me. Unlike the firing range, there is no distance here. Here, control is harder. Distance gives you time to think. Up close, there is only instinct.
My opponent is Subject Nineteen. He is sixteen, two heads taller than me, and the Orphanage's best example of success. He is a bully, an obedient killer who enjoys his work. He sees cruelty as a reward. He is "Scar's" perfect lap dog.
"Scar" watches from the sideline, arms crossed. His gaze is fixed on me.
"Seven," he growls. "Nineteen has been given lethal authorization. Show me you're not weak. End him."
"End him." That word again. The ambiguous command. Neutralize. Kill. To them, it is the same. To me, it is the difference between freedom and slavery.
Nineteen smiles. To him, this is not a test. It is permission.
He attacks. A hand knife strike aimed straight at my throat. It is fast. A normal child would be dead.
But I see it coming before his pectoral muscle tenses. My instinct screams, an explosion of solutions: Block! Deflect the strike! Snap the elbow inward! Use his own fingers to puncture his eye! Death in 3 seconds!
Instead, I move. My "Inverted Training" kicks in. I dodge the blow by a millimeter. The wind of the strike brushes my skin.
Nineteen stumbles from the missed momentum, unbalanced. He is open. His back is exposed. His spine is a perfect line.
NOW! my instinct shouts. Take the spine! Snap the neck! Break him! End him!
And this... this is the hard part.
It is easy to kill. Anyone can break something. Entropy is simple. The difficult thing is not to do it when every fiber of your being, every calculation of your killer brain, tells you it is the most efficient solution.
It requires unimaginable control to use exactly 30 kilos of pressure on a lock when your instinct, perfected over twelve years, screams at you to use 100.
I move behind him. My arm slides around his, securing a shoulder lock. He roars and struggles, trying to use his brute strength.
I feel the exact point where his joint will give. It is like a glowing seam in my mind. My instinct says BREAK IT!
I tighten. I feel bone grind against cartilage.
MORE! BREAK HIM!
No.
Instead of pushing, I twist.
There is a wet, sickening POP.
Nineteen screams. It is a sharp, animal sound. He drops to his knees, his right arm now dangling at an unnatural, useless angle. The fight is over. No death. Total neutralization.
I step away from him. And I drop to my knees. I am gasping. Not from physical exertion; Nineteen was slow and predictable. I am gasping from the mental effort of holding back. It is like stopping a freight train with bare hands.
I look up. "Scar" is watching me from the sideline. His face shows no approval. It shows nothing but pure, cold contempt. I have failed his test again.
I have succeeded in mine again.
...
They drag me off the tatami mat, leaving Subject Nineteen still whimpering and cradling his useless arm. They take me straight to the director's office. It is the same place they took me after the "dog test." It smells of stale tobacco and fear.
"Scar" enters behind me and slams the door shut. His control finally breaks.
BANG!
His ham sized fist slams his metal desk, sending a crystal ashtray leaping to the floor, where it shatters.
"YOU ARE WASTING YOUR GIFT!" His roar reverberates in the small room.
I stand still, looking at my bare feet on the cold linoleum floor.
My "gift", I think. He calls it a "gift." To him, it is a present. To me, it is a disease. It is the constant whisper in my head that tells me how to break everything I see.
"Your lethality scores are NIL, Seven! NIL!" He is pacing back and forth behind the desk, like a caged animal. "Your calculations are perfect! Your instinct is flawless! You are a perfect killing machine made by God, AND YOU REFUSE TO FUNCTION!"
I look up. His face is dark red. The vein in his temple visibly throbs with anger.
My instinct sings. Stapler. On his desk. 1.2 kilos. Metal edge. Spinning throw. 45 degree angle. Straight to the temporal vein. He will drop. Death in 3 minutes from internal hemorrhage.
I let the thought pass. It is an effort. My hand twitches. Breathe. Control.
He looms over me, his shadow covering me. He smells of sour sweat. "Don't you have anything to say, you worthless piece of garbage?"
I slowly raise my head, making sure to bring out my best innocent, charismatic smile. I tilt my head, as if genuinely confused.
"I don't understand, Instructor," I say, my twelve year old voice soft and respectful. "The target is always neutralized, correct?"
"Scar" freezes. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
He does not hit me this time. He only stares at me, and his anger evaporates, replaced by something much colder: a calculating hatred.
He realizes. He realizes that I am not afraid to kill. He realizes that I chose not to, which, in this place, is the ultimate act of defiance. He is learning that my control not to kill is a much more terrifying weapon than the killer instinct he values so much.
"Take him away," he says in a low voice, pressing the intercom. "Confinement. Indefinite."
They send me back to the darkness. It is fine.
They think they are training a soldier. They are training a master. And this master is finally learning how to keep the most dangerous weapon in the world—myself—in its sheath.