I'm at the center of the Coliseum.
I turn slowly in place. There's nothing. No one. Not a single breath.
I start to wonder if I'm in the right place when suddenly, a voice surges, tearing everything open.
— GOOD MORNING, HEYO. I AM VALIE. MY WORD IS EVALUATION. I AM HERE TO MEASURE YOUR CAPABILITIES AND SEE IF YOU ARE WORTHY OF BECOMING A SOLDIER.
The sound is so loud it vibrates in my chest.
I turn at once, and I see her.
A woman, standing high up in the stands. She holds a loudspeaker in one hand, a stack of sheets in the other. She wears a black, unadorned jumpsuit, but she stands straight, posture imposing. A chestnut braid falls over one shoulder. Her face is hard, determined, unsmiling. Her hazel eyes shine with something keen and analytical. She looks at me like a student about to be put through a series of tests.
— FOR NOW, YOU ARE AN ANOMALY. YOUR WORD IS UNKNOWN AND UNCONTROLLABLE.
YOU MUST PASS THE TRIALS. IF YOU FAIL, YOU WILL BE EXECUTED.
My fists clench before I notice.
I kept my Word. I'm alive.
If this is the price—obey them for now—fine.
But I won't bend more than necessary.
I'll do what they ask, for the moment, and observe.
— TO KEEP IT SIMPLE, EXECUTE WITH THE GREATEST CARE EVERY ORDER I GIVE YOU.
IF I AM SATISFIED, YOU WILL HAVE PASSED THE TRIAL. IS THAT CLEAR?
I don't answer. I draw a slow breath.
— VERY WELL. LET'S BEGIN.
I WILL SEND YOU THREE CONDEMNED MEN.
SEXUAL PREDATORS. MONSTERS.
WE HAVE NO ROOM LEFT FOR THEM IN OUR PRISONS.
KILL THEM.
I freeze for a second.
Is this a joke?
What do they take me for? An executioner? A dog?
I've never killed anyone. And now they throw three criminals at me like trash to be swept away.
But I understand this isn't a mission. It's a test.
A trial of my nerves. Of my limits.
She wants to see whether I'll hesitate. Whether I'll crack.
She wants to measure what I am ready to do to survive here.
Footsteps.
Three silhouettes appear.
Men. Poorly shaven, filthy, gaunt, their eyes gleam with a sick light. They all wear orange prison jumpsuits. Their mere presence makes my skin crawl. There's something rotten in their gait, in the way they look at me. A mix of hunger, mockery, and hate.
One of them speaks:
— Hey, kid. We were promised freedom if we kill you. Nothing personal, but you're going to die.
The second chuckles, low:
— And what if we had a little fun first? Been a long time since I heard vocal cords vibrate.
The third, panting:
— Dead or alive, I'd take real good care of you. I can't hold back anymore.
A deep disgust rises in me.
I roll my eyes up to the sky.
I think of a movie where the hero had a silenced pistol.
And I want one.
It appears.
In my hand.
Perfectly formed. Light. Silent.
I don't think.
I aim.
I fire.
One bullet into each leg.
One. Two. Three.
Four. Five. Six.
All three hit the ground, screaming. One whimpers, another cries, the last one laughs still.
— That's not fair! He's got a gun!
— I give up! I want to go back to prison!
— I love pain, go on, do it again…
I don't answer.
I start with the last one.
The one who "loves pain."
I aim between his legs.
I fire.
Again. Again.
Until I feel the weapon heat.
The suppressor reddens. It jams.
I move on to the second.
He begs. He shakes. He cries.
— Please… I swear I won't do it again…
I grab him. I ram the burning suppressor into his mouth.
He screams with pain.
I toss the weapon.
I manifest another.
I fire.
His head snaps back.
I move to the last.
He crawls. He wants to flee.
I aim at his hands.
One bullet in the right. One in the left.
He screams. He pleads.
But I have nothing left to say to him.
I let him suffer a moment.
Then I fire.
Head.
Done.
I could make them suffer longer.
I don't care to.
I don't feel like spending the day here.
To me, they're already condemned.
Death isn't their escape.
It's their punishment.
And I hope, somewhere, they go on suffering even after this.
— MAGNIFICENT!
YOU'LL GET BONUS POINTS FOR MAKING THEM SUFFER!
THEY DESERVED IT, BELIEVE ME!
She grates on me, yelling into that damned loudspeaker.
I stretch out my hand.
The loudspeaker vanishes from her grip, appears in mine.
I hold it calmly.
And I speak.
Evenly.
— I don't need your opinion. Give me the next part. Let's get this over with.
I release the object.
It disappears. Reappears in her hands in a flash of light.
She stares at me. Silent.
Then she smiles, briefly.
— Interesting. Congratulations. You passed the first trial with flying colors.
She turns serious again.
— GUARDS. TAKE HIM BACK TO HIS ROOM.
I should have expected it.
Two guards arrive. Silent. Cold.
They surround me.
Then they pull a helmet over my head, a bag. Darkness clamps down.
I am blind, deaf. An object.
They guide me.
I don't resist.
We walk.
Long.
My steps echo inside the bag, dull, swallowed.
Behind my eyelids, I still see the bursts of blood, the way their bodies folded.
I wait for guilt.
For nausea.
For something.
Nothing comes.
What bothers me… is not that I killed them.
It's how easy it was once I decided.
We stop.
Hands grip my shoulders.
The helmet is lifted. The bag disappears.
White walls.
A narrow bed bolted to the floor.
A camera in the corner. No window.
A room. Mine, apparently.
I breathe easier. My lungs fill.
The silence presses in again.
I sit on the bed. The mattress is thin, honest. It doesn't pretend to be comfortable.
I look at my hands.
They don't shake.
I killed three men to keep a Word I can't control.
And somewhere above me, someone wrote a score on a piece of paper.
This wasn't an evaluation.
It was the first question on a test that never ends.
And I know one thing for sure:
they're not done with me yet.