CW: Guns, assassination, death, a human referred to as a number (dehumanization?).
Twenty steps, a right turn.
“At attention, cadets!” They all went perfectly still, hands snapping to their sides, chins raising to a level height.
Another fourteen then a staircase going up.
Eyes that had not yet dulled, did not yet stare blankly into space stared straight, purposefully unmoving.
Thirteen, a left.
None of them flinched, not even when the gunshot rang through the white, white room.
Twelve steps, and more stairs. She moved quickly, feet falling silently with each step. There was a door, but it opened on silent hinges.
None of them flinched, not even when their compatriot crumbled to the floor. Another pair of dead eyes. They wouldn’t remember him, nobody would. At least, they’d repeat that, until it became true.
Her steps lengthened when she ran. She couldn’t count these, she wouldn’t count anything less than perfect.
“He failed.” The voice was cold, contempt lacing each word. It was all they could do to keep from shivering, keep from looking to the still body, lacing the white floors with red.
A jump, the power of trained muscles propelling her from the rooftop. She landed in a roll. It hurt, it always did, but not as much as it would have if she hadn’t rolled.
“Your final test approaches. Do not fail.” No further words were needed. They all knew the consequences of failure, it was laying right beside them.
Six steps to the door. The lock was laughable, it took mere seconds to pick.
Four steps down a stairway. They were steep steps, but she didn’t fall.
Two steps. She kicked down the door, aiming right under the handle. Why did people still make their doors open inward?
A single shot. Clean, no hesitation. Her target was dead, no trouble. Oh how different it was from that first one.
She’d been dragged from her bed, kicking, clawing, screaming. All her training had abandoned her, she was just a scared girl. She’d been here her entire life, all memories she had was of this place, she was supposed to be better than this. But fear took over, in that moment.
She was dumped in a room, left there, alone, shivering in her nightclothes. Granted, they were just a uniform, two sizes too big, but she felt unprotected. No shoes, her hair dangled down, framing her face, and her weapons weren’t on her.
Lights had flickered on, blinding at first, but revealed a table, tucked in the back corner, a loaded handgun on it. Instincts had taken over, and she’d picked up the weapon, turning slowly around the room. Then a deafening, stone grating heavily on stone, and an entire wall had lifted up. On the other side, an identical room, another cadet.
She knew what was going on first, before the other, older cadet. It should have given her every advantage, but she’d hesitated. She blamed it on her shaking hands, later on, but it’d been all her. She’d hesitated.
It gave the other cadet time to figure it out. Time to rush at her, even though she was only armed with a knife. Time for her to slash wildly, fear alight on her features, hair a frizzy halo around her head, lit by the flourscent lights above. The blade had connected, cut deep across her jaw. The pain tightened her hand. It was a wonder she hadn’t shot her own foot. Somehow, perhaps luck, it struck the other girl in the leg, right below the knee.
Eventually, it took three more shots. None of them clean.
“‘M sorry, Seven.” She paused. In these final moments, didn’t she owe the other cadet more? It wasn’t a clean kill, she was suffering, wasn’t she? Some measure of comfort in the face of death couldn’t hurt.
“...Bri,” she corrected, after a moment of hesitation, glancing anxiously around for the security cameras in the room.
She shouldn’t have done that.
The other cadet was dead. She hadn’t even heard.
Come morning, the original twenty had become two. The numbers had been whittled down in the years before the final test, of course, down to four. Two of them were victorious. Somehow, her mistakes were overlooked. Her softness, her weakness at the end.
She wouldn’t ever be weak again.
That was ensured, after her initiation. She couldn’t stand for a week.
She turned to go, eyes cold, a smirk playing at her lips. Then the assassin disappeared into the night, leaving nothing but another pair of dead eyes behind her.
