Twenty-Seven Deaths for One

Chapter Three

CW: Mentions of past child trafficking, mentions of murder, mentions of death

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A blanket of anxiety drapes over the Fortress of Meropide in the weeks leading up to the Cull.

On the morning of, Wriothesley jerks awake in a cold sweat. "Shit," he murmurs, wiping at his brow. His hand shakes with nervous jitters, and if he stands, he might fall over on unsteady, uncharacteristic sea legs. He shouldn't be like this. He's prepared—or thought he was.

Sigewinne's face flashes through his mind, and that concerned frown that had pulled taut across her face as she patched up his hand. A sick feeling rises in Wriothesley's throat. His heart hurts, aches deeply. I don't want to die.

But this isn't about him. Wriothesley has nothing else other than himself, so it'd be better if he's thrown into that Arena. He's old and tired. The others can survive, the others can...

The others cannot. The others will eat each other alive. Meropide will lose the sleek automation that Wriothesley has helped cultivate over the years, and it'll fall back into the old days of dog-eat-dog gang activity.

He drags a hand down his face. "Shit," he curses again, finally pulling himself from bed. "Shit."

Wriothesley glances at the calendar that hangs on his wall. He'd known what day it'd be when he went to bed. He'd known when he'd woken up, but The Cull still doesn't feel real, even as he stares at the date circled in angry red.

Wriothesley just stands there and stares at that date, at his room, at nothing in particular. Drags a hand through his hair. Takes too long to get dressed. He wonders if there's even a point in folding his sleeping clothes like he always does.

He decides there isn't.

#

"You're late," hisses Sigewinne as they file into the large space of the Production Zone. The Fortress of Meropide has one redeeming quality, which is the constant work flow of building the Meks that aid those above grounds.

"Sorry," he mutters, slotting into the tight space next to her. There aren't many prisoners in the grand scheme of things—about a thousand and some change active prisoners. But those prisoners marry and have families, and those families have children; prisoner or not, anyone above the age of ten can be culled for the games.

There are several thousands crammed into the Production Zone, awaiting the morbid game of chance. This is no different from any other Culling Day, only this time they are not a drop in a bucket, separated by their region of origin. Today, the prisoners are the entire pool, the only pool, and the room is deathly quiet as they all shuffle into place.

At the end of the room a grand platform has been built. It's pretty, gilded in gold, the sort of finery that is misplaced in these depths. Wriothesley thinks about the money spent that could've bought them supplies, or food, or medicine, squandered instead on something that'll only be torn down within the same day.

The stage is flanked on either end by large screens. In the middle is a podium, and behind it is Focalors herself, standing there in a sleek outfit that glitters and gleams underneath blinding spotlights.

Wriothesley stares. They aren't far from the stage, and it's easy to get a decent look at her. Focalors is a slight woman, thin-framed and tired-looking, different from her over-filtered, Kamera-filmed self.

"It's like this is the last fucking place she wants to be," he says.

Sigewinne snorts. "Are you surprised? She's lived this, Wriothesley, and she gets to relive it every time they throw her up there to pull these damned names. You know as well as I do that the Grand Judge isn't a position worth any salt."