From above, the men and women running in the trenches looked like ants. Really, they looked more like mice, scurrying for cover as soon as they heard the whirr of the drone motors, dragging automatic weapons behind them like long naked tails. Ant-sized mice.
They were silly. Stupid. The drones had thermal imaging and ground-penetrating radar and every other high-tech, cutting-edge tool that would let the watchers see through the concrete bunkers the runners tried to hide in.
Demi pulled her foot up onto her chair, leaving her boot lying on its side on the floor. She stuffed a fresh piece of gum into her cheek and clicked a couple of buttons. Her drone hovered over an overhang of concrete. Four runners, clustered close together. Unusual.
"Sergeant!"
Demi slammed her foot back to the ground and sat up ramrod straight. She snuck a glance over her shoulder at the Director, standing on the catwalk above her. Beside him stood a cameraman in a blue and gold uniform. Her bun was never severe enough, her back never straight enough, her clothes never restrictive enough for the Director's fancy.
To annoy him, Demi turned around and waved at the cameraman. Caught off guard, the cameraman waved back, the gesture almost lost in harsh green shadows and white streaks of light from floodlights and computer screens in the control room. The Director glared down at her. There was no mistaking his expression, even in the uncertain light.
Demi turned back to her monitor. One of these days, she would lose her job over waving to cameramen. The Director was more caught up in his image than any man she'd ever known.
The mice-men broke cover and kept running. These four were in a tight formation. She'd never seen anyone keep such a large alliance this far into the game. She zoomed in as far as she could. Usually, in large alliances, one person had been hit.
Nope. The drone's equipment would have alerted her.
Demi zoomed back out and returned her drone to autopilot. She stood up, cracking the joints in her lower back. The other drone operators hunched over their screens, their faces glowing faintly blue and green. Floodlights crisscrossed the air, hazy with cigarette smoke and dust, high above their heads. The floor was drowned in dark shadows and faint green light. Outside, the sun was shining and the people were going about their day. Some were listening to the approved radio stations in their cars as they drove to and from work. Some were watching the approved television channels as they went about their days at home. Some were listening to the approved government curriculum as they sat in classrooms—5 hours a day, with three free periods of one hour each. And some were watching the news, eagerly, waiting to see which criminals would survive the day's runnings.
