Demi bit her lip to keep from screaming. On camera, number 15 dropped his gun and ran, making for the other side of the open space. He was the only one left.
Number 47 stood at the edge of a huge puddle of yellow, shocked.
Demi's stomach rose into her throat as the Director's presence rose up beside her.
"I was wrong," he said.
Demi watched in horror as the drones began to descend. Coldly, precisely, they completed the kills.
Demi imagined the people at home, watching as though they were watching the Olympics. Cheering every time a favorite hit the ground. Exchanging money, placing bets. She gripped the edge of her desk, eyes glued to her controller. The Director's presence suffocated her.
"Number 47 is the only one left," the Director said, his voice smooth and cold.
Demi wrapped her hand around her controller. The knob was smooth beneath her hand and her fingers fit into the grooves perfectly. Her palm was slick and sweaty.
She had done this, a thousand times before. A push of a button, a tiny beep as the drone locked on. It was painless, quick.
A tiny click near her ear. Demi stiffened, her hand slipping off the controller.
"Lock on, Sergeant," the Director ordered, in a voice as smooth as if he were ordering coffee.
Demi swallowed what felt like a wad of dry tissues. Number 47, onscreen, looked straight up into the camera, yellow paint splashed across his chin like stubble.
Demi slowly put her hand back on the controller. Automatically, her other hand reached out to type in the commands.
Then she stood up.
"No," she said.
The last thing she saw was number 47 extending a final gesture of defiance toward the camera.
