My fingers anxiously tap my thigh as I stand in line awaiting the first running performance evaluation this year. The last time I did this there was no Practical Training, no Past Events, no Methylation Project. I was miserable at the time, but now I fondly regard the memory. At every running performance evaluation the Titles are corralled into a straight line and made to race for their lives across the tundra. The last female is killed and the last male is killed, but usually there are at least a few people who fall and end up being stampeded to death. The first people are rewarded, not with dopamine pills, but injections. Only once in my life was I so "fortunate."
I still crave the escape, the kind that makes your eyes glaze over as a far away smile crosses your lips. It's passage to another dimension where the cold has no teeth, only warm slobbery gums. Colors form everywhere dancing and morphing, and neurotransmitters never leave their synapses; they settle down, shacking up in golden palatial mansions. Yet within ten minutes seconds the palaces crumble, the movie goes back to black and white, and the cold sinks it's teeth in. I've decided I'd rather always be cold than be warm for a second and freezing for an eternity afterward.
An official I have never seen before stands on the tree line to the right, all twisted lips and sour eyes. She lays a finger on her wrist port sending a faint electric buzz through all our bodies. With this we run as though shot out of a cannon. The pace makes my legs go numb and my lungs burn. Snowflakes slam into me like suicide bombers. Within five minutes I am unable to see more than half a meter in front of me. I can still hear the labored breathing of my fellow Titles, yet it grows quieter and quieter by the second as people drop off unable to keep the pace.
I keep my head down and plow onward, urging my feet to move ever faster. Seconds collide forming minute after minute after minute-I do believe this is the longest and fastest I've ever run. I look down at my wrist port to evaluate my pace and distance, but it is covered with a thick film of stubborn wet snow. The precipitation is now so thick I truly can't see a thing. The only sound that meets my ears is the wind screaming across the tundra. It appears as though I am alone. Yet it doesn't feel that way. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as though they are being watched. For a moment I stumble and come to a halt, desperately straining my ears against the storm. Nothing. Finally, I dismiss my overactive senses and continue running. Yet before I make it so much as 20 centimeters something sinks its teeth into the back of my neck. Within seconds I am on the ground, my face buried in snow. I struggle to breathe in the frozen water particles as an unknown creature mauls the back of my neck.
Suddenly the biting stops and I hear a voice in my left ear as a droplet of my own blood falls on my cheek and begins to trickle down. Sweet and feminine, she speaks. "They made you soft didn't they?" She whispers in my other ear. "Soft and sweet." She licks her lips. A giggle. Another drop of blood on my other cheek. "They made you weak." A tongue digs into the gaping hole in my neck. A sigh of satisfaction. "You know your blood is delectably sweet right Seven? There's is no bitter. No fight left." I can feel my pulse in my ears, the word "weakness" reverberates through my mind. I can feel something searing hot bubble through me. In a single movement I throw my aggressor from my back and stand with a scream of rage. One's face is covered in blood.
I tried to keep my head down. I tried to be quiet. I wouldn't have bothered her. She had to bother me. That's not fair, now is it? In one swift movement I grab her by the collar and pull her to the ground. I drive my right knee up into the bottom of her nose. Then I do it again and again and again until I hear a crack. But then I don't stop, now do I? I do it again and again and again, my knee turning warm with blood. Finally I let her collapse to the ground. Her face is red, her eyes open. They don't blink. I sit and I look, and look. I watch and wonder as snow falls and she does not move. Foam dribbles down my chin. Something cracks inside me and I run.
I run with my eyes closed and my teeth clenched. I run faster that it's possible to run. I run as though I am haunted, hunted, by what I no longer know. Tears stream free. I run and run until suddenly I hit something solid and warm. I collapse into someone's arms. I want to tell them to let me go. Don't let me hurt you, don't let me hurt you. "Don't let me hurt you." I'm saying it out loud aren't I? No, please no. I can't open my eyes. Please no. "Open your eyes Seven." A male voice. "Open your eyes Seven." No. "Open your eyes Seven." Cold, nimble fingers pinch my right eyelid forcing my eye open. Green. 14? I open my other eye.
"Am I the last one?" He regards me with amusement. "It doesn't matter Seven." His words are quiet and soft, as though he's worried that any moment I could spook and run. "I don't want to be disassembled." I whisper softly. He grabs my neck, softly, but firmly. His fingers dig into the gaping hole, I flinch. He removes his hand quickly and wipes the blood off on his coat. "You're covered with blood." He says softly. "You were the last to come back. One isn't coming back is she Seven?" I step back in shock. My bloody fingers rush to my mouth to cover a scream. They taste like cold metal. I shake my head, fresh tears streaming. "No" I say softly. "No," I scream, again and again. "Get away from me." I beg him. "Get away!!!" I choke back a sob.
His facial expression conveys only patient amusement. I back up. "Please go, please go." I back into something hard and rough, a tree. 14 regards me as one might regard an errant child they don't have the energy to bother punishing. He approaches me cautiously before lunging. He covers my mouth with his hand and grabs my legs picking me up like one might haul a sack over their shoulder. I don't fight. I don't care. My eyes close.
