THE 11th HOUR

A Novel by Lauren Brent

Chapter 1

She has never understood the appeal of a man in uniform. Maybe she could have, had she been born in a different time. As it stood, she was born into this time. The uniforms she knew were always hiding something and, more often than not, that something was bad. Still, it is apparent she is trying her damnedest not to show it. She smiles and clasps her hands in front of her, letting them rest on the table. Her back is straight, elbows sharp. She has done this before, and though she has never met these men, she knows she has the upper hand. They do not feel she is a threat. They’ve been trained, and the woman before them is harmless. She’s a mother of two, in her forties, and they’re fresh out of the academy. She drops her head a bit, tilting it. She knows why she is here but she will not speak first. She licks her lips and opens her mouth, as if to speak. One of the officers does the same. What comes out of his mouth is the beginning of a question. What comes out of hers is a noise. Nothing more. Her lips part and she grins, flashing teeth. She flicks a hand, urging the officer to continue. Her attempts to get them to speak are successful. The officer begins.

“Emily.” Her ears twitch at the sound of her name. She licks her lips again. “I’m sure you’d like to get back to your children, so we’ll make this quick.” She laughs and stretches.

“Not too quick, I hope.” Her voice is solid and lined with humor. “I quite enjoy the break.” That draws a smile out of him, and her own widens. They do not see the menace in it. Why Emily, what big teeth you have.

The officer speaks.“I trust you know why you’re here.” “I wouldn’t,” she says with a shrug. “Because to be honest, no, I haven’t the faintest clue

why I’m here.” They have been looking at a file and now their eyes return to her face. She interlaces her fingers, the only tell she lets slip. It isn’t her fault, however; Genetics is to blame for that one. The strangest things seem to run in her family.

To her advantage, the officers are green. Neither sees the tell. She continues.“I mean, sure I’ve kicked around a few ideas, some more obvious guesses than others

but... you didn’t drag me across an ocean to ask me questions I’ve already answered.” She tilts her head to the other side. “Did you?” Her inquiry appears genuine. the officer across from her hesitates. He appears embarrassed.

“I’m sorry ma’am.” “Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it?” She leans back, her eyes fixed on the officer. All

traces of good humor had left her. “I have a child that’s afraid of flying and another that has a patience threshold that maxes out at about one point five hours, but you’re sorry, so that makes it okay.” She leans forward once more and brings her hands to her temples. “I swear to God if I went through that flight for an interview that could have been conducted over the phone...”

She sighs. The irritation is real, but the situation was unavoidable. She knows that; perhaps it fuels her irritation.

Down the hall a ways another young woman sits across from two more officers. She is smaller and much younger than Emily, but far more intelligent. There was a time when the two were good friends, but as each gets ready for what they know is going to be a long couple of days, they barely register as casual acquaintances. Three other individuals - two men, one female - are scattered throughout the building, ghosts of a past each thought they had escaped. There

they were, inches from each other, drawn together again for the first time in forty years for the same purpose.

The officer speaks.“I understand your frustration, Emily.” His attempts to calm her by using her name are

met with further irritation. The look she has fixed him with causes his voice to waiver. “And I understand that you’ve answered question after question pertaining to this topic. We know when this went down, we know why, and we know where. But what no one has asked you - what we plan to ask you now - is how.”

“You want to know... how.” It is not a question. It is not a statement. It is a thought spoken aloud, perhaps subconsciously so. She stares at them for a moment, then all at once she smiles again. She brings her hands down on the table with a force that causes the men to jump, and makes a gun shape with her right one. Closing one eye, she aims and pulls an imaginary trigger. “I guess with a gun.” This sends her into a fit of laughter.

She is once again in control. The other officer speaks at last. “No.” Her laughter continues, then tapers, then ends. She wipes away a tear and smiles at

him none the less. “No?” “No.” Her eyes grow wide and she pouts her lips. It is clear she is mocking him.“No-----?” “No.” “Well, not that this game isn’t fun,” she says. “But perhaps you’d like to elaborate?” She

points at officer number 1. “This one said you’d make this quick.” There is still humor lining her voice.

“We want to know how it came to be, how it all unfolded. We want to know how you managed to do what you did, and still spend a few years abroad. We want to know how you’re sitting in this room, being interrogated, but ultimately free.” His voice is cold. She leans forward. Her eyes are murderous and crazy; her smile damn near maniacal. For the first time in forty years, She is awake.

“You want to know how I - no, how we - got away with it.” She nods, as does officer number 2. “You want to know how we pulled it off and yet, you want to make this quick.” She chuckles.

“What’s funny?” “It’s just... what’s that saying? You can’t bake a cake and eat it, too? A stupid saying, I

might add. Why would you bake a cake if you weren’t going to eat it? I mean, obviously the whole point of ba--” The officers clear their throats, and she smiles. “Sorry. I only mean to say, you have to pick one. If I answer you truthfully - and I intend to do just that, by the way - then we’re going to be here a while.”

“We aren’t asking for your life’s story.” Officer number 2. “Well, actually, you kinda are.” She studies them for a moment, then proceeds. “Maybe

not my whole life’s story, but... look. No one wakes up one day and says, hey, this feels like a good day to overthrow a government.” She frowns. “A corrupt government, I should say.”

“We’d like to keep your personal opinions out, if you don’t mind.” “That isn’t an opinion.” It is the first time she has snapped at them. “That’s a fact.” “Some might disagree.”

“No doubt, but I’m certain I killed them all.” They think she is joking. She is not. The first officer speaks.

“And you’re okay with that?” She interlaces her fingers once more.“Yes.” they do not know her well enough to recognize the look in her eyes for what it is:

pain. Officer 2 smirks. “So you claim you want what’s best for people, yet your method of helping involved

murder?” Her hands twitch. She wants to slap the look off his face, but doesn’t. She has done this before.

“How old are you... son?” the officer winces, but does not get the chance to answer. “Twenty one? Twenty two?” He nods. “Twenty-two. Fresh out of the academy, I’m sure. Ready to instate justice at every turn. Ready to put the bad guys behind bars.” She leans back and drapes an arm over the chair, regarding them with a look that is equal parts pity and envy. “When I was your age, I felt the same way. Only difference was, there was no definite good or bad. People didn’t know their asses from a library book. Things that you take for granted every day - food, clean water, soap - were unavailable to most. Democracy? Unheard of. Freewill? Forget about it. People did what they were told, no questions asked. He’s saving us, they all said. He’s helping us help ourselves.”

“So you were poor.” She laughs at this. “No, sweetheart. We were worse than that. We were locked in poverty, and nothing we

could do or say would release us. We were forced to watch as that man made decision after decision, forced to watch as our parents were ripped from us for daring to think for themselves. We weren’t poor. We were Damned.” They are listening now, jaws slack with interest. This pleases her, but not much. The second officer speaks.

“Okay, so you had a rough upbringing. That doesn’t place you above the law; that doesn’t make it alright for you to kill someone.”

“I didn’t.” They are confused and she doesn’t blame them. She concentrates on what she will say next. “I’ve read that authors -- you do know what books are, right?” She laughs. “Sorry, spent the past couple of years abroad and never found out... are we allowed to read yet? Or is that still illegal?”

“Interim President Hastings had that bill passed years ago.” The first officer.“So you know what books are.” They nod. Officer 2 looks annoyed at the question. She

sees this. “Sorry if I’m insulting your intelligence, but most of my generation didn’t. Anyway, I’ve read that authors will sometimes create alter egos to help them write the stuff they can’t stomach. That’s much of the situation here. As I was then, with what I was dealing with and how I was raised, I couldn’t have killed anyone. But Astrid... she was another story.” She gives them a moment to process what she has said.

“So you created another persona in order to murder people?” Officer 2 scowls. “If this is some attempt to get off on a temporary insanity charge, forget it.”

“Oh darling, my insanity is quite permanent.” The scowl deepens. “Believe me, by the end of this story, a little extra personality knockin’ around the ole noggin will seem perfectly normal.” She pauses. “I guess I wouldn’t call her an alter ego, though... Astrid is really no more than a name change. But once I was free of my name - once my actions could not in any way hurt my father’s legacy, I felt free to do what I wanted. And what I wanted was revenge.”

Officer 2 glares at her. She smiles. “You want to know if it was me.” “It seems to be the question you never fail to dodge.”

“Oh, I answer it. I always have. People just don’t pay attention.” Her hands are on the table, but they do not touch. She is telling the truth. “They’ve never really liked to... that’s what got us in this situation to begin with. People stopped paying attention. All the evil in the world was right in front of them, and they ignored it. By the time they thought to pay attention, it was illegal to do so. Nicolae had everyone convinced that their situation was of their own doing. Never mind that he was the one that passed the bills and implemented the tax plans. Never mind that it was his idea to pay people the way he did. Never mind that it was him that turned everyone against one another.” She pauses. “Well, I suppose that isn’t fair. It was our own greed that did that. But he capitalized on that; he capitalized on all our faults. There’s an old saying that goes something like, ‘if you don’t like what you see in the mirror, change it’. Well, he convinced us that it wasn’t worth looking in the mirror anymore, that we should just assume that we will never like what we see until we accept that we have destroyed our own lives and followed his rules to fix them.” She pauses again. There is a pitcher in the center of the table; she takes it and drinks directly from it. “I supposed that’s why the game was so popular. It was a way to show everyone that we wanted to change our reflections.” She takes a deep breath and looks at the officers. “Do you know how to pay attention, boys? Do you know how to listen? Because I’m about to tell you what I’ve never told anyone else. I’m going to tell you the truth and I will hold nothing back. What you take from it is on you. It’s your job to pay attention.”

All five of them have said the same thing. They will tell everything they know, they will tell the truth, they will hold nothing back. It is your job to pay attention.

She turns her head. She is now facing a large mirror. Her reflection stares back at her, but she is no doubt aware of the eyes that hide behind it.

“There are two things you need to know about my father. The first is that he was arrested and sentenced to death by President Cain. Crimes against the nation, also known as ‘refusal to kiss my ass and sing my praises’. The second is that he taught me everything he learned from his days in the armed forces, not the least of which was the art of concealment, a technique he mastered. That mastery was passed on to me.” She takes another drink.

“These two facts are of the utmost importance; you must never forget them.” “Why?” Officer number 1. She looks back at both of them. “Because every story needs a beginning, and that’s how this one starts.” She takes a deep

breath. “Are you paying attention?” They nod. “Good. Now listen closely.”

Chapter 2

I’ve always wondered if things would have been different had I not gone into that bar. Not that it was a question of whether or not I would; I’d been going to that particular bar for years. It was always quiet and, even better, was a mere 2 miles from the Hever, which meant I could walk there no problem. I liked walking; it gave me a chance to experience clean air and green-ish trees, things that weren’t at all common around the rotting lean-to I called home.

It was a standard sized bar, bare save for the television screen mounted in the corner. I hated televisions and, while most of my generation loved the blasted things, it seemed the ones from before agreed with me. It was always the fake stories that got it right, the ones my father referred to as ‘Scife-Eye’. Pieces by authors like King and Orwell... the reasons differed, but the idea was the same: television was the beginning of the end.

The one mounted in the corner of the bar was small and the bartender kept the volume low (I suspect he hated the damned thing as much as I did, but government regulations required all “independent” business to own one), but when you live without it for majority of the year, you hear it regardless. Hell, you can almost feel it. This particular moment, a pro-President Cain advert was playing, no doubt having been proceeded by a pro-President Cain toothpaste commercial and preceding a pro-President Cain drama.

Most times, the bar was empty when I arrived, but not then. A few stools down from my normal perch, I noticed a man bent over what looked to be a glass of whiskey. He kept his head low and seemed to be focused on his drink, but even from where I sat I could tell his face was in need of shaving. His clothes were dirty and well worn, and he grasped his drink with calloused hands. I would have mistaken him for any other Damned citizen - would not have even noticed him - had he not smelled so clean.

It seems strange now, the thought of being able to smell social status. Had I come across him today, I don’t know that I’d be able to do it, but back then it was different. Exposure to abnormal circumstances over a long period of time will shift your opinion of what’s normal. For the Damned community, that meant getting used to the stench we gave off. After a while, you didn’t smell it at all. Soap, however, was horrendous, and this man reeked of it. The bartender was giving him a rather strange look, and I knew he could smell it, too. The man himself didn’t seem even the slightest bit perturbed by the stench; the bartender and I exchanged a look that confirmed my suspicions.

Maybe he was Damned - he was, after all, on the Damned side of town - but he had not been born that way. I studied his clothing, the cut of his hair, everything my father had taught me to take note of. His clothing was dirty, yes, but also made of finer materials than could be gathered in any peasant’s market. His hair, though a touch long, seemed far too kempt and his hands, calloused as they may have been, boasted some very clean nails.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said. I smiled at him in an attempt to mask the fact that I had, in fact, been staring. “At least, I think I have.” There was a lining to his voice, a faint accent that I could just hear but couldn’t place.

I wanted to respond, to comment on how far away from home he must be, but the bartender set a glass in front of me and tapped it.

“The usual?” I nodded and he pulled a bottle from under the counter, but not before shooting me a reproachful look. “Just the one, then?”

“You know it,” I said, knowing better than to think I had a choice in the matter. The look faded to one a touch more solemn, and he set to filling the glass. I spared a glance at the idiot’s lantern mounted in the corner and my stomach flopped.

The only thing NewAmerican citizens loved more than President Cain was the nationwide game he had created, known as The 11th Hour. The idea was simple: prove to the president that you were serious about changing your social status by hunting and executing one of NewAmerica’s Most Wanted. Do it enough times in a row and he’d find it in his heart to bless you. Fantastic! Super Duper!

The advertisement on the television then was promoting one of the teams competing in this game, a rag tag group of kids that called themselves Team CHECK. They were the first team of people to compete in The 11th Hour, and they were the most accomplished.

They also happened to be my team.We were the favorites that year, had been for the past couple of years. Team CHECK had

done what no one else had done before: won three consecutive titles. At the time that particular commercial aired, we were on the eve of possibly winning a fourth. Doing so would grant us fame, fortune, and President Cain’s blessing. To our knowledge, no one had gotten that close before, and we had gained the attention of a great number of Blessed companies that were looking to sponsor 11th Hour competitors. One such company decided it would be a good idea to film what they called a ‘television spot’. That moment in the bar was the first time I’d seen it.

“Make it a double,” I said. The bartender fixed me with a look made me lean back a bit. “Or not. Whatever. I don’t care.” I drummed my fingers on the bar and waited for the advert to finish. Once it did, the man looked at me again.

“That’s how I know you.” I sighed. There was no use ignoring him any longer.“You follow the game?” It was a stupid question. There was not much else to do besides

follow the game, on either side of the financial spectrum. He shrugged in response and returned his gaze to the glass in front of him.

“Not much. I just recently returned from... abroad.” My ears twitched at ‘returned’. In order to return, you had to first leave, no? Which meant he was a NewAmerican citizen. It also meant he had the ability to leave NewAmerica, a privilege granted only to the Blessed. The logical assumption was that he had once been Blessed but wasn’t anymore, which begged the question: What had he done to be Damned?

“But that advertisement,” he continued, “has been running since I got back.” I shrugged.“Oh. I wasn’t aware.” He made a face, and I waved him off. “I don’t own a TV. Can’t

stand the damn things.” “Well.” He rocked his head from side to side. “La-dee-dah.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

He smiled and drained his glass. “So. What exactly is your role in all of this?” “I, my dear friend,” I said as I pointed at him, one eye closed to aim, “pull the trigger.” I

pulled my imaginary trigger with a smirk. “Bang.”

“Not on me, I hope,” he said. The bartender nudged the glass in front of me and shot us both a dangerous look.

“Not in my bar, you won’t. You want to pop him one, young lady, you take it outside.” “Yes sir.” I smiled but he didn’t return the gesture. Instead, he turned his back and began

replacing bottles on the shelves. “What’s it like?” The man asked. “Killing someone, I mean.” “It’s not bad,” I said, running a hand through my hair. “You get used to it.” Across from

us, the bartender snorted. “So it doesn’t bother you?” I gave him a look. “You don’t ever... you know, lose sleep?”“It’s no more daunting a task than emptying trash cans or washing some old woman’s

sheets. It’s my job and I’m good at it. What’s there to lose sleep over?” “Have you ever regretted a kill?” I scrunched up my nose and turned my attention toward

my drink. I wasn’t comfortable with where this line of questioning was going, and this stranger’s need to pry into my life was becoming increasingly more annoying.

“These aren’t innocent, upstanding members of society we’re talking about. These are murderers, rapists, pedophiles... people that deserve to be executed. And if I’m fine watching someone else throw the switch, why not get paid to do it myself?” I could feel the anger and embarrassment warming my face as I spoke, and I wondered if he could see it.

“That’s all good and well, but it doesn’t answer my question.” “What is there to regret?” “Nothing, I guess. Unless these people aren’t as bad as they’re made out to be...” My

blood turned to ice and my heart seemed to skip every other beat. The thought had crossed my mind a few times, but hearing someone else say it... it was unnerving.

“W-what are you talking about?” “I just... I have this theory.” He turned toward me, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What

if the targets in this competition aren’t murderers or rapists? What if they’re just normal people? What if the only thing they did wrong was refuse to bow to Nicolae?” He was smiling now but, charming as he looked, I couldn’t return the gesture. It seemed that he had wanted to tell someone his theory for some time and now that he had, there was no way for him to contain his excitement, but the only thing I felt was fear. Fear that he was right, fear that I had been wrong, fear of the fact that he had dared refer to President Cain by his first name. His eyes wouldn’t leave mine, and I realized he was waiting my response. I further realized I had none to give him. The mere suggestion that I had killed innocent people had rendered me speechless.

“Someone would have spoken up by now,” I said after a moment. “The 11th Hour has been around for decades, there’s no way that many people have been falsely profiled without someone taking notice.” This only served to make him more excited.

“What if someone had, though? What if you just didn’t know? You said so yourself that you don’t have a television, that you... how did you put it? Hate the damn things?” I could feel my blood beginning to boil. I saw nothing wrong with people voicing their opinions, but this man - who I had never met before that moment, mind you - seemed quite convinced that I was a murderer. That tends to not sit well.

“There are other ways to find things out. Newspapers, chatter threads, word of mo--”“But if Nicolae had wanted them quiet, don’t you think he could have dealt with the

problem before it even made it that far? Think about it. Would you know if someone came forward? Would you? Would you even care?” I clenched my teeth and gripped my hands so tight, the knuckles were turning white.

“Why wouldn’t I?” “If someone came forward, it wouldn’t say a lot for you now, would it? If someone came

forward and said, hey, that chick you killed last year? That was my sister and she’d never hurt a fly. She wasn’t even in town the night her husband was murdered... what would that say about you?” I could feel a familiar pressure at the back of my throat and began to blink in rapid succession. “But it doesn’t matter. The point of the game is to separate oneself from the crowd, right? Ignore everyone else and just focus on you. Who cares if someone’s husband gets murdered so long as you pick up another sponsor?” The bartender caught me by the wrist as I swung, stopping my hand inches from the man’s cheek.

“That’s enough, son,” he said. “You got what you wanted, now move along.” The man pushed his stool back without another word and headed for the door. I followed him with my eyes, wishing with every ounce of my being that I could kill him with my eyes. “Drink up, darling,” the bartender said, releasing my wrist. “You’ve got to get going before it gets dark.”

“I’m sorry,” the man said. I didn’t even bother to turn.“For what?” “What happened with your father.” Another storm of emotions arose inside of me and the

urge to hit him returned. I wanted to scream at him, to beat him with the stool I was sitting on until he understood that he knew nothing about my life and therefore was not allowed to speak of it. The bartender must have read my face, however, and shook his head. Not today, his eyes said.

“What happened to my father is no concern of yours.” “Maybe. Regardless, I am sorry.” “Well, you’re sweet.” I downed my drink and tapped the glass; to my surprise, the

bartender refilled it without protest. I started in on this one, eyes and throat stinging from the assault of the first. The door slammed shut and, once I was sure he was gone, I wiped a few tears from my eyes. The fact that a complete stranger knew enough about my situation to be sorry about my father could be addressed later. I tapped the glass once more. “Are you cutting me off after this?”

“What do you think?” Years I had frequented that bar and the bartender paid no mind to my age or my choice of poison. But never once did he let me drink too much; very rarely would he let me have more than the initial one. Of course, very rarely did I ever want more than the initial one. I wasn’t an alcoholic - at least not by Damned standards - and the drink was more a way to get myself ready for what I was going to have to do. Because I lied. Killing did bother me, regardless of who I was killing. There was a difference between watching someone pull the lever, and doing it myself. If the pardon came two minutes too late, that was on me.

I think that’s why I chose that bar every year. Lord knows there were other places I could have gone that would have allowed me to drink to my heart’s content - that’s what it meant to be Damned; shortage of soap and a surplus of whiskey - but I wasn’t exactly right in the head in those days. I was a twenty year old with the life experiences of an old woman; I was emotionally imbalanced and he knew it. That bartender knew when I needed a double and when I was blowing smoke. He read me as a father would his daughter, and I respected his authority as such. So, when he cut me off, I knew not to press the subject. I’d already had more to drink that evening than I’d had all year, and I was more than willing to count that as a blessing. My father taught me that.

# # #

My parents always kept a watchful eye on me. I don’t know if they were protective because I was an only child, or if they somehow knew how deep I was going to step in it once I got older. Either way, they were always fussing. The day I left for the Hever, my mother was more worried than usual. It was irritating but, had I known then what I know now, I would have hugged her tighter, shown her more respect, and I would have told her over and over again how much I loved her. I didn’t, though. I was eighteen, about to make a name for myself, and I was going to save my father. I didn’t care if I had an extra tube of toothpaste or if I remember to double up on socks if it got cold. All I cared about was getting on my way.

“Do you have a jacket?”“I have three, mom.” “And you’re sure you packed them?”“Yes.”“Can you check again, just to be sure?”“Yes.”“Did you check?”“Yes.”“Are you just saying that to make me leave you alone?”“Ye---no?” “Kara.”“Mom.”“I just want you to--”“Be prepared for whatever comes my way. I know.” I hugged her then, in an attempt to

get her off my back. “So you’re all ready?” I nodded. “Okay.” A look crossed her face then, one I don’t think

she wanted me to see. It was an expression I had seen many times, so I knew what was coming. “Your father would like to speak with you before you leave.” I gave her one more hug before heading down the hall to my father’s room.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said as I went, knowing full well that it was never nothing, not with my dad. I hesitated outside the door for a moment before going in. No matter how many times I entered, I was never comfortable with what I saw.

“Hi daddy!” My eyes swept the room as I made my way over to him, taking in the tubes and monitors where books and a very old - very nice - typewriter were once stacked. “Mom said you needed to speak with me?” He nodded, before struggling to sit up. I moved to help him, but he brushed me off.

In his prime, my father was fit as a fiddle. He had intelligence to spare (which seemed to have been passed on to me) and was one of the better known competitors of The 11th Hour. Then the disease hit full force; it began to eat at his muscles until, eventually, he could do little more than spend his days in bed. It had done such a number on him, he needed help doing things most of us take for granted: showering, dressing himself, wiping himself, feeding himself. I could tell it embarrassed him to need help with these things, but he had no choice. He just couldn’t do things on his own anymore.

There were a few things that he could still do, and he would often opt to spend all day trying to achieve these then allow someone take that small victory away from him as well. My father was nothing if not proud... another trait I’m certain I’ve inherited.

“So,” he gasped once he had shifted enough to his liking, “you’re going through with this, then?” ‘This’ referred to my team’s efforts to win our fourth consecutive 11th Hour title.

“Of course, why wouldn’t we?” My father’s disease had not robbed him of his ability to make me want to apologize with a single look, and it was that look he turned upon me then. My will threatened to turn to jelly, but I clasped my hands tight in front of me and refused to cave. “Look, I know you’re worried but really, daddy. Does everything have to be a conspiracy? Is it so farfetched to believe that we’re just the first ones to achieve this?” My father tapped my nose, coughed, and shook his head.

“Too... naive,” he said. “If you are honestly holding onto such a belief, then you must have fallen behind on your research... or rather, you’ve turned your back on it entirely.”

“I research!” I snapped. “Maybe... maybe I haven’t looked into anything recently, but can you blame me? I’ve had a lot on my plate, but I do research. You know that, daddy, and it’s not fair for you to assume otherwise simply because I’m holding out hope. I research all the time, it’s all I do... is a little break so bad a thing?”

“No no, of course not.” He reached over and grasped my hand. I was once more shocked by both the smallness of his hand and the limited strength it possessed. “Just promise me you won’t turn your back on it, lest you fall prey to such naiveties.”

“It’s kind of my job, daddy. I won’t turn my back on it, lest I fall prey to not getting paid.” I smiled and he turned to struggle with a piece of paper lying on the side table, by his bed. I recognized it for what it was right away and began to fidget. “I should get going, Caleb is waiting for me and--”

“He’s waited five years; a few more minutes won’t kill him.” I felt my face flush. Caleb Ellis was the first person to join CHECK. I had met him while registering for what would have been my first solo attempt at the game and asked him if he wanted to enter with me, as my partner. It had never been done before, and he seemed excited to try it out. We’ve become close friends since then; he’s the only one to have met my family and - despite the fact that he is five years my senior - my father was convinced I was in with him, and he with me. He took Caleb aside the first chance he got and instructed him that I was his responsibility from the moment I walked out the door to the moment I walked back in. Caleb, who had four younger brothers and was no stranger to babysitting, agreed. Though we had not so much as shared a romantic embrace, my father held onto the idea that we would be married someday. I think he hoped for it, to be honest.

My father handed me the sheet of paper and I scrunched my nose at it, but took it just the same.

“I want you to look into the backgrounds of these contestants. And I mean really look; anyone can find the surface stuff, but that’s not what’s important here. I’ve put together some bits here and there over the years, I’m sure you have their files. You’ll see that there are holes in the information, though. You need to fill them. That’s your assignment.” I looked over the list, not at all pleased with the homework assignment, but confident I could complete the task. To my surprise, there were just three names: Terrance McQueen, Theresa Williams, and Edward Haskell. The first two had small notes written by their names, but the last one - Edward Haskell - just had a star beside it and the word ZODIAC, nothing else.

“Who..?” My father shrugged.“I knew Terrance McQueen, damn fine analyst, that one. And a talented assassin. So far

as I know, he was the first person to ever win the competition three years in a row.” I raised an eyebrow and looked at him. I had never heard of anyone getting as close to a fourth win as we had and, the way people were acting, neither had majority of NewAmerica. But my father never spoke of things unless he was certain they were factual; the disease had yet to rob him of that.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say he didn’t go on to win the fourth.” My father shook his head.

“Three weeks before game start, we received the news that Terrance had had an ‘accident’.” I was taken aback by my father’s tone. His dislike for President Cain was palpable, but he had never spoken ill of the man, not in front of me. Yet there he was, suggesting - unless I was mistaken, and I’m positive I wasn’t - that someone had lied about McQueen’s death.

“What kind of accident?” “The got-a-touch-drunk-and-hit-his-head kind of accident.” “What did he hit his head on?” “No one knows.” I folded my arms and fixed my father with a frown. He raised his hands

as best he could and shook his head. “I’m not making this up. Someone may have, but I’m just repeating what the official statement was.”

“But any moron could see that doesn’t make even the slightest bit of sense!” I bit my bottom lip, trying to contain the remainder of my outburst, but there was a glint in my father’s eye that dared me to continue, dared me to let my mouth run away with my brain. Go on, those eyes said. Go on and confirm what I’ve been thinking for years.

“If he died as a result of hitting his head,” I said, “then the object on which he struck his head would have been present when they found his body. I suppose there’s a chance he struck his head on something, staggered home, and died in his sleep, but... well, you wouldn’t have suspicions if he had been found in his bed, now, would you?” My father shook his head. “No. Nor would the official cause of death have been that he struck his head. They would have said he died in his sleep, but they didn’t. Which means they found the body somewhere. And if that’s the case, then the object should have been close by. If they don’t know what it was, then it must have been carried away. And if that’s the case, it’s not so much him hitting his head on something as it is someone hitting him on the head with something. Either way, it should have been investigated more thoroughly.”

“That’s what you’re going to do,” My father said. He was smiling, and I couldn’t help doing so myself. There’s nothing like the high of sudden mental stimulation.

“Alright. What about this one, Theresa Williams?” “I know less about her, but the circumstances are just as fishy.” He was doubled over by

a coughing fit and for a moment, I thought he had worn himself out. I was considering leaving when he got it under control. He laid his head back and attempted to catch his breath. “She... won three times, died shortly... before her fourth... attempt.”

“Same with this Haskell guy?” He shook his head.“Haskell exists in legends. I heard a lot about him in my days, but never found anything

solid.”“What makes you think I will?”“You have your hacker friend, right? He should be able to help.”“And you’re certain he’s real?” My father nodded. “How?” “I know it goes against everything I’ve taught you, but you’re just going to have to trust

me on this.” I frowned. It did go against everything he taught me; I had been raised to act on facts, not faith. Requesting I do so now was out of character for him. Then again, lying in bed all day was out of character for him, and facts weren’t going to change that. Faith was all he had.

“A few weeks before game start, Kar.” There was a look in my father’s eyes then that I hadn’t seen in a long while. He knew I could take care of myself, knew that Caleb wouldn’t let anything happen to me, but that didn’t stop him from worrying. “You watch yourself. Maybe

you’re right, maybe I’m getting cabin fever in here and I’m letting my mind run away on me, but on the chance that they are connected--”

“I’ll be fine, daddy.” I kissed his forehead before he could say anymore and hurried out of the room, shouting ‘bye’ over my shoulder. I doubt he meant to scare me, but the more I thought about what he said, the more frightened I became, and I didn’t like the feeling.

There was a Suit in the foyer when I returned, but I ignored him and gave my mom another hug. She pressed a small satchel into my hands and kissed my cheek.

“Here, sweetheart. For you and your friends, in case you need something sweet.” I smiled. She looked as frightened as I felt, and I wondered if my father had shared his concerns with her before passing them on to me. Her eyes shifted uneasily to the Suit as she began to fidget with her sleeve.

“It’s just the sponsor car, mom. Don’t worry. They send these lugs out with all the new models.”

“Your father said--”“Daddy says lots of things. He’s locked up in that room all day with nothing to do but

think and think and think... I’ll be fine. Caleb will be there, remember?” She nodded, and that seemed to put her at ease a bit. She liked Caleb, trusted him even, but there was a shadow in her eyes that never left. I felt a chill crawl up my spine, and jumped when the Suit spoke up.

“Your bags are already in the car, Ms. Anders.” I turned on my heels and snapped him a salute.

“I feel like this is necessary. Is it necessary? I submit that it is.” “You are not required to salute, ma’am.” I dropped my hand, but not the topic. “Your words say no but your tone says yes... it also says... military?” He shook his head.

“CIA.” Another shake of the head. “FBI, then.” Shake. “Security.” Shake. “Kiss-o-gram?” “Karalynn Anders!” I winced as my mother smacked the back of my head and decided to

let the topic die on its own. I was eighteen, but I’m sure I would have heeded my mother even on my death bed.

“That’s my cue.” I turned to leave.“Good luck!” I stopped and stared at my mom. She had never once wished me good luck

before, had always ever told me to be careful. I was under the impression she had wanted me to lose, in hopes it would make me stop competing. “Tell Caleb I said hi.”

“Will do,” I said. I studied her face a moment longer, then shook my head. Everyone was just nervous, that was all. “Take care of dad; don’t let him be too stubborn.” We both laughed, but the sound was hollow. I don’t know that we knew what real happiness felt like anymore. “I’m gonna get him help, mom. I promise. I’m going to fix this.” She laid a hand on my arm and shook her head.

“It isn’t your job to take care of him, hon.” “Ms. Anders, the car is waiting.” I nodded and headed to the car, my mother’s statement

echoing in my head. It was obvious, of course, something that didn’t need to be said. I was the child, he was the parent, it wasn’t my job to take care of him. But such an idea had never crossed my mind. I had been taking care of my father for as long as I could remember. I don’t know that I had ever thought of it as a job but when I tried to think of why I had done it, I came up blank. The whole reason I was competing in the damn game was to help my father. If I wasn’t supposed to be helping him... why was I competing?

# # #

I often asked myself what I was going to do once I was allowed to go home. When I first started competing, it wasn’t an option. Sure, I was damn near royalty back home, but here I was Damned. And there was no way I was getting home while that was the case. CHECK did well before Astrid joined, but not well enough to make me think we’d be getting blessed anytime soon.

So I never gave any thought to the fact that, if I ever did get Blessed, I’d be rich. I never paid attention to the fact that I’d be able to leave NewAmerica behind and return to Japan to take over the company my father had left me. I never thought about any of that... until we won our third title. After that, however, I thought about little else. I had spent most of my life fending for myself, living the life of a poor person. What was going to happen when I gained access to my parents’ fortune?

The answer was simple enough. I’d do what I’d always done: retreat inside computers. And it didn’t matter, not really. The game was still a ways off, and if I was caught doing what I was doing then? There wouldn’t have been a fourth title. I’d have been jailed, executed... and that, as they said, is all folks. Didn’t stop me, of course. I was a career hacker after all, and digging where I wasn’t allowed to was kind of what I’d signed up for. I told people I did what I did because the team needed it... but it was the other way around. I became a member of CHECK so I could have an excuse to explore President Cain’s network. There was a sort of high to be had from nosing about places that technically didn’t exist.

Astrid’s assignment was by far the most dangerous I’d ever agreed to, which meant it came with the best kind of high. No one had ever tried to hack the President’s servers before, and there was probably a reason for that. But if I was going to make a name for myself, a few risks had to be taken. All of that was pushed to the back seat once I read the e-mail.

“Doubts are powerful; you’ve had them all your life, you just need to be pointed in the right direction. The Targets are not what they appear to be. Check the private servers: NASA. ZODIAC. Haskell is key. Your father put a lot of faith in your talents; you’d do well to prove him right. There is always something to find if you’re willing to look.”

There was no signature, no return address, no traceable IP. I’m so careful to kill my connections before I leave for the day, so there was no way it could have been sent while I was out... and yet there it was, waiting for me in my mailbox before I’d even powered up my router. I was suspicious as first - paranoia was a survival skill in those days - and wondered if someone had been going through my files. My curiosity got the best of me, however, and caution was out the window once I’d read through it a few more times. It was the bit about NASA; President Cain had always denied the existence of any type of space agency, yet I had a message in my possession that seemed to be saying differently. There was no way I wasn’t going to at least look into it, consequences be damned.

It wasn’t an easy trail to follow. I started on the committee server and found nothing out of the ordinary. There was the usual stuff: criminal records of past targets, their current status (dead), who pulled the trigger... I knew all this. Everyone knew it. You didn’t need internet access to find any of that information, it was public knowledge. I poured over every page regardless; looking for some sort of ‘backdoor’ that could lead me to something I wasn’t supposed to see. President Cain was a lot of things but, to my dismay, ‘stupid’ was not one of them. Exasperated, I turned my attention back to the message.

I caught more this time, namely the bit about ‘private servers’... keyword being ‘private’. That explained why I didn’t find anything on the committee server, that was as public as the

peasant’s market and twice as used. I needed to be looking for a server that wasn’t easily accessible. A hidden server, so to speak. Finding it wouldn’t be easy, but I was the son of Kaito Tatenko, head of Tatenko Tech and heir of NewAmerica’s largest overseas technology supply companies. Within minutes, I had hacked into the committee’s ghost server in hopes of finding some sort of data trail. To my dismay, there was nothing.

Or there seemed to be nothing. Had I not received that message I would not have noticed but, as I was about to call it a day and head to the Hever, something caught my eye. One word, almost invisible, was at the end of one target’s biography. I went back through all of them and, sure enough, the word was there.

ZODIACI went back to the message and began breaking it down for any other clues hidden in

plain sight; irregularities in the script, strange paragraph breaks or punctuation, double or hidden meanings, anything.

I started with the phrase that had first caught my attention: ‘check the private servers’. The plurality of ‘servers’ meant there were more than the one I found, but said nothing about what was stored there. This proved to be a problem. I couldn’t very well track down a server if I had nothing to go on, that wasn’t how it worked. You had to know what you were looking for in order to begin to find it, and all I knew was that I was looking. The only thing I could think to do was ask someone, but that was out of the question. I wasn’t a genius outside of the tech world, but even I knew that drawing attention to an already illegal operation was a bad idea.

Thus, I was stuck. It was impossible to get the information I needed in secret, but it was also impossible to get the information I needed without the cover of secrecy. Paradox. I was about to give up and focus on Astrid’s assignment when it hit me.

‘Your father put a lot of faith in your talents,’ the message had said, and it was right. He had put so much faith in my talents, in fact, that he allowed me to design the new networking system the NewAmerican government was planning on implementing... the one they were still using.

Not wanting to let my father down, I had developed a tri-lock system for this particular project. Each server could only be opened by inputting three passkeys. The use would then need a masterpass to connect and access any information stored there. The tri-lock not only offered the user optimum security, it allowed the system administrator access to the user logs with a type of master key comprised of three universal passkeys and a universal masterpass. Once in the user logs, the administrator is then able to track down any sub servers in use, no matter how private or secure. I wasn’t the administrator, but I was pretty sure I had the master key.

I cracked my knuckles and got to work, entering the three passkeys: ZODIAC. NASA. HASKELL. Instead of asking me to input a password, the screen informed me that the command I executed was not recognized. My heart sank; I thought I had it, but something had gone wrong, wither with the passkeys, or my theory. The message was too fragmented for the latter to be the case, so I focused on the words I had used. NASA had to be a passkey, it was too obvious. It didn’t relate to anything else in the message. ZODIAC had been hidden on the ghost server, which meant it was a passkey, too. And HASKELL had to be one... hadn’t the message stated ‘Haskell is the key’?

I stopped and laughed at my own stupidity. ‘The’ key, not ‘a’ key... it wasn’t one of three. More likely than not, it was the masterpass, which mean the third keyword was still in the message somewhere. I reread the message a couple times before I caught it. Laughing once more, I tried another command. This time, I typed:

ZODIAC. NASA. TARGETS.It took a moment, but the computer then prompted me to input the masterpass. Without

hesitation, I typed HASKELL and hit ‘enter’. Another moment and I was in. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a duplicate of the committee server but a closer look at the target profiles revealed that it was much, much more. It didn’t take long for me to realize I had stumbled upon something amazing... which was good. I hated telling Astrid I had nothing to report - the girl could look at you and just know you’ve got bad news - but there was a chance this would make up for it. And even if it didn’t, it was sure to put her in a good mood, which was good enough for me.

# # #

I was not an easy child to live with. When I was older and the burden of taking care of my family fell on my shoulders, I was fine. But when my father was still around... that was a different story. I was known for throwing fits so violent and long lasting, my parents would often take me out back and turn the hose on me, in hopes the cold water would either calm me down or shock me enough to make me forget what I was raging about. It took them a while to realize I was raging because they wanted me to stop. The more they told me to quit, the louder I screamed. My message was simple: you don’t control me.

When I was about seven years old, I threw a fit that put all others to shame. I don’t remember what it was that set me off, but I was having a go with it just the same, daring my father to turn the hose on me, see if I cared, it wouldn’t do any good. Instead, my father shook his head turned away from me.

“Do what you want,” he said. I stopped mid scream and watched as my father walked down the hall and disappeared into his study without another word. I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to do, and found myself standing outside his study, ready to knock. He told me to enter before my knuckles even met the wood.

“If you’re going to be in here, though” he said as I entered, “you need to listen to what I have to say. If you so much as consider throwing one of your tantrums, I’ll toss you out of here so fast, your head will spin.” I nodded. It was all I could think to do. There was a look in his eyes that I had never seen before, and an authority in his voice that almost frightened me. He studied me for a moment, and then nodded.

“Alright then,” he said. He began to organize papers on his desk, as if he were holding a conversation with me just to pass the time. I think that was part of his tactic. I don’t remember much of my father, but I remember everything he said to me that day. I don’t know that I’ll ever forget it. “You need to pick your battles.” I blinked.

“W....what?” “You’ve got some fight in you, kid, and I like that. Nothing wrong with having some

fight in you. But you have to pick your battles. You can’t fight them all. You’ll get tired and you’ll get blindsided. So pick your battles.” I nodded.

“Also,” he continued, “I never want you to feel like you can’t be proud. Ellis' are a proud bunch... just don’t be too proud. Too much pride can make you lose sight of things; make you lose your purpose. You get too proud, the only way you can go is down.” I nodded again.

“Finally, I want you to know this.” My father stopped messing with the papers on his desk and leaned toward me, until his face was just a few inches from mine. “Your mother is a wonderful woman, but I blame her for this stubbornness you’ve got. I know you don’t get it from

me, no one in my family would have ever dared to act the way you do. So believe me when I say that if you ever throw a fit like that again, you are out of this house. Do you understand me?” I nodded, but that wasn’t enough this time. “Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes.” I don’t know if I was just caught off guard by the sudden focus he displayed, or if his face had indeed grown dark, but the part of me that had defied him for so long that had screamed and thrashed and stomped just to prove a point, was nowhere to be found.

“Yes... what?”“Yes, sir,” I said. His face softened at that. He patted me twice on the head, gave my nose

a tweak, and sent me on my way. I never threw another temper tantrum for as long as he lived. That’s not a huge accomplishment in any sense, however. Even then I think he knew his days were numbered; but even as he was drug from our house by Nicolae’s lap dogs, having committed crimes against the state or some trumped up bullshit, I refused to lash out. I had to stay strong; it had been his last request of me and furthermore, I needed to show my mother that she wasn’t going to be alone through it all, that she wasn’t going to have to raise my brothers on her own.

She tried to regardless, and watching the strain it put on my her... there were times I caught myself wishing he had just killed her, too. It would have been far more merciful than his actual acts. In fact, it seemed to me on more than one occasion that he was punishing my mother - and, as a result, the rest of us - for what my father had presumably done. It was almost as if killing him had been too quick, and Nicolae had been unable to savor it, so he began to take his anger out on us. He denied my mother even a cent of financial aid, had made sure most of the merchants at the local peasant’s market would turn away our produce or trade, and had gone to great lengths to make sure I was not able to join his blessed military. Inch by inch our wonderful President was doing everything he could to keep my family under the ever lowering sole of his boot.

That was why I did it; that was why I registered for The 11th Hour. I had done things my father’s way - trudged through life with my big boy pants on tight and my head held high - but that did nothing to get Nicolae back for what he’d done to my family. For that, I needed to be a little more straight forward, a little more forceful, a little more... bratty. So, I registered for the game and began the longest temper tantrum I’ve thrown to date. It raged for years as my teammates and I won year after year and finally, on the eve of our shot at our fourth and final title, Nicolae began to receive the message I had tried to send my father all those years ago: No one controls me. Furthermore, no one controls my family, and certainly no one treats my mother the way he had. If he had just let it be done with my father, we would have had no further issue. As it was, Nicolae’s predicament - it must suck to have to bless the family you were so desperately trying to torture - was of his own doing; fitting for a man so convinced that people could only help themselves.

We weren’t out of the woods yet, however. There was no promise we’d get that fourth title, and my mother’s frailness was a constant reminder that we could still fail. The day I left for the Hever she had seemed smaller than was humanly possible. Still, small as she was, she could be a force to be reckoned with... something my brothers were reminded of daily. The one thing my mother had wanted more than anything was a photo of us four boys together and had decided that was the perfect time to make it happen. My brothers, however, had decided it was not the perfect time, and I could see they were pushing my mother closer and closer to her point of no return.

“Come on, Connor. One smile. Your brother is going away for a while, surely you could find some joy in that.” Connor flashed my mom a brilliant smile, and I couldn’t keep from smacking him on the back of the head. To my relief, this only made his grin widened. Cohen on the other hand wasn’t having any of it.

“This is so stupid, ma!” At 12, my brother was a perfect image of what my mother (and I, for that matter) had once been: stubborn, opinionated, and straight forward. There came a time when I thought I would have to have the same conversation with him that my father had had with me, but he never quite pushed it that far; he was like dad in that sense.

I could see my mother’s patience growing ever thinner, and lowered my voice so only the Cohen could hear. “Pretend I’m going to kick your ass if you don’t make this happen for mom.” The smile he plastered on his face then was almost genuine. With the two trouble makers in place, I grabbed the youngest Ellis - Camden - and hoisted him on my knees. We both smiled when prompted, but I could tell Camden’s mind was elsewhere. Of all us children, Camden had ended up being the most like dad... amazing, when you consider the two had never met. As soon as the photo was snapped, Connor and Cohen bolted. My mother halted them before they made it too far.

“Aren’t you going to stick around and say goodbye to your brother?” The two of them exchanged disgusted glances, then shook their heads in unison. Together like that, they could have passed as twins. “And why not?”

“We don’t want to see him make out with Kara,” Cohen said. Connor promptly pinched his nose together and made a gagging sound, and both were laughing wildly as they dodged my boot and took off up the stairs.

“Listen to mom!” I yelled after them; they responded by slamming their bedroom door. My mother shook her head and started up the stairs after them, her mouth set in a thin line that I knew meant trouble for the boys. “What about you?” I asked, turning to Camden. He sat on the edge of the couch, legs casually swinging back and forth. He was a few days shy of eight years old, but his round face and shaggy hair made him look much younger. Still, there was a maturity about him that few people could grasp, and it made him appear to most people as a sort of adolescent anomaly: was he five? Was he twelve? No one could really tell.

“Is Kara coming?” I nodded, and he gave up a small smile. “That’s good. I like her.” “Well, don’t tell dumb and dumber up there, but I like her, too.” “Cool.” He looked as if he might turn his attention back to his feet, but instead he rested

his head against my arm. “Connor said you’re going to die.” “Connor also blew his allowance on a half-dead goldfish because the merchant that sold

it to him told him it was a baby shark.” I thought that would get a smile out of the kid, but he just wrapped his arms around my waist and shut his eyes tight.

“We’re okay, we don’t need the money. You don’t have to go.” I smiled and returned the hug, but there was a tightness in my chest I knew I had to ignore.

“We may be okay, but mom isn’t. If she keeps on like this, she won’t last much longer... I have a shot at giving her - us - an easier life. I need to try.”

“I think she’d rather have her boys home, together.” I was taken aback by just how much he sounded like dad then, and for a moment, I had no idea how to respond.

“I’d rather have that too, to be honest. But it’s not that easy. Dad always said that you have to be reliable, no matter what, especially when people are depending on you. President Cain can take our money and our food and anything else, but we’ve still got each other, you know?” He nodded. “There are other people that are relying on me, not just mom and you guys. If I stay

home, they may not win. And we need to win. Not just because Kara’s dad is sick or because Colin needs to get home, but because we can. If we win, maybe someone else can, too. Maybe someone else who is sick can get what they need, or be able to afford a baby sitter so they can rest.”

“And maybe President Cain will get scared and back off, right?” I couldn’t help looking around to see if anyone had heard what my younger brother had said.

“Yeah,” I said, dropping him a wink. “Maybe he will. And besides, if we win, it’s the last time I’ll ever have to do this.” His face lit at that, and he smiled at me. “Now go play with your brothers... and make sure they behave for mom. I expect a full report when I get back. Can you do that for me?” He nodded and bounded up the stairs, toward the room we all shared. My mother had always felt bad that she couldn’t get us our own rooms, but I don’t think it had bothered any of us. Even when Connor and I were the only two, there was some sort of comfort in knowing we were all there together.

“You will stop playing, won’t you?” I turned to find my mom standing at the bottom of the steps. I wondered how much she had overheard.

“I won’t have a choice. Blessed citizens aren’t allowed to compete, remember?” She nodded.

“Good. That’s good.” Despite the brief flashes of her former self, my mother was nothing like the person she had once been. It had been hard, watching her determination turn to guilt. The drive to get the best possible lives for her children turned into anger at not being able to give them any sort of life at all. She blamed herself for being denied financial aid, for not working hard enough to fix our situation and, when I brought up that maybe we were being punished for dad’s crimes, she blamed herself for that as well. There was a time when she would have strangled Nicolae with her bare hands until he either died or gave her children what they needed, but that time was long gone. We all knew how hard she worked for us, what she gave up so we could feel somewhat normal and not be embarrassed by our poverty, but she was never able to see it. I think that was part of her problem. She just felt like she was constantly failing us.

I would never forgive Nicolae for making her feel that way. I watched her as she studied the photograph she had taken. Never had she had a photo of

all four of us, and she regarded it the way one would a precious jewel. There was no doubt that she loved us.

She held the photo by the corners, then handed it to me with a smile. “In case you start to miss us.” I pulled her into a hug and tried to ignore how small she felt in my arms.

“This was my choice,” I said. She didn’t have much, but what little strength she did have she used to cling to me. “I chose this life, mom. So if you want to blame someone, you can blame me.”

“I could never blame you,” she said, stepping back and placing her hands on either side of my face. “Nor would I ever dream of it. You’ve done more for us than I could have ever thought to ask.”

“Then blame him.” There was no need for me to clarify who ‘he’ was; if Camden was aware of how corrupt our President was, my mother certainly was. “I’m going to fix this, mom, I promise.” There was a knock at the door and she hurried to answer it, wiping her eyes as she did. She reentered the foyer shortly thereafter, Kara following behind her.

“Ready?” She asked, and I nodded. My mother disappeared into the kitchen and Kara smiled at me. “My mom was acting up, too.” She wiggled her fingers in front of her face. “Like they know something we don’t.”

“Maybe.” “Anyway... need help with your bags?” I don’t know what bothered me more: the fact

that she asked, or the fact that I couldn’t tell if she was being serious. “Yes, I’m going to ask you to carry my bags out.” “I wasn’t offering to take them all, just some.” “How many do you think I have?” She looked at me as if I’d asked her what color the sky

was. “Enough for two months of preparation and six months of game play?” She looked over

at my luggage and planted her hands on her hips. “You had better have more than that.” “Why?” I asked, grabbing my bags as I spoke. “We can wash stuff there.” I stopped and

gave her a look I knew she hated. “How many did you bring?” “Shut up.” “What would you do if we were dropped in the middle of nowhere and had nothing but

the clothes on our backs?” “Have Astrid kill you and then take yours,” she yelled over her shoulder. “Bye, Mrs.

Ellis!” I followed her out, pausing just long enough to give my mom a smile. “It’ll be okay,” I reassured her. “I’ll be okay.” She nodded. That was the last time I ever saw her.

# # #

To be honest, I don’t know which one of us found the Hever. It wasn’t me - the lot of them had already begun to move things in by the time I joined their happy little gang of rebels - but that’s as far as my knowledge goes on that topic. I know that we all had the same reaction: we fell in love. When they found it was little more than a rundown old two story house overlooking the lake. Unlike most of the bodies of water in NewAmerica, Hever Lake was somewhat clean. The water still had a blue tinge to it and actually gave off a sparkle when the sunlight hit it. Furthermore, the trees surrounding our little safe haven were almost green. Compared to what we were used to seeing, it was beautiful. It was as if the entire world had just forgotten it was there, and thus left it somewhat intact.

It’s against 11th Hour rules to occupy a safe house in the off season, but the place needed fixing up and I had nothing better to do, so I began to spend most of my time there, rather than at home. The year after that first year was amazing; we had one Hell of a summer, and the air almost smelled fresh. I split my time between fixing up the Hever, as well as offering my services to the local merchants in exchange for imperishable. Colin came by a few times that summer and helped me square things away, so that the place was more or less ready to go by the time we went after our second title. Lucky, too, because after that year I was no longer welcome at the peasant’s market. It wasn’t long until I had to make the week long trek back home for food. Hauling half of my stock back to the Hever became rather daunting, and my off season visits to the place became less and less. That summer, I had only been up to the place two or three times to make sure it was stocked and squared away, as well as get in a bit of practice.

It was a shame, because the Hever made me feel human again; it made us all feel human again, that was why we loved it. Back home, it was easy to forget that we were worth something, but not there. The Hever made us remember our strengths and forget our weaknesses. It made us focus on what was important, and it helped us survive.

The walk to the Hever helped me to clear my head, so that by the time I stepped off the dirt path and through the rusted gate, I was able to fully appreciate the beauty before me. Yet for the first time, it was a bitter sweet reunion. If we were successful - as we intended to be - we would have to let the Hever go. We would be forced to forfeit it to the game committee, seeing as it was deep, deep within Damned territory. I didn’t like to think about turning my back on the place, but what other choice did we have? We had done quite a bit to ignite the fire in the hearts of the citizens, but until they opened their eyes and saw the President for what he was, nothing would change. We could only hope that our victory would be the final push they needed.

I had just decided to set out the deck furniture when the sound of crunching gravel filled my ears. I turned in time to see a young man step out, a navy ball cap pulled down low over his eyes. I was in a full sprint as soon as I saw the bag slung over his shoulder, trying to make as little noise as possible in hopes that I might catch him off guard. He looked up at the last second, however, and I was forced to settle on giving him a hug. He returned the gesture, but his right arm made quick work of shoving the bag behind him, so as not to damage the contents.

“Miss me?” He asked. I tried to scoff at the question, but ended up laughing instead. “Not a bit,” I said, before snatching the cap off his head. The hand he ran through his hair

did little to tame the burgundy mess, but he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he looked almost glad to be rid of the thing. One glance at the logo stamped on the front told me why.

“Well,” I said. “What would the board of commentators say if they saw the head of Tatenko Tech in a Mason Corp hat?” He waved me off and headed toward the back of the car, where a tall man in a suit was pulling bags out of the trunk.

“First off, it’s a board of directors, not commentators. Second, they’d say something along the lines of, ‘Colin, you poor thing, you must be delirious. Come, roll around in all the money your father left you while Astrid stays in NewAmerica and dies alone in pool filled with her own pathetic, poor tears.’” Colin flashed me a smile as he dodged my fist. Both of us caught the look on the suits face, but Colin spoke first. “Besides, you shouldn’t knock Mason Corp. The crap they churn out is loads better than anything we could put together.” He snatched the cap from me and crammed it back on his head, giving the suit a thumbs up to drive the point home. I could do little more than stare.

“Seriously?” “Yeah!” he said. Then, dropping his voice: “If your daily activities consist of you staring

at rocks and not knowing jack shit about computers.” I bit down on my hand to stifle my laughter as he began to drag some of his stuff up to the main house.

“Want me to grab any of this?” Colin shrugged.“If you want.” He looked around, then back at me. “How long have you been here?” “Not too long.” “Where’s your car?” “I turned it down.” “You would,” Colin said. “So where’s your stuff?” I tapped a finger to my temple and

grinned.“I stocked up over the summer. I figure, this is basically my home away from home away

from home, so why not just leave my stuff here?” “You are by far the laziest person I now.” “Speaking of being lazy,” I said, dropping my voice and making sure the suit was still by

the car. “Did you make any progress on that assignment I gave you?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’m not really sure.” Another car pulled into the driveway before he could elaborate and I pushed the thought from my mind as a familiar plait of red hair came into view.

“Look!” Kara said, jabbing a finger towards Colin’s pile of suitcases. “Colin brought more than a couple bags.”

Caleb laughed and shook his head. “Colin has computer equipment. You have what? Stuffed animals?” Kara turned without another word, marched toward the back of the car, and began pulling bags out, one by one. Caleb joined her and began hoisting a few on his shoulders.

“Give me a hand with some of these,” he said. When no one responded, he looked up at me and frowned. “Hey. Talking to you.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I would, but I’m all the way over here.” “Well, make you be all the way over here and grab some of these bags.” I sighed and

headed over, but before I even made it half way there, Caleb stopped me. “Why are your eyes so red?”

“What?” I rubbed my eyes. “Are they?” I shrugged and continued my trek toward the car, but Caleb remained where he was.

“Have you been drinking?” When I didn’t answer, his voice took on the tone of a stern parent. I hated that tone. “You know how I feel about that.”

“Have you been breathing?” I snapped back. “You know how I feel about that.”“Astrid, you can’t spend your time in bars. It’s dangerous, and you’re not even of legal

drinking age.” “There is no legal drinking age.” “There is here.”“Is that so?”“You bet. The legal drinking age in Hever is 21.”“Oh, I thought the legal drinking age in Hever was Caleb should keep his stupid nose out

of my business because he’s not my father.” “Very mature.”“I try.” “You guys,” Kara said with an exasperated laugh. “We haven’t even gone inside yet. Can

we save the bickering for... not now?” “Sure, yeah, no problem.” I grabbed a couple bags and marched toward the house, not

giving Caleb as much as a glare. “I got it out of my system.” Colin rolled his eyes.“I wager she has more in her system in about... twenty minutes.” “That long, huh?” Kara laughed again, this time more freely, and began dragging her

bags toward the house as well. “For the record,” I said as I reached the front door, “he started it.”“I didn’t start anything, but I don’t mind ending it.” “Interesting, seeing as I got the last word on that one.” “Wow, Kara, you were right.” Colin and Kara high fived before dispersing through the

foyer, taking to their rooms and getting settled. I did the same, making a face at Caleb as I climbed the stairs to my designated spot. It wasn’t much, just a small attic nook with a bed, a dresser, and a side table. The roof slanted down so far I wasn’t able to stand full upright, and I spent a lot of my first year smashing my head against it. I loved it, though, because it looked out on the lake. Besides, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time in there anyway.

I decided to take a quick nap (the walk that day had been lovely, but exhausting none the less), and was drawn out of my room a couple hours later by the smell of something cooking downstairs. Kara laughed and pointed at my head when I entered the kitchen.

“What happened there?” “Oh, you know. Knocking on the ceiling, listening to the sound.”“Hollow, I’m sure.” I ignored her and let my nose lead me to the small stove in the corner

of the room. “It’s not much,” she said. I could hear the gentle click of metal on metal as she organized the canned food everyone had brought.

“It smells heavenly.” I breathed the smell in and sighed, trying to pick out the ingredients. My brain began to pick them out one by one, puzzling over a couple here and there. I took one more deep breath and froze as something clicked into place. “Dear God,” I said, turning toward her. “Where’d you get it?” She smiled.

“A gift from my mom.”“Chicken?” My mouth had begun to water, and it felt as if there was a gaping hole where

my stomach should have been. I had grown accustomed to being hungry and didn’t notice it most of the time, but there were things that made me remember, things that made me ravenous at the thought of consuming them. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had protein that wasn’t from a can, but my stomach knew. It let loose with a roar that was so loud, even I was embarrassed by it. Kara just laughed and turned back to the cans.

“Harlequin,” she said. “Not chicken.”“Close enough.” I looked at the stove and struggled with the urge to crawl inside and curl

up with that wonderful smell. My desire to not die won out in the end, but it was close. “We have a few cans of nuthatch, and some dried warbler and red-knot left from last

season, but that’s about it.” I nodded. It had become my job to keep the place more or less stocked. In years past, I’d been able to keep up a good bit of canned birds on hand, but as my reputation grew, that changed.

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s all I could get. Prices back home are getting ridiculous, and the fresh stuff won’t make the journey.” She gave me a look.

“You’re that bad off?” I ran a hand through my hair before staring at my feet. “No, I’m alright with money they’re just... um...” I shrugged and tried to act as if I didn’t

care, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet Kara’s gaze. Truth was I was embarrassed by the situation. “The amount of merchants back home that’ll do business with me are rapidly decreasing.”

“Well... it’s not that big of a deal.” She turned back to the cans. “We can get by on what we have, and once we’re settled, Caleb and I can go hit the peasant’s market and see if we can’t get something a little larger. Mom said prairie chickens have been pretty prevalent lately.” I nodded, but said nothing. After a while, she pushed a bag toward me and pointed toward the freezer. I began unloading it without question.

“You know,” I finally said, “I stopped by my bar before heading over here and there was this guy there...”

“A guy in a bar. How very strange.” She never broke stride, just continued to put the cans away in that mechanical manner, but her voice was thick with sarcasm. I grabbed a chunk of ice out of the bucket in the freezer and dropped it down her back, laughing as she shrieked and began dancing around the room, trying to get it out. She managed to retrieve it and chucked it my way, a look of amused anger on her face.

“He knew stuff about me,” I continued, turning back to my freezer duties. “Like, he mentioned my father.”

“How so?” I shrugged. “Just said he was sorry about what happened to him.” Kara nodded, but remained quiet.

“He kept asking me questions, too. About the game.” “Like?”“Like... what if the targets weren’t really criminals? And does it bother me that I kill

people, and would I care if it turned out I was executing innocent people.” I paused, remembering how close I came to slapping him for that last one.

“Pardon my language, but I’d have knocked him on his ass for that.” I laughed.“I almost did. The bartender stopped me.” She nodded. “There was something else, too...

he smelled good. Real good.” “Did he now?” “Mhmm... like lemongrass.” Kara was silent, but the cans continued to click away as she

finished stacking them. Then there was nothing but the hum of the freezer and the occasional pop from the oven.

“When’s the last time you smelled that? Lemongrass, I mean.” I scrunched up my face and thought for a moment.

“When I was little, I think. A friend of my dad’s used to smell like it. I remember asking my dad what it was, and that’s what he said: lemongrass, the scent of--”

“The arrogant and well-off,” Kara finished. “I’ve never met anyone that smelled of it, but my dad had a little bottle in his drawer. He made me get familiar with the smell because he said it could save my life someday. There’s but one kind of person that can smell like lemongrass.” She leaned back against the counter and folded her arms in front of her. Her lips were drawn tight together, her brow furrowed with concentration. “What’s a Blessed citizen doing rubbing elbows this far from home?”

“He might not be Blessed anymore. The smell was a couple days old at least.”“But it was distinct enough for you to recognize what it was. It even triggered an

olfactory memory.” “Who said anything about old factories?” “No. Olfactory. Having to do with your... oh sometimes you guys. Sometimes.” Kara

pinched the bridge of her nose and I felt my face flush. I was a wizard with a weapon and I could think myself out of most situations if I was given enough time, but I was nowhere near as intelligent as Kara. It didn’t bother me most of the time, but there were moments when she would say something that made me feel about as smart as a brick. I tried not to take it personally - difficult as that was - though, because I knew she didn’t mean to make me feel that way. I also knew it meant she was on the verge of figuring something out, and needed to focus all her energy on tipping over that edge. It still managed to be embarrassing, though.

“I apologize for my stupidity,” I said. She softened at that and shook her head.“Ignorance, Astrid. We call it ignorance because that’s more kind. And anyway, it

doesn’t matter. What matters is, unless my calendar is wrong - and it shouldn’t be because all of our calendars would be wrong, seeing as we’re all here - this is prep week. President Cain may act like this game is for us, but he enjoys it just as much as anyone else, probably more so. This is the week to get away with murder - quite literally - because Cain is focused on nothing else. Nothing. In order to get Damned, this guy would have had to do something catastrophic... not out of the question, but if it was bad enough to distract from game prep, why wasn’t he sentenced to

death for it? More notable men have been sentenced to death for far less, and you have to assume Cain is apt to be far more frustrated than usual if he has to take time out of his preparations to discipline someone. So what could this guy have done that was bad enough to get Damned, but not bad enough to get killed?” I opened my mouth to answer, but the look on Kara’s face stopped me. Her eyes had a glazed look to them, and she was focused on something on the floor. I could have talked for hours, proclaimed the kitchen on fire and thrown myself out the window; she would have heard none of it. Kara was no longer in the kitchen with me, she was off somewhere else, somewhere in her mind, standing on the edge of that cliff, trying with all her mind to throw herself over.

“He’s got to be Blessed,” she said. “Unless... what if he was sentenced to death? But no, that doesn’t make sense. It’s never been a Blessed citizen, has it? No. They’re all criminals. He would have been recognizable if he had a record... but no, that’s not right either, is it? No, no one knows of them and no one interacts with them until they’re released. Why would he be released now? No. It doesn’t make sense.” She shook her head and strolled over to the oven, crestfallen but more present. She couldn’t get over the edge.

“What were you thinking?” She shrugged and opened the oven, checked the meal inside, and let the door slam shut. The smell was overwhelming and I was once again reminded of that cavernous hole where my stomach should be. My knees grew wobbly as my body tried to recall when I had eaten last. I slammed the freezer shut and leaned against the counter, trying to ignore the hunger and the dizziness. “You know,” I said. “It would really suck if he was right about me killing--”

“Stop talking.” I looked up to see Kara frozen in the middle of the kitchen, eyes once more glossy and distant. “It would,” she said. “It would suck. You’re right. But it would make sense. Yes. That would make sense. It would change things, but it would make sense. Yes, that’s it. All along... that bastard. Unbelievable. I need to confirm something.” She gave me a weak smile. “Do you mind if I go upstairs? It’ll take like, five minutes. That should be done before then... maybe now? I just need to check something and I’ll be right back.” I nodded and her smile grew, lighting her entire face. “Brilliant.”

“What did you figure out?” She shrugged. “Nothing yet... but if I’m right, I think you may have stumbled across this year’s Target.”

I stared at her, unable to respond. My knees felt pretty weak still but with the hunger subsiding a bit, the dizziness had dissipated. “Also... don’t mention this to Caleb.”

“Yeah Kara. I’m gonna tell Caleb I was at a bar. That sounds like a good idea.” She grinned at that and disappeared upstairs. I frowned, unsure of what to make of that whole episode, before shrugging it off.

Kara came down in no time and, though she did seem to be more aware, she gave off no indication of how her confirmation had gone. As we ate, she spoke quite freely of how things were going at home, as did Caleb. Colin and I listened, trying to be engaging, but it was difficult. We had no stories to share, no families to exasperate us. I was further distracted by the questions the man at the bar had asked me, and by the time dinner was over, I needed to get away from everyone. I helped clean up in silence before slipping away to one of the Hever’s more secret nooks.

Around the back of the main house is a small shack, not much larger than an outhouse. The shack itself serves little purpose; there isn’t enough room in it to store anything, so we didn’t waste any resources restoring it. Behind it, however, is a small cellar door that leads into a much larger underground storm shelter. It was the only part of the Hever that was in good condition

when we found it, and we decided to convert it into a secret library. Books were illegal, but anyone who could form a sentence was bound to own one or two. The five of us owned upwards of a hundred when we found the room and added more as the years went on. It wasn’t a huge selection, but it was enough to keep us occupied and - even better - get us sent to jail if ever found.

I enjoyed this place more than the others, partly because it was such a blatant slap in Nicolae’s face. He had sanctioned Hever as a safe house, designated legal within the guidelines of the game, and in doing so had essentially legalized our illegal library. Such a small victory but a victory none the less. Mostly, though, it had to do with the fact that most of the books were mine. I had inherited them from my father, and sitting there amongst them, taking in the smell of their pages... I could sit down there for hours with my eyes closed and pretend I was a kid again, that my father wasn’t gone from my life, just away at work.

I snuck down there that night to just calm down, organize my thoughts, and have some alone time. I loved being around the others, but I spent so much of the year by myself, it was difficult to have so many people around so soon. I selected one of my father’s books and curled up in one of the large chairs to read it, though how much actual reading I’d get done, I didn’t know. The book I selected was large and had pictures of some great war that had happened years ago. I never could get my mind around the fact that such a war had gone on, since most NewAmerican citizens knew nothing about it. It was this thought that was going through my head when the door creaked open and Colin stuck his head in.

“Busy?”“Nope.” “Good. I’ve got something to show you.”

# # #

I don’t remember much from dinner that first night. I know we talked for a while, and I’m sure we enjoyed each other’s company, but my mind was focused on other things. I was exhausted from the trip and thought I might grab a couple hours of sleep before getting around to what was really picking at me but it didn’t take long for me to realize it was impossible. I lay in my bed for what seemed like an eternity, focusing on white noise after white noise - creaky floor boards, the ratcheted hum of the old furnace, the popping in the pipes - but nothing worked. All I could think of were the files.

I tried to lay there as long as possible, but soon my hands and legs began to feel twitchy, and I couldn’t sit still any longer. I gave up on sleep and instead decided to head to the conference room or, as I like to call it, the best damn room in the entire world. It was my pride and joy, that room. It was little more than a basement when we found the Hever, and I had devoted my free time - as well as an entire off season - to converting it into a state of the art-ish technological masterpiece. I had hung a number of white bed sheets across the length of one wall and, using a number of strategically placed projectors, computers, and random touch-sensitive mapping software, had supplied us with a briefing area... though I often used it to project whatever I was working on the screen. Call it vain, if you like. That’s what it was.

Along another wall, I had hooked even more computers to an array of printers, scanners, recording devices, more projectors, and a fax machine that Astrid never stopped reminding me saw no use.

I headed to the printers and powered one up as I dug in my bag for my flash drive. There was a moment of panic as I thought maybe I had left it - and all that was on it - back home, but it was gone as soon as my fingers found the cool plastic. I plugged this into one of the computers, powered it on, opened the desired file, and sank into one of the nearby chairs as the machine began to print. The machine made a loud whirring sound as it spit out page after page of information I knew I wasn’t supposed to have, and I felt my eyelids grow heavy. Nothing is more relaxing than the hum of machinery. Nothing.

I forced myself to stand and shake off the sleep that had seemed so unattainable just moments before; I was certain the Hever was secure, but that didn’t keep me from being paranoid. What I was printing was dangerous, and if the wrong people knew that I had it, it would at the very least result in serious jail time. More severe punishment was more likely. I picked up one of the pages and read it over, not looking forward to the reaction it would draw from Astrid. The five of us rarely spoke in the off season but seeing as both of us were orphans and had nothing better to do, Astrid and I often crossed paths. One such meeting had lead to a few drinks in a local bar, which had in turn lead to a conversation about the game rules. Astrid had become quite livid when the bartender mentioned that one of the rules - the one that protected participants from fatal injury - had been revised. It had always been against the law for participants to execute fellow participants, because it came across as barbaric and counterproductive. The idea wasn’t to kill ourselves but to rid NewAmerica of someone that deserved nothing but death.

Someone had since decided, however, that it was no longer as barbaric as everyone thought, and the rule was rewritten “due to the importance of this year’s competition”. Participant execution was not only allowed, it was encouraged and rewarded with extra payouts. The cash amount increased depending on how skilled or ‘important’ the participant you killed was.

“It’s a hit,” Astrid had said. Yelled was more like it, and colorfully... she’d had a few. But she was probably right. Who else would be worth more money than the reigning champs? The bartender cut her off after that and sent us on our way, but not before she asked me to look into it, dig a little deeper. I agreed to do so, not thinking the revision would make it to print; after all, there was no real proof in the bartender’s claims. But, sure enough, when that year’s rule book was distributed, there it was in black and white: due to the importance of this year’s competition, participants will now receive additional cash prizes for the execution of other participants. That was it, no further explanation included. Or required, for that matter; what was it going to say? Astrid had seen it immediately, buzzed or not: it was a hit.

Alongside the other stuff I had found - like the ZODIAC files - it seemed like our wonderful savior wasn’t as good a guy as he was claiming to be. I had had my suspicions before, of course, but to have such concrete - or as close to concrete as you could get in NewAmerica - proof in my hands was both exhilarating and frightening.

I snagged the rest of the papers out of the printer and stuffed them into a folder that was then placed in my bag, and headed back up the stairs to Astrid’s room. A few unanswered knocks told me she wasn’t there, which meant she was one of two places: practicing in the yard or wasting time in the library. Practicing required effort, something Astrid was never willing to put forth in the first month, so I decided to start with the library. I was just coming down the back steps when I heard another car pull into the driveway and realized there had only been four of us at dinner. Instead of heading directly toward the library, I looped back toward the front of the main house, catching sight of Haylie just as she slammed the car door shut. I began to wave

then stopped, thinking twice about it. I backed more into the shadows instead, hoping she didn’t see me. We all lived a considerable distance from the Hever, but Astrid lived furthest, not Haylie. She had a family, so that may have contributed to her being late, but I wasn’t sure. The dress she was wearing was nice - almost too nice - and it was well passed sundown. Travel for any one person at night was dangerous, even by car. Travel for a lone woman at night was worse, and Haylie was more paranoid of this than anyone. Nothing about her late arrival made sense. I hung back a while and watched her go into the house - partly to make sure she got in okay and partly to make sure she was alone - before remembering my task and turning back toward the library.

There was a small sliver of light coming from the bottom of the door that told me I was in the right place. She looked up as I pushed the door open, seemingly startled, then relaxed and waved me in. “Remember that question you asked me earlier?” I said as I sat beside her.

“About the assignment I gave you?” I nodded and began digging for the folder. “...no.” I frowned; not so much at the sarcasm, but at the impatience underneath it.

“I think I’ve got something for you,” I said. Her face lit at that, and I dropped my eyes once more. “Well... not about that assignment. The other one. The one about the rules.” She held out a hand, her face giving no indication that my amended statement affected her in any way. “But I do have some additional information... good stuff, if I do say so myself.” Astrid snapped her fingers a number of times before presenting her open palm once more. She said nothing, but the look on her face was one of excited irritation. I fished the folder out of my pack, flipped through the pages once more, then hesitated. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hand it to her. The information itself was dangerous, but to share it with someone else could be seen as treason. Astrid knew firsthand the punishment of such crimes, even if guilt was only implied. Part of me didn’t want her to meet the same fate as her father, but another part of me knew I had to share it. I had to let her in on what I knew, had to let them all in on it. Doing so could cost them their lives, but so could not doing so. She snapped again, and this time I handed the folder over. As I did so, one single thought passed through my mind.

We’ve stepped in it now.

# # #

Everyone has a purpose, and mine was taking pictures. My parents got me my first camera when I was about seven or eight, and I’ve been taking pictures ever since. I loved it; often times I would talk for hours about how wonderful it would be to be a professional photographer. So you can imagine my excitement when - after years of using my talents for an under qualified and unappreciated purpose - I got a call from the James Benson.

He had seen some of my work and said he was impressed, said he would be more than a little happy to curate a few shows for me if I was successful this year. He then invited me to dinner to discuss the idea in greater detail. I was hesitant at first, and not just because Damned and Blessed citizens aren’t often seen together. Benson was the most talked about art curator in NewAmerica; not just my province, or the outer lands, but the whole damn nation. I, on the other hand, was a Damned citizen with a bottom of the line camera. Once he offered to endorse my team, however, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to at least meet with him. After all, it was just business.

We agreed to meet the night I was to arrive at the Hever. We picked a place close to the safe zone so that I would not be alone after twilight for very long. I was pushing the envelope as

it was; I hated being out after dark by myself, but this was a chance to live out my dream. I wasn’t going to pass it up for anything.

He seemed nervous, no doubt because he was so far into Damned territory, but loosened up once I handed over a folder of my shots from the previous year. It wasn’t anything great, but it’s what he asked for: copies of anything I collected from the games the year before.

“These are just tail shots?” He thumbed through the selection, pausing every now and then, turning some this way and that. He didn’t look at any of the pictures for very long, but he also seemed genuinely interested in them. I couldn’t see why, though. There were a few shots of the Target at various stops, some still shots of her favorite haunts, casing shots... boring stuff.

“Yeah, just stuff to gather info with. That’s my job. I follow the Target and try to figure out a piece of their schedule: where they like to go, when they like to go there, how often... it helps us to decide how to proceed, and sometimes can help us know where our best shot at execution is.”

“And that’s all these are? Just you taking random shots without even trying.” I nodded. “Well, they’re quite good. We could definitely use an eye like yours.”

“I should hope you’d like to use both of them.” I flashed him a smile and he returned it easily enough.

“I’m sure we could even work it out so you can have a few shows of your own... shouldn’t be too hard to get people to turn up; they’ll be dying to meet the girl that beat the games.” I felt color rise in my cheeks at that. The girl that beat the games... I liked that. Furthermore, I was proud that it was going to be me.

“What about the others? Do they have any marketable skills?” It took me a moment to understand the question. The others, yes, as in Team CHECK. Of course. They’d be winning with me. I tasted the question, tried to figure out the best way to answer it. I thought of Kara, how quiet she was; of Colin and his computers and Caleb and his silver tongue. Good old Caleb, who could talk Death into buying a casket. Lastly, I thought of Astrid and her guns and knives; I thought of how she always had a joke - mostly at my expense - and how she never took anything seriously. It drove me crazy, the way she saw the games as nothing more. They weren’t a chance for her to change her life; they were just a chance for her to show off, to pretend she wasn’t just a dirty, foul-mouthed sewer rat.

Marketable skills? The others had some, maybe, but not her. President Cain could Bless her a million times over and she’d still be Damned. She made a mockery of The 11th Hour and all that took it seriously; why should she get a break? The point of the game was to help you, after all, not to give handouts. “A couple of them, maybe,” I said with a shrug. “Tatenko for sure, possibly Anders.”

“And the assassin? Miss Miller? We’re quite interested in her.” “I can’t see why.” I shrugged again. “People like her are made for the game. She handles

herself well enough in front of the public eye, but you’ll see. Once she’s out of the game, out of the familiarity and corruption of the Damned community, you’ll see. She’ll be Damned again before the sun goes down.” Benson frowned at that.

“You don’t seem to think very highly of her,” he said. “She’s volatile and barbaric and can’t take anything seriously. I think as highly of her as

she allows me to; sadly, that’s not very high. I don’t see how she’d be of any use to you or your company outside of... well, outside of killing people.” I said this last bit with a smile, but Benson didn’t seem to catch it. Instead, he made a face that bothered me. It looked as if he were... considering what I had said. As if he was considering hiring her as a killer.

“And you?” “What about me?” “How’s your ambition outside the game?” I folded my hands in front of me and widened

my smile. “Mr. Benson--”“James, please.”“James, then.” He returned my smile. “James, I assure you that my ambition expands far

beyond the barriers of this community. I’m going to be Blessed, and I’m going to thrive at it. I promise.”

“Well then, here’s to you,” he said, raising his glass. “You have recognized your mistakes and taken the right actions to correct them. Let’s hope you pull off that fourth win... because between you and me, you don’t belong here.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.” “Just be sure you’re willing to do whatever it takes to make this happen.” His smile

changed then, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on how. It didn’t matter, though. Soon we were back to discussing the details of my potential job, and the smile was forgotten.

I was relieved when I finally arrived at the Hever that night; the sun had long since gone down, and being out after dark always gave me the jitters. Plus, the Hever was damn spooky with just the light of the moon to see by. I tried to get my stuff into the house as quickly as possible; for a moment, it felt like someone was watching me, and I might have seen someone go around the house, but it was just too dark to tell. I couldn’t think of anyone that would be dumb enough to ambush a safe zone before game start, but my heart had started thumping uneasily regardless, and I all but dashed up the steps to the front door of the guest house. I’m going to go to bed, I thought. Just go straight to bed and fall into the deepest sleep of my life and I won’t budge until the sun physically slaps me across the face.

I was heading for the stairs that led down into the den area - where my room was - and was stopped by a small noise in the sitting area. Looking up, I saw Kara sitting cross-legged in one of the large easy chairs, a few files scattered around her. She was smiling at me and, when I looked up, gave me a small wave, which I returned. Before I could turn back to the stairs, her wave stopped. She turned her palm away from me and began pulling her fingers toward her, a gesture that meant one thing: come here.

Well, shit, I thought. There goes that plan.

# # #

Despite how great it had been to see everyone, it took all my willpower to remain at the table with them throughout dinner, conversing and laughing and playing the “catch up” game. What I really wanted to do was to spend the evening surrounding by my father’s files. His words kept ringing through my head

a few weeks before game start, sweetheartand that, coupled with what I had surmised from Astrid’s bar encounter left me jittery and

excited. I had research to do, and I couldn’t wait to do it... but I also couldn’t let anyone else know I was doing it. Not yet. Once dinner was finished, however, I all but bolted up the steps and - struggling - lifted the box containing some of my father’s files onto my bed. Once I had located both Terrance McQueen’s and Theresa William’s file (he was right, he had absolutely

nothing on Edward Haskell), I headed downstairs. My room wasn’t at all the smallest, but it wasn’t all that spacious, either, and I wanted to go somewhere where I could spread out and do some reading. Caleb was in the sitting area, doing some reading of his own... though of what, I don’t know. My next thought was the library, but no doubt that was where Astrid would be. Colin was most likely in the conference room so, files tucked safely in my arms; I headed toward the guest house.

When we first found the Hever, its amount of rooms was appealing. We figured we could all spread out and not get in each other’s hair more than we had to. However, as time went on, we found we liked the companionship. It was comforting for me to be around other people, because it made me miss my family less, and I can only assume it did the same for the others. Only Haylie had decided she needed her space, and thus was the only person that slept in the guest house. It had three stories, however, which came in handy when we needed to get some solitude. I settled into one of the easy chairs in the front sitting area and laid the files out on the coffee table in front of me. McQueen’s file was larger than Williams’, which lined up with what my dad had told me; they’d been friends, so naturally he had access to more information than he would when looking into Williams’ death. I started with McQueen, quickly deciding that my father had been a touch too thorough in his information gathering. Some of the paper clippings meant nothing: vague obituaries, posters for The 11th Hour that featured McQueen, as well as a few other competitors I recognized, and a couple articles from each of the years he had won. None of these provided any sort of new - or not obvious - information; they were obviously written by a Blessed journalist, and everyone knew they made their bread and butter by talking up the president and the game. There were maybe two lines that talked about McQueen’s victory, the rest of the articles spoke of the games, the rules, and the purpose. Useless.

The rest of the file proved more promising. Once I had waded through the pointless stuff, I found the information on his death. Not articles or announcements or memorial invites, but actual coroner reports, multiple copies of what looked to be a death certificate, a withdrawal-from-participation letter from the game committee, and a letter of condolences to McQueen’s son and widow from President Cain “himself”. The letter was short and almost heartless; despite the amount of times it claimed ‘we’ were “so sorry for your loss”. There was a promise to help the family through their time of grief in any way they can and scribbled below this in handwriting that I recognized as belonging to my father was one word: bullshit. I wasn’t surprised by this, there was no doubt in my mind that President Cain had forgotten about the McQueen widow before the letter had even been sent out... if he had known of her existence at all.

What struck me as most odd was the description of how he died: Terrance Dean McQueen suffered a tragic accident in the third month of Preparation Season. A talented marksman, McQueen had been practicing in an open field, mayhap honing skills that would later be used in his fourth - and possibly final - 11th Hour competition. It is presumed that on his way home, he lost his footing and fell, striking his head on a large rock, near the right temple. McQueen was pronounced dead upon discovery of his body; Committee Officials have no clue how long he was out there before he was found by another contestant, using the same field for practice.

My chest grew tight as I read and reread the statement. There was something about the way the statement was worded, something that made it sound somehow... wrong. My heart began to beat faster and my blood felt like ice. There was something there, something obvious, but I just couldn’t see it. Much like earlier in the kitchen, my brain knew something that the rest of my consciousness couldn’t interpret. Frustrated, I moved onto the Coroners’ reports. I read through a

couple before deciding these, like the letter from President Cain, were somehow wrong. “They aren’t very thorough, are they?” I said aloud, hoping that hearing the words would help trigger a landslide of epiphany that would at the very least land me a full night’s sleep. “But of course they aren’t, they’re probably written by Damned doctors.”

My thoughts clicked so violently together at that, it was almost audible. Damned doctors were little more than grampers and gramers that knew how to wash their hands and sew. If you were lucky, you could find one that knew how to deliver a child, but even then it was a risky art. I knew this all too well - my own mother had been so injured while giving birth to me, she was advised not to have any more children - people like Astrid knew it better. If one was being painfully honest, they might go as far as to say Damned doctors didn’t exist. They couldn’t do surgery, they couldn’t prescribe you medications, they couldn’t tell you what was wrong with you if you weren’t feeling well, and they certainly didn’t write coroner’s reports. They didn’t have the tools, or the need. There were two causes of death for the Damned: obvious, and unknown.

And yet, I held in my hands a number of such reports for one person; a person that had been Damned. In order for such reports to exist, the person in question - or their body - had to be in the possession of Blessed doctors. In order for a body to be in the possession of Blessed doctors, it would have to have been discovered on the Blessed side of town. Terrance McQueen couldn’t have possibly been on the Blessed side of town; he had won three competitions in a row and would have been recognized by anyone and sent back home. That left two options: someone had gone through the trouble of transporting a dead Damned citizen to the Blessed side of town, so as to acquire a proper cause of death, or the reports were fakes.

Closer inspection of the reports supported the later. There were a few differences from report to report, but they rarely went beyond the signature at the bottom. One report, signed by multiple doctors, so as to give the impression that the committee cared. Look, they must have said. Look at the lengths we’ve gone to just to treat this man right. He was trying for his chance at a better life, but sadly, did not try hard enough. We valued him, and you will miss him.

Not wanting to lose momentum, I took to Theresa Williams’ file. There was less to skim through, but much more to find. There was no letter to the deceased’s family, but that wasn’t a surprise. Unlike McQueen, Williams’ didn’t have an accident. According to the reports, she had been murdered by her husband, and the committee wasted no time marketing the tragedy. One such article laid out the details in as they were known.

Theresa Jaclyn Williams’ life ended at the hands of her husband in the third month of Preparation Season. Experts have deduced that Mr. Williams had resented his wife’s participation in NewAmerica’s popular game of chances, The 11th Hour. He grew jealous of her growing fame and absence; as citizens well know, The 11th Hour itself consists of six months of actual game play, with a couple months before and after for Preparation and Detox seasons. Left alone for months on end, Mr. Williams slowly became insane, eventually snapping and brutally murdering his wife. A neighbor called Committee Officials after hearing a series of troubling screams coming from the Williams’ household. COs found Mr. Williams in the living area of his house, surrounded by his wife. He was taken into custody shortly after, and will likely receive the harshest of disciplines.

Theresa Williams, a talented marksman, was pursuing her fourth - and possibly final - The 11th Hour title. She is survived by her (soon-to-be-late) husband, Joshua Williams, and 9-month-old son--

I couldn’t read any further. The implications--COs found Mr. Williams in the living area of his house, surrounded by his wife--were too much. My stomach felt as if it had folded in on itself, and for a brief moment I

thought I might actually be sick. My brain kicked into gear once more, however, and the nausea passed. I began to look through the rest of the papers my father had collected, and soon discovered why he suspected foul play. They had certainly learned their lesson that was for sure; no one was going to ask questions about the murder of a popular contestant, outside of ‘have you killed the bastard yet?’ And they had. Joshua Williams had been sentenced to death for the murder of his wife, and their son was placed in the system. My father had managed to get his hands on a few of Joshua’s psych evaluations - not as rare as coroner’s reports; all those sentenced to death receive such evaluations, regardless of social status - and I was appalled by the lack of effort put into them. I needed only to read a couple before I got the gist of what they said: He says he didn’t do it, but he did, so he’s lying. And, if the signatures were anything to go by, all of the committee doctors also doubled as death row psychiatrists.

It was all right there, hidden in plain sight, yet only my father had caught it. And even then, I doubt he had surmised half as much as I had; I suspect he saved what he did for the same reason I felt anxious: they just seemed wrong. I was still turning everything over in my head when the front door opened and I looked up in time to see Haylie. I balled my fist in front of my mouth and coughed quietly. She looked up at the sound and the look on her face was a strange mix of surprise and horror. I smiled in response and waved, before beckoning her over to me. She was late, and I didn’t much care for her caught-red-handed look. She hesitated a moment before making her way over to me. “You’re awful late,” I said.

“I was having dinner,” she said. Then, as an afterthought, “with... with my family.” It wasn’t hard to peg when Haylie was lying; she spent her whole life behind a camera, and thus was unaware of the fact that she had no poker face what so ever. I nodded, going between asking her where she really was, and just letting things go. I decided not to push the issue, not just yet, and instead tried to engage her in small talk. “Look,” she said after a bit, “I’m really tired. I was just going to head to bed and sleep off today.”

“You do that,” I said. I watched as she disappeared into the den without another word and tried to turn back to my work. Something about her being there - about her lying about why she was late - made the guest house feel somewhat crowded, however, and I no longer wanted to have the files there. Instead, I gathered them up and headed back to the main house, in hopes of sharing my findings with Caleb. There was still the matter of the letter to McQueen’s wife that wasn’t sitting right, and if anyone could help me figure out why, it was him.

# # #

I was writing my mom when Kara knocked on the door. I don’t know why, I just felt like I needed to write her, let her know I was thinking about her, that I loved her, and to remind the boys that they needed to behave or face the wrath of me. Then I heard her tapping on my door, and the letter was forgotten.

She poked her head in the room before I even finished my “come in”. She was smiling, but there was something uneasy about it.

“Busy?” I shook my head and patted the bed beside me. She sat without another word. “What’s on your mind, kid?” “A few things.”

“Your dad?” She didn’t say anything. Never a good sign. “Is he alright?” “Not really,” she said. Her voice was small, almost unnoticeable. It was the voice you

expected someone as small as her to have, unless you knew her. “He’s getting worse... I think he’s giving up. He can’t clean himself anymore, can’t eat solid food because it’s difficult for him to chew and harder to swallow... he’s stubborn as ever but when I look at him, when I really look at him, he’s not there.” She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Sitting like that, she looked like a small child. I could tell she was fighting back tears. “I don’t know how to explain it but... it’s like I’m losing him while he’s still alive.” I thought of my mom, how difficult it was to see her spirit trampled and destroyed; Kara had explained it perfectly. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, not sure of what to say. A number of things came to mind, but none of them seemed right. There had been a time when Kara would say he was having good days and bad days; there had been a time when the good days far outnumbered the bad. Now it seemed there was nothing but bad. As if reading my mind, she spoke. “What if he doesn’t live long enough for us to win?”

“If we were talking about anyone else, I’d say that was a distinct possibility. But we’re not talking about anyone else. We’re talking about Joseph Anders and you know as well as I do that the only way he’s missing you win your fourth title is if someone rips his heart from his chest. And even then, he’d probably still live a good year.” She laughed at that, loud and strong, and my chest grew warm at the sound. I had met Kara when she was all of 13 years old, but she had carried herself like someone much older (I had believed her to be just south of 18). Her mother was loving but meek, and when her father fell ill, it became Kara’s responsibility to take care of the family. That was far too much, and far too early in life. The fact that she was relaxed at all was a miracle; when we first started the group, she had been quite serious. She had been, for all intensive purposes, like me. But as time went on, she allowed Astrid and Colin to rub off on her, and had become more laid back. She was still serious, but only when it came to her work. I, on the other hand, was serious all the time.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She ran a hand across her face and smiled at me again; this one was far more genuine. “That’s not why I came up here, to be honest. It’s never why I come up here.” We both laughed at that. “I mean, I suppose it’s part of why I came up here, but not... look.” I saw the folders she had brought with her for the first time. “I have something I want you to read.” She handed me a slip of paper that appeared to be a letter from Nicolae to some woman named Alicia McQueen. It explained that her husband had suffered a tragic accident. It was full of half-assed condolences and empty we’ll-take-care-of-you promises, and I wasn’t surprised. These days, bullshit was NewAmerica’s chief export. I finished reading it and handed it back to her.

“Why.” “Because I just wanted you to read it, and tell me what you think.” She dropped her eyes

and I touched my index finger to her nose. “You mean you wanted me to tell you why it’s odd.” Her face lit up at that. “And it is

odd, isn’t it?” She nodded. “But I don’t know why.”“Well, it’s not well written. This is supposed to be a letter from our beloved president,

consoling this poor widow. But it’s contradictory. It starts out saying he died in the third month of Preparation Season, then ends by saying they have no idea how long he was out in that field before he was discovered.” Kara smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand.

“Of course. Of course.”

“That’s also a strange time to just trip and fall.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Think about it. The third month of PrepSea. That means it was at most four weeks before Game Start. You and I have been doing this for years; you’re never more alert than right before the damn thing starts. This guy had won three previous championships - a fact that is in and of itself puzzling - and had been competing for who knows how many years before that. I highly doubt he would have just lost his footing and fell.”

“Sounds like a conspiracy,” Kara said. Her voice was thick with sarcasm, but her eyes weren’t at all humorous.

“Indeed it does,” I said. She reached into the folder and pulled out a number of papers, explaining the problems she had found with each one. These were too similar, these were too vague, these were so badly written she wasn’t sure they weren’t NewAmerican, etc. I had to stop her, however, when she started talking about the previous Targets.

“So what you’re saying is... you doubt our fearless leader.” “First off, ass, I’m our fearless leader. He’s some guy in a suit that’s mildly attractive and

gives good speeches.” I gave her a look, but she ignored it and pressed on. “Second, yes. I doubt him. I have for a while. I don’t believe for a second that my family is where it is because of something they did. We’re Damned because my grandpa was Damned, and he was Damned because... well, who the Hell knows. I’ve looked into this disease my dad has... there’s not a lot, but what I found says it’s genetic. He was born with it. How is that his fault? How can Nicolae deny him the help he needs? No. He doesn’t vomit marshmallows and shit rainbows. He’s a monster, and he’s been screwing us for years. This all but proves it.” She took a deep breath and released it before smiling at me. “Wow, that felt good.”

“Vomit marshmallows?” I asked.“Sit on it and rotate,” she said, though the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. “Well, I’m sure it goes without saying that I agree with you. The question is: what do we

do about it?” “Discuss it with the others, first. I know Astrid hates President Cain--”“Everyone knows it; the girl couldn’t keep a secret if it was written on one of her

organs.”“--but I don’t know how Colin feels.” “I doubt he’s pro-Cain.” It was true, too. I didn’t know much about Colin’s life outside

the Hever; I knew he was an orphan and he wasn’t NewAmerican, but that was it. Still, he never gave off the impression that he was for our oh-so-wonderful president.

“If they agree with us... I don’t know. I know it’s important that we win again this year, but this might be more so.”

“If what you’re assuming is correct, it is more important. So we, what? Abandon the game this year?” Kara’s face screwed up for a second, then she nodded.

“Perhaps. We’ll have to dig deeper... and in order to do that, we need Colin and Astrid.” “What can Astrid contribute? Information isn’t really her area of expertise.”“We’re all gonna step out of our comfort zones, Caleb, even you. But first things first: I

think Astrid’s in the library.” I nodded and rose from the bed, stretching before holding open the door and following Kara out of the room. Neither of us was surprised to find Colin and Astrid; we were surprised, however, to see them mulling over a few files of their own. Astrid looked up as we entered the room, not the least bit caught off guard by our presence. There were a number of papers in her hands, and Colin was pointing to yet another one in front of her. She was grinning and there was a madness in her eyes that was somehow both calming and frightening.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I was just thinking about you two. We’ve got something to show you.”

# # #

Terrance McQueen was a sniper in the Rangers... or at least he was, before that branch of the military was disbanded. Once the 11th Hour was open for registrations, he was sure to sign up. He didn’t fare so well in the beginning but after a couple years, he seemed to find his stride. According to Colin, McQueen nabbed three titles before an unfortunate night in a vacant lot.

“Cause of death?”“He fell,” Colin said, the corners of his mouth turned up in a disbelieving smirk. “He was

drunk and hit his head on a rock; suffered a hemorrhage and, so far as I can tell, died almost immediately.”

“But you don’t believe that.” He shrugged. “Why?”“Not sure... I have no reason to believe any different. His blood alcohol level was a

whopping 0.00, and the field he fell in was completely flat.” Our eyes met and his smirk bloomed into a full on smile. I couldn’t help but mirror it; Colin wasn’t one to get snarky, but he had his moments. “In his obviously drunken state, he managed to crack his head on the only rock out there.”

“Or maybe a rock managed to hit the only head out there.” He shrugged again, but that smile never faltered. He pulled out another folder and flipped it open on the table, obscuring a few of the McQueen articles.

“And then we have Theresa Williams, 29.” This time his smile did falter. “God, she was so young.” I nodded. McQueen had been closer to my father’s age when he died, Theresa was just a baby.

“What’s the story with her? The same?” “Somewhat. On the surface, she bore no resemblance to McQueen; Theresa had a

husband and a 9 month old, and her father was a known hunter in the area. Girl couldn’t shoot the broad side of a barn with a sniper rifle, but a hunting rifle? Watch your ass. She came out of nowhere - literally, I can’t find anything on her before she was 26 - won the year she registered, and continued to do so until...” he lifted the article, skimmed the one below it, then returned to the first, grimacing.

“Until?” “There was a kid I knew growing up. He lived across the street and, though she never

said anything, I could tell my mom hated him. Just absolutely hated him. I think it was because he would tell me these stories, you know? Horrible, gruesome stories about people who had been mutilated beyond recognition. It was nightmare inducing and this...” he tapped the papers in his hand and shook his head. All at once he looked rather pale and I shifted uncomfortable, unsure of whether or not I wanted to hear the rest. “This is horrific. Mr. Williams went above and beyond the call of mutilation duty. Or at least someone believed he did. Mr. Williams on the other hand, he claims he didn’t do it. Or at least he did. He was executed nine years ago for her murder but...”

“Something not sitting right with this one, either?” “Exactly. I mean... you’re a killer.” I winced and Colin’s face changed immediately. Any

confidence he had in presenting his case was lost. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean... that sounded much better in my head, really, I wasn’t trying to say--” I cut him off, twirling my

forefinger in a ‘hurry it up’ gesture. He stared at me a moment longer as if considering what else to say, then bit his lip and turned back to the papers. He shuffled through the folder and handed me a photo that caused my stomach to lurch so suddenly, I almost lost my dinner. All at once, Colin’s comment made sense.

I tapped the photo before setting it -- face down -- on the table. “Yeah, if I had taken the time to do that and got caught, I wouldn’t deny it. Hell, stuff like this is done in hopes that they’ll get caught. People that sick like it when the world knows.”

“Then why deny it?” Colin’s voice wavered; he was still shaken by his mistake earlier, but he was beginning to regain his previous confidence. “Maybe at the beginning, sure, but when you know you’re going to die? Why even attempt to, when your victim is as high profile as a three-time winner?” I nodded.

“So we’re assuming he didn’t do it.” “Yeah. I don’t have any hard evidence, but there are enough parallels to the McQueen

case that I have my doubts.” “And you found this all in their net files?” He gestured to the papers on the table. “Wow.

Kind of fishy, Nicolae creating a server just for these two.” Colin gave me a look that I had only ever seen on Kara; it was like a mix between confusion and revulsion, reserved for those special moments when someone said something profoundly... stupid. “What?”

“What are you talking about?” “Didn’t you find these hidden on some secret server?” “The server wasn’t public, no but... these weren’t hidden, Astrid.” Colin pulled out yet

another file, this one brimming with papers. Some were bound with paperclips, others were stapled and still others floated free amongst the others. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at until I happened upon a small group of stapled papers. Two words stood out to me almost instantly:

“Elizabeth Gerard?” I skimmed the small packet before meeting his eyes. He looked at me with a sort of cautious sympathy that I hated instantly. I knew why it was there, however, and had to bite back the tears that were threatening to make an appearance. “She was my first target,” I said. “The first one I killed.” Colin nodded slowly and I had to suppress the urge to slap that look off his face. “So what are these? Targets from games past?” I slammed the folder shut and dropped it on the table, making Colin jumped.

“Yeah,” he said. “There’s a whole server dedicated to them. That’s where I found the McQueen and Williams’s files.” He opened the file again and began to shuffle through it. “There’s something odd about them... here, we’ll look at one that you didn’t kill.”

“Why?” I asked. My words came out far harsher than I intended and Colin winced a bit. “We can go over Elizabeth’s. It’s fine.” He hesitated a moment, then shrugged and began to read through the small packet.

Elizabeth Gerard had been presented to NewAmerica as psychopath. She had been known to kidnap children, raise them for a spell, and then kill them when they began to disobey her. She would then dress up the bodies and leave them propped up in public places for authorities to find. The story had caused quite an outrage throughout the community, and rightly so: as focused on our own social status as we were, we were still human, and child abuse was still frowned upon. In the uproar, however, no one realized that it was the first time we were hearing of such crimes. She had been a pain in the ass to track down and, in all honesty, my kill was sheer luck. Still, there was a special kind of triumph in that kill; I had not only nabbed CHECK their first victory, I had brought all those children justice.

The Elizabeth Gerard Colin was describing was nothing like what was presented to us by the committee. She was young, intelligent, and seemed to be going places. Her mistake, it seemed, was believing that citizens should have the right to choose their leader. She had presented her beliefs to a large group of Damned citizens outside the Bay District when she was only 25 years old. The next day, she went missing. Gerard was off the grid for 3 years, in holding while the rest of Nicolae’s law enforcement took part in what the file described as “cleansing”. When that process was complete, she was represented to the community as a murderer, and was terminated by one Astrid Miller with two days of game play remaining.

I felt sick to my stomach when he finished, but encouraged him to go through a few more. It was possible NewAmerica had a most wanted list, but these people were not on it. Couldn’t have been. Some had children, some were single, others were engaged, but all had one thing in common: They were innocent. Not only innocent of the crimes of which they were accused, but of - so far as Colin could find - of any wrong doing what so ever. He placed the page that contained Terrance McQueen’s information in front of me and pointed to a section at the bottom of the page. Before he could further explain what he was showing me, the door opened. I looked up and forced a smiled as Caleb and Kara poked their heads in.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said, and without the least bit of insincerity; having Kara there, in light of what I was discovering, made me feel better. “We have something to show you.”

“As do we,” Kara said. They joined us around the table and her face lit up as she realized what was laid out between us. Colin tapped the bottom of the paper again, his confidence growing with his audience.

“This is what bothered me. Now, all of the papers and reports say their deaths were accidental, right?” Kara leaned forward and studied the paper he was pointing at.

“Terrance McQueen? Yeah he was murdered.” I laughed.“Why am I not surprised you already know this?” She pulled out her own folders, adding

them to our stack after pulling out a couple choice sheets. Colin’s eyes grew huge upon seeing them.

“How did you get these? How did you get these?” He asked, snatching them up. “I couldn’t find these anywhere!”

“My father knew Mr. McQueen. He didn’t trust the circumstances surrounding his death, so he collected everything he could on it. Before I left he asked me to look into it.” Colin frowned.

“These are all--”“All the same, I know. Not just the diagnosis, but everything.” Colin gave them one more

once over, then handed them to me. I glanced at them, but they meant nothing to me. I didn’t know what I was looking at. “What tipped you off?” Colin grinned and once more tapped the papers on the table in front of me.

“Well, the targets are all classified as “deceased” on the game website, right?” “Yeah,” Caleb said, running a hand through his hair. “Sure,” Kara added.“Oh the game website!” I said, slapping my knee. “I spend so much time on there!” Truth

was, none of us spent any time on the game website, or on the net at all. Colin lived there and understood it in ways we never could, and he knew that; had probably just forgotten it in his excitement. He understood then, however, and stuck his tongue out at us.

“The targets are all classified as deceased on the game website... this is a website that can be accessed by the public - yes, even morons such as yourselves - given they have internet

capabilities. In case you’re wondering, the internet is not available to the Damned community, so the only way you can have access is if you’re Blessed, or you have a rigged netwo--”

“Alright, we get it,” Caleb said. “No need to punish us for Astrid’s snark, we know the basics. Get on with it.”

“Right. Well, the committee has listed them as deceased for the public. But if you look at the classification in the ZODIAC files - these are more restricted files, not available to the public - you’ll see they aren’t listed as “deceased” but as ‘terminated’... which is fine, considering they’re criminals. Termination is more like what we’re doing. But if that’s the reasoning, then why are McQueen and Williams listed as terminated, too?”

A silence followed, during which I knew we were all thinking the same thing. Each of us had a bone to pick with the President, and we all wanted to think he was a horrible person. But with the media outlets working overtime to portray him as this sparkling, perfect leader, it was easy to doubt yourself. Then, out of nowhere, we had stumbled upon what was shaping up to be quite the conspiracy, one our perfect president could not have been oblivious to.

“So that’s it then,” I said. A cold feeling had begun to spread through my chest, and my heart was pounding. “He’s been having us kill people for him.” I said ‘us’, but the word that was playing through my head was ‘me’. He’d been having me kill people for him.

“At the very least, he’s terminated Terrance McQueen and Theresa Williams,” Kara said, patting my hand. “You had no hand in that, by the way, you weren’t but a child. Still, I’d place even money on all of them.” I dropped the papers I was holding and clasped my hands in front of me.

“And he’s let us do it,” I said, all the while my brain screaming me me ME. “He had us--”“Or someone else,” Kara interjected. “--kill them so the blood wouldn’t be on his hands. That son of a bitch.” “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Caleb began to organize the papers, placing them in

the right folders and setting them aside. “None of this can be linked to Nicolae. We can’t say for certain that it was him that had these people killed.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said. “You have got to be fu--” Caleb held up a hand and shot me a look that shut my mouth.

“All we know is that Theresa Williams and Terrance McQueen were murdered.” “Well, that’s not all we know,” Kara said. “My father said they were both murdered a

few weeks before game start. I’d have to look into it, but the dates on the reports seem to agree with him.”

“And,” Colin said, “if the ZODIACS are right - and I have no reason to think they aren’t, they were pretty well hidden - his so called ‘criminals’ were not all they were cracked up to be.”

I stared at the three of them as they continued to organize and put away the files. Each of them had seemed excited as they explained what they knew, but now they seemed reserved and were speaking of everything as if it were circumstantial. My blood began to boil and I could hardly contain myself. “This is bullshit! We just uncovered the truth about our fearless leader and you’re all slinking away with your tail between your legs because we can’t link him to anything? Who the Hell do you thi--”

“We need to be smart about this,” Caleb said. His voice was calm and I had a brief image of shoving every single one of his words back into his mouth and down his stupid throat. I sat on my hands to avoid from doing anything, but I could do nothing about the hate in my eyes, or the color of red I was certain my face had turned. “I won’t say this again, so listen closely: you’re right, Astrid.” Those three words took the edge off the worst of my anger. “We’ve uncovered

something here, something big... and it could change things.” He locked eyes with each of us, finishing with me, and I saw something in his that I’d never seen before: Caleb was excited. “It could change everything. But not if we half-ass it. If we take this to anyone as it is, it’ll be squashed faster than you can say... well, anything. You don’t think they can clean up this? It’s circumstantial at best. All they’d have to do is right up a few more reports and find a way to ‘accidentally’ silence us. We need something more solid, something they can’t hide once it’s revealed. That’ll come with research, and a lot of it. Then we go public. We do it right, Nicolae’s own words will crucify him. The people can do the rest.”

As he spoke, I came to truly understand the man that so often got under my skin. We never failed to infuriate each other, but we were also similar in some ways. Nicolae had altered the course of our lives in much the same fashion and we entered the 11th Hour as a step toward gaining the only thing we ever knew we wanted: revenge.

“So... where do we start?” I asked, turning to Kara. Caleb was right, and when we finally had the information we needed, and he would play a large part in collecting said information, but Kara was the leader. She made the plans, we followed the steps.

“We start with what we know. Colin, you called these ZODIAC files?” He nodded. “Are there any more?”

“One can only hope. I’d have to do some digging, but I designed the network so it shouldn’t be too hard. It’ll just take some time.”

“You have two months. I also need you to find out the exact Game Start dates of The 11th Hour the years McQueen and Williams died. I want in depth - and I mean in depth - backgrounds on each and every one of the targets.” Colin nodded. It was a lot of work for so little amount of time, but he never backed down from a challenge. “Astrid, you said your friend at the bar mentioned that they might be innocent?” I nodded, a little surprised. I had completely forgotten about the man at the bar.

“You had someone suggest to you that the targets were innocents?”“Yeah.” He grinned at me. “Same.” “Probably from the same person, too,” Kara said. “Which leads me to believe he was

looking to spark something. Let’s make it good. I’m gonna need you to meet with him again, Astrid. Think you can?” I thought about how he had spoken to me, how he had been waiting for me and - more importantly - how his presence hadn’t perturbed the bartender in the slightest. I’d had people pick fights with me at that bar before, and they were always thrown out. This guy, however, had merely been asked to leave for the evening.

“Yeah. If you’re right, he’ll know I want to see him.” “Wait wait wait, someone contacted you?” Caleb looked between Colin and me. “Both of

you? And we’re okay with this?”“Nicolae went through a lot of trouble to hide this stuff,” Kara said. “Most of it before we

were old enough to compete; I highly doubt he was setting a trap for a bunch of kids he didn’t even know existed.”

“Yeah but--”“This guy checks out,” I lied. “Trust me.” “There’s a real good chance this guy is our Target, and if that’s the case then we need to

know why Nicolae wants him dead. I doubt we’re going to get that from him, so I’m going to rely on you for that.” She smiled at Caleb who smiled back.

“As you should. Am I playing nice, or doing whatever I can?” Kara raised an eyebrow.

“We have a revolution to start, darling. I should hope you don’t plan on pussy-footing around.” His smile grew. “Two months. That’s what we’ve got. We need this in stone in two months, because when this game starts, we won’t be hunting the target. And if we screw up we won’t be walking away.”

“We need a plan in place in two months,” Caleb added. “Which means intel needs to come fast. So I suggest we get some sleep and get moving first thing in the morning.”

Colin raised a hand. “I know everyone has noticed it, maybe you don’t realize it, but I’ll ask anyway. What about Haylie?”

At the same time the words “I don’t trust her” left my mouth, “she lied to me” left Kara’s. We locked eyes for a moment before she continued.

“These two died a few weeks before game start. That means Nicolae hasn’t missed his window to wipe us out. It’s entirely possible that he’ll try to get to one of us, and she took and awful long time getting here.”

“She also doesn’t dislike him like we do; we just aren’t as close to her as we are to each other, so I’m not sure I can trust her. Until we are sure, I saw we keep her out of the loop. It’ll be hard, but it’s the smart thing to do.” Neither of the boys raised a word of objection.

“Sleep well, you guys. It may be the last night of real sleep you’ll get for the rest of your lives.” I slapped Kara on the back and smiled.

“But if this goes right,” I said. “We’ll be heroes. What’s more, we’ll get what we’ve always wanted.” I didn’t say anymore, and I didn’t have to. We only ever wanted the same thing, and we were going to get it, or so help us God, we would die trying.