Dulce et Decorum est

Timothy zipped the large suitcase shut, and walked around his room, checking once more to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. While he'd called the tiny room home for a good few years, he was more than happy to finally get out. His room was the only other room available besides the bathroom and Jason's room in the apartment. Jason was a highly appreciated biologist, who had taken him in as a teenager, allowing him to finally get out of the government's terrible foster system. When the news of the invasion came in, Jason was quick to make use of some of his network to get placed among the additional crew that would accompany the players to the games. While it was officially to study the different types of aliens and learn something about them, he was also madly excited about the opportunity to witness the great plays first-hand. Being his faithful assistant, Timothy was allowed to come along, and was no less glad to see something interesting happen in his life before this entire planet would be doomed.

Despite the government's continuous propaganda, he knew quite well that they would stand no chance whatsoever against these aliens. He'd seen the people who would 'represent' them: all brawn and no brains. "These aliens are three times the size of a normal man, and their technology is a thousand years ahead of ours," is what he'd told Jason over and over. He just didn't seem to care. And to make it worse, it wasn't some kind of "us against them" either, there would be hundreds of different so-called 'federations' competing. Frankly, they didn't stand a chance.

While quietly ranting, he failed to notice he'd accidentally molten part of his bed. This sort of thing happened a lot when he got lost in thoughts. He knew people around him were always suspicious, but he'd managed to keep the strange incidents happening exactly that: strange incidents. If anyone else knew of him being different, he'd surely be left to the mercy of the government. He saw the games as an opportunity to get off this rock, and he'd have to keep things secret until then.

With that in mind, the doorbell rang. Jason came to pick him up: they'd be leaving today.
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Saphira exhaled sharply, and drew her arms and shoulders back. Her breath frosted in the air. The temperature had been close zero all day, and the young woman had liberally piled on the layers. She was wearing sweats and two sweaters over her athletic gear, and had a hat pulled low over her ears. Saphira inhaled again, holding the stretch. The cold made her chest tight and sore and she didn’t like it one bit.

“Ahem.” Saphira concentrated very hard on ignoring the polite cough. She did not want to hear that cough anymore. It was a small, putrid sound that made her think of mildew and overcooked vegetables. “Ahemmm, hem.” Barely concealing an exasperated sigh, she straightened back up and turned around. Her face was a neutral mask. Saphira regarded the small, greasy man with haughty indifference. He returned the look in kind. There were several moments of frosty silence.

“Sir?” Saphira focused her gaze on the fat red pimple centered perfectly between his eyes. If Peter Blume knew what she was staring at, he was utterly unperturbed. She focused on containing the knot of irritation that was twisting in her stomach.

“You’re to report to station 92…” he paused to rifle through his clipboard. “…platform number two.” Saphira nodded brusquely and grabbed her suitcase. She pulled it behind her, slinging her overnight bag over one shoulder, and made to walk past him. Blume caught her across the torso with a pudgy arm. His eyes remained fixed, staring straight ahead at nothing. “Don’t fuck this up.” He let his arm drop heavily back to his side, and walked on. Saphira turned to watch him go, then continued on to the Tube. Once she'd boarded, the hovercraft reached the Port quickly.


Once she'd arrived, she seeked out the help desk “Name?” The bored-looking man behind the counter scritched at a thin crop of stubble with his pen. Saphira pursed her lips, mulling something over. “Lanayla,” she finally answered. It was a lie, of course, but the man did not seem concerned. Saphira had always been partial to the name ‘Lanayla’, for some reason. A trainer she’d had once, perhaps? It was inconsequential, really. But she didn’t doubt it would annoy Peter to no end. She hid a quick smirk in a yawn.

The man looked up, perplexed. “I don’t have a ‘Lanayla’ on my list.” He had his nose bare centimeters from his holoscreen, staring at the names. Saphira feigned a look of annoyance.

“Check the name ‘Saphira’,” she muttered irritably. “My sister and I were both entered into the last round, they had our names mixed up there, too.” The scruffy young man nodded and tapped at the screen. There was a loud ‘Ping!’ and a quiet whirring. Moments later, a small plastic block and a white armband (Each with a black number ‘2’ stamped on them) were spat out of the printer shoot to land neatly in a receptacle. Saphira scooped both of these items up, smiling at the number two. That was her Facility number. Of course the government was still watching over her on this mission, perhaps even more closely than usual. They weren’t backing her officially, of course. Technically, the Facility wasn’t real. She was Subject number two, trained from infancy as an operative of the World Government. But she had the best training, the best weapons, the best equipment and the best people. The Facility Program wasn’t even two decades old, though, and few of the Subjects were over the age of sixteen. (or so she’d gathered.) Abandoned as an infant, Saphira owed her life to the Government. She’d do whatever it took to win this.

“I’ve changed your name in the database. Have a nice day.” said the man behind the counter. Saphira nodded to him and walked towards the hatch.