And the winner is...

It is currently 1.40am now. I have read the contest submissions, and I am about to pass out the verdict.

Ashlei, Samantha and Chrystal have not yet handed in their entries. 2 excuses, 1 is yet to be found out. Computer formatted and the other, wants to give a bigger winning chance for the others.

The 2 entries that came in, were astounding. Both different in a thousand ways. Full of mystery and oblivious trickery. Incredible mastery of composition and wordplay. I salute.

The two entries, by JT and Juliana, met with their deadlines and has fulfilled the requirements.

1. It had to blow me away.
2. It had to keep me reading till the end.
3. Inspire an early Chapter 4.

Mind blowing.

It is a very tough one trying to pick a winner. Both entries are amazing and it hurts me to only pick one.

The winner is, Juliana Wuan and her titled Chapter 3 of the S-Men saga, Sunday.

Here is the winning entry for all of you. Ladies and gents, I present to you, from maestro Juliana, Sunday.


Sunday.

The first day, or the last, of a week?

The day of creation, or the day of rest?

I always wondered.

Perhaps Sunday is best described as the day when you get to sit on Grandfather’s lap and Grandfather told you stories of his childhood.

And perhaps it is the day when, because their Grandfathers didn’t want them anymore, they sat and thought of their own childhood.

-*-
You were always the faster runner. I always thought you could fly if you wanted to.
‘Were’. Past. Gone. It’s so hard for me to choke out now, even though years have passed. I waited. I suppose I’m still waiting.
You taught me that it is never worth it to lash out when I was angry because nobody understood. You taught me the whole and full beauty of being able to channel it all into running instead. “Run,” you always said. At first, I always wondered why trains moved so quickly when I was in them, but so slowly when I raced against them. You taught me that I, and that you, were different. Special. But special doesn’t always mean good. Special meant secrets.
Then I understood why you were always sitting in the stands, a dot in the colourful crawling ants of cheering students, and never running in the races. Why you never allowed yourself to play sports. Why you only went out running in the night.
Like all farm boys growing up, we wrestled in the grass and caught frogs. Being 12 years older never bothered you. But nothing came close to the feeling of when we were running.
To me, you were almost immortal. That meant eternal.
I remember the messenger. I was so young…but I remember the messenger so clearly. A young man, not much older than you, dressed on a khaki uniform way too big for him. He tried to look stern, and patriotic, but I thought he looked small and scared with everything that was happening. Our mother looked terrified. You looked confused.
We were reading with me in your lap. We were reading my favourite story, the one I always read, the one about the Greek messenger who had wings in his feet. Our mother called you over. She sounded serious. You must have been listening to the messenger, because you told me to stop for a minute so you could talk to our mother. You put the book down, and sat me down off of your lap.
I watched as you walked over to our mother, your hair swinging as you jogged the last few steps. I was scared. You’d never done that before—you’d always made whoever was talking to you wait until I was done reading before you would leave. What had the boy said? What was so important that I couldn’t finish tripping over sentence by sentence in my content, childish way first?
I stood in silence while you talked. I watched our mother’s expression change from scared to angry to sad to scared again, and watched your hand curl into a fist to steady the trembling.
You walked back over to me, trying to hide your true emotions behind a calm, friendly mask. I could tell. I knew you were angry, and I didn’t like it. It didn’t suit your handsome features at all. You picked me up again and sat down, sitting me again in your lap.
You said my name, maybe not quite the way you had intended because you said it again. You were the only one who ever called me by my preferred name. “I…I’m going to have to go away for a while. I’m not sure how long it will be.”
“You’ll be back, right?”
You looked me in the eye, then looked away. “I don’t know. I wish I knew how to tell you. There’s…there are a lot of people who don’t like us, and I and some of the older boys are going to have to leave now. We have to make sure they don’t try to hurt you.”
“Why don’t they like us? Did I do something wrong? Why would they want to hurt me?”
You smiled, weakly, like you were really sad and only smiling to make me feel better. You wrapped your lean, strong arms around me. “You didn’t do anything wrong. They just don’t like us. I don’t know why.”
You did know why. I realized that when I got older. You meant, ‘I can’t explain why because you’re too young to understand.’
“But why can’t you stay? There are lots of boys who can go. You can stay with me.”
You held me tighter, and I felt something wet through my hair. Were you…crying? “No, I can’t. I’m sorry, little brother, but I have to leave. They need us now.”
I writhed and squirmed and tried to break away from our mother, but she wouldn’t let me go. I beat on her arms and angrily wiped my tears away.
You were leaving. With nothing but your backpack and your farm homespun shirt.
“Wait!” I screamed, finally breaking our mother’s grip and dropping to the ground, hugging your legs. I looked up with tear-stained cheeks. “But what about running?” I whispered desperately. You squatted down and pushed my hands off your ankles and looked sadly at me.
“Not this time…”
You could always run so fast you almost flew. And that made you almost immortal. But almost immortal is not enough. Almost immortal is not invincible.

-*-

She walked alone down the icy street. The misty fog and sharp autumn leaves alternated between slapping and caressing her. She’ll never let them look down on her again. From now on, she’ll look out for herself, and herself alone. Running away from home had not been so difficult after all. Not so difficult to pull off. Not so difficult on her emotions either. After all, they never treated her as family. How could one be family with people so unlike you? She was funny, weird, different. No special or gifted nonsense. Yup, that’s family for you. She tucked her neck a little lower into the jacket she wore over another jacket. 16 years is enough. She’d make it big out there, just you wait and see. She had what it takes. Nobody was going to push her around anymore. Not going to be stepped on, kicked about, spat upon. She would guard her one treasure with her life. It must have been given to her for a purpose, she was sure. She would get what she want when she wanted it. Or else she would just use her Voice. Yes, that was a good plan. She would never go back again. Not to her cursed childhood. And certainly not to her mute family.

-*-

Dear diary,
How is it that the hands of a healer cannot heal herself?
Sundays are selfish days. Sundays are meant for me!
I wish just for once that I can stop hearing other people long enough to hear myself.

-*-

When I awoke for the first time, the world was white. I opened my eyes and stared, unblinking, into the radiance. Like my body, my mind lay still, calm, at rest. No thoughts passed through my head. No feelings swam through me. I was aware that I was now conscious, and I was aware of the stark, simple colour that enveloped me. And that was all. I lay in a sterile womb. A loud hissing sound interrupted the stillness, penetrated into my peaceful sanctuary. The whiteness suddenly ceased to shine and drew back. I looked up at a new world of silver-grey. Then a face appeared above me. A hard face, full of intensity and ambition and power. It was a face to be afraid of, to try to please. It was a face to respect.
I gazed up at the man, saying nothing, but examining every aspect of him and storing the details away in my brain. His skin was ruddy and weathered, his hair black as oil. Dark stubble poked up on his chin, and his moustache drew a thin line above his hard, set lips. One piercing green eye was fixed on me; the other was concealed behind an eye-patch.
"Three-one-four," he stated, not speaking to me, but to someone behind him that I could not see.
"What is Three-one-four?" I asked him. He turned back to me in surprise. "Please," I added.
A strange expression flitted across the man's face, too fast for me to read it. "Three-one-four," he repeated. "That's you. Sit up."
I did so, and found that I was sitting on a white platform, about a metre from the floor of the room. Glancing behind me, I saw a small dark opening in the wall, from which my platform was protruding. Then I saw that the rest of the walls of the large room were covered with little metal hatches. Each small door possessed a handle, a number, and a rectangular patch of light glowing upon it. Glowing red.
Then, "Get up," he told me. I swung my legs over the side of the platform and lowered myself down from my perch. In doing so, I suddenly became aware of my own body. I looked down at myself, and found that I had strong, fair limbs, a muscled torso, large feet with long, straight toes. I wriggled them experimentally.
"Put these on." I jerked my head up. In one hand the one-eyed man was holding out a pair of overalls, in the other a pair of large, black boots. I raised my hands hesitantly to take them. "Go on!" he growled, and thrust the garments toward me. I put them on hurriedly, then stood stiffly before the man. He stood, fists on hips, looking me up and down with a scrutinising stare from his one eye. I did not think he liked what he saw.
"Follow me, Three-one four," he said shortly, and strode away. I followed.
He led me out of the room of blinking lights and out into a grey corridor. We were encased by metal. Our feet made clunking noises on the floor. We came to a junction. We turned left. We came to another. We turned left again. Then we turned right. Then left. Right. Right. Right. Left.
"Please," I said after a time. "What am I to call you?"
The man ahead of me faltered slightly in his step, but he straightened up immediately and walked on without looking back.
"You will call me Sir," he said curtly.
"Yes, Sir," I said meekly. His reactions were puzzling me. He seemed to be a man filled with anger, yet he would not let it out. It bubbled within him. I could tell by the way his lip had curled when he looked at me, by the furrowing of his brow, the force in his step, the tension in his voice. I accepted his anger, without knowing the reason for it. I trailed him in silence after that, through the cold metal corridors - they seemed a labyrinth, like the veins of some huge beast. Left. Left. Right. Left. Suddenly, we passed through a doorway and emerged from the silver tunnels into a huge open space.
We were at the edge of a maze of metal walkways that were suspended from the high ceiling by a series of thick chains. They snaked away from me, out into the air. But below us was where my attention focused first; on the huge, flat floor of the gigantic room, hundreds of people were milling about. Hundreds of men - there were no females present. Some of the men sat round the sides of the room on metal benches, some stood in little groups, some stood alone. Some were eating, some were drinking, some were sitting, some were standing. But all in absolute silence. The quiet transformed the purr of the ventilators into a roar.
"Why don’t they talk?" I asked Sir.
He grunted. "They don't need to," he answered.
"But surely," I said, "everyone must talk. It is basic social interaction. It helps define who we are, what our personality is."
Sir's good eye narrowed. The buried anger stirred inside him. I took a step backwards, frightened. I had not meant to make him angry. I did not know why I had.
"They don't need to define themselves," Sir told me roughly. "You don't need to define yourself. You are one of them - you are a collective. You will work together, you will fight together, you will die together!"
I said nothing. I was scared of this harsh, angry man. He turned abruptly and descended from the walkways by a metal stairway that shook slightly beneath his weight. Again, I followed him.
The men turned their neutral faces to us as we descended to their level. They started to gather round the bottom of the steps. Empty eyes stared up at us. Sir stood before them, purposeful and haughty, running his gaze over their ranks.
"Two?" He raised his voice in the silence, and it echoed round the enormous space. "Where is Two?"
One of the men stepped forward. Two was tall and gaunt in his overalls. "I am here," he said.
Sir gestured for me to pass him. "This is Three-one-four," he told Two. "You will show him what to do."
"Yes, Sir," said Two. He came forward and gripped me hard by the arm. I was led away into the throng. Craning over my shoulder, I managed to catch a last glimpse of Sir starting back up the steps before my sight was blocked by bodies.
Two led me over to one of the metal benches along the edge of the room and made me sit. "This is where you eat," he told me simply. "The food comes three times a day." He swept his hand around the room in general. "This is where we train. We train for five hours in the morning, and five hours in the afternoon." He pointed to the far end of the room, where I saw many bundles stacked up neatly against the wall. "That is where we sleep," he said. "We sleep from twenty-two hundred hours until six hundred hours." Lastly, his finger indicated a small doorway in the opposite wall. "That is where you use the lavatory."
"And may I use that when I like?"
This brought not even the ghost of a smile onto his long, angular face. "You may use it when you need to," was his level reply.
"What are we training for?"
Two looked at me steadily. "To fight, of course."
"Fight whom?"
"That is irrelevant."
"Is it?" I didn't think so.
"Yes. You will fight who you are told to, when you are told to. Like the rest of us. We are Squadron Three. When the time comes, we will be sent to fight."
I was about to ask more about this 'fighting', but Two spoke again. "Afternoon training will begin at thirteen hundred hours," he said.
"What is the time now?" I asked. He said nothing, but pointed again, above my head. I twisted round and saw a screen above me, showing the digits 12:22. "Thank you," I said to Two. He did not reply.
I could think of nothing else to say to this man with one expression. I sat, not knowing what else to do. There did not seem to be anything I could do. Except wait. After a few minutes of sitting there idly, I heard the clunk, clunk of steps upon the metal walkways above. I looked up, and saw Sir entering the huge room again, another man trailing him as I had done a short while before. Two saw them as well, and immediately began to make his way toward the bottom of the steps as they descended them. I followed demurely. There was nothing else for me to do.
"This is Three-one-five," Sir said, nudging the man forward. "You will show him what to do."
Three-one-five looked dazed as Two led him away from the steps. I stood still and watched Sir ascend them. Clunk, clunk, clunk. When he had disappeared, I hastened after Two and Three-one-five. I waited patiently until Two had finished his initiation monologue. Three-one-five did not ask any questions, as I had. He sat mutely and accepted all that he was told. When Two had finished and stepped away, I went forward. Holding out a hand, I greeted Three-one-five.
"Hello," I said. "I am Three-one-four. We are neighbours, of a sort."
Three-one-five did not appear to understand. He sat staring at my outstretched hand. Then, as though the gesture were a puzzle that he needed help in solving, he looked pleadingly up at Two. Two frowned at me. It was the first display of emotion I had seen in him. Confused, I lowered my hand. What had I done wrong? I seemed to be upsetting anyone I spoke to, and I could not figure out why. I decided to ask; that was the simplest way to understand. "What is wrong?" I asked Two. "Have I broken any rules?"
Two pursed his lips, then replied shortly, "No."
"Then why are you frowning at me? Why will Three-one-five not shake my hand?"
"I did not know I was supposed to shake it," Three-one-five admitted flatly. "It seems an unnecessary thing to do."
"It is a traditional form of greeting," I told him.
"How do you know that?" Two's terse question brought me up short. How did I know that? I could not say when or where I had learnt it. Surely it was a common piece of knowledge?
"Doesn't everyone know it?" I pressed. Two moved his head slowly and stiffly from side to side. "Oh." I plucked up my courage. "Surely it is polite to introduce yourself to new aquaintances?" I said.
Two did not answer my question. Instead, he said, "You should be careful. You do not want to become like One."
I did not like the ominous tone his voice had acquired. "One?" I asked nervously.
"Yes."
I realised that he would not offer more information freely. But I was curious for answers. "What is One like?" I queried. I stole a glance at Three-one-five to see if he was as interested as I, but to my surprise he did not seem to be following our conversation at all. His eyes stared straight ahead at the opposite wall, vacant and unblinking.
Two did not seem to notice my discomfort. "One is ended," he told me.
Ended. I wondered what that meant. Ended. It sounded very final. "What happened to him?"
Two looked at me. For the first time, I saw his eyes really start to take on some vestige of emotion. A spark kindled within them. For a moment, I thought that he was trying to communicate something to me, something important. Then the spark faded and died; Two's eyes reverted to their previous expressionless state.
"One asked too many questions," Two told me, his voice a monotone. "One thought too much. You must not become like One, or you will be ended."
A shiver raced up my spine. Before I could think of a reply, Two turned away from me and walked away towards the centre of the huge space. I looked up at the clock, and saw the display reading 12:59. A second later it had clicked over to 13:00. A loud buzzing filled the immense room, vibrating unpleasantly in my ears. Three-one-five stood up briskly and, without a word, made his way after Two. Yet again I found myself following. At least that was something I was sure I could do, something safe and secure. Reliable. Not having to think for yourself, just blindly following someone else.
The mass of men had started to form into an orderly set of ranks. I saw that Two was stood, straight and still, at the front right-hand corner. From this I presumed that we were lining up numerically, so I found my place next to Three-one-five. We were in the last row, at the end. We stood in silence for a number of minutes, like columns of statues. No one spoke, or moved, or so much as made the tiniest sound. I was very uncomfortable. I dared not move or speak, just flicking my eyes left and right. Everywhere I looked I saw frozen men. Weren't we supposed to be training?
As that thought crossed my mind, the now-familiar clunking sound invaded my ears. Ah. Sir was coming. We were waiting for Sir. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Pause. Sir stopped on the top step of the stairway, looking down on us all. I could not see the expression on his face from my position below him. He examined our ranks for a few moments, then announced, "You are an army, a collective. What are you?"
"A collective." The two words rose crisply all around me. I felt very small.
"You will work together," Sir continued, "and you will fight together. What will you do?"
"Work together. Fight together," the men around me chorused.
I recognised the words from when I had been speaking to Sir. But he had missed a phrase out this time. Die together. What was dying? I didn't know. Why did he not say that to all of us? Sir's booming voice cut into my thoughts. "You are the last Squadron," he said. "The others have failed. The enemy continues to approach. You will not fail. You will stop them. Will you fail?"
"No!"
What was failing? Was it the same as dying? Was that why he hadn't said 'die together', because we weren't going to? But then why had he said it to me? I was very confused, but I tried not to let my feelings show on my face. No one else seemed to share my puzzlement.
"You will destroy the enemy. What will you do?"
"Destroy the enemy!"
Then, "Begin," said Sir, a trace of weariness in his voice. He turned away.
Immediately, the huge hall sprang into action. Men dashed here and there in organised groups, and began dragging huge pieces of equipment into the central space. There were vaults and bars and pads and punchbags. And guns. Some men were handing them out, whilst another group were setting up targets at one end of the room. I was in class Six-E, together with Three-one-five, under an instructor called Six. We were taught how to use the guns.
Firing the gun was not as easy as Six had made it look. Whenever I tried to squeeze the trigger slowly like he'd said, my hands began to shake and I ended up pulling too quickly. The laser bullet zipped out of the gun before I was ready and scorched a black smudge onto the backboard. When I had finally got the technique of the trigger correct, I found that I was not bracing my gun as tightly as I should against my shoulder, and the weapon would jump and jerk in my hands, sending the bolt wide once more. By the time I had actually managed to hit any targets, I was frustrated and also nervous. I could not imagine being good enough at this to actually participate in a battle. The prospect frightened me.
But I did not have much time to dwell on it. After an hour of gun-practice on the range, we were transferred over to another activity. There were eighteen others in our class besides Three-one-five and myself. We practiced punching, kicking, grappling, and were forced to run an assault course again and again. Six tried to make us quicker each time. We had climb walls, crawl under nets, and jump huge distances between platforms. When I first saw what Six was asking us to do, I did not think it was possible. The walls were tremendously high, the platforms at least twenty metres apart. I watched the others scale the walls and execute the jumps in disbelief. But then, when it was my turn at last, I found that I could do the same with relative ease. I revelled in this new-found ability. I also found lifting objects a quadruple fold of my weight a piece of cake.
The hours wore on. At one point I realised that another man had joined our class. Three-one-six. I did not try to greet him. Suddenly, the loud buzzing reverberated around the hall again. I looked up, and saw that the large clocks blazed the red numbers of 18:00. I blinked. The session had gone quickly once I was focused on it. The equipment was then cleared away as quickly and efficiently as it had been put out. Six informed Three-one five, Three-one-six and I that we would be instructed on how to assist with that the following day.
Food was distributed to us. It was simple, but there was a good portion for everyone. I polished mine off quickly - I had not realised how hungry the intensive training had made me. Then we were left to our own devices again. My two new companions immediately went and sat down on a bench by the wall. I drifted over there too.
"What shall we do now?" I asked.
Three-one-five did not respond, but Three-one-six looked up at me hesitantly. "What is there to do?" he asked in a tentative voice. I was immensely pleased to have found someone who was willing to speak to me.
"I don't know," I said, then carried on cheerfully, "but I am sure we will think of something. I am Three-one-four, by the way. I am please to meet you." I held out a hand.
Three-one-five treated my hand with a disdainful glance, but Three-one-six leant forward and took it. "I am pleased to meet you also," he said shyly. Then a startled, almost fearful look pased over his face and he dropped my hand as if it were burning. He sat, shoulders hunched, hanging his head.
I looked round. Two stood behind me, frowning again. "Hello, Two," I said awkwardly. I knew he did not like me shaking hands with other people, so I felt a little guilty that he'd caught me at it. I cleared my throat. "What do we do now?" I asked him.
"Nothing," was his reply.
"Nothing?" I glanced at Three-one-six, but he was still looking down bashfully. "Surely there is something to do."
"No," Two told me firmly. "There is nothing to do. You may go to sleep now, but it is not mandatory until twenty-two hundred hours." He swept a hand over to the far end of the hall, where the firing range had been. A number of men had taken bedrolls down from those stacked against the wall and were already stretched out on them, motionless.
"Oh," I said. I considered. "Can we not play charades?"
"What is charades?" Three-one-six inquired curiously, but Two interrupted.
"No! You may sleep, or you may sit here, or you may stand here. That is all. You may not play charades, whatever that is." He had raised his voice in anger (another small breakthrough, had I been thinking about it) and suddenly I realised that everyone as looking at our small group. No one else had been talking. The force of all those blank stares upon me called me to heel.
"I will go to sleep," I said meekly.
It was the same every day. Every morning we were woken at six hundred hours, and we were given food. The same food. Always the same. At seven hundred hours, we started our morning training. Sir would march out onto the walkway above us, and treat us with the same speech as he had given on my first day. We would give with the same responses. Sir would leave. The training was the same too, except for our improving skills. And I did improve. After a few weeks I could fire the gun straight and hit more targets than I missed. My punches became harder and faster, my kicks more accurate. I was the fastest in class Six-E at the assault course. At twelve-hundred hours we stopped, and were given food. The same food. Then at thirteen-hundred hours the training would begin again. After we had been given our evening meal, I would attempt to persuade my associates to participate in some pastime or another. I took a liking to Three-one-six; he seemed interested in what I had to say, and wanted to join in my games. But Two was always there, disapproving, telling me that the only thing I could do was nothing at all. I could not do nothing. It made me bored. So I went to sleep.
Then, one night - a month and two days after I had joined Squadron Three - I heard a noise whilst I was trying to get to sleep. A faint throbbing sound. I rolled over onto my back and lay still, listening. It was definitely there, a muted rumbling that seemed to travel up through the floor itself. Was it coming from beneath us? Or outside? I strained my ears, but the noise had stopped.
Slowly, I picked my thoughts through the slipping fog of sleepiness. I always wondered what there was outside. I’ve never seen the outside of this hall since the day I was awakened. Maybe..I shuddered a bit..maybe it was the enemy. Who was the enemy anyway? Why were we all so badly scared? In the time I had been here, I had almost forgotten about our true purpose, so wrapped up in the training procedures had I been. In fact, the noise I heard had jolted me back to the reality of what we faced. What we faced... What did we face? No one knew.
I was thrust out of my ponderings when I heard, suddenly and unexpectedly, the clunk, clunk, clunk, of someone climbing the metal stairway. I could not see that far in the gloom. Who was it? Two? The thought filled me with dread. Was he going to report to Sir? What would he say? About me? What would he do to me?
Questions and uncertainties roared around my brain, stirring up the fear inside me. I did not know what to do. Should I just wait here, wait and hope that it had nothing to do with me? But whichever of my previous musings was correct, I would be drawn into this. I could not sit idly and await my fate. No; I would do something I was sure I could. I would follow.
Having made my decision, I acted on it immediately. I hauled myself upright and ghosted across the floor of the enormous room, surrounded by the quiet undertone of men's breathing. When I reached the bottom of the metal stairs, I hesitated. I did not want to be heard following. I could still hear the clunking footsteps as they receded into the metal corridors above.
Swiftly, I removed the heavy black boots that Sir had given me on my first day. For some reason, it pained me to leave them sitting so forlornly at the bottom of the stairs as I made my quiet way up. Perhaps because they were some of my only possessions. They were my boots, no one elses'. The steps were cold under my feet, the criss-cross reinforcements digging into my soles. I glanced back as I reached the walkway, but my boots were already lost in the blackness below.
I plunged myself into the dark veins of the building, guided only by the echoing footsteps of the person I trailed. Barefoot, my own steps were soft and inaudible.
Right. Left. Right. Right. At the next junction, the footsteps before me halted. The man hesitated. I stood a few metres behind, hidden by the darkness . Then I heard a hesitant knocking.
"Come in." A clipped, articulate tone, a voice I had not heard before.
The creak of a door sounded. Yellow light spilled out into the corridor, illuminating the man who stood in front of me. Two. I thought so. I shrank further back into the shadows, but it was not necessary. Two entered the room beyond the door, but left it open. I flitted to the other side of it, and pressed myself flat against the wall there. Where had I learnt these tricks of stealth and secrecy? Were they instinctive? But I did not dwell on these thoughts. I wanted to hear what would go on behind the door in the room of yellow light.
"Ah, you are Two, if I'm not mistaken?" Again, the same precise voice. He placed the words meticulously in the sentence.
"Yes, sir."
Sir? That wasn't Sir. Sir's voice was deep and gruff, brimming with suppressed anger. Was there another Sir? I battled with my confusion in the darkness.
"What's this all about?" Ah, that was Sir.
"Sir," said Two. Who was he addressing this time? "It's about one of the others. One of the new ones." Two's voice had lost all traces of anger or even disdain that he had shown he possessed over the month I had known him. It had dropped to the expressionless, dull tone that I had first heard him speak.
"Which one would this be?" the voice-I-did-not-know asked.
"Three-one-four." I stiffened. What was Two going to tell them? What had I done?
"Three-one-four," mused Sir's rough voice. "Always knew he'd be a trouble-maker. What's he done?"
"He asks questions, sir. Lots of questions. And he tries to make us play 'games' with him. Like 'charades'."
"Charades, do you say?" inquired the unknown man. His tone was level and alert, but I thought I could detect a hint of amusement in it. "What else?"
Two seemed to hesitate, before saying, "He is becoming like One, sir."
"One?" The voice was surprised. "Well..." Then it addressed Sir soberly. "What do you think?"
"One was a danger and a liability to the whole operation," I heard Sir state. "He caused much upset. If Three-one-four is showing any signs of his type of behaviour, I would suggest that he be dealt with the same way, sir."
My confusion soared. Becoming like One? Dealt with how? And who was this person that even Sir was calling sir? I leant my head back against the metal wall behind me, and closed my eyes briefly. My head was spinnig. What should I do?
"I think you are right," the clipped voice was saying. "Yes, I am sure that we do not want another situation like that on our hands." A pause. "Thank you, Two. You have done well."
"Would you like me to deal with it now, sir?" Sir asked.
"Yes," the man said. "Yes, I do. Go with Two and smooth out this little mishap."
"Yes, sir."
My mind may not yet have realised the full import of this news, but my body reacted rapidly. I slipped away down the corridor before Sir and Two left the room, heading in the opposite direction. But where was I to go now? This place was a maze of corridors, and I knew of nowhere to go. Or did I? There was only one place that I had been other than the immense training area. And I could remember how to reach it.
Right. Left. Left. Left. Right. My memory held the directions for me, of that first journey with Sir. Left. Right. Right. There. I pushed open the double doors and entered.
Red lights winked at me from all directions. The room seemed to be a galaxy of crimson stars. Then I looked past them, at the little metal hatches, displaying their numbers and beckoning to me with their handles. I answered their call. Slowly, I walked over to one randomly. Seven-eight-five. I reached for the handle, running my hand up and down i's cool length before tightening my fingers around it. The red light flashed at me as though in reprimand, but I did not heed it. I drew the hatch away from the wall.
White light burst out at me from the opening, harsh and bright. Warm. I shielded my eyes from the glare with my free hand and peered inside.
A man lay there. He was naked, with fair, unblemished skin and black hair that lay, long and luxurious, upon the padding beneath him. His eyes were closed, his mouth relaxed. I leaned closer, put my cheek near to those soft lips. He was not breathing. I jerked my head back. Dead? Was this what dead meant? Not moving, not breathing? Was this a place full of dead people? But... I had come from here! I had been born here! I set a hand to the man's brow, unwilling to believe what I knew was true. His skin was dry and cold. Gently, I stroked the side of his face with one finger. Dead. Dead...
"Get away from there!"
I stumbled away from the dead man in shock. Sir stood in the doorway, his face set in a fierce, one-sided scowl. One of his eyebrows had completely disappeared under his eye-patch.
"Knew I'd find you here," Sir continued, "when you weren't in the hall. Your kind just don't have any thoughts of your own, do you? Always following where you're led." He paused. "But then, that's why I'm here, isn't it? Because you-" He spat out the word. "-think that you're different. Think you're special, don't you?"
I found that I was backing away from him, my hands raised in a futile gesture of protection. "No," I protested. "I don't think I'm special. I'm me. I'm just me!"
"No!" Sir growled. "No! You are not 'just you'! You are part of a collective! You are Three-one-four, and that's all you'll ever be!"
Anger stirred within me. "No," I contradicted him, letting my hands drop. They balled to fists by my sides, almost of their own accord. "I am an individual. Everyone is an individual."
"That's where you're wrong," Sir hissed. Then, before I had time even to blink, he raised the concealed pistol from behind him. The laser-bolt shot out in an instant, blasting away my right arm.
I took a step backward. I blinked. I turned my head. I stared blankly at my shoulder. My mind refused to register what my eyes were telling me. Where previously my strong, healthy arm had been, there now only remained a tangled mass of damaged wires. Dispassionately, I craned my neck towards the metallic remnants. Etched onto each wire was a little enscription. Just three numbers. 314.
"There," said Sir with satisfaction. "Now try telling me you're an individual."
I raised my eyes to gaze at him. His own good eye widened, and he drew a startled breath. Then he recollected himself. "That's right," he snapped harshly. "That's all you are. An android. A goddamn robot! One of the same pathetic things that were responsible for this!" He gestured with the gun towards his eye-patch. "But no, you're even worse than that. You're a malfunctioning robot. You are nothing." His words washed over me. I considered them with an outsider's perspective. I was an android. A robot. A collection of machinery and binary parts. That's what I was, and that's all I'd ever be. I turned to look at my gashed shoulder again. Already it was repairing itself, millimeter squares of flesh crytalizing like mosaic tiles climbing an invisible path. But who was responsible for it? Who had built me? Who had led me on and let me believe that I was a human being? I didn't know the answer to those first two questions, but the answer to the third was standing right in front of me. A cold, calculating fury welled up inside of me, a spring of rage that I tapped and directed at the man before me.
Sir was not expecting my sudden charge. His surprise gave me a distinct advantage, and I managed a massive swipe with my good arm that sent his gun skittering over the floor before he could react. Regaining his intent, he punched me hard in the mouth. I fell back, spots dancing before my eyes. I shook my head to clear them, and looked up. Sir was already hurtling towards me. I did not have time to get out of his way. He caught me in a vice-like grip and slammed me up against the wall of metal doors. A handle dug into my spine and the back of my head.
"You little-" he began, grabbing my head with both hands and trying to force it against the metal behind me. But I gave a tremendous push with my one arm that sent him crashing to the floor. He paused for a moment, winded, then dived for his gun. But I was too quick for him, shooting out a foot and kicking it away.
With an inarticulate cry, Sir launched himself towards me, but I twisted away at the last second and ran for the gun. It felt odd and awkward in my hand. I'd never fired one like this, but I guessed that the concept was the same as the ones we had trained with. Using my thumb, I flicked a little switch on the side. A quiet whine told me it was now charged. I turned just as Sir was struggling to his feet. He didn't see that I had the gun. He ran forward.
"Come here, you-"
I shot him. The laser ripped away his leg. He sprawled forward, landing at my feet. He didn't move, but I could see his good eye flicking to and fro in shock.
I stepped over him, then sank down to the floor. I cradled my ravaged shoulder instinctively; it did not hurt, but I felt safer like that. It was only then that I realised there was no blood coming from Sir's own wound. I looked. Then I crawled forward, and put out a hand to tentatively touch the injury.
"Don't touch me!" Sir snarled, twisting round and hitting my hand away. Then he saw it too. His one eye went very wide. For, protruding from the remains of his leg, were several severed strands of wiring. Marked upon each one was a single figure: 1.
Sir's face went blank. Completely blank. All expression fell from it. He stared at his leg, at his number.
"Ah." The quiet exclaimation made us both turn. A tall, thin man was standing in the doorway, flanked by two other men in long white coats.
Sir lifted a hand feebly towards the newcomer. "Sir?" His voice was a pitiful croak, pleading, desperate. What did he want to be told? That his eye was deceiving him?
"I am sorry..." The man hesitated, then finished, "One."
At that, the confirmation of his fear, Sir let out a cry, full of despair and melancholy. When next he spoke, his voice had lost all pretense of hope. "Why?"
The man raised an eyebrow. "Surely," he said, "you of all people should know why. After all, you were about to end another for exactly the same reason."
"But I'm not ended," said Sir brokenly. "I'm here. Why... How did you..."
"Ah yes," the tall man said smoothly. "You must forgive my little whim. I did not want to end you. You were so interesting, so unique. I simply... tweaked your memories a little, modified your appearance," -Sir's hand flew to his eye-patch- "gave you an identity. I wanted to see just how human you could become, given the opportunity. A successful experiment, in my opinion. Don't you agree?"
Letting out a quiet groan, Sir turned his face to the floor. I could not believe my ears. How could this man be so unrepentant? He had played Sir along, letting him believe that he was someone else, letting him believe he had a life. Deceiving him utterly. I could forgive Sir now for doing the same to myself. After all, look at his example!
At our silence, the merciless man gave a little sigh, then flicked his fingers nonchalantly to the two white-coated men. "End them," was all he said.
I gave a gasp of horror. It was clear now what that phrase meant. Each man was holding in his hand a thin black object, with two needle-like protrusions on it. A tiny red light glinted wickedly on each one.
"No!" I cried, scrambling backwards. Sir did not move. In shocked disbelief, I watched one white-coat approach him and plunge the black object into his neck. The red light flashed brightly, and the object gave the tiniest of beeps. That was it. The famous Sir, the infamous One, was ended. Dead.
The second man was advancing upon me, the black object held out threateningly. I pulled myself back along the floor with my one arm. "No," I whimpered. "No, I don't want to end! I don't want to die!" I came up short against the far end of the room, but still I tried to escape, digging my fingers into the gaps between the hatches as though I could squeeze through them, cringing away from the man as he came closer and closer...
A sharp pain surged in my neck as the needles penetrated the skin. The room blurred, darkened, then dwindled away into nothingness.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When I awoke for the last time, the world was white. I opened my eyes and stared, unblinking, into the radiance. Like my body, my mind lay still, calm, at rest. No thoughts passed through my head. No feelings swam through me. I was aware that I was now conscious, and I was aware of the stark, simple colour that enveloped me. And that was all. I lay in a sterile womb.
Gradually, I became aware of another being that shared my calm sanctuary. Bit by bit, it came into focus, the whiteness swirling above me and shaping itself into the form of a woman. A woman. It was the first time I had ever seen a female, and she was the most beautiful thing I could ever have imagined. No, she was beyond my imagination. Her hair was long and floated down to tickle at my face. I raised a hand and twisted a lock of it round my finger. Silky strands of spun white gold.
The woman gave a tiny laugh at my action, the notes falling gently upon me like silver bells. The laugh was a sweet melody.
"But I'm a robot," I said in wonder. "I’m not human.”
The woman gifted me with a brilliant smile. "Not here," she told me, her words soft and kind. "Here you are you. Just you. And I found you.”
I felt my eyes filling with tears. Grateful, joyful tears. I shook my head in wonderment. I had never cried before.
"What is your name?" she asked me.
"I don't know," I told her honestly. Then, as the tears spread out onto my cheeks, "but it isn't Three-one-four."
-*-
There is no need for names to be mentioned. Colours tell the truth better than masks of carefully chosen words. Green for the hands of a healer, hands that bring comfort to anything they touch except the body they are attached to. Blue for the heart that everyone forced to build walls around itself. Grey for emotions that may never break out because only those who are human are allowed to show them. Red for a boy still raw with a waiting that is unreturned. Some think long and hard, and some prefer not to think at all about things that hurt them. Even gifted persons have bad hair days sometimes, and bad memories they’d rather you not know.

-*-

Ring ring.

“Yes.” It was neither a question or a statement. It was just a yes.

“Hello, Queen. Nobody to answer your phone calls for you?” Smirks.

“Its Sunday. Students get off on Sundays.”

“Touching. The little things you’d do for them to gain their trust.”

Silence.

“Why, Queen, surely you’re not beginning to care for them pathetics already?

“I..”

“Tsk tsk tsk… well, do it whatever way you want to. So long as you have their trust. So long as we continue with the plan.”

Long pause.

“You will continue with the plan.” The voice rose just a little. “Or else you will not get your part of the bargain.”

“Who are you?” There was the slightest hint of fear.

The person on the other end seem to take new confidence in this tiny faltering.

“We’re the good guys.”