Sections of the obstacle course grind to life, walls rising, platforms shifting. I hate that I can’t tell if it is real or an illusion.This could be a simulation wing. They are used for military training to create mock battlefields.
The recruits fan out in a practiced formation and break off into a sprint.
“Watch carefully,” Ender says. “They have three days of practice on you.”
All I can see when I look at him is the gun, raised high, and then the thud of the boy’s dead body. He didn’t react when he collapsed. In fact, he seemed pleased that someone dared to fall for his trap. He wanted to send a message. He wanted us to know that we are mere pawns in his game.
“You just killed a boy,” I hiss. “You’re crazy.”
“Having second thoughts?” he asks. “The door is right there.”
“So, you can put a bullet in my head, too?”
Ender’s mouth raises in a frigid smile. “You’re a quick learner.”
Two recruits hit the sand pit at the same time, and Orion moves in without hesitation. He disarms one with brutal efficiency, a twist of the wrist and a rough strike to the collarbone that drops them to their knees. And then swiftly immobilizes the second.
Knox is fighting a girl, but he keeps turning invisible, vanishing from her sight, before her aim strikes true. A second later, the girl yelps as a practice blade taps her throat out of nowhere. Knox reappears behind her with a lazy smile.
Spider—my attacker—thrives in the chaos. He darts across the round platforms that were lifted high above the ground. There are rubber mats on the ground to soften the blow, but a drop from that height is bound to hurt.
Spider is light on his feet, taunting the recruits as he leaps from one circle to the other.
“You move slower than my grandma,” he calls, just as a recruit’s fist misses his cheek.
Spider hooks a leg around the boy, flipping him onto the mat below. He lands in a crouch above him and holds out his fingers like a pistol.
“You’re dead, kid,” he says.
I recognize the head of hair beneath him.
Aric.
Shit, he’s in this unit?
Ender watches it all without comment. His eyes track every movement, silently judging them. When someone falls at the hands of his companions, his gaze hardens, disappointment tightening his mouth. He expects perfection and nothing less.
“Again,” he repeats.
The obstacles reset with a metallic groan. The recruits scramble, sweat already darkening the gray fabric of their shirts. They have to race through this intense course while Ender’s pals chase them, intent on killing them.
I shift my weight, fingers brushing the grips of my pistols. I’m acutely aware of my own inadequacy. I don’t know how Ender expects me to keep up with a bunch of Gifted. They are part of a three-year program, which means some of them have been here longer than I have and are more advanced.
“You’re afraid,” Ender states.
“You brought me into a kill box,” I say sharply. “What did you expect?”
“The tough act drops at last,” he muses. “You’ve become aware of your own mortality.”
I look him dead in the eye. “You’re a monster.”
Ender finally turns to me with a severe look in his eyes.
“Your turn,” he says.
“You said I was just observing.”
Dread creeps down my spine. I shouldn’t have riled him up.
