Fragments and droplets slide down walls...
...pooling at the edges of desks and chairs. Another soldier near the front staggers, his boots finding uncertain footing on the slick floor. An analyst close to Tara's former position lowers her gaze, one hand clamped firmly over her mouth. Another analyst, leans forward and lets out a strained retch that echoes in the abrupt hush.
Emily stands still, her posture rigid. She attempts to speak, but no sound emerges, her throat working silently. Lowry's gun hand drifts downward, his grip faltering momentarily. "S-shit," he manages. His eyes flick to the remains on the floor, the blood-spattered walls.
A voice—soft, amused—threads itself into the silence. The child releases a short, airy laugh, pressing a hand lightly against his own forehead. Then, pitching his tone to something almost playful, he murmurs, "A demonstration. Understand now? No salvation. No escape. Only me."
At these words, several analysts recoil, some shuffling backward, others turning their faces away. One knocks a pen holder onto the floor, scattering pens and markers in a small clatter.
Lowry clears his throat, "Maintain order!" he repeats, the second syllable hitching slightly. "We're here to ensure safety and security. Cooperation is not optional." He scans the crowd, jaw set. Inside his head though...
Damn it, how did this happen? I just wanted have fun. Those kids… their pain. Did Santos cause this shit? He's probably… dead now. This is worse than Zola...
The child's attention drifts downward, inspecting a bright red stain on the floor, then he crouches. A laugh escapes him. "How exquisite," he remarks softly, turning his head to examine the patterns of red and gray on the floor. "Her blood catches the light… so beautifully. I wonder if she had someone who called her family?" His gaze lifts, spotting Lowry's uneasy posture. The child smirks. "Curiouser and curiouser."
Lowry attempts to speak again, "By order of—"
Before he can finish, the child's voice slices cleanly through the air. "Did I give you permission to speak, boy?"
The child's lips begin to move, "Eshara kynath moritu… Zhal'hratoss vemir,"
As he speaks, the air around him seems to shimmer and pulse. Suddenly, a fierce gust of wind materializes within the confines of the room. It starts as a mere whisper but quickly grows centered around the child. With a terrifying force, the wind surges towards Lowry, who has barely a moment to widen his eyes in shock before...
...it slashes through him...
The force of the mystical wind is so potent that it cleaves Sergeant Lowry in half. The two sections of his body fall apart, hitting the ground with a gruesome thud, blood pooling around the severed edges in a stark, horrifying display.
Emily stands...no thoughts in her head.
The room is silent except for the harsh breathing of those around her.
The child's voice shifts suddenly. Though soft, it carries effortlessly over the hush that has settled, "You have all been chosen," he announces, rolling the words slowly, as if savoring them. A smile touches his lips. His golden eyes, steady and unblinking. "Be grateful. Your fleeting lives now serve a higher nourishment..."
"Nal'eshar de'umos solith!"
He claps his hands. Instantly, a powerful gust of wind bursts into being. Papers swirl into chaotic flurries, monitors flicker, and garments whip against skin. Doors slam shut, the sound of each one crashing into its frame echoing.
He begins to pace among them, stepping with a languid grace between desks and bodies. A soft chuckle escapes him, light and airy.
"This," he remarks, "is my favorite part."
A soldier near Lowry's position breaks the silence. His voice shakes, but he manages a shout: "All soldiers, fire!"
There's a flurry of action. The crack of gunfire pierces the air, bullets tearing through the atmosphere. The child turns his head slightly...unamused.
"Ah," he says, "you're all so very… boring."
He lifts his hand with a casual flick of his wrist. The wind returns, but this time it's no mere gust. Everyone can see it now—thin, shimmering currents of air swirling into a barrier between him and the line of soldiers. The bullets, already fired in desperation, strike this invisible wall and clatter harmlessly to the floor in front of him.
"Even so..." the child says quietly, "I thought you might have come with something... more." He taps a finger lightly against his chin.
Around the room, a handful of soldiers fumble to adjust their aim, rifles rattling in uncertain grips. A sergeant near the front shifts his stance, boots scraping softly on the floor as he tries to steady his trembling knees. Pens roll off tables, a few monitors flicker, and someone swallows hard, the gulp audible.
A subtle shift in the air sets the next moment into motion...
The shimmering distortion at the child's command seems to take form—thin, glinting streaks in the space between him and the ranks of soldiers. Without preamble, the currents lunge forward.
Only a muted hiss...
Midway through raising a weapon, a soldier's hand slips to his side. Another tries to shout a warning but only forms half a syllable before stopping. Weapons clatter against the floor, accompanied by faint, liquid sounds. Limbs drop quietly, torsos slide apart without so much as a cry. The smell of heated metal and fresh red fluid thickens, drifting toward the analysts who now stand motionless, pressing knuckles against lips or gripping furniture until tendons strain.
The child remains where he is...
A young analyst near the back sets down a clipboard, her hands shaking so badly that another pen rolls off and tinks softly against the floor. Another analyst kneels to pick it up, then thinks better of it, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. Several of them step back, bumping into one another, chairs squeaking as they press themselves away.
In this new stillness, the child lifts his gaze slowly, scanning the room. The door on the far side remains sealed, the lights overhead buzzing quietly. A single soldier's helmet, detached and rolling, settles near a desk with a final, hollow sound.
He steps forward, letting the silence hang. "I'll spare five of you," he says. He raises a hand, fingers splayed carelessly. "Yes, five's a nice number. Should I pick them now?" He chuckles lightly, shaking his head. "No, that's too easy. I'd like a show, something raw and… entertaining."
The analysts and technicians exchange looks—some inch backward. No one speaks.
"You don't get it, do you?" he says with a breathy laugh, tapping a fingertip against his chin. "Let's make it simple." His tone shifts. "Kill each other." He spreads his arms as though presenting a stage. "Come on, impress me. Let's see what that 'humanity' thing is worth when the chips are down."
Emily takes a step back, shoulders tense, eyes darting between the child and her colleagues. Grace stands near her, hands half-raised. Across the room, Lucas makes a sudden move toward Derek Miller—quiet Derek, who spent the morning hunched over data sets, who lost a child recently and had barely spoken since. Lucas's hands close around Derek's throat, squeezing...
Derek's feet scrape at the floor, his nails skittering against Lucas's arms, leaving faint red lines.
Emily tries to move, to intervene. She pushes past a coworker who stumbles aside, her shoes clicking against spilled coffee and something darker. "Lucas!" she calls, voice strained, but he doesn't seem to hear. She takes another step, arms reaching out, but then—crack. A wooden chair arcs through the air, colliding with the side of her head. A dull thud follows as she drops to the floor, vision splintering into muffled shapes. The tablet she was holding earlier lies somewhere behind her...
From her new vantage point on the cold tiles, Emily sees shoes scuffling, hears muffled grunts, a scream truncated into a wet cough. She tries to focus, blinking slowly, each blink longer than the last. The child's voice drifts over: "There, that's better. A little effort. A bit of fire in your bellies—if only for a short while."
More shuffling sounds, a few shrieks, then something topples over. The rustle of clothing, the hiss of lab coats brushing surfaces, a series of dull impacts—like sacks of grain hitting a warehouse floor. All of it gradually ebbs, the desperate struggles fading into a subdued hush.
Slowly, she steadies herself, pressing a trembling hand against a nearby desk for support. Her vision still swims, and the coppery tang of blood fills her nostrils with each shallow breath. Bit by bit, she forces her gaze upward...
... to bodies scattered like discarded mannequins, their limbs bent in horrid ways.
A slight movement draws her eyes to Grace, sprawled only a few steps away. Grace, who used to hum softly while crunching numbers, who offered Emily a steady smile on long nights—Grace now lies still, eyes fixed on some distant point above, mouth slack. Emily tries to speak Grace's name, but the word lodges somewhere deep in her throat. She can do little more than inhale shakily.
Then, breaking through her daze, laughter ripples across the room. Emily's eyes snap toward the sound. Near the center of the chaos, four figures remain standing. Lucas stands among them, chest heaving, face drawn tight.
Beside him is Rebecca Foster. She appears eerily composed, wiping the rim of her glasses with the back of her hand, leaving a faint smear on one lens. Her neat bun has come partly undone, strands of chestnut hair escaping around her face. She lifts her chin slightly, eyes darting around.
Next to Rebecca stands Michael Zheng. He shifts his weight, scanning the room, muscles taut beneath his rolled sleeves. A faint scuff of his boot against the bloody floor reminds Emily of his background, that quiet strength he always carried...
Near him, Samantha Lee—eyes alert—looks ready to leap into action at the slightest sign. Her fingers flexing.
A soft, almost amused sigh escapes the child's lips, snapping their attention back to him. He paces leisurely, stepping over a severed arm. His white locs bob slightly with each step, the golden glow of his irises never dimming.
"Oh, don't act so shocked," the child remarks airily, "You're still breathing, aren't you?" He halts, leaning forward just a bit, a grin tugging at his cheeks. "Four survivors plus you, dear Emily. Five total. Isn't that convenient?"
A strangled noise escapes Lucas's throat, his face contorting. Rebecca adjusts her glasses with a trembling hand. Michael shifts again, posture rigid, while Samantha's stance grows a fraction lower...but trebling heavily.
Emily forces herself to form words, though her tongue feels thick and heavy. "Why?" she manages. She steps around a broken chair. Her legs threaten to buckle, but she keeps moving.
"Why?" the child echoes...
"Why not?"
He taps a finger against his chin thoughtfully. "You humans always crave explanations. Isn't it more fun without them?"
The child straightens, clapping his hands suddenly. "Bravo!" he exclaims, voice brimming with cheerfulness. "Absolutely marvelous. A true performance worthy of an encore—but let's not overdo it, shall we?"
His eyes sweep across the survivors, taking in their battered appearances, their haunted stares. He spreads his arms wide...
"You are all free to go."