The board displaying our names suddenly changes to show the dead, as well as the ones advancing to the next level. I look up to see my name in white with a one hundred score next to it.
The first round.
Somehow, I know that I need to reach one thousand points to be crowned the winner. Ten rounds to be won, ten rounds to show how much I've improved.
There are other people too running around me, all of them having the same intense concentration, keeping their eyes on the prize.
It's still too early in the game to start fighting one another, the trials just beginning. Yet I know that whoever will reach the end with me is already dead, and my eyes filter around the room, studying each person to ponder my competition.
A smile pulls at my lips as I realize that this will be a piece of cake. The harder part is getting across all the obstacles.
With no time to linger, I hurry forward, the next stage of the test starting. Passing by yet another wall that delimitates the trials, I find a pit filled with vipers that takes up all the space in this enclosed area. And in order to advance to the next level, I have to cross it.
Fast.
There's a small rope tied from one end of the pit to the other, crossing right over the vipers. The rope is maybe the size of my palm in thickness. Enough to accommodate one foot at a time.
Considering I've had extensive balance training over time, crossing it would be a piece of cake. The only issue is that the vipers have already been agitated and they reek of violence as they hiss at me.
The moment my foot will hit that rope, I know they will pounce on me. I bet Miles is looking from the sidelines, enjoying the grotesque show we're putting on for him.
And if he wants a show, he will have one.
I still, watching how a couple of girls hurry on the rope, banking on speed to get to the other side. Although their movements are not slow, they are certainly no match for angry vipers.
The snakes attack from all directions, going for their legs and scaring them into falling down into the pit.
Their screams echo inside the room, and I lower my gaze, my lips pulling upwards as I watch tens of vipers coil over their bodies, their venom being injected into their skin.
I let another boy shoot his shot too, and I'm not surprised when he too ends up falling down, the vipers taking him by surprise.
There are more behind me watching with trepidation, probably trying to calculate how to best weather this.
I take a step forward, and with a quick glance towards the pit, I decide my time has come.
Placing my entire body weight on the tips of my toes, I concentrate on regulating my breath and slowing down my heart beats.
When I know I'm close to a catatonic state, or as I like to call it, quiet, I move.
One foot on the rope, my eyes are shrewdly assessing the situation downstairs, my ears perked to hear every sound made by a sudden attack.
I move quickly, and not even three steps later the first viper attack comes. Jumping up, I watch as it skids past the rope before lowering itself back in the pit.
My feet land back on the rope, my balance in check as I lean forward, the arch of my foot making contact with the small surface. I don't waste time as I prop myself on my hands, doing a somersault in the air while avoiding two more incoming vipers.
I thrust my body forward to cover as much distance as I can, my breath slow and calm.
This is key.
I can never let panic take over me. The moment I allow that, it's game over.
And so I continue to do a combination of jumps, high somersaults and hand walking on the rope, twisting around to avoid the snakes, sometimes using my feet to kick them.
Just as I am closer to the other end, I hear a hiss nearing and I realize it's coming from behind me.
From the proximity of the sound, I realize I have no time to duck. So I just turn around, my arm stretched out as my hand catches the head of the viper mid-air, my fingers squeezing its jaw shut so it's unable to bite. Before I get rid of it, though, I force its sharp teeth into a patch of material from my clothes, pressing forward until the venom starts seeping from its glands. Gathering it tightly, I secure it in a makeshift pouch.
Flinging the viper away from me, I jump on to the firm surface of the other side.
Not wasting another breath, I quickly hurry to the next trial.
A small chamber with a floating target, I pick up a small set of knives. The instructions are pretty simple. The target is touch sensitive, and every time I hit the center, I earn ten points. Ten throws and that's it.
Coincidentally, this is one of my favorite tests, since my aim is pretty darn perfect, if I do say so myself.
Glibly grabbing the knives, I let my eyes follow the target around for a bit, trying to learn its patterns. Since I'm convinced that a computer is controlling the movements, I know there must be a hidden pattern that will allow me to guess the next position.
Surely enough, a few seconds and I note a slight undulation, the target doing two ups before going once down. Then it goes twice down before going once up. The rhythm is repeated, but instead of a straight line, the target is moving in circular motions. Still, the pattern is clear.
I close my eyes, relying on my hearing as I count the positions.
Aim.
The knife embeds itself right in the middle, a loud noise denoting the added points next to my name on the screen.
A smug expression on my face, I just continue to anticipate each position, throwing knives right and left.
In no time, I've accumulated the highest number of points possible, finishing the trial.
Next are a few similar ones involving a combination of weapons and explosives. The first one is still testing our aim, but also our reflexes as we assemble a weapon from zero in order to shoot it at different targets. The second one is a bit trickier, as it asks us to detangle the wires from a complex C4 explosive.
The amount of C4 isn't too much, but it's enough to blast the one person who is messing with the wires. And so it is a life and death situation.
Luckily, I've been paying attention to all the lessons, and I've memorized every single piece of information.
It's gotten to a point where I don't know if my memory is mine or if it's been thrust upon me in one of Miles's crazy experiments.
All I know is that I only need to see something once in order to remember it forever, able to dissect it at atom levels long after I'd seen it.
And so I pass the explosives test too.
Halfway through.
I know enough about Miles' wicked mind to only expect the worst. After all, this is a test to separate the weak from the strong. The ones who will proceed forward and the ones who will not.
Dead.
In the back of my mind, I feel a little pulsation as I think about my sister, the first semblance of feeling in a long time. At least I'd managed to spare her by being Miles' exclusive guinea pig. She's been worsening from all the experiments he'd subjugated her to, and her body is slowly failing her.
I know it. Miles knows it. Everybody knows it. Still, if I can keep her alive, I will.
I'll do anything to ensure her safety.
I barely see her nowadays, though. Miles has me either in training or in testing every single day. The most I manage is to say a few words to her before I go to sleep. Even with my new physical enhancements I'm having some trouble keeping up with some aspects of Miles' program.
The psychological tests have been the hardest, because I could tell that slowly, without even realizing, they were changing me from inside out.
From the very beginning I've been forced to sit in a dark room with only one screen, nonstop watching atrocity after atrocity until I've become desensitized to everything.
Flesh? Blood? Bone?
I don't think there's anything that can phase me anymore. Certainly not even as I do it myself, the videos weirdly educational as they taught me how to cut and probe, the entire human anatomy su
ddenly at my fingertips.
And Miles had been delighted when he'd seen that I could memorize everything after one watch. So he'd started letting me perform some of the experiments.
When you've shut even the last sane part of yourself, there's hardly anything that can make you react. In fact, the more I'd started delving into the secrets of the human body, the more intrigued I'd become, finally starting to share Miles' enthusiasm.
I wouldn't put myself in the same category as him, but at the same time I know I'm not far off.
I barely keep my head in the game anymore. A few more mundane tests and I'm in the lead with a perfect score. I'm... bored.
We should just end this now, since we all know who's going to be the victor. But Miles isn't one to cut corners. Even if he has to sacrifice other potential soldiers in the process, he will see this through, ensuring that only the fittest are allowed to the next level.
Going through the motions, I realize I'm already at the ninth task, and as I see what it is, my mood suddenly improves.
Torture.
The voice from the speakers explains the task. Each contestant that's gotten to this point has to get information from the prisoners—all part of the Mossad.
Known for their thorough training, they are the least likely to break. Especially in the face of a few scrawny children.
My target is in front of me in a chair, hands and feet tied, a bag over his head.
I circle him a couple of times, trying to determine who I'm dealing with.
Another tidbit I'd learned from Miles, but body language can offer a wealth of information. Truth to be told, my only weakness is in recognizing facial emotions. That's why I never focus on the face.
Instead, I look at how the legs twitch slightly, or how the muscles in his arms seem to involuntarily move when he hears me walk around him.
He's studying me just as I am studying him, and the prospect of finding someone of equal footing has a brand new type of excitement simmering inside of me.
I may be but a child, but my knowledge far surpasses most people. My training too, is nothing to scoff at, and I know that I'll only improve as I grow.
And so to start my session, I remove the bag from his head, letting him see me, watching closely the way his shoulders relax, his entire body at ease as he undoubtedly thinks a child cannot possibly harm him.
Yes, underestimate me. It will be your death.
As much as I'm wont to admit, Miles has given me the best education. Drawing from resources from all over the globe, my mind is rife with every type of knowledge one would need to succeed in this murky torture business.
That coupled with my anatomical experience makes me the perfect candidate to exact the perfect torture.
One look at the countdown and I see I have ten more minutes until the entire test is over. But considering there's another level, I don't want to risk it by spending too much time with this gentleman.
I look down at the note in my hands, the prompt saying I must find out the location of a couple of off-the-books nuclear weapons hidden somewhere along the coast line.
There's a very basic kit of knives and torture tools. Nothing too fancy, just enough to do the job.
He wants us, after all, to improvise on our own. Use our creativity and show him that his lessons have not been in vain.
A sly smile appears on my face as I drag my fingers over the tools, knowing he's watching me closely.
Like me, he's trying to gauge who he's dealing with.
But unlike me, he's already underestimating my abilities.
I pick up the smallest blade, testing its sharpness on my leg. Satisfied with the result, blood trickling down the moment the tip of the blade makes contact with the surface of my skin, I bring it to my lips licking it clean.
The man is looking at me as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing.
Good. He's starting to become rattled.
Careful with the blade, I bring it to his shirt, the material giving way immediately, his naked chest in sight.
"Any organ you're particularly fond of?" I raise my eyebrows at him in question.
He sputters against his gag, thrashing in his bounds as he's trying to move towards me.
"Tsk, tsk. Now, that's simply rude," I add, plowing the knife right in his thigh, the move calculated so I don't accidentally nab the femoral artery. Still, it's lodged not far off, ensuring direct blood flow to the artery. The knife is so deeply embedded in his body, I can feel the bone right under the tip, a scratchy noise ringing out as I push and move it around inside the wound, creating a small socket. The sound is almost like nails on a chalkboard, the sharpness of the knife ensuring in cutting all muscle and connective tissue.
He can't even scream out in pain, though he wants to. And I am immensely saddened by that since it would have been music to my ears. After all, it's all I know.
Opening my small pouch, I take the knife out, watching as the blood shoots out like a small geyser, staining his clothes and falling to the floor.
He's watching me intently as I dip the knife into the pouch, coating the tip in a viscous substance.
He frowns, narrowing his eyes at me.
"Venom," I give him a wide smile, "viper venom," I amend. When I'm done scooping up all the venom, I simply place the knife back inside the wound, watching his face contort in inhumane agony, his skin turning red, his eyes bulging in his head as he's trying to bear through it all.
Ah, but this is just the beginning.
Letting him stew in the venom—literally, I turn my attention back to his chest, quickly making an incising from his clavicle to his navel.
Still having some trace amounts of venom, the moment the toxic substance hits his open flesh, he winces back in pain. It must be like a burning sensation that keeps on gaining depth. And as I cut deeper, his reactions worsen too.
"Let's see," I hum appreciatively as I carefully open up his stomach, flaps of skin on each side. "I believe you can still live with one kidney," I add, my hand hovering over the cozy pair in his side. "I wonder, though, how painful is the removal without anesthetic?" I ask pensively.
He's still not passed out from pain, which in itself is a feat and speaks of his training. Still, the moment he hears about his kidneys, and especially as he can gaze down into his own open belly, his face falls in resignation.
Got him.
Gag off, he's rattling off everything I needed to know.
Eyes on clock I notice I have five more minutes until the end. Satisfied with his answers, I simply swing the blade under his throat, cutting him up and ensuring a quick death before moving to the final round.
Crossing the final wall, I'm met with a surprising sight.
Miles is casually sitting on a couch, two tables on either side of him.
Even though I'm the first to arrive, there are a few others who also make it.
Immediately, we are motioned at the tables, split in pairs.
I'm coupled with a guy a couple years older than me at one table, while at the other table there is one girl with another boy my age.
In front of us is a spread out Go board game. My lips twitch as I realize what the final trial is.
Strategy.
Miles is a Go aficionado, and he has his own board in his office. He'd even taught me how to play it once, so I have the basics down.
Like chess, one player is assigned the white side while the other the black. But unlike chess, the game pieces are small, round stones. The aim of the game is to gain space on the board. Like a warring map, the pieces are like flags in areas conquered, the winner being the one with the most pieces on the board.
It's a titivating game, and certainly one that can give pause to anyone.
Still, it's no wonder that Miles has chosen this, aside from his personal interest in it. The game relies on the strategic placements of the stones to maximize territory. In his eyes, our success on the board should mirror our success in the outside world.
There is j
ust one tricky aspect.
Three minutes.
With three minutes on the clock, it's unlikely that we'll be able to finish a Go game and proclaim a winner. These games can last hours, if not days, so three minutes is really absurd.
Yet as I look at Miles, his insidious smile wide and almost feral, I realize he knows that too.
I shut down my skeptical side and instead focus on the game at hand, victory my only aim. So what if it's nearly impossible? I've been defying the impossible for as long as I remember. This shouldn't be too hard.
The seconds stretch as we start placing our pieces on the board. I'm black while my opponent is white. The moment the game begins, though, my mind hones on anticipating every move he could possibly make.
As long as I manage to calculate his moves in advance, I should be able to also calculate the amount of tries it would take me to win the game.
Our hands move with extreme speed as piece after piece is settled on a square, the territories starting to take shape.
My opponent isn't bad. But he's not great either, which works in my favor.
One minute and thirty-five seconds.
By now half the board is full, my pieces overshadowing his. But there is one tricky aspect to Go. Unless he declares that he's forfeiting, then the game could go on forever.
And so with the seconds trickling by, time ticking, my resolve for victory strengthens. I double down my efforts, picturing all possible outcomes in my mind as I lay a piece down.
I need to corner him so badly that he won't have any other option than forfeiting the game.
Three more moves and I have him where I want. One look at him and his lips are trembling, his entire face sweaty from the mental exertion.
I raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to make a move where there's none.
His shoulders slump, and eventually he resigns himself to being the losing party.
There's a resounding bleep in the room, and everyone suddenly stands up.
"Well, well," Miles says, uncrossing his legs and rising from the couch. He's slow as he comes towards me, his hand on my back.
Morally Ambiguous: A Dark Mafia Romance (Morally Questionable Book 4) Page 57
