POV Seth

Eight years later.

“We’re mostly a tight-knit group,” Seth said to doctor Margaret Yan, his therapist, when asked about his relationship to his squad-mates. “I keep my players so busy that they’re too exhausted for the infighting and politics.”

Seth sat across from an attractive, not-quite middle-aged woman. An Oriental jade comb impaled her thick locks, binding her immaculate look in place. Much like the hardcover books imprisoned behind glass in her bookcase, the comb was likely a generational heirloom.

He might have fallen for her soft-spoken statements and her refined poise if he hadn’t been listening to those same statements. He had noticed the way she twisted his words, egging him onto accepting her version of his experience. His trauma. Her narrative.

He might have indulged in the way she shifted her long smooth legs under her seat, enjoying the way the slit along her modest skirt hinted at her hips. Instead, he was annoyed by her deception, aware of the verbal chess match that he needed to play to get his nightly dose of REM inhibitors. Only two sessions in she had threatened, granted gently, that she could remove his meds, deeming them an unnecessary prescription.

She was a therapist, not a medical doctor. He had made the mistake of pointing out that subtle but important fact, to which she smiled her coy little smile. She claimed that she suspected they were potentially causing a hormonal imbalance, which may be the source of his delusions. At that point, he understood her role in his therapy.

Her job was not to overcome his trauma, but to undermine his narrative and convince him he had experienced something else entirely. There was nothing sinister in the games, it was just a psychological manifestation of his stress. It was possible, but there was more to his experience in the Championship game than just paranoia and stress induced hallucinations.

He hadn’t slept last night because he had failed to comply with her version of events. As exhausted as he was, he was determined to win at her game. She didn’t ask about his rest. She smiled when she saw him, no doubt noting the effects of her subtle torture.

His prize, a single white pill five millimeters in diameter, sat between them on a small tray with a tall glass of water. It was apparent to him that she was using his medication as bait, a reward for compliance with her narrative. For all he knew, the little pill between them wasn’t the REM inhibitor, but some other devious concoction.

He’d survive. Maybe she was right, and he needed to adjust. It was unlikely that the military was going to supply him with REM inhibitors throughout his tour.

Seth considered thanking her for disregarding his human need for sleep. He’d begin conditioning himself tonight. He’d adapt, and she’d lose her power over him.

A large abstract painting hung behind the therapist’s desk, reminding him of the chaos of the Killing Fields. Large spatters of red intermingled with the legions of yellow and purple specks which in his mind represented soldiers, all dying to the swathes of hostile black that dominated two-thirds of the painting. The spotlight above it, lit for the first time since he had started these terrible sessions, drew attention to the title placard beneath it: ‘Incursion’.

On either side of the painting hung a column of awards. Her diplomas and certifications were all neatly lined up beneath the painting, set in a row atop the low cabinet that bridged both imposing bookcases.

He caught her smile, noting that she had ensnared his attention. Whether she had intended for the painting to remind him of his reason for attending the Council’s Academy, he couldn’t say. He knew that nothing in this room was by accident, including illuminating the atrocious artwork.

“Records show you received your first notice.”

She was referring to the Mandatory Service Notice, service papers that outlined his itinerary to reach his training camp dated for his eighteenth birthday. It was a reminder of his national duty, served through a four-year tour on the Killing Fields.

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He’d like to say he felt nothing when the notice appeared in his school inbox two months early. Truth is, he froze when he saw the header. He hadn’t given his mandatory service much thought since securing a position within the games, and no thought at all after securing his second victory. But at that moment, staring down at the message in his inbox, his world tilted.

Attending the Council’s Academy, joining the games, and even the Championship victories were each part of Seth’s calculation for survival in the war. Calculation was the only word to describe his plan.

In the early hours of the morning, after his father had concluded with his late-night research, Seth had made use of his father’s resources to assess population data, specifically, war data.

Seth had seen a pattern. A meager fifteen percent survival rate for men and five percent for women. After having seen the likes of Regina, Hope, Esmey, and Elle in combat, he knew it wasn’t lack of tenacity, skill, or cleverness that led to such poor survival rates.

His barely twelve-year-old self dove deeper into the data, pulling out the details of the nation’s survivors.

Soldiers who had attended the Council’s Academy had a four percent increase in survival. Calculated at one percent per year of attendance.

If they were enrolled into the Military Program, their odds increased by a further five percent, calculated at one point two-five per year.

If they took part in the games, survival increased by seven percent, on a per year basis at one point seven-five percent.

If the team was among the finalists, there was another three percent increase per finalist position unless they were champions. Granting a potential twelve percent boost if he were a finalist every year.

If the survivor was a champion, it boosted the survival rates a further five percent per championship victory. Twenty percent total survival boost, if he could manage the near impossible task of winning every year. No one had held a championship title for longer than two years throughout their student careers.

Seth had won three championships as of this year, and he still had one more year ahead of him. By his calculation, he had increased his odds by twenty-seven percent, plus the fifteen percent because of a roll of the dice at birth. He had decent odds of survival at this rate, but he would not leave the remaining nine percent on the table. He wanted the best possible outcome he could reasonably manage.

“You pulled my records.” Seth stated without a trace of resentment. He knew going in, that everything he said, every correspondence he received, was heavily monitored, and would be accessible to the administration. It was part of their safety protocols.

The Academy was a highly competitive environment, not just with the games, but in academic and social status. There were rankings for everything. Combined with the separation of the homestead, parental figures, siblings, and friends made on home turf, the students were effectively isolated from their support systems. Mental unrest was cause for concern, which required risk-monitoring.

That risk assessment was part of the reason Seth found himself at the mercy of this specific therapeutic tormentor, despite having requested help with stress management on his own. He didn’t need help with academic and social stresses. He needed help to cope with the mountainous shadow that was his mandatory service.

“I will turn seventeen in August. You would have done the basic math to note that the notice was early. You would also have noted that I had received the same notice weekly for six weeks, and daily a few days before the Gala.” Seth had clued in too late several weeks into the psychological warfare, but early enough to recover in time for the final game. The tactic unhinged Seth, much to his shame.

“We have no such records, save for the notice sent directly after the semi-finals.” The therapist scrolled through her records with no urgency. Her delicate brow didn’t even furrow that there had been a discrepancy.

He didn’t bother presenting his own evidence. He knew the emails had been erased from his tablet the day of the championship game. His terrorist hid the traces of their malicious attack, all for what? A victory they didn’t need.

Seth could accept that he lacked the technical competency to follow-up on his terrorist, especially while quietly suffering through his panic attacks. He refused to believe that whoever was responsible was skilled enough to evade the Administrations’ technical security. Seth had been so bothered by the looming presence of his tour that at the time; he didn’t have the emotional fortitude to check something as basic as who the sender was. The message looked legitimate, and that was enough to cause him to spiral into old calculations, repeatedly.

Seth forced a smile at her response. What else could he do? She didn’t care enough to look a little deeper, and he didn’t have access to the message itself, or to the network to follow-up for himself. The status quo frustrated him, but finding the person responsible would solve nothing beyond revealing the person who felt justified in reminding him of the horrific ordeal that awaited his future.

He'd like to punch them. He’d like to have them serve in his place because of the injustice and cruelty of such a terrible calculated effort. There’s no way someone who had to serve would strike so brutal a blow, like threatening a life was nothing personal. It’s just business. It’s whatever was needed to win the game.