The week was particularly exhausting. Science of all magnitudes was crammed into my day, almost reminding me of the later days of schooling. The entirety of my days had involved cramming as much knowledge and information as I could, to the point I'd avoid most meals, and try to obtain a healthy amount of sleep. This was no different. Everything from atmospheric meteorologist analysis, linguistics, to psychology was all crammed in that small head of mine.

It was nearing the end of Friday, which meant a relaxing weekend for most before the first deployment onto Colony Negative with Acid Squad. I was nervous, to say the least. All the data and windows from outside clearly pointed to a stormy, chaotic place to reside. Winds could reach up to fifty miles per hour on a normal day and it would rain for days on end. What mattered most, was on the inside of these structures.

The entrance to our first sector was primarily above ground, so I prayed it wouldn't rain much. The weather on the first day of exploration almost guaranteed how the rest of this study was going to go. Rain was not a good sign.

A familiar, disgruntled woman walked towards me, datapad in hand.

"Doctor Carey, to what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked, not bothering to glance at her as I continued summarizing my data on my own datapad, "Did I fail my psych evaluation?" I meant that as a joke, but it was possible. After all, we weren't supposed to lie during those.

"No. However, data will be skewed before the mission begins. Supervisory Agent Damien Rok has lied dramatically on his psych evaluation," she answered, clear frustration in her tone.

To start this entire mission with data skewed would be a shit show. Obviously, an evaluation wasn't needed to see him as a trigger happy psycho. But, it would be nice to know that data and see it change (more than likely not) by the end of this mission. Again, some people lied. It was another to see data completely contradict what he was saying.

"What do you mean?" I glanced up at her.

"He states he was born and bred District Five, from Colony 503. However, his blood work indicates high levels of testosterone within his actual genetic makeup. None of his genetics seems to match the others of those around him. He's lying about the most basic question. Which means with everything else, he may be too. I was hoping you might know what his genetics might indicate."

I did know or rather I had a basic assumption. Once I got the data, I'd know more. If it was what I assumed, based on previous knowledge of the subject, then he really was as dangerous as I first thought.

"I'll handle it. Can you send me all the data we do have on him?" I knew that's what she really wanted me to do, was take over. And it wasn't exactly my field of expertise, but luckily all I had to do was follow a script of questions and that should be it. I spent the entire week avoiding him at all costs, given we were both busy. Perhaps it was time to pay him a visit and resolve this crisis.

We had to work as a team, even though I hated his guts.

When I found him, it was in the obnoxiously loud gymnasium. Music blared, which was nothing more than a cacophony of electric rock, screaming lyrics, with hidden motivational messages behind them. The room reeked of just pure sweat. My first thought was hopefully the janitorial staff got paid well to clean this shit every evening.

If my worst, and most obnoxious, of enemies could be in a single room, it would be this one. Had someone been in direct control of the music, the second I entered it probably would've been silenced. Most eyes met mine, nearly a hundred soldiers crammed into this spacious gym, all wondering what I was doing here. Clearly, I wasn't here to join any of them.

I liked working out, finding avenues to release stress somehow when I wasn't on Colony 501 to escape into the city. But, nobody here would see me in a gym unless it was for direct business, unless in the hours past midnight.

Damien Rok was benching, probably around three hundred pounds by my guestimate. From my end, it looked more like a warm-up given how quickly and efficiently he finished each rep. It didn't seem like it, given his gray shirt was borderlining black with all the drenched sweat. He clearly was strong, muscles not just artificial as an aesthetic for his masculinity. He pushed himself to the limits. It would be an admirable trait if it wasn't attached to him.

I stayed near the door, seeing an Agent move towards him and nudging his shoulder. It was clear I was here for him, which surprised Damien as he glanced at me, upside-down from his bench. He was quick to rack his bar, which is what surprised me. I thought he would take his sweet time to bridge the gap, but he was immediately walking over, wiping the sweat across his head and arms with a towel.

It was too loud to even ask him in here, so I nudged my head towards the door. He was smart enough to listen, still wiping that towel through his dark brown, sweat infested short hair.

"Well, Doctor, to what do I owe the pleasure? Do you need any information on Acid Squad? I already have personnel ready to go, if you'd like to get to know them," he forced a small smile. Charming. As if I would even want to get to know them. It was his job to supervise them. All I needed to know was if they would follow his orders...and most of all if he'd follow mine. I'd follow his, if the respect was mutual.

"No. You lied on your psychological evaluation," I jumped straight to it, my eyes meeting his.

He seemed surprised, "I didn't know that was something I could fail."

"You did. I'd like you to remedy that and tell the truth. You're skewing our data," I reminded him.

"Too bad," he shrugged.

"Is that how we're going to start this?" I straightened up, my tone borderline furious, "I get it, Rok-"

"Supervisory Agent Rok-"

My eyebrows narrowed down, "Sir, I need to know if I can rely on you. You being their supervisor means nothing to me. Your accolades, the amount of medals on your fancy dress uniform mean shit to me. I need to know you're not a complete psychopath and adjust my own actions according to you. I need to know who I'm working with. I don't like working with liars."

"So do I, Doctor," he spoke, crossing his arms "I'll tell you what. We do a psych evaluation together. Whatever you ask, I'll answer, and so will you. We'll get to know each other. I don't even know what I was lying about."

Fuck no, I thought. My eyes gazed to his muscles, momentarily, finding his biceps to be just as large and broad as his fucking shoulders. I shouldn't make this man my enemy, not yet anyways. It wasn't just the fact that he'd make my data even harder to evaluate, it was the idea that he wouldn't break a sweat if he wanted to kill me.

I'd sure as hell make him try and struggle, if the thought even crossed his mind.

"Is that the only way to get my data?" I asked.

"Yes," he nodded, "but again, I answered truthfully."

"Fine," I agreed, which made him smirk. It was a smirk where he got his way, for now. He could question, interrogate me all he wanted. But I had data he didn't know about. If he wanted to lie, his data would expose him better than any useless polygraph.

"Alright, let me get my things," he retreated back into the gymnasium. Five minutes later, he was back out with his duffel bag, completely changed. He wore black cargo shorts and a Milithreat shirt, pistol attached to the right hip, sword on the left hip. He reeked of his cheap cologne, probably to try and mask his lack of a shower. But he was ready to go, and I was ready to get this over with.

I snagged one of the many empty interview rooms, separated only by a desk between us. He sat in the uncomfortable metallic chair, immediately putting his boots up on the desk. Fucking unprofessional, he was.

"Agent Rok, how old are you?" I asked.

"Thirty-two, and yourself?"

"Thirty-five," I hummed, already jotting notes, "Have you ever had suicidal ideations?"

"Right to the juicy stuff," he laughed, "Have you?"

"No," I answered honestly, "Have you ever had suicidal ideations."

"No," he finally answered, too quickly.

"What means of coping do you use to contain your symptoms of anger?"

"My what? You think I have anger issues? I don't remember being asked this."

"So...no means of coping," I hummed, pretending to jot that down but I saw he was quick to try and retract the statement.

He lifted his hands slightly, bewildered, "I mean, I work out. I...fuck a hot woman? I don't know, Doctor. I remind myself of the mission, if my anger or any other emotional symptom becomes a problem for the mission, I correct myself. What are your means of coping with your anger?"

There were none. Therapy? Extensive, gut wrenching therapy might count. I wasn't one to get hot flashes of anger. A temper, maybe. But it wasn't violent by any means, merely built upon previous frustrations. I knew there were plenty of things outside my control. To adapt was the only option.

"A cold shower," I answered, "where are you from, sir?"

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"You can just call me Damien, Jacqueline," he corrected me.

"Jack," I immediately corrected him in return, "It's Jack."

"Jack," he repeated, "I'm from District Five, I currently live on Colony 501 in the main city. I hardly live there, though. I can't stand it. I prefer to be working out in the field, in some unknown Colony keeping the peace."

I loved Colony 501, in an odd way that I knew I didn't like people that much. I loved grabbing a cup of coffee, finding a nice bench near a public area, and just watching to my heart's content. People watching was much more entertaining than actually interacting with them. That would all fade away when I'd ride my bike and get cursed out by some idiotic driver on the streets. But it was safe, hardly any violence. I could walk the streets at midnight without fear, because my sleep was much more dangerous.

The city and colony had its flaws, as all people did.

We could relate on one thing though: we preferred to be working instead of just roaming around like most colonists did, lacking ambition or passion.

"I live there myself," I replied, as cordially as possible.

"Really, near SBH headquarters I assume?"

"No. I like a good commute. I live near this coffee cafe in the Green District. They grow their coffee beans right there. You can smell them harvesting and roasting them in the early mornings."

"Coffee of Colours...I can't say I've ever been," he spoke, which surprised me. Clearly he knew exactly what cafe I was talking about. "I live a few blocks down."

Crazy how we might have passed across the streets numerous times, probably thinking of each other as rude pedestrians and nothing more. I doubted that it ever happened. I didn't like the idea he lived relatively close by. At least once this mission was done, we'd never have to see each other ever again.

"You drive a Gazian? You look like you drive one," he asked, clearly not part of the psych eval. He was trying to get to know me, in an odd condescending way.

"As if I'd drive a convertible, horribly manufactured 'sports' car," I scoffed, "I ride: a Kamelot."

His smile remained, but his eyes gleamed a bit.

"I can see why you like your commute then, given riders have their own special lane," he hummed.

"Why did you lie?" I finally asked, seeing his demeanor fade into confusion again.

"About what? Where I live?"

"Where you come from," I clarified.

"I didn't. Like I said, I'm not lying," he grew defensive.

"You work in counter-intelligence Damien. You know when stories don't add up, when things don't make sense, that means it's a lie."

"I'm not lying," he seethed, removing his legs from the table, about to stand up.

"You're from District Six. Although it was never called that by its cohabitants. Sabbath, am I right?" I asked patiently. His already white face went pale, his eyes darkening, his breathing heavy. He wasn't angry. He was astounded. He was anxious. Two choices seemed laid in front of him: attack me in a fury of rage, or enter a state of post traumatic stress.

"How could you know that?" he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to relax in that chair.

"Your genetics. You have extremely high levels of testosterone, levels that no 'normal' man could just walk around with. If I injected that much into a random soldier here, he'd possibly die. We're talking severe clotting or permanent liver damage, maybe both. But you, you've been conditioned to it. Without it, your genetic makeup would look like any other male. Yours however, was flagged in my data. Now, it's possible you are actually from District Five, from a distant colony that perhaps Sabbath 'liberated.' But the truth remains, you were born and raised a child soldier. Your genetic makeup, your accolades, your answers to these questions...it's all ingrained in you."

"You know nothing about me. And none of your data or bloodwork is going to tell me who I am," he scowled slightly, "I hate people like you, you know that Doctor? All humans are to you are fucking lab rats for you to poison. You relish in the idea of putting humans into an impossible maze and watch them struggle."

"That impossible maze is called life, and I'm doing my best to solve it, same as you," I retorted, "we just have different ideas on how to struggle through it."

This entire conversation turned from slightly cordial back to borderline throat grabbing. It wasn't a surprise at all.

"Have you ever had any suicidal ideations?" I repeated, thrice.

"Have you ever killed someone, Doctor?" he ignored my question with one of his own.

"No," I replied.

"Could you?"

I hesitated, "Depends."

"On what? Imagine I was a man who had all the data you could want from this universe, that would solve all your life's work. But the only way you'd get it is that you'd have to kill me. Would you?"

"No. That would ruin my entire thesis," I shook my head.

"Which is?"

"Highly classified," I answered, which annoyed him further.

There was a moment of silence. Clearly the evaluation was 'completed' in terms that he did admit to the lie. It was a step forward, an angry one at that. He had to admit it to me, and I had to know his truth. I cared not for his past. I knew little into the details of the Sabbath other than they were destined to ruin my thesis. They would see this universe covered in blood, where the only law to exist was survival of the fittest.

"Milithreat knows, before you try digging further to try and blackmail me," Damien clarified, crossing his arms. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. If I had found it so easily from mere drops of blood, so would have his corporation.

"I'm not in the business of blackmail, nor going behind your back to obtain further information, Damien," I sighed, "You, however, have no problem trying to dig up my past. Tell me, did you find anything?"

He remained silent for a minute, glaring at me, "No. So, that biological bitch did snitch."

"Organic chemist," I corrected him, seeing him roll his eyes, "I'd advise you, Damien, that the answers you're looking for have nothing to do with this mission. And as far as I know about you, you constantly claim that mission is all that matters."

"I need to know if your actions will put my men at risk, or myself," he hummed, "why do you hate men like me?"

"Are you so used to being surrounded by like-minded sheep who worship you, that you think it's rare for people like me to dislike your type? You can destroy things in seconds, things that took centuries to build and grow."

"Without men like me, the second you start studying Colony Negative, you'll get a laser bullet to that smart brain of yours," he defended himself.

"Without men like you, I wouldn't have a crosshair over my head to begin with," I bemused.

"I have this great feeling that you and I are not going to get along," he ignored my comment.

"It took you that long to realize that? I knew it the moment you interrupted my briefing."

"Still bitter over that? He laughed, "You never clarified my question. You said it depends, killing someone depends on the situation. What situation do you see yourself doing so?"

"Protecting myself. Protecting the people I care about-"

"Wow, you actually care about others! Color me surprised."

"Fuck you," I spat, soon regretting it. I didn't mean to be harsh. But I knew I would always be seen that way: uncompassionate. People would mean less than the actual data they provided. It meant I could never fully understand people on an empathetic level. It was bullshit. I did care. I had to care. Some days, I cared so much it hurt. The scars hurt so much, because I had cared.

And men like him made me really not want to care.

I had to care. I had to let the science flow with compassion and empathy, something I knew I lacked at the moment given it felt like everything had been taken away. I was met with admiration amongst my scientific peers, and hatred from that of the militaristic ones. None of that was really, truly, enough. If I stripped everything away, just like they did with a soldier, did I have any value in this universe?

"I see I touched a sore spot," he pulled back slightly, his own tone calming despite me cursing at him, "that's good, though, that you didn't answer no to my question. None of my men, nor myself, will ever know what this science means to you. If such drive and ambition puts you in a sticky situation, nobody might be there to save you. I need you to understand that this will get dirty, I guarantee it. And anybody not from one of my squads should be considered your enemy."

"And if someone from your squad is considered one?" I asked, honestly.

"Then you let me know, and I'll handle it," he replied, but I could tell he knew why I asked that. What if he was my enemy? What if he ruined my data so much, caused so much destruction that all of this was futile? He knew it, too, that he had that capability. But, there was still a glimmer of optimism maybe he wouldn't. There was something in him that almost wanted me to succeed, to prove him wrong.

"Other than lab rats, why do you hate doctors? Whatever happened in Sabbath, it's not my line of work," I asked softly. I had to make up for my slight outburst, but I wasn't going to straight up apologize for it.

We were both in this odd tug of war together, knowing we should get along yet everything indicated we were each other's enemy.

"I suppose I hate data more than I hate doctors,Data? You hate facts? Was math never your strong suit?" I tried to jest, but I could tell from his stern look he definitely took this seriously.

"Algorithms, that's what they're called right? They predict things. How usually wrong are they?"

"Depends on what it was made for. They're not perfect. Is that what Sabbath had, an algorithm? About what?" I asked for clarification.

"Everything," he answered.

"Everything?" I repeated, and he nodded, "What's that got to do with me?"

"You tell me. They say the truth sets you free. Data, according to you, is the truth. Do you really think your data will make a difference?" he asked, "You found something involving cancer, and I applaud you for that. But, say they took that data and exploited it to make cancer even more dangerous, more undetectable, impossible to stop?"

"It'd be the same thing as someone taking your gun out of your holster and killing someone. It is your gun, but someone else pulled the trigger," I swallowed, knowing that it was a possibility my studies and data could be used for harm, but it wasn't my intention, "Not all data is foolproof. You're six-foot-four. That is a given fact, a data I can't change without cutting your legs off. Algorithms are built by humans, humans are inherently flawed, which means so is the algorithm. So is data. Everything I've produced is biased, flawed, imperfect. Science is a theory. Whatever Sabbath told you, whatever those doctors told you, it's theory, and nothing more. Besides, in my experience, Sabbath's logic was incredibly flawed."

He remained silent, for just a moment to ponder. I could see there was a small narrow avenue that maybe I got through to him, but another side was wanting to reject it. Whatever he had been told, he firmly believed it.

"You asked the suicide question twice," he observed.

"You didn't answer it the first time," I shrugged, wondering what that had to do with this. It was normal in any psych evaluation to bring up something in this matter. He should know that, after all, he did his own evaluations with Milithreat all the time.

"Are we done here?" he finally asked, and I nodded.

"We were done the moment you clarified your dishonesty." Which was true, yet he had still continued to probe, so I assumed he still had plenty of questions. It was still clear he had questions, fighting with himself whether to ask them or not.

"I didn't mean to be dishonest."

"There are some things you can't hide, Damien. I won't hold it against you."

He got from his chair, scooting it in before taking one last glance at me, "Yeah, not all of us get to wear masks. We make first ground Monday at 0800, with or without you. I hope you succeed in your mission, Doctor Deveraux"

I gritted my jaw behind the mask, avoiding exhaling a frustrated breath because he'd be able to hear it. I held my breath, watching him glance at me one last time before closing the door, leaving me there alone for a moment.

"I hope you succeed too, Damien," I whispered to myself, although I knew a truth that had to be solidified. Neither of us could both succeed. It felt doomed from the start, that if I got everything I needed, he wouldn't. If he won, there would be nothing left for me to calculate. If war with the other Districts was to be fought indirectly on this Colony, unbeknownst to the rest of the universe, it was a war Damien would want to win.

District Six was nowhere near involved with Colony Negative. They didn't have the means financially to even be here, and more than likely had a minimal force. That didn't mean they didn't have their fingers involved in this plot somehow. I could care less if Damien was from there, it was the fact he tried to hide it. Maybe he hated Sabbath as much as I did, or maybe he was still an extension of their attempt at controlling the universe through blood. If he truly was a soldier brought up in the Sabbath ideas, failure was not an option.

I had failed once already. I couldn't do it again. I feared Damien had never lost before, which already gave him the advantage. A man like him never liked to lose...which is why I couldn't let him win.

No matter what, I can't let him win.