I was lying awake, wincing from the pain from my zip-ties and damaged knuckles, when a guard unlocked the door and pulled me up. “Let’s go.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“6:30.”

“I’m not supposed to report in till 7.”

“Things ’ve changed,” she said. “Now move.”

I smiled wryly, realizing that I was going to die in a pink dress shirt with my blood and sweat ironed into it. But then I got this morbidly humorous thought: what if Maggie convinced another schmuck like me to go to Cutters to spread the truth and saw my body—still wearing this dress shirt—hanging from a crane over Eliott Bay, as maws snapped at me like piranhas? Wouldn’t that explain what it’s like to be a Sickle?

“What are you smilin’ about?” the guard asked as she cut the zip-ties and locked real chains on my wrists and ankles.

“Nothing,” I chuckled darkly. “Nothing at all.”

“Then move.”

2

From Shiloh Kensington’s Audio Record, May 29th, 2027

Start Time: 0646

Alphonse: (speaking on phone) U-Um, yes. This is urgent. Yes. I’m a civilian. No. Yes, I understand. No. I’m calling about a trial that’s happening. Sickle….

Kensington: Seventeen O’ six

Alphonse: Seventeen O’ six. Yes, I understand. No, I understand. Yes—

Kensington: Article 3, section five nine four states….

Alphonse: A-Article 3, section five nine four states….

Kensington: I’m allowed to provide evidence.

Alphonse: I’m allowed to provide evidence.

End time: 0648

3

I was waiting outside the courtroom when I heard a commotion in the other room.

“Sir,” the receptionist said. “The trial’s about to begin. Yes… Yes, it is. That’s what it says on the sheet. No, it’s not at eight. If you want, take this up with… Sir, I understand. Well, that may be so, but it doesn’t change that it’s at 7 a.m. now. If you have a problem with this, you should take this up with…. Who did you just say? General Harris…. I’ll see what I can do.”

The receptionist started scrambling, making phone calls. She didn’t even say hello to the first person to answer—she just said, “This is about Case Number 1832. Yes. I understand, but someone’s trying to push evidence. They’ve cited Article 3 and are threatening to contact General Harris… It doesn’t matter, Ma’am. If they contact them, we’ll have to… exactly. So?”

The conversation was magnetic, drawing me to it. I didn’t want it to give me hope because the only times that seemed to happen recently had led to even more disappointment. Still—I wanted to know. I didn’t find out.

The door opened up beside me, and a courthouse professional walked out. “Mr. Nakamura,” he said. “They’re ready for you.”

I cast one last glance at the receptionist. Then I stood and walked into the courthouse.

4

From Shiloh Kensington’s Audio Record, May 29th, 2027

Start Time: 0657

Carmichael: (scoffs) I see why they sent you. These people are worse than the DMV.”

Kensington: They just don’t care, Mr. Carmichael. They’re just executing him to clean their books. His performance is a blemish on their record.

Carmichael: Oh, please. They’re not executing him for—

Kensington: You know that woman you were with yesterday? Ms. Kennel, I believe her name was.

Carmichael: Sandra?

Kensington: Yeah, Sandra. She’s a Sickle now.

Carmichael: Wait. When did she… wait…

Kensington: It seems you’ve got it. Even small creatures leaving a scratch can trigger the scaling process. And that’s all it takes. A scratch. Then, you’re taken to the nearest medical tent and go through lepidogenesis. Tell me, Mr. Carmichael. What do you think’ll happen when Sandra wakes up?

Carmichael: No… I don’t want to hear it. (someone starts speaking on the phone) Yes, this is Alphonse. Yes. As I said, I have evidence. I was there. I would like to testify.

5

“Sickle 1706, you’ve been accused of two counts of insubordination, failure to show up to duty, underage drinking, illegal gambling, and harassing an officer,” the judge said, looking down on me as I stood before him. “How do you plead?”

It took everything in my power not just to plead Guilty to the judge. That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it? That’s what the outcome would be, right? I knew I wouldn’t get a chance to speak, so what was the point? Still….

Listen, Kei. If you survive this, I’ll buy what you want, take you out, or anything, Anisha had said before she hugged me in public. So don’t do anything stupid tonight.

I didn’t feel like complying with her request even after the fact, as it felt like something to ease her mind rather than a practical request, but still—she was my only friend. Considering that I lied to her and defied her wishes, the least I could do was take things seriously.

I sighed. “Not guilty.”

6

From Shiloh Kensington’s Audio Record, May 29th, 2027

Start Time: 0715

Carmichael: It’s been tentatively approved.

Kensington: Excellent. Where were we? Oh, yes. Sandra. Do you want to know what will happen once she wakes up? She’ll be fired from Amazon, divorced, stripped of visitation rights from her children, lose her right to vote, own property—

Carmichael: Stop.

Kensington: Next week, she’ll start going through basic. That’s if she survives that long. If she’s anywhere near as prejudiced as you are, the women will club her to death in the shower with a bag of soap. Then, the military will roll her off the pier without an investigation.

Carmichael: Stop!

Kensington: And if she survives! (she raises her voice) The only right she’ll have left is the ability to have sex. They took that away once, and Sickles started burning bases to the ground, so they allow it. Tell me, Mr. Carmichael. What if that happened to your wife? Where the only thing she could do is have sex with other men?

Carmichael: What do you want from me? (starts lightly sobbing)

Kensington: I want you to get onto that stand and actually give a fuck. I want you to save your savior. That’s what I want.

Carmichael: He left us… Tiara died. Trevor… Sandra…

Kensington: He had to. Because if Sickles don’t fight on the front lines, everyone dies. You… should’ve died, Mr. Carmichael. (she parks the car as he whimpers and opens the door) Get out. We’re late.

7

I started the trial on the witness stand. I wasn’t an expert, but I was fairly certain that’s not where it was supposed to start.

To my right was the court-martial panel, the “jury”—if you will—if you could even call a permanent rubber stamp squad a “jury.” Sickles called these people the Four Horsemen because we were clever, but it was really just three guys and a bitch named Jill who had never once cast a vote of innocence, which ensured that the jury’s only two options were guilty and hung trial. The other three were just as bad, labeling nine out of ten execution cases with unanimous verdicts, with only one Horseman hanging the trial for those who got away.

Surprisingly, Jill was the only person that watched the proceedings, and she actually watched…. Not in the ruthless, psychopathic way I expected, but as if the weathered brunette were ingraining my face into her memory so she wouldn’t forget. It was eerie, and it made me question, if only for a second, whether these people were horribly coerced into this role and went home shaking like the soldiers who worked the killing fields before the Nazi death camp system was perfected. Then I turned away, remembering that I didn’t give a fuck about these people. In this world, it was us versus them, and unless they were playin’ cards with me, I couldn’t give a fuck if the Breathers lived or died.

“Did you fail to show up for duty?” the prosecutor asked.

“I showed up to duty,” I said. “You have transcripts and tracking evidence.”

“Ah, yes. I see that you got an order to report down by the pier at 1:16 pm. But it says that you did not show up at the pier until 1:53. Is that correct?”

“I was locked in a build—“

“Just answer the question, Sickle 1706.”

I took a deep breath, tonguing the fake tooth in the back of my mouth, wondering what Gamma meat would taste like. Then I looked at Slade, who hadn’t looked up from the stand. Instead, he was staring at a picture of his son that he kept in a pocket watch-style locket. He hadn’t moved.

I looked the prosecutor in the eye. “That is correct.”

“You said the doors were barred. Is that correct, Sickle 1706?”

“Yes.”

“And were you incapable of opening door bars?”

“Not without a physical confrontation,” I said.

“Is violence your first resort for dealing with problems, Sickle 1706?”

The corner of my mouth twitched. “No. I peacefully requested for them to open the door twice.”

“And did you follow up with them?”

“I tried.”

“I’m not so sure about that. After your superior officer told you to report, you didn’t leave. Instead, you contacted him again. He denied you again. Then you killed the stalk anyway. It doesn’t seem as though you followed up, did you?”

“I tried. It broke through the window.”

“And you chose to fight it instead of fleeing.”

“Cutters is built on a two-story parking garage, and opening the door would take too long.”

“But you left just fine after killing it, did you not?”

Suddenly, an official walked into the room and handed the defense a piece of paper. My defense “lawyer” looked at it in surprise. That little boost made me fight on. “As video footage will show,” I said. “I did what was necessary to survive. And under Article 117 section—“

“Objection, lack of authentication,” the prosecutor said, turning to the judge with a nervous gaze.

“Upheld,” the judge said.

“Wait… what?” I asked, looking between them. “Authentication? It’s video footage from the crime—“

“The evidence wasn’t submitted before the trial.”

“I was not given time to submit evidence.”

“You were asked to report here at O’ seven hundred, were you not? That gave you plenty of time yesterday and this morning to submit requests.”

“I can’t even request evidence.”

“Yes, you can. And you should have last night.”

“It was a raid day. This office was closed.”

“Then you should’ve done it in the morning.”

“I was locked in here!”

“Oh, yes. Why were you locked up here last night?”

I took deep breaths, tonguing my canine. I almost bit down, but there was this creepy balding dude who was staring at me the entire trial from the corner of the room and started shaking his head with a stern expression.

“I was tested by a military major.”

“Oh? It wasn’t because of misconduct? Public intoxication, intoxication of a minor, illegal gambling?”

I fell silent.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said before returning to his table. Yet the first thing he did was look at the defense lawyer.

The judge looked at my lawyer, a prematurely aged man in an unironed suit. “Do you have any witnesses?”

“Um… yes.” The defense stood up. “We do have a witness. They will be in shortly.”

The prosecutor froze and turned to him. “Who?”

“It’s one of the people from Cutters Crabhouse.”

My heart started racing when I saw Maggie’s face in my mind. Did she actually appeal? The thought filled me with this delusional euphoria. I’d latch onto anything at that moment.

The prosecutor turned to the judge. “Objection to the Admission of Testimony on the basis of Failure to Disclose. This is a surprise, Your Honor. You cannot permit this.”

“Your Honor,” the defense lawyer stood. “This trial is a full hour ahead of schedule, directly following a rift break and following a period of enclosed incarceration for the full duration of the evidence window. It’s within our legal right to submit evidence. If this isn’t upheld, I will have no choice but to submit a filing to the NMCCA and have this instated on the record.”

The judge’s eyes turned cold at his threat, and then she looked at the bald man watching me like a hawk. Slade looked between all of us with sharp breaths.

“Who is the witness?” the judge asked.

My heart raced.

“One ‘Alphonse Carmichael,’” the defense announced. “He is an Amazon manager who was eating at the establishment at the time of the attack.”

My eyes darkened. It felt like someone tore off a piece of my heart like it was a piece of bread and then dipped it into my blood to moisten it up. I felt sick. “Hilarious,” I whispered. “Man was late to testify against me, so he’ll hang me from the other side. Classic.”

I looked at Slade, who was looking around like a caged animal. For the first time, I noticed it. Fear. Not just panic. Fear. And when he looked at the balding man in the corner of the room, his face paled, and he looked at me with this… primal look I couldn’t explain before looking at the ground. He tapped his foot, body shaking from his fidgeting.

What the hell is going on? I thought.

“While it does seem relevant….” The judge began, “I—“

Suddenly, the door opened, and Lady Wraith, or whatever the fuck her name was (I refused to address her by Major Kensington that day), walked in with that big ass scythe on her back, standing next to the businessman I remembered so clearly—but he was different. There were thick bags under his eyes, and he was flinching like an abuse survivor.

“Objection!” The prosecutor yelled. “This man has clearly been coerced!”

Alphonse did the worst thing imaginable at that moment. He looked at Lady Wraith with a I didn’t, I promise! expression. Absolutely coerced.

The balding man wiped his face and looked at the judge with an expression that almost looked threatening. Not in an I’ll kill you if you don’t sort of way. It was closer to how a corporate boss looks at someone with a look that says, Really? Are you really going to do this? Because if you do, I will remember that you were the person who did this.

The judge logged the exchange, sent a strange look at the Four Horsemen, then at Lady Wraith, and finally at First Lieutenant Slade before scoffing.

“Have you been coerced, Mr. Carmichael?” she asked.

I swallowed hard.

Alphonse looked at the floor.

“We are the military, Mr. Carmichael,” the judge said sternly. “If other military members have coerced you, there will be an investigation into the matter.”

The balding man raised his eyebrows, and the judge swallowed. Alphonse didn’t notice the exchange; he just took a deep breath and shook his head.

“I have not been coerced. This man saved my life, and that’s the truth.” He shook his head toward the crowd. “That’s the truth.”

“You said that twice,” the judge said.

“Wait,” Alphonse responded with a nonplussed expression. “Was that a question?” He looked around and saw the blank-faced jurors and then looked at the judge. “It was on video.”

Silence met his words.

“Are you serious?” Alphonse asked. “You haven’t seen—“

“Objection!” the prosecutor said. “Relevance.”

“Relevance? How is that not—”

“That evidence was not submitted, Mr. Carmichael, therefore it’s not relevant,” the judge said. “It was late. Which is the same reason I haven’t ruled if your testimony is acceptable.”

“You can’t be seri—“

“Mr. Carmichael, if you do not stop speaking, I will hold you in contempt.”

Alphonse balled his fist and looked away. Then the judge looked at Slade, the balding man, and Lady Wraith before sighing. “I will allow the testimony.”

Slade snuck a glance at Alphonse, made eye contact with Lady Wraith, and paled, turning back in horror. Then, it hit me when she made eye contact with the balding man. He was part of the Beta Extermination Unit.

“Sickle 1706. You may leave the stand,” the judge said.

I nodded and sat down beside the defense attorney, sneaking glances at Jill, who looked like she was under the chopping block. The other Horsemen were now looking around as well, wondering if they fucked up. They looked at me. I just looked away. It was uncomfortable.

“Mr. Carmichael. You may take the stand.”

Alphonse entered the stand and sat down. Thick beads of sweat collected on his forehead, and his gaunt face looked shallow as if it hadn’t yet been filled with clay. He brushed aside his hair, wiping the tears from his eyes.

The prosecutor walked forward. “Why are you crying?”

Alphonse took a deep breath. “Because I didn’t know the person who saved my life was getting executed for saving my life. I’m a bit emotional about it.”

The Horsemen cringed, and the prosecutor’s face flushed red in annoyance, bothered that a case threatened to break his (doubtlessly) suspiciously perfect record.

“Where were you the afternoon of June 12th, 2026, around 1 pm?”

“I was eating in Cutters Crabhouse with business colleagues.”

“Where is Cutters Crabhouse, Mr. Carmichael?”

“It’s in Pike’s Place Market.”

“Are you aware that Pikes Place Market is categorized as a hot zone?”

Alphonse’s face turned red with frustration, and he looked at the stand. “Yes.”

“And did you have military escorts?”

“No, I did not. We were regulars.”

“You were a regular. So you were aware long before May 28th that you’re responsible for your own life in a hot zone.”

Alphonse’s Adam’s apple bobbed—hard—and his eyes widened with tears again. “Yes.”

“So you are also aware that when Cutters Crabhouse was attacked, Sickle 1706 was not responsible for your life. Correct?”

Alphonse’s eyes darkened. “You’re really saying that his saving us is the reason he’s being executed?”

“Answer the question, Mr. Carmichael. Were you aware that when Cutters Crabhouse was attacked, Sickle 1706 was not responsible for your life?”

“No. I didn’t. I honestly thought that Sickles were required to protect human….” Alphonse stopped and gritted his teeth, heart-wrenching emotions welling on his face. Part of me was moved, but the other part made me question what type of torture they had to do to a riven to make them question their discrimination. I looked at Lady Wraith, who was watching me intensely. Once she was caught, she averted her gaze.

“I knew I was responsible for my own life,” Alphonse said clearly. “But I also thought that Sickles were required to protect us in any situation.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Now that we’ve established that he didn’t need to save you, would you say that he could’ve left?”

“Could’ve left?” Alphonse looked up. “I suppose….” He looked at Lady Wraith, whose glare turned stern.

“I’ll have to ask you to wait outside,” the judge said.

Her eyes widened. “What have I done?”

“Guards.” The judge nodded to soldiers who hesitantly reached to grab her but pulled away and asked her to leave. She did.

In a strange twist of fate, that brief exchange likely saved my life because Alphonse had time to consider what the prosecutor was asking.

“You said ‘you suppose’ he could have?” The prosecutor asked.

Alphonse’s haughty defiance returned, and his eyes sharpened. “I suppose he couldn’t have.”