It was not a mistake. Lyssa checked online. She was in the M.A.G.E system. That was her photo in the student profile with her permanent case of bed hair and a smile that looked like she had been told to open up by a dentist. What were they thinking? Her gift wasn’t useful.

Maybe it was a fluke. A dangerous accident. All applicants had to pass an entrance practicum. Every year they rotated broadcasting companies to stream the event. As a young girl, Lyssa had watched them with her mother, in the odd times when the woman wasn’t out gambling or drinking. The practicum consisted of hordes of combat machines in a life-sized replica of a dozen city blocks. Watching people older than her hit robots with their gifts had been a blast. But afterward she had asked her mother, “Isn’t that a waste?”

“What is, sweetie?” Her mother would reply.

“All those machines. The buildings they have to rebuild. And they do this every year!”

“Subsidy, incentive, and advertising,” her mother had replied simply. “It adds up.”

But Lyssa had not quite understood what those words meant. And watching them emerge triumphant had been too much of a rush. She had forgotten her own question.

Until now. Those robots were designed to be equivalent to someone with category 2 super strength, enough to flip a car. Lyssa googled the fatality rate of the M.A.G.E practicum. The top results took her to their website, explaining the rigorous attention of the onsite healers and observers. They claimed zero fatalities since M.A.G.E was founded decades ago. Lyssa scrolled down. There were articles explaining the roster of robots they liked to employ.

Backline archers which flung waves of concussive non-lethal rockets at the students. Flying skirmishers with dive bombing capabilities. Enormous crawlers that leveled buildings by moving.

Zero fatalities? It smelled like a lie. Lyssa navigated to her M.A.G.E account. Her cursor hovered over the withdraw button. Her index finger felt the left click, ready to press.

That’s right.

Why did they accept her? She could not fathom their thought process. Her category 1 resilience was the power to not need a band-aid if she brought her kitchen knife down on her finger. She could be thrown off the swings by her primary school classmates and sustain nothing more than a dirty shirt. In fact, her gift was probably why they had hit her so much. It still hurt, of course. In more ways than physical.

Run.

If she went, she just might be the first fatality.

Like you always do.

Lyssa swung her mouse and tapped the exit button. She sat there for a while, taking deep breaths, until she finally calmed. Where was this anger coming from? Twizzlers. It had been a while since she had some candy. Yes, that was probably why. She ought to treat herself once in a while. She stood to grab her new wallet, stopping when the computer mouse came with her on the palm of her hand. Grimacing, she peeled it off her skin. The plastic housing had melted a little.

“…Cheap mouse,” she said to herself. She hurried out.

---

“Still here, Director Whitworth? Are you working or voyeuring?”

“Not an appropriate thing to say to your boss, Sokolov.” Whitworth turned in his chair, his hand outstretched but his eyes remaining on the monitors. A hot cup of coffee was placed in his grip. He took a sip.

“Big brother never sleeps,” he said.

Sokolov sat beside him, yawning. Then he inputted a series of commands on the console. A monitor zoomed in on a man drinking on a patio until the view rested on the tiny second-marks of a silver watch.

“Damn my friend, that’s a real Maurice Lacroix,” he said.

Whitworth tapped a button on his console. The view returned to normal.

“You’re not supposed to enjoy this,” he said.

“You’ve been on edge lately,” Sokolov said.

“You’re not?”

“What happens, happens.”

“Unless POTUS wants something, then whatever that is, happens.” Whitworth shook his head. “It’s like a rolling a lottery with this cohort.”

“What was the final count?”

“Five hundred desirables. Five hundred chaff. The genetic statisticians tell me at least a handful of the chaff ought to have something more in them.”

“Ha. ‘Handful’. How scientific.” He became serious. “What we’ve been told to do, it’s not what M.A.G.E is supposed to be.”

“I know.”

“I might resign after this is over.”

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know too much.” Whitworth turned away from the screens to look Sokolov in the eyes, lowering his glasses to do so. He tapped his temple. “If you resign you’re walking out of here a twenty-year-old in a fifty-year-old’s body.”

“Scary.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“I know.”

Whitworth returned his attention to the screens. A wavering wisp of coffee steam divided his view.

“Maybe things won’t be so bad,” Sokolov said.

“On what basis?”

“Hope?”

Whitworth snorted.

---

Before she knew it, the day had come. She had made a deal with herself. If she failed to find a job before the date of the practicum, she would enter and see what happens. So she put on some tough-looking clothes (jeans and a jacket), grabbed her bag, and hopped on the bus to the practicum city.

The seats were packed. She had to stand. Tall shoulders bumped into her as the bus jostled. She had to brace herself to stop her knees from falling onto the lap of someone’s son. The boy seemed excitable.

“It’s going to be wicked!” He was saying. “They have more applicants than ever this year!”

“Do you know who you want to root for?” The father asked.

“There’s someone with C 4 gigantism. He could grow up to six floors tall!”

“Can’t wait.”

“What about you?”

It took Lyssa a moment to realize the boy was speaking to her.

“I’m an applicant.”

“Really!?” The boy’s energy found a whole new level. “What’s your gift?”

“…You’ll see.”

“Aww come on.” He held out his hands. “Mine hasn’t come in yet. The doctor said I was still mutating.”

Lyssa was beginning to regret her decision more than ever. But it was far too late. The bus had arrived. The spectators were corralled to their seats up on the stadiums surrounding the practicum city. Lyssa branched away to the ready houses where all the applicants prepared.

And then the worst came to pass. There were people there she recognized from high school. She walked with her face turned away. If they couldn’t see her, then maybe-

“Lyssa?”

Shit. She stopped hiding herself and smiled.

“Carrie,” she said. “Been a while.”

“You mean the summer after graduation?”

“Yeah. Three months is a sort of while.”

“How have you been girl?” Carrie said as she hugged Lyssa tightly.

“I oof- I’ve been hanging in there. I think.”

“You haven’t changed at all.” Carrie’s smile disappeared. “Wait, the spectator entrance is over there.”

“Yeah.”

“Lyssa, you can’t be here.”

“I’m here.”

“This is not a good idea. God! They accepted you?”

“Yeah.”

“You have to bow out.”

“I’m… not going to do that.”

“Why?”

Lyssa took a deep breath. “I made a promise to myself to follow through with something for once.”

“Lyssa!”

“Okay I don’t know!” Lyssa said. “I just had this feeling. I had to come.”

Carrie leaned closer.

“Is it the voices?”

“I’m just gonna go sign in,” Lyssa said, nodding. “We’ll meet up when the gates open.”

“Lyssa… I can’t protect you in there.”

“That’s alright. I don’t want it.”

Even as she left she could feel Carrie’s stare on her back. Lyssa wondered why she felt so uneasy towards her friend, one of a very small number she had. She saw the concern in Carrie’s dark brown eyes and a tinge of resentment reared its head way before her good sense told her to be happy someone cared. But that was Carrie’s thing. She liked everyone. Lyssa wasn’t some special case.

“Lyssa?”

Lyssa wanted to scream.

“Hey Xiaoshu,” she said instead.

The heavyweight man glanced between her and the front gates to the city.

“Are you serious?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“Dude, you’re going to fucking die.”

“See you around.” Lyssa walked quicker this time, weaving through the crowd.

Carrie and Xiaoshu watched her go.

“We have to stop her,” Carrie said. “I can’t believe this. What is she thinking?”

“Raises the moral conundrum of ‘is life more important to the individual or the beholder of an individual?’.”

“What?” Carrie said incredulously.

“People have done this before,” Xiaoshu said. “Joining the test like that. It’s an assisted suicide. They usually put a stop to it when they notice.”

“She’s not like that.”

“Please. You knew better than anyone what she was like in school.”

“How could you say that?”

“She was never well, Carrie.”

“You knew that and you never tried to help?”

“You can’t force that kind of thing on people. They either shrug it off or drag you down to their perspective. If she’s made up her mind, I’ll respect it. I’ll see you inside.”

He walked to an open area and began a series of stretches, leaving Carrie alone to ponder the scenarios where she could convince Lyssa to leave. None seemed to have a chance at working. Before she knew it, the horn had blared, and the sound of great gears spun. The gates were opening.