His light school uniform jacket wasn’t enough protection against the winter wind. He held the jacket shut, making himself small as he trudged against the biting wind toward his dorm.

His eyes watered blurring visions of students as he squinted his way past them. They travelled in clusters of twos to fours, rushing to wherever they felt was important enough to brave the winter cold to make an appearance. Maybe they were coming from the arena and thought they’d celebrate with friends. Sarah would still be partying in the lounge, it didn’t matter if the fan favourite lost. She’d come back to her room closer to curfew after all of her VIP guests had left. Maybe she’d know more about what went on in the game. Who was he kidding, she wasn’t interested in the game. She was interested in the people who were interested in the game. She was making valuable connections while giving them an experience that they couldn’t have anywhere else. If he hurried he might be able to make it before the last of her guests left.

He searched his pocket for his tablet to look at the time. For a second he was surprised to find it missing. He groaned at himself. He hoped his brain fog would clear soon.

“They planted a unit in the game to make sure they won. Just had him come in as a late entry. I didn’t think they condoned that sort of thing.” He hadn’t seen who had said it as they passed him by, but they might as well have been speaking into his ear. The conversation was replaced with the snippet of a new one as William worked his way through the street. Students were converging down the avenues filling up the main street, probably stopping in for some lively conversation over a hot meal.

“Why didn’t they use their guns properly?”

“They were just unprepared for the scenario challenge. Electronics were basically disabled.”

“Is that why they took off their helmets?”

Laughter followed which bled into another conversation.

“The games ARE brutal, bud! That’s just way things are. You’ll get used to it.”

“But what happed if people were killed?”

“No one dies in the game. And if they did, so what? That’s what they’re training for right?”

But people did die…

The image of the body floating in the creek surfaced. He killed that kid, but It wasn’t his fault! He ran pushing through clusters of students, hoping he wouldn’t be recognized. What happens if they pin him for murder? Would it matter? Would the laws still apply even though it was the game? He couldn’t be punished for defending himself, could he?

People shouted after him, but didn’t follow. Closing his eyes to fight back tears only caused the kid’s bloating half frozen corpse to swim in his mind. He tucked himself in an alley where he cried. What if they caught him? Then what? How long could he pretend that he hadn’t done anything?

‘Murderer’ his soul whispered to him. He couldn’t deny it. ‘You liked it too. You liked it when he stopped moving. You liked feeling the fight go right out of him. Admit it. You’re a murderer.’

He stared shivering at the wall only a few feet from him. He had faced death and won. What was the point if he didn’t feel like he had achieved something? That kid was trying to kill him. It was okay to feel good about not letting the guy kill him. It was okay to feel good that the kid got what he deserved.

He glanced around the corner to see if anyone noticed him tucked away in the ally. No one so much as looked over their shoulders to look back at him. His dorm wasn’t far now.

When he reached his room, he threw himself onto his bed and cried into his pillow. It was a shared room, but no one else was in. His crying slowed to a whimper. He wiped fat tears from his stinging eyes and reached for his charging tablet on his bedside table. He didn’t remember putting it there, but then again, his memory was hazy about a lot of things today.

He sniffled and activated the screen.

The date didn’t compute. According to the system, it was late November, four weeks after Squad VII’s victory. He frowned at the screen. He couldn’t remember anything that had happened in the past four weeks. What else had he done? What else couldn’t he remember? Did his captain do something to him, like drug him to make him more compliant? He had heard things about different training experiments, but he didn’t think anything was being tested at the Academy.

He was disappointed at the small number of messages that were waiting for him. After four weeks, he expected to have an inbox that was bursting at the seams.

He had a message from his father. That was weird. His father never messaged him. They had tech back home, but his dad preferred the old paper and pen way of connecting with people. William had been forced to learn penmanship back when he lived at the monastery after his mom died. Maybe it was a Red Order thing. William preferred sending a message across the campus and getting a response seconds later. Distance didn’t matter at all.

William glanced at the time stamp, dated the Sunday following the game.

I have business at the Council’s Academy for the next few days. If your schedule allows for it and if you don’t mind being seen with your old man, I wouldn’t mind treating you to dinner while I’m here. I know I’ve been very strict about your allowance. But if your grades have improved, we can review the situation.

Also, I’m curious about those games you always talk about. It might be a good time to show me what all the fuss is about.

Dad

The next message from his father was dated a week later.

I understand that you’re a very busy young man and that you probably didn’t want to be seen with me in public. Nonetheless, I would have liked to have spent some time with you. I get it, I was a teenager once. Maybe next time.

Love,

Dad

What sort of work would have brought his dad to the academy for a whole week? There were rumours that the Red Order was sending Masters to the school as part of some training program. Was his dad one of those people? He was way too important in Clearwater to get shipped somewhere else, wasn’t he? Maybe the issues in Clearwater had died down enough that his dad wasn’t needed. Or maybe the people decided that they weren’t going to pay tribute to the Red Order any more. He had heard rumblings every now and again, but he didn’t think that everyone felt that way.

What if they had to move? A knot formed in his stomach. Clearwater was the only place he really knew as home. Sure he had the monastery but it was like a giant orphanage. He was part of a brood, not part of a family. But then again, moving to a more prominent city would be good for him. He’d stop being that boy from that backwater town.