Trying to keep the tension out of his voice Mitch asks "Can you please explain that a bit more?" She sighs again.

"Look, it's just a theory right now, but the higher-ups are saying that the people who are the most likely to die are the bottom ten percent from these tests. If they're even close to right, you have almost no chance of surviving the next Tolling. They think that whatever capacity people have to adapt to the changes the Tollings are causing are reflected by the test we're doing now."

Sweet Mary on a massive dick.

"So you're saying that those with a low score are most likely to die at the next Tolling... because they are the least able to deal with the shit they're pumping back in here?"

She nods. "Essentially."

"So I'm going to die in eight months."

"Most likely." She says it perfunctorily, but it lands in his mind like a tactical nuke.

"Fuck." He can't even muster up the energy to swear creatively. He should probably re-evaluate his opinion of Mutter Master.

"Yeah..." she says, almost apologetically.

"Do you have a chair around?" She nods and pulls out a chair he hadn't noticed from behind the desk.

He sits. "Fuck." He says again. She just stands quietly nearby. What can anyone say at a moment like this? "Sorry 'bout ya' luck"?

"You said it's just a theory though, right?"

"Technically... but so is Relativity..."

Shit... but relativity has a lot of verification; this probably doesn't, right? "Is there any proof? I mean, they could be wrong right?"

"They tested everyone in the armed forces last year before the last Tolling. I think they are probably using that data to draw some conclusions."

So, based on a data set then. Last Mitch checked there were over three million people in the Armed Forces. That's a significant representative sample. Studies involving just a few dozen subjects could be considered scientifically relevant.

They had to be wrong. There was an error in their methodology or something. The results are skewed. "Can you test me again?"

Another sigh, but accompanied by a sympathetic look. "Ok."

"Can we use a different machine?"

"Not really. I would have to get my sups' involved, and if they knew I told you this stuff I could get court-martialled." He looks at her in what was probably a pathetic way.

"Look, the best I can do is reboot the machine. It will take a minute or two but if it was an error in the system that should clear it out."

"Thank you." He truly is thankful, and it comes through in his voice.

She nods. He can tell this is all he is going to be able to get from her. If the result doesn't change, he is most likely entirely fucked. He's not a big prayer, but he takes a moment to try to send good vibes out into the universe and hopes that karma or whatever is out there listens.

After a bit, she says the machine is ready again. Mitch nods his thanks and hopes his sincerity bridges the gap left by the words he doesn't say. He approaches those silver handles again, this time staring at them as though they are a hungry man-eating viper. He stills himself for a moment before reaching out towards them. His hands stop just short of touching them.

"Grab the handles." She says, not unkindly.

Exhaling slowly, nervously, he takes a firm hold of the Argent Wands of Doom. She presses a button, and the machine emits a faint whir which he hadn't heard the first time. Did something change? He's broken out in a cold sweat. The only sound in the tent is his somewhat irregular breathing.

The printer starts and nearly startles him out of his skin.

The seargent holds the card it spits out towards him face side down.

If the handles were a man-eating viper this piece of plastic is a Daisy Cutter about to land on his head. He takes it. When he can convince himself that he is ready, he turns it over.

X0-1

"That's better! Right?"

She makes a face he can't quite read.

"Is that enough?"

"That's above one percent... but not by much." She says.

He tries to smile but fails miserably. "Thanks for double checking at least."

She nods and Mitch walks dejectedly towards the entrance.

***

Mitch's poor car wails miserably as he punches the steering wheel repeatedly.

"This is bullshit!" He screams at no one.

A wordless scream follows accompanied by two-handed shaking of the steering wheel. Startled people walking by in the parking area look at him strangely. "What's that dude's problem?" Says one. Mitch can't hear the other's reply.

Gritting his teeth and hissing a breath slowly through his teeth he starts the car and drives off; filled with rage and confusion.

***

He's been drinking for a while. When whiskey just made him more depressed, he switched to vodka. When that didn't work, he swapped to something else the bartender gave him. He didn't even look at the label. It could be fucking poison, what the fuck did he care?

***

Somehow he made it home. He's called in sick 4 days in a row and gone on a majestic bender. Booze, weed, legal, illegal he's run through it all. Yesterday he just asked his guy for whatever he could get for fifty bucks. The guy tried to tell him what it was but he didn't listen.

***

He's going to die. What can he do about it? No one even knows what the hell is going on, what's changing, why people are dying.He's just going to have to accept it. Let it go. Acknowledge his mortality.

There's no pill, no treatment, no alternative medicine.

Something about that thought sticks in his head. Alternative medicine? Like acupuncture or acupressure or something? Isn't that whole thing about the bodies energy?

As with so many weird and wonderful things he begins with a googol search.

"Fuck acceptance."