My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori

Wilfred Owen

The fight between Matthews and Jacob Trials was over in both a second and an eternity. Trials would often remember it; not the physical blow-by-blow account as each man swung or dodged, but the feelings that almost overwhelmed him as they fought.

Trials was never in any real danger. He was already too fast, and he knew he was getting faster. His responses, his reactions, his very thoughts sparked faster than lightning across his synapses until it was only a question of whether his muscle fibres could be expected to keep up.

Matthews was strong, in some mix of nanite-and-drug-fuelled berserker-fury, but Trials was in control. Blows that could have cracked concrete flew over his head, passed his cheeks, sped through the air where moments before Trials had been. Not a single blow landed.

Trials did not respond yet. He knew he could end the fight in an instant, but he held back as the emotions washed over him faster than the punches.

Matth… The General had brought him into the Ministry, had formed him when he was an aimless, goalless youth just out of studies. In his own head, Matthews was truly convinced he was doing the right thing, and Trials wasn’t sure he was skilled enough to elaborate a counter-argument.

He watched as The General’s fist swung leisurely past his face, cracking into the door behind. Trials followed with fascination the individual splinters that broke off and seemed to float into the air, suspended almost as if weightless as they began their slow, inevitable descent.

The General’s bellow of rage was drawn-out and distorted, the scream of some primal beast denied its prey. His face creased and crumpled in fury, Trials studying every line as they slowly formed.

To control and limit the dangers of a rapidly advancing society surely held value, a shield against the many doctrines and ideologies that could lead people down dark and dangerous paths. The many perilous roads down which a man could walk demanded a guide.

Yet clearly The General was not the man for the job, if anyone was. He had stepped over the line too often and too far. But where should that line be drawn? And could such powers ever be given without corrupting the one who held them?

When did the needs of the many outweigh the sacrifices of the few?

Trials slid behind The General as he was carried forward by a wild blow, and wondered at this defenceless creature now completely at his mercy. He felt thoughts flashing by almost faster than he could process, saw choices and possibilities that expanded further than his mind’s eye could see.

Trials did not yet know the answers to his own questions. All he did know was that, here and now, Matthews had to be stopped.

He brought his hand down on the back of Matthews’ neck.