Self-assessment

Man I forget which came first
the bad idea, or me befallen by it?
not giving a shit
...may we never forget you
Matthew Good - "Alert Status Red"

“You are out of your fucking mind,” Donny said. His dark eyes were as large as saucers. He lowered the certificate and eyed her with the most dumbfounded look Myrian had seen on his handsome face in the five years she'd known him. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Several reasons. But mostly to see if I could.”

He shook his head. “That has got to be the stupidest reason I've ever heard.”

“Not quite. They ask for your reasons in the psych assessment. Did you know that 26 of the contestants in the Game sign up to see if they could?”

“Yeah, those are the /insane/ ones, Myrian!”

“Like you're one to talk,” she told him sweetly.

Donny was not amused by that. He frowned in that famous glower that made his competitors knees turned to water in the Game. “I signed up for the money,” he grumbled. “You should know, you were the one who took my tests way back when.”

“Oh, I remember.” Five years ago in the assessment center it had been; Myrian had still been in her trial period, her initial six month contract, when Donald Wellington sat across from her at the table, ready to take the test. She could remember thinking he was hot, with those smouldering dark eyes and his trained and toned physique. She had worked through the questionnaire with him trying not to think about getting into his pants. It had been a relief when he'd left the room; he had been her last assessment of the day and at home she'd taken a cold shower. Myrian had always had a thing for dangerous handsome guys, the ones with the bad boy attitude. Donald had just oozed sexiness and danger both. When he won the Game a few months later, it didn't surprise her all that much. And from there on, he kept on winning- up until the victory in the Euroleague.

She'd had him at her table a few more times, assessing him on mental stability, on his coping strategies by the things he saw in the Fortress. Insanity was not something that would keep him out of the League, but the management wanted to know what they were dealing with before they set the contestants loose in their facilities. It all had to do with anticipation and creating a good show.

Every time she saw him, she fell a bit harder for him. And the third time she assessed him, she asked him if he wanted to go for a drink after the test. He had grinned then, a sexy smirk, and said yes. People told her that she was crazy for dating a regular League contestant. After all, he could die any moment. It was like dating a soldier who is about to be sent out to a warzone, Myrian supposed. But women through the ages had done that... and insane and corrupt and scary as the Fortress might be, Myrian had all confidence in Donny.

Yet after his final victory in the Euroleague - after the buzz of victory, champagne and afterparties had worn off, and after a long day of assessing possible contestants, Myrian found herself standing at her table, trailing her fingers over the screen where the list of questions was glowing. And she read those questions... and started to think. There was nothing in that list that she wouldn't answer that wasn't within the League's parameters. Psychologically speaking, she knew what was needed to participate and even perhaps win the League.

And she was a good shot. Of course she was. She learned from the best.

She remembered golden afternoons in the shooting range behind their house; dust and russet sunlight, and Donny's arms around her, correcting her stance, whispering instructions in her ear. She knew that she should be more than up to par with the rest of the contestants.

So she was standing there, realizing all of a sudden in a moment of crystal clear clarity... that she would stand a chance in the arena of the Fortress. She would stand more than a chance.

And from there on, she started filling in the application forms for the physical and psychological tests. There was a bit of an issue that she legally was an employee of the League, but she could worm herself out of that one saying that her lawful employer was the assessment center, not the League itself. And thus she could sign up.

She had not told anyone, not even Donny, until now. And she only told him right now and not later, because she'd run into a familiar face while picking up her clearance certificates at the Compound. Stowing her certificates in her bag pack she had looked up because the doors had swooshed open and another contestant-to-be had entered. It had been a reflex, really.

She'd looked directly in the face of one of the last people she'd wanted to see there. “Charlotte,” she said.

“You?!” Charlotte acknowledged her. “What the /hell/ are you doing here?”

“Picking up my clearance papers,” Myrian explained, mentally grinding herself over the bloody coincidence. There could have been /anyone/ walking into that door right now. There were hundreds of participants in the elimination rounds for the Euroleague; why would Charlotte Adams of all people run into her?

“Why?” she asked, her hazel eyes narrowed.

Myrian bit on the inside of her cheek to hide irritation. “Because I've been cleared for participation?”

“Sure, whatever.” Charlotte walked past her, towards the information desk where she was going to pick up her own forms and certifications. “As if you would participate. You don't have the guts.”

Myrian shrugged. “Then don't believe me.” It was all fine with her. If she were to meet Charlotte in the arena, she would find out quickly enough. Then again, if she would... she'd rather be prepared. “When will you be participating?”

She looked over her shoulder at Myrian, pushing a lock of thick auburn hair out of her face. “I'm in the C Poule, entering the Fortress at 12 December, as far as I know. Why? Want to see how it's done?” She grinned an insolent grin at her that made Myrian want to punch her in the face.

C Poule. That was good, Myrian was in the B Poule, herself. “I just wanted to know whether I'd be up against you,” I said. “I guess we'll meet up later down the line, then.”

Charlotte laughed. “It'll be my pleasure to reduce you to a smear of blood on the wall.”

“Likewise,” Myrian retorted. She slung her bag over her shoulder and left the room, seething. It was funny, with Charlotte Adams. Myrian was a psychologist, she knew that it's possible for people to rub each other the wrong way completely for no particular reason - yet it had never happened to her before. She'd never met someone that she despised on first sight, until Donny had introduced her to his ex-girlfriend, Charlotte Adams.

It had been at a party that one of his friends had thrown for him to celebrate his victory in the semi-final of the Euroleague. Charlotte had been there too, because she was befriended to this person as well.

“Myrian,” Donny had said to her, slightly slurring because of too many shots of whiskey, “I'd like you to meet Charlotte Adams. I've told you about her, I believe. Charlotte... this is Myrian, my girlfriend.”

Charlotte had looked gorgeous in a clingy, revealing dress of shimmery green cloth. Her thick auburn hair was falling over her shoulders and her smile was wicked, a devil may care smile that gave her a sexy attitude that drew guys to her like bees to honey. “Oh,” she said, honey dripping from her voice. Her hazel eyes narrowed. “So you're the girl Donny dumped me for?”

“That's a bit unkindly said, perhaps,” Myrian said, meeting her bold stare head-on. She felt assessed and found lacking. A tendril of irritation bubbled up at the other girl's haughty attitude, but she resolved to stay civil for Donny's sake.

Charlotte smiled. “It wasn't a very kind affair anyway, stealing someone's boyfriend.”

Myrian's eyes flicked to Donny for support, but he was already distracted, talking to somebody else and holding up his glass for yet another shot of whiskey. “I wasn't under the impression that you two were dating at the time,” she just said, wishing to be elsewhere very muchly at that moment.

Charlotte took a step closer, until she was nearly close enough to kiss. “He was /mine/,” she said, her greenish eyes sparkling furiously. “I'll get you for this.”

And that's where irritation took over. It had been such a nice party so far. Myrian planted her hands on Charlotte's shoulders and pushed her away. “Back off,” she hissed at the auburn-haired girl. “Donny makes his own choices. If you have any problems, take it up with him!”

She left after that. Donny apologised the next morning when Myrian told him the story, telling her that the two of them had slept together a few times. Charlotte'd been a groupie, one of the contestants on the lower level Leagues and he'd thought she was hot. But she was a crazy bitch and he'd been about to dump her when he met Myrian and fell in love. Charlotte had not taken it too well, but he hadn't felt much bothered by it. “She can get any guy she wants, as long as she doesn't open her mouth to talk. She'll get over it.”

Charlotte's reaction to Myrian at the party had indicated a different thing, especially since at that point they'd been split up for over three years - but Myrian had not thought to ever run into her again, so she let it lie. And now it seemed like Charlotte and she might meet up somewhere along the line during the preliminaries of the Euroleague. Funny how such things could go. At least it wouldn't be in the first round.

The preliminaries weren't held in the Fortress itself, naturally. The organisers of the Game didn't want people to get too familiar with the maze work of hallways that the Fortress was made of. Oh, there were speculative maps floating around on the networks, but those were probably faulty – the organisers changed the interior of the Fortress on a frequent basis and they never confirmed any map to be true. There were the broadcasts, but they were usually focused on the center of the action: the participants. And they knew well enough to flick to different screens when a corner was turned. The messiness of the situations in the hallways of the Fortress made for enough confusion to render the maps just that: speculative.

Still, the morning of her first Game found Myrian peering over one of those maps, trying desperately to remember where the regen points were, remembering where she would have the advantage of cover and high ground, where to dig in and where to off her participants. In the preliminaries, nobody really died. Well, at least they wouldn't if anyone could help it. The organisers did their best to drag you out of the Game if you were bleeding to death, but only if they didn't hamper the Game. That's what you signed up for. Myrian knew all too well.

In the preliminaries, people would compete, fighting one another until four out of twenty participants were left, after which they would go on to the next round. Eventually, when they had competed with the participants in the other poules, there would be twenty contestants left, and they would enter the Fortress. Then, the real Game would start.

That was the moment when the civilized world really tuned in to watch the broadcasts and the viewer's ratings would soar. For that was the moment the dying would start.

Tonight would be the first of the preliminary games. If anyone would die tonight, it would be an accident. Statistics had shown that competing in the preliminaries was about as dangerous as taking a walk in the Dregs at night time. Yes, there was a large chance of being shot – but at least the paramedics would be close, in this case. So statistically speaking, there was even a larger chance to make it alive out of the prelims than there was in the Dregs.

Such a cheerful thought.

Donny had not called last night. She had asked him to spend the night with her, to help her prepare for her first game, but he had declined. He said he'd give her a ring, but so far he had not done that, either. There was just Myrian, the spectacular sunrise outside, the empty room, and her frantic memorization of a map that probably wasn't going to help her anyway.

Seconds ticked away, turning into minutes – and then finally her communicator blipped, indicating that it was time to go to the arena. Myrian strapped on her holsters and took her twin guns in her hands. They felt heavy in her grip, but it was nothing she had not felt before. They felt sure and true, as if they were made for her hands. Myrian stared at the two guns in the morning sunlight and recalled her conversation with her boyfriend one last time.

/You are out of your fucking mind,/ he'd said.

Myrian bit her lip and shrugged. Did he even know that he was the one that sparked the idea, all those months ago? She remembered another evening in bed, snuggled up against him while he smelled of his after shave and shampoo. He was freshly showered after a day of physical training and tired as all hell. He snuggled up next to her and was starting to snore softly when she'd murmured: “Sometimes I hate the fact that you're a participant. I feel as if I never see you enough.”

“Sign up as well,” a sleeping Donny had suggested with a faint smile around his lips. “You'd get to train with me.”

She should have told him that it was his idea, essentially. Perhaps he wouldn't have been such a little shit about it. She didn't understand what his big beef was anyway. He was a participant too, wasn't he? Why couldn't she shoot people on international broadcast channels, then? Why couldn't she get paid bucketloads of money to risk her life for billions of viewers? There was just one reason: he just didn't trust her to stand up for herself in the arena. He thought she'd be a loser.

He was fine with his own participation, he had been fine with that floozy Charlotte participating, but /Myrian/ should stay in the assessment center, filling out psych profiles. Well, she wasn't about to let that happen. She was as good a shot as anyone, she had good reflexes, she had a higher IQ than many of the people in the Arena, she was in good shape. She had all the qualities that made a good League competitor. Her only handicap would be when she would end up in the Fortress facing Donny himself, one day... but that was still so many years in the future that she didn't worry about that. He competed on a level so much higher than hers that it was sacrilege to even imagine such a scene.

She slung her backpack on her back and left her hotel room, walking the endless hallways of the Compound to her destination. It was still a way before dawn, so the hallways were silent but for the resonance of her army boots on the floor. Alone with her thoughts, she kept coming back to the same sore spot.

Donny's disbelief. /You are out of your fucking mind!/

Charlotte's spite. /As if you would participate. You don't have the guts.../

Her own anger. /I am not a loser, I'm as good as any here, if not better. I am not a loser. I am NOT a loser!/ Her thoughts fell in rhythm with her footfall, until she felt as if she were stomping instead of walking. She then breathed deeply and got herself in hand again, slowly – until she found herself in the facilities that would give her one last physical check-up, one last contract to sign.

And then she was let into a small empty room with nothing but a door and a large digital clock.

20:00, it said in large red numbers. The numbers were flashing to indicate the clock had not start running yet, but undoubtedly it would very soon.

Myrian's heart caught in her throat – twenty minutes from the start of the game. That meant that she would be the fifth to enter the arena. Only four people had more time than she to dig in and to seek out the best spots to hide and trap their fellow competitors.

She checked her watch and found that it was about time for her timer to start running. Only half a minute left... and then her communicator blipped. Text message, from Donny. “Good luck,” was all it said, but Myrian was about ready to burst into tears with happiness. He must have known how much it meant to her to have him call in just before the game. She wanted to text him back, but by then the buzzer sounded and her clock started to count down.

19:59, 19:58, 19:57...

Her hands tightened around her guns. She found that she was trembling with adrenaline and that she had a hard time keeping her breathing regular. She stared intently at the closed door before her and tried to center herself, tried to find peace within her inner mind.

/Focus, Myrian. This is what you wanted, this is what you signed up for./

Before her mind's eye she went through the possible map for the arena, constructing a game plan in her head. It would probably be gone with the wind the moment that door opened, but at least it gave her something to do. At least she knew better than to linger with the entrance point. Such a thing was a beginner's mistake. It happened sometimes that people were camping near the entrances of the newcomers, but that didn't earn them much respect from their fellow competitors and the viewers at home.

Those were the first ones to die, usually. Yet, it was important to be focused from the moment the door opened. If some idiot was indeed sniping the newbies, she'd better be ready.

And then suddenly it was time. 00:00. This was her interval.

The timer flashed once, twice, and then the door opened.

“Entering the arena: Myrian Seltzer,” Berntsson announced her. His familiar voice resounded through the speakers, alerting the viewers at home and the competitors in the arena that there was a newcomer entering.

Myrian bolted into motion, adrenaline bursting through her veins.

She knew instantly where she was; it was one of the most beloved preliminary arena's called Yandri Central. The reason why the media doted on it and the viewers hoped for it was because of it's lay-out. The place was built up from one central hall and a dozen hallways, that all ended up in the same hall on different levels. The hall itself was littered with places to hide and dig in, but the different levels made for an excellent place to be shot in the head anyways. It was perfect for a shoot-out.

And Myrian was itching to use those guns...

Use them, she did. It was only thirty seconds in the game that she made her first 'kill'. It was almost easy. Just rounding a corner, pushed against the wall. Spotting her competitor only a heartbeat quicker than the dark-skinned young man spotted her, the jolt of adrenline. Her guns were like thunder and lightning in her hands and he went down in a spray of blood.

She didn't even have the time to be sickened with what she'd just done. No time to realize that they'd get him out of here and that he had credits for regeneration aplenty. She just darted past him, mindful not to step in his blood so she wouldn't leave a trail. She just went for the central hall with a heart thundering in her throat and a feeling of fever heating up her body.

It felt like complete freedom. It felt like being a God, with the power of life, death, and victory thundering in her hands. Her second kill was taken from a covered position on one of the highest entrances in the central hall. Still so easy. From behind her cover she spotted a bald-headed man crouching behind his cover, ready to shoot someone on the other side of the hall. She never even saw her when she took aim and shot him. Simple as that. Missing was out of the question, she nailed him in his back, just above the rim of his armour. Red soaked the white shirt underneath.

Again, there was no time for thought, no time for realizing that she might have killed this man outright with no chance for regen or withdrawal, but by that time someone opened fire upon her. On the platform next to her stood a dark-haired young man with a rocket launcher. She was just in time to saw his finger tighten around the trigger and then dove into the hallway, out of reach. Shrapnel bounced through the hallway, hitting her painfully on her unprotected calf, but even though she felt her pants getting wet with blood, she knew well enough that it wouldn't slow her down that much.

“Close call, Myrian!” Berntsson told her cheerily.

Time to move.

The chase was on.

Later, her memories would be so jumbled that she couldn't quite piece it all together anymore. It was a short match, she would see later in the reviews. Lots of action, lots of blood. There were scenes of her crouching behind cover, of nearly being shot in the face and ducking for cover in the last possible moment, of her missing a shot she should have nailed, but in hindsight she wouldn't remember a thing of that.

What she remembered most clearly was another shootout in the middle of the central hall at some point at which she got hit in the shoulder. The pain was red-hot, like a small expolosion inside her body. She was reeling, but thankfully her own bullet had just left her gun by the time of the impact. She never saw her competitor go down, she was too busy with blindly finding her way to the exit, behind which she knew was a regen point.

Bloody handprints on the wall, fiddling with the device on her hip... and then a wash of yellow energy overcame around her. It was like blacking out, except for the fact that unconsciousness was /gold/ instead of dark.

When she came to, blinking and stumbling, it was all over.

“Winners of Poule B and advancing to the next round,” Berntsson announced, while she tried to find support on the blood-stained wall, “are Myrian Seltzer, Jamie Gaulle, John Waters, and Mario Dineiros. Congratulations.”

This time, unconsciousness was black.

Victory was so sweet.

There were interviews, camera's in her face, strangers congratulating her. Family calling her. A glare from Charlotte in the hallways of the Compound. Donny's smile, his quiet pride every time he laid eyes on her. More interviews. Training. Tactics and strategy.

Life suddenly seemed to speed up, time passing like a blur. From that first kill in the arena, it seemed that life had suddenly kicked into overdrive. She hardly had time to breath between her life filling up with event upon event, thrilling excitement.

When she got through to the second round and came through without a scratch on her body and all her regen credits unspent, the true media circus began.

There were profiles and stats that shown in the newsfeeds now, based on her performance. Experts said that there was definite promise for a win in the finals of the League. There were phone calls in the night. Sponsors lining up to give her cash and fame. Life became a whirlwind between the first preliminary and the quarter-finals, a whirlwind of sweetness and attention.

Yet the best of it all were Donny's kisses in her neck and his breathed: “You were like a goddess out there,” in her ear.

“I never thought it would be like this,” she told him with shining eyes.

He held her at arm's length and studied her face. “It's going to be much worse, Myr. Don't let it distract you from the objective.”

She didn't. Well, not really. She focused on her training, she read up on arena tactics, she read biographies of seasoned League winners like Chang Kun Wei and Valentina Marin. Both were two-fold League winners and it seemed that they weren't planning on quitting (or dying) anytime soon. They were making minced meat out of the competition and Myrian thought that she wouldn't mind being just like them. Donny was probably lucky that he'd never encountered them in the Game since he played in another League; he was good, but he was not legendary.

“Not yet,” Donny said confidently, and laughed.

/Just like me. Not yet, not yet... I have to work harder, I have to be faster... then I'll make it through to the Fortress and the finals./

She trained hard and watched in wonder as her body responded. She had never been in bad shape, but she got more toned, stronger, with more stamina. She felt so healthy, so alive. It was all like she was high on life itself, and both her mind and her body were sharpening itself to continue her winning spree into infinity.

It was a Wednesday evening in late January when she was sitting on the couch, freshly showered after a workout session, when she was watching one of the other matches – to check out her competitors take out one another in another poule match in the quarter finals.

“Hey, it's Charlotte,” Donny remarked upon entering the living room with two drinks.

Myrian nodded, while taking a glass. “Yeah, I hope they wipe the floor with her.” On the screen, Charlotte's profile was discussed for the viewers at home. Strength, speed, stamina, most notable wins and kills (she had one death on her name so far), fumbles, regen credits per match ratio's. “My stats are better,” she could not help saying.

“That's because she's been in more matches than you.” Donny sat down next to her and watched the screen with mild interest. “She won't go down in this match unless she messes up badly, but she's better than most of those guys.” He shook his head. “What's up with the two of you anyways? Do you always have to bitch on one another?”

“I just can't stand her.”

“And that's mutual. I have to hear you two rag on each other all the time. Stupid chicks,” he muttered, sipping from his drink. The images on the screen cast a strange light on his handsome face. Myrian watched him for a second and then shifted her position so she could lie with her head on his chest. Note-taking and preparations for her own match be damned, she wanted to watch the game with her boyfriend tonight, like a normal person.

It was a thrilling match that was completely dominated by Charlotte Adams. Charlotte, who had the disconcerting habit to /laugh/ during competitions drew not only first blood, but also second and third. She got hit in the foot once, near to the end of the match, but that was nothing what a regen credit could not fix. And then she did what had never happened before in the history of the Game; in those three seconds between the initial scan and the actual regeneration, that moment where you are disoriented, hurting, and bracing for that wash of yellow energy... she lifted her gun and killed the last competitor, who was just taking aim at her to blow her off the regen point. It was a perfectly executed action in a situation that took everybody's breath away who might have been watching the match.

“This is going to drive the media wild,” Donny predicted.

It did. The media loved it; they took to calling Charlotte 'the Laughing Storm' and doted on her tactics, her reflexes, and of course her lovely body. She was tipped as one of the winners of the upcoming finals, now. Myrian's own flawless victory of the week before was suddenly hardly talked about anymore, except for the places where she would be compared to Charlotte.

It was luck that they did not end up in the semi final together. Pure chance. If the draw would have turned out different, they would have ended up facing off in the semi finals. Donny said that there was a large chance the organisers were tampering, because “Everybody loves a good dramatic showdown,” he said.

Myrian didn't care. She just gritted her teeth and fought her way through the semi-finals. The competition was fiercer here, but the adrenaline and the intoxicating feeling of the /win/ took over soon enough. It was hard, and she had to regenerate twice for it, but eventually she made it to the last competitor. Jamie Gaulle, the competitor she had faced in her first game, the one that had initially sent her to the regen point, was the only one left. They circled eachother through endless hallways, she and the other young woman.

Jamie was a pale-haired woman who wore her hair short. She usually dressed in the drab colour of unpainted concrete and with her pale exterior, she didn't stand out in an environment. Apart from that, she fought with a shock rifle, which had a better range than her own dual guns. Jamie had some great stats as well, and a great fanbase in the Dregs. She also had quite a few sponsors that were rumoured to slip her boost drugs that made her perform better under duress like stamina-enhancers.

The drug tests made her show up clean and Jamie denied everything, but the rumours were persistent.

After two hours of circling and warning shots, Myrian was starting to believe the rumours. She was getting tired and her adrenaline buzz was wearing off. Apart from that, her body was aching and feeling unfamiliar to her after the double regenerations. /I need to end this soon, or Jamie might get the better of me./

To her relief, it did end soon.

Stamina enhancers or not, Jamie didn't have Myrian's honed reflexes. When they found themselves in the open, Myrian had the advantage of her guns, which fired faster than Jamie's plasma beam, and her superior reflexes. It was as simple as that. Leaving cover, jumping into plain sight and ready to take on whatever the blond woman could dish out – and just pulling the trigger and whirling out of the way before the plasma could hit her. That was all it took.

“Advancing to the finals and the Fortress, Myrian Seltzer,” Berntsson told the audience and the two young women in the arena. Jamie was bleeding profusely and out of the game, and Myrian stood in the middle of the arena, allowing the camera's to drink in her image.

Berntsson's voice was soft and full of laughter. “I had not expected anything less of you, Myrian,” he said. “I'll see you in the Fortress.”

“Yeah,” Charlotte said a few hours later on her voicemail, when she came home exhausted. “I'll see you in the Fortress. We'll see what you're made of, then.”