Cyrus Beem hadn’t been working at Extech for even a year when he was told he’d have to be assessed for it again. He’d been sitting at his desk for almost six hours, meaning that his lunch break was soon, when Edward Chupton himself came by.

“Mr Beem, is it?” Cyrus looked up from his work. On the four screens in front of him were several windows of notes, with one small window showing the current module he was working on.

“Yes.” Cyrus pushed back a little from his desk.

“You were our latest hire, I believe?” A half statement, half question from Extech’s Chief Executive Officer. Cyrus nodded.

“Yes, just under a year ago.”

“I see…” Edward Chupton nodded sagely. He had to already know this, Cyrus was sure of it but he still played along. Cyrus had only met Edward Chupton twice, first for roughly fifteen seconds when he was interviewed and again when he shook his hand and was hired not even a year before. Edward Chupton probably didn’t have a clue who Cyrus Beem was this morning, but Arthur Cessman had probably filled him in on everything there was to know. “You may know that this year’s assessment day is happening soon?” Cyrus hadn’t heard anything about the assessment day but he nodded again. It was almost July, when most companies looking to attract new graduates would hold their assessment days, so he assumed it would be soon. That aside, Cyrus didn’t see why the company chief executive officer was talking to him about this. “We’ve found ourself with a bit of a problem you see.” Edward Chupton continued, “Honestly we have no real need for more staff, but if we don’t advertise vacancies or new positions then other companies may think that we have ceased to grow, or that our new owners plan to shut us down.” There had been some talk as to the fate of Extech and many of the smaller companies owned by Amazon in the wake of its acquisition by Coca-Cola. So far nothing had been confirmed and Cyrus hoped things would stay that way. Still Cyrus wasn’t sure why such conversations were being had with him. “But I believe we have found a solution to the problem, a way to still have this assessment day despite our sufficient staff.” Cyrus had a troubling feeling that he was beginning to work out what that solution might be. “We want you to defend your title.” Edward Chupton finished.

“My title…?” Cyrus asked, though he already knew what was going on.

“I’m sure you already understand, Mr Beem, it’s very simple. You will take place in an assessment day again. You proved yourself worthy last year but how can we know that there aren’t candidates this year that are better suited to the job?” Cyrus felt sick. He felt dizzy. He was going to be assessed again? He’d have to do all of that again?!

But Cyrus said nothing. He merely nodded, accepting that he’d have to face that battle royale all over again. The first stage, Arthur Cessman’s initial thoughts in the lobby, wasn’t an issue. He had already proven himself a year earlier. The written assessment, technical assessment and interview were also not an issue. The company knew that he was perfectly capable of the job, he’d been doing it for almost a year after all. He was a capable candidate, but was he the best candidate? That was what the battle royale would prove.

But as the day went on Cyrus became more and more worried. This set of candidates was weird, especially that Millicent Lute. Natalie Yamnson was intimidating, of course, and Cyrus had no idea what she was competing for a job, but that Millicent Lute was a truly strange one. She harped on about trusting people and even wanted all the candidates to eat together like they were all best buddies.

An idiot. Yes that’s what she was. An idiot who couldn’t read the mood and wanted everyone to get along and no one to lose out. Cyrus had thought idiots like that, those that thought that everyone could win and should be rewarded just for showing up, were long gone. She’d be the first to lose.

Thoughts like those comforted Cyrus as he waited in his box, number fourteen, for the battle royale to start. Norman Pearson, the clumsy guy who who walked like his arms were made of lead, was in box thirteen.

I’ll go for him first.

Cyrus pulled out one of his batons, a metal cylinder about a foot long, and span it. The baton extended both ways until it was over a meter long. If Cyrus pressed to button at the midpoint of the baton then fifty thousand volts of electricity would course through it and through any person who happened to be touching anything other than the baton’s central segment. Cyrus gave his tag one last check. It was striped blue and white, with a black bold number fourteen on it. He’s wrapped the chain around his wrist, leaving the tag exposed and visible. It was a terrible and obvious place to put it, out and swinging in the open but that was the ploy. If his opponents were always thinking about going for his tag it would allow him to more easily predict their moves and bait them.

Cyrus had won this once before, he could do it again. He could do it as many times as Edward Chupton needed him to. As far as Cyrus had been able to tell the set up of the arena hadn’t changed so he, for want of a better phrase, had a home field advantage.

He was going to fight and he was going to win and he was going to keep the job he had already fought so hard for and so sweetly won before.

The tone sounded and the floor of box number fourteen, as with the floor of every box around the arena, opened and Cyrus dropped into the arena.

Cyrus instantly looked to his left, to box thirteen or, more specifically, the area just below box thirteen. He saw what he was looking for, Norman Pearson flailing and falling. With a grin, Cyrus pushed off the wall, sending himself hurtling in the direction of the plummeting Norman Pearson. Norman Pearson had other things to worry about, more immediate concerns, like his steadily increasing velocity. He wouldn’t be paying attention to opponents just yet. As Cyrus sailed through the air, Norman Pearson managed his own lead from the wall, colliding and just managing to hang onto on of the upper concrete branches of the arena. He got up onto his feet and looked around, spotting the advancing Cyrus immediately.

Too late!

Norman Pearson reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol, aiming it straight at Cyrus’s head. There were no thoughts of mercy in his mind. Not that it mattered, Cyrus was already up close. He swung the baton, knocking Norman’s pistol from his hand, and collided with his opponent. With a flip or two, the two of them tumbled down to the platforms below. Norman Pearson managed to catch Cyrus’ face with a wild punch. His arms were definitely made of metal, Cyrus decided based on how much it stung. It still didn’t sting as much as crashing into the ground would so, using the baton this time since he couldn’t reach with his arms, Cyrus pushed off away from the wall towards the platforms. Things didn’t go quite to plan, as Norman Pearson grabbed onto Cyrus’ ankle with one of those ridiculous metallic hands of his. In the end they both crashed into one of the platforms in a far less graceful way than Cyrus had intended. The baton flew off the edge of the platform, as did Norman Pearson. Cyrus himself slowed to a stop at the centre of the platform. He got up a brushed himself off. He was a little bruised but there had been no major damage save for the loss of his baton so early on in the battle royale. His first baton, that was. Cyrus reached into his jacket and withdrew a second one. He’d started the day with six. Cyrus looked over to Norman Pearson to see how he had fared. He had been able to cling on to the platform edge and was in the process of pulling himself up out of danger.

Not so fast.

Cyrus strolled over casually and, as Norman Pearson lurched up, kicked him back down. Or he would have if Norman Pearson hadn’t raised his arm to defend himself. His metal arm. The force of his shin impacting the metal send spikes of pain shooting up all the neurones in Cyrus’ leg. He stumbled back and Norman Pearson managed to pull himself up and roll onto the platform. Norman Pearson was proving a surprisingly difficult opponent to put down. Cyrus raised his baton and brought it down hard on Norman Pearson’s stomach. Based on his reaction it appeared that he didn’t enjoy the sensation. Part of that reaction was to kick out wildly, which Cyrus dodged by leaning slightly to the side. He brought the baton down hard on Norman Pearson again. Cyrus’ victim cried out but this time grabbed onto the baton with both hands.

Idiot! All I have to do is press the button and you’ll be hit with fifty thousand volts you fool - Norman Pearson pushed out, jamming the baton into Cyrus’ stomach. Cyrus was grateful he hadn’t pushed the button now as he stumbled back. Norman Pearson jumped to his feet. Cyrus Beem and Norman Pearson were now on equal footing, standing facing each other on the platform. This was not going according to plan. Cyrus needed to pick off the weakest candidates as quickly as he could, before anyone else got their tags. Norman Pearson was throwing a Norman Pearson shaped wrench into his plans.

“You’re called Norm right?” Cyrus asked. He knew full well what Norman Pearson’s name was but he wanted to rile the idiot up.

“Norman.” Norman Pearson corrected him, evidently irritated by the fact that they were now apparently talking, and by being addressed as Norm.

“Fine, Norman.” Cyrus continued. He had a new plan, a way to bait Norman Pearson and bring him down. “My name is Cyrus Beem, can you just give me your tag?” Cyrus reminded Norman Pearson of the tags. Norman Pearson shook his head.

Well I doubt you’d make it this far if you the sort who would give up now.

Cyrus shrugged, making sure that the action revealed the tag wrapped round his wrist. Norman Pearson’s eyes widened, just slightly, but he’d seen it.

Yes, go for it!

Norman Pearson attacked and Cyrus went to parry the left hook that was coming his way. It was a feint of course. Both Norman Pearson’s attack and Cyrus’ parry. Norman Pearson was actually going for the tag and Cyrus knew it, that was what he wanted. As Norman Pearson reached for Cyrus’ tag, Cyrus brought his baton down on Norman Pearson’s outstretched arm and pressed the button. Fifty thousand volts charged through the baton and through Norman Pearson’s highly conductive arms. Norman Pearson screamed. He didn’t, however, go down as Cyrus had expected. Instead he lurched forwards and grabbed the tag, pulling it off the chain and away from Cyrus.

That piece of- Cyrus’ thoughts were interrupted when Norman Pearson’s foot connected with his stomach and sent him lurching back. With just a few seconds gained, Norman Pearson turned and ran, leaving Cyrus alone with nothing but the shattered remains of his plans. Those plans abandoned, Cyrus came up with a new one. He was in a bad position, truly on the defensive now but the best way to rectify this was to go on the attack. So Cyrus threw his baton, like a javelin, and it struck the fleeing Norman Pearson right between the shoulder blades. This impact, for whatever reason, succeeded where high levels of electricity had failed. Norman Pearson went down. Typical. Cyrus drew his third baton, extended it and walked over to his opponent, hopping between platforms. Norman Pearson got to his feet once more and picked up the baton by him with one hand. It seemed he hadn’t dropped the tag then, it was still clutched tightly in his right hand. Still, Norman Pearson was even less of a threat with the baton though, and Cyrus easily parried and riposted, striking Norman Pearson, causing him to go down again. It seemed that Norman Pearson had also decided that he had no way of winning, and rolled up onto his feet and started running again.

You can’t get away from me! Cyrus went to throw his baton again but stopped when he saw what Norman Pearson was doing. His arm pulled back then swung, sending Cyrus’ tag flying away.

Norman Pearson had thrown the tag. Rather than keeping the tag he’d opted instead to just make sure Cyrus would be eliminated at the sounding of the next tone. Norman Pearson himself wasn’t sticking around either, he’d leapt off the platform to whatever lay below. Cyrus gave a guttural roar and ran off, chasing after his tag.

I swear Norman Pearson I will destroy you!