Cyrus Beem was rather unhappy with the current situation. He raced from platform to platform in the direction of his tag. Would he even be able to find it? It was a small thing, about the size of a pill, small enough to be swallowed. Could he even find something that small in this concrete jungle? The platforms gave way to one larger level with walls of varying heights dotted around.

Perfect cover for a gun fight. This thought had barely finished in Cyrus’ head when he realised that he’d just run into a very obvious ambush. He stopped, stumbling slightly and jumped behind a wall just as the ground near him shattered and kicked up dust into the air. Someone was shooting at him. Based on the force of impact, someone was shooting at him with something powerful. From how far away? Cyrus didn’t know but he was willing to bet that it was further than he was able to throw something. Another shot rang out and something, presumably the bullet, punched a hole through the wall right by Cyrus’s head. In fact if he had been crouched less than a foot to the left the bullet would have merrily travelled right through his skull, achieving similar if not more spectacular results than it had with the wall. Cyrus was in danger, that was for certain, and it seemed to him that he had two options. He could run out and continue in the direction of his tag, putting himself in plain view of his opponent and opening himself up to being hit by one of the bullets that could punch holes through solid concrete, or he could run away and be collected up when the next tone sounded, fired but still alive.

Cyrus dashed out into the open and forwards, then instantly to the side, behind another wall. It exploded but Cyrus was already moving. He couldn’t follow any pattern or be predictable in any way. The moment his opponent could predict where he was going to be was the moment a piece of him painted the grey concrete an unsettling shade of red.

Keep moving, keep ducking, keep dodging. The moment I stop is the moment I die. He just had to get to some form of cover, something thick enough to withstand the projectiles punching hole after hole around him. Cyrus’ eyes flitted about, searching for any sign of his opponent. His eyes found something different however. Sitting atop a waist high wall, out in plain view with no other form of cover near it.

His tag.

No it wasn’t his tag. It was the wrong colour. This one was white with purple spots. He couldn’t see the number.

It was bait, damn bait. Bait like the bait he’d set when he wrapped his tag around his wrist. Well that had worked so damn well. So damn well that he was now running around dodging bullets in the vain hope of retrieving his own tag. Was he now expected to risk his life to get someone else’s? And Cyrus was struck, there and then, with a thought. He almost stopped in his tracks but his better judgement kept him moving. As he moved he thought back over Arthur Cessman’s explanation of the rules. He’d heard them twice so he was pretty sure he could recall them well.

“If you do not have a tag on your person when the tone sounds you have been defeated and will be extracted from the arena.”

Yes that was it. Arthur Cessman had definitely said “a” tag, not “your” tag. That meant that if he had a tag, any tag, on him when the next tone sounded then he’d still be in. With that in mind there really was only one feasible option. He’d have to take the bait. He’d have to do the completely obvious move. He’d have to do exactly what his opponent expected of him and was almost definitely waiting for him to do. And he’d have to move faster than a speeding bullet to do it and live. As far as plans went it was not a good one. In fact, if Cyrus was being completely honest with himself, it was awful, possibly the worst plan he had ever conceived. The ground exploded near him. He swore and dashed towards the tag.

If anyone had asked Cyrus Beem how he had survived the subsequent few seconds and yards of his life he wouldn’t have been able to say. He ran, he grabbed the tag, and he ran away. No further shots rang out. The ground and the walls stopped exploding.

My own tag is still out there somewhere, but I’m safe for now at least.

Then the walls around him exploded. This was a different explosion from the others. It wasn’t caused by a bullet impact, but mines. Evidently they were rigged to explode when some fool went and took the tag. Some fool like Cyrus. The heat of the explosions was fierce but none of the flames reached him. The bigger problem was that the ground was giving way. Cyrus ran, the platform falling away behind him. The rapidly deteriorating ground was advancing rapidly. Cyrus hopped a wall and kept on running. He wasn’t running fast enough, and he could feel the ground beneath his feet slipping away. He fell, though not too far since he was ready. The platform was held up by equally spaced legs. These had withstood the explosion, it was only the spaces between them that were falling away. That was what Cyrus was relying on, at least. As he fell he pulled back his baton and swung forwards, stabbing it into the nearest leg. The baton broke the concrete, Cyrus had managed to embed it in. Now all he needed to do was hold on and - the force of suddenly stopping, now that the baton was stuck in the concrete of the leg, jerked at Cyrus’ shoulders and the baton was yanked from his grip. Cyrus continued to fall, leaving his third baton far behind. This was not good, Cyrus concluded, as he accelerated towards the ground. He didn’t fall for long, and hit the ground hard. Were Cyrus a lesser man he would have lay there for a while, maybe complained, maybe had a little cry. Fortunately Cyrus was not a lesser man. He had earned his job once before, he could do it again. And perhaps he could have a little cry later.

Once satisfied that he’d put enough distance between him and the sniper, Cyrus stopped moving and found a hole to hide in. It wasn’t a bad hole, honestly. There was a loud, electronic blaring noise across the arena. The tone. The second tone, if the one that initiated the battle royale counted. He was safe. Relatively safe anyway. He wasn’t sure what miracle had kept him alive in his bid for the purple tag, now stashed at his side rather than on his sleeve, but he was thankful. Now was the time to plan his next move. He’d sworn vengeance on Norman Pearson but now that had a tag he had less hatred in his heart for that clumsy candidate. He had humiliated Cyrus though. After some thought on the matter, Cyrus decided that there was no need to go out of his way to satisfy his vendetta on Norman Pearson. Of course if the opportunity happened to arise there was no way he wouldn’t happily take it. That decided, he set off again in search of his next opponent. He only had the one tag, which wasn’t the sort of number he would need to win this battle and keep his job. He walked slowly, eyes flitting this way and that, looking out for other candidates, for potential ambushes. The area he was currently in was an odd design, one that he hadn’t come across when he fought in the arena only a year ago. It was smooth, waving plane. Like a rolling field or waves frozen forever in concrete. Unlike most fields and all waves there were uniformly sized and spaced holes in the ground, arranged as if some sort of spherical cookie cutter had been pressed over and over into the ground. Cyrus walked between two rows of holes. He’d didn’t have his baton drawn, there was no need to show that off all the time. As he walked he thought back to the previous year, the previous assessment day. The one he’d won. The one he’d worked so hard for and stood to lose if he didn’t win again. But a year ago hadn’t been like this. He hadn’t had to face walking mountains or the perfect Natalie Yamnson. No one fired concrete penetrating bullets at him. Even his ploy with wearing his tag on his wrist had worked last time.

There hadn’t been any Millicent Lute last year last either. No one trying to be friends with everyone. No one spouting nonsense about not hating each other. Why had she gotten so under his skin? What had irritated him so much about what she had said? Why couldn’t he just ignore it? It was lodged in his brain like a nail in a wall. It shifted and stung but no matter how hard he pulled it he couldn’t get it free.

Then, as if summoned by his own dark thoughts, Millicent Lute dropped from above and hit the ground with a sickening crunch. Cyrus stopped dead in his tracks and just stared. Millicent Lute also didn’t move, though her reasons may have been slightly different. The two of them continued to not move for a few moments more until Cyrus once again realised that, for the second time in recent memory, he was standing around out in the open in front of what was very obviously bait. He looked around. No one waiting to attack him as far as he could tell. Millicent Lute happened to still be breathing. It was shallow but he could see her chest moving slightly. Her eyes turned to look at him, though whether she could actually see Cyrus was questionable. Her mouth moved a little, like she was trying to speak. After another check to make sure no one was waiting to ambush him, Cyrus drew his baton and stepped closer. He knelt down next to Millicent Lute. Still no one attacked. Cyrus saw blood that had collected on the ground by Millicent Lute. She wasn’t bait. This wasn’t a trap laid by someone else or even a trap that Millicent Lute had planned. Someone had just dropped her.

“So much for trusting people eh?” Cyrus smirked. A tear fell from Millicent Lute’s eye. “So who got you?” Millicent Lute’s mouth trembled slightly before she spoke oh so softly.

“N-Norm…”