When they finally entered the box, the view was…impressive.

Even Atlas could admit that.

It was made entirely of glass, clear and clean and facing the center of the Sparring Grounds. It offer a near perfect view of the three dozen candidates who had taken the field from several stories above, all missing the orange folders from the hallway.

Izar dropped wordlessly into a seat on the far end, propping his chin up in his hand and staring blankly ahead. His face didn’t reveal a thing.

The guilt was still a solid, writhing mass in Atlas’ gut.

Just…whatever. It didn’t matter. It was done.

He’d gotten used to the feeling, anyway. You didn’t live the life he had lived without learning how to handle the lingering stench of regret. Surviving took a lot. Sometimes, it took doing things you weren’t proud of.

This was just another in a long list. Something to squash and forget, along with the rest.

When Izar didn’t say anything further, Atlas decided it was his sign to mind his own business. He took a seat on the opposite side, and decided to assess the hunters that were up for consideration instead of re-litigating things with Izar.

He turned his attention to the crowd.

The amount of information his Skill provided was overwhelming from up here. It could have been worse, of course — at least outside the Portal it only showed him hunters, not rocks. Still, the data was even denser than it had been in the hallway. An incredible number of competing lines of text, overlapping boxes, and flashing numbers. It was impossible to parse, and he didn’t even know where to start if he was going to try.

He cleared his throat, and thought forcefully:

The support hunters dropped out immediately, with only about ten remaining. 

Skills didn’t tend to care how big or small you were. Nowhere was that more obvious than in combat hunters. 

Combat skills didn’t draw on physicality, but instead, on mana points. They made adjustments to the musculature and power of the hunter using mana, not raw muscle mass.

So there was no rhyme or reason to the people who were left. Not a single member on the field with a combat-based Skill was muscle-bound or exceptionally big. Instead they were a variety of average heights, with fit builds and not much else in common.

The system expanded their profiles to something much more legible, and Atlas skimmed them through, with an eye for health and mana points. He wouldn't know what their Skills did yet, anyway.

One of the candidates jumped out right away. Her expression was fierce. Angry.

[HERA VIDAR — A-CLASS — SKILL: BRUTALITY]

Atlas would have asked Izar about her, if it weren’t so incredibly uncomfortable to speak right now.

She had a long, thick braid of blond hair and thick eyebrows that seemed destined to be in a permanent scowl. He thought he recognized the look in her eyes.

Someone with something to prove, then.

He wasn’t looking forward to this, not in the least, but if he could pick the people on his team, he could pick people like this. The rejects, and losers, and the people with a grudge.

Charon had unabashedly chosen the charismatic, connected sort. Heron’s family had been wealthy, after all, and the only “normal” member of Last Bastion — Ace — had apparently gotten in on the Guild President’s order.

Senka was…a mystery. She didn’t frustrate Atlas, not like the others had — and she’d never been rude to him. She just hadn’t been…anything. She minded her business, and spoke only when it was strictly necessary.

If he was going to get stuck with two members of the original Last Bastion, he would have chosen those two. And while he never would’ve wished for the others to die, he wasn’t particularly upset that he wouldn’t have to try and corral them into following his command.

Ace, at least, seemed to have some sort of confusing admiration for him. And Senka seemed like the opposite of a troublemaker.

Atlas swapped his view to the support class hunters. 

The healers, and the damage dealers from a range. This group was much larger, and harder to parse. Skill names were harder to assess the vaguer they got. [BRUTALITY] made sense. It was probably a fighting Skill that did intense, violent damage. There wasn't much room for creativity.

But how did [KNIT] or [SCALE] work? Names could be deceiving. After all, Atlas would have never pinned [PHOENIX] as a Game Master type skill in the first place.

“Welcome, recruits!” 

The voice that cut through the murmuring was clear and distinctly feminine. Atlas blinked and looked for whoever was speaking, but it was entirely done over intercom.

“As you all already know, today we will be evaluating your abilities as part of our recruitment for the vacant spots on team Last Bastion. You will all be evaluated independently by Portal Group leadership, as well as a member of Last Bastion themselves.”

This seemed to send the group into hushed, frantic whispers. Atlas could imagine what they were all asking: Who is it? Who could it possibly be, when so many of them died to the S-Grade? Is it him, the new S-Class?

“We will begin with combat-based trials, and proceed to assessing distance damage dealers and support Skills. If you could please split into three groups, we will get started.”

“They know it’s you.”

Atlas hadn’t been expecting Izar to say anything for the duration of their time here. He jumped just a millimeter, and turned his eyes to him.

Atlas frowned.  “They may think it’s Senka. She’s the most senior member who hasn’t been decommissioned.”

“They’ve let the rumor fester on purpose.” Izar wasn’t looking at him as he spoke. “They want to create a mythos around you. A mystery. The recruits have been hearing deliberate rumors about your abilities. They’re trying to make you a figurehead, remember?”

“How could I forget, Iz.” Atlas said. He averted his gaze back out the window as the group began to filter and split. “And shouldn’t I be oh-so-grateful? The orphan? The loser, good-for-nothing who was handed fame on a silver platter? Now he's a big star.”

“That’s not what I —”

“Don’t patronize me by pretending you don’t think so.” Atlas clenched his hands into fists in his lap. “Zig has always understood my reticence with Portal Group, but you’ve always thought it was just another tantrum. Just Atlas, getting into trouble, like always.”

When Izar didn’t say anything, Atlas curled his lip and narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t want to hate you. But you don’t understand me at all. You look at me like an obligation. A pain in the ass. A wayward pet to be guided and controlled.”

Izar’s jaw clenched. “I’m only trying to help you make good choices.”

“Is it a choice if you’re making it for me, Izar?”

With a great, heaving blare of a horn, the contestants were advised of their roles and instructions. Atlas uncurled his fingers, one by one, forcing them to lay flat on his thighs and taking a deep breath as he watched.

He could flail and fight and fuss all he wanted. There was nothing he could do to get out of this. Not now.

No neighboring country would harbor a rogue S-Class beyond their borders. Not unless he was willing to totally abandon the anemic moral compass he did have and do their dirty work.

Things were only worse if he tried to flee and stayed here. The Assembly would ensure he remained complacent with Portal Group or face legal consequences, up to and including hunter-grade detention. 

He had no family to hide him, and his only friend would do his best, but could only skirt his brother’s influence for so long.

Atlas was in this now. He was going to have play along, because that was the only option. There were no do-overs. He was well and truly screwed.

It was a feeling he knew well. The strange, almost ironic relief of only having one real option. It had been that way for the better part of two decades.

He’d thought maybe he could be different. Rebel, and live on his own terms. And he had felt like it was, for a little while.

It turned out that was miserable too, in its own way. Squalid and destitute and lonely. A life controlled by poverty instead of the administration at the orphanage, or Portal Group, or the distant memory of his parents.

Atlas refocused his eyes on the contenders lining the field. They looked miserable, out there in the rain. Cold, and anxious, and tired.

They weren’t that different from him, in the end. From who he had been at that rainy diner in the wee hours, watching the neon signs outside flicker. They were also acting out their role, tired and freezing and miserable for their trouble.

He would pick the ones who needed this most. He would give them a place where they were in charge of themselves. If he couldn’t control his own damn life, he’d let these other people control theirs.

Maybe he could live vicariously through their freedom.

Maybe that would make his suck a little less.