Michelle Maddox - Countdown

"What the hell is going on?" My fists were clenched so tightly at my sides that my fingernails dug painfully into the palms of my hands. The pain helped me stay focused.

"What does it look like?" Jonathan asked, glancing up at me.

"Why are you helping him?"

"Kira," Rogan growled, "didn't you hear the part about my insides melting?"

"But-"

"I can't play this fucking game if I have melting insides. Do you get that?"

"Of course I get that. But why is he helping you? Doesn't he work for the stupid game?"

"I do," Jonathan said. "But that doesn't mean I always agree with their idea of entertainment."

He injected a blue solution into Rogan's shoulder. Rogan flinched and clenched his jaw. "That should be enough antidote to halt the damage and hopefully reverse it. You're not going to feel great, but you'll feel a lot better than you have." He peered at the now clean wound. 'The antidote will also help the wound knit rapidly. You shouldn't require any stitches."

"Thank you." Rogan pulled away from Jonathan the moment he was finished.

I frowned as I watched their interaction. "Do you two know each other already?"

Rogan's eyes flicked to me. "No."

My frown deepened. For some reason I wasn't convinced.

Jonathan closed the box. "Are you well, young lady?"

"Am I well?" I repeated. "No, I'm not well. I want out of this game right now."

"That's not possible. But you're doing fine so far. I anticipate that you will last several more levels." He looked away.

My breath hitched. "Look, I don't know what I can do to convince you, but I don't belong here."

"None of us belongs here, Kira," he said wearily. "Sometimes we need to do the best with what we're given."

"I would have to disagree with you there," Rogan said.

Jonathan looked at him sharply. 'Time has a tendency to change many things, Rogan."

"Not as many things as you might think. But time does have a way of making things a hell of a lot clearer."

"If you say so."

Rogan glowered at him. "I do."

I watched their exchange with growing confusion. Like hell they didn't know each other. I wasn't that blind.

"You weren't supposed to fix him, were you?" I asked.

He glanced at me. "No, I wasn't."

"Are you going to get in trouble for it?"

He didn't answer the question. "We must talk about Level Three."

"I'd rather have a nap," Rogan said with a small, humorless laugh.

"I'm sure you could. And you're in luck, because since The Countdown is on a break, you've just entered a mandatory rest period."

Rogan's throat worked as he swallowed. "That's not necessary."

"I thought you said you wanted a nap?"

"On my own terms, yeah."

Jonathan pressed a button on the wall and another holoscreen appeared in the middle of the room. "First I need to tell you about your next level." The image of an average-looking man flickered into focus. "This is Bernard Jones. He is forty years old, has been married for fifteen years, and has one child. He makes his living as an accountant. He has dreams of moving to Offworld with his family and opening a restaurant there."

"Sounds like a fun guy," I said dryly, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. "So what are we supposed to do, get him to do our taxes?"

"No. To successfully complete Level Three you are required to assassinate him."

My mouth dropped open. "Kill him?"

"That's right." Jonathan's voice was suddenly void of any emotion. "There will be no weapons allowed for this level. You will have to use whatever means are available to locate and eliminate this target. You will be informed of what is your time line for this once the level begins. That is all I can tell you. I wish you good luck."

Rogan was frowning. "Jonathan, there has to be some way out of this. You have to let me speak to-" His voice broke off as he yelled and clutched his head, and then crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

I watched him fall and then raised my wide-eyed gaze to look at Jonathan.

"I'm very sorry," he said.

I opened my mouth to say something, I wasn't even sure what, but lightning pain ripped through my brain and everything went black.

I opened my eyes slowly and blinked until everything came back into focus.

My first thought was, Implants - not a good thing to have.

I absolutely hated the idea of somebody out there with their finger on a little button that could cause me pain like that. It just didn't seem fair. However, I did like the idea of finding whomever was in charge of that little button and giving their groin a nice, sharp introduction to my knee.

My head hurt. Bad. But at least I still seemed to be in one piece.

Where the hell was I now?

I glanced around and realized it was somewhere populated. Not another empty, clinical room. I could hear voices. There was the faint sound of clothes swishing and rubbing together as a few people passed nearby but out of sight.

There was a heavy weight on my shoulder, and I slowly realized that it was Rogan-specifically his head. He was still out cold and currently using me as a pillow. We were both sprawled against a wall like a couple of homeless people. But no, this wasn't the street. Linoleum tile felt smooth and cool against my hands, which were flattened on the floor. We were inside. Somewhere.

I frowned. It was somewhere familiar to me.

I know this place.

And then it dawned on me.

It was the mall. One of my main haunts. The same place I was when this nightmare first began-when I'd stolen my new pair of shoes. I looked down at my feet to see the bright red sneakers were still there.

"Rogan." I jostled him.

He didn't wake up.

I moved my hand to the back of my head and took a moment to feel the incision mark where they'd inserted the implant. Then I moved to see if I could feel the same thing on Rogan's scalp. His dark hair felt surprisingly silky slipping through my fingers.

My frown deepened. I felt not just one but two incision marks on Rogan's head. Why were there two?

I took a good look at him then. He looked so innocent while asleep. His eyelids fluttered, and I wondered what he was dreaming about. I looked closely at the scar on his face, and traced the line with the tip of my finger down to his lips.

"Are you really as bad as they're trying to convince me you are?" I mused out loud.

Why the hell didn't I want to believe it? I was being totally irrational.

He wasn't accused of stealing bubble gum from the corner store. He was accused, and convicted, of rape and murder.

I glanced around the hallway. Nobody was around. Not one person was within spitting distance, and as far as I could see, neither were the flying cameras.

I pressed my hand against his throat and felt his steady pulse, warm and alive beneath my touch. Then I slowly trailed down to his collarbone and then right over his muscled chest to his heart. Skin against skin.

Dammit. I didn't want to be this close to him. He was a very bad man who had done very bad things-unforgivable things-and it shouldn't feel this good to touch him.

But I didn't feel threatened or afraid when I was this close to him-and not just when he was unconscious. Why was that?

It was that damn flash I'd had when I'd done my flex on him on the street. First impression? He was seriously fucked-up. But really bad guys had this bad vibe that was hard to ignore, like a cold blanket of darkness that sucked the warmth right out of me. I hadn't felt much with Rogan-there hadn't been enough time-only warmth and pain and a little bit of sadness.

He hadn't felt like a bad guy.

But maybe I'd been wrong. It had been only the briefest of touches, but first impressions are lasting.