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The room is so large it’s a cage.

So quiet.

The tiles are patterned black and white, thorny white and flowery black. Nathair closes his eyes and gives a soft laugh. Oh this brings back memories.

‘You’re very interested in keeping as many pieces as possible.’  It didn’t matter what strategy game he played with Alessio, the little boy was so intent on saving as many of the silly playing cards and wooden figurines as possible while still winning the game.

‘The game simulates the strategies I’ll have to apply in the future. Sir.’ Where did he even get that vocabulary? He was such an avid reader of course, and his mother always had him crammed with knowledge and decorum to show off at her leisure. It was usually easy to tell he was quoting something he’d memorized by heart from a favored philosopher or something.

The only problem was, he kept saying things he shouldn’t have been able to read about anywhere…

‘I didn’t cheat, I just know how to play the game.’

Just silly ideals. The boy was an idealist. Nathair was a realist. Ideals are the first casualties of war. Wasn’t that what the boy, Yasha, always said? Oh but it was so hard to choose one side.

Thorny white and flowery black.

Click.

Nathair glances back at the door. Locked.

‘Every life is sacred.’

Those are the words of a person. They couldn’t apply to weapons.

The lights evaporate.

The click of keys behind him.

Well. Ideals don’t save you, do they?

Rustlings, twisting, coiling. And the tip-tip-tip of needles.

So that’s what we’re doing here. Nathair knows better than to feel, he knows better, he knows better. It’s cold. He won’t go back there. He knows better than to feel. He wishes he could kill them all all the people all the memories. All of it.

The world is all grey. Not black or white. Everything’s a dull grey even as his instincts sharpen.

In front of him are two blue buttons shimmering like foxfire.

So Nathair waits for it with a deadly blank smile.