235. Done
235
Done
M aya
“Gorjan!” Zedd says with a smile.
Did she just accept the call from her wrist-comm? After what just happened? And look at her. She’s all smiles as if there aren’t cuts on her legs or ten furious, armed people in this small room with her.
I’m so flabbergasted I watch as if it were happening on TV instead of in real life.
“Just a little hiccup,” she placates, her voice calm. “You know how these humans feel about slavery and injustice.” She shrugs. “Now that she’s said her piece, we’ll get on with our show.”
The male she’s talking to shows up on her personal computer screen. Did she call my male hideous? Dear God, I’m not even sure this guy would qualify as a humanoid. He’s a puddle of gelatinous shit.
“Fix!” he shouts. “Money!” He points to the bottom right of his screen, jabbing with a part of his hand that wasn’t there a moment ago, as if he just grew a stubby finger for the express purpose of pointing at the numbers that have stopped spinning.
“Finish show! Show fucking! Show killing! All dead but one!” He holds up his little stub again to make his point.
This is her boss? The head of the network? This barely sentient being, unable to make more than three-word sentences, is the mastermind of what Zedd described as one of the most-watched shows of all time? This is one of the brightest minds in the galaxy? No wonder watching people kill other people is considered entertainment.
“Absolutely, Gorjan. We’ve let these miscreants have their moment of screen time. Now we’ll complete season four of The Game with no more mishaps.”
Her tone is placating, her manner subservient. Is she still under the belief that the male on the other side of the galaxy is more of a threat than the ten of us in this room? Has it not registered that every person in this room has good reason to want her dead?
Her boss’s disgusting face flicks off and Zedd imperiously turns to me, gives me her plastic smile, and says, “Are we done here?”
Maybe it’s my altered DNA that makes something in my brain go haywire, though it’s not fair to blame my anger on anything but The Game and Zedd and two days of near-death experiences.
For whatever reason, I snarl, “I’m just playing The Game, Zedd. The rules said that in order to win, everyone initially on board needed to be a confirmed kill . You were here from the beginning, right?”
Stepping forward, I thrust my knife to the hilt inside her chest. I wish I could say I was on autopilot, but it is with full awareness that I twist it.
“I killed her,” I say as my knife clatters to the floor and both my hands cover my mouth. “I killed her,” I whisper. My eyes are wide, shocked. I can’t believe what I’ve done.
“She’s not dead yet,” Anna says.
Now I see Zedd is still breathing, her palm flat against her chest as she looks at me, mouth open, stunned at what I’ve done.
Anna slides next to me and thrusts her knife into Zedd’s chest, which causes the red female to emit a high, prolonged shriek reminiscent of a balloon squeaking air. When Emily comes forward and thrusts, an odd burbling sound fills the otherwise silent room. It’s Zedd’s blood, bubbling out of her red-painted lips.
Every male in the room still in possession of a knife, now solemnly steps forward and plunges their knife into her chest. A’Dar joins me. With one hand again around my waist, he makes the last jab, leaving the knife sticking out of her breastbone.
“It’s done,” he says as he turns me in his arms. “ You didn’t kill her. We all killed her.”