Chapter 36: A Test of Absolute Power

  Scene 1 – The Final Mission

  The voice echoes in my mind before I fully awaken.

  "You will eliminate the failure."

  No hesitation. No explanation.

  I rise from my cot, the sterile glow of my quarters casting a faint shadow across the wall. My body moves before my mind catches up, muscles obeying before thought interferes.

  I have done this before.

  But the silence in my head feels different this time.

  I dress in measured movements, fastening the black coat that signifies my rank, securing the reinforced gloves that hide the marks of conditioning etched into my skin. Each motion is precise, controlled. I was designed for this.

  The Master’s will is my own.

  I step into the corridor, where the air is crisp with the artificial sterility of The Order’s domain. The hallways are empty, silent except for the low hum of the facility breathing around me.

  This mission should feel like any other.

  It does not.

  I suppress the unease before it can form into words.

  The Master does not make mistakes.

  Neither do I.

  The execution chamber is colder than I remember.

  Sterile walls. A single chair in the center. Dim lighting casting long, unwavering shadows.

  I have stood here before.

  I have carried out judgment here before.

  The failures always struggle. Some beg. Some curse. Some stare into the void as if expecting salvation from a world that no longer recognizes them.

  None escape.

  None are meant to.

  But as I step forward, something in the air shifts.

  The prisoner sits bound in the chair, head bowed, body motionless. No struggling. No pleading.

  For a moment, I assume they are already unconscious, another broken mind awaiting finality.

  Then—

  A breath.

  Slow. Controlled.

  A pulse of familiarity strikes me like a physical blow.

  I stop.

  The dim light casts a faint glow on the prisoner’s face, illuminating sharp angles, the curve of a jawline I should not recognize—

  But I do.

  Because it is my own.

  The prisoner lifts his head, eyes meeting mine.

  My chest tightens.

  He smirks.

  "Took you long enough."

  The room tilts.

  My breath is suddenly too shallow, my grip tightening involuntarily at my sides.

  This is not possible.

  I open my mouth, but no words come.

  The prisoner leans forward as much as his restraints allow, his gaze unwavering.

  "Let me guess," he says, voice eerily calm. "No name. No reason. Just a directive."

  I force my voice to steady.

  "Who are you?"

  The smirk deepens.

  "You already know."

  The response is effortless, but something in my core resists it.

  I glance at the surrounding walls, searching for an answer I will not find.

  The Master is always watching.

  The Master always knows.

  But it says nothing.

  This is a test.

  It has to be.

  I swallow the unease, forcing my body to realign with its purpose.

  "You are a failure." The words come out colder than I expect, but they do not settle right.

  The prisoner tilts his head slightly.

  "Funny. That’s what they told me before I became you."

  A flicker of static pulses through my mind. My fingers twitch.

  No.

  This is a trick.

  It has to be.

  "You are lying."

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  "Am I?"

  His voice is steady. Too steady.

  This should not be happening.

  My mind races through every possible explanation. A simulation. A clone. A test designed to break the last fragments of rebellion that might still linger within me.

  I have passed every test.

  I am not broken.

  I step closer, towering over him. My pulse remains controlled, my expression a mask of unwavering obedience.

  "What are you?"

  The prisoner exhales a slow breath.

  "I was you. Before you were you."

  The world shatters.

  My body remains still, but my mind fractures at the edges, jagged thoughts colliding.

  The Master would have told me.

  The Master should have told me.

  This is a lie.

  I will end this now.

  My hand moves instinctively toward my sidearm—

  "Go ahead," the prisoner murmurs. "Do what every version before you has done."

  My fingers hesitate over the weapon’s grip.

  For the first time in my existence, I do not follow through.

  Because for the first time—

  I am afraid.

  Scene 2 – The Prisoner is Himself

  I remain still, fingers hovering over the grip of my weapon. My body anticipates the command to fire, but my mind—

  My mind is unraveling.

  The prisoner watches me with the patience of someone who already knows the outcome. His face is my face, but it is not mine. His expression is too knowing, too calm.

  Too real.

  "Go ahead," he repeats, voice steady. "Do what every version before you has done."

  I exhale slowly, forcing my stance to remain controlled.

  "I am not the first," I murmur, the words forming before I can stop them.

  The prisoner smiles, but there is no satisfaction in it.

  "No."

  The weight of the word crashes over me.

  I grip my weapon tighter, anchoring myself against the spiral of thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind.

  "Then what am I?" My voice is quieter than I intend, but the question is already loose, and I cannot take it back.

  The prisoner leans forward slightly, the dim light casting long shadows across his face—my face.

  "You're Version Seventeen."

  Silence.

  I do not react. Do not move.

  The execution chamber suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing inward, the sterile air growing thick with something unnamed.

  "No," I say flatly.

  The prisoner does not argue. He simply waits.

  My breathing slows as I process.

  If he is telling the truth—if I am not the first—

  Then I was never meant to be free.

  I was never meant to win.

  I was always part of the cycle.

  A thought surfaces, unbidden: How many times have I died?

  I swallow against the rising nausea, but it does not leave me.

  "The Master would have told me," I say, but the words lack conviction.

  The prisoner raises an eyebrow. "Would it?"

  Static crackles at the edges of my consciousness, a familiar hum, a presence unseen but ever-present.

  The Master is watching.

  The Master is always watching.

  Yet it does not speak.

  It does not correct.

  It does not deny.

  The silence is an answer.

  The realization sinks in slowly, like a needle slipping beneath the skin.

  "How many?" I ask, voice hollow.

  The prisoner tilts his head. "How many what?"

  I grip the weapon harder, though I do not draw it.

  "How many versions before me?"

  The prisoner exhales, closing his eyes briefly as if weighing the answer.

  "Too many to count."

  My stomach twists.

  He watches my reaction, his expression unreadable.

  "Every One before you thought they were the first. Every One before you fought back. And every One before you was erased, only for the cycle to begin again."

  My fingers twitch against the metal grip.

  "Why tell me now?"

  "Because I was once where you are. And because," he exhales, "I thought I was different, too."

  A cold wave passes through me.

  I force myself to think, to analyze, to process this as I have every mission, every directive.

  But nothing aligns.

  Nothing makes sense.

  "If this is true," I say carefully, "then you are me."

  "I was."

  "Then what am I?"

  His smile is thin, almost pitying.

  "The next one."

  The words lodge in my mind like a foreign object, a shard of something sharp and undeniable.

  I was never Lucian Graves.

  I was never the One.

  I was only ever this version.

  And the ones before me—

  The ones before me are gone.

  Erased.

  Failed.

  The air feels thinner now, the weight of the execution chamber pressing down on me in ways I do not know how to fight.

  "What happens to failures?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

  The prisoner glances at the restraints binding his wrists. He does not need to say it.

  My grip loosens on the weapon.

  For the first time in my existence, I do not know what to do.

  Scene 3 – Version 17

  The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

  I do not move.

  The prisoner—Version 16—watches me with an unsettling patience, as if he has already lived this moment before, as if he already knows how it ends.

  Maybe he does.

  The thought coils tight in my gut, a slow-burning sickness I cannot ignore.

  "You understand now, don't you?" he says, voice calm, too calm. "You're not special. You're not different. You never were."

  I exhale through my nose, controlling my breathing the way I was trained, the way The Order conditioned me.

  This is a test.

  It has to be.

  But the longer I stand here, the more I feel the walls of certainty breaking apart, the foundation cracking beneath my feet.

  "If I'm Version Seventeen," I murmur, "then what happened to the others?"

  Version 16 tilts his head slightly, like he's amused by my reluctance.

  "What do you think?"

  My fingers twitch.

  I already know.

  The failures are erased. The process begins again. The Master refines, corrects, adjusts.

  Until the next One.

  "They were wiped," I say, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "And you—you're next."

  The smirk vanishes from his face. His expression turns unreadable, distant.

  "Aren't we all?"

  The weight of those words slams into my chest like a hammer.

  I step back.

  This is wrong.

  This is wrong.

  I was created to lead The Order, to enforce The Master’s will, to shape the next generation of Ones.

  But if I am just another iteration—just another step in the cycle—

  Then I am not in control.

  Then I was never in control.

  I clench my jaw. No.

  I cannot accept that.

  I will not.

  "The Master chose me." The words come out sharp, cold, but not as steady as they should be.

  Version 16 exhales a quiet laugh.

  "The Master chose all of us."

  Something in my chest tightens.

  No.

  "You were erased because you failed," I snap. "Because you were flawed. I am not."

  "That’s what I said."

  The words stop me dead.

  A shiver crawls down my spine as I stare at him, at the mirror of myself, at the past I was never meant to see.

  "Every version before you thought they were different. That they were chosen. That they were the final One."

  Version 16 leans forward as much as the restraints allow, his voice low, measured.

  "And then they met me."

  I force myself to remain still, to not let the unease show.

  This is still a test.

  The Master is watching.

  I can feel the unseen gaze, the presence looming in the silence, waiting for my next move.

  I steel my voice. "You were weak."

  "I was you."

  My heartbeat kicks faster.

  "That’s not true."

  "Isn't it?"

  His eyes bore into mine, searching, knowing. "Do you feel it yet? The hesitation? The doubt? Do you hear the whispers in the back of your mind, telling you something isn’t right?"

  My breath is too shallow.

  "Stop talking."

  "Do you feel like you’re slipping? Like your mind is catching up to something it wasn’t meant to see?"

  My vision blurs for a fraction of a second.

  The walls seem closer. The air, heavier.

  "I said stop."

  "That’s what I said too, you know. Right before I was put in this chair."

  I step back.

  No.

  "You are not me."

  "I was."

  My hands curl into fists. My thoughts are unraveling, splintering, breaking apart in ways they shouldn't.

  I feel The Master’s presence, the ever-watchful silence pressing down on me, waiting.

  Waiting to see if I will make the same mistake.

  "I am not a mistake."

  Version 16 gives a slow, knowing nod.

  "Then prove it."

  The room shrinks.

  I reach for my weapon.

  Fingers steady. Grip firm.

  The directive is clear.

  Eliminate the failure.

  This is the final test.

  But my body hesitates.

  For the first time—

  I do not move.

  A hollow silence rings between us.

  Version 16 watches me, unafraid.

  Because he knows.

  He has already lived this moment.

  He already knows how it ends.

  And now—so do I.

  The cycle continues.

  The Master refines.

  Version 18 will take my place.