The match bell rang and Alexander Bishop’s hand immediately pulled his gun from his holster in a movement so quick and fluid, it appeared as though the gun had teleported into his hand. With the amount of adrenaline rushing through his system, everything moved in slow motion. He saw his adversary still reaching down to draw through the sights along the barrel of his trusty magnum. In a fraction of a second that felt like a good minute and a half, he aligned the sights between his adversary’s eyes. He willed the bullet to fire, and his opponent’s head exploded into a fine mist of what used to be blood, bone, and brain matter. The hologram persisted for a few seconds before dematerializing.
The crowd went wild. Victory klaxons rang. A veritable tsunami of praiseful sound washed over Alexander Bishop. But he stood, stoic as ever, face devoid of pride, joy, relief, or any emotion whatsoever. He simply reached down to his ammo belt, replaced the single shot of his magnum (after all, he never needed a second shot), holstered the weapon, and raised his hands to his head. Tapping the controls on the side of his avatar suit, he deactivated it and found himself back in the contestant’s chamber. The roar of the crowd still echoed through the walls, but it was dampened. The nerve-feedback material of his avatar suit detached itself from his skin and slowly “melted” to the ground.
The digital clock glared a harsh 9 PM. He messaged his opponent’s chamber to make sure he was still alive. Of course, since the introduction of the avatar suits and the holographic combat, deaths in the ring were supposed to be impossible, but that didn’t mean they didn’t happen. No, Alex was well familiar with that. He tried to concentrate, to force his mind not to think of that match. He told himself he wouldn’t think of the fateful day when an over-cocky opponent illegally hacked the reaction time on his avatar suit in order to try to improve his reflexes. Of course, that reaction time buffer was in there for a reason: when you’re wearing a suit that reads your every move and causes realistic reactions to everything you feel, it needs to have a buffer to shut itself down when something potentially lethal happens to the wearer. Like a six-centimeter bullet plowing a hole between your eyes. Alex’s mantra kicked in finally, dispelling the weight of guilt. And when his opponent picked up the comm., his guilt was totally dispelled. The anger of a sore loser washing over him in a cascade of swears was almost a relief. He switched off the comm. screen and walked away.
Two bowls of udon and half a bottle of sake from the cheap Japanese restaurant at his apartment’s station later, Alex shuffled into his room. His apartment was Spartan, containing only a cook-table surrounded by empty instant ramen foam cups and cans of assorted alcoholic and caffeinated drinks and a bed shoved up against a wall with a nightstand next to it. The clock on the nightstand glowed 10 with an unfeeling face, mimicking Alex’s own stoic expression. His nanites were already clearing the alcohol from his system. He grimaced and dropped to the ground, performing his daily exercise circuit. His mind wandered to the rhythm of push-ups, sit-ups, and martial arts drills. He thought back again to the poor bastard he had executed back in the ring. He thought of how this relapse of killing had caused him to draw even further into himself, of how it had caused him to push everyone else away. Faces flickered through his mind, especially hers. But that’s how it had to be. That’s how it always was. He still had not atoned for his sins, and thus love was forever beyond his grasp.
He thought further back, to the days of old, before the arenas. He thought of the hundreds of sentient beings he had killed in cold blood in the name of justice, survival, and pocket change. He shook these thoughts away, refusing to follow that track any further.
Physical exercises completed, he picked up his gun from the nightstand, seeing the time at 11. Taking the gun he walked through the apartments to the attached firing range, preparing for the next ritual of training.
“This is all your fault you know,” he said, talking to the cold alloy weapon in his hand. “I could have a real career, a real life, if it wasn’t for your draw.” He knew it was true. There was no reason for him to be in the arena for money, his bounty-hunting days had made sure he had funds enough to last him a lifetime. He was here for the thrill of the fight without the guilt of the kill.
Each target in turn was annihilated, blasted perfectly through the center with unfeeling, unthinking reflex. He didn’t even need a say in his own destruction, it was so deeply imbedded in his brain that he could annihilate on autopilot. “This is all your fault!” he shouted again at the gun. “Look at what you’ve made me! Look at what you’ve left me with: no way out.” But a though crept deep inside of him. There was a way out. He was holding his cure, his salvation, in his hand. He brushed the ghastly thought aside, but it quickly came back and took hold.
The clock inched closer and closer to midnight. He was on his knees, facing it in his room. The magnum was tightly clenched in his hand, the knuckles white from the force. He would not tremble though. He had to do this as well as every kill he ever scored. He had to be his own executioner. He centered the barrel between his eyes. 11:57. He breathed in and out heavily, steeling himself for the task ahead. 11:58. Sweat started to drip down his forehead. He willed it to stop, knowing he was stronger than that. He saw a bead of it roll down the bridge of his nose onto the barrel of the gun, sliding down its sights. 11:59.
The moment of truth was here. He flipped off the safety with his thumb, unclenching his trigger finger to wrap it around the trigger. At that moment, the door slid open. He heard a sweet, familiar voice from behind him. His grip slipped, the gun falling to the ground. He stood up and turned around, embracing her without a word. As the clock struck midnight, he locked lips, tears flowing down his face.