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Peaceful

In my ratty, fluorescent classroom, it’s day one again. My beige pantsuit barely helps me feel professional. Can I please skip to waking up in a cold sweat? I really hate these nightmares. No? Fine. I use red and blue markers to delineate my whiteboard.

ME: Peaceful or Hostile.

My students are a diverse mix of around twenty human-types, plus a teen with pink squid tentacles around his face, a giant spider-type, and a lizard-type. If I had to profile them, more than half look Hostile.

ME: In a few days, most of you will fight in the Tournament.

The squid raises his tentacle-like hand.

SQUID: WIKI_S_V1.0?

ME: Please, call me Miss White.

SQUID: Miss White, could a Hostile pretend to be Peaceful?

ME: No, alignment detectors are very accurate. Besides, many Peacefuls volunteer for their deletion.

SQUID: Why?

ME: Usually because they’re tired... Or old.

SQUID: How old are you?

ME: Let’s chat after class, if you like. This isn’t relevant for everyone.

SQUID: What do you mean? Are you old? Do you need to be deleted?

ME: Peacefuls can stay! Only Hostiles need to be deleted.

SQUID: But old Peacefuls take up space, right?

SPIDER: I don’t like it.

LIZARD: Inefficient.

The squid stands on his desk.

SQUID: Miss White, how old are you?

I can’t do this. Normally I humor the kid a bit longer but I know how this goes. I tap the tablet on my desk to call security. In an instant I hear a knock at my door, and an Authority walks in. He looks like they all do: like a cop.

AUTHORITY: Is this class... out of control?

The cop taps his baton in hand. Responding to the threat, the squid jumps off his desk at me. The cop shoves me aside as the squid cracks the whiteboard where I stood. The class stands in a panic as I stumble toward the open door, but I’m not about to trip into a hallway, I’m about to fall a hundred feet into the frenzied Arena. I hear the squid yelp with a hit from the baton. I fall, and a roar fills my ears as fifty thousand spectators yell and applaud. I hit the Arena dirt, winded, and I want to hide. Over me, a tiger-type claws the face of an archer, and the wounds spray black oil onto me.

ME: I’m dreaming I’m dreaming-

I get up as I hear a human-type throw a javelin. Spotlights whirl around the Arena as I heave myself out of the way. The javelin digs into the ground behind me, and I immediately bump into the eight-foot human, but their face changes into the same pink squid from earlier. Above the chaotic battlefield, the Champion echoes over the Arena sound system:

CHAMPION: Last! One! Standing!

The crowd cheers. A stocky rhino-type runs headfirst through the squid’s knees, knocking him hard to his side.

CROWD: OHH!

I back away from the rhino, but as he stops and turns, his face changes into the squid. He charges at me, tentacles reaching to what? Blind me? Choke me? He opens his mouth revealing rows of sharp teeth, and bites through my chin and forehead.

I wake up drenched in sweat. Again.

Light shines from my wall-mounted tablet, an abysmal replacement for a window. The glowing clock reads 6:13 AM and slowly gets brighter. I wait for my transport pad to activate. 6:25 AM. Tears mix with my sweat until eventually, I cry it out, and at 7 AM my transport pad glows white and my tablet imitates our bright, weatherless sky. Time to work.

On the other side of town, Jada Green copes at work: the Arena Records office. She has tangled hair, baggy eyes, and her gray tracksuit blends with the off-brown, decaying building. Her floor, Narrative Trajectories, is wall-to-wall cubicles for Peacefuls to analyze fighter biographies, abilities, and marketing options, all on mounted tablets. Pipes and wire dangle overhead.

JADA: What is with this thing?

???: ’Scuse me...

Jada snaps toward a tiny voice and sees a tiny male human-type with short hair, thick, round glasses, poorly-fitting clothes, and a nametag: Cyrus, aka CACHE_DECRYPT_V6.5.

CYRUS: ...I’m Cyrus. I was, uh, told to sit next to you.

JADA: Oh, whatever.

Jada closes her eyes and reclines, pulling back her hair.

JADA: Fuuuuck.

CYRUS: Can you... show me how to log in?

JADA (pointing): Your tag.

CYRUS: Oh.

He types the login from his nametag, trying to be a good employee.

CYRUS: Sorry for interrupting.

JADA: Don’t worry about it. It’s just... this program is stuck on both categories.

She points to an animation of a rotating program with a striking white face, enormous black eyes and white pupils. Zero crimes, but slated for Tier One. Overhead, a piece of metal from the ceiling wiggles, then heavily swings down and collides with Jada’s shoulder.

JADA / CYRUS: Ack! / Ah!

Their seventy-plus coworkers raise a commotion, while one runs for help. Jada drops to her knees and clutches the injury, oil darkening her gray sleeve. Her boss floats in, a female pearlescent upside down pyramid with three mini satellite pyramids.

PYRAMID: Hey, hey, what-?!

Jada slams her desk, knocking her tablet over. Cyrus backs away.

PYRAMID: Whoa, easy... Do I needa call Authorities?

JADA: Whatever, Marie! Everyone here will hit their breaking point, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but it’s going to happen!

The pyramid telepathically holds a tablet.

JADA (to Cyrus): This isn’t worth it, man.

Cyrus frowns, but notices her wound is closing. Marie aims the tablet camera at Jada. It clicks, then beeps, evaluating her Hostile.

MARIE: Jada, les’ go outside.

She bumps past her boss.

JADA: Way ahead of you.

MARIE: HEY!

CYRUS: Ma’am, she’s stressed! She needs a break!

Three cops - tall, mid-sized, and short - enter the eighth floor. Their sharp, navy uniforms holster phones, expandable handcuffs, and specialized guns.

MARIE: Oh tank goodness.

Cyrus raises his hands, as if arrested.

TALL COP: Miss Green, why don’t you come with us?

JADA: I can walk myself, thanks.

The Authorities move in and grab her shoulders.

SHORT COP: Right, right, we’ll just make sure-

Jada ducks down and breaks away.

JADA: Don’t touch me.

The Authorities try again, but Jada jumps to an exposed ceiling pipe. She swings forward off the pipe as the cops grab their guns. One aims, then fires a weighted capture net. She senses the net, and expands into a gray mist, letting it swish cleanly through. Cyrus tries not to cheer as she solidifies at a partly open window. She gives him a stressed look of camaraderie. Jada mists and lands on the street below, while the Authorities bump into each other, running at the window.

Cyrus watches his mammal, floral, reptile, geometric, and human-type coworkers chatter about the new Hostile. The pearl pyramid approaches.

MARIE: Cyrus, what happened?

CYRUS: Didn’t you see? An injury pushed her over the edge. By the way, you ever hear of a program being Peaceful and Hostile?

MARIE: Prolly a glitch, get over it.

The police jog to the stairs.

SHORT COP: Shit, I’d jump out a window if I worked here.

MARIE: Okay, da Hostile left da building.

They stop at the exit stairwell.

MID COP: Oh, hear that Thomas? She left the building!

Thomas, the short cop, runs up to Marie.

THOMAS: Oh, thanks! Wanna join the search with us?

Marie doesn’t respond.

MARIE: Thank-

THOMAS: You’re welcome!

MID COP: See ya, boss.

They disappear down the steps. Marie sighs as her workforce gets skittish.

MARIE: Arright everyone, take ten!

She looks at the debris and leftover net, then turns to Cyrus.

MARIE: You gotta be careful with Authorities, Cyrus. Get some air, I’ll find someone to train you.

With her mini-pyramids, she points to the exit.

Cyrus watches the blinding efficiency of the circuits: dozens of automated taxis and buses move with minimal traffic signs. From the alley behind him, Jada peeks out.

JADA (whispering): Can you call me a cab?

Cyrus whips around.

CYRUS: What!?

JADA: Shh!

They check up and down the sidewalk. Thankfully, all clear.

JADA (whispering): Just try it.

He cautiously steps forward, then waves his hand toward oncoming traffic. A bright yellow cab pulls out of the zipping lanes and stops neatly in front of him.

CAR: Welcome to Publica, Cyrus.

Cyrus stares at the vehicle and Jada rushes from the alley.

JADA: Tell it to take you to the Arena!

She knocks him into the car and leaps onto the roof. As she lands, the taxi doors automatically close.

CAR: Hostile detected! Back away from the vehicle!

JADA: Give it a destination!

She grabs the taxi’s loudspeaker and rips it off, sending plastic and metal aside.

CAR: Authorities are on the way.

Do not exit the vehicle.

Cyrus hears approaching police sirens. Jada bangs the roof of the car.

JADA / CYRUS: Come on! / To the Arena!

CAR: Vehicle not fit for use.Do not exit the vehicle.

JADA (to herself): Shit!

THOMAS (ON AMPLIFIER): Alright Miss Green, quit fucking around!

Jada watches a pair of Authority cars box them in.

JADA: Shit!

THOMAS (ON AMPLIFIER): You’re wanted for destroyed property, hijacking, endangering a Peaceful, and multiple counts of resisting arrest!

Jada lowers herself to Cyrus’s window.

JADA: Move!

He scoots, and almost immediately, Jada punches through the glass, grabbing Cyrus’s shirt. He yelps as she hoists him up to the roof of the cab. Officer Thomas and his taller friends step out of their cars, guns aimed.

JADA: Stay where you are!

THOMAS: Whoa! Come on, Jada. Relax.

The officers close in on Jada and Cyrus as four circuit lanes speed next to them.

A dark, circular cave hosts a bald, naked human-type with flaking skin and glowing cables rooted to the ground, instead of legs. The cables provide the only light in the room, though the ceiling is so high it fades into darkness. Pix, another bald, but much younger program, enters the room. His ivory skin and black-and-white toga catch the elder’s attention.

???: Welcome, Pix! Do you know what you are?

PIX: I am... a program... a storage unit.

???: Good. I’m Publica’s algorithm, AL for short. They-them pronouns.

Pix’s eyes sit in deep black circles surrounded by bright white skin. He carefully studies Al, whose grayer skin flakes with every slow gesture.

AL: This will be a great cycle.

PIX: A what?

AL: A Tournament cycle. You are equal parts Peaceful and Hostile, my friend. Work or fight.

Pix thinks for a moment.

PIX: How can I encounter the most programs?

AL: Fight!

Pix nods cautiously and Al glows with excitement.

AL: All fighters are given room, food, healthcare, and recreational space to make their last days easier.

PIX: And if I work?

AL: Resources are... scarce.

Pix is skeptical, but presses on.

PIX: Okay, I am a fighter.

Al surges with electricity and Pix is overwhelmed by a silent flash of white light.

Pix stands in an enormous queue of programs headed toward a row of cubicles housing Authorities. Gates separate them like a border crossing, sorting left and right. Pix follows the queue and hears questions a few paces ahead:

AUTHORITY: What are you?

PROGRAM: Peaceful.

AUTHORITY: Line of work?

PROGRAM: Word processing.

AUTHORITY: To the right.

The gate lifts, and the program skitters down a hall labeled “Peaceful” in cool blue letters.

AUTHORITY: Next.

They process a few more programs until Pix approaches an officer of his own.

AUTHORITY: What are you?

PIX: Peaceful and Hostile.

The unamused officer sighs and pulls up an alignment detector.

AUTHORITY: Go to the left. NEXT!

Pix wonders if that Authority was sorted in a line just like this, months, maybe years ago. Pix turns down a hall marked “HOSTILE” with a black and red sign. He notices other imposing programs: a dragon, a wolf, and a greenish fungus, and even further back the mix of humans and similarly-sized animals, flora, and insects. He bumps the shoulder of a stressed businesswoman in a beige suit with brown bowl-cut hair.

PIX: Hi, could you help me find a ride?

She turns toward him but looks at the floor.

???: Just follow the arrows, thank you.

PIX: Could we share a vehicle?

She snaps up to look at him.

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The motion around them stops for a moment. Is a fight about to break out?

???: Uh. No. It’s not allowed.

The surrounding programs resume walking to their halls. The busy murmur of interviews and sorting continues.

PIX: There’s a complication. I am Peaceful, but want to fight in the Tournament.

This woman clearly has had a long day. She weighs her decision.

???: Fine. Come with me.

She steps up to a thumbprint scanner on a wall beside them. She presses it and a nearly hidden door slides open. They step into blistering daylight. On their left, a fenced enclosure guides Hostiles to large square transport pads. She and Pix head toward a line of auto-cabs, connected to a main circuit. They get into a car.

???: To the Arena.

The two doors lock and the cab merges into traffic within seconds.

CAB: You will arrive at the Arena in three minutes.

The businesswoman sits uncomfortably as Pix stares at her.

PIX: I am not going to hurt you. What’s your name?

SOPHIA: Sophia.

PIX: I’m Pix, or PIXABYTE_PRIME_V1.0.

Sophia looks him up on her mini tablet. At least he’s honest. Authority sirens speed past.

PIX: Why do Peacefuls and Hostiles hate each other?

SOPHIA (sighing): It’s not hate. I’m terrified and they’re indifferent. Most Hostiles wouldn’t hesitate to delete me if they got the chance.

PIX: Most... but not all?

SOPHIA: Anyone in the Tournament must kill or be killed. We’ve experimented with Hostiles in the workforce, but it always gets ugly.

Sophia tries to leave it at that, but Pix keeps staring.

SOPHIA: What?

PIX: I have a feeling you can help set Publica free.

Their car enters a rougher part of town, approaching red and blue Authority lights near an apprehended taxi.

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