“The Selection” by Timothy 11C (Runner-up: FOBISIA International Competition)

The last of a series of agonised cries is suppressed as I wrench the implant out of his left forearm. It crackles and vibrates feebly on the sun-scorched clay ground before it turns stationary forever - a painfully similar end to its owner Insignificant and inferior I flip over the lifeless body, rummaging through its packs for food

Nothing I curse spitefully under my breath; I had squandered a precious twilight in fruitless pursuit I should have deduced that he would die on an empty stomach His face was too youthful, his palms too soft, his skin not caked in the baked clay that encrusts those that have scavenged for long enough He had probably just been cast out in the most recent cohort - just another inconsequential victim of the Triadal system, destined to be swallowed up by the merciless ravaging of the Wilderness

I twiddle his implant in my remaining fingers absent-mindedly; the finely cut ridges feeling unnervingly familiar. My fingertips navigate themselves to an indentation bearing a crest. I did not need to place it alongside my own implant to know that it was identical The engraving of that same crest in my implant was all that still bound me to the triads - to a time before the gripping hunger, a time before the scorching heat, and a time before I was nothing It was a crest that I had been blindly infatuated with for so long, but now triggers hatred and resentment

Impoverished wails disrupt my meaningless meanderings into a fabled past They reverberate in and out of crumbling concrete ruins that lie beyond the sleek Osmium fortress - remains of a primal civilisation from centuries ago. The wails are magnified as more wretched scavengers chime in: wails of starvation, wails of the searing temperature; wails of intellectual inferiority that has cast them into the abyss where only one outcome awaits. All that varies in life outside the safety of the triads is the fashion in which it ends.

Fortunately, this is an end that I should never have to consider If I truly do succeed my father as the triad’s Assassin, I will succumb to a painless passing as my algorithm is breached at the hands of a rival In the world of triads, even deaths are systematic - a sharp contrast to the chaos that ensues in the Wilderness The Assassin bears the weight of their entire triad when they enter a duel with an opposing one Two individuals pitted against each other in a battle of intelligence, fervently attempting to uncover the other’s algorithm to neutralise them and consequently their entire triad. The stakes could not be higher, and therefore it is only the most intelligent and genetically suitable member who can be selected for this role.

Every person regardless of triad has a unique algorithm: seventeen digits that are automatically assigned at birth, and are encoded into their implant An Assassin has the ability to discover then decode this algorithm, disabling that person’s bodily functions This is why they must possess the intellectual fortitude to shroud their own algorithm in layers of decoy code, while simultaneously attempting to penetrate their opponent’s enigma - skills which I have been trained in since birth

My father has been spearheading the triad for decades as its Assassin, but he draws closer to the thirty-year maximum that has been established across all triads to prevent the monopolisation by a single triad My entire life revolves around my father’s firm notion that none other than his own son may succeed a legacy as great as his own While my compatriots relish their childhood in youthful naivety, leading a carefree lifestyle, I spend hours sitting with my father in front of the neutraliser, memorising how to bypass common decoys, and reciting regions and their respective algorithm digits To call him a father would be lying He is a tutor

Yet, with all that is imparted to me, there has always been a nagging in the back of my mind that casts seeds of doubt With each lesson that passes, I cannot help but feel that these seeds are steadily nurturing into sprawling plants that gnaw away at my confidence. The numbers and codes which are like a language to my father do not obey me with the same ease. Rather than the sense of exhilaration which an Assassin should feel when the neutraliser starts, I revert to a sense of dread and inferiority. However, there is little time left to second-guess my abilities. The Selection is in less than a week. I can just hope that the identification process does not expose my lack of ability, or that there are no others in my cohort that are naturally intelligent enough to usurp my countless hours of gruelling training.

“Member seven-five-three-two Intellectual-Metric: seventy-six Physical-Metric: eighty-four Emotional-Metric: fifty-four Supply Management sector” The Elder’s voice resonates across the overflowing courtyard, followed by a routine round of applause It is the only time of year when every member of the triad is present in the same vicinity, hundreds craning their necks to witness which wretched member will face the humiliation of being expelled to the Wilderness, as punishment for their lack of God-gifted ability This time, there is the added thrill of nominating the next Assassin for the first time in decades, which causes an anticipating pause whenever an Intellectual-Metric of over ninety is read

The numbers left until seven-six-eight-four deplete too quickly for my liking This year’s outcast has not been announced yet, but that is not my concern My confidence begins to swell with each name that passes without the label of ‘Assassin’

I catch my father’s icy gaze before treading towards the podium, as hushed whispers now replace the dissonant cacophony of seconds ago. They would all have heard about the renowned four-two-eight-five’s son by now, a child touted to thrive since birth, with some possibly betting large sums on my anointing He glares back anticipatingly Imperiously

“Member seven-six-eight-four.” My heart is a hundred galloping horses.

“Intellectual-Metric: Fifty-two ” The horses stop So do the whispers

“Physical-Metric: Thirty-six ” An outcry ensues Dozens have just lost a fortune “Emotional-Metric: Forty-five ” I stop thinking The jeers reach new heights “Expelled ” My father leaves the table of elders They do not try to console him

The rest is a blur. My senses are overwhelmed. I am numb to the blazing iron that wrenches implants from my neck and deaf to the clamours of fury that engulf the courtyard - but I do see the empty chair; the untouched celebratory glass in front of it

Briny droplets trickle into my still-gaping mouth. It could be perspiration from the fifty-degree midday, but I think that they are tears. I had never cried before; never been pushed over in a childhood scrap; never been called names like other children, but the cause of their tears had never cost their parents an eternity of shame. Never cost them a lifetime in the Wilderness.

Calloused palms shove me towards the retracting Osmium doors For the first time in three-hundred-and-sixty-five days, they open, revealing a barren panorama that casts a rare silence over the