I sat and waited, like I usually do. Sometimes he was quick about it and, at others, the pause was long enough to think he fell asleep. The television didn’t care. It displayed the picture of a bad connection until Tiny got up and slapped it, which he finally did, telling even the unemotional circuitry he was in charge. No one argued with what was on TV when Tiny was watching.

It didn’t really matter much. The System provided two channels. Channel A was the newest news and, in case you missed it, Channel B highlighted what was shown on Channel A. Tuesdays and Thursdays were different. On those nights you could watch The Mortons. It was promoted as a comedy, but I failed to find the humor. It was more of a wishful commentary on what the ideal System family had as a life. Nobody I knew believed that by the end of the episode, everything worked out. Not under The System. Not unless you were awarded a position or born into the government. I suppose the humor was either that irony or a play to one’s hope.

Tiny loved the show. Nobody dared asked him why he was enamored with it, it was a fact, like the Sun rises in the East. He never missed an episode; not even when they brought him in with more holes punched into his torso than a shower drain. That night, at Tiny’s insistence, the Med Unit positioned the bed so he could see the TV; then they started a pool to see if he would die before the episode was over.

His real name was Michele Teránce Denashea. From a family so prominent, uttering a whisper of their name was voodoo upon oneself. That his nickname is Tiny was a gift from Mouse. A man of stature four foot nothing who feared nothing. And when Mouse died of a heart attack, Tiny stopped laughing. Which made you wonder who Tiny was in the first place. If his had been my family, I’d have been out of here faster than I came in. Tiny's family had influence and power, which is why nobody understood Tiny’s demeanor beyond the fear of raising his ire, and that’s how he wanted it.

I met Tiny in the shower, and I know what you’re thinking. I had been delayed by guards who thought it appropriate to remind me why I was here, and being late, the baths were deserted, or so everyone escorting me thought. A good or bad thing depending on how you viewed your probability of success surviving the situation unscathed.

I was where I wasn’t supposed to be, dripping with a putrid mix of rancid soap and water that carried the smell of algae having been in a pipe too long that I watched as three men faced off with Tiny. At 28 ten weight and twenty hands tall, Tiny was God’s cruel joke to those who thought they were tough guys.

Tiny’s endowment from God was embued with the instinct of a feral creature coupled with musculature that could do what the brain commanded, and he knew where his opponent’s hand was to be before the punch was thrown. In mid-arc, Tiny caught and crushed it as does a child with a poorly thrown snowball. The opponent’s arm was twisted to separate forearm from elbow while Tiny’s other appendage commanded the force of hand and muscle to re-route the man’s spinal cord.

The second thought he’d fare better. He was mistaken. Tiny grasped his esophagus like a flower stem to be plucked and cleanly removed it. The third man cowered and was shown mercy by having his lower mandible forced into his brain pan. It was then he turned and saw me hiding behind the partition. His eyes went over me as if I were the woman of his dreams. He missed not one cut, rising welt, or rivulet of blood from the beating I had been given. He knew I saw him as Death, and that was good. We had an understanding.

Tiny was here because he killed four men. Not individually, but all at once, and with his bare hands. The Sentinels shot him eight times before they subdued him. He had been protecting a girl. The four men had been forcibly trying to take her. Tiny intervened.

In The System, one doesn’t intervene because one doesn’t know if it’s System business or not. And one certainly doesn’t want to interfere with System business. As for myself, I’m here because I said, “No.” The whys and whereabouts aren’t important, it’s simply because I wouldn’t agree. And this is also why Tiny must adjust the TV, even though he would let me if I could because you see, I’m chained to the table at which I sit.

I remember the first time we saw him, the accused. It was a Thursday, or maybe a Tuesday because Tiny was in his usual chair waiting for The Mortons to begin. A special announcement came across Channel B, which was odd. We had been tuned to A. And Tiny took the interruption like it was part of the show. I thought I caught a glimpse of him staring at me, but that was lunacy. Since Mouse died, not only doesn’t he say much, but he also never looks at anyone eye-to-eye he isn’t going to kill.

The TV picture fuzzed with what I can only guess looked like a courtroom, seeing as I’ve never had the pleasure of actually being in one. The camera faced a long table of men in suits with another man at center seat, wearing the clothing of a non-compliant. Behind the seated men was a low wall, following which a crowd of people watched whatever was to unfold. Although we could hear just fine, the spoken words ran across the bottom of the picture in white letters.

“And do you freely admit that these actions of which you are accused were of your own doing using a sane mind and freedom of your choice?” The question posed by someone off-camera.

“Yes, yes I do,” the non-compliant responded.

I felt it more than I heard it. There was something wrong with the way he spoke. I wasn’t watching the screen when he answered, nonetheless there was an odd timbre resonating inside my gut, and that made me look up. At first I thought he had been drugged, but the more I watched the more I doubted that first impression. It was his eyes. They didn’t have the gazed or confused look of the forcibly medicated. Fear crossed my mind, but that didn’t seem to fit either.

I felt myself being pulled towards the screen, my shackles remained only with physical me, not the mind they were supposed to constrain and, as I got closer, I felt the man on the television was speaking only to me. His eyes met mine. He had seen something he wasn’t meant to see, and it changed him. It welled over me as does the sound of an approaching train freighter and your living unit window is next to the tracks. Those eyes were my own, that night in the shower when I first saw Tiny.

The next time we saw him, the table arrangement was different. He sat with six additional men, also dressed in the garb of the non-compliant. He had lost a lot of weight since his premier, but it didn’t look like starvation. I would have said it was more stress induced. He sat erect, hands in his lap, his movements relaxed to whatever point could be mustered in this situation and, once again, it was his eyes that bothered me.

“Do you confirm that the six men seated next to you, conspired with you to interfere with the proper operation and governance of The System, acting in a non-compliant manner against the People of The System?” asked the off-camera questioner.

“Yes, yes I do,” the non-compliant responded. His voice was soft and flowing. He was very convincing.

The eyes saw through my skull. I couldn’t sanction why nobody else noticed it. He was holding it in. Desperately failing, he couldn’t fake his secret with his eyes. Relief. That’s what the eyes showed. Relief. Relief in no longer having to suffer.

I couldn’t tell you what day of the week the first time was. They fetched me for outdoor exercise to the same schedule of the previous eighteen months. I had no inclination that day was to be different. Not until my chains were used to lash me to a post. This time the metal bit my skin as the shackles were pulled tight. My neck ring constricted and it became an effort not to panic and lose my breath. I had as much movement as I could twitch. I still had no real idea.

When the Sentinel appeared into the yard with the sledgehammer, my thoughts became less rational. What I thought was going to happen with that tool was not a concept that registered. The first swing is still something I can’t comprehend. I didn’t struggle against the chains to try and avoid the blow because I didn’t believe what was happening.

The twelve pounds of forged metal met my right ankle exactly at the base of the fibula. Its mass and velocity drove straight through the tibia and talus bones until it rebounded against the wood of the post. I was now forced to bear my entire weight on one foot and, with the restraints, moving my center of gravity was impossible. I prayed to pass out, but that was a gift unopened.

I discovered there are things worse than pain. Watching the Sentinel walk to other side and repeat that action on my left ankle is one of those things. In those few seconds it took to reposition himself, I would’ve done anything to have him not. Anything.

Unable to correctly support my weight, the chains and cuffs did it for me. Instead of biting my skin, they began to dig grooves and ridges that turned damp red. The wetness of my own blood felt like an annoying mosquito I was unable to swat and, for a brief moment, that was the worst torment.

The flash of green caught my eye for only a moment as small dots of the same shade began to appear on my clothing. They shimmered, but were tightly focused. Despite my agony, I understood they weren’t targeting for death, at least not quickly, as the green dots were not on my head or heart or lungs. They were targeted for my groin, the femoral arteries in my legs, my liver, and my kidneys.

The first round struck my left kidney. It didn’t matter any more that both legs had been hobbled. The second round tore through my liver much like a knife does to over-boiled meat. I had become a mass of sensation that matched no description of what the human body could bear. And I tried to get in front of it. Will myself into a state where I could endure the pain to continue my thought. I wasn’t going to go out whimpering. They must of seen this and so there was pause, to let the situation intensely manifest itself in my being.

The desire to be sadistic finally won out over patience and the next round removed my manhood. When I thought there could be nothing more than the intense hatred I was having for my body’s design as its nerves were crushed, blood flowed, and ruined organs dumped chemicals of rot into my interior, the pain from my crotch welled over me. It was a shadow that blotted out the light and it brought intense cold, bone chilling as my mother once said, followed by razors, making thousands of tiny cuts as they followed the cold through my body.

The last two shots were simultaneous. One for each leg, they were perfectly positioned to just nick the femoral artery in each. There I hung, my physical substance draining from a form so broken my brain offered a morsel of relief in telling the body it was time to die.

Funny I should think of Tiny as I was dying, but that’s who I saw pass over me. But then there was a woman, dressed in the white of medical personnel. I had never had a fantasy about a nurse, but since I was dying I decided to allow myself the pleasure.

There are voices when you die? I guess that’s possible until you realize you aren’t dead. Comprehension of this fact took effort. I had been hobbled and shot. Major arteries were blown, organs shattered, there was no surgery putting that mess back together. Yet here I was. And from what I could glance, I was whole. More importantly, my brain wanted to know why was I here.

It was two, maybe three days later that I received a visit from two Polits, as they are known on the street. Political Individuals to The System is the long name. Short answer, they were the government. The dark blue shimmer of their suits was even more impressive when viewed live and, seeing as I could now stand without effort, I stood up from the bed.

“There’s no need for you to rise,” Polit on the left said.

“I don’t get many visitors,” I responded.

Polit on the right spoke next. “NC 172394, we are here to offer you a chance at life in prison under normal conditions after you admit your non-compliance and ask for the mercy of the System and its People. This will occur in front of witnesses.”

It didn’t take me too long to answer. “No.”

And then they left.

On my day of medical discharge they shepherded me to the exact yard at which I had died, if you could call it that, except the post was gone and in the center of the yard was a large, black, metal disk. At least ten feet in diameter, the dancing waves of light above it told you it was radiating immense heat. In that moment, four Sentinels threw me to the ground and made me naked. They released me and a fifth sprayed me with oil. It had a slight flowery scent, but it burned my eyes and nostrils. It was everything I could do to not breathe it in.

I knew I was airborne because at that moment I had cleared my vision. Upon seeing my landing spot, my bowels immediately emptied themselves. I prayed that the rising waves of heat would counter gravity, buoying my body, and I would not hit that steel plate. What I remember most was the smell. What a human being smells like being fried on a five-hundred degree oversized frying pan.

Once again I awoke in bed, Tiny was not to be seen and, it was another woman, dressed in medical garb, tending to the machinery to which I was attached. My body was again whole. I began to comprehend my situation and that poor man on Channel B. The System had come up with a new way to achieve compliance. They could kill you in the most imaginative ways and somehow bring you back. I could only fathom I was living inside a clone of myself. And Channel B man couldn’t take it. The System had found the ultimate torture. They weren’t interested in information, all they wanted was compliance. Torture is known for that. Of course, I thought of myself as a tough guy.

I was in error. Horrific doesn’t begin to describe it. They stuffed my anus with larvae that have a passion for human tissue. The larval generations required two weeks to reach my heart, at which point I finally succumbed. To get there I endured being food for thousands of pale, white creatures that could’ve cared less.

The Polits again came to see me, and again I said no. Death number four was by dehydration and exposure. Returning to the same yard, which now I quaintly referred to as going to the bathroom, I was staked to the ground naked like a Vitruvian man. Day One brought sun that scorched, then blistered my skin, and burnt my retinas. Day Two witnessed the rise of the insects who drank or chewed their fill, lingering to create the itch of nightmares. I lasted three and a half days.

I tried, I really tried. I wanted to say yes, but in understanding how horrible the next death experience might be, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The assault on my physical being became a game. They boiled me, slowly. I was thrown out of a flier. I was skinned and butchered, the parts roasted over a spit, then sliced and thrown to dogs while I was forced to watch my largest organ dry on a rack in the sun. I was crucified. Burnt alive. Exposed to radiation. The worst was being slowly crushed. I had no concept, no reference point, and no definition of how terrible a demon claustrophobia is.

The next Polit visit was different. This time, there was only one and his blue suit was accented by the silver stripes of a Supporter. Third behind Believers and Founders in the System government hierarchy, his level of importance was reflected by the cowering of all those who appeared around him. I could only imagine that had a Founder shown up, people would have killed themselves to honor the visit.

“NC 172394, we can do this quite a number of times,” is all he said. No introduction, no small talk, just business. That’s what it felt like to me. This was a business and I was a package delivered to the wrong living unit.

As I lay there in the recovery bed, the Polit’s words were tinnitus to my brain. It bothered me that I was actually considering how many times I could endure this. I was a nobody, a cog in the wheel. All I had done was refuse a simple request. Simple maybe in its form and function, but saying yes made me a piece a furniture to be moved around in a room that I didn’t decorate. Waiting to be sat on by the next visitor.

And now that The System had conquered death, the irony that the elite could replace themselves while the rest of us sweated and died real death begged the question as to their purpose. Or maybe my repeated murder had its desired effect, my mind had long ago left me, and hallucination had become my only friend.

The System had been birthed in affluence. As a result, a faction of society had come to believe such abundance and availability would continue unabated. Over time, those beliefs wandered into the domain of those wanting to consider why shouldn’t all have what all have? Of course they would. By their reasoning, wouldn’t society find a true balance? Offering a panacea to those that didn’t have one seems like a workable solution. Unfortunately, the solution came with a price. Compliance from those who were subject to it. But, even if you did, comply that is, the definition of equality kept changing, the line to be reached always moving. If anyone had asked me, and no one did, by my current state of affairs I’d say The System’s promise didn't match it’s implemented reality. Whatever the defeated alternative was, personally, I would of have at least liked to have heard what it was called.

This is when it became innate knowledge to me, it is not the difficulty one finds in life, it is the envy created by it. To want what one cannot have. Envy in a society is the make-believe, ignoring the experience that brings it to fruition. The affluence engine that powers the mass is created by the individual efforts of millions who aspire to achieve the lofty heights of success and independence. The hard reality is there will be things you cannot have, cannot control. When those who can not accept that reality, through narcissism, psychosis, or plain stupidity, believe the unknown threatens their definition of success and power, or in who will yield it, the retaliation is swift and with conviction. What new revulsion can they save us from next? If life weren’t hard enough, here’s a new terror, free of charge. Then comes each individual's decision as to whose side to be on, for or against, Good versus Evil. Maybe now I understand why I said, “No.”

The nature of my existence doesn’t make me valuable, it’s what I do with it; for what I have honestly done, or what I might further do, or build, or create. My current reality, my existence in The System, tells a different story. If what I want can’t be shared, what I want doesn’t matter. What use is it to The System if I am the sole beneficiary of my effort? That argument had almost sounded legitimate after three or four deaths.

Somewhere along the human timeline, The System had defined what mattered to them. The only requirement was that I be part of that definition. A cog in the machine. Somehow, I managed a place in that definition; until I had said no. Not to a request, but to becoming a slave.

I awoke to being strapped to the bed. Large leather wraps had been placed around wrists and ankles, holding me more tightly than the steel bracelets in my first death. No longer was there a single woman attendant, now it was four, large men, dressed as Med Unit, and menacing. From somewhere a hypodermic appeared. Tapping it clear of bubbles, which I thought ironic since they were going to kill me, the pale, yellow liquid entered my vein, and then I waited. I expected my limbs and head to swell until they popped like pimples. Instead, I was finding sleep. This is it I thought, my true death. At least the last one comes without suffering for it.

Strangely enough, I heard myself whisper my goodbyes, apologize for my sins, and make peace with my regrets, both good and bad. Then I was gone.

It didn’t occur to me I was alive, still dirt tastes terrible. Prone and face down, I had drooled and the wetness had attracted the reddish brown soil beneath me. Spitting with a cotton mouth, my second thought was of night ending as I glimpsed the Sun beginning to flirt with dawn.

I was about to push myself up when I thought, not again. It sapped me of my strength and I sank back into the dust. I couldn’t help but wonder what was in store for me until ambivalence ruled. What difference would it make? I pulled my hands up near my shoulders and heaved my weight back onto my knees and feet. Might as well get this over with.

Standing up I took stock of my situation. I was dressed in garments I had never seen before. They seemed suitable to the climate, but it was very early in the day and cool. That could change. Strapped to my leg was a water bottle, or what looked like a water bottle with clear liquid in it. It’s funny how your brain, after enduring repetition, tries to anticipate what the next sadism will look like, seeing every new piece of information as a warning to death. I sniffed the contents of the jug and took a swig to rinse the grainy earth remaining between my gums and lips. It actually was water.

My surroundings were nothing more than low, rolling hills, although high enough I couldn’t see more than six-hundred yards into the distance. Knowing less than nothing about the scrub plants that dotted the surface, there was no telling where I’d been left. Civilization could be over the horizon or never. Standing there wasn’t going to improve my situation; so, I started to walk.

The first few hours were mindless. The terrain never changed. Up one hill, down another. At one point my cerebrum decided it wanted to contribute to my vacation, handing me the joyous consideration of what macabre death was next to be inflicted. Was I chasing a freedom swaying close enough to be sensed, but too far to be grabbed? And if it appeared that I might find its substance, would the giant hand of a benevolent God swat me like an insect? I looked at the water bottle. Another token of false hope. Still, pragmatism won out over being a cynic, and I kept walking. Though that didn’t stop me from half expecting to fall into a hole where a giant spider would suck my juices dry.

The first night went easily. I had found a small out-cropping that provided a ledge on which I could be elevated from level ground, which helped because the night had turned much cooler than day. My water bottle showed only slight use and, even though I was hungry, it wasn’t painfully so. Sleep came easily and I was surprised at the good demeanor awarded in the morning for a fitful rest.

By day three my body had firmly entered ketosis and the hunger pangs stopped. As long as I kept up my water, I felt pretty good. But my water wasn’t okay, I should’ve have consumed the entire bottle the first day to stay with my body’s needs, now here it was day five and I was down to my last sip, a toast saved for my last hurrah. Adding that the terrain never changed, I was convinced I was walking in a circle.

Day Seven began now nearly twenty hours without water, and I awoke to join the Sun for a climb to the next rise. Maybe two or three hours into the distance I saw mountains. Their snow caps invited me with the idea of water; I was just too tired. They had finally found a way to get me to give up. It had been the opportunity to exercise my own hope of salvation. As much as I knew that wasn’t going to happen, I had allowed myself to believe it.

I had died of exposure once before and I knew what to expect. I sat on the ground cross-legged, rested my wrists on my knees and took a moment to enjoy watching the sun envelope the sky. There are worse ways to go, believe me I know.

It must have a been that a few hours had passed as I had fallen asleep only to be awakened by a sound that I felt. The sound repeated rapidly on a count of four. I thought I discerned that each strike of the earth was made by an individual support or whatever. Maybe some kind of high-tech land walker. Then there were more sounds, mixed with the first, but similar. Same count of four, but a different tenor and not in synch, as for whatever was making them was lighter or heavier or slower or faster. The moment of interest passed and I snuggled myself; deciding no more would I be bothered with the details of my impending doom. It had become boring and just another one of life’s ordeals.

The sounds persisted. I rolled over to my side and sat up, squinting into the distance only to see something I couldn’t have imagined in a dream. What looked like people sat atop some animal, and they were running towards me. As they got closer I could make out that the animals had faces on heads in the front. The head was long and, what looked like hair, was lifted from the nape of an doubly long neck by the fast moving air. Now I was curious. I stood up.

They arrived much quicker than I expected and in no short order there were four, in a semi-circle in front of me. Four large animals that snorted through huge nostrils and upon each, a human being dressed in a type of long coat you see Founders wear, but the material it was made of was something I couldn’t fathom.

The animals stood taller than any of us and they could’ve surely crushed their masters if they had such intent. To my surprise, the animals seemed docile and willing to be with the people that sat astride. I’m not sure why that observation seemed important.

“Edwin.” It was a woman’s voice, sitting on the animal that had taken a step forward. That she knew my name didn’t surprise me because she stated it, not asked for affirmation. The System is oh, so efficient.

“Yes, and you are?”

“Cloudia. To my right is Persol, to my left is Michael and Lebin. We’ve come to take you home.” And with that the animal on which she was sitting adjusted itself by shifting its feet.

She told me the animal on which I rode was called a horse. Riding the animal was difficult, it bounced a lot. Thankfully, the horse brought us to the mountains in a quarter of what it would have been on foot. At the base of the forest, in the uplands just before the actual peaks began, they blindfolded me. That was the last thing I saw until we reached home.

I had never seen shelters such as these. Constructions built out of long, round interlocking tubes of something. And was that mud packed between the crevices? Some had stairs leading into the ground. If there were any synth material or filtered steel, it was well hidden. And then there was the light. Only what the Sun provided and, as it faded, the shadows cast created a different aura to home.

There were more people than I expected, and they looked at me as I gazed at them, returning the same curiosity. Men and women seemed to talk amongst themselves completely ignoring System rules for inter-gender interaction. There were children. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw so many in one place. What really struck me was that everything and everyone was outside.

Cloudia seemed to command deference, just not in The System way. She appeared respected and that the people chose to respect her. She led me to a smaller structure she called “the guest house,” and it was there I was offered a shower using the most amazing water I had ever smelled or felt, with soap that produced a lather. Then there was the fresh clothing. It resembled what was worn by my hosts. It looked as if it were made from the skins of animals, and something Cloudia called ‘wool.’ This surely was a strange way to die, with kindness, and always waiting for the next shoe to drop.

The guest house was equipped with a single bed of I kind I was not familiar with. Compared with the high-tech bed flats in a living unit, it was comfortable in its own way. There was a small table with a light that was an actual flame. It was entrancing to watch it flicker. Along the wall parallel to the bed was a shelf that held books. Everything there was to read was either on TV or on a display pad. Why did they have books?

“You’re quite the celebrity.” It was Cloudia’s voice. I turned to see her standing in the doorway.

“I haven’t done anything,” was the only thing that came to mind.

She smiled. “Nobody has ever surpassed three repeats. You survived eleven. Your cloning, DNA preservation, and brain scans cost The System billions. And they got nothing.”

“Can you please just kill me and let’s get it over with?” I sat down on the bed.

“May I?” She pointed to the chair in the room. I waved a hand.

“Edwin, from this point on, if you die, it’s because your body said it was time to, or you did something stupid. You’re here because of Tiny.” Her words had a finality of truth that simply forced you to accept them. I looked up at her directly, she didn’t flinch, but went on.

“Tiny knew that night in the showers you were not the usual. That’s why you didn’t die with the others. That the guards took pleasure in beating you to a pulp said you were not the usual. You wanted outside The System.”

“Tiny never spoke to me once, and looked at me less.”

“But you knew,” she responded.

Yes, I knew.

“Tiny didn’t expect you to make it past two. When you survived those initial repeats, he arranged for upgraded care. When you passed ten, he contacted us at risk of his own life.”

“Tiny likes watching The Mortons”.

She smiled, bowed her head slightly and laughed quietly to herself. She then drew my eye with a seriousness I didn’t expect.

“That’s how we communicate. The show is ours. To talk back to us, Tiny must use a courier, expensive even for his family and it exposes him to great risk. He thought you were worth it, and then risked everything in getting you here. By our own measure, that you wanted out is enough for us. Eleven repeats makes you a god, and that’s why you’re a celebrity.”

I stared back at her, not in defiance, but exhaustion. “Look, this is nice and all, but can we get to the hard part? This really is boring. And you keep saying repeat. Just call it what it is. You kill me in some new, twisted way.”

If I allowed myself to believe it, was that compassion on her face?

“Edwin, that nightmare is over. You didn’t die. That we’re sitting here together is proof of that. You were tortured. Yet you didn’t give up your conviction. Nobody can imagine the horror you went through. A rare person such as you is the reason we resist.”

“Whoever you are,” I interjected.

“That my new friend, is what we are going to show you tonight. So, come with me, it’s time for dinner, or how they would say in The System, third feeding, second pitch.”

And so, I stood up and went with her.