Hypothesis

My breath catches in my throat, loud and ragged. At this point, the prospect of death feels cool and inviting, a peaceful escape from the hell I’m living in. I summon a surge of energy from nowhere and quicken my pace the barest bit. My head swims and colors spin in my eyes. 

I am so lucky.

Via is the best chance I have at survival, but I can’t let her sacrifice herself for me, which she keeps telling me she will do if she can. I called her last night, and she was so calm, trying to reassure me. I worry for her, she’s so used to keeping herself together for everyone else. “We might be partnered,” she kept saying. “There is a chance.”

I woke up this morning numb with pain, tear stains faded from my face. I forced myself to drink water and stretch because I knew I would need it. My room is barren and pristine, all my things given away already. Yesterday I had cleaned every inch of it, my poor mother shouldn’t have to do it after everything she’ll be going through.  That morning she was quiet. I couldn’t blame her. What could she say? I could tell she had been crying and I hated myself for it, though I didn’t control the situation. “I love you,” she whispered, hugging me goodbye, her breath catching in her throat. “I love you too,” I said, meaning it despite the monotone tone of my voice.

I am unlucky. 

The ride to the contest was quiet and uncomfortable. I rode in a train car beside my assigned partner, a girl with her wavy red hair cropped short. Her brown eyes never left the window, her face silhouetted against the low-hanging grey clouds. I tried to imagine Via being here, but strangely I feel like my memory of her face was already beginning to fade. I knew deep inside that it was probably for the best that I forget her, but hoped she got to be one of the survivors. 

The girl looked toward me suddenly, almost startling me. “We’re almost here,” she said, her voice deeper and softer than I expected. She pointed to the screen in front of us. Our route was mapped out and the blue line that was our path was slowly becoming scarlet. The girl hesitated as if she wanted to continue speaking, but stopped. She was facing me, so I could see her better. She had a sharp jawline and an angular frame, and her slightly crooked nose had small freckles on it. Small silver hoops made their way up her ears. “I’m Jamie,” she said finally.

“I’m Elliot,” I replied. 

A short pause, and then, “that’s a nice name.” Discomfort hung in the air between us. Really, what else could we say - we couldn’t plan strategies, we had no idea what would happen, we would both die soon. 

“Yours too.”

“The clouds are so pretty today.” 

Silence. 

We both looked out our respective windows for the rest of the trip.

When we arrived, there was a rush of freezing air as we entered the large black dome. Jamie and I were ushered through security lines, had our temperatures taken, our measurements and thumbprints confirmed to ensure it was really us. 

An official directed us to a changing area, where a folded uniform with BODY TYPE AO15 embroidered on the cuff waited for me in my stall beside a pair of combat boots. I went into a stall and struggled into the wetsuit-like uniform and slid on the boots. They fit perfectly - my official measurements had been updated weeks earlier when I got the notice.

Elliot Finch has been selected for this year's competition. 

As you know, this competition provides valuable research on the workings of the human brain which will lead to the possibility of a new future for Humanity. 

If your child, Elliot Finch, can successfully complete and perform well on the tasks he is given, he will be returned home safely and could be a key father for a new race, and will be paid greatly if he chooses to become a Father. He can be a donor Father or choose to be matched with a Mother. 

If he does not return, we apologize dearly for your loss. You will be sent a sum of bitcoin as compensation for his life based on his performance. Your child has still contributed greatly to Humanity and the information they provided is crucial. Hypotheses are rarely correct the first time, but that is how we learn and move on.

Horrifying. Vague. My fate. And Via’s, and Jamie’s, and 197 other children this year who will be martyrs for research and a future for humans. Nobody is ever certain of the simulations the competitors are given, but they are all for different scenarios related to the possible downfalls of the human race, which, the news keeps informing us, is looming. It may even be in our lifetimes. And there may be a day when the contest is mandatory for all, so only a race of survivors remain to hopefully start life elsewhere and become a new generation of humans. 

Until then, every year 15, 16, and 17-year olds fear an envelope. And every year, the kids at school arrive the next day positively glowing with relief, and the 200 selected are left to ponder what exactly led them to be this misfortunate. Last year I was one of the kids who got to smile with relief when November 1st passed and my mailbox was empty. Last year 17 kids out of 200 survived. And the two kids at my school who had been selected, one of which I knew, didn’t return.

Jamie is waiting for me outside my stall. “Are you okay?” she asks immediately. 

“Yeah,” I say out of habit. “No.” I correct myself. 

“Good, I was worried you were okay,” Jamie says as we begin walking, and from the corner of my eye I can see her eyes flickering back and forth from my face to the floor. “Bad joke,” she murmurs to herself, and I feel instantly guilty for not reacting. 

“It’s okay. Just -”

“Yeah.” 

“Exactly.”

“Well.”

This time the silence feels more reasonable. She gets it and gets that I get it.

A group of officials come to greet us. A woman with sleek braids scans a code on our uniforms and escorts us through glass doors, then leaves. We’re out in the open, alone.