Markram Battles: Omens of Doom (Part II) by M.C. Muhlenkamp Page B

mean?” My eyes travel down the lustrous surface of the table and settle on the distorted reflection of Five’s golden locks, her dainty nose perfectly straight amid the delicate features of her face.
     
    I can feel Nine’s stare burning a hole through my forehead. “It means this particular battle will have rules of its own, completely separate from the standard regulations.”
     
    “How can we prepare if we don’t know what we’ll be fighting against?”
     
    I turn to look at Five, only to see Seven standing a short distance away. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him. His black armor, fitted perfectly to his body, stands out amid the white surroundings. I can’t seem to hold back the hollow muscle inside my chest as it contracts and dilates faster and faster against my ribcage. Seven’s eyes fall on me, soft and anxious. I wonder if he can feel the emptiness inside of me, eating every bit of my sanity away, right along with any hope of relief. His long, white hair is interweaved together, plaited securely one layer on top of another to form an intricate braid. The threads twist together from the top of his skull to about shoulder length, where some kind of knot secures it in place, letting the rest of his hair fall loose down his back.
     
    My eyes return to Five. “We prepare by being ready for anything and everything they can throw at us. Standard regulations may not apply, but when you are in that field the only rule that really matters is survival. No matter the cost.”
     
    I lift my eyes again. Seven’s blue oceans pierce through me, but they seem glossed over with an almost imperceptible barrier. I’ve seen it before. He isn’t Seven now, not really. He may look like himself, but his true self is currently hiding, hibernating behind the eyes of a perfect soldier, emotionless and detached from everything and everyone. I tear my eyes away just as one of the physical assessors calls me from the medical room.
     
    I stand up and walk in his direction. The assessor immediately takes me in, probing my body with his fingers, tracing the integrated plate beeping under the skin at my wrist, and examining every muscle in my body. I follow his hand as he presses his fingertips against my knuckles, massaging my hands and forearms, and looking for any signs of imperfection. The integrated plate beeps again, lighting the circuit fluorescent white against my pale skin. Lines, circles, squares, all making intricate paths around each other inside the rectangular tag inserted into my muscle tissue.
     
    I am not sure what the plate tells the assessor, but he is frowning. His hand moves up my arm and shoulder, pressing harder and harder as it moves down my back. He presses along the side of my waist and I cringe back, exuding a grunt too loud for my liking. The pain from his touch spreads through my torso, blurring the edges of my vision. The assessor releases me, presses his own wrist plate, and closes his eyes. I can feel my eyebrows sinking, wrinkling in annoyance as I watch his eyelids flutter relentlessly. I’ve seen Seven do this before, he is talking to someone. I take my time, watching his crooked nose, full lips, and angular jaw. His eyelids stop moving just before his eyes open to fall on me.
     
    “Take a seat.” The assessor walks to the wall and begins to move his fingertips over it as if he were writing a secret message. His white uniform would blend perfectly with the colorless surroundings behind him if it weren’t for the consecutive black stripes running down his long sleeves.
     
    The wall lights up to show a fluorescent pattern just like the one trapped inside my wrist. I lean back, aghast. The wall is actually moving, just like the floor in the bathing hall, bending on itself to create a flat table. Several items break through the surface, as if the wall had spat them out. My stomach curls and knots at the sight of the new tag, resting untouched on the counter. The strands of hair hanging