Night 57: The Coliseum
Touching the sandy grounds of the coliseum was a catalyst, and the progression of day did not mean the end of the process. By fortune or otherwise, this group's efforts were not allowed to halt simply due to the rising sun. Therefore, when nighttime was pronounced, those who had undergone the beginnings of an incomplete trial were pulled from their
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As dangerous as the Institute had always seemed, and as often as people disappeared from it, death had never seemed like an immediate danger to Scott. Maybe it was all the time he had spent behind a protagonist shield in his life, but the most he ever feared in the Institute was getting hurt really, really badly. Or his friends getting hurt really, really badly. Or maybe having to face his inner demons. Scott was twenty-four years old. You didn't even mention the "D" word when you were that young, at least not seriously. You were still basically immortal at that age, at least in your own mind. To Scott, getting the wake-up call that "Yes, you, Scott Pilgrim, could die - like, right now" was like suddenly getting the 16-Ton Weight of Existence dropped squarely on his chest.
Even if it wasn't him and Harvey, it was going to be Peter or Indy tonight. Spider-man or Indiana Jones. And this wasn't going to be some kind of cheap media trick where a hero got "killed", only to be resurrected/not-really-dead'd through some bizarre time travel plot that made no sense. Aguilar was going to have one of them freaking kill the other in front of everyone, for real.
Scott's jaw hinged open and closed uselessly as he stared down at Peter and Indy, and then across at S.T. and Depth Charge. Those two were going to have to watch this too, whatever happened; not a picnic on their end either. What could they do? What could any of them do? Everyone was just giving in already. Harvey was stalking back to his seat. Peter and Indy were turning away from Aguilar. And... was that a bag of pretzels in S.T.'s hand? Seriously?
Scott clenched his fists as he took a step back.
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“You think you’re going to get away with this?” Probably, but he wasn’t going to be the one to admit it. “You think everyone up there is just going to smile and eat pink shit? Some of us don’t look good holding a shovel.”
This was as stupid as the flowers-in-rifles brigade. He’d just signed himself up on the death roster, if the asshole was even going to answer. He and D.C. were the leftover pineapple-anchovy pizza that nobody wanted to claim and was slowly evolving in the back of the fridge into a public menace or promising new antibiotic strain. Just along for the fucking show.
“I’ll make you wish you’d never heard of this place.” Sharing was caring, man. All of them wanted that. If Aguilar need to research them, he could damn well start there. S.T. was just getting rolling. “Your name is going to be under so much mud you won’t even be able to find sunshine. Won’t be able to go out in public without women crying and babies farting. Eagle will be a household name for fuck-up, on a national scale. We’re talking New York Times headline for a week level, minimum.” This was all complete grandstanding. Complete with fucking grandstand.
“You think people hate you know, just wait. The only way you’ll keep us down is to dump your entire thesis here down the drain. Which you don’t have the authority to do, do you?” S.T. sneered at him, the one that he didn’t usually get to use when doing this because the cameras were rolling.
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Emotions had made them idiots. If they continued to hold to their sentimental morality, they had only themselves to blame for the outcome.
"Spare me your denunciations," the General remarked, almost casual in the deliverance. Dark eyes trailed to each patient, disapproval and slight exasperation set in place. "I will only warn you once. I am a non-factor in this decision. Keep your strength for your 'test'."
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