Fight

We were all immortal.

The weary would enter the ring to fight for their death. But the will inductors wouldn't let anyone cheat and fight less than their best, so my father always won.

He sent one after another to their deaths, always with smiles on their faces, while he prayed and prayed to be bested. I watched for many years, until I finally couldn't take it any longer. I trained night and day to become the best fighter. He begged me not to enter the ring, but I couldn't let him suffer any more; I loved him so.

And now, five centuries later, I pray for my turn, and though it never comes, I remember my father's death and my father's smile -- the one he longed for and that so many couldn't supply -- and I have no regrets. When you truly love someone, it's a small price to pay.

Sometimes at sunset I walk near the cliffs and try to jump, but the inductors are everywhere. The Designers aren't interested in happiness, they're interested in quality. They want to know what makes a man tick, why one is better than another. And they'll probably never let me die anyway; they're mad at me. I took their game of fighting and turned it into its opposite. I corrupted the purity of its beastliness, its senselessness. I brought civilization into it, a little morality, and that they can't stand. But most of all, what they really hate, what really drives them insane -- is that I took the fight to a higher level. I made it about something else: us versus them.

They could end us all, but they can't. They could dumb us down, but they can't. It would defeat the purpose. They're bored, you see, and it may take a while, but that will be their undoing. It may take a long while indeed, but I can wait. I don't know how I'm going to defeat them, but I've got all the time in the world to figure it out.

And then we'll see.

We'll see if death is as pleasant for them as it is for us.