Chapter Text
"Hello, Mr. Elliott Witt."
He shifts uncomfortably in the hard wooden rickety chair.
The tiny, cramped trailer is sweltering.
Flies buzz around their heads.
Yet the woman sitting before him in a squeaky clean white chair doesn't seem to notice or care.
In fact, she doesn't seem to notice or care about much of anything, merely smiling, all-teeth, at him when he squeezed in through the door, sitting down on the chair awkwardly as he tries to navigate the cramped space.
Her hair is pulled back so tightly that it almost looks as though it hurts; her tight white suit seems to be made of some kind of latex, but he doesn't see how she could force a smile on her face if that is the case. It has to be over 100 degrees in this trailer.
"I just have some preliminary questions for you before we begin looking over your application for this year's bloodbath."
She flashes perfectly straight white teeth at him, her dimpled cheeks round and flushed just the right shade of pink as she stares at him with bright eyes.
He shifts uncomfortably.
"Gotcha."
"Do you have a history of mental illness? Does your family have a history of mental illness?"
"No. I mean. Mom always said my oldest brother was a little off color like my old man, and he had to be, right, volunteering to fight on the wrong side of a war, I mean, that's just bonkers, plain nutso-"
"Please answer questions with yes or no."
She says it so mildly, her brown eyes still staring straight forward vacantly, seeing right through him.
"Uh, sorry. No."
"Do you have any preexisting medical conditions?"
"No."
"Have you ever killed a person before?"
He shoved the lying, cheating scum bag down the trap door.
"No, wait, please!"
Without hesitating, he kicks the fucker's face square on with his boot. It makes a sickening, but oddly satisfying, crunching sound as it smashes into his nose, probably breaking it instantly.
The man falls to the bottom floor, whimpering, clutching his bleeding face.
"You-you can't- leave me down here!"
"Don't worry, you'll have company."
And he drops a thermite grenade down.
And pulls the trapdoor closed with a slam.
It doesn't make him feel like a good person, but he certainly doesn't feel bad as the floor beneath him shakes with the force of the explosion.
Elliott hesitates.
The woman smiles, tilting her head.
"All answers will be kept completely confidential," she says sweetly.
"...Yes."
"Last question."
She leans forward with her eerie, all-teeth smile, her eyes closed now, a pencil tapping her chin.
"Are you afraid of death?"
He stares at her.
Death is all around.
The air stinks of it.
Home should never smell like death and disease and destruction.
The grass isn't black, the sky isn't dark and empty, it doesn't smell like open wounds.
The ground isn't scorched and blasted beyond recognition.
The people he loves are home. They live under the same roof, breathe the same air, laugh at the same little nothings.
This isn't a home, it can't be home, because the only lingering presence here is death.
"No."
Her mouth twitches.
"Be aware that you are not allowed to lie during the preliminary review process."
"I'm not lying."
She smiles wider.
"Very well. You may go now, Mr. Witt. We will be in touch if we feel you possess the necessary skill set to participate in this year's Apex Game."
He gets up stiffly, glad to be released from this hot little hell on earth.
Before he leaves, however, he turns to the woman at the desk.
"Can I ask you a question?"
She doesn't look at him, merely shuffling her papers for a few minutes.
But after a while, she seems to tense, as if surprised to see that he is still standing there.
"What?" she asks, her voice slipping for the first time.
"What if I did lie? What's the protocol for you?"
Her upper lip trembles.
But it's a very small mistake. He barely catches it, because she is smiling again, lips steady, as she meets his eyes.
"If the powers that be choose you, then your lies will not matter," she says, face stiff, unchanging, but her voice dropping some of its cheerful veneer and taking on just the slightest hint of cruelty. "No one can lie in the ring."
He feels a chill that has nothing to do with the suffocating temperature or tongue-shriveling aridity.
"...Well, I'm not a liar."
"Everyone is," she says matter-of-factly. "But it doesn't matter on the island. Now if you'd kindly leave. I have many people to interview today."
She waves her hand at him and he finally leaves the little trailer, swatting at flies and tugging at his sweaty collar as he does.
"Scary lady," he murmurs to himself. "Glad she won't be in the ring."
A guy with a gun he can handle. A massive fight to the death on an abandoned island out in the middle of the ocean he can handle. But a lady with a smile like an alligator and a bun pulled so tight that the skin of her face looked like it was stapled on? He'll pass.
He whistles to himself as he searches out the nearest bar.
It's going to be a long 72 hours without alcohol, and he needs to get some of the stuff in his bloodstream now.