His whole life has been spent in preparation for this. Every muscle in his body is practiced in the motions of the deadly dance that was unfolding in front of him. At fifteen years old, he is strong. Stronger than the strongest of men, and more experienced in the intricacies of combat. His body lean and wiry, agility and skill are his weapons. Before him is a mob of the greatest martial arts masters from throughout the human colonies. A dozen of them stand, eyes fixed on him, waiting for a sign of movement. This is it, his body tenses, his heart races, his mind clears. He leaps.

His form contorts in the air as he dodges bodies. His elbow connects with a jaw, breaking it off. His eyes see the world as a series of weaknesses and strengths. He has lost that which makes him human as he breaks the world down into a series of mathematical equations, anticipating, moving effortlessly. His movements are poetry, his body takes life. He has become a weapon. He stands

There is no one left. Blood fills the room; the drain in the floor is inadequate. The sound of shallow breathing fills the silence.

The room is flooded with light, illuminating the tortured faces of the dead. Men in clean pressed uniforms walk in. They are uneasy; some violently expel the contents of their stomachs. One looks out of place. The smile on his face is one of pure greed.