CANCER

There's nothing better than a clear prediction: one word that tells you everything you ever need to know about the end of it all. For me, that word is CANCER.

I joined the Police Academy back before all the small-time companies came on scene. There weren't any fancy signs reading "Death-o-Matic" or "Know your fate for only $20!" No, they weren't nearly so common back then. This was my first time encountering the so-called Machine of Death.

It was our first day. No use wasting time and energy on someone whose slip reads GUNSHOT, after all. Two of the other guys drew violent ones. They were out.

Me, though? I'm perfect. Just the sort of cop they're looking for: a guy who'll live a nice, long life. No ambiguity, for me. My final days are going to be spent in some hospital bed. Alright, alright, I'll admit that I wasn't exactly hoping for the Big C. I always thought of myself as an "out with a bang" kind of guy.

But then I really thought about it, and I realized something.

I am invincible.

It was a Saturday, birds chirping, flowers popping out into the late spring air, not a cloud in the sky. The sort of day normal people devote to picnics, lazing about on the beach or something equally boring. Not me, though. I was sitting behind the wheel of a cruiser, chasing a drunk who lacked the common sense of a fly. It wasn't my favorite part of the job, but it gave a nice rush.

Several black and whites were flying down the highway at about 60 mph. Maybe half what the cars could do, but no one looked too eager to take things up a notch. Even at this speed, I was at risk for a crash that could leave me paralyzed for life. Well, what life I had until the cancer got me.

It was awfully dangerous, so I slammed down on the accelerator, topping out at about 130. There, much better. Okay, I know, I sound a little crazy, now, don't I? Maybe even suicidal. Don't worry, I'm not one of those whack jobs who try to prove the Machine wrong. In fact, I'm counting on it being right.

You see, I've given this a lot of thought. If I do something risky, there's nothing stopping me from being badly injured. But if I commit an act that is so ridiculously, insanely reckless that, should it go wrong, it would have to kill me, I'll be fine. A crash at 60 mph would hurt me very badly, but a crash at 130 would kill me.

Except that it can't. My fate is sealed, right here on this little slip of paper. Invincible, remember? So that means that it won't go wrong. It can't.

My partner, Taylor Rivers, was screaming his head off. I just grinned. I was practically flying down the highway, and the drunk-driver had fallen behind. Time to fix that. I swerved and, in a glorious show of smoke and squealing breaks, blocked his path. After that, it was just a matter of catching and cuffing him. It's all so much easier when you know how things are going to play out. When you know that you'll walk away in one piece.

Rivers looked downright murderous. My enthusiasm wasn't dampened, though. I was used to that look and, after four years as his partner, considered myself immune.

"You could have killed me!" he shouted.

"Do I look like a server to you?"

It was only common courtesy to let your partner know your prediction. It makes things a lot safer for everyone. The whole department usually learns about it in no time at all. That way, no one forces a guy with NEEDLE to get his shots, no one drags a chick with APPLES to a supermarket robbery, and no one puts two CAR CRASHES together.

Rivers had one of those vague slips that are pretty much useless: SERVER ERROR. He could be killed by anything from a computer malfunction to a particularly clumsy volleyball player. Personally, my money's on a waiter.

"What if the car's motherboard had screwed up? If it caused even the tiniest problem with the brakes, we'd have both been killed!"

"Cancer, remember?"

Rivers just rolled his eyes. He didn't trust the Machine. Not one bit. Rivers had what he considered "a healthy dose of paranoia." As far as I was concerned, it was ridiculous, but, hey, whatever let him sleep at night.

I'm Aiden Johnson. Call me Johnson, everyone does. Well, that or, "that lucky bastard," but Johnson's a lot simpler. I was born on December 12, 2008, a part of the last generation to grow up without a Machine of Death on every corner. I've been a police officer for 8 years, and a member of the SWAT team for 3. Not that we ever do anything, mind you, but, every now and again, there's a spark of excitement in this old town.

I suppose you could say I'm an adrenaline junkie, God knows everyone else does, but, with a prediction like mine, who wouldn't be? There are a whole bunch of saps out there flinching at every shadow because their card says MURDER or something crazy. A friend of mine got KITTEN and had a nervous breakdown. Some people just aren't built for knowing something like that. Me, though? The Machine set me free. I even got the card framed a few years back.

That weekend was a good one, with a car crash on Saturday and a hostage crisis on Sunday. I know it sounds heartless, but I was excited. Not every day someone sets a bomb ticking in the center of town.

Guess I was a little too perky for the our commander, though. She glared, not letting up until I'd fought my grin down to a smirk. Talk about cold. Miranda Bailey was two degrees from ice queen and my stunt from yesterday sure hadn't endeared me to her any.

She sighed, "Alright. We've got a 40-something by the name of Peter Norfolk. He's taken three hostages in the town hall. Witnesses state there's a bomb, in addition to at least one firearm. No bursting in without thinking. Just because some of us seem to think we're bulletproof doesn't mean the hostages are. Got it?"

That last bit was directed at yours truly and accompanied by Rivers' laughter. Sheesh, you make one mistake on your first mission and nobody ever lets you live it down.

"Do we know what Norfolk wants?" another officer asked.

She shook her head tiredly. "Not a clue. We've tried calling the front desk, but no one's answering."

She went on to explain our strategy. I argued a bit about my position – hanging to the back isn't exactly my style – and managed to convince her it was safest for me to go in first. I can be damned stealthy, when the need arises.

…Okay, so maybe the mission didn't work out quite as planned. I mean, I tackled the guy, handcuffed him, and all that jazz, but not before he went and activated the bomb. Well, it might be more accurate to say that I activated the bomb, but, seeing as how Norfolk was the idiot who put me in that situation, he gets the blame. The hostages were out of the room in no time. They would be fine, but, even if I busted my ass, there was no way to avoid a nice heap of rubble on top of me. Like I said, I may be invincible in a life-or-death situation, but I can still be maimed. Something I wasn't all too keen on, by the way. So I stuck around.

Norfolk was practically having a heart-attack. "No! Don't! You can't stop it. Just get me the hell out of here!" he wailed.

Since no one who'd drawn BOMB or EXPLOSION would be stupid enough to go around making them, I ignored him.

I growled. Yeah, I was lucky, but I wasn't a member of the Bomb Squad. I switched a couple wires around. One of them was going to stop it, of course. Someone who's had a bomb detonate in their face doesn't die of cancer. It just doesn't happen.

I could feel a grin creeping across my face. Only seconds remained on the countdown. It was dangerous, but this was living. I switched a red wire.

Perfect.

No one was more surprised than me when the clock hit zero and the bomb exploded.

That Monday, the Obituaries featured all the normal deaths.

Meredith Parks, age 56, Prediction: HEART ATTACK.

Simon Henderson, age 73, Prediction: PRETZEL.

Two of them stuck out, though. The first was my own. There was a photo which didn't look a thing like me and a biography that didn't sound a thing like me, but, hey, what can you do? It was all real flattering, to be honest. Right on the top, same as all the others, it listed my general information.

Aiden Johnson, age 29, Prediction: CANCER.

The second was for the idiot who'd gotten me killed. It wasn't nearly as heartwarming and only recorded his basic info.

Peter Norfolk, age 43, Prediction: SAGITTARIUS.

Reminds me of something good old Rivers once told me.

It was after my first major mission. Some kid went postal and turned a gun on his father. Rivers and I were the first on scene and the kid saw us coming a mile away. He fired his first shot at Rivers, only missing by a breath. When Rivers heroically hid behind the car, he turned his gun on me, hands trembling and eyes real wide.

I might have panicked, nearly did, but then I remembered that little piece of paper in my back pocket. It told me I would be okay. I didn't move a muscle, just looked at him and stated, "This is not how I die."

Maybe he believed me. Maybe I snapped him out of a daze. Or maybe he just didn't want to shoot someone so ridiculously cool. Regardless, he dropped the gun.

Afterwards, I felt like a kid who'd eaten half the candy store. I was laughing like a maniac, waving my slip around, and generally acting like an idiot. I think I spouted off something about loving the Machine.

Rivers just pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed dramatically, and said a few words that echoed through my ears as the world around me exploded.

"You can't like the Machine, Johnson. Its job is to kill you, and it's very good at it."

A/N: There's a real lack of fanfiction for this book (presumably because most of the best stuff was submitted for its sequel anthology). This is a slightly older piece, but it's gone through a lot of editing, and the quality isn't too far off from my more recent works. Thanks for reading, and, remember, reviews (and reviewers) are adored!