Jason went reeling when a fist connected with his jaw. Stars flashed in front of his eyes but he had the good sense to throw himself to the side as he saw a foot lash out and try to catch him in the stomach. He lost his balance, rolled, and came back up again for another attack.
This was impossible, trying to reign in the military skills that had been drilled into him from when he was young, and be like an ordinary mortal. Well not ordinary, since he'd been selected (forced) to join the Elite (the Killers, the Killers, you're a Killer, Jason Grace) and have the wonderful privilege of serving their beloved President Farrt and ensuring the safety and security of the Orange House.
Sorry, Gold House. After all, the White House had been painted gold upon Farrt's election, only for the extreme weather that was totally not caused by non-existent climate change to wear away the metallic tinge to the paint, making it... well, luminous orange.
Jason was rather rudely yanked out of his sarcastic musings by a punch to the face.
Training to be a Killer was hard. He scrambled to his feet. He'd been here for nearly six months, and the promised biannual leave was approaching rapidly. Thank the gods, Jason thought, looking at the burly form of his opponent, and the sneer that twisted his lips. He needed to get out of this place.
He blocked the aimed punch, and sent his own, his opponent staggering back. The Killer spat at the floor, and rounded on Jason again, suddenly far more riled up than he was expected to be.
But Jason didn't have the opportunity to wonder about that, because a moment later, the esteemed President Farrt walked in and said, "Good work, boys!"
With blood running down the side of his face, Jason failed to see what was good about this situation.
Once the rest of the Killers present in the room were alerted to the president's presence, everyone, including Jason, stopped their fights and bowed in eerie unison. Farrt gave a small, pleased smile; looking at him made Jason uncomfortable. Jason didn't want to be a violent person, but he couldn't deny the overwhelming urge to punch Farrt in the stupid, smug - he forced himself to take a deep breath - face.
His friends were in hiding, because of this man. His friends might be dead, because of this man. And he had been conscripted to defend him with his life.
A loud bang shocked the Elite into immediate action.
Speak of the devil.
Jason's reactions had always been on point, but his opponent - what was his name again? Oh yeah, he didn't have one - reacted first, bodily flinging himself in the path of the bullet, in front of his idolised president. Officer 279, Jason remembered suddenly, with a peculiar clarity. That was the designation he'd been given after he was stripped of his name.
The bullet collided with his midriff with a wet thunk.
Jason was frozen as he watched the blood seep onto the pristine marble floor - because Farrt was nothing if not decadent - and only snapped to when he realised the rest of the Elite was moving, checking the area, dragging down a limp body from its previous perch on the windowsill. He looked around to see where to go, what to do, and made the mistake of catching Farrt's eye.
The president looked at Officer 279's body dispassionately. He did not look surprised. When he caught Jason's eye, though, the side of his mouth quirked and he gave him what seemed to be an obscure parody of a reassuring smile. Jason tried not to shudder.
Farrt walked right up to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Where'd you get that scar on your lip, son?" he asked jovially. "beat up a few undesirables?"
Jason gritted his teeth, but forced himself to relax. "Yeah. . ." he replied non-commitally, trying not to think about staplers.
The president laughed, and clapped his shoulder. "Good on you!" he exclaimed. "A fine example of American youth!" He walked off to inspect the prone body f the assassin, who'd been brought down from their perch.
Jason couldn't hold in his minute gasp when he saw the face of Farrt's attacker.
A crimson mouth, a tall and buff figure being dragged away, half conscious. A matted mess of curly dark hair, and blue eyes that weren't quite lucid, but somehow managed to meet Jason's gaze.
The world seemed to tilt; he wasn't sure if it was the way those eyes didn't line up - the intensely familiar way those eyes didn't line up - or just the feeling of the floor being ripped out beneath him.
When they dragged his old friend Dakota away, he had no choice but to follow.
Half an hour later, Jason was summoned into the interrogation chamber of the Orange House with the instruction of assisting the flow of the conversation. He'd spent fifteen minutes in the communal bathrooms having a shower and fervently hoping none of his brainwashed comrades came in and asked why he was here. He then spent an additional fifteen minutes just staring at the mirror, and trying not to hallucinate blood on his hands.
Finally, someone noticed his unauthorised absence and contacted him over the speakers with the command to attend to the matters in Room 5321.
"Now, Officer 313," the announcer said, a slight threat in his booming voice. Jason had no choice but to comply, even if he knew and abhorred what, exactly, went on in Room 5321.
Dakota's screams could be heard from fairly far away, and Jason didn't even need to look at the numbers on the doors to guide himself towards the interrogation chamber. Farrt had changed and remodelled and remodelled some more when he came into power, and now the place was almost unrecognisable from its former self. It was intimidating to walk its halls.
If he'd thought the screams were loud before, when he opened the door the door they were deafening. He looked over to see Dakota - his friend, his friend, his friend - writhing on the interrogation table, sobbing and begging for mercy from people he knew had none. His head lolled to the side as his interrogators paused for an instant to look over at Jason.
"Are you the replacement?" one of them asked, tone curt. "Officer 313?"
"Yeah," Jason said, then caught himself. "Yes. Sir."
Dakota's head turned at the sound of his voice; Jason had to stop himself from fidgeting under his gaze. The other officer dealt the demigod a sharp slap for the motion.
The first officer strode out of the room, and didn't seem particularly relieved to do so - if anything, he was disappointed. Jason tried not to curse at his retreating back.
The remaining officer eyed him harshly. "You take over his job then," and handed Jason the notepad. Several pages had dark brown stains on them.
Dakota was still watching, his gaze fixed on Jason. His expression, whilst somewhat shielded by the broken nose he'd received, was something uncomfortably akin to betrayal.
The officer next to Jason shifted, obviously ready to resume.
Dakota noticed as well, and took his eyes off Jason for the first time since he entered the room. Before the other officer could strike, that uneven gaze flicked to Jason, then away just as quickly, like he was repulsive to look at. He stared at an indistinct spot on the ceiling instead.
"You were our saving grace!" Dakota shouted suddenly, his voice hoarse. His voice dropped then, as he mumbled, "We've always done it low key. . ." He took a breath, and screamed again. "You were our saving grace!"
"Thank you for your cooperation," the other officer chirped, morbidly cheerful. "We'll be taking that as a confession, and escort you to the execution room." Jason tuned out as the officer called for another officer to come and take Dakota away. As soon as protocol allowed it, he left that room like it was on fire.
Farrt's secretary approached him in the hallway. Her expression was blank and apathetic as usual, her blonde hair tied back in a bun, but he forced himself not to snap at her in his questionable state of mind - she went through enough as it was. "Officer 313?" she asked, her tone flat. "I have been sent to inform you that our beloved President Farrt has noted your weariness with training, and requested your biannual two week leave be advanced. You may leave now. Go home."