The Announcement

I didn’t sleep that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Mrs. Rennik’s face splitting open. Heard the wet crack of her bones reshaping. Smelled the rust-and-rot stench of fresh mutation.

So I stared at the ceiling instead, counting the hours until my alarm went off.

When morning finally came, I dragged myself out of bed and got ready for work on autopilot. Uncle Marcus was already gone, early shift at the filtration plant. He’d left coffee on the counter, still warm.

I poured it down the sink.

My hands were steadier than yesterday. That was something.

The transit platform was crowded with the usual morning shuffle. No one talked about what happened on Fales Street. No one mentioned Mrs. Rennik. They just stared at their phones, their feet, the scratched transit map on the wall.

Like if they didn’t acknowledge it, it hadn’t happened.

I kept my head down and let the crowd carry me forward.

The depot was loud.

Metal crates screeched across concrete. Forklifts beeped. Someone was shouting about a missed shipment. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds.

Normal.

I clocked in and headed to my station. Loading bay three. Same as always.

My supervisor, Garrett, mid-forties, perpetually annoyed, was waiting with a clipboard.

“Lane.” He didn’t look up. “You’re on the heavy freight today. Northeastern delivery. Crates are marked.”

“Got it.”

“Try not to disappear halfway through your shift this time.”

I stopped. “My neighbor mutated in the street yesterday.”

He finally looked at me. His expression didn’t change. “And?”

I stared at him.

He clicked his pen. “You’re here now. That’s what matters. Get to work.”

He walked away.

I stood there for a moment, fists clenched, then turned toward the crates.

Fine.

I grabbed my gloves and started loading.

The work was mindless. Lift, carry, stack. Repeat.

My arms burned. My back ached. Good. It gave me something to focus on that wasn’t the calendar counting down in my head.

Four weeks.

I shoved a crate onto the pallet harder than necessary.

Three weeks and six days, technically.

Another crate. The edges bit into my palms even through the gloves.

“Whoa, easy.”

I looked up.

Marcos, one of the other loaders, was standing a few feet away with a crate balanced on his shoulder. He was older than me, mid-twenties maybe, with permanent grease stains on his hands and a scar across his eyebrow.

“You trying to break the pallet or yourself?” he asked.

“Neither.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He set his crate down and stretched. “You good?”

“Fine.”

“Right.” He didn’t sound convinced. “You hear about Fales Street?”

I froze.

“Yeah,” another voice chimed in. Iris, one of the inventory clerks, leaned against a nearby stack of crates. She was younger, maybe nineteen, with short dark hair and a crystal that still glowed bright around her neck. “Whole block’s been talking about it. Someone’s neighbor turned, right? Custodians had to put it down.”

“They didn’t put it down,” I said quietly.

Both of them looked at me.

“What?” Marcos asked.

“They didn’t kill it. They captured it.”

Iris frowned. “Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Weird,” Marcos muttered. He grabbed another crate. "Morphs are getting worse, though. That's the third one this month just in the Ring. Used to be you'd hear about one every few months. Now it's every week."

"They're getting stronger too," Iris added. She crossed her arms, her expression uneasy. "My brother works medical response. He said the Custodians are getting torn apart out there."

"Someone in my building tried to steal a crystal off a corpse last month," Marcos said, his voice dropping like he wasn't sure he should be telling this. "Figured dead people don't need them anymore, right? Tried to cut it out himself."

Iris made a face. "What happened?"

"Crystal died the second it left the body. Just went dark. Completely fused to the host, once it bonds, it bonds. Can't survive outside." He shook his head. "Guy cut up a corpse for nothing."

A beat of silence.

"That's why there's no market for them," Iris said quietly. "Can't steal what dies the moment you take it."

I thought of the Custodian lying in the street, covered by a sheet.

“They’re running out of fighters,” Marcos said. He said it like it was obvious. Like everyone knew.

Iris nodded. “I heard they’re desperate. Lost too many in the last year.”

“Which means—” Marcos glanced at me, then stopped himself.

“What?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Nothing. Just... rumors.”

“What rumors?”

Iris and Marcos exchanged a look.

“People are saying the Trials might happen again,” Iris said finally. “Soon.”

My chest tightened.

“It’s just talk,” Marcos added quickly. “Nothing official. But people are saying the government’s running out of options. If they don’t get new fighters...”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

“Anyway.” Iris pushed off the crate and adjusted her gloves. “Probably nothing. They wouldn’t do Trials twice in one year. That’d be insane.”

“Yeah,” Marcos agreed, but he didn’t sound sure.

They went back to work.

I stood there, staring at the crate in my hands.

My crystal pulsed faintly against my chest.

Dimmer than yesterday.

The rumors spread through the depot like a virus.

By lunch, everyone was talking about it.

“My cousin said they’re already prepping the arenas—”

“—heard it’s because they lost fifteen Custodians last month alone—”

“—gonna be a bloodbath if they rush it—”

I sat in the corner of the break room, picking at a protein bar I didn’t want. Around me, people argued, speculated, repeated half-truths they’d heard from someone who heard it from someone else.

Some of them sounded excited.

“If it’s real, I’m signing up,” a guy near the vending machine said. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen. His crystal was dim, just like mine. “My family’s three weeks out. This could save us.”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” someone else shot back.

“Better than turning into one of those things.”

The room went quiet for a moment.

Then someone changed the subject, and the noise started again.

I stared at the protein bar in my hands.

Three weeks. Same as us. And that boy's voice had something in it I recognized — not just fear, but something almost like relief. Like the Trials were terrible, yes, but at least they were a door. At least they were something to move toward instead of just waiting for the clock to run out.

I understood that feeling.

That was the part that bothered me.

I understood it completely, and I'd been sitting here telling myself I was above it. That I was different from the desperate teenagers treating a death sentence like an adventure. But the truth was simpler and uglier than that — I was just as scared, just as out of options, and some quiet, shameful part of me had already started doing the math.

I threw the rest of my protein bar away and went back to work. I didn't let myself finish the calculation.

The shift dragged.

By the time the clock finally hit six, my arms were shaking and my back felt like it was on fire. I clocked out, ignored Garrett’s reminder about tomorrow’s schedule, and headed for the exit.

The streets were busier than usual.

I kept my head down and started the walk home, cutting through the usual shortcuts. The sky was gray, same as always. The air smelled like metal and distant smoke.

Then I saw them.

Drones.

Small, sleek, government-issued. They hovered above the street in a grid pattern, mechanical and silent.

And they were dropping something.

Pamphlets.

They fell like snow, white paper fluttering down onto the sidewalks, the roofs, the people below.

I stopped walking.

Around me, people were picking them up. Some read them immediately. Others crumpled them and kept walking. A few started shouting.

One landed at my feet.

I stared at it.

Bold black letters across the top:

THE CONTINUANCE PROGRAM

Beneath it, smaller text:

Seeking brave volunteers to protect humanity’s future.

I bent down and picked it up.

The paper was cheap. The words were clean. Official.

NOTICE OF SEMIANNUAL TRIAL ENROLLMENT

Due to unprecedented Aberrant activity and increased Custodian casualties, the Continuance Program will conduct an additional Trial cycle this year.

Eligibility: Ages 16–19, all class sectors Enrollment Period: Open immediately Trial Date: To be announced within two weeks

Participants who survive each Trial level will receive:

Six months of crystal protection for their immediate family

Access to elite training facilities

Opportunity to serve as humanity’s defenders

“Survive Today. Protect Tomorrow.”

Register at your local Continuance Office or via official channels.

I read it twice.

Then I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket.

Around me, the chaos was building.

A woman was crying, clutching a pamphlet to her chest. A man was shouting at a drone overhead, demanding answers. Two teenagers were grinning, slapping each other on the back like they’d just won something.

I kept walking.

Uncle Marcus was already home when I got there.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the television.

The screen showed a government official, some faceless bureaucrat in a pressed suit, standing at a podium. Behind him, the Continuance Program logo glowed in sterile white light.

“—understand the concerns of our citizens,” the official was saying. His voice was smooth. Practiced. Empty. “But the reality is clear. Aberrant threats are escalating. Our Custodian forces are stretched beyond capacity. We cannot afford to wait.”

The camera cut to a reporter. “And you believe an additional Trial cycle is the solution?”

“We believe it is necessary,” the official replied. “The Continuance Program exists to protect humanity. That protection requires sacrifice. We are asking our young people to step forward, not because we want to, but because we must.”

“How many casualties do you expect?”

The official’s expression didn’t change. “Every participant will receive the best training and resources available. We are committed to their safety.”

He didn’t answer the question.

The broadcast cut to footage of previous Trials. I recognized the arenas, ancient forests, crumbling ruins, landscapes that looked like they belonged in a nightmare.

I looked away.

Uncle Marcus hadn’t moved. A pamphlet sat on the table in front of him, identical to the one in my pocket.

Neither of us said anything.

The official kept talking on the screen, but I wasn’t listening anymore.

I walked to my room and closed the door.

I sat on my bed, staring at the pamphlet in my hands.

The paper was cheap. The words were clean. Official.

Survive Today. Protect Tomorrow.

From the other room, I heard Uncle Marcus turn off the television. Heard him moving around. The creak of the couch. The clink of a glass.

I wondered if he was holding his pamphlet too.

Neither of us said anything.

We didn’t need to.

I pressed my fingers against my crystal.

Still warm.

Still glowing.

Still dying.

I thought about Mrs. Rennik. About the Custodian lying dead in the street. About the teenagers at the depot who thought the Trials were their salvation.

I thought about four weeks.

And I knew.

There was only one choice left.