Page 52 of January Bell

As soon as he’s finished speaking, three images appear before me.

The sound from the auditorium’s murder pit cuts off completely as the images begin to flicker to life.

The first image, furthest to the left, is baby Zan, no older than eight or nine. A small child, and what looks to be an army barracks. Well, as close to an army barracks as an alien species with wings can get, I suppose. There’s a high platform, what would almost be a balcony attached to it, except there’s no railing whatsoever.

A full-grown Draegon leads him out onto the platform, ties a blindfold around his eyes, and pushes him off without any warning.

Little Zan free-falls, and I put a hand to my mouth, horrified at the staggering violence of the action.

The image cuts off, and the middle image begins to play.

Zan is slightly older, still blindfolded, assembling what looks to be a rifle of some sort as fast as he can.

The trainer behind him holds talons to his throat, and the threat’s implied.

The slightly older Zan doesn’t complete the task in time, and the instructor slashes across his face.

I’m horrified, absolutely stricken at what he’s seen and experienced.

Poor Zan.

This is sick.

I absolutely refuse to give Ken any emotional footage that he can use to splice together.

Zan’s life is his, and even if he did sign up for this, he didn’t sign up to have all of his childhood pain splashed across the screen, made into fictional drama.

This is real.

This isn’t some joke.

Ken can push me all he wants. He can show my deepest, darkest secrets. He can make fun of me, he can make a fool of me, but he cannot hurt Zan.

I won’t let him make us a spectacle, because what we have isn’t a spectacle.

Not at all.

It’s real.

The third scene begins to play, and I recognize this version of Zan, because this is the one that’s mine.

The white scar given to him across his face by his former military instructor, well-worn, older, massive compared to the younger versions of him, and deadly.

A comms tablet is held in front of him, and the angle of the scene changes slightly so that I can tell he’s signing a contract, a contract clearly labeled the Mated and Afraid reality television series.

A voice I recognize as the Roth who was somewhere in the audience asks Zan, “Are you ready to find your mate? Are you ready to have the love of your life?”

Zan smiles smugly and answers clearly, “Yes, absolutely.”

And I know the one that’s the lie immediately.

“It’s that one!” I scream, pointing to the third scenario. “That one’s the lie. Zan didn’t come here looking for a mate.”

Triumph races through me because I know I’m correct. I know I’m right about this, and it doesn’t matter to me that he didn’t join this wanting a mate at all.

It doesn’t bother me one bit, because I sure as hell didn’t either, and yet I ended up with one that was perfectly suited for me.

The screens disappear, the silence replaced by the horrific roar of the crowd and the bubbling, hissing of the magma.