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I.
Alana Bloom waved her hand and the holographic footage before her changed. Will appeared on the screen. Not for the first time, Alana could hardly believe she was seeing a ten year old boy. Will’s every muscle was tense as he lay in bed, sweat matting his dark curls to his forehead, breathing uneven. He was biting into the back of his hand so hard that she almost expected to hear the sound of ripping flesh. Whether awake or asleep, Will’s face always looked haggard, unsettlingly mature… almost broken.
“Sometimes I wonder, Jack... Are we human or are we the monsters? To do this to a child…” Alana clenched her fists tightly at her sides, looking up towards the Colonel standing beside her.
“It’s only because we’re human that we’re doing this,” Colonel Jack Crawford gestured around the room filled with holograms monitoring key children of interest, but Alana knew he was referring to the concept of Battle School as a whole, “When humanity calls, every member of the species is a soldier.” Jack’s voice was steady, but his eyes made it clear he did feel something for the way Will was suffering. Jack had lived through Will's eyes through a monitor the Fleet had attached to the back of the boy’s neck. He was the one who had assessed and come to the conclusion that Will was the one, or as damn close as they were ever going to get to the one - the genius who could surpass Rackham. Will had a special gift, the frightening ability to empathize with the good, the bad, and the ugly. Jack had seen this gift as a weapon, torn the boy from his family, and used him until he was the shell twisting before them on the monitor. It was impossible for him not to feel.
At the same time, he rationalized that his damn feelings mattered not a shred if the Buggers killed them all.
“Even the children going through Battle School at normal speeds suffer from homesickness and crippling pressure. Will is especially sensitive because of his ability. To isolate him like this, to make sure he has no friends, only subordinates, to push and push and -”
“Major Bloom, I must remind you to stay professional. He is not here to make friends." Jack stared at the fragile boy (the worn-out soldier) in the monitor, "He is here to save us all.”
II.
Will woke up with his vision swimming and a strong urge to vomit. He pushed his hands into his face reflexively and took deep gulps of air. In. Out. In. Out. 2:15 AM. I am in the Phoenix Army Barracks. My name is Will Graham. Despite his shaking body and unstable mental state, Will was silent. He was not going to have others in his Army and his platoon doubt his sanity and lose the crumb of respect he had earned.
Always respect. Never affection.
He felt tired. It was not a momentary fatigue that could be cured by relaxation or a good meal. It was a bone-deep weariness that had wrapped around him like a cloak. Patiently, steadily, it was choking the life out of him.
Deciding it would be impossible to sleep anymore, Will reached for his tablet. His heart pounded in double time as the Fantasy Game loaded and he was immersed in another world. He knew that the game was likely a means for the adults to psychoanalyze him further, for them to decide if he was too crazy, too empathetic, or not enough (oh how he wished he was not enough) but he did not care.
He made his way through the game in the form of a human boy. Fairyland was colorful and bright where the Battle School was grey and monotonous.
Will spared no time for enjoying the scenery however, quickly arriving at the playground with the children that turned into wolves. One by one he killed them. He was annoyed to find that he still felt a pang in his heart every time he did so. It was just a stupid game. And even if it wasn’t… they were wolves, not children. They deserved it.
He thought of Hobbs, the older boy who had tried to hurt him, tried to kill him even. Will had struck back and the adults had not punished him for it. Why was it then that he felt guilt thick and heavy in the pit of his stomach whenever he remembered the crunch underfoot as kicked Hobbs again and again, merciless? Why was it that the image of Hobbs’ empty eyes staring at him as the left the shower room haunted him in his dreams? The older boy deserved it. He deserved it!
Will’s character stopped before the wooden door labelled "End of the World". He knew what was waiting behind it. Will had been there before at least a few dozen times. Einstein had said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Will grimaced and moved his character forwards regardless.
The boy in the mirror was older than the one from his memories. It was clearly him though, the same prim clothing, same neatly coiffed blond hair. Will could so easily imagine those lips opening to speak politely with the lilt of a slight accent, “William, such a pleasure to see you again.”
As always, the carpet underneath his character’s feet bled red and then congealed to form his one-time friend, with inky skin and stag antlers spiking out from the sides of his head, like powerful branches emerging from the trunk of a tree.
Will wondered what the adults thought of his obsession with this room. Hannibal killed him time and time again, yet he always came back, just to glimpse into those eyes once more.
“Will, we’re special, you and me. You keep pushing it down, but it would be much more… enjoyable… to embrace it, no?” The Game was of course, silent. Will could almost swear he felt a whisper of breath on his neck though. He was the only one who knew the true Hannibal and still lived. The boy from his childhood had worn a mask of innocence while hiding his bloodstained hands behind an argyle sweater vest. Will had known, could have spoken up, could have saved so many lives, but he was cursed. He could empathize with the killer, with the one who had been his only friend. He had remained muted as more squirrels were butchered, as people started disappearing.
Hannibal in the game, half human, half monster, headed towards him. Will wondered whether he would be stabbed this time, choked perhaps? His friend, even this fictional version of him, was ever so creative with deaths.
Will almost turned away from the death of his character. He was so sick of it, all of it – the Fantasy Game, Battle School, saving humanity, what did it matter to him anyway? He felt a tear slip down his cheek.
And then with a flash of epiphany he saw it, Hannibal’s face as he approached. The boy did not look content. Will’s death at his hands, this was not… this was not his design.
Shaking, Will pressed the keys to complete the puzzle because the answer was suddenly so clear. His character reached out for one of the stag antlers and Hannibal stayed motionless, waiting. The other boys' eyes seemed to shine with approval. It was surprisingly simple for Will to break an antler off, and to gently – so gently – push the jagged edge of bone deep into Hannibal’s abdomen. Black blood stained his hands and dripped onto the stone floor.
Will’s entire body – both digital and real – was frozen still as Hannibal leaned forward. Much to his surprise, instead of gauging his eyes out or biting his ear off, Hannibal embraced him. The boy was smiling, a sight Will had not seen in years, since Hannibal had moved away just before Will had been selected to be monitored by the International Fleet.
Hannibal, for lack of a better word - kissed him. It was less a matter of romance and more a passing of darkness, as Will's psychotic (brilliant) friend, stag antlers and all, dissolved into mist in the game and was consumed by Will’s character.
“Beautiful.”
Will closed the game. The tension had left his body. Suddenly, it felt as though everything was so clear, so simple. He felt his own lips tilt up in a broken mockery of a smile as he pulled bed covers up over himself. He was not sure if it was Hannibal’s voice or his own – were they not one and the same now? – that said, “This is my design.”
III.
“We’ve found him,” Jack gasped, as he watched Will’s platoon move with inhuman efficiency and accuracy through the Battle Room. It was as though Will could see through every one of his enemies’ moves. He led his platoon to victory, slicing through the enemy formation like a well-honed blade, showing no mercy. It was as though his brilliance before had been diluted somehow, but now it was completely and utterly focused – on absolute victory, on eradication.
Alana nodded in agreement, inwardly horrified.
They had found the monster and lost the boy.