Chapter 1 Rewrite

A deep breath escapes me as I push open the double doors that lead to the next part of the assessment. The rush of warm air pushes past me as the doors swing closed behind me. I twist the pulse monitors on my wrists, nervously examining the stadium. The floor space of the room isn’t very large, but the high, arching ceilings seem to add a more grand flair to the design. Its oval shape accommodates the running track in the middle of the room. Glass walls with thin metal supports spaced out every few meters enclose it on all sides. Around the edge, a narrow path leads to the other side of the room, where the judges await me. I take a step forward. My heart rate climbs and my fists clench at my sides. Fear isn’t a quality the judges would look for in a soon-to-be soldier. I take the last few steps towards the narrow path. Towards the judges and the last stage of the assessment.

“Weaver, Emma?” the primary judge announces.

“Yes, sir?” I resist the urge to glance around the room for any other candidates in the room. The last time I took the assessment was with other students from my school. But this time, I know I’m alone. Retakes of the M.T.A. are to be taken singularly. Pointing out the fact to the judges could be taken as disrespect for protocol. Another quality that could disqualify a candidate.

“I assume you are familiar with this assessment and what will be required of you?”

“Yes, sir.” I reply.

Why would he remember me specifically? Peeking over the top of his glasses, he squints to examine the screen of his tablet. Oh, I realize eventually. He has no clue who I am. He must be repeating what my personal records say about the assessment. How I’ve taken the test once and failed. I lower my gaze to the ground as he examines the rest of the record. He coughs, signalling to the others in the room to begin preparations. Everything seems to be in order. Just like it should be.

“You are excused. Please take five minutes to prepare yourself in the dressing room, leaving your pulse monitors on for the race,” he says, sounding slightly bored, “Any questions?”

“No, sir.” I turn to face the curtain that leads into the dressing room and mentally prepare for the upcoming challenge.

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I stand ready at the track. My hair is now pulled away from my face and my school uniform exchanged for an (outfit worn for exercise). The dark fabric clings so tightly to me, I wonder if it was tailored specifically. I stretch my legs experimentally, but the fabric seems to move with me as I do. I bend over to touch my toes to test its flexibility once more, just to be sure. Must be nano-tech again, I decide. I’m glad they provide this for the assessment. I can’t imagine running in regular fabric.

“Weaver, Emma?” The voice calls out once more.

I hesitate to respond, “Yes, sir?”

I assume there are devices in this room that can transmit my response back. My words seem to be disregarded for a moment. Heat rushes to my cheeks, my mouth opens to repeat the words.

The judges voice booms out of the hidden speakers once more, “As a single person taking the Military Training Assessment, you will be racing against a Shadow racer. This racer is projected by the track to represent the amount of time needed to pass the exam.”

The voice pauses and I gaze around uncertainly. What is a Shadow racer? And where is it? The voice returns, “Please step onto the green dot.” I search the ground and find the dot a few steps to my right. Once I’m in position, I look around the room for the Shadow once more. Still no where to be found. Then, it appears beside me. A figure of a person made completely from whitish yellow light. It seems to gaze around the room and take in its surroundings before getting into a running stance. I can’t help but stare, wondering if this… Shadow can see me. Or if it will try to stop me from completing the race.

The judge speaks again, as if sensing my distrust of the person of light, “A Shadow is simply a recording of an average candidate for the M.T.A. They are only projections and they will not harm you.” I still stare unsurely at the figure beside me, who is now stretching his legs out on the floor. Just another candidate like me. I just have to beat his score to win.

“The last thing to mention is that the Shadow will fade out in the last part of the course. Whether you beat the Shadow or not will be unknown, but will be factored into the results. Do you understand?”

Not knowing whether I beat him or not will be a downside. It’s hard to surpass something you aren’t able to see.

“Yes, sir.” The Shadow lowers itself into a running position. I try, in vain, to mimic it, hoping it could even out the competition between us.

“On the timer,” the judge says. I hear the click of the intercom as it turns off. The lights outside the track fade, leaving the outside in complete darkness. A faint beeping noise grows louder as it counts down the seconds. The clock above the track flashes as each second disappears. I focus my attention on the other end of the track. The timer blares loudly and the lights flash green. I accelerate, trying to keep pace with the Shadow rather than racing ahead. This early on, a temporary lead can quickly make me fall behind.

We round the first corner and I remain even with it the rest of the lap, occasionally stepping through the back of his foot or punching through his back with my arm. But it doesn’t do anything to stop his progress. He starts to get a lead.

It’s just a few inches at first, but at the next corner, the gap is at least a yard. I push forward harder, wasting some precious energy to do so. Only a half of a lap left to go. We start to round the corner and I lose sight of the Shadow. I look back, dropping my pace slightly. I catch a glimpse of yellow light ahead, very faintly glowing. It’s fading, I think angrily, and it’s ahead of me.

My legs pump faster against the rubbery track. My lungs scream and my heart vibrates to achieve the full extent of its power. I speed up and the track flies beneath my feet. The Shadow is almost completely gone now, the toes of my shoes bite at its heels. I sprint with the last reserves of strength and fly across the finish line. I made it.