Chapter Text
You considered yourself a normal person.
You were nothing special by any imagination, coming from a perfectly average background and living in a total average, if a bit rundown, neighborhood.
You had a few friends and a single parent who you called (sometimes!).
You liked to read shitty romance novels.
You worked as a manager in a tiny little coffee shop that made you think about burning the building down on the regular.
A perfectly average twenty something trying to survive in the modern hellscape that was living in central London.
But, as something dumb like fate would have it, you were also about to be the exclusive snack of one very strange, yet compelling Vampire Lord.
So, not so normal after all.
This is the story of how all that went down.
“Look, all I’m saying is that if I was a vampire, you would not catch me sticking my mouth on that guy’s neck.”
It was a Tuesday morning, at the library. Which in a normal world, meant that it would be both quiet and empty.
However it was neither of those things.
You had made a small hideaway for you and your audience of one in the very back of the place, mindful enough of the fact you were loud and loved to complain. Loudly.
Your companion seemed to not mind however, maybe even was enjoying it judging by the barely hidden snicker he was doing a bad job of hiding.
“Oh, really? Do tell me more,” he said, still snickering away.
“Look, she had three love interests, and all of them are rubbish. One is the obvious emo bad boy vampire guy that you know she’s gonna end up with at the end, one is the boring human guy who has no chance, and one is literally her teacher. Which. No. Absolutely not. Horrendous.”
You prattled on and on, as you have been doing for about the last hour or so. Martin however, ever the beacon of patience, seemed content to just listen as you proclaimed your woes with a terrible series of YA novels.
“And you continued to read these, why?” he asked.
“Because I was 16 and hadn’t developed taste yet, Martin! That’s why.” You covered your eyes with the shame of it all.
“Suppose one could argue that you still haven’t,” Martin tacked on, slyly, invoking your playful wrath.
“Oh, shut it! It’s not like I don’t know it’s bad. But sorry if I still expect rubbish to have standards.”
“That literally doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not without a little imagination, it doesn’t.”
“Sure,” Martin acquiesced, a small smile on his rounded face.
Martin Blackwood was a strange guy, seemingly quiet and humble on the surface, but you quickly learned that only was a cover that hid a mean streak a kilometer wide.
Which made you like him all the more.
He was quickly becoming a close friend, after the two of you met at the bookshop across the street a few months ago. You were both browsing in the same section and then started talking and next thing you knew you had a sort of informal bookclub thing going; meeting with him at least once a month. He would usually talk about poetry and you would talk about low brow romance novels. Clearly different tastes but as one of the few consistent social interactions you got to have outside of work the two of you could have talked about the process of paint drying for all that you cared.
“Besides, the rules of the vampire society are super arbitrary. Like, why would only adult vampires need to drink blood but high schoolers don’t? Wouldn’t younger vampires need more blood? It’s just not realistic. I mean probably.”
It wasn’t like either of you knew any real vampires you could ask.
You let out a sigh, suddenly drained.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m on closing tonight so I should probably get home soon. Take a nap before the chaos.”
“Right.”
“Catch you back here soon?” you asked as you stood up, stretching your stiff limbs. “Hopefully before the shop makes me grow my next gray hair.”
He nodded, and moved to pack up his messenger bag. “For sure. Get home safe, alright? Avoid the vampire bad boys and all that.”
“Oh, hush!”
In the end, though you made it home with no vampires in sight, you couldn’t shake this weird feeling.
Like you were being watched.
The feeling lingered even after you made your way into your flat, causing sleep to allude you until it was too late. Eventually, it faded, and as the sun fell and you began your workday, you put it to the back of your mind.
Later, the metal click of the key gave way to the familiar thunk of the lock turning as you twisted it into place. You quickly retrieved the key from the door, stashing it away as you glared at the ever fading light of the sky as dusk approached.
Closing was never your preferred shift but then again early mornings were even worse, so you would take what you were given with only a mild grumble. After one more tug to confirm the door was locked tight, you stepped away from the tiny coffee shop - aka your personal prison - and onto the streets of London.
A chill breeze whipped at you lightly as you walked the near empty street. You pulled your coat closer around your body as you went, eyes taking in your surroundings enough to deduce that you were properly alone.
Your hand dipped into your pocket as you descended to the underground, but it wasn’t until you were past the turnstile that you pulled out your earbuds. With a gentle press they were sat snug in your ears, ready and waiting to dispense the entertainment that you had been anticipating all week.
As you waited for your train, you allowed your attention to be whisked away by a voice you knew well, a voice that brought hours of joy & comfort, the illustrious voice of --
‘Welcome back listeners to What the Ghost, with me, Georgie Barker, as your spookerific host.’
Miss Georgie Barker’s voice filtered out of your cheap earbuds as your train arrived in quick fashion, allowing you to step on and get settled - arm tight on a frigid metal pole as the already full seats showed no signs of clearing up - as she introduced the episode.
‘Long time listeners will know this week’s topic has been highly requested for a very, very, very, long time. So long in fact one could argue that we at What the Ghost have been avoiding it. Which is completely ridiculous. What we have been doing is simply having a sense of appropriate timing.’ The sound of a canned laugh track drew a snort from you. ‘In honor of my home city of London’s annual event - which should be happening the following evening if I manage to get this episode up in time - today’s topic has been requested by many of you so many times; one of you in particular especially. Thanks Jack.’ More canned laughter. ‘ Today’s topic is the history and origins of The Selection. Woo.’
The Selection. That was coming up, huh? Like many big televised events, you tended to lose track of when they were happening, mostly because you didn’t care, despite the fact everyone around you seemed to think it was the most important thing that was happening and has ever happened in the history of the world despite the fact that these events did - in fact - happen every year. Like, how many times can one watch a bunch of sweaty American men toss around a strangely shaped ball for hours until you got sick of it? (That one in particular was baffling to you.)
The Selection was different, of course, given that it was not a mindless sporting event or a mindless fashion event or even a mindless media event where rich people gave themselves awards as a way to inflate their already massive egos.
It was much worse than that.
‘Humans have needed to co-exist with vampires for as long as both humans and vampires have existed at the same time on earth. Which is to say, a long time. The early eras were a frightening time to be a human, always afraid of what may be bump in the night, ready to steal away your precious blood… and you would be right to be! Vampires hunted with impunity and under no restriction, leaving the humans of the time always in fear of being the next meal. Meanwhile, the lack of order caused chaos for the vampires too, massive power struggles that cascaded into nasty succession wars. In addition, lack of control would lead to bad feeding habits that would reportedly cause health and longevity issues. Or so they tell us. You know how cagey vampires are. Anyway, The Selection in its modern incarnation is all pomp and glamour, but it was originally created out of desperation. There had stood no laws or agreements between vampires and humans until when, finally, in the 1500s, the very first incarnation of the Blood Peace laws were put in place. These first drafts lacked many of the protections for humans that later editions would thankfully include, but one of the core agreements became the very foundation for the Selection as we know it today. Before we continue, let’s have an ad break. Today’s What the Ghost is sponsored by-’
Your eyes flicked to the sign marking the station. This one was yours. Georgie Barker’s tired ad read ran on in the background as the train slowed to a stop. You quickly made your way off. You hardly had to pay attention at this point, you knew your route home so well your body practically ran on autopilot through the tunnels. A left here, a right there, a weird fork around that one poster for dental floss, and there you were. The crowd was thinner than usual for some reason, but you just considered yourself lucky to not have to push and shove your way around tonight. You were not in the mood.
As you made your last turn, a sudden chill went down your spine. Like someone was watching you. That feeling again?
You stopped, pulling out one earbud, and looked around you. You were alone and the passage around you looked… weird. By all accounts, it seemed totally normal. The same dirty tile you saw everyday. But in your gut, something was off. Was the light too dim? The tile too white? Was the lady on the poster promoting transit safety always smiling so wide?
You slowly walked on, making yet another turn to find yourself at the exit to the tunnels. Right where you were meant to be.
Huh.
Weird.
Probably nothing. Maybe all this vampire talk was getting you paranoid. You replaced the earbud and continued walking.
‘ Even at the beginning, the core of the Selection was the same that it is today. A vampire lord, or otherwise equally prominent vampire would be given a small group of humans, chosen via random selection, for they and their coven to feast on and keep. In return, the vampires would not take from any non-selected human and would use their vampiric strength and powers to protect the town or settlement from outside threats, including incursions from other vampires. Now, even at the beginning, people protested this arrangement as it would leave the Selected as no better than cattle. As a result, later incarnations of the laws would require certain standards that the lords would need to comply with in order to be allowed to participate in the Selection process. Which is what led to the luxurious accommodations and fair treatment that current Selected now enjoy.’
You had exited the underground at this point, your strange little moment behind you, and were halfway to your flat. The long winding cobble road in your neighborhood always felt like it was way longer than it actually was. It was all perspective, you had long decided.
The brain was very good at twisting the facts of what you saw and heard.
‘And to supplement our exciting history lesson, we have a special guest on the show today. He was… fortunate enough to be one of London’s Selected last year and is a personal friend of mine, here to share with us a look into his current life. Please welcome Jonathan Sims. *Clapping sound*’
‘Thank you. Georgie. My name is Jonathan Sims, and as stated I was part of the Selection last year. I am privileged to be under the domain of Lord Elias Bouchard. I admit to being a bit… trepidatious about coming onto the show, but as many seem to lack knowledge about the current state of being one of the Selected, I saw fit to correct any false assumptions. The largest of which seems to be that all Selected are fed upon. This is not true in the slightest. A vast majority of Selected in the modern era merely are employed by their vampiric lord, not unlike a regular job. I am told this is due to the fact that most large domains have so many humans under their jurisdiction, that even those who are fed upon, it is treated more like any blood donation would be. Most may only give blood once a year. I do acknowledge that in smaller domains the number of times one may be asked to give would increase, but due to adjustments made to the laws in regards, it would not exceed-’
You unlocked the door to your flat and pushed yourself inside. The sound of the podcast was drowned out by the tv in your living room, your flatmate perched in front of it. Deciding that you would finish listening later, deeply exhausted, you took out your earbuds and paused the audio.
As you crossed through the small kitchen you shared, you more fully took in the scene.
Sasha was sat directly in front of the tv, the large old set sat directly on the carpet. A notebook - as there often was - was clutched in one of her hands, a pen in the other. Her curly hair was loose and looked a bit more wild than usual, as if Sasha had taken less time to care for it than she usually did. Which in itself seemed like a contradiction, given how neat and orderly she usually was, but you knew what brought this on.
The other aspect of the Selection you did not care for. Your dear flatmate and friend’s downright obsession with it.
As if she could hear your thoughts, she twisted her head around.
“Oh! You’re back. Is it that time already?”
She squinted her eyes at the wall clock in the kitchen.
“It’s 8:30,” you said, saving her the time.
“Oh jeez,” she said, “Sorry. Got busy.” She held the notebook up a little in explanation. For anyone else, this wouldn’t explain a thing, but for you, who has been living with her for years? This made complete sense.
You met Sasha in college. While the two of you had very different majors, you got on fabulously and so even as the two of you graduated you elected to move in together. Sasha was a researcher, with lofty academia aspirations. One of Sasha’s fields of interest happened to be vampires, or more specifically their intersections with humanity on a cultural and social scale. Which, of course, included The Selection. So every year now she had taken to squirreling herself away in the lead up to the event in order to take notes on the proceedings. Including the many hour long pre-event talk shows.
You gave a sidelong glance at the screen, the talkshow hosts continuing to blab on about frankly nothing, as what does one talk about in the lead up to a bunch of random people being picked out of a metaphorical hat?
“They discovered if vampires can - in fact - turn into bats yet?” you asked.
“No. You know that’s not what the show’s about.”
“Shame. That would at least be something,” you teased. You took off your bag and work apron and slung them across one of the kitchen bar stools.
The removal of weight had you sighing in relief.
“Long day?” Sasha asked.
“Just like everyday,” you replied.
“Fair point.”
Her attention was only half on you, her eyes still listening to the television.
You rolled your eyes. You may not get it, but it made her happy, so- whatever.
“You have fun determining the probability of everyone in London’s chances for getting picked. Me? I’m going to bed.”
As you walked away towards your room, Sasha’s voice carried down the hall. “I already figured that out! The average adult in London has a one in 21.8 thousand chance-”
“You are a total nerd!” You called back playfully, the two of you dissolving into giggles. With a last little wave you shut your door behind you.
Later, as you laid in bed waiting for sleep to claim you, you pondered. In the end, you decided that, no. Vampires can’t turn into bats. That one had to be a myth. After all, surely you would see more bats flying around then. Plus they would probably run into telephone poles and wires and stuff all the time. That would be embarrassing for them.
The next morning brought the usual drudgery as you struggled to want to leave your cozy bed. You did, eventually, and after a shower and some quick breakfast you felt somewhat like a real person.
As you were heading out the door, you spotted Sasha curled up on the couch. She was still fast asleep, her notebook still somewhat gripped in her hands, snoring away. You smiled. You quietly approached and slowly removed the notes from her, placing it on the nearby end table. You then grabbed the blanket, that was only half covering her at this point, and pulled it back up.
You opened the shop. The dawn light was barely bright enough to illuminate the interior of the store, lights yet to be turned on. It still smelled faintly of vanilla syrup, as no matter how deep the clean the smell would never truly fade from the fixtures. You crossed the counter and began to count the registers, each clink of the coins hitting the back of your skull.
You were not awake yet in any way that truly mattered.
After that task was finished, it was time for your least favorite part of opening.
Cleaning up after the closing crew, who did not do their goddamn jobs.
Fuck it. Maybe you just wouldn't do it this time.
Sink or fucking swim, babes.
You have had enough.
With a sigh of deep resignation, you grabbed the cleaning supplies and began to wipe down the work surfaces.
By opening time, the place looked marginally presentable. You finally turned on the lights - having avoided it before as more light meant you would find more messes to clean - and unlocked the door. Hoping for at least a few more minutes of peace, you turned away to go lean on the counter for a while, only to immediately be disturbed by the jingle of the bells above the door.
So it begins.
You turned, putting on your best smile.
The morning wore on like the world’s worst loop of the five same commercials. Which is to say, irritating and monotonous. The customers came in bursts, but each lull not even lasting long enough for you to truly catch your breath. By the time the morning creeped into afternoon and your coworkers started to file in, you had hoped some chatter would help break up your slowly forming headache. But since the universe hated you specifically, no. It got worse.
Being a manager frankly had few too perks and way more responsibilities, enough that you had nearly quit on multiple occasions. But the alternative was likely starting again at the bottom somewhere else for less, so here you stayed. So that meant dealing with the various problems your associates would bring to you, mostly in the form of bitchy customers who do not in fact know how to do your job better than you nor do they probably know how to count. That last one comes up more often than one would think.
By the time you had finished putting out the latest customer created interpersonal dumpster fire, finally one of the other managers arrived.
Today it was Jack. He was around your age, more or less. He was nice enough, but of course, you somehow found yourself working with yet another vampirophile. Case in point-
“Are you watching the Selection tonight?” he asked you, as he dropped off his stuff in the back. You fought back the urge to make some sort of snappy comment, even though you really wanted to, because that’s not fair and he doesn’t deserve it.
Probably.
“Ehh, maybe. I always tend to get roped into watching it with my roommate, so-” you replied as you added at least ten blueberry shots to the latte you were working on. (It was a weird order, but the guy was a regular who was really nice and tipped well, so frankly could have whatever he wanted.)
“Aw, lucky,” he said as he moved to take the next customer’s order, “I’m closing tonight so I’m gonna miss it. People are saying Lord Montague is gonna have at least 5 more picks this year compared to last.”
You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you didn’t really know which vampire lord Montague was and frankly didn’t care, so you simply said:
“Oh, really?”
After he had taken the order, he then continued with:
“Yeah. Seems her coven is doing well this year, or so they say. Not that anyone can surpass Lord Bouchard in terms of numbers, though.”
Hearing Bouchard’s name reminded you that since you crashed last night, you never finished your podcast. You would have to later, maybe. Or you might just wait till the whole Selection blew over before you had to hear about it again so soon.
It wasn’t long after that that traffic in the shop picked up, forcing the conversation to (mercifully) come to an end.
The only good part about being busy was that you had no time to look at a clock and by the time you did it was near time for your shift to end. You finished up one last order and gathered your things, determined to make it out before someone called you aside to do work beyond your scheduled hours. Thankfully, the powers that may be decided to show you some mercy for once and you managed to clock out, uninterrupted.
Jack waved to you as you left, and you waved back.
By the time you had arrived home, the sun nearly finished setting despite it only being six o’clock. Such is the way of the season, dour as it made you. You pushed open the door to your flat as you once again took in the sight of Sasha huddled on the floor. It felt like she had never moved since yesterday, despite the fact you knew she had. You knocked on the wall nearby to alert her to your presence, and to be fair it only took her a few seconds to let out a hum of acknowledgement.
“How much time we got?” you asked as you put away your work apron.
“One hour, forty-eight minutes, and twelve seconds,” came the response. Such accuracy could be afforded as, well. There was a timer on the tv screen, counting down like it was New Years.
You knew you would sit and watch it, despite the fact that no part of the event was appealing to you. It mattered to Sasha, and any time you spend hanging out with her made it worth doing, given how rare that time was becoming lately. Between her studies and work and your work, the two of you mostly just functioned around each other, not often able to do stuff together. So, yeah. You would stay and watch the stupid vampire vanity show.
What could the harm be?
The smell of garlic filled the tiny flat as you stirred the marinara sauce, pasta boiling nearby and garlic bread baking in the oven. The smell was heaven to you, the gift of an actually good meal after a long day all the sweeter.
You grabbed the pasta pot, giving the noodles one final check, before draining them into a separate metal bowl. You took the sauce off the hot burner and moved it into the back for a moment as you took the now strained spaghetti and distributed it evenly on two plates. Soon you applied the sauce, and set the pots in the sink for later. The bread was next, and after a few more minutes, it was done.
You actually enjoyed cooking.
You didn’t get to do it often, time and energy leading you to make quick frozen stuff more often than not, but the process was enjoyable. You won’t say you were very good or knew too many recipes but you liked when you could indulge in your little hobby.
“Sash, food’s done,” you called. You had the plates set on the countertop, napkins at the ready. But, as you suspected, as you turned to look, she was still absorbed in the pre-show. It was going to be at least another 45 minutes until the thing proper began, enough time for a slow-paced meal.
You watched as she reluctantly pulled away from the tv and joined you at the counter. The only reason you didn’t move the meal to the floor was you couldn’t afford to have red stains on the cheap carpet, which you knew would be a bitch to get out. So, counter it was.
“Pasta? Damn it smells good.” Sasha stopped to drink in the warm, garlicy scent. The loud rumble of her stomach seemed to second her words as she wasted no more time and dug in. “Thanks!” she said, the sound muffled by the noodles already in her mouth.
You chuckled and then followed suit, your own hunger just as demanding.
You and Sasha were cleaning up some of the dishes when the timer on the tv finally entered single digits. You had finished washing the last fork as the program switched from the talk show stage to the actual stage of the event. It was in some convention center downtown, you thought, though offhand you couldn’t say which one. It had a broad stage with roaming lights and a colorful kaleidoscope of a background. A pair of event hosts stood at the front, both in appropriately blood red outfits. The first, a shorter looking woman, started first.
“Welcome to this year’s grand event, the moment I know many of you have been waiting on the edge of your seats for. My name is Melanie King, I imagine many of you might know me from GhostHuntUK , hosted on Youtube. Many thanks to the Selection Committee for the opportunity to be your host tonight.”
“You mean, dual host, right?”
The other guy, a sort of traditionally handsome man, joined in.
“And my name is Timothy Stoker, resident cool guy. I also have a pretty successful Tiktok account, but since I am such a humble guy, I’ll leave it there.” Melanie rolled her eyes. “Cute.”
Tim wicked in response. “I always try to be. But tonight is unfortunately not about me, instead we come together to celebrate the next generations of lucky souls destined to be looked after by our moonlight neighbors.”
Melanie then took the opportunity to take over again.
“Yes, just as we have every year since the agreements were first put into place many years ago, tonight we will hear the coveted few who will be chosen to serve and be served by one of our local vampiric lords.”
“One of whom might just show up tonight, or so the rumor goes?” Tim added. Melanie nodded.
“Perhaps, if only Tim’s wretched personality doesn’t scare them away.”
Tim’s face contorts into playful offense. “Oh, come off it. No vampire would look at me and feel fear. I’ve been told that I elicit other kinds of feelings in people though.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Ha ha.” Melanie mocked. “Save it for the vampires.”
A chime sounded suddenly, capturing the hosts’ attention.
“Speaking of, it’s time for the first round of names, go grab your popcorn and pray to your lucky stars, because it’s Selection time!”
A series of musical cues then played, meant to stir up excitement. Melanie and Tim each walked to one side of the stage as the red curtain behind them drifted away to reveal a giant LED screen. At the top in large, bold font was the place set for the vampire lord’s name to appear. Below it in smaller text would be the names of all those who were Selected.
After several years of having to watch this thing, you knew that the amount of people Selected for each lord would vary, depending on size of their coven or probably more importantly, political power.
It was no coincidence that the most prominent of lords, even one’s whose names you knew, also happened to own many popular brands and businesses in the city and across the country.
Even for the non-human, money still held incredible power.
And so the event began in earnest, as Tim and Melanie commentated all throughout as each lord’s name and their Selected would appear on the screen. Of course the whole proceedings were bisected with ad breaks and other such frivolous cut-aways, like any big budget tv event.
Sasha drank it all up, as she made note of each name that scrolled across the screen. Personally, by the time the fifth lord’s chosen were beginning to be announced, you were about knee deep in eye rolling.
Call you skeptical, but you didn’t think it was worth it. Sure, from all that everyone talked about, the Selected lived in luxury with a stable source of income and necessities paid for. After all, anyone who had been downtown had looked on at the posh sky high residential buildings dedicated to those ‘special few’ with some amount of envy. And you personally could very much live without the looming shadow of ever increasing rent and grocery costs lingering over your head. But…. well. You were still giving up your freedom. Not many outside the Selection system heard from those in it, and even when you did, who knows how much information the public at large is given is even true. You thought back to the man on What The Ghost and wondered how much of what he said was put through the PR filters first.
No, you decided. If it were up to you, you would never want to be one of the Selected. You may have to struggle day to day, but at least you never had to worry about a vampire having control over your life.
At this point you had fully tuned out the program and thought that you might have to sleep through the rest if it kept dragging itself on. You were nearly there when Sasha nudged you.
“What?” you groaned sleepily.
“Look, its-” Sasha pointed at the screen as a man walked onto the stage. He was sharply dressed in what could only be (gaudy) luxury fabric as his forest green suit jacket shined in the stage lights. He looked like he could be in his fifties but the strange light in his eyes and the way he walked was mesmerizing in a way no human would be.
This man was clearly a vampire. And not just any, judging by the reactions of the audience and the hosts.
“Well, would you look at that, our mysterious guest has finally made his appearance. You all know him, from his line of luxury watches and his billboard ads that you see literally everywhere, and I mean that-” Tim cut off for a moment after Melanie lightly shoves him. “It’s the top of the vampire food chain here in London, if you’ll pardon the pun, pleased to introduce-”
“Lord Elias Bouchard.” Melanie finished.
Lord Bouchard gave them both a respectful nod, though for your money it seemed like he was slightly ticked at the less than formal introduction. Still, his words were smooth as honey as he spoke.
“Thank you both for such a generous welcome. I have been privileged to serve the city of London for many years, and thanks to your as always gracious cooperation, I aim to do so yet again in the coming year. I am eager to welcome those who are soon to fall under my care and hope to get along splendidly with each and every one of you.”
His speech caused an uproar in the live audience, drowning out Melanie enough that she had to restart her next sentence multiple times. “What a lovely set of words, everyone. We thank Lord Bouchard for his time tonight as we finally announce those that will be joining him and his domain this year. Strap in folks, for this is the final Selection!”
As Melanie and Tim read out the final set of names, a weird sense of unease falls over you. You don’t know where it came from, but… ever since you got that strange feeling, the one like you were being watched, an odd sense of dread lingered in the back of your head.
It was nothing, surely. Just tired, not enough sleep. That was it. It was-
“Next on the list is Martin Blackwood. Congratulations.”
You froze.
What?
No way.
Not a chance.
Surely they couldn't mean--
Sasha seemed to notice your sudden shift as she looked at you, concern dripping off her face. “You alright?”
You didn’t answer right away, mentally sifting through how many Martin Blackwoods likely lived in London and how that name appearing here surely didn’t refer to your Martin.
Suddenly you were struck with the terrifying thought that you would never see him again. Sure, you two weren’t best friends or anything but he and you got along well! Something that frankly didn’t happen that often as you tended to drift away before most friendships got too deep. To suddenly lose all that…
So lost in your thoughts you didn’t realize that Sasha was shouting your name.
“What?” you snapped, desperate to hold on to your composure.
She was looking at you with wide eyes now, with a look that you had never seen before.
“Sasha?”
She turned back to the screen and pointed, finger trembling in the air. And on the screen were the words you would never forget.
A simple collection of letters, arranged in a way that was more familiar to you than breathing.
It was your name.
Suddenly, Sasha’s reaction made sense. In your daze over Martin, you missed your own name being called.
Somehow, despite the possibility that it could be referring to someone with your same name, somehow you knew.
Panic pounded your heart as your brain scrambled.
What do you do?
How much time did you have? You just needed a moment to pull yourself together-
You were shaken by the sudden sound of loud pounding on your door.
“Holy shit…” You hear Sasha whisper, her hands still shaking. “Surely they don’t call this late-”
The pounding resumed, and if you didn’t live on the eighth floor you briefly, insanely, considered jumping out the window.
Still you did and so you don’t and as the pounding continued you brace yourself for whatever would be behind it.
You agonizingly made your way to the door, and opened it.
There, two bulky looking men stood. One said your full name, his voice a monotone in a somewhat off cockney accent.
The other said the words that made your stomach drop completely off the earth.
“Congrats,” he said, “You have been Selected.”