Civil War #7 – Chapter 23 – The Choice

Ash lay on the floor, vision swimming, blood matting his hair, when he felt it: another jolt of heat in his veins.

The black fluid roared again, surging through him like fire, searing the pain from his limbs. He growled and shoved upward, teeth clenched. For one second, he felt limitless.

Then it sputtered.

The power slipped. His vision dimmed. He crashed to his knees, panting, the strength already burning out of him.

The crowd stirred. The main commentator cleared his throat and stepped forward, glittering, practiced smile in place.

“Well! That was—”

“ENOUGH!”

The Director’s voice cut through the arena like a blade.

“Everyone,” he hissed, “shut up.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even the commentator stumbled back, blinking.

The Director’s eyes gleamed, wide with fury. “You think that was the finale? You think the show’s over? I’m not done. Not even close.”

He raised a hand. “Get him up.”

The five thugs swarmed Ash again, this time dragging him to his feet—grabbing his arms, his legs, pinning his head in place. Ash struggled, but the last of the strength had drained from him.

“Watch,” the Director said. “You want truth? Here it is.”

The screen above the arena changed.

Corwin.

Clips played—spliced together, choppy at first, but too sharp to ignore. Corwin, sitting in the Director’s chamber, speaking softly. Calmly.

“Ash keeps poking around again. Still on those books. He’ll never stop.”

Another clip:

“The explosion? I planted the idea. He just lit the spark.”

Then:

“Mouse is weak. If he gets hurt, Ash will throw himself into the fire for him. Use that.”

Another. Corwin smirking.

“He’s obsessed with Ember. Thinks no one notices. I do. I always do.”

Ash screamed, twisting against the grip of the thugs.

“Lies! Half-truths! That’s not all of it!”

The Director smiled. “Of course it’s not. That’s the point.”

The arena had gone quiet. The crowd frozen. The commentator stood behind the Director, his smile gone, unsure of his lines.

The Director turned toward Corwin, who still dangled, neck stretched, legs limp—but his hands now gripped the beam above. He was alive. Watching.

“Time for the real choice,” the Director said, voice quieter now. Almost loving.

He climbed the platform slowly. Reached Corwin. Lifted one hand and gently brushed hair from his temple.

“You’ve been such a joy to watch,” he murmured. “So clever. So conflicted. But the games are over. The audience demands resolution. The show must go on.”

He looked up at the crowd.

“Corwin must choose.”

He turned back to him.

“Will you finally do it? Will you sacrifice yourself for your brother?”

Corwin’s face twisted. His body trembled.

Ash screamed again, “Take me! Kill me! Let him go!”

Corwin turned his head, locking eyes with his brother.

“Shut up, Ash,” he rasped.

A long silence.

“I’ve always loved you. But I wanted things too. I wanted to matter. I did what I could to protect you. But you… you’re like a firestorm. You don’t listen. You can’t be controlled.”

He looked at the Director.

“I’ve made my choice.”

He lunged.

With sudden violence, Corwin lashed his head forward and bit deep into the Director’s neck.

The Director staggered back, mouth open in shock.

Thick, black oil sprayed from the wound—bubbling, shimmering, inhuman.

The audience screamed.

Some stood. Others cried. A few began to laugh.

The commentator stared, jaw slack. “Oh my god…”

The Director dropped to one knee, blood and oil spilling down his chest.

Medics swarmed from the wings, rushing toward him.

He shoved them off.

He stood again—face sunken, pale, slick with black fluid. He reached into his coat.

And pulled a knife.

Without hesitation, he lunged at Corwin.

He grabbed him by the jaw, yanked his head back.

And slit his throat.

A spray of red this time. Human. Final.

Corwin sagged.

The Director let him fall.

Ash stared, unmoving, barely breathing.

Their eyes met across the chaos.