Civil War #7 – Chapter 24 – The Break

Chapter 24 – The Break

*It didn’t end with the death. It began with the silence that followed.*

ASH

He was lifted—not like a king, not like a hero. Like a trophy. Like a warning.

Bots pulled his arms wide, half-draped, half-crucified. Blood from his mouth. Blood from Corwin’s.

The Director stood gleaming, black fluid slick across his chest, grinning through crimson teeth. One hand clutched his side where Corwin had bitten him.

His skin was paling—sweat beading beneath the black smear of fluid that pulsed faintly in the light.

“Look at him,” the Director said, turning to the crowd. “This is the cost of belief. This is the reward for rebellion.”

Ash couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. All he could see was Corwin’s body sprawled like a punctuation mark—end of sentence.

DIRECTOR

A young tech assistant hurried onto the stage, cradling a new tank of viscous black fluid. He was trembling—trying to be fast but careful.

“Rios,” the Director said smoothly. “Just in time.”

As Rios knelt to place the tank at his feet, he fumbled. The container tilted. A thick splash hit the floor.

The fluid sizzled as it spread, seeping into the cracks of the stage. The smell was acidic. The crowd murmured.

The Director didn’t speak at first. He just stared. Then smiled.

He lifted the tank with one hand, pierced the connection into his side, and inhaled sharply. His body steadied. His eyes cleared.

“Thank you, Rios,” he said. “You’ve been very useful.”

Then to the guards: “Send him with the freak.”

Rios blinked. “Wait—what? Sir, I’m not—”

The bots grabbed him. Hauled him offstage. His screams were cut off by the hiss of a door.

The crowd went silent. Even they weren’t sure if it was part of the show.

The Director stepped back into the light, smiling like a priest about to deliver a sermon.

“When I was a boy,” he said to no one in particular, “I used to drown squirrels in a pit behind my house.”

He paused. The audience waited.

“Learned CPR from an old pleeb survival book. I brought them back. Little lungs, tiny chests.”

Another pause.

“Then I’d do it again. Not because I hated them. Because I could.”

He looked at Ash.

“Some creatures were made to rise and fall. That’s how we learn.”

LARK

Lark cleared his throat. Tried to take the reins. The consummate professional.

For a moment, he hesitated. His mouth opened, then shut. His eyes scanned the crowd—

not for help, but for understanding. Maybe he thought he could still salvage it. Maybe he knew.

He straightened his jacket. It trembled slightly in his fingers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have reached a natural conclusion to today’s presentation. For the safety of—”

“No,” the Director said. “You don’t end this.”

Lark froze.

The Director walked to him. Smiled. Whispered something no one heard. Then slit his throat with the same casual cruelty used on Corwin.

EMBER

They drag me offstage by my elbows. One of them laughs. Says I put on a good show. Another calls me ‘final clearance.’ I don’t ask what it means.

The floor is sticky with something I don’t want to name. My heels slip on it as the bots yank me forward.

I pass a mirrored panel. Glitter. Blood. I don’t recognize myself.

A worker stumbles into the hallway—Rios. Still in his stage whites. Eyes wide. He’s pushed into the pod with me.

He looks at me like I’m the executioner.

The door hisses. I’m shoved in. No grace. No formality.

Then I hear it. A second thud. Wet. Heavy.

They’ve thrown in Ash’s body like garbage. He lands face-down near my feet.

His head turns slightly from the impact. Eyes closed. Lips parted like he was about to say something.

I don’t scream. I don’t touch him. I just sit there, shackled. Breathing. Watching.

The pod seals. Fog from the vents. “Site 9 – Behavioral Realignment Center, Class Z.”

I’ve never heard of that name. But I know what the pleebs call it.

The Killing Fields. Places you don’t come back from. Places built on silence and fire.

They say the bots run it. They say the dirt there doesn’t even let you rot. It just swallows you.

Rios is sobbing softly. He was supposed to be someone. So was I.

Ash doesn’t move.

ASH

He was dying. He knew it in the hollow behind his ribs.

The Director leaned close. Said nothing. No monologue this time.

Just a blade to the side. Not quick. Not efficient. But deliberate.

Ash watched the lights blur. Felt the bots holding him steady. His own blood warm against his stomach.

And in the flickering dark, before his eyes closed—Corwin. Still. Cold. Silent.

EMBER

“Arrival confirmed,” says a voice through the wall. “Subjects: Freak, Rebel, and One Unlisted.”

The pod hisses and slows. I exhale.

The air smells like metal and memory. Ash’s body slumps slightly as the locks disengage.

Back in the arena, chaos had begun to ripple. Some of the crowd was running—others filming.

A woman in pearls shouted at a bot who didn’t respond. Somewhere, a man laughed hysterically.

And above them all, the cameras kept broadcasting. Numbers kept climbing.

I don’t pray. I don’t scream. I just watch.

Watch the last spark of the day’s horror slip quietly into something colder.

DIRECTOR

Alone now. Center stage. Blood at his feet. Cameras still rolling.

He looked tired. Touched his own chest. Looked at the black fluid. Laughed once.

“Let them remember,” he said to no one. “Let them learn.”

CLOSE ON ASH’S BODY

Eyes closed. Head intact. Unmoving.

His body stilled, but the broadcast kept running.