A crackling noise erupted from behind Kit's head, followed by Susan's voice. “Kit!” Another gunshot, magnified by the radio. “Get out here now!”
    “Are you insane!? I'm not going out there. I don't have a gun!” Two more shots were fired. The howling erupted again.
    “Goddammit, Kit, if you're making excuses in there I can't hear you! Get out now or so help me God I will let these bastards get you!”
    Kit took a moment to observe his surroundings. The windows on all sides of him were broken and bloodied. The attackers weren't fighting Susan. They were trying to get inside the entire time.
    Before he could make the decision to leave, the door to his left popped open. A bloodied hand reached at him. Kit could not scramble back fast enough. The offending hand grabbed the collar of his uniform and pulled him out, leaving him to fall face-first on the ground. The stench of vomit and drying blood invaded his nostrils. Kit scrambled to his feet, wiping fluids off his face in vain. Everything he touched merely got stickier and stinkier.
    Before he could properly absorb his surroundings, as much as such surroundings can be absorbed, a gun was shoved into his face.
    “Mr. Xxxx, if you value your life,” said Susan, “You will sing.”
    “What? What?”
    Susan raised her hand as if to smack Kit in the face.
    “Give it up, Susan. This is too much for a newbie like him.” That voice. Kit turned around to find the guard from the prison. His uniform was replaced by a blue, hooded sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. “Let's just get out of here before more of them come.” Armed and surrounded by the bodies of dead men, he still spoke as if he didn't care about anything.
    Susan sighed and holstered her weapon and smoothed her skirt in front of her. “Mr. Xxxx, I understand that you are new to this operation, but we expect results in an efficient manner. This is not a game.”
    Kit's response was to bend over and vomit.
    “He'll need more shots,” Walter observed.

    Waking up, he found himself in the most sterile lobby that man could muster. The room was a painfully boring beige without a hint of dust or decoration. He sat in the one chair on top of a plain brown carpet. A small table sat next to him, but there wasn't so much as a lamp or a magazine. There were no windows. Just a brown door. A single lightbulb on the ceiling illuminated the room, though not well enough. Kit rubbed his eyes in a futile attempt to adjust.
    “Ah, Mr. Xxxx, you're awake!”
    Kit looked to the left to face the voice. A woman with white hair, yet a youthful face, stood facing him. A white lab coat covered her body, showing only her feet which were clad in small black dress shoes. She carried a white clip board. Noting his response, she dutifully checked something off.
    “Who are you?”
    “My name is Dr. Helena. You may just call me Helena.”
    “Don't you have a last name?”
    “That is my last name.”
    “What am I doing here?”
    “Oh, great question. What are we all doing here? What is the purpose that drives us to inhale day in and day out? What quest drives us to persevere through difficulty yet allows us to maintain mediocrity in our daily lives? It really is fascinating, and it's a good sign that you're asking questions like that.”
    “Um... I mean in this room.”
    Helena's face became downcast. With a frown, she checked off another mark on the contents of her board.
    “This is an examination. Today we will be seeing what kind of attitude and abilities you have to offer the Disasterstrike Elimination Division, or as I like to call it, 'DED.'”
    “Huh. Pronounced 'dead.' I like that.”
    Another check. Kit scratched the back of his head and looked around nervously.
    “Though you have already participated in a little encounter with the enemy, you have not yet been granted membership here at DED. Your responses will determine how and if you can help DED.”
    Kit sighed. “I'm already failing, aren't I?”
    “Questions like that certainly aren't helping your chances, Kit. May I call you Kit?” As she answered, she scribbled some notes down.
    “Umm.. Maybe I don't really want to join DED. I mean, that was some pretty freaky stuff back there.”
    “Oooh, very good point, Kit. Cognitive consideration is certainly a plus. But you don't want to hear things like this. Tell me, what would you do if you didn't join DED?”
    “Go back to prison, I suppose. I'm under the impression I don't really have a choice here.”
    “And if you did?”
    “I...” Kit was a bit taken aback. “I had never considered that. I guess for the past couple of days I've been living in a world where there was only prison, and afterwards, Disasterstrike.”
    “You would be surprised how many people think just like that, Kit. Every day, people around the world are settling for what they already have. The concept of possibility has completely escaped the minds that comprise our culture.”
    “Yeah, I guess I see what you mean. We all just kind of settle for the daily grind, don't we?”
    “Not you, though. Your history indicates a life of ambition. You pushed forward in every curricular activity you approached, and you certainly did not lack approach. I'm guessing you intended to make something of yourself. A politician, maybe?”
    “Artist, actually. I wanted to paint.”
    “That's surprising.”
    “I'm actually pretty good at it.”
    Helena shook her head. “That's not what I mean. You said 'wanted.' Did you lose that particular ambition, Kit?”
    “Um... no, I guess not. It's just that other stuff happened...”
    “I see. You're the kind of person who has the attitude that things happen to you.”
    “Well, there was James, not to mention Rose...”
    “Did they take your ambition from you?”
    “No, it's just that... You know how it is.”
    “I'm afraid I don't. How is it, Kit?”
    “They always needed something! It's so infuriating. It's like, Hello! I have a life to live too!”
    “Did they force you to sacrafice your own life for theirs?”
    “Exactly!”
    “How so?”
    “Well, James would always get into some sort of trouble, and he didn't quite have my... er-- You see, he would...”
    “If I may interject, Kit, it seems to me that you allow yourself to be coerced into undesirable situations.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Well, this, for example. How did you end up in this room?”
    “I don't know. I just ended up here...”
    “Exactly.” Dutifully, Helena checked off yet another mark on her clipboard. “Well, I think that about covers it. If you could just wait here for a few moments, please.”
    “Not like I have anywhere better to be.”
    “Are you certain of that?”
    Before Kit could respond, the doctor had left. He was alone with his thoughts, which was really what he wanted least at this point. Sighing, he brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from his jeans.
    “Wait a minute...” They were certainly his clothes, and they certainly had been cleaned since the encounter at the limo. Sighing, he stood up and began stretching his arms and back. “Fucking weird group. Feh, that doesn't even begin to cover it.”
    Each minute seemed to be an hour in the bland room. He paced. He stretched. He sat. He did jumping jacks. And finally, when there was nothing else left to do, he hummed. As his throat vibrated, relief seemed to come to him. His mind cleared and his heart lifted.
    Soon, humming gave way to whistling. The notes were weak at first, but with practice he soon pierced the air with sweet, clear noise. Color seemed to fill the room as he began to pace whistling the tune that granted him relief.
    The voice returned to him. The urgency and nagging was gone. Now it coaxed him. It was telling him about himself. It told a tale of freedom and potential. Before him stood the world, ready for his presence and his touch, wherever he may grant it. He did have better places to be.
    So he sang.
    The words had no clear meaning, yet they bore the message he needed. A voice that was not his emerged from his his heart and from his soul. He could see the world clearly now. It lay before him, clearer than day.
    So he changed the words.
    The world shifted. It bobbed and it morphed in time to his song. Slowly at first. His voice deepened. The volume increased. From his music came his will and his desire. He would leave now. He had better places to be.
    The door slammed shut. The music stopped and the world slipped from his grasp. Kit was in that dull room that lacked character of any sort. But now he was not alone.
    “I don't suppose, Mr. Xxxx, that you could have found it in yourself to bring that performance to bear during our earlier encounter?” Susan asked. She was wiping tears from her eyes with a handkerchief.
    “What... what was I doing?” Kit looked around him, dumbfounded at his own performance.
    Helena bent over to retrieve her clipboard from the ground. Sniffling, she scribbled something and handed the clipboard to Kit.

“Signature from Dr. Helena Helena indicates that cosigner is fit and prepared to begin training and duty for the Disasterstrike Elimination Division. Signature of the cosigner indicates agreement of this, as well as acceptance of the obligations and duties as an agent of the Disasterstrike Elimination Division.”

    Below the statement was Helena's scrawled signature, slightly runny with tears.
    Helena wiped her eyes with a sleeve before laying a hand on Kit's shoulder. “You have somewhere better to be now.”
    Kit dutifully nodded before accepting a pen from the doctor and signing in a final marked scrawl.