And that's how we got here — in a boardroom with old men panic-yelling, papers flying everywhere, while James desperately tried to calm everyone down and think of a plan.
What a load of shit. That was my first thought. These world leaders were acting like they were the ones fighting, completely ignoring that everyone on Earth had heard it too and was currently rioting. Their first thought? Evacuate.
Ethan Mercer. Age 26. A man who likes quiet places and reading about legendary figures. Currently considering shooting everyone in this room.
Since they had me on the ground handling the riots, I missed the meeting and only realize the severity after swiping the dead soldier's body cam footage, which was half muffled by dirt.
James tried to get everyone's attention once more. "E-everyone—" He couldn't even get a word out. I pulled out my gun and fired three shots into the ceiling.
"SHUT THE HELL UP."
They jumped like kids who'd just heard a parent's car in the driveway. That got everyone's attention.
"Mr. President."
James looked toward me with a shocked expression before clearing his throat. "R-right. We need to focus on who to send for the first round," he said, sounding less like a man giving orders and more like one asking for permission.
They all started back up immediately. "Are you mad?! You're seriously considering playing by those freaks' rules?! We should be figuring out how to get off this planet with our lives!"
The room dissolved into arguments about evacuation routes, escape ships, anything but the actual problem. I raised my gun and aimed it directly at the loudest one in the room. Every guard's hand went to their weapon. Nobody wanted to be the one to draw first.
"If that's the case," I said quietly, "maybe I shoot you here and save myself the trouble of finding an extra pod."
"You punk," the man said through gritted teeth. "I'll have you killed for this."
"Careful now. Don't give me any more incentives."
That only pissed him off more. My kid sister's face. That's what kept my hand steady. If I wasn't scared out of my mind for my family, that would've made my year.
"Now are we going to be adults and figure this out?" I said as I holstered my gun.
They went quiet. Nobody could think of a single person capable of stepping up to those things.
That's what I would've said.
Then James said the name. The name everyone pretended not to know — until they needed him.
"What about Goliath?"
Every world leader in that room shot a glance at him. Then they laughed. Not nervous laughs — real ones. Hyenas finding a wounded cub.
"Brilliant." "Genius." "I'll bet that devil could handle the whole tournament himself."
Goliath. The word sat in my head differently than other names. In my line of work you hear them all — killers, ghosts, weapons with people's faces. But this one I remembered specifically.
A mission in Japan. A gang that got out of control. We'd lost a whole platoon by the time I arrived, and someone said offhandedly that they'd sent Goliath ahead. When we got there, the remaining gang had surrendered on their knees in a warehouse that smelled like copper. Nobody knew exactly why. Nobody asked.
The world leaders were already filing out, laughing, spreading the news like they'd won something. I followed James out quietly.
"Sir — am I allowed to ask about Goliath?"
He didn't answer at first. Just kept walking. Then, after a few steps: "You just pulled a gun in my boardroom. You've earned one question."
He didn't look at me when he said it.
He led me past his office, past the briefing hall, all the way to the cafeteria of all places. Then he stopped at the walk-in fridge. Entered a keycode I'd never seen before.
A door opened up and we walked down a long hallway. There was nothing — no lights, no sign of life. Dust thick enough to hold footprints coated the floor and walls.
The walk stretched on impossibly long, like the length was supposed to stop whatever was down here.
After a solid 15 minutes of walking, we entered a room. Well, that was a generous name — it was more like a giant steel box. There was nothing: not even cracks or ridges, no decorations. The same dust from the hallway coated everything.
There was a man there, sitting cross-legged. He wasn't meditating; there wasn't anything zen about this man. If I had to give an analogy, I'd say he looked like a car waiting for your keys to go in, or a TV waiting to be turned on.
He was tall — even sitting down. Forearms thick as logs. A beer belly that on anyone else would've looked like neglect.
And a face that, if you asked me to describe it, I could give you almost the full picture.
Almost.
"Orders?" the man spoke.
"M-meet me in my office," James said, like a man who knew he shouldn't be talking to someone like this as if he was the boss.
The man just nodded and stood. He walked past me and James, carrying the aura of someone I knew nothing about — and didn't want to.