She's convinced that it's the waiting that's going to kill her. Day after day of the same damn thing- she just wants to get this over with, and even now that they've singled her out for the Final Question they're making her wait. There's nothing she can do about it, either; the chair may be comfortable, but her ankles are shackled to its legs and her wrists are secured to its arms. She's tried her bonds as subtly as she can, knowing that it's pointless, knowing that even the subtlety was pointless, but just needing something to do.

The door slides open, and she does what she can to present herself in the best light; her back is straight, her shoulders squared, her chin lifted in defiance. She draws herself up to her full height, which is substantial for a woman. Two people enter the room, a strange middle-aged man and a gloriously familiar young woman- her best friend, her confidante, and she's the one with the gun. She can't help but look relieved.

And yet the smartly dressed stranger is wearing a seedy smile that terrifies her. Why is he so confident when her friend, her fellow prisoner, is the one holding the gun? But for that matter, why isn't her friend doing something to the stranger to get her free?

Now she notices things that disturb her greatly; her friend's face is expressionless and blank, her bare arms devoid of the myriad of small tattoos that defined the things important in her life. She's wearing a uniform that looks suspiciously military, and handling the gun like she was born to it.

"Just like we practiced, Kristen," the man whispers to the mocha-skinned woman holding the gun. "Do it just like we practiced, and everything will be just fine."

She doesn't nod acknowledgement or say anything to accept that she's heard him, but something in her stance seems to indicate her acceptance. Her focus sharpens, and she aims the gun at her pale-skinned, trembling friend chained to the chair. "Do you repent?"

Pale eyes widen in horror, staring down the barrel of the gun in Kristen's hands. "What?" she whispers, not wanting to believe in this nightmare vision, expecting any second for Kristen to give her a sign that everything's going to be okay.

"Do you repent of your sins and swear to turn your life over to God and the American government? Save yourself! There is no other way!"

Now she sees something in Kristen's dark eyes, and it's a zealot's fire, a certain sort of madness that inspires fear. "I don't suppose I get a week or so to think about it?" she asks flippantly, trying to distract herself from the familiar stranger throwing God questions at her.

Kristen pauses; this isn't in her programming. She glances at the middle-aged man for direction. "Will it change your mind?" he asks in a soft, chilling voice.

She's tired of all of this, so she snaps at him, "No, I just don't feel like dying right now."

"Well, there's only one way for that to happen. It's not too late for you to be saved. Just let go of these outdated beliefs of yours."

This isn't something she'd ordinarily do, but the occasion seems to call for it- she spits in his eye with surprising accuracy. "I don't plan on giving up my faith, so we might as well end this little farce."

"Oh, it's not me you're dealing with. It's our newest recruit to the United States Army. I'm just here to make sure nothing goes wrong." He steps out of the way, fiddling with something on a table. The condemned woman realizes that it's a control panel as a camera light blinks into glowing red life over her head.

Kristen steps forward again, the gun rock-steady in her hands. "Just like you practiced," the man says. She takes careful aim.

"Forgive them, Father..."

The trigger is squeezed. The condemned woman screams, but there are words in her cry of pain and her eyes are fixed on Kristen's as she gasps out, "Forgive her, Father, she knows not what she does!" Tears pour down her face as she tries to writhe in agony.

Her shrieks cut the air like a knife and Kristen listens to them half-entranced, as if caught up by a musical masterpiece. The choked words that come out every couple of screams go ignored: "It's okay... I forgive you..."

When the volume of the shrieks fades a bit and takes on a more strident tone, Kristen fingers the trigger again, raises the gun a foot or so, and puts a bullet between her former friend's eyes. It takes the woman a little by surprise; she jerks a bit, then sags, and the light in her eyes slowly ebbs away until nothing is left but a glassy, dead stare.

"You did very well, Kristen," the man says, patting her shoulder.

"Thank you, sir." Suddenly she shudders, her eyes losing focus and her mouth going slack. "Oh..."

He pushes the newest recruit towards the barracks, where she can enjoy the pleasurable vision that rewarded her first successful kill. Once alone, he flicks the camera off and allows himself a toothy smile, the kind that sharks would have if they had human mouths. The program proceeds excellently; soon they will be able to obliterate any and all ties that are not of their liking. Love and friendship will both be rendered secondary to the State.

And he eagerly awaits the day that this occurs.