Page 165 of Because I Killed Him
“No insults, sir. And not only the obvious ones.”
“Exactly,” Harrison says, beginning to pace, his boots striking the floor with a steady cadence. “What Mr. Carroway refers to is subtlety. The sort of comment that is harmless, even traditional, among your own Fraternity, but becomes offensive when directed toward an opponent. Language, tone, even a glance—these thingsmatter.”
He turns and points toward the fourth row. “Mr. Lee. Can you provide us with an example?”
William doesn’t rise. His hands stay fixed on his knees, fingers trembling against the fabric of his trousers. He looks worse than he did on the way in, drawn and pale, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air. A faint tremor runs through his shoulders, as if Harrison’s voice alone could break him in two.
“I do not know, sir,” William rasps.
Murmurs ripple around the edges of the room. Vincent turns in his seat, concern crossing his face as he studies his brother.
Harrison frowns, as if weighing whether William’s state stems from ignorance or something else, then turns and gestures toward the opposite row.
“Miss Deering.”
Charlotte tugs the hem of her trousers free from under Jack’s boot before rising. “An example, sir, might be the phrase ‘Good health.’ Among fellow Fraternity members, it is a gesture of goodwill. However, when addressed to an opponent, it becomes an insult, implying that they require luck—or worse, that they will not last long.”
“Precisely.” Harrison lifts a finger. “Context, delivery, intent. In the Mensur, everything is measured. Nothing is accidental.”
He pauses and frowns at William again. The boy’s breathing has turned shallow, his knees knocking together in a dance of dread. He looks halfway gone already, as if his body is still here but his mind has fled, trying to outrun the blow.
I turn to Vincent. He’s watching William, too, his eyes wide with fear, but I don’t think it’s for himself. The panic is fresh and still forming, as though a terrible realization has clicked into place. Vincent lurches to his feet a second too late. The knock has already hit the door, loud as a battering ram.
Harrison’s boots squeak loudly as he pivots toward the sound. Every head in the room turns. A Pinkie moves to open the door, but before it can, the click of the lock cuts through the silence, disengaged from the outside.
I know what’s coming. I realize it an instant before the door bursts open and slams into the robot so hard it flies back.
A squad of Coppers floods in, fully geared in riot armor, moving in a diamond formation that swiftly takes control of the drinking hall. Their silver-black uniforms gleam like a bullet’s husk, still hot from the chamber, and their eyes, visible through the T-visors, are flat and searching. Vincent rushes forward, knocking over chairs as he lunges for his brother, but two Coppers step in, batons raised, and block his path. A third Copper lifts a hand toward William. “Target acquired,” he says, his voice distorted through the helmet speaker.
Students scatter as the formation breaks apart, and the Coppers descend on William in a brutal advance. Chairs are kicked over, and sabers clatter from their racks. Jack pulls Charlotte clear of a baton swing and shields her with his body. I stumble up beside them, heart pounding, just as the first Copper reaches William.
William stands, defiant despite tears streaking his face. He starts to speak, but a dozen hands clamp onto his arms and shoulders before he can. One Copper drives a baton into the back of his knee, buckling his legs. Another Copper punches William in the ribs, then drags him to the floor, forcing the breath from him in a single, gurgling grunt.
“Vince!” William chokes on the name.
Vincent keeps charging forward. The two Coppers blocking his path move to intercept, but he barrels into them like a furious bull, tearing through the gap with the unstoppable force of someone who no longer feels pain. Vincent grabs a Copper by the shoulder and yanks back, trying to pull him off William.
“What did you do, Will?” Vincent shouts, his face white with panic. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing!” William cries. “Just stupid things that added up. I swear—I didn’t—!”
Vincent whips around, eyes blazing. “What are the charges?” he asks the Coppers. “What laws has my brother broken?”
The sergeant responds with a fist to the side of Vincent’s face. Blood bursts from Vincent’s nose as he reels, but he doesn’t fall. He lunges again, fighting savagely as the Coppers close in. One blow slams into his throat, another into his knee. His legs buckle, and he crashes to the floor with a thud that echoes through the stunned silence.
William screams, breaking free long enough to lunge forward and grasp his brother’s hand. They barely touch before the Coppers wrench William back by the shoulders, striking as they drag him. His legs kick and flail, his body twisting under the assault of fists and batons pounding him into compliance. Blood spatters across the floorboards. One Copper seizes the back of William’s head and slams it against the frame of an overturned chair as they pass.
The sickening crack of the impact makes me recoil. All around me, students either freeze or retreat toward the walls, their faces contorted with terror. At the front of the hall, Harrison stands with one foot forward, his spine rigid and his fist clenched around his cap, trembling with the effort to stay still. For a brief, startling moment, he looks ready to act, to stop what’s happening.
But he doesn’t. He stays where he is, gripped by the same fear that holds the rest of us back.
The brothers continue reaching for each other even as they’re torn apart; Vincent is crumpled on the floor, dazed and bloodied, while William screams as he’s dragged toward the door. His voice breaks on Vincent’s name. Vincent claws at the floor, trying to crawl after William, but his hand slips in his own blood.
I’m frozen where I stand, my stomach turning to water, my hands shaking at my sides. Why the hell is no one helping? Why isn’t anyone doing anything?
Then, somewhere deep in the pit of my mind, I hear a voice I don’t recognize, not mine or anyone else’s, but it’s sharp, loud, and commanding:Do it yourself.
I move. The hall blurs around me as I run, chairs and bodies streaking past, my boots striking the floorboards. I slip once, nearly go down, and crash shoulder-first into Harrison.
