Page 9

FOUR

THE SUSPENDED JUDGE

~SABLE~

~Hallelujah (I Don’t Think About You)~

Kevin Olusola

Gravity becomes meaningless when you've spent years defying its pull.

My body hangs inverted from the ceiling, suspended by reinforced cables that have long since ceased to register as discomfort. Blood rushes to my head, a sensation that once disoriented me but now provides the only clarity I can find in this purgatory of endless judgment.

"Four hundred and seventy-three," I count silently, muscles contracting in perfect synchronization as I execute another upside-down pull-up.

Sweat drips upward from my torso, following unnatural trajectories before falling toward the concrete floor twelve feet below. Each droplet maps my exertion, creating patterns of moisture that crystallize the passage of time more effectively than any clock they refuse to provide.

I cross my arms over my chest as I descend from the apex of movement, stabilizing my core through the controlled return to starting position.

My abdominal muscles clench with practiced precision, maintaining perfect form despite having already completed hundreds of repetitions.

"Four hundred and seventy-four."

My breathing remains measured—inhalation during descent, exhalation during ascension, oxygen consumption optimized through years of systematic training.

The pattern keeps me centered when my mind threatens to fragment under the weight of enforced responsibility.

Below, twenty-seven alphas stand in formation on the judgment floor.

Their eyes track my movements with varying degrees of hostility, fear, and desperate hope. These are today's contenders—survivors from the level above who managed to outlast their competitors through combat prowess or strategic calculation.

They await my determination of their fate, not understanding that my "judgment" serves merely as psychological framework for decisions already made through algorithmic assessment of biological markers and performance metrics.

The illusion of human judgment matters more than the reality of pre-determined outcomes.

Just like the justice system I once served.

"Four hundred and seventy-five."

Voices rise occasionally from the formation below—desperate pleas, attempted bribes, threats from those who haven't yet learned the futility of resistance.

I tune them out with practiced detachment, focusing instead on the rhythmic contraction of muscle groups and the controlled flow of oxygen through my system.

Their words hold no value in this exchange. Only their performance data matters, and even that merely confirms decisions made before they ever entered this chamber.

Level Minus Three—what they've designated the "Realm of Judgment" in their twisted hierarchy.

The place where alphas who survive the brutality of combat levels face psychological rather than physical trials. Where they learn that survival depends not merely on strength or fighting skill, but on the arbitrary assessment of a man suspended between floor and ceiling.

A man who once believed justice could be served through careful application of legal principles.

"Four hundred and seventy-six."

Time has lost all meaning in this inverted existence.

Years have passed—that much I know from the changing patterns of test subjects and the evolution of experimental protocols. But how many? Three? Five? Eight? The specifics blur together in a continuous stream of judgment and consequence.

I've lost count, just as I've lost track of how long it's been since I last saw her—the small omega with impossible hair and calculating eyes that saw more than any child her age should comprehend.

Jinx Blackwood.

The name emerges unbidden from carefully compartmentalized memory, bringing with it sensory recollections I usually keep sealed behind mental barriers constructed for survival.

Her scent returns first—that impossible blend of tropical spices and rain-soaked earth that somehow harmonized perfectly with my own signature of leather-bound books and storm clouds.

One interaction.

That's all we had before everything changed—a brief conversation during which something fundamental shifted in my understanding of purpose and possibility.

One touch of gentle fingers against my face after years of nothing but clinical manipulation and restraint.

I knew with that first meeting that she would be our destruction.

Recognized with judicial certainty that following this child-omega with calculated intelligence would lead to outcomes impossible to predict or control. Anticipated that whatever path she offered would end in catastrophe for those who walked it.

What I failed to anticipate was the specific nature of that catastrophe—not death or physical destruction, but this endless purgatory of separation and uncertainty. This agonizing existence where her absence creates a void more painful than any torture they've designed.

"Four hundred and seventy-seven."

My muscles burn with the effort of continued exertion, lactic acid building in tissue already pushed beyond normal human endurance. The pain provides focus, keeps me anchored in physical reality when memories threaten to drag me into rumination that serves no strategic purpose.

Pain is real.

Pain is present.

Pain can be quantified and managed through systematic application of will.

Unlike the nebulous ache of not knowing whether those I came to consider pack still live, still endure, still remember the omega who bound us together through something beyond mere biological compatibility.

What became of Riot in Level Minus Zero? The Reaper of Rot with his capacity for controlled violence concealing unexpected gentleness.

Could anyone survive six years in the fighting pits, facing endless combat against increasingly desperate opponents? His strength seemed limitless, his tactical mind exceptionally adaptive, but even the most formidable alpha has breaking points beyond which survival becomes impossible.

And what of the others, trapped in levels I've never seen but know exist from fragmented intelligence gathered during our brief alliance?

Corvus in Level Minus Two—the Blood Prophet whose capacity to read intention made him appear omniscient, his emotional detachment masking deep wells of carefully contained feeling.

His eyes that saw too much, cataloging microexpressions others couldn't perceive, identifying patterns in behavior that revealed truths speakers themselves didn't recognize.

Ash in Level Minus One—the Scarred Saint whose burns covered most of his body, evidence of the sacrificial nature that made him simultaneously a deadly enforcer and protective guardian.

His efficient brutality concealing surprising tenderness, his capacity for violence matched only by his instinct to shield those deemed worthy of protection.

All of us—broken alphas assembled by a child-omega with strategic vision beyond her years.

All of us— bound to her through something that transcended conventional pack dynamics . All of us—now separated by levels of institutional hierarchy designed specifically to prevent the alliance she had so carefully constructed.

All because we failed to protect her when it mattered most.

"Four hundred and seventy-eight."

The memory surfaces despite my attempts to suppress it— that final moment when everything collapsed around us.

We had progressed through Ravenscroft's levels with calculated precision, gathering intelligence and resources while maintaining the illusion of compliance.

The goal had remained clear—reach Level Minus Four, the theoretical escape point, and vanish into freedom with our little architect of chaos.

But Level Minus Four proved to be the cruelest deception of all.

Instead of escape, we found betrayal.

Guards and scientists swarmed from hidden entries, separating Jinx from our protection with practiced efficiency. We fought with everything we had— killed many, maimed more —but sheer numbers and specialized containment protocols designed specifically for our unique abilities ultimately prevailed.

They took her from us, our compass, our reason for endurance.

When they returned her weeks later, something fundamental had changed.

The scent was wrong— similar but distinctly different.

The eyes held none of the strategic brilliance, none of the calculating assessment that had defined our Jinx. This omega looked at us with genuine terror, with no recognition, with none of the connection that had bound us together.

"Swapped," they whispered when they thought we couldn't hear. "Incredible opportunity to study divergent development in genetic identicals."

Twins. Of course. The Blackwood genetics program had always focused on paired development, on creating mirror images with subtle variations to determine which combinations produced optimal results.

They'd taken our Jinx— brilliant, manipulative, ruthless Jinx —and replaced her with this frightened mirror image who possessed her face but none of her essence.

This new omega had no understanding of the complex game being played, no comprehension of the escape route we'd spent years meticulously constructing.

Without Jinx's strategic guidance, the carefully laid plans collapsed.

Subdivision Zero— officially designated as K.Y.F.M. Operative Uni t—found itself trapped in a loop with no exit parameter. The twin remained terrified of us despite biological compatibility, unable to trust the alphas her sister had selected with such care.

Eventually, they separated us completely, returning each to our designated level while the twin was subjected to specialized testing protocols as Patient 495.

Our Jinx simply...vanished.

"Four hundred and seventy-nine."

The political dimensions of our imprisonment become clearer with each passing year. This isn't merely scientific research or experimental protocol—it's entertainment and commodity trading for those with power and resources to access the program.