The tip of a lit cigarette, a mere seven hundred and fifty degrees, lights a puddle of gasoline by the time you breathe in the fumes.

What Michael Nineteen was thinking when he set himself and his office on fire during a regulation smoking break was unknown, but little was on his mind when flesh wetly slipped from bone, exposing fatty tissue to hiss and pop.

His sad attempt at destruction had left him alive, screaming and convulsing. One shot from my sidearm finished what Michael could not, and I exited the office, ignoring the shattered stability beams and soft caress of ashes. Ten others in the complex with him had already been classified as acceptable casualties.

“Was your objective completed, Six?”

Her soothing voice, sweet enough to taste, carried over the auditory implants in my bones.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Our world is better for your sacrifice.”

She said our. I heard my. No matter.

“Could I interest you in some music rations, Six? We have classical today.”

“Yes, Ma’am. That would be lovely.”