Chapter 1 - Judge
A woman in white stood motionless, her golden eyes reflecting the tragedy unfolding at her feet. Mary’s slender form hunched protectively over her father's broken head, oblivious to the crimson streaks staining her pale cheek. With deliberate grace, the observer finally stirred, her voice soft and melodic against the stark silence. "Controller, reset playback to just before the gunfight," she whispered, pressing a thoughtful fingernail against her lips as she moved slowly through the cabin, watching the scene rewind around her.
Judge A56AT1332, 1332 to her colleagues, had witnessed countless brutalities, each meticulously cataloged and stored. Yet none thwarted her experience as profoundly as the final moments of Thomas Arthur Delaney. The frozen Colorado night defied every detail she’d ever studied, and she found herself unsettled by the complexity lurking in these crucial seconds. The outcome of this judgment hinged entirely on these final moments, pivotal and elusive.
"Pause," she murmured, her tone steady but cautious. "Rewind five seconds, playback at ten percent speed." The controller obeyed silently, Mary’s desperate face contorting slowly, the revolver rising in trembling hands. 1332 muted the sounds; audible suffering would only distract her meticulous senses. Inch by agonizing inch, the bullet crept forward, piercing Delaney's forehead before halting unnaturally midair, then sliding impossibly backward into the barrel. The girl froze again, her defiance crystallized. This exact instant defied all logic and demanded relentless scrutiny—the breath before the bullet.
“No room for error,” 1332 whispered quietly, her gaze piercing and unwavering as she leaned closer, searching the human's frozen eyes. It was always the eyes, they alone betrayed truth beyond words or gestures. Her form was motionless as marble, neither breath nor blink disturbing her study. Over endless evaluation cycles, she'd learned this singular rule: mortals hid everything poorly in their eyes.
Suddenly her voice broke the stillness, sharp with discovery. “There!” Triumph lit her face briefly, a flicker of rare delight in her golden eyes. Her controlled voice shook slightly as she spoke quickly, “Playback one second and repeat continuously at three percent speed!” The scene looped obediently, endlessly repeating the decisive instant. She absorbed each subtle nuance until certainty replaced doubt, and a quiet, victorious satisfaction filled her chest.
Judge 1332 sighed softly, her fingertips brushing absently against her neck. It was an unnecessary gesture—her perfected form felt no stiffness, ache, or weariness. Yet mortal habits had quietly crept into her demeanor, comforting rituals borrowed from the countless beings she'd observed. Her peers teased her for these human quirks, but she let their barbs fall unnoticed, like raindrops sliding off polished marble.
With composed authority, she addressed her unseen controller. "Stop playback and prepare for judgment on Subject 801B4275XTX0001." Immediately, the repeating moment halted, plunging the room into stillness. She cleared her throat, a purely human habit, and spoke formally, her voice steady yet touched by subtle urgency. "I, Judge A56AT1332, having thoroughly reviewed all relevant information concerning Subject 801B4275XTX0001 of Earth, hereby declare the previous 'Evil' status incorrectly assigned. In accordance with amendment 2478C2 of the Code of Rightness and Redemption, this subject is to be considered eligible for selection as Chosen. Remove the current designation and initiate processing for release into my custody." Pausing, she tapped lightly at her teeth, contemplating if further clarification was necessary. Deciding brevity was best, she concluded, "That will be all. Controller, forward this verdict to the watchers and end playback."
On her command, the cabin faded gradually, colors bleeding away softly, reality slipping into oblivion. Just before the scene dissolved completely, it abruptly reformed with an audible pop—a sharp, intrusive sound breaking the tranquility of her workspace. Her delicate features twitched imperceptibly, annoyance flickering briefly behind her composed mask.
The intruder stood across from her, a perfect mirror image, sharing her striking white hair, golden eyes glowing vividly against smooth, dark skin. Both wore identical white uniforms of their rank. Yet subtle differences stood clear: his form was subtly masculine, distinguished by golden rings adorning his nose, a meaningless and unnecessary mortal-inspired vanity her people had inexplicably adopted. Noticing the small white star newly pinned to his lapel, she inwardly winced at the supervisor’s insignia, grateful, at least, that he wasn't directly her superior.
Supervisor H10KJ2770 moved toward her through the frozen tableau, indifferent to the bodies scattered like discarded dolls at his feet. His voice, sharp as fractured ice, cut through the stillness. "Is there a reason you're revising this judgment, 1332? I recall giving no authorization for you to meddle in my prior rulings." His golden stare pierced her like blades of cold steel, a familiar, unsettling sensation washing over her. The weight of supervisory authority was potent enough to freeze lesser beings where they stood.
1332 met his piercing gaze without flinching, her face an unreadable mask perfected through centuries of meticulous practice. She refused to grant him the slightest satisfaction, carefully measuring each word as she spoke, her voice calm but edged subtly with disdain. "Supervisor H10KJ2770, I understand your... emotional response. However, my authority to review this judgment is absolute." She noted the faint tremor of suppressed rage ripple through him, silently questioning how such volatility could be within someone with supervisory status. Keeping her momentum, she pressed further, voice cool and composed, "Though I owe you no explanation, I will state clearly: the Evil designation might seem obvious at a glance, but on deeper scrutiny, Subject 801B4275XTX0001 was inaccurately evaluated."
Supervisor 2770’s lips curled sharply into a sneer, swiftly masked by a deliberate tightening of his jaw. After a prolonged, tense silence, he finally broke eye contact, shaking his head in feigned disbelief. "Inaccurate, you say?" he hissed, voice low and dangerous. With an abrupt gesture, he summoned the grisly scene of Delaney’s massacre, frozen mid-brutality. His finger jabbed accusingly at Delaney's gun pointed at young Mary, voice thick with scorn. "Delaney slaughtered innocents without hesitation, more than most wars claim. He was ready to execute a child. Yet you, Judge, suggest he deserves redemption? A man who became a nightmare used to scare children." His unpermitted invasion and brazen confrontation saturated the room with palpable tension, regulations silently screaming in her mind to throw at him. She could challenge his violation, but the risk of derailing her delicate plans outweighed momentary vindication.
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Fighting the instinctive urge to lash back, she pressed her tongue firmly between her teeth, an unnecessary yet comforting gesture. While immune to physical pain, the act steadied her, grounding her nerves. Anxiety whispered at the edge of her resolve, did 2770 know more than his prideful indignation revealed? No, she reasoned silently. If they suspected, she'd already be facing formal charges, not a petty display of authority from a supervisor known for his erratic pride. Calming herself with practiced ease, she stated with unwavering firmness, "I've logged comprehensive evidence supporting my conclusion. Further concerns should be directed to the Review Board." As he began to protest, she raised a hand sharply, silencing him abruptly. "I'm sorry, Supervisor, but your authority does not extend into this workspace. If that is all, you can exit my workspace." Her outward control stood defiantly against the internal storm, matching his fury until, with a reluctant pop, he vanished.
Judge 1332 exhaled softly, releasing the hidden strain knotting her shoulders and jaw. Her fingernail rhythmically tapped against her teeth as she replayed their confrontation carefully, ensuring every nuance was handled precisely. Satisfied, a quiet pride swelled briefly within her; 13 himself might have nodded in rare approval at such mastery. Finally composed, she addressed the emptiness, "Controller, close playback."
She lowered herself gracefully, a plush chair materializing beneath her before fully settling. She chided herself silently; she should've expected 2770’s volatility, his reactions predictable each time his judgments faced scrutiny. She marveled again at his unlikely ascension, a figure who delighted in playing a selective, capricious deity. Shaking the thought away, she allowed a faint, resigned sigh. "No point in lingering on him," she mused softly. After all, history had a habit of remembering those like 2770 far more favorably than they deserved. "Far more favorably than I will be remembered."
With careful precision, 1332 completed the final notations of her review and logged out of the simulation. A quiet pop announced her arrival back at her desk, nestled within her distinctly peculiar office. Its pristine white walls were a tapestry of curious artifacts and vivid paintings, each piece stranger and more intriguing than the last. Weapons gleamed beside polished skulls and preserved appendages; lush carnivorous plants loomed from ornate pots. Each relic represented a judgment she had delivered, a silent chronicle of the countless souls she'd evaluated. With a delicate gesture, a new item appeared, an American West hat, pierced by a single bullet hole and marked by a vivid crimson stain. She briefly contemplated placing Mary’s revolver instead, but found deeper meaning in the hat’s ruin, a symbolic memento of pivotal choices. Her fingers lingered thoughtfully, appreciating the authenticity her controller replicated, even though genuine artifacts could never truly cross over into the veil of her domain.
Glancing down at her expansive desk’s sleek interface, she released a sigh of resignation. "Time for the tedious part," she murmured softly, steeling herself for the vast bureaucratic labor ahead. She needed perfection, no oversight, no error, to preserve the integrity of her meticulous plans. Her fingers traced elegantly over the smooth surface, summoning form after form, immersing herself in the methodical yet vital work of documenting judgment.
Much later, she approached the end of the final T-1894Z form, which would formally confirm the revised status of Subject 801B4275XTX0001. Her fingertips hovered lightly above the blinking execute prompt, anticipation tinged with a cautious unease. Activating this command would set events into irrevocable motion, crystallizing plans she’d meticulously crafted and fiercely protected from prying eyes. A subtle doubt flickered within her thoughts. "What am I missing? Something feels off," she whispered, scanning her office, mind swiftly retracing essential preparations. Suddenly, realization struck sharply. With a gentle, self-reprimanding slap to her forehead, she said, "Controller, render workspace as an 1870s American saloon found on Earth." A brief silence followed before a soothing confirmation chimed softly. She teleported into the newly-prepared space, quietly scolding herself, "No mistakes, 1332, not now."
Her attire seamlessly transformed to match the setting, becoming a modest ensemble suited to post-Civil War America. A deep blue wool coat draped over a muted yellow dress, complemented by a simple bonnet covering her now-brown hair, neatly styled in a disciplined bun. Her face assumed a modest prettiness, crafted intentionally to appear familiar yet unremarkable. Her pure midnight skin adjusted to a soft, white tone, and her striking golden eyes became muted brown. Delaney had shown no prejudice concerning skin color; quite the opposite seemed accurate, but she refused any unnecessary risk. Briefly, she considered adopting a masculine form to sidestep potential ingrained prejudices, but intuition whispered that Delaney might more readily trust a woman, and that delicate trust was crucial.
No genuine resident of the 1870s would mistake Judge 1332 for one of their own; despite her careful disguise, an undeniable air of authority and meticulous cleanliness marked her as an anomaly. Yet the subtle familiarity of her appearance would ease the transition for the Chosen, providing a comforting anchor amidst disorientation.
The room unfolded around her into an idealized yet carefully authentic rendering of a pre-industrial American West saloon. Rich, polished wood gleamed softly beneath a warm lantern glow, illuminating a polished bar lined by ten sturdy stools. Neat tables were clustered comfortably, accompanied by an upright piano resting unobtrusively in the corner. A central aisle led clearly toward a staircase at the far end, hinting at more private spaces above. Meticulously placed scuffs and subtle imperfections lent the saloon a convincingly "lived-in" appearance. Still, no seasoned visitor would ever mistake this pristine simulation for the gritty reality it mimicked.
Judge 1332 drew a long breath, exhaling slowly into the empty, scentless air. "We can mimic every sensation but smell," she remarked quietly. The absence of scent always unsettled the Chosen candidates, leaving a hollow impression in their minds. Her people's experience lacked such sensory details, their existence untouched by physical necessity. Taste, she mused, had been mastered after considerable effort. Yet smell stubbornly eluded perfection, despite countless attempts and occasional, amusing failures. The Chosen always remarked on the odd yet comforting familiarity of the tastes they encountered here, like recognizing an old friend they'd never met.
Her fingertips skimmed gently across the polished bar, savoring the texture and smoothness of finely worked wood. The transformation from rough lumber into something refined spoke to her deeply, until her hand encountered a jarringly sticky patch. She recoiled slightly, her reverie abruptly broken. "Must we be quite so thorough?" she muttered ruefully into the silence. Recognizing her procrastination, she wiped her fingers against the coarse wool of her dress. "Enough stalling," she admonished softly, gathering resolve for the task ahead.
Steeling herself, she spoke with command. "Controller, execute 'Welcome Chosen.' Presentation," she hesitated briefly, carefully considering her next words, "Preset 11." Most Chosen arrived gently into their new realities from more agreeable circumstances, comfortable and untroubled. But not all. She grimaced subtly, recalling grisly visits to the Wardens, witnessing firsthand the wretched fates of those cast out from the light. It troubled her deeply, knowing those souls might have chosen differently had they only understood their fate clearly. But philosophical reflections would wait.
With finality, she cleared her throat, another unnecessary but comforting mortal gesture, and spoke firmly into the silence. "Execute form T-1894Z for Subject 801B4275XTX0001." A few seconds passed quietly, anticipation thickening in the stillness, before a soft chime confirmed. Across from her, a barstool stood empty yet expectant, awaiting its occupant, whose fate balanced precariously between darkness and redemption.
