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"Neapolio," asked the bald woman with shaved eyebrows, "how are you going to kill Professor Mattheus?"
Neapolio jerked upright, knocking the small tower of library books he was poring over. The question felt like a backfiring engine in his skull, smog strangling his thoughts. Sergius' gruesome execution at the hands of Professor Mattheus shot straight into his mind, his wretched writhing as his skin and bones were shaped like clay into a grotesque sculpture of pain, before being transformed into a trophy to adorn the Professor's desk. The words spilled from his lips without thought: "Are you stupid?"
The woman raised an eyebrow – or, she would have, if she had one – and extended her hand. "I'm Agathe, from the Math Society." Neapolio shook it. In one precise, sweeping motion, she knocked Neapolio's notes and books cleanly to the floor. Hey, uncool! Agathe pulled a projector from her robes and dropped it upon the table with a dull thud. Blue streams of light flashed over Neapolio's face, a moment of clicking and humming, then translucent digits were summoned, suspended in the air before the two: 0%.
Agathe laughed, then sauntered away.
Neapolio sheepishly picked the books off the floor and dropped them into the return tray. He couldn't help but notice the obsidian gleam of a Dedekind Blade speckled with crimson, concealed behind Agathe's back.
Academic Misconduct
Dear Agathe,
You have been found guilty of academic misconduct. Your attempt to cull all students who stand a higher chance of passing than yourself is commendable, but stealing confidential records to do so is against regulation.
As some feedback, using prior students who passed PSC-CI as the training set for your model was always going to fail due to the small sample size. Not to mention the fact that I've never graded on a curve, and never will.
You will be sent to the labor camps after this bank holiday Monday.
Regards,
– Professor Philto Mattheus
P.S. As a reminder, please fill out the online form to let us know if the program met your expectations. It helps us improve the course for all students who study with us! Thank you.
"Neapolio, you have to do an airtight assassination plot to pass Mattheus' class. Ask anyone. It's the only assignment any of us are worried about," groaned Aristeas while massaging his temples. "You really haven't come up with anything, this late? You know our last lecture is tomorrow, right?"
The lunch queue in the cafeteria was barely moving. The smell of freshly cooked pepperoni pizza, kept warm under gentle heat lamps, wafted tantalizingly over the four dozen people standing in line, of which Neapolio and Aristeas were the final two.
"It's not on the syllabus," replied Neapolio flatly.
"My friend, what class are we in together?"
"Applied Political Assas—"
"Applied Political Assassination, Neapolio," said Aristeas with a huff. "That means we're expected to apply the things we learn to the real world, ergo, we need to attempt an assassination. And there was that conspicuous warning in The Telescopic that we must absolutely not, under any circumstances, try to kill Professor Mattheus. It's reverse-psychology. Use your head."
Neapolio's stomach growled. The queue moved forward one agonizing step. He could have sworn it was shorter earlier.
"It's not on the syllabus."
"Well, not everyone buys the rumor. But one thing's for sure — he's going to fail all of us. Every year he passes fewer people. So we're left with no choice; we try to kill him to pass, or we try to kill him to get past him. I don't know about you, friend, but if I fail this module, I'm as good as gone."
Shit. Neapolio wasn't sure if the hole in his stomach was from the realization that he couldn't afford to compensate the class, or from the food that seemed to be getting further away with each passing second.
"Screw waiting," Aristeas growled, "I'm skipping the line. You coming?"
"No."
Aristeas' brow furrowed. "It's kill or be killed here, Neapolio. When you realize that, come find me. I'll tell you about Mattheus' weak spot."
He has a weak spot?
Dear Aristeas,
I can assure you that so long as you meet all of the learning objectives on the course, you will pass. It just so happens that this year's "strong cohort" is severely lacking in basic reading comprehension skills. It's all on the syllabus, which if you had read, you would not have needed to write your letter.
I do not give extra credit. Submit all your work by 17:00 tomorrow or you will be given an automatic zero. From the looks of your academic transcript, a score below XL per cent in my class would leave you unable to graduate. That would be a shame. Looks like you'd better get to it.
Regards,
Professor Mattheus
Neapolio's head pounded. His arms heavy, his movements slow. Drool down his face. He peeled his cheek from the desk and surveyed the scene before him: crumpled papers, strewn about the desk and floor; plates, still slick with grease; and coffee-stain rings yet no mug in sight. Somewhere nearby, Neapolio felt a ticker-tape device print off another citation to add to his pile.
The fog still thick, Neapolio turned on his desk lamp, clasped and unfurled the closest piece of paper like a papyrus scroll:
Applied Political Assassination — Summative Assessment
The key victory in the Second Punic War was secured when Hannibal predicted Scipio's counter-attack [Hannibal, 204 BC]. This historic event demonstrates the importance of controlling the information battlefield; all warfare is based on deception [Sun Tzu, 500 BC]. This report discusses the critical aspects of the information battlefield that must be controlled, the most important of which…
He didn't read any further. It wasn't his proudest work; a rush job of the highest degree. It'll have to do. He summoned the Philtransimun Combine and delivered the paper directly to Mattheus' desk.
He couldn't help but feel it wasn't enough. Professor Mattheus had demonstrated, time and time again throughout the academic year that he was ruthless to the highest degree. Anything less than perfection was viciously scolded.
But maybe… He couldn't stop thinking about what Aristeas had said earlier. If Mattheus was replaced by someone less brutal, perhaps they would pass his shoddy paper? He shook his head, as if trying to shake the poisoned idea from his mind. He was starting to think like his classmates. But the rumor…
His hands buzzed. The hair on his nape prickled. Something about Aristeas — and everyone else in his class, frankly — sent his blood cold. But his family were counting on him. They'd sacrificed their futures to give him a golden ticket; he couldn't let their faith in him die on a chance.
He had to take action.
PSC-CI: PREDICTED GRADES (2633-2634 AD)
Leavers: X %
MIA/Executed: XXVI %
Outright Fail: XXXVI %
Marginal Fail: XXVIII %
Pass: nulla %
Aristeas splashed water on his face. Water spilled down his scarred hands. He couldn't stop them from shaking. Dark rings hung below his eyelids. Scars weathered his face like a buffeted stone in the desert; a million small cuts that ate away at him. The price of Alexylva. He moved as if in a stupor, a man whose stimulants were running low. Yet his bloodshot eyes were dark and desperate, alive and afraid.
It was 3:00 AM when he heard the gentle knock at his door. He wiped his brow with a towel, trying to quickly conceal his clammy visage. He steeled himself and wondered who would accept his invitation.
Aristeas had invited no fewer than five different people to his dorm that night, with the intention to trade information on how to defeat Professor Mattheus. Eleni, the Anachronology major, had rebuked him before he even asked. Zeno, salutatorian and main rival to valedictorian Nero, had slipped and fallen on twelve knives before sunset, and Kostis seemed to have been erased from the timeline completely. That left Charmides and Neapolio.
He prayed to the Gods that it was Charmides. He was one of the few students who Mattheus seemed to favor. Aristeas had known of him before he had even joined Alexylva. Charmides had come from an elite school with a specialty in training diplomats, and had become fast friends with the rising prodigy Nero. Aristeas had heard that Charmides had modified his body and mind extensively to accentuate his natural skills, and his strength and stealth now bordered on the supernatural. In person, he reminded Aristeas of a hawk.
In contrast, Neapolio was a pigeon. Common, unassuming, and possessing a demeanor suggesting a blade could pass between his ears and leave him unscathed. Aristeas ascribed his continued survival at Alexylva to a combination of staying beneath notice and dumb luck.
He opened the door, and his doorway was darkened by the gangly half-wit. His face strained into a practiced smile, and he moved his arms invitingly in the perfect façade of a gracious host. Try not to shit on the floor.
"Neapolio, I'm glad you're here. Were you followed?" asked Aristeas as he ushered Neapolio inside and bolted the door shut. Neapolio's eyes widened, as if just realizing that being tailed was a possibility. Aristeas felt a headache coming on.
"No matter, my friend." Aristeas flicked a switch on a nearby device, and a wave of static washed over the two of them. The immediate and familiar smell of ozone lingered. "We may now speak freely."
"You said Mattheus had a weak spot?"
"Indeed." Aristeas looked over his shoulder, as if to check for eavesdroppers. Of course, this was just to sell the moment; the Vibro-Kill Sphere provided them both absolute privacy. It seemed the pigeon took the bait. "Our professor seems to have grown predictable. I've been tracking his movements for the last semester. Now, he is good at shaking his tails, but…" he trailed off, shaking his head.
"Swear to me, Neapolio. This information is all I have left. If you betray me, if Mattheus learns of it… You must swear to me, on something you hold near to your heart."
Neapolio's face scrunched. He thought for a long moment, before finally opening his mouth to speak, solemnly.
"I swear on my family."
Aristeas' veneer of sincerity slipped, and he caught himself mid-scoff. He quickly replaced the mask, his face stoic.
"Very well. I have it on good authority that the good Professor makes routine early morning trips into a defunct faculty building. Every Thursday at 07:30 hours, before his first lecture of the morning, he saunters into the woods along a specific trail. I say we find what's waiting on the other side."
"We're not supposed to go into th—"
"You swore, Neapolio! You swore on the lives of your family!" Aristeas shot back, anger barely restrained. It wasn't untrue that this was his last shot, and he wasn't going to let Neapolio ruin it.
A guilty look flashed across Neapolio's face. Aristeas knew, in that moment, that he had won. Neapolio, the naïve fool, would be bound to his word despite knowing nothing of the plan. He would follow Aristeas into the woods and never think to ask why he was needed; Aristeas didn't need help to blackmail Mattheus.
He needed Mattheus to hunt a pigeon for sport.
ALEXYLVA UNIVERSITY
Internal Memorandum
Dear Esteemed Colleagues,
Thank you for your repeated indications of student surveillance upon my person during these last few weeks of the semester. These include tailing, establishing listening devices around my office and home, and intrusion into faculty grounds. I am aware of these attempts and will deal with them myself.I kindly ask that no maiming, detaining, or other disciplinary action be taken against these students while they are in my class. I do not require additional protection, but I appreciate the concern.
Regards,
Philto
Neapolio and Aristeas stood before the brutalist concrete edifice. It was weathered, partially reclaimed by nature. Beside the entrance, brass lettering read: "PROMETHEUS BUILDING". In the shadow of the structure, Neapolio felt a chill run down his spine.
We really shouldn't be doing this.
Aristeas, bold as always, tried the door handle. Despite its dilapidated appearance, the door opened with little resistance.
"Alright, Neapolio. You head in, see what you can find, then meet up with me back outside."
"You're leaving me?"
"Use your head, Neapolio. What if someone follows after you? I'll stand out here and keep watch. I'll signal you if anyone approaches." He nodded his head toward the door. "Make haste, my friend. We don't have much time."
Neapolio swallowed his fear. Aristeas was right; Mattheus would grade the papers at midday and time was running short. He didn't think breaking into a faculty building in the early hours of the morning was a good idea, but he had sworn to Aristeas — and Aristeas was convinced this plan would be the salvation of both of them. Nobody swims with the whales without diving into the water.
The door closed behind him, and Neapolio was plunged into darkness. He could hear the dripping condensation from the overhead pipes, cold wind hissing from deep within the labyrinthine structure. No, not wind. Screams. He trudged his leaden legs toward the sound.
Minutes stretched like hours. Neapolio pushed his senses to the limit, eyes wide and ears strained. His jaw clenched, his muscles aching under the tension. Ready to flee at the slightest indication he was spotted. Yet, the building maintained its oppressive silence, broken only by the ghostly, faint screams that grew louder with every passing footstep.
Eventually, he made his way to the source of the shrieking. An ornate wrought-iron door stood slightly ajar, and the screams spilled out behind it. So close now, he could feel the despair emanate from behind the door. The screams were of a kind which Neapolio had heard only once before. Back on the farm, the sheep had come down with a disease. They would scratch their backs to the point they drew blood; they were in agony. Yet, they wouldn't stop. They would scratch and scream and grind themselves down to the bone. It was a scream of an animal that knew the pain would never end. It was with sadistic irony that the sign that hung above the door bore the inscription: Chamber of Honor.
As he opened the door, the first thing he noticed was the smell. It was the cloyingly sweet smell of death.
Then, his attention turned to the cells. Dozens upon dozens of cell blocks lay before him in a hallway that stretched to a pedestal bearing a skull at the far end of the room. The room itself was spotless. Linoleum flooring squeaked as he walked, and the bare marble interior reflected torchlight, giving the impression of being deep below water.
Neapolio looked to the first cell on his left. A blue translucent barrier separated Neapolio from the emaciated man inside. He was an elderly fellow, perhaps an early bicentennial. His chest rattled as he drew breaths, shaking and sputtering, as he lay impaled on a large metallic device which reminded Neapolio of a cactus. The large spikes drove through his ribcage as blood poured down his chest and pooled below him, watering the cactus in sanguine humor. The man looked at Neapolio with pleading, desperate eyes. His mouth opened in a contortion of a feral scream, yet no sound emerged, as the blood oozing from his chest began to bubble and froth. He battered against the machine with what little energy he had, then his eyes went dark and his body lay limp. For a cold, dark moment, the man knew the peace of death. Slowly, his blood trickled in reverse, the light in his eyes returned, and the torture began anew.
The next cell contained a student, only a few years Neapolio's senior. Deep wounds festered around his body, and he was covered in his own blood. His fingernails were stained dark red, as he tore and ripped away his own flesh. Inside one of his wounds, Neapolio could have sworn he saw a centipede crawl—
The bile in Neapolio's stomach leapt into his throat once more. His hands flew to his mouth and he closed his eyes. His heart drummed in his ears, and his chest rose and fell in deep, gulping breaths. Sound was the first sense to return to Neapolio. The sickening scream that had followed him from the entrance hall cut through to him again.
His eyes snapped open. It wasn't coming from the cells.
In a panicked scan of the room, Neapolio realized the screams were coming from the skull at the end of the hallway. It was encased in a containment field which thrummed a deep purple as the air vibrated strangely around it. The skull lay on a pompous scarlet velvet cushion, embroidered with golden tassels. As he approached the podium he noticed the skull had a brilliant green jewel encrusted into the center of its forehead, which seemed to glow and fade in concert with the pitch of its screams. Electric sparks shot from a nearby cable directly into the gem. Neapolio's eyes fell to the plaque below the skull. Hannibal of Carthage.
"Barca Magnus…" Neapolio whispered as fear gave way to awe.
"Grandfather," spoke a familiar voice in a pitying tone, "look what he has done to you."
Neapolio's face went white as a sheet. He slowly turned around, expecting to face his death head-on. Behind him stood Charmides, holding a thrumming purple key and wearing a smile.
"Neapolio, good to see you."
On the Carthaginian Victory in the Second Punic War: A Critical Review
Philto Mattheus, PhD.
Department of Political Sciences, Alexylva University
Abstract
Conventional accounts detailing the Second Punic War romanticize Rome's defeat and attribute its downfall to strategic inferiority. This widespread belief is unsound and, to a certain extent, historical revisionism. The aim of this paper is to shed light on the military and strategic might of the Roman Republic, and identify the critical blunders which led Rome to lose the war. Indeed, the evidence presented in this paper makes the controversial claim that the Barcid leaders would have lost the Second Punic War if not for a number of blunders on the Roman front, chiefly the ill-advised counter-attack on Utica.
Reviewer 2:
The author's suggestion that Carthaginian victory resulted substantially from Roman error, rather than Barcid superiority, approaches apologism for a defeated hostile state.
Recommendation: Reject.
Aristeas whistled a happy tune. He perched atop a tree beside the entrance to the Prometheus building, Vibro-Kill Sphere active. He had been waiting ten minutes for some development, and there was no sign of anything happening so far.
He had summoned Mattheus the moment he closed the door on Neapolio. Now all he needed to do was wait. It was brilliant, really. Mattheus might smell the danger initially, but once he saw that Neapolio was in the building, he'd kill him and let his guard down. After that, it'd just be a matter of pulling the trigger.
Aristeas readied the Heart of Poseidon. There was one eventuality, one nagging thread which he couldn't dismiss. It was unlikely, but it just didn't sit right with him. He knew Neapolio couldn't have betrayed him first, otherwise he never would have agreed to enter the building alone. Trespassing on faculty property carries heavy punishment, up to execution. No, the problem was something else. What if Mattheus finds, but doesn't kill Neapolio?
In that case, Aristeas reasoned, Neapolio would throw me to the wolves, and I'll have to kill them both.
He looked down at the Heart. It was a glorious weapon, one that he had spent many sleepless nights creating. It resembled a rocket launcher, built to fire a tungsten trident at Mach 10. At this close range, Mattheus would need superhuman reflexes to see what hit him, let alone dodge. Not to mention the impact would likely vaporize the nearby terrain. One drawback to the device was the loud whooshing noise as the pneumatics readied the charge — which was of course entirely covered by the Vibro-Kill Sphere.
The only other problem was that it carried one shot.
Aristeas heard someone approaching hurriedly, and he leaned in from his perch to get a better look. Between the leaves, he saw Professor Mattheus approaching in a limping jog. His clothes were bloodstained and tattered, no doubt from an attempt on his life earlier that morning. He stopped briefly just before the entrance to the Prometheus building. Aristeas retreated into the cover of the leaves. He's observant, but still a man. Exhausted and bleeding, the Professor only gave the grounds a cursory scan before rushing inside.
For a brief moment, Aristeas thought of Neapolio floundering around inside. He smiled.
If it comes to it, it'll have to be two birds and one stone.
FACULTY CONDUCT OFFICE
Statement by Professor Philto Mattheus
I reject the complainant’s characterization of me as 'sadistic'. Sadism necessitates suffering that is inflicted without any value besides gratification to the perpetrator. I have never considered student suffering as a pedagogical tool in and of itself.
All punitive actions taken this academic year have been demonstrative, educational, disciplinary, or defensive. Almost all of these actions have been retaliatory capital executions for attempted murder of faculty, which is well within my rights as a professor and explicitly stated within the code of conduct. Allowing these students to live would only encourage further attempts on my life.
I would further note that, outside of assassination attempts, my punitive track record is quite generous. This year alone, I have caught XI students engaged in activities which, by University regulation, I would have been permitted to kill and declined to do so.
Mattheus was having a very bad morning. He knew that students grew more vicious as the end of the semester approached, but to attack him before teaching hours began reached new depths of desperation. What was worse, it appeared that the student body seemed to be coordinating their strikes. The attack on his home left him weakened, his key stolen, then the incursion upon his pet project…
It was all too well thought out to be a coincidence. This was the work of a puppeteer, and Mattheus had to admit he had been played perfectly. Given the conjunction of his earlier brush with his would-be assassins and the run across campus, Mattheus was exhausted and ill-prepared. His adversary had identified his weaknesses, both physical and emotional, and used them to lure him out into dangerous territory. He had to admit it was impressive. He had less than half the time to plan his approach than he would have liked.
But he did still have some time to come prepared.
Mattheus was taking no chances. Usually, the only arms he took hung beside his torso and the only defense he carried was the shirt on his back. He would not be so disadvantaged against this clearly well-prepared opponent. He had taken a simple, straightforward sword from the antique suit of armor in his living room alongside a short-range teleport gauntlet.
He stepped into the Chamber of Honor. The great hall had once contained statues and remains of legendary leaders of the past. It now served as a menagerie of those who dared oppose him and his vision for the future. In this moment, it contained two unexpected additions.
"Charmides, Neapolio." He nodded curtly to them in turn.
"Mattheus," Charmides replied. Neapolio looked like he was about to pass out.
Mattheus scoured the room for threats. Charmides first. To the sides of his hips, he saw the unmistakable outline of concealed daggers. He held in his left hand the living skull of Hannibal, and running down the back of his fingers and hand he saw metallic lines run toward his chest, obscured by his robes. Mattheus had seen this device before, and he knew the metallic veins ran across his entire body. Neapolio now. Despite his best efforts, Mattheus could see no offensive or defensive devices on his person. His brow furrowed. I must be missing something.
"I commend your aptitude. Truly, the both of you. Exceptional work." Mattheus took a step toward the students. "But I'm afraid this is the end of the line. If you had prepared an ambush here, you might have even succeeded."
He paused. The rest of the morning had been textbook. Provoke the enemy. Lure him into battle. Kill him as he retaliates. So where was the danger? Charmides was the obvious choice — he had a dangerous look about him, and was in clear possession of weapons. But perhaps it was too obvious, a distraction from the real threat. The more Mattheus thought about it, the more sense it made. Charmides was goading him, pompously parading his treasure around and making minimal effort to conceal his weapons. Whereas Neapolio appeared non-threatening. When you are strong, appear weak.
"You Roman sympathizer," taunted Charmides as he drew his right-hand dagger, still holding the skull aloft with his left, "I've been waiting for this all year."
Mattheus calmly brandished his sword, but the fire in his voice was unmistakable. "Countless scholars have written countless treatises, papers, and books on Rome's fall in the Punic Wars. How the brave Hannibal of Carthage crossed the Alps and besieged Roman territory until they surrendered. Of how wise Hannibal foresaw Scipio's attack and repelled the counterattack flawlessly. These are the myths that live on, the beautiful lie. Tell them, Hannibal! Tell them the truth of what happened!"
The skull pressed in Charmides' palm spoke. Its voice was ancient and ghostly, emanating from the gem beset within it. "There was… a letter…"
"A letter. And what did this letter say?" Mattheus spoke with barely restrained contempt.
"A… warning…"
"I'm a dab hand at temporal manipulation," said Mattheus, "and I saw that the timeline split right after the Second Punic War. Someone wrote to dear Hannibal and warned him of Scipio's attack. Do you know what's in the other timeline? Do you have any idea what we've lost?! Professors go to work, not fearing for their lives every waking minute. They have structures designed to inspire awe and wonder, museums dedicated to art, a world where the majority of civilians have known only peace their entire lives…
"All of that lost. Because of one man's pride. The only punishment befitting Hannibal of Carthage is an eternity of suffering, as atonement for the eternity of brutality he inflicted on us all."
"You're a traitor to the Empire," replied Charmides bluntly.
"I suppose I am," sighed Mattheus, "and I suppose you aren't going to return the skull to its rightful owner?"
Charmides broke into a sprint, right at Mattheus. He held his knife high above his right shoulder, gleaming in reflected torchlight. Mattheus moved his sword to swing down in a counter. Charmides threw the skull into the air while dipping down and to the left. Taken aback, Mattheus clenched his left hand into a fist, activating the short-range teleport. When he reappeared a short distance away, he glimpsed Charmides slicing the air with a fresh dagger in his left hand. Tricky.
Mattheus had reappeared right in front of Neapolio, his sword still poised. He sliced downwards with all his might. He had time to see the look of surprise dawn on Neapolio's face. In an instant, Charmides turned and leapt through the air, stretching an arm wide to intercept the blow. As he did, the metallic lines on his skin began to glow a searing red, and the air between the sword and Charmides' arm began to glow with it. The blade slowed its descent, then began to reverse back toward Mattheus. Mattheus' eyes opened wide, and he released his right hand and clenched his left, teleporting below the skull and catching it before it hit the ground.
In the next second, Mattheus heard his sword hit the ceiling. Both parties stood in a stalemate, recovering from the physical exertion. His sword clanged on the floor a second later, just beside Neapolio.
"Clever. Anti-inertia shielding makes a wide variety of attack patterns ineffective. Quite a bad reputation for causing friendly-fire, given the unpredictability of the reflected attacks. Usually, Antinerta shields require the wielder to forgo weapons. I wonder what your daggers are made of…" Mattheus speculated between breaths.
"He was unarmed, you coward!"
"You'd like me to think that, wouldn't you?" Mattheus scolded as a chirp called out from his glove indicating the teleport had recharged. He clenched his fist and reappeared behind Charmides, his fist coming down upon the base of his skull.
His fist connected, but not with his intended target. Neapolio had spotted Mattheus reappearing and had flung himself toward him. Neapolio grappled Mattheus, pulling him away from Charmides, and took the full force of Mattheus' punch right into the solar plexus. Spittle flew from Neapolio's mouth and Mattheus felt the breath leave his body, but Neapolio held his grip firm. Incredible. They're covering each other.
He teleported back to gain space and escape the grapple. Charmides once again rushed toward him, daggers drawn. He clenched his left hand, trying to escape, but the gauntlet let out a warning chirp: recharging. Charmides' left hand cut sideways. Mattheus stepped backward to dodge but the right dagger came down hard into Mattheus' left hand. In pain, the skull slipped from his hand. Sparks flew as the gauntlet was pierced and the dagger embedded itself into Mattheus' hand. In his attack, Charmides had overcommitted to the lunge and was regaining his balance. Mattheus swept his leg, knocking him to the floor.
"Poor choice. If you had gone for my kidney instead of my hand, you would have inflicted more damage. True, you've eliminated my mobility advantage, but you've given me something far more valuable."
With a detached poise, Mattheus pulled the dagger from his left hand with a sickening pop. Blood spilled in heavy drops upon the linoleum. He brandished the knife, which he now saw was made of sharpened bone, and adopted an aggressive stance facing Charmides.
Mattheus lunged, the knife scarcely missing Charmides' jugular. This time, the metal strips didn't glow and reflect the attack. On the offensive, Mattheus continued to slash at Charmides. He kept up a punishing tempo, forcing Charmides to retreat closer and closer to the wall.
"Neapolio!" shouted Charmides.
Mattheus clocked the gangly accomplice to the side of his vision. It wasn't hard to predict what Neapolio would do. He's outmatched. He'll flee and leave his friend to die, claim no knowledge of the plan, and live another day.
His attention returned to Charmides. He kept the attack going, battering him with shallow cuts and forcing his retreat. Soon, he would be cornered and the deathblow would land. It was only a matter of time.
A warm, wet hand gripped Mattheus' shoulder. He could smell the copper. Foreign blood dripped down Mattheus' chest. He turned around and saw a horde of vengeful, emaciated bodies, all covered in mortal wounds and clambering to make their final moments count before they succumbed to a true death. They held Mattheus down, if only for a moment, while Neapolio and Charmides escaped.
In desperation, Mattheus reached out toward the disappearing figures as they grew distant. Why didn't he run?
***
Hours later, a badly wounded Mattheus emerged from the Prometheus building. The skull was missing by the time he escaped. Outside, a small explosive seemed to have been detonated, leaving a small tungsten trident some distance behind the now-empty chest cavity of the student Aristeas.
Mattheus groaned. More paperwork to file.
PSC-CI: Applied Political Assassination
Grade & Feedback Sheet
Student Name: Neapolio Dynamis
Grade: XL per cent
You displayed good enthusiasm and engagement during lectures. Your written work was overall poor, with many spelling mistakes, poorly formed ideas which lack nuance, and incorrect formatting. However, your practical demonstration of the learning objectives is passable. Well done.
"I… I passed?" stammered Neapolio in the quiet seclusion of Mattheus' office.
"Barely," replied Mattheus, "but yes. You seem surprised. Why do you think I passed you?"
The familiar feeling of dread crept up Neapolio's spine.
"Because I didn't try to kill you?" Neapolio ventured.
A moment of hesitation. Time stood still as Neapolio searched Mattheus' face for any indication of whether he had gained his Professor's praise, or if he should brace to face his fury. From the shape of his lip, and the softening of his brow, it would likely be somewhere in-between.
"Half correct, as usual," Mattheus sneered. "Had you tried, you would be on the receiving end of capital punishment.
"No, your foolishness kept you safe. You had no weapons on you. Never struck a blow against me. I could still have you hanged for trespassing," Mattheus replied coldly. "Why do you think that your display of cowardice and imprudence was rewarded in this instance?"
The barrage of questions made Neapolio's mind go blank.
"Perhaps I should put it another way," continued Mattheus, as if sensing Neapolio's hesitation. "Many a short-sighted student has tried to take my life. But if they had spent a fraction of the energy that went into planning the assassination attempt instead on figuring out the consequences, they would realize it's a self-defeating exercise. Yes, my replacement would likely pass you, and yes you would likely graduate. But what then?"
Neapolio stared vacantly at Mattheus.
"Think about it, Neapolio. If they killed me, what would their lives look like? The entire cohort would paint a target on their own backs and would be assassinated in turn, and the world would thank their murderers for ridding the world of such scheming political monsters.
"Your cohort will grow up scheming and making plays for power, and they'll have their careers ruined by some other politician who sees them as a threat. The ultimate defense against assassination is not to appear as a threat in the first place."
Mattheus waited a beat.
"That, and you were the only one that handed in the coursework."