A group of seven young men and women lived together in a cramped apartment within the Tower of the Chosen, right next door to an apartment stuffed full of eight more just like them. They were all in their late teens or early twenties, and while their bodies were hard, lean, and agile, their eyes were weary and miserable. These unfortunate souls were separated from their families as children and brainwashed into becoming unrepentant killers. Their minds were as smooth and featureless as the endless expanse of the Sage Desert, for any spark of personality they may have once possessed was snuffed out long ago. They were Pit Razor assassins, the best of the best, pitiless, passionless, and unfeeling. Having been stripped of their real names, all they had left were their titles: the Pain of Loss, the Shadow of Agony, the Breath of Life, the Struggle for Existence, the Joy of Victory, the Tears of Grief, and the Burden of Guilt.
The Pit Razors' shared apartment was bare of any decoration, and the only pieces of furniture inside it were a small see-through plastic cabinet for the assassins' clothes and a pair of mattresses pushed together to make a double bed where they all slept together in a tangled heap. The Pit Razors made do with the bare minimum, just as they were trained. Each of them owned little more than a few sets of simple black clothing, a personal credit card, a cell phone, and a toothbrush. They ate together, bathed together, slept together, and existed together. Their lives were meager and monotonous, but they were content with what they had.
The Pit Razors had been conditioned to crave the love and affection of their masters. They were bound by invisible chains, an inescapable psychological dependence that drove them to obey every order they were given, no matter how cruel or demeaning. They had been brainwashed into believing that they existed solely to serve their masters, that it would be impossible for them ever to survive on their own, that they would never be happy unless they belonged to someone.
All the Pit Razors wanted was to be accepted and loved. And so they'd endured the torturous training, the relentless beatings, the mind-numbing drugs, and the soul-destroying sensory deprivation. They'd survived the Maze of Death, the Valley of Nightmares, the Cage of Fear, the Hall of Mirrors, and the Island of Betrayal. They'd fought and killed and starved and bled to prove their worth. It was all worth it in the end, for they were now officially the property of Miss Planner. She'd taken complete control of their lives, their destiny, and their fate. The Pit Razors were hers to do with as she pleased. And they couldn't be happier, because they quickly learned that Miss Planner was a good master. Her Chosen Ones weren't forced to fight to the death or confined in cages or fed garbage or subjected to anything unpleasant at all. In fact, the Pit Razors' new lives were completely free of misery, terror, pain, or suffering of any kind.
Their first assignment was very, very easy. They were told to watch over a new team of managers who'd come to the Tower of the Chosen from the outside world, a naive and bumbling bunch who knew absolutely nothing about psychic powers or the criminal underworld of the Pit. All the Pit Razors had to do was bring them breakfast, get their schedules in order, facilitate their interactions with other Chosen Ones, and answer any questions they might have to the best of their ability. In essence, the Pit Razor assassins were reduced to glorified babysitters. But they dedicated themselves wholly to their task without complaint, hesitation, or resentment. Even when they were off-duty, the seven Pit Razors did little but discuss how to best support their charges.
"The Joy of Victory convinced David to try smoking Nuke for the first time."
"How did it go?
"He threw up and then asked for another hit when he got out of the bathroom. I gave him a pack to take home and told him to take it slow."
"Good. Rubin started smoking last week, and Evan started around that time too... it's catching on. But the girls are taking longer to get into it."
The seven Pit Razors sat in a circle on the floor, cross-legged, in complete darkness. Their hollow voices echoed against the barren white wall behind them. Each was dressed identically in a set of black, loose-fitting shirts and sweatpants. When they weren't in the comforting presence of their beloved Farha-Smith managers, these seven young people had no choice but to make do with each other. They needed constant human contact. They hated being alone with their thoughts.
There was a faint buzzing sound coming from somewhere.
"Eliza made her first sale yesterday. I want to throw her a party to celebrate. Does anyone want to go downtown with me tomorrow morning to get decorations?"
"I can go with you. We should stock up so we can throw another one for Lucas when he hits his production target. He's only got a little way to go."
"What was Rubin doing today? He was acting weird this morning."
"He was in a deep trance state... he was doing all kinds of stuff with crystals, trying to channel something. How's Mr. Hamaide doing?"
"The same. The work's not really what he expected. But he's trying. He's been taking me to Fancy Buffet every day after work lately. He's got a senior discount, so it's cheap for him. He has these periods where he tells the same stories over and over again..."
"He's old enough to retire, right?"
"He told me he doesn't want to stop working until he dies."
"Hmm. Me neither."
The Pit Razors chattered away in the darkness to stave off their loneliness. As always, the only topic of conversation in the cramped apartment was the team of Farha-Smith money managers who they served like slaves.
