All of history is a class struggle, at least, that's what Karl Marx said long, long ago. I suppose a lot of people now don't know who Marx was. But to any of us in the lower class who bother to read, Marx is another symbol of our inferiority.

I, however, am not like most of the MiTs here. While I am technically a Martyr in Training, I don't think of myself that way. I don't believe what our commanders shove down our throats, what we're raised to live by. And that makes all the difference.

For example, instead of being accepting of my ex-girlfriend Genesis's constant jabs like I should be – we're designed to fall, not fight – I want to rip apart that so familiar body.

“Observe,” she says, smirking like I'm nothing.

She walks down the stairs to the street level, slinking like a cat. Gen's one of those girls who know they're gorgeous, and won't let you forget it. When we were together, her confidence drove me crazy. It still does, just in a different way. I don't want to kiss that white throat of hers; I want to shove a fork into it.

The course resets itself, and by the time she reaches the start line, the examiners are ready for her.

A gun fires into the air, and she's off at a run.

The first obstacle is a mobster with a gun, about to fire at a line of other degenerates. They call it Chicago. If you don't get to the obstacle by the thirty second mark, or you hesitate, the mobster fires his paint ball gun and the entire line is deemed dead. If you're close, you get a paintball to the chest, too, and fail. You have to make it there and talk him down. It's supposed to show you've learnt that even the worst of people deserve a shot at life. What it really shows is that you've realized you're worth less than nothing no matter what you do, and you should give your life for any scum that wants it.

Gen reaches it quickly. She won't be eliminated for lack of speed. When she sees the mobster, she does what's required: save the lineup. But she doesn't throw her body between the men and the gun. She throws her slender body at the gunman, knocking him hard into a wall. She steps hard on his hand and takes the gun from his probably broken hands before continuing on.

Next up is the train test. A train – really a pair of bicyclists with flashlights on their bikes and paintball guns in hand – is hurtling towards a cross-section. You have to choose to switch the track, but on either side of the fork is a group of people. On one side, a pregnant mother with a little boy at her ankles. On the other, a group of ten adults. No matter what, people will be eliminated. You're supposed to switch the track so it takes out the adults. You're supposed to show you'd rather preserve young lives and give death to those who have already had their chance at life. In reality, it's not that black and white.

Gen doesn't hesitate this time, either. She doesn't touch the switch, letting it continue towards the pregnant woman and boy. She sprints forward and pushes them out of the way, careful with the woman's bulging stomach. As far as I am from them, I can see Gen's pale hand ruffle the boy's hair before she continues to the third and final task.

The third is equally flawed. Still holding the gun, slightly damaged from its fall by the tracks, she turns the corner, and a paintball lands on her foot. Around a lone gunman there are a dozen eliminated people, and paint is oozing like blood from a shot on his hip. This is a new task.

She aims her gun at him.

“You or me? Who's it going to be?” I can hear him scream.

“Me.”

She fires right into his chest.

Gen's walking up the staircase before I know it, moving to stand with the finished MiTs. The whispers around her are standard, but I pick up on an unfamiliar phrase.

“Should've been someone.”

I'm used to people standing in awe of Genesis Ward. I'm not used to them questioning the examinations.

“Anthony Forrester.”

I make my way down the stairs, conscious of the fluidity I lack. I'm athletic, but I don't show it. On my way to the first obstacle, I fake a stumble over a loose slab of asphalt. I make it to the first obstacle late and the gunman takes me out. My run is over.

I would be able to conquer the course if I wanted to. The athletics, the bravery, I have them both. But the two MiTs with the highest scores will be tested once more. If they pass, they graduate. If they're not dead in a month, they're publicly executed for selfishness and cowardice.

See, the lower class here in New Acadia isn't seen as human. We spend our lives working and learning how best to die for the upper class. We're all expected to die for something. But because of that, we die for nothing. We die because we're raised for this slaughter.

When I was young, I wondered why I was doomed to this fate. Why everyone couldn't be upper class. They say we need the lower class to keep the foundation of the country strong. Really, it's population control. It's free military. It's a lot of things that no human civilization should be.

I take my place with those finished quietly. There are no whispers about me. My survival strategy is to continue failing until I 'accidentally' live long enough to do something meaningful, to keep myself under the radar to stay alive. That's all that concerns me. Staying alive, and protecting my little brother, Pete.

Pete is spoiled, I know. I know that he doesn't have the tools he needs to survive in this world without me, but it's not like I can cut him off. He's spent his whole life shielded by me. I need to stay alive as long as he does.

A few more kids run through the course, the last of them. Our order is decided by rank in the class. I, of course, am very near to the end without being it. Under the radar, of course.

I can't help noticing no repeat of Gen's third task. The last kids encounter a gunman aiming at someone. Two break down and cry. The third doesn't make it past the first task.

Our mentors, Jabe and Portia, arrive to line us up according to score here on the rooftop.

“Highest score is a tie,” Jabe says in his high-pitched voice, “between Carver and Ward.”

Kevvy Carver steps forward, spluttering. “That's bullshit, that b**** didn't do anything right.”

Jabe glances over at Gen and her tight black pants and flattering gold shirt. “She got a perfect run. Just like you.”

“She didn't take the bullet.”

“She found an alternative to death, and can now live to die for a greater cause.”

“She didn't switch the track.”

“She saved everyone.”

“All she ever does is throw herself at danger. A monkey could do it.”

“It shows she's in tune with her instincts to protect.”

“She didn't save anyone in the third task.”

Gen, still holding the paintball gun like it's a baby, rotates the thing and fires off a shot at him, splattering his shirt with paint. He shouts, complaining. He's not wearing a vest. Gen doesn't care in the slightest.

Portia delicately takes the gun. “You really shouldn't have that, honey.”

Because you're totally crazy.

“Ward is now the highest. Carver is second.” Jabe continues after Carver's snort of protest, “If that gun was real, you'd be dead. Dead because you're a twerp. Drop it or you drop in rank further.”

Gen takes her place, Carver next to her. While he is athletic, I know he doesn't dare start a fight, because there are a half dozen guys here who would love to protect her. I'm one of them. I know who Gen used to be. I know she might still be that vulnerable, compassionate woman beneath her strength and aggression. And no one will take that from her when I'm around.

Besides, Gen can evidently handle herself. The third task was supposed to be someone important to us, I gather. Someone we love in trouble. But there is no one left in this world that Gen loves. There is no one to keep her here. There is nothing to live for. So she fights to not die, her sole purpose in life spite.

I have Pete. I have a girlfriend, now. I have my own apartment and an old armchair. I am happy.

Or at least, that's what I tell myself.

“At the bottom of the class, we have Angelica and Anthony.”

I wondered briefly why they felt the need to announce that. Sure, dropping two spots is a bit of a big deal, but not enough so that others would care. I wondered until I saw Jabe pull out a gun that was certainly not filled with paint. I wondered until I died for nothing, my passion for life having made no difference at all, just another Proletariat despite my efforts. I died for nothing, a Martyr in Training.

We are all martyrs, waiting for that glorious moment, but none of us realize how arbitrary death is. It is a window of time so miniscule it's hardly worth the lifetime of anticipation. It is not the pinnacle of our existence, merely a rough ending. We expect our exeunt to mean something, to impact those who remain, but in death we are no more than the mediocrity in which we lived. We are the Proletariat. We are the subhumans. We will never defeat the divide. And so, we will always be Martyrs in Training.