Anya's decision

This story has been written with the permission of Korvalain who wrote "Kate's Modern Impalement". This is my story about his character Anya.

Chapter 1 – Anya makes a decision

The front door clicked shut behind Anya, the heavy mechanical lock sliding home with a finality that echoed in the quiet hallway. She dropped her canvas bag on the floor, the weight of the dark, utilitarian tools inside shifting with a dull thud.

Her eyes drifted to the hall table. There they were—his silver keyring, glinting under the dim overhead light. Beneath them sat a torn scrap of lined paper.

She picked it up. His hurried handwriting scrawled across the page: Anya, I've had enough. I can't live like this anymore. I've taken my things and gone. Georgia and I are leaving. 

The paper slipped from her trembling fingers, fluttering down to join the keys. A hot, overwhelming pressure surged behind her eyes, and she burst into tears, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a ragged sob as she slid down the wall until she hit the cold hardwood floor.

It wasn't just the betrayal—though the sting of his departure with Georgia cut deep. It was the crushing, suffocating weight of the day crashing down all at once.

Anya was the head executioner at the municipal containment facility. 

For twelve hours, she had stood on the cold concrete platform of Sector 4, encased in heavy rubberized protective gear, maintaining absolute, unyielding precision. Today had been especially brutal—a high-volume queue of dangerous anomalies and hardened dissidents, each case requiring the exact calibration of the high-voltage neural chair. Her arms still ached from the physical exertion of strapping down resisting subjects, and the metallic tang of ozone and fear still clung stubbornly to the back of her throat.

At work, she was the cold, unblinking instrument of the state. She was expected to be stone, to sever lives cleanly and efficiently without hesitation, emotion, or regret. She managed the schedules, oversaw the technicians, and ensured that the facility ran with flawless, terrifying lethality. 

But the armour did not follow her home.

Sitting there in the empty hallway, surrounded by the silence of an abandoned life, the executioner wept. She cried not for the husband who had lacked the fortitude to share her world, nor for the friend who had slipped away, but for the agonizing duality of her existence—capable of ending lives with a flick of a switch, yet entirely powerless to stop her own world from crumbling on the floor.

The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Anya sat staring at the condensation rolling down her glass, her mind drifting past the whiskey, past the forty-two targets in Sector 4, and past the pathetic scrawl of the note on the hallway floor.

Her husband was gone. Her home felt hollow. And every single day, she was the cold hand of the state, processing souls who had decided they were done.

The volunteer execution section.

The facility’s policy was brutal and absolute. If a citizen wished to surrender their life, they could submit to the volunteer roster, stepping onto the very platforms overseen by people like her. To walk the path of the condemned. To become the very subjects, she strapped into the chair.

A strange, numb calm washed over Anya. If her life had disintegrated this thoroughly in a single afternoon, perhaps symmetry was what she needed. 

She opened her laptop, navigated the heavily encrypted internal portal, and pulled up the digital registry. There it was: Citizen Self-Termination & Volunteer Execution Program - Form 909-B.

Without a flicker of hesitation, her fingers moved across the keyboard. She filled out every field, checked every mandatory waiver acknowledging the irreversible nature of the choice, and hit submit.

Ping.

Her phone lit up on the coffee table. An automated notification from the Central Bureaucracy: New Application Received.

She picked up the phone, her heart beating a slow, steady rhythm. She opened the portal. It was her own name at the top of the queue. Underneath, a bold legal disclaimer flashed in crimson text: Warning: Pursuant to Statute 12-A, voluntary applications are legally binding upon receipt of administrative approval. Revocation is prohibited. Processing is mandatory.

Once approved, the law was absolute. There would be no appeals, no second chances, and no way back. She would be scheduled for the chair, administered by one of her own subordinates.

Before she could fully process the finality of what she had just done, the front door flew open with a violent crash against the drywall.

Lydia burst into the living room, her face pale, holding her secure-line terminal out like a shield. Her chest heaved as she stared at Anya, wide-eyed and shaking.

"What have you done, Anya?!" Lydia screamed, her voice cracking with absolute panic. "What the hell have you just done?!"

The ping cut through the silence like a scalpel.

Lydia froze, her arm still outstretched, the terminal clutched in her white-knuckled grip.

 Anya slowly looked down at her own phone. The screen lit up, flashing a stark, unbroken crimson banner across the display:

APPLICATION ACCEPTED. STATUS: SCHEDULED FOR PROCESSING.

The automated system required no human committee for voluntary submissions; the clearance was instantaneous, processed by cold, unfeeling algorithms designed to respect a citizen's final legal choice without delay.

Anya stared at the glowing red text. There was no error code, no pending review, and no grace period. Under the strict mandates of the facility, her name was now officially logged in the queue. She was no longer just the head executioner; she was the next file on her own desk.

Lydia dropped her arm, the terminal slipping from her fingers to land with a dull thud on the rug. The fierce, confident technician who had walked through the door moments ago was gone, replaced by a sudden, terrifying stillness.

"Cancel it," Lydia whispered, taking a slow step forward. "Override it. You're the head executioner—you have administrative clearance, you can pull the logs, you can void the ticket—"

"No, I can't," Anya said, her voice entirely flat, devoid of the panic that should have been tearing her apart. She looked up at her best friend, her eyes calm and glassy. "Statute 12-A doesn't allow overrides on voluntary submissions, Lyd. You know that. The moment the digital signature clears, the file locks. If I try to tamper with the queue now, the system flags it as an illegal evasion."

Lydia shook her head frantically, stepping closer and grabbing Anya by the shoulders, her fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "To hell with the system! We can wipe the database, we can scrub the terminal, we can—"

"And go where?" Anya interrupted softly, looking toward the hallway where her husband's empty keys still lay on the table. "My husband's gone. My house is empty. Every day I walk into that facility and hand out the finality other people are too cowardly to face."

Anya reached down, picked up her phone, and turned the screen toward Lydia so she could read the timestamp glowing beneath the red banner.

Scheduled: turn up tomorrow, 08:00 AM. Sector 4. Execution within 14 days

"For the first time all day," Anya murmured, a faint, detached smile touching her lips, "I'm finally in control of the schedule."