"I am Unnamed. My title is dead."
In the World, the Planet, and the Base, it's either be number one or die.
The alternative to dying, however, is to become an Unnamed. Turning eighteen means that you will compete for your name. Come out on top, you...
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"How will I know who's an Unnamed and who's not?"
Mortimer the Elite Solver glances over at the Runner, the wheels turning in his head. They are back inside the basement, every light on and reflecting off the papers on the long table around the room. It almost gives the Runner a headache, but he's too anxious and worried about what's to come to let it reach him.
"What's the one difference between someone who is Unnamed and someone who has a Title?" his Master asks, leaning back on the hard surface behind him.
"Someone who has only a Title will do everything they can to make sure they receive a Name. If they don't, then they will become an Unnamed. So the Titles listen and obey, whereas the Unnamed don't mind being listed as an Unnamed."
"Right," Mortimer the Elite Solver smiles. "So you just have to look for someone who is going against what is to be expected."
The Runner nods, swallowing his emotions. "When would there be a chance for that? The Elite Runner shows up maybe once every other month, if that, and he doesn't do much instructing or helping, either. Because of that, we all have free reign and don't actually have any rules to follow." He bites his tongue, afraid he crossed a line. He knows Mortimer the Elite Solver is more lenient when it comes to correct speech towards authority, but he still doesn't want to slack off in his politeness, just in case he becomes too lax with his speaking around Elites. He could lose everything if he strikes the wrong nerve.
"Then you have to go beyond that," the old man strokes his beard with his fingers, ignoring everything the Runner is worrying about. "Look for small things. Littering, rudeness... things like that, Runner. I promise you'll find them. You just have to pay attention."
The Runner nods, a crease forming between his eyebrows as they furrow. He tries to recall the little things from the past, shoving aside his concerns. He thinks of Runners slacking off and not training as much as they need to and not much else. Groaning in frustration, he places his head in his hands, nearly defeated. He's still not sure if he wants to do this. The Runner could lose his life.
"What if I fail?" he asks in a slur, placing his head on a fist, unable to look up at his Master. "Will I get a Name anyway?"
"You're not guaranteed a Name, no," the Elite chuckles somberly, attempting to wave away his own worries, but they stick in his irises like flies on a wall. "But you can still race and run for your Name."
"And what if I fail that? What if I really do end up in the Unnamed territory?"
"That won't happen, Runner."
"But what if it does, Master? What if it does?" The Runner realizes he's trembling, the fear inside winning the war of keeping it hidden. Tears press against the back of his eyes, the salty water stinging them. He swallows the ball in his throat, making his throat ache.
