The advertisements generated by the system in our town are on full display while we walk back. Fliers are posted everywhere with the cool looking baby with the hat on. In addition, there are blinking play buttons and press start prompts flashing with bright neon lights across the multitude of old televisions positioned in the windows of the shops leading down through the business park. These commercials typically begin airing a week ahead of time. But none of the NPC’s in my town really pay them any mind. Nobody wants to play this game, least of all me.
In no time, we’ve trekked to the center of town, and walk up to the big sturdy double doors of the assembly hall.
When I enter the town hall, a sort of quiet falls across the room. I’m nervous because its all finally here. Caitlyn goes to join her family, somewhere near the right front seats close to the stage. The door, closing behind me, creaks, slowly squeezing the light that beams between the single aisle of the assembly, until it shuts, and there’s nothing left but a dusty old red carpet that leads to the stage.
As I begin to walk, I see my father and Petey stand up, then inch by the people sitting in their row, as they make their way to the center aisle.
“Hey buddy,” I say to Petey once I’ve reached them. I kneel down on my knee. Not just because Petey is small. He’s crying. Almost silently. Occasionally looking around him as though he doesn’t know what’s going on. Or maybe he’s looking for someone, anyone, to help me. If it’s true, I know the feeling, because that’s exactly what is on my mind too. But I don’t want to give him this impression. Or anyone else, for that matter. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. But I especially don’t want Petey, who I love more than anyone I know, more than anything in this world, to panic. I don’t want him to lose it. Or worse, give up. No matter what happens to me, I have to remind him that he has more days in front of him than behind him, and there is a reason to keep moving forward.
“Why the wet eyes?” I say. “You’re not an alligator.” The tone and inflection in my voice makes him smile. Or maybe he smiles because I’m half hugging him over his little shoulders, using my free hand to tickle his stomach. Whatever it is, it seems to be working. He gives out a small whimper that’s behind a laugh, then hugs me.
When we pull apart, he smears some tears using one of his hands.
At this point, my eyes are wet too.
“Listen,” I say, trying hard to keep myself from crying. “I want you to go back to your seat and be a big boy, okay? I need you to wear your big pants today. Can you do that for me?” He nods, and once I notice he’s paid attention to what I’ve said, I caress his cheek, then stand up. I wipe my face so that nobody can see that I’m crying.
My father, wearing an old fishing hat, stands with his head down, as though he doesn’t have much to say. Or actually, as though there isn’t anything to say. Anything that can be done. I’m the one they want. I’m the one this whole ceremony is set up for this year, and everybody knows it.
When he sees me, my father doesn’t pull his head up at first. His head tilted down says one thing. But his overall posture says another. Probably to the crowd. And because of this, I know what’s coming. When he tilts his head up to where I can see his eyes, he gives me a look. That look. The one from this morning. The one from last year when I’d first been selected. The one that says, you know what to do. And really, I don’t. But I know what I’m not going to do.
“No,” I say. “I’m not selling mom. I don’t care if I didn’t make enough points to get past the ceremony.” There’s a small gust of chatter that rises in the seats nearest me. And there it is. About as direct as we can be, and I don’t care that we’re in front of everybody. The online viewers at this point are at their most rallied up. And I’ve made it to the ceremony. Haven’t seen anyone get snatched from here. At least for now. And, with respect to the assembly crowd, even though there are only a few eyes on us that I can see in my peripheral, I’m sure the whole room is trying to listen to me now. This is always an intimate moment the contestant has with their family. And everyone always listens. Even though none of it ever changes. It’s a goodbye, really. Either that, or what he’s trying to insist I do, which is to auction off my injured mother in place of me. What everyone knows now, has known, but acts like they don’t. If you have a family member who’s as handicapped as my mother is, you sell her off to save your own skin.
In response, my father lowers his head again. He lets out a long sigh, then grabs Petey’s hand before turning back down their row. But just before he gets too far away, he swings back around to me.
“Hey, sunshine?” he says. I don’t know why I get two feelings at once, when he says this. One is a sense of calm. Like that of a child towards her parent. His voice seemed to be calling to me, like I was someone special to him. His daughter. Family. The other feeling I get, and I don’t know why or where it comes from, is the same sense from this morning. Sunshine, really? Are we still doing the charade, even this close to my banishing? He surely must know I’m on my way to die. And you still insist? A flabby nickname that you never use. Really.
“Yea,” I say. I hold back on the urge to be irritated. I don’t even know why.
“Good luck,” he says. Then winks.
Good luck. Great. Thanks dad. Whatever.
I turn to the stage.
Just before I reach the steps, there seems to be some commotion coming from the crowd. I hear a, “keep your hands out my pockets,” sort of a shout. Then mumbles around that voice, as the crowd simmers down. When I turn to look and see who it is, Mrs. Albright’s face, dawning her usual pair of glasses that she wears to this ritual, comes into focus. She’s a clerk at one of the hotels on the edge of town.
She seems to be smiling, barely, but I can’t exactly tell. The lights from the stage, closer now, are giving the crowd a glare. But the people around her seem nervous. Eyes darting left and right, some fidgeting with their hands, pulling and flapping at their necklines from the heat that’s always inevitably in attendance at this event due to having no air conditioner. Outside the small circle of nervous people surrounding Mrs. Albright, the rest of the crowd watches me with curious eyes. Part of me wonders if there’s a layer of pity under those curious eyes. Or maybe they are excited, blood thirsty, and want to see me escorted out of town. I don’t know. I haven’t been the best citizen, that’s for sure. And maybe they remember that most about me.
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When I’m on stage, the mayor stands across the platform from me, his hands resting on the podium that faces the crowd, but his head turned towards me.
“Welcome,” he says finally, in a booming voice. And as the mayor begins to speak again, he turns his head slowly, back towards the crowd. Odd, I think. It looked as though he wanted to say something to me.
“To this year’s annual Game Start Screen.” His voice bellows out through the auditorium. Nobody responds. There are a few coughs in the crowd, but now that the lights are shining directly at me, I can’t see anything. Just heads, and the dark red aisle leading back to the door I just entered through.
With the click of a button, the mayor brings up a projection on stage. This is what everybody is waiting on. What I’ve been waiting on. Or really, anticipating. The screen is simple. There’s a huge play button icon, which dissolves, only to be replaced by a profile picture of me, the exact same one from my kit. Below my picture, it gives small details, like my name, and age, and the town’s name. County Fifty-Four. But the most important piece of information is a small box located at the bottom of the projection. This box is empty. But in a few moments, it will reveal how many points I’ve earned in the last year. Nobody knows the threshold. When revealed, another play button icon will appear inside the box, with the number inside. The icon can be red, meaning I’ve lost, and then we all know the rest. If I’ve somehow won, I don’t know what color it would be. I’ve never seen anyone win. Nobody has.
The only exception to risking finding out whether you’ve won or lost, is to forfeit that opportunity, by auctioning off anything of value to the system. To the open- world. To the player-characters. For a town as poor as ours, that’s always a disabled family member. The option for this exception comes now.
“Before we are to get to the contestant’s score, there is the matter of the auction,” the mayor says. He’s looking over the rim of a pair of glasses, down at something across the podium. That’s when I first notice it. A twitch in his mustache. His hand scrubbing that scruffy caterpillar of whiskers, then wiping his forehead. He’s sweating, but profusely. It’s always hot in here every year, but I’ve never seen him so nervous. It’s as though he’s stolen something and knows the person in the room he stole it from is watching him right now. I think, maybe he’s always been this nervous in past rituals. I’d always been sitting somewhere in the back, with either Charlotte, then Caitlyn the last two years since Charlotte went missing. Suddenly, I have an even weirder thought, that if he had always been this nervous, and I wasn’t close enough to see it, maybe it has something to do with all those kids being banished every year. Maybe nobody ever knows, sitting that far away in the crowd, until you’re the contestant and you can see him up this close. Something in my stomach falls a hundred feet, and I begin to feel heavy enough to tip over and maybe fall on stage, but regain my balance, somewhat, once I see him turn to me.
“Ms. Annalise,” he says. And now his hands are at his sides, probably sweating, because he’s wiping his palms with his own fingers, as though he can’t move his arms or else he’d be seen. What do I do? What is going on?
“As the proctor for this year’s Game Start Screen, I am obliged to ask.” He pauses. I realize, suddenly, I’m right now, at this very moment, subject to do anything. Sell my mother. Sell my own arm if they’d let me. I don’t want to go into the open-world. This must be how the others felt. I suddenly have an enormous amount of compassion and understanding for the ones who did actually sell a family member. Standing in their shoes, I feel the weight of the decision. I see the flashes of my life, those shoe prints out in the sand. Out towards that crimson wasteland. Out beyond the big green wall, where player characters must be waiting for someone to cross over, somewhere. A new spawn of a non-player character. Heck, there’s probably a trove of player characters on the other side, just waiting, camping out for easy points. Maybe that’s what the others, too, suddenly realized, and is the reason why there were shoe prints in different directions. Trying to pick a place to cross the wall where you won’t be killed immediately. Lord. Lord!
“Would you like to offer up anything for auction, in place of your score?” The mayor’s face is dead serious.
“Neh,” I try to say. But the words don’t come out.
“What was that?” the mayor asks.
“No,” I force myself to say. And I say it as fast as I can. I say it, knowing that if I don’t save myself right now, I won’t.
“Very well.” He says. And then he turns back to the podium, his hands fidgeting on the way back up to whatever he’s using to work with the projector.
I’ve just killed myself, I think. That’s it. That has to be it. I mean, I may as well start walking to the wall now.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor says, “with no further adieu.” And with a collective breath, the crowd joins him in the annual ritual chant. “Let us see the light!”
I hear a digital click, as the mayor mashes a button behind the lateral flaps of the podium.
As the projector shifts, a chime rings out, and my score is revealed. It’s not red.
It’s not red? I think. In my head, I almost can’t believe it. Although, I don’t know if I’ve actually fainted or not, and maybe I’m just dreaming this. At least, not for a few moments. Then I have to force myself to focus, and I see that, yes, indeed, the score is not red. And I am awake and standing here on stage. The score is green. It really is green. But how?
The crowd begins to murmur, then I hear some sobs, like really deep sobs. I don’t think I’ve had a particularly good impression on anyone in town, so I don’t assume that anyone’s sobbing out of joy for me. It’s merely the idea of anyone, really, to ever have won enough points to stay, that’s coursing through the crowd slowly. I hear a “hallelujah,” as one woman throws her hands up. Then more people start cheering. Hooting. Hollering. And before I know it, the whole auditorium seems to be celebrating behind the blinding lights.
And then I see it. At first out of the corner of my eye. A sort of jittering. Of the leg maybe. As I turn, the mayor seems to be losing it. He’s muttering to himself. Chanting maybe. And his eyebrows are furrowed in madness. Then he stomps his feet. And I’m thinking, this can’t be rage, can it? Has the man gone absolutely nuts?
And maybe he isn’t. Because the next thing I see, is him turning towards me in a flash, and time seems to slow down. He gives me this look. A blank look. Such a quick switch from all the jittering, stomping, and furious eyebrows just seconds before, that it almost pulls me out of myself. What? I think. And as if on cue, he answers with a wink, clear as day, from across the stage, before mashing a button on the podium.
Suddenly, the projector changes. There’s a gigantic play button icon in the projection, with what looks like a silhouette of small houses nestled in the center of the symbol. And it slowly dawns on me that it is revealing something that has never once happened in the history of this town. Our town has been selected to host a player character campaign battle, right here, instead. Nobody is going to the player characters. The player characters are coming to us.