When Strangelove wakes up, he is suspended in the center of a small chamber. A tangled web of chains restrains him in a chair over a pit of fire. Below him, around the pit, four thrones are surrounded with enough space to walk around them, through three entrances. He is familiar with these thrones. Before the allure of high pay and top tier loot led to becoming a sergeant of a quest running squad, he had been one of the recruits lucky enough to participate in a punishment trial. Now that he sits in the guilty chair, it isn’t so funny. He looks down to the fire at the bottom of the pit.
All he can do now is wait for judges to be picked out from the street. If he’s lucky, one of his old friends may even be able to vouch for him in order to push for a better sentence. If he can convince them he didn't run away, but was the only one strong enough to survive, maybe his punishment will be less horrific. But he knows how unlikely it is; everyone loves a good punishment, and nearly any of them would jump at the chance to accuse him of running away.
Such cowardice is always punished with death.
Embers rise from the bottom of the pit, stinging inside his unhealed stumps. He hyperventilates, fighting the urge to shout. The shimmering orange shapes hiss as they extinguish in the congealing blood of his injuries.
How long will they make me wait?
He stares into one of the doorways, waiting. The first to come is an old squad mate, Cassius. He announces his entry by exhaling an alarmingly large cloud of smoke from his nostrils. Even from hoisted above, Strangelove can see the red stain in his eyes.
As Strangelove locks eyes with his old ally, guilt racks his mind. Everyone here has been forced to make hard calls, but during the mission he was supposed to lead, he had been more than willing to do what was necessary for survival. That included leaving his entire squad to be devoured. He stares into Cassius' bloodshot eyes, trying to read his emotions like he had tried many times before. But just like old times, he can only catch glimpses of humanity buried by expressionless masks stacked atop each other.
The next two stumble in, giggling incessantly as they crawl on top of the same throne. Their armor obnoxiously clinks against each other and the cold metal throne, and Strangelove stares for a moment as they continue to laugh. This intoxicated, they could choose to do almost anything with him.
The idea of ‘anything’ terrifies Strangelove.
The last selected judge crawls in while clutching his paraphernalia against his chest with a sweaty arm. He coughs a yellow blob onto the floor as he hoists himself into an unnatural, stoic pose on the throne. His greedy hands clutch the bong as if it were a tool of divination. His eyes are distant and cloudy.
“Open the group chat.” The bong wielder spats.
Windows flicker in front of them, displaying their assignment as judges.
“Greetings, randomly selected judges:
Cassius, Livius, Justus, and Death Khan.
You will decide the fate of Sergeant Strangelove. He was in charge of a quest running squad which was completely wiped out, and is the lone survivor. He claims he did not run away, he says he was the only one strong enough to survive the demons in the southern flesh biome.
But he was not strong enough to protect them.
The four of you must agree upon a punishment. There are no rules, and every judge must have the strength to interject his opinion. Present yourselves with honor, and may the strongest will win.”
Livius and Justus jeer first, simultaneously shouting “Gladiator death!”
Death Khan belches his agreement. “Yes, but… what should he fight?”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Livius gawks at Justus’s dainty fingers as they trace their open menu to message the beast master. Before Cassius can interject, Justus proclaims,
“In no particular order! We got; poison cave lions, zombies, tree raptor-”
Death Khan interrupts. “Tree Raptors are soooo sick.”
“Agreed!” Livius jeers. “But the poison-”
“Special effect monsters are-”
“The zombies-”
“Shut the fuck up!” Cassius’ shout echoes in the chamber like a lion's roar. “Killing him might be what he deserves. But that said…” His lips curl into a false smile, drawing everyone's attention. “Guaranteed death wouldn't be nearly as fun as forcing him to grasp for a sliver of a chance.”
Livius and Justus point their thumbs to the floor. “Our idea is much better.”
Death Khan scratches his five o'clock shadow. “Shut it. I wanna hear the pitch.”
“We make him command one more squad: a squad of the stupidest, strangest, and most unruly prisoners who fail their evaluation.”
All three make a thoughtful hmph as he spreads his arms, awaiting their approval.
“Well? What do you think?”
Strangelove wonders how Beam is doing in his evaluation. Questions flooding his thoughts make it hard to pay attention to the bickering over his punishment. Why did Beam save him? Would he have done the same? He already knows the answer.
Meanwhile, Beam continues to be analyzed by the bizarre NPC.
Beam has been going through his evaluation for nearly an hour, answering questions which seem inconsequential to strategy or conflict. In fact, Beam felt more like he was applying for a fraternity than a guild playing itself as some new empire.
How many women have you had sex with? Have you ever been intimate with another man? Do you believe in God? How many alcoholic beverages does it take for you to black out? Have you experimented with drugs?
He almost laughs at his own joke questioning the glitched NPC’s mental state when the first serious question slaps him in the face.
“Have you ever panicked at the sight of your own blood?”
“Not even once.”
As Beam pants, he notices an unnerving part of the NPC. The thing’s eyes pixelate every time his answer feels even slightly uncertain.
“Why is war the next step in evolutionary instinct?”
The answer doesn’t come so easily this time. What kind of drugs are these people on? His mind goes to the demented takes he’s seen countless times online; the Roman Empire enthusiasts and neo-Nazis ranting of how their ideal society would be.
“This is just the way that the world is. It’s the way that people are.”
The NPC’s eyes sparkle red. “Your career will be determined after tonight's initiation party for you and the other new recruits. Congratulations, Beam Psykko.”
As Beam is ushered up the stairs, his bonds and collar removed, Strangelove's trial is wrapping up. Strangelove listens to their final deliberations.
“It's decided then. What a great choice. His death will be as horrible as his mistake.”
“Top tier content for sure.”
The judges disperse, and Death Khan carries Strangelove to a medic, who has already been supplied with a donor fitting his needs.
“Wish I could kill you, you fucking coward.”
Death Khan bursts into the dingy workspace, kicking the door and tossing Strangelove onto a stone slab. “Got the little shit right here doc, work your wonders.”
As the Khan strides outside, Strangelove feels his palm strike across his face, followed by laughter. The humiliation burns in his cheeks, lingering long after the pain fades.
The room is candlelit, with empty bottles of alcohol scattered throughout the horde of brutish medical tools. The tools, ranging from scalpels and scissors to hammers, and even a shovel, are all rusted and crusted with the blood of thousands of victims and patients. Strangelove shakes with anticipation; this isn’t the first time he’s been patched up here, and it won’t be the last.
Beam stares at the doctor’s ugly face as he scoots past a jar of pickled maggots. His walk is slow and methodical, like a spider waiting in his web for his next meal. He gives Strangelove no acknowledgement, as if he were just another product.
He clasps his hands in anticipation. “This is going to be… a lot of fun.”
His smile stretches the folds in his face. He takes up the hacksaw, and begins his work.