“Fuck me mum!” Cillian curses, “Ye actually asked to come here? Are ye mad or stupid?”

“A bit of mad, occasionally stupid, but this was a calculated move,” I say.

“Ye’r shit at math,” Cillian tells me. The Scottsman takes a swig of his drink and grimaces when the bottle only gives him a few drops. “I’m guessing you cannae gimme the reason why you’re here?” he asks, assuming the answer.

“Of course I can,” I tell the Scottish man as he lifts up his mattress.

Cillian pauses at my words, and then frowns.

“Is me knowin’ tha’ gonna to get me killed?” he grabs another bottle, of which there are many. “Cause I’d rather no’ die yet.” he uncorks the bottle and takes a happy swig, then blanches at the taste.

“Feck me, ‘is tastes like piss.”

He takes another swig anyway.

“Not implicitly. In fact, it might reduce your chances of getting killed.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. Corks the bottle, and then throws it. I catch it easily while he grabs another from his under-mattress stash.

“Thanks,” I say. I uncork, take a whiff, grimace, and then take a taste.

“Yup, this tastes rancid.”

He shrugs. Lowers the mattress and then plops his butt on top of it. Then he looks at me as I sit on the only chair in the cell.

“So what's your mad plan for bein’ here?”

I lean back into the chair. “Well, I’m sure you saw the message about the God Games, right?”

He nods slowly.

“Well, first off, let me introduce myself. I am Quasi Eludo, summoned hero extraordinaire. It’s my job to get summoned by gods and complete whatever they request of me. In exchange, they pay me, usually in millions of U.S. dollars, though most recently in a trillion dollars of mineral wealth— but I digress. I’ve met many gods, and one of these acquaintances in particular had not only heard of the God Games, but was also a part of several of them. He was more than happy to explain to me the gist of how the games are run.”

Cillian uncorks his bottle and takes a heavy drink.

“Right then, here’s a toast to your crazy,” he takes another swig, “So what’d yonder god-thing tell ye?”

I grin at the Scot. “He told me that Pandora has a fetish for ‘testing’ large population centers, kidnapping the survivors, and then auctioning them off to the gods as players in whatever twisted contest the God Games entail.”

To my surprise, Cillian is listening to my every word with a smile.

“The usual test is an apex predator drop. Pandora releases some predator that not only fancies the testees for dinner, but is also resistant to whatever means of combat the test population has at their disposal. And disposal is usually the result; only about one percent of tested species pass, eg., survive.”

“Prison.” Cillian exclaims. “You’re thinkin Downside will be tested.”

“It will be.” I state. “The population here is in the tens of thousands and the density is greater than most cities. Downside is a perfect place for the test, and I would argue it’s the best place to be if you want to have any chance of surviving.”

Cillian takes another swig. He then scratches his beard in deep thought. After several seconds, he begins to speak.

“You mentioned the tests are goin to create some monster resistant to what's available, right?”

“Yup.”

“So, what. Are you expecting to be fighting monsters stronger than bears?”

“What? No, this prison has no guns, so whatever gets summoned wouldn't be able to brush off the impact of a bullet- wait. Why did you mention bears?”

He gives me the grin of a drunk that thinks he knows more than the sober guy in the room. Which is mostly true. The last shareholder reports I received are a bit dated and rather… unspecific.

“The fightin’ pits in the center of the prison have prisoners fightin’ other prisoners and animals.”

No!

“Fuck!” I yell, outraged, “Is that why they listed funding for polar bears? And since when do they even have a fighting pit?!”

I throw the gold-trimmed book across the room. It smacks the wall beside Cillian and lands, open, on his bed.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Are there even any rules!” I yell, outraged.

Cillian glances at the blank pages of the book next to him, and then snickers.

Bears. Why bears of all things?

“Fuck.” I curse again. “How many bears are we talking about? Are they trained or just released? Who controls them? The guards?” I asked him rapidly.

Cillian shrugs and takes another swig.

“Don't know. I just stay in the gold district,” he taps his belly, “as you can see, I’m a wee bit lackin’ in the muscle department.” He raises his bottle and swishes it, “I prefer ta stay still by the still.”

I raise an eyebrow, “You have a still? They let you brew alcohol?”

“Gold Ranks have many perks,” he taps the gold band on his leg, “we have access to nearly everything the guards do. So long as we ain’t selling it to the other ranks, we can do anything we want.”

A small grin rises up to my lips as an idea forms.

“I don't suppose you have a workshop?”

“We do. Basement level. Nobody goes there anymore ever since the incident.”

I stop standing and take a seat back on the chair.

“Incident?”

He takes another sip. “Not sure. Jeff told me that some prisoner got electrocuted down there.”

“And Jeff is…”

Cillian taps the top bunk, “Jeffrey Epstein, my former roommate. Poor guy died of pancreatic cancer last week. Terrible thing.”

I go cross-eyed. “Didn't he kill himself?”

Cillian snorts. “Bah, of course not. The government just faked his death and then transferred him here.”

“Really?”

He nods, “Yup. They do it all the time. They did it with Hitler at the end of the second war and even recently Bin Laden. Elvis is a lie though.”

Well… fuck. I knew the government liked to lie, but not to this extent.

“So why keep them alive at all?”

He taps the bottle thoughtfully.

“Mostly for information, but really for any reason they want. I know with Hitler, they kept him alive to better control the Nazi scientists they abducted.”

“Project Paperclip,” I murmur under my breath.

Cillian chugs the rest of his bottle and then burps mightily.

“Ahhh, that hit the spot. I think I need a nap.” the Scot yawns. He turns and lays down over the bottom bunk.

“We’ll talk more later.” he announces softly.

Not even ten seconds later, and the man is snoring up a storm.

I stare at the drooling Scot for several more seconds, then stand up and walk out of my cell. As I traverse the halls, I meet several more prisoners, none of whom so much as give me the time of day. Each one has a gold band on their leg and all give off the vibe of those who are extremely wealthy. My stride eventually takes me back to the plush living area. Several prisoners lounge on the couch, eating snacks, and staring at a TV.

On the TV are two prisoners with makeshift armor and weapons. One prisoner has a massive metal club that looks like a sledgehammer and the other wields a makeshift spear, a metal stick with a shiv lashed to the end, in one hand and a slab of metal with rope attached to his other hand. Linked scrap iron covers both of their bodies as they circle each other. I watch, both surprised at the makeshift weaponry, and annoyed at the fact that the weaponry is there.

Eventually the circling stops at the urging of the crowd and the sledgehammer guy engages with a probing stab. The spear guy dodges and stabs with his spear, but the sledge hammer guy is already tilting to the side. He dodges the stab with a spin, and then uses the momentum to swing his hammer. The spear guy raises his shield and I’m already shaking my head at the wrong move.

The shield intercepts the hammer, but the momentum continues. I hear the crack of bone over the speakers as the spearman’s arm crumples and the shield plus hammer slam into his body. The man goes down with a cry of pain.

As prisoner stabby falls, hammer guy follows through with his swing and brings his hammer down on his fallen foe just as the spearman screams I Yield. But it’s too late; the hammer slams down and crushes the prisoner's skull.

At the explosion of brain matter, the crowd on the TV and the convicts on the couch cheer loudly. They scream and yell with bloodlust as blood seeps out of the dead prisoners' leaking skull.

Unbothered by the death, blood, and brain matter, I walk away from the TV to the elevator. Next to the elevator is a sign that says ‘Emergency Stairs’.

I press down the button and await for the elevator to arrive. When it does, I enter and press the glowing button that says ‘Basement’.

Music plays softly as the elevator descends. When it reaches the basement, the elevator thunks to a halt. The door opens onto a dark hallway dimly illuminated by flickering emergency lights.

I step out of the elevator and proceed with caution. I smell the cloying scent of old, dry blood. I come to a set of warped steel doors at the end of the hallway.

Something exploded in there. A bomb of some kind? Goddam I hope not. Those damn spears and hammers, not to mention the fucking bear, are already going to make this test difficult.

I slowly open the right hand door. Darkness there, and nothing more. After a moment of anticlimax, I grope around for a lightswitch. When I find it, I press the switch and the lights flicker on. Immediately, I notice flayed and open wires sizzling with electricity, and the scent of ozone and burning metal. Steadily walking inside, I find what is burning. Dried old blood on the ground near a workstation smokes from the charged electrical wiring laying on top of it.

I guess this explains the Incident.

I look around and memorize the room in its entirety. I note the exposed wires and other such hazards, then I double back to the entrance and turn off the light. I re-enter the workroom and begin moving the hazards away. After a good half hour of cleaning and moving, I turn the light back on and grin at the relatively more organized room.

I then spend the next hour searching and noting everything that could be useful for my purposes. I also find the source of the explosion. Under some debris, I find a destroyed and partially melted chemical station. Next to said chemical station is what looks like a destroyed car battery.

“Why the hell is there a car battery here? Do they have cars in this city?”

Eventually, my question is answered when I check under the workstation and find an old tig welder missing its equally large powersource.

I stare at the welder for a long moment, then I glance at the exposed wiring to the building. A grin rises up to my face.