The game's black and white broadcast resumed with a soft transition away from the noisy advertisement. The piano music was somewhat faster, Chopin now played. A bright cab was driving up the long winding road past the sign of the Residence. In the back of the car, Emilio was making sure his gun was loaded.

The narration returned. "I'm still not real clear why I followed that lead. This cab ride alone is going to cost me a fortune. It's bad business to represent dead clients, but that broad deserved for me to find the truth. Note to self: "buy a car".” Emilio arrived at the front door of the large building. He stepped out of the yellow cab and paid. "Don't wait," he said. The driver had no intention of doing so.

Emilio expected someone to walk out of the Residence and greet him. He lit up a cigarette and took a pull. No one walked out. He continued the narration, "This place smells like dead money. That broad's husband must have serious tunes to afford this for his mom. He'll pay for my broken window. As a PI, it's bad business to let clients walk out on a stretcher. I don't need my name in the headlines tomorrow. I have to get to the bottom of this now." He took another puff and looked around.

In this scenario, it was now late in the afternoon. A beautiful fall day.

Many residents were wandering these grounds in little groups. The retirees were often flanked by younger family members or part of the nursing staff. It was evident the Residence was comfortable to these rare guests. As he looked at their faces, Emilio's strange mind took over. In a micro-second, hundreds of alternative futures crashed into him. He saw himself walk over and talk to each of these residents. Each time, the scenario was different, but deep inside he felt he was off the preferred path. Other players had to decide what path to take. They had to investigate by hand with what Emilio could do in seconds. Emilio did not. Relying on his gift, he was able to quickly discard the cul-de-sacs from the genuine lead of each story.

His gift allowed him to feel which path was the right to take. The election system called Electoral played like a live role playing game or a video game. A person did what he or she wanted. Using the interface, a player simply had to stay on a predetermined path the longest. The computer awarded points when certain heroic actions occurred. His gift could not put words in the mouth of the digital images of characters populated by the system, but each time he got impressions.

Armed with this unique gift, Emilio frankly could not see how Laurent or anyone else could beat him. But the crippled father of the girl called Sophie was scoring big each round; that was undeniable. For the moment, he needed to find Takeda.

This latest story, Emilio told himself, appeared rather simple. An old woman, the one in the introduction, was the mother of the banker husband of his dead client. Villains of some type had leverage on the banker and mayoral candidate and had forced him out of his political run. This was a deadlocked situation. Would players have the interest of the voters in mind and help this old lady escape or would they have the interest of this old woman at heart?

Unlike what everyone liked to say, Emilio found the Electoral game straightforward and predictable. Her stories were always clichés. Marilyn Monroe had many formidable facets but authoring wasn't one. Today would be no exception. Layered upon this story was some human value used to help scoring. Sometimes it paid to be kind, other times, being strong was advisable. Even cruelty had its place. Those moods were easy to guess based on the overall feel of the game. To Emilio, at least.

The game, as Marilyn described it herself, was designed to elect a good human, not the best player. Emilio was no saint, but compared to elected officials, he was much better. A week ago, at the conclusion of the Presidential Challenge, she told the players empathy would be the twist of today's game. At least that was clear. Players would have to empathize with either old lady, the son, the client or the population. By judging the fragility of these residents, the scenario lent sympathy toward the senior residents. It was clear that a cloak and dagger escape with the old lady wasn't a good idea.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Today's game would be different. Emilio needed to visit Takeda in room 20C in a way which connected with this story. The detour would not be part of the main storyline. At this point, he no longer cared about the rankings. Something was nagging him, though. Emilio was certain that Electoral wanted him to speak directly to Takeda; either privately or for public broadcast. Then the President wondered if the computer has not inserted one "real" human in every game simulation. Emilio was a hundred points ahead; he no longer cared about his performance.

In a heartbeat, visions flashed, and he knew the old lady from the preface was alone, sitting on a bench by the pond. He knew she was the story's main character and the starting point before he could speak with Takeda. Emilio saw in his mind multiple storylines. In most a nurse would walk out from the front door of the main building holding a food platter. In some of the scenarios, he lifted the cover on the platter and saw what was under it.

Emilio decided on the best course of action and resuming the story. The nurse passed inches from the private eye, Emilio lifted the metal cover and stole a piece of bread. The nurse smiled.

"You want more?" she asked.

Emilio waved to the negative and blew a kiss her way on his way to the pond. Ducks were swimming in front of the old lady. Emilio walked over and began to chip away pieces of bread throwing them into the water.

"Nice day," he said to the lady.

"No feeding the ducks, against the rules."

"Sorry." He stopped and sat on the bench next to her.

"I guess you couldn't have known," softened the old lady.

"I don't get out of my office much. Banks are stuffy that way." Emilio was was at work now. Politics were a joke to him. He knew how to draw out the right information and sympathy. It was instinct, purely and simply. He was a good man, but still a predator.

"My son is also a banker," she volunteered on cue.

"Bankers love their mothers," he added. She smiled. "You like this place? I am thinking about it for my mother; she hates my son's dog."

"It's truly a beautiful place. They're so sweet here. We play bridge each day. Mister Leduc is like an adopted son to me; he runs this place. His mother is on the second floor. Her room is beautiful."

Emilio smiled. The lady loved her new home. The story was simple, the banker's mother was a prisoner in a perfect place. If he cared for the old lady, there as no reason to rain on her retirement choices. If the interest of the son and his client prevailed, he had to disclose the reality of this prison. Since the manager's mother was here, maybe the man himself was being blackmailed. Leduc himself was being forced into this complicated situation. Each scenario had a perfect solution. Here there was a way for the woman's world to remain intact and for the blackmail of the banker to end. That was the only solution worth the full 100 points. Emilio gave an internal finger to "the rules" as he gave the ducks more bread and reflected.

"This place must be expensive?"

"I don't know. My son takes care of it. You can ask Mister Leduc the price," she corrected herself, "Michel." The woman obviously liked the man. Emilio's gift took over. He saw himself get up and approach about twenty other senior residents. They were all women. They each liked the man called Michel; he was a womanizer. Emilio knew nothing along those lines could be part of the story ahead of him. Electoral never placed the human race in a dark light or hinted at improprieties. He felt every resident in this place loved the manager.

"Do you want me to introduce you to Michel?" she volunteered.

"You're too kind. That would be great. If you don't mind, I want to see the building first, you know. I love to walk around, maybe see if that kitchen is as clean as I can imagine. My mom needs the best, but she hates light, are there rooms in the basement?" Emilio knew he needed an excuse if he was caught snooping around down there.

"I don't know. I don't think so."

He grabbed her hand, kissed it and concluded. "Off to the darkest and dirtiest corner. Please don't tell."

To Emilio, the game was simple. Every other player was wandering the extensive grounds in search of any kernel of truth. He alone had time given by the visions. He walked back to the building and entered it as if he was home. He could not send his mind to Room 20C, to open the door and see what would happen. That was not how his mind worked. The visions had to come to him; he could not command them.

From his desk in Berlin, he pushed a button on his glove interface with his index finger, and this commanded his game body to enter the building and turn right down the stairs.

He wasn’t allowed to talk, instead he just saw an old body, a dying body with nothing more than hope as escape. The old Takeda, an Asian leading virologist was asleep. On the table by the bedside a picture of a much younger man, a young Latino man with completely different features. Marilyn, to make sure Emilio got the message, had the young man wear a small identity badge, it read “Takeda.”

The old man woke up and gently whispered two words to the President. Machines began to beeped he passed.