Marshall felt like he'd been thrown into a pit of agony. For a moment after his release, he wished his life would just end right there. No one could take sixteen lashes and walk away unscathed.
"I won't die here." He whispered, still lying on the ground.
Dying wasn't an option. If he croaked, Bill and Jones would come knocking on his family’s door next. That would be the end for them. He couldn't let that happen. Struggling, he tried to lift himself off the ground multiple times. The first couple of attempts were futile, as were a dozen more after that. Unable to lift himself, he crawled towards a table for support. After nearly an hour, he finally managed to stand, legs trembling, his back muscles feeling as though they'd betrayed him. Bent over, he started moving again.
The torture tools still lay around. Why had Bill and Jones left them unguarded? Tempted, Marshall considered snatching something—a knife, or perhaps a pair of pliers—to better defend himself next time.
Reaching out, he shook his head and drew his hand back. If he took anything, he'd give those bastards an excuse to screw him over twice as hard. They’d know something was missing and make him pay tenfold.
Right now, he needed medical attention—stat. He headed for the community health center, a haven for free healthcare, its core principle being compassion for the needy.
Healthcare was privatized in the Wyolands, making medical treatment a pipe dream for people like Marshall. A handful of souls still committed to the Hippocratic Oath had established this makeshift first-aid center. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He recognized his surroundings—the torture house was just a few steps from downtown. Fortunately, the community health center was nearby. A longer trek, and he'd probably keel over, even with the world's supply of willpower.
As he walked onlookers stared. Their eyes were wide with shock, but instead of helping, they showed only scorn.
“What the hell happened to him?”
“Must be another one of Bill and Jones’ victims. Hope I don't end up like that.”
“Serves him right for borrowing money from those crooks!”
Everyone seemed to treat him like a beggar; no compassion was shown for his plight. Gritting his teeth, Marshall continued his mini-odyssey to the community health center.
“Screw it. I’m used to being treated like trash.” He rationalized. He was managing a messed-up family alone. In a normal society, he'd get help. Here, he was left to rot.
“There’s got to be a way out of this,” he mumbled painfully, spotting the community health center in the distance. It resembled a refugee camp, filled with people nursing broken limbs, bandaged heads, and varying degrees of injuries. It looked like a warzone, which Pancrazia pretty much was.
Upon arrival, he was greeted by a nurse he recognized as Sharon.
“My God, Marshall! What happened this time?” Sharon exclaimed, visibly shaken. A woman in her thirties, married to one of the center's doctors, she’d treated him before. Every time he showed up, he was treated without judgment. It was one of the few places that did not make him lose faith in humanity and saved him from existential depression.
Marshall shook his head, struggling to speak.
"They did this to you again, didn't they?" Sharon cut him off before he could say a word, placing a finger on his lips. This was the third time Bill and Jones had beaten Marshall up. The first time it was just slaps, but the second time they broke his nose.
"Marshall, you need to settle your debts. You have to stop gambling! Haven't you realized you're just throwing money away? Next time, they might go after your family." Sharon warned, her tone almost motherly.
"Y-yeah..."
All Marshall could do was lower his head, and Sharon sighed, her hands on her hips. She wanted to help, but there was little she could do. Marshall was a good guy; he was just in deep shit. And it broke her heart. What could she say? To clean up his act? Any money he'd make that way wouldn't be enough.
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"Figure something out." That was all Sharon managed to say. "Follow me." And Marshall nodded.
Sharon led him to a makeshift clinic at the community health center. She had him lie down on a stretcher and examined him. "How can he still move?" She thought. She had never seen a back so ravaged and mutilated. Wasting no time, Sharon started tending to his wounds. Her medical treatment was rudimentary at best; she was just a volunteer. All she could do was disinfect the wound and stop the bleeding, dousing it liberally with water and isopropyl alcohol before bandaging up his entire back. Lastly, she gave him a fresh shirt and some gauze for self-care in the coming days.
"Take care," Sharon said, letting him go. Marshall waved a thank you and left, his heart warmed by the rare show of kindness in such a mad city. If he could ever repay it, he would. But now, he needed to focus on himself. He had to figure a way out of this mess. How could he? Sharon was right; he needed to come up with a plan. Continuing to gamble would just dig him deeper. He needed 16000 Wyodollars or at least a significant portion.
Anxiety was getting thicker at the moment. Marshall was walking down the street, lost in his thoughts when suddenly the power went out. Without any warning, Pancrazia experienced a citywide blackout. The metropolis was filled with maxi screens for advertising, and people watched them all go dark at the same time. The atmosphere on the streets grew tense, and chatter among the passersby picked up. It only took a few seconds for the power to come back. And it wasn't just the maxi screens; all the TVs, radios, or any device connected to the Internet like smartphones or computers, switched on, all tuned to a single frequency. It was a moment of chaos, and what they saw left them astonished.
On the big screens appeared King Richard himself. He was standing in his typical majestic posture, adorned with a finely tailored jacket and an elegantly knotted tie. But the most striking detail was his sumptuous royal crown, always present in his public appearances. He had a serious, authoritative expression, and from the screens, he exuded an aura that portended something important. The crowd snapped to attention; anyone listening or watching that message at that moment felt as if spellbound.
“My lovely citizens!” King Richard proclaimed in his erect and regal bearing. “I have great news to share. The conflict is coming to an end. We are at the point where nuclear escalation is just around the corner, and no one wants that. Hence, we have devised a solution. I have something grand to announce.”
The king raised his arms skyward, his tone confident and disdainful. Many people started to cheer, but some remained dumbfounded and continued to listen. If the war had truly ended, he would have said so outright. Marshall stared intently at the jumbo screen. His ears were all ears, and his eyes were wide open. Like everyone else, he anxiously awaited the king's announcement.
“I pose a question to you, my lovely citizens. What would you do if I offered you a chance to make your lives more exciting, electrifying, and valorous?” The king announced. A brief pause followed, leading to deafening chatter among the crowd. The king wanted something from his citizens, and Marshall grew uneasy. He knew well that when those in power spoke like that, things didn't usually turn out positively.
“I offer you the chance to participate in an event. To end the war, both sides have decided to organize a game aimed at concluding armed conflict. There will be two teams, each consisting of five hundred participants, totaling one thousand players!” The king fervently declared. Chatter suddenly became overwhelming, but the loudspeakers of the jumbo screens were so powerful that they drowned out the noise made by the crowd. Marshall couldn't believe his eyes and ears. A freaking game was going to end the war?
“The stakes are high. We need the bravest among you to win, and if we lose, we will have officially lost, and the Wyolands will become part of the United Nation of Novgovia. But if we win, the war will be over. And the survivors will be honored with great honor.”
The king had spoken of survivors. What did he mean? The crowd wondered in unison, and a hint of terror and panic began to rise.
Marshall, however, was in a trance. He listened, dumbfounded.
“Yes! You heard me correctly, my lovely citizens! In this game, you will risk your very own lives! You must do it! Risk your lives for the homeland, or we will all be deprived of our freedom! Do it in honor of the Wyolands! Survive this game and lead our nation to victory; those who succeed will live a life beyond dreams! Take the word of your king!” He solemnly continued, raising his hands skyward.
Panic began to escalate even further. Could any madmen participate in something like this? Marshall, meanwhile, was smirking.
“This game will be called: The Survivor Game! Who will be the survivors? Participate, my lovely citizens. The Survivor Game will be held in three days, at 10:00 AM, at the southern border gates. For more information, head to your respective town halls; they are fully briefed and can guide you on how to participate. Long live the Wyolands!” King Richard concluded.
Immediately after, electronic devices resumed as if nothing had happened. The public reacted with terror and concern to the announcement, grasping the gravity of the situation.
Yet, at the same time, some were pleased. Like it or not, the war was about to end, and the fear of being bombarded at any moment would soon be over.
Marshall remained both fascinated and shocked. He had suddenly forgotten all his pain. His eyes remained wide open in front of the jumbo screen, which had returned to ads selling Prosecco and other trivial things. As the crowd remained in a state of disbelief, terror, and shock, a thought sparked like lightning in Marshall's mind.
What if I participated?