Two days had passed. The moment that Marshall left home, he headed straight for the railway. He couldn't bear to stay in that town a minute longer. So he set off towards the southern border. It was the meeting point between Wyolands and Novgovia, and the perfect location for the Survivor Game. The train journey lasted a couple of hours, but it felt much shorter thanks to the beautiful scenery whizzing by the window. Despite being the middle of July, the northern region where Marshall lived was surprisingly green and lush. The Wyolands mainly relied on livestock farming, and along the way, Marshall got to admire the vast pastures.
Just before crossing into the southern border, you had to pass through the village of Sudfrigio—a place that seemed steeped in rural tranquility. With its cobblestone streets, quaint half-timbered houses, and welcoming inns, Sudfrigio looked like something straight out of a postcard from a hundred years ago, an ancient gem in the south of the Wyolands. Unfortunately, this ancient gem had been reduced to a military base. Most of Sudfrigio's residents had been evacuated, and now many of those homes were occupied by soldiers. At least you could say the town had mostly remained intact. The Wyolander military had done a good job of keeping the Novgovian troops at bay. When it was safe to return, the former residents would have their old homes waiting for them.
Upon arriving in Sudfrigio, Marshall was immediately subjected to a mandatory medical exam, just like all the players. Over the first two days, he had stayed in the hospital, allowing the doctors to make sure he was physically fit to participate in the Survivor Game. He took the time to rest and received the necessary treatment for the injuries inflicted by Bill and Jones.
While under medical care, Marshall's gaze often fell on a mysterious building that stood out from the rest of the crowded urban area. Suddenly, the idea flashed through his mind. He knew what it was right away. It was a casino.
Why should I risk my life?
Marshall realized he had nothing left to lose. Once that thought settled in, the thrill of gambling reignited his addiction. The lights, the neon, the flashing signs—they were like drugs for his eyes. Sudfrigio's casino was calling him, he could feel it, and Marshall knew that wasn't a good thing.
"It must have been built for the military," Marshall said firmly. It had nothing to do with Sudfrigio's rural landscape.
For two whole days, he lay still in the hospital bed, engrossed in his thoughts, pondering what to do next. In the end, the urge to try it became irresistible. There may still be a way to escape his terrible financial situation without participating in the Survivor Game, and that way was the casino. He waited for the doctor's go-ahead, and the evening he was discharged, Marshall rushed out of the hospital.
Not a moment to lose, the casino was waiting for him.
Marshall approached Sudfrigio's casino expecting a luxurious and captivating place, different from anything he'd seen in this rural part of the Wyolands. With determined steps, he dove inside, entranced by sounds like the clinking of slot machines or the rustle of chips being handled. The casino building loomed grand and imposing, illuminated by a burst of dazzling lights and electrifying sounds.
Marshall felt right at home. The casino offered a wide variety of games, from classic roulette to modern slot machines. At the gaming tables, players focused intently on their poker cards as chips changed hands with simple gestures. Pure dopamine for Marshall Merson. But as he explored, his eyes were drawn to a giant pachinko machine: the Titanic Pachinko.
It was impossible to miss. A massive structure with zigzag tracks and thousands of tiny golden pins. At least five times bigger than any pachinko he'd ever seen.
"What the hell is that monstrosity?" He exclaimed in awe. Below the structure, a flashing sign announced in large, glowing letters:
Titanic Pachinko Jackpot: 5 Million Wyodollars!
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Marshall felt it. This was his chance to solve his financial problems once and for all. With his credit card at the ready and his adrenaline pumping, he walked up to the Titanic Pachinko and got in line with the other bettors. Marshall bought 126 balls, each worth one Wyodollar, spending all 126 Wyodollars he had in the bank. Each ball represented a chance to change his fate.
Marshall knew that his future would be decided by this cross between a slot machine and a pinball game. As he walked among the dazzling lights and noise, he realized he was gambling his destiny. Then he made up his mind not to lose heart and set off, ready to face whatever fate had in store for him.
The tension around Marshall was palpable. The spectators clearly sensed that Marshall was in a life-or-death struggle. However, one by one, the balls disappeared without hitting the winning target. The sound of balls falling into oblivion was like a symphony of defeat.
Marshall felt the weight of anxiety growing stronger within him as the balls vanished one by one. He couldn't stop now. He couldn't back down. He had to go on to the end.
"Just one! Just one is all it takes! And the 5 million will be mine!" He screamed inside himself. Soon, hope turned into desperation, and the noise of the balls merged with the buzzing of his thoughts. In the end, as he watched the last Wyodollar disappear into the machine with nothing to show for it, he felt like a ship lost at sea, sinking in a storm of despair.
Suddenly, Marshall felt as if the blade of a guillotine had fallen on his neck. He had just lost everything. He was buried in debt, jobless, had abandoned his family, and now had drained every last cent in his bank account. He was left with nothing. The only thing he had left to gamble was his life, and participation in the Survivor Game had now become a necessity. He had signed a contract after all, but he'd thought it would be worth a shot. If he'd won the 5 million, he could've sent it all to his family and run off to some remote hideaway.
"Damn it! Sharon even warned me!" Marshall cursed to himself. It was common knowledge that slot machines and pachinko were designed to make you lose. Yet, every time Marshall felt that ticking itch of gambling, he felt himself lose control. Even though he had been a soldier and was a disciplined man, every time he faced his addiction, he ended up defeated.
A gambling addict—this was the real identity of Marshall Merson. He knew he now had to answer for his responsibilities. Shaking his head, Marshall was forced to confront himself and acknowledge the gravity of the situation.
"Never again." He vowed to himself as he stormed out of the casino.
***
During the night's rest in the modest room he had been assigned, Marshall had time to reflect on what lay ahead. Eventually, he fell asleep staring at the barren wall, not even realizing that he had fallen asleep.
The Survivor Game awaited Marshall like an inescapable promise. Now, he felt ready to face the challenges ahead, like a soldier about to go into battle. He woke at dawn. A cold shower revitalized him, and he donned the attire specifically provided for the Survivor Game: a uniform complete with a jacket adorned with gold buttons and epaulets, and shiny shoes on his feet.
Marshall looked at himself in the mirror and experienced a sense of déjà vu. This outfit looked eerily similar to the uniform he'd worn during the parade just before going to war, a government-mandated display to boost soldier morale. But this uniform had one particular detail. The military attire was dark blue, this one leaned toward pitch black, with striking crimson red accents. It was somewhat unsettling, but perhaps that was more fitting for the occasion. Was it designed to highlight the blood that was to be spilled? Who could say?
Marshall went to the station, and he and several other players boarded a train bound for the southern border, the designated area for the Survivor Game. After stepping off the train, he exited the station and was taken aback by what he saw: a massive, cube-like structure.
"What the hell is this?" He exclaimed aloud, staring at the building before him in bewilderment and awe. There was no mistaking it; this was the venue for the Survivor Game. So, he proceeded toward the building. Its surface had no windows or openings, as black as the night, to ensure that the morning sun would not reflect into the eyes of players approaching the structure.
Marshall slowly joined the other players moving toward the cube, scrutinizing the details of the building with disbelief. A perimeter of sentinels in military uniforms surrounded the structure, making its importance clear. There were no distinctive signs, no emblems, or indications of its purpose. It was simply a cubic monolith as large as a ten-story building. Marshall wondered whether the architect had designed it this way for utmost secrecy, or if it was simply built from some high-end material. And when on earth had they found the time to construct such a thing?
However, even surrounded by a crowd of players gathering around, Marshall ignored them all and went straight on his way. With his heart pounding and his breath coming fast, he joined the other players in crossing the threshold of the giant cube.