Marshall crossed the threshold. He found himself in a dimly lit hall, illuminated by a few golden-toned lights. A red carpet stretched out in front of him, and the AC was blasting so cold it felt like a freezer. No biggie, it was summer anyway. Two reception desks were set up to manage the players, and two impeccably dressed employees waited to assist participants. Both looked pretty hot and composed, but what set them apart were the masks they wore. One had on a fox mask, the other a dog mask.

In line with the others, Marshall was determined not to make eye contact with his queue-mates—most of them were doing the same. It seemed like no one trusted anyone else. After all, none of them knew what the Survivor Game would entail. They’d all blindly signed up.

"We might end up killing each other," Marshall muttered to himself. He realized that those around him were people who, like him, would probably face certain death.

Marshall's gaze was caught by a girl who stood out among the crowd of participants. She was stunning, strong-bodied, with raven-black hair cascading down her back. But something else caught his attention: her crimson irises, set like rubies in her pale face. What the hell? He’d never seen anyone with eyes like that before.

"Must be fake!" He told himself. But before he could investigate further, a participant behind him nudged him forward. Marshall had been daydreaming. He grumbled and took a step forward. Before he knew it, he was in front of the fox-masked employee. The line had moved without him even noticing. He took one last look back, but the girl was gone.

"Good morning." Ms. Fox said in a monotone voice. "May I have your ID, please?"

"Ah, sure." Marshall was still distracted, and Ms. Fox had to snap him back to the present. He clumsily handed over his ID, and she began to examine it while fiddling with her computer.

"Marshall Merson, participant number 346. Please, remember this number. You're cleared for the Survivor Game. Now, how much are you willing to contribute to the cause?"

"I'm sorry?" Marshall looked utterly bewildered. What was Ms. Fox talking about?

"How much are you willing to contribute to the cause?" She repeated sternly, no beating around the bush.

Marshall looked even more confused. "Excuse me, ma'am, but I have no clue what you're talking about."

"Do you…" Ms. Fox seemed slightly amazed. "Read the contract you signed?"

"Well, yes. Why do you ask?"

She pulled open a drawer beneath the counter, grabbed a copy of the contract, and pointed to a specific clause. "You might've missed this part."

Curious, Marshall looked at the section she indicated. She was right. There was a clause stating that anyone participating in the Survivor Game had to contribute some money.

"It's mandatory for all Survivor Game players to make a financial contribution." Ms. Fox explained. "It covers operational costs and ensures the game runs smoothly. Plus, part of it goes into the prize pool for winners."

Marshall listened intently, trying to wrap his head around the financial mechanics. "The minimum required contribution is 500 Wyodollars. But participants are free to give more, which could boost the prize pool."

"The amount I'm willing to contribute is… zero." Marshall declared, pride masking the fact that he didn't even have a single cent left.

Ms. Fox looked taken aback. "What?"

"500 Wyodollars? You've got to be kidding! This is a rip-off!" Marshall yelled, pounding his fists on the counter. The problem was that Marshall didn't have any money with him. He wanted to appear defiant in front of Ms. Fox. Wasn't it enough that they were being led to their possible death? And now they wanted money? Besides, 500 Wyodollars was a fortune in those days, the exact amount he'd borrowed from Bill and Jones. If they were that easy to come by, he certainly wouldn't have needed a loan.

"I apologize, Mr. Merson," Ms. Fox said with a voice tinged with stress. "I don't think it's possible to skip the payment." She paused as she glanced at her computer screen, seemingly verifying her information. "You see, the financial contribution is a mandatory requirement for all the players."

Marshall started to get worried. "So you're saying I can't play? Not a single Wyodollar will come from me. I'm here, and I'm playing no matter what. You can't kick me out now!" Marshall had lost it all. If they didn't allow him to join the Survivor Game, he didn't dare think about what would happen next.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

Ms. Fox seemed to hesitate as if searching for a workaround. "Wait just a second, let me check something." With a puzzled look, she started typing rapidly on her computer. After a moment, she appeared relieved. "Perfect! We've resolved the issue. You can participate in the Survivor Game, Mr. Merson."

Marshall was confused. "But... didn't you just say a second ago that I had to pay?"

"Everything will become clear once you're inside the Survivor Game." Ms. Fox replied, her enigmatic smile visible beneath her mask. "From now on, the game has started for you. Your nickname will be Marshmallow, the same as you used during your soldier days. We recommend that you not reveal your real name to anyone and stick with this or an abbreviation of it. It's a game requirement as the event will be broadcast worldwide. If you reveal your name, the whole world will know. It's for your privacy as human beings."

Marshall, or rather Marshmallow, grumbled as he thought back to his days as a soldier when the nickname had been born out of a joke among comrades. One of them had twisted his full name, Marshall Merson, into the shorter, sillier "Marshmallow." From that moment, Marshall had become Marshmallow to all his brothers in arms, and now that name would follow him into the Survivor Game, albeit in a very different context.

"I have one request," Marshall said seriously.

"What is it?" Ms. Fox asked.

"If something should happen and I... well, if I don't make it and I have to… die, I want my organs donated to two old friends, Bill and Jones. That should settle the debt I have with them and keep them from going after my family. That can be done, right?"

Ms. Fox nodded. "Yes, it can be done. You're not the first to make such a request. The Survivor Game is a way to redeem oneself, one way or another. Oh, one last thing, please put on that mask before you enter." Ms. Fox pointed to a basket filled with fox masks similar to her own.

Then Marshall put on the mask and walked through the door that would lead him to face the Survivor Game, ready to confront the unknown.

***

After completing the acceptance process with Ms. Fox, Marshall entered a large, crowded room filled with people wearing either fox or dog masks. It felt more like a masquerade ball than a gathering for a death game.

A dude wearing a dog mask approached Marshall. With an admiring look, he began to feel Marshall's arm. The guy seemed young, sporting black hair and brown eyes full of enthusiasm visible behind his mask.

"Dude, you're so tall and buff!" He exclaimed with genuine interest, coming off as more curious than threatening. "I'm OK Damage, but you can call me Dam if you like. And you? What's your nickname?"

Marshall was taken aback. What did this guy want? It seemed like no one was here to make friends except for this one. "I'm Marshmallow, or Marsh if you prefer." He replied tersely. He was still sizing up his surroundings. Interestingly, it seemed he wasn't the only one with a ridiculous nickname; maybe it was a common thing here.

Dam grinned mischievously. "Great, Marsh! Better make some friends here. Let's stick together, buddy."

Before the two could even properly introduce themselves, an eccentric character made his grand entrance. He was wearing a bull mask and had an equally quirky outfit: a flapping tailcoat and tight striped pants, with feet donned in typical ballet shoes. He leaped onto an improvised stage at the center of the crowd, microphone in hand, and began shouting like a madman.

"Welcome, welcome one and all, so welcome! I'm so proud to have you all here, oh how proud I am. Your courage is unmatched. You're ready to sacrifice yourselves for your nation. What bravery, oh you players!"

Marsh and Dam exchanged a puzzled look. They didn't seem too enthusiastic about 'sacrificing' themselves for any nation.

"Alright, time to unveil the rules, my dear players. As you all know, you'll be fighting a bloody battle here, aiming to survive at all costs. Your goal? Ruthlessly eliminate the unfortunate team from Novgovia, just as they will with you. Count yourselves; you're 500-strong, just like they will be."

The host executed a wild pirouette, revealing his classical dancer nature.

"Intriguing, isn't it? The game will consist of a Virtual Reality Massively Battle Royale Role Playing Game, or VRMBRRPG for short." The host nearly bit his tongue saying that acronym, "Or just call it BR-RPG. The only difference from a typical battle royale is that there will be two teams: The Wyolands and Novgovia. You'll all start at the most basic level and must advance by gaining experience throughout your journey. Rapid experience accumulation will be crucial as lagging will result in mortal risks, with opponents eagerly waiting to take you out!"

Here came another wild pirouette. This host truly embodied the madness of this game.

"Now, each of you will be randomly transported to different areas of the game map, making uncertainty a constant companion. But let's get to the point. You've wondered about it, haven't you? About what? The contributions, of course! Those who contributed more will gain a significant advantage. The system will divide you into five Ranks: E Rank, D Rank, C Rank, B Rank, and A Rank. Believe me, ending up in E Rank is not where you'd want to be, uhuh."

At these words, the mood suddenly shifted. The situation was genuinely unfair. Everyone thought they were all on an equal footing, but clearly, that wasn't the case.

It was clear that the rank division, favoring those who had contributed more, had caused discontent among the participants. Marshall's face, now Marshmallow, mirrored everyone's dismay. All the poorer players had hoped that the Survivor Game would offer a chance for a new life. Now they realized that even here, money still held its weight.

Was wealth really the key to survival? Was it possible that even in this extreme context, greed still played such a dominant role?