"SYCAMORE HIGH SCHOOL"
███.█.███.█
It was no surprise.
The countdown on every student's Heads-Up Display (HUD) ticked over to 60:00:00, nines falling off the face of the earth (and the timer), traded for a routine of crossed-out zeroes. Each clock hanging on the walls—like corpses from the gallows—ticked over at once, simultaneously striking the hour with a definite finality, as if the hands on their faces were axes to behead them. The bell tolled again with an echoing malice—like a prelude, a preamble to them being led right to the execution platforms. As soon as so, the feed appeared, pushing itself into the visual range.
It didn't matter if they wanted to see it or not. There was no such mercy.
Even if one of the remaining survivors were to shut their eyes, tightening them like the doors of Fort Knox—no matter how hard they closed them—they would see it. The images would brand themselves into the darkness, the blackened canvas of their lightless eyelids, burning themselves into memory like the main menu of a video game left on a television overnight. And even if they blocked their ears, stuck fingers in them, tried to bury the sounds, the audio would burst through the dams, drowning out even their loudest thoughts in a tsunami of malice and hatred and death.
"Long time no see."
Zeph Newman was there, reclining in his stolen throne, smiling daggers at them—as if he were the Devil himself. He gave a curt nod to the camera and them by proxy before launching his latest announcement. "For a start, I'd like to extend a proper 'good evening' to everyone. All twenty-six of you, that is. After all, it's the second night here in Sycamore—I've got to admit, though, it's starting to look a lot like a Syca-Morgue." He chortled at his joke, rolling his eyes with a lighthearted playfulness that suggested it was below even his rock-bottom standards of gallows-black comedy.
"Anyway, the casualty count's starting to stack up—that's good! But, with that in mind, I've got some bad news for all of you." At once, his face fell into a frown, the same kind a father might give to a child who had fallen short of their expectations. His voice turned grave and grim, a rumble of thunder in his throat as he spoke—now dark and stormy, like the cocktail. "We're not meeting our twelve-hour murder quotas. Come on, folks! I expected a mite better from all of you! Survival of the Fittest is a game—why aren't any of you playing for high scores?" He spat his words out.
"I'd like to remind you of my prior warning, or, as I'm more tempted to call it now, a promise—one that we intend to make good on," Zeph said, his disdain evident in his voice. His right hand lazily held up a small, silvered remote control, the same as one might use to control a television. As if on cue, a large monitor screen rolled into view, coming to its stop in view beside its head, the sight conspicuous enough to draw one's attention right towards it. "Alright, everyone. It's time to listen up, because this is going to be a painful reminder. Roll the clip!" He pushed the 'play' button.
After that, he dropped the obvious charade that was his kindness, like it was just another mask for him to wear. "Of course, like always, it falls on me to be the bearer of bad news. I want to voice my formal discontent at the lack of action that's been going on—really, now, I figured you'd all be better sports about the whole 'death game' thing. Where's your initiative? Where's your drive? Come on, now, don't be such spoilsports, you lot! I'm going to give you a warning here because I'm a good guy: if you all don't pick up the pace soon, we're going to have no choice but to up the ante."
"Unfortunately, you've let me and my organization down," he said, shaking his head to both sides. Then, as he stared into the point-of-view, his eyes burned like cold fire—a fierceness that was hard to square. "As a result, we're implementing a new rule. If none of you kill within the next twelve hours, everyone dies. And by 'kill,' we mean 'murder'—no half-assed half-measures. For the record, that means no suicides, no accidents; we want your hands dirty. If you've gotten cold feet, we suggest you start warming up—because if you don't start playing for keeps, you'll lose your heads."
He cleared his throat. "This is your last warning. We will not repeat it."
After that, there was a long pause, as if he wanted to let the tension in the air scatter. However, before the sudden chill of his threat could fade, Zeph spoke again—this time, he let some of the harshness melt away, allowing a mellowness to return to his voice and a meager smile to come back to his face. "Now, with all that said, I'd like for us to move onto a pleasant topic: the recent casualties. Today, we've got four of them to present to you—take them as being aspirational. Let's take it from the top, folks." With that, he snapped his fingers, the television rolling out of view again.
"Our first casualty is actually a two-for-one deal," he said, grinning. "You see, Boston Sullivan and Gillian Kruger had an encounter that got up close and personal—very close." As he narrated, another video showed the two students cowering on the floor of one of the classrooms. Given the video's wide angle, it was hard to say what exactly was happening—that is, until Gillian suddenly rushed forward, striking Boston with a mirror of sorts. The entire classroom lit up as if she had activated a flashbang—with that, the feed cut to a pile of crimson censored with mosaic tiles.
"Too close for comfort, I'd say," he remarked. "Let's just say it got messy."
The next video showed a smaller group of students, all of whom appeared to be within the school's parking lot. A tank was present in the shot, and one of the students—the only one whose identity was not concealed by the editing—clambered atop it. He launched into what seemed to be the start of a speech, hopping down from his spot on the top of the vehicle, leading with the phrase, "First things first, we—," before he paused. The video panned instantly to his feet as they touched the ground before cutting to black, transmitted screaming blaring across the empty void.
"To quote Neal Stephenson," Zeph Newman said, with an almost haughty tone, as if mimicking a stuffed-shirt academic. Then, he launched into his next section with more than a bit of annoyance. "Patrick Nguyen thought that he was the baddest motherfucker in the world. Unfortunately, the world seemed more than willing to prove him wrong. Just like that, some shoddy steps sent him to the sepulcher. Watch your feet, everyone! It's not hard to die. Even something as small as tripping could get you killed—any mistake could be your last. Just some friendly advice from ol' Zeph."
He paused.
"That said, I've had enough of this comedy of errors. Let's end this little announcement with a stunning tale of valiant courage, shall we?" And, with that, the final video began—depicting three students engaged in combat on the school's rooftop. "Quantum Machine Œ Mi-IIV Zorin Boddicker and an ally of his took on our school's resident swordsman, Paris Lowery. Even with their two-to-one advantage, the situation quickly turned against our hero." The video took a dramatic turn as if depicting events from an action film, showing the swordsman cutting them down.
"Here's the kicker, though! At the start of the game, we gave each of you a weapon and a utility, assigned at random. Our good friend received a syringe that allowed him to heal any injuries—once. So, how did our survival expert make use of it?" Zeph paused as if about to reveal a spoiler for a highly-awaited movie. Then, on screen, Zorin jabbed the syringe into a prone, blurred figure. "By wasting his second chance on someone else. I wonder what his dad must be thinking about this sorry act of suicidal martyrdom—given the name, I can't imagine he's too sad."
Zeph snapped his fingers again. The video closed instantly, and, in its place, a map of the arena opened like a pop-up on a shady website. "It's time for this cycle's Danger Zones. If you want to live, I recommend that you steer clear of The Empty Classrooms (East Wing 2F), The Untouched Classrooms (West Wing 3F), The Schoolyard, and The Parking Lot. Those four are our Danger Zones for the next twelve hours." All four of these areas flashed red on the map. "On the flip side, though, we're opening up The Emmett Sterling Memorial Planetarium and The Common Area."
And, with a snap of his fingers, the map closed—now, Zeph was alone on the HUD. Aside from the timer on the top of the screen, which was still ticking away—as always, looming at the top of their vision like a guillotine above their heads. Zeph's gaze was cold, his smile frigid and false, and there was no warmth in his expression—a mask. "And that closes out our second day. I want to remind all of you that we're expecting at least one murder each cycle—and, of course, we'd prefer more than that. It's your necks on the line, after all. Better roll up your sleeves and get to work."
Zeph Newman held his words—as if to choose them with care.
"I'll see you again in twelve hours. Put on a good show, everyone."
