Squeezing the trigger, John barely felt the kickback as the bullet exited the chamber with a loud crack and muzzle flash.
He had won, and he hadn’t lost himself in order to do it. This was a merciful kill and he could be proud of that. The more he lost himself to this game the more the aliens won and he wouldn’t allow that to happen.
DING, DING, DING.
Time is up! A.J. sang as everything froze.
Looking across at Joanna, her eyes were wide, as were his. The bullet hung between them in midair, frozen in time.
She was still alive.
What the hell! There’s no way the timer ended mid shot, no fucking way! This game is rigged! John thought, though he happily would have shouted it to anyone who would listen if he wasn’t stuck in the stasis light and unable to move his mouth.
On the upside, he couldn’t feel the agonising pain in his melted cheek and bubbling chest anymore.
The molten rocks and lava were sucked back into the ground as the two contestants stood staring at each other, unable to move, unable to communicate.
What a shocker of a finale folks. Who’d have thought that contestant John Doe would take the upper hand? I certainly didn’t. Aren’t Earth guns cool? I’m thinking about buying one for my kid, and on that note. Here’s a word from one of our sponsors.
John didn’t get a chance to watch the advert that was definitely playing on a hologram across the arena. His purple light tube was sucked away, but this time, though there was darkness, he was awake.
Previously he’d always been put into a stasis sleep after the end of a round. He wondered why that wasn’t the case this time.
It felt like he was floating in the darkness for quite a while, then all of a sudden light flooded in all around him, burning his retina and blinding him.
He felt himself drop to the floor as the stasis ended, but his eyes were scrunched up hard against the florescent lighting all around him.
I’m about to get probed aren’t I?
The stasis tube disappeared and he dropped to the floor, instinctively throwing his hands over his eyes to protect them as he adjusted to the bright light which enveloped him.
“Welcome contestant, can I get you a caffeinated beverage?”
Peering through the cracks in his fingers, John could just about make out the oddly feminine, metal figure of black and white… is that a robot?
“You look like if C3PO procreated with a Stormtrooper,” he said, his jaw slackening as the pain in his retina began to subside.
“This unit recognises the human dependency of humour in traumatic situations. Ha ha. Ha ha. Can I offer you a caffeinated beverage?” The voice had that distinct computerised sound that one associated with an android, and blue lights glowed in time with the syllables, creating an eerily wide smile.
Shuddering, John got to his feet and began removing his hands from his face.
He stood in a white room, a completely white room filled with white, futuristic-looking chairs, a white, glossy table and not much else. Looking down he saw that his wounds had been healed. Though there was some mild scarring.
It was so bright.
He felt naked under the florescent light, not a shadow in sight. Also, the robot was creepy as fuck.
“Can I offer you a caffeinated beverage?” The robot asked again, holding out a steaming metal kettle and a white Styrofoam cup – or at least something that looked like one. John wasn’t certain that aliens had Styrofoam.
“Where am I?” He asked, ignoring the robot’s hospitality once more.
“You are in greenroom 794-B,” the robot replied clinically, “can I offer you-”
“Greenroom?” John interrupted, “it’s not very… green. Am I still on the arena ship?”
“Yes, this is level 27SB, one of the lower levels used to hold guests, can I offer-”
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“What am I being held for? Didn’t I just win the tournament, I’m sure that’s what A.J. announced.”
“Yes, congratulations on your victory contestant. You are being held here because soon you will be interviewed on live galactic television. Can I offer you a-”
“Live TV?” John asked incredulously, he felt sick.
He knew that Battle Royale was an intergalactic TV show, but so far he’d mostly kept it from his mind.
Fighting in the arena, he’d been watched by thousands of blood thirsty fans who cheered for his death and the deaths of his opponents.
But now… now he was expected to go on live TV and talk about it? His head span, rage filled his gut and he looked into the blank eyes of his robot butler.
“Can I offer you a caffeinated beverage?”
“Can you make it Irish?”
***
“Have you lost your damned mind?!” His brother screamed down the phone at Barnabus. “Rigging the finals? If the showrunners find out they’ll cut off your head and fuck the corpse, you stupid prick! What’s your problem with living, huh?”
Barnabus held the phone at arm’s length but could still hear perfectly the screaming voice as it danced through the receiver and assaulted his ears.
Yet despite the outrage, he couldn’t help but smile as he sat with his legs resting comfortably on a buffet, his backside caressed by satin pillows and his view; that of the arena below. VIP boxes were simply splendid.
“Take a breath brother, you’ll go into cardiac arrest if you keep screaming like that,” he said, faking concern as he prepared to hold the phone away from his ear once more.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?” The brother shouted, “a man with three hearts having a heart attack, which one? The left, the right or the one they’ll rip out of my chest and shove down my throat when they find out what you’ve done? You know the showrunners don’t do mercy, they’ll kill everyone you’ve ever met, you dumb fuck. Why… why would you rig the game? If your girl was too shit to win on her own merit then you should have let her die… jackass.”
Barnabus waited a second to check that his brother was done before replying. “Joanna’s views have skyrocketed from this and you know as well as I that this is a game of popularity, not ability. How could I let her die when we’re so close to freedom? Do you want to wait another century for the next game, or do you want to be rid of these shackles?”
Smiling contentedly to himself, he leaned his scaled head back against the plush sofa cushion. He’d always been a rather convincing fellow, one might even call him utterly roguish, if he did say so himself.
“You know as well as I do that servitude is preferable to death,” the brother replied in a calmer tone. “But, if you’re sure this won’t come back to bite us in the ass then I guess I’ll defer to your judgement. Just tell me one thing, how did you do it?”
“Oh, it was rather simple really. Merely a matter of stopping the clock a few seconds early, barely a scandal at all if you ask me. Who’s going to notice a few seconds?”
“How did you gain access to the arena’s clock?”
“Every man has to have some secrets. Perhaps I’ll tell you when you’re older, little brother.”
“We’re twins you ass bandit!”
“And yet I am the older twin, by two minutes and nineteen seconds if I remember correctly. You should learn to respect your elders little one.”
The line went dead and Barnabus chuckled to himself. He’d been alive almost one thousand years and yet he still never tired of irritating his sibling.
***
“And then she put Truffle in a dress and started singing to him, some ludicrous song where she called him Princess Bubblegum the Third,” John slurred between hiccups. “Oh man it was the funniest thing; you had to be there I guess.”
The white table was cluttered with empty bottles and a few drained cups of coffee which smelled suspiciously like whisky.
“Yes contestant,” the robot replied, it’s eerie blue smile lighting up as it spoke. “Your anecdote is humorous. Ha ha. Ha ha.”
“Yeah… thanks 3PO, I’m glad that someone appreciates my stories.” He said wistfully.
John was unsure of how long he’d been chatting to the robot in the unusually white greenroom, but it had to have been at least an hour or two. He’d practically forgotten why he was even there.
“You don’t have any food do you? Chips and dip would be a life saver right about now.”
“This unit is unsure as to the nature of these chips and dips; however, I would be happy to enquire about it and have them prepared for next time, contestant.”
“Next time? You mean I’m coming back here?”
“It is a possibility. Battle Royale has a rich history of post-round interviewing as well as interviews pertaining to the completion of specific events.”
John sighed, rubbing his palm firmly across his forehead.
“Oh yeah, I have to go on live intergalactic TV to suck some alien’s tentacle shaped dick so they don’t flay me for the entertainment of their savage viewership. Hooray.”
“That’s the spirit contestant,” the robot replied.
Giving 3PO a deadpan stare, he shook his head and took a swig from a nearby bottle of cheap, unbranded beer. It wasn’t much, but he couldn’t complain after he’d spent the past few days fighting for his life in the arena.
DING.
Looking around a little too quickly and almost falling from his chair, John saw a blurred green light hovering over the side of the far wall.
With a slick, whooshing sound, a panel slid upwards revealing a lit corridor leading out of the room.
“I guess it’s time then,” he said, staggering to his feet and clasping a bottle of half-drunk whisky in his hand. “Pray for me 3PO.”
“This unit is detecting unusually high levels of intoxication in the contestant. Perhaps making the drinks Irish was an error.”
“Making drinks Irish is never an error,” John smiled coyly. “It’s called liquid courage for a reason. If these alien fucks want to parade me around like a show pony then I see no reason not to take a stallion sized dump on their kitchen table… if you catch my drift.”
“I’m afraid this unit does not catch your drift contestant,” the robot replied, “please do not defecate in front of a live studio audience.”
John’s smile widened; a fire alighted in his eyes as he turned towards the beckoning corridor.
“Contestant, are you going to defecate on live TV? Contestant, this unit cannot allow such antics. CONTESTANT!”
