𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐄 | ʰˣʰ

chapter vi.

YOU LAND on your feet beside where tour bag lays sprawled on the tiled floor. The room is brick-walled, no windows or furniture, save for a small table with two watches near the door. The ceiling holds another hole, not far from the one you've just fallen through, and the door has a sign on it that says: ARRIVED: 1/2.

So now you've got to wait for lord knows how long for someone else to drop in.

Your hand is only halfway to your eyes on its way to remove your color contacts when a screeching resounds from the second tunnel.

Someone is sliding down the chute.

Jan 8.
10:01 am, Friday.

You raise your gaze to the carved rectangle in the ceiling for a moment, juggling the two options in your mind.

Your irises are discolored, are sickly gray bordering on white, a far cry from the gray-green they once were. The discoloration is the identifying mark that you are mostly recognized by, and a beacon for unneeded attention among ordinary people.

But you've overestimated these applicants' involvement in Hunter-dominated communities, and underestimated their affinity to strange appearances—As it stands, no one will know you by your eyes, so you figure you can let your eyes breathe in front of this one person.

You've just taken the contacts out of your eyes and snapped the lid of the lens case shut when the man falls through.

Your spirits plummet. Not him...

It's the needle-man, sickly-purple applicant 301.

The digital sign on the door beeps, and the writing on the screen changes, drawing both your attentions before either of you speak (Not that you've ever heard this man speak).

You stand and walk towards it, 301 in suit. Two dings resound, almost simultaneously, and the two watches on the table to the right of the door light up once. The table is closer to 301, so he reaches for one first and fastens it on. It flashes momentarily.

You're just about to step around him to grab the other watch when he reaches for it and holds it out to you. You take it and clasp it to your wrist, and the number 333 blinks briefly before it goes blank. "Thanks."

No answer.

"Applicants arrived: two of two," an automated female voice says, sharp audio cutting right through the dusty air. "Welcome, 287th Hunter Exam applicants 301 and 333. You have, as luck would have it, landed on The Path of Luck."

The thing sounds awfully monotone for how chipper the words are.

301 pays you no mind as the text on the screen flips out and more text takes its place. When it's done, the voice continues: "The two examinees in this chamber must find their way down by verdict of gamble. Please assign yourselves to either Heads or Tails."

You wait expectantly for elaboration—Silence fills the room for 1, 5, 10 seconds—You figure the lady's not going to say anything more.

The second you arrive at the conclusion, the screen on the door fades out and reforms once more. Now it flashes the number 301 in bright colors, with two buttons below the number: Heads and Tails.

Performance-based advantages from the pre-Exam are still coming into play, then?

The man casts a sideways glance at you. It opens its mouth to speak, voice coming out uncannily mechanical and creaky. "Tails."

You shrug noncommittally and gesture towards the screen. "Go ahead."

He does.

When the door asks you for your choice, there is one button below your applicant number: Heads.