Opus

19. Power Play

Am I dreaming or are the cobblestones mute tonight?

At the moment, I don't question my participation in this game. I am therefore I play and all that crap. It won't last, but I welcome the break. I collect chips. Blue, yellow, black, I want them all.

My game plan for this set is simple: I will have enough points to reach the final rounds, that's a given, but I'll do it in my usual, average style.

I've studied the charts. Statistically speaking, I am not the only one who's been holding back. The leading three are arrogant overachievers. They take the lead from the start. Only once every five or six years do one of the top triads wins. The bottom two never win. They're here as a result of good old lady luck. Within the next four sets, they'll be out, or so history tells me. Farewell, laggers.

That leaves my five unknown associates and me. The middle of the pack with a plan. I have a confession to make. I know the nine by heart. Names, faces, addresses. Their entire lives. One, number four, is a mother of two adorable little girls. Hence my plan. I'll take her out. I'll offer her a job once I've won. Unless I just hand her a check from a fake lottery or something.

From this point on, I'll hold the fourth position. Until the fourth before last set, obviously. Then I'll climb to second place, then the throne, and then the world! Dark humor and all that.

As all perfect plans, mine comes crashing down with the kaboom! of the explosion. This time around, I don't head for the scene. What's the point? The body will be too carbonized for me to identify him or her. I hope the twins are not orphans now.

When the second blast resonates, and the ground shakes under my feet, I make an executive decision. What if the two losers are out? What if it's two of the top dogs? Or worse, two low-key opponents? Fuck the middle ground. I'll take all that I can.

To my left, a player hides in the shadows. Too bad, chump, I see you. I run straight at him. Him turns out to be the mother. Thank fucking God! I knock her cold and steal her meager lot.

"Sorry, sister," I tell the sleeping form. "Please know I'm doing it for your own good." Wee won't make waifs of those lassies.

Hence starts my second frenzy of the competition, although a cold, calculated mania this time. I run down streets systematically, aiming for those with the highest vibrations noises.

I ignore the smell and creep closer.

"Want me to end this?"

The blackened shape's head shakes from side to side frenetically.

"Are you sure? It's barely midnight. You still have four hours before the set's ends."

The form seems to shrink on itself.

"Do you want me to stop the pain?"

The burnt carcass shakes from left to right, its vibrations washing over me in erratic waves.

"Do you wish for me to kill you? I need to hear the words. Yes. No."

"No," the voice spits out in a rasp, sounding very much like an out-of-breath smoker, how ironic. How the guy/woman is not howling in pain is beyond me. Maybe once all limbs have melted, one does not feel agony. No nerves left to carry the sensory information to the brain, right?

"Hang in there then. See you on the other side." Maybe.

I bolt away without a backward glance. Without a single one of its chips. One learns something new about oneself every day. I can rob dead or alive alike but not the in-betweens.

Off I run. One block. Twenty-one points. Three blocks. Another fifteen. And so for and so on. If it wasn't for the décor, my fellow players and the explosion, one might find this game boring.

Boom!

Thos interruptions are becoming annoying.

The shock wave knocks me down. Luckily I'm surrounded by ruins so, except for flying rocks and dust, nothing substantial like a building drops on me. I pull myself up, dust myself off, and retrace my steps. Smack at the corner, a dark circle marks the spot. I find a shoe and five chips. The player? Vaporized.

How is that possible? I walked down that very corner less than five minutes ago, and I did not feel a single sphere. Did he bring it with him? Why?

I leave the chips to the scavengers and resume my hunt. My body collects and move on. My brain thinks and replays the scenes over and over. Sooty trunk. Mother. Shoe.

I come to a screeching halt in front of a yellow sphere. Sitting on a stone porch roof, it glows, shyly disturbing the darkness. I see it clearly but can't feel it. Is that one of wee's? I wish I had a bow and arrow. As it is, I make do with bricks. Hidden behind piles of rubble a half block away, I throw and throw. When I hit the walls or porch of the building, a dull thud reverberates in the street. Each time a brick hits the sphere, a teeny clank echoes. No bam, though.

Might be an old dead target.

Might be I have to remove the chip to detonate the sphere.

Based on my conversation with Jasper at the museum, option 2 is more likely than option one. I'm suicidal but going out with a bang is not in my plans. Hence, I leave it untouched. It takes a good half hour to build a screen around the damn thing. A three-sided brick encasing, a fabric top (I sacrifice my jacket to the cause), and tadam! a potentially explosive sphere disappears in the night.

Luckily for my conscience and I, I don't come across any other player or defective sphere.

Rule 12: Each player is responsible for his or her safety. Organizers decline any responsibilities regarding injury or theft that may occur in or out of the playground during Competition time. Players must sign a disclaimer letter at Competition's Registration Desk.

Five minutes to the four-hundred-hour mark, I'm waiting at my gate. Three players exploded tonight. Only one survived, poor soul.

Three I didn't save. Wee is screwing the number. First time around, the Competition put the deceased in the lower scorers. Thus the show will go on.