Mind Games: An Exquisite Experiment (Season 2, Ep 1)

Part 1

The ad was innocent and I stared at it for what felt like the hundredth time. Ten thousand dollars for two weeks of my life felt doable. Besides, interactive personal explorations sounded interesting.

So the internal argument had gone for the last four days. A notice of eviction on my door was the last straw to throw me over the edge, I reminded myself as I stared at the plain-looking office building.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The click of my cane was swallowed up in the ambient noise of at least a hundred people. Each one had a band on their arm with a number on it. Some huddled in groups, others sat alone as they hunched over a clipboard. The site was bizarre, but I understood it.

"Good afternoon," a woman behind the tall receptionist desk greeted me.

"Afternoon. I... um..."

"You're here to answer the experiment ad," she filled in.

I nodded and smiled.

"Do you have your invitation?"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied and handed her the odd barcode paper which appeared after I'd taken three online quizzes.

"Thank you, Miss Davenport. Here's your number. You are required to wear this band on your left arm until otherwise informed to take it off. It identifies you as an invitee and your credentials for the buildings. Here are some forms we need filled out. You can do them now or do them at a later time," she said as she handed over the packet.

I looked down at the bundle and nodded.

"If at any time during the final decision process, you are asked to leave, you must return everything. Anything missing out of this bundle, including forms, will incur a thousand dollar fee."

"Wow. You're serious about getting everything back," I replied as I picked up the package.

"Quite," she replied but smiled up at me. "The first round will be done in a group. Please listen for your number. Good luck to you."

"Thank you," I said as I turned back toward the room and watched the crowd.

The last thing I wanted was to make small talk, but I knew better than to appear anti-social. So I made my way to a high top table, set the package down and leaned my cane against my leg. Then pulled out the number.

"Here's hoping two six eight is a lucky number," I muttered as I wrapped the band it around the top of my left arm.

"I guess that depends on what you call lucky," a male voice said from in front of me.

"Right now, I call ten thousand dollars in two weeks lucky."

He chuckled.

"Ah, the money is the draw for you."

I shrugged and glanced at his arm.

"Don't worry, I'm not your competition," he said and handed me a bottle of water. "What happened to the leg?"

"Ruptured achilleas."

"Is the story good?"

"If you're a dancer, it's sad and amazing. If you're not, then it's just sad."

He nodded.

"The one profession where pain is how you know you're doing it right."

I shook my head.

"All athletes and artists must feel pain to know they are doing it right," I replied.

"How do you mean?"

"Without pain, you can't know ecstasy."

"Interesting insight, two six eight."

I laughed.

"Great, so now I'm a number. A faceless, embodiment of a possible experiment," I said and smirked.

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Anonymously intrigued."