Stocky and I were in Wedge 1 and Wedge 2, so we were right next to each other, with a gap space in between.
Stocky kicked us off. He tossed it to me, low and hard.
I was tempted to let it drop. If I could have moved out of the way in time, it would have flown too far, into a gap space or out of the playing area as a violation. But he tossed it in a way that it would hit my body before I could react. I wasn't sure if they would consider it an illegal toss, so I caught it against my chest, cradling it and making sure I didn't drop it. It wasn't worth the risk.
I held it for a moment, trying to decide where to toss it. The song kept playing while I held it, slowly moving it back from my right hand to my left hand.
Up and down the City Road,
In and out the Eagle,
That's the way the money goes,
Pop goes the weasel!
There was no rule about how long you could hold the potato, but it was generally idiotic to do so. The goal was to get it to the other person as quickly as possible, to make sure they had "possession" of the potato more often than you did. Speed, social intelligence, and a bit of luck was what won people matches.
But this was different.
As I've said, my human brain, even unplugged, was adept at futurecasting, seeing the connections fall into place.
I wasn't trying to be faster than Stocky. I wasn't trying to get him to drop it. I wasn't going to make interesting throws that were borderline violations to trip him up.
I was trying to impress the Lady, our host for the event.
So I held the potato high up in my hand.
"Take your pick!" I screamed.
I held the potato longer, letting in singe each hand, working it back and forth between my right and left hands.
"What are you doing?" Stocky asked.
He knew better than to speak. He realized it when he said it, and he quickly clamped his right hand over his mouth, looking around, checking for traps and death-making devices.
Nothing happened.
I continued to hold it. I was tempted to just drop it on the ground or throw it on the hot potato soup pile of dead bodies. But instead, I just held it longer, letting the music play. I was letting her make up her mind. You can kill me whenever you want, I thought, stalling with the potato in my possession.
Every night when I go out,
The monkey's on the table,
Take a stick and knock it off,
Pop goes the weasel!
Finally, I casually tossed it to Stocky.
As soon as he touched it, the music stopped.
"What?!?" Stocky shouted.
He looked around him randomly, I thought for the death-making contraptions, but maybe it was at cameras scattered around the dark room. "I'm not supposed to lose," he stammered.
We all knew it was rigged, but it's nice to get confirmation.
"So sorry," the woman's voice chimed over the intercom. "I've changed my mind."
Stocky surprised me by being kind of a coward. Of course, after all the death we had seen in the room, I couldn't blame him. The manner of death seemed to get progressively worse. I couldn't help but wonder what they would do to him. No doubt he was wondering the same thing.
Nothing happened though. He stood there with the potato, panicking, looking this way and that. I wondered if I would do the same thing. In my head, I would close my eyes and be still, calmly waiting for it. Stocky, however, didn't seem to be used to dying. Maybe he had some kind of limit to his reanimations or debt that was due after a certain number of deaths. There's all sorts of reasons why someone would want to stay alive besides just the memories.
He pulled ineffectively at the chains locking his feet in place. He whined. His face was full of terror.
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"This isn't fair!" he shouted.
He raised his hands to his head, like they could stop bullets. He was working toward a good scream.
I gulped.
The chains at my ankles released and retracted to the floor. The vest I was wearing unclasped in the back, falling freely off as I shook it from my arms.
I was free.
"Claim your prize," the woman announced.
The handle of a sword rose up from the hot potato soup in the middle of the room. I couldn't remember holding a sword ever in my life. Deep in Henry Porter's memories were childhood swords and fake battles. He once lifted a decorative Turkish sword, curved with dull blade. The weight had surprised him.
I walked forward slowly, trying not to slip on the bloodied metal grate, trying to ignore Dirty Blonde, Buzz Cut, Jacket Man, and Bun Bun's warm bodies.
I reached for the handle. It was bright silver with rose metal overlaid on the pommel and tip of the handle. As I pulled it up, I noticed, thankfully, that it was cleanly sheathed, not lodged in the bone and blood of the other contestants. It was like a magic trick, this beautiful blade mounted here in the dark room of death.
The blade was the same rose color as the ornamental pieces of the handle. Unlike Henry Porter's memory, I was surprised by how light the sword was. It had a solid weight and it looked strong and durable, but it almost seemed to float as I pulled it from the sheath.
The sword eased comfortably into my hand. I swished it back and forth through the air to get a feel for it, my heart beating with excitement.
I couldn't take my eyes off the gorgeous rose blade, shining somehow with the mediocre light in the Hot Potato arena.
"You may kill him however you please," the woman's voice said. "If it were me, I would cut him slowly, piece by piece."
I could feel her eyes on me. I was enraptured by the sword. She seemed to be enraptured by killing.
I pulled out the sheath, which sadly was covered in a layer of blood. I inserted the sword so that I could strap the sheath to my body. I had no intention of letting anyone take the sword, although I wasn't sure if I was supposed to keep it.
Mine, I decided. They could try to take it from me if they wanted. This was way cooler than the gravity hammer. I tossed the straps over my shoulder, tugging it into place so that the sword was resting comfortably against my back.
"Don't. Please," Stocky pleaded.
Oh yeah, I had to kill him. Well, I didn't have a good feeling about him anyway. I will say that it is always harder though when the other person is helpless. Killing someone in battle is just business. Killing a defenseless person, even when they give you icky vibes, feels like borrowing money against your soul.
"Every night when I go out," I sang to the lyrics from the song, pulling the blade out, walking toward Stocky. "The monkey's on the table."
"I can pay you!" he yelled. "You'll be set for a hundred years."
"Take a stick and knock it off," I sang, circling around behind him. I had hoped that he would let me kill him from behind so I didn't have to look him in the face. But that asshole rotated with me, begging me not to kill him.
I was also putting on a show for the Lady by singing the song. It made it seem creepy and ominous, dreadful even. I surprised myself, roleplaying as this dark ambassador of death. It would give me nightmares, this moment.
"Pop goes the weasel," I sang softly.
Stocky should have kneeled on the ground and let me make it quick, but he raised his arms. He tried to fight me off.
I delivered a series of slashes across his defending arms, drawing blood through his navy suit as he screamed. I kept at it, back and forth, until he dropped his arms, exposing his head and neck. I slashed him, again and again, until he fell down, finally realizing there would be only one outcome.
"Take a stick and knock it off!" I yelled, delivering a blow that severed his head cleanly off.
Stocky's head rolled over next to the potato. I used the pant legs of his suit to try to clean off the blade. It wasn't a good material, didn't absorb well, but I managed to mostly wipe away the blood before sheathing the sword.
I picked up the potato, my ultimate prize, caressing it in my left hand.
Then I walked back to my spot in Wedge 2, standing tall, as winners do.
Doors opened around the chamber. Six randoms entered the room. I decided to call them the Potato Guard. I recognized @glamdane among them. I wondered if he got any kind of reward for me being the winner.
They motioned me to a wide exit, a large door that slid open at the far end, sending warm light into the room.
I walked cautiously forward, wondering if I could go online again, plug back in and start a memory backup, but the inhibitor was still active. I'd have to wait for them to remove it.
I passed through the door and up a set of stairs into the light, following @glamdane and two others from the Hot Potato Guard, with the other three taking a position behind me. We journeyed upward, through a maze of exposed metal stairwells and walkways that overlooked a four-level warehouse.
I was glad to be out of the room, away from the dead bodies. I'd seen so many dead bodies in the last week that I was ready for some alone time to whimper. But the walk only further traumatized me, raising anger in my body. The warehouse was so large that I couldn't make out where the walls were, and it was crammed full of people and cargo containers.
There had to be nearly 5,000 people just in this area, maybe more. I couldn't get an exact figure being offline, unable to scan the room. My heart sank. These were all the unfortunate people who would be shipped off somewhere, for horrible purposes. I had no doubt @bitchfrog was one of them.
Stupid mission.
We had to take out the zombie virus. That much was obvious. It could wipe out billions, end the war but destroy civilization as we know it. Right now, however, that seemed like a problem for the Extrovert Starmada.
Why did no one seem to want to stop this operation right here on Eros?
What was unfolding right in front of me was surely more cruel than the zos612 virus. Fuck the Extrovert Starmada. They were complicit in this, just for looking the other way. This was turning out to be a despicable and angry day for me.
I added another mission to my log.
Take Down the Erostocracy.
At the top level of the stairway, the Potato Guard walked me to the final door. It slid open, showing a comfortable office space, with two couches, an assortment of small plants and UVB lamps, and an L-shaped desk near the window looking out over the mass of people below.
Sitting there, looking out the window, was that beautiful black balloon girl from Bar None, chewing her lip, her leg thumping up and down as she watched her soldiers load people into cargo containers.