(cont.) “Look at the frames on your walls. They contain printed lyrics of the song that you were listening to the minute you were taken in. If this is the incorrect song, well—memorize the lyrics quickly.” They paused. Their voice, while it lacked in emphasis or enthusiasm, made up in a unique sense of fluidity and elegance. “Those words are your vocabulary for the duration of your time with us. You sing those words—don’t speak them, sing them. And only those words. No sign language, no whispering, no writing love notes, no nothing. I have someone back here with me. His entire job here is listening to your lot. If he catches any of you trying to cheat the system or using words that aren’t in your allotted vocabularies…” The person on the intercom paused, exhaling. “We’ll play a game of roulette. A body part taken at random at the spin of a wheel. Each misdeed counts as a spin; a spin counts as a strike. Ten strikes, we kill you.” He finished, leaning back. “Things are going to be boring if we keep on spinning wheels and letting people make mistakes, so— At the end of each week, you all will be partake in a competition. America’s Got Talent, just— localized. There’s a stage in the other room. You will each sing, and the rest of my crew, all your friends and I will give you a score. And the person in last place will go on the chopping block.” They explained simply. “And there will be smaller challenges, too. Challenges that’ll earn you extra votes when you win. You’ll see. This is all one big game, one big event. Just like the Blueberry Festival back in Beuchene, but better.” They explained, voice turning bitter as they uttered the last few sentences. “I believe that’s—“ They started, but a voice rang out from one of the prison cells, interrupting the voice over the intercom system. “You’re a psychopath, you know that?! This isn’t real! This has to be a—a—a sick nightmare or something! You’re demented! Someone help us! Help! Get us out of here!” A girl screamed, voice quivering as she let out heavy sobs. It was Elëa; the first girl who had been snatched off the streets. She had already ripped the ponytail holder from her hair out of frustration, and had resorted to kicking at the door with her cherry converse. By the sound of it, she was being held on the first floor. The man with blonde hair slowly walked over to her, shotgun in hand. “Let me out! Let. Me. Out! This is so messed up, oh my god, this can’t be real—I’m gonna throw up—“ She continued, well over her 10-strike limit by now. The man with the mask methodically cut the zip-tie that served as a lock, gently opening the door with the toe of his shoe. He then raised the gun. “Oh my god, oh my god, you all are psychos—this is a nightmare, get that away from me—!!” Another shot rang out through the prison, followed by a thud. And then silence. The man racked his gun again, shell flying out and onto the concrete floor with a clatter. “… I believe that’s all. The three people in the room with you currently will go unlocking doors. If you try to run out of the main area, you will earn a strike.” They finished, completely ignoring the conundrum moments prior. “This is your new home. Make yourselves comfortable. You all will fall into the pattern of things eventually. You have my word. Welcome home, everyone. Welcome to our own festival.” And with that the intercom system flicked off, the grainy noise of a cheap microphone dying down until fading away completely. One by one, the three kidnappers went along, breaking off the zip-ties on each door. And with that, the first day of captivity started for the 26 people left. The last question left was… how long could they play by the rules? —————————————————————————
