————————————————————————— Once they had entered the studio, the usual rush of adrenaline hit as the group saw the familiar settings; the stage made of crates near the side, with fold-out chairs for the audience and judges nearby. There were two things different about the room, however. Propped up against the base of the stage were three bodies; Lyla, Kirrah and Thomas. There were bloody, gaping holes in each of their foreheads, and they were slumped back, heads resting up against the stage. They were the ones who had been trapped in the booths. And if Danigan had been shot in the other room… that left Smith as the survivor. Sure enough, he was already seated in one of the chairs, dead quiet. The second difference (one that was much more noticeable), was the panel of judges. There was… a 6th judge? More surprisingly… it was a woman? She was small in size; about as tall as the third kidnapper. She had slick, straight, honey-blonde hair that was chopped off just below her jawline. She wore a black tank top, navy blue pants and combat boots, which were all flecked in what seemed to be blood. She wore no mask, and she was slumped back in her chair a bit, blinking slowly. But the most remarkable feature was her hand. Or, more specifically, a lack thereof. Where one of her hands was supposed to be, a bloody heap of bandages sat, messily wrapped around her forearm and over the stump. When she saw the victims walk into the room she sat upright, propping her elbows up on the table in front of her to look at them all with wide eyes. “That’s Officer Driscol; she worked as law enforcement a county away. She’s... the package. The package I told you about earlier. She came to us two days ago, all by her lonesome. Supposedly she found a loose end of ours, led her here. A shame she came here off-hours without telling a soul.” The person behind the microphone gloated, and the woman pursed her lips before rubbing her face with her hands. “But enough of that! She’ll be judging you all today. Now… we should begin the competition, shouldn’t we? Sit, all of you. There’s a bag of coins on each of your chairs. You all know the drill. Give your coins away as you see fit; the four who get the least coins… well, they’ll be suffering the same fate as our friends at the front of the room.” The man explained, making note of the four lifeless shells of former victims leaning up against the stage. “Now that we've refreshed the rules... Our first volunteers, please. Take the stage.” —————————————————————————
