Death Penalty. (Based on the Roblox game, story generated using Perchance Story Gen)

The transition from unconsciousness to this reality was jarring and immediate. The air inside the circular prison was thick and stale, smelling faintly of old rust and disinfectant—a clinical smell at war with decay. The walls were uniformly dark, grimy concrete, and the only strong light came from the ceiling spotlights sharply focused on the central installation.

​In the middle of the dark room, a flat, metallic Wheel lay on the floor, its red arrow pointing north, waiting. Around it were scattered steel prison tables and benches, uninviting and cold. On the far wall, a massive, unlit screen dominated the space. ​One by one, the characters stumbled out of their unknown holding rooms, rubbing their eyes against the sudden glare of the spotlights. Each person immediately felt the chilling weight of the Collar—a heavy, cold band of unfamiliar metal clamped securely around their neck.

​"Welcome, Subjects. You have been chosen for the Death Penalty Experiments." ​ The voice paused, letting the statement hang in the thick air.

​"Around your necks, you wear a Collar. This Collar is the final judge. Attempt to escape, refuse to participate in an Experiment, or attempt to physically destroy the device, and the Collar will initiate Explosion Protocol. Any intentional, non-sanctioned assault against another player will also be deemed a violation."

​"Your only function now is to survive. Survive the Experiments, and survive each other."

​The screen flickered, showing an image of the Wheel, the red arrow waiting.

​"There is one winner. The winner gains absolute freedom. To decide your fate, we will begin with the first Experiment. You may now approach the Wheel."

​The Gamemaster’s image vanished, replaced by the list of 18 faces.

​The spotlights over the central Wheel intensified, casting long, sharp shadows of the players across the grimy floor. The sound of a mechanism whirring quietly could be heard near the ceiling. ​Elliot swallowed hard, his face pale beneath his yellow hair. "Approach... the Wheel? Does that mean... right now?" ​ Kasper stumbled back, hitting a metal table, his nose suddenly beginning to bleed. He frantically wiped it on his pink shirt, the sight of the blood causing his breathing to seize up again. ​Flame Taiyō, the bulky figure in golden armor, was the first to move, walking with measured steps toward the center. "It means the choice has been removed, child. Pay attention to the man in charge. We are told what to do now." He spoke with a quiet, mentoring gravity, the light tone contrasting the menacing armor.

Gabriel stood motionless near the wall, his sharp eyes scanning the Wheel's edge for seams or weaknesses. He muttered lowly to himself, "Probability... With eighteen, one dies immediately. This is inelegant but efficient." ​On the far side, Acorn wrapped her fingers tightly around her red scarf, her knuckles whitening as she saw Darren smirking nearby. The stale air suddenly tasted bitter in her mouth as memories resurfaced. She whispered, "Don't look at me," under her breath, her eyes flicking downward. Across the room, Guest froze when he saw Acorn's expression; his hands trembled as he pulled out his whiteboard and scribbled hastily, then held it up: "Are you OK?" His eyes were wide behind his cap, mirroring her fear.

The Wheel suddenly hummed to life, spinning rapidly with a high-pitched metallic whir. Each wooden segment flashed names—clearly visible: "Mary," "Finn," "Harken"—before blurring into streaks. Boris leaned toward Ezekiel, his monotone voice cutting through the tension: "Bet you ten bucks it lands on me. Worst birthday gift ever." Ezekiel didn't reply, staring at the spinning wheel

​It stopped abruptly. The arrow pointed directly at Jake, whose face crumpled in disbelief. "No—not me! I'm not average, I'm not!" Jake screamed, clawing at his collar as it emitted a rapid, shrill beep. Before anyone could react, a sickening pop echoed—blood and tissue sprayed across the nearest tables. Kasper gagged, pressing his sleeve to his nosebleed as the metallic tang of blood flooded the room. The screen flickered to update: Remaining: 17.

Ruby acted on instinct, rushing toward the body—then froze mid-step. Cleaning this was pointless. She shook violently, her crisp uniform stained pink. Gabriel merely noted the spray pattern. "Irregular dispersal," he murmured. Finn stared, captivated by the crimson pooling on concrete, tracing a finger along the wet edge until Mary whimpered, clutching her cross.

Acorn shoved Darren away. "Enjoying the view?" she snarled. His reply—a cruel chuckle—was cut off as Kasper collapsed against Elliot. "Can't... breathe..." Kasper gasped. Elliot patted his back frantically. Flame Taiyō knelt beside them, armor scraping stone. "Focus," he commanded softly. "Breathe slowly." Kasper’s nostrils flared, inhaling blood-scented air.

Guest scrambled forward, wiping droplets off his whiteboard with sanitizer before scrawling: "Help?" Ruby snatched it, trembling. Ezekiel broke open an emergency ration bar. "Eat," he urged Kasper. Boris surveyed the chaos. "Well... guess Jake won't be ghostwriting my memoirs." His monotone fell flat as Finn giggled at the spreading puddle.

Acorn's gaze snapped to Darren. He flexed his knuckles, grinning. "Missed me?" Harken stumbled between them, shielding Mary. "Stop—please!" Steven gripped his shoulder. "Kid's right," the detective murmured. "Don't dance for their cameras." Gabriel traced blood spatter toward the wheel’s base.

Suddenly, Ezekiel’s voice sliced through the murmurs—deep, resonant, commanding. He stood tall by the flickering player-screen, eating furiously from a ration pack. "Listen!" he barked, crumbs on his lips. "We're dying. Jake's dead. But if we turn on each other now?" He swallowed hard. "That collar kills you faster than any bullet." His blue eyes swept the room, lingering on Darren’s sneer, Flame’s armored stillness, Ruby’s stained hands. "Survival? Means choosing when to fight—and when to stand together."

A sharp, electronic chime echoed overhead as the Gamemaster’s silhouette reappeared on-screen. "Congratulations," the deep voice boomed, devoid of any emotion. "First experiment concluded. Prepare for the next selection." The wheel’s lights pulsed crimson, casting jagged shadows across the concrete. Kasper flinched, pressing Elliot’s pizza-uniform sleeve to his nosebleed. "Not again," he rasped, the scent of iron thick. Guest frantically sanitized his mirror, avoiding the blood-splattered tiles near Jake’s remains.

The wheel shuddered to life; names blurred into streaks of light. Experiments flickered past—Dropper, Simon Says, Duel—each title gleaming briefly under the spotlights. Cleo tugged her hood tighter, whispering about poisoned water patterns as Harken shielded Mary. "Stay behind me," he murmured, ribs aching. Darren cracked his knuckles, eyes locked on Acorn. "Hope it’s something messy," he growled. Flame Taiyō’s golden armor reflected the spinning chaos, his mask tilted toward Ezekiel. "Truth comes next," Flame stated quietly. Boris forced a chuckle. "Bet it lands on 'Mandatory Dad Jokes.'" No one smiled.

It slowed. The arrow dragged across Handout—then jerked backward. A collective breath hitched as the red pointer settled with finality. Handout. "Experiment selected," the Gamemaster intoned. Ruby’s hands trembled; she smelled antiseptic beneath the blood, a ghost-memory of her clinic. A drone hummed from the ceiling shadows, descending toward Boris. He blinked as it dropped a revolver into his pale hands—cold metal, one bullet gleaming dully. "Oh," Boris whispered. His fingers tightened. "Guess... this isn’t a prop." Gabriel noted the cylinder’s rotation flaw. "Single-action. Efficient."

Boris stared at the gun. His usual grin vanished, replaced by a stillness that chilled Cleo. She backed away, layers rustling. "It’s poisoned!" she hissed. "The bullets—tracking chips!" Darren shoved past Harken, cracking his knuckles. "Give it here, joke boy." Boris flinched, clutching the revolver tighter. His knuckles whitened against the purple grip. Guest scribbled frantically on his whiteboard: "DON’T!" Acorn’s freckles stood stark against her pallor. Her scarf felt suffocating—Darren’s eyes hadn’t left her. Ezekiel swallowed the last of his ration bar, throat dry. "Choice is yours, Boris," he said softly. "But choose like it matters."

The shove came unexpectedly—brutal and sideways. Boris gasped, stumbling onto his knees. The gun clattered across the grimy concrete, spinning near Darren’s boots. "Mine now!" Darren whooped, snatching it. His laugh echoed off the curved walls, sharp as gunfire. Kasper gagged, Elliot catching him as another nosebleed bloomed crimson on his pink shirt. Ruby lunged forward, instinct warring with horror. "Don’t—!" Flame Taiyō’s golden gauntlet shot out, blocking her path. His masked face tilted toward Darren, silent warning. Finn edged closer, orange sleeves flapping, his wild eyes fixed on the weapon’s gleam.

Darren didn’t hesitate. He turned—slow, deliberate—his smirk slicing through the tension. Echoes of that rooftop party flashed behind Acorn’s eyes: his grin before the betrayal, the crushing weight of hands. Her knuckles whitened around her scarf. "Miss me?" Darren purred, revolver dangling loosely at his side. Cleo whimpered, clawing at her layered collar. "He’ll shoot! He’ll shoot!" Steven’s cane tapped a rapid warning against the floor. Guest’s marker skidded across whiteboard: "STOP." Boris scrambled back, purple eyes wide with uncharacteristic terror. "Not like this, man," he rasped. "That joke ain’t funny."

Darren’s laughter died. A cold stillness washed over his face. He snapped the revolver up, barrel trained squarely on Acorn’s chest. The click-hiss of the cocking hammer was deafening in the silence. Acorn froze. Emerald eyes locked on the dark pit of the muzzle. Breath trapped itself in her throat—the scent of gunpowder and Darren’s cheap cologne flooded her senses. Elliot lunged, but Harken’s injured ribs screamed as he pulled the delivery boy back. Kasper’s nosebleed dripped onto Elliot’s red shirt, a warm, wet bloom. Ruby smelled iron, antiseptic—hospital corridors flickering uselessly in her mind. Mary hid behind Ezekiel, muffling a sob. Flame Taiyō shifted, golden armor scraping softly.

The gun roared. Flame Taiyō moved like a blur. His bulky armored form slammed between Darren’s aim and Acorn. The bullet screamed off his polished golden breastplate. Sparks sputtered in the dim light. Metal groaned. The ricochet whined—a high-pitched, tearing sound—before lodging itself deep into Cleo’s left shoulder. She screamed. A wet, choking gasp tore from her lips. The impact spun her backward, layers of clothing fluttering. Blood bloomed instantly, soaking through fabric, a dark crimson stain spreading across her shoulder. She crumpled, clutching the wound, thin fingers slick and trembling. "Poisoned!" she shrieked, voice cracking with hysteria. "The whispers told me! Poisoned!" Boris stared, pale as death, purple eyes wide. His joke died unsaid.

The scent hit them—copper and burnt metal. Ruby moved without thinking. She ripped a strip from her crisp nurse’s uniform. Cleo recoiled, kicking wildly. "Don’t touch! They’re watching!" Ruby pinned her, knees digging into grimy concrete. Cleo’s blood felt warm, sticky against Ruby’s palms. The metallic tang coated her tongue. This wound she could fix. This pain she could bind. But Cleo’s frantic eyes—the terror, the paranoia—felt deeper. Unreachable. Ruby pressed the makeshift bandage hard. Cleo whimpered, breath ragged. Elliot knelt beside them, trembling hands offering gauze pulled from a hidden pocket. "For… for spills," he stammered.

Darren snarled, lowering the smoking revolver. Flame Taiyō’s armor absorbed the impact, leaving only a shallow dent. Acorn stared, frozen. Her knuckles whitened on her scarf—her mother’s scarf. The frayed edge brushed her cheek. Darren’s gaze locked onto her. A predator’s smile crept back. "Missed," he hissed. But Flame Taiyō stepped forward, armored boots echoing. The warm aura around him sharpened into a blade. "Choice carries consequence," he stated. Darren’s smirk faltered. Steven edged closer, top hat shadowing his eyes. His hand hovered near Darren’s collar. "One wrong move," Steven murmured, voice low as gravel. "And it’s not just Acorn."

Ruby worked fast. Cleo’s shoulder pulsed crimson through the gauze. Elliot’s hands shook as he passed more strips. "Poison," Cleo rasped, pupils dilated. Ruby shook her head. "No. Metal." The lie tasted bitter. Mary hid behind Harken, muffling sobs. Harken trembled, ribs aching with old pain. Boris knelt nearby, silent. His usual jokes died in his throat. Gabriel examined the ricochet scar on Flame’s armor. "Ballistics suggest—" A klaxon drowned him out. The Wheel’s spotlight flared.

The central screen flickered to life. That black silhouette loomed, white eyes drilling into them. "Participants," boomed the Gamemaster’s voice, echoing off damp concrete walls. "Prepare. Experiment Three commences in… two minutes." Panic choked the air. Kasper pressed shaky fingers to his nose. Blood bloomed red. Acorn tightened her mother’s scarf.

Ruby didn't look up. Her hands moved like lightning. More gauze ripped from Elliot's trembling supply, pressed hard against Cleo's shoulder. The wound wept crimson onto the grimy floor. Cleo thrashed weakly. "The bullet! They poisoned it! It's burning!" Her voice was a wet rasp. Ruby ignored her, focusing on the shredded flesh. Her nurse's instincts screamed: pressure, stop the bleed, clean if possible. But the sterile smell of antiseptic was a distant dream here, replaced by rust and stale sweat. She could only hope the bleeding slowed before the clock ran out. Mary whimpered, clutching Harken's arm.

Finn stood apart. His wide, wild eyes weren't on Cleo or Ruby. They were fixed on the Wheel's glowing red arrow. His lips moved silently, then found a voice thin and detached. "Thirty," he whispered. Then louder. "Twenty-nine." His gaze drifted upward towards the flickering emergency lights. "Twenty-eight." He started tapping his skinny thigh with a dirty finger. "Twenty-seven." It wasn't panic. It was fascination. The countdown was a spark ticking towards fuel. Ezekiel shifted beside him, a half-eaten protein bar forgotten in his hand. "Kid, stop that," Elliot hissed, but Finn just kept counting. "Twenty-six." The sound was a nail hammering into everyone's nerves.

The Gamemaster's white eyes pulsed. "Five... Four..." Finn echoed it, a quiet ghost beneath the booming voice. "Three..." Boris squeezed his eyes shut, a prayer forming on his lips that wasn't a joke. Acorn felt Darren's glare like physical pressure, her knuckles white where she gripped her scarf. Kasper choked back a sob, his nose dripping blood onto his pink shirt. Gabriel stopped examining the armor scar, his analytical mind momentarily frozen. Flame Taiyō subtly angled his armored form towards Darren. Steven pushed his top hat back, scanning the chaotic scene with weary eyes. The air crackled, thick with the iron tang of blood and the sour stench of fear. Ruby pressed harder on Cleo, her own breath catching. "Two..." Finn's voice was clearer now. "...One."

A low, grinding hum shuddered through the floor. The massive Wheel at the prison's center lurched violently. Its flat surface, slick with Finn's imagined fuel and Jake's long-dried blood, began to spin with terrifying speed. The harsh spotlight beams fragmented against its movement, throwing jagged shadows that danced wildly across the grimy walls and the terrified faces of the survivors. The red arrow blurred into a crimson smear as the Wheel gained momentum, each revolution accompanied by a deep, metallic groan that vibrated in their collars. Finn grinned, wide and wild. Ruby flinched beside Cleo’s delirious whimpers. Elliot instinctively stepped back, knocking against a bolted-down table. Darren forgot his glare at Acorn, his eyes widening slightly as he tracked the dizzying whirl. The screen flickered, briefly displaying the Gamemaster's outline watching their collective flinch. It wasn't spinning for a player's name. It was hunting its next Experiment. The possibilities – Duel, Dropper, Water Tank – hung unspoken, a suffocating weight pressing down harder than the collars themselves.

The Wheel slowed abruptly. Its groan deepened, transforming into a tired whine that echoed through the cavernous prison. The rotations became sluggish, ponderous. The crimson smear resolved back into a distinct arrow, jerking against centrifugal force. It crawled past the faded "Simon Says," hesitated over "Split Or Steal," and finally... stuttered... to... a... halt. It stopped dead. The red arrow pointed unwaveringly at the stark white lettering. "DUEL."

Suddenly, Darren smirked. A predatory, knowing grin spread across his face just as the main screen flickered to life. The Gamemaster's silhouette appeared, its hollow white eyes scanning the assembled prisoners. A deep, synthesized voice boomed, filling the oppressive silence. "Experiment Three: Duel. The Wheel will select two combatants. They will proceed to the designated arena. Each will receive a single-shot revolver. When the arena light turns green, you may fire. Fire before the green light... and your collar detonates." The screen shifted, displaying the spinning Wheel again, now cycling through the remaining seventeen faces at breakneck speed.

Kasper gasped, clapping a hand to his nose as fresh crimson trickled through his fingers. Elliot instinctively moved toward Mary, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. Acorn remained rigid, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of her red scarf – a lifeline to a world before Darren. Across the circle, Boris let out a choked half-laugh that died instantly. "Well... at least it’s not me this time, eh?" he stammered, his usual humor drowned by fear. Finn’s eyes glittered with fascination, tracing the blur of faces on the Wheel. "Spin faster," he whispered, captivated.

The Wheel groaned like rusted machinery, its rotation visibly dragging. Faces slowed to a crawl: Flame Taiyō’s armored bulk, Ruby’s blood-stained uniform, Cleo’s panicked eyes darting beneath her layers. Darren’s smirk widened. Then, with a grinding finality, the Wheel lurched to a stop. The red arrow settled squarely on Ezekiel’s stoic face. He blinked once, expressionless, though a slight tic pulsed near his jaw. A collective breath hitched. Seventeen eyes scanned the screen, waiting for the second name. The Gamemaster’s silhouette flickered back onto the main screen. "Combatant One: Ezekiel Macasero," the deep voice declared. Silence stretched, thick with dread.

Ezekiel put on his serious in a flash of seconds. One moment, he was subtly shifting his weight, perhaps instinctively reaching for a phantom pocket where he kept snacks; the next, his shoulders squared, his spine snapped straight, and his blue eyes hardened into chips of ice. That gentle, hungry aura vanished, replaced by the chilling command of a born leader facing execution. He didn't flinch as the Wheel sluggishly resumed its spin. Instead, his gaze swept the circle, assessing exits, weapons (none), weaknesses, allies – calculating survival odds in the heartbeat before the arrow stopped again. His stillness screamed louder than panic.

The Wheel groaned and clanked, its worn gears protesting under the sudden strain, casting skeletal shadows that danced wildly across the grimy concrete floor. Faces blurred on its surface – Ruby pulling a torn strip from her uniform to bind Cleo tighter, Kasper wiping blood from his chin with a trembling sleeve, Acorn shrinking back against a cold metal wall, Darren's predator-smile fixed hungrily on Ezekiel. The scent of ozone and old metal thickened, mixing unpleasantly with the iron tang of Kasper's nosebleed and the coppery bite of Cleo's wound. Boris opened his mouth, maybe to launch a desperate joke, but only a choked gasp escaped as the Wheel’s momentum bled away, slowing… slowing… stopping dead. The red arrow landed squarely on Steven’s stern detective face beneath his top hat. "Combatant Two: Steven," the Gamemaster’s disembodied voice echoed flatly.

Before Ezekiel could strategize or Steven could react, thick metal cables snapped from recesses in the ceiling like striking serpents. They wrapped instantly around the collars of both men, tightening with brutal efficiency. Ezekiel gasped silently, clutching his throat, his charismatic leader stance vanishing into raw panic. Steven’s hat flew off as he was ripped backwards, heels scraping uselessly against the rough concrete. They were dragged, thrashing violently, through a large hatch that hissed open in the prison wall, vanishing into blinding darkness. The hatch slammed shut just as quickly, leaving the remaining captives blinking in stunned silence, the echo of scraping boots fading fast.

Sudden, harsh spotlights stabbed down inside a previously unseen arena – a stark circle of polished steel surrounded by towering plexiglass walls, visible through the hatch’s slit. Ezekiel and Steven lay sprawled inside, coughing, their collars still connected to retracting floor anchors. Between them, a narrow metal table gleamed coldly under the intense light. Two worn, single-action revolvers rested heavily upon it, one near each man. The silence broke abruptly with the twanging guitar riff and sharp drumbeat of a familiar Western anthem, blaring from hidden speakers. The jaunty, mocking tune clashed horribly with the sterile dread of the space.

On the massive screen above the prison’s central wheel, the scene played out in horrifying clarity. Ezekiel’s face filled the left quadrant, sweat already beading on his forehead despite his forced calm. Steven’s grim, determined expression dominated the right. The camera zoomed mercilessly on the revolvers, the metal gleaming like predator's teeth. A digital timer blinked ominously above the feed: Green Light: 10 seconds. Kasper choked back bile, his nose starting to drip crimson onto his pink shirt sleeve again. Ruby instinctively clutched Cleo’s bandaged shoulder tighter, pulling her close as the wounded girl whimpered, whispering about implanted cameras in the guns. Finn’s wide, fascinated eyes reflected the screen’s glow, utterly captivated. Acorn dug her nails into her red scarf, knuckles white, her gaze flicking towards Darren – who leaned against a prison table with a vile grin, radiating cruel anticipation.

Inside the arena, the air tasted like cold steel and ozone. Ezekiel’s fingers trembled slightly as they closed around the revolver’s grip, its weight alien and terrible against his palm. He lifted it slowly, the barrel wavering as he pointed it towards Steven. His movements were stiff, unnatural – the commander’s posture cracking under the unbearable pressure. Across the narrow table, Steven mirrored the action, lifting his own weapon. But his arm shook violently, the gun’s muzzle quivering erratically. He stared not at Ezekiel, not at the weapon, but at the young man’s face – a face etched with fear beneath the veneer of leadership, eyes wide and pleading subtly behind their forced resolve. Steven saw the youth Ezekiel still was, barely older than Mary. The detective’s breath hitched. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. A choked whisper escaped Steven’s lips, barely audible over the blaring Western music: "Kid... I..."

The lights above the arena blared a sudden, sickening green. Ezekiel’s eyes snapped shut for an infinitesimal fraction of a second – a flicker of pure anguish – before snapping open again, blank and hard. He didn’t hesitate. His finger squeezed the trigger in a single, decisive jerk. The sharp bark of the gunshot echoed like a crack of doom within the plexiglass cage. Across the arena, Steven’s head snapped violently backwards. A crimson blossom erupted above his left eye, stark against his pale skin. His top hat tumbled off, rolling absurdly across the polished steel floor as his body crumpled bonelessly, collapsing onto the cold metal with a heavy, final thud. The gun slipped from Ezekiel’s suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering onto the table beside the untouched revolver Steven had never fired. Ezekiel stood frozen, staring at the spreading pool of dark blood soaking into Steven’s grey coat, the awful stillness punctuated only by the jaunty, mocking music still playing through the speakers.

A grinding, metallic groan filled the air as heavy doors slid open on the arena’s far side. Ezekiel stumbled out into the prison’s main chamber, his school uniform crisp and untouched except for faint flecks of drying blood near his cuff. His usual confident posture was gone; he walked like a sleepwalker, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the grimy floor tiles. His face was a mask of profound, crushing guilt, devoid of its charismatic warmth. He avoided looking at anyone, especially Mary, whose tiny whimper cut through the suffocating silence. Across the circle, Darren leaned against a prison table, arms crossed loosely over his chest. A slow, predatory smirk spread across his face as he watched Ezekiel shuffle past, his eyes gleaming with pure, cruel satisfaction at the leader’s visible disintegration. "Leader material," Darren chuckled lowly, the sound thick with contempt. "Nice shot."

The Gamemaster’s deep, synthesized voice abruptly echoed from the massive screen, its white eyes flickering to life. "Experiment Three... concluded. Reccess. Ten minutes." The word 'recess' dripped with chilling irony. Instantly, the oppressive spotlights dimmed, casting the circular prison into a gloomy twilight, thick with the scent of sweat, rust, and the lingering coppery tang of Steven’s blood still drying near the hatch. The sudden shift plunged the group into disorienting silence. Kasper sank heavily onto a metal bench, pressing trembling fingers against his nostrils to stem a fresh nosebleed, crimson seeping between his knuckles. Ruby’s body snapped into action reflexively, her crisp nurse’s uniform rustling as she hurried towards Cleo, whose paranoid whispers intensified as she clawed at her injured shoulder, her darting eyes fixed on shadows dancing near the ceiling vents.

Finn giggles softly, tracing his finger through thick dust coating a rusty prison table. The air tastes metallic and stale, like old blood trapped underground. Darren paces near the glowing center wheel, kicking a dented tin cup across concrete; its hollow clatter echoes in the cavernous space. Ruby checks Cleo’s bandaged shoulder—tight, efficient movements—but Cleo jerks away, muttering about drones in the ventilation shafts. Her eyes dart to the flickering screen displaying their faces, red X’s over Jake and Steven. Boris tries a joke about the wheel needing oil, but his laugh dies when Harken flinches at the sound.

Gabriel moves like a shadow slipping through dim light. He stops beside Detective Steven’s body near a cracked bench. The blood pooling beneath Steven’s shattered skull smells like wet copper. Gabriel kneels, unblinking, examining the splintered bone beneath matted grey hair. Then he freezes—a soft rustle from the deepest corner alcove. Taph sits there, hood pulled low, white hair spilling like spider silk over her orange-trimmed sleeves. Her knees are drawn to her chest, but her eyes lock onto Steven’s corpse with unnerving focus. Gabriel has never seen her move, speak, or even breathe this loudly. Her stillness feels heavier than death.

"Taph?" Gabriel says, low and cautious. She doesn't react, but her lips tremble. The silence stretches—only Finn's distant humming near the cells breaks it. Taph lifts her chin. "What?" she whispers. The word is dry as grave dirt. Gabriel leans closer, catching the faint scent of damp earth clinging to her hoodie. "You saw it?" he presses. Her eyes flick to the screen where Steven's face still glows, alive and unsmiling. She whispers again, softer. "What?"

Suddenly, a piercing alarm shatters the quiet—three blasts, deafening in the enclosed space. Lights strobe crimson across the grimy floor. The massive screen flickers, then floods with blinding static before resolving into the Gamemaster's stark silhouette. Those white eyes fix on them all. "Attention, participants," booms the distorted voice. "Experiment Four commences in two minutes. Prepare for Wheel Selection."

Taph sighs—a sound like gravel shifting in an old grave—before bringing herself to stand up in one fluid motion. She pads silently past Gabriel, her orange-trimmed sleeves brushing Steven's cold hand. Without looking back, she leaves the shadowed arena alcove to return to the prison's center. Gabe follows shortly after, his calculating gaze never leaving her hooded form. Finn scrambles away from the cells, wild-eyed, as the group clusters near the wheel's harsh spotlight. Acorn tightens her red scarf, knuckles white.

The wheel begins spinning with a rusty groan, its metal creaks echoing like coffin hinges in the stale air. Faces flicker in the crimson glow: Kasper wiping blood from his nose, Elliot shielding Mary’s eyes, Boris forcing a grin that doesn’t reach his light purple eyes. Darren cracks his knuckles, glaring at Acorn, who stares blankly at Guest—now polishing his mirror with obsessive, trembling strokes. The wheel gains speed, blurring experiment names into streaks of decaying gold paint.

A faint scent of ozone prickles the air as the wheel’s revolutions slow. "Water Tank" flashes past the red arrow, then "Simon Says," then "Random Execution"—each name drawing sharp inhalations from the group. Ruby’s crisp nurse uniform ripples in the strobing light. Flame Taiyō’s golden armor radiates warmth against the creeping chill. The wheel drags, slows, trembles... and stops. The red arrow points squarely at "Split or Steal."

The Gamemaster’s silhouette expands on screen. "Experiment Four," it declares, its voice grinding like stones beneath a heavy door. "Two participants will be selected. They enter an isolation chamber. Each chooses ‘Split’ or ‘Steal.’ If both choose Split, both live. If both choose Steal, both perish via collar activation. If one Steals..." Static crackles. "...the player who chose Split receives will perish, meanwhile the person that stole, will receive a handgun." Across the prison floor, Boris forces a thin chuckle. "Well, isn’t that... uh... split-ting hairs?" No one laughs.

The wheel spins a second time, its rusted groan louder now, scattering dust motes in the crimson spotlight. Faces blur—Acorn’s freckles vanish into streaks of pale green, Darren’s sneer warps into a smear of malice. It slows... Kasper’s pink shirt... past... then settles.

Flame Taiyō’s golden armor glints under the beam as the red arrow locks onto his name. A collective breath catches. Mary whimpers into Elliot’s Pizza Bros! shirt. Flame doesn’t flinch; his masked head tilts fractionally, the crown atop it gleaming. Boris murmurs, "Guess the armor’s... uh... gonna be put to the test?" Gabriel’s analytical gaze sharpens, scanning Flame’s stillness.

The wheel groans again. Dust drifts like ash. Faces streak past—Darren’s snarl, Acorn’s scarf clutched tight—then halts on Harken. His martial-arts-trained frame trembles visibly, sweat beading above his collar. He swallows, avoiding eyes. Finn giggles softly from the shadows, whispering "fire... fire..." as Cleo digs bloody nails into Ruby’s uniform sleeve. Two drones descend, metallic whines slicing the silence, delivering sleek panels labeled "SPLIT" and "STEAL" to Flame and Harken.

Game, Start

The two drones detach the control panels—one for Flame Taiyō and one for Harken—and the Gamemaster's voice directs them toward the same hatch Steven and Ezekiel used. Flame, with his measured steps and imposing golden armor, moves first. Harken, his ribs aching and his movements hesitant, stumbles after him, glancing back briefly at Mary, his silent plea for her safety echoing his fear. ​They are dragged into a new chamber, starkly smaller than the Duel arena. It’s a box-like room, split by a single, opaque barrier. They are close enough to hear each other, but cannot see one another's actions or the moment of selection. ​The Gamemaster's voice returns, dry and precise: "Flame Taiyō and Harken. You have sixty seconds to consider your choices. You will place your hand on one panel—Split or Steal—when the countdown finishes. The decision must be made simultaneously. Attempting to delay or obstruct the process will result in Collar Activation."

Flame Taiyō's voice echoes from his side of the chamber. "Harken," he calls out, his tone even but firm, "Listen to me. I choose Split—that is my resolve. Whatever happens... I trust you will do what is right." His words echo in the enclosed space, and Harken hears them—trusting... compassionate... Flame trusts him? Harken shakes his head, trying to shake away the doubt that grips him. If Harken chooses Split, Flame lives... and Harken lives... but Mary remains vulnerable. Darren or Finn could threaten her at any moment without a weapon. If Harken chooses Steal... Flame dies... and Harken gains a gun... a gun he could use against Darren to protect Mary. But Flame trusted him... Flame showed him kindness... Flame helped so many... Flame saved Acorn... Flame saved Cleo... Flame saved Mary... Flame stood up to Darren... Flame offered guidance to Kasper...

Harken's gaze snaps to the two buttons: SPLIT and STEAL. His hand trembles as he lifts it—hovering... hovering... hovering—over the cold metal panels. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temples. The sixty-second timer blinks on the wall: 10... 9... 8... Harken swallows hard. He thinks of Mary's terrified eyes... Darren's sneer... Flame's quiet faith in him... Flame's sacrifice... Flame's willingness to trust him... Flame's kindness... Flame's belief... Flame's... Flame's voice... Flame's words... Flame's voice echoing: "Trust yourself." Harken's breath catches—a ragged gasp—as his trembling hand descends... descends... descends...

Time is up. The gate slides open. Flame Taiyō’s panel illuminates green—SPLIT—a stark declaration of his trust. He doesn’t flinch... doesn’t react... doesn't even shift beneath his golden armor. It was expected... it was inevitable... Flame Taiyō chose SPLIT... Flame Taiyō chose life... Flame Taiyō chose trust... Flame Taiyō chose faith... Flame Taiyō chose Harken... Flame Taiyō chose hope... Flame Taiyō chose the light... Flame Taiyō chose... Flame Taiyō... Flame...

Harken’s panel remains dark... silent... unlit... untouched... nothing... nothing... nothing... nothing... until... slowly... painfully slowly... a flicker... a pulse... a dim glow... Steal

Flame Taiyō doesn’t flinch beneath his golden armor. Instead, he sinks smoothly, purposefully, to one knee before Harken. The heavy plates clank softly against the chamber floor. "I foresaw this outcome, Harken," he murmurs, his voice muffled but resonant through the mask. "I understand your burden... the heavy cost of choosing protection over trust. Guard the vulnerable ones fiercely for me." A faint warmth radiates from his armored form – the last flicker of that enduring aura. Then, a high-pitched whine pierces the air, sharp and metallic. The collar clamped around his neck pulses crimson once... twice... thrice... before detonating with a muffled thump inside the armor. No grand explosion; just a sickening crunch of metal collapsing inward, followed by a wet, choked gasp that echoes softly before silence swallows it. Wisps of acrid smoke curl from the seams of his helmet, carrying the coppery tang of blood and burnt ozone.

Harken stares, frozen. His knees give way, collapsing onto cold concrete, fingers digging into his scalp. "I’m sorry... Flame... I... Mary..." His voice cracks into ragged sobs, each breath a shuddering gasp. Tears blur the gruesome sight: the proud golden armor now a crumpled tomb cradling the faint scent of iron and melted wiring. Across the isolation chamber window, chaos erupts. Darren laughs, a harsh, barking sound echoing off metal walls. Mary buries her face in Elliot’s pizza-stained shirt, tiny shoulders shaking. Guest frantically scribbles on his whiteboard, the marker squeaking – "WHY?" – before furiously sanitizing his trembling hands. Boris tries a weak joke about "heavy choices," but his voice trembles, devoid of its usual monotone charm. Acorn watches Harken’s collapse, her expression unreadable, fingers tightening around her red scarf until her knuckles bleach white.

The heavy door to the main prison slides open, revealing Harken, trembling, his body language communicating pure shock and guilt. He stumbles out, his gaze fixed on the gun in his hand, unable to look at Mary, who rushes towards him. ​The screen updates: Remaining: 14. A red X appears over Flame Taiyō’s armored face.

Harken dropped to his knees, clutching the revolver like a cursed relic. His voice came out broken, barely above a whisper, yet echoing through the oppressive silence. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." He repeated it like a prayer, tears mixing with the grime on his face, each apology punctuated by a choked sob. In the distance, Darren’s mocking chuckle felt like a physical blow.

Ezekiel pushed away from the wall, his movements deliberate and heavy. Without a word, he walked toward Flame Taiyō’s mangled armor, now slick with dark, viscous fluid pooling beneath it. Ezekiel stopped before the remains, shoulders squared, and snapped into a sharp salute—his palm flat against his temple, gaze locked onto the golden helm now crushed inward. "Salute to you, comrade," Ezekiel declared, voice thick with emotion. "You were the shield we didn't deserve."

Mary clung tighter to Elliot’s pizza-stained apron, her small frame shuddering. "Why does God let bad things happen?" she whispered, voice muffled against the fabric. Elliot stroked her hair mechanically, his knuckles whitening as he stared at Flame Taiyō’s corpse. "I don’t know, kiddo," he murmured. "I just deliver pizzas."

To Be Continued

Source: https://perchance.org/story-ai