Chapter 3 – Selection

“Ah geezez… this is sooo boooring….”

Logan Andrews is laying on sofa, with his feet crossed and hanging over the armguard. His shoulders are slumped and his belly is slipping out beneath his one-size-too-small t-shirt. The man paints a picture of relaxation.

A few deep furrows can be seen on his forehead as he stares into a tablet PC. The tablet hovers in the air above him. Modern technology is pretty neat as it makes mundane tasks like lifting your portable device as comfortable as humanly possible, albeit a tad expensive.

He grunts in annoyance as his eyes dance around the monitor. His face contorts and he looks as if he is in deep pain. He is growing restless after having spent far too many weeks cooped up in this place. There is no trace of the youthful grin he displayed during the interview.

“Mister Andrews, we need to fill the last three spots. Please focus.” His assistant pleads. Her voice comes from somewhere behind him.

“I know, I know… but these people… god. Totally NOT interesting! They’re just… plain… boring… useless… I can’t make a show out of these people.” He whines.

Logan is flipping through a series of images on his tablet. Each one showing a different hopeful applicant. He doesn’t like what he sees however. None of these people are worthy to participate in the virgin round of his mind-baby; Fantasy Royale.

“You have looked through them twice already Mister Andrews. Please just pick three.”

He drops his tablet pc and lets out a long winded sigh.

“I’d rather leave those spots open.” He makes a pouting face.

“But mister Andrews…” The assistant starts.

“NO! I don’t want any of them! You can’t make me!” He swings his arms out wide, one of his signature childish tantrums in the making.

“But you have to!” The assistant shouts, her voice strained from the change of volume. The behavior of her boss is starting to annoy her. Logan lets his shoulders slump in defeat. Kelly is no fun…

He sits up and starts caressing his beard. This greatly pleases him and allows for his thoughts to flow much clearer. There have to be someone interesting out there somewhere.

…

Right?

He lets his eyes wander around the room. His sofa-sanctuary is located in an isolated corner office in a large open office area temporarily turned into a call center. About ten people are staffing the central phone lines for prospecting applicants. There is quite a low number of interviewers, despite the enormous amount of people who have shown interest in the game. Obviously, most applicants are denied even reaching the call center rather quickly.

To keep the trolls at bay, the applicants have to deposit their starting fee in a secure account before they even get to talk to one of the interviewers. If you don’t get picked, then the money will only be released back to the applicant after the round has started.

Still, the phones aren’t staying silent for long periods of time.

Discarding his tablet, Logan gets out of his sofa and takes a walk among the callers.

“There has to be someone…” He mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

The main room of the call center is the symbol of professionalism. Ten straight-sitting men and women wearing gray company suits with a matching headset is sitting two meters apart, forming two rows of five people. A manager walks between them to assist in any of the interviews. Any hopeful applicant has to go through a thirty minute interview. This is done both to gather information about the applicant, and to evaluate their personalities. They have to check if the applicants are fit to be displayed to the public, or among other people.

You would be amazed at how many insane people there are out there…

Actually, no. You wouldn’t.

Curious about the process, Logan steps up to one of the staff currently engaged in an interview. He hooks up a spare headset and listens in.

“Mister Ali.” The interviewer starts, unfazed that his boss is currently breathing him down the neck. “How would you best solve a conflict among two of your subordinates?” Logan perks up. This is one of his favorite questions after all.

“I would have security remove them from the premises immediately. I don’t accept insubordination.” A deep, but firm voice says on the other end.

Logan immediately removes his headset. He lets out a deep sigh. “Another let down…” he mumbles and starts pacing down the rows. The selection round has been a nightmare so far for Logan. Because of the steep entrance fee, mostly rich people apply to join the game. The game is flooded by them. They have already let in four hundred, and they are all just… horrible people. Disgusting, most often.

Logan massages his temples. He can feel a massive headache building.

If only one of these rich overindulged kids had a speck of unique personality, Logan vowed to put them directly into the game himself. Too bad they are all the same. It’s as if the rich people of the world is cast into a very small selection of molds, essentially making exact copies of one another. During the personality tests, the responses classify them into three different archetypes. Logan categorized them himself!

The first type is classified to be ‘The brutes’. This kind of people are all about solving problems by excessive force. Why use a scalpel when you can just use a diamond tipped sledgehammer? Logan can’t cast these kinds of people for the game. Nobody likes a rich arrogant bully.

The second archetype is even worse. He classifies them as ‘The snobs’. Only spoiled rich kids can come up with these kind of solutions. Almost every conflict is resolved by either throwing money around, or making someone else clean up the mess. They seem like a lazy bunch of people that never intend to lift a finger, and still come out on top.

Logan can’t stand this kind of people. Not only would they make for terrible entertainment, they would also be the worst kind of players. The kind of players that quickly fall behind everyone else when starting on equal grounds, and is quickly eliminated due to just utter laziness. At least their money is good…

The third type makes Logan want to just repeatedly hit himself in the face. He promptly named them ‘The moralists’, because of their self-indulging habit of fighting for a good cause. You know the kind, the ones to publicly call for people to start saving anything that is currently popular to support in social media. Every other week they host grand parties for the rich to save the environment, stop animal cruelty and feeding the poor, or anything in between. They spend millions of euros on these causes, where most of the funds are spent on hosting said parties.

It is weird why these kind of people want to play a game based entirely on violence and competition, but one can assume it is because they just like the attention. Logan won’t even bother to guess why.

There are a few minor personality types among the rich, but these are few. There’s been a couple of sociopaths in the mix, and Logan decided to allow them all into the game. They are just bound to make a great show. The cold ruthless personalities are destined for great things, and people just can’t get enough of them. Everyone loves to have a few bad guys mixed into their entertainment. Now he just needs a few competent heroes. He is certain they will find one somewhere...

…

Perhaps one of the other interviewers has any luck?

Logan steps up to another interviewer and puts on a headset. A high pitched female voice immediately threatens to burst Logan’s eardrums. “Oh and I would have aaaaaall my cute little pixies blast away those nasty orcses, and…” A desperate interviewer tries to rally himself. “MISS! PLEASE! I just asked about your name!”.

Logan quickly pulls of his headset.

“Nope.”

Pretending that just didn’t happen, he moves on. He listens to a few more interviews, but none of them appeal to him. He is about to break for lunch when one of the last interviewers on the back row raises her voice.

“Please sir, calm down!” She pleads. Logan can see how uncomfortable she is with the conversation. Her supervisor is already standing beside her, listening in.

His interest piqued, Logan quickly moves over and grabs a headset.

“Sir! This is your last warning, calm down or I will have to hang up!” She cries.

“CALM DOWN!? AFTER WHAT THEY DID TO ME!?” Logan jumps back in surprise. The voice on the phone is screaming in anger. Logan can feel a shiver crawl down his spine. Why is this man so angry?

The supervisor signals for her to cut the connection.

Logan doesn’t know exactly why he does it, but he reaches out and grabs her hand. Perhaps it is just one of those spur-of-the-moment situations? He will never know. One thing he is sure of though. He needs to know.

The interviewer turns her pleading eyes to Logan. Begging for him to allow her to hang up. He can’t let her. With resolve in his eyes, he gives her a firm nod and rests his hand on her shoulder. This seems to calm the girl. She takes a few seconds to gather her thoughts before she continues the interview.

“S-s-sir…” She hesitates. The voice on the other side has gone surprisingly still. “… Can you tell me about your motivation to compete?”

Faint traces of some heavy breathing can be heard on the phone. No one is making a sound. Logan can feel the lingering gazes of several of the other interviewers observing the commotion. The focus on their own interviews nearly forgotten. Logan is holding his breath.

The voice answers in a low and calm manner.

…

“I want to kill every last one of those fuckers.”

Logan can’t believe his ears. He quickly turns his head to look at his assistant. Every nerve in his body seems to be shaking.

“Who is this man!?”

The assistant snaps out of her daze. She quickly gathers herself and buries her nose in her tablet pc. A couple of quick taps with her finger, she flips the tablet over to face Logan. A picture of a average, although slightly chubby man in his mid twenties stares back at him. The eyes of the man feel so… hollow. The creepy kind of hollow.

“His name is Gregory Asbjørnsen. Male, aged 26. Currently living alone in Greenwich, London. Employed as a Barista at Kenworth, Goldman & Simmons, a high-end law firm in downtown London… Oh, scratch that. He is now unemployed as of… oh my… today.” The assistant raises her hand to cover her lips, her eyes still glued to the monitor.

Logan squints his eyes. Why does this sound so familiar? Kenworth, Goldman & Simmons… no… doesn’t ring a bell… There is something he is missing. The last sentence on the phone is still ringing in his head.

“Kill every last one…” He mutters. “… Wait. Can it be?” His eyes widen.

“Kelly! Do we have any other contestants from that law firm?” He can feel a knot tie in his stomach.

Kelly taps in a few words on her tablet, and she starts flipping through a list.

“We have five contestants connected to K,G&S. A group of friends that signed up together it seems. All aged between 24 and 27, all registered as active at the firm. One of them is also a possible candidate for one of our featured main storylines. Oh my…” She stops mid-sentence. Gaping at the monitor.

“Kelly!” He shouts at her.

“Sorry, seems like mister Asbjørnsen got a rather abrupt end to his employment after physically assaulting Richard Kenworth. One of the other registered contestants.”

Logan holds his breath. His mind is racing. Could this be what he think it means?

“I need him!” He yells, startling everyone near him. He has the attention of everyone in the room at this point. Kelly is the first one to break the silence.

“But Mister Andrews… Company policy dictates…”

“Screw the company policy! I don’t care. We NEED to have him in the round. Tell the brass we got our avenger storyline.

“But sir…”

“NOW!” His sudden yell paralyzes her for a short moment. With a shocked look on her face, Kelly starts jogging towards the elevators.

Logan turns back to the interviewer. Horror showing on her face.

“Move! I’m taking over.” The interviewer doesn’t have to be asked twice. She pulls off her headset and literally falls off her chair trying to get out of the way. Logan pays her no mind.

He puts on her headset.

“Mister Asbjørnsen. My name is Logan Andrews and I am the one in charge of selecting the participants for the game.” His voice is steady.

He can sense the person on the other side of the call is giving him his full attention.

…

“I have a proposition for you.”

----------

My breath beats heavily against my clenched teeth.

I am not particularly tired, but the sheer amount of rage that courses through my body is affecting me. My muscles are tense, my face is red and I can feel a small headache starting to throb. I bite my lip to the extent a small droplet of blood is racing down my chin.

I want to scream... throw something… strangle someone… how dare they? HOW DARE THOSE FUCKERS DO THIS TO ME!?

I stand up and slam my phone into the wall across the room.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

With no other way to vent my frustrations, I start pacing around the room, throwing around random punches that hit nothing but air. The tension in my fists causes my knuckles to whiten.

It takes me around ten minutes to calm down somewhat, although not by much.

I look over towards the remnants of my phone. The broken monitor looks like a spider’s web. The back panel fell off, revealing the battery pack. It is beyond repair. I can’t help but regret throwing it like I did, no matter how justified it was at the moment.

My tablet pc rests on the living room table, the monitor reveals the information of my bank account. Only a few moments ago, it contained slightly under twenty five thousand euros. Now, less than five remain. I transferred it all into a locked deposits account.

My body slumps into my small two-seater sofa. For what feels like a decade, I let my muscles relax and just allow my body to sink into the soft cushions. My breathing softens, and rational thoughts sneaks back into my head.

I’m immediately struck by the realisation of what just happened. I lean forward and rest my head on both my hands, slightly rubbing my temples.

Sigh… What did I just do?

Oh no… no no no… fuck… shit… SHITFUCK!

I can’t believe I just transferred four fifths of everything I own in a fit of rage. Why didn’t anyone stop me? What could possibly have made me think this was a good idea?

An image of Richard’s sadistic smile flashes across my mind, his four minions smirking in the background. Right… that’s why.

My hands clench till the point they start shaking. I start working through my memories of what just happened only an hour ago. The look of Richard squirming on the ground beneath me. The cries of horror from the girls… the punch to my kidney from Keith…

The screams around the office caused an avalanche of activity. People came pouring out of their offices, shouting their outrage of seeing Keith pummel me to the ground while I bit his shin. Nobody dared trying to pull us apart. It didn’t take long for security to arrive to toss me (and only me) out on my ass.

As I was being carried off I could hear the broken shouts of Richard threatening to sue me for all I’m worth. Little bastard...

I struggled weakly against the strength of the two security guards pulling me away. The corridor towards the exit was lined up by the company’s employees. They all stared at me with looks of disgust. Not a single one of them had any empathy for my situation. No one wanted to take my side. I wasn’t rich enough. Didn’t matter.

How can people be so fucking cruel?

While I got dumped out the back entrance, one of Richard’s father’s assistants had caught up with us. I was promptly informed that I didn’t have to show up for work tomorrow. He proceeded to quote a list of clauses from my employment contract which I apparently had broken and that I can expect a legal response in a short matter of time.

I told the tight-knit little cunt that he could shove his legal response up his ass.

I am going to have my revenge on Richard. No matter what. A fact I made abundantly clear to the fear stricken assistant when I was done yelling at him.

No reason not to add to the list of charges, now is there?

…

I’m going to make them all pay.

I just wish I hadn’t chosen such a retarded way of getting revenge...

Exactly how I reached my conclusion to get my revenge on Richard inside of a video game instead of breaking his knees with a cricket bat, I’m not sure… It’s probably because his dad’s bodyguards would have beaten me to a pulp before I got within twenty meters of him.

If I couldn’t break his bones, then I thought I had to improvise. When force is not an option, the next option would be to hit him where it hurts. His finances. Needless to say, that wasn’t an option either. The only possible way left was to ruin his personal interests.

Like me, Richard is an avid gamer. He spends nearly as much time as I do playing video games. A successful one at that. Richard is a semi-famous streamer of the post-apocalyptic shooter game; Desert Nomads. He has been on the official site’s top rankings three years straight.

I did watch his stream once, and I wasn’t particularly impressed. The quality of his stream channel is naturally high, considering the wealth he has access to. Only the most popular, or the richest streamers has access to a personalized AI that takes care of filming, editing, and releasing top notch ingame footage in real time. The cinematic quality is sky high. The quality is probably what makes most people watch the stream.

Richard himself isn’t that fun to look at. His playstyle isn’t remarkable at all! Just an average rich kid that bought the best gear possible ingame, and spend his ingame time blowing up buildings with a high powered plasma sniper rifle from half the continent away.

I bet every shot he takes costs about a hundred euros...

A pity I never got to meet him in Yggdrasil.

…

Now I sit here. A short moment of pure rage completely toppled my life over. A tight knot forms in my stomach, and the remnants of my breakfast threatens to push itself up my throat. Nearly all my savings… shit.

What in the seven blazes of hell made me think that was a good idea?

This isn’t about revenge anymore. I have to win this thing…

How the fuck am I supposed to do that!? I’m up against over five hundred other people! God wriggling side stepping damnit! My heart is beating harder and faster than Mohammed Ali. No no no… I struggle to form coherent thoughts. Shit. Is this what a panic attack feels like?

I sit here with an apathetic look on my face. How am I going to do this? Not only just the gaming part, what about my life? I can’t just pick up and leave for virtual reality for what can probably last an entire year… I got obligations, an apartment to pay off… I got to get a new job… Maybe get a college degree… No, fuck that. I need a job.

No… NO! There is no way back. I slap my face, attempting to steel my resolve. I have to do this. What am I trying to hold onto here? I got no family, no friends, no commitments. My life is running on autopilot, and the direction is Hell.

What do I have to lose? How can things get worse from here? I’m sick of this shit. I shake my head.

I let out a final sigh.

Fuck it. Let’s do this!