The Rules of Engagement

A crimson envelope laid flat on the table before the man who’d awakened only moments prior. The vibrant color stuck out in the otherwise drab beige and browns of the train cabin. The space was void of any other human presence than his own — strange given how decorative the cabin was. Lush carpet, and finely stitched upholstery abound. It was somewhat aggravating how comfortable the seating was.

Spare no expense when kidnapping someone, I suppose.

There had noticeably been cameras set throughout the cabin. They hung high overhead in corners, conspicuous black bulbs. Where they pointed was unknown, but he had no doubt they were focused on him. He sat there a while longer, examining the scenery through the window; if brick walls painted with nursery images could be called scenery. Occasionally he caught his reflection: sandy beige skin tone, undercut jet black hair, and light stubble grazing his lower jaw. Not bad looking for a man in his mid thirties. It didn’t take long for him to confirm further suspicions in the window — the train was somewhere underground and definitely on a looped track. It only took three repetitions of the painted images of what he assumed were the three little pigs and the big bad wolf to confirm this. He was certain the train wasn’t going to simply stop now. He wasn’t headed for a destination, was along for the ride.

His fingers finally went to the envelope, reluctantly undoing the wax seal. Inside was a note addressed to him.

Greetings Aiden,

We are delighted to welcome you to The Game. Your participation is involuntary, as you were hand chosen, by an anonymous donor. It is believed that given your skillset and history you will provide great entertainment for our patrons.

The rules of The Game are simple. Before each train car you will find an envelope containing the rules of engagement. Survive and freedom is yours.

The Collective

The Collective?

Aiden knew he was in deep shit this time. He’d pissed off plenty of powerful people in his line of work: drug kingpins, the yakuza, wealthy oil barons, but none had the influence of The Collective. They were who the boogeymen called when they needed help. Who’d he anger to end up in their crosshairs?

Guess it doesn’t matter now.

He stuck the note back inside the envelope, and put both inside his coat pocket. He was still wearing his clothes from the previous night — day? Who knew how long he’d been out, or what time it was now. What he did know is that whoever brought him here had relieved him of several of his possessions, chiefly his firearm and swiss army knife. They had of course taken his wallet possessing his numerous identities, and banking information — none of which contained his legitimate identity details. The rest of his casual coat, long sleeved linen shirt, slacks, and docker shoes combination were untouched.

With the note in tow, and his possessions checked it was time to begin The Game. The sliding doors opened as he approached them, and it was onto the next room. It was small and nearly barren, containing only a table and another crimson envelope — clearly just an intermediary station.

Hide and Seek

Those words were all the note inside the envelope contained.

“Are we playing children’s games now?” He asked while glancing up at the cameras that were in this room as well.

Aiden stood at the next door, foot tapping against the metallic floor. It opened revealing a room more lavish than the previous: a seated bar area off to the left hand side, booths and tables lined down the car’s length behind that, expensive wing chairs and tables all down the right hand and what was possibly the deadliest machinery he had ever had the displeasure to lay eyes upon in the center of the room — an automatic turret, mounted on a rotating platform. It didn’t take someone in his line of work to know that thing was dangerous. If the door had opened while it was facing his direction he’d be swiss cheese.

“Okay, not a children’s game.”

The turret rotated counterclockwise around the room, as if it were constantly surveying its territory. He watched on for a moment, tucking beside the open doors whenever the weapon faced his direction.

It completes a sweep in thirty seconds. Too fast to dash across the room, so hide and seek it is.

Aiden, a usually incautious man, needed more confirmation than that. A quick toss of his shoe into the turret's line of sight, and the subsequent annihilation of that shoe confirmed that if he was spotted he would die. His other shoe was sacrificed as well, tossed into the room out of sight of the machine he now so affectionately named The Terminator. It wasn’t blasted to pieces, but there was no point in retrieving it without the other.

He counted off another cycle of thirty and made a mad shoeless dash into the room. His first destination, the bar counter to the left. He braced his back against the wooden structure. It hid his body completely. Much to his surprise the counter wasn’t just for display. Various brands of alcohol were lined both on the shelves, and beneath the bar. The Terminator could wait another thirty seconds for the game to continue.

Always knew I’d die alone, but I refuse to die completely sober. Cheers to The Collective for not being cheap and stocking the place with real booze.

With what could only moderately be called a shot downed, and the rest of the glass bottle tucked into his coat he leapt into action at the end of the thirty count. Over the bar counter, and onto one of the many stools below, and then a short hop to the shelter of one of the booths lining the wall — that was the plan at least. Socks and slippery barstool covers were a bad combination. His body hit the floor with unexpected force. Suddenly he was near the center of the room, too far from his intended destination, and The Terminator was swiftly turning his way.

Too late to go back, forward it is!

Aiden found himself in a frantic crawl across the floor; his destination, the wing chairs on the right hand side of the room. Hands and knees carried him across the room with speed he’d not thought previously possible. The sounds of bullets rang out, as he reached the chair. He felt no pain, but still found himself counting his toes to ensure they were all still there.

All digits intact. I gotta reassess the situation.

His wide forehead peaked from behind the chair, followed by his tired brown eyes. A left hand route was out of the question now, unless he dared risk his digits again. The right and the safety of the thick wing chairs was his best bet. They were placed in groups of three, sat around a table with the table side being exposed to The Terminator.

Should be easy enough to sneak around between counts.

The next obstacle came at the ending of the groupings of chairs. Now there was just open space between him and the exit. The left hand route shared a similar problem, but at least held one final booth to take cover in before sprinting. Here he was crouched and tucked away behind the medium height chairs. He couldn’t break into a full sprint from this position, and escape unharmed. The only other resource on this side was a metallic serving cart that was ahead, and just out of reach.

A sigh escaped his lips, and he took another swig of the alcoholic beverage he’d hidden away. Liquid courage, and stupidity were needed in equal doses for what came next. Another count finished, and he burst forth from his position in a half crouched scramble. In an action perhaps even more ungraceful than his frantic crawling he dove forward in a full belly flop onto the serving cart. Whoever wanted him dead might not get their wish, but they’d at least have humiliated him. Momentum and luck propelled him onto the cart and its wheels sped towards the exit.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine!

Spinning wheels hit the short divide between train cars, and he was flung forward, crashing into the next room. Bullets impacted lamely against the cart and the now closed door. He was safe, for now. This intermediate room was identical to the other, its only purpose being to deliver him another letter. Rising to his feet he snatched the letter from the table, opening it with the frustration of a man who just nearly died.

Silent Library

Make it to the goal as quietly as possible. Don’t let the librarians catch you making noise, and beware the other students.

“Another children’s game? One of you bastards has been watching too much Squid Game!” He remarked towards the camera. He knew the game’s noise rule didn’t apply until he entered the next room.

When he eventually did step into the next train car he did it with the quietness and caution of a man who’d spent years successfully tailing suspects. This room was distinct from the others as it was built to resemble a library. It held none of the same intricacies that made the previous two rooms so similar. It had also been missing the deadly turret in its center, which he’d count among the positives. He could see straight down the middle to the exit, though on both the left and the right were grand bookshelves, each densely stocked with novels. A quick count revealed four shelves on each side, seemingly evenly spaced. While one could see the center clearly, what lay behind each shelf was a visual mystery. The poor lighting didn’t help with that either. There were no windows in this train car, and overhead hung a few dimly lit chandelier light fixtures.

Really going for the whole underfunded public library aesthetic eh?

Another glance around the room revealed a more troubling detail than cheap lighting, automated turrets. These mounted high in the corners of the room, and more on the ceiling above the bookshelves. Luckily these weren’t the same visual guided systems. He knew if they were then this challenge would be impossible and he’d already be dead. That begged the question: what would set them off then? He had some ideas, but whatever is unknown can surely be learned with the help of a good book. He approached the bookshelf nearest on the right stealthily. Skilled fingers danced along the tops of the tomes until he plucked one from its place.

Gulliver’s Travels. Well let’s see where you’re traveling now, old Gulliver.

A moment later the book was free from his hands and tossed into the center of the room, beyond the first two rows of bookshelves. It landed with a loud thud, and soon Gulliver was full of bullet holes.

So no noise, got it.

Aiden took a few less than cautious steps forward, rounding the bookshelf. Something caught his neck, and the rest of his body lurched backwards. The uncomfortable warmth of a human body was behind him, holding whatever was choking him. His lungs battled for air, as he attempted to battle the person at his rear. Instinctively his fingers clawed at the thin material at his neck. He could feel consciousness slipping from his grasp. It was in that split second between consciousness and death that he flung his head backwards, smashing it against his assailant’s nose. A single side of the wire choking him fell, allowing him to push against the man and free himself. A quick pivot and he was now facing his opponent; clearly another male, who was similar in height and build to Aiden himself. Neither were overly built, but each held the physique of someone who could hold their own in a scrap. He was dressed in all black, and even wore a matching ski mask to hide his face. He looked like any old petty thug Aiden had seen in a million different terrible movies.

Spend good money on the booze, but go cheap on the henchmen. Someone at The Collective has their priorities screwed up.

Still he was thankful for that. A more experienced assailant would have known not to directly align themselves with their choking victim. The guy was probably accustomed to attacking the unsuspecting, and the elderly. His incompetence gave Aiden the advantage. While still well within range of the assailant he took another step inward and threw a punch into his gut. The B movie criminal was still holding his presumably broken nose when the punch impacted, causing him to double over. Another swift pivot carried Aiden behind him. In the same motion he’d ripped the garrote wire free from his opponent’s untrained fingers. Their initial positions were now reversed, and Aiden held the wire to the man’s throat. He struggled feebly, but Aiden hadn’t made the same mistake of positioning that allowed for a chance at freedom. Life fled from the body hastily. Aiden dropped the body to the ground quietly, still fearful of making too much noise.

He supposed this was one of the aforementioned students. The others were likely hiding behind the bookshelves as this one had been. It was now too hazardous to blindly stroll down the middle aisle, though it was the only path. Climbing the shelves risked falling, which risked making noise, equaling death. He thought for a moment, and then began to meticulously remove books from the shelf at eye level. If he couldn’t get around the bookshelves he could at least see through them. Nothing to be seen on this side. He peered through the viewpoint he created for a moment to fully determine that. Now onto the right hand side. The process was tedious, but better to be slow and quiet than dead. He took his time silently stacking the titles on the ground beside him.

A few more and he’d have a good vantage point to spy through. The concept cut short as pain seared through his left thigh. Clinch jawed he shot his gaze downward where an assailant’s arm and knife awaited him. Some scheming bastard had removed a few books of his own from a lower shelf and used the gap to ram his knife into Aiden’s leg. In some combination of quick thinking and thirst for revenge Aiden fought the pain to bring his leg upwards, and slammed his foot down on the hand that wasn’t quick enough to retract. A snap and roar of pain confirmed the appendage was broken. The subsequent sound of gunfire from the other side of the bookshelf confirmed the other students were not exempt from the library’s rules. Good to know.

Another one down, and all it cost him was being stabbed. Not the worst trade off, and now he had a useful weapon. The knife hadn’t penetrated deep enough to do permanent damage, but he was certain he’d be limping for the remainder of his unwanted train ride. The best he could do for it now was to sever a piece of his shirt for a makeshift bandage. With the temporary medical aide complete he made his way to the center aisle. To his right was the bullet riddled body of the man who’d stabbed him.

Only two more rows, so if the trend tracks at least two more goons. Well I’ve been in worse scraps.

Before his thought concluded another one of these masked men came forward. He crept from the third row on the left hand side, but soon neared the center.

No hiding for this one? Maybe the scream of his pal brought him out of hiding.

As seemed to be the standard with these goons he was carrying a weapon; a large steel pipe. Surely these were common street thugs recruited with a quick buck, and not trained men as Aiden had been. Still he knew getting hit by the pipe wouldn’t be pleasant. The knife wound was bad enough, he didn’t need broken ribs, or a concussion.

The goon had noticed the wound too, by how he suddenly charged in. Aiden tossed the knife at the man’s right side, an easy attack to avoid — which Aiden was counting on. The goon moved to avoid the clumsily thrown projectile by darting left. Aiden’s good leg cocked back and rocketed what remained of Gulliver’s Travels toward his opponent. Hitting its mark, the man’s foot, the book caused him to topple. Both he and the steel pipe clanged against the floor. The librarians dealt with him accordingly.

Fortune seemed to favor Aiden at the moment. No further goons arrived from beyond the fourth row of bookshelves. He was able to retrieve his knife and make it to the safety of the next room. The familiarity of it was becoming comforting. The same singular table, and envelope.

The Floor is Lava

“I swear there had better not be a volcano in the next cabin.” he said aloud, now assured that he could speak freely again.

Doors opened and he was greeted with another distinct train car. This one had been a step down from the elaborate and nonsensical library of the previous cabin. It most resembled a modern subway car: long bench seats, smaller double seats aligned in rows, metallic stanchions lined down the middle, grab handles that hung from the ceiling, and even the standard double sliding doors, and windows — the latter painted black to obscure one’s vision of the outside. It even had the same low quality overhead lighting that could be found in any subway in New York. Though similar, some features had clearly been gutted — He assumed to up the difficulty of traversal. Several grab handles had been missing from above, and it was obvious some of the seating had been removed, leaving only empty space.

“The floor is lava.” he repeated to himself, still somehow astounded that he could speak again.

The paper that relayed this cryptic game rule crumpled in his hand and was tossed into the room ahead of him. Luminous electricity coursed through the floor, quickly igniting the note, and it was no more.

“Okay, not exactly lava, but it will kill me. Noted.”

Mustering what strength he could he leapt into the room aiming for a long bench to the right. He cleared the handrail attached to its end and landed in the center of the seating structure. Not bad for a mid thirties man with an injured leg. The next bench was within jumping distance as well. Another spry leap, and he came crashing down hard. Face met hard plastic, as his foot caught on the handrail at the tail end of the leap. A deft roll kept him from being flung off the bench and into the electric death below. Air vacated his lungs in a sigh of relief and he found the strength to rise. With the long benches conquered he’d next have to face the challenge of the double seat rows.

Where normally there had been people seated for their daily commutes was now death and danger. He gave his leg a less than reassuring pat, and observed the distance between the bench and the seats. One could clear it with a good sprint — out of the question given his leg condition and the limited space on the bench. It was designed for weary passengers to rest, not for adult men to be prancing about on. He’d have to use the grab handles to swing across. He was sure they weren’t meant for that purpose, but they’d at least support his weight. It was more a matter of arm strength and endurance on his end.

Do or die time.

Feet braced against the bench’s final handrail as he made a jump for the grab handle above. His fingers met the leathery strap with momentum that carried him onto the next one, and he had crossed to the seats. He stood in them, conscious of his footing as these seats weren’t made for standing. His arms stung with the burning of exerted muscles, and this was only a midpoint. Again he leapt and fingers found the uncomfortable straps above. They carried him to another row of seats, and then another until he was out the door. He stood hunched over in the intermediate room, freshly out of breath. That room hadn’t been particularly challenging, but seemed to be designed for the sole purpose of draining what stamina he had left after enduring all the other nonsense. When he could breathe normally again he turned his attention to the crimson envelope that had so patiently awaited him.

This Little Piggy

Avoid the butcher and you can go wee wee all the way home.

“All the way home eh? We’ll see about that. Given my previous experiences here the butcher is going to be some little robot that shoots knives at me.”

The door opened and cold air greeted him. It was accompanied by the pungent odor of blood and meat. Strung about on hooks were numerous pig carcasses. They lined the room in orderly rows in such capacity it obscured his view of the exit.

Definitely a little robot in here that shoots knives. He thought while entering the room and brandishing his own knife in his right hand. He attempted his best not to disturb the pig corpses, but the scarcity of space made that difficult. Four pigs into the room and the weight of one crashed against him. Even without the injured leg the sheer size of the body would have caused him to topple. A heavy booted foot followed him to the ground, and only a swift roll to the right saved him from being pinned. Again he found himself in a frantic crawl for safety. When he did finally rise the owner of the boot was nowhere to be found.

Fearful fingers gripped his knife, as he spun around in a defensive circle. Where the other had gone he hadn’t known. Another pig came at him from the front. A hop step to the right allowed him to evade, and get his first glance at the butcher.

He was a large man both in height and girth. At well over six-foot his rounded belly poked out from under the blood stained, presumably once white, apron that he wore. The pig’s body swung back into place obscuring the man once more.

Frigid air assaulted Aiden’s tired lungs. He attempted to steady his breathing. Panicking now wouldn’t help him survive. He held the knife in front of himself as if that would deter the butcher from attacking further — wrong clearly. A redheaded mass of fat rushed at him from the right. The man appeared again from behind a pig, swinging a butcher’s knife down at him. A half step forward carried Aiden out of the weapon’s range, but the weight of the man’s fat arm crashed into his shoulder. Through gritted teeth he plunged his knife into the side of his attacker. A powerful blow to his face prevented another stab.

The blow allowed the butcher the distance he wanted. Another wild swing from the large knife followed it. Aiden ducked behind one of the slabs of pork granting temporary protection from the blade. Even with his injured leg he found he could maneuver well enough in close quarters. His opponent was powerful, but slow. He came around the other side attempting to plunge his knife into whatever bit of flesh revealed itself — a firm kick to the torso denied his wish. He stumbled back almost toppling again. Instinct said to run, use the environment to his advantage. No. He knows this place better than I do. Stay close, stay on em.

Heeding his own advice he recovered from the kick and moved in closer to the man. The butcher’s blade was swung again, this time horizontally. Aiden ducked, allowing the weakness of his injury to carry him downward. A blade avoided became a knee to the face. Pain flooded his senses, and yet not enough to dissuade his counterattack. He jammed his knife into the retracting leg twice. A third attempt was thwarted by a meaty fist slamming into his backside. He met the cold floor harshly. Pain ripped through this back. The blade easily penetrated his clothing, drawing blood. A second strike followed, carving a cross shape into his flesh. He was sure a third was to follow, and only a swift roll prevented it.

The grating sound of the knife bouncing off the ground served as a cue to move. His free hang clung to nearby pork in a sorry attempt to stand — knife hand pointed at the butcher in an even sorrier attempt at defense. Blood trailed in the short distance between the two; he assumed most of it his own, but his knife said otherwise.

The butcher’s body disagreed as well. The red liquid spilled from his wounds, seeming to dye his pale skin. One hand held the wound on his side, the other still gripping his weapon. He moved towards Aiden, but slowly now. Gone was the hulking beast that charged him, replaced with a lumbering mass of violent intent.

“Not looking so hot there, Mr. Butcher.” Aiden said mockingly.

“Piggies shouldn’t talk. They only exist to be sliced to pieces.” The booming voice of The Butcher retorted.

Talking bought Aiden little time. His energy hadn’t returned and the man was nearly on him now. What strength he could muster was exhausted pushing the pig corpse forward at the man; a feeble distraction. He followed behind it, blade pointed at the man. A calculated swat of the hand from the butcher cleared the pork, knocking it off its hook and onto the floor. The blade in his other hand already honed down at Aiden’s chest — his longer reach poised to win the exchange of blades. The butcher’s knife impacted first as expected, but met with unexpected sturdiness. A crack, and burst followed, spilling warm liquid down Aiden’s chest. Still he pressed forward, using the close proximity to ram his own knife into the neck of the other. The bigger being lurched back, the knife going along with him. He grasped at the weapon lodged in his neck while crimson liquid spilled outward. A moment later he laid on the ground dead.

Aiden’s attention shot to his own wound. The butcher’s blade hadn’t missed, and yet he didn’t feel the same sting in his chest that was now constant in his back. Fingers moved to where the blade struck, and there he felt it. His laughter filled the room at the realization. Small fragments of glass rolled down his chest as he removed the bottle he’d been carrying since the hide and seek game. Its contents now spilled onto his chest.

Never would have thought alcoholism would have saved my life.

He sat in the cold room a while longer — until freezing to death felt like a worse way to go than bleeding out. Intuitively he found a wall, and walked along it until he found an exit. Outside he found warmth and a familiar setting; another intermediate room. He tore open the envelope awaiting him.

Congratulations

You have survived The Game, and earned your freedom. The train will stop shortly. We hope you’ve enjoyed your time as our passenger. Be sure to watch your step as you exit the train. Thank you for riding with us!

The Collective

Someone’s a real comedian. He didn’t find himself laughing however. Still the experience was over, and he somehow survived. He could return home, and patch his wounds. The hunt for who sent him on this hell ride would come after. Leant against the wall he rode the rhythm of the tracks underneath, listened to the low hum of the train and allowed himself to relax. He was the winner of The Game.