CHAPTER TWO: WELCOMING COMMITTEE

The alarm jolted Sarah out of a fitful sleep.

She stretched and yawned as she sat up in bed, taking in her surroundings with a tired daze. Not much different from Blackfield, her room was basic enough to be called a cell. A single bed took up one wall, while two plain doors and a screen - either computer or television - occupied the other three.

She rubbed her eyes as she swung her legs out of the bed, looking around for the source of the alarm. With no clock, her bleary eyes eventually settled on a small speaker set into the wall next to the screen.

Abruptly, the beeping stopped, the room filled with silence once more, making Sarah shiver. Silence reminded her of night at Blackfield, lockdown they had called it. Lockdown was when the thoughts and dreams and memories came, when there was nothing you could do about them. Endless nights punctuated by screams or wails from inside the hospital, and mornings only brought stories of suicide, abuse by the staff, or worse, another day alive at Blackfield.

She stumbled through the door on the right of the room while hauling her T-shirt over her head, aiming to stay in the shower as long as possible.

*

Sarah managed 25 minutes in the shower before another alarm went off in the other room. A fluffy white towel from the bathroom wrapped around her, she emerged into the main room with her red hair dripping a trail behind her.

Funny, she thought, A competition based on killing and they still provide you with towels.

The screen on the wall flashed up an image of Calypso, the lights dimmed over his face. Probably to hide his injuries, Sarah imagined.

"Did you have a good sleep?" asked the image, his voice slightly tinny from the speaker.

Sarah took a second to realise he was talking directly to her. Seems like he can see me as well. "Fine, I guess."

"Good," he said, disinterested. "Orientation begins in ten minutes."

"Orientation?"

"Letting you know what's going on. Explaining Twisted Metal thoroughly, introducing you to the competition."

"You want me to get to know the people I'm supposed to kill?" she asked with a smile.

"It's up to you, just be there. Follow the signs in the corridor." With that, the monitor cut off into darkness.

Sarah sighed, reaching for a large black holdall that had been presented to her by Calypso the night before. It still weighed heavily over her mind, killing someone. Taking a life. Killing people who had entered this competition, just like her, all desperately searching for something. Couild she really bring herself to do that?

Yes. Yes, cried the dark part of her soul, the part that wanted everything to be good again, back to how it all was. She sworn then, sworn that she'd do anything, anything to change the past. She had begged, pleaded, ordered, demanded, prayed to change the past. Now she had the opportunity, she would take it. She would.

Suddenly, the dark side was gone, satisfied that it had momentarilly taken her over and briefly glimpsed life. She unzipped the holdall, revealing a selection of clothes and accessories. Finally, something other than a hospital gown, she grinned.

The bag contained a mixture of clothes; everything from dresses to punk gear, slutty outfits to fetish gear and everything in-between. She raised an eyebrow. Everything a girl needs. Typical men.

Finding a leather jacket and a pair of jeans, she dropped the towel and climbed into her new clothes, wondering just what 'orientation' was going to bring.

*

From his computer, Calypso focused his camera on the young redhead, watching her dress slowly and fixing her hair before leaving her room. He smiled, relishing the feelings pulsing through him, feelings his body had not felt in an age. Yes, she had potential for sure. Potential.

*

It didn't take Sarah long to find the orientation. Emergining into the corridor outside her room, she was confronted by a phalanx of armed guards; stormtroopers. The guards all wore the same black jumpsuits and a protective helmet, a sturdy gas mask moulded into place over their mouths.

In their hands were high-tech assault rifles, and in their eyes was the threat to use them.

Wordlessly, the guards led her through a network of dull grey corridors for a few minutes, each new turn a copy of the last. Eventually, they arrived at an open doorway, protected by a group of stormtroopers.

"Thanks for the date, fellas," quipped Sarah as she walked away from her guides. "We gotta party some time."

Beyond the doorway was a large conference room, with seats set out in neat rows. A few figures occupied some seats, but Sarah couldn't make out much at all from where she stood.

As she moved for the door, a sturdy black riot baton blocked her path, wielded by one of the faceless stormtroopers.

"What?" asked Sarah. "You gonna check my I.D?"

Without a word, the stormtrooper snatched Sarah's left arm and pulled it towards him. Despite her protests, he calmly drew a small object from a bag and snapped it around Sarah's wrist before letting her go.

Muttering to herself, she examined the object that was attatched to her; small and grey, it was a wristband no larger and no heavier than a bracelet. However, it was clamped tightly, and showed no sign of coming off easily. As she prodded it, the riot baton touched her lightly on the arm.

"Leave it," said the guard.

"What's it for?"

"Just keeping track of you. Now move." He pointed into the conference room with the baton.

With a shrug of her shoulders, Sarah gave up and wandered into the room ahead.

She had arrived mid-pack, and as she took a seat at the rear, she cast an eye over the room. First to be noticed, purely becuase he looked so out of place, was a small, thin man in the front row, his hands clasped nervously together. With his neatly combed hair and tweed suit, he looked like either a librarian or a bible salesman.

What's he here for, she wondered. Mission from God?

No...HE'S on a mission from God, she thought, catching him sat in the corner. Dead eyes peeked out from behind spectacles, the only outstanding part of a body wrapped in a priest's smock and a wide-brimmed hat.

Now this is just getting plain weird.

The room filled up slowly; a bearded biker, a badly-scarred woman who once could have been beautiful, a massively overweight teenage boy, a figure limping in completely covered by a shawl, a striding man, whom, by his walk and straight back, Sarah assumed to be either police or millitary. More and more, until the room was almost full. Nothing special, nothing surprising.

Then he came in.

And hit the room like a Kansas tornado.

He bounded in, breaking the silence and announcing like he just walked into a college kegger party. "Never fear, you bunch of beautiful bastards, the unstoppable Scott is here! Now, I'll apologise in advance for killing all you guys, but then again, you didn't have a hope in the first place. Best damn street racer in Detroit, no fear!" He crossed his arms over his chest, seemingly happy that everyone was looking at him.

A tight white wife-beater hanging loose over his jeans, he lloked like he should have been in a commercial for Gap.

Then, with a sudden change of his stance, he clicked his fingers and pointed both hands at Sarah. "Hey, Red, maybe I'll spare you, if you let my into your panties, that is."

Sarah arched an eyebrow at him. "You've got no chance," she said quietly.

"Of getting you in the sack?"

"Of survival," she said, turning away from him.

Scott went to reply, by felt the barrel of a gun in his back; a subtle hint from the guards to take his seat.

There were 19 in the room for a few moments, before she made it a full twenty. She walked in through the room, a nervous look of set determination on her face. Her thin face was framed by long straight black hair, matching the make-up that ringed her eyes and darkened her lips.

Dressed in a flowing black dress, she tucked it under her legs as she sat down, just catching Sarah turning away from her. She continued watching the redhead until she turned her head again, casting a quick glance.

Sarah averted her gaze for a second time, cursing herself inwardly. What the hell are you doing, Sarah? Knock it off already.

And then suddenly, as if he had appeared from nowhere, all attention was on Calypso.

He stood on the stage at the front of the room, casting an eye over his competetors, his own personal gladiators. "Welcome to orientation," he said simply, but it had the effect of hypnotising the crowd. "I have said this to all of you, but it's time for a recap. This is a fight to the death. Only one person in this room will leave this competition alive. I don't want to see any running away, any escape attempts and any last-minute hesitations," he stated, his bloodlust eager for only the very best. "Any of you wishing to leave right now will be shot and your deaths will be quick, painless and without fear. That is the best I can offer you."

No-one stood.

No-one got shot.

And this pleased Calypso very much.

"Very good," he went on. "Now, random draws will be made to decide the matches, but I will provide the necessary hardware for you. And despite the illustrious reputation that some of you have for your lethal abilities with your hands, the killing is done in the arena, not here. Now, if anyone has any questions?"

"Yeah, I got a question." It was Scott, standing as straight as he could. He marched up to the stage and stood next to Calypso, glowering at the older man. "I got a question for you all right."

Calypso frowned slightly. "Yes?"

"That's Derek Borrowes!" Scott yelled, pointing at the middle-aged man in the front row - the librarian. "That guy raped over 100 men and women! What's he doing here?"

Sarah almost laughed out loud at her previous assumptions. God, could I have been any more wrong?

Calypso shrugged. "What, you'd prefer to like the people you're supposed to kill?"

Scott ignored this. "What right does he have to win, to get his life back? And he's supposed to be on death row at San Quentin pen, I saw it on TV! But you've got him here, how? What are you, some kind of billionaire?"

No, thought Sarah. He's something much worse than that.

As if he had hear her thoughts out loud, Calypso turned and fixed Sarah with an amused sneer.

"Hey!" snapped Scott, grabbing Calypso by the shoulder, "I'm talking to..."

With a blur of almost superhuman speed, Calypso grabbed Scott by the arm and wrenched him to the floor, pinning him with his knee. Above Scott's struggles and curses, Calypso spoke calmly to his crowd. "Mr Borrowes, come here please."

With all the eyes in the room on him, Borrowes stood quickly and approached Calypso, his tongue playing over his thin lips. He stopped dead a few feet from Calypso, catching sight of the look of terror in Scott's eyes.

"Mr Borrowes, take this please," said Calypso softly, drawing a bulky black Glock pistol from his coat. "I'm sure you know how to use it."

Borrowes eagerly grasped the gun in his two bony hands, a look of dreamy glee on his face.

From her seat, all Sarah could do was look on in horror, her hands clutching the sides of the chair tightly.

With a crisp click, Borrowes chambered the pistol and pointed it directly at Scott's head.

In the silence of the room, the bang was almost deafening.

*

Some were shocked at the sight before them, others were amused, some were impassive, some were aroused.

On the stage, directly in front of Calypso, Scott lay hyperventilating, stunned by events. He struggled to speak, before deciding not to.

The remains of Derek Borrowes lay spread across the stage and an unlucky few people sat in the front row. Although his legs were intact, Borrowes' body had been blown apart moments ago by a small but powerful explosion that seemed to have come from Borrowes himself.

Still with a sick leer, his decapitated head lay neatly against Calypso's left foot.

"As I said before," said Calypso, "The killing is done in the arena, not here. As well as a locator, the wristbands you all wear are a safety device, or should I say, an unsafe device."

He let the news sink in to the crowd before him, all bar the most suicidal examinging the wristbands with an unsettling unease.

Sarah brought the plastic clip close to her eyes, dread overtaking her. No backing out now...As if there ever was.

"The wristband you are all wearing contains a small amount of RDX-compound explosive that is quite enough to kill you, as you can see with Mr Borrowes here." All eyes in the room again went to what was left of Borrowes' body. "The device monitors the hypothalamus gland in the brain, which is responsible for acts of agression, the fight or flight response as psychologists call it. If the device records high enough activity of the gland, it go boom, so all you little cats and kittens out there with mood swings and such should really watch out.

"And by the way, if you try to take the bands off, trust me, they will explode, so don't bother." With that, he flicked Borrowes' head away with his foot. "I never did like rapists."

Calypso raised his arms in a mock-friendly greeting to those before him, accompanied with a wicked smile. "Welcome to Twisted Metal."