Prologue: 21st July 2016 -09:00-
The deafening whir of rotary blades roared through the air as the chopper made its descent. Clouds slowly dropped past the windows and the ground rose up to meet the treads.
Charles Freeman (Program Co-Ordinator) shifted listlessly in his seat. Behind his aviary glasses he surveyed the area around the landing site.
The rapeseed had been sheared back in a radius of close to twelve feet, to provide a clear surface for the helicopter. The vibrant yellow glare flashed brilliantly as the crop swayed in the heavy wind, bowing against the side of a nearby Jeep. To the southeast, past the bordering fence of the field, a swarm of houses dominated the horizon. In the opposite direction an electric fence, at least fifteen feet high, bisected the field. Wound around the top of the wire mesh, glinting viciously in the midday light, was a reel of barbed wire.
As the helicopter touched down on the sheared stalks, the side door slid open and Charles stepped out onto the uneven ground.
Plucking a lighter from the inside pocket of his jacket, he moved just far enough away to save the flame from the wind and sparked up a cigarette. Following behind him several men in military khakis flanked his form.
Inhaling the smoke, Charles took several more steps forward and pointed up at the fence. The cigarette flicked ash from between his fingers. "Are you sure that fence is high enough?"
The closest of the soldiers followed the gesture with his eyes and replied curtly: "Sixteen feet is the standard. It's also wired with five hundred volts."
"What about if they tried to dig underneath it?"
"Steel sheets have been buried ten feet down," the soldier stated. "Past Programs have shown that the participants usually give up after five feet. Maximum. Not to mention... As long as we have the collar, we don't even really need all of this." He broke into a smile and glanced sidelong at the Co-Ordinator, watching him as he removed his sunglasses. "This may be your first Program... But trust us. We know what we're doing."
It's my third, actually, his brain replied, sharply.
Thinking better of saying the statement aloud, Charles forced himself to return the wry smile and took another drag. Smoke fluttered from his nostrils, clouding around his face. The wind licked up a few strands of his slicked-back hair as he turned his gaze around, onto the houses in the distance.
"I take it the Community Centre is that way?"
"Yes, it'll be in Zone C-4," a second soldier replied. Fishing out a map, from the front pocket of his combats, he pointed out a red square and scratched at the side of his buzzed hair. "Our base is usually more centred in the arena, but because of the location this time, it was the only structure large enough to hold us."
Pushing over the cuff of his jacket, Charles checked the time on his watch. An Italian import, the Panerai Radiomir was cased in solid titanium. Easily passing a value of a hundred thousand, the timepiece cost more than all of his associates' yearly wages combined. A sleek and stylish model, it boasted a number of opulent features, while still being practical in nature. Water-resistant up to a depth of 100 meters; other features included a transparent caseback and anti-glare sapphire crystal.
It was his favourite watch.
"And the Game starts at midnight?" he clarified.
"Correct," the first soldier responded. Indicating the nearby vehicle, he tugged absent-mindedly on the strap of his Kevlar vest. "Shall we head to the Community Centre now?" Curling his mouth into a smile, he nodded back at the fence. "Or did you want to inspect the perimeter some more?" he added, mockingly.
Charles ignored the remark and, without a word, started to stride towards the Jeep. The man reminded him of a student he had once taught, back when he was a guest lecturer at a local university. There was a sly snark and an air of self-importance to the way that he spoke that, while irritating, Charles was easily able to brush off and ignore. Reprimand for the attitude could be delayed; held off on until he had forgotten the comments entirely. Then (at least in the case of his former student) retaliation would come in the form of overly harsh comments on the reports.
He considered contacting Sebastian Wilson and requesting a Court Marshall.
Better still, there was always the option of calling his Father.
Thoughts of possible punishments for the soldier filled his head, drowning out the scenery and slipping him into a daze for the majority of the drive. When Charles finally returned to his senses, the town hall was in sight and looming down upon the car.
A squat building, the Statemore Community Centre was all angles. Little more than two stories tall, the roof was slanted towards them at a downward angle, like the edge of a knife. Jutting out of the grey tiled surface, sticking straight up into the air, the windows extended out, the incline of the roof reversing in such a manner that if you were to examine the building from the side, the top would seem to take on the appearance of a check mark. Affixed to the side of the building and slanting in the opposite direction, a fixed canopy shielded the entrance from any threat of rain.
Every glass surface had been completely sealed off with steel shutters. The flat chrome surfaces glinted brightly in the light, granting the building a futuristic appearance. The automatic sliding door in the entryway had also been removed, replaced by a heavy metal one, fixed in place by large, strong hinges.
Inside most of the furnishings had been left relatively untouched, the main exception being the hall. The large room had been stripped bare; the only thing remaining on the walls a large whiteboard, recently screwed into place. Facing this board were a series of individual desks and chairs. Eight rows of five, spaced evenly apart, there were as many desks as there would be contestants.
After giving the hall a quick once-over, Charles moved back into the entryway and turned left. At the end of a corridor was a large meeting room. Like the hall, the appearance of the room had been drastically altered. Fixed to the walls were at least ten flatscreen televisions, and positioned back-to-back through the middle of the space were eight desktop computers. At the head of the room was a large desk; paperwork piled neatly atop it.
Taking his place behind the oak construct, Charles dabbed out his cigarette in the pre-prepared ashtray and smoothed back his neatly slicked hair. Gently grasping the paperwork, he spread the sheets out in front of him before picking up a remote control. Pointing it forwards triumphantly, he pressed the "On" button.
Immediately, the wall-mounted flatscreens all simultaneously lit up. Displayed across all of them were photographic images of forty Highschool students.
"Let the games begin," Charles muttered. A satisfied smile crept onto his face.