Chapter 1: Dead or Alive: 3 of ♣
Summary:
A little something to set the scene as you contemplate your dealer role, fresh from the victory of extending your visa once more.
Kudos and comments are always appreciated, enjoy!
Chapter Text
He doesn’t have any interest in the concept of life, but there was something that incited his curiosity…
Of course, it wasn’t human. It was an object, a painting. For some reason, when he laid his eyes upon that painting—he couldn’t look away.
The Mona Lisa, in one theory, has been said to be Da Vinci himself dressed as a woman. The idea of the archetypal masterpiece of the Italian Renaissance being a self-portrait was first proposed by Lilian Schwartz, in 1987. Supporters of the theory rely upon the artist’s love of riddles and the similar facial structures featured in the painting and Portrait of a Man in Red Chalk. The latter has been widely accepted to portray Da Vinci.
Every year without fail, millions upon millions flock to the Louvre for a glimpse of the famed artwork behind its bulletproof, climate-controlled, anti-glare casing. Some to bask in awe of Da Vinci’s masterful demonstration of sfumato, blending light and shadow subtly to create a soft, lifelike glow. Some to follow the movement of her shifting eyes, watching steadily as viewers move from one wall to the next. And some to unlock the secrets of her romantic smile, hiding mysteries of her identity and story behind closed lips.
The question of why the Mona Lisa is one of the most famed works of art in the whole world begets a different answer depending on who is asked.
The response he believes in…is that it’s a mirror. For those traveling to see her lifelike image, her knowing eyes, her enigmatic smile—and for Da Vinci.
Everyone wants to be seen for who they are.
Even him.
♠ ♥ ♣ ♦
You’ve never been a fan of the battle royale genre. They were a guilty pleasure to watch, though you never managed to sit through whatever competition you were watching long enough to finish it. From gore and fictional death games to reality shows over one singular cash prize—you could never stop envisioning yourself trapped in the competition.
Sure, you don’t necessarily need to incorporate yourself within a piece of media to consume it. Maybe you need to modify your earlier statement, then: you’ve never been a fan of participating in anything with a battle royale format.
They suck.
Competing against countless others and relying on the false hope that every elimination you escape would make a difference, as if being the last to lose means you’ve done any better than the first one to fall. Counting down the remaining players, knowing every step forward will be harder to take due to the enhanced quality of competition that’s survived this far alongside with you.
You’ve always hated those games.
Because there’s only one winner—the best of the best. You’re not foolish enough to believe that’d be you.
Dead or Alive: 3 of ♣
You have a hypothesis: no one seems to take pride in specializing in Clubs games. Players refer to it as the ‘safety suit,’ sighing in relief upon seeing the black icon on their phones. Who’d brag about being the most balanced of them all?
Maybe it’s because the category is broader than those the other three suits fall in so easily and naturally: the intelligent Diamonds, the powerful Spades, and the cunning Hearts. In comparison, Clubs games seem more like a twisted and unpredictable blend of the others, indomitable without Lady Luck on your side.
To best the Diamonds games, you must possess the sharpest mind.
Greatly physical strength will grant you victory in the Spades games.
Hearts games favour the player without any.
And Clubs? The common misconception is that teamwork is all you need—though that’s not entirely accurate. Teamwork and collaboration are common denominators amongst the victors because it just so happens that working with a large team means a higher likelihood of having people with competencies diverse enough to cover the variety of skills as demanded by a Clubs game.
There’s never really a cookie cutter trait valued above all others—none beyond luck. For your luck determines which trait of the other three suits a Clubs game will reward.
That’s your theory, at least (you do think you have some authority and credibility that should lend your theories more attention). Maybe you’re biased because you consider yourself a jack of all tradies and master of none. Your intellect has taken you further than most to deliver you into the halls of the nation’s most prestigious law school; your stamina has benefitted from the fairly regular workouts you carve out time for; your empathy allows you to accurately play the correct role to maintain strong connections in diverse social circles.
You’d be a valuable player in any game, yet you’re also rational enough to understand you may never be the last one standing when only one aptitude is rewarded above all others.
After all, why would you be? When there’s so many others here in this mirror universe of Tokyo, potentially smarter, stronger, and slyer than you? Smarter people who’ve already graduated law school, stronger people who live in the gym, and slyer people who don’t need to play any role because they’re cunning enough to make people fawn over their authentic personality.
That’s why you like to think of yourself as a Clubs player—good enough to survive, never great enough to win. If you had to choose, of course.
Whatever the case, today Clubs has rewarded your devotion to defending it as a suit to be feared. Dead or Alive has extended your visa on the very day it’s set to expire.
“There,” huffs your partner as he brushes off the dust and ash from his hands. “All done.” For this game, you’ve been paired with the young PhD student, which you can’t complain about because he’s certainly useful when there’s manual labour involved.
“Thanks for your help.” Smiling, you hold out a clean napkin for him to wipe his hands on as his own method doesn’t appear to be yielding any results. He takes the cloth graciously, and the two of you head down the tunnel to walk back towards the subway station.
It’s not too dark outside; there’s still wisps of light outside as the sun clings onto the day with the list of its strength. This is much more comforting, you think, than trying to tidy up the venue an hour before midnight because your game is running late due to waiting for additional players to join and fulfil the required participation numbers, or simply because the rules allow for a longer time limit before everything can finally end. When that is the case, you work with your firearm clenched tightly in hand in case any unsavoury beings catch you before you can slip away underground.
“What a relief we had a good run, right?” chirps your partner after a few minutes of complete silence. You’re holding the flashlight illuminating the inky subway tunnels. It’s odd that he’s so talkative, partly because he’s been in the Borderlands far longer than you have and is still in the mood for casual chats despite witnessing bloody scenes of other humans perishing moments before. The other enigma you don’t understand is how he, as a fellow scholar pursuing post-graduate education, could still be so upbeat.
Well, no. All of that no longer matters, you reason, whether someone was a depressed senior or a happy-go-lucky freshman in their life before—everyone’s the same now.
“Yeah, I’d say so,” you agree. “My visa was going to expire today, so I can’t complain. Five more days from such a low-level game is a nice deal.”
You would’ve liked to volunteer for the Ten of Diamonds today, but those two spots were given to the high school girls that just arrived.
“Living life on the edge, are we? What a daredevil.”
You laugh, shaking your head. He couldn’t be further from the truth—a daredevil is the last thing you’d call yourself. You like to think yourself rational (or at the very least, reasonable). When you first arrived, your initial plan was to rack up as many visa days as you could, to serve as a contingency for any off-days. When you weren’t well, it’d be better to waste a day and back out of a game than recklessly jumping towards your death.
Or so you thought.
Until you had come way too close to death’s door in three games ago, supervising Tower Defence. So close that you essentially already had one foot past the entryway and into death’s foyer as the last player was seconds away from sneaking up on you and bashing your head in. You ended up turning around at the last second when you felt the sensation of burning eyes behind you. Regardless, that would’ve been your last game—all because you hadn’t waited long enough to confirm her death in the penultimate round.
You were slipping, and you had almost made a fatal mistake that day. The constant urgency of needing to extend your visa overwhelmed your thoughts and dulled your senses. For a while, you couldn’t bring yourself to jump back into a game considering how close you had come to losing. But time and time again, your visa forced your hand.
Contrast that initial enthusiasm to now, where you only volunteer to manage a game when you’re on the edge of running out of time. There’s no need to jump into anything before you need to, lest another dumb mistake costs you your life before the laser can even end it. Your new plan has been to drag out your stay here as long as possible while you wait for the players to inevitably clear the numbered games.
It’s been working so far. You’re fortunate enough to emerge victorious from Dead or Alive through sheer luck.
“What about you?” you question instead, letting your amused laugh be the only indication that your partner has misjudged your personality. “You seemed quite relaxed in this game.”
“To be fair, I wasn’t on my last day,” offers the man with a shrug. “Just got too bored sitting around inside all day.”
Oh. That’s the sort of person he is. Someone who considers the safety of sitting around with food and water without having to risk their life playing games—he considers all of that boring. You huff out a wry laugh.
“I think I’d be fine with all that ‘boredom,’” you comment offhandedly, kicking away a strong rock in your path.
If dealer visas were permanent, you’d have no problem just sitting behind a screen and doing house keeping tasks all day (it sounds dark and all, but there’s not much choice here). If you had the choice, you’d rather leave this fake Tokyo behind, regardless of how nice the quiet streets and unlimited shopping sprees are. While spending your time facilitating the deaths of players isn’t ideal, if the alternative is to instead put your own life on the line…then sure, why not become a reaper?
You got over all the moral shit and trauma quickly enough when you had first arrived.
Not even a second later, you hear a snort from behind you.
“Yeah, I figured,” the student chuckles.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He’s not wrong, not at all—yet you can’t help but wonder what it is about your appearance that screams, ‘I’m a coward!” Like. What specifically?
“I’m just saying—you looked scared shitless watching everyone open those doors. You wouldn’t even have gotten burned.” You frown.
You walked into Dead or Alive prepared to die, just as you have with any other game following Tower Defence. You didn’t walk in wishing for death; you just entered with the knowledge that it was a very likely outcome. You were prepared for it—resigned, even; dying in this foreign land so similar to home is inevitable. So why did you still look that scared watching the screen?
“We’ve been dealt the shorter end of the stick—you should be scared,” you snap. The retort comes out much too quickly and harshly to be interpreted as anything other than defensive. Why are you being so defensive? You’ve already made your peace with the rules of this place…haven’t you?
You’ve picked up on it quite quickly, and you’re sure your partner must know it too—given his psychoanalysis bullshit. Batches of new players arrive each day as soon as you kill off the old ones, springing up from the ground like weeds. The ratio’s all sorts of fucked up; the two young girls that showed up today have been the first new dealers in a week. There’s no way you’ll all be able to eliminate everyone here before they finish all the numbered games. How many others back at the station have picked up on the futility of their work?
“All the more reason to live each day like it’s your last! There’s no difference between having three hours or three weeks on your visa. We’ll all be killed here when the numbered cards are collected.”
“That’s not—” You pause, snapping your mouth shut as if pulled by some magnetic force. You want to argue that there’s still a tangible difference between living your last three hours over your last three weeks and that having more days to live as if they’re your last would be much more enjoyable than having only a few—though you think you understand what he’s feeling.
As opposed to wading through each day like a mindless zombie as time stretches on endlessly until he’s finally shot down by the sky laser, he’d rather experience everything to the fullest. If he does, then it no longer matters how and when he dies.
“I wonder how the roles were chosen,” you ask instead, no longer wanting to stay on such a depressing topic. “Who gets to be a player and who’s stuck with being a dealer?” In other words, who gets to fight for a chance to live and who’s marked to be used as an expendable resource from the very start? With the way the players are progressing, it’s a guarantee you’ll never survive this place. Not ‘almost guaranteed,’ as some of the more optimistic dealers like to say—fully and truly guaranteed.
You’re not even thinking of making it out alive. Just living a few extra days would be nice.
“Who knows? Why are you suddenly thinking about that?”
“I’m just wondering. How do they choose which person will fight the uphill battle?” You don’t realize you’ve already slowed to a stop until your partner circles back to wait for you. Could the decision be random? Or is one group the more competent, deserving? And if so, which one? Is this world built to give everyone a fighting chance by evening out the playing field, or is this one built to train only those worth training?
It’s the same list of questions you find yourself circulating between every time you finish a game.
“Well, if we ever need a Hail Mary plan to win, maybe a killing spree would save us,” your partner offers in a flawed imitation of comfort. It’s rare that he’s willing to entertain your suddenly philosophical mind (usually he just laughs your odd behaviour off). “We’re the ones with the supplies, anyway.”
“No way,” you chuckle. There’s rules everyone has to follow each game, and one of them requires you to kill players according to those conditions. Otherwise, one of the engineers at headquarters would’ve already found a way to bomb every venue. “There’s some sort of purpose to these games—a reason they’ve been sorted into suits. It must be to test something.”
“Couldn’t a manhunt be considered a test?”
“Sure…but it doesn’t seem like a very good one,” you argue. “Physical strength, intelligence, mental strength, and well-roundedness—or collaboration, if you believe in that. None of those are really tested fairly with a manhunt.”
This world follows a system, as convoluted and twisted as it is. This fact you are sure of; the citizens want games to be played, not mindless killing. That’s why visas exist—without them, players wouldn’t want to join the games, and dealers wouldn’t want to risk managing them. A ticking time bomb forces them to all participate. Purely from a logistics perspective, you can’t imagine the system would be half as efficient if people were not confined by their roles.
Even as demanding of a win condition as you’ve been saddled with, it’s still technically possible. Very, very, very unlikely, yes—but still very much possible.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me—you really think there’s no skill involved in running away from, like, sixty killers with unlimited access to weapons?”
“I didn’t say that,” you snap. Irritated, you speed-walk ahead, leaving the PhD student jogging to catch up. “I’m just saying, it’s not really a fair test of skill now, is it? It’s so dependent on luck—where you are when the game starts, where the dealers are, whether the dealers feel like they want to spare you since it’s not a battle royale game. Assuming it isn’t—you said you’d do it for visa days.”
“Maybe luck’s what separates the winners and losers.”
“How’s that fair at all?”
“You’re the one stuck on fairness,” the student sneers. “No one ever said the games were fair. You saw that today—that last time limit was fucked up. No one’s gonna clear that.”
You reel back, stunned as you consider his words. That’s…true. You’ve never been provided a guarantee that anything in this distorted land would ever be fair. All you remember was spotting these gorgeous fireworks one ordinary day and then winding up in an abandoned alleyway. Someone lured you into the subway tunnels you now consider a second home, explaining your job was to kill people and tidy up messes.
No one ever promised the games would be fair. You rather they were. Otherwise, what would that mean for your chances of return?
Chapter 2: Pain Meter: 9 of ♥
Summary:
The beginning of a long con, you're assigned Chishiya as your target and game...
For additional context, see the end notes! Enjoy :D
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Pain Meter: 9 of ♥
“Everybody listen up! New orders have arrived: we’re to send eight dealers to prepare for a game in a month’s time,” is the announcement that greets everyone this morning. The daily proclamation at 7:00 AM is a routine all of you in headquarters have come to expect, though the words themselves are shocking. It garners quite the stir, especially because—
“Eight dealers? How can we spare so many?” questions a woman with dyed red hair near the front of the crowd. She was a makeup artist before entering the Borderlands.
“Yeah! My back still hurts from dragging all those players yesterday!” the electrician chimes in. Loud complaints, all vocalizing agreement, chase away the sleepy haziness typical of those up at such an early hour. The buzz of energy as eager voices contribute their input makes it seem as if plans for a massacre have been announced.
Finally, one shrill voice carries over above the rest, belonging to the younger architect. It’s much easier to remember each dealer by their profession. For one, it allows you to quickly assess their potential strengths and weaknesses if you’re paired up with them; secondly, it saves you the emotional drainage when mourning their sudden deaths.
“Is the preparation process separate from our visa?” It’s a good question, and you’re wondering the same. A month of work isn’t something many dealers can make time for so easily, especially if they’re burdened with the simultaneous task of renewing their visas. You yourself only have three more days before you need to manage another game, including the one to be deducted at midnight. You hope they pass by slowly.
Everyone waits with bated breath, until the head dealer (an event planner that’s been here longer than anyone can remember) turns his deadpan gaze to the architect and answers, “Yes. They will be issued a separate work visa.”
The room erupts into cheers, everyone raising their hand to volunteer amidst a cacophony of excited shrieks. You join in, enthusiasm dipping below the average level of the crowd as you stay silent and still in a frenzy of desperate dealers. It’s not like yelling any louder or reaching any higher has ever translated into an increased chance to manage an upcoming game. Besides, maybe the head dealer will notice how tranquil you are and appreciate it, like how those main characters are always picked for reading during a concert or something.
Don’t judge, it was the plot of a romance in some book you once read.
“Settle down, settle down.” The event planner motions for everyone to drop their hands. “Selected dealers will have their visas frozen during the duration of the preparation. You are to split your time between preparing for your own game and helping out with the ones that we’ll be running in the meantime. You may even be asked to step in to fill any vacant spots, though your visa will not be tied to the game’s outcome.”
So while you won’t be eliminated for any game besides your own, you’ll also be barred from earning additional visa days? That’s not ideal…even during an interim period. What if you get injured in between and no longer have any days left as soon as the work visa ends?
Nonetheless, 30 days’ worth of time as a lump sun is an incredible resource few dealers have ever amassed, a paradise you could only dream of. You’d be a fool to not take it, regardless of what preparation actually entails.
“What’s the game?” someone shouts, prompting others to echo similar questions.
“The game is Pain Meter,” begins the head dealer in his characteristic monotone drawl (you don’t think you’ve ever heard his voice carry any emotion more colourful than boredom, including when he racked up 11 deaths in one game). “Depending on the success of the dealers, the difficulty may either be a Nine or Ten of Hearts.” A collective gasp comes from the crowd; one of the last difficulties players need to clear is the Ten of Hearts. “The selected dealers will have a player known as their target. They must form an attachment with this target, whether romantically or platonically or whatever way possible.
“At the end of the month, each pair will then play the game together with their targets. Targets will be presented with the choice to inflict a designated amount of pain—whether on themselves, their corresponding dealer, or other pairs—to fill up a meter. Once the meter is full, the target passes the game. The pain will be measured through collars. Dealers are not to retaliate. The aim of the game is not to kill the dealers, but to test how deep of a bond they’ve formed with their corresponding targets such that a player would rather inflict pain on anyone else besides the dealer. Further details will be provided upon confirmation of dealers. We’ll start the bidding as usual.”
It’s not really a bidding process, to be clear. Bidding allows participants to offer prices of their choices, whereas the winners of this bid are essentially already fixed the moment each day’s orders arrive by letter. Those with the least days remaining on their visa are given the option to accept first to ensure the dealer population is sustainable enough to carry out more games. Except there haven’t been any new dealers since those two high school girls joined, so let’s call a spade a spade.
This is no bidding process.
The makeup artist and chemistry student—both of whom have visas about to expire—make no move to budge from their positions like you would’ve expected them to.
Instead, the room is so silent that you could hear a pin drop. Despite the head dealer assuring you all that the objective was not to kill you, it does little to chase away the fear and dread weighing down the atmosphere like a wet blanket. Whichever dealer is essentially volunteering themselves to be tortured with no chance to retaliate or escape.
There’s no way it’s that simple, that the player can just choose not to torture themselves or their precious dealer. Not if the citizens want to see how strong a bond could be formed within a month’s time in some apocalyptic world. You’re not too sure how the numbers will work out, but you suspect that the pain inflicted on other parties might not shift the meter as much as the pain inflicted on the dealers—only then would players be incentivized to betray what would likely be their closest friend coming into the game.
And even if the dealers were to win (which is already highly unlikely because what are the chances eight players fail to enact enough suffering when their lives are on the line?), they’d be injured and forced to earn additional visa days immediately after the game ends.
Volunteering for this game is practically a death sentence. Either your target kills you, someone else's target kills you, or you die from your injuries.
“I’d be interested in participating,” you announce, projecting your voice and raising a lone hand above everyone else’s heads. With a little wave, the head dealer motions for you to walk up to where he stands at the front of the room. A path opens up as people in front of you separate while ogling at you as if you’re insane.
Really, you’re not. You’re not even suicidal.
Maybe a bit resigned, yes, but not suicidal.
“Noted,” nods the announcer, scribbling your name down on his clipboard. It’s a wonder how he remembers everyone’s names when you gave up two games in, too distraught over losing dealer after dealer just as you started to become more familiar with them each time. “Anyone else?”
“As if!” snorts the mechanic. “Can you guarantee we’ll come out of Pain Meter alive?”
“If you aren’t killed by the actual players themselves, then the usual conditions will apply,” the event planner replies calmly, not the least fazed by the other dealer’s attitude. All your lives are on the line, after all. “So while your visas will be frozen for a month, it will be void if a player clears Pain Meter, regardless of whether they’re your target or not.”
Which, again, essentially means guaranteed death because there’s no world where all eight players would be morally conflicted enough to die for someone they’ve just met a month ago. Especially if they could simply resort to torturing the other dealers. Everyone must’ve come to the same conclusion upon hearing the head dealer’s explanation.
“We’re being thrown in as pawns!”
“You’re giving people 30 days just so they can plan their deaths!”
That’s what it sounds like, you think grimly to yourself. A tempting carrot offered to all of you so someone would volunteer to endure the torture of the stick. With each cry of dissent, the figurative clown face paint they must be seeing on you only becomes more visible.
Yet when you really think about it, a month’s worth of free time in exchange for a painful death is such a steal. Absolute bargain. Because again, there’s no way any of the dealers are going to walk out of this world alive.
Sure, there’s only been a few new card levels appearing lately, once or twice every week. The majority of the difficulties have been duplicates these past two weeks, with several games being played for the same level and repeating until they’ve been beaten. Nonetheless, there’s no particular reason for any of the citizens to keep brainstorming ideas for a Two of Hearts difficulty or whatnot. You believe the repeating difficulties are only because the citizens are struggling to invent a game appropriate for the uncleared levels.
It’s only a matter of time before they succeed.
Others might pray that the citizens never find a game that aligns with the missing cards, or perhaps they’ll hold out hope that they can rack up a respectable 100 kills to transport themselves out of the Borderlands. However, there’s never been enough evidence to encourage betting on either escape route. The citizens have no incentive to keep the dealers alive over the players (in fact, you’d argue the former would be a far more dangerous opponent than the latter), and no one’s come even remotely close to surviving long enough to see their kill count exceed 60.
Like the head dealer said, if the chosen eight are exceptional in executing their roles…Pain Meter could be upgraded to a Ten of Hearts. It’s one of the five difficulties the players have yet to collect.
You’ve realized the futility of your role long ago; dealers only live to die. Players are the only people allowed to prove themselves.
So if you had the chance to live without the constant weight of counting down your days—even if it’s only one month—why not take it? That’s essentially one month of your old life; as if you’ve been transported back to normal Tokyo with no sky lasers and towers of screens, albeit much more vacant. Either you can worry about which game you should manage and be eliminated when you inevitably choose wrong, or you could live your one month free of any worries and die after having led a satisfying life.
After all, it’s not like any of you in this station will ever kill enough players to return. Given this information, it’s not a hard decision to make. Moreover, there’s a fairly high chance you’d die sooner without freezing your visa.
Besides, if at the very end, you decide you can’t handle the torture—well, you could always reveal your identity and summon the laser yourself.
In the end, five of you are volunteers and the remaining three are voluntold (including the mechanic that once objected so strongly). The fact that some dealers had to be coerced into this new game indicates the majority believe there will eventually come a day where you all return to the old world, and they’d rather try to hold out long enough for that moment.
The one-month work visa is not without terms and conditions—ones that portray you and the four other volunteers to be reckless and rash in rushing to take advantage of an offer that sounded too good to be true. To be fair, you still think you would’ve found yourself managing this game had the conditions been explained to you prior to accepting, though it does make the trade-off appear far less worthwhile.
Firstly, even though your visas are frozen, your life is not immortal during this time, either. If anything should happen to your target, you will face the same consequence: if your target loses a game, so do you. Laser time. But what about the other dealers who will die if your target wins, the makeup artist asks. You’re told that the citizens will register it as a dealer win if all players who pass the game are targets. However, because players must not suspect there to be moles among them, the cleared difficulty will still be counted towards the five remaining uncleared cards.
In other words, Pain Meter dealers must not bring their targets to the Ten of Hearts, Seven of Hearts, Four of Diamonds, Eight of Clubs, and Six of Spades. Doing so would risk the lives of all the other dealers in the long run.
It’s not the most reassuring of compromises—since there is no incentive for the rest of the dealers to protect your targets—but it at least removes the need for them to eliminate them.
You’ll all still have to do your best to kill off the non-target players along with the managing dealer, points out the electrician, if you want to ensure the cooperation of the station in sparing your target and feeding your intel about their game.
Secondly, the citizens will be monitoring progress. There’s much less information surrounding this requirement—how will they measure success? What is an appropriate amount of progress? You’re not sure, perhaps it functions as a preventative measure so no one wastes away this month doing nothing?
Thirdly, none of you will be spared in the actual games should you join. Even though you all have access to information about the games in the morning briefings and discussions with the managing dealers, you will still be subjected to the same punishment if you cannot be spared without drawing suspicion. The only blessing you receive is that so long as you are out of sight of any players (including your target), you are still permitted to withdraw or escape punishment through the tunnels underneath each venue even after registering.
Of course, that comes with the risk of letting your target fend for themselves.
Finally, you’re all told that the targets have been selected. Which comes as quite a bummer.
Because…well, it’s silly—you had been hoping you’d be able to live freely in this upcoming month. Beyond no longer having to fuss over stupid visa days, but also…you know…the opportunity to spend time obsessing over frivolous, useless things like love and crushes and relationship drama. Come on—it’s not like any of you will have the chance to think about that sort of stuff in the real world anymore—might as well take advantage of the fact that your life depends on your fake romance!
No one’s going to blame you for wanting to be in at least one relationship before you die…all the movies and books you’ve read make it sound so fun!
So being able to obtain an actual boyfriend or girlfriend isn’t entirely impossible now that the head dealer has informed you the identity of all eight targets have been confirmed…it’s just become…much less likely. You’re not sure whether any of the citizen’s ideal types will align with yours…
Okay, it was never going to be a fairytale romance in the first place, considering third base in this situation would involve physically torturing one another (how romantic), but it couldn't hurt to fantasize about it, right?
“And you’re going to be the one assigning them?” asks the accountant standing on your right. The eight of you are lined up at the front of the room to ensure everyone—both Pain Meter and non-Pain Meter dealers—is on the same page with regards to how this next month will proceed.
“No,” deadpans the head dealer before he lets out a heavy sigh. “We’ll go in order of sign-up, and you will all select your targets from this lineup. Tomorrow, I’ll confirm whether the pairings have been approved or whether any swaps will be taking place. Your 30 days will start when pairings have been finalized."
Oh. Okay, wait…that’s actually quite exciting! Scratch what you said earlier about not being able to choose—it seems as if Lady Luck is still on your side for one more day.
With a gesture towards the wall of screens behind him, the event planner draws everyone’s attention to the eight pictures being displayed. The targets! Cheers and wolf whistles break the tense atmosphere as you all lock up. There’s a mix of both men and women, ranging from mid-twenties to late thirties. None of them seem to be candid photos, and you wonder when the citizens were able to collect all these pictures of everyone looking straight into the camera. These could almost be professional headshots.
Some you think you’ve seen before, while others look completely new. How were these eight selected, you ponder.
“Since you volunteered first, you get first pick," the announcer explains to you, clicking the back of his pen in preparation to record the pairings. The lack of ceremony surrounding this process takes you aback as you flounder for a few moments, taking in your options. There’s no names below any of the targets, solely their player IDs. It’s not as if you’ve ever memorized anyone’s ID; each string of numbers look simultaneously as familiar and foreign as any other.
“Pick the third one! She’s hot!”
“DO NUMBER FIVE!”
More and more dealers shout suggestions from behind you as if you’re starring in a dating show, and you struggle to fight back the laugh erupting from your throat. Who could blame you—it’s such a bizarre yet hilarious situation! When’s the last time everyone had something so weirdly silly as this happen?
You can’t help but want to indulge yourself; there are only three targets that look close to you in age. With silver piercings dotting his features, the sixth guy’s not quite to your test. You scrunch your nose in consideration. Only the third woman and the fourth man remain as candidates.
The woman is in running gear, and her sleek black hair is pulled high into a ponytail. She’s quite pretty; even with her clenched jaw and sight frown, you can tell she must’ve been on the receiving end of many confessions. Though to be fair, the man isn’t bad to look at either—with sharp features and cat eyes, framed by dyed blond hair. His smile seems polite and confident, albeit smug.
A Spades and non-Spades player respectively, maybe?
“I think…I’ll take the fourth one,” you decide, pointing to the blond man with the confident smile. The announcer nods and jots something down on his clipboard before moving on to the accountant beside you. The noise continues as everyone tries to persuade the accountant into accepting their recommendation, though you drown it all out as you continue inspecting the blond—your target, now. There’s a sense of unease digging a hole into your stomach as you stare into those dark eyes.
Is it the screen, or do you really see a dangerous glint behind those catlike orbs, as if staring down prey? The man’s digital grin stretches and widens into something far more sinister before your very eyes—then you blink and it’s all gone.
Just some young blond man.
Well. It’s not like there was ever anything concrete to base your selection off of beyond an attractive face and vibes.
Notes:
Hello hello!
As a warning, Reader and Chishiya do not interact until the fifth chapter (when they play their first game together). However, these next chapters will give you insight on Reader's plan. The slow pace feels fitting for him; I can't imagine manga!Chishiya letting anyone close immediately.
Feel free to leave any questions or feedback you may have, I adore interaction :D
Notes for the story:
- If you're curious as to how Pain Meter would function, it's heavily inspired by the horror film Vile
- Although I strive to ensure events line up with canon, I've taken creative liberties when writing the dealer interactions due to the lack of information
- Reader's mindset at this point is that she's aware of how unlikely it is for dealers to win the first stage, thus 30 days of free time is better than having to worry about her visa
Chapter 3: Day 1
Summary:
Pairings have been approved; the clock's started ticking; your 30 days starts now. While watching Chishiya's first game, you're shocked (read: irritated) to glimpse his true nature.
Hope you enjoy :D
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 1
Only two pairings are remade at today’s morning briefing; the other six are approved. Now all assignments have been set in stone—which begs the question: what is the selection criteria being used by the citizens? What sort of players are suitable for this game? And what dynamics are the citizens hoping to see by forcing the accountant and mechanic to swap targets?
Because you’d like to rewind time and send yours target. A refund on this blond freak of a man, let him be open to be selected again! Someone else take him—please.
Initially, you chose him not solely because he’s pretty and close to you in age—since the third woman is too—but also because you remember seeing him play before. You don’t have any concrete memories of the woman, yet it’s quite hard to forget the dyed hair of the man, sticking out amongst the sea of natural dark locks like a sore thumb. You distinctly recall flashes of that silver-blond dot on the screens of other dealers and thinking he seemed quite capable.
He never freaked out as far as you can recall, and he must’ve managed to stay alive for some time considering the frequency of his cameos.
So somebody—anybody—explain why this is the first time you’re finding out he’s suicidal.
There are nearly three hundred players ready to send you dealers to the grave, and you’ve somehow managed to latch onto the one guy who just can’t wait to die! You even had the first pick. You can’t believe it—is this the point of Pain Meter? To find depressed players and see just how depressed they can really be? What the actual fuck!
This blond fool—‘Chishiya Shuntarou,’ according to his file, is going to get you killed. He’s going to pull some suicidal shenanigan in a game, get killed, and then you’re going to be executed as a consequence!
Okay. Pause. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Maybe you’re being just the tiniest bit dramatic. But it’s hard not to be when his first game—Blackjack, with a difficulty of Six of Diamonds—shows him literally throwing an easy win out the window to instead gamble on luck! That’s like…being handed the key to unlock your handcuffs and deciding you’d rather see if sawing off your hands would allow you to escape from where you’re chained to the tracks of an incoming train.
What on earth was this guy thinking?
Because yes, you’re watching replays of all his games, even those prior to your arrival. You have quite a stack to get through considering how frequently he plays. While the other dealers are managing their duties as usual, the eight of you allocated to Pain Meter have set up camp in the corner, each of you switching between monitors and scrawling notes. After all, you’re not here to simply understand these players’ strategies—you need to know everything about them. Their personalities, philosophies, their trauma, their desires, their flaws—anything that you can exploit, you will.
Back to Blackjack—it’s already bad enough that this Chishiya guy wagered his life when he didn’t need to—but the fact that he did so in a battle royale? There was literally no reason for him to show mercy to the woman he was up against, considering she was the last obstacle standing between him and being spared getting his neck broken. You’re lucky that this game took place in a restaurant because the small venue size means the recording includes audio.
You have a front seat to all of this guy’s bullshit.
Everything had started off well enough; your target was able to quickly amass an impressive amount of chips considering he seemed to only vaguely know the rules of the eponymous card game. That had gotten your hopes up; this guy was scarily intelligent, which means you’d have one less thing to worry about in terms of keeping him alive.
You were slightly alarmed when he blatantly cheated by crumbling the eight of clubs, yet it proved to be the right call since it triggered the judgement mechanism and allowed the woman to eliminate the man wearing sunglasses. It was quite obvious your target was always one step against everyone else.
Even you…he had you fooled several times. It took you several backwards skips to pinpoint the exact moment where Chishiya had seamlessly removed a card—and you still couldn’t be sure with how blurry the resolution was. Moves that you wouldn’t ignore or outright refused to make had you been in his place proved to always end in his favour. It seemed like you had found yourself quite a dangerous target to manipulate…
Or so you thought.
Because when it came down to just him and the woman with three minutes before everyone would be eliminated regardless of chip count—and Chishiya was in the most favourable position of the two as the sole player who could still exact judgement—he faltered.
He faltered!
He! Fucking! Chose to entrust his life to fate! Someone as fickle as fate!
Several times he did this—Ace of Spades, Six of Hearts, Seven of Clubs—in easy and hard games alike. None of them were ever as infuriating or nonsensical as the Six of Diamonds though, perhaps because it was the only game that pit him directly against other players. Nonetheless, without fail, he’d still pause and delay his victory to take needless risks, poking the remaining players as if testing their reactions when he wasn’t even safe yet.
As if he weren’t afraid of death!
Well. No, that’s not exactly right. No, someone courageous and brave would accept their death with dignity should it come to that, though it doesn’t mean they’d run headfirst into any reckless decision just for the sake of it.
You, for example—sure, your epiphany’s allowed you to come to terms with your inevitable end in the Borderlands, but all that’s done is temper your desire to oversee as many games as possible, knowing you’ll be killed off eventually regardless of your kill count. When you have spare days, you wander off to explore the rest of this liminal space or chat with other dealers while helping them with their tasks. And when you are back in front of the screens, there’s always a voice in the back of your mind reminding you that this could be your last day and that’s something you’re ready for—there’s no need to waste time praying for some unhearing god to spare you.
It’s what’s helped you stay composed and avoid emotional outbursts for the most part, despite not being one to wear your heart on your cheek in the real world. In your last moments, you’d like to be remembered favourably by all the dealers you’ve come to form tentative connections with. That’s the goal, at least—maybe the reason the PhD student pissed you off that much was because he informed you that you still have a long way to go before you reach enlightenment.
Yet therein lies the contradiction: you may not be particularly brave or courageous, but your relative acceptance of your fate makes you less willing to take initiative, knowing the payoff would never be enough to offset what’s already been set in stone.
Your target is the exact opposite—for as intelligent as analytical as he is, he sure leaves a lot of loose ends untied. He never rushes to finish a game, existing comfortably on the border between life and death, always ready and willing to make bold plays for…for what? Information? Entertainment? Not all the games include audio, but you suspect it’s something of the sort.
Which makes your blood boil.
Your target isn’t just unafraid of death.
He’s indifferent. Indifferent not only to whether anyone else survives, but indifferent to whether he survives.
That piece of—
Does he have any—any idea at all, how fortunate, how blessed, how lucky he is? To be graced with the opportunity to play these games and fight for his right to survive? When dealers—people just as capable as him and who cherish their own survival so much more—have been dealt a losing hand, struggling to stay alive when there’s no opportunity to escape? With each and every day, the number of players grows. All of you hiding in these subway tunnels, like vermin never seeing the light of day—counting down which few sacred cards still remain uncleared and losing familiar faces with every sunset as your numbers dwindle, knowing it’s only a matter of time before the players overwhelm you all and win?
He’s been given the chance of a lifetime when none of you in headquarters were ever allowed even the opportunity to try, and yet he treats it like a burden. Like! Something he couldn’t care less about! The sheer arrogance and thanklessness of this Chishiya Shuntarou makes you seethe.
If he really doesn’t care, then he should just give up now. If he really can’t tell the difference between life and death, then he should lay down his own as sacrifice so other players and dealers with more resolve can use him as a stepping stone. If he really sees no reason to fight, then he should stop getting in the way of those who do.
The Borderlands have to test something, right? It just doesn’t make sense for such a monumental decision as who can return and who has to die, to be based on anything other than merit. It just can’t. Where’s the justice in punishing those who want to live and rewarding those who don’t?
“Hey, are you alright?”
Huh? You look up from your notes to see the news anchor considering you with a concerned expression on her face.
“I’m fine, what’s up? Do you need anything?”
“You were glaring at your monitor, that’s all,” she replies, seemingly not quite convinced by the way she purses her lips. Neither of you acknowledge your broken pencil tip. Really, you’re fine. You’re the safest you’ve ever been considering you no longer need to manage any games for the month. The smile you try to keep stretched across your face is likely not the most persuasive, yet she shakes her head and lets your lie slide. “Anyway, we’re being called to a meeting.”
“All of us? What for?” You’ve just started brainstorming for Pain Meter. Could there be another new game already?
“Just the four of us.” Looking past her, you see the retreating figures of the banker and the photographer.
“Where are you guys headed?” asks the makeup artist on your left as she removes an earbud, curiously glancing up as you stand from your seat. “Should I get everyone?”
“No need, I think it’s only us four,” you dismiss, gesturing for her to stay put. “Something about our targets, probably.”
The makeup artist shrugs and returns to her screen, while you and the news anchor follow the two others around a tower of screens to a relatively unoccupied area. You’re the last one to arrive, and you can’t help but feel a sense of hope that perhaps this is your chance to rid yourself of one Chishiya Shuntarou. Refund time! After all, why else would there only be four of you here as opposed to the entire group? Maybe someone else is also displeased with their assignment…
“Are we going to be switching targets?”
“No, all pairings have already been confirmed.” The head dealer doesn’t even blink as your hopes and dreams crash and burn. Great. You’re stuck with Chishiya. Absolutely amazing. The laser might as well just take you out now. “Due to the particular circumstances of your targets, the four of you will have the option to select which game you will first interact with them.”
You and the other three exchange identical looks of surprise. Up until now, the plan was for all the Pain Meter dealers to just keep an eye on player registration and then book it over as soon as someone alerted you that your target was in one of them. A bit inefficient, sure, but you’d be ready regardless of the difficulty as long as you all paid attention in the morning briefings.
“How would that work? Are there going to be customized games just for them?” questions the banker, voicing aloud everyone’s thoughts.
“They’ll be the same as any other game, but if you let me know your selection before noon the day of, I’ll be able to relay it to the citizens.” There’s going to be citizens involved?
“Hold up. How sure are the citizens that the players will actually show up to the games we choose?” It’s the photographer asking this time. You’d like to know too because there’s no point in wasting all your brain power forming a strategy if it’s not even confirmed that your target will end up playing. None of you have ever been able to influence which players participate in which games, otherwise there would never be this many dealer casualties.
“Does it matter?” counters the head dealer, already making his way back to where everyone else is, signalling that this meeting has come to an end. “Just inform me when you make your decision.” With that, the man leaves the four of you, just standing there dumbfounded. The news anchor is the first to break the silence.
“Do you think the citizens have some sort of special power to control the players, maybe? Like how our brainwaves are supposedly monitored if we try to disclose our identities?”
“Probably not,” you comment, even though you know the laws of this land run contrary to what would be realistic. Time flows differently, technology is more advanced, and there’s rules all of you obey that would’ve resulted in a landmark constitutional rights case had it occurred back in the real world. Every day, there’s at least one venue that causes you to wonder how it was assembled, considering it seemed to just have popped up, fully equipped for the game. “If they could influence everyone, then they wouldn’t limit it to only our targets. They’d at least offer it to all eight of us to make sure Pain Meter goes smoothly, if they saw fit to give us this advantage.”
“That’s fair,” remarks the banker, finger resting on his chin as he takes a moment to contemplate the possibilities. “It could be that the citizens have interacted with these four in particular, and have established a line of communication. If we can infiltrate games and interact with players during the day, perhaps they’ve done so as well.”
Oh…that’s an interesting thought, and it’s likely the most plausible scenario as well. If the citizens have disguised themselves as regular players and made alliances with these four specific targets, they might be curious about what sort of reactions they’d have without placing their own lives on the line. It wouldn’t be too difficult for the citizens to guide those players to a particular venue and then fake an excuse to not participate. Or perhaps they could also slip out through the tunnels.
Has anyone you’ve ever seen in Chishiya’s games ever been a citizen in disguise?
‘You’re such a sad existence.’
For some reason, the last words of that one lady from the Six of Diamonds ring in your head. When you first heard it, you thought it was such a random thing to say considering it was quite clear none of the players at that table had met prior to the game. Yet that single sentence seemed to suggest she had already seen through his entire life. Maybe you also would’ve said something if your opponent suddenly decided to spare you in a battle royale game, though you’re not too sure ‘sad’ would’ve been your conclusion. Stupid, maybe.
The image of her body hanging from the ceiling of the restaurant after Chishiya had managed to beat her by the slimmest of margins is seared into your mind, but maybe it’s not entirely impossible for her to have survived. Citizens have no visas, right? Maybe it’s just another one of those Borderland quirks that you’re not supposed to question.
“Well, it’s not like it matters why,” decides the photographer. “You heard the man, just tell him when you’ve made up your mind.”
Notes:
Hi everyone!
Bear with me, there's only one more chapter after this before Reader infiltrates her first game. Another update should come soon before I must away for exams. Kudos and comments are always appreciated :D
Notes for the story:
- The Six of Diamonds referenced is Chishiya's first game from the manga
- Are we surprised the unreliable narrator is unreliable?
- Does anyone have any guesses as to why Chishiya's been one of the four targets singled out?