Template:The Reckoning · Friday

· Amalie ·


The first thing I recall is waking up in a dim-lit chamber with walls so thick, as soon as I saw them, I would have bet my bottom dollar they were soundproof. I remember the confusion of not knowing anything. Of somehow knowing lots of random stuff but not knowing anything about myself other than my name. I can still hear the sound of the huge door at my right sliding open: revealing three men with covered faces. At first, I had thought they’d take me away from wherever I was.

It wasn’t until they had left me locked up alone in that metallic room again that it dawned on me I was being held prisoner.

I had tried to get information from them about who I was, but they—whether purposefully or coincidentally, I would know not —refused to reveal much about me.

They would just tell me what to do and I would do it: I hadn’t the luxury of disobeying their orders. Whenever I would get in a feisty mood, or develop an “attitude”, the youngest of them would always remind me about how they knew where my grandmother lived, the schools my siblings attended, and how he could very much send someone to kill them at any moment’s notice. I had felt like I’d met him before, but, really, there was no real way to tell: first of all, because he always had his face covered, and second, well, because I had no real memory of my past.

Not that I could remember my siblings or grandmother, either. Or even know for sure they existed. And although I could very well have no family at all, and my kidnappers be bluffing, I had figured I couldn’t just risk their hypothetical lives for the sake of my pride. Besides, I had to have a family, or else who had these kidnappers been asking my ransom to?

A few days had passed when then I started overthinking everything. If I did have a family, then why had they not paid the ransom to get me back? Did they not love me? Did they not want me back? Did I not have a family, after all? If that was the case, then why would my kidnappers lie to me about having one? Did they know about my memory loss and were just psychologically manipulating me?

Most likely, my family just didn’t have the money yet. Or at least I had hoped so. It hadn’t made sense to me, though. You know, the part where the had kidnapped someone and asked for ransom from a non-influential family that didn’t have the resources to pay them? Could they have been so reckless? Unless it had been personal…

Nevertheless, I had known my captors wouldn’t sustain me forever. I had only the barest of necessities, and had managed to get by that way, but they would have to eventually just kill me.

I learnt that keeping a prisoner is more expensive and time-consuming than I would’ve imagined: there was the food—albeit scarce—, the water, the power bills of wherever they had been keeping me, and the 24-hour watch of my cell by at least one of those bastards. You know, just to make sure I wouldn’t suddenly develop superhuman abilities and ghost-walk through the thick, metal, soundproof walls and escape. They would have definitely killed me, had I not done nothing about it. Hell, my best-case scenario would’ve been having them torture me to try get information about my allegedly-influential family from me.

Which I still couldn’t have afforded to happen, as I would’ve not be able tell them anything even if I had wanted to. How would I have been able to remember something that would prove them useful if I couldn’t even remember my age?

The day in which I had decided I would need to come up with a plan, was coincidentally the same day I listened to the radio for the first time.

I had noticed a very thin gap in the farthest side of the sliding door. Big enough for me to get to hear scraps and fragments of conversations if I pressed my ear real close to it, but small enough to keep anyone from listening to even the loudest of my cries for help.

Anyhow, I remember spending a large amount of time with my ear pressed against it, training it to become more sensitive to sound.

I would never really be able to tell day from night, given that I was locked up, and that the meals I had been given were so sporadic and unpredictable I just couldn’t judge time based on them.

All I know is that it had felt like a long time, and that I listened to the senseless whispers of two of my kidnappers until I started feeling drowsy.

But it had been precisely in that moment when the faint white noise from the radio chimed in on their silent conversation that my eyelids felt lighter once again and my ears perked up.

Now that I think back to it, I should have been taken aback, because it had been an advertisement in English, and while almost everyone older than 12 in Geneva could understand it, we still always spoke French, and the media wasn’t an exception.

But then again, I had been so concentrated on collecting parts of the advertisement that I can’t blame myself for not noticing such a trivial detail. Besides, how had I even remembered I came from Geneva?

“Are you between 16 and 21?”

The guys outside had been noisy and impeded to hear everything clearly, so what I got to hear were only pieces of the whole ad.

“…Wanted to be on a reality show? …Applications still open!”

I recall my sheer confusion, and the constant throbbing in my head from the effort of over-perceiving and analyzing speech patterns beyond my sense of hearing’s capacity.

“…One female and male per continent…”

That had piqued my attention, somehow. My mind scrambled around in its emptiness; trying to find something to relate that interest of mine with a past event to no avail.

“…This year’s Olympics of strategy, skills and endurance…”

My eyes had closed shut in concentration. Except that that time, it hadn’t been to try and focus on the radio’s message, but rather to try and figure out why there was such a sense of familiarity lingering on my mind after that phrase; just as if a memory wanted to resurface. It had been like growing a new tooth: it ached like hell and kept begging to come out, but there was still that thin layer of the gums that the tooth had to perforate; that small thing that kept everything from coming out…

My captors quoted down a bit.

“…Join Ten Little Sinners now! Where the winner takes home a million dollars, plus another prize yet to be revealed!”

And there it was. That was it.

With that last line, fragments of the aching memory had reemerged from my subconscious like an ice-cold wave of ocean water: I had been wanting to apply for that show before I ended up here. I needed the money—something about someone being sick? A friend of mine? My grandmother? That amount of money would be enough to get anyone out of any problem.

And I remember thinking, Damnit, if I could only participate and get out of here…

It had sounded like such a far-fetched idea at the moment, but in the end, with lots of thinking into it, I managed to do just that.

I had to plan everything before I actually did anything, though, and that took me about another day.

But after every single inch of the plan had been sorted out, I had to actually execute it immediately, because I wouldn’t have had much time left otherwise.

The first stage of my plan had started when one of the guys slid one of my meals into the cell. As soon as he had done so, I started screaming and banging on the door with all my might, taking advantage of the fact that he was still so close. All I had needed was his attention. As expected, there had been no immediate reply from him. I continued striking the door and its edges, trying to be as loud as I could. I had known he could hear me. He just couldn’t open the door, since those had been surely his instructions from the beginning.

But the sound had been so persistent and loud that annoyance eventually overrode said obedience to those instructions.

The door had slowly started to slide open in front of me, when, for a second, I even considered knocking the man down and escaping right then and there. Naturally, I had chided myself for such a stupid thought. What if I couldn’t beat him? What if I couldn’t find an exit? Would they have sent someone to kill my family when someone else came back and found I had escaped? There had simply been too many unpredictable variables: too many risks.

I had to stick to my foolproof plan. And so, I stood there with my back straight, swallowing confidence as the man was revealed: the oldest of the three.

“Que fais-tu?” He had asked, his face sloppily covered by a cut-out beanie. What are you doing?

“I’m paying for my own ransom.”

Even through his makeshift mask, I had been able to see his eyebrows knitting.

“What do you mean?” He had demanded.

“That I can get the money to get out of here. I just need two weeks.”

If my calculations had been right—and they were—I could still win the show by then.

“Away from here? That can’t happen. That beats the whole purpose of holding a hostage and asking for their ransom.”

That had been when I had to start lying and rely on the belief that they didn’t know anything about my memory loss. How could they have known, anyway?

“My parents aren’t going to pay for my ransom.”

“Of course not. They’re dead. How could they?”

I had gulped. Somehow, even though I had no memory of them, the knowledge of them being deceased had made me sullen. If anything, those words from him had only strengthened my theory of my captors not having the slightest clue about me not remembering anything about my past life. Although this one would have started suspecting had I not been more careful from then on.

“That’s not the point,” I had cooly countered, “I mean my family in general. How long have I been here for? A month? If they haven’t paid for my ransom yet, they aren’t going to pay for it anytime soon. It’s clear they don’t care enough to have me back. You’ll only waste time, money, and energy.” I had tried not to believe my own words, but as I enunciated each one of them, my heart couldn’t help but tremble in disillusion.

“You’re right,” the guy had swiftly pulled out a gun from inside of his coat and pointed it at my head. I remember doing my best not to flinch. “Your family’s time to pay is due at midnight today. Why shouldn’t we just kill you?”

“Because if you don’t, and let me get the damn money I’m talking about, then I’ll pay you double the ransom.”

He had cocked the hammer of the gun, finally considering my offer, “You don’t even know how much we’re asking for you. Besides, how could we trust you not to escape?”

That had been the hardest thing to sort out in my mind beforehand, but luckily, I had done so, so I limited myself to a dismissive gesture with my hand, “Regarding to the money, I need not to know the figure. When I say I can double it, I mean it. And I won’t escape. Besides, even if I were to—which I’m not—you guys know everything about my family. I wouldn’t risk myself to let you kill them, even if they have forsaken me.”

Which was true.

He had taken a step closer by then, now pressing the barrel of the gun against my forehead: cold metal against warm skin.

“Not enough to trust you. You could be a selfish brat and escape at the sake of your family. Words are words, but they don’t mean much on their own.”

“Then link me to a tracking device with a bomb enabled, for all I care. I’m not escaping. We’ll meet somewhere, I’ll pay you, and you’ll let me free. You want money, I want freedom, but we both have to compromise.”

The man behind the mask had clenched his jaw tight. “I need to discuss it with my comrades.”

I had feigned surprise, “Judging by how tired your eyes look, I would have guessed you were in charge. I could wait for you to talk to them.” I had paused for a dramatic effect, “…Or you could keep the part where I get double the ransom money a secret and keep that to yourself.”

He had gulped, his hand clammy against the cold object in it, as he let it fall to his side once again, saving his gun back in his coat pocket. “Then lets get you connected to your tracker.”

I had paled. Badly. I had only mentioned such an absurd idea to ensure he’d let me go, but I had not actually meant it.

He had me locked back up in my cell and came back about an hour later with some strange gadgets and a huge syringe. Whether he had a tracking device handy near wherever I was being kept at, or gone out in a rush to buy one, I knew not. The latter seemed more likely, though.

The process had been relatively quick. He had tested some things a few times to make sure the thing’s GPS system worked before he mansplained me about what was going to happen.

”You see this thing?” He regarded the transparent fluid inside the syringe with the tip of his chin. “It was a bit expensive to buy, so you better make it worth it. It has some fancy nanotechnology, and as soon as it gets into your bloodstream, it will start a countdown of 20 days. In the meantime, it will always display your location on this screen. You have that much time to get your money, contact us, and actually pay us. Fail to do so, and said technology will make this liquid become lethal poison inside you. And, of course, your family would be dispatched of. Manage to pay us before your time is up, and I’ll personally deactivate it, rendering all of the nanotechnology’s functions useless, and impossible to be re-enabled. You’ll go home to your family as if nothing ever happened. Accept the deal and I’ll get right to injecting this into you so you can get on with whatever you have to do to get our money.”

That was when I had mentally cursed. More than thrice. I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell I had gotten into. I had gotten cold feet, and wanted to chicken out right then and there, but I had no other option if I wanted to live for another day. My survival instinct had kicked in and answered in my place.

I had gulped several times in my life, but none of them had extremely shaken me to the core as that one time.

“Give me 50 Francs and we have a deal.”

That was how I managed to escape. Entering Ten Little Sinners turned out to be much harder than I ever thought it would. The same day that I escaped from that horrible place—which was luckily within Geneva’s limits—I went on the look for a cybercafé. I managed to find one relatively easily, and I could have sworn I’d been there before. I bought the cheapest cup of coffee there was and used a public computer to look for everything I could find about the show. There were so many requisites, and fields to fill to redact the application… Plus, I found out that a lot more people were applying for the spots left than what I had thought.

Immediately, I got very nervous, because my future, and my family’s depended on whether I got that bloody spot or not. And not only that, but I had to win the contest in order to survive. I suddenly regretted my decision, for it’s stakes has finally weighed on me. If I had died in that prison cell, my family would have lived at least. But due to my ambition and will to survive, I had conditioned their life along with mine.

My shoulders felt heavier then.

A thing that surprised me was the fact that there was no price to pay to apply, or even enter, in case you’d get chosen. Hell, the show’s official page announced that the chosen participants’ plane tickets were going to be paid by the show. Even more surprising, the show would take place in a disclosed location in Switzerland, so I wouldn’t have to travel far.

By then, my first hour surfing on the internet had passed, and I had to buy another cup of coffee to continue using the computer. I had only so much money to get me by for the next week and a half, so that was the last hour I was able to afford. That meant I had to apply for the show right then and there.

It is mesmerizing how much effort one can put into an application when their life (and their family’s) depends on it. I had to fill in a lot of information I didn’t know, or rather, remember, so I had to make it up. It was mostly irrelevant information, either way. The few fields that I could answer were my age (I looked at the current date, and found out that I was actually 18), my name, and my place of residence (in which I simply typed in the address of a nearby, humble apartment complex I had passed on my way to the cybercafé).

Then I had to upload a video explaining why I wanted to participate and why the show needed me. I quickly fixed my hair and recorded the video with the computer’s built-in webcam. I don’t remember what I said in it, to be honest, but it was most surely full of white lies. I did put a lot of passion into it, though.

I had 20 minutes left.

The next step was to read the terms and conditions.

Pffft. I couldn’t be bothered to read them so I snorted and quickly agreed to them with the click of a button, as well as the confidentiality policies. For the last step, I had to type in an email address or phone number for contact purposes. I created a random gmail account and used it. I made sure to remember the password.1

And with that, my application had been sent, and filed to be read. I would receive the results of whether I had been chosen or not in six days, which fell on a Monday. The Monday that was in the same week as the Friday when the show would start. It seemed very rushed for a professional TV show studio, but I didn’t complain.

I spent the next few days sleeping on the streets, washing cars and helping old women carry heavy bags for a living. Some people even gave me coins, probably thinking I was asking for alms, judging by my disheveled looks.

I don’t think it’s a surprise for you that what I found in my inbox that Monday was an email, revealing that I, out of over two hundred female applicants, had been chosen to represent the European Female spot in Ten Little Sinners. It included precise instructions I had to follow, namely to wait outside of my “residence” that Friday at 4:00 a.m. to be picked up and taken to wherever the show would take place.

But it was a big surprise for me. A gigantic one, if you may. I had grown restless the days previous to that, and I had sworn I wouldn’t be chosen; that there had to be surely someone better-fitted to the spot than me.

But there hadn’t been.

The sense of relief I felt that day was so grand I started to bawl uncontrollably right there in the middle of that cybercafé. The people around me probably thought I was crazy but I didn’t care. I had passed the third step of my plan with flying colours.

If I kept this streak up, then I could have a slight chance at success, and—consecutively—survival.

That sense of relief I felt then had dissipated today. As soon as the show’s black sedan picked me up at 4:00 a.m. my knees started trembling.

And they still haven’t stopped.

They didn’t when we hit the highway. They still didn’t when we started passing through the breathtaking views of the snow-capped mountains of the Swiss Alps, and they definitely didn’t when the driver pulled the car over at the end of a road and escorted me towards a mountain so white and gigantic I couldn’t even see its peak.

So why would they stop shaking now that I was standing right in front of a cableway station; station which held the aerial cable car that would take me to the summit of said mountain?

I can’t describe the feeling of dread I felt as soon as the driver told me I’d have to take the cable car alone. Dread, and skin-blistering cold. Both of which I still feel as I enter the station, and, soon enough after that, the cable car inside it.

A chill runs down my spine as I hear a female robotic voice from the car’s speakers say, “Person detected. Please state your name for voice recognition.”

I am so taken aback that I almost forget my name and open my mouth before closing it again, frowning at myself.

“Please state your name for voice recognition.” The voice repeats.

“Uh, Amalie Berlinger,” I say hesitantly, swallowing my nerves down and feeling them hit the pit of my stomach.

“Access granted. It’s 6:07 a.m., the weather is slightly chilly and the time estimated to reach the facility is that of eight minutes. Enjoy your trip, Ms. Berlinger.”

Right after that, the cable car’s doors close behind me, and the motors start whirring. Soon enough, the cableway starts coming alive and lifting me with it off the ground. As I tuck my hands inside my tattered jacket, I can’t help but to think of how cold it must feel at the other side of the cableway, at I-don’t-even-know how many feet high.

Judging by how close I was to the location, I am pretty sure I am the first to arrive.

I shiver, but this time, it’s not from the cold.

But rather from the goosebumps I get at the feeling that something is about to go terribly wrong.

· Asaf ·


It’s not like I even wanted to come here.

I don’t even like reality shows, so why even join one willingly? Well, because life is tough, and, sometimes, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.

See, I’ve always had this sense of duty. This feeling that if something has to be done, then there shouldn’t be any questions asked and I should just go ahead and do said thing. It saves a lot of time, energy, and it keeps me from even doubting about it or beating around the bush. It’s just practical, because, whether I like it or not, some things are just inevitable.

Or even worse; necessary.

Exhibit A:

Most of your life’s success or failure can be reduced to a single moment or decision. Obviously the right decision will lead to the first, while the wrong one will most likely lead to the latter.

I know that probably sounds like it was taken from a movie. That’s because it is. I can’t remember which one it’s from, but I’ve always remembered that phrase.

But I digress.

I still don’t know whether the decision I took was the right one or not. But I do recognize that critical moment in my life, and, more specifically, the decision I took.

The decision to end a life.

I wasn’t trying to play God. Never meant to. Never wanted to. It was merely a matter of survival, is all. Had I not killed that soldier, he would’ve done just that to me.

Now, I could explain you how it happened with so much detail and justify myself by convincing you that I didn’t know he’d die when I knocked him to the ground.

But since I’ve already tried convincing myself several times before to no avail, I won’t.

I won’t because it wouldn’t do me any good. It wouldn’t change the truth about what happened. I knew he would die if I pushed him off me, and yet, I still did it. I don’t care about being pitied. I loathe being liked out of pity.

Killing him was necessary, so I didn’t even doubt it. I don’t regret it, but I know that its consequences will haunt me sooner or later. So far, they’ve been mostly positive: I got out of that altercation alive, got a scholarship in a Californian high school, and got accepted into a reality show, with a chance at winning a million dollars.

The only low point after that was having my father get arrested and consecutively, have him “commit suicide”. But I know he didn’t kill himself. He wouldn’t. Not when my family was finally starting to get better.

I can’t think of where my mom and sisters would be right now if I had been murdered that fateful day of the protest.

But that’s enough about Exhibit A.

Exhibit B:

Much shorter than Exhibit A, I promise. It can be summarized to a single phrase, actually:

I couldn’t let the possibility of winning a million dollars fly past me.

And that’s why I came here. That’s why I signed up. It wasn’t out of wanting to be on TV or getting involved in petty drama. Just like last time, it was merely a matter of survival, just worse.

Because if I didn’t get the money, then I wasn’t only endangering my life, but also that of my mother, little brother, and eight sisters.

Since my father’s untimely passing, whatever money we had had quickly slipped through our fingers, and, judging by the rate of loss of said money, we’d wind up without a penny six months from now.

So, yes, it was necessary to join. It wasn’t inevitable; just necessary. But given my relentless sense of duty, those were practically identical terms.

The noise that Amara makes as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other breaks the ice-cold silence that had seeped in and distracts me from my thoughts. She stands in front of me with her arms crossed as the cable car makes its way towards the minimalist glass-and-metal building that awaits atop the white-capped mountain.

The dead-silent aura she emanates unsettles me. I know I’m no one to judge; I’m somewhat quiet myself. But still, her ever-resting pursed lips unnerve me.

When I found out we both spoke Arabic as our native tongue, I was thrilled, innocently thinking that we would hit it off right away. Boy, was I wrong.

I met her on the plane we took from Istanbul to Geneva. We had been assigned adjacent seats, feat that had been surely masterminded by the show’s producers.

At first, I didn’t recognize her. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite point out where I’d seen her before. It wasn’t until about ten minutes into the flight when I was re-reading the signed show contract that it dawned on me. I’d seen her face when the show had posted the update in its main page, revealing the chosen participants.

Problem was I couldn’t remember her name, or where she was from. When I had seen the announcement, I had honestly only cared about being accepted into the show myself.

Given that, I gulped and started speaking in English, which, to be fair, had improved a big deal from living in California for over half a year, “Hey, I’m Asaf. Are you the girl that was chosen to represent the African female in Ten Little Sinners?. If so, what was your name again?”

The smile that I so charmingly wore on my face vanished to nothing when she turned to face me, impassive, and replied in Arabic, “I know who you are. You’re Egyptian so you should have no trouble understanding me. Now, given that we’re both contestants, we’re also rivals. So I’m going to stop you right there before you waste your time and energy trying to be friendly.”

Her eyelids looked heavy and dark circles danced under her eyes as she blinked those orbs of hers the color of black amber.

I replied, now continuing the conversation in our native language, “Oh,” I was certain that she was just tired, and that she’d surely be nicer under different circumstances, so I pushed, “Did you have a long flight before this?”

She sat sideways to face me and glared, “I had to walk from my home to a previously-instructed meeting point in El Fasher. Took me a day’s time. Then, I was picked up by a black car and taken to the airport, where I took my first flight to Khartoum. After that, I had to wait in the airport for a day to finally take my flight to Istanbul, where, you guessed it, I had to wait for eight more hours before boarding this same plane. In that span of almost three days, I have only been able to sleep for six hours, so forgive me if I seem curt and stop talking to you. I just want to finally get some sleep in this plane ride.”

I sat there, blinking in surprise at her sudden lash. I fought the urge to apologize, because, really, I had done nothing but try and be amiable.

She sighed, turned back to rest her back against the seat and finished, without even facing me, “I’m sorry. I’m just quite irked and nervous. I’m Amara. From Sudan.”

She closed her eyes, effectively ending her dialogue. I was about to mention that I already knew that El Fasher was, in fact, in Sudan, but decided against it, not wanting to press any more of her buttons. Instead, I went for a nicer approach, “It’s alright. We’ve all been there. Sleep well.”

Even though her eyes were closed, I offered a warm smile afterwards, as if she could sense it somehow. To my surprise, her lips faintly lifted at its edges.

After that, she soon fell asleep, and other than me waking her up at the end of the flight, our interactions have been nothing but limited.

Even now that we’re finally completely alone, I hesitate on whether to make contact with her or not.

Even though Amara is wearing the thick wool sweater that the driver of the black sedan that drove us from the airport to the cableway station gave her, she keeps her arms crossed and her teeth clatter behind her closed lips. How the driver knew her size is beyond me, but I can only suppose he was following some very specific instructions.

It was probably a courtesy from the show to show empathy, knowing that us Africans wouldn’t be used to the threatening cold here in the Alps.

As for me, I didn’t get no sweater, but rather a small and mysterious metal box. I had come prepared with a large coat, anyways, so I didn’t feel jealous or anything. Upon trying to open it, the driver told me I wouldn’t be able to open it without its key. I figured I’d ask for it once we were greeted by the host.

My thoughts continue wandering off until the car comes to a halt and the electronic voice that had previously welcomed us speaks again.

“Welcome Ms. Okonkwo and Mr. Goren to The Crystal Crane. Time of arrival: 6:28. You will meet your host in the living room at eight o’clock sharp. Please head to your bedrooms to drop off your baggage before then. Personal dormitories can be found on the last floor. Have a good day and a pleasant stay in The Crystal Crane.”

Right on cue, the automatic doors slide open. It’s not until I take notice of the building’s vague resemblance to that of a bird that it dawns on me that the voice was referring to the building. At any rate, though, it looks more like a dove than a crane. Guess ‘The Crystal Dove’ didn’t have as much ring to it.

Both Amara and I pour out of the cable car with our belongings in hand. The extreme cold hits us in our face like a blast, and the difference in the air pressure takes a toll on me as my head starts spinning and I lose control of my balance. The fact that Amara holds on to me for support confirms that something similar’s happened to her. She wouldn’t even touch me otherwise.

Through the thick snowy air I finally notice a closed metal door no further than 15 feet in front of us. Behind it, stands an enclosed glass tunnel that leads to The Crystal Crane. I hurry to reach it, but my boots keep burying into the snow, as well as the wheels in my suitcase, so it takes me much longer than expected. Amara follows close behind me. Once we’re right in front of it, a small camera on top of it looks down upon us.

“Two guests detected,” says that same voice from the cable car, “Please remain still for facial recognition.”

Amara turns to face me with a look of slight confusion, but I reassure her in Arabic, “Just stay still.”

We do as told, and suddenly I’m blinded by a red light that the camera—or rather, scanner—emits for a solid four seconds. Then, the light turns green shortly before turning off, rotating to face Amara and repeating the same procedure on her visage.

She curses. I chuckle. She glares at me.

You know. The usual.

The door slides to the left, beckoning us into the warmth inside the tunnel as the voice speaks up one last time, “Asaf Goren and Amara Okonkwo successfully detected. Come in.”

The high levels of security here suddenly unsettle me. What kind of show has both voice and facial recognition? Isn’t that like, super expensive technology? Once we’re through the threshold, the door ominously slides back shut behind us with a dull thwack.

I look over my shoulder at the sound, but Amara continues striding forwards with those long chocolate legs of hers.

I follow suit and we walk in silence through the tunnel; the only sounds to be heard are the clack of our boots’ heels, the whirring of our baggages’ wheels against the floor, and the resonance of both as they bounce from the insulating glass that surrounds us

We walk for about two minutes through the tunnel until we finally land in the insides of the building. From inside, The Crystal Crane looks like a very luxurious mansion. There’s a foyer with two curved staircases at the sides that lead to the second floor. The dark and polished wooden floor makes a stark contrast to everything else, which is either glass, metal, or a glossy white. I absentmindedly let go of the handle of my suitcase and cross the foyer in awe, finding out that the room behind the elegant pillars that support the mutual landing of both staircases is a posh and grand living room.

My eyes dart immediately towards the cracking fireplace across it in sheer gratitude and relief at finding a source of heat. I scurry towards it, almost tripping over due to the clumsiness of my stiffened knees. Once I am close enough, I crouch and extend my hands to my front, cautiously nearing the shivering and fingered forms to the fire.

Their stiffness quickly thaws when in contact with the heat and I groan in pleasure. Amara follows suit with her signature solemn silence, and she doesn’t do as much fuss about it as I did, calmly waltzing towards the fireplace and merely standing in front of it to warm up. I can still see the pleasure dancing on her lips as her eyelids close shut.

“Did you two not bring any luggage?” A mysterious female voice with a faint accent startles me from behind, and for a very confusing moment I think it’s that same electronic voice from both the cableway and the entrance door. That is, until I look behind my shoulder and take in the view of a white young woman about my age sitting on a white leather couch with a stylish wide brim hat over her straight brown hair. Its highlights seem to glitter gold in the warm lighting of the fireplace.

The heat had beckoned me with such seduction that I had failed to notice either of the identical, white, long, leather couches that lined at the sides of the hearth, much less the girl that was sitting on one of them.

“I-I left mine at the foyer,” I start, and Amara limits her reaction to a nod, informing the stranger that that‘s her case, too. “Uh, why ask?”

The brunette shrugged, “I remember the voice from the cable car saying something about leaving it in your rooms before meeting our host. I heard you guys come in, but didn’t hear you going up the stairs, so I figured you’d come without any luggage, too.”

Her clothes look fresh and sharp: a white-and-blue striped blouse and black slacks that match her hat. I wonder if I came underdressed.

I scratch my chin, “Oh. No. We just came here because we wanted to warm up. It was freezing outside.”

“Ah,” says the girl, nodding in understanding, “I went to my room either way out of curiosity. I was the first one to get here so there was not much else to do. You are the second participants to come in, so far. You should drop your luggage in your respective rooms. I found this change of clothes laying on my bed.” She gestures to her blouse to illustrate her point, “Probably going to take a shower in my room, too, given that we’re not going to meet our host until eight.”

That explains the elegant outfit she’s wearing. For a moment, I wonder about what could have been her original clothing.

Amara eyes her cautiously. I’ve found that while she easily understands English, she has a hard time speaking it, so it takes me by surprise when her mouth opens, “And who are you?”

“I was chosen to represent the European Female at the last minute, so that’s why you probably don’t recognise me.”

I blink twice, “But what’s your name?”

The girl’s lips curl at the edges, “My name is Amalie.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch Amara scrunching her nose in distaste.

· Evelyn ·


As much as I’d like to just plop down and sleep on the plush bed that lies right in front of me, the recording that played back in the cable car that informed me about the time we’d be meeting our host replays in my mind and I have to fight the urge against it. Instead, I close my assigned room’s door behind me as I get inside it, dragging my suitcase beside me.

Deciding that maybe I do deserve a small rest, I leave it standing next to the bedside table and head to the bed, ready to at least sit on it for a while. That is, until I notice a small wrapped box with a little card annexed to it; almost like a present, save for the lack of a ribbon on it. Nevertheless, I read the carefully-typewritten card: “Please wear these when you go meet the host, Ms. King.”

I look for a signature saying ‘Staff Team’ or something along those lines but find nothing. I shrug, not paying much mind to it. So far, the show’s organisation has come off as exemplary: with the airplanes and cars’ scheduling, as well as the facility’s security system and its rooms’ accommodation. I can’t say I wasn’t surprised when I got to the last floor and started looking for anything that might’ve indicated it was mine to sleep in during my stay here.

Sure enough, as I walked through the vast and luxurious hallway, I found that the fifth and last door to my right had a large and sleek metal plaque pasted to it at about my head’s level. Engraved in it, in a modern font and with capital letters only, were words that read: