Deep in the Canadian wilderness, amidst one of the few forests yet to be touched by log cutters and hippie communes, on a hilltop surrounded by a particularly thick patch of birch and oak trees, an old stone castle sat overlooking the wilderness below. It looked like it had been abandoned to the ravages of time, save for a satellite dish perched on top of the tallest tower.
The building itself was a remnant from the colonial days when France and England waged countless battles over the land. It was fortified heavily, yet it never seemed to come into play. The fear of the tenants alone saw to that. Yes this castle, though constructed under the pretense of war, soon came under the possession of an ancient council, one dating back hundreds of years to the barren plains of Great Britain, renowned in Europe for their practices of ritually bringing together a bunch of people for the purposes of giving one of them the power to kill the others under punishment of death at the hands of the remaining chosen.
These "Games," as they called them, served to keep the stream of blood that sustained the dark powers of the council flowing, and it always flowed. The allure of the prestige that showered upon a successful killer saw to that. It was played in various venues throughout Europe and Asia, and when the New World was discovered, it soon moved onto the new continent as well. Many were selected for the trials and tribulations of the games, but very few proved able to conquer their fellow contestants. Charlemagne. Macchiavelli. George Washington. Adam West. They stood out amidst the battles and proved their worth. The dark powers were well fed and for generations, the council lorded over all affairs ranging from new world leaders and the outcomes of wars, to who would win the gold in the doubles table tennis tournaments at the Olympics. Their influence was great.
But it was waning. As the digital revolution bred a new generation of jaded tributes, the "Games" grew distant from their original purpose and became more about the prestige itself. Instead of taking the task of playing the game seriously, medics stood by apathetic and spies consorted with the killers themselves for a share of the prize, and the killers themselves lorded their status over their Twitter followers. As a result, the blood that flowed from the bodies, was not filled with the elements necessary to retain the dark powers. They began to fade.
The council grew weaker. The decisions they made were not followed through on. The wrong people were put into power, the wrong teams were the victors, boy bands began to roam the Earth once again. Slowly, the powers ebbed to the point where members of the council began to die off, one by one. When the situation got so grave that only six of their number remained, that was when they knew something drastic had to be done.
They sent one of their own into the game, the only one who had ascended to the council before by becoming the first participant since that legendary Adam West run to eliminate all other players. They asked him to work his dark magic again, for the good of the council. But it was not going well. In his satellite hook up with the other council members, his fears were confirmed.
"It is too late for you now, Brother Neo," one of them spoke. "The spy has once again done his work and your time is up." That smug Kiwi accent was starting to grate on him.
"But Brothers! Sisters!" he pleaded. "You can't fault me for failing. I did not want this task from the start! You forced me into this! I joined the Games in the beginning to prove my worth, and I did that in spades! To let me die for failing, while we already struggle with relevance is foolish! Why decimate already thin numbers?"
"Because Brother Neo," one of the hooded girls spoke, her British accent masking the venom which her words carried. "If we can't get proper tributes into the game, we need to start sacrificing noble blood. The fates chose you for that task."
"But I beat those cursed fates! I beat everyone else! Can you say that you did the same? No! I proved myself to be skilled before! I should not be sacrificed merely because the Game has strayed from the roots of the forefathers!"
"Face it, Neo," one of the other men, with a Brooklyn accent scolded him. "You were never a true member of the council. You were here to pad the numbers. We would have had Adam West back if he wasn't so busy with his duties converting the masses on national TV. We have to face facts that things aren't working the way they are. Allowing the blood of a former champion to spill should sate the great Imhotep long enough to sustain our powers."
"Imhotep will not take this in the slightest! You have all lost touch with what this council was supposed to be about! It was about holding true champions aloft while their carnage lay for the world to see, and maybe getting some dark powers out of it at the same time!"
"Perhaps, but the fates have decreed that your time has come Neo," the Kiwi confirmed. "You are no longer the one to bring this council to the forefront. Take care and die gruesomely." With that, the screens in front of the beleaguered murderer went blank.
Neo slumped over a nearby table, hood draping over his face as he realized the outcome he had been left to. Confirmation came with a loud bang near the doorway as the heavy door burst open, followed by the shouts of a lynch mob coming for him.
"The killer is in here, all!" Another Kiwi accent, different from the one that had condemned him, but this one would be the executioner. "Let's put an end to this!"
"Fuck..." Neo cursed as he raced out of the conference room, trying to find a way to escape the castle, but all the exits were downstairs and the mob was waiting there.
"This accursed castle was supposed to be a safe haven," he muttered as he ran up the stairs. "Now it's just another open house for the riffraff!" He dashed up trying to get up to a tower where there were waiting gliders and parachutes for such emergencies. It had been so long since orientation however. He couldn't recall which towers held the means of escape in them, and which ones were merely for observation. He dashed up the stairs, two at a time, until he reached the room at the top. Flinging open the door he discovered...a toilet, a sink and a couple of magazines from 1978.
"Fucking kidding me. I would hit the bathroom," he said dejectedly, as the pounding on the stairs grew louder. The mob was closing in. Neo looked around, there was just the one big bay window in the tower bathroom, to allow for that sense of domination over the land as one is taking care of business. However, there wasn't even a shower curtain or giant towel to try and make some rudimentary glider out of. He had been let down by the council again.
The mob appeared in the bathroom door, led by the Kiwi man holding a torch aloft. "All right, ready your guns everyone! The beast dies here!"
"Wait!" Neo tried to stop them. "Don't you see you are all pawns in some sick game! I have knowledge that can help you break this cursed cycle that has been going on for centuries!"
"What the hell are you talking about Killer?"
"All of you have been drafted into this game to perform killings that are nothing more than sacrifices for a ancient council to maintain the power that they use control events all over the world!" Neo explained. "You have all been cajoled into it, but if we act as one, we can put an end to this! We will wrestle the power away from that antagonistic cadre of shadowy figures, and we can lead this world in a new direction! One fitting of the human race! What say you all?"
The mob stood silent for a moment, digesting the revalations that their target had laid out for them in a bold gambit to keep his life. Then, finally one person in the back spoke. "Uh, I'd rather just kill people."
The group murmured in agreement and Neo hung his head, cloak now fully obscuring his face. And so the infernal cycle goes on.
"Fire!" The mob did as commanded, and bullets riddled Neo's body, sending him flying out the large bay window that would have been his only option for salvation. Now it was the final doorway to his fall from grace. As he plummeted towards the forest ground below, blood flying out of his body, he could only think one thing. I pray I get another chance. When I do, that council is going down. That thought gave him solace as he crashed through the green canopy, now fit for nothing but wolf food.
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