[9] Humans

The once clear sky had begun to shift ominously, giving way to a stark contrast between the natural light and an encroaching purplish haze. As I looked up, the looming walls of the ghost city began to blur, their solid outlines wavering behind the steadily advancing vapor. It was as if the city, with all its decay and lost memories, was being consumed by a thick, noxious cloud, creeping inward and erasing everything in its path.

Below, the fighting seemed to reach an even more frenzied pitch as the fighters noticed the approaching doom. The AI's announcement, echoing in an almost disinterested tone amidst the clamor, only added to the urgency. "The time is now 1pm," it stated, as if commenting on a mundane daily event, rather than the encroaching death sentence it heralded.

Near the boundaries of the city, fighters who were too engrossed in their battle to notice the imminent threat became trapped. They wrestled, punched, and thrust their weapons, oblivious to the purple mist until it was too late. As the vapor enveloped them, their desperate cries were muffled and then silenced altogether. Their forms, once defined and aggressive, slowly faded into mere silhouettes, becoming indistinguishable from the fog itself. The mist was relentless, consuming every living thing in its path with a cruel indifference.

The fortunate ones who had sensed the danger early on were making a mad dash towards the center of the city, trying to put as much distance between them and the inexorable purple tide. Their frantic footsteps and breathless shouts added to the cacophony of a city in chaos.

From my perch above the city, I felt a chill run down my spine as I pieced together the cruel design of this game. It was designed not just for conflict, but to escalate it with each passing hour. The idea was hauntingly clear: nowhere was safe for long.

I glanced at the decaying watch on the wrist of a body nearby. Barely an hour had passed since the game began, and already a considerable portion of the city had been claimed by the purple mist. I did a mental calculation, picturing the concentric rings the mist would form every hour, each one tightening the noose. The size of the city, the rate of the gas's advancement — all these details began to paint a grim picture.

If my assessment was correct, by the time the clock struck the next hour, another segment of the city would succumb, driving its survivors more centrally. This hourly constriction would not only force confrontations but would also render any long-term hiding strategy futile. Those buildings on the outer rings, which initially seemed like perfect hiding spots, would become death traps in no time.

This revelation sent waves of anxiety over me. Every passing minute mattered. The sense of urgency was palpable, a ticking time bomb, pushing every participant closer to the inevitable clash at the heart of the city.

Every step I took was a calculated risk, echoing softly against the shattered pavement of the ghost city. The pain from my bruises pulsated with each movement, a constant reminder of the chaos I'd narrowly escaped. The weight of the machete in my hand felt oddly comforting, though I hoped I'd never have to use it.

The city around me was eerily silent, with only the occasional distant scream or clang of metal interrupting the stillness. Abandoned cars littered the streets, windows shattered, and doors ajar. The skeletal remains of once-bustling shops and cafes lined the sidewalks. Each shadow cast by the high-rising buildings felt like potential threats, making me jump at the slightest movement.

Every corner I turned required vigilance. I'd press my back against the cold brick walls, peeking around to ensure the path was clear before moving forward. There were times I'd hear footsteps, rapidly approaching or hastily retreating, signaling another player's nearby presence. My heart would race, and I'd duck into a nearby alley or behind a dilapidated car, clutching the machete tightly and praying I went unnoticed.

My eyes darted to the oncoming rush of red jumpsuits. The thudding of their feet on the cracked pavement became a rising crescendo, the very soundwaves vibrating with desperation and urgency. Each of them was like a focused missile, eyes fixed on the glowing loot box, their single-minded mission clear.

Every detail was magnified in the adrenaline-fueled seconds: The glint of sunlight off a soldier's spear; a worker's frantic breaths; another's grim determination evident in the tight clenching of their fists.

Horrifyingly close now, I backed further into the narrow alley, pressing my body against the cold, damp wall, praying that my blue jumpsuit blended into the shadows. Each heartbeat sounded like a drum in my ears, the cool grip of the machete slippery with sweat in my hand.

As they neared, I could see more — the raw, unfiltered fear in their eyes, the slight wince of a man favoring a hurt leg, the determined set of a woman's jaw. The visceral reality of it all struck deep: beneath the colors, we were all just people, thrown into a game none of us truly wished to play.

The surge of red washed past the entrance of the alley, a turbulent river of movement and sound. None spared a glance my way. Their collective breaths, their shouts and the rapid patter of their boots soon faded, leaving a tense silence in their wake.

Breathing heavily, I leaned into the cold embrace of the grimy wall, my ears still ringing from the stampede of reds that had just passed. My heart was in my throat, and every muscle tensed up, waiting for the next sign of danger.

That's when I heard it, a faint, raspy voice. "Hey... you... young man."

I almost jumped out of my skin. Whipping my head around, I saw him, lying on the ground, a few meters into the alley. An old man, blue jumpsuit tattered and stained, face contorted in pain.

"You," he croaked again, his eyes pleading. "Please, help me."

I took an involuntary step backward. My instinct screamed to run, to avoid any attachments, any responsibilities. Yet, there was something about his pitiable state, the sheer vulnerability, that made it hard to look away.

"Why? Why should I help you?" I replied, the tremor in my voice belying my attempt at sounding stern.

"Because... It's the right thing to do," he gasped, pain evident in his every word. "We are on the same team. We have to look out for one another."

His argument was hit a nerve, I wanted to argue, but my voice found no sound.

About a minute later or what felt like eternity I finally spoke up.

"Why are you alone? Where's your group?" I countered, still reluctant.

His eyes closed for a moment, a shadow of sorrow passing over them. "Lost... got separated during the first rush. Was trampled. Haven't been able to move since."

His vulnerability weighed heavily on my conscience. Here was a man, old enough to be my grandfather, left behind by the cruel momentum of the game. But the weight of the situation pressed down on me. Every second mattered. The encroaching gas, the red team, they all posed lethal threats.

Taking a deep breath, I said, "Look, I'm sorry. I can't risk slowing down. The gas will be here soon, and I need to make it to the center."

His eyes welled up with tears, a reflection of both pain and understanding. "Please, save. I can't make it to the center by myself."

My mind raced. Each second was precious. The man's plea was a gut punch, an unexpected ethical dilemma in the midst of a death game.

But survival instincts were powerful, overriding the moral compass. Taking a final look at him, I whispered, "I'm sorry."

With that, I bolted out of the alley, with hands covering my ears and pushing my legs to their limit.

I AM SORRY!

I am sorry...

Sorry.

Q: What would you do in this situation?