“This is a joke, right?” Ivy asks. “Some hazing ritual that this asshole made you join.”
“Silence,” a voice booms. “I assure you, this isn’t a joke. You’re here because you’ve earned the privilege to play Mercy.”
Ivy is less than amused as she sarcastically asks, “So, who are you? The Gatekeeper, the Ringmaster, Yoda?”
“The Decider.”
Ivy lets out a little chuckle. “And what is it that you decide?”
“Fate,” Decider replies.
“Ah, so you’re God. Got it. And how long are you going to be the almighty Decider?” Ivy snickers. She’s clearly unable to take the dude seriously. I don’t blame her considering he’s wearing a navy hooded cloak with his face covered. However, I understand how much power these fools really hold.
“Until the game is over,” he replies.
“Great.” She claps her hands together before asking, “And what if I don’t want to play your pointless Mercy game?”
“Then I decide his fate.” Decider waves at the stone wall behind him. A picture is projected there, and I see the panic in her face, hear her gasp, and feel the way her body tenses simultaneously. She just realized something important about Mercy. We have no control.
25
IVY
Every morsel inside me shifts into overdrive as I see my brother’s face appear on the wall, smiling and eating lunch in the Belgrave cafeteria.
“I don’t give a fuck who you are. If you as much as touch my brother, I will kill you.”
“We don’t want to harm him. It gets messy and complicated. All you have to do is follow the rules, play the game, and your brother will enjoy the luxury of breathing a little longer.”
Brooke gasps. “You’ll really kill our families if we don’t want to play?”
“Yes,” Decider answers frankly.
“So, if I don’t want to do your asinine little dares, you’re going to kill my brother.”
“Yes,” he repeats.
“What if we try and we can’t do it? If we’re not able to do it?”
“If you attempt and fail, they’ll live. If you quit, he dies. Simple. The spot you’ve taken is a privilege. Many would kill to be in your place. You don’t have the option of backing out without authentic effort.”
“And let me guess, you get to decide if effort is authentic.”
“Yes,” he responds.
I glance over at Brooke, and she looks as sick as I feel enraged.
This can’t be real.
“Bullshit. That’s what it is. I didn’t sign up for some hush-hush amusement.”
Decider ignores me as red lettering projects onto the wall.
One member of each duo must be an invitee.
