The Game Poll: Monopoly

[Velox]

Vote here for your favorite "The Game" story; entries have been randomized. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on June 3rd at 11:59 PM EST. Entries that do well will move on to the The Game Final Poll, which will be posted at the conclusion of the 12th round preliminary poll.

• [*]

Gunfight

Karl ducked behind cover as another flash narrowly missed his shoulder. He briefly poked his head over the crates to judge distance, location, anything. All he saw was a thick veil of mist obscuring already darkened hallways. He narrowed his eyes, trying to discern anything amidst the gloom. A vague shadow, an outline, anything would do.

He ducked once more as another flash, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a shot, buzzed overhead. It had been close, that one, but it was also exactly what he needed. That one shot had given his enemy's position away. He was crouched to the right in the corner of a door, doubtless focused with great intent upon the crates Karl crouched behind.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Karl moved. He leapt from his position and ran, full pelt, to an opening on his left. Shots rained across the room, but luckily for Karl they all missed. He stumbled through the doorway, skidding to a stop by an open window. From it, he could clearly see his enemy's position. He wasted no time in lifting his weapon and firing three shots at his crouched nemesis.

Haste drew his aim, and he missed by wide margins. Cursing, he ducked below the window. He bit his lip anxiously. This was proving to be much harder than he had expected. He braved a quick look through the window again. Before he could make out even the vaguest of details he ducked again, narrowly avoiding being shot in the head. He had to move, but whichever way he went he was sure to be seen. He cursed again silently as he tried to come up with a plan.

* * * * *

Alex was enjoying himself. Having avoided being shot thanks to his enemy's incompetence, he definitely had the upper hand. He had been winning from the start, but this was just too good. He peered round the corner of the door hoping to see movement, something he could shoot, but his target was no more visible than before.

He shifted impatiently, growing bored as the seconds ticked by. Waiting around was no fun at all. And since it was no fun, that was precisely what he would not do. Besides, the advantage was his. He could afford a few risks.

He peered round the corner again. Seeing nothing, he ducked out of the room and snapped to the wall across from him. Quietly, carefully, he inched along to the left. He even held his breath, lest his enemy hear even that. As he reached the end, he peered cautiously round the door Karl had run through minutes before. Seeing nothing he moved quickly, bursting into the room, gun pointed at the window.

Karl was gone. Incredulously, he moved towards the window, searching round it and through it for any sign of where he had gone. Worried, he began turning, but felt something press against his back.

“Got you.”

Karl stood behind him, gun pressed against his back with a smile on his face. His finger danced along the trigger, testing it, pushing it slowly, slowly in-

*click*

Light flared up around them, a second before Karl could fire. The game was over.

“Five more points, that's all I needed! Five more points!” Said Karl angrily, slamming his laser gun against the wall.

“It's always 'five more points' with you. You'll never beat me, y'know,” Alex chided, grinning from ear to ear.

“I'll get you one of these days,” Karl grumbled. “Same time next week?”

“You're on!” -------

[*]Fall of the King Victor looked mournfully at the chessboard that lay before him and glanced at the scattered pieces that littered the floor. The glass table it rested upon was cool and uncaring, uninterested upon the game that took place above it. The sharp suited player strolled around the table with his hands behind his back, casting his gaze upon the numerous monitors that stood before him. In the hazy, fuzzy light of one he watched as a small platoon nestled around a door, indicating orders to one another that he could not hear. The one he presumed to be the captain kicked the door down and charged inside, where he was swiftly struck down by an unseen shooter. Victor turned and looked at the remaining white rook, so solitary and alone, surrounded by the ebony pawns. He moved a pawn diagonally and curled his fingers over the rook. He screamed and lobbed it against the wall where it shattered into a dozen pieces. He watched the men advanced, the cameras feeding directly to him. A few more soldiers had fallen to turrets and hidden attackers, but that did nothing to shake their confidence. Victor looked solemnly from the board to the monitor and acknowledged that all was in vain, for this would end the same way. He picked up the black king and held it in the palm of his hands. What he would give to crush it in the palm of his hand, grind it to dust and let it spill to the floor. Let it suffer instead of he, like the portrait of Dorian Gray. But this was no mere novel, no work of fantasy. He had to face that this was reality and all that would transpire would do so under the command of Heaven or whatever force could be perceived to affect the outcome of the battle. And no mere wishing could call upon a supernatural stroke of luck. With a heavy sigh, he returned his gaze to the screens, this time his eyes focused higher up than before, watching the men advance, turning corner after corner of this labyrinthine building they had found themselves in, until finally the reached their destination. The door exploded inwards and Victor whirled around to watch a small group of eight soldiers storm in, firearms locked on his position. One soldier, who had taken charge after the fall of their captain, stepped forwards. “Victor Walken, you are under arrest for heinous crimes against your fellow man and conspiring to commit acts of terrorism. You are to come with us, where you will stand trial and be judged for your crimes.” “My dear boy,” Victor grinned. “Would you say that you’ve won this little game?” The speaker looked perplexed. “I…Yes, it would appear that way.” “Wrong.” Victor raised his left hand and slowly spread his fingers apart to let the shattered remains of the black king fall to the floor. “All your efforts have been made in vain. The game ends on a draw. You have taken losses, yet stand tall. But victory is not yours to claim.” With that he grinned sinisterly and pulled his gun from its holster. Before the solider could react, Victor had raised the gun and pulled the trigger. His body fell to the floor, blood falling upon the scattered pieces and pooling around the remains of the king. The game ended there, failure for both sides. The king had fallen, but was damaged to the point of impossible repair. In his last moments, Victor had cheated the game, and ensured under his terms. -------[*]Ping-Pong Love is a game of Ping-Pong. The key to the game is to keep your eye on the ball . . . wait for the right moment . . . and hit it softly. But if you hit it too soon . . .

"I--I care a lot about you--as a friend. Or--or as more. I just--I think you're a wonderful girl."

Or too hard . . .

There was silence. I went on, "I'm not trying to embarass you. Just--just know that."

The ball goes flying.

Another pause. Then, "Well--I--thank you, but--but I'm so--and you're----" She swallowed. Her voice was level, as always; but her words were not. "I'm so young. And you're so much older. This--we can't be. We're not."

I searched for words but found none. Silence reigned the remaining distance to her house. I stopped at the curb. She hurried up the front walk without a pause, without casting a final smile over her shoulder, without waving. She merely mounted the front steps, opened the door, and shut it behind her.

Or hit it too late . . .

"I still care about you. After all these years, I've never stopped. I've never blamed you for what you did."

She didn't look at me. Her eyes remained riveted upon the stars. I knew that silence.

At last she murmured, "You never said anything."

"Because I thought you didn't want me to."

"I didn't. Then I realized I did. But you never--and now . . . you've waited too long."

And you might miss it.

"I have a boyfriend." And then she walked away.

You just have to keep your eye on the ball . . .

I watched her glide across the floor in his arms, dancing to a slow melody.

Waiting . . .

I watched them kissing at her door for a fleeting moment before I turned the corner and left her behind me.

Waiting . . .

I watched her throw his arm off her shoulders and glower down into her coffee. He murmured something into her ear; then she hissed something back, yanked the ring off her finger, and slapped it down on the table before him. She rose, toppling her chair, and marched out the door.

Waiting for the right moment . . .

I finished my plate patiently, allowing a minute to pass. And then I ran after her.

I caught up quickly. "Good evening."

"G-good evening! What are--how are you here?"

"I happened to see you at the restaurant."

"You--saw that?"

And you hit it softly . . .

"I saw you needed a friend."

She glared defiantly for a moment; then sighed and halted. "I do," she whispered, burying her face in her hands. "I do."

Then I took her head in my hands. She lowered hers and gazed into my eyes. Her lids fell like curtains as I wiped away her tears. I closed my eyes. And I kissed her.

Of course, a well-aimed spike is difficult to return . . .

"I love you. I always have."

"So have I. Until now--I was--never sure. But now--now I see. . . ."

Then she threw her arms around my neck and drew my lips passionately to hers.

Unless your opponent is just that good. . . . The key is to keep your eye on the ball, wait for the right moment, and hit it softly. But all is fair, in love, in war . . . and in Ping-Pong. ------[*]Consequences Ah, the game of love, the one game that may never be truly won, only ever lost. Love is always lost, no matter how hard one may try, and the only goal is to extend how long one plays it. Alexei Volkov had played the game of love since he was nineteen years old. He, unlike his friends, experienced true love for the twelve years he played the game. Every man Alexei knew faked playing the game if only to be able to lie with the prettiest women. His wife, Sofia, played the game just as long. The game of love always ends, though, and the ending isn't always in the hands of the players. Sofia had died a week ago. She hadn't died from disease or a car crash. Never anything like that. The Volkov family was never normal enough to die a regular death. Sofia had died from removal of her limbs. Yes, you read that right. Her arms and legs were dismembered. Alexei's job had some, well, risks. Alexei was a sniper for the Great Northern Army or GNA, which controlled much of the world's northern hemisphere. I should say he was a sniper. Alexei got a little too curious during a mission and hacked into the GNA's database to find out why he was to kill that particular target. When he found the reason was for "Public Impact," he refused to carry out the mission. The GNA responded with extreme measures, going so far as to brutally kill Alexei's wife, leaving Alexei to find her when he returned to his home in Belgrade. He was beyond furious. Alexei was filled, finally, with purpose. He knew what he had to do, as clear as any mission the GNA had given him. The GNA thought the score had been evened. They were wrong. Oh so wrong. And so now Alexei s­tood over the bullet-riddled body of Ivan Soloviev, the GNA director. Alexei watched the life seep out of the weak little man's eyes and smiled. He had completed his purpose. He had climbed to the top of the Obsidian Tower in Moscow, the center of GNA control; he had fought and killed more men than he cared to think about, but those things don't matter now. Here Alexei contemplated the lifeless corpse of his foe. He was complete. When Soloviev's personal guards burst into the room, Alexei met them with a smile, knowing he would see his loved one soon. ------[*]Death, Riches, and the Package ••••• “Play the game, take the chance, and win great riches!” That was all that the letter had said. In the same package was a brand-new GPS with coordinates already programmed into it. In fact, it seemed to be pretty much useless, as it wouldn’t do anything aside from give the bearer directions to that one location. In the top right corner of the screen there was a button. If it was pressed, a little bar appeared at the bottom, reading, “Accept or Decline?” Even if one pressed accept nothing happened, aside from the button disappearing. Now Frederick sat in his hovercraft on a Friday night with absolutely nothing to do. His family had all died in a blazing fire the day after the package arrived. It didn’t seem to be connected, and the only odd thing was that the GPS sat unscathed in the ashes. That definitely was odd, but he figured it was just made of some strong alloy. Still, he wanted to know why that gas can on the porch spontaneously combusted, and why it happened only seconds after he had driven away to work. Work. He had been informed that night that he was being laid off, no warning. No reason was given, either. The manager of the restaurant came up to him, handed him his final paycheck, and said he was fired. Needless to say, yesterday was the worst day of his life. His wife and son dead, his house and all his possessions aside from his bank account and his hovercraft stripped from him. At least he still had the car, though. It cost a lot, and he bought it with money from that lottery. Now he had about a thousand dollars left in his account, enough to provide him food for a while. He wiped away a single tear as he walked into the bank. This was the day following the worst day of his life, and he had nothing to do, nowhere to go. All of his friends were halfway around the world. He had just moved here, and he didn’t know anyone. Insurance? Loopholes, loopholes, and more loopholes. It seemed that every just so happened in the perfect way that he would get nothing. As Frederick walked out of the bank, now with all the money he had to his name, he chuckled. It was a cold, hollow, humorless laugh that quickly died away, leaving him in his hot, mournful tears. What had this world come to? Whoever these people that sent the package were, they had to be behind all this. Nothing else made sense. It all just fell perfectly to leave him with a car, food, and enough money to last him for a good trip. With a fist slammed against his dashboard, he flipped on the GPS, ready to see just what this “game” was, and why someone had ruined his life to get him to participate. The screen flashed for a moment, reading, "Do you really want to accept the end of your life?" With the tears still trickling slowly, he pressed, "Accept." ------[*]Chore Quest I stared at the note one the wall, my brain refusing to believe the story my eyes were telling. It couldn’t be true, not today of all days. The note, which had clearly been written by my mother, stated that there was to be no playing videogames until my chores had been finished. Under normal circumstances I would have disregarded these commands, but today she had taken measures to prevent such action. Said measures entailed confiscating the video game console, the cords, and all of my controllers. Knowing her, these things had likely been hidden in separate locations around the house, so even if I managed to find the console it’d be useless without the cords or controllers. The same naturally applied to every situation that didn’t have me finding all the necessary elements, which made me sad. Knowing my luck, it’d be next to impossible to find everything I needed. That left me with one option: to do my chores as I had been asked. The funny thing about work is that I don’t like it. When asked to do something more demanding than lifting a pencil (and indeed, sometimes even then), I tend to find other ways to occupy my time. When someone is breathing down my neck, it means faking work on something else in order. When there was no one to make sure I stayed focused, I would do literally anything so long as it wasn’t productive. But I wanted to play that new video game that had arrived in the mail yesterday. After pre-ordering it, I had patiently waited months for this day. I wasn’t going to spend it doing chores. Well, there comes a time when a man’s got to do what he’s got to do. For me, this was that time. So naturally I spent the next five hours doing what amounts to staring blankly at my computer screen. Finally, after what felt like ages of doing nothing productive whatsoever, I stood up tall and did my best to look heroic and determined. I was finally ready to start working, my nonexistent pre-working rituals having been finally completed. For the next few hours, I worked as diligently as I was able to. I fought the weeds, grass, dust, grime, and all other enemies to those dedicated to cleanliness. They were tough battles, with each boss being tougher than the last, but I gained experience through those conflicts, and emerged from them more powerful than I had ever been before. At last, I reached the final boss fight. I was equipped with all of the greatest cleaning tools the house had to offer, and I had mastered the use of each one. I was truly a foe to be reckoned with. However, my adversary was equally deadly. Standing before me like an ancient monster was the bathroom. Inside my heart, I trembled in fear. I dove into the fight. It lasted for what felt like ages, but eventually, and with both cramped arms and watery eyes, I emerged victorious. I had finally completed my quest, and not a minute too soon; as I went to put away the cleaning supplies, I heard a car pull up into the driveway. I immediately ran up to my mother, the foul schemer who had been the cause of my wearisome quest, and told her of my success. In response to my request to have my rightful belongings returned to me, she looked at me with solemn eyes and in only two words crushed my dreams. “Maybe tomorrow.”

[Ballom Nom Nom]

I voted for number two. Although, his suicide seemed rather odd, given that eight soldiers were present. It would have made more sense for him to commit suicide by forcing them to shoot him as he drew the gun, as I expect would have really happened. Still, it had a rather impressive control of language and tone. Props to the author.~B~

[Toa of Dancing]

Number five, of course. X3

[fishers64]

I went for 6. Tough choice, all of these were outstanding.

[Excelsior]

I voted for 5. Whatever that "game" he's been pulled into is, they certainly have a strange way of getting players...May the best story win!-Excelsior

[Velox]

Polling period over; poll closed.