won't you take me to flavortown

[theoversaw]

[At the end of that one hour (that seemed so much longer than just one hour could be), hopefully everyone's gathered in the cafeteria. The doors to the other side of the space station open to reveal two figures, a man and a woman. The woman is dressed in sharp business clothes, tapping away on some kind of a device that looks similar to but sleeker than a smart phone. The man with her has a circle beard and bleached blond hair, shorter but thick with muscle, wearing a checked button-up shirt with a gold chain peeking through the collar and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He scratches at his non-dominant forearm (which, nonetheless, is bare).]

Welcome, Champions, to the...

Champion Excellence Program.

Yeah, the Champion Excellence Program. As you may have noticed reading the rules, there's only one way out of here: Rule 7. But just in case going home isn't enough for you, we've decided to add an extra incentive.

[The woman barely looks up from her phone, like she's doing a headcount of the Champions.] The Champion who successfully proves their Excellence by murdering a fellow Champion and escaping punishment will receive an all-expenses-paid space cruise to the Vegas Quadrant.

[The man gives his companion a deadpan look and then looks at the Champions.]

Any questions?

Comments

[theoverseeing]

I'm sure you will. [She looks back down at her phone, idly skimming her finger down the screen while she talks.]

We nor our employers have any interest in your company or your money. Just you.

[playthedamncard]

[You know what, that does not at all make him feel any better.] Because we are champions that are excellent in certain, arbitrary-sounding fields. [His title, for one. Prompto's and Karamatsu's.] And somehow we're to use that against one another, to either live or die to claim the ultimate title and leave?

I didn't sign up for this pseudo-psychological testing, virtual system or no, so your employers are in for a massive lawsuit when this is over.