People bustled behind transparent partitions. Finding myself behind the scenes at a global show, I looked around with interest. I felt some envy for these people, so engrossed in their work.
In section six, I was asked to undress and climb into a medical capsule. For several seconds in total silence and darkness, the system took my physical readings, then Kerry led me to the testing hall.
The testing hall was something like a library that had opened an archery range, and one of its visitors had left behind a barbell. All kinds of devices were built into the walls, one of them a punching bag for measuring strike strength.
An analyzer was placed on me. An athletically built girl led me through the hall. I lifted a magnetic barbell, first bench presses, then squats. The girl recorded the data. Then I hit the punching bag, ran on a special panel, jumped up and down, stretched out…
After the physical tests followed mental ones. I was asked to solve a range of puzzles designed to test thinking, attentiveness and memory.
Then I spoke to a psychologist. He asked tricky questions:
“You and a friend kill a local boss. According to the loot distribution rules, he gets the item, but it’s more suitable for you. Your friend decides to sell it at the auction house. What do you do?”
The torture lasted almost two hours until Kerry fed me some chili chocolate and led me to a studio. The chocolate burned my tongue, and I guzzled some soda to try to cool down. I started breathing faster, through my mouth. Kerry misunderstood the source of my suffering:
“Almost done, Alex. Your fault for being late! We’ll going to record a video message for the contestant sheet…”
There were fewer people in the studio, but everyone was still engrossed in their work. Nobody paid us any mind.
“Sheppard is here! Hey!” Kerry shouted. “Come in! A-class Threat here!”
The reaction to my surname was weak, but the mention of ‘Threat’ perked up some ears. A stylist and makeup artist dragged me off to their lair, escorted by my assistant. They made me try on a few outfits and settled on a ‘School Bully’ look. I didn’t come up with that, that name was just in their system. Knee-high boots, torn black trousers, a gray t-shirt emblazoned with the dumb phrase “Don’t threaten the Threat hiding in Darant”, which changed to animated advertising: “The Undead faction is your path to success!”, “Say no to tiredness! Turn Undead!”, “Turn Undead and join the bloodshed!” featuring a handsome zombie dressed like Elvis. Snowstorm should have fired its whole marketing department.
The stylist worked on my hairstyle too, tousling my hair.
“A scar, I need a scar on the brow!” the chubby and aging man with rosy cheeks said. He stroked his beard, leaned down, looked at me, then brightened. “No, not a scar… Something else! Earrings! That’s it! Karim, grab some earrings for Alex!”
“Stunning!” the stylist’s assistant crowed.
“Earrings, Dante, really?” Kerry said in surprise. “Leave the boy his individuality!”
“That’s not what they pay me for,” he waved dismissively.
“No earrings!” I said and sneezed. The makeup artist had gotten powder in my mouth.
“Well, alright, just one! It’ll suit you perfectly, Alex, my dear!” Dante said, clasping his hands together. “The world sees you as a villain! All those people… They must see that you’re an awesome cute guy with a refined aesthetic sense!”
“No!” I objected, covering my ears just to make sure. “And no scar either. Hey, what are you doing?”
The makeup artist was running a brush across my eyebrows.
“Makes them more expressive,” he answered, a bald man literally covered in piercings. He stuck the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and nodded. “A little more white pomade for flare…”
I jumped up from the chair and hid behind Kerry. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow:
“Enough. Thank you. Wonderful as always, Dante! You too, Karim.”
“Always at your service!” Dante answered.
“Say hi to Chloe for me,” Karim answered.
Kerry led me to the studio. I was seated on a black chair in the center of a black room, a drone with a microphone hovering next to me. They raced through the talking points I was meant to bring up. It was all in Snowstorm’s email, and I wasn’t surprised.
The lights switched on, blinding me. The operator counted down with their fingers — three, two, one, action!
“Hi!” I said, seeing nothing at all through the light bearing down on me. I think my eyes started watering. “I’m Alex Sheppard. I responded to a summons from King Eynyon to fight for the rank of Demon Fighter.”
“Stop, stop!”
The lights shut off. The director, who Kerry called Tim, approached.
“Alex, dear boy, are you really the Sheppard we all know? Where is the anger, the expressiveness? You’re the greatest Threat in the history of Dis! The people want to see a cool dude, not some shy schoolkid! Do it again, but with feeling! Remember how you addressed the world in Vermillion! Feel your emotions anew, say it like in your speech above the Widowmakers’ former castle! Go on!”
“Alright, Tim.”
By the sixth take, I was baking. It was hot in the studio, the air conditioning wasn’t doing enough, and my back wouldn’t stop itching from the sweat. In tandem with Kerry, Tim the director got what he wanted — I got so worked up that I finally lost my temper, and the speech went great:
“My name is Alex Sheppard. In Disgardium I am known as Scyth, the class-A Threat! I’m in the Demonic Games to win..!”
The formalities were done. Kerry and I went back to the elevator, and there she told me what would happen next:
“I’m about to take you on a short tour, and then I’ll show you your room. If we
