Reed's EndGame

Monday.

Malignant intracranial neoplasm, right cerebral hemisphere.

‘Brain cancer... aggressive. Six months, maybe seven, if I’m lucky,’ Reed thought. He was a simple man and needed things to be put simply. The big words meant nothing to him. All he knew was that there was a ball of ick in his head that meant to kill him. The headaches had been a warning and the strange onset Tinnitus another. The crippling dizziness all but sealed it. He had made the appointment a week ago. It had only taken an hour and a half of waiting to speak with the doctor, and another five minutes to find out he was dying. Jim Reed had heard enough. He’d left the hospital and somehow ended up in the parking lot with no recollection of how he even got there. It was a daze, a slap in the face, the sudden realization that his life had received a time limit. To have an expiry date that was a little more specific than “sooner or later” was sobering. At thirty-four years old, Reed never thought he’d be going through something like this. We all die, he thought, but it’s too soon. 2082 and still no cure for cancer. The pessimists won. The disease that could not be cured.

“Mr. Reed,” a voice called from behind him, “Mr. Reed, hold on a second.”

Reed (he never liked being called Jim) stopped and turned to see a man approaching him in a silver business suit and orange briefcase. Gaudy, cheesy and definitely not a doctor rushing to offer a stay of execution. ‘Sorry sir, our test results got mixed up and you don’t actually have brain cancer; you’re not going to die.’ No, not that, Reed thought; this is a lawyer of some sort. It’s always a lawyer. Fucking leeches.

“I’m not interested,” Reed said as the man got to him. The Suit huffed and puffed and laid his briefcase across the trunk of Reed’s old car, a navy blue 2063 Lautrec. It was the first and only car Reed had ever owned. It had seen him through everything since his parents had gifted it to him for graduating high school. He knew the car well, his parents had already owned it for a few years before giving it to him. It was a miracle that it still ran. At some point Reed might chuckle at the thought that this car would likely outlive him, but not today.

“Mr. Reed,” the Suit said. He held out an ebCard, “my name is Richard Falk. I was informed that you’ve just received some unfortunate news.”

The Suit frowned and furrowed his brow like he’d rehearsed a thousand times before. The introduction was key, first impressions and all. He’d reconsidered the off-putting silver suit that morning, but he liked how it sparkled.

Reed reached out to take the ebCard. As he grasped it between his thumb and forefinger, blue and orange neon glowed from the edges and the tiny screen lit up. He read it. ‘EndGames Recruitment Coordinator Rick Falk’ in some ‘extreme’ font. Reed felt like he'd seen it before, like it was an overused font for movies, television and pretty much everything marketed towards people who lived their lives to the MAXXX! There was contact information at the bottom. The logo for EndGames was a large blue skull in profile facing another skull, this one orange. The old ‘orange and blue’ scheme through and through, an advertising trend since the early part of the millennium. Reed knew exactly what EndGames was. Everyone not living under a rock did.

“How did you get my information?” Reed asked, “I only found out five minutes ago.”

“Well, I shouldn't say this, but we actually get notified before you do,” Falk smiled, “Crazy, huh? I know, I know, it’s kind of shady, I admit. It’s not common knowledge, but hospitals get a shitload of funding from EndGames. Tens of millions of credits per year, maybe hundreds, for the privilege of this sort of information. Hell, up until twenty years ago you’d be able to sue that hospital for giving out that information. But let’s be serious, what good is that gonna do you now? You know how it is.”

“I don’t know how it is,” Reed said, “and I’m still not interested.”

Reed handed back the ebCard, turned away from Falk and pressed his thumb on the pad underneath the driver’s side window of his car. The door unlocked and he opened it. He sat inside the car. As he began to close the door, Falk grabbed it and held it open. Salesmen had been putting a foot in the door to stop housewives from slamming it in their faces for over a century. They were always eager to demo a new vacuum or kitchen knife or some other bullshit. Some things would never change.

“Leave me alone,” Reed sighed. He wasn’t up for this. Not now. Not ever.

“Give me a minute of your time, please,” Falk said.

“I need to get back to my family,” Reed said, “I’m... dying, chief, my plate is full.”

And that’s it, Reed thought, the first time I’ve said it out loud. I’m dying, and I know I’m dying.

“Exactly,” Falk said, “You have a lot to worry about, I understand that. But look, I know times are tough, I know about the new babies. Twins, right? I know your wife doesn’t work. I know you don’t even pull in enough credits to eke by, let alone be comfortable. Look, I know every cliche there is. Believe me, I can sympathize.”

“How could you sympathize?” Reed asked, “I’m guessing that suit cost more than I make in three months. You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself.”

“Six months, actually,” Falk said, “But that’s besides the point.”

Reed got back out of the car and slammed the door before putting a finger square in Falk’s chest. He was getting irritated now. A terminal person with nothing to lose can be dangerous, and Falk knew it. He took a step back and put his hands up, palms out, submissive.

“I know what you do, skrad,” Reed said, “I know all about EndGame. It’s fucking sick and I want no part of it.”

“EndGames, with an s,” Falk said, “I understand the rage, I do. Mr. Reed, I’m going to level with you and lay it out for you plainly. You might know of EndGames. Of course you do, everyone does. You need to understand that people in your position, these last few months are going to be horrible. Look, you’ll go home, tell your wife that you’ll be dead in a few months, you’ll both cry. The twins won’t realize they’re going to grow up without a father. They’ll sit there, blithering and cooing, looking for attention, while your world falls apart.”

“If you don’t shut up right now I’m going to beat you,” Reed said.

“No, you’re not,” Falk said with a smile, “Because you’re still listening to me. You know where I’m going with this and you’re curious.”

Reed stood silent. He was curious.

“I have five thousand credits, tax free,” Falk said as he plucked the briefcase off the trunk of Reed’s car. He waited for a reaction from Reed, and after getting none, he continued, “I want you to have it. Just for talking to me. The only condition is that you keep my ebCard. Go home to your wife. Talk. You’ve got time. Well, not a lot of time, of course. Again, my condolences. But look, EndGames runs weekly; we can cycle you in as soon as next week, or right up until the last week of your life. That’s assuming that you can even handle it. But I’m telling you, the quicker you do this, the more you stand to gain.”

Reed didn’t say anything. He was eyeing the briefcase. He knew that if he just listened a little bit longer there was a chance he could walk away with free money. He’d heard of this before. He’d had a friend who had signed up to EndGames once a few years back. The friend, Alyss Breen, hadn’t even made it onto the show but Reed knew she’d been able to keep the sign-up bonus. There were no strings attached, either. She’d jumped off the roof of a forty-four story apartment building. She’d spent much of the money on synthehol and attempted to drink herself to death. She’d been terminal as well. Panreatic.

“So this is what I propose,” Falk continued, “Take the five grand, go have some fun with it. Take Maria out someplace fancy. Get drunk, make love all night, do whatever you need to do to be happy. Tomorrow morning, once the dust has settled, call me. Doesn’t even have to be tomorrow... could be a month from now. The inevitable medical bills and shit you have ahead of you will be quite difficult. Do you want to waste away at work doing factory labor? Five grand is a lot of credits, but you and I both know it’s not even a drop in the bucket. It’s not even close enough to cover the shit you’re going to have to go through. Can you tell me that’s how you want to spend your final days? Uncertain, overworked, miserable? Be honest with me, Jim.”

“N-no,” Reed said, “I guess not. But what you’re proposing could kill me right away.”

“Sure it could,” Falk said, “And it certainly will at some point. That’s the purpose of EndGames, Jim; but that’s up to you and your skills and a shitload of luck. Listen to me, Jim, and listen well...”

“Just call me Reed, okay?” Reed interjected.

“You’re still strong. You’re agile, lean, young, smart, and you’ve got no fear because you know what’s coming. You’ve got an advantage over the rest of the players.”

“Contestants,” Reed said.

“We can call them Saints if it makes you feel any better,” Falk laughed, “When you boil it all down it’s a sport. It’s fucking entertainment. That’s all it is.”

“It’s sick,” Reed said.

“We’ve established that it’s sick,” Falk rolled his eyes, “But it’s your best option. You could go into the arena an athlete, despite the cancer, and you could be a gold-plated champion for us. You could win so much by the end of this that Maria, your twins and even your grandkids will never have to work again. If you manage to last a few episodes, hell, you could die a multimillionaire. Think about that. What’s that peace of mind worth, knowing that you died a provider? What value does dying a hero and a star have, instead of wasting away in some hospital bed? You want tubes sticking out of every orifice? Even more tubes sticking out of more holes they gotta cut into you? You wanna be full of chemicals and fluids keeping you in some vomitic euphoria....”

“That’s not a word,” Reed interrupted.

“What?” Falk said.

“Vomitic,” Reed said, “it’s not a word.”

“See?!” Falk said, getting excited, “Smart! Reed, my man, you’ve got so much over these other losers. You deserve better than the hand you were dealt. I’m the fuckin’ dealer, man. EndGames is where I live; it’s my house. It’s provided me with more than I’ve ever dreamed of. A person like you only comes around once or twice a year. You’re the perfect person for EndGames, no hyperbole or bullshit, honest injun.”

Reed did his best not to smile despite himself. He wasn’t used to compliments.

“‘Honest injun?’” Reed said, “Who talks like that?”

“You’re still not convinced and I get it,” Falk said, “so here’s a little more incentive. We’re a wealthy company. We’ve gotten to the point where we can set our contestants up in the lap of luxury. These people die for our entertainment and for the entertainment of billions, even. We reward that. We reward that not only with money and fame, but with our facilities. Reed, you have to see them to believe them. State of the art, we spare no expense.”

“And?” Reed said; no sense in walking away now.

“Well you’ve seen the show. You’ve seen the EGArena,” Falk said, “But you haven’t seen EndGames Tower. Not on the inside, at least; except for the media rooms and whatnot. The top three floors are VIP suites; even higher up than the President of the company. He’s on the ninetieth floor like some loser. Those top floors are for players of the games. We have a world-class medical facility there to treat the players’ illnesses. Did I mention that it’s completely free of charge? We want our players to be healthy, comfortable and motivated to win every single week.”

“So how do you find contestants,” Reed asked, arms crossed, brimming with questions. Was he actually considering this? “Other than chasing ambulances, of course...”

“It’s funny,” Falk said, “most of our players walk in through the main doors of our building and ask to sign up. We get all sorts, Reed, we do. To be honest, the majority of them are suicidals. They don’t even have anything wrong with them. Well, maybe not physically. We actually prefer those because they’re fodder. They want to die, and they’ll do it spectacularly. But someone like you, Reed, you’re a story. You have history, you have consequences, you have a mission. You’re a hero, giving his remaining time up in sacrifice for his family. It makes for amazing television, Reed. I’m part of a small team that looks for the special people, people like you. I’ve got a knack for this, I can smell it on you, Reed, you could win your first week there, easy.”

“And you’re telling me you don’t use this exact same pitch for every poor bastard you approach to be on the show?” Reed said, then without waiting for an argument, “I really don’t think this is right for me,” It felt like he was trying to convince himself more than Falk. Reed did think EndGames was a blight, a cancer just like his, blooming in the city instead of his brain, but he couldn’t deny that it had become a cultural touchstone. It had given some sort of silver-lining to assisted suicide.

“You’ve just found out you’re going to die, Reed,” Falk said, “so die for EndGames. Go out live on television, in competition. Make guaranteed money for your family and pay for all your bills and funeral before biting it. Maybe you’ll win and be champion for the week, maybe you’ll get to stay in the tower a little longer. Spend your remaining time on this planet fueled by adrenaline. Learn what it’s like to actually fear for your life. Learn what it’s like to kill without remorse or consequence. The players are all doomed anyway so why not be their harbinger? You’ll never feel more alive in your whole life that you will during your time on EndGames. That’s a promise.”

There it was, the EndGames advertising machine in full effect. Every ad Reed had seen for the show had contained that line. ‘Feel more alive: EndGames.’

“And what if I win?” Reed asked.

“Baby steps,” Falk said, “You come see me and sign up first. Your reward for that is fifty thousand credits straight into your account. Win or lose, that’s a guaranteed fifty grand for your family before you even compete on the show.”

“Fifty grand?” Reed said. That’s more than he made in two years.

“Yup,” Falk said, “Then we set you up in our facilities and you spend a week living like a king. You can even bring Maria in during visiting hours.”

“Sounds like a prison,” Reed said.

“Don’t think of it like that,” Falk said, reassuring, “It’s not like that at all. You’re an investment and we need you to be in the best shape possible for the show. We see people take the five thousand credits, blow it on drugs and overdose. We see suicides before they even call us back. See, for some people it’s not about the money. But for you it has to be. Some people just want their suffering to be over but still want to go out big. They want celebrity, fame and riches to get passed on to their families. And, hell, if you manage to win an episode, which I’m confident you could...”

“Ten million credits,” Reed said. He’d seen the show before.

“Exactly,” Falk said, “Four rounds of competition. First round winners win fifty thousand credits. Second round: five hundred thousand. Third round? One million. All goes straight into an account of your choosing the second an event is over. The week’s champion stands to win eleven million, five hundred and fifty thousand credits. And that’s not counting the signup bonuses. On top of that, sponsorships, advertising, even post mortem. You’ve heard of Brax Monroe, right?”

“Yeah,” Reed said. Brax Monroe was the EndGames record-holder. He’d won five weeks in a row. By the time it was all over Brax had gone through the grinder. In week one he lost his left eye to a projectile. Week two, he’d lost his left hand to a circular saw. Week three, his right leg needed amputating after the final round. He won by the skin of his teeth, but Brax still managed to press on. In week six, he ended up with severe burns over eighty percent of his body. He finally succumbed in the second round, ending his illustrious run as EndGames Champion. Brax Monroe was a god to fans of the show. He’d signed up for many sponsorships. Billboards with his face (pre-battlescars) were all over the city. He was a deceased spokesman for things like guns, cereal and automobiles.

“By the time Brax retired,” Falk said, “He’d raked in close to sixty million credits in winnings. Double that with sponsors. His widow is likely the happiest woman in the world right now. Well, aside from the whole being-a-widow part.”

“Retired is kind of a shitty way to put it. He’s dead,” Reed said, still not able to get past the idea of futility. Peace of mind, riches, providing for a family, pointless. It all seemed moot when considering that once you’re dead, you’re fuckin’ dead, so who cares?

“Dead and with a killer legacy, Reed,” Falk said, “That could be you. Name in lights, family saved, a hero, a provider. Or, like I said, waste away in some hospital. Leave hundreds of thousands of credits in bills for Maria to deal with. Or just kill yourself now and have it over with. Or be something. Make it count, man, make it fucking count.”

Falk opened the briefcase and pulled out a stack of credits. He put his ebCard on top. Transactions though palm or retinal scans was standard and seeing this many physical credits at once was rare. He handed them to Reed who was stunned at the sudden thought that this could actually be the best option for him. Excitement welled in him for a second and he had to steel himself and strengthen his resolve. He was tough, but he wouldn’t beat the cancer. A miracle would have to occur for it to go into remission, and treatments and surgeries, there was no option. He couldn’t afford them anyway. Why not go out like this?

“Take it,” Falk said, “Enjoy the five grand.”

“I...” Reed started to say as Falk held out the stack.

“Sleep on it,” Falk said, “Talk to your wife. You’re a fucking warrior, Reed, look at you. I can see it in your eyes. Let’s show that to the world.”

Reed took the money and they shook hands. Reed didn’t say anything else to Falk as he walked away, whistling. Falk’s silver suit somehow sparkled in the blue haze of a polluted, corrupted metropolis. EndGames was the cities lifeblood, and people like Jim Reed was it’s fuel.

Four hours and a few drinks later, Reed and his wife, Maria, held each other, both in tears, on the sofa. Their twins, Quinn and Patrick had no idea that they were destined to grow up without a father. They sat there, cooing in their own infantile language, looking for attention. The five thousand credits lay on the coffee table, shining their silver shine. Reed stared at it as Maria sobbed into his shoulder. It would pay for a few groceries and maybe some stuff for the kids, but he knew it wasn’t enough.