Zombie Survival System

Alexandre approached the large administrative box in the middle of the arena. Despite being called a "box," it was more like a small building where the event's organizers would be doing their work. There was a small metal door in one face of the box, behind which stood a young man who wore the "H" on his arm of a student militia member.

Alexandre approached and said, "Hey! I need to speak to the arena organizers."

The man waved him away dismissively. "Look, the organizers are busy. Come back after the scheduled fights are over!"

Alexandre snapped,"It's an emergency!"

The man snorted scornfully. "Did you not hear me? The organizers are busy doing their jobs! You know, organizing? Come back later, asshole!"

Alexandre had heard enough. He put his hand on the latch of the box's door. The militia man grabbed the handle on the opposite side to keep it closed, opening his mouth to call for someone to remove this intruder.

Then Alexandre looked him right in the eye, allowing a fluorescent blue glare to shine in his gaze—the unmistakable presence of Hunter energy. "You have one second to let go," Alexandre said calmly. "Do it, or lose your hand."

The man saw the merciless hardness in Alexandre's eyes. 'This psychopath isn't kidding!' he thought as a wave of fear filled his body. Even if the newcomer got kicked out of the academy for violence, that wouldn't bring his victim back from the dead...

"Alright," the militia member muttered. "Go ahead and see what happens." Despite his sullen words, he let go of the door and stepped passively to the side.

Alexandre opened the door and entered the box, looking around to take in his surroundings.

It was a rustic scene. The old stone floor of the arena hadn't been covered up by anything. Audio and video equipment had been set up on what looked like wooden picnic tables in the most bizarre event organization Alexandre had ever seen. Cables were strewn everywhere underfoot and it looked like the whole place was about to burst into flames. Two commentators sat at one of these tables, huddled around a microphone, eagerly commenting on a fight in progress which they viewed on a tiny video monitor.

Nearby, a man in a worn suit leaned against one wall and smoked a cigarette while he watched the fight play out from a different angle on a monitor that looked to be thirty years old. Alexandre deduced that this man was either the main organizer or one of his representatives.

Alexandre approached the man and said, "I'd like to change the name of a participant in an upcoming duel."

The organizer didn't even turn away from the fight as he replied, "Go away, kid, the adults are busy."

As the man raised his hand to bring the cigarette to his lips again, Alexandre lightly flicked the side of the man's hand. The organizer reflexively dropped the cigarette, cursing and turning to glare at the intruder. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!?"

Alexandre stepped on the cigarette and ground it under his heel. He allowed the blue to come back into his eyes as he said calmly, "I'm asking you to do a very simple thing: your job. It looks like I've gotten your attention. Are you going to help me, or are you going to try ignoring me again and force me to do something a little more drastic?" He waved his pointer finger at the man's hand, as though to imply his next move wouldn't be something as gentle as a flick.

There was a long moment of silence as the two men glared at each other. Finally, the organizer smirked, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit a new one with a gold lighter and inhaled deeply. "A tough guy, eh? Well, loving to fight isn't the worst trait to have around here. Hmmm, follow me to my office so we can discuss your problem!"

There was a small part of the box which Alexandre had at first thought was a closet. It now proved to be this man's "office," and it was almost entirely taken up by a comically large desk. The organizer squeezed his way between the desk and the wall before emerging on the other side and sitting down in a chair that was, likewise, comically overstuffed. He pulled a notebook from a desk drawer and opened it on the desktop. "Right, then. What time's your fight?"

Alexandre replied, "8:15."

The man nodded as he turned pages. "William Walton versus Chetan Ambani. What did you want to change, again? I warn you that we have a strict no-refund policy on cancellations."

Alexandre replied, "No cancellation. Just a small correction to the first name."

The man burst out laughing. "Oh, just a small name correction, huh? You think I was born yesterday? You think I'm just gonna let you rig a fight by swapping out a participant at the last minute? What, should I get on my knees and blow you, too? Here, let me call two of my boys to tickle your balls while I'm at it!"

Alexandre replied calmly, "I'm not trying to fix the fight. William just dropped out and I'm trying to save you time and money by stepping in to make sure the fight still happens. You should be thanking me."

The man chuckled derisively and flicked his cigarette butt into the wall. He lit a new one and blew the smoke directly into Alexandre's face. "Look, kid. You need to understand something. The $300 registration fee isn't how we make our money. No, we keep things rolling by orchestrating the gambling scene. That's where the real money's at! You change a fighter, you change the odds."

He took another drag, then added, "So let's say, hypothetically, I do you this favor and let you step in. We change one of the two names on the roster. How, exactly, do I explain this situation to the bettors? Oh guys, don't worry about your money, it's just a little name update! Surely nothing'll be at all different, guys, just sit back, have a good time, and try not to think about how you bet your whole paycheck on this match before you knew who the two fighters would actually be!" The man chuckled and shook his head. "It simply isn't done."

Alexandre nodded slowly. He hated to admit it, but the argument made sense. "Well, what happens when one fighter just doesn't show up?"

The man gestured with his cigarette. "Simple. All bets are called off and bettors reimbursed—while we pocket the $300 entry fee for our troubles."

Alexandre thought for a moment, then gave a cunning smile. "Well, I have an idea."