A shadow dances across the cobblestone streets of a ruined city. Footfalls echo urgently through the empty corridors, resonating amongst the tattered and broken kiosks of the market district. This town was a playground and it burned.

Hooded and cloaked comes a silent figure, following the shadow with quiet resolve. To the Ghost there is no time but its own; a deathly intent in its measured pace. There are no footfalls. From within the hood emanates a sickly chill, deliberate breath a counterpoint. Who is this Ghost. What is this Ghost.

The Shadow speaks softly to itself as it turns a corner with harrowing speed. The streets of the market are long and winding. There is still a chance. .

Cold in the dark assaults both the Shadow and the Ghost. Icy winds fill their lungs. Daggers of frost pinch their fingers and their toes. Nightfall has come and gone and only the solemn dusk remains. Forgotten stars now shine bright down upon the dead city, life’s twinkling glow extinguished. Long ago.

But there are beating hearts and rushing veins once again in Old Quedy this morning.

The Ghost stops in the middle of a vast square. Charred buildings look down upon him from every direction. Memories of the past flood through the Ghost; screaming women, crying children... dying men. And from the windows that now gaze at him knowingly, shouts of cheering onlookers drown out the sorrow. The Ghost smiles, twilight glinting off its exposed fangs.

This playground had been host to many games, reigned over by lords and fawned over by peasants. Yet at its core all were equal. Humanity is a beast, veiled by ambiguous terms such as civilization, society, and decency. What lies beneath the veil are competition, instinct, and bloodlust. Old Quedy was among the first of the playgrounds, and among the last to burn.

A scent in the air draws the Ghost’s attention toward the East. The pattern almost makes it laugh. Almost. Why do they always go to Sunrise? Throughout time the Sun has been a symbol of righteousness and purity for the Ghosts paltry ancestors. If this shadow seeks deliverance, so be it. There will be no hope.

And so the Ghost stalks in a familiar direction, in its mind’s eye seeing the enclosing paths of the playground. It had been redesigned after the Sunrise rhythm had been discovered, dead ends and locked doors clustered towards the East. The Ghosts had never claimed to be fair. Only efficient.

Creeping along in the darkness, the Ghost savoured the taste of fear left lingering in the air. They were cruel to take his game away from him. Tonight, there would be no rules.


*** 


The Shadow ran until its lungs felt like bursting. When they for certain could not take any more physical punishment, they were pushed harder. There was no secret to survival here. Keep moving. Keep quiet.

All of the stories and legends of the Playgrounds played through the Shadow’s mind. As a little one there had been fables to scare it, cultivating a method of behaviour. As a young adult there had been trials run and tests to push it into a regimen of discipline. As a Shadow initiate there had been the secret texts and recordings to rekindle the fear and ignite the instinct to survive.

The instinct and the fear had kept the Shadow alive through many games over a vast number of Playgrounds. Each time it was dropped into the midst of a blood crazed Ghost, it had escaped unharmed and was welcomed with fame and riches. This Shadow was among the very best and was very well known.

Why am I here? How did I get here? The same questions ran over and over again, yet still they remained unanswered. Confusion and dread were trumped by the primal urge to get away. Answers would come later.

Another corner turned brought upon the Shadow another endless street, the same stone buildings laughing down upon it. Closer now it felt the drawing presence of the hooded assailant, the very whisper of the night fading against the approach.

A glint in the horizon lifted the Shadow’s eyes, the pink hue of redemption coursing across the sky. The dawn called out to the forsaken one, absolution from the Ghost’s embrace waiting. With the flash of light that had come, the Shadow had glimpsed his target. The exit to the Playground.

Many years ago it had run this same course, under sanctioned Time, and had narrowly eluded a determined predator. The exit, now shining before its eyes, had manifested itself under a stairway. The shimmering rip in reality distorted the feint light around it. The Shadow remembered. All tonight it had made its way here.

With a final burst of acceleration the Shadow streaked across the remaining earth in front of him. Each breath a painful whip across his back, urging it forward. Each exhalation a silent scream of panic. There were no sanctions here under the sinking moon. There was no audience and no lusting men to gamble on its fate. This Playground was purged. What am I doing here?!

The exit was within its distance now, and the Shadow lunged with outstretched limbs. Agape now in terror, the Shadow’s mouth yearned to cry in agony. In front of the exit stepped the colossal figure of the Ghost, hellish blue eyes blazing beneath its cloak. Even as the Ghost swung its colossal fists through the air, sweeping down towards the Shadow, it spoke haunting words that would shake the foundations of man.

“I have returned, Shadow. You are only the first.”


***


Dibson’s eyes constricted with burning hatred. An image printout sat on his cherrywood desk, leering at him with echoes from the past.

The morning had been a good one up until now. Fully charged after a restful night, he woke to the aroma of his favourite dark roast brewing in the kitchen. His driver was early, as usual, and had prepared the coffee as he did every morning. A toasted bagel with Winnipeg cream cheese and smoked salmon welcomed him to a new day.

Methodically, Dibson prepared himself the irrational and erratic work that awaited him. Never familiar. Never routine. Always stressful. Always urgent. He took a long, hot shower and stood with his eyes closed, allowing the jets of water to streak over his face. He knew no peace save for these hallowed moments each morning.

Sleeping was just a dream to him, a vapid memory from a life long ago. Dibson slept each night, like every other man, but he did not sleep. If it was not the echoes of agony which assaulted him, it was the simple act of rolling over and over again, searching for a unattainable comfort level. A remnant of a tortured life.

A steely black suit awaited in his simple closet. It reflected his perpetual mood; solid, unmoving, unemotional, not be trifled with. In truth Dibson was a creature of the senses, often swayed to the brink of sadness by the slightest touch or the furthest echelon of joy by the softest act. No one knew it. No one could ever know it.

And so it was a solemn Dibson that strode across his immaculate acreage, absorbing the morning rays of the sun and emanating a powerful resolve. His driver would follow behind, but not far.

And so it was a silent Dibson who read the Current State on his handheld whilst being driven to his place of work.

And so it was a curious Dibson who was met with stained red eyes and tearful greetings.

He had not stopped to chat. Not bothered to offer his condolences or reaction. He had to see it to believe it – there was simply no way it could be true. Haste took him through his office door, a chrome orifice that swallowed the world, and to his cherished wooden desk. The wooden furniture was a link to a reality he had long abandoned amongst this metal throng.

Upon his desk sat the abomination. Crystal clear was the scene he laid eyes upon, in sparkling resolution and density. Even after the burning the cameras worked to perfection. In the middle of Old Quedy stood a post not seen in ages. Strung from the post was a figure dead as night, hanging by a foot. The figure was naked and charred save for the face, which faced Dibson straight on, mount wide in the terror of eventuality.

The horror of this image was not in the act itself but in the symbolic way it was performed. A Shadow Hangs in Quedy. The voices of laughing children danced across the desk, chanting the famous song.

Dibson stared closer at the image. There was no doubt of the identity of this Shadow. The panic was beginning to set in. This Shadow was a legend, one of the first to escape his chains of bondage and the first to rejoin the games as a free man. This Shadow was loved the world around. This Shadow was Dibson’s brother.


***


Shivering beneath his cloak, the Ghost wrung its hands together, blowing on them methodically. It watched as warm breath misted the winter air before him and passed over frozen flesh. It brought the raw and rugged hands before the drawn hood and gazed at them for a long time. Those hands had done murder this morning. A familiar feeling that brought serenity to the Ghost’s forsaken mind.

Crouched against a stone wall, the Ghost reflected an image from the consciousness of the populace. Tattered clothes and bowed head, naught but calm pulsations of a powerful chest to give passing of activity. Here under the rising sun of the morning the Ghost wandered through its thoughts of years past.

A figure in white speaking down upon it with fervor and grace. The blunt edge of a sword battering its limbs into a bruised pulp. Humiliation at the hands of fellow students whenever there was failure in the prescribed tasks.

The release of the tension and stress when unleashed upon the masses.

There were no people in the street this morning; this city had been abandoned long ago. Foliage grew out from the sleek lines of the towers and roads, their space-metal no match for the slow advance of time.

The Ghost was all alone in the silent city. Here is where it would make its home. From here it would finish what was once started.


***


The world is a strange place. Glistening like the first frost upon a green grass, society has propelled its way forward to magnificent heights. One by one the great challenges of the 21st century slipped away, as countless inroads into the wonders of technology were made. Famine, poverty, homelessness, health care, all of these civic eyesores, disappeared virtually overnight.

What were the fires of industry have been replaced by the cold efficiency of nanotechnology, removing any need for labour and removing virtually all costs from manufacturing. The supply of all things has increased exponentially, while the price to own has vanished. Now every person on the planet had access to affordable housing and living ordinance, with or without an income to supplement it. Now every person was healthy, having been looked after from birth. Now every person was educated, well read, and well provided for. This has led to a pseudo utopia, where all people were constantly involved in the pursuit of their own happiness.

But a funny thing began to happen, not even a decade into the ‘golden age’. Crime, which had been globally eradicated, began to sharply increase and in increasingly violent ways. The perpetrators, when they were caught, proved to be regular citizens of the Directorate. They paid their small dues to maintain the baseline of civilization, they were all influential in whatever circles they ran in, and they were all genuinely nice people.

Masters of human psychology were stumped, hereditary scientists were mystified, and law enforcement experts had no leads. Then one day, out of the grey mists emerged a young man with a theory and a plan. The man was in his early-twenties, a Canadian of decent upbringing, and had spent his life involved in the competitive atmosphere of cyber-gaming. Whilst educating his mind at various schools, he spent his nights engaged in digital combat, where pixilated blood and instantaneous gratification soothed his neo-cortex.

The man understood that at the very heart of humanity beat a ferocious drum. We were created upon a foundation of survival, we evolved from the fittest who catered to the instincts, and we thrive in the perennial reality of combat.

He began publishing his ideas on the medium most familiar to him; the rapidly changing Internet. It wasn’t long before people began to read what he had to say. Rebellious teens that had nothing to rebel against carried his written word as battle standard. The intellectually gifted cited him when trying to explain anomalies in the contrived utopia.

The conclusions were not shocking, but they were concise. In a world where everything is handed to you, there is no effort expended save but the pursuit of satisfaction. Before the coming of this man, said satisfaction was through parties, chasing the opposite sex, and self-education to the point of expertise in one area or another. Sufficient, perhaps, to maintain the illusion. But not for long.

The decent into a criminal state began as a subconscious drive, the necessity to bring balance to a chaotic mind. Humans need conflict and pain, risk and reward, life and death. It is through these finalities that we define our existence, whether we want to admit it or not.

And so with this revelation came the proposal, set forth by the young man and based of the most ancient of traditions in our history. Humans would create and broadcast games. Bloodgames. The gladiators of Rome energized the populace and gave them an outlet for their most primal instincts, all the while building and maintaining the most successful and civilized empire the world had ever known.

The logistics of such an endeavour were enormous. The games would have to encompass the global population and provide an outlet for any who needed it, be it as a viewer or participant. As such there must be little to no restriction on entry, and the process must be very well defined.

This proposal called for the creation of two large schools with chapters that spanned the globe. The two schools each had a simple premise; to hunt or to be hunted. Each had their risks, each had their downfalls, and each had their glorious benefits. The result would be the same, one way or another. The hunter would catch the prey and satisfy his audience’s, and his own, bloodlust. The prey would evade the hunter and make him pay for his indiscretion, which would satisfy the instinct for survival and revenge.

In any other time the scale of this project would be so monumental and expensive, not to mention morally despicable, that it would never become more than an idea. In this time, humanity had the means and the motive to accomplish it.

And so they did.