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Weekly Contest #257
It’s disorientation sickness—throbbing head, ringing ears. Nausea forces my mouth open—I vomit then I spit out the bile. I stand up and take in the massive arena with a Shakespeare in the pit. He is a fairly good replica—same receding hairline, same facial hair. He scans my collar. “Is the disorientation gone?” he asks. I nod. “I recruited you from level 15,” he says. “I was Lady Macbeth in the Scottish play,” I say. “Sorry,” I say nodding to the vomit. “Never mind. Stage Manager will get it.” “Listen, I haven’t had a hit in twenty cycles. ...
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