Lord_Meph1sto
patreon
Chapter 103 : The Circle Convenes
🕑 Added 2025-11-09 19:03:14 +0000 UTC(Quite a long chapter this one)
Chapter 103 : The Circle Convenes
The presidential suite of the Elysium Resort commanded a view that travel magazines would have killed to photograph—if they'd known it existed.
Crystal waters stretched endlessly toward the horizon, interrupted only by the dark jungle island three kilometers distant.
That island appeared on no maritime charts, existed in no flight corridors, and functioned under the protection of six different national intelligence agencies who'd been paid exceptionally well to ensure it remained invisible.
Inside the suite's main parlor, eight figures occupied the space. Each wore an animal mask—exquisitely crafted pieces that had cost more than most people earned in a year.
The Wolf mask—sleek black with silver accents—belonged to Silas Tate, founder and CEO of TateTech Industries. His company manufactured sixty percent of America's surveillance infrastructure. The mask turned toward the bar where a woman in a fox mask was mixing drinks.
"Miranda, darling, did you see the Venezuelan twins in holding?"
"We got us a pair of identical twins this time. I've got five million saying they turn on each other within the first hour."
The Fox—Miranda Lockheart, political fixer whose client list included senators, dictators, and the occasional superhero foundation—laughed as she poured aged scotch into crystal tumblers.
"Silas, you're predictable. Family bonds always last longer than you think. I'm putting seven million on them making it to the Croc phase together. The betrayal is always sweeter when you've watched them struggle to protect each other first."
"Christ, Miranda, you're darker than I am." This from the Hyena mask—Thomas Kord, no relation to Ted Kord, though he'd spent millions on lawyers ensuring people made that association.
His tech company, Kord Innovations, supplied non-lethal weapons to police departments worldwide. Weapons that, in his private testing facilities, had proven quite lethal indeed when he wanted them to be. "Though I suppose that's why we love you."
The Serpent mask—carved jade that must have weighed two pounds—swiveled toward them. Dr. Helena Ashe, New York's most prominent pharmaceutical executive and the founder of AsheCorps .
"The twins are irrelevant. I'm more interested in the cage fighter they acquired from Budapest. Did you see his file? Seventeen sanctioned kills in underground circuits. Manager's people had to use elephant tranquilizers to transport him."
"Now that's interesting." The Spider mask—polished obsidian with red markings—tilted forward. Cole Bishop ran Bishop Defense Solutions, the third-largest private military contractor in America. His companies trained soldiers, supplied weapons, and occasionally "consulted" on regime changes that proved profitable.
"A fighter might actually give Croc some trouble. Remember Season 4? That Spetsnaz operative lasted almost three days."
"Two days and nineteen hours," corrected the Vulture mask—weathered bronze with cruel beak. Victor Sterling, hedge fund manager whose financial manipulations had caused three separate housing crises in developing nations. He never forgot a number, especially when money was attached.
"And he survived by hiding, not fighting. Croc found him in that cave system and... well." Sterling made a wet crunching sound with his mouth. "That was good television."
The Rat mask—grey ceramic with pink ears and prominent teeth—bobbed enthusiastically. Chen Wei, shipping magnate whose container vessels moved sixty percent of Southeast Asian cargo. Also moved human traffic, organ shipments, and exotic animals, though those manifests never appeared in official records. "Best season yet! Although personally, I preferred Season 5's finale. The schoolteacher who made it to final two, then realized the other survivor was her daughter's killer? The recognition in her eyes before she snapped?"
"What do the young people call it nowadays? Ah, yes got it! ABSOLUTE CINEMA!!" agreed the Crow mask—matte black with real crow feathers along the edges-while mimicking the meme with his hands. Thomas Blackwood, real estate developer who'd displaced four thousand families in Brooklyn alone through strategic property acquisition and well-timed arson.
"Manager really outdid himself with that selection. The narrative arc was perfect."
Silas Tate carried his drink to the panoramic window, staring out at the distant jungle island. "It's the narratives that make it art, isn't it? Any sadist can watch people die. We're connoisseurs. We appreciate the composition, the character development, particularly the thematic resonance."
"Listen to yourself," Miranda laughed, joining him at the window.
"You sound like you're reviewing some kind of opera, not death sport."
"Isn't it, though?" Tate turned back to the room.
"The stakes are ultimate. The performances are unrehearsed. The emotions are absolutely genuine. No actor can replicate what we see when someone realizes they're going to die, that there's no escape, no rescue, no last-minute salvation. That moment of pure understanding—it's transcendent."
Helena Ashe set down her glass with a click."Transcendent. Yes. Though I prefer the medical perspective. Do you know what happens to the human body under that level of sustained terror? The adrenal system floods, the immune response crashes, cognitive function deteriorates. They literally begin dying before the physical trauma starts. It's fascinating."
"You would reduce it to biology," Thomas Kord said, though his hyena mask seemed to grin wider. "What about the psychology? The game theory? Watching them form alliances, negotiate, betray. It's everything that makes humans interesting, distilled to pure survival."
Cole Bishop shook his head. "You're all overthinking it. I like watching them die. I like the creativity violence inspires when you strip away civilization. That's the beauty—we see what humans really are when you remove the comfortable lies."
"Spoken like a true contractor," Victor Sterling said dryly. "No philosophy, just honest brutality. It's refreshing, really."
"Fuck philosophy," Bishop said cheerfully. "I had enough philosophy from my Yale professors. This is better than any lecture on human nature."
Chen Wei scuttled to the bar for a refill.
"Speaking of observation, did anyone analyze last season's data? Manager sent me the full statistical breakdown. The correlation between survival time and previous trauma history was remarkable. Abuse victims lasted thirty-seven percent longer on average."
"Because they're already broken," Helena said matter-of-factly. "They've known helplessness and already learned to endure. It makes them simultaneously more resilient and less likely to risk aggressive action. They hide better because they've been hiding their whole lives."
"God, that's grim," Miranda said, though she was smiling.
"This whole thing is grim, darling," Thomas Blackwood said, stretching in his chair. His crow mask turned toward each of them in turn. "That's rather the point. We've all made fortunes on human suffering—evictions, foreclosures, medical bankruptcies, weapons sales, whatever. This is just... more honest about it. More intimate."
"Intimate," Silas Tate repeated, savoring the word. "I like that. We're not distant from this suffering. We're present for it. We witness it. We honor it with our attention."
"You honor it with your wallet," Victor Sterling said. "Let's not get philosophical about it, Silas.It's degenerate and we know it. That's why it's exhilarating."
"Fifty million dollar pot this season," Chen Wei said. "Largest yet. The crypto transfers alone required three shell corporations to obscure."
"Worth every complication," Cole Bishop said. "Though I'm curious about the distribution. Twenty-four contestants this season, right? That's double Season 6."
"Manager promised variety," Miranda explained. "Different age ranges, nationalities, body types. Honestly its better viewing experience and more betting options. You can wager on virtually any variable—first death, last death, method of death, whether they kill each other or let Croc do the work."
"I've got a multi-variable bet running," Thomas Kord said proudly. "Ten million that we'll see at least three deaths by friendly fire, two deaths by environmental hazard, and that the survivor count drops below ten within the first twelve hours."
"That's optimistic," Helena Ashe said. "Historically, the first twelve hours are more psychological than lethal. They're still processing and hoping for rescue."
"Not this group," Kord countered. "Manager's selection criteria evolved. These aren't random victims. We have mixed in quite a number of people with violent backgrounds—former soldiers, criminals, fighters. They'll escalate faster because they understand violence as a first resort, not last."
Silas Tate returned to his seat, settling in.
"The criminal element is an inspired touch. Morally, it provides us some insulation. These aren't complete innocents."
"Morally?" Miranda laughed sharply. "Since when do we care about morality?"
"I don't," Tate admitted. "But if this ever surfaces—unlikely as that is—it helps to have victims with rap sheets. The public's sympathy erodes when the dead have done terrible things themselves."
"Always thinking ahead," Victor Sterling said approvingly. "Though I'd argue we're well beyond needing such justifications. Manager's security is impeccable. Seven seasons without a whisper reaching authorities."
"Six governments in our pocket," Chen Wei added, counting on his fingers beneath his rat mask. "Four intelligence agencies actively suppressing information. Two superhero foundations that would be devastated if certain financial connections came to light. We're not just protected—we're fortified."
"Speaking of superheroes," Thomas Blackwood said, his crow mask tilting with amusement. "Did anyone see that interview with Superman last week? The one about human trafficking?"
The room erupted in laughter.
"Oh God, yes," Miranda gasped between giggles. "He was so earnest. 'We'll find them, we'll save them, justice will prevail.'"
"Meanwhile," Cole Bishop said, wiping his eyes beneath his spider mask, "we've been operating under his fucking nose for three years. Three years! The great Superman, and he's completely blind to this."
"It's not blindness," Helena Ashe added. "It's exploitation of their weaknesses. They operate within the law. They require evidence. They alert authorities. Every aspect of their heroic methodology has a corresponding vulnerability we've exploited."
Silas Tate nodded enthusiastically. "The data corruption alone is masterful. Manager's cybersecurity team intercepts and corrupts any satellite imagery of this region. Any imagery. The electronic countermeasures are military-grade."
"Better than military-grade," Cole Bishop corrected. "I should know—I sell to the military. Manager's operation uses technology that won't be commercially available for five years. Quantum encryption, AI-driven pattern spoofing, biological signature masking. Even Batman's surveillance couldn't penetrate this."
"Batman," Victor Sterling said the name like a curse. "That self-righteous prick has caused more problems for my Gotham investments than anyone. The number of profitable criminal enterprises he's disrupted..."
"Yet here we sit," Chen Wei said cheerfully, "three kilometers from a jungle where we're about to watch people murder each other, and the league has no idea. None of them do. For all their powers, their technology and their vaunted detective skills—they're blind."
"Because they think like heroes," Miranda said. She'd moved to the window, staring at the jungle island. "They always assume a certain baseline of human behavior. They can't conceive of what we're doing because it's outside their moral framework. It's the perfect camouflage—being too monstrous to be believed."
"I'll drink to that," Thomas Kord said, raising his glass. "To being too monstrous to be believed."
The others raised their glasses in unison. "To monstrosity."
They drank, and the moment held a strange solemnity—eight of the world's wealthiest people, faces hidden, toasting their own depravity.
"Although," Helena Ashe said thoughtfully, "there is that new element. The Architect."
The room's energy shifted subtly. Several masks turned toward her.
"What about him?" Silas Tate asked carefully.
"He's been active for months now," Helena continued. "Systematic, brutal, targeting criminals the justice system can't touch. He's everything the traditional heroes aren't—willing to kill, willing to torture, operating outside legal constraints."
"A vigilante psychopath," Cole Bishop said dismissively. "Gotham breeds them like rats. He'll be dead or in Arkham within six months."
"Maybe," Helena said. "He's intelligent, patient, and his targets are always people who've escaped justice through wealth or connections. People like... well, like us."
A brief silence fell over the room.
"You're worried," Victor Sterling said flatly.
"I'm observant," Helena corrected.
"Dont worry!!" Miranda said firmly. "Even if he comes to us, we call the Justice League. Superman can come here in seconds if he knows high profile people like us are targeted."
"Also," Thomas Blackwood added, "Even if the Justice League catches us, it all comes down to evidence and court."
"Exactly," Silas Tate agreed. "Nothing to be concerned about. Also we have some quite powerful meta working for us."
"Keep telling yourself that," Helena muttered, but she didn't push further.
The tension dissolved as quickly as it had formed.
"Anyway," Thomas Kord said, deliberately changing the subject, "what's the over-under on Croc this season? Think Manager's control system will hold?"
"It's held for seven seasons," Cole Bishop said. "The neural implant is my company's design. Military-grade behavioral control. Croc might as well be a trained attack dog."
"A four-hundred-pound attack dog with a genetic condition that makes him functionally immortal," Victor Sterling said. "But yes, the technology is sound. I've reviewed the specs personally before investing in this venture."
"The beauty of Croc," Miranda said, returning to her seat, "is the horror factor. The contestants might survive each other, might find hiding spots, might even organize resistance. But Croc is inevitable. He's the guarantee that no matter what they do, death is coming. That's satisfying to watch."
"Plus," Chen Wei added gleefully, "the way he kills is spectacular. The raw brutality, the primal fear it inspires!! Remember Season 3, the priest who tried praying while Croc approached?"
"I won that betting pool," Victor Sterling said smugly. "Forty-five seconds from prayer to panic. I called it within five seconds."
"Show-off," Miranda teased.
The door to the suite opened, and a man in an immaculate white suit entered. The Manager was fifty-three but looked forty, maintained by the best cosmetic procedures money could buy. His face was bland, forgettable—deliberately so. He was a man designed to be overlooked, except by those who mattered.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Manager said, keeping his voice strictly professional. "I trust you're all comfortable?"
"Manager!" Silas Tate stood, gesturing with his drink. "We were just discussing Season 7's prospects. Excellent contestant selection this year."
"Thank you," Manager said, inclining his head slightly. "I promise this season aould be the best you have even seen."
"I like your confidence" Helena Ashe said.
"And the neural implant on Croc?" Cole Bishop asked. "Any concerns about system stability?"
"None whatsoever," Manager assured him. "We've run continuous diagnostics since his last deployment. The implant is functioning at peak efficiency. Croc remains completely under our control—all higher reasoning suppressed, aggression amplified, pain compliance system tested and verified. He'll perform exactly as programmed."
"Music to my ears," Thomas Kord said. "I've got significant money riding on his kill count."
Manager smiled thinly. "I'm confident you'll find the return on investment satisfying. Now, regarding the schedule: the release occurs in approximately 48 hours, at sunset local time. The lighting at that hour provides optimal camera coverage while giving contestants enough visibility to make initial decisions. We'll have full audio-visual coverage from forty-seven camera positions, including infrared for night operations and underwater units for the coastal zones."
"Underwater?" Miranda perked up. "That's new."
"Season 7 enhancements," Manager explained. "Several contestants have military water training. We've anticipated escape attempts via ocean routes and positioned cameras accordingly. Additionally, we've seeded the coastal waters with tiger sharks."
"Clever," Victor Sterling said approvingly. "Environmental hazards are a pleasant to watch."
"What about the Justice League's satellite network?" Thomas Blackwood asked.
"The Watchtower?" Manager's smile widened slightly. "Gentlemen, lady—their satellite network is the primary target of our spoofing operations. We identified their surveillance protocols eighteen months ago and have been feeding them corrupted data ever since. As far as the Justice League's systems are concerned, this entire archipelago doesn't exist."
The room buzzed with satisfied murmurs.
"That's why you're the best, Manager," Silas Tate said warmly. "Attention to detail. Nothing left to chance."
"I appreciate the trust," Manager said. "Though I should note that maintaining this level of operational security requires continued investment. The quantum encryption systems alone cost three million per quarter to maintain."
"Worth every penny," Chen Wei said immediately. "We've each made back ten times our investment over the past three seasons."
"Indeed," Manager agreed. "The dark web streaming revenue alone has exceeded projections by forty percent. We have subscribers in sixty-seven countries, all paying premium rates for exclusive access. Season 7 has already generated forty-three million in advance betting revenue."
"Jesus," Cole Bishop whistled. "That's nearly the entire pot."
"The pot is separate from operating revenue," Manager clarified. "Your fifty million pot is funded through participation fees and peripheral betting pools. The streaming revenue funds operations and my management fee."
"And you earn every cent," Miranda said sincerely. "This operation is flawless, Manager. Truly impressive."
Manager inclined his head again, accepting the compliment.
"I merely facilitate your vision. Now, I'll need to excuse myself shortly. I have a meeting scheduled with my security team to coordinate the final preparations."
"Now, is there anything else you need before I attend to final preparations? Chef has prepared a tasting menu for this evening—Kobe beef, bluefin tuna, white Alba truffle. I've also arranged for entertainment if you desire—we have a quartet of performers from the Bolshoi on retainer."
"All in good time," Silas Tate said. "For now, we're content to anticipate the main event."
"As you wish," Manager said. "The bar is fully stocked, and staff are available for any requests. I'll return before the release to provide final briefing and ensure your viewing experience is optimal. The control room has been prepared with individual betting terminals and direct audio feeds from the jungle. You'll have complete control over which camera feeds you prioritize."
"You think of everything," Thomas Kord said admiringly.
"It's my function," Manager said simply. "Ladies and gentlemen, enjoy your afternoon. I'll see you shortly before sunset. This is going to be a season to remember."
He turned crisply and exited the suite, leaving the eight masked figures to their afternoon of anticipation.
As the door closed, Silas Tate raised his glass again. "To Season 7."
"To Season 7," the others echoed.
Outside the suite, Manager walked through the resort's elegant corridorsl His mind was already compartmentalizing tasks: security team briefing, contestant preparation protocols, camera system verification, boat schedule confirmation.
He passed resort staff who bowed slightly as he went by, their eyes carefully averted. They knew better than to look directly at Mr. Manager.
The last employee who'd shown too much curiosity had disappeared quietly, his family told he'd accepted a generous severance package and relocated overseas.
Comments
Lightisyhepathtosark
I hope Alex make those sick rich bastards pay
Jim Drafe
Almost couldn’t hold my laugh with the absolute cinema part
