They were rushed out of the holding. They were a group of five, just as there had always been. The Choosers, as they are called, pick a group of five each and every night and take them to the storage yard with their cloaks of raven feathers nipping at their heels. This time, a young boy was a part of the five alongside his mom, sister, and two of their neighboring friends. It had happened at a quarter to one in the morning. The boy had to stay awake, he had to protect his family; he had to keep watch. His mother and sister had been asleep, removing themselves from the uneasy dangers of the world by entering dreams of shattered hope. They were counting on the boy to protect them; him being the man of the family since his father had been taken with another group three days ago. He had a rifle on his lap, having bought it before the Crash luckily, while the laws had not yet forbidden it. Only four bullets were left, the others had been used as a warning to keep dirty street rats from entering their home. In the endless night, he sat on an old, creaky chair with the rifle cradled in his arms; laying his life in its power of death. The chair was positioned next to the door and, with no windows to aid the view of the outside, his eyes were instead fixed on the handle in case it began to turn and invite in any cloaked figures. Drops of tainted rain drizzled from the night stars as they always had, the moon had long since forsaken them. Then, it began. Click, sharp in his ears, causing his eyes to flash every which way, desperately trying to find the source. The sound reminded him of heels, like the ruby reds he had seen his mother wear on many special occasions before the Crash. These were just memories though, of the times before, the times quickly fading. Breaking him from his thoughts were several clicks, almost like the clicking of tongues to mock him. Feet shuffled outside and a high pitch laugh echoed from outside the door. Faintly, he could hear,

"Hello, my pretty boy. I can hear you breathing." The woman pressed her cheek against the wooden door, bringing a sick feeling to the pit of the boy’s hungry stomach. The handle turned and he cocked the rifle and aimed it with shaky hands. He willed for it to be a dream, for himself to wake up and have everything turn to ‘normal’ again. Nothing changed. His wish was rejected. The door opened to reveal four cloaked figures. They simply stood there, emotionless by the sight of his rifle. The woman waved with her claw like hands, her dark spirals of hair peeking all around her hood. The man next to her shifted nervously and the woman suddenly spun at him, hissing at him loudly and turning back to the boy with a choked laugh. His finger tensed on the trigger but when it pulled back, with his eyes closed, there was a dull click and the Choosers laughed, pushing their way into his house and yanking the boy to his feet. The woman approached him as  her sharp nail ran under his chin and she clicked her tongue.

"Such a shame," she stated while her hand rose with a flick. All at once, the three men disappeared into the house, searching for the family. He had failed to protect them.

The boy hung his head and the woman began to say, "Oh honey, don't worry, not all of you will die." Mid- laugh however, he swung the gun at her, hitting her to the ground as she screeched. He tried to run but the woman latched onto his ankles and clawed viciously at them. He lost his footing and fell and kicked his heels at her face until she released him, blood trickling down his feet. I have to find them, he thought, I have to protect my family. A blood curdling scream broke through the thin air. He ran toward it. However, before he could make it to his sister's room, a man came out with her, pulling her hair and laughing at the way she struggled. The boy turned around and saw that his mother was in the same position but she did not try to escape. She simply let the man guide her as tears flooded her pale face. The third man, who had been hiding, grabbed his neck and shoved him around into the wall before grabbing the gun and hitting it hard against his skull. Blood ran over his eyes until he could faintly see his surroundings. His sister screamed again. With that, the man gripped the back of his shirt to force him to walk as he struggled to stay conscience. Once they reached the entrance of the house they let go of them and jabbed guns against their backs to keep them moving only stopping for the other figure. The woman slapped the boy as she spat bitterly in his face but he smiled, it was a small victory. They met with their neighbors outside and exchanged sad greetings with their heads down. It was time. They knew the rules and they all hoped to be the lucky one.

The thing is, of every group, only one person returns... The boy’s father was not that person. That's just how it goes. One person from every group gets to go back but, that person would eventually be entered into the game again; still, it was what every person wanted desperately. Stories were told from the survivors, stories of people killing each other during the Game just to claim the piece to return home. The Choosers don't care, they sit back and watch the fight to the end. They enjoy it. This is what the world has become... Grey skies, hallow buildings, rusted cars, desolate streets, and the event of 'The Game.' These Choosers run heir lives to the point that the living cannot cross the street, open a door, or close a window ever, ‘less it be permitted on the day of Execution or Ration. They were always watching, they were everywhere. Food could not be collected until Tuesday and water not until Thursday as decreed by the king ever since the Crash occurred. If any action was caught by a Chooser, punishments would be dealt with immediately in the view of the public. Bloodshed was their specialty. Black sacks were shoved over the group’s heads and the boy became aware of the smell of blood inside. Each person rested a hand on the shoulder of the person in front of them as they walked, still tripping over rocks and rotten pipes scattered over the muddy ground. In front of he boy, his sister stumbled into the ground, causing mud to rain over the group and splatter all over their shoes and ragged coats but his sister was drenched. He searched for her hand until his fingers brushed hers. Yes, he cared for her, but it was his obligation to be strong since he was now the man of the family. The Choosers took them through the storage yard and into a dimly lit room where they hid in the back of the, though the sacks prevented the group from seeing them anyway. They liked the dark and that really was the truth of it. The dark, they thought, was their ally, they had seen no other light than that of their many rings reflecting another victim's tear. A woman’s voice rang out from a dark corner.

"Welcome to the Game. There are six metal chips in this bag," she croaked as she threw a black velvet bag to the dark corner closest to them. "Each chip has a different fate, save one. One is death, prisoner, home, two slave, and one Chooser. As is fair, I will describe each chip. Death..." Laughter rang throughout the room as though death were their friend. Their laughs mixed as they echoed of off the walls and pounded on the group’s ears. "Well, obviously, you die. Slaves will work for the king, the prisoner will live out their remaining life in the dungeons and will be used as torturous clients to bring joy to our king, and the home chip means that you can go back and try our little game another time. Now the last chip, which is rarely ever grabbed, 'Chooser' means that you are now one of us. Enjoy the Game." The woman snarled as her long nail dug into her thin, bottom lip, drawing blood as she eagerly licked it up with her pale tongue. She waited for the chips to be chosen but, when the man didn't move, she screeched, "Get your feet moving, idiot! Let them choose their fate!"

A man crept out from the dark corner somewhat awkwardly, in his hand was the black bag everyone dreaded. Every person in the group stepped forward slightly to accept their fate, everyone but the boy. He would now be the last to choose a fate that would determine the rest of his young life. The metal chips they grabbed would be read to them one by one and their hearts raged against their ribcages as the black bag came closer. It was easy for the group to tell when the bag was getting ever closer since the next person would grow rigid, passing the vibe all the way down to the boy. Mentally, he pictured his young sister reaching her dirty, shaking hand into the bag with her blonde curls barely peeking out from under the hood. Her fate ready to be decided by words etched into metal. He could see his mother, in his mind's eye, reaching in with a firm, ringed hand that tightly grasping the cool metal in contrast to her burning skin.

A loud, demanding voice came from the right, "Grab one!"

"No," the voice of someone two people down from the boy squeaked. With that, the man shoved him to the ground and threw a chip on the ground. The person scrambled to find it in their blind state only to have the sharp edges of the chip cut deeply into their grime covered hand. The woman pulled him up quickly. She took their hand and raked her teeth over the bleeding cut, her teeth squeezing the skin to make it leak more rich blood to quench her thirst. The boy listened to her squelch on the hand while, one by one, the footsteps stood in front of him. The bag softly brushed up against his hand, the attitude of the man was changed. Gingerly, the boy allowed his hands to stroke the soft material, thinking of those who had grabbed their fates many times before. Then he placed two fingers inside. Below his fingers were two chips but only one could be chosen, only one unfortunate fate. Carefully, he took the coldest one, clutching it between his palms to warm the metal. The ceremony was about to begin, the Fate of Five was about to be announced by those cloaked by ravens.

"Louise Emilia Foxstrand, you have chosen... Slave." The woman spoke to his mother, a sigh of relief came overwhelming the boy.

"Terrance Lee Gelding, you have chosen... Prisoner." A gruff voice took place of the woman's.

"Lawrence James White... Slave," the voice spat in his face.

"Emma Anne Foxstrand... Home." Annoyance lingered in the woman's voice but the boy smiled from under the hood, remembering it was his sister standing next to him. Gently, he gripped the hand at her side. One day she would return to this place but, at least, she had survived to live another day.

"And last is... The boy. You may have chosen either death or 'Chooser.'" The voice of the man became familiar as it trembled and the metal chip in the boy’s hand was flipped over. He heard the voice stutter the same way he had heard many times before. He had gotten 'Chooser,' I felt a tear crawl down my cheek from under the blood-stained hood. Yes, this boy was me, seeing the events from the outside, from beyond. My eyes searched for any hole in the hood, any hole that would reveal the man towering in front of me. I needed to see, I had to see.

His fingers lingered on my hand and I didn't move it away. My eyes continued to well up as I tried to envision the face of the man, "William Peter Foxstrand, the fate you have chosen is... death." My father said, defeated.