“And that’s game over, shembals. Follow your helpful guides to the exit and claim your rewards.”

  Rowan seethed beneath the screens: Mogrim spoke so fondly of the events he forced these people into. It was all just a game, a means of entertainment. Mogrim had rewards for them? What of the man whose sopping innards were splayed along the cobblestones of the maze? Where was his solace in this? Rowan tried to focus his thoughts on the matter at hand. Much as it sat in his mind, the man’s tragic demise would have to be set aside for the moment. Rowan noticed a familiar gaggle of prisoners heading toward the trio; they must have been the other participants attempting to escape the maze. They marched past him and his cohorts, gathering at the end of the wall. No, it wasn’t a wall that ended this corridor like the others: this was a gate, the same gate Mogrim had shown earlier on the screens.

  “You were leading us right to the exit.”

  Rowan commented on the nameless one’s actions to no response. In fact, the masked prisoner was surprisingly docile at this moment. Had they also given up hope? Were they content being a shembal? Being in their presence left Rowan abuzz with questions. They were an anomaly in a land of irregularity; Mogrim didn’t even seem to know exactly who or what they were. They were violent and direct, so much so that Rowan couldn’t dispute the child’s fear of them—his own heart raced when he felt their attention on him as well. Yet, there was something about how they touched Rowan’s nose earlier. Certainly, they’d just broken it in recompense—Rowan assumed—for Rowan’s part in their imprisonment. But then they set the bone immediately after, carefully and delicately. But then they kicked aside a person, a human being, like trash in the street. Rowan was in his head too much, absentmindedly bumping into the back of the same figure marching through his mind.

  “Sorry,” Rowan said, his tone quiet and embarrassed.

  The nameless one didn’t respond as the line of chattel thinned out, dispersing slowly at the front of the gate.

  In time, Rowan was able to see Mogrim himself at the front of the gate, flanked by an excessive amount of muscle. Though Rowan wasn’t sure what to think of his masked and juvenile allies, he felt more warnings bubbling up from the pit in his stomach just the same.

  “You can’t start any trouble, okay? I don’t want to be here, either, but we need to be cautious.”

  “Onekē.”

  The nameless’ retort dripped with venom. Rowan couldn’t be sure if this was in response to his words or if they were still upset after he confronted them about the unfortunate cadaver back in the maze.

  Inevitably, the trio were at the front of the line and face-to-face with the trader turned warden. Mogrim clapped slowly, guffawing at the sight before him.

  “My, oh my. I gotta tell ya, pup—” he stopped, turning to a guard to light the pipe dangling from his corpulent lips. Once it was lit, he puffed and blew the foul-smelling fumes in Rowan’s face before continuing. “I gotta tell ya, I didn’t think you’d last a minute in my playhouse, let alone survive an entire run. Color me impressed.”

  “Why are you doing this, Mogrim? These are people—”

  “Shembals, pup.”

  “—and you’re just slaughtering them.”

  Rowan twitched, a guard putting a hand on his shoulder to remind him of the situation. Mogrim merely laughed at Rowan’s concern, puffing more smoke.

  “You’re new here, right?”

  “You know that already: your friends here snatched me—”

  “No, no, no, pup.” Mogrim said, shaking his head. “You’re new , right?”

  Rowan nodded, his nose crinkling in annoyance at Mogrim’s arrogant tone.

  “Right, so let me tell you how it works, here. The offscape ain’t no cheery vacation destination, pup. You and me ain’t even supposed to be here, but we are. And how does this lovely slice of shite reward us? It doesn’t. Vegetables won’t grow, water ain’t trickling down a stream, and good luck hunting for food. So what does that leave us with, pup? How is humanity supposed to make it in the offscape? Trade.

  “Trade is the only answer and traders like meself are Law’s gift out here. So Mogrim becomes a trader, right? And he trades whatever he can get his hands on: food, water, resources, weapons, and whatever else isn’t nailed to the damned ground. But the scape? She don’t care. She don’t care if we live or die. She don’t care if we struggle or thrive. There ain’t no Law out here, pup. So Mogrim made a choice. He chose to trade the only resource that’s in large supply out here: people. See every so often, pups like yourself wander into the offscape. Maybe through the front door, maybe through a portal under their bed, maybe it’s all just bollocks and we’ve always been here. Who’s to say with the holes in the head, eh? Point is, out here, it’s either you or me. And I’m always gonna choose me, pup. It’s nothing personal.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Mogrim slapped Rowan’s cheek gently twice as if to signify they’d come to an understanding. But Rowan didn’t understand, he didn’t understand at all. The offscape was a new frontier: it had only come into existence in the last couple of decades. Right? He couldn’t find the source of the confidence behind that statement in his head, but it felt correct. But then why was Mogrim acting as if he’d been here for so long? Something was amiss, here, and Rowan yearned to pull on the thread of the situation. First, he had to make a detour and dismantle Mogrim’s atrocious operation. And how would he do that? He still wasn’t sure. But a seasoned Scholar observes, waiting for the data to provide an inkling to go off of. So observe was what he would do.

  “So what happens now? We made it through the maze, right? We can go?”

  Rowan’s question made Mogrim jiggle with laughter, much to his own mounting annoyance.

  “No, no, pup. It ain't that simple. I just give you away? Just like that? It’s not smart business. See those showboxes up there?” Mogrim pointed at the screens hanging over the labyrinth. “They get every inch of the action. I can record it—hell, sometimes, if the price is right, I show it live.”

  “The price?” Rowan said. He wasn’t dumb, he simply didn’t want to fathom what Mogrim was insinuating.

  “The offscape isn’t a life worth living, pup. People pay quite the price for a distraction.”

  Rowan pushed against the guard trying to hold him in place. “People are dying in there. They’re dying and you’re profiting off their lives? You can’t—”

  A swift punch to Rowan’s gut corrected his mistaken assumption that this was a conversation between equals. As he recoiled, Rowan saw his two offscape compatriots, still as water.

  “I can, pup.” Mogrim said, leaning forward to whisper in Rowan’s ear as he struggled to reclaim the air knocked out of him. “I can, I do, and I sleep quite well.” Mogrim chuckled and waved to another guard, gesturing him over. “The good news is you put on a good show, pup. Not enough to buy your freedom, but it weren’t for nothing neither.” The trader handed Rowan five slips of paper, then five to the nameless one, and five to the child.

  “What are these?” Rowan asked, examining the slips. The rectangular cardstock slips were all identical with a vertical line segmenting each individual ticket. He looked to the nameless one, clenching them in their fist and the small child who had already stowed the tickets in her pocket.

  “Those are your key to the castle, pup.” Mogrim smirked, waving his arm, gesturing to the stalls behind him.

  Rowan hadn’t even noticed, but the stalls weren’t covered in tarps anymore. They were filled with various objects: knickknacks Rowan would expect to be on the tower’s back, edible oddities people must have to resort to in the offscape, weapons and tools of various shapes and sizes, his own bag—

  “Hey, that’s my bag,” Rowan said, pointing and trying to get past the guards blocking him off.

  “No, no. That, dear pup, is product. Product purchasable with the tickets in your hand. Everything’s for sale here: food, fun, safety, and even your freedom. You can get whatever you want, if the price is right. Happy shopping.”

  Mogrim and his entourage stepped away, leaving the trio with their winnings. Rowan looked at his hand, the pit in his stomach drawing his attention once again. At least two people had died in that maze. What was it all for? Five slips of paper? Rowan choked down the urge to vomit once again as the nameless one walked toward the stalls.

  “Hey, wait for me.” Rowan said, jogging over to them. He looked back at the child: she was already at a stall. Rowan followed the tower over to a stall, the same stall that had his bag hanging from it. “I can’t believe he has the gall to sell us back our own stuff. My stuff is priceless.” He reached for the price tag next to his bag, flipping it over to the number-facing side. “10 tickets? I have to do that accursed maze again just for my own bag?” Rowan pushed at the bottom of his bag, to which the guard manning the kiosk barked at him in caution. “It’s empty. Where’s all my gear?”

  The guard pointed to the other side of the kiosk. Rowan’s jaw dropped in shock at the sheer audacity of Mogrim. Every individual thing in Rowan’s bag—each spark seed, rot rock, etc—was for sale. Rowan’s nostrils flared as he calculated how many times he’d have to run the proverbial gauntlet just to reclaim his possessions. The answer was foolhardy. The tower pointed to a particular piece of merchandise hanging from the kiosk, ensuring Rowan’s attention was garnered.

  “Two tickets?” Rowan exhaled in frustration, handing the guard two of his five tickets. The guard barely acknowledged the transaction, but didn’t stop Rowan from grabbing the finger harp from the hook. Rowan plucked a tine, letting the chime ring out. He smiled to himself as he held the instrument tightly against his chest.

  The pair continued looking over the various stalls. Some stalls showcased food, most of which lacked any semblance of the garden-fresh air one would hope for. Some stalls were of a more salacious affair—Rowan shied away from those stalls. He couldn’t imagine how such things could be on someone’s mind amidst such a nightmare, but the offscape was filled with all things unimaginable.

  “Is there anything you want? I could help you find it.” Rowan said, immediately wondering why he made such a claim. Not that it mattered, the tower was silent. The last stall at the end of the hall drew Rowan’s attention due to its lack of merchandise. Hanging on the lone hook was a large slip of paper, size notwithstanding, not unlike the tickets they’d earned in the maze. The paper only had one word on it:

  Freedom

  And who could put a price on freedom?

  Mogrim could.

  2000 tickets.