Not getting back to the shuttle on time used to mean failing the trial. Such Reagent would be sent back to the Sleep Room with an ‘F’ grade, zero tokens to be exchanged for goods, and a disappointed lecture from Doctor Easterman. But at least, they were still alive, and they could try again another time.
Well, Murkoff decided that this could no longer be the case. A failed trial deserved a proper punishment. But to the Reagents, it was sold as ‘a second chance’. A chance to redeem themselves. A chance not to fail.
So a new rule was introduced. No more ‘F’ grade. If a Reagent fails a trail, they’re not allowed to return to the Sleep Room. They need to stay in the trial until they can make their way out. During that second attempt, the trial shuttle no longer works, and the Reagent needs to find a different way out. However… there is a catch.
The second chance in the trial required the Reagent to ask for help from the most unusual and unlikely source: The Prime Asset.
The enemy, the stalker, the predator… now turns into an accomplice. Fulfilling twisted tasks assigned by the Prime Asset earns the Reagent ‘Truth Tokens’. And these tokens can be exchanged for hints and clues on how to escape the trial.
This new rule was terrifying enough to be a powerful incentive. No one wanted to fail, and all the Reagents were going above and beyond to beat their trials, even with grade ‘D’. But today, you were the unlucky one. You failed.
And of all the trial environments, you had to fail at the Courthouse. Anything would be bad. But Courthouse meant that you will now have to earn the Truth Tokens by fulfilling sick and twisted tasks given by Officer Coyle.
Your stomach twisted into a knot in despair as you knelt on the ground in front of the closed trial shuttle, your way back to the Sleep Room now taken away, locked and dark. “No…” You whimpered, voice breaking.
Fluorescent light flickered above you. A siren sound announced his arrival. You heard the thumping sound of his boots marching, steady as a metronome. And a crackling sound of electric sparks dancing around the end of his baton.
“Well, well… Christmas comin’ early, this year.” Coyle’s southern drawl crept into his dangerous, mocking tone. “Who do we have here? Howdy, fuck-o.”
He grinned darkly when you turned to look at him. He clearly enjoyed the fear and desperation in your eyes.
Coyle took a long drag of his cigarette, before he leaned in and grabbed your jaw. His leather-gloved fingers dug into your cheeks as he examined you closely.
“Now just me and you's gonna have a party…”