The FFR Scary Story Event

Giving Thanks

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It was November 20th.

The last 21 cried thanks. They gave thanks for the muted fall of snow outside. They gave thanks for the fact that they were still alive. They gave thanks in preparation for the following week, Thanksgiving, in hopes that they would remain alive for the occasion. They gave thanks that their shelter, the trees, had trunks sturdy enough to withstand the ebb and flow of the weekly tide that rose and fell, sweeping dozens of comrades away.

The last 21 whispered curses. They uttered under their breath at the foul water, tinged yellow by all of the oil and crude waste thrown into it. The vile repulsive water that sloshed in, claiming a weekly slaughter of comrades in a sudden whirlpool that would appear every Wednesday night, doomed all who entered to be swept under to hell, never to be seen again. The 21 cursed the water, and all of the destruction it had caused. They mouthed curses too at those among themselves, wishing that the water had taken away more of the strong than the weak. Survival was on the mind of each of the 21. Death was not an option.

The last 21 gave thanks again, for the brief resting period where they could stretch without fear of the water. They gave thanks for each person remaining, and made the best of what little time they had left with each other. They had to. They had no other choice. When the waters came, many more lives would be claimed.

The last 21 snarled curses again. They sighed and grumbled as their task of maintaining their tree shelters grew harder and harder, as the water returned even more fiercely than before, lapping at each of the 21's feet, threatening all, and leaving out no-one. The water was back. The water was hungry. The water had no thanks or curses to give, only death and destruction.

The last 21 whispered thanks. They had all made it this far, and dying without so much as a fight against the water felt wrong. At least each of them wanted to live. At least.

The last 21 cursed. The water was already sweeping everyone off of their feet. They had no hope other than to cling to the only piece of green left in their sight, the trees, and hope that their strength wouldn't give out before the oily, piss yellow water dragged them off to their doom. They could only hope, and curse, with no thanks left in their lungs for anything.

------

It was November 27th. It was thanksgiving.

The final 7 gave thanks.

The Beginning: Terror From Beyond

The Kingdom of Synthetic Light provided protection against the Terror From Beyond. It was rumored that there was a Digital Explosion which caused one part of the world to be full of synthetic light, and this part of the world also absorbed all the light from the other half leaving the other half a mystery – a Terror From Beyond the Kingdom.

A small group of exiled people lived in that other dark half, and they called it “Disneyland.” The leader of this group, Nero, was supposedly a Hero that was exiled from the Kingdom of Synthetic Light for his disobedience to the authorities but blew the whistle on many corrupt activities around the Kingdom involving taking away basic resources, especially the light being stolen from the other half of the world leaving everyone else in the dark.

Disneyland was a Rotting Fantasyland full of mysteries and horror. Signs pointed in all directions, leaving a mess of arrows that everyone needed to figure out if they didn’t want to get lost; anyone who got lost was attacked by monsters and died a brutal death. Unfortunately Nero was the only person in his group that survived longer than a month, and when he was all alone he decided to go on a quest to search for the Secret Zombie Room that possessed the power to destroy the Kingdom.

Several more months passed and Nero had no luck finding this room. At this point it was winter time in December. Several misaligned signs had arrows pointing in the same direction and this led to a Snowman. The Snowman saw Nero and gestured him to come close to have a talk.

“I would appreciate if you would Help Me Find My Child Or The Gold,” said the Snowman. “What do you mean find a child out here? Or find gold out here? No way,” replied Nero. “Oh it is much more complicated than that. All of these signs with blue arrows, disjointed, that’s done on purpose so nobody can find the Secret Zombie Room. But I know where it is and my child is in there along with a lifetime’s supply of gold.” Now Nero was interested; after some further discussion Nero was given directions to a mansion.

The mansion was vast, full of bizarre statues and rotting plants and trees. The front double doors were five times as tall as Nero was. With his strength Nero pulled one of the doors open and entered. It was pitch black inside and Nero looked for a source of light. All of a sudden the front doors closed behind him and the room turned bright. A gigantic head taking up the entire entrance room stared directly at Nero with red bloodshot eyes. Voices speaking about the greed of the Kingdom echoed throughout the room and increased in volume. Nero ran to the head’s mouth and jumped inside of it. He lost consciousness for a few hours, then woke up to a maze.

Nero was now In Aisles. No longer were there misaligned blue arrows on the signs. Every sign led to a different passage, but Nero looked for one particular piece of artwork: The Sunshine Girl that the Snowman described, the “Child.” The painting had a small girl wearing a straw hat in a wheat field, and inside of the painting was a pile of gold stained with blood. He couldn’t take his eyes off the picture, and as time passed the picture became more and more distorted. All of a sudden Nero saw himself in a different room with a large Elephant Statue and mirrors.

At first Nero made nothing of the Elephant Statue. More paintings were on the walls and each one consisted of a mutilated face that was zombie-like. A loud elephant roar reverberated throughout the room and Nero looked back at the Elephant Statue; it had increased in size. As fast as he could, he took the paintings and ripped them apart. The elephant’s roars increased in intensity and Nero went to the last painting. He ripped it and the elephant in the room disappeared. This was Zombie Killing, Blood Spilling – the entire place turned into a room full of dead decayed bodies with a sharpened red arrow on the floor. There were three empty painting frames on the wall, and he hit the arrow in the center of the middle frame – PERFECT!

It seemed as if time had stopped. Nero saw a light flashing in Zanzibar Green color, and he found himself in a room full of mirrors with a large pile of gold. Every moment he made was the opposite of what he wanted to do, and he thought of the idea of throwing the gold at the mirrors. For every mirror that was destroyed it seemed like the gold fell into a bottomless pit. Destroying every mirror required a chunk of gold and by the end no gold was left and Nero lay down on the floor with nowhere to go. There was nothing else he could do at that point so he jumped through one of the shattered windows and fell down for what felt like an eternity. He wound up losing consciousness.

When Nero woke up again, he woke up to several bright flashes of blinding light. The light died down after a few minutes; he then found himself inside cave in a thriving forest full of all kinds of fruit he had never seen before. No longer was the fruit rotting; he had successfully carried out his quest of the Secret Zombie Room. All the signs were aligned now, with arrows of several colors and not just blue. Upon arrival of a nearby village following some signs, Nero learned he had been asleep for years upon years and that the original Kingdom was destroyed – the Synthetic Light was distributed to the other half of the world, not just kept in that specific half anymore. Nero told the stories of his adventure and become known as Synthlight. The Terror From Beyond was just the beginning, and Synthlight had many more adventures awaiting him.

I still remember that time: my homeland came under the veil of a nightmare.

My home, FFR. It was a noble congregation of people of all faces, all nationalities, all personalities, gathered in a single locale to gather, meet, and work themselves to the brink pushing their abilities to the limits for hopes of new strength. Each explorer would march out, armed with naught but his or her own two hands, to combat the creations of the continent in order to train themselves for ever-greater foes; each day met people with both rejoice and pain, success and devastation. In either case, all reunited at nightfall to leisure, be it pleasant conversation with one another or to simply explore beyond the limits of the continent via computers or other modern technologies of the day. Many legends were produced here, both in players and in their creations, and soon the singular land of FFR expanded to unite with several new territories, packed full with new creations for the homeland warriors to explore.

Within these new lands, however, was where a demon awoke. Few knew of the potency of the hidden dangers that patrolled the new territories.

The history of this nightmare was sudden, yet devastating. It would begin with word that some member of our homeland was journeying into the new lands; a common and eventual tale. However, soon, word would pass on that, just after said member's return to the FFR homeland, there struck a criminal. Each incident only ever occurred during the night hours, and only persons utilizing a computer were targeted. Reports continually described how some assassin of unknown origin and visage would fire an arrow into the victim's wrist, boring through muscle and vein, straight through into the victim's keyboard, upon which the wrist and keyboard became affixed to one another, inseparable. Continued reports on the person's condition detail how the wrist underwent extreme muscular and tissue damage in the event, such to the point that the person's hand was either crippled or completely paralyzed; such conditions were also consistently paired with unfathomable pain and uncontrollable twitching of the fingers.

Thereon, many a victim was inquired as to the assassin, all met with the same message: the victim would always claim that they would "accept the fate that had been bestowed upon them" for his or her actions. Seldom was any description of the assassin, or any occurrence in the territories, detailed; mayhap they wished to protect others from falling to the same destructive cycle.

Several months passed in this manner; dozens more fell victim to the same assault, the same arrow, the same shedding of blood, all without an answer to the mystery of the assassin's identity. The territories of FFR swiftly became lands of brutality and carnage, areas that only the mightiest and most foolish members dared to tread.

One day, I turned out a fool. I could no longer stand the suffering of everyone around me; I had to stand up and find the assassin before more fair men and women fell to this monster.

With my only possible hint the recent acquisition of the new territories, I decided to venture forth to explore the beings of these lands. I came upon many a horrifying creation, forms amorphous, bladed, and gargantuan abounding. Though they drove me through grand torment, all of their savageries faded in time, soon to be tame.

Soon, however, another appeared, with form inconceivable: the creature withheld a size but average of those around it, yet was but a pulsating blob, with an utterance so akin to one's torture I pondered how abominable a being could even be formed. Every time I approached, I was met with instant bursts of unholy pain, and was tossed away as simply as a predator's plaything.

Something within me, however, wished to calm this horror, no matter the duress to myself; I had set upon setting an aegis for all of FFR, and I lacked the desire to stop.

Two hours passed. Two long, tormenting hours, that turned my blood into fire and shot agony through every synapse of my corpse, passed. At long last, though, the monster finally relented and calmed, and I sighed in unbound relief.

At the brink of unconsciousness from my exertions, I decided to venture back home; only then I witnessed something of equivalent surprise and terror.

I heard a small, swift sound, ending directly behind me. Its origin was such a distance away that I could not ascertain the sound's source. I turned to face the object.

I beheld, in front of myself, an arrow wrapped in a small paper, with a pencil held between the two. The paper had a message, asking me alone:

"Who do you wish that this arrow kill?"

My thoughts immediately turned to the victims I fought for, and, with my fears dampened by exhaustion and that momentary triumph over the previous monstrosity, I wrote:

"The assassin who strikes with arrows"

...and left for my home.

It was only minutes later that a message began to run across the whole of the warriors that traveled the new territories. From what was left from the debris of the scene, it was determined that a massive explosion, set off by a lone arrow, had generated a shockwave that annihilated the whole of one of the territories.

The very same territory I had returned from, no less.

The assassin had followed his or her word. It seemed that the very abomination I had tamed was the creation of the assassin, and in his or her honor of one he or she considered powerful enough to stop its advance, the assassin had decided to comply with the message I had left: the assassin had taken his or her own life, alongside that of his or her monstrosity.

Relief swept over my entirety. The community was, at last, saved from the same crippling fate that haunted those that had been harmed before us.

So ended the torment, in my eyes. So began the daylight of a new era that others could live without fear in the new lands, to further train against the creatures that dwelled in them.

Still remained one fact, one that until this day, I had not once heard.

Mere days after the explosion incident, a macabre echo began emanating from another of the territories. It was only today that I myself came to witness the same sound.

The noise now possesses my mind... that ghastly wailing. That same tortured sound.

I had saved no one.

Though the assassin himself or herself had vanished, the assassin's creation still lingered, indestructible, immortal to any wound that lay upon it, always searching for a new victim.

There was nothing we could do. There is nothing we can do.

Pain still prevails, eternal.

Mercy on the souls of all who become unfortunate enough to cross this demon. I felt it in that howl: it was an abomination forged to do nothing but cause torment for all, equivalent to its own agony, and forever serves as the butcher of the unknown lands.

If you hear that tortured utterance... escape before it is too late.

DIFFICULTIES

As DT145 slowly regained consciousness, he noticed several things out of place. Firstly, someone had removed his clothes and dressed him in grey garb, "DT145" emblazoned on his sleeve. Secondly, he had no clue what happened the night before. And thirdly, he had no idea where he was anymore. Rubbing his eyes, he looked around and grew increasingly distressed. He was in what appeared to be solitary confinement of some sort. Thick, cement walls surrounded him with a solid steel door the only entrance he could see. He was currently resting on a simple bedframe and mattress bolted to one wall, with a stainless steel toilet to the side. A small, round black dome was in the corner, undoubtedly a security camera. At first he thought he was in a prison of some kind, until he realized that the only source of lighting in the room currently was coming from a computer screen in the far corner with a wooden chair in front of it. Where the hell was he?

He slowly removed himself from his covers and set his bare feet down on the ice-cold floor, wincing a little as he walked towards the light source. Approaching the computer, he noticed it was on a log-in screen of some kind, waiting for him. A little sticky note was on the side of the screen; "LOGIN: DT145 PASSWORD: s82jK3ofl" was written on it. Thinking it would be worth a try to figure out what was all going on, he typed in his information and the screen went black for a few seconds before returning with a nearly blank desktop. All that was on it was a flash player standalone as well as a white square that looked like a chatbox. He could move it around but not delete or remove it. As a matter of fact, it wasn't on the taskbar, nor were any other folders to go into; he couldn't even access a start menu of any kind, and keyboard shortcuts didn't work. He doubleclicked on the flash player and was shocked to find the application it started: the FFR R^3 engine. It didn't prompt for his username/password, nor did it appear that any songs were in the game for this version.

Even more confused than when he began his investigation, he decided to give the chatbox a try;

Hello?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He waited a while for a response, but it didn't seem like it was going to happen. He started to walk away from the computer to see if he could find anything else when he heard a "blip" come from the computer. Looking back at the chatbox, his response came.

Yes, we're here.

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He wasn't entirely sure anyone would've talked back to him, but now he had the opportunity to actually chat his captors. He returned to the seat and began a conversation with the mystery villains.

What is this place? And who are you?
You should remember. You signed up for this.
Well I don't remember. Care to elaborate?
You signed up for this. Complete your objectives and your freedom will eventually be restored.
I don't even know what to do... and why are you doing this?
Never mind why. Do you see your equipment on the ground by your chair?

He looked down by his chair and noticed some weird kind of helmet and gloves attached by cords through the wall. Figuring the faster he complied the sooner he'd be allowed to leave, he donned the equipment. The gloves were fingerless, with all kinds of wires attached to the outside and what felt like sensors of some kind scratching the backs of his hands. He had to admit, it felt kind of cool to have the gloves and helmet on, and the computer did have FFR on it. This could just be a really great prank being played on him. Though he still feared the worst, he was somewhat reprieved to see things going relatively smoothly. It was just a game after all. He turned his attention back to the screen where his captor continued with the discussion.

Select the Queue option in the game. Your assignment for today is in there. Get going.

He clicked the Queue and saw a list of songs pop-up, starting off easy and progressing in difficulty. He went to Options to start changing his settings but saw that everything was already set up for him. Once again, a little more tension seemed to drain. This person obviously knew him, so it was pretty likely he wasn't in any real danger. He started the playlist, and the dulcet tones of Free Space (FFR Edit) starting playing through the speakers in his helmet. He played through the file, obviously AAAing it without any troubles. The next song started immediately as expected, and he continued through the playlist AAAing everything he encountered for a while. Still not anywhere near difficult enough for him to be bothered to try hard, his mind began to wander and he absentmindedly hit an arrow too early, managing his first Good thus far. His hand itched a little bit when the Good came up, but that was likely a coincidence. He still wasn't entirely used to wearing the gloves yet, and they were a little uncomfortable on the inside.

As the charts began to get difficult for him, he noticed the itching sensation start to pick up and get worse. Wondering if it was really necessary to play with them at all, he stopped playing momentarily to remove them. That's when he started missing arrows, and that's when a painful shock of electricity ripped through his body. He yelped in pain, wrenching the helmet off his head and ripping the gloves off. He noticed as he removed them that his hands were rather red. Was he being shocked the whole time and not realized it? He began to get worried again when his captors messaged him;

What are you doing? Put the equipment on and finish the assignment.

He started getting really angry at this, and responded in kind:

I dont know who this is but this is NOT FUNNY ANYMORE. THAT F*CKING HURT. I'm not doing a damn thing until I get some answers.
We already told you. Put the equipment on and finish the assignment.
And what if I refuse?
Then I guess you'll just have to stay here forever.

DT145 was seething at this point. He got up from the chair and stared straight at the camera in the corner of the room, pointing his finger at it; "This isn't a game anymore! I'm f*cking done with this, alright?! Get in here right now and let me out!" he shouted. A response came on the screen:

Not if you don't put the equipment on and finish the assignment.

"F*CK YOU, AND F*CK YOUR EQUIPMENT!" DT145 screamed at the top of his lungs. He jumped towards the computer and began ripping the gloves and helmet out from the wall. He took the helmet and began bashing the keyboard and screen in with it to emphasize his every word; "GET... ME... OUT... OF... HERE... GOD... DAMNIT..." He took the chair and started smashing it into the pile of electronics that was his computer, splitting it against the table it was on. So enraged was he, that he didn't see a panel slide on the wall behind him, a barrel sliding out from behind the darkness...

=========================================================================

As DT145 slowly regained consciousness from his sedation, he grabbed at his head. He had a tremendous headache, akin to noob ITG players stomping on the arrow panels of his brain for no particular reason. He noticed that he was back in his bed, and even stranger, that all stuff he had destroyed in his tantrum were replaced with brand new equipment while he was out. He rose from his sheets and saw a piece of paper taped to his chest; "Log back in when you're ready," it said. Slowly regaining mobility and clear-thinking, he stumbled back over to his desktop and logged back in. It couldn't hurt more than how he felt right now, he figured. Almost as soon as the screen returned to the desktop, the captors responded:

Please don't do that again. Put the equipment on and finish your assignment.

The nonchalant nature of this comment, as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening, almost threw DT145 into another rage but he was simply too tired, too hurt, too weak to do anything about it other than reply back:

Would you let your prisoner die here? Don't you need me for something important or not?
You would not be the first to die alone in their cell. And you are more than replaceable.

The last comment made him shiver involuntarily. It was becoming incredibly clear that he was stuck here, with no way out but compliance. On the verge of tears, the captors continued:

If you wish to make this cell your grave we cannot stop you. If, however, you want a glimpse of freedom ever again, put the equipment on and complete your assignment.

He sprang up from his chair and kicked it over, having had all he could muster for the time being. Throwing another fit would likely result in him being injured again. hungry, injured, and just sick of it all. He hobbled back over to his bed and got under his covers, passing out almost instantly.

*******************************************

Several days passed before DT145 reluctantly went back over to the computer again. He couldn't be sure how long it actually was, with no external sources confirming what the time even was anymore. Logging back in, they commented in the chatbox instantaneously once again.

Welcome back. Please put the equipment on and complete your assignment.

Whether it was a combination of the exhaustion, hunger and aggravation, seeing that same statement being droned continuously made him groan out loud. He responded:

If I complete it, will you let me go?
That is not for me to decide. Put the equipment on and complete your assignment.
Will it hurt again?
Of course. This is what you signed up for. We won't warn you again. You have 5 minutes to decide your fate.

DT145 swore to himself as he saw no other way out. He refused to die here, not like this. Not because he couldn't keep his temper under control and swallow his pride for some unknown monster. He slowly reached down and grabbed the gloves and helmet, put them on, and opened the flash player again. Heading into the Queue, he saw a different list this time. The start of it was harder than the previous list, and at the end was simply a file with a blank name and no difficulty listed for it. He stared long and hard at the screen, wondering how it all came to this. He pressed play. As the songs went by in increasing difficulty the pain was worsening as his scores did the same, but he couldn't give up anymore. He wouldn't be beaten like this.

Eventually making his way through the various songs and isolation files that were presented, he finally came across the last song in the list. Great, he thought, fast piano hyper-technical bullshit. He managed to make it through the end of the song, but the pain was nearly unbearable by the end as it was far more challenging than the others in the list. As the last note went by, he nearly collapsed from the effort. However, something wasn't right. It didn't go to the results screen like the queues usually do. It just went back to the same song again.

"What the hell? I finished the song already!" he shouted as the arrows flooded the screen once again. "What's going on?!" He had remembered they could hear him from his last rebellious incident back then, so he assumed they could hear him still, and were watching. Right on cue, the mystery men replied back in the chatbox. He caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye;

You must do better than that.

"Are you kidding me?! I CAN'T! This sh*t's too hard for me to do better!" he screamed back, still agonizingly playing the song. Even worse, it was almost as if the "pain reinforcement" was getting more malicious. It certaintly hurt a lot more than it used to when he managed Goods, and Misses were terrible to overcome. He actually failed out this time, unable to keep pace with the pain entering his system. To his horror, the same song started up once again. He desperately tried to overcome the song, but no matter how many times he played through or failed out of the song it just kept coming back.

"ENOUGH OF THIS! MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE!!" he begged as the pain grew to an almost immeasurable level. At this point everything that wasn't a Perfect sent hundreds of pain signals into his skin, and each one nearly made him pass out. After what felt like the 10th time trying it and as it started up once more, he saw his captors sent another message:

This won't stop until you do better or die trying.

"GRRRAAAAAAAH!!! YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!" he screeched at the screen. "I SWEAR TO GOD IF I EVER GOT OUT OF HERE I WILL F*CKING KILL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME?!"

Prove you can do it then.

It was at that moment something deep within him started to come loose. A primal rage he hadn't felt before. This was it. It was now or never; he could feel his lifeforce slipping away with every playthrough. This time, his efforts felt much less in vain. He wasn't doing all that great still, but definitely better than any other attempt he'd had thus far. What's more, he was managing to keep a decently clean full combo as well. "Come on, don't give in. You can do this." his mind reassured itself. He was almost in a hypnotic state of some kind, the pain not being nearly as aggravating as he remembered. His mind had an unusual amount of clarity now despite what was happening. And before he knew it, the song was over. This time, however, the song didn't repeat. The results screen came up, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he collapsed onto the keyboard, blacking out.


*******************************************

DT145 lifted his head up from the keyboard to see a message waiting for him as soon as he regained consciousness for the umpteenthed time.

You did well. Thank you for your cooperation today. We'll see you again tomorrow.

Clearly distressed, he mustered the strength to ask back; "I thought you said I was free to go if I completed the assignment. Didn't I do that well enough?"


You clearly didn't read some information when you responded to that PM we sent you.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, puzzled at the odd statement. "What information? Why am I he-" It was at that moment his eyes flashed wide open as his memories started to come back. He remembered back to the front page announcement. The one requesting site members to help become part of the site's team. He had been one of the "lucky" few selected to participate, and had even travelled to meet up with his interviewer. He couldn't remember anything else past that however. Tears welled up in his eyes as he managed to type back; "This... is the job? This isn't what I wanted! None of this was mentioned in your announcements!"

This is your job now. So you better get used to it.

As that last message came through, DT145 started shaking violently, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks as a tortured visage spread across his face. He struggled to keep his composure, managing to mutter through gritted teeth; "How long do I have to be here?"

As long as it takes.

=======================================================

"Oh, good lord..." #18 frowned as he watched the events unfold onscreen. His adjacent partner looked up from his own work, curious as to what the problem was now.

"Something wrong?"

"He's tearing up the cell again. WHY does he keep destroying things? This equipment isn't cheap to keep manufacturing."

"I dunno, can you honestly blame him? He's still getting used to all this. It IS a drastic lifestyle change after all..." #37 stared off into the distance, scanning the various screens inside their cubicle. Some of them showed video feed of the other "volunteers" engaged in the very few activities availble to them: playing their files, sleeping, staring at the ceiling. Others had equations and text flashing upwards as the computers analyzed copious amounts of data. "...For everyone, myself included. In any case," he digressed with a smirk, "it certainly doesn't help when he's stuck playing one of your files now does it?"

#18 turned back to his monitor with a huff, absentmindedly fiddling with his keychain. "And what's that supposed to mean? My files are always of the highest quality."

"Right, they're all so unique and perfect. Let me guess, is it the one with unnecessary difficulty spikes? Polyrhythms and jumpgluts?"

#18 sighed as he stared at his keychain, eyeing the Typhlosion charm attached to it. "No one here understands my vision."

"Well, you should probably go see an optometrist pretty damn quick," 37 quipped. "Maybe they'll be able to sort out your vision for you."

"*cough* Metro.. *cough*"

#37's expression quickly grew sour. "Hey, there was NOTHING wrong with that file! It's not my fault Carlos is a dick."

"Well maybe if you stepped something other than buzznoise crap," #18 retorted, "you'd learn how to achieve decent structure in your files."

"Like you're one to talk!" #37 fired back. "You do realize they make music outside of Japan, right?"

"Enough..."

The two staff abruptly stopped arguing and turned their heads simultaneously at the sound of the voice coming from the loudspeaker in the corner of the room. Above them, a set of lights turned on from inside a shaded gallery overhead. The silhouette of a tall, slender figure could be seen through the translucent window shade. Near silence ensued, with only the soft whirrs from the multitude of CPUs and the tinny sounds of DT145's continuing tantrum drifting through a pair of speakers to be heard. It couldn't be said what the state of his room was now, as the camera was apparently ripped from the wall.

"#18, please take care of our belligerent guest before he causes further damage to the premises."

"Er, yes sir." #18 turned to his station and pressed a black button. A few seconds later a noticeable drop in the room's noise level could be heard, with the ruckus ceasing shortly after.

"Thank you. Now then, how did our newly acquired assistant manage on his first assignment?"

#18 pulled up a window on his screen and scanned the results listed. "Well, sir, it seems like all systems were functioning properly at the time, and his readings indicate File#1782 to have a difficulty rating between 85 and 88. Data from other eligible subjects corroborate this, with 95% certainty. ETA for exact rating; 18 playthroughs."

"Excellent. Have the cleanup crew take care of DT145's quarters while he's enervated. Ensure all testing equipment is reinstalled and functioning, and please hurry. We have a busy schedule ahead of us still."

"Yes sir!" #18 returned to his workstation to begin mandating the instructions to their respective parties, leaving #37 to gaze up at the gallery alone. The shadowed figure appeared to be turning around to go about his own business, whatever that may be. Before he went out of sight, however, #37 couldn't help but speak up.

"Sir, does he get any food now?"

The shadow stopped, its head turning back towards the window. "Those who do not wish to maintain proper conduct while in this facility do not deserve such luxuries as a hot meal."

"But won't he die like this?"

#18 snapped his head sideways, an overtly aggresive expression on his face. "Do NOT question the boss' motives! He has his reasons for doing things his way and doesn't have to explain a DAMN thin-"

"Easy now, Captain," the shadow sighed, raising his hand; "Your colleague is still new here, and not as privy to the machinations of this website. A moment, please."

Unsure of what would happen next, the two workers watched as the shadow slowly strolled off the side of the window, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps from behind a locked door. An involuntary shudder ran the length of #37's spine, having only ever heard the boss' voice and seen him concealed behind the lookout's shade. From what he understood, hardly anyone had ever seen their ringleader in person. Even #18 looked visibly troubled by the situation. A small "schlick" and "beep" could be heard as the boss swiped his keycard, and slowly turned the handle. As the door swung open, the body of a tall, slender man stepped out from behind the shadows. #37 was surprised to see how informally the man seemed to be dressed. He was by no means in rags and tatters, but surely a man in his position of power could afford to wear something more impressive than slacks and a polo?

"So, #37." He jumped at the sound of the boss' voice. "What questions can I help clear up for you?"

"I, er... well, I guess I just... don't really know why we're doing this," he managed to ask. He watched as the boss' steely gaze pierced into his soul, raising an eyebrow at the question; "Not... that there's anything wrong with this. I guess... just, why like this? I... I'm sorry I can't be... I'm not sure how..."

The boss held up his hand to bring #37's stuttering to a halt. He slowly paced towards one end of the room, then back towards the workers, seemingly deep in thought. All #37 could do was sit and watch as his job (and possibly his life) seemed to hang in the balance. Finally, the boss spoke.

"37, do you know about 'fight-or-flight?' "

"S... sir?" was all he could manage to squeak out. #18 turned his attention to the conversation as well, though not removing his eyes from his screen.

The boss began walking in circles as he explained himself; " 'Fight-or-flight.' It's basic human physiology. When we, as animals, experience threatening or distressing stimuli from our environment, certain changes happen throughout the body: your heart rate and breathing increase; your pupils and blood vessels dilate; muscle tension increases for more power. The entire body's way of doing things drastically changes for one single, solitary purpose: survival. You hear stories about mothers lifting cars off their children, or people outrunning animals no human should ever be able to keep up with under normal circumstances."

He stopped pacing and turned to face #37 again. "And it is exactly this power that we must tap into. In order to get the absolute best effort out of an individual, you must activate this primal response at will. No amount of token reinforcements like credits or prizes will ever amount to the sheer strength, focus, and determination that can be obtained when someone's very existence is on the line. Only when this primeval, animalistic being is brought forth into this world can you truly know for sure that they've done all they can in their endeavors. That their efforts are undeniably all they can muster."

A look of absolute conviction and superiority began to dawn on his face as he stared up at the ceiling; "And that's why this new Rating System will be by far the most accurate and consistent system in all of gaming history. No more will people need to question what constitutes an Oni-get or not, or whether people should be D7. They'll simply know, with absolute certainty. Even future files will be automatically rated by simply applying the formulae to them. No one will be able to compete with our overwhelming precision, and no one will ever question our authority again..."

He turned to look back at #37, staring mouth agape at him with the slightest hint of terror on his face. -"I trust I have answered all your questions by now?"- All #37 could do was jerkingly nod his head, his expression frozen. "Excellent!" he exclaimed, his demeanor returning to its original passive state. He turned on his heel and headed back towards the door; "Now then, I'll leave you to your duties. We still have several files with unacceptable certainty levels, and a new batch coming out next week. Do not fall behind."

As he grabbed the door handle to close it behind him, he turned his head and gave the workers one final gaze as his face slowly faded back into the shadows.

"Cheers..."

gold stinger - Story seems contradictory near the end, but was a good attempt at being a horror story
Riotpolice - Not a bad story, it does have its tense moments, but it lacks creativity.
Callipygian - HAHAHAHA this reminded me of the Kaceytron crap when Rosie and Funnygurl were put into it and the Staiain sneeze resulting in the rumor of Luis becoming "one with the arrows" had me laughing uncontrollably. This was without a doubt the funniest one.
jjontehhizzu - "FFR had taken over their lives, but they didn't have much to go off of due to their pint size" I lost it here, I couldn't tell what some of the sentences in this story were trying to say and that made this comedic (but for the wrong reasons).
YoshL - Talk about cryptic, it seemed like this story was trying to illustrate a tournament situation (yellow piss water being the danger zone) but it was just overall confusing and too short.
Destroy2777 - I don't see how this story even relates to FFR in the least. Sure arrows are mentioned and the site name is mentioned, but that's about it. I like to see creative attempts for stories relating to FFR in some shape or form, but this strayed too far away.
DarkChrysalis - #18/bmah, #37/Dossar, Boss/Synthlight. This was an excellent story about volunteers who wanted to rate some file difficulties with the new 1-99 rating system, but they got into a situation that they were not expecting at all.