Hunters at Level 5 face a brutal mandate: eliminate over a hundred crawlers without the safety of fixed fortifications—no bunkers, no cabins. Furthermore, area-of-effect weapons like flamethrowers or grenades are strictly prohibited. The Rogue Brothers have trained relentlessly for this; they are nearly ready for Level 6, though they remain worlds away from the legendary Level 9.
By the time I release the remaining specimens, the brothers have already tallied five kills each. I had to offer them this "bonus." The surplus of wounded, beyond-repair crawlers made these bastards the perfect cleanup crew—and the best part? They paid me for the privilege. At Level 5, each guest pays for entry atop the shared team costs; we're talking roughly a hundred thousand dollars per head. They don't use my standard suites; they stay in hotels fit for royalty. Every time they visit, over a million dollars circulates around each of them—spent on weaponry, training, travel, lodging, and, of course, the hunt.
A secretary approaches with a ledger: the payroll for all the "fallen." A pity. None of them earned the bonus pay their families so desperately need. Those who survived long enough to face the Rogue Brothers will see an increase in the pensions I pay out to their kin—including the poor bastard who held out alone for those first two minutes. I remember almost every one of them. It's part of my job. After all, I'm the one who recruits them.
I pulled this batch from a forgotten village. Cheap flyers plastered on utility poles announced that a luxury hotel was seeking employees for a lifelong position—at least five years—offering roles to anyone who showed up, regardless of social or cultural background. Aptitude was the only metric. A day before the recruitment drive, I sent my people in. The recruiters had no intention of wasting breath on talk; they had a more persuasive argument: beef ravioli.
I arrive shortly before the recruitment hour. Food comes first—I've always believed that. The aroma wafts through the squalid streets, penetrating shacks where the only nourishment known is bread, tortillas with chili, coffee, or coca leaves to endure another day, another meal. Nothing draws these poor bastards from their cots quite like a three-course meal. The lines are endless: families of eight or ten, the sick, the elderly. No one is turned away; everyone gets a plate. They don't care what I want, what I offer, or who I am. I could be an idiot running for president and they'd cheer as long as they were fed.
"Welcome to the feast!" I announce. None of them want to hear me; they're just waiting for me to stop talking so they can dive into the cream of eggplant with chorizo. "Enjoy today's menu without obligation. The only condition is that you eat everything here. Nothing leaves this site, or the meal service ends immediately."
They swarm the tables. I know several will try to smuggle food or silverware, so at the street exits, I've stationed recruiters and security guards armed with batons and tasers. I have no interest in killing anyone today. They have to sign some paperwork in exchange for the meal; most are reluctant, but a succulent slice of turkey in wine sauce improves anyone's disposition. The children eat without restraint; the hunger and the flavors are overwhelming. For twenty minutes, nothing in the universe exists but the distance between their mouths and their plates.
Once the majority are looking for a drink to wash it all down and thinking of leaving, it's my turn.
"Did you enjoy the meal?"
They eye me with suspicion. Now comes the part where they try to steal something from us... I can see the thought written clearly in their eyes.
"Don't worry. I came so you could taste the food we serve—the food you could enjoy every day if you worked for me."
A few look up, though without much interest. They are the uneducated, the crust adhered to the bottom of society's trash bin. I give a signal. The truck driver knows his cue.
A massive screen unfolds from the cargo trailer. Images of the resort flash by: the parks, aquariums, the artificial lake, the sprawling farmlands. They see people just like them serving guests and pocketing tips. The words appear: Come work with us. I know many of them can't read, but they can see me shaking hands with farmers. That was a high-yield recruitment zone; the fields had died, and no one had the means to escape. They were all eager to follow me to my business. Their happy faces as they receive cash from my hands are what guarantee the crowd stays until the end of the video. When it stops, I have their undivided attention.
"People! I am offering you a job for life." They watch, fascinated. Even the skeptics. That has to change. "I have work for whoever wants it. I will pay your families the money you earn. You will even be able to speak with them. My only condition is a thirty-year commitment."
They look at each other. It sounds like a government program—in the middle of this crisis, it's exactly what they need.
"To start, there is a mandatory five-year contract. Your families will want for nothing. The base salary is two hundred dollars bi-weekly. The people behind you are the recruiters. Listen to them and give your family a better life."
The most decisive ones rush forward. The tables are designed to put the right person in the right place. At the first table, recruiters shout to the illiterate. They are asked to distinguish between different types of grains; those who answer correctly are assigned as farmers. Our restaurant needs top-tier produce, and they will be well-trained.
Those who can't tell legumes apart and can't read are our "Standard Contracts." We have them sign—often with an 'X'—and inform them their bus leaves tomorrow, and that they'll receive the first payment upon departure to give to their families. At another table, a sign reads Recruitment. Fewer people go there. Here, we screen for hospitality skills; if they don't fit as hosts, they might go to maintenance, provided they pass rigorous trust and psychometric exams. Otherwise, they are folded into the Standard Contracts.
The final table is labeled in English. There, they are greeted in four languages. Many are the children of English-speaking immigrants who more or less master the tongue; others are from families where vice or laziness dragged them into squalor, but they still possess some education. These interest me greatly for educational scholarships or, at the very least, as receptionists for my guests.
By morning, they depart. The buses are full. We recruited over 300 people. Only three seem capable; twenty look like decent gardeners or farmers. As for the rest... I'll find a way to get the most out of them.
"Stage Finished."
The ascetic voice pulls me from my reverie. Suddenly, the sheer enormity of what happens here traps me. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last, but it is crushing. Stuttering, I instruct the staff to receive the twins and promote them to Level 6. I remind them there are no more vehicles at that level, though they can use armor. I excuse myself to flee to my room. There, I try to forget, but it isn't easy. The memories catch up to me again—memories of massacres by the handful, deaths that are my responsibility. Sleep hits me while I'm still dressed, and the nightmares stay with me for the rest of the night.