I woke up strapped to a chair again.

  My mind was fuzzy.

  It was dark. I was bound at the hands and feet. They had placed a vest over my navy shirt. I knew enough to understand that it would likely be a vest that could kill me instantly if the need arose.

  As I awoke, a man across the room came to attention. He approached me, lifting my sagging head by the jaw, lifting it up so he could look into my eyes. Then he released me a disappeared in a clamor of locks and metal moving on metal.

  Moments later, another man entered, wearing a black shirt and dark pants, with short messy black hair. He kneeled in front of me and presented me with a glass of liquid that I hoped was just water.

  "Drink this," he said. "I'm @glamdane. I'll get you ready for your match."

  "What is it?" I asked.

  My head hurt, but I seemed otherwise to be okay. I ran a diagnostic and was happy to see that I was still online. But I appeared to be in a Faraday cage, able only to access my internal systems. They certainly would have scanned me. They knew I had the ARM, but they didn't seem to have made a fuss about it. I was a guest, after all, and here to do business, even if I had been gassed and caged.

  The best business partner is the business partner who understands the consequences of their actions, I suppose.

  "Water and electrolytes to help restore some health and energy," the man explained, holding the glass closer. "The gas will work its way out."

  I took a ship and eventually eased my hands under the cup to take it between my bound hands. "You do this to everyone?"

  @glamdane thought about that. "Not everyone, but most people." He stood up and started digging through a little bag he had slung over his shoulder. "We'll start the match in just a few minutes. I just need to do a few things to prepare you."

  I shrugged. "It's Hot Potato. What is there to prepare for?"

  He snickered. "It's not just any match of Hot Potato. You know the rules, right?"

  "Yes, unless there's something different about your version."

  He shook his head. "Same rules, but no talking. This isn't a Negotiation Match where you're making an offer like at an auction house. This is a Death Match. No talking to the other players." He switched to a different compartment of his bag, still searching for something. "Oh, and a word of advice. Try not to throw up. Elimination can be sudden and violent. The game moves quickly. You have to be ready for the next round."

  I knew that, of course, but I was glad he said it anyway. Players who lost would die. Duh. That's the whole point of a Death Match. On television, they would usually die in some unusual way to keep the audience interested. Here, the audience was just the Lady and us, the players. She would want to be entertained, and she would want us to be scared. @glamdane was right. I knew what was coming, but I didn't really know what was coming. I needed to stay focused and ready at all times, to not let whatever happened in there distract me.

  @glamdane found what he was looking for. "I need to plug this into you," he said. He held out a small quantum drive.

  You should never let anyone stick anything into your data port. Everyone knows that. And yet, you'd be surprised how often you have to let someone stick something into your data port. The Interstellar Transportation Authority, the Celestial Customs and Commerce Commission (4C), medics, enhancers, you name it.

  "And I don't have a choice, I suppose?"

  He shook his head again.

  "You can at least tell me what it does."

  "Oh sure. This will force you offline," he explained. "It's an inhibitor. You will be offline as long as it remains in place, and we will ensure that it remains in place. It has to go in the data port for your mind." He pointed to the back of his head. "You could rip it out, but I wouldn't do that. We can safely remove it when business is concluded."

  "You do this to all of us?"

  "It's a requirement of the game. You could refuse, but I think you know what would happen then."

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Understood," I said. And yeah, this sucked, but I wasn't surprised. After watching the Shoemaker with my friends, I was more than happy to take some risks and try to keep them safe.

  He plugged it into the data port at the base of my head. After a quick jolt to my system, my tech functions shut down, leaving my human body to take over. This was different from me unplugging myself, allowing for systems to shut down. The inhibitor executes a full force quit, unceremoniously.

  The fog in my brain from the gas seemed thicker, my muscles were more present to me, sore and sluggish.

  "You will remain offline for the duration of the match," he read from a little notebook. "No one will remember anything from this moment forward if they lose the match. This allows us to protect our business and yours. You will die but have no memory, and we will permit you to resume your life as it was before. If you win, then you may enter into a deal with us. If so, you will be able to retain your fully memory and become a business associate. At that point, you will be allowed to resume normal online activities."

  He stopped reading and looked at me. "Do you understand the rules and conditions as I have read them to you?"

  "Yes," I replied.

  "Very good."

  He reached down and unbound my hands. Then he unbound my feet, but instead of letting them be completely free, he simply chained each foot to a metal loop on the ground. I had a limited range of freedom to move my feet. This would keep me in my Hot Potato lane, and I now had full use of my arms and hands to do the catching and the tossing. More importantly, I couldn't back up my memories, and I couldn't access any special tech.

  "When the door behind me opens, the floor will move, sliding forward to assume your position in the ring. Please stand up."

  I stood, and he removed the chair I had been sitting in, carrying it to a corner behind me. I could see now how the room was constructed. I was on a slightly raised platform in a wedge shape. The chains kept me in the confines of the wedge. This was where I would die.

  "Good luck," @glamdane said, patting me on the shoulder. On his way out, he called to someone I couldn't see. "Wedge 2. Ready."

  So, I was on Wedge 2. I wondered how many wedges, how many players, there were.

  I found out a few minutes later when the door slid open, accompanied by that awful scraping sound of metal.

  My platform slide forward. I maintained my balance as best I could, while I took in the other players.

  There were six of us. We all had the same matching killer vests.

  Next to me on my left was a stocky man in a navy suit with a golden watch on his wrist. He was Wedge 1. That was the starting position. He held the hot potato in his hand, and he would be the one to launch to first throw. The potato wasn't hot yet, so he could get a feel for its unique shape while we waited. However, the potato would fire up and rapidly become hot as soon as the music started playing to signal the start of the game. If he wasn't gripping it firmly, he might just drop it right away. It happens. I watched how he handled the cold potato. He was too casual with it, and that meant either he played a lot or he was an idiot. I decided to call him Stocky.

  Wedge 3, on my right, was a blonde woman in an expensive blouse that would have been white if not for the dirt stains visible on the sleeves and cuffs outside the vest. I decided to call her Dirty Blonde.

  Wedge 4 was a man with deep tanned skin in jeans much like mine and a thin black leather jacket. They had put the vest on top of the jacket. I made a note of the vest over the jacket. That could restrict his movement. He would be one of my first targets. I called him Jacket Man.

  Wedge 5 was a woman in a sweater with her hair up in a bun. It looked like the bun was slightly loose, and I suspected that as we played the game, she would have to battle with her hair falling in her face. I would target her as well. I called her Bun Bun.

  And lastly there was Wedge 6. He had dark coffee colored skin, a buzzed head, and a gray dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. He was pretty well dressed, wearing a nice pair of black slacks. I decided to call him Buzz Cuff.

  Only one of us would remember this. I wondered how many of them might know each other already and would meet again to share their incomplete thoughts.

  The match was rigged, obviously. I had no illusion of winning.

  But maybe it wouldn't be completely rigged. Whoever was in control would be watching. My only hope was that they hadn't already selected a winner. If that was the case, they might still have a favorite, but it wouldn't be too late to win them over during the match. People are fickle. People in power like knowing that they have the power to choose. I needed them to choose me.

  And, of course, no matter how we try to influence the outcome, the outcome wasn't fully certain, even for the person in control of this match. You never knew when someone might accidentally drop the hot potato.

  As I looked through the group, I started to wonder who the likely winner would be. My money was on Buzz Cuff. He didn't look like they had roughed him up at all. Now, that being said, what if the rest of us came to that same conclusion and targeted Buzz Cuff? Would the others go for it? Would our host, the Lady, allow us to execute our plan?

  I had to remember that. What I mean is that I needed to influence the other players, but most importantly, I needed to win over the Lady. She probably already hated me because I hadn't brought the cigarettes. The other players didn't know that, but I knew that put me at a disadvantage. I had to hope the others had some flaw in their records as well.

  I also wondered what the other contestants would make of me. Did I look weak? The scar across my face was still prominent. I kept most of my wounds for sake of authenticity. Would they know how fresh it was? Would they see that as a sign of strength and resilience? I had managed to stay pretty clean. I was dressed in clothing that allowed for decent movement. They probably saw me as a threat to win. Hopefully, they didn't see me as someone to target for being too weak or too strong.

  Let the normal, average guy win, I said to myself.

  And with that, the music started.