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The Roulette Paradox

Imagine, if you will, a revolver pointed at a man’s head.

He pulls the trigger once, twice, thrice, and every single time the hammer meets the steel with a harmless click.

The gun gets handed off to another, they spin the chamber and try their hand at fate. Click.

One by one, the tool is passed about, empty chamber after empty chamber. All the players know that the game isn’t over until the bullet is fired.

Therein lies the paradox of Arcadian Roulette.

When they hold the gun to their temple and pull, they are both alive and dead. A superposition of both states until the trigger is pulled and the result is observed.

Six chambers, one bullet. The survival of the participant is decided purely by which chamber they land on. Completely out of their control. You see, the winner of roulette is not those who survive.

It’s certainly not the man who died.

It’s the bullet that ends the game.

The one chamber that has the power to end it.

Myself and the other Deathrow participants are being placed in a devilish game of Arcadian Roulette as we set foot into the Death Chamber. However, are not the participants sitting around the table. No, much more intimately than that, we’re the chambers in the revolver itself.

And every single one of us is hoping we’re the chamber loaded because when the hammer clicks down and the winner goes boom, they’ll be the one holding all of the power in Deathrow.

They’ll be the man hording gold around his waist.

All it takes is being the live round, the person willing to shoot forth and take what they want. Crash through the skull of Deathrow itself and splatter the concrete with its brains. The champion, though locked inside, will have all the power to kill the being that decided to play the game.

As the match goes on, one by one the duds will fall and reveal an empty chamber left behind.

One by one, with every meaningless click, we’ll get closer to the bullet that kills the player.

And of those trapped within the walls of Deathrow, I am the only man who can end this paradox which traps us.

I’m the bullet loaded into the Death Chamber, the being with the power to end the game and bring Deathrow to its knees as bone and brain matter dirty the walls.

I exist in Deathrow so that I may escape. Imprisoned so I may be released, a walking paradox with all the power in Arcadia to bring it to an end.

All I need is that steel title placed around my waist.

I shall lead the revolution, the man who begins the escape from this eternal confinement.

And as I stand tall, Deathrow shall lie motionless at my feet.

Nothing is black and white.

Soon, after Deathrow plays this fateful game…

All shall be Gray.

Aster Gray