There were now six people, all in all, and none of them seemed to know the other. Orwell took stock of those who emerged. Everyone looked younger than he did, and one particular upstart irked him. Riley Velskaya, she - or he, Orwell could hear a distinctly masculine tinge in the person's voice - proceeded to take charge of the situation, telling people to calm down like some first responder, then immediately destroyed that sensible and authoritative persona he just tried to create by [i]licking[/i] the red, unknown substance on the wall. Orwell decided to keep his distance from the idiot.

Compared to Riley, everyone else exhibited normal behavior, given the situation. The young man he first saw appeared to be the chattiest of the bunch, quickly interacting with two other girls and making sensible observations on how they might have been dragged here. Orwell turned to glance at both girls the man was talking to, one quite disheveled and the other who still seemed surprisingly put together despite the ordeal she has just gone through. Neither of them seemed happy about the situation, which was not surprising, at all.

Another girl stood in front of the "rules", staying away from the rest of the group. It was not an unwise decision, given that they were all strangers in a ominous, and possibly life-threatening situation. He approached the wall she was looking at and proceeded quietly read the rules as well, committing them to memory. Apparently they were all 'players', which meant that this was a game - implying that there would be winners and losers. Even worse, there was a King, and this King reigned supreme. Given the circumstances of their awakening, the coffins were a blatant threat to those who would dare to disobey.

His thoughts were interrupted by a persistent tap coming from one of the wooden boxes.

Orwell was about to approach the offending coffin, when a loud, metallic screech rang out from the dumbwaiter. He laughed to himself, thinking about a movie with a similar premise that ended badly for everyone in it. The first to approach the metal box was the young man, revealing that his curiosity - or was it a misplaced sense of chivalry - was stronger than his fear of the unknown. That warranted a degree of respect, and Orwell decided, for now, that he would make a useful ally in this grim situation.

He pulled out two cards and what seemed to be a glass shard, but not before cutting himself on the sharp blade. On on of the cards was a rule, which only served to strengthen Orwell's suspicions that they were playing for their lives - if the King was telling the truth about letting the winner live. All the same, Orwell already decided that he didn't want to die here.

No, he wanted to die, old and by the beach, with a cold mai tai in his right hand and a half-burnt cigarette in his left.

His vision of blissful retirement was interrupted as the young man read the words on the second card out loud. He clenched his wounded hand and went over to pick up the glass shard, leaving the cards on the floor.

"Four, huh? I'm lucky number seven." Orwell nodded at the man, as if to say hello, then paced around the rest of the room, glancing at their hands. None of them had the number he was looking for.

Only one box was left unopened, and again, he noticed the incessant tap-tap-tap of something against wood. After taking a deep breath to ready himself for whatever horrors he might find, he put the shard in his pocket and pushed the cover aside.

Inside the coffin was a boy with closed eyes, body stiff and stationary as a stone, save for his foot. Orwell swiftly took the shard once more and drew it against the boy's already wounded hand, creating a superficial, yet bleeding cut then drew quickly back while pocketing the weapon once more, in case the boy darted for his throat out of fear and surprise.

"Sorry, kid, King's orders. It's time to wake up... unless you want to sleep forever right away."