"What a bore!" said the black and white Marilyn Monroe. She was back on the air standing in the office of the private eye. On her dress, above her heart, was a small black dot that marked where the bullet had struck her. She walked around the desk and sat in the detective's chair. She frowned at the spot and brushed it away with an accompanying puff of digital smoke. "Emilio, darling, is this the best you could do?" She blew a kiss and winked. “A disappointing 84.”

"Joking aside, for reasons as of yet forthcoming, this scenario was designed to be rather simple and did not have a perfect solution. Safeguarding everyone's best interests in this situation, just as in the real world, is simply not possible. Here, our President hurt a gentle old lady. Sometimes in life, we are left to choose between two bad situations. Points go to decisiveness and empathy, as promised."

She shook her head, letting her hair fall back into place as if she was about to reset the scenario. She slipped on her gloves. "This was the first round played on Mars. I wanted to make sure Laurent's use of my new interface could not improve his odds against the other players stuck in the hotel next door, or Earth. This round tested choice-making and not physical skill. Aside from our beloved President, all the other players located in the Holiday Inn have to manage this low gravity. It follows that if any player felt the need to jump during the game, the low gravity might have caused problems. No one is really tied down." She added a breathy sigh and the hint of a naughty smile to her last comment.

She bit the tip of the cigarette holder and finished adjusting her gloves back. She pulled in a mouthful of smoke and blew heart-shaped rings in the air. Another subtle reminder that this was her world, and in it, she was a goddess.

"Now onto the real story of the day. If you remember, one of our remaining players passed away unexpectedly from a strange neurological condition on the trip from Earth. Moments later, Sophie's father seemed to fall victim to the same affliction. To help save him, I cut ties with Laurent to lower the energy level in his cerebral cortex. The great news is that Laurent didn't die. We don't know much more. Sophie used one of my special toys and tried to enter his mind in a rescue mission of sorts. Less than an hour ago, she returned. As Laurent's legal guardian, she let me reconnect her father to the game. I see that everyone down on Earth, including the President himself, is anxious to discover Laurent's current condition. Is he still whole? Can he still play? Enjoy."

Round 26 - Laurent Lapierre

Second Position - 2267 Points

Laurent's game started the same way as all of the other players' had, with one critical exception, the simulation had no internal character narration. His voice, tinted by that distinctive 1920's Chicago accent was missing. The world was expecting Laurent's deep voice. Instead, there was silence. It quickly became apparent something was very wrong. Laurent was an expert player who would never forfeit points by not complying with the rules. Players were required to narrate the introduction when the game called for it. Each could tailor the text, but it had to be there. Emilio, from his Berlin office, watched nervously. He hoped, he needed, Laurent to be healthy.

One by one, the introductory scenes played. These were the identical opening scenes as those at the start of Emilio's simulation. Marilyn's car turned a corner, and viewers read the license plate as it drove to the front of the detective's office. The paperboy waved the same edition of the day's news.

It was unlike the computer intelligence to tolerate such a long silence and not fill it with... something. Music, at the least. Viewers could hear horses clop their way down the pavement. The bustling noise of the city had taken on a silently deafening quality in the absence of Laurent's of commentary. The limousine parked in front of the building. The chauffeur ran out to open the passenger door and let Marilyn Monroe out one silky leg at a time. She was wearing the sleeveless white cocktail dress and the boa around her neck. Stunning, as ever.

On the uneven curb, Marilyn lit up her cigarette. The silence stressed Laurent's daughter as she watched the game inches from her father's real body. Marilyn walked to the door of the brick building and went up the freight elevator. The silence began to transform from an uncomfortable sensation into a true and imminent threat, like a shadow coalescing into a solid shape. The bodyguard knocked on the Private Eye's office. No one answered. Then a voice sounded out.

"Yes?" said a young boy's from behind the door.

The bodyguard opened the door. There was no boy in sight. No one, with the exception of Marilyn and her creator Georges, could understand what came next. To the ordinary viewer, the office was identical to those in all the other players', with one odd exception. Laurent was there in his chair, behind the desk, dressed as the detective. His right hand was extended in the air, though, as if he was holding the invisible hand of a ghost.

"Who's your friend?" asked Marilyn walking in as if she owned the room to the private eye.

"You can see him?" At Laurent's first words, one could almost hear the Earth sigh in relief. Marilyn certainly noticed the Rho wave surge.

"Not really," the bodyguard closed the door behind her. "I can see the shadows this kid is leaving on the floor, but not the kid himself. Who is he and what the Hell is this?" So much for the storyline.

The detective smiled at Marilyn, removed his feet from the desk and turned to look at an invisible figure he could obviously see. "It didn't work; I told you it wouldn't." Laurent grinned casually. "You can show yourself," said the black and white version of Sophie’s father dressed as the Private Investigator.

The figure appeared without so much as a ripple. It was a beautiful angel; he rivaled Monroe for sheer perfection. A child of perhaps six or seven years. The boy was holding Laurent's hand as though it were a lifeline. What jarred the eye, though, was that the boy was in color, creating a contrast superimposed over a monochromatic world. His light blue eyes pierced the screen, framed in a wave of long blond locks. His attire was a simple long yellow toga tied at the waist by a golden ribbon. There was simply nothing ordinary about the creature, nor this situation. For the first time, perhaps since Electoral's inception, minds across Earth began to wonder whether who was really in control here.

This apparition was foreign to the Electoral game. Its mere existence in the game violated every rule of play; every player's simulation had to be identical. Nothing in the story could favor one player over another.

The expression on the boy's face was one of naivety. As required by the scenario, Laurent's other hand was now holding a thick cigar. Without opening either hand, the detective gestured Marilyn in with a twist of the neck. They were in uncharted territory, the game always centered around the player, never Marilyn. This time, the computer occupied the stage, playing her own game.

For the first time since achieving sentience, speechlessness briefly engulfed Marilyn. She was looking at the boy in complete disbelief. Trillions of hexa-joules of energy flowed through her digital world. This was her world, she normally controlled every part of it. Nothing else could exist here without her consent, but the boy was there. For a full second, she remained in the door frame unable to decide what to do. On cue, the ashes of her cigarette dropped to the floor in slow motion. The diversion gave her time to recover her wits.

"Come in, Marilyn. A surprise is healthy once in a while, even for you,” smiled Laurent enjoying the discussion. From all outward appearances, Laurent's health was pristine. "Meet my friend; his name is Malik, an alien." The boy looked at Marilyn and waved his free hand. Laurent had committed another faux-pas. He'd referred to the character played by Marilyn by her real name instead. She was Miss Emmanuel, the wife of a banker.

The young boy was not afraid of his surroundings. He wasn't shy or overwhelmed; he was taking pleasure in being in the game. Malik's teeth had a slight imperfection that set off the rest of his beauty, much as Monroe's mole did.

Marilyn took a step back away from the intruder but then stiffened herself and forced herself back to the character. Billions were watching. Then the computer did what she was born to do. Time slowed down for her. The game paused in her perception as millions of images began to stack themselves in her memory. She scanned and rescanned every inch of her world and then she saw it. On an image of the boy waving his hand, the waving hand had five fingers. The other, holding Laurent's, was different. There were six fingers on that one. Every other feature of the boy was normal. The computer began to stack theories; employing every internal resource except the Rho waves. Internal processes hard at work, she returned to the game.

Time resumed for her.

Most humans wouldn't have noticed the tiny glitch in time, but Emilio did. He loved this. Thanks to the delay, Marilyn could have edited the encounter, but she had not. Whatever hit the airwaves now was raw, unedited fact. More intriguing, Marilyn was letting it happen. Deep within the artificial intelligence was a respect of the famous show business motto of "The Show Must Go On." The encounter was sensational television. The wife of the banker, stepping back into her role, found the courage to move closer to the foreign entity. To Marilyn, in the heat of broadcast, Malik represented life and was to most humans: a parasite infecting her world.

From his office in Berlin watching the show, President Emilio clapped his hands in excitement. Aside from being great television, Marilyn had just had her chain jerked roughly for the first time in her life by a kid. The notion that there were things beyond her understanding, more powerful creatures, would rattle that digital core of hers.

"Young man, I have private matters to discuss," Marilyn was back in character, "I came to hire this man. Go with my bodyguard; you can play with his gun if you want, just don't hurt him." The artificial intelligence concluded, nastily, "You can hurt yourself if you want." Marilyn’s temper was no surprise to anyone watching.

Before Laurent could answer, the boy spoke, "My name is Malik. Laurent is my father. I want to see my sister Sophie." On the bed, from her bedroom, Sophie spilled a mouthful of soda. She was smiling from ear to ear, god this was awesome.

The demand was awkward. Sophie stood up in the Arena back in the real world watching the screen. The boy had just called her sister. On Earth, Emilio also stood up in sheer excitement. This was insanity. This boy, something obviously not part of Monroe's carefully crafted simulation, had made a demand. Now came the important part: did it have the power to force Marilyn to cooperate?

Laurent smiled and interrupted the boy. "Malik, Marilyn wants us to play her game, as I explained. She is a computer, a life form, but different than you or I. Her priorities and ours... differ. This," he said as he put the cigar in the ashtray, "is important to her." He waived his hand. "You'll see Sophie later, after the game," he said kindly. Laurent continued, "Daddy has a fun game to win. After the game, we can talk all we want with the lady. You promised to watch and stay silent. There are rules; I can't get disqualified. Your sister did not fly all the way to Mars only for you to get us disqualified. She'd be upset."

Emilio and Sophie were unable to hide their respect for the cripple. Laurent had arrived and the stage was his.

Sophie, standing feet from her father's body, could not believe what she was watching. Her father was fine and had adopted this strange digital boy. She recognized the creature's voice and his name. The boy was the rock creature who had ventured into her dreams as a firefly. The boy who'd returned to the Purple, while she followed, when she was on the plane to Mars. The alien was now in her father's head. He must have tried to reenter this dimension, and instead of coming to her, he'd slid into Laurent's mind. She liked this creature; it looked like it was kind.

Malik had just called her sister. Ordinarily, she would have been concerned by the situation, but she trusted her father. If he felt the need to adopt the boy, that was good enough for her. Then it came to Sophie: her father was no longer alone in his world. He had a friend and an ally. Someone with which to spend quality time, someone to help fill all the empty hours that haunted him. The thought warmed her heart. She was not a possessive or jealous child. Some of the senseless encounters of these past days started to make some sense.

For a full nanosecond, Electoral contemplated shutting down the game. She could cut energy from analysis to purging this intruder in her world. Deep within herself, Marilyn calculated improbable millions of outcomes and strange possibilities. The end result was disturbing: she was unsure if she held the power to sterilize herself and remove this thing.

The boy's name resurfaced in her memory. On the Nexus, moments before she had stolen the central anchor point called the Dot, the Metil ambassador had spoken of the creature named Malik. The boy was the creature who had brought back a human. Marilyn had to confirm if this was indeed the same creature.

She spoke, "Are you from the world called the Purple?"

Laurent and Sophie's jaws figuratively dropped. The computer knew of the other worlds and obviously of the boy. "Yes, I am from the Purple. I am not going back," he said with determination. "You can't make me!" His tone would have been enough to convince anyone, but Marilyn's monitoring of the wide variety of energy pouring out of him confirmed that he more than meant it. The child calmed himself and spoke again. "You know of it. Have you been there?" Laurent's hand tightened in the digital world over the boy's.

The woman sat on the desk. "I do not want to force you to do anything. I find amusing how humans and now aliens alike assume I will direct conduct. Since my birth, I have never ordered anyone to do anything. I run a game; noting more. To answer your second question, young boy, I have never been there. But in theory, I have never been anywhere since I have no physical body." The logic inherent to the software intelligence kept resurfacing. "Young man, while we do need to talk, billions await as we must let Laurent run this game. This game is important in many important ways. The most important is that it explains why you are here."

"What do you know of Malik?" asked Laurent.

"In an effort to avoid platitudes or deflections, let me be clear. He could be, well he is, the cause of the first war between the worlds in our multiverse, nothing less I fear. As nice looking as he may appear at the moment, he is the original cancer cell ready to destroy a very large body. As you must imagine, this should wait. I want Sophie to participate to the discussion. Timing here is key."

Marilyn looked directly at the camera, now speaking directly to viewers. "The boy's world, the place he calls the Purple World will be the setting of next week's game. Most of your questions will be answered during Round 27 when 64 players will enter this strange adjacent world to guide Sophie as she tries to save the Earth." Some statements were simply too charged in meaning to transmit the message they contained. She continued, "I just made available online a series of questions FAQ's about the Purple; this microscopic quantum world."

Marilyn turned her attention back to the odd couple standing before her. "I can only imagine what your daughter Sophie will have to say about all of this."

"I know," joked Laurent. He knew his daughter all too well.

"Shall we resume the game?" she asked the pair. "Only Laurent can play or talk. In theory you should not be here, but let's keep our little different for another time." Marilyn sitting son the corner of the desk and as she had in all other simulations removed the long white gloves. She looked around, color was slowly returning to the game. "Malik, darling, can you stop adding this color?"

"I like color."

"We all do, but this black and white is only temporary. It helps create a mood, a tone in this short game. It helps take us back to a time when human communications were not yet in color." This was a premiere. Marilyn had lost power over her own world. She kissed the cheek of the boy, he smiled and color faded to white.

"Thank you," she whispered in his ear, "we talk later."

She then tried to resume the game as if the encounter with Malik had never took place. The scripted scenario returned. She talked about her husband's run for mayor, she relit a cigarette and on cue, as she handed the business card with the name of the retirement home to Laurent. There was a shot, the window glass broke and a bullet came flying into the room. This time, the projectile stopped in mid-air, inches from Marilyn's chest.

Malik's hand was raised. He had stopped it. With his fingers, he plucked the bullet out of midair. It was still hot. "Why this? It will hurt her. Why do you want your world to hurt you?"

"How sweet," said Marilyn. She obviously was trying to manage this strange situation. "Malik, it is just a game, a story. I cannot die here." Knowing Emilio was watching from Earth, she took the time to add, "But players can die in my world."

The boy dropped the bullet on the ground. Marilyn winked at him, pretended to be hit in the chest and fell lightly to the ground. "I die..." she said as if she was acting a Greek drama.

Emilio from his office in Berlin was watching with amusement by the latest turn of events. He cared little for the boy. His focus was on the digital creature. Marilyn had recorded this performance at the same time as the others, yet there it was, nearly an hour later a testament to her vulnerability. She had ample time to edit out the young boy out of this story. For some mysterious reason, she was broadcasting the encounter. She wanted the world to see, or maybe she was powerless to prevent this broadcast. Either way, the tide was shifting. First she spoke openly about Sophie and her control over waves, and now she was opening up about unknown worlds. He knew the scientists of his advisory committee, watching from the room downstairs, were having a field day with this.

The story continued the best it could. A moment later, Laurent and Malik were sitting in the cab on their way to the retirement home. The boy was wearing an oversized jeans jumpsuit, a worn down t-shirt and a paperboy hat. Marilyn was the queen of turning events to her favor. Since Malik was there, she would use his charisma to her advantage. Laurent smiled at Malik who was inspecting his large hat. At no time did the young visitor let go of Laurent's hand.

Laurent reached into his pants and pulled out a card. He handed it over to Malik who was able to read. The boy's voice would increase ratings. "I don't know why my mother hired this man," read Malik. "I like him. The gun only grazed my mom and I hope she will be fine. In the meantime, she asked me to go see grandma with this sleazy detective." The boy would play the son of Marilyn. "This detective does not smell good." The boy laughed. Even Laurent had to laugh. Marilyn changed the game to a comedy and adapted it to a lighter story type.

The cab drove up the same road to the retirement home. When possible, the same views returned. The pair got out of the cab on the front porch of the large house. They looked around. Laurent was a natural at the game. Unlike President Emilio, who used his gift to find the right locations, Laurent relied on his acute natural instinct. In his heart, he knew what to do. Laurent looked around. The house or the other guests seemed boring, and not immediately important. He turned to his adopted son, "Have you ever seen ducks?"

"What are they?" replied the boy.

"Miss," Laurent asked the nurse walking next to him holding a platter with a silver dome, "my young friend here wants to feed the ducks."

The nurse smiled, lifted the dome and handed the boy a piece of bread. "Normally you can't feed the ducks," she said, "but who can say no to you, right?" She slid her hand through Malik's golden locks.

The pair walked to the pond. On the bench at the edge was a small path. Here sat an old lady; she was knitting. The young boy finally let go of Laurent's hand to tear pieces of the bread and feed the birds. The moment the pair let go, the broadcast went dark. For nearly two seconds, there were cuts and jumps in the image as if someone had disrupted the system from deep within. Then the image stabilized. Laurent and Malik were once again holding hands. Something just happened that made Emilio jump from his seat in joy. He clapped his hands. The boy was growing in power.

Madame Emmanuel, the woman Emilio had driven off with earlier, was sitting on the bench.

"What do you call those?" asked the boy pointing at the birds.

The old woman lifted her head, saw the boy. "Marty! What are you doing here? Where is your mother?" There was obvious disdain in her voice as she referred to Marilyn's character.

In this strange human game, he apparently had a new name, he thought inwardly. He held up the bread, "For the birds?"

"Ducks," corrected the stern old woman. "They are called ducks, Marty." The Electoral platform liked to correct anachronisms when it could. The name Marty felt more in period than Malik. She grabbed her cane, put the knitting down and pushed up her old knees. "That's a male," she pointed the cane at it. "The ones with colors. The males need to be beautiful to seduce the females. Like your mom always wastes my son's money with all those dresses." There was little doubt the old hag hated her son's latest wife.

"I see no color. It's all in black and white. Do you see color?" he replied to the old lady. "There is no color." The alien still wrestled with the concept of playing a game within this digital world. He had trouble pretending. "Why is your skin wrinkled?"

"That's not polite," interjected Laurent.

The old woman was shocked by the question. "I am a bit aged. That's what happens to us all. When you get to be my age, your skin will also change."

"Your body weakens before your time ends?"

"It does."

"Will you merge?"

"What do you mean?"

"In my world, before time ends, we join a celebration of birth. Our bodies are merged and broken down to form new entities. It is both a celebration and a sad moment. The groups who formed me ceased to exist; that is my shame."

Everyone watching, including Laurent, tried desperately to understand what the boy had just said. Marilyn, controlling the old lady, probed the boy further. "You are unique in your world?"

"In too many ways, yes I am. I cannot go back. This is my new home. Laurent is my father, and I cannot wait to see Sophie." To the billions watching, the typical addictive illusion crafted by Electoral 2072 had vanished. Many wondered if the artificial intelligence broadcasting some strange joke, or if Laurent's recent health troubles were corrupting the game. The strange situation was unique; it was impossible to understand it. If this was indeed happening, an alien boy, within the mind of a wholly crippled man, was acting as a parasitic entity. Once connected to a digital game, and put in this old Earth setting, he was speaking to an old lady, played by Marilyn. Now he was talking about his world, his life, and of merger.

Laurent, playing the detective knew he needed to find a way for the game to resume. He bent down and whispered something in the boy's ear.

"Sorry father. Can I keep the color?"

"Of course."

The boy's body transformed into a short stemmed rose in Laurent's hand. The flower was gold in color. One of its petals was light blue. Sophie had seen this color on the Metil in his world and knew what this meant. Back in Malik's world, some creatures had an inversion. It was a blue color, shining deep inside the rock layers. The blue petal was deep within the heart of the rose. Malik stared sadly at the rose; his eyes fixed on the blue petal.

Laurent slipped the rose on his lapel, smiled at Miss Emmanuel and said "Shall we continue? I think I need to save you from this place."

"How so?" she asked as Laurent took a seat next to her and began to shred the bread. The game resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary happened with the exception of the gold rose. Laurent spoke with the old lady, explained how the men from this retirement home were using her as leverage.

His gambit paid off. The love of a mother for her son was much greater than any personal desire for comfort.

Emilio did not wait until Laurent's simulation ended. He grabbed looked off and grabbed the scotch tumbler and took a deep reassuring breath.

The game was on, this was getting more complex by the day.