The Tempest. An explosive event that occurs once every three years. People would gather by flocks, dressed in their raggiest clothes. These articles of wear would quickly deteriorate after enduring constant splattering.

For on the Tempest, the prisoners of 22184 were executed by majority vote.

The decisions came from the viewers, the audiences. If they felt unbearable pity for the scoundrels, yes, they could give off waivers and let them go free for to see another day. But there was never a time where more than a few felt that kind of foolish and hopeful behavior.

Oh yes, the people enjoyed the deaths of these criminals, the plague that created the only real buzz in the entire community. Those seeking revenge spectated with hungry eyes, licking their lips and trembling slightly. Those awaiting the massive gore, the streams of blood that would dye not only the air, but anything in the vicinity a grunged scarlet, hooted and threw fists into the air, urging the executioners on.

And then there were the few screaming at all the others, talking about morals and the value of lives.

The voice of the crowd would be laughter and derision at these statements; morals? What morals are you talking about when your damn hearts feel pity for the scourge of the world? Value? Lives have no value. They perish out just as quickly as another one ignites. The actions, the experiences, the results are what matters.

And so the crowd waits on Tempest Day, wiping drool off their grubby mouths and grasping the thick iron bar that barricades them from their prey.