10:30 was the time. Black SUVs were parked and more were incoming. We surveyed the area, keeping out of sight of the security guards. Then we walked right through the front entrance. There was no dress code, from what I knew. Barry had his dice helmet under his arm. A security guard stopped him.

"Sir, I gotta check that," the guard said. Barry also had his sword hidden behind his back and his projectiles - or 'diceries' as he liked to call it - around his waist under his top.

"Fine with me pal," Barry sighed. He passed the helmet to the security guard.

"I'm gonna need both your credentials as well," the guard instructed as he observed the helmet. I knew we should have worn tuxedos. We gave him our laminated cards which didn't nearly look as eloquent as everyone else's. He looked at the cards then back at us. A drop of sweat lingered on my eyebrow. My hand was in my pocket, twiddling with my lucky dice.

"Checks out," the security guard said, turning over our credentials. "Have a good night."

Members were sitting down at roundtables with plates of food already downed. I could see Rupert Murdoch at the front, closest to the stage. He and his family. What kind of conference was this? The host returned to the stage after a presentation made by a Reichstag member. I'm sure the group had a name, but we would stick with that. It helps us believe that the group is evil incarnate. I was pretty sure the host was Fox News journalist, Bill Hemmer.

"Now a word from our esteemed founder, Rupert Murdoch," Bill introduced. We didn't have much time. The control room for the hall was positioned upstairs. I ran up there. I hid behind the railing when I saw that there was a security guard in front of the control room. I limped to the man.

"Yo, do you have something - I think I'm going to vomit," I faked. I held onto him for support.

"Um, I think they have vomit bags downstairs," the guard suggested. "Or perhaps go to the toilet." I reached down and pulled out his gun from its holster. I pointed it at him.

"I don't want to use this," I said. "But I'll find another use." I clubbed him over the head with the grip. I kicked open the door, but there was really no need since it was unlocked. Two technicians spun around on their office chairs. There was a view from here of the hall. Rupert Murdoch was on stage but the control room was soundproof. I showed them the gun. They knew the drill. They cleared the control room in alarm. I stopped one of them from leaving with an outstretched arm.

"Show me how to turn off the lights," I demanded. The technician was petrified. "NOW!" He walked backwards to his seat, whimpering almost. I felt bad. He's probably not part of the Reichgast Group. But the people below were. And we had them in our grasp. Now, we were going to squash them like insects. I let the technician leave when he showed me the switches to switch. I called Barry.

Now?, I asked.

Now, he answered.

Before I shut the lights down, I searched the technician's playlist for something I could play on the headset he left behind. I played a techno-jazz song called All About You by Honeydripper. I flipped all of the switches. The hall was dark, the entrance was dark and even the nightlights outside were off. Then I sat back with the headset and watched the anarchy unfold. It was so dark, I didn't even know if my eyes were open or closed. Time was devoid in the darkness, until the flashes of silent gunshots from security gave it rhythm and the music in my ears gave it passion. Through the flashes, I could see Barry's dice head becoming more and more bloodier. His sword was dull compared to his white helmet. I was entranced by the use of saxophone in the music that swayed the techno beat. Then the flashes of light stopped, meaning he had taken care of all the security guards. I wondered how Barry could see down there. Maybe his mask had night vision.

A few minutes later of waiting in the darkness, my phone lit up. Barry was calling. I took off the headset and answered it.

"I said: 'Turn the stage lights on!'. Can't you fucking hear or something?", he said.

"No. The room's soundproof. Why are you blaming me?", I said.

"I'm not. Just turn them on. I think Rupert's backstage."

I switched the stage lights on. Then I realised there was a button under the lights that enabled sound from the hall to be heard up here. I pressed it as well. Rupert was still on stage. He hadn't moved.

"Incorrect," Rupert spoke into the microphone. "I'm right here." Barry approached the stage. "Have you come to kill me?"

"Well, what do you think I've done with everybody else?" Barry questioned.

"I don't know. It's too dark." Barry turned his dice head up to me. I turned on the lights in the hall. It was a mess. Diced body parts looked like bubbles forming in the flood of blood. It wasn't unlike the scene Barry created last night with the stealth team. Just increased in scale.

"Ah, you've killed them," Rupert noticed. "Ooh, my family's in pieces over there." He was processing this like an old man who didn't care. And maybe he really didn't. But for me, I was about to actually vomit from looking at the incident any longer.

"Enough," Barry suggested. "You know who I am?"

"I've heard of you meddling with Bechtel operations, but hearing of you is a waste of time."

"Well, your actions have led you to this death. I will make it swift so that you feel nothing." He lifted his arm up to slash the media mogul in half while standing. And then put it down, straining to do it. I spoke into the intercom.

"What are you doing?"

"I can't do it. It's gotta be you, Anton. I can't protect you anymore."

"What are you talking about? Just kill the man and we're done."

"I'm not real, Anton. Remember that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Just do it."

"I'm not your friend. I'm your brother. I'm not alive. I'm dead. Do you remember?"

I don't remember. I don't. I don't. I do.

I chose not to remember. It eases the pain. The guilt. My brother's name was Barry. He was a surveyor. I worked with him. We played board games. I had a nickname for him because of how he rolled the dice. 'The Dicer'. He would shake it in his hand and then let it roll off his middle finger. He always brought the board game from our apartment block because he was always late to work. One night, I didn't set my alarm purposely so I could be later than my brother. I was sick of playing Scrabble and I wanted to choose the board game for once. On this one day I was truly selfish, my brother died. A plinth beam decapitated him at the construction site. That's what I heard from the autopsy because I never even left the apartment room. The job killed him. By denying his death and forcing it out of my mind, I constructed Barry's persona in my head. There is no Dicer. There is only me. I hurt the tradies. I coordinated the Bechtel protest. Now, I must deal with Rupert Murdoch.

I was on stage. The dice helmet was on my head. My hands gripping the sword were blood-soaked. I had always been so self-conscious when I cried but now I just gave way to the enormity of my grief. The dots on the dice darkened my eyes. I had forced the technician to stay in the control room and heed my commands when light was required. Rupert Murdoch approached me and was comforting me for some reason.

"It's okay to let it out," he said. "It's better than keeping it in and living with it."

"Is that your motto?" I said. "Is that how you live with killing so many just to get what you want?"

"I haven't killed a single person in my life! I've merely ordered others to do-"

"To get what you want! It's the same thing. And you're paying for your sins to-night!" He backed away, shivering with fear. "But I'm going to give you a chance." I pulled my lucky dice out of my pocket. I held it up to him. "Let's play a game. If you roll a one or two, you die and I get away." The old man gulped with a parched throat. "Three or four, I let you live and I get away. Five, I kill you, but you call the cops on me before that and I'll stay till they catch me. Six, and this is your best option, I let you live to see me imprisoned. Got it?" He nodded slowly. I slapped the dice into his hands. "Give it a good roll." His hand was shaking as he lowered the dice to the ground. Then he gave the blood-stained dice, a roll in the spotlight.