A short story, inspired by Celldweller and SWARM’s “Fakebreaker” (feat. REEBZ)

His nose scrunched as he set down his glass; last he’d checked, it wasn’t exactly commonplace for something as simple as tea to taste like sour metal. He stared at the lukewarm cup of virtually colorless liquid, contemplating whether or not he’d just been given rusty kettle water for being an unwelcome face, as his hand slowly drifted toward his pocket. The additional weight at his hip was relatively minor, but still unfamiliar enough to keep drawing his attention back to it. As they had twice earlier in the day, his fingers brushed the edge of a large coin and begrudgingly retrieved it. Pressing the coin firmly into his palm, he returned his arm to the tabletop to lean on it, testing how long it would take before he started inspecting it again. Dark eyes flitted around the rest of the little open-air café, ultimately settling back on the glass of definitely-not-tea beside his hand. He counted the seconds, squinting, waiting for anything to start to settle its way out of the liquid. Subconsciously, his thumb had already begun to shift the coin from the careful shield of the rest of his hand, rolling it over his knuckles in a well-practiced fidget.

A glint from the coin’s movement drew his eye in just under one minute and fifty seconds. A new record. Begrudgingly, he allowed his gaze to shift from his glass to the object flipping from one finger to the next. While its reeded edge was starting to show signs of smoothing and wear, and the black chrome coating of the coin’s field had become a bit tarnished, but it appeared to have been holding up surprisingly well for what it was. He intently watched the brighter red reliefs as they continued to flip from one to the other, alternating words like the programmed blinking of arcade neon: F8. BREAK. F8. BREAK. The edges of his vision began to darken ever so slightly, sound in his immediate vicinity slowly phasing out as yet another broadcast echoed its way from a tower loudspeaker. Twinned and layered artificial voices made the same promises; they offered challenge, they offered competition and, for the desperate, they offered a unique opportunity. His careful rolling of the coin came to a halt, balancing it across his index and middle fingers as one of its slightly off-time hourly calls to action ricocheted from building to building along the street.

“Take fate into your own hands. Ascend or shatter; face your destiny.”

Exhaling heavily through his nose, he shifted his hand to flip the coin upward. He watched it spin its way back down toward the table, catching it and pressing it firmly to the back of his hand before it could land.

Tails, the “BREAK” side. To the tower it was.

Quietly standing, he slipped the coin back into his palm and slid a playing-card-sized credit note under his nearly untouched glass. The owner’s dirty glower as he passed their window on his way back to the sidewalk didn’t go unnoticed. With a very intentional lack of response, and a casual readjustment of his racer jacket, he settled his gaze on the imposing structure ahead. It sprawled upward and beyond the skyline from the center of an octagonal courtyard, a jagged termite mound of metal and composite peppered with speakers to carry its artificial voices out from the city’s center. Rising in evenly spaced intervals, four jagged and prong-topped obelisks of towers stood as sentries around the main structure’s border, three carefully placed screens decorating each outward-facing side. Their exterior plating was same mottled combination of tarnished silvers, greys, and blacks as the rest of the sprawling construction, though the early afternoon sun hinted to the slightest of single-colored tints within the darkest metals: red, blue, yellow, and green.

He hadn’t noticed his head slowly tilting back, trying to maintain focus on the building’s upper quarter, until his neck began to protest. Blinking, he shook his head and gave his neck the slightest of cracks, pausing to regather his bearings. Turning to look back up the street he’d been following, he saw no trace of the café that he’d been seated at moments ago. Broadcast screens, dusted and smattered with red sand, speckled the visible, worn, building facades, relaying various goings on and point of view angles from inside the tower that had held his rapt attention. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head as the muffled noise of his surroundings slowly returned to his ears. That was twice now. He’d heard rumor of The Scraper’s ability to draw those most in need of its prize, but he hadn’t been expecting to fall into its pull so obliviously. Casting a wary look at the building, he gave his coin another roll over his knuckles. The screens on the thinner tower nearest him taunted back; red, bold lettering slowly faded in and out in a voiceless challenge: WAITING FOR PLAYER. Returning the coin to his palm for safekeeping, he continued along the sidewalk toward the small crowd outside the courtyard gates.

While it was impossible to pick out any one conversation amid the din, the reason for the group’s presence was apparent: eyes were transfixed on four screens monitoring the goings on inside The Scraper, small credit stacks being passed from one person to the next as the participants were either eliminated or progressed. A few attempted to loudly cheer for their point of view of choice, until their respective screen switched; he counted at least four eliminations before he turned his shoulder to weave through those watching, and just as many sets of eyes turn in his direction as he waded through one of the thinner sections of the crowd. Taking care to step around those passing payouts, he flashed the contents of his hand to one of the three heavily armored guards standing between those outside and the courtyard beyond the gate. Despite their face being fully concealed by their helmet, their subtle nod hinted at the faintest of smirks lurking beneath their smoky visor as they opened the gate just enough for him to pass. A momentary silence washed over the group behind him, only to be quickly replaced by a fresh rumble of low-spoken bets and estimates. He half-wondered how many were already predicting his failure as the gate closed.

The almost stadium-like openness of the courtyard only reinforced what the number of screens on the way to it had already promised: there would be no approaching the nearest tower unobserved. Keeping the discomfort of that knowledge, of quite possibly being displayed city-wide, as far away from his expression as he could, he started along the path. Eyes flitted from the well-kept patches of grass on either side of the path, ultimately settling themselves just above the doors of the tower ahead. Slipping one hand into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a pair of steel-knuckled gloves; placing the coin between his teeth, he pulled each glove on. Ignoring much quieter sounds flowing from The Scraper out and over the courtyard, he allowed himself a single smirk and one last roll of the coin over his fingers as the doors drew closer. They stood tall and unmoving, illuminated by a single red light positioned just above their fame. In the dim glow, the wear on the metal surfaces took on an appearance less of scuffed coatings, and more of violent splatterings of oils alongside its scratches. There was no handle, no keypad to command them to open, no turning back, only a single slot positioned where the two doors met. Resting his coin on its edge, he gave the door one last look over before backspinning it through the slot.

A quiet ‘click’ sounded somewhere inside, the doors opening with the slowness of turning gears and pulleys to reveal dimly lit entry hall waiting within.

“Welcome, PLAYER ONE: Engram.”

He didn’t like hearing his name on the structure’s artificial tongues. Uncertain whether or not the twinned voices had passed through the hallway or the speakers above, he stepped through the corridor.

The room beyond, what he could vaguely equate to a cavernous lobby of sorts, was strangely quiet, save for a soft, continuous hum, and the occasional sound of distant footfalls or hollow clatter. An equipment table with small panel of buttons toward its far end presented itself a few steps in and to his right; passing along the table, he took light inventory of what was on offer, noting that nearly all of it was some form of close range or melee weapon. He picked up a pair of bracers as he passed, a fenced off area near the center of the lobby catching his attention. Approaching it, he peered upward to find ring upon ring of floors above sharing the same opening. He craned his neck and squinted, trying to peer past the light above to see just how far the opening reached, only to have a fast-moving shadow plummet past him and pull his gaze down below the fence. A broken pile of meticulously and mechanically stripped bones and metal gleamed back up at him; several small machines darted in and out of the pit, quickly collecting any scraps of equipment that may have fallen in with the latest addition. He locked eye to eye socket with a skull on the far side of the pit; if the stakes of the game he was playing hadn’t been clear, they certainly were now.

“Greetings, Engram,” The Scraper’s voices drifted down from above the pit, “the use of a fate break token implies prior knowledge of the tower’s rules, but in the chance that you are unfamiliar or obtained the token in error, we will explain in brief. Select your goal path from the panel beside the equipment table; the floors above will be prepared based on your selected goal. Cooperation and competition with others on your goal path is at your discretion, but only one may leave with their chosen prize. Attempts to cheat in your ascent will not be tolerated. Masks, goggles, and miniature cameras are available should you wish to share your point of view with those outside, otherwise a simple rising marker will be displayed to the public to track your progress. We wish you the best of luck, and will be waiting.”

Taking a few steps backward, he returned to the button panel. Each choice was labeled with a simple glyph vaguely related to the prize in question, but he’d made his decision long before setting foot in the tower. Just as with the coin he’d used to open the door, he pressed the black button with a red glyph and watched as a red light illuminated a specific set of doors as they slid open.

“Fate Break selected. Preparing Rush Mode. Enter the lift to begin.”

Choosing to leave the two available recording methods behind, he cast one last wary glance toward the center of the room before starting his approach to the elevator, listening to the rhythm of boot soles on metal as it echoed off of the walls. He rolled up his jacket sleeves as he walked, sliding the bracers he’d taken from the table onto his forearms. They were barely heavier than they looked, formed out of a distinctive three panels instead of a singular curved piece. A slight rattling sound as he tightened the straps around his left arm hinted that there may be more to them than simple defense or stability. He crossed the lift threshold as he finished tightening the bracer on his other arm, inspecting them a little more closely as the doors slid closed. The side of the braces pressed against the leather of his jacket appeared to have been equipped with a series of small propulsors, while the fist-facing end had been fitted with a series of small bore holes. A set of three switches, the ink of their labels having long since rubbed off from use, hinted to at least two different inner modes and a thruster toggle. Feeling the floor beneath his feet shift, he snapped his attention to the doors; figuring out their full range of functionality would either need to wait or be tested mid fight.

The lift doors opened to an octagonal ring circling the same opening he’d seen from below. It was of near identical design as the lobby: black metal grating over a lighter hued floor, and a gradient along the walls made of jagged, overlapping layers. The light from the central hole in the floor spilled out into the ring around it, allowing for minimal and wide-spaced lights in the ceiling to illuminate the room. He could see the shapes of multiple doors tucked into the layers of the walls, some clearly visible, some half hidden. Before he could properly estimate just what he was about to walk into, the lift’s floor began to shift upward into a sharp tilt, sliding him out and into the room. A series of transparent panels descended to close off the central opening, the sound of a buzzer slicing through the relative quiet as a thin beam of light began to bounce in the room’s enclosed center. Above two of the doors he could clearly see, a seven-segment display flickered on. Cautiously, he stepped closer to the fall guards, catching a faint red glow that hinted at least one other door could be considered active. He felt his jaw starting to tense, his fingers slowly flexing in idle anticipation as the beam began to form recognizable text: Round One: Survive.

In the brief time it took for the words to fully process in his head, the numbered doors had already shot and clattered open. Three shapes surged from the dark on the other side of the openings, two bare-fisted and one crudely armed, all with something strapped firmly to the upper half of their head. No time to think, only react. A steel-toed kick to a knee, a well-placed clothesline swing to an Adam’s apple, and a failure to avoid the wooden bat landing squarely in his stomach. He twisted as the air poured from his lungs, pulling the bat-wielder hard to the floor with him and limply kicking the weapon out of reach. Managing to grab hold of one of the straps running along the side of his opponent’s head as he caught his breath, he pulled down sharply; a faint, wet crack sounded as the side of the other man’s head collided with the metal floor. Scrambling to his feet, and to the bat, he quickly incapacitated the other two with a kick to the temple and swing to the throat.

Another buzzer sounded, wooden and metal bats in the hands of the next two to emerge. A leg swept and a downward swing, a sharp pain in his left shoulder, a retaliatory punch to the head.

A third buzzer: three more unarmed combatants. The wooden bat found its mark against the side of one of their heads before being thrown at another; the final opponent tackled to the floor, grabbed by the shoulders, and the back of his head loudly meeting the metal grating until his eyes rolled back.

Engram let out a heavy sigh, carefully rising back to his feet to deliver a few final kicks and ensure he’d have enough time to be halfway up the next lift before any of them stirred. He carefully rolled his shoulder, gingerly pressing on it to make sure neither it nor his arm had broken. Feeling nothing out of place, only a little bit of tenderness, he released his arm to shake out his hand. His jaw remained slightly tense as he looked around for an open lift, hoping the ride up to the next floor would be long enough for him to recover a little before walking into another fight. Ten floors suddenly felt like a much steeper climb if each ascent was intended to be more difficult than the last. The text in the center of the room slowly flickered out; no new door opened, leaving him with nothing but the hum of the lights, his own thoughts, and the shallow breathing of the eight other men strewn across the floor. He crouched near the one who had initially winded him, studying the half-mask visor that had been so meticulously strapped over his eyes.

“It’s how they get alternate points of view for their little broadcast. Part heads-up display, part camera.”

The voice was enough to make him bolt back up to his feet, snapping his attention in the direction it’d come from. A woman stared back at him for a moment before stepping her way to one of the unconscious combatants to casually rifle through his pockets. She was clad in a long, layered and tattered, poncho of mottled blacks that covered her from neck to knee, concealing all but slight hints to the dark, narrow jeans and long-sleeved shirt she wore underneath. Her hair, white with two distinct streaks of black, had been pulled into a high ponytail to not impede her vision; pale fingers pulled a palm-sized copper coin from one of the combatant’s side pockets, holding it out for him expectantly. The sour, pallid, yellow-green glow of her irises felt wrong, the dim light of the room reflecting something dark and feral back.

“And I take it this is another key.” He mused aloud, trying not to pull his hand back with the coin too quickly. She nodded.

“Everything operates in coins and tokens here. Clear a floor, find a coin, open the next door. Not every lift goes up, though. The Scraper doesn’t exactly like to play fair, and likes it even less when its players try to cheat back.” She stood slowly.

“They don’t? Sounds about right, given the prizes it keeps offering.”

“Has to make sure they’re earned. I don’t think it’d have the affect it wanted if you could casually walk into a lobby and walk back out with a prize for a single token; it needs the tale of grueling climbs and potential for glory, or to snap the threads of the Moirai, to keep its draw. If you think it’s trying to get you stuck, though, keep an eye out for, let’s call them ‘unconventional’, ways around things. There are shortcuts everywhere if you look hard enough.”

He turned his head to glance at the locked lift doors, attempting to weigh the trustworthiness of her claim, finding nothing but empty air in her place when he turned back. The light reflecting off of the visors of his opponents each showed the thin lines of a spiderweb crack. Suddenly much more alert, he made his way over to the lift, heeding the woman’s warning and checking for any sort of ladder or vent that might indicate a different way up. Finding nothing, he slipped the coin into the door’s slot, listening to the same faint mechanical clicks as it unlocked and slowly opened. Stepping inside, he leaned against the wall and waited, watching as the lights in the previous room dimmed to red as the door closed.

Running a hand through his hair, he attempted to relax a little before reaching the next floor, but the quiet gave him too much room to think. Who, or what, had that just been? Was she an ally, another player, or something sent by the tower to set him up for failure? Nine more floors, with the now looming threat of active competition, felt both so close and so far away. If they were all of similar length to what he’d just fought through, he might be able to reach the top; he’d likely be exhausted, and barely able to stand by the end of it, but at least it still felt plausible. He still had the chance to push back against that ‘fated’ course. His nose scrunched at the thought of the word. Feeling the lift start to move, he idly readjusted the bracers on his arms in an attempt to push thoughts of that sickly glow from his mind, debating whether or not he’d have a better chance to test out what their buttons actually did. At the very least, he’d like to know which button could add the additional thrust of a small rocket and risk shattering his hand.

The lift slowed. He had just enough time to lightly rotate and rub his wrists before the doors slid open; this time, he didn’t wait for the floor to push him out. Eyes flicked around the room quickly, now knowing that the tower considered preparation time a luxury, finding it nearly identical to the room below. The doors on this floor lacked the number display above them; the floor had been peppered with a few metal crates, light and throwable weapons, and a few flat panels that looked unsafe to touch. At the opposite side of the room, his opponent stood: a looming tree of a man that looked like he had spent a portion of his life pulling apart scrap machinery with his bare hands and will alone. Engram watched as he slowly rolled his shoulders, cracking his own neck simply by turning his head to the side and tensing. He made cold, unflinching eye contact as the transparent panels began to close, waiting for the letters of the slowly rotating holographic letters behind them to spell out the tower’s command. The letters cycled before locking in, spelling out an objective they both already knew: Round Two: Fight.

Both sprinted in unison, Engram scooping a metal bar up off of the floor as he moved. Swinging low, he hoped he’d be able to upset the other man’s footing, only for a large hand to catch him by the jaw. He could feel his feet separate from the floor as he was lifted; a dark, amused chuckle the only sound the other man made before he was sent airborne. His back collided with the wall, the piece of metal dropping from his hand as the wave of pain from the impact reached his wrist. Rapidly approaching footfalls sent him scrambling to his left, adrenaline ignoring the protests of the rest of his body. His vision tunneled as he recalculated his options. If he couldn’t sweep out his legs maybe he could use some of the crates to- a closed fist collided with his nose. White spots bloomed in his vision as he swung a retaliatory haymaker and felt his hand connect with the side of someone else’s head. He stumbled, cursing under his breath as he tried to reorient his upset balance to keep him moving forward; slightly blurred vision now checking for doors that opened alongside the tall man’s initial throw. Counting two, he kicked two of the flat panels on the floor into the open thresholds, startled shouts escaping from the shadows on the other side.

A hand slammed down on his shoulder, spinning him backwards with a single, harsh pull. Once again throwing a retaliatory punch, he winced as his hand collided with the tall man. His opponent stared back, unphased, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Engram threw a second punch, a third, watching the other man’s reaction remain unchanged. Pulling his arm back a fourth time, he pressed the center button on his left bracer before connecting a punch with the man’s temple. Upon impact, something in the bracers shifted, extending beyond his hand with a sharp, smooth sound, only to retract a few moments later. The tall man’s eyes slowly glassed, his body falling to the floor with a heavy thud as Engram stumbled back to lean against a crate. He shook his hand off, trying to ease the dull throb of his knuckles as he tried to blink away the spots still lingering in his vision. His ears strained for any movement beyond the still open doorways, hypervigilance holding firm as he tilted his head back and pinched between his eyes to ease the bleeding of his nose. Eight more floors of this.

The sound of cracking glass was enough to snap his head back upright, vision swimming, barely catching the sight of a visor and much smaller headmount sailing toward the wall.

“Congratulations. One down, five to go.” A familiar voice filled the room. He half nodded, taking care not to move his head too much.

“Every other floor, huh… Great.” He let out a sigh, trying to keep the glowing-eyed woman in his blurred line of sight. She stood, stepping closer to observe his condition. Wordlessly, she gestured for him to move his hand so she could get a better look at his nose. He narrowed his eyes, slightly tensing his other arm as he brought his hand back down from his face.

“Bit rougher than you probably prepared for, right?” She placed her fingers on each side of his nose, moving sharply to set it back in its proper place. “Not getting tired yet, are you?” Had her voice slightly doubled? He shook his head, wary, but keeping it as far from his face as he could.

“Trying not to. I’d planned for some kind of obstacle climb, not a multi-tiered pit fight.”

“Almost unfair, isn’t it? They’ve stacked it so anyone on their own will be too worn down to win.”

“What about you? You’re climbing alone through here just as much as I am.” His tone was slightly sharper then intended, “Aren’t you trying to ‘win’, too?” She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“In a way, yes, but The Scraper keeps re-routing me back down to the bottom. I’ve been able to make it as far as the ninth floor.”

“And…?”

“And? My route back up this time looks like it’s crossing yours, so maybe an extra set of hands and the knowledge of several climbs could help us both? From what I’ve seen, it’s the teams of two that seem to make it the farthest every time. You can even keep the prize, if that’s a concern, all I’d ask is for the opportunity to talk to the person waiting on the tenth floor.” He opened his mouth, but she quickly raised a hand to silence him, stepping back toward an open hatch in the ceiling, “Give yourself another floor to think about it. Yell if you decide you need a hand sooner rather than later. Key’s in the big man’s left front pocket, by the way, safe climbing.”

This time, he was able to see her hop and climb her way up into some overhead access system as he slowly approached the tall man on the floor. Rolling him over, taking care not to look at the series of punctures circling his temple, he reached for the man’s left front pocket. Feeling the edge of a coin, he sighed. She’d been right. Retrieving it, he glanced at the still open hatch, wondering if it would be simpler to follow her route instead of continuing to use the lifts. Deciding that the devil he knew was better than being caught unaware in dark, cramped tunnels, he stood and made his way to the locked of the four lifts in the room. Spinning the coin into the slot, he stepped through the doors and rested against the wall. He watched as the lift doors slid closed, the lights on the other side once again fading to a dull red, before settling his attention on the line between the opposite wall and the ceiling. Blinking slowly to keep from fully closing his eyes, he waited for the telltale lurch of the lift to cut his reprieve short.

It dipped, descending for a few seconds before pausing and correcting its direction. Engram shifted uncomfortably on his feet, straining his ears for anything amiss as he attempted to rest. Gingerly rubbing his wrists, he rolled the woman’s offer back and forth in his head to busy himself. There was something that he still couldn’t quite put his finger on: a disconnect somewhere between her helpfulness and her other behaviors. Why was it that she’d only make herself known after he’d cleared out a floor? Why would the tower seemingly so readily reshuffle her back to the beginning when she nearly reached the top? Could he really place his trust in another competing stranger, knowing that there were strict rules stating only one of them would be able to leave with their prize? Working with her would at least give him a little bit of time to prepare for a confrontation, should it come to that Shaking his head, he reached slightly down the back of his jacket to run his fingers along the edge of an old, partially healed Lichtenberg scar. Should it come to that, he’d do what needed to be done. The lift rattled and shook as it came to a stop, urging him through the doors as soon as they opened.

His stomach twisted a little. The floor, while the same size and dimensions as the previous two, was rigged with platforms of various height and size anchored to either the floor or ceiling. Above three of the doors in the room’s outer walls, seven-segment displays flickered to life; the glint of a coin fastened to the ring’s ceiling spelled out his objective before the central hologram could light. Tallying up the numbers above each door, he estimated that he’d be either competing with or fending off at least six other combatants in order to claim the next key. Rolling his shoulders in an attempt to quiet the protest of his own limbs, he readied himself as best as he could before the buzzer sounded; he was starting to adjust to the tower’s rhythm. His legs were moving at the first sign of motion beyond the dark doorways, carrying him up the first few platforms in little more than a couple of jumps. Something caught his ankle before he could attempt his next jump, pulling his knee down hard on the grating of the platform. Reducing a pained outcry into a low growl, he wrapped his fingers around the edge of the platform to kick backward with his other leg; the heel of his boot collided with something firm, crunching with the sound of goggles breaking as the grip on his ankle relented.

Climbing back to his feet took more effort than he cared to admit. Despite the stinging burn in his knee, he jumped and clamored his way up to the next platform, upsetting the next combatant’s balance just enough to send them tumbling to the floor below. Letting his momentum continue to carry him forward, he shouldered through an attempt to send him plummeting, hearing someone behind him slip and fall from a misstep of their own. Peering down over his shoulder, he grimaced at the sight below, counting several too many bends in his fallen pursuer’s arm. A blur of movement in his peripheral vision was met with a sharp turn and a full-armed punch to chest, stopping their movement dead in the air before gravity took over. Engram paused for just a moment, trying to let his lungs catch up, but found even that was just enough time for a pair of rail-thin arms to lock themselves around his shoulders. His retaliation was swift: bringing his head back to crash into the forehead of the clinging combatant, sending them staggering off of the edge of the platform and finally leaving him at peace.

A heavy exhale poured from his throat; he could feel the distinctive burn of his arms and legs having quite thoroughly had enough of his efforts. Favoring a more relaxed pace now that the immediate threat had been taken care of, he began to make his way up to the platform that’d been positioned directly beneath the key. It’d been held in place with a combination of tape and what looked like a thin bead chain, both of which released their captive coin with minimal effort. Turning it over in his hand, a thin frown crept across his face; the material this one had been made out of felt softer, enough so that a small amount of pressure was enough to warp its shape. It was a false key. His arm fell, half-limp, to his side as he quickly looked around the room, trying to catch sight of even the faintest gleam of another coin. Finding nothing of note, he carefully descended the set of platforms on the opposite side of the central ring, eyes looking for anything out of place on his way to rummage through the pockets of his fallen competition. A now-familiar, sour, yellow-green glow registered on the edge vision as he passed one of the still open doors; she’d already broken any still intact recording headgear and turned out all of their pockets.

“How long have you been hiding there?” He crouched near the man with a shattered arm: unconscious, but still breathing.

“Only since your little break to catch your breath.” She stood, walking over to the cluster of fallen fighters in order to ever so slightly stoop closer, “How’s seven more floors of this feeling?” Engram let loose a dry laugh; his bones throbbed and ached at the thought.

“Miserable, but I get the feeling that you already knew I was going to say that.”

“Maybe just a little. Even the toughest solo runners start losing steam pretty quickly by the time they reach the fourth floor.” She tilted her head, “Still keen on trying to make your way up alone? I can leave you be wherever our routes cross from here on, if that’s what you’d rather.” An odd patience hung in her tone, her stare attempting to silently predict his answer. Engram slowly rose back to his feet, mentally weighing his options as he tried to set her mildly disquieting presence aside. He’d already resigned himself to reaching the top or dying trying with his final coinflip, rendering both failure and success as expected and anticipated outcomes; the worst she could possibly do was hasten his failure to the same point where he would have fallen on his own.

“I’m more keen on making it to the final floor in one piece, if teams of two really do stand a better chance.” The woman quickly righted herself.

“Partners for now, then?” He gave her a weary nod.

“Until this place either forces us head-to-head or you decide to stab me in the back. Whichever comes first.” Gingerly rubbing his wrists, he cast a quick glance around the room. She turned her head to follow his search.

“Looking for the key? Wait right here.” She took a couple of steps back over the men on the ground, lightly hopping her way up onto the set of platforms he’d just returned from. Her movement was quick and fluid, looking more like a smooth glide from floor to the topmost platform instead of a steady climb. He watched as her head tilted up to the spot where the false key had been fastened, reaching up to jostle a panel loose. Her hand slipped up through the opening then quickly vanished beneath the drape she wore. She descended the platforms and returned just as swiftly as she’d climbed, pausing only to present a copper token with an impish smile. Engram lightly placed the heel of his hand to his forehead with a self-disappointed sigh, taking the offered coin.

“PLAYER TWO has joined. Welcome-” Static consumed the name on the tower’s twinned tongues as the woman started her way toward the lift. Shooting a wary glance toward the opening to the floor above, he followed, idly rotating the coin against his palm as he tried to convince himself that the static was nothing more than an oddly timed glitch. The glowing eyes that turned back to watch as they waited immediately reminded him that he knew better. Passing her to the lift doors, he slipped the coin into the slot with the same backspin that he had with the others, waiting for the inevitable click and slow-moving doors that he’d begun to grow accustomed to. This one sounded decidedly slower as it moved to their floor, strained; only a dark, empty shaft waited for them when the doors finally rolled open. A minute of silence passed, then another before the lift slowly settled itself in the open doorway. She stepped inside without hesitation, waving him in after her. He followed, resting his back against the back right corner as he waited for the lights to dim and the doors to close again. His new companion turned just enough to lean against the wall, both of them waiting for the lift to start to move. The silence was already deafening.

“I don’t think I was quite able to catch your name in the static at the end of the tower’s announcement, unless you’d rather I didn’t know.”

Her eyes flicked in his direction. “Xanthe. And this now makes the second time you’ve surprised me, mister…?”

“Engram.”

“First, you’re the first person in four loops to acknowledge me peeking in on their climb, and now you trouble yourself with the name of a stranger that you might see casually shoveled into the pit down below us. Cut from a different cloth from the others around here, aren’t you.” He shrugged.

“It’ll make it easier to yell at each other when things start getting messy.” He offered a wry smirk. What he received in return was a mismatch of a slightly crooked smile and a flicker in her eye, a small, devious nod that something appeared to be going precisely as she’d expected. Engram tucked the thought away before it could manifest anywhere in his expression, hoping the proverbial devil he now knew would be better than those ahead.

The remainder of the ride up was spent attempting to plan for whatever may or may not lay in wait on the floors ahead, working out basic methods to handle groups, single large opponents, or the odd skill-based floor like the previous. They agreed any form of plan would likely only work for a floor or two, just enough time to get an approximate feeling for how one another navigated combat, before they’d need to rely more on thinking on their feet. It all seemed simple and straightforward enough to work on the surface, with only one catch point: Xanthe wasn’t able to actively engage with anyone wearing a still-functional piece of recording gear. She called it a handicap put in place by the tower after her last attempted ascent, an extra restriction that she wasn’t able to fight while she could be seen outside. He bit his tongue before he could question it, offering only a raised eyebrow and a nod as the lift began to slow. Had that been why she’d slipped her way into his climb instead of someone else’s, because he’d passed on the recording equipment in the lobby? Shooting a glance to her side of the lift, he stepped away from his corner, despite the lingering protest of his own limbs. As the doors slid open, he gave his bracers a final, light adjustment; there was no better test of a combat plan than trial by fire.

Like the second floor, the fourth was a room lightly littered with metal crates and the occasional floor panel that looked unsafe to touch; unlike the second floor, the round text began to build itself no more than fifteen seconds after they crossed the lift’s threshold. This time, they weren’t permitted time to assess the room or their waiting opponent: the buzzer sounded, three of the side doors snapped open, and the echoing command to fight was given. They obliged. Engram rushed to the left of the central ring, throwing the first punch at the half mask of one of their opponents with the full weight of his shoulder. Something gave way against the knuckles of his gloves. Engram let his momentum carry him forward with a brutal fluidity: one punch flowing into the next until he stumbled, the lost footing transforming into a forward-moving leg sweep. The thrum of his own pulse in his ears was nearly enough to drown out the sounds of however Xanthe was following his initial strikes, a series of cracks and uncomfortably thick noises that deterred him from so much as peering over his shoulder. In an attempt to keep his own morbid curiosity at bay, he focused his next strike on the side of their main target’s head. The soft crunch and crackle of a shattering lens echoed and looped.

He blinked.

It took a few moments for his change in position, and the quiet, to properly register; his right knee was beginning to grow sore from pressing into the grated floor, a dull ache reverberated through his ribs. About a dozen or so other combatants were now intermixed with the crates scattered about the room, none of them moving. Engram rested his hand on his other leg and pushed himself up to his feet, taking care not to crush or step on the unfortunate fighter beneath him. The weight of a coin clutched in one of his hands went unnoticed for a few moments too long, his mind clawing for whatever fragments it could of what’d happened between that last punch and now. Nothing floated to the surface. He turned, finding Xanthe perched idly on one of the crates. Her posture told him that she’d been patiently waiting for some time, the tilt of her head and faint, impish smile an open betrayal that she knew precisely why. She hopped down with a half gesture toward the still locked lift, her off-hand comment of being right about them working well together threatening to slide back out of his ear as she spoke. He glanced at the silver token in his hand before making his way to the doors, curling his lip slightly at the faint metallic tang as he swallowed some of his own spit. Offering his token to the door, he was surprised to find the doors opened slightly faster; a darker part of him assumed it was due to not quite as many making it past this point, leaving the mechanism less worn.

Stepping inside, he took his now-usual spot against the wall to try to give himself a chance to rest. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took loose inventory of each still lingering bruise and sore spot. A dull, phantom ache crept along the lines of the scar on his back, reminding him of why he was attempting the climb with all the tenderness of a whip crack. It was getting worse; while he couldn’t see it, he couldn’t help but imagine it was finally starting to slowly blacken. Another six floors, and he’d have the chance to be rid of it, the shard that caused it, and its looming promise. One eye half opened, settling its gaze squarely between his “partner” and the lift doors. All provided that whatever she was chasing didn’t render him disposable. He shifted on his feet, rolling his shoulders. What could she have possibly done to have been sent back down to the beginning four times? The thought stalled, spinning. Four? If the tower was so difficult to climb, how had she been able to nearly make it to the top, alone, four times in a row? Something wasn’t adding up; alternate routes alone wouldn’t have been enough for that, would it? Engram snapped his stare fully to the lift doors before he could find that sour glow looking back.

The lift bucked as it slowed, its doors sliding open, the room beyond another endurance test. He went through the same motions as before, targeting any recording or display gear before shifting his focus to those without, though his mind was far from focused on whether to throw a haymaker or trigger the spikes in his gauntlets. While he still wasn’t eager to witness precisely what it was she was doing, he tried to keep an ear out over the brawl. The sounds that drifted from her direction remained largely the same: thick, crackling, but interspersed with something sharp and an occasional very startled yelp. What little he did see from the edge of his vision was a flash of something dark, moving much too quickly to discern any size or shape, followed by the opponent on the receiving end crumpling to the floor. It wasn’t long before the doors stopped producing more to fight their way through, and the silver coin found in one of their boots signaled the beginning of each floor beginning to blur together. Dimmer lighting, indistinct smears of neon and red, the whirring of mechanisms, the distinct sound of a hammer and chain, claustrophobic access corridors, and flashes of yellow-green all intermixed; indications of progression were limited to the door token’s change from silver to gold and the slowly increasing weight and sluggishness of his own arms.

By the time Engram dropped in the coin to open the door to the ninth floor, the exhaustion was fully setting in, and the uncovered portions of his hands had become bloodied. He rested heavily against the wall of the lift, breath noticeably more ragged. There was a strange solace in knowing that only two floors remained, meaning the end of the climb was near in one way or another, but also a small knot of dread that had begun to settle itself in the pit of his stomach. The voices from the bottom of the tower quietly swirled in the back of his thoughts: only one of them would be able to walk away with what they were after. While he figured he might be able to handle another two rounds, if he was careful, he was far less certain that he’d be able to square off against the woman he was currently sharing yet another elevator ride with. Not once in the past five floors had she shown the slightest indication of tiring, and he was starting to run out of ways to justify it with efficiency alone. Gingerly rubbing at the straps still gripping his forearms, he tried to bargain with his own body to hold out for just a little longer.

For the first time since she’d joined his climb, she slipped out of the lift almost as soon as the doors opened. Pushing his way off of the wall with his shoulder, wincing slightly for not thinking that through first, he followed after her. Something was different here; the holographic “Round Nine” text had already appeared in the cut-out center section of the room, rotating idly as though it’d been activated some time ago. There were no extra doors, no traps strewn about the floor and, most glaringly, no one standing in wait to try to cut their ascent short. A sharp little whistle pulled his attention to the right-hand side of the room, revealing Xanthe waving him over to a table that’d be tucked close to the wall. As he approached, he could see a small collection of supplies. He gave her a wary look. She nodded, giving a silent hand signal for him to wait before touching anything. Three minutes of stillness passed, both of them watching the rest of the room expectantly. When nothing stirred, she slid something to finally clean the blood off of his face and a little restore pack along the table, just enough to carry him through one more fight.

Something clattered on the other side of the room.

A figure had stepped from a hidden door: broad, armored, and equipped from the elbow down with a pair of full pangolin gauntlets. Their posture was casual; the slow flex of their fingers, sending small arcs of electricity along their hands, acted as both unspoken warning and threat. Xanthe’s usual smirk faded, her expression slowly deadening into quiet fury. Engram barely caught a mumble of not having the time or patience before she quickly sprinted to the other side of the room. In the span of what must have been seconds, she drove her fingers up through the underside her target’s jaw, and took hold of the back of their head. She pulled her hand free again in a single motion, turning sharply to drive their skull through the transparent paneling blocking off the center of the room. They struck with enough force to carry them through completely, sending them careening to the waiting pit below. With little more than a disappointed sigh, she plucked something from the floor and shook the blood from her hand as she strolled back to the table, casually reaching for a cleaning cloth to remove the rest completely. He waited for her to finish, jaw tense; the black talons now adorning her fingers had most certainly not been there when they’d first met.

He struggled to find his voice. “Xanthe, who, or better what, are you?” She blinked, offering only a smug little smile.

“Your partner, obviously.” She opened the wrapper on one of the cleaning cloths, holding it out for him. He tentatively accepted, carefully cleaning some of the blood from his face.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” A quiet, clicking laugh filled the room.

“Maybe I’ll tell you all of this is done. What’re you going to do when you win?” He’d already bitten into the little restoration pack to tear open a corner, but paused. When? Shouldn’t that have been an if? He almost envied her confidence.

“Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.” He spoke around the object in his mouth, “I think a few days of sore sleep’s going to be in order before I attempt anything else.” It took all of his restraint to not scrunch his nose at the bitter taste that poured into his mouth. She nodded, presenting the coin that she’d scooped up off of the floor.

“Well, you’ve got one more floor until then, right? Whenever you’re ready.” He nodded, pinching the edge of the coin to keep as much distance between his fingertips and her sharp nails as he could. It nearly slipped from his fingers, his hand instinctively moving to catch it on the back of his glove. A quiet, dark chuckle caught in his throat.

Tails, the “BREAK” side of another fate break coin.

Feeling a little lighter now that the restoration pack had a few minutes to work, he approached the final door and rested the platinum coin on the edge of the slot. One more floor. He flicked a finger against the edge of the coin, sending it spinning through the slot. Several clicks sounded in rapid succession, the door opening in small increments to reveal not a lift, but column for a spiral staircase. Stepping into the stairwell, he craned his neck to try to gauge how far they had until the upper landing, starting the climb not even a moment later. Not a word passed between them, letting their almost rhythmic footfalls fill the silence, as the sliver of light above grew ever closer. One more floor. He idly readjusted his bracers, reminding himself that he still had a bargain to uphold. While he didn’t know the precise context or subject she wanted to discuss, the fact that she’d been sent back to the bottom of the tower four times to prevent it spoke volumes. Reaching the glass door at the topmost landing, he let out one last heavy exhale of anticipation. One more fight.

The room on the other side of the glass door felt larger, more threatening and decidedly final: its ceiling tapered upward to a dramatic, asymmetrical point, lit by a hovering, geometric chandelier, while the cutout at the center of the floor was noticeably smaller than on the previous levels. Each wall bore the same gradient as the floors below, the pattern twisted ever so slightly into a hazard by flaring jagged layers inward to form curling spikes. No doors had been interspersed along the walls, no seams for hidden panels, only a single chair set, elevated, at the far side of the room with a gyroscope-like device looming behind it. Seated askew, the side of their head resting boredly on the knuckles of their left hand, was their final opponent. Most of her features were obscured, wrapped in a white membrane undersuit and clad in cobalt and silver smart armor that gave her the slightest appearance of a cybernetic Valkyrie. Her eyes were shielded by a mirrored blue visor, but they could be felt watching as they approached the opening at the center of the room. The turn of her head was slight, just enough to shift the long, wide braid of indigo-black hair draped over her shoulder.

“I’m afraid the climb ends here.” Her voice carried the slightest of metallic echoes in its tired, distant tone, iced lips barely moving, “You must be weary.” Engram watched as she slowly righted herself in her seat, her movement somewhere between groggy lack of fluidity and the stiffness of a mannequin moved by force. He shifted his weight slightly on his feet, unsure if he was about to face a battle of wit or strength, flinching at a sudden and sharp movement of her head. She leaned forward, sliding unseen eyes from him to the glowing-eyed woman to his left.

A smile slowly bloomed across Xanthe’s face: knowing, chilling.

“Hello, Sinikka,” She tilted her head, smile unwavering. “Miss me? I believe you and I were in the middle of a lovely conversation abou-” The other woman’s arm fell, fingers curling tightly around the arm of her chair. Her right hand rushed to her side and out again, sending a thick, hollow dart just past Xanthe’s ear.

“Silence.” There was the slightest of wavers in Sinikka’s voice. She remained nearly stone still, her head turning to follow Xanthe as she slowly started around the edge of the hole in the floor.

“About… the consequences of severing certain ‘threads’, were we not? How leaving those ends loose can lead to just about anything picking them up or splitting off?” Another dart sailed in her direction, catching her in the shoulder.

“I said silence.” Xanthe pulled the dart out, turning it over in her hands, unphased.

“Something like, oh, I don’t know… me?” Sinikka reached beside her seat, adjusting her foot to propel herself forward with a freshly acquired cobalt lance in hand. Engram’s fist collided with her jaw from off to her right, stopping her charge short and upsetting her balance. He shot Xanthe a harsh look, barely catching a retaliatory swing of the lance against his bracers. The lance broke free of his arms only a moment later, slamming into his side to send him skidding across the floor. As he scrambled to his feet, he could see flashes of black talons attempting to pry, sever, and puncture their opponent’s various pieces of armor, trying to hold her attention long enough for him to follow up with another strike.

His legs threatened to give out beneath him as he sprinted his way into a wild, poorly aimed blow. The attempt was met with a swift knee to the stomach that evacuated all of the air from his lungs. A kick collided with the side of his head as he fell to the floor, flooding his vision with spots. The dull thud of something being thrown to the ground sounded from somewhere beyond the mixture of bright and dark patches clouding his eyes. Every bruise and potential fracture in his body screamed as he was pulled upright and thrown back against the floor. Xanthe had been right: the tower really didn’t like to play fair. As he was pulled up by his collar again, he rolled one arm to press one of the other buttons on his bracers. A soft click sounded, followed by the puff of the propulsors at the rear of the bracer lighting. His left hand propelled itself forward, slamming full force into the woman’s visor. His hand crumpled in his glove almost immediately, but there had been enough force to send her reeling back and give him room to breathe. Spitting a little blood onto the floor, he shakily climbed to his feet and threw the entirety of his weight into his right arm. If he wasn’t going to be walking away from this fight, he was at least going to leave a few scars and a headache to remember him by.

Sinikka swatted his arm away, wrapping her fingers around his collar to pull him to the ground as she stood. Her visor had cracked, a thin piece falling to the ground to reveal a furious eye staring back. It, like his companion, had a faint glow to it somewhere between white and icy blue. Slamming him to the ground once more, she dragged him to the opening at the center of the room, dropping him so that his upper back dangled precariously over the edge. She said nothing, but the rage in her stare said all that needed to be said. He’d made a grave miscalculation bringing her up to the top of the tower, and now he was going to pay for it with his life. Without so much as parting word, she kicked his legs to send him plummeting. Ascent failed.

It felt as though time slowed to a crawl, the combination of weightlessness and helplessness twisting his stomach. A quick moving mass of black and white darted across the opening he’d just been so casually pushed down, two hideous shrieks merging into a single horrific cry somewhere overhead. Pieces of cobalt armor floated into the opening, joining him in his descent. He blinked painfully slowly, squinting his eyes shut in preparation for the inevitable impact.

Something wrapped around his right arm.

A familiar voice drifted to his ear as things around him regained a more normal speed.

“Oh, no, no, you’re not done yet, are you?” Something tugged, pulling him out of his freefall and rolling onto a different floor, “Can’t go giving this place the satisfaction of breaking you when you have a replacement fate waiting, now, can we.”

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