TPOCT Round 4.2: The Dog Days Are Over

“Is the Sundog… glowing?”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest shit that’s happened in the Facility.” Lee tried to catch the Sundog’s eye to give it a stern look, but the silly creature was too busy rolling around on the tile like, well, a dog.

She’d tried to get it to stay in the stairwell, but it had insisted on following her everywhere. There wasn’t much she could do to prevent a flying fire-dog from doing whatever it wanted. She’d also wanted to ignore Kit and keep walking, but the young woman had looked quite distressed before the Sundog calmed her down. Lee wasn’t quite heartless enough to take that away from her.

As much as she enjoyed her new company—and welcomed the distraction—Lee couldn’t find it in her to relax. Her mind kept drifting back to Aras and Ivy, to Jay, to the cameras above their heads. It didn’t help that she suspected it was only a matter of time before their watches would announce each other as opponents, as had happened in all her previous rounds.

Kit flinched again and shot a glare somewhere to the left. Twitchy sort, wasn’t she? Lee turned to see what she was looking at, but only blank walls stretched before her. “Is there something you’re seeing that I’m not?”

“No,” Kit said too quickly.

“Good, because the last thing I need today is an ambush.”

Kit averted her eyes and muttered “shut up” under her breath, quiet enough that Lee would have missed it if she hadn’t been listening for it. Her behavior was highly reminiscent of Jay’s: the quiet muttering, the distracted sheen in her eyes, the snippets of one-sided conversations.

Lee stood, jerking her thumb toward the stairwell. “We should get to the fourth floor. That’s where next round is taking place, right?”

There it was again: the hesitation before Kit stood up and followed, as if she was listening to someone else before making her decision. The Sundog padded along besides her, head cocked, ears swiveling back and forth. It must have detected something a bit odd as well.

The moment the stairwell door closed behind them, Lee put a finger to her temple. “You hear them too, huh?”

Kit froze like a deer in headlights, eyes wide, gaze darting back and forth from Lee to somewhere past her and back to Lee. “Hear what?”

“Don’t worry, there aren’t cameras in here. Guess you didn’t know it was happening to other people.”

Another pause. Kit said, slowly, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Lee spread her hands. “I promise I’m not trying to troll you. It happened to my last opponent, Jay, and to all her opponents. And to me too.” She wasn’t lying, Lee assured herself, just not telling the entire story.

The other woman pulled a face, presumably reacting to a conversation Lee was not privy to. “She knows already,” Kit pointed out to the air beside her, before turning back to Lee.

“I thought I was the only one,” she said, nearly stumbling over her words in her relief to finally get them out.

“Far from it.” Lee scratched behind the Sundog’s ears absently. “If it makes you feel any better, Jay—she’s an old friend of mine—managed to escape the Facility last round. If I know her, she’s doing her best to get us out too.”

“Escape?” Kit repeated, bewildered. “But what about the tournament? The publishing deal?”

Lee’s eyebrow inched upward again. It was really getting a workout with this woman. “Look. I think you’re cool, but do you seriously think the Publisher is all rainbows and roses? You may have come here of your own will, but a lot of other people sure as hell didn’t. And really: a publishing deal? How naïve do you have to be to believe that?”

Kit looked taken aback. “Well excuse me,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

Putting a hand to her forehead, Lee made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “I really don’t mean to be callous, but obviously our experiences here have been very different. Just let me explain myself, all right?”

----------

Kit’s head reeled.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a lighthearted distraction from her day-to-day existence, a chance to make a name for herself, a chance to prove her worth to the admissions committees. But now Lee was talking about kidnapped contestants, force fields and portals, Big Brother levels of surveillance, and rounds forced to violence.

Kit’s control of the situation was, slowly but surely, spiraling its way out of her grasp. Even the Sundog’s calming influence was being chipped away, despite its continued presence at their side. Alto stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder, though she couldn’t feel it. She appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

The musician had been uncharacteristically reserved, keeping silent when he normally would have offered a quip or two. The hunted look in Lee’s eyes when she explained her situation, not to mention Striker’s presence, stifled the air between them. It pained Kit to see her normally carefree character so tense, his spirit so muted.

“And if you lose, you might even fo—” Lee paused, and attempted to cover her hesitation with a cough, “—face consequences.”

“Even you must realize she’s hiding something.” Striker appeared again besides Lee. He slashed at her, ghostly knives passing right through her body. Even though Lee remained completely unfazed, Kit cringed.

She shook her head, as if that would clear the racket. “What sort of consequences?”

“Jay never specified. But I know that before her second round, she found this creature wandering around the Facility. According to her opponent, it was one of the loser’s characters. Here’s the thing, though; it didn’t have a watch.”

Striker looked sharply at Lee. At that moment, their watches beeped. Lee swore so fluently that Kit’s jaw dropped. As the woman grumbled something about knowing they had taken too long, Kit brought her watch to eye level to read:

ROUND 4: KIT VS. SHANGHAI LEE. BEGIN.

“Crab cakes!” Kit’s voice echoed through the stairwell. The Sundog flattened its ears against its head. Lee’s eye twitched.

“Ah.” Flashing a predatory smile, Striker stabbed at Lee again. “Now you have the perfect excuse to fight her. Strike now, when she least suspects it.”

“No,” Kit said firmly. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Glad we’re on the same page about that.” Lee cradled her forehead in her fingers. “Got any better ideas?”

Striker rolled his eyes. “Somehow I knew you’d say that. But this time—”

Before Kit could blink, he covered the distance between them. Alto put out a hand instinctively to push her out of the way. Striker grabbed the musician’s wrist, stepped neatly around him, and twisted his arm up and behind his back. Kit yelped out of surprise as much as the sudden pain spiking through her shoulder.

“—you don’t have much of a choice.”

The Sundog, crouched low to the ground, backed away from Kit. Lee looked at her as if she’d grown a second head, which wasn’t too far off from the truth.

Muscles screaming, Kit wracked her mind for another option. She couldn’t fight Lee. She wouldn’t. “We could play a card game. Or tag, or—”

Striker twisted Alto’s arm again. Lee said something, probably asking if she was all right, but pain seared through her joints, blocking out the outside world. All Kit could hear were Alto’s cries piercing her eardrums like knives. Tears welled up in her eyes.

She had promised Android—had promised herself—that she would get through this tournament without hurting any more people. But Alto was in pain, and her shoulder burned, and Striker’s and Alto’s voices echoed in a cacophony in her head. But she couldn’t hurt anyone else. And Lee—Lee had already been through so much—

“Run,” said Kit.

Lee stared. “What?”

Kit shut her eyes, gritting her teeth as Striker grabbed a fistful of Alto’s hair and yanked it, hard. Alto’s stifled gasp was almost too much to bear, and it took all of Kit’s will not to cave in.

“Run,” she said again, more forcefully this time. “I don’t—I don’t want to fight, but Striker—one of my characters—”

Striker’s hand shot out. Kit choked back a cry as warm blood seeped into the collar of her shirt. The Sundog whimpered. Lee took a step forward, alarm clear on her features, but Kit stepped back.

“Get your hands off me, Scar-face,” Alto growled. He jabbed his elbow into Striker’s ribs. The move backfired immediately. Kit doubled over, and Striker sneered.

Kit never regretted so much as she did now making the assassin unable to feel pain.

“He wants me to hurt you,” she ground out through clenched teeth.

Lee’s face fell like a ton of bricks as comprehension dawned. “Shit,” she breathed. She balanced on the balls of her feet, wavering, uncertainty written in the lines of her body.

“I believe you fail to understand the gravity of the situation,” Striker said. “I won’t stop until I get what I want. You of all people should know that.”

“He’ll do anything to win, can’t you see? Go!”

Lee spun around and took the stairs two at a time, the Sundog at her heels.

Striker’s upper lip twitched. He pressed the tip of his knife to Alto’s cheek. Something warm ran down Kit’s face and dotted the floor in dark red.

“Unless you want Prettyboy’s face to resemble mine, you’ll switch to me. Go after your opponent, and make her tell us everything she knows.”

Hands curled into fists, Kit kept her head down as she tried to think. She couldn’t just stay here and let Striker torture Alto and herself, but she needed time. Lee had already gotten a head start. She hoped it was enough.

“I’ll do it. Just let Alto go. Please.”

Kit pressed her watch. Her body morphed, bones growing and muscles strengthening. The stinging cuts were replaced by an eerie absence of sensation, and the pressure in her shoulder subsided even before Striker released Alto.

Striker’s long, powerful strides took her to the fourth floor. The assassin himself kept up with her, staying at the edge of her vision. His face betrayed no emotion but for the gleam in his eyes, the wild drive of an animal on the hunt.

Despite Lee’s early lead and Kit’s attempts to run as inefficiently as possible, Lee was no match for the lifetime Striker had spent pushing his body to the limit. In no time at all, Kit caught sight of the Sundog’s tail disappearing around a corner. With her prey in sight, her own pace increased instinctively—

Kit shook her head. Prey? What was wrong with her? She wasn’t an animal, and neither was Lee.

Rounding the bend, she could see the Sundog next to Lee, slowing its pace to stay nearby. The dog turned its head, lip curling in warning when it caught sight of the scarred assassin in determined pursuit. Lee didn’t even spare a backwards glance, keeping her head down and conserving her energy for running.

Why hadn’t she transformed? She was clearly tiring fast. She must have characters more suited to speed than she was.

They entered a long corridor, a straightaway with few branching paths. The distance between them had become uncomfortably small, so Kit slowed down to a jog.

A headache split her skull without warning, like someone had just clouted her in the back of the head with a crowbar. The next thing she knew, her hand reached for her belt of its own accord, drew a knife, and sent it flying at the Sundog.

She watched in horror as the knife grazed the dog across its ribs. The Sundog let out a piercing yelp, and jets of flame shot out from its haunches. Lee stumbled.

A dark stain blossomed on Lee’s shirt, across her ribs. She stared at the identical injury on the Sundog. She put her hand to her side, and it came away red.

“Shiitake mushrooms,” Kit gasped. Lee went for a more emphatic, “No fucking way.”

Kit’s hands went cold. All the pieces fell into place. In front of her, tail between its legs, trailing fire from its fur, stood Lee’s own character; not an illusion but there in the flesh, under no one’s control but its own.

And Striker smiled.

“I believe it’s my turn, dear creator.”

Something leaped out of the shadowed corners of her mind and shoved her consciousness aside. The thing that had been nudging her in the right direction ever since the round began pushed forward full force, and Kit realized too late that it stank of metal and venom. Striker’s presence enveloped her mind.

She tried to fight back. Alto appeared at her side, wind whipping his hair around his face as he too resisted the assassin’s influence. The uncharacteristic smile remained on Striker’s face, never quite reaching his eyes. He charged at them.

Striker cracked the pommel of his knife against Alto’s temple, and everything went grey.

----------

“You think we might’ve been too harsh with Lee?”

Aras glanced over at Ivy, but her eyes remained glued to the monitor. The unnatural lighting accentuated the circles under her eyes and the creases on her brow. They both looked worse for the wear, but the near-constant mental strain Ivy had put herself through since they awoke showed in the lines around her eyes.

“I know she was technically the one pushing the buttons,” Ivy continued, poking at a few keys, “but it seemed like she was pretty out of the loop too.”

They’d found control centers on each floor, each with the same layout and equally devoid of human presence. Ivy made quick work of the locks and security, and she wasted no time in hooking her tablet up to the nearest computer.

“She knew a lot more than she let on.” The burn on his arm ached, and Aras resisted the urge to pick at the freshly wrapped bandage. Neither he nor Ivy trusted the staff as far as they could throw them, but a quick raid of a medical supplies closet and knowledge of basic first-aid was enough for them to get by.

“Guess so, but… I dunno how she’s doing without our help.”

“We have more pressing matters at hand than a publishing contest.”

“Yeah, I know. You don’t need to tell me.”

The screen flashed a notice. Ivy leaned closer. “Oh. That’s a lot of info—hm. Gimme a moment.”

Her eyes took on that faraway sheen again, and Aras settled down to wait. He held the door open a crack, keeping an eye on the hallway outside. Ivy’s cameras would probably alert them before he could see anything, but he did it anyway. Force of habit. This at least gave him more to do than wait around while Ivy did all the work.

The hacker blinked rapidly, then squinted at the monitor. “This is gonna sound weird, but we’ve been through enough weirdness today that it might not. Let’s postulate that multiple universes exist.”

Aras tilted his head so that he could get a better look at Ivy without losing sight of the hallway. “You figured out where we are?”

"Kind of but not really. The Facility doesn’t seem to exist anywhere within our world. Like it’s in its own pocket universe, I guess? And the way the watches work is somehow linked.” Ivy chewed absently on her bottom lip. “I’m going to forward this all this to Lee. I know you don’t trust her, and I don’t really either, but she has a stake in this. Maybe she can help us figure out what’s going on."

The monitor nearest to him opened several windows full of text and images. “Here, take a look at these,” Ivy instructed. “They’re down to four contestants. Lee’s and Ireny’s have been accessed most recently, but for some reason theirs have the most complex encryption algorithms. There’s a lot of info about their past exploits that’s been added within the past couple of hours. Start looking into the other files while I deal with these.”

He let the door swing shut and began to peruse the documents for the other two contestants, Kit and Scarlette. Nothing stood out to him from Kit’s file at first glance, though he skimmed it anyway just in case. Subfolders: Alto, Sammy, and Striker, likely the three who were stuck in Kit’s watch just as they had been in Lee’s. Stats, pictures, abilities, and biographies for each of them.

He moved on to Scarlette’s folder. Subfolders: ARC-OS, Jia and—

Aras did a double take.

Not quite believing his eyes, he clicked on the third folder. The window expanded, and he found himself staring at the stern face of Nichol Bellasseau.

The only passing thought he’d had for his boss today was that Bellasseau was probably raising his bushy eyebrows at Aras for not showing up to work. What was he doing here? To a point, Aras had been willing to believe that he and Ivy had shown up together as a coincidence. But with the addition of Bellasseau, it seemed less and less likely.

Before he could draw Ivy’s attention to the anomaly, she pushed a new file onto his screen. “I found this in Lee’s and Ireny’s files. You’ve got to see this,” she said.

The Book of Stories OCT, the folder read. And two more familiar names: Reinald Todorov and Anna Smith.

“Todorov. As in Keis’s technological magnate?”

“And his bodyguard, yeah. Their names show up in this ‘Hunger Games OCT’ thing too.” Ivy’s eyes darted from one line to the next, and she gasped. “Leon shūshu?”

At this rate, they were going to find the entire population of their city in the Facility’s systems. “Who?”

“Cabbie who drives me to and from work every day. Why’s he—oh my god, why is he so angry in this? This is worse than the time I tried to bring a durian into his cab.”

“My name’s in here too,” Aras said quietly, trying to swallow the confusion and apprehension building in his chest. He opened the folder labeled Aras Duval and began to read.

The face was identical to his own, and he could all too easily see himself in this person’s shoes, like an actor taking on a role. “But I don’t remember any of this happening.”

“What the heck does OCT even stand for?” Ivy muttered. “They keep throwing that acronym around—right, here it is—”

The room went very still. Aras looked up to see Ivy motionless, staring wide-eyed at the screen before her.

“Um, Aras? Remember Jay and Lee saying something about characters?” Ivy wrapped her tongue around the last word like a foreign syllable. “I don’t think it was just some… weird slang, or… something…” She trailed off into incomprehensible muttering, gazing past the screen at a spot somewhere off in space.

A frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, Aras leaned over to see what she’d been looking at. And the realization he had been putting off for so long finally hit him.

His vision blurred at the edges, and Aras had just enough presence of mind to brace a hand against the table to steady himself.

People and creatures with strange powers. Bellasseau and Todorov and Smith and all the names they recognized. Keis. Alternate universes with alternate versions of the people they knew. Lee’s detailed knowledge of their lives. Her awkward sidestepping of questions. Her poorly-disguised chagrin when they refused to stay with her.

All the pieces of the puzzle had been there, moving inexorably towards the solution, but his brain had refused to slide the last couple of pieces into place until the evidence became too overwhelming.

It had to be some sort of joke. People didn’t just find out one day that god was real. Or meet her face to face. Or find out that she was a short-tempered bowslinger who wore jeans with pink whales on them.

Pain lanced across his ribs, jerking the world back into focus. Beside him Aras heard Ivy draw a sharp breath. He clutched at his side, and his hand touched with something warm and wet.

He didn’t have to look to know it was blood.

Ivy met his eyes, red seeping into her dress, disbelief mirroring his own. Swearing under his breath, Aras grabbed his rifle case and threw open the door.

An amorphous black mass occupied the far end of the hallway. Aras stopped dead. He felt the prickling on the back of his neck that usually meant someone was watching him. The thing didn’t have eyes, or even anything resembling a head, but he couldn’t shake the distinct feeling that it was scrutinizing him from head to toe. It shuddered, then oozed towards them.

He slammed the door shut.

“What. The hell. Was that?”

“I have no idea, but we need to move fast before it blocks off our exit.”

Ivy disconnected her tablet and slid it in her bag without question. She shouldered it and pulled on her glove, wincing as the movement pulled at the cut.

“Ready?”

Ivy nodded. Aras pushed the door open a sliver. Thankfully, the goo thing moved like a snail, leaving plenty of space to avoid it. They stepped out into the hallway, setting a brisk pace away from the thing.

A sound like water rushing over pebbles came from behind. The black mass rippled, its sides distorting as it picked up speed. Ivy and Aras likewise increased their pace. A swift walk turned into a jog, and before they knew it they were running for their lives while a massive goo creature barreled after them.

The cut on his side burned with every stride. Aras drew his pistol and fired a few rounds at the thing. The bullets sank into its putty-like body, disappearing into the writhing black mass. The thing continued to move forward. No sign of pain, or even anger; just relentless momentum.

Ivy waved to get his attention. “Split up,” she said, breathing ragged.

Aras’s boots skidded on the tile. “What?”

“It can only follow one of us, right? The other can go help Lee.”

It made sense. But something about being left alone with that thing, or leaving Ivy alone with that thing, gave him pause. What other option did they have, though?

He nodded. At the next fork, he took the right path while Ivy went down the left. The thing didn’t even hesitate before it rushed down the left path, leaving Aras alone in the sparse white corridor.

He headed for the nearest stairwell.