The crowd had gone quiet, their bloodlust momentarily stilled by Ash’s defiance. He stood at the edge of the platform, staring at the gauntlet, his jaw set, arms trembling.
“I’m not playing your game,” he muttered.
The Director stepped closer, his voice calm and almost paternal. “Of course you are, Ash. You’ve been playing it your whole life.”
Ash didn’t move.
The Director sighed theatrically and tapped a black panel on the chest of his armor.
A harsh clank echoed through the chamber. Then a whir. A hiss.
Ash’s head snapped toward the far end of the arena—just in time to see Corwin drop.
The plank had vanished beneath his feet.
Corwin’s body jerked violently, the noose tightening around his throat. He kicked once, twice—then went still, his legs twitching above the gears and metal below.
The audience gasped, then howled.
Ash didn’t think. He moved.
The moment he stepped onto the track, the cameras locked on him. Drones buzzed to life, lights flared, and the commentator’s voice screamed over the noise:
“AND HE’S OFF! The reluctant hero makes his charge—LET’S SEE IF HE’S WORTHY!”
The gauntlet stretched ahead like a twisted carnival of death. Steel walls pulsed with red light. Above, rotating blades spun in slow menace. Beneath the walkways, hydraulic gears hissed and snapped like teeth.
Ash dove beneath the first piston as it slammed down behind him. The impact sent a tremor through his bones. He didn’t stop. He darted through the next—margins so tight the suction from its fall nearly yanked him backward.
Then: Fire.
Flames erupted from floor vents with a roar, sweeping across the path like tidal waves of heat. Ash shielded his face with his arms and sprinted forward. A jet of fire caught his thigh—
—and the pain was instant. Searing. White-hot. He screamed as skin blistered beneath his torn pant leg.
The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Tears welled in his eyes, not from emotion—but from the sheer agony.
He stumbled, then hurled himself through the last arc of flame, rolling across the metal grate beyond. His hands scraped raw against the heated surface. He didn’t stop.
He reached a narrow platform that rocked with each step. The drop below was darkness studded with spinning saws, the sound of metal on metal screeching in his ears. He had to leap from one shifting tile to the next—each surface greased with oil, slick with failure.
One slip, and it was over.
His foot skidded—he caught the edge with his heel and flung himself forward. He landed hard on the next tile, jarring his shoulder.
Blood ran down his calf. His breath came in shallow bursts. The pain in his leg was worse now—hot, pulsing.
He gritted his teeth and pushed forward.
Then: the first pit.
It was circular, wide, surrounded by spiked gates. Overhead, drones hummed like vultures. Red lights pulsed along the walls.
Ash limped forward into the middle. Every breath felt like it scraped his lungs. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat and blood.
From the far side, a figure emerged from the shadows.
Bulked. Armored. A dark suit with glowing lines etched into the chest. A black tank on his back pulsed with a thick, oily fluid.
The mask came off.
Mouse.
Except not the Mouse he remembered.
This one stood taller. His face was smoother, his skin glowed faintly beneath a shimmer of nanogel. His eyes sparkled, not from illness—but something else. Something chemical.
“Ash,” Mouse said, smiling. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Ash’s mouth went dry. “What did they do to you?”
Mouse tilted his head. “They saved me.”
He cracked his knuckles. The sound was metallic.
“I used to cough blood in the fields. You remember that? You tried to protect me.”
“I don’t need protecting anymore.”
Ash narrowed his eyes. “They turned you into a machine.”
Mouse grinned wider. “No. They turned me into valuable.”
He paced slowly. “They gave me food. Heat. Sleep with no pain. No fear. Fans. Sponsors. A chance. What have they given you, Ash?”
Ash didn’t answer.
Mouse stopped pacing.
“You always wanted to change the world. Me? I just wanted out.”
He raised his fists.
“Let’s see who gets what they want.”
Ash lowered into a stance. The walls lit up. The crowd screamed.
And the pit closed behind them.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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