The pit was silent but for the slow mechanical whine of the drone hovering above. Ash and Mouse stood opposite one another, the circle of light narrowing around them like a spotlight pulled from some ancient play.
Ash wiped blood from his nose and squared his stance. “You really believe in all this now?”
Mouse didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head, his armored frame creaking. The light caught the black fluid pulsing visibly through veins beneath his nanogel skin.
“I don’t have a choice anymore,” he said. His voice was rough, but flat. Not angry—just empty.
Ash circled left. Mouse mirrored him.
“You always had a choice.”
“No,” Mouse replied, stepping forward, throwing a sharp jab that grazed Ash’s shoulder. “You had a choice. I had survival.”
The punch was followed by a low sweep. Ash dodged, then launched a return strike, catching Mouse in the ribs.
Mouse grunted but didn’t stagger.
The announcer’s voice thundered from overhead: “Round one! A clash of pleeb legends! Former friends, now foes!”
Ash ignored it. The sound dulled against the pounding of his heart. He could feel Mouse pulling his punches—but not all of them.
He ducked another strike, dropped low, and caught a glimpse of it: a sleek black tank mounted just below Mouse’s left shoulder blade. Smaller than before, but unmistakable. The same viscous substance he’d seen in the medical bay.
His eyes widened.
Mouse came in hard, elbow swinging. Ash let it glance off his forearm, then drove forward, slamming his knee into Mouse’s chestplate. The impact rang out like a bell.
Mouse staggered.
Ash spun and brought his elbow down on the tank.
CRACK.
The tank splintered.
A stream of thick, black fluid hissed out and splattered across the metal floor. Smoke coiled where it hit, acidic and strange.
Mouse dropped to one knee, gasping, his body convulsing in short bursts as the enhancements misfired and shorted.
“Why?” Mouse wheezed, one eye fluttering.
Ash looked down at him, chest heaving. The crowd’s screams echoed somewhere far above, but it all felt so far away.
He knelt, grabbed the shattered tank, and brought the open port to his lips.
“Because I have to know,” he said.
And he drank.
The taste was wrong—like metal and oil and something burning inside his throat. It scorched down his esophagus like a thousand needles.
His knees buckled. The world tilted.
He hit the floor, body convulsing. His vision collapsed inward. The lights above spun like dying stars.
Somewhere, Mouse was screaming his name.
And then—
Darkness.
Ash’s eyes flew open.
A jolt of raw energy coursed through him like lightning. He gasped, his lungs sucking in air that burned with cold clarity. He sprang to his feet as if yanked by invisible wires, the pain in his body replaced with something else—something pure.
His wounds had begun to seal. Torn skin knit itself together. The burn on his thigh faded to a deep pink scar.
He flexed his fingers. They felt stronger, faster. His muscles coiled beneath his skin like cables.
The lights overhead flared, adjusting to his new pulse.
The crowd roared anew.
Ash stood tall in the center of the pit. His breath came slow, steady. His mind buzzed with clarity.
If the liquid could make Mouse that strong… what could he become?
He looked down at Mouse, who stared up in awe—and something close to fear.
Ash didn’t feel fear anymore.
He felt power.
He moved.
Before Mouse could recover, Ash was on him. Blow after blow rained down—fists like hammers, movements too fast to track. Mouse raised an arm to block, but it shattered beneath the impact.
Ash slammed him to the floor. Once. Twice.
The crowd roared.
Ash raised his fist one last time—ready to bring it down—but stopped. Just above Mouse’s bruised and bloody face.
Mouse blinked through swollen eyes. His lips trembled, trying to speak.
Ash slowly lowered his hand.
He stood, shaking, his chest heaving with adrenaline. Blood dripped from his knuckles.
He’d almost killed his friend.
He stepped away.
The walls of the pit opened, revealing the next path.
Ahead, more fire burst from the floor. Pistons slammed down in jagged patterns. Whirling gears clicked and spun with deadly precision.
At the end of the path—another platform. Bigger. Higher.
Figures waited in the distance. Some moved slowly. Others raised weapons.
Ash didn’t know who they were. Or how many.
He flexed his hands again. He still felt strong.
But for how long?
He took a breath.
Ash stared ahead, silent now, as the next platform loomed like a promise wrapped in pain.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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