The gauntlet was in ruins. Steam hissed from shattered pipes. Fire licked the edges of the arena, casting flickering light across metal wreckage. Broken pistons groaned and buckled, their movements spasmodic, no longer part of a controlled machine but instead the death throes of something massive and unthinking.
Ash ran.
Every breath tore through his throat, but the black fluid pulsing in his veins pushed him forward. Faster. Harder. Stronger.
He cleared the last twisted piston, hurdled a spewing vent, and landed hard on the next fighting platform.
Ahead: five men.
They weren’t like Mouse. These were street-level brutes—low-tier thugs with cobbled-together armor and weapons too big for them. Their eyes showed more fear than bloodlust. The destruction had shaken them.
Ash didn’t hesitate.
He slammed his fist into the first thug’s jaw—crack. The man spun, blood arcing from his mouth before he collapsed.
The next lunged with a metal rod. Ash ducked low and surged upward with a brutal kick to the chest. The thug flew back—CLANG—his helmet snapping off as he landed hard.
Ash turned. Another fighter came at him with a jagged blade. Ash knocked it aside and drove his shoulder into the man’s gut, sending him toppling into the wreckage.
Three down.
But then—
A fourth thug grabbed Ash from behind, yanking his arms back. Ash growled, twisted, and flung the man over his shoulder into a pile of debris.
The fifth thug, eyes wild, seized a heavy broken gear from the wreckage and swung.
THWACK.
The impact caught Ash across the side of the head. His vision blurred. He dropped to one knee.
He tried to rise, but the others were recovering.
A boot slammed into his ribs—oof. Another grabbed a loose pipe and smashed it into Ash’s back. He cried out, staggering.
Then—
CRACK.
A piece of wall—half a slab of scorched paneling—slammed into his skull from behind.
Ash hit the ground hard, dazed, blood trickling from his scalp. His limbs twitched. He tried to move.
The five thugs swarmed him.
Hands pinned his shoulders. A boot crushed his forearm. Someone was yelling. Someone else laughed.
Ash’s hand reached out. Trembling. Bleeding.
He looked up.
Corwin.
Still struggling at the end of the rope, one hand gripping the beam above, legs kicking weakly, eyes locked on Ash.
And then—
The Director.
He had climbed the platform amid the chaos. His black armor shimmered with ash and flickering light. He stood tall, watching, laughing.
Beside him, the main commentator stood frozen—equal parts confused and electrified.
“This is it,” the commentator whispered into his mic, awed. “This is content.”
Ash’s hand scraped at the floor. The black fluid in his blood began to pulse.
But the world was dimming again.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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