Loaded Save
One

Jada wakes up sweating on a tattered floor mat in a maroon cell with blood-red corners. As she sits up, the floor feels hollow. She hears motion above and below her, then straightens her musty track suit and groggily walks to her entrance, a semi-transparent yellow energy wall. She looks through (and doesn’t dare touch) the hot wall. She sees into a circular tower of hundreds more cells, then gets vertigo noticing the three hundred foot drop. Every cell matches hers exactly: maroon, single floor mat, plus a black speaker in the top corner. Large programs contort themselves to avoid burning on the energy wall. It appears most didn’t sleep last night.

With a rumble, a door at the ground level opens. Seven steel tanks roll across black tiles into the dark building, and an Authority in bright blue follows suit. Each tank is equipped with helicopter blades and three rectangular black screens. He pulls out a hand radio and his bored voice echos through every tower speaker.

OFFICER: Morning Tier Two. Day one is just getting started, so sit back and watch what you’ll do tomorrow. Meals through the in-tube. Garbage in the out-tube.

(mockingly)

Don’t get too restless!

He marches out. The tanks fold their treads as the helicopter blades start to chop. One by one, they fly and distribute to the levels of the tower, giving everyone a rectangular screen to look at. As the paratanks stabilize, their chopping becomes a low hum and the screens power up. The cell speakers crackle harshly:

BRICK (ON SCREEN): Good morning Publica!

The crowd on screen cheers enthusiastically.

In the same recovery cafeteria as last night, Cyrus settles in with a different smoothie can: Sweet Tart Pink Juice. He watches a screen on the columns above, scratching the back of his neck. On screen, Brick sits again in his glass office, holding a microphone.

BRICK (ON SCREEN): You are about to see an all out brawl among the finest three thousand, four hundred twelve warriors of our domain. The rules are very simple for Tier One, kill or be killed. No ties, no forfeits. Once we start: We. Don’t. Stop. The match will end when there are only eight programs left. These select few will proceed through the Tournament. We cheer for deletion because it takes courage to die, and courage to kill!

Phaedra stands on the transport pad in her cell, listening to the energy of the Arena through her window.

PHAEDRA: They’ll beam us down in a moment, Pix.

PIX: Yes.

PHAEDRA: I’d like to call a truce for now, so we can work together later.

PIX: I agree. For now.

Pix stands on his transport pad along with the rest of the Tier One Hostiles distributed across fifteen floors of the Arena tower.

Brick overlooks the crowded Arena from his glass tower. Three paracameras and a row of intense halogen lights focus on him and his mic.

BRICK: Programs always ask, “What if it gets dark and there are too many programs left?” I usually laugh and tell them the brawl never lasts that long.

The crowd cheers.

Cyrus takes a hard swallow of his drink.

BRICK (ON SCREEN): THREE.

Jada sits on the floor of her overheated cell, watching the paratank screen.

BRICK (ON SCREEN): TWO.

In Pix’s black chamber - Sophia sits in a queenly chair, watching an ornate color-broadcast screen.

BRICK (ON SCREEN): ONE.

Phaedra hears Brick echo up from the Arena: “FIGHT!”

Her transport pad flashes white, quickly turning her clothes and body into energy. She hears a whoosh, her core almost floats up into her throat, and then back down as she feels solid dirt. She hears an oppressive roar, then a series of whooshes at various distances.

The oval Arena comes into focus: a pure white colosseum filled with twenty thousand Peacefuls under a clear blue sky, cheering as the dirt field populates by the hundreds, then thousands. Phaedra sees her opponents take action - there is no optimal direction, she must move. The chaos of deletion fills the Arena. She hears the cries of monstrous, bizarre, differently-sized programs as they’re bashed, blown up, beheaded - every wound spilling oil. The clashes of metal on wood, stone on laser, gunfire and elements answer the screaming crowd. Phaedra focuses inward and dissipates, then calls a rush of air underneath to lift herself fifty feet. She solidifies her upper half to take a proper look at the huge field. She calls out:

PHAEDRA: MY FRIENDS, IT IS TIME!

Below, a network of thirty programs clap their hands together straight above their heads. In the stands, thousands more do the same.

PHAEDRA: AGAIN!

The programs who understand the signal clap again above their heads. This time, more in sync, and much louder.

PHAEDRA: AGAIN!

A third, perfectly synced clap. It echoes throughout the Arena, with enough impact to pause the battle.

PHAEDRA: MY NAME IS PHAEDRA ANANDA!

An arrow whizzes through the air toward Phaedra - she dissipates and lets it pass through her cloud.

In his glass observation tower, Brick strokes his dark beard. He squints to see Phaedra continue her speech.

PHAEDRA (FAR): WE CAN END THIS CYCLE EARLY TO GO TO THE INTERNET! I HOPE YOU WILL JOIN ME!

A few hundred programs in the crowd groan at the interruption, hundreds more seem intrigued, and those who know her plan proselytize. The crowd no longer roars, but chatters, losing focus on the brawl. Meanwhile, the clashing, explosions, and sounds of death resume among the thousand living Hostiles.

Phaedra guides herself down with another gust of wind. She solidifies fully on the ground, purple-orange robes intact, and looks for a follower - anyone who could defend actively. She sees a pale whisp dart between five Hostiles, leaving a trail of silk.

PHAEDRA: Earnest!

The white worm notices Phaedra, then turns to bite his rear spinneret. He takes the end of silk and, like a bullet, yanks up and backward. Each point of the silk contracts into a straight line, cutting and tripping the five programs he crossed. He bounds over them, and with another set of silk points, neatly beheads all five.

EARNEST (gritting his teeth): Ms. Ananda!

He spits the silk from his mouth and slides to her like an accordion. As he approaches, she angles to cover her back.

EARNEST: I’m frightfully sorry you have to see me like this.

PHAEDRA: Desperate times, Earnest. Have you seen the others?

EARNEST: I saw some when we clapped - but I’ve been most distracted by Pix.

PHAEDRA: Incoming!

Phaedra dissipates as a football-player of a program tries to tackle her. He fumbles and Earnest jumps onto him, drawing a spiral of silk around his body. The worm bounds off the hulking program’s head, yanks, and the program slices into oily slabs. Phaedra reforms, and the two search the loud battlefield for allies.

EARNEST: At first I didn’t take him seriously - but he started recruiting left and right! He was able to convince Tier Ones!

PHAEDRA: Incredible!

EARNEST: Four o clock!

Phaedra becomes a violet cloud as a boulder heaves through the air, destroying the ground she stood on. She takes a moment and reforms on top of the boulder. She looks to her side and spots Ben sixty feet away, having just blown his shotgun through the gorilla-type who pitched the boulder.

EARNEST: Benjamin, dear boy!

Earnest sidewinds as Phaedra and Ben run to meet each other, all dodging stray projectiles and debris.

EARNEST: I told you Hostiles respect displays of force-

Phaedra and Ben embrace, Earnest watches their backs.

PHAEDRA: I know you wanted to, I just couldn’t-

EARNEST: I know, I know. Ben, any injuries!?

She and Ben separate and turn outward. Ben shakes his head.

BEN: I’m good, Earn.

He stays pristine in his gray tank top, red shorts, and white runners. He shoulders a utility band of shotgun ammo and readies his weapon.

PHAEDRA: Any more allies?

BEN: Not yet.

Things complicate in Pix’s chamber. Sophia has created rooms and divisions with the black blocks - it’s become a one-level school with shiny black hallways, low-res tablets and mounted screens in each room to entertain the Hostiles. The three-headed lizard from dinner falls from Pix’s ceiling-mouth and lands in an enormous black funnel. He rolls down through the center, then thuds onto a gelatinous landing pad. Sophia stands by taking notes.

LIZARD: Oof-f.

Sophia smiles big.

LIZARD (three voices at once): W-wow. He wasn’t joking, it’s hug-ge.

SOPHIA: And what’s your name?

LIZARD: W-we’re Renzo-o.

SOPHIA: Renzo, got it. Off you go, after this fight we’ll meet for introductions.

Pix stretches, effortlessly avoiding attacks. He wraps his arm around a program with a boar’s head and soldier’s body.

PIX: Live or die?!

BOAR: I want to live sir!

Pix unhinges his jaw and wraps his mouth entirely around the head of the Boar, he unwraps his arm, then pushes the boar down his own throat. His black and white robe detaches along the sides to allow for increased width. As Pix swallows, he reverts in size. The magnet fasteners reattach as he scans with his hockey puck eyes, fully aware that his pure white skin makes him a target on the brown battlefield.

Cyrus sits in the cafeteria in awe of the destruction and violence. The broadcast flips between three paracamera angles, with titles describing the program’s stats. Within minutes, a ticker onscreen counts down from 934... 752... 638 programs remaining. A loud explosion knocks off another 50. Cyrus turns away. The fifty-odd recovering programs around him chat and eat. Some point at the screen to comment on impressive attacks, or who might be front runners.

CYRUS: Are we cool with this!?

At the nearest table, a skinny program with long curly hair, a leg cast, and two crutches pipes up.

???: You new?

CYRUS: Uh... yeah.

The program starts talking quickly.

???: Welcome to Publica - I feel like no one really says that to the newbies.

CYRUS: Oh... Thanks I guess. I’m Cyrus, by the way.

Cyrus reaches out for a handshake.

???: Troy. They-them.

Troy speedily shakes Cyrus’s hand.

TROY: Everyone hates their first brawl - but you get used to it - part of being Peaceful is acceptance - this is how things go - we work, the Hostiles kill each other until we get tired of it.

Troy starts bouncing their uninjured leg. On a screen above, the ticker reads 313.

CYRUS: How’d you get injured?

TROY: Workplace hostility - some guy lost it - threw a cabinet at my leg.

CYRUS: Are workplace injuries common!?

TROY: Yeah, I’ve heard daily per workplace.

CYRUS: Daily!?

TROY: If we don’t like it we can sign up for Tier Three.

Cyrus gulps. The ticker reads 147.

The sounds of battle have thinned, the field now war-torn and oily. Diverse bodies succumb to lethal injuries. Corpses of all types have piled: human, insect, mammal, reptile, geometric, floral, and fungi. Many breathe their last, oil out, and collapse from instability. Phaedra assembles her surviving followers: Ben, Earnest, four martial artists, two archers, three bombers, an elemental, and a pack of four dog-types.

PHAEDRA: Hold on, everyone!

She stands vigilantly at the center of her outward-facing followers. Through the mess of bodies, at the other end of the oval battlefield, she sees Pix dodge and parry a dozen Hostiles at once.

Pix wonders how only eight programs can survive. Does Phaedra expect to keep her crew? He morphs to lay his body flat as an enormous lobster claw swipes to knock him out. He pops back up, shapes his hand into a machete, and cleaves the lobster claw open. He guts the lobster-type and shouts to the other eleven attacking:

PIX: Live or die!?

At once, they yell:

HOSTILES: DIE!

The sky has shifted from clear to dusky blue. Brick sits in an oversized office chair in his glass observation tower , watching a large flatscreen closely. He sips water from a glass liter bottle. The fighters have thinned to 73, the crowd now quietly invested. The chatter from Phaedra’s disturbance was short-lived, thank God. Nothing can sustain the program’s interest like these fights, and the delete rate continues on schedule. The paracameras orbit different Hostiles, zooming in for slow-motion replays. Screen titles show ages, crimes, kill counts, and abilities.

From her defended position, Phaedra sees few Hostiles remaining.

PHAEDRA: Earnest.

EARNEST: Yes, miss?

The crew advances toward the cluster of action near Pix.

PHAEDRA: Pix and I declared a truce. I’m wondering if you can lead a faction to be kept by him. I don’t want to lose more programs.

EARNEST: Oh my.

Her surrounding followers stay focused ahead.

BEN: Ms. Ananda, I’ll gladly go.

PHAEDRA: Thank you Ben.

A twenty-foot tall, sagging, green human-type walks and groans heavily in the distance. Phaedra’s crew continues through the field, now deflecting stray bullets and energy attacks.

EARNEST: If I may, miss!

PHAEDRA: Of course!

EARNEST: There’s no guarantee we can escape Pix later!

An energy particle zips over Phaedra’s head.

PHAEDRA: I want you to have something, not just die on this field!

EARNEST: Miss, others can go with Ben! I would be honored to sacrifice myself to end this match!

PHAEDRA: What? Earnest, you don’t-!

The naked and agenital giant turns its cyclops eye to Phaedra.

EARNEST: Nothing else feels this good!

PHAEDRA: Don’t you want to see the Internet?!

They duck under a stray fireball. The green giant balances a heavy torso on small legs. Black oil streams from injuries and projectiles lodged in its body. It drags a canoe-sized club toward Phaedra’s crew.

EARNEST (just to her): I’m sorry miss. I don’t.

Earnest breaks formation, dodges an arrow, and sidewinds toward the cyclops.

CYCLOPS: Worm...

The cyclops heaves the club toward Earnest, misses, and slams the ground, sending a mess of dirt forward. Phaedra and her crew disperse to either side. The dogs: Husky, Pug, Lab, and a German Shepherd Mutt hustle to a wide square around the cyclops. Earnest quickly crawls and lays silk around the cyclops.

CYCLOPS: Web...

Earnest leaps and lands on the cyclops. The dogs bark, disorienting it. Earnest locomotes around its body with more silk, which starts to tighten and cut into its skin.

CYCLOPS: Augh...

The cyclops struggles and Phaedra’s team aim their weapons.

EARNEST: Don’t shoot! This one’s mine!

Earnest hops down to its thick ankles and circles a few more times. The cyclops teeters as Earnest places himself carefully in its shadow, then yanks the silk. It cuts into the cyclops’ ankles, finally throwing it off balance, leaning toward Earnest.

EARNEST: Time to garden.

The giant crushes him, and the force of the fall displaces flesh into the razor sharp silk, cutting and releasing a flow of oil. The four dogs jump back and stop barking.

CYCLOPS: Raaughgh!

The cyclops gushes a black pond into the field and the crowd cheers. Phaedra’s crew somberly moves around the pile of flesh and approach Pix’s side of the Arena.

In Pix’s chamber, Sophia admires her list of three hundred fifty-two programs. Finally, a school of Hostiles without the upper hand. The perfect learning environment.

Pix’s white robe and skin are splattered with other program’s oil. Seventy-three beastly corpses surround him: crustaceans, arachnids, robots, soldiers, and specialists of all kinds. He finally stands against an old samurai in armor, and a ronin in a tattered black kimono.

PIX: Live or die?

The warriors silently walk toward him, swords drawn. Pix morphs both his hands into shields and takes a protective stance, then walks forward. The ronin leaps into the air as the samurai dashes forward. Pix places his shields in front and above, then charges. The samurai roars and slices at the shield, which screeches and slides away. Pix pushes farther forward and feels the ronin land both sandals on the top shield.

Pix heaves to the side and rolls, while the ronin falls and reveals his wakizashi - plunging it into the ground as the samurai tumbles past. Pix rolls away, and the ronin bounces up with his blade defensively. Pix pulls both his shields up again and rears to attack, when an arrow pierces the ronin’s head. To his left, Pix spots one of Phaedra’s archers. The samurai sees the opening and charges silently.

The samurai grabs the edge of Pix’s shield, cutting his hand - he tries to shove it to the side and stab with his katana, but Pix pushes back, slicing the fingers off the samurai. With another turn he throws the samurai off balance. Pix forms a matching katana and parries the next heavy swipe from the samurai.

Phaedra’s team approach and see: this is it, the last survivors. The samurai swings again at Pix’s shield, and again, growing sweaty, frustrated, exhausted. His fingerless hand throws oil around and greases the sword. The samurai rears back for another blow and Pix quickly morphs his hand into a spear, straight through his opponent’s heart. He took out nearly a tenth of the Tier One Hostiles. The crowd erupts in applause and chants his name: Pix. Pix. Pix. Pix. Pix...

Phaedra claps and approaches.

PHAEDRA: Hello again!

PIX: Hello.

The crowd quiets to hear their exchange. Paracameras lower to capture the moment.

PHAEDRA: I have a proposition. Ben and a few of my followers here wish to be eaten.

As she says this, Ben steps forward with the four dogs, a lanky gray elemental with veiny tattoos, and three short bombers in navy denim overalls and yellow gloves.

PHAEDRA: They have served me well, and feel my remaining fighters should live longer.

PIX: Very well.

Ben stands at attention with the eight others. Pix raises both arms to his front, his fingers extend into long tendrils and the tendrils wrap around the waists of each program. He lifts them straight up above his head and unhinges his jaw one more time. The crowd gasps as Pix opens wide enough to fit nine bodies. The bodies fall down the well.

Brick takes a sip of water and watches the last moments of the brawl on his large flatscreen. The ticker falls from 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, to 8. A flashing graphic: “ROUND COMPLETE!” He hears the cheers through thick glass, puts down his water, and approaches the mic.

BRICK: Well done fighters! The best of Tier One has arrived! I commend your courage and hope you enjoy your feast in the Golden Hall!

At the north side of the Arena, beyond the field of corpses, a white stone gate rises to allow safe exit for two archers, four martial artists, Phaedra, Pix, and his chamber of three hundred sixty-one programs.

Troy pats Cyrus as he vomits into a bowl.

Jada sits in her hot maroon cell, boiling with anger, a day of used food packs at her side.

Pix, Phaedra, and six of her followers walk through the white arches of the Arena’s north exit. The cheering of Pix’s name recedes as they walk down a tall hall toward an elevator. Overhead, Brick uses the intercom speakers:

BRICK (ON SPEAKER): Well done again, everyone. Especially Phaedra! I actually lost a bet you wouldn’t last more than an hour. How old are you anyway?

PHAEDRA: A hundred twenty-five, beloved.

BRICK (ON SPEAKER): Hah! And you, Pix. Hungry, eh?

PIX: Yes. I am absorbing programs to take-

Phaedra jabs him with her elbow.

BRICK (ON SPEAKER): Take? Take what?

Phaedra sternly makes a guillotine motion with her hand.

PIX: To take... their strength.

BRICK (ON SPEAKER): ...Right.

They step into the elevator.

BRICK (ON SPEAKER): The rest of you must be exhausted. Sharing an elevator with a fossil and the program who killed your friends.

The elevator bings and softly opens.

BRICK (ON SPEAKER): Enjoy dinner!

The eight step into the Golden Hall, desolate without the thousands from last night. The two archers – one in leather, the other in chainmail – place their bows down at the nearest table and sit without looking at food. The four martial artists – in yellow, black, green, and blue tunics – take the remaining seats. Phaedra stands close to them.

The archer in leather speaks up with a thick Scottish accent.

LEATHER: M’lady... Does Pix steal power?

PHAEDRA: He’s more of a... storage container.

CHAINMAIL: How can we trust him?

PHAEDRA: We have an understanding, I’ll prove it to you.

She looks to Pix, who has wandered to a Ghanaian food aisle. As Pix starts shoveling food from the steel buffet counter, she walks over to meet him.

PHAEDRA: Pix, dear.

He looks up but continues pulling food into his mouth.

PIX: Yesh?

PHAEDRA: Can we see your chamber?

He wipes konkonte from his chin.

PIX: Yes!

He pulls his jaw down to create a window. Phaedra steps forward and holds his jaw to keep balanced. She gasps as she looks down into the darkness.

In Pix’s dark chamber, Sophia stands on a small stage in the common room, now seating three hundred sixty-one neutralized, multifaceted, equally horrifying Tier One Hostiles. To keep the nearly pitch black school lit Sophia kept it without a roof; a rat maze. She sees Phaedra peek through the ceiling-mouth a hundred feet above.

SOPHIA: Oh hello!

As Sophia’s voice echos, the hundreds turn to Phaedra with a mix of curiosity and impatience.

PHAEDRA: Hello everyone!

The Hostiles retort with groans, boo’s, hisses, barking, and a “go fuck yourself”. Phaedra nods and pulls back out of Pix’s mouth.

PHAEDRA: Come and see!

The crew take a look at the village developing inside Pix. Food from a moment ago continues down the funnel, then empties onto a conveyor belt. The belt hits a few notches to fill trays on either side, leading to a meal area outside the school. Sophia stands in the common room on a foot-high stage to address the Hostiles, including Ben, the elemental, bombers, and dogs.

SOPHIA: We’ll be down here for a while, so we ought to get acquainted.

The Hostiles shift uncomfortably. Phaedra’s crew have step away from the ceiling mouth.

SOPHIA: I recognize some of you from my classes. I’m sorry you didn’t remain Peaceful. We continue to study alignment stability, but haven’t quite cracked it. Just be aware your powers don’t work here. At any rate, I’m Sophia White. You can call me Professor White. I’d like to do introductions, a bit of housekeeping, and then we’ll have food. As you can see above, Pix will keep eating until we’re satisfied. Sounds good, say yes?

The Hostiles stay silent. Sophia takes a step forward, and the walls of the common room lean back like flower petals. Her voice envelops the room and echoes into the chamber:

SOPHIA: Sounds good say yes?

The Hostiles groan, nod, and agree.

Pix munches away in the distance, now finishing a row of Belgian burgers. Phaedra sits with her crew at the table, somewhat relieved.

PHAEDRA: Thoughts?

LEATHER: ’Twas a difficult choice m’lady..

BLACK TUNIC: I don’t trust her.

PHAEDRA: Sophia?

BLACK TUNIC: She seems up to something. I know she’s Peaceful, but she seems pent up again.

PHAEDRA: It’s her business if she tries “rehabilitation” again.

GREEN TUNIC: Impossible! We need to flow.

BLUE TUNIC: Nature is nature, that’s what we taught at my school.

Jada paces in her hot, dark Tier Two tower with hundreds of other Hostiles. As she steams over the insanity of the match, she tries to stretch. Her gray track suit creased from alternating laying and sitting positions. Her eye bags and oily hair are getting more obvious. She raises her arms to stretch her rib cage and, notices a strong female program across the tower with shiny black skin and fantastically colorful clothing. The program holds a round green jewel in her forehead, ruby earrings, and opal beaded necklace. She’s bald save a dark bun at the top of her head. Jada appreciates the stunning yellow-red patterned kente cloth, smartly tied at the waist with a black belt.

Phaedra’s crew take food to their table. The elevator bings quietly across the room. Brick stands in the shuttle, smirking in his fisherman’s overalls. He ducks under the elevator frame to stomp in.

BRICK: Pleasure to meet you all.

With one hand, Brick grabs an oversized gold chair with red upholstery. As he sits the room softly reverberates. Pix moves to a row of Chinese dumplings. Brick points at each program.

BRICK: So... judo, krav maga, capoeira, taekwondo, archery, arbalism, and swooshy magic smoke?

PHAEDRA (smiling): That’s us, beloved.

BRICK: And over there, a starving shapeshifter.

They all look at Pix, taking trays by the mouthful.

BRICK: What’s your angle?

PHAEDRA: Brick, I’m glad you came in here. Pix!

The black-and-white-clad program stops eating. He approaches the full, circular table.

PIX: Hello Brick.

BRICK: (robotically): He-llo Pix.

Pix takes a seat.

PHAEDRA: We actually don’t intend to delete more programs.

Brick turns to Pix expectantly. Pix looks at Phaedra, then back to Brick, and nods. Brick inhales deeply.

BRICK: Why?

PIX: We want to save them.

BRICK: Hilarious. The killing machine stopped working? What the fuck?

PIX: I intend to absorb as many programs as possible and carry-

BRICK: Absorb?

Brick stands up and paces around the now-silent table. Every step rattles the silverware. He grabs the back of Phaedra’s chair, she turns to stares him down. Her crew of fighters slowly coil themselves and Pix breaks the silence:

PIX: I have hundreds of programs inside my chamber.

Brick looks at Pix and squeezes the back of Phaedra’s chair, denting the gold with his hand.

BRICK: Alive?

PIX: Yes.

Brick shouts as he lifts Phaedra’s chair up with one hand. She dissolves into purple-orange smoke, her crew jump away, and the chair flies across the Hall, crashing through four tables before tumbling to a stop. Brick stalks over to Pix, breathing slowly. He grabs Pix’s face and pulls down his jaw. Pix’s arms and legs squirm like an octopus.

Sophia continues introducing the Hostiles in the common room, and suddenly hears Brick boom overhead:

BRICK: HEY!

The Hostiles quickly turn toward the voice of their hero. They gasp and exclaim, one yells “Holy shit!”

SOPHIA: Now now, settle down everyone.

A tarantula-type speaks up.

TARANTULA: You can’t tell us what to do!

Sophia steps back on her stage and raises one hand.

SOPHIA: Wrong.

The floor erupts with hundreds of braces and handcuffs to hold the Hostiles in place. Black floor tiles jump up and latch onto the faces of the Hostiles to quiet their excitement. She calls up:

SOPHIA: What do you want, Brick!?

BRICK: So you’re in charge, eh? What’s your name again?

SOPHIA: Professor Sophia White!

BRICK: Oh pardon me! No one’s dead or buried here?

SOPHIA: Correct, asshole!

Brick aggressively steps backward, the ceiling mouth snaps shut.

Pix twangs back into shape and jumps a few paces back. The eight programs stand around the Hall as Brick, a caged tiger, paces.

BRICK: Fuck this. Everyone’s going out tomorrow.

Phaedra looks at her crew’s reaction, they’re all steadfast.

BRICK: Fucking pacifist.

Brick thuds over to the elevators, no one moves. He pushes a button, the doors bing open, he steps into the elevator, the doors close. All eight programs sigh and slump onto the nearest chairs and tables. The indicator lights change as his shuttle returns to the tower office.

Cyrus quietly sits in his wheelchair near the row of tablets, still wearing scrubs. He reads Greek mythology to calm down. Troy limps over using the crutches, brushing long curls out of their face.

TROY: Cyrus?

CYRUS: (snapping out of it)

Uh huh?

TROY: You oughta know something - I’m going out on Delete Day - I worked it out with the healthcare team.

CYRUS: You... what?

Suddenly the column-mounted screens blare with a female voice, ”Breaking Announcement. Emergency Conference." Brick steps on screen, holding his mic. He wears a near-black unitard and spiked leather bracelets.

BRICK (ON SCREEN): Change of plan, Publica!

Jada was about to sleep in her oven-hot cell, then twitches at the crackling of Brick’s voice over the speaker. She squints at the paratank screen floating in the middle of this cell tower.

BRICK (ON SCREEN): Contestants Phaedra and Pix have tried to bend the rules. As a result, I’m cutting a day off the Tournament. Normally we would have the Tier Two brawl tomorrow morning. But instead, Tiers One and Two will go to Echo Forest for a brawl like today. Then after five minutes, it’s Delete Day.

Jada shudders and sounds of protest erupt from the rest of the Tower.

Cyrus tries to parse Troy and the broadcast.

CYRUS: What the hell is going on?!

TROY (Talking quickly): I’ve seen enough.

CYRUS: But-

TROY: Cyrus - it’s dark here - not made for Peacefuls - no sustainable success - you know who the oldest Peaceful is?

CYRUS: No?

TROY: Phaedra, she’s a hundred twenty-five.

CYRUS: If she can do it you can, right!?

TROY: No - this society is designed for deletion - once you realize that - you just want out.

CYRUS: W-what about the Internet?

TROY: I’ll believe it when I see it.

In Jada’s tower, programs throughout call across to each other, trying to figure out a plan for survival. Others huddle harder into the corners of their cells.

In Pix’s chamber, Sophia’s crowd loses focus and murmurs over the possibility of more Hostiles tomorrow. She calls out:

SOPHIA: Listen up! Are any of you builders?

The crowd slowly quiets. Four dogs bark from across the jet black common room. Pug, Lab, Husky, and Mutt trot forward.

HUSKY: Ma’am, we managed construction sites before joining Phaedra.

The other three bark in agreement.

SOPHIA: Excellent. Please gather help and begin an expansion to the side, similar to this building. I’ll generate material, you take care of the layout.

The four dogs bark and bustle to form teams among the common room.

SOPHIA: If you all exit to my left, you’ll see lines of food trays and can take care of yourselves.

In the Golden Hall, Phaedra and her crew solemnly finish eating. The scene would be lovely if not for the destroyed tables next to them. Pix slows down at the thirtieth buffet island, having consumed enough food to feed three hundred sixty-one absorbed Hostiles.

PHAEDRA: Pix! Shall we discuss strategy?

He nods and approaches.

LEATHER ARMOR: Ate a lot there, eh?

PIX: Yes, I feel all my programs’ hunger at once. What are your names?

Phaedra brightens at Pix’s curiosity.

LEATHER ARMOR: I’m Adair, an archer. Pleased to meetcha.

CHAINMAIL ARMOR: Colt. I use a crossbow.

The martial artists bow as they say their names:

YELLOW TUNIC: I teach judo, Master Zeta.

BLACK TUNIC: Krav maga, Kappa. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

GREEN TUNIC: I follow capoeira, Gamma.

BLUE TUNIC: I train in taekwondo. Master Beta.

The table chuckles.

PIX: What is so funny?

BETA (sighing): Friends and colleagues call me Beta, but I am a 9th dan Saseong, or Grandmaster in Taekwondo. Grandmaster Beta.

Phaedra covers her mouth as everyone laughs again.

PIX: I do not get it.

PHAEDRA: It’s a homophone, beloved, it sounds like masturbator.

PIX: But are we not asexual?

PHAEDRA: Beautiful question. It seems you need the patches for speech synthesis and social adaptation. Do you want to try them?

Pix nods.

In the Champion quarters, above the Champion’s office, above Tier One cell floors, overlooking the Tier Two Towers, far above the Arena and the compact metropolis of Publica, a security program originally named VIRUS_WALL_V5.2, now Brick, paces.

He was sure Phaedra would be annoying at the start. He thought she’d be deleted sooner. At first she seemed silly: her quantum raving in the streets, the work walkouts, “civil rights” posters. But those three claps? Normally the larger the group, the less teamwork. Pix is naive, but a very good fighter. Sophia’s school inside him is bizarre, but if enough Peacefuls and Hostiles share a purpose? Brick stopped thinking about how much he could lose.

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