Time until level collapse: 4 Days and 17 Hours

It is December 26th

System Message: Stairwell Locations are now open. You must have a key to unlock the exit vestibule. Only squad members will be allowed to pass through the unlocked door. The key will dissipate upon use.

Admin Message: Your squad does not possess a key. You must acquire a key in order to proceed to the next floor.

There are five squads within the ‘Cuba’ zone. Two of the five squads hold keys.

Happy hunting.

Entering El Capitolio Nacional de Cuba.

My squad and I materialized in a stone chamber of the Cuban Capitol building. Our feet echoed as we landed on the marble floor. The high domed ceiling above us was illuminated by the faint orange firelight that peeked through the tall windows. Fires roamed through the city of Havana, and the night glowed like a blood-red sunset.

It had been midnight when we were teleported from Ulaanbaatar, and it was midnight here. Though the eighth floor of the World Dungeon resembled the planet’s surface, we were, in reality, more than 150 kilometers below the surface, somewhere in the upper mantle of Earth. The day-night cycles were uniform across the dungeon. Four days remained before the floor collapsed. We needed a key to open the stairwell vestibule behind us, otherwise this facsimile of the real world would be our tomb.

It was only after entering the dungeon that we learned we had been tricked. Of the eighteen floors we would have to pass to beat the dungeon, no one had ever made it past the thirteenth. We were on the third and final phase of the eighth floor, and though we never said it, we all knew this was going to be the end for us.

Beside me were my teammates, Khulan and Chuluuna. We had known each other before we entered the World Dungeon. We were all from Ulaanbaatar and childhood friends. During the ten years I had been away, modeling in Paris, the two had married and started a family. When the world had ended, they lost everything. We had all lost everything, and we had entered the dungeon in the hope that we could get it back. For Khulan, it was Narantuya—little Nara—her daughter.

Khulan, robed in a green deel with her long dark hair tied into a haphazard braid, was a shell of her former self. The once vibrant woman had a fragility to her, as if she could fall over and shatter. The dungeon hadn’t just taken her daughter; it had twisted and transformed Nara into an abomination for us to fight, for no reason other than the entertainment of the viewers, the unseen masses that watched The Crawl. We were on a game show, and our torment was just part of the fun.

Next to Khulan stood her husband Chuluuna, silent and impassive. The man wore a bare-chested zodog and tights. The dungeon had themed him after a traditional Mongolian wrestler. He easily lifted Khulan into the crook of his arm, and she buried her face against his wide chest, still distraught from our last battle. Though Chuluuna was still human, his class, Tengri Warrior, had turned him into a mountain of a man. He towered over us like a statue, his stone facade concealing a barely contained rage and a hint resentment I feared was partially directed at me.

That was all of us who remained of the once formidable Team Torguud. More than two dozen of us had entered the dungeon after the collapse of Ulaanbaatar. We named ourselves after the elite forces of Chinggis Khan, believing that we could emulate the conquests of our ancestors. We’d sweep across the dungeon and reclaim what was ours, take back the family and friends taken from us.

Yet what we faced was not the vast steppes of Asia, but the confines of a rigged death game.

I no longer held hope that we’d be able or allowed to save those who were collected in the collapse. In our foolish pursuit to rescue them, we had given up everything we had left. I imagine there was an adage somewhere about that, to value what you still had over what you lost. My sole purpose now was to protect Khulan and Chuluuna, the only thing I had left to a family, and get them out of this dungeon.

I had to get them to the tenth floor, the earliest point for a crawler to leave the dungeon. But the fight with the Keyholder had devastated us. Mungun and Tenger were dead, and Khulan was still in shock. We had been forced to flee without obtaining our key. Without a key of our own, we would need to take it from another squad. One key per squad. Someone would have to die for us to survive.

If the ratio of keys to squads across the dungeon reflects Cuba zone, then the number of squads far surpassed the number of keys available. This floor would soon turn into a bloodbath: the showrunners forcing us to cull each other before we could make it to the ninth floor. There, we would be too beaten and demoralized to pose any real resistance during the Faction Wars segment of the Crawl. One of the most profitable segments for the showrunners.

As our squad’s leader, I had been given three zones to choose from for the final phase, and I had chosen Cuba. The choices were supposed to be random, but I knew better than that. There had been several not so subtle hints as to where and whom the showrunners intended for my squad to fight for a key. All of this was part of a script the showrunners had constructed for me. They had set the stage for a final dramatic showdown between my squad, and one of the dungeon’s top crawlers: Crawler Carl.

My history with Carl stretched all the way back to the Iron Tangle on the fourth floor. Before that, I only knew him only as a pantless, shoeless man from the daily recap episode. He had made a name for himself early on by pulling off seemingly impossible, and outright insane, stunts that had become infamously known as Carl Plans. Prior to meeting him, I only thought of him as a reckless dumbass.

Afterwards, I knew him to be a reckless dumbass.

The dungeon AI had placed us in front of his exit, confirming my suspicions. This was where he had arrived on the eighth floor and where he was meant to leave from. And, if this was Carl's exit, that meant there would be traps—Carl always left traps.

It didn’t take me long to find them. I only had to look down at my feet, and in my player UI the stone tiles beneath me became highlighted in red and a tooltip appeared. The realization struck me like an electric shock.

“No body move! We're surrounded with traps!” I barked, as my heart began pounding in my ear. We were standing right on top of them. The bastard had placed traps all around the stairwell, and we had teleported right on top of them. My body began to tremble and I fought the urge not to bolt from the room. Why hadn’t my Find Trap skill alerted me?

Chuluuna tensed, holding his wife securely in his arms. I inspected the traps, which weren’t the explosive traps that Carl was known for, but teleport traps. While that wouldn’t kill us immediately, the city of Havana was crawling with undead mobs—zombies. If my team got separated now, it could be fatal for us. The trap hadn’t been triggered yet, which seemed to be the reason my Find Traps hadn’t activated, but my trap skills weren’t high enough to tell me what activated them. I could try disarming them, but I knew Carl could build traps with failsafes. It would be best to go to the source.

I messaged Carl.

Ren: Carl, I am at your stairwell. How do I avoid setting off your teleport traps? I need to know, like, right now.

I knew Carl could remotely set off his traps, but I also knew what kind of person he was. Carl, despite his recklessness, had principles, and these traps hadn’t been set with the intention of killing anyone.

After a tense pause, he responded.

Carl: You are safe. Those traps won’t go off for anyone in our guild. There are more out front. Try not to mess with them, in case they misfire.

I exhaled and relayed the message to Khulan and Chuluuna, who visibly relaxed. I still questioned if joining Carl’s guild had been a wise decision, but for the moment, I was glad I had done it. Joining Guild Safehome Yolanda had been a decision made out of necessity. I needed their help if I were to have any hope of getting Chuluuna and Khulan out of this dungeon—free them from this nightmare.

But joining Carl’s guild, Guild Safehome Yolanda, wasn’t a decision made lightly. Though I trusted the guildmaster, Imani, who had saved my life more than once, the guild had numerous big and problematic personalities, and Carl was just the tip of the iceberg.

There was Katia Grim, the shapeshifting behemoth of a woman, who had literally body-slammed the dungeon’s former #2 crawler, Hekla, into oblivion. There was Florin, the mercenary turned alligator-man, who talked to his sentient shotgun as if it were an old war buddy. Li Na, a woman turned demoness, could inflict agonizing pain with a simple touch, and seldom spoke, preferring to stare daggers at everyone. And then there was Elle McGib, the guild’s second in command, a 99 year old woman turned top dungeon crawler. She was one of many of Imani’s former patient at an elderly facility where Imani had been a nurse, and had entered the dungeon. Elle’s racial change had cured her of dementia, but not her madness.

They were all top dungeon crawlers, powerful by their own right, and all unhinged in their own unique way. Our hesitation in joining the guild had always been about the risks involved with aligning ourselves so closely with such dangerous and unpredictable elements. But we needed their strength if we were to survive the deeper floors of the dungeon. It had been because of Carl and Imani that my team had survived the Iron Tangle, and teamwork of the entire guild that saved me from being zero-out along with all the other top crawlers at the Butcher’s Masquerade.

The sudden and unexpected destruction of the seventh floor had been the final straw. For the survival of the diminishing Team Torguud, this alliance was our best chance of reaching the tenth floor, so we committed and joined the fold of Guild Safehome Yolanda at the start of the eighth floor.

Safety in numbers, even if those numbers were as erratic as the guild’s roster.

Joining the guild hadn’t been too difficult, Imani had extended an invite ever since we fought together on the Iron Tangle, and I was well-known and liked by most of the guild. There had been some dissent however—a single outspoken individual.

Carl: So, you’re in Cuba.

Ren: It was the only option with keys, I am sorry. Please don’t tell—

My message was interrupted by another, written in all caps, shouting in my head.

Donut: YOU TRAITOROUS BITCH. I KNEW YOU WOULD SHOW YOUR TRUE COLORS. I WARNED THEM YOU WOULD DO THIS, I TOLD THEM TO NEVER TRUST A DOG. YOU HAVE BROUGHT SHAME AND FLEAS INTO OUR GUILDHALL. WHEN WE GET TO YOU, I WOULD FEED YOU TO MONGO AND CARL WILL BLOW UP YOU UGLY PET MEATBALL TO SMITHEREENS. WE—

Carl: We will do no such thing. Ren didn’t have a choice.

Donut: HOW CAN YOU SIDE WITH HER? SHE’S CLEARLY HER TO HUMILIATE ME AGAIN. SHE COULDN'T GET HER OWN KEY SO SHE GOING TO CHEAT AND STEAL OURS.

Ren: You're correct, I’m here because of you, Donut. The showrunners forced me to come here because they want us to fight.

Donut: IT’S NOT GOING TO BE MUCH OF A FIGHT, CARL AND I WILL UTTERLY ANNIHILATE YOU.

Ren: Donut, there is a second key in Cuba. Doesn’t it belong to the nun you wouldn’t shut up about? We can work together to take it from her.

Donut: I MUCH RATHER SEE THE BOTH OF YOU DIE ON THIS FLOOR. THE DUNGEON WOULD BE A BETTER PLACE WITHOUT EITHER OF YOU.

Carl: Donut, enough! Ren is our ally. Ren, Elle is making a headcount of everyone in the guild. Make sure you message her. Tell her what is going on.

Ren: Will do.

I closed the chat window before I was forced to listen to more Donut yelling, which made my ears ring. Donut was Carl’s teammate, and she was also Carl’s pet cat. Due to alien technology indistinguishable from magic, Princess Donut, a show-winning tortoiseshell Persian, was turned sapient by an Enhanced Pet Biscuit. Not only was Donut now one of the top crawlers in the dungeon, she was one of the most popular individuals in the entire universe.

She was also the bane of my existence.

At the ripe age of five years old, she had the maturity of a child, yet possessed a superhuman intelligence, and the destructive power of an attack helicopter. Despite her charming appearance, the cat held a deep-seated, almost instinctual, hatred for me. I was, in her eyes, the most vile of creatures.

I was a dog.

Upon reaching the third floor, all crawlers were given the option to choose a race and class. Many, like Khulan and Chuluuna, had chosen to stay human. I, however, chose to become a Dog Soldier. Despite the name, it was actually a type of Gnoll, a canid alien race common throughout the universe. However, for this iteration of the dungeon, Dungeon Crawler World: Earth, a special variant of Gnoll was created that resembled the canines common to our planet. Unlike the more common hyena-looking Shade Gnolls, my appearance was more akin to a humanoid German shepherd.

But for all intents and purposes, I was a dog, and Donut hated dogs. She had even threatened to leave the guild after they voted to let my team join, but Carl and Donut’s manager, Mordecai, had talked her out of it. While they had abstained from the vote, due to a conflict of interest, they voiced their support for the guild's decision. Albeit privately.

What kickstarted the conflict between us had been the battle on the Iron Tangle. In the tight and narrow corridors of the subterranean railway network, against the tentacled hordes of juvenile Krackarens, my flamethrower proved superior to Donut’s Magic Missiles. While my focus had been purely on survival, Donut had perceived my prowess as a slight: a theatrical attempt to undermine her, to steal her spotlight, and, worst of all, the adoration of her fans. She had lashed out, accusing me of sabotaging the progress of her and other fellow crawlers, of stealing their kills and hogging their experience.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

I had stolen some of Donut’s kills, but only after she had made a scene, and Donut had raged to the point that Carl had to step in, chastising her like she was some spoiled child. That was my first interaction with Donut; me pissing her off and making her look like a fool. All in front of the entire universe.

The aftermath of our initial clash spiraled out of control faster than I could have anticipated. The next day's recap episode branded me “The New Nemesis of the Court of Princess Donut", and the media frenzy didn’t stop there. Every interview and fan Q&A session recycled the same story, painting our spat as the dawn of an epic rivalry. At first, I just brushed off these claims as sensationalist fluff—temporary headlines soon to be forgotten. Just tabloids by another name, but just as insubstantial.

But Donut, fueled by instinct and pride, harbored a grudge that neither time nor reason could alleviate. Her fans, loyal and fervent, echoed her sentiments, transforming our trivial conflict into a spectacle of intergalactic proportions. My participation, unwitting as it was, had turned me into a central figure in the universe’s most watched drama.

It had been Odette, a former crawler and renowned talk show host, that had given me the raw numbers—the absolute size of the hornets nest I had kicked. My viewer metrics were respectable compared to the average crawler. My time as a fashion model taught me the art of stage presence, and I had a sense for theatrics: a skillset that proved invaluable in the entertainment driven dungeon. Yet, after my encounter with Donut, my number of viewers went stratospheric, dwarfing anything I had attained prior. The allure of a dog versus cat showdown, set against the backdrop of a deadly game, was irresistible to the audience.

But, as Odette had put it, I was playing with fire.

The massive influx of new fans were split into two extremes. Team Homeward Bound, consisting of Donut’s admirers and my original supporters, reveled in the personal drama and the narrative we had inadvertently wove. They were less concerned with the brutality of the Crawl and more captivated by the unfolding soap opera, seeing us as the ultimate fashion rivals due to our shared past sponsorship with Princess D’Nadia, an intergalactic fashion designer.

Conversely, the second faction, called The Huns, thrived on chaos. Regardless of their feelings towards Donut, they cheered for my more destructive tactics, and loved my flamethrower. They wanted me to use it on the cat, and even eat her: Operation Deep-Fried Donut, they call it. While I didn't normally advocate for ostracizing one's fans, it would have served me well to ignore them. But, they were the outspoken majority and they were the ones the showrunners paid attention to. So, it was The Huns who steered my narrative.

I will say this once: I am not a pyromaniac by choice.

Yet, despite the overwhelming clamor, the influence of my fanbase paled in comparison to the tidal wave of support for Donut. Her followers had achieved what seemed impossible: they'd amassed enough resources to secure a spot for Carl and Donut in Faction Wars, a competition amongst elites that demanded astronomical wealth. Enough to buy a small star system. With this power, Carl was no longer just playing the game; he was trying to rewriting its rules. By seeking to dismantle protections for offworlders, he planned to hold those responsible for our planet's demise accountable. He was going to kill them all, leaders and rulers of entire nations, live on the most watched intergalactic television show.

As reluctant as I was to entertain my adversary relationship with Donut, I had to acknowledge the utility of our manufactured rivalry. It was a tool, one that could rally our combined fanbases to perform miracles. If channeling their zeal could advance my goals of escape and seek retribution, then I was prepared to play the part.

Elle: Ren, why is Donut blowing up my chat?

I had muted my direct line to Donut ever since our first encounter, confining her trash-talk to the moderated group channels. I had my team do the same to shield them from the crossfire. But Donut could still play a game of telephone.

Ren: Because my team is in Cuba.

Elle: Well, hell. Is everyone vacationing in Cuba? Did you get fucked over or did Donut finally make you snap?

Ren: It was the only zone with keys, and there are two of them here. I am going to work with her and Carl to go after Sister Ines for her key.

Before the collapse, Sister Ines Quiteria had been dubbed the Reaper of Havana for poisoning her entire cloister. She had been serving a life sentence when the world ended, and now she possessed the second key. I despised her because of what she had done to her teammate Paz, someone I considered a friend. Ines and I had worked together briefly on the sixth floor, before I knew about her past, and before I know how insane she was. But her other teammates, the cousins Paz and Anton, had been friendly enough.

Donut despised Ines because of her racial choice. Ines was a Catgirl—a blasphemy in Donut’s eyes. Ines and I had been able to work together despite our racial choices because, after all, we were adults.

Elle: As much as I would love to see the two of you bonding over killing a nun, we got a bigger problem. Imani is also in Cuba. They pulled a similar stunt on her. She’s at Ines's exit.

It took me a moment to parse what Elle just said, and I felt heavy with the realization.

Ren: Oh no. No, no, no.

If Imani was in Cuba, then there was no chance my squad and I were getting off this floor.

I knew that, like me, Imani hadn’t retrieved her key. Her entire squad had been wiped out before reaching her Keyholder, whom she never ended up fighting. A decision that likely saved her from an early exit. The whole guild would be working to get her off this floor. We needed her as much as we needed Carl.

If Carl was our sword, Imani was our shield.

Imani was a healer before the collapse, a nurse, and she was a healer now. A healer and a leader. She, along with her team, Team Meadowlark, composed of several formerly elderly patients from Imani’s facility, were instrumental in the survival of countless crawlers throughout the dungeon. During the battle in the Iron Tangle, Imani and her team were on the front lines, directing combat, healing the wounded, and protecting the vulnerable. During the Butcher’s Masquerade, Imani mass heals had saved my life and the lives of many other crawlers. Her presence alone minimized casualties and boasted our morale. I had been scared out of my damned wits every time, barely able to think, and just as likely to injury allies as our enemies. Yet Imani had walked amidst the chaos, a calm light in a raging storm.

The guild needed her—we all needed her.

But now, the showrunners' machinations were clear. With only two keys and three allied squads, this setup was designed to force a brutal decision. One that would fall to me and Carl. Imani was stuck at the church exit in order to prevent Ines from reaching the stairwell and descending to the next floor. Only Carl, Donut, and my team would be free to roam. Even if we worked together to take down Ines, we’d be faced with the decision of who got her key—my team or Imani.

With the weight of the guild on his conscience, and Donut on his shoulder, by his ear, it was obvious who Carl would choose. For me it was a seemingly impossible choice: in order to save my team, my family, I would have to fight, and possibly kill, the very person who might be our best chance at escape.

But that was how this stage was set. The showrunners had all the pieces in place for the final showdown. They had backed my team into a corner where the only way out was through Carl and Donut. The showrunners and the dungeon AI running the show didn’t care about the outcome of my fight with Carl and Donut. Whether I won or lost didn’t matter, as long as it was a spectacle.

But that wasn’t the case for the factions or my sponsor.

They wanted Carl dead.

Carl’s disruption to the game and the threat he posed to the elite offworlders playing in Faction Wars, had painted a target on his head. They had attempted to kill him multiple times and had failed. The dungeon AI wouldn’t allow Carl to be killed outright by administrative action, so anyone who wanted Carl dead had to use other crawlers to do the job.

Crawlers like me.

Fighting Carl and Donut hadn’t been something I considered an option. It wasn’t just a question of motivation, but of means. Donut and Carl were current the number two and three crawlers in the dungeon, and fighting them would be suicide.

But that equilibrium had recently changed because of my sponsor, Princess D’Nadia, now an empress, had recently joined the Faction Wars.

For whatever reason, the showrunners had allowed her to remain my sponsor, despite her direct participation in the Crawl. She wanted Carl and Donut dead, but she had already tried and failed using the Emergency Actions given to her as a Faction Warlord. I was to be her solution, her champion. She had given me the means to kill Carl and a promise to protect me and my team during Faction Wars should I succeed.

I had needed Carl and the guild because they were the best chance I had at saving Khulan and Chuluuna, my family. But now it was becoming clear it would be us or them and I was not going to abandon the ones I swore to myself to protect.

It wasn’t disloyalty driving my decision, quite the opposite. Vengeance against the Factions was secondary. Saving my family was everything.

But even if I was forced to kill Carl and Donut, I would, at the very least, try to save Imani. She, if anyone, deserved to survive.

My thoughts were interrupted by a message from Elle.

Elle: Don’t go roasting Carl and Donut just yet, even if they deserve it. Carl thinks he has a way to get both of your team and Imani down the stairs, and himself as well. Don’t know how that's possible, but sounds par for a Carl Plan.

It was like she had a sixth sense. I didn’t know if it was her race or the 99 years under her belt, but Elle’s intuition was startling. Just as startling as hearing the two words I had come to dread.

Another Carl Plan.

Of course Carl would have a plan. Every floor, he had a one, and every floor things only escalated. Everything he did demanded higher stakes and greater spectacle. Not that that was ever his intention, but being a top dungeon crawler, it was just the price of fame. This was always going to be his stage; my team and I were the extras who would be clinging on for dear life.

There was just one more missing piece.

Ren: Do we know who the fifth squad is, and whether they are a threat?

Elle: Yeah, Imani just spotted him. It’s your old friend Quan Ch.

That motherfucker, I thought. The situation was becoming eerily similar to the fifth floor all over again. Quan had almost killed me, Carl, and over 200 others crawlers, all for a goddamned loot box. Since the third floor, he had been a thorn in our collective sides, but had recently taken it upon himself to kill every crawler he came across.

A thought occurred to me.

Ren: Where is Quan now?

Elle: He’s not at the church anymore; he took off after Imani ducked into the saferoom. My money is on him booking it for Carl. But you should be ready in case he decided to hide by Carl’s exit.

Elle’s speculation made sense. Quan had a vendetta against Carl and Donut, but his presence in Cuba was no more happenstance than my own. It was too perfect, too scripted, for this to not be the intention of the showrunners or the dungeon AI.

Whatever Carl was planning it wouldn’t work if it was too simple or too clean. If it was too far from the narrative the showrunners wanted to write, or the theatrics the dungeon AI craved, things would go south fast. To much had invested in setting up countless anticipated showdowns across the dungeon. There would be brutal and messy confrontations no matter what.

Carl trying to thwart their plans wouldn’t go over well.

And that was why Quan was here.

He was a catalyst for disruption and conflict, just like he had been on the fifth floor. He was to be the wrench thrown into Carl’s plan. But, if we played our cards right, he might be the very thing that made Carl’s plan succeed.

The key was creating a spectacle.

Quan would either go after Carl directly, or wait for Carl by his exit. The exit where my team was positioned. I didn’t want to fight Carl, but Quan was a different story. He deserved to be on the other end of my flamethrower. I would gladly fight Quan and I would make it spectacular. The burning-at-the-stake kind of spectacular. Something that would appease both the showrunners and The Huns. Perhaps, even enough to let us survive until the next floor.

Imani’s presence in Cuba had derailed my plan, but with the addition of Quan, and whatever Carl was planning, there was once again a chance of success.

They’ve given this dog a bone.

There were still several moving parts in play. Ensuring Quan didn’t get to Sister Ines before Carl and take her key was vital. I need him to either find Carl first, or give up and wait for Carl’s by his exit. I had the tools to pull it off but I needed one more thing.

I needed in on the Carl Plan.

I opened the chat window again.

Ren: Carl, what’s this plan yours that Elle mentioned?

Donut: WE HAVE DECIDED THAT YOU SHOULD DO THE NOBLE THING AND DIE FOR THE GUILD. IT IS TO ONLY WAY TO UNDO THE DISHONOR YOU HAVE BROUGHT UPON US.

I switched to private chat, something I should have done earlier.

Ren: Carl? The plan?

There was a pause. He replied in the team chat.

Carl: It’s a work in progress.

Ren: Oh for fucks sake.

There was a reason I couldn’t stand the man. When there was a problem and our lives were in his hands, his solutions were always constructed at the last minute, on a whim, with duct-tape and high explosives—like goddamned improv.

It was either “yes, and” or die.

Ren: You know what, fine. We will work together on this, this time. I have Eye in the Sky scrolls, they will pinpoint Sister Ines’s location, as well as Quan’s and anyone else in all of Cuba.

Carl: That’s awesome, where did you get those?

Donut: SHE PROBABLY STOLE THEM FOR SOMEONE.

Ren: My prize for surviving the masquerade. I’ll guide you to Ines and help you avoid Quan; we’ll force him to come here. You two will fight Ines, and we will fight Quan. The viewers get their entertainment, and we don’t have to kill each other.

This time, I didn’t add.

Donut: OR HOW ABOUT AFTER WE WIPE THE FLOOR WITH THE NUN, CARL BEATS QUAN TO DEATH WITH HIS OWN ARM, AND THEN WE KICK YOUR ASS AND RID THE DUNGEON OF ANOTHER PEST.

This was a time to bite my tongue. One did not argue with a child and expect to come out on top. I told myself this every time I spoke with Donut.

Not that is often worded: I would be damned if I let this cat treat me as a doormat.

Ren: Sure, why don't you come over here and we’ll see how fireproof your fur is. I could remove it for you. Turn you into sphynx. It would be an improvement.

Donut: HA, YOU CAN’T EVEN CAST A SINGLE SPELL WITHOUT SETTING YOURSELF ON FIRE. TO BAD HAIR IMMEDIATELY GROWS BACK, THAT WOULD HAVE DONE US A FAVOR BECAUSE AT LEAST YOU WOULDN’T HAVE FLEAS OR SMELL LIKE WET DOG.

Ren: At least I don’t need autotune to cast bard spells.

Donut: YIPPING AND BARKING AREN’T SPELLS, STOP KIDDING YOURSELF.

Donut was actually wrong about that, but I kept that to myself.

Carl interrupted.

Carl: We will not be fighting each other, and I will not beat Quan with his arm.

Donut: THEN WHY DO YOU STILL HAVE IT IF YOU WEREN’T GOING TO BEAT HIM WITH IT. I PROMISED OUR VIEWERS YOU WOULD. THEY ARE LOOKING FOR IT.

Ren: I hate to agree with Donut, but she has a point. Regardless of who you are up against, it needs to be a spectacle. The showrunners aren’t going to let us off this floor without some excitement.

Donut: JUST LEAVE IT TO THE PROFESSIONALS. I’D INVITE YOU TO WATCH, BUT WE ALL KNOW OLD DOGS CAN’T LEARN NEW TRICKS.

Ren: Hey, I’ve been acting and modeling for longer than you’ve been alive. Your popularity was a fluke, mine was deliberate.

Donut: CLEARLY THAT’S A LIE. IF YOU WERE SOME KIND OF CELEBRITY THEN YOU WOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN TURNING YOURSELVES INTO SUCH A DISGUSTING CREATURE. THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO LIKE YOU ARE EITHER MISGUIDED PET-OWNERS OR THE CREEPS THAT FIND FURRY ANIMALS SEXUALLY ATTRACTIVE.

Carl: Can we not talk about this?

Carl messaged me in our private chat.

Carl: I know Donut is being rude, and am doing my best to keep her polite, but I can’t do that if you keep antagonizing her. I don’t mean to be an ass, but she is a cat, and you’re an adult.

I took a deep breath.

Ren: I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m just stressed and she kept getting under my damn skin. Like, why is she even like this? Was she this way before the dungeon transformed her?

There was a long pause.

Carl: Yep, pretty much.