It had the same smell, old cigarettes and stale beer.

Suddenly I was eighteen again, and trying to find out if my dad was cheating on my mother. He'd dropped me off at the dorm rooms, but he hadn't headed home. Instead, I’d followed him in a cab who’d dropped me off down the block. The cabby warned me about the neighborhood, but had let me go without a charge. I’d entered this Dive Bar ready to catch him with another woman. Yet, all that greeted me were block letters over everyone's heads, a bright level 15 hovering over my dad’s and a wild story that I didn't quite believe.

Now I was back here. His heart would break if it was still beating.

After I pushed the door open, I resisted the urge to wipe my hand on my dark jeans. The feeling of grease stayed on my finger tips, no matter how I wiped them. The dive bar in front of me wasn't anything special, except being a bit more run-down than most. The room wasn't big, and I was glad to see there weren't too many people inside. The room was compact, dimly lit with dark corner booths and dusty, high backed stools with circular cutouts for asses. Further inspection revealed that the clientele were mostly regulars, paying attention to what was in their glasses and not me. If I wanted a drink and not conversation, this would be the place to pick. A single TV hung from the bar, but it was muted and forgotten. The tables looked sticky with years of spilled liquids.

To my right were more booths with cracked green leather, a scattering of tables, and an old fashioned jukebox. The jukebox drew my attention, and it was hard to look away. It shown like an evil rainbow of yellow tubes, with a glass window displaying records inside. It currently wasn't playing any music, but a near inaudible hum of air, an ominous vibration, came from the area. To my left was a long wooden counter with various stickers of songs pasted to the top. Behind the bar stood a short man with a mustache and piercing eyes.

The bartender chuckled and my gaze snapped above his head, where in yellow block letters hovered:

Bob, Barkeep.

I stepped closer to the bar, keeping in mind that I didn't fit in with this crew. A few people sat in the booths, all with levels higher than mine over their heads. None of them were even close to a female college student only a semester short of graduation. The opposite were the majority, in fact; mostly older men, mixed in with a few young guys wearing punk outfits with tattoos and piercings.

In the glass behind the bar, I caught a glimpse of myself. My brown hair was pulled back and a black tank top seemed to intensify the dark circles under my eyes.

Level 1.

My eyes wide at the sight of myself in the mirror, I looked terrified. Instantly, I tried to school my expression to one of confidence. Again, I stepped closer to the bar, feeling robotic in my motions as I tried to act like I knew what I was doing. I had to get close enough to talk to the guy, and do what I’d come here to do.

"What can I get you?" asked Bob. His dark eyes stayed on me.

"Whiskey on the rocks." I was barely old enough to drink, and usually kept it to non-alcoholic beverages in public. This didn’t seem like the type of place where that would fly, though.

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He nodded and set a glass on the counter like he’d been expecting my response. In it he dropped a ball of ice, perfectly round and perfectly clear. Then he poured a deep amber liquid before sliding the glass across the bar to me.

But that was it. "I need a token," I added, "To dive."

Again he chuckled, and from over my shoulder I heard whispers. Someone mentioned a new Diver and I fought to keep my eyes on the drink. I didn't need to see their doubt. I had plenty of my own.

"Why does Danny's daughter need a token?"

I froze. How did he know who I was? I'd only been in here that once, and it’d been just over three years ago. I hadn't been sure I'd remember where the place was, but as soon as I got off the light rail I’d walked to it like it was a normal thing. How did he remember me?

"It's Alex, and my dad died three weeks ago," I replied as my chest tightened. I fought to keep emotion out of my voice. The whispers behind me cut off. "A drunk driver crashed into him when he was jogging in the morning. Gone, just like that."

"Danny's dead?!" The question was loud and all I could do was nod at the guy who appeared at my shoulder. He stood tall, about my dad's age, and his brown eyes flickered over me. Yet, all I could look at was the Level 21 hovering over him.

"Yeah." I nodded. "He's gone." The funeral had been a quick affair, my mom didn't know how to contact anyone from his work and I hadn’t had the courage to come here until today. Until I didn't have a choice.

"Didn't he leave an insurance policy?" asked Bob.

I resisted the urge to snap at him. "He did, but it’s not enough to cover my last semester of tuition," I replied. The words tumbled from my lips like I’d already had a few drinks. I blinked, wondering why I’d said all that. I wasn't here to spill my story, just get a token, win, and use the money to pay my bills. Then never step inside again. My mom needed the rest of the insurance money for my younger brothers, who were still in high school. I couldn't ask her for it.

Bob's hand moved next to my drink and the sound of metal hitting the countertop almost made me jump. A token sat next to my drink when he pulled his hand anyway.

"Bob, she shouldn't go in there," said the guy at level 21. He leaned against the counter, but didn't reach for the token. "Come on, if I had a daughter… I wouldn't want this."

The barkeep's dark eyes stayed on me. Whatever he saw in my face didn't change his mind. "Her business is her own," he said to the guy next to me. To me he smiled. "The longer you wait, the harder it will be."

I left the drink there, and snagged the token. It felt heavy and cool to the touch as I held it tightly in my hand. Then I stood in front of the glowing machine, leaning away from it unintentionally. Time to find out if this was all just a story, or if what my dad said was true. I slid the token in and the air around me suddenly grew cold, like the jukebox became an air conditioner. I heard the token hit the bottom of the money drawer, the clatter as it fell against other tokens. The buttons on the machine glowed. I didn't know many of the songs, and they all had various numbers on them.

"You might want to look at Welcome to the Jungle," whispered a deep voice right next to my ear.

I glanced over my shoulder but only saw Bob drying a glass, still behind the bar. My whiskey sat on the counter. The Level 21 had a sad look on his face, watching me from a stool, drink in hand. I turned back to the box and quickly flipped to that record.

First Press, Welcome to the Jungle by Guns and Roses.

I hit play. The record moved, held up by a metal arm before settling down on the turntable. The arm with the needle moved over then touched the vinyl. A shiver traveled up my spine. A countdown timer appeared in the upper corner of my screen. It started at five minutes.

The level 21 guy pointed at the bathroom door. The out of order sign was old and worn, the edges torn and frayed. The floor in front of the door was dark with rust coloured grime.

I nodded and swallowed, my mouth dry as sandpaper. Eyes stared at me from different booths, and all I could hear was the song. It was one my dad used to play and sing along to at the top of his lungs. He’d been a pretty good singer, but I pushed those memories away as I pushed open the bathroom door.

The air smelled old and damp, then suddenly the cigarette smell vanished, and so did the bar.