(Dylan)

It hadn’t even been a few minutes before the stranger appeared behind Dylan.

“I’ve got a plan…” the gravelly voice startled him from behind. Dylan flinched, falling out of the chair and onto the floor. The half-soaked toga clung to him, sticking to his skin as he scrambled to his feet.

The stranger stared down at Dylan playing in the water. “But you’re not going to like it…” He walked through the hole in the wall and crouched beside White’s body.

“There’s too many of them on the ground levels.” He drew a pink crystal dagger, lifted White’s hand, and cut at the wrist.

‘Is he taking a trophy?’ Dylan wondered. His brain wanted to look away, but curiosity wouldn’t let him.

“There’s another exit, but we’ll need a few things first,” the stranger said, working the blade through the joint and exposed bones. With growing impatience, he stepped on White’s forearm and yanked at the clawed fingers with both hands.

The hand cracked, then released with a sickening slurp as he wrenched it free from the body.

True Crime had taught Dylan that serial killers took trophies from their kills, and now he’d just watched this guy rip off a hand. Did that make him an accomplice?

“You’ll need this,” the stranger said, tossing the disembodied hand at Dylan. It smacked against his chest, splashed into the water at his feet, and left a new blue stain on his toga.

Dylan grimaced. The stranger was right—he hated this plan already.

“Place it on the slab,” the stranger pointed to the terror tube, “and tell it you want to go to the Cells.

“Oh, hell no. I’m not running around with your murder trophy,” Dylan said, pointing at the severed clawed hand floating at his feet.

“It’s a key.”

“It’s a hand,” Dylan shot back. “And I don’t even speak the language.” He’d say anything to avoid using that damn tube again.

“Speak normally. Everyone understands you fine,” the stranger said, confirming Dylan’s suspicion. He bent down again and ran his hands along White’s body, patting and searching the slain dragon’s pockets.

Dylan frowned at the hand, sighed, and bent down to pick it up.

“When you get there, use the hand to open the cell with the dead woman. Take her cloak and rings. The rest of her gear won’t fit you,” the stranger said, finishing with White’s corpse. He raised his voice as he walked down the hall toward the garroted elf.

Dylan cringed at the thought of stealing from the dead. It felt wrong. How could this guy be so casual about looting corpses? ‘Oh, right, just serial killers doing serial killer things…’ Dylan thought.

“I mean it, Dylan. The cloak and the rings,” the stranger called out from down the hall.

‘How does he know my name?’ Dylan froze. He didn’t remember telling it to anyone.

“After you’re done, get to the Ground floor,” the stranger called over his shoulder.

Dylan groaned. “I have to use the stupid tube twice?”

Either the stranger didn’t hear him or just ignored him. After finishing with the elf, he stepped over the shirtless body and into the closet. “What have we here…?” the stranger said, rummaging through the closet’s contents. He poked his head out and shouted, “Then, I’ll meet you on the Ground floor, and we’ll take it from there.”

‘This isn’t a plan, it’s not even half a plan. Where’s the part where we escape?’ Dylan wondered. “This won’t work…” he shouted.

“It’ll work,” said the gravelly voice.

“I really don’t think this’ll work…” Dylan shouted back.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work,” the stranger shouted, stepping out of the closet and into view. Dylan didn’t like the way he said that—he would’ve much preferred a more logical explanation or something warm and fuzzy to reassure him everything would be alright.

The stranger walked back over to Dylan. “Are you ready?”

Dylan sighed, slapped the disgusting keepsake on the slab, and said, “I’d like to go to the Cells, please.”

Ding! He really hated that sound. The curved doors slid open, and Bronze leaped at him. Dylan screamed, dodging instinctively. She collapsed face down at his feet. He stared at her unmoving body, trying not to hyperventilate. A pink crystal dagger jutted from her spine, and her back was riddled with stab wounds.

“Oh yeah, forgot about that one,” the stranger said.

“What the fuck, man?” Dylan snapped. “Do all your solutions involve killing people?” He was glad his toga was still drip drying; it hid the fact he’d just pissed himself.

The stranger placed a hand on his chin, contemplating. He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned over, wrapped his fingers around the exposed handle, and yanked it free. Wiping the blood off on Bronze’s corpse, he flipped the dagger handle-first and offered it to Dylan.

“I’ll see you at the top,” the stranger said, slapping him on the shoulder.

“You’re not coming with—” The stranger vanished again, leaving Dylan alone in the empty hallway, clutching a pink dagger in one hand and a dripping severed hand in the other. He sighed and stepped into the stupid terror tube. As the doors closed behind him, he sank into a fetal position, burying his face in his knees. His screams echoed in the shaft as it whisked him away to the Cells.

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The doors couldn’t open fast enough. Dylan scrambled out of the tube and quickly checked his surroundings. It was exactly as he’d left it—only one cell was occupied. He walked over and plopped the morbid token onto the control slab.

‘Why put her in a cell?’ Dylan wondered. What was she going to do—get up and walk away? Then he remembered: he’d died twice since arriving. This was a land of dragons, murder-hobos, and magic; necromancy was probably a thing here. Extra precautions made sense.

The cell opened with the usual fanfare of shink and thunk. Dylan knelt over the woman, paused, and muttered, “Goddamnit.”

He gently leaned her forward to pull up the cloak, which had bunched up behind her when Bronze tossed her down like a bag of garbage. Slipping the orange cloak over her head, he carefully laid her back into her final resting place.

Disgusted with himself, he glanced down at her boots, then at his own bare feet. Reaching under one heel, he pulled off the boot with his free hand. The supple leather slipped off with little effort. “She doesn’t need them anymore,” he said, trying to ease his conscience.

“Thank you,” he whispered. A quiver trembled across his lip, and he wiped a tear from his eye. Fighting the urge to cry, he struggled to understand his profound sense of loss for someone he didn’t know. This was the fourth body he’d seen in the past half hour, yet she was the only one who stirred something inside him.

Was it because she looked human—like him? Or because she’d been the first person he met after arriving? He shrugged. Maybe it was simply that he finally had a moment alone, without distractions, to process everything.

Drained by adrenaline, his body trembled, and tears welled up despite his best efforts. Recent experiences had shown him just how fragile life was. Unable to stop himself, he glanced down at her hands. Someone had already stolen most of her rings, leaving behind pale, naked bands on her fingers. Only one ring remained.

She was someone’s daughter. She might’ve been someone’s sister, mother, or wife. He stared at the remaining ring on her thumb.

‘There’s no way I’m taking that ring.’ It would be too much. He didn’t know when, or even if, her friends and family would learn she was gone. A heavy sadness settled over him.

He bowed his head as he slipped on the cloak, finally letting his emotions spill over. Even if it was only for a minute, even if it was just the tears of a stranger, someone should mourn for her. So, he did. At least one person would know she was gone. Sniffles and sobs filled the cell as he cried.

After a few minutes, Dylan wiped the tears from his face. He stood and, one leg at a time, slipped on her boots. They were a size too small, but the leather stretched enough to fit

‘Yuck,’ he thought. Shoes without socks just felt wrong. The woman had been wearing socks, but they fit snugly around her smaller feet—no way they’d fit him. He’d just have to deal with gross, sweaty feet.

He walked past the cell control slab, where White’s ghastly remains were still displayed on the commandeered pedestal. Begrudgingly, he grabbed the severed hand and used it to call the terror tube one last time.

“Take me to the Ground floor, please.” Dylan noticed pockets inside the cloak—empty. The jewelry thief must have pilfered those too. He found a sheath stitched into the fabric, perfect for holding his new dagger. Stowing his only weapon, he waited for his ride.

Ding! The curved doors slid open, inviting him inside. Content with his new-to-him shoes, cloak, and dagger, he had briefly forgotten his disdain for the terror tube—until the wall slid down and stole his calm. With nothing to hold on to, he collapsed onto the disk, yelling and cursing his way to the Ground floor.

Ding! The terror tube opened, revealing the stranger waiting for him. Dylan scrambled out, still on his stomach, not bothering to stand before escaping the dreadful thing.

“Take your stupid souvenir,” Dylan grumbled, holding out the clawed hand.

The stranger snatched it from him and, unbelievably, shoved it into his pants pocket. Dylan shuddered at the thought of the disgusting, rotting hand sitting in there.

“Put the ring on,” the stranger said, noticing Dylan’s bare fingers.

“I didn’t take it.”

The stranger closed his eyes and mumbled, “Next time we’re getting it off the elf.”

Before Dylan could ask any clarifying questions, the stranger walked past him toward the spiral staircase on their right. It wrapped around the terror tube and ascended, but didn’t go down. The stranger took the first step without slowing. Not wanting to be left behind, Dylan hurried after him. “Why are you helping me?” he asked.

“I’ve got little time left,” the stranger said. He stopped abruptly, swinging his arm out to shove Dylan against the wall and cover his mouth. The staircase leveled out to allow access to the second floor before continuing its spiral upward.

Dylan stood pinned to the wall by the stranger’s fingers pressing against his lips. He could hear a pair of elves arguing at the end of the hallway.

The stranger brought a finger to his mask. Dylan nodded, understanding the need for silence. The stranger motioned for him to cross first. Dylan made it across without incident, and the stranger took the lead, continuing their climb to the fifth and final floor.

A door at the top of the staircase led out to a balcony overlooking the compound. The stranger opened it and stepped into the night. Dylan followed, walking to the railing and looking down. They were much higher than a typical five-story building, but then he remembered each floor had unusually high ceilings.

“Over there,” the stranger said, pointing a few hundred yards out. “That’s the main road. Follow it that way.”

The tall black fence was the only major obstacle between them and freedom. Dylan noticed a large lake just past the road. A loud commotion caught his attention from the other side of the balcony. The sky was still lit by multicolored fires, illuminating the night. He knew what that scene looked like—he never wanted to see it again.

The stranger placed a boot on the railing and hoisted himself up, balancing easily.

“What are you doing?” Dylan asked, realizing the only way up or down was through the doors they’d just come through. “Are you going to jump?” His voice was heavy with concern.

“We’re going to jump,” the stranger corrected him.

“What do you mean, we’re going to jump?” Dylan asked, leaning over the railing, half-expecting to see a haystack for their leap of faith.

“We’ll use the cloaks to glide down safely.”

Dylan looked down, grabbed the bottom of his cloak, and held it up. “I can fly with this?” he asked, incredulous.

The stranger shook his head. “No, more like falling slowly.” He held out his hand to Dylan.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Dylan said, stepping back from the outstretched hand.

“You can do it,” the stranger said. Something in his tone convinced Dylan to believe him. “I’ll be with you the entire time.”

Dylan took his hand, and the stranger pulled him up onto the railing. Dylan’s arms flailed as he fought to keep his balance. The stranger steadied him and said, “Cover your mouth with your other hand.”

“Why?” Dylan asked, unable to take his eyes off the ground.

“I heard you in the Geolift,” the stranger said. “Surprised everyone didn’t.”

“Fine,” Dylan muttered, pressing his free hand tightly over his mouth.

Without even counting, that crazy fucker gripped Dylan’s hand tight and leaped, dragging him along.

The stranger had been right once again, about the cloaks and Dylan; he screamed into his hand the entire time, but it worked. While they weren’t falling quickly, the stranger had failed to mention they’d pick up gliding speed. Then a shimmer appeared around them.

“Goddamnit,” the stranger cursed. Dylan’s heart skipped a beat as fear lanced through him—was something wrong with the cloaks? The world around them distorted, like an old television. A human-sized gash tore open in front of them, and Dylan could’ve sworn he glimpsed the fabric of space and time on the other side.

One moment later, Dylan’s hand was empty. The stranger had vanished, along with the spatial distortions. Everything returned to normal—except Dylan was now alone, gliding over a hostile compound filled with fantasy creatures, dozens of yards above the ground.

Dylan continued to pick up speed, screaming into his hand.

‘He lied to me…’