After several days of steady crafting, I step away with a grin at my nearly complete arsenal arrayed on the workbench in the basement. A dozen pipe bombs separated from their fuses snuggle next to a dozen more capped glass bottles of napalm. Throwing daggers lie next to a flask of phenol, ready to be dipped for fast acting lethality. Next to said daggers is a carefully grooved pipe Zip-rifle missing the easily attached handle. The handle sits with seven makeshift bullets of probably only the first four or five shots will have any degree of reliable accuracy.

Tucked under the table are assorted, single-use shotguns, mostly sawed-off trial versions of my rifle with smoothed out bores, but with a few custom, large bore models for all your ‘fuck off!’ needs… including your joints if you’re not prepared.

“Well, looks like this will have to do for now.” I say aloud.

“Quasi, are you here?” I hear Cillian ask.

I turn towards his voice.

“Over here, be careful not to trip!” I yell to the Scot.

I hear him slowly make his way to me. He halts suddenly when he reaches the flickering pool of light illuminating the table.

“Shite,” he curses, “you’re actually serious? Are those-”

“-Bombs? Yup.”

He swallows. “If this all blows, you could take the whole building down.”

I snort. “No, no, this place is made from steel and reinforced concrete. You’d need a bunker-buster to take down these walls, not just these little toys.”

I grab a nearby rag and wipe my hands.

“So, why are you here?” I ask.

“Um,” he pauses, “I wanted to remind you that your fight is in two hours.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Are you betting on me or against me?”

The Scot blushes, “That’s not important. I’m just hopin’ to see you get at the bear,” he pauses, “for reasons.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re going to lose,” I warn, “but that's fine. Boriss is putting all of his and my passes on me, so I’ll be glad to take yours.”

He pouts, “Kid, I like ya, I really do, but you ain’t got no chance against Tibbers. Bigger and stronger men have tried and failed.”

“Boriss won,” I point out.

“Boriss almost died!” Cillian counters, “the crazy Russian only won cause he got on the bear's back and suffocated it while it violently rolled around until it passed out. He was bedridden for months afterwards. I don’t think you’re going to be that lucky. Just hope it doesn't finish you off.”

I sigh, “You know what? Just make sure you watch my fight.” I lean down and pick up my rapier. “Then I can pity you properly later.”

I walk past him. I enter the elevator, ride to the main floor, and make my way to the yard.

“Good luck with your fight.”

“Don't die too badly.”

Fritz and Frieddrich say as I pass them.

When I enter the yard, I am met with probably the only person who has confidence in me.

“Comrade Quasi, is good to see you.”

The Russian man, clad in scale and resting a warhammer on his shoulder grins down at me.

“Boriss, how long have you been waiting here?”

He waves his hand, “Is only three hours. Little time. How you? Ready to make bear suka?”

I grin back at the Russians infectious grin, “Sure am. When I’m done, that bear won’t be munching carpet, it will be carpet.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Is fine.” he waves again. “Suka is suka. Dead suka is less headache.”

“Right,” I start walking towards the pits. “Did you put all the bets on me?”

“Da,” he matches my pace. “All is on you,” he taps his hammer, “after win, we fight jealous gamblers.”

“You’re expecting a fight? Really?”

He nods. “Is normal. Many gamblers are like children. They need good spanking from strong mother.” He practice swings his hammer with familiar ease.

“Right. I wasn’t planning on getting into a fight after the bear, but it shouldn't be a prob-”

I stop walking as the air shifts. The lights all turn off at once and smothers everything in darkness. Then, after a moment, a quarter of them turn back on.

“Shit,” I curse as I feel a pressure descend on my soul.

Congratulations denizens of Downside! Your city has been magnanimously selected as a testing ground for the God Games.

For this test, your goal is to escape the city while fending off the Fenriromorphs! Don’t let their soft, fuzzy, beguiling countenances fool you, these cute pups put the `invasive` in `invasive species`.

The test begins now. Good Luck, and God Speed!

The moment I finish reading, the message disappears and I hear growling in the distance. Then I hear screaming.

Chaos explodes all around us. Prisoners run helter-skelter. Some arm themselves, some try and hide, more than a few rush the exits.

“Comrade Quasi,” I hear Boriss say my name. I look at him, and then follow his finger. In the distance, seven feet tall and bristling with muscle, stands a brown furred, bipedal wolf with a spiked tail, six eyes, and two twelve-inch horns pointing sky- or rather- ceiling-wards.

“Well, I’m guessing that's a Fenriromorph.” I say aloud.

The Fenriromorph glances around, its six dark eyes study the armed and wary prisoners staring back at it. They point their weapons at the monster and the monster bares its fangs.

Then, all at once, the thing pounces with unexpected speed. It grabs hold of a guy, and bites into his armored shoulder as though it was tenderest veal. The man screams as the beast rends flesh and metal from his body.

“Pity,” I deadpan, “it would have held the room together.”

The prisoners near the monster lash out with their weapons. Spears, swords, and all manner of armaments stab, slash and pound the beast. Green blood leaks slowly from the monster's wounds. The Fenriromorph roars in rage, and lashes out with its claws. The prisoners are knocked away with surprising ease. Still angry, the Fenriromorph chooses its next target and rips into him. More prisoners join the fray and slash at the Fenririmorph.

“Fuck,” I curse, “This isn’t good.”

“Da,” Boriss nods, “Angry dog. They should give nice pats on head.”

“What? No. It’s their weird green blood. If you notice the wounds, other than the initial blood splurt, the bleeding stops. These Fenriromorph can't actually bleed out.”

I watch a prisoner slam a mace into the Fenriromorphs’ side. The monster staggers, but shows no sign of injury. The thick, corded muscle of the monster seems resistant to blunt force trauma.

But for all its formidable power, the monster is only a savage beast. The prisoners keep their distance and encircle the Fenriromorph. They bide their time and attack it from the back, slowly piling up more and more damage till the beast’s limbs can no longer move. Then, with a loud, final hurrah, they crush its face with a warhammer.

With the Fenriromorph defeated, the prisoners cheer loudly at their success.

“Fuck. This is bad.” I say aloud.

“Da,” Boriss nods, “Fight take too long. They need stab brain.”

“No- well, yes. They should have focused on weak points. But the problem is that it was too easy.”

Boriss raises an eyebrow in my direction, but I instead turn towards distant sounds and the direction where prisoners are running from.

“Come on, Boriss, we’re going to go get guns. Lots of guns.”

The Russian opens his mouth, only to pause when a dozen Fenriromorph arrive and see their brethren’s corpse.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

“Move, NOW!” I yell and turn. I sprint full speed towards the entrance to the Gold District, Boriss follows right behind.

At the entrance, the old guards are now fresh corpses. Their bodies are mangled and ripped apart, their kevlar armor is shredded and their shock batons lie broken next to their remains.

Damn. I kinda liked those two.

“Eyes and ears ready,” I tell Boriss.

“Da,” he agrees, “like Russian dog.”

Entering the hallway that leads to the gold district, I find bloodprints matching the footprints of the Fenriromorphs’ digitigrade legs.

We continue through the hallways with caution. Corpses line the walls and body parts are strewn everywhere. Cautiously, we make our way to the Gasthaus building.

To my surprise, no Fenriromorphs block our path, but the corpses mutely attest to their recent passage..

“Too silent,” Borris whispers.

“Agreed.”

We continue past several side passages and arrive at the Gasthaus building.

Slowly, we open the door and enter inside.

The scent of blood permeates the reception area, and the squelching sound of blood and meat comes from behind the desk. The receptionist is dead, and a Fenririmorph hovers over his body and bites into his corpse.

The Fenriromorph’s ears flicker. It stops eating and lifts its head. The head turns in our direction.