After the encounter with the Fleshball, I was battered and bleeding, my clothes torn and my body aching from the struggle. The stench of gasoline clung to me, reminding me I’d just blown up the gas station and probably the diner as well, with Nadine still inside. Despite her seemingly kind demeanor, I couldn’t forget the cherry pie with the human eyeball in it, or her nonchalant reaction to my horror.

“She’s just an NPC,” I muttered to myself as I drove along the highway, maintaining a steady 60 mph. “She’s part of the scenery. She doesn’t matter.”

I couldn’t deny the morals I’d clung to in my previous life were slipping away in this new, brutal existence. How could they not, when survival depended on killing? That was the whole point, no doubt. The showrunners and the Overseers took pleasure in forcing contestants to abandon their morals, to become the very monsters they were fighting against.

But even if the very notion of human morals was a fabricated lie, I would persist, if only out of sheer spite. I would be the monster the Overseers created, the one who would turn on its creators and tear out their throats. If some other monster didn’t tear out mine first, that is.

Pressing harder on the gas, I propelled the Charger faster up the highway as other vehicles occasionally sped past me, driven by the wretched souls of the Drifter’s past victims.

After a while, it felt like I was driving in a surreal dream. The radio continued to churn out haunting songs from the 80s, and in between the DJ talked about how dark and dangerous it was out there.

“Watch out for the fire at the gas station,” she said in her low voice. “Seems like someone burned up the Drifter’s Fleshball, and I don’t imagine he’ll be happy at that.” She paused, and I swallowed at the ominous silence. “There will be repercussions, listeners, so watch out.”

Repercussions, I thought. What’s new? There’s always repercussions no matter what you do. Even if I hadn’t killed that monster, I still would’ve suffered somehow.

I rubbed my eyes, which were stinging with tiredness, the monotony of the highway lulling me toward sleepiness… until I suddenly saw someone standing in the middle of the road up ahead—a tall figure silhouetted against the lighting flashing behind them.

The Charger’s tires screeched in protest as I yanked the wheel, the car fishtailing wildly on the slick, rain-soaked asphalt. The world outside the windshield became a blur of darkness and flashing lightning, the highway twisting and turning, disorientating me. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white with the force of my grip, but it was no use. The car was out of control, a two-ton beast careening toward an inevitable impact.

“Fuck…”

The first skid sent the Charger into a spin, the back end swinging out wide and clipping the guardrail with a sickening, metallic crunch. The impact jarred me, sending a shockwave of pain through my body, but I had no time to react. The car continued to spin, the tires screaming against the road, the smell of burning rubber filling the air.

And then, with a sudden, violent lurch, the Charger flipped over. The world turned upside down, the roof of the car crumpling inward as it hit the ground with a deafening, bone-jarring thud. The windshield exploded into a web of cracks, shards of glass raining down on me.

The car rolled, once, twice, three times, each impact sending a fresh wave of pain coursing through my body. I was thrown around the interior like a rag doll, my limbs flailing, my head slamming against the door, the roof, the dashboard. The seatbelt cut into my chest, the force of the impacts threatening to crush the very breath from my lungs.

Then finally, with a last, shuddering groan, the Charger came to a rest, righting itself on its wheels. The engine sputtered and died, the sudden silence a stark contrast to the cacophony of the crash. I hung in my seat, the seatbelt the only thing keeping me upright, my body wracked with pain, my vision swimming with stars.

I groaned, the sound torn from the depths of my being, a primal, agonized cry that echoed through the wrecked interior of the car. The windshield was a spiderweb of cracks, the glass opaque and distorted, the world outside a blur of darkness and flashing lightning. I could taste blood in my mouth, feel the warm, sticky wetness of it on my face, my hands, my clothes.

And then, through the haze of pain and disorientation, I saw a figure approaching. A tall, broad-shouldered silhouette, backlit by the intermittent flashes of lightning. For a moment, I thought it was the Drifter, come to finish me off, to claim my soul for his endless, nightmarish highway.

But as the figure drew closer, I realized with a shock that it wasn’t the Drifter at all.

No, this can’t be… can it?

“D-Dad?” I said in utter disbelief.

He stood there, in the middle of the road, his features obscured by the darkness and the pouring rain. But I knew it was him, knew it with a certainty that sent fresh waves of pain through me.

What the fuck? I thought, my mind reeling out of control. This can’t be.

But why couldn’t it be? The Overseers had access to every soul who had ever lived on planet Earth and beyond, so they could slot anyone into their fucked up game if they wanted to.

And that’s clearly what they did. They slotted my father into this Trial, the fuckers.

“You okay, son?” my father asked me. He stood outside, the rain pouring down on him, wearing clothes I didn’t recognize.

Almost afraid to move, I could only stare out at him through the broken side window of the Charger. He looked exactly as I remembered him. We both shared similar features, to the point where some people often mistook us for brothers instead of father and son. Though he was bigger than me, bulkier from years of heavy weight training. The man was a beast.

“Is that… really you?” I whispered, hardly able to hear my own voice over the sound of the rain and thunder.

“It’s me, son,” he said. “Let me help you out of there.”

He yanked the door of the Charger open, and then undid my seatbelt before helping me out of the car. After the crash, I was surprised I could still stand, or that I didn’t have any major injuries aside from a few more cuts and bruises. My head was swimming though, and I found it hard to focus. Concussion, I guessed.

My father and I stood looking at one another for a moment, and then I stepped forward and hugged him, tears coming to my eyes. “I’ve missed you,” I said into his shoulder.

“I know, son. I’ve missed you, too.” He pulled back then, pushing me away slightly. “But I’m not here for a reunion.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I stared at him, about to ask him what he was talking about. But I knew already. “They sent you here to fuck with my head, didn’t they?”

He nodded grimly. “Not just that. They want me to—” He cut himself off, as if the words were too painful to say.

“I know. They want you to take me out. To kill me, so I don’t finish the Trial. Right?”

“They said if I kill you, they’ll put me someplace better.”

“You were a contestant?”

“I made it to the Sixth Circle, nearly the Seventh.”

“And after?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Motherfuckers.”

“That they are, son. I guess they screwed us from the start, didn’t they.”

I nodded. “I’m not gonna let them away with it, Dad. I’m gonna fight back.”

My father smiled as pride welled up in his eyes. He stepped forward and gripped the back of my neck with his large hand, pulling my head toward him. “That’s my boy,” he whispered. “I taught you to be a fighter, and here you are, doing just that. Now all you have to do is kill your old man and be on your way.”

Pulling from his grip, I took a step back. “Are you fucking crazy? I’m not killing you, Dad!”

“Come on now, son,” he said, a slight growl in his voice now, which only happened when he felt he needed me to see sense. “You know you don’t have a choice. You can’t advance in this Trial until you do. They have you by the balls. They have us all by the balls.”

I shook my head. “No. Go fuck yourself, I’m not killing you.”

“What difference will it make? I’m already dead.”

“You’re not! You’re standing here right now, for fuck’s sake.”

“If you knew what I was before, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

I turned away from him, gripping my head in my hands, unable to believe the situation I found myself in.

“Help me kill that Drifter fuck,” I said. “Between the two of us, we can take him down, and then—”

“Just stop!” he shouted. “Jesus, Kade, you always did have trouble accepting reality when it was staring you right in the face.”

“And what reality is that, Dad? That the Overseers can just use us like pawns? That they can force us to kill each other for their sick entertainment? So they can feed off our suffering?”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble. “Yes, Kade. That’s exactly the reality. They own us. They control everything. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can make the hard choices you need to make to survive.”

I shook my head, tears mixing with the rain on my face. “No. I won’t accept that. I won’t let them turn me into a monster.”

He gripped my shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be here, telling my son to kill me? But it’s the only way, Kade. It’s the only way for you to move forward.”

I looked into his eyes, seeing the pain and resignation reflected there. “There has to be another way,” I whispered.

He shook his head. “There isn’t. I’ve been where you are, remember? I’ve fought against the system, and I lost. I won’t let you make the same mistakes.”

I felt a sob rise in my chest, a raw, primal sound that tore at my throat. “I can’t, Dad. I can’t kill you.”

My father sighed then, and I saw the look on his face change. He shut his eyes tight for a second, and when he opened them again, I saw the pain and rage in them. Then he said slowly, “If you’re not going to kill me, then I’m going to kill you, son.”

I could only stand there in shock, hearing words come from my father’s mouth that no son should ever have to hear. “Dad—”

His first punch hit me on the face, crushing my nose with his massive knuckles. The force of it drove me back against the Charger.

My father stood there, his barrel chest heaving, rain streaming down his face, mixing with the tears in his eyes. “Fight back, Kade!” he screamed, his voice raw with pain and anger. “Don’t make me do this!”

I couldn’t move, couldn’t bring myself to raise my fists against him. This was the man who had brought me up, who had worked hard to give me and the rest of his family a decent life, who had taught me so much. He was the one who had held the back of my bike seat, running alongside me until I found my balance, and then cheering louder than anyone when I finally pedaled away on my own. He was the one who had picked me up and dusted me off every time I fell, whether it was from a bike or from one of life’s many hurdles.

He had been a good father, present in all the ways that mattered. I remembered the countless nights he spent helping me with my homework, his patience never waning even when mine did. He taught me how to throw a ball, how to change a tire, how to stand up for myself and for others. He was my rock, my guide, my hero.

Even after Mom died, when the weight of grief and loss drove him to seek solace in the bottom of a bottle, he was still there when I needed him. He might have been broken, his eyes red and his breath reeking of whiskey, but he never stopped being my father. He never stopped loving me, never stopped trying to guide me in his own flawed way.

And now, here he was, standing before me, his fists raised, his eyes filled with as much pain and rage as I’d ever seen. But beneath all that, I could still see the love, the pride, the father who had always been there for me. The father who was asking me to do the unthinkable, to cross a line that could never be uncrossed.

He charged at me again, his punch glancing off my cheek as I turned away at the last second. He followed with a kick that sent me sprawling onto the wet asphalt. I felt the skin on my palms tear as I slid across the rough surface.

“Damn it, Kade!” he roared, standing over me, his fists clenched. “Fight back!”

I looked up at him, the rain blurring my vision, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth. “I can’t,” I choked out. “I can’t fight you.”

He let out a scream of frustration and pain, a sound that echoed through the stormy night. Then he reached down, grabbing me by the collar and hauling me to my feet. His fist connected with my stomach, driving the air from my lungs. I doubled over, gasping for breath, as he hit me again, his blows raining down on my back, my sides, my face.

I felt my strength waning, my body on the verge of collapse. But with each punch, I felt a growing anger, a burning rage at the injustice of it all. At the Overseers for putting us in this position, at myself for not being strong enough to stop it. And at my father, for forcing me to make this choice.

With a roar, I straightened up, blocking his next punch with my forearm. I saw the flicker of relief in his eyes, the brief glimmer of hope.

And then I hit him.

My fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head back. He staggered, caught off guard by the sudden counterattack, and no doubt shocked by the strength and power I’d built up since entering the Trials of the Damned.

I followed up with a series of punches, each one fueled by the boiling rage and pain inside me, and the disgust I felt for having to do this. He blocked some, but others landed, driving him back. I saw the pride in his eyes, the approval, even as my knuckles split and bled.

With a final, desperate surge of strength, I tackled him, driving him to the ground. I straddled his chest, my fists clenched, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I looked down at him, seeing the blood on his face, the bruises already forming. Saw the Health Bar floating above him, which was so far in the red, I don’t know how he was still breathing.

And I hesitated.

“Finish it, Kade,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm. “You have to finish it.”

I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t,” I sobbed. “I can’t do it.”

He reached up, his hand cupping my cheek. “You can,” he said softly. “You have to. I love you, son. Now finish this.”

A wail of anguish tore from my throat as I raised my fists. And then I began to pound his face, each blow punctuated by a scream of despair. I felt his bones crunch under my knuckles, saw his blood splatter onto my face, mixing with my tears. And still, I kept hitting him, driven by a primal, agonizing force that I couldn’t control.

And then, suddenly, I stopped. I looked down at his face, barely recognizable beneath the blood and bruises. His eyes were swollen shut, his lips split and bleeding. But he was still alive. I could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, hear the gurgling sound of his breath.

“Finish it, son,” he whispered, his voice barely a rasp. “It’s… the… only… way.”

Sobbing, I wrapped my fingers around his throat. I felt his pulse beneath my fingertips, the fragile, precious beat of his life.

And then I squeezed.

I squeezed until his body went limp, until his pulse faded away to nothing. Until his Health Bar emptied and was replaced by an X on my screen.

Until he was gone.

I sat there, straddling his lifeless body, my hands still wrapped around his throat. And then I threw my head back and howled. I howled with pain and rage, with despair and loss. I howled until my voice was hoarse, until my throat was raw.

And still, the storm raged on around me, the rain pouring down, the thunder roaring in the distance, oblivious to anything I felt.

Through the haze of my grief, I soon saw a pair of headlights approaching. I turned, squinting against the glare, as an old truck pulled up beside me. The window rolled down, and I saw the Drifter, his lips curled into a cruel smile.

He said nothing, just looked at me, his eyes gleaming with malice. And then he drove off slowly, the truck disappearing into the darkness, leaving me alone on the road, a broken, shattered wreck of a man.

My HUD flashed as a notification pinged:

Congratulations!

2/3 challenges completed!

“Fuck you…”