Waylon tries to pry his palm off the counter: it doesn't budge. "Gah — what are you doing? You caught me, it's over, we're done."

"Now, now. No need to rush. Didn't you hear me on our little stroll? We'll have plenty of time for any groveling after a quick game. Until then: don't you want to know what prize is up for grabs?" Barclay says.

Exhausted from the run, Waylon's legs tremble. "No. I'm not playing your games, I'm done running."

"Come on! Don't be like that. How about I just tell you—"

"I don't care. It doesn't matter what you say, just take me in or whatever you're supposed to do."

"Really? Even if I say you'll be a free man if you win?"

Waylon's heart jumps. "You— you'd just let me go?"

Barclay pounds a fist on the counter and follows it up with a snap and a wink in tandem. "Sure would! The results of this game are binding, even to me. It has its ways of keeping us honest. You don't need to worry about the local council either. They know how this works."

It could be true, maybe I should—

Waylon shakes the thought out of his head. "No, you're lying. I'm not going to play."

"Oh! What a mistake on my part: I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made it sound like you had a choice. If I've been counting the seconds right, things should be kicking off right about—"

Pressure builds within Waylon's elbow. It starts as a tickle, like the thrum of restless legs at night. As if the limb wants to jerk away. Grunting, he bears down on his palm and forces it flat against the wooden counter. No. I'm done! It's over!

The joint tightens, arcing pain down his forearm and circling back up to his shoulder. "Gah — just let me— ugh— let me give up." He says.

Barclay's face lights up. He cups a hand around his ear. "Huh? Can you try again? It's a little hard to hear you through all that grunting."

Everything in Waylon's body screams at him to stop resisting: his skin tingles to the point of numbness; sweat streams down his back; and an unsteady heartbeat pumps ice through his veins.

Seconds pass and his will breaks. He stops pressing down. Without room for thought, his arm yanks free and snatches a ball off the platter.

Sweat stops, pain evaporates, and icy veins thaw. His palm stings against the pleather, still bleeding.

"Do you understand now?" Barclay says.

Waylon lingers a second too long and the sensation returns. A tickling at first. And — as before — it mutates into an unbearable, body racking pain. He tries to resist: he bears down on his core. "Guh— stop!" Tears roll down his face; he coughs out words between spittle, stringy with mucus. "Why are you doing this?"

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The pain is just too much.

He releases his hold and his entire body contorts into a pitcher's stance. A moment later, his arm whips the ball toward the bottles of its own accord.

The ball flies through the air. With a soft thwack, it hits the curtain behind the pyramid and traces a bloody streak on its roll down to the floor.

Waylon's hand falls to the counter, where it lay trembling. Blood seeps out of his palm's gash and — instead of pooling on the counter's surface — dry wood wicks it away into dark red stains. "Please, I can't..." Waylon says.

He doesn't care. You don't understand what this is yet? Or do you, and you just don't want to accept it?

"Now, how about we liven this party up a bit?" Barclay sucks in a deep breath, then bellows. "Two chances left! Will he manage it before running himself ragged? Nobody knows! Step right up and watch, my friends. Witness a game for the ages!"

The words fall upon Waylon's ears alone. Yet, oddly enough, a raucous cheer answers. Spectral, human-shaped shadows appear all around him, crowding the booth. They yell and holler. Encouragement and jeers in equal measure.

The noises they make aren't actual words, though they're eerily similar. Each syllable drives a nail into his temple; he crams his eyes shut. What do I do? I'm nothing without them.

Two voices answer his call; two that aren't his.

One, self doubt: Now you get it. There isn't anything you can do — not anymore. You've got nothing left.

The other, old. A voice that doesn't exist anymore, though the woman that it belonged to does: Then why shouldn't he try? If he's got nothing left, like you said: what's the harm?

Her voice is nothing more than a false memory. Constructed from the depths of his addled mind thanks to longing, fear, and desperation. Recognizing that does little to stop it: it stirs something. An ember that burns in defiance of his water-logged reality.

So, he throws the ball. His form is pitiful: sloppy elbow, weak release, and — above all — overwhelmingly awkward. Born of the same litter as his sprint. Despite that, the ball flies straight with enough force to topple any pyramid of bottles.

Tink. Pleather meets glass just off center mass with a splatter of blood. The ball plinks off, not even forcing a teeter out of the structure. Almost like they're glued down.

Waylon grits his teeth and picks up his last ball, coddling that ember through sheer momentum. "That's a cheap trick."

Barclay fetches another ball from behind the counter. Rolling it in his grasp, he steps in between Waylon and the pyramid. "Thinking there's glue?" He whirls around and whips the ball in one motion.

It screams through the air. On impact, glass shatters — every single bottle explodes. Shards spray in all directions. Waylon flinches back, bringing his arm up to protect his face.

Wood, metal, tank glass, carpet. Each make their own sound as bottle shrapnel pelts them. In moments, the ruckus stops.

Barclay snaps his fingers. Glass shards replay their flight in reverse, reforming bottle after bottle until the pyramid stands as if it was never toppled. He drops his forearms onto the counter and leans closer to Waylon. "I know what you're thinking, but neither of us can cheat here. Though I should let you know: these games are tuned to my strength — at least, to some degree."

Fire burns lines across Waylon's cheek: three or so. He brushes his fingertips where they run. "Tsst, ow."

Drawing his hand away, his fingertips are stained red. Beads of blood race away to seep into cuticles on their underside. "So I can't win." He says.

All the shadows cheer. Raising his voice to speak above them, Barclay shrugs. "You can't lose. If you fail with that ball, you'll get three more. They'll just be a bit heavier than the last set."

Static and pain force Waylon's hand: he throws his last ball. It strikes the curtain, leaving behind another streak of blood. "What about when the balls get too heavy for me to lift them?" He asks.

Barclay leans back on one of the booth's support pillars and crosses his arms. Shadows envelope his eyes, but their irises still glow a faint white. "You don't want to find out."