We slammed our way through the branches of lush fruit trees, then barreled onward in the column of light. Outside, the deep-orange sky swirled with dark and undefined shapes, and other structures flew past. I saw a field of roses surrounding a squat round turret of brownish stone, then a tall spire, slim and white, with currents of air and water circulating around it.

There was a sharp crack as something slapped against the outside of the beam, then a sound like hail raining down. Shadowy arms tried to beat their way to us, like a car wash from hell, and I shivered as they passed by.

When I twisted my body to look forward, all I could see was a blinding brightness. It figured. Our destination was the most important thing, and I couldn’t see shit. Still, the ride had become oddly smooth once we’d stopped accelerating, and my brain finally had time to review the events of the last few seconds.

I turned to look at the raccoon. Somehow, I thought it had spoken to me, but it was just an ordinary raccoon, gray-furred with a black and white mask. It had a scar above one eye that made it look like it was perpetually raising one eyebrow, and I started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” said the raccoon.

“Oh shit.” I tried to stop laughing, but failed. “You actually can talk.”

“Damn straight.” The raccoon pulled out the apple he’d stolen from the teacher. “Turns out this ain’t no ordinary apple. It’s the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge or some shit. That’s what it’s telling me, anyway.”

A tower that seemed entirely made of human organs blurred past, sobering me up. “Alright,” I said, regaining my composure. “That makes about as much sense as anything else that’s happening.” I paused and thought for a moment. “But why the Brooklyn accent?”

The raccoon took another bite of the apple. “Did I say ‘fruit of the Tree of Knowledge?’ Slip of the tongue. I meant ‘fruit of the Tree of Street Smarts.’”

That was when we crashed through the wall of the tower.

----------------------------------------

(Strive 1:1)

The floor was cold and hard, not the brutal coldness of metal, but the slick marble of an upscale hotel lobby. It was carpeted with plush Persian rugs (though not where I lay, unfortunately) and handsomely bound books lined the walls. The arched ceiling had a fresco of a sky in sunset, deep blue and pink, and a multitude of lit chandeliers dangled.

I rolled over to find a moist towelette hovering inches from my face. It was in the hand of a gentleman wearing an old-fashioned concierge uniform. I looked down at my T-shirt, sweatpants, and Crocs, suddenly self-conscious.

“Sir, if you please,” the man said. “We also have complimentary robes available for guests.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” The man was still holding the towelette, and I took it, wiping my face and hands. “Not to be rude, but who’re you again? I’ve had a hell of a day so far.”

The hotelier nodded and gave me a sympathetic look. “Most people tell me the same. You can call me Hilbert. I’ll be your—”

“What the fuck!” The raccoon lifted itself off the tile floor. “What’s this now?”

“Ah, welcome, welcome!” Hilbert clapped his hands briskly. “Now that we're all here, we’re ready for the first order of business.” He produced a pen and an official-looking form. “You, my dear friend, need to select a legal name to be entered into our system.”

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“My parents already did that for me,” I said wryly.

“He’s talking to me, you lunk,” said the raccoon. “Don’t be so self-centered.”

“Ah.” I thought about the ruckus of those sleepless nights. “How about Dumpster Boy?”

“Not a boy.” The raccoon sauntered behind a bar counter and somehow located a bowl of peanuts.

“Well, now I feel like an asshole.”

“You should.” She started to crack one open. “What, you think all dogs are boys and all cats are girls, too?”

“Your name, madam?” Hilbert prompted again.

"I got it, I got it." The raccoon stood on her hind legs. "Let’s go with... El Bandito."

The hotelier put up a finger. “I feel the need to point out that, if madam is going for Spanish, the correct word would be el bandido.” He emphasized the last consonant. “Also, that would be the masculine form of the title. La bandida might be more apropos for a lady such as yourself.”

The raccoon looked at him for a long moment. “Get a load of this guy,” she said. “Thinks he knows everything.”

I had to help with the forms because the raccoon had trouble holding a pen. “How about just Bandit?” I asked.

She twitched her whiskers in thought. “Doesn't have the same ring to it. Nah. First name El, last name Bandito.”

I glanced up at Hilbert, who shrugged.

“See if I care,” I muttered, scribbling it down. “Current age?”

“Two and a half.”

“Place of birth.”

“Dumpster behind BJ’s Brewhouse.”

“Myers-Briggs?”

“Chaotic neutral.”

“I think that’s it.” I waved the paper to dry the ink. “ID number not applicable, taxable income— I’m going to assume that’s zero, former address the same as mine, since you seemed to mostly live in my backyard, and… that should be it. Congratulations, El Bandito. The first raccoon with a legal name.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” interjected Hilbert. “We had another one a few years ago.”

“Really?” I was curious. “What did they pick for their name?”

The hotelier allowed himself the smallest sigh. “They also picked El Bandito.”

“Good taste,” said the raccoon through a mouthful of peanuts.

“Now onto the fun part.” Hilbert brought out a smooth wooden box and handed it to me. “A welcome present for our honored guests.”

The box was inset with a hieroglyph of a hand and eye. I undid the clasp, and inside was a round bracelet made of smooth gray stone, next to a clear contact lens.

“The bangle’s called a kada,” said Hilbert, placing a matching box in front of the newly christened El Bandito. “The lens is an udjat-eye. They’ll enable you to connect to the system here and become a full resident.”

“Is that a good thing?” I asked. “What if I don't want to stay here?”

“You could leave, but I wouldn’t recommend it,” Hilbert said quietly. “Only chaos thrives in the land between the towers. Or perhaps you’d like to return to your test?”

My mind shied away from remembering the monstrous tendrils that’d tried to beat through the light to us as we moved through the air, and the half-smile of the teacher who seemed to know everything about me.

“Fair enough.” I slid the bracelet onto my right wrist. Nothing happened.

I turned my attention to the contact lens. It was slightly soft and squishy, and popped easily into place over my right eye.

“What do I do now?” I asked Hilbert, covering my left eye with my hand. “Nothing’s happening—”

Text appeared right in front of me, and I blinked in surprise.

Registering new output peripheral…

Sync with Udjat-001 OK…

There was a pause while the text scrolled away, and then ornate lettering swelled to fill my vision.

Welcome, Xavier Shaw, to the Tower Strive.