Chapter 3: Beat the unbeatable.

This is not my flat. I fling my cup and press my hand against the panel. This time, the strange energy I feel flows more freely. It takes only ten seconds or so to activate the panel. Rush right. Spook the posh bitch heading home with my pedestrian unawakened slippers. Find the lift. Coax energy into the button, which is faster. It dings open immediately because it was already there. Thank you, posh bitch. I push the lowest button.

 

No wait, that’s the cellar. I frown. One squiggle for single digit floors, then two squiggles for each floor afterward. The squiggle looks like ‘down’ so I presume it must mean ‘under?’. Yeah, and the number squiggles are mirrored so it must be the below-ground levels. I press level oh. I think it’s the ground floor, yeah.

 

My bladder tries to force its way up as the lift drops. Fast. Must be a tall building. The doors ping open.

 

Flash of light. Sounds. Impacts. Parts of the ceiling, splattered with blood. Pain. Very brief.

 

Death count: 3

 

Qualia points acquired: 2 (new violent death)

 

Total available: 16.

 

***

 

Leather seat.

 

“That motherfucker trapped the lift’s ground floor exit? In a residential building? What a savage; very rude.”

 

“Beer?” Chronos offers.

 

“Don’t mind if I do.”

 

Morag serves me a pint of ale in a glass stein of simple make. She manages the foam perfectly so I give her my begrudging respect. I take a sip. Not only is it amazing, it’s at the perfect temperature again.

 

“If the god business doesn’t work out, you can always open a bar,” I offer.

 

“Fortunately, it pans out… every time,” Chronos jokes.

 

Fucking puns from a god. I suppose that’s all my simian intellect can appreciate.

 

“Whose apartment is this anyway?” I ask. “How come I’m being killed on sight? Isn’t this against the rules?”

 

“It is your apartment. I had someone prepare it for you, as well as… financial resources.”

 

“Where’s the cash?”

 

“I suppose I can share that it will be in a ‘chip’ as this concept already exists in your mind. Simply sending energy into the chip will bind it to you.”

 

“Okay. And for the killer?”

 

“It is not against the rules to send a killer after a target, even if this target happens to be you.”

 

There is something peculiar about the wording that makes me believe I am missing some context.

 

“I don’t suppose you can do anything about it?” I ask, with little hope.

 

“Nope! But you can.”

 

Suddenly, I realize I could technically die after two minutes without fail for a hundred loops, and eventually find something to buy with all that qualia that would get me a way out… but no. No, there must be a way. Clearly everyone here has a better body than I do, but it still takes time for the killer to catch up. There must be ways for me to escape. The killer is faster, stronger, more prepared. Fuck, they even have drones, I think? But what do I have?

 

I have time. If there is one path out, a single, one chance to escape, then I can find it. And then use it.

 

Every time.

 

My gaze sees the third corpse. Looks like someone cleaned a raspberry jam leak with my fucking clothes. But that’s the thing. I don’t even feel that terribly upset here. Because nothing, nothing can permanently stick.

 

I will get out.

 

“Can you tell me more about the flat I’m in?” I ask.

 

“I can only answer specific questions,” the god reminds me.

 

“Are there weapons?”

 

“Not as such. I asked for a safe place and resources so that you may be acclimated.”

 

“Ok, ok. I think I have some ideas. Send me back.”

 

***

 

I push myself through the ghost memory of getting pulped. The soul thing, I can feel it. A part of me knows I should be in a worse mental state after everything that happened. I died, violently. Several times. The memories are not dulled, they’re just distant. Separated from who I am by a gap that shouldn’t be there. I can also feel a presence to my right, beyond the wall of the flat. That’s posh bitch going home. No wait, I’m being rude for no reason. Renaming her as ‘neighbor’ in my head. I manage to open the door in only a couple seconds then I’m out after grabbing the cash chip.

 

“Hi,” I greet neighbor. “Lovely evening we’re having.”

 

She replies something in a sing-song language I don’t recognize. The emotion I get from her is just surprise so I elect to believe this is a polite greeting. I’m still running anyway. The lift obligingly opens. This time, I press up. The highest floor possible.

 

It doesn’t work. I pick another with a longer series of symbols and the lift takes off. Maybe I need some sort of ID to even access my floor? If so, how does the killer even get in?

 

The door opens on a flat expanse of ground: the roof, as I was hoping for. I take a step out and —

 

“What the… wow.”

 

I didn’t get it. I really didn’t get it until now. I saw an ‘alien’ but I didn’t properly register what it meant. I see it now. Skyscrapers in endless rows, climbing, climbing, all around, distant ones like thin needles. Some of them hang like stalactites from higher up instead, stopping at a bottom floor that tapers down to a soft curve. Some must be miles long. I stretch my neck trying to see the end but they’re lost in a sea of lights and colors, and even though there is no sky there is so much light, so much green. Titanic growths of ruby, emerald, sapphire leaves, some thick, some as light as crystal, some even transparent! And there, yellow leaves with deep black flowers. They crawl over every structure harmoniously, embracing them, avoiding windows and the uncountable bridges crossing the abyss between the buildings. There are lights as well and, at least for now, the merry explosions of fireworks. Music fills the air in a distorted cacophony, drums and brass reverberating. Flying, well, cars, form thin lines crossing the sky in short parades. There are even people on the trees. There are people everywhere. It’s… it’s wonderful. It’s so wonderful. A cave or miracles.

 

It’s so fucking wonderful it almost made me forget the killer.

 

“Right.”

 

With deep regret, I tear my eyes away from the breathtaking spectacle. Ok so this may be architecturally impossible given the little I know of material science but maybe my first instinct was still correct. If an alien residential tower has a lift, stairs, and condescending neighbours, then perhaps it also shares something else with human buildings: fire exits. I race to the edge. Ok that is… quite a drop. I can see a massive bridge acting as a sort of platform below though, upon which people stroll. I think there are food stands as well, and balloons. Are those holograms? They sure look gorgeous. Alright, focus. Focus. Fire exit. The roof isn’t that big because we’re in one of the thinner towers. I would have also expected, I don’t know, transformers and AC units or something, but the roof is flat with just a basic guardrail. Writing on the ground and arrows suggest there must be machinery but, honestly, I don’t see anything. Second corner, half a bridge then an abyss as deep and bright as the sky was. Third corner, just the abyss. I’m not panicking. Not yet.

 

Fourth side. Half a bridge and the abyss.

 

No fire exit. No stairs. Nothing. I could technically get over the railing to try and get down using the window panels as handholds. Maybe a world-class climber could manage it. I’m in good shape for a cellist but this is far, far beyond me. And the elevator is gone. Wait, this building has a cellar. How does that work? I look down again and spot stairs in the ‘bridge’. So it must have several layers, hmm.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

 

Something flashes away from under the platform. Was that a train? Ok, ok.

 

There is only one decision left to me. I need to —

 

Death count: 4

 

Qualia points acquired: 1 (violent death, very clean)

 

Total available: 17.

 

***

 

“— decide how to die,” I tell Chronos.

 

He nods knowingly.

 

“The ultimate choice. Well, except for you. Orange juice? Freshly pressed.”

 

I’m impressed to see Morag squeezing half oranges on a shiny chrome juicer with the precision and care of a neurosurgeon. The juice is delicious.

 

“Thank you, Morag.”

 

She stares at me and I don’t know if it’s a glare. Everything feels like a glare when someone has the infinite expanse of the interstellar void instead of eyeballs.

 

“It’s delicious,” I helpfully add.

 

A short nod confirms that I’m still in the green. My new corpse is lying on his chest — my chest? — missing the front half of the head from what I can tell. The entry wound is just in the middle of my poor head, from the back. The dark hair looks wet, but it still lacks a pool of blood.

 

“The sands swallow it. Otherwise it would be too messy,” Chronos elaborates.

 

“Convenient.”