April 15, 2021. 04:00. Vancouver.
Flickering lights struggle to illuminate the hallway ahead. There's something about the air down here—a tang of sweat and adrenaline that clings to the cool air.
The kind of smell that sticks to people who bleed for sport.
Our guides step forward, heels clicking softly against the concrete. Each one is dressed to impress—sharp silhouettes, dark fabrics, silver jewelry catching every stray beam of light. They look more like they're heading to a runway than whatever the hell waits for us beyond this corridor.
One woman's gaze flits between me and Remi, curiosity and mischief dancing in her eyes.
"You're sure you don't wanna back out?" she teases, her smirk razor-thin. "Haha, relax—I'm kidding. Kinda. Gotta say though, I respect it."
My expression stays still, except for my narrowing eyes. "So what's gonna happen down here?"
She laughs—a full, head-thrown-back kind of laugh, like I've just told her the joke of the century.
"It wouldn't be fun if I told you, now would it?" she says, winking. "Just stay sharp, and try not to cry when you're thrown in the ring. You'll do fine… maybe. Probably."
I raise an eyebrow. "Real comforting."
"Nah, we got this," Remi says, nudging my shoulder before striding down the hall.
Eventually, the women lead us into a stark locker room, then vanish back the way we came.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sickly glow across the tiled walls. A few Dead Kings guards linger near the corners, their eyes jumping between Remi and me.
The air shifts—tightens. There's tension here, born of too many unknown faces and too much old blood.
Are we still enemies? Or has Remi's ridiculous, ego-fueled hate boner finally burned out?
Hell if I know.
The guards exchange low murmurs.
One of them, a wiry man with a scar cutting through his eyebrow, snorts and leans toward another.
"Didn't think Remi was actually for real," he mutters, just loud enough to slice through the electric hum overhead. "Guess I was wrong."
Another Dead King—broader than the rest—steps forward with a polite smile. It's the kind of approving smile people wear when they've seen something they respect. He nods at me and Remi. "High-key respect. No one's done this in a while. Good luck—you're gonna need it."
Remi folds his arms and grins cocky. "Nah dawg, we got this in the bag."
I roll my eyes and watch the guards' body language instead. No malice. No hidden threat. Just a mix of respect and amusement.
Odd, considering earlier tonight we nearly killed each other.
But Blake's word runs this place, and Blake's word is law.
The broad guard reaches into a cooler and pulls out two cans. Bright labels flash against the grim backdrop. He holds them out like offerings. "You'll want these. Trust me."
Remi snatches one, pops it open with a hiss and downs half of it in one long pull, then tosses the can. "Shiiiit broski, don't gotta tell me twice."
I eye mine suspiciously. I only drink this crap when I'm desperate—gym days, job days. "You're handing us an energy drink… at four in the morning?" A paranoid part of me thinks poison. The rest of me laughs at the paranoia. "What the fuck…"
The guard chuckles. "Keeps you on your feet. It's clean. But skip it and don't complain when you drop in the first ten seconds."
"First ten seconds?" My brow knots.
"The gauntlet hits fast and hard. You'll need everything."
I hesitate, eyeing the can. It's early, I'm wrecked, and caffeine's about to hit my system. How bad is this gauntlet, really? Still—better a messed-up sleep schedule than a hospital bed. "Fine." I take the can, crack it, and sip.
And then, my head snaps awake.
The world tilts into hyperfocus; sound sharpens to a buzz. "OH FUC—" The flavour rips—citrus and battery acid mixed into a single betrayal. I cough. My eye twitches. "This tastes like shit!"
"Better shit than injured or dead," the guard says, and his buddies laugh.
"What'd you put in this?" I glare. "This isn't store stuff."
"Our secret mix." He says it like it's a proud thing.
"It's fucking gasoline." I stick my tongue out and fight bile. "Do I smell… pre-workout?" I sniff the can like a forensic chemist. Did they really concoct some basement abomination?
"Anyways," the broad guard says, "finish that, then pass us your gear." He offers his hand, palm up.
"Wait—our gear?" My hand clamps hard on the duffel strap.
"Gauntlet rules. No weapons. No gadgets." His stance is steady. The others nod.
"You're kidding me." I drain the can and chuck it into a nearby bin.
"Nope. We'll secure your stuff. Blake won't let us screw this up."
My eyes narrow, scanning him for any sign of deceit.
Calm. Firm. No tells.
"This is bullshit." My jaw tightens. "So I bring in absolutely nothing?"
"Rules are rules, homie." He sounds bored and sincere at once. "You'll see why once you're in there." Either they're excellent liars or they're actually honest. I'm not exactly in a position to argue.
Remi shrugs and drops his things. "Aight, no big deal." He hands over a handful of pocket knives like they're snacks.
I sigh, surrendering my bag, pouch, and the rest. My fingers work slow when I remove my knife and pistol—last line of defense—and lay them down with a small, surgical neatness. One guard whistles a low tune and eyes the pile.
"This better be worth it." I step back from my stuff and stare at them. "Touch any of my stuff and I cut your balls off."
The guards laugh—a mix of genuine amusement and that edge of please-don't-actually-cut-my-balls-off fear. They shuffle aside and gesture toward the far end of the locker room.
Remi and I move past them, heading for the exit doors. Their parting words follow us like a chorus of half-serious encouragement.
"Good luck out there!"
"If you make it through, drinks are on us!"
"We'll be waiting!"
I scowl, but Remi flashes them a grin and throws up a thumbs-up. "Appreciate it, chooms!"
"If my gear gets stolen, I swear to God…" I mutter, shaking my head.
The doors shut behind us with a heavy clang, sealing us in a corridor so dark it eats the light. Only a single glow burns at the far end—bright, blinding, and alive with sound. The roar of a crowd rises to meet us, muffling everything else.
Remi leans close, cupping his hands to shout over the noise. "I bet it's like an obstacle course! Fire pits, bullet dodging—shit like that! That'd be hella sick!"
I bark a laugh and shout back, "There's no way it's gonna be that simple!" The rumble of voices ahead drowns me out, but I keep talking anyway.
"Y'know," Remi continues, voice bouncing with excitement, "this word 'gauntlet'—it's got history! Like knights and castles and trial-by-combat shit!"
I blink, genuinely caught off guard. "Since when do you read history? Didn't think you were a medieval kind of guy."
He smirks, clearly pleased with himself. "Hey, gotta know words to write bars! Can't spit bars if I don't got bars, feel me?"
"What the hell does 'don't got bars' even mean?!" I shoot him a look, but before he can fire back, the tunnel explodes into light.
We step out—and the world hits me all at once.
A roar of noise. Heat. Dust.
Spotlights blaze down from above, slicing through the dark to reveal a sprawling sand-filled arena. The stands are packed with screaming bodies, a living storm of sound. I raise a hand to shield my eyes and scan the scene: stone barriers arranged like cover, rusted cars riddled with dents, jagged chunks of terrain like something torn from a war zone.
"The hell—this is straight-up a battlefield!" I shout, moving toward the figure standing in the center—a man in a clean suit and tie, waving like he owns the place.
And beside him… a massive marshmallow?
Remi jogs up next to me, eyes wide, grin wider. "Ayo, they went all out! That's crazy, dawg!"
As we close the distance I go mute—jaw slack, eyes wide. It's not the terrain that throws me.
It's Blake.
He's planted in the center like a god, but he's not the black, hulking machine I expected. Up close he's ridiculous: a cybernetic frame wrapped in comically oversized white padding, layers of foam and rubber duct-taped into a DIY suit of armour.
It reads both dangerous and absurd all at once.
Remi and I stop in front of him. My mouth finally remembers how to form words. "What in the actual fuck am I looking at?"
"Holy shit," Remi breathes. "He's the gauntlet?!"
Blake grins, red cybernetic eyes faintly glowing under the lights. "What, expecting something else?" His laugh booms across the sand. He steps forward, each footfall thudding like a drum. "Bet you weren't expecting me to be the boss battle, huh?"
He stops a few feet away and looms. Titan energy, but padded. "Rules are simple. Two minutes. Survive without getting knocked out—or better yet, make me tap. That's the gauntlet."
Remi takes half a step back, swagger flickering. He sizes Blake up, swallows, and tries on bravado. "Uh… yeah. Sure. Easy."
I don't answer. I'm scanning—stone blocks, dented cars, shadow lines.
Two minutes. That's… a long time.
Blake taps his cushioned fist against his chest. "To make it fair, I padded up. Can't have you two dying on me, now can I?" His grin widens. Then, casual as a host: "By the way, I don't think I ever caught your name."
The question freezes me. Gina is out. Artemis is worse; can't have my international alias sticking to me here. I rummage for something disposable and believable.
After a beat I smile and say, "Lily. Let's use that, for now." My mother's favorite flower.
Blake cocks his head, puzzled at my pause, then nods like he expected the answer to be stranger. "Lily, huh? Mysterious. I like that." He waves a handful of Dead Kings into place; they melt into the arena like sharks taking positions.
He strolls away toward the opposite flank.
The MC—a wiry man with sweat-dark hair and a microphone—steps into the light, voice electric and a touch manic as it crackles over the speakers.
"Alright, chooms, listen up! Tonight's entertainment is gonna be legendary! You know the rules—you came for blood, so let's give 'em what they want!" The crowd explodes. Somewhere, fireworks pop. Gunshots—celebratory or stupid—rat-a-tat in the rafters.
The MC points at Blake; the lights focus. The intro hits full spectacle. "On one side: founder, leader, the kingpin himself—Blake Cunningham!"
The crowd roars.
Blake smirks and theatrically smacks his padded fists together. "It's been months since someone stepped into the gauntlet. Reason? It's the fastest route to a wheelchair!" He flexes, robotic biceps puffed absurdly by foam.
With a smirk and a flex of the robot-padded biceps, Blake furthers the crowd hype. "Baby, you know it!" He points at the crowd and does another ridiculous superhero-esque pose.
"And on the other side…" The spotlight swings to us. "We got a challenger duo! First up—your favourite provocateur: Remi!" The crowd both jeers and cheers. Remi blows a kiss, throws up a peace sign with one hand and a middle finger with the other. Peak audacity.
The MC stretches the reveal. "And with him—a mysterious new gunwoman. Lightning reflexes, disarmed a soldier in one move, and already got Blake's attention. A sassy, dazzling hoodied mystery. Going by one name… Lily!" The crowd erupts again. Faces lean my way, applause and whistles slicing the roar.
I hold my expression steady, though a twitch slips through. Admiration's fine, but this isn't the kind I want.
Remi bumps my ribs. "C'mon, brah! Smile!"
"Nope." I shoot him a look, one brow raised. My voice stays low and even—I'm all too aware this could be live-streamed across the entire damn internet. "Let's just get this over with."
"Aight, suit yourself!"
The MC leans into the mic, his grin practically audible. "Contestants, any last words before we start?"
Blake waves from his corner. "Hah! Good luck—you'll need it!" He winks. I roll my eyes.
Remi's grin snaps back into place. "Oh, don't worry, big man! We're winning this!" Then he yanks my shoulder and rasps into my ear, "Yo, choom, you got a game plan? Bro's huge—ain't no way he moves fast, right?"
I nod, jaw tight. "Yeah. Big, bulky guys usually move like tanks. I got something." Confidence—real or manufactured. I've skimmed enough forums and videos about cybernetics to have a working idea.
Never been in melee with a cyborg before; I usually keep my distance and shoot.
Guess it's a first time for everything.
"Sick. I'll follow your lead," Remi says.
The MC smirks. "Alright then—hope your plan works!" He turns to the crowd. "Two minutes: survive Blake's onslaught or make him tap. Go!"
He taps his phone. "ANDDDDDD—GOOOO!"
Horns blast. The crowd becomes a living thing. I inhale, taste dust and adrenaline and that battery-acid citrus burning at the back of my throat.
Then Blake moves. His steps hit the sand like pistons. Faster than his size should allow.
Too fast. WAY TOO FAST!
My caffeine buzz stutters into something like vertigo. I grab Remi's arm and scream into his face, voice ragged over the roar. "REMI, I MADE A MISTAKE!"
"What? I thought you said—" he starts, face open, then goes silent because the space between us and Blake collapses in seconds.
Blake's eyes are knives. He winds his left arm back, a padded fist pulling a shadow through the air. His grin is all teeth and menace. For a beat everything slows—the crowd, the lights, the buzzing in my skull—like someone hit pause on the world just so I could register my mistake.
Oh. Great.