Chapter 41:

No Place to Hide

Through the Shimmer

“Everyone,” Mal said, already moving. “We run. No stopping. Stay tight.”

She paced a few steps ahead of the group, then turned back to face them.

The group looked ragged. Just like she felt.

I have to keep moving.

Some nodded.

Some just stared ahead.

“Listen. On go, we run.”

“On go. Got it,” Cranston said.

Mal nodded, grateful for the confirmation.

“Three,” she said.

The air felt tight.

“Two.”

Someone sucked in a sharp breath.

“One.”

“Go.”

Mal broke into a sprint.

She could hear footsteps slapping against the ground behind her.

The restaurant loomed ahead.

[ SAFE ZONE OPEN ]
[ BARRIER IN: 00:02:13 ]

Plenty of time to spare.

THUNK

BOOM

The ground shuddered.

Mal’s foot hit and missed half a step. She ducked instinctively and glanced back.

Smoke was drifting across the intersection, thin and gray.

THUNK

BOOM

The pavement ruptured.

A black crater split the street, its edges burned and pocked, eaten through in the same ugly pattern she’d seen at Brenton’s office building.

Then came a different sound.

A dry, uneven chittering.

“Monsters!” someone screamed.

Mal turned her head.

Monsters were emerging from the streets to either side of them, rising into view between parked cars and shadowed gaps.

“Lots of them! Where the hell’d they come from?” Cranston yelled.

They were waiting.

Damn.

Large bodies forced their way into view, armored plates grinding together as claws scraped against the pavement.
Red eyes protruded between the plates, set too high, too exposed, as vents along their sides flexed and tightened.

THUNK
THUNK
THUNK

Multiple shapes launched at once.

“Keep running—” Mal started.

BOOM
BOOM

Half the group had been clustered near the street they’d just come from.

She couldn’t see them through the smoke.

Pained screaming came from that direction.

A sharp whistling cut through the air.

Too close.

Mal twisted away as it struck the ground near her and skidded, detonating in a burst of debris.

She hit the pavement hard and rolled.

When she looked up—

Cressida was just past the intersection, behind Cranston and one other, barely visible through the thickening smoke.

Another projectile arced straight toward her.

“Cressida—”

Cressida had already turned.

Not deliberately.

Instinctively.

She raised the metal drain cover she was carrying.

The projectile struck, glanced aside, and detonated midair.

The world vanished into smoke.

Mal hit the ground hard.

She forced herself up.

“Cressida!”

She ran back.

She heard coughing through the smoke.

Human figures emerged. Moving fast.

Cressida was upright, supported by Cranston.

“Mal,” she rasped. “Did you see that?”

Mal exhaled hard.

She turned to check the timer.

Forty-five seconds.

Damn.

One of the women, Sharrie, was missing a leg, supported by Jeb. Blood soaked his sleeve.

Mal grabbed Sharrie’s other side.
Her hands were already slick with blood, and for a split second she couldn’t tell whose it was.

“The others?”

“Dead,” Jeb said.

BOOM

Too close.

They all stumbled.

“They can still see us!” someone shouted.

BOOM

“Everyone up. Go!” Mal snapped.

Sharrie screamed. “It hurts—”

Mal and Jeb hauled her upright.

Sharrie screamed again, the sound thin and breaking, but her feet found the ground. Jeb’s grip tightened, blood slicking his hands as they staggered forward together.

The others were already running.

The restaurant doors loomed ahead, glass reflecting smoke and fire and the panicked rush of bodies behind them.

“Go,” Mal shouted, voice raw. “Go!”

They crossed the threshold just as the world seemed to buckle behind them.

The doors slammed shut.

The barrier snapped into place.

The noise outside died all at once.

Silence rushed in to replace it, broken only by sobbing, gasping breaths and the wet sound of someone retching near the counter.

Sharrie collapsed.

Her legs folded beneath her as if they’d simply stopped working. Jeb caught her too late, her weight dragging them both down.

“Sharrie—no—no, stay with me,” he said, hands slick with blood.

It was everywhere. Pooling beneath her.

Too much. Far too much.

Mal was there instantly.

“Lay her flat,” she said. “Flat. Don’t move her.”

Someone dragged chairs aside. Someone else was crying loudly. Mal barely registered it.

She pressed her hands down hard, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to think.

A leg was gone.

Not torn.
Not crushed.

Gone.

Clean enough to be worse.

“We need heat,” Mal said. “Now.”

Orzal stumbled toward the kitchen. “There’s—there’s a stove—”

“Go,” Mal snapped.

Orzal bolted.

Sharrie’s eyes fluttered.

“Mal?” she whispered.

“I’m here,” Mal said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

It was a lie.

Jeb was shaking. “She’s cold.”

Mal felt it too. The way Sharrie’s skin was already losing warmth beneath her hands.

“Where’s the heat?” Mal shouted.

“Almost—” Orzal called back. “Just—just a second!”

He returned with a pan, heat wavering above it.

“It’s hot,” he said.

Too slow.

Too late.

Sharrie gasped once. Sharp. Shallow.

Then again.

Then not at all.

“No,” Jeb said. “No—no, you can’t—”

Mal pressed her forehead briefly against Sharrie’s shoulder.

Nothing.

“She’s gone,” Mal said quietly.

Jeb broke.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He wrenched away, sobbing, and stumbled into a booth, folding in on himself, face buried in his hands.

Mal’s hand lingered in the air.

She looked around.

Everyone had wet eyes.

Soot.
Blood.
Shock.

Aside from Cressida, it was hard to believe she’d only met these people today. It felt like war.

That thought snagged.

Today.

She glanced toward the windows.

Daylight still filtered in. Thinner than it should have been. Dimmed, muted, but unmistakably there.

It should have been dark by now.

So much had happened. Too much. She hadn’t stopped to think about it. Hadn’t let herself.

Someone groaned softly nearby.

Mal straightened.

“Any other injuries?”

Marcy beside him pressed a napkin to her forehead, blood seeping through her fingers.

“I’m dizzy.”

“I twisted my ankle,” Cranston said. “Nothing serious.”

Mal nodded. “Sit. Everyone who can sit, sit. Just rest.”

She moved automatically. She grabbed a pitcher and filled it with water, clean cloths.

Her hands shook.

They didn’t stop.

Cressida hovered close, silent, eyes glassy.

“Cressida,” Mal said softly. “You’ve got blood on you.”

She looked up dully.

“I’ll be okay.”

The restaurant felt too small now.

Too quiet.

A wall-mounted screen flickered.

Static crawled across it.

A second later—

Theo appeared, lounging in midair as if gravity were optional. His wings floated behind him, more spread than usual.

“Didn't want to see him again,” Cranston muttered.

“Hello, Zone Sixteen,” Theo said pleasantly. “You’ve all been doing your best, I know.”

He sighed.

“We have just concluded Round Two. Unfortunately, I’m not seeing anything very special.”

No one spoke.

Theo tapped something only he could see.

“Only one round remains,” he continued. “This is where rankings begin to matter. Individual performance may influence zone yield. Exceptional effort can result in special loot.”

His smile widened slightly.

“Round Three is the one that really weeds out the chaff.”

He clasped his hands together and leaned forward.

“Regarding Round Three—”

Theo’s attention flicked elsewhere, then he smiled again.

“Still survival,” he said lightly, “but with a unique twist. The environment will be adjusted.”

Silence.

Theo straightened, smoothing an invisible crease.

“Collect yourselves. Push harder. Rank higher. A strong individual showing may yet salvage a weak zone.”

His gaze drifted, unfocused.

“So far, however…”
A pause.
“…your performance has been despicable.”

He paused, eyes flicking as if acknowledging an update, then continued.

“Disorganized. Timid. Wasteful.”

His tone sharpened, irritation finally bleeding through.

“You scatter. You hide. You wait for safety to save you.”
A soft, derisive laugh.
“That instinct will not carry you through the final round.”

He leaned back, wings flexing slightly.

“Kill faster. Adapt sooner. Or don’t bother trying at all—”

The screen went black mid-rant.

Everyone in the restaurant stared at the black screen for a moment.

Orzal turned. “Environment adjusted?”

A few others murmured.

“Nothing good,” Cranston said. “Not that any of it is good. More nightmare.”

He turned his back and looked out the window.

Mal checked the timer.

Two hours and forty-seven minutes. The longest time a safe zone had allotted them.

She, Cressida, and Orzal finished patching people up.

They left Jeb alone.

Mal stood. “Let’s try to sleep.”

“Sleep?” Someone muttered.

“Yeah, as if any of us could sleep,” Marcy added.

“Try.”

Mal turned.

Cranston had finally taken a seat. He was still gazing out the window.

She followed his gaze.

“Whatever Round Three is,” she said, “I think it will be the worst we’ve faced so far.”

***

No one slept.

They sat where they were, backs against booths and counters, eyes open, bodies trembling with exhaustion they couldn’t outrun. Every sound made someone flinch.

At some point, everyone had found something to use as a weapon.

Mal had been deliberate.

The mallet rested solid in her right hand. In her left, a butcher’s knife from the kitchen, broad and nicked, heavy enough to matter. She’d chosen it without ceremony.

She watched the timer.

Ten seconds.

The restaurant felt the same. Too normal. Too quiet.

Cressida sat nearby. She’d replaced her shield with a serving platter from the kitchen. It had handles. A knife lay across her knee, fingers resting on the grip as if she wasn’t sure yet whether she’d need it. Jeb hadn’t moved since Sharrie died.

Five.

Four.

Three.

The timer hit zero.

The barrier lifted.

Silence.

Marcy let out a shaky laugh. “Is that—”

The laugh cut off.

The floor shifted.

Not enough to knock anyone down. Just enough that the movement registered through their feet, a slow roll that didn’t belong to the building.

Glasses rattled behind the counter.

Mal straightened.

Outside, something gave.

A building farther down the block sagged inward, its front wall cracking in a clean vertical line before the upper floors collapsed straight down. Dust ballooned outward, swallowing the street for a moment before drifting away.

Another structure followed.

No fire. No blast.

Just weight failing.

The sound reached them a heartbeat later, a deep grinding roar that spread through the city without direction. Concrete on concrete. Steel tearing loose.

Water appeared next.

It forced its way up through openings in the street farther down the block, pouring out of lower access points and stairwells, dark and fast. It spilled across the pavement, carrying debris with it.

The restaurant shuddered.

Not violently. Not yet.

Plates rattled. A chair scraped across the floor.

Mal felt it through her shoes, the vibration traveling up her legs, uneven and wrong.

“This isn’t holding,” she said.

The shaking intensified.

Balance turned unreliable, like trying to walk during an earthquake that hadn’t decided where to settle.

“Everyone out,” Mal said sharply.

She grabbed Cressida’s arm as the building lurched again. Walking was suddenly work. Every step had to be placed, weight shifting carefully as the ground moved beneath them.

The restaurant was still standing.

But it no longer felt separate from what was happening outside.

They spilled through the doors in a staggered rush.

The street was chaos.

Dust hung thick in the air, turning the light flat and gray. Rubble covered the pavement in uneven drifts, chunks of concrete and shattered glass crunching underfoot. The ground sloped where it hadn’t before, buckled and broken in shallow waves.

Then came movement that had nothing to do with collapsing buildings or shifting streets.

At first Mal thought they were monsters, shapes cutting too fast through the dust.

Then she saw faces.

People.

Not just a few stragglers. A group. More than twenty, moving fast, moving badly. Some ran outright. Others half-dragged companions who couldn’t keep up. Faces streaked with grime and water, eyes wide and unfocused.

They hadn’t seen other people in hours.

Now there were this many.

“Keep up!” a man running at the front shouted. He faltered when he saw Mal, surprise flashing across his face. He stopped and called over to someone else.

For a split second, Mal felt relief.

Behind them, the restaurant collapsed.

They moved farther away from it.

Jeb broke from the group, taking two steps forward, arm outstretched.

“Sharrie’s in there.”

Cranston grabbed his arm. “Nothing you can do.”

The shaking stopped completely.

Mal turned back, taking in the people. The ruined city.

The lead man was talking in low tones to two others.

She kept her eye on them.

Cressida stepped up beside her. “Why do this?” She gestured at the destruction.

“To get people out in the open. Fewer places to hide,” Cranston said from behind them.

“That isn’t a good sign,” Cressida said.

The lead man and one other started toward them, slow and cautious. The third peeled off, turning back to contain the rest of their group.

Mal’s interface flashed.

[ ENVIRONMENT ADJUSTED ]

Everyone received the notification.

“No shit,” Orzal muttered.

Cranston stepped up beside Mal, eyes never leaving the men as they approached.

They exchanged a brief look.

“Let’s meet them halfway,” Cranston said.

Mal nodded, then turned slightly toward Cressida. “Keep your weapon ready. Be prepared for anything.”

Cressida looked like she might argue. She glanced at the approaching men instead, jaw tightening, and nodded.

The leader raised his hands as they closed the distance. “Easy,” he said. “We come in peace.”

Mal and Cranston advanced a few paces.

“Where did you come from?” Mal asked.

He hesitated, then frowned. “Why?”

“Because you’re still alive,” Cranston said. “And there’s a lot of you.”

The man blinked, then let out a short, humorless breath. “Right. Fair.”

He nodded back over his shoulder. “Underground tube lines. Service tunnels. Storage levels. A block south. We stayed put. Stayed quiet.”

“Safe zone?” Mal asked.

“No,” he said quickly. “Never made it to one.”

“Never?” Cranston asked.

The man shook his head. “No. I work maintenance. Tube line.” He gestured vaguely behind him. “A few of us do. The rest… passengers. Tube staff. We thought it’d be safer to stay down there.”

He swallowed.

“There used to be more of us.”

“Us too,” Cranston said.

The man nodded once.

“You’re their leader?” Mal asked.

“Leader?” He glanced back. Faces were watching them now. Waiting.

The man beside him gave a small nod.

Harker exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I am.”

Cranston studied the group, then inclined his head. “It’s impressive you’ve kept this many people alive.”

Harker let out a quiet, uncomfortable laugh. “Well… what else was I supposed to do?”

He glanced back at the others, then added, “Plus, I had help.”

The large man he'd brought with him smiled and crossed his arms.

Mal found herself smiling despite everything.

“Where are you headed?”

He hesitated. “Not sure. This is the first time we’ve been above ground since that man—thing—showed up on the station screens.”

He seemed to remember himself, then stepped forward and held out a hand.

“Oh. Right. I’m Harker. Harker Wallis.”

Mal was stretching her hand out when the screaming began.

Rumbling.

It rolled up from farther down the street, low and spreading. The rubble shook beneath their feet.

Shapes began forcing their way up through the broken pavement.

Monsters.

Harker and the man beside him were already moving.

“Phil!” he shouted, sprinting back toward his group. “Move them this way—behind the rubble! Behind the rubble!”

He pointed hard toward the collapsed restaurant, voice cutting through the rising panic.

Mal spun. “Everyone!” She pointed as well. “Behind the wall. Go!”

Cranston was already there, grabbing shoulders, steering people without slowing.

Mal surged forward instead, toward Harker.

She caught one man by the collar and hauled him back as something shrieked in the dust ahead.

Harker skidded to a stop near the front of the street.

The ground there writhed.

He had a short, thick pipe of dull metal in his hands, gripped like it weighed more than it should. He braced it with both hands.

Mal was closing the distance when the large man Harker had with him stepped in front of her, arm out.

“You’ll want to stand back, miss.”

Mal didn’t slow. “I can handle myself.”

The man started to reply—

The rubble split open.

Creatures spilled out, bodies scraping stone, too many legs, too fast.

“Now!” Harker snapped.

Electricity tore through the air.

A violent white-blue arc snapped outward, branching as it struck the front of the wave and crawled across the street in a crackling web. Bodies convulsed. The smell of ozone burned sharp.

The things screamed.

Not loud.

Wrong.

Mal already had her mallet and butcher knife up.

“Harker!” someone shouted.

The light faltered.

Harker staggered, breath hitching. “Back up!”

“Now,” the man beside Mal said.

He charged.

Stone rippled across his skin, hardening as he moved, his shoulder slamming into the first creature and crushing it outright.

Others followed.

People who had learned what hesitation cost.

One moved in a blur. Another struck with something that split the air. A third slammed down with enough force to crater the pavement.

Mal didn’t hesitate.

She shouted, and violet light flared along her mallet and blade as she joined them.

The fight was short.

Brutal.

The street was still again.

They stepped back, breathing hard.

[ +20 EXP ]

She stared at the notification.

The fighters started murmuring. They all got notifications.

"That's good right?" Someone asked.

"I'm going to say, yes." Someone answered.

"Why is it so vague?"

"Check your interface. Mine was applied to my overall rank, it increased."

Mal didn’t want to look. Not yet.

The stone-skinned man’s flesh returned to normal.

“Thanks for the help, miss." He wiped his hands on his pants and offered her one. "Frank.”

She took it. “Mal.”

Harker joined them, eyes sharp now. “What rank are you?”

“A-rank,” she said. “Why?”

He huffed. “That figures.”

He gestured to Frank, then to himself. “Us too.”

Then to the others who’d charged in.
“They’re Bs. Seems tied to how… developed the ability is. Or the trait.”

Mal nodded once. “We think so too.”

She glanced at the group behind him. At how many were still standing.

Harker followed her look. “The rest are Cs and below. Some are decent on defense. A few have crafting abilities.”

“Still,” Mal said quietly, “six high-ranked people in one group is a lot.”

Harker studied her for a moment.

“Is it?”

Mal paused.

Then, honestly, “I don’t know. I don’t even know how any of this is supposed to work.”

Harker’s mouth twitched. Not a smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “Us neither.”

“Mal!” Cranston called sharply. “We need to move. My paths are lighting up. Pick one and go. Now.”

Harker glanced at Cranston, then back at Mal. “Paths?”

“He’s got a B-rank guiding ability,” Mal said. “Survival paths.”

Harker’s brows lifted. “That sounds… useful.”

“Mostly for him,” Mal said. “It’s been reliable, though.”

Harker looked at Cranston again. Longer this time.

“Reliable guidance in a city like this,” he said quietly. “That’s not nothing. Especially now.”

He met Mal’s eyes.
“May we join you?”

She glanced at Cranston. “What do you say, Mr. Guide? Clear to add company?”

Cranston flicked a glance at Harker, then at his interface. He nodded once.
“Yes.”

Mal looked back to Harker. “We’re headed to my children’s school. A few blocks west.”

“That works for me,” Harker said. “Staying mobile seems smarter than digging in.”

“Agreed.”

Harker turned and raised his voice. “We’re moving. Stick close.”

He looked back at Mal, a hint of something apologetic crossing his face.
“Didn’t mean to step into your role back there.”

She didn’t smile.
“You wouldn’t have been able to.”

He raised his eyebrows.

Frank overheard. “I like her.”

A few strained laughs followed.

Cressida walked over to join Mal.

“Perry,” Harker called. “Out front. Scout ahead.”

“On it—”

“No need,” Cranston cut in.

The young man looked between Harker and Cranston.

Cranston tapped his interface. “Better if the group stays tighter.”

He stepped closer to Harker and Frank.
“How many are you?”

Harker waved Perry back. “It’s fine. Stay with the others.”

“Twenty-nine,” he said. “Including myself.”

“Thirty-eight altogether now,” Cranston said. “I’ll take point.”

Harker nodded once. “You got it.” He stepped aside and gestured down the street.

Mal glanced at Cranston. “After you.”

He met her eyes, then nodded.

***

Just a few blocks turned into hours.

A larger group meant slower movement. Injured slowed them further. Non-fighters slowed them more than that.

They moved when Cranston told them to move. They stopped when he said stop. They cut through alleys and broken storefronts, skirted open streets, doubled back when his paths warned against what lay ahead.

Detours stacked on detours.

Monsters came anyway.

They always came.

Two from Harker’s group died in an ambush, caught out by creatures left over from the first round.

Mal’s group lost Elliott.

He’d been standing just off to the side during a fight when a chunk of concrete came loose from above. It struck him.

He died instantly.

Orzal figured out his C-rank trait in the middle of the chaos. Panic, then instinct.

One moment he was there.

The next, gone. Invisibility.

Each fight brought more flashing numbers. More quiet murmuring about experience, ranks, increases.

Mal stopped checking.

She still didn’t see the point.

When they finally reached an area that looked familiar to her, Mal pushed ahead of the others.

She didn’t wait. Didn’t look back.

“We should have been able to see it already,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

Her gaze swept the block, fast at first, then slower. Measuring without meaning to. The width of the street. The distance between intersections. Where the fence should cut across the corner.

It should be just ahead.

She stopped.

Rubble filled the space where the school should have been. Not damaged. Not cracked open.

Gone.

Cracked concrete. Twisted metal. A collapsed light pole half-buried in dust.

Mal stared.

“No,” she said.

The word didn’t fit the shape of what she was seeing.

She took another step forward. Then another.

“No.”

This was the street. She knew it. She’d walked it a hundred times. Jerome dragging his feet. Maxina running ahead.

Her breath hitched.

“Mal.” Cressida was at her side.

“It’s here,” she said, pointing at the rubble in front of her. “It’s supposed to be right here.”

"I know, Mal." Cressida's voice cracked. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Mal's chest locked. She bent forward, hands braced on her knees.

“No.”

Her breath came shallow and fast. Images crowded in uninvited.

Maxina perched on the kitchen counter, feet swinging as she ate.
Jerome complaining they were out of his favorite juice—she’d promised to pick some up.
Brenton’s hand on her shoulder as he passed her in the kitchen.

She hadn’t said goodbye.

She hadn’t—

“No,” she said again, louder now, raw. “No, no, no—”

“Mrs. Getty?”

Mal snapped upright.

A man stood a few steps away, hands raised, palms open. Early twenties, maybe. His clothes were torn and dirty, but he was uninjured. Calm in a way that immediately set her teeth on edge.

At first glance, she didn’t recognize him at all.

“Do I know you?” she demanded.

He pushed his glasses up with one finger, a nervous habit that felt painfully normal.

“Ah—right. Sorry.” He swallowed. “I’m Jerome’s math teacher. Mr. Archiestemblat.”

“Jerome.”

“Oh,” he added quickly. “Everyone just calls me Mr. Arch.”

Her heart lurched.

“Yes,” she said, the word breaking as it left her. She stepped toward him without thinking. “Yes—do you know where my son is? My daughter? My husband—Brenton—”

He shook his head once, firm but not unkind, already turning.

“Mrs. Getty,” he said, lowering his voice. “Please. Follow me for now.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because this area’s too exposed,” he said, eyes flicking past her toward the ruined street. “And I need you to see something.”

She looked back at Cressida. Then Cranston.

Cressida took her hand.

Cranston nodded. “He glows.”

“He... glows?” Harker repeated slowly.

Mr. Arch walked at an even stride, a pace they could all keep.

He led them around the rubble, toward the rear of the space where the school should have stood.

Mal caught a glimpse of light through the debris. A faint blue shimmer.

Mr. Arch stopped when the group was close.

He pushed his glasses up.

“I should warn you first,” he said. “Do not be alarmed.”

“Alarmed?” Mal asked.

“I’m only going to remove it on this side.”

Mal stared at him.

“Your children are alive.”

Her heart skipped.

“They are—”

“Wait. Please.”

He turned toward the rubble and raised his hands.

The massive wall of debris lifted, concrete and metal peeling away and settling neatly to either side.

Mal’s breath caught.

Bright red hair, the same shade as her own. A white shirt. Pink pants.

Exactly what Mal had chosen for her.

Maxina sat on a swing on the playground, smiling.

“Maxina!”

Mal surged forward.

“Mrs. Getty—”

She slammed into something solid.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs.

The blue shimmer rippled where her hands struck.

A notification flashed.

[ PROTECTED ZONE: Occupants will be relocated after Phase One concludes ]

“Oof—sorry,” Mr. Arch said quickly. “There is a barrier.”

Mal pressed her palms flat against it.

It felt like the safe zones.

But something was wrong.

Maxina’s smile didn’t move.

The swing didn’t sway.

The other children stood frozen mid-step, mid-gesture.

No wind.

No sound.

“What?” She turned toward him. “What is this?”

"First, I need to cover this back up."

"No."

“Mrs. Getty,” he said quietly, “if I don’t cover it, it will attract monsters. There is a rather large group I’m sheltering.”

Harker stepped forward. “You have a large group here?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“No—please don’t cover her!” Mal shrieked.

Mr. Arch’s expression softened, just slightly. “It’s only for now. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

The air tightened around her chest.

Mal lifted off the ground, drawn backward against her will.

“Hey!” Cressida shouted. “Put her down! You can’t do this!”

Mr. Arch began replacing the rubble, slabs of concrete sliding back into place as he held Mal suspended.

“I will explain shortly.”

Mal watched the debris swallow Maxina from view.

“No,” she begged. “Please—at least leave a path. Please.”

Mr. Arch met her eyes.

“I promise I will,” he said. “After the battle.”

He set Mal down gently.

“Battle?” someone echoed.

Murmurs rippled through the group.

“Yes,” Mr. Arch said. “There will be one final push.”

People stared at him, waiting.

He turned on his heel.

“Come along.”

He stopped beside another mound of rubble not far from the school and opened a passage.

“Quickly. Everyone inside. Down the stairs.”

Cranston moved first. “We need answers.”

Mr. Arch pushed up his glasses. “Yes.”

Cranston held his gaze a moment longer, then entered.

Others followed.

Mal lingered, staring back at where the school had been.

A dome.

The children were safe.

Cressida tapped the back of her hand. “Mal.”

“Coming.”

Inside was… unexpected.

As she followed Cressida down the stairs, the space brightened.

Clean.

Furniture.

The smell of food.

People.

Some were streaked with filth and gore.

Others looked untouched. As if they hadn’t been outside at all.

Mal slowed, taking it in.

There had to be over a hundred people here.

She scanned faces.

Hoping.

Searching.

She didn’t see him.

Where are you, Brenton?

Her fingers brushed her pocket, the note still inside.

Mr. Arch came up beside her.

She turned.

“You did this? All these people?”

“Mostly teachers,” he said. “School staff. Parents. Others who found us.”

Parents.

“My husband?”

He shook his head.

“No. I’m sorry, I haven't seen him.”

Mal nodded once.

She didn’t trust her voice.

He patted her shoulder.

“Can I have the newcomers gather over here, please?”

Mal’s group and Harker’s crowded in. Some of them were holding sandwiches. Others had cups in their hands.

“Again,” he said, “you can call me Mr. Arch.”

People waited expectantly.

He continued. “Yesterday, when this all began, all adults at the school suddenly found themselves outside. We blinked, and we were beyond the grounds. The barrier dome had already been erected.”

A murmur rippled through the group.

“What do you mean, blinked beyond the grounds?” someone asked.

“Exactly that,” Mr. Arch said. “One moment we were inside. The next, displaced outside the perimeter.”

“For what purpose?” Mal asked.

“To preserve the children,” Mr. Arch replied.

Silence.

He adjusted his glasses. “I believe they are in a state of stasis. That is why they appear frozen.”

“Stasis?” someone repeated.

“Yes,” he said. “From our perspective, they are motionless. From theirs, no time is passing at all.”

Mal’s chest tightened.

“So they don’t know,” Cressida said softly.

“No,” Mr. Arch said. “They are not aware.”

He paused, then added, carefully, “And they will not remain like that indefinitely. Stasis implies release. Otherwise, there would be no reason to preserve them.”

That stirred the group. Not relief. Something sharper. Deferred.

He went on, voice quieter.

“When the attendant spoke earlier about investment, it clarified something for me. I suspect there are many of these protected zones. Not only schools, but other facilities with high concentrations of children.”

"Hospitals." someone whispered.

"Daycares."

“These zones were preselected,” Mr. Arch said. “Designed for preservation.”

“Preserve,” Harker scoffed. “Why would that guy—Theo—care about that?”

Mr. Arch met his gaze. “Not him. This goes far beyond him.”

“For long-term value,” Mal said flatly.

“Yes,” Mr. Arch agreed. “An investment.”

His eyes flicked briefly around the group.

“The children,” he said. “Especially those who have not yet manifested their interfaces.”

A chill moved through the crowd.

“But Theo said we were all tagged,” Cranston said. “That the interfaces are tied to it.”

Mr. Arch nodded. “Yes. He was very precise about that. Everyone was tagged.”

“So the children were tagged too,” Mal said.

“Yes,” he replied. “But inactive. Marked, then withheld.”

“For later,” Harker muttered.

Mr. Arch didn’t correct him.

“So whatever this is,” Cranston said slowly, “they’re planning for the long haul.”

Mr. Arch nodded once. “These theories could go on indefinitely. I expect we’ll have clearer answers soon. Assuming we survive the final portion of this round.”

“The push,” someone said.

“You’ve mentioned that,” Harker said. “The push.”

“Yes.” Mr. Arch raised his hand and opened his interface. “The attendant—”

“Why does yours look like that?” Harker cut in, pointing.

Gold.

The color alone stilled the group.

Mr. Arch blinked once, then nodded. “Right. Mine appears different.”

“Is that—” someone started.

“Yes,” Mr. Arch said. “I believe it reflects my innate trait rank. S-rank.”

The quiet shattered.

“S-rank?”
“I thought A was the top.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”

“It may not be common,” Mr. Arch said evenly. “In fact, it may be unique. Mine is the only gold interface I’ve encountered so far.”

“Is that higher or lower than A?” Harker asked.

Mr. Arch studied him for a moment.

“That distinction isn’t the priority,” he said. “Please let me finish.”

He lowered his hand. The gold interface vanished.

“The attendant was… displeased,” he continued. “Our lack of participation mattered to him. Rankings mattered.”

“So what?” someone snapped. “Why should we care?”

“Because this isn’t ending today,” Mr. Arch said. “And the experience we’re gaining now appears to affect overall standing.”

He met their eyes, one by one.

“If this is meant for the long haul,” he said quietly, “then I believe we should try very hard not to start at the bottom.”

“You have something in mind. A plan,” Mal said.

Mr. Arch smiled faintly. “Yes.” He looked around at the group. “First, I need to know what we’re working with. How many of you consider yourselves fighters?”

“Most of us,” Harker said. “Even the ones who haven’t fought directly. Defense, construction, support. Everyone’s contributed something.”

“I wasn’t insulting anyone,” Mr. Arch said calmly. “I need to divide by function, not worth.”

He lifted a hand. “You gain experience fastest when your actions align with your innate trait. Fighting is only one expression of that.”

“If I do this,” Mal cut in, “you remove the debris from the dome afterward.”

“Yes,” Mr. Arch said without hesitation. “Of course.”

Murmurs followed.

“Let’s go over the plan.”

Mr. Arch’s plan was rudimentary.

Everyone could gain experience. Even those who chose not to fight.

Two builders constructed a tower for him. He needed the vantage point to regulate the flow of monsters, feeding them in controlled numbers to the fighters and defenders below. The tower rose between the two massive piles of rubble, one burying the school, the other concealing the underground shelter.

A third builder raised spiked barricades at staggered intervals.

Crafters fashioned weapons from the debris. Materials were plentiful.

Fighters and defenders split themselves left and right.

Then there was nothing to do but wait.

It didn’t take long.

“Incoming,” Mr. Arch called.

People straightened.

“Barriers are up,” he said. “Two choke points. They’ll only come through where I allow.”

Monsters surged from both directions.

Just as he’d said.

They slammed into the barriers.

“Left side opening.”

People on the left braced.

A gap formed, letting several dozen monsters through.

Fighters moved.

Defenders pushed back the overflow.

Stealth-focused fighters like Orzal slipped in and out of sight, striking from blind angles.

Clean. Efficient. Brutal.

Creatures died in pieces.

Mr. Arch shifted his focus left, then right.

Experience ticked upward.

Again.

And again.

The pattern held.

Hold.
Kill.
Left.
Right.

Time blurred.

Hands shook. Muscles burned. Blood dried black on the ground.

When someone faltered, another stepped in.

Mr. Arch remained atop the tower, maintaining the barriers.

Everyone received experience.

By the time the final wave broke, the area was unrecognizable.

Bodies piled at the choke points, twisted where the spikes held them.

Smoke drifted low.

And they hadn’t lost a single person.

Mal looked up at Mr. Arch.

Cranston leaned in. “I told you. Glowing.”

“So you did.”

Mal’s interface pulsed.

[ COMBAT EVALUATION COMPLETE ]
[ ZONE PERFORMANCE EVALUATION UPDATED ]

It was officially over.

People relaxed. Mr. Arch had come down.

Another pulse.

[ OVERALL RANK INCREASE: D-rank ]

She ignored it.

"Mr. Arch." She pointed. "Clear it now?"

"Ah, yes." He pushed his glasses up, and quickly removed the rubble.

The dome came into view.

"Thank you."

He smiled. "My pleasure."

As he walked away, he called out. "The dome is visible, if any parents want to take a look."

A few people jogged over.

Mal walked to the edge of the dome, staring at her unmoving, smiling daughter.

She placed her hand on the dome.

Alive.
Unreachable.

Mal wished Jerome was visible, but it was good to know he was inside that school somewhere.

She wondered where Brenton was, if he was okay. Alive.

Interfaces lit up.

A list scrolled into place.
Rankings brutal and impersonal.

Theo didn't make an appearance.

The system spoke.

[ GLOBAL UPDATE ]
[ 220 Zones participated ]
[ Thank you for your participation ]
[ Planet active population at start: 3,851,093,765 ]
[ Current worldwide active population: 500,032,201 ]

The crowd broke.

Screams. Sobs. Names shouted into the sky.

Billions had been lost.

[ Top Ranked Zones: 42, 158, 10, 214, 89, 3, 134, 28 ]
[ Congratulations to zones with the highest-ranked individuals ]
[ Planetary zonal boundaries will be reconfigured ]
[ All participants and non-active population will be placed into a ranked zone ]
[ Individual ranking combined with trait rank will determine new zone placement ]

Mal tore her eyes away from the interface.

Tears rolled down her face.

She focused on Maxina frozen on the swing.

So close.

Her interface flared.

[ PHASE ONE CONCLUDED ]
[ POPULATION REASSIGNMENT: IN PROGRESS ]

Cressida walked up beside her.
“Mal… what do you think it means by new zone placement—”

The world blinked.

Mal staggered, air rushing into her lungs as the ground changed beneath her feet.

She wasn’t alone.

People packed the space shoulder to shoulder.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Strangers, all of them.

Faces slick with panic, eyes wild and searching.

“Cressida?” Mal shouted, turning her head.

She was jostled every way she tried to turn.
“Cress—”

No answer.

Hundreds—no, thousands—of unfamiliar faces surrounded her.

Sobbing, screaming, bloody, calling out names.

Mal’s chest locked.

Her children were gone.

Brenton was gone.

Cressida was gone.

A voice boomed overhead, vast and delighted.

“Welcome to Zone Three!”

“No!”

Her legs gave out. She sagged against the person in front of her. The crowd held her stationary.

She screamed.

“CRESS—”

***

“—IDA!”

Kieran’s vision swam.

The wagon.
Zam.
Chickens.

They had just left Graystone.

His face was wet.

“CRESSIDA!” Draegor was shouting, voice raw, breaking on the name. His words tangled over themselves, spilling out faster than he could shape them into sense.

Kieran looked down at his hands.

They trembled.

He had control of his body again.

Zam leaned forward, concern plain on his face. “Draegor? What’s wrong?”

“Hush,” Kieran said sharply. “I’ll deal with it.”

Zam froze, then leaned back.

Marla’s voice carried from the front of the wagon. “Everything all right back there?”

“Yes,” Kieran replied without hesitation.

He shifted toward Draegor.

“No—no—” Draegor shook his head violently. “My sister. My children. My husband. No, Mal’s family, not my family. All those people dead. Why? Was that real?”

His breath fractured as he dragged a hand through his hair.

“What happened? I almost thought I was back on Earth,” he gasped. “Everything was wrong. People were dying. Kids. I—”

Hint: Story Mode memories will be accessible at key milestones!

Draegor snarled and lashed out at it.

“GET IT AWAY FROM ME!”

His gaze slid past Kieran, unfocused, voice collapsing into fragments Kieran could barely follow.

Kieran inhaled slowly.

They had both seen it.

He reached out and caught Draegor’s chin, fingers firm enough to force his head up.

“Focus on me.”

Draegor resisted weakly, still gasping out names. Cressida. Zones. That thing.

Grief twisted into terror across his face, sharp and uncontrolled.

He’s not here. He’s not anchored.

Kieran leaned in.

“What is your name?”

He pulled back just enough to see his eyes.

Draegor was staring past him.

“Your true name,” Kieran said.

Draegor’s breathing slipped out of rhythm.

“My name,” Draegor whispered.

The sobs broke into jagged, hiccupped breaths.

Kieran kept his grip steady.

“Say it.”

Draegor’s lips moved.

Kieran leaned closer to hear the whisper.

“Nathan.”

Kieran’s breath caught.

Confirmation.

He had known for some time now. But hearing it spoken made it real in a way nothing else had.

He pulled back, looking at Drae—no.

Nathan’s tears streaked down his face. His mouth trembled, fighting to stay steady. His eyes were clearer now, but still fragile.

Draegor’s face.
Draegor’s body.

None of Draegor’s mannerisms.

Kieran catalogued the differences automatically. The rushed speech when anxious. The constant, irritating commentary. The quick thinking. The stubborn optimism. The absurd things he said even when everything was falling apart, and even when it wasn't. The dramatic actions. The strange words.

He disliked seeing him like this. The loss of control. The damage laid bare in a way that couldn’t be hidden.

“Nathan,” Kieran said aloud.

Saying the name anchored Kieran.
One solid piece of truth in the middle of everything else.

“How are you now?” Kieran asked, releasing his chin.

Nathan looked at him for a long moment, then turned his gaze away.

Finally, he spoke. “I’d say I’m pretty fucked up.”

Kieran nodded. “You’re more present.”

Nathan didn’t respond. His gaze fixed on the road.

The wagon never slowed. It rolled on beneath them.

Kieran sat back beside him, close but not touching.

“I’ve learned something,” Kieran said quietly. “And it’s raised more questions than it answered.”

Nathan didn’t look at him.