Echoes: The Ten Sigma Series Book 3

by A W Wang

  Before we started this fiery city scenario, Jet sent me a wink. While the meaning wasn’t clear, my assumption was that the wily gesture meant something bad and, most likely, something concerning Cat’s demise.

  I grind my teeth, struggling to figure out the schemes stewing under her bouncy purple-tipped hair.

  A few strides later, the alley spills into a wide avenue framed by metal and glass structures leaking bright orange flames. The group takes a hard right, and we head toward an enclosed stadium ten blocks away. Although everyone spreads out, I trail Cat, keeping a wary eye on Block to the left, and Jet, who’s running with an innocent countenance, on my right.

  She sends another wink, and I move closer to Cat, almost stepping on her heels.

  Something’s about to happen.

  At the first intersection, a group of the enemy, signified by glowing red cords sewn into their black unitards, dashes in the opposite direction on a parallel street.

  Jet spies them and breaks off with Block in tow.

  I slow, happy to be rid of the pair.

  Before Jet rounds the corner, she holds up a ceramic knife and jabs the tip at Cat. As Block trails her onto the next street, he yells, “Meat!”

  With a scowl, I increase my pace to catch the main group.

  A few steps later, a heavy detonation comes from somewhere above us. Higher-pitched crackles of breaking glass follow.

  I shove Cat into a recessed entryway, yelling, “Cover! Cover!”

  As the others join us, curtains of broken windows crash in waves over the asphalt.

  After the air stills, Cat glares and shakes herself from my grasp, saying, “You don’t have to be so overprotective.”

  Instead of responding, I step past the overhang and squint through the haze.

  Beyond the orange glints of the fires dancing over the broken glass, the avenue is empty.

  With light crunches, the rest of the team gingerly steps near me.

  “Where are Jet and Block?” Cat asks.

  I shrug. “Off doing one of their fun things.”

  Trembles rumble through the vicinity, and consternation sweeps through the group.

  A shortish man with a dust-smeared face says, “I swear, this scenario is going to kill us before the other side can.”

  Cat points to the stadium and says to Jinn, “Take everybody else and get to the goal. We’ll meet you there.”

  As Jinn leads the others away, Cat replies to my questioning expression, “We should find Jet and Block.”

  After spending the entire battle watching her back for any of Jet’s shenanigans, I shake my head. “We don’t need them.”

  Anger flashes through her dark eyes, and her lips tighten.

  I wait for a slap on the arm.

  She steadies her emotions with a long breath. “This obsession you have with Jet is unhealthy. You’ve been crawling up my ass for this whole scenario. Instead of thinking of them, you need to focus on the enemy.”

  “We went over this—”

  “Yes, they are one source of danger.” She waves around the busted, burning landscape. “There are lots of ways to die here. Remember, Jet and Block have to win this thing as much as we do, and the best method is through overwhelming force. Let’s get them.”

  Although I roll my eyes, no disagreement comes from my lips.

  Not satisfied with the passive response, Cat says, “I told you it wouldn’t be easy, but we’ll make all this crap work. So, unless you have something sexual in mind, stop crawling up my ass.”

  I snort an approval, and we spend the next few moments rechecking our loadout—a machete, a dagger, and throwing knives, all made from a hard gray ceramic. Even though the more medieval nature of the bladed weapons clashes against the modern scenery and our futuristic, neon-corded uniforms, I force away those thoughts. Figuring out the predilections of the overlords falls way below my current set of problems.

  More explosions rock the tall structures in the distance, and faint echoes of crashing glass arrive a moment later.

  “Time to get moving,” I say and lead Cat toward the intersection where Jet disappeared.

  After a few minutes of searching the dangerous boulevards, we turn into a traffic circle, whose once pristine premises now lie as burnt skeletons of concrete and twisted metal. Flames consuming the upper floors of the buildings tint the glass-covered pavement a reddish-orange.

  As we advance onto the center island, the smoke clears enough for the ball of the sun to push a yellow glow into the haze.

  “Vic,” the sweet voice of Jet calls.

  I stop.

  On the second story of a ruined office building, the beautiful girl steps from the shadows and frames herself in the jagged remains of a floor-to-ceiling window. The gentle hues of the surroundings only add to her angelic appearance.

  Block ruins the image by stepping behind her, his face painted with the familiar zigzag pattern.

  “Meat!” he says with glee.

  Cat yells, “We need your help.”

  “I need to speak to Vic. Alone.”

  “That will not happen,” Cat replies with venom.

  In a calm tone, Jet says, “Afraid you won’t get your moment with him? Maybe I’m not the one you should be jealous of.”

  As Cat glares, composing another response, I step forward and say in a low voice, “It’ll be okay.”

  She huffs. “Whatever. Just come find me when you’re finished.” After firing a glare at Jet, she stalks away, the broken glass crunching under her boots.

  “Make this fast. I have things to do,” I yell to Jet.

  The angelic girl lifts her chin, allowing a full view of the blood streaks under her perfect jawline. In the soft lighting, the marks enhance her beauty.

  “I’m not going there, Jet.”

  Lips twisting in merriment, she holds up the severed head of a woman by a long ponytail of red hair. “Know what’s supposed to be on the arm now?”

  “Meat! Meat!” Block says with adolescent glee.

  “You’re saying that’s the woman with the nine score?”

  My heart pounds as Jet tosses the macabre trophy in a high arc. With crackles of glass, the gory object lands and rolls to my boots.

  Even covered with lacerations, the face is nobody I recognize and, definitely, not that of a goddess.

  I shrug. “She means nothing to me.”

  Jet narrows her eyes, pouting. “I’m helping you get to where you want to be.”

  Before I answer, footsteps crunch near, and Cat kicks the bloody head aside.

  “So this is your idea of fun?” Cat yells to Jet.

  Jet moves her hands into a peaceful posture and says cryptically, “I am what I am. When will you be who you are?”

  A moment passes, when I’m positive Cat will march upstairs and do something worse than slap Jet, before she turns to me and says, “Come on, we’ll do this ourselves.”

  After glancing at Jet, I nod.

  Haunting laughs follow as we turn the corner and leave the traffic circle.

  While the smoke increases, blotting out the hazy glow from the sun, we make our way back toward the explosions and fighting.

  We march a couple of blocks, then Cat stops and blows out a breath. Fear sits in her eyes, but instead of mentioning specifics, she says, “We’ll keep an eye out for those two, but for the time being, let’s focus on winning. Get to that building and touch the reactor.”

  More blasts rock the vicinity as we hustle toward the scenario goal. Minutes later, we sprint into the main entryway, just before sheets of glass rain over the street, our problems with Jet left behind but not forgotten.

  A concrete stairwell leads us from the lobby and into the cool air of a subterranean corridor. Glowing rails run along the corners of the flat ceiling and fade into the distance. As we adjust to the dim lighting, faint thunks reverberate from wherever the passageway ends.

  Cat says, “Guess the others didn’t wait.”

  “No other entranc
es?”

  She shakes her head. “Not according to the map. There’s only this.”

  I keep a careful watch as we march toward the fight, hating the confined environment.

  Although our perspective changes little after the first minute of walking, I roll my shoulder as a familiarity nags at my thoughts.

  I flick glances to the smooth, gray walls on either side, trying to spark some recognition.

  When we reach a section where the lights end and the corridor darkens into a charcoal gray, déjà vu hits me.

  I wobble, my shoulder burning from an explosion of white phosphorus.

  Cat stops, glancing around for a threat. “What the hell’s going on?”

  I slump against the wall, gathering my breath. “This might sound crazy, but I’ve been here.”

  “What?”

  Startled by a sudden surety, I say louder, “I’ve definitely been here.”

  “When? You’ve been behind my ass this whole time, and this is the first time I’ve been here.”

  A white-hot burst again flares in my mind. I roll my shoulder from the incomprehensible burning sensation.

  Too much for my newfound masochistic streak to handle.

  “Come on, get it together,” Cat says, reaching for me.

  I brush her hand away. “Not this scenario. From when they were putting the threads into us. This corridor was in one of those combat experiences. There was an intersection here.”

  “Then this isn’t the same.”

  I suck down a lungful of air and straighten. “No, it is. Remember who designed this place. I know people, and the overlords are people. They’d reuse things.”

  Cat shrugs. “How does this help us?”

  I stare at the wall, clearly seeing a dark opening with a staircase via a black thread’s experience. I yank out a knife and run my fingers over the area. When I touch a long, vertical indent, I scrape at the faint line with the tip of the blade.

  Cat’s knife joins mine, and we remove the paint to reveal a flush seal. I wedge my knife between the two pieces and, after some wriggling, gain a bit of purchase. Cat adds to the effort, and the opening widens, allowing us to use our fingers to pull the sheet from the wall.

  Tiny red bulbs light a downward trailing staircase.

  “Wow, you were right,” Cat says before letting out a smirk. “For a change.”

  “This should go into a lower passageway and end with stairs that lead up to the reactor room.”

  “You think the overlords just reused the whole thing?”

  I shrug. “If you had to design thousands of experiences, wouldn’t you?”

  Cat draws her machete. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  We march down the steps and into a long passage lit by strings of red bulbs.

  Exactly like in the combat experience.

  The glowing blue cords in our uniforms clash with the eerie red leaking from overhead as we move forward in silence. With each step, the stagnant air grows hotter and mustier. By the time dull sounds of fighting arrive from above, our breaths are labored and a reflecting sheen of red covers our sweaty faces.

  I pause, saying, “We’re close. Do you think they’ll have guards in the room?”

  Cat blows out a breath, her eyes difficult to read in the dimness. “Who knows? Be ready for anything.”

  It’s all that can be said, and we step past the fighting and take a right. After another turn, a staircase leads upward and into the ceiling.

  “They just covered the exit too,” I say. “All we need to do is pop up and touch the reactor.”

  “How come I doubt this will be that easy?”

  I send a reassuring smile. “You’re just not the optimist I am.”

  Cat frowns. “Your jokes are still south of terrible. Let’s just do this.”

  We crouch and move up the stairs until our backs jam against the overhead panel.

  The metal sheet lifts without a sound, letting in bright cracks of light.

  Surprised, Cat whispers, “What’s that smell?”

  “Can’t be anything worse than what we’re breathing now.”

  She doesn’t reply, and we wait.

  When nothing happens, we slide the flooring away and enter a giant circular space. Overhead panels blast light down white and gray walls, formed from wide slabs of concrete. The scenario goal, a thick cylinder that matches the height of the room with flared ends and a tapered middle, sits in the center. Faint hums accompany rings of circuit lights pulsing up its curved surface.

  I wrinkle my nose. A metallic stench taints the atmosphere.

  Footsteps squeak on the laminated floor, and we freeze. A man and woman, the red cords of their uniforms glowing brightly against the black of their unitards, step around the reactor and focus their unblinking eyes on us.

  A breath catches in my throat as Cat and I exchange nervous glances.

  Blood patterns cover their faces.

  Cat readies her machete. “We can’t let them get past us.”

  I nod, drawing out a pair of knives, and march with her as more enemies appear.

  Thirty-Nine

  When the line of opponents stepping around the pulsing reactor ends, six face-painters stand between us and the scenario goal.

  My bones chill, and the pit of my stomach thuds into my groin.

  The short thirty-meter walk to the finish has become the equivalent of leaping an impossible chasm.

  We’re marching to our deaths.

  Every one of them has a score above my 4.4. If these people possess anything like Jet’s ferocity or Block’s brute strength, we’re in bigger trouble than we already are.

  “We really could use Jet and Block,” I say.

  Cat shakes her head. “We only need to touch the reactor, and then all their pretty scores go to zero.”

  Not fully accepting the bold statement, I circle outward and to the left, trying to turn the flank.

  Led by two fives, a woman with painted diamonds on her cheeks and a taller man with horizontal stripes down his face, the enemy shifts with us.

  “Crap,” Cat says.

  Our flanking movement has brought the source of the putrid stench into view, and I almost gag.

  Bloody innards spill from a mauled body, which lies near the shredded remains of a blue-team uniform. I shudder thinking of what Jet would have done to that Carthaginian girl or what she did to the headless woman from this scenario.

  Strangely, even as I wonder what devious tortures these face-painters have planned for us, my anticipation for the fight builds.

  What would killing one of them be like?

  As we continue our positioning, I study the leaders and their movements. An insatiable desire rests in their widened eyes, while their muscles are tense, waiting for action. It’s the lure of bloodlust I’ve seen so many times in Jet and Block.

  Cat and I only need to lead them into their own desires, where strategy will be an afterthought.

  I toss out a wide, confident smile.

  The diamond-cheeked woman says, “When we get you, the first thing I’m going to do is cut those lips off your face.”

  Laughing, I reply, “Everyone says that.”

  “What are you doing, Vic?” Cat whispers nervously.

  “Annoying them to do something stupid,” I mumble back.

  “That should work. Your sense of humor makes me want to kill you too.”

  I frown at the backhanded compliment then say loudly, “Wouldn’t you like to kill a few of these people, Cat?”

  After a hesitation, she catches on and announces, “Sure, why not? Let’s go out with a bang.”

  Across the line of opponents, eyes narrow and feral grins turn into scowls. However, although their emotions have tipped toward unbridled fury, nobody makes any hasty movements.

  Cat and I proceed leftward, separating enough to prevent the enemy from encircling us but staying within distance to provide mutual support.

  The blood-painters trail, their boots squeakin
g lightly. With the diamond-cheeked woman singling me out and bunching up their line, I know a small part of my plan is working.

  I meet the hatred in her gaze and say, “Are we going to fight or just stare at each other all day?”

  A snarl contorts her face, and she charges. The others follow with bloodthirsty cries, not bothering to leave a reserve.

  I flick a knife at her, and when she dodges with an awkward step, I fire my other knife at a man with wing-like smears extending from his nose.

  The low toss nails him in the calf. He stumbles but keeps charging at Cat.

  My main foe, the diamond-cheeked woman, quickly recovers and closes the last few steps at a sprint.

  I yank out my machete just in time to stop an overhand strike.

  When the rest of the line hits us, we give ground while slashing and parrying in lightning arcs of gray to hold them off.

  On my right, Cat makes defensive attacks with controlled motions, conserving her strength.

  I have my hands full with the furious diamond-cheeked woman and another man with thumbprints of blood down both sides of his face.

  As their ceramic weapons sweep in from all directions, I whip my blade, holding my own.

  Even with the terror of being helplessly carved into little pieces fueling an adrenaline rush, the weight of the advance drives me backward.

  Cat and I brush shoulders as we near the beige and white walls, running out of space to give.

  Diamond-cheeked woman flicks a knife at me, and as I dodge, she launches a furious assault with her machete. With crazy slashes, I backpedal and block all her strokes, but when my back touches the wall, the man with the thumbprints thrusts at my exposed leg.

  Cat blocks the strike before quickly returning to her opponents, and then I slice at the man’s hand, scoring a deep cut. When he leaps away in surprise, I jump on the offensive, forcing the diamond-cheeked woman to retreat.

  One of Cat’s adversaries, the hobbled man with the wing-like smears, swings at her unprotected shoulder.

  I pause my advance and knock his machete aside. I anticipate Cat’s next move, which is a thrust at the man’s face. As he moves to block, I slash across his leg, and he tumbles to the floor.