Chương 6: Bad Bitch

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Tre returned to pacing immediately.

"Are we a hundred percent certain this isn't a shared hallucination induced by the PTSD we're experiencing after having run away from millions of mind-larva?"

"No?" He stopped mid-stride.

"It's certainly more believable than us getting drafted into a demonic game show."

"Yeah… I don't think we're hallucinating, my guy."

"But then… what happened to the city? The planet? All the other people? Is everyone waking up in a game right now or just us?" I shrugged.

"No clue. But it doesn't seem like we'll be able to check on Earth anytime soon."

"What happens if we don't win? Am I stuck like this forever?" Tre said, glancing down at his tiny doll body.

"I don't even have a—" The LifeLine buzzed in my hand as white blocky letters appeared before my eyes, like subtitles only I could see: YOU HAVE 10 MINUTES TO PREPARE"Ten minutes?" Tre stared slightly upward, head cocked to the side. His molded brow was furrowed, but his focus was fixed on a specific point in the air. He was reading the same damn message.

"You can see that?" Tre nodded.

"How could you not?"

"What else can you see? Anything besides that text?" Tre blinked, eyes shifting back and forth like he was reading.

"Just that one message, and… oh. Yeah. There's a little health meter thing. I'm at 100%." He reflexively ran his hand through his synthetic curls.

"There's also a greyed-out Inventory tab I can't open." My thumb tapped the Inventory icon, but nothing happened. Probably because you didn't add anything in there, Nora. I scooped up the skateboard and thought about adding it to my inventory. After a moment, new words flared across my vision: ITEM ACQUIRED! SKATEBOARD"Not intended as a weapon, but creative violence will be rewarded." The board magically blinked out of my hand. A pixelated skateboard now spun inside the empty slot on my phone's Inventory screen.

"Whoa!" Tre yelled.

"Did you just add it to your inventory?! That's so fucking cool!" More notifications appeared. ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED! THE LONG GOODBYE Unlocks: CARETAKER'S ENDURANCE"You showed up pre-broken. How considerate." ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED! HYPER-HYPER-VIGILANCE Unlocks: SURVIVOR'S EYE I"Never a moment's rest."

"This is so wild, man."

"I can't see shit from down here. Hold on." Tre studied my shoulder, calculating something.

"Can I climb up?"

"Uh… sure?" Grabbing onto the jersey, tiny fingers finding purchase in the fabric, Tre scrambled up my side like I was a jungle gym. It was both deeply unsettling and a little adorable. When he finally landed on my shoulder, his weight was solid, but not entirely uncomfortable.

"Okay," he said.

"That was weird for both of us, right?"

"So weird." He leaned close to the screen.

"Holy shit. You're unlocking achievements! I know this is all horrifying, but it's also super awesome!" I tapped the chrome gauntlet icon. Tre was already pointing down at the butcher knife by the bottom step.

"If you got an achievement for picking up the skateboard, then I should get one for that." He looked at me.

"Can you set me down for a sec?" I did. He grabbed the knife's handle with both tiny hands. The blade caught a glint of light, then blinked out of existence.

"YES!" Then his shoulders slumped.

"Aww. It went into my inventory, but I didn't get anything." He was quiet for a second, thinking.

"Wait. I know what this is."

"What?"

"You're the PC. In games like this, the Player Character is the only one the system tracks. Achievements, skill unlocks, stat progression all run through you." He looked at his tiny hands.

"I bet I don't level up on my own, only in conjunction with your progress.

"It actually makes strategic sense. You're the one the game's invested in. Which means you're also the one it'll throw the hardest shit at." Tre looked up at me.

"Keep you alive. That's the whole plan." I crouched down so he could climb back up, then turned back to the phone. Skills were still just rows of gray boxes. Most of them were padlocked with the words Skill Slot (LOCKED). NOTICE: SKILLS UNLOCKED THROUGH EXPERIENCE Use to improve, stack, or mutate.

"Self-explanatory," Tre said. Mutate stood out to me, but I nodded and swiped the message away to examine the two skills I'd already unlocked: CARETAKER'S ENDURANCE (Passive) Effect: Stamina drains more slowly under stress.

"Years of sleepless nights and caretaking have hardened you." SURVIVOR'S EYE I (Passive) Effect: Activates automatically when near potentially critical objects. Cannot be triggered manually Cooldown: 4 hours"Born from a life lived in survival mode."

"The Caretaker's Endurance passive, meaning you don't trigger it; it just is, could be the most useful," Tre said, reading over my shoulder.

"Survivor's Eye is trickier. Activates automatically, so you can't force it, and it's got a four-hour cooldown. So, it'll fire when it fires, but then you can't rely on it if you want to use it later. But when something lights up, you should stop and pay attention."

"What counts as a 'potentially critical object,' though?"

"No idea. That's the part we have to learn." He tapped his chin with one stubby finger.

"The names are… interesting." The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Interesting, good or bad?"

"I mean, they certainly aren't random. They're named after you… after your actual life." I hadn't thought about it like that. It was both poetic and deeply bizarre.

"What's it say?" Tre asked, nudging my cheek with one tiny hand.

"Vitals. Open Vitals." I did. The crude wireframe again, now with more detail: HEALTH: 100% FEAR: 11% LUCIDITY: 3% STATUS: STABLE STAMINA: 6 FOCUS: 10 RESOLVE: 7"Wow, your stamina sucks ass," Tre teased.

"Hey!" Tre studied the numbers, deep in thought.

"Okay. Your stamina is rough. A six means you can't sustain a long fight. But that Caretaker's Endurance passive is a counterbalance to that. Your energy drains slower than you should, which means you can take hits and keep moving when someone else would already be on the ground."

"That's either reassuring or really scary."

"Both," he said.

"Definitely both." I ignored him and opened the Journal app. A blank digital notebook appeared.

"Anything in there about me?" Tre asked. His vinyl brow furrowed.

"Why don't I get a phone?" I swiped back to the home screen. But now there was a fifth app, Companions. Tre leaned closer.

"Hey, neat! I get my own tab?" Before we could investigate further, a new notification appeared in a box over the home screen: NEW OBJECTIVE ESCAPE THE HOUSE"Only took you six months before." Did Maltheris think the little personal digs were scaring me? If so, he was dead wrong. All they were doing was pissing me the fuck off. 8 MINUTES TO PREPARE REMAIN"Eight minutes, Nora!" I checked the front door.

"Locked."

"I doubt they'd make it that easy." Tre waddled over, craning his neck.

"If this really is some fucked-up horror game show, then the key's probably hidden in a Bible, a music box, or the freezer. Rule number one: locked door, hidden key." I gave the handle one last twist. It didn't even rattle.

"Maybe we're supposed to search the house for supplies," Tre suggested.

"The game designer in Hell is probably really proud of themselves right now."

"Okay, but first I need to change." Tre cocked his head.

"What, you don't want to fight monsters in your underwear? It worked for Ripley."

"Shut up." Heat rushed to my face. Plaxx's words about my "panties peeking" clung to my mind like pond scum.

"I'm going upstairs. Pants first, whatever this shit is second." ### If this were only the first of thirteen zones we'd need to survive, then I needed an outfit that was more function over form. Or at the very least, include some pants. First, I threw on my thickest pair of black jeans. They were my 'concert' jeans, ripped at the knees and had survived many a punk show. Boots next; I went for my Timberlands. Good for running, better for kicking. I tied my hair back into a ponytail and checked the vanity mirror.

The reflection still unnerved the fuck out of me. It was like looking at a funhouse version of my sixteen-year-old self, reshaped and "enhanced" by the perverted demon producing this nightmare. My jersey clung in ways I hated, accentuating curves that weren't my own. I needed a bra. And a different shirt. Which meant taking off the jersey. I hesitated, staring into the bra drawer. No. Not giving him that.

The mere thought of stripping down in front of the leering eyes of Maltheris made me want to shrink to the size of an atom. I really didn't want to flash him these boobs he forced on me. But I also wasn't about to run through whatever hell came next nearly naked without proper support. Fuck it. I whipped the jersey off in one quick motion and grabbed a sports bra from the drawer. The band dug into my ribs as I wrestled it on. Of course. Nothing in my house was made for this body.

"Enjoy it, asshole," I said bitterly at the ceiling, flipping off Maltheris for watching me change. After that unpleasantness, I opened my bottom dresser drawer, a graveyard of workout gear and old swimsuits. It was all from my mom's pre-diagnosis days. Stuff I hadn't touched in years. In the back of the drawer, I found a black long-sleeve base layer, the kind that used to be my second skin before hoodies became my default.

The fabric stretched over my new, awkward boobs, reminding me of the unwanted changes made to my body without my consent. Thankfully, the material moved with me, breathable and flexible, and the black didn't broadcast my shape despite how snug it was. I checked the mirror one last time, then crossed to my closet. I needed something tougher than cotton, something that could take a hit and make me feel safe. Inside, a faint blue glow emanated from the far right side, barely visible through the hanging clothes.

The blue outline was thanks to the Survivor's Eye skill. I guess this is what it looks like in action. Interacting with the world as if it were a literal video game was an incredibly bizarre experience, but also cool as hell. Pushing aside hoodies, flannels, and old band shirts, my fingers finally brushed weathered leather. As I removed the jacket from its hanger, a notification burst across my eyes: ITEM ACQUIRED! DAD'S LEATHER JACKET Armor: Light Resistances: Fire, Cold, Acid"Remember your father?

From before he was roadkill?" Ignoring the flavor text's jab, I grabbed the jacket off the hanger. It was heavier than I remembered. Or maybe I was just smaller the last time I'd tried it on. Dad had gotten it in his motorcycle years, when he and Mom first met. She'd told me she both loved and hated the version of him that jacket represented. Weirdly, he wasn't wearing it the night he died; by then, he was a father with a day job. He was in a button-down, collared shirt when he was killed.

The jacket was shoved to the back of a closet like it belonged to another life. Before heading down, I opened my bottom dresser drawer and grabbed a leather belt buried way in the back. The oval buckle was stamped with the words "BAD BITCH." It had been a present from Tre for my twenty-third birthday, but I'd never felt like the kind of girl who could pull it off. So, it sat in this drawer. My mind wandered to why Maltheris included this specific detail, but the clock was ticking, so I pushed it aside.

Looping the belt through the hoops on my pants, I figured, if I was going to die for a demon's twisted entertainment, I might as well put on a good show. Plus, I was done looking like some half-dressed victim waiting to be picked off.

"You know we only have, like, six minutes left, right?" Tre was trying to pry open a drawer in the living room with fingers only slightly bigger than matchsticks.

"Sorry. Find anything useful?" He looked up from the drawer, painted-on eyebrows shooting skyward.

"Well, shit. You look kind of badass." I tugged the jacket, the leather squeaking.

"It was Dad's. Figured I'd take all the armor I can get." Tre tilted his head, studying me. He caught sight of the belt buckle, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"God damn right." I rolled my eyes.

"Let's go find that key." We tore through the downstairs. The living room had nothing but Mom's slippers under her chair and old mail on the coffee table. I even checked the hall closet: coats and mothballs. No key. No clues. The dining room was equally empty.

"How much time left?" Tre asked. I checked my phone.

"Four minutes."

"Okay. I'm overthinking this," Tre admitted.

"Yes!" Relief flooded through me.

"You don't have to gloat," he chided.

"Plaxx said we have to 'survive.' You have a skateboard, and I have a knife that's half my height. We need better weapons. Let's loot." We hit the kitchen. I made a beeline for the knife block and grabbed the whole thing, expecting it to vanish into my inventory. Nothing happened. The block sat there stubbornly.

"What the shit?" Tre put his hands on his hips.

"Try just a knife." I did. One by one, I touched the knives, causing them to vanish from their slots: carving knife, steak knives, a paring knife, until only the empty block was left behind.

"Hmmm. So, only the items the Grindhouse labels as important can be added." Tre climbed back onto my shoulder for a better look at the Inventory screen.

"Oh. It's like Resident Evil's inventory system. Those slots are your limited carry capacity. Don't try to grab everything because you can't."

"How do I actually use any of this once it's in there?"

"Maybe look at the item on the phone and think about it? If that works, I bet you can do it without the phone, too." He said it like it was obvious.

"Just… picture it in your hand." It sounded stupid. But I put the phone away and tried it anyway. A half-second later, it was there. Just appeared in my palm as if it had always been there. I flipped it once, not sure if I was more startled or impressed." Bad ass," Tre whispered. It was. And it wasn't. The sensation lingered in my nerves, static crawling down my arm. Whatever controlled this dream or simulation or demonic game had built an unnervingly elegant system.

I focused on the skateboard, and it slammed into my other hand with sudden weight, grip tape biting my palm. I willed it away, and it was gone, leaving my fingers twitching as if I'd dropped something. Tre grabbed the phone, squinting at the Inventory screen.

"Okay. You've got eight slots total. That's it." He held the phone up, pointing at the grid.

"This isn't a magic clown car of endless storage. Every slot counts, which means every choice matters. We gotta be strategic."

"Strategic," I repeated.

"Great. Super helpful."

"I'm serious, Nora. In games like this, you can't loot first, think later. That's how you die."" Fine." I recalled the knives from my inventory, the counter filling again with steel. I handed a paring knife to Tre.

"Swap with me. This one'll be easier for you to handle." He gave it a few experimental swipes through the air, then nodded.

"Okay. Tiny knife for a bite-sized killer." I cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Leaning into the size thing already?" Tre nodded confidently.

"Gotta be comfortable in your own skin, my dude." He winked.

"How much time left?" I checked.

"Under a minute."

"Think you can hit your mom's bathroom for medical supplies?" Tre asked, already heading for the living room.

"I'll keep checking down here for anything else." I was halfway up the stairs when the alert appeared: PREPARATION TIME EXPIRED"Nora?" Tre's small, uncertain voice came from the living room. Then the lights went out.