LevelUP: an 8-bit novel by Micah Joel. Author's definitive online edition.

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Chapter Thirty-Four

2-10: Trophies

INVENTORY:

STEALTH CLOAK

IVORY TORCH OF THE ENDLESS FIRE

MOUSE

=== SKILLS: ===

* SWIM

* FOOTGLIDE

* RESIST POISON

* HAMMER

The tower is only a shell of bricks surrounding bare grid lines marking the ground. A cool white glow illuminates the citadel interior. Max can't find a source for this light, though it does fade as the walls reach upward, leaving the ceiling in absolute darkness. Orange torches line the walls, casting warm glow a few feet around themselves. A narrow staircase spirals up the inside curve of the wall.

“Climb, I guess?” Max says.

Hemera looks incredulous. Is she that upset about having to partake in physical labor?

“Elevator,” she commands, and a circular platform glides down from the reaches above. It’s transparent, visible only when viewed edge-on. The platform vanishes into the ground.

“How did you know about that?” Max asks.

“It’s a standard part of the admin interface,” Hemera says. “Get on.”

“Admin? Why do you need me? To gloat?” Max says.

“I never gloat,” Hemera says. “Two reasons. First, I don’t know what exactly is up there.”

“Oh, great,” Max says. “So now I’m a human guinea pig.”

Hemera’s eyes go to Max’s foot. “No human has a foot like that.”

Max shuffles onto the circle. “What’s the second reason?”

“Insurance,” Hemera says. She steps into the circle. “Take us up,” she instructs, and the platform rushes upward. The walls of the citadel fly past, the spiral staircase seeming to whirl around them.

Optical illusions still work here, the rational side of Max’s brain observes. Looking down through the invisible floor makes him dizzy. He moves his foot a bit to the side to make sure his plan is still on track. A tiny tendril of black slime reaches up from the space where his foot was. Max presses his foot back down, the footglide skill applying pressure that holds the oil slick in place.

The platform slows at the top, nearly throwing Max’s stomach into his throat. Hemera doesn’t seem affected. At the top, the platform changes from clear to brickwork, starting from the middle and filling in the disk like an animation running at high speed. The bricks merge seamlessly with the upper level of the citadel.

Hemera strides off. “Come on then,”

As expected, the upper level contains the fourth trophy. It hovers above a gray stone plinth, rotating slowly—an empty cup, the cross-sectioning showing off the clean animation.

“I’ve always savored winning,” Hemera says, eyeing the prize. “There’s no feeling like the exact moment of achieving your goal.”

“I thought you said you don’t gloat,” Max says. He still hasn’t budged from his spot. Hemera is suddenly suspicious. “Over here!” she barks.

Max tries to shuffle forward, but the texture of the bricks provides a path for the black slime to wriggle out.

Hemera notices. “No!” Indecision lights up her face like a sign: would she rather grab the trophy, or strike out in vengeance? She chooses reward. The inventory sound plays, followed by a short victory leitmotif.

Rapture washes over Hemera. She takes on the demeanor of an Olympic athlete accepting the gold medal.

But not for long. The black slime suddenly expands in size, snaking out a tendril that wraps around her arm. Then another, and another. in seconds, she’s entangled.

But things are worse for Max. No tendrils for him; the slime evenly coats his body, starting from his foot and working its way up his leg and torso. It’s establishing a reservoir from which to launch attacks against Hemera.

It reaches his neck, threatening to cut off his mouth. It’ll do no good if he doesn’t outlast Hemera. He checks inventory and invokes the resist poison skill. It doesn’t feel any different, but when the slime splashes onto and merges with his skin, it hurts a bit less than before. And for the moment, he can still breathe.

Hemera thrashes under the thickening swarm of tentacles enfolding her. She barely even seems human; nobody could withstand those kinds of violent contortions. Whatever process keeps track of inventory goes haywire, spraying all of her holdings in every direction. There’s half-a-dozen bombs, two different gemstone rings, and most importantly of all, all four trophies. She wails in agony as if losing the trophies hurts worse than whatever else is happening to her.

Max hurls himself forward. His leg can’t move at all, so he isn’t able to land gently, but his aim is true. The four trophies are clustered together, and his body intersects with all of them. The sound of them adding to his inventory is literally music to his ears.

And that’s it. He’s done it. Against all odds, he has collected all the trophies; redeemed the inheritance his father had left for him. All he has to do is find his way out of here.

“No, wait!” Hemera screams. Her voice warbles and strains; it no longer sounds human. “Don’t leave.”

Max isn’t in much better shape himself. The slime creeps along his skin. He can no longer move either leg. Not that he believes her, not for a second. He can’t think of a line she wouldn’t cross.

Hemera’s incoherent screaming suddenly stops, leaving only the sound of her labored breathing.

The black slime slides off her, oil pooling at her feet. What’s going on? Time to get out, while he still can—

Ribs crack as something snaps around his chest. Suddenly, he can’t breathe. The black slime coils tightly like a muscular snake. His vision blurs around the edges, and his own inventory spills out. Hard-won trophies glide across the floor for the taking. A terrified Mouse, blinking furiously, breaks free and scurries away.

The suffocating force melts away, pooling then joining the rest of the congealing mass. It forms into legs, a torso, a head, arms. The black slime creature extends four tendrils, one to grab each trophy, and swallows them into its body.

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