We reach the first console. The symbols are already spinning.
I lean over it, scanning.
Three concentric rings. Outer ring marked with elemental shapes. Inner ring numbers. Center glyph pulsing irregularly. Not random—sequenced. The safe path likely corresponds to the symbols with shared rotational intervals?—
Bron slaps a hand against the pillar as a dart of blue plasma spits from a side emitter. “Tilda.”
“Busy.”
“Hazards active.”
“I know that.”
“You say that like it helps me.”
I swipe the first symbol into alignment. Wrong. The platform ahead twitches violently.
“Not that one,” Bron says.
“Oh, thank you, oracle.”
He laughs, breathless, and blocks another pulse with the shield baton provided at the start. The impact flares white across its surface. I smell charged air and hot metal.
Think.
The rings aren’t matching by shape. They’re matching by movement.
I rotate the inner band two clicks, align the center glyph with the slowest-moving outer sigil, and hit confirm.
A deep chime sounds.
The next lane locks into place.
“Yes,” I snap.
Bron grins. “That’s my terrifying genius.”
“Run.”
We run.
The second section is worse—narrower platforms, one vertical lift, one rotating bar we have to duck under while the whole lane creeps sideways over open air. The crowd noise swells every time someone slips. Somewhere to the left, there’s a scream cut short by a safety harness deploying. I do not look. I cannot afford to look.
At the next tower, the puzzle is physical: weighted blocks with embedded lights, each needing to be placed into asuspended frame without unbalancing the platform. The second I kneel by the base, the entire surface tilts.
“Oh, hell,” I mutter.
Bron plants his feet wide. “What do you need?”
“Counterweight.” I point. “Stand there.”
He moves instantly.
The platform levels a little.
“No, farther left.”
He shifts.
