Page 77 of Tapeworld Induction

Isaak took a deep breath.

A loud blast and the smell of gunpowder, and he was off, running atop the treadmill, pushing for the sandbank inside the arena of the mind.

Lasers behind and in front. He caught Haze’s eyes. The other team’s captain stood still, unmoving, a wall of flesh and plastic. No one in Isaak’s team took the shot. He looked back at Cayden and Nieve, and only saw the latter.

Cayden was already down, having taken a blast to the face with such power that the force feedback had cracked his visor IRL.

Isaak heard him swear in the team chat.

Isaak himself cursed between breaths, the Shift platform vibrating under the pounding of his feet at full sprint.

Haze sped off after Sacha and Tripwire.

His feet slipped and he hit the padded floor around the circular treadmill, nearly tripping. Fuck! He slipped his visor off, slid safely back onto the treadmill, then got back into the game. His rifle materialised in a flash of white and gold, fitting snugly in his arms, and he shot out at the Armageddon, who seemed to be encircling the Lazarus’s remaining players.

An explosive crack to his left.

“Fucking hell!” Nieve shouted in mid-fall, her jump cut short by a red laser beam. “You got this, Isaak!”

With Nieve down, Isaak felt under pressure to act. Bastille, Haze’s lieutenant, ran in from the left, not yet sated.

Another crack. Another shout in the team chat. Up ahead, Tripwire was down too.

It was all over. Isaak leant closer to the sand, his rifle angled at Bastille’s approach. Bastille slowed down, a huge grin on his face.

“The World is ours, punk—”

He recoiled and his smile faded to a scowl as he looked down at where the laser had hit him, in the stomach. Isaak let out a laugh and lowered his sidearm, which he’d kept hidden in his other hand beneath the rifle.

“You fucker!” Bastille shouted.

Isaak got up and gave him a quick tap on the shoulder. “Sit down buddy.” And he made to run towards Haze’s end of the arena.

As he did, Bastille kicked at the sand beneath Isaak’s feet, not enough to fully connect with him, but sufficient to shake off his balance.

Isaak glared back at him before regaining his composure, and kept running ahead, another curse on his lips.

He saw Sacha in the distance, taking shots from behind the cover provided by a small mound. He and Tripwire had taken out a few of the Apocalypse already, and now Sacha was shooting at Haze, who – so far – seemed unaware of Isaak’s approach.

Emboldened by the scrape with Bastille, he aimed at Haze’s back and shot out a few bolts. No hit.

Haze continued to advance towards Sacha, the hulking man an approaching menace.

He and Sacha were the last Lazarus players still standing, while Haze was the last Armageddon player.

Isaak ran, a grin on his face, now confident they could win the game.

There was a loud pop.

His vision flickered as a searing pain shot through his knee.

He let out a scream, silencing the background music and the cheers of the crowd, and fell to the floor. His rifle split into a million gold flakes.

In agony, he ripped off his visor.

His foot had slipped off the treadmill again and the unexpected impact reverberated up his lower leg and into his knee, the extended joint popping out of place.

He felt like he was going to pass out.