《Pro Dungeon Impact》Nine: Death

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NINE: DEATH

Nothing happened—at first. But then Lars heard a grunt from Finn, which was followed by a weird, muffled crack, kind of like the thunder that followed lightning from a long past summer storm.

“Finn?” he said. “Everything okay?”

No response, other than the acrid smell of electronic fire that blew up his nose.

“Finn?” he tried again, a sense of worry and dread creeping into his voice. Using his wide wingspan, he leaned over and reached into Finn’s omnidirectional treadmill. He pawed around for the kid’s slender form and came up with nothing. “Finn, buddy? Did you have to take a leak? Or… a deuce maybe?”

No response.

Lars Ochre didn’t have a reputation for panicking. But when he stretched his giant mitt down towards the floor and felt the burning fabric and melted latex of Finn’s haptic suit burn into his skin, the ogre of a man let out a wild shriek that embodied the human flight response. Despite Finn’s reassurances, he knew something had gone horribly wrong. If he had more time, he would have shed his own suit and ran away as fast as his enormous body would allow. Unfortunately, all of this happened in about nine seconds, and—in a moment of clarity amidst the chaos—Lars realized he only had one left to act.

And he froze.

As that last segment of time ticked away, Lars’ wild shriek transformed into one of pure agony. A sudden jolt ran through his body, almost as if his entire nervous system had been hard-wired to an electrical outlet. The shock turned to fire, and before Lars could even rationalize the sensations, the headset pulled against his face like there was an industrial vacuum attached to the other end.

Then the weirdest thing of all happened. His body... disintegrated. With a slurping whoosh, the headset sucked in every single bit of his essence like Ogre flavored pudding through a straw. One last thought passed through his mind. That Finn has promised him the wildest ride of his life. The kid hadn't lied. Lars had just expected wildly good, not wildly terrifying.

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There was a moment of extreme pressure, then everything went blank, as if someone had erased his entire being like unneeded marks on a chalkboard. Lars Ochre was nothingness. He couldn't speak, nor move, nor think. He was just there. But he also wasn’t there. He was a lost soul in the void. A spectre. Ghost. Phantom. A bodach, if you will.

And after the wraith that was now Lars Ochre floated in that empty, black void for what felt like an eternity, three red words slowly faded into existence. It took him a moment to collect himself enough to rationalize their meaning with what they said, but when he did, he was glad he didn’t have a body. Otherwise he would have puked and shit himself at the same time.

It read:

YOU HAVE DIED

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