"FIGHT!" the floating skull screamed.
Pixel-V didn't waste time. She launched herself across the gap between our platforms, swinging the bat with enough force to shatter a firewall.
My body moved before my brain did. Three years of intensive dance training took over. Step-ball-change, pivot, slide.
I dropped into a split, letting the bat whistle harmlessly over my head. The wind from the swing messed up my hair, but I was alive.
"Missed me!" I squeaked.
"Stand still, Barbie!" V roared. She brought the bat down in an overhead smash.
I rolled to the left. The bat slammed into the hexagonal tile I had been standing on a microsecond ago. The tile didn't just break; it shattered into blue cubes and fell into the void.
The crowd went wild.
“Kill her!”
“Smash the rich girl!”
“Poggers!”
I scrambled to my feet, my boots slipping on the sleek surface. I was fast, thanks to my high-end render speed, but V was strong. She swung again, a horizontal arc meant to take my head off.
I leaped backward, jumping to a neighboring platform. It bobbed under my weight.
Okay, Elena. Think. You can’t hit her. She’s made of industrial-grade polygons. If you punch her, you’ll break your hand.
I looked at the environment. The platforms were floating independently.
V jumped after me, landing heavy. The platform tipped dangerously.
"Where's your backup dancers now?" V taunted. She wound up for another swing.
I dodged again, pirouetting around her. As I spun, I instinctively threw out a hand and flashed a peace sign—my signature pose.
A few "Likes" trickled in from the audience.
[LIKES: +50]
“She’s got moves,” a comment floated by in the air.
It wasn't enough. I needed a big moment.
V was getting frustrated. She growled, and suddenly, a menu popped up over her head: [PURCHASING MICRO-TRANSACTION...]
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," I gasped.
A loot box fell from the sky, landing in V’s hands. She ripped it open. Inside was a glowing red canister labeled [TURBO-MODE]. She slammed it into a slot on her bat.
The bat grew three times its size, erupting in flames.
"Pay-to-win trash!" I screamed. "That's unfair!"
"Cry about it to the devs!" V yelled.
She slammed the bat onto the ground. She didn't aim for me; she aimed for the center of the arena.
BOOM.
A shockwave of red energy rippled out. It hit me like a physical wall. I flew backward, skidding across the slick tiles. I reached out, grabbing the edge of the furthest platform.
My fingers dug into the glowing edge. My legs dangled over the abyss. I looked down. The swirling data vortex seemed to be pulling at me, trying to suck the code right out of my body.
V stalked toward me, dragging her flaming bat. She looked like a nightmare executioner.
"Game over, princess," she grinned, raising the weapon.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked at the crowd. They were cheering for my death. I looked at my Likes counter. It was stalled.
I was going to die. I was going to be erased, and nobody would remember the girl who sold her soul to pay her dad’s medical bills.
No.
A spark of anger flared in my chest. Not fear. Anger. I hated this place. I hated the Admin. I hated that my life was measured in thumbs-up icons.
I looked at the platform V was standing on.
Usually, I just saw the surface texture—the brushed metal look. But now, as the adrenaline spiked my processor, the world shifted. The texture peeled back.
I saw the wireframe.
I saw the green lines of code that defined the platform's existence. I saw the variables: `mass`, `friction`, `integrity`.
And I saw the music. The code wasn't just numbers; it was a rhythm. A beat.
I can change the beat.
V swung the bat down.
I didn't scream. I sang.
It wasn't a pretty pop note. It was a jagged, discordant screech, like a modem dying. It was a command line forced through a vocal filter.
`DELETE OBJECT: [PLATFORM_04]`
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.