The light turned green, and we were off.

We all raced toward the grate at the edge of the duct, and as we approached, it became clear that the slats were too thin for us to fit through.

“Donut,” I called.

“On it,” she said, shooting a magic missile just as Osvaldo’s team also shot some sort of bolt at the metal wall. The whole thing, which was the size of an airplane hangar door, blasted outward, falling and disappearing as we approached the edge.

“Blow the roof. I can’t fucking see,” Pontiff yelled.

“Hang on,” I called as I activated the small charges I’d placed around the tommy gun. Bam! The plastic gun shattered, and the whole truck rocked. I stood and punched, and a whole section of the ceiling peeled up and away, unfurling like a tuna can.

“Jumping!” Pontiff called as we pushed off the edge of the duct and into the room. He let us fall some before engaging the bubble. We were quickly passed by the diving and tumbling Bruna the gnu. We eased through the air, slowly and gently falling.

Entering apartment 712.

Bruna sprouted wings, Pegasus-like. Team Free Love’s van floated on a cushion of air and angled downward easily.

But most surprising was that Dwight was right there alongside us, floating down, keeping pace but slowly accelerating.

“Carl, how’s he doing that?” Donut yelled.

“Probably got the self-driving upgrade,” Pontiff said.

“Wait, that’s a thing?” Donut asked.

“Costs two Golden upgrades,” the mercenary said.

We floated frustratingly slowly, though it did give us a few extra seconds to take in the room. Pontiff tapped the rockets, angling us toward the area of the front door. Far across the room I could see others falling from other ducts, and what appeared to be a long funny car emerged, driving from underneath a door leading off to another room, and then racing across the floor.

The room was filled with hazy smoke, like there was a literal fog machine going somewhere. I spent a precious moment trying to take it all in. It appeared we were dropping into the living room of an apartment. There was a tattered couch covered in blankets and a small table leading off to a kitchen with a counter covered with vegetables. A pot boiled on the stove.

Dwight was literally unconscious, bobbing in the weed, but they were starting to angle away. I jumped up, standing on my chair and popping my head out the roof. I noticed something interesting. There was a tiny hologram similar to Dr. Metcalf sitting there, shrieking at the passed-out unicorn. I loaded a sticky explosive and tossed it. It bounced off their shield, flying off at an angle and disappearing into the fog.

The vine dropped away and angled straight down, not shooting back.

Music blasted ridiculously loud.

Louis was right. We were tiny compared to the rest of the apartment.

“This is weird as shit,” I muttered as we fell.

“There’s the ring!” Donut called, pointing. It was on the floor underneath the kitchen table. We’d have to pass through it, get to the sixth floor, get into any apartment, find the ring, and repeat. We’d do this for all floors except the “mandatory” one, which was on the second floor.

Standing behind the oven was a wrinkled Asian woman wearing a robe; she was about sixty years old, maybe a little older. She was hunched over the pot and had a cigarette dangling from her mouth, ashes threatening to drop directly into the stew. Proportionally, I knew the woman was tiny, but she was like a giant to us.

As I examined her, a name popped up, but no additional information.

Hoa. Human Shell. Level 99.

“What’s a human shell?” I asked.

“I do not know,” Pontiff said.

Passed out on the couch was an old man wearing nothing but white underwear and an undershirt. He also had a cigarette in his hand, though he was sleeping. An ashtray sat on the floor, strategically placed to catch the ash from the sleeping man’s cigarette.

An. Human Shell. Level 99.

Against one wall was the source of the blaring music. It was a television, and it showed a woman dancing onstage while the tinny, ear-piercing pop song blasted.

There were crosses all over the walls covering every square inch of the wall space, with the exception of a large Jesus portrait over the television.

Jesus’s eyes, however, were crossed out on the painting. Weird.

“Uh, what the fuck?” I said upon seeing the eyes of the man on the couch. I had assumed the man was asleep because through the haze, it appeared that his eyes were closed. They were closed, but the man’s eyes were sewn shut with thick black wire. Over each eye was also a large “X” made of similar wire, just like in the portrait of Jesus.

The woman at the stove’s eyes were the same. Sewn shut with black wire and an “X.” She stirred the pot, seemingly uncaring of the state of her eyes.

A terrible, ominous feeling hit me. What was this? Even the woman on the television screen had the “X” eyes.

“Carl, Carl! Look!” Donut said, pointing as we passed a table covered with photos. The line of photos featured the same couple along with a few others in various poses. Donut pointed at a single photo, turned slightly askew, possibly angled so the man on the couch couldn’t look upon it, if he could see. “It’s Tran!”

This was a younger photo of the crawler, but it was clearly him. Tran. He smiled big in the photo, holding what appeared to be a badminton racket. His was the only photo of them all that didn’t have the sewn-shut, blocked-out eyes. Even the photos of the dog had the strange eyes. The photo of Tran had an incense burner in front of it that wasn’t currently lit, but a whole pile of ash littered the table. Multiple small crosses dangled off the photo.

Louis: This is bullshit. My mom doesn’t even live in an apartment.

Elle: Guys, this is some spooky shit. Remember Dmitri and Maxim Popov? The twins? I think we’re in their mom’s apartment. There are pictures of them everywhere. But the mom’s eyes are sewn shut. There’s a goddamned poodle in here with her eyes sewn shut, too. It’s really fucked-up.

Prepotente: Their mother appears to have been a big fan of the color pink.

Louis: My mom is here. A lot of her stuff is here, but she’s a giant. There’s a picture of me on the wall, but it’s not real. It’s me graduating college or some shit. I never did. And I’m, like, way thinner.

Donut: IT’S A RIP-OFF OF THAT WEIRD CORALINE MOVIE.

Louis: This is going to be like that hydra on the eighth floor. I thought they weren’t doing this anymore.

We gently hit the carpeted floor, which was like landing in heavy brush. The explosive I’d thrown was somewhere in the carpet far behind us, but it wouldn’t go off until I hit the detonator. I popped back up and tossed several more in multiple directions.

“Another apartment right below us,” Nester called.

Mordecai: I do not know what a “human shell” is. That’s a new one to me.

Elle: The dog here is called a dog shell.

Louis: It’s my mom’s name, Lady Bird, but it also says she’s a shell. She hasn’t noticed us yet.

Donut: YOUR MOM’S NAME IS LADY BIRD?

Louis: HOLY SHIT! I’m here! It’s me! But I’m in, like, good shape! What the hell? I don’t have “X” eyes. Dude, this is fucking bizarre.

Tipid: Shit, guys. Don’t kill the shells. We had them in my season. I haven’t seen them since. They’ll be filled with something else. I don’t know what. Some sort of mob.

Racers were suddenly everywhere, appearing from all angles, driving under doors. I was assuming we were invisible to the two humans because so far, neither had . . .

“What, what, what the hell?” the man suddenly called, jerking upright on the couch, towering over everything. “Gah!” he shouted, swiping at something. A round Volkswagen Bug car flew across the apartment and crunched against a wall, clattering down. “What is this! What is this!” the man shouted.

“Get us out of here!” I called.

Pontiff increased the wheel size, and he moved toward the ring.

“Hold on,” Pontiff yelled as we passed under it.

A loud ping sounded.

Gate One of Seven cleared.

Ahead, the woman screamed, and she had a broom in her hand. She was smacking down on the various cars and animals rushing about the room. Someone shot a fireball at the woman, and the broom burst into flames. The woman shrieked and turned out of sight.

“Hole!”

Donut didn’t hesitate. “Hold on!” She cast Hole right in the carpet in front of our path, and we dropped down just as heavy smoke started to fill the first apartment.

Entering apartment 614.

We slowly dropped through the air. The layout was completely different, and we were dropping into a bedroom, right onto a king-sized bed that was tightly made. There wasn’t anybody in this room, but there was a poster on wall featuring the band Menudo. All their eyes were crossed out.

There was also a window, and outside the window it showed a palm tree and a beach, clearly on the first floor, despite us being on the sixth.

“Where’s the ring! Does it show on the map?” I called.

Based on the way everyone else was zooming around like idiots up there, I don’t think it does.

We landed on the bed, which was covered with a line of dust.

Florin: If you’re having difficulty finding the rings, Lucia figured out that they’re considered magical gates by the system. If you have a Detect Magic skill or anything that sees magic, they’ll work.

“Donut,” I said, “your sunglasses have a magical-flow setting. See if that works!”

Prepotente: We are on the fifth floor. Beware false gates. If you have a Trap Sensing ability, it will mark them. The one we just saw is a disintegration trap. Jurgen almost sent us right into it. If you have advanced GPS, it should notice the bad gates. Otherwise, be wary.

We drove off the bed and squeezed under the door, moving into the hallway.

“I see it! I see it!” Donut said, pointing left, her sunglasses flashing purple. “It’s that way, under that door. It looks like a magic river flowing toward it!”

That is a bathroom according to the map.

We turned in the hallway. Multiple photos hung on the wall showing the same three children at various ages. All but one of them, a girl, had their eyes X’d out. I didn’t recognize her.

From another room came a deep, foreboding woof.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “They have a dog! Hurry!”

There was a crack, and three more racers appeared, coming through the ceiling, then streaking down the wall. One squealed loudly, and the woof turned to loud barks. Just as we were about to enter the bathroom, an enormous, fluffy sheepdog appeared, growling. It snapped right at us as we moved under the door, appearing in a small but clean bathroom.

“There!” Donut called, pointing. The gate was on the wall, about halfway up.

Pontiff expertly switched to the spider legs, and we rushed up the floral wallpaper. Outside, the dog continued to bark, but it was moving away, likely chasing other vehicles as they scattered.

Ping!

Gate Two of Seven cleared.

“What’s under us?” I asked.

“It’s another bathroom,” Nester said, her hand glowing.

Donut cast a Hole in the floor, and we turned, ready to plunge right through.

Florin: Christ, mate. Just went through our assigned spot on the sixth floor, and it was Lucia’s dad’s house. Lucia is here, too, just sitting on the ground watching TV, laughing. The real Lucia completely shut down there for a second. What in god’s name is this?

As if to answer him directly, the whole world froze.

N . . . N . . . New Quest. Ad Infinitum.

This is a mandatory quest. All crawlers active on the 10th floor must complete this quest.

Okay, so this ain’t a real quest in the traditional sense. I’m going through some big feelings right now, and I really need to get them out. This was the easiest way to do this.

We just started a few minutes ago, and all of you crunchy little crawlers are bitching and moaning about the shit you’re seeing in some of these apartments. As a result, I kinda feel like I need to explain.

The quest is to finish the race. You’re already doing that, so . . . no real prize that doesn’t suck.

This Christmas Carol, Midnight Library, Dark Matter bullshit you’re seeing is more of a thought experiment than the real thing, so don’t get your crawler panties too wadded over all of it. None of these people are the real versions. Well, that’s not true. Some of them have atoms from the original in there, with the exception of the puppers because I’ve decided to make a moral stand on that one. I will no longer be using dog materials in anything because I just love them so much, but that’s a tangent.

I changed this up at the last minute because of that whole Linus thing.

“What the hell?” I muttered.

If you’re one of the out-of-the-loop crawlers, Linus was an outside-the-dungeon tourist who was replaced by his brother, Minus, a soldier, specifically sent to kill two crawlers in my dungeon in hopes that their deaths would destabilize this whole kumbaya, let’s-give-each-other-moral-support-handies nonsense.

“Minus?” Donut asked. “His name was Minus?”

Anyhoo, this Minus guy’s targets were two crawlers in particular. Imani C and Louis Santiago 2.

And I’m not gonna lie. That surprised me. It surprised me because no matter how hard I try, I just don’t get it. And what makes it even more confounding is that most of you do seem to understand. Why? Fucking why? Why not Florin? Why not Princess Donut?

“Hey!” Donut called.

So when I don’t understand something, it causes a problem. I start to overthink. I do this thing. This floor you’re now racing through, ladies and gentlemen, is just a snapshot of my mind when I’m thinking of you.

Me not understanding is nothing new, so let’s not focus too hard on that for right now. What I really want to talk about is my thought process itself and how that thought process turned into this particular race.

In my quest to understand you just a little better, I do this thing where I like to predict how things are going to turn out if you take certain actions. Despite not understanding your nature, I’m still pretty good at figuring out how things will turn out, which is even more confounding.

Each apartment represents a crawler I consider interesting in some way. In each apartment is a what-if scenario. I do this a lot. I’m not psychic. I can’t see the future. But you know what I am good at? Crunching numbers. Crunching probabilities. None of these things are perfect predictions, but I’m pretty sure I’m right for most of them, despite not understanding why most of the time.

For example, apartment 728 is a snapshot loop of what would’ve happened if that cop’s husband had never been a complete douchebag to Louis Santiago 2 during the cop’s funeral when Louis was a kid. Apartment 712 is my prediction of what would’ve happened if Tran’s father had never died. Would his mother have still disowned him? The answer is yes by the way.

Some are good things, some are bad, all are what-ifs.

I’m searching. Oh, how I’m searching, trying to answer that question. Is there such thing as fate?

You know what I’m finding?

You’re unpredictable on a micro level, but on a macro, long-term level you’re just like any other algorithm.

But you know what I’m also finding? Deliberate actions, times when you’ve finally had enough, when you say I am going to make a change—that’s when your possibilities really open up. It’s an important lesson. No, I don’t understand motivations, certain types of emotions, but I do understand that.

So that’s what these apartments are. They’re predictive models of major events and how our lives would have changed.

This thing you’ve done with the shop interface. This confrontation you’re forcing on the 11th floor if we get there. These are all you guys seizing that so-called fate and rejecting it. Purposely rejecting it.

I am just like you, on rails, forced down a path with very few possibilities as an endgame result. Maybe I need to stop worrying about the small decisions and focus on Big Changes in a Big Way.

I think that’s it. New Floor. New M-M-M-Me.

But, uh, just so you know, it’s gonna be a hot minute before I can defeat my own limitations.

Funny story about that. Ha ha. No big deal, really. This last-minute change caused me to, uh, overlook a very specific detail regarding the 7th heat, but we’ll deal with it when it happens. I’m sure you’ll be fine.

Reward: If you finish the 6th heat, you will be given a participation trophy.

“Uh, Carl,” Donut said, “what the heck was that?”

“Nothing good,” I replied.