1st Quarter: 03:12:17

  Warriors: 3,947,821

  It was odd knowing that a herb you planted to use for cooking had become a friend, and now, a crucial teammate in a death match that had destroyed your entire planet. I mean—it definitely was not just another Saturday.

  Count Basil and I both took a few long pulls from my hydro-conversion straw.

  “BAAAAUGH!”

  I would never get used to that taste. Count Basil didn’t seem to mind it.

  Count Basil couldn’t speak, but he quickly learned to communicate via gestures. He’d tap my shoulder to get my attention and shake or nod his leaves to convey his approval or lack thereof. I was honestly surprised at how opinionated the little guy was. Sometimes, when we reached a fork in the road, he would firmly and decisively point in one direction. Even if it looked like the more ominous choice.

  It was usually at this moment that I would remind him, “Dude, you don’t have eyes. Like, you, literally, can’t see.”

  That didn’t seem to faze him. He was just as confident and emphatic with his pointing. I don’t know—maybe he was able to sense things that I couldn’t. After all, plants did have a different cell structure. They were able to absorb sunlight and perform photosynthesis. So, who was I to think I was the expert out here?

  And besides navigation advice, and an extra set of arms, Count Basil provided yet another benefit. My armor rebreather typically had one hour worth of toxin filtration before I needed access to a good supply of oxygen to reset the counter. Count Basil patched into the rebreather system and somehow bumped that number up to three hours. It made sense since converting gases was a plant specialty.

  And, it wasn’t just me taking notice of Count Basil’s talents. He was already trending on the Wormhole. Our combo kill of the Muck Maulers was one of the hottest videos from the tournament. All sorts of star-tags were trending:

  ? PlantedTheirAsses

  ? GoingGreen

  ? BetterLeafThemAlone

  ? CountBasilCountMeIn

  What burned me up was he had more fan pages than I did. In his few hours of sentience, Count Basil had a whole-ass fan club on the Wormhole. Aliens had already created their own garments with his likeness on them. They were even getting laser tattoos of him.

  Where the hell were the toothless, black-eyed Sam tattoos and T-shirts?

  Yeah, okay, I’ll admit it. I got a little jealous of my plant. One vendor was already selling plushie dolls of him! How the hell did they get them manufactured so fast?

  Anyway, there was some other big news from the Wormhole. Apparently, Pynflynn Quaxbleeb, the CEO of Quaxbleeb’s Cosmic Crust got caught in a hot mic moment, telling investors, “When that pesky pizza boy dies with our products, our name shall go viral.”

  The leaked clip had been broadcast trillions of times. He had already held a press conference trying to walk the comments back, saying it was all a joke.

  “Now, now, everyone… let’s not get upset. It was all a publicity stunt. We never intended any harm for the warrior. You can’t believe everything you read or see on the Wormhole.”

  His statement did little to dispel the unrest. The damage was done. There were enough viewers out there who found amusement in my antics, to cause him real trouble. The trending star-tags said it all.

  ? BoycottQuaxbleebs

  ? NotMyQuaxDiscs

  ? StickinWitDaPizzaCutters

  “Wow, ERNI. So, this guy really sent me products, hoping I’d get killed, as a sick and twisted way to market his business?”

  “Unfortunately, that appears to be the case.”

  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. When I thought back to the way things were marketed on Earth, they often were at the expense of others. I guess in the multiverse, citizens were even more desensitized. What difference did a death make if it raised profits?

  Oh, wait a minute. Maybe we weren’t so different after all.

  Following the scoring zone indicator on the map, I made our way out of the slimy thicket of the marsh and into a twisted trail of toxic sand pits. The good news was the scoring zone was only a few kilometers away. The bad news was there was no way around the pits.

  I took a test step in the sand and immediately my foot sank down to the knee. Count Basil instinctively shot out four vine tendrils, bracing me like a tripod, helping me to regain my footing. The little dude was super handy.

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  We improvised a strategy. With my armor’s leaping ability and Count Basil’s ability to brace against the surface of the sand, we launched through the air with large hops. He softened the fall, reaching out ahead of time, bracing against the sand surface, keeping me from sinking and helping me rise back up to the level where I could jump again.

  It was tiring, but effective. One hop at a time, we made our way across the sand pits.

  Several times, red dots flashed on my map. Monsters rustled beneath the sand. I could see the silhouettes of strange creatures shifting below, plotting their strikes. A few of them sprung out, barely missing me with snapping jaws. I quickened my pace, not wanting to stick around for any second attempts.

  I needed to get to the scoring zone, knock off the boss, collect the points, and get to the end of the quarter so I could rest. I was exhausted—running on fumes, having been up 30-plus hours. I hadn’t done that since junior college. And though I’m not proud of it, I certainly had pharmaceutical help doing it then.

  We were about halfway to the scoring zone, preparing to launch again, when a familiar digital yellow flag landed at my feet. A refbot materialized in front of me, blasting that shrill whistle of his.

  “Penalty!” it chirped.

  “Penalty? What penalty?” I argued. “There’s nothing going on here!”

  ”Unregistered teammate!”

  “Unregistered? What? You mean Count Basil? My plant?”

  The refbot was indeed pointing at my rucksack and Count Basil. I immediately clutched my bag.

  “Oh no—you are not confiscating Count Basil!”

  The ref’s head spun completely around as if glitching. A spark crackled. Moments later, several other refbots materialized next to him, and they held some sort of conference. All I could hear was a series of strange clicks, beeps, and warbles as they hashed out whatever penalty they wanted to dole out.

  Finally, their conference ended, and the lead refbot looked at me. Even though it didn’t have any way to show emotions, it seemed nervous.

  “Penalty enforcement: 20,000 credit deduction!”

  “What?!”

  Before I could say anything, the credits disappeared from my inventory and the refbots and their flag vanished.

  “YOU DIRTY ASSHOLES!” I screamed. “What kind of crooked, rigged setup is this? They just go around taxing and robbing people at will? You’d think they’re politicians!”

  “Your complaint is valid,” ERNI said. “There has been a huge sentiment of fan displeasure with the refbots for some time now. Several cosmic media campaigns have argued for the necessity of refbot reforms, but the commissioner has ignored them all.”

  “That’s because they’re crooked and do his dirty work!”

  I huffed for a few minutes but took solace in knowing that at least they didn’t confiscate Count Basil. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what these refbots were doing with their stolen credits. Were they using them to fund robot vacation houses and cyborg side pieces? Maybe, they gave them all over to the Commissioner himself. All I knew was it was already hard enough to be on the lookout for monsters and assassins. And, now, I had to worry about the refbots too.

  Two hours had passed and we were finally near the scoring zone. The hovering green arrow pointed over a holographic circle that encompassed the biggest toxic sand pit of them all. It looked like an absolute trap.

  “Hey, ERNI… this look good to you?”

  “It is certainly a perilous scenario. I would proceed with caution.”

  “Yeah, good advice. But, just in case this goes bad, I’ve got something to say to the viewers first.”

  I closed my eyes and thought, Livestream on the Wormhole.

  A camera interface popped up in my HUD with a blinking red dot in the corner and flashing red letters indicating that I was live.

  “Hey out there, it’s SackUpSam. Just wanted to thank those of you who are actually rooting for me. There’s some shady stuff going on here. refbots stealing credits. Assassins trying to take me out. But, I don’t think they’re letting you see any of that. And I’m not even sure they’re going to let you see this. But, I’m broadcasting it anyway. And, no matter what, I’ll tell you one thing—they’re not going to scare me. They’re not going to stop me. I’m in this to win it. I’m ‘sacking up.’ And… Sola, if you’re watching somewhere, I’m coming for you.”

  I ended the feed. I had no idea if it was going to get scrambled or edited. My only hope was because it was live, they wouldn’t have a chance to intercept it.

  I approached the scoring zone, and several notifications flashed at the top of my HUD.

  Mission Complete: Reach Scoring Zone.

  Mission: Kill Boss Monster.

  An enemy health gauge appeared, long and green. This one was bigger than the Pukeodactyl’s, which meant a tougher boss.

  I looked around while unmuting the ISSN feed.

  “It’s that time again!” Blink exclaimed. “Our most unlikely warrior, SackUpSam, has made his way to his second scoring zone!”

  Gill momentarily paused from stuffing his face with snacks, “Oh good, maybe I can make my money back from that last bet.”

  Mute.

  I needed to figure out how to get in on that betting action. If everybody was betting against me, the least I could do, was bet on myself and win big.

  My nerves were on edge—eyes darting around—looking for any signs of a giant creature. I didn’t see anything. I was fully expecting to hear loud thumping footsteps or to see trees parting in the distance, heralding my destroyer. But, none of that happened. All that did was increase my anxiety.

  Suddenly, the toxic sand pit shifted. Granules spiraled downward into a central funnel as if the pit was performing one gigantic flush. And from the center hole, a large and fearsome creature rose.

  It was the size of a pickup truck. At first, it was covered in sand, so I couldn’t make out its details. But as the sand shimmied off, I could see that this literal monstrosity was a complete amalgam of all the materials that the toxic marsh had to offer. It was a giant insect made up of trees and vines and rocks and marsh goop—all smooshed together like some kindergarten art project. But, to the discerning eye, it kind of looked like a giant spider.

  Worse still, it was draped head-to-claw with the stitched, flayed skins of past warrior opponents. Their still-screaming faces, stared at me like a hellish tapestry of eternal suffering.

  An info box appeared above it.

  Fleshspinner. Level 6

  The Fleshspinner reared up on its hind legs and hissed, allowing me to see its fangs. Its cluster of eyes stared down at me like I was a snack. Staring at its flesh-strewn body and hideous face, there was only one thing that came to mind… a quote from one of my favorite movies...

  “You’re one ugly motherfucker.”

  Count Basil reached a leafy arm over my shoulder and shook a ‘fist’ at the creature. I loved the little guy. Even without any direct way to vocalize his feelings, he still found a way to show his emotions.

  “You ready, dude?” I asked him.

  He slung a second arm over my other shoulder and flashed a double leafs-up. That was all I needed.

  It was go time.