Glacia reaches the other edge of Level 3 and spins around. Lucas and the last three green players sprint into the aisle, but she already threw her sphere. It whizzes by Lucas and smacks into the chest of the player behind him.

Out.

She’s running again, darts sideways, and turns a corner. A sphere is floating at shoulder height for her to grab. She obviously placed it there herself.

Lucas lets the last two green players chase her. He disappears down a different aisle, and the camera switches just as Glacia knocks out one of the players. Now defenseless, she runs from the second and crosses the intersection before Lucas reaches it. He and the last green player give chase, but Lucas is counting down the seconds until the player’s sphere explodes. Then—

“Sorry, bud,” Lucas says to his partner.

He trips him. The guy skids on the floor—and the sphere reaches its time limit. The orb explodes in his hands.

Out.

Glacia disappeared, and Lucas has ten seconds to find a sphere before he’s purged. He wipes away the sweat on his forehead and breaks into a jog. Ahead of him, a sphere floats through the intersection. Desperate, he jumps forward, and—

Fzzz!

A second sphere smacks his legs. His suit flashes white and deactivates.

Game over.

Glacia stands from her crouch, hidden several feet back from the intersection so Lucas couldn’t see her suit’s light.

The arena commentator’s voice booms over the roar of the red spectators.

“Congratulations! Glacia Haverns wins tonight’s Hologis tournament.”

Red Team Victorious flashes on the giant screen overtop Glacia’s face. Her mouth twists into a smug smirk as Lucas walks up to her to shake hands.

“All players, proceed to stadium entrance,” the headset voice instructs.

Ellin finds me and we join the crowd of green players making its way to the gate we waited in before the tournament. We walk to the end and climb another set of stairs to a chamber with four separate seating areas, one for each team. Cameras drop down and project a live feed to the giant screen above the stadium, which I can see through the tall windows at the side of the chamber.

Officials gather in front of the teams, and the man who must be the commentator situates himself behind a podium. Beside him, Commander Mannard stands with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. His eyes sweep over the players, and he nods at anyone who greets him.

“Excellent, excellent match,” the commentator says. He claps, and the players join in the applause. Outside the chamber, the cheers of the crowd resonate through the windows. “Red team, please step forward.”

Twenty-five people line up in front of him, and he motions for Glacia to stand out of the line.