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Lara’s front door clicked shut behind them with a soft finality. The quiet of her apartment felt too loud after the chaos of the arcade behind them. She led Samus into the living room with a trembling resolve. Her fingers grazed the velvet box hidden in her pocket as they sat, side by side, but not touching.
The flickering glow of the lamp in the corner cast pixelated shadows across the walls—fractured, broken things.
Lara turned toward her, dropping to one knee with a small, unsteady laugh. “I know it’s not much of a castle,” she said, trying for levity. “But I’d storm every fortress in every level again if it meant coming home to you.”
She opened the box. Inside, a simple ring gleamed with soft promise.
Samus didn’t look at it. Her eyes flicked away and her shoulders stiffened.
“Lara,” she said softly, her voice tight with restraint. “Don’t.”
The silence that followed stretched too long. Lara’s breath hitched. “Why not?” she whispered.
Samus stood, putting distance between them. “Because it wouldn’t be right.”
“Samus,” Lara said, rising slowly to her feet. “What happened?”
There was a pause—a hesitation.
Then the truth landed like shrapnel.
“I wasn’t faithful,” Samus said, each word precise and clipped, like she was reciting damage reports from a doomed mission. “Not recently.”
Lara felt the ground tilt beneath her. She steadied herself on the edge of the couch, but her voice was ice. “How long?”
Samus’s jaw clenched. “A few weeks. I didn’t mean for it to—”
“You didn’t mean to?” Lara’s voice cracked. “You were just exploring new levels, was that it? Glitching through commitments?”
“Don’t reduce it like that,” Samus snapped, and then softened. “It wasn’t planned. Me and Markowski just... happened.”
Lara’s heart pounded. Humiliation, hurt, and disbelief all tangled together like a corrupted code. She stared at the ring in her hand, then closed the box with quiet finality.
“Get out,” she said.
Samus hesitated for a moment, her eyes briefly flicking to Lara’s. Perhaps she was seeking forgiveness, or maybe it was just guilt. Then she turned and left, the door clicking behind her like a closing checkpoint.
Later, with the sting still fresh and her pride in tatters, Lara didn’t go back to her usual haunts. Instead, she found herself tracking down Markowski. Maybe it was recklessness. Maybe it was spite. Maybe she just needed something, anything, to rewrite the narrative.
Lara hadn’t planned to get pulled into an inter-game adventure with half the arcade’s outcasts. But heartbreak had a way of spawning side quests she never expected.
And this one? It was going to take her somewhere she couldn’t solo her way out of.
Game Central Station pulsed like a digital city at rush hour. The neon-lit hub was massive, its towering circuits and pixelated scaffolding stretching overhead in dizzying patterns of light. Characters of every shape, size, and sprite-count bustled across the glowing tile floor, darting between massive electric sockets labeled with scrolling red letters.
Lara Croft stood out. She was tall, determined, and radiated the kind of energy that made 8-bit NPCs give her a wide berth. Her ponytail swung like a whip behind her as she strode forward with purpose, shoulders squared. She ignored the curious stares. She wasn’t here to blend in.
She was here to find the man who had stolen her girlfriend’s heart and end him.
Her eyes scanned the signage overhead, flicking past Fix-It Felix Jr., Sugar Rush Speedway, and finally landing on Tapper.
“Found you,” she muttered under her breath.
She adjusted the strap of her pack and marched into the glowing red socket. But the second her boots crossed the threshold—
BWAAAAAMP. BWAAAAAMP. BWAAAAAMP.
An alarm blared, shrill enough to make her flinch.
A split second later, a figure fizzled into view beside her. He was barely five feet tall, wore thick glasses far too big for his face, and glowed faintly with jittery blue energy. The surge protector.
“Step aside, miss. Random security check,” he chirped, clipboard already in hand.
Lara groaned. “I don’t have time for this.”
“I’m going to have to insist that you make time,” he replied blandly. “Otherwise, you’ll be forcibly returned to your designated game and banned from Game Central Station for thirty cycles.”
She sighed, exasperated, and moved off to the side. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
“Name?”
Lara just stared at him.
“NAME?” he repeated, louder and more nasal.
“You’re serious?”
“As a blackout, ma’am.”
“Lara. Croft.”
The stylus danced across his digital clipboard.
“Where are you coming from?”
“The G-Squared-Cs,” she muttered.
“Did you bring any contraband?” His eyes dropped to the pistols on her thighs and the pack slung over one shoulder.
“No,” she said flatly. Her tone dared him to say otherwise.
“Destination?”
“Tapper.”
“Anything to declare?”
“Other than the fact that you’re an unnecessary bleeding annoyance? No?”
“Uh huh.” He checked a final box and dispersed back into the floor tiles.
Lara rolled her eyes and strode into Tapper.
The bar was exactly as Lara remembered from the arcade’s digital archives. It was certainly clean enough to pass inspection, yet old enough to creak with nostalgia. The air smelled faintly of root beer and circuitry, sweet and metallic. Faded hand-painted signs were hanging against the scratched wood paneling, and the barstools looked like they’d been around since the 80s.
Behind the counter, the barkeep himself worked with mechanical precision. Tapper was shorter than she expected, his round face lined with the kind of weariness that came from decades of pixel service. A crisp red-and-white vest stretched across his chest, his slicked-back hair shining beneath the arcade light. He was drying a glass with a clean-ish rag when he noticed her. One brow rose in practiced curiosity.
“Afternoon, miss. What’ll it be?” His voice had that old-time radio warmth, the kind that could sell a milkshake or a cigarette.
“I’m not here for a drink,” Lara replied briskly, leaning on the counter. Her gaze swept the room again, scanning for movement. “I’m looking for someone. Name’s Markowski.”
Tapper’s towel paused mid-polish. “Ah,” he said, lowering the glass with a soft clink. “You just missed him, by a byte or two. Stumbled out not five minutes ago, muttering about roll call. Headed back to Hero’s Duty, I reckon as the arcade opens soon.”
Lara’s jaw tightened. “Thanks.”
Without another word, she turned and strode out the door, boots clicking against the scuffed tile.
The bright corridor outside hummed with digital life. She spotted him almost immediately. Markowski’s unmistakable blocky frame was weaving clumsily toward the Hero’s Duty portal. He clipped the edge of a wall, cursed, and shook his head like it might reset him.
“Hey!” she called.
He didn’t turn. In two lumbering steps, he was swallowed by the portal’s glow.
Lara broke into a sprint. Q*bert yelped as she darted past him, his gibberish complaint echoing down the hallway. She vaulted over a stray power cord and dove through the portal just as it sealed, landing hard in the metal seat of a troop shuttle.
The cabin was cramped and roaring with engine noise, every seat filled by armored soldiers. Markowski sat two rows up, helmet askew, eyes widening when he saw her take the seat beside him.
“Markowski,” she said smoothly, crossing her legs and folding her arms. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
He blinked, pale under his visor. “Uh—I think you’ve got the wrong guy.” His voice cracked. “I’m—uh—” He glanced at the others, swallowed, then forced a laugh. “Y-yeah. That’s me. Markowski.”
“Good.” Lara’s tone was all professionalism. Beneath the hum of the shuttle, she slid a compact pistol from her thigh holster and pressed it lightly against his side under the seat. “We need to talk.”
The soldier on Markowski’s left shifted, frowning. “Hey, lady, I don’t know who you think you are but our commander—”
“Let’s leave your commander out of this,” she said evenly, her gaze not moving from Markowski. She pressed the pistol just enough to make her point. “This is between us. Right?”
“R-right,” he squeaked, straightening so fast his helmet slipped over his eyes.
The shuttle jolted as it docked and the hatch hissed open. Before she could move, Markowski bolted.
“Coward,” Lara muttered, rising.
Outside, the Hero’s Duty staging area was pure chaos. Soldiers sprinted between bunkers, reloading plasma rifles. Towers flared against a stormy horizon. The air smelled of ozone and burning metal. She crouched low behind an ammo crate, scanning the crowd. Getting to him in this mess wasn’t going to be easy. Not without drawing fire or attention.
Then she spotted it: a heavy steel door off to the side, marked with a bold stencil—SGT. CALHOUN – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Lara smirked. “Surely there are women in this game,” she murmured, and slipped through the door.
The armor sealed around her with a low hydraulic hiss, each plate aligning and reshaping to match her frame. The polymer surface shimmered briefly before locking into a matte finish. It was sleek and heavier than she preferred. Lara rolled her shoulders, testing the weight distribution. Not bad. A bit loose around the arms, though. She cinched the straps until the joints hugged tight, the suit flexing with obedient precision.
A row of weapon racks lined the wall like a small armory. She reached for one at random, and the rifle in her grasp shimmered, recalibrating itself to her grip. The barrel elongated, the scope flickered online, and a soft hum of energy vibrated through the metal. Lara allowed herself a small smile.
Outside, the muffled rhythm of marching feet drew her attention. She strode out of the locker bay and into the launch corridor, the air thick with the sharp tang of machine oil. Dozens of soldiers were already forming ranks, helmets gleaming under the cold blue lighting. Markowski stood near the front, fumbling to adjust his armor, clearly trying and failing to look competent.
Lara’s lips curved beneath her visor. She’s got him now.
Before she could move closer, a commanding voice cut through the room.
“All right, listen up!”
Every head snapped forward to attention. The woman striding down the line looked like she’d been designed from the ground up for command. Tall, lean, her posture perfect, her platinum hair cropped into a no-nonsense cut. Her blue eyes were the kind that could pin a man to the wall without breaking stride. The nameplate on her armor gleamed: SGT. CALHOUN.
“This is a shooter, ladies,” Calhoun barked, pacing before the line. “If you need to go pee-pee in your big-boy slacks, keep it quiet. It’s make-your-mamas-proud time!”
A nervous voice called from the ranks, “I love my mama!”
A ripple of laughter moved through the squad, but Calhoun didn’t so much as blink.
“First-person shooter coming through,” announced a mechanical voice as a floating monitor descended in front of her, its display pulsing red. “Game start imminent.”
Calhoun addressed the screen. “We are humanity’s last hope,” she declared. “Our mission: destroy every last Cybug. Ready up, rookies. Let’s find out what you’re made of.”
The bay doors unsealed with a seismic hiss, and a rush of heat and sound hit them all at once.
Outside lay chaos.
The sky churned in pixelated storms of green and blue. Cybugs swarmed over the wasteland in thousands. Their wings glinted like razor blades as they screamed through the air. The ground was scorched, littered with the remains of broken turrets and shattered armor.
Lara tightened her grip on her rifle. Her visor auto-adjusted to the glare, tracking heat signatures in a flood of data. She exhaled slowly. “Not the worst day I’ve had,” she muttered.
“Move out!” Calhoun roared.
The squad surged forward, boots pounding the steel ramp as gunfire erupted into the digital storm. Lara fell into step with them, heart steady, eyes locked ahead. Whatever else this world threw at her she’d faced worse than mindless monsters.
And Markowski wasn’t slipping away again.
Gunfire crackled through the air, tracer rounds streaking like comets across the smoke-choked skyline. The ground shook under the stampede of armored boots and the distant shriek of Cybugs tearing through steel. Their wings flashed lime and cyan in the artificial dawn, each movement precise, predatory.
Sergeant Calhoun was everywhere at once, snapping orders, pivoting between cover, and syncing perfectly with the player’s crosshair above. Her voice cut through the chaos like a command line, steady and unrelenting.
“Move it, move it! Cover that ridge!” She barked at her soldiers before turning to the first person shooter. “Okay, Rookie. Light ’em up!”
Lara moved with the squad, rifle braced, firing controlled bursts into the swarm. The suit’s recoil dampeners kicked against her shoulder with every shot. She kept her breath even, scanning the field for her target. Markowski.
He wasn’t exactly hard to spot.
A scream cut through the comms high and panicked, unmistakably him. He flailed as bug larvae splattered across his visor, yanking off his helmet with a shout.
“Ew, get it off! Get it off!”
“Stay in formation!” Calhoun shouted, but it was too late.
Markowski staggered sideways, straight into the player’s line of fire. For a split second, everything froze. The targeting reticle flashed red.
Mission failed.
A warning klaxon blared. The battlefield dissolved into static as the simulation reset itself. Above them, the beacon flared atop a shattered tower, pulsing brighter and brighter until the remaining Cybugs turned as one, dive-bombing into it. The explosion sent a rain of code cascading across the skyline.
“Return to start positions,” the system droned in its deadpan monotone.
When the light faded, they were back in the loading bay. Calhoun’s fury was immediate and unfiltered. She stalked up to Markowski, yanked off her helmet, and smacked him across the head with it. Then again.
“What’s the first rule of Hero’s Duty?” she demanded, voice echoing against the steel walls.
Markowski stammered, wide-eyed, strings of nonsense spilling from his mouth.
“Wrong answer!” Calhoun snapped. “Never interfere with the first-person shooter! You think you’re the star of the game, soldier? Newsflash: you’re not. You’re background code. We’re here to make the player look good, and you just cost us a medal!”
She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Stick. To. The. Program!”
Lara, standing a few paces away, couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her mouth beneath the visor.
Then Calhoun’s attention shifted straight to Lara. “You. Nice shooting.” Her gaze swept over the armor. “But why are you wearing my gear?”
Lara tilted her head slightly. “That’s for me to know,” she said, voice cool, crisp. “And for you to wonder about later.”
Calhoun’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering behind them. Before she could press further, the overhead PA cut through the tension.
“Quarter alert. Quarter alert.”
The sergeant exhaled through her nose. “Fine. We’ll have words when the arcade closes, girly.” She jammed her helmet back on and turned toward the formation. “Now get your butt in line and don’t die this.”
“Back to positions, pussycats!” she barked, waving the squad into order.
Lara adjusted the utility belt around her hips—it hung too low, not quite her style. She tightened it with one tug and fell back into the column, rifle slung and composure restored.
Markowski, however, was nowhere to be seen. She scanned the ranks. Gone. Of course he was.
“Coward,” she muttered under her breath.
He could run, sure. But not from her.
The day had dragged on longer than any Lara could remember in recent memory. Twenty-seven missions, ten medals, and one growing headache. By the time the final round ended, her trigger finger was sore and her patience was worn thin. The “Mission Complete” jingle had barely faded before the arcade lights dimmed, signaling the end of the cycle. She exhaled, rolling her shoulders as the soldiers filed into post-combat formation.
“Frederick, Mitchell, Thomas,” Calhoun barked, still every inch the battle-hardened commander. “You’re on patrol. Sweep the perimeter and report back by zero two hundred.”
“Yes, ma’am!” the trio echoed before splitting off into the metallic corridors.
That left only a handful of soldiers and one very impatient archaeologist trying to slip quietly toward the hangar exit. Lara had just reached the threshold that led back toward Game Central Station when the cold click of a rifle’s safety being switched off stopped her dead.
“Hold it right there, girly.”
Lara’s hands went up with deliberate calm, her tone dry. “If you think pointing a gun at me is going to make me talk, you’ll be disappointed.”
The voice that answered was steady. “Maybe. But it’s the first time I’ve caught someone from another game snooping around mine.”
Sergeant Calhoun stepped from the shadows, armor gleaming, the muzzle of her oversized BFG leveled squarely at Lara’s chest. Her finger rested confidently on the trigger.
“Remove your helmet,” Calhoun ordered. “Slowly.”
Lara complied without hesitation, lifting the helmet free in one smooth motion. Her braid tumbled over her shoulder, catching the pale light of the hangar.
Calhoun’s eyes narrowed, recognition dawning. “Well, butter my biscuits. Lara Croft. Didn’t expect to see you in my combat zone.” She relaxed her stance but didn’t lower the weapon. “Mind explaining why you’re here?”
Lara balanced the helmet against her hip, her tone effortlessly casual. “Would you believe I wanted a change of scenery?”
“Not for all the quarters in the arcade.” Calhoun gave her a long, measured look. “Characters don’t survive long outside their code. You’re either running from something… or chasing it.”
“Neither,” Lara said lightly. “I’m here to kill one of your men.”
The soldiers around them stiffened instantly. One cocked his rifle, finger twitching on the trigger.
Calhoun’s expression turned to iron. “And what makes you think I’m going to stand by while you assassinate one of my soldiers?”
Lara shrugged. “I fought beside you all day. I bled with you. I’ve earned one last favor. What’s a little more blood for my trouble?”
“Request denied,” Calhoun said flatly. “Get her out of here.”
One of the troops stepped forward. “Let’s go, ma’am.” He nudged her toward the exit, none too gently.
Before Lara could retort, a sound echoed down the tunnel—a low, chirping boing that grew steadily louder.
Everyone froze.
Weapons raised in unison, the unit fanned out around the entrance. Lara drew her BFG, its hum thrumming through her palms.
“Cybug!” Calhoun shouted, opening fire. The others followed suit, bullets ricocheting down the corridor in a storm of light.
But the thing in the dark moved too fast. It darted between bursts, vaulting off a wall, landing behind Calhoun in a blur of motion. The sergeant reacted instantly, spinning and sweeping her leg out. The intruder hit the floor hard with a thud.
“Stay down!” Calhoun barked, leveling her weapon.
But the figure raised his hands, wide-eyed and babbling. “Wait! Don’t shoot! I’m Fix-It Felix Jr.! From, uh—the game Fix-It Felix Jr.”
Calhoun blinked. “Slick tiddlywinking, pint-size. You’ve got a death wish or just terrible timing?”
Lara reached over and pushed Calhoun’s weapon down a fraction. “He’s not a Cybug, Sergeant. Unless the pests have learned to stammer apologies.”
Calhoun’s tone sharpened. “Weren’t you on your way home, Croft?”
Felix, meanwhile, had gone starry-eyed. “Jiminy Jaminy,” he breathed. “Look at that high-definition detail! You’re like… practically lifelike!”
Lara rolled her eyes and turned away in disgust. “I take it back. You can shoot him if you like.”
“Flattery don’t charge these batteries, civilian,” Calhoun muttered, pulling her gun out of Felix’s admiring grip and resting it against her shoulder. “State your business before I redecorate the floor with you.”
“I’m looking for my colleague, Wreck-It Ralph,” Felix said earnestly, removing his cap in respect.
Calhoun folded her arms. “Never heard of him.”
“Well, Q*bert saw him come through here,” Felix offered meekly.
“Impossible,” Calhoun shot back. “Nothing gets past my radar.”
Lara smirked faintly. “I did.”
Calhoun gave her a withering look. “You’re sneakier than most, Croft. Don’t let it go to your head.”
A hollow clang reverberated through the hangar, cutting their exchange short. Every soldier turned toward the main tower. Another clang. Then a crash.
“That came from the tower!” one commando said, unnecessarily.
Calhoun was already moving. “Let’s go!”
They sprinted across the bridge, boots pounding metal. Lara’s eyes tracked the flickering lights above the laboratory’s roofline.
“Who in their right mind would break into a tower crawling with Cybugs?” she called over the noise.
“Either a fool or a madman,” Calhoun spat.
Lara smirked. “Aren’t they usually one and the same?”
Before Calhoun could respond, an explosion of light erupted from the tower’s top. An escape pod shot skyward, smoke trailing behind it, spinning wildly out of control.
“Incoming!” a soldier shouted. The unit hit the deck as the pod screeched overhead, spinning low enough that the three of them could see through the cracked glass.
Inside, Markowski thrashed in his seat with an infant Cybug latched across his face, mandibles digging in.
Lara’s stomach turned with irritation, not pity. It simply won’t do if he dies like that, she thought. I’d rather see his eyes when they go cold.
“Ralph!” Felix cried, spotting the other passenger in the chaos.
“Cybug,” Calhoun breathed, dragging a hand through her hair as the pod vanished through the exit tunnel.
Lara tightened her jaw. So much for an easy hunt.