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He'd transferred into Death months ago, with the promotion. There had been, for a time, more important things for Kostya to attend to. The trivialities of the house, missions from something powerful wearing someone else's skin, the various antarctic outposts he'd been stationed at, trying (and, sometimes, failing) to repair the state of his various friendships.

Training had taken a backseat, but no more. Kostya desired-- for its usefulness, for its necessity-- a trapping gun. Obadiah had shown him how vitally important they could be, forcing him to re-asses his priorities on the matter.

And so, he was here, standing amongst the pods, readying for entering the Deathsweeper arena. Soon, his body would be safely at rest while his mind worked in a pod.

The last time Kostya had been in such a golem, Lucky had shot and drowned him.

Kostya supposed that, at the very least, this time it would be a less personal simulated death.

He spent a long time just surveying the board. Kostya's patience had always been a boon to have, and being on the island for so long had only exacerbated the importance of it. Not that he was incapable of acting swiftly and decisively, but to Kostya, they were two entirely different games to play.

This wasn't a matter of being reactive, or listening to instincts. The deathsweeper board was to be analyzed and disassembled, to be reviewed with a cold and calculating eye to determine the most efficient path across, without sacrifice safety for speed.

There was no one else on the board, today, which was unfortunate. It would have been ideal to learn from the mistakes of others, but instead, Kostya supposed he'd have to go in blind.

Taking his first step, Kostya did not do something as inane as holding his breath in anticipation. Instead, he simply reveled in the small joy that was his survival. One down, four to go.

A series of mines began sliding around the board, edged with spikes. They seemed to move at random without any rhyme or reason. They had the trademark smiley-face painted on them in yellow and black, and Kostya had to wonder who was manning the booth today. Was it someone he knew? Did they sympathize with Jane, before she'd gone? Was it Tavish?

Kostya moved forward, his steps sure-footed, and promptly ducked low to avoid the crossfire of raining bullets, hot shells sliding against the nape of his neck.

The difficulty level was rapidly escalating. Three down, two to go.

Only one tile left, before Kostya was cleared for a trapping gun. The tech had instructed him that he could go further, but there were no extra rewards associated with it, just "d**k wagging", which was the furthest thing from Kostya's mind. There were no leaderboards, and he had no company. There was no point in exercising additional effort when most of his encounters didn't rely specifically on this sort of reflex.

Kostya stayed crouched on his tile, keeping his breathing steady. Which one would let him go free? Tick, tock. The world passed by in slow motion, Syntax beeping wildly in his head. That was not unusual: Kostya's weapon was a constant, low-grade annoyance in his day to day life, constantly thrumming with sound and shallow opinions.

He made his last leap of faith, the heavy toe of his steel-capped boot touching down against stone, and Kostya soon realized the error of his ways. A red sniper dot-- or two, or three, or nine-- trained to his chest. Reluctantly, he raised his singular flag, calling them off.

At least that was the end of it.