Too Lit to Politic
You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
The Struggle Against Fascism in Sad Lad Land
Pokemon Go… to the polls.
The argument: Fight to feel, or so they say. Tough when unreality is reality. The damn Sun just won't die. Postquam nihil est absurdum. Can the government keep the people from imploding? Does authoritarianism exist if there's nobody around to authoriterrorize?
She applied exclusively to east coast institutions. She would have applied to our local lyceum, public and too-proud, were it not for the neo-Nazis, the Hitler Youth SPED division (irony noted) tiki-tromping through our town in characteristically festive fashion. Those fucking panzer-pansies, still trying to run people over in their over-engineered death-mobiles. What’s most surprising is that they had the fuel. Now she’s guaranteed to leave. Goddammit. She’ll go off to [GENERIC NC OR SC SCHOOL] like all the rest. But, let’s be real, what’s so special about [GENERIC NC OR SC SCHOOL]? It’s an average institution, a school satisfactory in that it boasts facilities, a staff, and accreditation. And it’s the best she can do. She who has money, grades, charm, extracurriculars, luck, looks… What about us middle of the road morons? I’m sure my dead dad’ll put a good word in for me at his used car lot. Honestly, ever since that Asian kid in Indiana built an infinite GPA drive we’ve all been fucked.
Str. Thank God for books. What a sad state we'd be in without them. Wouldn't the world be worse off without Joyce's thunder, Milton's cranky theogony, or Wharton's somber sass? In a post-survival world we need to learn to live. Books help with that.
Ant. Books don't really need to exist. They've never saved anyone. They don't give anything meaning. Any argument to the contrary derives from buzzwords and feels. People realize this, cause nobody reads; screens do everything books do but better and soon we won't even need them. They'll inject the dopamine directly, cut out the middleman. Something seems shriveled about eternal bodies hooked into dopamine machines; without boning the yutes'll grow and go. Adieu Adonis…
Ed. Meaning doesn't matter. Stop fighting about it.
The Bonehead's Guide to Fanget had little in the way of useful information. It said nothing of the Challenge, and only contained blurbs about the leveling system, the world, NPCs, monsters, etc. It failed even to mention the necessities system. Regarding death it said,
Upon dying, the Player will respawn at the nearest chapel.
The patch-notes contracted this. That didn't stop the Lads from scouring every chapel from Brandonville to Chancellorsburg looking for Mufferson. They never found a thing. Her name, for those that'd friended her, remained grayed out. They couldn't access her info. As if she was simply out of range, somewhere far off, still alive and kicking.
Every day thousands of players, mostly human, a few not, would trek from Chancellorsburg into the nearby forest. They always took the same route, a worn dirt road. Once in the forest, they would hunt and kill prepubescent goblins, deer (mostly fawns), rabbits, squirrels, green slimes, giant caterpillars, mothbabies, and forest nymphets. The mature versions of these creatures, adult goblins, mothmen, red slimes, etc., had long since been exterminated via a concentrated effort. The creatures' spawns had fallen under player control.
Fanget's creatures did not come into being via real world means. Instead, they were summoned, en masse, by special creatures residing in the deep, dark, parts of the world. Goblin sorcerers summoned goblins, slime queens birthed slimes, mothmages summoned mothmen, forest spirits conjured deer, squirrels, etc.
Take, for the purpose of illustrating the players' general interactions with all forest dwellers, the goblins. The players discovered that the forest outside Chancellorsburg, a relatively peaceful place, contained eight goblin sorcerers at game launch. The sorcerers resided deep in a dark, twisting cave and stood around an altar, arms raised, chanting continuously. As the result of their chanting, goblins of all types would appear on the altar, some young, some old, some strong, some weak, some massive, some ferocious, some timid, some small, some smart, some dumb. These goblins would venture forward into the forest with the intent of finding fame and fortune. In practice, they would wander aimless until a player or an NPC came within sight. The goblin sorcerers didn't stop for food, rest, or even upon confrontation. One could walk right up to them and wave a hand in their faces and they wouldn't cease their summoning. Early arrivals at the burgeoning SNAFU U discovered this spawn mechanic and spread the word. A contingent of Sad Lads led by Slick, Bobby, and Jil, and supported by Cuntry Crusaders led by Richard_LionShart and Cycler, led an expedition into the caves and dungeons surrounding Chancellorsburg in search of these monster spawns. The first spawn they stumbled upon happened to be the goblin sorcerers. They killed half the sorcerers, which, it turned out, left the remaining sorcerers only able to summon goblin children or feeble, deformed adults. Soon, unable to replenish the forest with healthy, adult goblins, the forest came to contain only young and weak goblins. The same process was methodically undertaken for all the forest's creatures until an already easy area became a faceroll fest. Players could go into the forest and "micro-level," as the practice became known, killing the defenseless creatures in exchange for small sums of experience, money drops, and rare, low level loot drops. These players, the lowest level of the player-economy labor force, would return to Chancellorsburg (where many of them rented small rooms) and spend their money on drink, food, and fun.
As one would expect, this system required regulation. Absolute_LadMan instituted, with roarious pushbuck, a tax on income intended to fund ventures in research, defense, and administration. Players would, before leaving the forest and heading back to Chancellorsburg, declare their earnings and pay an ever changing percentage to the tax collectors. Some players, seeing the value in collective player efforts, paid willingly and fairly, but many attempted to skirt the system, avoiding the collectors when leaving the forest, dishonestly declaring their earnings, or outright refusing to pay. Tax collectors attempted to keep records of player levels, therefore using the experience required to level up and how many creatures a player would have to kill to get said experience to calculate how much money a player was earning. However, the game's leveling system was slow (and the micro-leveling made it slower) and players would often go days without seeing an increase in level, even at lower levels. Furthermore, the experience and money gained from each killed creature varied according to RNG, so the system saw little success. It mainly allowed overbearing collectors to demand money and hide behind a veneer of objectivity.
Poaching also presented an obvious problem. The entire scheme rested on regulating how many creatures were actually in the forest. Too few, and there wouldn't be enough farm to go around. Profits would drop for everyone and players would grow frustrated from futile hunting. Too many creatures or creatures of too much strength and the forest would grow too dangerous. Initially, players would gather at the spawns, right beside the goblin altar, for example, and kill the creatures the moment they were summoned into existence. But too many players were vying for these farming spots. PvP fights broke out, a few almost resulting in deaths. In response, Absolute_LadMan instituted several measures. First, only authorized personnel were allowed within a certain radius of the spawn points. To facilitate this, the forest authorities set up signs marking the boundaries. Second, they banned farming in the forest at night. This would give the spawn points a chance to replenish the forest, so that by morning the players would find the forest with a suitable number of creatures to kill. These measures worked well. Some grumbled, but most, even those diametrically opposed to coughing up taxes, saw the need to stop the spawn-camping madness that was occuring. So, with a few exceptions, things in the forest settled into this routine. One small poacher group refused to quit, but Richard and company, exacerbated, ambushed them at the entrance to a cave and chased them all the way back to Chancellorsburg, shouting and throwing rocks. The poachers survived, but Richard made sure the bawling boys sustained some bruises.
One major hiccup occurred when another group of goblin sorcerers, this group at full strength, arrived suddenly in another forest cave. The players never learned how the goblins got there (many theorize they simply appeared, via a sort of dynamic spawn creation system) but, regardless, they started spawning fully functional adult goblins, mega goblins, and all the rest. The sudden arrival of adult goblins in the forest startled the players. Two days of crisis passed before Richard and company stormed the new cave and butchered all eight of the new sorcerers. Many thought this move rash, as having another half-strength goblin spawn would be beneficial given the ever increasing amount of players beginning to hunt in the forest, but Richard and his team were angry, and for good reason. The players suspected that they'd taken several casualties, and had confirmed two. A mega goblin ambushed two players who, acclimated to the pathetic foes they'd fought so far, were quickly and ignobly killed.
They are such babies. I am going to leave them in there until they can appreciate what it’s like to have freedom. And if this doesn’t bother them then I am out of ideas.
The alarm clock's clattering woke Deus from restless sleep. Groggily, his eyes half open, he felt around the floor til he found his snub-nosed revolver. He raised it and released a round, blasting the across-the-room blaring clock off its shelf. The bullet ripped through the clock's complex gear-guts and smacked into the wall behind it, adding a hole to the dozen already there.
8:00 AM. Another fine Fanget morning. Yes, Chump and co. had discovered that the Sun sat sameplace in the sky no matter where you stood. Which was bullshit, considering games had done timezones for decades. And yes, boringly, a Fanget day lasted 24 in-game hours, a full spin of the presumed sphere on which they Fanget-flailed. Though the map showed a plane, Chump flew through the tests to show that the world was round. So the properties of a sphere artificially overlaid on a plane, courtesy of NASA's deep state division? Or just bad game design?
Deus bucked off his blanket and hopped outta bed. His clock's corpse lay fallen before him. Deus' floor-mates had at first set their own alarm clocks. Now they relied on Deus' morning shot to wake them.
Deus donned a velvet bathrobe, tossed his pistol into its pocket, took a bottle of beer from his nightstand, and left his room. An NPC servant stood outside, holding a silver platter with a glass of wine and a new clock. He held a newspaper in his off hand.
The cloudy-minded player, before waking lucidity caught him, chugged his beer. He threw the now beerless bottle through a stained-glass window, the work of the Empire's own artist-laureate. The servant flinched as Deus ripped the newspaper from his hand and grabbed the wine from his platter. After a swig of the stuff he said,
–Set up the new clock. 8 AM.
–Very good, sir, the man muttered.
Deus downed the rest of the wine. He'd need a few more before he got a good buzz, the extent of the game's inebriation. Being near-drunk… well, LadMan and his faggy fellas weren't getting shit done… a man needs something to make this bogus being bearable. Deus felt every minute. Chump's dilation be damned, this time was stolen from his real life. He wanted to see his girlfriend, his nephews, his little pet rabbit. He wanted to watch baseball, go to bars, get properly pissed. Deus saw, on the hallway floor, a whiskey miniature. Who knows how it got there? He took it up and put it down. Were his body alive his liver'd be livid.
As he walked down the hallway his robe came undone. He let his dick dangle. The appendage swayed in time with his steps. A maid, down the hallway, saw him and scurried away. As Deus passed the door to a nearby room opened. Enter Tyrannisoris_Sex, the strict, serious Sad Lad. Wisteria, his body covered in light green scales. Fins protruded from his arms and legs and gills ran horizontally on his neck. Like the creature in… Deus couldn't recall… the movie where the chick falls in love with a fish-man. Ty, ever appropriate, wore a white towel wrapped around his midsection. He carried a bag of grooming equipment, specially tailored to clean his scales and fins. He looked at Deus disapprovingly.
–Ty, just who I wanted to see, said the sadly non-drunk Deus.
–Good morning, Deus.
Silent striding. About barren baryonia (half a meter) between them, but they cantered a chasm apart. Despite so much the same: third millennia men, ostensibly American, postabsurd. Puffers, huffers, and, paradoxically, poachers. Ground hounds, nothing near the old cosmic kids. Might they wonder what really lies between them? Not baryonia, but bits? The string theorists' unreal vacuum? Of course not, they were brains in vats, or kids in chairs, the space between them naught but neurons.
Crash. Anti-sterile, un-the-black-on-white. Loud. CRASH. The marks inadequate. Deus jumped back. The door in front of them flew open and out ran two NPCs, humans, giggling girls. Half naked and too young to be. Scent of cigs and strong perfume drifted out, followed by the little loli. Erectio, a longtime Lad, liked two things: flying and lolicon. Naturally, he meant to main a loli Meria. He spent an hour and a half in character creation, laboring to perfect his prepubescent production. Then he got frustrated and decided to fiddle a bit with the other species. When the patch hit he'd made a little progress on a Dwarvia avatar, doubtlessly loli but nowhere near as nymphy as his Meria. The patch didn't care that he was just joshing around, that he intended to return to creation's tabula rasa and re-make his Meria. The patch pushed him into the Dwarvia body he had the moment it hit and there he'd been since.
So… enter Erectio, standing less than four feet in no socks, with clay colored skin and huge eyes. A nubby nose and short, shaggy hair. A black heart tattooed on his check. He wore a towel around his midsection, like Ty, but failed to cover his bugbite breasts.
–Yo! he called to a nearby servant.
The servant averted his eyes but opened his ears.
–Pay those girls once the potion wears off. Twenty each.
–Of course, certainly, said the blushing servant.
–Dog, cover up your tits, for fuck's sake, said Deus.
–Huh? Oh, whatever, man, said Erectio.
–Just do it, Jesus, said Deus.
Erectio's high, childish voice. His uneven teeth. His bulging cheeks. Deus removed his robe and draped it over Erectio's shoulders.
–Have all the… fucked up orgies you want, said Deus. Just don't… I don't know… flaunt it so much.
–So sorry, said Erectio with a chuckle. It's that potion, you gotta try it.
–I didn't come here to fuck, said Deus. I came here to raid.
–Yeah, yeah, said Erectio. And you promised your girlfriend you wouldn't. But seriously, that potion is dope.
–And expensive, said Ty. You don't assist LadMan and Dan with the budget. Your aphrodisiac costs as much as sleeping potions for the whole palace.
–Worth, was all Erectio had to say.
The trio shared a destination, the palace baths. Players discovered that failing to bathe left them smelling foul and feeling grimy, even if it produced no negative statuses. As a people so sanitation-spoiled in their own time, the BO from a week without scrubbing proved intolerable. For the Chancellorsburg masses, this meant using their monster-dropped-money to buy soap and schlepping down to the River Chancellor a few times a week. For the players at the palace, this meant enjoying the calm, daily ritual of submerging themselves into the steam-heated baths.
The baths almost measured up to modernity. A large, heated pool; a smaller cold bath; and a wall of shower-stalls. Water came from iron pipes, controlled by levers atop the faucets.
Deus, Ty, and Erectio entered to find the room misty and warm. A certain Sad Lad, still embarrassed to be seen naked by his comrades, came unreasonably early to have a bath by himself. Once, a bored Deus arose extra early, waited in a shower stall, and jumped out to surprise Dan after he'd sunk into the pool. Dan, cursing, chucked his bar of soap at the Crusader and sprinted for his towel.
A few palace-players lounged about the baths. Womansrights: Meria, theatrical, sharp, sat in the warm pool, his head back, a wet, warm towel covering his face. A post-patch addition to the Sad Lads, one of the first human players to arrive in Brandonville after the LadMan-led initial group, BrosteinBear, hummed in a shower stall. Her long black hair and freckled face poked over the stall door. Deus averted his eyes. He found her unbearably attractive, and had to restrain himself, as per his promise to his IRL girlfriend. He never considered whether or not she'd go for him. The choice lay with him; his temptation alone to resist. For the record, though a flirtatious outer face might mislead, she would not have entertained the thought.
Each of the three entered a separate stall and scrubbed clean. They let the warm water pour over them, taking solace in the diurnal ritual, so very reminiscent of real life. At least, for most. Erectio, keeping with habit, had refused to shower for weeks after he'd arrived. LadMan had to outright order it. Even with a daily-dosage of soap and water he stank of cigarettes, alcohol, and his perfume-scented aphrodisiac.
After their showers they plopped into the pool. Without taking the towel off his face, Woman asked,
–What's the news, then?
–News? asked Erectio. Is there news?
–I don't know, said Woman. That's why I'm asking you.
–There isn't any news, whined Deus. Nothing important happens around here.
–Perhaps you ought to expand your definition of important? said Woman. If only raid-related news interests you, then you are bound to-
–Yeah, whatever, said Deus. We don't need to fight about this again. The Challenge is raiding, everything else is noise.
–Such supreme confidence, chided Woman.
–If that's how you feel, Deus, said Brostein as she emerged from her stall, then does that mean you don't want to hear the juicy news I've got?
–I guess not, said Deus.
He struggled to avoid looking at her as she entered the pool. Erectio, antipodean in propriety if not place, stared openly. Bro tried to ignore him but, with his eyes stuck, she crossed her arms, ostensibly to look facetiously frustrated with Deus but really to cover her bare breasts.
–What's your news? asked Ty.
–It's Quixotisha. Striker has straight up replaced her.
–Replaced her? said Woman.
He took the towel off his face.
–Yeah. LadMan got a message, late last night, after all you guys had headed out. Striker is sending somebody else to be his liaison.
–Was she, like, doing a bad job? asked Erectio.
–I thought she was great, said Bro with a shrug. Either way, the replacement is getting here today.
–Today? So he's been on the road for a few days already? said Woman.
–I guess, yeah. It's weird.
–Striker… mused Woman. What a character. Hard to read, I thought, when I was in Merse. Always up to something. So many people… always on the move…
Erectio stretched out with a sigh. Deus desperately wished some bubbles would float over to cover his childish bits. His nipples sat just above the water, bright red, budding, obscene. Unwilling to look at Erectio or Bro, he leaned back and stared at the ceiling. White, tiled, with slightly leaking pipes attached, making a maze. Such a tangle.
–Okay, everyone, LadMan is entering.
Dan only did this cause it pissed Deus off. Deus sat, sunk in his chair, his hair still wet, devouring a tray of breakfast and chugging a glass of wine. He grimaced as LadMan entered. Dan never failed to remind everyone that LadMan was in charge, even if nobody ever stood, saluted, bowed, or the other dumb shit Dan insisted they do.
LadMan wore a white military uniform, lined in gold. His chest weighed down with medals he'd bought at an uptown thrift store, pawned ornaments of so many past wars. On his hip he had a golden revolver he'd never shot. His purple hair up in a loose bun, held in place by a black band. The other players wore equally bourgie and bizzarre get-ups. Dan a bulging black coat, as if he hid watches y otro wares underneath. Brostein spelunking stuff, replete with a flat brimmed hat and a satchel. Woman a dandy's ensemble, a white feather sticking from his cap. Only Deus was dressed down, with simple slacks, a white shirt, and a semi-automatic pistol holstered on his chest. He saw no sense in dressing up unless he was raiding. And since the Lads, the de facto human player government, refused to fully fund his Crusaders…
Their regular meeting room was nestled in the east wing of the Imperial Palace. The palace, derelict and in disuse when the Lads arrived, had become their base. The first weeks in Brandonville were rough, but by and by a shaky alliance between Chump, Dan, Slick, and Pfo figured out and subsequently broke the game's "persuasion" mechanic. Now, only months post-patch, the Lads were set up in the Imperial Palace itself, and had the blessing of the city's mayor to back them. A timid, bald man, he possessed a diffident demeanor that made him perfect for their persuasion ploying. He assured them that they could lodge at the palace for as long as they pleased. The young Emperor, the place's owner, had no interest in governance, even with an apparent Reckoning upon him. He never left his country villa, far north, where he and his haram spent all day lounging and leeching. The palace, therefore, was filled only with maids, servants, and the occasional, unimportant minister, all keeping it barely passable in appearance out of rote duty.
From the outside the palace struck a confident, stately pose. A pretty, pseudo-gothic structure built from brass colored metals, lined with intricate metal statues and massive windows, many stained glass. The highest structure in Brandonville, built on a platform atop the tallest, widest skyscrapers, towering even above the mayor's manor, not that he seemed to mind. Gardens surrounded it, meticulously kept by an inexplicably upbeat gardener and his daughter.
But the Lads, from the moment they moved in, began wrecking the place. The interior, as stated, was already dusty and derelict, and the Lads did little to liberate it of that state, but the outside had suffered a clear decline. Graffiti everywhere, trash hanging off the statues, bullet-holes riddling its walls. Windows cracked or shattered. The surviving windows covered in newspaper. The garden, despite its caretaker's efforts, trampled and dying. Someone had stolen the garden's sundial.
The meeting room, for example, had its one window covered with a black curtain, so despite the morning hour it might as well have been midnight. A busted bookshelf sat in the corner, on which the players had piled hundreds, if not thousands of loose leaf papers. Their chairs were worn and blackened by the constant cigarette smoke. Only a half-busted banker's lamp lit their conversations. Like a college kid's apartment, intolerable to anybody but himself.
Erectio gobbled down a smorgasbord of butler-brought pastries. Brostein nibbled on a croissant. Before they began, LadMan asked a servant to bring him a massive cup of coffee.
He and Dan had charts and graphs strewn before them on a small table, while the others formed a rough circle with their armchairs. In the circle's center, on the floor, they had several maps showing features the menu map did not: topography, roads, resources, etc.
LadMan received his coffee and gulped half of it down. Too hot. He spit it out, adding to the carpet's many stains. He wiped his mouth, opened his menu, and began clicking. Everyone stared, waiting for him to say something. He looked haggard. Finally,
–All right, people, we've got some serious news.
–Yeah, piped up Erectio, a pastry in his mouth, something bout Tisha getting replaced.
–What? No, said LadMan. Er… well, yes, that did happen. But no, that's not what I'm talking about.
–What is it, then? asked Phatphuck, Wisteria.
–Another confirmed death, part of the spawner nonsense.
–I see, said Phatphuck. Then, in his patented straightforward manner,
–Well, nobody could have guessed how the game handles spawners. An unavoidable tragedy.
–Could have been more careful, muttered Deus, though nobody heard him.
–Oh, woe to those who die unloved, alone, in obscurity, intoned Woman.
–Like it matters how somebody dies, said Dan with a snicker.
–Well- began LadMan, but Woman cut him off.
–Another Christian soldier ripped from flesh to meet his maker!
–Woman, shut the fuck up, said Dan.
–What was his name? asked Pbbbbbbb&j, a long-bearded Dwarvia with a grandfatherly twinkle in his eyes.
–Detle, said LadMan. But-
–A difficult demise, undoubtedly, said Woman, gesticulating considerably.
–Okay, shut up, Jesus, said Dan.
–Just tell us how he died, Deus violently demanded, slamming his fist on his chair's armrest. Why does this one dude matter?
–I'm trying, said LadMan. If everyone would stop shouting.
Once silence resumed, he said,
–He was killed by a goblin, same as the other two. But… we have his body.
Moment for comprehension, then,
–He didn't dematerialize? asked Phatphuck.
–No, said LadMan. Slick said some girl came to her and reported Detle missing in the forest. Said he was out of range on his friend's list, same old story. Slick figured he died to something from the second spawner and told the girl he would have dematerialized, but she wouldn't listen. So she went into the forest to look for him. Came back a few hours later freaking out. Said she found a big goblin with a blood covered club roaming around near his body. Slick didn't believe it, so she got Bobby and Di and went to check it out. Turns out the girl was right. The goblin was gone but they found Detle, dead on the ground.
Everyone sat silent. Muffy and the two verified dead dudes from the spawner incident were the deaths they knew of. They figured more had perished unknown. But… everyone they knew of had dematerialized upon death. Their bodies didn't linger.
–Slick's sure he's dead? asked Brostein. Not just, like, under a spell or something.
–We're not completely sure, said Lad, but he isn't in messaging range, and can't be friended, even when you stand right next to him. He doesn't have a username above his head, either. Also, all of his gear was in a chest near his body.
–Mufferson produced no such chest, Woman said needlessly. What has become of the boy's body, then?
–Put on a train to SNAFU, said LadMan. Hopefully it already arrived. Chump might be able to figure something out. Maybe bring him back? Who knows?
–Would he be the same? wondered Woman.
–Not worth worrying about it, said Dan. That's all the information we have. Slick and SNAFU will keep us updated. Actually, Lad and I are going by there later…
Everyone, disconcerted, grumbled, but realizing that pestering Lad for info he lacked would get them nowhere, they allowed the meeting to shift subjects.
–The Chancellorsburg forest is getting reopened soon. Richard is almost done clearing it of bigger goblins. He's keeping a lookout for other players who died because of this. Slick is drawing up a plan to make sure this doesn't happen again.
–Would have been nice to keep the second spawner at low power, muttered Dan.
Deus glared. So sick of petty palace politics. Wished he was with Richard, fighting in the forest, but he felt that leaving would let the Lads cut the Crusaders out of things entirely. And then how could he hope to get resources to raid?
–Also, as Erectio was saying earlier, Quixotisha is getting replaced. Before you ask, I don't know why. Striker is sending a Meria, uh… GuiIsBloat, to replace her. He left Merse a few days ago, so he should be here any minute. I'll talk to him when he arrives, but this shouldn't really change anything. He'll do exactly what Tisha did.
Deus detected a dripping dolor in Lad's voice.
–It is weird, though, muttered Dan. And we have a right to know why he's replacing her.
LadMan ignored him. The two had clearly argued this issue in private.
–Daniel, might you keep your mumbling to a minimum? Woman asked politely.
Dan huffed and puffed but desisted. From there the meeting proceeded painlessly. LadMan gave a budget brief. Taxes were down, but would recover when normalcy returned to Chancellorsburg. Spending was fine (Erectio was asked to limit his aphrodisiac use). A new supply-shipment was expected at the palace. Brostein volunteered to coordinate its reception. Nothing else noteworthy had happened, Brandonville or abroad.
The Detle affair held everyone's minds. The sordid saga of the second spawner had, for the last few days, engulfed the palace. Now, just as it seemed to be ending, the bombshell of some boy's body hits them.
As the meeting petered the players sat chatting, drinking, and smoking. Deus left quickly, to his room to, presumably, drink the day away. Brostein laughed her loud, snorting laugh at a lame joke from pbbbbbbb&j. Erectio watched Woman with glassy eyes as the latter harangued on some such subject. Ty and Phatphuck sat together, sipping ginger ale in silence.
LadMan finished his coffee. He dreaded his next engagement. But he knew he'd have to go, sooner or later, and face the true labors of leadership.
He opened his menu and absentmindedly scrolled down his long list of friends. He saw, with some sadness, Lunarkid, grayed out. Lunar, Mr. Clean, and those twins, Beb and Charles, had been MIA since the game's first few days. LadMan remembered Lunar and Clean showing up, swanky but shook, in Chump's wake. Seemed like decent people. Then they left to find the twins and nobody had seen them since. LadMan knew he'd have to burn his brain on this issue soon, and so decided not to dwell. Then, lower than Lunar's name on his alphabetical list, his eye caught the grayed out Lying_Ted.
Why was he grayed out? Out of range? Had he gone somewhere? And not told LadMan? Not out of character, but LadMan found himself fuming regardless. This wasn't Lukia, where Ted and company's tired trolling would be tolerated. He scrolled down his list to find ScreamKing and Soren_Kierkegaard also grayed out. Finally, almost at the bottom of his list, Vac_Effron, in range. Those three didn't typically travel without Vac. LadMan sent Vac a message. Where are Ted and the others?
He received a response almost immediately.
gone
What do you mean? Gone where? Is everything okay?
no
LadMan angrily messaged Vac again. What happened? Give more details, dang it. But this time he received no response. Jesus, as if he needed more nonsense on his plate. He sent a message to Slick, telling her to check up on Vac.
He'd only messaged the Lad a few times during the past months, and only received curt, rude answers in reply. But he didn't dwell. Vac and his boys could bitch around Chancellorsburg all they wanted. As long as they didn't cause commotion, he didn't care. But he didn't want them dead.
LadMan closed his menu and stood up. Too much. Much too much.
LadMan left, his boys in tow. Dan, his face so buried in papers he kept running into stuff; Ty, a carbine in his hands and a sword at his side; and Erectio, smilingly stupidly. Erectio wore a sailor's uniform, a bright red top hat at least two feet in height, and a steam powered jetpack he could hardly fly. Ty, overtop his suit and slacks, wore a padded breastplate. And, of course, they all had their steampunk thingamajiggers. Dan wore a huge monocle, not unlike half a phoropter. It could switch lenses with a flick, giving Dan different levels of magnification. Ty had a wristband with a canister that could, in a pinch, fill an area with smoke. Erectio had a flower pin that squirted water.
They struck an imposing if not wacky picture, the four of them strutting down the palace halls in time.
–What's next on the agenda, Erectio? LadMan asked.
Lad knew. He wanted to see if Erectio, ostensibly his assistant, did. When Erectio had arrived in Brandonville with the other Dwarvia Lads, he'd begged for something to do. LadMan eventually acquiesced. What a blunder…
–Let's see, said Erectio, flipping through his packet of papers. We've got… uh… what time is it?
–Ten thirty, said Ty with a sigh.
–Yeah… on what day?
Before they could answer, Erectio stumbled and dropped his papers. Full halt from the party, everyone watching him. He studied the mess, his face filled with uncertainty. The eternal debate. Bend down and pick them up, or fuck it and forget it?
–Pick up the fucking papers, Erectio, Lad snapped after several seconds.
Erectio begrudgingly did so.
–I'm meeting with Kitty and Ricardio, LadMan said.
–Oh yeah, said Erectio. Of course, I knew that. Then it's… SNAFU?
–Quixotisha, said Dan.
–And then SNAFU?
–Yes, sighed LadMan.
–Nailed it, said Erectio.
–Have Ricardio and Kitty arrived at the palace? asked Dan.
–…yes?
–Have you checked?
–…no?
LadMan huffed, turned, and headed down the hallway, towards where he knew Kitty and Ricardio would be. A spartan room on the fourth floor. He'd met with them several times over the months, always in the same place. They were always on time.
As they neared, Erectio rushed in front of LadMan and grabbed a door.
–Here, allow me, he said, beaming as he opened it.
LadMan, Ty, and Dan glared.
–What?
Erectio peeked inside. A dusty storage room, devoid of life. Dan pointed one door down.
–Oh.
Erectio shimmied over and opened that door. The Lads filed inside. Inside, whispering, what remained of the infamous Crit Committee, larger than life in Lukia: Kitty_the_Kat and Ricardio. Ricardio, Dwarvia; dark, yellow-brownish skin, like a yellow marker tainted. No hair atop his head, and only a short, scruffy black beard. A serious and somber expression. Kitty, Wisteria; light blue scales, the color of a clear sky; and bright pink hair she'd tied up messily. Both heavily armed, Ricardio with a collapsible rifle carbine and Kitty with a massive blue staff with a pearl at its tip. She wore white robes under blue plate armor. The king of the earth and the queen of the sea, Terra and Neptune, genderbent.
–Hey, said LadMan as he took a seat. The small room, rarely used, spartan as mentioned, furnished with hard seats and a single electric lamp. Sol peeked through a small window.
These non-luxurious accommodations were more due to Erectio's incompetence than any malice of forethought. LadMan would have preferred that everyone got a grand, comfortable room and endless, flowing refreshments. What he failed to realize was that while some players might appreciate the kindness, it would irk far more. Wealth regarded unironically was taboo in that time. The very idea of acting unashamed of ownership was absurd. You could own an African army, you just had to act embarrassed about it. True in the America LadMan once lived in but, seeing as how Fanget was flying towards reality, it was becoming true there too. LadMan's "government" lived and worked in a big-ass palace, ate endless fine food and downed fine wine without worry, and spent heaps on ludicrous luxuries; potions that enabled preteen plundering, butler-esque heavy bags for training, and a steam powered mech suit they broke within a week. And for what reason? What entitled LadMan and, to a lesser extent, the Crusaders and a few others, to such a rich-bitch lifestyle purchased with the labor of the nameless forest farmers? Lad got there first, that was it. So it was better that LadMan meet guests in sad, sparse rooms. Sitting in hard chairs and drinking whatever prison food Erectio managed to scavenge improved perceptions. Simply put, it made LadMan relatable.
–Do you guys want some food? Ladman asked. Or a drink?
He motioned to Erectio, who, of course, hadn't prepared anything. He ran into the hallway, searching for a servant. All were occupied, probably with the palace's regular inhabitants. Had Erectio told them yesterday of this engagement… He rushed off to the kitchens, prepared to grab whatever he saw.
LadMan crossed his legs and set his hands on his knee. The truth? While the accommodations didn't intentionally suggest unwelcomeness, Ricardio and Kitty were unwanted. Not initially, but LadMan and his buddies had grown sick of entertaining their knocky notions. Kitty and Ricardio rode their Lukia fame at first. When they arrived in Brandonville, both around the same time, they'd been minor celebrities, respected as the elite dungeon divers they were. But then neither Shane, nor Lunar, Beb, or Charles showed. Too much time passed and as Kitty grew distressed and Ricardio angry, the Lads lost interest. The duo grinded every day in the forests outside Brandonville, holding their own, level-wise, with the core Crusaders: Andykey, Hector, Richard, Sheryl, etc., who, absent any clue as to the location of a major raid or assurance that completing it would confer compensation, grinded trash mobs in the meantime. Both the Sad Lads and the Crusaders offered Kitty and Ricardio membership. LadMan offered them a spot in his administration. Deus wanted to put them on a Crusader raiding squad, one of his best. But they'd refused everything, insisting that their friends would show. So they kept grinding and waiting, and taking up LadMan's time with these senseless meetings.
Nobody knew what happened to Shane, Lunar, Beb, or Charles (or Clean, but nobody considered her). They'd gotten scattered reports of other players gone missing. Andykey and Hector, early in the game, spoke with a young woman who claimed to have lost her brother. Rumors floated ashore from the Wisteria: some weird guy, supposed to have spawned as a member the underwater race, was MIA. Everyone had a theory. Most thought they'd just died, though some (particularly the young human woman) insisted they'd never spawned. And as for Lunar, Beb, Charles, and Clean, they had certainly spawned. So how'd they disappear? If they died, then where? And how? They meant to come to Brandonville. Players dumber than them had made the journey. So… what?
Chump gave the matter little thought and concluded they'd gone crazy (his blanket expression for all confusing human phenomena) and run off somewhere. No Sad Lad had bothered to friend Beb or Charles, an oversight LadMan one day realized then heroically pushed from his mind, but both Lunar and Clean were out of messaging range. Chump had run tests to determine the maximum range of messing. Fairly far, almost twice the distance from Chancellorburg to Brandonville. Lunar and Clean had to have done more than run into the forests of Chancellorsburg. So, the question remained, what had three fifths of the Crit Committee plus auxiliary units gotten up to?
Dan shared the popular opinion: they were dead. Any more discussion served no point. But Kitty and Ricardio insisted something sinister lurked. Something beyond dull death caused their failure to show.
–So, what can I help you guys with? asked LadMan as politely as he could.
–It doesn't matter, muttered Ricardio.
–What do you mean? I wanna be able to help-
–Oh, just shove it, Lad, said Ricardio. We know you people are sick of us.
–Ricardo, whispered Kitty.
–No, Kat, you know it's true, he said.
–They've tried to help. We aren't here to get mad at them.
–Whatever, it doesn't matter.
–Why do you keep saying that? Dan demanded.
–Cause we're leaving, said Ricardio. Nos vamos. Heading out.
–What? and going where?
–I don't know, to look for our friends? said Ricardio. Nobody here is doing anything to find them?
–We have other priorities, said Dan.
–Dan… muttered LadMan.
Another foot in mouth moment from Dan.
–No, Lad, cabron cocksucker is right. You guys don't think we're a priority. The priority is yourselves.
–That's not true at all, said Dan. We've helped all the human players.
–Please, you hardly done shit, said Ricardio.
–Ricardo, come on… said Kitty.
–Fine, let's just go, said Ricardio. I'm sick of looking at mongo-man anyway.
–Don't call Dan that, said LadMan, staring straight at Ricardio.
–Why not? It's true.
Ricardio stood up and stomped out. As he left he knocked into Erectio, the boy bearing bowls of cold pea soup and glasses of tepid sweat tea. Erectio's tiny self went sprawling. Two glasses shattered, his refreshments coated the hallway walls and floor.
–Hey, what the hell? Erectio said.
–Fuck off, pedo, Ricardio replied without turning.
–Ricardo! yelled Kitty, now standing. Ricardo! Agh, mierda. Fuck.
Kitty took several deep breaths and turned to livid LadMan and indignant Dan.
–I'm sorry, she said. He's just worried about Shane and all of them. But still, he can be such a dick sometimes. So… sorry.
–Whatever, said Dan.
He buried his face in his documents, but LadMan could tell he was blushing.
–Ricardo thought we should just message you guys that we were leaving, but I thought you deserved the in-person visit. I really do appreciate you trying to help us.
–It's fine, sighed LadMan.
–We'll try to keep in touch. If you hear something…
–We'll let you know.
–Right, thanks guys. And sorry again.
Kitty left. Seconds later Erectio entered, stained and sad. He had salvaged half a bowl of pea soup and a cup of tepid tea, which he carried on a wooden server tray, also bathed in liquid mess.
–They both left, he said. What the hell? Why'd I get these snacks?
Dan recalled Ricardio. His anger flared.
–God, they need to put that faggot on a leash, he said.
–Okay, chill out, said LadMan. He's gone.
–I'll have some soup, said Ty, quietly, to Erectio.
–So, the meeting went good? said Erectio as he handed Ty a bowl and a spoon.
–I do feel bad for them, said Lad. Shane is that poor girl's boyfriend. And Lunar is his brother… and those twins. Losing four people, all at once.
–Might feel bad if they weren't such dicks, said Dan.
–Well, nothing we can do right now, said LadMan. Okay, Erectio, what's next on the schedule?
–Going to SNAFU U, said Erectio.
–Quixotisha, Ty whispered.
–Going to meet Quixotisha, said Erectio.
–Right again, Erectio, said LadMan. What would I do without you?
Gui was a sweating wreck. LadMan hadn't known what to expect, but he figured Striker would send somebody competent. The Meria, his feathers damp, sat next to Quixotisha, twitching, muttering, his eyes bulging. Tisha explained the situation to LadMan (adding nothing he didn't know) and looked at Gui from time to time, growing more and more annoyed as she spoke.
–I'm going back to Merse, she said. But… but Gui will take care of things here. Just treat him like you… like you treated me.
Quixotisha glanced again and again. Gui bit his claw-like fingernails, practically chewing on them. His eyes darted from LadMan to Dan to Ty and back again.
–Are… are you okay? she finally asked.
–Yes… what? Oh, yes, said Gui. He stuck his hands into his lap and held them there, resisting the urge to gnaw his nails.
–I'm fine.
His nose ran. He sniffed. He brought his hand up to wipe his nose and, unable to resist, began chewing his nails anew.
–Anyway, that's it, said Quixotisha. I'm leaving, he's here to replace me. Striker will keep him updated on everything, and he'll keep you all updated in turn. Just the same as me.
Just the same. Not a lick of différance, cept the unspoken. So, legit omnia. LadMan liked Tisha. He didn't know Gui, this sweating, blubbery boy. He liked to talk with Tisha, sometimes eat dinner with her, listen to her lecture on literatura española, posible entenderlo pero requiriendo un conocimiento que él no tenía. But pleasant all the same.
Over? Doesn't it seem like it never began?
–I'm sure we'll get along fine, LadMan said to Gui.
Gui nodded nervously.
–But Tisha, LadMan said, absent an objective, we're really sad to see you go.
–Why are you leaving, anyway? Dan blurted.
LadMan's eyes rolled, but unoffended Quixotisha adopted a look of sad perplexation.
–I don't know, she finally said. Striker won't tell me. He said it would work better if Gui took my position. I figure he'll tell me once I get back to Merse.
–Do you know? Dan asked Gui.
Gui, staring at the ground, shook his head.
–I'll see you guys again, said Quixotisha. I'm sure of it. Don't worry.
–Striker seems like such a dick, muttered Dan.
–Aw, come on, said Quixotisha with a sad chuckle. You just think that cause you guys were always our enemies. He's a good guy. He cares about his people.
–Of course, said LadMan. He seems to.
After the meeting Dan and Gui left the room and joined Erectio and Ty in the hallway. Ty had his carbine slung over his shoulder and Erectio stuffed a pastry into his face. Gui, without further ceremony, mumbled a nervous goodbye to the Lads and scurried down the hallway, glancing behind him every few steps, as if he suspected them of following him. Ty, Dan, and Erectio watched with a mix of curious amusement and annoyance.
Inside, LadMan and Quixotisha hung back for a private goodbye. The two stood up and faced each other. LadMan was at a loss. Quixotisha's confident, playful-but-serious-when-necessary demeanor, and brutal competence, in conjunction with LadMan's own liaisons to Striker, had made the human-Meria front one to be reckoned with. But more than that… Quixotisha smiled slyly, sadly.
–Is he always like that? LadMan awkwardly asked.
–Who? Gui? Yeah… sorta. I don't know him that well, but he was always nervous, kinda strange. Very… sweaty? I guess? But this is the worst I've ever seen him. Pressure of being stuck, and this new job, probably.
–Why him?
Tisha shrugged.
–I'm sure he's smarter than he seems. Striker knows how important it is that we work together. Not to brag, but Striker probably needs me for a critical assignment back in Merse.
LadMan laughed.
–Super secret spy shit, Quixotisha said. Infiltrating a shady organization, special recon, you know, stuff like that. Ah, no… but, really, I'll let you know what's going on when I find out.
–Why not tell you up front?
–You don't know Striker, said Quixotisha. That's not his style.
–I'm not unfamiliar with him…
–You don't know him as an ally, I mean. You don't know what it's like to work with him. He's got a certain theatricality. Though, I will admit, it's been nice being here with you guys. You guys are easier to understand. Well, other than Woman, and Chump, and Erectio…
–Makes you wish you'd been a Sad Lad during Lukia?
Tisha chuckled.
–Almost, almost. I do know one thing. If we get out of here, and if, and it's a big if, if we play games again, I imagine the FLEEK / Sad Lad rivalry might have thawed a bit.
–Imagine Pvping and not seeing you not raining spells all over us, said LadMan. Would that even be a real fight?
Into the distance. Into the darkness. Into the true unknown, not the false brain boundary, or the borders drawn on the map of movement, but beyond causality, where nobody knows what reigns. Blackness? Whiteness? Best guess, more boring baryons, on and on, past so many such volumes until, impossibly, you arrive at your unknown self. Either way, as Quixotisha sadly sighed, embraced LadMan, and bid conclusive goodbye, she receded beyond the boundary, clearing causality, evidenced unintentionally by LadMan's next, hideous remark,
–See you soon, Tisha. I mean, this is still a game. How big can it be?
LadMan, Dan, Erectio, and Ty piled into the Sad Lad's governmental car, a luxurious red roadster, fit for four. The Emperor owned an impressive collection of such cars, housed in a big garage. His chauffeur/mechanic, overjoyed at the Lads' interest in the vehicles, taught them how to drive and gave them permission to use them how they pleased.
–Won't the Emperor be angry? Pfo had asked.
–Naw, he won't e'en notice, said the chauffeur. He hates the things. Leaves em all ere, and me with em. Only horses at his villa, I've heard. It makes me sad to see the lot sitting ere, ignored. I drive em a bit, to keep em happy, but I can't drive em all, not enough. So ave at it, I say. These things are the future, you know.
–Yeah, you're right about that, said Pfo. They're also going to kill us all.
LadMan's entourage drove peacefully along the uncrowded upper level roads. In front of the palace, BrosteinBear oversaw the unloading of a vast supply shipment. One of the butler-carried boxes was distinctly stamped: Mlle Armentieres.
–Yo, be careful with that! Erectio shouted as they drove past.
These upper level roads were well built, orderly, and clean. Carriages and cars kept themselves on the roads and pedestrians stuck to the sidewalks. The people wore decent-folk day clothes: jackets and dresses and curious hats, too-tall top hats and wide-brimmed women's wear with all manner o dressings, bows, flowers, even lil flags waving in the wind as the women walked. Strutting in their stiff posture, impossibly stiff, almost animated, as if cheap animators moved the entire character up and down to simulate movement, South Park-like. That sort of stiff, pseudo-satirical, Dreyer-style stiff slap.
They turned into a big building at the city's edge, a car elevator. After several other autos filed in, the floor shook and descended. It spit the flushed fuckers out on the ground, and after seconds of gassing they'd left the city behind, never having to see the filth and fuckery of its innards.
Down a dusty dirt road lined with envious peasants, up and over a scenic stone bridge spanning the River Chancellor, across two sets of train tracks, and into the forest, in which the University was nestled.
Creatures filled the vast Brandonville forest, but few came so close to its edge, and any that wandered onto the road got squished, shot, stabbed, or all three. But no creatures came today, leaving the Lads to sputter and putter peacefully down the Sun-spotted road. But LadMan couldn't find peace in his head. He couldn't get his thoughts off Lunar. Idle in his Ty-driven car, his mind wouldn't mind him. LadMan himself had no theory for what'd happened. He tended not to theorize about things at all. He had every Lad keeping eyes peeled for Lunar and all other reported-lost players, as well as assumed-dead players like Muffy. That was all he could do, right? As for theories, he'd defer to Chump. Chump seemed like a smart guy.
Little did LadMan know, but a burly boy named Pfo, at that moment incensed by Chump, held the closest-to-the-truth theory regarding Lunar and company. Pfo, upon hearing of the Crit Committee's plight, sensibly stated that they had no way of knowing whether or not all the player-disappearances were connected. Was the reason for every disappearance even the same? His words gave few brains pause, and Chump dismissed the theory as inelegant.
Not far from the University, in a forest-clearing accessible only by an unmarked dirt road, lived, in a small, clean tower, the Archmage Zyron Radloff Jr., better known by his professional title, the Crystal Keeper. Ostensibly responsible for keeping the world's teleporter network operational by way of protecting the crystal, Zyron was incompetent at his best. Given the recent catastrophe, becoming the first Crystal Keeper in history to unkeep the crystal, he wasn't at his best. Shortly after arriving in Brandonville, the human Sad Lads trekked in force to see him.
Zyron was fat, ugly, and disagreeable. But not old, as the Lads expected an archmage to be. He seemed no more than nineteen, though he claimed to be twenty-five.
–What magical power could you possibly possess? Dan had demanded, standing on Zyron's stoop. Much like he confronted Chancellorsburg's Cranky Mage. LadMan wondered if Dan ought to stay back and let him do the talking.
–I have plenty of power, said Zyron.
–Yeah right, said Dan. You look about as competent as an Asian on the freeway.
LadMan groaned. Zyron didn't understand Dan's words, but he could tell from his tone that he'd been insulted.
–You watch your tongue, peasant, before I smite you!
–Do it then, you won't! Smite me! said Dan.
–You better stop.
–Smite me! Do it!
–My mercy is about to run out.
–You can't smite me, you pussy!
The Lads soon determined Dan unfit to deal with all NPC mages, and removed him from the conversation. LadMan gleaned that Zyron possessed no power and less drive. He'd gotten his rank and position because of his father, Zyron Sr., the leader of the Human Association of Mages. Apparently the Crystal Keeper was a ceremonial position, as it was universally assumed that nobody could get past the ancient traps and such that protected the crystal. As Zyron Jr. explained to the Lads,
–The crystal is impossible to steal.
–But it got stolen, said LadMan.
–Well, yes, but that doesn't mean it's possible to steal.
–Are you serious? asked Pfo, next to LadMan as Dan's replacement. That's exactly what that means.
–Fine, but nobody was supposed to steal it.
–You're not supposed to steal anything.
–Okay, yes, but… ugh, why is everyone acting like this is my fault? Zyron whined.
–Because you're the Crystal Keeper, said Pfo.
–Have you tried to find it? asked LadMan.
–Why would I do that?
–Because you're the Crystal Keeper, said Pfo.
–Do you have any idea who stole it? asked Lad. Any leads?
–Maybe the police do. Why would I know?
–Because you're the Crystal Keeper, said Pfo.
–Will you stop throwing that in my face!?
–You have to know something, for God's sake, said LadMan. You have to have some idea of who would want to steal it.
–I don't know, a thief? The Duke?
–Duke? What Duke?
–The Demon Duke, said Zyron. You know…
–We don't, said Pfo, staring blankly. Who is the Demon Duke?
–He's… should you know this yet? It's fate, fate will guide you. Keep your eyes open for opportunity… my father always told me that good deeds lead you to your goals. But… that's not available… location unknown…
–What the heck are you talking about? said LadMan.
Zyron muttered to himself for a moment. Then, recovering lucidity, he looked at LadMan, a light bulb brightening.
–You people aren't strong enough to retrieve the crystal. Fate won't guide you until you're stronger.
–Is this really a quest line? said Pfo. This writing is garbage.
Dan, despite admirable effort from Bobby and Rufus (who'd been babysitting the seething Sad Lad, trying to distract him), overheard Zyron's last remark.
–It's a fucking level restriction, holy shit! he cried.
–Can we not get the crystal because we're not a high enough level? Pfo asked Zyron.
–What do you mean? I'm just saying that fate has not chosen you. You… aren't strong enough.
–Cut his arm off, that'll make him talk, shouted Dan, struggling against Bobby and Rufus, who held him back.
–If you know we aren't strong enough to get it back, that must mean you know where it is, said Pfo. Or, at least who took it. Just tell us.
–You aren't strong enough. Fate won't guide you, said Zyron with a shrug.
The Lads soon departed, demoralized, convinced they'd never get the teleporters working. As they dragged deranged Dan away, they resigned themselves to boats and trains, by no means lame but not teleporter-time-saving. And hanging over all their heads was the increasingly unanimous opinion: this game was garbage.
The once small contingent of academically minded players (Chump, Pfo, a few others) had grown into a full-scale university operation. They'd initially set up shop in the palace, but as their size grew so did their needs. Chump led an exodus out of the city, to an estate at the forest's edge, fifteen minutes from Brandonville by carriage or car. Well within messaging range, with space for housing, storage, and testing. And, Chump claimed, conveniently abandoned when he found it. Chump immediately changed the manor into a suitably scholarly space, acquiring specimens, tools, samples, etc. from everyone and everywhere. Pfo added to the fray every book he could buy, steal, or beg. The little university grew until it became the center for player research and knowledge. Lad saw the use for such a venture, and thus the school enjoyed generous funding. Chump, at the peak of the place's pecking order, found the academic attainment real life had denied him. His only obstacle: Pfo, who insisted invariably for funding, resources, and recognition for the "pseudo-sciences," history, psychology, philosophy, sociology, economics, etc. and etc.
Chump and Pfo sidestepped the criticisms leveled against many Lads (that they blew money needlessly) as no reasonable person could argue against the usefulness of experts in all fields assembling at a single place, working day and night to get the knowledge necessary to leave the game. And any person sent to vet their expenditure got lost in the academic bloat and bluster and thus assumed every spent-cent went to good use. Before long the estate began to resemble a small town, the big house its towering town hall surrounded by shoddy lodgings, testing grounds, and storehouses, all commissioned by the players and built by poorly paid NPCs, or built by the players themselves, like the Alamos boys who, their buildings unbuilt when they arrived to build the bomb, helped build their base first.
A massive library, occupying an entire wing of the manor, had a staff of no less than six players. They got big bucks at Pfo's insistence and could afford to pay handsomely for acquisitions. Some fifty players who didn't care to micro-level or sustenance-scrounge in other ways became a semi-official book hunting cohort. They'd drag in huge quantities of books to the manor for the librarians to sort through. Then the librarians would purchase the ones the library didn't already own. If a "faculty" member wanted a specific text the library didn't own, one they'd heard about or seen referred to in another book, they could put a bounty on it, the money for which came out of their own budget or pockets. A huge board of book bounties graced the manor's entrance. A competing board, stuck up by Chump to the right and slightly in front of the book board, displayed science-sample bounties. Those board-posters would pay for animals, minerals, plants, fossils, artifacts, and so much more. Someone even posted a bounty for a whole person, a Dwarvia physician he'd read about and wanted to talk to.
Such was SNAFU University (named by Pfo after a book he read and enjoyed while applying to graduate schools), the well (enough) run academic operation that represented the players' best hope for escape. Nearly one hundred souls, faculty and a few others, lived there at any one moment. To join the faculty, one needed to interview and be approved by the "board of directors" (literally just Chump, Pfo, and one other guy). You would be assigned some space and funding for research, the amount of which would be decided by, you guessed it, the board of directors. You got almost no pay, but did get library access, two squares and a sack, decent company, and purpose.
Mornings and nights would see the mass of minds file into the mess hall to eat a meal mass-produced by the mess hall manager, HeartSymbol, and his small NPC staff, using cheap ingredients and culinary shortcuts. They'd talk all sorts of subjects, arguing theories about the game and, when they needed a break from that, their real-life work. But the most popular mealtime subject was, as it always is in schools, the leadership. Particularly, what the leadership lacked.
Chump served as the school's dean and the head of its board of directors, while Pfo served as the assistant dean, the second member of its board of directors, and a much needed defense against Chump's eccentricity. Not much of the faculty, as one might expect, liked Chump. But LadMan was enamored with him, and they knew it. He saw SNAFU as Chump's idea, and regarded Chump as its natural leader, and thus the faculty had to put feelings aside and accept him. Not that they did so without whining. Pfo, for his part, was better liked but still regarded coldly. They thought him uppity and evasive. And Chump hated him. But LadMan, despite his respect for Chump, had mandated Pfo's inclusion as a prerequisite for funding. So, like the IRL schools the academic players had come from, peace at SNAFU U was uneasily struck.
Breakfast had been abuzz with news of Detle's death. The top brass got the news early that morning, and it trickled down rapidly. The academics, once they'd been served their slop by Heart Symbol and his staff, sat down with their peers and theorized wildly. Why had Detle's body stayed when the other dead dopes had disappeared?
Oxie sat at the sensible scientist's table, separate from the psycho scientists who stuck to Chump. She'd arrived at SNAFU U two months ago. Chump, enamored with her PhD in astrophysics, voted to accept her based on that and hardly anything else. Pfo, sensing her half-decent sense, cast a concurring vote. She lost Chump's trust fast, and soon joined half of the science department (suspiciously, the worst funded half) in their anti-Chump coalition.
There was her, the cosmologist. Then, Chibibub, a geobiologist. AbsoluteThot was another physicist, as were Jmar and deaddude, IRL friends. HealthyMan was their resident wacky mathematician. As deep into set theory as he was into addy, he betrayed his name IRL by eating inordinately, sucking down pills, and pounding cola. In the game, unable to gain weight or get hungover, he went fucking berserk. Thankfully, the game didn't allow a "proper high," so SNAFU was spared his deepest depravity. He spent every breakfast speaking, in his rapid cockney, to his fellow academics about everything except mathematics.
SNAFU's mess hall originally served as the manor's big ballroom. With tall windows and chairs lining the walls, all Heart Symbol had to do was find tables. He solved this problem by ripping apart the manor's stable (scattering the horses before he did so) and using the wood to build long cafeteria tables. Still, space was tight, so the scholar-cliques couldn't keep to themselves at their own circular tables, high school style. Oxie and her sensible science pals were jammed in-between the history people and the engineers.
The history department, headed by Guido, the dean of a small school IRL, gathered specialists in the areas most pertinent to Fanget. Infirmary (military history), JoseJefe (World War I), FreeOscar (19th century French history), Juice (history of science), and Letusgame (history of technology). Also in this department: BootyLooty, a self-proclaimed fin-de-siecle specialist who refused to disclose where he did even his undergraduate work.
The engineers (headed by Brosuf_Stalin, including Fed_Yas_Queen [electrical engineering], Viking [chemical engineering], Kilgore, Frazzie, and CocoChannel [mechanical engineering], and Jarl [telecommunications]) shared Oxie's dislike for Chump. Dean Dick, as they knew him, initially wanted them only to construct facilities for his scientists. He soon learned that the engineers had research aspirations of their own. Aghast at the idea of engineers researching anything, Chump slashed their funding, and Pfo had to step in to avoid a full-on fight. So despite their closeness to Chump sensibility-wise, the engineers preferred to deal with Pfo, and joined most of the faculty in mocking the dickish dean.
Normally Chump's people occupied half a table at the room's opposite corner, but this morning that table was almost empty, a fact dutifully noted by Healthy Man as he shoved slop into his face.
–Where are Chump's goons, I wonder?
Chump's goons included his scientist buddies (Qbert [botany], Nessie [zoology], JohnJ [oceanography], and Solo [particle physics]) and most of the medical department. With the express purpose of keeping the players healthy and learning how closely in-game medicine resembled real-life medicine, the medical department received generous funding. Led by Sleepr, timid, tepid, and terrible at everything except his job (pharmacology), the medical department more resembled, in the words of Healthy Man, Unit 731 than a modern American university team. Unfortunately, Sleepr had been appointed (albeit with considerable pushback) as the third member in the three-person board of directors, giving the Chump-coalition majority in every vote they thought mattered. Rounding out the medical department was Yui (anatomy), Giggity (toxicology), Gromy and HonkyMan (hematology), and El0n (neurology), Chump's one main opponent within the program. Chump also enjoyed the bizarre, undying support of one Shill, a cryptozoologist and technical member of the science department. Pfo's suggestion to hire him initially enraged Chump, but Shill proved eminently knowledgeable about Lukian dungeon dwellers and their IRL folkloric counterparts, and swore to use something resembling the scientific method, and so Chump assented to his inclusion. From that moment Shill was stuck to him.
Oxie swirled her slop with her spoon, her mind buzzing its typical buzz. Jmar and Dead Dude, graduate students that reminded Oxie so much of students she could have had, discussed Detle.
–But dog, I heard they got Detle's stuff too, said Jmar.
–His gear?
–Yeah, in a chest next to his body.
–That's it then, said Dead Dude, he was killed by another player.
–Oh shit, you right, said Jmar. His stuff stayed so the killer could loot him. Shit, dog, that could be it.
–But I heard that he was killed by a goblin, said Absolute Thot.
–No, they found a goblin nearby with a bloody club, said Healthy Man. Nobody has concluded the cause of death.
–I'd say that's decent evidence, said Thot.
–Circumstantial, said Healthy Man.
Oxie turned to see Pfo entering the hall. Huffy, his face red. He hadn't showered, bathed, or shaved in days, and he wore his too-small shirt backwards. He stomped to the serving table, pushed Colby_Kun (the resident linguist) out of the way, and grabbed a half-filled bowl from Heart Symbol. He stood directly in front of the table, shoveling the gruel into his mouth. Then, finished, he slammed the bowl back down and stomped out.
Oxie sat before the boys, in a hard chair. Chumpchange, Pfo, Sleepr; at a small table, staring at her, sizing her up. She shifted. Outside, constant construction. Hammers hitting, saws sawing, people shouting. Chump wore a patchwork lab coat, Sleepr wore a set of pseudo-scrubs. Pfo, with bags under his eyes, wore no shirt at all.
Chump finished reading the ridiculous application they'd made her fill out. He looked up and nodded.
–Astrophysics. Good. I'm a physicist myself, you know?
Oxie didn't know.
–What did you study? Chump asked.
–Dark energy, said Oxie.
–Your conclusion?
–Conclusion?
–Yes, what do you conclude?
–About dark energy? You're asking me what I think dark energy is?
–Yes.
–We don't know.
–Well, what do you think? Scalar fields? Cosmological constant?
Oxie doubted Chump's dark energy expertise.
–Who cares? she finally said.
–Who cares? said Chump, offended.
–I'm not here to research dark energy, said Oxie. I want to figure out how to leave this game. Unless you mean to build me a radio telescope.
–I've considered building a telescope, said Chump.
Oxie stared blankly.
–It's a skybox, she said.
–Well, that's debatable…
–This is ridiculous, said Pfo. He addressed Oxie,
–Listen, we need smart people with diverse knowledge to help us learn about this game. I'd say you qualify. I vote to admit you.
He looked to Sleepr and Chump. Sleepr sheepishly raised his hand.
–There, passed, said Pfo.
–Well, make it unanimous, said Chump, raising his hand also. Could always use more physicists.
–Do you accept? Pfo asked.
Oxie didn't have an alternative.
–Sleepr, give her the tour, said Pfo.
Sleepr led her around the manor and the grounds, quietly pointing out landmarks: the mess hall, the library, the chemistry lab, the clinic, the botanical garden, the location of Chump's planned particle accelerator.
As they were reentering the manor, Oxie spied two young boys, human players, beside a row of hydrangeas. One was bent over, lovingly watering each plant, while the other stood erect and watched with hollow eyes. Two members of the university, co-heads of the groundskeeping department, posts devoid of authority or purpose save sprucing up the landscape with whatever pretty plants they could scavenge. Doughy and Shooketh occupied the positions. Much of the faculty demanded the pair get sacked when, attempting to beautify the grounds, Doughy started a fire that almost spread to the mechanical engineers' workshop. Sleepr had no qualms about letting them go, but Chump and Pfo outvoted him without a second thought.
Dead Dude and Jmar, the graduate students, had been to Hell and back before they ever entered the game. They, like so many of their generation, had resurrected to find the world hurtling towards cause-less catastrophe. Nobody's fault, as billions of bodies attest, just fate hastening creation's conclusion. The sapien eschatology is likened to the Gaian or cosmic eschatology. We no more control our next half-thousand years than we do the Sun going supernova or the Universe degenerating into black then dark; causally isolated photons and leptons. It's not your fault that you took that trip, ate that burger, or bought that phone. These things produce no impact, but exist as the expression, the veneer, of a great descending doom. As if the doom grows regardless, and one's actions don't blacken it.
Dead Dude and Jmar, irked not by the doom but the haughtiness of its harbingers, decided to skip them, jump a rung on the ladder, so to speak. They jointly wrote a piece, titled "Do Not Forgive Us," addressed to the future folks, assuming they exist. The piece implores the futurites not to excuse their ancestors. The ancestors knew exactly what they were doing. They did it anyway.
It's not surprising, then, in an age when young men write desperate pieces to the future to spite the hedonistic, Gaia-gouging present people, that so many put their hopes in technology. Some for-now unknown tech will emerge and scrub clean our atmosphere. The meat munchers will be assuaged by artificial alternatives. Reproduction won't matter when we're all grown in vats. Dead Dude, Jmar, Oxie, they all put their hopes in technology, specifically VR. Dead Dude and Jmar wouldn't have to worry about rising water, middle eastern famines, or drowning Bangladeshis if they were safe within their virtual Eden. And Oxie, thinking much farther, wouldn't have to worry about big chills or rips if she could hook up and sink in. With her perception of time slowed, every moment could become an infinity, and she could subsist in the Stelliferous forever. Always among the stars. But, you wouldn't be able to enjoy them, hooked up. Then again, you could enjoy their artificial equivalent which, given just a bit more time, humanity could make just as good.
So then, given these perspectives, why were the players so desperate to escape? Assuming the game followed Chump's popular dilation hypothesis, is this not what they wanted? No, of course not. Don't be dull, that's not even a question. Human absolution can only come on one's own terms.
Even so, unless the dopamine-men cut off all consciousness (which is a real possibility), humanity will continue yearning for more. Consciousness seeks infinity.
–Science is based on leaps of faith. Look at the multiverse. You've got those pop science guys, Greene and black science man, who stand by the multiverse as a real possibility. But there's no evidence for it. There can't be evidence for it.
The obnoxiously named Virg1l, an IRL reactionary classicist/modernist (he couldn't pick a specialisation), particularly attached to the Rah Rah Rome interpretation of anything Aeneas and disgusted by the SJW's attempts to feminize his legacy with discussion of "trauma" and "PTSD."
–That's not right, said Oxie.
She was sunk deep in an armchair in the smoke-filled academic lounge.
–What evidence is there? asked Virg1l?
–The repulsive gravity material that produces inflation is metastable. But its half-life is greater than its doubling time, so it inflates eternally. Material that does decay produces a big bang, in a sense, giving rise to a universe. But material is always decaying, therefore producing ever more universes.
–You're saying there have been more than one big bang?
–Not in our universe, so to speak. But the inflationary model does imply a multiverse.
–What if inflation is wrong?
Oxie shrugged.
–Then it's wrong. But we have evidence. Omega, the fluctuation data from Planck, WNMAP, etc.
–Whatever, that doesn't change my original point.
Oxie felt her face go hot.
–You're never going to get evidence for what Joyce's big dot represents, she said.
–It's Molly's anus, someone yelled.
–It's the Earth, obviously, muttered Pfo, sitting beside Oxie.
–It's the unambiguous end to the sterile, scientific questioning that was "Ithaca." It's the ushering in of Molly's internal, subjective monologue, the closest thing to real truth one can get, said Virg1l.
–And Planck's data backs that interpretation, I assume?
–Imagine believing in induction, Virg1l muttered.
Oxie felt dirty, disgraced. Not because she'd been beaten. In fact, she'd won. Virg1l sat red-faced and silent for a bit before he left the lounge. Pfo and the others moved on to other topics. The truth was, Oxie liked Joyce. After all, what's joy in the common era without wacky Joyce theories?
–It's a quark, shouted Healthy Man, minutes behind. Or, Dublin from space. No, wait, it's Shakespeare, but as an embryo!
The Lads' little car sputtered to a stop in front of the manor. The little city surrounding it bustled with activity, but an apprehension also hung in the air, as if a battle might break out at any time.
Two Dwarvia in long black robes paced in front of a wooden shack, whispering. A young woman read under the shade of a tree, but kept shifting, setting the book on her stomach and scanning.
LadMan, Dan, Erectio, and Ty hopped out of the car. The gravel crunched beneath their feet. The manor rose up before them, casting an impressive shadow, even at this midday hour. Three floors, plus an attic and a big basement. Gross area of 100k ft^2, not including the ballroom (now the mess hall). The building boasted all the modern trappings: electricity, plumbing, a dumbwaiter, an elevator, and steam heating. Built in the beaux-arts style, the house, big, grey, imposing, must've looked quite the sight before it got sullied.
Squares, the university's chief of security, sat on the front steps, watching LadMan. Squares had his arms crossed. A curious, troubled look sat on his face, as if unsure of whether to run to or away from Lad. LadMan spotted Doughy some ways away, clumsily trimming the hedges that lined the house. Sure, the hedges were overgrown, but Doughy was turning an annoyance into a disaster, trimming the poor plants into tragic, suffering things. Doughy had no clear design in mind, and couldn't cut straight neither. Shooketh, who had a steadier hand, stood beside him, but motionless, unwilling or unable to assist. The hedges sported giant leaf-less patches, with tops and sides as even as the number five.
–Doughy! LadMan called.
The little Lad turned and, his whole face lighting up, dropped his trimmers and jogged over.
–LadMan, Erectio, Ty, hey guys, he said.
–What's up, Doughy, how you holding up?
–Oh, I'm just doing some campus beati- beautif- beautification. Chump says a pretty campus is important for morale.
Lad looked around. Crooked wooden shacks, grass and gardens trampled or overgrown. The ground littered with garbage. Crumpled paper, hundreds of pieces, strewn, skipping across the grass with every gust of wind. Someone had hung a big, off-color, patchwork American flag from the mansion's front balcony. Someone else had countered with a smaller but better made Spanish one. Half of the mansion's windows were cracked. "SNAFU U" was painted in bright red, dripping-till-it'd-dried paint above the front door. An inside gramophone blasted something akin to Benny Goodman.
–I'm thinking of planting some liriope, said Doughy. I mean, once I find liriopes. Maybe more hydrangeas?
–Yeah, I'm sure that'll look great, said LadMan. Where's Chumpchange?
–Oh, uh… he's… busy, said Doughy.
–I assume he is, said LadMan. Where is he?
–I wouldn't get in the middle of this, Lad! Doughy blurted.
–The middle of what? asked LadMan. What are you talking about?
The simple truth: Chump and Pfo were feuding. The complicated truth: the delivery of Detle's body just an hour earlier sparked furious debate. Chump and his contingent took control of the body and Pfo caught them trying to sneak it away from the manor, into the woods. God knows where they intended to take it. Pfo ripped into them, and they withdrew. They lugged the body into Chump's office. Pfo, with assistance from Dead Dude and Jmar, besieged the office for a bit, but soon retreated, searching for reinforcements. He came upon Oxie and Guido, the history head. With them in tow he went to renew his siege, but found Chump's office abandoned. Having neglected to leave anybody to guard the exit, he knew not where Chump had gone.
Actually, Chump and his group had dragged the body into the manor's basement. There they found Doughy and Shooketh tidying up. Chump insisted that the hedges required immediate attention, thus explaining the task the two had been performing when LadMan arrived.
Pfo and fellas assumed Chump had gone back into the forest, and so they started to scour. But somebody tipped Pfo off and the burly boy barged into the basement. LadMan arrived around this time. So, as he prepared to press Doughy further, the manor's door burst open. An infuriated Pfo stormed out, followed closely by a blood-stained, pleading Sleepr.
–Pfo, please, come on! Sleepr insisted.
But Pfo was having none of it.
–Where the fuck is Healthy Man?! Pfo thundered. Those assholes cut the fucking phone line! We have to get in touch-
Then he saw LadMan.
–Lad! Perfect, this is perfect!
He laughed, half deranged, as he marched to the car.
–Just what I needed, Pfo continued. Lad, you need to come with me right now. That psycho and his Nazi scientists are out of control.
–What are you talking about? asked Dan. Why is he covered in blood?
–Come with me, you'll see, said fuming Pfo.
As Pfo turned to re-enter, Oxie and Guido appeared in the doorway, followed by Healthy Man.
–We found him- Guido began, before seeing LadMan.
–Doesn't matter, cackled Pfo. Don't need the phone fixed, we've got Lad right here!
Pfo led the Lads into the mansion.
–You stay put! Pfo shouted at Sleepr, who had attempted to follow. Sleepr sheepishly obeyed.
The manor's entrance looked worse than its exterior. Trashed floor. Spilt food and drinks everywhere. The walls all scribbled on. Battered books peeking out from every crevice. They snaked through the house, finding each room as depressing as the last, until they arrived at an innocuous wooden door. Pfo found it locked.
–Those fucks, he said. I didn't think this door had a lock.
Actually, Chump had sent Solo with a plank of wood, a hammer, and nails, to secure the door in that fashion. It mattered not. Pfo, after jiggling with the doorknob a bit more, stepped back, lifted his leg, and kicked.
–Jesus! cried Dan as Pfo's foot connected, right near the doorknob, a textbook breach. Well-practiced from his days in CQB III. Solo's plank didn't stand a chance. With a crack the door flung open, the plank's nails ripped out of the wall. Pfo stormed down the stairs beyond, into the musty basement. Built from stone, more like a Lukian dungeon than a Victorian basement. No furniture, only barrels and crates. A few doors led away from the main room. One led into a fully looted wine cellar. Pfo led them to another door, also locked. He kicked it open. Then down another set of stairs until they arrived at yet another door, this one with two pieces of paper nailed to it. The first read, "Please do not enter, research in progress." The second, in a much hastier scrawl, "Fuck off pfo."
But Pfo did not fuck off. He kicked the door open and entered.
–Oh, come on, again, really? someone inside shouted. Pfo, why won't you just leave us alone?
LadMan, Ty, Erectio, and Dan followed Pfo into the room. Four players stood around a makeshift metal gurney. Three wore once-white lab coats (now stained in blood), gloves, and makeshift surgical masks. Yui, Solo, and Gromy. Solo and Gromy humans, Yui a frostfolk. White fur peeked out of her surgical getup. Her non-fur, light blue skin turned lighter upon seeing LadMan. The fourth player: Chump, in a still-pristine lab coat. He stood beside a table littered with books and notes.
But nobody noticed that nonsense. On the gurney, completely naked, chest cut wide open, his dead, red heart exposed. His ribs had been sawed off with a bonesaw, and sat carefully arranged nearby.
–Holy crap, said LadMan. Is that…
It was. Detle, or what remained, bared to the world, dead and dissected under the hard light of Chump's several lamps.
–LadMan, said Chump, hastily, don't listen to Pfo, he's gone crazy.
–I'm crazy? Are you kidding? Lad, look at what they're doing. Detle's body hasn't even gone cold and they're already cutting him open.
–We confirmed he was dead, said Chump.
–How the fuck did you do that? We don't know shit about how death works. What if he suddenly comes back, only to find his chest ripped apart?
–I doubt he's going to come back now, muttered Gromy, which didn't help matters.
–And you know what else? Pfo said to Lad, his eyes alight. It's not even what they're doing, it's how excited they are to be doing it. I found these psychos giggling like school girls.
–Yes, we're excited to learn, said Chump. We need to know how things work! At least we're not pseudo-scientists with nothing better to do than sneak around and spy on other departments.
–Spy on other departments? What the hell are you talking about? Do you see this, Lad, this factionalism Chump is causing? God forbid I try and institute some oversight, or have a discussion about what they're doing. For fuck's sake, they were trying to sneak the body into the woods to do God knows what. They do whatever they want, they don't care. El0n, the smartest MD around here, opposed this, but did they listen to him? No!
–Oh, so it was El0n who told you where we were, said Chump. I knew we couldn't trust that traitor.
–Traitor? Are you serious? Traitor?
–A traitor to science!
The argument dissolved. Incoherent yelling. Chump screamed about knowledge and the inevitable march of progress, while Pfo thundered about IRBs. Gromy began listing the evidence for Detle's lack of consciousness, while Yui, completely inaudible, muttered about some cost vs. gain ethical equation.
–Okay, all right! shouted LadMan, about to shoot a bullet into the ceiling. Everyone calm down!
Nobody calmed down.
–Shut up or I'm defunding you all!
The scholars went silent.
–Chump, said LadMan, what is the purpose of all this?
–The purpose? It's for knowledge-
–Do you hear yourself? asked Pfo. Do you listen to yourself when you speak?
–LadMan, said Yui. Surely you grasp how important it is to understand our anatomy?
–There's no reason to assume its different from the fifty NPCs they've already dissected, said Pfo.
–LadMan, all the knowledge you currently benefit from comes from our experiments, said Chump.
–Bullshit, said Pfo. And you know what else, they didn't even try to heal the fucking kid before they cut him up.
–No, not true, said Gromy. We tried to resuscitate him.
–Why didn't you call our fucking magical fucking spell department? asked Pfo.
–That nonsense-
–We're in a fucking fantasy game!
–Okay, said LadMan, gleaming that this wasn't going anywhere. Pfo, I want to talk to you somewhere else. Chump, I want you to put a hold on this… experiment… until further notice. Can you… I don't know… put him back together?
The scientists stared blankly.
–Just… stop dissecting him, okay?
Pfo led the Lads to his third floor office. Once a bedroom, he'd drawn curtains over the windows, pushed the big metal bed into the corner, and found a wooden office chair to sit before his desk. Books and papers covered the floor. He'd nailed a chalkboard to a wall. LadMan couldn't read the notes Pfo had scratched on it, something about the etymology of "challenge."
Pfo flicked a switch and a lamp came to life. He fell into his chair and rubbed his bald head.
–You're going to side with Chump, aren't you? he said.
–I'm not siding with anyone, said LadMan.
–Lad…
Pfo pointed at the open door.
–Close that.
Ty closed it.
–Chump is insane, Pfo said. You don't get it. He dissected a player.
–A dead player, said Dan.
–We don't-
Pfo sighed. He leaned back and stared at his ceiling. Lad looked up to find that Pfo had pasted dozens of sketches there, some very good.
–Yo, I didn't know you could draw, said Erectio.
–I can't, said Pfo. Oxiana, one of the scientists here… she draws to destress. She gave some sketches to me.
–They're good… muttered LadMan.
–Look, said Pfo. We don't know how anything works here. We don't know what dying in the game means for real life. Hell, we don't even know what makes someone actually dead in the game. But Chump doesn't care about all that. He throws caution to the wind and does whatever fucked up experiments he wants. Him and his buddies were ecstatic to have a player to cut open. They're like… like a bunch of cannibals hovering over a meal.
–I'll make sure Chump doesn't dissect anymore players.
–He won't stop. You need to kick him out, Lad. Get rid of him. It's like a kid torturing a squirrel. At first you think, that's messed up, but it's just a squirrel. Then you turn around and you have a serial killer on your hands, a bonafide Ted Cruz. You have to nip this kind of thing in the bud.
–I'll talk to him, said LadMan. I'll make sure he is more careful when dealing with players.
Pfo looked deep into LadMan's eyes. What did he see? Exhaustion? Remorse? Determination? Powerlessness? Maybe all four. Truth be told, LadMan had learned a lot from Chump. They still knew so little about the game, but what they did know, LadMan (fairly or unfairly, it didn't matter) attributed to Chump. As far as LadMan was concerned, SNAFU wouldn't exist without Chump. The two were inexorably tied.
But, more importantly, LadMan didn't give a damn bout Detle. Some dumb kid got himself shwacked. Died scared and alone in an unfamiliar place. Signed up and dived down into too much. Happened all the time. Drape the guy with a flag and call it the cliché it is. If Chump could learn something by cutting him open, so be it. The introspective might've asked themselves how they'd feel if it were Muffy on that table, her ribs sawed off, her still heart exposed, but LadMan did not.
Pfo sensed that he'd lost. He stepped back and tossed up a Hail Mary.
–Okay, Lad, let me tell you this.
LadMan impatiently listened.
–There was a man who showed up. Maybe a week ago. A human, username Tribune. He said he was an expert in Mayan civilization. Real smart, could read Maya script, seemed to know a bunch about Mesoamerica in general. I didn't think Chump would go for him, but I really wanted him. Lord knows we need some variety in our history department. So I insisted that we give him an interview. It was pretty late when he showed up, right? Now, we don't sleep much, but most of us get five hours or so, if we can, just to be safe. So I told him that he could stay the night, and that we'd interview him in the morning. Well, morning comes and he's nowhere to be found. Just gone, vanished. So I ask Chump, and he says (here Pfo does a disparaging Chump impression) "he probably went crazy and ran off." Typical nonsense Chump answer. Tribune was perfectly sane, of course. But, if you look up his name, even if you have him friended like I do, he comes up out of range.
–Did he die? asked LadMan.
–Maybe? said Pfo. But how? Nobody saw anything. And SNAFU is perfectly safe from monsters and stuff. He would've had to run into the woods. But why would he?
–Maybe he did go crazy? said Dan.
–In one night? said Pfo. It doesn't make sense. Unless you consider the obvious explanation.
–Which is? said LadMan.
–Chump abducted him.
–Pfo, really, do you actually think-
–Why not? demanded Pfo. What would stop him? He sees everyone as his guinea pigs.
–Chump can't abduct anyone, he doesn't have the ability.
–Who knows what abilities he has? said Pfo. He won't tell anyone anything, except for his little posse. He's a hack researcher who sees ethics as an obstacle. And what about this place? Chump says he found it abandoned. What a load. Chump liked the location so he killed whoever was here first. He even keeps the Oxie, an astrophysicist, at arm's length just because she doesn't go along with his Tuskegee experiments. Go ask Chump about all this yourself, Lad. He might be somewhere on the socio-scale, but he can't lie for shit. You'll see right through him.
–Okay, okay, I'll talk to him, LadMan said sadly.
What'd happened to Pfo, his friend? Was he the Cassandra Pfo felt like, or a half-mad man, throwing accusations against Chump til something stuck. If he lacked the constitution to fully investigate the harsh realities of their world… should LadMan remove him, ferry him back to Brandonville proper, stick him in the palace? But Pfo would resist, certainly. And what of the other academics? Chump could be hard to deal with, they might think they need Pfo to maintain the peace. But this wasn't peace. LadMan half expected Pfo to break out into maniacal laughter, like the mad-scientists he claimed to contest. They needed Chump's research. Stringing up Chump wasn't gonna bring Detle back, and refusing to use his research wasn't gonna neither. Chump wasn't as crazy as Pfo said. Chump skirted lines, he didn't cross them.
LadMan left Pfo's room to find Sleepr, still blood-covered, waiting.
–Chump wants to talk to you, Sleepr said. He's in his office.
–LadMan, said Chump as LadMan entered. Sorry about all that. It's a delicate situation, but I'm sure you understand my position…
–Yes, said LadMan with a sigh. I get it. Pfo is being… difficult. I talked to him. In the future, could you warn me before you do stuff like this?
–Of course, of course, said Chump. He figured this was the best he was gonna get. LadMan was tired, stressed. Best not to antagonize him. And Chump knew his position was precarious. More or less a Lad, but brand new compared to Pfo, and not liked, just tolerated cause of his results.
Chump leaned back in his chair. Behind his desk, piled with papers. He pointed to a stool in the corner. LadMan gratefully sat down.
Chump's office: first floor, as far as one could get from Pfo without descending into the basement. No bed, just a mattress off angle in the center of the room, covered by crumpled clothes. Stained lab coats hung off hooks stuck into the wall. Goggles and surgical masks littered the floor. Books, papers, and jars containing God-knows-what, strange specimens floating in gelatinous, clear goo. Behind Chump's desk, a chalkboard, on which a long formula was written carefully.
–So… began Chump. Might I… resume my experiments with Detle?
LadMan rubbed the bridge of his nose.
–You're sure he's dead?
–More than sure, said Chump. In fact, we've confirmed one of my hypotheses. We were on the verge of confirming others, when Pfo intruded for the first time. Had he let me speak, I could have told you…
–Tell me now, said Lad. What hypothesis?
–Simply put, you cannot cut up players when they are alive. However, once they've died, assuming their corpse stays (we're still trying to figure out why some stay and some dematerialize), it becomes an in-game object, fully destructible, much like this pencil.
Chump took a pencil and snapped it in half.
–How do you know players can't be cut into while they're alive? asked Ty.
–Combat reports, said Chump quickly. Information we've collected from the Cuntry Crusaders and the players at Chancellorsburg. The same, by the way, applies to monsters and NPCs. Here, allow me to demonstrate more clearly.
Before the Lads could protest, Chump took a dagger from under his desk. He set his arm down and brought the knife down on his wrist. The knife slashed through his arm and thudded into the desk with a clunk.
The Lads leapt back, shocked.
–Are you insane? Dan shouted.
But when Chump raised his arm, it remained in one piece, despite the knife having appeared to cut straight through it. A health bar appeared over Chump's head and dropped by a fourth. On his wrist, where the knife had connected, Chump had a grievous, open wound, bleeding heavily all over his desk. But not as deep as it ought to have been.
–The game's injury system works like this, said Chump casually. You can't lose a limb while you are alive, and you can't get cut open so your organs fall out, or anything like that. If you are hit with a weapon on a part of your body, a stock wound appears, based on the weapon's level, the level of whoever or whatever inflicted the wound, et cetera. This wound (Chump held up his blood gushing arm) is the stock wound for a low level dagger chop. Interestingly, you can cut hair, though.
Chump rose and lumbered to a shelf, spilling blood all the while. He took a potion and a piece of green glowing gauze. He sucked down the potion then, with his healthy hand, stuck the glowing gauze onto his wound. Within moments the bleeding stopped. His health bar recovered to full and disappeared. The Lads watched in awe as the gauze slowly turned from glowing green to glowing red. When Chump removed it, hardly a scar existed on his arm.
–Far more effective than the bandages we have now, don't you think? Chump said as he returned to his desk. We just finished developing them. Not everyone in the medical department agrees with the magic department, but I think they have plenty to offer. And despite what Pfo thinks, we did consult with them about Detle. Just… not the unreasonable ones.
–Hold up, hang on, said Dan. You're hitting us with a ton of information.
–Of course, said Chump. You are busy. There's no need to get hung up in the minutiae of our work here. Let me get you the report…
–Muffy's wound… began LadMan.
–A stock bullet wound, said Chump. Applying shirts as bandages changed the bleeding status to a wounded status. Had we not done that, she would have slowly lost health as she bled. But, if left untreated, the wounded status becomes the infected status, which, for reasons we still don't know, doesn't drain health. It simply kills you after a set time. So, her health bar only appeared when she was initially shot, but not while she was dying of her infection. Had we known then what we know now, we could have saved her. That's why we need to continue our research, so that what happened to her does not happen to anybody else.
–Fine, do whatever you want… said LadMan.
Chump, sensing he'd upset Lad, busied himself searching for the report. Every week, each department head was to provide a summary of their work and findings. Or, ostensibly a summary. You see, LadMan initially requested the report to keep him apprised of cutting-edge player thought. Important to keep up to date, he thought. However, many of the SNAFU boys and girls came from IRL academia, and therefore detected a different motive behind the report. They thought it determined funding. Since Pfo, Chump, and Sleepr also (allegedly) read the whole report, the department heads figured the report not only decided university funding, but individual department funding as well. So, instead of an honest summary of their findings, they did everything they could to make their research sound crucial. The Lore Department overwhelmed via sheer quantity, including in their report everything they'd found, no matter how unimportant. The Mechanics Department filled their report with numbers and figures, piles of data instead of the conclusions from said data. The Magic Department speculated at length, regardless of whether their research supported such speculation. The History Department, one particularly slow week, took to ripping apart the methodology of a popular Brandonville NPC historian's writings on human naval history. Pfo dumped loads of analysis into his part of the report, more from force of habit than a conscious desire to impress or confuse. Chump had asked Healthy Man to pepper the Science Department's reports with complicated formulas. Instead, Healthy Man submitted a confused, meandering defense of a steady state cosmology, written (Chump suspected) with devious help from Oxie. So Chump turned to Gromy, who wrote out the Millenium Prize problems and told Chump to tell LadMan they were working on those.
LadMan attempted to curb this nonsense, telling the scholars he only wanted an honest summary, and that their jobs were not at risk. But without tenure, none of them were willing to risk it. Things got so bad that LadMan recruited EmperorBonaparte, a highly literate and longtime Lad, to sift through the mountains of misdirection and academic self-fellatio and send to LadMan the bullet points (which was, of course, the original purpose of the report itself).
Chump found the report, a veritable novel, over 500 pages, longer than any text should be, and handed it over.
–We're on the cusp of some big discoveries, he said. The health mechanics, the leveling system, the NPCs. There's so much, and so much is always happening. But don't worry, LadMan, we're making progress. We'll teach everyone how to make the new bandages, we'll figure out effective spawn traps. I can figure it out, LadMan.
–I'm sure you can, Chump, said Lad.
Kitty and Ricardio had finished packing their shit. They lived in an apartment in Brandonville's middle level. When they first rented it, the master bedroom boasted a big king bed, but at Kitty's insistence they'd gotten two twins, now positioned dorm-style, on opposite walls. Ricardio protested the move as unnecessary, and told her so. Why not save money and sleep in the same bed, like they used to do as kids? But Kitty softly insisted. She was used to Ricardio not understanding (or pretending not to understand) these things.
The world hated Ricardio, or so it seemed. But what'd he expect, when he hated it? Ricardio raised hell bout the injustices he'd suffered, real or not, but rarely rightly placed blame. And he said what he thought of you. And since he had hate in his head (if not in his heart) he almost always said something shitty. Kitty (Katalina) had known Ricardio (Ricardo) since she was a nose-picking grade schooler. Their big families were friends and neighbors. They shared interests: games, technology, fantasy. Ricardio, the tall, slender, self-assured boy, and Kitty, the plain, big-brained go-getter. They got along, mostly.
When Shane started dating Kitty, she introduced him to Ricardio. When they started playing games together he introduced them to the Tennessee Twins, who he'd never met but knew well. From the outside the five formed the perfect squad. Nasty, knowledgeable, and devoted to a dude. All with a rare tenacity. But is any relationship ever as simple as "good"?
Kitty took a final glance around the room, scanning for anything forgotten. Ricardio sat on his bed, checking his map. Their first move: a trip to Chancellorsburg to personally investigate Charles and Beb. They'd been briefly, a month ago, but now intended to hunker down and scour, Sherlock style. Had either of them read Doyle's detective tales, they'd know Sherlock didn't scour.
–You ready to go? asked Kitty.
–You're mad at me, said Ricardio, still in his menu.
–I'm not mad.
–Yes, you are.
–Don't tell me how I feel, Ricardo.
–Don't lie about how you feel.
–Fine, yes, I'm mad. I'm mad because you act like a dick to everyone.
–I don't act like a dick to you, said Ricardo, hurt.
–Well, okay, but you have to be nice to other people too.
Kitty thought of Shane. Shane was hard to hate, but Ricardio had always been cold towards him. Kitty wasn't stupid, she knew why. She wondered if Ricardio was glad he was missing. Surely nobody could be so selfish?
No, Ricardio was about to tread all across the game with her just to look for him and the twins. She had to look for the good she knew was there.
The duo departed, heading to the docks to board a boat for the Burg. But before they took ten steps down the street they heard a beep.
–¿Ahora que? Kitty muttered as she opened her menu.
Surprised to see Ricardio doing the same.
–You get a message too? she asked.
–Yeah, he said.
From "the Server." Kitty's heart stopped. Then, took off at top speed. Her hands shook and her throat felt dry. A thousand possibilities flew through her head. Had someone finished the Challenge? Were they getting out? Before her mind veered way off-rail she opened the message, thus reducing all possibilities to one.
Dear Players,
This message was sent automatically. A player/party has completed the server-wide "Save Dolores" quest line, triggering the server-wide reward, "Crystal Returned to Keeper." Aether-teleportation functions will be enabled once the Crystal Keeper returns to the crystal to its receptacle. Congratulations and enjoy your new mobility.
Sincerely,
the Server
LadMan, Dan, Erectio, Chumpchange, and Pfo, all stuffed into the passenger portion of the Lads' little car, screamed at Ty to drive faster. Ty had the gas glued to the floor, but it wasn't enough. Even when Ty, turning, nearly rolled over, the Lads kept up the calls for speed.
A stream of beeps rang in LadMan's ears, presumably from the dozens messaging him about the announcement, but he ignored them all.
–This wasn't anyone we'd sent, was it? screamed LadMan over the roar of the engine and the howl of the wind in their ears.
A low branch smacked Dan in the face, but he hardly noticed.
–We didn't know what the quest was, he said. Did we do it by mistake?
–Chump, did you do anything? Lad asked.
–Nothing, said Chump.
–So, nobody knows Dolores?
Ty came to a sudden stop before Zyron's tower. The unbuckled Lads were nearly thrown out of the vehicle. Once recovered, they hopped out and stormed up to the door. Since the last meeting, Zyron had boarded up his windows and reinforced the door. A large sign nailed to a nearby tree read, "No Soliciting."
LadMan rapped repeatedly on the door.
–Zyron, open up! yelled Dan. Open this door you slimy fuck!
–Calm down, Dan, you're going to scare him, said Pfo.
LadMan kept knocking. Erectio joined in the shouting.
–Zyron! he said. You in there, bro?
–We know you are, Dan said. Open this door.
–This isn't going to work, insisted Pfo. We need to be delicate-
–Fuck that, said Dan.
He drew his pistol and sent three shots skyward. The sound, so close, defeaned. Their ears rang. The shots reverberated through the forest long after the smoke cleared.
–Please leave me alone! shouted Zyron. He peeked his head out from a fourth story window. His whole face was soaked in sweat.
–Zyron, was the crystal returned? asked LadMan.
–Oh, er… no, said Zyron.
–What? Are you sure?
–Yes, completely sure. Now you can leave.
–He's lying, whispered Ty.
–Zyron, you wouldn't lie to us, would you? asked LadMan.
–Me? Lie? To you?
–Zyron, listen up, shouted Dan. We know you have the crystal. If you don't go and put it in its aether whatever bullshit receptacle right now and get the teleporters working we're going to burn this tower to the ground, with you in it.
–We don't want to damage the crystal, muttered Ty.
–We will break in there, shoot you, take the crystal, and then burn down your tower!
–Come on, said Zyron, voice cracking. How do you know I ha- er… why do you think I have it?
–Ten, said Dan.
–Please, just leave me alone.
–Nine.
–Stop counting. I can't stand countdowns.
–Eight.
–Fine! Fine, said Zyron. Just don't hurt me.
A few moments later the Lads heard the clicking of several locks. The front door cracked open. Zyron's bright green eyes peeked out at them.
–Was the crystal returned? asked Lad. Be honest.
–Yes, yes, it was returned, said Zyron.
–Why would you lie about that? asked Pfo.
–Because… it's… it's embarrassing! shouted Zyron.
With a great sigh he fully opened the door. He was a mess, with a rumpled robe and greasy hair.
–Damn it all, said Zyron. I suppose there's no sense in hiding it. The truth will come out eventually. My father will be so disappointed.
–I can't imagine he isn't already, said Pfo.
–The crystal was stolen by… a little girl, said Zyron.
–A little girl? said Lad.
–Yes, yes. She just returned it to me. Said she was sorry, said she wouldn't steal anything again.
–Ha, what a beta bitch you are, said Erectio. Zyron, you suck.
–Fine, laugh all you want, said Zyron. I didn't want this job anyway. My father just wants me to be a great mage. The truth is, I hardly even know magic. I wanted to be an actor-
–The sympathy train left the station a while ago, dumbass, said Dan. Get your daddy-issue ass over to the receptacle and put the fucking crystal in it.
–Ugh, said Zyron. Let me get my hat.
Chancellorsburg's Cranky Mage lived in the same tower as her teleporter, but Zyron kept a distance from his. The Brandonville teleporter, along with the crystal's receptacle, were a ten minute drive to the south of Zyron's place.
The Lads arrived and practically pushed Zyron into the tower. Clearly uncared for, dust and cobwebs everywhere. Zyron snapped his fingers and half a dozen candles flickered to life. The teleporter, propped against a wall, looked like an old, standing mirror. It's frame was cracked, and a blanket was half draped over it.
–Jesus, Zyron, said LadMan.
–Yes, I don't do my job, said Zyron. We all know that.
Zyron climbed a ladder to the tower's top and, after almost triggering several traps by mistake, inserted the crystal into its receptacle. The teleporter fired to life, its surface shimmering and rippling like water. The golden frame, until then dull, began flashing brightly. Zyron yanked the blanket off.
–There, it's working, he said. He went to a tablet hung on the wall. The tablet appeared stone but bore ever-changing text, carved but flashing across it like scrolling computer code. The Lads were enthralled.
–What, you've never seen an arcane tablet before? asked Zyron.
–Zyron, wasn't lacking a teleporter inconvenient for you too? asked Pfo.
–Not really, the mage replied. I don't like to leave my tower.
–Of course, silly me, said Pfo.
–Huh, said Zyron, this is strange.
He peered at the tablet.
–What, what's going on? asked LadMan.
–There's a teleporter from the Shadow Realm on the network. Hm, was that the one father told me to disconnect?
Zyron turned in alarm as the teleporter frame began flashing more rapidly. The silver surface rippled violently.
–What's happening? asked Dan.
–Someone's coming, said Zyron. He looked at the tablet. From the Shadow Realm. D- do any of you know anyone from the Shadow Realm?
Ty stepped in front of LadMan. He raised his carbine. Lad, Pfo, and Dan drew pistols, while Erectio drew a knife, which he prepared to throw. Chumpchange stared, almost licking his lips as the flashing increased.
Four humanoid forms burst from the mirror. Heavily armed, one with a shield, another with a rifle, one with dual daggers, and the last with a staff.
–Die, shadow demons! shouted Erectio as he threw his dagger. It bounced harmlessly off the double-dagger-dude's armor.
–Hey, what the fuck? demanded Byson Beb.
The Lads stood in shocked silence. Before them: Lunar, Clean, Beb, and Charles, scarred, bloody, and pissed. Lunar'd lost the upper half of his mohawk. His white beard was red, with bits of flesh peeking out. Clean's hair was shorter. But (and the usernames floating above their heads left no doubt) definitely them.
–Lunar? asked LadMan.
–Oh, holy shit, it's you guys, said Dan.
–Oh, hey LadMan, said Lunar.
Lunar had a lot to tell the Lads.
Chapter NINETEEN
Dolores Shedolores
Singing. Waiting she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume of what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat warbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy eyes. […] Luring. Ah, alluring.
The argument: A hastily formed meme-team attempts to save a sneak-thief in over her head.
Quitting all languor, Lunar and his blue band of morons shuffled out of the inn… only for their progress to grind to a halt at the hands of a pudgy peasant man peeking out from under a wide straw hat. He leaned on a walking stick, nothing more than a branch broken from some tree, and smiled widely. The teeth he had were black, his posture scrunched, and his skin red and warted. But Lunar knew not to underestimate him. The first rule of fantasy: the poorer one looks, the more badass they end up being.
But that rule has hardly held true, now has it?
–I've been waiting for you, said the man. From his mouth hung a strand of straw, swinging up and down as he spoke.
–Wait, weren't you here earlier? asked Clean.
She was right. This pudgy peasant man was standing in the same position when Lunar and Clean arrived.
–Righto, lass, said the man. I've been here for some time, waiting.
–Waiting for me?
–No, not you! You!
The man pointed at Charles. First came surprise, then a smug smirk. Beb's eyes widened and his mouth dropped.
–Wait… you for real?… Beb began.
–What is it? asked Lunar. I don't understand.
–You're the strongest hero in the land, Surfin Charlie, exclaimed the man. That's why I've come to you.
–No, damn it! shouted Beb. Charles, I told you this was gonna happen. You such an asshole!
Charles' grin widened, making Beb madder.
–What are you talking about? Lunar asked.
–You scripted to go to the highest level player on the server, ain't you? Beb asked the man.
–I need the strongest hero in the land.
–He only one level higher than me, though, said Beb. This don't make sense. This whole game is bullshit. You need my help too, right?
–I don't know who you are, said the man.
–I fucking told you, Charles! shouted Beb. You triggering quests without me.
–Do we have to do this right now? asked Lunar, who had finally discerned the nature of this conflict.
Beb lost all sense of language. He collapsed into a single, nasally whine.
–Ughhghghhhhhh.
–What do you want? Lunar asked the man.
–It's my daughter, Dolores, he said. My dear, dear daughter. She's a good girl, I promise. She minds her mother, helps around the house, does her schoolwork-
–What, do you want us to babysit her? asked Lunar.
–No, I need him (pointing at Charles) to save her! She- she got involved with a terrible… terrible… thing. He had her steal something for him. But once she got it, things went sour, and he took her captive.
–Who?
–I just told you, my daughter Dolores.
–No, you moron, who took her?
–Valefor, that fiend, the arch-demon who calls the Shadow Realm his home.
–Right, the Shadow Realm, said Lunar. You know, Shane promised me that this game would be better written than Lukia, but I'm not seeing it.
–How do you know all this? Clean asked the man.
–What do you mean?
–Normally, when someone gets kidnapped, the family doesn't know the kidnapper, the kidnapping's circumstances, the victim's location, and the motive for the whole damn thing.
–I just know, said the man, confused.
Figuring this man the exception to his fantasy rule, Lunar dismissed him as another puppeted NPC pseudo-person, with a power-level undoubtedly appearance-aligned. Who gave half a shit if his kid got shwacked?
–So, will you help my poor Dolores? the man asked Charles.
–Eh… said Charles. Sounds kinda boring.
–Wh- what?
–This isn't really a good time, said Lunar. We have things-
–Please, you must help her! shouted the man. Please, I beg you.
–We ain't got time, said Beb. We busy.
–You'll doom her to die!
–Oh, boo hoo, said Beb. I didn't throw no fit when my Tamagotchi died.
–You must!
–What in it for us? asked Charles.
–Charles! said Beb, but it was too late.
–Oh, untold riches, surely.
–We don't need no riches, said Beb. We already broke the game. We loaded.
–Or… ancient, hidden, lost knowledge? the man offered.
–Knowledge of what?
–Hidden things? Lost things? Ancient things?
–Get out of here, said Beb. We ain't having it.
–Please! Please! Please! Please! Please!
–What is this, Pokemon? said Beb. Quit it, man, we said naw!
–Please! Please! Please! Please! Please!
–No!
–Please! Please! Please! Please! Please!
–Fine, we keep an eye out for her! shouted Beb. That good enough?
The man looked directly at Charles.
–So… you're agreeing to help me?
–Uh, sorta, yeah, said Charles.
–Great, I'll send you to the Shadow Realm!
He snapped his fingers.
–No, wait! shouted Lunar.
Too late. He, Charles, Beb, and Clean, perfectly, seamlessly; removed from the inn-front and placed into the Shadow Realm. A blink, a sitcom shift, a cut on the snap.
–Oh shit, said Clean.
For the benefit of old-fashioned readers who wish to follow the destinies of the “real” people beyond the “true” story, a few details may be given as received from Mr. “Windmuller,” of “Ramsdale,” who desires his identity suppressed so that “the long shadow of this sorry and sordid business” should not reach the community to which he is proud to belong. His daughter, “Louise,” is by now a college sophomore, “Mona Dahl” is a student in Paris. “Rita” has recently married the proprietor of a hotel in Florida. Mrs. “Richard F. Schiller” died in childbed, giving birth to a stillborn girl, on Christmas Day 1952, in Gray Star, a settlement in the remotest Northwest. “Vivian Darkbloom” has written a biography, “My Cue,” to be published shortly, and critics who have perused the manuscript call it her best book. The caretakers of the various cemeteries involved report that no ghosts walk.
The Shadow Realm was… pretty pleasant, actually. They landed in a field of gray flowers. Gray-leaved trees surrounded them. In the gray sky gray clouds toiled. There seemed to be a sun, but it was covered (by a moon?) as if in perpetual eclipse. The air was thick, gray, but clean, not like the smog that coated human cities, more like the mist rising from a morning pond. Black particles, unknown matter, floated; a sakura storm rendered in twilight tones.
Lunar long since decided he wasn't getting near heaven, he wouldn't likely even climb past Cato. Pandemonium, inferior to the above-firmament festivities but still superior to Earth, seemed a decent deal. Could the fallen really fancy anything finer?
Lunar couldn't decide when, but sometime last-century God either died or ducked out. YHWH left and gone away, and no number of lonely eyes could get him to come back. Fine, Lunar didn't mind. He always felt that he'd been placed to be punished anyhow. Why put the forbidden fruit in the homo-habitat if you know they gonna eat it? Free will? How free can Eve be if it's her nature to wander from the straight and narrow? From the start a creature controlled, constrained. Choice be damned. A post-imprisoned choice ain't nothing more than a Stockholm syndrome induced justification. Unequal Eve was fated to fall from the start. All the misery that's been in this bin couldn't not come.
But Belton hadn't bitten the fruit! Here was an Eve who, eyeing it, cast off God in preparation for one day having the courage to partake.
He threw these thoughts from his mind. It didn't matter. God crawled, coughing and weezing, near the third millennium, but he didn't make it. What dealt the final blow? The Hun's big gun, piercing the stratosphere? Or von Braun's slave-built missile shooting into space? Or that fat boy's bomb igniting the atmosphere and burning everyone alive? Something more recent? Desecrating Phoebe with our fallen feet? Seeing if sand could glow in the dark?
Maybe it was when Princip put lead into the Habsburg heir and his poor wife? When Anastasia screamed? When the Barbarossons crossed the border? When Finnegan, roused awake, was convinced to re-die? When the Romans reincarnate stuck another shepherd to a dead tree?
Heaven is as taboo as taking something seriously.
Lunar, Clean, and Charles sat under a tree, awaiting Beb's return.
–This sucks, said Clean. We were already trapped, now we're double trapped. Triple trapped, even.
–That's true, said Lunar.
–Why did that man teleport all us here? asked Charles.
–Cause that's how all these games do quests, said Lunar.
–But… why all of us?
–What do you mean?
–Well, I'm the one who got the quest cause I'm the highest level. But why teleport y'all with me? Was he scripted to teleport everyone near me? Everyone on my friend's list?
–Don't let Beb hear you saying that, said Lunar.
–Saying what? asked Beb.
Lunar leapt up.
–Jesus, he said. When did you get here?
–I'm a rogue, shoota, said Beb with a devious smile. Stealth my ish. Anyway, I did some scouting and I think I got a place for us to go.
–Where?
–A village bout half a klick that way, said Beb, just through the woods there.
–A village? asked Clean.
–Yup, but it's kinda freaky. The peeps there all just, like, these skinny, twilight looking things. Real long limbs, black eyes, all gray and shit. Kinda like a bunch of Martians. Or, things from Martian Hell. Does Mars have a different Hell?
–It's the same place, said Charles.
–You sure it's safe to go there? asked Clean.
–There ain't no way Hell safe, said Beb.
–No… the village.
–Oh, yeah, no prob. The villagers look retarded, just milling around depressed. And if they sass us we dome em. Can't be too hard.
–Fine, but you two should take point, said Lunar.
–Way ahead of you, Lune. I'm our rogue, point is where I live.
–Live on the respawn screen, more like, muttered Charles, but Beb, whistling as they walked, didn't hear him.
A cigarette from Beb's backpack. He lit it up and smoked casually as they strutted into the village. The cig-smoke disappeared into the thick air the moment it rose, but cigs struck Beb as cool, confident, like those pounding puffers in the old barely black, white movies Beb watched. So he continued to blow.
Charles followed, clutching his staff, peering at every creature they passed. Lunar and Clean huddled together behind them, sweating. But for what? The creatures declined to act.
–Yo, my ni🅱🅱a, Beb said to a passing villager. The creature stopped and stared. Hollow eyes, and black. Seven feet tall. A few wisps of gray hair floating atop its head. No clothes, but no need, for it lacked anatomy one would cover. An aimless, gray humanoid. Milling till impeded.
–We lookin for a demon, Beb said. His name is… crap, what's his name?
–Balefor, said Charles.
–Yeah, that sounds right. We looking for Balefor.
–The demonic rules all, said the creature, slowly, sadly. The demonic is all. The cruel Duke Valefor is but the manifestation of absoluteness.
–You live in the Shadow Realm, said Charles. It makes sense that yo metaphysics are skewed.
–That's not how metaphysics works, said Lunar, though he wasn't really sure.
–The Duke commands with utter authority, said the creature. His will binds. You might meet him, but you will not defy him.
–Sounds like you people need a communist revolution, said Lunar.
–You know a lot about revolution? asked Clean, a non-practicing leftist.
–Communist revolution is my retirement plan, replied Lunar, too liberal to mean it.
–Don't be a buncha commies, said Beb to the creature. But don't be a buncha pussies neither. Why don't y'all do something?
–Easier said than done. Those made to die have no choice but to whither.
–Jesus, said cringing Clean.
–Well, where Bale- Valefor at? asked Beb. We gonna fuck him up.
–The Duke lives on the far side of yonder peak, said the creature, pointing his long, bony finger at a distant mountain. But I would not advise you to challenge him. He wields such immense power.
–Yeah, yeah, said Beb. We got it.
–Not sure if y'all heard, said Charles. But I'm the most powerful player in the world.
Beb glared at his brother.
–What's of use, said the creature, when order-fond beings speed towards entropy?
–That's not even relevant, said Lunar. Stop inserting depressing platitudes everywhere. I don't even do that.
–Is there, like, a weapon shop somewhere? asked Beb. My buddies need weapons.
–A husk of a thing makes a meager living selling arms around the corner, said the creature. But beware, he exists on sanity's periphery.
–Yeah, okay, said Beb, we gonna check it out.
–You own this store?
–Of course, the shopkeep said to Beb. She's my pride and joy.
He hardly seemed a husk. Gray, yes, with sparse, stringy black hair sticking from his head, waving without wind, like Medusa's many snakes, independent; and deep, black eyes rimmed by silver, circle-frame spectacles (his only clothes). But he flashed the party a white-teeth smile and bid them get comfortable.
Lunar supposed that to the eternally depressed the content must seem unbearably tragic. Tragic because they refuse to acknowledge the truth, the darkness past the tunnel end's light. A whole Hubble volume without a point or a particle, pure vacuum. A lot depends on proton decay. But the shopkeep seemed unconcerned with these questions. As the party settled into the shop, he busied himself behind the counter. He emerged moments later with steaming tea.
This village was a bitter, hurting habitation. Built from gray wood and covered in eternal gloom, physical and mental. Determining which followed from which, aesthetics from outlook or vice versa, fell beyond Lunar's intellect. Dead gray flowers and gray banners with (presumably) Valefor's seal served as the village's only decoration.
But this shop was cozy and warm. Dimly lit by a cackling fire. Furnished with fur-covered chairs. Potted flowers of (still dull) colors: green, yellow, purple, hung from the ceiling. A maze of brass pipes fed the flora a drip drip of water. Behind the counter: weapons lining the walls, of all sorts and stickers. Mannequins in the corners displayed armor. The soft scent of tea wafted throughout.
Clean accepted a cup and, while she sat sipping, considered how to word her question.
–So, she finally said, how's business around here?
–How do you mean? asked the shopkeep.
–How do you… make money? Nobody here wears clothes.
–Oh, I make very little in the way of money, he said, still smiling. You're correct that nobody in these parts wears clothes or armor, so I sell very little of either of those. And, per the Duke's decree, nobody may carry arms, so I sell little weapons or ammunition.
–Then… why run an arms and armor shop?
–Somebody has to do it, little lassie.
–But… no they don't, said Clean. You don't need a shop that sells something nobody buys.
–Owning and running this shop is my great passion. I can't quite explain it, but even if I don't sell a thing something compels me inexorably to keep on.
–Good for us, said Beb. Cause we actually need stuff.
The shopkeep clapped his hands together and winked at Clean.
–I knew it. Keep on and a reason will appear.
Beb held a crumbled bill before him.
–Do you take this type of money?
–Of course, why wouldn't I?
–Because we're in a completely different realm of existence, said Lunar. Honestly, these Devs… I swear…
–Aight, said Beb. We want your best weapons and armor. Cost don't matter.
–Ah, my twilight steel, said the shopkeep. Tell me, are you familiar with twilight steel?
–No.
–It isn't steel in the strictest sense. Actually, it isn't steel in any sense. It has nothing to do with iron or carbon. Actually, it's not even metal. Instead, it's forged in the eternally dying flame of the very strands of twilight itself. The manifestation of light's last moments, always dying, never gone. Fit for a deity.
–How you get it? asked Charles.
–I don't remember. So, would you like to see some?
–Yeah, bring me a dagger, said Beb.
The shopkeep slipped through a door behind the counter and emerged, moments later, carrying a long black dagger and a black sheath. The dagger's blade was blacker than black, like vantablack, its features indiscernible, just a blade-shaped rip in reality.
–Oh shit, said Beb as he took hold of it. He opened his menu and inspected the weapon's stats.
–Yo, this better than my stuff now, Beb said. Charles, this twilight stuff dummy dope.
Beb bid the shopkeep retrieve him another dagger, a set of light armor with appropriate undergarments, a new revolver, a new lever action, a black bandolier, a staff, a set of armored robes, a shortsword, two new backpacks, and several hundred rounds of ammo in several calibers, all made from as much twilight steel as possible.
The shopkeep ran back and forth from his backroom, fulfilling Beb's requests, while Beb and Charles stripped off their old gear and struggled to don their new gear. Lunar and Clean, forgotten, sat near the fire and watched, interested and annoyed.
–I hate to mention this, but are you sure you have enough money to pay for all this? the shopkeep asked at one point.
Beb threw a handful of big bills at him and bid him continue. By the time the twins finished, they wore almost all black. The guns: twilight steel and black wood; the staff: black wood with a black crystal at its tip; even the backpacks, higher capacity than their currents: black fur with twilight steel trappings. Not all the items ripped reality like Beb's vantablack daggers, but all gave off an otherworldly luster.
–I like retractable daggers, said Beb, inspecting himself in a mirror. But these daggers is too frickin sick!
Charles admired his new robe. The twins looked terrifying, but also a smidge stupid, like a couple of edgelords who'd swiped their mom's credit card.
Lunar and Clean, assuming the festivities had ended, perked up.
–What kind of trinkets y'all got? asked Beb.
–Trinkets?
–You know, necklaces, earrings, rings?
Charles: two black earrings, three bracelets, two necklaces, and ten rings, all buffing mending and magic. Beb: four earrings, five necklaces (all of which he wrapped in cloth and tied tightly to his belt to prevent them from clanging when he walked), four rings, one bracelet, and a tiara, all buffing speed and agility. These in addition to the multitude of trinkets they already wore.
They looked like shady salesmen with the mess of jewelry hanging off their body. Lunar recalled a similar tactic in Lukia, where, inexplicably, the Devs hadn't limited the number of trinkets that affected one's stats. Players wore as much as was comfortable. Beb and Charles, over long hours grinding Lukia, got comfortable wearing a lot. Shane had promised Lunar that Fanget wouldn't feature this feature, but alas, it seemed the dumbass jewelry meta remained. The twins would have bought more, but the shopkeep ran out.
The twins turned to Lunar and Clean, guilty for having forgotten them.
–What type of gear y'all want? Beb asked.
–You're buying more? asked the distressed shokeep.
Beb threw a handful of cash at him by way of response. The shopkeep scurried to scoop it up.
–I don't know, said Lunar, nothing too complicated.
–You was a jack-of-trades in Lukia, said Beb. You could make anything work.
Clean looked at Lunar, impressed.
–I mean, maybe just a sword and a shield, said Lunar. Or a gun.
–We could use someone tanky, said Beb. Doxy our main tank, but you could spec as a mobile tank, like, a disruption tank.
Lunar wanted no part of running disruption, leaping into hordes of enemies to break lines and soak up blows.
–You should be a paladin, said Charles.
–Oh, true, healing gonna be crit, said Beb. We don't even know what happens if you die. A paladin would be good, specially before we get Doxy.
–Sure, that sounds fine, said Lunar.
–Aight, seller-man, said Beb, summoning the shopkeep to his side. My guy here wants a full set of medium to heavy twilight steel armor, a kite shield, a one-handed mace, a backpack, four belt pouches, a .357 with fifty rounds, all the undergarments, with everything specced for defense and mending, and… well, I guess Charles and I bought all the jewelry, right?
–What? said the shopkeep, looking up from the pad on which he was recording the order.
–Nevermind, we get you some trinks later, Lunar, said Beb. That okay?
–I'll survive, said Lunar.
–Okay, grab all that, Beb told the shopkeep.
–I have two twilight steel kite shields-
–The best one, get the best one.
The shopkeep disappeared into the back room.
–What bout you, Mr. Clean? asked Beb. What you want?
–Oh man, said Clean. Let's see… I played an archer in Lukia. I could use a bow, if it's still effective.
–You don't wanna be a archer, said Beb. Archery gay. And we already got Ricardio as our archer. Here… let me see…
Clean withdrew to the fire, irked, while the shopkeep returned, struggling to carry all of Lunar's gear. Lunar took off his fine, formal wear and donned the undergarments (turning so that nobody would see his massive member). Immediately he felt power surging through him, an increase in defense and constitution, and a strange new confidence in his ability to heal. However, he lacked an outlet for the latter.
–How do you get spells? Lunar asked.
–When you level up, said Beb. You can also buy them or loot them.
Lunar took his suit of armor, sturdy and black. He struggled with its myriad straps while Beb gave the shopkeep yet another order.
–Clean wants a full set of medium armor, a shortsword, a .357 with fifty rounds, a bandolier, a backpack, a rifle in your biggest caliber, five hundred rounds for the rifle, four belt pouches, a bayonet and strap for the rifle, and undergarments, with everything buffing agility and perception.
The shopkeep sighed and departed.
–You gonna be our sniper, said Beb. Ricardio always specs too broad, goes for, like, a crowd control archer. Lame.
Lunar finished donning his armor and shimmied over to inspect himself in the mirror. The suit felt heavy, and clanked when he walked. He couldn't get his cock comfortable. The faulds squished it. His burgonet flattened his mohawk and fell over his eyes. He discarded it. He hated helmets.
At least he looked cool. Tall and regal. His long white beard and mohawk made him look scarier, like an old, experienced warrior with plenty of spunk in the trunk. With some effort he managed to sling his shield behind his back, using a loose backpack strap to tie it secure. His mace hung at his belt. He attached his belt pouches and his pistol holster. The gun: like so many nameless .357s in Lunar's country. Utterly average, except for its striking black color and the black bullets he loaded it with. He spun its cylinder and with a flick of the wrist, emulating the slingers in all those flicks, clicked the cylinder into place. He brushed his finger on the trigger. Smooth. A fine weapon.
An accidental pull sent a bullet into the wall. Clean and the twins jumped. The shopkeeper, just reentered with Clean's garb, shrieked in fear and surprise.
–Sorry, sorry, said Lunar as he holstered the weapon.
–Quite all right, sir, muttered the shopkeep as Beb threw him another handful of bills, adding a few extra for the new hole in his wall.
Clean took the mammoth rifle from the shopkeep. A double rifle with massive barrels, and as tall as her. It had a strap and a bayonet ridiculously attached between the barrels.
–Holy shit, said Beb. How big is that thing?
–.700, said the shopkeep, handing Beb a round.
Beb turned it over in his hand. Black, as big as a fat cigar.
–Nice, and you got five hundred?
–I have twenty-five, said the shopkeep. That's all I own. And the cost-
Beb threw bills at him until he shut up.
–I thought you wanted a sniper? Charles said to his brother. What sniper uses an elephant rifle?
–One that wants to destroy whatever they shoot, said Beb.
With further help from Charles and Beb, Lunar got the rest of his gear squared away, and his inventory organized. Clean, in the corner, stripped out of her formal wear and began stuffing herself into the undergarments and armor. She found herself facing similar problems as Lunar. Her breastplate squished her boobs. Beb blushed and pointedly looked away.
The players made sure they had everything on right and all their straps tied tight. They loaded their weapons and got them sheathed or holstered. Beb evidently failed to notice the disdain with which Clean loaded her rifle and awkwardly slung it over her back. She looked like a walking armory, her rifle, a shortsword on her belt, a bayonet sheathed beside that (Beb did not regard this as a redundancy), and a revolver on her chest.
–You can't store weapons or armor in your inventory, Beb explained. I mean, it makes sense, but it still kinda gay.
But clothes were okay, Lunar happily noticed. He folded up his formal wear and carefully deposited it into his inventory. Clean did the same. She tried tying up her hair, but got frustrated and decided to hack half of it off with her bayonet.
–You can keep all this shit, Beb said to the shopkeep, motioning to his and Charles' old armor and weapons littering the floor. Do whatever you want with it. Arm the pussy villagers, maybe open a shop that sells stuff people actually buy.
Beb threw the shopkeep another handful of bills and the four players exited without further adieu, unaware that they'd just tripled the Shadow Realm's GDP.
Bluh. Catch up or fuck off. The thinking already happened, posterity don't need it. Pure, injected escapism? Yuh. But… sorry Sullivan, the Mouse ain't gonna save the bankrupt billions. But can I? Can Fanget?
Ranked LoL doesn't constitute escapism under any definition. It's should-be-automagically-administered-adrenaline bought by frustration and paid for in elusive, law-skirting I-bucks. I'm being too hard, some people enjoy the challenge.
Beb and Charles intended to treat Fanget like they'd treated Lukia. They chased that one spot, grinding, whining, sighing. The thrill of the chase, of the kill, all the madness eating us alive. They were special players. Good, cause Lukia was the life.
They weren't the most technically proficient. They were good, but Di had them beat. The Lad exhibited sick twitch-aim in shooters and proved nearly unstoppable in Lukia with crossbows. He carried a massive, absurd, semi-auto crossbow with a big magazine attached on top that fed it bolts. A series of gears and bands redrew the weapon after every shot and allowed a new bolt fell into place. All Di did was aim and shoot. And his superb reactions, tempered posture, and almost unGodly game-sense ensured he rarely missed.
Nor were Beb or Charles really the "best" Lukia players. The title of best overall belonged to Kitty. Thousands of hours spent practicing helped, but other energies gave her an edge up. She understood game-mechanics, and knew the numbers in a way Di did not. Furthermore, she meticulously tracked the meta, making sure she was always operating at maximum possible output. But she won't no meta-slave. She tracked to counter, not to chase. She played a rare, difficult build, an aggressive, in-your-face DPS mage. Not OP nough to nerf, but it felt like it when she dove in on yo unsuspecting ass. She relied on crit chance and crit power. She had little health, and would die fast, much faster than most, but dished out so much damage it hardly mattered. She stacked crit chance and power per true damage sustained. She cast huge AOE spells, explosions and blood magic, all damaging her as well as her enemy. But (since you couldn't crit yourself in Lukia) by the time she died her foe was already a bubbling puddle. Hard as hell to play, and requiring a distinct synergy of skills, gear, and spells, her success cemented her in the histories. Her main weakness: this strat suffered when raiding, and Kitty's kamikaze tactics often incurred the ire of Ricardio and others. Beb and Charles grew sick when thinking about her using these tactics in Fanget.
Dan claimed to be the most mechanically knowledgable player in Lukia, though plenty of players disputed this. In terms of guilds, the Sad Lads were the most influential, boasting places on all the scoreboards and regular gatherings of their hardcore contingent to clear numerous nightmarish raids. Several players vied for the foremost with the loremost. The Cuntry Crusaders commanded respect for their raiding, while FLEEK, under Striker, never fell far from relevancy.
But Beb and Charles were always special. First: they were perpetually tied for the second highest level in the game, 557 on the eve of Fanget's release. Second: they were the only players to be mentioned by name in the patch notes. No fewer than three times, when the Devs patched exploits the twins found and couldn't keep their mouths shut about.
Every serious Lukia-looter knew the wacky tale of the twins. A couple of kids, VolState rednecks who wouldn't stop breaking the God-damned game. But they couldn't secure that top spot.
Always ahead was Charlemagne, a Crusader. 559 at Fanget's release, each twin reported him for scripting twice a day, once on log on, once on log off. A member of FLEEK, ExplorerDotEXEhasCrashed came fourth, at 556. Di (22nd) at 554. More suspected scripters behind him. Kitty was 540, outside the top twenty five. Shane 531, Ricardio 527, Deus 512, LadMan 499, Dan 478, Doughy 321, Vac Effron 314, Mr. Clean 301, Shooketh 281, and Muffy 280. Lunar never crested 23.
Level mattered in Lukia, despite certain claims to the contrary. However, other factors, gear score and player skill, mattered much more. Lukia had no cap, hard or soft. The experience required to level up grew linearly, at a steep pace, forever. Rewards, as one leveled higher and higher, grew smaller. And at the upper echelons the XP to level even once inspired dread, days without a spec of a percent. That players got so high is a testament to their love of the game. And their willingness to dump down huge sums of cash to give them an upper hand.
–We just gotta deal with this Balefor guy, said Beb as he, Lunar, Charles, and Clean headed towards the Duke's distant mountain.
–You sure about this? asked Clean. Lunar and I are only level one.
–Yeah, that's facts, said Beb, but I got no doubt that me and Charles is way overleveled for this quest.
–At least I am, said Charles. Not sure about you.
Beb stopped and turned on his twin.
–Why would you say that? Do you see, Lunar? Do you see what he always doing? He just tryna piss me off and start a fight! God, if Doxy and Kitty were here you wouldn't be doing this.
–Oh, please, they think you're way more annoying than me, said Charles.
–Doxy don't, said Beb. Ask him, he likes me way better.
–He only lets you stay in the guild cause you my brother.
–That's fake news. Straight false facts. Lunar, who you like better, me or Charles?
–I don't know, huffed Lunar. You're both being insufferable.
–That's what people say when they like me more, said Beb as he turned and continued forward.
–People say that often? muttered Clean.
–Look guys, we appreciate the gear, said Lunar. But we need a strategy. We can't just go marching in and fight Valefor. Clean and I will die.
–Yeah, you chirping true big bro, said Beb. You always thinking of tactics, not like my peckerwood brother.
Beb paused, but Charles ignored the bait. Beb continued,
–I'll dive in and do most of our DPS. You guys gotta keep em distracted while I flank. Mr. Clean, you stay back and put down fire with your rifle. Charles will stay nearby and heal and buff whenever any y'all need it. He won't steal nobody's kills.
Again, Charles ignored the bait. Beb, suffering under this silent treatment, finished,
–Lunar, you stay in front and keep everyone safe. You our front line.
Lunar thought the idea of him protecting Charles and Beb patently absurd, but Beb, so schooled in RPG tactics, couldn't be convinced to put the priest in front of the paladin.
–Fine, said Lunar, I guess that technically constitutes a plan.
Duke Valefor lived in a mansion at the foot of the mountain. Gothic style, with tall spires and narrow windows, built from black bricks. It rose up before the players and glared down at them, demanding purpose. A pebble path lined with beds of dead flowers led to the stoop. Flanking said stoop: several black statues of a horned humanoid in different poses, naked save for a long cape, but always pointing a warhammer at the sky and scowling defiantly.
Beb led Lunar and the others down the path. Clean climbed the stoop's oversized steps and took hold of the front door's knocker. She drew it back to rap.
–Whoa, hang on, said Beb. We can't just go knocking on the front door.
–Why not? asked Clean.
–We gotta do this smart, said Beb, sneaky beaky like.
This evidently meant picking the front door's lock, which Beb proceeded to attempt. He equipped a bag of lockpicking tools, knelt down, and got to work. Lunar, Charles, and Clean stood a few paces back, arms crossed or akimbo. Charles tapped his foot.
–Yo, quit that, said Beb as he took a beat to wipe his brow.
–I ain't doing nothing.
–You tapping yo foot. Stop.
–I will when you finish picking the lock.
–This ain't easy, said Beb as he returned to work.
Then the door opened. A force from inside swung it inward, pulling two of Beb's tools, stuck in the lock, with it. Beb panicked and dove headfirst into the hedges near the stoop. The others stood and stared as the door came to a creaking halt. A regal creature, gray, with a pointy black mustache and long black hair tied into a bun, stood before them.
–Greetings, he said, you are the foreign creatures, yes?
–Uh, yeah, I guess, said Charles. He glanced at the hedges. Beb, with just his head sticking out, flashed his twin the "shh" sign. Charles sighed and turned back to the creature.
–His Grace the Duke has been expecting you, the creature said.
–How? asked Lunar. How could he have expected us?
–His Grace knows of all doings within his realm, the creature replied.
–Yeah, we wanna talk to the Duke, said Charles. Can we?
–Ah, His Grace intends to do much more than talk. He's throwing a feast in your honor as we speak.
–A feast, you say? said Lunar. Well, I guess we better… investigate that, then.
The creature, in long, straight strides, led Charles, Lunar, and Clean into the mansion. Tastefully decorated, with red carpeting, wooden chairs lining the walls, and paintings and sculptures abound. Many sculptures were chipped and many paintings faded or ripped. The house seemed more the abode of a thrift-shop hoarder than a Duke. Lunar liked it, he appreciated a good thrift, and almost preferred his paintings and furniture worn and torn; better for their personalities, he always said.
The creature took them down a broad, twisting staircase and through a double door into a grand hall. Decorated in line with the rest of the house, this grand hall also boasted a balcony wrapping around its wall, on which bookshelf after bookshelf stood, pushed against the windowless walls, filled with dusty, decrepit old tomes. In the center of the room: a long table, draped in a red tablecloth. With a feast. Dishes of all types, steaming on silver platters, soups in huge bowls, a full roasted pig, apple and all, in the center. Goblets of blood-red wine; strange, bubbling concoctions in cauldrons; green, shimmering spirits trapped in crystal jars.
The guests, half a dozen, looked no less impressive. Gray like the villagers, but dressed in antebellum era gowns and two-tailed dinner jackets with full heads of black hair and devious black eyes. Their dress and demeanor made them seem once-alive, as if they'd walked upon Lunar's Earth, long ago, perhaps pre-Civil War, and were stuck forever reenacting a happy-for-them time. At the head table sat a tall, haughty creature, undoubtedly the Duke. He had a shock of fiery orange hair. His skin wasn't gray, but black, and his eyes solid gold. Like the statue of a long-lost culture's chief deity, an obsidian relic into whose eye sockets smooth, golden nuggets had been lovingly, perhaps fearfully, inserted. He was naked save for a long red cape. Behind him, mounted to the wall as one might mount a hunted thing's head, was a massive, glowing crystal.
–The foreign creatures, Your Grace, said the players' escort as he bowed out.
– Twilight covers all
Strange for you, of other worlds
But natural for us.
The Duke's voice was smooth and soft, almost seductive. Conjuring images of long afternoon naps, or reading on the porch while it rains. Unfortunately, like so many fine voices, neutered by writing.
–What a shitty haiku, Lunar muttered.
–How good to meet you, Surfin Charlie, the Duke said. I hope you'll join our modest party.
The weird rhyme. The Duke saying the name "Surfin' Charlie" without a speck of sarcasm. He didn't get the joke, didn't say the name with the same knowing smirk as the players did. Lunar almost felt bad for him, stumbling over himself like he was.
–I've heard tell of your many deeds, the Duke continued. In the other realm, like a flower among the weeds-
–Do you have to talk like that? Charles interrupted.
The Duke looked hurt. He regained himself and tried to power through his scripted speech without rhyme.
–You have accomplished many things, bested many beings. Now you come to me, and bid me greet- er… say hello. Behold, all gathered, for it was Surfin Charlie who slew the beast of beasts, the most fearsome…
The Duke paused for an uncomfortable while, trying to remember a notable creature Charles had killed. The guests glanced nervously at one another.
–What is Beb doing? Lunar whispered to Charles.
–Who cares? he can take care of himself, Charles replied. This is my quest anyway.
–… the most fearsome Feeble Goblin Recruit of Chancellorsburg Forest, the Duke finally said.
–Yeah, fucked him up, said Charles.
–You are too modest, said the Duke. Please, sit and feast with us. Your companions too.
Lunar, Charles, and Clean took seats near the Duke. The other guests got back to eating the food already on their plates. Servants scurried up to the players and set loaded platters before them. Lunar looked hesitantly at the foreign food, but Clean and Charles, more familiar with RPG quest clichés, dug right in. They found it delicious, strange in texture but great in taste.
–How are you finding my realm? asked the Duke. Not many of your kind venture here.
–Have other humans been here? asked Clean between bites.
–An influx recently, perhaps, said the Duke. A few particularly strange, such as one, not a week ago, wandering through my grounds and muttering nonsensical names, fleeing from a Cortes, or a Velazquez. But it is no matter, he was dealt with, and now no more like him will disturb me. But… no visitor has been as distinguished as you, Surfin Charlie. So I ask again, how do you find my realm?
–It's aight, said Charles. Too gray, though.
–The social situation isn't great, added Clean as she motioned for a passing servant to pour her more wine.
–How do you mean?
–The people are miserable.
–They have the happiness they deserve, said the Duke. All creatures receive what they deserve, don't you think?
–No, said Lunar. People are born unequally. What can explain an infant being born deformed, other than the inherent unfairness of life? Or are you a Hindu?
–I know not what a Hind-do is, said the Duke. But I've found that only the weak hide behind circumstance. The strong forge their own destinies despite their disadvantages.
–And what were the circumstances of your birth? asked Lunar.
–I was born a peasant, said the Duke. My mother was a maid and my father mined twilight. It was my own strength by which I obtained this post, not by the prestige of my parents.
–Still, you were born with the capacity to do so. You were lucky to have the intellectual, physical, or emotional ability to become a Duke.
–That level of fatalism leaves room for nothing. Some amount of choice exists, and all are born with something.
–Ridiculous, said Lunar. Besides, you obtained success because you were written to, created to prove some asinine point. The numbers don't lie, your experience is the exception.
–Strength is the exception.
–But you just said all are born with something.
–Let me rephrase, those who choose to make use of their strength are the exception.
–You can't actually think that. Not all have something. It isn't just a question of will. This is demonstrably true.
–All weakness can become strength.
–You've changed arguments, said Lunar. And even that is wrong. It's idealistic nonsense, all of it.
As Lunar finished he felt a silence engulfing him. He glanced around. Nobody was talking or eating. Clean and Charles looked at him oddly. But the Duke just laughed.
–Ah, you are right, he said. Forgive me, all these years of being unconditionally obeyed have dulled my argumentative skills.
The guests relaxed and resumed eating.
–But I assume you did not come here only to eat and argue, said the Duke. Tell me, what brings you to my dominion?
–We didn't want to come here, said Charles.
–We got sent here by some crazy asshole, clarified Lunar. He wanted us to find a girl, Dolores.
The Duke's eyes seemed to twinkle.
–And why might you be looking for Dolores?
–I… I just told you. A man, her father, wants her. I don't think we really care.
–Well does her father know she broke her contract with me?
–We don't know what her diddy knows, said Charles, exacerbated. He wants her back. We don't care. We just tryna leave.
–Ah, but you haven't stayed for the main course, said the Duke with a dastardly smile.
–Fine, get the main course, said Charles. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Clean motioned for a servant to bring her more wine, looking guilty as she did so.
–The main course! bellowed the Duke.
Two servants flung open a door. Several more emerged, wheeling a bigass cage in which, gagged and bound, there was a human girl. No more than thirteen, she was bruised and battered. Short brown hair, frazzled, and freckles peeking through the bloody cuts on her face. When she saw the Duke her eyes went wide and she struggled and tried to scream, but her chains were tight and her gag tighter. She could only squirm.
–Oh, is that Dolores? asked Charles.
–Indeed, said the Duke. Little Dolores here agreed to do some thieving for old Duke Valefor. But she decided she didn't care for our contract, so here we are.
Dolores struggled harder. Her eyes pleaded with the three humans she saw sitting at the table. To her horror, she found they spared her no sympathy. If anything, they valued her life less than the Duke did.
–You're not even going to cook her? asked Lunar.
–Humans taste better raw, said one of the guests, licking her lips. They struggle as you bite into them.
–Does this disturb you? the Duke asked Charles with a chuckle.
–Naw, said Charles. We just wanna leave.
Dolores let out a muffled scream. The servants finished wheeling her up beside the Duke. He stuck his long black finger into the cage and stroked her cheek.
–So young…
The Duke looked at Lunar.
–Tell me, what purpose does Dolores serve?
–None, said Lunar immediately.
Dolores disagreed.
–I would submit this answer: Dolores exists for our consumption.
Dolores strongly disagreed.
–Entertainment, said Lunar.
–I'm sorry?
–I have a new answer. Dolores exists for our entertainment. All of you do. The Devs created you, just like all NPCs, to entertain us. No, for all we know, even myself and my friends are here for the Devs' entertainment. What if they're watching us now, laughing their asses off as we struggle?
–I'm unfamiliar with these deities, said the Duke. But I like your answer.
–We weren't created for the Devs' entertainment, Lunar continued. Not originally. But, from your perspective, we might as well have been.
–So, those with power exerted their will over all of us? said the Duke. Such an outcome wouldn't be unexpected, if that is the case.
–How can you say that we have strength, then? asked Lunar. How can you deny my fatalism, my idea that the world is created with unfairness baked in?
–I already conceded to you that particular point, said the Duke, laughing. But, if we are all puppets in your deities' game, does not the primary realm of existence belong to them? Would the question of ultimate free will not be transferred? I ask you, these deities of yours, do they have free will?
The Duke grinned. Lunar recoiled. Did he know what he was?
–I never said anything about ultimate free will, Lunar muttered. You're attacking a strawman.
He looked at Dolores. Tears streamed down her cheeks, treading a trail through the blood. She's not real, why does she matter? Is this simple desensitization? where even uber-realism, a little girl abused beyond belief and prepped to be literally eaten, doesn't phase? How many slasher flicks and torture porns had he watched during "reading time"? How many millions of trash mobs had he cut his way through?
Lunar remembered, in Baghdad, watching with limited interest as players tied an insurgent to the back of an MRAP and drove him down the road till he died. Lunar won twenty bucks when he bet that the next school shooter would get more than five? He'd watched a Blackhawk full of devil dogs blow up on LiveLeak. Some jokester took the video and edited "It's Raining Men" overtop. The video went viral. Lunar chuckled and moved on. What about when the state started dumping excess criminals into a large hole? Lunar went out to protest because the hole was too close to his house but ran away when the police showed up with pepper spray.
When he was a youth Lunar went to a game store. His parents had given him sixty bucks to buy some shitty console shooter. As he approached, he saw a man nearby, sitting against the wall on a torn blanket, plastic bags strewn about. An empty bowl sat before him.
He'll spend it on drugs, thought little Lunar, drawing from his parents' wisdom.
Years later, Lunar was out on the town with a group of guys. He didn't know them well, he couldn't remember why he was there. One of them: a drip douchey, loud, clownish, dumb. The school's smart kids, his then-GF included, didn't like him. Thought him boorish. Seared into Lunar's brain: the image of this dude, the child of a single mom, a prol by all accounts, walking past a homeless man on the street-side. Then, the boy turned, went to the man, and handed him a twenty.
–Thanks brother, said the man.
–No problem, replied the boy.
Lunar's ex-GF drove her Benz to church. Her father drove his Porsche. What a load, as if they had any right to go near God's house.
The Duke's golden eyes shone brighter as he looked at Dolores. The other guests finished the food on their plates in preparation to eat the girl. Charles wondered about the logistics of such a thing. Would they put her on the table? Cut her into pieces and put a piece on each plate? But the one guest said they liked her squirming. Would they open the cage and descend on her like a bunch of zombies?
Clean shifted uncomfortably. She wanted to know where Beb was. She wanted something harder than wine. Much harder. She wanted to leave.
Lunar knew his ex-GF hated him for judging her. The endless arguments…
–Having money doesn't make you a bad person, she'd say.
Str. One cannot choose to be born wealthy any more than one can choose to be born poor. And expanding one's wealth is no bad thing. Refer to the Parable of the Talents. You cannot condemn one as immoral simply because of their wealth. Having money doesn't make one evil.
Ant. But it does. The accumulation of wealth is counter to Christian doctrine. The rich have already received their reward, they won't see salvation. Lunar's GF who flew first class to wherever to take pictures and condescend is the temple money-thrower, no better than Beb in the arms and armor shop. Lunar's poor, homeless-helping friend is the widow, offering much despite having little. True generosity isn't what one can afford, it's more. Wealth isn't indicative of favor and any targeted attempt to accumulate it is tantamount to idolatry.
Ep. Money doesn't cause evil, it reveals it. The targeted attempt to accumulate it runs counter to morality, and so does the intentional/unintentional hoarding of it. But, don't fear, for God won't judge you.
–Now we dine! declared the Duke.
Dolores struggled in vain.
The poor little loli. Unable even to speak. Lunar thought of the Animatronica Sexbot, a fully realized bot with advanced AI built by a feminist group. The bot reacted poorly to negative treatment and could rescind consent. Did their project succeed if the bot got raped as much as expected and nobody cared?
Dolores had no power. Did Lunar have to save her? Was such a thing possible? Was Dolores doomed from page one? How sad… but Lunar… she was written to be saved… trapped further?… then what solution, save burn the book?
Lunar had his weapons. His mace hung awkwardly at his belt. He'd set his shield next to his backpack on the floor, a reach away. He had a pistol…
The Duke was too powerful. Controlled too much. His smooth voice, his fine words, his careful assurances. Lunar struggled to remember his doltish verse from earlier. Anything that made him easier to contest. He couldn't help but like the Duke, cordial and assured, even as he prepared to devour Dolores alive. That just made it more important to resist. Besides, the Duke didn't control the narrative, not really. He wasn't real. Neither was Dolores. That's why she had to be saved from him. Empowered to save herself? Did it matter? Dolores. Yes, her name was Dolores. Lunar would, once she was free, try and remember to ask her what she liked to be called.
He stood up.
–Sorry, Valefor, he said just as the Duke reached for Dolores' cage.
–Oh, what's this? intoned the Duke, his face dominated by a smile. The other guests tensed.
–I can't let you eat her, Lunar said.
Dolores looked at Lunar with the widest eyes he'd ever seen. No… that doesn't matter. Who cares how big her eyes were?
–You can't let me? said the Duke. Is that right?
–It is, said Lunar. You release her to us, and we'll leave you alone.
–And if I refuse?
–Then we'll free her with force.
Lunar drew his mace and pointed it at the Duke.
–You have a chance to avoid a fight.
–This is something you're willing to fight for? asked the Duke. This girl?
–Oh, just screw off, said Lunar. I might be confused, and she might be fake, but, for fuck's sake, you're trying to eat a little girl.
–Very well then, shouted the Duke, smiling. A fight you want, a fight you shall have!
A shot sounded out above. The Duke looked down in shock. Ripped through by a bullet, straight through his chest. Dull red blood, carpet colored, spilled from the wound onto his lap. A health bar appeared over his head and immediately dropped by 3/4s.
–Finally!
A flash and a puff of smoke behind the Duke. Beb, black daggers drawn, out of nowhere. A split-second to get his bearings and, with a great thrust, he drove both daggers through the Duke's chair and into his back.
–No! How? the Duke screamed. Blood spewed from his mouth and onto his empty plate. Dolores, in her cage, squirmed. A muffled scream.
–Get fucked, bitch, shouted Beb. He ripped the daggers out of the Duke and the former fell face-first onto the table. His health bar dropped to zero.
–The Duke is dead! shouted a guest as the whole table shot to their feet.
–Whoo, RKO outta nowhere! Charles, they aggro, kill em all! said Beb, diving at the guest closest to Clean.
Charles swore, whipped around his staff, and whacked a guest on the back of the head. Then he sent a burst of fire at point blank range, frying the thing alive. The guest screamed in pain and surprise before falling over, charred and limp.
Clean swung around her massive rifle, knocking over dishes and glasses in the process. She braced the weapon against her hip and squeezed the trigger. The bullet annihilated her target, literally ripping him in half. The gun flew upwards and sent her falling back. Struggling to hold on, she accidentally squeezed the trigger again, sending the second barrel's bullet at the ceiling. It destroyed the chandelier and sent glass and metal raining down on the melee.
A guest had jumped at Lunar. He swatted her away with his mace and then, channeling what little inner-paladin he had, clocked the thing over the head. Only a sliver dropped from her health bar.
–Nice hit, Lunar, yelled Beb. The boy had dismembered the guest he'd leapt at and now drew his pistol. He put four bullets into Lunar's opponent. She slumped to the ground.
Meanwhile, Clean's initial target was glitching the fuck out. Her shot had destroyed his chest and split him in two, but he still had health. He clawed at the ground as his guts fell out of his stomach, screeching and wailing. Clean tried to maneuver to finish him with her shortsword, but another guest jumped at her.
This new opponent ducked under Clean's swing and scratched at her armor with his claws. They connected solidly, but couldn't penetrate. Clean, staggered, managed to swipe the creature with her sword, thereby gaining precious moments to regroup.
The last living, unengaged guest tried to flee, but Beb shot him twice in the leg. He fell and wailed, clutching the limb. Charles pointed his staff, muttered an unintelligible incantation, and the creature burst into flames.
–Dude, stop kill stealing! shouted Beb.
Lunar dropped his mace, drew his pistol, and shot at Clean's opponent. The final threat, this poor schmuck felt the wrath of four pissed players. Lunar dumped lead, Beb followed suit with his lever action, Charles hurled spells, and Clean hacked with her sword. The guest fell into a heap of blood and body bits.
The final creature, still spilling guts, still in half, began begging for mercy. A syllable in before Beb and Charles turned on him, competing for the kill. Beb's bullets connected micro-moments before Charles' spell.
–There, said Beb, that makes up for the kill you stole earlier.
Charles huffed.
–Okay, good job everyone, said Beb. Anybody get damaged?
Everyone shook their heads. Lunar opened his menu. From this fight alone he'd progressed to level 15.
–Good job keeping him distracted, Lunar, said Beb. It took me a sec to sneak onto the balcony, so I needed y'all to stall before the fight.
–Right, yeah, no prob, said Lunar, who hadn't realized Beb was even in the house.
–Just a few notes, said Beb. Lunar, make sure you use your shield. Clean, watch it with that gun. Also, and this isn't meant for anybody particular, but let's all make sure that if we have a lot of team buffs and healing, we use those and lay off the kill stealing.
–Oh, fuck off, muttered Charles.
Dolores, in her cage, squirmed. Nobody noticed her.
–Let's see what shit we got! said Beb. He pushed the dead Duke off the table. He fell with a thud backfirst onto the floor. His golden eyes had gone dull.
Beb kneeled over him and, making a triangle over his body, opened a menu.
–Oh, said Beb, instinctively, clicking rapidly. Beb, ever the bad actor, clearly stifled a smile.
–What? asked Charles. What we get?
–Nothing… nothing good, said Beb.
–You were smiling.
–Don't worry about it, said Beb. It's just lame stuff.
–You're trying to hoard loot, said Charles.
–No I ain't.
–Yes you is!
–If I tell you what I found, you gonna want it, whined Beb. This is what always happens. I never get to use anything cool cause you always take it.
–What? That ain't true.
–Jesus, guys, said Lunar, we aren't doing this. Beb, what did you get?
–Just some… like… demon blood, money, and potions.
–He's lying, said Charles.
–I ain't!
–Beb! shouted Lunar.
–Fine, fine, he had a pair of demon wings, said Beb. Happy?
–Demon wings? said Clean.
–So, are you gonna get to use the wings? asked Charles.
–See, this is what I was saying. Now you wanna take them for yourself. I would tell you about the loot if you wasn't always trying to take it!
–It ain't yours, said Charles. We all fought!
–I think the person who did their role the best should get them, said Beb. That's me, you just stood there and stole kills. How many healing spells you use?
–Nobody got hit!
–You didn't buff neither!
–Jesus Christ, I cannot believe this is happening, muttered Lunar.
–Why do you automatically get them? demanded Charles.
–Cause I'm the rogue, I need the mobility.
–You already got mobility. I don't. I can't reposition. If anybody should get them, it oughta be me.
–You got a pair of wings back in Chancellorsburg.
–So did you.
–Mine are shitty.
–So are mine.
–I killed the Duke, said Beb.
–But this is my quest.
–Lunar, whined Beb, this what I mean. Do you see? he won't stop bringing that up!
Lunar and Clean looted the dead guests, finding vials of blood, money, and assorted gear. But nothing near as cool as the wearable demon wings, which Beb and Charles continued to argue over. Dolores, still bound and gagged, had stopped struggling. She lay motionless, perplexed, watching those with the power to destroy the Duke argue like children.
When Clean and Lunar finished looting, Beb and Charles had yet to conclude their fight. They'd resolved to settle the issue with a contest; a coin flip, rock-paper-scissors, that sort of thing, but couldn't agree on what that contest should be.
Clean, exhausted, took a seat. She looked listlessly at the table, the scattered dishes, the blood-soaked food. Lunar decided to climb a corner staircase to the balcony and have a glance around. He skimmed the Duke's impressive book collection for a bit, but couldn't discern meaning from the assorted titles.
Then he saw, on a little table, a folded note addressed to the Duke. The table sat before a new bookcase, the only dust-free one among them, stocked with fine, fresh books. Uncut, with unbroken spines. Untainted by the world. Unread. Newly dead.
Lunar took the note and unfolded it. Written in gorgeous, cursive script. With the chandelier destroyed, Lunar lacked light to read, so he moved under a wall-candle a few meters away and set to deciphering.
My Dearest Duke,
You expressed interest in these materials upon your last visit. I have no need for them, as I have long since lost interest in the affairs of the Other Realm. I myself was gifted these books by the Librarian during my last visit to the Akashic Collections, so you can be assured of their worth as scholarly sources. From my scattered readings I am certain of one thing: the Ascended will descend into that world at the precipice of the cosmic conflict to follow. Whether or not the Akashic Records will be breached, I know not, but that realm will see catastrophic destruction at the hands of the Reckoners. I hope that, with your recently obtained distaste for that realm, this will please you. See you soon. Enjoy your readings.
Sincerely Yours,
AJ
What anime metaphysics is this? thought Lunar upon a brief scan of the note. Sounds stupid, full of proper nouns and fantasy vagueness. Meant nothing to nobody. Well, maybe somebody, but nobody that mattered.
Lunar turned just in time to see a servant burst through the balcony door and rush at him. He held a butcher's knife and wore a bulky, bulging sweater.
Lunar ducked under his knife-swing, but not fast enough to avoid losing half of his mohawk to the blade. He desperately pushed the attacker away.
–Shit, help, cried Lunar, his voice breaking. He tried to draw his mace. From below, despite their disadvantageous angle on the attacker, three players pointed pistols. But before they could fire, the servant screamed, clicked a detonator in his off-hand, and exploded. The force of the blast knocked Lunar back, sending him tumbling over the balcony rail. He crashed onto the table below, cracking it in half. His body ached with pain. He tasted blood. He'd lost almost half his HP. Had it not been for his new armor, he'd be deader than the Duke.
–Fuck, the servants is jihading us, said a disoriented Beb.
Lunar felt Charles' soothing spell wash over him. His HP recovered, the bloody taste in his mouth disappeared.
–We gotta kill everyone in this house, said Beb. These things is crazy.
–Whoever kills the most gets the wings, shouted Charles, already sprinting out of the room.
–What? No, that's not fair! shouted Beb, chasing after him.
–Don't leave us here- began Lunar too late.
It hardly mattered. As the cacophony of explosions ripping through the house would soon suggest, the heat was off Lunar and Clean. So they stood alone… excepting Dolores, squirming again in her cage.
–Oh shit, I forgot about you, muttered Lunar. Okay, calm down. One second.
He jiggled the cage door but couldn't open it.
–Do you know where the key is? he asked her.
–Hmmm, she said, eye-pointing to the deceased Duke. Lunar opened his inventory to find a surprising amount left by Beb. Weaker potions, bullets, a dorky helmet, a strange book, and a key.
–Simple enough, said Lunar as he pocketed the lesser loot, took the key, and opened the cage. He reached in and removed Dolores' gag.
–What the hell is wrong with you people? she shouted.
–Huh? What do you mean?
–You were going to let them eat me!
–What do you prefer to be called? said Lunar, remembering his mental promise.
–What the hell are you talking about? Get me out of these chains!
Lunar and Clean did so. Dolores rose and with surprising dexterity leapt from the cage. She knelt over the Duke's corpse, her face filled with satisfaction. A savage smile.
–That's what you get, Your Grace, she said, grabbing the Duke by his hair and holding up his dead face before her.
She plucked out the golden nuggets that had been the Duke's eyes, pocketed them, then let his head drop.
–You have to tell me what you want to be called, said Lunar. It's important.
–Call me my name, she said. Dolores. Logos be damned, you're strange.
–Okay, okay, said Lunar. We did save you, you can show a little gratitude.
–Yeah, and you really had a tough time deciding to save me, didn't you?
–Whatever, just tell us how to get out of here.
Dolores pointed at the crystal mounted to the wall.
–Okay? That doesn't mean anything to me.
–The crystal, they call it, said Dolores. Valefor had me steal it for him from the stupid humans in Brandonville. But that snake went back on our deal. He didn't pay me. He just took the crystal and trapped me. But (she held up his eyes) looks like I got my payment in the end.
–Your dad said you were a good girl, said Clean.
–My… father? Did he send you?
–You could say that, said Lunar.
–I… he was really worried, wasn't he? said Dolores, trying and failing to hold back tears. You know, I used to think he was a real idiot, just lumbering around our farm all day. But now… I'm not so sure. He might be onto something.
–Okay, enough with the moral, said Lunar. We need to leave.
–There's a teleporter to the east of here, said Dolores. That's why Valefor wanted me to steal the crystal, to stop the teleporter from working. He said he was tired of people from our realm wandering through it and disturbing his croquet games.
–A prodigious yard-partier, the Duke was?
–I'm going to return the crystal, said Dolores. I should never have stolen it in the first place. Maybe I'll go home to the farm and help my dad… Anyway, once I return the crystal, the teleporter will work again, and you can leave.
–But how are you going to get back? asked Clean.
–I've got my ways, said Dolores with a sly smile.
–It doesn't matter, said Lunar. Shitty writing, what's new? Just hurry up, please.
–Thank you, said Dolores. I really didn't want to get eaten.
With a flash Dolores disappeared.
–Why does the name Dolores sound so familiar? asked Clean.
Lunar didn't answer.
Charles and Beb returned to the room, huffing and puffing, both covered in blood.
–How many you kill? Beb asked Charles.
–You say first, said his twin.
–Twenty- wait, no!
–Thirty, said Charles. I killed thirty.
–You liar!
–We're taking them! thundered Lunar.
–Huh? said Beb.
–Clean or me. One of us is getting the wings. We'll rock-paper-scissors for them.
–What? That ain't fair, whined Beb.
–We don't have wings, said Lunar. And you two are gonna be children about it forever. So neither of you get the wings.
–Fine, that's fine, said Charles.
–You just don't want me to get them, said Beb.
–Beb! said Lunar.
–Fine, fine, I don't want them anyway, said the boy as he removed them from his inventory and handed them over.
–All right, Clean, said Lunar.
Rock, paper, scissors, shoot. Lunar with scissors, Clean with paper. Cut straight through. But she couldn't have picked rock, could she?
Lunar stuck the wings in his inventory, excited despite himself to try flying with them.
–Do we need to do anything else here? he asked. There's a lot of books on that balcony-
–It's just lore, said Beb. Lore is gay, don't worry about it.
The teleporter. Klick east of the mansion, in the middle of some ancient ruins. A large, dull mirror just sitting there. As if the teleporter itself had been teleported, one sec furnishing an upper class bedroom, then, boom, taken suddenly to this field and forgotten.
–How does it work? asked Clean.
–Is it even activated? asked Charles.
In response to their query, the teleporter came to life. It's golden frame glowed and flashed and its glass appeared to ripple.
Lunar, Clean, Beb, and Charles exchanged glances, took deep breaths, drew and readied their weapons, and walked into the mirror. They felt like their minds were being ripped from their bodies, flying down a roller coaster while high, complete separation of consciousness and flesh. Beb's mind slammed back into his brain in time to register a dull dagger bouncing off his armor.
–Hey, what the fuck? he heard himself saying.
Chapter TWENTY
The Maid of Orleans
I lose my page then the plot then the book then I swear
She makes the most of her time by loving me plenty
She knows there’ll come a day when we won’t be getting any…
The argument: A streamer has a tough time connecting with her viewers.
The Twitch Services are not available to persons under the age of 13. If you are between the ages of 13 and 18 (or between 13 and the age of legal majority in your jurisdiction of residence), you may only use the Twitch Services under the supervision of a parent or legal guardian who agrees to be bound by these Terms of Service.
Virtual reality had obvious applications beyond hustling depressed basement boys with parent-plastic. The military used it to train soldiers to kill others but not themselves, companies used it train workers on heavy machinery, athletes used it to practice, hospitals used it to heal and rehabilitate, and schools used it to teach dumb kids how not awesome ancient Roman life actually was. The tech infiltrated all corners of contemporary life and, in the eyes of many my-day types, replaced it. With AR as well, the world tipped toward revolution, or revelation, maybe retribution. The religious wailed, philosophers fretted, all while the tight-pants techie types plodded along.
But isn't this shit boring? Let The Psychological Ramifications of Virtual Reality on Youth Populations stay hidden behind its paywall. We're protected from it, not the other way around. The tech the peeps pined for, gaming and sex tech, outpaced the others like a turtling Korea in Civ. Fanget's tech was truly top. The unfortunate few that played were pioneers in every sense.
Jean_dark, popular vidya streamer, bigtime Twitch bitch, Patreon powerhouse, unorthodox e-girl. Argentine to find for countless complex corazóns, complicated kids, not pucelle-pining chauvs, peckers pouncing on pipe dreams.
Jean got gifted Fanget by a viewer, a loyal, near daily donor with expendable income gained by his understanding of probabilities and a near-perfect poker face. But no matter how cool he acted at the table, life considered him a loser; his excitement at Jean giving him an on-stream shoutout hardly helped.
–An extra super thanks to Coke In My Ass for getting me Fanget Online. There's a lot of hype around this game, but I'm getting a bunch of games from different viewers, so I'm going to do a poll to see which one I should play first. I'll play the winner at launch and probably stick with it for a while, but don't worry, I'll try to get to every game you gift me!
Jean got started streaming in a nifty Hundred Years' War sim. Then she played Battlefield Zero, Scavenge!, Sith vs. Jedi, Fallout 2161, Total War: Byzantium, Bioshock Remastered Remastered, Star Citizen Alpha, Skyrim Full Dive, [Ubisoft Game], and a lil' bit of Lukia. She didn't dislike Lukia, but she found it needlessly niche and mechanically obtuse. She got her character to 53.
Longtime viewers cited Jean's subdued wit, sincerity, and cute laugh as their motivations for watching. She didn't have the advantages of the longtime Lukians. She wasn't naturally inclined towards gaming, didn't care to grind, and ignored the numbers and data. She played a knight in every game that allowed it, strutting around in her plate armor, waving around her recently rustless sword in inspiring fashion. She didn't particularly know what to do, but she wasn't dumb. She figured shit out, and amassed folks behind her. She had her viewers, her charisma. She knew how to work a chat, in-game or on Twitch.
Fanget won the poll by just four votes. She put Fleet Flight and Trafalgar on hold and prepped a marathon stream for Fanget's launch. En plongée complète La Pucelle plonge.
Lunar, before he decided to become a shut-in scholar (and failed the scholar part), tried his hand at YouTube, Twitch, Insta, and SoundCloud. He figured that, for a man of his talents, these pseud-platforms waited to be conquered. The mindless masses that sucked off these services would certainly suck down whatever slosh five minutes' thought would give his brain. He edited together several videos he thought funny and stuck them on YouTube, but all failed to break 1K. So he started streaming on Twitch, confident his impeccable wit would compensate for his lack of skill or speech and draw viewers to his stream. It did not, and he found himself chatting with the same two or three people every day. Unbeknownst to him, one of his silent viewers was Shane, who kept Lunar's stream open on an extra laptop to boost his big bro's view count.
Lunar made an Insta, thinking he'd post funny pictures and become big in that way. This proved less successful than either previous venture, a failure Lunar blamed on his lack of breasts. So he moved to SoundCloud, where he posted a little-listened-to rap he thought summed up the 21st Century zeitgeist: Giving Sass and Eating Ass.
One by one his venture's flopped. His theological blog, on which he ranted incoherently about Job, his repeated attempts to solve the Millenium Prize Problems, his short time on the road trying to become a wandering prophet subsisting on alms. He decided to write the next great American novel, something like Moby Dick, but set in a high school. He quit when he couldn't get the words flowing. He turned to reading, figuring he'd become a genius hermit, a cave-dwelling wise man. Living alone, shunning society, devoting himself to the study of all things, no matter how esoteric. When ancient wisdom be required, Belton be ya boy. So he hoarded books, dimmed his lights, and bought blackout curtains online. But he couldn't get through the books he already owned, let alone his new ones, which put a damper on his academic ambitions.
Lunar's problem: lack of ambition, lack of willpower, lack of tenacity. But we mustn't forget as a big-facts-factor his inability to advertise. Any effort to tell people about his efforts he perceived as tryhard and obnoxious, and therefore avoided disclosing the nature of his activities. Fame, the right sort of fame, had to come naturally, almost unintentionally. That he desperately longed for recognition was a fact he ignored. The greats don't sell out.
Many of Lunar's ventures folded before people had heard about them. It made him difficult to support.
Funnily, Lunar ended up getting fame for the one thing he didn't want it for: playing Fanget. He, along with Clean and, of course, Charles and Beb, became instant celebrities in Brandonville upon the re-activation of the teleporters. Beb and Charles' attempts to hide their levels came to naught, Lunar's desire to stay low and look for Shane were soiled, and Clean's apprehension around people amped up.
Everybody had questions, especially the SNAFU scholars. It is a natural human instinct to seek the epicenter, to try and be where stuff is happening. Slick, as she struck a self-assured strut down Chancellorsburg's main street, rued that she wasn't. Only a day after the teleporters came online and she was stuck in Chancellorsburg, the daycare of humanity, home of the impotent majority. She'd been happy a few days prior, when Chancellorsburg's forest was the center of the world, when she personally led a team to investigate Detle's body and search for the (still MIA) big goblin that allegedly killed him and several others.
When the teleporters reopened she messaged LadMan, telling him she was coming to Brandonville. He told her no. She had to look for Vac, currently missing.
He's online but won't respond to messages, LadMan wrote. Soren, Scream, and Ted are grayed out. x86 also. Find him and see what's up.
I'll get Bobby and Di to do it, Slick responded.
No. They can help, but take care of it yourself.
Clad in black pants, a tight shirt, and a silver breastplate, the miffed Slick struck an impressive figure. A rapier at her side, its hilt glistening in the noon Sun, and a revolver across her chest, on her armor. Like a Napoleonic cuirassier, pretty and deadly. At first she hadn't shaved, and a patchy brown beard sprouted up, but now she straight-razor shaved every morning. Her hair: short and slicked with product. Every bit a handsome young man.
She arrived at her destination, a two story house in the thick of town. On its stoop stood Bobby and Di, each with a loaded rifle, held casually but purposefully.
–Slick! shouted Di when he saw her.
Slick scaled the steps.
–This the house? she asked.
–Yeah, said Bobby.
–All right, said Slick with a sigh. Give me the story.
Bobby nodded to Di.
–Go get em.
–Get who? Slick asked as Di scampered off. He returned minutes later with a miserable creature in tow. Imminently handsome, tall and muscular, with a flowing black mane, a hard face, and bright eyes, this man nevertheless looked miserable. He held a half drained bottle of wine in his right hand. His tight peasant shirt was stained. Above his head, a username: Coke_In_My_Ass.
–Who is this? Slick asked.
–This is Coke, said Di, as if that explained it.
–This the kid that said he saw Vac, said Bobby. Tell her, Coke.
–I've been at the bar, drinking, said Coke.
–I swear to… tell her how you saw Vac.
Coke looked at Slick. Something ate at his soul, but she didn't much care. Frustrated, she motioned for him to speak.
–I saw that guy, he finally said. Vac Effron, good name, not gonna lie. He was… he was with Jean…
–Who's Jean? asked Slick.
–Jean Dark, oh, she's great… she… was great…
–Okay, but who is she?
–A streamer, said Coke. The best. Cute, nice, funny…
–Never heard of her, said Slick. But you said Vac was with her?
–Yeah… said Coke. A single tear fell from his eyes. Slick sighed again.
–So where did he go?
–I don't know, said Coke. I saw him with Jean… that's all…
–How do you spell Jean's username? asked Slick.
She searched her up. Of course… grayed out.
–Where the hell did she go? Slick asked.
–I don't know, said Coke. She… she left…
–My God, why do I have to deal with this nonsense?
Slick couldn't gather much more from Coke. He seemed to know everything and nothing, always on the periphery of the point, never arriving, Achilles against the tortoise made manifest, impossible as it is. Zeno didn't understand infinity.
She did eventually surmise that Coke hadn't known Jean, not really. A longtime fan of her stream, he rented a room in the house across from hers. He claimed this was to keep her safe, but he later admitted to never having approached her. So, a glorified stalker. Slick, of course, sighed.
–Yo, I know you from Lukia, Di said to Coke.
–You… you do?
–Yeah, dog, you was… uh… what you do? You did something.
–No… not really.
–Well, if this is where you saw Vac, Slick said, pointing at the house, we're going in.
–Inside… Jean's house? said Coke.
–Have you been in? Slick asked Bobby.
–Not yet, he said. Waiting for you.
–Okay, well, let's go.
Slick opened the door, slowly, her hand ready to fly to her pistol. It hit her: the scent. Assaulting. Not a bad smell, that of death or decay, but overpowering still. It was… peach? like too much perfume or a room flooded with spray. Not unlike a locker room after an ax-crazy kid goes to town, but softer, the smell of a grandmother's house condensed to a single square centimeter and shoved up your nose. Just… strong.
–Hello? Slick called. No response.
Then she noticed the stuff. Stuff everywhere, a pirate's treasure room or a dragon's lair, stuff existing not for a purpose but to be. Piles of gold coins, trinkets, countless other treasures, all strewn across the floor like dirty clothes. Ornate weapons on racks: bows, swords, guns, spears, harpoons, tridents, lances, halberds, crossbows, daggers, staves, shields, and wands. A workbench loaded with explosive parts: fuses, paper bags of shrapnel, casings, gunpowder…
On the walls: paintings in huge, fabulous frames. Ornately carved. Works of art on their own, the picture they framed unnecessary. Not that the pictures weren't impressive. Colors popped off the canvas, the scenes were equal part abstract and grounded. They boasted all the early modernist's careful crafting: surreal but real.
And the furniture was just as fine. And books, and foodstuffs piled high, and scrolls, and potions, and tech, and…
–What is all this? asked Slick.
Jean Dark made her character carefully, selecting a model and style close (but not too close) to her real look. Tall, athletic, with black hair cut short. Her face pale, her eyebrows thick and dark, her eyes swirling brown. She had a heart shaped tattoo on her cheek, and had tatted her name, Jean Dark, one letter per finger (much like Lunar had done). When introducing herself she thrust both fisted hands into your face. This was precisely why she hadn't made her name Jeanne Dark, because that wouldn't fit on her fingers. Jean liked to sing, and had a lovely voice. She was devastated, brought nearly to the point of tears, when she arrived in Fanget to find her voice not to her liking.
Fanget had, hidden among so many crazy mechanics, extensive streamer tools integrated with all five major streaming sites: Ripe, Twitch, Oop, Stream TV, and GameStream. Microsoft offered Deadeye big bucks to make Fanget play nice with Mixer, but Diggory Dalton told them to Micro-shut the fuck up.
Viewers could stream Jean via screen or headset. In the latter case, they got a deep VR experience, experiencing what the streamer saw and heard as she saw and heard it. Some expected Fanget and similar games to take this a step further, allow full immersion for the viewers, let them feel, taste, smell, etc. along with the streamer, but, alas, Fanget did not. Why give the top of your tech away for free? You wanna experience it yourself, shell out for the game.
Fanget included a fancy streamer-interface, letting steamers interact with their chats in wacky ways, even when submerged. They could host polls, display info, and tweak chat settings. They also got numerous QoL concessions and other gimmicky features for viewers to interact with.
Fanget had another, hidden feature. So little advertised even Dan hadn't heard of it. It helped that Dan diametrically despised streamers, especially those of a certain sex, and thus showed no interest in the streaming features beyond decrying them as unnecessary. This was fine, for the feature would've enraged Dan had he learned of it. The feature? Viewers could purchase items for streamers from a special, viewer-only cash shop. Items ranged from weapons to armor, trinkets, treasure, furniture, potions, ammunition, and almost anything else, including raw, in-game currency. A small animation played on stream, displaying the generous donator's name and the item he bought. The streamer would accept the donation and the item would be deposited directly into her inventory. Not her bank, not her house, not her mount, but her actual, factual inventory.
Had the game gone normally, unaware Dan would've eventually gotten into a fight with a streamer. He'd grow enraged and confused when his opponent never ran out of ammo (viewers kept buying it) and, upon his inevitable loss at the hands of this "hacker," he'd go on a research rage until, finally, he found the feature. He'd demand that LadMan move the Lads to another game, one less cancerous and Jewy, a request LadMan would refuse. A fight would ensue and Dan, eventually, would crawl back to Fanget, trust battered but not broken, having thought up a convoluted scheme to get ahead of the slutty streamers.
Slick, Bobby, and Di made their way upstairs. Coke stayed behind, silently sobbing.
–Holy shit, said Bobby as they ascended. This is whack.
A bedroom filled with all the wealth and splendor of the downstairs. A massive bed in the corner, piled with pillows. An armor stand held a set of shiny, silver plate armor. The three Lads knew with a look that this set decisively outclassed their own. Next to it, propped against the wall, a red spear and a red kite shield. And a banner, white, with golden fleur-de-lises. Slick took it in her hands and unfurled it. On one side, in black text, Jhesus - Maria. On the other, De par le Roy du Ciel.
Vac and his boys testily trekked through the forest, with x86 newly in tow. They wore low level armor and carried shitty weapons, swords and pistols. x86 had only an axe, but possessed sufficient skill to make it work.
Grinding around Chancellorsburg, as they usually did. They were perpetually pissed that they'd been reduced to micro-leveling, fighting piss-poor pansy goblins and practically dead doe. Vac and his boys thought themselves worthy of at least cabinet positions, or the equivalent, in LadMan's government. But they'd been exiled to Chancellorsburg, told to train in case they were needed. Dismissed. In protest, they refused to pay their taxes, sneaking in and out of the forest, avoiding the collectors the Lads posted and grinding whenever they wanted. A half-week prior they'd been caught by Richard and run off, taking wacks all the while. Nursing their bruised egos at a bar, they saw x86, another outcast, and convinced her to join up with them.
Right now, having ignored Richard's warnings not to poach again, they'd snuck into the forest and were prowling around, scanning for creatures to kill. Strangely, they heard no far-off shots, the familiar sounds of other forest-farmers, but chalked it up to chance.
Their conversation centered on their typical topics: their ambitions to save up to buy a biplane and their hatred of LadMan.
–He thinks he's in charge of fucking everything, said Vac.
–He didn't get elected, said Soren Kierkegaard. I don't remember anybody voting for him to be in charge.
The same tired points, reiterated day after day. An angry, frenzied stasis from which the boys couldn't escape. They complained and complained, and yet they complied, never hoofing it to Brandonville to challenge LadMan, never demanding democracy, never doing nothing but farming in the forest. Their puny rebellion, refusing to pay taxes, achieved nothing cept annoying Richard.
They whined about Slick, whose dick LadMan sucked, and Bobby and Di, the latter dumber than a rock. They whined about Richard, the crypto-fascist. They whined about Deus, and Dan, and Chumpchange, and Pfo.
–Once we get our biplane, oh boy, said ScreamKing, licking his lips.
The boys had no concrete plan. They didn't really know what would happen once they bought their biplane. They simply assumed that soaring through the sky would validate them. Whatever LadMan thought, or wanted, wouldn't survive the sight of them flying overhead.
The group halted. A single goblin, a big boy but drooling and deformed, with a gnarled club.
–Okay, said Vac, let's surround it and-
x86, without a word, sprinted forward. The goblin growled but before the beast could ready his club x86 dove at his legs and with a single axe-slice severed his left one from the rest of him. The goblin fell, too shocked to scream. x86 jumped to her feet and, as if chopping wood, drove her axe into the creature's neck. The goblin tried to stand but x86 kept hacking until his health dropped to zero. A bloody mess in the dirt, nature's reclamation via vague means.
–X, what the hell? demanded Vac. You can't just steal all the XP for yourself.
She walked silently back to the Lads and came to stand before Vac. A good foot shorter, but with such a strong expression of disgust that she seemed to tower over him.
–You guys are pathetic, she snarled.
–Watch yourself, snarled Lying Ted.
–You just sit around and whine, she said, staring at Ted. You think it's unfair that Lad makes you his bitch-boys, but here you are, out of his hair, just like he wants.
–You're here too, said Ted.
–But I don't sit around and bitch about it. I'm doing what I want. Grinding and saving up money. If I want to do something else, I'll do it. All you idiots are gonna do is buy a plan. What will that accomplish?
–Okay, chill, dude, said Vac. What'd we do to bring this on?
–Stop whining and make a move, she said.
–You know, if you hate us so much, don't roll with us, said Soren.
–Yeah, you're right, she said. I don't know why I let you convince me to come in the first place. I thought you guys might've grown some balls, but I guess I was wrong.
She turned and walked away.
–Wait, X. What the fuck? Wait, Vac called after her.
–Fuck her, said Ted. Let her go, man, she's a bitch.
–Was stealing XP anyway, added Soren.
The four Lads continued on, absent X. Soren and Scream descended into a semi-depression, reflecting on what they'd done to make her storm off. Lying Ted, confident the blame lay entirely with her, stewed in a self-righteous indignation. Vac was the only one who weighed her words' merit.
Was she right? He took issue with LadMan, his rule, his style, his bearing. Lad favored his friends, failing to present even a veil of fairness. He'd forced even Pfo, ever the democratic, to concede the need for his provisional leadership. He deigned to speak for all the players, scorning their consent. He'd always done shit like this. But this life-and-death debacle made things much worse, made things almost real. Tyranny in an MMO was a meme-tier annoyance, tyranny IRL was a plague demanding action. Justifying everything by "necessity," funneling endless funds to psycho Chump and dickhead Dan for God-knows-what projects. Dan, dick-sucking Dan, so quick to defend Lad without a thought. Pacified Deus, fake-ass Pfo, castrated Slick, battered Bobby. Think for yourself, Vac wanted to scream at them.
But what had he done? LadMan sent Vac and his boys with Slick, Bobby, and Di to stabilize Chancellorsburg. Bobby and Slick did all the work, and assumed all authority. Vac had, at best, been shelved. And when the other Lads arrived in Brandonville and Lad and his buds got right back together, any hope Vac or his boys had to inspire change washed away, somewhere out to sea, lost in the foam. They let it happen, stood by like the bitch-boys X called them. Pathetic.
The trembling ground pulled Vac from his thoughts. The other halted.
–An earthquake? asked Soren. Does this game have earthquakes?
Nobody answered. In the distance a giant creature approached, visible in patches through the trees. Many meters tall, goblin green, and pissed. It held a huge club stained with blood, and sped towards the players. It knocked trees aside like twigs, creating a path of splintered wood in its wake.
–A giant goblin! shouted Scream. What the fuck?
–We can't fight it, run! said Vac.
Too late. The goblin caught the Lads quickly; they could barely dive out of its way before it squished them.
–Vac, we're fucked! shouted Soren.
–Kill it! yelled Ted. Don't be pussies. Fight!
The Lads let loose their revolvers into the creature. The bullets ripped into his green body but didn't seem to hurt him. His health hardly dropped.
Enraged, the goblin swung his club at Soren. It hit him square and sent him sprawling, several meters away, beat and broken, his HP gone.
–No!
The creature leapt at Scream King and landed just beside him. The ground shook. As Scream King struggled to regain his balance, the creature scooped him up and began gnawing at him.
Scream shrieked from the creature's mouth as his health dropped in increments. A sickening crunch with every bite. Ted fired his last few bullets and, instead of reloading, charged the creature. He whacked its leg with his sword. The goblin, still gnawing at Scream, kicked. Ted skidded several meters, his health now half full.
–Help! Please! Scream screamed. His health dropped to zero and he went silent. The goblin took a final bite and threw the limp Lad behind him.
–Vac, Vac, said a dazed Ted. What do we do? He's gonna… he's gonna kill us.
Vac stood still, his gun empty, his sword clutched in his off hand. He watched as the goblin grabbed Ted and smashed him against the ground, again and again. Long after Ted's health was gone the creature kept smashing, smashing until Ted was bloodied skin held barely together by broken bones. Then the creature squeezed, blood seeping between his fingers, and opened his hand to let Ted drop to the ground.
Ted didn't deserve this, right? Kind of a dick, sure, but enough to deserve this? And what about you, Vac? You're going to die too. Are you happy with what you've done? Will anybody visit your grave? Should anybody bother?
Soren, crushed by the club, dead in the dirt. Scream, chewed like a toy, wet with slobber and spit and blood. Ted, a mush of bone and guts. Ted began to dematerialize, just as Muffy had done. Soren and Scream remained.
Vac couldn't imagine re-spawning, or leaving, or even spectating the living till they won or lost. He expected only blackness. Too final.
Vac screamed. His mind went empty. No thought, no memories; nothing flew through. Overwhelming emptiness. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism, for only fear would've filled his mind had he thought. Sharp, painful fear. Maybe an empty brain was best? Best to die with. Vac's body helped him even at the very end.
The goblin raised his hand, ready to bring it down upon the boy. Then a flash. Blinding light, the beast staggered. His health began dripping away.
–Get out of the way! came a shout.
Too dazed to turn, Vac mindlessly shuffled to the side. A young woman appeared before the goblin. In shining silver armor, holding a red spear, a shield slung across her back. In her other hand a banner fluttered despite the lack of wind.
Vac watched. This young woman didn't defeat the goblin, she destroyed him. But for it she suffered heavily. Brash, head-on attacks, relying on her spear and banner to deal damage. A shimmering shield of unknown origin protected her from death, but the goblin succeeded in sending her sprawling several times. Each time, her health hurt, she rose and shouted at the goblin that, by God, she would destroy him. Finally, with less than a fourth of her health, she did. A huge blast of light and the goblin literally burst apart, into countless pieces of flesh, which rained over Vac and his savior. A prompt announced that he'd leveled up.
–You okay? the woman asked. She sucked down several health potions and took to sweeping the goblin bits from her hair. Black, cut short. A pale face, red lipped. Her name, floating proudly above her: Jean_dark.
Vac nodded. Was she? Three parts for death, one against, but she seemed unperturbed. As if her victory had never been in doubt.
Jean surveyed the scene. Her eyes settled on Scream and Soren's bloodied bodies. She looked to where Ted had been, before he'd completed his dematerialization. A casual observer, with no connection to events? Maybe, but the tears that welled in her eyes suggested otherwise. She fell to one knee and, steadying herself with her banner, began muttering. Tears dripped into the dirt.
Vac wanted to do the same, but felt his place usurped. So he simply stood.
–I'm so sorry, said Jean, still looking at the ground. I heard screaming and came here as fast as I could… but it wasn't fast enough.
–Dead, said Vac. Ted… Soren… Scream… What happened to them? Will I see them again? I… I knew Ted in real life. Knew his parents, his sister…
–We must believe that you will, said Jean as she stood. She looked up, past her banner, towards the sky, at the Sun shining down.
–In this world, or the next, or the one beyond that. I don't know which one they're in, but I know you will see them. They had confessed, right? Please tell me they had.
–They… yes, I think they had, lied Vac.
–Thank God. Oh, that makes me feel better.
Jean wiped the tears from her eyes.
–Why were you here, anyway? You must had known that they'd closed the forest?
–We… hadn't heard, said Vac.
–More powerful creatures in here now, said Jean. Something about a second spawner. They've closed the forest until they figure out what to do.
Then what are you doing here? Vac wanted to ask her. He stared at Scream and Soren, burning the images into his mind.
–Do you have anywhere to go? Jean asked.
Neither Vac nor his boys owned a room. They saw it as unnecessary, and slept on the outskirts of Chancellorsburg, among the fields and the peasant's farmhouses, under the stars. They put all their money towards booze or their biplane. But without his boys the night seemed cold, the skybox dark and immense, the fields lonely, and the peasants hostile.
–No, Vac said.
–You can come with me, if you want.
The depths of possibility. L'age de raison surmontée par la fin de la grandeur. The edge of heaven, reality collapsing. God encapsulated, with all the heresy that implies. What happened to the boys? The rowdy, dirty, brawling boys; Vac's buds. He had no proof of their death, but recalled conversations held in the game's earliest days. He imagined Ted's headset frying his brain, his family finding him smoking on his bed, dead; Scream stuck in a hellish limbo, his temporal perception stretched into the infinite, each milli-moment an eon of agony; Soren descended into the depths of his mind, the vastness that drives man mad. Vac thought of Pfo's many discussions of Hell. Sisyphus, Tantalus, Ixion. The dozens of poor Italians perpetually pained by Dante's spitefuly poetry-pen. So many punishments possible. So many meaningless miseries. Hell doesn't necessitate justice.
Was it a deeply ingrained pessimism that assured Vac of his late-friends' misery? The idea of happiness after death, in-game or out, seemed impossible. But Jean held her own theories on death. Maybe they'd respawn? If not now, then soon. Maybe they were trapped somewhere, waiting to be rescued? But not trapped in pain. In a special realm with food, drink, and entertainment; things to do until the living liberated them.
Maybe dying means you leave the game for good? Ted, the moment his HP hit zero, woke up lying in bed. He removed his headset and went on with real life.
Vac thought these notions stupid, but couldn't help feeling comforted by them. Jean's sincerity seemed like a light radiating from her. Vac, a dark dude since day one, wanted to bask in it.
Jean showed Vac her house. Real nice, center of town, not far from where Slick had set up shop in the town hall, or where Pfo scored the Lads their first meal, or the plaza, where Vac first plopped with thoughts of tolerating Lad, fucking with Dan, and boolin with his boys.
Jean held out her hand like a game-show girl showing off a prize Vac had won. But I haven't done anything, Vac thought. I stood like a little bitch while my buds got butchered.
–How'd you get all this stuff? Vac asked as Jean led him into her kitchen. He took the offered seat at a little table and watched while Jean went behind the counter, still wearing her armor.
–My viewers, said Jean.
–Viewers?
–Yep. I'm streaming. Sometimes my viewers donate items.
–You… you're streaming this?
–Yep. Since launch.
–Are you serious? Tell them to get us out of here! Vac said, borderline deranged.
–I have, said Jean, unfazed. I used to ask them all the time, but they never did anything. Still, they donate items, so I know, in their own way, they're trying to help me out.
Insanity. Too much wine in her wafer. Jean couldn't be streaming this. The idea that somebody on the outside knows what's up and hasn't done anything… absurd. And what about Chump's dilation-hypothesis? People could only donate stuff to her if in-game and real-life time lined up. Is Chump wrong? Then, why hasn't anybody taken Vac's headset off? Is Deus' dumb idea about exploding headsets right? Are people really watching Jean's stream and donating like nothing is wrong? Is that possible?
–Wait, said Vac. They're donating items? Like, game items? How?
–It's a feature, said Jean.
She opened an icebox and grabbed several cans. Then boxes from a cupboard.
–Viewers can buy me items, she said. There's a special shop for streamers. It's a nice way for them to show support, and it has a more immediate effect on the stream than donating directly. I mean, you can literally see me using what you bought. I just wish I knew their names so I could thank them properly. All the items say they're donated from "unknown."
Vac didn't believe it. Vac couldn't believe it. Jean set a plate before him. Burnt meat, runny mashed potatoes, mushy steamed broccoli, brussel sprouts, and burnt bread, thinly buttered. She poured him an ice-filled glass of sparkling pop, a sorta soda.
She, across from him, got the same spread.
–Sorry for the rough meal, she said as she handed him utensils. I keep forgetting to put points into cooking. It just doesn't seem that important, you know?
–No, it's fine, said Vac, still dazed. He dug in. The meat was hard and charred. The potatoes more water than potato. The broccoli had the texture of oysters. The bread like burnt wood. He ate every bite and surprised Jean by asking for more. She happily obliged.
Vac remembered when his grandmother's health started to go. She still insisted on cooking for her grandchildren, even as her food got worse and worse. Vac never failed to finish one of her meals.
Vac took Jean's living room couch. Jean gave him a sleeping potion, bid him goodnight, and retired upstairs. Before he took the potion and petered out, he took a look at his menu. Scrolling down his friend's list, past all the familiar names. He got to Soren, Scream, and Ted. Their names grayed out, their levels as they had been, their locations listed as "unknown." They'd joined Muffy in the unknown.
Lunarkid and MrClean, also grayed out. Too far away, or dead as well? Then x86, her name green. He clicked it and thought for a while about sending her a message. Scream, Soren, Ted… she'd as good as killed them. What would've happened had she stayed? Would they have held long enough for Jean to save them all? He felt the anger rising within him, anger at the self-assured slut, the quiet, above-it-all bitch. How dare she? Acting superior because she didn't whine. Better because she had no opinion. How could she, anyway, braindead as she was, silent and somber all the fucking time?
Vac typed for a while but closed the window before hitting send. It didn't matter. x86 had doomed them all, but Vac was sure that above all she'd doomed herself.
Vac drank the potion. His mind stalled then stopped. In the final moments of thought, when his brain rolled forward on fumes, all the names and all the meanings swirled together. Is a beau? No, what does that have to do with him? That's the Moon moron's thing. But Vac's savior was dark herself, despite her light. And named like the boys of all those beaus. But Issy o' B was a chick, by whose hand France nearly fell. So, boy or girl? X or Y? Why? X caused all this. It was her. But X is gonna save us, when he returns. He? She? Chi. Chi from her. Mort d'Eve, vie de Marie.
Shut it off, kid, you're going too far.
Some kinda Armagnac whore this girl was. But would it have mattered had she been a whore? Vac contrasted whore and wholesome, excepting the former with the heart of gold, a strangely ubiquitous exception.
Take the money, Vac. Buy the biplane. She's got plenty. She's given you the go-ahead. Some paysanne this high roller was. You could stop, Vac, if you wanted. They put credence in those sorta things. You don't have to.
But, as always, too far gone. Can anybody be beyond salvation? Maybe not, but let's see something short of a miracle bring back Vac after La Pucelle got grabbed and seared. The saviour, as burnt as her bread. Ave Maria.
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Hitler Youth, Special Ed. Division
The argument: To everyone's great surprise, the gamers struggle to reach agreement.
LadMan disliked strategy games because he hated his armies being anything less than pristine. Half-health regiments, busted vehicles, battered boys low on ammo and supplies, it all irked him. Not out of empathy for the pixel people, but due to a low level compulsive disorder, the cachexiafication of his mind when imperfections in his command became manifest.
In Lukia he learned to deal with this by separating his comrades from his inner being, his sense of self. Lukia was a single-player game with others online; as long as his character was squared away all was in order. He was still the leader Lad, but the others were separate, subject to themselves.
But in Fanget, with the stakes raised, these distinctions grew dubious. It wasn't that separate personages invaded his sense of self, but that, spurred by equal parts empathy and pride, his self expanded. The failures of the Sad Lads pained him personally.
He felt like the center of a superorganism, one born deep in enemy territory, forever fighting. Hemorrhaging troops. If he remained strong in the center while the mayfly moieties died around him, maybe he'd make it. But with what a withered mind! And even then, surviving sick seemed unlikely. No direction. Too much happening. Nobody could stay apprised. They weren't really a superorganism, of course. Sense, damn it, disintegrates.
LadMan, during the worst of his audiophilia, bought a pair of Diatone DS-50Cs. They quickly became his prized possession. His then-girlfriend, during one of their fights, took to a speaker with her baseball bat. Lad returned the favor with the back of his hand.
Lad listened as Lunar delivered a much-abridged account of his time since leaving the Lads in Chancellorsburg. Dan incredulously interjected twice per sentence until Lad threatened to kick him out of the teleporter tower. Dan took particular issue with Beb and Charles' levels. He searched their names, friended them, and went white. He wouldn't recover his color for half an hour. Chumpchange, on the other hand, remained deadly silent for Lunar's tale, soaking up the quatro with his eyes.
–Where are we? Lunar asked once he'd finished. Still in Chancellorsburg?
–Outside Brandonville, said LadMan.
Lad received a stream of messages, so many beeps as to produce a continuous, high pitched whine, like a long-winded alarm. Lad had to pop to his settings and disable the noise.
–Wait, I don't understand, said Dan. It sounded like you were in the Shadow Realm for, what, a day?
–Less, said Clean. A few hours.
Dan looked at Lad.
–You've been gone for months, said Chump, simply.
–What? Lunar, Beb, Charles, and Clean cried in unison.
–I have some questions, said Chump, if you don't mind. Let's relocate to my office.
While the players talked, Zyron fiddled with the teleporter tablet. All the major teleporters were connected, everything was running smoothly. He disconnected the teleporter in the Shadow Realm. He sighed; a sordid saga done. On to something new. Then he noticed several un-named teleporters on the system. They were on the same aether network as the major ones, but he couldn't connect to them, let alone send someone to them. Even their locations came up as unknown. Was it possible that these teleporters were connected to one another on a private subnet? Orphan gates? Theoretically possible, Zyron guessed. But, more pressing, would the other mages, on their own tablets, see them? And would they demand he do something? No, only the master tablet showed the entire network, the other mages could only see the teleporters they could travel to.
Zyron dismissed the whole thing as an error and, confident it wouldn't come back to bite him, deleted the teleporters from his display.
–Zyron, Dan was saying. Zyron, you fucking retard, listen to me!
–What? said Zyron.
–I was saying that if you let the crystal get stolen again, I'll personally come and put a bullet in your head.
I hate these damn teleporters, Zyron thought.
The players left and piled into the Lads' car. Suited for six, it now held ten: LadMan, Dan, Chump, Pfo, Erectio, Ty, Lunar, Beb, Charles, and Clean.
–To the university, said Chump.
He opened his menu and began firing off messages to God-knows who.
–This is gonna shake things up, said LadMan as Ty got the car underway. Things are already crazy.
–What's happening? asked Beb over the roar of the wind.
–Player deaths, said a sad Lad.
–They respawn?
–No.
Lad got Dan to bring Lunar and company up to date on the Lads' doing during their Shadow Realm sojourn. Beb and Charles, squished in the car's back, grew dejected as they learned all they'd missed. Dan told a mostly accurate account of the Lads arriving in Brandonville and setting up a system. He told of the Chancellorsburg riots and Muffy. Of other Lads arriving from far off. Of FLEEK and Striker. Of SNAFU, the grinding zones, Detle and the other dead dudes.
While he talked Lad scrolled through his messages. Almost everyone on his list had messaged him, many more than once. He sent something to Emperor Bonaparte: busy, message important people and tell them ill update them later.
Bonaparte shared Lad's list, and Lad trusted him to handle this affair with care. He knew Bony's message would raise more questions than it would answer, but he couldn't bother replying to his hundred plus friends in Brandonville with an explanation. He hardly had one himself. After a thought, he messaged Bony again: get me a meeting with Gui.
–Oh, Kitty and Ricardio are looking for you guys, said Dan, almost as an afterthought.
–They here? asked Beb.
–For now, said Dan.
–Huh? Whatta you mean?
LadMan, still menu-buried, overheard a part of this.
–Erectio, he said. Message Kitty and Ricardio. Tell them we have Lunar, Beb, and Charles. Tell them to come to the palace.
–Got it, chief, said Erectio.
–What about Shane? asked Lunar. Or… er, DDOXer?
–We thought he was with you, said Dan. You haven't seen him?
–No, said Lunar with a sigh.
–Doxy ain't with Kitty? said Beb. Where is he?
–Again, we don't know, said Dan.
–How do y'all not know?
–We haven't seen him, said Dan, behind clenched teeth. We have other priorities, we can't spend all our time searching for one player.
–God, Clean mused to herself. Away for months… that just seems… unbelievable.
–Yo, boy-male, said Erectio. Slick keeps messaging me. She wants to know if the teleporters are back. She says she gonna come to the palace.
–I think Slick is messaging me too, said Dan as he opened his menu.
–Oh, yeah, said Erectio. Also getting hit up by Bobby, Di, Deus, Woman, Pb&J, Phat, Rufus-
–Okay, I got it, said LadMan. Tell Slick to stay in Chancellorsburg for now. Get her to send Bobby and Di to check out the teleporter there. Don't let anybody use it.
–Okie dokie.
–Dan, get Deus, Woman, Pb&J, Phat… and Brostein at the palace for an emergency meeting. Actually, we'll have Gui there, too.
He shot off a message to Bony.
–Chump, does SNAFU have an aether expert? asked Dan.
–Who knows? said Chump with a shrug.
–Her name is Grace, said Pfo. I'll message her.
–We need to make sure the teleporters are safe before people start using them, said Ladman.
–We're going to have a lot to do, said Chump, looking at Beb.
Beb frowned. He imagined a salivating Chump poking and prodding him, or cutting him open with scalpels and such, peeking inside.
Ty swung to a stop in front of the university. Abuzz, academics running all over. Shouts sounded from the library, where DeJaVu, the chief librarian, fended off a horde of hungry academics with a dented club.
–You'll get your books, she shouted. Just form a line. A line, dammit!
–This is the… university? asked Lunar.
He eyed the poorly painted school signature.
–SNAFU U?
–Pfo named it, said Chump as he hopped out of the car.
–Trust me, the name fits, said Pfo as he followed.
Doughy stood on the manor's steps, next to Shooketh, looking down, and Squares, armed and squinting, concerned.
–Pfo, what's going on? Doughy shouted.
–Nothing to worry about, Dough, Pfo replied.
Remarkably, this answer seemed to satisfy him.
–Okay, we're going back to the palace, said LadMan. He looked at Lunar and friends.
–You guys stay here for now.
–Wait, y'all leaving us with these fellas? asked Beb. They crazy.
Chump was already storming towards the manor, shouting.
–Sleepr! Where is Sleepr?
–They're our brightest minds, said LadMan, motioning for Ty to push them out of the car if they refused.
–They better not stick us with nothing, said Beb, hesitantly hopping out of his own accord. We could fry this whole place, you know.
A young woman came running out of the manor. She nearly knocked Doughy over.
–Oh, sorry, Doughy, she said, looking at him like one looks at a whimpering dog he accidently kicked.
–Is it true? she yelled at Pfo. The teleporters are working?
–Yeah, Pfo said to the woman. Get a team together, Grace, I'll brief you.
Grace ran back into the manor, nearly knocking into Doughy again.
–All right, we're going, said LadMan as Lunar, Charles, and Clean exited the vehicle. Hit it, Ty, we have things to do.
Pfo, Grace, and her quickly assembled academic coterie arrived at the Brandonville teleporter to find Zyron putting in real effort to spiffy up the place. By interrogating him they got a decent understanding of how the whole system worked. Teleporters existed in every species' spawn town and capital, as well as a few other points across the world. All teleporters were on this single network, and one could access any teleporter on said network from any other (Zyron neglected to mention the rogue teleporters he'd discovered earlier).
To travel, one provided the teleporter with aether essence, a chalky, yellow substance. This substance wasn't cheap, but wouldn't break the bank neither. Most major retailers sold it. At this point Zyron segued into a clear marketing spiel, hyping up a particular Brandonville shop, telling the players they'd get a ten percent discount if they mentioned his name. Pfo pried from Zyron that the mage was deep in gambling debt to the owner of said store, and had been compelled to advertise for him until he got fifty referrals. The players promised Zyron they'd go and mention his name (they never would) and the Crystal Keeper continued.
He said that he'd been empowered by their display to tell his father off. He'd clean up the tower and quit to pursue his dreams. A new Keeper would be appointed, one that would actually guard the damn thing, and, with that, the teleporters would work steadily and faithfully.
–What an awful quest, Pfo muttered.
The players set to testing the teleporters themselves, methodically, carefully. It would be several hours before a player went through, popping out in Chancellorsburg and shocking Bobby and Di, who'd barged into the Cranky Mage's residence to acquire similar information.
Life happens in spurts. Who remembers the minutiae, waking up, going to work, coming home, watching television until dozing off? The arrival of Lunar, Clean, Beb, and Charles represented such a spurt, a time of hope and happening, during which almost everyone felt involved, felt alive. Whereas hours earlier the spurt was tragic, all about lost and dead players, now they had working teleporters and had found four thought-lost lads. LadMan returned to the palace and met with his de facto cabinet. Even the pouty pessimists, like Deus, couldn't deny that the players had made progress. Gui, nervous as ever, got a briefing and the promise of a more comprehensive one to follow, and scurried off to report to Striker. The Lads began discussing the teleporters' implications, the connectivity, the possibilities for cooperation. LadMan secretly hoped this meant he'd see Quixotisha again.
At SNAFU, Chump questioned Beb and Charles for hours. He didn't poke and prod, but by the end Beb almost wished that he had. It would've been just as painful, and probably quicker. He largely ignored Lunar and Clean, except to make several insensitive remarks to the latter.
And in Chancellorsburg, Slick, stewing at the periphery, was sent to hunt down Vac and his boys, very much a secondary task. The finding of the decked out house proved worth noting, and Jmar and Dead Dude showed up to investigate. But without an in-the-know player to question, and Coke's remarkable inability to contribute worthwhile info, the matter was shelved. Vac was MIA. Maybe he'd come back, maybe not? TBH, his plight was lost in the noise of everything else.
So too was Detle, the poor little corpse. With Pfo's attention momentarily diverted, Chump stealthily finished his dissection. He put Detle to rest in an unassuming little grave on the SNAFU grounds. Pfo was furious when he found out, but there was nothing left to do.
A week later, Richard, on routine patrol in Chancellorsburg's forest, found Soren and Scream's bodies. LadMan wasn't surprised to learn of their deaths, and told Richard to give them a respectable burial and let the matter die. Keep keeping an eye out for Ted, but assume until proven wrong that the Lad was dead like his buddies. As for x86, she, like Vac, was listed MIA and forgotten.
Lunar, Beb, and Charles got reunited with Kitty and Ricardio. Lunar wanted nothing more than to see Shane, but Kitty and Ricardio, the only others in this hellscape he knew for real, were the next best thing. Clean, unincluded, hovered at the edge of the reunion until Lunar, spotting her, dragged her to the center and introduced everyone to her. Beb (who'd had a bit to drink) began singing Clean's praises, relating how she'd literally torn apart a demon with her outrageous rifle.
Lunar still suffered one source of unease (excepting Shane). As he spent time with the Lads, Valefor's letter, the one addressed from AJ, made more sense. Not much, but some. A cosmic war, the Reckoners. He told this to Chump, during his short, post-return interview, but Chump seemed to dismiss it. Lore nonsense, you can't trust any of it. Lunar figured that he was right.
As the weeks wore on, things settled. The spurt ended, routine returned. Erectio went back to drugging NPC children, Deus went back to complaining about the lack of raids, Dan went back to shitting on the game. The joy of the Crit Committee's reunion wore off and got replaced with worry for Shane. And Pfo and Chump, with whatever temporary truce the rapid revelations of the teleporter-episode had implied wearing off, got back at each other's throats.
Pfo sat and stared at the book spread open on his desk. He read the words but couldn't grasp their meaning. He had his desk up against his window so he could, during the day, look up from his studies and see the forest before him. He needed to remind himself that something existed outside his office. Always something greater, something more, something outside; this was Pfo's necessarily held belief. If he found that the heat-death-heading Universe was all there was he'd lose the uncertainty so critical to keeping him going. With no uncertainty, Pfo would bake his head and be done with it.
But was that so bad? sucking spliffs and fucking sluts? A hedonist's home need no nobility.
Pfo didn't know. He kept staring out his window, into the damp, humid darkness blanketing the forest. Crickets chirped, other creatures squealed, a screech owl screamed. Sounds rose up from the manor below him, the odd academic tip-toeing about, the house itself heaving and wheezing.
Before him: an anthology on human mythology, dealing with pagan gods and heroes. These religions, according to the game, had been practiced but abandoned prior to modernity, the people preferring now to worship Logos, their mono-deity. As sick as such an adjective suggested? Pfo thought so. The NPCs made overtures to the end-times but, even as they lived through them, kept on secular scooting.
Pfo wasn't sure he could in good-faith disagree. Was all the religious lore relevant to the Challenge? SNAFU's scholars were sharply divided, but Pfo started to figure that if Logos reckoned to Reckon, he would've done so already. Pfo thought he'd find clues in ancient texts, but as he read more of the Devs' Homer-hackery he grew convinced nothing they wrote had bearing on anything. It was flavor, a bit of salt to sprinkle on your popcorn, nothing of substance.
Pfo tapped his pen. Outside, amidst the darkness, he spied a faint light, moving slowly, then stopping, moving, stopping…
He stood up, cupped his hands around his face, and stuck them to the window. A hazy figure held the light, a lantern. It walked a few steps, stopped, and scanned before continuing on.
–What moron… Pfo began.
Sleepr, of course. Pfo recognized his absurd figure, his too-long lab coat, his too-tight ushanka that reminds the reading-ones of another fat, stuck-up dilettante.
Some people don't get stealth. They can't keep their voices down, can't walk without stomping, can't help but step on every trail-strewn leaf, etc. Had Sleepr just walked, he wouldn't have attracted such attention. Pfo might've found his midnight sojourn strange, sure, but not suspicious. As it was, Sleepr's clear attempts to avoid detection made Pfo immediately curious.
Up to something. But that dumbass hadn't the drive nor the deviosity to design evil himself. He had help, or he was the help, working under someone's shadowy grasp. Pfo knew who. Pfo had work to do. He couldn't back down, not even in the face of a thousand degenerate dudes. Society could screw itself, Pfo was gonna figure out what the fuck was up.
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
The Boys on Versailles
Did you ever think you could live this way?
Did you ever think you could ever say?
I’m living my dreams until the day I die.
I’m living my dreams until the day I die.
Well it’s easy to dream when you’re always high.
The argument: Players assemble in the name of progress.
Pfo would've found the Dwarvia area similar to Milton's pandemonium; its size and splendor. Dan would've thought it a marvel of level design; its intricacy and attention to detail. LadMan would've thought it a joy to explore; its hidden nooks and shady streets. Slick would've thought it striking. Doughy would've thought it shocking. Lunar found it boring.
The Dwarvia spawned in a great, underground town within a soaring, gem-encrusted spire surrounded by ever more stone homes and shops. All this inside a massive, mountain-heart cavern. Blue crystals hung from the ceiling, lighting the folks below. From the cavern thousands of tunnels led in every direction. Giant cave plants, glowing mushrooms, vines, crystal trees, mosses, and liverworts (all subsisting from the ceiling-crystal-light) formed subterranean forests. Within them lurked creatures of all types, some small, blind, and pathetic, some massive and dangerous.
Lunar sat sadly in the Dinero'd Dwarf, the finest inn in the area. At the top of the spire, built within a gem, commanding a bird's eye view of the cavern below. With furniture crafted from green emeralds but still, somehow, cozy and comfortable. Wall-stuck torches gave off flickering light. The NPC owners quickly realized the extent of Lunar's wealth (Beb and Charles made sure he had ample funds) and catered to his every need. He got the best wine, the nicest staff, and the finest troglofauna on which to dine. Still, his morale hadn't risen above his altitude. He'd been in-area for six days and hadn't caught a whiff of Shane. He'd already been to the Dwarvia capital, a massive mining metropolis, more facility than city, built suspended above an underground lava lake, but found nothing.
The Dwarvia players lacked organization. They'd acted violently towards the NPC population and, without a strong figure to smooth things over, tensions kept bubbling like the vidya-lava above which so many of them now lived. NPCs refused to serve players, players robbed NPCs… both sides swung, punches and otherwise. SNAFU U had only begun their surveys, but already they'd found that more players had died in the Dwarvia areas than all others combined.
With the teleporters online, LadMan thought to take precautions to prevent the chaos from spilling over. The Dwarvia he cared about, his Lads, had long since journeyed to Brandonville via boat, train, car, or carriage. So why worry bout these losers? Luckily, the lack of aether dust available to the Dwarvia meant that the number of immigrants was small. LadMan needed to take only minor measures to prevent stampede.
Lunar, after he'd first arrived and situated himself in the spire, scanned for Shane. Forever out of range. Going to the capital and a few, smaller towns did not rectify this. So he tried gathering info the old fashioned way, but found nobody able to cooperate. Simply put, nobody knew nothing.
–I'm looking for a player named DDOXer, he said to one player, a Dwarvia with skin the color and texture of magma etching out a living, apparently, by begging, stealing, and farming low level troglofauna in equal measure.
–He's sometimes called Doxy, Lunar continued. His real name is Shane. He spawned as a Meria, but we're looking for him everywhere. You know anything?
–Oh, yeah, I got some information about that, the player said. What's it worth to you?
Lunar excitedly handed him half a dozen bills.
–Yeah, I actually don't know nothing about anybody by that name.
–Then what the fuck did I pay you for?
The Dwarvia looked offended.
–For that information.
–The information is that you don't know anything?
–That's information, right?
All attempts ended this way or worse. A few players described the opening days in the area, the initial confusion, the milling and waiting until somebody discovered the hunger and thirst system. The city's ensuing sack. Remarkably similar to the human experience, the difference being that here, nothing had changed. The sacking had stopped, but the state of affairs that precipitated it hadn't shifted. The players held to peace by a thread, any upset would lead to disaster. They did what they could but couldn't hope for a future like the humans had.
Lunar paid inordinate sums to two Dwarvia, one at the capital and one at spawn, to sit around and try friending Shane twice a day. If Shane ever came within range they were to tell him to teleport to Brandonville immediately. They were also to provide a long list of players Shane could contact in Brandonville if the Committee was away. Then, Lunar gave the Dwarvia teleporter operators ample aether dust and instructed them to save it for a person named DDOXer. Other members of the Committee had done the same as Lunar in other areas of the world. Kitty went to Merse at her own insistence, Ricardio went to the Wisteria. Beb and Charles, unhappily, to the Frostia, while Clean stayed in Brandonville in case Shane showed up there.
If Shane came near any major player center, they'd get a message to him. If he went to a teleporter, he'd find aether dust waiting to get him to Brandonville. The Committee was shocked when none of these measures got results. Even in Meria, where Kitty was confident she'd find something, she got not a trace. Some figured the same thing that happened to Lunar, Clean, Beb, and Charles had happened to him, but in their case, had someone asked around the human area, they'd find people who had at least seen them before they'd disappeared. They found no such reports of Shane. It was as if he'd never existed. Only his name, eternally gray, proved he'd launched in the game at all. Demoralized, the Committee regathered at Brandonville.
Belton sat in the bookstore, behind the big mahogany desk stacked with unsorted books and misc. papers, and stared across the store at the teenage girl who'd just entered with a fella at her side. A fan blew on Belton's sweaty face. He had open before him some light Lawrence, the "Prussian Officer." He'd been reading diligently for a while, and decided to take a break upon the Orderly's introduction. So he was stuck in the Web when the when the girl and the boy entered. Instead of greeting them, like the owner told him to do, he stared, stared as they walked past, oblivious to his look. They went to the romance section and stood giggling for many minutes. They'd take a book off the shelf, read a sentence or two, then put it back.
–Oh, I've read this one, said the girl, removing a roughed up paperback with a roughed up muscle man smiling for the cover-camera.
–You'd like it, she said to the boy, it's funny.
Dilettantes, Belton thought. He returned to his Lawrence, but couldn't concentrate while the kid's conversation awent.
–Didn't you read this one? asked the boy.
–Oh yeah. It's about a bisexual guy. He, like, works to accept that he's still queer despite falling in love with a woman.
–That makes you less queer?
–In some people's eyes. The point of the book is that it doesn't.
Bisexuality is a meme, Belton wanted to tell them. But he knew he wasn't supposed to get into metaphysical arguments with the customers.
The guy and the girl eventually made their way to the counter with a handful of romance novels. Belton scanned them, looking sadly at the burly cover-men beaming back at him.
Sorry you've been reduced to this, he thought. But aloud he said,
–$11.50.
–I think we have some credit, said the girl.
–Name?
–Katalina. And this is Shane.
–What did you say? asked Lunar, looking up at them. His brother beamed back at him. He and Kitty, arms interlocked.
–Kat and Shane, Kitty repeated.
–You don't read, Lunar said to Shane.
–Bro, neither do you.
–Where are you? Lunar asked him.
–Who knows? said Shane with a shrug.
Kitty leaned close to Lunar. He almost recoiled. He felt her hot breath on his ear as she said,
–Belton, you want something, right? Everybody does.
–You don't know what I want, he said, snarling.
–That doesn't matter. I don't need to.
–I don't know what I want, said Belton as his voice faded away.
LadMan, lackeys in tow, lumbered down the upper streets of Brandonville. He was dressed in his best, a fine tux and a top hat, his flowing purple do brushed down until it shined. The upcoming meeting occupied most of his mind, but he couldn't quite forget about Vac. Yes, the boy was back. x86 and Ted still MIA, but Vac back, back on the streets of Chancellorsburg, making much more trouble than before. The Lad had unfriended almost everyone on his list, and then shunned Slick when she approached him in person. She reported that he dressed like a prophet, in ragged robes, weaponless. He begged and preached, his deranged sermons drawing a few curious kids here and there. LadMan was content to let Vac be, until the boy introduced a dangerous idea.
Bobby and Di, on the routine street beat a week prior, came across a gathering of riled players surrounding Vac. They initially though the players were angry at Vac, and moved in to quiet the crowd and escort the tragic figure to somewhere safer. But they found instead that Vac had heated them with his preaching. They were angry because of him, but not angry at him. Bobby and Di listened in horror as Vac's doctrine became clear: the Challenge was none other than a vast battle royale, every man for himself, last standing leaves. Vac claimed that the players' provisional governments, the Sad Lads, FLEEK, etc., knew this but planned to hide it till they'd gathered enough power to ensure their own victory. In Vac's mind, LadMan himself was shooting for victory, and had dozens of deathly loyal lackeys willing to help. The idea spread, especially among the discontent, and LadMan could say nothing to slow it.
So, with dangerous ideas abound, this meeting became even more critical. It hadn't been easy to arrange. Phatphuck, with assistance from Erectio, managed to acquire for the occasion a theater in Brandonville's upper levels. Far from the city's artistic center, the abandoned opera-house would let the players hold their meeting high in the sky, safely and peacefully, without disturbing Brandonville's swanky artismo elite. Most of the players invited had RSVP'd positive and, according to Chump, SNAFU U had finished compiling a report of their notable discoveries since their founding. Lad could only imagine the academic bloat boasted by that particular text.
The other major hurdle had been, surprisingly, Striker. Striker insisted on greater representation for non-human members and, it seemed to certain suspicious Lads, non Sad Lads. Striker suggested several other guilds be included in the proceedings despite their limited impact thus far. He also protested SNAFU U's disproportionate number of humans, and its board being three humans and no non-humans. These protests puzzled LadMan, who saw all the players, regardless of species, as in this thing together. A few Lads (Dan, mostly) became convinced Striker schemed to "diminish the Sad Lads' global influence." As for Chump, he resisted himself or Sleepr being replaced, but was open to giving Pfo's spot to a non-human. Most figured Striker nobly sought to inject greatest possible diversity into the proceedings, a variety of perspectives and all that, all in order to maximize chances of escape.
LadMan arrived at the theater. He was flanked by Dan and Erectio, the latter forced, almost at gunpoint, to don a decent outfit, not a revealing gown his avatar was ten years too young to wear. Ty followed, bearing his carbine. That some people might see Ty's loaded weapon as a faux pas never crossed Lad's mind. The theater was lit up, an island of light on the otherwise dark, dreary street. A crowd of players, all sorts, stood outside, mingling. Most were dressed to impress, a few came in whatever gear they farmed in. Most had respected the organizers' request to arrive unarmed. Security forces under Richard milled around. Andykey and Hector, the Crusaders, flanked the theater entrance.
Lad and his posse cut straight through the crowd, basking in the whispers that accompanied their arrival. The highest Lads enjoyed fame in Lukia, but nothing like this. Andykey and Hector glanced at Ty's carbine, then at each other. For a moment it seemed that they'd say something, but Hector silently pushed open the door and let the Lads in.
The reception room: a small but well-decorated area with tables of refreshments. NPC servers hired for the occasion skirted in and out of the crowd with trays of oysters and drinks. Lad nodded to several Lads standing in groups near the entrance: Pbbbbbbb&j, Phatphuck, Woman… Deus stood near a food table, gobbling down dishes faster than the NPCs could replace them. Cycler stood near him, arms crossed, eyes darting.
Lad noticed Beb and Charles in the corner, uncomfortably courted by Chump. The scientist was no doubt telling them all the reasons they ought to put a portion of their considerable fortune towards SNAFU U's research. The other Committee members leaned against a wall, watching with limited interest while they sipped champagne. They were dressed tastefully: Lunar and Ricardio in tuxedos, black and white respectively; Mr. Clean in black slacks and a vest; Kitty in a simple, black dress somewhat at odds with her blue skin.
Beb wore red robes fit for a king, long and flowing, made from silk, with a white fur collar. Charles wore a tattered, brown monk's robe. This bothered Beb considerably, as they'd agreed, he thought, to dress to impress. But then Charles dressed down, looking like a kung fu master or an eccentric but powerful wizard, while his brother looked like a lame, vain, tryhard. When Beb, who arrived with Ricardio and Kitty, saw Charles, who'd arrived earlier with Lunar and Clean, he threw a fit and nearly stormed off. The combined efforts of Kitty and Lunar kept him present.
Striker hadn't arrived, so LadMan took time to mingle, greeting his friends and introducing himself to those he hadn't met. Slick, dressed like a 19th century general, stood with Brostein, talking to players Lad didn't recognize.
–Lad, she said, inviting him into her circle.
Brostein Bear wore a simple, no-nonsense dress. The other players: a Frostia and a Wisteria. The Frostia was typical of his species, with gray skin and bushy, white hair that wrapped around his face, more like fur than hair, really. His limbs were fury, with little tufts of hair peeking out of his cuffs. The Wisteria was more a sight. Tall and conditioned, with soft blue skin, a chiseled face, a fine, strong jaw, and deep eyes. Completely bald, with a light pink, tight fitting suit. His pants were especially tight, squeezing his legs. They were rolled up at his shins, exposing his thin ankles. Expressive, always contorting his body into poses to accompany his points, like a live action Jojo character. His face seemed imminently moldable, and his eyebrows bounced up and down as he spoke. He struck Lad as strange, slightly threatening if only cause of his alienness, but warm, genuine.
Slick gestured at the Frostia.
–This is Liao, she said. He has some experience in Lukia.
–Top one hundred in level, said Liao. Top twenty five in overall PvP.
–Impressive, said Lad, dryly.
–And this, said Slick, gesturing to the Wisteria, is Pinkie_Pound.
Introduction unnecessary. Everyone could see Pinkie's username floating above his head. But Pinkie dove headfirst into the formality.
–LadMan, an absolute pleasure, said Pinkie. Just as handsome as everyone says. And (with an ironic pout) just as serious.
Pinkie alternated between a low, strong Geordie drawl and a high, baby voice. He burst into high-pitched laughter. Lad blushed.
–Pinkie is the Wisteria who made the trading fortune, said Slick.
–Just a honey trying to make some money, said Pinkie, laughing at his own joke.
LadMan had heard of Pinkie Pound. His funny, flamboyant nature didn't betray this, but, in the game's early months, he'd essentially scammed NPCs until he became the kingpin of a trading empire. He was smart and slippery, and scampered like a gecko atop the market's treacherous tips and turns. Third richest player in the game, behind cheating Charles and Beb.
Pinkie grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and sucked it down in a single gulp.
–Ah, this worry free drinking agrees with me, he said.
–Everyone, said Slick, now gesturing to LadMan. This is, of course, LadMan, Dan, Erectio, and Ty.
–We all appreciate what you're doing, said Liao. I'm not surprised it was the Lads and FLEEK that took charge. You guys were always doing stuff like this in Lukia.
–What about you, Pinkie? said LadMan. Did you play Lukia?
Lad didn't give a shit bout Liao. Just another high-level grinder. He knew hundreds. But Pinkie… not only was his claim to fame from Fanget, the game they were actually stuck in, but he'd done something new, useful. And it was all born from his own desire to act. Lad saw something of himself in Pinkie; he, too, took control of a bad situation and made something of it. He acted.
–I played a little bit, said Pinkie, but Lukia was too grindy. Now, don't get me wrong, I like a good grind (he winked), but not like Lukia.
–I always said that Lukia should have re-done some of their leveling mechanics, said Dan.
Lad sighed. Yes, Dan did say that…
–Oh, said Pinkie, looking at the theater's entrance, look who it is…
Who else could it be? Striker, strutting through the front door, head held high, shoulders back. Yellow feathered, with short red hair. He wore peasant clothes (the same set he'd spawned in?), with a steel sword strapped to his belt. Behind him, in armor, Dingo Dave and Jupit, somber and slightly embarrassed. Then, following them, a sweating Gui, stuffed in a Norfolk jacket. And finally, five FLEEKers, armed with spears and shields, scowling at the players who shot them strange looks.
–The hell is this? muttered Dan.
–Holy shit, said Ricardio, across the room, for an entirely different reason.
–Is that Dingo fucking Dave?
–Oh yeah, it is, said Kitty. And Jupit.
–The guys from those milsims? said Beb. The guys always giving us dumbass orders? Did they play Lukia?
–I never saw them, said Ricardio.
Striker came to a stop. His spearmen stopped behind him, standing erect, at attention. Dingo and Jupit nervously scanned the room. It had gone silent, everyone waiting to see what Striker would do. He stared straight at LadMan.
–Absolute LadMan, he said loudly, what an absolute pleasure.
–Little late with that, hon, muttered Pinkie.
Lad was shocked to hear Striker's voice. It was nasally, high pitched, pathetic. Striker approached. He kept his head high, but his walk was wretched, too straight, like he wore a back-brace. His feet struggled, every step posed a risk of tripping. He stopped before Lad. His head was so bent back, he had to look over his own nose.
–The leader of the famed Sad Lads. You know, for all the time I spent contesting you in Lukia, I'm amazed that we never met face to face. Or, avatar to avatar.
Does he sound like this IRL? Lad thought. He wouldn't know, for Striker was right. Lukia didn't modify voices, but LadMan never spoke to Striker in Lukia. R- right?
–Yeah… that's strange… said LadMan.
–FLEEK and the Sad Lads. Always fighting. Of course, that was the point, but always, always fighting. Fighting for loot, for rank, for resources. Now we have to work together.
LadMan found it unbelievable that he'd never seen Striker up close. That he'd never heard him speak. Despite Striker's pathetic posture, his wimpy warbling, his clumsy gait, he seemed to tower over everyone. He struck LadMan strangely. Dan stared at him, undiluted venom dripping from his eyes. But that was Dan, ever suspicious.
–Good God, it's like a Lukia museum in here, said Striker.
Dingo Dave and Jupit had snuck over to a food table. Striker spotted them and, next to them, Deus.
–Deus Vult, he said. Charlemagne, the highest level Lukia player. Ah… Byson Beb and Surfi' Charlie, the two always breaking the game. Seems you haven't slowed down in that regard …and Coke In My Ass, the hacker?
Coke_In_My_Ass, infamous and widely despised Lukia hacker/scripter, often reported, never banned, stood awkwardly near the entrance.
–I knew I recognized Coke from somewhere, said Slick to herself.
–Where are those two brothers, the black ones? asked Striker.
–Chancellorsburg, was Dan's quick reply.
–I'm glad you could come, LadMan said, finally finding his voice.
A pathetic utterance following Striker's loud remarks. But Striker had taken him by surprise. Once the meeting started, Lad'd show up.
–Cooperation is critical, said Striker. I wouldn't miss this meeting for the world.
He smiled widely.
They held the meeting in the theater proper. On the wide stage Phatphuck had put several tables. At the center table, representing the humans: LadMan, with Dan and Woman. Slick had requested a seat at the table, being the de facto governor of Chancellorsburg, but LadMan rejected her. She sat smoldering in the seats. They'd also invited Quixotisha to represent FLEEK at the human table, but Striker, strangely, hadn't brought her. He claimed she was otherwise engaged, though Lad, broken-hearted, couldn't conceive anything more important. Her reserved seat, which he'd instructed Phatphuck to put next to him, sat empty.
At the Wisteria table: two members from Upstart, Pyromancer (their leader), and Savath (her boyfriend), as well as Pinkie and his dressed down boyfriend, ImmaWut.
Dwarvia representation was split between three guilds: the Sad Lad Relic, Bones from FLEEK, and 名前, the leader of Ipswich.
From the Frostia: high ranking Ipswich member ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). Ipswich, as always, pushed the boundaries namae wa wise. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) had with him an NPC he'd befriended, a human documentarian named Joseph Flirty. Lad didn't want to let an NPC into the assembly, but ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) threatened to boycott. Lad woulda let him, but Striker took up his cause through Gui, his sweating mouthpiece, and Lad relented.
Flirty's presence wasn't the only hiccup. Behind the Meria table, staffed by Striker, Dingo Dave, and Jupit, Striker had positioned his spearmen. Like he expected a crazed kid to bum rush him, Otoya style?
LadMan had Ty standing behind him, but that was hardly analogous. Striker's spearmen stunt seemed just that, a stunt. Ty followed Lad everywhere. It would be strange for him not to have Lad's back at this event.
The final table on the stage: SNAFU U's, staffed by Chump, Pfo, and Sleepr, with DeJaVu standing behind them.
VIPs sat in the ground seats. Deus and Cycler from the Crusaders; Pbbbbbbb&j, Slick, Bonaparte, Phatphuck, and Erectio from the Lads; Gui from FLEEK; and other assorted members from the Warrior Monks (ScoobyDoo), Ipswich, Upstart, etc. All the guilds with claims of fame or organization. Then, post-patch Lads like Brostein, and members of the burgeoning human bureaucracy. A comical assortment of academics: Oxie, Healthy Man, Dead Dude, Jmar, Grace, Guido, Yui, Absolute Thot, Honky Man, Solo, and Nessie. Beb and Charles also sat here, though Charles insisted that only he had been invited, and Beb's invitation was a mistake. Why, Charles mused, invite the second highest level player?
Finally, the upper deck had been alloted to players of import, but not critical import. The rest of the Committee: Lunar, Ricardio, Kitty, and Clean. Other Lads like Rufus and Jil, other Crusaders like SwervinUrban, Sheryl, and Charlemagne, and other, independent players like Litty (Detle's friend), Liao, and Coke. Richard and his security team patrolled the aisles, while Andykey and Hector guarded the entrance. Phatphuck put microphones at all the stage-tables and on stands in the aisles. A solid speaker setup blasted the speaker's voice to every corner of the theater.
An astonishing assembly admirably organized. LadMan sat for a sec, soaking up the atmosphere. The players in the audience chatted. He spotted Phatphuck, in the audience, giving him a thumbs up. LadMan leaned up to the mic, and started to speak,
No good. Nobody could hear him over the chatter. He tried again,
–Quiet, please. Everyone, quiet.
Still too loud. A few of the players, realizing he was trying to speak, settled in and simmered down, but most kept obliviously blabbing. Lad looked around. He realized with a start that he was searching for somebody to save him. He'd never been much of an authority. In small meetings, ten or less, you could get attention individually, but in assemblies, in his real life, he'd always had someone to turn to, someone who could thunder and shut everyone up. At the school, with the kids, he could turn to someone else, another teacher, the resident disciplinarian, or the principal, people who projected authority and demanded obedience. How did they do it? Lad prepped to blare but found he couldn't. He wasn't the right type.
Dan, seeing the situation, reached for the mic and tried to quiet the audience himself. But Dan projected less power than Lad. Nobody listened to Dan, not really.
Then, a bang and a screech. The sound ripped into their ears. The audience, shocked, went silent. Striker had taken his microphone and slammed it onto his table. All eyes shot to him. Casually, he raised his dented microphone to his mouth and said,
–Thank you, everyone, for coming tonight. Clearly, we require the utmost cooperation if we are going to weather this current predicament. This is an admirable first step. I hope that this meeting will accomplish much. Now, I believe my friend, Absolute LadMan, leader of the Sad Lads, has a few things he would like to say. LadMan.
Lad took his table's mic from Dan and awkwardly stood up.
–Yes, thank you… Striker. My name is Absolute LadMan, as Striker said. I'm the leader of the Sad Lads. We… er… organized this meeting because we think the only way we can escape this game is by working together.
Lad's words failed to rouse the audience. Phatphuck shot him another thumbs up from the audience, but he could tell from those that wore their feelings on their face, Chump, Deus, Richard, that they found his words worthless. He'd just repeated what Striker had already said. Stupid. LadMan realized all his hopes of delivering a rousing opening address amounted to foolishness. He wasn't gonna inspire these people, these postmodern players, with a lame-brain locker room speech. The audience looked at him like you look at a graduation speaker, begging them to finish so you can suck down your cigar, go home, and take a nap. Lad decided to abandon his opening and get right to business.
–Anyway, let me outline the structure of this meeting. First- oh, I'd also like to say… well, I can get to that later…
Striker sat with his arms crossed and his eyes closed, leaning dangerously back in his seat. LadMan might've thought he was sleeping had he not visibly smirked.
–Each species representative, that is, each table, well… the representatives are at the tables- anyway, they'll each get a chance to talk about the situation in their areas. Then… oh, SNAFU U will also get a chance to speak. I think… Chump and Pfo both want to say something…
Pinkie looked at Lad with pity, the way you look at a child butchering a role in his school play. How could you help, short of just doing it for them? Pfo winced with second hand embarrassment. Woman remained stone-faced, trying to set an example reaction, while Dan's face reddened with anger as the audience's expressions of effrontery grew. Snickering, chuckling, rolling eyes…
–Then we'll hear from a few members of the audience… er… the assembly, who have important info to share.
LadMan wanted to stop. He remembered, during college, when he had to give a presentation before his class. He got up there with his notecards and clamped up, staring at the tired, hungover faces glad it wasn't them. He mumbled through a few cards and clamped up again. Then, judging the whole thing lost, wanting only to come back to his room and dive deep, forget the whole thing, he shuffled back to his seat. His classmates, realizing the presentation was over, offered a meagre applause. His professor sighed.
–This is why I tell you to practice your presentations, she said.
LadMan wanted to sit down… sit down and be done.
–After that we'll go to a general session, and can have a… sort of… general conversation.
Lad led better behind the scenes anyway. Not every leader had to get up and give grand speeches, right?
–Also… we'll have a break, at some point…
LadMan sat down suddenly. Was he done? He'd hardly specified anything bout the meeting to come. What was the order, the procedure? In fact, he was sposed to speak first, about the state of the human government in Brandonville.
His face was red. He almost wanted to cry. He tried to separate himself from events. It doesn't matter, he thought. The Universe is speeding towards heat death, this doesn't matter. Don't be embarrassed. Nothing worked. His ego feared public speaking more than any silly heat death.
A commotion from the audience. Slick had seized an aisle microphone, and began speaking,
–Okay, everyone, my name is Slick. I've been helping out in Chancellorsburg for a while now, so I'll speak to the state of things there. Then I'll give the mic over to Woman, who can talk about the state of things in Brandonville. As you know, Chancellorsburg saw some rioting early on. However, the violence had stopped, and relations with the NPCs have been stabilized. I believe that we can use Chancellorsburg as a model for the places which are still seeing violence between players and NPCs. Of some help is that we can abuse the NPC's affinity mechanic, but that doesn't work for most of them, and even when it does work, its use is limited. Another one of the chief complications, as I am sure the boys at SNAFU will discuss, is that our relationship with the NPCs has a complicated religious element to it. They see us both as angels and as harbingers of the end times. Many of them revere us, but many want us to leave. Now, the most important things we've done…
LadMan felt himself relax. Some of the red drained from his face. Slick went on to discuss Chancellorsburg's economics, the farming zones, the recent spawner debacle, the teleporters, housing, food, communication… Some of the subjects got dry, and some were common knowledge, but Slick's forceful, confident oration kept the audience seated and quiet. Then she gave the floor to Woman, who delivered a rousing if not particularly informative treatise on the merits of centralized government. Woman reported broadly on the Sad Lads' efforts, carefully avoiding implications of tyranny. LadMan appreciated the address, but couldn't forget that it was one he was supposed to deliver.
Woman gave the floor to the Frostia delegation. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) began speaking of the difficult time in the frozen north. Not many players spawned there, but the ones who had suffered greatly. Many missing, many dead. Food was scarce, organization scarcer. The only players who had it worse, ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) figured, were the Dwarvia. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) didn't speak poorly, but by this time the audience had grown tired. They knew most of this, and the whole thing reeked of bureaucratic jackery, yapping for the sake of yapping.
–One of the things we found useful, ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) said, was getting players to make the sleeping potions themselves. The NPC alchemists must've learned about our dependence on them, because they started hiking the prices-
–Who cares? shouted someone from the audience.
–Everyone should, said ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), this affects all of us-
–We already know all this, the same player shouted.
–Hey, shut up, shouted Dan, we're having a meeting!
–How do we get out of the fucking game? someone yelled.
–Oh, let me just finish with the economics of sleeping potions, then I'll tell you, said ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). Obviously I don't know, you jagoff!
–He does, said the player, pointing at LadMan. He knows, but he won't tell us!
–What are you talking about? said Dan. We have no idea how to get out.
–That's not what Vac Effron says!
Dan frowned.
–Who cares what Vac says? He doesn't know what he's talking about.
–He sure sounds like he does. Makes a good argument, actually. Funny that you won't address it.
–We don't address it because it's nonsense, said Dan. Why doesn't NASA address flat Earth?
–That's not even close to the same thing!
The theater had come alive. Some of the players knew of Vac's theory, some did not. Chump, always himself, hadn't heard the theory, so buried had he been in his own research. He took SNAFU's mic and said,
–What is this Vac's hypothesis?
–Chump, dammit, muttered Pfo, who had heard Vac's ideas.
–He says it's a battle royale, shouted the audience-member. This whole thing is a battle royale. Last player alive leaves.
Chump's eyes widened. The theater seemed to gasp as the idea hit all the players who hadn't heard it. Striker opened his eyes and slowly came to sit straight up. He looked at Gui, sweating in the audience. He looked at Lad.
–Vac is crazy, said Dan. Scream and Soren died and he went crazy.
–A battle royale? muttered Kitty, previously theory-less. Jesus, ¿podría ser eso?
–There's no way, said Clean. That- that can't be true.
–Why didn't anybody tell us about this? thundered Deus.
–Tell you about what, Deus? Dan shot back. That one crazy player is spouting nonsense in Chancellorsburg?
–Nonsense? countered the original instigator. What about Vac's evidence?
–He doesn't have any fucking evidence! said Dan.
–Have you read the religious books?
–Have you?
–Vac says they talk about a big battle between all the Begotten! That's us! It's a battle royale!
–Vac says? Vac says? Who fucking cares what Vac says?
The theater was in an uproar. Pfo took SNAFU's mic from Chump and tried to interject,
–I've read those texts, that's the- listen- that's the most pessimistic interpretation of those lines. You- listen!
–You believe any bullshit someone tells you? shouted Dan, practically frothing. Here, let me tell you something. The whole game is a big suicide pact. No, we're in a reality show! A Saw movie!
This did not help.
–What about you? Deus demanded, pointing at Chump.
Chump had set his mind to calculating the scenario's feasibility. Of course, he hadn't read the religious texts they were talking about. Pfo was scrounging up every alternate interpretation of the texts he could, while Sleepr glanced rapidly back and forth.
–Are you listening? Deus shouted at Chump.
–What, what do you want? Chump said.
–You retards are supposed to be investigating this shit. Is it a battle royale or not?
–No, said Pfo into the mic. Chump snatched it and said,
–That's wrong, it could be.
–What? screamed Deus.
The audience went bonk.
–We have no evidence that it is! shouted Pfo, struggling for the mic.
–It's possible, said Chump. We can't discount it.
–Chump, you fucker, hissed Pfo. Isn't this some Russell's teapot shit? Why the fuck are you supporting this?
–Dead wrong, said Chump, still grappling for the mic. Battle royale is a- a simple theory for an- an- give me the mic!
–Halt your fucking process, dude, your veritas omnia bullshit is gonna get us all killed.
–What are you talking about?
–What do you think a battle royale is?
As the SNAFU U table devolved into a hissing fight the others couldn't hear, the fury shifted back to LadMan and Dan.
–What happens if its a battle royale, Lad? Deus demanded.
–It's not! shouted Dan.
–What if it is?
–Then I'd kill you first, Deus!
Deus shot up from his seat. He didn't move on Dan, but stood staring, as if engaged in a psychic duel. Dan, for his part, stared back. Richard and his boys rushed in, but had mixed feelings about restraining their leader. Nobody grabbed anybody yet.
Gui had knocked into five or six people as he pushed through his row, heading for the aisle and, presumably, out of the theater. Striker watched him, veins bulging on his forehead. Dingo and Jupit exchanged glances. Striker's spearmen inched closer to him.
–Everybody calm down! shouted Slick, who'd taken an aisle mic. This isn't helping anything!
–Let me guess? shouted the OG instigator. This whole thing is some Red Wedding bullshit? Get us all here to ambush us. Huh, LadMan!?
The player was deranged. How was this happening? Players began pushing and shoving, some to escape, some to fight, some for no reason at all. Every mic was occupied by screaming.
–We might have to fight outta here, Beb said to Charles. Can we take em all?
–Probably, was Charles' swift response. He eyed Charlemagne, up in the balcony.
Lunar leaned in to Clean. Even up against her ear, he had to shout.
–Try to get to Beb and Charles if a fight breaks out!
Clean nodded. She had her fists clenched, wishing she'd smuggled in a weapon. How many others had? Or was this set to be a slaughter? Richard and his boys gunning everyone down? Maybe Lad had organized it all, got Andykey and Hector to lock them all in, Basterds style. Then again, their alleged guild leader, Deus, was giving Lad the most shit outta anybody. The Crusader screeched all manner of expletives at the Lad. Dan fired right back.
Lunar couldn't deny it, a BR this made sense. Making this whole fucked thing a battle royale was something Deadeye would do. Lunar remembered the note he'd read at Valefor's place. What he'd originally dismissed as anime shit and forgotten began to make sense. If they were stuck in what was essentially Danganronpa, he oughta give more credence to anime bullshit anyway. Lunar had no doubt, the game was a battle royale… or something similar.
Slick, at the aisle mic, was stuck. The theater had erupted. Nobody could hear anything. Her words, unconvincing anyway, were lost in the loudness.
LadMan felt himself fading into the chaos. Dan, beside him, screamed. He sensed Ty behind him, carbine ready. But what was the point? What could an individual do against this swell? Striker, maybe, was strong enough. But he kept his mouth sealed. His eyes were closed; his eyelids twitched in concentration. He bit his lip. What was he thinking so deeply about at a time like this? Dingo and Jupit looked at their leader, fear and confusion mixed with… expectation?
Lad had no reassuring words. He could promise nothing. Not that this game wasn't a battle royale. Not that they'd even escape.
The shouting grew. Striker tapped his fingers rapidly against the table. He grimaced, mired in a battle deep in his mind.
What to say? What to do? Lad knew if he spoke, only gibberish would emerge. He desperately searched… for that authority… if-
–ENOUGH! thundered Striker. The Meria stood up and shouted directly into his mic, taking every ounce of himself and thrusting them into the ears of all around, bashing his will into their brains, rendering them mute and transfixed.
Before anybody could regain their senses, Striker spoke again,
–This game is not a battle royale. I am completely certain.
Deus demurred.
–How can you be sure?
–Shut up and I'll tell you.
Deus went silent. Everyone stared at Striker.
–Striker… began Dingo Dave.
–I know how to escape the game.
Dingo and Jupit shot up and shouted simultaneously,
–Striker!
–Be quiet! Striker shouted. The force of his glare sent them falling back to their seats.
–You know how to get out? cried Deus. Why the fuck haven't you told us?
–I was waiting for my turn to speak, shouted Striker. We hadn't gotten to my table yet.
–Wh- what? Who the fuck cares? said Deus. You shoulda said it first. Wh-
–I have respect for my fellow players, said Striker. Enough to hold a civil meeting. Forgive me for not realizing you barbarians would turn this thing into a shouting match!
–Just tell us, how do you get out? shouted Deus.
Dingo Dave and Jupit exchanged panicked glances. Gui, who'd finally reached the aisle, was literally sprinting for an exit. But all eyes focused on Striker. Even LadMan, lost somewhere far away, set his eyes on the Meria. Dan watched with unfiltered suspicion, shared, oddly, by Lunar, who, from the balcony, studied this odd episode.
Dingo lounged for the mic, but Striker blurted before Dingo grabbed it,
–You need to clear fifty dungeons!
Dingo's mouth hung half open in shocked relief, as if he'd been yanked from the precipice of death. Dan honed in on that expression, burning the moment into his brain.
–Fifty special dungeons, Striker continued. Then we can leave.
–I knew it! shouted Deus.
A smile stretched across his face. He looked at Lad, supreme smugisfaction oscillating in the air between them, like visible heat waves on a burnt dark day, something tangible. LadMan felt like he was suffocating in the heat. His face burned, his fingernails dug into his skin. He clenched his teeth together till they nearly cracked.
The players knew that they'd witnessed a critical moment. Most let their desire dart, their dreams run headless, heedless. They whooped and walloped while Striker smiled above them.
I could tell you this moment lasted an eternity, dilation diluted into this bite size bit, a thematic thesis laid butt-naked before the slobbering, pervy word watcher. I might say the whole thing seemed pulled straight de da cinebleugh, an ethereal epiphany of Image strung up and strung out, stretched then tossed to dry like a sponge in the Sun, the grainy, sandy mise-en-scene of some savage auteur under whose poorly picked gels the characters ache. Guh.
The moment lasted a moment and not a moment more. If anything, its unexpected nature meant it ended before anyone realized they were in it. The image: a hundred odd players suspended in sci-fi gel, their mouths open, their eyes alight; it's a fantasy, a cheap cliché brought to bear upon a bunch of boobs.
Maybe one thinks of the millennial struggling but stuck fast cause of their own actions or the actions of others. Maybe one means to convey the power of memory, or magnificent moments etched into the collective unconscious: JFK jolting back, the grown up bomb whacking the Victorian on the head, etc. and etc., like Lacey, convinced she'll recall until her consciousness' full-stop the frat boy's garish laughter and the sluggishness of her drugged out state. But, vivid as she claimed, these moments were gone, lived and lost, and even the force of the nuclear was no clear. The past pales when put against the present. Look now, you, confused as to how we even got here. Maybe you think, cleverly, that you can outsmart me, go back and read the words again. Well, sly guy, you can't. The words you read in the present aren't the words from the past. Take your tired eyes to some Theory now and again, ya dingus.
If we're done maneuvering, let's return to our players, as their present saw them. Lad had succumbed. Chump and Pfo set their processing to max power. Dingo and Jupit looked like a handsome harpist had dragged them up from Hades, escaping seconds before both looked back. Slick saw in Striker something perplexing, like a memory-wiped Mecha Hitler. Dan found faint to trust but couldn't discern why. Regardless, he grasped for the FLEEK guy's falsity. Then, Lunar. Lunar looked hard at Striker as a cacophony, this one of glee, rose around him.
From his spot he couldn't see perfectly, but what he could see he was sure of. Valefor's note, his innate pessimism. But mostly his gut. Lunar, you might know, lied a lot. Little stuff, mostly, but still. He knew his way around a fib, knew how to keep them in check, how to keep his expression innocent, how to avoid the tells, the novice missteps. Simply put, Lunar could spot a BS spouter.
Striker was lying.
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
Some Clever Lines to Say
Part Two
Where the Drugs and the Drinks are Free
Tied to the rat race,
A big bird in a small cage.
You’re tied with a tightrope,
And you wiggle but it won’t let go.
The argument: I can't for the life of me remember what Franky Fisher is famous for.
Patty won't one to sit around no longer. Chester wanted good journalism, a proper profile piece, something with insight and, dare he think it? pleasing prose. Patty had never tried writing well before. It wasn't something they taught at whatever cash-grab college he went to.
Patty landed, got his little rental car, checked in at the hotel, and called up Franky's publicist. Stick to the plan, she said. Franky is swimming right now. Come to Franky's house tonight. Patty sat around for a bit, pouting. How would he meet the real Franky if he came rolling in at the predetermined time? Franky and his coterie could take however long they needed to do themselves up for his pen. No, Patty wasn't gonna sit around no longer. Chester always said, after all, that "journalism rests on the shoulders of the audacious." Patty needed to pierce Franky's heart, find out what made the man tick, not just mindlessly note the features of his face, his mask. Patty knew that Franky, despite his wealth, prefered public pools, usually in gyms. Patty dug around social media, a la Lacey, until he found the pool Franky went to.
–You need a pass, said the counter man. Tall, burly, bursting outta his tight shirt. He stared down at little Patty.
–I'm just here to meet someone, Patty said again.
–Doesn't matter, need a pass.
–I can't even go in for a minute?
–Well… there is one thing that will get you in.
–What?
–A pass.
Patty glared at the man, but the four-eyed little guy couldn't muster the macho to move the bald headed, shredded, front-desk dude.
–Fine, give me a one day pass, Patty eventually said.
Patty found the gym an alien environment. He hadn't entered such a body-focused space since tenth grade PE, in which Patty, forever mediocre, did just okay. Not picked last, but never picked first. While the nerds and spaghetti-spewing geeks whined into adulthood bout the injustices suffered at the hands of the jolly joshing jocks, Patty couldn't participate. Being the final or penultimate pick, paradoxically, gave one something to brag about. Look at me now, the nerds would say, I always knew I was better than them. They were, therefore, unrecognized talent, Squidward style, unable or unwilling to impress physically but evidently enlightenment embodied as one of the DoD's brain-dead engineers. The dumb jocks got theirs; being picked last by such yahoos was a compliment to the rational Houyhnhnms.
Franky's gym was nice, prettily built and kept clean, far from Joey's gym-rat burrough: rusty weights littering the floor of a warehouse. A well-kept indoor track, a basketball court with a bunch of kids, machines of all types: bikes, stairs, treadmills. TVs blasted news. A smoothie bar, manned by a smooth young man in a tight tee.
Patty was disappointed with the artificial environment. Sterile, new. No good journalism could take place under such bright neon lights.
At first, Patty couldn't find the pool, and wandered into an ongoing yoga class, held in oven-heat. The kind instructor unbent herself and directed him to the locker room that led poolward. Unfortunately for Patty, a large man with crossed arms, remarkably like the counter worker, stood guard at the pool entrance, and wouldn't let Patty pass.
–No go, sorry, sir, he said.
–Why? asked Patty. I showed you my pass.
–Ah, but you have a gym pass. That's good just for the gym. To use the pool you need either a pool pass, a gym and pool pass, or an all-access pass.
Patty stomped all the way back to the main counter.
–How can I help you, sir?
–I need to upgrade my pass, Patty said. I need to use the pool.
–Ah, so you'll be wanting a pool pass, a gym and pool pass, or an all-access pass.
–Just put pool access onto the pass I have, said Patty. I just need to get into the pool.
–Well, unfortunately, you can't directly upgrade a gym pass to a pool pass, a gym and pool pass, or an all-access pass.
–Why?
–Because we sell those passes in increments of weeks.
–Gah, said Patty. Why?
–Them's the rules.
Patty thought fast and hard bout bandoning this whole charade. No, he was already there. So close to Franky he could practically taste the scoop. Sunken cost be damned, Patty was gonna see this to the end.
–Give me a one week pool pass, said Patty.
–Alrighty then, said the man. Can I have a name, phone number, and address?
–It's the same as the previous pass, said Patty.
–I'm sorry, that information is stored under a different account, you're gonna have to give it to me again.
Patty hurried through the locker room, past the naked, meandering old men, and shoved his pool pass in the guard's face.
–Ah, a pool member, said the guard. But your pass is not verified.
–Verified?
–Before you can swim, you have to pass a test: swim a three hundred without stopping.
–No, said Patty, I'm not going to the pool to swim.
The guard narrowed his eyes.
–And what exactly, sir, are you going to the pool to do?
Patty barely got past by telling the guard he was meeting a friend. After so much effort spent getting in, the pool's plain appearance disappointed Patty. He expected someone as famous and infamous as Franky to swim in something swankier. Patty supposed this was the point. Franky could afford a private pool atop a skyscraper, to swim with the slummers was a conscious choice.
A twenty five meter, eight lane, shallow pool with a tiny hot tub nearby, surrounded by stained, white deck chairs and a few metal bleachers. An old clock ticked at the halfway mark. A lifeguard, some young girl, her napping hid behind sunglasses, sat on a short stand. Her whistle had fallen onto the wet deck.
Patty sat on the bleachers. A group of old ladies did water aerobics, an old man swam a slow but consistent breaststroke, and a kid in trunks swam a wild, wobbling free. And in lane three: Franky, doing a sprint set. Speedo, a cap, and Swedish goggles. His body was lean, mean, and taut. He wore a comical pair of (presumably) waterproof headphones overtop his cap, with their cord running to an MP3 player. Then Patty saw it. Two additional boxes clipped to his goggles' back-strap. Patty, stunned, realized Franky swam not only with an MP3 player but a DAC and AMP as well. What absolute absurdity. Mind boggling unnecessity. Franky stood at the pool's shallower end, gasping for air, staring intently at the tick-tocking clock.
Not as intense as he looks in pictures, Patty thought. He considered taking out his notebook but decided against it. Better just to observe. The clock's second hand hit 30 and Franky took off, streaming through the water, his audio setup jiggling on his head as he kicked. He emerged from the depths like a high-tech sub, and burst into a rapid, controlled free. Franky took one breath to get down the pool and back. Like an aquatic robot, one who's barely attached battery packs fed him energy from the back of his head. Franky finished his fifty, looked at the clock, and frowned.
How tired he looks, Patty thought. Because of the workout? True, Franky panted in the pool. He'd done 25.5 in meters, no lame race. He placed his fingers on his wrist and stared at the clock. But there was something more to Franky's exhaustion, something deeper that Patty couldn't place.
Franky swam a few easy laps and hopped out of the pool. He grabbed a kickboard, a towel, two fins, a buoy, and a snorkel, stuffed all but the towel into a mesh bag, and set off for the locker room. Right past Patty. Patty thought of standing up, blocking Franky and introducing himself, but was struck by the strangeness of the situation. How would Franky perceive this breach? But why had Patty come, if not to catch Franky unprepared? Lacey, he knew, would stand up and stop him, say, "so, Franky, let's talk." But Patty couldn't. Franky walked past and disappeared into the locker room.
How'd Lacey come across her confidence? How was it she could waltz into Joey's gym and smooth talk her way to a scoop? Had she always been that way? Surely, Patty thought, confidence ain't something you can cultivate.
He sat for a while longer, watching the women workout, watching the old man lift and lower his head, watching the crazy kid fling his head out of the water for a gasping breath every second stroke. He'd spent so much money to watch Franky swim a few laps. But it wasn't money he regretted wasting.
The chlorine stench and the dank, humid heat became too much for him. Patty got up and left.