by Tao Wong
“Yes,” Mikito’s agreement trails along behind her as she takes off running, headed straight for the City Core.
I have to speed up to catch up with the Japanese woman punching her way through the weak resistance with ease. Even then, with my Thousand Steps and occasional Blink Steps helping cover ground, we’re nearly too late.
“Eleven seconds,” I say, shuddering.
Whether it was because the asshole Pooskeen had not read the Evil Overlord list or he was just a sadistic bastard, there had been a giant countdown timer when we finally made it to the City Core. Luckily, actually deactivating the self-destruct sequence was easy. I just had to stand there with my hand on the City Core until it finished registering my new ownership, then I cancelled the orders.
“Eh, it wouldn’t be that bad,” Ali starts.
“THE SPIRIT IS CORRECT. THE DAMAGE DONE TO YOU WOULD ONLY BE SUFFICIENT TO REQUIRE A WEEK OF REPAIRS FOR SABRE. YOUR ALLIES WOULD LIKELY ALL SURVIVE.”
“And the human survivors?”
“COLLATERAL DAMAGE.” Kim answers.
“So how is it that you’re down here?” I decide to change the subject before anyone else picks up on it. While the notifications can normally only be seen by me and anyone else Kim decides to show them to, there’s no guarantee his notifications can’t be intercepted. While Kim can fake empathy, its occasional lapses can be jarring.
“UPGRADES AUTHORIZED BY BENJAMIN, THE COUNCIL, AND LANA TO YOUR SETTLEMENTS HAS INCREASED MY OPERATING CAPACITY AND LIMITS. WITHIN NORTH AMERICA, I AM ABLE TO ACCESS OWNED SETTLEMENTS AND AID IN THEIR DEVELOPMENT.”
“Nice,” I say. “Okay, well, start putting together a list of what we should upgrade here. I’m thinking the usual beam turrets, drones, and maybe a wall. Keep it within budget. I don’t want to be throwing my Credits into a pit.”
“CONFIRMED.”
“You know, they might not want to stay,” Ali says.
I grunt in understanding. Whatever, Kim’s a computer—it probably would only take a few minutes for him to get that information together.
“John. We need to get the survivors out. Now,” Carlos calls to me on the radio, his voice filled with rage and shock.
“I’ll be there in a bit. Just settling the city—”
“No. Portal here and create another for them. We’re getting them out immediately.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“They’re shell-shocked and on the verge of a complete breakdown. They don’t believe they’re safe,” Carlos replies. “And I don’t blame them. The survivors in the cage… they were being penned until they signed a Serfdom contract. Those who died from hunger or the beatings were eaten.”
“Eighteen hells,” I swear. That’s frightening. I stare at the City Core for a moment, wishing I had just sold it. “On my way.”
We spend the rest of the day cleaning up, stealing everything the Pooskeens left that’s useable and selling everything that isn’t. We aren’t going to leave anything here, even if we don’t have the time to deal with them properly. Lana and the council have begun organizing a trauma team that can help survivors deal with their problems. They even have a triage process that highlights those who are dangerously unstable for immediate treatment via the Shop. The worst cases I bring along with me, my access to a better and more immediate Shop critical.
“John?” The voice is liquid chocolate to my ears, my body clenching down below as my breath shortens. Damn it.
“Roxley.” I turn from staring at the doorway the child was taken through, too catatonic to move himself, and face the Truinnar.
The Shop has my tab, and Ali’s in the corner, negotiating with his friend for a group discount as we usher in more and more people. I can feel my Credits draining, but I can’t regret it, not really.
“You look well,” Roxley says with a purr, his eyes gliding over my body.
I admit, I check out that tall hunk of blackness for a second, admiring his form. I might still be angry with him over his betrayal in Whitehorse, but that doesn’t alter the fact that he’s pretty. Really pretty.
“What’s this about? You didn’t just turn up here by chance,” I say tightly.
One of the reasons why I rarely see other shoppers is because the time-space laws in this Shop have been messed with. A conversation about it with Foxy the salesperson left my head hurting, but he indicated that while it might seem that time moves differently here, it’s just them adjusting the timelines for when I arrive and leave. It helps keeps things exclusive. And thus makes it nearly impossible for there to be a coincidental run-in.
“No.” Roxley takes a seat, staring at me and waiting.
Eventually, I walk over and sit in the lounging chairs across from him.
“I came to speak to you about your actions. And the Zarrie.”
“My actions?”
“You’re no longer a single fighter. You’re the owner of a large number of strategic settlements. It will not be long before your lands draw additional attention,” Roxley says softly.
“And…?” It’s not as if I didn’t know that. Part of the planning for the city including building out the Tier I & II military / adventurer buildings to add security forces to the important settlements. As the other settlements upgrade to Towns and more, we’ll be adding additional buildings. On top of that, we’ve already started specializing the cities to some extent. Places like Kelowna are focusing on production, while Vancouver itself is fast becoming a hippy, urban dungeon delving / military town.
“And you’re seeking to begin a battle with a new Empire,” Roxley says, leaning forward. “One that is closely allied to the Movana. Your new allies.”
“My new allies?” I say with an eyebrow raise.
“Please. Do not act as if you do not know what your actions with the Burning Leaves meant.”
“And…?”
As I keep playing dumb, I see the flash of irritation in Roxley’s eyes, gone so fast that only someone who has spent so much time with him would notice. Time having dinner, talking, sparring, kissi… actually, not that last part. Dragging my mind back to matters at hand, I pay attention to the dark elf. A part of me wonders why I’m daydreaming so much, another says that it’s because it’s been a bit since Lana and I had some time together, and with the death I’ve seen… well, it’s a normal reaction to my hormones.
“You know that Earth is in the Truinnar’s sphere of influence. What you might not understand is how close you are to our borders. It is disputable if Earth lies with us or the Movana. That dispute was put to rest in the courts, and we were meant to take your planet when the System came online. But…” Roxley waves as if to encompass everything that has happened in the last year and a half.
“That didn’t happen. You suggesting the Movana did something?”
“I would not defame them in such a manner,” Roxley states primly. “My point is that as a Dungeon World, your planet is considered a neutral ground. All races, all species from the Galaxy may enter it. Of course, those whose borders lie close to your world are the most interested.”
“The Movana and Truinnar,” I say, nodding. “You’re still not explaining what this has to do with me.”
“You are beginning to swim in deeper waters, John, and your actions can have wider consequences,” Roxley says exasperatedly. “The Zarrie are traditionally allies of the Movana as their planet lies within the Movana’s sphere of influence. Acting against them sets you—and your settlements—at odds. It is unlikely to escalate to a full-out war, but your actions will have consequences. Trade blockades, assassinations, and yes, wars have been fought for less.”
“So I should what? Stop?” I say. “It’s interesting that you’re talking to me about it when the Movana haven’t.”
“I cannot speak for them. I can only recommend that you seek allies before it is too late,” Roxley says. “If you intend to act against the Movana, ally yourself with us.”
“Us. You. The Duchess.”
“
My kingdom,” Roxley says, nodding. “We—I—have shown that while we might not be your ideal choices, we are significantly better than some alternatives.” Roxley pointedly looks at the door, making me grunt in acknowledgement. Roxley and the Duchess never went this far. The worse they ever did was set-up Serf contracts, and while I’m not a fan of them, they can be at least be somewhat fair. For all the harm and financial finagling the Duchess did, even her Serf contracts at least played fair. “You cannot, your people cannot, continue to do this alone.”
“You expect me to trust you. After what happened,” I say.
“I did what was best for the city, and I will not apologize for that.”
I grunt. Rather than answer Roxley, I walk toward the exit.
“John…”
“I’ll think about it. But for now, I’ve got work to do.”
I open the door without turning around, feeling the anger boil inside me. Because while he might not have a reason to apologize for his actions, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t have apologized to me. But perhaps I’m being petty.
That’s the problem with dealing with Roxley. I can never tell where I stand or what I feel. And so rather than deal with it right now, I walk out. Because I am telling the truth. There’s work to do. There’s always work to do.
As bad as that day was, it has nothing on the next town a few days later. I find myself calling for help, bouncing the call through the limited use communicators we’ve purchased from the Shop rather than opening a Portal. The town of Clinton isn’t even on the No. 5 highway, but I’d seen the map and figured swinging out of my way by twenty minutes would make it easier for the teams when they arrive.
My first hint of something being wrong is the crucified bodies of Galactics dotting the fields and road in. Whoever did it was insistent that crucifixion was the way to go, ripping, tearing, and otherwise forcibly positioning bodies that had more than—or less than—four limbs into the appropriate poses. Worse, a few unlucky bastards were still alive, clamped still and constantly, unwillingly healing from damage as the System “helped” them survive.
“Goblin’s ass. This is wrong,” Ali says as he observes a bug-eyed creature involuntarily flap its wing and click in pain.
“No shit.”
“No, I mean, this is really wrong. Continuous torture without removing an individual from the System’s automatic healing is considered a Class A felony,” Ali says.
“And…?”
“It’s the kind of felony that gets you put on Galactic bounty hunter lists,” Ali says.
Even as he speaks, I’m directing Sabre to the cross and using the anti-gravity plates to get closer to the alien. When it clicks and snaps at me, I ignore it, focusing on the nails driven into its body and wings to hold it aloft. After a moment of hesitation, I conjure my sword and cut and pry the creature free.
More clicks. More trembles.
“What’s it saying?” I grunt, yanking stick-thin feet free.
“Don’t know,” Ali says with a shrug.
“I thought you could translate everything?”
“I’m old, not omnipotent,” Ali snaps. “Also, it’s not as if these guys are all that common.”
“These guys?” I say with a smirk while I pry the nails from creature’s arms, letting myself revel in the fact that Ali is stumped rather than focus on the gruesome task.
Each motion, each removed nail elicits more clicks and occasional whistles. Unfortunately, the poor creature has multiple nails driven through it, probably due to its higher-than-normal Strength factor.
Bent over the creature’s body, I can smell its dry, dusty, and acrid scent, a mix of desert air and sulphur that assaults my nostrils. Each nail I grip is sticky with black blood, stubborn in its refusal to exit without extracting another pound of flesh. Each movement brings forth another series of high-pitched chirps, but even with its arms and wings free, it makes no move to stop me. When I’m done, the creature falls to the ground and lies prone, body shivering as aftershocks ripple through it.
“How many left?” I ask, glancing around the forest of stakes.
“Two more of the bugs. There’s a Hakarta that’s barely hanging on—”
“Just the numbers, Ali,” I say, not wishing to hear a list filled with sorrow.
“Seven.”
Out of maybe fifty crosses. I wonder how they found so many Galactics, how they captured them all and did this. But it’s a small matter, unnecessary information.
I reach out my hand, calling forth streams of Mana and weaving it into the universe, tearing a hole that links one location to another. Moments after the Portal solidifies, a soldier exits, rifle held in guard as he scans for threats. I see his tension increase when he sees where I brought him, the rifle coming up further as he readies himself for trouble.
“Get the teams out here. We’ve got people to save and people to kill,” I order the soldier.
He nods and heads back into the Portal, disappearing within seconds. Rather than keep the Portal open, I close it and let the teams gather while I wait. A quick check with Ali indicates that none of the survivors are about to expire in the next hour, which gives us more than enough time.
“Incoming, boy-o,” Ali announces, and I look to where the Spirit points.
In the distance, a group of five are walking toward me, weapons out and ready for use. They don’t seem to be in particular hurry, but they aren’t lolly-lagging either.
“Levels?” I ask Ali. I could try to review each of them individually, but I’d rather stay focused. There’s no guarantee they don’t have their own little tricks.
“Mostly Combat Classers, all in the late thirties and early forties. Two Bandits, one Soldier, a Channeller, and a Biochemist.”
“Channeller and Biochemist?” I frown, hoping for more information. Problem with Classes that are too obtuse is it’s hard to tell what they might come up with.
“Magic user with continual cast specialization. Watch out for explosives and poisons from the Biochemist.”
The bug finally pulls itself together, its wounds closed, though it occasionally still twitches. Though I’m not entirely sure if that is due to the torture or just a facet of its biology. After a moment, the bug dresses itself using a slap-on, liquid-like fabric and pulls a small extending baton from its System inventory. Its thin hands extend again and it loops a string around its neck, the material a flexible plastic-like substance that glows once the final loop is attached.
“Thanks to be given, Savior of the Fallen,” the creature buzzes and clicks before being translated.
“Oh, you’re up. Good. Stay back,” I say quietly.
“Choice sub-optimal, Savior. One desires vengeance.”
I grunt, looking at the bug’s status again.
Ox’imm’qq (Level 31 Merchant)
HP: 593/1080
MP: 780/780
Conditions: Feared, Enraged
“Fine. But don’t get in my way,” I say with a sigh, then I raise my hand as the group ahead of us gets within twenty meters. “You can stop there.”
“I don’t think so,” the salt-and-pepper bearded man with the ball cap replies, his friends spreading out to give each of them a clear shot. They don’t even break step at my warning. “What are you doing damaging our stuff?”
“Did you just call him—it—stuff?” I say incredulously, watching as the two Bandits keep coming.
The leader has a rusted, spiked club in hand. The other Bandit wields a pair of knives that glisten with a greenish tint. The only Soldier drops to a knee, cradling his rifle against his shoulder. The Channeller stops as well, and with my Mana Sight, I can see energy gathering around his arms. Only the Biochemist follows the front line, staying a few steps behind the Bandits.
“You’re one of those alien lovers, aren’t you?” Beardface sniffs and spits to the side, grinning. “Well, don’t worry. We don’t kill humans. We’re just going to teach you not to touch what’s not yours.”
“Could
you people be any more stereotypical?” I reply, keeping my hands out to my sides and empty. “And this doesn’t have to end in violence…”
Rather than answer me, Beardface dashes forward in a full-out sprint. As he does, his and his friends’ bodies blur, losing definition in their edges. He covers the distance between us in seconds, followed by his friend, who is only a few steps behind him. It’d be impressive if I didn’t spar with Mikito on a regular basis. I drop into a reverse lunge, left leg thrust out behind me as I summon my sword to catch the club on my guard. It’s not as effective as you’d think since the club is conical and spiked. The edges of a spike punch into the lightly armored bracers of my arm. On the other hand, the momentum of his sprint drives him fully onto my sword, the blade sliding through his ribs with ease.
I grin, twisting at my hips as I conjure a Blade Strike and rip my sword out of his body, sending an arc of power tearing through his body. His friend appears by his side, thrusting daggers at my exposed body. Out of the corner of my eyes, I watch as the bug launches itself at Beardface, floating through the air as its crackling baton swings toward the Bandit’s head.
Rather than take the hit, I tap into Ali’s viewpoint. A thought later and I Blink Step toward the Soldier, my blade plunging into his body as I fall. As I land, my free hand snaps out sideways and the Portal opens right behind the Channeller. Too focused on his spell, the mage doesn’t see the Portal, his hands clapping as a black shroud falls over my body, trapping me within. It squeezes, attempting to crush me while robbing me of oxygen and my senses at the same time.
Seconds, maybe ten, maybe a hundred, within the inky blackness. It’s hard to tell how much time passes objectively, the only indicator the glow of defunct notifications in my helmet and the beating of my heart. Even my connection to Ali is muted, a buzz at the back of my mind that has fallen to a whisper. As suddenly as the spell took effect, it shatters, bringing too-bright light and the roar of battle.
