The woman stepped back, cheeks dimpling. “Practically vibrating with excitement. I haven’t seen her like this since we got her a ski trip to Alta for her sixteenth.”
Devon gave a quick smile, fighting hard against the fear that the experience would fail to live up to Tamara’s expectations. She would make it awesome for her friend. Tamara deserved it.
“Have you eaten?” Tamara’s mom asked. “I made eggs and bacon. Tamara ate most of the pancakes, but I think there’s one left.”
Devon’s mouth watered as she stepped into the entryway and the smell of the meal reached her nose. She thought of the granola bar in her purse. “I haven’t. Planned to eat a bar really quick, but if you think Tamara can wait long enough for me to have a few bites of eggs…”
A snort-laugh came from the first doorway to the right, the entrance to the kitchen and breakfast nook. “Get in here, Dev. I know what your typical nutrition looks like.”
Devon edged forward and peered through the door. Tamara sat in an overstuffed chair that had been pulled up to the breakfast table. Her oxygen tank was hanging in a sleeve that had been fitted over the chair’s arm, and the ever-present tube snaked into Tamara’s nose. She sat in front of a mostly empty but syrup-smeared plate and grinned.
“Hey!” Devon said. “You look like you recovered faster than I did from the surgery.”
Tamara raised her eyebrows in mock arrogance. “Prodigy, remember? Actually, they said the procedure is getting less and less complicated all the time. Most of the installation happens automatically…circuitry growing under the skin according to some preprogrammed schematic or something. I guess they expect it to be an out-patient procedure soon.”
Devon scratched the back of her skull then ran fingers over the ridges at the nape of her neck. Most of the implant hardware was buried beneath her scalp with a few wires penetrating her skull and another few bits of biocircuitry breaking the skin in case she ever needed diagnostics. When she’d undergone the surgery, it had taken doctors physically laying the pattern of sub-scalp wires in a net around her head. She didn’t like to think about how they actually managed it since the only incisions had been behind her ears. Regardless, she’d been hospitalized for three days after, and the implants had itched for weeks.
Tamara gestured to the wooden chair beside her. “Eat something. I’m probably going to have seconds anyway.”
Devon stared at the heap of steaming eggs and the stack of crispy bacon. “Okay. Twist my arm.”
“So is my bike ready?” Tamara asked as Devon spooned a mass of jiggling eggs onto her plate.
Devon glanced up as Tamara’s mom arrived with a carafe of milk. “Thanks,” she said as the woman poured a stream into her cup. She turned back to Tamara. “To be honest, I was terrified that it wouldn’t be ready. But you’re all set! Well, I doubt the bike will be up to your standards. But even I was able to pedal it. They couldn’t figure out how to make a chain that worked right, so they had to use a leather strap to connect the pedals to the back wheel. So, unfortunately you won’t be able to change gears.”
“A single speed,” Tamara said with a grin. “Awesome! Honestly, for self-supported enduro rides it can be kinda cool to have something that’s mechanically simple. Less stuff to break even if the single gear ratio means that hills can be brutal.”
Devon stuffed a bite of eggs in her mouth. She had no idea what Tamara was talking about.
There wasn’t any sort of serving utensil for the bacon, so after staring at it for a while, she finally reached for a strip with her fingers. “Is this…do you care if I use my hands?”
Tamara laughed. “Aren’t we heading into the Middle Ages or something? I doubt we’ll be worried about manners. Anyway, fingers are fine. That’s why God gave them to us, right? To grab bacon?”
Devon fought the urge to look over her shoulder for Tamara’s parents. She hadn’t gotten the idea that they were deeply devout or anything, but she didn’t want Tamara to get in trouble for making light of religion. When she glanced at her friend, though, she saw that Tamara was smirking.
“And no, I don’t think I’ll go to Hell for saying that.”
No, maybe not. But she might find Stonehaven to be awfully close to it within the next couple weeks if Devon didn’t figure out how to get through Ishildar. And speaking of going to hell, Devon wondered again how Owen was doing. She really did need to get in touch with Emerson, awkwardness or not, to find out if there was any news from her former guildmate or his girlfriend, Cynthia.
Crunching down on a bite of bacon, Devon rolled her eyes with pleasure. It was hard to believe that Tamara ate like this every day. The food was delicious. Even better than the Stonehaven Scramble that Tom used to make from the reptile eggs the hunter, Grey, used to forage downstream of the village. When the jungle had retreated, those egg-layers had vanished, too. Tom had concocted a new dish, Poached Coop Fruit, from the chicken eggs that Stonehaven’s birds laid, but Devon couldn’t really get past the name. And anyway, with so many mouths to feed, the settlement’s kitchen hadn’t had the luxury of making special buff-granting recipes lately. She hoped the new farm plots and kitchen would be ready soon.
Thinking of it, she started to feel guilty for lingering over breakfast. Trying to get the bacon down quicker, she took a couple of deep swigs of milk.
“I get the sense you’re ready to log in,” Tamara said.
Devon forced herself to slow down and swallow before speaking. “Sorry, started thinking about some work I have ahead of me.”
Tamara laughed. “No problem. I was just trying to be polite and let you eat before you have to play tour guide.”
Grinning, Devon shoveled in another big bite of eggs and washed it down with the rest of her coffee. “Let’s do this, then.”
Chapter Thirty
INSIDE A SMALL wood-paneled room that Tamara’s family called the den, a pair of recliners stood side by side. Other furniture—a dark-wood table lacquered to a gleam, a straight-backed chair, a couch, and a trio of healthy houseplants—had been pushed up against a wall that was entirely covered with built-in bookcases. On the opposite wall, heavy blue drapes had been pulled across the windows. Behind the recliners, a large in-home theater screen was inset a few inches into the wall. Side tables stood next to each of the recliners, bowls of nuts and little plates of hard candy and boxes of tissue standing on top.
“Have a preference?” Tamara asked, gesturing at the recliners. “The left one is new, so it’s probably not broken in.”
New? Did that mean that Tamara’s parents had bought it just for this? Devon would have been fine flopping down on the couch. As she looked at the room again, the situation started to feel like one of those extravagant slumber parties that parents of her classmates had thrown back in elementary school. Of course, Devon hadn’t been invited—even if the upstanding parents could have gotten past her home situation, having seen her following her disheveled mother around the state-run liquor store, there’d have been no way for the other parents to contact Devon’s mom and invite her. No phone. No tablet. If they’d wanted to send a note, Devon would have had to bribe her mother with whiskey to get her to read and respond. And even if she’d gone that far, she probably would have been too embarrassed to deliver the response with its sloppy handwriting on stained and wrinkled paper.
She swallowed and shrugged. “You’ve seen where I game at home. Take whichever’s more comfortable for you.”
Tamara didn’t argue but instead headed straight for the broken-in recliner. Almost tiptoeing in her wake, Devon ran a hand over the soft upholstery before turning and sitting. The chair sighed, exhaling the scent of new fabric and foam.
Devon closed her eyes as she pulled the lever to extend the footrest. She could stay here pretty much forever—the chair was about a hundred times more comfortable than her bed. Tier 20 comfort. It had to have cost a bucketful of money.
As the women settled into their recliners, Tamara’s
mother appeared in the doorway. Dry-washing her hands, she stepped into the room. After shifting her weight back and forth between her feet, she shuffled across the thick carpet and started rearranging the supplies on Tamara’s side table. “You guys need anything?” she asked, then abruptly straightened. “I forgot the water bottles. Hold on.”
As she started to rush out, Tamara sighed. “Mom, it’s okay. We’re not going to be conscious anyway.”
The woman turned, the corner of her mouth sucked between her teeth. She rubbed her hands together again. “I just want this to go well for you. You sure I can’t help? Would it be best if I brought my writing in here?”
Devon felt her eyes widen despite her attempts to hide her reaction. She couldn’t exactly tell the woman not to hang out, but she was already feeling self-conscious over the whole situation. The closest experience she’d had to this was back when Pod People had opened its first VR parlor in St. George. It had been just a few months before Devon’s mom had kicked her out, but Devon had felt the change coming. She’d been gaming semi-professionally between school and homework and her weekend job as an attendant at a local car wash, making sure the autocab companies weren’t trying to slip through more fleet vehicles than their contracts specified. But with the rise of VR parlors, the gaming population that wanted to buy her loot in old-fashioned flat-screen games was dwindling. She and a friend had saved up for a month of VR time, and on that first day, they’d gone into the parlor together to make characters.
But once there, they’d climbed into individual capsules, closed the lids, and listened to the seals engage. It had still been a private experience, nothing like this exposed situation.
“Seriously, Mom, do you think we want someone here watching? What if we drool or something?”
The tension uncoiled from Devon’s chest. Whether or not God made fingers for grabbing bacon, Devon was certainly glad that the creator presiding over Earth—whoever or whatever it was—had come up with Tamara.
Still, Tamara’s mother hesitated, and Tamara gave an audible sigh. “Would it help if I put on my heart rate monitor? It’s not like I’m using it to track my aerobic potential anymore, so might as well let you stare at the app so you won’t have to worry that I’m dead.”
Tamara’s mom smiled somewhat sheepishly. “I have it here,” she said, pulling out what looked like a wrist watch from the pocket of her thigh-length sweater.
Tamara laughed and held out a hand to grab it. The watch-thing sat on her wrist, and when Tamara’s mom showed the women her phone screen, there was a pulsing heart graphic with a bunch of numbers and acronyms. Apparently this was yet another of the mysterious habits of obsessive athletes.
“When you said heart rate, I was expecting all those electrodes they stick on you,” Devon said.
“You mean like a full-on EKG?” Tamara said with a laugh. “The adhesive and wires don’t mesh well with sweat and crashes.”
Now peering at the phone as if it could keep her daughter safe, Tamara’s mom swallowed. “Okay, well if you don’t need anything…”
“Just go, Mom,” Tamara said.
Moments later, the door clicked shut. Devon sank deeper into the chair, relieved.
“Okay, so I just focus on the Relic Online icon?” Tamara said.
“Yep. You’ll go through character creation where you’ll basically choose how you’ll look in the game world. To start, anyway. Just like life, you’ll probably change over time.”
Tamara gave an ironic snort and lifted her oxygen tube. “Hopefully not in this way.”
Devon smiled gently, knowing that Tamara made jokes like that because it helped her cope. “The only time I’ve ever struggled to breathe in the game was when I grew gills and didn’t get in the water right away.”
Tamara’s eyebrow went up. “Uh…”
“Don’t worry. It was a temporary thing. Anyway I lost the item that let me cast the water-breathing spell when I transformed into a large demon and my backpack got shredded.”
“Double uh…?”
Devon laughed. “Anyway, character creation may take you a while, but I’ll be waiting in Stonehaven. The GMs have orders to teleport you there if you end up spawning elsewhere.”
Tamara nodded, hand rubbing the arm of the chair. Devon couldn’t remember ever seeing her friend look nervous; after all, this was the woman who used to ride her bike off cliffs. She considered patting Tamara’s hand to encourage her but thought that might be awkward, maybe even a breach of the rules. Out-of-game adult friendships were kind of like a poorly written quest with super vague directions.
“Just one more step, and you’ll be riding, right?” she asked.
Tamara’s hand stilled and she nodded, a smile spreading across her face. “Okay, here goes.”
Devon watched her friend’s face go slack as the implants took over her perception, sweeping her away to…whatever character creation looked like in Relic Online. Devon had never experienced it, the game having dropped her unceremoniously into the middle of Ishildar with nothing but ragged clothing and pocket lint. But from what she’d heard in the chatter among the players of the camp, it was the best they’d experienced. Tamara would have fun with it.
Settling back into the chair, she closed her eyes and focused on her interface. Speaking of adult friendships…she glanced at her messenger icon. Over the past couple days, she’d been thinking more about how she’d avoided contacting Emerson because she didn’t know how to approach it. The truth was, she did enjoy his company. At the very least, she’d promised him some mob-slaying time. Yeah, things were too hectic in the game right now, but she really ought to let him know why she hadn’t dropped a line to lay plans for some tree snake hunting.
She glanced again at Tamara, who’d been brave enough to install hardware in her skull and jump into a foreign world on Devon’s promise that it would be fun. At the very least, Devon could be brave enough to send Emerson a message to let him know what was going on. It wasn’t like she was proposing marriage or something. Swallowing her remaining hesitation, she pulled up her messenger interface.
Chapter Thirty-One
“EXCUSE ME, WHAT?” Emerson said. He narrowed his eyes at the tank trainer, Aravon. “I’m not qualified? What do you mean I’m not qualified? You were the one who said you sensed something special about me. So why, exactly, can’t you offer me a choice of character class? I completed your cannon fodder quest and hit level 5. Seems like that should qualify me.”
Emerson realized he didn't really sound like himself. At least, he wasn’t sounding like the real-life programmer who avoided conflict and would certainly never start an argument with someone wearing battle armor and possessing enough scars to…what…make that old Scarface character jealous? No. That was a dumb comparison. To make a scarab jealous? No. Different pronunciation. Anyway, the dude had a lot of scars, and Emerson was talking to him like a spoiled elementary school kid.
But at this point, he was kind of pissed. It wasn’t really Aravon’s fault. Well, at least, it wasn’t only Aravon’s fault. The man had given him the quest that led to him reappearing, clearly having just died, right under Devon’s nose. Only to be greeted by Greel who talked to him like he was a trained dog, further humiliating him in front of the one person he wanted to impress.
Of course, Emerson’s biggest problem was he still had no idea what to do about having lied to Devon. Well, not lied. But close enough. Maybe if it had been just the once he could have logged out and forced customer service to flag his account to allow another avatar. Someday, long in the future and once he’d proved himself, Emerson could have confessed about Valious, and they could have laughed about it together. Now though, he just seemed to be digging himself deeper and deeper.
He continued to level up, gaining skill and confidence and even—shoes. Just before heading to the training grounds, he’d picked up a swanky set of leather boots from Gerrald’s specialty shop. 3 Armor!
Not only tha
t, but Aravon had a gut feeling about him.
Greel had taken him on as a pupil.
He’d reached level 5, apparently faster than Devon herself.
Together, it had to mean something, perhaps even that Emerson had a part to play in protecting Devon’s settlement from Zaa—something he’d failed miserably at in his attempts to persuade Bradley Williams to shut the AI down.
Anyway, no matter how much his mind screamed at him to log out now if he ever wanted to be able to admit the truth to Devon, the game kept pulling him back.
Well, actually, his apprenticeship to Greel wasn’t exactly a selling point for the game. The longer Emerson spent with the man, the more he started to wonder how Greel could possibly act so fricking…supercilious every moment of his waking life. The guy put the ‘eer’ in the word sneer. Okay, maybe that saying needed work, too. But the man was seriously annoying, and if Emerson wouldn’t otherwise be competing with dozens and dozens of other players for the trainers’ attention, he’d walk away from their little arrangement in a heartbeat.
Oh, and if Greel’s attitude wasn’t enough to put him out of sorts, there was the crap about the title. When Emerson had completed the Cannon Fodder Training quest, he’d had a choice between the “Speedbump” and “Expendable” titles. Yeah, neither were particularly flattering, but since he hadn’t seen anyone else running around with a title, he’d chosen “Expendable” and had been pretty damn proud to sport it.
Until Greel had caught sight of him.
Of course, Emerson had no clue whether NPCs perceived the game interface the same way he did. Regardless, the moment Emerson completed the quest and figured out how to attach the title to his name, Greel had smacked him on the back of the head and dragged him away from the other trainers for a “chat.”
According to the lawyer, titles were nothing but an invitation to others to challenge the bearer to a duel or some other “equally ridiculous and pointless contest of prowess.” A true master of the combat arts needed no such heralding, according to Greel, and in fact, the use of the pronouncement only made Emerson look like a fool.
Vault of the Magi: A LitRPG Adventure (Stonehaven League Book 5) Page 18
