The Battle

by D. Rus

  My voice grew quieter as I finished the sentence, but there was a hint of contempt in it still. I had a point: the Fallen One was outright wrong!

  The echo of the scandal nearly knocked me over. My dad always told me to stay out of other folks’ family crap. Families would work their shit out anyway, but would never forgive anyone who dared to butt in.

  The sound of a slap abruptly ended Macaria’s yelling. Yep, I was screwed. No way the goddess would ever forgive me for witnessing this.

  The Fallen One materialized as he dealt a sharp blow to my long-suffering jaw. "Know your place!" he snapped, but almost immediately softened and nearly apologized, "Poor Macaria! My suicidal little Olympian had a fit of self-pity."

  Lifting up my chin with his steely fingers, he gazed into my eyes in alarm.

  "I’m fine," I said. "I certainly did not expect to get through life without getting smacked. Although I do wish it’d happen less often," I tossed my head, trying to wrench my face from his grip to spit out pieces of teeth.

  "Like hell you’re fine," The Fallen One replied and paralyzed me with a snap of his fingers.

  He suddenly grew very serious and wrinkled his brow. His eyes became like coin slots. He threw his arms up like some wannabe psychic. A megaton energy press pinned me down.

  My physical body passed through a small magic sieve. With inhuman speed, they took my molecules apart, examined every single one, then wiped them clean and carefully set them back in place.

  I literally got turned inside out. Black sweat burst from my pores. Its shiny onyx-colored drops grew chitin legs and poured on the ground in the form of tiny angry spiders.

  My eyes bulged out in horror. A big, stirring lump got stuck in my throat.

  The Fallen One waved his arms like a conductor. Instantly, my paralysis was gone. I bent over, vomiting up foamy slush and a huge furry spider. It was a black widow with a cross on its back and with eyes full of hate.

  I started back and fell on my ass. The Fallen One crushed the long-legged arachnid with his foot just as a smoking drop of venom began to swell up on its upper jaw.

  Just one look at its furry, purulent remains made me throw up again. It was regular vomit this time, without the dark magic visuals to go with it.

  "Screenshot... the first one to puke in the AlterWorld. Gets a prize of ten thousand gold," Widowmaker muttered, astonished.

  "Delete that shit... before I murder you..." was all I could say, gratefully taking the flask that the Analyst offered me, then quickly rinsed my mouth.

  Sounds that resembled the rattling of a machine gun made me look up. A bunch of personal portals had popped open. Dammit, what do they want?!

  As the dust they raised settled on the ground, five virtual cops materialized before us along with chief inspector McDougall. He had already set our teeth on edge.

  "Virtual police! Nobody move! This is an arrest!" he shouted, clearly enjoying himself as his baton discharged a blue surge of energy right into me.

  Shit, what a day! I thought. I saw flashes nearby. The pigs dealt with us shortly, freezing up my men and the Remote Station warriors. Officially, the judicial AI was on their side, of course. The guys failed to obey the "don’t move" order by blinking. A mighty resistance this was, for sure.

  Pulling my head back by the hair until it crunched, McDougall grinned in my face, "Now you’ve done it, buddy! Haven’t I warned you?"

  Reveling in the triumph of the moment, he switched to an official tone, "Laith, character registration number 066312901, is accused of several violations of the EULA, including ignoring the 30-day admin ban. As punishment, your avatar will be arrested and placed in the Cliff Virtual Jail. As a database coordinate swap is currently unavailable for technical reasons, the avatar relocation will be performed by the arrest group."

  I silently cursed the Yanks for their nasty habit of bending the rules. I also cursed Flint and Anya, to whom I’d given my Divine Spark in its entirety. Blindly groping in the depths of my soul, I drew up the remaining warmth and broke free of my paralysis. Straightening up, I grabbed the inspector’s arm and happily snapped his fragile bones. "McDougall, you are an imbecile. What fucking ban? I am digitized!"

  The inspector started back, his face awry with mild pain. He fearfully looked at his arm which was now bent at an abnormal angle. Encountering resistance wasn’t something he was used to.

  The cops’ batons flashed as they stunned me again, rooting me to the spot. The contemptuous face I made earned me extra blows. Fortunately, all perma players had a high pain threshold which could be raised quickly. Getting thousands of hits during farming, we would ignore pain for weeks, much like the city dweller ignores the urban smog and the bedouin, the ardent desert sun.

  I planned my provocations carefully, trying to get the cop to start an open conflict just when the Fallen One had me covered. Surely he’d back up his First Priest, given what cheaters his opponents were in this case.

  I caught a glimpse of his frame from the corner of my eye and grinned to myself insidiously.

  "McDougall..." the Fallen One ignored the stun batons, then leisurely cast aside the cops that jumped on him.

  The cops were sprawled out in mid-air, caught in space like flies in a spider's web. They dropped their batons like logs as their hands unclenched. The artifacts sparked with magic, melting the stone around them. I noted one of the batons roll into a dark crack; a suspiciously smart move.

  The Fallen One approached the cringing inspector. "Also known as Philip Dyson, age 57, black, weight – 430 pounds. Three perma and one suicide attempts. Unfortunately, the suicide one failed. Hates everyone who was able to get digitized. After being reassessed, got transferred to an immobile virtual police squad. The Baltimore Federal Cybercrime Center, the MMORPG division, AlterWorld sector, an XXXL capsule number 4190921322. Is that correct?"

  "Who the hell are you?" the cop snapped in rage, getting repulsively cross-eyed.

  This signaled the familiar parallel look effect, when one looked at both the real world and the internal interface at once. Click away, I thought, see what you can dig up on the Fallen One in the admin database.

  The inspector resembled a panicking pianist as his fingers raced across the moderator’s virtual keyboard. A series of flashes shook the AlterWorld. Some of them got the Fallen One. Nevertheless, the tools at the inspector’s disposal could neither accommodate an escape nor stop the god.

  The Fallen One was having trouble with remote information access. Wiping his brow, he neared the inspector faster than the eye could see and brought his palm to the cop’s forehead. The inspector instantly zoned out. His look became vacant. His face relaxed.

  The god covered his eyes for an instant, then nodded with satisfaction and turned to me. Glancing over our paralyzed bodies in ostentatious bewilderment, he released us by simply moving his brow.

  We all hissed in chorus, groaning and cursing in constrained voices. Divine presence imposed its own laws on the world’s magical physics in a god’s exact location.

  The Fallen One said to me, "Their entire division has but a dozen special avatars. Introducing new ones is not an option given the administrative difficulties and the fact that the servers have been nationalized. Before you is the entire daytime shift – the strongmen plus the inspector. The others are mere office plankton. They do not concern us. Kill the cops, solve half your problems. By the time you get to the rest, you will have put out yet another force – an enemy one."

  I gave him a pensive look. What’s he pulling me into? Is he trying to scare me into loyalty? Why? I already depend entirely on his protection. The Sun God’s broken mug alone is enough to get me an eternity of torture."

  The Fallen One added encouragingly, "Do it! Use your staff!"

  I hesitated, pulling the staff out. I released the twitching blade, but was in no hurry to bring it down on the helpless bodies. Didn’t feel like a very Russian thing to do.

  The cops knew what the staff was capable of. Panic filled
their eyes. Their bodies jerked, bending awkwardly. They blinked as they fell out of reality. But the Fallen One sharply raised his arms and turned the cops 3D again.

  Losing patience, the god said in a tense voice, "Forced ejection from the virtual world! Come on, do it! I can’t hold their avatars here much longer!"

  I could hack up empty images, no problem. Hushing the staff which stubbornly tried to turn its nose away, I quickly went from one cop to another, slicing the helmet-clad heads off with short, efficient movements. Only when the inspector’s turn came did I let myself go, striking him crosswise and slashing him open like a self-taught autopsist.

  The Fallen One lowered his arms in relief, shaking out his numb wrists. He then turned to me and said, irritated, "Next time, obey your god’s orders without hesitation."

  My head tilted onto my shoulder, I looked closely into his steel-cold eyes and the darkness swirling behind him. Whether we had wanted this or not, his role as the leader of the Dark Pantheon along with millions of mass-media stereotype believers had already taken its toll: it had broken and transformed the poor fellow 311.

  I felt truly sorry for the lonesome god bearing the weight of the circumstances. He was fighting against the rapids that were dragging his boat toward the Catastrophe Falls.

  Limping, I approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hang in there, Fall. It’ll be alright."

  The Fallen One frowned in confusion. "What... what did you call me?!"

  What made me say that?! I thought in embarrassment. But I had to explain, "Fallen One. So, Fallon, Fall. I mean, why are ya nameless, like some uncharted swamp?"

  The god looked down at me pensively, as if trying to reach a difficult decision. Then, all of a sudden, he smiled, making his dimples show. I hadn’t seen such a charming smile on his face in a while.

  Screenshot! I decided to be the asshole PR rep and whitewasher of the Fallen One’s good name. I wasn’t alright with a dark, gloomy boss. I wanted the cheerful and sociable one he now was.

  "Thanks, Max, buddy... the people’s silly superstitions really get to me. I fear they might crush me. Feel free to straighten me out once in a while, since you don’t mind risking your HP and postmortal fate. I’ve never told you this, and I doubt I will say it again, but your character is precisely why I appointed you to be my First Priest. You are my anchor in the AlterWorld reality. You alone are keeping me from turning into a conceited deity."

  My officers’ jaws dropped so low I thought they’d hit their toes. I tried to change the subject as I grew increasingly embarrassed. "What about the avatars that I’ve just slain with the adamant blade?"

  It wasn’t an idle question for me. I was finding myself picking up the coarse, blackwood staff more and more often. Doing so without being aware of the consequences was rather frightening.

  The Fallen One shrugged indifferently. "Consider them done for. You gave them a debuff, ‘minus 101% HP per second.’ Should any have the self-control to endure two years of continuous deaths, the wound will gradually heal. A few years of healing are nothing compared to the potential eternity of an immortal being."

  I nodded thoughtfully. He had a point. But our minds weren’t as adaptive as our bodies. I doubted they could easily survive millions of deaths, no pun intended.

  "And the perma ones? What about them? I mean, even Tavor got it rough, and his wound looked really nasty. What if I actually kill someone? I slaughtered scores of camos. Some of them might have been perma."

  "None," the Fallen One cut me off. "Just the camouflage. And you found a place for it. Digitizing is getting harder on one hand, and simpler on the other as it begins to resemble the NPC cycle. A soul languishes in the Great Nothingness as it saves up energy for its next reincarnation."

  Hoping I would never find this knowledge useful, I inquired, "And how do you save it up in there? Where do you farm?"

  "That’s something they have to consider before they die. The more people remember you, the better. Every thought provides the lost soul with a tiny connection to reality. Only when these connections interweave to form a solid bridge can you cross it to return. Unless, of course, you have become fully deincarnate."

  I shook my head in surprise. "Natural selection. Survivors are those who leave the biggest footprint. Warriors, poets, rulers."

  "Not necessarily. Having three loving kids also guarantees reincarnation. So be productive. Leave different anchors in your wake, preferably positive ones. Rotten threads are harder to weave into a rope. In any case, the dead permas get hung up in the Great Nothingness, either to get absorbed by it or to return to the flesh. Some will reincarnate within a day, some within a year, while others will vanish forever. And none of this is your fault! One must live, not simply exist!"

  I stood still, letting it all sink in. My officers also dove into their interfaces to discuss a new theory of evolution in their private channel. The "Fallen One’s First Sermon" video quickly hit the clan’s media library.

  Sighing, I returned to the matter at hand. "Can you give us some strategic advice? We’re in trouble."

  Closing his eyes, the Fallen One shook his head. "Humans alone must win the battle for faith. This is your war. The gods are merely the winner’s prize. Most of our intervention attempts are petty fraud, for which the Universal Balance condemns us severely. So don’t expect much from me. Upon the arrival of Aulë and Yavanna, the Lightsiders won’t be at an advantage anymore. Both sides will be evenly matched. The slightest cough may decide your fates then."

  He paused for a moment, staring thoughtfully into the distance, then continued, "But let me tell you how I see things. First, there is a traitor among us. A high-ranking one who knows a lot."

  I gritted my teeth. "They’ll all be wearin’ adamant blade tattoos sayin’ ‘Rat’ when I’m through with them!"

  The god nodded. "Go for it. Second: you are quite competent, especially for a self-taught amateur fighting a powerful company. Your counterattacks are efficient and unexpected. You separate enemy forces, foil their plans, make them dispatch their reserves prematurely and to secondary locations. But don’t flatter yourself. The enemy’s smart, strong, and rich. He might be in unknown territory, but he’s a fast learner. Remember: should you lose the campaign and let the enemy into the First Temple, then do the impossible. Make the whole world go perma! I know you can do it!"

  I wrinkled my brow in disbelief and scratched my head under my helmet. "Me? But what can I do? Painting one field gold and making a teen with raging hormones go perma is my limit! Or hatching an ancient-as-shit mammoth of a Basilisk! You’d better do it – you’re a constant source of miracles!"

  The god raised his hands in protest. "And the recoil? I will be splattered all over the astral world after such a miracle! Cutting a cord that tight has its consequences!"

  "Oh, and I will be just fine, huh?!" I snapped back with indignation.

  The Fallen One shrugged doubtfully and looked away. "Who needs you, a mere mortal."

  Then he reluctantly admitted, "No, surely, there’s a chance of failure for you... but my chance is endlessly higher than yours! Anyway, you get the idea."

  "Yep. Basically, if the enemy drives me up against the altar, I tear out the safety pin, raise the grenade high above my head and hope that it’s the foe that gets completely wiped out while I only lose my hand."

  A minute of awkward silence followed. Then the Fallen One smiled and slapped me on the shoulder. "Don’t bust your brain! You’re cunning as a hundred serpents! You’ll figure something out! Otherwise I wouldn’t have played on the strings of probability like old eight-armed Shiva plays his harp. You have all your favorite tricks up your sleeve. I’ve done everything I could for you without blowing my cover. Use what you have, cuz that’s all you have!"

  "We’ll see about that," I muttered promisingly.

  Noticing my officers shifting from foot to foot and glancing at their virtual interface watches, I hurried to take my leave. "All right, Fall, we’ve a courtesy call
planned. Can’t keep folks waiting that long. Best of luck to you in the astral battles. We will do our best, but, for Justin Case, keep an eye on us, will ya?"

  "Fear not!" the restless AI smiled again. "I will be at your side most of the time. Like a flag flying above the fighting ranks."

  "That’s all I wanted to hear!" I replied approvingly and, stepping aside, peered into the crack into which the cop's baton had fallen.

  The baton was gone, having left behind only snake-like tracks and a mole’s burrow. Little shit!

  I used the Dragon Whisperer spell in an attempt to locate it. What I saw beneath my feet after activating the spell made me gasp.

  Some grandiose mithril object of the finest form and most frightening appearance shone beneath the massive mountain.

  There was no way to dig it up, even if the game physics would've allowed it. The dwarf miners were great, but a mile of hard rock - quite a challenge!

  "What’s up?" Widowmaker asked, waving his hand before my eyes. "The Fallen One took off already. Let’s go, the Americans are waiting!"

  "Sure..." I said evasively. "I got distracted. Pass on a clan-wide order, also recommended for all members of the Alliance: everyone is to withdraw all bank savings and remove valuables from auctions and third party storehouses. We’re up against the big guys. You can expect the most idiotic sanctions from them."

  I always got jealous when I visited the Class Guild buildings. The multiple-story mansions of white marble, the deluxe furniture, the fanciful guard gear, the quest NPCs, and the guild masters themselves were all quite a sight.

  Players came here for the class skills, the quests, and the premium equipment. They hauled their gold here of their own free will – to the Guild, where most of the class power was concentrated.

  Fruitless was the Necromancer’s path in the lands of Light. Yet still, where would I have been without Grym the Hermit?! Still chasing gray hares with a stick, stuck in the woods at about level five?!

  I was able to choose the path of the lone leader only later, after finding a new master. Ordinary players would often return to their GM to report their progress, rightfully expecting new rewards and missions.