Level ninety or level thirty-five and a permanent position as the Empress’ gofer-bitches? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – the math didn’t add up, so I went with King Coromon’s offer. Griffins, royal protocol, and Sophia’s sensibilities be damned.
“Alrighty then, let’s cut right to the chase,” I say as I step to the closest knight. I get right in his face, snort, clear my throat and expectorate a mucosal statement of opinion right between his digital eyes.
Frances Euphoria: QUANTUM!
Veenure: Quantum?
Rocket: Yes, Quantum! It’s an in-house profanity we use on our private channel because, um, the feds fine us if we drop the f-bomb.
Sophia: DON’T SPIT ON THE IMPERIAL GUARD! WHAT THE QUANTUM IS WRONG WITH YOU!?
Rocket: TIL – all caps means you’re shouting.
Little Sir Spat Upon removes his gauntlet, wipes my spittle from his face and flicks it back at me. Nope, he ain’t happy, but life’s tough, and then you die.
The trumpet sounds a fanfare and a 3-D roulette wheel with black and white pockets and a silver skull-shaped ball appears between us. A legend forms as it settles, indicating that white means turn-based and black means real-time. I had almost forgotten that the fighting in Ultima Thule was either/or, and I’m all grins when the ball finally lands on black.
~*~
Sophia pleads, “Please, please don’t fight with them!”
“This again? What is it with you?” I’m just about to equip my life vest, item 578, when I remember that Doc said it only works in the tournament. No matter, I go ahead and go with my tried-est and truest Tritania weapon, a gift from Ray Steampunk. The Buster Sword, item 572, appears in my hands, and not a second too soon. Sure, it doesn’t grow to epic proportions like my … um … Bustermarm – yeah, that’s it, but it ain’t too shabby in a little hand-to-hand.
The knight that I anointed with my salivary salutation thrusts with his frog-stabber and I parry with my buster. We’re real time now, so I activate my AA bar just as our swords connect. He disappears in a cloud of silver smoke and then there’s the wrong end of a blade protruding from my bread basket. My life bar drops 30%.
Morning Assassin leaps in, Scissorsword in hand.
He takes Sir Stabby’s sword arm off at the shoulder, which leaves the sword still sticking out of me. Got no time to see what the frails are up to; another Noble Knight is about to let go with some green-flaming arrows of doom. I equip my mini trampoline, item 460, toss it in front of me, springboard off the trampoline and open my arms wide in a flying bear hug o’ death. Ideally, I’ll skewer him and push the yard o’ steel out of my gut.
Whoomp there it is! I land on him and run him through and pin us together like NorK doggie-kabobs on a stick.
By this point I’ve already equipped my piano wire, item 248, and I’m occupied with taking the big schmuck’s head off when I catch Big Euphoria doing a cartwheel kick at the third knight – no make that the fourth. A quick glance around and I see that two more knights have appeared. I unstick myself from him, finish with the haircut a la rasoir nationale, shake the knight’s squash out of his helmet like low-sodium, reduced calorie Spam from a can, and add it to my own inventory list, item 580.
Sometimes intervention is the only diplomatic way forward. Scrolling through my list, I stop at item 68, my 100th anniversary Captain America Replica Shield. I hop to my feet and strike a heroic pose – always necessary – before I toss it edge-on at the Empress’ goomba who’s giving what-for to Veenure. The proto-vibranium alloy Frisbee o’ death takes him off at the knees, skips, bounces, and returns to my hand just as Veenure equips her stapler hands and staples the ever-lovin’ right out of him.
Me: These guys are a piece of cake, which makes me want to equip my hammered copper cake slicer, item 95.
Aiden appears next to me, his Scissorsword in one hand and his Slice Bang in the other.
Sophia: This is pointless! Stop fighting them! Look around you!
Rocket: Shit, she’s right!
Sophia: NPC Opponents are matched to our level, so the knights are level ninety now. If you knew anything about level ninety knights, especially ones designated as security, you’d know that they can multiply.
Two knights peel out of the body of the knight that I just piano-wired to death; the one that Aiden de-armed is nearly finished growing a twin; the hatchetman that Veenure filled with staples pushes himself to his feet and separates into two. More knights appear, regroup and surround us in a ring of pointy, stabby stuff.
He In Whose Face I Spit is the first to speak. “You can’t win and you will come with us.”
“I hate to give you guys the ol’ Syrian street bazaar treatment, but … ”
I scroll through my list behind my back; item 300 wraps itself around me – my suicide bomber vest with genuine, classic, untagged Cold War Semtex 1A. My shopping bag full of shrapnel and RKG-3s, item 170, appears over one shoulder and my frag grenade, item 80 materializes my hand. A fuzed stick of dynamite, item 339, forms between my teeth. For good measure, I also equip my pink, small-scale, saltwater croc Birkin bag filled with frag grenades, item 105.
Sophia: What the Quantum are you doing? STEAMBOY! Do not blow everyone up – I have a better idea.
Me: Yeah, don’t you always? You’d better make it quick, because if these guys take another step we’ll all go up together.
Sophia: Veenure, cast Seven Nation Army and use a spell booster. I’ll cast Obscure and we can cancel the battle.
Me: Cancel? The Knights run from no man!
Sophia: It isn’t running! It’ll give us a chance to regroup.
Me: At what cost?
Frances Euphoria: 10,000 rupees at our level. Chump change.
A quick glance to our rupee count – a cool half mil – and I’m reminded that while The Loop NPCs – aside from Aiden – appear to be useless in Tritania, someone is good at gambling, or more likely, robbery, burglary, extortions and shake-down. My money is on Irish Shorty and Pip. Put the card sharks in the kiddie pool and watch the chumfest.
Me: Fine, have it your way. Do it.
Veenure: Done.
Our Dark Mage’s eyes go green as she throws her jazz hands in the air. The ground shakes as the spirits of fallen warriors appear. While their forms may be nothing more substantial than ectoplasmic flatus, they’re all accoutered in fantasy Viking gear – horned helmets, fur vests and leggings, swords, shields, and axes. The shades of the departed engage Empress Thun’s lackeys as a thick black smog forms around us. It’s a Loop-like moment of deja-vu all over again; it’s as if I’m wrapped in a blanket of toxic, gritty effluvia from the industrial zone upwind of The Pier.
Ms. Magical Doctor Know-It-All Spoilsport clamps her canoe-paddler on my elbow, and I know that my fun is just about to end. Regardless, I manage to toss a couple frag grenades before the battle is canceled.
Chapter Two
I almost spawn on top of an overturned table with its legs sharpened into spikes. The table sits in the middle of an astounding collection of semi-identifiable trash, of which broken Horse Piss Flagons, Irn Bru bottles, bent cutlery, and Kentucky Phried Wombat & Chips wrappers are heavily featured. There are bloody footprints on the ceiling, no glass in any of the windows save one, a section of floor has been ripped up for a game of Murder in the Dark, and a most disgruntled-looking sheep in makeup, high heels and lingerie noshes Phrosted Phrooty Pebble-Os from an upturned armored brassiere of heroic dimensions.
“There’s ‘is sodding Lordship now!” cries Burly.
His butt is firmly planted on a loveseat that is the only piece of reasonably unfouled and semi-unbroken furniture in the joint. On one knee he dandles a willowy, wasp-waisted elven woman of the ebony variety; she in a golden G-string and a pair of golden, tasseled pasties. A green-skinned, girthy sea-cow of considerable heft and volume does not so much dandle from his other knee as spill over and engulf it. She is clad only in golden ring that pierces the septum of a nose that w
ould be more appropriate on the creature most closely associated with bacon … mmm … bacon.
El Jefe de los Lobby Boys releases a long, curling belch, uncorks a fifteen second, two octave gaseous eructation, and remarks, “Better out than in, I always say!”
The green prosti-potamus snorts and giggles and queefs. The elven dame pinches her nose shut and slaps him on the chest; he dumps her off his knee and pinches her butt when she squeals and scrambles to her feet.
“Up an’ at ‘em, Long Liz. Ol’ Burly’s whistle needs wettin’; be a lamb and fetch us a pint, will ye? Get one for me ol’ guv’nor as well, right?”
“I’m not a serving wench and you’re a bloody pig!” She bares her chompers – sharp, pointy, nasty things and hisses at him.
“No, that’s this one.” He rumbles his knee to make Ms. Piggy bounce.
“Muukhai jikh makh!” She produces a green-handled blade from somewhere within the ample folds of her fleshy self and drives it into Burly’s gut. With a surprisingly graceful economy of motion, she stands and grabs his hair, twists his nose and gouges his eyes in the finest Moses Harry Horowitz tradition. The not-a-serving-wench hooks pinky fingers with her and they disappear in a sparkly flash; I notice a sizeable chunk from our guild’s bank account disappear with them.
“Told ye they was some bad news, ye toffee-nosed, malodorous pervert – but no-o-o-o, whoever listens to the kilted Wally? Whuddus he know?” Scotty complains. He’s leaning against the wall, wearing his sporran for a hat. There’s a French fry up his nose and vile, chunky stains are all down the front of his fishnet wife-beater. His kilt looks like it’s been through a wood chipper with missing teeth; there are different sized bite-marks on his legs, and his left combat boot is AWOL – along with his left big toe.
Sophia: They’re terrible, TERRIBLE.
“Bloody Hell, that stings a bit!” Belches Burly, and then daintily brushes the chunks from his Mondegreen Hotel T-shirt. He pulls the pig’s sticker from his abdomen and examines it. “Oi! Lookit this thing! Sodding Flabulena bleedin’ well stuck me with a bloody knife!”
“Wotta whingin’ wanker! Call that a knife? Me Ol’ Gran’s sgian-dubh is bigger than that! Now this,” the digital son of the digital Highlands says as he produces an oversized digital dirk, “this is a knife!”
“Right then! You’ll not mind if I do this then!” With a flip of the wrist, Burly sends the jade jaded jade’s jade blade spinning straight at Scotty’s heart; with a negligent flick of his oversized dirk Scotty deflects it out the window.
We’re renting this space, so it’s technically in the OMIB, but our landlords have given the grounds outside the guild hall depth and dimension. There’s a courtyard, willow trees, birds and butterflies fluttering in the air, as well as a statue of a young maiden sitting by a fountain.
Scotty limps over to the window, brings his good foot back and kicks the mound of dirty clothes beneath it. Irish Shorty sits up, his face bruised and bloody.
“Speckled Son of a Whore, you guys look like the first day of the Somme,” I tell them. Veenure looks for a chair, doesn’t find one and cops a squat.
“You ‘eard the man! Wakey-wakey, hands off snakey! Everyone up! We’ve ‘ad bugger all to do today and you’ve ‘ad plenty of time to rest!” barks Burly. The first response to his cheery eye-opener is a traditional bowman’s salute, raised from a pile of splintered furniture, kegs, women’s clothing, severed parts of mythical creatures and a well-gnawed griffin’s skull. Bucket hat stands from the pile, falls back down and rolls to his side.
‘They’re worse than college students! They’re just terrible,’ Sophia moans.
His signature headgear is crafted from world appropriate chainmail over an iron frame. He takes it off and scratches at a scabbed-over burn mark on the side of his skull.
“They weren’t like this at the Hotel, were they?” Frances steps over Bucket Hat’s mess and helps the Quiet One out of a barrel.
“‘Erself wouldna let us.” Bucket Hat comments.
I do a quick headcount: Burly, Scotty, Irish Shorty, Bucket Hat, the Quiet One …
‘Where’s Pip?’
“Oi, Princess! ‘Ware the Hun in the sun!” Pip plummets from the chandelier and misses me by a mile. His trajectory does, however, fall within Aiden’s sphere of immediate influence, and good ol’ Mrs. 10’s Bouncing Baby Boy roundhouse kicks Pip through the only unbroken window.
Pip sticks his phizog back in through the window, gives a snaggle-toothed and sheepish grin, points to the still-snacking, lingerie-clad Ovis aries and exclaims, “Don’t ye believe a thing that wooly bugger tells you – that critter lies!”
It’s at this point that I’ve seen enough.
“What the Hell is wrong with you people? Even Dirty Dave doesn’t live like this!”
“Aye, we’re missing Cyber Noir we are,” mumbles Scotty, as he pulls the French fry from his nostril, examines it, and chomps it down with every sign of enjoyment. “Bloody wankers and la-di-da poofters in this dragon shite turd of a world.” He produces a ructus that rivals Burly’s earlier effort in volume, duration, and amount of greenhouse gases released. “Where be the r-r-r-real men?” he asks, rolling his ‘r’ with a fine flourish. “Where be the lads who’ll stick ye in yer gut over a footy match and then stand ye a pint afterward? Not this lot ‘o Billy-be-damned, buggerin’ bampots prancin’ around with their soddin’ snickersnees and leather teddies!”
“I’m pretty sure Burly just got shanked, so there’s your blade in the gut,” I remind him.
“See you, Jimmy!” he throws his hands up. “Ye call that a shankin’ do ye now? ‘Ave you ever ‘ad a Dundee daggerin?”
‘Can’t say that I have.’
He pause, raises his bushy red eyebrow in my direction. “Can fix that now. What about choo, Maleficent?” he asks Sophia. “I’ll carve ye a new frown.”
“I’ve had enough.” Sophia makes a Hook’em Horns hand symbol and a jolt of electricity oscillates between her two fingers. With a blinding flash, a silvery sphere forms in the center of the room and blue ripples of energy discharge from it. I seriously expect a Terminator to step out and pummel some Brit Assassin ass, but instead the blue ripples clean, straighten, organize, and repair everything they touch.
“Damn! That spell beats Mickey with a magic mop bucket any day!”
“What are you referencing?” asks Sophia as her wave of energy beats and sweeps and cleans. “This is the Hooverville spell; the one that cleaned up Valhalla at the turn of the eon. The place used to be a shantytown.”
By the time I’m done trying to think of a First Depression-era comeback, the place is cleaner than Mr. Clean’s colon after a five gallon scrubbing-bubble turbo-enema. All the filth, all the damage, all the Jeffrey Dahmer-esque souvenirs – gone. The furniture is neatly arranged and highly polished; the air is gently scented and dare I say, sparkling. The sheep has been washed, dried, relieved of her party outfit and tastefully accoutered with a pink ribbon around her neck – and a diaper. She looks even more disgruntled now that her armored brassiere full of Phrosted Phrooty Pebble-Os has disappeared as part of general clean-up.
As a general rule, sheep don’t snarl. This one does however, when she catches sight of Pip, and she scrabbles for traction as she charges. She gets up enough steam to take him clean off his feet when she butts him in the bollocks, and then bites him in the bum when he rolls over.
“B-a-a-a-h!” she exclaims.
Pip picks himself up off the floor and observes, “Worth it – totally worth it!”
“That spell would be super-useful in the RW,” I say as I take a seat at our ornate, highly polished, fancy-schmancy Spamalot-style round table. The centerpiece is a tremendous gaudy silver thing that looks like a Mexican Carnival ride. It’s decorated with unicorns and cherubs and our little forest pals, and it sports various arms with baskets full of fresh fruit – an epergne, Sophia informs me before I can open my skull cave to ask – and a magic levitating scroll and goos
e-quill pen transcribes our words as we speak.
“Things need to be more organized,” Sophia says, “so I’ve placed a Wall Eye in our guild hall to record what happens at all times.” She glowers at the UK Assassins as an eye with cartoon movie star lashes opens up on the ceiling.
The eye blinks twice and locks on Bucket Hat.
He appears almost as disgruntled as Pip’s fleecy prom date. “‘Ere, now Lady Di – what do ye care what we get up to when we’re just ‘avin’ a bit o’ fun? What about yur Second Amendment? Or is it the Fifth? Ye know, the one about life, liberty and the pursuit of hooers? Bloody killjoy wankin’ Yanks; think you can stick a camera anywhere without so much as a by-your-leave. Well God Save Clone Elizabeth II.2, and ye can WOOPA me rosy red arse!”
Sophia flicks her finger at him and his lips zipper shut. He continues to protest, but it mostly comes out as a series of indignant, muffled grunts and snorts.
Burly still has both hands clapped over the hole in his breadbasket, and he laughs so hard at Bucket Hat’s predicament that he almost puts one of his bloodied hands on the table for support. Sophia glares at him. “Don’t do it.”
“You and your lot, as you call them will, from this point forward, keep the guild hall clean and behave like sensitive, mature, responsible, adults,” Sophia orders. “No more fights, murders, sex workers, property damage or mysterious stains. I will remove the Wall Eye when I feel you are ready, and not a moment before.”
“Oh, is that bloody well right, your ladyship? Well yur no in charge of us, ye jumped-up, bossy bint!” says Scotty as he adjusts his kilt and idly fingers the hilt of his dirk. “Ye can’t make us do anything we don’t want to do, yur la-di-da ‘igh and mightiness!”
Sophia taps her nose and Scotty punches himself in the face.
“Whaddya call that? Me sweet lil’ baby sis packs more of a wallop than – OW!” He bashes himself again.
The Feedback Loop (Books 4-6): Sci-fi LitRPG Series (The Feedback Loop Box Set Book 2) Page 26
