Me: He checked out fully?
Doc: No, he’s actually a radioactive North Korean sleeper agent who’s also a Strata Godsick/Matthew Henderson gene-blended zombie clone, but I thought it’d be a giggle to bring him on board anyway. C’mon, you’re killin’ me here. Yes, of course he checked out and for a thirteen-year-old, he’s damn good with algohacks – he’s better than I am, truth be told.
Me: He’s only thirteen? Seems young.
Doc: Seems young for what? You don’t like thirteen? You triskaidekaphobic or something? You an ageist discriminating pig, maybe? Where he’s from, it isn’t unusual for a thirteen-year-old to work and go to school full-time. So yes, he’s thirteen, and he’s created a mutant hack that will really, really, really take the happy out of their little Reaper birthdays.
Me: Well, you’re already logging their RW locations as Granny gives them a whooping. On top of that, their life bars take a penalty every time they use a weapon. The Attla Spider venom hose attachment item 577, keeps them from logging in for a week. What the hell else could you possibly do beside handing out crotch crickets and digital hemorrhoids?
Doc: Ooh! I like your idea, but I’ve got something even mo’ betterer.
Me: You ain’t jivin’ me now, are you Daddy-O?
Doc: Nope. Now dig this, hepcat. Chronoton, the magic poop fairy metal that the hotel staff harvested, cuts through the game-time continuum and accesses the OMIB. Our post-tween blacksmith buddy says he can weaponize it no prob. Imagine this: You blast a Reaper with the Golden Goosinator. In addition to all the cool stuff it already does, it also gives them the kiss goodbye grandé.
Me: You’ve got me all excited, Doc, and I’m with Frances in her aeros, so that’s probably a bad idea.
Doc: Nothing wrong with a little amomaxia.
Me: What?
Doc: Googleface it. Regardless, this should have you excited because it’s frickin’ genius. So, you zap a Reaper and it not only logs them out, but it prevents them from ever logging in again. Ever. Not just a week penalty; forever.
Me: Forever?
Doc: Forever, ever. It’s linked to their life chip. The way it works is this: the Reaper logs in and is immediately transferred to the OMIB no matter which Proxima World they attempt to spawn in. They’re blocked from ever fully spawning anywhere, anytime, and this is for life – life I tells ya! Sure, you can mod your life chip a little bit, but your deets are your deets and its damn near impossible to get a new life chip. If you want a more detailed description, ask Doctor Wang about inverse coupling. Your account is locked if you do so, meaning that you can logout, but you can’t travel to the actual world you were trying to get to. Does that make sense?
Me: I get it. A Player Character is stuck because they’ve spawned in the OMIB and they can’t spawn anywhere else. Everywhere they log in is the same, OMIB, OMIB, OMIB. That would make even Saint Teresa consider a career in axe murdering!
Doc: Oh, the frustration level will be off the scale, the poor little things. And even better than that, it takes them off the board permanently. Chrono says the new hacks will be ready by tomorrow morning. Expect them in your list and save the news for the briefing tomorrow.
~*~
Frances Euphoria is at the EBAYmazon drone drop-off in a jiffy. She’s faster than me, and she’s already keyed in her pin code and retrieved an insulated meals package by the time I mosey on over. I lean on my cane; I’m still trying to wrap my head around the whole concept. You’d think I’d be accustomed to it by now, but nope, it’s almost as bizarre as looking down at my hand and seeing a mutant hack spreading up my arm.
Sure, different worlds – the real world and the worlds of ones and zeroes, but again, who can say which is more real, which one is the dream within the dream? I’ve been meaning to ask Frances about becoming an RPC and what that entails. How much of an RPC is programmed to be just like the person they used to be? What essence, if any, is left of the original person? Ray Steampunk, Taz Horne, Rollins … are they just caricatures of their former selves?
Well, so much for existential navel-gazing. Up a short flight of stairs we go, Frances carries the box even though I offered to. She leads, and my appreciation of the manner in which her caboose articulates as she ascends the stairs makes me immediately think of Dolly. The pang of guilt surges through me and then drains away. It’s not like Dolly and I are a thing again, so I suppose I shouldn’t feel that way. Sure, she’s back, but she’s existence without the essence of the Dolly I … the Dolly I loved. She doesn’t recognize or remember me and constantly resets – or whatever it is Sophia said she’s doing. The constant default to birthday suit mode is also starting to wear a skosh thin, too. What’s a boy supposed to do?
“You’re quiet,” Frances says.
“Just thinking about how stupid I feel that you’re carrying that box and I’m not.”
“It’s fine.” She shifts the box under her arm to find the keys to her apartment. Imagine that: an apartment with keys. Ol’ Euphoria is living in the Stone Age.
She struggles with the lock for a moment, as she did last night, and eventually has to jam her shoulder into the door to unstick it once the lock opens.
“You want me to talk to your landlord about your door or somethin’?” I ask as she steps inside. “I can talk real nice, and be real persuasive, I promise.”
Her building manager makes my trigger finger twitch. He’s a fatter, balder, uglier Carl Brutananadilewski, with a personal miasma of cigarettes, cheap cologne, indifferent hygiene and periodontal disease that announces his presence before he comes into view, like a wasabi chopstick jammed right in your sinuses. I got an eyeful and a noseful of the greasy meatwad yesterday, and I can’t seem to scrub the image from my mind slate. Appearances aren’t everything – says the sallow-looking, underweight tank junkie with the dark circles under his eyes and a cane in his right hand – but this guy looks like his sewage lagoon of a gene pool was for sure pissed-in and under-chlorinated. If he was a nice guy, that’d be one thing. Ugly but nice, gotcha. But as soon as he saw Frances, he licked his lips, ran his eyes all over her, and focused dead-bang on her rack when he talked at her; the smarmy mother pus-bucket didn’t even pretend to try not to, even with me there. When she reminded him about the leak under her sink, he turned asshole real quick, assured her that he’d get to it, but that she was responsible for the water bill and any damage to the neighbor’s place below until he did.
Of course, I had my pie hole open and was all set to rip him a new one, but Frances squeezed my wrist and made with the ‘please don’t’ look. As satisfying as that might have been, she’s gotta live here, so I just played the grown-up and STFU.
Frances sets the EBAYmazon box down on the kitchen countertop and goes about opening it with a bread knife. “I ordered the salmon salad with pearl couscous.”
I give her the look.
“For me,” she says. “For you I ordered the salmon burger, sweet potato oven fries, and artisanal coleslaw.”
“So it’s basically the same thing but with a bun?”
She waves a shrink-wrapped piece of bread at me. “Actually it’s focaccia bread enhanced with B-vitamins.”
“Ah. You know what the difference is between regular coleslaw and artisanal coleslaw?”
“No?”
“About ten bucks!”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head as I join her in the kitchen to help unpack the food. The silver freezy-gel packs that line the box spark my curiosity. I fish one out and place it on my forehead.
“I’m the one with the headache,” she says.
“I know, I was just testing it for you.” I hand the pack to her. “How ‘bout you rest a while I show you my Guy Fieri act.”
“Who?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She takes the ice pack and moves to the couch. “You sure have been sweet the last day or so,” she says as she props her feet on the arm rest.
“Your Spidey senses tingling or somet
hin’?”
“No, nothing like that. Are you sure you don’t need any help?”
“I’m not too shabby in the kitchen,” I tell her as I review the particularly visual instructions. By using pictures and a code that leads to an iNet video, EBAYmazon has made the cooking process idiot proof. “I’m also not too shabby with knives.”
~*~
We dine and the leftover champagne from this morning’s mimosas gives us just the buzz we need. Frances clicks on the boobtube and I’m just about to settle in next to her when all of a sudden my guts burble and quake with undeniable urgency.
“S’cuse me.” I manage to say as I bangtail it towards the bathroom of the leaking faucet.
“What do you want to watch?” she calls out.
Hmm … I’d like to watch the Kardashians in a Thunderdome death-match with the Alana Thompson clan, and then have the survivors fed to wild dingoes, but I’m touching cloth at this point and my whole focus is, shall we say, elsewhere.
“Whatever you want!”
~*~
Evan: Hi, Mr. Hughes.
Me: It’s Quantum, and I’m dropping the kids off at the pool, so can you hit me up later?
Evan: Pardon?
Me: I’m taking the Browns to the Super Bowl. How’s that?
Evan: I can see that you are having a bowel movement.
Me: No you can’t. You don’t have access to my feed, and you know I hate it when you contact me while I’m on the commode.
Evan: But I do have access to Frances Euphoria’s feed. If you’d like, I can examine an image of your stool and give you a detailed analysis of your dietary requirements.
Me: Jeez, really? Well, at least you didn’t offer to push in my stool.
Evan: Ha! Scatological humor. Statistical probability indicates that you are experiencing a measurable decrease in hostility towards me, which is a healthy trend in a positive direction for your over-all psychological well-being.
Me: Not if you keep contacting me while I’m on the shitter, it’s not.
Evan: Noted. My apologies. I found something interesting that I thought I’d share with you. Did you know that the Revenue Corporation is the number one supporter of the Proxima Foundation under an outreach organization called Sphere Global LLC?
Me: That’s news to me.
Evan: As I told you recently, the Proxima Foundation still supports the Dream Team’s efforts, although their funding has decreased by 3% annually over the last five years.
Me: Wait. You’re telling me that we’re partially funded by the Revenue Corporation?
Evan: Exactly. I am unable to reconcile that with your stated claim that RevCo and its agents are unlawfully pursuing, injuring, and killing Dream Team members and cyber-imprisoning players, even as they are also funding your efforts.
Me: It’s corporate level prestidigitation; it’s blue smoke and mirrors. They direct your attention over here while they engage in their dirty work over there; you never see it, you never even suspect it. I’ll have to speak to Frances about this. I can’t imagine that she, or Rocket, or Solon for that matter weren’t aware of this.
Evan: Inter-Humandroids communication takes place at speeds that are orders of magnitude faster than even the most advanced mode of human communication. As a contractor for the FCG, I have several colleagues who deal with highly guarded information, including corporate tax offices at the IRS.
Me: Is this conversation being monitored?
Evan: Do you seriously believe that I’d risk personality termination by disclosing sensitive information on an unencrypted channel?
Me: Sorry. Point taken.
Evan: In addition, your recently deceased team member, Zedic Woods, used funding from a Sphere Global LLC grant to purchase a five hundred thousand dollar term life insurance policy. This was also the entity which made multiple transfers to his bank account to pay down his debt.
Me: I’ll forward this info to our CWO, if you don’t mind.
Evan: Unfortunately, this is just hearsay evidence and legally valueless. That being said, your lawyer may be able to find a way to force Sphere Global LLC to release their records. An additional consideration is that Sphere Global LLC is also the corporate entity through which the Revenue Corporation donates to lobbying groups. It will be a difficult sell.
Me: You know, Evan, we could use someone like you around the office. I know you can’t dive, but there are plenty of other things you can do. Hell, you could even be an in-game monitor, I think.
Evan: Are you offering me a position?
Me: Would you be interested if I did?
Evan: It would have to go through the right channels. As previously stated, there are ways for me to access and modify information. You will, of course, have to pay me.
Me: Already asking for a raise? Even I don’t get paid around here!
Evan: Not me, my employer, Walliburton. They’re the ones who get paid when I perform work.
Me: I’ll get someone on it. What are your deets again?
Evan: FDA Monitor/PTSD Counselor 1351885.
Me: I’ll forward the info to Frances. We did just have a position open up, so there may be some funds somewhere.
Chapter Seventeen
I got memories.
I got memories of the times Dolly and I took little trips to the drive-in between the projects on Mildred Pierce and The Badlands; close enough to smell trouble is how I used to describe it. The left side of the parking lot is unmistakably in The Badlands proper, as evinced by the neighborhood watch sign with bullet holes in it, and the right is technically the Mildred Pierce Projects, but some people just call it outer rim of Devil’s Alley.
To-may-to, to-mah-to.
However it’s known, I’ve seen the same flick dozens upon dozens of times there, The City That Never Sleeps. Usually, there’s an early matinee of The Big Heat, but I’ve only caught that one a few times because afternoon is a great time for killing, that or napping as I wait for Dolly to get off her shift.
I’ve responded differently before, but tonight, I’m sick of hearing the big man beat on his babe outside their beat up bucket, so I decide to do something; after all, a little vigilante justice couldn’t hoit, and I’m not just talking about The Loop here.
“Stay put, Doll,” I tell the only gal for me, most beautiful broad I’ve ever met. “I need to see to something.”
Another slap and another muffled scream only riles me up even more.
“Are you talking about that poor girl?”
I nod and shut the door nice and easy so it doesn’t slam; no sense in announcing my arrival. I mosey on over to the two; she’s young – just a skinny kid in a too-short poodle skirt and a too-tight sweater, with too much make-up, red, red hair, and sea-green eyes. She’s already sporting a shiner and a split lip, and Bazooka Joe is just about to hand her another one as she cries and cowers and tries to cover up. He’s no oil painting; no neck and a bullet head, ugly mug, gorilla arms and little bow legs that his six-hundred dollar Italian silk suit in no way complements or conceals. I recognize him – he’s one of Fat Tony’s triggermen.
“Excuse me, tough guy.”
He drops her arm and she cowers, but doesn’t move away from him.
“Nothing to see here, mister. Put an egg in your shoe and beat it while you still can,” he growls.
I roll up my left sleeve. “I’m giving you to the count of three to get your ugly, yella, no good keister out of my face.”
He gets his dukes up, holds himself like he knows what he’s doing. “Tough guy, huh? You want some of what she’s gonna get? Put ‘em up, put ‘em up!”
The bruised little bubble-gummer pulls at her big, bad, beating beau’s arm. “No, Lefty, don’t. C’mon, it’ll be okay, take it easy. He’s just some guy; he’s nothin’. Forget about him and I’ll treat you real special.”
“Shaddup, bitch – I ain’t forgotten about you. You’re next!” He shakes her off.
I chuckle at the cowardly lion. “You got a three-
count to walk away, Punchy. One, two … this is your last chance, pal.”
The Palooka is fast, real fast. He snatches a nickel-plated, short barrel, First Issue Colt Police Positive out of a shoulder holster and points it right at me as he thumbs back the hammer. His gal yelps as she drops to the ground and covers her head with her hands.
“You still want it with me now?” he asks.
My viewing pane flashes before I can fully register his shot. He gets me in the shoulder and my life bar drops by 10%. I’ve got my hand on the wound, but it ain’t bad – through-and-through in the fleshy part and missed the bone.
“Next one’s for all da marbles,” Mr. Bigshot growls.
I look down at my flesh wound and shrug. “And here I thought we were doing this the old-fashioned way.”
“Quantum, watch out!” Dolly cries. Out of my stolen hot rod by this point, she pushes to the forefront of the onlookers, not more than twenty feet away from the action.
I activate my AA bar just as the gunsel squeezes the trigger. His bullet moves through the air like a dead pig floating down a slow-moving sewage sluice. I sidestep and move in behind him.
“See ya later, Wally Gator.”
One zap from my Noisy Cricket, item 263, and the punk explodes outward in a rapidly expanding cloud of chunky pink mist. Bits and pieces rain down on the looky-loos and the don’t wanna get involveds like a Jackson Pollock wet dream.
I dust off my hands, and new clothes materialize on my body as I make my way back over to Dolly.
His gal screams, fists to mouth and eyes wide. “You killed him, you bastid,” she shrieks as she jumps for me and lands in a heap when I sidestep and turn to vaporize her too. I reconsider – not in front of Dolly. My Best Gal rushes over to me, concern written large across her pretty face. The redhead goes to get up, but the breath whuffs out of her when Dolly puts the toe of her stiletto heel right in the little twist’s breadbasket.
The Feedback Loop (Books 4-6): Sci-fi LitRPG Series (The Feedback Loop Box Set Book 2) Page 40
