Gamers' Quest

by George Ivanoff

  ‘What?’ screeched the Cracker, dropping what remained of his toy and slowly shaking his weasellike head. ‘No, no, no, no, no, nooooo. Back off! My job! My score! You is tooooo late.’

  ‘Hands it over,’ demanded Zyra.

  ‘Zzzzzyra, my pretty,’ said the Cracker, recognising her voice and smiling an oily, gap-toothed smile. ‘I shoulds ’ave known it was you. All covered up, but still such a pretty-pretty thiever.’ His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip as his eyes worked their way up and down Zyra's tall, sleek frame. Slowly, he cracked the knuckles on his right hand, one by one, as he continued speaking. ‘I could gets you lots and lots of coinage for one of your talents. Coppers. Silvers. Even golds! All you've gots to do is speak the word.’

  Zyra threw one of the razor leaves. It whizzed past the Cracker's ear, nicking it as it went.

  ‘Next one takes ya ear off.’

  The Cracker wiped the drop of blood with a grubby finger and brought it to his lips. His tongue flicked out again, cleaning the blood away.

  ‘I takes that as a no.’ He smiled and shrugged. ‘Your loss.’

  He reached his left hand into his shabby coat.

  ‘Slowly,’ demanded Zyra, waggling her remaining razor leaf.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said the Cracker, slowing down to an exaggerated extent. In the distance Zyra could hear the perimeter drone coming around again.

  ‘Comes on,’ she encouraged. ‘Not that slow.’

  ‘Is plenty of rich houses up here on the Hill,’ he continued, ignoring her attempt to hurry him. ‘Theys all has keys. Go gets your own. Go now, and I'll forgets this ever happened.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I'll even gives you a tip. Fat Man's away. House is easy target.’

  Zyra moved her hand as if to throw the razor-leaf.

  The Cracker shrugged. ‘Don't says I didn't gives you a chance.’

  He carefully extracted his hand, holding up a plastic card. It was the size and shape of a standard credit card. Metallic blue with an embedded microchip, it had no markings save the Designers Paradise logo. It shone gently in the shadow of the wall, as if it had its own power source.

  ‘Praise be to the Designers,’ whispered the Cracker.

  Zyra breathed in sharply, all her attention focused on the card. This was what she was after. A key! The ability to gain entry to Designers Paradise and escape the World, at least for a little while. She held out her free hand and took a step forward, indistinct images and memories playing at the corners of her mind.

  As she did so, the Cracker clenched his right hand, the constriction of the muscles activating a device concealed in his right sleeve. A pellet shot from his coat sleeve, hitting Zyra between the eyes. The pellet burst apart in a spray of acid. She would have been blinded were it not for her balaclava.

  Zyra whipped it off before the acid had a chance to eat its way through, revealing her short red Mohawk and numerous piercings. She tossed the balaclava at the Cracker. It hit him in the face, spreading just enough acid to burn his cheek and cause him to yelp. Over his shoulder, Zyra could see the approaching perimeter drone. Knowing she had to move fast, she leapt at him, throwing him against the wall, which fizzled and tingled but felt solid enough. As the Cracker clutched his face with one hand, Zyra smashed his other hand, the one that held the key, against the wall. With a sickening crack, and an accompanying scream, the Cracker let go of the card.

  Zyra caught the card, let go of the Cracker and hurled herself down the path the Cracker had created in the razor-bush. As she ran, she heard the perimeter drone, but didn't stop to see if the Cracker made it out alive.

  4: The Cracker

  The Cracker's eyes focused on the approaching perimeter drone and widened in terror. With hardly a second to spare, he jumped. His right shoe burst into flame as he tumbled through the limp section of razor-bush.

  He fell to the ground on the other side, smothering the flames in the grass. He scrambled to remove the smouldering shoe. As he threw it aside, he looked down at his hands. The middle finger of his left hand was bent back at an impossible angle and both hands were covered in small cuts from flailing about as he tumbled through the razor-bush. The limp area was quite narrow and in his eagerness to escape being roasted alive, he had not been careful enough.

  He took a moment to lick the wounds clean. He then clutched the bent finger with his right hand and yanked it back into place.

  Crack!

  He winced with the pain, but made no sound.

  His gaze then lifted to see the distant figure of Zyra disappearing down the immaculately manicured streets of the Hill. He brought a hand up to his face, to gently stroke his burnt cheek.

  ‘Oh Zyra, my pretty-pretty.’ He cracked the knuckles of his right hand, sharply, deliberately, one by one. ‘You has crossed the wrong thiever. This ain't over yets. Not bys a long shot.’

  Slowly, a truly ugly smile spread across his pockmarked face.

  5: The Plan

  ‘I gots this lot from a princeling's guards,’ said Tark, as he held up a small pouch.

  Zyra raised a heavily pierced eyebrow as if to say, big deal. Tark ignored the expression and headed to a corner of the dilapidated basement. He carefully prised a brick from the old wall, and then reached in, searching for something. Finding the concealed switch, he flipped it with his finger and stood back.

  A substantial section of the old rotted floorboards sank several centimetres, then slid aside, revealing a shining metallic surface. Tark knelt down and placed the palm of his right hand onto the surface. A light flashed from within the metal, scanning his palm-print.

  Tark looked up at Zyra. ‘Comes on, ya turn.’

  Zyra sauntered over and put her hand next to Tark's, almost touching it. They briefly looked into each other's eyes with a yearning that went beyond words. The light flashed again. As they removed their hands, the metal sheet slid back. Out of the deep darkness below, a battered old chest rose up on a pedestal.

  The chest was made of dark wood, cornered in brass, with strips of patterned leather studded across its rounded lid. A heavy metal padlock with two keyholes secured the lid to the body. Tark and Zyra fished out their keys from beneath their clothing and, in unison, inserted and turned them in the lock.

  Tark took a deep breath and lifted the lid. Inside the chest was a varied collection of coins and jewellery – everything from coppers and silvers, to rings and necklaces; from a few gold pieces, to three rubies and one diamond. This meagre treasure was the result of months of thievery. Tark's eyes almost glazed over as he stared at the stash. It was their future. The chest was only about half full, so they still needed more.

  ‘Every little bit ’elps,’ said Tark as he emptied the contents of the pouch into the chest.

  He watched intently as coins of silver and copper, as well as a few bronze rings, tumbled into the chest. He gave a deep sigh, then tossed the empty pouch to one side. He looked across at Zyra and a grin spread across his face.

  ‘Wot are ya grinnin’ at?’ she demanded.

  ‘I also tooks this ’ere weapon.’ He pulled back his tattered cloak to reveal the sheathed sword.

  ‘Big deal,’ huffed Zyra, exerting her superiority. She was three centimetres taller and a month older than Tark, and usually lauded it over him. ‘Ya gots yaself a sword.’

  ‘Oh Zyra,’ said Tark, rubbing at the scar that cut a path through the dark stubble on his head. ‘This ’ere ain't no normal sword. This ’ere is a sword o’ light.’

  Zyra's green eyes narrowed to cat slits, her piercings glinting around them. ‘Wot's some snivelling princeling doin’ with one of ’em?’

  Tark shrugged. ‘Dunno. Probably nicked it. Don't care.’ An uncharacteristic thoughtfulness crossed Tark's face. ‘Scared of it, ’e wuz. Hads himself a mage to looks after it. Dead now!’ But then the thoughtfulness was gone and he laughed. ‘’Course ya know wot this means?’

  ‘Gold!’

  ‘Yep!’ He patted the sword hilt. ‘With one of these babies I'll
be able to go a dragon and wins its stash.’

  ‘Well I's gots news, too,’ said Zyra, putting hands on hips, striking a pose and looking very satisfied with herself. She reached into her boot and pulled out the plastic card.

  ‘A key!’ gasped Tark. ‘Ya gots a key already! How'd ya do that?’

  She casually flicked the card.

  Tark watched it sail through the air and land in the chest. One key, allowing one visit to Designers Paradise. Would they be able to get another? Thoughts of a better world, a better life, flitted through his mind and were gone before he could grasp them.

  ‘I liberated it from the Cracker, rights after he liberated it from that skinny rich dude who lives up the Hill.’

  ‘They is all rich dudes up there,’ said Tark. ‘And the Cracker's dangerous. Ya shouldn't be messin’ with ’im.’

  ‘Yeah, well I is dangerous too,’ said Zyra, turning her back on him and walking away. Then suddenly she whirled around, baring her metal studded teeth, a knife in each hand. She spun one of the knives between her fingers and then threw it. It thudded into the floor at Tark's feet. As he looked down at it, she sprang. In seconds, he was pinned against the wall with a knife to his throat.

  Tark swallowed hard. ‘Ya've mades ya point.’

  ‘I luvs ya, Tark,’ she said, in a low voice that was almost a growl.

  She leaned in, as if about to kiss him, then stopped, their lips bare millimetres apart. Tark closed his eyes and savoured the feel of her breath on his skin. He desperately wanted to kiss her, to cast aside her knife and take her in his arms. But he couldn't. The World in which they lived, and the Designers’ rules prevented him. And if they broke the rules, access to Designers Paradise would be denied them. He and Zyra were strays – street-rats, without title or birthright – and the Designers’ rules were heavily weighted against them. Sometimes it felt like an invisible scorecard hanging over their heads, with a black cross just ready to be inserted in the appropriate box the moment a rule was broken. They were free to thieve, fight, even kill – in fact, as thievers it was expected of them – but a simple kiss was against the rules.

  ‘The Cracker's dangerous!’ Tark reiterated, opening his eyes and bringing his focus back to the matter at hand.

  Zyra stepped back, and within seconds the knives were concealed again.

  ‘That slimy weasel wuz workin’ me turf again,’ she said. ‘I'd been staking out the skinny rich dude for over a week. It wuz me job! Not ’is.’ A smile spread across her features. ‘But I taughts him a lesson he won't be forgettin’. Cracked one of ’is fingers for ’im.’ She laughed. ‘Guess ’e really is the Cracker.’

  ‘Oh Zyra,’ said Tark. ‘Ya shouldn't ’ave done that. Now ’e'll be out revengin’.’

  ‘Don'ts ya worry about me,’ she said, serious again. ‘I'll keeps an eye out for ’im.’

  Tark didn't look convinced.

  ‘I also gots some info from the Cracker,’ said Zyra, tugging at her earrings.

  Tark raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I knows where to gets us anotha key.’

  Tark reached for Zyra, running a hand through her Mohawk. ‘I luvs ya.’

  ‘Let's get to it then,’ said Zyra, pushing him back. ‘Gots ta move fast. Before the Cracker.’

  Zyra was hoping the Cracker got fried by the drone, but she wasn't sure and she didn't want to take any chances.

  Tark closed the chest and clamped shut the lock. Zyra flipped the hidden switch and replaced the brick. They watched the chest descend into the floor, the protective metal slide into place, and the concealing floorboards replace themselves.

  ‘I thinks I needs a bit extra for this job,’ said Zyra, walking over to her closet.

  It concealed a hole in the wall next to where her grubby old mattress lay on the floor. Zyra tugged at the shabby door with one hand, while bracing it with the other. It was tricky to open. She looked warily over her shoulder at Tark, then began rummaging through the contents.

  Tark busied himself by examining the collapsed section of wall. The basement they lived in was not at all stable. The building above it had long ago collapsed, concealing it beneath a huge pile of rubble. Hidden from the world above, it made the perfect headquarters for a couple of thievers. The basement still looked pretty much as it had when Tark and Zyra first made it their hideout, although Tark couldn't quite remember how long ago that was or where he had lived prior to that. The only difference was the collapsed section of wall. It had fallen in about two weeks ago during an earthquake, dirt and rubble tumbling into their home, and threatening to crumble even further with just the slightest encouragement.

  ‘Done!’ announced Zyra, startling Tark out of his musings.

  He turned to see her securing a belt and pouch around her slim waist.

  ‘Ya know,’ he said, turning his attention back to the wall in an attempt to distract himself. ‘We shoulds fix this.’

  ‘We has gots betta things to do,’ said Zyra, heading for the steps.

  Tark nodded and followed her.

  The pair made their way onto the streets of the City. They moved carefully through the rubble of ruined buildings, over cracked pavements and roads, amongst the urban desolation of the once-great metropolis. Everywhere they went, eyes watched them from the shadows and scuttling movements followed them.

  Their journey eventually took them under a concrete walkway that connected two partly standing buildings. Once upon a time they may have been shopping malls, but now they were just empty shells, used as shelter by other thievers, scavengers and mutants. They stood tall and imposing, the largest remaining structures in the City, casting long, wide shadows.

  Tark's eyes darted to meet Zyra's. She gave the slightest of nods.

  He shivered as they stepped into the shadows between the buildings. They took a risk every time they passed. Singletons, duos, even trios, weren't a threat. But the gangs, they were another matter. The gangs could be dangerous. But even they were preferable to some of the other horrors that the crumbling City concealed. The best thing to do was keep their heads down and try to look as if they weren't worth ambushing. It usually worked.

  But not today.

  Nine shapes stepped out of the shadows. A gang of large, burly youths towered over Tark and Zyra. Dressed in a mishmash of leather and denim, their disarrayed clothes actually seemed like a uniform. This appearance was assisted by their matching mirrored sunglasses and bald heads. Each of them carried a length of chain.

  One of them stepped forward and swung his chain above his head. His face was bruised, bloated and misshapen, as if suffering from the after effects of a severe beating. His sneering lips revealed a mass of blackened teeth that had been filed down to sharp points. The rest of the gang started swinging their chains, mimicking their leader.

  Zyra moved. Within seconds, one of her knives thudded into the gang leader's chest, and the other was held at the ready. As the gang leader fell to the ground, the rest of the gang continued to advance, unperturbed.

  Tark pulled back his cloak and put a hand to the sword hilt. But before he could draw the sword o’ light, he found a chain around his neck pulling him backwards. His hands clawed at the chain in desperation, trying to stop it from choking him. He glanced over to Zyra, but saw that she had troubles of her own. She had just knifed the gang member who had grabbed her from behind, but was now being advanced on by four more.

  Tark was no stranger to a fight where the odds were stacked against him. When confronted by an opponent of greater size, as was often the case, he used his attacker's strength against him. Instead of struggling, he launched himself backwards. His attacker stumbled back and fell, letting go of the chain. Tark tumbled over him, landing hard on the pavement. Struggling to his feet, ready to draw the sword, he was grabbed and thrown back against a wall. Ugly faces, sharp teeth and rank breath filled his senses as two gang members pinioned him. Then a third stepped forward, twirling his chain. Wide-eyed and helpless, Tark watched the lethal length of cha
in draw nearer.

  The metal links were centimetres from his face, when his attacker collapsed, Zyra's second knife in his back. As he fell, his chain caught the arm of one of the gang members who held Tark against the wall. Tark cast a brief look towards Zyra, in time to see her kick one opponent whilst simultaneously punching another. With no further hesitation, Tark used his free hand to draw the sword o’ light.

  He never got the chance to use it.

  As soon as the gang saw the light cutting through the shadows, they ran, shielding their eyes as they went. They melded back into the shadows, disappearing completely. Tark sheathed the sword, a little disappointed.

  ‘And I never even gots ta use me stars,’ said Zyra, patting the little pouch that was attached to her belt.

  Tark knelt down and searched the nearest gang members. Nothing!

  ‘Comes on, let's go,’ said Zyra, retrieving her two knives. ‘Before somes other gang decides ta try anythin’.’

  ‘Hangs on.’ Tark stopped by the gang leader's body. ‘He mights have somethin’ worths takin’.’ He crouched down and rifled through the man's wretched pockets. He was disappointed to find nothing of value. Determined not the leave empty-handed, he removed the gang leader's mirrored sunglasses. The small eyes beneath were wide open, revealing the pink irises and tiny pupils.

  ‘Guess ya won't be needin’ these.’ Tark smirked, tucking the sunglasses into his belt.

  ‘Moves it!’ said Zyra, walking off as if ready to leave him behind.

  Tark straightened up and followed her.

  They weren't bothered any further, and it wasn't long before they reached the Crossroads. They stood back to back in the centre, looking in opposite directions. They each could see their destinations in the distance.

  ‘See ya,’ said Zyra, heading off in the direction of the Hill – an Eden of mansions and gardens and walls, rising up out of the surrounding devastation.

  Tark nodded. ‘Times to slays me a dragon.’ He headed towards the Forest – a seeming haven of greenery on the edge of the City.