The Leveller

by Julia Durango

  Wyn doesn’t look convinced. “People get ‘killed’ in games all the time. That’s one of the reasons they play, isn’t it? For the thrill, the adrenaline rush. How is that maze any different?”

  “Because I didn’t get to choose any of it. Half the time I didn’t know what was coming. Don’t you understand? It’s like your worst nightmare, only a billion times worse because it feels so real.”

  “Still, it can’t be that scary if you know it’s a game,” Wyn says with a shrug. I want to punch him.

  “Fine, let’s go, then,” I say, hopping off the table.

  Wyn gets to his feet. “Where to?”

  “You want to go to the maze, I’ll take you there. Be my guest,” I say. Before meeting Wyn I wouldn’t have wished the maze on my worst enemy, but now I can’t wait for him to give it a go. Wyn Salvador is just as arrogant as his father. Let him be the shark bait and see how he feels.

  He follows me to the alley, a small grin on his face like he’s just won the battle. He has no idea. I look around to get my bearings once we reach the intersection. The street is still busy with festive Meeple and glowing neon signs advertising beer and cigarettes.

  “We need to get to the Floridita bar and your pal Chucho,” I say.

  Wyn raises his eyebrows, then points left. “This way,” he says, and we begin to make our way down the busy street.

  As I follow Wyn, I take a good look around at the world he created. I have to admit, it’s the best custom MEEP I’ve ever been in, certainly much more extravagant and vast than anything I’ve ever made. The buildings we pass have all been meticulously detailed, with their shadowy colonnades, their weathered paint, the scrolled ironwork of outdoor hanging lamps, gates, and balconies. I glance through one of the ground-floor gates and see a garden courtyard tucked between two buildings, where a Meeple couple sits and holds hands among the white flower bushes. A breeze floats across my cheeks and I smell a salty-sweet combination of ocean and flowers.

  “That’s amazing,” I say, stopping to breathe in the delicious scent.

  “Gardenias and Sea Breeze,” Wyn says, his tone a little friendlier now. “The aroma modules are my favorite things to experiment with lately. I installed a bakery last week just so I could try out Buttery Croissants and Cinnamon Apple Pie.”

  “Can you taste them as well?” I ask, thinking of the delicious daiquiri.

  Wyn nods. “It’s not as good as eating the real thing. . . . The programmers are still playing around with texture, but it’s a start.”

  My previous anger has dissipated somewhat during our stroll, and now I’m almost tempted to ask if we can hit the bakery before we go back home. But I remember my mission and pull myself together. My job is to get this guy home, not stop for pie.

  “Look,” I begin, “I don’t know how the maze works in reverse, whether you’ll start with the banshee or the sharks, but regardless, you’re going to need a rappelling gun. You can borrow mine, assuming you don’t have one.”

  I continue talking, telling him about each room of the maze and how to defeat the enemies within. The odds of him making it all the way through are a long shot, and I’m guessing he’ll give up sooner rather than later once he sees what he’s up against. But if he’s that determined to try, I might as well let him give it a go. In the meantime, I can stay behind and try to think of another way out. “For the pterodactyls, you’re going to need a—”

  Wyn takes me by the arm and stops me in my tracks. We’ve reached a busy intersection and as we wait for the lights to change, he turns and smiles at me. I’m still mad at him, but it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile—really smile—and I can’t help it. My stomach does a little flip-flop. Wyn Salvador is . . . well, he’s not hard on the eyes. Damn it.

  “I still don’t know your name,” he says softly.

  “Nixy,” I say. “Nixy Bauer.”

  “Thank you, Nixy, for coming to my rescue.” His brown eyes seem to sparkle at me and I feel my cheeks start to warm. I quickly look away from him, even though I know the blush I feel inside won’t show on my avatar. At least I don’t think it will.

  The light changes and we walk across the intersection, his hand still wrapped around my arm. “I’ll wait for you at the bar with Chucho,” I say, trying to compose myself and steer the conversation back to practical matters. “I’m guessing that’s where the maze will spit you out each time you die.”

  Wyn shivers a bit at this, but when I look over at him, he grins. “Nixy Bauer. Oh ye of little faith.”

  “Hey, nobody will be more pleased than me if you make it through in one try. The faster you get home, the faster I collect my paycheck.”

  “How will you know I’ve made it back?” he asks.

  I’ve already thought of that. “Tell your dad to activate my emergency code remotely. That should work.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  I shrug. “Then I’ll activate it myself after a few daiquiris with Chucho.”

  Wyn laughs. “Sounds like a plan.”

  We reach the Floridita and Wyn opens the door for me. I am beginning to enjoy his gentlemanly manners. Ernesto is still at the end of the bar, but is now completely engrossed by a gorgeous blonde. Wyn sees me looking and grins.

  “Who’s the dame with Hemingway?” I ask, waving to Chucho. “And why does the bartender look like your grandmother?”

  “When we get back to the real world, I’ll buy you a milk shake and tell you all about it,” he says.

  “We’ll see about that,” I say. I try to keep my face neutral, but a smile pops through anyway.

  We take a minute to trade inventory items, then I lead him to the back of the bar.

  “This is it,” I say, as we reach the door marked DAMAS. “Are you ready?”

  Wyn glances at the sign and pretends to gasp. “The ladies’ room? You’re right, this is scary.”

  “You have no idea,” I say, actually feeling sorry for what he’s about to experience. “Good lu—” I begin, but before I can finish, he gives me a roguish wink and barrels through the bathroom door.

  TEN

  I CAN’T HELP IT. NOT EVEN TEN SECONDS HAVE PASSED AND I PEEK through the door.

  I’m expecting a room of white. Instead I see a ladies’ restroom with Wyn standing in the middle of it, legs apart, rappelling gun in one hand, laser gun in the other. He sees me in the doorway.

  “How long does it take?” he asks, his eyes scanning the bathroom. “Do I have to press a button or something? Flush a toilet?”

  “No,” I say. “No, no, no, no, no.” I look around in disbelief. I don’t know whether to be horrified or relieved. “It’s gone.”

  “What?” Wyn quits his “ready” stance and heads for the door. “Maybe you got it mixed up.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say testily, following him out. He opens the neighboring door that says HOMBRES and sticks his head in. “No sharks in there either?” I ask when he turns back around.

  “Not unless they’re in the sink.” He blows out a long breath and runs a hand through his hair. “No sharks. Now what?”

  “There must be another way to get you back. Try your return frequency code again.”

  “You know it doesn’t work.”

  “Try it anyway.”

  He rolls his eyes, but dutifully recites the eleven-digit code loudly into the MEEPosphere. Nothing happens. “Satisfied?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Wait a minute. How do you normally get to the Landing? Not through the restroom, I presume.”

  Wyn shakes his head at me and lets out a frustrated sigh. “You’re not listening, are you? They’ve blocked all exits, Nixy. There’s no way out.”

  “There must be,” I say. “Take me to your Landing portal.”

  “Fine,” Wyn says. “Come on.”

  We go back into the stre
ets of Havana and walk for about five minutes before we turn down what looks like an older residential avenue. The two- and three-story buildings are all pressed together along the street, their balconies draped with flowers, the streetlights showing off their rainbow of colors. They look like a parade of frosted cakes with buttercream icing. It’s pretty here, even in the dark.

  “Where are we?” I ask, as Wyn leads me inside one of the homes.

  He doesn’t answer. I continue to follow him through the front room of the dark house and up a wide staircase with a sleek wooden handrail. As we go up, he lights the electric sconces hung along the staircase wall, and I now see that the inside of the house is as pretty as the outside. The walls of the stairwell are painted a sea green and hung with dozens of framed portraits and landscapes. In the front room below I see small potted trees and urns of cut flowers sprinkled among the furniture, filling the house with color and more sweet smells. Wyn has been busy with the aroma modules here, too, I see.

  We walk up two flights of steps until we get to the third floor, then enter the darkened room at the front of the house, the one facing the street. The balconied floor-to-ceiling windows stand open, letting in a cool breeze and the sounds of the city below. Wyn flicks on an overhead chandelier.

  We’re in a bedroom, obviously, given the white-painted four-poster bed that dominates the room. The rest of the furniture matches the bed—a dressing table, nightstand, wardrobe—all in white with dainty hand-painted orange floral designs decorating their corners. The pale yellow coverlet on the bed matches the walls, and little embroidered pillows sit in a tidy row across the top of the bed. A small white cast-iron bistro table and chair sit on the balcony, which is laced with some kind of deep orange tropical flowers.

  “So the portal is somewhere nearby, or are we just resting?” I ask, inspecting the photos and postcards tucked inside the frame of the dressing table’s big oval mirror. The photos look like old movie star glamour shots, good-looking people from decades ago, their scrawled signatures across the bottom. The illustrated postcards say things like “Hello from Havana!” and feature smiling girls in flouncy dresses shaking maracas or holding up their skirts to show off long shapely legs. A hand mirror, a brush, and several little pots of makeup sit on the dressing table along with a few of those old glass perfume bottles with the attached spritzers.

  In the mirror I can see Wyn standing rather awkwardly, his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans, a somewhat sheepish look on his face. That’s when it dawns on me. This must be his girlfriend’s room . . . his virtual girlfriend’s room. Usually I would find this funny, but for some reason, I feel irritated. Really, really irritated.

  “So . . . the portal?” I say, unable to keep the peevishness from my voice.

  Wyn clears his throat. “It’s through there,” he says quietly, pointing his thumb toward the wardrobe.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Wyn shakes his head.

  Now I laugh, enjoying the embarrassed smile that plays across his lips.

  “Your portal is through the wardrobe. Wow, you’ve created your own little Narnia,” I say, walking toward the large cupboard. “Does it come with a talking lion, too?” I pull open the wardrobe doors with both hands.

  There’s nothing there. And by nothing, I mean really nothing. No portal, no Landing, no fur coats leading to a snowy forest. Inside the wardrobe there’s just . . .

  Wait, is that . . . ?

  “Fy fæn,” I say, closing the doors as quickly as I can. I step away from the wardrobe without taking my eyes off it.

  There was nothing there. Less than nothing. Only a pulsing, roiling, cavernous void. Yet it seemed to want to reach out. It seemed . . . alive.

  I have never seen anything like it before. I didn’t even believe it existed.

  I glance at Wyn, but he doesn’t need to say anything. Doesn’t bother to explain. We both know exactly what I was staring into.

  The Black.

  No. I won’t be scared. Because there’s nothing to be afraid of. All those stories Chang tells about the Black are just that. Stories.

  I think about opening the doors again. Just to prove to myself it’s no big deal, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Frustration bubbles up inside me, a sudden surge of anger, and I try to push it back down.

  “What?” Wyn asks.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” I say.

  “I told you. They took away the portal,” Wyn states. “There’s no way out.”

  “And by they, you mean . . . ?” I ask as I start shaking the wardrobe. Maybe it’s just a glitch, some kind of malfunction. Maybe if I disrupt the code, the portal will snap back into place.

  “I don’t know, but someone’s behind this, someone is deliberately trying to keep me from going home,” he says, running a hand through his hair again. “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” I pull the heavy wardrobe away from the wall so I can examine the back of it. Nothing there. I pound on the wall where the wardrobe was, then give it a good strong kick.

  “Stop that,” Wyn says, pulling on my arm. “You’re ruining it.”

  The pale yellow wall now has a hole in it the size of my foot. I peer through, but there’s nothing but Black on the other side. I jerk away from it, and swear again.

  “Come on, we’re leaving,” Wyn says, pulling on my arm. I can tell he’s upset that I’m messing with his girlfriend’s prissy little room. “Your mind is on overload right now; you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  For some reason, his words just make me madder than ever. I yank my arm back. “I’m not done yet,” I say. I stand behind the wardrobe and lean into it.

  “Stop!” Wyn yells at me, but it’s too late. The wardrobe teeters for a moment, then crashes into the four-poster bed. Both pieces of furniture collapse and splinter.

  “Pretty shoddy workmanship,” I quip to Wyn as I kick through the rubble.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Wyn asks me now, his eyes filled with anger, his voice rising.

  “I’m trying to get us out of here, you spoiled brat,” I say, irritated by his bossiness. I’m still the one in charge. I’m the person his father hired to find a way out of here, and I’m determined to do so.

  “Don’t worry,” I continue, “I’m sure your virtual girlfriend won’t mind a little redecorating.” With that, I pick up the cast-iron chair from the balcony and start swinging it into the walls. Smashing things feels good, for some reason, like I’m somehow getting back at the MEEP for what it’s put me through today. I let loose with the chair and rip the entire room to shreds. For a final touch, I throw the chair straight at the dressing table. It shatters the vanity mirror and the photos and postcards disappear under a mound of broken glass.

  Wyn has been yelling at me to stop this whole time, but I ignore him. It’s just a stupid room, nothing he can’t rebuild once I get us out of here. I start inspecting all the holes I’ve created, hoping one of them will lead to the portal.

  Wyn’s standing in the doorway, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing. “This is MY world, not yours. You have no right to destroy my creation.”

  “I’ll do whatever I want,” I say, the words shooting from my mouth like darts. “Your daddy’s my boss, not you, remember?”

  He looks furious now, but I don’t care. It’s like another Nixy has taken over my body, and I’m okay with that. The real Nixy can’t handle any more.

  “Just leave,” he says, his voice low and growly. “The only way you can help me is to go back and explain what’s happened to my father.”

  I turn around and examine another hole in the wall. Black. They’re all filled with it. It undulates, shifts. I can sense it moving, more than see it. Its darkness is total and complete.

  “All you’re doing now is making it worse,” Wyn s
ays. “Go home, Nixy.”

  I kick another hole in the wall. “You know what? Fine. Inventory,” I say, blinking as the sidebar comes up in my mind. I open the file that has my emergency code listed. “I’ll go back home and draw a map for your daddy and his minions so they can come and find you. And then you can bitch to them about their rescue methods.”

  His face flashes something else now, something more sad than angry, and he opens his mouth as if to say something.

  And then there is a sound. Or rather, a change in the sound. A dampening of it, like my ears popping in an elevator.

  I turn and see the wall behind me begin to fuzz and break into fractals, like static on a TV. The surface bends crazily—the image of it stretching, twisting. I watch as the Black pulses out of the hole I’ve made. It swallows the wall in great, large sections.

  It’s mesmerizing. I can do nothing but stand and stare at the wall as this presence—this thing—devours it.

  “Go,” Wyn says.

  I blink at him. The Black moves onto the floor, oozing, turning the surface I’m standing on into . . . nothing.

  “GO!” he barks. He grabs my shoulder and steers me toward the door. Outside the room, he closes the door behind us, and locks it tight with a key from his pocket.

  “Wh-what?” I sputter. “How? Are we—?”

  Wyn presses his lips together. “I think it will stay contained inside the room,” he tells me. “It never did . . . that before.”

  We stare at the wood frame. It holds fast—stable, solid.

  Wyn turns to me. “I think . . . Nixy, I think you should go.”

  I blow out a long breath. I feel like I can barely think, much less save anybody. “Look, maybe the programmers can find a way to create a new portal for you, once I explain the problem.”