Dead Mech Walking: a mech LitRPG novel (Armored Souls Book 1)

by Xavier P. Hunter

  Chase broke out in a grin. “Bought your ride back out of hock? Lemme guess; you overloaded her with medium laser cannons?”

  “Something like that…” Reggie said with a teasing smirk.

  They arrived at the hangar level and took a moving sidewalk to Reggie’s bay. Daisy stood there, still in an unpilotable state of disrepair.

  “Huh?” Kim asked. “It’s still a wreck.”

  “Next bay over,” Reggie said with a jerk of his head.

  The trio ambled over and gawked at the brand new Wolverine class, painted blue with yellow and black accents. “Like it? I did some number crunching of my own. The Wolverine can equip the Grossemacht-960 reactor, which comes with its own bonus heat sink. And the stock model comes with two more heat sinks than your Jackal.”

  Chase gaped. “Where the everlovin’ bleep did you get the bleeping money for this thing? You would have had to run missions for a week and been on a ramen and lasers budget to afford this.”

  “Nah, just ran some with an NPC platoon and got lucky taking out a Rhino with the Mass Driver intact. Those things resell for mucho dinero.”

  Kim winced. “I wouldn’t have sold that. Better to save it for a heavy that can mount it.”

  Chase shrugged. “So what? He doesn’t have a heavy. But he has one of the heaviest mediums now.”

  They all took a moment to stare at the juggernaut in Reggie’s bay.

  The Wolverine class wasn’t a scout like the Sandpiper or a missile platform like Kim and Iris’s Chi-Ris. It was an all-around weapon with capabilities at all engagement ranges. It had long legs to give the pilot a high vantage over the battlefield and the ability to fire over tall obstacles while still being able to duck below for cover. Its arms were fully articulated at the shoulder, elbow, and wrist, with hands capable of grasping for manipulation or picking up objects to use in melee combat. The cockpit was located in the head. That made it more vulnerable but also opened up space in the torso to mount missile batteries. The ammo rack lay protected behind the juggernaut’s thickest armor.

  “I’m jealous,” was all Chase could say.

  “What’d you name it?” Kim asked, gawking up at the gleaming surfaces of the juggernaut.

  Chase put out a hand. “Wait! Don’t say it. Lemme guess.” He closed his eyes and touched a finger on each hand to his temples. “You tried to name it… Logan.”

  Reggie glanced away. “It was taken.”

  Chase burst out laughing. “No bleep it was taken. First guy to buy one probably named it that. For the record, James (underscore) Howlett and Weapon X are also taken.”

  Reggie shrugged. “Ended up calling it Vortex.” Back in the day, Reggie had used that gamer tag in just about anything that asked for one. At a loss for a cool video game name, it had been the only pseudonym he could think of.

  “OK, big guy,” Kim said, forcing himself to look away from the beautiful machine with visible effort. He locked gazes with Reggie. “Cough it up. How’d you get two levels and this sweet ride since yesterday? You hacking, or is it like Cooley said and you’re bleeping someone on the side for loot?”

  Reggie shrugged. “Like I said, I just ran missions with an NPC platoon on the side.” He didn’t see the big deal. It’s not like he was joining up with another player platoon. If they’d seen—or more importantly, heard—the shit he’d had to put up with from Mogh, LaTrie, Shen, and Curly, they’d be writing him sympathy cards.

  “How many…?” Chase asked, narrowing his eyes.

  Reggie scratched at the back of his head. The stubble since the last time he’d shaved felt so real. “Eleven. Maybe twelve. I wasn’t counting.”

  “What?” Kim shouted, his voice echoing over the sounds of an angle grinder buzzing away elsewhere in the hangar and the general din of machinery at work.

  “Holy bleep, man,” Chase added, shaking his head. “You pulled an all-dayer.”

  “That a problem?” Reggie asked. “I told you guys I’m in the hospital. My shrink calls this therapy.”

  “Your psych-guy is psycho if he calls rolling over the clock in Armored Souls treatment,” Chase said, taking a deep breath. “You might have a malpractice case—not that I’m a lawyer, nor am I giving legal advice of any sort.” He put up his hands in mock surrender.

  “Seriously, dude,” Kim said. “Log out for a while. Get some fresh air. Bleep, you probably bleeped yourself lying there with your headset on.”

  “If he’s lucky,” Chase put in. “Better than a bladder infection.”

  “You could get banned,” Kim said. “I’m surprised the admins haven’t booted you yet for your own good. Valhalla West put in safety measures to prevent lawsuits.”

  Reggie thumped a fist against his chest. “I’m fine. Really. Plus, like I said, I’m in a hospital. They’re not going to let jack bleep happen to me there. C’mon. I wanna test this Wolverine out for the first time with real players on my side.”

  Kim and Chase both took a step back. Chase shook his head. “No can do, chief. I’m not riding with a burnout waiting to happen. Go grab a pizza, take a piss, bleep off a little, whatever it takes to get your bleep back in order. Me and Kim can slum around a while. It’ll be at least two hours before Iris shows up anyway. Not like we’re gonna replace you.”

  “Technically, you’re not in yet,” Kim pointed out to Chase. “You don’t even have a vote.”

  Chase waved away the idea. “Who cares? King here knows I’ve got the skills to put a platoon on the map. Flush me if you want. I’ll land somewhere else. But if I’m going to join the Cold Brotherhood, it’ll be because King’s leading it, not you or one of the other two yahoos.”

  “…says the guy trying to get us to vote him in,” Kim grumbled.

  Chase ignored him and grabbed Reggie’s face between his hands. “You. Log out. Come back in two hours. Take more if you need it.”

  Reggie slapped the hands away. “Fine. I’ll log out for a while. Not like I’ve got anything to do out of game.”

  He headed off to find a bed where he could log out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Reggie sucked in a deep breath and nearly gagged. There was a tube running down the back of his throat, coming out his nose. The lights had been dimmed in the pod room. A vitals monitor cast an eerie glow as it recorded heart rate and blood pressure.

  Unhooking himself from the pod was a puzzle of tubes, wires, medical tape, and velcro straps. Unlike his last exit from the pod, this time he seemed to have full manual dexterity.

  A beeping alarm sounded, high-pitched but not blaringly loud, as Reggie removed the electrode measuring his heart rate. Within seconds, Nurse Mallet rushed into the room.

  She pulled up short. “Oh, you’re awake.” With a nod, she took a deep, steadying breath. “We were going to give you another day before we decided to send someone in after you. Here. Let me help with that.”

  Reggie lay back and allowed Nurse Mallet to undo all the gizmos and monitors. He looked away as she slid a needle out of his vein, removing a saline drip—or at least it looked like just saline.

  It hadn’t registered that he was wearing a hospital gown instead of the loose-fitting sweatpants-and-t-shirt combo he’d been wearing around the place, at least not until Nurse Mallet lifted it up from the knee.

  “Hey!” Reggie objected, batting the fabric down.

  Nurse Mallet looked up at him with an innocent smile. “Thirty straight hours in Armored Souls. You think we’d let you wet yourself? If you’d like to take out your own catheter, be my guest. Personally, if I were in your shoes—”

  “I’m barefoot,” Reggie noted.

  “I’d let a professional take care of it,” Nurse Mallet finished.

  Squeezing shut his eyes and gripping the sides of the pod, Reggie nodded curtly. “Fine.”

  Minutes later, Reggie was pulling on real clothes. The worst part had been the removal of the feeding tube. He’d been fed medical-grade gruel six times since going into Armored Souls. His limbs had gone fla
bby from prolonged inactivity. He needed some exercise.

  “There a gym somewhere in this hospital?” Reggie asked.

  “There’s a physical therapy room,” she offered.

  Reggie bent over to stretch out his hamstrings, and a wave of vertigo swept over him. Soft, strong hands caught and guided him to a wheelchair that had been on standby.

  “I can walk,” Reggie protested.

  Nurse Mallet kicked the brake loose and started pushing. “Sure you can. But for now, it’s my privilege to chauffeur you.”

  Despite his frustration, Reggie chuckled weakly at her attempt to appease him. “Mind me asking you a personal question?”

  “Yes, I’m single. No, I don’t date patients. Yes, they’re real. No, you may not,” Nurse Mallet rattled off matter-of-factly. “That got you covered?”

  “Am I some sort of special assignment or something?” Reggie asked through a grin as he imagined the questions to all her answers. “Why’s it always you around, not like a random shift nurse every time? When I was laid up with a busted ankle, I must’ve had six nurses in two weeks.”

  Nurse Mallet clucked her tongue. “You noticed that, huh? I’m not the only nurse on duty, but Dr. Zimmerman wanted you to have consistency. He didn’t want six nurses looking after you; if it was feasible, he just wanted one.”

  “Am I supposed to get attached?” Reggie asked. “Open up and confess all the fucked-up shit in my—sorry, ma’am. Got a little used to all my language getting sanitized in there. I mean, Doc Zimmerman wants me to build up a trust so I’ll tell you what I don’t feel comfortable telling him. Is that it?”

  Nurse Mallet chuckled. “Something like that.”

  The white halls seemed drab compared to the game world. The sterile smells curled Reggie’s nose hairs. The beeps of monitors, the whirring of coolant fans, and the rhythmic sucking of air pumps all sounded professional, official, cold. Where were the growls of juggernaut engines and the clank of overhead cranes loading missiles into empty ammo racks?

  Reggie’s fingers clawed at the wheelchair’s armrests. He wasn’t in control. He needed foot pedals and a pair of control sticks.

  They took an elevator down. Nurse Mallet engaged the brake during the ride and took out her tablet, tapping away with Reggie unable to see what was on the screen. When the elevator doors opened, she tucked it into a short waitress-style apron at her waist that disappeared in the white-on-white contrast of her uniform.

  Flipping the brake lever with her toe, Nurse Mallet began pushing again.

  “What was that?” Reggie asked.

  “Just work,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  The rehab facility looked like one Reggie had seen on television. Even when he’s been in for a broken ankle, rehab had consisted of a few days of light duty before getting cleared to command a tank again. There were parallel bars, treadmills, contraptions that looked like nautilus machines, and rubber Pilates balls.

  For the first time in days, Reggie saw other patients and staff. There were two pairs working out. One brawny guy was trying to walk on two prosthetic legs, struggling on the parallel bars to hold himself upright. A slimmer soldier kept up a steady pace on the treadmill with one artificial leg; the side of his face was covered in burns, and he held onto the hand rail with his lone remaining arm.

  “Kinda makes me feel like an ass,” Reggie said softly as Nurse Mallet helped him to his feet. He was unsteady but had the strength to hold himself upright. “None of these guys is here because they spent too many hours in a VR simulation.”

  “They’re here for their reasons,” she replied. “You’re here for your own. It’s not a contest, and you’re not taking anything away from them by being here.”

  For the next half hour, Reggie walked at a snails pace on a treadmill. At first, he didn’t make eye contact with the guy a couple treadmills over who looked like he’d been to hell and left pieces of himself behind.

  Corporal Brett Ramos introduced himself, and he and Reggie got to talking. It felt weird speaking to someone from the army instead of the motley assortment of tire repairmen and baristas in Armored Souls—plus whatever Chase did that he was lying to cover… probably high-school geometry.

  Cpl. Ramos finished up, and a nurse Reggie hadn’t met helped him out of the rehab room. Reggie kept going, thinking that any exercise he got would toughen him up for longer stints in Armored Souls. The game world was ten times as interesting as the hospital.

  Maybe that was the test. Maybe Reggie was supposed to choose when to go back to his unit. Slinking off to Armored Souls every time he got an itch for action might have been the key to him remaining in the hospital.

  “Reggie, there you are!” Dr. Zimmerman called out before bustling over to the side of the treadmill, tablet in hand. The doctor never looked out of place. He was the constant observer, the coach on the sideline with the clipboard, fitting in despite not wearing the uniform.

  “Wasn’t hiding,” Reggie replied, sparing the doctor a glance. He was sweating, more from constant effort than from anything being difficult.

  Dr. Zimmerman poked at his tablet. Reggie waited, but no further questions were forthcoming.

  “What’d you come down to see me about?” Reggie asked at length.

  There was something off about the doctor—off about everything, now that he considered it. Maybe he just needed contrast of the vivid game world of Armored Souls to notice it.

  “Oh, I’m just entering a prescription at the on-site pharmacy,” he replied without looking up.

  “You drugging me up now?” Reggie asked. “Thought I didn’t need that crap.”

  Dr. Zimmerman glanced up and twitched a fleeting smile. “I’m prescribing sleep. That comes in pill form nowadays. Your neural scans show that you weren’t getting any mental rest in game, and you’re not getting any at all out here. Your body thinks it slept, but your mind has been awake and revving at 8,000 RPM for thirty hours plus however long you were awake before entering the pod.”

  Reggie hit the stop button on the treadmill. He hadn’t realized until just then, but it had been comforting walking behind a control console. “What kind of drugs?”

  “Nozdormu,” Dr. Zimmerman replied with shrug. “Just a sleep aid. Not available over the counter due to deleterious effects on spatial awareness. Comes with the standard warnings about operating heavy machinery and all that. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

  “How about a Wolverine?” Reggie asked, baiting the question by not providing any details on the juggernaut.

  “You’ll be fine to play Armored Souls all you like,” Dr. Zimmerman replied. “The effects are a factor central nervous chemistry that the VR rig bypasses.”

  “Bypassing brain chemistry sounds like some freaky shit,” Reggie replied with a scowl. “You sure you’re not trying to convince me to give up on the game?”

  “On the contrary,” Dr. Zimmerman replied. “I think the lack of in-game side effects should be another mark in its favor. In a clinical environment like this, the game is perfectly harmless. You’re welcome to use it whenever you like for as long as you like. The hospital staff will take care of everything. But you do need mental rest, and if you don’t get it in game, we’ll pull you out to get it here. Understood?”

  Reggie scratched at the stubble on his cheek. It was only a day old, and he hadn’t shaved since he got here. Was Nurse Mallet shaving him while he battled robotic warriors on alien planets? Seemed likely. Either way, it sounded like his best option was to go along with it. He could think of worse fates than having Nurse Mallet pampering him while he played hero. Not playing Armored Souls and being stuck here in rehab-land was first on his list.

  “Sure, Doc. Got it. I’ll take the pills, get some shut-eye, and I promise to be a good soldier about resting up between here and the game.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Reggie stumbled into the crew lounge of the House Virgo command ship, unsure where he’d been moments ago. The hospital had beco
me a blur in his memory. He recalled talking with Dr. Zimmerman… heading back to his room… an orderly delivering a pair of gleaming white pills in a tiny paper cup…

  Now, Reggie was here. Presumably he’d woken up and gone to the pod room. He or someone else must have hooked him up to the VR rig. But none of that registered as a solid memory, just an inference.

  “Guys?” Reggie called out. The lounge was crowded but not packed to capacity. He rubbed a hand over his face and stumbled over to a digital clock tied into the game server.

  11:45pm server time.

  Reggie didn’t even know where the server was located, just that this was prime playing time, and his platoon wasn’t there waiting for him. On a hunch, he dragged himself over to the mission board and found their names.

  [Cold Brotherhood - Anti-Air Defense - Cespir II - In-Progress]

  They were doing a mission without him.

  Reggie looked at the details and saw that they had appointed Chase as platoon leader. He was higher level than before—Gunner 7. Iris had leveled up too. So had Barclay…

  “What’s going on?” Reggie whispered to himself.

  He wasn’t going to get any answers to his questions just gawking at the mission board. Or at least, not gawking at the active mission board. The list of available missions was very much Reggie’s business. And until he blew some credits at the command ship’s on-board store and bought himself a tablet, he was going to access mission postings from the middle of the crew lounge like the scrub he was.

  He sorted by rating, by payout, by proximity, and by recommended level. Reggie pored over available intel and shit-canned any that didn’t have the degree of detail he demanded for mission planning. Let some other saps go blind into the battlefield. Sun Tzu had warned about knowing your enemy about a million years ago, and anyone who hadn’t gotten the message by now was an imbecile.

  By the time the Cold Brotherhood arrived back from their mission without him, Reggie had picked one out for them—assuming Chase allowed him back in and approved of the mission. He was going to want some answers about what had been going on in his absence.