by Reapers
“Quantum.” She smiles briskly.
“What can I do for you, milady?”
“Where’s Frances?”
“How the hell should I know? I checked the roster, and it’s not my turn to watch her.”
“I wanted to speak to her.”
“I refer you to my previous statement. She’s not here. Send her an iNet message.”
“Do you mind?” Sophia places her foot in the room. She steps in before I can stop her. “Your room looks like a pigsty.”
“Yes, I mind; no, she’s not here; what do you care about how the room looks; and I didn’t invite you in.” At least I know now that she’s not an actual vampire – just the kind that sucks all the pleasure and enjoyment out of my life every chance she gets.
She sniffs. “Did you have fondue?” she asks as she moves over to the small table under the window and examines the take-away debris. I make a concerted effort to not cut my eyes to where Frances is hiding.
“Sure did,” I say as I pat my belly.
She sniffs again. “Alone? It smells like a rutting den in here.”
“What, are you taking a survey? Why would you even ask that? And what’s it to ya, anyway? Remember, Arnie fiddled with my life chip so the FDA is off my ass. I was craving chocolate. There a problem with that?”
“Mind if I sit?” Without waiting for an answer, she perches herself on the edge of the bed, looks everywhere but at me, and clears her throat. “I think you and I got off to a bad start,” she says.
“It’s fine! Come on, let’s blow this joint! You’re right, the room is stuffy. I think there’s something wrong with the AC. Does it smell like Legionnaire’s Disease in here to you? Want some breakfast at the … um … buffet? My treat!”
“It’s cold in here,” she tells me, her arms crossing over her chest. “And you can’t treat me to a free breakfast that has already ended.”
“Come on, Sophia, let’s go get some coffee, talk about a strategy for later.”
“There is no strategy.”
I watch wide-eyed as she shifts her weight, looks at the two disposable wine glasses and sniffs again.
“Come on, come over here and talk to me,” I say, as I experience an attack of focal hyperhidrosis. My forehead, armpits, palms and groin moisten like I’ve been hit with a water cannon. “Better yet, let’s go for a walk. Oooh! Fresh air, that sounds great, especially since we’ll be diving all day.”
“What’s the point?” she asks as she chokes back tears.
I sit cross-legged on the floor in the most awkward maneuver I’ve attempted in weeks. “I like to, um, sit on the floor, it’s good for my back. Come sit over here by me.”
“You sit on the floor?” she’s crying full on now, but seeing my stupid ass sitting cross-legged on the floor puts a smile on her face.
“Yeah, I learned it in a yoga class I took during my recovery. Hell, I’m still in recovery. Come on over here, tell me what’s going on.”
She stands and I let out a sigh of relief.
“Sit down across from me,” I tell her, “relax a bit.”
She takes a few steps towards me, drops to her knees.
“What’s wrong?”
“I … I … feel bad for Zedic. I worry about him; he’s just about the only friend I have. I just visited him; he’s not doing so well.”
Me: Holy shit what do I do?
Frances Euphoria: Comfort her!
Me: Why’s she whining about Zedic? He’s only been stuck a couple of days. That’s chump change if you ask me.
Frances Euphoria: Comfort her … and get her the hell out of here!
Me: Working on it!
“Zedic will be okay, and I’m sure you have plenty of friends,” I tell her. “We got the knights working on the Reality Splitter as we speak. Jim the Doorman, the Chef and the Saucier all are solid fellas. I’m sure Chrono can make it once he has enough Chronoton. No need to cry over spilt milk, this will be solved by the weekend.”
“Are you sure Chrono can make it?”
“Are you kidding me? Chrono is the best in the biz. He’s not an official member of the Knights, but he is an honorary member. He’ll even be on our team today. I wish he was part of our guild. I can’t believe that Tritania players are only allowed to join one guild? Stupid if you ask me.”
Frances Euphoria: This is a great conversation; in fact the only way it could possibly be greater would be to have it someplace other than in the ROOM I AM HIDING IN.
Me: Keep your cool, Dollface. I’m trying to calm her down.
Sophia snuffles and wipes away what’s left of her tears. “Think of being in a guild like being on a professional sports team – a player can only play for one team. Chrono is in another guild, is he not?”
“Yeah, some blacksmiths-only guild called Hammers of Misfortune. Sounds like a bunch of guys and gals sitting around whacking metal.”
She chuckles softly. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“Keep your chin up, all right? Today is the big day for all of us, the Knights and the Dream Team out here in the real world. That’s probably where Frances is.”
“Where?”
I point at the window. “Out there, jogging or something, getting ready to extract Strata’s kid alongside Arnie. She definitely isn’t sleeping in on an important day like this. Definitely.”
Frances Euphoria: Hey!
“It’s our big day,” I tell Sophia. “I need you to buck up because you’re going to be doing the majority of the ass-kicking in the team rounds of the tournament. Also, I don’t know if Doc told you, but he gave me something to use in the solo rounds that should give me a significant advantage.”
“A life vest,” she says, “he briefed me. Now you can shoot your little heart out.”
“Well, I’d prefer to shoot their little hearts out, but you’d be surprised at what I can do in a straight-up fight. The solo rounds are right up my alley – real-time action; none of this turn-based nerdzilla hogwash.”
She chuckles. “You do express yourself most vividly.”
“Yeah, well you ain’t seen nothing yet. Let’s get to the RV and log in; the tournament will start soon.” I try to stand, wince.
Sophia stands, offers me her hand. “Let’s do this.”
Frances Euphoria: You’re a real sweetheart, you know that?
Me: I wouldn’t go that far.
Frances Euphoria: I’ll monitor the first part of the tournament, before I need to prep for extraction.
Me: Great, keep our conversation on a private channel.
Frances Euphoria: Will do.
Chapter Fifteen
Feedback totentanz.
Life a flood, a loss for words, a slip of the tongue, a skipping stone. From glance to glance, locale to locale, world to world, problem to problem – moments of clarity are ripples in the static. Mind tornadoes and thought hailstorms, worms crawl and stick out of the earth, twisting their tails as mushrooms bloom and digital encumbrances branch into spheres of existence, one here and one there and both everywhere.
There is no sense in who I am, what I do, what I’ve done, what I will do. I am an isotope on the verge of fissility, the redheaded stepchild awaiting liberation from the shiny plutonium sphere. My voice is nuclear resonance, my life in a constant state of thermal flux. I move from world to world on the cusp of a wave packet via a plank theorized by Planck on the back of Schrödinger’s cat quantized to mirror stability. My choice weapons are neurotransmitters, my cartridges filled with acetylcholine.
I am REM’s best nightmare.
~*~
Would you like to join the Waringtla Bi-Annual Tournament as a member of the Knights of Non Compos Mentis?
A black button bordered in gold appears and I press yes.
Congratulations, you are now part of the tournament. Before you can join your party, you must read these additional rules.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” I say, as I scroll through a list of rules and regulations that make Appl
eSoft’s terms and conditions of use look like a tweet.
A warning appears.
You must read each rule carefully.
“Dammit,” I say, scrolling slower this time.
Are you sure you have read them?
“I’m sure.”
Please press the button indicating that you are sure you understand the rules.
I do as instructed.
You forgot to check the box indicating you have read the rules. Please select this box and then press the button indicating you are sure.
I jam my finger into a translucent square floating before me. A green check mark appears in the box.
Now press the button indicating that you are sure you understand the rules.
I punch the button and a vortex forms around me. A split second later and I’m standing in a medieval locker room complete with benches made from logs split lengthways and lockers with rusted iron grilles secured with brass locks.
“This isn’t what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” I turn to find Chrono as Zangief’s bigger, bulkier brother. He looks like he’s in a chrome plated version of D&D fan art armor – lethal, fearsome, and surrealistic. He’s sporting a beard now, intricately oiled and braided with beads and metallic barbs.
“New armor?” I ask as we shake hands.
“What, this old thing? No, I’ve had this in the back of my armory for a while. It’s called Zertsalo bronya in Old Slavic – which translates to Mirror Armor.”
“I flunked out of my Old Slavic class in high school,” I tell him. “Homework was too hard.”
He doesn’t register my joke; probably because something is lost in the real-time translation from ‘Merican to Portuguese and back and not because it ain’t really that funny.
“Čoho sa kto bojí, o tom sa mu najskôr sníva.”
I flip around to find Aiden looking smug as a bug in rug in his not quite period appropriate Rainbow Six-esque assassin gear.
“Gesundheit,” I tell him.
“It means the thing we fear, we soon dream about,” he says.
“What does?”
“What I said in Slavic.” Aiden moves over to the entrance to our locker area, takes a ready position next to the door.
“Is everyone ready?” Veenure stands in the far corner of the room in her usual accoutrements with an added fashionista twist; no hood, instead she’s sporting a tie-dyed bucket hat decorated with a pair of tiny fox ears. Her purple hair is plaited into one long braid that hangs down the back of her battle gear.
“You get a lot of protection with that hat?” I ask, smirking.
“The Schoolboy Q hat gives me +20 defense,” she says. “It also adds an additional +15 to any spell I cast, which then gives me a +7 advantage on our opponent, which actually equals 22 if you think about it. On top of that, it gives me a +10 wisdom-saving advantage. And did I mention that when I have this snazzy topper on, I’m completely invulnerable to magic attacks?”
“You had me at hello,” I tell her. “No idea what you’re talking about, kid.”
“You really don’t know anything about Tritania, do you?” she asks.
“He’s the ultimate noob,” chimes in Chrono. “The Forever Noob.”
Rocket: N00byMcN00bfAc3.
I brush my shoulders off. “Anyone recognize this gesture?”
Blank expressions answer my question.
“Never mind. I seem to be good for one thing only when it comes to this Proxima World – kicking ass and taking names.”
Which reminds me: I equip my own armor, item 573, the Vibranite Alloy Dragonscale Armor made by Chrono. I follow this with a quick scroll down to item 572, my Final Fantasy Buster Sword, orバスターソード. Next up is item 571, my Golden Goosinator, which reminds me to equip recently required item 577, the Attla Spider Venom Hose gun that attaches to the hack.
“Looking good, Quantum.”
Movement in my peripheral vision. I look over my shoulder and I double take at a most unexpected sight. Sophia is decked out in a robe that’s made of nothing. Or everything, or maybe something. Reality seems to warp and shift around it; my eyes won’t focus on it, it’s as if she’s wrapped in a Substance D hallucination.
“Where’d you get the hologram hide?” I ask.
“It’s a Robe of Illusion, one of only three that exist in Tritania. Actually, I should say it is one of only two – the third was cast into the Endless Sea.”
I don’t sigh and roll my eyes, but I want to. Yes, Sophia, we’re all very impressed with your Franklin Mint Collector’s Limited Edition Thaumaturgist’s Magic Bathrobe. I’m surprised that you didn’t wave the certificate of authenticity in front of everybody so we could all ooh and aah at it. The material constantly morphs, reflecting light and flashing face-like images. It’s some creepy shit, and I look away just to avoid the faces of lost souls silently screaming at me.
“Well, how do we get this little fight under way?” I ask the group. “I don’t have all day.”
“Through this door,” says Aiden. He taps his fingernail against a door with the word FIGHT branded into it. “Our first battle starts as soon as we exit.”
~*~
I’ve never pictured myself as a gladiator, never thought that I’d be standing at the center of an arena surrounded by thousands and thousands of screaming fans. The day is bright, cloudless, the sky a fair shade of zaffre. We’re in a large open field, wide enough to host two football matches side by side. A gate opens ahead of us and the crowd goes wild as our first opponents emerge.
Rocket: Here’s a close-up.
I minimize the image with a pinch. NPC dwarves with bushy red beards, riding giant kangaroo rats with armored helmets fashioned to resemble panda bear ears? Kill me, Tritania, kill me now.
Me: Dwarves on panda-hatted kangaroo rats?
Rocket: How did you know their name?
Me: Lucky guess.
“Dwarves on panda-hatted kangaroo rats,” I relay to Aiden, Chrono and Veenure.
“Rocket?” she asks.
“Comms.”
“You really should add me to the comms you guys are using.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “We keep forgetting. It’s a complicated procedure.”
“Later,” Sophia says, “look up.”
She points at an enormous Doritos XXXL Jumbotron at the far end of the stadium. The snack chip manufacturer’s logo sits in the bottom corner featuring an ad promising to LEVEL UP WITHOUT LEVELING UP.
Sophia huffs, “Leave it to America’s number one manufacturer of empty calories to target gamers with their products!”
“Is there anyone else they should target?” I ask. “Besides, the Cajun Crawfish Doritos look legit! Aside from us, how many fit gamers do you know?”
Veenure says, “I’m fit in real life, within my target weight.”
Rocket: Pics or it didn’t happen. ¯_(ツ)_/¯
Me: Thatta boy. You’re learning.
Sophia: Shut up.
~~ LET THE GAMES BEGIN! ~~
The booming voice rings out all around us as the sound of the crowd swells. To the eastern side of the field is the king’s skybox area, or whatever it’s called in medievalese, but the king of the Saiduka Giants is absent, replaced instead by a lady large enough to eat your average VE gamer for breakfast and still have room for a Keg o’DunkinKing Munchkins the size of an aeros school bus.
That’s the curious part about the crowd – it’s segregated, the giants on the right with their mean mugs and throaty grunts directly across from throngs of normal-sized fans, who hoot and holler and whistle and cheer and blow vuvuzelas for all they’re worth. I’d hate to see what happens if a fight broke out between the sides, but methinks that the regular sized-fans would wind up stuck between the toes of Big Uns, and right smartly, too.
A bracket appears on the screen, announcing our guild name and the guild name of our opponent, Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus, or, apparently, the DDNuTs for short.
&n
bsp; “I don’t even want to know what that means,” I grumble.
Rocket: It means Never tickle a sleeping dragon.
Me: What part of I don’t even want to know what that means do you not understand?
The trumpet sounds, the Knights versus five dwarves riding giant kangaroo rats, aka the DDNuTs.
“My turn.” I move my hand to equip my Tickle-me-Elmo themed nutcracker, item 98.
“Not quite,” says Sophia. “They charged us, so they get the first attack.”
The first three dwarves miss their attacks on Sophia and Veenure. They almost hit Aiden, who is saved by Chrono. One of the dwarves rides towards me, his tongue wagging and his eyes radiating fury as he sizes me up. He’s the ugliest of the bunch, which takes some doing as they’re all ugly in an inbred, gene-damaged, radioactive mutant kind of way. He screeches and roars as his dipodomys spectabilis eximae magnitudinis leaps into the air to multiply the striking power of his swing. The cavalry ax clangs and sparks against my armor.
“Bastard!” I shout as my life bar takes a dip.
The final dwarf advances towards me, stops, and waits as his short ax lengthens into a wickedly pointed halberd. He bangs the butt of the polearm on the ground, smiles, blocks one nostril with a finger as he cocks his head and blows a stream of toxic-looking yellow dwarf snot across the intervening distance, where it splatters at my feet.
“How do I counter?” I shout as his mount rears up and he preps his charge.
Rocket: It’s all about your DI.
Me: ENGLISH!
Rocket: Defense intelligence. Note: yours is low.
Chrono saves the day. He lunges forward like a Secret Service Agent taking one for the Gipper, and the pointy end shatters against his Slavic armor. The panda-hatted kangaroo rat lunges forward and chomps a McGruff-sized bite out of Chrono’s shoulder.
“Damn! That’s some bite!” I say as the rodent of unusual size and his under-sized rider bound away.
“I’ll be all right,” says Chrono, “but we need to hit them hard this round because I’ll need time to rejuvenate for the next battle.”
“Rejuvenate?” I ask. “You can do that?”
