“A week?” Kavan tilted his head. “We don’t stay dead for a week. That’s a raid lockout.”
“Group wipe to a non-instanced outdoor raid boss could lock these characters as ‘dead’ for a week. Or maybe just keep us stuck on this planet until the reset.” Fawkes scrunched up her face, trying to remember how the game handled that. “I think.”
“They should’ve thought of that, having it outside like this.” Rallek gestured at the ship. “Only idiots would’ve stood there trying to take that thing on in personal combat. By the time we had the adds under control, Angel was almost out. We would’ve wiped if we tried to do it ‘the correct’ way.”
“She’s right.” Angel813 groaned. “Army of One required everyone to have a raiding alt so if we wiped on an outdoor boss we wouldn’t be sidelined. We’d have been stuck as ghosts until reset.”
“We killed it.” Nighthawk shot finger guns at the dead bug. “That was the correct way.”
“So… umm. Let’s get out of here before someone notices us,” said Fawkes.
Rallek and Kavan glanced at her.
“Expecting a problem?” asked Angel813.
“No, just general paranoia.” She shrugged. “If the developers put that fight here to force a wipe and lockout, killing it might’ve broken something or at least been noticed.”
Kavan opened the loot box. “Hmm. We’ll that’s yours.” He tossed a set of black leggings to Fawkes.
She caught the flying medium armor pants and examined them. Purple quality level forty, with a whopping +30 bonus to agility and +10% stealth chance. “Holy shit. Sorry all. This isn’t waiting.”
Her existing pants disappeared, leaving her in the dingy brown irremovable panties for a few seconds until she dragged the new armor into the corresponding inventory slot. Of course, anyone who went to the beach saw more skin than the ‘basic underwear’ revealed, so she didn’t even feel embarrassed. That and, well, the character avatar wasn’t really her body. The new pants looked and felt like wearing thick spandex, but didn’t reflect any light, making her legs appear to be an absence of reality.
“Whoa. That’s trippy.” Rallek poked her in the thigh. “I read about some stuff like that on the ’net. Carbon nanotubes or whatever. Super black.”
“Who wants this?” said Kavan, while holding up a frilly one-piece garment: a black bikini top and a skimpy bottom with a useless gauzy see-through loincloth over it. “Rallek, this has your name all over it.”
“If a giant robot carrying a mage robe was messed up, what about this bug having a Victoria’s Secret obsession?” asked Angel813, still playing with her alien dogs.
“It doesn’t go with my eyes at all,” said Rallek in an overacted feminine voice.
Fawkes scowled. “It’s freakin’ 2031! Why do game developers continue putting that sexist shit in games?”
“What?” asked Angel813. “I’d wear that. I’d totally rock that thing. Especially in PVP. Distraction, sweetie.”
“In public?” Fawkes stared at her, mouth agape.
“This isn’t public. This is a video game.” She picked up one of the dogs and made kissy faces at it. “I’d be way too chicken to wear something like that for real, but in the game? Sure, why not?”
“This is almost pushing the boundary of what ought to be in a game without an age restriction.” Kavan frowned, and tossed it to Rallek. “Look at the stats. You might change your mind and wear it anyway.”
“I could always pay for a character modification and make Rallek female,” said Rallek. He studied the armor for a moment before his eyes bulged. “God dayum!”
His armored trenchcoat disappeared, replaced a second later with a suit that blended Victorian style with high tech panels, glowing purple runes along both sleeves. Both arms had forearm guards full of techno-gadgetry.
“That’s the same garment?” squeaked Fawkes. “What misogynist bullshit is this?”
“Hang on.” Angel813 reached for him. “Let me see it?”
Rallek went bare-chested for a second before his old armor appeared. He handed a generic-looking black T-shirt item to Angel813.
Her medic armor disappeared. Soon after, the racy ‘combat bikini’ with transparent loincloth appeared on her. The outfit exposed more skin than the game’s underwear did. “Guess it changes if a girl wears it.”
“Whoa, that’s kinda messed up,” said Nighthawk, a hint of blush on his face. He didn’t quite look directly at her. “But I guess it would be more messed up if it still looked like that when Rallek wore it.”
Rallek laughed.
Angel813’s green and silver armor reappeared. She handed a frilly item back to Rallek, which once again became the gothic Victorian/techno armor suit when he put it on.
“Ooh!” Fawkes fumed. “I’m really pissed off now. I ran into a Niath played by like a ten–year-old. It’s not right to make kids wear something that revealing. It’s not right to force women to either.”
“Check the options screen, hon.” Angel813 winked. “They put in a selector to change it. Under social/outfits, they’ve got a one-to-ten slider for armor sexiness.”
Seconds later, Rallek’s clothing all but vanished, leaving him standing there in an almost-nonexistent super-tiny bathing suit with glowing purple arcane writing on it.
“Whoa!” shouted Nighthawk. “Not cool!”
Kavan shielded his eyes.
“I guess it does work on guys, too.” The frilly techno-Victorian suit reappeared.
“Hmph.” Fawkes folded her arms. “Still feels like they’re being sexist.”
Rallek raised an eyebrow at Angel813. “That means you’ve got your sexy slider all the way up.”
She winked at him. “PVP hon. The boys can’t shoot straight if they’re staring at boobs.”
“Oh, there’s a tank weapon in here. Anyone care if I nab this?” Kavan held up a boxy assault rifle. “Damage is way better than mine and the stat bonuses are all constitution and willpower.”
“Go for it,” said Fawkes.
Everyone else nodded.
“Well that’s the lot of it.” Kavan closed the loot box, which disappeared. “So… the Reckoning.”
“It’s a world boss,” said Rallek.
“Which world?” Nighthawk looked at him.
Rallek gestured both hands out to the sides. “I mean a universe boss that can appear literally anywhere out in space. It spawns randomly and moves every half hour. It could be anywhere on the star map and go from one corner to the opposite corner instantly.”
“Damn.” Kavan whistled. “That would take us hours of game time to pull off that trip.”
Angel813 sighed, holding up a small cat-like alien with three tails. She scratched under its chin and made cooing noises at it. “That’s why I don’t pay attention to that stuff. It’s not worth the hassle.”
“Exactly how many vanity pets do you have?” asked Nighthawk.
Angel813 opened a small floating window and read for a second. “289. I’m only a third of the way done collecting.”
“You’re way too good at playing a medic healer to be casual,” said Rallek.
“She’s not a casual,” snapped Nighthawk. “She’s former AOO.”
“If she’s from a big time raid guild, how come she never reads any of the strats?” asked Kavan.
Rallek smiled. “Lazy healer?”
“I have a real job.” Angel813 tucked a lock of her hair behind one ear. “If I’m not in the game, I’m usually reading stuff for work.”
“So do I… have a real job that is,” said Kavan. “And I can still take ten minutes to go over a strategy write up.”
“I’ve got a job, too, but I wouldn’t call it real,” said Fawkes with a sigh. “Just a barista.”
“Hey, don’t undervalue that.” Kavan pointed at her. “Without you, I couldn’t work.”
Everyone chuckled.
“It’s not a big deal for you. You can read strats at work, Mr. Programmer.” Rallek grinned. “I can�
��t. I’m stuck on a damn phone all day trying to explain to people why they can’t use garden hose to wire up their computer network. I had one dude think the internet would be faster because the hose was fatter than the network cable.”
“Who uses cables anymore?” Nighthawk blinked at him. “That’s so last decade.”
Fawkes glanced at Nighthawk. “How do you have the time to read strats, work, and still be five levels over us all?”
“Six levels.” He winked. “Just special I guess.”
“Well… we know who’s unemployed.” Fawkes winked.
Nighthawk stuck his tongue out at her.
“So you guys really want to try and find this impossible-to-find raid boss ship?” asked Angel813. “Army of One still hasn’t been able to track it down… and they’ve got at least forty crews. We’re one crew. Even if we could find it, we wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“I hear beating that boss drops an exclusive vanity pet,” said Rallek.
“Oh?” Angel813’s eyebrows notched up. “Are you serious or just messing with me?”
Rallek opened a terminal window, typed for a moment, and moved so she could see. “Nope, I’m serious. Blacklight Phoenix pet. The only way to get it is to take out that ship. No one in the whole game has it yet.”
“That’s because no player has even laid eyes on it.” Kavan gestured at another display panel hovering by him. “Not one.”
“Ooh!” Angel813’s facial expression became that of a six-year-old girl staring at a birthday pony. “He’s so cute! I want him!”
“Yeah…” said Fawkes, “But not only do we have to find it, we have to figure out how to kill it.”
“Wait.” Nighthawk scratched his head. “People know about the Reckoning already?”
“Yeah. AOO is hunting for it,” said Angel813. “That ship has been around since the game started.”
“But do they know it’s part of the big quest?” asked Fawkes.
“Doubtful.” Rallek shook his head. “It’s been a world boss since launch. It’s older than this prize quest. I bet they made that ship part of it because no one’s been able to find it yet.”
Kavan laughed. “Is it no one’s been able to or no one’s bothered because it’s too much of a pain in the ass.”
“Either way.” Rallek held up the data pad from the crashed fighter. “They don’t have this. At least for the purpose of this quest, we might not have to take the boss on. The developers can’t be that sadistic to force a forty-ship raid for this prize. Having to share the prize money with that many people wouldn’t make it worth bothering with. Maybe they just refer to the Reckoning as backstory, yanno? No one’s said we have to kill it.”
Murmurs of agreement spread around.
“Come on.” Kavan tromped off toward the Stormbringer. “It’s only seven. We still got a good two hours or so, can knock out a ship mission if everyone’s up for it.”
“Might as well,” said Fawkes. “Or we can go check out these coordinates.”
“Let’s do that.” Rallek pointed at her. “It’s going to be a long flight anyway.”
Life Support
12
Saturday after leaving the café, Dakota hopped an Amazon Lyft™ car to Dover Street, where Nebraska’s ‘people’ had built up a section of space under the Manhattan side of the decommissioned Brooklyn Bridge. Between the MagTube transit system, telecommuting, and the general decline of the area, the city stopped maintaining the bridge in 2030. Officially, people weren’t allowed on it, but the cops seldom bothered enforcing that. Radicals tried to install solar panels along the surface to ‘reclaim wasted space,’ but of course, the power companies sent the cops to shut that down.
Corrugated steel panels splashed with graffiti and chain link fence walled off the area below the bridge superstructure. The orange glow of fires within steel drums illuminated the interior. Two young men somewhere between seventeen and twenty, both in yellow wool caps and openly carrying small UZIs, gave her the stink eye. Barring a situation like a severe malfunction of an auto-driving vehicle leaving a rich person stranded here, the cops rarely set foot within three miles of this place.
She pulled out her phone, logged on to Amazon, and ordered two forty-packs of Disney Castle burgers. Twenty years or so ago, it had been White Castle, but the rush of buyouts reshaped the world. About ten minutes later, the buzz of approaching fans pulled her attention skyward. The drone carried a thermal bag, in which her eighty hamburgers sat snug and protected from smog and pigeon shit. Every so often, someone who ordered coffee would complain of a splatter on the cups, usually from a drone-to-bird collision during the delivery. The Castle delivery drone looked like a veteran of the million-pigeons-war, or a Jackson Pollack rendered in bird poop. Fortunately, the burger cartons remained clean.
After retrieving the food, she approached the armed punks. Their hard-faced glowers of derision eased back to confusion, then recognition when she got within speaking distance.
“Oh, hey girl. Didn’t recognize you,” said one she thought might be named Leon.
“Brass here?” asked Dakota.
“Yeah. Go on in.”
She hefted the boxes. “Brought you guys some food.”
“Right on,” said the other guy.
Dakota didn’t care for this place much. The dying bulk of the old Brooklyn Bridge hung overhead like the Sword of Damocles, thousands of tons of concrete and steel that could collapse without warning at any minute. Her brother saw it as an impregnable fortress. A scattering of oceanic cargo boxes served as enclosed rooms for the higher-ranking members of the gang, several even boasting large television sets and gaming consoles. They boosted a couple PlayStation 7s off the back of a truck a while back and kept three.
Black oil barrels here and there radiated heat. Whatever burned inside them gave off a foul stink like engine degreaser from a heavy truck. She wrinkled her nose at the fumes but kept on walking around concrete lane dividers and old patio furniture. They’d set this place up preparing for a siege that never came. One day, the ‘social crusaders’ hoped to do something significant for the people, set off an event that would alter the course of civilization and probably trigger a bullet-riddled standoff with authorities.
Some of them longed for that day, hoping to go out as martyrs of change, but they still had a secret exit on the other side. While they all talked a big game, only about a third would be likely to follow through with the whole fighting to the death thing.
Nebraska wound up somewhere in the middle of the hierarchy. Not particularly influential, but loyal and dedicated enough to where he had earned respect. He, along with a dozen other young people society had no further use for, congregated around a cluster of battered sofas where someone had rigged an overhead projector up to play movies on a giant screen. Three rag-clad children under ten, two boys and girl, sat on the floor by the middle couch, enthralled in a car-to-car gunfight on the screen.
“Kota!” Brass leapt from his seat on the sofa arm, and hurried over. “What’s up?”
She hefted the boxes. “Brought you guys some food. I wanted to make sure you were eating. What’s with the little kids? Kinda young to join up huh?”
“Oh, they’re not joining.” He rolled his eyes. “They live in the building out front. Just here to watch TV.”
“That movie’s a little R rated for them. Are they even nine yet?” She shook her head.
“Yo! Food!” Brass held up the boxes. “Sis, life is too R rated for little kids.”
The barefoot girl shifted her weight to stand, giving Dakota a glimpse of a small handgun strapped to her thigh under her tattered dress.
“Gracias por la comida. ¡Eres agradable!” The child scrambled over and hugged Dakota before grabbing a bundle of burgers and scooting back to her spot on the floor.
Dakota stood back while the two boys and the other gang members helped themselves. Brass wolfed down six of the small cheeseburgers in eight seconds, stifled a burp, and approached to throw
an arm around her back.
“Workin’ on something. I should be able to pay you back a bit of the cash you loaned me soon.”
She smirked. “Don’t rob a place, okay? I don’t need money back from you bad enough to put you in jail.”
Nebraska shook his head. “Ain’t like that. Hey, since you’re here…” Dakota started to suck in a breath, but he raised a hand. “No, I ain’t gonna ask you for money.”
“What then?”
He grinned. “A chance to remember who you are and do some of that stuff you went to school for. AmeriBank has been a giant pack of douchebags lately. We want to hit their website.”
“Hit their website?”
“Yeah, Franco’s got all the graphics and stuff ready. The files are good to go. We just need someone a little better at this shit to get them on the official server.”
A slow, predatory smile formed on her lips. She’d had a special hate on for AmeriBank after they’d foreclosed on the house she’d grown up in. Though she knew it had been a scam, neither she nor her parents could afford a lawyer good enough to prove it. Her parents had enabled automatic payment of their mortgage from the bank account, also with AmeriBank, so they hadn’t consciously thought of making payments for years. A year and a half ago, a huge scandal erupted involving tens of thousands of foreclosures that all correlated to areas where property developers wanted in. The bank falsified records to make it appear that the mortgage hadn’t been paid. They took the money for three months in a row so homeowners wouldn’t notice anything strange in their balances, then when they moved to foreclose, the missing payments reappeared in the accounts and any record that the transactions occurred had vanished.
As blatant a scheme as it was, somehow no prosecution had ever occurred. Her parents, and hundreds of other families, lost their homes. The house she’d grown up in was gone, reduced to a dirt lot that still remained blank four years later. Construction crews labored to convert real estate that once held over a hundred normal homes to thirty or forty giant estates for the wealthy. Or maybe a mall.
She fumed inside. “Sure. You still got that sniffer?”
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