Axillon99
Page 25
Shadowblink teleported her across the room to the right side of the curved walkway. Fawkes scooted forward to hide behind the workstation. As long as she kept low, none of the NPCs down below in the command area should spot her and trigger combat.
She eased herself up enough to see the top of the workstation, and ‘used’ the screen.
Blue text appeared in midair. Mission Update: Plans recovered.
“Awesome, you did it!” said Rallek, over the comm.
“Whoa. I just got a quest update. What happened?” asked Kavan.
“I’m at the computer,” whispered Fawkes. “Now, I just need to get out.”
“Well, you could always take the fast way out,” said Nighthawk. “Shoot the pirate, die, and respawn at the door.”
“This isn’t an instance,” whispered Fawkes. “I’d leave a corpse inside and have to run my ghost back to it, and then die right away all over again.”
“Oh, right,” said Nighthawk. “Sorry. We’re still here waiting for you.”
“Twenty seconds,” muttered Fawkes.
She crouched in place, waiting for the cooldown of Shadowblink to reset. Every thump of the pirate boss’ power armor made her twitch. The game’s realism teetered on the verge of causing actual fear of death, though whenever her hands started shaking, she called up one of her many hundreds of memories of character death and running around as a ghost. How was it she’d never felt quite so scared of being killed in the game before? Did the new helmet tweak some deeper emotional response the old Neurona 3 couldn’t? Hell, that little boy from the quest the other day triggered the sort of protectiveness she’d had for Nebraska when they’d been younger.
Either I’m getting old and soft, or this helmet is freaky.
As soon as Shadowblink cooled down, she crept to the right side of the curved walkway, peeking out enough to see the ventilation duct. A split second after she triggered the stealth teleport, her character went solid and combat music started. A roaming pirate had turned his vision cone over that patch of floor at the same instant she landed on it.
“Shit!” she shouted.
She didn’t bother looking back, instead scrambling into the vent before the hatch could close. It did slam shut, but after she’d made it in. Explosions, laser blasts, and crackling lightning slammed the flimsy little vent cover, but it didn’t break or even appear damaged.
“Dammit… Dammit… Dammit…”
“What happened in there?” yelled Kavan. “A mosquito storm of fighters just exploded into space outside.”
She crawled as fast as she could into the vents while the thunder of NPCs trying to shoot her through the wall continued. “I teleported to the vent, but got seen. Started the boss fight.”
“You a ghost?” asked Nighthawk.
“No, I got into the vent before it shut. Just need to wait it out.”
Rallek clucked his tongue. “Raid bosses don’t give up. You might be stuck in combat until you die.”
“Don’t think so. I didn’t do or take any damage. I think it’ll let me go.” She hurried to the hole leading down to the stack-o-boxes she built. As soon as she landed on the lower level, the combat music stopped. “I’m clear!”
“Fighters are disappearing. Hah!” yelled Kavan. “I can see where the corvettes are because the fighters are flying into them. Wait. Those two aren’t corvettes… they’re cruisers.”
“How do you know that if you can’t see them?” asked Rallek.
Kavan coughed. “Corvettes don’t carry fifteen fighters apiece.”
“Oh, good point,” said Rallek.
“Oh crap!” shouted Nighthawk. “I played chicken with cruisers.” He burst into riotous laughter. “No wonder they didn’t notice us. Way too big.”
Fawkes scrambled down the vent, heading for the exit. “Why would they stick that damn mod quest in this place?”
“They probably knew people need it for that stupid robot,” said Angel813.
“It used to be on the sewer mission,” said Nighthawk. “They moved it. Before the contest, it wasn’t a big deal. Unless you’re doing quests on the Zhavir homeworld, it’s pretty rare for things to use venom damage. Fire and lightning are the big ones. If that mod gave ninety-five percent fire resistance, everyone would have it.”
“To get on Army of One’s main raiding group, a player has to have at least eighty percent in all elemental resistances and be in the upper level of armor value for their class. No stacking up weak armor just for resists,” said Angel813.
“Damn. I didn’t think it was even possible to get them all that high.” Rallek whistled.
“It is,” said Angel813, “when you’ve loaded up on all purple items from the first tier of raids.”
“They still run the first-year stuff?” asked Nighthawk.
“Yeah. But not like seriously. They’ll grab a bunch of Tier 2 players and drag the new people through it to gear them up. They can clear the Coriolis Promenade in forty-five minutes.”
Whistles of awe came over the comm.
“Wait, how are you only level forty-one but you used to be in AOO?” asked Nighthawk.
“I umm… Well, the Angel813 you see before you now is a much calmer version of who I used to be. When I got asked to leave… okay, when I got kicked, I was upset. Maybe I deleted my character in a fit of rage.”
“Ouch,” said Kavan. “Sorry.”
“The devs wouldn’t restore it?” asked Rallek.
“Oh, they did… eventually, but by the time I got her back I had this medic to thirty and just kept going with it. My sixty is an empath. I like the medic more.”
Fawkes poked her head out of the vent entrance she first crawled into. None of the pirates in that hallway had moved from where they pathed before. She engaged stealth and crept from there to the door, then ran down the quarter-mile corridor back to the fighter launch bay. The huge door had sealed itself again, requiring another hacking mini-game to get open. As soon as she slipped past the gap, Nighthawk cheered over the comm and all the little lights on the Gremlin fighter came on.
He lifted off while she was still climbing up over the side. Rallek grabbed her arms and pulled her in, whacking the button to close the canopy before she got herself oriented properly in the seat. She grunted, pinned to Rallek’s chest in an upside-down fetal position. Acceleration weakened after fifteen seconds or so, releasing her. She shimmied around to sit up, and almost screamed at the cloud of pirate fighters in front of them.
Two blinding beams of bright orange light shot forth from the tips of the oversized cannons on either side of the Gremlin. The blast atomized the first pirate gunship and sent a second one tumbling out of formation sparking and sputtering.
“Holy crap,” said Fawkes.
“Yeah.” Nighthawk grinned like a fool. “These guns are huge… and the Scimitars are super brittle.”
“Why are we shooting at them and not sneaking away?” asked Rallek, grunting as a high-energy turn crammed them into the left wall.
“No need to stay quiet now.” He fired the particle cannons three more times at the unprepared fighters, blowing a hole in the curtain of smaller craft. Debris clanked against the shield bubble around the Gremlin. “These things do like 2,500 damage a shot, and the Scimitars only have 900 hull points.”
“Uhh,” Rallek gazed up and back at the perhaps thirty remaining Scimitar fighters turning toward them. “How many hull points does this thing have?”
“Two-K on the nose,” said Nighthawk.
“So the Gremlin could one-shot itself?” asked Fawkes. “Who designs that?”
“Twice. Each gun does 2,500.” Nighthawk cackled.
Streams of green laser blasts filled the infinite blackness behind them. A few struck the shield, making a high-pitched crackling squelch with each hit. Fawkes mentally rolled her eyes at the people who complain about movies where space combat shouldn’t have sound effects. If they were going for realism, there wouldn’t be space dogfights at all.
Nighthawk flung the Gremlin into a spiraling downward turn. Every so often, he fired the particle beams and an explosion went off in the distance. “Uhh, time to go. Cruiser’s on us.”
He swerved back the other way, rolling under a blue-white energy beam almost as wide as the Gremlin.
“Are you serious?” asked Nighthawk. “What kind of moron fires a capital ship laser at a fighter?”
“I’d say someone who’s really pissed off, but they’re bots.” Fawkes shrugged. “Can we get out of here now?”
“As you wish,” said Nighthawk. He hit a button, triggering a blast of acceleration.
Lasers and the errant missile or two chased them for a little while. Around the time the Stormbringer came into view, the NPC pirates hit their distance limit and turned back to base.
Fawkes finally started breathing again. “Wow. I can’t believe that actually worked.”
“Awesome job you guys.” Rallek hugged her then leaned forward to clap Nighthawk on the shoulder.
“This is the first time I’ve ever completed a quest while sitting around doing nothing,” said Angel813. “Kinda boring actually.”
“Well, call that make up for what you’ll deal with when we go back for that damn robot.” Kavan laughed. “And no… I am not looking forward to that.”
“You need a better sword old man,” said Nighthawk. “I got that covered. Tomorrow night.”
“All right. What about the others?” asked Kavan.
Fawkes smiled. “I already got a bullet gun.”
“Did you go for the Warhawk or the Thunderstrike?” asked Nighthawk, guiding them beneath the Stormbringer’s hull.
“Warhawk.” Fawkes gazed up at the ship, marveling at how big it seemed from the outside.
“Ahh. Yeah, I should do that, too.” Nighthawk slowed the Gremlin, spinning it to line up with the docking hatch above them. “Been trying for the T-strike. It’s an epic in a different instance, but the drop rate sucks.”
The fighter came to a relative stop and glided straight up into the bay.
“Wow, you’re really good at this,” said Fawkes. “If space ships were real, you should be a pilot.”
He laughed. “How many times did you have to run for the Warhawk?”
“Took me three tries.” She scowled. “Some idiot gunslinger out-rolled me the first time it dropped.”
Nighthawk laughed harder. “Three? Wow. That’s such a pain in the butt.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How many runs have you tried for the other one?”
“Uhh, like fifty-two?” He scratched his head. “All day. Over and over. Notice I’m level forty-six now?”
“Fifty two?” She gawked. “How are you not drooling all over yourself?”
“I probably am.” He shut down the engines and popped the canopy open. “Haven’t taken the helmet off in twelve hours. I’m logged in while sitting on the toilet.”
“He lies,” said Kavan. “Don’t believe him.”
Fawkes chuckled. “What time is it for real?”
“About five to midnight.” Rallek boosted her up off his lap.
She stood on the Gremlin’s delta wing next to the cockpit and reached down a hand to help him up. “Crap. I need to call it a night.”
“You and me both.” Rallek kissed her quick. “Night, babe. See you soon.”
“Night guys,” said Fawkes to the comm.
“Great job in there.” Angel813 yawned. “See you tomorrow.”
Fawkes climbed back up to the main room, fell in a chair by the round table, and logged off with a big grin on her face.
Leaderboard
19
Dakota opened the Amazon Café at 6:00 a.m. the next morning. By 6:10, and no sign of Blake, she got worried and called him. The phone rang a dozen times and went to voicemail. She tried again, and he picked up after five rings.
“Oh, hi, Dakota. What’s up?”
“What’s up?” She blinked in disbelief. “It’s almost quarter after and you’re not here. Is everything okay?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
The unusual depth and slowness in his voice hinted at a serious problem. “What’s wrong? You know Hal isn’t here yet. If you get here before him, I won’t say anything.”
“It’s… complicated. I… Look, I’m probably not going to be back. Nothing’s important.”
She bit her lip. “Neal left?”
Blake didn’t reply.
“Hey, Blake, it’s all right. Things will work out. I know what you’re going through. I’ve been dumped before. If you wanna talk about it, I’m here.”
A couple guys in suits and some women in office-type attire walked in.
“Customers here. I gotta go. Please be okay?”
“You knew?” Blake’s voice cracked.
“Suspected. It’s fine, really. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Please come in?”
Blake sniffled. “Uhh, okay. S’pose I shouldn’t leave you there to do everything yourself.”
“Hi!” chirped Dakota at a guy in a blue suit. “What can I get started for you?”
“See ya soon,” muttered Blake.
“’Kay,” she whispered, and hung up. “Sorry, co-worker having car problems.”
One customer blurred into the next. She scrambled trying to cover the drive-up window, prepare drinks for drone delivery, and handle the walk-ins by herself. It seemed like only twenty seconds before Blake trudged in looking like hell.
She ran over and grabbed his hand. “If you wanna just make shit and I’ll deal with people today, that’s cool.”
He shrugged.
“Thank you for being here.” She hugged him. “I’m all ears if you want to talk.”
Blake pulled the drive-through headset off her. “I’ll get the window.”
“You’re awesome.” She winked and zipped back to the espresso machine.
Hal arrived a little after nine. If he somehow knew Blake had been late, he didn’t let on. After about a half hour of back office work, he emerged and took over preparing drinks for the drone orders. The load leveled off to ‘tame chaos’ at that point, and she focused on the walk-in customers.
Right when her mood began to improve, Mr. Extra Shot walked in.
“Shit,” muttered Dakota.
Hal whirled from the drone station and gave her the bug eyes.
She nodded at Mr. Extra Shot stepping up to the counter.
He smirked, but gave her a nod of ‘okay, but be careful.’
“Hi, what can I get started for you today?” asked Dakota.
Mr. Extra Shot gazed up at the menu screens. “Peppermint mocha latte, large, with an extra shot.”
“Got it. You wanted a peppermint mocha latte with an extra shot, correct?”
“Yes.”
She pivoted toward Hal and belted, “One pep mocha with an extra shot!”
Blake managed a smile.
“Right, so that’s a peppermint mocha latte large with an extra shot. That’s eleven dollars even.”
He held up his smartphone to pay.
“The extra shot’s a buck seventy-five more.” She scanned the barcode. “When a drink’s got an extra shot it gets more expensive.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all.” She beamed. “I’m just making sure I have your order correct. You requested an extra shot, amirite?”
He frowned.
She grabbed a cup, pumped the peppermint and chocolate syrups in, and added milk. “Okay, here’s the standard espresso.” She poured that in. “And one more shot…” She hit the button on the espresso machine again.
“Okay, okay. I get it.” Mr. Extra Shot raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry. The coffee just tasted a little weak last time.”
Her smile faded from exaggerated to normal. She foamed the milk, gave the latte a nice crown of suds, and set the drink up on the counter. “There you go. Have great day!”
He sipped it, nodded, and walked out in a hurry.
“In a massive online game of over nineteen million players, fifteen people have made tangible progress on a mission worth ten million bucks of real money.” She looked at her co-host. “What do they call them? Missions? Quests?”
The mocha-skinned guy in a grey suit laughed in an overly false tone that made Dakota roll her eyes. “Quests, I think. But there’s no elves in this game.”
“Elves? Really? This one’s about space and stuff, isn’t it? Well, anyway…” The perfect blonde smiled at the cameras. “The company behind the game, Cognition Studios International, has put up a prize of ten million dollars to the first player or players to complete a certain quest. As you can see here, there’s three teams who have made progress.”
“How do you get fifteen people out of three names?” asked the guy.
“Oh, it’s like team names or something.” The woman laughed, also forced as hell. “Each one represents five people. The winning team is set to claim the ten million dollar prize.”
“Interesting. Who know there was so much money in video games? I may be in the wrong field. Must be nice to just sit at home all day long on the computer and become rich.” The man clapped his leg, grinning.
“Oh wow,” muttered Dakota. “Prick.”
“Well, there’s no poking fun at such a big prize no matter if they’re quests or missions.” The hostess smiled. “It’s not too late to try though. CSI just released their next generation gaming helmet, the Neurona 4. And here to walk us through its paces is Alton Stirling, our tech guru!”
A geeky guy with spiked silver hair, a pale blazer, and plaid bowtie appeared on the screen, standing behind a counter upon which sat a Neurona 4 next to a PlayStation 7.
She tuned him out as a middle-aged woman approached and ordered a strawberry-mocha slushie, vaguely aware of the TV discussing data transfer rates, enhanced sensory resolution, and so on. While firing up the blender, she glanced at the screen.