Respawn: The Last Crossing (Respawn LitRPG series Book 6)

by Arthur Stone

  “Wait,” March interrupted, interest in his voice. “You’re just going to burn Rainbow?”

  “Yeah. It would work.”

  “Why not blow it up?”

  “What does it matter? Same result, less work. And no need to buy explosives from the hucksters.”

  March nodded. “Alright, I’ll allow that. But even though I haven’t listened to your plan all the way through to the end, it seems to be a bit too elaborate.”

  “Dude, how could I come up with a simpler plan on the spot, when it has to be instantly executable, and free? All we need is the gas. I know how this stuff works, and the plan could work—or it could fail. But bulletproof plans aren’t built in a matter of minutes, and Rainbow is a pretty big place.”

  “I don’t know,” March wavered. “I’ve seen people make explosives out of fertilizer before.”

  “And I once saw a guy who could fart the words ‘your mother’ out his asshole. So what?”

  “Alright,” March agreed, “let’s forget about Rainbow. Forget I asked that question. Instead, tell me about yourself.”

  “What about myself? Pick a topic.”

  “Your last explosion.”

  “The most recent one? It wasn’t really an explosion, per se. I’ve done better.”

  “The most recent is fine,” March insisted. “Details. We want all the details.”

  “Well, it wasn’t here. I was up north. I was with this team, and we were making out pretty good. We went on raids. Anyway, I found a girl at a stable. She was alright. Almost beautiful, even. She told me she loved me, and I, like a witless idiot, believed her. So I’m coming back from a raid that went bad. Half of the team was killed, the other half tortured. Even raped. It was a bad business. Before that raid, though, I was rich from the one before. I even got a room at a hotel. Best hotel in the whole north of the region. Basically the region’s Ritz Carlton. Best on the Continent, maybe. So anyway, I’m heading that way, and I find out that my girl has been in that room, that I paid for, screwing with some bald bastard for almost a week.

  “But wait—there’s more. They got married. So they make love, tie the knot, and have their honeymoon in the room that I paid for. It still makes me mad, just thinking about it.”

  “Of course,” March nodded. “So when does the explosion come in?”

  “Just listen to what happened next. So I’m upset, as you know. When I’m upset, I can take things to the extreme. Oh, I can restrain myself when necessary. But that was not necessary. I had to do something. So I got some C-4 with everything I had left. I don’t waste money—except for that hotel room, of course—so despite our bad luck, I had a few bucks to spare. Along with that, I get some rope, and some steel wire, and some super glue. Then I go to the hotel, where the newlyweds are enjoying another romp. I climb up to the roof. I measure the distance to their window. Basically I lower the rope over the side and—”

  “We understand that you can use a rope to measure distances,” Clown butted in. “Cut to the chase.”

  “Fine. So I measure it out. I tie on a detonator with a short delay, calculated down to the second. Tying a loop on the rope, I put it to my feet. The other end, I tie to an exhaust vent on the roof. And another loop around my neck. Good and tight. The wire is shorter than the rope, just as I wanted it. I toss down a cocktail, snort a line, and then stand on the edge of the roof. I re-glue my hair, pause for a moment, and push off. Did I mention how big the hotel was?”

  Cheater nodded. “Yeah.”

  “It was tall. Tallest building in the whole north. I dropped down several floors until the wire grew tight enough. When it tightened, it tightened fast. The wire was strong, but thin. It cut my head off quicker than razor wire. The glue had dried by this point, so it held, and I kept soaring through the air until the rope stretched taut. Right where I had planned. As the rope grew taut, it swung me back into the wall. Into the window, I mean. This beautiful, panoramic window. I slammed straight through it. Then, the detonator triggered, and everything exploded.”

  “Holy shit,” Clown mumbled.

  “I had filled my hair with glue and grabbed it with my hands, you might remember. Imagine it. The two lovebirds are in bed. It was a nice, fluffy king-sized bed. Orthopedic mattress, numerous pillows, shining and sparkling. They were having a wonderful time, no doubt. Then I crash through the window. The explosion hits. Both of them head straight for respawn—and the last thing they see is me, flying towards them. Covered in blood, holding my head in my hands. They’ll have nightmares about that from their next life until their last. That was the most recent explosion. Well? Should I tell you about some others? I’ve had much better ones. Especially the one in the bots, with the maternity ward. Everything went just as I had calculated.”

  March looked up from his mug, which he had been draining in an uncharacteristically fussy manner. “Maternity ward?”

  “Yes. So, everything was a mess. I had to put it all together on the back of the envelope, because...”

  “Stop. That’s enough,” March interrupted. “You’re in.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I’m on the team!” Nut’s smile stretched from ear to ear in disbelief.

  “That’s right.”

  Clown choked on his beer and cackled, between coughing fits, “His nickname fits. He’s nuts!”

  “Exactly,” March gestured. “Just the man we’re looking for.”

  Nut placed a hand on his chest. “Gentlemen. I won’t let you down.”

  “We believe you,” March nodded again.

  “Allow me to take care of some things in town first. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Going for superglue?” Cheater chuckled.

  “Huh? No. I’m going to tell the people I’m with that I’ve joined up with you. Just so there’s no confusion. We have a few things going.”

  “Alright, go ahead,” March allowed.

  “I’ll be quick. Don’t even think of replacing me. I’ll be back here faster than a falling knife.”

  Clown was finally gaining control over his sputtering and coughing and stared at the door which had just closed behind the new team member. “I don’t know how you do it, March, but you’re a psycho magnet. I didn’t even know there were people like that here. He’s utterly crazy. He looks crazy, he talks crazy, he acts crazy. Did you see his eyes? They’re like vats from the pit of hell, filled with liquid drugs. He’s not even that bright, either. Slow to catch on to the meaning of normal conversation. An annoying combination.”

  “You’re right, he’s perfect!” March said, satisfied. “Let’s drink to our new sapper! Come on Clown, cheers.”

  Clown raised his glass. “Looks like this crossing will, once again, be something to see.”

  Chapter 10

  Life Nine. Getting Ready

  The preparations for this crossing were remarkable. Meaning that no one in their right mind would prepare for any serious campaign in such a way.

  Everything was wrong.

  The team leader never left his “beer office,” and he did his best to demonstrate, at every possible turn, that the beer was the important part. He didn’t even leave the room come nightfall. The waitress had to stay, ostensibly to make sure that the room was continually refilled with beer and not with intruders—but she failed to emerge as often as those duties might suggest. During the day, she would busy herself with managing the applicants fighting to get in and pitch themselves for the position of deranged demoman. After Nut showed up and filled the vacancy, her work eased. In the daylight hours, at least.

  The gloomy Janitor, who Cheater knew was close with March but did not know why, disappeared for hours at a time. Judging by snippets of conversation here and there, he was engaged in procuring armament and transportation for the party.

  Clown moved from beer to whiskey, then went to his room. He did nothing else of significance until March sent him to inspect the vehicles the quasi had chosen.

  Fatso nev
er returned, neither with Button nor without her. The only sign of life from him was his active icon in the party window. No one seemed bothered by this. March seemed confident that their priest situation would be resolved. Had been resolved, even. Perhaps a private chat conversation was running between the two of them, but Cheater doubted that.

  Nut occupied himself with finding any ears willing to listen and flooding them with verbiage. The boy never shut his mouth. He could spend hours telling tales of his adventures, and once you’d heard one, you’d heard them all. He would be in the company of some dubious friends, consuming alcohol that was no less dubious, along with substances of a stronger nature. Often, he would proudly tell stories of having consumed stuff that was sheer poison—pouring it into his mouth, shooting it up, snorting or smoking it, rubbing it into his skin, or even shoving it up his rectum.

  Then, some sort of an intimate memory would be tossed in. Perhaps he loved psychoactive aids more than female partners, but not too much more. Here, the stories could be tallied in two columns: one where the lead female character “jumped out of her panties as soon as she saw me,” and the other where she “was a greedy bitch who wouldn’t budge for anyone.” The drugs would then re-enter the story.

  And they would come in afterward, too. Between his tales, Nut would regularly offer his favorite narcotics to his new partymates. Or suggest that they try something new together. At everyone’s own risk, of course. There were many talented chemists in Rainbow, he assured them, and the results were guaranteed to be mind-blowing. Perhaps literally. It was a crime, he insisted, not to try everything. Each new substance offered a chance to experience a new level of consciousness. At the same time, though, he complained about his lack of money and even the debts that had him ensnared—hinting at every turn that someone else should foot the bill for all of these experiments. Cheater realized that he had better start getting used to this nutcase. They might be together for the long haul.

  * * *

  “A truck and an antiaircraft gun? Seems too simple.”

  Clown did not turn to answer Cheater, instead tapping one of the gun’s barrels with his wrench and countering with a question of his own. “What else would you like?”

  “Nothing in particular. I’m just not sure why we’re being so economical. We’ve still got a ton of mods we could sell, along with some valuable loot from the Unnamed One. Why did March claim the crystals? And the valuables we looted from Bugle’s stash? We could buy something better. So I looked around and found some interesting options: There are at least two APCs available, plus one infantry fighting vehicle. They’re for sale in the vehicle market right by the gate. Someone even suggested that with enough money, we could get a tank figured out. But what we have instead is just two lousy trucks. One is just a regular set of wheels, with hardly any armor plating, and the other altogether open, for the entire world to see. Plus yet another plain vanilla pickup truck. I’ve figured out the prices well enough—these are so cheap that we might be able to hang on to even our most worthless modifiers. They’re not even worth half of the cost of one.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” Clown objected. “All of this is worth something. The antiaircraft shells will cost us a bundle, too. But I see your point. You’re right, and you’re also wrong. Vehicle selection is a very controversial issue, and you shouldn’t believe everything the swindlers tell you.”

  “Then tell me where they led me wrong.”

  “They mentioned armored vehicles, you said. Think APCs are nice and quiet? Oh, I know a whole lot about APCs by this point. Janitor does too. And March. Not that he dealt with them much back then, but everyone reports to him. We’re not interested in them. Where the hucksters led you wrong is that their armor isn’t worth shit. They were playing you for a rich fool. You won’t see good armor on display. They’ll offer you old crap with a thin veneer of restoration over it. Do you know what restoration of armored vehicles entails?”

  “Fixing up broken parts and so on.”

  “It’s much bleaker than that. Let’s say someone had a decent armored personnel carrier. Not the newest, maybe, or not the top model, but working just fine. So the last owner was out on whatever business and took a couple of grenades in the side. The APC went up in flames. When that happens, it’s not like the vehicle melts into a puddle past all reconstitution; no, the frame survives. Maybe some of the innards, but not much. The frame can’t ride or fight on its own, but spare parts are very hard to come by on the Continent. High demand, and the reboots don’t supply much, especially not for APCs. Meaning they hacked new pieces together from whatever they could find, and now they’re trying to pass the buck. I’m sure you can see that rubbish like that would not exactly be reliable. Even the remaining armor is compromised—it’s already been exposed to extreme temperatures. Much less power to absorb damage.”

  “What about the tank?”

  “Oh, that’s even better,” Clown finally turned. “This side often warps in clusters from Eastern Europe. Lots of military monuments there from a great war. Ancient tanks. A hundred thousand overall, they say. Yes, they’re all monuments, but they’re also functioning military vehicles, too. Some suspect it’s part of a cunning plan to mobilize instantly and blitz the world into submission. Anyone who believes that, though, has never seen many of these vehicles. The artillery is worthless against modern military tech, first of all. You might as well use a Cozy Coop. But the tanks come in all shapes and sizes. Most are from that great war, but there are a number of newer models around. Now, usually they nerf the guns and remove everything that can possibly be removed. It’s easy to get a tank moving again—but by that point, all you really have is an engine in a box. In order to restore everything else, you somehow need to find parts which haven’t been produced in decades. You have to improvise, time and time again. Sometimes the results are interesting, but that’s pretty rare, and even the most fascinating remodeled tanks have only limited combat use. In short, they’re shit. Have a little faith in your mechanic: a tank like that is good for nothing. Best to spend that money on wine or women. Oh right—sorry, I forgot you’re not really into those...”

  Cheater refused to let the jab hit home. “Something isn’t adding up here. There are decent vehicles that come in here. Remember all of the war machines they had at the Devils’ base? Some of them looked fresh from the factory.”

  “Sure,” Clown allowed, “but you’ll spend days looking for those, and their cost will be astronomical. And what do we get in return? Exactly the machines that the Nolds and bots love to hunt. The ownership of armored vehicles by players irritates both groups to no end. Draws them in like a magnet. Sooner or later, the owner of a glistening modern vehicle will be ambushed. If you even make it that far. With a tiny group like ours, we’d be likely to first run into some scumbag sporting an RPG. He could just shoot us from some bush and beat it. We’d end up with a bunch of worthless scrap.

  Cheater shook his head. “So then why does anyone bother with top-of-the-notch tanks and trucks?”

  “Because they can. Groups like the Devils, interregional trade associations, and the more powerful stables. They don’t send these vehicles out one by one but in convoys, with serious cover attached to them, competent crews, and drones which check the route ahead for them. Most bots will leave a group like that alone, as will the thugs with the RPGs. Even if one lonely vehicle is out and about, everyone knows it’s not alone, but part of a larger system. Touch it, and you bring the wrath of the rest on your head.”