Some of the teasing light leaves her eyes. “So would I. This was fun.”
We’ve reached her house and stop in front of it. I move in closer. “What sport do you play?”
She lets me move in, looking up into me, that sultry slyness creeping into her expression. She’s teasing me again. A fox in a hunt that wants to lead me on a merry chase before I catch her. I don’t think I mind this hunt. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I like you.” There’s next to no space between us. “You’re beautiful, intelligent, and you’re interesting. You’re worth knowing about.”
She lifts up on her toes and plants a kiss on my mouth. It’s over far too quick and then she’s dashing off. “You’ve got my number now,” she calls back. “You want a kiss next time then you need to guess what I’m into!”
That minx! She’s gone, the door closing behind her before I can say a word.
This crappy day has definitely turned around. I’m humming to myself as I glide back to my dorm. I swear my feet never even touch the ground and my head’s in the clouds, trying to think of what sport she plays. Not soccer, not with that smirk she’d given me. Volleyball? No, she’s too short.
My mood as I return to the dormitory is significantly improved. It’s made better by the fact that Brett’s fixed everything back to the way it’s supposed to be, and better still by his absence. He must have had something else going on tonight. Either that or he’s avoiding me. I’m not sure I care which.
I’m grinning ear to ear as I flop down at my desk and boot up my computer, humming the chorus from one of the songs Isabella and I danced to. I’m tired, but not completely warn out. A quick check of my emails and making sure I’m up to date on all my homework and then I’ll catch a shower and head to bed.
There’s the usual junk emails and fishing scams waiting for me. And one very official looking email from a government address informing me that I’m to meet with my parole officer tomorrow.
My stomach sinks. The police have gotten better about monitoring social media around college campuses. They must have finally pieced together enough to bring me in for questioning about the night of the party. For a moment, I think about not going. Just deleting the email and pretending I never received it.
Long term, that won’t end well for me. With my good mood thoroughly trounced, I cancel my plans for tomorrow afternoon and look up the address they sent me. Time to face the music.
Chapter Twenty-Two
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The building is damn depressing. Like a cinderblock on suicide watch. It’s grey, dreary, and devoid of any sort of ornamentation. In short, if I hadn’t been told exactly where to come, I would have gone right past it. Which is kind of weird when I think about it. In a town like Oxford, with all of it’s Southern-style architecture, this place should have stood out like a sore thumb. Somehow it blended in, almost as if it wasn’t really a building, just a forgettable landmark that sits idly by.
It puts me in mind of an iceberg, not because it’s cold and unwelcoming, though it is those things, but because I get the sense that I’m barely seeing a fraction of it. Like an alligator or crocodile with just it’s head at the surface of the water. I’m half expecting it to bite me as I walk up to the only pair of glass doors and go inside.
The air conditioning hits me with the same chilling ferocity as the prison or a hospital. Goosebumps immediately run up and down my arms as an involuntary shiver goes up my spine. It’s well lit, the flooring pale and reflective. This is probably one of the most spartan places I’ve ever seen. There’s no so much as a single decoration or plaque giving directions on the white walls. Just a few boring doors with glass running up the sides to prevent complete privacy. These don’t have plaques or numbers beside them though, let alone the name of whatever worker is using them. How the hell am I supposed to find my parole officer?
I pull out my phone and check my email. There’s no name given for my parole officer. That probably should have set off alarm bells. In my defense, I was pretty shaken up last night. I don’t want to go back to prison. Not only because it sucks hairy monkey balls but because Mom needs me out. Just going to college is helping her, even if only indirectly. And if anything goes wrong, I can fly straight to her.
The only thing the email says with absolute clarity is that this is the address I’m supposed to be at. I tuck my phone away in my pocket and glance through the first couple of side-windows next to the doors, hoping to find a living person to talk to and maybe ask directions. I’m secure enough in my masculinity to do that, especially without a girl present.
My efforts are unrewarded. If it weren’t for the lights I’d say that the place is totally deserted.
I’m about to check my phone again when someone clears their throat down the hall. The sound is familiar enough that I momentarily freeze. Familiar and obnoxious. I’d say I recognized the voice, but that doesn’t sound quite right. I mean, can you say you recognized someone’s voice from the way they clear their throat?
I look up, slowly, the weight of trepidation hindering my movement, and find Dr. Warden standing halfway in an open doorway a little way down. He’s still round and soft and wearing the exact same suit he was before. In fact, so little has changed about the man that it’s a little disconcerting. Everyone changes in between the times when you see them. Little things. Hair, posture, clothing, the way their skin looks—it’s an incalculable amount of minutiae that all add up to something borderline undefinable yet still tangible.
There is absolutely nothing of that about Dr. Warden. It’s like someone copy-pasted him straight from the office in the prison where we last spoke and into this building, completely unchanged.
It’s more than a little disconcerting. As is the cat-that-ate-the-canary grin spreading across his soft, round face. He beckons me to his office and steps back inside, leaving me to walk the empty hallway alone, shaking my head, and wondering what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into.
I step inside and find a carpeted waiting room, complete with a small sofa and a counter, the kind behind which a secretary would normally sit. It’s empty, without a computer or even a sign-in pad. The coffee table in front of the sofa is empty too, lacking the familiar magazines or knick-knacks you expect in places like this. The walls are just as barren inside as out.
“Down here, Mr. Moretti,” Dr. Warden calls from somewhere through the open door beside the secretary’s station. Another hall awaits me and several more offices, but only one has an open door and a light on, so I go to that one and find Dr. Warden sitting behind a luxuriously carved desk completely at odds with the plainness of the office. He’s sitting in a high-backed rolling chair and has a computer with multiple flat monitors open before him.
Sitting down in a chair across from his desk feels like what I imagine sitting down in the principal’s office would be like. Only the fact that I no longer have any idea what’s going on keeps me seated. Parole is not something I’m about to risk violating, not even if it means enduring this bastard’s smug grin in that puffy face of his. God, I want to punch him.
And I know I want to punch him. I’m able to control the urge, almost as if it’s not really mine. I am in more control of myself now than I have ever been in my entire life. And that realization calms me down. Whatever weird treatment this game is doing with me, it’s actually working. Dr. Warden’s an asshole, but he’s an asshole who is helping me with a problem I’ve struggled with since I was a little kid.
“Mr. Moretti,” he says, grinning that same wide grin. Only his cutting eyes give away the predator beneath the fluff. “It’s good to see you again.”
I don’t share the sentiment so I don’t say anything. Just give a grunt and ask, “Where’s my parole officer? I thought I was meeting him here.” My mind goes back to the meme of me punching the frat boy.
“You don’t have a parole officer,” Dr. Warden says.
I blink. “I don’t?”
“No, of course not,” Dr. Warden says, waving his hand as if I’ve suggested something vaguely smelly. “Your game is your probation, and you’ve been doing a very good job with it. Good enough in fact that after your demonstration with Xenatlas, my backers would like to make you a similar offer to the one we presented to him.”
“Would you now?” I ask, stalling for time. I need to think, let my brain catch up. That I haven’t been dragged before a cop with a very real chance of going back to jail has me more disoriented than anything else I’ve experienced since stepping into this place. It’s unreal and leaves me with a physical sense of reeling.
“We would,” Dr. Warden says amicably. “We have a target we would like for you to destroy and in exchange you will receive half a million dollars. Half up front. The other half if you succeed. What do you say?”
“I say what the hell is going on?” I stand up and lean forward on his desk, clutching the edges to keep my hands from doing something stupid and violent. “You called me out here saying I had a parole meeting? This is like, some b-grade spy movie shit. What. The. Hell?”
Dr. Warden shrugs. “It seemed like a fun idea at the time.”
I stare at him. “Fun?”
He nods. “My backers are all about fun. Or haven’t you been enjoying our game?”
I have been. It’s freeing, it makes me feel empowered, and gives me control of me temper. And it is fun. It’s more than cathartic, it’s enjoyable. Like every time I play I get a huge rush of endorphins and dopamine. I wonder briefly it those are the hormones or whatever that the chip in my hand is monitoring for?
That I’m enjoying the game isn’t the point though and I’m sure as hell not about to admit it to this fluffy bastard.
I don’t need to though, because that damn grin is back almost at once. He knows.
“$500,000, Mr. Moretti,” he says. “There’s a lot you could do with a windfall like that.”
He’s right. That’s another thing though that I’m not going to tell him.
“You couldn’t have sent this in an email?” I ask, taking my hands off the desk and stepping back. My palms and fingers are sore from gripping the wood so hard.
“No,” he says. “We’re not leaving that kind of a trail. You know that we will compensate you though. Xenatlas is certainly enjoying his payout.”
I’d actually been a little worried as to whether or not Xenatlas would get his payout since Lusitania showed up with Halira and killed him. I guess Dr. Warden’s backers didn’t care so much about that though. Or maybe they do and that’s why they’re willing to offer me a deal now.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why so much money to do a task in a videogame. It’s way out of proportion.” I had to check the gift horse’s mouth. This was way too good to be true.
He shrugs. “So long as you get the money, do you care?”
“Yeah, actually, I think I do.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I’m not in charge of these decisions. Think of me like an ambassador between my board of directors and you and the other players.”
Ambassador? Really?
“Not interested. With that kind of money, I need to know where it’s coming from,” I say.
“Very well then.” He reaches into his coat pocket and produces a business card. On one side is the Kaiju Wars Online logo, on the other is a phone number. “If you change your mind, please call our tech support and let them know you accept the mission.”
I roll my eyes and, for some reason I can’t fathom, I accept the card. Then I’m out of there.
I almost forget about the card in my pocket until later that evening when I call to check on Mom. Then it’s the only thing I can think about.
Chapter Twenty-Three
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The barrage of green energy takes Taisaur right in the face. I charge right through it and the assault ends in a series of concussive explosions as the alien hover-tanks are trampled or tossed aside. I’ve done a lot of grinding over the past week. That, coupled with the experience gained from the group assault on the alien capital has pushed Taisaur all the way up to level fourteen. Taisaur’s only a story or two shy of 200 feet tall now and even the triple-barrel tanks’ attacks barely scratch my kaiju now.
I hear a pair of saucers coming and start snatching up wrecked pieces of tank to hurl at them. They’ve caught on to this trick though, breaking formation to get out of the way. I keep up my attack anyway, throwing piece after piece until the alien saucers are in full retreat. All it takes is for one of my throws to connect and the saucer’s entire payload of explosives will go off.
The game’s AI is a fast learner. The alien’s military forces have become harder and harder to destroy over the last week. Not because they’re tougher, they’ve just learned to pull away. I made the mistake of allowing them to lure me away from more than one city early on. The trick is to keep smashing buildings and draw them in closer in an effort to bait me. I’m the one playing offense though. My goal is much easier to reach.
Defeating the military yields some rewards, but not as much as the complete destruction, or even partial destruction of a city. It’s also an exercise in frustration. Tanks and saucers move. Buildings don’t. Between Taisaur’s mobility and capacity for soaking their attacks, the choice is easy. Provided I can keep a cool head. Fortunately, that’s been coming easier and easier, even in the throes of frustration. While playing the game, while I’m Taisaur, my anger and frustration is more akin to joy or happiness. I actually enjoy the sensation. Crave it, really.
More so than before, after all the extra time and effort I’ve put in over the last couple of days as I debated Dr. Warden’s offer. Destroy a particular military base in the game. Receive half a million dollars in my bank account. Half up front, kept regardless of my success or failure, the other half if I succeed.
I don’t trust Dr. Warden.
I don’t like Dr. Warden.
Nobody gives away that kind of money to someone just for playing a videogame. Especially a videogame still only in beta. Which is another oddity that Dr. Warden’s sudden visit prompted me to consider. What is it exactly that we’re supposed to be testing? The game is completely glitch-free. If I didn’t know any better I’d say it was more than ready for wide-release. And wouldn’t objectives like the one Dr. Warden gave me and Xenatlas be the exact kind of things requested of beta testers? Why offer such an expensive bribe?
The whole thing has had me on edge all week. I think only the constant playing of Kaiju Wars has kept me sane while I considered. Something isn’t right. Not with Dr. Warden, not with Mr. Freeman, maybe not with their entire organization. And, terrified as I am to admit it, maybe not with Kaiju Wars. The game is too perfect. I don’t want to admit this because, apart from my brief date with Isabella, playing it has been the most fun I’ve had since I got out of prison.
But over the past week I found myself more and more staring at the little scar at the base of my palm where Dr. Warden’s people implanted their microchip. Who all is receiving the data it’s been transmitting? What kind of data is it sending? I know remarkably little about it. By design, I’m sure. Lab rats don’t need to know what experiments are being run on them after all, and if they did know it might affect the experiment.
The phone call I made to Mom later the same day I talked to Dr. Warden renders all that wondering moot.
I’ve made it a point to call Mom at least three times a week since coming here. Her condition, coupled with Dad’s forced separation has made my hyper-aware of our limited time together. I’ve done more research into ALS. Everything I’ve read makes me wish that I hadn’t.
This disease has made me believe in the idea of evil in the universe. Not as an abstract concept and not only as an aspect of the human condition. Evil as something palpable and real. A presence that exists
solely to cause misery and suffering. That’s all this disease is. There’s no point to it. No purpose. And it’s not alone. There are other things like it out there. Things I morbidly started to research, only to make myself quit, realizing I would drive myself insane trying to map them all out. Taisaur’s rage meter had never glowed brighter.
When I’d called Mom this time, it was later than usual. The conversation with Dr. Warden had me wanting to hear her voice, but the very idea that I’d been called into a parole meeting, even a fake one, had me embarrassed. Childish, I know. Weak, certainly. Mom’s the one needing support, who’s going through hell on earth as her own body slowly petrifies, and yet here I am just wanting to hear her voice and struggling to pluck up my courage. I’m fully aware of how pathetic it is.
“What’s wrong?” Mom had asked almost right away.
“Why does something have to be wrong?” I countered.
I swear I could hear her rolling her eyes. “If I’d known all it would take for you to call more was dying, I’d have started on this years ago.”
That’s a load of bullshit and the hollow laugh I give let’s her know that. That doesn’t mean her words don’t sting. I quit traveling with her as soon as I was able to, trying to break free and make it on my own. I barely talked to her then, rarely had when we were apart, especially when I was in a center. Not at all while I’d been in prison, nor really during my trial leading up to it.
I’ve ignored my mother’s presence in my life and taken her for granted. The thought made me feel like shit. Remembering that feeling now makes Taisaur’s rage meter fill up faster. I’m going to have to find a use for that thing eventually.
“Nothing’s wrong, Mom,” I’d assured her. “I’ve just been given an opportunity. One of those kinds that seems too good to be true.”
“You’re wondering whether or not to look the gift horse in the mouth,” she said.
How To Train Your Kaiju Page 12