Mastermind

by Steven Kelliher

  I stood just in front of the huge wrought iron gates Blackstrike had kindly left open in case I decided to make a house call. I kept my chin up and my bearing rigid – if not exactly confident – as I did my best to ignore the beady red eyes of the security cameras on the soot-stained red-brick pillars behind me. Ahead, the cobblestones on the ground were covered with an inch of soot and ash that had solidified into a clay-like paste. It covered everything in the plant, from the discarded trucks and equipment to the bases of the chemical towers that made up the courtyard’s borders, fat at the bases and skinny at the stacks. I heard fluids bubbling close by, and saw steam rising from dark stone valleys. There was a yellow haze in the atmosphere that could likely kill or bestow powers in its own right.

  The skies were always gloomy over War Town, but here, in the south and more than a few stones’ throws from Madam Post’s docks, the sky was black. Streaks of yellowish-green light lit the bottoms of the gray-bellied beasts like some sort of mad scientist’s storm. All in all, the effect was, well, effective. The artists on the dev team had done their job well. They had made the War Town plant so moody and undesirable that only lowlifes like Blackstrike and whoever he kept for company visited the place.

  I waited in the courtyard, if you could call it a courtyard, for what felt like hours. Blackstrike was taking his time. Making me sweat. That, or trying to figure out exactly what I was playing at. He knew I was here as a result of his attack on my men. Vincent had been killed. It wasn’t so much that I had developed any particular fondness for the individual, but principles were principles. And my Sphere of Influence had taken another hit.

  Sphere of Influence – 16/20

  Single-Slot Members

  1) Sebastian 2) Hobb 3) Brooks 4) Sascha

  5) Kayde 6) Spooks 7) Damon 8) Greek

  9) Carlyle 10) Ratchet 11) Maria

  Multi-Slot Members

  Luther Smith (5 Slots)

  Then there was the small matter of Scale, who, according to Brooks, had intervened on their behalf. I had figured as much based on my limited point of view during the encounter, but it was good to have it confirmed. The big lizard had come around, and now he was dead.

  Together, it had all put me into a foul mood, and a grim one. A killing mood, you might say. It was a mood that had my mind racing a mile a minute, even if B5 thought it was likely to get me killed.

  It was clear to me that the attack was a ploy to get me out in the open. See what I was about. Killing Scale must have been a happy bonus. At least Blackstrike was smart enough to know who was calling the shots over at the docks. But for all his cunning and apparent threat, I was betting he didn’t expect me to walk right up to his front gate and then through it, like a neighbor looking to borrow a cup of sugar.

  B5 buzzed away in my ear, and I adjusted the volume just a hair above muting. High enough so that I could hear a shouted warning and low enough so his instructions to the other crew members became washed-out background noise.

  “Run through those threat indexes again, B,” I whispered, adjusting the volume slightly higher.

  I had considered bringing Sebastian and the others to the meeting, but I didn’t want this to look like a declaration of war. I wanted to talk.

  I had taken the main road, come down off South Street. I had come alone. Of course, Blackstrike was likely watching for reinforcements. He knew I ran some sort of an operation, even if he hadn’t guessed as to the mechanism for my controlling NPCs at the docks. Better to let him guess. It might be the only reason I was still alive.

  “Blackstrike is currently tier four with a threat index of Major,” B said for the third or fourth time.

  “And what was he at the start of yesterday?” I asked.

  “Tier four, threat index: Moderate.”

  “Right,” I said, nodding along with him. “And his muscle?”

  “His associate,” B5 said, “codename: Atlas, also tier four, has recently been upgraded to a threat index of Major as well.”

  “When—”

  “Close of day yesterday.”

  When Scale was killed, or just after.

  I had fired up the supercomputer and called upon alien core’s footage of the villains of the chemical towers. I wasn’t able to see their stat or superpower breakdowns, since they were higher level, but I’d managed to glean enough from the footage to suss out that both Blackstrike and his “associate’s” abilities were rooted in brawn and agility. Perhaps armor. If it came to a physical fight, I was in over my head; but then, I was against most builds in Titan Online, hero or villain.

  What we lacked in power-specific information we more than made up for in player profile. I knew what Blackstrike sought: power and influence. He was a cunning one, having set himself up away from the prying eyes of even War Town’s villains, and since he wanted to operate in secrecy, he was possessed of some level of foresight. But he was also something of a loose cannon.

  Few villain players with true in-game ambition perm’d another prior to hitting tier three or above. Made you a marked man or woman in War Town, as other villains would come to collect before you made them your next target. It was akin to a community putting down a rabid dog before the whole town got bit.

  Blackstrike likely used this Atlas buffoon as muscle. He certainly looked the part in the footage I’d been able to find, while Blackstrike was more of a silent assassin type. Remembering how Post had described him dodging bullets, his agility must be high indeed. Still, I knew the truth. Atlas was the crusher, but Blackstrike was the name people on the edges of War Town were starting to know. He was the shot-caller, even if he wasn’t the one pressing the button.

  I felt a pang as I dimly recognized that I’d been using Scale in a similar manner, and I did myself a favor and turned it into anger. I didn’t have to feign that.

  “Don’t forget, General,” B5 said, “you’re still sitting at a Moderate threat index yourself. Nothing to be ashamed of, certainly.”

  I couldn’t tell if B5 was making fun of me, so I elected not to respond.

  “Everyone in position?” I asked, not keeping my voice quite as low as I should have.

  “Affirmative.”

  Just because I hadn’t brought Sebastian and the boys to Blackstrike’s back yard didn’t mean they weren’t close. Of course, they were probably too far to effect the sort of immediate charge I’d need from them if I had cause to call, but the illusion of security made me feel better.

  Blackstrike undoubtedly knew I had reinforcements. He likely had them marked now. If he didn’t show, it was because he believed the situation to be too dicey for him to make an appearance. If he did, it was because he knew he and Atlas could clear the lot of us from the board like displaced pawns. It was a reminder that I probably should have approached Post about adding some of her muscle to the coming exchange, but I was still on somewhat tenous ground with her. Besides, I didn’t want to owe her any more favors than I already did.

  I was about to give up the strong and silent act and yell out for Blackstrike when the ground rumbled underfoot. For a startling instant, I worried that there was some other villain in the vicinity, one who could control the earth itself. But then Atlas rounded the bend.

  To say he was impressive… well. You know.

  The behemoth looked to be about as thick around the waist as one of the great redwood trees on the west coast. He was half again as tall as Scale, and his corded muscles were augmented by the strange, gangly appearance of arms that were far too long for his body. His knuckles could have brushed the soot from the ground if he leaned forward more than an inch.

  No wonder Scale hadn’t been able to stand up to him for long.

  Though unnaturally long, those arms were replete with more muscle than the entirety of my crew combined, including Sebastian. They were bare, with two black bands wrapped around the biceps. Atlas wore a vest that seemed to be made of some sort of stone. It was rough around the edges and even up onto the buckled straps that dug into his gar
gantuan shoulders, and I hadn’t noticed him wearing it in any of the footage I’d seen of him before. He wore a gray hood. Nondescript as an executioner.

  His chest heaved in and out, as if he were trying to calm himself, and his fingers curled and relaxed, seemingly uncomfortable without anything to crush in the immediate vicinity.

  I frowned.

  “Say,” I said, “you wouldn't happen to be concealing something with that big ol’ chest protector, would you?”

  Atlas’s breathing paused briefly, his eyes widening a bit as he looked down. The movement caused the vest to pull again, and now I saw more clearly the scabbed-over gash – or gashes – it hid, pulled tight against the leathery skin.

  “Dangerous business, wrestling alligators,” a new voice cut in. It was lower than I would have thought, and humorless. It made the hair on the nape of my neck stand up, and I was once more thankful that the mask and hood I wore hid such displays from my enemies.

  “Blackstrike, I take it.”

  I craned my head around, looking toward the pathway Atlas was striding in from. I nearly fell over when the diminutive – relatively speaking – villain stepped out from his ally’s shadow.

  As far as I knew, Blackstrike didn’t have any sort of teleport or shadow-walk abilities. How dexterous must he be, then, to conceal himself by matching Atlas’s gait? How large must Atlas be, to keep me from noticing?

  Blackstrike leaned against the great trunk of a man as if he were a boulder in a park. He wore thin black shoes and loose-fitting martial arts pants that billowed at the knees. His waist was cinched with a white sash, and his shirt was split like a robe or a gi, the V trimmed in white. His face was dark, though not as dark as his outfit, and he had strips of white tape under his eyes.

  All in all, he cut a strange but striking figure. I could see the power and poise in his body from his bearing alone.

  My right hand slid toward the fold of my trenchcoat, feeling unconsciously for the handle of my stasis gun. Powerful as these two were, their mind stats couldn’t be too high as a counter-measure. My tech had worked on Starshot, even with her prime roll mind stat – a lucky roll on my part to be sure – so it had a chance to work on them too. Then again, I could only freeze one at time.

  All this passed through my mind and made my hand movement less than subtle. Blackstrike’s eyes followed my clumsy move and I tried to give it up as a casual motion. He smiled.

  “Well then, Despot,” Blackstrike said, straightening. “What brings you to my… humble abode?” He frowned and looked around us, grimacing for show. “Not the tidiest place, I’ll admit. But then, we all have to start somewhere, isn’t that right?”

  I shrugged. “Won’t argue with you there.”

  “Right,” Blackstike said, smiling with too many teeth for too many seconds. Before he could speak again, the last fraying strand of my patience gave way, snapping sooner than I’d meant it to.

  “You killed my friend,” I said, clearly and steadily. I hadn’t meant to use the ‘f’ word, and doing so seemed to have a strange effect on the two villains, who exchanged a curious look, but there it was. “I’d like to know why. And since you two haven’t killed me yet, I assume you have some questions of your own.”

  “The lizard?” Atlas asked, his voice the baritone I had expected. Blackstrike rolled his eyes at the other player.

  “He knows, Atlas,” Blackstrike said. “Why else do you think he’s here?”

  Atlas’s mighty shoulders drew up, and watching them do it, I had no doubt they could support the weight of one of these towers if pressed to do so.

  “Scale, you mean,” Blackstrike said, raising an eyebrow.

  I didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding.

  “Thought he was one of Madam Post’s brigade. What’s he matter to you—”

  “He was a player,” I said. “Post is an NPC. You know this.”

  “Players can work for NPCs,” Blackstrike countered. “You know that.”

  “Fair enough. Still, it doesn’t explain why you killed him.”

  “What does it matter to you?” Blackstrike asked.

  “He was… useful to me.”

  I caught the quick glance Blackstrike made toward Atlas and filed it away for future use.

  “Fair enough,” Blackstrike repeated my previous line.

  “What’s the story with you two?” I asked, making a show of looking around. “I’d say you were laying low, biding your time, but you’re already at a respectable – if not infallible – tier, and now you’re going around perming players. Never the safest bet in this town.”

  After I finished, I heard a buzzing sound in the vicinity and looked up. A viewer bot had come along in short order, since there was a tense player exchange taking place. I was betting the added attention would make Blackstrike gun-shy about perming me on film. Too much noise, even for him. Scale’s fight had been so quick and brutal no viewer bot had time to arrive, which was why I hadn’t been able to locate any footage of the encounter.

  Blackstrike smiled, his white teeth matching the sash and V cut of his martial uniform.

  “So, which is it?” I asked.

  “Which is what?” Blackstrike asked.

  “Are you ambitious or stupid?”

  That drew a laugh from Atlas, who clearly wasn’t threatened by me in the least. If anything, he looked bored by the whole exchange. Blackstrike, on the other hand, looked miffed. And growing more so by the minute. This conversation wasn’t going quite the way he’d have liked. Clearly, he thought that killing Scale – my muscle, as it were – was like to make me more of a recluse. The fact that I’d marched all the way to his doorstep had likely convinced him that I was foolish, but now, given how brazen I was acting, he might be coming to a different conclusion.

  Now, Blackstrike had a choice to make. A bet to lay. Was I bluffing, or did I actually have a plan potent enough to threaten two villain players a full tier above me?

  Thinking the question gave me butterflies, but then, that was the way I liked it before a fight. Reminded me of my days as Streak. And any reminder of Streak brought me back around to the point – the real point of this whole affair.

  “We all have our ambitions,” Blackstrike said. “Right now, Atlas and I are in the market for real estate. As you can see, we’ve got a good bit of it around these parts, but, well, we want more.”

  “And the docks are seriously lacking in player presence,” I nodded, beating him to the mark. Blackstrike hit me with one of those condescending smiles again.

  “See? You’re catching on. Now, we were planning on taking the fight to Madam Post soon. She’s got a hell of a lot more stashed away – cash and weapons – than you might think. Only, now it seems she’s working with players. We knew about the lizard. Figured he would stay out of the whole thing. But you… well, let’s just say your interactions with Post and her crew – if you can still call them her crew – caught my eye.”

  “Lizard wasn’t so big after all,” Atlas said, shaking his head in mock grief. If there was any doubt over which of them had dealt the finishing blow, it evaporated then, as did the thought that Atlas would live out the month if I had my way.

  “Quite so,” Blackstrike said. “Couldn’t have a fellow like that creeping under our docks—”

  “Your docks?”

  Blackstrike’s expression shifted quickly, going blank.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And you’ve cleared this with her?”

  “We’ve got plans for Post,” Blackstrike said, “and we’ve got plans for her men, if they don’t fall in line. Speaking of,” he nodded toward one of the towers to my right, where the shadows around the base were deep. “Let’s not beat around the bush. I want to know: how did you get so many of them on your side? We could use someone like that. Someone who can do that. Lot we could accomplish, wouldn’t you say? So let’s hear it. How’d you do it?”

  “I’ve a way with words.” I shrugged. Blackstrike was cl
early put off by my demeanor. It was causing him to alternate between threatening and parleying.

  “Your superpower,” he said, ceasing his teeth-grinding long enough to search for some sign of recognition in my own dark eyes. “I understand,” he said, patting Atlas on the shoulder. “Whatever sort of power it is, you want to keep it close to the vest. We understand that.”

  I felt my jaw clench and tried to keep my gloved hands from following suit.

  “You’re fast and he’s strong,” I said, nodding at Atlas without taking my eyes from Blackstrike. It seemed to unsteady him for a brief moment, but he recovered well enough. He searched my expression and came away satisfied that I only knew the surface of it. That did make me nervous. Made it seem like there was more to their abilities than the footage would indicate.

  “Close,” Blackstrike said.

  “Not wrong,” Atlas added.

  A long silence followed in which the three of us felt for a bend. It turned out that Blackstrike wasn’t nearly as patient as he let on.

  “Here’s the thing, slim,” he said. “You can either give up the docks without a fight and join up with us, help the old crone muster something of a defense and die fighting like your green buddy, or,” Atlas took a threatening step forward, his expression morphing from bored to hungry, if not manic, “we can explore the third option.”

  That confirmed that. The two of them had been gearing up for a war with Madam Post and the docks for weeks, if not months. Likely before I’d entered the game world. Aside from the old crone and her NPCs – an organized, rowdy, albeit limited blue-collar group – Scale was the only thing in the region that might have posed a threat to them. Unlike me and my supercomputer, they wouldn’t know anything about Scale, including his tier, until they met him in the flesh.