It could be that this move had been planned for quite a while, and that my arrival – hell, my near residence – at the docks and my new relationship with Madam Post had thrown a wrench into their plans for expansion, or at least caused them to step back and reevaluate. Eliminating Scale had then served a dual purpose: ridding the docks of the one physical presence capable of threatening them in a chaotic fight with NPCs galore, and ridding the newcomer – frail, clever and enigmatic as I might appear – of his iron fist.
As for the third option Blackstrike was alluding to, I was guessing that one had to do with me dying here and now. The thing was…
“The thing is,” I said, “I don’t like any of those options.”
All semblance of a peaceful veneer washed away like a rotten eggshell, leaving the violent, gory innards exposed. Blackstrike and Atlas were killers, through and through. They played the game for power, their villain origin stories well earned, and they saw vanquished enemies as trophies more than collateral. In short, they were the very worst sort of players, the kind others feared to cross and joined together to stop, lest they ruin builds for heroes and villains alike that were years in the making.
And I was rightly pissing them off.
Atlas took another step forward, the ground seeming to bow beneath him as he did. I tried not to let my nerves show. Finally, I heard the faint buzzing growing closer until it sounded like a swarm, and saw the viewer bot in the cloudy skies above, focusing in on our exchange.
Blackstrike’s eyebrows twitched when he heard it, but he remained rooted.
“You two are smart enough to know not to piss her off,” I said.
That stopped Atlas in his tracks. He looked at Blackstrike over his shoulder. The formerly calm villain had adopted the beginnings of a martial stance – as if he’d need it after Atlas was done with me – and had begun to turn toward the chemical towers on the borders. He was aware of or at least suspected my reinforcements, and he was prepared to mete out whatever justice he saw fit.
“Who?” Blackstrike asked. “Post?” He laughed.
“The only ‘her’ who matters around these parts,” I said. “The only ‘her’ who makes it her business to know who’s got what, and how much of it. The ‘her’ who likely knew what you did to Scale before I did, and I heard it happen. The ‘her’ best equipped to do something about the young, permakilling upstarts in War Town.”
“Anastasia,” Blackstrike whispered as Atlas mouthed the same. Their eyes widened. For a moment, it looked as if they suspected me of ratting them out. They glanced around, as if they expected Anastasia and her legions to show. Who knew how many villain players she had under her sway? Speaking of favors, lot of folks owed that one, and Anastasia always came to collect.
“The very same,” I said.
Blackstrike couldn’t help the panicked look on his face. He swallowed and raised his chin. “You don’t have any contact with her. You’re small fish.”
“As are you,” I said, reminding him of the fact without confirming or denying his claim. “Think about it,” I said, taking a step forward rather than back. “You want the docks, but you’ve already got the plant. Madam Post is one of the longest-running NPCs in War Town. Original build, I believe. You really think annexing her territory – the dingiest parts of War Town, admittedly, but still a good chunk of land – would take you off any radars?”
“Who says we don’t want to be on a radar—”
“I do,” I said, meaning it. “I say it, because you know just as well as me that the only thing villains in this town can agree on is not liking low-tier players going around perming their fellows, getting too big for their britches, too quickly.”
“Big talk, coming from a puny tier five,” Atlas said.
“Recently promoted,” I said, holding up a finger. “And excepting my own position, however great or small, my point remains. Ambition is rewarded in War Town. Not reckless abandon. From where I’m sitting, you two have the latter in abundance, and you’re sorely lacking in the former. That, my could-be friends, is where I come in. That is where my superpower comes in. How else do you think I’ve swayed Post so quickly?”
I left it out like a juicy steak, alluring.
Sure, Blackstrike and Atlas had handled my thugs during their recent rendezvous rather easily, but they had no idea how many I held under my sway, no way of knowing which were mine and which belonged to Madam Post. It was a happy accident that I had attached myself to the docks like one of the virtual crustaceans in the gray waters beneath them – an accident that made me look even smarter than I already considered myself.
I recognized the irony.
“So, in a way, I suppose I’m choosing your first option. I may be willing to work with you, but I sure as hell won’t work for you.”
“What do you think of his offer?” Atlas asked his smaller ally.
“He isn’t offering anything, you oaf,” Blackstrike whined. “He’s just trying to save his skin.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Atlas asked.
“Wouldn’t I?” Blackstrike now looked like he wanted to strike Atlas. He closed his fist and removed his attention from me, confirming his utter disregard for the threat I posed to him.
I watched the exchange, trying not to let my tension show. My left hand had slipped beneath my coat, the knuckle of my thumb brushing against the swarm grenade on my belt. I felt the earpiece buzzing as B5 readied to bark orders for the others to make for my position.
Perhaps Scale’s death had shaken me after all. Perhaps I had overstepped, been reckless. Maybe it would have been wiser to heed B5’s advice and hole up at the docks, ingratiate myself further with Madam Post and prepare for the coming conflict with Blackstrike.
Ah, well. That was doubt for you.
Based on what little I knew about the villainous duo’s powers, I felt that Blackstrike was the better target. He was fast, and undoubtedly possessed of high-level hand-to-hand combat abilities, but he had seemed to take pains to avoid Scale head-on, implying that his armor might be low enough for my boys to do some damage. Maybe even for me to.
Then again, I couldn’t discount the possibility that he allowed Atlas to do most of his dirty work specifically to avoid showcasing his superpower. It wasn’t an uncommon trick in alliances, heroic or villainous.
Atlas, on the other hand; I didn’t know how many of our glorified cattle prods it would take to make that one wince.
The two of them were red-faced and fuming, and I nearly gave B5 the order then. Instead, I cleared my throat and opened my big dumb mouth again. I decided to go for it.
“My proposal, gentlemen, is that we form an alliance,” I said. “A league, if you will. One to rival any of the spandex-wearing clubs across the bay. One that might even, one day…” I hesitated, watching them watching me from the corners of their eyes, “take down Leviathan himself.”
They straightened and observed me with guarded, almost passive expressions that reminded me of scientists observing a test subject. They thought I was mad.
“I’ve already ingratiated myself with Madam Post,” I stammered, speaking more quickly and less surely. “Sure, she’s not the most powerful NPC, but she’s original build. She’s got resources. Bodies and bronze. Enough to hide operations and enough to fund them. Judging by what you said yourself, she’s got the resources we need to build a bigger operation, and since it’ll largely appear business as usual at the docks, I doubt we’ll receive too much unwanted attention from other players until we’re ready for it. We aren’t the only disillusioned villains around. We could recruit more. Build a real team, in time. One not to be trifled with. One to better even the great team Deadlock left in tatters when he died.”
“Who said anything about being disillusioned?” Blackstrike said. “The AI favors heroes. We get it. Everyone does. What are we going to do about it?”
“What if the AI wants correction?” I said, seizing on the memory of Deadlock’s words. “What if it’s been trying to pla
nt the seeds of insurrection against the heroes for years, trying villain origin after villain origin, hoping someone would take up the mantle Deadlock failed to carry across the finish line?”
Blackstrike laughed, dark and rattling and mirthless. “Is that what you think you are? The chosen one? The one who’ll take down Leviathan?”
“Why should we continue to toil in the alleys and gutters while the heroes have the run of the roost?” I asked, ignoring the barb. “The AI incentivizes them to team up. Why can’t—”
“Again, everyone knows that,” Blackstrike cut in, dismissive. “Titan Online is rigged in favor of the heroes. Big whoop. At least we get no penalties to—”
“What?” I asked. “To perming? Don’t you?”
Blackstrike opened his mouth to respond and then closed it.
“Face it,” I said. “The penalty for perming other players on this side of the water is death. It might not be me who metes it out, but War Town corrects its own. The powers that be – the tier-one players – can put aside their differences long enough to make sure upstarts like you don’t get big, hungry eyes, but they can’t ever seem to keep it going long enough to put some pressure on the real enemies. This game is supposed to be open. It’s supposed to encourage villains to strike out and wreak havoc on that side of the bay, beneath the pearly towers of Titan City. Instead, anyone who tries it gets a building dropped on their head. Collateral damage, they call it, and all of it engineered by Leviathan and company. All of it preventing organic shuffling, stagnating storylines, separating the hero ecosystem from the villain. Keeping all the viewers watching the same people to maintain their real-world deals and rotting this world in the process.”
Atlas’s expression had hardened during my impassioned speech, but I didn’t think it was against me. Quite the opposite. Something in my words had struck him. I couldn’t say the same for Blackstrike.
I seized on it, willing to risk being wrong.
“It’s happened to you, too, hasn’t it?” I asked the big man. I even took a step toward him. He frowned at me and swallowed, straightening and doing his best to puff out his chest. “You were perm’d by heroes in a previous build, weren’t you? You were cheated by them.”
Blackstrike stepped forward, and I didn’t like the intent in his bearing.
“Join together against the light,” he said, mocking. “Rise up and face down thy oppressors.” He stopped walking, but he was closer than I’d have liked him to be. “I’ve heard it all before. I’ve heard it in previous origin stories, from better villains, from stronger heroes. Yes, even heroes have discussed taking out ol’ Blue Eyes. And every one of them failed. Not in the field. Not in open combat. But from within. The groups crumbled. Their leaders lost heart or stomach. Their soldiers turned. Or the heroes of Titan City – the ones at the top – saw to it they met their ends. Neat and tidy. No penalties necessary.”
“Then you understand,” I said, my voice barely crawling above a whisper. “You understand he is the problem. They are the problem. This game. This world can never be free while they have power.”
“Oh,” Blackstrike said, his smile wide, “I understand.” He slid his right foot back, his white sash swaying, eyes focusing as he fell into a martial stance. “Your mistake, Despot, was in assuming I’d care.”
Seventeen
Fight or Flight
“Shouldn’t we listen to what he has to say?” Atlas said, staying the fight for another heartbeat.
Blackstrike was fast. I had gathered that from the few encounters I’d been able to see so far. Much faster than me and possessed of some superpower I could only guess at.
“He’s talked long enough,” Blackstrike said, his eyes locking on mine. He saw right through the mask. Saw the fear beneath it. “Besides, if he’s really dumb enough to come here without other players to back him up, I don’t see him bringing much to the table.”
Atlas grumbled something unintelligible in response, but Blackstrike ignored him.
“Don’t look so glum,” he said, tilting his chin as he watched me edge backward and slid his own light ninja shoes up to match me, “maybe we’ll take out Leviathan sometime down the line. If so, I’ll give you a shout-out. I’m sure the sponsorships will be rolling in, then, along with the fans.”
I had to have faith that B5 was monitoring the situation and would alert Sebastian and the others to come to my rescue without me having to signal them. Or, if not my rescue, then at least witness my resolute destruction at the hands of enemies far too powerful for me to defeat.
My stasis gun felt heavier along my right hip. My left hand gripped the swarm grenade along my belt. The AI must have been reading my brainwaves, as sweat trickled along down my brow and dripped out from the bottom of my mask.
A faint buzzing sound greeted my ears, and I saw Blackstrike’s eyes twitch as he took in the arrival of several more viewer bots, swooping in like scavengers as the AI sensed coming violence. Quite the audience we’d have, soon enough.
As it was, the violence was not contained to the three of us standing in the ashen yard.
Blackstrike was the first to notice. I don’t know how he did, or how he anticipated the coming attack, but I guessed it was tied into his superpower.
The white-sashed fighter exploded into motion, leaping backward without even looking up. I frowned at first, wondering why he’d be disengaging from me when he clearly had me dead to rights. I squared to meet – rather, to run away – from Atlas, who wasn’t so much intent on me as he was on the smog-filled skies behind me. He wore a quizzical expression.
“What’s—” I started to ask as I went to turn around, and then I was flying backward. I slammed into the pillar that marked the right side of the entrance to the plant and slid down, catching myself on my hands and knees. A hail of earth, rock and refuse rained down around me, and a cloud of ash filled my mask, stealing my vision.
I scrambled, rolling out of the compromising position as my HP meter popped up, shrinking from green to yellow.
Despot: 70% HP
When I came up in a crouch, doing my best imitation of Blackstrike’s martial stance, the spot where the two of us had been standing was now marked by a shallow smoking crater. Blackstrike and Atlas stood a stone’s throw beyond it, their attention now firmly fixed on the source, and most certainly not on me.
I should have snatched the opportunity to make my escape then and there, but curiosity got the better of me. I looked up, my eyes working to adjust to the sudden bright as a figure – no, as two figures floated down into the yard from on high.
“Not again,” I said, feeling more annoyed than unnerved at the sudden intervention.
Encounter Begins
Despot vs. Starshot and Prism
Starshot
Tier 5 Hero
Threat Index: Moderate
Prism
Tier 3 Hero
Threat Index: Alpha
Starshot dimmed slightly as she landed, her white spandex more visible now as she let the outer shell of energy fade. As soon as her toes touched the ash, she turned and gave me her full, sunlit attention. Her hair danced on those solar rays she summoned, and her eyes were gems of fire.
She looked stronger than she had the last time we’d met. And she did not look happy to see me.
Beside her was a man in a ridiculous getup, even for hero standards. He wore a suit and cape that was every shade of green, with knee-high boots and armored gloves. His helmet shimmered like emerald, and though he continued to stare straight ahead, he looked from behind to be a gaudy representation in keeping with the Knights of the Round Table. When he marked my presence, he did so with a dispassionate air.
More to the point, he looked as unconcerned with Atlas and Blackstrike as they had been with me.
“The hell do you two want?” Atlas asked, though I noticed that he didn’t bring one of those big meaty legs forward so quickly this time.
“Prism’s the name,” the emerald crusader intoned, even th
ough we already knew. He had a reedy voice, like a carnival magician.
Prism must have been Starshot’s sponsor, the tool bag hero in Leviathan’s little league of wannabes – whatever they were calling themselves these days – responsible for training her in the ways of… who cared?
Point is, he was a high tier-three defensive-class hero, if memory served, and he was… I already said tool, right? At least that explained the arrival of so many viewer bots. I now counted at least seven hovering between the chutes and stacks of the War Town plant, covering all angles of the coming engagement.
“Unfortunately for the three of you, your villainous schemes and machinations must now come to an end. My squire and I have come to collect you. Please, don’t run. I’ve Fame to garner.”
Yeah. Major tool.
“Don’t you mean you have a city to defend?” Blackstrike mocked, shaking his head. He had begun to circle the two heroes. He seemed entirely willing to face them. As did Atlas, who slammed one meaty fist into his opposite palm and took the booming step he hadn’t before.
Prism extended one green-gloved hand and the air went translucent in front of it, like water coalescing in the atmosphere. After a few seconds, the image resolved into what looked to be a man-sized shield that was the color of green sea glass with facets cut into it. Without another word, he pushed it forward, and the huge crystal shot toward Atlas with impressive speed.
Atlas smirked and started to run toward the shield rather than away from it, apparently confident that he could smash right through it. It came as a shock to him, then, when the barrier hit him like a hurled truck and sent him flying backward. He hit the base of the chemical tower hard enough to send a spiderweb of cracks racing around the foundation, and the barrier formed a cocoon around him, pinning him to the tower like a trapped bird.
The hulking brute smashed against the shell, and cracks marred the shifting surface, but Prism was already forming another barrier. Blackstrike darted in to engage him, and Prism levitated into the air, his hands working in circular patterns to rotate the faceted barrier in front of him. He split it apart as if it were a bubble and extended both hands this time, sending the two crystals hurtling toward Blackstrike.
Mastermind Page 24