Soda Pop Soldier

by Nick Cole

  There’s nothing in the fridge except a wedge of Brie cheese. Sancerré’s favorite. The lonely cheese inside the empty appliance looks like a photograph of noble poverty. Like something Sancerré would have shown me at a gallery back when . . .

  I’m still thinking about the battle as I stand with the refrigerator door open, the only light source in the tiny kitchen. There’s a small hum as the appliance clicks into overdrive to compensate for the waste of my artistic contemplations. I’m thinking about Enigmatrix and why ColaCorp keeps losing and why JollyBoy picked such a bad LZ. It was a poor choice.

  I’m starving and the cheese looks good. The first night she ever came to my apartment I’d served her Brie and sliced green apples. We’d had wine. She’d said Brie was her favorite forever from then on.

  Forever.

  I close the door on the cheese and wander through the apartment. I sit down on our bed in the dark, on her side. I notice the things she kept there.

  Hand lotion.

  A book.

  Some nail polish.

  They’re all gone.

  If I open her closet will I find nothing? Maybe a couple of hangers? Some random unwanted thing?

  I don’t open her closet.

  It’s dark and cool and quiet in here and it’s just the break my eyes need for a few minutes.

  Those minutes in between worlds.

  And I don’t really want to turn on the light because I might see how much of Sancerré’s stuff is actually gone. So I just sit in the darkness and think about WonderSoft.

  They’re always a step or two ahead of us. It’s like playing against a gaming clan that’s all on mic and communicating. Running their plans, calling out targets, reacting with extreme force and numbers to all your old tricks. There’s nothing you can do but lose when the game’s against you like that.

  I’d say they were cheating, but that’s next to impossible with the way WarWorld runs its online security.

  And maybe WonderSoft is just better than us.

  Than me.

  I think about the cheese in the fridge.

  I listen to the quiet.

  Maybe Sancerré will come back. So I’ll just hang on to the cheese in case she does.

  Chapter 14

  At midnight I’m logging back into the Black.

  I’m beat.

  The fatigue of fighting my way back to our lines in WarWorld hits me as I wait for World of Wastehavens to dump all its gothic gloom into my computer.

  It’s the moments in between, the silence of load screens, that really gets to me. Makes me question what I’m really doing here and wonder if life, real life, is somehow passing me by. Real life. Real love.

  I consider pouring myself a shot of something for whatever madness happens next, but I’m too tired to do it, so I sit in the dark listening to the computer click and hum its rattling way toward game start. It’s the only noise in our apartment.

  My apartment now.

  I guess Sancerré’s really gone.

  Abandon All Hope . . . appears on the screen, and the game begins. I ready myself for whatever happens next, thinking of that desert I’d glimpsed in the last moments of the last session . . . and of Sancerré. My fingers hover lightly over the direction keys. Ready. Waiting.

  The scene my computer shows me is one of an endless sea of beautifully designed, sand-sculpted dunes of light and shadow, completely still and yet undulating into the shimmering horizon.

  A desert.

  Not the depthless black pit I’d been in, forgotten by the game. The Oubliette.

  Instead . . .

  Overhead the glaring white sun stares directly into my Samurai’s eyes as I pan upward and out over an endless worn-out sky. Its blazing mirror is an image of angry silver rage. Faded blue skies surrender to the sand that covers the horizon in every direction. On-screen, the word Begin briefly appears in gothic spike script, then disappears.

  There is nothing to do but move my Samurai forward, and I do. For an hour I head deeper and deeper into the trackless waste, nothing on ambient except the scrunch scrunch scrunch of my Samurai’s wooden shoes as they grind their way up and down sandy dunes seemingly without end. The occasional cry of an unseen buzzard, a lonesome flute track, and a subtle discordant hand drum compose the musical score of the game.

  I have no weapons. Just the few martial arts attacks that I can select under the Posture menu. I leave the Samurai in Judo mode and continue on. Off in the distance, a sprinkling of worn desert palms rises from the shimmering heat, and I know this is something because the soundtrack adds a guitar, barely electrified. It begins to strum some lost late-1970s reminiscent riff. Like something from the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” its urgency rising by degrees. It cascades, then the mix repeats.

  That tells me this oasis is something worth investigating. Even though there is something in the music that reminds me of a warning. A caution.

  I think of water and that reminds me to glance at my health indicator, which I haven’t looked at for some time. I’m down to 20 percent, barely above passing out. I have a feeling the blistering in-game heat of the desert is probably making it difficult to heal. Still, I trudge on toward the tall palm clusters, hoping for an oasis. Maybe if there’s shade, I can hang out and heal up.

  I’ve wasted my thousand bucks.

  It takes me another half hour of skirling desert winds, lone flute, drum, and disembodied guitar music punctuated by the occasional cry of some an unseen buzzard to get to the oasis. The Troll that guards the oasis is large, mean, and ugly.

  You know, a Troll.

  He lumbers about the far side of the oasis, muttering and grumbling, unaware that I’m watching him from the top of a tall dune near a shimmering, shallow pool of crystal-clear water.

  Above me the sun seems to have barely moved. My health meter hasn’t managed to rise in the least. Instead, it’s slipped to 19 percent.

  Yes, this definitely has been a well-spent thousand bucks.

  I low-crawl my Samurai along the top of the rising dune, slithering through its almost pure white sand. Below, the oasis is a pool of clear water, underneath which I can see the emerald-and-gold-colored flagstone paving of some lost and ancient civilization. Sand lies along the bottom of the pool in sporadic drifts. The paving stones beneath the water are covered in inky black pictoglyphs. Near the pool the Troll, black and warty, with oily hair and large misshapen features, walks tall and dangly armed into a red-and-white-striped large tent on the far side of the oasis.

  At one thirty in the morning, real-world New York City time, I’m too tired to figure out how to defeat the Troll. Even if I do, what about the in-game “rescue the kid” quest I have to complete to earn any kind of return on my thousand? Forget all the bonus prizes and cash awards that are supposed to be scattered throughout most Black games. I have yet to find even one reward. Instead, I’ve managed to spend most of my time in some sort of lost and found bin. Now, I’m out in the desert with no sign of the tower on any of the horizons. I am well and truly lost. I was supposed to be fighting my way to the top of a tower full of horrors, and hopefully, prizes. Instead I’m still somewhere that feels a lot like nowhere.

  Did the server mess up and dump me out here? Is this all just some big con job? If it is, there’s no one I can complain to, being that it’s a crime to even participate in a Black game. Oh, and I’ll forget about addressing my concerns to Iain, due to the fact that he carries a gun as part of his customer service policy.

  I’d envisioned more, at least something other than what I’d gotten so far, a whole lot of nothing. No prizes. No loot. No money. Every Darkness character I’d managed to eliminate I would have gotten a one-hundred-dollar bonus paid into my online account. Twenty down and I could’ve quit just on that. So far, no one and nothing, and Creepy must not be dead because there’s no bonus in my account. It’s one thirty in the morning and I’m very tired.

  Frustrated too.

  I add up the two thousand that’s due
in rent, the empty checking account, and tonight’s defeat in WarWorld, and this is it. This is all I’ve got. I either do something here and now or I start finding boxes for my stuff.

  Thanks, Sancerré.

  I move forward silently after unequipping the Samurai’s shoes. I make no sound as I descend the sandy dune and make my way toward the edge of the pool and enter. Delicate bells dancing slightly at the mere thought of a breeze play across ambient sound as I enter the crystal-clear water of the desert pool.

  I listen and hear nothing else.

  I cross the pool, studying the green-and-gold pictoglyph-covered flagstones along its bottom where the drifting sand hasn’t collected in long fingers. The soundtrack introduces a woman crooning Middle Eastern–inspired throaty wails of passion and desperation. I listen beyond the low soundtrack and hear only my robed legs moving through the pool, and even a light desert breeze passing gently through the fronds of the tall palms that surround the oasis.

  I’ve formed a vague plan on how to take out the Troll, and I reason out the method of my approach once again as I stand in the pool, hoping the Troll won’t suddenly appear. I need to sell myself before I commit to any plan. At 19 percent health, one misstep, and I’m dead.

  Trolls are creatures of the dark, serving evil, doing generally despicable things. It’s daylight right now, so maybe he’s weaker, maybe he’s even resting inside his tent. Who knows what midnight party he has planned? But I’m betting, if he’s resting, I can either get by him or set a trap and get the jump on him. Whatever I do, I have to start doing something quickly. The server has reset me way off the beaten path. Somewhere the game is progressing and all kinds of loot and prizes are being handed out as players climb the tower. Or at least try to. Meanwhile, I’m facing an enemy I have neither the health nor body parts, nor even weapons for that matter, to fight.

  I move closer to the edge of the pool, near the red-and-white-striped tent as the breeze carries the coughing snore of the Troll out over the sand and water. Stepping from the pool, I spot the Troll’s wicked-looking gigantic scimitar stuck into the sand near the tent.

  The weapon is far too large for me to use with one hand, but I take it anyway. I don’t have much else. I see a miniature representation of the gigantic scimitar in my inventory screen and it’s grayed out. I can’t use it. It most definitely will need two hands to wield and I only have the one, but I keep it anyway. At least the Troll won’t get it. Besides, I’ve got a plan.

  In Crouch mode, I slip softly across the sands toward the tent, and just outside the front of it, I find two stakes at the ends of long ropes connecting them to the tent. With a quick bit of submenu juggling, I manage to anchor the loose ropes between the two tent pegs just outside the entrance to the tent, along the well-worn path down to the pool. I drop the large, shiny, scroll-worked scimitar and, using my mouse cursor, manage to sink the hilt of the scimitar a short distance back from the trip rope, angling the wide wicked blade so that it points upward toward the gently moving flaps.

  Then, I circumvent my trap and enter the tent.

  The Troll is sleeping on a large pile of shining silver coins sprinkled with intermittent bits of gold. His face is protected by one large hairy arm as his swollen belly rises and falls in halting rhythms. The Troll’s armor is better than what I’d normally expect to find in most games. Usually, in the few other fantasy games I’ve played, the average Troll is wearing leather, gruesomely constructed from the hides of humans. Maybe it’ll have an occasional scrap of some random piece of armor or a gold earring or tooth set among a cavalcade of rotting friends. But this Troll is wearing fine scale mail constructed with delicate circled plates, each carved with runes. In all likelihood, this Troll is a boss. A major NPC that players usually find at the end of a zone, guarding a fantastic weapon or treasure, loot of some sort. There is no way I should have started this game anywhere near him.

  Yet another reminder of how I’m getting cheated out of my thousand bucks. If Iain weren’t an armed psychopath, I most definitely would express my customer dissatisfaction.

  The Troll is probably one bad dude. My simple trap may not even kill him. I scan the tent for something else I can use against him. Maybe I can find a one-handed weapon I can at least cut his throat with, or maybe even use to blind him. Nothing. There are a few chests, but rattling though one of them or picking a lock would probably alert the Troll. I eventually do want to alert the Troll to my presence. That way I can lead him to the trap. One of the chests might contain something useful. If I work quickly, I can get whatever I find equipped and then use it on the Troll before he attacks. If he wakes up and finds me looting his stuff, I’ll just run and lead him back to the trap.

  It seems like a good plan. But doesn’t it always seem like a good plan? It’s later on that you learn, not so much.

  There are three chests half buried among the piles of silver coins. Through the fabric of the tent, I can see the lowering sun turning an afternoon bloody red. It’s still bright out, but in-game late afternoon seems to be happening. Soon, nightfall. My guess is, that’s when the Troll wakes up. I examine the three chests.

  Chest number one is composed of pale wood and a blackened grimy lock. Chest number two is more of a delicate sandalwood box. I could smash it open with my hand, but the noise no doubt would awaken yon grumpy über-Troll. The third chest is large, large enough for a good sword. Its wood is highly polished mahogany, its lock a shimmering silver. Along the sides, ornately carved runes pulse rhythmically.

  I really don’t have much choice. The third chest is no doubt trapped with magic runes. The first chest is probably locked and mechanically trapped. I target the second box and deliver a judo chop with my attack button, disintegrating the top of the box.

  Almost instantly, the Troll is bellowing and rising up from his pile of silver coins. Even though he has no scimitar to cut my few remaining health points to shreds, he raises a large bronze buckler strapped to his other arm, which I hadn’t noticed earlier, it being thrown off to the other side of the coin pile. My only hope now is the box. Inside are the shattered remains of a crystal decanter. I move my mouse over it and a QuickNote lets me know that it was some kind of perfume. Incense of Mermaid. Useless, shattered, and a poor choice. My only choice. The Troll’s great shield slams into my side and I’m airborne. I watch the Troll recede away from me as I fly through the air, through the flaps of the tent, as I pass into the pool with a splash. The Troll is moving, and as he hits the flap of the tent, all bellows and indignation with added threats of grinding bones promised, the taut rope arrests his stride and down he goes cleanly on his own wicked blade. He’s grinning, smiling as the scimitar pierces his throat and comes out the top of his warty wide forehead.

  Silence.

  I’m down to 3 percent Vitality. I should be passing out, fading into death. But I’m not. My health is rising. I stand still, not wanting to jeopardize the healing process. Near the edge of the pool, a thin line of dark blood streams down from the Troll’s gigantic misshapen head, dyeing the pixilated sand a deep crimson. I wait. My health continues to climb through the forties, the fifties, and surprise, surprise, my hand is growing back.

  At 100 percent health, the blazing red sun melts into the dunes, leaving the oasis bathed in the long cool shadows of early evening.

  My hand has grown back.

  Torchlight flickers to life near the Troll’s tent, and still the desert flute gives counterpoint to the steady beat of the soft drums over the game’s soundtrack.

  I exit the pool and enter the tent. I left-click the pile of silver and am rewarded with a QuickNote from the game:

  Congratulations on defeating the guardian of the Pool of Sorrows, the Desert Troll Khalabash. His corruption of the pool is ended. Six hundred e-bucks have been deposited to account #98402374727-111122338. Please note this account and enter your password for confirmation.

  Yes!

  I think of two things at once. First, how did I defeat an überboss witho
ut being in the game in any reasonable starting position? Second, what should my password be?

  Sancerré?

  I still care for her. If I had a moment to catch my breath and get some sleep, maybe we could sort this thing out between us. Maybe I can make enough money tonight to keep her. Maybe enough to keep her away from that whoever it is she’s with. Maybe.

  I enter her name.

  Next I turn to the chests. The one with the runes is definitely going to be tricky. Maybe it’ll even outright damage me. But I have the Pool of Sorrows behind me and all the free healing I can ask for. Still, maybe I should wait.

  I check the mechanical one with the grimy black lock.

  Just a touch and it springs open.

  A full-sized view of the chest’s bottom fills my screen. Over the top of the chest, I see flashing golden text.

  Choose Now 10, 9, 8. . .

  The countdown is accompanied by a loud dull gong ringing out across ambient. In the bottom of the chest lies an ornate double-bladed axe and a slowly revolving holograph of one of the LuxIsland resorts.

  I spend 7 through 2 of the countdown considering LuxIsland. These are the ultimate in actual real-time getaways. I could lose myself in every indulgence from an Undersea Hotel suite beneath the floating island to survival contests that dot the tropical paradise above. Fight a giant on a rope bridge and win a night with one of their repudiated world-class courtesans. Just the thing to forget Sancerré. Rope climb a dangerous cliff to get to the best restaurant this side of the Grand Concourse of Upper New York. Anything and everything I could earn for a week in paradise on earth. But at the end of that week, what? My stuff in boxes. Sancerré gone and my professional status most likely finished. At 1 I click the axe and am rewarded with the grinding sound of forged metal being sharpened on a spinning stone.