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Side Quest

Page 4

by Christopher Kerns


  “That’s insane,” Mitch said.

  “Is it?” McDougall asked. “Would you like to tell me where you live, Mitch?”

  Mitch shook his head.

  “Like I said,” McDougall added, “we’re living in a new world now.”

  Mitch looked past Mac’s shoulder, back to the glass wall and the buzzing headquarters behind him, and then his focus shifted to the shine off the glass. His reflection, tinted blue, staring back into his own eyes. He looked tired, which was no newsflash. But for the first time since he could remember, there was something new. He looked scared.

  “Let me get this straight,” Mitch said. “You screw up … you lose track of the best team there is and risk the future of the biggest game in the world, and this is now all my problem to fix?”

  “No, it’s mine,” Mac said. “And you’re my best solution, Mitch. I sent my best players in, and they haven’t come back. I’m just working my way down the list. You’ve still got some gas in the tank. Hell, you’re still at the top of the leaderboard.”

  “The top of the Skirmish leaderboard,” Mitch corrected. “You’re not talking about going into Skirmish—these are new worlds. Worlds no one has ever seen. There could be anything in there.”

  “We’ve considered that. We’ve built out a translator codebase that allows you to keep your Skirmish environment in whatever game you end up in. Your avatar will still have all the weapons and abilities you’ve earned over the years. In fact, if you’re interested, the points will translate over to Karma as well.” Mac kept his eyes locked on Mitch’s. “This could be the thing to take you over the one billion level. That’s not nothing.”

  “If I cared about that, we’d be having a different conversation right now.”

  “Everyone told me I was crazy for wanting to ask you. Said I should go find some new hotshot out there somewhere. But you know me—I like knowing what I’m getting into.”

  “You’ve always hated surprises,” Mitch muttered, walking over to the window. Tracing a finger down the glass, he couldn’t believe it—couldn’t believe he was actually considering the offer. He’d spent his last few years trying to stay afloat, telling himself he was doing fine. It was a shitty life, but it was a life where he knew what to expect. Every morning when he woke up, he knew exactly what each day would hold. There was something nice about that, something comfortable. What Mac was talking about—new worlds, the old team—made him nervous just thinking about it. It felt like a job. A job for someone else.

  “I appreciate the consideration,” Mitch said. “But, like I said, I have a class to teach. I’ll think about it—I really will, Mac.”

  McDougall nodded. His face turned to stone as he hushed his voice. “We need you, Mitch. The Skirmish world is at risk. It’s my fault—I know that. It’s on my shoulders, but I can’t do this myself. You depend on this game as much as I do. There are billions of people who play within these walls every day—millions more that make their living there. Not to mention you. Maybe you owe the game a little something.”

  “I don’t owe anybody anything,” Mitch said without hesitation. “And I don’t owe Skirmish anything, either. I gave that game the best years of my life. If anything it’s the other way around.”

  “Then think about the team. You certainly owe them something, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not on Nefarious anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “You give me a name,” Mac said, digging in his heels. “Name someone else that can do this better than you and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll walk away. You do that and I’ll take care of it. You can go back to running tours, and we’ll get together again a year from now. Talk about all the bullshit that doesn’t really matter for an hour, shake hands, and say ‘until next year.’ But if you don’t help me solve this, there might not be a next year. Not for Skirmish. Not for Karma.”

  Mitch shook his head, tapping at his wrist screen. As the dematerialization process began, he watched McDougall’s eyes drain their last ounces of hope.

  “See you next year, old man,” Mitch said. “Like I said, the place looks fantastic.”

  SIX

  Fine Form Today

  THE AIR in Mitch’s trailer held a resilient flavor of stale, a smell that stuck around from the first sip of coffee and clear through the last drink of the night. Even when a cold spell hit or a thunderstorm rolled through, the stench persisted, a subtle stink right around the corner from spiced mustard. It had bothered Mitch at first, but after months of trying to air out the doublewide between gaming runs with no success, he figured the smell had earned a place in his world. Familiar. Dependable, even.

  One thing was for sure—the smell was in fine form today.

  Mitch rose from his rig and stumbled over to the kitchen—calling it a kitchen was generous—to throw a fresh coffee canister into the machine. Fifteen minutes until his next tour group. What’s this afternoon’s mission? The Saving Admiral Strite level? Only played that about twenty thousand times. His eyes glazed over at the mere thought of Karma re-entry, his mind already playing out the mission in the background, step by step, inch by inch, pieced together from thousands of runs through the map.

  The team would start in the dunes, perched high above the shore, crouched down between tufts of beachgrass. He’d then lead them down the right-hand side of the cliff—don’t even think about trying the left side with those land mines scattered everywhere—to take out two guards, fifty feet apart. Stealth knife attacks from behind worked the best, arm on the neck, knife in the throat. Then on to the dock, the wooden boards creaking under their weight, as the team took their places around the exterior of the main building. Everyone except for the Rover—the Rover should approach from the water, popping up from the shallows to take out the unsuspecting guard on the top deck of the biggest boat tied to the dock. The yellow boat with the blue pinstripes.

  The player in the Demolitions role was now tasked with planting charges underneath the main building which served as the temporary home of twenty-one soldiers. If everything went well, it would soon be collapsing into the water with a simple flip of the detonator.

  The Bulldozer role would follow closely behind the Leader, ready to take out anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in their path, while the Sniper would take position in the tower. The Leader would then would snake around any bodies as he or she made their way towards the boat at the far end, where they’d find the loot: the briefcase that would take the team to the next level.

  Nice and easy. Same as last time. And the time before.

  Mitch knew all the corners, all the blind alleys, every place an enemy might lurk, or should lurk. And the worst part—the part that left him cold inside—wasn’t knowing the maps; it was knowing that he knew. Confident that he was going to make it out just fine. It was like taking a test with the answers already scribbled on the paper.

  Victory turns up hollow when you already know you’re going to win.

  The coffee pot beeped, beckoning Mitch to grab for his mug. He checked the time again—down to twelve minutes—and his eyes fell down to the old picture of the Nefarious Five, hanging crooked just below the clock on a twisted nail jammed into the trailer’s wood paneling.

  “Bunch of dumb shits,” Mitch whispered, taking a pull from his coffee. “Run off and get stranded, and now I’m supposed to bail ‘em out?” He pulled the picture from the wall, cleaning the glass with the edge of his shirt, only making it worse. Each face sparked old memories. Missions, tournaments, the fire of victory. Four other team members, each great in their own way, and unbearable in others. He’d always been more nostalgic than he owned up to—he knew that getting all teary-eyed and sappy about the past was a waste of time—but he couldn’t help himself. One thing was for sure: he wasn’t nostalgic about that day. That one goddamned day. Before that battle, he’d never considered himself a quitter. But now, that fact wasn’t really up for debate.

  The far wall of the trailer sparked to life, illu
minating bright blue light across the floor, highlighting the crushed shag carpet and occasional stain of mysterious origin. A notification appeared: “NEXT APPOINTMENT: TEN MINUTES.”

  Mitch waved off the message with a swipe of his hand. Hanging the picture back on the wall, he straightened its pitch so it looked just right, even if it was the only thing that looked right in his whole damn life. He stepped back and took another look.

  What the hell happened that day?

  That infamous showdown—now referred to as the Red Battle by numerous Skirmish historians—was still fuzzy, still cloaked in haze. The final tournament had been a tough one that year, not as easy as the previous few victories for N5. The team had been forced into a series of legendary comebacks in the earlier rounds, defying the critics that had called them “yesterday’s news in the gaming world.” The final round started off exactly the way Mitch had wanted, and it seemed that the tide was finally turning in Nefarious’ favor. The team was rolling, adrenaline flowing. The crowd was along for the ride, cheering the team on as they found an early advantage. The Nefarious Five had already knocked out three members of the opposing team with tripwires—a low-level weapon that players high in the ranks sometimes forgot about altogether. The tripwires had been Mitch’s idea.

  The battle had moved from deep inside a sunken fighting pit to the outskirts of the terrain above. The members of Nefarious, walking side-by-side and closing in on the two remaining combatants, could taste their next trophy. Mitch still remembered the active audio track in his ear, commentators celebrating him as the man behind the team. The best of all time. He was on top of the virtual world.

  But then it hit him—something he never saw coming.

  The next thing he could remember was looking back up at his team, splayed out on the ground, knocked over sideways onto the stone floor. His teammates were all staring past him at something or someone, frozen, as the game clock continued to tick.

  We had them on the run, only two left, both in our sights. How did they get me?

  Mitch turned on his side, seeing the image for the first time, the image that still haunted him to this day. A soldier, but not like one he’d ever seen. Everything about the soldier’s form was bigger, stronger than anything Mitch had ever encountered in Skirmish. Thick and muscled, built like a rock. As the stranger approached with heavy steps, Mitch could feel shock waves bouncing through his shoulder.

  The soldier’s face was covered with a mask, showing only three slits across, like giant talons had ripped across his eyes. The mask showed no emotion. No fear. He was equipped with a healthy stockpile of weapons—rifles and pistols and grenades hanging from his belt—but that’s not what he’d knocked Mitch onto his ass with. The weapon in his hand was the same one Mitch favored—the Razor pulse rifle. As he watched the soldier approach, Mitch’s view was filled with red. Faded red clothing, bright red racing stripes, and a red glow around the stranger’s silhouette that hummed with an electric buzz.

  Mitch climbed back to his feet, his health indicator blinking down to 35%. He drew his pistol, aiming right at the slits across his eyes. Don’t know where this asshole came from, but I know where he’s going, Mitch remembered thinking. Before he could pull the trigger, the soldier flashed by him—just a wash of red—and began a systematic attack on each of Mitch’s teammates. With blasts across their bodies mixed with precise headshots, Mitch watched, helpless, as the rest of the Nefarious Five fell to the ground, health indicators flashing down, inching towards 0%.

  The red soldier’s movements, his stance, his presence—it had all felt strangely familiar, but Mitch’s spinning brain couldn’t nail down why. His heart stopped, his eyes went wide. This can’t be happening. That’s when the red soldier turned back to square him up.

  Mitch remembered grabbing the biggest weapon in his inventory—a rocket launcher that was too clunky for mixed combat, but had never failed to do the job for single, straight up kills. Mitch propped himself up on his knees, aimed the cannon towards the soldier, and let loose, feeling his teeth gnash with the recoil from the massive blow. He fired round after round, one for each of his fallen teammates. He squeezed the trigger again and again until it clicked with nothing left to fire. But it was no use.

  The shots ricocheted off the red soldier’s chest like ping-pong balls. As if nothing had happened. The soldier’s health indicator hovered over his head at full power.

  100%. That’s impossible.

  The soldier dropped his rifle, running at Mitch full speed, slamming his fist into Mitch’s face. And then, just like that, it was all over. Mitch’s avatar pounded back down to earth, his status lighting up with something he’d never seen in a tournament before. A message he never wanted to read again.

  GAME OVER. YOU HAVE BEEN DEFEATED.

  Mitch had rematerialized in the post-game lobby in a wash of confusion, surrounded by the rest of his team staring up in silence at the scoreboard. He was used to being greeted with the whoops and hollers of victory, but that day there was none of that. The rest of the no-longer-World-Champion Nefarious Five were still in shock, their dead eyes locked on the screen in the center of the room, watching as the on-air commentators tried to make heads or tails of what had just gone down. The screen showed scenes of the two remaining opposing players, utterly confused, being crowned as champions, showing early, cautious signs of celebration as their victory set in. The red soldier was nowhere to be seen.

  The judges’ final ruling, Mitch would later learn, was that a “code anomaly” had appeared on the field of battle. It was considered a natural game element, which could have “impeded the progress of either team.” Code anomaly, my ass. Pundits argued for weeks. Headlines on gaming boards read “N5 needs real leadership” and “Spitfire had one job to do, ONE.” The Red Battle became the go-to conversation point on news feeds, Skirmish forums, and anywhere else people talked about anything. It was in the forums that the mysterious soldier became known by a common shorthand, the name he is known by to this day.

  Red Code.

  After that day, Mitch did something he’d never done before in his life: he stopped showing up. He left the battlefield, left his team behind. He logged out of competitive Skirmish play and never went back. He noped his way right out of the spotlight, and right smack into a trailer on the California coast.

  With one more adjustment to the picture frame, Mitch turned back to his makeshift office. He checked the screen at the far side of the trailer, tapping it back to life. “NEXT APPOINTMENT: FOUR MINUTES.” Just four minutes until he had to climb into his goddamned gaming rig, rematerialize into the Karma lobby, and watch some kids walk into the same old mistakes.

  “Computer, show my schedule for the next week.” A list of tours appeared and filled the screen, one line after another. A whos-who of low-paying gigs bringing him more headaches than credits. Like someone had just hit “copy” on today and hit “paste” again and again and again, until their fingers couldn’t take it anymore. Tomorrow was the same thing as today, which was the same as yesterday. And yesterday sucked.

  I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this.

  With a few swipes of the screen, Mitch brought up a fresh chat window. After a few seconds of soft, electronic ringing, McDougall’s face appeared, rubbing the surprise out of his eyes.

  “Mitch,” Mac said with a huff. “Is that you? I can’t remember the last time you actually called me.”

  “Let’s get two things straight,” Mitch said. “First: I get paid for this. A lot. There are rats in my trailer, I want them gone.”

  “Of course, I’ll make sure of it,” Mac said. “The money won’t be a problem.”

  “Second: this is a one-time thing. Two days and I’m out. I don’t work for you.”

  “Understood,” McDougall said, showing the hint of a smile.

  “And this is a favor, you got it?” Mitch said. “A favor. I’m a busy guy.”

  “Yes, Mitch. I appreciate it. I know you’re busy. When’s a reas
onable time to expect you here? When can you get started?”

  Mitch glanced around the trailer, across to the far set of windows. The sunlight tried its best to shine through the grime, but only managed to illuminate the piles of past due bills scattered anywhere and everywhere they would fit. The stale air of his life hung heavy.

  “Now’s good for me,” Mitch said.

  SEVEN

  Sometimes It’s Best to Overpack

  AFTER JUST A FEW MINUTES, Mitch was beginning to realize that Mac had been expecting his call. The planning had been underway for days, with the group of engineers hidden deep in the bowels of the Karma Systems HQ restricted area. It seemed they were just waiting on the final piece of the puzzle—some dumbass who would agree to dematerialize into a world he’d never seen.

  A team of fifteen gaming scientists and analysts—complete with senior titles, mops of gray hair on their avatars, and an intense focus—scurried about with controlled, purposeful chaos, checking off every last detail. The sense of urgency filling the room wasn’t hard to grasp.

  Mitch felt a tug on his shoulder strap and let out a reflexive howl as sharp pain jolted through his brain. Some days, he was happy that he’d upgraded his VR rig with the full sensory uplink, tapping right into his nervous system. Other days, not so much.

  “Sorry about that,” Carl muttered, searching for open space in Mitch’s inventory to hold more ammunition. “I have to get a bit creative with where I can fit all this stuff.”

  “Feels like I’ve got plenty,” Mitch said. “Besides, isn’t this overkill? This isn’t a combat mission, just search and rescue.”

 

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