Treading a path out of the black and onto the main platform, Mitch could now make out a series of wheels and ropes spinning furiously to power each limb, a dizzying display of good, old-fashioned Yankee ingenuity gone mad. The mechanical colossus was huge—so large the Baroness had to push a lever to duck it under the forty-foot doorway. As the machine stood back up at full extension, Mitch got a good look at the woman of the hour, the belle of the ball. A small, slight woman wrapped in a flowing, black dress, her hair pinned up in a harmless bun, her makeup thick and caked on, layer after layer, like an eroding limestone cliff. She was secured into the machine with leather straps holding her tight inside the monster’s chest. She sat in the cockpit—well, sat wasn’t really the right word—she was more hunched over, hands glued to the controls, like a foosball player just a little too much into the game. She spun, searching the chamber for the unlucky son-of-a-bitch that knocked on her door, turning the machine with each flick of her eyes, as if the two were connected at the brain stem. And to top it all off, she flashed a smile stretched across her face, showing equal parts pure delight and batshit insane.
After a few stomps, the Baroness turned the machine towards the treasure pit and her eyes locked on Mitch’s. “Well, hello there darlin’,” she screamed over the diesel engines, rolling the ‘r’ on darlin’ just a little too long. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She pulled a lever, and a long stream of fire shot from one arm, licking across the floor. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Mitch leaned back, holding his ground, keeping his eyes fixed on the Baroness’s every move. “Don’t want any trouble,” Mitch yelled up. “Just the wrong guy in the wrong game at the wrong time.”
“Oh, sugar, look at you ... already all flustered.” She let out a chuckle, flicking a few switches to bring the machine to a halt with a cloud of smoke pouring from the rear. She lowered her tone as the machine’s engines sputtered to a stop. “Look at you down there, sliding around like a snake for a rock. Now don’t worry your pretty little head, handsome—trouble’s a hell of a thing, and the last thing on this little lady’s mind.”
More than a bit surprised, Mitch let loose the clench from his fists. His eyes flicked up to Fuse, who was starting to make his move, gesturing for Mitch to keep talking. The Baroness resumed the conversation before he had the chance.
“If the Lord above wanted us womenfolk to fight,” she said, “he would have given us longer claws and sharper teeth.”
“Right, I mean, I didn’t think that—”
“You just done snuck up on me, that’s all,” The Baroness said with a singsong rhythm, gazing out into the pit of treasure and resting her chin on her elbow. “Isn’t it just a damn shame? All this treasure and not a thing to buy. That’s why we moved down here years ago, you know—me and the Baron. A prospector, that one. A drinker. Fell to his death after one too many, right into this very pit. Been a while since I’ve seen a man like you,” she continued, closing her eyes in a daydream. “A real man. And I’ll tell you what, I’m not about to head back up to those streets above—not with all the ghouls and ghosts and odds and ends they’ve got running around up there these days.”
Mitch stood back, hands on his hips, and found himself nodding along. She’s not so bad. Just a misunderstood—kind of crazy—old woman looking for someone to talk to. We’ve all been there.
“A woman gets lonely, you know?” the Baroness said, arching her back up straight and leaning against the cockpit’s wooden frame, stroking it with a loving caress. “And since I ran plum right out of company, I had to make my own.” She pulled at one of the ropes overhead. “I think I did a damn good job, if you’ll excuse my language. I was always good with fixin’ things, buildin’ things. But it’s not a woman’s place—that’s what the Baron would always say. It’s not a woman’s place.”
She pushed a thick wooden lever forward, sending the gears turning, the flamethrower bursting back to life once again with a screech of metal and churning smoke. “Behind every decent woman is a demon, you see. A demon pushing right up to the gate, ready to bite and spit and tear your damn head off. And all I done is turned my demon into a machine. KillJoy—the name came to me one night in a dream. A nightmare. I woke with the dawn, just knowing how to build her, how to power her, how to let her rage become real. To let my rage become real.”
Yeah, should have seen where this was going. Mitch took a step back, feeling the gold slide under his heel.
“Letting a cat out of a bag is a hell of a lot easier than shoving that sumbitch back in,” the Baroness screamed. “Isn’t that right, sugar?” She pushed the machine forward as smoke billowed from the exhaust, sticking from its backside like evil, mechanical bagpipes. The room shook as a foot hit the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mitch saw that Fuse had made it halfway down to the floor, dangling from a rope tied to the upper platform. He released his grip, landing in a crouched position, somehow pulling the whole move off without making a sound.
“Now, I’ll admit,” the Baroness yelled down at Mitch, “I never had much of a stomach for killin’ people. It’s a dirty business, and it sure ain’t ladylike. But KillJoy, she’s one hell of a teacher. And you know what they say: practice anything long enough and you’ll get good at it.” She pushed a lever, sending flames shooting across the gold at Mitch’s feet.
Mitch ran from the wall of fire, sliding to the backside of the treasure pile and ducking for cover. His eyes flicked back and forth between the machine standing tall above him and his friend sneaking into position behind her. Anytime, Fuse.
He watched as Fuse pulled two hand-made Molotov cocktails from his bag and lit their wicks, holding a flaming bottle in each hand. He rolled one across the floor with a silent swoop, lobbing the other with a high arc towards the cockpit. Both bottles moved in tandem, with Fuse’s signature precision, just like Mitch had remembered from back in the day.
Breathing a quick sigh of relief, Mitch whispered “Thank God” under his breath, hoping he was about to see the last of the Baroness. That’s when she turned—spinning, on a dime—sending one of KillJoy’s arms flying high, the other going low. She deflected one Molotov in midair, dinging it back through the doors, and swept the other off the floor, flicking it like a hockey puck directly at Mitch. The bombs exploded with a one-two beat, showering Mitch with a rush of heat, burning alcohol, and an ear-deafening blast.
Mitch flew backwards into the rear wall of the treasure pit, landing sideways onto a newly bruised shoulder. His health status set off a three-alarm siren, now down to 3%. Mitch cursed and rolled over to his good side.
It didn’t matter what game you were playing—at 3%, one more hit, one more nudge, one more look and you’re toast. With the power standing before him, he knew it was all over. They were better off just packing it up and starting over. Pulling himself back up to his feet, Mitch saw Fuse running like a bat out of hell, back and forth across the platform, trying to avoid the mechanical footsteps following close behind.
“Help! Help me, Mitch!”
Mitch plopped down back on the top of the treasure pile, figuring since he was going to die anyway, he might as well get a good seat for the show on his way out. He shifted, feeling something poke him in the ass, and pulled a golden bow and arrow from the depths, admiring it before tossing it at his feet. There—that’s better. “Sorry, Fuse,” he yelled back over the sounds of stomping and mechanical mayhem. “Just here to be a distraction.”
“I take it back!” Fuse yelled, turning to throw a few chunks of rock that the machine had blasted off the wall back towards the Baroness. They bounced innocently, like raindrops off a suit of armor. She hovered over the controls, pulling KillJoy’s levers with a sick enthusiasm, towering over Fuse in close pursuit.
“Run, run, run, little rabbit,” the Baroness yelled. “Momma’s gonna cook you for supper!”
“How’s the precision timing working out for you, Fuse?” Mitch yelled, flicking a piece of gold into the wall.
“Don’t be a dickhead! Do something!”
“I don’t know, this seems like a job for a professional,” Mitch chimed back. “Don’t you think?”
“You heard her, Mitch, she’s gonna eat me! My probability of survival is dropping by the second … and if I start over, you have to start over, too! C’mon, man!”
“We’re goners, dude,” Mitch shot back. “I’m at three percent. Doesn’t matter.”
“We’ve still got a chance! There’s got to be a way!”
Watching the scene play out, Mitch studied KillJoy’s movements—smooth as silk, powerful, hypnotic, flawless. The Baroness had taken no damage, even after five or six minutes of Fuse throwing everything he had at her. But still, Fuse was right: there had to be a way. There was always a way. Mitch checked his stats screen—an hour had passed since he met up with Fuse. Clock was ticking; time to get off his ass.
Fuse blindly tossed another Molotov over his shoulder as he scrambled for his life. The bottle flew up to the ceiling in a pure vertical arc. Mitch watched its flame travel through the darkness, illuminating the structure above the stage. From the Molotov’s flickering light, he could see the hanging ceiling, held up with one single rope at the center.
That’s it.
Mitch plucked the bow and arrow off the pile, adding it to his inventory and pulling the string back, testing its strength. “Okay, Fuse, we’re getting out of here,” Mitch yelled, cocking an arrow. “And for the record, your strategy on this one was complete shit.”
“I came to a similar … conclusion ... a ... few minutes ... ago,” Fuse said, fighting to get his words out between heavy breaths. “Whatever you’re ... going to do, do it now ... I’m down to ... one ... percent health.”
Closing one eye to aim, Mitch drew the arrow back against his cheek. “When I say jump, you jump.” He aimed the bow high above the doors, high above KillJoy.
“Jump? Jump where?” Fuse asked, a fresh look of fear in his eyes. “Up? Sideways? ... Into the pit? Where do you—”
The Baroness turned, finding Mitch standing tall at the center of the treasure pit, and stomped the machine sideways. She walked forward, stopping right in front of him, staring him in the eyes. “You want to kill me?” she cackled, pointing her flame throwing arm down at Mitch. “You’re gonna have to aim at me first, child.”
“Jump,” Mitch said.
Mitch exhaled and let the arrow fly. It flew above the Baroness’s head, clear up to the top of the room. With a shot for the record books, the arrow sliced the rope, sounding off a thunk as it traveled through and stuck in the wall. Fuse rolled into the treasure pit as the massive awning fell down to the floor—the rush of air extinguishing the torches on either side of the platform and sounding an earth-shaking crash in the darkness.
Mitch lit a torch. He found the awning was now just serving as a new layer of the platform, covering the entire expanse of the floor, crushing everything else below it. No sign of the Baroness, no sign of KillJoy.
Fuse rose from the pit, walking back towards the doors to inspect the damage. “Did we get them? I mean—did you—”
A chime filled the chamber as a message appeared in a dialog box before Mitch’s eyes.
YOU HAVE LEVELED UP
KARMA POINTS +1,000. NEW TOTAL: 999,988,499
“Good lord, it’s about time,” Fuse said with heavy breaths, turning back to Mitch with virtual sweat dripping down his face. “Just like we drew it up, right?”
“Just like old times,” Mitch said.
Mitch reached into his bag, getting his first glimpse of an active mission-forward code package. The orb glowed with veins of lime-colored neon piping curving around its circumference, just begging to be activated.
“It’s kind of nice,” Fuse said, soaking in the silence, his face lit by torchlight. “This game—once you’re not fighting for your life. Or wondering if some random subroutine with an axe is going to jump out of nowhere. There’s a peace to the design. The colors. The detail.”
Mitch took a moment to take it in himself. It was different—that was for sure. “You know,” Mitch said, “once we’re out of here, the game gets destroyed behind us. It’s a safety measure that Mac built in. So enjoy it while you can.”
“Destroyed? Damn, that’s a shame,” Fuse said. “I mean, the character design isn’t perfect, but mixed with the palettes and the gameplay, it’d be nice if we could—”
Before Fuse could finish his thought, the door at the base of the pit—the one Fuse had appeared from—exploded into a million shards. Splinters, boards, and smoke shot out across the pile of treasure. Behind where the door once stood, a hoard of ghouls pushed their way through, elbowing and squirming in a mass of undead rage.
“It’s the mob from the town square,” Mitch said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” He extended his hand to grasp Fuse’s shoulder, clicking the orb to life with his other.
Swirls of green and blue enveloped them, like a pair of digital dust devils at their feet. Mitch looked up to see the chamber around them dematerializing—the pixels disappearing in chunks, whole sections at a time turning to nothing, leaving only a bright green grid behind where they once were.
The mob stopped in unison, mesmerized by the destruction all around them. They howled as their arms, heads, legs disappeared, bursting into white clouds of digital snow.
“Happy DeadBlood Day, assholes,” Mitch said. As he dematerialized, his eyes fell to red as the game world all but disappeared. He saw a form in front of him—something lurking. Something watching. He squinted to make out the form, but the haze was too thick. He couldn’t make out if it was real or a dream or just somewhere in between. Three slashes tore across the red as Mitch felt a shiver shoot up his spine.
LOADING NEW GAME ENVIRONMENT
As a new world came into view, Mitch pulled his hand back from Fuse’s shoulder to shield the rush of fresh light. He opened his eyes and rose from his knees, only half believing what he was seeing.
The lush green hills flowed over with candy-colored pastel flowers under a robin egg blue sky dotted with clouds—clouds made of the brightest white Mitch had ever seen. The smells of cotton candy and fresh fruit drifted in on a soft, cool morning breeze. Right angles were everywhere—corners, jagged edges, and straight lines. Mitch reached down to touch the grass, but got only a slick surface in return—like cold, green marble. The world looked like a fairy tale, but one constructed with large multi-colored building blocks, like a child would build on a rainy Saturday morning. Snowcapped mountains and deep blue lakes. Forests full of evergreen trees and rocky waterfalls. A never-ending world of shiny, clean, perfect wonder.
A pair of pixelated pink and white rabbits bounced by Mitch’s feet, floating along without a care in the world.
“Jesus,” Fuse muttered. “This game might be worse than the last.”
SEVENTEEN
Whatever You Want
“MITCH, this is fascinating. The game allows the player to build whatever they want—like, anything.”
Fuse had been talking Mitch’s head off for the better part of ten minutes as he explored every nook and undercarriage of the game menu—a game, they’d learned through the metadata—that was optimistically titled BlockJoyMagic. In front of Mitch now stood a life-size Craftsman-style house, complete with overhanging eaves and a front porch that actually looked quite cozy. Using a dozen different blocks—materials like dark and light wood, granite, marble, and steel—Fuse had built a series of rooms, stairs up to a full second floor, a kitchen with a small back porch, and even a full set of rigid, really uncomfortable-looking living room furniture.
“Just imagine the possibilities,” Fuse beamed, standing back to admire his work.
The game, as described in the introduction of the surprisingly well-detailed user guide, allowed the user to build. Just build and build and build, with an infinite supply of materials at their fingertips. No weapons, no enemies to be seen. Just free-form, uninterrupted creation.
It was quite a concept, but the rough edges were already starting to show, starting with the avatar design. Because everything in the game was built of simple geometric shapes, both Mitch and Fuse had also turned into blocky versions of themselves, complete with bright, pastel-tinted clothing, two-dimensional facial expressions, and arms that didn’t exactly bend at the elbow.
“You can farm!” Fuse proclaimed, pointing his stubby arm over to a few rows of dirt next to his house. “ I just hoed up the ground and laid down carrot seeds. They should be ready in a few minutes. I’ve never played a game with farming mechanics before. Think of the political ramifications ... the cultural norms that each player can set into motion for their own tribes.”
Mitch looked out at the horizon for any clue of where to head. “Who cares, dude? And what the hell are you going to do with carrots, anyway?”
“Not carrots, Mitch,” Fuse beamed. “More carrots. Already have crop ready to go. You feed them to the rabbits. Feed the rabbits, and they become your pets. Didn’t you read the manual?”
“Part of it,” Mitch said, shaking his block head. “Just enough.”
Right on cue, three rabbits hopped out from behind an elm tree and sat obediently at Fuse’s heel. He tossed them a few more carrots to reward their loyalty.
“I read about these types of games, back in the research phase of The Skirmish Manual,” Mitch said. “They’re called ‘sandbox games,’ got big back in the early 2000s. Blocky graphics, open worlds.”
“And you can build whatever you want,” Fuse repeated.
“What if I don’t want to build whatever I want?” Mitch shot back.
Fuse continued his construction as Mitch looked out past the house—which he had to admit was actually coming together quite nicely—to the horizon, scanning for any indication of the next Nefarious member. Someone had to be here, somewhere, but he had no clue about where to start the search.
Side Quest Page 10