We should look for structures, anything that looks out of place. Odds are that any team member stranded here would have passed some time building, or at least given it a try.
“Always wanted a house like this,” Fuse shouted over, admiring his creation with pride. “And the best thing—the best thing—check this out.”
Fuse laid down a straight line of red-infused bricks leading up to the porch. He gathered his new pet rabbits at a safe distance and, without flinching, produced a block of fire in his hand, tossing it on the line. Mitch backed away as the blocks lit, one by one, turning from red to live fire to ash. He felt a wave of heat hit his face as the house blew into a million pieces, chunks of fire raining down all around them and jagged clouds of smoke rising slowly, like stop-motion animation, into the air. All that remained of the dream home was the charred outline of the house’s foundation and Fuse’s giddy smile.
“You can blow stuff up!” Fuse said.
“That’s great—good work today, Fuse,” Mitch said. “But we need to get moving. We’re here to do a job.” He pointed up to the closest mountaintop. “There—that’s our best chance to spot someone. We can get a lay of the land from up there.”
“What are we looking for?”
“I don’t know—a person, a building ... anything. Just something that doesn’t fit.”
The mountain looked like an easy climb from the distance, but the pair quickly realized that the details mattered in this game, and the details here were all about slopes, or the lack of slopes. Back in Skirmish, just like in reality, walking up an incline wasn’t even a consideration, but in BlockJoyMagic, slopes didn’t really exist. In a world made up of right angles, getting to a higher point meant jumping over a series of blocks, again and again and again. The one-block jumps were easy, but two-block jumps weren’t possible, which meant Mitch and Fuse found themselves stopping to destroy blocks, trailblazing through mountain rock every few steps. At first, it was kind of fun. After around the hundredth block dug out by hand, it had grown into a serious pain in the ass.
Mitch let Fuse take the lead for a few minutes, following in his path and of course, the path of his rabbits, checking the view back down into the valley for any new clues. With each turn, he found a living, breathing postcard view, filled with more unbelievable landscape as they jumped higher and higher, but no sign of any Nefarious team member to be found.
“You should really build something while we’re here,” Fuse said. “Give it a try.”
“So I’ve heard,” Mitch said. “But I’m not going to waste cycles thinking about it. Let’s just get this done. I’ve got things to do back home.”
“Understood,” Fuse said, breaking apart a dirt-brown block with a few quick punches. “And I’m glad you’ve found a life satisfactory for your needs. But to me, there’s a missed opportunity. Even a cursory review of the data shows that you aren’t leveraging your past experience to its full extent.”
“Are you asking me why I never came back to the team?”
“I might be.”
“It’s just not for me anymore,” Mitch laughed. “Nothing personal. My life is different now, but it’s good. More peaceful. Sometimes life’s about sticking around, sometimes it’s about moving on. That’s all.”
“Sometimes, indeed,” Fuse said, tossing a fresh carrot to one of his bunnies. “But think about the logic here. First, Mac would probably have a heart attack if he heard you were coming back. That might be worth it all by itself. And there’s always room in the arena for the legendary Spitfire, the best of all time.” He spoke the last seven words like a play-by-play announcer, calling out the opening roster to a roaring crowd.
“That’s not what I heard,” Mitch shrugged. “Sounds like you guys found a new leader. Got him brand new, right out of the box.”
Fuse took a break from breaking blocks, pausing like a man about to choose his next words carefully. “Like you said: sometimes life’s about moving on. Doesn’t mean I don’t want the best for you. Would just hate to see you go out like you did.”
“And how’s that?”
Fuse turned to face Mitch, backing up against a three-high wall of blocks. “You know how. The Red Battle. It was like nothing anyone’s ever seen—before or after. An impossible hand you were dealt. Anybody would have—”
“You think that’s why I left?”
“Of course. And I get it, Mitch. I really do. We never trained for that situation. Combined with the stakes and pressure we were under, a loss like that would mess with anybody’s head.”
“It was just a battle. No different than the others.”
“C’mon, Spit,” Fuse said. “You can fool the others, but not me. That red asshole, coming out of nowhere, the whole world watching.”
“Sorry, Einstein,” Mitch said, punching at a new block. “Sometimes even you’re wrong. The Red Battle wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had, but that’s not why I left.”
“So why, then?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I deserve an answer,” Fuse shot back. “And, if my records are accurate, I never received one.”
“Sometimes people just do things. Why does there have to be a reason?”
“Yeah, people just do things, but you never just did things. Spitfire never did. That’s what makes you different.” Fuse spun, gesturing around to the world around them. Halfway up the mountain, they could see valleys full of lush, pixelated trees, bubbling brooks running with animated blue blocks, and snowcapped mountains on the horizon. “Just you and me and the rabbits here. Tell me the truth.”
Mitch stopped digging. He knew that Fuse was the type to just keep the hits coming, attacking the argument from every angle until he found a weakness. He didn’t have the time or the energy to keep dodging. “I wanted to be the best at Skirmish. So I worked. I studied and I played and I learned everything I could. And it wasn’t easy—it took years and years, to get to the level where Nefarious is. You know that better than anyone.”
Fuse nodded.
“But when I finally got there—when I got to the top—I stepped back and took a look. I realized that it had become easy. It was just mechanics at that point. The game wasn’t a question of if I could do something, just a question of the best way to do it.”
“Yeah, I know that feeling,” Fuse said. “That’s a good day.”
“No,” Mitch said. “It’s not ... that’s what I’m saying. After the Red Battle and the press raking me over the coals, the next morning, I went to log back into Skirmish. I thought about the next mission and the team. Get right back on the horse, all of that shit. I tried to choose a level to play and realized that there was nothing new for me. Every mission, every situation. There was no joy in it, just muscle memory. I wasn’t playing because I loved it; I was playing because I was good at it. I expected to win. And that’s why I walked away.” Mitch chipped at the last remaining block between him and a path ahead. “Best decision I ever made, man.”
“Sounds like some bullshit to me,” Fuse said. “But whatever gets you through the day. I’ve already calculated eight better decisions you could have made in that situation. But that’s me. You’re you. It’s a big world, you can build whatever you want.”
Mitch jumped to the top of a pile of blocks, looking up the mountain’s slope. “Let’s keep moving. Almost to the top.”
They pushed up the side of the cliff, carving a path up the mountain, making good time. As they reached the top, Mitch, Fuse, and the growing collection of rabbits looked out to the world around them to see what they could see.
“Anything?” Mitch asked.
“I’ve got a big lake with a waterfall,” Fuse said, shielding his eyes from the square sun beating down from above. “I think I see some goats on the cliff down there. How about you?”
“A bunch of blocky little sheep. Maybe a town or village or something down by a river.” Mitch squinted to get a better view. “Wait a minute.”
“What is it?”
&
nbsp; Mitch pointed down, but not at the houses or farms or picket fences or pixelated horses that made up the makings of a village. No, Mitch pointed next to them—at a message spelled out with hundred-foot block letters.
THIS GAME BLOWS
“Well, if we’re looking for something that doesn’t fit,” Fuse said. “I’d say that counts.”
THE SKIRMISH MANUAL:
A TEAM-BASED APPROACH
Roles and Responsibilities
* Demolitions * Bulldozer * Rover * Sniper * Leader *
BULLDOZER
Responsibilities: First one in, first one to get a kill, the Bulldozer is the player that leads the charge into the arena. Quick decision making is key, combined with the ability to rapidly assess threats and calculate the best method to eliminate opposing forces in short order, all while staying alive for the next kill. The Bulldozer shouldn’t be shy and shouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone in their path.
These guys have brass balls.
EIGHTEEN
My Money’s on Dozer
AS MUCH AS he hated to admit it, BlockJoyMagic was starting to grow on Mitch. Skirmish tournaments were an always-on experience—as soon as the clock started, so did the adrenaline. Every game, every mission, felt like a sprinter exploding out of the blocks. Constantly searching, calculating, attacking. But this world was different—refreshing, even. Hill after hill of lush green grass, unmarked paths twisting into the distance, each leading to a new, uncharted adventure. And even better, there was no agenda—not a soul chasing him, no one to hunt down and kill, no mission to speak of at all, really. Just wide open fields and the time and space to build or explore or just sit on your ass and watch the virtual world go by. After years of heart-pounding action, Mitch found himself excited at the thought of not being excited.
But you know what was really exciting? The moment when Mitch realized he was, without a doubt, the first and only person in this or any other world to say the following words out loud: “Let’s head for the ‘B’ in ‘BLOWS’ and see what we can find.”
Mitch and Fuse skimmed down the mountainside, finding a growing collection of evidence that they were on the right track. A pile of foreign bricks, colored bright blue, jetting out from the otherwise natural landscape. Half a wall constructed and abandoned in the middle of a field. And, on the near side of the mountain, hidden behind a row of evergreen trees, an impressive work of art stood—a twenty-foot statue of a middle finger, pointed right at them, standing unapologetic and proud. Mitch walked towards the message, keeping a sharp eye.
“Who do you think it is?” Mitch asked as he approached the giant T in ‘THIS,’ inspecting the construction.
“It’s a simple matter of reverse engineering the team member’s personality profiling based on the evidence at hand,” Fuse said, gazing up at the giant middle finger as his rabbits hopped by to inspect a nearby flower. “My money’s on Dozer.”
Yeah. Dozer.
Dozer was an acquired taste at best. She served her role well as the team’s battering ram, and that description was putting it lightly. On any and every mission, Dozer was the first in the door and, dependably, the first one to start tallying up kills. The heavier the machine guns, the better. The higher the body count grew, the more she salivated. Being the first one into a dangerous situation, never knowing what was around the next corner, wasn’t an easy gig. That type of mentality took a certain type of push, a resolve that was innate, not learned—someone who loved the feeling of free fall and craved the rush of action. Her kill numbers were off the charts, but her role was a bit of a double-edged sword.
The first one shooting is also the first one being shot at.
Luckily, Dozer was built for the role from scratch. She knew every weapon in Skirmish inside and out. Taking on damage was just a footnote for her; even after heavy hits to her health meter, she kept her bullets flying and held up the confidence of a stone wall. Her aim wasn’t the best, but she made up for lack of precision with the sheer number of projectiles she was able to fire per second.
If you were on her team, watching Dozer at work was a thing of beauty. If you were on the other side, God help you.
“The village,” Mitch said, pointing down the dirt road to the buildings in the distance. “Good chance she’s there.”
The town turned out to be not much of a town at all, just a few one-room houses and farms connected by a faint web of dirt paths. A small fenced yard here and there, holding the occasional pixelated cow, and a few townsfolk standing outside each building wearing expressionless masks of nothing on their faces—just staring into nothing like soulless mannequins propped in the corner of an empty store window.
Mitch reached out to poke the closest villager, checking for any sign of life, before realizing he had nothing to poke with—apparently standard-issue BlockJoyMagic arms didn’t come with fingers. He ended up just softly pushing the man with the stub of his arm, sending him silently floating towards the closest farm house without complaint, like a hockey puck spinning freely across ice.
“It’s like someone handed out Valium.”
Fuse waved his arm in front of another BlockJoyMagic resident, receiving no reaction. “Maybe there was a gas leak?”
“At least they’re not trying to kill us. I’ll take it.”
“I don’t think killing is really a thing here,” Fuse said. He brought up his manual and did a search, scrolling through the text. “Not seeing anything here. Other than ... interesting. Players have no weapons on their own, but animals can be trained to attack.” Fuse’s eyes lit up, looking down at the rabbits, which had returned, obediently, to pad around his feet. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Not now. We need to find—”
That’s when Mitch heard the sound—an enthusiastic chorus of f-bombs mixed with a glorious patchwork of lower-octane profanity. The sound of a human voice caught his ear, but it was the echo that surprised him, rolling and tumbling over itself, fading with each beat.
He rounded the corner of the far house on the road, searching. The village was carved into a valley between two mountains—the one they had just hiked down, and a larger cliff built from dark, gray stone on the other side. At the base of that cliff was a giant hole—a tunnel cut into the black.
Grabbing a torch from the side of the farm, Mitch led the way towards the tunnel, Fuse close behind. As they entered, the game’s bright colors were replaced with a palette of grays and blacks, their torches allowing visibility to just a few feet in front and behind them, revealing only corners and edges of dull, dark rock.
A few hundred feet into the darkness, Mitch stopped in his tracks, hearing a fresh volley of curses. A speck of light appeared in the distance, growing brighter with each step. They pushed forward, carefully, until they finally found what they were looking for: a large underground chamber lit by a handful of torches thrown into each corner.
Dozer—or, at least, a blocky version of Dozer—was facing the wall at the far end, punching out the tunnel with her fists, two at a time. Her form was slight but the impact from her punches sent the world shaking. Light armor with a chainmail skirt. Short, cropped hair and a snarl that would turn anyone around in the other direction. The next unlucky block in her path puffed into a cloud of dust as she struck, disappearing into digital nothingness, never to be seen again. She stopped her destruction long enough to wipe her face with the flat edge of her stumpy arm.
“Took you long enough,” she shouted over her shoulder.
“Nice to see you, too,” Fuse said.
Dozer resumed her work, muttering. “Wasn’t talking to you.”
The fact that Mitch hadn’t been looking forward to this moment was a bit of an understatement. All the other Nefarious members had reached out to him after he’d left—at least a message saying one or two lines of something, anything. All except for Dozer. He’d always known her to be a bit of a powder keg—a personality trait that undoubtedly helped her release the epic swarms of violence she
was so well-known for. She operated in two modes: silence and rage. The silence could simmer and stew over months or years. The rage you got with a snap of her fingers. With Dozer, you always knew where you stood, and that’s why Mitch knew that he was currently standing at the center of GoFuckYourself, USA.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands,” Dozer said to Fuse and held up one of her stumps. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Mac sent me,” Mitch said. “To get you home.”
“Thank God, the cavalry,” Dozer said, unconvincingly. “When I heard the great Mitch Mantock was here, well, goddamn, I couldn’t believe my shit luck had just grown worse.”
“When you heard he was here?” Fuse asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, sweetie,” Dozer said, extending her stump to the unlit corner of the chamber. “We’ve been tracking your slow ass movement for the past hour. I didn’t come stag to this rodeo.”
Raising his torch, Mitch could see a figure emerging from the blocky darkness. Before he could make out any details, he heard a voice. A new voice. A voice so pure, so perfect, Mitch instantly despised it with his entire core.
“Well, glory be,” the deep, masculine voice boomed, seething with cool confidence. “If it isn’t the great Spitfire. My friend—I’ve been waiting for this day for a very, very long time.”
NINETEEN
Let’s Not Kick the Sheep
THE FIRST THING Mitch saw on the stranger’s face was that smile—that impossible, gleaming white set of teeth painted across a blocky head. As the man approached, Mitch could make out shirtsleeves rolled up over bulging, chunky forearms. His hair? Perfect. No bother that the game had turned his legs into two sticks—he still glided with confidence.
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