Side Quest

by Christopher Kerns

  “Mitch,” Fuse stuttered, “I wanted to tell you. I should have told you. I told Mac the probability of you understanding were actually quite high. But Mac asked me not to—”

  “Don’t go all math team on me,” Mitch said, looking Fuse straight in the eye. “You screwed me over. You were my best friend on this goddamned team. This isn’t what friends do.” Fuse raised a hand to object, but Mitch cut him off. “Don’t bother. None of this changes the fact that we’re still stuck here. The old man’s right, time to get on with it. Somebody pick a direction. Let’s go.”

  After an awkward pause that seemed to last for weeks, Dozer was the first to break the silence. “Fine, I say that way,” she said, gesturing at a majestic canyon looming over palm trees and shaded water. “Seems like something important—at least some place to kill something, get some loot.”

  “The island is closer,” Fuse countered. He nodded out to the water, where a large, kidney-shaped mound rose from the depths with a mountain at the center, surrounded by palm trees and dunes. “We need to maximize our clock burn. It’s out there all by itself—from that vantage point, we could see everyone and everything for miles.”

  “What should we do, Mitch?” Dozer asked.

  Mitch squatted down and picked up a handful of sand, watching the digital grains flow through his fingers. He couldn’t care less where the team headed, he was still coming to grips with what he’d just learned—about Mac and Fuse, about Red Code. They’d built a perfect soldier and lost control, and then all that soldier did was drag Mitch around like a ragdoll with the rest of the world watching. Drove him away from a game that he loved.

  “Can we flip a coin?” Fuse asked. “That way, no one gets offended if—”

  “Flip a coin?” Dozer laughed. “Oh man, now that’s the leadership I was looking for. Abraham-fucking-Lincoln over here.”

  “I just want to get moving,” Fuse said. “It makes no sense to stand around doing nothing. If Red Code is here, he’ll surely know where we enter the game and come looking for us right in this spot. Plus, I’m not hearing any big ideas from you.”

  Mitch let the two fight it out, not even listening. Just stewing, seething. He’d spent the past few years convincing himself that he was in control of his life, finally. That slipping out of the spotlight was the right move. That it was his decision. But after facing Red Code again, the truth was beginning to sneak out, and the truth was that he hated his trailer. He hated every tour group and every brat whining about not being the best player in a game they didn’t even begin to understand. He hated every under-the-table credit transaction, hated every ounce of debt weighing him down. He’d convinced himself that he was a rebel—that he was beating the system, carving out a space in Skirmish that no one else had thought of. But in reality, he was an afterthought, a cockroach scurrying across the back alleys of a game made of ones and zeros. And it was finally time to do something about it.

  “I don’t know what the hell to do,” Dozer said, plopping her ass down on the dune next to Mitch. “I just want to get back. I want to shoot things, you know? Kill things. I want them to bleed. You have no idea how many practice rounds I’m going to do when I get back.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been daydreaming about it,” Fuse said. “Blocks of C4, lined up just so. Frag grenades. The perfect timing you could almost set your watch to.”

  “The feel of the trigger,” Dozer added, a smile breaking across her face. “When the Hedgehog rifle recoils right back into your shoulder. The muzzle growing warm. It’s like holding a puppy for the first time.” She stood, shaking the sand off and pointing out to the island. “All right, bitches. Whoever is here, they’re not exactly just going to walk up and say hi. I say we head for the—”

  A mechanical whine, accompanied with the gush of flowing water, sounded off behind her. A silver and gray figure rose, bubbling up from the depths, red lights glowing through the water. Mitch could feel the pounding of the creature’s first footsteps, rippling the water with each stride, vibrating through the bedrock.

  “It’s Red Code,” Dozer yelled, scrambling back behind the dune, grabbing a fistful of Mitch’s collar to bring him along to safety. “He’s back!”

  “That was fast,” Fuse said, hitting the deck and taking refuge behind the same dune.

  The figure emerged from the depths, a thick, forty-foot tall mechanical elephant-like creature, all four legs saddled with the outlines of heavy weaponry—rockets, machine guns, laser sights. It was thick in the midsection, right where it counted, with red-tinted panels stenciled with Japanese writing on every flat surface. The beast’s gears twirled and pistons pushed with each waterlogged step.

  Dozer and Fuse scrambled for anything they could hold to defend themselves—Dozer settling for a large stick of driftwood, Fuse on a handful of coral rocks. Mitch just sat up in the sand, his eyes locked on the machine.

  “This must be Red Code’s form in this world,” Fuse yelled. “We’ve got no mathematical chance to defeat weaponry of that magnitude.”

  With a whirl and an electronic pop, the beast’s torso sprang open, splitting in two and hinging outwards like a pair of double doors in an old saloon. Inside, dangling halfway out of a padded chair, surrounded by lights, control levers, and screens was a familiar face.

  “Hola, amigos,” Punch said, flipping a collection of switches with a few fingers and even a stray elbow as the robot powered down, kneeling down on its front legs. He jumped from the seat, splashing down into the water with his arms open, ready for hugs.

  “Which one of you nerds brought the tequila?”

  THE SKIRMISH MANUAL:

  A TEAM-BASED APPROACH

  Roles and Responsibilities

  * Demolitions * Bulldozer * Rover * Sniper * Leader *

  ROVER

  Responsibilities: Every team needs a wildcard, and the Rover is exactly that. Ready to go at a moment’s notice, filling in wherever they’re needed. That means Rovers should know as many weapons, tactics, and skills as possible—and keep their options open. Because Rovers find themselves placed into the stickiest situations possible, they should also have an extremely high tolerance for working their way out of any situation, any time.

  If you have a crazy son-of-a-bitch on your team, make them your Rover. You can thank me later.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Some Serious Punch Time

  A DAY in the life of 33PunchDrunk33—the man Nefarious and the rest of the world simply knew as Punch—would be a hell of a story on its own. No one debated the fact that Punch had always been Nefarious’s megastar, packing a Rolodex filled with names that spanned from top tech moguls to the Pope to the newest pop stars from every corner of the world. It was rumored that Punch had houses up and down each coast, as well as a few in the middle just for tax purposes, thanks to his own top-ranked reality gaming livestream channel and a pile of corporate sponsors that couldn’t wait for the next batshit-crazy thing to spill out of his mouth.

  Every team needed a show pony, and Punch brought enough attention along with him to do the job ten teams over, and on good days, all the way up to a baker’s dozen.

  “Hey, stranger,” Punch cackled at Mitch, splashing his way through the shallow water. He gave him a giant virtual reality hug and held on tight while speaking into his ear. “A sight for sore retinas, man—that’s what you are. The world of Karma works in mysterious ways, you know? It pulled us apart, and now it’s bringing us back together—and you know what, man? It’s a gift. Brought you out of nowhere and plopped you right down here, right at my doorstep.” He released Mitch, flinging his arms out to the sides and shouting up to the gulls hovering overhead. “This day is a gift!”

  Dozer and Fuse offered up quick fist bumps to their teammate, but quickly shifted their attention to inspecting the robot standing obediently by.

  “Just a job, man,” Mitch said. “But always good to see you. I mean, I see your face all over the place these days—hard to avoid you. You been good?”


  “Same as always,” Punch said. “Meaning: freaking ah-may-zing. Being stranded out here in this NeverRise game, it’s been like an awakening. Just surf and loot and shit to shoot. Just free space, man, time to let the brain roam and churn and spin. Defragging the old hard drive. No lattice to conform to, just some serious Punch time. Whole experience has been dope, one hundred percentage of do-ho-ho-ope.”

  Past Punch’s shoulder, Mitch could see Dozer had climbed up in the robot’s captain’s chair. She was flicking switches and inspecting readouts, smiling like a kid in a candy store. Fuse watched from below, shielding his eyes from the sun, with the look of a watchful parent. “You’ve got to check this out, you guys,” Dozer yelled down, her eyes growing drunk with power. “Look at all these guns ... there are so many guns.”

  Mitch shook off the invitation. “Big rig you got there,” he said to Punch. “Know where can we find a few more?”

  “The Annihilator? More over there,” Punch said, pointing to the valley. “You get one here on the beach when you start the game up—or, at least I did—but there’s a whole armory full of ‘em at the complex. Tons of these things, plus more stuff to shoot at.”

  “We’re going to need to level up to get out of here,” Mitch explained. “Any luck in that department?”

  “Levels?” Punch laughed. “Nah, man … haven’t been in level mode, if you catch my drift. Been spending my time meditating and picking off little T-Rexes every chance I get. There’s one over there.” He pointed over to the next dune where Mitch could see a trio of heads stick out from behind the grass, darting their eyes back and forth, keeping an eye on the new visitors. The creatures’ heads were colored with smeared oranges and blues, carved from thin shapes, flattened and curved like a penny on a railroad track. One of the three giant lizards had braved its way up half the dune, sniffing the air.

  “They just kind of stand there and stare at you,” Punch said. “Dumb as rocks, but great for target practice.”

  “But if you wanted to level up?”

  “Sure, there’s a campaign level, haven’t tried it. The instructions start up when you jump in the cockpit—you need to retrieve some sort of beacon or something for the first round. But you know me, brother, I don’t play games by their rules. I forge my own path. Levels are for sheep.” He let out a loud, obnoxious bleat, kicking his imaginary hooves at the sand.

  Mitch checked the game clock. About twenty-eight hours and counting. Just my luck—I found the best Skirmish team in history, stranded in a collection of brand new games, and none of them have leveled up. Run the odds on that. He spun on his heels as a mechanical whirlwind of fury churned behind his left ear. He jumped back to watch Dozer pulling at the robot’s levers, guiding the machine through the water, leaving the canopy wide open for all to see. Turning towards the dune shielding the three lizards, she fired a few hundred rounds from the heavy machine gun into the sand, the grass, the water, the air. Clouds of blood exploded with a pop, pop, pop.

  “Who ordered the lizard soup?” Dozer yelled, bringing the guns to a stop to get a better look at her work, the smoke billowing off the barrels. “Help yourselves—if there’s anything left.”

  “She’s got the fever now,” Punch pointed up at her with a snap of his fingers. “She’s got the taste. That’s the groove I’m talking about.”

  “I’m back, bitches!” Dozer screamed, letting loose with both machine guns, filling the air with gunpowder and shell casings. She took out a line of palm trees like she was mowing summertime grass. Sawdust, splinters, and sand flew everywhere.

  “Dozer’s back in town!” Punch yelled. “God damn!”

  Fuse ran for cover as the gunfire continued. Dozer paid him no attention, stomping her new toy down the coastline, pulverizing anything in sight. Like an artist of destruction locked in her studio, hard at work on her latest masterpiece. After a few more runs, she walked the massive machine back to the group, pausing with pride to admire her work.

  “What a nutcase,” Mitch muttered under his breath.

  “No, man, that’s where you’re wrong,” Punch corrected him. “That—that—is what it’s all about, man. Finding your place. Finding it and letting go.” He put a hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “We need to get you there, Mitch. You’ve always been the dude in charge. The leader with the plan. And I appreciate you, man. For everything. But the weight takes a toll—drags you down. You know that. You need to let go. I mean, look at you. You look terrible.”

  Mitch walked to the machine and stared at his reflection off of the closest flat surface, his face contorting back in a patch of polished aluminum. He’d looked better, that was for sure. He walked around the four-legged tank and admired its heft—the heavy ropes of ammunition feeding a seemingly endless supply of destruction, the rockets, red-tipped and ready to fire. Thick layers of armor. Radar and electronic shields and God-knows-what-else. He’d never seen power like this before—there wasn’t anything like it in the Skirmish world. It was a ball of heavily-armored potential energy, ready to explode at the hands of its master.

  Just think what you could do with this thing.

  Just think how things could have been different.

  “Go on, cowboy,” Punch said with a nudge of Mitch’s shoulder. “Shake hands with Mr. Destruction here. I think you two might just hit it off. Es bueno.”

  “Mitch isn’t interested in guns or blowing things up anymore,” Dozer yelled down, jumping from the cockpit, sucking in a deep breath of fresh gunpowder like a fine wine. “He’s all serious now, all about the mission. Can’t get it up for battle like he used to. He’s going to tell you that we’re behind schedule. That we need to keep moving, isn’t that right, Mitch?”

  “What’s the rush?” Punch asked.

  “Our brains,” Fuse said, tapping his head. “If we don’t get moving, we’re in trouble.”

  “Oh, right, the real world,” Punch said. “Time, man. Time is a bitch. I mean, it’s just a man-made construct that binds us all into an artificial map, but still, I get it—the real world beckons, and we must answer the call. Got to say, spent a week straight in the real world last year as part of a reality show. Didn’t care for it. It was weird—no status screens, hardly any guns. I always had to poop right after I ate, is that normal?”

  As Punch continued, Mitch drifted off, gazing up at the machine, the gears in his mind turning. Wondering if it all could have been different.

  The Red Battle had come and gone like a flash, but for some reason, it was all Mitch could remember. He wondered why that was always the way—how he could have years and years of good times, but only remember the one thing, that one hangnail that wouldn’t go away, that kept him awake at night, never letting him forget that it was there. Mitch’s hangnail was still raw. It still stung, still bit at him every morning. Ever since that day, that goddamned day, he’d never done anything about it. And now, with a team and heavy weaponry and Red Code all in the same place, he finally had a chance to fix things. To take charge. To change his story.

  Punch leaned into Mitch’s personal space, pointing up at the machine. “I don’t know much, Spitfire, but I’ve learned this: games ain’t about leveling up, man. We’re here to grow. Like little baby chicks taking their first step out of the nest. Our creepy little wings all shaking and jangled up as we take jerky little bird steps out on the branch.”

  “I get the metaphor,” Mitch said.

  “Do you?” Punch asked. “Do you, Mitch? ‘Cause you can write me off, call me nuts, doesn’t bother me one bit. Shit just bounces right off. But you can’t deny one thing about me: I found my crazy. Found it years ago, held on to it and never let go. And guess what? It fits me like a glove. If you want to level up, maybe it’s time to find yours.”

  Mitch stared up at the cockpit. Maybe Punch had a point. Mitch had been running away from Red Code for years, hiding from the spotlight, hiding in a trailer on the California coast where he couldn’t be found. Maybe it was time to take the battle back to him.
r />   Maybe it was time to find his crazy.

  “I’m talking level up, like in life,” Punch added. “Not just with game mechanics or—”

  “I get it,” Mitch said, making his way towards the cockpit. He gazed up, soaking in its unmovable weight, its unthinkable power. “Let’s go find my crazy.”

  “Hell, yes.” Punch wiped traces of drool from the sides of his mouth, revealing a wide-eyed smile. “All aboard, captain.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Scratch the Itch

  THE COLD STEEL of the control stick felt cool down the center seam of Mitch’s palm. He gripped it tight, pushing back into the cockpit’s leather cradle, both legs extended, like bracing for a fall. The robot’s controls were easy enough, one stick for direction, the other for speed, but getting the feel of the Annihilator was taking Mitch some time. And time wasn’t something he had a lot of.

  He stomped his way down the beach, flinching with every heavy step, turning the robot left and right to test its movement. He picked out a few objects—a tree, a rock, a dune—to get the feel of the targeting system. Learning how it engaged and disengaged, all while trying not stomp all over his old team.

  “How’s she feeling?” Fuse’s voice crackled over the comm.

  “Feels fine,” Mitch said. “But I’ve had enough of just walking around. Let’s get to the part where I shoot things.”

  “The average human requires twelve minutes, on average, to fully understand the essential elements of a new VR gaming environment,” Fuse explained. “Mechanics, interface, game rules. It would be wise to give you—”

  “Shut up, Fuse,” Mitch said through his mic. “Show me the guns.”