“SRT?” Rocket asks.
“Special Response Team.”
“To recap,” Frances says, and it’s a damn good thing she’s recapping because I’ve lost interest in what Joel has been saying, “Akrasia is a former prison complex located in the Marauder city of Morlock. Akrasia has its own prisoners, even though most people are already prisoners. The prisoners of Akrasia are known as the Chain Gang. The most dangerous area of Akrasia is known as Tent City, where Steam Breeds live, and even though it has open entry, no one goes there. There are no laws in Akrasia, but the Special Response Team polices the Chain Gang.”
“Why tents?” I ask. “I get all the other stuff – typical Ray Steampunk full-immersion bs – but why are the biggest, baddest, nastiest most cyborgiest hombres on the block living in tents?”
“Because they kept destroying the housing units.”
“So the rest of the people, prisoner and, um, double-prisoner, alike live in houses.”
Joel shoots me a funny look. “They aren’t animals, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. Everyone keeps hyping Akrasia up when really, I’m about as scared of a bunch of beefed up nogoodniks as I am a trio of yawning kittens that just woke up from a nap.”
Joel nods. “To be clear: housing units are bought and sold, like any commodity. Some have been turned into motels too. AirBnB is also popular in the parts of Akrasia closest to Wall Titan.”
“Yet the Steam Breeds live in tents. You’d think the biggest, baddest dudes on the block would be running the housing market.”
“Steam Breeds don’t think the same way as you and I, and there’s a reason they haven’t been decommissioned entirely. Steam Breeds are the Marauder's last resort. They will use them against Steampunk and his forces when the time is right, which is another reason we must destroy the city of Morlock. But there’s another reason why the Marauders keep the Steam Breeds. They give them leverage against the Boilerplate Army.” He grins. “All this to say, what better way to unleash chaos into the city than to let all the prisoners, the Chain Gangers, and the Steam Breeds out to destroy the city?”
“Something just seems off about all this,” I tell the group. “Ray Steampunk – and yes, if you’re listening then you should really think about what I’m about to say – is the NVA Seed. If he wanted to destroy Morlock, he’d do it. Come to think of it … ” I stop and wait for the group to turn to me. “Our mission isn’t to destroy a city or a wall or battle a bunch of Steam cyborgs. Our mission is to obtain Sky Iron and hopefully, sniff out some Reapers and hit them with our hacks.”
Joel laughs. “Do you have selective memory or something? The only way to get the Sky Iron is to use the last Rogue Steam Mech, which only I can operate. The only way to get me to operate it is to help me destroy the walls.”
I don’t say anything for the next fifteen minutes or so as we make our way to the entrance. Something about this whole operation is rubbing me the wrong way and I get the feeling, that for the umpteenth time, Ray Steampunk is making our life difficult when he could simply hypnotize Joel, fix the rust, and get us the Sky Iron without having to bring down the three walls of Akrasia.
Methinks we’re being played.
~*~
A gramophone above the entrance to Wall Maria sounds out:
~~Those entering from the Lost Pines, unequip any weapons you may be carrying and prepare to have your photo taken.~~
~~Those entering from the Lost Pines, unequip any weapons you may be carrying and prepare to have your photo taken.~~
We get in a line behind a motley group of steampunked visitors, the repeat offenders, I mean, visitors, outfitted in striped prison gear and the others staring at them jealously, ready to drop a pretty shilling on some touristy shit the moment they get through the gate.
A particular couple catches my eye, mainly because the mother has her corset pulled so tightly that it looks as if she’s going to burst, that or lift into the air like an air balloon. Her hubby, a Ulysses S. Grant cosplayer with not one, but two, pocket watches, a monocle, and a corncob pipe sticking out of his mouth catches me giving his wife the double-take, and very nonchalantly opens his jacket to show me his concealed revolver.
~~Those entering from the Lost Pines, unequip any weapons you may be carrying and prepare to have your photo taken.~~
I know the announcement just said to put our weapons up, but we have a moment and in that moment, I equip the Uberti Cattleman Revolver, item 590, which I won in a crooked game of Russian Roulette in Devil’s Alley.
He nods, impressed, and returns his attention to his kiddos.
“What are you doing?” Frances asks as she sees me twirl the revolver around my finger.
Now that I got her attention, and since we have to wait in the line, I mosey up next to her so we can communicate without the others hearing us. “I’ve got my eye on Joel,” I whisper to her, “just so we’re clear. I just got a bad feeling about all this.”
“Let’s just see how it plays out. We need the Sky Iron, well,” she turns to me and her eyes practically burn a hole through me. “You need the Sky Iron. We’re doing this for you.”
“Reapers too, we’ll squash them. Which reminds me, we need to find out what they’re doing here in Akrasia in the first place.”
“Good call,” she says, “ask Joel once we’re inside.”
The line moves slowly and eventually, we get to the checkpoint. A recently polished Mondoshawan in a crisp SRT uniform holds an automatic rifle across his chest. Next to him, in similar garb, is another Special Response Team officer, this one with a pair of Leaks over his eyes. He scans each visitor and once he clears them, they’re allowed to enter through a large arch cut into Wall Maria. Even before entry, I see the words painted on the face of a building inside: NO MAN’S LAND.
Me: Stay frosty.
Rocket: I’m feeling toasty, myself.
I look over my shoulder at the kid and he shoots me the thumbs up.
“Hold still,” the big-boned SRT Mondoshawan officer scans me. He raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You know what.”
I return the Uberti Cattleman Revolver to my list.
“Stay still.”
A Special Response Team officer under a large black covering attached to a wooden box camera squeezes the trigger and immortalizes Mrs. Hughes’ Numero Uno Achiever. The SRT officer with head gear grunts, “I said stay still. You’re moving around too much.” He signals for the photographer to try again.
“I got nothin’,” I tell him, “nothin’.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, pal.”
“I’m not your pal, pal.”
He glances to his compadre just in time for Frances to elbow me in the gut. “I apologize for him.”
“No problem,” says the SRT officer through his voice box. “We know exactly how to deal with riffraff like this.”
Frances pushes me forward before I can respond and I take my place in a line passing under the archway.
At least this line is moving.
It takes all of fifteen seconds to enter Akrasia proper, where I’m greeted with what one would expect from a prison city. Guys and gals big and small mill about mean-dogging and mad-mugging as they go about their lives. The clothing varies, but the fact that there are prison uniform shops near the entrance tells me that wearing something other than orange or duds with black and white stripes is a fashion faux paus.
I got no problem re-togging, and I already have an Alcatraz prison uniform in my list, item 156, which appears on me faster than a snide remark. The numbers 8675 are plastered across the back.
“Not bad, Q Knights,” Rocket comments, “but you look more like you’re auditioning for the remake of Brokeback Mountain than wearing a prison uniform.”
“Dammit, Rocket, the Alcatraz prison uniform consisted of blue jeans, a work shirt, and a blue jean jacket.”
Aiden clears his throat. “Pretty sure that’s called a Canadian tuxedo.”
Rocket looks to Frances. “Can I use some guild funding to get properly accoutered? Did I say that right?”
“You’re learning,” I tell him, “and of course you can. That’s about the only perk of being on the Dream Team – playing dress-up professionally.”
“He didn’t ask you,” Frances says, “he asked me. But yes, yes, you can, and Doc and I will join you.”
“What about Aiden?”
Morning Assassin snaps his finger and a matching Alcatraz uniform appears with the numbers 309 on the back. “We’re matchers,” he tells Rocket as he takes a place next to me.
“We need to get to one of the contraband shops,” says Joel, “and you’re tourists, you don’t need to buy prison uniforms.”
“But we can, right?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Sure, go ahead.”
~*~
“It’s this way,” says Joel, as we move along the perimeter of the wall towards a contraband shop. Aiden and Rocket have gone with the classic, horizontally striped black and white Jailhouse Rock prison outfits while Frances has busted out the Orange is the New Black look, classing it down a bit by tying off the tips of her bright orange top at the waist.
Rather than wear the obligatory orange slacks, she’s gone with orange yoga pants, practically poured on, which is another thing I’ve noticed about Akrasia – haute couture is all the rage. Hell, even Doc has jumped on the bandwagon with his supermax dark red prison uniform with the numbers 8008 written on his sleeve.
I hear some Jody calls and Joel stops us, waiting for the Chain Gang to pass.
“I don’t know what you’ve been told!”
“I don’t know what you’ve been told.”
“Time is bought and time is sold.”
“Time is bought and time is sold.”
“I’ll do mine and when I’m out.”
“I’ll do mine and when I’m out.”
“I’ll be back without a doubt.”
“I’ll be back without a doubt.”
The group of big guys and a few equally plus-sized gals pass, their ankles secured to a shared chain as they pick up trash on the streets.
“It’s this one.” We follow Joel into a one-story shanty shop about thirty-feet-long. “It’s you!” I say as soon as I see the weapons dealer, Steampunk Santa, the same guy who first sold me a Slice Bang in Locus. He’s in a pair of oval glasses that make his eyes large and circular and he wears his trademark red frock. A leather vest barely covers his gut and pinned to his lapel is a single peacock feather. I hear the cluck of a chicken and see that he’s brought his cat – named Chicken – with him. He looks up at me and smiles.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite not-Marauder!” says he.
“You never told me your name,” I say.
“And with good reason, young sir.”
“I always called you Steampunk Santa in my head.”
He runs his hand through his Billy Gibbons beard. “What do you call me when you’re not in your head?”
“Huh?”
“Let it pass, let it pass. The name is Leeroy Jenkins, but Steampunk Santa is fine. Now, how may I serve you on this fine Akrasian afternoon?”
“I thought you didn’t sell to Marauders,” I joke. “What about Ray’s golden boys?” I point to the indicator above my head and nod to Frances. “And girl?”
“Have you learned nothing, nothing, from our last encounter?” He sighs, stands and walks to the backroom. “Follow me.”
I keep my trap shut as I follow Steampunk Santa – never got a name – into the backroom. “Chacho, wakey wakey, hands off snakey!” he barks at a man sitting on a sealed crate and resting his back against the wall. Chacho also has a beard, although his is less Santa and more Mad Max as it’s tied off with two red bands, which match the bandana tied around his noggin. Aside from the steampunk Cap’n Jack Sparrow look on top, the rest of him is world-appropriate, from his pinned cravat to his too-small vest to the tight screamo singer black jeans tucked into shin-high buckle-laden boots.
A measuring tape appears in Chacho’s hands.
“You first,” he tells the Faun of Unlimited Ammo. Doc steps up, scuttles around just to give everyone a good look at his tail, and allows Chacho to measure him. “A little bigger around the waist than I thought,” Chacho mumbles.
“That’s armor,” Doc tells him. “Armor.”
“Yeah, sure it is. Okay, done, you next.” He rattles his measuring tape at Rocket. The Dream Team’s Boy Wonder steps up and puffs his chest out a bit.
“What the hell are you doing?” Chacho asks.
“We’re getting armor, right? I want mine to accentuate my muscles.”
“What are we doing here exactly?” I ask Steampunk Santa, who stands near the door conversing in quiet tones with Joel.
“Ah, questions, questions, questions. As this isn’t a need-to-know basis, I’ll simply tell you point blank. You need Steamsuits and I have four. We are measuring you to see if we need to make any adjustments for the cabin.”
“Steamsuits?”
“Based off the Andromeda exoskeleton suits we use up there,” Doc says.
I suddenly recall the Steamsuit that was hanging in Steampunk Santa’s secret underground weapons lair. “We’re getting those things? Badass!”
“Yes, the four of you would be deader than the place Death goes to die if you tried to go into Tent City without some heavy firepower. Even with the favorable stat boosts from the man, the myth, the legend himself and your braggadocious inventory lists … ” He smiles at us and the ends of his mustache lift, “ … you’d still be dead.”
“Got it,” Doc says.
“So to level the playing field, as it were, each of you is getting a custom Steamsuit EXO 76, which you may recall – and if you do, I must commend you for your memory – I showed the two of you,” he points at Frances and Yours Truly, “when you visited my humble weapons shop back in Locus. Having some proper mech will make you formidable in the eyes of the Steam Breeds, and they may not simply crush you upon contact.”
“I thought you only had one of those,” I say, recalling the piece that hung from the ceiling of his underground lair.
“I now have four, the only four.”
“How’d you manage that?”
He furrows his brow. “You and your questions. If you must know, a young woman named Cyn Oneida aka Sam Raid managed to secure the other three, well four, as mine was stolen. But that’s a story for another day.”
“So candid all of a sudden!”
Steampunk Santa scoffs. “It’s not like you’ll remember her name two seconds from now.”
“Who’s name?” I ask with a sly grin.
“Enough asshattery.” He claps his hands. “Time for measurements!”
Frances steps forward to get her measurements taken.
Curiously, Chacho spends more time measuring her bust than is necessary, and I watch him do it, the damn perv I am. I don’t know what has come over me, but suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I see Euphoria naked in all her magnificent glory. Damn if we didn’t have some fun together and damn if those times aren’t looking like they are going to be cherished fapping memories from here on out. Euphoria ain’t budging, and I’m pretty sure Mrs. Hughes’ Most Successful Creation won’t be changing that anytime soon.
“Your turn, tough guy,” says Chacho.
I step up and Chacho gets to measuring as Steampunk Santa details the Steamsuit capabilities to Doc, who has taken quite the interest as apparently he has used an Andromeda model in the real world.
Of course he has.
A bell in the other room rings and Steampunk Santa excuses himself. I look to Joel, who has taken to examining some of the crates at the back of the room.
So that’s the kablooey.
And it’s then that I realize the back wall of the room is actually Wall Maria. The contraband shop has been built next to the wall, using the wall as its own back wall. Joel reaches out knocks his hand on the
wall.
What’s he’s thinking is anyone’s guess, but my guess is that it involves bringing the wall down and possibly getting up inside Bjurstrom and taking a little nappy. I don’t quite see the relationship here, seems like Joel is simply an extension of the downed rogue steam mech, but that’s just me.
Steampunk Santa steps back in the room. “Ahem, gather around young boy scouts and girl scouts.” he lowers his voice. “Reapers have appeared in another quarter of the city and they’re going door to door looking for you.”
~*~
No time to sit around and chew the fat. The three, if I dare say, bestest members of the Team of Dreams have made it to the streets faster than upchucked poisoned muffle Trumplings after a night of lukewarm WalMacy’s sake.
Three’s company and five’s a crowd – Joel thought it would be better if we divide up, just in case the Reapers are able to cut through us. I would have taken offense to Joey even making that assumption, but I was so geared up to get out and get to ass-stomping that I kept my trap shut. Besides, it’d be best to lure the Reapers away from the contraband shop.
Aiden flashdances away.
He’s back in a jiffy with a wolfish grin on his face. “Four Reapers, half a klick east on a block lined with bail bond shops.”
It’s then that I notice the thickness of the crowd all around us. The family I saw from earlier is here too, their kids decked out in steampunk souvenirs and prison uniforms. I don’t know how this place became both a DisNike vacation destination and a spot for hardened criminals, but reason and Proxima worlds never were bedfellows.
There’s gonna be some collateral damage.
“How do we want to go about doing this?” I ask.
Doc thinks for a moment. “Four of them, three of us, that’s pretty good odds if you ask me, especially considering the fact that normally it’s about twenty Reapers to one Dream Team member, which begs the question, why do they suck so badly? They’re like the 2008 Detroit Lions or something.” His MSIWI appears in his hand. “Let’s find them and fill ‘em full of holes.”
“Now we’re talking, Doc!”
Proxima Riven: Page 8