Ray Steampunk floats above us, his hands clasped behind his back as he watches his mining exhibition, the big show-off. At least he has finally decided to cut the crap and help us.
Frances Euphoria: Oooo pretty!
A rust-colored strand of liquid metal appears in the air above the burrowing steam mech. It twists up the cliff side, coils in midair, and forms itself around a spool.
“It’s like copper?” I ask.
Steampunk doesn’t answer. More veins of orange-brown metal lift into the air. They harden and coil once it reaches Ray Steampunk.
“How much do we need?” I ask.
“As much as we can get,” Doc says, a cancer stick hanging out of his mouth. The 100% Red, White, and Blue Faun of War and Steam in that order ashes his cigarette. Aiden asks for a bump and Doc hands it to him. Morning Assassin coughs, exhales a plume of smoke, and gives the cigarette back to Doc.
“Never can get used to these things.”
Sophia launches into a dissertation of RPG metals and how they’re so valuable, and rare, and how just a few grams could pay for a home in Valhalla – I all but ignore her. Time’s a tickin’, and as much as I like seeing heavy machinery do what it does best, I’m feeling a bit antsy.
“This should be enough,” Steam’s biggest male diva says. “Definitely enough to forge a Reality Splitter.”
The spool of Sky Iron drops before me and I added it to my inventory list, item 591.
Doc does the wrap it up sign and a spawning point shaped like a target appears before him.
“A target?” I ask.
“What?” he asks. “It works, doesn’t it? Thanks for the help, Ray. We’ll be in touch.”
He nods. “I look forward to it.”
~*~
“We really need to hire a trio of trumpeters,” I say after our forms take shape in our Tritanian guildhall. “It would make our entrances oh-so-grand.”
Our Tritania crib has been spruced up yet again. The walls are now teal, and across the room is a single sofa in tufted Cascadia Blue velvet, seated before a coffee table made from red ivory. The long table has been replaced by a small gym featuring kettle bells, yoga mats, foam rollers, hand grip strengtheners, and small plastic dumbbells.
A mirror has been installed on the wall behind the barbell storage rack.
“Dammit, Sophia.” I say as soon as I take it all in.
“What are you dammiting me about?” she asks.
“You charging a membership fee for your little home gym?”
A toilet flushes and the door nearest to the home gym pops open. Scotty steps out in an exercise outfit that would make Richard Simmons squeal with delight. The Scottish Assassin in a blue wrestling singlet with a golden lightning bolt across the front. “Oi, Quantum.” he says as he returns to his kettle bell, showing me his thong.
Frances Euphoria: Ha!
“Don’t you do it, Scotty!”
He crouches, grabs the bell and stands. He then runs it through his legs, giving everyone an HD view of his dimpled ass peppered in red hairs and zits. “Are you lot goin’ ta sit there and watch me?” He focuses his bushy red eyebrows on us through his reflection in the mirror.
Sophia makes an icky face and turns away.
“You put this gym in?” I ask.
“Never mind,” Doc turns to the exit. “Let’s get to Chrono.”
“Of course I put the bloody gym in. All the lads are in lock up and I figured it was time to do something about me weight. Lost half a kilo already,” he says, nodding to the bathroom.
I shake my head and follow Doc and Sophia out. Aiden stays behind to spot Scotty while he tries for a bigger dumbbell.
Chrono, Zangief's younger Brazilian brother, steps out of his blacksmithery as soon as he spots us. He’s in thick black apron, a flannel shirt, jeans, and a pair of black steel-toed boots. “You have the metal?” he asks, his eyes thirsty to see it.
I equip item 591 and toss it over to him. It disappears from my inventory list.
“Don’t ... ” Sophia sighs. “Never mind.”
“Amazing,” Chrono says as he examines the Sky Iron. “It is a lot less dense than I imagined it would be.
“Let’s get to it.” I look over my shoulder to find the Fantasy Faun also in some blacksmith gear. “I’ll help.” Doc pops the visor of his welding helmet down and struts right in to Chrono’s blacksmith shop.
The big blacksmith follows and the two get to work.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask the sky. Since we are in a protected guild-space, it isn’t technically the sky of Tritania; rather, it is something almost OMIB-ish. Twinkle twinkle little star and whatnot.
“You can hang out with me,” Sophia says.
Frances Euphoria: Ha again!
“I’ll pass,” I tell our guild’s mind mage, who has, yet again, taken her favorite position in the sky a few feet above me. “Say, didn’t Scotty say the other Brits were in prison?”
Sophia nods. “I think so. It’s hard to tell with that accent of his.”
“Then let’s break them out of prison – that sounds like a great way to kill time.” I turn back to the guild. “Hey!” I call out. “Aiden!”
Frances Euphoria: There’s been enough prison breaks today. Sit down, shut up, and wait until Chrono and Doc are finished. If you’re bored, you can go inside and work out with Aiden and Scotty.
The image of Scotty in his thong runs across my digital mind’s eye.
Me: Pass.
Frances Euphoria: What about the sheep?
“Pippa? Well, Frances, that’s not a bad idea.” I mosey on over to Pippa’s pen and lean against the fence. “Come here, girl,” I say with my hand out. When that doesn’t work, I equip my bouquet of Kadupuls, item 166. I wave the flowers at the sheep. “What? You don’t like flowers?”
Meanwhile I hear the clink and clank of Chrono and Doc as they pound out the Reality Splitter. I really hope it doesn’t take them long to finish the weapon, and I especially hope that the weapon looks badass, something that I’d be proud to hold over my shoulder a la Paul Bunyan before I tear into the very fabric of the game-time continuum.
“You aren’t doing it right,” Sophia shows me her open palm. One of her halal non-gmo nonfat kosher certified fair-trade organic granola bars appears in her hand. Pippa doesn’t even look up from her grazing place.
I laugh. Nothing like a little equal opportunity sheep-snubbing to brighten the day.
~*~
Doc and Chrono rattle and clank for another thirty minutes or so. To kill the time, I equip my deck of Gambit playing cards, item 279, and start up a game of solitaire. Once I get bored with that, I equip my Tamagotchi, item 214. Damn, I never seem to make it from Babytchi to Marutchi.
I toss the plastic Tamagotchi egg over my shoulder and start playing the knife game with good ol’ item 33. I go with the most complex order I can possibly come up with. My hand spread wide on the ground, I stab the knife between my fingers, 4,2,3,1,4,3,1,2,4,1,4,2,1,3 …
I activate the AA and pick up the pace.
Frances Euphoria: You’re obnoxious, you know that?
“I’m just killing time. Dope!” I stab myself in the web between my thumb and pointer finger. Blood gushes out and my life bar flashes.
Doc is the first to step out of Chrono’s blacksmithery. He has a grin on his face as if he and Chrono have just discovered the Fountain of Free Beer. I throw my Bowie knife behind me and skip over there, bleeding hand and all.
“Knife game?” Doc asks when he sees the cut.
“It’s only a flesh wound,” I tell him. He frowns. “What? I was killing time. Where’s the Reality Splitter?”
Chrono steps out holding an ax to behold. It ain’t no rush job either. The Sky Iron and Chronoton have been forged and folded into a beautiful Damascus-pattern alloy. The ax is shaped like the SOG Tactical Tomahawk and features the two weight-and-metal saving holes bored through the head. The shaft is genuine unicorn ivory; the grip is wrapped in actua
l dragon skin and is capped in silver. It’d be the coolest cutlery you’ve ever laid your peepers on if it weren’t for the fact that it is about the size of a fondue fork.
Frances Euphoria: It’s so little and cute! It’s like a Lumberjill Barbie accessory.
I clear my throat and roll my eyes up at the sky. “I was expecting something a bit, um, more manly.”
“Pfft!” Doc shakes his head. “That’s what she said, bucko. What the hell were you expecting?”
“Something anime-sized,” I tell him. “But no worries, the size doesn’t matter as long as it does the job.”
“That’s also what she said.”
“Can I see it?”
“That’s also what … yeah, you can see it.”
Sophia snorts.
“Can I hold it then?”
He narrows his eyes and wrinkles his brow at me, scratches one of his faun horns and breathes loudly through his nose.
“Come on, Doc, don’t bust my balls here. I was just ribbing you.”
Doc nods, and Chrono hands the ax over in the most gentlemanly of fashions, arm bent at the elbow and the axe laid reverently across his forearm, grip first.
Hello item 591, my Reality Splitter.
“Now get to Cyber Noir,” Doc says. “Sophia and I will put our feelers out to see if this stuff works in Strata’s storage world. Once you’ve taken care of what you need to take care of there, don’t log out. Spawn here instead, and we’ll get to the storage world. In the meantime, Chrono and I will use what’s left of the metal to craft a Butter Knife Reality Splitter.”
I raise an eyebrow at Doc.
“What?” he asks. “We have to test it to make sure it’ll work!”
Chapter Seventeen
I spawn in the dive yurt alone. My Loop gear takes shape on my body – trench coat, black shirt, stompers – I kick open the door and step out.
Kill Dolly.
I shudder at the thought and the Loop bristles all around me.
Everything is ominous, stripped of its life force, suspicious, unforgiving. The trees in Three Kings Park lean towards me, waving their mangled limbs. The broken park benches swell and waver, the rabid dogs in the woods howl at the nonexistent moon.
Welcome home, Quantum, I swear they all say.
The rain picks up.
It bullets down from darkened sky, plinks against my clothing. I hate to do what I’m about to do, but I know it needs to be done. I walk towards park’s entrance, towards the trashcan fires surround by yeggs holding a séance.
The thunder rolls and the lightning strikes. I get the heebie-jeebies as I feel a pair of eyes on me.
“I know you can see me, Doll,” I mumble, “and I’m coming for you.”
One quick scroll through my list and my flare gun, item 24, takes shape in my hand. I scroll down and go with item 303, my Walther PPK/S. The gun goes in my hand and I stuff it in my trench coat.
I aim the flare gun up, squeeze the trigger, and watch the bright charge make its mark in the air.
I’m still not quite out of the woods, literally, but I know a taxi will be waiting when I get to the exit.
Something moves in the trees and growls. I ignore it as I move past, focused on bottling my emotions. Not long ago, Tritania’s NVA Seed forced me into a scenario in which I had to let Strata and Dolly kill each other while I stood by and did nothing. I thought it was a bunch of malarkey, but as it turns out …
A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, I think, as I see the taxi ahead. Even though it kills him to do so.
The crumb-bum of a driver rolls down the window. “Where to, pal?” he asks as I approach.
“Whew,” I wave his stench away. He smells like a locker room attached to the kitchen of an Indian restaurant. He belches long and loud, his lips flutter like Barney Gumble’s. “Out of the taxi, Buster.” I point the PPK/S at him.
“What’s the big idea, Daddy-O?” he asks in grit-for-breakfast Loop taxi-driver voice.
“We’re going to go over some hygiene strategies I tell him. Out, now.”
“All right all ready, no need to get bent out of shape,” he says as he steps out. “That taxi’s yours, mister.”
I cap him before he can grab his chain knife.
This one would have been a fighter, and I respect that, but now ain’t the time to pay my respects. I step over the cabbie’s body and hop into the driver’s seat. I hold my breath as I reach to the passenger’s seat and roll down the other window.
I need to get some speed fast, I think, just to air this shit rod out.
The engine huffs, wheezes, and cranks as the taxi wobbles away from the ground. Still holding my breath, I get the chariot in the air and take off towards the Mondegreen.
No time for a scenic tour neither.
I go straight there, avoiding the shenanigans and all the places I’d normally stop off for some giggle water with a side of cruel intentions.
I try to keep my mind blank, as cold rain sprays into the taxi. Dolly already knows I’m coming and she likely knows what I’m going to attempt to do. I’m surprised The Loop hasn’t turned against me. With all the other vehicles whipping in the air around me, surely one of them will try to turn a fender bender into first degree murder.
Hell, I’m tense just thinking about it. I got my eyes on the other drivers now like I’m a small town copper in a one stop sign town.
I stay clear of anything on any of the buildings that could fly off and bring my beater down. Gargoyles, water towers, shabby rooftop gardens, the couple smashing nasties too close to an open window – all are suspect.
But nothing happens. No attacks, not even the usual aggressive driver.
She’s the NVA Seed, I remind myself, and she knows you’re coming.
Damn the memories I have of Dolly. The Maltese Falcon playing on a television in the background, her tight red dress peeling down to reveal her mammiferous attributes, the way she looked at me, through me even.
I swallow those memories down. My decision has been made and that same damn decision is the reason my ass is trapped in the first place.
The Mondegreen looms into view. Fortress Dolly is the same as it was the last time I tried to blast it open – protected by a hardened shell, impenetrable from any of the weapons in my list.
Until now.
I goose it. She knows I’m coming, and if there’s one thing I’m good at doing, it’s making an entrance.
~*~
I equip item 300, my suicide bomber jacket. Instead of putting it on, I toss it into the passenger seat. On top of it I throw item 105, my Birkin bag full of frag grenades and on top of that, I gently roll my Bomberman replica bomb, item 385.
I put the pedal to the metal for just a moment longer, activate my AA bar and bail like a paratrooper over Normandy.
The resulting explosion throws me back even with my AA bar keeping me in a slow-mo semi-floating state. I land on a rooftop, lose my balance, and faceplant hard.
My life bar takes a dip, but it ain’t nothing.
I sprint to the edge of the roof and my Reality Splitter, item 591, pixilates together in my hand. I look at the bloom of fire and smoke at the front of the hotel, take a deep breath to settle my nerves, and leap off the rooftop.
I turn up the AA a few feet away from the pavement.
I land softly; the fire I’ve caused is already partially burnt out. The explosion did nothing to The Great Wall of Dolly, and I didn’t expect it to.
I still need to test the ax. A quick look right and I see a hooptie parked on the side of the road. Parked is an understatement; its wheels have been stolen and it now rests on cinder blocks. I stroll over to the beater, bring the little ax back, and strike the trunk.
A slice in the game time continuum follows the bit of my blade. It makes no sound as it cuts through the trunk of the vehicle, a hot knife through butter.
“Whoa.”
The gash remains in the air. On the other side is the OMIB, all twinkly and star-filled.
I take a step back from hooptie and admire the ax. The thought of what I’m about to do returns to me and I quickly lose my enthusiasm.
“It’s gotta be done,” I tell myself.
The exoskeleton surrounding the hotel bubbles and tendrils lift off as I approach.
“Bring it, Dolly,” I say bitterly.
The first tendril flies at me and I cut it down with the Reality Splitter. It’s like using a hot sharp blade to cut the leaf of an aloe vera plant or something.
I keep swiping and Dolly’s Witchblades keep falling. The tendrils shrivel and smoke as they hit the ground, emitting an orange steam and hissing loudly.
“Sorry, Doll.” I mutter as I knock an incoming Witchblade out of the air.
Two more come at me and one of the two tries to circle around back to give me the Alien treatment. AA bar goosed, I cut the first, spin around, cut the next.
Dolly tries to get creative and I match her creative with the sheer destructive power of the Reality Splitter. Tears appear at the corner of my eyes and I let them fall.
I hate doing this.
“I’m sorry, Doll,” I say again. “So damn sorry.”
Suddenly the barbed tendrils stop flying at me. They retract back to the building and mold into its surface. The exoskeleton over the entrances peels open in the way that resembles a cheesy nacho being lifted from the stack.
The door opens and I stop dead in my tracks.
“Quantum?” It’s Picasso, the kid that helped me get out of The Loop the first time.
~*~
“I know it’s you, Doll.” It’s not often that I turn on the waterworks like this. I wipe a few tears away and a few more after that. A deep breath in doesn’t seem to help any.
Picasso shrugs and turns away from me. “Are you coming?” he asks.
It may be a trap.
I hate to think that way, but the possibility is there. I stay frosty as I make my way to the entrance of the hotel, my Witcher senses at code red. If a dust mite so much as sniffs they’re getting a bullet between the eyes. I step into the lobby and …
Proxima Riven: Page 19