The Feedback Loop (3-Book Box Set): (Scifi LitRPG Series)

by Harmon Cooper

  “No fighting? What a swizz!” An accusatory finger points my way. “Fighting not good enough for ‘Is Lordship, then? ‘Is ‘igh-and-Mightyness thinks ‘e’s too good to ‘ave a go at us does ‘e?”

  “Bollocks! I could ‘ave ‘ad another cuppa with me egg, bacon, sausage and Spam, me old China!” complains yet another.

  “Piss off!”

  “Barfly’s, mates, Barfly’s. Stella Artois and Hog Lumps. Darts and snooker. Let’s go!”

  “You sodding bastards. The last time we were in that dodgy dive some yobbo cracked me on the back of the skull with a cue stick! A bloody cue stick!”

  “Wanker! ‘E’s a bleedin’ wanker, ‘e is!”

  “Nancy boy!”

  “Cheese eating surrender monkey!”

  Mr. Machete pulls off his balaclava. “Listen you lot o’ Moaning Minnies, if the bloke says ‘e’s not fightin’ then ‘e’s bloody well not fightin’, so shut yer festering gobs and quit carryin’ on about it.”

  A brief exchange of ideas follows, and the Brit Hit Squad reaches an amiable consensus: if they can’t fight me, fight each other is their best second choice. They swing ashtray stands, potted plants, and crappy lobby furniture, in addition to their own saps, knives, coshes, brass knucks and actual lead pipes.

  I’m fascinated – this is the secret life of NPCs that you never get to see.

  “I’d love to test out this mutant hack,” I tell Aiden. “Besides, these knuckleheads … ”

  “By all means, Quantum.” Aiden steps aside.

  My inventory list goes up and I scroll to item 554.

  Seconds later, the ax appears in my left hand. A golden liquid spreads up my arm, binding to my avatar’s skeleton. The side of the weapon gurgles like lava until it’s up to my shoulder. The end morphs from an ax into an enormous weapon that stretches from my elbow to the floor, yet is surprisingly light.

  “This is … ”

  I aim my mutant hack at the fighting assassins. A green light swells the now visible veins on my arm, stopping at the muzzle of the gun. One enormous discharge later, the six battling Brits are dissipating vapor.

  “ … killer,” I finally say.

  ~*~

  “You have a message, Mr. Hughes,” Jim the Doorman says. He’s fidgety as always, a nervous wreck if there ever was one.

  “From Frances?” My mutant hack ax boils off my arm, back to my inventory list. “Please, call me Quantum.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Quantum.”

  “Transfer it to me.”

  The note appears in my inventory list.

  We have Frances – Meet at The Pier.

  No signature necessary. I read the message again and discard it.

  “What’s up?” Aiden asks as he catches up to me.

  “The Reapers have taken Frances. They want to meet at The Pier.”

  “You can’t go this alone.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  He looks at me seriously, with far more humanity evident in his eyes than an NPC should be able to muster. “We have considerable history, you and I. I’ve shot you in the face, stabbed you repeatedly … ”

  “I’ve disemboweled you multiple times,” I admit.

  “I’ve cut you in half with a katana.”

  “I’ve used the same katana to decapitate you and then parade your head around as my little speaking head buddy for the rest of the day. You knew about that, didn’t you?”

  “I’ve beaten you to death with a crowbar – to death and beyond.”

  “I’ve shoved the same crowbar down your throat until you choked to death.”

  His hand comes to his throat. “Ick!”

  “Sorry about that, by the way. You caught me in one of my moods.” Now that the ceremonial measuring of the tools is over I ask, “Speak plainly, Aiden. Where are you going with this?”

  “I’m offering you my services.”

  “Services? You’ll help me?” My eyes dart across the room to Jim the Doorman.

  “Why not? Go to do something to justify my existence.” Aiden nods, catching his bottom lip between his teeth.

  “Yesterday we were each other’s arch-nemesis.”

  “That was then; this is now. You could use a hand, and I’d like to lend one.”

  “Welcome aboard,” I say. “What are you packing?”

  An AK-47 with a seventy-five round drum appears in his hands.

  “That’s a good start … ”

  The classic commie assault rifle enlarges and a 40mm grenade launcher attachment warps out of the bottom of the forestock.

  “Good, but bigger… ” I say.

  He nods. Another barrel appears on the top of the weapon, with the cube-shaped emitter end of a PHASR attachment.

  Aiden lowers the weapon, tucking his hair behind his ears. A solid black mask appears on his face with vents on either cheek. The area surrounding his eyes blackens. “How’s this?”

  “Not bad, Aiden, not bad.”

  ~*~

  I suit-up in the taxi, equipping myself with my tech-armor gear, item 67, which is bulky but protects against most bullets and fragments. The half-broken Reaper mask appears on my face, giving me enhanced ocular abilities.

  “There’s one more thing,” I say to Aiden as the taxi speeds in the air toward The Pier. “There are going to be zombie-looking attackers at The Pier. You probably already know this, but these are actual human players imprisoned by the Reapers. If I kill them here, they die in real life.”

  “So you want me to kill them if they attack us?”

  “You catch on quick, Aiden. I could face criminal charges when I wake up if I kill any. Hell, I already may be facing criminal charges because I’m pretty sure I’ve knocked off a couple. At least I can chalk those up to self-defense.

  “So you don’t care if I kill them?”

  My eyes fall upon the taxi driver, virtual human scrapings from the bottom of a very foul digital barrel. “I’d prefer you didn’t, but if they get in the way … they get in the way.”

  “Understood.”

  I’m quiet for the rest of the ride to The Pier. Rain plinks against the windows, washing away the algorithmic sorrows of the day. I don’t know how the Reapers were able to capture Frances, especially with her advanced abilities, which definitely outclass mine. The last thing I saw of her was her severed arm, twirling in the air.

  “Drop me off first,” Aiden tells the driver. “I’ll scout.”

  The driver barks, “Whatever you want buddy, as long as you pay me.”

  “You’ll get your credit,” I mumble.

  The taxi drops into a different airlane. Another taxi moves past us, barreling through the rain. It nearly cuts our driver off, inspiring him to shake his fist in the air and swear. He curves downward, edging towards the taxi that has just cut him off.

  “This ain’t Grand Theft Auto, Andretti. We’re not paying you to chase,” I remind our driver. “We’re paying you to get us to The Pier in one piece, pronto.”

  He pulls his jalopy directly behind the other taxi and starts riding his ass. Speeding up and quickly slowing down, speeding up and quickly slowing down.

  The Glock 22 from my inventory list, item 199, appears in my hand and I press the muzzle behind his ear. I’m close enough to get the full effect of his personal eau de toilet – a combination of ashtray, B.O. and unwashed clothes. “If you want to go home to Mrs. Stupid Ugly Cabbie tonight, I’d strongly suggest you cut the malarkey and DRIVE!” This gets his attention; it doesn’t take him long to pull back into the right airlane.

  “Now see how easy that was?” I say.

  Not three minutes later we are descending into The Pier and Aiden prepares to leap out.

  “Drop us by those shipping crates,” I tell the driver. “He’ll jump out first, and then me.”

  “I’m not getting nowhere near The Pier.”

  He pulls the yoke up, narrowly missing a transport vehicle that lumbers past our flying flivver.

  FOOoooo
ssSHH!!

  A surface to air missile flashes past the backseat window. The cab arcs at a seventy-five degree angle to avoid the attack.

  “Holy smokes!” The driver says; his face fills with fear and his soiled trousers become significantly more soiled.

  “Another one!”

  I sit up and press my Glock into the driver’s temple. “Get us down. Now, dammit!”

  ~*~

  Reapers are either nincompoops or incredibly bad shots. Two more SAMs don’t even come close. The cabbie grounds and Aiden and I bail out ninja-style. Mr. Stinky doesn’t wait around for his credit; he boots it before the doors close. I hit the ground rolling, instantly accessing my mutant hack ax, which morphs into the mega-shooter.”

  Three Reapers fire on us from behind a burnt out car.

  One blast from my mutant hack shreds the vehicle and two of the Reapers. Number three is a mess, and he painfully drags himself away from the flaming crater. A single shot takes him in the back of the head; two more punch through his body armor and Mr. Reaper is on his way to the Big Respawn in the Sky.

  “Nice shootin’, Tex.”

  Aiden the Morning Assassin twitches a half-smile and with a theatrical flourish blows the smoke from the end of his barrel. And then he’s all business again; the AK is up and ready and he’s scanning for threats.

  Bleached people appear crawling over crates, under and around burnt out cars. The vermin; the cockroaches. What I wouldn’t give to toss a few Molotov cocktails at the little bastards before they take a bite out of my legs again.

  “They’re human,” I remind myself, “human.”

  But what does it mean to be human in a world that’s entirely virtual? What does it mean to be human, yet trapped inside a dream? The existential navel-gazing will have to wait; I blow the corner out of one of the buildings and a cascade of rubble reduces them to greasy smears. At least now I can say I didn’t deliberately target them.

  “Quantum Hughes.”

  The voice comes from directly behind me. I whirl and point my hack ax at a Reaper of Unusual Size. His skull mask is damaged and jagged just like mine; he’s unhooded, and the exposed portions of his shaven skull are disfigured with ultraviolet tattoos. One handed, he dangles a naked, handcuffed Frances Euphoria by her hair.

  “Frances!”

  With a Jabba the Hut laugh, the Maxi-Reaper tosses Frances to one side, steps forward, and postures. His posse half-circles behind him; they’re all big and bulky and slathered in prison muscle – even the females. They grip their weapons casually, almost negligently, and they’re masked and accoutered, pierced and tattooed like more Mad Max extras. The biggest of them pales in comparison to Mister Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum.

  “I could slay you right here, right now, with the greatest of ease.” He states in harsh, gravelly, sub-woofer tones.

  Data from my ocular feed indicates that both of his arms are mutant hacks, his advanced abilities bar five times that of an ordinary player like yours truly. He wasn’t lying when he said he could bump me off right now. Still, he hasn’t, and isn’t making a move to – he’s just flapping his gums and showing off for his pack of murderous moppets.

  Something ain’t right here. He wants something, or I’d already be scattered pixels.

  I step up to the plate. “So who are you supposed to be, anyway – Dethtaks the Shootinator? Dirk the Destroyer? Lee Mouton? And don’t you think that avatar of yours tries just a little too hard? Maybe over-compensates for some… shortcoming… just a teensy little bit?”

  How far can I push him before he reacts?

  He strikes a different Threatening Pose. “Mock me, Quantum Hughes, and suffer the consequences!”

  “What are ya gonna do – vogue me to death? So far, you’ve been all tell and no show.”

  Aiden moves to one side to maximize his field of fire and crouches behind cover to make a smaller target for any counter fire. Arrogant in their nonchalance, the Reapers ignore him.

  “I will do much more than that, Quantum Hughes. Much, much more.” His fingers flex and grip, flex and grip.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, sez you. You some kind of big cheese in the Guild of Calamitous Intent or something?” I ask, mocking him further.

  “I’ve been instructed by management to offer you a role in our guild,” his agitation is apparent in his voice. Frances tries to sit up, but the blue-glowing manacles prevent her from moving much. “They wish to recruit the warrior who has slain some of our best; who has slain my brethren.”

  “Seriously? Guild? Brethren? Warriors? What is this, Highlander? You sound like a bunch of prancing, mincing, la-de-da poofters to me. How old are you, really? Twelve, maybe thirteen tops? Have your balls even dropped yet? Look princess, why don’t you and your gunsels get back into your ballet tights, grab your Pixie Stix and fairy wings and head off to one of the Rainbow-Unicorn-Magic Castle worlds before I give you all a reason to stay home from school tomorrow.”

  He grunts, or at least it sounds like a grunt; it could also have been a chupaqueso repeating on him for all I know. My eyes are trained on his ridiculously overdeveloped arms. I can’t tell if they’re pumped or about to morph into some nightmare mutant hacks. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and he strikes an Even More Threatening Pose. His breathing picks up, and I’ll bet he’s sweating under his so very cool Reaper gear right about now.

  “You got a name, fat ass? I always like to know who I’m killing.”

  He half turns, morphs his arm into some kind of gawd-awful death ray and vaporizes two parked cars and half a shipping container to his right.

  That apparently touched a nerve, so I carry on. “Ha! I can see it – you’re some four hundred pound, five-foot-tall, fifteen-year-old mama’s boy with greasy hair and zits. You’re so unattractive and socially awkward that even your right hand falls asleep on you. Girls don’t even–”

  “ENOUGH!” he roars.

  His left arm morphs into a giant blade with shark fin-sized daggers protruding from its outer edge. Anger and animosity radiate off him, white-hot. A bar of incandescence screams over my shoulder. Even though it’s a clear miss, flesh boils away from me, my vision blurs and my life bar drops by nearly a quarter.

  “Don’t kill him, Rollins!” one of the Reapers behind him shouts.

  Aiden is beside me moments later. “Geez, that’s got to sting. You all right?” He waves away the tendrils of smoke coming off my wound.

  “I need to dig the dagger in just a little deeper. Be ready,” I whisper.

  I turn back to the Reapers. “Rollins is it? Is that your name?”

  He nods, and proudly states “Thus I am known!”

  One of the female Reapers hisses, “Don’t kill him. Remember what Strata said!”

  “Look, Rollins, I’m all boo-hoo about how tough you must have it as a fat, ugly kid that always gets his ass handed to him and has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting laid. But you know what? A real man, a tough man, a man with character would get over it and press on! But a fat crybaby bedwetting punk-ass pussy would probably just lose it start shooting at things – kind of like you have.”

  Another blast sears the asphalt at my feet.

  “Touchy, touchy,” I say, watching my life bar deplete.

  “As I was saying,” Rollins growls, “I am here to offer you a membership in our guild.”

  “And you show up with my girlfriend naked and bound? This is how you offer me a membership?”

  Frances Euphoria coughs. “I’m not your girlfriend.”

  “Frances!” I shout, blowing my tough guy cover. “Are you all right?”

  Rollins gets the picture. He takes a step back and lifts Frances by her hair again, exposing her throat.

  “We’ve been holding this one for a couple of weeks now.”

  “A couple of weeks?”

  I recall what Aiden said about the respawning process. Have I really been asleep for that long?

  “A couple of weeks,” he says. “The cuffs prevent her from log
ging out or doing anything, really. I’m surprised she’s still alive in the real world. I wonder who’s taking care of your body right now, if Frances isn’t there.”

  “We can both take care of ourselves,” I say.

  “You don’t get it, do you, Quantum? Reapers are searching for you in the real world and they will soon find you.” Rollins snaps his fingers. “That … is all it takes for me to have you killed for good.”

  “Then why don’t you do it and quit with all the BS?”

  “Corporate says we need you,” he finally says. “Just think of the publicity our guild will get when we rescue Quantum Hughes, co-founder of the Dream Team, from a glitched Proxima World. Add to this the fact that you’d be working for us, thus legitimizing our endeavors. You’d become the face of the Revenue Corporation, our spokesperson. Plus you’d be reunited with–”

  “Revenue Corporation? What the hell are you going on about?”

  “You don’t think we’re called Reapers in the real world, do you? Frances didn’t fill you in? The Revenue Corporation’s sole mission is to rescue the countless people trapped in various Proxima Worlds and rehabilitate them. Our war is with digital comas, not with real people, contrary to what you might think.”

  “You kill people and take the insurance money offered to them by the Proxima Company…”

  “There is no evidence we do such a thing. Our corporate motto…”

  “Spare me, Rollins.” I sigh. God I hate businessmen, especially the ones who wear Goth Ass Clown costumes and parade around in Proxima worlds flapping their digital dicks like they’re baseball bats.

  “You are testing our patience.” He says through gritted teeth. “We will find you in the real world soon, within the next day. Possibly sooner. Then we will own your body and the tables will turn.”

  “Let Frances go or I will kill all of you.”

  He laughs at this and his leather clown butt-buddies join him.

  “You’re in no position to make threats, Quantum Hughes, let alone kill anyone.”

  “And you’re in no position to ever get laid, considering you likely spend most of your time whacking off to anime porn. Still, it is a position and these are my demands: Release her.”