by D. Rus
Bang! — our opponents retaliated, unfolding their reserves behind the dwarves' backs. These bastards were quick learners. My gnomes closed their ranks like on parade, turning into a solid square bristling with steel.
Bang! The evening had turned out to be interesting, after all. A new portal opened, letting out the noisy and cheerful Vets' ranks. Once they sized up the upcoming battle, they grew serious, slamming their helmets down to their eyebrows and checking their quick access slots for elixirs.
The balance of the two confronted forces tipped and froze in a shaky equilibrium.
Chapter Six
The Cursed Castle. Three hours previously. Orcus, the leader of a merc team.
An enormous gray-haired orc, his frightening face creased by old scars, stretched his lips in an awkward smile. His little Dragon — a Familiar hatched by the First Priest himself from the egg they had found at the Frontier — was dashing this way and that across the large hall, running away from little Screwyall who was chasing him. Both were delirious with glee, the lizard's trilling whistle mixing with the little boy's happy laughter.
The orc twitched his cheek, shaking off a cloudy tear, and stepped back deeper into the shadows. A group leader shouldn't show his weakness to the team. But he — he used to have a little boy too, of about the same age even. A single father who'd used all his resources and connections to wrestle his child from a neglectful mother too busy enjoying her last pre-menopausal bender. Things like these happen occasionally to women of a certain age.
What had happened next was a gory head-on collision with an SUV that had flown into his lane out of nowhere. It didn't matter why it had happened or whether the SUV's driver had fallen asleep at the wheel or just failed to control it. The worst thing was yet to come. When this mauled stump of a human being finally came round and mouthed, wheezing, the only vital question — "Is my son alright?" the doctors just looked the other way, not knowing what to say.
Normally, you had to go some to knock him off his stride. This still young army colonel had been through hell and high water — whether coming under fire in Islamist regions or defying pressure from the mafia and federal authorities alike. But at the time, he'd given up. He'd lost all purpose. He refused food and medication, tearing the IV drips out of his broken arms with his teeth. And once they had strapped him down to his bed, he kept wailing, helplessly and hopelessly, at the white hospital ceiling. Even the most cynical of nurses cried, covering their ears, while patients took shelter in distant wards. Whatever potted plants they kept on his windowsill wilted and died within twenty-four hours.
The man was fading, slipping away. The doctors shrugged. "He's lost the will to live, as simple as that." Then a young recreation therapist decided to take a risk, both to shake the man out of his tailspin and garner some material for his own thesis. He chose the most colorful of the virtual worlds and lay the man into a FIVR capsule.
The colonel had become one of the first perma players, but no one had ever found out about it. His coma didn't surprise anyone: he'd been living on borrowed time, anyway. The injuries he'd received were enough for three KIAs. The daring doctor, however, had received an official reprimand for his untimely initiative — because his head of department hadn't had enough material for his own thesis.
Finally, Screwyall realized the futility of trying to catch the baby dragon and perched on top of a collapsed column. Immediately the Familiar nosedived, landing on the boy's shoulder, and began preening himself, breathing purple fire at his iridescent scales to scorch out any invisible dust.
Rattling his heavy armor, Fuckyall walked in. He faltered, catching the orc's quizzical glance. "Orcus, I really appreciate you and your men defending this castle. Your baby dragon is a hoot! It's basically a cheater's flame thrower with an endless supply of ammo. But... I'm afraid my war chest is empty. I can't extend your contracts. In three hours' time, we'll have to part ways."
The ex-colonel raised his eyebrows. "But how about you? The castle? Your son, after all?"
Fuckyall gave a tired shrug. "I'll think of something," he said, forcing a grin. "I've applied for a few short-time loans, put my gear up for auction and written to a few people who owe me. No one has replied yet. Still, some of this might work," dark desperation froze in his stare.
Orcus shook his head. "I'm not doing this. I'll stay with you free of charge if necessary. I'm sure if I have a word with the guys, many will do the same. Or at least agree to a deferred payment."
The orc's interface pinged with a new message. That was the squad leader informing his men of a new job immediately after the one in hand, paid out at 150%.
"Shit! We've already been hired!"
Fuckyall's cheek twitched. He forced another smile, "So you see? It wasn't meant to happen. Never mind. Just forget it. As the saying goes, Ours is to do or die!"
Orcus stirred. "Exactly! Listen up, man, it's about time you quit being a lone player. You're always on your own, even in that clan of yours. Look at it my way: you're a cluster's top player with three years in the game and the only friends you've made is a butch healer chick and a Dwarven blacksmith! He's a great craftsman, no doubt about it, and a good friend to boot, seeing as he's here now fighting for you. But what good can he do with his level 70?"
Fuckyall gave the orc a sullen look, listening intently to the sounds of spells being activated outside. Apparently, the enemy alliance was casting mass buffs, preparing for a new attack. "What do you suggest?"
"I suggest you contact Laith. He's quite correct. Besides, he's the First Priest of the Dark Pantheon. And to put it plainly, your castle's inhabitants aren't exactly choir boys! I'm sure Max won't turn his back on you."
Fuckyall squinted, thinking. "Laith, you say? And he's not just the First Priest, either. I think I've seen his name recently on a very interesting list."
Hope glistened in his eyes. He gave Orcus a grateful poke on the shoulder. "Thanks for the tip. I'll think about it."
Orcus' men had to deter two more attacks. In a way, they even enjoyed it. OMON, the Sullen Angels, the Light-Bearers and other enemy alliance members seemed to have finally found some common ground, fighting for a common cause. All of their leaders were tough domineering men who took from life everything they could and didn't bother to look back to check for any casualties caused by their steamroller advance in life.
No, he knew quite a few decent guys even among OMON's ex-police special force members, responsible and — miraculously — even honest and fair in their own way. But those were the exceptions that only proved the proverbial rule. Those unlucky enough to fall into the meat grinder of the Russian police system weren't the only victims of its lawless mentality. Policemen too were broken by the system which rejected those of its members who didn't comply with its warped moral principles.
Which was why the castle defenders were now putting their heart and soul into tripping up their ex-police opponents, cleverly luring the OMON members deep into the labyrinth of castle rooms in order to keep their graves and gear or to expose them to zombies who stripped their enemy of experience and guaranteed a few moments of blind unthinking fury.
Finally, the raid coordinator sent them a message. The contract had been closed; the portal to the next customer was to open in five minutes. They bid Fuckyall a warm goodbye. Everyone in the Russian cluster had a deep respect for this legendary paladin who seemed to have been in the game forever, shining a guiding light on the path of a stubborn loner.
Many had already met his beautiful wife. Okay, so her food preferences were a bit suspect, but she was bringing a lot with her, not to even mention the flame of love that smoldered in her shiny eyes. But most importantly, they'd all met his son. A real living breathing son, a happy and curious little guy who wanted to be just like his father.
As the mercs walked toward the portal, they cast frequent looks behind them, thoughtfully touching their chins. Once again Fuckyall had been a trailblazing pioneer showing them a new path.
A stocky d
warf, once a plain trucker and now a perma merc two years into the game, was racking his memory making a mental list of the contents of his treasury. Which gift would be worthy of the buxom landlady of the two-story tavern at the Main Underground Square? That was one well-endowed lady and not entirely indifferent to him, either. To say nothing of the tavern itself which was a tasty morsel indeed. It could buy you a lifestyle of indulgence and luxury. And the fact that the said Dwarven lady was indeed an NPC — well, maybe it was even for the better. That's settled, then! The moment he was back from the raid, he'd go running to see Bodylicious. God forbid some smartass would beat him to it and make advances to his promising catch.
The nerdy ranger who'd celebrated his sixteenth birthday in virtual reality by punching an aggressor back for the first time in his life and receiving his scalp for a trophy, had now resolved to go perma. Before, the prospects of a solitary life scared him — as he inevitably blushed, tongue-tied, unable to muster enough courage to approach a living girl even if she was a fellow player. But he could spend hours talking to the charming little Laoelle, a smiley NPC from Help an Elfa to Pick Some Berries, a noob quest that he kept doing even though it gave him no xp anymore, filling her basket unthinkingly time and time again just to be able to secretly admire her profile. That's settled, then! Tomorrow he was going to install the jailbreak chip and the hacked control crystal for his FIVR capsule. Bye, Mom. Not that you're gonna notice: you're too busy enjoying a resort break with your umpteenth boyfriend. You have your own life. I'm going to have mine, too — with Laoelle, the youngest daughter of the North Gate guards captain.
When the portal jump delivered the mercs right into the OMON alliance's camp, the mercs weren't amused. Orcus was the loudest to protest, to the silent support of his four men who lined up behind his back.
"WTF? We didn't sign up for this shit!"
The guild's harried coordinator only sneered at him, busy barking back at the crowd of angry soldiers speaking all at once. "Yes, you did! At the time, all of you surrendered your signatory rights to the squad's manager. And he's done his best for you! A 150% wage and a hefty bonus on the castle's surrender. And a separate head hunter bonus to those who capture Fuckyall and Dana!"
Orcus' face darkened. He lunged at the coordinator who shrank back. "You can stuff your bonus where the sun don't shine! I cancel my contract as unethical. It's not correct to my previous employer and is against the Mercenary Code of Honor."
The air around him rang with approval. The job was rigged, you could see that. They didn't pay you 150% just for the fun of it.
"It may not be correct but it's perfectly legal! And your Code is nothing more than a recommended list of optional rules! I don't think you remember Clause 7 of the contract, do you? The order has to be obeyed before being challenged. You think you're prepared to part with your badge? And lose your hundred-grand enrolment fee? Oh, sorry, you chose the Silver subscription option, didn't you, which gave you the right to commanding posts and raid dividends. A quarter of a million, you think you can gamble that? I won't even need to call the Captains Council. All I need to do is file an official complaint with the relevant logs attached!"
Orcus ground his teeth. The coordinator knew all his weak points. The orc hadn't yet paid off the loan he'd taken out for his badge with his elite gear as security. This way they could take him to the cleaners, just like that bitch of his ex-wife had.
The orc's heavy professional glare of a major-crimes investigator pinned the coordinator down. "You shouldn't have cornered me, buddy. This conversation isn't over yet."
Then he raised his voice, speaking to no one in particular, "I remember a New Year's night in 2032 when I happened to fly from Sheremetyevo Airport..."
The mercs that crowded around them beamed with understanding: Italian strike! That's when workers technically turn up for work but go about their jobs demonstratively slowly, taking half an hour to screen a passenger's bag or twenty minutes to change a light bulb, thus sabotaging and paralyzing their entire respective production lines.
Not everyone cared for the ethical side of the matter, but it offered everybody else the legal opportunity to play truant. Granted, it resulted in a brief note to Orcus' personal file, Untrustworthy. Remove from the Guild at the first opportunity.
* * *
I looked at the thousands of sentients, their ranks swelling, ready to lock in mortal combat at the sound of a twig breaking underfoot. A layered cake of NPCs, mercs and two alliances. Did I really need it? I could very well see where the situation was going from here: each side would call in reinforcements, getting their friends involved, widening the conflict zone, while some greedy third parties jumped at the chance to attack the two opponents' underprotected castles.
And then what? The Second Cluster War followed by a major redistribution of property and rankings? Would that save the First Temple from the upcoming siege? Possibly. But whether I'd be able to get my allies together again — or whoever would have braved the murky waters of a new Civil war — now that remained to be seen. No. We weren't strong enough to tackle any action of this caliber yet. Besides, a stupid wall-to-wall fist fight wasn't our style of choice. We had to act with surgical precision, only turning to a dumb mass battle when everything else failed.
Well, we'd shown them what we were made of. We had stood up for our friends and commanded due respect in the process. As far as I was concerned, all the objectives had been ticked. Time to fold up this show.
I looked around me in search of a soapbox. My gaze chanced upon a battle golem looming over the crowds. I dug my heels into Hummungus' sides, urging him toward the enormous machine. Standing up in the saddle cowboy style, I reached over to the golem driver.
"Keep him still," I told him, then began climbing the giant, clutching at his numerous knobs and cogs.
Once I stood secure on the golem's steel shoulders, I yelled, unconsciously copying the Fallen One's manner,
"Hold it!"
Yeah, right. You ever tried to walk out into the middle of a football pitch and address the buzzing stands?
The nearest lines turned to me in surprised annoyance while all the rest continued to glare at their opponents, deciding on their weak spots and planning their attack while using the welcome delay to slowly restore their mana reserves.
Dammit. What was I supposed to do, shoot my trusty Mouser in the air? I didn't have one. Having said that, I had something just as loud.
I had already reached into my inside pocket in search of one of those alien grenades with strange fluorescent markings when somewhere in the depths of the Universe the Fallen One stirred at his astral window and pulled his hand out of his popcorn bag, snapping his fingers.
"Now speak," echoed in my head.
Eh? Could I really?
"Ahem!" I cleared my throat.
The battle golem under me shied like a horse at the clap of a gunshot. Amplified by some divine sound system, my cough echoed across the battlefield, slapping everyone in its path with an impact wave and clearing the ears of even those who didn't have them to begin with.
"Hold it!" I barked, more confidently this time. Now all eyes were on me.
One of the alliance's senior officers pushed his gilded helmet to the back of his head. "Who's that?"
My inner greedy pig growled his indignation, eyeing the yellow metal, demanding I punish the bastard and lay my hands on his gear. I forced myself back on track,
"I'm Laith, the First Priest of the Dark Pantheon! I am the one who gave Macaria and Aulë to this world. I am the one who swept through the Chinese cluster with fire and sword and freed eight hundred slaves, bringing the slave drivers to their knees! My name is known here; some of you have already fought by my side. But you — who are you? I didn't notice you in battle at the Chinese walls. I've heard nothing about your deeds of valor. You did, however, dare strip a hero of his family. So you wanted to grow a few levels by killing Fuckyall's wife and child?"
Gold Helmet looked slightly flu
stered. Apparently, he did have a heart after all. "Who would want him? He's very welcome to take his madam and his rugrat and piss off. But no, he had to act the boss, 'I'm the man around here, the zombies are mine and the castle is my property!' I mean, WTF?"
The crowd hummed their agreement. They didn't like this state of affairs.
My inbox pinged with a new private message that someone had brazenly flagged as Urgent, overrunning my usual Do Not Disturb filter.
A merc by the name of Orcus — sure I remembered that rainbow dragon lover — had just committed a crime of professional misconduct by forwarding me the list of his current contract's objectives.
"What did you say? 'Let him piss off?' In this case, who offered your mercs a head hunting bonus for the capture of Fuckyall, his wife and his child? Some vultures you are! Are you completely off your heads? We were busting our butts pulling our guys out of China, we brought the whole Chinese cluster to their toes, bluffing to simulate our goddamn unity, fighting them against all odds while you were here butchering our heroes and taking children prisoners? What's next on your agenda? Executing them? Burning them at the stake? Torturing them? Are you prepared to tear the child's guts out while demanding he show you all of the castle's secret treasures?"
The officer just stood there opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. He didn't look as if he was in the know. Many of the alliance players furrowed their brows, exchanging doubtful glances, but most of them hadn't yet grasped the gravity of my accusations. They just stood there grumbling and baring their teeth at my aggressive and ruthless stance.
I couldn't tell anymore which ones of them were ex-police and which ones just human scum trailing along. Not that it mattered. Both types despised the weak and both had an inbred respect for confidence and power.
Standing above them, I dropped my weighty word,