by James Hunter
The Clockwork Dragon exploded with a deafening boom and a wash of superheated air that slapped against Devil and me, pushing us back. Surprisingly, however, Hydra-Vox’s HP dropped by a full eighth. One of the heads swayed drunkenly then flopped forward, permanently out of commission. As for Osmark, he belly-flopped on top of a nearby magma-covered Hydra head. Unlike Jay, he didn’t have steel-covered skin to protect him from the raging inferno heat radiating up from Vox’s ultimate form.
The pain was immense and hit me between the eyes like a sword blade. Heat filled my body; fire surged through my veins and invaded my vision, making it impossible to see or think. It was all pain and hurt and misery, taken root beneath my skin like a hive of angry hornets. I couldn’t breathe and hardly even noticed when the combat notice popped up:
<<<>>>
Debuffs Added
Flame Trauma: You have sustained a severe burn! All physical attacks do 25% less damage; duration, 1 minute.
Magma Field: You are standing in a magma field! Attack damage -35%; Stamina Regeneration reduced by 50%; movement speed reduced by 50%; 20 pts Burn Damage/sec.
Current estimated time of death: 39 seconds.
<<<>>>
Need to get to Osmark, I sent to Devil, muscling through the blinding pain while I pulled back on the reins and drove home with my bootheels. If he dies, we die.
Devil angled right in a broad swoop, zigzagging past wrecking ball attacks, corkscrewing beneath a set of snapping jaws, then shooting in with uncanny speed—
In our mad sprint to save Osmark from certain death, we missed the third head, which feinted left then lunged straight. Fiery teeth tore through Devil’s throat and pulled away with one solid jerk. Violet blood exploded out, raining down as the Drake’s wings shuddered and his body spasmed. His HP hit zero in a heartbeat, and then he was gone, disappeared in a puff of inky smoke. Banished to the Shadowverse, where he would respawn in eight hours. And me?
Suddenly I was falling, down, down, down.
Flipping, turning, spinning as raw fire burned through my nerve endings. There was no way out of this, I knew. We’d come in with a solid game plan, but Vox had been ready for us, and he’d made us pay. As I fell, though, I managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of the valley below and the mountain pass. Abby was down there, but like me, she was on her last leg. Vox’s minions were overwhelming her, and though she was giving them bloody hell, they were slowly burying her alive.
Flame Salamanders mauled her arms and legs while skeletons hacked at her with bone blades.
Still, I grinned. The army was finally to the top of the pass, Cutter vanishing over the crest and disappearing into the greenery on the other side.
The pain took me a moment later, and the world went black …
TWENTY-NINE_
Debuff, Death
I plunged into the void, the memory of fire still searing my veins as I careened toward the ground. Except the ground never came—I just kept cutting through the endless black with no bottom in sight. An image appeared before me, floating in the emptiness: Abby buried beneath the onslaught of bodies, her mouth stretched wide, a pained scream tattooed across her face while molten Salamander teeth chewed into her skin. “Help me, Jack,” she cried, the words momentarily choking out her sobs.
I reached a hand toward her, fingers straining to touch her, to pull her free …
But then she was gone, dead, the image exploding into a cloud of neon pixels, each as sharp as razor blades, which swirled around me like a ravenous school of piranha, cutting into my skin and slashing at my eyes. I curled into a ball, tucking my head against my chin as I gritted my teeth. Is that what Abby felt as she died? I wondered, but then that sensation faded. When I cautiously blinked my eyes open again, I was no longer falling. Nope. I was back in my studio apartment, in the days before V.G.O. and the cataclysmic asteroid, just lounging on my tired couch—heavily stained, the cushions deeply creased and sagging.
Everything was there, just as I remembered it.
The dented stove. The bulky white fridge that’d seen better days. The used, full mattress I’d picked up from Goodwill a couple of years ago, which was in even worse condition than the couch beneath me. The TV in front of me was nice at least—a hulking seventy-five-inch Shintaro with a nano-crystal screen and multi-zone backlighting. My VR headset, a matte black helmet with a sleek viewing screen, sat on the floor next to the massive television.
The TV clicked on, a buzz filling the air before a pair of news anchors materialized on the crystalline screen. There was a middle-aged man with wavy blond hair and unnaturally white teeth wearing a smart blazer. Sitting next to him was a thin Asian woman with straight black hair and an immaculate silver blouse. Though the anchors had well-coiffed hair and neatly pressed clothes, there was also an air of exhaustion mingling with desperation about them.
“It is with a heavy heart that I must announce we have reached the end, ladies and gentlemen,” the man said solemnly. His slightly clipped British accent reminded me of Cutter. “The asteroid will breach our atmosphere and will explode with the equivalent force of one hundred million megatons of TNT …” The blazing asteroid tore through the atmosphere, smashing through skyscrapers, shattering glass, twisting metal, before landing with a BOOM that sent a mushroom cloud of water and fire and dirt billowing up into low orbit.
Click.
The screen flickered, the devastation vanishing, replaced by more recent memories. Terrible images of Gnomes dying appeared—ripped apart, disemboweled, burned alive. But then the channel changed again.
Click.
The Gnomes were gone. Now it was my buddy Forge, eyes glazed over in death as the Sky Maiden sawed his body in half.
Click.
The image dissolved again, replaced by Alliance Faction members tumbling from the walls of Rowanheath, smashing into the ground, bloody auras spreading out around them like crimson angel wings.
Click.
A group of Alliance members stood in blood-slick grass beneath the outer wall of New Viridia, congregating in a loose circle while a willowy Dawn Elf cleric knelt beside a fallen Dwarf. Her hands roved over his body, a wash of golden light bleeding from her palms. But whatever she was doing seemed fruitless. The Dwarf didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t bat an eye. I saw the ugly black Malware Blade sitting beside the body as her words floated to me, played on a reel: There’s no way to know until he either respawns … or doesn’t.
“You know,” came a voice from beside me, “that right there is the real reason I don’t want to be the Gentleman of the Thieves Guild.” For the first time, I realized I wasn’t alone. Cutter had been sitting beside me the whole time, except he was no longer sporting his leather battle gear … No, he wore a pair of jeans, holes in the knees and frayed at the bottoms, and a dirty black hoodie. Suddenly, he reminded me very much of my buddy Ryan. We’d spent a thousand hours on that couch, immersed in VR worlds.
He was dead now, I knew. Never made it into V.G.O., or if he did, he didn’t survive the transition. I’d looked for him after. No sign. No luck.
“The Thieves Guild is actually more like a union of likeminded people,” I mumbled numbly, parroting the words I’d heard him say so often.
Cutter grinned and nodded. “Bloody right,” he said, then pressed a button on the TV remote.
Click.
A whip-thin man garbed in dark leathers with a pair of daggers tucked into his belt filled the screen. He balanced on a rickety stool, guarding the doorway back into the private quarters of the Broken Dagger in Rowanheath. “That’s Neriah,” Cutter said, dipping his chin toward the screen. “Guy was a real sod, but we were friends.”
Click.
Now the man was lying in the dirt, his stomach cut open, blood burbling from his lips. “He died in our raid on the Legion camp, back before Ravenkirk.”
He sighed. “That’s why I can’t be a gentleman,” he said, though in some way I knew he was talking about me as much as he was talking
about himself. “Fighting is one thing. Hells, even dying is not so bad, so long as you are the only one that suffers the consequences. But being a bloody leader?” He shook his head. “I convinced Neriah to come to the Legion camp, Jack. He died there, gut full of someone’s blade. I have to live with that, same way as you have to live with all the Alliance members that die and don’t respawn. Like those Vale folk who just met the Reaper on account of your failed plan.”
“It’s was Jay’s plan,” I protested weakly.
He snorted and rolled his eyes, “Aye, maybe. But you’re the one who signed off. Those deaths belong to you. I couldn’t do it. It would eat away at me.” He clicked the button again. The remote flopped to the couch, Cutter gone as images of my own death filled the screen. Me tumbling from the high walls of Rowanheath, my head clipping the edge of a building—breaking my neck—before my body splattered on a cobblestone street … Me plunging from the back of Devil as he exploded in a cloud of black dust … The Spider Queen, Lowyth, ripping open my chest … Over and over the images came.
Finally, I pressed my eyes shut, unwilling to watch anymore.
“Jack.” Cutter’s voice again, this time closer. Louder. “Jack.” A hand gripped my shoulder, shaking me softly but insistently. “Jack, wake up already, friend.” The shaking increased, hardened. More insistent now. With a groan, it all rushed back to me. Vox. The Hydra. The Elemental Salamanders and the skeletal army of undead Thralls. I’d died, magma surging through my veins as my body smashed into the dusty earth of the Burning Expanse.
Remembering brought back a ghost of the pain, a hot prickle lingering beneath my skin.
Hesitantly, I reached down and ran a trembling hand over my pecs, searching my body for signs of the battle. Except there were none. My fingers traced over gunmetal gray skin, devoid of armor. I cracked an eye and glanced down; there wasn’t a mark on me, not even a scratch. Everything looked whole and healthy, exactly the way it should, but I couldn’t shake the memory of the fire and the pain. The faintest recollection of my spine exploding, my organs rupturing like water balloons as I hit the ground …
Except, that couldn’t be since I didn’t actually hit.
I took a few deep calming breaths, pressing my eyes shut as I worked to get my head on straight. It was so hard, though, mostly because I felt absolutely awful. Worse than the worst hangover on the planet. A throbbing headache pounded away inside my skull, and though there were no physical signs of injury, it sure felt like someone had pushed me into an industrial meat grinder, shoveled up my remains, then fed those into the meat grinder again. Everything hurt. My skin felt tight and raw—as if I’d sustained a blistering sunburn—my muscles were basically Jell-O, and my bones ached with muted fury.
That was the Death’s Sting Debuff, I knew from experience. Idly, I pulled up my interface and toggled over to the active effects:
<<<>>>
Current Debuffs
Death’s Curse: You have died! You have lost 22,920 EXP! Skills improve 20% slower; duration, 8 hours. All EXP earned reduced by 15%; duration, 8 hours. Attack Damage and Spell Strength reduced by 20%; duration, 8 hours. Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%; duration, 8 hours. Carry Capacity -50 lbs; duration, 8 hours.
Death’s Sting: Suffer extreme physical discomfort and waves of weakness; duration, 4 hours.
<<<>>>
“It’ll pass, Jack,” Cutter said. “Takes a second is all. Just breathe.”
I listened to him, inhaling through my nose and pushing the air out through my mouth as I dismissed my interface.
After another few seconds, my heart rate dropped, and I finally sat, propping myself upright on my hands. There was soft grass beneath my palms and the scent of evergreen and wild flowers drifted in the air, hot and heavy. I blinked again and shook my head, trying to clear away the fuzz filling my skull. Cutter was crouched to my right. He offered me a reassuring, lopsided grin. I was in a meadow, gigantic trees surrounding me in a circle. Not just any meadow, the same meadow we’d spawned in after Sophia dropped us unceremoniously into the Realm of Order.
Oh no, the meadow. Sweat broke out across my brow as my heart started racing again. “Bunnies,” I stammered out, the words like an ice pick to my skull. “Killer bunnies.”
Cutter’s grin widened, and he clapped me on the shoulder. “What do I look like, eh? Some sorta amateur? I might be lazy, but I know what I’m about.” He shot me a wink. “We’ve got it covered, Jackie-boy, it’ll be hours before they respawn. And we’ve got that covered, too, mate. The majority of the Vale’s army is here, camped out in a tight perimeter around the meadow with Amara overseeing the whole shebang. After you lot went down in your blaze of bloody glory, we sent a small contingent back to the Vale and brought everyone else here to wait. Ah, and speak of the devil.”
There was a pop and a flash. Cutter scooted left as a body materialized in the grass, not two feet away.
It was Osmark, his armor and clothing stripped away, save for a pair of linen undershorts. He looked almost dead, his skin pale and waxy, his chest motionless—until it wasn’t. One second, still as a corpse, the next he gasped, inhaling deeply as he sat up, eyes wild and frantic. “No, Sandra. No, don’t go in there,” he shouted, looking left, then right, hands groping the ground for a weapon that wasn’t there.
“Osmark,” I called, “it’s not real. Respawn. Just a respawn.”
My words seemed to slap him back into reality, his hands ceasing their reckless searching, his gaze snapping into focus. “Jack,” he replied, the words hollow, confused. “Jack,” he said again, more certain this time. “Respawn. Yes, of course.” He fell silent, curling his knees into his chest as a shudder ran through his body. “The Hydra. And Jay? Abby?”
“The monk’s been back for about five minutes,” Cutter said, then rubbed idly at his jaw. “Bastard clocked me across the jaw when he came to. Amara and I had to restrain him, but he’s level now. Grabbing a bite to eat.” He hooked a thumb toward a little camp fire, tucked away in the tree line. Sure enough, Jay was hunched over, head in his hands, a steaming cup of something sitting beside him on a downed log. “Abby should be around anytime now—”
Another pop and a flash as Abby materialized to my right. Like Osmark, she looked dead, her normally dark skin rather ashy and pale, her eyes glued shut, her chest motionless. I knew she wasn’t dead, not really, but seeing her like that? I felt a hitch in my gut as I imagined what life would be like without her. Transitioning into V.G.O. had been a painful experience with a steep price tag—I’d died, my parents had died, hell, even the world at large had died—but my second chance to make a life with her was the one highlight.
Abruptly, she jolted up, chest galloping, sweat exploding across her forehead, fear carved into the lines of her face. “No, no, no.” She reached out, straining toward some unseen thing. “Please, Dad, not again. Not this time.” She heaved, tears cutting tracks down her cheeks, chin trembling.
I slipped up in front of her, taking her hand in mine. “It’s just a respawn,” I said, staring her in the eye. “Whatever it is, it’s not real. You’re back. You’re okay, Abby.”
In response, she lurched forward, throwing her arms around me, pulling me in tight as she sobbed into my shoulder. “I know it’s not real,” she mumbled into my chest, sniffling. “That’s the problem. I saw him again for a moment. My dad. Back before the cancer. Back when he was still healthy. It …” She faltered, pulling away, looking up into my face. “It felt so real. As real as you do right now. We were fishing. He was sitting in a folding lawn chair—had a can of Budweiser in one hand. It was perfect. Until he turned to ash. A breeze carried him away, scattered his body into the lake.”
She sobbed again then swiped at her nose with the back of one hand. I stood and helped her to her feet. “Come on. Food will help.” I slipped an arm around her shoulders and drew her away from the clearing toward the cook fire in the trees.
THIRTY_
Light Bulb
Everyone had eaten a hearty breakfast and downed about a gallon of bitter black tea—which had helped a little, though only a little. Ultimately, the only real cure for the Death Debuff was time.
The snap of a twig caught my ear and I froze, subconsciously reaching for the warhammer at my belt, feeling its comforting weight as I wrapped my hand around the handle. But then Osmark slipped out from behind a massive tree—he looked almost as surprised as I did to see another person. “Jack,” he said, steps faltering. “My apologies, I didn’t expect anyone else to be out here wandering around.”
I smiled and let go of my hammer. “It’s nice out here,” I replied, breathing deeply through my nose, enjoying the clean scent of the air. “Reminds me of Big Basin up in San Francisco. I lived down in San Diego—guy like me could never afford to live in San Fran—but I loved to go up and get lost in the Redwoods. Always did my best thinking there.”
Osmark smiled and nodded. “One of my favorite pastimes, too. Something about the quiet always got the creative juices flowing for me. That’s where I daydreamed about V.G.O. for the first time, right in the shade of Corkscrew Tree, actually.” He paused and folded his hands behind his back. “Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit, or would you prefer to be alone?”
I seesawed my head then shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, I suppose a little company wouldn’t hurt. Abby’s feeling like crap—the weird hallucinations really got to her this time around.” I started walking, threading my way along a narrow game trail.