by Charles Dean
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just--” Locke frowned again.
“The girl. ‘She’ . . . the one you mentioned you have to take care of.” Eliza let go of his arm as she asked. “You’re doing this all for her?”
“Yeah.” Locke nodded. All of it is for her.
“Because you love her? And you would never want her to suffer?”
Eliza’s line of questioning was far more rhetorical than usual, and Locke wasn’t sure he liked it. She was generally forthright and went straight to the point in everything. “Yeah, pretty much.” What’s the point of this? If you know, then why are you going to keep prodding me about it?
“Would you ever want her to go through what you’re going through right now?” Eliza continued her Socratic interrogation. “Working hours on end, never taking a break, spending it in quiet solitude with no one to talk to?
“No, and that’s why I have to work so hard: so that my sister won’t have to.” Locke still had no clue what she was going on about, but she was right. He was wasting time. He should be returning to work and put this awkward conversation behind him so that he could focus on what he needed to do.
There was a small tug at the corners of her mouth and the hint of a scowl, about as much emotion as she ever showed, but she didn’t stop him this time. “Shy, if she loves you half as much as you love her, how do you think she’d feel knowing what you’re going through?”
She wouldn’t be happy at all, he answered silently as he returned Eliza’s weak frown. She’s right. She’s absolutely right. Locke had already known it long before Eliza had shown up today. She wasn’t the first person to have tried to tell him, but for some reason, it hit him this time. Perhaps it was just how depressed and bored he was today, but this time it stuck. All of his usual arguments dissipated before they were even made, and whatever justifications he had were out of the fight before they could even show up. So, lacking anything good to say, he just stared at her silently for a moment before he turned around and began working again.
“I rarely say this, and never before to one of you newcomers, but you’re not a bad person. You’re the type who really goes out of his way for the people he cares about. It’s just a shame you’re too selfish and stupid in other ways to let people see that. Even after those people called you a friend and fought to the death for you, you just acted like some self-serving jackass who couldn’t be bothered to so much as say hello the next day.”
“You done?” Locke said as he worked, still not even looking at her.
“No. I’m actually here on business--as I’m sure you noticed.” She hefted the bag of gold coins and the heavy clank of money inside could be heard. “This is a down payment from General Alex. I know how much you’re after gold, so I convinced him that you wouldn’t show up unless he had something to catch you’re interested with--and he did. Your meeting is scheduled with him tomorrow, an hour past noon at the Wench’s Best Bubbly Head. I’ll be around earlier if you have any questions you want to ask before he shows up.” She tossed the brown bag onto the ground beside him, and it landed with a heavy thunk.
Locke looked at the bag, momentarily chewing on his lip before reaching out and opening it to discover about as much gold as he would normally make in five days of farming. “Thank you,” he said to her. “Thank you for understanding.”
“I expect you’ll be there ahead of time.”
Locke turned to see Eliza’s concerned face. “Yeah, if you’ll be there at noon, I’ll show up at eleven,” he said as he clutched the money.
“Good. See you tomorrow, Shy. I expect you to have a drink waiting on me when I get there. Or I just might have to threaten your life for old time’s sake.” It would have clearly been a joke coming from anyone else, but Locke wasn’t so convinced.
Locke looked down at the bag as she left and couldn’t help but feel strange. This new concept of having someone else who was this concerned about him actually made him a little happy. So, it seems like I have a friend after all.
He had a feeling that the meeting was probably about the Demon Alliance wanting an exclusive contract, that Alex had probably sent her to fetch him because she already had a relationship with him, but that only explained the gold and the meeting. There was no way Locke could reason out her seeming to worry about him or the fact that she had wanted to meet him over an hour before the appointment with her boss. If it was just about potions and poisons, she’d want him to be working more, not less.
The more these types of thoughts rattled through his brain, the more Locke began to feel impulsive. He knew he was acting rash, that it wasn’t good and typical ‘Locke’ behavior, but he couldn’t help himself as he sent a quick note to Tubal: “The convention is still in town, right? When are you going to arrive, and what do I need to wear?”
He wasn’t sure if Tubal would even check his messages, especially if he was still at the convention. Or he might be having a late breakfast or an early lunch. There was no reason to expect an immediate reply, but that didn’t stop him from opening up his inbox every minute to see if there was any activity. Sure enough, on the fourth check, there was a response from Tubal:
“We’re heading to the hotel bar for lunch, the one called Hannibal’s Delicious Meats. It’s to the right of the Tiqpa booth. See you there, and make sure to wear this shade of blue if possible. Sampson will bring you a badge, so make sure your costume has a spot you don’t mind a little hot glue gun touching.”
Attached to the message was a sample hue of the color he needed to sport.
Locke immediately logged off and went to his closet and started looking for something close to that tint. Unfortunately for him, the only thing he could find in that shade was an old bathrobe a female acquaintance had given him a year after the accident. He had never really been one to wear bathrobes, but he also wasn’t one to throw anything away--especially if it might be worth something.
-----
He was almost overwhelmed with the number of people around him at the convention. Crowds weren’t normally a problem, but walking around in a blue bathrobe with only a pair of boxers underneath left him feeling embarrassed as he made his way through the mob. His reaction wasn’t due to any sort of modesty about his figure, but the fact that every one of the other attendees was in an absolutely amazing outfit. They were dressed as soldiers from hundreds of different comic books, heroes and heroines from different animes, games and movies, as every skimpy-yet-detailed fan-service girl or guy possible, and here he was just a chump in a bathrobe.
He did his best not to gawk at some of the outfits that seemed to defy physics or the ones that made him wonder how a person was inside of it as he made his way to the aforementioned restaurant to join the brigade for lunch. He was going to ignore every booth, as he was pressed for time and hated being late, but as he walked past the Tiqpa booth that was conveniently on the way to the restaurant, he couldn’t help but come to a full, stand-still stop and stare. Most of the costumes were amazing, and a lot of them made his brain itch trying to figure out how they were possible, but none of them came close this one: a perfectly representative model of Darwin, the Demon King, manning the Tiqpa booth.
Towering above everyone around him, the man looked to be almost ten feet tall with horns that were so large it looked like it would be impossible for most people’s necks to even support them as they continuously threatened to poke into the ceiling of the exhibition room. He was even wearing the trademark bathrobe with the spoon symbol that had made him so famous originally.
“You think they’re real?” a man dressed like a Jedi with a green lightsaber standing behind Locke asked his friend. “I mean, they have to be real, right? I mean, I know the horns are plastic, but they just . . . They look so realistic. You think he might have gotten them off some animal?”
“What animal has horns like that? Those are crazy,” a short girl dressed like what Locke could only assume was Velma from Scooby Doo responded.
“Well, what do you think he d
id for that suit? I can't even find a break between the muscle suit and his actual neck. It’s seamless,” the Jedi continued, raving about the outfit, and Locke couldn’t argue with the man’s opinion of the towering figure.
If Locke had been with anyone at the time, he probably would have been asking them the same questions as the guy behind him. Locke’s head couldn’t wrap around how the outfit worked. The legs didn’t match the proportions of someone who was on stilts, as the thighs and calves of the outfit were perfectly matched with the shins. “It’s almost like he’s the actual Demon King,” Locke said, not realizing the words had escaped his mouth.
“Yeah, you’re right about that.” The Jedi interpreted Locke’s words as him joining their conversation.
A bubblegum-chewing blonde walked up to the Demon King while this exchange was happening, whispered something in his ear and pointed at Locke.
Huh? Locke wondered as he saw it happening. The Demon King raised his chin in a sort of ‘come here’ motion toward Locke, and he was far too curious as to what this was about to even politely excuse himself from his accidental conversation with the Jedi cosplayer before he walked over.
“I see you’ve downgraded bathrobes,” the Demon King said by way of greeting, looking at the blue, slightly-frilly number Locke was sporting. Locke failed to hear the comment, however, as he was distracted by how the blonde had disappeared before he had been properly able to register she had left the Demon King’s side. The Demon King noticed Locke’s eyes looking for her and chuckled at him. “It’s disconcerting, but you get used to it. It’s like they all watched Batman and decided that disappearing mid-conversation without anyone seeing them leave was the best way to make a dramatic exit. I’m Darwin. It’s a nice to meet you.”
“Ummm . . . Hi. I’m Locke.” Locke extended his hand nervously. He didn’t like that this situation made him anxious, but every mob he had run into in Tiqpa seemed childlike when compared to the intimidating giant in front of him. The rational part of Locke’s brain kept telling him over and over again that this was just a costume, that the man in front of him was a regular guy and not a muscular, oversized demon that could probably crush Locke with one hand by accident. “Nice to meet you too.”
The demon extended his hand. “Locke? Is that the name you’re going by these days?” The giant grinned down at him.
“Well--” Locke was taken back. Wait, does he know my in-game name? No, he couldn’t. There is no way. Locke’s anxiety doubled as the giant went from both physically intimidating to unnervingly aware of Locke’s personal life. No, a lot of people who play Tiqpa have an alternate name. I’m just one of the few that didn’t. Of course his guess would usually be right.
“Don’t worry about it. I have to run. My friends are expecting to have lunch with me. I just wanted to put a face and name to the man wearing one of my old bathrobes. I’ll be seeing you.” Darwin turned around and left as two people, both red-eyed men in bathrobes with spears and shields, took his place at the Tiqpa booth.
That was so weird. Locke shook his head clear of the bizarre encounter and walked into the restaurant. He had expected it to be difficult to find the table where the rest of the gang was, especially given the fact that Tubal was the only one who had an avatar that might actually be an accurate representation of himself--unless, of course, Sampson was secretly so ugly and large that a minotaur actually suited her--but fortunately enough, he was spotted before he even had time to look.
“Shy!” A tall man, though one that seemed much shorter than he should after Locke’s encounter with Darwin, came up and put an arm on Locke’s shoulder. He was wearing a long dark pea coat, a shirt that matched the blue Locke was told to wear and had a matching solid-colored scarf wrapped around his neck. To top off his costume, he was wearing the most classically-British of deerstalker hats. “How are you, chap?! Right, right, cheerio and whatnot,” the man, whose face was so perfectly handsome as to actually be irritating, said in the most awkward and awful English accent Locke had ever heard.
“Sherlock?” Locke took a guess at the obvious costume.
“People keep asking me that, but I tell them that just because you’re a tall, handsome and intelligent guy with uncanny powers of deduction, it doesn’t mean you’re Sherlock.” The man stuck out his chest. “Most of the time, I go by the name Reginald.
Reginald? This guy? Locke felt like all the slaps upside the head were just some form of cosmic justice for poor Reginald now. There is nothing worse than an arrogant guy who actually has something to be arrogant about. Locke shook his head and then remembered that Reginald was the butt of most jokes in the Blue Phoenix Brigade. Wait, don’t tell me the others feel the same way? It’s not just that he’s immature?
“So he turned up after all?” A man dressed in a full green archer outfit with a few blue feathers sticking out of his cap for comic relief said from a table to Locke’s right. It was one of the high, round tables one usually sees at bars: tall enough for someone to stand next to, but with stools to match in case people wanted to sit.
“Tubal?” Locke guessed.
“I prefer the name Robin Hood if you don’t mind,” the archer replied in a familiar Bostonian accent and flashed a smile, showing off a full set of teeth that were a bit yellow from either coffee or cigarettes.
Locke couldn’t put much attention into checking his costume though, as on the right of him were two people each wearing full Master Chief outfits from Halo. One was yellow, and the other was blue. Don’t tell me . . . “Katherine and Bianca?” he asked, looking directly at them.
“Actually,” the Master Chief with a yellow outfit said through a voice modulator. “I’m Spartan, he’s Chief,” the voice finished, patting the blue Master Chief.
So . . . I’m never going to find out, am I? he sighed.
“It really is just better to think of them as both dudes . . . or both girls,” Reginald whispered in his ear as if he could perfectly read Locke’s thoughts, but loud enough so that the group could hear him.
“Psh, whatever gender they are, at least they aren’t total d--” a short Asian girl in blue overalls with a big, fake moustache and a southern accent started before being cut off by a loud thud.
“Language,” said a brown-haired woman dressed in a sort of space cowboy outfit, complete with the gun she slammed on the table as she chastised her companion. “Now listen here, y’all,” the woman said in a terrible impression of southern and Midwestern put together that barely covered the true accent she shared with Tubal and made Reginald’s earlier attempts at British sound passable, “despite the pervasive distribution of alcohol, this here is a family establishment. A family establishment with beer, mind you, but still a good place meant for good folk, and I will not have y’all ruin it with bad language or talk about his or her hoo-hahs. You hear me?”
“So you’re Sampson.” Locke looked at the Asian dressed like a farmer. “And you must be Sparky,” he added as he looked over at the gun-toting girl with a sheriff's badge on her holstered vest. Between her serious tone, undisguisable accent and process of elimination, it was clear that this one had to be Sparky.
“You call me by a dog’s name again, boy, and I’ll make you so holey they’ll think you was a preacher man on Sunday. You get my drift, son?”
“Yes, but umm . . . what do I call you, then?” Locke’s eyes darted to Tubal as he asked this, remembering that it was Tubal who had first introduced the two of them, or rather introduced all of them.
“Don’t be rude in front of a law officer. Look right at me when you’re talking to me,” Sparky called out, drawing his attention back to her. She started staring him down as she leaned in from the other side of the table to where he sat down and said, “My name is Space Marshal Rem Striker, and don’t you forget it. Though if you must call me by a shortened name, I’ll settle for Rem or Marshal, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Locke said.
“She’s so hot when she talks like that,” Reginald managed t
o whisper, this time well enough that no one heard him.
“Yeah,” Locke mouthed. “I’m, umm, sorry. I just was trying to put faces with the names. Didn't mean to be rude.”
“Oh, she’s just mad at you for leaving so abruptly and not saying anything for a week. We thought we’d never see you again, and Sparky doesn’t take abandonment from cute guys well,” Tubal laughed as he put a hand up to adjust his hat.
“Oh, now he’s cute?” the little Asian woman asked.
“Isn’t that what you said earlier, too?” Tubal returned her question.
“Don’t let it get to your head. They think every new guy in the group is cute. They even said I was good looking when we first met.” Reginald laughed, and his grin reminded Locke of the joker in a deck of cards as he sat down. Then, returning to his British voice, he added, “I deduce that these ladies have a job that has them looking at computer screens more than male faces.” He puffed his pipe a few times for effect.
You, not handsome? Freaking Adonis, what the heck does that make me? Locke made a mental note to never take Reginald as a wingman in the future.
“I reckon this is why people hit you on the back of the head so much,” Rem Striker said, pulling out a case of what appeared to be cigarettes at first, but upon closer inspection as Rem removed one of the long, white sticks, were clearly candies shaped to look exactly like the genuine article. She proceeded to put one in her mouth and take a long fake drag like it was the real deal before chasing it with water--as if the water was a glass of scotch.