by Parker Tiden
"Give me names."
"It's too early to tell."
"We need the information now; those players are exposed and could be in danger. Now, that would be an epic PR disaster, should one of them get knocked off."
"Fine," she sighed, walking towards the door as if to show them out. "I'll get back to you by the end of the day."
"By the end of the day ain't good enough, they’ll be dead by then," Tristan said, not budging. His cell buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the message. He turned to Maria. "I've got to go. Stay here and make sure Alphacore delivers what we need in 30 minutes."
Maria nodded unconvincingly. She was probably not relishing the idea of riding her idol.
Going Rogue
Tristan checked the message again as he started the Caprice: GO TO OFFICE ASAP R. He drove as fast as the hunk of metal would take him, swerving in and out of traffic and taking a half-dozen illegal turns. The hopeless suspension made it feel like riding butter. Finally, at his workstation, he docked right into the FBI Alphacore office.
Rembrandt was there, waiting for him, among the metal desks and filing cabinets. "What took you so long?" he said. "This place gives me the creeps."
"Sorry to hear that," Tristan answered. "We go above and beyond to ensure a satisfying experience for our taxpayers."
"Just remind me to never set foot here again."
"Spit it out, and you'll be out of here before you know it."
"Remember that AVI file you gave me? Well, we cleaned it up," Rembrandt said while he projected a light onto the nearest wall. "I thought you should see what we found sooner," the cleaned-up film began to play, "rather than later."
Things have a tendency to cluster. Tristan had just logged out of Alphacore when he glanced up and saw Maria come running from the front of the operations room. She was almost out of breath when she reached his desk. She plunked down into her chair and pulled in close to him.
"I didn't want to use electronic communication on this one," she said, recovering from her sprint. "Don't know who to trust nowadays." When he gave her a spit-it-out-look, she got to the point. "We think we've got a name on that dwarf of yours. The Alphacore forensics team were able to isolate the name that the programmer had leaked before he got his brains blown out." Finally, a break. "The gamer’s handle is Luna_tic, and her IP address points us to a street address not more than a couple of hours away, traffic willing."
Tristan was just about to say that they needed to leave now, when he saw Richards come walking down the aisle. He put a hand on Maria's shoulder. "Wait here."
"Her name is Lily," Maria said. "Lily Anderson, she is daughter to—"
"Sam Anderson... Jesus Christ, we should have figured that one out." He turned towards the oncoming traffic. Goddamn it, he's still fidgeting with that thing, it must be a diagnosis, Tristan thought as he met Richards halfway down the aisle.
"Ah, Casco... good job on that sweatshop by the way," Richards said, spinning the fidget spinner. He gestured towards the front of the rooms, "Maybe we should take this in my office."
"I'm on a tight schedule," Tristan said and stood with both feet on the ground, where he was, in the middle of the bustling operations room.
“Things might work out for you here after all,” Richard continued. Tristan was in no mood for small-talk. Luckily, Richards got to the signal. "I just got off the phone with the folks at intelligence. They really appreciate the excellent spirit of cooperation we've shown, but their investigation is entering a new phase." Tristan knew where this was going, but he remained stone-faced, so Richards just continued. "They have asked me to ask you to drop it, to back off. I hereby do just that. Back off, Casco."
They say that you are the sum of your decisions. This was never clearer to Tristan than right now. As the trajectory of the rest of his life unfolded before him, he said, simply, "No." He'd be dammed if he were going to fail not just one teenage girl, but two.
"What?" Richards said with genuine surprise, giving his spinner an extra spin. "May I remind you of your station here... and in life in general."
"Don't you go there, Richards. Christ, I will knock you out cold and stuff that spinner so far up your ass, it will be spinning fecal matter in your mouth," Tristan said matter-of-factly.
"That's it. Thanks for giving me a reason. You're suspended," Richards said, trying not to betray a measure of fear. "Without pay. Hand over your gun and badge."
Without saying another word, Tristan rounded Richards and headed for the elevator. His Glock was snuggly in his shoulder holster and his badge was firmly on his belt. Screw these nerds.
"And the same goes for anyone who helps him!" Richards yelled, his voice hitting unwanted high pitches.
The operations room was quiet as Tristan continued along what suddenly felt like a gangplank, doing his best to control his limp. Tristan reached the elevator and pressed the button. It felt like forever, but finally, the doors slid open and he stepped in. The doors started to slide shut, but then suddenly stopped. A small arm was stuck in between them, and they opened again. There, in front of him, stood Maria with a grin on her face.
Tristan and Maria got out into the parking lot. "You don't have to do this," he said.
"Yes, I do," she replied.
Tristan popped the trunk of his Caprice and pulled out a standard-issue Remington 870 shotgun, and a couple of boxes of rounds. "This is for you," he said, handing Maria the flak jacket. "Where's your car?"
Maria pointed to the faded light-blue Mazda Miata convertible parked a few spaces down. "Christ, this car is older than you. I think you better drive," Tristan said as he squeezed awkwardly into the passenger seat. "Give me your phone." Maria handed hers over. "You still got that address you were talking about?" Maria pointed to her head and nodded. He rolled down the passenger side window and proceeded to throw the phone, together with his own, out of the car’s window.
"What are we waiting for?" he said. Maria gunned the engine, as much as the crappy engine really could be gunned, and peeled out of the parking space.
Miata on Highway 1
Maria pushed the Miata to the limit across Highway 1's winding asphalt. Tristan squeezed his left leg and winced. That the car was cramped and damp sure wasn't making things any better. If he hadn't pulled that stunt back at HQ, he would be in an FBI chopper just about now. Maria glanced over at him, "Want to talk about it?" she asked loudly to compete with the road noise.
"About what?"
"About what happened over there."
He sighed, leaned his head back against the headrest, and closed his eyes.
"Bad luck, that's what happened over there."
Maria shifted in her seat uncomfortably, already regretting her question.
"In a previous life, I was part of the bureau's Hostage Rescue Team, believe it or not," he said, motioning to his leg.
“Believable.”
"I was embedded with a Delta team in Afghanistan—a knowledge transfer initiative. We were out to catch some terrorists deep in Helmand when everything went to hell."
"I'm sorry."
"You shouldn't be. I knew what I was getting into. Took a bullet to my left thigh here," he said, feeling the scar through his pants. "I was lucky... we lost two that night..."
A year of recovery and rehab followed his return state-side, but the pain in his leg never really went away, neither did the memories of that night—the fear, the confusion, the blood, and the buddies they lost. He was transferred out of the HRT and ended up at the Cyber Gaming Unit. Not exactly a great fit. His marriage fell apart in tandem with his career—the pain killers didn't help.
He opened his eyes again, and to his right, through the car window, he caught a glimpse of the Pacific, the whitecaps stretched all the way across Monterey Bay, Santa Cruz on the other side.
The late autumn sun had just dropped below the horizon when they pulled up to the house. It was in the kind of neighborhood that would forever be out of reach for him. What were
the chances that the person they were looking for lived less than two hours from the office? They got out of the Miata, the coke can of a car had done a number on his leg, and for a moment, he thought the leg would let him down completely. Ever since his rehabilitation ended, he had refused to use a cane. He managed to shake off the worst of it. He asked Maria to stay by the car.
He limped up the driveway and rang the doorbell. From the muffled sound, he knew someone was at home. Out of habit, he unclipped his holster and placed his hand on his gun. He took five steps sideways back from the door, just in case anyone inside should be inclined to blast a shotgun through it. After what felt like forever, but was probably just 30 seconds, a striking woman with melancholic eyes opened the door.
He showed her his badge, "Mrs. Anderson?"
"Is it about Lily, again?" she asked.
"Yes."
"One of your colleagues was here not an hour ago."
"Huh, so much for intra-agency coordination," Tristan said as if to laugh it off. "I'm with the cyber gaming unit. Do you have any information about Lily's whereabouts?"
She seemed anxious suddenly. "Like I told your colleague, I don't know where she is. She said that she was going to some event for a couple of days." She hesitated for a second, "I know how it sounds, but—"
"Hey, I've got a teenager too, I know how it is," Tristan lied. He did have a teenager, but he hadn't been allowed to find out how it was to have one.
"Agent Maxwell didn't say anything about her being in danger," she said, suddenly anxious. "Your tone of voice..."
"We don't know if she's in danger," Tristan lied again, "but we would like to locate her as soon as possible. Does she have a cell phone?"
"No, I don't think so, not since Sam died."
Tristan was about to give his cell number to her, should Lily get in touch, but remembered that he had chucked his and Maria's phones out the window. He should've got a burner, but it's too late now, rookie mistake. Telling her to call the FBI field office was not an option.
"Thank you for your time," Tristan said. "I'll let you know as soon as we get any information," telling a final lie. Halfway down the front steps, he turned back, "Wait! Ms. Anderson?" The front door opened again. "Sorry to bother you again, but you don't happen to have a recent picture of her, do you?"
Ms. Anderson left the door ajar as she disappeared for less than a minute. She returned with what looked like a yearbook and flipped it open to a specific page. She tilted the book towards him and pointed, "There she is. This is what she looked like before he died."
"Thank you, ma’am." He took the yearbook from her hands. "I'll get this back to you."
Maria was leaning against the Miata in her baseball cap as he limped down the walkway. He shook his head. She just smiled.
He slammed the car door shut and closed his eyes. “What are you smiling about?” he asked, mostly rhetorically.
"As a matter of fact."
"Well?" he sat up.
"I suggest we head north, to the Moscone."
"The city?"
"Yep, they've got a gathering of gaming nerds there, starting today. And it just so happens that our target is one of them." Maria put the Miata in gear and pulled out onto the street.
"How?"
"While you were wasting your time with that milf, I was working the neighbors. Their son is with her. I saw the daughter in the driveway and smooth-talked her. You know, de mujer a mujer."
Master Chief and Star Lord
"Wait, did I miss something?" Tristan said as he took in the lobby of the Moscone Centre. "I thought Halloween was over already." Gamers were milling about, some in costumes of varying ambition—from your basic cape and helmet, through tight-fitting corsets and thigh-high boots, to full-body suits with integrated electric motors and smoke machines.
"Cosplay," Maria explained. "I used to dabble in it myself, you know, before joining the bureau."
"You seem so competent and rational," he said and smiled. "I keep forgetting you came from this world."
Maxwell could be here already, and considering their rogue status, he wasn't about to announce to the world that they had arrived, so no showing of badge and demanding access. They needed to go stealth. To add a further complication, they weren't registered and didn't have tickets. As he took in the main entrance, he was struck by the excessive perimeter defense—what with a half-dozen refrigerator-sized men in tight black Alphacore t-shirts manning the checkpoint. The men weren't armed as far as he could tell, but they might as well have been.
Tristan tightened the grip on the duffle bag in his left hand. It contained his trusted shotgun. He glanced over at Maria, her eyes lit up as she took in all the characters and the general nerd landscape. Tristan grabbed her by the elbow and led her away from the checkpoint, well aware that he wasn't blending in—he was still wearing his crumpled suit.
He was just turning back around to say something to Maria when he hit something hard and nearly landed on his ass. "Hey! Watch it!" came from behind a military green full-face helmet with a visor. He took in the full-body armor in front of him and grabbed the arm. "FBI, come with me."
"Get off of me, grandpa," armor said and pulled away.
"Nice Master Chief, kid," Maria said. "Is that the prestige model?"
"No way would I buy off the rack," an offended voice came from behind the helmet. "It's 3D printed."
"Of course, I can see that now, the workmanship is sweet," Maria continued, glancing and nodding towards Tristan. "Master Chief, we have a mission for you. A mission of a lifetime."
The stench of the teenage boy was overwhelming inside the helmet, but Tristan didn't have much of a choice. He was now a limping Master Chief—apparently the main character in a game called Halo—in a helmet and full-body (plastic) armor several sizes too small. Maria had somehow managed to smooth-talk the previous owner to part with it. He made a mental note to ask her what it cost her when all this was over. To top that, she'd finagled the kid's girlfriend out of a red Star Lord costume for herself. It came complete with a gray mask and a low, real low, cut top that surely wasn't part of the original. Maria helpfully informed him that Star Lord was a member of the Guardians of the Galaxy franchise, not that it meant anything to him.
"What, you've never seen a pair of these before?" Maria said, pulling at her costume, trying to fit her various body parts in the tightness.
"It's been a while."
"Here," Maria held up two pieces of paper at face level, clearly trying to divert his attention away from her cleavage. "I've got tickets too."
Tristan stuffed the duffle bag behind a fern standing in a corner of the massive foyer, forlorn and incongruous, a remnant of some past conference—maybe podiatrists. Tristan couldn't swing getting the shotgun past the guards, but his Glock sat nicely in Master Chief's holster. Conveniently enough, Star Lord also has a holster. The guards, distracted by Maria's outfit, just scanned their tickets and let them through without checking identification. They were in.
The Urge
I don't know how we did it, but somehow, we hightailed out of the upside-down and ended up on a farm in the outskirts of town. It looked like a farm out of a 50s movie, a house, wooden barn, and hay. The difference was the blood. The fields surrounding the farm were strewn with the bodies of the obliterated. Olfactory simulation hadn't yet been incorporated into Alphacore, but I could still smell the blood. We were constantly one step behind the mayhem, a good thing admittedly.
I looked up from my screen with no concept of how much time had passed in real life. The red lights above the computer stations were now in a clear majority, the counter stood at 965 teams left in the game.
"Tell me if I've got this right. Half the teams have been wiped out, and we've barely fired a shot. Where is the honor in that?" I asked.
The smattering of gunfire and thuds of explosions were uncomfortably close. "Be careful what you ask for," Nuffian said as all four of us took cover behind a blown-out harvester. Our map i
ndicated a possible enemy presence in the farmhouse not more than 50 feet from us.
Suddenly, Girth let out a long guttural exhale, sounding almost like a sea lion, as he closed his eyes.
I quickly gripped my MP5 and peeked out from behind the harvester, ready to engage whoever had just hit him.
"Is this really the best time?" Jarno sighed.
I looked over to George IRL on my right. He had his eyes closed and held one hand between his legs.
"Lazy bastard is pissing in a bottle. It's a bad habit," Nick explained with a smile.
George suddenly jolted back in pain, the bottle almost slipping out of his hand. I could only hope he had finished whatever he was doing.
I quickly turned back to the screen and Alphacore. Girth had been hit—not fatally. "Next time, turn off your volt feedback before taking a leak, you dope," I said.
"Hey, I didn't know they would open fire, and besides, considering the rate at which I've been pounding the jolt, it was bound to happen," Girth said, his voice strained.
I peeked out from behind the harvester and sent a hail of burning metal towards the farmhouse. Nuffian and Jarno also opened fire. Bastards in the house returned fire.
"Just 35 percent of my strength gone. I'm as good as new!" Girth said.
"Girth, you stay here," Nuffian ordered as he chucked two smoke grenades towards the house. "Cover us."
The smoke gave us some cover as Nuffian, Jarno, and I ran for the house. The bullets pierced the smoke around us. "I'll go," Jarno volunteered and whipped out his pump-action shotgun, ideal for close-quarter combat.
"No, I'm going first. I need to kill something, fast," I said as I clapped a bayonet onto my little friend, my MP5.
"Luna!" Nuffian cried and lobbed two grenades through the windows on each side of the front door of the farmhouse, and one at the door itself. Three near-simultaneous bangs and I breached blindly through the door. A wet crunch, and there, mere inches away from my face, was the face of a female warrior with striking elven features. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. I looked down to discover that my bayonet was lodged in her chest. I pulled it up into her rib cage for good measure and she let out a final blood-soaked cry. The elven beauty and I stood in the middle of the room, bound together in our dance of death. All around me were sounds of battle.