by Bryan Bliss
“Masterson. Are you training for Pamplona?”
“What?”
His confusion was only tempered by the relief he felt when he saw Brezzen sitting at his desk. But Brezzen, like the rest of the class, was more concerned about how Mr. Bruns would choose to eviscerate the Great Mandolini. He’d never been much of a single combat player, so it was likely going to be quick and bloody.
“You came running into my class like a bull was chasing you,” Bruns said. “And, typically, there aren’t bulls in the hallways here, save Neanderthals like Guthrie over there.”
A thick-necked kid in the front row laughed once and shook his head. “That ain’t right, Mr. Bruns. You know that ain’t right.”
Bruns ignored him, his full attention on the Great Mandolini.
“So, Masterson. Are you going to come running into my classroom again like a bull was chasing you?”
“No, sir.”
“Excellent. Moving on.”
The Great Mandolini rushed toward his desk. When he sat down next to Brezzen, the Great Mandolini was eyes-forward for the first few minutes of class. But once Bruns lost his mind because Alice in the office paged his room in the middle of what he called a “soliloquy on the capitalist agenda,” the Great Mandolini turned to Brezzen and shot him a dirty look.
“I was waiting for you at the front door, man.”
“I got here early,” Brezzen said, speaking out the side of his mouth. He watched Mr. Bruns stand on a desk and disconnect the wires from the speaker, all to the applause of the classroom.
“It’s fine. I was just making sure you made it to class. But it looks like I worried for nothing.”
Eventually Mr. Bruns went back to his lesson and the class returned to its normal, if not frenetic, pace. When the class ended, Brezzen stood up before the Great Mandolini. Alaina gave him a smile.
“See you around, Brendan.”
“Okay,” Brezzen said.
“What just happened.”
Brezzen turned around and the Great Mandolini was slack-jawed and smiling, a combination Brezzen wouldn’t have thought was possible until he saw it.
“What?”
“Why is Alaina Mitchell talking to you?”
“We were in Mrs. Tate’s class together. Mountain View Elementary School.”
“And? You know, I was in that class, too,” the Great Mandolini said. “I literally sat right behind her!”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Brezzen said. “She said it was nice to see me.”
“What,” the Great Mandolini said. “This is madness. Utter madness.”
“I have high charisma.”
The Great Mandolini laughed loudly.
“Yeah, that’s not true. Do you remember that time you went into that inn at the start of the Two Brothers Campaign because you wanted some—what? Lamb stew?—and your complete lack of social skills and abilities made the owner of the inn pull a knife on you.”
Brezzen laughed.
“Luckily I’m fast.”
“Now, that is true.” The Great Mandolini looked at the doorway, now empty. “But Alaina Mitchell? Jesus, dude. She’s way above your level.”
The Great Mandolini hadn’t told Bork about the new plan for TA period, because when Brezzen walked into the room, Bork had already loaded the computers—and was now complaining loudly.
“C’mon man. I want to play Interdiction. It’s, like, the perfect length. And we’ll never be able to finish a campaign in the same amount of time. It will take forever.”
The Great Mandolini was pulling out a bag of dice and some character sheets they must’ve used at some point in the last couple of years. They wouldn’t be current, which normally would bother Brezzen, but it didn’t matter at the moment.
He’d spent most of the last night working through the various things Iaophos had said to him. Tried to think about what he was supposed to find or discover and why she was so intent on messing up even the simplest game mechanics. But then, frustrated and almost ready to fall asleep, he remembered something else she’d said.
He looked happy.
Or at least, in his near-REM state, that’s how he interpreted it now. And it wasn’t even happiness, necessarily, but instead something he could only describe as expectation. He was looking forward to something that, while familiar, was also new. And he couldn’t remember the last time he had fallen asleep at night anticipating anything.
“Plus, I have a great idea,” the Great Mandolini said. “Brendan, pull out the map you made.”
Brezzen hesitated, not only because the reaction to the old map had not exactly been positive in almost every case, but also because Bork looked ready to rip apart the next thing he set his eyes on. Reluctantly, Brezzen pulled out the new map and laid it flat on the large project table that stood between all of them.
“Whoa,” the Great Mandolini said. “You made a new one?”
“You said make a new map. So I made a new map.”
“The other one looked like he’d drawn it with his left hand,” the Great Mandolini said to Bork. “Oh, wait—maybe he did it with his eyes closed.”
Bork laughed, which made Brezzen feel a little more comfortable. The Great Mandolini spun the map so Bork could see it a little better.
“It’s the school. It’s Ford,” Bork said.
“Think about this: what if we ran a campaign—an otherwise normal Wizards and Warriors campaign—but it took place here in the school? Like, we can make the various teachers monsters. Or other students. Whatever we want!”
The Great Mandolini threw his hands around excitedly as he painted a picture of the campaign, waiting for Brezzen and Bork to match his enthusiasm. Bork rubbed his chin and looked at the map and then to Brezzen, and then back to the map.
“Okay, I’m not going to lie. That’s a good idea.”
The Great Mandolini grabbed Bork by the shoulders, shaking him happily. Bork, laughing, pushed him away and went to turn off the computers. When the last one powered down, he spun around, finger and thumb pinching his ear, and said, “Player.”
“Shit.” The Great Mandolini grabbed his own ear. And quickly said, “Player.”
Brezzen was a second too late—well, five. And that’s when he realized that he was going to be stuck being GM, which wasn’t bad, per se. But you always wanted to play. Especially in a campaign like this one. The sort of thing that would yield countless stories later.
“I feel like we need three players on this one,” the Great Mandolini said carefully. He was watching Brezzen, who would never admit that he was disappointed by being GM. It was considered crass, even among high school boys.
But he was excited to play with them again, even if he ended up guiding the campaign.
“Oh, great. Does that mean we have to ask Hunter to be the GM? That guy never gives loot and I swear he gets off on killing my characters.”
Brezzen had only done one campaign with Hunter, a senior who liked to wear fingerless gloves and a sleeveless denim jacket, no matter the weather, and always smelled like a campfire.
“He’s free this period,” the Great Mandolini said. “I always see him in the library, looking up different lores and mythologies. Okay, you’re right. We can’t let him GM.”
Bork sat down and put his feet up on the table, his hands behind his head. “Understand that I’m not trying to sabotage us when I say this . . . but we could just play Interdiction today and then do the campaign at my house this weekend.”
“There’s something subversive about doing it at school,” the Great Mandolini said. “But I don’t know. Maybe that is just easier. What do you think, Brendan?”
Brezzen didn’t want to play Interdiction, but he also didn’t know how to solve their GM problem. Of course, he could just take one for the party and be the GM—he was good at coming up with campaign stories, always had been. But the Great Mandolini was right when he said this felt like a campaign they should to do together. For old time’s sake. For restarting their
friendship. Hell, just for the fun of it.
“I have an idea,” Brezzen said, starting for the door. He could feel the Great Mandolini tense up, but before he could object, Brezzen said, “Trust me.”
Brezzen walked into Mr. Bruns’s room just as he was about to open his sandwich, which looked exactly the same as the one he’d eaten yesterday. Mr. Bruns stared at Brezzen like he’d just stormed into his house. Naked. With his ax.
“Yes?”
Brezzen froze.
Mr. Bruns seemed legitimately pissed at his presence, even though he’d told him to stop by if he needed anything. And he definitely needed something now. But the way he glared at Brezzen led him to believe he might not be interested in being the second-choice GM for a bunch of kids who he might actually loathe.
“Speak or be gone,” Mr. Bruns said.
“I—no, we—were wondering if you’d help us out and be the GM for a little campaign we’re trying to run here at the school during your free period.”
Mr. Bruns didn’t wait even a second.
“No.”
He wielded the word like a one-handed ax, a stealth dagger, a weapon pulled out before you knew what was happening. Just a flash and then, damage.
Brezzen stepped back.
“Oh. Okay. Well, never mind.”
“Thank you for the invitation. And I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
Brezzen stood there until Mr. Bruns hit him with those laser beam eyes, burning right through him. Brezzen backed out of the room, as if Mr. Bruns was a fifth-class creature, cornered and snarling, and ran back to the computer lab.
The Great Mandolini and Bork were on their phones, scrolling mindlessly. The Great Mandolini saw him first.
“Dang, man. Where did you go?”
“To the comic shop. To buy a GM,” Bork cracked.
“I went to talk to Mr. Bruns.”
“What. God. Why?” The Great Mandolini seemed personally and morally offended by even the mention of the teacher’s name.
“He plays. Or played. He and his friends used to play during their gym class, under the bleachers.”
The Great Mandolini was shocked.
“You’ve been back in school for, like, four days. How do you know all of this?”
Brezzen shrugged.
“The guy is a psychopath,” Bork said, looking to the Great Mandolini for confirmation, which he immediately got. “He’s undeniably worse than Hunter. He would probably come in here, start talking about the industrial revolution, and then when that made us fall asleep, he’d say that we’d all been killed by the bourgeoisie or something.”
“And there’s no way he gives loot,” the Great Mandolini said.
“Oh-oh!” Bork slapped the table, laughing. “No, you’d get loot and then you’d have to redistribute it to the masses.”
They were all laughing now.
Brezzen felt like he should defend Mr. Bruns, or at least make a stronger case for his candidacy. The man was obviously just like them—or had been at one point. He’d basically said that they used Wizards & Warriors to escape in high school. It seemed perfect for Bruns, who seemingly would love a campaign that unabashedly lampooned the teachers and students in the school.
It was the guy’s brand. Or so Brezzen had assumed.
“Listen,” Bork said. “We’ll play at my house this weekend. I’ll see if my brother will GM. If he’s not working, he’ll give us at least one Saturday night. Trust me when I say, he’s not using them.”
It was almost time to go to their next class, which only made the feeling that they’d wasted a precious opportunity sharper. Brezzen imagined the built-in urgency of every encounter, every roll, if they had to play with limited time. He didn’t know if speed Wizards & Warriors was a thing, but the idea of it seemed not only natural, but maybe preferable.
“So, this weekend,” the Great Mandolini said. “That works for me. Are we doing an old-school, Friday-Saturday campaign?”
“I’m down,” Bork said. “Brendan?”
When they were kids, really only a few years younger than they were now, but it seemed like a lifetime ago, they would run home from school. Stop at their houses long enough to grab whatever snacks they could pillage and, if their mothers were around to force them, a spare set of clothes and a toothbrush, neither of which would be needed the second they were back together.
They played all night. All day. They barely stopped for bathroom breaks, let alone meals. And if you had to go or you were hungry, well, you better move fast because the time was limited and maybe that was the genesis of everything between them.
They never felt the same urgency during the long, hot summers when days were endless. Only on the weekends. Only when they knew it was going to end.
The weekend would be fine, but it still felt different.
“I’m down,” Brezzen finally said.
Iaophos wanted to know whether the glasses had helped, but Brezzen hadn’t even thought to use them. Instead, all he talked about was this new campaign. His plans for the weekend. And, for a brief second, the way Mr. Bruns had savagely declined his invitation.
“And how did that make you feel?” Iaophos asked.
“It pissed me off!” Brezzen said, feeling almost frenetic with energy. “I’m sorry for the language, Iaophos. But sometimes you just have to say how you feel.”
She laughed. “I would agree with that, with the added caveat that, maybe, Mr. Bruns had his reasons for not wanting to GM a student Wizards and Warriors campaign on his only off period of the day.”
Brezzen still thought it was a missed opportunity for the man.
“I guess. Anyway, this campaign is going to be classic,” he said. “We’re going to use my map but, like, we’ll play our characters—so like, orcs and tieflings and, hell, maybe even a dwarf or two, all running around Ford High School. It’s just . . .”
He sighed. It was epic. That was the best and only word to describe it. The word had been so de-fanged that now, when a truly epic thing occurred, Brezzen couldn’t properly describe how he was feeling.
But this was going to be epic. And they were going to play it accordingly.
“So, you made a new map?” Iaophos said. “Tell me about that.”
He pulled the map out, flattened it in front of them. “The other one was just for me. We needed something better for the new campaign.”
Iaophos reached down and picked up the map, turning it so she could see the details he’d continued adding throughout the day.
“So tell me what excites you about the new campaign.”
Brezzen wasn’t sure where to start. “Well, it’s a unique idea. Like, I’ve never once heard about something like this. And I really missed my friends, so getting to play with them is going to be great. I mean, no offense. I like our campaigns. But this is different.”
“None taken,” Iaophos said, smiling.
“And . . . I won’t be able to use any of the items I’ve gotten with you,” Brezzen said. “You understand. It’s fun and everything, but they’re all so overpowered. There’s no way the Great Mandolini or Bork would allow me to bring them. It would ruin everything.”
Iaophos gave him a strange look.
“Oh,” he said, clearing his throat and shifting his weight in the chair. “Theo. And Kenny.”
“Well, I’m sure Theo and Kenny will understand if you ever need to use any of the items,” Iaophos said.
“Yeah, maybe. But sometimes it’s just fun starting over—having to build the character and figure things out.”
“I think that makes perfect sense,” Iaophos said, crossing her legs and waiting for Brezzen to say more.
But he was ready to go home, to speed through the rest of the day—the rest of the week—ready to reclaim a little part of his childhood and go running home on that Friday night. To spend every waking moment rolling and running and fighting whatever appeared in front of them.
Chapter Seven
THAT DAY HAD STARTED OFF THE WA
Y MOST DAYS started.
He woke up, put on clothes—smelling the “I roll to seduce the dragon” T-shirt he’d worn over the weekend. If he steered clear of his mother, it would be fine.
And he did.
He snuck out without saying good-bye to either her or his dad, one of them in the shower and the other getting dressed in their room. The walk to school wasn’t far and the winter had been light so far—no snow, no wind, and the sort of cold that was subjective at best.
So he started walking up the paved road that spun around one of the foothills that, miles away, turned into actual mountains. And then onto an unpaved driveway to pick up Theo, who lived in an old farmhouse on fifty acres that had once been for cattle, but now were nothing more than a chore and a constant source of bitching for his friend.
They walked together, the way they had as kids, headed to school.
Still kids.
When Ford came into sight, something inside of him dipped.
He used to believe that he had some kind of special power, a kind of mental ability that allowed him to see into the future, hazy as it might be, in a way that bypassed his eyes and went straight to his gut. It made him think about the old science fiction novels he’d found on his father’s bookshelf, stories about poor farmhands who lived in a world without magic—or so they thought—only to discover that they were the last, or maybe the first, person to possess those skills in generations.
That morning something dipped, but they kept walking because magic had never proven itself to be real outside of their weekly Wizards & Warriors campaigns.
At school Kenny hopped up from the bench he’d been waiting on, shoving his phone into his pocket and telling them something—Brezzen couldn’t remember what he said now—that got all of them laughing until they split up with barely a good-bye, going their separate ways, down different hallways that had never felt very far from one another.
He was walking slowly, his head in his phone. The first person running didn’t make him look up. And neither did the second. The third one ran into him and he saw her face. That look would be written across his memory for the rest of his life. Before she could say anything, he heard the first shots. One after another, maybe fifteen. Twenty. He stood there with his phone in his hand, right in the middle of the hallway, everybody running around him.