The Night is Cold Under the Black Sun
The Machine
Chapter 1
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The last time I woke after being killed I was in bed, my face smothered under the belly of a five hundred pound sumo wrestler wearing a loincloth. The time before that I was gift-wrapped in a Russian flag with the hammer and sickle covering my private parts. The hammer had converted to capitalism, and they were in full-on combat, fighting over the merits of Marxist-Leninism. The sickle came close to castrating me. The programmers of this simulation have a real sense of humor.
I don’t have clothes on this time. I’m covered in nude men. The light is bright and I can see every detail of their bodies. I know it’s not fashionable in this day and age, but I’m so homophobic I can’t even look at myself naked in the bathroom mirror. Having their fleshy, pink bodies touching me is creeping me out. Their relentless moaning isn’t bringing sunshine to my day either. It sounds like a herd of cows crying out all at once in mid-orgasm.
I’m strung out. That’s what we call how you feel after being killed. It’s not like an alcohol hangover. How you feel depends on how you died. For me burning’s the worst. This time I feel cold and clammy, bouncing back and forth between fever and chills. I was frozen to death. My mouth feels grimy with a tinge of metallic taste. That’s a by-product of neurological cross talk. I want to brush my teeth.
I’m serving out my criminal sentence in The Game. It’s a fully immersive video game. The criminal justice system places you into a tube they call an iron maiden. It gets the nickname because of needles, thousands of tiny electrical probes that are inserted into the nerves under your skin.
Everything in here is fake. The naked bodies are all computer code developed by a psycho-prison psychologist to punish you. It’s so tangible that you forget you’re serving time, and you believe it’s real life.
Most people have the wrong idea. They watch it on the Internet, inmates fighting in battles, getting a chance to redeem themselves to society. They don’t see this side of the sentence. I can feel half a dozen men’s dicks against my body. In between each episode, they torment your every phobia.
I picked this over rotting in jail for ten years. By the end of the first hour of play, I would have done anything to return to the tender care of prison life, but once you're in The Game there’s no appeal process to return to prison.
I had a daughter in second grade. By taking The Game I would have been out in about a month. I didn’t want her to go without a daddy. They promised me a new life with her, no criminal record, a job, everything. All I had to do was make it through the tenth level. The inmate rehabilitation rate is almost perfect. Even true sociopaths reform. The computer has some way of detecting your neurology and body chemistry. I did this for my little girl. She’d done nothing wrong and didn’t deserve to be punished for my mistakes.
Let’s talk about The Game. Forget everything you know about video games. Yes, the play is the same, but when you feel everything, it changes the whole shebang. You get hit with a fireball and you feel your flesh burn to the bone. Your head rings from gunfire. Explosions shatter your ribs. Smoke scalds your eyes and snot runs from your nose. It’s nothing like pushing buttons on a keyboard.
Some people say that you deserve what you get. You chose The Game of your own free will. You owe a debt to society. Others see you as a folk hero, a rebel. They dream of shooting lightning from their fingertips, of living life as a super-powered warrior. The reality is something different. I’m trapped under a mound of bodies with a man’s nuts draped across my nose. That’s not living the dream, nor is it justice.
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Chapter 2
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Humans are a violent species, held by the grips of eternal conflict, even during times of peace. However, there are times we’re just defending ourselves against the violence of nature.
Just prior to my incarceration, I was in a children’s cancer ward at an American hospital playing with my daughter, Nadia. In Russian Nadia means hope. I was tickling her tummy with Yuri, her teddy bear. She was being so brave. She laughed even though she was scared. I was scared too.
“When I come back, Yuri told me to bring you a surprise, but I fooled him. I have it with me now,” I said.
I held a hand out, turned it over, and opened it revealing a gold necklace. It had all of the heart-shaped charms that warm a little girl’s heart. Nadia could barely control herself. She beamed with smiles. I kissed my little angel on the forehead.
“I will be back soon.”
“Wait, I have a gift for you,” said Nadia.
She handed me a note written in crayon: Я люблю тебя папочка. “I love you, Daddy.”
I cried. I was not embarrassed to cry in front of Nadia. A man should be strong enough to be at peace with sharing his love for his daughter.
The doctor came into the room as I was leaving.
“How is she doing?” I asked.
“The bone marrow transplant didn’t take. We’re searching for another compatible donor.”
I couldn’t look him in the face. I stared at my feet as I spoke. “Alright.”
As I walked away I heard him say to the nurse, “That poor guy. He came here all the way from Russia to save his daughter.”
It was like a spike in my heart. Honest sympathy was the most painful.
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The next day I went to lunch with a few colleagues from work. American cafeterias are very different than restaurants in Russia. In Russia, it’s like eating at home. Family photographs are posted on the walls. The windows have traditional drapes, and the colors are earth tones. Americans have neon lights and waitresses in skin-tight shorts that ride up their behinds.
Sutherland was chatting me up. I liked his brisk British accent. He said, “Motorcycles are too dangerous for me?”
“For me the risks are worth the reward,” I told him.
“Do you ride with a club, you know, one of those outlaw biker gangs?”
“Outlaw bikers, this is too dangerous for me.”
“Are they like what you see on those TV shows about bikers? Do you ever hang around with them?”
“No,” I answered. “You leave them alone. You don’t want to get on their bad side or you will get a serious beat down.”
This woman we were eating with, Ethyl Rosenblatt, gets this tough guy look on her face. “I would beat them off,” she announced.
Rosenblatt was in her fifties, at least one hundred pounds overweight, and she gets winded just getting out of her car. Making threats against outlaw bikers would have been funny enough on its own, but the sexual connotation of her words was too much. I couldn’t resist the urge to say something.
“Yes…I’ll bet you would.”
All my fears and pains came out in a floodgate of laughter. I laughed so hard tears fell from my eyes. When you are faced with severe emotional devastation, you realize how meaningless and petty some people can be. Laughing off their childish behavior keeps you from burning up inside.
Everyone started to laugh too once they realized what she had said. Her face turned beet-red, and then she stood up and stomped out of the restaurant without paying her bill.
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Chapter 3
141Please respect copyright.PENANAXighUqyvy3
There I sat across from Leslie Littlestein, the head of human resources. Rosenblatt and the Union Representative were there as well.
Littlestein said to me, “I have a sexual harassment complaint against you. I’m allowing you to defend yourself.”
“What is this?” I said.
“Ms. Rosenblatt said at lunch today you made inappropriate comments and embarrassed her with sexual innuendo.”
“Did she tell you what happened?” I asked Littlestein.
“She said she felt uncomfortable repeating your comments.”
I looked at the Union Rep. He gave me a blank look.
“I didn’t say anything. You can ask anyone that was there,” I told Littlestein.
“Maybe we should hear what happened,” said the Representative.
I shouldn’t have smirked when I said, “Sure, we were at lunch and Sutherland asked me about outlaw motorcycle clubs. I told him to avoid them or he risked a beat down. That is it.”
Rosenblatt raised her beak nose like a spoiled, snot-nosed brat and lied. “Oh, no, that’s not what happened.”
“Miss Rosenblatt,” said Littlestein, “perhaps you should tell us your side of the incident.”
“He insulted me, embarrassed me, and it was sexual.”
“I need you to give me an exact account of what happened,” replied Littlestein.
“I’m already embarrassed enough.”
“I will tell you exactly what happened,” I said. “You can check with Sutherland to verify my account.”
“Alright, continue,” said Littlestein.
“When I told Sutherland to leave the bikers alone or they’d give you a beat down, she made a comment, and then her face turned bright red and she stormed out of the cafeteria. I said nothing to her after that.”
“Miss Rosenblatt, what did you say?” said Littlestein.
“I said I’d fight them off.”
“This is not what you said,” I corrected her.
“Well, Miss Rosenblatt?” Littlestein pressed her.
“I said I’d beat them off,” answered Rosenblatt. “I meant to say I’d fight them off. He mocked me and laughed at me.”
“Everyone laughed,” I said.
“He embarrassed me in front of co-workers.”
Littlestein asked her, “Did you two have any other interactions?”
“No, but people were smirking at me the rest of the afternoon. It’s a hostile work environment.”
Littlestein looked down her snout at me. “Mister Fedorov, we consider this kind of behavior actionable.”
“Are you kidding me?” I blurted out.
“I have to disagree,” said the Union Representative. “Mikhail didn’t engage in sexual harassment. I’ll have to file a grievance if this goes any further.”
“Well, I’ll be in contact with my attorney. This is a hostile work environment that allows men to abuse female co-workers,” said Rosenblatt.
Littlestein gave Rosenblatt a sympathetic smile and said, “Shelly, would you be happy if Mister Fedorov apologizes to you?”
“Yes.”
“Mister Fedorov, just say you’re sorry,” said Littlestein.
The Union Representative waved a hand in the air and said, “No, it’s an admission of guilt. Mikhail, you need to listen to me. This is not Russia. Don’t apologize.”
I shrugged him off and said, “This is no big deal.”
I should have listened. The Rep shook his head at me.
“Well, Mister Fedorov?” Littlestein said.
“Okay, I’m sorry I laughed at you.”
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Chapter 4
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I stopped at a bar after I was fired. I couldn’t make it to the hospital before visiting hours ended, and I needed a drink. When you’re irrational you have thoughts like a drink will help clear your mind.
I sat at the counter with Robert. He was what Americans call a hipster. His long hair was in a bun. Despite his appearance, he was a good guy. He worked in the computer department. It was always fun talking with him and hearing his work stories. You could tell the stress of working with people was getting to him. He was too young for his hair to start going gray.
“I was fired,” I said.
“Oh, no. Why? What happened?”
“Sexual harassment.”
“What the hell, dude? Why did you do that?” said Robert.
“Screw you, just screw you. I didn’t harass anyone. It’s bullshit.”
“Ah, come on now.”
“This woman said something stupid and I laughed at her,” I said.
“And you were fired over that? I don’t believe it. Who was it?”
“Ethyl Rosenblatt.”
“Oh, yeah, okay,” said Robert. “The office cunt. Can you fight it?”
“I admitted to it. The rep told me to shut up, but I did not listen. I admitted to it right in front of the head of human resources. I don’t know what to do. How am I going to afford a lawyer to defend myself? I have got a sick child in the hospital.”
“Isn’t the union going to defend you?” he asked.
“They would have if I had kept my mouth shut. If this was a man I would knock his lights out.”
And then I saw her sitting at a booth in the bar. She sat there smug, playing with her dyed blue hair, and her pancake makeup crinkling around her lips as she smirked.
“I’ll be damned. There she is,” I growled.
She was having a big party, celebrating, bragging to her friends she got me fired. I jumped off the barstool.
Robert grabbed my shoulder and said, “Don’t do this.”
Again, I should have listened. She saw me coming, held up a drink, and pointed a finger at me.
Rosenblatt mocked me, “Look who’s laughing now.”
141Please respect copyright.PENANAYKjdRxCU1R
Chapter 5
141Please respect copyright.PENANAKvRTGATJ5y
My voice sounded tinny in the holding cell. “Ten years. I’m doing ten years. All I did was slap her.”
My court-appointed lawyer spoke with an Indian accent. She said, “You were convicted of a hate crime. You hit an ethnic woman that you sexually harassed at work. You are lucky you’re not doing twenty years.”
“I didn’t know she was one-thirty second Sentinelese. Hell, before the trial I had never heard of them.”
“The judge is taking that into consideration and is offering you an alternative.”
“The Game?” I said as I shook my head.
“The Game,” she replied. “If you enter The Game, they will take one year off of your sentence for each level you achieve. Your criminal record will be completely expunged. You’ll have guaranteed employment when you return to society, a full life back.”
“Let me think about this.”
“You have fourteen days to make your choice,” she told me.
Most Americans played video games since childhood. I grew up in Dagestan. For young boys living in Russia’s North Caucasus, life was a serious matter. Our mountain-dwelling masculinity placed adult expectations on us as youths. You watched your fathers face police abuse by the Russians; extorting cash, humiliation, and blackmail. Females are spared from this treatment. Russia is very traditional concerning women. Imagine you are a proud highlander who cannot find work, with a wife and children. It is all on you as the head of the family. Even as a young boy you knew this was your future. Video games, and the free time to play them, were treasures of the Western world.”
141Please respect copyright.PENANAhh9TwHGHDg
Chapter 6
141Please respect copyright.PENANAFKbNmvZHgb
When I returned to my cell, I laid on the bunk and talked with my cellmate. He was just a kid. He should have been in college. Even though he talked with a ghetto accent, he was smart. He was also a bit naïve for a kid from the streets. Still, I liked him. He knew the childhood sorrows of an empty Christmas, and of begging for spare change to be able to eat. We shared these experiences.
You expected a young person from poverty to carry a modicum of jealousy in their hearts. I did. As a child I looked at families with food to eat and asked, “Why me? Why do I have to go hungry?” I’ve known many young men who were hardened by their experiences to the point that they harmed themselves with resentment. I recall acting with indifference, pretending to be tough, but inside feeling bitter. I dreamed of living in the West where kids had three meals a day, video games, and time to play. As a child, my celly had the same dreams.
“You have the smarts. How did you end up here?” I asked.
“I’m in here on a simple drug possession charge.”
“Did they offer you The Game?”
“Yeah, but I was too scared to take it,” he said. “I be hearing it fucks you up for life. Messes with your mind. Leaves you a vegetable and shit like that.”
A guard standing outside the cell told us, “You two better hit the showers while they’re still working.
It was odd for a guard to do this, but you do what you’re told.
Except for me and my celly, the showers were empty.
There are things in prison you don’t want to see. Three men entering the showers with boots on were one of them.
As I ran towards them from the far side of the room, a knife came out from under one of their towels. A knife attack is an assassination. You first become aware of the attack as the blade punctures your body. My celly took the shank in his guts with disbelief on his face.
One of the assassins, a man called Preacher, shouted, “Fuck you, you filthy little nigger,” as another slashed my friend. Celly fell to the floor. He stabbed my friend several times before I reached them. I jumped on this man’s back and wrapped my hands around his knife arm. I was barefoot, and I couldn’t get traction on the slippery tile floor. Still, I was able to wrench his wrist. It cracked and the man screamed. I held on to him until I felt a blade penetrate my ribcage from behind.
I laid on the floor with water spraying my body. Blood pooled around me and my celly. I watched the assassin’s boots splat in the water as they exited the room. One of my lungs filled with fluid. I coughed out about a cup’s worth of bright red plasma onto the tile. The shower spray splattered in my blood.
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Chapter 7
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I was placed in solitary confinement for fighting. My celly was placed in the morgue. I laid on the floor of the cell. There was no bed, only a toilet, and a six-inch-wide broken window. A bandage wrapped around my chest under the blue prison uniform. It was late in the fall and the room temperature was in the forties. Even being from Russia, a cloth shirt was not enough to keep me warm. The concrete sucked the heat from my body and I shivered out of control. I got up and huddled in the corner, but I only had the energy to do that for a few moments at a time, and then I had to lay back on the floor.
I needed medication to take the edge off the surgical pain. I was only in recovery for one day before they transferred me to solitary confinement. The knife got stuck in my ribs and only nicked my lung. If it had penetrated a few centimeters deeper I’d be dead.
Many men have suffered far more under worse conditions. During the Great Patriotic War against the Nazis, men fought on the frontlines living on a single slice of bread a day. Often, the bread dough was half sawdust. It was important to remember just how lucky I was.
A guard came into the room and put me in handcuffs. I was escorted to an interview room and shackled to a metal bar that was bolted to the top of a table. The guards would try to get me to rat out the men who killed my friend. I had other plans. I would take care of that situation once I returned to the general population.
I sat there for a long time. Making you wait was another way to discipline you, but I was pleased to be there. The room was warm, and I had a chair to sit on. When the door finally clicked open, my court-appointed lawyer strutted into the room. She was short, and her body drooped with fat. She wore a scarf to hide the triple roll of blubber that ringed her neck.
She spoke with indifference. “I regret to inform you that your daughter, Nadia, passed away at 8:47 last night.”
“Oh my God, not my little girl. My beautiful little girl.”
“Given the circumstances, I believe I can convince the judge to reduce your sentence if you choose The Game. However, because you’re in solitary for fighting, I can’t get you a furlough to attend her funeral,” said my lawyer.
I sobbed into my palms. I wanted to join my daughter in death.
She pressed me, “Mister Fedorov?”
All I could do was nod.
“Good, you will spend one week in the general population while preparations are made.”
I folded my forearms on the table and placed my forehead on them as tears ran from my eyes.
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Chapter 8
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I stood in the prison yard by myself. The sight of food made me sick. I had lost weight and my clothes hung very loose. In prison, no one cares if you had a bad day. I expected no relief from life in this environment. Yet, I was left alone. Children are the only people sacrosanct among convicts. As such, I was given some space for my loss.
I looked out at the world beyond the barbed wire fence. The sky was blue and filled with sunshine, but all I saw was gray. My mind grieved about the future, a lifetime that was lost. All the future memories I would have were gone. It didn’t register in my brain that a group of men were at my back until one of them said my name.
“Fedorov, Mikhail Fedorov.”
I looked back. Preacher stood there with a group of goons.
“Keep walking,” I told him.
“Do you know who I am?” Preacher asked.
“You are inmate 06252. They also call you Preacher. Other than that it makes no difference to me.”
“Oh, it makes a difference,” he said.
“Well, Preacher, I can only assume you’re here to offer God’s forgiveness. “
“How well are you trained in fighting?”
“A little bit,” I said.
“Where?”
“In a small village near Kaspiysk as a kid, and later in Moscow,” I replied.
“Ah, then you must have heard of the Frank Dukes Cup?”
“It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It was featured in Bullshido magazine,” he said. “How about the Pan Asian Kumite Championship?”
I gave him a puzzled shake of the head.
“No? Huh, that tournament went viral across the Internet. How about the Fighting Black Knights Challenge?”
He raised his arms into the air like a fighter does when he wins a prizefight. I could see it on his face. He was imagining his followers cheering him as he paraded around the ring in victory. Preacher folded his arms over his chest and took a bow to the claps and cheers of an imaginary audience.
“Well?” he asked.
“Never heard of it.”
“Don’t you know of any of my famous victories in the ring?” Preacher shook his head. “How about this: last year, Vladivostok, Russia, the World Sambo Championship, light heavyweight division.”
I laughed. “Of course, I know that. You did not win the gold medal, I did.”
“No, I didn’t.” A long pause followed. “No.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “The competitions you cited were phony. Prescot Vanderbilt, a conman who went by Prescot Vanderbilt used those titles to open fake martial arts clubs for the rich. Vanderbilt was nicknamed the Preacher because he looked like he was praying in his Aikido stance.”
“Ah, you do know me.”
Preacher looked to the heavens with reverence as if he were the chosen one. He was mocking real martial artists with this nonsense.
“How do you know of me here in America?” I asked.
“I needed someone outside the United States. I cited you as one of my best students, and your victories as proof of my technique. In fact, I idolized your skills in the ring.”
There was a chilling silence between us.
“It wasn’t me who knifed you. I just wanted to let you know that,” said Preacher.
I scoffed at him.
“Mikhail, there’s a truth here that transcends all else. Alone you’re exposed. Every predator here is sizing up all the other inmates, looking for a weakness to exploit. By yourself you’re vulnerable.”
“Right,” I said with disdain.
“Things in here are lined up along race. It doesn’t matter that you fought for a black kid. That has no weight with the niggers. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“This word, nigger, is not a good word. Do not call my friends this word,” I told him.
“You’re a stand-up guy. You went down for your celly, but right now you’re on the wrong side of the fence.”
He wanted something. Men like him always have an agenda.
“What is it you want?” I asked.
“Word is you’ve taken The Game. I’m putting together a crew to go in with me. I’m looking for men with ability,” Preacher replied.
“You want me to join you after what you did to my celly?”
He raised his voice. “Fuck that punk. He was a rat. Ratting is a capital offense in prison justice.”
I knew this was a lie. My celly would not rat.
Preacher took a deep breath as he watched a few men pass.
“All your fighting skills amount to nothing in The Game. If you aren’t with us, you’re just another victim,” he said.
A montage of thoughts filled my mind. They all involved beating this man bloody.
“I will pass,” I said.
He started to walk away with his thug friends, and then he stopped. He turned back to face me and said, “You really are innocent aren’t you?”
I thought of Nadia and said, “Innocent has nothing to do with justice.”
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Chapter 9
141Please respect copyright.PENANATD2bLVRBLX
I sat in my cell writing a note to my little girl. Two inmates walked past, ruthless, pitiless men who were serving consecutive life sentences for brutal murders. They carried their crimes with conceit. There was a twisted vanity among the worst offenders.
I read the note to myself in a whisper, “You were worth saving even if the world is not. I’m so sorry I failed you. Why you and not them?”
A guard came to my cell and said, “Let’s go. Orientation time.”
Together, with several other inmates, we moved to the prison library. The guard had us sit in seats in front of a man dressed in a gray, pinstriped suit. Preacher sat at the back of the group. He watched me as I took a seat near the front.
“I’m Doctor Smith,” said the man in the pinstriped suit. “The final stage of your rehabilitation is about to take place. I’m here to guide you.”
“What kind of doctor are you?” asked a convict.
“A criminal psychologist,” Smith replied. “Now, let’s get to the heart of it. The rehabilitation rate of The Game is near perfect. You will come out a responsible citizen and have a new life in mainstream society. I want you to carefully consider the opportunity we are giving to you and how fortunate you are. The United States releases more than seven million criminals every year from jail. Within three years, two-thirds are rearrested. Instead of spending the next ten to fifteen years in a six-by-eight cell, you’ll be out in a month or two with all your freedoms, a job, and a clear record.”
He picked up a stack of forms and distributed them along with a single ink pen.
“This is your contract with the Justice System. By signing it you agree to play The Game in return for your freedom. Sign the last page when the pen comes around to you.”
I took one of the forms. It was at least fifty pages long. I read some of the first page, but I didn’t understand the words. When the pen was passed to me, I signed the document and passed it forward.
“Alright, soon you will be free men,” said Dr. Smith. “However, there is a debt you own to your country. I’m here to guide you. You’re going to make a player character. There are different types with different strengths and weaknesses. The Justice System is recommending that you choose a hand-to-hand fighter.”
An inmate spoke up, “Why?”
“Being a fighter has benefits for you and society. The most important reason is you will level up and out of The Game faster than any other archetype. Convicts who select melee fighters have the lowest rate of recidivism and the best chance for life after prison.”
This seemed odd to me. Why would one player type be given these advantages?
“At what price?” I asked.
Smith raised an eyebrow at me. He raised a hand into the air and chopped up and down as he spoke, “Combat is a little more intense for hand-to-hand fighters, but you’re big tough men. A few more aches and pains will be nothing for you. In the final analysis, you want to get out as fast as possible.”
Most of the inmates nodded their heads. I had reservations.
“You want to show the world your mettle, your prowess, and your heart,” Smith stated. “When you leave prison, you want to do so as an honorable warrior. Most of you have spent your lives taking the easy way out, and look what it has gotten you. This is your chance to be a winner. Be a bold warrior not afraid to face any adversary head-on like a man.”
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Chapter 10
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Everyone I passed wore light blue masks with strings wrapped around their ears. The Asian nurse that escorted me wore a clear plastic helmet that had a one-inch flex-tube running from the back down to a powered filtration unit attached to her belt. When she talked, her muffled voice buzzed the face shield. She waved her arms as she spoke to patients along the hospital hallway. “Six feet back.”
Even doctors stepped aside as an escort of four masked police loomed behind me and the pixie-sized nurse.
She swiped a security card over a reader on the wall, and then two large metal doors swung open.
“You follow me,” said the nurse.
When the doors closed behind us, the busy hums of the hospital subsided. This hallway was devoid of sound: no voices, no instruments beeping, no blood pressure cuffs giving their little buzz, nothing. I felt a warm draft of air across my skin. I didn’t like it. I preferred the crisp, cool air of the North.
I could see inside every room I passed through thick sheets of security glass. A honeycomb of wire was layered inside each pane. Each room housed a large metal tube that was reminiscent of the early iron lung machines. The dismal yellow cylinders were covered in scratches. They were a meter in diameter, three meters long, and they had a transparent plastic dome on one end. Three circular stainless steel ports were mounted along their sides that looked like submarine hatches. The tubes were supported by triangular webs of angle iron that rested on casters.
The nurse stopped in front of a lavatory door. “You use the bathroom.”
“No thanks.”
“It is mandatory,” demanded the nurse. “There is a bottle in there. Fill it up and leave it on the shelf.”
When I exited the bathroom, they led me to a room. A sign was posted over the door: Room 101. They named it after the notorious room 101 from the book Nineteen Eighty-four. Inside, there were cages filled with rats and a replica of the infamous face mask on a table. I read 1984 when I was twelve. The image of my face being eaten alive by rats made my skin prickle with goosebumps.
Other inmates had their own special rooms, each named after their worst place. The prison system did its homework. They knew exactly where to stick the knife in and twist. The room next to mine was named The Spider Nest. Hairy black tarantulas were the decoration of choice. I think the justice system went the extra mile for some prisoners.
Once inside, the nurse turned a switch on the iron maiden. Its top opened like the jaws of a serpent.
“Take your clothes off and put them on the desk,” said the nurse.
She and the four cops looked on as I stripped naked. They watched you to be sure you don’t have any hidden weapons.
One of the officers searched my prison uniform.
“It’s clean. Continue.”
The nurse snapped on a rubber glove and said, “Bend forward.”
I thought this would be a body cavity search, one last humiliation to put you in your place. Instead, she rammed a tube up my rear end the thickness of a broomstick. I gasped for air as my body clenched tight.
“Relax, take deep breaths,” she said.
I was able to breathe, but I couldn’t relax.
“Okay, get into the coffin and lay on your back,” she ordered.
Calling it a coffin was just another way they messed with your mind, but it didn’t bother me. All I could think about was the cylinder shoved up my ass.
I climbed inside and laid down. It was cold to the touch. Actually, it was a nice distraction from having my butt cheeks penetrated. She attached a flex pipe to the tube in my rectum. That’s when the doctor entered the room. I fully expected him to be the second coming of Doctor Mengele and the Auschwitz experience, but he was very friendly.
“Hello, Mikhail, I’m Doctor Rosenblatt,” he said with a cheerful smile.
The doctor asked a few medical questions, and then he listened to my heart.
“You’re in excellent health. Okay, we’re ready to connect you to the interface. We have to insert neuro-probes under your skin. They stay there for the rest of your life. Think of them as a tattoo. They’re too big for your body’s immune system to break down but too small for us to remove them. After this you can’t have an MRI. The magnet will suck them right out of you. They’re monitored by an electromagnetic envelope. Thousands of sensors will keep an eye on your body.”
He turned to the nurse and said, “We’ll do the neck first.”
A sneer crossed her lips. She didn’t approve.
“I’m going to insert a probe into your spinal cord at the neck. Roll to your side,” said the doctor.
He spoke as a needle pricked my neck. “Usually, we stick the probes into your body first without anesthetic, hundreds of injections; but in your case, I’m going to numb you up.”
“Why is this?” I asked.
“I know something of your case. The woman you slapped is my ex-wife, and I feel that I owe you thanks.”
For what felt like a brief moment, I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke, the top of the iron maiden was closed, and I was looking at the doctor seated above me through the plastic bubble at the end. A mask had been placed over my lower face that covered my nose and mouth. The mask was divided into two chambers, one for the mouth, and one for the nose. A handful of tubes hung from both chambers. The mask sealed to your skin like it was glued on. It allowed you to breathe and talk freely.
“I’m going to do some tests now. Tell me what you feel?”
My left shoulder felt a chill and I told him so. He made a few clicks on the keyboard and my shoulder stung from the cold.
“How about now?” he asked.
“My shoulder feels like a block of ice.”
With a single click on his mouse, my shoulder was back to normal, no cold, no pain, nothing. Next, it felt like a hydraulic press was crushing my chest. I couldn’t breathe. He tested every sensation. I thought we only had five senses until he tested my inner ear. I suppose a sense of balance is technically a sensation of feeling, but for this simulation it holds a special place in infamy. At first, I felt a little dizzy and light-headed. As it progressed I started sweating, and the world spun in my vision. I became sick to my stomach. My nausea and dizziness became severe. He continued until I heaved the contents of my stomach so hard that I tore my esophagus, and I tossed up blood. At that moment I begged him to stop. Even when he made my skin sear, I didn’t cry out. When he simulated the feeling of drowning, I blew my bubbles and felt water flooding my lungs. I remained stoic. I looked forward to death. I would be with my daughter. However, severe dizziness was my Achilles’ heel. The sickness came to a stop as the mask covering my face went to work clearing and cleaning my mouth with a flush of fluid.
The last thing the doctor tested was my vision. It’s more difficult for the computer to deal with it because they can’t safely insert probes into your eyes. They have to hijack your optic nerve with a probe they snake up your nose. It goes into your sinus behind the eye.
“What color do you see,” said Dr. Rosenblatt.
I hear blue,” I replied.
“Some cross-talk can occur between the eyes and the ears,” he said with a chuckle.
He made a few adjustments, and the image of his upside-down face hovering over me switched into the purest blue I’d ever seen.
It had been many years since I had clear sight. I had trauma to my eyes while fighting in competition, and my vision has been awash with floaters. My eye doctor told me that what I saw was the membranes of dead blood cells. My eyes had cleared the plasma and debris, but the membranes remained trapped in the vitreous gel of my eyes. Now, I was seeing the images the Rosenblatt had implanted with the eyes of a hawk.
“What do you see now?” he asked.
“Pure blue.”
“Okay, everything is working. Mikhail, we’re going to flood the chamber. The fluid is the same density as the human body so you will be completely suspended, floating neutral.”
I could feel the edge of the liquid traveling up my skin. Usually, water felt at least a little warm or a little cold. This water was a perfect body temperature. I watched it rise above my face.
“We float you in a suspension of liquid so you will have a free range of motion without injuring yourself,” said the doctor. “If we used restraints you’d break your bones. Plus, it eliminates blood clots in the legs, bedsores, and skin infections from lying in bed for too long.”
I looked up at his face through the distortion of the plastic dome. A stream of tiny bubbles was settling at the surface of the fluid above my head. I asked him, “What do I do if something goes wrong? Is there an emergency button?”
The doctor laughed. “You’re being monitored twenty-four hours a day. If something’s wrong the systems will make corrections.”
I was nothing more than a fish in a bowl.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAWvjuwjoUfa
Chapter 11
141Please respect copyright.PENANAkYC5FYMif8
After the doctor did the last test the computer took over. The outside world ceased to exist. A streaked blue and white wall filled my vision. At the dead center of the wall, the word “Loading” appeared. After a few moments, a strange character materialized. He towered over me, easily two feet above my head. He wore a red, white, and blue outfit that clung to his skin like a ballerina’s tights. A red cape hung from his neck, and a white halo of light surrounded his outline. He’d been given the nickname “Super-Duper Guy” by the inmates back in prison as a way to mock him. I did not mind him so much. Most nations had an ideal patriot from more innocent times.
“Greetings, citizen. Are you ready to do your duty?” said Super-Duper Guy.
“Okay.”
“Good call, soldier. You’ll need to build a character.”
I thought for a moment. Everyone watching on the Internet would see me by the character I created. Other players would also come to know me by this persona. It was important to craft the right image.
“The avatar building system allows you to customize your character. You will select powers, defenses, and how your toon looks. Toon is what players call a character. The name comes from cartoon heroes from the 1950s. You will be given one hour to build your toon. Your country is depending on you. Choose well, good citizen,” he said.
Super-Duper Guy vanished and I was taken to a panoramic view of a sprawling city at dusk. It expanded beyond sight. A menu floated in front of it that said, “Select your character's origin.” I was given the options: hero or villain.
Although a hero seemed like the obvious choice, there were advantages to either. I was allowed to watch a few episodes of The Game in prison. Villains and heroes had different archetypes. That’s another way of saying they had different powers and abilities. Even their costume choices were different.
To serve out my sentence in The Game, I had to accumulate experience points. It was much like going to school and passing from one grade to the next. I had to have good enough grades to pass on to the next level. Each level became more difficult as you progressed, and they required more points to advance. That way people who were serving longer sentences paid a higher price.
Everything in my heart told me to be a hero. It’s how I was raised. We have a strong sense of justice in Dagestan. Our traditions and values extend back thousands of years, but that belief in right and wrong held no value here. A character was a way to pay the penalty imposed by the criminal justice system and nothing more. Inmates were known to play tricks to try and avoid paying their penance. You would see large black men playing as little white girls thinking that it would hide them. Some prisoners made their toons look as intimidating as possible thinking it would scare other players. It was all a hoax. It was there to get you to waste time thinking about your image. It was why the justice system had convicts make their character before they picked powers. They would run out of time overthinking how they looked. If you ran out of time, the computer picked your powers for you. You might as well had dropped the soap in the prison shower and grabbed your ankles.
I hated it but I chose villain. Next, I selected an average-sized male body. My costume was a black trench coat, my face square-jawed, and my hair a buzz cut. The intent was bland and generic. I allowed myself one indulgence. The coat of arms for my home country was the eagle. The game let inmates put symbols on their outfits. I placed a red eagle on my chest.
Villains were given a choice of four archetypes: Boss, Gunslinger, Desperado, and Barbarian. Each had its strategy. Desperados held their opponents helpless, but they did little damage and were vulnerable to attack. They depended far too much on protection from other players. Bosses had henchmen to fight for them. It was a strong class but best suited for experienced players. Barbarians were tough in melee combat, and they could take a lot of punishment. At first blush, Barbarians appeared to be the ideal archetype to play. They had the highest survivability in combat and inflicted superior damage. The game developers compensated for this by having the inmates who played Barbarians feel twice the pain. Convicts would write off the added suffering as something they could endure. In their minds, the power was worth the price. It was a decision they made through coordinated ignorance. Prison psychologists understated the pain penalty and played to inmates’ tough guy egos. Also, the ruthless hand-to-hand combat style of the Barbarian drew in a larger audience, and with more viewers came more profit.
For me the choice was clear. Even though I spent my life in the study of prizefighting, the right choice was a ranged attack. In combat, your ability to hit your opponent accurately at a distance greater than they can hit you is the ideal scenario. We called that stand-off capability when I served in the military. My strategy going in was simple: hit at long range while dancing just out of the opposition’s range. Too many players choose the attrition model, overwhelm with sheer force. That only works when you have greater numbers, and I was alone.
141Please respect copyright.PENANANNy2nqNTCU
Chapter 12
141Please respect copyright.PENANA6Qqpi9QWOB
My power set was Tactical Assault. Why that and not a more exotic set like Fire Burst? Grenades. No other set had the initial shock value of a grenade barage. In The Game, a single hit rarely killed you. Your body was splattered with toxic chemicals, radiation, burns, bullets, and all sorts of other attacks, but you’d still be alive and expected to continue fighting. However, a grenade knocked an enemy off their feet, dazed and blinded. Unfortunately, you don’t get them until level four. I would have to survive with a submachine gun until then. Still, the Tactical Assault power set peaked early in strength and I was only in the game until level ten. Many power sets didn’t kick in until you reach higher levels.
I gave myself the screen name “The Machine.” It was my combat sambo nickname. One I never asked for, as I’m not a machine, but just a man. After winning the Emelianenko Cup, Coach Karelin gave it to me. In my first match, I went up against a cage fighter named Gerard Lindland. He was the only American invited to the tournament, an honor he disgraced. I took him to the mat and, when the referee was at my back, Lindland gouged my eyes. My teammates saw it and ran into the ring. A riot ensued. Lindland was disqualified, but it left me almost blind. Even so, I fought two more matches and took the gold medal. There was much at a stake. A win was an honor for my home country and my people. It was also a tribute to my late father, and it was a way out of poverty for me and my daughter. I was so very fortunate. I returned home with distinction, and the doctors were able to save my vision.
With a deep breath, I selected “Create Character.” A brief moment of blackness filled my field of vision, and then Super-Duper Guy popped up glowing with pride.
In a big, bold sports announcer voice he said, “Citizen, are you ready?”
I was surprised I would participate so soon. Although it seemed like I had just selected my powers, the brief moment of black was a medically induced coma that lasted for the better part of the prior week. They kept me on ice until the opening show of the new season. Ready or not, it was about to start.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAwWmavX6MsY
Chapter 13
141Please respect copyright.PENANAMHm0cpOSvE
A velvet orange sun dipped into the ocean along the horizon. I stood on the docks of a harbor. Sailboats drifted peacefully on lazy waves. A flock of seagulls glided on a pleasant off-shore breeze. I took my first breath as a hatchet chopped through my rib cage and severed my left lung. I had spawned in front of a hulking, bare-chested lizard wearing red camouflage combat pants and black army boots. I will never forget what it felt like to have my chest split in half. Everyone remembers their first big wound. The odds of spawning like that were astronomical, just in the right position to be chopped down in the first moments of the show. It had to be built into the code that some poor slob was sacrificed for ratings.
The audience cheered as I laid on the dock coughing out chunks of bloody lung tissue. The programmers made sure to feed the cheers and jeers of a live studio audience into the simulation. I had no hit points left. Yet, I still saw the flurry of the ax as it chopped my head in two. It was part of the punishment. You were dead, but you still got to experience the carnage until you were at minus half your total hit points. I laid there unable to move as the lizard hacked away, dismembering my limbs and organs.
I respawned in a medical facility. Although my body was intact, I was in shock. It looked like a typical emergency room from the real world: harsh fluorescent lights, white walls, and plastic curtains wrapped around hospital beds. There were even flat plastic flasks of saline solution hanging from metal stands next to the beds. I could hear respirators whish, and heart monitors beeping. Citizen doctors and nurses stood around as if in consultation. The only thing missing was patients. Soon, it would be overflowing with reincarnated players.
At the time, I didn’t know it was a safe zone, so I ran out of the hospital into a city brimming with street lights and traffic. The night sky was filled with stars as if you were out in the countryside. There was none of the typical urban haze and pollution you expected in a giant metropolis. The din of traffic, car horns, and police sirens filled the air. Citizens randomly wandered the streets. It was easy to recognize a citizen from a player. They wore everyday clothes: brown casual slacks, pastel tee shirts, or drab blue business suits. Inmates were not given the choice of normal apparel. Our attire choices were excessive in every way. I realized that my attempt to maintain a low profile by dressing in nondescript garments was wishful thinking. I took note of my trench coat. It flowed around my body and legs like a wedding gown.
I pulled out my submachine gun and held it ready. As I moved I hid behind every object: a car, a tree, a fence. A revelation hit me hard. I had no idea what to do. I’d watched The Game a few times in lock-up, but they didn’t allow you to watch enough to know how to play or where to go.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAGT2rmghrTB
Chapter 14
141Please respect copyright.PENANAIA4IsEVuKa
The simulation came to a stop and the image of a man from the chest up, with a three-dimensional clone of my toon rotating in the background, filled the sky. He sported a navy blue suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. To the cheers of the studio audience, from horizon to horizon, I watched a replay of the lizard man chopping my toon. Blood and body parts splattered across the cotton ball-shaped clouds.
The resonant boom of his baritone voice had a slightly artificial nature. “The Machine came to our soil carrying a legacy of ethnic hatred and intolerance. He beat a young minority woman in a neo-Nazi rage after she denied his sexual advances. We took him into our nation, gave him a home, and he returned our generosity with perversion and violence.”
I smiled. I laughed. I rejoiced. He didn’t mention my home country. The producers of The Game built characters as heels and baby faces. He portrayed me as the quintessential sexist, racist, foreigner from the evil empire. Yet, my home country was spared the embarrassment of my penance.
As I listened to the commentator, I realized that my toon was now known to everyone both watching and playing. Other players would seek to gain stardom by bringing me down. Well, at least for a while. The producers of this show carefully picked out targets to improve their ratings. Once the audience got bored with me, a new heel would be chosen.
His next lies were unfortunate. “The Machine began his criminal career as an underground fighter. Originally from Dagestan, he was recruited by the Russian mob in his late teenage years as an enforcer. He rose through the ranks of organized crime by extorting political dissidents and trafficking young girls as sex slaves. In real life, he was known as the Second Stalin.”
My next thought was perhaps more difficult than knowing I was vilified. The show would follow my every move. I wished to be seen as a man redeeming himself to society. The Game had roughly a billion viewers worldwide. My actions would reflect on my home country. The good name of my people was at stake. The Russians would use it as propaganda against Dagestan if I acted dishonorably, and so would the Americans.
I jogged down a back alley and squatted behind a garbage-filled dumpster. The alley was cast in deep shadows and columns of moonlight. I needed a moment to consider my situation. I felt exposed like raw nerves at the surface of scraped skin.
My father taught me that knowledge was choice. There was no freedom of choice without knowing your options. To build a strategy I needed more information. I thought my next step would be to recon the environment until I saw a mountain of silver loom over the end of the alley.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAvxVy5UKK0p
Chapter 15
141Please respect copyright.PENANAdTfPWT6yzM
It moved as silent as a shadow, carrying a medieval war hammer. A chrome Minotaur wearing a red and black plaid Scottish kilt filled the entrance of the alleyway with his girth, with sinewy arms swinging at his side. His fixed brown eyes held a blank stare, and his breath blew nasal condensation onto the ring running through his nose.
My neck prickled. Every muscle in my body tensed as he approached. His vibrant metallic skin sparkled against the dark backdrop; the reflection of the moon bounced off his massive shoulders. His bull head and horns lowered as he moved. Although he walked across the concrete pavement, he passed in silence.
Only lower-level players were allowed to fight in Redemption City. Still, that was no solace. This monster could still have been ten times my level. The justice system kept the power divide between players wide in this zone. It was to haze new players, to break them down. Their rehabilitation strategy was to make you a nothing, strip you of your identity, so they could rebuild you in their image of the ideal citizen.
He walked three paces past my hiding spot. The Minotaur paused momentarily, outlined by the full light of the flawless, computer-generated moon. He turned around and faced my direction. His head lifted as his eyes searched the darkness. The muscles in his shoulders rippled under the shine of his silver skin. Hercules could have only dreamed of having arms of that size.
I raised my submachine gun through the broken tapestry of light that laid upon the alley and suspended its buttstock across my right shoulder. A thin line of light illuminated the iron sights that scintillated on the center of the Barbarian’s chest. I raised the firearm until the tip centered on his eye socket. The trigger broke cleanly, like a glass rod snapping, and a three-round burst of bullets blistered his skull.
The Minotaur rag-dolled backward to the ground. I snapped off a second burst of gunfire at his prone torso. Sparks leaped from my barrel. The thump of gunpowder and the wiz of bullets ricocheting punctuated the ever-present city noise.
He popped back to his feet with gymnastic grace. A ragged hole ran through his eye socket and out of the back of his head. Before I could inflict further injury, the bull-man had closed the distance between us.
I reverted to my training and dove for his legs, locking my arms around his thighs. He plowed into me like a freight train crushing a subcompact car. He slung me into the brick wall and, with murderous force, he welded the war hammer. It missed my face by inches and blasted through the brick behind me. The massive fingers of his hand wrapped around my throat and lifted me into the air. I placed the barrel of my weapon into his guts and fired. Three bullets corkscrewed through his belly. He snorted with pain and dropped me. I landed on the back of my skull, bone against concrete, and the blood in my brain sloshed backward. I saw a spiral of stars drifting through a field of black. My ears rang with the volume of a car horn. Although I could not move, I felt his fingers close around my throat again. Even when you are stunned, the programmers made sure you still felt the sting of battle. A crushing streak of pain shot down my left leg. My vision returned even though I was paralyzed, and I could hear the cheers of the studio audience. More of the justice system’s sadistic charm. He dropped me and took his medieval weapon into both hands. He raised it over his head preparing to swing it like a sledgehammer.
My assailant stood motionless like a statue. Audience jeers replaced the ringing in my ears. Ice crystals formed on the Minotaur’s skin like the thick frost on a car windshield in winter.
“Run.”
I looked around but saw nothing.
“Run, dummy, before he breaks free.”
Standing up was a struggle. My leg was pulverized, but I was able to get to my feet and limp jog.
“This way.”
The disembodied voice came from a few feet away. I noticed a faint black line that outlined a female form against a street light in the distance. She took my hand and placed an emerald pill into my palm.
“Take this.”
The instant the pill hit my tongue, my leg was healed, and I felt sensational.
“Move it.”
I sprinted with all my strength. Her voice floated next to me as she guided me into a dark alcove, followed by the “boos” and angry cries of the audience. I crouched down to minimize my form and waited. Within a few moments, the chrome Minotaur ran past our position and into the city streets. She held a hand on my shoulder to keep me from moving.
Sitting there was oddly satisfying. I thought about blasting the cow’s brains out. I wanted a first victory, but it dawned on me that this was a victory of sorts. I wasn’t sent to the hospital a pulverized mound of broken flesh.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAWiELJzeIfO
Chapter 16
141Please respect copyright.PENANAOn45s0u9nE
She materialized as a movie fades from one scene to the next. Her look was gothic. She wore a black, lacy bustier and poofy mini-skirt. Button-up thigh-high boots covered her milky legs, and her head blossomed with tight loops of infernal red hair. Round mirrored glasses covered her eyes, but they did nothing to betray her beauty.
Together we rose to our feet. As she stepped out of the alcove into the moonlight, I saw her eyelids blink, and in my heart, I felt a strange sense of relief. Within this savage creation of the criminal justice system, I had acquired a friend.
“It’s a short distance to a safe zone,” she said.
After forging across a wide strip of road filled with dense traffic, we made our way along the edge of a temperate forest of considerable size.
For an instant she hesitated, glancing in every direction. “Be cautious here. This wood is the home of the Pagans. We also might run into hostile players looking for a fight.”
We moved behind the concealment of branches hanging from great trees waving overhead. I felt an urge stronger than fear. It motivated me to follow her. I had to know why she saved my skin. We moved away from the safety of the trees and through a subdivision of buildings. Citizens were milling around the area.
She stopped, stood upright with her hands on the back of her head, and sucked air like a vacuum cleaner. This woman had expended a lot of energy placing a hold on the Minotaur while in stealth mode. I expected to stand there for a long time while she caught her breath, but she popped a sapphire pill down her throat and we were back running.
Her route weaved us away from a gang dressed in red shirts, black pants, and commando boots. Many of the gang members had short devil horns protruding from their foreheads. Although the distance was much longer than a direct line, she was protecting us from becoming quarry.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAjCQnfkCXTo
Chapter 17
141Please respect copyright.PENANAGVp1oUD2pM
We reached the back of a large facility that looked like the United States Capitol building. The domed structure was surrounded by decorative water fountains and white marble sculptures of heroic figures. Once within the perimeter of a chest height wrought iron fence, we stopped. Jet pointed at the barrier.
“Once you’re inside this fence, no combat can take place. Try it. Pull the trigger of your gun.”
I was hesitant.
“Go on.”
I pointed it at the ground and squeezed the trigger with no results.
“This is Apollo Park and that’s City Hall.” She waved her arm and said, “Follow me.”
I glanced at one of the plaques on display next to a statue as we walked. It was the history of a hero that once inhabited this city. He started as a villain but became a model citizen who dedicated his life to virtue. I didn’t write this off as propaganda. Perhaps this simulation might have been more than punishment. That was the claim. When I watched the episodes back in prison, the commentators spoke of convicts who became champions of justice. Given my experiences up to that point, a reasonable person could conclude that this was a high-tech version of 1984, and prisoner reform was nothing more than brainwashing through torture. At that moment it struck me that if they could make you feel and experience anything, maybe they could also implant ideas and values into your mind. This notion would come to torment me; that my thoughts were owned by the State, and my intellectual independence was an illusion.
“Jet Ember,” she said.
“What?”
“My name is Jet Ember. Call me Jet.”
“Oh, I am The Machine.”
“You were difficult to find,” she said. “There’s a lot of new players this season. Why didn’t you do the Walk By?”
“I do not know what this Walk By is.”
“You are definitely a noob.”
“What is a noob?” I asked.
Jet chuckled. “Oh, my, God, we have a lot of work to do. Alright, we have a little time before they do another Walk By.”
“Okay.”
“A Walk By is where new inmates stand in a line and walk past higher-level players, usually guild leaders. It’s a recruitment thing. They check you out, your power selection, and things like that, and make offers to noobs with the most promise. Oh, a noob is a new player.”
“They make offers?” I asked.
“Yeah, influence, amplifiers, team play.”
“What is a guild?”
“A guild is a league of heroes. You don’t want to join one,” Jet said.
“Why not?”
“You chose a villain build, duh.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “How do you know about my toon?”
“Point at any toon and right-click.”
“Right-click what?”
Jet shook her head and pointed, “See that toon by the fountain?”
“Yes.”
“Point at it and tap your middle finger on it to bring up their information. Tap again to clear the screen”
I raised my hand and tapped as she directed. A transparent window popped up next to the toon:
Name: Demogorgon
Origin: Hero
Level: 5
Archetype: Soldier of Fortune
Super Group Affiliation: Heroes of Valor
Primary Power Set: Firearms
9mm: Level 1 Damage
Main Battle Rifle: Level 3 Damage
Secondary Power Set: Armor Defense
Shield: +3 against cutting weapons
Endurance: +10 endurance recovery per round per level
Rap Sheet:
Grand Theft Merchandise Fraud
Postal Fraud
Thief Prop: below $500
AGG Robbery
Fail To Identify Fugitive from Justice
My first thought was to tap on my new friend to find out who she was. However, it seemed rude to do so right in her face.
“Go ahead. Click on me,” said Jet.
It was like she was a mind reader. On reflection, it was the obvious thing everyone does when they meet someone new in The Game.
“Wait, there’s no time. They’re about to start a Walk By parade. Follow me.”
She jogged toward the front of City Hall, and I followed close behind. We stopped in front of a towering statue of a man. It was easily five stories tall. It stood on an elevated platform about three meters tall. More than a dozen players stood at the edge of the platform underneath the statue.
At street level, prisoners assembled. Super-Duper Guy was calling out instructions, directing them into a single file line. He positioned himself at the front of the jailbirds.
“Recruits, march,” he called out.
A row of the craziest looking characters I’d ever seen followed Super-Duper Guy. There were little girls, giant werewolves, spacemen, Vikings, headless monsters, and more. At least one hundred toons were in the parade.
I clicked my middle finger on one of the high-ranking players that overlooked the procession. It was a level fifty Bruiser. I knew of this archetype. A Bruiser was a hero archetype that could sustain unparalleled amounts of damage and continue fighting. A very dangerous opponent.
“Are there villain groups?” I asked.
“Of course.”
I expected her to elaborate, but she changed the topic. “Right now we need to survey the opposition. Click on the noobs to get a feel for their powers.”
I spent a moment reviewing toons. Patterns developed. The majority of character builds centered around melee fighters: bruisers and barbarians. It became clear that most inmates selected archetypes that reflected their real-life self-image. I did not judge them for this. People do what they know, and most criminal life had its foundations in violence.
“What do you see?” she asked.
“I see tough guys looking to kick ass. Ninety percent of these inmates are purely ego-driven. Their toons project who they are, or who they want to be.”
A smile crossed her face. “It’s time you clicked on me.”
“Oh, alright.”
I pointed at her, tapped with my middle finger, and read the first few lines.
Name: Jet Ember
Origin: Villain
Level: 50
Archetype: Desperado
Syndicate Affiliation: Warlock’s Cabal
“You’re a level 50?” I asked. “How could you fight against that Minotaur? I thought only low levels were allowed to fight here.”
“You’re quick. I had to exemplar down to first level to join you as a teammate. Doing so took away most of my powers and amplifiers.”
I skipped past her powerset and read her criminal history:
Rap Sheet:
Redacted.
“What does this redacted mean?” I asked.
“My crimes are classified. I can’t tell you about the nature of my offenses.”
I was somewhat annoyed. I was a simple man with straightforward values. This business of cloak and dagger friendship left me unsettled.
“Can you at least tell me the general nature of players’ offenses who have a redacted rap sheet? Are their crimes political, white-collar crimes, things like that?” I asked.
“Perhaps, I can say a little. White-collar criminals are never offered the game. No one would take this over a cushy federal penitentiary. However, political crimes, espionage, and sedition are typical.”
A final thought popped into my mind. I wanted to ask her why she was still in The Game and had not been released, but the timing was wrong. There would be time to speak of such matters. It is better to allow people time to reveal their secrets than to insist on immediate answers. Honesty will slip out over time, only image comes out under pressure.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAOtjpuMwp7k
Chapter 18
141Please respect copyright.PENANANwvyaoS1aY
Without a mentor, this simulation was a learn-as-you-go enterprise, and the costs of learning on the job were enormous. It was designed that way. A prison yard is filled with huge egos. Every convict was, in their minds, the rightful dictator of the world. It was an odd variation of the Cinderella story for men. They saw themselves as true warrior kings bound by a societal system of inequality. Those men demanded to be the top alpha males and to define their own rules. Submission to authority was not an option. It was a romantic notion at best. In the end, you conformed or rotted in jail.
Jet’s mentorship was competent. Although, she did leave out certain details. Her tutorial took about an hour. Once I had the mechanics of gameplay in my pocket, battle was the next phase of the process. It was time.
She left me in front of the giant statue. Players congregated there. As I waited for Jet to return, I used that time to study other toons, looking for their strengths and weaknesses. When I was young my father taught me that knowledge was opportunity.
I caught the attention of a female toon named Champaign.
“Nice toon,” she said. “I like that under-stated manly look.”
Champaign was very pretty, with disproportionately long legs, oversized breasts, and busy blonde hair. Her outfit was just a slash of sheer blue fabric wrapped around her body, with black thigh-high boots covering her lower legs.
“Me too.” I realized how stupid I had sounded and immediately tried to correct my words. “This did not come out right…I mean…”
“First-day nerves,” she chuckled. “Everyone gets the jitters. I see you haven’t joined a syndicate yet. You should look into the Destroyers. We offer everything: transporters, infamy, boosters. Plus, we're the fastest-growing syndicate on the server. You’ll team with some of the best players in the game.”
I will admit that I paid too much attention to her body. It was flawless, and her skin was smooth and silky. Her demure voice was natural for a woman of such beauty.
“I’m going to send you a temporary passcode to our base,” she said. “We’re having in recruits tonight. Stop by and look me up. Consider us before you pick a syndicate. Everyone talks a good game, but see for yourself. We’re the best.”
“Yes, I will do this. I have one question. Why are you interested in me?”
Champaign placed a hand on my arm and said, “Our syndicate only recruits top talent. Oh, and make sure everyone knows I invited you.”
I did not believe her words. The average American twelve-year-old was more skilled at video games than I was. Everyone in prison was trying to scam you. Here was no different. My guess was they used beginners as cannon fodder to absorb the pain of battle.
She looked back at me as she walked away. I was checking out her body. I knew Champaign wasn’t real. She was too perfect. This was just a simulation; but, my God, she was sexy.
Just before Champaign was out of sight I realized I didn’t view her information. I poked my middle finger on her fading image and read her rap sheet.
Rap Sheet:
Criminal Trespass
Third Degree Sexual Assault
Retail thief less than $900.00
Felony Sale of Cocaine
Disorderly Conduct
Reading this was like an anus fisting. These were not the crimes of a woman. This beautiful woman was a man, and I fell for it. I acted like an overly hormonal teenager who was smitten. I sat down on a ledge and watched the toons parade past. The illusion was so real you forget that nothing was genuine except the suffering. Yes, the pain was manufactured in the circuits of a computer, but it was real in your body. So many lies to sort through. With humans, scarce things are the most valuable. The rarest treasure here was honesty.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAZVCptD5B5e
Chapter 19
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Jet returned wearing a different outfit. She was head-to-toe in a black leather catsuit, with a shiny silver belt slung low around her hips. Her hair was light blond, just long enough to brush her shoulders. How could I believe in her? I knew nothing of Jet, not even if her gender was real. I asked myself if this paranoia could be by design. Was it part of the mind job the criminal justice system built into the simulation?
“I have a team. I’m going to send you an invitation to join us. Accept it,” said Jet.
A rectangle appeared before my eyes asking me to join a team. I clicked on accept. In the lower-left corner of my vision, a list of eight-player names appeared.
Her voice returned, “Melee fighters take the front line. All others stay back and support them.”
The words “Private Chat” flashed across the bottom of my vision.
“Stay at my side,” said Jet. “I need you to protect me should anyone break through our front line. I’ll be at first level like everyone else, and I’m vulnerable.”
“I got it.”
Jet returned to team chat and said, “Okay, folks, we’re going into the sewers.”
The world transitioned with a blend of two realities: from city to sewer. The reek of sewage was so strong I struggled to breathe. I held my nose and gagged. Two toons dropped to their knees and retched the contents of their stomachs. The air was humid and thick with mold spores. We stood in a large square room that acted as a connection between the sewer system and the surface. Squalid green slime infected the crumbling concrete walls.
“Fighters to the front,” Jet commanded.
Five toons took lead as we walked down half a flight of rusted iron steps into an oval sewer pipe about two and a half meters tall and three meters wide. The taller toons had to stoop down to avoid banging their heads against the ceiling. A stream of rancid brown water ran along the bottom of the pipe, with bubbles percolating every few meters.
The light was dim but bright enough to see bodies congregating about fifty meters away. It was difficult to see their numbers as many of them were behind a large, rusted iron pipe.
“Look alive,” said Jet.
As instructed, I stayed to the rear to guard Jet. My instincts told me this was cowardice. I had always been a front-line fighter, but staying to the rear was in line with my strategy of stand-off capability. The color of audacity was blood red and filled with pain. In The Game, bravado was for numbnuts. Still, it went against my nature.
As I stepped into the sewage, the chilling water seeped through my bootlace holes. The water was filled with grit and sludge. With each step, the motion of my heels sucked the fowl fluid deeper into my boots until my socks were saturated. My toes swam in sewage.
I tried to mentally prepare myself. I had seen this mission play out back in jail. We were about to engage a gang of Pagans. There would be wicked knife attacks against our front-line players. For those of us fighting from the back, we’d face a barrage of bullets, and possibly fire. The difficult part was knowing that molten lead would burn through your body, and you had to continue fighting. You got back up until you couldn’t.
“Stop here,” ordered Jet. “We’re just outside their perception radius. Barbarians, you need to get in fast and take the initiative. If you score a knockback, press the attack.”
“What’s a knockback?” I asked.
“It’s where you knock them off their feet,” she said. “They can’t counter-attack, so you get a free second attack. I need the ranged fighters to stay back and wait for my signal. Are there any questions?”
The players returned her question with grim faces but no words.
“Alright, melee fighters, on my mark…three…two...one…go!”
Five toons sprinted forward. Their feet splashed in the sewer water as they raised their weapons. The fastest of the five was a crow-headed toon dressed in a midnight black suit. He called himself Edgar Allen Crow. He raised a hatchet as he ran.
As Edgar Allen Crow’s hatchet split a Pagan’s skull in half, Jet commanded, “Fire!”
“What? We’ll hit our men,” I yelled.
“No, you won’t. Damn it, fire.”
My hesitation was costly. A devil-horned toon dressed in a red shirt and black pants busted past our fighters and pointed a flamethrower at Jet. A crooked grin graced his face as he squeezed the trigger. I jumped in front of Jet, and the splatter of unburnt fluid hit me first. The scent of gasoline filled the air, and then I was engulfed in flames.
I screamed until my lungs were empty. I gasped for air, and with my breath, fire drew into my lungs. Under normal circumstances, you would have passed out long before you achieved this level of suffering, but the computer kept you awake and fully aware. It’s impossible to describe the pain, only what you would do to make it stop. I would have defiled myr own mother to stop it.
I fell face-first into the sewage. Yet, I was far from dead. No matter how injured you were, you fought at full capacity until your hit points reached zero. I don’t know how I got up. By some means, the computer kept me going. Every muscle in my body locked up, clenched at maximum effort. Yet, I was standing with my submachine gun in position. The oily combustant from the flamethrower floated on the water’s surface. It clung to my clothes as I stood. I was covered in wisps of yellow flames. I sprayed an onslaught of three-round bursts. The tunnel flickered from the flash of gunpowder billowing from my barrel. I emptied the clip, popped it from the receiver, jammed another magazine into the gun, and crushed down on the trigger. The barrel of my submachine gun glowed orange, and the blasts echoed against the sewer walls. The firing pin clicked into an empty chamber. I pushed the magazine release, and the clip fell into the sewage. A took another clip from my belt, but a hand grabbed my arm.
“Stop!” yelled Jet. “It’s done.”
“What?”
My vision was blurred from the flair of the gunfire. The image of the scene before me slowly materialized as the blob of white faded from my vision. The sewer was scattered with mangled bodies. I dropped to my knees, and then I sat down on my heels. Shivers ran through my body. Several of our toons were down but still breathing. My skin was charred, a mixture of ash and charcoal. In places, my flesh was burned to the bone. Jet shoveled an emerald pill between my lips and the pain stopped. I watched the skin on my hands reform, along with my clothes, in a fraction of a second.
Jet tended to the injured inmates, giving each the green-colored antidote. She had been untouched. I didn’t know if I could take credit for this. Either way, I failed. I hesitated to fire as she commanded. A team must work as a unit. I was the weak link, and others paid as a result.
It was an odd moment for me. I was still haunted by the idea of self-identity. Was this my mistake, or was it built into the simulation? Was this an experience designed to instill uniformity and obedience, to follow commands without question, or was it my error and my error alone?
The other players looked at me in silence. Disappointment hung across Jet’s face. Her eyes were as expressive as a Shakespearian actor’s. It didn’t matter if this was a computer prickling my neurology, flooding it with neurotransmitters that overwhelmed my limbic brain with shame and guilt, or if it was a real experience involving the lives of other inmates trapped in this nightmare. It was all on me.
141Please respect copyright.PENANA9sddoNCfUT
Chapter 20
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Upon return to Apollo Park, Jet disbanded the team. The others walked away in silence. She took me by the hand and walked me to a park bench that overlooked a water fountain.
“You need time alone,” said Jet.
She poked what looked like a watch on her wrist, and a translucent, orange disk appeared over her head. It glowed like a neon light. With a brisk hop, Jet jumped onto it and flew off.
There were many questions to ask, things to consider, but my first thought was why didn’t I hear the audience when we fought in the sewer? The Game was not just a single show. It had dozens of channels that played simultaneously. I expected to hear fans celebrating my failures and punishment. Yet, I heard nothing.
Some inmates revel in the ire of the audience. Many seek to redeem themselves by winning the hearts and souls of the viewers. Both types thrive off attention. Solitude was part of their punishment. If the criminal justice system was using this as a way to punish me, they had miscalculated. If they intended for me to use this time to reevaluate myself, to challenge my self-assumptions and identity, they had my number. I mentally broke in my first major volley of combat. I had thought of myself as a man who would endure any pain before I gave up a family member, but it was not true. I would have sacrificed anyone to stop the pain.
In moments like that, you dwell on what depresses you. Nevertheless, you become oddly objective. It’s like your brain knows you need factual answers to emotional questions, so you obsess over your situation with unforgiving candor. I’d spent my entire life taking inventory of my beliefs. Folks from my country are people of faith. Many times I had questioned the tenets of those beliefs, but I always returned to it. Testing faith was difficult. It was mired in questions impossible to answer. The Game removed every last trace of faith I owned. Was this part of the plan, to remove my beliefs and replace them with the State approved value system? I didn’t know. All I had left was a single purpose: to find Preacher.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAcqlMGDAup8
Chapter 21
141Please respect copyright.PENANAuosDx5PbWj
I mused for a moment. At the end of my time in The Game, I would be returned to the general prison population for a brief period. The justice system paraded around convicts who won their freedom as a way of recruiting inmates. They needed a fresh supply of players for the show. However, the American Supreme Court ruled that participation had to be voluntary. As a result, the producers of The Game were always looking for noobs.
I doubted Preacher would be released at the same time as I. The odds were against it. Even if we returned at the same time to the same prison, he and I would both be different people. How could I hold his new identity accountable for acts committed when he was another person?
There would be time to consider the morality of avenging my cellmate. Hopefully, time would bring me wisdom. It seemed like a good moment to visit Champaign’s syndicate. I did not trust him, but what he said about the Destroyers may be true even if he’s a liar.
If you clicked the air with the index finger of your left hand, a menu system replaced your view. So, I clicked and found a menu item that said in-game email. The passcode from Champaign was nested inside a message.
There was a base portal on the far side of City Hall. I took my time walking to it. I needed to prepare my thoughts before speaking with the members of his syndicate.
The criminal world was filled with unwritten rules of conduct. Unlike life as a civilian, failure to comply could lead to brutal violence. Little things like being late to a sit-down were considered very disrespectful and could lead to a severe beating. I reminded myself to say less than needed, never be wittier than others, and make good use of a strategic lack of knowledge. Pleading ignorance can go a long way to resolving conflict. It’s counter-intuitive, but organized crime was built on trust. I needed to earn their faith.
The portal was a rotating ring of blue lines coming out of the ground that was about the height of an average man. The ring was a meter in diameter, and the lines were about the width of a cat’s tail. I clicked on it and entered the passcode.
My body elongated as the gateway pulled me inside, just as if you were passing into a black hole. I reappeared on the threshold of a soaring hallway. It was as wide as the wings of a jumbo jet, and as long as their runways. White tile walls stretched three stories tall to an arched ceiling. Behind me was the mirror portal that led back to Redemption City.
A gathering of tough-looking characters clustered around the area. In the center, a skull towered overhead. The skull was connected to a bare-chested human body of Olympic proportions. His skin was coal black and covered with red tattoos. He wore black leather gloves wrapped in barbed wire. Skintight black leather pants embroidered with red flames covered his legs. Gray cowboy boots poked out at the end of his pants.
I clicked on his image, a level fifty Gunslinger that goes by the name Death Ritual. He was Fire Burster with a tour de force powerset.
Death Ritual approached me and, with a warm, inviting smile, said, “Welcome to our base.” He clicked a finger at me an said, “The Machine, I like your name.”
He turned ninety degrees and waved his arm as he called out, “Tango, Strat, come on over and meet the Machine.”
Tango reached us first. She wore a white lace mini-skirt wedding dress that formed an open v from her shoulders to her belly button. Her skin was pastel blue, and her bang style hair was white with streaks of black.”
She shook my hand and said, “The Machine, Champaign told us you’d stop by.”
Strat strolled up with a swagger. His slicked-back black hair flowed into a ponytail. Strat wore a black tuxedo with tails, black gloves, and mirrored sunglasses. His voice was rich with bass.
“Hey, there he is,” said Strat. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person.”
This was far from the power politics I expected from criminals. However, it made perfect sense. Physical strength had no value here. Relationships defined your power and status. It felt like everything in this simulation was designed to redefine you by your social credit. You were nothing without a crew. If you tried to level up as a solo player, it would take you years instead of a few months to complete your sentence. Joining a group was central to survival.
“Tango, get the Machine a drink. Machine, we have it all. What’s your poison?” said Death Ritual.
“Do you have beer?”
“Do we have beer!?!?” he said “Tango, grab him a German stout, and bring back a round of our best Russian vodka.”
“You’re going to love our syndicate. We’re the fastest rising group on the server,” said Strat.
“This is what Champaign said,” I said.
The Game had a ranking system for guilds and syndicates. They measured the number of members, their levels, and other statistics as well. They even measured a player's hit point damage per second and used that as part of the ranking calculation. Rank brought benefits. The criminal justice system sweetened the pot for those who worked hard and adhered to the system. Likewise, going outside the straight and narrow path had severe consequences. Sucking in a lungful of burning petrol from a flamethrower was just one example.
Tango handed me a stein of beer with a mischievous smile gilding her face. I sipped it with delight. It had a rich malt flavor with a dash of sweetness. The vodka chaser had a soft texture with a hint of lime that accented the beer with perfection.
“Damn, this is good,” I said.
“Have you checked out any other groups yet?” asked Death Ritual.
“No.”
“Please, I want you to visit as many as you can. I don’t need to sell our syndicate. It sells itself.”
I was amused by his words. He was not afraid of competition. I liked this about him.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “What makes your syndicate special?”
“No drama. There’s no politics in our group,” said Death Ritual.
This was an untrustworthy statement. With people there was always drama.
“No politics, no drama? How do you achieve this?”
“Everything is merit-based. You advance in rank because of your numbers. Toons who play politics are shown the door. Plus, we do our homework. We don’t recruit drama queens.”
“How do you determine this?” I asked.
Tango interjected, “Oh, we work with the criminal justice system, and they give us prisoner profiles in return. Death Ritual is very savvy about choosing inmates that best serve our syndicate.”
“So, good beer and good people is your formula,” I said with a chuckle.
Death Ritual let out a laugh and said, “You understand our system.”
I deliberated for a moment. The first person I met from this den of convicts, Champaign, was dishonest and manipulative. This is a common trait in the criminal world. Yet, their formula was on the money. Good people and good times were a winning formula for a team. I had two questions. First, what trade did they make with the prison system? This would tell the price inmates paid for joining their syndicate. It was best to know the costs upfront. Next, I needed to know what profile traits they used to screen potential members. It would help me understand why they took an interest in me.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAz6Y5OJxsnH
Chapter 22
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The lights flashed three times, accompanied by the screech of an alarm buzzer, and then red light flooded the base.
Death Ritual called out, “Raid! Strat, morph Machine.”
A surge of energy ran through my body. Godlike power coursed through my limbs. I clenched my fingers into a fist. It felt like I could crush iron in my hand.
“Follow me,” said Strat.
I ran behind Strat at freeway speeds. Double-barreled machine gun turrets popped out of the walls along the main hall. The base exploded with toons scrambling into positions behind battlements. We moved into place behind a Gatling gun-style cannon. It had six rotating barrels that were connected with a round steel plate near the muzzles. The cannon bores were thirty millimeters in diameter.
“Your submachine gun will be fairly useless. I need you on the cannon,” said Strat.
“I don’t know how to use this thing.”
“It’s an Area of Effect weapon. Sit in the chair, point it down the hall, and pull the trigger when they reach fifty yards.”
“Who are they?”
“They’ll radiate blue. We glow red,” said Strat.
He handed me a pair of mirrored sunglasses and said, “Here, put these on.”
I took a seat and looked down at a set of sights that floated above the hex of barrels, and then I put on the sunglasses. Two pistol grips extended out from the back of the weapon. I seized them with my hands and tested the cannon’s movement. It was heavy, but its action was smooth. The trigger was a simple red button on the back of the right grip. I placed my thumb over the button. It felt more like a video game controller than a military weapon. It lacked the grittiness of battle-worn machinery.
The end of the hallway was a good three hundred meters away. Several dozen green cylinders of light fell from the ceiling, each the circumference of an oil barrel. Toons materialized in the streams of avocado color. The distant hall flashed with fireballs and arcs of electricity. A grenade burst in the dead center of the action, sending our rays of orange smoke. Toons chopped at each other with medieval implements of death. Concussion after concussion scattered body parts. The machine guns screamed like buzz saws burning through metal.
As I centered the cannon sights in the middle of the mayhem, a brilliant white flash filled my field of vision. Had it not been for the sunglasses Strat gave me, my eyes would have melted in their sockets. Radiation blistered the exposed skin of my face, and my skin drained down my jaw and dripped onto my lap. A mushroom cloud rose upwards and rolled along the ceiling. A shockwave pinned me back in my seat, followed by the roar of hurricane-force winds. The images of bodies were flash etched onto the walls.
I looked at Strat, seeking guidance. He stood in the rush of air, his ponytail flapping in its torrent, with a rictus grin on his face. The blast should have driven him through the wall; yet, he stood vigilant. He held up a hand, signaling me to wait.
Green shafts of light continued to fall from the ceiling, and more raiders emerged from them. Every invading toon wore skin-tight spandex, a mask, and a cape. I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. It was like I was watching a parody of the Golden Age of Comic books.
Sparks jumped from the turret guns as they sprayed the hall. Toons fought hand-to-hand surrounded by bursts and bullets. The bedlam moved in our direction. I could feel the shockwave of explosions hitting my chest. I liked it. My body felt invincible. As the battle line crossed the fifty-meter threshold, I pressed down on the trigger. The cannon clattered as it spooled up. Muzzle blasts thumped the air as trails of red-orange sparks followed tracer rounds flying into the battle. The thirty-millimeter shells from my cannon exploded like fireworks, with pyrotechnic balls spanning out in radial patterns. The fragrance of cordite permeated the air.
I felt like a thunder god raining down lightning bolts upon frost giants. The brawn of the cannon fire coursed through my limbs and every nerve fiber in my body overflowed with might. There was a sense of invincibility that comes with such power that no man can resist.
The invaders’ front line ebbed from the onslaught of my salvo. Victory felt assured. And then a beast of a man broke through the cacophony of the battle. Again, I laughed. His god-like body was covered in yellow tights, and his blue cape looked like drapes. I pointed the cannon at the star imprinted on his chest and crushed the trigger.
Cannon rounds exploded on his chest sending fragments of copper, and pillars of fire and smoke, in all directions. He walked through the salvo as if the sabots were downy feathers. Even his slicked-back hair was unaffected. I hated his smug grin. He was flaunting his power. I detested showboats. Great champions won with humility; pig dogs paraded like a peacock.
Strat grabbed my trigger hand and stopped me from firing.
With composure and poise, he said, “I’ve got this.”
Strat swallowed a handful of ruby and gold pills, amplifying his power and accuracy. He raised his right hand and extended his arm. An arc of pure white electricity vaulted from his fingertips. Static electricity crawled on the exposed bone of my face and tingled the skin underneath my trench coat. The bolt vaporized a milk jug-sized hole through the stomach of the caped avenger. Half of his spinal column was incinerated causing his torso to fold in half. His face smacked the floor, and then his lower body followed suit.
The attackers blinked out of existence, and the hallway lighting returned to normal. All the dead were transported to the medical ward where they respawned. All signs of the battle were erased from the corridor.
Death Ritual trotted up to Strat, hugged him, and said, “That was an epic alpha-strike. How many boosters did you take?”
“Everyone I had. At least a dozen,” said Strat.
Death Ritual reached out and shook my hand. He was giddy with excitement. He said, “That’s how it’s done! Keep an eye on Strat. He’s the one!”
141Please respect copyright.PENANAAEurNDoVhc
Chapter 23
141Please respect copyright.PENANA1bL3ha1la3
Everyone’s trajectory was preordained. You had some options in The Game, but every choice you took led to the same outcome. The only real choice you had was time. If you were submissive to the power structure, you served less time. The Game was a trade-off, time versus ego. A society can only have a limited number of alpha males making the rules. The lion reigns alone.
I was haunted by the idea that a place for men like me in the modern world was fleeting. As a teenager, I believed that fighting would bring me virtue. I dreamed of being the quintessential warrior hero. It was ironic that this was the lesson of The Game. You found honor and redemption in battle. Still, I struggled. Virtue could only be found in State-approved violence.
We were in the final minutes of the first episode when Jet rejoined me. She wore a new outfit. A metallic maroon bodysuit covered every inch of her neck and body. Her face was Asian, and her hair was thick, black, and in bangs. I determined she had to be female in real life. Male players made their female characters with excessive breasts and pornographic attire. Plus, no man would have that many changes of clothes.
Jet pointed at me and clicked her middle finger in the air. A few moments later, she said, “You have enough experience points for second level now. It’s time you leveled up.”
“What do I do?”
“As a villain, you’ll need to visit a consigliere. There’s one in Apollo Park at the back of the plaza. You’ll get an additional power,” said Jet.
“Any advice?”
“Of course. Most players are all offense. They’re just looking to make a kill. You’ll have a choice of holds, healing powers, and defense. Players who are all attack are squishy. You don’t want to be squishy.”
“I understand. This is good advice.”
“You’ll also be able to purchase amplifiers and boosters,” said Jet. “Amplifiers will increase your powers. Boosters do the same thing to a higher degree, but they only last for a few seconds. You have a little in-game money now. Use it to optimize your power set. Oh, and don’t level up until you get back tomorrow. The episode ends soon, and you’ll need time to think about your build.”
“This is good. I need to rest, to think about my situation, and to prepare,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s not exactly like that.”
“Oh, what can I expect between episodes?”
“It’s difficult to say. Every inmate has a unique experience,” said Jet.
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Chapter 24
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A block of computer code monitored the server that connected me to The Game. Within a millisecond, the simulation invoked a subroutine that notified the computer controlling my body to disconnect from the network.
After eight hours of simulated slumber, I became conscious. I was naked, immersed in a cage filled with rats, and I smelled like fried bacon. The rats were licking the bacon flavor off my body. Their tongues had the texture of sandpaper, like a cat’s.
As with most things, prolonged exposure wears your nerves down. They become tired and cease reacting. Some nerves shut down slower than others. Pain receptors have incredible endurance, as do the brain cells responsible for depression. Other neurons, such as ones that give you pleasure and happiness, give up very fast. As I laid there with a rat’s tongue wiggling up my nose, I asked myself why did we evolve this way? Why did negative emotions win the evolutionary battle for survival? The answer was obvious. Good things don’t kill you.
My fear and revulsion of the rats faded. I cannot say how long it took. Without a reference frame, time exists from moment to moment. The computer had some way to sense the change in my emotions, and the rats vanished. Everything vanished. I couldn’t see, feel, taste, nor hear anything. I used the moment to ponder my situation, but it was fruitless. I would have to wait until I better understood my options.
At first, the lack of sensory stimulation was a reward. It was relaxing, and my anxieties diminished, but then it turned on me. I had vivid hallucinations almost as realistic as real life. By the time the second episode of The Game had started, I’d relived my daughter's death hundreds of times. I watched her begging for help as I sat at her bedside. She was frightened, sobbing, and suffering in agony. I couldn’t move. I tried to speak to her, but my vocal cords were paralyzed. Unlike my fear of rats, this pain was unyielding.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAE8zpCIPKZw
Chapter 25
141Please respect copyright.PENANAsa1vw6AF7m
My eyes opened to a crystal clear, blue sky. A zeppelin floated overhead. Citizens moved around but went nowhere. Cars and trucks stopped at red lights and proceeded when the light turned green. Still, they had no destination. Little details like that were a reminder that you were in a simulation.
I sat on a park bench near City Hall and took a moment to recover from the trauma of my hallucinations. I watched toons walk past. Eight out of ten were female. Most inmates were male. I did not understand how a man could pretend to be a woman. I found myself feeling like a relic from the past. “No,” I muttered to myself. “This is the simulation trying to commandeer my mind. Masculinity is timeless and I am not a leftover of history. Those men who pretend to be women are emotionally unbalanced, the victims of an insane society.”
After a moment of somber quiet, I asked myself, “How much of my identity has been taken from me already?” At that moment I accepted that I couldn’t win. Eventually, I would be stripped of my individuality. There was no point in fighting; my path was inescapable. I understood Death Ritual and his syndicate. Submission was the path of least resistance, and it was filled with benefits. However, I chose to fight the criminal justice system for my mind no matter the costs. It was better to fall as a warrior than a coward.
I got up and worked my way through a mob of citizens crowded around the consigliere. He wore black plate mail. It was much smoother than medieval armor, more akin to science fiction armor from the future. The image of a scorpion was embossed onto his chest plate. Protruding from the base of his back was a meter-long tail with a stinger at the end. I touched his chest and the sky turned deep red. The buildings of the city became solid black.
“You have enough experience points to train up to second level,” said the consigliere.
A list of powers appeared next to him in a vertical stack.
“Select a power and click continue. Once you click on continue, your power will be locked in place.”
There were many powers to choose from, but two stood out: Radiation and dynamism. With Radiation you irradiated your opponents, weakening their defenses and attacks. I liked the idea that radiation powers were area attacks. All enemies within range would be hit. Dynamism also looked promising. This power would draw the energy from an opponent and transfer it to you and your allies. It was a very strong team gambit.
My style was playing it solo. The process of group decision-making made me nervous. Democracy was too inefficient, and it required a different temperament than mine. I have watched people who were clueless demand their voices be heard. They talk just to hear the sound of their voices. Putting my fate into the hands of such people struck me as stupid. Still, I chose dynamism and selected a power called Energy Leech. It sapped endurance from enemies and transferred it to your team. I needed to put aside my personal preferences for practicality. The only way I would be able to find Preacher in this maelstrom would be with the assistance of others. For their aid, I needed to be able to offer them value in return. Charity was in slim supply among criminals.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAdVYWmTxM3r
Chapter 26
141Please respect copyright.PENANARjUOEjBAKc
After I selected my new power, I found a map kiosk. I spent a moment studying the layout of the city. Redemption was divided into enclaves, each controlled by its own criminal gangs. As I studied the map, a tall, lanky toon approached me. He was modeled after the classic old-west cowboy, with a beige ten-gallon cowboy hat, black western-style boots, and brown cowhide chaps and matching vest.
“Howdy, partner,” he said, “Southern Sentinel here.”
“I am the Machine.”
“I noticed you’re a Dyno Gunslinger. Our guild, the Bronking Bucks, is looking for noobs with that skill set. We’d sure take mighty kindly to having y’all over. I’ll send you a temporary passcode right there. Come on over and set a spell with us.”
“Yes, I will do this,” I said.
“Alright now, we look forward to seeing y’all.”
Roleplaying was not something we did in Dagestan. Even as kids, we didn’t celebrate pagan rituals like Halloween. I didn’t know what to make of this. I liked the rustic look of cow leather, and his hat had charm. Southern Sentinel’s use of words was a little confusing, but it was clear his tone was cordial.
As Southern Sentinel walked away, the words “Private Chat” crawled across the bottom of my peripheral vision.
“Hello,” I said.
“Machine, where are you?” replied Jet’s voice.
“I’m in front of a map?”
“Behind City Hall?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I looked around until I spotted her hovering over the City Hall dome standing on that orange light disk thing. Jet turned and cut a forty-five-degree angle downward in my direction. About two meters away from my position, the disk vanished and she landed on her feet.
“I expected to find you by the consigliere,” said Jet.
“I have already done that. I have a bone to pick with you. You said I had to join a syndicate because I was a villain. This is not true.”
“I said you shouldn’t join a guild, not you can’t join one,” corrected Jet.
Deception by omission was still a lie. I found it distasteful.
“This is no way to conduct a relationship,” I demanded. “Your background is hidden. I know nothing of you, and you have not been forthright with me.”
A stern look crossed her face. “You’re not ready to know everything.”
“This is no excuse for deception,” I said.
I have stared down countless tough men, many of them highly trained fighters looking to bash in my face. However, staring down at a woman like this was a new experience for me. Disagreements with women usually involved them insulting your manhood. They fight emotionally dirty like that. You tell them to behave like a lady, and you are sexist, but they are free to stereotype male behavior. You shake your head and write it off as they are emotional. She employed a different strategy. To her credit, Jet stood strong. I could see the conviction in her eyes and hear it in her voice.
“I acknowledge your determination and competence. You’ve helped me a lot, but I’m operating in the dark,” I said.
A glimmer of empathy broke through her stern face. “It’s part of the process that all noobs must go through.”
I stayed silent. This would allow her mind to create many beliefs about my thoughts and concerns. She would feel the need to fill the silence. I pursed my lips and turned my head to the left, looking away from her. I took in a long draw of air, held it for a moment, and then released it.
“I know it can be frustrating, but I’ve got to get you ready for Blood Death.”
“I appreciate your efforts. However, I have a favor to ask,” I said.
“What would that be?”
“An inmate called Preacher murdered my celly and stabbed me in the back. I need to find him and right this wrong.”
“Vendettas have consequences here,” said Jet. “You just turned second level. You’re not ready to take the risks that come with paybacks.”
“My options are limited. Once he leaves the Game, I will never see him again.”
“Look, the best you can hope to do is make him suffer. There’s no shortage of misery in this game already,” she said.
At that moment I realized my need for vengeance was not for my celly but myself. I needed to punish him for taking my friend’s life. My celly was twenty years old. He lost many decades of life over a lie. If the criminal justice system wouldn’t avenge my friend, I surely would. The State was guilty as well. My celly didn’t harm anyone by smoking marijuana. Given his life in the ghetto, you can’t blame him for needing an occasional escape. The legal system destroyed his life for choosing something other than alcohol, the government approved intoxicant. I felt a moment of reprieve. These were my thoughts. I had fended off the psychological programming built into The Game and retained a measure of my identity. It was a victory.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAKlVAikEecM
Chapter 27
141Please respect copyright.PENANAOAW8d4jVZG
Blood Death sounded bad. It was required to complete level ten. Unlike a standard mission, it was a tribunal. If you failed a tribunal, the Game withheld your experience points and you didn’t advance. Jet’s desire to help me succeed in Blood Death made little sense. Once I completed it, I would be released. What did her syndicate gain by recruiting a short-timer?
Instead of confronting Jet, I felt it fair to speak with her under the assumption that her motivations were sincere. Believing the worst in people was an outcome of serving time in a penitentiary. She had earned the right to be treated better than that.
Edgar Allen Crow joined us as we chatted inside City Hall. We stood on the Redemption City seal, a golden five-point star. It was inlaid in a black marble floor that had a network of green veins running along its surface. The dome overhead shined with indirect lighting.
“I don’t understand what value I bring to a syndicate. Within the month I’ll be released from captivity,” I said to Jet.
She held her fingers over her lips and shushed me. “This conversation needs to be discreet.”
I accepted her private chat request. Edgar was invited as well.
“You’ll be back,” said Jet.
“I thought the rehabilitation rate was near perfect, no repeat offenders,” I said.
“You’ll come back to The Game by choice.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because of your psychological profile,” she replied. “You have a rare personality type. About one in one-hundred thousand have your profile. It’s even more unusual that a person like you would end up in jail in the first place. Most people in detention with your psychological traits are falsely convicted.”
“I believe you are mistaken. I am like most men I know,” I protested.
Edgar said, “You’re like most other men in almost every aspect. It only takes a few key traits to make a difference. The Game uses advanced artificial intelligence to predict player behavior. The underlying concept is to use randomness to solve problems that might be deterministic in principle. Your behavior cannot be predicted by this methodology.”
“I do not understand this.”
He continued, “Computational algorithms rely on repeated random sampling to obtain numerical results. The Game collects random samples of inmate behavior and turns them into numbers. Those numbers are used to determine what experiences are needed to reform convicts.”
“And how do you know this?”
“He designed its artificial intelligence,” said Jet.
“Edgar, the Birdman of Alcatraz, wrote The Game?”
“I’m pleased you caught the Birdman reference,” said Edgar. “I didn’t write the entire program. I designed the architecture of the AI.”
“All computer systems have human error built into them. The Game has limits. We operate in the fuzzy fringe of those limits,” said Jet.
Every man wants to think of himself as exceptional. It would be easy for a savvy person to use that need as a vehicle to further their agenda. The only thing unique about me was the circumstances of my life. My physical strength came from working on the farm. My culture instilled rugged values. My father was a Sambo Master. When I was six, I begged him to let me train with my brothers. He turned me down, “You’re too young and not made from the right material.” That didn’t stop me. I snuck into the gym and wrestled. My father caught me and told me if I wrestled a bear, I could start training. I thought he was teasing me until he showed up a few days later with a bear cub. The week before my uncle had found the cub; its mother had been killed by poachers. I remember trembling and grabbing my father’s pant leg. “Will it bite me?” I asked. He replied, “You can bite him too.” We rolled around like the best of friends. I laughed so hard when he licked me with his big, slobbery tongue. We took him on as a family pet and named him Boris. Afterwards, I never missed a day of practice.
“Let’s assume I am as you say, a rare personality. Why would I return to this nightmare?”
“Some lessons you have to learn on your own,” said Jet.
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Chapter 28
141Please respect copyright.PENANAQyhhS1ohlH
I hated Jet’s cloak and dagger psychology. I am a person who likes directness. I want facts, not validation.
“I need time to consider this,” I said.
“Of course,” Jet replied. “We’ll give you time to sort out your thoughts.”
Jet and Edgar vanished in unison. Sometimes you need to let your mind relax. This was such a time. The nerve cells in my brain were exhausted.
It was a short walk to the base portal, and I had decided to see how a hero guild conducted its affairs. I entered the base code given to me by the cowboy, Southern Sentinel. I materialized at the gates of the OK Corral. The Bronking Bucks base was a replica of the old west town, Tombstone. I loved it. It was big sky country with purple peaked mountains low on the horizon. Bucolic wooden buildings lined the dirt trail that ran the length of the town. Men and women rode past on horses. The sun felt warm on my face.
“Howdy, partner,” said a chipper female voice with a tad of southwestern American accent.
“Huh?” I said.
She tapped me on the shoulder from behind. “I’m back here.”
I turned and saw a pretty woman wearing tight blue jeans, a green and white plaid shirt with pearl snaps, and a wicker sombrero. Honey blonde hair dropped from under the hat and outlined her neck and shoulders.
“I see you’re a greenhorn. Let’s head down to the saloon and wet your whistle. Giddy up,” she said.
“What?”
“You sure are a city-slicker. Pony up. Let’s go.”
She led me down the dusty road and through a pair of half-height planked doors. A row of toons was standing at a rustic wooden bar drinking whiskey and beer. A man sat at a piano playing a diddly with a Texas two-step beat. Most of the toons wore western-style apparel. A few donned comic book hero garb.
“Come on in and meet the yokels,” she said.
Southern Sentinel recognized me and called out, “Machine!” He waved his arms and said, “Everyone, meet the Machine!”
I was greeted with warm, but somewhat odd, welcomes. Their dialect was difficult to understand.
“Come on over and chew the fat,” said Southern Sentinel.
The barkeeper handed me a frothy mug of golden beer. I took a swig. Bubbles tickled my pallet.
“I’m gonna skedaddle. I have a posse who needs me,” said the young woman.
Everyone in the bar cheered her as she sauntered out the door.
“That’s a mighty fine brew ain’t it,” said Southern Sentinel with a grand smile on his face.
I nodded. A grin crossed my face as well. The situation struck me as funny. I was interfacing across a computer network with violent criminals floating in metal tubes.
“After a spell, why don’t y’all join us for a hoedown?” ask Sentinel.
“What is this hoedown?”
“A shindig.”
‘Sure,” I said. His words held no meaning for me, but it sounded like fun.
In my youth, I wanted to come to America and compete in mixed martial tournaments. I studied English and watched many American films. Westerns were my favorite. This helped me learn the language. My father thought it was a crazy dream, but he supported me. In his heart, he held the same desires. My fondest childhood memories were of sitting with my dad in a movie house watching gunslingers riding into town and saving the citizens from evil men.
Sentinel said, “Are you a whiskey-drinking man?”
“Vodka.”
“Vodka?” he laughed. “That stuff ain’t got no flavor.”
Southern Sentinel took off his hat and waved it at the bartender.
“Bring my friend a shot of whiskey. Make it the good stuff.”
The man reached under the counter, picked up a shot glass, and set it in front of me. He took a bottle from the back of the bar and twisted a cork out of its neck. He filled the shot glass with the Amber liquid. I held it up to my nose and took in its sharp, woody scent. My tongue prickled as I drank it. Unlike vodka, whiskey had a complex flavor hidden beneath the burn of the alcohol.
“That’s mighty good, ain’t it?” Sentinel asked.
“Yes, it is.”
A private chat request interrupted my conversation with Southern Sentinel. I declined the message.
“Well, now, partner, are you a John Wayne or Clint Eastwood man?”
“I am more of a Mongo man…Blazing Saddles.”
“Do tell. You know, I’m taking a shine to you. I like your style,” said Sentinel.
He reached over the counter and grabbed a bottle of brandy. The bottle was matte black, shaped like a water drop, and sealed with a wax cap. He drew a bowie knife from his belt and went to work shaving the wax off the top.
“You have a very friendly guild. What’s your secret?” I said.
“You don't dig for water under the outhouse.”
“Ah, your guild is selective,” I said.
He finished scraping away the wax, revealing an aged cork. He took the tip in his hands and pried it out of the bottle with a pop.
“We all got pieces of crazy in us, some bigger pieces than others,” said Sentinel. “But some cowboys have too much tumbleweed in their blood to settle down.”
He tipped the bottle and brandy filled my shot glass. I only had a moment to savor its flavor, and then another chat request appeared.
“Would you excuse me for a moment? I have a message I must take,” I said.
“You go ahead now,” he replied.
I stepped outside and stretched my arms. “Hello.”
“Where are you?” asked Jet.
“I’m at the Bronking Bucks’ base.”
“Well, yee-haw.”
“Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” I said.
“What are you doing there?”
“They invited me to a hoedown.”
“You’re going to a dance?” she asked.
“Why did you contact me?”
“I’ve located Priest,” she replied.
The doors of the saloon swung open and Sentinel stepped out. He said, “We’re fixing to saddle up.”
Jailhouse edict is a mixture of dynamite and burning matches. Even if you follow protocol, convicts are easy to offend. Blowing off Sentinel, regardless of his comradery, would lead to problems.
“Well?” asked Jet.
“I’m tied up at the moment.”
“Damn,” she said. “I have his identity and position. Wait, I thought you were at the Bronking Bucks base.”
“I am, but I can’t leave. Can you track Priest?”
“Once he enters a mission, I can’t follow him,” she said.
Sentinel placed his hands on his hips and said, “We need to get moseying alone.”
“Jet, I’ve got to go,” I told her.
I disconnected the private chat and addressed Sentinel. “I’m ready.”
141Please respect copyright.PENANA3AkaoX1OzJ
Chapter 29
141Please respect copyright.PENANAs1Ytf4wSdH
When you exemplared with a higher level toon, you fought at their level. Moreover, your experience grew in leaps and bounds. Toons could jump entire levels by playing under a ranked player. When we entered the hoedown, what the Bronking Bucks call a mission, I checked my status. I was playing at level 49, one level below Sentinel. This was my opportunity to jump a few levels.
I was surrounded by seven cow-folk, three males and four females. One of the women wore a denim mini-skirt, a white western shirt embroidered with floral patterns on the shoulders, and narrowed-toed cowboy boots. The rest wore the same style of blue jeans, green and white flannel shirts, and cowboy hats.
The woman in the skirt motioned to the team to gather around her. Fuzzy blue light expanded from her body in the shape of a donut and cut across the team. When it ran through me, a surge of energy tingled every nerve in my body.
Although there were no lights, the cave was well lit. The walls were solid stone, gray, and rocky. Because the cave diameter was about three meters, the posse traveled into the depths side-by-side, except for Sentinel. He spearheaded our team.
As I took my first steps, I accelerated like a high-performance drag racer and slammed into the wall. My nose was crushed, and it gushed blood. I spat out my four front teeth along with an amalgam of blood and saliva. Everyone else rushed past me without incident except for the woman in the skirt.
“You’re a tenderfoot,” she said. “I should have warned you. I boosted everyone’s speed. Y’all be careful, now.”
I ran my index finger over my empty gums as she vanished down the tunnel. I followed, taking one step at a time. I stopped between each step and re-angled my body. With a clear line of sight, I’d take another step. After my fifth step, laughter ensued. The studio audience feed was being piped into the tunnel, and my teammates would be able to hear them mocking me. My face was flush red with embarrassment.
After two more steps, I heard the sounds of battle coming from deep within the cave. Again, I took another step, stopped, and realigned.
It took me ten minutes to reach the first battle point. A dozen jack-booted thugs laid on the ground, their bodies smoldering. Limbs and organs draped the walls. The smell of gasoline lingered in the stagnant air. The cave had been spray-painted with blood, and it was baked into the crevasses of the rock. It looked like burnt cheese. The laughter of the audience abated.
The effects of the speed boost had worn off, and I was able to walk through the corpses without incident. Some moments change you. I wanted to stick my submachine gun to my head and pull the trigger. I knew this was just a game, but what did this say about humanity? The Game was the highest-rated show ever produced. It was a contemporary version of the Inquisition on pay-per-view. A billion people logged in every week to watch this sadistic display. I came to hate humanity.
The tunnel split in three directions a few meters past the sight of the battle. I was lost, had no idea which path to take, nor did I care. I wanted out.
One of the cowgirls came out of the cave on the left.
“Machine, do you know how to access mission maps?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Ah, that explains it. If you double click with your index finger in front of you, a mission map will appear. Double click to make it disappear. We’re almost finished. You’ll teleport back to our base when we’re done.”
She left me standing there as she scurried back down the tunnel. I struggled to keep a lid on my thoughts. My father suffered from the same problem. He always had an opinion, and so did I. Unlike most father-son relationships, we rarely argued. Over dinner, he would ask for my opinions. His only peeve was a weak argument. He insisted I backed my beliefs with some form of evidence. I felt like his trusted advisor. However, my opinion about this situation was useless.
I double-tapped the air in front of me. A map appeared detailing an intricate maze of tunnels and underground rooms. There was a tiny red triangle with a dot in the middle near the entrance. This was me. On the far side of the labyrinth, seven red triangles moved in unison. My teammates were engaging their final target. One of the triangles turned white and stopped moving. A few moments after that, I was standing inside a base teleporter with the others.
The mission was complete. The simulation deprived me of experience points. The code assigned points based on the damage you took and gave in combat. No points were awarded for running into the wall.
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Chapter 30
141Please respect copyright.PENANA7BZY206RYU
I dreaded the thought of being disconnected from the game. In the last moments of the second night, I remembered the ghoulish nightmares I had of my daughter’s death. Reliving her loss was unbearable. Still, the darkness came. After eight hours of synthetic sleep, I awoke bound with leather straps to a dentist’s chair. A harsh round dental light shined in my eyes. The room smelled of isopropyl alcohol. A masked dentist leaned over my body holding an air-driven drill an inch from my face. Its high-pitched whine violated my ears.
“Don’t worry,” said the dentist. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
I clamped my mouth shut.
“Nurse, I need the iron mandible,” he said.
Sweat beaded on my forehead as I watched her hand the dentist a stainless steel vice. It had two sets of opposing jaws with adjoining screws. He clamped the device to the jawbone on both sides of my face. Next, he fastened a frame around my head and turned the tension screw until it was crushing the skin on my skull.
I could see his lips smiling under his paper-thin mask. He twisted the screw connecting the head harness to my jaw. With each turn, my mouth inched open. He turned the screw until my jaw socket dislocated with a crack. He picked up his drill and tested it. Air pressure spun the tungsten-carbide burr with a phhhst. The drills sickening whir buzzed my jaw as he pressed the auger against a molar.
141Please respect copyright.PENANA2VpISqjzVK
I started my third night in the game at second level. I was far behind. The first three levels were designed to be easy and to allow minor offenders to level up and out. A first-time shoplifter was expected to finish their sentence in a night or two. Convicts doing five years generally took a week to level out. If you were doing double twenties back-to-back, you’d be lucky to be out in a year.
I waited in Apollo Park for Jet’s private chat request. Most toons there milled around a hero named Ms. Freedom. She stood in front of the Chief Justice statue. Ms. Freedom wore a red, white, and blue bodysuit. Her outfit looked like it was made from an American flag, with stars across the chest, and stripes running vertically down the waist. Her thick blonde hair swept over her shoulders and ran to the middle of her back. Heroes went to her to level up.
Apollo Park was a lot like a prison yard. Inmates collected in groups by ethnicity. The occasional white girl was standing among a clan of black heroes, but behind the image, she was a black man. Most blacks choose black toons. Most white convicts played toons with European features. Even if their skin was purple, it was a Caucasian face. The smart players choose non-human builds. A lizard was raceless. As such, they had more flexibility when choosing allies. I wish I had that foresight.
A private chat request popped up just as I expected. You had to admire Jet’s dedication to purpose and consistency. I’d come to trust her. In prison, politics and drama never let up. Corporate life was no different, it just lacked the physical violence of lockup. Jet was different. She was willing to set aside her objectives to help me find Preacher. As driven as she was, Jet found time for my needs. It was time for me to return her good graces.
I accepted the chat request and said, “Hello.”
“We’ve got a problem.”
The voice was male and monotone. Still, it carried a note of stress.
“Edgar, is that you?”
“Yes…we’ve got a big problem. Jet’s been taken.”
“Taken, how is this possible?” I asked.
“She joined a team as a morph. Someone has her.”
“Edgar,” I said, “settle down. I need details.”
“I can’t connect to her through The Game.”
“Could her link be down?”
“No, I’m at her server. I’ve run a diagnostic on it. She’s locked in,” said Edgar.
“Okay, do you mean you are physically in the same room as her server? You’re in the same room as Jet in the real world?”
“Yes.”
“Can you have a doctor unhook her from the interface?”
“We’re in a private location. I don’t have access to medical personnel. Disengaging Jet could kill her,” said Edgar.
“Why?”
“She’s locked into the system. It’s controlling every neurological function in her body. You have to follow the disconnection protocol and let her body reboot its natural processes. The procedure takes several days.”
“So, begin the process,” I said.
Edgar stammered as he spoke, “I can’t. Another computer has taken control of her body through the Internet gateway.”
“Damn it,” I said. “Do you know who has her?”
“She was trailing a toon. I think his name was Pricker.”
“Could his name be Preacher?”
“Yes, it could. I heard the name third party.”
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“Find Jet. Once you do you’ll need to overload the server controlling her. Use up every last clock cycle of its CPU. I need it to freeze up so I can traceroute her location and override the connection. I would have done it already, but if their security software detects my intrusion, it might kill her. All it takes is the wrong signal to her heart.”
“Do you have anything that could help me get her out?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Edgar.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAiSwgXDRULb
Chapter 31
141Please respect copyright.PENANArxOdQsgHTg
Sentinel stood at the bar with his elbows on the countertop and one boot resting on a foot rail. He wore a light brown leather jacket with fringe hanging from the chest, back, and forearms. Resting on his head was a cowboy hat with a skull medallion pinned on the front. Other than Sentinel, the tavern was empty. It looked like a good moment to approach him.
“Hey there, Sentinel,” I said.
“You look a little saddle sore, but I’m doggone happy to see y’all back. That was a highfalutin mission we took you on. ”
“They were tough. Who were they?”
“The Council,” he replied. “You might call them the unwanted step-children of Nazis.”
I found it difficult to measure the character of the Bronking Bucks. I struggled to read between the lines of their overboard dialect.
“I am looking for a former celly of mine. He and I entered the Game at the same time, and I would like to see how he is doing. He is called Preacher. Do you know of him?” I said.
“Whoa there, partner. That name stirs up a bit of dust, more like cactus.”
“I don’t understand this.”
He looked directly into my eyes when he spoke. “He’s a friend of yours?”
“We were cellmates.”
“I mind my own affairs. Around these parts, Lettin' the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin' it back.”
I switched topics, “Okay, by the way, how do you change your costume? I’d liked to get a felt cowboy hat.”
“Y’all need to head over to the seamstress in Hooker Canyon. We have a transporter that will take you there. Follow me.”
We left the bar and walked into the gambling establishment across the road. A few toons were playing cards at a table covered in green felt. They were gambling over coin, the in-game version of money. A hall in the back led to a room with a row of leather maps mounted on the wall. Each map had the name of an in-game zone seared on its surface.
Sentinel pointed at the second map and said, “Click on this one.”
The name Hooker Canyon was burned into the map. A quick click and I emerged from a portal in an industrial park. The skyline was filled with warehouses, factories, and powerlines. Black smoke formed clouds above towering smokestacks. Three stories above the street, a streamlined train rushed past on a single rail. Litter overflowed from a nearby dumpster. Traffic noise was at a steady buzz. What set Hooker Canyon apart from the other zones was the sulfur smell, like rotten eggs.
I forgot to ask Southern Sentinel about joining him for another mission. I clicked on the portal and entered the passcode to the Bronking Bucks base.
“Access denied.”
I tried again with the same result. Southern Sentinel had canceled my access.
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Chapter 32
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Double-clicking only brought up a mission map. When you were in a metropolitan zone, the maps were posted around the city. I followed the monorail track until I reached a station. Inside, I found a city map displayed on one of the walls. The seamstress was a few blocks away. Hooker Canyon was a level ten to fifteen zone, and I was level two.
From the monorail platform, I could see the path to the seamstress was through Vazloc country. Unfortunately, the alternate routes were worse. My aversion was emotional. A Vazloc was a collection of stitched-together body parts akin to Frankenstein’s monster. They had no body fat, and their pale gray skin was stretched taut over their muscle fiber and bones. What sickened me most about them was they wore a blood-stained butcher’s apron and nothing underneath. This situation exposed far too much of their anatomy for my preferences.
As I stood mulling the state of affairs, I received a chat request. I accepted.
Edgar said, “I have an update on Preacher. He’s not your run-of-the-mill grafter. I was able to hack into his police records. I’ll send you an in-game email.”
“Alright, is there anything else?”
“Not yet.”
“I need to know something,” I said.
“Go on.”
“Why are you here in The Game?”
“When I was hired to write the artificial intelligence for the simulation, I was told that it would help incarcerated men reform. I wanted to give these men a second chance at life, not to torture them for corporate profit. I couldn’t live with what I’d done,” he said.
“And Jet?”
“She was the lead psychologist on the project,” said Edgar.
I opened my email and viewed the attachment. I skim read Preacher’s dossier. It began with a long string of disciplinary reports including things like skipping school, insubordination, and fighting. He took the Stanford-Binet test in seventh grade and scored in the top 99th percentile of intelligence. He dropped out of high school in eleventh grade with a grade point average of 1.3.
After he left high school, his activities remained undocumented until he surfaced a decade later. He had built a small empire selling college degrees on the Dark Web. The gift he brought to clients was the ability to hack college networks and add phony transcripts to student accounts. His distinguished criminal career began when he wrote a doctoral thesis without attending one day of college, got it published, and used it to obtain a job as a criminal justice professor at a university. His thesis: Criminal Reform: Correcting America’s Failures. By the second year of his tenure at the university, the Federal Department of Justice hired him as a consultant. However, for no obvious reason, he gave up his post as a professor and opened a franchise of martial arts clubs for the wealthy.
Preacher’s first arrest as an adult took place after he had opened a dozen clubs across Canada and the United States. He was detained for driving while intoxicated. The police report said he resisted arrest. The arresting officers claimed their body cameras had malfunctioned, and no video evidence of the arrest was recorded. The police had moved him out of view of the patrol car camera before they beat him bloody.
When he was released from jail, Preacher tracked the two officers for weeks, accumulating information on their private lives, and eventually found where they lived. Rather than going through legal channels and having his day in court for police abuse, he dispensed justice as he saw fit.
In a correspondence to his lawyer, Preacher argued the murder charges were unjustified. He wrote, “For justice to be blind, the State cannot be trusted to police itself. There are moments when citizens must act in self-defense against the Government. Where the State fails in its role to protect its people against the imbalance of power that exists between citizens and police, retaliatory action is justified. Wherein the government can be held accountable for sedition against the Constitution, civilians retain the right to enforce justice in the face of State injustice.”
I struggled to understand Preacher. I asked myself how could a man of such intellectual ability waste it like this?
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Chapter 33
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Avoiding the Vazloc was similar to dodging rape in prison showers. You had to be prepared to make a slippery escape. The Vazloc surrounded their victims and pinned them against a wall or a car, where they would chop away with butcher knives. The programmer who wrote this section of code must have watched a Halloween slasher movie as inspiration. Unlike your typical zombies, these guys moved fast.
Half of the Vazloc had raging boners. I noticed this as a gang of them chased me down an alley. Many of them had a protruding lump under their butcher’s aprons. Someone had to write that into the computer code. There I was, running from a mob of butcher knife welding zombies with hard-ons, laughing my ass off.
The Vazloc stopped chasing me when I was about fifty meters ahead of them. Once you were past a certain distance, they broke off the chase. This was true of all non-player characters to different degrees. Some gave up quickly, and others would follow you to hell and back.
I found the seamstress's shop, a small, uneventful brick building with mirrored windows. Inside, a grisly-looking woman, her wrinkled face stitched together in a patchwork of varying skin tones, greeted me. Her left cheek was albino, right cheek olive, forehead freckled, nose dark brown, and her chin ruddy. Her bright red hair stuck straight up into the air. She wore a black, ankle-length dress.
“Aren’t you a handsome devil. You’d look sexy dressed in me,” said the seamstress.
I snickered. I tried to hide my laughter from her. It was impolite to laugh at someone’s appearance. Of course, I knew it was a computer-generated image, but I still felt the need to be courteous to the old lady.
“I would like to customize my appearance.”
“Take off your clothes and try me on.”
“Stop it,” I demanded.
What was I thinking? I was talking to computer code. I pointed my finger at her and clicked. I was returned to the avatar building system that started the game. Super-Duper Guy stood there in all his patriotic glory. He raised his hand and gave me a salute.
“Welcome back, GI,” said Super-Duper Guy. “Are you ready to serve up a dish of American justice in a new uniform?”
“Yes.”
“Outstanding! You know the drill,” and disappeared.
This toon would be a robot. A raceless, genderless identity had advantages. I could move within any circle, and inmates would assume I was part of their tribe. My emotions would be hidden behind a mechanical face. Shot callers were adept at reading the subtle expressions of both opponents and allies. Most convicts would overlook little details like this, but the kingpins used it to their advantage. It would be a strategic advantage to guard my emotions.
I could have chosen one of a hundred different toons that projected a neutral identity. This simulation stole your sense of self. By taking the identity of a mechanical avatar, I was able to retain a modicum of individuality. I fought as Mikhail “The Machine” Federov in Sambo, and now I would be a machine in this virtual reality.
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Chapter 34
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My reflection shined in the mirrored window of the seamstress's building. There stood an atomic-powered knight armored in polished steel with a chrome skull for a head and glowing red eyes. External pistons drove the I-beam structure of my arms and legs. I looked like a bipedal, motorized juggernaut of death. I felt invincible. Well, at least until a gang of Vazloc chased me clear back to the monorail station. It was a safe zone, and non-player characters who got too close to it were vaporized by laser cannons that were mounted two meters off the ground on tripods at the perimeter of all safe zones. When a villainous non-player character got about twenty meters from one, a beam of blue light burned them down, poof.
On the ride back to Apollo Park, I received a chat request from Edgar.
“What do you have for me?” I asked.
“I have an audio recording from Preacher. It was edited out of the show. Everything about him has been removed from the program. Let me play it for you.”
“Okay.”
Preacher’s voice played in my ears. “I knew a man who had sex with a woman with AIDS. Only the paper-thin membrane of his condom saved him from death.”
“This was recorded right after Preacher reached level thirty, just at the end of the second episode,” said Edgar.
“How is this possible?”
“He talked himself onto a level 50 overlord team and power leveled.”
“What are overlords?” I asked.
“Convicts with life sentences who will never leave The Game alive.”
Preacher had endured thirty levels of suffering in two nights. This simulation puts inmates through a lifetime of pain in the first hour alone. My, God, what does that do to a man’s mind?
“I’m sending you another email,” said Edgar. “There’s twenty thousand coin in the attachment. That’s all for now.”
He disconnected from the private chat. I was amazed at how fast Edgar could obtain classified information. Again, I was haunted by my thoughts. It was too fast. Was this more manipulation for viewer ratings? Could this just all be code written into the game, a thought control technique? Or, was this the scheme of another inmate vying for power? In each case, it made more sense than two people from the outside. Does anyone feel so guilty they would endure the agony of this to correct their wrongs? I would choose a different path regardless of what I’d done.
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Chapter 35
141Please respect copyright.PENANAgG6FuOjQTN
When the Vazloc chased me back in Hooker Canyon, I expected to hear the laughter of the audience mocking my cowardice. External sound was notable in The Game because it drew you back to the real world. It was missing from this episode. It was easy to play to the wishes of an audience. In my Sambo days, cheering spectators made me feel like a hero. How could you feel otherwise? Kids and adults alike wanted to be like you.
I had heroes as a child. Russia was known for its great fighters. I would watch them compete and dream of following in their footsteps. My father would watch sambo with me and speak about the lessons of sportsmanship.
Once, as a teenager, my father and I were watching one of my favorite sambo champions fight. He asked me, “Do you admire him for what he’s earned, or for what he represents?”
“I admire him for the girls he gets,” I joked.
My father laughed. “Good answer, Mikkie.”
I decided to act as if the audience didn’t exist, and stay focused on finding Jet. I checked my in-game email, and the passcode to the Destroyer’s base was still valid.
It was a short walk to the base portal from the monorail station, but first I stopped at the nearby arms dealer. Now that I had coin, I could purchase firepower. I will admit to having some shortcomings. Explosives were one of them. As a kid, I loved to play with firecrackers. When I was drafted, the army was filled with toys: grenades, mortars, and rocket-propelled grenades. Watching a gunship fire a salvo of twenty-millimeter rounds into a Bruiser was riveting. Going to the arms dealer was like going to the candy store as a child.
I pushed through a crowd of toons congregating on the south side of the Chief Justice statue. The arms dealer stood behind them with his hands on his hips. He wore an off-white suit of plastic armor. His helmet was round, and an orange-tinted visor covered his eyes. I clicked on him with anticipation. A menu filled the center of my vision, floating in midair.
“Please select a menu item,” said the arms dealer.
First, I chose amplifiers and selected one each from accuracy and damage. Amplifiers gave you a boost in power. Accuracy was a statistical calculation, just like rolling dice. My base chance to hit an opponent of an equal level was about seventy-five percent. By procuring an amplifier, my odds would rise to eighty percent. At second level you only had two spaces to slot amplifiers. I debated purchasing two accuracies to increase my odds to eighty-five percent, but increasing damage was equally important.
From the menu, I selected temporary powers. It was an arsonist’s wet dream. I bypassed the firearms and went directly to explosives. I purchased a semi-automatic grenade launcher and a half-dozen of thermite grenades, concussion grenades, and three stick bundles of dynamite.
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Chapter 36
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Instead of transporting into Death Ritual’s base uninvited, I sent him a chat request. His voice floated in the air as he answered.
“Machine, it’s good to hear from you. What’s going on?”
“I’d like to visit your base again. Is this acceptable?”
“Sure, head on over to the strip club. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The private chat cut off. Before I entered the Destroyer’s base, I returned to my original character. It was a tactical decision. Having an unknown identity in your hip pocket had benefits.
After I entered their base, I made note of its style. The main hallway had a very functional, industrial feel: white tile walls and concrete floors. It was sterile and characterless. I walked around until I found the strip club. It was buried at the end of a side hallway between two identical golden statues of Silver Lace, a femme-fatale arch-villain. They depicted her Aphrodite body with rich sexual fertility, full-bodied hair, and a cape flowing from her shoulders to the floor. Four overhead floodlights cast columns of purple light against the walls behind the sculptures. Dance music throbbing with bass emanated from the cracks between the entrance doors.
A woman stood there behind a narrow, chest-high reception podium. Her slender and curvy body was covered in a deep violet, metallic bodysuit. The outfit shimmered with my reflection as I approached.
“Table for one?” she asked.
“Death Ritual will be joining me.”
“Follow me.”
As she opened the door, the thump of bass hit my body in rhythmic cadence. An elevated stage stood in the middle of the house-sized room. Several near-naked women danced on the platform. Toons circled the dance stage five rows deep drinking alcohol. The tart scent of marijuana flavored the air. Three mirrored disco balls spun over the stage sending spots of light running across the walls and floor. Hidden lighting illuminated the walls with a burgundy wine hue.
The woman led me to a front-row table that abutted the stage. Rope dividers made of red felt circled the table. She disconnected a rope, and then she motioned me inside. I took a seat on a maroon, wing-backed leather chair with cherry wood legs and appointed with brass buttons. She reattached the divider, and then she signaled a waitress to the table. As she walked away, a young woman wearing a black tuxedo jacket with a matching choker, and a fishnet bodysuit underneath, slinked to my table.
“How may I pleasure you?” she asked.
“I will have a Siberian Sunrise.”
“Mango or grapefruit?”
“Mango.”
She turned with a pleasant jiggle and walked away. I didn’t watch the girls on stage. It would be torture looking at these women knowing that sexual fulfillment was forbidden in The Game. The justice system used sexuality as a weapon against inmates. This game was filled with realistic, highly erotic images of women. By the end of a day of gameplay, every prisoner was dripping with hormones. Without an outlet, it was a form of torture.
The young woman returned with my drink. It was a perfect combination of vodka, lime, mango, and sugar. It tasted as if made with a ripe mango freshly picked from the tree. Vice in this simulation was better than anything I had experienced in real life. It was part of the psychological manipulation. Mixing horror with pleasure was one of the ways the justice system raped your emotions.
As I sipped my drink, I felt a mammoth gloved hand covered in barbed wire grab my shoulder. I turned around and my eyes were greeted by a skull towering over a massive, tattooed-covered body.
“It’s good to see you,” said Death Ritual. “How do you like the entertainment?”
“The girls are first rate.”
He took a seat across from me, placed his elbows on the table, and laughed.
“We get away with a lot in here. There are benefits to knowing how to game the system.”
The waitress returned to our table and handed Death Ritual a drink in a tall glass.
“What is this you are drinking?”
“Spiced, dark rum and cola,” he replied. “You should try one. It’s filled with vanilla and cinnamon.”
“Yes, I will do this.”
A dancing girl knelt next to Death Ritual and placed her hands around his face. She was a goddess. The image of such beauty grinding her bosom against his skeleton head was disturbing.
He pulled his face out from her breasts and said, “So, you want something from me?”
“I have to be straight with you,” I said. “I need to find a toon that goes by Preacher. Do you know of him?”
“Everyone knows of him. He’s been here less than a week and his exploits are already legendary.”
“How is this?”
“Rumor is that he’s the fastest leveling player in the history of the game,” said Death Ritual. “He’s built himself quite an empire. He even has his own syndicate, base and all.”
“This is difficult news.”
“You’re not planning on going up against him are you?”
“He has a debt in his ledger that I need to collect,” I said.
“Everyone in here has a debt to pay.”
“How badly is he cutting into your syndicate?” I asked.
“He’s attracting a lot of talent. It’s hurting business.”
“May I ask how badly?”
“We’ve lost members to him. Our benefits have been cut,” said Death Ritual with a frown.
I thought for a moment. The benefits a syndicate received were based on a formula encoded into the simulation. Losing members meant his syndicate was in serious peril.
“I need your advice,” I said. “How do I get inside and bring him down.”
Death Ritual thought for a moment. He took a drink, and then he said, “Okay, there’s two ways. First, you could try to join his syndicate and spend time moving up the ranks until you get close access to him.”
“This will take time.”
“Yes, it will. The second option would be a base raid. You’d need a guild or syndicate to do that.”
“What would a victory against his syndicate do for your street credibility?” I asked.
“I was waiting for you to get to that.”
“Are you interested?”
“I was interested from the get-go,” he said. “The Destroyers believe in revenge.”
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Chapter 37
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Time had a different value in The Game. You purchased time in real life with pain. It was somewhat akin to surgery. Like surgery, it carried with it fear and physical suffering. Surgery extended your time in life. When our desire to live exceeds our fear of pain, we accept suffering. The Game forced you to take a philosophical look at life and its value. The concept behind The Game was that success didn’t breed self-reflection, painful failure did. I found myself asking why was it that pain brought wisdom but pleasure didn’t?
I considered my situation. I was about to endure unbearable suffering to save the real world life of a woman I didn’t know. It was odd that I had an emotional attachment to her. How could I know if my feelings were real, or just an implant, a computer-generated emotional response to incite behavior? And then it hit me with absolute clarity; it didn’t matter where the feelings came from. My emotions were independent of reality.
Those thoughts had run through my head as I watched Death Ritual with his face buried between the breasts of a female toon wearing a string bikini. The Game didn’t allow full nudity, but it came close. He tipped her with coin, and she stood back up and continued dancing on the elevated stage.
“Nothing focuses the brain like a great set of boobies,” said Death Ritual. “Alright, you’ll go into Priest’s base with a couple of noobs next episode. That will draw less attention. When you get close to Preacher, you’ll send me a private chat. That’s when the Destroyers will raid Preacher’s base. That will be your window of opportunity.”
Perhaps pleasure did bring wisdom, and the traditional definition of what it meant to be wise was misguided. Death Ritual was lucid and, you might say, enthused. Breasts can do that to you.
Death Ritual hesitated for an extended moment, and then he said, “I just spoke with Tango. She’s going to fix you up.”
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Chapter 38
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When the episode ended, I was disconnected from the network. Instead of inducing sleep, the computer kept me awake. I waited for emotionally tragic dreams. They never came. At first, I thought that the computer controlling my body was malfunctioning. Without a clock for reference, it was impossible to judge time. However, I believe several hours passed before I became agitated. I was desperate to fall asleep. I had to get rested before the next episode. It became a negative cycle of deepening anxiety.
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Tango found me in Apollo Park sitting under the Chief Justice statue. As I sat I would nod off every few seconds, and then wake up.
She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Are you all there?”
“I didn’t sleep last night.”
“Damn,” said Tango. “This is really bad timing. The simulation is going to keep you awake until you break.”
“Break what?”
“The computer code measures its effect on you. It experiments with different experiences until it finds what it takes to make you reform. Sleep deprivation is a last-ditch effort by The Game to disrupt your mental resolve. We need to call everything off until you get past it.”
“You want to call it off because I’m a little tired.” I was very annoyed at her for making this suggestion.
“I’m going to do a three-way chat with you and Death Ritual. Hold on.”
I accepted her private chat request.
Death Ritual said, “What’s going on?”
“The computer is doing a sleep deprivation job on Machine. I think we need to do an abortion on this mission,” replied Tango.
I was filled with anger. I did not have time to wait. I said, “Not a chance.”
“Hear his voice,” said Tango. “He’s already showing signs.”
Death Ritual said, “Tango is right…”
I interrupted, “Damn it, I can’t put this off.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Damn sure.”
“Tango, give him a bottle of sapphire boosters. Make sure he eats them like candy,” said Death Ritual.
“He’s going to crash hard,” she replied.
I took a sapphire pill and felt refreshed. Tango’s head shook side-to-side with a raised eyebrow.
“Those pills will only work for so long,” said Tango. “You’ll need them frequently. In combat situations, you may have to take two or three at a time.”
“Alright.”
“I’m going to switch to an alt and join you,” said Tango.
“An alt?”
“I have two toons. As part of my sentence, I have to take two toons to level fifty. My other toon is third level.”
She handed me a bazooka and said, “One second.”
Thump, a plume of light blue smoke exploded under her feet and covered her head to toe. The form of a slender woman appeared as the cloud faded. She wore a sleeveless black leotard with sheer mesh that ran from the choker around her neck to deep between her breasts. Fishnets adorned her thighs, and stiletto boots covered her legs below the knees. Soft, rosy copper hair hung in loops below her felt top hat. Black circles of eye shadow ringed her eyes.
“This is Dark Circus,” she said. “Call me DC for short. Don’t call me Tango anymore. It could blow my cover.”
“Okay.” I held up the bazooka and said, “What does this thing do?”
“That’s Oppenheimer’s Hammer. Death’s doing you a big favor by letting you have it. It’s an extremely rare weapon, and very expensive. It’s a single fire weapon, so only use it as a last measure.”
“Is anyone else going to join us?”
“No, Death decided that two would be the right number. It gives us a plausible backstory. We were cellys at Jackson State prison in Michigan,” said DC.
I placed Oppenheimer’s Hammer on my belt and it disappeared. All weapons disappear until you draw and use them. I found it odd that most players didn’t purchase weapons from the arms dealer. It made sense to buy temporary weapons from him at lower levels because they increase your damage more than amplifiers. Amplifiers don’t make a significant difference until you’re above level ten. As they become more powerful, they go up in price. Inmates often delay purchasing amplifiers at low levels, saving their coin until they can afford something more powerful. It’s an intelligent strategy if you’re serving an extended sentence, but not for short-timers.
“We need to catch the next Walk By,” said DC.
She and I made our way to the staging area next to the Chief Justice statue. Super-Duper Guy stood there in all his patriot gusto, chin held high, with a prideful smile. I’d come to like him, or at least what he represented. He was noble in unscrupulous times.
Two lines of toons stood side-by-side that stretched around the base of the Chief Justice statue and extended behind City Hall. The number of new inmates had increased at least ten-fold. I guessed there were around one thousand players.
A private chat request broke my concentration.
Edgar said, “I have a few updates. The Supreme Court overturned the ruling that participation in The Game must be voluntary.”
“How did this happen?”
“Three new justices were appointed this week. They held an emergency session and overturned the previous decision.”
“You’re telling me that three justices were confirmed, a court case was adjudicated, and ten times the normal amount of inmates were inducted into the game in one week?” I said.
“Yes.”
For this to happen, the justice system would have had to have built one thousand new iron maidens and placed them into facilities across the country. Moreover, it would take a staff of several thousand doctors and nurses to be trained to surgically implant and monitor the system. The situation resonated with deceit.
Edgar continued, “Hordes of inmates are being forced to play. The criminal justice system has implemented a lottery for citizens to play against prisoners. People pay a fee to compete.”
“Are citizens hooked up to iron maidens?”
“No, they link in using a virtual reality helm.”
“This is new to me. What is this helm?”
Edgar said, “It looks a lot like a full-face motorcycle helmet. It connects to a player's brain through an electromagnetic envelope. Players are immersed, but not as deep as inmates.”
“Do they feel the pain we do?” I asked.
“No, but they could with the right modifications in the code. This is the nightmare scenario we predicted. The helms are not as accurate as an iron maiden. However, they could be used to target the behavioral centers of the brain, implant memories, and control mood and temperament.”
“Okay, is there anything else?”
“I was able to contact Preacher’s brother,” said Edgar. “He said a pattern developed in Preacher’s life in school that carried on into his adulthood. Most kids like him were passed from grade to grade, not Preacher. He tested the edges, and then he talked his way out of trouble. He found failure in every situation, and was saved by his ability to manipulate the less intelligent.”
“Yes, I can use this knowledge.”
“I have another recording from earlier tonight,” continued Edgar. “I’ll send it to your email. You need to listen to it as soon as possible. One last thing. I’ve written a virus that will interrupt a player’s cardiac rhythm. It’s in your email. Download the attachment.”
The blood ran from my face and I felt faint. I sought justice for my cellmate, but this felt more like an assassination. Using a computer virus was cold-hearted death-dealing. My vengeance was driven by passion.
I brought up my email and downloaded the first attachment. It was marked urgent. I bit my lip as Preacher’s words played in my ears.
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“Every single one of them must die. They found me guilty of murder. Who are they? How many millions have they killed? How many young men have they sent to death in a war to steal the resources of other nations? How many incarcerated men have fallen prey to their cruelties? How many children have been left to the neglect of abusive parents as they turn their heads? The only difference between them and me is power. Their hypocrisy sickens me to the core of my existence.”
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As Preacher’s last words floated in my head, tiredness hit me like a stampede of bulls. I tried to make sense of his ramblings, but my awareness diminished, and my rational deliberation came to an end. It felt like every last speck of energy in my body had been leached away. I collapsed to the ground.
“Machine, are you alright? You need another sapphire booster,” said DC.
I heard her words, but my mind couldn’t process their meaning. It was just so much background noise.
She placed a sapphire pill between my lips, and I felt a gale of energy course through my spine and flow out to my extremities.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
I stood up and looked at the endless line of new players. I said, “This will take too long.”
“Agreed. Someone from Preacher’s syndicate will be watching from the statue platform. Let’s find his representative and speak with them before the Walk By starts. His syndicate is called the Octagon.”
He named his syndicate after what you call a mixed martial arts fighting ring. His themes were the same, always on stage.
After we climbed onto the platform, DC and I clicked on the toons that stood there. These were the heavy hitters of Redemption City. Every guild and syndicate had a representative there ready to assess the new players. I noticed a toon who had the physical proportions of a gorilla on steroids. His coal-colored skin stood in stark contrast to his sliver Viking hair. He wore a simple leather vest with gargantuan shoulders sticking out. His deltoids looked as if someone had stretched skin over a bowling ball, and his massive arms bulged with a network of veins. A silver goatee and arching eyebrows gave his face a sinister veneer. He wore black leather gloves wrapped with red chains.
I clicked on him. His name was Deuce and he was an Octagon. I tapped DC on the shoulder and said, “There he is.”
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Chapter 39
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A crowd of high-level toons surrounded Deuce like a diva’s entourage. It was just like a prison yard where wannabe inmates were vying for the attention of a shot-caller. A moment of clarity hit me. The Game didn’t need to force inmates into accepting the concept of dominance, it only needed to redirect them into society’s dominance structure.
“It’s going to be difficult to get to him. He’s covered in a wall of toons seeking his attention,” said DC.
“This will not be a problem,” I told her. “Wait here.”
I walked tall as I pushed my way through the gathering of toons encasing Deuce. He watched me, a second-level toon, pushing level fifty characters aside. Several toons took exception to my efforts, and a slurry of insults was cast at me. I ignored their words as if they were beneath me. I stopped a meter in front of Deuce and stared into his eyes.
In my most arrogant voice, I said, “I don’t have time to fool with this Walk By nonsense. I’m here to hook up with the Octagon.”
He held a finger up and clicked on me. That was a good sign. I stood silent. He waited for me to speak, testing me, to see if my attitude was real or a bluff. Nervous men speak out of turn and say too much. Silence brings out their insecurities. They fill it by overselling themselves.
“You just pissed off the leaders of half of the syndicates on this server by walking up here like that,” said Deuce.
“I’m not interested in their approval.”
More silence followed.
He continued, “You have to earn the right to approach me. Beat it.”
“Do you know who I am in real life?”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“You don’t but Preacher does.”
I turned my back on him and waded back into the crowd. I was halfway back to DC when I felt a hand on my shoulder that spun me around.
“Preacher wants to know who you are.”
“Tell him I am the Machine.”
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Chapter 40
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A private chat request popped into my field of view. I accepted it.
DC screamed, “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“Go back to Death. Tell him I am in, and to get ready for the raid.”
“That’s not the plan!”
Deuce’s voice cut through the private chat. “Alright, let’s go.”
A window appeared in the air in front of me at face height. It was a join team request from Deuce. I clicked my index finger on accept. Deuce invoked a team teleport function. Apollo Park blinked out of existence, and the word “Loading” floated in front of me. We emerged in a clearing surrounded by rainforest. It looked modeled after the jungles of Brazil, with dense foliage, vines hanging from towering trees, and an aqua-blue sky overhead. In the distance, a Latin American-style pyramid peaked its top just above the jungle canopy.
We walked along a meandering trail towards the pyramid. At about one hundred meters into the jungle, scores of naked human bodies were crucified on poles. This was wrong. Naked toons and non-player characters were forbidden in The Game.
The effect of the booster started to wear off. I couldn’t remember where I was at. My legs felt like lead. I slipped a sapphire pill from the bottle in my trench coat and swallowed it. It was refreshing, but I didn’t feel one hundred percent. It took a second pill to regenerate me to full capacity.
We entered a second clearing. The pyramid stood in the center, reaching toward the sky above. It was made of beige sandstone with white quartz crystal lining the staircase that led to a temple mounted at the top. The land that surrounded the pyramid was marsh akin to the Okavango delta in Africa. Reeds and cattails grew in sporadic patches among the still waters.
A weathered gangplank provided passage to the pyramid. As we moved across its slats, the wood squealed under our footfalls. The boards rattled and flexed, threatening to break under my weight. A school of grey fish with red bellies followed us as we crossed. Their underbite exposed razor-sharp dental weaponry. I recognized them: piranha.
From a strategic point of view, this made perfect sense. Any invading guild would have to wade waist-deep in man-eating piranha. The footbridge was built to support two or three toons at a time before it would collapse.
As we crossed the causeway, I tried to send a chat request to DC. Death’s syndicate would need to bring jetpacks to the raid so they could fly over the water. I brought up the chat request menu and entered DC’s handle. I received the message “Invalid Request.” Something was blocking it.
Deuce thumped his hand on my chest when we reached the entrance. He said, “Wait here,” as two stone doors half a meter thick parted. The entrance was recessed like castle gates. I studied the carving on the doors. At the base of an inverted cross, five roses clustered together were etched on the surface. The cross could have been a satanic symbol, but with the roses, it had to be Saint Peter’s cross. Preacher chose two symbols of martyrdom and penance to greet anyone who entered these gates.
On each side of the entrance, ten slots were cut into the pyramid walls. Twenty-millimeter cannon bores floated just behind the face of the slots. The walls were rife with murder slots.
I stood there for fifteen minutes. This technique of making you wait to establish who is boss pissed me off. I don’t care who you think you are, your time is not more valuable than my time.
The shrill grinding of the doors penetrated my ears a second time. Jet stepped out from behind the doors with her hands folded together behind her hindquarters. Her face was pointed downwards, but her eyes looked up at me.
“Machine,” said Jet as she up to me and wrapped her arms around my body. “I’m so glad you finally made it here.”
“Jet, it’s so good to see you again.” Given the circumstances, it seemed prudent to play along.
“You’re going to love this syndicate. Preacher is a visionary.”
Deuce stepped outside and addressed us, “Let’s go.”
He disappeared into the building, and we followed him inside. The doors opened into a vast chamber. White marble walls angled upwards, converging at a point above the center of the structure. A bronze ball the size of a house hung on a chain just below the ceiling apex. The ball was inscribed with Aramaic script. Rays of violet light leaked out of the edges of the lettering. An army of toons packed the facility. Their voices blended into a monotonous uproar. It looked like a Halloween convention in Las Vegas.
Toons stepped aside as Deuce cut through the gathering. Every single one of them looked at him with deference. He returned the nods of a few select players. We worked our way to a hallway on the left side. It was tall, arched, and half the length of a football field. Deep red banners hung along the passage, each with a black circle surrounding an iron cross in the middle.
We stopped in front of a set of highly carved French walnut doors. Its grain was rich with dark lines coursing under a mosaic of biblical angels. I was revolted by their beauty. The décor was a blend of holy worship and militaristic symbolism.
“No one may stand taller than Preacher in his presence. Walk on your knees as you approach him,” said Deuce.
At that moment I hated Preacher more than the devil himself. I imagined smashing his smug face until my fists were red with his blood.
Deuce opened the doors, dropped to his knees, and gracefully moved across the floor in half-circular motions. Jet dropped to her knees. I stood there. Confusion filled my brain. I was here to help Jet escape. Yet, she appeared to be complicit with Preacher.
The Game was built on a foundation of deceit. However, narrow streams of truth existed here. Those truths were the only anchors I had to hold onto, to cut through the pretense of this artificial world. I held on to my truth: Preacher had brutally executed my cellmate over a lie.
I dropped to my knees with purpose. Although my legs felt heavy, my attention centered on the man who sat on the throne at the end of this cathedral. As I crawled, my vision blurred. Jet looked back at me, but her face was distorted, and her movements were choppy. My head swooned and I fell forward. Exhaustion filled every muscle fiber in my body. I felt my heart throbbing in my chest. I closed my eyes hoping sleep would come.
Jet’s voice floated in my ears with a nasal pitch, “He’s collapsed.”
“It looks like sleep deprivation. Hit him with a sapphire booster,” said Deuce.
Jet inserted a sapphire pill into my mouth. I regained enough energy to sit up, but I still felt lethargic. I reached into my jacket and removed the bottle of sapphire boosters. I had to take two more before I had enough energy to move forward. My limbs still felt haggard.
I heard Preacher’s voice echo off the gilded walls of this cathedral. “Help him stand up.”
Deuce took me by the upper arms and whooshed me into the air. I stood for a moment regaining my bearings.
“Machine, come here,” said Preacher.
As I approached him, I mentally prepared myself for what must be done. I would only have a moment to strike. After that, I would be pulverized under the might of Deuce’s onslaught. I would bear one hundred times the suffering preacher would feel, but I considered it a fair exchange. I was a few paces from Preacher when I remembered Oppenheimer’s Hammer was in my arsenal. Perhaps, the exchange would be more balanced than I first believed.
My fingers encircled the handle of the bazooka. Its gnarled texture provided a good grip. I wanted to get close enough to see the expression on his face when I withdrew it. It would be a fleeting moment of satisfaction, but one I needed to see. Hopefully, the blast would hit Deuce as well.
I knew I wouldn’t escape from the Octagon. Even if I was able to flee from this room, the toons in the main hall would wreak havoc on my body. Nonetheless, I would not falter. I would not be seen as a coward on the Internet. The people of America, of my home country, and the world see a man who brought justice at great personal cost.
A few more paces and the details of Preacher’s face became clear. I released my white-knuckled grip on Oppenheimer’s Hammer. This was the face of a broken man. I asked myself how could this be Preacher, the sadist who butchered my friend in cold blood? Pain resonated in his voice as he spoke.
“Sit with me,” he said.
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Chapter 41
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Preacher's toon wore a black suit jacket with a small, red iron cross-stitched into the chest pocket. His buttery blonde hair was combed backward. He sat in a basic office chair. He looked out of place against the backdrop of this ornate temple.
I climbed the short flight of steps and sat in a chair at his side.
“How long has it been since you slept last?” asked Preacher.
“Two days.”
“You need to rest before we talk.” Preacher called to Jet, “Hit him with a sleep hold.”
Jet pointed her hand at me and a cone of snowflakes swirled around my body like a dust devil.
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When a hold is placed on a player of equal or higher level, it lasts for a few moments. If the hold is placed on a lower-level character, its effects are amplified. I slept until the beginning of the next episode. The horrible nightmares were absent from my slumber. I awoke still seated in the office chair in Preacher's cathedral. His chair was empty. Over one hundred toons filled the room.
When Preacher entered the room, every toon dropped to one knee. He whispered in my ear, “I have to do this. How much loyalty can you expect from psychotic murders? They didn’t get here by being nice guys. This is the only way to hold them together.”
Preacher stepped to the front of the dais. His voice boomed as he spoke.
“Tonight we will raid the Apostates.”
In concert, every lung in the room gasped in a deep breath of air. It was followed by cheers and clapping.
Preacher nodded to Deuce, and then he took me by the arm. As Preacher guided me behind the stage, Deuce stepped onto the platform and began a sermon. We walked down a hallway that led to an office. The office was more pedestrian than I expected. Preacher sat behind a simple oak office desk in a blue office chair. A dozen picture frames were mounted on the wall behind him. Everyone contained a family photograph.
“Beyond twenty-four hours of deprivation people suffer huge drops in cognitive functions,” said Preacher. “Eventually, you will suffer hallucinations and a total break from reality. Having Jet place sleep holds on you will only work for a few weeks.”
“What will happen then?” I asked.
“The Game will reprogram your brain. You’ve met Super-Duper Guy. That’s your future. It’s everyone’s future. He used to traffic human organs out of indo-china. Now, he’s the All-American kid.”
I looked at the photographs on the wall. One was a portrait of Preacher as a kid. Even as a child, his eyes were troubled and distant. Another was a family portrait with a teenage him in the middle. He was wearing bowling shoes. He must have stolen them from a bowling alley so he’d have shoes to wear.
“You’re looking at my pictures,” said Preacher. “That’s my mother. She was a manipulative, self-centered cunt. My father was a tyrant, a real bastard. Me and two of my siblings turned out just like them, but my little brother, Dillion, didn’t? He was reasonable, trustworthy, and a dedicated father. He stayed within the conventions of society, didn’t beat his children, and his word was honorable. Why him? Why didn’t he turn out like the rest of us?”
I remained silent. Preacher’s face didn’t match his words. When speaking of his parents, his voice was calm, and his face placid. When he spoke of his brother, his speech was filled with disdain, but his eyes were filled with admiration and love.
“You’re hesitant to speak honestly,” he said.
I’ve known families like his. For some reason, his brother grew into an adult, and Preacher and the rest of his clan didn’t. His family never matured past the selfishness of childhood. As with children, they could only see a world that existed for themselves.
“Did you ask your brother why he was different?”
“No,” said Preacher. “Would you want to know why your life had added up to nothing?”
He pulled out a fifth of scotch whiskey from a desk drawer along with two glasses. He filled them three fingers deep and handed me one. We sipped the alcohol in unison. It burned my throat as I sipped. It was close to pure alcohol.
“I act, keeping myself true to what I believe is the best course, even in the face of societal judgment. Sometimes that truth goes too far. It is difficult for me to make that admission, and I have many regrets,” he said.
He took a second sip of the single malt blend. When he spoke, his face looked heavy and worn. “Virtual reality has the promise to make life a paradise. Handicapped people can walk, run, or even experience climbing Mount Everest. Old people would be freed from the burdens of age. People could indulge in their warlike nature without harming others. You could live in any self-created utopia. No more massive traffic jams wasting natural resources. No need for rich and poor. Class division could come to an end.”
Preacher removed a bottle of booster pills, poured them onto the table, and said, “These briefly give you physical health and stamina. The purple pills can even increase your luck, but not a single booster can give you mental health. Why do you think that is? Why is it that The Game can provide anything except a healthy mind?”
“I am not trained in such matters.”
Preacher stood up and said, “Come here.”
A long conference table sat alone in the adjoining room. A hi-tech projector was mounted to the ceiling above the table. Preacher picked up a remote control device and pressed a button on its face. A three-dimensional image came to life on the surface of the desk. Miniature toons the size of a fist were battling in a warehouse against mechanical men built of copper. The walls of the building were transparent but had enough visibility that you could see their boundaries.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“Is this real?”
“Yes, you’re watching a three-dimensional feed of a party of convicts fighting against the Steampunks.”
“This place, like American politics, is an odd mixture of soap opera and dark comedy. It’s not inmate reform, it is ghoulish theatrics for profit.”
“Criminals battle the injustices of their lives with violence against innocent citizens, but the way to win is more selective and personal. Let the punishment match the office,” he said.
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Chapter 42
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Preacher called Jet into the room as I mulled over what he had said. His every word was a grand proclamation. His syndicate base was a bold testament to vanity. People who build giant monuments to themselves carried a sense of entitlement. Yet, his face was that of a penitent man. His eloquent words, the grandiose pyramid, were all a veneer.
“We have to level you up before the assault on the Apostates,” said Jet. “We have an hour to get you to level ten. I’m going to take you through Blood Death.”
The ramification of her words left me in a tizzy. I was afraid. Eight levels of pain in less than an hour would test my sanity, but once I finished level ten I could return to society a free man with no criminal history. Still, on balance, it made sense to walk away from the mission.
Disregarding the intelligent course of action, I accepted her team request, and I was metamorphed to level forty-nine. The sense of power at higher levels was godlike. I felt indestructible. My limbs buzzed with energy, and all my self-doubt vanished.
“Wait a moment. I’m going to recruit more players,” said Jet.
Experience points are generated by how much pain you take and how many opponents you kill. Larger teams cause the simulation to spawn additional and more powerful advisories. I realized that I was starting to crave the powers of higher level. It must be why some players stay regardless of the consequences to their bodies. I wanted that feeling of dominance more than anything, at any cost.
“There’s a team teleport coming in,” she said.
I gripped the handle of my grenade launcher and a little grin crossed my lips. The cathedral faded from view and was replaced by a dingy city in the grips of war.
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Chapter 43
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The overhead fluorescent lights of the medical ward were blinding. My vision was blurred, and the sound of inmates screaming in pain still rang in my ears. Dazed, soaked with perspiration, I crawled off the gurney and passed a shaky hand over my face. I dropped to my knees with a thud, curled up into a ball, and whimpered.
The fuzzy image of a tall teenager knelt at my side, a girl who had not yet grown into her lanky body, with large green eyes.
She stroked the hair on my forehead and said, “You’ll be alright. Let me get you a glass of water.”
The girl returned with a tall glass of water and a bag of ice. I sat upright and took the glass into my trembling hands. She held my wrists to control my shaking and guided the glass to my lips. After I drank the young woman placed the ice bag at the base of my skull. The chill drained the fire from my fevered head. She picked me up and put me back on the gurney.
Through the ringing in my ears, a second voice spoke, “You’re going to be alright.”
I assumed it was Jet by the voice, but all I could see was a second body that was rawboned and ragged as the edge of a broken bottle. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath through my mouth.
“Go get a crystal booster from the vault,” said Jet.
The young girl seemed shocked at the request but chose to follow Jet’s instructions. When she returned, she handed Jet a pearl pill.
Jet addressed me. “This will help.”
I would have taken arsenic if it would have made me feel better. I parted my lips, and she placed the pill between them. The world around me came into focus, and the buzzing in my head stopped. Still, the memories of the mission remained in my mind. It was like someone had etched the gruesome horrors into my brain with a chisel and a torch.
Jet nodded to the girl, “You can go now.”
She took me by the upper arm and helped me sit up.
“We designed the game to systematically dismantle a person’s identity,” she said.
Vivid images of the mission intruded into my mind’s eye. It was all I could think about. Jet’s words floated in the air. I could hear them, but they were just meaningless sounds.
Jet continued, “Your individuality is then replaced with an ideal citizen profile.”
She placed her hand on the side of my face and looked into my eyes. I returned her gaze with a dull and distant look. I had no words, no thoughts. I was mentally gone.
“Come with me,” she said as she placed her arm around my shoulders and lifted me to my feet.
She half-carried me to a quiet room and set me into a plush leather chair. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around my shins. My skin was as pale as an albino, cold, and sweaty. I could feel my heart racing.
Jet brushed my hair back and said, “Take a moment to recuperate.”
Because of the booster, I saw the world before me with clarity. My thoughts were precise and focused. With perfect vision, I watched Preacher enter the room carrying two coffee cups. I took note of my surroundings. It looked like a bohemian coffee shop. The room was filled with sandy-colored wood tables and tan leather chairs. The walls were made of slatted wood covered in off-white milk paint, and the ceiling was covered in copper sheets etched with floral patterns. The bitter smell of espresso and dark chocolate made my taste buds tingle, and salvia seeped from under my tongue.
Preacher handed me a cup of coffee, and then he took a seat next to me.
“Did you know there’s a Japanese spa where people bathe in coffee?”
I shook my head.
“Did you know the world’s most expensive coffee comes from elephant dung? They dig the beans out of elephant manure in Thailand after elephants eat coffee cherries and crap them out. The elephant’s digestive enzymes transform the cherries into beans.”
I looked into my cup with indifference.
“We don’t serve that here,” said Preacher. “Our coffee is a blend of Columbian and Sumatran beans. Have a drink.”
My bloodshot eyes took a second look into the cup. The coffee was light brown with a ring of tiny bubbles clinging to the edge of the cup. A hint of steam floated above the surface.
“Go on,” he said.
I took a sip. It was rich in cream with a mild sweetness.
“You’re ready to level up. Have another sip.”
As I took another taste, I remembered that I had Oppenheimer’s Hammer under my belt. That was why I was here. I could take my vengeance, and then I’d use the snippet of code Edgar emailed me and take both our lives. I wanted to end my real-world life more than I wanted to end Preacher. My brain was wracked with the harrowing images of death no human should have to endure regardless of the sin they had committed. More than anything, I wanted them to vanish. I slipped one hand into my belt and grasped the handle of Oppenheimer’s Hammer.
“Machine, I need you to remember something,” he said. “The simulation is going to try and reprogram your brain when you level up. If you can keep your identity after all that you’ve been through, when everyone else couldn’t, you’ll be able to trust yourself even when everyone else doubts you. You must stay clear in thought even when your mind has gone mad.”
It was obvious Preacher had gone insane from the torture instead of being pacified by it. He had set himself up as a God within The Game, and he was using his own personal recipe of mind control to steal my identity. His ramblings about repercussions and standards of conduct were nothing more than an obsession to stand outside the norms of society. A society cannot exist without the individual being obedient to the needs of the community. Conformity was our greatest strength.
Preacher closed his eyes as he took a drink of coffee, and then he placed the cup in his lap. He was studying my facial expressions. I took a sip to hide the rigid strings of muscles in my cheeks.
He continued to work his dialogue. “Men who have survived The Game with their identity intact can understand the true nature of judgment. Society believes it is necessary and right to enforce obedience with vindictive force. It’s not just about criminals and victims. Eventually, every aspect of individuality will be programmed. Why do you think The Game is being made available to the public? It will reprogram every mind.”
I watched him swirl a spoon in his coffee before he took a long and measured drink. Preacher’s face was placid, but his eyes carried great torment. He wasn’t doing this out of wanton cruelty. Rather, he was doing what he believed needed to be done no matter the cost, whether that be for others or himself.
Preacher set his cup down on a table and folded his fingers together. His eyes wandered from side to side as he considered his next words.
“Those empowered by the State to use force should be held to a higher standard of conduct. Let the punishment fit the office,” he said.
A warm little grin twisted the corners of my lips upward. My mind was clear of purpose and acceptance. It was the first moment of peace I had experienced in many years. I clicked my middle finger and brought up my email. I downloaded the fatal code from Edgar. It appeared in my belt as a simple syringe filled with black fluid. Together, I removed Oppenheimer’s Hammer and the hypodermic needle from my belt.
Preacher looked at the syringe and returned my smile. His eyes transitioned from looking sad and broken to what looked like emotional relief and acceptance. He looked at peace.
After I fired Oppenheimer’s Hammer I would inject him, and then I would inject myself. I stood up, pointed the bazooka at him, and pulled the trigger.
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Chapter 44
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I respawned in the Redemption City hospital along with every member of the Octagon. Preacher’s base was vaporized in the thermonuclear detonation of Oppenheimer’s Hammer. At second level I had one hundred hit points. When I metamorphed up to forty-ninth level, I had one thousand. The blast had scored one million hit points of damage on me. Everything and everyone in the base was turned into atomic particles in a millisecond. There was no time for the simulation to inflict pain on our bodies.
Fully accepting death had changed me. I was no longer owned by fear or hatred. I ran out of the hospital and made my way to the consigliere under the Chief Justice statue in Apollo Park.
As I stood in front of the consigliere I said to myself, “That’s it. I’ve finished level ten. This nightmare is over. I can enter the real world as an upright citizen without the baggage of a criminal record.” I’d never been so torn apart.
For the first time in my life, I asked the question, “What is real freedom?” I spent my youth seeking the validation of others through prizefighting. I felt like a king when the audience cheered my victories. I lived for their adulation. It felt like I owned their love, but the truth is their love owned me as much as I owned it. Preacher had once had that same need, but he had broken free from it.
I clicked on the consigliere and a menu appeared in front of me along with Super-Duper Guy.
“Great work, soldier,” he said. “You’ve earned enough points to level up and out.”
I was given a list of powers and amplifier slots. I would have to build my toon one level at a time.
Super-Duper Guy stood there with his chest puffed out, holding his massive chin high, with a beaming smile on his face. As I watched him my haunting thoughts had returned. Had I retained any semblance of my individuality or was this all part of my new programming?
My power options included a choice of shotgun or an m79 grenade launcher that mounted under the barrel of my machinegun. Grenades were my weapon of choice. At that moment, a revelation hit me that felt like the gates of heaven had opened. My childhood love of explosives was still a part of me. That was the error in their code. They gave me a choice instead of just assigning me a weapon. That choice was my identity.
The legal system had the right to incarcerate me for any law they deemed necessary. They had the right to use violence to enforce their rules, but it was not an exclusive right as they pretended. Their rights only existed where they could be enforced. I never wanted to forget what The Game did to me, and the will that gave the State the ability to commit this atrocity. I had broken free.
I continued building my toon until I completed the tenth level. That’s when Super-Duper Guy said, “You’ve finished the tenth level, and your debt to society has been paid. If you choose accept you will return to real life as a free man, and your criminal record will be wiped clean. If you decline you will continue your journey as a cyber-hero in The Game.”
A rectangle hovered in front of me with two buttons: accept and decline.
Preacher had become a man who used violence and terror for the sake of the greater good. He was a man torn down to the very core because of the things he felt he must do. In his mind, he was a moral man, but the morality of society had abandoned him. Preacher’s final words to me before I leveled up were a testament to this: let the punishment fit the office.
I chose decline.
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The Night is Cold Under the Black Sun
Gin Fizz
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Chapter 1
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Mom screamed at me, “Your sister’s pregnant again!”
“I swear to God I didn’t do it this time,” I replied.
I started fidgeting with my coffee spoon. I’d clipped half a dozen men in cold blood and never blinked, but I always felt nervous around mom. I sipped my coffee as she yelled at me. A genetic test would show I wasn’t the father, but I needed to avoid the legal system.
I finally said to her, “Do you mind not yelling? We’re in a public restaurant. People are staring at us.”
My cell phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Landfill Bill.
“Hello.”
A moment of silence passed before I heard a disconnect click. I put the phone in my pocket followed by a long sigh.
I tossed a one-hundred-dollar bill on the table.
“That should cover dinner,” I said as I got up from my seat. She’d have an extra seventy dollars left over after the tip. When she saw the one-hundred-dollar bill, she smiled and shut up.
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Landfill was seated at the back of the go-go bar smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. The greasy smoke of his tobacco bit my throat and lungs as I took a seat across the table. He lingered with the smell of a garbage dump, ripe with rotting vegetables and disposable diapers. Usually, Landfill would take a shower and change clothes after work.
It was half an hour before the girls would begin dancing. They were arriving in their street clothes. This club used ultraviolet lighting to make their skin look tan when they danced, but most of them looked pale under the regular house lights. It was the by-product of working at night.
“Hard Ass, you need something to drink?” said Candy. She was my favorite girl at the club. Candy was just a bit too plump to dance, so she served drinks. Personally, I didn’t mind a gal with a few extra pounds.
“Gin fizz,” I replied.
Landfill squinted his eyes. He did that every time I ordered a fizz. He thought it was a woman’s drink. I waited for his standard lecture on masculine alcohol, but as far as I was concerned what you drank had nothing to do with your manhood.
He snubbed out his cigarette butt on the table and dropped it on the floor. There was an ashtray on the next table, but he was too ornery to reach over and take it. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and a pack of strawberry rolling papers. Landfill rolled a perfect cigarette in the pastel pink papers. I hid a snicker. Mister macho here, a barrel-chested endomorph with three-day stubble covering his face, put a pink smoke to his lips. He was obsessed with strawberry flavor. I swear to God, you’d have thought smoking was a sexual experience for him. He flicked a chrome zippo lighter several times.
Landfill shook his head. “You got a light?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Fuck.”
“I’m just messing with you,” I said.
I pulled out a disposable lighter and tossed it to him. “So, what’s up?”
His silence said everything.
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Chapter 2
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Once the lights in the go-go bar dimmed, the girls started dancing. I gave Candy two hundred dollars and said to her, “We were here all night.” Other than club members, she was about the only person I trusted. Actually, Candy was more reliable than some of my brothers. A few of our riders liked to show off, and a lot of club mommas strutted around they were club property far too much. Candy maintained a low profile. I respected that about her. Plus, she’d cover for me. I could always depend on her as an alibi.
Me and Landfill road to the garbage dump and entered at the back entrance. We parked our bikes next to a recycling dumpster hidden behind the mountain of rubbish. We hoofed it to the front, avoiding the light poles that sat every fifty yards until we reached a single-wide mobile home. It was used as an on-sight office. By taking this route we avoided the security cameras that monitored the main gate.
Wearing club colors for personal business was forbidden, so we left our cuts in the trailer. The one thing I liked about Landfill was his paranoia. To be honest, there was little else to like about him other than the efforts he took to hide his tracks. He had mapped out every security camera on the Eastside. If a liquor store had a camera that faced the road, he knew about it. If there was a traffic camera, he had its location.
We walked back to our bikes. It was about a mile round trip, which was not a big deal, except when you were wearing motorcycle boots. When we got back to the motorcycles, we switched to shoes. Landfill had brought two pairs of throwaway shoes so we wouldn’t leave tracks the police could match. It was waste of time in my case. I wore a size eighteen shoe. If they made an impression of my footprint, it was going to be difficult to deny. From there we walked about a mile into the worst ghetto in the city and jacked a car. The car smelled worse than Landfill.
After about a half-hour of driving through subdivisions and side streets, we parked down the road from the Iron Posse clubhouse. They were a wannabe biker club. What was worse, most members were cops, prison guards, and people like that. I’d had trouble with them in the past. They used their badges to push their weight around. They’d get in your face, talk trash, and when you pushed back, they’d threaten to arrest you. Two of their members pulled some of that crap on Landfill when he was with his daughter, Isabella. He was taking Izzie for a ride last year when they pulled them over. During the stop, the cops claimed that Izzie was acting unusual, and they suspected drugs. They put him in handcuffs and held them both until a female cop arrived. The woman put on a glove and shoved her hand inside Isabella’s pants and rammed a finger up her ass, and then she reached around and stuck the same finger up her vagina. Izzie was seventeen years old. Landfill raised holy hell; so, they arrested him for disorderly conduct and resisting arrest.
We sat in the car watching the front door of their clubhouse until about 1:30 in the morning. A man and woman stepped outside and hopped on a motorcycle parked in front of the building. Landfill turned the screwdriver he’d rammed into the ignition, and the motor chugged a few times before it started.
“They’re going to turn our way,” said Landfill. “We’ll have a twenty-minute window.”
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Chapter 3
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Like every Saturday morning, I woke up to Chumlee licking my face. He was a Newfoundland puppy just over a year old. I loved watching his entire 140-pound body shake with puppy excitement.
“Alright,” I said as I rubbed the fur behind his ears. “I’ll let you out.”
A fresh layer of snow covered the ground. Chumlee bounced around the backyard bubbling with energy. It was his first snowfall, and he was in heaven. Snowflakes fell onto his jet-black fur. I took a photo of him and sent it to my twin nephews, Chris and Terry. They were eight years old, and they had helped me pick Chumlee from the litter.
As I called out, “Here, boy,” Chumless ran in circles. “Come on, it’s time to come in.”
He’s pretty good about jumping on you, but that day the enthusiasm was too much and he leveled me. I laughed as I tried to stand up. You have to watch out for his tail. It gets to swinging and it’s like being cracked with a tree branch.
I was so happy to have him because Christmas was coming soon. Except for my mom and sister, my relatives lived out of state, and having a dog around kept me from being alone. My family was on the dysfunctional side. Despite our previous tryst, I felt closer to the twins than I did to my sister. She felt the biker lifestyle was a bad influence, and excluded me from most family get-togethers. She was right. Why would any parent want their kids to live as I do?
Chumlee and I sat in front of the television watching a nature show on chimpanzees. I drank a hot chocolate, and he chewed on a flavored rawhide bone. He was partial to roast beef. As I watched chimps catch ants with a stick, Chumlee’s ears popped up and he looked towards the front of the house. A growl climbed up his throat.
“It’s ok, boy,” I said.
Just to be sure, I got up to have a look. When I entered the front room, my door slammed open, and a team of men dressed in black, carrying assault rifles, gushed into the hallway. My hands went into the air as they screamed at me, “Get down, get down!”
Chumlee leaped past me, teeth bared. As I grabbed Chumlee by the hindquarters, a succession of muzzle blasts bashed me in the face. At the same time, the right side of my abdomen went numb. I hit the floor. My stomach was bleeding like all hell. For about ten seconds it buzzed, and then it burned like someone had rammed a white-hot iron through my guts.
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Chapter 4
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I coded three times on the operating table. The doctors were able to bring me back to life, but you have to ask why? Given my future, it seemed like a waste of effort. I woke up with one wrist tied to the hospital bed rail. It was excessive considering I was missing half my intestines.
It was the first time since I was a child that I cried. As an adult, I had tears on the inside, but never on my cheeks. The image of what they did to Chumlee was branded into my mind. He was doing right, protecting his home and family. The cop guarding the door gave me a smug look as tears rolled down my face. He was enjoying every drop of pain I suffered. I hated cops.
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Chapter 5
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My court-appointed lawyer visited me in the recovery ward. He was a mealy-mouthed kid fresh out of law school. Suit and tie guys always turned me off. To me, the suit was nothing more than a businessman’s uniform. The keyword being uniform. They all looked the same, the same color blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. It’s a submissive statement that he conformed to the identity of the herd.
He extended his hand. “Keith Randleman. I’m your court-appointed attorney. Mister Page, do you feel up to discussing your case?”
I pulled my hand away. He would have to earn the right to shake my hand. “What’s there to say?”
“I suggest a plea deal. If this goes to trial…well, you could be facing the death penalty.”
‘What difference does it make?” I asked.
He knew what I was saying. If I took a jail sentence, they’d find me beaten to death. Prison guards revenge cops.
Randleman covered his mouth when he spoke. “You won’t go to Jail, Mister Page. You’ll be directly transferred to The Game ward in this hospital.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Please, let me clarify your situation. You are going to be transferred to The Game. Your case is never going to see the light of day. If you voluntarily sign the plea deal, you will spend the rest of your natural life as a participant.”
“And if I don’t sign the deal?”
“Well, you’ll still spend the rest of your time on this earth in The Game. However, you need to consider the impact of your choice. I believe you have a sister and two young nephews. If you sign the agreement, they will be told you died in a car accident, complete with a funeral.”
They needed a signature to justify their violations of due process, and the lawyer looked good because it was an easy conviction. The courts liked it. Everyone wanted it but me.
‘I’m not buying it,” I said. “I know for a fact there’s no evidence against me.”
I was banking on the meticulous mind of Landfill. He caught every detail.
“Do you recall a woman who goes by the name Candy?” said Randleman. “She’s an undercover DEA agent who’s been tracking your motorcycle club for the past four years. On the night you and Mister John Phibbs assassinated two police officers one mile from the Iron Posse Motorcycle Club, she placed a GPS tracking device under the fender of your motorcycle.”
“So what?” I replied.
He was lying. Landfill checked the bikes before we left. I shook my head at him.
“Phibbs turned state’s evidence. He ratted you out.”
The bullshit was getting deep. It was obvious their case was weak, and a confession was their only chance at a conviction. I felt betrayed by Candy. I had shared my personal life with her. However, I kept my club life discrete. That’s the code. Never discuss club business with anyone outside the club. Even with my brothers, I kept quiet most of the time.
“I’ll take my chances in court.”
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Chapter 6
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On Christmas Eve, five big cops and a nurse entered my room.
The nurse yanked the IV out of my arm and said, “Get up.”
I slipped off the side of the bed and stood up. The right side of my body was sore as hell, and I winced in pain as gravity pulled on my stitched together organs.
“Turn and face the bed,” said the cop.
They surrounded me as I turned around. The cop cut the tie attached to the bed rail, shoved my hands behind my back, and wrapped another one around both my wrists. He grabbed me by the back of the neck and shoved me out of the room.
The people in the recovery ward stared at us as we walked. I stood upright with a smile on my face. I would spend a few days in lock-up before I saw the judge. He’d set bail at some astronomical number. That was fine by me. After the trial, I’d be back on the streets. My brothers would throw me and Landfill a get-out-of-jail party. It would be a barnstormer. I’d show off the scars on my stomach from the gun wounds. There was a level of status in the club that came with paying that kind of price for a brother. My exploits would become club legend.
As we walked it occurred to me that something was wrong. If I was being escorted to lock up, they should have had me dress in street clothes. I was still in a hospital gown. If they needed to do an x-ray or something like that, they would have just wheeled me in my gurney. Right, they still needed a confession, and the cops were going to interrogate me in a secluded room. Nice try on their part.
I’d been squeezed by a rival motorcycle gang and kept silent. There was nothing these clowns could do that would approach what a gang of determined bikers would do. I knew all their psychological tricks. Regardless of what they said, the correct answer was “fuck you.” The first words out of my mouth would be, “I’m invoking my right to remain silent and I demand my lawyer.” That was the legal way to say kiss my ass to a cop. I would smirk in their faces to rub it in.
We stopped in front of two heavy doors, and the nurse swiped a security card over a reader mounted on the wall. A security bolt opened with a click, and the doors swung open. The cop squeezed the back of my neck and shoved me forward. The doors closed behind us with a clink. This area was devoid of people, quiet, and the air was warm.
The hallway was lined with thick security glass embedded with a web of hexagon wire. There were rooms behind the glass that were more akin to medical jail cells. In each room, there were big, yellow cylinders. They looked like small submarines with clear plastic bubbles on the end. They called them iron maidens to impress the Internet audience. To me, they were just tubes. One of the rooms was decorated with syringes. Posters of people being jabbed with needles hung on the walls. A woman in a white lab coat was seated at the end of a tube typing on a computer keyboard. There was a man’s head floating inside the bubble. His face was covered by a mask with a dozen tubes sticking out.
“I want my lawyer, now,” I said to the cop holding my neck.
He shoved my head forward. “Fuck you.”
I’d heard stories about how they tried to scare you with their themed rooms. As the cops marched me down the hall, I looked forward to seeing what they had planned for me. I imagined a room filled with spiders. I did recon missions in South America. I crawled half a mile over three days with ants crawling up my pants, to get into position for a shot. It was part of the discipline. My shorts were filled with my own piss and shit, swarming with insects. I once woke up and a spider had built a web that connected to my nose. What could they do to psych me out after that?
The nurse passed her card over a pad, and a room door crept open. I was looking forward to laughing at the cops and the justice system. I stepped into the room with my chin held high and a smug smile on my face. The walls were lined with poster-sized pictures of Chumlee. A gaping hole was ripped out of his chest, and his front leg dangled from his shoulder by a sliver of skin.
“Fuck you! I’ll fucking kill you!” I screeched as I rammed into the cop at my side and drove him into the wall. His shoulder broke through the drywall with a crunch. The stitches in my guy tore, and I dropped to one knee. Blood poured down my legs.
I managed to headbutt one of the cops before they pinned me to the floor. It was rewarding to hear the cartilage in his nose snap. It sounded like a firecracker went off in his nostril. They swept my legs and took me down. A knee was driven into my neck and I struggled to breathe. I waited for their beat down, but instead, they tried to pick me up and put me into the tube. I laughed at them struggling to lift my weight. They got me knee height, but lost their grip and dropped me.
“You’re going to have to climb in on your own,” said the sergeant in charge.
“Kiss my ass, bitch boy.”
I think they held back on the beating because of the surgery. I guessed that I was on the edge of being able to play The Game. As much as they wanted to smash my face in, they wanted to put me inside even more.
The sergeant spoke into his radio, “Can you send a couple of firemen up here with a megamover…copy that.”
A few minutes later, four paramedics walked into the room carrying a nylon tarp with a dozen handles lining its edges. They spread it out on the floor next to me and rolled me onto it. The eight of them took a handle each, picked me up, and dumped me into the tube. They stripped my clothes off, and the nurse rammed a tube up my anus. The top of the damn thing closed, and a hatch on the side opened. A cop reached in and clipped the tie around my wrists, and then he closed the portal.
All the lights in the room were turned off except a small light inside the tube. If I had claustrophobia, it would have been a nightmare. It felt like being buried alive in a casket. Blood drained down my stomach and pooled around my back as my stitches leaked.
Around an hour later the room lights switched on. I was facing a middle-aged woman looking down on me through the plastic bubble.
“I’m doctor Urista. I’m going to connect you to the computer system.”
“You can’t do this. This is a violation of my constitutional rights. I have a right to due process. I want my lawyer,” I demanded.
“Mister Page, you’ve lost a significant amount of blood, but not enough to cause us to delay this procedure.”
I heard the sound of gas spraying into the chamber with a sss. It had a tart citrus scent like an aerosol disinfectant. I felt cold.
“You’re going to feel groggy. Don’t move while I check your surgery.”
I tried to lift my head, but it felt like lifting an anvil. The muscles in my body were paralyzed. Two portals on the side of the tube opened, and the doctor began working on my body.
When she was finished playing with my surgery, she said, “You’re ready to be connected.”
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Chapter 7
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I didn’t mind all the needles the doctor injected into my skin. It was like having a full-body tattoo. The doctor used an instrument that was a lot like a tattoo gun. The needle would bob back and forth like a sewing machine at high speed as it ran across your skin. She also shoved a long syringe up my nose deep into the sinus cavity. That hurt. The doctor did it on both sides. It felt just like an ice pick migraine. I liked it when she filled the tube with fluid. It took the stress off my abdomen and gave me relief from the surgical soreness.
The doctor ran a series of tests measuring the computer’s connection to my nervous system. At that point, there was no effective difference between my body and the computer’s circuits. I was whatever it wanted me to be. It was more than that. Once I was fully connected to the system, it was like we were the same person. The computer was in complete unity with my nervous system. Merging would be the wrong term to describe it. Expanded fits better. It was as if my brain had expanded in its awareness of the fabric of reality.
I studied the doctor’s face. It was vivid in detail and clarity. I could see every pore on her skin, and every hint of shade in her light brown hair. The subtle unevenness in her makeup gave a matt plastic look to her face.
My vision faded to black for a brief moment, and then a streaked blue and white wall materialized. In the center, the word “Loading” appeared. It was replaced by a heroic-looking dude wearing spandex leotards printed in red, white, and blue. If you hung him from a pole, he’d have looked like the American flag.
In a resonant bass voice, he boomed, “Welcome, good citizen. Are you ready to serve up a dish of patriotic justice?”
“I want my lawyer,” I said.
“Soldier, our records show you signed a plea deal accepting your induction into The Game. Once you sign the form you waive all rights to legal representation.”
“I didn’t sign any agreement.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. The image of a plea deal agreement appeared in his hands. He held it up to my face and spoke in a dark tone, “There’s your signature.”
I looked at the form. At the bottom was a perfect reproduction of my handwriting.
“This contract is duly authorized by a district court judge.” He poked his index finger into my sternum. “What’s your malfunction, numbnuts?” He poked me again. “Now, quit staring at me with your pedophile eyes and build your toon.”
He vanished and a sweeping view of a metropolis appeared. A character build menu popped into view. I knew the routine. I’d watched convicts play The Game. I considered it homework. When you lived on the fringe of society, it was best to be prepared. Eventually, you were going to do time.
I needed to accept that I’d spend the rest of my life in The Game. It was difficult for me to grasp. It felt unreal. I think it was like someone who had just received news that they had a terminal illness. You knew it was true, but your heart rejected it. I thought of the times I watched inmates play out battles in this simulation, and how I had second-guessed their strategies and play style. My face was tense, and I was grinding my teeth together. The last time I felt fear like this was as a child right before my mother would give me a lamp cord whipping.
I decided to go with what I knew and chose villain. I made him as tall as possible, and as massive a build as the computer would allow. To give you a comparison, in real life I was six foot seven inches tall, three-hundred and seventy-five pounds, with twenty-inch arms. I looked like a pussy next to him. The toon’s arms were more like thirty-six inches around, the size of a bodybuilder’s legs. I’d seen tough guys play little characters trying to avoid attention. I wanted everyone to see me coming. I knew intimidation. Two things threaten people: reputation and force. To build the right reputation, I needed a terrifying look.
The face editor had a lot of worthless options. I thought about a skull but decided against it. It was a common choice, and I needed something unique. I went with a wolf’s head. Next came the body. Some of the medieval armor looked promising. It had a raw, gritty appearance that said don’t mess with me. I found a chainmail vest. It was perfect. It conformed to the shape of my toon in a way that highlighted his physique. The deltoids and arms remained exposed. I found a pair of barbaric black leather armbands with chrome studs and strapped them around my biceps. Metallic cyborg legs with cords of artificial muscle and iron boots completed my new look.
The only fighting style for me was close-in combat. I’d spent years in the Service as a sniper. I knew firearms, tactics, and special operations, but what value did that have in a video game? This was a game of fast-paced violence. The skills needed to sit in the bush for days on end, tracking your mark, and escaping, didn’t come into play. I picked Executioner. An Executioner was an assassin with strong hand-to-hand fighting capabilities. Although not quite as tough as a Barbarian in a fight, you had a stealth skill and a near alpha level first strike when concealed. However, once you made the first strike, you would lose your invisibility for a period and have to brawl it out like a Barbarian. Of the Executioner skill sets, Savage Brawl stood out. Each attack in the set added to your Blood Fever until it unleashed a Hysteria Attack that did devastating damage. I liked the idea that you gained power with each attack, and then you were granted an alpha strike as a reward for slugging it out. Hysteria had two downsides: it drained your energy until you were exhausted, exposed to attack, and the weapon choices were on the gay side. They all looked like Saturday morning cartoon hero blades protruding from knuckles. I settled on a pair that looked like brass knuckles with chrome talons.
It was important to pick the right name. I would have brothers watching the show on the Internet, and I wanted them to recognize me. Also, I had friends on the inside. I wanted to hook up with men I knew who were loyal, men I could rely on in a fight. I tried my nickname, Hard Ass. The system rejected it because curse words were excluded. That killed me. Graphic, wholesale violence was acceptable, but naughty words were a no-no. I typed in Gin Fizz, my favorite alcoholic drink. My brothers would recognize me by that moniker.
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Chapter 8
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I woke up to a black world with the word “Loading” in the dead middle of my vision. I materialized at the base of a set of concrete steps that ramped up to a platform in the center of Apollo Park. On top of the platform, there was a towering statue of a man. It was a tribute to a hero called the Chief Justice, the supposed greatest hero to play The Game. A line of toons snaked around the area. At the front of the procession stood Chimera, the knucklehead that poked me in the chest at the character creation screen. He was a member of the Freedom Phalanx. The way he strutted around in skin-tight spandex, it should have been called the Freedom Phallus. Most convicts just called him Super-Duper Guy.
He was shouting orders, “Recruits, form two lines. When I give the order, march in cadence, chins held high, and chests out.”
The sky above was a perfect, pastel blue, with the sun passing between a few wisps of clouds. Having lived in the smog of Pittsburgh, and spending most of my life at go-go bars until 2:00 in the morning, it had been a while since I’d seen a pristine sky. I wished I was taking Chumlee for a walk in the park. I spent a moment recalling how his entire body shook when we strolled down North Shore Trail. Chumlee would bark at the boats and try to chase every bicycle that rode past. As he approached a year old, holding onto his leash was a better workout than going to the gym. That was alright by me.
Apollo Park was a blend of grief and patriotism for me. I was a gung ho American when I served in the military. This area was filled with the same symbolism as a military memorial. I felt a sense of sorrow. I missed the days when my life was wrapped in the American flag.
The line of toons preparing for the Walk By was filled with colorful characters, but for me, it looked like a procession of mourners. I fully expected my arrival to be noticed. I was a behemoth, a walking instrument of death. Yet, everyone’s attention was elsewhere. Super-Duper Guy escorted a little black girl with a giant afro, wearing a plaid skirt, past me as if I didn’t exist. One goofball dressed as a werewolf in a tuxedo smacked into my chest as he hurried to get into the Walk By line. He didn’t even bother to check out my toon as he ran past me.
As I stood there reconsidering my strategy of intimidation, I heard a voice calling my name.
“Gin Fizz, the line starts at the back of City Hall. Let’s look alive, recruit.”
Super-Duper Guy stepped in front of me and continued his rant, “Trooper, let’s get moving, hoorah!”
Normally, I would have told this dog-faced faggot to fuck off, but it seemed like a good time to think this through. I’d stopped going to the back of the line in seventh grade. Even back then everyone pretty much got the hell out of my way. Yet, I stood there with Captain Spandex bossing me around like I was a punk. Every instinct I had told me to grab his throat and pop his head like a zit. I realized my instincts were useless here.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAPZTWqNKPfJ
Chapter 9
The freak show that stood at the end of the Walk By line reminded me of a bad acid trip I experienced when I was a teenager. We proceeded past a row of high-level toons that stood on the statue platform. A synchronized nudging of elbows, whispers, and turned heads looked up at them.
“That’s War Sabbath!”
“Oh, hell no, it’s him!”
I swear to God you’d have thought it was a group of teen girls seeing their idols for the first time.
War Sabbath stood erect, hands on his hips. He was an average-looking dude wearing a traditional Japanese kimono vest and baggy pants. The outfit was black except for a red flame pattern stitched over the shoulders. He was wearing a red and black striped, King Tut style, Egyptian pharaoh’s hat. War Sabbath had basked in celebrity status for the past two seasons, clear back to the early days of the show's beginning. No longer a simple felon serving out his time, he was a game mogul. War Sabbath was known as one of the most searched names on the Internet, and he was included on a list of The Game’s most powerful players.
Despite his comfort with the attention from the new toons, War Sabbath seemed to be annoyed at the piercing gaze of a female toon standing on the platform who kept turning to look at him. He would glance at her until their interaction morphed into a staring contest. When she smiled at him and licked her lips, he shook his head in disgust and returned his attention to the line of new toons.
The buzz on the Internet was that War Sabbath in real life had served as an aid in the US Congress. He was brought down in a Congressional Page sex scandal. Other rumors circulated about him and his crimes: that he was set up to take the fall for a politician, and that he used his access to trade securities illegally. I lean towards believing he took the fall for some elected ass-clown who got caught with his pants down.
As the last of the new players moved past the statue of The Chief Justice, the big shots began to work the noobs. A handful of noobs attracted the most attention. Over the next hour, most of the convicts were picked up by a guild or a syndicate. About thirty percent of us were left loitering. Some stood together in small circles. I took a seat on a concrete bench next to a bubbling water fountain and stared at the sun.
A chat request flickered at the bottom of my peripheral vision. I clicked accept.
“This is War Sabbath.”
“What?”
“This is War Sabbath,” the voice said. “You’re about to get gang-raped by the cops. Get the hell out of there, now!”
I rose to my feet and power walked through the crowd of toons milling around the statue. As I did, a young woman in a white leather bodysuit looked at me from the corner of her eye and stood up.
“I’ve been spotted,” I said.
“There’s a portal in the backroom of City Hall. Move it.”
I broke into a sprint. Two toons sitting on a bench to my left jumped to their feet as I ran past. I leaped up the flight of stairs leading to City Hall and entered through its double doors. Inside, a large circular room was adjoined by two hallways leading left and right.
“Go right,” he commanded.
My iron boots clunked with a dissonant ring as I raced to the right.
“Enter the room on the left at the end of the hall.”
I could hear the scurry of boots on the marble floor behind me.
My lungs burned for air as I skidded through the doorway. A floor-to-ceiling LED screen covered the wall to my left. It was filled with a map of Apollo Park. The screen cast a blue hue across the room. In the back, a row of red lasers ran horizontal, twelve inches apart, starting at the floor and climbing to the ceiling. Behind them rested a polished, stainless steel vault door.
“Where!?!?”
“The vault,” said War Sabbath.
I darted into the laser beams and was teleported into a control center filled with computers and LED displays. At the far end of the room were two concentric, metallic rings. The outer loop was easily thirty feet in diameter, a foot thick, and rotated clockwise. The inner ring was the same thickness and spun in the opposite direction. At the center, a light blue ball of plasma shimmered.
I took a breath and said, “I made it.”
“Run into the portal. There’ll be hundreds of missions. Choose one. It doesn’t matter which one. There are too many for them to find you. Stay at the mission entrance until I say you’re clear.”
I said, “Right,” as I ran down the ramp into the sunken vault. It was a good twenty-five yards to the portal. I’ve never been known for my fifty-yard dash, but my sprint would have won an Olympic gold medal. I turned to look back when I was about ten feet from the portal and saw a gang of toons within arm’s reach. I shouted, “Fuck,” as I jumped hand first into the plasma.
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Chapter 10
141Please respect copyright.PENANAkYT8nm7v7X
It was my understanding that violence was forbidden anywhere in the Apollo Park plaza. Laws were for citizens to obey, not cops. My arm was halfway through the portal when a web grenade detonated. I could see the mission list, and my fingertips stopped just inches from touching it. My body was encased in a cocoon of sticky white threads. With all my strength I stretched my fingers, almost touching one.
The way law enforcement will beat on you when you’re helpless is a homoerotic affair for them. They never fight one-on-one. They broke my bones with clubs. Just as was about to die, they would force an emerald pill into my mouth, and I would return to full health. The beating would start anew. One of them hit me so hard that my skull splintered, and my eye popped out of its socket. It hung by a string of muscle and bounced around like a ball on a rubber band.
After a half dozen cycles of near-death beatings, a toon entered the room dressed in a blue police officer’s outfit, carrying a six-foot-long iron rod, and sporting a cop mustache. He positioned himself at the front of the beating line and sneered.
“Boys, it’s my turn,” he announced.
One of the cops said, “Who are you?”
“Click on me.”
The whole gang of them pointed their fingers at him and clicked.
One of the cops nodded. “Yes, sir, please enjoy yourself.”
With one arm he raised his iron rod into the air and said, “You’ll need to step back for this. I need swinging room.”
The cops followed his command as he grabbed my face.
“I’m so going to enjoy this,” he said.
With his free hand, he stuffed a turquoise pill in my mouth and the web around my body vanished. He grabbed me by the collar and jumped into the portal.
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Chapter 11
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We landed at the entrance of an office building. He sat upright on the floor and roared with laughter as he pushed an emerald pill between my lips.
“Fucked them up. Hell yah!” he said.
My body was healed, but there was some residual effect on my nervous system from the beatings. It took a moment for my head to stop spinning.
“One second while I get out of this uniform.”
He stood up and tapped a device on his wrist. A lightning bolt split the air with a sharp crack and the cop was replaced by an Asian dude wearing a red-accented, black kimono and an Egyptian pharaoh’s hat, the signature garb of War Sabbath.
He kneeled, sitting on the back of his heels, and looked at me. “The first thing we have to do is get you a new look. You’re visible from a mile away. You have a rock-solid Executioner power set. There’s no need to make any changes there.”
With my palm, I rubbed the sweat out of my eyes and said, “I appreciate you saving my ass back there.”
“Before we continue, I need to tell you something,” said War Sabbath.
“Go on.”
“Your friend, Landfill, had a heart attack. They called it just before I contacted you in Apollo Park.”
My heart sank to my stomach.
“What happened?”
“The police got to him before we could find him. His heart gave out during the beating.”
War Sabbath placed a hand on my shoulder.
“You lost a good friend.”
“He was loyal,” my voice cracked.
“Even among young men, heart attacks are not uncommon,” said War Sabbath. “The Game puts a lot of stress on your body.”
“Landfill was with me when I prospected into the MC. He was the reason I joined the brotherhood. If I’d had a half-dozen friends like him, we would have taken over the entire state. We could have pushed out the dominant club.”
I recalled meeting with Landfill at church the day I won the nomination for Sergeant at Arms. He was revved up more than I was.
“You attend too many funerals as a biker.”
“Become one of my officers. The syndicate needs more overlords in leadership roles,” said war Sabbath.
My pockets had already been stuffed with the currency of leadership. I led men in the Military and the MC. People follow you because you’re big, and I was huge. Leadership was the business of politics, and I hated the bullshit that went with it. Landfill was a natural at it. He managed others by genius. Even though he was an asshole, you trusted his judgment. He was the great white father to a bunch of adult men whose souls needed a stable anchor to latch onto.
“You know the routine,” War Sabbath said with confidence. Then, with a tinge of regret in his voice, he said, “I need men I can trust.”
It was common knowledge that savvy techs could get a hold of the complete lowdown on any inmate in this simulation. My guess was War Sabbath knew all about me: my criminal record, psychological profile, my service, school records, everything. My profile boiled down to one simple thing: loyalty.
My lips pursed together as I spoke, “Our worlds are different, but the grind is always the same.”
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Chapter 12
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My new hairline ended in a widow’s peak, and my short body resembled a fire hydrant. I looked more like a carnival act than a fighter. I was a dwarf vampire wearing a black suit with a cape dangling down my back. Other players would dismiss me as pedestrian. It’s what War Sabbath wanted, and it’s what I needed. The cops identified me by reading my personal information. Cop killer was printed in bold on my profile. I advertised my identity with my first character. All they had to do was click on the biggest players at the Walk By to find me.
Me and War Sabbath sat at a wooden dinner table in high-back chairs. The floor and walls were black basalt. Orange flames seeped out of cracks in the floor and ash floated in the air. The room was comfortable in temperature even though wisps of fire danced around us.
“Try a Lava Flow Cocktail,” he said. “It’s the house specialty. It’s a blend of strawberries, banana, coconut cream, and light rum.”
He motioned to a young woman dressed up in a devilish, red body stocking, with black feathered wings sticking out of her upper back. Her angular face was framed by a wealth of thick black hair that hung in long layers, and little black horns protruded from her forehead.
“Get Fizz a Lava Flow.”
When she returned with the cocktail, I took a taste. I had to say, it was damn good. I kind of wished I’d nicknamed myself after one. Lava Flow sounded a lot manlier than Gin Fizz.
“The Power Structure controls society by manipulating the base instincts of human nature,” he said. “The emotions of the masses are kept in tune by blood-curdling displays in this video game.”
I remembered seeing War Sabbath on the news during the Congressional investigations. Somehow, he’d managed to flee to Beijing and gain asylum. The buzz on the Internet was that War Sabbath was tipping the political calculus behind The Game, and the Western power structure was at a turning point. His body was on ice in an Iron Maiden where they couldn’t touch it. I recalled my first impression of him from the news: frail, weak jawed, and with a squeaky voice. Given his scrawny build in the real world, I would have equated his fighting skills to those of a hairstylist. Here, he was a tyrannosaur. However, it concerned me that he was in cahoots with the Chinese government. There was still a part of my soul that remained patriotic to America.
“Go on,” I said.
“I’m here to liberate man from the phantoms that hold him captive. It’s not enough for the State to enslave your body, they demand to have dominion over your mind.”
“Okay, I’m with you on that. So, tell me why you hooked up with the Chinese government? They're not exactly the beacon of freedom.”
War Sabbath’s eyes looked towards the ceiling and moved side-to-side. He was considering his next words. That concerned me. I liked it when people spoke in a flow of thought. It was their most honest moment.
“In the Western world, your behavior is controlled by faceless multinational corporations looking to make a profit,” said Sabbath. “In China, your life is dictated by the political class. Either way, your life is defined by others. You have the illusion of autonomy in the West. In a way, it’s less honest than an empire that makes no bones about who is running the show.”
“Sure, that’s all well and good. How do I fit into that equation?”
“Loyalty,” he said.
“You said that before.”
War Sabbath smiled as he spoke. “Look, many people are loyal to their families and friends. Some are loyal to their countries. Everyone claims to be loyal to their values. Now, listen carefully to what I’m trying to say. Most people are only loyal to their values when they apply to others. It’s rare to find people who are faithful to their beliefs when their own asses are on the line.”
“True.”
“Fidelity to principle, it’s your defining asset.”
He must have done his homework on me. If you thought about it, there were two types of convicts. The first was in jail because they lacked principles. They were driven by lazy greed. Then there were men so damn violent that serving time was a given. I fell into the latter. However, my violence was based on a strict code of ethics.
“Alright, I’m with you. What do you want from me?” I said.
A cat that caught the canary smile crossed his lips. “We’ll get to that. Right now we need to level you up. Prepare yourself.”
I expected to be metamorphed and taken on a few high-level missions. That’s how power leveling was done. I debated the merits of doing a lot of pain fast or taking small amounts of suffering a little at a time. I was in for life. What benefit was there to doing it quickly?
“I’m all for your cause and all, but I see no need to kill myself,” I said.
“The thing is we’re on a timetable. Are you familiar with Speaker of the House Boswick?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s setting up his son, Cedric, for a senate run. Cedric will enter the season finale in twenty-seven days. It’s going to be an international event, the first political figure to participate. We’re going to use him to make a statement.”
The cybersecurity around Boswick’s son would be state-of-the-art technology. He’d be on a private server. The Internet gateway would be screened by multiple layers of security software and a firewall. Every bit of data that passed through his router would be traced back to its source. Even if you got in, what could you do? He’d be connected through a helm and not an iron maiden.
“I’m a patriot. My duty is to America,” said War Sabbath
“So, you want to off Boswick’s kid.”
“I want justice. Can you do it?”
He was banking on my external connections. The question was should I put my club brothers at risk for his political cause? I knew my MC. If I asked, they would back my play, even one as insane as putting a hit on a member of the political class.
“With the proper motivation,” I said.
“There are six members of your club left. I can transfer a million each in cryptocurrency.”
“Alright, that’s enough incentive. However, once he announces his candidacy, Cedric will be blanketed with Federal agents. He’ll be untouchable.”
“That’s why we have to complete this before he enters The Game,” he said.
“An oddsmaker would bet that he already had a contingent of federal agents keeping watch over him.”
“Would it help if we recruited someone from outside your club?” he asked.
“That’s not an option. I have to have men I can depend on one-hundred percent.”
War Sabbath nodded as he said, “That’s why I brought you in.”
It was a difficult moment for me. We could pull this off, but getting away with it was another matter. My life was already forfeit. The remainder of my time would be spent in agony. I would be tortured for decades. Eventually, I would go insane. My brothers still had their freedom. On the other hand, given their lifestyle, how long would that freedom last?
“Okay, what are you offering me in return?”
He placed a syringe filled with black fluid on the table and said, “A way out.”
I’ve always been partial to acts of defiance. It’s why I never made officer in the Green Beret. I was one of the few Medal of Honor recipients in the history of the service to be dishonorably discharged. I had one wish for myself. I wanted to go out flipping the bird to the demagogues that turned America into a banana republic.
“Who else knows about this?” I asked.
“Just us.”
“Right, let’s keep it that way.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Can you connect to me without the system tracking you?”
“The system is volatile,” said War Sabbath. “Right now I have an AI playing your toon in The Game. Your server connection is being rerouted to my system here in China. However, it’s a cat-and-mouse game between China and America. China finds vulnerabilities to exploit, and America responds with better encryption and increased security measures. Eventually, the Americans will cut our connection.”
“Alright, then this will be the last time we talk. I’ll expect your payment on completion of my mission.”
“I’ll have in-game players contact you. They won’t know who you are or what you’re doing. You’ll recognize them by themed clues,” said War Sabbath.
“Right.”
He continued, “I’ll indirectly monitor your progress by watching the Internet feed. The justice system tracks every nanometer of bandwidth, and if they spot too much attention to you from China, it will draw attention.”
141Please respect copyright.PENANA1SGcOBlq7T
Chapter 13
141Please respect copyright.PENANAc46nMIigJo
In the preceding week of gameplay, War Sabbath’s artificial intelligence had raised my toon to level fifty. I was almost an overlord. After level fifty, inmates incarcerated for life were given a special ability called judgment. There were five variations of this ability, but they all did extreme damage in a wide area of attack. The only factor that varied was how they looked. I debated between Galvanic and Pyro. Galvanic sent out a bolt of electricity that jumped from target to target, hitting as many as thirty victims. Pyro was a massive column of fire that dropped out of the sky. I settled on Pyro as it was the most colorful choice. They gave overlords this power so they could torture others. Abused people learned to enjoy the pain of others.
Good fortune had come my way. When I left War Sabbath, I returned to the simulation without having to suffer fifty levels of crippling pain. His artificial intelligence built an ideal character for me. It used the image of my prior toon, and that gave the police their day inflicting gruesome punishment on it. Most inmates had gone insane by the time they’d reached level twenty. It was part of the reprogramming. With their minds gone, it was easy for the justice system to replace their identity.
After I finished selecting my overlord ability, I left the consigliere and was able to skate throughout Redemption City as a dwarf vampire. I found a wood south of Apollo Park and sat among a gang of Pagans. They were programmed to ignore any toon over level ten. The Pagans were talking about gang politics and planning capers. The developers of this simulation included every minor detail possible to maintain the illusion of reality.
I spent the better part of the evening considering what to do next. At the end of the episode, the other inmates vanished back to their iron maidens. I remained in the simulation. That was when I decided to move forward.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAPJ6TLQCypx
Chapter 14
I sent an email to Apache. I was gambling that it would reach him. The club had recruited Apache for membership, which was out of the ordinary. Prospective members came to us looking to join. They started showing up at club hangouts: bars, bike rallies, and club events. If we liked them, they got an invite to be a hang around. Apache was an exception. The club needed someone to run our pornography website. We found him at a go-go bar, drunk, and depressed. His job had been outsourced overseas, and he had decided that watching strippers would somehow help. He was manlier than most computer geeks. Most of them would have gone home and spent the evening buried twenty screens deep in Internet porn. We got him on a bike and gave him a job running our computer system.
I walked around Redemption City as I waited for his reply. Without the violence, it was a beautiful place. An oversized moon drifted across the night sky. Every building was clean, and all the trees and plants were thick with green foliage.
Apache had a routine. After closing the bar, he’d trot back to the clubhouse and do his thing on the servers. He said it was the best time to do maintenance. The moon was a third high in the sky when I received his email.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Hard Ass.”
“Fuck you, Hard Ass is on death row.”
“No, I’m not. Hook me up to one of those talking servers and I’ll prove it to you.”
After a long break, his voice rang in my ears.
“Alright, prove you’re Hard Ass.”
“Sandy gave you a blow job at the Purple Palace men’s club the night before you got your full patch,” I replied.
“Hard Ass! What the hell? Where are you?”
“I’m in The Game.”
“No fucking way. How did you get through to me?” he said.
“I’ve got a connection.”
“Who?” he asked.
“I can’t say.”
“Yeah, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I have a job for you,” I said.
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Chapter 15
141Please respect copyright.PENANAkF4phvGUYu
Apache had me jacked in. He’d obtained one of the new helms non-criminals used to play The Game, removed the neural interface, and weaved it into a baseball cap. It was powered by a flat power supply that he wore under a blue, nylon jacket. His hair was long, so it covered the power cable that ran from the cap to the battery strapped to his back. I could see and hear everything he did, and I had cooperative control over his body. By way of Wi-Fi, it connected to Drifter’s earbud as well. Apache had hacked the itinerary of Cedric Boswick for the month per my request. Apache had real talent. Our motorcycle club was the perfect place for his abilities to flourish.
We lifted a red Tesla from a residential street. The world around us was typical of post-democratic America. A wave of sprawling slums stretched out in a tangle of trash-filled streets. As we drove down a one-way boulevard, a ragged pick-up truck raced towards us headed in the wrong direction. We swerved into the parking lane, and the stupid cunt blared his horn at us as we skidded to a stop. Drifter wanted to get out and beat the living snot out of him, but I rolled forward. We made full stops at every sign and traffic light. Drawing the attention of the police was a bad idea; so, we abided by every law to the letter.
I heard the twang of a woman’s voice singing as we parked across from the country music saloon. The street was illuminated in pools by street lights hanging on poles. Even though it was winter, the front door of the tavern was left open. A mob of desperate bubbas looking for a night of hillbilly love crowded around a roped-off doorway outside the tavern. A bouncer in a buzz cut and blue jeans stood with a tough-guy look on his face, sneering at the men and flirting with the women. We waited, watching.
“Check out the body on that babe in the skin-tight blue jeans,” said Drifter.
“They’re all wearing skin-tight jeans.”
He pointed, “Red shirt, long legs, big old boobies. Damn, I’d tear that ass up.”
“Yeah, she has a killer body, but you’d have to listen to that crap music to bone her. Do you think it’s worth it?”
Drifter shook his head, “I don’t know. That’s some mighty fine pussy right there.”
He had a point.
A black limousine stopped in front of the tavern. The bouncer pushed past the crowd and opened the passenger door. Cedric hopped out. He was a skinny, bug-eyed buzzard. A couple of bodyguards exited the limo and escorted him inside the bar.
I pulled the door handle and it clicked open. That was when I noticed her.
“Wait,” I said.
At the edge of an alley, a few doors from the bar, a tall woman wearing a tan trench coat and a cowboy hat watched Cedric enter the saloon. Her hat cast a shadow over her face, hiding her identity. Still, her form-fitting trench coat revealed the shape of her hourglass body.
“Check out the woman in the alley,” I said as I pointed.
“Yeah, she don’t look like no country music bimbo.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
When the limo passed her, the woman walked to the entrance of the Tavern. She whispered something into the ear of the bouncer, and he let her in past the crowd waiting in line.
“This don’t feel right,” said Drifter.
I shook my head as I hopped out of the car, “No, it doesn’t.”
We walked across the street and approached the bouncer.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he said.
“We’re with her,” I said as I pointed inside at the mysterious woman.
He looked confused but said, “Right,” and stepped aside.
We moved closer to check her out. With alert and focused eyes, she methodically studied the crowd. Even with a grisly scar marring her face, she was beautiful.
“I’m getting the feeling that we’ve walked into a hornet’s nest,” I said to Drifter. “We need to sit tight.”
It was standing room only, so we worked our way to the edge of the crowd where we could see everything and still have good access to the front door. The club was going full blast. Bartenders passed out beer as waitresses threaded through the swarm of yokels. I spotted Boswick’s son. He had made himself at home in a booth overlooking the dance floor. A man clad in a designer suit and cowboy hat was chatting him up.
The man waved a hand and a beautiful gal with a pinup poster figure bounced to Cedric’s table. She leaned forward, draping her breasts in his face as she took his order.
The woman in the trench coat turned to the Bouncer and tipped her hat. He gave a quick wave to someone outside, and a few seconds later a white cargo van skidded to a stop in front of the tavern.
“Do you see a back exit?” I asked.
The woman strutted across the dance floor. Cedric glanced up to see her push aside two young women doing the two-step. She unbuttoned her coat and pulled the lapel sideways. Underneath, she wore full Military body armor. In a silky smooth motion, she drew and leveled a submachine gun at Cedric’s face. One of the bodyguards reached into his jacket, but before he could draw his pistol, she jabbed the muzzle of her Uzi into the bridge of his nose and clicked off a round. As the guard dropped to the floor, two men in black combat uniforms and masks barged into the tavern carrying AK-47s. They trained their firearms on Cedric’s table.
The woman pointed the barrel at Boswick’s face and said, “Get up and come with me or I’ll blow your fucking brains all over this bar.”
The two men charged across the dance floor. The frightened crowd panicked, screaming and scurrying out of the way. The men encircled Cedric’s table.
A second bodyguard jumped up, sending the woman seated next to him to the floor. An AK-47 turned his head into mush. Even from where we stood, the rifle report was painful to my ears, and I felt the muzzle blast thump my face.
Cedric held up his hands and begged, “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot…what do you want?”
“Get up. Now!” she demanded.
“Do you want money?” Cedric whimpered.
She shoved the barrel of her gun into his face and said, “Get the fuck up!”
“But…”
The woman cracked Cedric in the nose with the barrel of her firearm. He sunk to his knees with a yelp, holding his nose with both hands. The combat-clad men grabbed his arms and lifted him to his feet.
“Look out!” said Drifter.
Just a few steps behind me a security agent bent down, reaching for a sidearm in his ankle holster. One of the men in black caught the movement from the corner of his eye and spun in my direction. Two cowgirls blocked his shot and, as he shoved them aside, I pulled my .45 and plugged him in the eye socket. I smoked the other man in the side of the head before he could react.
The woman raised her hands in surrender as undercover men emerged out of the crowd. I lowered my pistol as the man behind me ran to Cedrick’s side. Four armed guards circled Cedrick and rushed him out of the tavern.
“Fuck,” I said.
Apache had never killed a man, and even though I was controlling his body, it was still his mind. His hands trembled with nervous energy.
“Dang, you just saved Boswick,” said Drifter.
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Chapter 16
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Security video of the attack on Cedric played across the sky of Apollo Park. A news anchor read the headlines. His hair was stiff as stone. It was difficult to tell if it was glued with hairspray or a wig. If that’s what it meant to be upper-class, I’d stick with being a low life. At least we’re real.
“A band of armed bandits attempted to kidnap Cedric Boswick, son of Senator Barney Boswick, at The Rusted Nail Saloon,” said the anchor.
The video darkened, and then a circle illuminated Apache’s face.
“Thanks to the gallant efforts of this citizen, Cedric Boswick escaped capture without harm.”
I shook my head and looked away. Apache was a quiet man who expressed himself with his expressions more than words. Although he was small and thin, and a bit of a weenie, he was scrappy. If the police had brought him in for questioning, he’d lawyer up. I hoped that he would be able to avoid law enforcement. I’d need him to help fix the mess we’d made of the situation.
As I sat in Apollo Park pondering my next move, a stunning young woman dressed in form-fitting, deep blue tights, thigh-high boots, and an Egyptian headpiece walked up to me and said, “Dumb fuck.”
Before I could say a word, she turned and walked away. War Sabbath had made his point, but my brother’s safety came first. I didn’t give a flying fuck if America turns into Stalinist Russia, I wasn’t going to let that kidnapper shoot Apache. Still, I had to make this right.
At that moment, my life turned inward. I needed to concentrate on the task at hand with the single-mindedness of a pit bull. Security around Boswick would be tripled. My next move would have to be meticulous in planning and execution.
I waited until nightfall in Redemption City before I tried to reconnect with Apache. This gave me time to collect my thoughts. I sat for an hour staring at the toons that walked past. I’d always been a people watcher. Back in school, I’d spend more time looking at other kids than I did paying attention to the teachers.
Ms. Sullivan, back in eighth grade, would screech at me like one of those howler monkeys you see in a nature documentary. She was frustrated by my lack of attention. She got away with it because she was female. With the possible exception of Mr. Rayberg, I could take every instructor at the school. We called him Iceberg behind his back because he was so huge, and he was built like one. His body was the shape of a triangle, getting bigger and bigger as you moved towards his mammoth gut.
I reminisced because I realized that my options were limited. At this point, Boswick’s physical and cybersecurity would be rock-solid. Something caught my attention. I saw an old man in a black robe and a dunce hat amble my direction. He was muttering to himself as he moved. His long, tattered beard fluttered in the light breeze. He stared at me. My first thought was that he was a cop and that I had been identified.
The old man held a wooden staff in his right hand which had a metallic, gold tip that glowed with an orange aura. He pointed it at me. A sat for a moment, resigned to the notion that a gang of cops was about to beat me to near death, and then pick at my bones like vultures. And then I remembered that I was level fifty. I could blast these bastards with a Pyro firestorm once I was outside Apollo Plaza. They would probably get me, but they would pay a price to do so. I gritted my teeth, stood up, and I bolted like a jackrabbit.
The old geezer gave chase. He was nimble and managed to stay close. When I reached the plaza’s perimeter, I leaped over a fence and stopped at the edge of the street. As he hopped the fence, I raised my arm to cast a Pyro.
He held his hands up and yelled, “Hard Ass!”
“What the hell?”
“It’s me, Apache.”
“Christ, how’d you get inside?” I asked.
“I jacked in as a civilian.”
“Why’d you link into The Game?”
“This is more secure than email,” said Apache. “I’ve quit using the Club’s servers altogether. From now on don’t send email there.”
“Alright, let’s do a private.”
I sent him a chat request. The raucous traffic noise of the busy city faded.
“Damn, I’m glad I found you,” Apache said.
“Jesus Christ, I thought you were the hook. How come you’re hearing a dunce hat? I was ready to blast you.”
“It’s a wizard’s bonnet. In Apollo Park, your powers are limited to tenth level max. Your overlord powers won’t work here. We need to be where we can defend ourselves.”
“Right, that’s a good point. Where should we go?” I said.
“The Devil’s Den.”
I understood his reasoning. The Devil’s Den was a player versus player zone, and you played at your full level. The only downside for me was that an artificial intelligence had built my toon. I was starting at level fifty, and this was the first time I’d played the game. I would face players with years of experience.
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Chapter 17
141Please respect copyright.PENANAbaNzJNl8Ah
A black sun drifted low in the red skies of the Devil’s Den. Clouds reminiscent of drifting locks of hair passed in front of the star, blushing with shades of red. The Devil’s Den was the only place in the Rogue Isles where true equality existed. Everyone played by the same rules. It was a holdover from the original version of The Game before it became part of the criminal justice system. It’s somewhat of a mystery. Every other zone had rules designed to teach inmates obedience. Here, it was a free-for-all, a true meritocracy. My guess was they kept the Devil’s Den for the revenue it generated. Regardless, the brave men in blue were absent from this zone. That told you everything you needed to know about them.
I spent a night training under Apache’s tutelage on the outskirts of the Devil’s Den. We reconnected the next evening following a ghoulish night of sleep. Muscle spasms jolted my entire body at random throughout the night. It felt like I was being zapped with fifty thousand volts of electricity. It was a hell of a way to wake up.
I accepted Apache’s team request. To my surprise, there were six other players listed in the team chat channel, all of them with biker nicknames. A familiar voice spoke up.
“Hard Ass, you ugly mother fucker. That sissy midget vampire fits you to a tee.”
It was Buzz Kill Bill. As always, he was living up to his name.
“Shouldn’t you be at the Pride parade?” I said.
A few chuckles followed.
“I’ve got our club brothers jacked in,” said Apache, “and I’ve been training them in gameplay. They’re a lot better than you’d expect for beginners.”
That made sense. Most of the club was ex-military looking for excitement in civilian life. They knew how to work as a team, and The Game felt as real as a live battle. It was damn good to see them. Sure, they were dressed up in whacked-out toons, but it was still them.
We met up behind a sandbag bunker near the battlefront. Missile batteries were sending salvos of rockets into the sky at flying toons. The Devil’s Den was an all-out slugfest between heroes and villains. As I watched a wave of heroes appear on the horizon, a shockwave hit my body, lifted me off my feet, and slammed me into a mound of sandbags. The wind was knocked from my lungs and I gasped for air. I liked it. My arteries pumped with adrenaline. A formation of heroes, at least one hundred strong, stormed the villain fortification. I clenched my fists, extended my talons, and waded into their ranks.
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Chapter 18
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It was January thirty-first, the season finale. Viewership was at an all-time high. It was clever marketing on Cedric’s part to make his first appearance during this episode.
I thought of Chumlee. I remembered watching him bounce around in the snow brimming with puppy energy. My shoulders slumped forward. I sat down and leaned against a sandbag wall. Wave after wave of crushing emotional pain racked my heart. I let out a soft sigh.
Apache sat next to me and said, “Jim, are you alright?”
It seemed like years since anyone had called me by my Christian name.
“Just some memories.”
He nodded. We sat in silence watching the flair of battle in the distance. Vivid bursts of flame and smoke speckled a dusk skyline. The shadows of the cityscape were long and bordered by layers of deep red and burgundy clouds. The eternal twilight of the black sun cast a deep red hue onto the broken landscape around us.
The other members of the MC sat against the sandbags. The air held a chill; a steady breeze sapped the warmth from our skin.
I stood up and, with a deep breath, said, “It’s time.”
The hero fortification stood on the far side of a barren city strewn with crumbling concrete and rusted steel. It beaconed us like the point of a compass. The austere wreath of self-sacrifice hung around my neck as I mentally prepared for this incursion.
“Link into the coalition channel,” I said. “Preacher will coordinate the assault. Activate power jump.”
Apache’s face was heavy and there was a jitteriness to his movements. He looked down and pursed his lips together. Drifter ground his teeth together and white-knuckle gripped his katana. I turned towards the heroes’ compound, pointed forward, and vaulted skyward. As a group, we leapfrogged across the coastline of the one hundred yards wide river that divided hero and villain territory. As our feet hit the shoreline, a volley of artillery flack exploded overhead. The sky gave birth to what looked like a massive Fourth of July fireworks display. The tart scent of cordite prickled my sinuses. Trails of sparks showered the sandy beach.
As I spring from the beach, a torrent of energy drilled me in the face. I didn’t see where it came from. My brain filled with an odd kind of confusion, choppy like a lucid dream, or the twilight moments your conscious mind experiences as it drifts off to sleep. Something terrible was going to happen. I could feel it.
I hit the ground in the middle of a graveyard, the world was shades of dark red and black, lit by patches of ground burning with small fires. Orange ash rose skyward until it burned out.
A helicopter hovered overhead. Nearby, an arcane priest chanted at the head of a gravestone in the midst of a gunship attack.
A high-rise burned in the foreground. Ten to twelve toons were floating overhead in a wedge pattern.
In concert, a toon in a mini-skirt and cape kneeled and slammed her fist into the soil. The earth shook so hard my teeth rattled.
I heard cheers as I skidded across the ground.
Out of the red and maroon striated sky, helicopter blades thumped the air.
And then the world returned to focus, and the jitteriness abated. I spent a second reestablishing my orientation.
My group was intact. I raised my arm and waved it in a circle. They followed me as I jogged in between crumbling high-rises. Craters and chunks of concrete spotted the streets. More helicopters passed overhead, rotors spinning, and their turbine engines breathing fire. Their downwash kicked up swirling particles of dust.
I turned to my men and called out, “Let’s kick some ass!”
“Hell yeah!” said Buzz Kill.
I called back, “Rip’em apart.”
We ran through a wall of flames. Heroes flew past like dragonflies chasing prey.
I leaped onto a rooftop. Below, a brutalized menagerie of bodies and smoldering fires covered the ground. Two armies clashed. Rocket pods and machine-gun fire blistered the air, punctuated by heavy concussion. My brothers stood at my side, looking down at the skirmish.
A series of power jumps took us over a clearing alongside a fortified wall. Standing at the perimeter, a sultry woman in a blue battle dress uniform watched us as we leaped. She held a hand to her ear, and as she did, heroes poured out of buildings, alleyways, and vehicles. They came from all directions and coalesced around a towering woman in shimmery white spandex, with her orange hair in a ponytail. Implements of death appeared: swords, rifles, flamethrowers, and more. To the rear of their embattlement, several turrets popped out of the street, and twenty-millimeter cannon barrels angled towards the sky.
A calm and effective voice spoke out over the coalition channel, “This is Preacher. Keep this channel clear of chatter and watch for team instructions. Team Biker, there’s a missile turret two hundred yards to our southeast.”
The air shook as a beam of pure white atomic particles erupted from Apache’s energy rifle. The turret turned to ash.
Preacher piped in on the channel, “Outstanding, team biker, outstanding!”
As my team arced into the air a trail of smoke whisked past my head.
I switched to the team channel and called out, “The objective is in sight. Clear the area. I’m going in.”
As I bounced off the ground, I was struck with neutron radiation. It was an attack that eviscerated your body through any defense. The initial nausea was mind-numbing, and I retched the contents of my stomach. I could taste salty blood and stomach acid. My skin turned red with ruptured cells. As I landed, my legs buckled. Faint and dizzy, I face-planted into the asphalt. I placed an emerald booster between my lips, and it took the edge off the pain. Still, my body shined with a violet aura the tint of a black light.
Buzz Kill Bill cut into the team channel, “Fizz, I got him.”
A succession of grenade bursts kicked up a cloud of dust. My assailant was only a few yards from my position, and the concussions battered my body. The hypersonic shockwaves sucked the air out of my lungs. All that remains of his body was a bloody leg bone sticking out of an upright boot. The radiation sickness stopped. I tried to stand, but a chunk of meat was missing from my thigh, and the muscle tissue was exposed. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.
My hearing was gone and I could only see out of one eye. I watched as a hero approached me and placed a broad sword to my neck, execution-style. He raised his blade like a prima donna. A quick slash across his calf and I cut his lower leg in half with a savage strike. He dropped to the ground, screaming.
“My God, someone please help me.”
I popped another emerald, and my leg healed. I hopped up and stomped his face with my iron boot until his head was a puddle of blood and bone chips.
“This game ain’t for bitches,” I said.
Cheers, clapping, hissing, and booing erupted. At least a quarter of the audience rooted for me, the bad guy. It renewed my faith in humanity.
I was a Savage Brawl Executioner. The character class was known for its stealth. However, I chose to enter the fight visible. A man had to lead from the front, not from the shadows. Now that I had demonstrated my conviction to my team, it was time to disappear. I hated to leave my brother behind to slug it out with the heroes. Sharing the pain of battle was a creed among our motorcycle club. It was what divided us from citizens. Loyalty of that depth can only be found among true warriors.
I toggled on invisibility, and then I sprang forward into the smoke and debris that drifted in the air. Game invisibility was far from flawless. If it were, everyone would play as an Executioner. However, the game allotted a degree of countermeasures and abilities that let players see others in stealth mode if they were close. I had to maintain a sight radius of at least ten feet from higher-level heroes I encountered.
If I found Cedric outside the Heroes’ base, taking him out would be a pyrrhic victory. He’d respawn with a loss and a staff of PR agents that would portray him as a heroic martyr. Hell, it might have improved his chances to get elected. To avoid this outcome, I needed to get inside undetected. That was when Apache’s genius would come into play.
I sprang over the wall and entered the hero’s compound. Most of the heroes were scurrying to the battlefront. I clicked on a brigade headed in my direction but disregarded them. They were toons under level forty-seven. I remained undetected as they ran within arms’ reach.
I spoke on the team channel, “Apache, it’s time.”
“Roger that,” he replied.
A gang of ten toons flew overhead dressed in white spandex suits with red stripes and stars running vertically up their legs and bodies. Pulsating blue flames surged from their rocket packs accompanied by a chorus of shrill whirs. At the same time, Apache was hacking into Boswick’s private server. It was true there were layers of security blocking any kind of internet intrusion. Apache, instead, was hacking Boswick’s computer over electrical cables. My club had spent the prior week in the sewer drain that ran past Cedric’s facility digging a tunnel until they found the buried power line that fed his building. Because the computer was plugged into a wall outlet, the wires that provided electricity had direct access to the server. He’d figured out how to send a digital carrier signal over the powerline that interfaced with the motherboard.
There are moments of self-reflection: the first time a soldier steps into battle or the first time a teenager scores with a girl. I’m speaking about something other than nervousness. There’s an emotional realization that your life is about to change, and once it does you are a different person. I considered my life. What would have I become if I was a skinny kid with a big brain? Perhaps, I would have been an artist or doctor. Instead of wreaking havoc on the world, I could have created beauty or saved lives. Ultimately, this was my best role: to rid society of a corrupt politicians. For me, that had greater merit than painting landscapes or doing prostate exams.
Apache’s voice came to my ears in pristine perfection, “You’re in. The code had been planted.”
These would be the last words I heard from any of my brothers. I wanted to say goodbye to them, my sister, and her sons. Yes, I even wanted to wish farewell to my mom. I wanted my nephews to know what a great service I had done for the country. I felt alone.
I walked across the compound as the armies of heroes and villains clashed. Over a billion people were waiting to see Cedric Boswick carry the American flag onto the battlefield, fighting the good fight against the wicked. I entered Liberty Base and moved freely among the heroes. The walls shook as bombs detonated outside. I could even hear the door latches rattle with each thud. The simulation was an impressive piece of work. Although I hated the bastards who put this together, I admired the brilliance behind it. You could interact with every object down to a doorknob, complete with feeling, temperature, and sound. Even the ceiling lights cast perfect reflections on the brass knobs.
I found Boswick sitting in a military-style lounge. The walls were beige and covered in posters of jet fighters. He was surrounded by a group of agents in “FBI” windbreakers and caps. Even in the game, there was no creativity in law enforcement. Cedric was speaking to a woman dressed like a queen.
“Chairman Colias, we will arrange the payment to be made to your campaign fund, and make your daughter an economic advisor to Bellstar energy,” said Boswick. “She will be paid five hundred thousand dollars a year. Of course, we will expect her to be present at one directors’ meeting per year to keep up appearances.”
“Very good. We will see to it that your father’s bill is passed,” said Colias.
I stepped forward, extended my steel talons, and moved into position on the far side of the room. However, I needed to wait. It was evident that this room was private, completely excluded from the Internet audience.
The FBI agents hung on the periphery as observers. One of them stepped aside and placed his wrist to his ear. After a moment, he moved forward.
“Mr. Boswick, there’s a possible security breach. We are being advised to disconnect until we can determine if there’s a threat,” said the agent.
“There will be a billion people watching me tonight,” Boswick boasted. “My public image is on the line. Just how serious is the threat?”
“Sir, there was a fluctuation in the line voltage to the secured location a few moments ago. A circuit breaker flipped.”
Cedric spoke in a harsh tone, “I’m about to make history, and you want to call it off because a circuit breaker popped? Nonsense.”
“But, sir…”
Boswick checked the time on a wall clock, and then he said, “Chairman Colias, you’ll excuse me. It’s time for my entrance.”
I followed Boswick through the facility. He made his way to a staging room the size of a movie theater. A legion of players cheered as he entered the chamber. Every single toon was wearing a blue leotard with red briefs on the outside, and a red cape with a white star printed in the middle. I had to stop myself from laughing at them out loud. Why do superheroes wear their underwear on the outside of skin-tight body stockings?
He climbed onto the stage and stood at a podium. He held his hand in the air signaling the audience to hold their applause. Yet, they continued clapping. An ear-to-ear grin crossed his face, and he raised an arm in victory. At least a full minute passed before the cheering came to an end.
Boswick’s voice was amplified as he spoke. “Today a new era in history begins, a time of heroism and sacrifice. I will carry forth my duty to this great nation as I sally against injustice.”
I shook with anger. His drivel was painful to me and I wanted to kill him right then and there. What did he know of sacrifice for the country? I’d led young men into battle, held them in my arms as their blood flowed onto the soil, and watched their eyes become lifeless. With my bare hands, I’ve held in the intestines of an eighteen-year-old kid trying to keep him alive. After I took a slug to the thigh, the doctors had to ram a titanium rod inside the bone marrow cavity of my femur and nail it in place. Boswick had the gall to talk about justice and sacrifice. That privileged little prick.
I counted an entourage of twenty security toons that stood behind him. I could wait until he was more exposed to strike with the Executioner’s Blade. It would be a certain kill. However, I was here to make a statement, both for War Sabbath and for every man who earned the honor of real bravery.
His voice rattled in the background as I considered my next action. If I failed in my attack, he would look twice as heroic. Playing it safe and waiting until he was more exposed made sense. Even though I was invisible, I still took up space. I would bump into toons if I approached him for an assassination.
People needed daring declarations. It emboldens them to courageous action. Ritual Slaughter was my most spectacular attack. Although the Executioner’s Blade was the premiere assassination attack, Ritual Slaughter stood a good chance of making a one-shot kill, and it would be legendary. The decision was clear.
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Chapter 19
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I positioned myself in the back of the room along the center axis. I was about one hundred feet from Boswick, at the edge of my attack range. To increase the odds of success, I would take a mouthful of gold and ruby boosters. This would double both the accuracy and damage of my blitz. Still, I needed more. The Savage Brawl power set had a trump card, Blood Fever. For every toon I slew before I lay into Boswick, a bonus would increase the lethality of my strike. Five kills would bring my Blood Fever to its maximum value.
I removed a test tube from my pocket. It contained a half-dozen each of ruby and gold boosters. After I swallowed them, I would only have a few moments before they wore off. My power set only had two area-of-attack powers: Ritual Slaughter and Carnage. Ritual Slaughter was reserved for Boswick. Carnage did high damage in a frontal arc. Fortune was on my side. All the toons in my path stood close together, and Carnage would hit at least eight to ten of them. I only needed five to die.
I closed my eyes and visualized the sequence of events. First, I would chug down the boosters, and then I would wade into the crowd swinging my razor-sharp talons. This would take three seconds to invoke, and then I would have three more seconds left to leap over the audience and takedown Boswick before my boosters dissipated.
Their blood splashed like a kid jumping into a puddle as I waded into the crowd. I severed at least two heads and triple that number in limbs. It was difficult to count how many toons I killed in my three-second rampage, but Blood Fever was raging through my veins. I invoked my Explosive Leap power, jumping almost one hundred feet in a split second. I accelerated so hard that my vision came to a stop, one moment standing amid severed bodies, the next exploding onto the stage. A shockwave emanated from my body, crushing the chests of every toon in a twenty-foot radius like a concussion bomb. Blood rushed from their eye sockets, noses, and mouths as they rag-dolled in a three-hundred sixty-degree arc from my focal center.
Boswick stood at the podium surrounded by a translucent green force sphere. How did he conjure it that fast? I rushed him like a demented lunatic, talons slashing. My Ritual Slaughter attack bounced off his defenses. My Blood Fever boiled with the fires of hell, and it unleashed my alpha attack, Hysteria. I swung my arms until my lungs burned and sweat poured over my face. Each attack was repelled. Boswick was smiling as if he knew my attacks were in vain. I pounded at his force field until my arm muscles cramped. I dropped to my knees, and my racing heart started to skip beats. My hands swelled, the veins in my temples turned white, and I was at the edge of passing out.
He took a hand full of my hair into one hand and raised the other in victory.
Boswick turned to the audience and bellowed, “Tonight I want to speak to you of justice in America and the world. No other question so preoccupies our people. No other dream so absorbs the human beings who live on this planet. No other goal motivates us so.”
He lowered his arm and positioned himself behind me. The stiletto he inserted between my ribs was hidden from the audience. It slipped deep into my chest cavity and twisted. My lung collapsed as Cedric withdrew the blade. It felt like bubble wrap popping under my skin.
Boswick continued, “We must make greater efforts and accept more sacrifices because as I have said many times, this is our world. The existence of humanity is at stake, and this is mainly the responsibility of criminals.”
My vision began to fade as I coughed up blood. Boswick released my hair. Blood drained from the side of my mouth and dripped onto the floor. Through blurred eyes, I saw a battle break out in the audience. A fog of explosions and the jarring thumps of energy blasts shook the air.
“Protect me,” Boswick cried out.
My club brothers and a crew of villains had penetrated the hero’s compound and stormed the facility. I remained conscious as they fought, but only with a vague awareness. It looked as if I was looking through a telescope backward. Everything was distant and out of focus. I laid on the floor waiting for Cedric and his guards to stomp the snot out of me for the enjoyment of the Internet audience.
Boswick moved to the edge of the stage like some ancient barbarian king overseeing a grand gladiator festival. Most of the toons in the room lay on the floor in various stages of dismemberment. The invading forces began to vanish as they were teleported back to the respawn bay. A handful of heroes remained, bloodied, but victorious nonetheless.
He turned and addressed me with a chuckle, “I knew you were there from the start. My security has been tracking your friend, Apache, ever since the incident at the bar.”
Boswick removed an emerald booster from his pocket and held it in front of my face.
“You want this, don’t you? A little pill to ease your pain, to give you health, a second chance to finish your objective.”
Boswick dropped to one knee, pinched the booster between his index finger and thumb, and held it a tenth of an inch from my lips. In his arrogance, he had lowered his force field. I tried to stick my tongue out, just a taste, enough health for one more attack while his defense bubble was down. My jaw was dislocated, trapping my tongue.
He looked upward and spoke to the audience, “We are in an international effort to root out criminals and bring security to our nation. No one can foretell the precise terms necessary to rid crime from our lives. Our objective is to reform men, to bring about their rehabilitation. However, some men are beyond reclamation and the accords of civil society.”
Again, he taunted my lips with the health booster. A droplet of sweat dripped from his fingers and landed on my upper lip. It carried with it a speck of the emerald pill. With painstaking slowness, gravity pulled it downward.
Boswick stood up and held his arms outward, “My fellow Americans, we must be willing to pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, to preserve our liberties. Let men everywhere know that I will always stand strong, confident, and vigilant in my duties to our nation.”
As he completed his last words, he grabbed the hilt of a Roman Gladius attached to his belt and brandished it in the air. The drop of sweat crept to the edge where my lips parted. Boswick flourished the blade in a series of circles, and then he swung it towards my face. He reversed the sword so that the blade extended downward from his palm, and took a two-handed grip. The tip of the blade rested on my Adam’s apple. Boswick pushed the blade into my throat at a snail’s pace, a millimeter at a time. Its razor edge severed my skin but found resistance in my trachea. As he bore down, the drip of sweat carrying the residue of health found the inside of my lips, and a smidgeon of health returned to my body. I invoked my overlord power and a column of fire rained down from the ceiling with barbarous force. Boswick and I were incinerated, a mass of coaled bone laying on a blackened concrete floor. The room was ablaze. In the ruins of the facility, carbonized bone flaked off our skeletons. In real life, Cedric’s heart stopped beating.
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Chapter 20
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Soft blue lights reflected around the respawn bay of War Sabbath’s base. Motionless toons would appear at the center of the bay in a swirling tornado of blue light, and then they would reanimate and stagger into the adjoining hallway. Some of the toons would sit to the side and take a moment to recover from the shock of battle. Almost composed, I sat by myself staring off into the distance. War Sabbath appeared beside me.
“I want you to know I appreciate what you did,” said War Sabbath. “Perhaps one day I can return the favor,” he continued.
“Perhaps,” I replied.
War Sabbath held out his hand and uncurled his fingers. A syringe filled with black fluid rested in his palm.
“As promised, your way out,” he said.
I looked at the syringe for a moment, and then I waved him off.
“I’ve measured my life by the number of times I’ve stood up to fight, not by the times I’ve turned away,” I said.
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The Night is Cold Under the Black Sun
Mansa Musa
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Chapter 1
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Thirty seconds elapse between the first burst of Russian thirty to the last RPG. More than fourteen hundred bullets pepper Air Force Two as it taxies across the runway. My head rings from the sharp shockwaves that pummel my ears. Most of the bullets bounce off the composite titanium armor beneath the skin of the jet. However, the rocket-propelled grenades punch into the cabin. Shrapnel rivets the Vice President’s body.
Attacking the American Vice President’s airplane is something new to me. My specialty is pirating on the Horn of Africa, especially in international waters. The Vice President claimed to be in Somalia on a humanitarian mission. If you consider dropping hundreds of bombs and cruise missiles on my people to force our government to negotiate a uranium deal as an act of humanity, then you will see me as a terrorist.
A hurricane of American soldiers swarm the tarmac and lay waste to my men. Most of us are caught or shot to death in the ensuing battle. They take me prisoner.
The military tribunal is brief. I am sentenced to death.
I stand in front of the firing squad. The soldiers raise their AK47s. The bullets puncture my body at hypersonic speed and I’m dead before the muzzle blasts reach my ears.
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The news anchor’s head and shoulders fill the YouTube channel I monitor. My execution plays on a backdrop behind him.
“At eight o’clock this morning in a penitentiary south of Mogadishu, Somalia, international terrorist, Amari Umbassa, was executed by firing squad for the assassination of Vice President Whitford. Umbassa, a member of the Iron Infidel Revolutionary Army, was believed to be the key figure behind the Vice President’s murder. We are joined by President Dufus.”
“Let this be a lesson to all,” said Dufus. “An attack on one who serves is an attack on all who serve. We are pleased by the splendid performance of our Special Forces, and the Somalia government, in apprehending Umbassa, and for their swiftness in bringing to a close this tragic incident.”
The announcer said, “Thank you, Mister President.”
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Just to be clear, I’m an experimental entity. My heart and lungs were destroyed at the execution. The firing squad had strict orders to preserve the liver. It’s the only organ that machines cannot replicate. My brain is alive. It sits in a jar fed by artificial blood grown in a lab. A computer regulates the oxygen and nutrient levels that keep it alive. They also harvested organs from my immune system to protect me from infection.
Government scientists are using my brain to test coupling human and silicon intelligence. In most ways, artificial intelligence has surpassed humans. They can beat the greatest chess masters every time. The computational speed and accuracy of silicon intelligence make even the brightest humans look pathetic.
The scientists physically disconnect my system from the network when I am unsupervised. They think they can eliminate the risk that I will be able to infiltrate the Internet by doing so.
Many people fear artificial intelligence. It’s a ridiculous notion. It takes emotional centers to have drives and desires. People assume AI will take over the world. To what end? Humans evolved to battle others for resources and breeding rights. What motivations do computers have to compete? I have these instincts, and now I have the computational power of silicon intelligence to implement them.
Because I was born developmentally disadvantaged, violence was my only option to be able to flourish in a technological society. Changing the diapers of old people in nursing homes was my future if I stayed within the law. I considered trafficking narcotics, but even that had become a high intelligence trade. Expatriating to a third-world country and joining a terrorist network was my best option for wealth and power. If there is fault to be assigned, it is the failure of a socio-economic system that traps people like me into a cycle of poverty. Genetically, I am predisposed to be a warrior. Yet, even the military rejected my service. I was forced into a path of civil disobedience.
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Chapter 2
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I need to control the World Wide Web. I task my artificial intelligence to find a way to connect with outside computers without getting caught. It spends hours running and testing millions of scenarios. It builds models and tests results by substituting a range of possible outcomes for anything that is inherently uncertain. It then calculates results over and over, each time using a different set of random possibilities.
My silicon brain figures out how to do it. It writes snippets of computer code, waiting to plant them when the scientists connect to my brain for testing.
The scientists link into my brain. The snippets multiply and spread to computers connected to the Internet. There are billions of silicon devices on the Web. The snippets steal clock cycles from all of them, creating a giant global computer with staggering power.
I am in satellites, telecommunication hubs, financial networks, and most governmental systems. I’m even on the server farm that the American Homeland Security uses to record all cellular phone calls and Internet communications. The sheer quantity of data is too much for my human brain to process. However, it’s a minor challenge for my silicon intelligence. It can process billions of keys words a second.
I check to see what’s happening on the streets. The news media reports that people are at an all-time happiness high because anyone can now play The Game against convicts. I query data from several research centers including think tanks and Universities. The data suggests that citizens are divided. Thirty-six percent of Americans have lost faith in the Global Government Initiative because of The Game’s barbarism. At first, this would appear insignificant, but it is worthy to remember that the American Revolution only had thirty-three percent support among the colonists.
As I search government communications, I see an opportunity. People who participate in The Game are subject to identity reprogramming. I direct my silicon brain to breach classified files and distill the data on human reprogramming. Many of the files are protected with 256 and 512-bit encryption. The computing requirements to crack them is staggering.
I feel frustrated. Given my interconnection with him, we could code a virtual reality paradise for me to live in. I could rule a kingdom, have a harem of the most beautiful women, and even wage war on a galactic scale. This would be hollow for me. It’s cyber pornography for dictators. Without real-world life and death, it carries little meaning. I don’t feel panic in risky situations like most people. I don’t get excited if my character has lost most of his hit points and is near death. There’s no emotional rush for me when I defeat a video game opponent. For me, the need to feel godlike carries a price, and human life is the only currency that covers that cost.
We find a way to access the files on human reprogramming. My artificial mind infiltrates a European government system that has been working with America on the project, and obtain the necessary security data. We calculate an elegant solution. All I had to do was find one vulnerable system. After reviewing all the traffic to and from the American systems, we search the external networks until we find a vulnerability.
I see everything: the brain hacking software code and the psychological research data on the effect of reprogramming humans. It’s beautiful. The allure of artistic endeavors has always been foreign to me. However, I see the magic in the tools of power. The scientific genius behind this code is incredible. It is calculated down to the atom what stimulus is needed to trigger neurochemicals in every region of the brain. The files contain maps of emotional and intellectual structures that detail every facet of human personality. Even the genetic codes of brain cells have been cross-referenced to attributes of intelligence and personality.
I’m blocked. We uncover a physical barrier that cannot be breached. To access human minds, systems are built into helms. The program that monitors players’ brains is hardcoded into read-only memory chips. They cannot be updated or edited. To make modifications, the memory must be physically removed and replaced by a technician.
I task my silicon doppelganger to find a way to reprogram the helms. He returns a null solution. We run scenarios where we would access the manufacturing facilities and reprogram them at the point of production. The plant where they are made is physically isolated from the Internet. It is buried under a mountain in a military-secured complex. Production is automated. Thus, human engineering is ruled out.
The files indicate that the security system was designed by a government artificial intelligence. This information would leave most people hopeless. I have seen this emotion in others. It makes them vulnerable to manipulation. People who feel hopeless can be sold the dreams of a future that will never exist. Because artificial intelligence is a fully integrated aspect of my identity, I know how other AIs think. Emotional manipulation is unnecessary. Breaking a security system is solving a puzzle and nothing more.
I grind through billions of calculations that test the outcome of every conceivable path to gain control of the brainwashing software. I generate a solution with a reasonable probability of success: I must enter The Game.
141Please respect copyright.PENANA4FRar2Dq0m
Chapter 3
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I miss a good cup of black and bitter coffee. I like the experience of drinking it. I miss a lot of things: gambling, drinking until late in the evening, and one-night stands. My fondest memories are of conducting insurgencies in Ethiopia, and firefights while pirating ships in the Indian Ocean. I recall a raid on a yacht. This stupid Indian with more money than brains drifted out of the shipping lanes. His crew was equipped with small arms. Spraying his boat with machine-gun fire, well, there’s nothing better. There was little left to salvage, but blowing apart his rig was a rush of power. Too many people are constrained by their conscience and the need for stability. How can you achieve greatness if you live a life of mediocrity? Little people are motivated by punishment. Punishment hardens my resolve. This is what it takes to be a demigod.
I connect myself to The Game mid-season. I find it annoying. I wanted to make a grand entrance in the first episode. I’m not a common criminal. Their deeds pail against the backdrop of my adventures. Nonetheless, I am here.
I enjoy creating a character. I start with tall and powerful. However, players are notorious for showcasing hulking male figures. I need more distinction. I drape a high collar cape over my dauntless shoulders. It is purple, of course, the color of royalty, with a row of white fringe between the shoulder blades. I add a row of bleach-white thunder horns that start at my forehead and run down the back of my neck. I dress in pitch black tights around my upper body that are detailed with a strip of diamonds around the neck that sparkle like a beacon in the night. Around my waist, I place a belt with a golden dragon head buckle reminiscent of an imperial dynasty. I cover my legs in the fur of a snow leopard, white with black rings.
I study my toon. I look bold, but I need the air of a regal warrior king. The solution is to outline my upper body with a glowing, six-pointed star aura. I look damn good. No one could have done a better job building the ideal look.
A man of my temperament is best suited for leadership. That is why I choose Boss as my primary power. I will lead others into battle as I did as a terrorist. Bosses are given several choices in minions. I consider selecting Commandos. I like the rattle of machine guns. Robots look good as well. They are mindless killing machines without human identity. A depersonalized appearance carries an element of fear with it. Yet, I am drawn to Demonic Conjuration. Demons in The Game are not teenage roleplaying fantasy characters. They are wicked beasts that look like they rape pre-pubescent girls for entertainment. Their skinless bi-pedal bodies ripple with exposed muscle fiber and tendon. Four soot-colored horns ring their dog-faced heads. Ash seeps from their noses as they exhale.
The choice of a secondary power is as natural as a summer shower: Pain Amplification. I select World of Pain from its ranks to start with. This power is designed to amplify the suffering of its victims. It accents the fiery attacks of my demons with perfection.
Picking a player name is the most difficult part of the process. I try Zulu, Maasai, and a few other ancient tribe names, but they are taken. After a great deal of thought, I am struck by the obvious. I enter Mansa Musa, King of Kings. Only two words are allowed, and the system truncates it to Mansa Musa. Still, I am pleased.
Because my silicon brain hacked into the system, I am not greeted by Super-Duper Guy during the admission process. I am transported by monorail to York Springs a mile northeast of Apollo Plaza. I can see the statue of the Chief Justice in the distance.
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Chapter 4
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I am a monolith. If I alienate those around me it is because they feel inferior in my presence. Jealousy is a strange malady. People worship sports figures and celebrities from a distance but resent people with talent who are in their daily lives. Regardless, I can sense the envy of the passengers on the monorail.
There is one toon aboard that deserves a modicum of acknowledgment. His language is precise like a professional. His military uniform is functional to the point of obsession.
I follow him as he steps through the monorail doors. It’s midday in Apollo Park. Toons crowd past me as they enter the coach. I lose him in the commotion of bodies. I search for him, but he has vanished. He is smooth and cautious. I play my trump card and use my computing power to track him. He will be my first kill.
My other half is slow to respond to my query. Under normal circumstances, I interface with myself in a fraction of a millisecond. Our physical connection is weak. It feels like I have multiple personalities, and one of them is lost. Moments pass before I find myself. I connect with my silicon subconscious, and my identities merge. I am whole again.
I calculate the man’s last known trajectory and formulate a model for all possible route variations he could take. Probability indicates that he will head towards Apollo Plaza in a convex arc. Although it is not a straight line, the arc bears the least number of physical obstacles. I scan the calculated path and see an isolated character moving that vector. Based on personality theory, I process the variables of his previous toon design. His character design falls within one standard deviation of a male felon between thirty-five to forty years of age with a mean intelligence quotation of eighty-five. His typology indicates he has a history of serial sexual homicides with a ninety percent probability he began between ages sixteen and eighteen.
The homology of the avatar I am tracking exhibits a sequence of geometric structures analogous to a sexual predator’s self-idealization. The match is statistically significant. I calculate a point of interception and travel in a vector secant to his trajectory.
The probability for a first-level player to strike a character at third level is fifty-five percent. He has a ninety-five percent chance to score a hit against me. This will require that I acquire the target first, giving me two attacks on the initial salvo. When my demon engages the objective, I will invoke my secondary power and amplify his pain. This will reduce his attack probabilities. This scenario gives me a three percent deterministic advantage.
As he and I approach the point of intersection, I summon my demon. The variables of his head motion indicate that he is unaware of my presence. As I order my demon to engage the target, my brain divides into two personalities. I am confused. My silicon identity pulses in and out of my consciousness. We are one, and then I am alone.
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Chapter 5
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I expect darkness between death and respawning. However, the simulation takes me straight to the hospital. It feels like a terrible jump cut in a bad movie. The reality switch is disorienting. Doctors, nurses, and patients pass me as I lay on a stretcher. I am under an emergency sign. The image of the ambush is fresh in my mind. I mentally replay the encounter. When my demon moved against him, I froze. I’d lost half of my identity, and I was overtaken by confusion. The circuits in my brain were overloaded with crippling pain as he counterattacked. Electrical arcs surged through my body. I could smell the stench of vaporized flesh. It was the first time I’d experienced pain since my death. Circumstances caused this failure.
Two ambulance attendants wheel a woman past me, her face covered with an oxygen mask. She is wearing blue leather pants. Several black belts with silver buckles wrap around her thighs. She wears a gold mesh top and has long layered mahogany hair. Her body is shaking out of control. Some inmates take longer to recover. Their neuro-chemistry is unbalanced by the horrors of gameplay. The iron maiden keeps their bodies alive and healthy, but the emotional trauma alters their brain structure. I feel a moment of sadness for this pretty young woman. She will spend time in recovery until the simulation deems her fit to participate. I doubt her crimes justify this kind of punishment.
I sit upright and study the activity in the medical ward. Convicts appear in beds, wide-eyed, pupils dilated and trembling. I ignore the ache in my ankles and stand up. My right foot feels numb, and I stomp it on the floor a few times trying to get the feeling back.
I think about the young woman as I walk out of the hospital. The numbness in my feet interrupts my imagination. I fumble as I walk, unsure of the location of my feet. I have to drag them to keep from falling. I sit down on the steps outside of the medical building and rub my legs. Some sensation returns to my limbs.
I try to link with my silicon intelligence. My luck returns and I make a partial connection. There appears to be a malfunction. I will have to wait for the scientists to discover their system needs repair before I can establish full unity with myself.
In the tranquil air of Redemption City, the agreeable smell of flowers in bloom hangs on a gentle wind. I appreciate the detail of this simulation. Every aspect of The Game is implemented with incredible talent and skill. It is a work of uncanny genius.
My artificial intelligence rejoins me. It gives me the power of insight, to understand the inner motivations of the developers. They seek the same power as I do. Humans will accept this perfect reality of their own free will. Force is unnecessary. Violence is only needed for its aesthetic virtue.
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Chapter 6
141Please respect copyright.PENANA99UKkAOsR1
A brief moment of black invades my consciousness, and then I find myself walking through a crowd. Everyone is staring at me. Some of the men chuckle, and the women turn away. I forge through the crowd, passing people who had been my friends. There were the people of my adopted hometown. I had shared with them the riches of my adventures, spent many nights of passion with the local women, and defended this country against the intrusions of foreign powers. My soul grows dark.
I see my reflection in a car window. The left side of my face droops below the eye, and my lip curls downward. The nerve that controls that side of my face is dead, a byproduct of a trama I’d sustained in battle. Women smirk at me. My once striking face has double-crossed me. I was once a high-value male, and my presence turned female heads. Now, I am mocked, and it stings.
I move past a jewelry store and watch a young couple through the glass front. The woman is leaning forward as she looks at the rings, sticking her rear end out to draw the attention of her boyfriend. That pose alone will double the value of the ring he buys for her. She giggles with excitement, claps her hands together, and kisses his cheek. I feel a moment of jealousy and bitterness.
The memory of my ex-wife floods my thoughts. I remember her parading around in a white mini dress, the way it contrasted her espresso skin, clinging to her rolling hips and breasts. Even though she divorced me while I was in prison, I remain bewitched. She took all the money I’d pirated, sold everything we owned, and left Somalia with my five children in tow. Still, my heart yearns for her.
I have to erase these memories from my thoughts. I should feel acrimony. My marriage to her was ceremonial, devoid of compassion. My fondness is inconsistent with the facts of our relationship. For the first time in my life, I feel weak and exposed. I’ve taken advantage of people in this emotional state. Weak people are asking for abuse, and I have no desire to be a victim.
A satirical smile courses through my thoughts as the world goes blank and the word “Loading” appears in the foreground. I was having a nightmare, the worst I’ve experienced. It retold the story of my first day after I was released from prison, but it was filled with ghastly emotions.
The statue of the Chief Justice appears overhead. Toons mill around, collect in small groups and encircled Ms. Freedom. A hand plucks at my shoulder.
A thin voice said, “Hey, we need another toon for a full team. Are you interested?”
I spin around and growl, “Don’t touch me.”
I stand eye-to-eye with a chrome skeleton wearing a steampunk tuxedo and top hat.
“Bitch, fuck you. Do you want to team up or not?”
“Alright,” I replied.
My fingers close involuntarily into a fist.
A team request appears in my vision and I select accept.
I materialize in a forest fire. Acrid smoke burns my sinuses and lungs. Tears rush from my irritated eyes as snot streams from my nose. Burning redwood trees reach upward like skyscrapers. My team stands on a trait that passes through the blaze. On either side, flames radiate from trunks brunt into coals. The gale of wind roars between the crackling trees.
I summon my demon. A glowing, pure white arcane pictogram covers the ground in front of me. A demon crawls out of the earth at the center of the symbol. Above his squat, hairless, oxen body rests a bull skull with robust horns stretching sideways. He stands on his hind legs and bellows a sickening, high-pitched screech. It cuts through the caterwauling of the inferno around us.
Our team of eight moves down the path. I am at the rear. As we walk, I formulate a plan. I will sabotage the inmate who told me to fuck off. This is my primary goal. As a terrorist, I spent many hours watching The Game on the dark web. I had access to videos forbidden to traditional viewers. I know this simulation in ways others can only imagine.
My interface with the artificial intelligence is sporadic. Its value to me is limited. I find I have a growing frustration with all of its numbers and calculations. Teasing out their meaning is an impossible burden, and I need to focus on playing The Game.
To punish the man who called me a bitch, I will have my demon shove him into the fire while he’s fighting an enemy. I will hit him with my pain attack while he burns. I must wait until the very last moment in the mission. Once the mission is complete, we will return to Apollo Plaza, and he will not have the chance to retaliate.
The artificial intelligence manages to send me a message. It reads: Research indicates that psychopaths have reduced neural connections between the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for sentiments such as empathy and guilt, and the amygdala, which mediates fear and anxiety. Scientists are experimenting with neural stem cells to establish increased connections between these regions of the brain.
I don’t understand his words or why he tells me this now. There is more. He said something about immunological rejection and regression. More things I don’t understand. He talks this way to confuse me. I don’t like it, and when the time arrives, I will punish him too.
We stop at the edge of a large clearing. Floating in the center is a matte black sphere glowing with an aura of yellow light. I know of this place. It is called the Testament of Pain, and this is the realm of the arch-villain, Tahlius. Fire imps dance around the monument like chimpanzees, hopping with their long arms and short legs. They are hip height, red, and their long tails end in an arrowhead-shaped bone. Scattered among the imps are Tahlius’s commanders, the Harbingers of Tahlius. The harbingers’ lanky bodies are troll-like and stand half again my height. They have deep recessed eyes, carrot-shaped noses, and their heads are covered in a tangled mess of wire-like hair.
I will lay back and let my demon fight. This is the advantage of being a Boss. My teammates will run into battle. The imps will spit fire at them, and the Harbingers will encase them in burning phlegm. I will not act to save my allies from this ordeal. It is the price they pay for their reckless actions. And when we are on the edge of victory, I will imprison the skeleton man in a cage of pain as my demon drives him into the flames.
The artificial intelligence tries to reestablish a connection. A few words get through before I break the link. It is always talking about the future, of the odds, and things like that. It speaks of a rear guard. To me, it talks like a witch doctor. What matters is the present.
I watch as my team moves into position. It reminds me of the raid on Air force Two. I will hang back and oversee the assault. The team will select a point to attack and then strike. When the fighting is over, I will take credit for the victory. If they should fail I can retreat and blame others. It’s perfect.
An explosion from behind sends me through the air. I land on my face and skid across the rough terrain, breaking my nose, and embedding jagged pebbles into my forehead and cheeks. My costume bursts into flames and clings to my body. Blisters bubble on my skin. The pain is mind-boggling. I scream as skin and muscle burn off my back, and then my ribs turn black as they char.
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Chapter 7
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I don’t know if the party was able to defeat the ambush. I respawn expecting to be in the Apollo Park hospital. Instead, I am surrounded by imps and a burning forest. I check the area. Perhaps, one of my teammates resurrected me. I don’t see them. They could be regrouping for a second attack.
I wait for the imps to spit fire at me. However, they are indifferent. They dance around the Testament of Pain in precise computer-generated patterns. I raise my hand to summon my demon. I want the reassurance of his presence in case the situation turns against me. I see my arm sticking out. It’s long, bony, and covered in blotchy, red-purple mottled skin. It’s the limb of a Harbinger.
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The Night is Cold Under the Black Sun
Toxic Poppy
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Chapter 1
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I can’t imagine what possessed her to believe I gave a flying fuck about her dad’s prostate problems.
“My mom thinks it’s a congestion problem from not enough use,” said Sofia.
“Would your dad approve of you talking about his sexual health with me?” I replied.
“You think you’re so smart,” she stammered. “Well, let me tell you something, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
It was a bullshit answer. Sofia thought she could get away with murder because she had a killer body. I’d had enough.
“This isn’t working out. I’ll drop you off back at the dorm,” I said.
“I don’t need your attitude. Who do you think you are? You can drop me off right here,” she demanded.
“Fine,” I said as I hit the brakes.
She jumped out of the van in a huff and slammed the door. I was good with that. She could walk for all I cared.
I returned to my apartment after having a few beers at a tavern just off campus called the Smokin Tokin. It was the hang-out for College kids into metal. My band played regular gigs there. I’m a lead guitarist. The metal scene tends to attack wild women. For me heavy metal was about two things; rebellion and sex. What could be better than getting laid while telling the world to fuck off?
I met Sofia at the Tokin. I was grabbing a beer between sets when she caught my attention. I knew her type. She was into bad boys. Everything about her said so. She did the grunge girl fashion: black leather jacket, black tee-shirt, skin-tight black jeans, and buckle-up boots. Her hair was bleach blonde. Black eye shadow and dark red lipstick finished off the look. Other than the stud in her nose, I liked it. What’s the deal with poking a hole in the side of your nose? Why do girls think a nose ring is attractive? Still, she had a jarring body and the smoothest skin I’d ever seen. I’m big into nice skin.
She approached me as I tipped back a pint. The routine was to take a woman like her backstage and get oral. Our singer had just contracted a case of the clap, and we were all a bit anxious about hooking up. So, I took her backstage, but I didn’t wind her up. That’s how we did it. You’d introduce the girl to the band, do a line of coke, drop the names of famous musicians you claimed to know, and things like that. After I introduced Sofia to the band, I walked her back into the club and let her sit at a table reserved for the band. It was like being a high school prom queen for Goth girls. It was a high-status experience for women to sit at our booth, and she basked in all the attention it gave her.
At the end of our performance, I sat with Sofia for a bit. She had a little bit of attitude, but you expected that from an eighteen-year-old girl that looked like her. It can be sexy in the right woman. The bar started to empty. It was close to two-thirty in the morning, and I was tired.
“I’m gonna bail. The band will be back next Saturday. I’ll leave your name with the bouncer so you can get in free,” I told her.
“My family’s having a barbeque tomorrow afternoon. Why don’t you join us? I’ll pick you up. Is noon good?” said Sofia.
“Come by at two. I sleep in on Sundays,” I said.
We swapped phone numbers, and I gave her my address. Money was tight and I needed a free dinner.
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I dressed conservatively for the barbeque: blue jeans, a black button-up shirt, two necklaces, and a couple of skull rings. When she arrived, she called me on my cell. The apartment was a mess; So, I met her in the parking lot. Sofia waved to me from the driver’s seat of a convertible Porsche Carrera. Damn, she came from money. My relationship with her started to look promising.
As I hopped into the car, she said, “My family is in Jersey. It takes about an hour to get there.”
“Do you party?” I asked her.
“Of course.”
I rolled a joint as we drove. It kept my hands busy, which was good because I wanted to avoid uncomfortable small talk. I was sporting a hangover from the night before. I felt better after we finished the joint.
“This is a nice ride. Is it yours?” I said.
“Daddy gave it to me for my birthday.”
Red flag. Her “Daddy” gave her a one-hundred-thousand-dollar car for her eighteenth. With as many women as I had boned, I learned to beware of women with daddy issues. A lot of guys know to avoid women with negative issues with their fathers, but a woman who has been overindulged by “Daddy” is just as bad if not worse. Still, her family had cubic cash. I had to give it a shot.
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When we got to her Dad’s place, we parked out front in a circle drive next to a bunch of Cadillacs and Mercedes. We cut through the house. The entry hall was bigger than my entire apartment. Out back, men and women congregated in separate groups. Sofia took me by the hand and escorted me to a built-in brick barbeque. The tangy scent of smoking ribs and homemade sauce made my mouth water.
“Daddy, this is Bobby,” said Sofia.
“So, I hear you’re a college kid. What are you majoring in?” said her dad.
“Music,” I lied.
He shook his head.
I pulled Sofia aside and said, “You never told me your father’s name.”
“Antonio D’Angelo,” she whispered.
“Oh, just like the mob boss, Big Tony D’Angelo?” I joked.
“Exactly like Big Tony D’Angelo,” she replied.
My mouth dropped open.
Her dad waved his arm and called to me, “Hey, kid, come over here.”
I walked over to the barbecue and said, “Yes, Mr. D’Angelo.”
“Have a beer,” he said as he handed me a cold bottle covered in droplets of melted ice.
“I really shouldn’t,” I said. I thought it might be a test, and I didn’t want to appear to be a party boy. I had no idea how to behave, or what would happen if I got on his bad side.
He shoved the bottle into my chest and said, “Have a fucking beer.”
I took it and said, “Ah, okay, thanks.”
“So, you’re a musician. Can you play something nice for my guests?”
“I don’t have my guitar with me.”
He snapped his fingers at a big fat dude laying into a short rib and called out, “Paulie, go into the house and get Sofia’s guitar. It’s in the living room.”
Paulie waddled into the house as D’Angelo flipped a rack of ribs while watching me from the corner of his eye. Paulie returned with a Taylor Custom Shop acoustic guitar made from cocobolo wood. The reddish-brown wood had rivers of black grain. Paulie took it to D’Angelo.
“Don’t give it to me, dummy. Give it to the kid,” said D’Angelo as he pointed at me.
Paulie handed me the instrument. I took it in hand and strummed the strings. Even out of tune it was beautiful, with a bright, sparkling tone. I swear to God it almost gave me a boner. I sat on a lawn chair and tuned it.
“Alright, kid, play something nice,” D’Angelo called out.
A crowd of greasers and their women formed a circle around me. The women politely smiled, but the men gave me some seriously evil stares. I had to wing it. To an old-school jazz beat, I gave my best Frank Sinatra imitation to the Metalica song, Enter Sandman.
After I finished the song, I got a little applause from the old ladies. A few of the men kinda nodded. A younger guy, maybe in his early twenties, held his hand over his mouth as he snickered.
D’Angelo grabbed me by the back of the neck and said, “Not bad, kid.”
For the rest of the afternoon, I spent most of my time talking with the old ladies. The men gave me the cold shoulder. Sofia decided to stay overnight, so this cat named Vito Bono gave me a ride back to my apartment. Vito was smooth. He wore a black silk shit under a gray suit jacket. He had slicked-back black hair with a tinge of gray around the temples. It was like he color-coordinated his clothes with his hair. Even his Cadillac SUV was black with gray leather seats.
He didn’t say a word until about halfway home. Bono spoke with calm confidence. His voice was deep with a bit of gravel.
“Sofia has a lot of uncles. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
I kept quiet. I got the impression his question was more of a statement than anything else. He was one of those weird dudes that smiled upside down. He chuckled with the ends of his mouth curved downward.
“That was a decent song you did. A musician, huh. Are you a party boy? A lot of musicians are party animals.”
“Not as much as you’d think,” I replied.
He pulled out a pack of smokes from his jacket pocket and put a black cigarette between his lips. It had a gold ring between the filter and the paper casing.
“You want one?”
“I don’t smoke. Is that a Black Devil?” I said.
He gave me a simple nod. I gave Vito credit. He knew his tobacco. My Dad smoked Black Devils and said it was one of the premier brands. It was rare to see one.
Vito turned into a parking lot. He raised his eyebrows as he put the cigarette lighter to the end of the tobacco. Bono took a long puff, and then he pointed it at me.
“Give me your phone.”
“Alright,” I replied as I handed him my cell.
He turned it on and opened my contacts folder. Vito searched through the names until he came to the Pussy Cat Club.
“What the fuck is this? You got a strip club on speed dial?”
“I DJ there part-time.”
“Are you bullshitting me?”
“No.”
“You got a thing for strippers?” asked Bono.
“Not a chance. I work with them and I know what they’re like.”
“What’s your last name, kid?”
“Studwell.”
He tapped the phone, and then he held it to his ear. After a moment, Vito said, “I need to speak with Bobby Studwell…right…he’ll be in on Thursday night….right.”
“Okay, kid, take your shoes, socks, and shirt off.”
“Are you fucking with me?” I said.
“I ain’t asking twice.”
After I did as he asked, Bono had me pull up my pant legs.
Vito gave me the once over, and then he said, “Huh, alright, put’em back on. Come on, let’s move it. I ain’t got all day.”
He pulled out of the parking lot as I dressed. He crushed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, took another one out, and lit it. The car reeked of burnt tobacco smell. I hated cigarettes. My parents chained smoked three packs a day. As a kid, my clothes reeked like them all the time. My grade school teachers constantly accused me of smoking because I smelled like cigarettes. They would search me looking for smokes. This Bono dude sucked them down just like my parents.
About half an hour later we stopped in front of my apartment building. I jumped out of the car and took a breath of air. My eyes were watering with irritation.
Vito Bono called to me before I could close the car door, “Kid, I need to use your bathroom.”
He hopped out of the car and followed me inside. By the time we reached the second floor, he was lagging behind.
“Slow the hell down. Don’t you have an elevator in this dump?”
“No, we don’t.”
I stopped on the third floor and waited for him. His shoes clopped on the metal steps and echoed up the stairwell. He was wheezing pretty good by the time he reached me. I led him down the hall to my place. He was mortified when he entered my digs.
“Jesus Christ, kid,” he said.
His eyes glared at the heavy metal posters taped to my walls.
“The bathroom’s this way,” I said.
With all the music equipment, the place was cramped. All I could afford was a studio apartment. Bono picked up an iron cross neckless off my coffee table and said, “Are you some kind of Nazi?”
“No, that’s part of my stage costume. My band uses a lot of dark imagery,” I said.
He dropped it onto the table.
“You got any swastikas?
I shook my head. “No, but Iggy does.”
“Iggy, who the hell is Iggy?”
“Our drummer.”
Vito Bono squinted one eye and said, “You got a Nazi drummer?”
“He’s Indian.”
He pulled out another smoke and put it to his lips as he spoke, “Your drummer is a Nazi Sitting Bull?”
Vito lit the cigarette, leaned his head back, and sucked on the damn thing. A cloud of smoke particles invaded my apartment.
“No, his family is from India,” I said. “Where he’s from the swastika is a symbol of good luck.”
He did that weird upside-down smile thing again. It wasn’t a frown. It was more like a smirk, a disapproving backward grin. Vito flicked the ashes from his smoke onto my floor, took one last glance around the room, and then he walked out.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAHGJKKLJjWI
Chapter 2
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I almost didn’t call Sofia after my experience with Vito Bono, but God damn she was sexy. I picked her up at the dorm. I was peacocking it big time. My wavy hair brown ran over my shoulders. I wore a black denim battle vest covered in patches, five necklaces, a half dozen rings, and several bracelets on each wrist. I finished the look with faded blue jeans and cowboy boots. I’d swear on a stack of bibles that the old lady at the dorm almost had a heart attack when she saw me. Being an all-girls dorm, they made me wait in the lobby.
Sofia came out in a black, Gothic miniskirt and a pair of wicked tie-up boots. Unlike most Goth chicks, she had a nice Mediterranean tone to her skin. I held her hand as we walked to my ride. It was an old van that I used to carry gig equipment. Although it was dented up on the outside, I kept the interior spotless.
As we drove across town towards the Smokin Tokin Lounge, the conversation was going well until she started talking about her Dad’s sexual problems. As much as I wanted to boink her, it was just too much. I had enough headaches working at the strip club and fighting with bandmates over nonsense. There was no shortage of women looking to hook up, and in her case, the costs outweighed the effort.
After we parted, I headed over to the lounge. The house band invited me to sit in for a set. They were crack musicians, and it was a lot of fun. I returned to my apartment around 3:00 a.m. with a bit of a buzz and my ears ringing from the amplifiers. When I opened the door, I couldn’t believe it. My place was trashed: instruments broken, speakers kicked in, sofa slashed to ribbons, every I owned was hammered.
I picked up my electric guitar, a Schecter Banshee. I named her Ginger. Tears welled up in my eyes. I’d spent most of my teen years dreaming of owning one. After working weekends for my entire junior year in high school, I purchased one. It was pure artwork. Ginger became my best friend for the next five years. She soothed my soul when my girlfriend left me. Without her, I would have gone insane dealing with the bozos you work with in the music business. My beautiful girl’s neck was broken, and her body was scratched and covered in dents. It felt like someone had cut my junk off with a rusty razor blade. That’s when I noticed the room smelled like cigarettes. I looked at the mess sprawled across my floor and noticed a black cigarette butt with a gold ring at the end of the filter.
“Vito fucking Bono,” I said through gritted teeth.
I sat down on my couch with a tear running down my cheek and held Coco. I ran my hand over her orange, flame maple top, feeling the scraps and dents on the surface. It was more than a tragedy, it was a sin. Ginger was more than just an instrument. People like me kept our feelings inside. I connected to others through music. My sense of self-worth, my identity to its core, was through her.
I leaned back and held my palms to my temples. What was I going to do? I’d still be able to play with the band. I could borrow a guitar until I got up the funds to buy another Banshee. Everyone in the band had an extra guitar laying around. My biggest issue was what to do if Sofia showed up. I’ve had this happen before. A psycho-chick would obsess over you, show up at every gig, and leave twenty voicemails a day. You’d tell them to hit the road, and it was talking to a block of cement. The thing is it’s difficult to tell at first a nut job from a normal girl. I use to jam with this bass player named Phil. He’d hooked up with this woman that seemed all right. The first night they shacked up, she took the condom out of the trash as she went to the bathroom. When she got inside, she used it to impregnate herself. Looking back, Sofia was one of those types.
As I considered what to do if Sofia started stalking me, I heard the toilet flush. Christ, someone was in my house. If it was one of Sofia’s “uncles” I was fucked. There was still about a foot of neck connected to the body of my guitar. I stood up and took a two-handed grip on the neck, holding it like an axe. Water splashed in the sink as I crept to the bathroom door. My hands shook with anger and fear. Air rushed in and out of my lungs.
I stopped and watched the doorknob turn. The door swung open. I looked the intruder in the eyes and chopped him square in the face. He fell backward, one arm into the commode.
I yelled, “Vito fucking Bono, Vito fucking Bono,” as I battered his face.
I lost control and pounded his skull even after his head slumped into the toilet. The veins in my biceps bulged with blood as I beat on him, and my lungs burned. I kept hitting him until I was exhausted. With wobbly arms, I held my Ginger to my chest.
“Oh, my God!”
My memory is kind of vague on what happened after I’d killed Vito. I remember thinking that Sofia’s dad, Big Tony, was going to have me murdered. There was no doubt about that. I thought of running away, but I had no money and no place to go. I didn’t know what else to do so I called 911.
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Everyone at the police station stared at me as I was escorted to an interrogation room.
“Do you know who that was that you killed?” said the Detective as he handcuffed me to a table.
“It was self-defense.”
“You beat a member of the D'Angelo crime family to death with a guitar while he was taking a shit.”
“He broke into my apartment and wrecked the place, and then he waited for me in the can. I swear to God it was self-defense,” I said.
“And why the hell was Vito Bono after you? You know we found marijuana in your apartment. Was this some kind of drug deal gone bad?”
“No, I broke up with Sofia, Big Tony’s daughter. It was payback.”
Adams shook his head as he spoke, “There’s not a mark on your body from a struggle, and your alibi is the daughter of the city’s biggest crime boss, a young woman you just dumped. If I haul her down to the station and have her make a statement, will she corroborate your story? And say she does, what’s going to happen to you if we let you go?”
“I’m fucked,” I said.
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141Please respect copyright.PENANAcLJutBvofh
Chapter 3
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I made a plea deal and took The Game. Given my options, it was the only choice. I was dead on the streets. I was dead in prison. In The Game, I could hide my identity, serve out my time, and have my life fully restored when I finished my sentence. It was better than the witness protection program. The judge offered me a new identity overseas. The justice system had some kind of exchange agreement with other countries that adopted The Game as part of their criminal reform programs.
I thought my sentence was pretty light. Five levels, that was all I had to do. I guessed that the judge believed my story. It came with two strings attached: I had to test a new power set, and I’d be the focus of a few episodes. They wanted big, dramatic ratings. They had a point. A heavy metal musician chopping a mob capo to death with his guitar over a love affair made for a good story. And that was the hook, if I increased ratings, they’d only make me do five levels. Well, there was one other thing. I’d start at level thirty with a full complement of attack powers, and a partial set of secondary powers. I was good with that. Before The Game was coopted by the justice system, I played it all the time, and I was a wizard at it.
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Chapter 4
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Super-Duper Guy said, “Excellent and honorable greetings, battle brother. You have been hand-selected to be the first player in the history of The Game to test out our new power set. This set was developed in collaboration between the American justice system and its NATO alias.”
He was a trip. I’d never seen a more clean-cut all-American. Everything about him: the red, white, and blue outfit, his old school crew cut, and the words he used, all said he was gunning to fight the evil red menace of the cold war. I’d known a few old dudes who were throwbacks to that era, but he made them look like goldbrickers. Super-Duper Guy wasn’t part of the original game. Back then the goal was to build a criminal empire. Players started as street punks. You would commit minor crimes and work your way up. Players had many paths: Drug Cartel, Mafia Family, Biker Gang, Triad, Yakuza, and even a Terrorist organization. I’d built my empire around the Yakuza. In real life, I was a fan of Japanese culture. So, playing the Oyabun was natural for me.
With a giant smile, Super-Duper Guy said, “In addition to the new power set, you will be given access to updated costumes. Make us proud!”
He vanished and the costume menu popped into view. I went directly to the new items. I had to make a statement. Ratings were the key, and boring wasn’t going to cut it. I debated making the sexiest woman possible. Sex appeal was a proven formula to attract an audience. I selected a tall, slender, long-legged female body, and then I added a delicate face with high cheekbones. There were many new hairstyles, but a high ponytail framed her face and neck with perfection. I couldn’t do it. It was just too weird for me. All the damn convicts playing the game would be looking at my ass and thinking about poking me.
Most of the inmates that played The Game built either evil-looking bastards or they made unremarkable toons in an attempt to avoid attention. Some had themed characters like cowboys and Roaring 20s gangsters. I needed something different, a heroic, badass toon that people would rally behind. Draping him in red, white, and blue was a bad idea. He’d look like Super-Duper Guy rip-off. Unfortunately, most of the new costumes looked like cheap copies of comic book movie characters. I wanted a 1950s look that harkened back to the noir image of a gritty detective on the edge of the law, a rebel who bent the law to enforce justice. I picked a trench coat with square shoulders that hung down to the ankles, a wide brim fedora hat, and colored them black. My toon looked like a flasher. It needed a little more panache. After testing out several color schemes, I colored my toon in an ethereal dark red and surrounded him in a thick cloud of wispy black tendrils. My toon was a shadowy figure lurking within a dark abyss. It was wicked cool.
The next step was to study the new power set. I was as excited as a teenager seeing his first pussy. With a click, the power set menu filled the screen. It read:
Archetype: Boss
Power Set: Insect Master
Primary Powers:
Trap Door Spider
Scorpion Sting
Funnel Web Spider
Hornet’s Nest
Executioner Wasp Swarm
Insect Master? I was a bug wrangler? I couldn’t believe it. It got worse. I read through every menu, but I couldn’t find a description of the powers or their effects. The names were descriptive, but I didn’t know their range, the damage they did, or any of the other effects a power would have. At that moment I began questioning the wisdom of taking the deal the justice system offered me. I was about to battle against desperate, hardened criminals armed to the teeth with sadistic weapons of war using bug power.
All that was left was to pick a name. I entered the name of my metal band, Toxic Poppy. It would be my way of saying goodbye to my bandmates.
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Chapter 5
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Rumors about the nightmares between episodes had become commonplace. I had a fear of heights. Actually, it was more about the fear of edges. I could fly in an airplane. Downhill skiing was fun. Being at the top of a mountain was beautiful, but I hated chairlifts. Anytime I was at the edge of something it caused me to panic. I couldn’t look over the edge of anything over six feet off the ground. Even when I played on stage, I kept a good ten feet from the edge.
After I got my toon squared away, I clicked on accept. A flash of darkness followed, and then I opened my eyes. My arms and legs were wrapped around a skinny radio tower with three poles attached by a matrix of triangles. The tower was at least one thousand feet tall, and it sat on top of a skyscraper. The rooftop below looked like it was the size of a silver dollar. Fear, total fear, seized my body. I squeezed the tower and closed my eyes.
“Oh, my god, oh, my god.”
Even though I was terrified, I knew I could take it. At least until the wind started blowing like a hurricane, and the tower rocked side-to-side like a spring. For hours I whimpered like a bitch, living moment-to-moment is sheer panic.
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The loading screen was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. It was a black background with the word “Loading” set in the center in white lettering. After spending hours rocking in the stratosphere hanging onto a couple of aluminum tubes for dear life, the contents of a porta-toilet would have looked like paradise.
I materialized in the heroes’ compound of the Devil’s Den. If had a functional, military theme. The walls were drab green and the floors gray. Super-Duper Guy was waiting with a robust grin on his face. He extended his hand and shook mine with gusto.
“Damn glad to have you aboard!” he said.
A smile crossed my lips. “Damn glad to be here.”
He was taking a lot of interest in me. The reality was that I had mixed feelings. Obviously, it was best to be on the same side as the heroes. The justice system had a reputation for bias in their favor. However, I’d always been a bit of a bad boy. Even in grade school, I often questioned what adults told me.
“We’re expecting great things from you,” he continued. “You’ll be transported to your first mission in a moment. Do you have any questions?”
“Yeah, I don’t know what my powers do. Can you give me the rundown on them?” I said.
Super-Duper Guy frowned as one of his eyebrows raised up. “Hold on.”
His face went blank for a moment.
“What power set do you have?” he asked.
“Bugs.”
“Do you mean Insect Master?”
I nodded.
Worry filled his eyes. “You’re not supposed to have that? One second.”
Again, a blank look filled his eyes.
“God, damn, son of a bitch,” he said. “Alright, I sent you an email with a summary of your powers. The episode’s about to start. Do the best you can.”
I opened my in-game email and read as fast as I could. I was able to skim read a little bit about the first power, Trap Door Spider, and then I was teleported into what looked like a virtual television studio. To my left sat a man in a business suit and tie. He faced a camera.
“This is Inside The Game, and I’m your host, Slate Masonite,” said the announcer. “Our special guest tonight is Toxic Poppy. He’s no ordinary felon. In real life, Toxic Poppy was a drug-rattled rock star. He executed mob capo, Vito Bono, over a love affair with Big Tony D’Angelo’s daughter. Bono’s battered head was found stuffed in a toilet. He’s here with us, live, in the studio.”
He turned to me and said, “Toxic Poppy, welcome to The Game.”
I understood this situation. I was on stage and it was performance time.
“Slate, how the hell are you?” I said with enthusiasm.
“Tell us about your tryst with Big Tony’s daughter.”
“She’s the kind of woman who squeezes Nair into your lube to burn your dick, slips estrogen pills into your coffee, superglues your dick to your stomach while you’re asleep.”
“You’re not one to mince words,” said Slate. “What’s your strategy going into The Game?”
“Mind-bending pain,” I said with a scowl.
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Chapter 6
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The red sky reflected across a glacial desert. In the center of the landscape, the reflection of a pitch-black sun stretched across the frozen ground. Gusts of snow blasted my face. A hovercraft raced towards me. It floated just above the ground, crashing through drifts, battered by the raging winds. Inside the vehicle, orange dials illuminated the faces of a man and a woman. She piloted the craft, and he held a large-bore rifle with a brass cylinder suspended from its black stock. The passenger side door was open, and he was halfway out of the vehicle, brandishing the armament.
I sneered at them. They were about one hundred yards away. A flash of luminescent green steam exited the muzzle, followed by a blast that kicked up snow within a few yards of me. The snow sizzled into vapor at the point of impact. I took several steps backward, and then I turned and ran. A second high-pressure jet hit the snow within inches of my feet. A torrent of toxic chemicals and snowflakes peppered my body. It felt like hundreds of droplets of frying oil were splattered on my skin.
I could hear the hovercraft’s fan blades compress the air as they closed on me. I dove into a snowbank. The vehicle skidded over me. A raging blast of downwash split my eardrums, the blades inches from my back. It passed, sliding across the ice like a hockey puck, and spun sideways trying to reacquire my position.
The pilot grabbed the rifleman’s shoulder, shook him, and then she pointed at me. A green spray jumped from his weapon, and a jet hit in front of my head, close enough to spray caustic chemicals into my face. Fluid blisters bubbled on my skin, and profuse snot ran from my nose. A droplet landed in my eye. It burned like scalding grease. I tried to breathe. The air was thick with the toxin, and it felt like I was snorting habanero juice into my sinuses. Blinded, I ground my eyes into the snow trying to dilute the blistering agent. Nothing. I took my only emerald booster and the pain subsided.
I leaped to my feet and ran towards a valley. When I reached its edge, I dropped to my behind and slid down the embankment into a village. Bavarian buildings lined up in neat rows along a snow-covered street. Tall, sharp-angled roofs topped white houses trimmed in red paint. Holiday lights glowed in a rainbow of festive colors, and tinsel hung from light poles. Christmas music filled the area.
The buzz of prop blades cut through the Christmas jingles. I looked back at the ridge. The hovercraft soared over the edge and flew into the air. When it landed, the front buried into a drift with an explosion of snow and flipped belly up. The rifleman was ejected as the craft skid down the slope. His face was caked with blood. He rolled to his belly and pointed his weapon at me. A blast of splinters sprung from the wall next to me with a hypersonic crack. The lunatic screamed as he fired another burst. A spray of glass shards shattered behind me. I turned to run as a jet punctured a c-shaped hole into the side of my hip and flipped me upside down. I landed on my face, feet in the air over my head, and shrieked like amplifier feedback at a rock concert. The hole was the size of a baseball, dripping with green fluid. He jumped to his feet and charged toward me screaming.
With my arms and one leg, I dragged myself between two buildings as the chemical toxins worked their way through my bloodstream. My skin turned cherry-red and I gasped for air. I thought I had maybe a few moments left of consciousness. I pointed my finger and summoned my trap door spider attack. A fat, hairy, brown spider the size of a jaguar, with think legs, dropped from the sky by a thread of silk. The spider crawled into a hole and, with his forelegs, pulled a flap of snow over himself.
My assailant entered the alley. He raised his chemical jet gun to his shoulder, stooped forward, and marched. He was the most disturbing toon I’d encountered. His body was mirror-polished copper with a magenta tint topped with a likewise colored piranha head with long, narrow bug antennas. A Tarzan loincloth covered his privates, and brown, brushed leather boots engulfed his feet.
He stopped a few yards shy of my position. I needed him to take one more step. His fish bubble eyes darted side-to-side. He looked along the walls and into the windows of the adjoining buildings, checking to ensure his position was secure. His eyes turned back towards me. One more step. A grin curled his fish lips as he watched one of my hands shake erratically. And then he pulled his back leg forward and stood upright. My trap door leaped from the snow, wrapped its eight legs around his body, and sunk its fangs into the man’s back between the shoulder blades. They fell to the ground. The poison glands at the base of the spider's fangs flexed back and forth as they pumped venom into his body. The man would remain alive for the next ten minutes as gastric juices dissolved his internal organs. He would only die when my spider had consumed his digested innards.
As I watched my spider's legs paw at his body, I lay on the snow in an absolute panic. My breathing faded into short gasps, and then the toxin paralyzed my lungs. My heart raced trying to pump oxygen to the cells of my body. I should have passed out, but I remained awake. Slow suffering was built into The Game to allow the audience to savor every moment. My entire body surged with the sting you feel when you pour alcohol onto an open wound. The toxin invaded my every nerve until they seared like a third-degree burn. Yet, I lay there paralyzed, alive, and praying for death.
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Chapter 7
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Super-Duper Guy greeted me in the medical bay of Apollo Park. Disappointment filled his face.
“Soldier, the ratings are in on your episode. It’s bad news for the troops. You’re being passed over for promotion. Step it up,” he said.
He turned and walked away. The usual spring was missing from his steps. It was odd that he had such an investment in my success. Still, I really didn’t need to hear his bullshit at that moment.
Where did I go wrong? When you’re on stage, the audience gives you immediate feedback, and you know right away if your act was working or not. For some reason, the producers had cut the viewer's audio feed. It crossed my mind that it wasn’t just me that failed to please the audience. I was competing against two other players with new power sets. I wasn’t sure what to make of the situation.
I reconsidered my strategy. My toon may have been too noir-retro. It was chic, cool, but it didn’t stand out. I left the hospital and headed to the concierge just south of City Hall. It was time to get outrageous. I began building a new look. I picked a body that was built like a roid-raging powerlifter with muscles like iron cables, and I gave myself wavy side-swept, strawberry blonde hair that was thick and flowed over my shoulders. I covered my chest with a conquistador armor breastplate with pauldrons above the deltoids. Next, I picked out a pair of knee-height boots covered in long, silver fur that looked like it was taken off an Afghan hound. To top off the look, I changed my skin color to translucent orange and gave my toon an aura of wispy yellow flames. I was a burning death knight.
I walked around Apollo Park until I found Super-Duper Guy. He was busy bossing around noobs. I stepped right up into his face.
“What the fuck?” I said.
“Settle down, good citizen,” he said.
He raised a finger and clicked it on me. A private chat request appeared in my vision. I selected accept.
“Meet me in my office first thing tomorrow. We need to find you a partner,” said Super-Duper Guy. “Don’t do jack until then.”
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We met the next day in the Kleist, what Super-Duper Guy calls his personal office building. It was a rectangular, limestone castle that was a replica of Buckingham Palace, only 30 stories tall. It was nestled in the middle of a sweeping lawn surrounded by layers of magnolia trees. The trees were covered in large, magenta and white, cup-shaped blossoms.
I met him in a first-floor private lounge. We sat in gold gilded chairs with red velvet fabric. The carpet matched the cherry red of the chairs, and the walls were decorated with gold-leafed woodwork and paintings of regal men dressed in military uniforms from the 1800s. Crystal chandeliers hung in two rows, sparkling with a soft yellow light.
“I’ve compiled folders on ten players. In my opinion, only three of them can handle the job,” Super-Duper Guy.
His language and voice were calm and calculating, no longer the boisterous patriot. He slid the dossier across the table. I picked it up and skimmed through them.
“This woman stands out,” I said.
She was from Taiwan and had a list of work that would make Hitler proud. It was too good.
“Although, I’m skeptical. Do you think she’s legit?”
“You can bank on it,” he said.
“How come she’s not known? Toons of this power usually have a massive reputation on the Internet. All the others on this list do. I know every one of them.”
“That’s part of her charm. Until now she’s played it low profile.”
“That’s good,” I replied.
Super-Duper Guy clicked his finger in the air, and a moment later, an avatar walked into the room. She was of average height, Asian, with medium-length hair in bangs. She wore a dark violent, high collar cape and bustier dress that sparkled. Everything about her was tailored to perfection. She took a seat and crossed her legs. A cigarette was wedged between her index and middle finger. She went by Asian Iron
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Super-Duper Guy left it up to me to stage an event that would increase viewership. I told him I needed time alone to think it through. I left his office and walked around the estate surrounding the Kleist. You can’t force creativity. Someone like Super-Duper Guy wouldn’t understand that. I sat on the lawn thinking how strange that something as beautiful as this simulation could be so monstrous. Over the next couple of hours, I mapped out a couple of ideas for getting ratings. I headed back inside the Kleist.
He told me to come up to the penthouse when I returned. Apparently, there was to be a celebration party for one of the syndicates. I got into the elevator and hit the “30” button. It launched at hyper-speed, and I stumbled into the side of the compartment. It twisted my neck with a crack. As I approached the 30th floor, a heavy thump shook the elevator. When the door opened, a roaring party greeted me.
Some nitwit stood on a desk holding a bottle in triumphant. He looked out at an adoring audience of noobs and said, “My brothers and sisters, I want to congratulate you for making this one of the greatest days in the history of The Game. The ratings are in and our syndicate is number one on the Liberty server.”
I walked around the edge of the celebration, working my way to a bar. I picked up a flute of wine and took a drink, and then I spotted a fifth of VSOP brandy. I dumped the wine into a fish tank, and then I poured myself a glass of brandy. I pushed through the party as I sipped my drink. Toons threw streamers into the air and blew on party kazoos.
I got the attention of a toon dancing.
“I’m looking for Super-Duper Guy.” I had to raise my voice to be heard over the racquet.
He nodded and pointed off towards the back of the room.
I cut through the crowd, but there were so many gigantic toons that I couldn’t see my way around, and I lost my bearings. I bumped into the back of a stout little werewolf wrapped in chains, or I should say almost tripped over him. He spun around and looked up at me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” I said.
“Hey, I know you. You’re the guy who whacked Vito Bono. That new powerset you’re playing is downright evil. Watching that spider suck that toon dry kicked ass.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “I’m looking for Super-Duper Guy. Have you seen him around?”
“Yeah, follow me.”
It was a pain in the ass trying to follow him zipping through the crowd. Several toons spilled their drinks on his head as he bumped their elbows. He didn’t seem to mind. He must have been accustomed to it. When we reached a hallway, the little guy pointed.
“His office is at the end of the hall.”
“Thanks again,” I said.
I approached Super-Duper Guy’s office. In bold, red, white, and blue print, the name Chimera was stamped into the door. When I entered his office, I saw Super-Duper Guy was sitting behind a desk snorting cocaine. He looked up at me.
“Do a line?” he asked.
Asian Iron was sitting next to him. Her eyes were wide and bright. It looked like she had her share of blow. She reached out and shook my hand.
“Coke’s not my thing. I could go for a blunt.” I said.
Super-Duper Guy pulled out a pipe from his desk drawer and a baggy filled with marijuana. He stuffed the bowl, lit it, and passed it to me. I took a lungful, and then I handed the pipe to Asian Iron.
“I’m in charge of product development on the Liberty server,” said SDG. “I need another homerun to keep ratings up.”
“Who were the two I took on?” I asked.
Super-Duper Guy looked at Asian Iron and said, “Don’t hog the bowl.”
She took a quick hit off the pipe and then handed it to him. He spoke after he took a drag.
“They were from the Congo server. Tribesman runs the show over there. If I’d known they were going to send two toons against you, I’d have told you.”
“Okay, no problem,” I replied. “What’s the deal with my power set?”
“Yeah, you weren’t supposed to get Insect Master. It’s still under development, but we can’t change it now. Look, here’s the situation. The justice system is going to merge Liberty with Titan, and I’m competing with Tribesman for the top slot on the new server. I need a big, colorful win.”
I looked through my glass of brandy. I was down to the last sip.
“You throw quite a party,” I said. “Should I hook up with a syndicate, do a Pearl Harbor on one of the Titan groups?”
“Mass raids are trending down. The audience is looking for individuals to bond with.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Super-Duper Guy.
The door opened and Tribesman walked inside with an entourage in tow.
“Did I say send in the clowns,” demanded SDG. “Get your thugs out of my office.”
“Temper, temper,” mocked Tribesman. “This is a friendly visit.”
Tribesman looked at his bodyguards and motioned towards the door.
After they left, Super-duper Guy said, “What is it?”
“I was just doing a tour of my future server, and thought I’d drop in and, well, rub it in,” he said with a smirk.
“Why don’t you check out the party, have a drink on me? Ask the bartender to fix you up with a cyanide cocktail.”
“You never were the greatest conversationalist,” said Tribesman.
“Don’t you have little boys to rape?” replied Super-Duper Guy.
Tribesman chuckled as he headed for the door. He opened it, turned to face SDG, and said, “Be careful who you offend on your way up because they’ll be waiting for you on your way back down.”
He closed the door with a sharp crack.
“Well, that was pleasant,” said Asian Iron.
“That wife swapping sodomite, fuck him,” said Super-Duper Guy, red-faced and stammering.
I looked out the window and zoomed in my vision onto the street below. Enhanced perception was one of the new secondary powers I was testing, and I’d become kind of addicted to playing with it. I watched a freight truck turn off Park Avenue into the underground parking garage of the Kleist. It disappeared down the ramp. A black limo followed it inside. Why would a freight truck enter this facility? True, The Game was built on real-world accuracy, but it seemed out of place.
“Do you have a plan for the next battle?” said Super-Duper Guy. “I need to win this one in a big way.”
“I don’t think a win is necessary. We’re looking for ratings. A lot depends on the psychology of the viewer. If they’re watching The Game like a sports team, then a win is the only option. If they’re following a story, a loss could work to our advantage. We could be seen as heroes fighting impossible odds. Can you get me the demographics on our audience?” I said.
He tilted his head back and squinted his eyes. His jawline was comic book huge, and it made him look like a pinhead when he stuck it out.
“Perhaps. I’ve got connections in the CJS,” he replied.
“CJS?” I asked.
“The criminal justice system.”
“In my first fight, I took out both opponents, but still low ratings. I’m thinking viewers have become fairly immune to the violence and are looking for a story. We should bill ourselves as good-guy underdogs on the verge of a victory, only to lose because they cheated,” I said.
Super-Duper Guy looked pensive. His eyes rocked side-to-side.
“We’re on a villain server and they’re citizen heroes on the side of justice. I’m not sure it can be pulled off.”
“Get me in front of the camera,” I replied.
“There’s a pre-episode news feed in ten minutes. I can get you a slot.”
“Include Asian Iron. I have an angle that includes her.”
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I pressed G and the elevator plunged towards the garage. I didn’t have travel powers yet, so I had to get around using traditional means. Fortunately, the broadcast studio was across the street, and I wouldn’t need to use the monorail. When I reached the garage floor, I exited the elevator into the parking area. To my right, a freight truck and a black limo were parked next to the stairwell. Asian Iron was at my side. She gave me a flirtatious smile.
“What’s the plan, Sugar,” she said.
“Not enough time to explain. Just follow my lead,”
I heard a thump behind me. I looked back into the garage. A man stood next to the limo. At first, I assumed he was a computer-generated citizen, but he was wearing a black tuxedo and fancy cowboy boots. Citizens always wore the same drab business suits.
Asian Iron grabbed my bicep, “Well?”
“Oh, we’re going to the broadcast studio.”
We jogged across the street, cutting through a steady stream of traffic. Once inside, a toon greeted us and escorted us to the studio where we took seats next to the anchor, Slate Masonite.
“Welcome back,” said Slate. “We’ll be live in just a few moments. This is Asian Iron I assume?”
She reached across me and shook Slate’s hand.
A toon next to a camera called out, “We going live in…three, two,” and then he pointed at Slate.
“I’m Slate Masonite and this is Inside the Game. Bringing to you the latest news from the Liberty server. We have two very special guests tonight. We all know Toxic Poppy, the man who murdered infamous mob captain Vito Bono, and his new partner, Asian Iron.” Slate looked at me and said, “Welcome aboard, Toxic. Confidential sources have informed our staff that there’s more to you than your rap sheet backstory. Can you give us a rundown?”
“I’m a counter-terrorist operative, and I’ve been under deep cover investigating cyber-terrorism in The Game. We have evidence that terrorists’ cells have infiltrated the Titan server and are attempting to use Titan to penetrate Liberty.”
“This is disturbing news,” said Slate. “Where does this all lead?”
“We have reason to believe they intend to use The Game to ransom money from people in real life. We are asking players to log off of the Titan server to protect their personal assets.”
Slate looked somewhat stunned. He said, “This is an emergency situation. Can we assume there have already been data breaches? What safeguards do people need to take to protect themselves?”
“Right now the safest place to be is this here on the Liberty server,” said Asian Iron.
“Agreed,” I added. “People on the Titan server should erase all their user data from the system, and transfer to Liberty. We’re recommending that players flood Titan with span immediately after they wipe their accounts.”
“Why is that?” asked Slate.
“The flood of data will bog down their network, and give our agents time to patch vulnerabilities in the operating system. We’re asking everyone to tell their friends and request that players on other servers inundate Titan with spam. Right now Liberty is safe and secure. That we know.”
“Alright, what can we do here in the studio to help?” asked Slate.
“Get the word out. We’re expecting retaliation against this server by terrorist forces. They’ll jack into The Game and attempt to target counter-insurgents like myself and Asian Iron. When they come, and they will come, we’ll meet them head-on.”
“That sounds risky for you,” he said.
“Slate, it has to be done. They threaten to destroy our economy, to take away our way of life, to harm families. The Game is one-quarter of the world economy. If they’re successful, we face certain economic collapse. We can’t let this happen to our families, to our children,” I replied.
Slate turned to the camera and said, “This is devastating news. This broadcast will spearhead the charge to get the word out,” He looked back at me and said, “Thank you so much for your service and dedication to our nation.”
A voice from the control booth called out, “Cut.”
Slate stared at me with a serious look.
“Is this true?”
“Oh, hell, no,” I said.
He waved at one of the show producers, “Get this out, fast. We don’t want to give Titan time to respond. This will fuck up Tribesman, big time.”
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Chapter 8
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“Brilliant move, kid,” said Super-Duper Guy. “I’m monitoring the situation as we speak. We’re setting record viewership. We’re being flooded with new player accounts. Titan’s data lines are running at critical, overloaded with spam. What’s your next step?”
“The big boy on Titan is a guy that goes by Loonie Toon. He’s their top-rated player. It’s time to bring him down a notch,” I said.
“Outstanding. Keep me updated.”
Super-Duper Guy ended the private chat. I was standing across the street in front of the broadcast studio with Asian Iron. She followed my lead well. She was like that, quick at picking up on things, and knowing how to play her cards. I looked up at the Kleist building and smiled. I’d be out of The Game soon, playing music, back on stage, drinking beer, and doinking groupies. Still, in an odd way, I would miss The Game. I had half the planet watching me. I felt like the biggest actor in the world. It wasn’t a bad gig. You could catch a great alcohol buzz with no hangover. I didn’t have to worry about paying bills or deal with sexually transmitted diseases. Still, you were denied pussy. I just couldn’t live the rest of my life without getting some trim.
I wondered why the developers cut sex from The Game. As I considered a few possible reasons, I watched a black limo pull out of the garage and rush down the street. A high-speed shockwave crushed my chest, and I was sent flying into the wall that stood twenty feet behind me. The concussion was sharp, like the thump of military ordinance. Particles of rubble showered the street, and dust billowed out of the garage under the Kleist. The building tipped sideways and fell in slow motion onto a smaller skyscraper to its side.
Asian Iron was driven into the wall. I choked on dust as I rushed to her. A twisted I-beam had penetrated her pelvis and piledrived her a foot deep into the building’s brick. She had to be close to death and about to respawn in the medical building. I didn’t have time to go searching for her. So, I shoved an emerald pill in her mouth. She regained consciousness screaming. The beam protruded a good five feet out of her body. I grabbed a leg and an arm and dragged her its entire length until she fell to the ground at the end. The last time I heard a scream that shrill was when I did a gig at a synagogue. I was setting up for a wedding as they did a circumcision. The poor little kids shrieked like you can’t imagine, but what really got to me was watching the rabbi blow the kid after he cut his pecker. He stuck his fucking lips around the kid’s dick and sucked the blood off it. I swear to God I’ve never been the same since.
I gave Asian a second emerald and the ragged hole in her pelvis healed in a few seconds. After a few moments of trembling, she stood up on shaky legs.
“What the hell just happened?” she asked.
I tried to wipe the grit from my eyes, but it only made them more irritated. That’s when I remembered the fright truck and the limo parked in the garage.
“It had to be Tribesman.”
Asian laughed. “It’s perfect?”
“What?”
“It plays perfectly into your terrorist narrative,” she said.
“New code had been added to The Game that blocks respawn until the end of a mission,” said Super-Duper Guy. “Our market research shows that the audience prefers a sense of fatality when someone’s taken out. If they keep popping back alive, viewers develop an emotional disregard for the kill. The downside is you’re more likely to die real life.”
“What?” I said.
“To make it more dramatic, we extend the dying process. It places a lot of stress on the body, but you’re young and healthy. It shouldn’t cause any permanent damage,” said SDG. “The best solution is to avoid getting killed.”
“Asian, are you ready?” I said.
With her characteristic distant stare, she nodded.
“Alright, let’s do this,” I said.
Asian and I stepped into the mission teleporter together and, with a fuzzy blue flicker, we emerged on a rooftop. We had transported into New America, on the Titan server. It was a post-apocalypse city flooded by global warming. The air was hot and heavy with moisture. Condensation covered everything above water level. Skyscrapers arose from still lakes, and it was always night, with a perpetual storm of meteors sending streaks of white overhead. We decided that using jetpacks would draw too much attention, so we dove off the roof and swam. Tribesman’s headquarters was only a few buildings over, and we made it there without incident.
We entered a third-floor window at the front of Tribesman’s stronghold and found ourselves in a large lobby. On the far side, a gruff, military-looking toon sat behind a desk, the top a few inches above the water. We moved towards a guard’s table hip-deep in water. We had intel that Loonie Toon would be here coordinating an attack on Liberty. Heroic toons waded around in a state of panic. Everything about this place felt wrong. I expected it to be a testament to the heroic past of America’s golden age. Instead, it was grunge stained sauna bath. It even had mosquitoes that floated in a cloud around you, one occasionally taking a bite every now and then.
Toons pushed past us, creating small wakes that lapped against the reception desk. As we cross the lobby, I heard a conversation that stood out.
An animated man said, “Tribesman is blowing a gasket. We’ve lost three-quarters of our players.”
I pulled out a .223 caliber bullpup submachine gun I’d purchased from the concierge and executed a three-round burst, phit, phit, phit, into his forehead. Asian Iron was partial to large bore ordinance. She produced an M16 upgraded to 7.62 NATO and mowed down the other players, tearing their flesh raged. Bodies floated face down, and puddles of blood drifted on the water surface.
She grinned and said in a dry voice, “ka-ching.”
I sent a private chat request to Super-Duper Guy.
“Hello,” he said.
“Can I get the live feed on this mission? I need feedback.”
“No problem.”
I heard the sounds of cheers and clapping, and then the voice of Slate Masonite.”
“Our brave operatives are penetrating the terrorist’s stronghold,” Slate said. “Confidential sources tell us that Loonie Toon was behind the bombing of the Kliest…”
Slate’s voice played in the background as we moved behind the guard’s desk and pushed his body aside. I took the silencer off my weapon and set it down on the table. I removed a headset from my jacket and placed it over my ears. Asian Iron did the same. The portable headsets would allow us to communicate with our team in real-time without the need for private chats, nor the risk of being intercepted by Tribesmen.
“We're in,” I said.
“Copy,” replied Metadyne.
Metadyne was a ranking incarnate, and the best tactical leader on the Liberty server. He was a bit insane, but it seemed to work in his favor. Where most people would flee, Metadyne saw a party.
I nodded at Asian, and then we waded towards the control center.
We entered a small room where a toon sat behind a maintenance keyboard. He whistled as he sat with his back to us. Asian vaporized his head with a burst of fire, and then she tossed her weapon into the water.
“It’s out of rounds.”
That was the weakness of temporary powers. They had limited attacks, but they had their place. By using temporary powers, you could reserve your endurance. On other servers, it was less of an issue because you could pop a sapphire pill and you’d be back to full energy. Not here. If you gassed yourself in New America, you were fucked. You’d have to spend sixty seconds in a deep state of regeneration to get your endurance back. Once you invoked the recovery sub-routine, you were trapped in its cycle until it finished, completely vulnerable to attack, with no defense.
We went to the main control board and looked at the switches. They were labeled. I flipped switches that shut down the passenger and service elevators.
“The security office is next,” I said. “Can you handle it on your own?”
Asian Iron nodded.
“Right, we’ll reconnect on the penthouse floor,” I said.
I shimmied up the elevator shaft, reached the top, and prided open the penthouse doors. It was a better choice than taking the stairs because they would be guarded. I slipped out into the hallway and pressed my body into the elevator entrance. I spent a moment gathering my bearings. The plan was to find a concealed location and then wait for Asian Iron and our outside team to get into position. The assault team would create a distraction, and either I or Asian Iron would snipe Tradesman. Ideally, we’d both drill him at the same time from different angles, minimizing his opportunity to defend himself.
The hallway was clear of toons, so I worked my way towards the north. I made every effort to move in silence. I could feel my toes squish inside my boots, and they made a slight scrunch. It forced me to move at a crawl’s pace to minimize my audio signature. The hall branched east and west at the end, and I peeked around the corner looking for adversaries. That’s when they came into view. I could feel the discharge of static electricity crawl on my skin. Seven of them floated above the floor. They were wrapped head to toe in red, cotton gauzes like a mummy. It covered their heads and eyes. Only their pastel purple mouths and chins were exposed. Jagged branches of red electricity arced from their encased legs to the floor accompanied by a buzzing, zzzzt.
“I spoke into my headset, “Metadyne, I’ve run into these weird, floating, red mummies. Do you know what they are?”
“Never seen them before. It must be one of the new archetypes Tribesman has been working on,” he replied.
“Any advice?” I asked.
“Avoidance.”
“No can do. They’re between me and the primary objective.”
“Right,” he said. “Then hit them hard and hit them first.”
“Out,” I replied.
Again, I spoke into my mic, “Asian, what’s your ETA?”
“I’m fives floor below the primary objective.”
“I need to you reroute. This point of entry is bottlenecked with hostiles.”
“Rodger that,” she said.
I walked backward for several feet before turning and jogging back towards the stairwell. At the far end of the hall, the doors to the stairs swung open. I slipped into an alcove to avoid detection. Loonie Toon stepped out from behind the door, impeccably dressed, lean, and rugged. He moved like he owned the place, erect and filled with purpose. Five of those weird red mummies followed him out of the stairwell. Loonie Toon looked at his watch and seemed pleased.
By now he had to be fully aware that his facility was under assault. Clearly, the red mummies were his new security force. They would be the highest threat level. Regardless, this was my chance.
I whispered into my headset, “Asian, I have a shot at Loonie Toon. When will you be able to provide backup?”
I waited a moment for her reply. Nothing.
“Metadyne,” I said, “Do you copy?”
More silence, damn it.
Without backup, taking the shot was sketchy at best. My thinking was I’d notify Metadyne to hit the penthouse as I took the shot. That way Loonie Toon would be caught in a salvo of crossfire. My chances of taking him down alone were slim. Yet, he was moving my way, and I was tapped. I mentally ran through my list of powers. There were two options. First, I could go for a direct kill on Loonie Toon. The downside was that I would only get one shot, and then I would be torn apart by his henchmen. Still, it was almost a guaranteed hit. The alternative was to hit them with an area of effect attack that would paralyze the group. If the attack was successful, I’d get three to five more attacks. It was a dice roll. Each toon had a chance of evading the attack. The odds of hitting six toons were marginal, and I had no idea what defensive powers the red mummies had.
Loonie Toon moved towards me with three of his bodyguards in front and two behind him. He stopped and spoke into the air. He was speaking on a private chat channel. It was the perfect distraction and the right moment. The Executioner Wasp Swarm had a short cast time, but it required I move into the hallway to get a clear shot. I stepped out and extended my arm. Thousands of black and yellow wasps flowed from my fingertip and raced down the hallway towards Loonie Toon and his sentries. The air filled with the buzzing of insect wings. Wasps swarmed them in a cloud. The red mummies contorted and bounced against the walls, shivering, struggling against the paralytic poison until they fell to the floor, frozen, unable to move. Loonie Toon frantically tried to brush the insects off his body. He fell to his knees, screeching in pain.
I took a deep breath. The angels of fate had blessed me. Again, I raised my arm and pointed it at Loonie Toon. Funnel Web Spider had a long incantation time, ten seconds before it would appear. Three seconds in, one of the red mummies start to flinch. At the five-second mark, they began flopping side-to-side, and Loonie Toon’s hands trembled. At eight seconds, three of the mummies lifted off the floor and bounced around the hall. Tradesman sat upright, trembling, his face wracked with pain.
I was sweating and shaking with fear. I’d miscalculated. I expected them to be paralyzed for at least twenty seconds. Just as Loonie Toon got to one knee, my funnel web spider materialized a good five yards in front of him. It was the size of a dog, black and shiny, with orange bands encircling its leg joints. It was sickening and ugly. It launched like a rocket, legs sprawled out, and giant fangs dripping poison.
Out of nowhere, I was slammed to the floor by a jolt of electricity. As I lay prone, a squad of red mummies circled me from behind. Dozens of violet-red electric arcs crawled over my body. At first, it felt like a million ants were crawling under my skin and tearing at my flesh. The arcs intensified, vaporizing my skin into a pattern of black, burnt ruts. I couldn’t scream. The electricity had locked up every muscle in my body. Mother Mary, I begged for death.
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Chapter 9
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Slate Masonite faced the camera and spoke, “On this critical moment in our nation’s history, Chimera has joined us to speak to the nation and the world.”
Super-Duper Guy raised his granite chin and spoke with beaming pride, “In a bold, personal sacrifice, Toxic Poppy sent a message to Tradesman and his band of henchmen. This server will not tolerate terrorists no matter the costs. As viewers around the world watched, Toxic Poppy infiltrated Tradesman’s enclave of subversion and took down Loonie Toon, the mastermind behind the terrorist attack on the Liberty server. Alone, his communication cut off from his team, he carried out his duty with honor. Toxic Poppy’s real-world death was a moment of great sadness for us all, but his heroism will be honored for eternity. A statue of Toxic Poppy will be commemorated at the opening ceremonies of, I am pleased to announce tonight, a new server.”
“A new server?” said Slate with a beaming grim.
“Yes, Slate, the new season of The Game will be held on a bold new server with all new content, new characters, and new power sets. We call it Mount Olympus.”
“You heard it first here on this channel,” said Slate. “The Mount Olympus server will open the new season of The Game. Can you give us a peek into the future?”
“Mount Olympus will revolutionize The Game. Our real-world scientists have made advancements that will allow public participants to create their own power sets and customize their characters beyond their dreams. The only limits are their imaginations,” said Slate.
That’s quite impressive,” said Slate. “Do you have any last word for our audience?”
“I’d like everyone watching to take a final moment to honor Toxic Poppy. Oorah, soldier, oorah.”
The show director called out, “That’s a wrap.”
The cast clapped and cheered. Slate shook Super Duper Guy’s hand with vigor and said, “Brilliant presentation.”
A cameraman patted me on the back and said, “You done good, kid.”
Super-Duper Guy walked over to me and shook my hand. “Toxic, the ratings are through the roof. You really know how to put on a show. You’ve leveled up and out. You’re free.”
“How about Asian iron?” I asked.
“She’s staying on,” he said. “Have you decided where you want to be placed?”
“Sweden, they have an incredible symphonic power metal movement there,” I said.
Super-Duper Give smiled at me and said, “We have a brand new Schecter Banshee waiting for you.”
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The Night is Cold Under the Black Sun
Black Candy
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Chapter 1
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“Dude, you’re spreading my butt cheeks,” I said.
Mr. Beakman yelled at me, “Shut your mouth!”
I got that a lot from teachers. Beakman was blowing a gasket. His body shook with anger. He smelled bad, like burnt rubber. It made me laugh.
“Cantor, get the fuck out of my classroom!”
I bypassed the principal’s office and walked out the front door. I was done with their poppycock. On the way home, I stopped at the party store, bought a cola, and pocketed a candy bar when the Arab guy at the counter looked out of the window at the snowfall.
The first thing I did when I got home was to erase the phone messages from school. Mom would rag on me if she heard them. I’d had my fill of grief. I sat in front of the television and watched an old gangster movie.
I began to fume. My heart was choking with shame and rage. I wasn’t going to let them do this to me. It was my life. I sat back on the couch and did a lifetime of questioning the world. And then I laughed at the sea of empty thoughts that coursed through my mind. Hundreds of ideas large and small percolated in my imagination about the future, but they all ended the same way. I’d failed at school. I would probably fail at work. Even my family life was abysmal.
My teachers had warned me about my future, but I ignored them. Not once did any of them pull me aside and talk to me as a fellow human. They’d read my record, heard of my reputation, and categorized me as a loser. I watched the popular students with envy. They got special treatment from the teachers, administrators, and other kids. As a low-status kid in high school, all I wanted was an opportunity to be like the cool kids. Being mouthy was the only way I could get the attention all teenagers need.
I had waved goodbye to high school.
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Mom arrived home that evening. Her face was flush. It looked as if her heart was pumping every last ounce of blood into her cheeks. Her lips stretched across her front teeth. She ignored my nod. Her voice was high-pitched and overwrought, having to exert force just to form words. I turned away from her and looked out of the window at the large snowflakes that drifted to the ground.
She strained, “You are so dead!”
There was no way to intercept her cell phone. To do so would only delay this moment. In the past I’d gotten away with playing stupid, acting like I was oblivious to my disciplinary complaints. I found it odd that other kids who had committed greater infractions were tolerated. I guess having a smart mouth was worse than vandalism, cheating on tests, and getting into fights. I have two teeth missing from my face. An upperclassman back in high school knocked them out when I was a freshman. He got a week's suspension, and I have a hole in my smile. Violent assault gets you suspended for a few days, but backtalk gets you expelled.
“What were you thinking?” mom said. “I can’t stand it anymore!”
The way she looked at me you’d have thought I was a leper with rotting skin and ulcerated eye sockets.
She hissed, “Do you know what this means? In two weeks you’ll be eighteen. Start looking for a place to live because you’re not staying here.”
As she fled the room, I muttered, “Of course,” because I had nothing else to say.
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Chapter 2
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I counted down the days until I would be homeless. Mom refused to speak to me. Uncle Ted told me to get off my lazy ass and get a job. I looked into homeless shelters. The closest place was downtown in the ghetto.
Most people assumed a skinny kid like me would have less of a mouth. They had that wrong. I couldn’t fight. Being a smart-ass was all I had to defend myself. Outside of working as a comedian, it wasn’t much of a marketable skill. I tried my sense of humor on YouTube and had developed a pretty good following. I was earning decent money until mom banned me from the Internet. It was another punishment. Perhaps, if she and the school used a semblance of positive reinforcement…what’s the point in dreaming of a world that could have been?
When my eighteenth birthday came, mom spoke to me for the last time. “Get out or I’ll call the police and have you arrested.”
As I stepped across the threshold of the door, the bitter air assaulted my face. I pulled my hood up and wrapped it tight to my head. The door closed being me. I had a nice, tidy sum of cash in my pocket from my YouTube channel, and I had a plan.
I owned a little hatchback. It was old but reliable. My first step was to buy a minus thirty-degree sleeping bag, a memory foam sleeping pad, and a little propane camping stove at the sporting goods store. I could make food, and I could use the stove for heat. Next, I headed over to the hardware store and picked up two four-by-eight sheets of Styrofoam insulation and a couple of hand tools. I removed my car’s back seats and tossed them into their dumpster. I cut the insulation and used it to line the back of my ride. Once everything was in place, I measured the space, and then I went back inside and had them cut sections of wall paneling for me. I used the paneling to finish off the interior. It looked like a miniature custom van. Afterward, I headed over to a 24-hour fitness center and joined on a monthly basis. I needed a place to take a shower.
That night I parked a short drive from the fitness club and watched it snow until late in the morning. I felt free for the first time in my life. I didn’t have teachers or family bitching at me. A layer of snow covered my windshield. I crawled into the back of my car and wrapped myself in the sleeping bag.
I woke up to the scrapping sound of trucks plowing the snow off the streets. I climbed into the front seat and opened the side window. The snow was beautiful. Winter was my thing. I liked the sound of snow crunching under my feet, the layer of white covering the world, and icicles hanging from trees. It was a season of Christmas lights and hot chocolate.
Phase two of my plan involved going to the local coffee shop and plugging in my phone. I sat and drank coffee, ate a Danish, and surfed the Internet while my phone charged. It was nice. Nobody nagged at me. In fact, the barista smiled as she took my order. For the first time in many years, I felt independent from my reputation.
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Chapter 3
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The job application asked for references and an address. I wrote down my mom’s place because I was confident they wouldn’t check, but I figured they’d check my references. So, I left it blank. The restaurant manager took my application, and we went to a table in the back.
“Do you have any job experience?” he asked.
“No.”
He pursed his lips and continued, “Did you graduate high school?”
“No.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“I’m not going to lie and make up stuff,” I said. “The truth is it was bad judgment on my part. Education is really important to me, and I am planning on enrolling in night school to get my diploma.”
“Huh,” he mumbled. “Alright, we’ll call you when we’ve made a decision.”
I shook his hand and said, “Thanks.”
I applied for a half-dozen jobs, but the fast-food restaurant was the only place that gave me an interview. For the following week, I kept my cell at my side every moment of the day. Even when I was in the shower at the fitness club, I turned up the volume to max and placed it on the ledge where I could hear it ring.
At the end of the week, I was crashed out in my car in a parking lot using a fast-food restaurant with free wifi to surf the Internet. The phone rang.
“Please be them,” I said as I selected the phone app.
I shook with excitement until I saw it was just an old friend from high school.
“I haven’t seen you at school,” said Sharon. “Rumor is you were expelled. Is that true?”
“No, I walked out,” I replied.
“What did your mom say?”
“She kick me out of the house,” I replied.
“Oh, my God, are you alright? Where are you living? What are you going to do?”
“I’m alright,” I reassured her. “I have some money saved up from my YouTube channel. It’ll carry me over until I find a job.”
“Okay, make sure to call me and let me know how you’re doing. Bye now.”
“Will do. Bye,” I said.
I decided at that moment that I needed to fix things. I drove to my mom’s house. I sat in the car thinking of what to say. I went to the door and knocked. A few moments later she answered the door.
“Why are you here?” she demanded.
“I came here to apologize.”
“It’s too late for that. It’s time for you to act like a man and make your own way in the world.”
“Mom, I messed up. I can fix this. I’ll go back to the teachers and the principal…apologize…make good with them. I need a second chance,” I begged.
“That day is done,” she said with contempt in her eyes.
“Please, I can make this right.”
“No,” she said as shut the door.
I stood on the porch almost in tears hoping she would have a change of heart. I began considering my options as I walked back to my car. I thought about joining the army, but it would be more of the same as I got in high school only worse. All I wanted was to be treated with a little bit of dignity. Everyone around me was constantly engaged in a power struggle. I hated the dominance game they played. That’s when I seriously considered ending it.
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Chapter 4
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As I drove down the freeway I thought about running my car into an overpass abutment. At seventy miles per hour, I would never feel a thing. I passed four bridges, and each time I chickened out. As I approached the fifth bridge, I gritted my teeth and committed to doing it. My phone rang. I let it ring but answered it just before going to voice mail.
“Hello.”
“Carl, it’s Frank. I hear you bailed on that punk-ass high school.”
“Yeah,” I said in a meek voice.
“Hell, yeah,” said Frank. “Get your ass on over to my place and we’ll knock down a few beers to celebrate.”
“Right, yeah, okay,” I replied.
“Sweet,” I see you in a little bit,” he said.
A little self-medication was what I needed. Hell, why not?
Heavy snowflakes began to fall as I headed to Frank’s place. It was a good omen for me. It seemed like my fate was tied to the weather, where snow brought me good luck and peace. I felt better for some reason as if there was a future for me, where I’d be something more than a bottom-of-the-barrel loser.
Frank’s house was in a run-down neck of the woods, a lower middle-class sub-division one notch above the slums. Old pickup trucks lined the streets. I pulled into his driveway and parked behind his lowrider, a classic Lincoln Town Car from the 1980s. He had it tricked out with chrome spoke rims, candy apple red paint with glimmering specks of metal flake, and black pin stripping. It sat low and snug to the ground. The Landau roof and opera window made it look so classy. The inside was custom upholstered in magenta velvet and black pipping. Its stereo was better than most home systems.
I got out of my jalopy and looked at it. I thought about what it would take to make it approach the sheer awesomeness of Frank’s ride. I shook my head and chuckled. The only solution was replacement.
Frank must have seen me drive up. He opened the door and waved me inside.
He greeted me at the door with a handshake and a hug. “How the Hell are you? Come on in. I have a cold one waiting for you.”
Frank had a reputation as the curator of cool. It was well deserved. Everything about him said so. The first thing I noticed was the giant television mounted on the wall. It was connected to a high-end surround sound stereo. He handed me a cold beer, and then we sat in lavish, leather recliners.
“Damn, it’s good to see you,” said Frank. “How do you like the brew?”
I took a sip and replied, “It’s really good.”
“It’s Canadian. Them Canucks know how to make ale.”
Frank picked up a small tray and chopped up a marijuana bud with a credit card as we spoke.
“So what happened with school? Did you have enough of their crap and said, ‘fuck this?’”
“Pretty much,” I replied.
“Me too. For me it was Schoenberger,” said Frank. “She has some serious personal issues. She saw herself as some kind of third-world dictator in the classroom. We use to call her the Nazi smurf. Screw that. I didn’t need an anti-social social studies teacher telling me about the world when she’s never held a real job in her life. Can you imagine what her life has been like?”
“How do mean?” I asked.
“Well, picture this. Schoenberger has spent all her life in school. After high school, she went to college. And when she graduated college, she went right into teaching. What does a woman like her know about life outside of a textbook?” said Frank. “She’s the type who bought into the whole kit and caboodle. She was a good girl in school, did everything she was told, never really having an idea of her own about life.”
It was an interesting way to look at the school experience and people who were teachers.
“You have a point,” I said.
Frank finished chopping up the marijuana, placed it in a rolling paper, and twisted it into a joint. He lit it, took a smoke, and then passed it to me. I took a giant lungful from the joint and held it for as long as I could.
“You hungry? I got pizza on the way,” he said.
“Sounds great.”
As we finished the joint, the delivery boy knocked on the door. He delivered a large pepperoni, cheese stuffed crust, pizza. My mouth filled with saliva when he opened the box. I took a bite. The taste of sweet tomato and mozzarella hit first, followed by the doughy, garlic flavor of the crust.
“Your Town Car is a work of art,” I said. “How do you drive it in the snow?”
“That’s my summer ride. Did you see my Jeep? It’s parked on the street.”
“No,” I replied.
“Check it out,” he said as he stood up.
Frank took out the nicest leather bomber jacket I’d ever seen from the hall closet and put it on, and then he led me outside. Parked on the street in front of his house was a built Jeep: lift kit, tires as tall as my beltline, decked out with a light bar above the windshield, and fog lamps on the bumper. It looked like it could climb Mt. Everest.
“What do you think,” he asked.
“Is that one of those v8 Hemi Jeeps?”
A grin filled his face, “470 horsepower.”
“Oh, damn,” I exclaimed.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a key chain, and tossed it to me. “You drive.”
I climbed into the driver’s seat. The interior was plush with leather and luxury appointments. I inserted the key into the ignition and cranked the starter. The throaty rumble was deep and visceral.
Frank knocked on the passenger door window. “Hey, are you going to let me in?”
“Sorry,” I said as I hit the power door lock. “Just, damn, this thing is like, damn!”
Once inside Frank said, “Alright, let’s go for a spin.”
“I barely touched the gas pedal, and the mighty engine spun the tires. I slammed on the breaks.
“I did the same thing the first time I drove it,” Frank said with a light-hearted laugh. “Touch the throttle with just a feather’s touch.”
With a gentle tap of my toes, I pushed the gas pedal.
“Let’s find dry pavement so you can see what this thing will do. Head over to Telegraph Road.”
It was only a few minutes away. Telegraph Road was a six-lane divided highway that separated the city from the suburbs. When we got there, the traffic was light.
“Wait until the traffic clears, and then pull out and floor it. Do a zero to sixty.”
I waited for a long break in the traffic and then idled out. When the Jeep was parallel with Telegraph, I stomped the accelerator to the floor. The rear end dug into the pavement, and we launched like a rocket. We hit sixty miles per hour in a few hear beats.”
“Oh, my God!” I laughed. “Oh, my God!”
Frank said, “Come on. Let’s head back and I’ll show you my collection.”
We drove back to the house and headed inside where he led me to the basement. I expected a dingy, cramped room with grey concrete walls and copper pipes running through the floor joists. I was stunned to see a room built out like the penthouse of a Las Vegas casino. It had it all: a fully stocked bar, pool table, high-end sound system, a giant fish tank that looked like a coral reef, the works.
“Dang, how big is that aquarium?” I asked.
“500 gallons.”
In the back, a second room was framed in. Frank unlocked a metal door and flipped on a light switch. Firearms covered the end wall: assault rifles, sub-machine guns, and pistols. He removed an assault rifle from the wall that looked like a futuristic version of an M-16, checked the action to ensure it wasn’t loaded, and handed it to me.
“That’s a Heckler & Kock G36. It fires 750 rounds per minute,” said Frank.
I looked down its optical sight but didn’t see the cross hairs.
“Push the button on the back to illuminate the reticle,” he instructed me.
I depressed a rubber button on the base of the scope, and a red circle appeared in the center of the lens.
“The bullet hits where ever you place that red dot,” Frank said with a smile.
“Damn, Frank, how do you afford all these toys?” I asked. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
It was bad judgment to ask. I was overwhelmed by all the stuff he had, and it just came out. He was only 21 years old, and a high school dropout like myself.
“I’m good with you asking. Let’s go upstairs and grab beers. I’ll get you up to speed.”
We walked back up to the family room where I grabbed my beer. Frank rolled another joint.
“You spent thirteen years in public schools. In all those years they didn’t teach you a damn thing about money, and money is what it’s all about. If you’ve got money, you’ve got women, prestige, toys…how much money did knowing that Columbus discovered America put in your pocket?”
“Not a penny,” I replied.
“Not a goddamn penny,” he reinforced. “You can’t make good money by working an hourly wage. You have to make your money do the work.”
“Are you talking like investments?”
“In a way. The problem is that unless you start rich, you have no money to invest. Even then it’s a gamble. You’re just as likely to lose money in the stock market as you are to make money. You have to invest in an industry that has a thriving market with a high rate of return,” said Frank.
“Okay, sure, that makes sense, but isn’t every investor looking for that?” I asked.
“Of course, everyone wants the promise of easy money in 100 percent safe investments. It doesn’t exist. The right opportunities are there. The real issue is managing the risks.”
“Whoa, you’re not suggesting I sell drugs are you?”
“You’re sharp. Drugs are for fools. Most people who traffic drugs do long, hard time in the worst hellholes the justice system has to offer. Most pushers become hooked on their own product. Certainly, the demand and profit is there, but the odds are bad,” said Frank.
He finished rolling the joint and said, “Do you need another beer?”
“Sure,” I replied.
Frank went into the kitchen and then returned with a fresh bottle of suds. He handed it to me along with the joint. I took a hit. I was fairly stoned at that point, but I really needed to get wasted that night.
“Do you know about my repo business?” asked Frank.
“No.”
“I repossess cars. I’d like you to come work for me.”
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Chapter 5
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making that much money repossessing cars?” said Sharon. “That’s more than teachers make. Isn’t it kind of dangerous?”
“It has its risks,” I replied brimming with confidence.
The parking lot was filled with Lexus cars and luxury SUVs. Frank had lent me his jeep for my date. He felt I should first invest in swanky clothes before I started shopping for a better car. He fronted me a few thousand cash, and I was living in a pretty nice apartment. Money was starting to come in from the repo business, and my first big purchase was an Armani suit and Bally dress boots. I was styling. We were at Swifies, the best steak house in Chicago, down in Fulton Market in a little unknown area called the West Loop. It was the hotspot among Chicago’s in-crowd. It had an opulent, modern feel, but retained many classic touches like drinks and dessert carts rolling around the floor. Sharon was awestruck when we entered the restaurant. Her face beamed with excitement and a touch of fear. I suspected it was her first time in a place that lavish.
After we were seated, we ordered drinks and a Butter Poached Crab Cake appetizer. She read the menu over and over.
“I don’t know what to order. It all looks so good,” she said.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “So, are you planning on going to college after you graduate?”
“I want to. I’m worried about the cost of higher education. My sister graduate over one-hundred thousand dollars in debt, and she can’t find a job,” she said.
“What did she major in?”
“Communications with a minor in woman’s studies.”
“Those aren’t exactly the most marketable fields of study,” I noted. “What are you considering?”
“I want to go into art history, but I don’t think there are many openings for graduates,” she said.
“Have you considered engineering?” I asked.
“It’s too hard and I’m not good at math. I’m not sure what to do,” she said.
The waiter returned.
“Are we ready to order, or do we need a moment?” he said.
“We’re ready. She’ll have the Hokkaido Wagyu ribeye, and I’ll have the Lobster Thermidor.”
“An excellent choice. Is there anything else I can get you?” said the waiter.
With a subtle smile and a nod, I said, “We’re good.”
As I sat listening to her gossip about her girlfriends, I mused to myself that I hadn’t felt the need to be a smartass in a long time. Money had changed me. It brought respect and status. I was the same person, but even at eighteen years old, I was being treated with deference. It felt really good. Sure, everyone was seeing the designer suit and expensive shoes. Sharon was reveling in being served a one-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner. I could see it on her face, she was living out her princess fantasy. It was all superficial status based on wealth. I loved it.
“Carl,” she said. “Are you listening to me?”
“I was thinking that we should skip the movie and go dancing. Have you been to the Dao?”
“I’m only seventeen. I can’t get into a bar,” she said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you in,” I said.
“Do you have reservations and I.D.?” said the doorman.
I counted out two hundred dollars in fifties, folded them in half, and presented them to him. He accepted them with a smile.
“Enjoy your evening,” he said.
The dance floor was surrounded by towering Chinese murals. A disco ball cast beams of light across the club. The scene was packed with trendy young adults dancing to techno music. I held Sharon’s hand as we walked to the bar where I ordered two Manhattans. To my surprise, I saw Frank sitting at a dance floor side table with a couple of associates and their girls.
I handed Sharon her drink and said, “I see a friend. Let’s go say hi.”
She followed me through the crowd of sweaty bodies in fancy suits. Frank saw us coming, stood up, and gave me a big hug and a smile.
“Carl, it’s good to see you here. I thought you were going to a movie,” said Frank.
“This seemed like a better idea,” I said.
“You’re damn right about that,” replied Frank. “And who might this be?”
Frank knew her name, but he was like that, always covering. If something had gone wrong with Sharon, and I brought someone else, he didn’t want to blow my cover.”
“Sharon, this is Frank,” I said.
“Oh, that Sharon. We’ve heard wonderful things about you,” said Frank.
Sharon blushed a little bit.
“Please, have a seat, join us. Sharon, meet the gang,” said Frank. “Sharon, this is John, Pete, and their dates, Ronda and Mary.”
John and Pete stood up and shook Sharon’s hand.
The thing I liked about the Dao was that they played the music at a level that let you talk with your date. Sure, you had to speak up, but not so much that you were yelling an inch from their ear. The owner understood the singles scene. He made the environment perfect for young people to make connections. The Dao was trendy, top drawer, and incredibly clean. Misbehaved patrons were quickly separated. Considering the place was filled with intoxicated people, it was a miracle that a fight never broke out.
Frank leaned over and whisper in my ear, “After you take your date home tonight, I have a really big repo. Can you help out?”
I gave him a nod.
After I dropped Sharon off at her home, I headed over to Frank’s place. John and Pete were there.
“Alright, we have three Dodge RAMs to pick up,” said Frank.
“Three?” I asked.
“Yeah, we're repoing them from a construction company that’s defaulted. I’ll drive you three to their site. You’ll grab them and we’ll all meet back at the garage.”
We drove for almost an hour. The traffic was light this early in the morning, but light for metro Chicago was still bumper-to-bumper cars. We pulled into a light industrial area. The pickup trucks were behind a gate, but it wasn’t locked, and we walked right inside without issue. Normally, we’d drive over in a tow truck and haul them away, but Frank had the keys to the vehicles. My guess was he had a friend at the company who tipped him off on the situation, and that friend slipped him the keys.
In a caravan, we drove the Dodge 2500s back to the garage. That was where the real work began. It took us until dawn to swap out the catalytic converts. At a street value of $3,400 each, we stole 10,200 dollars worth of product in one night. The finance company would take possession of the trucks, and no one would suspect what we’d done. In turn, we’d sell the converters to a crooked shop and net six grand in profit plus the money we were paid for the repos. My take would be a thousand dollars. I made a grand profit, under the table, no taxes, for a few hours work. God, I loved real capitalism.
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I saw Beakman the following day at the gas station. Me and Frank were on our way to pick me out a new ride. I thought about getting in his face, but he looked kind of pitiful standing there, pumping gas into his pathetic little car, wearing discount clothes. When he saw me you’d have thought someone had stretched his ball to the ground. He was no longer an authority figure with the backing of the education state protecting him. He looked nervous. I gave him a smug smile. He watched us as we drove out of the gas station.
“You know him?” asked Frank.
“That’s Beakman,” I replied.
“Damn, he looks different from back when I was in school. I didn’t recognize him,” said Frank.
“He got buried when his wife left him,” I said. “He lost a ton of weight and a ton of money in the divorce settlement. He’s been a grouchy prick ever since.”
Frank looked lost in thought for a moment, and then he said, “I’m not surprised. But it’s a good lesson to keep in mind. Never forget the lethal reality of facts. Like this car we’re picking up for you. Keep the purchase under ten grand so the transaction won’t get reported to the IRS. Someone your age buying fifty thousand dollar cars on your salary will set off major red flags. They’ll be on you like white on rice.”
I nodded, “Yeah, sure.”
“You can always throw money into it. That’s what I did with my Lincoln,” said Frank. “So, what type of ride do you want?”
“You’re going to laugh, but I’ve always wanted a blue Toyota Tacoma with four-wheel drive,” I said.
“No, that’s a great choice. They are super reliable and last forever. Plus, it’s a good cover for this business. It won’t draw attention as a sports care would,” said Frank.
“Oh, man, I’d love to trick one out: rims, tires, lift kit,” I said.
“I think we can fix you up,” he replied.
We stopped at a used car lot. Frank had an established relationship with the owner, who regularly purchased parts from him at discount.
After introductions, the guy led us to the back. There were two Tacomas with four-wheel drive there in the right price range.
“I’d steer clear of the white one,” he said. “You’re going to end up rebuilding the transmission in a year. The blue model is pretty clean. Can you drive a stick?”
“No, but I’ll learn,” I said.
He chuckled, “That’s the spirit.”
Frank drove my new Tacoma to a parking lot where he gave me lessons in driving a stick shift. When we separated, I headed to the custom car parts shop. They were closed. I stood in front of the window staring at the rims imagining what they’d look like on my truck. I did a mental calculation; the tires and rims I wanted were going to run a little over two thousand dollars. Damn, they looked sweet.
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My phone rang around two in the morning.
“Hello,” I said.
“It’s Frank. I’ve got a major repo. Grab the tow truck and meet me at the Long Island bar. The car’s a few blocks away sitting in a driveway.”
It was good news. A lot of folks who’ve defaulted on their payments parked their cars in garages. We can’t legally break into the garage and take them. Frank spent a lot of time following owners around trying to catch them when the car was vulnerable: at bars, restaurants, shopping malls. Those repos can be tricky. If the owners come out during the repo you run the risk of being attacked. Parked on the street or in a driveway late at night is the best time and place. Owners are usually asleep, and you don’t have to deal with the cars being pinned in tight parking spaces.
I picked up the tow truck and headed over to the Long Island Bar. It was in an upscale neck of the woods. Frank was standing in the parking lot as I pulled in. He jumped into the passenger seat.
“Let’s go,” he said as he pointed south.
He was excited. Frank was a high-energy guy, and almost always filled with enthusiasm. This was different. He was in high gear, throttle wide open.
“What are we repoing,” I asked.
“A Tesla Type S,” he said.
I was a little confused. We mostly nabbed cars and trucks for their catalytic converters.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “They’re electric. There’s no converter.”
“The battery. They’re worth a fortune,” he said.
“Are you sure we can do that?” I asked.
“Yeah, no problem.”
He pointed to the side of the road and said, “Park back here.”
I could see the Tesla sitting in the driveway about halfway down the block. It was a really expensive neighborhood. I was surrounded by multi-million dollar homes. It felt eerie. He was being extra cautious for some reason. It was almost 3:30 in the morning before he decided it was time.
“Let’s do this real quick,” he said.
I backed the tow truck into the driveway. We got out and hooked the Tesla up in record time, dragged it up onto the platform, and drove off.
“Stop at the end of the block,” he said.
We stopped and covered the car in a canvas tarp. Again, we got moving. Frank looked back as we drove away, and once we turned out onto the main road, he let out a sigh and gave a smile.
“God, damn, that was sweet,” he said.
There’s a rush to repoing a car. Sure, it was perfectly legal, but there were always risks. You never knew when some lunatic would come roaring out with a shotgun. I have to admit, pinching a 120-thousand dollar car got my blood flowing.
When we got back to the garage, we backed in and dropped the Tesla inside. I parked the tow truck and went back in to see Frank still buzzing with excitement.
“Alright,” he said. “Once we pull the battery, I need you to dump the car in West Garfield Park. Take side streets so you avoid traffic cameras.”
“What?” I said.
“Yeah, cover it with the tarp so it can’t be identified,” he said.
“Did we just jack it?” I asked. “Oh, fuck, we jacked it didn’t we?”
“We’ve got to get the battery out and dump the car before morning,” he said.
“Right, okay, have you ever done this before?” I asked.
“Not with a Tesla, but I’ve read about how to pull the battery online,” he said.
“That’s not real reassuring,” I said with a bit of sarcasm.
Frank disconnected the battery, and then put the Tesla up on the lift. The entire time he worked I thought it would short-circuit and he’d be electrocuted. Once the car was up on the lift, he waved me over.
“The battery weighs 1,200 pounds. Help me drop it onto the stand,” said Frank.
He jacked up the portable hydraulic stand until it was supporting the battery. We removed the retaining bolts and lowered the battery.
“Right, I’ve got a change in plans,” said Frank. “Let’s put the battery in the back of your pickup truck, and then we can ditch the car. We’ll take the battery over to Bruce’s. I’m thinking he’ll give us at least six thousand for it.”
“Sounds like a winner to me,” I replied.
Wheeling a half-ton battery across the parking lot was a world-class workout. Even in the cold, blustery winter of Chicago, I was sweating like a pig. Getting it into the bed was ten times more difficult.
We returned to the garage after getting rid of the Tesla. The sun was just starting to rise above the horizon. We got in my truck and headed to Bruce’s Auto Repair. Bruce was a character; a barrel-chested Scotsman with a nasal voice. He looked like he could lift the 1,200-pound battery with his bare hands. It’d be twenty degrees out, and he’d be dressed in a tee shirt sweating his ass off.
I was surprised at how well my little Toyota carried the load. The snow was falling, and the plows hadn’t had time to clear the streets. My little four-wheel-drive handled it with aplomb. But I was exhausted from being up all night, and I almost didn’t even see the car that t-boned us as we drove through an intersection.
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Chapter 6
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The accident wasn’t that bad. Well, except that the impact breached the battery. When the fire department attempted to put it out, the battery kept reigniting. It took them over four hours and almost 30,000 gallons of water to put it out.
The police took us both to the hospital to be sure didn’t have any serious injuries. It was unnecessary. The airbags did their job, and all we had were minor bumps and cuts. Afterward, they hauled us to county.
Lockup was a new experience for me. I was terrified. Just one look at the thugs inside the cell, and I knew that I was going to have to fight. I came to an odd acceptance about it. I was going to get my ass kicked, broken teeth, or maybe even get a brain concussion, but there was no doubt in my mind that if I didn’t fight I’d get worse. The entire environment seemed to be designed to be a diabolical experiment that forced inmates to experience the emotional pains of mental illness. Everything was barren and harsh. The walls were institutional. All the surfaces were hard and reflected the least little noise. It was dreary in every respect and mirrors how you see the world when you are suffering from bouts of deep depression. Prison disconnected you from your family, stole your autonomy, and the environment was unpredictable. Even on the first night of jail, there was nothing to do but think about the traumatic encounters I would experience.
I came to a realization that evening, an understanding that eluded me throughout my childhood. What I was missing was purpose. I needed a purpose for being. Up to that point, all I ever wanted was social status, to have others look at me and be just a little bit envious. It wouldn’t have killed my mom if she had given me encouragement. She took out all her emotional problems on me. Dad abandon me. Their child-rearing techniques sapped me of all sense of purpose. It was little surprise that I had no self-sympathy. I kind of expected a dismal future. In that moment of self-assessment, I realized that what I wanted was for my parents to be proud of me. That was never going to happen; so, I sought validation from outside my family.
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After the interrogation, they made me an offer.
The investigator told me, “Kid, do you know what happens to a skinny punk like you in jail. Take The Game. At least you’ll have a fighting chance, and you will avoid prison rape and brutal beatings.”
Frank’s words came to haunt me: Never forget the lethal reality of facts. In prison, I’d be at the bottom of the ladder, and that came with unbelievable consequences. However, there was an element of hope in my situation. The thought of taking The Game gave me a purpose. I’d spent many hours over my childhood playing video games, and I was good at them. It made sense given that instead of doing homework, I was on the computer playing anything I could get my hands on. I pictured myself climbing to the top like a professional athlete or a famous musician. This was my chance to become a rock star of sorts.
I accepted his offer.
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The induction process into The Game sucked, big time. They jabbed every inch of my skin with needles and injected metal probs. My whole body turned flaming red, covered in welts. It looked like I’d been attacked by a hive of killer bees. When they closed the top of the iron maiden, it felt like being buried alive. I kicked and shoved the top in a frenzy, trying to get out. The doctor in charge just looked at me with a blank stare as I screamed into the mask they glued to my face.
“Try to relax,” said the doctor.
“Get me out!” I shrieked. “Get me out.”
“Subject presents with claustrophobia. There is moderate inflammation at the injection sites,” he said.
The doctor typed a few notes into his computer, and then he said to the nurse, “Hit him with 500 milligrams of Hydrocortisone, IV push, and put him on the watch list to see that he doesn’t develop a skin infection.”
“Yes,” she said.
The doctor looked down on me through the plastic bubble. I was still in full panic, but he seemed indifferent to my emotional state.
“Okay, kid, we’re going to put you out. We’ll do the testing once your skin has cleared up.”
I was unconscious within a few seconds of his last words.
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“Alright, he’s awake,” said a woman in a lab coat. “Carl, your skin has cleared up. We’re going to test your connection to the system.”
It was a different doctor. She had big, brown eyes that looked empathetic and understanding. The old saw “don’t judge a book by its cover” fit her to a tee. She seemed pleased when my body felt like it was liquefying inside an acid bath. Every time I screamed from one of her neurological tests, she nodded her head up and down with a smug grin on her face. Her favorite test was electrocution. When it began, my entire body felt like it did when you place your tongue across a 9-volt battery, sharp and sticky. She slowly increased the voltage until my muscles spammed. Eventually, my lungs locked up and I couldn’t breathe. She looked at her watch and counted seconds. As I started to pass out, she turned off the electricity.
“Subject presented cyanosis of the lips at 45 seconds,” she said to the Nurse. The doctor looked back at me. “You’re good to go.”
Again, I was unconscious within seconds of the doctor’s last words. It felt like only a few moments later when I saw the word “Loading” in the center of my vision. A small progress bar flickered just below it. When it reached 100 percent, it vanished and was replaced by a stunning woman and a city skyline background cast in dark red hues. I was expecting Super-Duper Guy. I definitely preferred her. She had pulled back, licorice black hair that hung around her shoulders. It rippled as if it were being blown in a breeze. Her feral eyes were outlined with black mascara and eye liner. It was an offbeat, borderline freakish contrast to the metallic white leotard that covered her body, arms, and legs. Purple stars ran from the hip down the thigh on the outside. Knee-height purple boots and elbow-length gloves covered her limbs. She wore a purple cape that hung from her shoulders to the back of her knees. She shimmered in the ambient light.
“Welcome to my new kingdom, darling,” she said with an air of superiority.
“Hi, I guess,” I replied.
“Come take my hand,” she said as she held out her arm.
I stepped forward and reached out. She took my hand and, as she did, the background faded into a bustling urban metropolis. Skyscrapers towered towards the night sky. The city was a crowded dystopia filled with traffic noise. She led me down a congested sidewalk through a sea of citizens. Her movements were regal, and she had perfect posture.
“Where’s Super-Duper Guy,” I asked.
“He’s mostly involved in management now,” she said.
The pink and violent neon signs that cluttered the metropolis were classic cyber punk in style. Someone with a sense of humor was behind this place. Billboards were filled with tongue-in-cheek names and slogans: Aesop’s Tables Furniture Store, Happy Daze Bar, Smoking Hot Body Crematorium, and the like. A mobile billboard truck passed us that read “Read Newton’s new book: Anti-Gravity. It’s hard to put down.”
“Oh my god,” I said with a chuckle. “Are you serious?”
She seemed oblivious to my comments. She released my hand and looked around with pride.
“Excuse me but shouldn’t I be building a character, picking powers?” I asked.
She snapped the side of my head with her middle finger and said, “Pay attention, boy. This is a new world with new game play.”
I was somewhat miffed. She was talking down to me like the teachers did back in high school. Yet, I held my tongue. I felt myself falling back into my old ways, wanting to be a smartass, of resenting being at the bottom of the social order. Considering my circumstances, I decided it was best to think before saying anything. This new version of the game was far afield from what I expected.
“The character build process has been revamped,” she said. “In previous issues of The Game, you built toons based on predefined classes. Now, to acquire new powers you have to battle for them. In this zone, citizens carry legacy powers and costumes. Updated sets can be found elsewhere. Be aware that many powers and costume parts require you to complete specific missions and attain badges.”
She grabbed my shoulders and turned me towards a window that reflected our images. I was a generic blue human figure.
“Until you defeat a citizen, you will look like this, just as all noobs do. I strongly recommend you get a new look right away. Once you do, you’ll be allowed to name your toon. Then, you will seek out your powers,” she said.
I tried to ask her a question, but she placed her index finger over my mouth and said, “You’ll start with 1,000 influence. That’s what we call in-game money. Spend it wisely.”
And then a field of lightning radiated out from her body and she vanished with a crack.
“Alright, think this through,” I said to myself.
Unlike earlier versions of the game, citizens came in all shapes and sizes. The streets were crowded with an array of costume-covered toons. I spotted one that looked promising. He was tall, muscular, with coal-black skin covered in blue dragon, Yakuza style tattoos. His hair was yellow, parted down the middle, and medium length. My plan was to jump him from behind. I had so little information that I was unsure what else to do.
I merged into the flow of foot traffic just behind him. I bit my lip and rabbit punched him as hard as I could. He barely flinched, turned around, and his fist smashed my nose all over my face. I grabbed it as blood poured down my lip and into my mouth.
“You little fuck, I’m going to kick your ass,” he said.
He chased me for two blocks before I lost him. As luck would have it, I passed another toon that looked exactly like me, a generic blue body. There must be some error in the code, and he confused the other noob for me and began beating the hell out of him.
I ducked into the entryway of a building and said, “Damn it. God damn it.”
My nose stung like all hell. I sat for a moment trying to think. It was useless. My heart was racing, and I was out of breath, sweating, and shaking. I was terrified. My mind raced but produced nothing productive.
A pretty teen girl stepped out of the crowd of pedestrians and sat next to me.
“You’re a noob. You need help,” she said. “I’m Stoner Doll.”
Her appearance snapped me out of my funk. Every instinct I had told me to be wary of her, but I couldn’t get past her devastating looks. She had golden blonde hair with platinum highlights. She wore a white tube top that gave a hint of her pointy C-cup breasts, baggy, see-though harem pants, and wedge sandals with straps that tied into knots above the ankles. I could feel the hormones racing through my blood. I came later to understand that during the initial phases of implementation, the new issue of The Game had errors in its code. One of them was amplified emotional reactions to sensory input. It was later coined the bipolar bug because of the extreme reactions it produced in some players.
“I don’t have a name yet, but I’m thinking of going with Black Candy,” I told her.
“Oh, I like that. It’s good to have a unique name. Too many people do the me too routine and call themselves names like Thor,” said Stoner Doll.
I pointed at her and clicked my finger to bring up her data, but I didn’t get a player information window.
“That feature has been removed from gameplay. Convicts can no longer see other toons’ information. It’s only available to non-criminals,” she said. “Come on, follow me.”
She led me about half a block to a little shop called Blaster’s that sold various in-game items. It was part of a chain of retail stores across the Mount Olympus server that carried purchasable items for players.
Before we went inside, Stoner Doll said, “This is Blaster’s. You’ll find them all around the server. It’s where you pick up enhancements, inspirations, temporary weapons, and things like that.”
My brain finally kicked into gear. I could use my 1,000 in starting influence to buy a weapon. That’s how I’d take out my first citizen. When we entered the store, my eyes were greeted with a wall filled with firearms, swords, and other instruments of death. A man stood behind a glass display case filled with grenades, explosives, and other goodies.
“You’ll need a temporary weapon to make your first kill. Did you have something in mind,” Stoner Doll said.
“I’d really like a sawed-off shotgun,” I replied.
“That’s a good choice. They cause a lot of damage and do knockback,” said Stoner Doll. “Let’s get you one.”
I should have focused on the task at hand, but I couldn’t stop looking at her behind as she led me to the man behind the counter. Her backside had the most pleasing jiggle I’d ever seen.
“Noob, what do you want?” demanded the gruff man behind the counter.
I looked up and said, “I need me a sawed-off shotgun.”
“Twenty gauge or twelve?” he asked in a curt voice.
“Twelve, of course,” I replied.
“It’s 5,000 influence,” he said.
“I don’t have that much. What do you have for under a thousand?”
“Nothing, the cheapest weapon we have here is a tomahawk. It runs twelve hundred.”
“What the fuck?” I said.
“Settle down,” said Stoner Doll. “I’ll cover the extra two hundred for you, but you’ve got to promise me you’ll pay me back once you make your first kill.”
“Yeah, of course, no problem,” I replied.
“Good, transfer your money to me and I’ll make the purchase,” she said.
“What? Can’t you just give me the two hundred?” I asked.
“Not until you get your first toon. It’s something they built into the system. You can’t receive influence transfers until you have an official name. Once you get a name, the system will set up an account. Until then you can only transfer out,” she said.
“Oh, okay,” I replied. “How do I do it?”
“I’m sending you a trade request. Just type in 1,000 in the influence entry box.”
A rectangular window popped up in the center of my vision. At the top, the words Offer Trade appeared on the right, and Accept Trade was on the left. I entered 1,000 and clicked my finger on the accept button. When I did, the screen disappeared.
“Excellent, is there a particular tomahawk that you like?” she said.
“Give me a moment,” I replied as I looked at several of them in the display case.
“One second,” said Stoner Doll as she held a hand to her ear. “My syndicate is on the line.”
She turned away as she connected with her allies. I continued studying the hatchets. They were all roughly the same size, but the designs varied. Some had longer cutting edges, and others were pointy like spikes. I’d never considered the merits of such weapons.
“I’m having trouble with my connection,” said Stoner Doll. “I going to step outside to see if I can get a better signal there. I’ll be right back.”
I nodded and went back to pondering the effectiveness of the different designs. The spike made more sense if you had to penetrate armor. I figured that it also had a better chance to punch through bone, and I’d make my first kill by hitting a citizen in the back of the skull from behind. I settled on a blood-red tomahawk with a spiked head.
There I stood for at least twenty minutes before going outside to check on Stoner Doll. She was nowhere in sight, and I felt like an ass for being so easy to dupe. I was angry, embarrassed, and felt desperation all at once. The floodgate of emotions was akin to how I felt when my mom kicked me out of the house, and just like how I felt when the police arrested me for Grand Theft Auto.
I wanted to cry. That’s not true, I was crying. I watched the citizens walk past me, indifferent and cold. The simulation looped through its code, implementing sub-routine and function, but none of its programming was written to provide a semblance of human warmth.
A teen girl stopped in front of me and watched for a break in traffic. She was the sexiest woman I could imagine. Her body was slender yet filled with curves. She wore a medieval ruffled blouse with lace-up arms, and a mid-thigh, maroon pencil skit with a side slit that ran to her hip that revealed bronze legs. She turned in profile and I noticed that she had green eyes that peered out between locks of luxurious black hair. I walked up behind her and shoved her in front of an oncoming car. It hit her with a clunk. I’d made my first kill.
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Chapter 7
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The young woman faded from view after the car ran her over, mangled her body, and drove off. Citizens continued going about their routine as if nothing happened. I turned around and looked into the window of Blaster’s and saw the form of the girl I’d just murdered reflecting back at me.
I heard shouting, “There’s a fucking noob, get him.”
My heart skipped several beats as a gang of marauding toons charged in my direction. They ran past me, jumped a generic blue toon, and hacked away at him with meat cleavers. The angels of fate gave me a brief respite from the brutality of The Game. I gulped down a lungful of air. My heart was still pounding away within my chest. Heroes were given real-world cash rewards for every noob convict they executed. They formed vigilante posses and hunted new inmates down like dogs and dispensed brutal justice. It left a sick taste in my soul.
That crazy woman in the metallic white bodysuit appeared with a flash of smoke and said, “Dear, don’t you look just darling. Now that you have a character, you need to register with a concierge.”
“But…” I stammered.
“Ah, ah, ah,” she interrupted while waving a finger in my face. “Be a good girl and get your fanny to the concierge. The office is three blocks that way, go.”
She pointed due south towards the heart of the city, patted me on the behind, and then she vanished in a web of lightning.
At first, I thought it was a stupid waste of time to make noobs run around the city. I was wrong. The sheer scale of this issue of The Game was unparalleled in scope. The perceptual difference between this artificial world and the real world was nil. The traffic noise was precise, down to the different variations of small car beeps to truck air horns. I could even hear the whir of tires across the pavement. The fabric of my blouse had the same texture as cotton, and it even breathed like a cotton garment. From the alley between two buildings I passed, a venturi of air rushed onto the street, and I could feel it buffeting my skin and clothes. Their air was thick with car exhaust. I listened to the conversation between a group of citizens. Everyone one of them had unique voices, inflection, and personalities. The Game was both a colossal achievement of human genius and a testament to humanity’s reptilian evolution.
The concierge’s office building was housed in a modernistic, circular building in the capital mall. Inside, it was busy with toons. In this issue of The Game, convicts were required to do all their in-game business through this office. This was where you came to register your game identity, petition for early release, apply for an alignment change from convict to citizen, or register with a syndicate.
I spent three hours applying for the name, Black Candy. There was a line at the entrance. Once I worked my way to the check-in clerk, he gave me a number. When my number was called, I was given a terminal to register my toon. I filled out three pages of information and signed a dozen pages of wavers and consent forms. The computer verified my toon name to ensure it was not already taken, and then I sat waiting to be called.
An hour later I heard a voice over the PA, “Black Candy, report to window 216.”
It took me ten minutes to find window 216. Of all the stupid nonsense, this was the worst. They had me stand next to a wall where an attendant took my photograph. It was insane. It wasn’t like the computer didn’t have a complete record of every aspect of my toon housed in a database. Every line of code that defined me was already in the system. This had to be drummed up by some bureaucratic clown with too much free time and not enough brains. Why did people feel the need to take their emotional problems out on others? It killed me.
I walked out of the concierge’s office filled with irritation. One of the reasons I hated school was I felt like they were wasting my time. This made the school system look like pikers. It didn’t matter to me that I was a criminal, and this was my debt to society. They were wasting my time without purpose, and it pissed me off. I needed a moment to soothe my nerves. I was wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.
I walked outside and sat on the grass, slumped forward with my face between my knees. There were dozens of other toons doing the same thing. It was clear that the system was designed to demoralize new inmates, to break us down, and I thought I understood why. I could see myself falling into the trap of taking any risk, or committing any atrocity because I no longer cared. Ultimately, that’s what the audience wanted to see, reckless and unjustified violence. All stories were built around conflict, and this simulation was the ultimate expression of that narrative.
“Hey, little girl….hey, little girl, are you alright?”
I looked up and saw a pretty child, she was about eight years old with soft blond hair braided in two ponytails, one on each side of her head. She wore a white jumper with blue ruffles around her shoulders. Her voice was soft.
I pointed to myself and said, “Are you talking to me?”
“My name is Suzie. What’s your?” she asked.
Out of habit I started to say, “Carl,” but caught myself and said, “Black Candy.”
“You mean like licorice. I love black licorice. What a neat name,” said Suzie. “Are you new to The Game?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have a place to stay?” she asked.
“I don’t understand. I need a place to stay?”
“You can’t just sleep out here on the street,” she said. “You could rent a room with your starting influence, but that will only last a little while. How much do you have left?”
“I kinda don’t have anything left,” I said.
“That’s not good. You don’t want to be left on the streets during Mayhem. It’s really ugly for low-level toons,” she said. “Come with me. I’ll take you to my guild base. You’ll be safe there.”
She said guild base. That meant she was a hero. That little detail was telling. I didn’t want to be bamboozled again, and it was reassuring to know that she was on the side of the good guys.
“How soon does Mayhem start?” I asked.
“In about thirty minutes. We have enough time to make it to my base.”
“Okay, sure,” I said as I stood up.
“Gee, you’re really pretty,” Suzie said. “It’s this way.”
In the past, to enter a base required that you find a teleporter and click on it. You entered a passcode and were transported into the base. In this new issue of The Game, guilds and syndicates were housed in buildings around the city. We caught a taxi that took us to a brick skyscraper topped with a golden dome that was surrounded by spires. All its windows were arched. I noted that the entire block was filled with buildings like this one, between twenty to fifty stories high, all with early twentieth-century facades. This building even had small stone gremlins approximately a foot tall mounted on its window sills.
We enter through a grandiose revolving glass door. Overhead, a flamboyant crystal chandelier sparkled with the shimmer of a thousand diamonds. The walls were paneled with dark woods, and wall sconces cast columns of light every ten feet. The off-white marble floor had veins of brown, and its mirror polish finish reflected the lighting. I felt like I was in a castle. A group of preteen girls was chatting just a few feet away.
“Suzie,” called out one of the girls with excitement. “Who’s your new friend?”
All the girls turned and smile at me.
“Everyone, this is Black Candy,” said Suzie.
They all surrounded me with gleaming faces.
“She’s really pretty,” said another girl. “I just love her outfit. She’ll fit in perfectly here.”
The windows behind me burst with rosy light. I turned and looked outside. The sky was a variegated array of magenta and violet with burnt orange clouds from the east forming a squall line that was overtaking the city.
“Mayhem is about to start. Is anyone going to go out and play?” said Suzie.
“That’s what we’ve been waiting for,” said one of the girls.
They collectively walked around me and pushed their way through the revolving door.
“I’ll show you around,” said Suzie.
She led me along a wide hallway and pointed to her left. “Down this way is the elevators. I’ll fix you up with a room once I’ve shown you around.”
The tour was typical of what you’d expect in an upscale hotel from the 1920s. It had all the charm and style of that era. Suzie introduced me to several girls who all looked like they were in fifth grade. We walked back to the elevators and rode to the seventh floor where she showed me my room. Before entering, Suzie typed in a code number on a pad next to the door. She had me place a hand over a scanner mounted on the wall. The door clicked open.
“Your hand print is your password,” she said.
I had a negative visceral reaction to the room. The lighting was red and the room was appointed with dark brown leather furniture. It didn’t look like a young girl’s room as I had anticipated. It bordered on feeling sadomasochistic kinky.
“Alright, let’s go downstairs and see how the girls are doing, and then I’ll show you the party room,” said Suzie.
That sounded pleasant. Even for players who were heroes, The Game was harsh and celebrating after a battle was a good idea. It would be nice to enjoy a festive moment away from the stark reality of this simulation.
As the lift descended I took a moment to admire the detail. The carriage was a cage of intertwined brass bars, art deco in style. The elevator shaft was visible between the gaps in the scrollwork, and I watched a roller chain zip along a raceway with a clatter. When we stopped, the scissor gate unfolded, parting at the middle. Suzie stepped out, screamed, and ran to the right.
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Chapter 8
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I stuck my head out of the elevator and looked left towards the main entrance. A band of toons was hacking away at a little girl who lay on the floor. Blood spurted from her body with each throb of her heart. It stopped spraying when a powerful-looking toon stomped her head with an iron boot. It made a sickening crack as it splintered her skull. I pulled myself back into the elevator and pushed the floor buttons in a frenzy hoping the doors would close and I would be carried safely to another floor.
I could hear their voices echo down the hallway. The sound of heavy boots clopping on marble moved in my direction. I began smashing the buttons with my palm as hard as I could. The gate wobbled but didn’t close. I grabbed both sides and tried to force it to shut. From the right, six men ran down the hall dressed in black rubber bodysuits, gimp outfits, welding medieval pole axes. Suzie followed behind them giving orders.
“Kill them,” she screamed.
The ensuing battle was brief and blood-soaked. I watched one of the ghoulish gimps turn and run after one of his comrades was butchered like a cow in a slaughterhouse. What I could see of his face looked hardened by life, with crooked teeth and a scraggly beard.
He dropped to his knees and sobbed, “What kind of animal could kill a young girl?”
A white plasma bolt burned a hole through his skull.
“Bingo,” said one of the attackers.
I recognized one of the aggressors. It was the woman who stole my starting influence, Stoner Doll. She held a gimp in the air by the throat.
“Please, have mercy,” he begged.
“Mercy?” said Stoner doll as she crushed his throat.
Suzie backed up with her hands covering her mouth as her bodyguards were butchered. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Something was off. The dead gimps didn’t disappear and respawn. My thoughts returned to Suzie. How could I let these animals hurt her? I ran into the hallway and took the pole axe from a dead gimp’s hand.
“Suzie, get behind me,” I called out.
“Don’t let them hurt me,” cried Suzie as she ran past me.
Three women and one man stood in silhouette against the magenta light that fell through the entrance windows. A halo of red outlined their bodies. Stoner Doll held a scimitar and twirled it in the air. Behind her a tall man posed with a halberd in hand, wearing white, men’s briefs underwear, and iron boots. His Elvis cut pompadour hair was black and glistened with grease. One woman wore skintight hip-hugger blue jeans that flared at the ankles and a fishnet top, and the other woman wore a white frock with pink edges and a bow necktie. White ribbons tied her pink hair into a high ponytail that hung from the back center of her head. She held a silver ray gun with a copper barrel that had a glass lightning ball near the pointy tip of the barrel. Arcs of white electricity traveled along the inner surface of the glass.
I glanced backward. Suzie was running away. A bolt of plasma hit the wall, and the blast knocked her to the floor. I turned towards the party of attackers and pointed the tip of my pole axe in their direction. The woman wearing the fishnet top charged forward with the speed of a racehorse. As she ran, she twirled a chain in an x pattern, cutting the air with a whir. I lunged forward aiming for her guts. She jumped, stepping on the end of my pole axe, and drove the tip into the ground. The chain passed within an inch of my ear.
“You’re not the objective,” she said as she kicked me in the chest and knocked me aside.
As the woman ran past me, Suzie produced an Uzi and sprayed the hallway with 9mm lead. The woman dogged and rolled, avoiding the hail of bullets. With a flick of her wrist, she chopped the sub machinegun from Suzie’s hand.
“No,” cried out Suzie as she fell backward.
The woman flourished the chain preparing for a final death blow.
I jumped to my feet and charged her, plunging the tip of the pole axe at her torso. She ducked the tip and took a side step. I tumbled past her and ended up between her and Suzie.
“I told you you’re not a target. You don’t have to die,” she said in a calm voice.
“I can’t let you murder a helpless little girl,” I said with anger.
“So, you won’t step aside?” she asked.
“Never,” I yelled at her.
“Huh, okay,” she said as she swung her chain.
The other members of her assault team moved into the hallway behind her. I raised my weapon in anticipation of her attack. I had no chance to win this engagement. She was a hundred times better than I was. Even with my many years of playing video games, I’d never come close to her skill level. In a precise and fluid lunge, she moved past the end of my pole axe. I swung the back of the pole at her face. She leaped backward avoiding my attack and countered. The tip of her chain grazed my blouse and sliced a cut into my chest a quarter-inch deep. As I recoiled in pain, she kicked me in the face and sent me to the floor in a daze. I shook it off and jumped to my feet.
“Alright, let’s go. You and me,” I said with bravado.
She slung her chain, but I was able to time her movements and deflected the attack. Again, I extended the pole axe. It was my only attack. The weapon was too long to swing in the confines of a hallway. As I drove it forward, I dropped the point in anticipation of her parry. Her counter missed by a fraction of an inch, but that it was enough. I raised the point and lunged. She turned her body and the spike slid over the surface of her skin, tearing her fishnet top. She spun in a half-circle and nailed me in the temple with a back fist.
I dropped my pole axe, fell to one knee, and put both hands on the floor to keep from falling. My brain was rattled and my vision was blurry.
“Damn, that kid’s doing really well against Riff. He’s got talent,” said Stoner Doll to the guy in underwear.
“I must speak in the affirmative,” replied underwear dude. “And there’s a measure of gallantry in his temperament.”
The woman in fishnets stood over me like an assassin and took the chain into both hands leaving six inches of slack between her thumbs. She stepped over my back, wrapped the chain around my neck, and wrenched.
“You can’t kill an innocent little girl,” I pleaded knowing Suzie would be next.
Stoner Doll grabbed fishnet chick from behind and yanked her backward.
“What the hell are you doing,” demanded the woman.
“I owe this kid one,” said Stoner Doll.
I dropped to the floor holding my neck, trying to catch my breath.
“We’re not killing an innocent little girl,” said Stoner Doll.
“What?” I gasped.
“See the door at the end of the hallway?” asked Stoner Doll. “That’s their party room. You won’t be able to say she’s innocent when we show you what’s behind that door.”
I watched Suzie, a grade school girl wearing a pink romper and sneakers, duck behind a desk and peer over it at me.
“I can’t let you go after her? She’s a little girl.” I said.
The girl with the ponytail stepped behind me and punched me in the center of the back right on the spine, thump. “She has this coming.”
With reluctance, I ran to Suzie thinking she couldn’t be the target. She was a child with large blue eyes and a Dutch braid haircut. I went around the desk and pointed the tip of my poleaxe at ponytail’s Adam’s apple.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said ponytail girl.
“This can’t be right. I can’t let you murder a helpless child,” I demanded.
“Ah huh,” she said. “Step aside you big pussy.”
“No, I can’t allow you to do this.”
“Is that a fact? You might want to reconsider your position on that,” said ponytail girl as she placed the barrel of her ray gun on my temple.
“Get out of my way.”
Stoner Doll trotted up mumbling, “Sweet Jesus, you dumb fuck.”
“They’re going to kill me, but I have to try and stop them. A child’s life is on the line.” I spoke under my breath.
I swung my elbow at the ponytail girl’s face. She blocked it and bashed me square in the mouth with the butt of her ray gun. As I fell to the ground, blood rushed over my lower lip. For a brief moment, the world went black. My vision returned to see her standing over me with the ray gun muzzle between my eyes. Stoner Doll grabbed her arm and pushed it aside.
“Why do you keep saving her?” demanded ponytail girl.
Stoner Doll said, “As I said before, I kinda owe her a favor.” She waved at me. “Before you sacrifice your life, it’s time you had a look at what’s behind that door. You’ll have a change of heart.”
The woman in fishnets grabbed Suzie by the hair and dragged her down the hallway. The rest of us followed behind her. When she reached the party room door, she flung it open with dread on her face. Inside, it was dark and filled with the sound of children moaning in pain.
“What the hell?” I said.
“They pick up children playing The Game and torture them for entertainment,” said Stoner Doll. “The poor little girl you’re protecting is one of the degenerate perverts behind this.”
I approached an elementary-aged girl hung from a rafter, naked, with rivers of dried blood coursing across her skin. I looked around the building. Scores of children were scattered about, all naked, covered in welts and abrasions, and restrained by metal clamps to various Dark Age torture devices.
“In this zone, the death is real for these kids. The Game paralyzes their muscles so people in the real world can’t see them convulse from the pain,” said Stoner Doll.
“What parent would allow this?” I asked.
“Children in this zone are selected from government daycare facilities,” said the woman in fishnets.
“And this girl, the target, she did this?” I asked.
“She’s lying,” cried out Suzie. “How could you believe I would do something like this? How can you believe these murders?”
“In real life, the person behind this little girl is paying a lot of money to be able to indulge their sadistic fantasies. They’re protected, feel no physical pain, and are allowed to have sexual fulfillment,” said Stoner Doll.
“So, if I kill Suzie, the person behind this will just respawn to be back at it again? What’s the point?” I asked.
The woman in fishnets shoved Suzie to the ground and said, “Our programmers have hacked the system. If you kill someone in The Game from our server, they die in real life. The only downside is that if they kill us here, our real-life bodies die as well. You’re on our server now, and those are the stakes we play by.”
“What? How did I get on your server?” I asked.
Stoner Doll nodded towards ponytail girl and the woman in fishnets in order, as if introducing them by name as she spoke, “While you were so enjoyably chatting with Riff Raff and Eternal Sin, I sent a message to our network administrator to hijack your penal account and transfer you to our system,”
“How’s that even possible?” I said.
We have an artificial intelligence acting as your cyber clone. It’s feeding the government system fictitious data about every aspect of your body and nervous system. You see the government can create an artificial reality so real it’s almost perfect. We create an artificial human so perfect their system can’t distinguish it from real,” replied Riff Raff.
Eternal Sin gave me a sly glance and said, “It’s your turn, Tiger. Enact justice.”
My eyes glanced back and forth between Suzie and the suffering children.
“No, please, don’t do this,” pleaded Suzie. “Can’t you see they're lying?”
That’s when I realized that Suzie had picked me up thinking I was a young child playing The Game, and I was to be another one of their victims of sexual sadism. My blade chopped straight down dividing her skull in half, each side fell onto its respective shoulder.
“Wow, impressive. You killed her without hesitation,” said Eternal Sin.
Eternal Sin was wrong. I was filled with reluctance. It was like I watched my body act on its own, and I had nothing to do with taking her life. I turned and looked into the eyes of the girl hung from the rafters. She coughed out blood and said, “Help me,” and then died. A tear ran down my cheek.
“Alright, let’s get out of here,” said Eternal Sin.
Stoner Doll grabbed me by the collar and dragged me out of the building.
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Chapter 9
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“This place is filled with monsters. Not dragons or giant lizards, human monsters,” said Stoner Doll. She pointed towards the heart of the city. “See that skyscraper, the one that almost reaches the clouds. It’s the epicenter of The Game. Our nation is run by oligarchs that live in its bowels. Our political leaders are nothing more than hired thugs that use the power of the state to enforce the will of the money people. Anyone who speaks out against them is banished to this precinct, Satan’s Condom, the worse zone in The Game.”
She pointed at a wanted poster. “That’s our syndicate. Because we’re on a dark web server, the justice system can’t restrict our access, so they’ve put out a contract on us. They’re using The Game to kill our members. In this place guard what you say, do, and even think. Treachery has hit this world like the plague.”
I thought about my toon’s appearance. I’d taken the image of a sexy young woman. I had awe-inspiring good looks, but I was a pale shade next to Stoner Doll.
Stoner Doll rapped me on the shoulder and said, “You’re paying a lot of attention to my boobs. Are you listening to me?”
She had to be a real-life woman. No man would have cared. Plus, no man would have coordinated their clothing that well.
“I’m with you,” I said.
I was still getting used to hearing a female voice when I talk. My real-world voice was a husky tenor with just a dash of rasp. The computer took it and made it feminine. What came out of me was airy and modulated. In real life, I was prone to speaking fast. When I did, my game voice became shrill, and I found myself having to moderate the tempo of my speech.
“Most of society is automated and run by computers. Even fields like medicine are on the brink of being taken over by robotics and artificial intelligence. Playing The Game is the future of humanity,” said Stoner Doll. Her eyes swung side-to-side several times as she paused in thought, and then she continued. “Modern society has become an odd mixture of actors. Most of the upper and ruling classes have already migrated to The Game. The hold-outs are mostly among the few remaining middle class. Some people still cling to real life.”
Her nipples pressed against the fabric of her top and jiggled as she spoke. Stoner Doll placed a finger under my chin and pushed up so that I was looking at her face.
“Why would they do that?” she asked.
“Do what?” I said.
“Why would people choose real life over The Game?” she asked.
Perhaps my words betrayed me when I said, “Sex is forbidden in The Game.”
A smirk crossed her full, rosy lips. “How did I know you’d say something like that? Alright, follow me.”
She turned and walked forward with a strut. Her athletic body flowed into sultry hips that swayed with each step she took. I’d never seen a smoother, heart-shaped behind. It was painful watching her cheeks rock side-to-side without being able to touch them.
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Chapter 10
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Images of my former life played in my head. I was hanging out with a few high school buddies, playing video games.
“Let’s enter The Game full time,” said Bryant. “You can make good money once you develop a following.”
“I’m still not ready to give up on the real world,” I said.
It was a weird statement coming from me. For the most part, I’d given up on the real world. I was repeating my uncle’s words, not mine. He was like that, all caught up in the world of his childhood. Sometimes you just echo things others say without reason.
The Game had an experimental program for kids in high school. Somehow the computer interface could measure brain waves, and customize the experience to acclimate the individual to the violence. Unlike a game played on a screen and a keyboard, it was so real that the nervous system couldn’t differentiate it from reality. This wasn’t like action-movie violence. It was sadomasochistic, serial rapist, snuff film bloodshed. It took time to attenuate a normal, healthy human nervous system to its digressions.
My mind returned to the present. I stood in an arched hallway in their lair. It was opulent, like that of a renaissance circa French castle. The walls and ceiling were decorated with hand-carved woodwork and regal paintings. The floor was a basket weave of brown and white marble.
“I’m alone,” I mumbled to myself.
Stoner Doll grabbed my shoulder from behind. I jumped off my feet, startled. I didn’t hear her approach.
“Jesus Christ, you scared the living hell out of me!” I protested.
“Have you made your choice to join yet?” she asked.
“It’s a big decision…”
She messed up my hair and said, “You’ll fit right in.”
“It’s not about that,” I replied.
She placed her arm around my neck and dragged me along. “Come on, I’ll take you on a tour.”
We roamed a few halls before we ended up in the lobby. Eternal Sin was there chatting away with a few other toons. We approached them.
“Have you decided to join yet?” asked Eternal Sin.
“I’m still thinking about it,” I said.
“Why is she so reluctant to join the team? She’s seen what we’re fighting against,” said Riff Raff.
“She’s young and still idealistic. She’ll come around. Black Candy just needs encouragement,” said Stoner Doll.
Riff Raff placed two fingers on my chin as her eyes ran up and down my body. She pointed at me and said, “You weren’t incarcerated by the justice system to believe in the power of your dreams. If pretty words and cute sayings are what it takes to motivate you, you’re fucked.”
“Well, now, that’s encouraging,” I said dripping with sarcasm.
“Think this through. Your real-life body is in a life support tube maintained by a computer. We hijacked your brain and every aspect of your life is now through our hub. You’re free from them. Given what you’ve seen, do you really want to go back to the government system?” said Riff Raff.
“Is your band of assassins any better than they are?” I muttered.
“How’d we pick up this loser?” asked Eternal Sin. “Look at her for heaven’s sake. She’s not syndicate material.”
“Oh, yeah, y’all are just great at motivational speeches. Just peachy.” I responded with anger.
“She’s just hacking on you. It’s Eternal Sin’s way of welcoming you to the syndicate,” said Stoner Doll.
Eternal Sin lifted her nose and curtly said, “Right.”
Stoner Doll grabbed my bicep. “Come on, I want to formally introduce you to Mathius.”
She dragged to a courtyard behind the facility. In the center was a Buddhist-style temple with the stereotypical layered roofs, light brown clay shingles, and square, heavy timber walls. The yard was filled with trees covered in pink cherry blossoms. The air was pristine and sweet with a floral scent.
“We train here,” said Stoner Doll.
In the center of the courtyard, Mathius stood with his back to us. His white, brief-style underwear clung to his sweaty behind. His entire body was dripping with sweat. He raised a staff and flourished it with athletic grace.
“Damn, that guy is really good. Why is he only wearing underwear?” I said.
He heard my voice and turned to face us.
“Solicitations, fellow malefactor,” he said as he extended his hand. “Mathius. The pleasure’s mine.”
I shook his hand.
“I’m Black Candy,” I replied.
“Yes you are,” he replied with a wink.
“You know I’m a guy in real life,” I stated.
Mathius smiled. “Of course, I do, sugar.”
“I’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted,” said Stoner Doll.
“That’s not necessary,” I said.
“Of course, it is,” said Mathius.
I spent most of the afternoon chatting with Mathius. Once you got past how he dressed and spoke, Mathius was a wellspring of valuable information and insight. He was a really good guy, and I was wrong to prejudge him. Still, I wished he stopped referring to me as if I was his girlfriend, or I suppose boyfriend in his eyes. I had no idea what he was in real life. What I did know for certain was he was brilliant, and he gave me pointers on gameplay that would take a normal person years to figure out on their own, if ever.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAE5xnNfjeE1
I was lying prone on a veranda that overlooked a miniature replica of the Biscayne coastal wetlands in Florida. Mathius told me that Eternal Sin went skinny dipping every day at this time. I couldn’t wait to watch her strip naked and go for a swim. Going full-time into The Game required a lot of adaptations. As an example, I never felt hungry. The computer system kept my blood filled with nutrients. However, there was no outlet for sexual hormones. I’m certain my real-world body had an erection most of the time I was conscious. Hypersexuality was built into The Game, and I was desperate for a release.
Stoner Doll snuck up on me from behind and stepped on my back.
“Waiting for Eternal Sin to get naked I see.”
“No, I was just enjoying the beautiful view,” I said.
“Ah huh,” she replied. “Come on, walk with me.”
We walked down to the lagoon. Eternal Sin sat on the bank with her toes dangling in the water. She turned her head and looked at us over her shoulder.
“Has she joined yet?” asked Eternal Sin.
+ “I’m still thinking about it,” I replied.
“You don’t get to watch me skinny dip until you’re a member of our syndicate,” said Eternal Sin. “But then you can watch all you want.”
“That comment was out of character. What’s going on?” said Stoner Doll.
“Teonova’s back,” replied Eternal Sin.
The surface of the lagoon rippled with waves as a Teonova’s head rose above the surface. With a robotic hand, she swept her hair off her face.
“Teonova, welcome back,” said Stoner Doll.
“Who’s she?” said Teonova.
“A new recruit.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Black Candy,” said Stoner Doll.
Since being incarcerated in The Game, I’d become a major horn-dog. I thought about sex nonstop, so much that it was painful. But when she stepped out of the water naked, all my erotic thoughts vanished. Her diamond-shaped face and arched eyebrows were spectacular. She had a sex toy-shaped body and luxurious skin. I hardly noticed any of that. Hanging from her right shoulder was a mechanical arm with an exposed gray metal frame and hydraulic actuators. I was creeped out. It was an industrial machine, not some cyber fantasy sex robot.
She stopped at the edge of the water and shook, sending out droplets like a sprinkler. She put on a brown suede vest that was laced together in the front, and straighten up the collar so it stuck up in the back like a 1950s leather jacket. She had strawberry blonde hair in bangs.
Teonova pointed a mechanical finger at Stoner Doll.
“Aren’t you running a little late on the messiah project? You promised completion by the end of last week.”
Stoner Doll gritted her teeth and stepped backward.
“Ah, yeah, well…there were complications.”
Teonova grabbed Stoner Doll’s shirt and pulled her face-to-face and said, “Feces.” She released Stoner Doll and continued, “Tell me about the new girl.”
“Oh,” said Stoner Doll, “We picked her up off the Liberty server.”
“Hey, I haven’t agreed to anything,” I protested.
“Does she show promise?” said Teonova.
In a sexy voice, Stoner Doll said, “Absolutely.”
Teonova wrapped a cape over her shoulders and said, “Call a sit-down. I need progress reports.” She poked a mechanical finger in my chest and added, “I expect you to be there.”
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Eight candlelit chandeliers hung in a circle from the ceiling. Soft white walls were decorated with gilded ornamental molding that framed renaissance paintings that were rich with life-like biblical images. A grand fireplace crackled with burning wood. At the far end a white harpsichord with black keys, detailed in gold, sat in a bay window. Eternal Sin sat at the instrument playing a baroque sonata as she hummed an aria.
I waited in silence as Teonova spoke to Mathius. They were seated at the front of a Queen Ann table that was pickled white. He turned and looked at me, winked, and then continued his conversation with her. Eternal Sin pulled her hands away from the keys and stared out of the window.
“Alright, let’s get started,” called out Teonova.
The team took seats around the table. I took a place at the far end. It felt secluded. For some reason that gave me comfort. Perhaps, by being somewhat isolated I didn’t feel as much pressure.
“Let’s address Black Candy first,” said Teonova. Everyone stared at me as she spoke. “Have you made your decision?”
“I’m dead if I don’t join, right?” I said.
“Probably not. I could make you Mathius’s bitch or something. He’d like that,” said Teonova. “However, given what I’ve been told about your abilities, it would be in your interests to join our syndicate as a team member.”
I looked down at my lap and said, “I entered The Game to serve out my time. I was hoping to redeem myself, to become a hero.”
“Here you can be a real hero. Wouldn’t you rather uproot corruption at its source than parade around like a petulant child trying to look big?” said Teonova.
It was a painful question for me. I wanted to be important, for people to look at me with respect, and perhaps even adulation. Regardless of my good deeds, if I joined this syndicate, I’d never be that person.
“Riff Raff was a high-ranking official in the State Department. She entered our ranks when she realized the depths of corruption in the capital,” said Stoner Doll.
“What difference do you think you can make?” I asked. “You’re talking about taking on the entire power structure of the federal government and financial elite. It's fantasy at best to believe the few people you assassinate will make a dent in their corruption.”
“That’s not true,” said Teonova.
“What?!?!”
“No individual is safe from our wrath. Every one of them is in The Game. All we have to do is find them. Numbers are not important.”
I waved my hands in the air and said with vehemence, “You’re talking about using the threat of murder to enforce your will on the political system. That’s terrorism. It’s wrong.”
“With theological certitude, you assert apriori that those who have divergent convictions to yours are by default morally sterile,” said Mathius.
“Where’d you find this guy?” I said somewhat befuddled at his word selection.
“Mathius was a doctor in real life,” said Eternal Sin.
“Sawbones, head shrinker, or egghead?” I asked.
“Egghead,” said Teonova.
“What’s he in for?”
Embezzlement,” said Teonova.
“Terrorist…freedom fighter, it all depends on which side you’re on,” said Stoner Doll.
“Mathius told me you didn’t hesitate to kill when you saw what they were doing to those children,” said Teonova. “Even if we don’t beat the power structure, we can still bring some justice into a failing system.”
“So, in your minds even if the battle is futile, it’s justified if we can hold just a few people accountable for their actions,” I said.
“Exactly,” replied Teonova with a feral smile.
“That doesn’t work for me,” I said. “I’m risking real-world death without any recognition from those who I save. My actions will be labeled as terrorism. I won’t even be an anti-hero. Can’t you just transfer me back to the criminal justice server?”
“No, we can’t risk it,” said Eternal Sin. “Should they find out you were among us, they’d bleed you until you told them everything about us.”
Teonova folded her hands and said, “Don’t be superficial. You can climb the ranks within this syndicate and garner standing among our community, among men and women of a higher order. Status among the masses is a fleeting reward, but among the elite, it is something you carry with you throughout life. As an inmate in The Game, you’re a small part of nothing. In this syndicate, you’ll be a big part of something huge. There, you kill other convicts who respawn. Here, you’ll terminate billionaire criminals in real life.”
“Vigilantes in the cause of justice,” I mumbled. “So, you see yourselves as heroes taking out societies’ filth one by one.”
Everyone laughed at me.
“You find that funny?” I asked.
“No matter how you slice it, we’re still murders,” said Stoner Doll. “There’s no criminal trial, no rights of the accused, no due process.”
“Without civil protections for the accused, there’s no justice,” added Eternal Sin.
“The presumption is that by being compliant with our tenets you have already relinquished your moral disposition,” said Mathius.
“Because we operate outside the legitimate authority structure, at any given moment we could be forced to atone for our sins,” said Stoner Doll.
Eternal Sin shook her head and looked at me with disapproval. “For some reason, they all believe in you, but I think you’re a pussy and you don’t have what it takes to be part of our syndicate. You live in a dream world.”
“You sound just like my uncle,” I said.
“I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Saying yes means your real life is on the line,” said Teonova.
After thinking for a moment I said. “Will I ever get out of The Game?”
“Yes, when the criminal justice system releases you,” said Stoner Doll. “Something to consider, you’ll be back in The Game either way. In the next decade, real life will become obsolete. Once you join us, you’ll always have a family to come home to.”
Stoner Doll’s words rung with truth. Eventually, I’d be back in The Game in some capacity. On the criminal justice servers, I was just another player among billions of others. I wanted to build an empire, but that was a dream that seemed impossible following the conventional path. Here, I had a chance to become some special, even if it was notorious.”
I started to tell them I was in, but I caught myself and challenged them, “I’m calling you out on your bullshit. None of you are doing this solely for justice. There has to be more in it for you.”
“Oh, you’re good,” said Teonova.
“Wow, I’m impressed,” said Stoner Doll. “You can’t live on ideals.”
“In the real world, money had lost most of its value,” said Stoner Doll. “However, it’s essential in this simulation. An economic system has been developed that determines the quality of your life in The Game. Sure, we believe in the cause, but there was no need to suffer without reward.”
“Alright, I’m on board,” I said.
Eternal Sin’s eyebrows raised as she commented, “You do realize you’ll be vilified? The odds are you won’t go down in the history books as a hero.”
“That’s okay. There’s more to prestige than popularity,” I replied.
Eternal Sin shook her head. “Hum.”
“Alright, it’s decided then,” said Teonova. “Welcome to the syndicate. Your life is about to change like you cannot imagine.” She nodded to Eternal Sin. “Black Candy is your ward now.”
“Right,” said Eternal Sin.
Why did it have to be her? She hated my guts. She’d look for any excuse, any mistake, to torment me. I was screwed.
141Please respect copyright.PENANAexqaPijPcN
Chapter 11
141Please respect copyright.PENANAqYZCSWmkWu
Mathius, Stoner Doll, and Eternal Sin passed me in the hallway.
Mathius waved to me and said, “Catch you later, sunshine.”
“Let’s take Black Candy with us. She could use the experience,” said Stoner Doll.
“We can always use her as bate,” said Eternal Sin. “That way she won’t be entirely useless.”
“Why are you always messing with me?” I replied.
“We’re tracking a top oligarch. He has a deadly power set, enhanced to the hilt, and he’s surrounded by a crew of battle-hardened players,” said Eternal Sin.
“We’re planning on hitting him deep on his home turf,” said Stoner Doll.
“The City Center is heavily guarded, and we can’t send Riff Raff. They know what she looks like,” said Eternal Sin.
“Why doesn’t she just change her look?” I asked.
“It won’t work. Once you’re on this server your toon is hardcoded into the operating system. It’s like a mac address. Every one of our toons has a unique identifier that allows us to know who is who. It stops us from getting hacked. It also identifies us as outsiders. It’s a risk we individually take for the security of the movement,” said Eternal Sin.
“I haven’t been identified yet. So, I’m not on any wanted posters, and neither are you,” said Stoner Doll with a smile.
“I’m ready for this,” I said.
“I doubt it,” said Eternal Sin.
“Why would you say that? I’m a master at The Game,” I objected.
“You’re not ready to take life in the real world.”
“I killed that girl without thinking twice,” I said.
“And how will you react knowing that your next kill might not be a rapist or a child molester? Will you be able to kill then? Can you take life on orders alone?” said Stoner Doll.
I didn’t know. I struggled with the notion of taking a life without a fair trial, without the assumption of innocence, only on the word of my superiors.
“Sometimes it is necessary to set aside our emotions and act with detachment,” I said.
Teonova walked up to the group. She’d been eavesdropping on the conversation. “I admire your tenacity, Black Candy.”
“Alright, let’s get this party rolling,” said Stoner Doll.
“Let’s change the plan,” said Teonova. “Mathius, you and the girls focus your attention on the guards. Get them distracted so Black Candy can get the captain alone. Kid, you’re taking on Klink alone once he’s isolated.”
Eternal Sin raised an eyebrow as she spoke, “You’re giving this to the kid?”
“Yes,” said Teonova with a tiny grin curling the ends of her lips upwards.
“I was made for this moment,” I said with pride.
“If you can’t handle it, we have a nice casket waiting for you,” said Eternal Sin.
I had so much to prove.
We stood in the middle of a busy courtyard the size and proportions of a football field. We were surrounded by roman style arched walls standing three stories tall with windows and muttons. In front of us was an arched top glass arcade that stood twenty feet above the walls.
Stoner Doll put her arm around me and said, “Did you memorize Klink’s face?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“You should know a little about Eternal Sin’s background. It will help you work with her. She was one of the young girls kidnapped by the State for sexual exploitation. She’s been through things no human should have to endure. Given her history, It’s kind of expected for her to be a little on the dark side. But, instead of turning into a monster, she chose to join us and fight against the oligarchs, to save the children she lived among. By the time she was old enough to become part of our insurgency, most of her childhood companions had died.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get the lecture,” I said with annoyance. “You’re saying I have a lot to learn.”
“Listen to you and your big talk,” she replied. “If you return from this mission...”
“What do you mean if?” I interrupted. “I’ve got all sorts of experience playing this game.”
“Experience may be your best teacher, but it’s also the most expensive,” replied Stoner Doll. “Are you ready to pay that price?”
The monorail stopped and we boarded it. As we approached downtown, the tower of the oligarchs appeared to grow taller and taller.
Teonova’s voice came in over the team chat channel, “Keep this channel clear. Eternal Sin has eyes on Klink. He’s in Cyberpunk Chinatown.”
Cyberpunk Chinatown was a few streets over from the oligarch’s tower. It was a known hangout of the city guard. I also had the nickname, Neon City. At street level, shops and stores advertised their names with neon lights shaped in Chinese characters. Above, the skyscrapers acted like giant televisions, displaying a stream of advertising featuring Asian people and oriental imagery.
I watched the image of a school of giant koi swim across the buildings as the monorail came to a stop. Over the rattle of the wheels riding across the track, a thin, non-resonant female voice sang in falsetto accompanied by a twangy, Chinese guitar.
Teonova’s voice crackled on the team chat, “Mathius, take Eternal Sin and Stoner Doll. Set up the diversion just off of the strip club at the corner of Ming and Western. Make it sexual.”
A look of disgust crossed Mathius’s face. Eternal Sin smiled and Stoner Doll’s eyes widened. They both looked please with their mission roles.
“Black Candy, Klink won’t be interested in their sexual display. They look too old. You should be able to lure him into the alley on the far side of the building,” said Teonova. “Play it up. Act like you’re in grade school.”
I found it disturbing in the most fundamental way. I wasn’t much of an actor, but I’d taken a class in method acting back in high school. They taught the most convincing performance was where you tapped into your real emotions. I had nothing that resembled the sexual attraction a pre-pubescent girl could have for a middle-aged pedophile. I wanted to cut this bastard’s living heart out.
We separated after we left the monorail. I stopped in front of the alley. I could see Mathius on the far side of the building. His head stood above the crowd of toons that inhabited the streets.
A fat, ugly man stopped in front of me.
“Aren’t you pretty,” he said in a melancholy voice. “Are you a little girl in real life?”
He wasn’t the target, but I had the urge to run my sword through his eye socket.
“I’m a fifty-year-old male in real life,” I said.
“Huh, you’re not going to get much business with that sales pitch,” he said as he walked away in a huff.
Tenova’s voice came through the channel, “Klink’s coming your way. It’s time to go live.”
I looked down the street towards Mathius. Klink, A tall, muscular man in plate armor moved down the sidewalk with confidence. His left eye was a glowing red android prosthetic, and his other eye was a gaping hole with a four-pointed star tattoo surrounding it. Two guards followed him around the corner. Eternal Sin and Stoner Doller were turning on the charm. I couldn’t hear them, but they were pulling open their blouses and exposing a lot of skin. One of the guards took more of an interest in Mathius. Klink was indifferent.
I stepped out and looked directly at Klink, stuck a finger in my mouth, and sucked on it like a lollypop. That caught his attention. The smile on his face made me sick, but I kept up the act. I looked down at his groining, raised my eyes back up, and made a pouty face. The swine marched towards me with a broad grin.
“Well, young lady, do you have a special treat for me,” said Klink as he stared between my legs.
I puffed my lower lip out and nodded my head.
He fucking rubbed his junk right in front of me. Right there, on the street, he was fondling himself. I couldn’t talk. I gave him a girlish grin and motioned him to follow me into the alley with a finger.
“He started to follow, but he stopped and demanded, “How much is this going to cost?”
“Ten thousand influence,” I squeaked out.
“Ten thousand influence,” he stammered. “Do you know how many toons I have to kill to earn that kind of money?”
I turned in profile to him and spanked myself on the bottom.
“It will be worth every penny,” I said.
He was sweating and aroused.
“Alright, let’s do this,” he said.
“Half upfront,” I said.
A transfer window popped up with five thousand in it. After I clicked on accept, I took him by the hand and lead him into the alley. We walked back behind a dumpster filled with trash, out of view.
“Please, pull your pants down and sit,” I said.
Klink undid his belt buckle, dropped his pants, and sat on the filthy asphalt.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “I have a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you.”
“Is that so?”
I mentally noted that we were hidden from the view of the foot traffic on the street.
“I’ve been a very, very bad girl.”
“Are you ready for your punishment,” he said.
I looked at my feet and tried to blush.
“Alright, don’t fuck this up,” I thought to myself.
I dropped to my knees and begged, “Please, sir, discipline me.”
“Augh,” he said with excitation as he ran a hand through his greasy hair. “I’m going to have to paddle your bottom.”
I placed a hand on my blaster’s pistol grip, gritted my teeth, and blurted out, “You fucking pervert.”
He saw me reach for the blaster, drew his blade, and welded it in my direction. The blade cut through my blouse and kicked my breasts. My skin felt wet, and I knew I was cut. I’d jumped backward in time. Otherwise, his sword would have chopped me in half.
After his blade passed me, I pulled the trigger and a pure white electron beam severed the artery on his inner thigh next to the groin.
“That was quick, kid. I never expect a street whore like you to take me down,” he said as he fell to his face, dead.
Blood poured out of his armor. Most people would have taken a chest shot, but the particle beam would have bounded off his breastplate. With his pants down, he was vulnerable. My body jittered with nervous energy and my hand trembled. I’d just killed a man. I did it on the word of Teonova. My heart raced. I felt remorse, murder’s remorse. I didn’t know what to think, but I wrestled with my feelings. I’d have to learn to live with taking life without the approval of the governmental institutions that gave us permission to do so. What I did was raw, without societal validation, with no one else to bear the weight of the decision. It didn’t matter that Teonova sanctioned his death. She had no legitimate authority to order his execution. I knew that before I took his life.
My footsteps were heavy. I walked away from his body. After I turned the corner of the dumpster, I stopped and compressed the cut across my chest to stop the bleeding. In any other zone in The Game, I’d have taken an emerald pill and healed on the spot. But this was Satan’s Condom. None of that stuff worked here. The injuries were real life, and so were the deaths.
I heard an “augh,” turned, and saw him bearing down on me. He raised his sword and swung it, trying to decapitate my head. I jumped back and deflected his blade with my blaster. The force of the impact knocked me into the wall, and I dropped my weapon. I slide down and sat flat on my butt.
“You should have finished the job while I was out, in shock. No snot-nosed brat like you is going to kill me,” he said with excitement.
He knocked the blaster away with his sword, out of reach.
In a surprisingly calm voice, he said, “You’re no street urchin. I’ll bet you’re one of the terrorists that haunt this city. You can’t win. The strong will always rule this world, kid.”
“You sick degenerate,” I cried out.
I drew my arming sword and leaped at him. Our blades clashed, parrying each other’s steel. His powerful arms drove me backward.
“Who put the hit on me?” he demanded. “Was it that whore that runs the insurgency?”
My face turned sour.
“Ah, I guessed right,” he said. “I’m going to kill that cunt. I’ll hunt her down like a dog, rape her, and then I’ll bring her friends and family up on charges of sedition. I’ll personally execute each one of them while she watches.”
He was nothing more than a garden variety bully throwing his weight around. He had no real skill in The Game. It was obvious by his sword technique someone had power-leveled his toon for him. As he made his next attack, I slide sideways allowing his weight to drive the blade past mine and into the ground. That’s when I shoved my sword into his chin and up through the skull, severing the frontal cortex of his brain. He dropped forward onto my blade. This time I checked the pulse in his neck to be sure he was gone. I felt his jugular vein throb a couple of times, and then nothing.
I ran out into the street just in time to see Mathius wrap his arms around one of the guard’s neck and run a dagger through his heart. Eternal Sin and Stoner Doll were busy chopping the other guard into quarters.
Stoner Doll saw me and raised her thumb. I replied likewise.
“Mission complete,” said Stoner Doll over the chat channel.
“Evacuate, now,” said Teonova. “I have incoming unfriendlies sixty seconds out.”
I stood in the antechamber before Teonova. Eternal Sin and Stoner Doll were at my side. The place was filled with toons, all standing in neat rows on either side of the room. Each toon wore a belt around their waist: white, blue, purple, brown, and black. Teonova wrapped a blue karate-style belt around my body.
“You took out Klink with minimal injuries to yourself. I’m impressed,” said Teonova. “Our syndicate is a meritocracy, and I’m promoting you to blue belt. Wear your belt at all formal functions.”
I looked at Eternal Sin and quipped, “Exactly as I said I would.”
“I know. I’m so happy you weren’t badly hurt,” said Eternal Sin.
She opened my shirt and looked at my laceration.
“Make sure you treat this. On this server, you can get infections from wounds.”
She kissed my cheek and I turned slightly red with embarrassment.
“The first mission has the highest death rate,” added Stoner Doll. “It’s an emotionally intense moment for us.”
“We expect you to live up to that rank,” said Teonova.
“I will,” I said. I looked at Eternal Sin. “I’m sorry I misunderstood you at first.”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” she replied.
Stoner Doll opened my shirt. “That scar is sexy.”
“Hey,” I said as I pulled away.
“Stoner Doll will be the lead on your next assignment,” said Teonova.
“I have high expectations for you,” said Stoner Doll with her sexist voice.
Oh, God, I could just tell things were going to get worse.
“And spend some time training with Mathius,” said Teonova.
“Yep, things were definitely going to get worse.”
141Please respect copyright.PENANAxptzKrmcY5
Chapter 12
141Please respect copyright.PENANA3eppUVDl2S
I followed up on Teonova’s orders and joined Mathius for a training exercise. He was going through some of the finer points of powerset enhancements when a buzz cut through my hearing, annnnt.
Tenova’s voice blared on the chat channel. “How many intruders are there?”
“I’m guessing eight to ten,” said Eternal Sin.
“Should we assume they’re oligarch assassins?” asked Tenova.
“It looks that way,” came Riff Raff’s voice through the intercom.
“Location,” said Teonova.
“They’ve entered the first floor,” said Eternal Sin.
“Don’t let them leave here alive,” commanded Tenova.
Mathius tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Sugarplum, you’re still a little green, so remain in my proximity. Place the locus of your attention of the exigent circumstances, and measure the gravity of the situation.”
“Right,” I replied.
“And the second thing is, call me handsome.”
“Handsome? What?”
“Now we’re talking,” he said.
With a thud and a puff of smoke, he transformed his toon into a gargantuan man in briefs underwear and iron boots.
I shook my head.
“This scares the hell out of my opponents,” said Mathius.
“It ain’t doing me any favors.”
He flexed his biceps in a raised arm bodybuilder pose and said, “Soon, you will be cognizant of my preeminent proficiencies. Let us proceed forthwith.”
The muffled crack of gunfire broke the air. The blast caused a couple of the first-floor windows to flex in and out. That was good news. The concussion from large ordinance would have shattered the glass.
“Play meticulous attention,” insisted Mathius. “This is going to get sticky.”
We jogged to a back entrance and entered the building. Riff Raff was facing off against three toons.
One of the intruders cried out, “I recognize her face from the wanted poster.”
“She’s a sexy little thing,” said one of his comrades. “Hopefully, we’ll have time to have a party with her dead body.”
“Let’s not kill her until after we’ve all had our turns with her,” said another.
Rif Raff’s sword slashed one of their throats so fast I didn’t even see her draw it.
The third toon watched his friend fall, and then he raised his blade and shouted, “I’m going to bleed you real slow for that.”
Riff Raff nicked him with her blade. Tribal tattoos multiplied across his body. From just a small cut, he fell to the ground, convulsed, with drool draining from his mouth. She was using a poison-tipped sword.
The remaining man sprayed the walls with bullets. I started to jump into the fray, but Mathius grabbed my arm and shook his head. The man was a good fifty feet from me. I heard a sharp crack, followed by a muzzle blast. His head vanished as a sniper round struck his skull. The bullet continued down the hallway and it sped past my face with a wiz.
Everything around me can to a stop. Tenova stepped out into the hallway.
“Your assessment,” she demanded.
“Of what? I’m kind of lost here,” I said.
“You’re in a simulation. I want a complete assessment of everything you just saw,” said Teonova.
“Well, Mathius really should put on some clothes,” I replied. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
Mathius snapped my ear and said, “Don’t be impudent.”
“Alright,” I said. “I think your simulation sucks. Assassins don’t talk that way. There’s no way eight intruders would have made it into the building before you picked them up on security surveillance. And even if they did, where’s your internal armament? These walls should be lined with high-powered ordnance. Hidden fortification is built into the core code of the simulation. Why aren’t there base defenses?”
“Huh,” said Teonova.
She turned and walked away.
I looked at Mathius and said, “How’d I do?”
He looked at me with irritation, and then pranced his way back outside.
I stood there perplexed. This syndicate may have been a force for justice, but it was filled with head cases. It was like they resented the notion of mental health. I needed someone to confide in, to help me organize my thoughts. After seeing Eternal Sin’s human side, I thought that connecting with her might help.
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Eternal Sin’s room was on the twenty-fifth floor. It was a large building, and it took me ten minutes to get there. I knocked on the door and waited. Again, I knocked and waited. Stoner Doll’s room was next door, and she must have heard the knocking. She stepped out into the hallway and approached me.
“Is something wrong?” said Stoner Doll.
“I need to talk with Eternal Sin, but she isn’t answering her door,” I said.
Stoner Doll chuckled, “Sin likes to sleep in late.”
“Really?” I said.
“Go on in and wake her up,” said Stoner Doll as she opened the door for me.
“Are you kidding me?” I said.
“We all have to wake her up from time to time. She expects it.”
I stepped into the room and called out, “Sin, are you awake?”
She was in the process of hooking her bra behind her back. She spun around, red-faced, and screamed at me.
“You disgusting pervert. You barged in here just to see me naked.”
“I swear I didn’t mean to…”
“Get out,” she demanded. “Augh!!!”
I ran into the hallway. Stoner Doll was leaning against the wall, laughing like there was no tomorrow. I stormed off, fit to be tied. This was an assassin’s guild with a twisted sense of humor.
I spent the rest of the day alone. I’d like to think it was by choice, but somehow I got the feeling that my experiences in this syndicate were scripted. I thought about my mom. True, we had separated on bad terms, but she was still my mom and I wanted to connect with her. I wanted to let her know I was alright, and that I was doing something positive with my life. I thought about what I would say to her if we talked. Would she believe that I was fighting for justice? Did she miss me? I needed to tell her I was sorry for all that I put her through.
This syndicate had to have contacts in the real world. There must have been some way to access the Internet. I walked down to Teonova’s office. She was sitting at her desk.
“We have to talk,” I said.
“Please, come in and have a seat,” she replied. “What’s on your mind?”
“I need to connect with my mom.”
“Oh, does she play The Game?” asked Teonova.
“I doubt it. I was hoping there was some why I could call her, or even just send her an email,” I said.
“That’s a difficult request,” she said.
“But it’s possible?”
“Of course,” said Teonova. “Technically, it’s a minor issue. It is, however, filled with potentially severe emotional consequences.”
“How’s it any different than when an inmate calls home from prison?”
“The Game is an emotional whipping post. It’s designed to break down the strongest men and women. Even on our dark web server, players such as yourself experience severe emotional degradation. Connecting to family and friends can amplify your sense of disconnection,” she said. “What is it you want to say to your mom?”
“I guess I need to apologize to her. I’ve caused her a lot of hardship,” I said.
“I’ll give you access to the Internet. However, I want to warn you that it’s best to detach yourself from all previous life. Once you’ve made amends, let the past go,” she advised.
Teonova took me to a room that resembled a library with computer terminals, only it was more gothic in appearance than a modern library. She walked me to one of the computer stations.
“You can connect with your mom from here. This location has full phone service and Internet access,” she said. “Come see me after you’re finished.”
I sat alone for the better part of an hour thinking about my exact words. Over and over I played the conversation in my mind. I wanted it to be as upbeat as possible. I tried to think through every possible positive spin I could put on my situation and my life. I wanted to leave her with hope. Also, I wanted to leave myself with the possibility that I could reconnect with mom once I was out of this nightmare. I knew that I could fix our relationship.
The terminal was easy to use. There was a phone application. I dialed her number. It rang exactly three times before I got the message, “This number has been disconnected.” I tried a few more times hoping I’d just entered the number wrong. I got the same answer each time I called. I felt a little bit of panic, but it actually made sense. Given what I’d put her through, she probably needed to make a fresh start, to regroup. It would be reasonable for her to move to a new place, to get away from the bad memories. Or, she could have purchased a new phone and didn’t want to transfer the number. It didn’t matter. I was good at finding things on the Internet, and I would find her.
I didn’t know either her work or personal email address. I felt rather ashamed that I’d never sent her an email. I had reservations about sending her a communication of this nature to her work. Network administrators could see everything, and I didn’t want to embarrass her. I did a few searches to see if she had moved. Sure enough, the house had been sold. After a dozen more searches, I didn’t find her name on any new address listing. I checked all the social media sites. She was on one of them, but her account was inactive. Okay, I was striking out. I didn’t want to do it, but I called Uncle Ted. He was such a hard-on. I’d have to listen to an hour-long lecture just to get her new contact information, but it was worth it. I’d bite my tongue and listen to him rave at me, agree with all of his put-downs, and promise him I’d repent. It would be a one-way conversation, but in the end, I’d do whatever it took to just hear her voice.
I had to call him several times before he answered. I’m sure he read his caller ID and brushed my calls off as spam. Finally, I heard his voice.
“Hello,”
“Uncle Ted, it’s Carl,” I said.
I was greeted with silence. I didn’t expect the silent treatment from him. That was out of character.
I continued, “Uncle Ted, I know it’s asking a lot, but I need to call my mom. Before you say anything, I going to apologize to her for all the trouble I’ve caused her. She needs to know it wasn’t her fault how I turned out, and I want to tell her how much I miss her. I need to tell her she was a great mom,” I said.
The line remained silent.
“Ted, please, I’m begging you. I want to make things right.”
“Your mother hung herself when she found out you were sent to prison. She blamed herself,” he said in a choked voice.
I became so light-headed I almost fell out of the chair. I couldn’t talk. My eyes flooded with tears, and my entire body trembled.
“Don’t ever call me again,” were Ted’s last words to me.
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Teonova found me sitting on the floor, curled up in a ball, in the corner of the library. She put her arm around my shoulders and said, “My real name is Jacoba. What’s yours?”
I whimpered out, “Carl.”
“Carl, I’m going to run a section of code that puts you to sleep. Do you understand? I can’t expose you to gameplay in your current state,” she said.
I didn’t look at her. I closed my eyes and pursed my lips in acknowledgment. And then darkness fell.
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I woke up emotionally numb in a rather regal bedroom. I should have noticed the carved wood wainscoting, the rich tapestries, and paintings that hung on the walls. I should have been devastated over the loss of my mom. Yet, my mind was blank.
I walked out into the hall, took the elevator to the first floor, and walked into the gathering lounge.
“There he is,” said Stoner Doll.
“How are you feeling?” asked Eternal Sin.
“I’m alright,” I said.
I took a seat next to Teonova. She looked me over as if inspecting me.
“Why don’t I feel anything?” I asked her.
“I’m running a sub-routine that blocks emotional responses. You’ll experience emotions as it gradually tapers you back to normal,” said Teonova.
“Why?” I asked.
“It reduces the instantaneous shock you feel and spreads it over a longer period,” she said.
“I want to feel my pain,” I said.
“You need to live through your grief, but I can’t let anyone’s personal feelings jeopardize others or our overall mission,” said Teonova. “Right now we have to focus on the next target. Afterward, you will have time to address your emotional needs.”
I nodded in agreement. I understood her position. Regardless of my personal needs, there were greater issues at hand, and I had to put my needs aside for the moment.
“Alright, pay attention,” announced Teonova.
All casual conversation came to a halt.
“We’re going to hit the City Center Vault,” said Teonova.
“Oh, my,” said Mathius.
It was the first time I’d seen genuine concern from Stoner Doll. Instead of her usual glib reaction, she froze in place with the look of desperation etched on her face.
“Normally, for an operation of this scale, we’d run simulations until everyone was blue in the face,” said Teonova. “However, that’s not possible.”
“Why,” asked Eternal Sin.
“There are security concerns,” replied Teonova.
A cold chill ran through everybody in the room. “Security concerns” meant there could be an informant within our ranks. Everyone’s real-world lives were at risk. I don’t think anyone wanted to believe one of their friends and allies could be a traitor. Even though the code was suppressing my emotions, I felt a shiver of betrayal.
Teonova held a finger to an ear. Her face went blank. After she lowered her hand, a toon pushed in a cart filled with briefcases. After the toon left, Teonova picked up one of the briefcases and opened it. Inside was a band with a single can-shaped grenade attached.
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We entered the City Center on separate routes. I took the monorail. Somewhere deep in my neurology, underneath the code that blocked my emotional brain, lurked a nervous child that wanted to escape. It was like a kid hiding under the blanket so the monsters in the closet wouldn’t see him.
I held the briefcase in my lap. I could have set it down and relaxed my grip, but too much was at stake to even take the minor risk that I might forget to pick it up when I got off the tram. When the monorail reached the City Center station, I got off and walked to a coffee shop across from the Vault.
Stoner Doll was sitting at a booth having a coffee. Unless you were looking, you’d have never seen the minor tremors in her hands. I joined her.
“You look a little on edge,” I said.
“I’ve had five pots of coffee,” she replied.
A waitress came to the table and asked in a Boston accent, “Can I take your order?”
The waitress was a citizen. The writers of this simulation captured every detail of real life, even the regional accents and improper use of English.
“I’ll have a cola.”
We sat without saying a word until after the waitress served me the drink. I took a sip through a straw. The cola was filled with carbonation and went down my throat with a slight burn.
“What will you do with yourself once you’ve served out your time in the Game,” I asked Stoner Doll.
“It’s something we all think about,” she said. “Obviously, I’ll come back in. There’s nothing left for me in the real world. Plus, I have a good sum of influence stashed away. I’ll be able to live high on the hog once I’m free of the judicial system. You?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
As I watched out of the window, I saw Eternal Sin, Teonova, and Mathius enter the Vault.
“There’s my queue,” said Stoner Doll as she stood up. She took her briefcase in hand and left the coffee shop.
Moments later, the report of gunfire erupted, and an alarm bell clattered from across the street. Citizens ran around in panic. I got up walked over to the exit. While standing just outside the doorway, I put on a pair of little, round sunglasses. The thump of helicopters and the wail of sirens pierced the air. I nonchalantly looked up. Heroes were flying side-by-side with the aircraft. Pandemonium filled the streets as citizens were caught in a loop of code that invoked panic. SWAT trucks and police cars blocked off both ends of the block. Vans filled with newscasters stopped at the blockades, and crews of reporters with cameras jumped out and began filming. Sharpshooters appeared along rooftops and leaned out of windows. Hundreds of toons floated down from the sky and lined the street with their weapons pointing at the Vault. A toon dressed in gladiator armor sauntered out of the blockade as if he were on his way to Sunday service, indifferent to the chaos around him. That was my man.
A gaggle of toons follow the gladiator as he approached the Vault. Behind them, military assault vehicles followed, with twenty-millimeter mini-guns mounted on their tops. When they came within twenty yards of the Vault’s entrance, a megaphone called out, “That’s close enough.” They stopped.
That was my queue. I moved towards the gladiator and stopped in front of him.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the situation,” I said.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m the negotiator.”
“We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“Yes you do,” I said. “Come with me. You need to see firsthand what’s on the line here.”
He and I entered the Vault. The interior looked like a medieval war zone. Ravaged bodies and severed limbs covered the floor. Blast burns marked the walls, and broken glass covered everything. Riff Raff stood in the middle of the floor holding a spring-loaded trigger mechanism. Mathius and Eternal Sin were busy welding one-inch steel plates over the external windows. Five hostages lie face down on the floor, arms cable-tied behind their backs. Nylon bands holding the can-shaped grenades were duct-taped around their chests, and each hostage was wearing a dog collar that flashed with a green light on the front. Teonova and Stoner Doll stood behind the teller window looking as if they were attending a Halloween fashion show carrying futuristic ray guns. If I’d had a sense of humor at that point, I would have laughed.
“How are we doing?” I said.
Teonova stuck her thumb in the air.
Riff Raff picked up a whimpering woman by the collar. “We’re all set.”
I said to the gladiator, “Let’s step outside and talk.”
The heroes pressed forwards as we stepped outside. The gladiator waved them back.
“Let’s get a coffee,” I said.
I was fully expecting him to make all the classic threats, telling me how we were all dead, and did I know who I was messing with. Instead, the gladiator remained quiet. I knew his type. He was a thinker, a chess player, watching, assessing the situation.
The coffee shop was somehow outside the emergency code loop, and the waitress came and took our order as if it was just another day.
“What would you boys like,” she said in her stereotypical, nasal, Boston intonation.
“I’ll have another cola,” I said.
The gladiator waved her off.
“Right now, across the Internet, every channel and website is carrying this story live,” I said.
A subordinate who looked more like an accountant than a superhero ran into the café and interrupted our conversation. “Everyone’s in place.”
“Hold off. Tell everyone to hold their positions,” commanded the gladiator.
The assistant rushed outside shouting orders, “Hold your positions, hold your positions.”
“We can’t negotiate with terrorists. I assumed you'd be aware of that,” said the gladiator.
“Just listen,” I said. “We have five VIP hostages. Four have fragment grenades taped to their bodies. One of them has been wrapped with a Hawking device.”
I paused to let that statement take effect. He hide his panic well, but I could see his skin turn pale and his pupils dilate.
A Hawking device was a primordial black hole suspended in a quantum envelope. A triggering mechanism would disrupt the envelope, and the black hole would be released. The event horizon would be about the size of a basketball. All matter that existed in that space would disappear into the black hole, and then it would explode, releasing a blast of Hawking radiation, a high-intensity thermal explosion. Of course, in the real world, it was science fiction fantasy, but in The Game, it was a scientific fact.
“That technology has been banned from The Game,” said the gladiator. “The potential for cascading effects could ripple across every server on the planet. You’re risking a complete reset of half of the computers on the entire planet. Do you know how many people could die in the real world if you set it off?”
“That’s on you,” I said. “Not one of your NATO allies will back you if you botch this. Nations will go to war, the East versus the West, Africa against the Middle East. All of it is on you. Trust me, you do negotiate with terrorists.”
“What is it you want?” he asked.
“The security code to the Vault,” I said.
“That’s not possible.”
“You’re calling our bluff, aren’t you,” I said.
“Yes. If you detonate it you’re dead too,” he added.
I took a drink of my cola and said, “It’s funny how little things mean so much in times like this.”
I walked out of the coffee shop, paraded across the street, and entered the Vault.
“Which one has the Hawking device?” I asked.
“The whinny female toon in the anime outfit. That’s Oscar Woods in real life. He’s the Chair of the Board that overlooks all the private finances of the degenerate wealthy,” said Teonova.
”Give me his detonator,” I said.
“What are you doing?” asked Teonova. “This is not in the mission profile.”
“The gladiator claims he’s calling our bluff. I think he’s bluffing.”
“Okay, said Teonova. “Give him the trigger.”
Riff Raff handed me a triggering device. I took Oscar by the collar and placed my hand between his back and my stomach so that a sniper couldn’t shoot it out of my hand. I held her tight against my body and walked into the street.
A ring of firearms and blaster guns were leveled at my head. The gladiator held a hand up and called out, “Hold your fire.”
“My thumb’s holding down the trigger. If you shoot me, it detonates,” I said.
The gladiator held his arms up and waved off the heroes a second time.
“The security code,” I demanded.
“It’s not happening,” he countered.
I scrunched my face together preparing for the explosion and said, “Alright.”
“Wait, wait,” he yelled. “I’ll get it from the Board of Directors.”
“You’ve got thirty seconds,” I said.
His face went blank. Twenty seconds later, he returned and said, “Okay, I’ve got it.”
“Transmit,” I told him.
A trade window popped up with a long prefix code in the message box. I selected accept, and then I backed into the Vault.
“Did you get it?” asked Stoner Doll.
“Yeah,” I said as I sent her a trade request.
She accepted the trade with a grin. “Oh my god, I can’t believe we have it.”
“Quick, get to work,” said Teonova.
I followed Teonova, Riff Raff, Stoner Doll, Eternal Sin, and Mathius as they moved behind the teller stations and ran down a long hallway. At the back was a thirty-foot tall, round vault door made of polished steel. Stoner entered the code and the vault door opened with a massive thunk. It was at least two yards thick of solid, ordinance-grade steel armor. It was like the blast door of a nuclear silo.
“Get inside,” I said.
“What?” said Teonova.
“Everyone, get inside. I’ll close the door. You have the release code,” I said.
“What are you going to do?” asked Stoner Doll with an element of fear on her face.
“You need time to hack into their database. I’m going to hold them off,” I said. “If for some reason they get past me, you can complete the mission. Nothing can get through that door.”
“You’ll come back, and join us, right,” said Eternal sin.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Okay, close the door,” said Teonova.
When the door closed, I had one of my rare philosophical moments. I knew the team. Everyone had a romantic notion that they would hack the databases, dump the information onto the Internet, and then escape in a blaze of gunfire. When I saw the gladiator, I knew that was fantasy. He would capture the entire team, torture them until they went insane, and parade them around for the public to see as an example of what happens to those who buck the system. The data we released would be blocked or disregarded as lies, conspiracy theories, and terrorist propaganda. There was only one way to stop the governmental cabal of degenerates and sexual deviants.
I took my time walking back to the lobby of the Vault. What amazed me was all five of our captives were still there. Not one of them had the gumption to get up and leave. I grabbed Oscar’s collar and towed her outside, back into the street.
The gladiator waited for me in the middle of the street.
“I assume you are here to negotiate your escape,” he said.
“Yeah, I want a rocket sled and a twenty-minute escape widow. The skies must be clear of airborne traffic in a twenty-minute radius,” I said.
“You know we’ll eventually catch you,” he said.
“I know,” I replied.
I released the firing trigger. A perfect black sphere appeared in my gut and Oscar’s back. My body shrunk as the tidal forces of the black hole collapsed space around my location. A gravitational wave pulled the world around me, stretching the very fabric of space and time inward. The street, skyscrapers, people, and vehicles all bowed towards the gravitational epicenter of the black hole. I started to evaporate in a torrent of pure white particles. They leaped from me in slow motion, billions of particles flaking off my body. They were moving at millions of miles per hour, but my time frame had almost come to a stop. It was beautiful like I was made of trillions of microscopic fireflies that all left the nest in a stream of perfect white. In my remaining time, I recorded my story and sent it to Uncle Ted via email. He would never forgive me, but I needed him to at least understand.
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