James “Sater” Gifford snapped awake.

He was on his belly, cheek pressed against the grainy carpet. A dull blue bar of light ran across the floor next to him, beaming down from the skylight, imposing itself on the shadowy room.

Somewhere in the room, he could hear an intermittent hissing sound, like pressurized air leaving a canister. It happened every two or three seconds, every gap as silent as the dead of the night in a giant house, or at least the moments when a house wasn’t settling, creaking and moaning like a person alive.

It was like a ghost story. He was on the ground, vulnerable. There was something strange in the room, something he could only just barely perceive, but it was there.

Sater started to get up—a motion not unlike doing a push-up—and felt a sharp jab in his lower back, shoving him back down against the carpet.

“It’s alright,” a firm, male voice said. “Sit him up.”

Gloved, scratchy hands grabbed Sater by the shoulders, pulling him. He considered struggling, but the earlier hit had taken the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping. Besides, it seemed preferable to die sitting rather than pressed face down into a carpet that, by his estimation, hadn’t been shampooed in seven years.

The hands belonged to a pair of outfitted SWAT Officers. They wore long camo sleeves and bullet-proof vests, and the lower halves of their faces were covered in dark cloth. They had rifles, hugged tight against the body by straps that looped over the shoulder. There were a dozen or so of them, most standing stiff and still, shadowed statues on the far side of the room, past the couches.

After sitting Sater up, the officers stepped back in the dark parts of the room.

Of the three couches, one was empty. Kit was still lying on one, apparently still synced in to Rithium. Sater wondered if Kit realized it was over, yet.

There was a man sitting on the third couch. He was leaning back, fingers interlocking behind his head. Sater couldn’t see his face.

Sater glanced around the room, hoping to spot Mason. In the dark of the room, it took a moment to realize Tanya was lying on her back on the floor. Her eyes were clamped shut, but her jaw was trembling. It seemed like her entire body was shaking.

Sater leaned over to—

“Don’t.” It was the man on the couch.

Sater ignored him. He felt her, trying to tell if she was having a seizure.

“She’ll be dead soon enough.” The man on the couch said. “They always are.”

Sater opened her mouth, checking to see if she’d bit her tongue. He pressed a hand against her neck, feeling for a pulse. Her heart was pounding. It was beating so fast.

Oh, T. Nonono….

“It’s funny,” The Man said. “Someone gets shot in a drug bust and there’s paperwork, ballistics, forensic investigations. But if someone OD’s on Rithium...well, it’s just the way of the world, isn’t it? Thousands of people die from Rithium every year.”

“It’s not Rithium.” Sater said, distantly. What was he even doing? He wasn’t a doctor. He had no idea how to help her. “There may be side effects, but it’s the drugs that do it. The ones pharmacists peddle to the doctors. The ones they pump into people after you lock them up.”

“You can’t prove that.” The Man said.

Sater turned toward him. “Not yet.”

There was an awkward silence following that, occasionally interrupted by the hissing sound. What was that?

The Man leaned forward on the couch, half of his face cutting into the bar of light cast by the moon.

The Man was clean-shaven. He had a clean, short, tapered haircut, combed and styled. He wore a white, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a long, black tie.

“Do you know why you’re still alive, James?”

Sater cringed at the use of his given name. To all his friends and associates, he was Sater. To his estranged parents, Police officers, and the DMV, he was James.

He didn’t answer.

“I almost have to wonder, myself.” The Man said. “After all, we can’t exactly let you live. And, I mean, look at all this.” He waved around at the room, indicating the officers. “For a bunch of gangly wimps like you. Kind of overkill, don’t you think? I don’t even know who half these guys are.”

The Man gestured at one of the officers. “Son, what’s your name?”

“Richard Davis, Sir.” The Officer said.

“Huh.” The Man said, smiling to himself. “See? Didn’t know that. Anyway, we could paint this whole room with your insides, if we wanted to.” He pointed a finger at Sater like a gun. “We’re talking blood, guts, bits of bone flying everywhere. Brains blowing out the back of your—” He stopped, just as he was gesturing with his hands, articulating what such a brain explosion might look like. “Point is, we’re not going to.”

He watched Sater, clearly waiting for him to ask why not.

Sater said nothing.

“Because,” The Man said, as if Sater had asked the question, “Down at the department, we like things clean. Ballistics are not clean. Forensics teams scouring this whole house and carrying out little plastic baggies with bullets in them is not clean. Four unfortunate criminals OD’ing on Rithium? Clean as a whistle. That’s why,” He checked his wristwatch, an analog with hands that glowed bright blue when he tapped the glass. “In about...seventeen minutes, we’re gonna log you back in and finish the job.”

“Fascinating,” Sater said.

“Thanks,” The Man said, leaning back on the couch. “I know that the circumstances aren’t so favorable for you, but it’s nice to be able to converse about my work. It’s not exactly the kind of thing I can talk about over dinner.”

“Why not?” Sater said. “You don’t think people want to know you killed four innocents, today?”

The Man smiled and wagged his finger. “Don’t you try that with me. I’m not the one breaking the law here. There are consequences. You broke into a rehab facility, drugged a patient—”

“Nobody broke into anything.” Sater said. “You’re the ones who drugged and moved him. All we did was intercept.”

“You can’t prove that.” The Man said.

There was something disgusting about the dysphoria at work, here. Conflating the ethics of a thing by whether or not he would get caught doing it.

“Besides,” The Man said, “Not to split hairs or anything, but I don’t kill anybody. That’s up to our rockstar, here. Have the two of you met? In real life, I mean.” He turned toward one of the officers. “Why don’t you push him forward, I don’t think he can see him.”

The officer stepped back into the dark, and suddenly, somehow, Sater knew. This was real life, not the movies. People are easily broken. When they are, they rarely come back whole. When they do, it’s considered a miracle.

Sater heard wheels turning, grinding against the carpet. A silhouette of both the officer and the wheelchair he was pushing slowly came into focus, like a conjoined creature. There was another loud hiss of air, and Sater realized it was coming from whatever was in that wheelchair.

The officer stopped wheeling the chair once the entire front of the subject was easily visible, subtly painted by the blue light from above.

Dark skin. Matted patches of hair, as if most of it had fallen out long ago. Tubes running out of his nose, connected to canisters on the back of the chair. One eye that spun about the room, examining every corner, taking in every detail. The other eye was dull and grey, like a clear, glass marble. His neck and head were contorted, angled so that his dead eye was mostly turned away. It seemed like he couldn’t move or speak. It seemed like the only thing he could control was that one, frantic eye.

Just as Sater was thinking this, the eye settled on him, fixated.

“Oscar, meet Sater.” The Man said. “Sater, this is Oscar.”

The eye didn’t move. Didn’t seem to even blink.

The Man watched Sater, studying his reaction. “Incredible, isn’t it? This thing is the backbone of our operation.” He turned, eying Oscar with some distaste. “It rather defies belief. I mean, so good at what he does. But...just look at him.”

Sater’s teeth clicked together. He glared at The Man. “It’s enough to make you sick.”

The Man balked. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. We’ve given this kid a life. A purpose. Enforcing the law!” He reached over and patted Oscar on the shoulder, then drew his hand back, regret written on his face. Oscar’s very presence seemed to gross him out.

“Did he ever have any choice in the matter?” Sater said. “Oh, who am I kidding. Who wouldn’t want to throw in with the likes of you?”

“Now, don’t try to butter me up.” The Man said. “We’ve already discussed this down at the department. If the Bannerets can turn the Winter Wolf, they can turn anybody. Except for our rockstar, of course.” He started to reach out and pat Oscar again, but he stopped himself halfway. “No, it’s time to wipe the slate clean. Start fresh.” His countenance suddenly became serious. Or self-serious, anyway. “No more kid gloves.”

The Man’s phone rang. “Yes?” He stood and began pacing the room. “Uh-huh. Yes. Of course.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

He put away the phone, turned and looked down at Sater. “Slight change of plans. Sounds like some of your Banneret buddies have decided to brave the machine. We’ll see about that.”

The Man walked over to Oscar, knelt down in front of him. “Time to put down some Bannerets. You ready? Look at me, Rockstar.”

Oscar’s eye finally left Sater, turning on The Man.

“Good.” The Man said. “Now, once you take care of the Bannerets, it’s time to bring this chapter to a close, alright? You gave your friend a chance. He didn’t take it. End of story.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, The Man stood. “Send him back in.” He said this to the officer standing just behind the wheelchair. The officer leaned forward and pressed a couple buttons on the side of the chair.

Oscar’s eye, which had turned back on Sater, started to flutter, until it finally clamped shut.

The Man dropped back onto the couch and clapped his hands together. “Everything’s clicking. Feels good.” He tapped the glass on his wristwatch again. “Making good time, considering. Seven more Bannerets. Easy money, my friends. Easy money.”

Sater found himself reaching for his belt, where he’d kept his gun. Ridiculous, of course. They had removed it already. If only he could will one into existence. Hack real life, like using a Dart in Rithium.

He would have used the gun, too. Even if it meant dying immediately afterward. He was on his way out, anyway. At the very least, he could try and throw a wrench into the Feds’ plans, possibly saving some of the Bannerets in the process. He could put a bullet right through The Man’s smug, pristine face.

Only that wouldn’t work, would it? The only way to ensure the success of the Bannerets’ mission would be to eliminate the one threat standing in their way. It would mean killing Oscar.

Suddenly, for no real reason, Sater remembered.

“Where’s Mason?”

The Man frowned. “Who?”

“The only other person who was here?”

The Man snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah! Mr. Pudgy. This is actually kind of embarrassing, considering everything I said earlier. We were forced to...you know.” He made a slicing motion across his throat. “Could’ve been handled a little better. Still, nothing a little shampooing won’t take care of. Seems like this carpet could use it.”

It took every ounce of willpower Sater had not to rush him. To jump up and over the coffee table, grab him by the throat. He’d be dead halfway there, but that almost seemed an insufficient reason to hold back.

“Now, don’t get mad with me. The man was armed. Really, it was self-defense.” But judging from his smirk, this was not a sincere sentiment. “Look, if it makes you feel any better—”

He stopped, put a finger on a little earpiece he had in his ear. At the same time, all of the officers were exchanging looks, seeming unsettled.

The Man stood suddenly. “Could you repeat that?” Then, “What fire?”

That was when Sater noticed the reddish, yellowish, flickering lights being cast outside the window. They seemed to be growing, carrying with them the increasingly obvious, acrid smell of smoke.

*****

They cuffed Sater, cool frames of metal clamping down over his wrists. They carried the unconscious forms of Kit and Tanya, heaving their limp bodies up and over the shoulder, like lumberjacks carrying blocks of wood.

One of them carried the cloudbox. Another tagged behind, carrying the mobile power generator the cloudbox was connected to.

Oscar’s wheelchair seemed to have it’s own battery-powered cloudbox built into it.

Two officers walked on either side of Sater, holding him by the arms. A third walked behind, and had made it clear his rifle was trained on Sater’s back.

It was crisp and cold out, stars glimmering like frost under a moon. Except when the wind picked up, carrying with it gusts of warmth from the east edge of the property, and smoke.

Together, a strange and unlikely caravan, they walked half the length of the estate, crossing the long, thin, flickering shadows of trees.

There were two black vans on the outer edge of the property, just off the road. For almost the entire trek The Man had been on the phone. Once they reached the vans, he put it away.

The Man started pointing. “You, and you. Get over there and—”

He froze.

It took a moment before Sater heard it himself. The low growling of an engine, somewhere in the dark. Building in intensity, growing close.

“Get to the vans! Quick, move your asses!”

Headlights lit up the road. Tires screeched as the vehicle, whatever it was, started to slow.

Sater was practically picked up and carried, closing the gap to one of the vans within seconds.

Someone opened the side door, and The Man stepped in first, with Sater being pushed in behind him.

That’s when Sater saw it, thanks to the ceiling lights inside the van. Sater’s own gun, wedged inside The Man’s belt.

Without much thinking about it, Sater dove forward and snatched the gun, pressing the barrel against The Man’s lower back.

It took a split-second to realize just how light the pistol was, that the magazine was missing. And yet, The Man had stiffened up at the touch of the barrel, frozen. Which meant he either hadn’t removed the round in the chamber, or couldn’t remember whether he had done so.

“Where’s the magazine?” Sater said.

“Bad idea.” The Man, putting an upward inflection into the words, like admonishing a child. “Really bad idea.”

“I’m a dead man with one round in the chamber.” Sater said, loud enough that he hoped all the officers could hear, even over the rumbling engine of the unknown vehicle just outside. He resisted the urge to turn and look behind. “If you don’t do as I say, it’s going right into your spine.”

“Right front pocket.” The Man said.

Sater looped his free hand around, reaching into the pocket of The Man’s jeans. He pulled out the magazine, heavy with rounds still, and fed it into the pistol. There was a resonant click as the slide snapped forward, loading a round into the previously empty chamber.

“Mother fucker!” The Man spat, clearly having heard it.

Sater grabbed him by the collar. “You’re coming with me.” He yanked, pulling The Man backward and out of the van.

When they turned around, the dozen or so officers were facing them, rifles in hand.

Sater curled himself behind The Man, jamming the pistol tight against his back. “Tell them to back the hell off. And leave behind my friends. And the cloudbox.”

There was a moment of silent apprehension.

“Do as he says!” The Man barked.

The officers slowly stepped backward, leaving the cloudbox, Kit, and Tanya lying on the ground in front of them.

“Further!” Sater said. “Keep it moving.”

The group took a few more reluctant steps backward.

Sater pulled The Man along, rounding the corner of one of the vans so he could get a look at the new vehicle. It was a dark—maybe even black—Humvee. The sides and tire treads were caked with mud and dirt.

The front passenger door popped, and someone stepped out of it. He was wearing loose, unbuttoned leather vest and a bandanna over the lower half of his face. He waved.

Sater blinked, bleary-eyed, trying to stay focused. “Who are you?” Sater said.

“Does it matter?” The masked figure said back. “It’s not like we came up with a code phrase.”

For a second, Sater studied the guy, trying to decide if he recognized him.

They had to be Bannerets...right?

And did it matter, anyway?

But the masked man didn’t wait for confirmation. He slapped the hood of the Humvee twice. Two more doors popped open, introducing two more masked people. The three figures walked slowly. They picked up the cloudbox and generator, Kit, and Tanya, and headed back toward the car.

Sater started to follow them, then stopped. “Wait. The one in the wheelchair. Him, too.”

But the SWAT team had already made a barrier in front of Oscar. The officer Sater was making eye contact with slowly shook his head.

“Huh,” Sater said, leaning forward into The Man’s ear. “Sounds like they have orders to protect him over you.”

“Shiiiiit.” The Man said. “Shitshitshitshit—”

“Shut up.” Sater said, pressing the pistol even harder into his back. “And try not to make any sudden movements. Wouldn’t want my finger to slip.”

Perhaps it was the adrenaline just as much as the hatred Sater felt for this man, but the fact that he hadn’t pulled the trigger already seemed itself a testament of self-control.

He led The Man around to the back of the Humvee. One of the masked people opened the back hatch. Kit and Tanya were laid flat in one corner.

“Get in.” Sater said, nudging The Man into the opposite corner of the hatch. “You don’t want me to ask twice.”

“What happens if you do?” The Man said over his shoulder, snarling.

Sater didn’t hesitate. He slammed the butt of his gun into the bridge of The Man’s nose, cracking it like a nut.

The Man yelped and gurgled, blood spurting through the nostrils of his flattened nose.

“Counting to three, asshole.” Sater said. He was more than ready to hit him again. The rage building in him wasn’t even close to being spent. Seeing The Man respond with this much shock and alarm to violence against himself, a man who committed murder without batting an eye, just sprayed gas onto the fire.

“You’ll regret this!” The Man shrieked. But he crawled into the hatch, back pressed into the corner.

Sater hopped in after him, putting himself in the middle of the hatch, between The Man and where Kit and Tanya were laying.

Someone shut the door. It was still bright inside the hatch, with light beaming in from the front compartment.

Sater laid on his side, gun pointing at The Man, who had been disfigured into a mad, bloodied, petulant creature.

The engine revved, and they were moving.

Occasionally The Man’s mouth moved, slurping up the flowing blood like soda from a can. He didn’t move, barely even blinked.

“Know what you did?” The Man said, once they were out and speeding on the highway.

Sater gripped the pistol tight, didn't take his eyes off him.

“It’s not gonna be clean.” The Man said. “Not anymore. I can tell you that.”

Sater didn’t answer, but he was starting to get a sinking feeling somewhere in his chest. He angled the pistol, pointing it at The Man’s face.

He should pull the trigger. It would be the only thing about this entire situation to come out right. To make sense.

But he could feel his grip on the pistol relaxing. A little.

“I gotta wonder, what’s gonna happen to you once this goes public?” Sater said. “Once we prove what you did. Where will you go?”

The Man didn’t scowl, or balk. Quite the opposite. His lips spread in a bloody, grotesque smile.

“You have no idea what you’re messing with, do you?”

“Tell me.”

“You’re—”

Sater bashed the butt of his gun into The Man’s nose. Again.

The Man howled, recoiled, slammed the back of his head against the side of the hatch, thrashed.

Sater thumped the roof of the hatch three times with his free hand. “I think it’s time to drop off the trash.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” someone said from up front.

The Humvee slowed. One of the side doors popped. One of the Bannerets came around back and opened the door.

“Out.” Sater said, indicating with his pistol.

The Man scooted, flopping out of the hatch and onto the asphalt. He jumped to his feet, stepping backward away from the car.

Sater stepped out of the hatch and shut the door, still facing him.

Past The Man, in the distant dark, Sater could make out the headlights of two different vans heading steadily toward them.

They needed to move.

“This isn’t over.” The Man said, limping backward.

Sater turned and ran for one of the side doors.

“This isn’t over!” The Man yelled.

But as soon as Sater grabbed the door, a gunshot went off. It was a shockwave of sound, crashing against the hill on the opposite side of the road, ringing like a bell.

The Man keeled backward. Blots of blood speckled the asphalt, illuminated by the neon red brake lights.

The Masked Man was holding a pump-action shotgun. There was a loud mechanical click as he loaded a new round, and the plastic ping of the red, empty casing bouncing on the road. He took a few steps toward the downed Fed, leveled the barrel down at him.

When he fired again, the sound was just as deafening. Sater shrank back—though he should have been ready for it—and pressed his body against the Humvee.

When the Masked Man pulled the trigger, the only part of his body that moved was his shoulder, absorbing the force of the shotgun blast.

Sater’s eyes were locked on the Masked Man. He didn’t look down, afraid that what he would see would be less like a person and more like a spilled pot of spaghetti in the road.

The Masked Man turned and slowly headed back to the car, seemingly unperturbed by the rapidly approaching van headlights.

For a stunned moment, Sater just watched him.

“Didn’t catch your name.” Sater said.

The Shotgun Wielder lowered the mask covering the lower half of his face, revealing a hooked nose and a stubby chin. Sweat glistened on his wrinkled pate.

Though Sater had never seen this man before in real life, he was unmistakable. Avatars in Rithium are projections of the consciousness of the player. While there are always differences, most of the physical features tend to be the same.

This man was Diren, leader of The Wolves.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” Sater said.

Diren smiled, revealing a glinting, silver tooth at the corner of his mouth.