Epilogue:

September 2, 2011

Silver City, NM

Marc heard the car pull up in front of the cabin. He kept working the metal. If he stopped now, the block would be cool, and the entire piece would be ruined.

He pounded it on the anvil, flattening it, then he moved it back into the furnace, and stoked the fire to heat the metal again for the next step.

Once it was red hot, he carefully aligned it against the mold, and began to pound on it, folding it over until it formed a U-shaped trench. Holding it up to make sure the shape was symmetrical and well formed, Marc carefully inserted the core piece. This time it was a perfect fit, and filled the trench without issue.

He heard someone approach, but did not take his eyes off the metal. He placed the red block in the furnace to heat it up again.

“This is going to take a while. There are some cold sodas in the fridge. Help yourself,” He yelled out.

After extracting the block, he proceeded to pound on the combined block, systemically, carefully rotating it so that it would not come out uneven. He continued to do this, placing it back into the forge every few minutes to reheat, then pulling it back out and pounding on it carefully.

Finally, he held it up. The shape and balance looked good, and then he placed it into the long trough of water to quench it. Steam boiled out and filled the air in the forge. Marc pulled it out as soon as it cooled to check for warping or cracks. Satisfied, he started to beat it again, harder now as the metal was cooling rapidly.

Finally, he put down the hammer and tongs. Sweat was pouring down his arms and back. He had been pounding on the hot metal for hours and he was exhausted and sore.

He fell down on his stool, then turned as he felt something cold touch his arm. After realizing what it was, he grabbed the cold can of soda and pressed it on his neck to feel the cold metal against his skin.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said, gratefully to his guest. He turned to look at the man who had stepped back and was politely standing just outside the work area.

“Thanks for inviting me. I’ve wanted to see how this is done. It’s amazing. No machines at all. Super old school. Respect.”

March laughed, then opened the can and took a drink, appreciative of the cold liquid down his parched throat.

“It’s the only way I know how. My teacher does it this way, and I just copied his technique.”

“The professor? Really?”

“Yeah, he’s got an even nicer forge set up in his garage. Mine’s pretty rough, considering.”

“And he taught you everything? Or do you still remember things from…”

Marc turned to look at the other man with a suspicious glare.

Manuel Jiménez raised up his hands defensively.

“Hey! Just asking… for myself. I’m not here as your doctor today. I already signed off on the court report, I swear.”

Marc turned back and touched the steel block. It was now cool enough to touch, and he lifted it up carefully to check for imperfections.

“Sorry, like I told you before, it’s not my job to decide if what you tell me is accurate or not. I needed you to talk to me, and I’m grateful you did. What is important is how you feel about it. I know things have been challenging, and I am only concerned with your welfare. That’s the professional side.”

Manuel walked over to examine the metal.

“But as a person, as a fellow human being, I am fascinated, not just by what you can do, but with the story you shared with me. I’ll be honest, it’s an amazing story. It’s a shame I can’t share it. I bet I could make a fortune selling it to some Hollywood studio.”

Marc glared at the man again.

“Kidding! Doctor, patient confidentiality! Would never in a million! Ehem, so, what is this going to be?”

Marc picked up the block again.

“A blade. Professor Maeda and I are competing to see who can forge the best Japanese folded steel sword.”

“A katana? No shit. Like in a real kung-fu chop-saki samurai movie? Sharp enough to cut a piece of paper in the next room?”

“Doc, are you sure you graduated from Cornell? I’d like to see some proof,” Marc deadpanned.

“Sure, I still have the diploma somewhere. I swapped it out because I needed the frame to hold my autographed picture of me with Sandra Bullock. Ah, that was the proudest moment of my life. That was at the premiere of Demolition Man. Did I ever tell you that story?”

“Yes, like pretty much at every session.”

“Well, no more of that. You’re all clear. Actually, you were off the hook when they cleared you of the charges. Shame about the girl, but I’m glad you don’t hold a grudge.”

Marc bit his lip.

“You want to ask about her, don’t you? It’s okay. A certain amount of interest is natural, especially considering what you have been through, as long as it stays a healthy amount of interest. That’s a professional term, so if you have any questions, just feel free to ask your friendly certified counselor… Damn, still can’t get a response out of you without a crowbar and a heavy-lifting crane.”

The corner of Marc’s mouth twitched.

“Aha! Success! I’m calling that a laugh. To reward this breakthrough, I’ll share what I know. The girl, the programmer, she’s stable, but still in a coma. The doctors are puzzled. They think it’s some kind of brain aneurysm, or a stroke. She is physically fine, nothing they can detect. They ran her through every test there is, which, of course, cleared you of any relation to her collapse. The reason it went as far as it did was that, for some reason, her company had you on some kind of a watchlist. That’s why the judge sided with the police to get you thoroughly checked out. Now that you are cleared, the company has withdrawn the complaint against you, not that it helps your situation.”

Following his arrest, Marc had, of course, been booted from the tournament and had his connection to the game severed by a thousand lawyers. They allowed Rocinante to compete without him, but with one member short, they were the first team eliminated in the final, putting them in fourth place. The bonus that they were granted for having a perfect record in the semi-finals had, in fact, been the method of their destruction.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

As soon as the final round began, they realized that, unlike previous battle royale rounds, they could see the location of all the other teams on their map. What they didn’t know was that the other teams could also see them, as the “King” team. The first phase of the final was the hunting and merciless extermination of team Rocinante.

Stories quickly spread about a top-ranking player getting arrested for assaulting a female employee of I.S.K. Overnight, all the offers of sponsorship and endorsements evaporated. Even Marc’s Awakening account was banned, and he was dis-invited from every connection to the game. He returned to the I.S.K. house to find his few possessions packed and his entrance blocked. He ended up booking a room at the same hotel as Sheila to spend the next few days while he waited for a court appearance and watched the final on streaming video.

At first, his friends supported him, but he could tell they were shocked and hurt. They were so close to the dream of winning the championship, and because of him, they had lost not just the title and prizes but also many of the opportunities that they had worked for months to build up.

Once he got back to New Mexico, he was pretty much stuck in his cabin. Some of the sponsors had even threatened to sue him, but Jess and Shiela had negotiated a clean break. In exchange for indemnity, he forfeited any outstanding payment due to him.

In the end, he was no better or worse off than he had been before the whole game thing had started. He had yet to contact his security consulting clients, and he wouldn’t be surprised to see much of that business dry up, so he had buried himself in his forge.

The police had made several trips over as well, and there was concern about some weapons that had been found in his vehicle, but America being the country it is, there was little anyone could actually say or do about a loner white male with a large amount of firearms in his cellar, and a collection of knives and blades in a lock box in the cab of his truck, even after being accused of assaulting a woman who was in the hospital. In the end, they dropped all charges against him. But didn’t mean they were done keeping an eye on him.

Marc fully understood that an inspection of his forge and home was a requirement to get Doctor Jiménez to fully clear him, so he played along with the Doc’s charade and invited him to check everything out. He didn’t really mind it. The Doc was a pleasant enough guy to be around, and he didn’t play the Average Joe character so hard as to be insulting.

“I see. She’s still not awake, then?”

“Not as far as I know. I did ask around, and she is just a normal, geeky woman. Went to a normal school, got a job at a tech company, and seems to have overworked herself into a coma. I’m sorry for her, and I’m sorry you got pulled into her tragedy.”

The doc finished his can, then shook it at Marc. “Don’t you have anything stronger than this?”

“Sorry, no. Don’t really drink much. I usually just keep the sodas around for… friends who stop by. We can head down to the Lobo if you want to get something stronger, but aren’t you driving?”

Of course this had just been another calculated probing question, but Marc was fine. Nothing in his cabin would raise any flags. Anything like that had been moved out to the cave before he had started his tournament run.

“Oh, yeah. Nevermind. Where’s that dog of yours? Half expected to get attacked as soon as I opened my car door.”

“Torren, yeah, you could show up wearing a postal uniform and a black ski mask and open the front door with a crowbar, and all he would do is wander over and beg for some food. He’s probably off somewhere in the shade, sleeping.”

“Isn’t he a golden retriever? I thought they were supposed to be good guard dogs.”

“A mix, goldenmute. Maybe they are, but Torren is his own dog. He doesn’t go in for social conventions.”

They spent the next few hours chatting, and Marc showed the doctor around the forge, the greenhouse, and the cabin. Cyrus had taken good care of everything, and Marc was grateful that both he and Lily still treated him the same as always. He now ate at the Lobo several times a week in exchange for Cyrus’s unlimited access to the produce in the greenhouse, which he swore was better than even the overpriced stuff at the farmer’s market.

“You know, I really do think your story has some potential if you were interested in selling it as a fictional account,” the doc inserted cautiously.

“The only thing is… the names.”

Marc looked at him, confused.

“Well, I mean, you might have some problems with the names. I mean, they seem kind of forced. Especially if you are a classic rock fan.”

Marc wasn’t sure what the doctor was getting at, but this seemed to be the real thing that he wanted to share with Marc.

“Like your friend Grenn. Ever heard of the band Kansas? Kerry Livgren. Wasn’t your friend’s full name Livgrenn? And his wife was named Keri? The city of Clearwater? You a CCR fan? Then there is Rynan; you spelled her name differently, but your teacher’s name was pronounced like Rhiannon, an old Fleetwood Mac classic. The one that put me on the track was the old scholar you mentioned, Lehdze. Lehdze Purina? Led Zepplin? I have to admit, I spent a whole evening going through my notes, and there were classic rock references all over the place. Some old 80’s movies, too. Your bestie Enpii and his wife took a bit of digging, though.”

Marc was shocked. He didn’t quite get what the doctor was talking about.

“Enpii. As in ‘N’ and ‘P’, followed by his last name, See, ‘C’. N-P-C? And his wife, Mumei? That’s Japanese for ‘no name.’ I mean, intentional or not, I think the naming feels kind of heavy-handed. You might get some pushback from a professional screenwriter. Well, maybe not.”

“What are you talking about, Doc?”

Marc was glowering at the man now.

“Hey, look. I am just saying there are some strange connections that I came across while going through my notes. Sometimes, our brain will build connections to things subconsciously. We pull things out of weird pockets of our memories, then use that to reconstruct gaps and voids in our perception. Maybe that’s what I did while looking at my notes. It might all be my imagination, trying to adapt what you told me into a narrative that makes more sense when I combine it with my old LP collection. Do you get what I am saying?”

“You think I invented the things I told you out of old radio songs?”

“No! Of course not. I’m just saying that memory is a weird thing. Some aspects can be easily manipulated without our even being aware. We build false memories all the time. Change small aspects because it fits in better with our overall understanding. I’m just saying that it’s something we all do, and something that affects how we look back on past experiences. That’s why it’s important to focus on the here and now. Make sure to keep the reality we see unencumbered by past memories that are hard to align with what we know to be true.”

Marc got it. The doctor thought he was making it all up. He could hardly blame him. He wasn’t even sure why he had explained it all to the doctor, but part of him felt that talking about it might help his frustration. He trusted the man at least to keep what he said confidential, making him the only one he knew that he could even imagine sharing any of his experiences with.

“Look, Marc, I am saying this as a friend, but also as someone who spent two hundred and fifty bucks to get a fake psychiatry degree at a tattoo shop in Philadelphia. It doesn’t matter whether your memories of another world are real or a creation of your mind. Our brains are amazing self-healing machines that want what is best for us. They are strong and unbelievably resilient, but that doesn’t mean they can handle everything. I know our court-ordered sessions are over, but if you want, I am always happy to have you come by for a chat. Just make sure to leave your insurance card with the secretary. You got Blue Cross, right?”

“Just trying to scam me into more sessions?”

“Hey, I won’t have that depressed college student rush until finals get close, and I have to save up for the plastic surgery my secretary wants,” Manuel said, motioning up with his hands in front of his chest.

“Hey, this is a breach of ethics, but I made you a copy of my notes, including the research I did. I won’t bore you by explaining it, so I did the next best thing. Here. Look through it if you want. Shred it if you don’t care. Up to you,” Manuel said as he reached into his car and pulled out a thick folder filled with papers.

Marc took the folder, then watched as the doctor pulled out and drove away.

For the next few weeks, things were quiet. Marc ignored the papers that the doctor had left behind. He left them together with the other mail that he typically ignored for as long as possible.

He finished the Japanese folded steel blade. Getting the curve by warping the steel was trickier than he had expected, and in the end, it took several attempts to get it right. It was a different technique from anything he had done in the other world. In the end, Professor Maeda won their bet, but Marc managed to incorporate the new techniques into his smithing.

Winter was approaching, so he stored up as much food as he could in the cellar. He avoided going into town as much as possible and even hunted a few deer, just to avoid making butcher runs for fresh meat. Lily would stop by sometimes with baskets of supplies, which he knew were orchestrated by Shiela, and Cyrus would invite him out on the patio outside the Lobo on slow nights until it started to get too cold.

Sometime later, after the first dusting of snow for the year, Marc sat in the cabin in front of the fire with Torren spread out in front of the hearth. He picked up the folder that had been stubbornly refusing to disappear and opened it, taking out the stack of photocopies and reading from the first page of the notes left by Dr. Jiménez.

[END OF BOOK TWO]