Alex was sitting at the Happy Motel’s cafeteria, nursing a cup of bad coffee and looking sullen. It had almost been a whole day since Yuma had mangled his hand. He’d woken up in his bed drenched in cold sweat, nose bleeding profusely. It hadn’t been as bad as he feared, thank god. But it had been bad. He could still taste the ferrous tang of blood in his mouth.
The really bad part was the splitting migraines. They came and went like the tides, making his head throb so intensely he sometimes felt the urge to slam it against the nearest wall. The doctor had told him to hydrate, take something for the pain, sleep a lot, and stay the fuck off Elderpyre.
Alex had listened - kind of. At some point late in the evening, he’d logged in the game to test the waters. A wave of mild nausea had hit him as soon as he materialized in the Sacred Training Grounds. Then came the pain. His hand felt as heavy and as dense as a dying sun, radiating a dull kind of agony that clouded the rest of his senses. He only stuck around long enough to tell Inago he was taking a few days off, give Fyodor a quick pet, and leave Biggs and Wedge with instructions for handling things while he was away.
The hand injury itself didn’t worry him too much - not in terms of permanence, at least. He’d find a way around it. His Transient body had recovered from worse. He could ask Fawkes from some trollblood salve to help him regenerate the damage, or he could go and find Arjen, the bear godling. His healing magic was powerful. Fixing a ruined hand should be nothing for him. If it came to that, he could even find a painless way to kill himself again. Every time he’d kicked the bucket so far, he’d returned feeling brand new.
His mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with other matters. Elderpyre had done a number on his nerves. He should drop it altogether before things got even worse. Even the doctor had more or less suggested so, and the man was being paid by the developing company, for fuck’s sake. That should say a lot.
After the first time he’d been killed in-game, somebody had slipped a note under his door. “This is not a game,” it read. He’d tucked it under his mattress and more or less forgotten about it. Now it was burning a hole in his pocket. He was considering showing it to Carpenter, now that she’d warmed up to him a bit.
As if summoned, the officer walked into the cafeteria. She was a few years older than Alex, probably in her early- to mid-thirties, though she sometimes looked older. She had the weathered look of someone who’d had a hard life. She was of vaguely nordic descent, tall, lean, athletic, always dressed in a practical, private-security-chic kind of way - combat boots, tactical pants, fitted jackets, that kind of thing. There was an air of severity about her, all was part of her cold, analytical, hardass Officer Carpenter persona. She had her platinum blonde hair pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense ponytail, undoubtedly meant to highlight her angular face and cold, calculating, piercing blue eyes.
Spending some time with her, though, had revealed another, softer side of her - the Penny persona, as Alex thought of it. She was funny and caring in an older sister kind of way. That day, despite her frown, she was in that older sister mode. She walked over to Alex’s table and handed him an 150-caplet jar of generic brand Tylenol.
“Here. All yours. Go crazy.”
“Thanks.”
Alex popped two in his mouth and chased them with a swig of coffee. He watched her walk to the old coffee machine, pour a cup for herself, then walk back to his table and sit opposite of him.
“Feeling any better?” she asked.
“Getting there.”
“Should you be drinking that?”
“Nobody should,” he took another sip of spectacularly bad coffee, “but here we are anyway.”
She stared at Alex, thin worry lines splitting her forehead in two. He took the folded note out of pocket, left it on the table before her, and said nothing.
“What’s this?”
“Someone slipped it under my door a while back. After I kicked the bucket for the first time in-game.”
She picked it up, read it, frowned some more.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“I don’t know,” Alex shrugged. “Frankly, I’d forgotten about it.”
She stared at the piece of paper for a few moments. Alex could swear he could almost see the thoughts percolating behind her eyes.
“That’s Bob’s handwriting,” she finally said. She crumbled the note in her hand, put it in her pocket. “Probably his way to tell you to take care. Or maybe a prank Hank put him up to. Wouldn’t be the first. Think nothing of it.”
Alex raised an eyebrow.
“What, that again?” Carpenter snapped, annoyed. “If you have another conspiracy theory about what’s really going on with the game, take it up with Grimm. I’m not getting paid enough to care about that, too.”
“Okay, okay, chill out. I’m not starting any of that, again, I promise. Thanks for the pills.”
“You’re welcome. I paid for those out of pocket, you know, so you owe me.”
“You’d expect a covert government psychic warfare operation black site like the Happy Motel to have a bigger budget,” Alex quipped.
“Tell me about it.”
“So… read anything good lately?”
They sat there for some time, shooting the breeze, talking about the kind of old books and old films Carpenter liked. Nobody brought up anything about Elderpyre. She refused to talk about it because of the NDAs they’d all signed. At the beginning, Alex had found that vexing. Now he didn’t mind. It was a refreshing change of pace.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Anyway, break’s over,” Carpenter finally said, “gotta get back to it. Good talk, Rulin.”
“Before you go,” Alex said, “there’s something I wanted to ask you. You know, in an official capacity. Is there any way I could have internet access?”
“No.” It took her only a second to slip back to her hard-edged Officer Carpenter persona. “Is that why you’re buttering me up?”
“Hey, no. You know what? Forget I even asked.”
“What do you even want internet access for, Rulin?”
Alex thought about it a bit. It was an idea he’d been toying with for days.
“Martial arts manuals,” he said. “I’d like to study a few, if possible.”
“You mean, like, kung fu and stuff?” Carpenter asked, looking confused.
“What? No, what I had in mind was historical books about weapon techniques, swordsmanship, the Italian masters, that kind of thing. Polearms, mostly. Glaives, specifically.”
“Shit, Rulin,” she shook her head. “You know what? I’ll pass it along to the big man. Let him sort it out.”
"Much obliged, officer," Alex said with a mock salute, earning a well-deserved eye roll. "Truly, much obliged."
***
The call came the same afternoon. Alex was in his room, staring at the ceiling, bored out of his mind and trying to resist the urge to log back in the game, migraines and fried nerves and mangled hands be damned. Then the phone on the wall next to his bed rang, sharp and loud.
“You have reached the church of the Elder Pyre, Happy Motel branch, Reverend Alex speaking.”
“Very funny, Rulin,” said a bored-sounding Carpenter. “It’s your lucky day. Grimm greenlit your request. Well, kind of.”
“Kind of?”
“You’re not getting internet access, of course, but he told me he had a hand-picked collection of the kind of manuals you asked for delivered to your Shard.”
“Gracious of him.”
“I believe he found the whole thing entertaining. Anyway, my shift’s over in ten minutes. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“I’d never.”
“Yeah, right. Bye, Rulin.”
“Bye, officer,” Alex started to say, but the line had already gotten dead.
Delivered to his Shard, huh.
He’d hoped for a tablet loaded with the PDF files of the books he’d asked for, or even some physical copies. Something he could study while away from Elderpyre. Granted, his Shard, Mortimer’s old-timey speakeasy bar, would be a great place to do some studying. Still, there was the little issue of his crippling injury and the constant pain it caused him to consider.
Cautious, he glanced at the casque that had been sitting on the nightstand next to his bed. Should he give it a try?
He should, he decided. At worst, he’d grab a quick double whisky of Mort’s finest and log out again. He definitely needed it. He put the casque on, settled onto the bed as comfortably as he could, hit the button, and focused his thoughts on his Shard.
After the now-familiar deep-dive through darkness, distant bells, and the smell of ozone and camphor, Hunter found himself materializing in the middle of the speakeasy.
No pain. Good.
He raised his left hand - the one Yuma had nearly split in half - and saw it was whole again. He flexed his fingers a few times, just to be sure.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Mortimer greeted him from behind the bar. “Terribly sorry for the hand. I took the liberty of restoring it. I hope you don’t mind.”
“You can do that?” Hunter asked, surprised.
“Only for the duration of your visit in your Shard, I’m afraid. Every aspect of you defaults to its ur-form while you are here, should you so choose.”
“Ur-form?”
"In this case, your original, uninjured state," Mortimer explained. "The way you were before any... unpleasantness."
“That’s still amazing. Thank you, Mort.”
“You are most welcome, sir. The manuals you requested have arrived, by the way. I also took the liberty of creating a reading nook for you. I believe you’ll find it more comfortable than the bar.”
Mortimer gestured smoothly toward the back, and Hunter turned to see where he was pointing.
The reading nook sat tucked away in the back corner of the speakeasy, a cozy retreat from the main bar. A deep, worn leather armchair was angled toward a low, dark wood table. A brass lamp with a green glass shade cast a warm, gentle glow over the space, its light just enough for reading without being harsh. On one side, a small bookshelf was stocked with the manuals Mortimer mentioned, alongside a few well-worn classics. The walls around the nook were paneled in dark oak, giving it a snug, inviting feel. A thick, patterned rug completed the space, adding to the sense of peace and quiet.
“Wow, Mort, that’s… You know what? I think this is one of the nicest things anyone has done for me.”
“I’m glad you like it, sir. Can I get you something to drink to go with your reading? Have you ever tried a Manhattan, or maybe an Old-Fashioned? I believe you’d enjoy those.”
“If you say so, I’ll try both. Thanks, Mort.”
“It’s my pleasure, sir.”
As Mortimer mixed him his drinks, Hunter made himself comfortable in his new reading nook. It was a dream come true - a dream he didn’t even know he had. He turned to the bookshelf and started going through the titles, trying to decide what to start with.
"Found anything interesting, sir?" Mort asked as he approached with two drinks on a tray—one in a sleek, stemmed glass and the other in a short, heavy-bottomed one.
“I’m trying,” Hunter said. “Half the titles are in Italian.”
“If you require assistance, sir, I would be glad to provide it. I also took the liberty to study the books in your absence, so that I could better assist you in your studies.”
“Is there anything you don’t do, Mort?” Hunter looked up.
“I’m afraid so, sir, my limitations are many.”
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, but I really appreciate everything you do. Thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me, sir. It’s quite literally my job.”
“Still. I want you to know I appreciate having you by my side. Nobody’s been this good to me… well, ever.”
“Duly noted, sir. Should I provide you with a brief overview of the manuals you requested?”
“Please do,” Hunter said. “My mastery of the Italian language does not extend far beyond ‘gelato’ and ‘mama mia’. Oh, and ‘gabagool’, of course.”
“Well,” Mortimer said as he put the glasses on the table and turned to point towards the bookshelf. “There’s ‘Opera Nova’ by Achille Marozzo. Marozzo was an Italian fencing master, and his ‘Opera Nova’ covers various weapons, including polearms like the spear and halberd, which can translate well to glaive techniques.”
“That’s a good start.”
“Then there’s ‘Fior di Battaglia’ by Fiore dei Liberi, which translates to ‘The Flower of Battle’. It’s considered one of the essential treatises of the Italian masters, covering techniques for a variety of weapons, including the lance and poleaxe. The methods taught can also be adapted to the glaive. Those are the two I would personally start with.”
“I see,” Hunter said, eyeing the leather-bound tomes. “What about the rest?”
“There’s also ‘Dell'arte di Scrimia’ by Giovanni dall'Agocchie, which focuses primarily on the sword, but it also includes training for the spear,” the bartender went on. “This one, ‘Le Jeu de la Hache’, or ‘The Play of the Axe’, is a French text on fighting with poleaxes. The principles can be adapted to glaive combat, especially in armored situations.”
Those sounded great too, but Hunter didn’t expect to have to fight armored enemies anytime soon.
“Last but certainly not least,” Mort went on, pointing towards a few thinner tomes, “there’s this collection of teachings by various Koryū schools of Japanese martial arts, both classical and modern. The Tendō-ryū and Jikishinkage-ryū, for example, focus heavily on the naginata, a polearm that’s not too different from the glaive you favor.”
Mort pronounced those names with a flawless Japanese accent, because of course he would.
“As I said, sir,” he concluded, “I would personally start with either the ‘Opera Nova’ or the ‘Fior di Battaglia’, then work my way through the rest.”
Hunter took a sip from the short, weighty glass, the smoky sweetness of the drink hitting his tongue with a bite of bitters and smooth whiskey. Setting it aside, he turned to the bookshelf and picked the tome titled ‘Opera Nova’. If Mort said so, it was as good a place to start as any.
And if he wanted to wipe the floor with Yuma on their next sparring match, he had a lot to cover.