Chapter 7: Quiet Before... Before What Exactly?
~ Part 1: The Plot Chickens ~
There’s a little black spider, with red dots scattered all over its back, swinging between two joists under the blue-tiled roof. It’s surprisingly graceful. Unfazed and unconcerned by anything beyond its next unfortunate meal, and maybe producing offspring, the nail-sized predator has no care for the events that shake the world at large. There’s a lesson. Worrying over things you cannot affect is pointless.
Things like “Will, or will I not get axed by a female slasher today?” Those kinds of things… Luckily today isn’t my day. Tomorrow, perhaps.
It’s much better, in my opinion, to live day by day and be happy rather than live a safe life all planned out and risking a stroke over every little detail. Carpe diem and all that…
Speaking of details, I can’t help but be fascinated over and over again by the amount of seemingly insignificant gimmicks this game contains. Take this spider for example. It bears no incidence on anything meaningful, no quest, no game event, yet there it is, perfectly rendered and deceptively alive.
Although, I guess some random flies might disagree with my qualification of the spider as “insignificant”. Importance is a subjective notion. Another lesson to remember.
The sheer quantity of processing power needed for all those inconsequential “background” RP elements is something I simply cannot fathom. It makes one wonder about the complexity of the AIs managing this world…
Bob?
…or maybe not.
Distractingly following the movements of the inoffensive – inoffensive for me – arthropod, I start pondering on how this meticulousness finds itself mirrored in the mind-bogglingly complex personalities of the NPCs. Many players feel disturbed by the virtual folks’ apparent humanity. Not me. I don’t care much for people in general, so why should it matter whether they are controlled by nervous impulse or by a flow of 1’s and 0’s? Whether their memory is contained in a hard drive or in a cluster of lumpy flesh? Answer: it didn’t.
Not that I can’t differentiate between real life and the game. I will treat this world as the entertainment program it is whenever it suits me, but I never let its disturbing realism… well… disturb me.
Well, I try.
Rolling over on the bed and breaking eye contact with the spider, I let my gaze settle on the small form huddled against my side. The little girl is still clutching at the cuddly hellhound doll.
I think back on the events of the evening.
When Martha showed up at the window, sharp object in hand and looking like the incarnation of some bad slasher movie from the 1980s – minus the too-red blood – I truly believed my last hour had come… again. It’s a weird feeling, partial immortality.
No matter the true circumstances, I was indeed alone with her crying daughter, holding said daughter in my arms, in said daughter’s bedroom, on said daughter’s bed… and I kind of got from Martha this shoot-first-ask-question-later vibe. In fact, maybe more like shoot-first-ask-question-later–and-then-shoot-another-couple-times-for-goodmeasure vibe…
On hindsight, I feel a little silly. I had learnt in the past week that Martha was both the carpenter and lumberjack of the village. How fitting of her to work with axes and sharp knives. She probably just had a late night and was passing by the window to check on her daughter before putting away her tools. However on the moment, that obvious fact didn’t struck me as that obvious. I was close, I admit, very close to wet Dorothy’s bed.
Somehow I think nobody would believe me if I blamed the girl.
I only managed to breathe again when I noticed the single tear streaming down the woman’s cheek, diffracting the ethereal green light of the mountain, as she glanced over her distraught child.
Then our gazes met. In her icy blue eyes, I think I saw something akin to gratitude, but too quickly she closed them. And I’m terrible at reading people anyway. She then raised her free hand to her heart, and bent her waist slightly in a very faint but prolonged bow. It was a very Martha-like thing to do. Always conveying her intentions with intense clarity, but at the same time showing as little as possible of her thoughts.
She walked away voicelessly, closing the shutters as she left. After her departure, I kept holding the sobbing little girl, gently rocking and maybe singing a lullaby. I’m not sure. My memory was made hazy by exhaustion mixed with confusion – never had anyone so scary bowed to me so formally while holding an axe.
Dorothy eventually cried herself to sleep. I laid her gently on the bed and thought of leaving quietly, but a small hand unconsciously clutching the hem of my shirt thwarted those plans. Resigned, I made myself comfortable, not displeased in truth to trade my thin mattress on the hard ground for Dorothy’s fluffy bed for the night.
So here I am, tossing and turning quietly as not to disturb the little body beside me, while the sleep I had been so sure would claim me instantaneously is eluding me instead.
Somehow my brain is obstinately refusing to shut down, thoughts swirling around incessantly. Usually scattered, they are currently all focused on the sleeping child, all tainted with apprehension, dipped in concern, distress, unease… I’m once more flabbergasted by the depth of the attachment I developed for the computer-generated human-shaped little thing.
Is it how parents feel about their own children? Damn. This sucks. I’m so never having kids. I hate being this upset about something I have such a limited control over. In fact, I hate being upset. Period.
This set up to be a long night.
* * *
…or not?
I’m unaware of when exactly in my mother-hen worried delirium I finally slipped into the dark reprieve of a dreamless sleep. People don’t dream in VR. Some of us just get teleported into spiritual realms by whimsical gods. Fortunately, it didn’t happen this time. Bob did mention this wouldn’t be such a frequent thing.
The sun is already high in the sky, beams of light filtering at a sharp angle through the closed shutters. My body is well-rested, but I still feel groggy from the accumulated mental fatigue. That one wouldn’t go away until I logged out and got some real sleep. Something which is long overdue. But for now, the in-game rest would make it somewhat bearable for at least a couple hours.
Wrestling with my heavy lids, I look down from the ceiling – where the spider web is now complete – and come face to face with a waking Dorothy rubbing her puffy eyes.
“Hello.”
“…lo.”
Her childish pretty face is stippled by the morning light, revealing dirty trails left by dried tears on her cheeks. There is also unmistakably an emotion in her features that wasn’t there yesterday. It’s subtle, probably because she’s still half-asleep, but to someone used to observing her features, it’s as obvious as if she had removed a mask of stone.
Right now, that emotion appears to be mostly grief. But that could be healed with time and love, something I’m sure Martha, despite her tough and scary exterior, will provide her daughter in abundance. At least the main hurdle of Dorothy’s emotional block was dealt with.
*ting*
Quest Update
The little girl who couldn’t smile
The Elder of Kansas is concerned about the youngest member of his community. The little Dorothy was left orphaned after a traumatizing incident. She hasn’t earnestly smiled ever since. The Elder has sought your assistance in helping the child regain her lost happiness.
Update: Your relentless, though unorthodox, efforts have proven… completely useless, (though entertaining [+1 Luck]). However through sheer dumb serendipity, you managed to stumble by mistake upon a key to unlock Dorothy’s repressed memories and feelings, her pet dog Toto! The faithful canine died trying to protect its master, only to be ripped to shreds by a pair of zombies and getting the little Dorothy bathed in its warm blood…
Stolen novel; please report.
Success Condition:
Dorothy earnestly smiles again. ✓
Failure Conditions:
- Dorothy smiles remain empty. ✘
- Dorothy’s state worsen. ✘
- Dorothy dies. ✘
Rewards:
- Raised intimacy with the inhabitants of Kansas. ✓
- Intimacy with Dorothy raised to MAX. ✓
- Possibility to learn the secret of Kansas. (Go talk to the Elder.)
Hidden Reward:
Intimacy with Martha raised to MAX. ✓
I sigh. Now I’m pretty sure that stupid god hijacked my interface. But I’m still too tired to overreact comically, so I’ll just settle with a sigh. I dismiss the annoying window.
Without getting up, I prop myself up on my right elbow and gently pat Dorothy’s head with my other hand. “Feel better, Baby Sis?”
She faintly nods in response, reaffirming her grip on Toto the Second. I’m still in awe before my amazing naming sense.
“Want me to fetch you something to eat?”
Another nod.
“Okay. I’ll go then.”
I wipe some of the dirt trail from her cheek with my thumb, and raise from the mattress. I take a step towards the door, but a light tug to the hem of my shirt stops me. I turn back towards the quiet girl, who is kneeling on the bed and clenching my clothes with her small extended hand. Her other arm is still squeezing her plush hellhound puppy. I’m about to die from adorableness overdose.
I lean down and give her a quick hug, then hold her by the shoulders, looking deep into her reddened eyes. “You don’t have to worry, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”
“…That’s what he said, daddy…” Her sad murmur is barely audible, but I hear it anyway. And it makes me cringe. What do you say to a grieving child? I haven’t the faintest idea… I think. There’s a vague sense of déjà-vu, but I can’t seem to pinpoint what.
You’re just overthinking things again.
I am? Oh, well, whatever.
I take the child’s small fingers in-between my large palms. “We’re inside the village, behind an enchanted fence, plus a magical barrier, and I’m just going to the kitchen. There’s nothing to fear out there. And you know Martha will decapitate anything that might hurt you, right?”
I for one, would be quite reassured knowing my overprotective parent is sleeping in the next room with a sharpened axe. Mom never was one for weapons, but I’m pretty sure she owned a Taser and always brought home a few tranquilizers from work.
Dorothy seems share my opinion, because she nods again.
“Alright. I’ll go pick up breakfast.” Big Brother Me lets go of my Little Sister of Heart’s hand, and goes to the kitchen.
Somehow expectedly, Martha is there, wearing her flashy pink apron and preparing a plate of [Death Purée] (tentative name). Even with me taking over most of the meals preparation, she still cooked that… thing… twice during the week. Dorothy loves it, or whatever sensation passed for love in her psycho brain until yesterday. I wonder how psychopathy affects things like taste or physical pleasure. It’s still all dependant on the brain producing “happy” chemicals, so shouldn’t psychopath have trouble with those two? I should check that book again.
Anyway, even with my improved [Poison Resistance], I still can’t eat those so-called mashed potatoes without coughing blood, but Dorothy appears immune to it, so I guess this works as good as anything for a comfort breakfast.
“Good morning, Mistress Martha,” I say with polite friendliness as I grab a bowl, taking infinite precautions not to let the cooked substance get into contact with my bare skin.
“Morning Sir,” comes the usual cool reply. Somehow her voice seems less curt today. Or maybe it’s my imagination.
The quest window did say “intimacy raised to MAX”… But “MAX” is a very relative notion. It just means it’s as high as it will ever get. The max speed of a snail still isn’t anything to write home about.
Well, at least I suppose I’m not in danger of getting dismembered any time soon then.
Let’s just hope she doesn’t show her affection to males by emasculating them and serving them their own cooked parts with spinach.
I exchange a couple more words with the mortally unskilled cook, and thus learn the Elder visited while I was sleeping, therefore demonstrating his ungodly powers of knowing absolutely everything that happened within the village.
Or Martha told him.
Or that. The old man asked for me to drop by his hut whenever I found the time. I groan a drowsy acknowledgment of the message, then goes back to Dorothy’s side with her breakfast.
After conscientiously watching her eat, and lulling her back to dreamland, I leave Dorothy under the watchful care of her official guardian. I mumble something about being out for a few hours, promise to be back as soon as possible, then walk up to my closet, enter the tight chamber, collapse on the mattress, and log out to finally catch up to my most needed sleep.
▲ ▼ ▲ ▼
Logging back in, I immediately rush out of my bedcloset, anxious about Dorothy’s condition. Terminal sleep deprivation notwithstanding, I didn’t feel too good about leaving my Little Sis’ side, merely half a day after her breakdown.
Worry furrowing my brows, I step into the dinning kitchen. And freeze.
The stench of blood and burnt flesh assault my sinuses and horror twists my traits as I took in the nightmarish sight before me.
The dining table lays on the ground, overturned. One of its legs is broken and red spatters cover its top. In the wood is embedded a huge grisly butcher knife, surrounded by splinters and dripping thick crimson fluid. Bags of sugar, flour, salt, and rice littered the floor, ripped open, their content spread amongst the broken plates, spilled cups, broken eggs, scattered cookware and torn feathers.
Flickering flames still blaze in some places, especially around where the wood stove used to stand, now replaced by a smashed cluster of wrapped cast iron.
Small gory hand- and footprints of a child mark the walls and floor, mixed with traces belonging to a creature that clearly couldn’t be called humanoid. Like three-pronged forks. My wide eyes follow this wild chase all around the room, finally settling on a dirtied and dishevelled Martha. She is kneeling in this scene of disaster, next to a bent frying pan. What strikes me most is that she is crying uncontrollably.
Firmly held in her arms, looking so small and fragile, is a tiny, scorched, lifeless body.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Why is Martha crying in the middle of a devastated room while clutching a decapitated burnt bloody chicken?
Wait. I still need a moment to process this.
.
.
.
…
…….
………………………………………….Alright.
Feeling too shocked for speech, I let my eyes, rapidly filling with tears, roam over Martha’s prostrated form. The woman is obviously in no condition to talk. Seeking answer, I slowly turn towards the last occupant of the room, standing still like a deer in the headlights, in the middle of a huge heap of sliced onions. The culprit of this massacre.
My glare zeroes on its prey and I whisper in a dangerously calm and low voice.
“Dorothy…” I mark a short pause. “Could you… explain… what on Pandore you were trying to do…” I encompass the devastation with a gesture of the hand and another rapid teary glance, “which involved sugar, salt, flour, rice, and eggs… a beheaded chicken… which I will assume wasn’t headless when you started… I hope… and such a… massive amount of onions?”
I take a deep breath as I rub my eyes, trying to wipe away the tears caused by the lacrimal vegetables, and cough when a mouthful of ashes reached my lungs.
“And… *cough* By the gods! Please tell me how you managed to make the freakin’ stove explode?!” I want to add a few other things, but another fit of coughs prevents me from talking any further.
Covered from head to toe in soot, flour, blood, feathers, and other difficultly identifiable substances, the contrite little girl looks down, embarrassingly swinging a shoeless foot, and crosses her hands behind her back, still grasping a large charred spoon – which I recognise as Martha’s weapon of choice.
“Dorothy,” I repeat threateningly. “What. Were. You. Doing?”
Hearing her Big Brother’s eerily subdued question, the child lifts a pair of shy quivering eyes, and answers in a shaky tone: “Ee-eeeh… P-P-Pie?”
“…”
I slowly and deliberately turn towards Martha, seeking confirmation, but for once the woman refuses to meet my gaze, only hanging her head in shame. “As a mother. Failure.” Her monotone is filled with a sense of defeat.
No, no. You should be quite proud. Your daughter is walking in your steps. She’s an even worse cook than you. She broke common sense. Or maybe reality.
I continue to stare at the pair in silence. I honestly didn’t believe this was feasible, on the scale of fail, to top turning common ingredients into high level poison. However I am now forced to acknowledge it. Making a cast iron stove blow up with chicken pie is a whole new category in itself.
In fact, it’s a wonder the kid was still in one piece. Maybe she really is immortal after all.
Well, at least she’s showing spirit of initiative. That’s an improvement… right?
…I suppose.
I sigh.
“Go… take a bath…” I enunciated slowly. “Both of you,” I add, daring to order Martha around in a bout of boldness. To tell the truth I’m a little angry. I’m not used to my hard work almost blowing itself up… without my intervention.
To my mild surprise, they both obey without a word.
As soon as the pair of walking female cataclysms have left the room, I begin straightening up the place, repurposing my most deadly spells to the obliteration of manifestly toxic concoctions and rediscovering once again the utilitarian properties of cleansing holy fire.
All those priests from the Temple should convert into housekeepers. They’d be much more useful that way… and much less pains in our ass.
If only they could at least replace that ugly Head Priest with a Head Priestess…
Yeah. If I have to listen to bullshit sermons, I’d like at least a nice piece of ass to look at.
But what if they put an ugly old woman in his place…?
…
……
………
Naaah. Let’s be realist, it’s a fantasy world. Ugly priestesses don’t exist.
…I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Remember that one nun from–
SHUT UP!! I’M ALLOWED DREAM, OKAY!?!
I try to distract myself from the fact Martha is probably naked in the room next door, but then all my fantasies go down the drain as soon as I remember Dorothy is with her. Meanwhile I, Magical Maid ♡ Eriku-chan~, grab the salvaged pink apron and, in my quality of sole capable chef in the house, rapidly fix something non-lethal for our dysfunctional family to eat…
…
…and nearly die of embarrassment when Martha, walking back into the kitchen, catches me directing an imaginary heart-shaped beam with my joint hands at a makeshift plate of omurice while chanting “Pirupiru~ Maid-Powa~” in a high-pitched singsong voice and with a foot raised behind me.
“…”
“…”
For a couple heartbeat, we remain frozen, staring at each other in silence. Then Martha quietly closes her eyes, bows slightly with an expressionless face and retreats backwards in her room with a simple quiet “sorry”.
…
……
………
NO!! WAIT!! I can explain!
I throw myself after her, but she has already locked the door. Defeated, I fall on all fours. I swear I can hear the voices of my ancestors over dozens of past generations booing me from beyond the grave.
…Shame on you.
Oh, shut up.
* * * * *