Chapter 17
Angie and Mr. Al
“Weren't you waiting for something?” Leo asked, as the girl he'd just met dragged him away from school. “And who are you? My name's Leo, by the way.”
“My sister isn't answering her texts. Bitch can get her own lunch. Screw her. My name's Angie. Come on. I know a place.” She dragged him over to her bike and hopped on. Leo got on the back. She stood on the pedals and, with the squeal of a chain and wheels in need of oiling, her bike surged forward.
She bicycled them to a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant. A large man in a white apron at the front counter nodded at them when they entered.
“I don't have any money,” Leo said, “and are you sure they won't kick us out on a school day?”
“Don't worry, I know the guy. Friend of the family.” She dragged him to an out of the way corner of the restaurant. She mouthed, “How did you know?”
“I had a vision of the future when I...” Leo pointed to his left wrist. “Most of what I saw was terrifying, but I learned a few things.”
“Can I take your order?” It was the white-aproned man.
“The usual,” Angie said, then turned to Leo. “You?”
Leo shrugged, and figured the hell with it. “Egg and pancake breakfast with a salad and coffee.”
The waiter looked at him strangely and laughed. “A health conscious individual. Good for you. So Angie, is this your new boyfriend?”
Angie made a face. “Boundaries, Howie. I barely know this kid.”
Howie's eyes moved from Leo back to Angie. “Hey, wanted you to know that what happened sucked.”
Angie's hand clenched the table so tightly Leo could almost hear the table cracking from the pressure. “Don't want to talk about it.”
“Easy there,” Howie responded, “just wanted you to know, I'm here if you need anything.”
Angie glared at the table until Howie walked away. Then she turned back to Leo. “Talk.”
Leo started at the beginning and told her about October 16th and the eventual demise of the human race. Howie brought them coffee and food. Her usual, it seemed, was coffee and cheesy fries. She and Leo ate while Leo talked.
“During that time, I met a few people who were...” Leo made a cutting motion to his left forearm. “That's how I knew about you know what. Also, your,” he pointed at her arm, “will grow back, assuming you live long enough.”
“Not sure I believe you, but if you're right about this apocalypse thing, I know a few people I'll enjoy killing when it happens.”
“Yeah,” Leo said, not sure how to respond to that. “I'm more concerned with the ones who are too strong to kill.”
“Oh. Question.” She reached for his pack, pulled out a pencil and piece of notebook paper, and started writing:
Subject: Angie
Sex: Female
Strength: 14.8
Vitality: 15.2
Agility: 13.3
Intelligence: 6.2
Charisma: 6.1
Common Sense: 5.3
She circled the top three stats, mouthed “grayed out?” and made a questioning gesture.
“Oh,” Leo said, understanding the question. “That's easy. They're grayed out because their functional value is 10, which is the most an ordinary human can get. Anything over 10 is superhuman. But on October 16th the Change will make those grayed-out stats real.”
Angie grinned. “Neat.”
“Nice stats, by the way,” Leo said.
“Earned em’,” she responded. “Was coming in first place in the citywide MMA tournament before I was disqualified because of...” She pointed at where her wrist used to be.
“Maybe you can help me,” Leo said. “I've been working to raise my stats, but it's been slow going. You obviously know what you're doing.”
She looked him over for a minute. “If that kid, Brick, is hassling you, I'll talk to the guy and you can forget him. But stats are serious business and the only one who can raise your stats is you. If you're willing to put in the work — and I mean serious, brutal training — then I could get you in shape in six months. A year at the most.”
“I need it in three weeks,” Leo said.
She shook her head. “Impossible. I'm not magic.”
“I need it!” he said. The apron guy looked at them, concerned, but left them alone.
“I know a shortcut, which I don't recommend. A guy, one of us,” she pointed to Leo's left wrist. She wrote something on a piece of paper. “Go here and ask for Mr. Al. He's scary, but he gets results. Do not tell him I sent you. He hates me.”
Leo pocketed the address. “Thanks. Is he safe?”
Angie laughed. “Hell to the no.” She opened her pack and pulled out a paper bag. “I made a fried barbecue tofu sandwich for my sister's lunch. You want?”
“Sure,” said Leo, taking the bag. “Your sister likes tofu?”
“She hates it. That's why I made it for her.” Angie stood up. “I got to go talk to the prosthetic people again. Keep saying I don't have the right insurance for a prosthetic arm.”
“Sorry.”
She turned the page with her stats over and wrote something down. “Here's my number. Call if you need anything or if you want to work out and train. Lates.”
“Thanks.” Leo watched her leave the cafe, jump on her bike, and ride off. “Wait. I don't get a ride back?”
He sighed. Apparently not. He took out the address she gave him.
***
Zrrkr #1: I'M BACK! I'M BACK I'M BACK I'M BACK!
Teach: Please be very careful who you contact with this. According to that Ivy League big-shot, The Professor, at least five implant wearers report directly to law enforcement. If law enforcement agencies decide their policy of electro-shock and amputation is ineffective. I'd rather not think about what they'd do next.
Zrrkr #1: You knew?
Teach: Suspected. I kept it to myself for everyone's safety.
Zrrkr#1: Asshole...
Teach: I also suspect The Professor is drastically understating the danger. For god's sake, keep this information to yourself. You could get a lot of people killed.
Zrrkr#1: I'm not completely stupid.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Teach:…
Zrrkr#1: Okay, okay. You know how I got caught. Should have listened to you. Thought I could trust family. Learned that lesson the hard way...
Hey Teach, you know I still owe you one, right? You want someone beaten up? Maimed? Intimidated? Killed?
Teach: Not at the moment.
Zrrkr#1: You know of a boy, a 12-yr-old named Leo?
Teach: Yes. Don't tell him about your return, either. He's smarter than he looks and could be very dangerous.
Zrrkr#1: He's the one who told me. He's the one who helped me get my implant back.
Teach: Interesting...
***
Mr Osmond's lip curled.
An old man he'd tutored for a college exam had given him an implant over a year ago. He never saw the man again, or for that matter, any evidence the old man existed.
As a Mentalist/Rare, one of his skills was multitasking. While spoon-feeding basic algebra to a bunch of honor students, he corresponded with other implant wearers with his implant, using his second skill—Networking.
Leo was becoming a problem.
At present, while the media kept nattering about two starlets fighting, global warming and foreign policy were causing millions to starve and billions to live on a subsistence diet. His country was bombing yet another sad, impoverished nation for daring to question whatever corporation was screwing them over this week, and the young woman who had made the video of Senator Bumblin pretending to eat a dog, just died in an unfortunate car crash.
Now, on top of everything else, a 12-year-old boy named Leo Edwards claimed to have seen into the future and was predicting Armageddon.
Mr. Osmond's third skill was Probabilities. He'd used it for experimental gambling, with slight success. The skill was limited by the information he had on hand. He couldn't help running probabilities for the apocalypse, and if the apocalypse did happen, how much time before the human race ceased to exist?
He was certain his results were garbage, based on inaccurate information. But the results made him shiver.
Yes. Leo was becoming a problem.
***
Leo knocked on the door. “Hey. Looking for Mr. Al.”
After a few hours of wandering, he'd found the address in a scary part of a bad neighborhood. Unsavory-looking people hung out on street corners selling drugs, and garbage covered the sidewalks and streets. Heavy iron covered the doors and windows of Mr. Al's apartment complex, and every window had been broken.
Leo stood in front of the door and waited, doing his best to look inconspicuous.
The door opened. “Hey, kid. What?” The tall skinny guy had shaky hands, and bags under his eyes. He might have been in his early twenties and looked like he could use a hot meal and a bunch of sleep.
“I've got some business with Mr. Al,” Leo said.
“What sort of business?”
Leo touched his left wrist. “Business.”
“Come in, come in,” the guy beckoned him into a small apartment.
Leo gagged on the apartment's chemical stench. The place looked and smelled like it hadn't been cleaned in years. Every spare bit of space was filled with flasks, beakers, and tubes with strange smells and unknown liquids doing things far beyond Leo's limited knowledge of chemistry. Mr. Al sat on the apartment's only chair. He pointed at his wrist. “You first.”
Leo raised his left wrist and made it glow. “I'm Leo. No character yet. Working on it.”
The guy made his left wrist glow. “Mr. Al for Alchemist. Obviously. What do you want?”
“I'm trying to raise my stats so I can get a decent character. I was told you could help.”
Mr. Al handed him a small bottle filled with red capsules. “These will raise your Strength and Vitality, but taking more than one a day will destroy your kidneys and liver and kill you. So don't do that.” He held out his left hand. “That will be ten.”
“What about Intelligence? Or Agility?”
“I have a few things that might help,” Mr. Al said. “But they're more expensive, not as safe, not sure what they'd do to a kid, might not do anything, might kill you—so let's stick with these for now.”
“I suppose,” Leo said, disappointed. “Ten dollars?”
Mr. Al laughed, shaking his head. “Ten you know what.” He pointed below his left eye, where he had a small red Demon-Tear-shaped tattoo.
Crap.
Leo had heard of people exchanging Demon Tears, but had never done it himself. “I don't know. Ten Demon Tears is a lot, and I don't even know if this stuff works,” he said.
“Whoa, kid. I'm doing you a favor here. If you don't want it, I know plenty of people who do.”
“I only have seven,” Leo lied.
“Okay, fine, seven, but you're getting a bargain.” Mr. Al said, too quickly, holding out his left hand for a second time.
Leo did the same.
A message popped up on Leo's implant. Mr. Al is requesting contact. Yes/No?
Leo selected Yes.
Under Implant Interface, Contacts showed up. Under Contacts was a very short list of one person, Mr. Al.
“I've never done this before,” Leo said.
“That's okay, it's easy. Focus on a Demon Tear,” Mr. Al said.
Leo focused on a Demon Tear.
“Demon Tears are granted to implant wearers for individual use. Transferring Demon Tears between two implants is not recommended,” Imp said.
“But it is possible,” Leo responded.
“Possible. But not necessarily safe,” Imp said.
“Of course it's possible,” Mr. Al said, overhearing Leo's side of the conversation. “Just focus on one and move it.”
Leo focused on a Demon Tear, separating it from the rest and moving it to Mr. Al's contact.
He failed. Instead of going through Mr. Al's contact point, it slipped back to its original position.
“It didn't work,” Leo said. “How does this contact thing work? I've never used my implant to communicate.”
“Oh, that might be the problem,” Mr. Al said. “You need to set up your implant for contact, man, and don't use your real name. Police will find you and kill you and stuff.”
“Okay.” What would be a good pseudonym? Back from the Future? No. He shuddered. “Oh. I got it.” Leo pulled up Implant Interface,Contacts. “Imp. I want my contact name to be Future Man.”
"Future Man is already taken," Imp said. "As well as several variations of Future Man, including Future Man #1, Future Man 2, and Future Man! However, Future Man 22 is available.”
"I'll take Future Man 10/16. I can do that, right?"
“I suppose,” Imp said.
Leo pulled up Mr. Al. Future Man 10/16 requesting contact.
Mr. Al must have picked Yes, because underneath his request for contact was Request Granted. And for the first time in his life, Leo could feel his interface connecting with another.
Next step. Leo focused on Mr. Al’s name on his contact list.
Leo: Hello, Mr. Al. Testing connection.
Mr. Al: Connection all good, man. Send me the Demon Tears already.
Leo focused on a Demon Tear, moving it to his Mr. Al connection. This time it worked. There was one less Demon Tear in his inventory. He transferred six more the same way, then picked up his bottle of red capsules.
“Are these steroids?” Leo asked.
“No way, man. They're all-natural, all-natural,” Mr. Al said, zoning out, his eyes looking off into space. “Hey, kid, know what I do with the Tears? I get high, high, super high. If you want, I'll show you how.”
“That's okay, Mr. Al. I'll be heading out.” Leo pocketed the bottle of capsules and headed out the door into the crappy neighborhood. A couple of homeless derelicts checked him out as he went by, but left him alone. It was getting late. Mom would be worried, especially since he was supposed to be grounded. He started jogging home.
Did he really want to take these capsules? He'd heard of Alchemists, but Mr. Al was the only one he'd met and the man did not inspire confidence. He had no idea what was in the pills. For all he knew, the capsules might kill him. On the other hand, he was running short on time and options.
The Demon Tears he'd put into his physical development would help, but like Angie had said, three weeks was not a lot of time. He ran faster, gasping for breath. Imp informed him he'd gained another level in running fast.
When he got home, Mom was waiting for him.