Chapter 20 - Heist

I was submerged in cold, dark water. A vast liquid body. A glimmer of light above the distant rippling surface. My limbs were heavy. I flailed, trying to swim up, to no avail. I couldn’t breathe. And I couldn’t scream. Air bubbles poured from my nostrils and water immediately took their place. I opened my mouth and murky water flooded my throat. My lungs began to expand. Sacks of fluid buried in the cavity of my chest.

I was drowning.

Then I was gasping in the dark. Coughing. Gagging. Sputtering.

I groped for the wall and my hand found purchase. The dial. I twisted it, flooding my pathetic little capsule with artificial light.

I was alive. I was dry, except for a damp sweat. It wasn’t real. I kept telling myself that. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

I waited some time until my nerves regained some measure of equilibrium. Bit by bit, my pulse returned to normal.

I heard a chirp. A menu notification.

[Refresh complete.

Essence at full.

Energy at full.]

Ah, yes. The cycle. The endless night continued.

I ran a hand through my dark hair and thought. Decision time. I had to find out what the frag was going on. I needed answers. Sitting there in silence, a realization dawned on me. Antisoc was my best chance to get those answers, or at least some of them, even if it did require coloring outside the lines.

Somehow, this certainty solidified in my mind - this choice, whispered from elsewhere, like a message from the part of my brain currently inaccessible to me.

But I wasn’t ready to bet it all with Antisoc just yet, or with anyone. I didn’t know enough to throw in my lot with any one faction. I didn’t want to go all in before I saw the turn or the river. Enough with the metaphors.

One job. I’ll do one job for Antisoc and see what doors it opens, if any. If it is a trap, well… I’m already trapped, aren’t I? Who knows. If I get this heist done fast enough, I may even have time to join up with the Round Table’s little crusade.

I got dressed and made my way to the crash of open air vendors and food stalls congealing in the armpit of The Commons. Not knowing any official name for the place, I decided to call it Spawn Alley. Now where was it? It had to be here somewhere. I checked the shielded notes in my Subroutines menu. Look for a simple neon blue sign. The kanji for fish in a closed circle. Order the fugu.

魚

Could that be it? What did I know about kanji? The booth matched the description, and it reeked of pungent seafood. There were only a couple stools and I slid into place. A stoic man of Asian appearance greeted me with a silent bow.

I’ll have the fugu, please.

Another bow of acknowledgement, and the man vanished behind a small red curtain. He soon returned holding a black net in which a large, live pufferfish with dark mottled spots over a big white belly lay. The man set the net on a white counter and gently removed the pufferfish. He held it in his hands, inspecting it, before laying it down on its side on the counter.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

It was gasping. Its gills expanded and closed in rhythm. Drowning in the artificial atmosphere of the metaverse. The dark eye on the left side of its face regarded me balefully.

I let out an involuntary shudder, remembering my nightmare, if you could call it that, from not long before. I was drowning, and now you are drowning in reverse. And I am the cause. I am the patron that manifested your suffering. I had the sudden urge to vomit dark water but there was nothing to vomit. I let the wave of nausea pass.

Get a grip.

The chef turned on a small shower nozzle over the fish and, just as quickly, slipped a sharp knife through the back of its head and neck. A streak of crimson blood mingled with the falling water as the chef began to rapidly cut away the fins, the skin, butchering the fish with expert cuts burned into his muscle memory. The liver, ovaries, and intestines were removed and discarded, and before I knew it the fish was fileted and the chef was slicing the raw flesh into thin strips.

An elegant flower arrangement of raw fugu was set on a plate before me. The chef bowed once more, then turned to help another customer. Reaching for a pair of chopsticks, I hesitated. The words of Antisoc rung in my ears. If we discover or suspect that you are collaborating with ColSec, eating the dish will flatline you. But if we trust you, Schrödinger will guide you to us.

Flatline.

Why did I feel so nervous? I had nothing to hide. If the so-called three magi were as wise as they puffed themselves up to be, they should know I had nothing to do with ColSec.

I brought a segment of the delicate fish to my mouth, trying not to let my hand shake. I swallowed, letting the whole thing slide down my throat without even remembering to chew. And I waited. And waited some more. Would I sense a flatline coming? Would I feel the reaper’s cold fingers on the back of my neck?

Then, out of the corner of my vision, I saw a smile. In the darkness of a sidestreet, a yellow-eyed cat emerged, the owner of that subtle grin. It approached and hopped up on the wooden counter. Its arsehole to my face, the cat shamelessly and greedily devoured the remaining pieces of fish from my plate, then just as nonchalantly leapt down. Nobody else paid it any attention.

Shiva. How much was I going to have to pay for that fugu?

But as I got up to follow the cat, the chef didn’t say a word or even look in my direction. Darting between the legs of passersby, the cat doubled back in the opposite direction. I hurried to keep it in view, and soon was led through the rat maze into another area of The Commons I was unfamiliar with. Now I was near a rusted chain link fence with the husks of discarded crotch rockets stacked in a giant heap on the other side.

The cat casually stepped through a two-dimensional rectangle of chameleonic light on a graffitied brick wall to my left and was gone. I quickly followed.

I found myself standing in a decrepit structure. An abandoned warehouse, or basement, or laboratory long out of use. There were tables, massive electrical cables pulled from the ground like bundles of unruly roots. Bright panels pulsed with numbers and twisting geometry. Broken glass, empty crumbled cups, and other debris littered the floor.

Three figures moved between the panels. The nearest, who could charitably be called scrawny, turned to me. He wore a black t-shirt with the words WISSEN IST TOD on the front in bold white lettering. And his face… to my shame I admit I recoiled instinctively as he stepped forward into the light of a single hanging bulb. He was a burn victim, his features painfully seared away from some unknown tragedy.

He saw me flinch and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. Another stopped what he was doing and turned to regard our conversation with mild interest while the third kept working away on an oversized screen. I could see they all had some form of physical deformity. Sometimes more than one. A cleft palate. A Glasgow smile. A milky, drooping eye.

>What’s wrong? Does our appearance unsettle you?<

What? Uh… no. Of course not. I just wasn’t expecting… um…

>We paid a lot of Crypt to be this ugly. What’s your excuse?<

I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know...

>Relax. This corrupt world monetizes artificial beauty and profits off your shallow desire to obtain it. This is just one way we give the finger to the man. Besides, it’s all just a mask after all<

To illustrate, the man in the black t-shirt made a flicking motion with his hand and suddenly his face changed. He looked just like the chef that had butchered the pufferfish. Then he flicked again. Now he looked completely different, leprous and old. Another flick. I stood blinking in confusion. It took me a while to realize that he was now wearing my face. The flicks went faster and faster until his face was a kaleidoscopic mask of shifting identities.

>Enough games. Shall we get down to business?<