CHAPTER 06 — ALE AND CARJA
Flint lay on the floor a long moment parsing everything. None of it made sense.
The Caskets were killing people. The very thing he was promised would not happen was, in fact, happening. Players dying in the game died in real life. The exact same thing that happened to his parents so long ago.
There were several absurdities to this. First was the fact the Casket had a built-in setting that allowed it to kill its occupant under certain conditions. The second was that Imperator Balevold—a mere NPC—could define those conditions. Third, and most confusing of all, was that the FRB expected mere players like Flint to fix it.
“Tomorrow you and Vardock will travel to Siolan. There, you’ll find a sorceress named Sigrid. She’s going to help you build an army strong enough to defeat the Imperator.”
“Shit...” he muttered to himself. “What a mess.”
Find Sigrid in Siolan. He didn’t know where that was, so naturally the first step was to find out.
Strange enough, the mere thought caused an alert to flash in his HUD. The icon of a brown leather book appeared in his visual field.
NOTE — You have new Clavis entries.
A pop-in window appeared. The title of the window read “Clavis,” and it had two tabs—”Codex” and “Map.” With a mere thought, Flint opened the Map tab.
The semi-rectangular landmass of Kvar filled his central vision. A geologically diverse continent of mountain ranges, snowy tundras, deserts, and jungles. Reach City was on the western end, three-quarters of the way to Kvar’s jagged northern tip. The city called High Marsh was labeled to the south near the western coastline, a good hundred miles along a winding road through hill country. To the east of Reach City was forestlands stretching from the slope of a great mountain range called Felspar, ending a few hundred miles in the dead center of the continent where a giant tower was illustrated amidst a heavily fortified city. Imperial Hold, it was called. Flint would bet that was the Imperator’s residence—the place from where Balevold surveyed the other four kingdoms in the trailer. It lay at the midpoint between four major cities highlighted with stars colored to match the shade of their kingdom’s region. Reach City to the northwestern half, at the edge of the Bellwood Forest. Lancour to the snowy northeast, hugging the Felspar Mountains. Venfall to the far southwest, on the volcano-packed coast of the Dire Sea, and Sandstone to the southeast, in the middle of the Dread Desert.
Flint squinted. Siolan was no more than thirty miles from Imperial Hold. So close that it fell inside an unshaded zone. He presumed that none of the four Kingdoms held jurisdiction over the city.
He gave an aggravated sigh. That was damn close to the Imperator’s place. Seemed pretty insane to plot his murder just a few miles away. Not only that, but the distance from Reach City to Siolan was vast. Who knew what dangers and annoyances awaited him in that giant-ass forest?
That thought caused him to scowl. There was at least one annoyance he was sure about. And it came in the form of a good-for-nothing narcissist to whom the game had attached him. “Fucking Dexter.”
As he walked to the door to find Vardock, a loud voice penetrated the walls of his room.
“I demand you to tell me how to quit the game NOW!”
Flint raised a brow and exited the room. The tavern was overtaken with an unexpected quiet. He stepped over to the railing. And froze.
Vizicar Camorr and his entourage of black-clad soldiers stood near the entrance. In front of them was a player in a generic Culling warrior’s breastplate. The owner of the voice.
“Tell me how to quit this game you orange-eyed bitch!”
Flint blinked. Evidently, the Vizicar hadn’t left the tavern. Worse yet, this idiot sounded close to fighting to him. Flint's targeter scanned the crazy asshole:
AndroKung33
Level 1 Charger
“You are a bold one, aren’t you?” Camorr purred.
A palpable foreboding overtook the room. Most NPCs and players moved to the corners of the tavern, as far from the hooded menace as possible. Hokum Joe seemed unsettled, too. The proprietor’s hands were frozen on a dishrag, his face white as milk.
AndroKung33 smashed his fists on the bar, causing mugs to jump. A man nearby leapt back, beer spilling down the front of his tunic. “My sister was killed at the Culling battle, damn you! I want to start the game over and play with her!”
“If your sister died,” the Vizicar said slowly. “The only way to join her is to forfeit your own life.”
Flint felt a tingling up the back of his spine. Something very bad was about to happen.
AndroKung33 unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the Vizicar and his soldiers. The three soldiers unsheathed their own blades and stepped forward in ready stances.
“Then kill me so I can respawn,” AndroKung33 said. “Playing this game alone is shit.”
The player darted at the hooded figure with raised blade.
The Vizicar raised his right hand a fraction of an inch, making a little flicking motion. Just a flick. Like he was waving away hors d'oeuvres from a waiter.
Flint felt tug in the pit of his stomach. A strange sensation, not unlike the one he felt on the Silvestre’s elevators as they ascended the artificial gravity well.
AndroKung33 was mid-stride, sword raised, screaming like a banshee. There was a wet squelch, and the man exploded, bursting apart like a bomb detonated in his innards. The crowd screamed and jumped away. But the killing made no mess. Shreds of the player hung in the air as though caught in freeze-frame, coalescing into a shrinking sphere.
As the fine-shredded meat particles of AndroKung33 collapsed into a singularity, Flint had to force the sphincter-end of his colon closed. What he just witnessed was both the cleanest and most disgusting murder he’d ever seen. In a video game, that is. And yet this wasn’t just a game. Dying in a video game used to mean respawning and trying again. Or slapping your goggles and controllers down and getting back to reality. Either way, life didn’t end in virtual reality.
At least not until now.
Bile rose in the back of his throat as he realized that somewhere back on the Arks, another person had expired inside a Casket.
The tavern was dead quiet.
“My apologies,” Vizicar Camorr said. The sorcerer’s gaze swept the room, rising to the second level and finding a stupefied Flint at the railing. “Some people aren't meant for our world.”
Flint felt his balls lift an inch. To his credit, though, he held the stare until the hooded killer pivoted and led his goons out the door. He stayed there a long moment, moist hands gripping the railing, pulse thudding in his skull.
The crowd remained motionless for several long seconds. After it was clear the Vizicar was gone, someone walked over to AndroKung33’s spilled articles. It was another player, a mage by the looks of it. He reached down and lifted the trousers, inspecting them like a customer in a department store. Seemingly satisfied, he grabbed an inventory sack from his belt and dropped in the newfound loot.
As the terror gripping Flint faded, he made a decision. Vardock was nowhere to be found in the crowd below, so he turned his heel and started knocking on doors.
##
The first door was opened by an angry-looking man in a dirty cloak. Behind him was a woman dressed in similarly ill-fitting rags, clutching a sack. They looked like beggars squatting in the small bedroom. Flint apologized and moved on to the next one. Rooms two and three were occupied by NPCs and none seemed happy about the interruption. The fourth was opened after a long pause by Vardock. He stepped out butt naked, his rotund frame occupying the whole doorway. From head-to-toe he was sopping wet with soapy water. Behind him, a bath was running. Two girlish sets of giggles leaked out from inside.
“Hey, check it out,” the big man said. He planted both hands on his hips and began gyrating, his junk slapping off his enormous thighs. “I’m hung like a huh— huh— horse.”
Flint recoiled. “Can you stop that?”
Vardock’s smile turned into a frown. “What do you want?”
He thought of the best way to explain it. “This is gunna sound strange, but I was just cornered by an Admin. He told me—”
“An Admin?” Vardock’s gaze swept the hall. “Like from the FRB?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
Flint hesitated. “He took control of an NPC. He was talking to me through her.”
“What, you mean like a duh— demon?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d he do that?”
“How should I know?” he snapped. “The point is, we have to go to Siolan. It’s a city in the south near Imperial Hold. I need to find a witch named Sigrid and—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” The big man emphasized the words with extended palms high-fiving the air between them. “I’m not interested in the long version.”
“What, you got more pressing matters?”
“Me and these chicks are having a swuh— swuh— soirée…”
Flint’s anger flared. “Can you stop fucking around? People are dying and we need to fix it.”
“We?” Vardock spat. “Last I checked, you hated my guts.”
“This Admin put us together. And now we’re in a Party, I can’t leave this place without you.”
“Don’t leave then.”
Flint tried to force his anger down. With great patience, he said, “Look man, you’re not getting it. The FRB wants us to fix a problem with the game. It’s killing people, dude.”
“Oh, I get it,” Vardock said. “I just don’t care. Come back in the morning.”
The door slammed in his face.
Flint seethed at the door and considered kicking it off the hinges. But then a better idea surfaced. If the selfish prick wanted to play it that way, Flint would press the issue. All he had to do was leave the tavern and let the game force the shitbag to follow. The same way it forced Flint to follow him into this tavern.
Apparently just cogitating his intentions triggered a warning. A tool-tip to flash in his HUD:
WARNING — You are not the Party Leader. If you leave the current Instance, you will be killed and respawned in the Party Leader’s location.
He balked at the message. “Party Leader? What the fuck?”
But the meaning was obvious. There was no going anywhere unless Vardock agreed.
He turned back to the door and gave it a vicious kick. “Dexter!” He hammered at the frame. “Open up!”
No response. Flint stayed there a good thirty seconds, hammering at the thing like a suffocating captive in an airlock. With a single punch, he forced a dent into the soft wooden frame. “Open the fucking door!”
“Hey, arselicker!”
Flint turned and saw Hokum Joe standing at the top of the stairwell. The wine-colored side of the NPC’s face was squinted-up in rage.
“Are you unfit, man?” the tavern keep asked. “First you insult my Chastity, now yer fixin’ to destroy the place with those meat mittens ‘o yers.”
Flint glanced at the dent he punched in the door, face reddening. “Oh shit, my bad.”
“Your bad, eh?” Hokum Joe said. “I’d like you to leave my establishment. Now.”
“Leave? I can’t leave.”
The tavern keep turned over his shoulder. “Merla! Go fetch the Street Watch!”
Panic surged inside him. Getting ejected from the tavern would kill him. He ran toward the NPC, who took a step backward as though expecting to get tackled. But Flint simply dropped to both knees.
“Please, sir,” Flint said, prostrating before the NPC. “Don't kick me out. I promise to behave.”
Hokum Joe frowned at him like he was a peculiar type of insect.
“Please,” Flint begged, grabbing the man by his wooden leg. “Please… I’ll pay you… for the door…”
“And for Chastity,” the tavern keep gruffed. “A hundred gold pieces.”
Flint frowned. He didn’t exactly get his money’s worth with the prostitute. But now was hardly the time to argue. “Alright. A hundred gold pieces.”
The coin icon in his HUD flashed, along with the agreed-upon sum in red digits. Flint sensed the instant lightening of weight in his pocket.
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The tavern keep jerked his peg leg free of Flint’s grasp. “And pull yer act together. This here’s a place o’ business, d’ya see? Not a bloody circus.”
##
Flint dropped into a barstool. He wasn’t happy about waiting for Vardock, but he had no choice. That, and his Health bar was in a shitty state. The metered indicator of mortality still hovered in the dangerously low range, and there was no use going anywhere till that was corrected.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold coin. Raising it up to a girl in a Bavarian beer wench outfit, he said: “I’ll take a water.”
The barmaid frowned. “We don’t have water.”
“Then what do you have?”
“Ale, mead, cider, and wine.”
“Do you have anything non-alcoholic?”
“Nonalca-what?”
“Do you have anything that won’t get me drunk?” he asked. “I need to uh... keep my wits about me.”
“Anything’ll get you drunk, you drink too much of it,” she said. She gave a surreptitious glance left and right before leaning across the bar. “But if I’m being honest, the Ale here’s weaker than monk’s piss.”
He had never imbibed monk’s piss, but he took her meaning well enough. “Ale, then.”
The girl plucked the coin from his hand and walked off.
He leaned against the table and massaged his forehead. A fierce headache was building behind his eyeballs. Hopefully the booze wouldn’t worsen it.
The barmaid slapped a big-handled mug of frothy amber in front of him. He thanked her, took a drink, and watched his Health bar recover by the slightest smidge.
##
An hour later, he was working on his third Ale. His Health meter was around 80% and he was buzzed. Which was good, because it dulled the anxiety and anger about the fucked-up stuff he’d learned the last few hours.
He gave an unpleasant belch that lifted stomach acid into his throat.
“They got 100,000 sign-ups after your appearance on Sig Sours last night,” Geb had told him.
The guilt squeezed at his brain. Thousands joined the game on his say-so. And now thousands were likely dead.
He scowled at his empty mug. It wasn’t fair, to blame himself. After all, it was the FRB who fucked up the programming. All Flint did was hock their game on some idiot’s show. And not for money, either. He’d been threatened to do their promotions or rot in jail while cancer killed Zeeke. When you thought about it, Flint was more of a victim than anyone else. And now fixing it was his problem?
“Fucking bullshit,” he muttered.
“What is?”
He turned a bit too suddenly and reeled from the sway in his vision. It settled on a man in a leather jerkin with a crossbow on his back. At first, Flint figured him as an NPC because he wasn’t wearing Culling armor. But then his targeter scanned him:
Dickhead McBallsenstein
Level 1 Marksman
“Nothing. Talking to myself.”
McBallsenstein plopped into the seat next to him. “That’s fuckin’ gay.”
“What is?”
The player grinned. “You look like you tongue anus.”
Flint glanced around, thinking the idiot was talking to someone else. But the nearest person was ten paces away. He was about to ask for a reason for the insult, then thought better of it. Random shit-talking was typical in video games. Especially in these multi-Instance towns where a million players gathered. A consequence of mixing public gatherings with total anonymity.
McBallsenstein picked up a half-full cup of wine abandoned by another patron and drank, half the red liquid spilling down the side of his face. He slammed the cup down and belched. Turning to Flint, he said: “Hey bro, you got a fuckin’ gold piece I can borrow?”
“After you just insulted me?”
“Yeah,” McBallsenstein said. “I spent all my fuckin’ cash on this new armor and crossbow.”
Flint did like the look of the guy’s armor. “Where’d you buy it?”
“Out there,” he jerked his head at the door. “There’s a billion NPC shops. Lots of fly-ass swords and other shit.”
He made a mental note to pick up new gear. He turned and glanced at the rooms upstairs. Damn but Vardock was taking forever.
“You win your shit today?” the marksman asked.
“The Culling battle?”
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Yeah, I guess not. I fuckin’ won, too.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah, I was a fuckin’ Battle Smite player,” he said. “I’m used to this kind of PvP, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“And the kids I faced sucked donkey balls. They couldn’t chain their skills for shit.”
Flint remembered the female mage who misused the debuff spell on him. Hilarious at the time. But now the memory of opening her brain cavity made him cringe. That poor girl was dead. And he really killed her.
He heaved a ragged sigh and felt a strong urge to drink more. “There were a lot of trash-tier noobs in my match, too. Me and another guy shit on them pretty easily.”
The barmaid came back and took Flint’s empty mug. She glanced between him and the player next to him with a raised brow.
“Another Ale for me,” Flint said, pulling out two coins. “And a cup of wine for this bitch.”
The woman scowled, whether at the uncouth language or the look she got from McBallsenstein. She took the money all the same.
“Thanks, dawg,” McBallsenstein said.
“Sure.”
“You doing that fuckin’ quest tomorrow?”
“The caravan to High Marsh?”
“Yeah.”
Flint remembered McCormick's warning:
“You cannot go with the caravan,” he’d said. “The Vizicarum will be waiting along the route and will kill you the instant you leave the boundaries of Reach City.”
“Don’t know. You?”
The other player shrugged. “In these fuckin’ games, I like to explore on my own. But I heard if we don’t do that fuckin’ quest, then we can’t get deployed to…”
One of the hookers happened by just then, and the marksman lost his train of thought. “Excuse me.”
Flint watched as he walked over and grabbed the woman by the arm. They exchanged words, and he reached into his pocket and produced a fistful of coins. Without a second glance, McBallsenstein was led toward the stairwell.
Maybe it was the booze that dulled his anger, but Flint couldn’t help but chuckle. “Spent all his gold my ass.”
The barmaid returned with both drinks and Flint studied his Health bar. About 85% full. Which meant one more drink should do the trick.
He tipped the mug and took a deep pull. No sooner had he finished did a yellow warning flash in his lower vision, just above his Skill Bar.
Toxidrome: Alcohol Intoxication.
This was accompanied by a tool-tip:
You are intoxicated. Skills now cost an additional 5% Stamina. Continuing to drink increases your risk for a Hangover and potentially a blackout (not to mention bad decisions).
He hoisted a brow. It’d been a long time since he was drunk. Doctor Reddy told him to avoid alcohol because of his muscular dystrophy meds. But he partook on rare occasions. The last time was after his fourth Pro Circuit trophy win. His visor sponsor paid assloads of Scrip for three bottles of hard liquor (then an increasingly rare commodity on the ship). He remembered sitting with Zeeke, Esmeralda, and a half-dozen VizeWear employees, inhaling vodka shots till it was coming out his ears. He remembered waking the next morning in a capsized wheelchair on the bathroom floor, his jeans piss-soaked to the ankles.
The memory reminded him of the pain in his bladder.
Hokum Joe was standing nearby, so Flint signaled him over.
“Yeah?” the tavern owner said.
“Where’s the pisser?”
“Courtyard,” he said, pointing across the room. Flint followed his finger to a door near the stage, where three players were spilling in, talking loudly and laughing like lunatics.
He stood and moved toward the door, doing it slowly to savor the sensation of ambulation. It was weird enough to be walking, but doubly so drunk.
The tavern had a steady flow to it. Patrons in Culling armor were spread around the room, cavorting with each other and the NPCs. Drinking booze from big mugs, eating stews from wooden bowls and slabs of meat on sticks. The band—three fellows in feather caps and bard’s robes played an up-tempo tune with plucked instruments. A raucous crew loudly argued at a table loaded with oddly-illustrated playing cards and piles of gold coins. A female Vanguard chased a cat around the room. The feline fucker darted between Flint’s legs, causing the drunk broad to nearly launch him linebacker-style through a window.
“Watch it,” he admonished her.
“Fuck your mother, shit-wizard,” she snapped.
“I’m not a wizard,” he mumbled. But she was too busy yelling after the overgrown rat.
He pushed open the door and stepped into a cool breeze. The courtyard was really an enclosed square with benches surrounded by plots of shrubbery. Overhead, a bright, big-ass moon took up half the night sky, serving as the background to a much smaller one in front of it.
He walked down the cobbled path past a congregation of players sucking on glowing smoke sticks. Just beyond the benches stood a pair of wooden shit-houses. A chink of light from a lantern hung between them, illuminating the gender designations.
He pushed into the one labeled “Lads”. A septic stench assaulted his nostrils and almost made him gag. The bathroom—if you could call it that—was a shack with a gutter that ran from one wall to the other. Two guys were pissing in it, which Flint was thankful for cause the reek suggested it was dual-purpose.
“Couldn’t they just make regular toilets?” he mumbled as he fished his prick out. Before initializing a stream, he studied the thing. Looked kinda like his real-world equipment. Strikingly realistic. Which made him wonder if the FRB had a guy whose job it was to program the dong experience. Schlong Engineer. Maybe that’s what they called him. The thought brought a drunken grin to his lips.
“Ahhhhhhhh… there it goes.”
Flint started, turning to catch the sideways glance of an older NPC. The frail-looking gray-haired man wore a gambeson with a rusted short sword on his belt. He was bow-legged and straining to keep the ends of his massive coat spread as he executed a hands-free sprinkle. Grinning over at Flint, he said: “The river don’t flow like it used to.”
Flint shuffled sideways for breathing room and finished his business.
##
There was still no sign of Vardock when Flint reclaimed his seat at the bar.
He sighed and nursed the cup of wine he’d bought for that bum McBallsenstein when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a woman behind him. And the shock of recognition took his breath away.
She was an idealized avatar of the real person. Long, vulcanite-black hair crashed over bare tawny shoulders. An hourglass figure in a mage’s dress that emphasized her perfect dimensions. A heart-shaped face with big emerald eyes and puffy, heart-shaped lips. Her smile was as radiant as the glowing wand on her belt.
Flint’s mouth hung open. The woman was a breathing incarnation of every gonadal male’s fantasy. And yet there was no mistaking her identity. “Esmeralda?”
She bent down and kissed him hard on the mouth. There was a strong taste of wine on her breath, which explained the act. When she unlocked her lips from his, she enveloped him in a hug. “Oh Austin,” she said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Flint was so flabbergasted it was hard to speak. Her arms were hung over his shoulders like they were dance partners. She gave off a citrusy, metallic fragrance so pleasant it clouded his thinking ability. “I didn’t know you were playing this game…”
She gave a hiccup and covered her mouth. Then she leaned in on him, with slurred words, said: “I got three kills in the deathmatch. Aren’t you proud of me?”
Mention of the Culling snapped him free of the daze. “Esmeralda, this game isn’t safe.”
She gave him a pouty frown. “I was tier 4 in Battle Smite. I can hold my own.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Your life is really in danger.”
Her smile didn’t waiver as she looked him up and down, her pretty head wobbling on an unsteady axis. “Your character looks like the real Austin Flint.”
Flint frowned. His current visage bore no resemblance to that scrawny, invalid body he escaped. “Are you kidding? I don’t look the same at all.”
She raised a brow. “Well, I mean you are more… sturdy… and handsome, I guess. Not that your real self isn’t handsome.” She gave him a grin that he didn’t reciprocate. “But… I don’t know. Your face is similar. I could tell it was you from across the room.”
Anger flared in his cheeks. Irrational anger, maybe, but he couldn’t really help it. “Actually, now you mention it, you look really similar too.”
She blinked. Glancing at her supernatural form, she said: “Do you think? I thought this was a slight upgrade…”
He gave an unimpressed shrug. “Seems like they just copied your real-life body.”
A flush formed in her cheeks. One that would’ve melted the heart of any normal man. “Oh.”
“Excuse me, lovely,” a voice said behind them.
They turned to see a warrior with twin hatchets on his back. He was an impressive-looking fellow, about seven feet tall, with a square jaw and long black beard that made him look like a Viking. For such a majestic-looking figure, it was something of a disappointment when his name flashed on the targeter:
Retarded Fetus
Level 1 Vanguard
“Oh! Fetus!” Esmeralda drunkenly proclaimed. She grabbed the warrior’s wrist and yanked him closer. “Austin, you have to meet my teammate. He’s the—” she hiccuped, becoming slightly breathless. “He’s the best Four Kingdoms player ever.”
Fetus grabbed Esmeralda’s hand and spun her around. He made a show of dipping her like an expert dancer. “And you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Esmeralda put a hand on her forehead, swooning. Then she hugged the giant man tightly, her head resting on his shoulder. Almost as if she was passed out. Which wouldn't surprise Flint. Seemed Esmeralda’s ability to hold her liquor was about as dismal in the game as it was in real life.
Flint’s scowl was fierce enough to melt ice.
“You know each other IRL?” Fetus asked, using the acronym for In Real Life.
“Yes,” Flint grunted.
“She look anything like this IRL?”
Esmeralda was suddenly reanimated. “Austin says I look the same. Just ask him. He just told me I do!”
Fetus did his own once-over of Flint’s attributes. The warrior’s eyes widened. “Holy fuck-balls. You really are Flintlock. Without the wheelchair, of course.”
“Yeah. I’m he.”
“Shit, man, when she bought that charm to locate a dude called Austin Flint, I didn’t really think it was you.”
“I told you!” Esmeralda said, still holding onto the warrior, much to Flint’s annoyance.
“A charm?” Flint asked.
“There’s this lady selling map markers for any player in the game,” he said. “Must be bugged though. I tried buying one for my cousin cause he died in the Culling fight. The stupid NPC just kept saying she couldn’t locate him.”
Flint had nothing to say to that. Nothing good, anyway.
“Why don’t you guys come play Windlass,” the warrior said, motioning toward the back of the tavern. A motley crew of players of different genders and classes whooped and hollered over a gaming table. They seemed to be having a great time.
“Of course we can,” Esmeralda said, and reached down and grabbed his wrist. “Come on, Austin. You can be on my tea—” she covered her mouth and gave such a violent hiccup that Flint thought she might ralph all over Fetus. Or maybe he was just hoping for it.
Flint pulled away. “No, that’s okay.”
Esmeralda gave him a drunken frown.
“Do you mind if I borrow her for a bit, then?” Fetus asked, putting his arm around her in a way that seemed creepy to Flint but that Esmeralda enjoyed. She was giggling like a schoolgirl.
He forced a shrug. “Why would I care?”
She leaned toward him, swaying unsteady, and whispered at him. Or at least she thought it was a whisper. As shit-hammered as she was, half the bar could hear her. “Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go play cards.” He jerked his head in the direction of the other idiots. “Just don’t leave without talking to me.”
“She’s in good hands, Flintlock,” Fetus said, grabbing her around the waist.
He didn’t reply to that. He just wanted them to go away. Thankfully they did, marching to the back of the room and groping each other the whole way.
He slammed the remaining Ale into his mug and stood. It was becoming oppressively hot in the tavern, and he needed air. He stood and walked to the door, got two steps away when he heard his name.
“Walker!”
He turned and saw three players in Culling armor and green capes sitting at a table.
“Yeah?” he said.
One of the guys raised a hand as if to wave. A green dart-shaped projectile exploded from his hand.
Flint jumped back, but not before it hit him in the chest with the impact of a light push. An alert flashed above his Skill Bar:
Buff: Shaman’s Blessing of Vigour
It was accompanied by a tool-tip: For the next minute, your stamina will regenerate five times faster than normal.
Flint blinked. Not an attack, then. “Very funny,” he said.
They thought so. The three dickheads cackled like it was the funniest shit they’d ever seen, stopping only to repeat the prank on the next passerby.
He stepped back into the courtyard, and was hit with a pleasant blast of cool air. He reached up and loosened the top straps of his armor. Heat radiated through his vented neckline like steam from a sauna. Stepping over to a bench, he whisked away the moisture with a sleeve and sat down. It was only as his ass hit the bench did he realize the Warhammer was still on his back.
“Amazing how those things feel like nothing when you’re carrying them.”
He glanced sideways. A red-haired girl in archer’s armor stood nearby with a pencil-sized stick between her fingers. Red embers at the tip emitted a carmine-colored smoke that smelled like cinnamon.
He studied the girl. His targeter identified her as Alannah, a level one Druid. “What’s that you’re smoking?”
She turned the stick sideways and studied it. “It’s called Carja.”
“Smells good. Where’d you get it?”
“Vendor up the street. Cost only a few coins.” She gave it a deep puff, then stepped toward him holding it out. “Try it.”
Flint took it hesitantly. It had a cold, rough feel—like a piece of serrated metal. A HUD tool-tip popped into his vision:
Carja is a mild calming agent with very few, mild side effects.
“Go on,” she said. “It just gives you a little buzz, that’s all.”
He put the stick in his mouth and took a cautious puff. His eyes began to water, and he hacked a few coughs. It tasted like sweet cinnamon. “Tastes good,” he said, handing it back.
She took it and puffed, then handed it back to him. And then they repeated the cycle. They remained that way for several minutes, him sitting and her standing. Other bar patrons came in and out, some catching fresh air, some strolling to-and-from the shit houses.
“What kind of name is Alannah?” Flint said, surprised to be slurring his words.
“Alannah means beautiful in Gaelic,” she said. “Something I am very far from in real-life.”
He took his fourth round of puffs. The warm, pleasant sensation ran-up his toes into his cheeks.
“What kind of name is Walker?” she asked.
For no real reason at all, he giggled. “Crippled. I’mma wheelchair.”
“You’re in a wheelchair?”
“Yeah.” He was starting to feel dizzy and shaky. “People dying in this game. Can’t escape it without dying.”
Alannah giggled. “What other drugs have you had tonight?”
Flint giggled along with her, laughing so hard snot dripped from his nose. “Yeah, yeah. Funny stuff…” He felt his heart racing. He tried standing but swayed backward. Alannah grabbed him and eased him back onto the bench.
“Easy,” she said. “Maybe you need a break from the alcohol.”
“Gotta find Sigrid.”
“Who?”
“There’s no way to quit the game,” Flint said. “Just try to quit. No way to quit…”
He got up again, and the world swayed. She said something, but he couldn’t make it out. Somehow he managed to stumble through the doorway. After his vision stopped wavering, he spotted Esmeralda on the other side of the bar. She was sitting next to a recognizable figure.
“Hey there buddy!” Vardock yelled. “Just met your friend, Esse.”
Flint grabbed the edge of the bar and pulled himself toward them. He took two steps, lost his footing, and went sideways. His face smashed something hard, and all went black.