Top Level Player, page 7
“Yeah, get me Klondike Five, six-six-six-eight,” Louse said. “Hello, boss? Yeah, the one chick is palling around with another chick. What should I do? … No, no. A newb. A real spunky streak in her. Gave me a shot to the dork with a fire extinguisher while I was trying for McG. … You sure? … All right, all right. You’re the boss.”
He hung up the phone and the booth vanished.
“Boss wants me to sit tight, I’ll sit tight.”
He slipped his hand inside his suit jacket and retrieved a dented and defaced cigarette case. After selecting a cigarette and lighting it, he stowed the case and straightened the jacket.
“But I sure ain’t sittin’ tight around here.” He paced down the street. “I wonder what’s playin’ at The Savoy tonight…”
“Two rides in one day!” LP said. “I must’ve made a good impression!”
The Warthog smashed through an alleyway and a trash can narrowly missed Jazz’s head.
“I wouldn’t quite put it that way,” she said. “It’s more a matter of you being literally the only person in my contact list and me needing a ride.”
“I was in the right place at the right time then. Still a sign of a good driver, right?” he said. “I mean, what is there to being a driver if it’s not nailing timing and location? Where are we heading, by the way?”
“Shady Tavern,” Didi said. “Do you know where that is?”
“Of course I do. I run folks out there all the time. Planning on doing some surreptitious deeds?” he said.
“I’m planning on doing whatever I have to do to earn six million PTs to get the Tech Support to actually help me. Within reason, anyway.”
“Told you it’d cost you to get anywhere.” LP scoffed. “Speaking of which, twenty tokens for the ride, okay?”
“Sounds fine,” Jazz said. “As long as we get there in one piece.”
She started to dig into her pocket.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Didi said. “Before we start coughing up cash for services rendered, let’s not forget we’ve got a question to ask our chauffeur which might change the price.”
LP glanced between the passenger seat and the back seat.
“You ladies looking to make this a combo-objective?” LP said. “I’m not one to turn down a little more XP and a little more PT.”
“I’m told I’ll need to complete the tutorial to make the big bucks, one of my remaining objectives is to form a party.”
“Oh, you need a fourth?”
“A third and a fourth, actually.”
“Uh… Why not? I’ll team up. I’m not in any parties right now.”
“Really?” Jazz said. “I would have expected it to take more convincing. I can’t imagine it’s much fun to be teamed up with a ‘newbie’ or whatever.”
“Is this just going to be an in-and-out to get you the objective, or did you want to do some party missions?”
“I’ll probably need all the help I can get, if you’re willing.”
This time he gave it a bit more thought. “Eh, yeah. Count me in. I just did a prestige refresh a couple of months back and I’ve been dragging my feet about building up a roster of parties.”
“What’s a prestige refresh? And what’s the value of building up a roster of parties?”
“A party refresh—” LP began.
“A party refresh is a valuable endgame mechanic introduced a few years after the creation of The After-Image!” Laurel shouted to avoid having her thunder stolen yet again. “Because players will spend a massive and undefined amount of time in The After-Image, long-time players are given the option to effectively restart via the Prestige Refresh System. This provides you with the ability to refresh your class and appearance for free, alter your name if you desire, and earn permanent, high value upgrades to stats. It also allows you to return to Level 0 and have the fun of leveling again via a new path.”
“It’s like reincarnation. Or New Game Plus,” LP said. “And having a roster of parties is useful so if you find yourself needing a crew to get a job done, you can put one together quick no matter where you are. Basically I’m doing you the favor of hopping on your team for a few missions so that one of these days you’ll return the favor when I’m in a hurry and you’re nearby.”
“That’s fair.”
LP took a corner and smashed through a fruit-stand. Didi popped a parasol to shield herself. Everyone else got splattered. Laurel helpfully ducked into Jazz’s inventory to produce a hanky.
“Quick question, LP. Were you a driver before the prestige refresh, or is that new?” Jazz asked, wiping goop from her face.
“I’ve been gig-driving for years. Why?”
“I’m just trying to figure out how experienced a driver needs to be before I can expect to get from Point A to Point B without ending up with fruit salad up my nose.”
“Look, Jazz. Drives Fast, Works Cheap, Doesn’t Take Messy Shortcuts. You can pick two.”
Didi shook some smashed banana from the parasol and slipped it back into a clutch that shouldn’t have been large enough to contain it.
“Or you can just start carrying a parasol. They’ve got a thousand uses.”
Chapter 4
LP took a corner on two tires and slammed down on a long, straight road flanked by tall chain link fences. His tire caught a garbage bag and assorted litter swirled around them like a flurry of snow.
“Is this a warehouse district?” Jazz asked, tugging a snack food wrapper from her hair.
“An abandoned warehouse district, to be specific,” LP said.
“And, just to be clear, we’re in a computer simulation, which doesn’t need warehouses because it’s all data, and certainly doesn’t need to keep a warehouse district around once it’s no longer needed, because it’s all just data.”
“Don’t be silly,” LP said. “Where are you going to keep all of the spooky cargo and super villain lairs if you don’t have any abandoned warehouses?”
“Yeah, people are always tying other people up in warehouses,” Didi said.
LP and Jazz both looked at her.
“What?”
“Have you been tied up in a warehouse?” Jazz said.
“Sure. You hang around in The After-Image long enough and everyone eventually does.”
“Can’t say it’s ever happened to me,” LP said, turning back to the road just in time to plow through a chained-off gate to an access road.
“Oh, come on. Someone playing up the villain tropes comes along, kidnaps you. Throws you in chains. Dangles you over this or that, then a set piece happens and someone rescues you,” Didi said. “That sort of thing.”
“This has happened to you more than once?” Jazz said.
“Yeah!”
LP joined Jazz in staring in her direction again.
“Don’t look at me like I’m weird. You guys are the weird ones. You think those big action scenes happen without someone being at the center? It’s like jury duty. Eventually it’ll be your turn,” she said. “Anyway, the shady tavern’s right under that old suspension bridge.”
Jazz squinted at the sky.
“How long have we been driving?”
“About twenty minutes,” LP said.
“And it was broad daylight when we left.”
“Yeah,” Didi said.
“Why is it the dead of night now?”
“We’re about to go into a shadowy place where people do secret things. What other time of day would it be?” LP said. “Trust me, you’ll get used to this sort of thing.”
The Warthog locked its brakes and drifted into the general vicinity of a parking spot in front of a picture-perfect dive bar, complete with a half-functional neon sign. Jazz glared at it with frustrated intensity.
“Shady Tavern. It is called Shady Tavern,” she muttered.
“Not anymore. With all those letters burnt out, it’s just the ‘hayver.’ Whatever that means.” LP hopped out and trotted around to help his customers disembark. “Man. It’s been years since I even tried to get into one of these places. I’m no fan of streaming, but this place always sort of rubbed me the wrong way.”
“Hey, I’ve made every token I’ve spent since the perma-ban in this place and it’s all worked out fine.”
“You just got through telling us you routinely end up tied up in warehouses,” Jazz said.
“Those two things are unrelated,” she insisted.
LP reached back into the Warthog to get Doodad, who happily hitched a ride on his back. Didi led the way, and, reluctantly, Jazz followed. The door was blocked by a literal gorilla in an ill-fitting tux.
“Turn around and walk away,” rumbled the ape.
“Oh, right,” LP said. “I forgot, there’s the whole password thing now.”
“Is there a rule that every bouncer has to be a gorilla?” Jazz asked.
“No, but gorilla-like qualities are pretty mandatory,” LP said.
“Bruno! Buddy!” Didi said. “Good to see you again!”
The ape scratched his head and leaned down.
“Wait… is that Didi?” he said. “Been a while.”
“Yeah, I’ve been hopping servers a lot lately. So…” She cleared her throat. “I hear these days everybody drinks their coffee with cinnamon.”
The gorilla slid his sleeve up to reveal an index card tapped to his inner forearm. He consulted it, then slid it down again.
“The question is, do you want ladyfingers or tea cakes.”
“I prefer macaroons. Three of them.”
He nodded and stepped aside, opening the door.
“Hope you find a good job and don’t end up with a gag in your mouth.”
“You and me both, Bruno,” Didi said. “Come on, you two. We’ve got a party to put together.”
They stepped past the bouncer. LP quietly leaned down to Didi.
“How exactly did you end up with the password to this place?”
“Like I said, I’ve been doing dark tasks for a while. Trust me, I’m an old hat with this stuff,” she said.
LP elbowed Jazz. “Between me and little-miss-insider, you’re making some good connections right out the gate.”
The inside of the tavern didn’t quite fit Jazz’s prediction. The atmosphere was spot-on. A heavy haze of tobacco smoke rendered the whole place foggy and pungent. The floor was somehow simultaneously slippery and sticky. It was poorly lit, and the sound of roused rabble filled her ears. But rather than hulking bikers playing darts and other rough customers playing pool, the clientele was just as bizarre and varied as anywhere else in Tutorial Lobby, and thus unremarkable. Tables and chairs scattered the floor. A bar dominated one wall, some big flatscreen TVs covered the far wall, and the remaining one was entirely covered with a single, floor to ceiling bulletin board. Just audible under the rumble of loud conversation was some intensely generic rock and roll.
“Okay, since neither of you two are terribly familiar with this place, let me give you the rundown,” Didi said. “Dark tasks are over yonder. No level locks, anyone can do them. No limit on the number of people who can try to do a given job. Payment goes to the first person to pull it off. Jazz here is looking for a major payday, but she’s Level 0, soon to be Level 1, and hasn’t got much money to spend. Jazz, unless we can find a particularly heavy hitting fourth member of our party, I’d say that means anything combat related is off the table.”
“I can live with that,” Jazz said.
“I would be ever so happy to sort the information according to whatever criteria you request.” Laurel coughed lightly. “Particularly if it means it will get us out of this smokey room faster.”
“I guess look for anything with a payment in the five-digit range that probably won’t get me killed,” Jazz said.
“Yeah, super important you don’t get killed,” LP said. “Once you’re out of the Tutorial Lobby, it is so annoying.”
“Focus on fetch quests,” Didi said. “Gathering a bunch of items. They’re usually good for slow, steady money without much risk.”
Laurel gave a salute.
“I’m on it!”
She buzzed away. Didi gave Jazz a nudge with her elbow.
“With her on that, do you want me to help you pick out someone to be the fourth in our party?”
“I’m open to any and all guidance.”
“Okay, so. It’s basically about balance. Every group of four must strive to mimic the A-Team. LP, you drive, but can you also fly things?”
“Yep! I’ve got skill points in land, sea, air, and space vehicles.”
“That makes you Murdock. Since I’m the one formulating the plan, that makes me Hannibal. Jazz, would you say you’re more of a Faceman or a BA?”
“Are those the only choices?”
“The woman has given you an opportunity to be Mr. T. There is only one correct answer,” LP said.
“But he’s the muscle, isn’t he?” Jazz said.
“He’s also the mechanic,” LP said helpfully.
Jazz mulled it over. “Okay, fine. I’m BA.”
Didi clapped. “Great! So all we need is a Faceman. Keep your eyes peeled for a Dirk Benedict type.”
“Or a Bradley Cooper type,” LP said.
“Is this really the best way to form a party?”
“Gotta work the tropes,” said LP and Didi simultaneously.
“And the A-Team is a good model because not only did they always win, they never really killed anybody,” LP said. “Except in the movie.”
“Uh-oh. We’ve been talking too loud about this,” Didi said. “Incoming.”
Jazz turned to see a blood-soaked, blue flannel-wearing man with chiseled good looks. He had a shotgun in one hand and a chainsaw as the other hand.
“Ladies,” he said, cocking a grin. “And dude, I guess. Couldn’t help but overhear you were looking for a fourth. Your search is over.”
“Sorry,” Didi said. “We’re recruiting, not taking applications.”
“Come on.” He raised the chainsaw arm and revved it. “What’s the gig? Slicing demons? Seducing demons? I’ve got it covered.”
“We’re leaning away from demon-based adventures at the moment, thank you.”
“That’s fine. Chainsaws work just as well on non-demons.”
“He’s got a good chin,” LP whispered to the others. “That’s points on the Benedict/Cooper scale.”
“I’m not putting this guy on my team. He’s trying too hard,” Didi said.
“Oh, hey,” the man said, nodding his head at LP. “Groovy Baby Yoda PDA.”
LP’s expression hardened. “It’s not a Baby Yoda. Sorry, we’re going to keep looking.”
“Your loss, baby,” he said, sifting back into the crowd.
Laurel buzzed back with a stack of pages plucked from the wall.
“How are these?” she asked.
The pile was substantial, dozens of different postings.
“This is a lot to go through. Let’s find a seat and see if there is anything I can manage,” Jazz said.
They started to shoulder their way through the crowd toward a set of booths beneath the flat screens. As they moved farther into the place, they became increasingly aware of a growing tension in the crowd. A pair of voices were rising above the others. An argument was raging toward its inevitable conclusion.
“All right, all right,” shouted one man. “I’ve had it up to here with you calling me short. I’m 5’9”. That’s average. The only reason you’re taller is because you took a cosmetic height boost and I kept it real and stuck with my actual height.”
“You’re out of your league, little man. Why don’t you go home to mama, so she can put you in your jammies and tuck you in?”
“Okay, that’s it! Make some room!”
Jazz and the others were trapped in a wave of people packing away from the epicenter of the scuffle. An arena of sorts slowly resolved itself, with the two arguers in the center. One was a surly beef-slab of a man. He was dressed in leather and spikes, and looked roughly like a refrigerator had wished to be a real boy and only got about 60% of the way there. The other was a comparatively petite man. He had a fiery look in his eye and a break-dancer vibe to his outfit. He hopped up on a table, which brought him to approximately eye level, and fearlessly stared the larger man down.
“You come in here, into my stomping ground, and you start bad-mouthing me? Do you know who you’re dealing with?” He addressed the crowd. “Tell him my name, people!”
There was a leaden silence in reply.
“It is written on the back of my jacket,” he said through clenched teeth.
Jazz squinted at the back of his jacket. It had entirely too many numbers and punctuations to be a name, as far as she could tell.
“DJ… One, three, three… Oh!” LP raised his voice helpfully. “DJ Leet Motif?”
“That’s right!”
He reached into his pockets. One hand came out festooned with a pair of brass knuckles. The other produced what looked like a cassette tape. He tossed it into the air, where it unfolded and unfurled until it had reconstituted into a boombox the size of a piece of luggage. He struck the boombox with his elbow and “Ace of Spades” started belching from the speakers.
“I’m Motif! And me and Napster here are about to make sure you have less teeth.”
“That’s a good line,” LP said.
“Was it?” Jazz said doubtfully.
Leet dove toward his opponent, putting his whole body behind a Superman-style jaw-buster. About halfway through his arc, the slab of man delivered his own punch and Leet blasted backward, slamming into the crowd and falling to the ground. The beefy ogre rumbled with a laugh. Leet climbed to his feet in a daze.
“Okay… Okay…” he said, motioning for the boombox. “Motörhead wasn’t the right choice.”
He pressed the fast-forward button, treating the whole tavern to a screeching cacophony while the towering brute thumped closer. He released the button a minute into “Ballroom Blitz.” He grabbed a pool cue and dove back into the fray. Another blow intercepted him, this time a haymaker that sent him lofting over the crowd to vanish behind the bar. The brute turned to the boombox. The music stopped with a record scratch—odd considering the lack of a record—and switched to “Why Can’t We Be Friends.” He slapped it with a dismissive backhand, knocking it aside. It struck the ground like a swatted fly and produced a hissing static.
