Seeking Fuck Yeah V: The Donald Strikes Back
The lighting levels in the Spy's Demise are low. It's 'night' here. In a digital world without a sun, human timezones are just as artificial as everything else, but people have to sleep. They're running a staggered sleeping cycle so two thirds of the people here are awake at any one time - and there's an alarm system to get the others up and raring at a moment's notice.
The place has taken on the air of a fortified bunker. The bar has been locked down for a month. The monster outside makes daily pushes against their defences, and people are working overtime to counter it - and the thing that scares Donald is that he thinks it's playing with them, like… like some oversized cat. It's trying to break them mentally. Everyone is scared.
At least the drinks are free. Even if they've been adjusted so there's nothing as prosaic as simulated alcohol here anymore. Every vice here has been optimised to keep people's modes up, help keep them sane and keep them alert.
Donald Sykes salutes the thin air with his glass of something which tastes like a martini, but has the chemical effects of a mix of KeepAwake, CheerUp, and StayStrong. How easily this ragtag bunch of Traditionalists and Technocrats takes up chemical solutions. He was the one who proposed adjusting the menu, and that means he has to drink it too. Even if by drinking this he's staying disgustingly awake and productive. He's feeling less stressed, yes, but that's only because of the CheerUp and StayStrong. It's just not as… as honest as using alcohol.
He's sitting at the smokey bar, the bit of the Spy's Demise which still resembles the original simulation. The little social contrivances are keeping things civil. Mostly. Ish. Things have just got… tense. Tense and a bit weird. Since there's a bar full of people living in close proximity, they've expanded the place. Space is basically free in the Digital Web, after all, and Donald considers, if he thought enlightened scientists-slash-mages were like cats before, he hadn't really seen how they could be until now.
Someone had suggested that everyone needed their own space, and then the arguments had started over how much space was 'your own space' and… well. The end result is that the barroom is now large enough that there's a small weather system forming up near the ceiling, and people have had to build blocky, pixelated houses to keep the rain off them. In fact, if he's to be quite honest, the entire place is starting to take on a distinctly Minecraft-ish air, especially now that the Hermetics have started building wizard's towers.
"You should get some rest," Rose says from behind him. Slow, sad piano music starts up. He's tried to turn off the damn mood music feature of the bar, but the Adepts say it's built into its core functionality.
"Can't," Donald says. "I've been drinking too much of this to sleep. I'm good for another eight hours." He sighs and turns to face her. She's still wearing Reina Lior's armour, but that's no real surprise. She sleeps in it these days. The only time she takes it off is when people have to maintain it - and even then she's tense and on-edge. It's dented and scuffed and scratched, and it really isn't display quality at the moment. When the digital things try to force their way in, she's been at the front of every assault, trying to push them back.
The Ivory Tower is going to be irked at him for this, he thinks with an ironic twist.
Rose approaches, and sits down next to him, shuffling the seat a little distance away from him. "What are you doing?" she asks softly.
Donald massages his brow. "Trying to find ways to extract more primal energy out of this place to fortify the defences," he says, pushing the touchpad he's been working on her way. It's covered with abstract hypereconomic symbols. He's not usually much of a quant, but he knows the basic theory and even if he has to reinvent some of the techniques he can do it. The things people do to entertain themselves, the ways people try to alleviate the stress - he's been modelling them and accounting for them to make the defenders work more efficiently.
He wishes he'd chosen to focus more on quant techniques. He isn't good enough to truly treat the system as an abstract model and simply offset the way people relax against their work. He needs people to work with. That means he's had to find what people can do to help to optimise the defences - and that's led to some unpleasant choices.
At least Rose is best suited as a killing machine on the frontlines. And if she's not exactly happy about what she's doing, at least she understands why. No one else here can fight like she can.
Rose glances down at his workings, and traces them, muttering to herself quietly. Her finger flicks through the pages. "So… the limit you're running up against at the moment is that if you divert too much PE from the basic operations to the defences, you'll lead to everyone getting more agitated?" she checks.
Donald nods. "Yes. People are already on edge. If morale collapses…"
"Yes," Rose says sadly.
God damn it. This isn't how something like this should have to be run. He wishes Director Belltower was here. She'd probably be able to coax and hammer this disparate group into a working alliance - pushing Traditionalists to work with her through sheer manipulative bitchery and raw 'I know how to organise this defence, I was murdering your mentor's mentors when you were still in diapers''. But Donald isn't a soldier or a commander.
So he's doing what he can with the tools he has, and it isn't enough. Not when the thing outside keeps probing.
"How are things going with you?" he asks Rose.
"We're holding the line," she says. "We could use more primal energy and more people to help, but some of the RDs say that they're working on getting… uh, from what I understand, basically like simulated golem-things that shouldn't be infectable by the attack programmes? I don't really understand the theory, but they hope it'll work." She smiles at him, and she seems a lot more awake and happy than he is. "We'll be able to last until someone finds us, right?"
That wasn't what he asked her, and he knows she deflected the question. And he knows that she knows that he knows she deflected it, etc etc.
Rose seems happy. She seems fine. And that's what concerns him because someone who's been through what she's been through shouldn't be so happy. And she always insists to him that someone is going to find them, which to Donald's rather older and more cynical mind just can't be a genuine insistence. It's been almost a month.
People have died here.
They've lost people. Two jack-ins died early on - people who couldn't get someone to their body so they died of thirst. Some people tried a break-out a week ago, and they haven't heard from them since. People have died - or had to be executed - when BlackICE constructs have penetrated the defences, trying to compromise people. Two days ago a jack-in simply cut out, and no one knows why. Donald hopes it was just something stupid like a heart attack. And not, you know, the idea that the Anathema is hunting down people's sleeping bodies.
It's probably doing that, though. Fucking machine-god killer cyborg robot monster
whatevers. And that means it's probably trying to be Agent Smith and that means he needs to think up ways to counter if it subverts any jack-ins. Wait. That's from the sequels and they postdate the loss of Autochthonia. Maybe it read the reviews and so didn't watch them and - oh, who the fuck is he kidding, of course it knows how to do that. Urgh.
Later.
Donald runs his hand through his tousled hair. "You should have a drink, Rose," he says kindly.
"I shouldn't," she disagrees. "I should get back to patrolling."
"Rose," he says meaningfully, "I'm on the committee. I know how hard you've been pushing yourself."
"I'm not pushing myself hard."
That's a lie. He knows it, she knows it, probably the non-aware bartender bots know it. She hasn't slept properly in days, catching crammed catnaps while standing up. She literally has to be told to stop moving so the volunteer mechanists can patch up her armour. Donald isn't sure what's going on in her head, but he may have listened in to her a little bit and she's arguing with 'Thorn' again in the mirror. Not Reina. But she's acting like Reina, a little bit. Pushing herself too hard even as she insists she's fine.
"Rose," he tries, "I want to talk about hypereconomics with you, so you might as well have a drink while we talk."
She looks at him with her deep, sensitive eyes. "Fine," she says. "Grain alcohol. I can use it as fuel."
Donald orders drinks for both of them and food for her and lets his mouth work, and all the time he's watching Rose. He wants to take her away from all this, tell her that she needs downtime and that she's been on her feet for nearly a month and that no human can last like this no matter their enhancements. But that's his sympathy for her speaking, and when it comes down to it he doesn't have space to be sympathetic right now. Rose is the most dangerous combatant here. So he will let her push herself beyond what is safe, because if he makes her take the rest she desperately needs, everyone could die in here.
The thing out there might well know it too. Maybe it's trying to torture Reina in particular. Mercilessly pushing her beyond her limits to show her that she can't save anyone here.
And despite all that, Rose is still managing to make pertinent contributions to the contrived problem he's explaining to her. Somewhere in her mind she's finding strength right at the edge of the catastrophe curve. managing to keep on going even when she should be falling apart. He's a little bit proud of her - and rather more self-horrified that he considers this a good thing.
Ah, but that's always been his problem, Donald thinks wearily. He can't lie to himself and say he's a good man. He's not. He's a horrible person who finds it easy to sacrifice the few for the many. He doesn't like who he is, deep down, so that's why he tries to be rich and comfortable and never have to make hard choices.
So this is all he can give her. Twenty minutes to sit down and eat something and get some food in her. She's twitching slightly and her fork dances in her hand as she shovels in food. Partly from exhaustion. Partly from combat stim abuse.
Come on, Sera, he thinks to himself. Please have survived, so you can shout at me for letting Rose get into this state. I'll take my lashes.
He keeps her here as long as he can get away with, and then she's back on her feet. At least she looks a little recharged now.
"I saw everything, you know," Janice says from behind him, taking Rose's vacated seat. She's dropped her wicked witch avatar and now looks - more or less - like her. Slightly touched up, of course, but everyone here has room for a little vanity.
Donald yawns ostentatiously.
"Good. You need more sleep," she tells him. "You look more exhausted than she does."
"I'm only human," he says.
"That's not it."
"Really? Because from my perspective, I'm not sleeping enough and the drugs that are helping me keep on working are decidedly un-fun drugs."
Janice brushes down the sleeves of her green dress with fake apathy. "You're lying to me again," she says. Faint motes of light trail her. She's running just as many procedures as he is, although the origin of hers are rather different than his. Yes. Of course. Totally different. "I know your tells, remember."
"Oh?"
"The big one is the way your
lips are moving."
"Now is not the time," he says firmly.
She sighs. "No. But I can read your tells, you know." She grabs a fruit juice from the bar-bot, and wets her finger in it, tracing out symbols on the counter. "You're feeling guilty about not feeling guilty."
She knows him too well. That is a thing he does. "Yeah," he says. "I worry about her. She's working harder than me. Than maybe any of us."
Janice catches his eye. Her eyes are changing colour with each heartbeat. Well, everyone has their vanities. "She's a construct and she has demons quite different from normal people - and she has so many demons," she says, seriously. "Damage Control wasn't always like this - but then they started filling it with professional killers and constructs. Goddess damn Li and what he did to them."
"Don't dismiss her as a construct," Donald says hotly. Her contempt for Professor Li sounds strangely personal. Then again the Verbenae and the Progenitors detest each other as factions.
"You can't treat her as if she's a normal person. Her mind isn't set up like mine," Janice says.
"We can and should treat high-functioning constructs like they're normal people, or else people won't treat them like people at all," Donald retorts.
"Which is getting in the way of the help she needs because-"
And that's when a crack from the other side of the bar draws their attention. Frost is curling over the mirror and there's a sudden chill in the air. Donald exhales and he can see his breath.
"Fuck," Janice breathes. "ICE."
They run for it, even as the glasses shatter and the fabric of the bar begins to collapse into perfectly sterile clear crystalline solids. Donald slaps on some SlowTime patches while Janice mutters nonsense-words to herself.
They know what's coming.
First comes the ICE. Then come the worms.
Sirens are sounding all over, and the world is folding up as the Demise shifts into combat mode. Things which look like technology are locking away, because the thing out there can compromise them more easily. This way it has to attack the code, and it finds that marginally harder - and the things it unleashes find it harder still.
There's a whine behind him, like a finger on a wine glass. It sounds deep and resonant from his accelerated perceptions. Janice whirls and exhales a stormcloud.
"Thaaaaaat shoooould hooooooooold theeeeeeeem," she says to him. And then he sees her eyes widen. "Ooooooooh nooooooo," she begins and he's already turning.
There's a writhing, squirming boil of metal worms advancing on them, forcing their way through the stormcloud wall she breathed out. Faster than he can run. Faster than she can run. Faster than Rose or any of the other fighters can get here. They're advancing and there's not enough time and-
Time. Yes. Time.
"Freeze simulation!" Donald shouts and the world around them speeds up to a degree that everything is white light.
"Whaaaaaaaaaat diiiiiiiiiiiiid yoooooooouuuuuuuuu-"
"Froze the sim. Well, nearly. We're running at… like, 40x slower than normal. They'll have to advance through the slow time to get here," Donald says, gasping for breath. "And the temporal shear should…
shitfuck."
There's a worm in here. One solitary, squirming worm. And it's fast and it's moving and he suddenly sees that there was one 'elite' worm in the midst of all the spam ones and isn't this just his fucking luck and now it's leaping and he isn't fast enough to dodge.
It coils around his arm. Bites in. Starts fusing.
Donald has far too much time to think, in his drug-induced slow-time. He can't say it was a spontaneous choice. He's been hit. He knows what those worms do to their victims and that he has mere seconds before he turns. He knows what he has to do.
Thank God it was his right arm that got hit, he thinks with surreal calm. "Laser!" he shouts at the watch on his left wrist. "Max power!"
It hurts much worse than the times he's been shot or stabbed. Every nerve screams like he's sandpapering it - and because of the accelerated perception of time, it's not just a brief flare of agony.
In a slow motion red tinged world, Donald watches his right arm fall, de-rezzing even as the black tumour-electronics overcome it.
And then Janice is there and he feels what she does in his gut. The arm explodes even before it hits the ground, blood splattering away to expose the partially constructed centipede-like monster. Lightning flies from her fingers, there's a mini-thunderclap and the electronic thing detonates just as his arm did.
"It's… new trick," he says to her weakly, staggering. The shock's knocked him out of his accelerated sense of time and he feels like he's about to faint. At least the Demise is maintaining the sim. "When did… you become Darth Vader?"
"Donald!" she shouts at him, her face dissolving and melting like wax. There's another face under her face, but it's not her. "Donald!"
There's a ringing in his ears and it's getting louder and louder. "When did you become Japanese?" he asks the face under Janice's face. "I always thought he was black. Darth Vader, I mean."
The Japanese Janice looks confused, and then worried. Heh. Japanese Janice. JJ. Donald finds this hilarious, and starts laughing until he cries. Or maybe crying until he laughs. He's not really sure at the moment. She grabs the stump of his right arm with one hand and grabs a squirt bottle from her waist with the other, splashing the water over his arm.
It doesn't do anything, but that seems to somehow relieve her. She grabs him by his shoulder and yanks up along the muddy path, the water squelching under their feet.
"Reinforcement will be along in a moment," she tells him. "Hold on, okay? Evac is coming."
"Evac to where?" he asks. "Where's the bar gone?"
"Goddamnit, stay with me, Raven!" she screams at him.
"Janice, I think I'm tripping balls," he slurs.
Donald passes out.
Los Angeles
2015
Armature Donald Sykes is awoken by his ADEI telling him that it is 5 AM and that he should be awake. 3 hours of sleep is more than enough for him. He has to report to his new amalgam today. He vaguely remembers dreaming of wealth and power and sex, and wonders why he feels somewhat conflicted about that dream. It was a good dream, wasn't it? Just a power fantasy. He looks around the hotel room and blinks to clear his eyes.
"The orders said I should get my intern and report to my new assignment by 11 AM." He says out loud, to nobody in particular.
[This is correct. However, excess sleep is inefficient. This gives you time to accomplish more in the day. Such as biological maintenance.] His ADEI is designed with one of those semi-sapient research aides in it, which as one of his few allowed vices he has customized to have the appearance and voice of a beautiful young woman.
"Have you considered that I should maybe apply for one of those full-body conversions and ignore these biological aggravations?"
[Those conversions are combat-designed and inefficient for your current role in statistical modeling and future forecasting. You would be unlikely to succeed in doing so.]
"Fine. Fine. Fine." Sykes concedes. "No indulging in human weakness." He glances down. "Oh, hey," he says, looking at his right hand. "My arm grew back. I think I've got somewhere to be, you know. Cancel all my appointments…"
Los Angeles
2015
Donald wakes up with a start. His office is his normal office, which is to say it's done up in a way vaguely reminiscent of a 60s supervillain, including several props bought off movie sets. The giant hologlobe is reminding him that hologlobes are awesome, which is the real purpose of any hologlobe with little things like seeing tiny plane icons moving across it leaving red lines behind them a distinctly secondary thing. His padded desk and incredibly comfortable chair are incredibly comfortable, as they damn well should be. His HITMark I HEV is still made of diamond. He'd probably panic if it wasn't. Or suspect Henriette or Kessler of pulling a prank on him.
Oh, and Director Belltower is glaring at him. On the glareometer, he'd say that's at least a seven out of ten. It's not enough to make his suit start charring, but it's not entirely comfortable. His boss is very good at what she does, but she's a tightass - and one of the few women immune to his immense charms. Which just makes the sexual tension between them even more palpable.
"Sleeping at your desk, Sykes?" she says, dryly.
He rubs his eyes. What a weird dream. He's never been an Iterator. He started off as a Financier, but then transferred to the Enforcers when his talent at direct action was found. He now holds dual position in both Methodologies. He needs his cover identity, after all - and that means the NWO gets to ride his ass.
"Catnapping," he says. "I was up all night recovering those files you wanted. I had to make quite a few sacrifices to exfiltrate them."
She narrows her eyes. "The success of your mission is appreciated," she says, "but you still haven't filed your mission reports. That includes the reports on the loss of assigned equipment, the reports on observed hostile capacities, the reports on your 'liaison' with that Verbena witch, the reports on how you managed to get her to defect with just one night of contact… it builds up, Sykes! You might be one of my best field agents, but you're a loose cannon who doesn't follow protocol!"
Donald tosses his hair back. "But I'm the best," he says arrogantly. "I get results. That's why you put up with me."
"No one is irreplaceable, Sykes," she says darkly.
"I'm the next best thing," he says.
Director Belltower gives a weary sigh. "Sadly, yes, Dr Rosario gave you a full pass on your latest physicals - noting, I might add, 'extensive liver damage - it's as good as a fingerprint'."
Donald shrugs. "Did she also note my excellent stamina?"
The woman sighs. "She did."
"She gave me quite a cardio workout, you know."
Director Belltower narrows her eyes. "Don't push it, Sykes," she said, before turning on her heel and walking out of his lush office. "And Sykes? We have a mission for you. One of your contacts wants to meet with you. The briefing documents are on your desk."
"Oh?" Donald picks up the paper folder. "Let's see…"
The Bar Outside The Universe
Date Uncertain (Also Possibly Meaningless)
He slumps down by the bar. "Neat vodka," he orders.
"Same for me," says an ugly little man with a pompadour sitting down next to him. His face looks like he fell off the ugly tree and hit every ugly branch on the way down, then slipped on the ugly grass and rolled all his way down the ugly hill before landing in the ugly swamp. "Donald! Haven't seen you in ages. Maybe this is the first time we've really met when we're this sober. I'm pretty sure we were both as high as balls and I think I remember you so I think you're the man I'm here to meet." He pulls something out of his pocket and snorts it.
It's possibly something which isn't technically meant to be snorted. Like a packet of mints.
"... I'm too sober to understand that," Donald says, shaking his head. "I… kinda remember you?" He does get the gut feeling that he was in a chemically altered state of consciousness when they last met.
"Yeah. We were both pretty drunk and high by that point, but I remember it making a lot more sense at the time. If it was you. Listen, I got something you need to do. But first we gotta catch up."
"... huh?"
"Yeah, let's get drunk. We may be here some time. Barman! More drinks and don't stop until we tell you to stop!"
The Bar Outside The Universe
2016
The pile of glasses in front of the two men is approaching the tectonic in scale.
"Wait a moment," Donald says. "Wasn't the concept of time not applicable previously?"
The Bar Outside The Universe
Date Uncertain (Also Possibly Meaningless), but still later than it was last time
"Ah ha! Got you!" Donald shouts, pointing up at the floating white letters. "Shit, I'm so fucking drunk."
"Exactly!" says the ugly little man, saluting with his drink. "Time doesn't exist. It's all fixed except it's not or something. I dunno. You're the one who does time stuff. You or Chandra, but he's not here. Basically, timelines are only a limitation of stuff, and if you could see the world as it is, you'd realise that things aren't as they seem. Or whatever."
Donald flinches. "I don't think like that anymore," he says quietly.
The other man doesn't seem to pay any attention to such quiet thoughts because he seems to be eying up the strange and sticky brightly coloured beverages behind the counter. "Come on. What'd be better? The blue stuff, or the red stuff?"
Donald blanches. "Look, I don't remember how I got here, but I'm pretty sure it's a horrible idea to take anything from the barman if you don't know how it got there and what it's made of."
"I don't follow."
"This guy has a sick sense of humour."
The ugly little man made a retching noise. "If you're not going to be any fun, I'm going to go find the redhead with the really long hair. Whatshername? Wait. Wait. It's coming to me…" He held up his hand, and then seemed to get distracted by it. "Wow, I am so fucking high. I can see mouths on my hand."
Donald peers at the man's hand. Little fanged mouths snap and bite at the air. "There are mouths on your hand," he says numbly.
"Yeah, that's what I mean. I'm so high I think I forgot I could do that. What was I talking about?"
"Uh?"
"Oh yeah, the cute redhead with the long hair that… well, you'd be
amazed at what she can do with it. Also, she's flexible like… woah. Have you seen her dance? I have. She can cross her legs behind her head."
Donald finds this somewhat intriguing. Actually, he finds it very intriguing, but his common sense suggests that any acquaintance of a man whose hand is covered in mouths is unlikely to be a safe bedroom playmate.
"But she probably won't show," the man says. He reaches into an inside pocket of the brown leather jacket he's wearing, and passes a note to Donald. "Here's your briefing on the info I got you. Just keep on following it. And," he reaches into his pocket again, and pulls out a bag of tobacco and some papers, and begins hand-rolling a cigarette. "If I were you, I'd go pick up some toys."
"Gonna need firepower?"
"Fuck yeah."
Donald nods, stroking his chin considerately. "Yes. I know just the man."
Neo-Gotham
2039
The tower blocks stretch up for hundreds of stories. Neon lights play over the surfaces, in English, Mandarin and Japanese. The hum of aircars is a constant refrain.
Donald wraps his Bogart-esque coat around him, adjusts his hat and tie, and knocks at the door to the hidden workshop down on Level 17.
There's a whine, and a sensor probe unfolds from the ceiling, and scans him.
"Identity confirmed," the system announces. "Welcome back, Mr Sykes."
He enters through the double airlock, and finds himself in a room that looks like the mix of an Iteration X workshop and an explosion in a scrapyard. Or, to put it another way, like a lab belonging to an Iterator defector.
"Steel?" he calls out. "You here, big guy?"
A hulking cyborg with a single red eye in the centre of his face looks up from a half-assembled hover-car. He doesn't have any exposed flesh. "Yeah, just doing something. Make yourself at home, man. I'd get you a drink, but I've only got energon. Me and my new housemate both like it, so I haven't really got anything for a fleshy guy like you. 'Less you want water, I mean."
"It's fine," Donald says. "I've made calls and you were the best person available at such short notice."
"You say the nicest things. So, let's see what I can do for you, man," Steel says, stroking his chin. "Hmm. I know the thing. Arm-mounted sonic disruptor. You can hide it under your sleeve. Non-lethal against people. Can punch its way through a reinforced wall. Also uses ultrasound, so it's nearly silent - to humans, at least. Real schway bit of tech."
"Battery life?" Donald asks.
"Good for twenty shots, and charges off mains power."
"I'll take it. Got any fast-deploying power armour?"
"You're in luck, man," Steel says, rummaging through a pile of junk and pulling out a briefcase "Here. Last one left of some powersuits I got off some HiveCorp mercs. They basically begged me to take them off their hands by attacking me like that. In the suitcase is a backpack. Pull the straps when you're wearing it, and it unfolds to cover you. Keep you safe against smallarms. Anything else?"
Donald looks around. "What does this do?" he asks, poking at a sleek metallic tool floating in a blue light.
"You got a great eye for detail. That's my latest design of omnitool."
"What's it do?"
"Everything. Opens doors, hacks electronics, unjams weapons, repairs damage, reloads guns… you name it, it does it. Gets through power fast, but you know how modern batteries are."
"I'll take them all… and this and this and this and this and this," Donald concludes, grabbing more things from the shelves like a kid in a sweet shop. This is so much easier than dealing with requisitions, he thinks. "How much?"
"Total? I'll cut you a deal. Three million."
Reaching into a pocket, Donald tosses him a credit chip. "There's four. Keep the change."
"Always nice doing business with you," Steel says. "Going anywhere nice?"
Donald nods. "Yes," he says. "But I need to pick up a more formal suit first. "Next stop is a dinner party." He pauses. "One last thing, actually. You wouldn't happen to have a submarine, would you?"
"Well, now that you mention it…"
The Bottom of the Atlantic
1975
Donald checks himself in the mirror, violin music playing in the distance. His gold-trimmed black suit is spotless. Smiling to himself, he picks up his Venetian-styled rabbit mask, and puts it on. In his quite certain opinion, he looks like hot shit - and he has his sonic disruptor up one sleeve and his watch up the other. He is well-armed, he thinks with a smirk.
The note from the ugly little man in the bar says this is where he might be able to find the information he's looking for. He's looking for Miss Ryan, the daughter of the man who runs this place. They say she basically runs this place in her father's name. Probably a Syndicate heiress.
And the best thing is they don't mind people smoking inside. Donald brought some of his private stash along, to keep him at top game. He lights up, exhaling blue smoke, and steps out of the bathrooms.
Light and noise greets him. It's a grand ball slash gambling event, and the room is alive with the sound of roulette tables and poker games.
"I raise you five units, and call," says one man with a crisp New York accent and a crisper white suit.
"Risky, risky," his female companion says.
Donald mingles with the crowd, walking through the lush Art Deco environment with walls covered in paintings. Through the windows he can see the fact that he's underwater and see the towering buildings of this submerged city.
"Have you heard of the ill-luck which has struck the Family recently?"
"No, what?"
"I heard rumours that they've lost multiple Big Sisters in an engagement!"
"Jolly good! Someone needs to take down those communist parasites."
A grey-skinned Progenitor construct with a barcode on its forehead and yellow eyes approaches him. "Mr Sykes," it - she - says. "We apologise for the inconvenience, but this unit has been instructed to convey a message to you."
"Go ahead," he says.
The bioroid passes him a note. "I have completed my task," she says, and walks off.
Stepping behind a pillar, Donald unfolds the note.
You are in grave danger. Miss Ryan believes you to be working for a local rival of hers. Do not trust her. I think I know what you want to find out, but I'm too deep here. Find me and get me out of here, and we can talk.
A Lady in White
Donald nods solidly. A woman who needs rescuing who has a clue? That's something he can use. See, this is something Director Belltower wouldn't get. There's always an advantage to going to parties.
Someone catches his eye. A man dressed all in black, with a similar - incredibly handsome - build to him. Time seems to slow as he locks eyes with the faceless mask the other man wears. He blinks and the man is gone.
"Strange," he says to himself. He shakes his head, and a beautiful woman enters his field of vision. Ethnically, he'd say she looks Chinese - but she's incredibly pale, with white hair and grey eyes. Albino? No, not quite. And she's not quite Chinese, either. She's dressed all in white, in a way which makes her stand out from the rest of the crowd. The only colour on her is her mask - a blue-painted dragon.
"Ma'am," he says, approaching her. "I do believe we met at a soiree last year."
"Ah, of course, Donald darling," she says, subtly guiding him to the dance floor and away from some bulky suited men. "It's Sasimana, in case you don't remember my name. You were rascally drunk."
"Only slightly rascally drunk," he says. "Are you staying here?"
"Just visiting," she says. "Just visiting. Have you been to Tokyo recently?"
"Not recently, no," he says.
"You should go. There's just a darling place I'd love to show you."
Donald smiles. Excellent. "I'd like to take you up on the offer," he says. "We should do that soon."
Her eyes narrow behind the mask. "Yes," she says, with a slight note of urgency. "I do believe we should."
"Oh dear," Donald says. "Are you feeling hot? Would you like some fresh air?"
"I do believe I find myself feeling a little faint," she says.
They head towards the exit - only to find the door blocked by a man so massive you'd think he'd been carven, rather than born. He has to be augmented, Donald thinks to himself.
"Excuse me," he says.
"No," the hulking man rumbles. "Lady's orders."
"Leaving so soon, Mr Sykes?" It's a teenage girl wearing a butterfly mask, with an amused smirk on her face. Her long soft blonde hair spills down her front, plaited and entwined with golden thread. Her clothes are cloth of gold and she's even wearing gold lipstick. "I don't think you want to do that. No one wants to be a buzz kill. Or a buzz killed."
"Miss Ryan," Sasimana says politely.
Donald isn't looking so much at that, as at the two figures that flank her. They're hulking brass-armoured titans, two metres tall at least, and they have vicious syringes extending from their forearms. They're armoured killing machines, spliced up with combat enhancements and biological weaponry.
"Unusual party guests," Donald says tensely.
"Oh, the Big Mamas are just here to protect my virtue," Miss Ryan says innocently. "Don't worry. They do exactly what I say."
There's a madness in this girl, Donald feels uncomfortably. Something like the madness in Rose. Something unstable and dangerous - but while Rose tries to be a nice good person, this girl doesn't. "Well, don't worry, I'm not a threat to you," he says. "Isn't that right, Sasimana?"
"Oh, indeed," she agrees. "We're very much enjoying your party."
Donald wraps his arm around Sasimana's waist. It is a good waist. He could get used to this. "Deploy," he whispers to the sonic disruptor on his arm. "I'll stop being a fuss" he says politely to Miss Ryan. "Here's my business card," he says, tossing it to her.
It goes off in a bright flash and a cloud of smoke. The girl screams, blinded. At the same time he fires the disruptor directly into the ground. He and the woman he's holding drop like a stone. He lands in a crouch, her held in a bridal position. From above, there's a pair of metallic shrieks and a barked command of "Find them! Kill them!"
"Mr Sykes," Sasimana says formally, "I think it's time to run. Do you have an exit?"
Donald taps his watch. His white and blue submarine rises into view by the window, and glass fractures as it fires a boarding tube through. "This party is boring me," he says. "How about we go find something more interesting to do?"
***
"Oh my," Sasimana says, looking over the inside of the vessel as it speeds away from the sunken city. "You have quite an impressive... vessel, Mr Sykes." She licks her lips. "Very spacious. Both long and wide."
"It's going to be at least eight hours until we get to Tokyo. We need to find a way to entertain ourselves. Tell me," Donald says, "have you ever heard of the Mile Deep Club?"
"I don't believe we're actually that deep," the woman says.
"Oh? Well, I suppose we could always try going down," Donald says with a cocky smile.
"You know, that sounds like an excellent idea."
And so they do.
Donald finds his newfound life as a submariner per excellence to be quite exhausting, and after various nautical activities he sleeps, perchance to dream.
LNV Verdant Spire, holding position over Siberia
2036
"... because something big is happening." The inertial spacetime guidance system bleeps out the date before Commander Sykes' eyes, and he nods. It's one of the first things to start playing up if there's an Autopolitan reality hack going on. The simple digital clock - paradoxically advanced yet incredibly simple - is a lifeline and everyone on the bridge relies on it.
Commander Donald Sykes, once of the Cult of Ecstasy, once of the Syndicate and the Technocratic Union, now of Liberation. That's who he is. He runs his left hand through his grey hair, and then massages the aching stump of his right arm. It always aches in cold weather.
"Lt Jee!"
"Yessir!" She's so young. Her fingers and hair-tendrils are dug deep into the living flesh grafted into the neurosystem of the Verdant Spire. Her perfect ex-Transhuman beauty is deliberately self-maimed and scarred, the flame-like patterns self-chosen to commemorate her breakout. Still, she can work the living sensors built into this, the last QLM - and floating invisibly over Siberia, still scarred by the Seven Minute War of twenty one years ago, he can't trust any hardtech that'd talk with the outside world.
"Any sign of HKs?"
"One patrolling cluster, one-twenty klicks, bearing oh-three-niner. Course is heading away." She blinks, her secondary eyelids brushing across her eyes. "They're Model-492s. Standard patrolcraft. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Hold her steady!" Donald orders the bridge. "Take no action unless they breach our chronoshielding."
"Aye aye, sir," comes the response from the bridge. The man there was grown in a tank, as were most of their combat personnel. Uploaded with memory clusters donated by volunteers in the few hidden Liberation chantries. There's some advantage to the technological revolutions Control has brought. Stolen tech like that couldn't have been used by volunteers twenty one years ago.
Twenty one years. The anniversary is coming up. He hadn't been there. He'd been in LA and the first he'd know of what happened in Moscow was when all the power had gone off. The Computer had seized control of… well, everything. Technological society. And then he'd got his orders from Control and he'd listened and…
Donald shudders. Two years a fool, not knowing what was going on. Two years of just following orders, until he'd managed to fight off the things in his head. He still remembers what he did in those two years and prays for forgiveness from a god he doesn't believe in. Can't believe in.
He knows the truth, after all, and knows there won't be any forgiveness. No gods. Only men. No forgiveness. Only consequences.
Sometimes his whole life feels like one bad trip.
"Commander D. Sykes, to the science labs on highest urgency. This is Dr A. Do, calling Commander D. Sykes to the science labs immediately."
"Jesus fuck," Donald groans. "What happened?"
Off the coastline of Tokyo
2016
Donald wakes from his nightmare. That's not real, thank God. No, he's him. Not some tired old man who… who lives in a world where they lost in Moscow. He swings his legs out of bed. Sasimana is still asleep next to him.
He adjusts his tie. For some reason, he's still wearing it. It probably seemed like a good idea at the time.
Picking up a black silk dressing gown from a peg, he puts it through and goes through to the cockpit.
"WINSTON," he says. "Take us in for the final approach. Surface in Facility 484. Have them prepare local clothes and transport."
"Very good, sir," says his very British AI companion. "Shall I also prepare breakfast?"
"Good idea, WINSTON. Smoked salmon, champagne and your choice of stimulant."
"As you wish. Anything else, sir?"
"Yes, one more thing. Get me a hotline to the Ivory Tower. I have some queries for them on Lemurian mythology..."
***
A few hours later, a flashy sports car rolls out of the secret base. Donald adjusts his sunglasses, and looks at the beautiful woman beside him. "So you say we need to look for Ophidian Industries?" he asks.
"Yes," Sasimana says, from beneath her wide white sunhat. "Their leader, Kirima Harisami is a cunning and powerful servant of his. She keeps a disguise under a meek exterior, but there's a secondary personality hidden underneath - a cruel and vicious killer. And…"
Donald sees the man standing in the middle of the road just as she does. He's dressed in heavy black clothes which aren't appropriate for the temperature here in Japan. He has a black hood up, and a full facial mask. That's a puzzle. On the other hand, he's carrying a grenade launcher, and that's far less puzzling.
"Bail!" Donald shouts, and throws himself out of the car, rolling over and over. And not a moment too soon, because he hears a whompth and the vehicle explodes. Some kind of Device! And then he's up on his feet and he fires his laser watch. It scores a red hot line across the man, but he doesn't go down.
He raises his grenade launcher again… and the weapon falls apart.
"Got you," Donald says with a grin which fades when the man pulls a railgun off his back.
Donald is barely fast enough to avoid the burst of slugs. He grabs the first thing which comes to hand, which happens to be his omnitool and levels it at the man.
"This is a quantum resonance generator!" he shouts. "Lower your gun! Slowly!"
Slowly, the assassin lowers his weapon.
"Throw it to me," Donald orders.
The black-clad figure complies. A sixth sense buzzes in Donald's brain, and he dodges. Just as well, too, because the rifle goes off like a grenade, sending lethal shards of metal whirring through the space he had been a moment ago.
"You're good," the figure says through his mechanical synthesiser, revealing he's wearing high tech power armour under his black clothes. "Very good." A laser cannon drops out of his arm. "Not good enough."
Donald frowns. It's a long shot, but he has only this hope. He points the omnitool at the armour, and presses the button.
With a blue glow and a hum, the armoured figure locks up. Donald runs the numbers in his head. Less than a minute until restart.
"Sasimana!" he shouts.
"Here!" she says frantically, from behind him.
Donald yanks a man out of his car and takes it. "Get in! We're going to the docks! Where did you go?" Donald asks her.
"I hid," she says shamelessly. "I'm not a fighter."
Then there's not much time to talk because they're weaving through Tokyo traffic. It's just as well that Donald is the best driver around.
"Well, we can't follow a lead here," Donald says. "He'll be tracking us. So that means that he's our next lead. We need to find out who sent him."
She offers him a scrap of black fabric. "Look what he dropped."
"The weave looks unusual," Donald says after a moment of scrutiny.
"Yes," she agrees. "There's only one place I know of where fabric like that is made. Can you get us a boat? And lots of mosquito repellent?"
An Teng
RY 937
The motorboat roars up the river. The peasant farmers along the banks stop and stare at the motorboat. This really is a backwater. He hasn't heard a single other engine.
"I don't recognise the calendar," Donald says, looking up at the floating white text. "Or the place." He tugs at his sweaty Hawaiian shirt and tries to fan himself. It's as humid as sin here, and far too hot.
"The South West," Sasimana says distractedly. She's covering herself up as much as she can, trying to keep out of the bright sunlight. "Up ahead. There's a village. We can ask questions about exactly which community the fabric comes from."
It's a small community built of white stone with terracotta roofs, between the water and the bamboo of the hilly terrain.
It's almost too late when Donald notices the mines in the water. Slamming a fist down on the big red button in front of him, rocket boosters flare and the boat leaps to the right, beaching itself with the violence of the evasive maneuver. Rolling to his feet, he draws his Mjolnir and points it at the treeline. He'll mourn his poor brave boat later.
"What's g-going on?" Sasimana asks with a stammer, hiding behind him.
"I'll keep you safe," he says. "Get back to the-"
A rocket whooshes out of the foliage and blows up the wreckage of their boat. Something flickers out there, a pattern of refracted light.
"Active camo!" Donald shoulds, firing into the treeline with incendiary rounds. "It's using the trees!" Soon the jungle is ablaze, but then his pistol kicks empty. He ejects the magazine, going for a fresh one, and that's when the predator strikes. A blurred shape, too fast to track, pounces on him, sending him flying back into the water.
"Help! Donald!" Sasimana shouts.
He pulls himself out of the water, going for his emergency hold-out and he sees his foe properly. A Japanese woman who's wearing only a green bikini and camouflaged pouches. Her skin shimmers as the chameleon cells return to something which looks human. She's standing over Sasimana who wide-eyed with fear is staring up at the assault rifle
"Help!" she calls out piteously.
Carefully Donald raises his hands. "Can't we talk?" he asks the new woman.
She doesn't look at him. "Step back, Sykes!" she shouts at Donald. "I'm taking down this EDE!"
Donald tries to bring his gun back on target, but of course he's too slow. The woman fires, pumping Sasimana full of lead.
Or, rather, pumping where she had been full of lead. Sasimana simply melts away into shadows, reforming in the shadowy cover of the trees. "Uh uh," she says softly. " Annoying. How did you find me?"
"Sykes! On target!" the Japanese woman shouts at him. "Ami Shirai, Damage Control! That's a Cat-9 EDE!"
"No, I'm not," the thing which calls itself Sasimana says mildly. "Don't trust her, Donald. She's out to take you down. Silence you. Stop you from finding out the truth."
"She's working for him! The Shadow Man! And she's not even human!"
Sasimana smiles. "Half right," she says, liquid shadow leaking from her eyes. She's still beautiful, but there's something unwholesome and terrible and ancient about her beauty now. "I left humanity behind me quite a long time ago. But I don't work for him. You might call me an independent contractor, if you will."
"She's lying!"
"No, I'm just not telling you the whole truth. But I want to further your goals. You're useful little mayflies. And there are powers out there in the dark who certainly harm
my interests."
"I should shoot you right here and now!"
"You can try." Telekinetically, objects start to rise around her. A tree collapses, severed in half by an invisible blade. "Do you want to risk it?"
Donald knows he has only a few moments to resolve this. Otherwise it'll turn into bloodshed and things are just too important to have that happen. He needs all the allies he can get.
Fortunately, he has a plan.
London Geofront
1897
Leaning back in the bed, Donald puffs on his cigar and adjusts his monocle. Sasimana on his right, Ami on his left, and a hot guy sprawled over his legs. Which is kind of uncomfortable, but the guy is so hot that Donald is willing to put up with this discomfort.
"Who's he?" Sasimana asks, looking at aforementioned guy.
"Remember? He was the cutie who manning the elevator," Ami says. "Donald invited him along on a whim."
"Oh yes. That was an excellent idea of Donald's."
"Yes. He does seem to have a lot of them." Ami gives Sasimana a sideways glance. "I think we've resolved our differences," she says. "I certainly extended the hand of friendship."
"Along with the hand of benefits," Donald agrees, sagely, and they laugh at his joke. Something about that makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable, but he shrugs it off. "So the question is, Ami, how did you find us?"
"I was… following orders. They came from someone on the Inner Circle. From the Pyramid," she says.
"Impossible," Donald says, eyes narrowing. "The Pyramid has been lost for over a decade." Wait, isn't he in the 1800s? How does that make sense? He quietens down his conflict, and continues, "So that means that someone's occupying it. I think you were sent a false message."
"No way!" Ami says hotly.
"Way," Donald contradicts. "But I can show you. I know some people in the Void Engineers," Donald says casually. "I can get us a launch."
The Pyramid
1999
Shattered debris floats around the pyramidal shape of the New World Order Advanced Societal Modeling Academy. Freeze-dried corpses float in the abandoned hallways without the a-grav to keep them down, dancing silent waltzes in the void. The windows have blown out over much of the facility, and the emergency shutters have jammed. It's a hollow, airless wreck.
"What happened here?" Ami asks, eyes wide. "This… I don't know. It's horrible."
"Bad things," Donald says darkly. "Very bad things." He thanks Steel that his emergency power armour was spaceproofed and came with thrusters. He uses them to avoid a gap where the superstructure has cracked and radioactive fluids are venting.
Sasimana had refused a spacesuit. "I can breathe in space," she had said. She looks a lot more comfortable here than everyone else.
"I can't believe I'm in space!" says the sexy Victorian elevator guy who they're keeping along for the company. He's wearing a top hat over the top of his space suit, and turned out to be a dab shot with a rifle.
Donald gives him a thumbs up, "Yes, yes you are," he agrees.
"You, sir, are the very best!"
WINSTON opens a radio channel to Donald. "Sir," his very English butler-AI says. "I have found a transmitter signal. Marking the route."
"This way!" Donald orders, taking the lead. They enter the wrecked space station through a crack which nearly splits it in two, heading towards the core through a steel canyon. At one point they pass through a frozen-over cloning room, filled with rotten MiBs in their growth tubes.
The datacentre they find is wrecked and the power has failed completely, even the emergency lighting. Plasma scoring marks the inside. A badly burned corpse floats in the void, drifting limply. It looks like there was fighting in here, perhaps against some kind of security bot.
"Here," Donald says, sweeping his blue-glowing omnitool over the hardware, which starts up again with a hum. "That should get that running for long enough."
Sasimana picks her way across the debris on unseen telekinetic limbs. She reaches over and touches the corpse. A smile twists her lips. "An unusual way to die," she says mystically.
"Tracing the relay…" Ami announces, fingers flying over the keyboard. "I've found the signal! That's… that's impossible! This place is dead, but somehow the residual power means it's still giving orders… wait! Aha! Someone put the command up here, from a ground based platform, using its command overrides. I can trace the signal! Relaying through… Relay-3214, Relay-4934, Relay-0013… ah! Oh. I've found the root."
"What is it?" Sasimana asks acidly.
"I… I know that place," Ami says. "It's in the Swiss Alps. Very heavily defended."
"Then we'll drop in from orbit," Donald decides. "What comes up must come down."
The Alps
2016
The sound of the aircraft fill his ears. He rattles and bumps inside his drop pod. They're falling, covered by stealth.
"Sasimana. Ami. Cute guy," Donald says. "I know we only just met. But the world itself hangs in the balance. As we all know from the data we found, the LHC is actually the Lemurian Haddrach Ca'tra, which will let the Lemurians out of their time capsule. That's Lemurians, not lemurs - as we're the heroes, we're all in favour of protecting endangered lemurs. But I digress." He shakes his head bitterly. "Damn those Nazis and their discoveries from lost Thule, which preserved the knowledge of the Lemurians. We need to stop them letting the Lemurians rise from their ancient tombs! It's do or die, and I intend to do! I suggest you do the same."
Sasimana pauses. "You should know… I'm a Lemurian," she says.
"I knew all along," Donald says, with a nod. "I found mentions of you in the archives when you were still asleep in the submarine. One of the traitors, who helped cast them down from the shadows. The one recorded as the Mother of the Orchid Dragon."
"Why didn't you say?"
"Did it change anything?"
A warning beep alerts him to the launches below. They've been detected! Donald takes over manual control of his drop pod and uses the fact he's the best damn pilot around to dance through the hail of bullets and missiles. Others in his team aren't so lucky. Only one other pod makes it to the target location, smashing through the roof of the hidden base.
"Jolly good show," says the cute guy as he steps out of his pod, holding his bolt action rifle. "Rather exciting, what?"
"Ami! Sasimana! Report!" Donald radios urgently. They're up near the top of the facility, in front of a giant window - which broke with their impact through the roof. Now the piercing cold wind and the snow blows into this hidden mountain base.
"I'm alive," Sasimana says. "Way off target, though. I'll try to get closer, but they have a lot of defences."
"I was hit," Ami reports. "I'm healing, but they've got me pinned down."
"Roger," Donald agrees. He looks at the hot guy. "It's just you and-"
A gun fires.
The black-clad man is back. Donald can't move fast enough to react even though he sees it all happen in slow motion. The gun fires again and again, and the hot guy they'd picked up in 1897 drops to the ground. He's already dead.
"Noooooooooo!" Donald shouts. "The cute guy!" He whirls on the black clad man. "You'll pay for that!"
"How like a Syndic," the black-clad man says.
Donald throws himself at him, and they pummel on each other for a bit. The man is just as strong, just as tough as Donald - but Donald has rage on his side. He's throwing in everything he has and he has the upper hand. With a solid punch Donald shatters his mask and sends him rolling over and over, stopping just short of the drop down the side of the mountain.
"You're just as good as they say," the man says in a familiar voice.
"Better," Donald hisses. "You'll pay for this!"
"I had to clear the board. Just you and me,
brother," the man says, pulling off his damaged mask to reveal that he looks identical to Donald.
"No! That's impossible!"
"Of course, Donald! You can call me… Bill."
Donald stares flatly.
"Bullshit. I don't have a twin brother called Bill Sykes - and yes, I've heard the Oliver Twist jokes before."
"Look in your heart! You know it to be-"
"No, this is just bullshit," Donald says, and insight clicks. He grabs his clone's hair and pulls. The rubber mask comes off, and it's revealed to be the ugly little man with a pompadour from the bar.
"Ah ha!" Donald says. "The clone was actually old man… I have no idea what your name is. But I'm sure you'd have gotten away with it, if it hadn't been for us meddling kids. And our dog. If we had a dog. Man, why didn't I dream up a dog? Anyway, who're you?"
"Oh, I've had lots of names," says the ugly little man, and he seems to unfold, revealing his other nine heads - each one festooned with their own greasy pompadour. "Usually I go by Ravana. At least recently."
"I thought so," Donald says darkly. "You used to look different."
"You used to think different."
"Touche." Donald massages his temples.
"So, when did it really fall apart?"
Stretching his shoulders, Donald paces up and down. "I don't think there really was a single point," he admits. "Just growing unease. I'm
not James Bond. And everything was just… too easy. Everything was being handed to me. God, the hot EDE-daemon-thing-who-was-now-good-but-just-as-hot and a hardened sexy Damage Control agent ended up sleeping with me after a dramatic cut. And they even laughed at my lame joke about the hand of benefits."
"That joke was hilarious," Ravana says.
"Yeah, it was, but society says that those kinds of jokes are lame and people never laugh at that sort of cheesy shit in real life." Donald brushes melting snow off his suit. "Look, the world is never that easy. There was no tension, no feeling that there was anything out there which was really… opposing me, you know? It was all just going through the motions. I didn't even know the name of the hot guy who died to give me the strength to defeat my nemesis.
"It was basically just pornography. Including the way that if I tried a lot of this stuff in real life, I'd just wind up really uncomfortable at best - and could tear something if I wasn't lucky. I was just pounding away at the problem without any foreplay, and it was acting like everything was fine when things really
wouldn't be fine if you really tried that and… okay, this metaphor has probably reached the end of its constructive phase because I'm now trying to work out what the lube is and that's just going to end up in a bad place. Or worse place. Or whatever." Donald pauses. "Oh, I guess the way I was getting away with doing things without injury is probably the way there's no STDs in porn," he adds.
"Are you coming onto me?" Ravana asks, his expression indicating he's seriously considering it.
"Eh, kinda, yeah. But really, fighting my evil clone-brother-whatever because he was the only one good enough to be a challenge really just snapped all my suspension of disbelief. That kind of shit doesn't happen in real life." Donald pauses. "Except for Henriette," he adds, conscientiously.
Ravana just grins.
"You're smirking," Donald says.
"I know, right? Still…"
"No. I can't say it hasn't been fun - because it has. It's been fucking great."
"Yeah," Ravana agrees.
"I sort of needed a chance to vent after the past month," Donald says. "But I have to go. This has been a lot of fun, really. But it's self-indulgent crap. I should be ashamed of enjoying this shit. I'm not, because come on, I got to be a badass superspy, but it's basically narrative pornography. The entire world is busy sucking me off and force-feeding me heroin."
"Interesting idea," Ravana says, momentarily zoning out.
"I mean, I even get hovering white bolded text telling me when and where I am," Donald continues. "Characters appear and vanish and I've been acting like I know who they are, but really, they're just popping into existence for the scene when I really think about it. I solved a problem with a foursome. That's not something that happens in real life! Well, apart from one time, but that was a special case. Like i said, it's self-indulgent crap. And I'm a big fan of self-indulgence, really, I am! But now I have to be seriousface Donald."
"But that's dumb," Ravana says.
"I know, right? Seriousface Donald is no fun at all. But he has to do his thing, because none of this is real," Donald says sadly. "I'm not out here having wacky adventures through time, doing drugs and sleeping with lots of beautiful women and handsome men."
He sighs, and waves his left hand through his right arm, which comes apart like morning mist. "I'm tripping balls because I just cut my arm off with my wrist-laser and holy shit did it hurt. I'm not a jet-setting superspy with a magical dick. I'm stuck physically uploaded into a bar and there's a horrible murder robot thing that's trying to kill me or worse." His shoulders slump. "It's not real, even though I'd really like it to be. This ball-trippin' is a lot more fun."
"It could be real," Ravana says. "If you wanted it to be. Reality's what you make of it, you know."
Donald shakes his head. "No. It isn't." His arm is itching. "Even when I… I was wrong about the world, I didn't think it was really just what you make of it." He grits his teeth against the pain. "That's the kind of dumb solipsism that leads you to shut yourself away in another dimension and get trapped out there by the Anomaly. That, or become a Marauder. Not much of a difference, really."
"But on the other hand…" Ravana begins.
"Oh no, don't you dare dump me in a room with a hot girl. Or a hot guy. Or someone who can be both when the mood strikes them, lying on a mountain of chocolate."
"Great idea," Ravana says, grinning.
"No! I'm… very very tempted, but I'm leaving!"
Ravana leans forwards. "You're running away from a place where you're the hero," he says, all twenty eyes narrowed. "You're returning to a place where you don't spend all your time saving the world through sex, drugs, and your sweet fighting moves. Wouldn't you prefer this world, where you're not shut away and forgotten about?"
Donald throws his hands up in the air. "Yes! Of course I fucking would! But that doesn't matter!" He paces back and forth, and notices that the elaborate Swiss mountain base has faded away, leaving the two of them in a spotlight surrounded by darkness. "I'm not James Bond, and I wouldn't want to be that in real life. Life as a real life superspy fucking sucks. I can dream about it, but that's all it is. A dream.
Deliberately, he steps out of the pool of light.
"And I'm waking up."
***
The pain hits him like a punch in the gut, even before he opens his eyes. He's cold and clammy and he's twitching and shivering uncontrollably.
"Jesus
fuck it hurts," Donald moans. "There better be a fucking good reason no one has doped me up!"
The world around him is red-hazed. It's dark, too.
"He's waking up," someone calls out.
"Seriously, this really fucking hurts!" he adds. "Like, a lot!"
With a clatter of armour, Rose comes into sight. She's picked up several new dents, and what looks like a Tron light disc is clipped to her belt. Her lips are clamped tight together, and even though the pain he can tell she's trying as hard as possible not to cry.
"Donald," she manages.
"... okay, how long was I out?" Donald asks, as a gut feeling creeps over him. "Three days? Am I literally Jesus… no offence meant to any Christians in the area?"
"Three days, yes," Rose says. "Are… are…"
"Okay, from the fact that we haven't all been eaten by evil machine worms, I'm guessing we held back the attack," Donald says, teeth clenched together. "What were the losses?"
"They could have been worse," Rose says, guardedly. She's too distressed to really hide her feelings and Donald can read her.
"Shit. That's bad," he says. "Okay." He tries to sit up, and realises he's tied to the table. "Shit. Okay, good idea guys. Don't untie me. I don't think I've been brain-hacked, but I have no idea if I have been or not."
He pauses, gritting his teeth.
"And… if no one's going to bring me any painkillers, I think I'm just going to pass out again. Wake me up if something happens. Oh, and if I start babbling about destroying all humans or turn into a machine monster, someone kill me."
Rose bursts into tears. "Why… why are you being like this?"
"Because I am in a
lot of pain, I just cut off my own arm to avoid being infected, and did I mention I'm in a lot of pain?"
"You shouldn't be," Rose says quietly. "I've administered the safe level of painkillers. It seems to be a side effect of the temporal manipulation you were doing - your brain is still firing the pain nerves on a loop. Th-they say it should fade in time."
Donald groans. "Fucking
great," he says bitterly, and sighs. "I'm not angry at you," he says. "Just in a lot of pain. I… I'm not blaming you for failing to protect me or anything."
Rose nods, lip wobbling, and takes a breath. "Janice… Janice s-says that if you let yourself get turned into a machine monster, she's never t-talking to you again," she says, trying to smile.
The joke, pathetic as it is, brings a bark of laughter to his lips. "So helpful." Donald lies back. "So fucking helpful."
