Chapter 11: Chapter 8: Song of My People

Day 6 - Morning 

Fort Matthew - Adventurers Guildhall

Guildmaster Zecawk, a blue and green feathered bird person, is scowling at me. He's mad as hell and isn't going to take it anymore. It should be intimidating having a seven foot tall roosterman staring down at you. 

But it's not.

Come on, he looks like he's been pulled off the pages of Grimms' Fairy Tales. Wears the vest from a three piece suit and short pants. Even has a pocket watch for gods' sakes. Intimidated by that?

I don't think so.

Now wait a minute. I'm not saying birdman, attorney at law, can't kick my ass. He has, over and over again these last couple of weeks. After all, he's why Louis reached D grade. Becoming a Bronze ranker.

Harvey Birdman here is also why Fort Matthew has more Iron rankers than any other town. Yeah, Louis trained them outside the guild. But Zecawk put in the extra hours inside the guild.

As a system slave? He can't leave his building. Ever. Of course he can't be hurt or killed in his building either. So you can always go all out when sparing. It makes a big difference. Zecawk's like an old master from a martial arts movie. Wise beyond years and stern but patient with his disciples.

So why is he glaring at me like I ate his chicks?

"Answer me, you bastard, what was the point of that!" He's pointing outside. "Agent, Louis would never do that." Agent? "Are you trying to ruin his reputation?"

“Excuse me?” Yeah, I'm confused.

“Agent John Barton, are you an idiot?” Somehow he gets even madder. “I understand firing or killing me. But what good does it do to destroy that boy too?!” Notices me not getting it. “If you killed him or forced a displacement?" Squints. "You had better kill me too. Or I will hunt you down."

Awe, isn't that sweet. The weird bird guy really does care. Wait, shit, how does he know my name?

[Identify]

[?????]

Oh, Pedro only saw question marks for me too. With the two rank thing, um, let’s see. There’s Lead, Tin, Copper, Iron, Bronze, Steel, Silver, Gold, Palladium, Platinum and Adamantite. So that would mean he’s a… Platinum or Adamantite?

Fuuuck…

An actual demigod. Holy shit. No wonder birdie’s so badass.

“Answer me, agent!”

Yeah, no idea. Better try the diplomatic approach.

“Got no clue what you’re chirping about, birdbrain.”

Want world peace? Fuck the U.N. Just send me. The masterbat-er, uh, diplomat. Yeah, the master diplomat.

“Louis?” Birdbrain is what I always call him. “No, you are just using his memories.” Shakes his wattle. “The ink on your contract must still be wet. I’ll just look for myself then.”

Normally? [Identify]? You don’t feel a thing. If you’re really, really, paying attention? You might feel a slight tingle. That’s it. Handy skill too. Steam land didn’t have a quick and easy inspection ability. But this? I feel.

“Urk.”

Holy shit do I feel! Like someone is taking an ice cream scoop to my mind. Scooping out large chunks of brain goo. Is this what eating monkey brains feels like?  For the monkey?

There's a trickle coming out my nose that’s probably blood. And about every muscle in my body is locked up. While so gonna get sued, Birdman over there has his eyes unfocused. His attention elsewhere as he mutters.

“Will be dead or, worse, unemployed soon. But I still have my authority, so why not use it?” Mumbler! “Hmm… What agent changes their name? A moron, that’s what.” More murmurs. “System above, upgraded himself to a Class 5? Imbecile. Who approved that? Can you wave a bigger ‘look at me, I’m from the system,’ flag?”

Not easy to tell Zecawk’s expressions but you get used to them. This one, with the wattle lifting up, is confusion or shock. His mumbling monologue rolls on.

“Pantheon of Pain? Those losers? By the egg-layer, they paid for it all upfront?” His eyes shift and a finger flicks. “I’ll deal with those idiots later. Haha. If I have a later. Now, what is wet ink here’s rank and who is their supervi- sor?” His wattle bout climbs up into his beak and his eyes bulge.

Pain’s gone.

*chak* *chak*

*zKOW* *zBOOM*

*FOOM* *ZRAK*

Ironbear and Steelwolf are almost instantly in my hands and sending a fifty and forty caliber “fuck you” his way. Both strike his chest with enough force to pick him up and flip him backwards as the fire and lightning spells go off. Knocking his fancy high back leather office chair over and sending him right through the window.

Except it doesn’t. Instead he sort of splats against it. Looking how a bird might if it flew into a wall.

*squirrr* *plap*

The smoking and sparking featherhead makes cleaning glass sounds as his body slides down the big crystal clear pane and lands in a heap on the floor.

Shit, there’s no blood.

*chak* *CHUNK*

Don’t bother reholstering the revolvers. Just shove them into the spatial ring and yank out my ultimate “hello asshole.” A massive hunk of metal materializing in my hands. Stay standing and pull over a table with a foot. Let the bipod land heavily on it, cracking the top, as I sight in on the pile of feathers two dozen feet away that, not too long ago, Louis would have died for.

And did kill for.

“Is it your birthday, asshole? Cause you so much as twitch? I’ll send you a present that will hurt a whole fuck lot worse than the last two.”

Honestly, not sure if even the 60 cal AP Longdead Special that’ll come out the 54 inch barrel of this huge Godslayer Mk III rifle will kill a Platinum or Adamantite ranker. Thats freaking SS and SSS grade.

But it’ll sting like a mother.

"I see." The heap replies. "You really aren't an agent, are you?"

Smells like fried chicken in here.

"Nope."

"What happened to Louis?" He chirps.

"That bitch out there poisoned him and walked him into a trap." I snarl. "Watched his mother and sister get raped to death by goblins while he was eaten alive."

“And the Pantheon of Pain?”

“Made their offer the night before.”

“Wow, to spend all that and lose it the next day.” A clucking chuckle. “Imagine they aren’t happy.”

<BledWhiteHeart: …>

I snort.

“You could say that.”

A slight ruffle.

“Mind if I get up now?”

Flex my finger on the trigger.

“You gonna do the pain in the brain thing again?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were one of us.” Tweets. “Our departmental feuds can get… rough.” Sighs. “No, I will not be doing that again.”

“Then go ahead.”

Carefully he gets his legs back under him. Then his wing arms. With a slight “oomph,” Zecawk rises back to his seven foot height. And while there really is no blood? That nice vest is half burned away and many feathers are a bit… scorched.

Looks at himself and sighs.

“The dry cleaning bill for this is going to be… expensive.” Gazes at me still standing behind the table and aiming Godslayer his way. “Kudos, John, it has been centuries since I last felt physical pain.” Squints. “What is that? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“BSR-60 Mk III, Godslayer, semi-automatic bullpup configuration magearm sniper rifle.”

"Fascinating." Easy there mister spock. "Are they for sale?" Walks over and picks up his chair. "So the Minutemen did find you after all."

"Yeah, I hired them and gave them some training." Sparkle Godslayer away and holster my revolvers again. "Shop wise I haven't decided yet. Not sure if I want the system to get its hands on them."

Zecawk sits behind the desk and I walk over to the bar next to the fireplace. Louis remembers how it's set up so I find what I'm looking for quickly. Whiskey. Bring the whole bottle to a chair in front of the desk. He slides out a drawer and takes out a bottle of glowing blue syrupy liquid.

Birdbrain takes a slow swig before looking at me again.

"Gonna happen whether you want it or not." Strange how calm we both are now. "You can either be ahead of it? Or behind it." Another sip. "Are you really a free soul?"

Let myself get comfy. Louis loved how thickly cushioned these chairs are.

"Free soul?"

Clucks.

"From beyond the barrier."

Nod.

"Yep."

Zecawk chirps.

"Haha, it's been ages since a free soul last got through." Leans his head back. "That'll really stir the bath."

We both go quiet. Sipping alcohol. Decompressing from the violence. Birdman talks again.

"Why are you here?"

Sigh.

"Earth is my home." Pause. "Or at least it was. Have family here. Some friends do too." Distant look. "Will check up on them, help if I can and then leave."

Maybe. Probably. Ugh, we'll see.

"Oh, so you're a returnee. Read that Earth had a strangely high abduction rate." A sip. "At least that should stop now."

"What's up with the gate?"

Snorts.

"You noticed that, huh?" I just stare at him. "Fine, I'll tell you. You happened."

“What?”

Zecawk smiles. Which looks creepy as fuck when you do it with a beak.

“Name changes trigger notifications to anyone who has privileges granted by the property owner.” See the realization on my face. “Exactly, the entire town council received the notification that a ‘John Barton’ now owns Fort Matthew.” Chuckle. “Naturally, they panicked.”

Oops.

“So the militiamen and adventurers?”

Nods.

“Are guarding the dungeon and town hall. Waiting for the mystery man to make an appearance.” Toasts me with his bottle. “And kill him.” Raise my eyebrow. “What do you expect? They don’t know how it works and assume you found a deed or something on Louis’s corpse.” Holds out a hand. “Gimme.”

Sigh, knew this would happen so I came prepared.

Materialize a Lawbringer 40 cal semi-automatic pistol, loaded of course, and toss it at him. Because it's bullets are two inches long, the magazine is in front of the trigger. Making it look like a real bulky version of a Mauser broomhandle. The eight inch barrel in front makes it long. But shouldn’t be an issue for a seven footer.

*chak*

Birdbrain catches it smoothly and starts examining the pistol. Chirps when he pulls the mag and sees the bullets.

“System above, no wonder it hurt.” Ponders. "If this leaves bruises on me?" Looks my way. "Who will it hurt more?"

Smile back at him.

"That should reliably put down a Bronze ranker or give a Steel a very bad day."

The guildmaster whistles.

"And that big one you pointed at my noggin?"

"With a normal magefire load it can expire a Gold well enough. Even convince a Palladium to be someplace else for a while." Materialize a 60 cal AP Longdead Special and toss it to him. “With that? Well, haven’t been able to give it a proper test yet.”

“Damn…”

“Your turn, what’s an Agent?” I ask.

“Oh, yes.” Birdman looks uncomfortable. “Well, integrating a new world into the system is not a quick process.” Waves the pistol around. “The system needs nodes to create connections to all the sapient souls. Any local gods need to be recruited or removed. The concept of a system needs to be introduced and spread. Lots of things.”

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“So you use agents?”

“Correct. Like you were taken from this world? The system uses a similar process to send contracted employees to this world.” Rolls his wing. “Where they lay the groundwork for a system apocalypse.” Chirps. “Agents will be sent years, decades, even centuries before the integration.”

Seriously, now there’s “Agent Smiths” to deal with too?

“Alright, is there anything else I should know?”

Now that is definitely an awkward wattle.

…

Half an hour later I’m walking back down the stairs. Whisky bottle still in hand but now half empty. And I am feeling no pain.

Had the nanos turn down my resistance a bit. Really want a buzz right now.

Jesus, why are people so fucking stupid?

All conversation stops as soon as I'm seen. Left the mask off because I really don't give a fuck right now. So if the black armor, revolvers, swords, and backpack wasn’t a big enough clue? They can recognize my face.

I hear a mental whisper.

<BledWhiteHeart: Thank you.>

'Eh? What for?'

<BledWhiteHeart: The female is feeling despair.>

'Already?'

<BledWhiteHeart: She returned to her keeper. The conversation is not going well.>

'Ha! I bet.'

Look for and find a table near the back. Clear line of fire on the front doors. Minimal crossfire potential. Solid stone wall behind.

<BledWhiteHeart: Would you like to watch?>

'Yikes, no thanks. Those douchebags brought this on themselves. I'm just here to collect the debt.'

The sturdy wooden chair scrapes on the polished stone floor as I pull it out and sit. Facing the doorway.

*wyrr* *tk* *tk*

Draw each revolver, open the cylinder and replace the bullets one by one. Swapping the FMJ fire and lightning for JHP ball. Will be G's, F's and E's. Doubt he'll find a D and even if he does? Just the Steelwolf can handle them. Using double-rune ammo would be serious overkill. 

The background noise slowly returns as they see I'm not doing anything worth recording. But everyone notices me watching the entrance. So make sure not to be between me and whatever poor bastard I'm waiting for.

There are dozens here. At tables eating and drinking. At the board scouring quests. Or at the counters chatting with the receptionists.

But one thing soon becomes clear.

Where's the music?

Remember they used to play top forty stuff. Charlie and Shelly, who run the tavern, are nowhere to be seen though. Just two very overworked waitresses.

Huh, wonder where they went? I saw them when I came in?

Well, I need some tunes.

With a little sparkle Cheri is in my hands again. Now she's been tweaked, a lot, in steam land. So she doesn't look much like a Yamaha electric six string anymore. But she still plays great and is still cherry red.

Per my habit from three worlds I immediately begin "a pickin and a singin." This may come as a shock. But I'm not exactly the shy type. 

♪F, Bb, G, C♪

♫Met a girl, thought she was grand. Fell in love, found out first hand. Went well for a week or two. Then it all came unglued~…♫

Notice some shoes tapping. Others mouth the lyrics. And headbanging? Wha? Oh, fuck! I forgot! This is Earth! They know these bands!

Let me play you the song of my people.

♫♫In a trap , trip I can’t grip. Never thought I’d be the one who’d slip.♫♫

People are standing! Jumping! Banging! Throwing! Yelling! This is awesome!!!

Three. Glorious. Minutes. Later.

♫♫♫She fucking hates me~!♫♫♫

Twenty thirty people are shouting the lines with me. Everybody's yelling.

“Hates me!” “Gave that bitch everything!” “King Louie!” “Dredd rocks!” “Man I miss Blink 182!” Wha? “Dredd! Dredd! Dredd!” Who? “That's a magic guitar!”

Not sure when it happened but I’m standing on the table now. Surrounded by a crowd of guild adventurers and employees. And I feel fucking fantastic!

“Hey! Don’t know if you remember this one but here goes.”

♪C-G, C-G-F, F-C-G♪

♫I'm on a plane, with cocaine, and yes I'm all lit up again. Cough up love and touch up, your mama said packing line’s a sin.…♫

Oh yeah, many remember this one too.

Holy shit this rocks!

…

Meanwhile, in a dorm basement just a couple blocks away, someone is not having as good a time. Cynthia Houghton is on her knees in the middle of a room. Staring down at a phone in her hands which has just finished playing a video.

It's a documentary. About herself. And even what little is left of her brain realizes how damning it is.

The office she's in is big and gaudily decorated with long red drapes. Paintings looted from galleries hang on the walls. The concrete floor is covered by a thick shag carpet. Incense hangs thick in the air. The lighting is soft and tinted yellow. Through a large window you can see the business side of this, "club."

On the other side of that wide mirrored glass is a counter. Scantily clad girls serve drinks, baggies, pills and potions over it. Blue and red lighting compete with each other. Beyond the bar are small tables, plenty of chairs and a stage. 

Spread around the stage are men of all ages. Though mostly older. With some of them sit barely dressed women. All young and on their laps. Others move around the tables. Delivering orders and getting pawed at by the male customers. While on stage girls dance and strip to loud music.

Along the walls and at the doors are several visibly armed boys dressed in suits.

Regularly a patron will stand with a girl, or grab a passing one, and walk to a side door. Which leads to a hallway with smaller rooms. Each having a bed in it. When done the man goes back to the club. Sometimes with the girl. Sometimes without.

Back in the office, Cynthia is not alone. There's several loveseats, couple couches, and a large desk with a very fancy chair behind it. Teenage boys and girls lounge around. The guys are armed. The gals wear lingerie.

Behind the desk sits a short fat boy, Johnathon "Johnny" Grant, in a blue suit. Sneering at a girl who's finally realized how broken she is.

"Oh Cynthia, you stupid slut. Did you think it would last?"

"Ma-master, please I… He was so hurt… I … I didn't mean to… Never meant…"

"Did you really expect Limp dick Lou to forgive you?" Shakes his head. "Cheating on him with, hehe, everyone? Opening the door so we could take his mother and sister? Drugging and abandoning him to goblins?"

The slut flinches with each question and her boss looks to the heavens for guidance. 

"You certainly didn't care if he lived or died when I told you to do it. So why get upset over it now?" Taps his chin with a long knife. "Though you did fail my orders to drag him to the basement." Points at a very muscular tall jock standing silent and motionless next to the door. "Poor Tony had to do it for you."

"B-but there were noises. M-monsters down there." Cynthia looks nervous for being put on the spot.

"An obedient slave, who really loved her master, would have gone anyway." Her pimp admonishes. "Said hello to all those horny little goblins and died with the boy she betrayed."

"M-ma-master?"

"And why would I ever care about you? A filthy smelly whore. Only a thot would be stupid enough to believe her blackmailer." Stares down at her in disgust. "I was raping you! Using you to hurt that picture perfect prick. You were his weakness. And by the end of the year?" Smiles and spreads his arms. "Everyone was laughing behind his back, thanks to you. Every possible grant, scholarship and internship worth a shit? Lost to him. Thanks. To. You."

"Bu-but this isn't wh-what I wa-wanted-"

Her pimp, and many boys in the room, burst into laughter.

"Hahaha! Cynthia, Cynthia, Cynthia. Who gives a shit about what you wanted?" Johnny shakes his head again. "The only one who ever cared about what you wanted? Was him! The boy you betrayed!"

*sob*

The prostitute drops the phone and covers her face as she bursts into tears.

"Hey hey." Palms up. "Why are you crying? For months you had all the dick and drugs you could handle." Sweeps his arm. "Be proud of your accomplishments. Half the whores here were tricked into selling their bodies by you. Addicted to pills provided by you."

"But yo-you told me t-to."

Johnny lifts a finger.

"Ah. But remember. You didn't have to do what I told you to." Points. "It's right there in the video. Your father approved of Little Lou. So, really, there was no blackmail."

Cynthia stares blankly at him. Her mind short circuiting over the mix of lies and truths.

Her childhood friend sighs and rubs his nose.

"Sadly, it's time for us to part ways. I'm getting complaints that your snatch and ass have gotten too loose." Shrugs. "So, we're done. You're fired. Get out."

Cynthia seems to barely register it.

"F-fired?"

Johnny waves dismissively. 

"Throw her out. I don't care what you do to her. Just do it out back."

He spins his chair around and returns his attention to the new girl. Who resumes taking off her clothes.

Cynthia recognizes the girls eagerly reaching towards her. Vaguely recalling they once happily called themselves Louis's fan club. Until she tricked them into "practicing" to be his girlfriend. First using toys, then drugs, and finally older men.

A couple are missing. She thinks they killed themselves but isn't sure. Her memory isn't what it used to be. 

As they each grab a piece with vicious smiles and half drag half carry her out. Cynthia wonders, 'is this misery?'

…

Back in the office, Johnny isn't happy. Training new girls is one of his favorite things to do. But he can't get into it today. And he knows why.

"Louie…" He growls.

"Mi-mister?" The girl looks up from his crotch.

"Get out."

The look on his face terrifies the girl. Who grabs her clothes and fleas without even getting dressed.

Her crying interrupts the boys molesting the remaining prostitutes. Everyone looks his way.

"How did he survive?" He asks. No one answers. "He was poisoned. Dumped in a goblin den." Looks at his number two, Tony. "How did he survive?!"

The stoic black suited Tony answers with a deep voice.

"Rescued."

Johnny claps his hands together.

"Of course!" Scratches his chin. "Must have been suckers from another settlement." Snaps his fingers. "And that's why he went to the guild first. Ha! Sanctuary! Limp dick Lou needs protection!"

Tony tilts his head.

"Are you sure about that?"

The pimp nods confidently.

"Thot said he was walking strangely and carrying a revolver. That prick from the projects must still be injured." Nodding to himself. "And broke if all he could get was a revolver. Bet they squeezed every chit out of him. He's bluffing. Has to be. It's the only thing that makes sense." Points. "But you said that hero boy's a Bronze. Are you sure you can take him?"

Jock rolls his eyes.

"Told you already. No one in this town is tougher than me now."

Another clap.

"Great!" Yells at his cronies. "Load up boys! We are going to visit, hehe, a friend." Evil grin. "Little Lou will either bend the knee? Or I'll break his knees."

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