Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Deadly Dancing

The Bouncer’s eye drilled into him as he approached the foot of the stairs, Happy Hour’s light steps barely audible behind him. His pace slowed at the intensity, and with Happy hour matching him, it suddenly reminded him of a funeral march.

A dark chuckle escaped his lips at the morbid thought. This was no funeral, at least not his — yet.

They managed five steps when she thrust a dark-skinned hand towards them.

“That’s close enough,” The Bouncer said. Her voice was deep and mellow, but held an authority he knew well. There was no need to spell out the implicit threat in the words.

She was easily big enough to stop him if she wanted to.

Jester nodded and tried his best to smile. If she noticed, she didn’t show it. Her glare softened somewhat as Happy Hour stepped beside him, dropping into a shallow curtsy.

“Hello Tiffany,” Happy Hour said, rising. Its voice was soft, almost demure. Though it contained a hint of nervousness that its bearing didn’t show. “Can we go in? I owe you-know-who a rematch.”

Tiffany didn’t respond, instead raising an eyebrow at Jester. A movement that did little to diminish the fact she wanted them gone.

“Where did you even find her?”

Jester did his best not to frown at the question. That made it sound like there were multiple possibilities. No point broadcasting his confusion, however. Tiffany looked the type to jump on any sign of weakness.

“The Junkyard.”

Tiffany laughed, and laugh hard. Her words were tough to make out as she clasped her stomach and doubled over.

“Oh. Ha. Oh. Did they toss you out already? Did you manage to last a day this time?”

Her eyes, whenever they stayed open, fixated on Happy Hour. The Robot showed no expression, her stance remaining the same. Back straight, hands folded before her stomach.

Though Jester wondered if there wasn’t something there. Was she shaking? No. Couldn’t be.

“It was a mistake,” Happy Hour said, voice prim. “Jester here is helping me.”

“Sure it was,” Tiffany said, her grin a mile wide.

A hiss sounded out as Whiskers crawled its way out of the bundle in Jester’s arms. The robotic kitten’s eyes glowed bright, its tiny aluminum-coated fangs bared towards Tiffany.

Jester winced as Tiffany clapped her hands in excitement. With a swift movement, her hand was out, finger positioned for the kitten to sniff.

“Aww! That’s adorable!” Tiffany cooed.

Whiskers bit her in response. The sound of crinkling filled the air, as its teeth bent against her skin. She laughed again, gently pulling away from the growling robopet.

“It has as much chance of dealing damage to something as you do,” Tiffany said. “That’s amazing. Where do you find this stuff?”

Before Jester could answer, Happy Hour cleared her throat.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this. Can we go in now?” Happy Hour asked.

Jester couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. He wanted this quest done already. Nothing about this interaction filled him with the desire to prolong it.

“Hmm,” Tiffany said. “Naaaaaah.”

“No? What do you mean, no?” Happy Hour stamped her foot. “Debra’s Dollhouse is welcoming to anyone with an android companion. Which includes Jester!”

“That’s true. Except if I don’t want to let them in. And I don’t,” Tiffany sighed and looked over at Jester. “Listen. Bud. I’m assuming this is for the Tavern Maid Woe’s quest, yeah?”

Jester nodded, a pit forming in his stomach. He didn’t like the emphasis she put on the last part of the quest’s name.

“Yeah, you aren’t the first. Probably, won’t be the last. We’ve been having people come here with this one for a couple of updates now. They lose. Get shitty. Pay, or encourage, trolls to harass people they see inside. Fuck that noise. Go away.”

“But—”

“—no buts dude. Look, you want to see your chances?” Tiffany asked. “You can fight Ol’ Mac here. Small and punchy. He can’t even move. Beat him, and I’ll let you in.”

Jester bit his lip. This was clearly some kind of trap. Ol’ Mac was a pipe with arms. It couldn’t take a lot of punishment. Right? A couple of hits and it would power down. It guarded a door next to a woman built like a brick shit house, for pity’s sake. He could imagine Tiffany taking on Rippertooth with her bare hands for fun.

All it could do was punch. Happy Hour may have low damage, but she could move out of the way. He glanced over at Happy Hour, who nodded emphatically, Whisker’s head bobbing at exactly the same pace.

Why not? What did he have to lose?

“This won’t count as a quest loss, right?” He asked.

“Didn’t for the last guy.”

“Alright, I’m in. Happy Hour, let’s see what you got.”

Jester moved to stand beside Tiffany, Whiskers scrambling around in his arms, trying to get comfortable. The two stood, watching as Happy Hour got into what he assumed was its battle stance. It raised on tiptoes, an impressive feat with the shoes it wore. Arms raised above its head, elbow extended slightly to make a small curve.

They weren’t joking about the ballet thing.

Ol’ Mac punched the air twice, the sounds of air-powered hydraulics filling the surroundings. Its green gloves created whistling noises as they moved. Jester winced, wondering what it would be like to be hit by them.

He noticed Tiffany looking at him then, her expression grim.

“Worried you’ll lose?” Jester joked.

“I’m worried repairs will be expensive. You don’t look rich,” Tiffany replied.

He didn’t have a response to that one.

Numbers flashed into his vision, counting down.

Happy Hour sprung forward.

The Doll flowed up the stairs towards Ol’ Mac. Each step precise, as it made its way towards Ol’ Mac. A step before it would be in range of its opponent’s strikes, Happy Hour stopped. With two hands grasping the railing, it bent at the waist before leaping forward and attempting a kick.

No luck.

Ol’ Mac smashed its gloves together, catching the foot speeding towards its expressionless face. With another hiss of hydraulics, it pulled back hard enough to break Happy Hour’s grip on the handrail.

Then it tossed the Doll into the street.

Jester winced at the cloud of dust the landing caused. As Happy Hour righted itself, he did everything in his power to not catch Tiffany’s eye. Tossed aside already? He understood its record a little better now.

Then something odd happened.

He’d expected Happy Hour to rejoin the fight, to retake the stairs. But no. Instead, upon returning to its feet, the Doll brushed itself off. With a small hop, it returned to its starting position. For a moment, everything was still, then it hummed.

A simple song, almost childish. There was no direct attack this time. No flashy spinning kicks. Instead, it stayed at the base of the stairs and danced to its own song.

Every movement caused the long brown skirt to billow outward, sunlight glinting off the metallic section of its legs. With a small hop, Happy Hour was on one foot, the other outstretched behind it as they slowly spun.

Jester watched the performance, enthralled. The song and movement combined made him think of a music box.

None of this appeared to help in the actual fight, true, but it looked amazing. He glanced over at Ol’ Mac, and his eyes widened. The entire pole swayed gently, as though buffeted by a particularly rhythmic breeze. Even Whiskers, cradled in his arms, swayed to the beat the best it could.

Tiffany hummed beside him.

“What’s going on?” He asked. His gaze transfixed on the dancing Doll.

“No idea,” Tiffany admitted. “She does this. It’s impressive looking if nothing else. The other robots like it too, not that it stops them from attacking her.”

After a move where Happy Hour bent far enough at the waist for its forehead to brush the ground, it attacked. Ol’ Mac continued to sway, as Happy Hour moved forward.

It sprang from toe to toe, before stretching out both arms for balance and performing a powerful forward kick. This time, Happy Hour connected. The force of the blow caused Ol’ Mac to spring backward. It went so far that Jester hoped that the bolts holding it down may have come loose.

The boxing pole must have a null defense rating if Happy Hour’s low rating allowed a hit that strong.

A smile blossomed onto the Doll’s face, and it turned to gaze at him before switching its focus to Tiffany. Happy Hour bowed with a flourish. Jester groaned as he realized what was happening.

Tiffany patted his shoulder in sympathy. Before he could vocalize the obvious mistake, Ol’ Mac sprang back upright. Happy Hour, busy bowing and scraping for imaginary applause, didn’t notice. Thus, didn’t dodge when the boxing gloves collided with the exposed neck before them. Not that they could. An attack from behind, combined with the momentum, adding extra oomph? Instant knockdown.

Happy Hour went face-first into the steps, hard, before starting the tumble down to the ground.

Jester winced at the loud cracking sound and watched as another countdown started in his vision.

Nobody moved. He wasn’t sure anyone breathed. Not that Whiskers or the combatants required it. Ol’ Mac swayed, ready for the next time Happy Hour got to their feet.

Tiffany looked resigned, giving his shoulder another sympathetic pat before returning to her original position. Whiskers yowled, obviously agitated.

Jester turned away, his back facing the continued sounds of hydraulics.

Well, at least Happy Hour now sat at exactly one-hundred losses. That was something.

“Are we done here?” Tiffany shouted as she pulled an oil can from her inventory.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am,” Jester said, moving to help Happy Hour off the floor. “If I beat it later, can I go in?”

“Sure whatever. Just don’t try at night. That’s when we get busy.”

“Noted,” Jester nodded to her. “Come on, Happy Hour.”

“I almost got him,” Happy Hour said.

He could see the tears running through the artificial skin. The bronze plating looked like old wounds. It made him shudder.

“No, you didn’t. Let’s get you repaired and see what I can do to solve this.”

He set Whiskers down and helped Happy Hour put back on the cloak and goggles. The cat rubbed itself against Happy Hour’s legs, meowing pitifully.

With a quick motion, he flipped their hood back up. “Come on. I think I’ve seen some problems. Many problems, really.”

Jester paused when Happy Hour elbowed him.

“You lost to a robot with no legs,” He said.

“I know,” Happy Hour replied, words barely audible. With slumped shoulders, the Doll stopped resisting his attempts to move them forward.

Jester opened his menu and checked his friends’ list. The name he wanted to see sat at the top: KyleeMeester. His finger shook over the call button. This would take some explaining. Without a doubt, some groveling. He would owe an infinite amount of favors. No matter the price, however, Jester knew she could help. She might even possibly be the single person who would.

“I have a mechanic friend. A good one. She can fix you up good as new. For a price. And you’ll need to keep your mouth shut. Trust me,” Jester said.

“I can do that,” Happy Hour nodded, Whiskers meowing right along with them.

With a hand on the Doll’s shoulder, Jester helped them navigate the streets of Geartown.

***

Apprehension filled him as he reached the ornate metal door, its red paint at odds with the stark white of the warehouse. The chat log with her invitation to come round remained floating in front of him. An emoticon of a cheeky grin playing on a loop.

He closed it with reluctance, knowing full well it may be the last time he saw such a joyful message.

Jester’s gaze rose to the wooden oval that hung above the door, the first thing the warehouse’s new owner displayed to the public. It pictured a small Doll, wearing a frilly dress and lacy bonnet, its mouth occupied chewing on a pull cord. He would call it cute, if not for the red prohibition symbol slathered on top of it.

He briefly considered going to anyone else for this. Surely someone could help him. But they would all want money, something he didn’t exactly have. The others would refuse on sheer principle. At least here there was a history that might get him through.

Though he wasn’t sure even that would be enough.

He doubled checked that it kept Happy Hour’s form hidden. No point putting his worst foot forward before being able to explain. With a sigh, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. A buzzer sounded out as he stepped through. As soon as he passed, a short section of dubstep played right beside his ear. He bobbed to the beat, smiling.

It showed the building was player owned. If there was one thing RotorRager did well, it was customization for players.

The building’s interior amazed him, as always.

Two lines of pillars split the room into thirds. To his left sat the workshop filled with expensive crafting tables, humming computers, and mechanical hands dangling from the ceiling. As he watched, those hands stripped parts from an artillery cannon. From the sheer size alone, the process must have started before it came inside.

In the middle section, the store called to him. Shelves, tables, racks, and other various display pieces showed off the merchandise. All player-tweaked, unlike the NPC stores that simply carried base game items. While RagerSystems didn’t want people creating entirely custom pieces due to copyright issues, they didn’t mind having in-game items customized to an extent.

Players often pushed the boundaries on this, which got some interesting reactions from staff. The fact nobody got banned was a miracle.

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He came close to salivating. The chance of looking through the store was always his favorite part of visiting Kylee. Player-crafted items were always so interesting. Disappointment that he couldn’t poke around filled him as he turned away. Quests to fulfill, and robots to beat. To his right sat a storage area, the grated floor almost hidden entirely by the contents that covered it.

These included boxes, crates, and bins stuffed full of everything from basic metals up to complicated arms and weapons. His target moved between them, long red hair loose for once, as she moved a pen over a clipboard.

She wasn’t even wearing her usual stained overalls over a grimy one-piece jumpsuit. Instead, wearing a basic plain t-shirt and jeans. Jester frowned, trying to work out the occasion. A big meeting, perhaps? She mentioned once she tried to appear less dirt stricken for those—more professional.

He hoped he wasn’t intruding.

“Yo! Kylee!”

The shout got her attention, and she spun, arm behind her head as though a split-second from hurling her clipboard. Even when she noticed him, her arm didn’t lower.

“Tarnation Jester, scaring me like that,” Her thick southern accent was, he knew, fake. She claimed it helped sell her brand. The guys in the lounge didn’t mind it. Free drinks must be nice.

“Are you going to toss me the clipboard or what?” He asked, tipping his top hat to her.

“You here for work again? I have plenty of stuff that needs sorting, and a couple of credits I can throw y’all way.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Long story, honestly,” He gestured to her clothes. “If you’re prepping for a meeting, I can come back?”

Her brow furrowed before she blinked a few times, cottoning on to what he meant. “Ahh, bless your heart. No, got done with one. A supply thing. RagerSystems is raising its sales cut again. But don’t worry y’all head any. What can I help y’all with?”

He bit his lip, not sure how to continue. Kylee was the best mechanic he knew, a Diesel Destructive finalist twice, though she never won one. Not that she cared. Brand recognition either way. Her curious gaze travelled towards Happy Hour, and so he started with something that would make her more sympathetic.

“I ran into Lexington in the Junkyards earlier,” Jester said.

“That milk-drinking varmint? What did he want?” Kylee’s attention went back to him.

“The SteamBeam LaserBazer I dug up. Set Rippertooth on me, jerk.”

He didn’t realize he was massaging his arm until he saw her looking at it. “Wasn’t super comfortable.”

“I bet. And you want, what, me to help you and your suspicious friend beat him up? Sounds fun, but I doubt it’ll help,” she shot a pointed look his way when she said friend. He got the hint.

“Huh, yeah, funny you should mention, my friend. See Rippertooth dragged me off, and left me deep within The Junkyards. I found some old, old stuff. Like you remember the prehistoric update?” Jester asked.

“The caveman tools?” Kylee nodded, a smile forming on her face. “I remember. Beautiful designs. Prehistoric dinosaur robots covered in bone spikes. Sure, the bone broke like no one’s business, but you could use the splintered end. Minimal lowering of your damage rating. Though… the defensive dinosaur hide destroyed your speed. One time, we used T. rex claws in conjunction with three layers of scales—”

“—right, so you remember then,” Jester broke in, knowing full well if he didn’t, the nerve to explain the situation would fail him. “I found something else buried there, too. Something a little more. Expensive?”

Kylee frowned, eyes narrowing as she tapped her lips. “Y’all don’t mean a Steamcannon, right?”

“No, not a Steamcannon. Something a little more. Mobile. And Human. And standing next to me. You know what? This. I’m doing this wrong. Kylee. Meet Happy Hour. Happy Hour, let down your hood and the goggles. Maybe show her Whiskers. You like robot cats, right?”

He spoke the words almost as quickly as they came to mind. As Happy Hour lowered the hood, Kylee’s frown deepened. Then it vanished. Replaced with such disdain, Jester considered running. How much she paid for the multiple extended-expression DLC was something he knew he’d never ask.

“Jester,” Any attempt at an accent was gone, replaced with something more blandly American. “Get out of my store. And my friend’s list. And my life.”

“Look, Kylee, I know—” Jester started.

“—oh, you know? Like you know what the sign means, you oblivious Dollfucker?” Kylee tossed the clipboard full force at his head.

He dodged by an inch.

“Please. I wouldn’t be here, but I need help selling it. There’s a quest. We can split whatever profits I make. Kylee, come on,” Jester stepped backward, gesturing for Happy Hour to follow.

“Maybe you’re not listening to me. Maybe that’s the problem,” Kylee stalked forward, arms outstretched as though to strangle him. “Maybe. Just maybe. I should have Lugathin throw you out.”

Something moved in the warehouse’s rear. A large egg-like chassis, with too many limbs, dropped from the ceiling. A perfect sphere attached to the top, covered in lights and sensors, felt to Jester like they all stared through him.

He reminded himself it was a VR game, and it couldn’t hurt him. No matter how good the haptics in his pod were.

“Yes. Yes, I think that will do nicely. Maybe your little Doll can help you? MAYBE YOU CAN TURN TO HER FOR COMFORT? WOULD THAT HELP, DO YOU THINK!”

Jester winced as the voice modulator, a short-lived DLC, kicked into effect. Her words blasted at him as though she used a megaphone. He fell to his knees as she continued to shout. Sounds were something the pods could replicate incredibly well.

“Kylee. Please!” His cry vanished beneath her own.

The floor shook as Lugathin drew closer, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He wondered what getting kicked through a wall would be like. In the next moment, something small and metallic sat on his shoulder, a loud meowing letting him know it was Whiskers.

He opened his eyes, but everything remained dark. It took a moment to understand that something covered his head. Then another to realize what. Whiskers mewled with annoyance as he pulled off the offending garment. A black cloak.

Colorful blobs filled his vision, because of the artistic blur the system currently rendered the game world in. The game’s way of representing the damage the sound did to him. RagerSystems received plenty of backlash for this DLC.

View unobstructed, he could make out more identifiable shapes. Slender and human, he reasoned, that Happy Hour now stood before him. Its arms raised, seemingly unconcerned by the massive shape moving towards them.

He blinked rapidly, trying to get his vision to clear now Kylee had finished screaming. That single act allowed him to witness the bizarre events that took place.

Happy Hour danced.

It lifted its left leg, balanced on the toes of its right foot, and performed a perfect pirouette. Jester sat in awe, as he witnessed a grace he never knew someone could program into a robot. Happy Hour moved. A spinning slide, sparing them from the claw that fell towards them.

Hands held oddly before its stomach, Happy Hour skipped forward once more, ducking another slow strike. He expected it to kick the claw stuck in the ground, but no. It continued to dance.

To his left, someone breathed like an angry bull. Kylee, probably, not that he could take his eyes off the recital to check. More claws fell, creating pillars that formed a stage. A stage, Happy Hour twirled and leaped through.

The new fluidity of Lugathin’s strikes caught Jester’s attention. Its low-speed score, combined with its bulky frame, made it unwieldy. Claws continued to press against the ground, creating a slow thumping rhythm. Lugathin’s egg-shaped body did something odd, shifting side to side with each beat. Jester blinked. Wasn’t that its dance emote?

That shouldn’t be happening. While not a proper fight, signified by the lack of countdown, Lugathin’s focus should remain on its last given orders. Those orders being to throw Jester out. Yet, it danced. The two robots’ movements intertwined to create a spectacle neither could manage alone.

However, all good things must end.

As the last claw hit the ground, Happy Hour did one last pirouette and bowed. Not to Jester, but Kylee. It’s tangled, red hair clanking.

“Thank you for watching,” Happy Hour said, her voice formal.

Jester didn’t dare to breathe, his eyes darting between the two redheads. Kylee’s expression remained angry, angrier than he’d ever seen. On a closer look, however, there was something else there—a twinkle in her eye.

“Lugathin, return to sorting, please,” Kylee said

“Kylee—”

“—shut up Jester. You. Doll. Come here.”

Jester met Happy Hour’s eye and nodded. He watched as the two met, standing facing each other.

“I hate you,” Kylee said, the words firm. “I’m going to help that Dollfucker over there get rid of you. But beforehand, I’m going to pull you apart to see what code you have. Steal it. Sell it for more than he’ll ever get for you alone. Then he’s banned from my store. Forever.”

“As long as my quest is complete,” Happy Hour replied, her voice neutral.

“That’s all you ever care about, isn’t it? Though, it’s a game. What else would, could, you care about?”

Kylee turned to Jester, moving to open her inventory. He barely caught the small spray bottle she tossed him.

“To fix its face. Out of my store now. I have proper work to do. I’ll call when I’m prepared to deal with you.”

Jester got to his feet and nodded. “We’ve been using Markal’s.”

“I don’t care. Get ready for my message. Don’t lose the Doll.”

With that dismissal, Jester grabbed Whiskers and walked out of the warehouse, Happy Hour on his heels.

***

“She did not seem to like me very much,” Happy Hour said as they skipped along.

Their hood was down, but Jester couldn’t bring himself to care. He knew Kylee wouldn’t like it. He knew! Still, that display was something else. It was a year ago; he thought she was over it. They didn’t even know each when it happened. He got the story second-hand at a lounge.

“Jester?” Happy Hour asked.

“Yeah, she doesn’t. Not your fault. She doesn’t like me much either now. We’ll get your quest done, though.”

“And then you’ll sell me?”

“Yes.”

The truth was out there. No need to lie. As Kylee said, this was a game. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. Not Happy Hour at least. Goddesses, he hoped Kylee didn’t mean it about the ban. That they were words said in anger and frustration.

Quiet settled over the group, even Whiskers doing nothing more than perching on his shoulder. Its weight was oddly comforting. Though he knew they’d need to give the kitten back.

“What did you think of my performance?” Happy Hour’s voice broke the silence as they crossed over into the outskirts.

Jester didn’t speak, as his gaze wandered over the dilapidated buildings. He wasn’t sure how to respond. The question remained unanswered until Happy Hour sat once more on Markal’s mechanics bench.

He pulled out the bottle, following the directions that appeared in front of him.

“Graceful,” He started, faltering as he remembered the way Happy Hour moved between the limbs. “Fascinating. Unique. Different.”

A chuckle escaped as he said the last word. “Different for sure.”

“Different can be good,” Happy Hour said, voice positive.

From the position on his shoulder, Whiskers meowed in the affirmative.

“Sure, if you’re rich enough to pull it off.”

Silence reigned once more, and Jester struggled with it. Strange, it wasn’t like he was unused to silence. He spent too much time solo in The Junkyards not to be. Still, this was uncomfortable. Happy Hour may not be a player, but they were too human for him not to feel that social pressure to speak.

So he asked a question.

“Why were you created?”

The moment the question slipped out, he cursed himself for the words. He shouldn’t get involved.

“I don’t know,” Happy Hour started, voice hesitant as it looked down at its lap. “DollmakerMC, my creator, informed me of very little. They made me as a test, but didn’t say for what. I serve whatever purpose my current owner deems fit. I have swept floors, tended bars, and powered down when thrown out. They first sent me to serve at The Dollhouse, but that did not last, as you know.”

Jester nodded, unsure what to say. Happy Hour didn’t allow the silence to sit for long.

“Debrah. The owner. She didn’t like me, nor my lack of ability to win fights. She did at first, when my gimmick was new. When I made her money. Once that stopped, she dumped me for that two-bit Alexa with legs!”

Whiskers meowed indignantly, before batting at the air.

“You are number seven to tackle this quest,” Happy Hour added as though an afterthought. “Lucky number seven. I hope.”

His heart raced to hear that, as Tiffany’s comment about people trying for multiple patches came to mind. Six people tried this before? Maybe this wasn’t doable. Potentially on purpose.

Player robots didn’t organically generate quests in the same way NPC-owned bots did. So DollmakerMC and Debrah must have worked together on this.

Impossible or a simple challenge offered by the creator?

Jester didn’t know. He needed time to think.

“Your gimmick. You mean what you did to Lugathin, right? Activating his dance emote?”

“Yes,” Happy Hour confirmed.

“Can you do that with every robot? At any time?”

“Yes, and yes. Provided they have one. Though, I don’t think I’ve met one that doesn’t?” Happy Hour looked confused for a moment before shaking its head. “DollmakerMC programmed it in. Thought it was funny. Good for a serving android.”

“And was it?”

“Not if the number of spilled drinks means anything,” Its voice sounded sad, though it perked up as it continued. “Customers enjoyed it, though. Until they didn’t.”

“Happy Hour,” Jester started, before pausing.

Why did he want this information? It wouldn’t matter. This Doll would be gone as soon as Kylee calmed enough to help him. They’d beat Ol’ Mac, beat Maid #34, and boom. He’d have enough money in his pocket to buy something nice to calm the redheaded mechanic. Hopefully.

He switched gears, feeling a sudden need to extricate himself from this situation.

“I’m logging off for the night,” Jester said. “See you later, Happy Hour.”

“Bye Jester,” Happy Hour said, accompanied by Whiskers meowing.

 

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