Not for the first time, as I glanced over the bill of fare, I found myself bemoaning the events that had brought me to this juncture. Two Pulitzers were no match for a Senator’s ire, and in retrospect, punching him out was probably a bad idea. He had it coming though. That was no way to treat a lady, even if she did work for him.
Then again, it probably wouldn’t have garnered more than a modicum of controversy had I not kicked him in the nether region a few times. Losing control is never a good thing for a journalist, especially at a public event.
So here I was. Harrison Kaine, award-winning creator of Hurricane’s Eye and heir apparent to the likes of Thompson, Woodward, and Jerusalem, sitting in a rented tuxedo trying vainly to get the eye of one of the swarm of supercilious waitrons infesting Café St. Tropez
I can’t say I was having much success. The Daily Edge didn’t have the pull of the major news feeds, and what little cachet my past might have given me had long since faded into Limbo. Apparently, someone of more social import was in attendance tonight, and the staff hovered over him like a pack of impeccably-dressed vultures.
Finally, by "accidentally" spilling my complimentary glass of mango-flavored
sparkling water on his sharply creased white slacks, I managed to catch
the eye of the maitre'd, Janos Skorzeny. He turned
angrily.
"Monsier, please be more careful..one must maintain a certain level of deco-" His eyes widened, and I couldn't help but grin.
"Hello, Johnny. A long way from flipping soyaburgers at the old Gaian Gardens, innit?"
Part of me, a very small part, admittedly, pitied him at that moment. Janos was one of the few people to make it out of the District we both grew up in. He was a respectable part of society, now, not "good old Johnny Scorpio" purveyor of fine, previously-owned merchandise.
"Relax, Johnny..your secret is safe with me. Who's the bigwig over by the bandstand?"
For a brief instant, he tried to maintain his icy shell. Finally, with a slight shrug, he dropped the act, "A gamer..name of Gridlok. Regional champion last year, some say he could go all the way."
"You've got to be kidding me..Gridlok?"
"Yeah, that's his handle...you know something about him?" Johnny asked, a touch of the old rogue flickering in his eye.
I stopped a bit, digging into my memory. "Remember my gaming days? When I insisted everyone call me Hurricane for a month?"
A truly nasty grin flashed on Johnny's face, "Yeah...most of us called you 'Breaking Wind' instead."
I showed great restraint...I didn't hit him.. "I went to that one tournament over at Raston Heights. There was this one kid there, a snot-nosed rich punk, named Gridrunner. I trounced him in three rounds, and took his whole Deck out of spite. He threatened to get even with me...said he'd not only beat me next time, he'd gridlock my career. Y'think it's the same guy?"
Johnny shrugged, "He's certainly rich enough...he even arranged tonight's entertainment. In fact, it's about to start."
Flickering lights proved the truth of Johnny's statement. When I looked back, he'd dashed off. Predictable, really. He'd always known the best time to run for it. As the great screens lowered themselves into position, the artificially-generated (although human-operated) MC, a humanoid figure made up of simple polyhedrons, began his spiel.
"Ladies and gentlemen..announcing tonight's entertainment. Chez St. Tropez is honored to be showing you, live, ongoing coverage of this evening's Bytecentennial Quarterfinals. The next match, ...Lady Shakti vs. The Mallet."
The small data readout built into my table displayed stats on the two combatants. Shakti was a vetaran Gamer, but had never acheived Champion status. She specialized in Glyphs with mythical imagery, and tended to build Decks using an overriding theme.
For his part, the Mallet was a hot young prospect. His Glyphs were flashy, but for the most part, not very effective. Back in the South District Gaming Club, he'dve been called a WannaGamer. Clearly, the rules were looser nowadays.
The screens rezzed to life, revealing a truly non-Euclidean realm. Looking it over, it brought images of an asteroid field designed by M.C. Escher. In the lower-left corner, from my perspective, Shakti, who presented herself as young woman in her 30's, dressed in flowing Grecian robes, crouched behind a shattered wall.
Behind her, a cloud of black smoke rose, disgorging The Mallet, a large figure dressed head-to-toe in ornate armor, crimson eyes blazing.
"Turn and face me, wench." his deep voice boomed from the speakers.
Shakti whirled, brushing her right hand along her left arm. "I was wondering when you would show up, Harvey. Nice outfit."
The Mallet grabbed at one of several handles hanging from his waist, raising it over his head."FIRE HAMMER!!!"
A gout of energy erupted from the far end of the shaft, and formed itself into a glowing sledgehammer, approximately 4 feet long, composed of orange flame. For her part, Shakti seemed unimpressed. I;m willing to bet, if she could have wasted the processing time, she'd be nonchalantly cleaning her nails.
"Whenever you are ready, Harv. I have all day."
The Mallet swung the hammer forward, and Shakti raised her right hand in front of her face, palm inward.
"Fireball!" "Aegis of Zeus!" they shouted.
An icon of a woman's face, fringed by a mane of literally snaky locks, rose before her, shattering the fireball into harmless sparks. As the Mallet fumbled for another attack, Shakti turned her raised hand palm outward, summoning her riposte.
"Eyes of Medusa!"
The icon opened it's eyes, revealing two sickly green orbs. Emerald energy oozed from them, swirling and tangling about her armored opponent. Within seconds, his arms and legs were bound solid.
As they rose higher, binding his shoulders, he stammered, "B-b-but, I cannot be defeated!"
"Bets?" came the quiet reply. Slowly, with supple grace, her hand bent forward and outward, until her outstretched arm pointed at her now-frozen foe.
"Spear of Athena.." she whispered, pointing her forefinger. A silver beam sprung to life, piercing 'Harvey's' chest. The stonelike shell shattered, revealing only emptiness.
A soft chiming resounded through the Gamespace, as the floating gray form of an Arbiter appeared to cast judgement.
"Game over..Shakti advances. Do you wish Right of Seizure?"
Shakti chuckled. "Of *those* attacks? I..uh, respectfully decline."
"Then prepare for the next lev-"
For the first time in all the Games I'd watched, and I'd seen quite
a few, an Arbiter seemed at a loss
for words. His cowled head lowered, as other cloaked figures
arrived, circling the Gamespace.
Finally, one form, who's ornate cloak marked him as a Major Arbiter, raised his head. In a surprisingly shaky voice, he made his announcement.
"My friends, a great tragedy has befallen us. The Fisher King has fallen."
Audible gasps came from the gathered diners behind me. The Fisher
King was the first grand champion of the game, and the only Gamer to ever
retire undefeated. I even had his icon on my wall as a kid...this
was a real loss. But it was also real news. Quietly, I scanned
the crowd, noticing expressions of shock, sorrow, and bewilderment.
At his somewhat crowded table, Gridlok sat stoically, but signs of
suppressed emotion were evident, even at my distance.
The screens flickered off, leaving the room in momentary darkness.
When the room lights rose, Gridlok had left. I really couldn't fault
him for that. As I pondered the situation, my Link flashed.
Someone was trying to call me.