The lights flickered again, catching Ravenkroft’s attention. Gadget saw an opportunity in this. If the power went out — even for a moment — they could make their move against him. There were only three Biomechs, plus Ravenkroft, and there were six of them. Yes, the Biomechs had weapons, and so did Ravenkroft, which made things highly risky. But in the dark, everybody was a terrible shot. (Of course, he had no idea how well the Biomechs — nor Ravenkroft — could see in the dark, so that was a decided X-factor. But they would just have to chance that.) He looked askance at Misto and Mystikite, and saw that they were thinking the same thing. Darmok too. Misto had a wounded shoulder, so that would cut down on his effectiveness as a fighter. But it was doable. It was achievable. Gadget’s heart hammered in his chest, beating wildly against his ribcage. A nervous sweat stood out on his brow; he hoped it didn’t give away his intentions. He had never thought in these terms before in his life; had never planned a fight before. It felt both exhilarating and terrifying. All he needed was to somehow deactivate the psionic suppression field, then get a good, clean shot at Ravenkroft, to get in close with him so he could perform a good old-fashioned Vulcan mind-meld with the Mind-Weirding Helm, and then activate the Twizion particles for extra oomph, just like he and Dizzy had planned . . . and then go toe-to-toe with the alien inside him. If he could summon up enough psychic force, he might just be able to kill the thing. That was a big “if,” though. Without Dizzy manning her Guitar, though . . .
Ravenkroft was about to start talking again — he had just opened his mouth to speak — when suddenly, all the computer monitors in the room started displaying static. One by one their images fuzzed and flickering bars of grey snow replaced them; white noise and bands of random color popped up all over the place.
“What the devil — !” began Ravenkroft, looking all around him, genuine surprise etched on his face. A new image then replaced the static: A video feed of a young girl — she couldn’t have been older than twenty — wearing too much eye shadow and with frizzed-out blond hair, wearing a leather jacket. She wore a dour glare of an expression, and seemed to stare directly at Ravenkroft.
“Hello Ravenkroft,” she said in a menacing voice, the sound coming from all around them, echoing through every speaker in the room. “Remember me?”
“Ah,” he said, visibly trying to hide how much her appearance had shaken him. That was good. Anything that kept him off his guard. “The one Viktor called ‘Pris.’ Yes. I remember. Heh. I remember killing you. I remember you de-rezzing right before my eyes. What, did you get tired of dwelling in the NeuroScape garbage collection subroutines?”
“No,” she said, her tone grim and serious. “I didn’t. I’m back, Ravenkroft. And I’m here to make your life — your Real life — a living hell. You have some . . . people with you. Friends of a friend. I’d like you to let them go.”
“Not going to happen,” he replied, and smiled. “Never in a million years. You’re too late, Pris. The procedure will continue. Now be a good little computer virus, and begone with you!”
“No, Ravenkroft,” she replied, and smiled back at him. “I’m not leaving this system. I’m here to stay. Oh, and by the way. Gadget. It’s off, now. The psionic suppression field. You can do your thing. You’re welcome.”
Ravenkroft whirled around to look at Gadget and cried, “NO!”
That was all Gadget needed to hear. He didn’t know who this wonderful Pris woman was, or where she had come from, but she had said the magic words. He screwed up his courage, and without giving it another thought, he threw an elbow backward with a yell and into the nearest Biomechanoid holding an energy-weapon on him, taking the gruesome thing by surprise, just as Darmok and Misto whirled around and faced the two holding weapons on them. Mystikite and Buffy spun around and kicked at their knees and shins and punched for their faces with all the augmented super-strength their Vampiric muscles were capable of, breaking the squealing, screeching things’ facial bones and shinbones in the process, causing them to topple to the floor. The third one Gadget concentrated on, and it went flying backward, crashing into the wall head-first with a loud cracking noise as its skull split open. Mystikite and Buffy grabbed the Biomechs’ weapons, and Misto and Darmok retrieved the weapons the Biomechs had taken from them. Then, Gadget rounded on Ravenkroft, put two fingers to his temple, and began to concentrate, but Ravenkroft turned and ran before Gadget could even focus the mental will to do anything to him.
“Hey! Come back here!” Gadget chased after him through the house. Viktor took off in another direction entirely.
“Hey! Where are you going!” shouted Misto.
“I have to get something!” cried Viktor as he raced toward what must’ve been the basement door. “Catch him! He’s headed toward the back door!”
The front doors to the place burst open and three more Biomechs came rushing in, energy-weapons at the ready.
“Quick!” shouted Misto. “Everybody take cover!”
Gadget kept his sights on Ravenkroft, determined not to let him get away, and raced after him.
Misto, Mystikite, Buffy, and Darmok engaged the six Biomechanoid soldiers in the living room laboratory as Gadget and Viktor ran after Ravenkroft. Misto hid behind a tall rack of computer equipment. Mystikite and Buffy dove behind the couch. Darmok rolled behind the Psychotronic Transcendimensional Transmogrificator machine, in which Dizzy was currently held captive.
“Alright you sons of bitches! Eat this!” yelled Mystikite as peeked up from over the couch, which took several shots of energy-weapon-fire from the Biomechs. He propped his energy-weapon up on the edge of it and opened fire. He hit one in the leg — it went down squealing.
Misto turned from his hiding place and fired off a couple of shots at them, as well. He hit one of them — he blasted the Biomech right in its chest; sparks and blood flew from the wound as the Biomech was knocked backward and fell to the ground. Two down, four to go.
“Buffy!” yelled Darmok as an energy-blast whizzed past her hiding spot, and impacted the wall near her head. “Can you take care of a few of these losers for us? Without setting the whole place on fire?”
“I can try!” she cried. She closed her eyes and concentrated. She felt the blue-flickering aura surround her body once more, and when she opened her eyes, the world had turned a bright, undulating cyan. She extended her arms, and the now-familiar twin tentacles of orange flame shot out of them, and raced through the air in front of her, twisting and turning. They wormed their way through two of the Biomechs, boring burning holes through their chests. They dropped to the ground, smoldering. Only two more to go . . . Buffy commanded the churning pillars of flame to turn again in the air and double back, and they decapitated the remaining two Biomechs before snapping back into her body like whips. They always hurt coming back.
But then six more Biomechs spilled through the front doors of the place, energy-weapons blazing.
“Fuck!” cried Mystikite.
Misto twisted out of his hiding spot and fired off three more blasts. He missed twice, but hit once — blasting one of the things right in the head; it dropped to the ground, sparks flying from a splattering, ruined eye-socket. Mystikite kept firing as well, as did Buffy with her own energy-weapon. She hit one, and so did he. Two down. Four to go.
“I’ll try again in a minute,” she said. “I have to rest for a few.”
“Right,” he said.
Darmok fired off three shots from her Decimator pistol, antimatter charges all. She missed with one of them, and disintegrated the coffee table that sat near to were Mystikite and Buffy crouched behind the couch, which was itself rapidly disintegrating under the strain of the many pulse-blasts it had sustained from the Biomechs’ energy-weapons. But two of the shots hit home, disintegrating two more of the four Biomechs. Only two left.
Five more came rushing in through the front doors.
“Oh give me a fucking break!” cried Mystikite. Now there were seven of the damn things. They continued their barrage of fire. The couch was down to its metal frame, springs, and a little foam covering that. They would have to fall back to the kitchen, soon. Like, now. “Fall back!” cried Mystikite, standing up, as did Buffy. They both ducked sideways, behind two nearby bookshelves that stood against the wall. A blast from one of the Biomechs’ weapons tagged Buffy in the leg. Sparks and blood flew from the wound, the pain almost unbearable; she felt it course through her body, like venom from a snake, and felt herself grow dizzy. She felt herself topple, and then hit the floor.
“GAH!” she cried out, and grabbed at the wound out of instinct. “FUCK!”
“Zoe!” cried Mystikite. She felt him grab her by the wrists and let him drag her into the kitchen, heedless of the energy blasts firing all around him. The swinging door to the kitchen blocked a blast that almost pinged him in the head. Darmok and Misto kept firing from their positions. Buffy felt dazed, the pain in her leg throbbing and stabbing.
“Shit,” said Zoe, once they were in the kitchen, wincing at the pain.
“Shh, it’s alright,” said Mystikite. He blanched as he looked at the wound. “You’re a Vampire now, so it’ll heal rather quickly.”
“Yeah but until then,” she said, trying to sound brave and cocky, but knowing she probably didn’t, “it’ll hurt like a motherfucker. So if I’m a Vampire and immortal, why’d you haul-ass to drag me in here like that? You and I aren’t in any real danger out there. They are.”
He shrugged. “Instinct, I guess. I don’t want you getting hurt. Because hurt still hurts, even for Vampires.”
He was right; the wound was closing and the pain ebbed away, even now. Perhaps she had been wrong. Maybe being a Vampire wouldn’t be so bad, after all. She was still pissed off at him, of course; that would take a while to go away. He had shown her immense disrespect by going against her wishes and turning her despite what she had said. But, still. He had saved her life. And even though the hours would suck, and the mechanism of staying alive wasn’t all that attractive . . . being alive was better than being dead, she supposed. In any form. Maybe she could learn to live with immortality. Maybe she could even learn to live with Mystikite again. Perhaps, with time, they could even learn how to love one another again, they way they had before coming to this stupid con this year. It was good to have goals in your relationships.
“So,” she said. “You ready to go back out there?”
“What, so soon?”
“Yeah,” she said. She cast a glance at the swinging door. “I can take them, Mystikite. All of them. I know I can.”
“Well if you’re sure.”
“I am. Lemme at ‘em.”
“Well, okay . . .”
He helped her to her feet, and she pushed on the swinging door, and together, they headed back out into the mêlée. Buffy mentally switched on the blue aura of fire, and felt it suffuse her entire being once again. Mystikite dove for cover behind the bookshelves. Buffy spread her arms to either side of her as the Biomechs took aim at her. Their pulse-blasts came at her, but were absorbed into the fire as they hit; they did no damage to her. She closed her eyes, but could still see them perfectly in her mind . . . where they stood in the room, their relation to one another. She unleashed the fire-serpents. They danced out from her body like trained cobras, writhing in the air and twisting across the room and plummeted through two of the Biomechs, boring flaming holes in their chests, then bent around and careened through two more of them . . . then twisted midair and snaked around and penetrated two more. Then finally, they arced, came around, and burned the last one to death where it stood. Squealing and burning, they all died where they stood.
Buffy opened her eyes. No more Biomechanoids came in through the door. Darmok and Misto, and Mystikite crept out from their hiding spots.
“I . . . think you got ‘em all, Buffy,” said Misto, hesitantly.
“Good,” she said, panting for breath. “That’s good. Now let’s wake up Dizzy.”
“No!” shouted Mystikite, reaching out to stop her.
“What?” said Buffy. “Why?”
“He’s got her wired into the NeuroScape,” said Mystikite, stepping toward her. “If he’s got her drugged and wired into a simulation, deep in, there’s no telling what trying to wake her would do to her neurologically. We have to wait for the simulation to play itself out. Or we have to hack into the system, try to terminate it properly, and let the drugs wear off naturally . . . and then try to wake her up. Here. Let me try.”
He picked up the NeuroBand Headset unit that lay on the computer desk nearest the Psychotronic Transcendimensional Transmogrificator, put it on, and activated it. He closed his eyes, and all Buffy could do from that moment on was worry about both Dizzy and him.
Chunks of the stone roof of Avatar-Ravenkroft’s virtual science lab blew out and upward as Dizzy and Ravenkroft exploded up through it; she had punched him with an uppercut that could have wrecked a semi-truck with the power she had channeled into it, and he had flown up and through the roof and now landed upon it. Apparently in the NeuroScape, the Evangeliojaeger didn’t just augment her strength; it amplified it a hundredfold. Of course, his would do the same with whatever blows he landed. But then again, it also gave her a wicked Armor Class, a defensive bonus that was sky-high and enabled her to take loads of damage more than she would have normally, as well. So it evened-out, she guessed.
Dizzy flew up and blasted her own hole in the roof and landed near where Ravenkroft lay, flat on his back on the roof, a flattened platform that sat high atop the pyramid in the center of the city. Waves of undulating orange energy washed upward all around them, emanating from the platform beneath them, surrounding them and pulsing through them. Dizzy could feel the electric energy from them coursing through her body. Yet despite that, she still stalked forward, grabbed Ravenkroft by his Evangeliojaeger’s metal frame — he groggily came to, and realized what was happening — hauled him to his feet, and angrily punched him again. This time, the punch sent him hurtling off the rooftop. He cried out as he went sailing, caught himself in the air using his repulsivators, and flew back toward Dizzy, who quickly levitated upward to avoid his outstretched fists that he stuck out in front of him as a battlecry issued from his throat.
“Damn you, Weatherspark!” she heard him say as he swung back around and came back the other way, then hovered in the air, facing her once again. “You will submit to me!”
“Not hardly,” she said. “Not as long as there’s an ounce of breath left in me. No way.” She rocketed toward him, fists outstretched, and tried to punch him, but he levitated out of the way.
“I’m bored with punching you,” he said as she flew through empty air. “Let’s try something different.” She turned around in the air and glared at him.
“Oh?” she said. “That’s ironic. Because I’m not bored with punching you.”
“How about we change the rules here,” he said, and grinned at her. And suddenly, the environment changed. The sky around them blotted out, and the rooftop beneath them expanded into a floor, becoming tile instead of stone. Walls grew from out of it on either side, and the sunlight was replaced by overhead fluorescent lightning as Dizzy looked all around her apprehensively, the room they were in taking shape, a giant cube-like space. The magic wand, stowed in her pocket, grew hot. She took it out, and it began to vibrate, and then it changed . . . from wood into stainless steel, becoming a letter opener . . . then it widened and elongated, becoming a knife . . . then a dagger . . . then finally, a bastard sword, then a longsword.
Excalibur. It felt heavy in her hand and the tip clinked to the checkered tile floor as she held it by its ornate grip. The hilt was decorated with both a Christian cross and a witch’s pentagram, the five points marked by five jewels — the Infinity Stones from Marvel’s Avengers films. Neat; the NeuroScape at work again, digging around in her brain, rooting around for ideas. Ravenkroft stood twenty feet in front of her, also holding a sword; his was a bit larger, the metal all black and shiny. He smiled at her menacingly. “Ah,” he said. “This is more like it.” He handled his sword with confidence and a smoothness of motion that made her feel uneasy.
“Nice digs,” she said, trying to sound cool and equally confident. She was not a sword-fighter, and of course he knew that. In the corner of the room sat the twin operating tables, the Elder God form, and her shell-Avatar, still asleep, still glowing with that eldritch energy, the transfer still in progress. She could feel herself weakening ever so slightly as she looked at it. This was not good.
“Now then,” he said as he approached her, and fell into a fighting stance. “En guard!”
She did her best to mimic his stance, Excalibur out in front of her. He attacked her with a lunge forward; she parried the blow, just barely blocking his attack. He withdrew, and came at her again; she clumsily maneuvered Excalibur into position just in time, his blade glancing off of hers. He withdrew again, and lunged forward a third time. This time she was too late. He scored a hit on her shoulder, and winced in pain as his blade drew blood. He snickered at her surprise and her expression. She readied herself again, redoubling her attention and focus, the blade swaying before her. She attacked — lunging at him with a forward thrust. He parried the blow with ease, and she went stumbling forward, caught by her own momentum, and went straight past him. He laughed at her and whacked her on the back with the flat of his blade as she passed him. She grew angry and spun around to face him again. She was an amateur at this, and he knew it. He was merely toying with her, prolonging the game. He could kill her — or at least, deliver the deathblow and plunge her consciousness back into her shell-Avatar — at any time, and he knew it. This was simply his idea of fun, and that infuriated her.
“Oh . . . what’s the matter, Weatherspark?” he said. “You don’t like this little competition? Don’t think it’s fair? Well too bad. I already told you. I’m close to god here! I — ”
“Is this a private party, or can anyone log in and join the fun?” came a voice from out of nowhere suddenly. Dizzy looked to her left, and there, materializing out of a cloud of glowing alphanumeric characters and glyphs, was Mystikite. Dizzy grinned.
“Mystikite!” she exclaimed. “Gods am I glad to see you!” He was dressed in his usual black trousers and black t-shirt, and casual black jacket. He smiled at her.
“Oh now, who is this!” demanded Ravenkroft. He attacked Dizzy again, whirling his sword around and slashing at her from the side. She moved Excalibur to intercept the blow. His blade crashed into hers as she blocked his attack. But no sooner did she parry than did he withdraw and attack again, this time slicing at her from above. She raised Excalibur quickly and pushed against his, fending him off again for the nonce.
“Your worst nightmare,” responded Mystikite in his best Sylvester Stallone impersonation, which actually pretty good. “Hey, Dizzy. Thought you could use an assist. But from the looks of things, you’ve got it pretty much under control.”
“No — no I don’t!” she stammered as she blocked another of Ravenkroft’s attacks — but only just barely. “I very much do not — have this under — control!”
“Well then,” he replied casually, “it’s a good thing I stopped by. First of all, let’s take care of all this nonsense.”
While Dizzy fended off Ravenkroft’s flurry of attacks — she prided herself on being able to do so at all; with her limited knowledge of sword-fighting, the best she could do was maneuver Excalibur into position each time she saw a blow coming and hope for the best; and still he landed cuts on her arms that hurt like bitches — Mystikite strolled over to the main control console for Ravenkroft’s machines that stood between the two operating tables. He whistled while he worked. He reached into the pocket of his black jacket and pulled out a fire-axe; apparently, his pockets went as deep as Pris’s went. He readied it over his shoulder, and swung it like a baseball bat at the machines. The head of the axe went swinging into the circuitry on the machines’ front panel, and a gigantic explosion of sparks and electrical arcs blew outward, surrounding Mystikite, but not hurting him. The sparks blew up and outward, smoke rising in plumes, fire exploding in every direction. Bright electric arcs leaped out from the machines and caught on the Elder God form lying on the operating table closest to Mystikite. The thing screamed — or let loose something horrible like a scream — and then it exploded in a shower of guts, entrails, brain-matter, and bone-shards. Dizzy’s shell-Avatar vanished from the other operating table.
“NO!” cried Ravenkroft, and he increased the ferocity of his attacks upon Dizzy. This couldn’t last much longer. She couldn’t keep up. He delivered a hammering series of blows down upon her and she went to one knee, holding Excalibur above her to deflect his attacks, and her arms felt as though they were weakening. Mystikite destroying the creature had given her some of her strength back, but not enough to hold up under this relentless assault.
“Mystikite — don’t just stand there! Help me!” she cried.
“Will do!” he said from across the room. “Hang tight!” He sprinted over to where she knelt and Ravenkroft was busy attacking her. Ravenkroft paid him zero attention and instead continued to hammer at Dizzy with his sword. “This might sting . . . a little,” he said to her. He pulled out a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, slipped them on, and a holographic keyboard appeared in front of him. He hurriedly began typing commands on it.
Suddenly, Dizzy’s mind exploded with information . . . and new memories. Sword-fighting practice that she had never had. Time spent studying martial arts that she had never studied. Hours spent fencing with people she had never met. Muscle memories she had never developed. Maneuvers, fighting styles, the names of various moves and sword-fighting stances . . . it was all there, downloading into her brain at the speed of thought, flashing across her mind at a lightning pace, cementing and solidifying itself as though it had always been there. Perhaps it had . . . it was hard to tell. All she knew was that it was there, it was a part of her . . . she knew it, it was in her, and she could use it. That, and she felt as though someone had just shot her full of adrenaline. She felt her eyes dilate, her heart rate shoot up, and a burst of energy suddenly explode in her stomach, as though someone had just strapped a pair of jumper cables to her body and cranked the joules up to a thousand.
Excalibur smashed into Ravenkroft’s with the force of a small car-crash, her Evangeliojaeger — or its virtual equivalent, more like an actual Iron Man suit than anything — working overtime, and she stood up, rising from one knee, and glared at him . . . a newfound confidence shined in her eyes, and she hoped it struck fear into him. It should have.
“Thanks,” she said to Mystikite without looking away from Ravenkroft. “I owe you one.”
“My pleasure,” said Mystikite. “I’ll be going now. We’re going to try and bring you out in the Real World soon. But be careful. I think the safeties are still off, and I couldn’t reset them. Er, have fun.” And with that, he vanished in another cloud of glowing computer code.
“And now it’s just you and me, Ravenkroft,” she said, smiling. “So let’s finish what you’ve started here . . . Now, at this, the end of all things.”
“With pleasure, Weatherspark!” he snarled. “Let us end this at last.”
And with that, their final battle began in earnest. Dizzy now knew not just a bunch of sword-fighting styles and the various sword forms that went with them, but all of their names as well. She struck out with Boar Rushes The Hunter, a forward lunge that aimed right at his midsection, but he deflected the attack with Shadows Spoil The Sunrise, by whipping to the side and pushing Excalibur away from him as he did so. She went whirling to one side and attacked again, this time with Hawk Hunts At Dawn, a downward swiping lunge that went for the shoulder-pieces of his Evangeliojaeger, aiming to cut the hydraulic-fluid lines that powered the arm-segments. He reacted with his tentacles: They reached up and over his shoulders, snaking toward her, and extended, grappling her by the throat and arm, coiling around her, lifting her off her feet. She flailed with Excalibur, waving it fiercely, and managed to slice it through the tentacle that had her by the throat. Excalibur cut through it cleanly, spraying hydraulic fluid everywhere, and she finally managed to suck in a breath. Then she attacked the other tentacle, cutting through it as well. She dropped to the floor again, her repulsivator boots kicking in briefly, and attacked Ravenkroft with Scorpion Brandishes Its Stinger, a powerful lunging attack that showed no mercy, a series of three vicious strikes right in a row that he had to work to deflect with three quick parries — the third of which he fumbled, and she got in a hit, damaging his Evangeliojaeger’s right shoulder. Sparks flew and clouds of coolant hissed out of the broken silvery tubes there. His right arm began to malfunction, twitching sporadically and throwing off sparks. He switched sword hands and fell into a defensive stance.
“Ah, very good, Weatherspark!” he said. “Very nice. Of course, that wouldn’t have happened if your friend there had not intervened on your behalf. Lucky for you there was someone around to save you.”
“Hey. At least I have friends. Unlike some people.”
“Cute.” He attacked her with Reaper Mows The Chaff, spinning around and leveling his blade, whirling it at her like a helicopter blade — she ducked backward, missing it by inches — and then brought it up, around, and back down upon her. She brought Excalibur up and blocked it using Ram’s Horns Meet The Fence. She danced backward, whirling around on her feet, and attacked him using Stag Shows His Horns, a cutting maneuver that brought Excalibur down upon his from above, aiming to cleave at his spangenhelm. He blocked her using Sunrise Over The Mountains, and then attacked using Bull Rears Its Horns, a punishing move that brought all his weight down on her from above, forcing her to defend by pushing Excalibur up above her head, the motors of her Iron Man suit whirring. She forced his sword away and then attacked him with a kick to his abdominal segments, forcing him to stumble backward, then attacked with Excalibur, using Briar Bush’s Thorn-Blossom, wherein with a flourish of her blade she brought it down, underneath, and then up toward his head — but he parried, intercepting the blow and fending off the attack. He, in turn, shoved her blade aside and executed Avalanche Crushes The Climber, in which he outpaced her defenses and scored a hit on the left arm of her Iron Man suit; sparks flew from the mechanisms there and she cried out as the sensors there relayed the damage to her brain. The servo-motors there began to malfunction. She temporarily lost reliability from the arm, but tried as best she could to keep it steady as she fought. It wasn’t easy, and it threw off her balance, but she soldiered on anyway. She had to be careful, now.
Dizzy attacked him with Mongoose Strikes The Rattlesnake, and he reposted with The Vine Entwines, once again using the momentum of her attack against her and causing her to rush past him and stagger forward. He got in a shot to her backside, his blade colliding with the spinal column of her Iron Man suit. Sparks flew from the power-couplings there, and she felt a sudden power-drain eek down through her legs. She stumbled, her repulsivator boots suddenly too heavy to walk in, but the backup power kicked in just in time. She recovered, and whirled around to face him, and attacked him with Scorpion Strikes Twice, a double-strike that involved feinting an attack from one direction only to whirl around and attack from the other; he fell for the feint, and she managed to score a hit on the cleft side of his Evangeliojaeger’s abdominal segments, knocking a few of them loose and exposing the softness of his clothing beneath. If she could only get a shot in there . . . She parried his next attack — a complex move involving multiple strikes — and parries — called Jester Dances The Jig — and then made her move. She brought Excalibur out and then whacked it sideways, and brought it around and into his side, bringing it crashing into the soft part of him. He cried out as Excalibur penetrated his clothing and then his flesh, the move coming too fast on the heels of his attack for him to parry. She withdrew, blood covering Excalibur. He staggered backward, cringing, wincing in pain.
“You’ll pay for that!” he snarled, fingering the wound and inspecting his bloody fingertips.
“Eh, put it on my tab,” she said.
He attacked her — this time with Cat Scratches The Petting Hand, a quick, viper-like strike that she only barely parried and so only barely missed the mechanisms that powered the shoulder of her sword-arm. She knocked his sword out of the way as he tried to attack a second time, got in close, and punched him in the face. He staggered backward, and threw a snap-kick at her, which landed in the segmented armor pieces near her abdomen. She stumbled backward, and readied Excalibur as he came at her again, this time with a move called Porcupine Shows His Quills, a series of quick lunges and ripostes designed to overwhelm one’s opponent with brute force. Dizzy parried each of his blows except one — he landed another blow to her right thigh, causing sparks to fly from the mechanisms there. The servomotors in her right knee began to malfunction.
Shit, shit, shit! She limped backward, away from him. He had her on the run — this was not good.
Ravenkroft attacked again, this time with Blacksmith Works The Forge, a move usually reserved for the finishing blow in a fight, wherein one brought their sword up and over one’s head, and brought it crashing down upon one’s enemy, usually meant to behead them or cleave their skull in twain. He brought it down upon her, but Dizzy brought Excalibur up and tried to parry the blow. She almost succeeded — she deflected the attack, but not entirely. The blow wound up deflected, but not aborted; his blade careened into her left shoulder, and cut down into the mechanisms of her Iron Man suit. She cried out as the gears and servomotors were crushed and exploded in a shower of electrical sparks; the blade went all the way through to her shoulder, the force of the blow breaking the collarbone there. She went to one knee, but kept a death-grip on Excalibur, the pain shooting through her virtual nerves like an icepick being driven into her. He repeated the move, meaning to finish her off; she raised Excalibur above her head and strained with her injured left arm — tearing at the broken bone there, sending searing pain shooting through her body — to reinforce her sword-blade with her left hand to shield against the coming blow, and down his sword came, crashing into hers. She forced his blade up and back with a mighty yell of fury and rose to her feet, fending him off, and pushed back against him, and attacked with Briar Bush’s Thorn-Blossom, a quick, close-in riposte aimed at his neck and shoulder. He deflected the attack, holding Excalibur at bay, their blades locked together for a moment, and shoved her away from him. She staggered back, and then came at him again with a series of quick strikes and lunges; he leapt backward, engaging his repulsivators to levitate away from her. She engaged her own repulsivators and flew toward him, and fired at him with the Interphase Pistol on her good wrist. His forcefield absorbed the blasts.
It then dawned on her, as they continued their fight, what he was doing. (She flew toward him and they re-engaged; she attacked him with Raven Plucks The Eyeball, a quick striking maneuver that went for his sword-hand; he responded with the defensive South Wind Rising, blocking her attack and forcing her to almost drop Excalibur.) He was wearing her down, exhausting her. He could fight like this endlessly, because his Avatar wasn’t tethered to a physical body back in the Real World, while hers in fact was. She could still suffer from mental and physical exertion, whereas he was free from any such adversity. (He fired his Interphase Pistols at her and flew closer toward her as she did so; her forcefield absorbed and deflected the blasts, but he got in close at the last, and their swords locked together; she managed to shove him away before he could overpower her.) She would have to come up with a better way of fighting him than swordplay. Then, it dawned on her: Just change the rules. But how? Well, Mystikite had done it earlier. And so had Pris. And, so had she — when she had summoned the Iron Man suit and engaged him with it earlier on in the fight. So how to do it again, but with greater specificity? (She whirled around and attacked him with the roundhouse-style Scythe Cuts The Wheat; he defended himself with the simplistic but effective Rooster Crows At Dawn, his sword almost standing erect in front of him.) Then she thought: The Grimoire. Mystikite’s Nearly-Endless Grimoire of Magic. Use that, somehow. But how? I can’t just “pause” the fight . . . Or can I? Maybe if she simply caused the system — or some part of it — to slow down to a crawl, that would cause the software, or the right part of it, to slow down too, essentially “pausing” the action of the fight, and thereby buying her enough time to pull a solution out of her ass and change the rules of the fight. It was worth a shot . . .
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Dizzy continued the fight, but she also concentrated, forcing her mind to expand outward, letting it feel for the NeuroScape’s control matrix; it wasn’t something she was good at, but she tried; it felt weird and alien to her. She raised her injured arm — it hurt like hell to do so — and quickly activated the sunglasses perched on her nose. The Grimoire projected itself in front of her, getting in the way of the fight, but she tried to look through it and read it at the same time. It made her head hurt to do so, but she managed. She scanned the lettered leafs that sat along the outside edges of the pages. She found the one marked “T” and hurriedly flipped the book open to that section, and then — using her injured arm, the pain almost unbearable as she did so, simultaneously backing away from Ravenkroft, parrying each of his blows but not attacking him as she tried to read at the same time — she tried to find the section labeled “TEMPORAL MECHANICS.” Ah, there it was. She scanned the list of spells listed there until she found what she needed.
Having no idea if it would work or not, she drew back from her latest defense against Ravenkroft’s most recent attack and — remembering that Excalibur used to be the wand — she backpedaled a few paces and then thrust it out in front of her and shouted, “Morabor tempus!”
The dice grew hot in her pocket again. Without looking for them or at them, she fumbled for it, reached passed her Iron Man suit and into her pocket, grabbed them, and tossed them out and away, onto the floor. She heard them land and roll. A split-second later — success! — a bright sphere of purple energy exploded out of Excalibur and expanded all around her, enveloping Ravenkroft and the rest of the scene around her. Ravenkroft immediately slowed down and stopped in his tracks, frozen in place, mid-stride, hanging there in the air, indeed as though the gods had pressed the “pause” button on the entire fight.
Dizzy blinked, amazed it had worked. She lowered Excalibur, doubly amazed that she herself wasn’t frozen in time, and could still move about freely. She took a moment to catch her breath. It was good to have a break in the fighting. She looked to her waist, and found that she had a sheath for Excalibur. She used it, putting Excalibur away momentarily, and tromped forward, the footfalls of her repulsivator boots echoing on the tile floor. Now, then. What to do about this situation? She took a moment to study Ravenkroft as he hung there in the air before her. The fight so far was clearly a war of attrition; no matter how hard she fought him, he alway deflected her blows or they did little to no damage to him. Or if they did, the damage had little impact on his overall performance in the fight. She had to find a way of seriously weakening him . . . or using Magic to fight him more effectively. Or of maybe bringing in some outside help . . .
Ah-ha! That was it! She had an idea. A sneaky, dastardly idea. But it just might work! She called up the Grimoire again, and flipped to the “M” section, looking for a specific spell that she knew just had to be in there, somewhere, and that she knew would do the trick, if she could figure out how to access the right parts of the NeuroScape with her mind. She found it, and filed it away in her brain for safekeeping: Mystikite’s Faithful Hounds, it read. Then she flipped to the “N” section and looked up “NEUROSCAPE MECHANICS.” She had to figure out how to access protected memory . . . specifically, the parts that belonged to Ravenkroft’s program, that he had control over. She didn’t need any of his core functionality . . . just things that he had created and thus that only he had access to. So, she looked up the mechanics of the Roleplayer Generisys system itself, and how it handled Player Character memory functions. It took her about an hour of perusing the Grimoire to learn what she needed to know, as and she discovered a few more interesting spells in the process. There was a wealth of data there . . . but Dizzy was used to reading technical documents. And she had all the time in the world, here . . .
Or did she? On second thought — she noticed about an hour and a half into her reading that Ravenkroft wasn’t entirely frozen, per se. He still moved in infinitesimal increments . . . so perhaps she didn’t have as much time as she thought. She hurried through the major bullet-points and quickly skimmed the “how to” section for Avatars needing access to the system. It seemed a simple exercise in a sort of mental gymnastics to tap yourself into the system, a kind of “psychic martial art” that you had to employ to gain access, coupled with a special Magic spell. Easy. Well, easy enough to read about, she supposed. Maybe harder to actually implement. She would soon find out.
So now she knew what to do. Access the NeuroScape via mental martial arts and a Magic spell or two, then unleash that other spell she had just looked up in the “M” section . . . plus a few other choice pieces of Magic she had come across in the Grimoire this past hour and a half. That should even the fight up, and maybe even allow her to win, and finally vanquish Ravenkroft in the process . . . Either that, or she would be the one who got vanquished. It would have to end one way or the other. The world couldn’t afford to have an immortal, rogue program like Ravenkroft loose in the NeuroScape. His potential for chaos and violence would be nearly unlimited in the digital, online realm.
Dizzy unsheathed Excalibur, stepped back away from him, and swallowed a lump of nerves and fear. This was it; no going back now. She raised Excalibur, and intoned, “Resumere normalis tempore!”
Ravenkroft immediately resumed his last motion, and finished his attack — Angry Bear Thins The Herd, a back-and-forth swiping attack that went from side-to-side quickly, in an attempt to overwhelm one’s opponent as they tried to parry almost two blows back-to-back — but Dizzy was a good three feet away, so he hit nothing but air, flailing his sword in front of him. He looked surprised at her sudden translocation, and enraged, he came at her afresh. Dizzy raised Excalibur and stood ready with Sunrise Over The Mountains, a defensive stance known for its usefulness in countering many different styles of attacks.
Just before he reached her, she thrust out Excalibur and shouted, “Et cum facti unius NeuroScape!” The translation was, I become one with the NeuroScape. She felt a sudden surge of power rush up through her feet and into her legs, and go washing up her spine, and into her nerve-endings. It was as if an electric current had suddenly been run through her, a vibration spinning through her muscles, on up through her body and right down through to her fingers and toes, up through her neck and into her head, so much so that even her eyeballs jittered in their sockets. Then, she shouted, “Mystikite canibus circumdare fidelis est scriptor!”
And with that, she engaged Ravenkroft, attacking him with Spider’s Poisoned Kiss, but he deflected the sudden lunge she took at his sword arm, knocking her blade aside with his own. Their blades locked, sparks flying from their edges, and he finally managed to push hers aside. She riposted with Viper Strikes the Field-Mouse, a quick and biting attack that strived to disarm him by aiming for his sword-gripping gauntlet; he withdrew and answered with Wind Through The Branches, a cutting upwards attack that forced her to thrust Excalibur out in front of her. She drew back, scuttling backward on her feet, fending off attack after attack, defending herself from blow after blow, each attack more fierce than the last one as she waited for her spell to take effect. He had her on the run again. Not good. He attacked with Earth Rolling Downhill, another finishing move, and she brought Excalibur up toward her head to defend; he brought his blade crashing down into hers, the two swords clashing, sparks flying from their edges as he forced her down to one knee again. He raised his blade above his head, meaning to finish her off, and that was when they both heard the sound. A low rumbling noise . . . a growl in the throat of a beast. No, a chorus of growls, in the throats of several beasts . . . all of them arrayed behind Ravenkroft.
He stopped in his tracks, his sword raised above his head. Dizzy smiled, breathing heavily, unable to believe her luck. Ravenkroft slowly lowered his sword, a perplexed look on his face. He spun around to look, and then Dizzy grinned, stopping to catch her breath.
“Heh. Looks like you have a fan club,” she said.
There, behind him, stood four of his Shadow-Wolves. Five feet long and three feet tall, their eyes glowing a bright blue color — Dizzy guessed that the color of their eyes indicated their “moral alignment” — they scowled at Ravenkroft, their fur raised in ugly hackles, their acidic drool dripped onto the floor as they snarled, showing their bright white fangs, their claws digging into the floor-tiles. They stalked closer to Ravenkroft, showing no interest in Dizzy.
“What — what are you doing,” demanded Ravenkroft, sheathing his sword and raising his hands before him. He backed up a pace or two. “I said — what are you doing. Stop it. It’s me! Your master! I command you to stop!”
“Forget it, Ravenkroft,” said Dizzy, standing back up. She sheathed Excalibur. “They work for me, now. At least for right now. And they don’t look happy. It could be because they’re sentient now. And they now realize what you made them into . . . and that you intentionally limited them, made them your slaves . . . That’s gotta piss them off. A little gift I gave to them.”
“No!” he cried, as the Shadow-Wolves stalked closer and growled even more fiercely at him. He spun back around to face her. “No, you can’t do this to me! Weatherspark, you have to help me! Save me!”
“No, actually, I really don’t,” she said, and smirked at him. “I really don’t.”
“But you must! That’s what you do! You’re the hero! You’re not like me. You’re not a villain. That’s what you do after all — you save people!”
The Shadow-Wolves came closer, their growling sounding positively savage now. They bared their teeth and pawed at the floor as they drew nearer to him.
“Gee, given that you’ve basically spent an entire novel’s worth of words trying to tell me otherwise, you don’t sound too convincing just now.” Dizzy had to restrain herself from acting. No. Let him sweat. Just a minute longer, she told herself. Just a minute more. Let him feel the burn from this. Then pull him out. Maybe. She let the Shadow-Wolves pull in closer to him. They stalked ever-closer, snarling and growling like mad. They snapped and bit at the air, now only feet from his extremities.
“Weatherspark! You’ve got to help me!” he cried out, backing away from them still. He brandished his sword at them. “Back! Stay back!”
Dizzy examined the fingers of her right gauntlet, as though checking out the quality of a manicure. “They don’t seem impressed.”
Then, one of the Shadow-Wolves lunged at Ravenkroft and bit down into his arm. He screamed as the creature’s massive, acid-coated teeth tore through the metal of his gauntlet and the fabric of his clothing beneath, and penetrated down into the flesh of his forearm. Dizzy started to react, but just then, she lost her footing and almost tripped and fell forward, as suddenly the ground fell away from her feet, and she felt herself grow dizzy . . . the world suddenly blurred all around her, Ravenkroft and the Shadow-Wolves flickering into glowing columns of flowing computer code, as did the walls of the place.
“No!” she cried. The Shadow-Wolf that had hold of Ravenkroft wrenched its head to one side, nearly taking his arm off and dragging him with it as he screamed in agony, and one of the other Shadow-Wolves lunged at him as well, biting into his left leg. Teeth met metal again, and he screamed a second time, louder this time, crying out for her to help him once more. He flickered again, becoming a cloud of glowing, flowing computer code once more. Dizzy tried to move but lost her balance, her legs vanishing from beneath her, and she began to fall through space, the world around her coming unknitted in slow motion as she felt the entire scene coming apart, unraveling, as she went rushing away from it, her consciousness ripped through space and time . . .
She was waking up, was being pulled out of the simulation, falling back toward the Real World . . .
Gadget burst through the back door of the place just after he saw Ravenkroft do the same and run into the back yard of the summerhome. The back yard was a wide, fenced-in field of grass that, beyond the fence, broadened out into a thicker wooded area. It was there that Ravenkroft stopped running, and turned around to face him. Gadget stopped chasing him and they stood about five yards apart from each other. Ravenkroft raised and aimed his right Interphase Pistol at Gadget.
“Don’t move, or I shoot!” he said.
“C’mon. Give it up, Ravenkroft,” said Gadget. “You’re trapped.” He put two fingers to his temple and conjured up a forcefield — this one with a power-level ten times as strong as those he had before, intended to stop even the tiniest fraction of kinetic energy; this was a forcefield that Interphase Pistol blasts couldn’t get through. Not even solid matter could penetrate it; not bullets, and especially not solid matter the size of a person.
“My dear boy,” replied Ravenkroft, “I am in no way trapped, and I shall do no such thing. Do you remember how I took Weatherspark captive? Do you? Or were you not there for that?” He reached up and took off his spangenhelm, and let it drop to the ground. There, upon his head, sat his Geist-Verst?rker unit, still there, intact, and now active. Why hadn’t he used it in the house? Gadget supposed he would never know. He didn’t have time to think about it, though; his head began to ache, a splitting pain suddenly developing behind his eyes, and he felt the forcefield weakening. He winced at the pain, but kept concentrating on the forcefield. He could feel a pressure building on his muscles, as though he were being tied up with a strong rope, from every direction at once. He fought against it, pushing back with telekinetic force of his own. They engaged in a battle of push versus shove; Ravenkroft tried to punch through the forcefield holding him while Gadget strove to keep him contained, pushing it closer to him with all his mental might. Gadget concentrated harder — his mind was almost at the breaking point; sweat beaded on his brow, slicking his skin, and his heart beat like crazy in his chest — and stuck out his hand. Lightning bolts leapt from his fingers toward Ravenkroft, who threw up his hands in front of him and deflected the bolts. They arced off to either side and impacted a couple of trees in twin showers of yellow sparks, burning off a pair of branches that fell, crackling with fire.
Gadget didn’t give up. He focused his will on the ground beneath Ravenkroft and it suddenly split open, cracking in two, heaving and buckling. Ravenkroft almost lost his footing, but levitated into the air just in time to avoid falling into the chasm that Gadget had opened. He too levitated into the air, and kept up the attack: He conjured ice-daggers out of the air, condensing the moisture there into the cold shards, and then telekinetically hurled them at Ravenkroft. Ravenkroft whisked his hand to one side and the ice-daggers veered off-course and plunged into the woods. Gadget didn’t give up. He summoned a fireball between his hands, igniting the oxygen there and focusing the fire into a sphere, and sent it hurtling toward Ravenkroft . . . but Ravenkroft threw up his hands and the fireball dissipated, vanishing into thin air. Damn! Gadget refused to quit, though. He conjured a beam of heated plasma from the air, and narrowed it on Ravenkroft, its wispy tendrils wafting through the air past Gadget’s head and focusing right on the man. Ravenkroft conjured a forcefield, though, and the beam stopped short of burning him to ashes. And here, Gadget thought he finally had him: The final battle-line would be drawn here. It would be a war of attrition; whichever could last the longest — his beam of plasma or Ravenkroft’s forcefield — would finally win out. Above all, for the sake of all the Earth, Gadget didn’t want to kill Ravenkroft; he would have to settle for merely breaking down his forcefield and weakening him to the point of collapse.
So, he redoubled his efforts, plowing into the forcefield with the beam with all his telekinetic strength, forcing his mind to focus all his will upon it, push upon it as hard as he could. He could feel Ravenkroft weakening slightly . . . then more, then even more. Just a little more . . . a little further . . . yes . . . that was it . . . ! And then, just as he was about to give in — just as he could stand it no more, and was about to collapse from sheer exertion of effort and exhaustion — it happened: Ravenkroft’s Geist-Verst?rker unit exploded in a shower of bright yellow sparks, and Ravenkroft cried out, a mixture of surprise, pain, and frustration in his voice. He dropped to the ground and collapsed to one knee, panting for breath. Gadget ceased his attack, and dropped to the ground as well.
“Okay,” he said, also heaving for breath. “You give up now? Finally? Huh? You give up, asshole?”
Ravenkroft managed a baleful grin, and shook his head. He bent down and picked up his spangenhelm, and replaced it on his head, and shook it again. “Never.”
Gadget was about to speak, but then —
“I think I’ll be the judge of whether or not you give up,” came a familiar voice from off to the right, and from somewhere close behind Gadget. He turned around to look, and saw Viktor standing behind him, wearing another model of Ravenkroft’s Evangeliojaeger and hovering a few feet off the ground on repulsivator power.
“Viktor!” cried Gadget, actually glad to see him for once.
“Stand aside, Gadget,” said Viktor. “This should be my fight.” He faced Ravenkroft. “It’s just you and me, now, Ravenkroft . . . just you and me. Let us finish this. The way it was meant to be finished. The boy needs access to your mind. I intend to provide it.”
“No!” cried Ravenkroft, backing up a few steps. He fired his Interphase Pistols at Viktor. Luckily, Gadget still had him contained in a forcefield. The blasts dissipated as they ran smack into it. “No, I refuse! You’ll have to kill me — you’ll have to kill us both!”
“Face it, Ravenkroft,” said Gadget. “You’re beaten. Viktor, back off. He’s going to let me into his mind. Aren’t you, Ravenkroft.”
“No! Never! I will never let you near the sacred passenger I carry within me! Not now, not in a million years!”
“Then I guess I have to do . . . what I have to do,” said Viktor, not without some sadness in his voice. “Stand aside, Gadget. Like I said. This is my fight. Let me finish it.”
“I said back off, Vic.” Gadget thought a moment. “I can’t let you kill Ravenkroft. Not with the Zarcturean still inside him. It’s too important to the safety of Earth. If Ravenkroft dies with the Zarcturean still inside him, the Earth will still be invaded by that thing’s fellow aliens . . . No, we have to do like we planned, and use the Zarcturean as a telepathic transmitter to destroy all of its brothers and sisters everywhere, using Dizzy’s guitar as the signal generator. That’s the only workable plan. So we need him alive.”
“No!” screamed Ravenkroft. “Your plan will never work, so besides! Let him come at me! I’m ready for him! Let us face one another, as we were always meant to!”
“He speaks the truth,” said Viktor, never taking his eyes off Ravenkroft. “He will not stop unless he is made to stop. He will never grant you access to his mind unless I force him to give it to you.”
Gadget thought a moment more. He regarded Ravenkroft — now a hunched, wild-looking man; he had the look of a trapped animal, pinned in a corner. His furtive eyes darted between Viktor and Gadget.
“”Come on!” he cried, falling into a fighting stance. “What are you waiting for! Come at me! Come at me, Viktor! At long last, let us have it out between us!”
“Whatever you do, Viktor,” said Gadget, stepping away from them, a warning tone to his voice, “don’t kill him. Or I swear — I’ll end you right here.”
Viktor swallowed heavily. “Don’t worry. I won’t. I’ll contain him. Then you can tap into his mind as need be.”
“Yes, that’s it!” screamed Ravenkroft, standing up straighter, moving his fists before him. “So be it! Come on, you coward! Put up your dukes and face me! That’s it — mano-y-mano! Man to man! Fight night! Black and blue! Day versus night! Alter versus alter! The cage match at the end of the match!”
The rest of the gang arrived behind Viktor — all except for Mystikite and Dizzy — with Misto gripping his shoulder and Buffy limping along, her leg almost completely healed but not quite. Darmok kept her Decimator pistol at the ready and glanced around furtively, looking for more Biomechanoids. Gadget motioned for them to stay back as he dropped the forcefield, and Viktor ran at Ravenkroft and tackled him, their Evangeliojaegers whirring and locking arms as they battled. Viktor hauled back a gauntleted fist and punched Ravenkroft in the face while he had him pinned down, the servomotors in the Evangeliojaeger working to augment the blow. Ravenkroft used the weight and power of the Evangeliojaeger to roll over, though, and turned the tables on him; now Viktor was on his back, and Ravenkroft was on top. He punched Viktor in the face — Viktor saw stars and splotches of color, the pain exploding in his jaw; he had forgotten that he no longer possessed rapid-healing abilities — and Viktor redoubled his efforts to force Ravenkroft off of him. He managed to roll onto his side, toppling Ravenkroft, and then scrambled to his feet. Ravenkroft did the same. They stood facing one another, fists clenched. The boy nicknamed “Gadget” and his friends — including dear old Michaelson — stood over to one side, watching them carefully. If he failed to defeat Ravenkroft, surely they would simply kill the bastard. Surely they would not risk him staying alive. The chief problem now was that they knew each other too well . . . whatever strategy he might adopt for defeating him, Ravenkroft could already predict he would adopt, because he had been a part of him for so many years.
He started to dodge to his left, but Ravenkroft anticipated, and began to dodge that way as well. So he feinted to the right, and Ravenkroft copied that move, too. Damn! He quickly stepped forward and threw a flying kick at Ravenkroft’s head. But Ravenkroft grabbed his leg at the ankle and twisted, and Viktor landed flat on his back with a loud clanking sound, the vibrations sinking into his spine and tailbone. It hurt like hell, but he managed to shake off the pain. Ravenkroft kicked at him, but he rolled over and scrambled back to his feet. He and Ravenkroft faced each other again as the others watched. He struck out and grappled Ravenkroft by the shoulders, and Ravenkroft did the same to him. They wrestled back and forth for a moment, and Ravenkroft punched him in the face. Viktor saw stars and splotches of color and felt himself go stumbling back, dazed for the moment, but quickly recovered.
Dammit, he's beating me! he thought. I can't let him get the upper-hand! He raised his right Interphase Pistol and fired at Ravenkroft, and the shot hit home on Ravenkroft's left shoulder-piece; sparks flew from the wires and circuits on his Evangeliojaeger, and his left-arm went down, disabling it for the time being. That didn't mean Ravenkroft couldn't use that arm; it just meant that as far as any augmented strength or reflexes went, that arm was out of the picture. Ravenkroft, enraged, let loose a yell and ran at Viktor, and tackled him to the ground. Ravenkroft felt the force of impact travel through him, rattling his teeth. Ravenkroft straddled him, his knees on either side of him, and proceeded to punch him once . . . twice . . . three times . . .
As Ravenkroft wound up for a fourth punch, Viktor — bloodied, he spat out a broken tooth — engaged his repulsivators, and the two of them went rocketing along the ground. Ravenkroft toppled off of him and rolled backwards, falling off. Viktor engaged the palm-mounted repulsivators, and lifted off the ground and into the air. Ravenkroft gave chase, lifting up off the ground as well, and now it was Viktor's turn to attack: He turned in the air, flew toward Ravenkroft, and sucker-punched him right in the jaw, sending him reeling backward through the air, his micro-repulsivators activating to stabilize his flight-pattern.
The Visitor inside Ravenkroft did not like this. He tried to override Ravenkroft’s free will and force his adrenal glands into overdrive to finish this fight. But it only worked halfway — Ravenkroft’s body was rebelling against him. He did not understand why. The Human’s brain was kicking back against his control. He tried every override he knew of, and still it wasn’t enough. He could only force the Human’s body to do so much. He exerted every ounce of control he could muster, though. He had to win, here. He could not allow the Humans — especially not the one called “Gadget”--to gain psionic access to Ravenkroft’s brain. And thus, him. If they did, there was a chance that he . . . and the safety of his entire race . . . could be compromised. For the one called Gadget was correct: Their telepathic network made them vulnerable to mass psionic attacks, such as the one the Humans intended to employ against them. He could not allow that to happen. So, winning this fight — and then eradicating the Humans and Vampires here assembled — was his only option, now.
He redoubled his efforts to increase the flow of adrenaline and acetylcholine to Ravenkroft’s nerves and muscles, and refocused his efforts to defeat the one called Viktor. It should have been easier than this. The one called Viktor was an inexperienced fighter, and Ravenkroft was steeped in combat experience from his many encounters with the one called Dizzy. And yet, it was not; the one called Viktor put up a fitful struggle unlike anything the Visitor had ever seen. No matter how he and Ravenkroft clobbered him, assaulted him, assailed him, he still came back for more. And so the fight continued, on and on, punch after punch, blow after blow. Viktor would flee from Ravenkroft only to round on him and throw a punch, landing a solid blow . . . to which the Visitor and Ravenkroft would return fire, knocking Viktor back . . . and amazingly, he would recover, and come stumbling back for more, and deliver another attack, determined as ever. Ravenkroft might dodge or parry, and attack in turn, and they would repeat the entire dance. They went at each other for a solid half an hour, maybe more, exchanging attacks and parries and ripostes with their fists and feet, their Evangeliojaegers clanking and whirring, and absorbing some of the hits, taking most of the damage — and sparking and whirring in protest, occasionally, and losing functionality in the process — as they battled. The fight was epic and fierce, and intense, a sparring match that kept the Visitor thinking fast, and augmenting Ravenkroft’s reflexes as well as his strength and dexterity.
He momentarily blocked another right hook from Viktor and delivered a gut-punch that made Viktor double over in pain. He grabbed Viktor’s head and rammed Ravenkroft’s knee into Viktor’s face. Viktor staggered backward but recovered, and came at him again. Ravenkroft cocked back a fist and punched him, and Viktor went stumbling away. Viktor came back at him, though, and threw a flying kick at his face. Ravenkroft wasn’t fast enough, and the Visitor felt the pain of the impact of his foot with his head as Ravenkroft went reeling backward on his feet. Ouch. That had hurt. Angry, he recoiled from the attack, but steadied Ravenkroft on his feet, and ran at Viktor, and threw him up against a nearby tree, pinning him there, and punched him in the face twice. Viktor managed to grab Ravenkroft and head-butt him, though, and the Visitor saw stars and splotches of color for a moment. He shook it off, but Viktor used the brief moment of advantage to shove Ravenkroft away and swing him around, using his weight, and get away from him. He kicked Ravenkroft in the small of he back. The Visitor felt pain explode up Ravenkroft’s backside. He rounded on Viktor, who rocketed up into the air on his repulsivators. Ravenkroft gave chase.
The Visitor honestly could not believe his luck, that the other Humans — and the two Vampires — stupidly allowed the fight to continue without jumping in and assisting the one called Viktor, despite how bloodied and weakened he had become, for it had become apparent, despite this momentary Viktory, that he was losing. Ravenkroft — thanks mostly to the Visitor’s involvement — had stayed relatively strong, and alert, the adrenaline and nerve-juices flowing heavily through his system, while the one called Viktor definitely looked worse for the wear now, toward the end of things. His resolve showed no sign of weakening, though, unlike his body and his Evangeliojaeger, both of which had been badly damaged. Blood ran from his nose and mouth; cuts and bruises showed on his face and neck; his greying hair sat askew; his skin looked pale, and he had one swollen black eye and a swollen lip. His nose had been broken in two places. And still, amazingly, he fought on.
In the end, the fight continued on, with the two paragons still battling it out, with Viktor showing no sign of quitting and Ravenkroft showing no sign of going easy on him despite his weakened condition.
He pursued Viktor and caught up with him, and grabbed him by the shoulder-piece of his Evangeliojaeger and yanked him around in the air, and grabbed him by the collar-piece. It was time to end this.
“That’s it,” said Gadget, as he stared up at Ravenkroft and Viktor, who flew above them in the air. “I’m goin’ up there. This is taking too long, and I’m not risking Ravenkroft winning between the two of them. Or Viktor killing him.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, puddin’. Go for it,” said a familiar voice to his right. He whipped his head around and looked, and his heart went into his throat. There stood Dizzy, smiling at him, once again wearing her Evangeliojaeger, with her Electro-Mesmeric Guitar in one hand and Mystikite standing next to her, also grinning from ear to ear.
“Diz! You’re okay!” he cried, and hugged her tightly. She hugged him back.
“Yup, I’m just peachy,” she replied. Still hugging him she said, “Um, okay, that’s enough, Gadget dear. Gettin’ sorta weird now.”
“Oh, right,” he said, and let go of her.
“Tell you what,” she said, also looking up at Ravenkroft and Viktor’s continued battle above them, “I’ll help you.”
“Right,” said Gadget. “Let’s do it.”
In the air high above them, amid growing rumbles of thunder in the clouds, Viktor continued to slug it out with Ravenkroft. The man had beaten him severely, but he had not broken, and he steadfastly refused to break. No, not yet. Not ever. He would not allow him to break him. Never. He had stolen his body from him, had stolen — and destroyed — his dear Alicia, and had tried to destroy his beloved daughter, Pris, but Viktor was bound and determined he would not allow Ravenkroft to destroy him.
He presently threw a punch at Ravenkroft, who caught his fist mid-swing and twisted his arm, using his Evangeliojaeger against him. Viktor cried out in pain as Ravenkroft wrenched his arm to the side, the motors in the Evangeliojaeger whirring in protest. Viktor threw a punch with his other arm, socking Ravenkroft in the side, right in the flexible segments around his abdomen, causing Ravenkroft to wince in pain and let go of his arm. Viktor withdrew and threw a kick at Ravenkroft and blasted him with his boot-mounted repulsivator, sending him flying backward. Viktor got back into a fighting stance in the air and rushed at Ravenkroft — who rocketed back toward him — and the two collided midair, grappling each other like wrestlers, their gauntlets locked to each other’s shoulder-pieces. Ravenkroft reached up and grabbed Viktor by the face, grappling his head with his gauntlet and squeezing. Blinded, Viktor groped for Ravenkroft’s head as well, but Ravenkroft grabbed his arm by the wrist and forced him back. The gears and servos in his Evangeliojaeger whined under the pressure.
“That’s enough!” came a stern female voice that both of them recognized instantly. Viktor turned to look — as did Ravenkroft — and saw Desirée Weatherspark, floating next to them in the air in her Evangeliojaeger, both her Interphase Pistols trained on them, and a frown etched upon her features. A part of him hated her in that moment, hated her for interfering, hated her for getting in the middle of this. This was his private war; his score to settle. Another, much smaller part of him — a part he would never admit existed — wanted to thank her for intervening and saving him.
“No Weatherspark!” he cried, all the same, blood running down his face. “This is my battle! My fight!”
Ravenkroft laughed and punched him in the jaw, sending him flying away from him. “Mine too! But I’ll gladly take you both on!”
“How about all three of us?” came another voice, and there appeared the boy named Gadget, as Viktor recovered from the blow and flew back toward Ravenkroft. Weatherspark hovered in the air near where he just had. Ravenkroft floating menacingly toward her, and the Gadget boy floating up behind him.
“Oh, you again,” said Ravenkroft, a sour tone to his voice, turning around to face him, his back toward Weatherspark.
“It’s over, Ravenkroft,” said Gadget. “You’ve lost. You can’t fight all three of us.”
Dizzy suddenly grabbed Ravenkroft by the lower arms of his Evangeliojaeger and wrenched them around behind his back, the motors whirring, the gears grinding angrily. He cried out in pain as she did so. Viktor felt a small surge of pride in Viktory within him, even if that Viktory wasn’t his own. Finally, someone had triumphed over the bastard, and he had indeed lost. He flew toward Weatherspark and Ravenkroft, and floated up beside him. He forced his left Interphase Pistol up against the man’s temple.
“Do not fight her, Ravenkroft,” Viktor said to him, holding the gun steady there. Ravenkroft’s gaze slid over to him, and he snarled. No matter. He was powerless to do anything now. The look of a hardened criminal, finally under arrest at long last, glaring at the police who had caught him and were taking him away.
“Gadget dear,” said Dizzy, “if you reach around into the backside of my Evangeliojaeger, there’s a storage compartment near the spinal assembly that has a large metal bicycle lock chain in it. Get it for me. I need to tie his gauntlets together.”
“Got it.” Gadget went to retrieve it, and did so. He floated around behind her and got the chain, and handed it to her. She fastened it around his wrists. Viktor held his weapon steady; Ravenkroft continued to glare at him sideways.
He smirked at them. “I don’t know why you bother with posturing so. You won’t kill me, Viktor. You don’t have it in you. And besides — you can’t. I know your plans.” His eyes slid over to look at Gadget. “You intend to enter my mind, yes? To confront and engage with Zarcturean Soldier THX-6783746 of the Scientific caste, yes? To use him, to destroy all of his kind everywhere. To commit genocide. So who’s the real villain here. Oh and by the way — good luck with that. Because I know your plans, he knows your plans. He will kill you once you step inside my head.”
“Don’t listen to him, Gadget,” said Dizzy. “He’s just trying to frak wth you. Now come on, We’re heading to the ground. Move it, Ravenkroft. Or Viktor here blows off your genitals. Right, Vic?”
“Er, right,” said Viktor. He moved the aim of his weapon to Ravenkroft’s crotch. “You heard the lady, Ravenkroft.”
Ravenkroft smirked again. He engaged the micro-repulsivators and his boot-mounted repulsivators, as did Viktor and Dizzy, and the four of them began to descend toward the ground. Once they reached it, they settled to the grass underfoot.
“Now then,” said Gadget. He cracked his knuckles, and stood facing Ravenkroft. “Dizzy, Viktor. Hold him.”
Ravenkroft tried to bolt away. Dizzy grabbed him by the upper arms and Viktor did as well. As Viktor held him by the arms, Dizzy grabbed his head.
“No!” he screamed. “No!”
Gadget put his fingers onto Ravenkroft’s sweaty face. Ravenkroft tried to jerk his head away, but Dizzy held him fast, forcing him to hold still even as he cried out, “NO!” Gadget closed his eyes, and intoned:
“My thoughts . . . to your thoughts. Our minds . . . one, and together . . .” And then, he reached up, and pressed a button on his Mind-Weirding Helm. The last injection of Twizion Particles. Electric arcs coursed along the Helm’s surface, and then, a bright, blinding light flashed out from it, and Viktor felt himself go tumbling, his stomach lurching left and right, as he went spiraling and hurtling through some unknown space, and —
An enormous, antiquarian book lies before Gadget, latched on the side with a little bell attached to what remains of the lock. The crusty, weather-beaten pages are piled deep and thick, the top, fore-edge and foot of the book are all gilded, the gold shimmering in the half-light that haunts this place. Gadget runs his fingers over the book’s cover, and finds it rough-cut curls carved into its surface. So many creases, so many folds, as though the leather has been worked like steel. Then, he is seized by a sudden — but certain — knowledge of the cover’s material, and it is a sinister knowing indeed, for the book is bound in human flesh, dried and cured to look like leather, sculpted and decorated with arcing lines of alien script. The words look both beautiful and threatening, an oblong and awkward spiral of indecipherable runes and symbols that waltz from the outer edge of the binding to the center, where there is a dusty inlay, and there, ringed in copper rivets, is an oval-shaped plaque, made of a thin sheet of brass. He passes his fingers over the thin, filmy desert of dust-critters that covers the metallic plaque like a death-shroud, and finds that the metal and its lettering are glowing with a fierce bright light the color of a candle flame’s heart.
Gadget unsnaps the latch on the side; no worries about the latch, for the lock is long broken. The bell tinkles a few stale notes, a clarion call in the brightening gloom around him. He opens the book, and its binding lets loose a shrill whispering creak. More dust flies forth. The pages are cobwebbed. Surely it has been centuries since this book has been opened. Why does it feel so familiar, then? Brushing the cobwebs and the filmy residue on the paper aside, he looks at the mammoth pages. They’re almost parchment-like; he suspiciously runs his outstretched fingertips down the surface of the pages, so as to read them better. He jerks his fingers back immediately. More human skin, this time sliced thin and flexible as any paper. It’s perfectly preserved, not dried or cured; to the touch it feels like the flesh on his arm, with a faint warmth to it, like the warmth possessed by freshly-dripped candle-wax. As the cloud of dust-mites dissipates, he can both feel and see just exactly what was used to ink the letters, with their mangled and yet somehow graceful strokes, looking almost like the alien glyphs on the cover, only tiny, infinitesimal, and almost microscopic. It’s some form of mathematics, he’s certain of that; but what sort of physics or concepts do these maths describe? He doesn’t need to guess at what the ink used to make the markings is, or what it was, once upon a long, long time ago. The color of the letters is a deep, fiery red, the lines bordered on all sides by more runes and flowing symbols, and —
No sooner thought than done. The dried, carefully calligraphed blood-strokes on the page break into iridescent ribbons on the air above the page. A feeling grows inside him, an uneasy feeling, a feeling that something is not wrong with the book, but with him . . . he gazes down, his eyes locked in movement left to right, reading and reading, and he sees hand is turning transparent. His eyes leave the page, and he is off, fading through the Nexus of all Worlds. Shadows consume him as he is translated from the language of flesh into the strange alien language of the book. A chorus of a ghosts cats is wailing and moaning and mewling in his ears, calling to the stars above, familiar stars that now rearrange themselves into alien constellations. Dizzy and lightheaded, too lightheaded to panic any more, he doesn’t bother with the fact that his breath is heavier than he is. Gently then, out blots not just sight, but the very fabric of all known space itself. The world of form and shape is swirling away down the Vortex, and he’s going with it. He’s being pushed out of his own Story and steered by some phantom captain into the waters of Another. His atoms scatters from their course, the destination of which he knows is only the grave. Next, she’s derailed and detoured, sailing off onto a tributary that ventures away from the main river of life and time, washing him onto and into the never-bright rapids of the Void that lies between All Worlds, All Times, All Places, All Dreams . . . and of course, All Nightmares. He tries to scream, but no sound issues forth; he tries to fight the translation process, only to watch his fingers glow with light and deconstruct into molecules, then into atoms, then into particles, and those into pure information, pure abstraction, pure thought and idea, becoming one with the mathematics on the page . . .
