Victoria falling an apoc.., p.18
Victoria Falling: An Apocalypse LitRPG, page 18
“Fine, Director Ramirez,” I say. It’s not fine. Mrs. Nazaire and the rest of them should know what’s going on. But he’s grown a spine. I’m not sure why; James probably knows, but he’s right. He’s busy dealing with the end of the world. So is Ramirez. “Fine. James will be keeping an eye on them. If you don’t follow through, I’ll know.”
“Great.” Ramirez taps a finger on a tablet and hands it to me. “We’re working on finding those Xuduo-Danger realities with possible voiceless singer presence.”
“Why haven’t you given them a name and number yet?” I ask. The tablet’s screen is covered with information about different possible realities. It’s mostly number and known anomalies; no one’s been to most of these, so SHOCKS is running off what’s merged into R-0. But there’s one…it’s got a long file, and almost all of it is covered in black bars.
“Do you want the designation, or do you want to know what you’re doing this afternoon?”
I roll my eyes and motion for him to continue, all while reading the tablet. The battle plan’s got James written all over it; how closely has he been working with Director Ramirez?
“Thank you. We’re aiming for a series of quick merges. With Strauss’s bomb available to us, the limit is on how many we can build, not on manually disconnecting merges from the inside. I’ve got a trio of researchers working on isolating the actual shut-down trigger. Once we know that, we’ll be able to build them faster. Until then, one or two merges a day is our best possible pace.”
“Do you know where you’re sending me?”
Director Ramirez shakes his head. “No. Right now, we’re building a primary target list. We'll get to work as soon as we have a first destination.”
◄▼►
An hour later, the goop mask peels off in one big, semi-solid piece, and I’m pronounced fit for service.
That doesn’t sound like ‘healthy’ to me. I sit in the exam room for a few minutes and stare at my face.
It’s weird to look at myself like this. The goop’s clear, a quarter inch thick in places, and the eye holes stare back at me as I hold it in my hands. James keeps being less and less present. Dad and Alice…I hardly see them anymore. I’m not sure I’ve spent more than an hour or two with Sora since I got here—at least not all at once. And Dad…is Dad.
We’re all here. But I feel more alone than when I just wanted to get home. The people I talk to the most, I can’t trust.
I need some time in my Mindscape to work through that. I don’t have that time.
As I get dressed and walk down the hall toward the JAMES Experimental Sector, that’s all I can think about. How I’m alone, and how I’m not getting closer to fixing that. This deal…it was supposed to be the best way to keep my family safe. And it probably still is. But at the same time, that safety’s only temporary, and I’m losing something to make it happen. I need to do better.
How can I do better?
I don’t know.
Sometimes, I wish I was Alice. She can at least fake like she’s got her shit together. Other times, I wish I was Lieutenant Olivia Rodriguez; she actually does. But I’m not either of them. Somehow, all the pressure’s on me. I’m just a kid. It’s not fair.
That makes me snort, and the SHOCKS agent tailing me down the hall twitches as her hand drops to her waist. I’m not a prisoner anymore. But SHOCKS won’t stop seeing me as a threat.
The truth is that I’m not—not without James.
The fight with the burning man taught me one thing, though; I’ve got a lot of weaknesses. Shooting things with the Revolver? That works…most of the time. But when it doesn’t work, I don’t have much to fall back on. Soundbreak is good. I need more Soundbreaks or more bullet types.
I need to grow.
It’s the best plan I’ve got for dealing with SHOCKS or helping my people—who, apparently, also include the entire staff of my old middle school—survive this. I need to get stronger. A lot stronger. So strong they can’t tell me what to do, no matter who they are.
I leave who they are unanswered in my head.
So, becoming stronger. Actively growing. It’s going to mean some sacrifices.
[System Access: 100%]
[Recalculating Skills, Knowledges, Bonds, and Inquiries. Adjusting Stability]
[Claire Pendleton]
►Stability 1/10
►Skills - Endurance 7, Urban Combat 4, Anomalous Computing Systems 4, Physical Anomaly Resistance 10, Open Mind 1, Revolver Mastery 16, Compulsion Resistance 2, SHOCKS Database 1, Infohazard Resistance 9, Memetic Resistance 8, Gravity Shells, Reality Anchoring 3, First Aid 1, Toxin Resistance 7, Reality Skipper Shells, Bullet Time, Slither, Smoke Form, Analyze, Mergewalk, Mindscape, Soundbreak
►Truths - Anomalous Bond, West End High, SHOCKS Research Facility, JAMES, Stag Lord, Halcyon Bond, Li Mei and Infovampires, Dr. Dwyer, Provisional Reality AAA, Mergekilling
►Inquiries (3/5)
►What is Merge Prime?
►Are Sora and my family okay?
►What’s going on at Albert Head and West End High?
►
►
First, I’m not going to figure out what Merge Prime is. Sora and my family aren’t okay, and they won’t be until I get this figured out. I delete those Inquiries, giving me four spaces. I think about getting rid of the last one, too, but there’s an itch there—a feeling that I’m going to be learning more about that soon.
I create one new one.
►Inquiries (2/5)
►What’s going on at Albert Head and West End High?
►What do the voiceless singers want?
►
►
►
That’s the most important long-term Inquiry I can think of. It’s probably more important than understanding Merge Prime, and it’s something I’ll be taking steps to figure out, like it or not. But the other three slots? They’re for Inquiries I come up with while I’m on duty.
I need more skills like Soundbreak, and the best way to get them is to game the Halcyon System a little.
The airlock’s guarded. My escort nods at the guard, and I step inside.
Doctor Twi—Director Ramirez—is waiting for me by the empty, inactive portal. “Bad news first. We’re getting interference.”
“What?” I ask.
“Portal interference is consistent with a Universal Reality Anchor attempting to hold off a merge slightly beyond its rating. We can get our merge generator to connect, but it doesn’t stay connected. That means no helmet, no direct link to us, and leaving the merge won’t be as easy.”
“Fine.” It’s not like SHOCKS is a ton of help on most of these; I’ve got James, and he’s better than a dozen researchers.
“This reality is a self-reflective reality. It’s a lot like R-36—the one where everything was you. This one’s highly infohazardous, though. It’ll look like our reality, but it wants to reflect what you think our reality should be. We’ve seen it before, but it’s not currently merging on Vancouver Island.”
“Why’d you pick it, then?” I steel my expression as much as I can. My head’s spinning as I try to understand what he’s saying. It’s a reality that matches what I want? Like a Mindscape, but a whole reality? I can’t ask these questions. Ramirez would figure out the truth the moment I did.
Director Ramirez’s mouth turns up in a thin-lipped smile. “Because it’s not currently merging on Vancouver Island. We don’t believe any other SHOCKS divisions are currently trying this experiment, and keeping the island as stable as possible is our best way of extending our time to reverse Merge Prime. That means your objectives have changed. We don’t care about closing this merge the hard way; we’ll let it disconnect on its own once you’re out.
“You’ve got one goal while you’re in there: make contact with the voiceless singers and try to figure out what they’re doing—without getting caught.”
That lines up with my personal goals, but I make a third Inquiry. This one’s only in my head for now; until I’m through that portal, I don’t want James—and by extension, the Halcyon System—to know about it. Once I’m through, it won’t matter. They won’t be able to stop me.
“Find the voiceless singers, figure out what they’re up to, get back here, and wait for the merge generator to stabilize,” I say, looking at Director Ramirez for confirmation. “That sound right?”
“Yes, that’s right. Would you kindly request that the JAMES Unit open a line of communication with us?”
[Audio only. I’m not dedicating enough loops for video,] James says.
I relay the information. Director Ramirez looks like he’s about to lose his shit. He nods curtly. “We’ll work on re-opening the merge to R-2301. Be ready. The longest we’ve had it open is two minutes. The shortest is fifteen seconds.”
He leaves, and I start re-running the conversation on repeat. He lied somewhere, and it’s super-important that I figure out where. If it’s a little lie, like the kind James makes, that’s one thing. But there’s a lot at stake here, and I need to know what kind of shit he’s full of.
I’m also thinking about another conversation, though. About one at the end of the world—sort of.
Roses and machine oil, a maroon sun. The electric, metal tang. And the words. “It’s going to be okay, Claire. It’s going to be okay.”
Not when Alice said them, but when Mom did.
What if she’d been telling the truth? What would life have been like if she hadn’t lied to me? If Alice hadn’t needed the Mom mask to get by, and if Dad hadn’t gone off the high-dive straight into a bottle…what would that be like? I don’t even dare to answer those questions, even though they’re in my head. They don’t matter, and even if they do, they’re secondary to a larger question—a question of proof.
“Claire, the portal has stabilized,” someone says.
I run for the swirling Jell-O vortex as the frame around it shakes. I dive through. And in the moment before I push into R-2301, I add a third Inquiry to the list. It’s not about power—at least, not directly. It’s about answering a question I can only answer now.
►Inquiries (3/5)
►Could it have been okay?
Chapter Seventeen
Victoria, British Columbia - April 13, 2033, 4:23 PM
- - - - -
Dinner’s going to be chicken nuggets, ketchup, and frozen veggies.
And probably prunes.
I’m busy sitting in Alice’s lap and ‘reading’ Green Eggs and Ham with her. She’s doing most of the reading, but I’m following her finger with my eyes and giving it my best effort. We’re both curled up on the bunk bed’s lower bunk, surrounded by stuffed animals. Miss Marvelous the Elephant Princess sits next to me in the crook of Alice’s arm. She’s reading along with us.
Dad’s in the apartment’s living room. He’s got a newspaper open, and a bottle that’s half-finished. It’s the only one I can see. His pen keeps circling parts of the paper, and he makes a phone call every so often.
And Mom…
Mom’s alive.
That’s the only sign that this isn’t real—that the last ten years of my life haven’t been a nightmare, and that I haven’t just woken up. She’s in the kitchen, cooking dinner and singing with her slightly French accent that Dad doesn’t have. She’s got her apron on like always, and there’s faint music coming in over the radio.
I wait for James to talk to me. He’s supposed to tell me that this is all part of the reality—that it’s doing exactly what Director Ramirez said it’s supposed to do. But his voice doesn’t come in over my aug. I don’t have an aug yet.
This is going to take some getting used to. On the other hand, that’s what I’m really here for. Finding the Voiceless Singers, or any of that? That’s secondary. Even powering up is secondary. What I want is something R-0 could never give me, and this world—maybe—can.
I relax back into Alice, leaning on her and pushing her slightly into the pillows. Even our apartment’s the way it’s supposed to be. I’ve got art on the fridge from pre-school—finger painting and crayons. There’s a little art on the walls; Dad wasn’t happy when I made that a couple of years ago, but it’s still not painted over. Alice’s homework is sprawled out on the metal-legged kitchen table. The place smells like lemon pepper and roses—but not the merge kind. The safe kind, from Mom’s candle.
If I go to the bathroom, I bet the shower curtain will be blue and yellow. If I go to the entryway, my rain boots will be sitting there next to my sister’s.
This isn’t home. Not really. It’s an infohazard working on my mind. I know that intellectually. But it’s the closest to home I’ve had in ten years—not just a place to live, but home.
I’m five. Alice is reading to me, and Mom’s cooking dinner. It’s a school night, so bedtime is coming up fast. She’ll tuck me in, and she’ll sing the bicycle song, and almost everything will be alright.
Almost.
But not everything.
[Skill Learned: Infohazard Resistance 10]
[Skill Merge Incomplete]
It hits me like a truck; I stiffen in Alice’s lap. Her head jerks, and she looks down at me. “Bathroom?” she asks.
I nod, trying not to pant and gasp. My throat’s tight. “Yeah.” It’s as good an excuse as any. She pushes me off her lap, and I climb down from the bed and head to the bathroom. Sure enough, the shower curtains are blue and yellow. I lock the door, kneel in front of the toilet, and try not to vomit. Two thoughts race through my mind like wind-up cars.
First, tonight is the night.
Second, I don’t know how to stop it.
◄▼►
Mom serves dinner.
She’s the prettiest person I’ve ever seen. Platinum blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a bright smile that shines all the way up to her eyes whenever she looks at me.
I know something Alice doesn’t know; she may look like Mom’s daughter, but I’m her favorite. It’s a truth I knew long before this meal. I’ve got my Coke bottle glasses on, and I tripped coming out of the bathroom when she called us for dinner, but she loves me anyway.
And she cooks a mean dino-nugget. So that’s good.
Alice won’t stop talking about school—mostly because people keep asking her about what she’s learning, about her friend Candy, and about what was for lunch. She’s better at answering those questions than I am, especially tonight. She’s always been better at being the center of attention; it’s where she’s the most comfortable.
That’s fine most nights. I’m a wallflower. And it’s especially fine tonight; I’m too busy plotting to talk.
Dad can tell I’m up to something. So can Mom. I always finish my dino-nuggets, and I always fight about the frozen carrots and peas. But tonight, I’ve cleared my plate early and without a fuss.
“Mom, can I go draw?” I ask.
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Clarice, where’d you put the carrots?”
I smile widely; he’ll see the mischief in my eyes, but I can’t help it. “I ate them.”
“Alice, did you take them?” Dad asks. She shakes her head.
“Rob, it’s fine. I saw her clear her plate. Claire, if you put your dishes in the washer, you can go draw for a little while. Just make sure you leave some crayons for Alice, okay?” Mom says. Dad grumbles for a bit but nods.
Dad hasn’t cared what I do and don’t eat in a long time.
I flee before they can see me tear up. Now’s not the time to cry about Mom being here, or about Dad not being a deadbeat—or even about Alice wanting to help me with reading instead of feeling like it’s an obligation and putting the Mom mask on.
Now is the time to make sure everything stays this way. Or at least to make sure that it could. That there was a way for everything to be okay.
The drawing is simple but—I hope—evocative.
It’s in crayon, obviously. I can’t get the watercolors out without permission, and Alice only lets me use her markers if she’s watching me after I broke her yellow one. I’m also having a hard time focusing. It’d be really easy to let myself be five again. That’s what I want. But it’s not what has to happen.
The drawing. Right.
So, it’s on a white sheet of printer paper. I’ve drawn Alice and me. We’re in bed. Miss Marvelous the Elephant Princess is sitting next to Alice. Everything’s the way it’s supposed to be for bedtime. Except the wall’s missing, and the warp’s coming in. So are a lot of yellow-white scribbles. And things. They’re tentacles and metal and flesh together, and they’re coming out of the warp. The floor’s covered in black stuff. It’s the closest I can get to oil. I can’t do smells; holding my drawing over the candle is a no-go.
Mom’s standing in between Alice and me and the monsters. Dad would be a better rock. He always was. But that’s not how things went down in R-0, and that’s not how things will happen now.
On the back, it’s the same picture. But no one’s in it.
I hand the picture to Mom. “Look!”
As she peers at it, my heart stops. Her eyebrow furrows. She flips it over and shakes her head. “Claire, I love you, but Mr. Frank is going to be furious with me if you come in overtired again. You still have to go to bed, even if you don’t think you’re tired.”
“No, Mom, it’s about…” I trail off. There’s no way she’ll believe me if I tell her everything. I try anyway. “I’m scared about tonight.”
“Nightmares again?” she asks. I don’t remember any nightmares before all this. I nod anyway. “I’m sorry, Claire. Would it help if you sleep in our bed tonight?”
I don’t miss Dad’s head jerk over to look at Mom, or the slight ‘no’ head shake he gives her. She shrugs sympathetically but keeps her eyes on me. They look tired. I shake my head more fervently than Dad did. “No. I want to go somewhere else tonight. Like a hotel.”
“A hotel?” Mom laughs. “That’s not going to happen, sweetie.”
