- Chapter 058B -

  Relic of This Memory

  "I'm a sky pirate," Mark stated, the words a matter-of-fact declaration that was completely at odds with the absurdity of his own appearance. A flicker of genuine, almost childish hurt at Dawn's blunt, unimpressed reaction. He thought the costume was rather dashing. "The memory did the rest."

  He let the nonsensical explanation hang in the air, a piece of a puzzle they didn't have the context to solve.

  Carl, however, was less interested in the aesthetics and more in the mechanics of their current predicament. He wiped a smear of something viscous from his gauntlet onto the robes of a fallen enemy, his expression a mixture of pragmatic concern and grudging excitement.

  "Right, Mr sky pirate," he grunted, the term clearly meaning nothing to him. "What's the deal with all this, then?" He gestured with his chin to the piles of bodies, the impossible airship, the roiling clouds below. "Is this related to that… messed up ritual feeling I got just before we woke up here? Felt like the whole mountain shuddered."

  "Probably," Mark admitted with a weary shrug. The memory of his self-inflicted cosmic destruction still a soul deep hollow ache. "But I don't know for sure. I don't even know how safe any of us are in this memory construct." He gestured vaguely at the ship itself. "As for this place… it's a memory of a game. Not really enough time to explain."

  Carl let out a short, derisive snort. "You people have some stupid games if they're this dangerous, the method for flight is unique however." he grumbled, his gaze already scanning the edges of the deck, looking for the next wave of disposable enemies.

  Mark was about to offer a sarcastic retort when a shadow fell across the deck.

  It wasn't the shadow of a cloud. It was a solid, menacing presence, a sudden dimming of the ambient light. He looked up.

  Climbing over the railing of the airship, its movements slow and deliberate, was a new kind of enemy. It was a humanoid figure, but it was massive, easily twice the size of Carl, its frame a hulking mass of muscle and what looked like chitinous, dark grey armor. It carried no weapon, its hands were huge, clawed things that could likely tear a man in two. Its face was a blank, featureless mask, devoid of any expression.

  The Boss.

  The quiet, unspoken logic of the game-world they were in was absolute. This was the final encounter, the way to the exit.

  Mark reached into the inner pocket of his cobalt blue jacket, his fingers closing around a small, folded piece of paper. It felt cool and smooth to the touch, a talisman of pure, fantasy magic. He held it up, a silent, symbolic gesture mimicked across countless games and media.

  As he did, a brief, intense magic circle of glowing, geometric lines flared to life on the deck beneath his feet. For a fraction of a second, his own form seemed to blur, to become indistinct, a ghost in the shape of a man. The effect faded as quickly as it had appeared.

  He met Carl's and Dawn's wide, confused eyes, while a new, and utterly unfamiliar confidence settled over him.

  "I'll draw its attention, the rest is for you!" he said, his voice a low, steady command.

  With a smooth, almost practiced motion, Mark drew the sword from its scabbard. It wasn't steel. The blade was a shimmering, ethereal thing, a sliver of captured starlight given form, its edge a line of pure, brilliant white light.

  He lunged.

  His form was a disaster. His feet were wrong, his grip was clumsy, his lunge a clumsy, off-balance stumble. It was the movement of a man who had never held a real sword in his life. But the ethereal blade, guided by some unseen, internal logic, found its mark. It scored a long, shallow gash across the creature's chitinous chest.

  The damage was negligible, a scratch on a fortress wall. But it was enough. The creature's featureless face swiveled, its unseen gaze locking onto Mark with a new, absolute focus.

  He had its attention.

  Dawn and Carl were staring, not at the creature, but at him, their expressions a perfect professional bafflement. His grand, theatrical entrance, his confident declaration... it had all been undone by the undeniable fact that he had the swordsmanship of a very drunk farmer.

  "Watch its weak points!" Mark shouted, his voice a little breathless from the exertion of his clumsy lunge. He pointed with the tip of his star-lit blade. "Parts of it will glow red when it's vulnerable! Hit it then!"

  He went in again, a wild, overhand slash that was more enthusiasm than technique. The creature's huge, clawed hand swiped at him, a blur of dark grey chitin. Mark flinched, bracing for an impact that would tear him in two.

  The claw passed through him.

  It was a strange, disorienting sensation, like a cold wind blowing through his very soul. He was unharmed.

  The follow-up attack, however, was not so forgiving. The creature's leg, a massive, armored pillar, swung in a low, brutal arc. The impact caught Mark square in the chest.

  He didn't just stumble. He flew. The world was a spinning, nauseating blur of wood and sky as he was launched backward, crashing hard into the solid, unyielding wood of the main mast with a sickening, bone-jarring crunch. Pain, real and sharp, exploded in his back and ribs, a brutal reminder that even in this world of games and shadows, some rules were absolute.

  Mark slid down the mast, landing in a heap on the deck, the star-lit sword clattering from his numb fingers. A ragged, pained gasp escaped his lips, each breath a fresh, sharp agony in his ribs. He pushed himself up, thankful that most game rules didn't cripple the players regardless of damage amount, and watched in amazement as Carl and Dawn went to work.

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  It was a masterclass in controlled, professional violence.

  They never got hit. They flowed around the creature's clumsy, telegraphed attacks like water around a stone. Dawn was a blur of motion, her daggers flashing as she darted in and out, her strikes precise and economical. Carl was a bruiser, a whirlwind of fists and fury, his gauntlets now crackling with a furious, arcing lightning that he hadn't possessed moments before. Each time a section of the creature's armor glowed red, they were there, their combined assault a symphony of devastating, targeted damage.

  "Well," Dawn's voice, calm and laced with a dry amusement, cut through the sounds of the battle. She landed silently on the railing beside him, a brief, tactical retreat. "Your flailing and ghost trick seemed to be working." She glanced at the crumpled heap of Mark at the base of the mast. "Until it didn't."

  Mark just grunted, fumbling inside his jacket. His fingers closed around a small, cool glass vial filled with a swirling crimson liquid. He pulled the cork with his teeth and, without a second thought, downed the contents in a single gulp.

  "I can't just magic up years of combat experience!" he choked out, the words a pained, defensive gasp. "I don't know how to fight!"

  The healing potion was vile. It tasted of cherry-flavored cough syrup, a cloying, chemical sweetness that made him want to gag. But the effect was instantaneous. A wave of cool, clean energy washed through him, erasing the sharp pain in his back and ribs, replacing it with a dull, manageable ache.

  He pushed himself to his feet, the world steadying around him. It was just as he'd thought. The memory was dictating the rules. And in this world, a red potion meant health. It was a simple, beautiful, and blessedly reliable piece of logic.

  Mark reached back into the impossible, extradimensional space of his jacket and pulled out a gun.

  It was an oversized hand cannon, a masterpiece of gleaming silver and polished wood, a design ripped straight from the cover of a dozen different fantasy games. He checked the cylinder with an automatic flick of his wrist, then snapped it shut with a satisfying, definitive click.

  He added his own fire to the battle, the cannon barking with a deep, satisfying roar. Each shot was a bright, clean flare of magical energy, far less potent than the brutal damage Carl and Dawn were inflicting, but he didn't seem to care. He rotated through his ammunition with a focused, almost playful rhythm. A round of crackling ice that left a patch of frost on the creature's chitin. A gout of pure, white-hot fire. A bolt of arcing lightning. A glob of viscous, slime like water. He was a child with a very loud toy.

  After a few moments of their combined, relentless assault, the creature's featureless head began to glow with a furious, angry red light.

  "That's not fair!" Dawn called out from the other side of the deck, her voice a mixture of professional frustration and genuine envy. She drove both of her daggers into a glowing red joint in the creature's leg, then sprang back. "Life would be so much easier if my hunts did that!"

  Mark saw the opening. The final act.

  He didn't just aim and fire. For pure, unadulterated dramatic effect, he pirouetted, a clumsy, ridiculous spin that was completely unnecessary. His aim was steady, and squeezed the trigger twice.

  Devastating rounds of what looked like pure, intense wildfire erupted from the barrel of the hand cannon. They struck the creature's glowing red head with a deafening, explosive impact. The head didn't just crack. It detonated, a silent, brilliant explosion of red light and shattered chitin. The headless, massive body stumbled backward, teetered on the edge of the airship for a single, dramatic second, and then toppled silently over the side into the roiling clouds below.

  The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the quiet hum of the ship's crystals. Mark evaluated their performance instinctively and partially expecting a score card to materialise, but it didn't. The fact was for the game scenario, Dawn and Carl were far too high in capability for an encounter of this low a level, another failing of Clyde's understanding that Mark was very grateful for.

  Dawn was the first to speak, her voice a perfect, deadpan summary of their competitive dynamic. "Does that one count, since it fell off the side?"

  Carl was not interested in the score anymore. He was staring at the silver hand cannon in Mark's hand, his eyes wide with a craftsman's pure, unadulterated lust.

  "Forget the score," he said, his voice a low, reverent whisper. "Let me see that firearm."

  The beautiful, silver hand cannon in Mark's hand shimmered, its solid lines blurring as it dissolved into a cascade of fading, golden motes of light. "It's a relic of this memory," he explained, a flicker of genuine regret in his voice. "The gun is called 'Armageddon'. Probably for the best it doesn't exist in reality."

  Carl let out a quiet sigh of profound, professional disappointment. "A shame," he grumbled. "True Californian firearms are hard to come by. Studying their mechanisms... it would be a fascinating challenge."

  As he spoke, a new, intricate circle of glowing, geometric lines bloomed into existence on the deck in front of them, a silent, shimmering invitation. The exit.

  Mark gave a tired but satisfied nod. "That's it, then," he said, his voice regaining a fraction of its old, weary normality. "Let's go and join the others."

  He walked toward the circle, and the two of them fell into step beside him. As they passed through the glowing threshold, the world dissolved. The wooden deck of the airship, the roiling clouds, the impossible sky, it all faded into a gentle, featureless white. Another cage was broken. Another rescue complete. Another memory, a world of games and fantasy battles, was allowed to go dormant, its weight fading away into the background once again, allowing his already over-stressed mind a few more moments of relief.

  The white faded, replaced by the familiar, grimy reality of a train platform. The air was cool and damp, thick with the smell of diesel and the faint, almost electric tang of an ever impending rainstorm. They stood under the soaring, wrought-iron arches of Manchester Victoria Station. Mark looked down at himself. The flamboyant, cobalt blue uniform was gone. He was back in his work suit, but this time, it was pristine, the fabric clean and uncreased, as if it had just come from the dry-cleaners.

  Before Dawn or Carl could even begin to process the jarring, sensory shift, a train screeched to a halt at the platform beside them. The doors hissed open, and two figures stumbled out onto the platform.

  It was Tori and Valerie.

  Tori was leaning heavily on her dream-staff, her face pale and drawn with exhaustion. She had an arm around Valerie, practically holding her up. The calm, professional healer was gone. In her place was a woman who looked... haunted, someone who had seen things Mark would not wish upon anyone. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her expression a mask of raw, unfiltered terror. An aura, one from Tori surrounded her, and Mark suspected it was the only reason she was doing better than she should have been,

  Dawn rushed to their side, her earlier, competitive bravado forgotten, replaced by a surge of genuine concern. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice low and urgent as she took Valerie's other arm, helping to support her weight.

  Mark just shook his head slowly, a deep, weary sadness settling over him.

  "No," he said, his voice a quiet statement of fact. "They're not."

  He looked at the unlikely, dysfunctional team he had just pulled from the wreckage of his own mind. A shaken huntress, a bewildered craftsman, and two healers who had seen the cost of miracles. They stood on a train platform that wasn't real, in a city that was a ghost, a thousand years in the wrong direction.

  A small, unhappy smile touched Mark's lips. Any wisps of achievement from the airship playground gone.

  "Welcome to Manchester," he said, his voice a quiet, tired whisper that was almost lost in the ambient roar of the station. "Welcome to my home."