Since I was exposed, I got tens of thousands of messages per day from strangers, even with filters on. Insults, death threats, demands to divulge how I became a Threat and requests to send a thousand gold or two. The beggars wrote more than the rest. Some pleaded, some told heart-wrenching stories, others offered investment opportunities in promising projects. Still others asked to toss a spare legendary their way… There were admissions of love from women of all ages, and comm numbers from people ready to do anything if it meant meeting the top-level Threat, the one who had become world-famous.
Considering the pace of my average day in Dis, I couldn’t have read all the messages even if I’d wanted to, let alone answer them. My friends knew perfectly well that I didn’t have a spare minute, and Crawler’s rebuke knocked me off balance.
“For one thing, I was choking on acid last night in the Giant Dalezma’s stomach to level you ingrates up!” I began, starting to count off my fingers. “For another…”
“Alright, alright,” Crawler raised his arms in peace. “I’ll just give you the gist. No, your victory in the Cookery Duel doesn’t count — that was a common weekly tournament. If you’d won the yearly one, with all fifty-two winners, on the other hand…”
“He’s making fun of you, Alex!” Irita flared up and sat back in her chair. “Basically, all five of the Awoken who won the Junior Arena got invitations to the Demonic Games. These three only just found that out too, because their inboxes are full of trash just like yours, and none of them had enough intellect to think of checking the Important label, where messages from the developers go by default.”
“I don’t need intellect, I’m a warrior!” Bomber declared, finally tearing himself away from his mug of ale to wave a finger.
“You ruined all the fun,” Crawler complained, casting a reproachful glance at the girl.
“Ru-i-ned a-a-a-all the fu-u-u-u-u-uuun…” Infect bawled, plucking at his guitar strings. He got a slap round the head from Patrick.
“Stop your wailing this instant!” the First Priest of the Sleepers demanded. “This is a council meeting, not a brothel!”
After regaining his true past, the ‘honored citizen of Tristad’ had started to take everything too seriously. That said, for a man of his real age, approaching seventy, it was forgivable. Infect frowned at Patrick, moved away from him and muttered:
“We suffered your wailing for two years in Tristad, Mr. O’Grady…”
“It’s true, old man,” Nega said, sitting opposite Patrick. “You’ve gotten kinda boring!” She punched him playfully in the chest. “And do you know why?”
“I won’t drink!” Patrick cut her off as he finished quaffing his non-alcoholic ginger ale. “How many times do I have to say it?”
“You humans love your extremes,” Flaygray marveled. “You don’t have to make a vice of it, do you? Just drink a barrel or two and stop.”
“You demons have a different metabolism,” Patrick objected. “Anyway, I’m the clan manager now, I bear real responsibility!”
We could listen to the guardians and Patrick banter until morning, but I was so exhausted from the last few weeks that I interrupted their back-and-forth. Either my fatigue had built up or I was sick of making all the decisions. Overall, despite that our situation had not only failed to improve, but had gotten several times worse, I just yawned, listening as Manny weighed in as another expert on the influence of alcohol on sentient minds, and then Trixie as chief carouser of brothels. The little man noisily guzzled Leprechaun’s Uplifter and leaned against the window. He wasn’t formally included in the clan meeting, but it’s “easy to pick on the little guy!”, so we decided to let him stay within Crawler’s Dome of Silence.
The sound of commotion from outside. Trixie reported in alarm:
“The Montosaurus is fighting! Ripta too…” I jumped up from my stool, tense in expectation of Mogwai. “The dinosaurs are fighting!”
I reached the door first, opened it, looked outside and made sure there was no danger, then silently closed it. Then I said admonishingly:
“You’re not much of an alarm. Can’t you see they’re just playing, Veratrix?”
“But you told me to say if…”
Sighing, I explained:
“I told you to tell me if a stranger shows up and the beasts start fighting them!”
“Trixie not stupid,” the little man said, puffing out his cheeks and pointing at one of the orc newcomers from the Broken Axe clan. “There’s a stranger! And there are the beasts — fighting!”
“Nobody said you’re stupid.” Irita said, ruffling his hair.
I returned to the table. Patrick, who never had much time for tact, shook his head and whispered so that Trixie couldn’t hear:
“That little guy has a screw loose. He came to the storehouse a little while ago and demanded Creeping Poisontail seeds. They’re easy to buy, but I asked him why he needed them. He just stamped his foot, blushed and kept demanding. Good thing that shaman was nearby, Ryg-tyg-har or whatever his name is… He explained that the little one dislikes the dark ones — they scare him. There’s a particularly fearsome ogre with two heads — he makes fun of the little guy, keeps trying to pick him up by one leg. So Trixie decided to plant poisontail in their camp, hoping they’d run away from the island. You keep an eye on him, young ones, or he’ll chase away all your allies!”
“Some help from the Sleepers,” I muttered. “Like a saboteur! We should send him to be a gardener for our enemies!”
Manny sighed heavily, exchanged glances with Gyula and answered:
“I’ll talk to his grandpa. Although you could do it yourself, Patrick. Old man Furtado is around here somewhere — Trixie got a capsule for him too. He mines ore with the best of them.”
