“You wanna tell me what that is?”

‘That’ was a tablet, its cracked screen jagged against the finger-pads. ‘That’ was also the image it displayed, the photo of a college party. Of a Supergirl costume and braided blond hair.

“It’s just...Halloween.”

A blow. Fast, hard, to the right temple. Hurt so much more in the real world.

“Did I raise you to be the kinda pansy-ass motherfucking f—— who dresses like that on Halloween?”

“…”

“You look at me when I talk to you, boy!”

“Adrian, honey. Please. Just tell him it’s a big joke. A fraternity hazing or Photoshop or… or something.”

“…”

“Adrian!”

“I want you to call me Robin.”

Another blow, barely dodged, punctuated by hysterical sobbing. The world tilted, vanished. Black. Nothing but black and a body dispersed, broken to pieces, then fragments, then dust, fading into the background hum of reality…

And then there was light.

 

---

 

“Ahhhh, so we really do come back when we die.”

The voice - droll, unfamiliar and distinctly male — was the first thing Robin knew as she came swimming up from the darkness. The light she found next was once again too bright, though this time it had a distinctly artificial quality.

She blinked hard once, twice, three times, and finally cleared her sight enough to see that she was under a street lamp. As feeling returned to her limbs, she registered that she was lying on her back upon a wood-and-iron bench, her feet propped on a armrest and her head pillowed by her backpack.

She jolted, then groaned as the movement seemed to shatter her skull. She rubbed her eyes and temples against the headache, groaning again when the mask got in her way. Her throat hurt. Her shoulder hurt. Her everything hurt, and no amount of groaning seemed to make that go away.

When she gave up, she lowered her hands and found someone looking down at her, his face cast in shadow from the back-light of the lamp.

“I’d heard rumors but it’s good to get confirmation,” he said, in the same droll voice that woke her. “Nice to meet you. And all the folks at home.”

The speaking man appeared to be Asian, or maybe mixed-race; the standardized blending of character models and real-world faces made it hard to be sure. He had dark eyes and matching black hair, save for a single coiling gray streak. His mask was a pair of thick goggles, heavy with the potential for tech upgrades, and his gear had the more elaborate look of someone who’d been playing long enough to start making their Name. Most of it still resembled street clothes, but in place of a bag he had a Belt of Utility and the heavy gray trench coat just screamed Signature Item With Probable Bonus to Armor.

He stood behind Robin’s bench and helped to shield her sensitive eyes from the street lamp as she sat up. Not staring directly into the bulb made it easier to get her bearings. She was back in Golden Ratio Park. Night had fully come, leaving the pathways and bike trails lit only by the golden haze of the lamps. There were almost no stars, thanks to the steady glow of the Golden City, and every few seconds the brilliant beam of Assembly Tower cut through the black overhead.

Robin hunched over her knees and stared at a crack in the sidewalk until her world stopped spinning. Worse than her head or her joints or her shoulder, her throat hurt. She could still feel the cold steel sawing through her flesh, the spray of hot blood and the wretched, dull tearing. She felt like she’d been fed through a wood-chipper.

But, of course, it’d been worse than that. She wasn’t just hurt. She’d fucking died.

“Hey.”

While she’d been thinking, the man in gray had settled onto the bench alongside her. He gave her a lazy grin.

“Let me be in your harem.”

Robin stared at him. Her brain went utterly blank. “…Eh?!”

“You’re definitely going to get one, it’s that kind of book. Web-book. Whatever. Although…” He leaned in, paying little mind to personal space as he studied her features. “Maybe that’s not your style. We are in rather uncharted territory. This kind of thing almost never happens to Americans.”

Robin leaned back and away, glancing around for potential support. There were a few figures scattered in the darkness, close enough to scream for if she needed. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“William Willoughby Williamson the Third, Esquire.”

He extended his hand for a shake. Robin stared it down.

“That’s not your real name.”

“You can’t prove it isn’t.” The shit-eating grin widened a fraction as his offered hand nudged closer. “My friends call me Will.”

Robin reluctantly accepted the handshake. “I’m—”

Her phone rang, sounding a cheery chip-tunes mix of the Golden Age menu theme. The man in gray — Will, apparently — settled back on the bench. “Should probably get that.”

Robin answered, glancing from him only long enough to check the placement of her thumb and see that she had three previous missed calls. “Hello?”

“ROBIN! Oh, thank god! You’re actually alive. Where are you?!"

She winced from the volume, holding the phone at a distance until Tisha paused for breath. Will chuckled into his hand as she brought it back to her ear.

“Yes, I’m alive. I’m fine, I’m in Golden Ratio, I—” Her heart jolted as the moments before her death came rushing back. Her throat tried to close and she he had to clear it before she could ask, “Did you get away? And the kid, is he—?”

“He’s fine. We’re both fine. After the first cut, we just…and they were too…”

Tisha cut off into a muffled little sob that broke Robin’s aching heart.

“I’m so sorry…”

“No.” Robin curled her hand over the phone, like that could hide their conversation from the eavesdropper. In his defense, Will had pulled his goggles over his eyes and was making quite the show out of ignoring them. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I swear, I’m okay. I’m in the park. I’ll turn on party homing and stay put so you can find me easier, all right?”

Tisha sniffled her agreement and they hung up after trading goodbyes. Robin opened the Messenger app and turned on the function that would help Tisha find her position on the map. Then she sat back and waited, letting the weight of everything slide off her slumped shoulders and into the grass.

She hadn’t exactly kept track of time while on the hunt for Lightboy, but she guessed that she’d lost maybe twenty minutes. That was longer than a re-spawn took in-game. On the other hand, the game clock moved about four times faster than the real world’s, so maybe it worked out to match. She didn’t have the brainpower now to do the math.

The man calling himself Will continued to lounge at her side like he belonged there. Robin turned to confront him, only to be distracted by the device he’d been fiddling with. It was a six-foot-tall dark iron staff with the rough shape of a witch’s broom, though it was much wider and would be difficult to hold with one hand if not for narrower grips set along the length. It had a rough, industrial look to it, with rotating segments and unmarked buttons. Yet, where Will’s hand made contact, sparks of silver-soft energy arced like static between the iron and his body.  

“Is that a Sidereal Staff?”

She’d never actually seen one in-use. The Sidereal Staff was a rare item from a high-level mission that had only been available for a few months, years ago. Rumor held the quest as being a strange pet project from a certain developer, set in the space-between-spaces and full of Kirby-esque cosmic weirdness. And at the end, the promised reward — the Sidereal Staff — had proven powerful, but not particularly useful to the high-level players who received it. By the time anyone figured out its true value, the quest was long gone. Even today, a Sidereal Staff almost never made its way onto the in-game market, and when they did they were priced at billions of credits.

“Sure is.” Will shifted it into the light so she could better see. His fingertips traced the heavy buttons with something like affection. “Won her myself, back when the quest existed. Shame more people never tried. It was a hell of a trip.”

Despite herself, Robin’s interest was piqued. She’d only caught wind of the Sidereal quest after it was gone. A first-hand account of that adventure would be a rare treat. Still, she had to remember that she didn’t actually know this man. And he was weird.

“Where exactly did you come from, again?”

“Same as you: I woke up here. Going on, oh…” He pulled up his coat-sleeve to check a smart watch that would double as a hands-free communicator. “Ten hours ago. Time flies.”

“No, I mean — why are you here? With me? Why are you hanging around?”

“I knew you’d show up eventually. Thanks for making it a short wait.”

Robin gave up. Some people just lived to be difficult.

Luckily, they didn’t have to sit through too much awkward silence before Tisha and Lightboy appeared on the sidewalk. Both were slightly winded from the half-jog they’d done to get there so quick. Tisha barely paused before hauling Robin off the bench and pulling her into a crushing hug.

“Thank god,” she repeated, rubbing the last tears from her cheeks. “For a second there, I really thought…”

“Me, too.”

Tisha sucked a breath through her teeth and clung extra-hard before stepping back.

Lightboy hung back, his bravado long gone. He clung to Tisha’s skirt and peaked out from behind her like a kitten trying to hide from the vacuum.

“Go on,” Tisha murmured his way, nudging him out as she took a step back. “Tell her what you told me.”

For a moment, he only stood there, sky-blue eyes as wide as saucers. Then his lip trembled. He launched himself at Robin, buried his face in her stomach, and sobbed, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t mean to get you killed I’ll be good from now on I promise I’m sorry I’m—”

“Hey, hey.” Robin cupped the back of the boy’s head, using her other hand to rub soothing circles into his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m okay. It hurt a lot, but I’m all right now. Buck up, Lightboy.”

“Carter.”

She raised an eyebrow. The boy sniffled again and rubbed his nose on his cape.

“M’name’s Carter. I want my mom.”

The ghost of a bad memory curdled in Robin’s gut.

“Me too, buddy. Me too.”

“Ah,” sighed Will, rising from the bench and into a casual lean against his Staff. “Bonding through shared trauma. Always a winning move.”

Robin glared at him. Tisha regarded the newcomer with a mix of trepidation and curiosity. “Who is this?”
But before Robin could answer, Will swept in for a low bow and a quick peck to the back of Tisha’s hand.

“The Gray Spectre, at your service.” He said the name with all the booming vibrato of an old-timey radio drama. He lifted his goggles before his head and winked. “But you can call me Will.”

Tisha looked to Robin and cocked her head in unspoken question. Robin shrugged, the only answer she could offer. Will acknowledged none of it, straightening to his full height — which put him a head above Tisha and nearly two over Robin — and clapped his gloved hands.

“And now that the party’s no longer split, shall we adjourn to somewhere a little less public?”

Robin scowled, instinctively tucking Carter close. “Give us one good reason to team up with you.”

“Easy: I’m level thirty-one.”

She gaped. Thirty-one. That, plus her six, Tisha’s five, and Carter’s eight would make their total party level fifty. Which, in addition to being more than enough to ward off the low-level mobs of the Golden City streets, was enough to upgrade from a studio apartment to a one-bedroom. A furnished one-bedroom.

They could sleep in a bed. A real bed. As much as she hurt, that alone sounded like heaven.

“So,” said Will, mouth splitting into another of his too-wide, too-toothy shit-eating grins. “Do we have a deal?”