I drifted over to the central table and did indeed find my name engraved on a small card. The card itself was held in the jaws of an awesome, two foot high Gojira-shaped ice sculpture. The others had ice sculptures as well in the shapes of Gojira’s principle enemies: the robot version of Gojira, the giant moth, the three headed dragon, and others I didn’t recognize. One was a spiky pillbug looking thing.

The card read DIRK STONE, and beneath, LEADER OF THE LOONY TOONS.

Other tables, smaller circular tables, were appearing to either side of the long central table. More tablecloths poofed into being and settled down, then smaller ice sculptures.

Each smaller table sat only two or three. Astonishingly, Patches got his own specially-shaped seat, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t pad right up there and sit like a good boy.

I watched in amazement, and again caught Flicker moving off in the distance. She took up a position a little ways away from our table, caught my eye, and tipped me a wink.

A moment later a large screen came to life, hovering in the air. From it flickered a holographic head, fully 3-dimensional, with badly rendered face, spiky blond hair, Asian eyes, and high, angry cheekbones.

Who the heck was this guy? I shot eyes at The Boss over at the end of the table, and I saw him glaring daggers at the hologram, his face full of red-cheeked spite.

“Esteemed guests,” The hologram announced, “Welcome to the Ringo-Dango quarterly summit.”

I focused on him, navigating through my side menu to see if I could get a bead on who he was and what he did. Figures rolled up and, for the first time ever, I saw a real live character sheet staring me in my ugly mug.

Dude was another player!

The Godfather, Christopher Kim. Level 40 Psionic Grandmaster. PUBLIC VIEW UNLOCKED

Sounded OP as hell. I tried to see what cards he had equipped and slotted, but was greeted by three giant red questions marks.

Seemed likely that this sort of intel was something that I would have to pay for. Heck, I was lucky to have even this view of his character sheet. He was the first one I'd run into where it was all in the public view.

 

I closed it out and tried to listen to him drone on through a list of the confederacy’s accomplishments. But my thoughts couldn’t help but wander.

It didn’t make any sense. How was he so high level? How had he made himself top dog in such a short time? And that class, there was no way anything called Grandmaster was handed out at the start of the game to anyone, regardless of how random class selection seemed to be.

The Godfather talked about territories gained, money made, and opposition foiled through the various operations over the last few months.

And I sat there wondering how I could maybe gain an audience with the guy, figure things out, explain everything that had happened and maybe team up to finish it off.

But I felt real paranoid spikes of fear run through me at the thought. Here he was, top of the game, a real human in no doubt real luxury with powers best described as Avengers-level.

Would he want to give it up?

The problem overseas had always been those people on top. They refused to give up power, no matter what it cost everyone below them.

Would this guy be any different?

My head was roiling, full of questions without answers, and I decided to figure it out later, outside of the conference. The guy wasn’t even physically here.

And I had a quest to complete.

I refocused on the man, listened to him talk and then moving into concerns over wording in the Ringo-Dango charter. And I saw my chance. The quest had said to disrupt the meeting and break one of the gangs out of the organization.

And this was absolutely the time to do it.

I cleared my throat and clapped my hands together once, hard. “What’s the charter have to say about traitors?”

Silence fell over the hall. The sheer number of furtive looks and panicked faces suggested to me that quite a few people around the table thought that I was talking about them.

From wear they stood, I noticed Flicker and Hirataka draw their blades and lock eyes with one another. I wondered if they didn’t maybe have some cyber implant that allowed for telepathy.

“Traitors?” The Godfather asked. I wondered if he knew that I was human. And I wondered what that would mean for the next few moments if he did.

“Out of curiosity, what is the policy on backstabbing The Godfather?” I asked the room.

Jack snorted laughter.

The Boss began to adopt this smug expression I really wanted to smack off his face. He rose to his feet.

“Inviting this idiot to be part of the confederation was plainly a mistake,” he said with appropriate gravitas. “We have business to attend to, understand–”

“That’s enough,” The Godfather said. The Boss shut his yap, then opened it again like a drowning fish, eyes bulging at me, as if he was having a stroke.

“You’re lucky it isn’t you,” I said. And I was lucky (thanks Deus Ex). I just happened to find some skullduggery going on in the first place I looked.

“Is there a bald guy with glasses who reads from a scroll right about now? You know, some sort of book man to keep notes and do the taxes yadda yadda?” I asked The Godfather. “Because if betraying your confederacy is on the table, I have a lot of priority restructuring to do.”

“Madness,” The Boss muttered.

The Godfather’s holo-head approached me; in fact, the whole screen that cast it into being floated across the table over toward me.

“Dirk Stone,” he said, “you have been a part of this confederation for less than twenty-four hours. The appropriate action for you to take in this instance is to listen and absorb knowledge, such that you may prove yourself an asset and rise in the ranks. Generate wealth and honor by serving the confederation over time.”

I had the urge to whisper something, to let him know I was human too. But I squashed it. Later, somewhere safer. I decided to stay in character.

“When you’re in business, Godfather, you have to do your due diligence before you enter into an agreement. So I did. I investigated your people, and I found them wanting.”

The Godfather nodded his spiky-haired head. “You have the floor.”

I swept my arm out and engaged the holographic app on my phone, so recently installed by Nolan. With the flick of a button, it threw a new screen out into the air.

This place had holo projectors all over the place. They picked up the image and amplified it to a ten times the size and a hundred times the resolution. All eyes pinned to it, staring intently into the action on the screen.

It was easy to make out the entrance to the Brass Crosses’ hideout, followed closely by me sneaking down the hall. I mean, the cameras installed in my equipment and everyone’s phones were basically always recording.

This one had been installed just above the eye of my street samurai mask, so the whole experience was very first person shooter.

The head honcho of the Brass Crosses at the table started laughing as we watched. A thick, beastly rumble rising up from the stoutest chest anyone in the world had ever seen. He was standing up, his muscles bunching and his tattoos starting to flare.  

On screen I stumbled into a room and fell through the floor in fast motion, covered in rug.

From there we jump cut of the rows and rows of mecha suits, then cut again to me being attacked by a Brass Cross in a cyberpunk neon bubble cockpit of one of those very same mecha suits.

The same mecha suits now standing like statues at intervals around the room.

I look back at the leader and saw that over his head were the words Garbo the Gorilla, a massively long health bar extending beneath it. All of the Brass Crosses were going into combat status. And now everyone was standing and prepping for battle.

And a sweaty bald man, in spectacles, wearing black trousers and a button-up shirt with a tie, ran huffing to the table.

“Everyone settle down. My team is already downloading the recording. We will dissect the footage to ascertain whether any doctoring has been done–”

“Not necessary,” Garbo said, splattering the man’s head with a meaty slap of his over-huge hand. “You picked the wrong man to be The Boss, Godfather. That suggests bad leadership. Leadership that I can happily provide.”

“Flicker, my dear,” the Godfather said, and the two assassins began to move.

The Brass Crosses sprang out of their seats and began flipping and unfurling chains, blades, and short-barreled weapons. One lady flew up, arms extended, and grabbed onto the chandelier, swinging off it to dive into another short burst of flight over to the row of mecha suits.

It was strange seeing them operate. I wondered if the NPCs were using cards too, or if they had them hardwired to themselves as special abilities.

Whatever the case, it was an impressive sight to see.

A Brass Cross went cartwheeling sideways, only to spring up and screech at one of the serving staff with a sonic attack that nearly peeled her face off. The victim swooned and fell unconscious a moment later.

One of The Bosses men crossed his arms, and in an instant they were replaced by buzzing chain swords. He lopping of a man’s arm a moment later, laughing maniacally.

But I kept my eyes on Garbo, even as I backed away from the fracas and moved to intercept the man. He’d no doubt seen a lot of brawls like this one in his game-manufactured, distant past. And he was undoubtedly very dangerous.

Every move he made seemed accidental, yet showed pure understanding and instinct for the battlefield. He slipped and fell just in time to avoid an attack by Flicker’s blade, tripped over tangles of bodies only to pop up and have Flicker land on them, off balance, and then he headbutt her in the stomach.

Flicker flew backwards and hit the floor skidding, projectile vomit spraying from her pretty mouth.

I got a tingling in my brain and everything slow-motioned about me as I swung my head, taking in a surprise attack from the rear. The knife had been headed straight for my back and would have assuredly done some wicked debuffs. I silently thanked Cybernetic enhancement, as much as a man can thank a card, and I twisted out of the way.

Time went back to normal. It was time to activate some cards. I activated Bruiser, giving my allies bonuses on their melee, before tapping Bloody Knuckles and Volt Surge, feeling extra might and energy flow into my limbs.

To my side, Jack uppercut a Brass Cross, then sucker punched one of The Boss’s men for good measure. I chuckled, kicking Jack’s felled Brass Cross in the stomach almost on impulse. He choked and dry-heaved, a good quarter of his health gone.

“Yeah, no problem.” I scanned the place for a moment, then hollered. “Eric! Get Jack and Patches to somewhere safe. I can handle our side of this fight better if I don’t have to worry about any of you lot.”

“You sure?” Jack asked, grinning. “You just activated that ally card, and wow is it fun to use.”

I laughed, before the boom of a pistol kicked through the air past my head. “Get out of here, Jack. I mean it.”

More pistols fired, cracking through the air to ping against flesh, armor, and furniture. People were scrambling for cover, shooting at each other from behind fallen chairs and tables, and here I was with my balls in my hand. I searched around, desperately trying to catch sight of that damn Brass Cross.

There!

I took off at a sprint. A Brass Cross was almost to the mechs, and a gaggle of his tattooed compatriots were following behind him. I noticed, too, that some of the lesser gangs were using this chaos as an opportunity to avenge old wrongs. It wasn’t just Jack who’s been taking sucker punches. The whole thing had gone free-for-all.

“Hey, dick, get away from there!” I yelled.

The man turned, vengeful bullying eyes gazing into my soul. I felt an artificial fear clamp into my muscles; the man was using an ability on me!

I gritted my teeth and dug in, forcing myself forward, my pace half what it had been.

 

Congratulations on a successful save! You did it! Look at you! Deus Ex mocked from my system side-eye.

 

“On my list,” I muttered. Ahead of me the Brass Cross flipped me the finger and ascended into his mech suit. I activated my Roly-Poly Battle Bot, watching it blast the man in the back. He bellowed, but got in. A slow-grinding sound set out from the machine, LEDs of all colors flaring up from spots and stripes over the chassis.

And my Roly Poly exploded, evidently the target of someone’s pistol.

Screw it. I pulled my plasma rifle from my inventory, unsure if my raised melee attacks would be countered by the mechs physical armor or any other unknown abilities. It wouldn’t be very accurate with me standing, but there was nowhere nearby for me to crouch in cover. Unless . . .

Scanning the gaggle of Brass Crosses I ran through their freakishly over-tattoed bodies until I found one that fit. A veritable wrecking ball of human carnage, like the mix between a wrestler and a circus strongman, he was loping ahead on inhumanly thick legs.

He’d do. Dropping to one knee I leveled my plasma rifle, keeping a side-eye on the percent-to-hit stats that flickered there. Then I adjusted, trying to keep a step ahead.

 

73% hit probability Deus Ex informed me.

 

I wondered if my own personal training impacted that number any. Didn’t matter. I breathed, relaxed, aimed and squeezed.

“Raaaa!” the Brass Cross screamed, sounding more rancor monster than human. I got up from my kneeling position and sprinted his way, noticing that half the Brass Crosses had broke and scattered, panicking from my shots.

A few bullets pinged the floor about me. One even hit, taking me in the shoulder and stealing a good 5% of my health away from me. But I managed to slide-dive behind the giant man and take cover, using his thick quaking body as leverage for my rifle.

The giant tried to shake me off and I glared at him. “You move, throw me off in any way, and you are a dead man, Crosser.”

The Brass Cross blanched as much as a man whose face is blued over with tattoos can and an intimidation check later, he complied to being my defensive supported position.

Not that it lasted long.

I got to pop off some hard shots at one of the mecha stragglers, but a number of them were powering up now. And the one with the Brass Cross flier had started rotating its miniguns.

“Change of plans, dicks,” I yelled over the cacophony of the room.

I rolled right, hearing the fleshy demise of my former hostage as mecha guns tore him into jerky. Vaulting to my feet , I ran diagonal right, then left, then right again, throwing off the mecha as it tried to tear me a new asshole. I was pinged, winged, and grazed, but still at 85% health by the time I got up to the bastard.

With me was a plate full of sadly uneaten food.

I splattered an expensive entree onto the cockpit bubble, then smashed it with one crackling overpowered fist. The smeared food exploded, splattering over my front, and completely covering the bubble, despite my attack seeming to do very little damage.

Just as I’d expected, the damn thing had resistance to melee attacks.

Still, rolling away as it blindly grabbed for me, I knew the attack had been worth it. The mech was awkwardly scraping food mush from its bubble, unable to effectively attack me, and I now had some good room to maneuver on it.

I ran forward and slid through its legs, coming up behind the mech, and leaping up onto the thing’s back. It turned side to side, trying to see me through the greasy film of dinner. Scrabbling up quickly, I got up behind its minigun.

While it didn’t have a handle, that didn’t matter. I seized it and twisted, marveling in my over muscled ability to use it as my own.

 

Haruken Mk II Shield-Piercing Anti-Mech Minigun (Rare Ranged Weapon)

DMG 4-48 (short/medium)

Spd Fast

Ignores shields 

Damage x3 to enemy mechs

 

‘A mech on the battlefield is a dismal sight. That is, unless you’ve got one of these babies. Then it’s a gift under the tree on Christmas Day.’

 

I wrenched it around in the direction of the others, pressing an emergency trigger on its backside and letting loose with a loud Yeeeehaaaaw.

And laughing like a wild man in the midst of the chaos.

My first target was immediately blasted apart. The Brass Cross inside continued dancing from the thousands of high-powered rounds perforating man and machine.

“Look who gets the last laugh, jerk!” I screamed in triumph.

Whoops! A huge mecha arm came swinging up at me. I ducked and let go of the handle, briefly mourning the crunch that signaled the weapons demise. Then I swung wide and nearly flew off. I was giggling like a schoolgirl the whole time. Adrenaline had me fearless, and that was maybe a bit dangerous, but at that moment I had no cares left to give.

I got my plasma rifle back in one hand and took a couple of pot shots at the other mech.

A glimpse of Flicker Blue showed me she was winning. A glimpse behind her showed me exactly what Hirataka had up his sleeves.

The other Godfather enforcer, the skinny one with the high cheekbones and the stupid lensless glasses, had spring-loaded cybernetic arms. Someone had torn through his tuxedo jacket, exposing a completely cybered up torso.

No, that wasn’t exactly right… he’d taken some gunfire, which peeled back the fake skin covering his upper chest, revealing striated metal muscles. His left arm was currently twelve feet long, his fingers extended out to nine inch nails sticking out of a Brass Crosser’s back. Covered in blood.

As for Garbo the Gorilla, he was laughing just as madly as I had been. He currently had a hold of the head of Flicker Blue’s big ass hammer, and was jerking her around.

Oh, she was still flipping around and flinging little stilettos at him, but again he fell on his face and avoided them with ease. At the same time, he wrenched her forward so she cracked bodily against the enormous summit dinner table.

I gunned down another Brass Cross with the mecha-suit’s miniguns.

Eric’s voice came over the comms. “Hey boss?”

“Go ahead,” I told him.

“We’re outside. Nothing happening here. But I saw something that I thought you should know. Chuck just left. And it looks like he might be heading the E. Gojira.”