Path of Transcendence 1: Ultimatum of the Nameless God (5 page)

“If you want to live, it would be for the best. Even were I not tied to this city by oaths and patterns, I would still not blithely make the journey to the Gate of Departure. This region within the Labyrinth makes the Battleground of the Damned look like a paradise, and you will need to cross nearly the entirety of the Lands of Despair to reach the Gate of Departure.”

Talon sighed, staring into his mug. “The father of one of the others who is trapped here did a great deal for me growing up. My parents were killed in an accident, and I was left scarred and disfigured. If not for his help, I might never have recovered, might not even have lived until now. His daughter may be rotten bitch, but he would still be devastated, if she were never to wake up again. Sending her back to Earth may not repay him, but it will set my mind at ease that I tried.”

Boran nodded his head. “Every thinking being has its own circumstances and its own burdens. At least take the time to learn what I can teach you, before you embark on what may be a suicidal quest. Once you are ready, go north to the dead city of Cobyrne. It is built around a Nexus, and you will find gates to many places within the Lands of Despair. Even if you can take control of the Nexus, it could take you a lifetime to find what you seek.”

I believe what Boran told me. The Battleground of the Damned and the Plains of Despair were all part of the Labyrinth of Yggr, and the real Taereun exists somewhere outside them. Boran said the Labyrinth of Yggr was made up of thousands of pocket dimension, but I could never get him to really explain much more than that. I think the nature of reality was different between the Battleground and the Plains.

The Battleground of the Damned was special. Taereun: Battleground of the Damned somehow used the real Battleground of the Damned as its game world. The VR rigs were  disconnecting our minds and maybe our souls from our bodies, and putting them in our so-called characters. It was never really a game.

I never wanted to come back to this world and this body. My Half-Dvergar body was so superior to this one, that I would have preferred to live out the rest of my days in it. Even trapped in this inferior body, I would still rather be in the Battleground of the Damned than here on Earth.

There must be a way to return to the Labyrinth of Yggr, to find the real Taereun. It is obvious that The Nameless Entertainment, Inc. has some connection to The Nameless God. The people running it must have had a hand in taking our souls from our bodies and trapping them in the bodies of what we thought were our characters. First, I need to rebuild this body. Then, I will find a way to force them to transport me to the Labyrinth of Yggr.

The hospital will certainly have a physical therapy program, but their methods are going to be far to slow for my needs. I will create my own training schedule, even though they are unlikely to allow to use their facilities to train outside of their therapy program's constraints. I will simply have to improvise and overcome; I think that was the motto of one of America's military branches, before humans were replaced with drones.

Two sets of footsteps are approaching my room. It could be any room on the corridor, but I have an unsettling feeling of animosity directed towards me. This is the same as the sensations I would feel while living in my Half-Dvergar body, whenever anything hostile was close to me. Why am I still feeling this now? Could this ability be something unrelated to my body in the Battleground of the Damned?

The door slams open. A large man, with the physique of a professional bodybuilder, belligerently stares at me for a moment before entering. Behind him, a smaller man, about average height, enters, with a benign expression on his face. The good guy and the bad guy. As old as the routine is, it will work on most people. Both of them reek of government bureaucracy.

The good guy walks up to my bed, while the bad guy stays near the door, as though to prevent a near invalid like myself from escaping. The good guy is a black man in his early thirties, with very short-cut hair. His is neither handsome nor ugly. Most people would never look twice at him, if he was in the middle of a crowd. Everything about him appears average, except for his eyes. There is neither warmth nor life in them. He has the cold hard eyes of a government bureaucrat.

The good guy smiles and offers his hand. “Mark McGuinness, it's a pleasure to meet you. I am Special Agent Jones of the FBI, and this is my partner Special Agent Jones, no relation.”

I do not shake the offered hand and keep my face devoid of emotion or reaction. “What can I do for you Special Agent Jones?”

His smile does not waver, and his cold eyes remain lifeless orbs. “Well, we, the government that is, have been investigating the simultaneous deaths of
1,138,345 people, and another 87,565 simultaneously entering a comatose state approximately and and one-half years ago. Since then all but one of the 87,565 have died, and the one is you, Mark.

“Now, when you woke up you asked Dr. Turner if the others were dead. That is very interesting, Mark. It shows that you must know something about what happened to the others. So, would you kindly explain to us what you meant by that?”

Deny everything, and there will be nothing they can do. They will not believe the truth, and if they did, there is no telling what the government might do to me.

“Sorry, Special Agent. I have no idea what happened. When I woke up, I was confusing nightmares with reality and misunderstood what the doctor was saying.”

Nothing shows in Special Agent Jones' face to give me a clue what he is thinking. He just startes at me for a few moments, with that perfect, friendly smile. “It's not very nice to lie to a government agent, Mark. You are the only survivor, and you know what happened. If you come clean, the Bureau will make sure you are protected.”

“I'm not lying. I don't know what caused everyone to die. I was in a coma, remember?”

The other Special Agent Jones, the white one, moves to the other side of my bead. He has hostility and intimidation down pat, but after what I have seen, he is not very scary. He is 6'6'' if he is an inch, and must weight nearly 400lbs. He moves like a trained killer, and I do mean killer, not fighter. After my time in the Lands of Despair, I can tell the difference. With his perfect suntan, blonde hair in a buzz-cut and lantern jaw, he could pass for the main Russian villain in an old action movie.

“Getting smart-ass with the FBI is the dumbest thing you can do, boy. Special Agent Jones is being very polite by giving you a chance to answer our questions in a friendly manner, instead of just arresting you.”

“On what charge? Being put in a coma without being licensed to be comatose?”

The corner of the white Special Agent Jones' left eyelid ticks momentarily, before he bares his teeth in a gesture that is not a smile. “Civil Rights Violations. We have unimpeachable evidence of you violating the Civil Rights of two individuals. The trial won't even last a day, and you'll spend the next five years in a maximum security penitentiary. So wise up and answer the Special Agent's questions honestly.”

“I don't know what caused the deaths or the comas. I'm a victim, just like everyone else, and it must be a miracle that I'm still alive.”

“Show him the video.”

At the white Special Agent Jones' words, the black Special Agent Jones puts his briefcase on my bed and opens it. Taking out a tablet computer, he fiddles with it for a minute, before turning it so I can see the video.

Seeing the scene, I now remember the day entirely too clearly. I had never realized there was a social monitoring camera where one had to be to film from the angle in the video. It is too bad I had long forgotten about this little scene by the day of the last raid, I might not have been murdered.

“Mark.” The hesitant and chilly voice came from his right, out of his line of sight. It was one he recognized, Mei Urehara. She was more than merely pretty. Her father proudly called her a Yamato Nadeshiko, a perfect Japanese woman. Her slender body, pale skin, gorgeous face, and long blue-black hair made a striking impression on anyone who saw her. Both men and women would stop and stare, when she walked past. Still, she was uncomfortable with her own appearance and constantly compared herself with buxom American blondes.

His expression was no different than any other time, cold and closed, when he turned to look at her. Someone who did not know him well would never realize the anger that was burning inside of him at that moment.

Mark McGuinness was anything but good looking. He did not look like he really was six feet tall, his dumpy build made him look shorter. He worked out four to six days a week, practicing martial arts, and had extremely healthy eating habits, but he never lost weight. After injuries in a car accident that were never able to be properly reconstructed with plastic surgery or nano-surgery, his face was covered with burn scars on one side. The accident, which claimed the lives of his parents, happened when he was eleven, and the doctors wanted to wait until his condition was stable, before performing the necessary cosmetic surgery, but after a month's time, the attempts had miraculously failed. Mark's body rejected every attempt to heal the scarring. After nearly ten years with his ruined face, Mark was accustomed to it and no longer wanted to undergo surgery. His looks did not impede his education or ability to practice martial arts, so he did not see any reason to “fix” them.

Ryouske Urehara, who owned the company Mark's father worked for, as well as being Mark's martial arts instructor, had made the arrangements to ensure that Mark was provided for after his father's death. Mark's aunt, who took him in, was single and the money provided by Ryouske Urehara made her life a lot easier as well. Because she could never feel comfortable around the disfigured child, she was never able to develop a close relationship with Mark. The only person who would act normally with Mark was Ryouske Urehara.

Retreating from almost all social contact, Mark buried himself in online gaming, when he was not at school or training. It was not long before he became interested in
Taereun: Battleground of the Damned
, and as soon as he was old enough, he acquired an account. After going through the character creation process, he became Talon, the Half-Dvergar, and eventually his infamy was enough for him to become a living legend within the game.

Friday afternoon, the day after the raid, he was eating his lunch alone on a bench outside, like always. No one sat near him or tried to talk to him, his appearance and his cold personality made certain that no one would approach. His mood was especially foul this day, after being set up to be PKed (Player Killed) by Thug Horde. Ryouske Urehara's daughter Mei had led him into a trap, when her father asked him for him to help her in the game.

“Uragirimono.” It was a flat statement of fact. There was no heat or malice in his voice.

“I didn't betray you, you asshole!” Mei's voice was nearly a shriek. “Otousan asked you to go with us, because I wanted to keep my friends from being hurt. You aren't my friend. I have no loyalty toward you, so I didn't betray you. Don't you dare tell Otousan about what happened.”

“You better be careful or people will realize that you know me. You wouldn't want that rumor to get around, would you?”

Startled, Mei looked around, seeing dozens of people watching the exchange with varying degrees of interest. Some were people that she knew. She could feel the heat in her face and knew she was blushing form the embarrassment.

“How dare you embarrass me like this! You are the lowest scum on the face of the planet!” Mei's voice was a fierce whisper.

“Uragirimono.”

Shaking with suppressed anger, Mei half-ran from the sunlit courtyard. Watching her go, Mark continued eating his lunch.

A few students that Mark did not recognize approached him, swaggering like they thought they were tough guys.  The five of them formed a semicircle in front of him. They were all athletes, big, well-built and in shape.

“You want something?” Mark's voice sounded as though he was thoroughly bored.

“Fat, ugly freaks shouldn't be upsetting normal people. Losers like you should learn their place.” The one in the middle was doing the talking.

“You're not worth my time. You should stop trying to look like bad boys in front of the girls or in your case it's probably the boys, and go back to taking turns dropping the soap in the shower.”

“You asshole!” The leader grabbed Mark by the collar pulling him to his feet. “I'm going to beat the fuck out of you!”

“Did I hit a nerve? Are you the one that likes dropping the soap the most? Go back to your monkey cage, and  I'm sure your buddies will be happy to pull a train on your ass.”

“Hey, Bobby! Knock it off! If you get in a fight in the middle of the campus, coach will have a hard time covering it up. You don't want to get kicked off the team.” A young man came running over to stop Bobby. The person was someone Mark vaguely recognized. He had trained in Ryouske Urehara's dojo a couple years ago, another rich kid.

Bobby looked around and realized that he was in what could be a bad situation. He tried to shove Mark backwards, but wound up pushing himself away from Mark, instead. His eyes widened in confusion, and he let go of Mark.

“You're lucky! If I ever run into you someplace quiet, we're going to get down.”

Mark's smile was mocking, but he did not say a word.

“Let's get out of here.” Bobby led his fellow bullies away.

The student Mark recognized but did not know the name of bowed to him. “I'm sorry, senpai. Thank you, for not hurting them.”

“I don't bully the weak in public.”

The student laughed nervously. “I'll be going, senpai. I apologize for their behavior again.” Bowing once more, he left.

Mark looked around, with an expression that said he was looking at something he detested. None of the other students met his eyes.

College is no different then high school. You would think that the retards would grow up or get weeded out.
He returned to eating, while brooding about people and their actions.