NOVEL NEXT Chapter 110: Meet Your Heroes
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Yuri: You have not reached Yuri. Tell him at the beep what you want. If this is Cuts_by_Karen, you are the reason Yuri must rest. Call tomorrow instead.
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Sunday, November 24th, 2090, about 8:00 am MST, Montana City
Gordon fell out of bed sideways, scrambling.
Holy shit, not again.
He grabbed the corner of his fitted sheet, and, looking the other way, threw it over her. Walking to the bottom he did the same thing, then risked a peek.
She was. . .definitely female. But covered. And breathing. So there was that.
Dammit, Karen. . . why.
Dried vomit traced a snail trail down her chin, and. . .a matching trail across his floor. The towels were balled up several feet from the bed.
Stupid AI hadn't woken him: this could have been avoided.
"Admin_AI, define: in distress," he commanded.
"Experiencing significant anguish, stress, or discomfort, often indicating the need for assistance."
"Does vomiting qualify as 'in distress'?" he asked forcing calm.
"No. Vomiting is a normal physiological response with many benign causes."
"Damn. Hey, Karen?"
"Hmm?" She rolled over sleepily.
"I'm going to go get you a coffee. I'll be back in half an hour, okay?"
"Gordon?"
"Make yourself at home," he insisted, grabbing keys and coat without looking back.
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"You weren't kidding."
He went to Claire's door first. Harry answered, wearing two towels just on his person—that's where they all went—eventually followed by a suspicious Claire.
"No. She okay?"
"I stopped her in time and put her to bed. There will be cleanup."
"I'll. . .Harry?"
In the shadows behind her, Harry stirred lazily on the couch."Sorry, I suddenly have a bad case of food poisoning. I'd hate to make the mess worse," he lied.
"I'll handle it," Claire said. "Do not get her coffee. She'll throw up again. Get her waffles."
Gordon had never in his entire life gone to a waffle place.
"Be fast," Harry encouraged him. "You've got another challenger."
"Uh-huh," said Gordon. It was getting . . . routine, to have six-shooter duels. Was this what Billy the Kid felt? Ah it's tuesday, better humiliate and murder someone?
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"DAMMIT Karen, stand up straight," barked Claire as Gordon re-entered his suite. He could see her in his room, helping Karen into the last few pieces of her streaming kit. He hastily averted his eyes—the wardrobe was not yet functioning, quite.
"Decent?" he asked loudly. "I bring . . . waffles and blueberry scones?"
It had been the only thing that sounded good other than the burger. He'd gotten three of those, but only one had made it home.
"I WILL MARRY YOU!" shouted Karen. She was still drunk. Holy crap.
"I. . . will forgive you for what I just went through," said Claire. Her pale eyebrow was arched as she looked at him, and Karen, critically. "You could have warned me she was naked."
"I did. I said you weren't kidding."
"Friends being naked is not this normal, Gordon. You should be . . . anxious or something."
"I am. Security cameras were on. I wiped the system, but there's no way to know how many copies security made this morning."
Claire gave him an eyebrow.
"Don't look at me like that," he grumbled. "I just got you muffins."
Karen looked over blearily. "I want muffins."
He gave her a side hug she foiled by flopping into a two-armed embrace around his midsection, bending over the edge of the VR omni-treadmill's rail to do it. "You're warm."
He held her in place awkwardly, lest she fall. "Claire?"
"Fine. Want me to ask Dad about the backups?"
"I kind of don't trust him with that information. Might be better to burgle the security archive."
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
". . .whatever your hangups, Dad is not going to hold you, keeping someone from drowning in her vomit over your head. Besides, this is sensitive stuff that she may have strong feelings about once she is awake. I will take care of it." Claire promised. "Oh, and she took the deal, by the way."
"Who?"
"Isabelle. Last day's . . . last friday. You're done with her."
"Oh. Excellent."
[Marie: GORDON! I got ambushed and didn't die! Also, my new spear is the best ever.]
"Text, sorry," he said, turning his back to his sister, who hurried off.
[Gordon: I'm so glad you didn't die. ALSO, heads up, I had a weird day. Night]
[Marie: Anything I want to know?]
[Gordon: Karen had a streamed drinking contest from my studio and threw up on me, my bed, my toilet, my carpet, and my roomba. ALSO I'm going to be on daytime TV]
[Marie: Way to bury the lead. You're going on TV?]
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The wind stirred dust across the open plain, whistling through the warped wooden bones of a frontier ghost town. Rustwater Gulch wasn't much—just a main street, half a saloon, and the dry bones of player ambition. High noon, sun brutal overhead. It had been chosen with theme in mind.
Gordon was in a terrible mood. He had barely slept the night before.
The sky shimmered with heat.
A loose semicircle of onlookers gathered around the town square. Players stood stiff with anticipation; NPCs murmured and adjusted their hats. Every few moments, the wind kicked up again, blowing grit sideways into their faces.
Gordon squinted under the brim of his hat. His boots were planted in the sand, hands resting loose beside his pistols. Across from him—thirty paces—stood the Texan.
Older guy. Real-world fast-draw champion. Skin like old leather, a mustache that belonged in a sepia photo. Calm. Relaxed. Dressed in Gunslinger gear, but not weathered—stylized. Like he knew he was playing a role. Gordon had seen him on youtube.
Gordon had practiced his draws based on this man's youtube.
Gordon walked up immediately, trying to see if something was wrong. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Ousmane.
He'd spent hours watching this man's videos—frame-by-frame breakdowns on how to execute a proper quick-draw. The stance. The timing. The wrist flick. It was him. It had to be.
Karen had already pulled up a web search beside him, frantically typing the man's name alongside "Ghostlands."
No hits.
That was bad. That meant this guy wasn't playing under his real name. And that meant one of two things: either someone was impersonating a real-world figure—which was very illegal, Ghostlands had strict biometric rules—or this was Ousmane, and it was a setup.
Gordon didn't care for either possibility.
He knew it wouldn't help to be incredulous. Didn't matter who would do this. Just that someone had. And worse—it might be the end of his winning streak. Not that that was sacred, exactly. Fastest draw wasn't a character-essential stat. It was just flair. Bragging rights. Nobody needed to be the first to shoot.
Still, if he died and respawned, hopefully the guy wouldn't steal his guns. That would be undignified.
So no, it wasn't important—but that didn't mean he didn't care.
Especially now that the stream chat was blowing up.
> "ARE YOU GUYS SEEING THIS??"
> "That's the real Big Red."
> "He's in Ghostlands?? He doesn't even play VR."
"> This is a setup. It's totally a setup."
> "Fast-draw duel incoming. Holy crap."
Gordon's stomach turned. He'd already juked once just from nerves, and it might have saved him from a preemptive draw—but it didn't change the fact that he was now locked into what had always been a cowboy dream.
"This is always kinda been one of my cowboy dreams," he admitted aloud, mostly for the stream's benefit. "Not gonna lie."
> "He did it! Big Iron actually showed up."
> "This is so unfair but also YES."
Across the dusty field, the old man tipped his hat. "And here I thought they were poking fun," he said, deep drawl edged with amusement. "Some hotshot kid using my moves."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Let's see it, boy."
Gordon's throat went dry. This was the guy whose videos he'd dissected for months..
""'They'," Gordon said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Care to comment on what brings you here?"
"Not unless you beat me," the man replied.
Exactly what Gordon expected. He nodded once.
He took his stance.
The call came.
Draw.
Gordon wasn't sure he'd been faster. But he knew his bullet had landed—clean shot, center mass. The old man's shot had missed.
And yet. . . it didn't matter.
There was a clang. Not flesh. Armor.
The man straightened, unaffected. Gordon's eyes narrowed.
"You're wearing armor?" he asked.
The man shrugged. "—figured they were pulling my leg when they told me to. Nice draw."
"That's not very sportsmanlike," Gordon said flatly. "If you get to wear armor, I get to use my perks."
"Oooh," said someone in the stream. "Big Iron's mad."
"Suit yourself."
They drew.
The next shot landed—on him.
He didn't have armor.
Gordon dropped to a knee as the haptic system shocked the stew out of his upper abdomen. His temper, which had already been on a hair trigger, snapped.
Fine.
If they could play dirty, so could he.
He drew again, but this time, he jumped—just a tiny hop, enough to engage his movement trigger. Bang. Perks activated. Draw damage, plus bullet time.
It wasn't even close.
The old man dropped.
Gordon stood there, his breath steadying, his features forming something cold. He realized, belatedly, that he had completely lost his temper.
Whoops.