Side Story Chapter 4 (Patreon)

Now this, Jason thought, looking at the man who he was about interview, is a strange fucking dude.

Anyone who willingly chose to remain inside a monster-dominated area was already of questionable intelligence at best, but this man was something else. His apartment was relatively tidy, all things considered, with what appeared to be a portable generator and some canned food neatly piled up in the corner. The man himself wore a light olive suit that he was clearly proud of, although he apparently wasn’t used to wearing it often, from the general uncleanliness of its fabric and the way he adjusted his shoulders. He had a frankly confusing amount of hair, having not had a haircut in ages despite his clearly receding hairline, resulting in an image of someone who was both trying too hard and too little. To the guy’s credit, his hair was slicked back, but that weird mass ended up nearly pointing upward, like a young teenager who'd only now discovered hair gel.

All in all, everything about his appearance screamed that he was waiting for the day he got to live like this.

This guy is the lead I’m in charge of? Jason suppressed a grimace. Thanks Danse, very cool of you. “Mr. Doakes, it's a pleasure to come see you.” Jason shook his hand, putting on a smile that wasn’t returned. Doakes eyed him suspiciously at first, and it was far too late that he decided to smile back and motion for Jason to sit down on the couch across from him. Oh boy. Gonna be one of those days. “I hope you've been holding up under your current conditions.”

“Men like me don’t ‘hold up’ when hell knocks at their door, Mr. Jason,” Doakes said, in a hoarse whisper. “We thrive.”

Neither of them spoke immediately after this. From Doakes’ part, no doubt because he meant this to be a heavy and intimidating statement. There was a satisfied, arrogant smirk on his face as if to say ‘You've finally come to me for help.’ Jason, meanwhile, was wondering if he really had to talk to this fucking guy.

Can I have the press back? I’ll take boring media dudes over crazy conspiracy guys any day of the week. He drew in a deep breath. Okay, maybe this guy isn't so bad. Maybe he just loves my shithole of a hometown.

“We thrive in spite of your efforts to silence us,” Doakes accusingly declared. Goddamn it. “The people know, Mr. Jason. You think you can convince everyone that some conveniently supernatural event took place in a well-known propaganda center?”

“You're referring to my college, right?” Jason muttered, in a deadpan. “That’s – oh Christ. Okay. Listen. I’m here to ask about the information you said you have on the monster with the weird smell-"

“I don’t give a shit if the media buys what you’re selling," Doakes spat, face contorted in anger, as if he hadn't heard Jason in the slightest. "If you have your own fanclub, or even if my niece thinks you're our hero.”

Well, I do have some fan pages, Jason thought, knowing better than to say anything aloud. Jeanette manages them right now. Some of the messages I get are pretty weird, honestly. Really prefer the memes and internet arguments about how well I’d do against Batman.

His thoughts were interrupted by Doakes, who hadn't stopped ranting. “Convenient superhero with powers just happens to come out of nowhere? Bullshit. I know you were involved in the first Portal incident,” he said, triumphantly. “Do you want to know what I think about that, Mr. Jason Miller?”

The Portal incident was hardly a secret, jackass, Jason thought. Tabloids were all over it when Rob disappeared. Took me a lot of self-restraint not to punch some reporters. He drew another deep breath, exhaling slowly. “No. I really, really don’t.”

Doakes leaned forward. “I think you've been a government pet project for a long time,” he hissed. “One of their little experiments in a secret lab somewhere. A real-life Captain Amer—”

“Okay, gonna stop you right there.” Jason sat up suddenly, prompting Doakes to flinch back, the man's body language deflating like a balloon leaking air. “First of all, I don't think Captain America had levels and shit. This is more like I was bitten by a radioactive Playstation. Second of all, NO!"

His shout nearly caused Doakes to fall out of his chair. A thrill of satisfaction surged within Jason. I'm done with this clown. "Now do you have any information about the fucking monster, or not?

“Do you deny it, then?” Doakes demanded. “That you're a super-soldier engineered by the government?”

Jason stared at him with murder in his eyes, hoping that would be enough to cause the weirdo to back down. It wasn’t. Doakes was shrinking in his chair, shaking slightly, but he maintained an accusatory glare the whole time. “Answer me, Mr. Jason. Unless of course you can’t answer, because you're legally mandated to tell the truth at all-”

“The government has fuck all with my powers.” Jason’s voice surprised even himself. It was a low, bristling sound like a gust of wind smashing against a rock. His hand had curled into a fist, he realized, but not so tightly as to hurt himself. Just enough to throw a punch if I have to. “Listen, Mr. Doakes,” Jason went on, mustering all the respect he could into his words. “I don't mean to be rude, but we have important matters to speak of. Every second I spend here is a second I could be spending outside fighting – people are dying with every second we waste.”

Doakes, the absolute fucker, laughed. “Oh, you think I buy that those attacks are real? I'm fully aware the government is staging them as an excuse for their recent uptick in military maneuvers. Most of those 'victims' are actors or CGI.”

Jason thought back to all the destruction he'd seen. The people he couldn’t save. The brother who'd waited beside his sister’s body for days until help came. The parents who'd buried their own child. The child who'd cried for her mother – her mother that Jason, at the time, was too weak to save. He thought back to every single corpse, each one burned into his mind.

His fingernails dug a little deeper into his palms.

Can't lose my cool. Need the intel. Won't let Danse down. “Mr. Doakes,” Jason repeated, voice taut. “We really need to talk about what I came here for-”

“This is what you came here for,” Doakes cut in. “Heard rumors you were going to talk to James down the street about it – figured you would come to talk to me too. The only way for an ordinary citizen to get answers out of you lot is by resorting to something like this.”

Gears started turning in Jason’s head. He opened his palm, rolled his wrist, and stretched his fingers. “You mean you don’t actually know anything about the monster?” Jason asked. “You just made this shit up because you wanted to talk to us in person?”

He could be helping people. Helping Danse. Getting EXP to increase his level and save Rob. Instead, he was here, wasting time with this fucking guy.

How many people were dying right now?

“Government lackeys aren't the only ones that can engage in a game of deception,” Doakes began, grinning as he spoke. “That's why-”

Jason’s fist connected with Doakes' face. The man cried out in pain as he leaned backwards, mouth dropping open with shock. Jason paused, then stared at his fist with a curious expression. He'd always assumed that blind rage was what made people lash out in situations like these, but in all honesty, he was feeling pretty level-headed. It wasn't like he couldn't control himself. Not if he wanted to. There'd been plenty of mental leeway for him to stop the punch with. He just...hadn't.

And he didn't regret it in the slightest.

“You can’t do that!” Doakes cried out, as he cradled his cheek. “This is-”

Another punch, this one sending Doakes and his chair tumbling to the ground. A trail of blood combined with a nasally voice indicated that his nose was broken. The fear in his tone indicated that his spirit was broken, too. “I’m sorry, I just wanted answers! I just-”

“It’s funny,” Jason muttered, taking one step forward and cracking his knuckles. “I don’t get into fights often, you know, but it’s always the same feeling when I do. Maybe some satisfaction, maybe some relief...and nearly always guilt over hurting someone. Most of all, I end up calming down pretty quickly – hard to stay mad at someone when they're nursing an injury I gave them. Right now, though?”

He took another step forward and looked at the rat of a man cowering on the ground. “I’m actually getting angrier every time I hit you.”

“P, please,” he begged. “I’m sorry for wasting your time, just let me-”

Jason kicked him in the stomach. Lightly, but it caused Doakes to hunch over in agony. How many people died because of you wasting our time? A burning feeling began to swell up inside of him. Selfish, insane bastard...I could have been saving people...killing monsters...getting EXP to...

An insane thought came over him as he looked down at the cowering man beneath him. No one would miss him, Jason realized. No one at all. They wouldn't even question it – considering where he's living, they'd report his death as being caused by monsters. Just give him a Darwin Award and move on with their lives.

Jason studied the man’s face carefully, as if it was the first time he'd ever seen another human. The shape of his skull, the way his throat moved when he breathed, how his lips trembled to produce a cowardly whine...it was fascinating, in a strange sort of way. Jason knelt down beside the fallen man, and raised his fist. “I wonder,” he muttered.

I wonder if humans give EXP.

His fist descended.

And hit the floor right beside Doakes' head, producing a sizable hole. The bastard looked hesitantly at what Jason’s fist had done and froze. He wasn’t even able to cry out in fear.

“Do something like this again, and next time, I won't 'miss'," Jason promised. "Get the fuck out of here, go somewhere safe – preferably hell or Delaware, I don't care which.”

“Yes—yes, sir,” Doakes muttered weakly.

Jason allowed himself a brief period to check for hidden cameras, counting on his sharpened senses to find them. After half a minute, he determined that – as far as he could tell – there weren't any. Satisfied that his ass was covered, Jason stormed out of the apartment, thoughts whirling in his mind like debris in a hurricane.

What the hell was I doing? Jason started to shake, unable to reconcile his fear of what he'd wanted to do with the anger still inside him. The latter feeling refused to leave his body, even as he felt horrified at what he'd considered doing, even if only for a split second. I...wanted to kill him. Sure, Doakes was an annoying bastard, but that was hardly grounds for goddamn murder.

But it would have felt good, he admitted. I’m not even sure if I would have regretted it. That thought terrified him most of all. And the EXP...it could have helped me get to level 30 faster. To save Rob.

Jason shook his head violently. No, no, no, NO! There’s lines I won’t cross. Even for Rob. Was this what the voices wanted? To get amusement out of his suffering? Is this the price I have to pay to play their game?

Realization struck. Jason looked at his wrist – more specifically, at the bracelet he'd been gifted by the voices. Ever since putting it on, he'd noticed some changes. The amount of experience he gained from his kills was higher. Additionally, he was stronger than before, able to perform feats that he couldn't just a few days ago. His legs were faster, his torso could take more punishment, and his sword swings carried more weight behind them.

He was also more impulsive. Aggressive. Violently so. And when he killed things...it felt good.

“Is that what you’re betting on?” Jason shouted to the sky, as if the voices could hear him. “That I’m going to go crazy before winning our game? You're wrong. I'm going to power through this, beat the fucking Horror and-"

“—JASON?—” The man in question froze as Danse’s voice crackled through his earpiece, distorted as if it was on the radio. “—NEED—BACKUP—BAKER—CORPSES—”

Jason shifted gears in an instant; his anger, plans and frustrations neatly compartmentalized into a box marked as ‘for later.’ Task focus, he told himself. Jason’s coach had drilled that notion into his mind for years. It was his most important ability, more than anything actually listed on his character sheet. The ability to disregard his concerns and focus only on what was ahead of him, if only for the moment. “I’m on my way. Don’t you dare die on me.”

Jason heard gunfire in the distance, and pointed at it to fixate the location in his mind. “Dead on,” he muttered, before taking off running at a full sprint. He was already near the top of the apartment complex, so instead of climbing down, Jason leaped out a window and onto a lower-story building, vaulting from rooftop to rooftop as he traversed the city. He moved faster than he'd ever done before, faster than just the levels and bracelet would've allowed. A measure of concern about the bracelet popped into his mind – and he banished it away. Danse needs me, Jason told himself. That’s all that matters.

He was done losing people.

An explosion went off as he neared Danse's location, dropping Jason's heart to the bottom of his stomach. He rushed forward in a panic, willing his feet to move even faster. Please, be alive, he thought desperately. Please, Dan-

“Danse!” Jason shouted, rushing to the fallen soldier. “Are you okay?’

Jason completed his last leap, jumping down from a third-story roof to a grassy public park, landing first with his feet and then rolling at the end to reduce impact. Several months ago, the fall would've killed him, but now he didn't have so much as a scratch. “Danse, speak to me! Are you okay?”

His superior was bleeding, breathing heavily, and most worryingly of all, trembling. At first Jason took that to be a sign of the worst; he'd never seen the man shaking before. But his wounds appeared superficial enough, and beneath the helmet and dark glasses there was something of a smile. “Jason...that thing changes shapes,” he muttered, each word taking visible effort to say. “It killed the guy I was interviewing, then took the shape of the same monster that killed his family, and when it turned to me, it – it looked like my soldiers. The men that died under my command. That’s why...that’s why its attacks vary so much. I’ve radioed the information in, just in case we don’t make it.”

Jason nodded. He didn’t want to be pessimistic, but that was probably smart. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah. I got away from it. Just barely though." He grimaced. "My bullets...did nothing, Jason. Absolutely nothing.”

“How did you escape then?” he asked, looking over his superior’s wounds.

“Tossed a grenade and blew up the floor we were on,” Danse muttered. “The floor fell, took the monster with it. Part beneath me didn’t quite crumble, so I didn’t die. Then I dragged myself out of there while it was lost.”

You had a fucking grenade with you? Jason marveled, laughing. Nobody gave me a grenade. “Who’s the crazy fucker now? That’s awesome, you madman.”

“One big difference between you and me.”

“Yeah? What is that?”

Danse looked at him seriously. “I had no expectation of coming out alive. I just did what I thought I had to in order to slow that thing down, and got lucky.” The two shared an intense look for a moment, anticipating what was to come. The sound of rubble moving in the distance only served to heighten the urgency in the moment. “I can walk still,” Danse muttered. “Cracked a few ribs, I think, but I should be fine. Helicopter was on standby, so it should be arriving soon. Get ready.”

“Cool.” Jason helped his superior to his feet and started walking toward the source of the sound. “And for the record, I do think I’m going to survive.”

“You better,” Danse muttered, limping away. “That’s a fucking order, soldier.”

Jason held out his hand in a lazy – but sincere – salute without turning back, continuing his slow walk for a moment before quickening his pace into a dash. I have to end this quickly, he thought. Before there’s any casualties. On the plus side, killing the Baker Street Horror without backup would kill two birds with one stone. He'd win part of the game and get a ton of EXP, all at the same time.

To do that, though, he needed to make good on his promise and survive. The Baker Street horror can change its shapes, he considered, as he ran towards the destroyed building. Turned into the monster that killed this witness’s family, turned into Danse’s dead soldiers...does it pick things that traumatized the people it’s targeting? Maybe the first victim with all those claw marks feared bears or something. What would it do if it faced more than one person, though? That question was superseded by a more pressing one, that Jason probably should've thought of before he heard the creature just around the corner. What will it be for me?

What was he most afraid of?

Would it turn into the corpse of the people he failed to save? Or maybe the corpse of the people he had yet to disappoint? A sudden, sinking thought came to him. Rob’s corpse? What if he’s dead? Jason shook his head. No. I refuse to accept that. He’s alive! He’s gotta be. What could it-

“Ah, Jason,” said a new voice, “it’s a pleasure.”

There it is, Jason thought, that darkness. The same feeling when I talk to that voice—what is the monster?

A sarcastic clap came from behind the column. A person? Am I afraid of a person? The clapping became faster, louder, and that feeling of drowning returned, an overwhelming darkness filling his lungs. Jason fought against it, his wrist burning as if a question were being posed to him. Do I want to let it help me here?

No. That would be like admitting he couldn’t do this by himself. Stubborn, maybe, but it was more than stubborness guiding him at the moment – it was pride. He breathed through the darkness, filling his lungs with more of that maddening air around him, daring it to do anything. “It’s a good policy,” Jason warned, “to answer questions quickly when the one asking them is a man carrying a big fucking sword. So let’s get this right on the first try, eh? Who the fuck are you?”

Jason blinked, and when his eyes opened again he saw a sword flying toward him. His body surged with an intense desire to survive, time slowed down, and adrenaline flowed into his body. It was a thrust, he realized, and even in that hazy state, he knew it was a questionable move at best. This man’s sword is too thick and blunt for a thrust to do any real damage. It's not meant for stabbing. He wasn’t in the mood to confirm that assumption, however, and leaned his torso backward to avoid the attack for long enough to draw his own sword.

Steel met steel, giant sword met giant sword, and Humanity’s Hero met the Baker Street Horror.

Swords locked against each other in an equal struggle, both swordsmen struggling to find their center of gravity. It wasn't ideal; locking swords with your opponent and merely try to outmuscle him was a surefire way of dying. Jason had been trained by the government to know that much. If you absolutely had no choice, what you were supposed to do was to try to slide your blade down your opponent’s, to use the base of your sword against the top of theirs for the leverage.

Strangely, both men tried doing this, and when they did, sinking their knees low and trying to shift their grips, they both had their blades go past the other man after bouncing off each other’s shoulders. We drew the same amount of blood from each other, Jason thought, as a manic grin took over him, and that means I can kill it. Both their swords were now past the other’s torso, and the first man to make a move would give the other an opening: from that distance, you would need to bring your sword back too much to actually hit your opponent – and that would give them chance to just punch you in the face or wrestle you to the ground if need be.

So, caught in that brief standstill, hoping the other would make a mistake, they locked eyes. And Jason saw what his biggest fear looked like.

It was a young man, tall and athletic, sporting a nice, messy hairstyle – the kind someone spends a few hours in front of a mirror trying to make sure looks just careless enough while still looking attractive. He wore a red overcoat, sported an attractive smile, broad shoulders, and appeared entirely comfortable swinging that large, monstrously oversized sword.

He looked identical to Jason.

“What do you know?” Jason muttered. “Guess I am a bit of an egomaniac. Danse is never gonna let me hear the end of this.”

A version of me with higher levels, he realized. He hadn’t needed to even check to be sure of it. The way Baker had swung his sword was similar to his, but sharper. A lazier, more confident swing that reached its target just a moment sooner, hit a fraction stronger. Even in this standoff, he could sense the monster emanating a terrifying strength. Deep inside himself, Jason felt something he hadn’t experienced since he was a little kid. A quiet voice in his head, a nagging feeling that whispered, You can’t win. He ignored it.

It was harder to ignore Baker suddenly making a move, bringing the side of its sword against the side of Jason's ribs, sending him flying to the side and smashing his back against a pillar. Bludgeoning—just like—just like me—but better. That son of a bitch. “Well, I have to admire your taste,” Jason muttered, using the pillar for support as he stood up, “you picked one handsome devil to copy.”

Baker simultaneously appeared as though he was and wasn’t listening. He appeared as though he was because he smiled at each word Jason said, shaking his head and chuckling arrogantly as if to taunt him. He appeared as though he wasn’t because when he spoke again, it was not in response to Jason’s words at all. A sort of eerie, lifelike imitation that fell just one step short of reality. “Why do you starve your soul?” Baker asked, using Jason’s own voice. “Your blade—it is your soul. Feed it.”

His bracelet ached and he banished it away from him. “This is a one-on-one fight,” he told the bracelet, “don’t you dare interfere before I even start. I’m going to win this my own way, you hear me?” Jason barked at the object as if it could hear to him. Worst of all, that overwhelming darkness appeared amused by it. He could almost swear it was laughing. “Fuck this,” Jason muttered, pointing his sword at his mirror. “Fuck off with your bullshit, just fight me already.”

Baker shook his head, smiling bemusedly, a sort of lazy expression that infuriated Jason to see on his own face. I don’t make that face. If you’re going to copy me, at least do it well. That face looked too real in its intended emotion. Like it actually could accomplish anything without trying. Jason knew very well that he needed more than that.

“Very well,” Baker declared, in a boisterous voice. Then, in a raspier, more daring tone, “Dance with me, Hungriest Man.”

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