Static! Grey, crackly, fuzzy, all-encompassing static. It was like being within electronic interference made tangible.
Tark and Zyra were surrounded, encased, in drab, sizzling nothing — suspended in the anticipation of things to come. They could almost feel themselves disappearing, ready to be reformed into something better.
‘Payment calculated,’ said the voice. ‘Access to Designers Paradise granted for sixty-three hours, seventeen minutes, three sec … seconds.’
There was pause. Tark and Zyra waited.
‘Avatars?’ asked the voice.
Tark and Zyra smiled at each other. But before either could speak, the voice announced:
‘Avatars. Avatars not necessary. Entry parameters altered. Game Master assigned.’
‘Game Master?’ asked Tark and Zyra, together.
‘Yes,’ wheezed a voice. ‘That would be me.’
The Fat Man coalesced in the static.
‘Ya can'ts do this,’ protested Tark.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Zyra. ‘We's paid for our time in Designers Paradise. We's paid for our choice.’
‘I have enough money to do anything I want,’ said the Fat Man. ‘You see, if you have enough money, the rules are different. If you have enough money, you can even make your own rules. If you have enough money, you can control those who do not have enough money.’
‘The Oracle,’ whispered Zyra.
‘Oh yes,’ said the Fat Man. ‘That was me and my money. No one ever gets assigned a path through the rat-mage's domain, unless I pay for it. Actually, I'm surprised you made it through. No one else has. You're more resourceful than you look.’
‘Never minds that,’ said Tark. ‘Wots about the Cracker? And the dragon's wife? And the princeling?’
‘Yes,’ agreed the Fat Man. ‘The Cracker is in my employ. As for Vera — well, she was another project altogether. She was just responding to programming. I had her made for the dragon. He was very lonely, you know. He was old and would have died soon enough of natural causes. Vera would have inherited his body, which she would have brought to me. Elixir made from the juices squeezed from a dragon's spleen has the potential to extend one's lifespan, you know. But then you had to go and kill him, didn't you. Burnt up his body, didn't you.’ The Fat Man took a long wheezy breath before continuing. ‘As for the pathetic Princeling Galbrath — my only association with him was arranging to purchase his sword o’ light for pitifully less than it is actually worth. But then you stole the sword.’
The Fat Man's face grew redder as he spoke. His breath became more raspy and laboured.
‘And to top it all off, you steal from me.’ He clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘I do not like to lose. Especially not to gutter-trash like you.’ He took another deep, long, wheezy breath. ‘But luckily, I never lose. I take circumstances and I mould them and I shape them into something of my own design. I turn it into a game. And I do so like games. Games of cat and mouse. Games of chase and capture … and eventual, creatively inspired, demise.’
‘We ain't playin’ no games,’ said Zyra.
‘Oh, but you already are. And I have another game for you now, here in Designers Paradise. After all, that's what you came here for — to play games.’
‘No,’ protested Tark. ‘We don't comes for games. We comes here to escape. To gets into a betta world.’
‘But it's not a better world,’ explained the Fat Man, as if he were talking to an idiot. ‘It's not real. It's a game. Just like our world.’
‘Wots do ya mean?’ asked Zyra.
‘Enough talk,’ said the Fat Man with a swish of his arm. ‘Time to play.’
The static blurred into blackness dotted with pinpricks of light. Then their surroundings solidified. Tark and Zyra found themselves in a room with a door, two chairs, a control panel and a large, curved window. Through the window they could see a vast unending starscape.
‘Wot's this?’ asked Tark, looking around in confusion.
‘Dunno,’ answered Zyra, equally mystified.
‘Look!’ Tark pointed to the window.
A compact, dangerous looking spaceship flew into view. They saw someone waving from its forward portal.
‘Ready for combat?’ said the Fat Man's voice through the speaker on the control panel. ‘We are both in identical starfighters. Of course, I've flown one before, dozens of times, in fact. Whereas you? Well, you'll just have to figure it out. Now, the object of this game is to destroy your opponent, preferably in a creative manner.’
Tark and Zyra stared at each other, fear and confusion etched on their faces.
‘I can't flies a spaceship,’ said Zyra.
‘I'm willing to be sporting about this,’ said the Fat Man's voice. ‘I'll let you have the first shot.’
‘First shot?’ queried Tark, looking around desperately for a crossbow or a gun or something — anything.
The Fat Man's laughter echoed through the speaker. ‘There's a big red button on the control panel in front of the seats. It fires your weapons.’
‘Wot weapons?’ shouted Tark, searching frantically.
More laughter. ‘Your starfighter is equipped with particle-beam weaponry, you silly boy.’
Tark looked at Zyra and shrugged.
‘Exit game!’ commanded Zyra.
Nothing happened.
Her face fell. ‘We is trapped!’ She slumped into a chair.
‘I'm getting a little impatient,’ said the Fat Man's voice. ‘Last chance! Fire your weapons now or I'll launch mine.’
Zyra leapt forward and slammed her hand down on the button. A streak of light extended from their starfighter to the Fat Man's. It scorched the tip of his fighter's wing.
‘My turn.’ The Fat Man laughed.
As Tark and Zyra watched, the Fat Man's starfighter zoomed out of view. A few seconds later it reappeared, further away, facing directly toward them.
Zyra didn't wait for the Fat Man to shoot at them. She reached forward and hit the red button again, repeatedly. The deadly light streaked forward but was way off target.
‘How does ya aim this thing?’ mumbled Zyra, her hands hovering over the controls.
‘Nice try!’ came the Fat Man's voice.
Light pulsed from the Fat Man's starfighter. Tark and Zyra raised their arms to shield their faces. They were thrown to one side as an explosion rocked their ship. The lights dimmed and went red.
‘Well, I'd say that your shields have now been destroyed. Next shot should actually do some damage to your ship.’
The Fat Man's starfighter streaked off again. Tark and Zyra watched it through the window, not knowing what else to do. It zoomed way off into the distance, did a loop-the-loop and streaked back towards them.
‘He's showin’ off,’ said Zyra. ‘Before ’e finishes us off.’
‘Do somethin’,’ yelled Tark.
Zyra randomly started hitting controls on the panel in front of her. With a lurch, their starfighter started to move. They lost sight of the Fat Man's fighter for a few seconds, but then he was back in view, still heading for them.
Zyra repeatedly hit the red button but the deadly bombardment went nowhere near its target.
Light streaked from the Fat Man's starfighter. Tark and Zyra were thrown to the floor and showered with sparks as instruments exploded on the control panel.
‘Your weapons are destroyed.’ The Fat Man's voice was barely audible as it crackled from the damaged speaker. ‘One more shot should finish you off.’
The starfighter streaked away, performed a complex set of loops, twists and turns, before zeroing in on them.
‘We don't stands a chance!’ said Tark, sweat dripping down his brow, panic in his eyes.
‘Never dids,’ whispered Zyra.
As they watched, the ship slowed in front of them and stopped.
‘I've got a better idea,’ the Fat Man's voice crackled through the speaker. ‘A much more creative solution.’
His starfighter manoeuvred alongside theirs. They could just see it through the corner of the window. As they watched, metal arms extended from his starfighter, and with a jarring clang, attached themselves to their ship.
And then they were moving. Fast.
In the distance, a speck of light grew brighter and bigger. It was not long before it filled their field of vision, a huge blazing orb of fire.
‘You should start to feel the heat soon,’ said the Fat Man's voice. ‘The nearer we get to the star, the hotter it will become.’
‘Exit game!’ shouted Tark in desperation. ‘Exit game!’
‘I'm afraid that won't work,’ said the Fat Man. ‘I'm the Game Master. I set the rules. And the rules include not leaving the game till it's over. Oh, and just so you know, if you die in this game.’ He paused for effect. ‘You really do die!’
‘Exit game!’ sobbed Tark.
‘It ain't no use,’ said Zyra, her voice weak and shaky. ‘We is done for.’
Tark ran to the door and tried to open it.
‘We can't just go out,’ cried Zyra. ‘We're in space. There ain't no air out there. We'll die!’
Tark opened the door anyway and rushed through it, into another tiny room, with another door. There was a small window on that door, and through the window he could see the Fat Man's starfighter.
Tark uselessly banged his fists onto the window, before returning to Zyra.
‘This ain't fair,’ said Tark. ‘If we wuz facin’ him, then at least we coulds ’ave had a chance.’ He patted the hilt of his sword.
‘The sword o’ light,’ said Zyra excitedly. ‘We still may haves a chance.’
She rushed over to the door. On the wall beside it was a small control panel marked ‘airlock’.
‘I don't knows if this'll work,’ said Zyra. ‘But it's all we's got.’
‘Wot?’
‘Puts the sword o’ light into the airlock.’
‘The wot?’
‘That room,’ said Zyra. ‘And power it up.’
Tark drew the sword, slid open the panel on its hilt and hit the recharge button. It flared into life. The sword o’ light stayed in his hands. For the first time, Tark felt like he really owned it — as if it approved of him. And now he had to let it go. He felt a pang of loss as he put it down on the floor in the airlock.
As Tark stepped out, Zyra slammed the inner door shut and poised her hand over the airlock controls.
‘I just hopes this here is the rights button,’ she said, thumbing it.
With a whoosh of escaping air, the sword o’ light was sucked out of the airlock, straight into the Fat Man's starfighter. It sliced through the fuel tank's outer casing like a knife through butter.
Tark and Zyra reeled with the shock of the resulting explosion.
‘Creative enough for ya?’ shouted Zyra as she was thrown back.
Their surroundings melted away and then they were once again hanging in the grey, crackling static. And the disembodied voice was talking.
‘Payment calculated. Access to Designers Paradise granted for sixty-three hours, seventeen minutes, three seconds. Avatars?’
Tark and Zyra looked at each other, smiles spreading across their faces.
‘Tina Burrows.’
‘And John Hayes.’
‘Game environment?’
‘Suburbia.’
Tark reached out and took Zyra's hand.
Memories came flooding back — friends, family, school, shopping … ice-cream. As these experiences solidified in their minds, it was as if they had always been there — had never been taken away.
The static dissipated — as did Tark and Zyra.