Play of Shadows

3.13: One Bad Turn Deserves Another

Ann Sufort came back to herself like a man from a grave. She dug her consciousness out little by little, the world shifting around her like earth over a casket. Awareness returned in pieces and not all of them fit where they ought.

The small shop was twisted out of shape. The ceiling sloped into the floor, the windows curved like a boat's hull, and a sea of junk overflowed in every direction. Ann herself was buried beneath its weight. She clawed her way out, sending piles of trinkets smashing every which way. Her arms ached. Her whole body felt frail and worn thin, like wisps of smoke curling over a fire.

Fragments of information reached Ann through the dull static in her mind. She passed a gloved hand over her own face. The mask was gone.

If she still had her mouth, Ann might have smiled.

The NPCs in Dead City were faceless vessels. Without her soul disk and the mask to keep a semblance of humanity, Ann had unknowingly joined their ranks. The realization stirred a frisson of alarm that dissipated quickly. It seemed too much of a bother to care about what could not be changed.

Ann made her way through the deserted shop. The sound of a fearsome fight filtered in from outside, but she was undisturbed in her careful search. Soon, she had an armful of useful things, which she carried down dark corridors and through a door that gaped open, halfway off its hinges.

A faceless creature lunged for her as soon as she crossed the threshold. Ann kicked it away, not pausing her stride. The creature felled four more in its path. The streets were teeming with misshapen shadows, their bodies half-human, half-not. Red code burned under their skin, like fire ants burrowing through wet soil.

The players were caught in the mob. Ann marked each one with ease, guided by the glow of their soul disks. She could no longer navigate the instance through sight or sound; her senses were that of an NPC guided by coordinates and objectives. Unlike an NPC, however, Ann lacked a script and could harass whatever target she so pleased.

Michael did well with a range of weapons. He was not well-suited to close combat, however, and avoided melee fights to save both his rankings and the heroic persona he had built for his fans. Watching the man get knocked and buried under an avalanche of creatures with too many arms and legs for anyone's comfort brought Ann a sense of inner peace.

She used the end of a long, metal staff to thin the herd, striking NPCs away like one might a pack of rabid dogs from a piece of meat. Once she hit something that yelped rather than growled or screeched, she focused on unearthing enough of Michael to give the man a fighting chance. The NPCs circled but didn't advance on her. They seemed confused by her presence, and something about their whines seemed almost betrayed.

Ann supposed that she was meant to be one of them. It was an unsettling thought, as much as anything could unsettle her at present.

Michael grabbed the staff. Ann let the man to it, moving onto the next player. She heard Michael yell something after her. The words rushed and ebbed, lacking any concrete meaning.

Lieutenant Arendse greeted her with a narrow look. She didn't speak, far too busy keeping on her feet against the tide of NPCs. She caught the gun Ann tossed her way, as well as the sheathed saber. The gun was holstered. The saber lost its sheath.

Ann moved on.

Vernon was cornered under the wide awning of a building that looked flatter than a drawing to Ann's distorted perception of the world. A second soul disc burned behind the man like a small sun. Sasha, apparently immobile but still energetic enough to bite and claw at anything that strayed too near. Ann would have clapped, were her hands not full.