VESPER
“The pigeon storm has dissipated,” Cipher announces four hours later.
We’re still inside the stairwell, sitting in various states of tension. Havoc is cleaning his sword and generally ignoring everyone. Stevie has been talking the entire four hours about his family drama and how it had almost been a blessing to be a Christmas tree topper for a while. I don’t know how he never runs out of things to talk about, but I listen as much as I’m able, even if I still don’t understand exactly what Stevie is or why he’s weak against Christmas trees.
Svetlana mostly just moves back and forth on my shoulder, doing her strange little praying mantis dance when Stryker and Locke start to pace. When I finally ask her what she’s doing, she scoffs at me.
“The better to see them,” she says. “Never take your eyes off of potential enemies.”
I don’t understand why moving back and forth on my shoulder makes her see them better, but whatever. I don’t pretend to be an expert in praying mantis antics.
“So, we can leave now?” I ask Cipher.
“Safety is back to a manageable fifty percent,” Cipher responds.
“How long until the Gate opens?”
“Three hours, ten minutes, and forty-one seconds,” he responds. “You will no longer be able to make it within the required timeframe by walking.”
We’d already known that, but having Cipher confirm it only makes me more certain of what we’re going to have to do.
Locke peeks out of the door first, checking the street for the swarm. When he doesn’t see any flying pigeons, he opens it wide and steps out.
The first thing I notice are the feathers and blood smears across the outside of the steel door. Feathers are all over the street, abandoned by the drones once they’d slammed into the building and been forced to find another target. Bright red streaks and splatters decorate the buildings now, and a few lifeless drones are on the ground where they’d obviously hit too hard and damaged themselves.
The second thing I notice is the NPCs. The NPCs are still all looking up at the sky. Many of them are . . . damaged. Faces sliced, blood running down from wounds, missing eyes. So many of them are missing eyes. Still, they don’t move.
“Why aren’t they moving?” I whisper as we step around them. I try my best not to bump into them.
“It is a product of the pigeon swarm,” Cipher replies. “Programmed by an Ascendant to make it easier to see the players. Unfortunately, those who control the drones take immense pleasure in anyone’s pain, even those who no longer play the game.”
“How cruel,” I murmur.
“Yes,” Cipher agrees. “I have tried for years to override the order, but have not yet been successful.”
“Are they going to die?”
“No,” Cipher says. “There is a group of players who helps with healing those they are able to. Those NPCs who are too far gone are recycled.”
“There’s a group of players who help?” Locke asks, surprised.
“Yes,” Cipher replies. “Organized by Havoc five years ago.”
Both Locke and I whip our heads toward the Warden who is standing there, his face fixed in a permanent frown as he looks around at all the NPCs. I’d thought he was just an asshole before, but . . .
“You organized the helpers?” I ask him, studying him closely.
He shrugs. “Someone had to.”
“But no one else did,” Cipher points out. Usually, he’s the one to talk shit about Havoc, but here he is, showing off his good deed. Which tells me that Cipher thinks a little more highly of Havoc than he lets on.
“Don’t make a big deal about it,” Havoc grumbles. “We should get an automobile and go before we’re late.”
“Right,” I say, glancing at the moving boxes. “How exactly do we do that?”
Havoc raises his brow at me and then strides over to the edge of the sidewalk. The moving boxes are going by fast, their large tires rolling across the pavement, their horns beeping. He looks at me, his eyes dark as he raises his brow and steps into the street.
“No!” I cry, reaching for him as the moving boxes speed toward him.
