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Authors: Ferrett Steinmetz
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heaps along the floor – the bingo machine, the alembic, the blood-letting knife–
But where were the siphon’s copper wires? If Anathema didn’t have a way to whisk excess bad luck away, then he was an amateur. Call in the SMASH team.
No, Anathema had to have a siphon. These were old games, from a man who’d gamemancered for decades. And judging by the raw force he’d channeled with yesterday’s live-action Frogger recreation, his flux was fatal.
Come on, man, Paul thought, searching for wires, you wouldn’t risk the house collapsing on your head. You’d lay in something preplanned to go wrong if the distillation got out of control .
That’s why most flux-brewers had pets. For the bad luck to be truly bad, it had to happen to something you loved. Get a dog, put it in the back yard, run the copper wire so when the freak accident hit, the flux flowed along the path of least resistance.
Didn’t have to be your dog. Just something you loved. Some ’mancers used their mothers.
Then Paul found it: a thin loop of copper wire running from underneath the chair, where the proper sigils had been engraved, leading to the videogame shelves.
That’s what you love most , Paul thought. Your collection . He filed that knowledge away, trying to reconcile “a love of videogames” with “a love of mass murder.” He peered in – were they violent videogames? Was he–
The crunch of tires on gravel.
A door, slamming.
Paul brought the plans to mind, hunting for another escape route. None. Stupidly, he’d holed himself up in this basement. Now he’d have to face down a more experienced ‘mancer–
–with his foot. His stupid, missing foot.
A cheerful burp. A rattle of cans, shoved into the fridge. Then footsteps, skipping down the stairs. The ’mancer whistled the Super Mario tune.
A strange sense of clarity stole over Paul. All his other options had sublimed away, leaving nothing but a bold con. If it failed, he died.
He plunged his hands into his pockets, standing as dramatically as he could in the far shadows. He was glad he’d worn his suit today – it made him more imposing.
The ’mancer hit the lights. Fluorescents flickered on.
She gazed at Paul with mascaraed eyes.
Six
Samus Removes Her Helmet
T he girl who burned Aliyah shouldn’t look that… sunny, Paul thought, dazed . Or that young. A ’mancer in her mid-twenties indicated abundant talent.
The gamemancer’s pudgy face held a pixie-like mischief – even as she sized Paul up with storm-gray eyes. She looked like she’d stepped out of a Final Fantasy game, all black ribbons and buckles; her ironed hair had been pulled back into pigtails, emitting a playful gothiness.
She was fifty pounds overweight, but rather than hiding her figure, she displayed her ample tattooed skin in a cleavage-baring crinoline dress. It was bold, iconoclastic, appealing. Maybe even sexy, if she hadn’t been flexing her purple-nailed fingers around an imaginary controller.
The tingle of magic filled the basement, a summer storm pregnant with lightning.
“I don’t like killing,” she whispered. Which surprised him. She’d killed thirty people in calculated murders – how could she have regrets?
If Paul responded immediately, she’d set the tone for this encounter. So he matched her glare for glare, hands trembling inside his pockets.
“The problem is, you know where I operate,” she continued. Paul’s phone sizzled and popped. “I’m betting from your cheap government suit that you know what I’m doing, and I’m not in a position to relocate. That doesn’t leave us many options.” She looked mournful. “I really don’t like killing.”
As she moved her fingers in preset patterns, summoning gamefire down upon him, Paul said, “What if I told you that you had only ten minutes before the cops arrived?”
She paused – literally paused, thumbing an imaginary stop button. “Why would you tell me that?”
“Just enough time to get out with your
But where were the siphon’s copper wires? If Anathema didn’t have a way to whisk excess bad luck away, then he was an amateur. Call in the SMASH team.
No, Anathema had to have a siphon. These were old games, from a man who’d gamemancered for decades. And judging by the raw force he’d channeled with yesterday’s live-action Frogger recreation, his flux was fatal.
Come on, man, Paul thought, searching for wires, you wouldn’t risk the house collapsing on your head. You’d lay in something preplanned to go wrong if the distillation got out of control .
That’s why most flux-brewers had pets. For the bad luck to be truly bad, it had to happen to something you loved. Get a dog, put it in the back yard, run the copper wire so when the freak accident hit, the flux flowed along the path of least resistance.
Didn’t have to be your dog. Just something you loved. Some ’mancers used their mothers.
Then Paul found it: a thin loop of copper wire running from underneath the chair, where the proper sigils had been engraved, leading to the videogame shelves.
That’s what you love most , Paul thought. Your collection . He filed that knowledge away, trying to reconcile “a love of videogames” with “a love of mass murder.” He peered in – were they violent videogames? Was he–
The crunch of tires on gravel.
A door, slamming.
Paul brought the plans to mind, hunting for another escape route. None. Stupidly, he’d holed himself up in this basement. Now he’d have to face down a more experienced ‘mancer–
–with his foot. His stupid, missing foot.
A cheerful burp. A rattle of cans, shoved into the fridge. Then footsteps, skipping down the stairs. The ’mancer whistled the Super Mario tune.
A strange sense of clarity stole over Paul. All his other options had sublimed away, leaving nothing but a bold con. If it failed, he died.
He plunged his hands into his pockets, standing as dramatically as he could in the far shadows. He was glad he’d worn his suit today – it made him more imposing.
The ’mancer hit the lights. Fluorescents flickered on.
She gazed at Paul with mascaraed eyes.
Six
Samus Removes Her Helmet
T he girl who burned Aliyah shouldn’t look that… sunny, Paul thought, dazed . Or that young. A ’mancer in her mid-twenties indicated abundant talent.
The gamemancer’s pudgy face held a pixie-like mischief – even as she sized Paul up with storm-gray eyes. She looked like she’d stepped out of a Final Fantasy game, all black ribbons and buckles; her ironed hair had been pulled back into pigtails, emitting a playful gothiness.
She was fifty pounds overweight, but rather than hiding her figure, she displayed her ample tattooed skin in a cleavage-baring crinoline dress. It was bold, iconoclastic, appealing. Maybe even sexy, if she hadn’t been flexing her purple-nailed fingers around an imaginary controller.
The tingle of magic filled the basement, a summer storm pregnant with lightning.
“I don’t like killing,” she whispered. Which surprised him. She’d killed thirty people in calculated murders – how could she have regrets?
If Paul responded immediately, she’d set the tone for this encounter. So he matched her glare for glare, hands trembling inside his pockets.
“The problem is, you know where I operate,” she continued. Paul’s phone sizzled and popped. “I’m betting from your cheap government suit that you know what I’m doing, and I’m not in a position to relocate. That doesn’t leave us many options.” She looked mournful. “I really don’t like killing.”
As she moved her fingers in preset patterns, summoning gamefire down upon him, Paul said, “What if I told you that you had only ten minutes before the cops arrived?”
She paused – literally paused, thumbing an imaginary stop button. “Why would you tell me that?”
“Just enough time to get out with your
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