Chapter 4: Destitute Decisions

Jester clambered into his Vrpod, refreshed and with a plan in mind. He’d spent the day thinking about what had occurred in-game. Where he wanted to go from here. What he wanted from all of this.

Thoughts turned to Kylee. He wanted to repair their friendship, but that would cost. Hopefully, she wouldn’t ask for anything he wasn’t willing, or able, to give.

His boss noticed, of course. Commenting more than once on his distracted state. The attention offered little more than an additional incentive to get this figured out. In fact, it pushed him to understand what he wanted.

Which turned out to be simple—money.

Money to buy a robot. Money to open an in-game store. Money to no longer need the dead-end job he hated.

The plan that he told Kylee, selling Happy Hour, would give him some starting capital. On his break, he’d browsed the buy/swap/sell sections of the forums. Multiple potential buyers were out there. Provided she was an original. If so, she’d sell for a high price, at a minimum of around fifteen-thousand credits.

A substantial amount, but not one that would allow him to buy everything he’d want. Still, it would be a massive head start from where he was now.

Though that begged the question. If that was short-term thinking, what was the plan for the long term?

He needed a proper goal, something aside from appeasing Kylee. Not that her feelings weren’t important. No part of him wanted to remain banned. Her store was amazing. Still, he could think bigger. Past one friendship and into the rest of his life.

To come up with an idea that would take him from Scrapper to Player. To put himself in a position where Lexington and others of his type would leave him alone.

Thankfully, RotorRager offered plenty of opportunities.

The first of which was the combat route. Spend the credits on a proper battle-tested robot. With that at his side, he could enter tournaments, stream, take part in bigger quests, and make bets. It wouldn’t be easy to make money, but plenty of opportunities were only possible with a robot.

There was also the more mercantile option. Use the money to buy out one of the cheaper NPC-run stores, like Markal’s. Free brand recognition, and he wouldn’t need to worry about buying the equipment to fill it with. Sure, there’d be fewer customization options for the building, but that was a trade-off he could live with.

Then he’d get into something like decals. Spend his days painting robots. The money wouldn’t be fantastic, not like those who ran mechanically useful stores. However, he’d be his own boss for once. Hard to not like that idea.

It wasn’t until he clocked off for the day that he reconciled the two ideas. When it came together, he almost slapped himself.

It was obvious.

His plan came in six parts.

First, sell Happy Hour. With luck to someone for more than the minimum amount, but he’d take what he can get.

Second, buy a combat robot. Something cute that he could easily paint. A small woodland creature or something similar.

Third, enter and, hopefully, win the Frankenstein Cup.

Fourth, strut his stuff at the Final Cup at the end of the year.

Fifth, make bank off of the brand recognition in the same way Kylee did.

Six, buy out Markal’s store and live off the income.

Simple. Right?

There would be problems, of course. The most obvious being that he needed to complete the quest if he even wanted the chance to sell off the Doll. Which meant waiting to see what Kylee would come up with to help him.

He prayed it wouldn’t be anything too flashy. Happy Hour following him around painted enough of a target on his back.

As he logged onto RotorRager, he couldn’t help smiling. Things were going to turn around. He could feel it.

Happy Hour’s waving form was the first thing he saw as he materialized back into the mechanic’s shop. The Doll remained seated on the workbench, Whiskers asleep in its lap.

Before he could return the wave, a message box sprang into life before his eyes. Kylee had set it to priority, so it would block his vision until he accepted it. A paid service that cashed-up trolls and stalkers who followed popular streamers adored. Players sent multiple complaints, but the company denied the problem even as they raised the price.

Another ability this service offered was it allowed the user to customize the text box: borders, background, and font. All were fair game and there were a lot of interesting combinations.

One thing remained crystal clear as he stared at the message in front of him. Kyle’s anger hadn’t diminished, even after a night’s sleep. This thing was an affront to the design gods, if any existed.

ALERT - PRIORITY
MESSAGE FROM KyleeMeester
Accept
Yes                      No

Jester heard the crack in his shoulder at the sheer speed he hit yes. The red border was bad enough. Comic Sans? That was a step too far. To his great relief, the following box returned to normal.

Message - KyleeMeester
Subject: Dollfucker Anonymous
I’m going to get right to the point.
Well, I asked around. Turns out you're in deeper trouble than you know. Tiffany says hi.
Do you want my help in completing your quest? Do you want to go back to how things were before you made your mistake? Then I’ll grant you the opportunity. On three conditions.

You meet me at the place that this message marked on your map and enter through the front door.

You travel with Happy Hour, with none of the concealment gear you used yesterday.

You don’t get to sell your Doll until I tell you to.

Eat shit
KyleeMeester

His hands trembled as he read the section about the map marker. She didn’t intend to meet at the warehouse then. That couldn’t mean anything good. Plus, what did she mean about friends? What friends? No friends of his entered Geartown. Unless she messaged them too?

So absorbed by trying to work out how bad this was going to get, Jester jumped at the voice.

“Jester! You have returned,” Happy Hour said, gathering Whiskers into its arms as it rose from the bench. A part of Jester wondered if Markal made many comments about them being there.

“Hey, Happy Hour,” Jester said, his tone neutral. Now his heart wasn’t racing from the shock, his mind refocused on the positional issues with the note.

What was the mechanic planning? He pulled open the map and grimaced at the sight.

Kylee’s meeting place was in a cluster of buildings near The Copper Coliseum. Jester knew the area reasonably well. They would be fancier stores, the rent on player-owned buildings getting more expensive the closer one got to the arena.

Not that the building she was directing him to was player owned, as signified by the orange dot. That meant an NPC-owned establishment. A restaurant maybe? Somewhere open, so she could make sure people saw Happy Hour next to him.

No, that would mean she would implicate herself. It’d have to be somewhere she could hide away. Her instance on the front door was weird too. Few buildings contained alternate entrance options.

“Are you quite alright, Jester?”

Happy Hour’s voice once again pulled him out of his thoughts. His attention snapped to where she stood, looking at him with concern.

“You look sad. Did the message you received contain bad news? Can I help?”

He shook his head and sighed.

“Yes, and no. Kylee is on board with helping us.”

“Oh! How wonderful!” Happy Hour said, clapping her hands. The metallic sound rang around the empty store.

“In exchange for us, following some directions.”

Whiskers let out a tinny yawn, choosing that moment to end its sleep mode. It wriggled until Happy Hour’s arms widened enough for it to clamber to the floor. Once there it meowed softly, and stretched, back arching, metallic joints squeaking with each move.

Once that was done, it moved to rub itself against Jester’s leg. As he reached down to pat the cat, he couldn’t help but feel joy at the distraction. He wasn’t sure if Happy Hour understood the Dolls reputation among the player base.

Plus, the more he pondered, the more worried he became about where Kylee would choose to send them. Especially with how he couldn’t hide Happy Hour’s less human characteristics.

His break didn’t last forever, as Whiskers mewled to be picked up. The cat snuggled into his arms when Happy Hour asked a question.

“What kind of directions?”

“She wants us to meet her in Geartown again. This time, without your cloak or shades.”

Jester decided it wasn’t worth mentioning the part about selling Happy Hour. They’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

“At least allow me time to clean my uniform!” Happy Hour declared. “I would hate for anyone to see me looking so uncouth.”

Before he could say anything, Jester was watching The Doll knock large clumps of dust and dirt to the ground. He winced, looking around for a broom.

“No, stop,” He said, as he located one. With one hand, he pointed at a machine in the corner that looked almost like a shower stall. “In there, that’ll clean you up.”

Jester kept his back to the stall as he worked, listening to the sounds of various pumps activating and switching off. When he’d finished sweeping the area, he turned around to see Happy Hour standing in a fresh uniform if one ignored the rips. Bolts and debris remained tangled in its hair, but there was nothing on hand to fix that.

“Better?” He asked.

“Much,” Happy Hour said, dropping into a curtsy.

“Fantastic. She says I should hurry if I don’t want to meet friends. Not sure what she means by that, and I don’t want to.”

“This Kylee is very demanding. I hope she warms up to us.” Happy Hour’s drawn-out sigh made him shake his head. “I do not know what I have done to upset her so.”

Jester patted Whiskers, and the robopet jumped to the grumbling Doll’s shoulder.

He risked a peek back, to see Happy Hour return to what he thought of as its fainting pose. Hand on its forehead as it leaned far too much for any human to manage.

“I do so hate people being mad at me.”

“You’ll survive,” Jester’s gaze flicked about the near-empty streets. “Stay quiet and follow me. The faster we can get there, the better.”

“Of course Jester. You hear that Whiskers. Hush.”

Whiskers meowed, loud and long.

If that didn’t herald this would be a long day, he didn’t know what would.

***

The Journey from Markal’s to the edge of the outskirts proved by far to be the simplest section.

Jester knew this wouldn’t be easy, not with Happy Hour out in the open like this. Thankfully, the few Scrappers he couldn’t avoid didn’t react as badly as he feared. Those with familiar faces nodded, flashing him a quick hand gesture.

While the unfamiliar ones moved to get out of his way, doing their best not to make eye contact. If not for the snickering and whispering that followed them, Jester would have enjoyed the trip.

As it was, he simply did his best not to let their comments get to him.

Happy Hour stayed a pace behind him throughout the walk. Quiet as he instructed. Whiskers, however, perked up and meowed occasionally at the passerby, but otherwise remained on Happy Hour’s shoulder. At each occurrence Jester winced, hoping no one would pay too much attention to the pet.

This would be bad enough. No need to add accusations of theft into the mix.

With whispers being the worst he got, he relaxed. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared. Perhaps the stories were overblown.

That idea vanished as soon as he stepped over the invisible boundary into Geartown proper.

A pocket of space formed around him as they moved through the streets. Happy Hour moved closer, as various looks of disgust crossed the faces of those they passed. Whiskers started hopping between their shoulders, purring as it did so. An action Jester took as a sign of comfort, not that it did much good. He couldn’t blame the robopet for trying, however. The sheer dislike was palpable.

Jester’s plan was to keep his eyes down as much as possible, and soldier through. Keep moving and not stop for anything. Unfortunately, a high-pitch wolf whistle coming from somewhere to his left interrupted his plan.

Without thinking, he looked over, meeting the eyes of an overweight, balding man dressed like a neon biker. When he caught Jester’s gaze, the man faked swooning as the rest of his similarly dressed friends pretended to fan him.

Their laughter was as obnoxious as possible.

Jester ground his teeth together and kept walking.

A passing group of women, all wearing long chain skirts, shouted out a range of insults. Pervert and degenerate, being the most polite, though he tried to remember the more outlandish ones. Hurtful, but creative.

The best things he received from the crowd were stares. Eyes filled with disgust followed him, alongside judgmental gazes and harsh whispers. None of them spoke loud enough for him to understand what they said, but he didn’t need to hear it to know.

He wanted to get off the street. Maybe duck through an alleyway and get away from it all. However, no one seemed to want to move to let him by. In fact, the more he walked, the thicker the crowd became.

The crowd pushed Happy Hour closer to him, as their bubble of personal space shrank. Whiskers started hissing and yowling, swiping at anyone who got too close to them. For Jester’s part, he continued to keep his head down while he looked for a way out.

He was sure his darting head made an odd sight, not that he cared. No. He wanted out. This was too many people. Too many eyes. Every part of him knew that if he stopped moving, something bad would happen.

One step in front of the other was the mantra he internalized. Occasionally, he would try his luck and dodge toward an alleyway or shop. Jeers and laughter met his attempts, as the crowd pressed together to form a wall of avatars.

Soon he’d be back in the center of their small bubble, and the mantra would begin again. One step in front of the other.

They were halfway there, according to his map, when he hit something solid. The sheer size of the avatar forced him to crane his neck to see their cold eyes. The man was big. DLC big. Jester wasn’t even sure how he fit inside buildings.

His smile bared broken teeth, a fact that showed whoever this man was, he didn’t lack funds.

“What’s up with this, Dollfucker?” His harsh voice sounded like he chewed gravel professionally. “Desperate to get your face smashed into something’s chest?”

Parts of the crowd laughed, the others gave way to nervous chuckling. Jester stepped back to get some breathing room and noticed the pocket widen.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you there,” Jester started, before attempting to move around the man. “I’ll just…”

He trailed off as the man moved to block his path.

“Oh no. No, I don’t think you’ll just anything. You ran into me. Rude. So you can stay and chat. On your way to a little gathering, yeah?” The hand gesture used to stress his words made his insinuation crystal clear.

“Look, I need to go,” Jester tried once more to move past, but the big man stepped closer.

“I don’t like rude people. Don’t like you Dollfuckers parading around with your little perversions, either. Kids play this game, you know.”

Jester struggled somewhat to keep his mouth shut at the hypocrisy in that statement. From the corner of his eye, he saw Happy Hour move. Its walk turned stiff, polite. A maid walking into a room to inform the owner of an irremovable stain created by the family dog.

“Sir,” Happy Hour’s voice was icy, almost dead. It reminded him of YouTube videos depicting the first Dolls, back before DollmakerMC changed things. “Is this a friend of yours?”

Whiskers let out a low growl, tail thrashing from its spot on the Doll’s shoulder. The crowd grew quiet, watching Happy Hour and the man stare each other down. Silence reigned until the man grinned.

“Oh wow. The walking pleasure bot talks. Is that so it can say how much it needs you? Wants you? Loves you?” His pitch deepened with the last words, and the crowd laughed again.

“Do you ask because no one loves you?” Happy Hour didn’t move, even as the man’s face turned shocked. “Because they don’t.”

Laughter radiated from the crowd once again, and Happy Hour’s expression changed. No longer deadpan, they smiled as they bowed to the gathering of avatars. Jester tried not to groan, searching for signs of escape, as the man’s face went bright red.

Avatars couldn’t damage robots, even ones with null defense could withstand an attack from a player. Prevention to stop any costly sabotage. That didn’t mean someone couldn’t say, vandalize or restrain one.

“He built you with a smart mouth. That what he into?” The man sneered.

Happy Hour came out of her bow, turning back to him once more.

“From the way you’re blushing, sir, perhaps I can be of assistance to you instead? I know several who I’m sure would aid you in this new bought of self-discovery.”

Jester winced at the smarmy grin on the Doll’s face, sheer embarrassment making him look away from the scene. He was glad he did. A gap opened in the crowd, a path they could use to escape. If they could get there. A feat that would entail getting to Happy Hour without sparking anything off.

This close to the man’s face, he didn’t like his chances. He appeared as if he would try to tear Happy Hour apart himself if he got the chance.

“What did you say to me?” The words came out between gritted teeth.

“They said goodbye,” Jester interjected before Happy Hour could rile the man up further.

Without caring who saw, he grabbed Happy Hour’s hand. Metal fingers gripped his own as she let out a laugh — long and vaguely villainous. He pulled her along and tried not to think about it.

Nobody moved to stop them as he dove into the gap, and it wasn’t until people started calling out his location, he realized the trap. Each gap was specific, leading them towards the inner section of Geartown.

The outfits in the crowd got more homogenized until it was a sea of leather jackets and neon shoulder pads. Jester gulped at the sight. He knew these guys, everyone did. They were fanboys of the Streamer, Bikerbrawler13. The guy’s main robot was a self-driving motorbike with a chainsaw and shotgun attached.

Didn’t do well in cups, so they made their fortune streaming fights against fans in The Junkyard once a month. They were also a regular client of Kylee. Now, at least her comment about some friends made sense.

“Dollfucker, Dollfucker, how are you pleased?” The group chanted in between bouts of laughter.

Jester did his best to ignore them, keeping a tight grip on Happy Hour’s hand as he continued to run. He could hear the big man behind him bellowing the same chant in between insults.

They needed to get off the streets. Away from this insane group who ringed them. That was when he saw it. Nearby, a giant cog jutted from the ground. It ringed the doorway to an antique store, its teeth evenly spaced all the way to the roof.

“Can you climb?” Jester yelled, hoping he made himself heard over the jeers.

“Yes,” Happy Hour responded.

The hand he didn’t hold clutched its skirt, its carved wood paneled legs revealed to the world. Not that it mattered now. With this many witnesses, everyone who cared to know what he owned would.

In front of the doorway stood two guys, dressed like everyone else. They were skinny with basic crew cuts. No robots accompanied either man as protection. Jester’s face hardened.

“Up the cog, let’s go.”

Both men hit the ground as Jester turned and barreled into them. Before anyone could stop him, he let go of Happy Hour’s hand and jumped to grab onto the cool metal. A weight hit him on the head, causing him to look up. Whiskers moved above him now, proceeding with an ease that made Jester smile.

Hand holds were abundant, and it didn’t take long to reach the top. He spun around when he got his footing on the roof, looking down at Happy Hour. The Doll climbed with ease, red hair clinking as they smiled at him. Red eyes, sparkling with sheer excitement, transformed into fear as one guy below grabbed a handful of their brown skirt.

“Don’t you know it’s polite to share your toys?” One woman shouted, as more hands grabbed at the outfit.

Brass and wood reached out to him, eyes transforming from sparkling to pleading.

Without thinking, Jester leaned down and seized the pro-offered hand. The battle was on.

Between Happy Hour lodging a shoe into a tight gap, and his pulling, the two stayed in place. His arms shook, and Happy Hour hurled insults as more rips appeared thanks to the efforts of the men and women, tugging for all they were worth.

However, this stalemate couldn’t last forever.

Before his arms could give way, a deafening rip filled the air. Jester found himself on his back, no longer battling against the force below. Happy Hour landed on top of him, knocking the breath from his lungs.

A strong whiff of sandalwood entered his nose, and he tried not to sneeze. Catcalls filled the air as the two scrambled apart and onto their feet. With a quick glance, he could see the crowd laughing as the big man swung around a piece of Happy Hour’s skirt like a rallying flag.

Whiskers got his attention, rubbing against his legs and meowing indignantly. The robopet’s gaze annoyed, as though wondering what took them so long. He reached down to pat the kitten, as he caught his breath.

“Jester,” Happy Hour said, crouching beside him. “Thank you for not abandoning me to them.”

Jester blinked, confused until he remembered. He was number seven. Which one didn’t stay to help? “You’re welcome. Don’t mention it.” He shook his head and changed the topic, brain still fuzzed from the adrenaline. “I’m sorry about your outfit. I know you liked it. If I can scrounge some money together, I’ll get you a new one.”

Someone, somewhere, should have the skill to make a replacement. Though maybe in a different color? What went well with brass and wood?

Shouts drew his attention back to the situation at hand. Some people climbed the cog after them, though the sheer numbers slowed them. Curses flew, as climbers crushed the fingers and toes of others.

“Run now?” Happy Hour asked, moving as though stretching their legs before a marathon. Their smile was manic, wide, and showing teeth.

“Run now,” Jester confirmed, unable to help his own grin.

The two leaped onto the next building, hurrying on towards the blimp that circled in the sky.

***

Excitement coursed through Jester, as Happy Hour bounded across the rooftop in front of him. Legs now on full display, he could appreciate the craftsmanship of the wooden panels and the way they shifted around the bronze joints.

Each move, smooth and natural, differed completely from the mechanical movements of the machines in the arena. Even the tentacles of The Lovecraftian Knight were stilted in comparison.

A glance over his shoulder showed a group of four pursued them, three women and one man. All sported midnight black Mohawks and moved around obstacles as though they’d been doing so for years.

He could hear voices, they were narrating the chase, livestreaming it most likely. It didn’t surprise Jester to be on a livestream, though he wondered how long they’d been broadcasting. Happy Hour used his name more than once, and while them working together wasn’t news, he’d hoped to keep his name out of it.

Happy Hour jumped over an alleyway, landing with a laugh and calling out, “Jeté!”

Jester did his best to keep up, Whiskers clinging to his shoulder, the robopet sick of Happy Hour’s more erratic movements. Their pursuers landed behind them as the trio moved to yet another rooftop.

Without a break, the chase continued until Jester landed on a red-tiled roof across the street from their destination. Next to him, a skylight let him peer into the shop underneath, which, by the display of robotic animals, sold rare robopets.

Inside, a middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair was showing a collection of tails to a girl dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. Balanced on the girl’s head rested a miniature wolf. He tried not to laugh as he appreciated the attention to aesthetics.

Whiskers glowered into the store, hissing at the wolf. Happy Hour moved to a nearby nixie tube, hopping up to the point in one bound. With a leg outstretched, she balanced, twirling, head still and eyes focused on a single point.

The Doll waved to the quartet approaching them, who paused at the sight.

“That’s almost impressive, Karen,” the single man whispered, only to get elbowed by his companion.

“Shut up, we’re streaming,” the woman who hit him, Karen presumably, said.

“Why are you chasing us?” Jester asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the blimp circling nearby. It wouldn’t vanish until they stood directly outside.

“We want to see you enter, show the world that such places are still in use. A public service, as it were.” Karen waved as though motioning for him to get on with it. Behind her, the other two women laughed.

“Did she put you up to this?” Jester asked, avoiding using Kylee’s name on the stream. She pulled this stunt, but he knew she used the game to pay rent, and he wasn’t that awful.

“Maybe.” Karen’s voice held a sing-song quality. “Does it matter? The adoring watchers want to see a Dollfucker enter their natural habitat.”

At those words, he took a proper look at their destination. It was a chrome cube, tall, with glass windows. The entire building was at odds with the more steampunk surroundings. In tasteful calligraphy, above the RagerSystems company logo, the name Drosselmyers’ Tuppence glowed in neon lights.

A reference to an old Steampunk song the companies’ creator liked. Attached to the building were several posters that displayed an age restriction.

As he looked at them, a miniature holographic version popped up in front of him.

It showed a tasteful picture of a doll. Her long blonde hair stood out against her black cocktail dress. Words ran across the figure in the middle of the page, all in an industrial red blocky text.

Drosselmyers’ Tuppence
18+ Establishment
Younger players or players with adult-content restrictions turned on cannot enter.

The warning was unnecessary. Even if a younger player tried to ignore it, they wouldn’t be able to open the doors. Parent groups got involved as soon as RagerSystems implemented these buildings. That was a fun time in the media for the company.

Jester chuckled, getting him some odd looks from the group streaming them.

Happy Hour landed onto the roof with a thud, and from the corner of his eye, he could see the NPC proprietor glance upwards. She responded to his wave with one of her own.

“So, are you going to follow us inside?” Jester asked, trying to get things back on track. He didn’t think Kylee would let them film the meeting, but he didn’t want to risk it. They were persistent, but they wouldn’t chase them forever, right?

“No, no. We are here to make sure you go inside the front door. In view of everyone below,” Karen said, repeating her gesture from earlier. “So, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Why did you have that guy block me on the way? I would have ended up here, anyway.”

“Oh, that?” Karen shrugged. “We wanted to create a scene, more views. You know, internet drama draws in way bigger watch numbers.”

He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t fault her logic.

“Come on, Happy Hour, it’s time to get to our meeting,” Jester said, moving to the roof’s edge.

The guy wolf-whistled and Karen smirked.

Jester slid down a nearby drain pipe, followed by Happy Hour. He looked to see Whiskers staring at him, unmoving.

“You can jump that!” He called to the robopet, whose shining blue eyes somehow conveyed the kitten’s opinion of his words.

“I will get him,” Happy Hour said, climbing up and returning with a shoulder burdened by a smug-looking cat.

Jester nodded and did his best to ignore the whispers of the streamers above him. He slouched his way across the street, a hand resting on the opaque glass doors. If they were lucky, Kylee would be inside already to guide them.

With a deep breath, and a glance at Happy Hour, who smiled, he pushed on inside.

As the door snapped shut, everything went quiet.