You can read all installments published so far on this page.
We’re jumping back in time a bit for today’s installment. This scene takes place late Tuesday morning. Trask has woken up in his office, there’s a mob of angry mercenaries outside holding severed heads, and Matilda has just arrived with the donuts.
Meanwhile, several streets to the north…
Chapter 23.5: The actress needs to die
For three hours, the griefer waited across the street from the Pancake Theater on Baronet Boulevard, just off of Upper Banking Street. Not to be confused with the Saucer Theater on Lapwallace Street on the south side of the city.
He saw movement down below and slowly moved his crossbow into position. He was hidden behind a balustrade on the second floor of a drinking establishment that catered to actors and was only open at night. The balcony was a perfect location for his stakeout, since there were two exits — a staircase down to the alley, a covered set of stairs to the roof and easy access to the next building over, and a door into the establishment itself. He’d broken all the locks earlier that morning, muffling the sound with his cloak. Not that there was anyone awake yet to hear it. Actors tended to be the kind of people who slept in.
It was one of those actors he was waiting for now. Amara Vivienne Chen-Ashworth was famous across the metaverse and was currently in residence at the Pancake.
He didn’t like the name. Clearly, it was a reference to the Globe Theater of Shakespearan times, but Krim was not round like a pancake. It was a square shape. A better name would be the Tile Theater. Or maybe the Cracker Theater. Or the Napkin Theater. Or even just the Square Theater.
If he was a famous actress, he wouldn’t want to perform at a theater called the Pancake. And especially not for just some revival of a minor Shakespearean play. He didn’t even remember which one.
But he did know that Amara was famous, famous beyond Krim. Her death would send shockwaves through the news services. Not the specific details, of course. Those couldn’t leave Krim because of anti-spoiler laws. But all her fans would be outraged. And the in-world Krim press would have a field day.
Amara herself would undoubtedly cancel her residency and all her fans would boycott Krim. The grid’s user ratings, already abysmal, would drop even further.
Was she finally coming out?
From his vantage point, it was hard to tell exactly what was going on down below. But the fans patiently staking out the theater, hoping to get an autograph, were moving in closer to the theater’s entrance. He aimed at the door and waited, but it did not open. Instead, the crowd spread out again and he discovered that what had drawn them in was the delivery of a stack of newspapers.
So AviNewz had still gone out, despite the fire. That was a disappointment. He needed to get down there and see what they wrote about him, and about the investors.
He crawled away from the balustrade, then took off his cloak and draped it over the weapon. Underneath, his avatar was that of a sexy assassin, with a low-cut bodice and bouncy curls. With the right hat, he could pass for a sexy pirate wench. And he had the hat.
He went down the stairs then used the back alleys to circle around the building so people would not accidentally see him coming out of his hiding spot. Then he adjusted his bosom and walked confidently across the street toward the theater.
“What’s going on?” he asked the first fan he saw. “Is Amara on her way out?”
“No,” the man said, addressing the griefer’s chest. “I think all the beheadings have driven her away. Here.” He thrust the newspaper into the griefer’s hands and stalked away.
“An usher came out earlier and told us that Amara is never here during the day,” said another fan. “But that’s exactly what they would tell us if she were here.”
“I heard a rumor that the understudy is filling in tonight,” said another fan as the griefer scanned the headlines.
There was no mention about any beheadings. Maybe they started after the paper had already gone to the printers, he thought. There was also no mention of the newspaper fire or the artist’s death. Instead, the lead story was about the sniper attacks. He was amused to see that he was credited for more murders than he’d actually committed.
The news about the investors were buried in the financial section, on page three. To his relief, the story only included the basics, and barely went into Gracious Capital’s background at all. Instead, it focused on people’s reaction to the news that revivication companies were interested in using Krim to help recently revived people get used to living again. Apparently, Krim’s basic-bio interface and lack of digital communications was perfect for making people feel that they had a physical body, even though, of course, they didn’t.
Nobody on Krim liked that plan. Not the role-players and not the merchants or the creators.
Gracious Capital was only mentioned briefly, as an investment fund specializing in growth opportunities of undervalued worlds.
Cyril must not have had time to file anything new before the Baron took him. Good. As long as he was kept on ice until Thursday, the investors should be happy. After that, it would all be moot, anyway.
He passed the newspaper onto someone else, and approached the building. A theater employee was selling newspapers and cups of warm milk with honey at a tiny stand by the front door.
“Is Amara performing today?” he asked her.
“Again, no,” said the employee. “But her understudy has been doing a fantastic job all week.”
“All week?”
“Yes, Amara had another engagement come up suddenly,” said the employee. “She’ll be back this weekend.”
“You lie!” said a fan. “I can feel her in there. Her soul calls to me…”
The employee rolled her eyes then sighed and glanced down. “Milk with honey?” she suggested. “Hot cross bun?”
The griefer shook his head then changed his mind and bought one of each. It had been a long morning. He was about to walk away when the employee yelled at him. “Hoy! If you’re going to keep the mug, you have to pay extra!”
He saw another customer return their mug, which the employee immediately filled with more milk. Without washing or even wiping the mug first.
He immediately returned the mug without drinking from it. He shuddered to think of all the bacteria multiplying in the warm milk.
“No refunds,” the vendor said.
But he kept the bun. He was hungry, and at least nobody else’s lips had touched it. He hoped.
As he walked away, he got madder and madder about all the time he’d wasted waiting for the actress to show up. Why was the theater still promoting her if she wasn’t even there? And he was mad about the lack of basic hygiene.
He was still stewing by the time he got back to his hiding spot. Sure, the germ theory of disease hadn’t been invented yet, but reusing dirty mugs was disgusting. The whole place was disgusting.
When he fired down into the crowd, he hoped that at least one of the arrows got the vendor. It was a little hard to tell with all the screaming and running around but it looked like he’d hit at least three or four people.
He put down the crossbow and pulled his cloak over it. When he got back down to street level, he’d just be another panicking tourist.
He took one last glance down at the theater before he left. It didn’t look like he’d killed anyone outright. But wounded was just as good. Better, even. The pain would last longer.