AFK, Again

By Huckleberry Hax

"I don't believe in God and I don't believe in the Devil, but I do believe that life is an on-going battle between good and evil. Good is optimism and compassion and gentleness and empathy and joy. Evil is hatred and anger and bitterness and jealousy and apathy. And the only thing which can be found in both good and evil... is love."

The return of Thursday.

Step Stransky is dead and now all that Definitely Thursday - the remaining partner of the Step Stransky Second Life (R) Detective Agency - has to do is live with the fact of being his killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Huckleberry Hax
• Release date: May 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311183378

Huckleberry Hax

Huckleberry Hax writes novels set in and around virtual worlds. His best-known titles are the books of the AFK series set in Second Life®.A resident of Second Life since 2007, Huck also writes regularly on his blog about the metaverse and was a columnist for the acclaimed AVENUE magazine for over two years. His book, Second Life is a place we visit, collects together 42 of these articles.Huck is also an experienced voice performer in SL and has read aloud from his and other titles at a wide range of venues, including Milkwood, The Blue Angel, Bookstacks, Cookie, Nordan Art and Basilique.Huck's other interests include poetry (he has published a volume of his own poems called Old friend, learn to look behind you in the coffee queue and co-edited issue one of the poetry journal, 'Blue Angel Landing'), photography and machinima.

Book preview

AFK, AGAIN

Huckleberry Hax

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Huckleberry Hax

Huckleberry Hax is hereby identified as author of this work in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Cover image by Huckleberry Hax; typography design by Canary Beck

The terms 'Second Life,' and 'Linden' are copyright © Linden Research Inc.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Zoe

MURDER

Chapter 1

Provided you can manage the whole guilt element – and I’m not at all saying that this is easy – killing a man can be quite a liberating experience.  One minute, they’re there and they’re all they ever were to you; the next they’re winked out, switched off, gone.  You find it hard to believe just how easy it was to delete them.  You picture all of their thoughts and words and actions crammed into a pencil that you held in your hands and snapped.

I remember very clearly the way Step Stransky’s hands clutched at my forearms whilst I pushed the pillow into his face.  His nails dug furrows in my skin, it was wonderful.  I watched his body tense and jerk, as confusion transitioned to fear and fear transitioned to panic.  The bedsprings squeaked urgently as they had a few seconds earlier, but for completely different reasons.  You forget that emotion can be displayed across all parts of a person’s body when you’re so used to looking for it in faces; it’s a shocking, intensely beautiful thing to witness the physical bleed of it in this way.  I watched his conscious, purposeful mind drain out of his movement, never to return.  And with amusement – and no small degree of exhilaration – I watched his erection, still wet and shiny from my own insides, droop and fade and whither.  Sometimes, you know, I find myself wishing I’d let him cum after all.  I could have picked up and pushed that pillow into him whilst I was still on top and fucking him; it would have been the most incredible, the most intimate climax of his life and I would have received it gratefully and cradled the warmth from within my belly as his flesh grew cold to the touch.

But I hated John-Paul Barnaby – aka Step Stransky of the Step Stransky Second Life Detective Agency – aka the guy who stole from me the love of my life.  I hated that man more than I’d ever hated anyone before and I wasn’t about to build any favours into his punishment, no matter how much of a turn-on they might have been for me.  So I took that old bastard to the very edge of his orgasm and then I climbed off and started dressing.

The bed sheet was gathered in his hands as though he was clinging to it for his life.  Wha? was all he managed to say at first, he was so out of breath.  What are you doing, my gorgeous?

I picked up the pillow next to him and tossed it up and down a couple of times in a playful way.  I wanted to tell you something, Pops, I said.  Thursday is Definitely a Sideways Step.

It was the passphrase we’d agreed on in SL, months before.  Me and him and Inch.

Step Stransky: We should have a code.

Inch Sideways: A code?

Step Stransky: A code.

Definitely Thursday: What sort of a code?

Step Stransky: An identifier code.  Something we can use to identify ourselves by.

Inch Sideways: To each other?

Step Stransky: Exactly.

Definitely Thursday: Are we talking SL or RL here?

Step Stransky: Both.

Inch Sideways: Both?

Step Stransky: Why not?

Inch Sideways: Are there plans to meet up in real life that I don't know about here?

Definitely Thursday was about to ask the same thing.

Step Stransky: Why, you want to?

Inch Sideways: Do you?

Step Stransky: I asked first.

Definitely Thursday: Haven't we had this conversation before?

Definitely Thursday: Several times?

Step Stransky glares at Thursday and puts his finger across his lips.

Inch Sideways: Funny like being smashed in the face.

Step Stransky: What I was thinking is...

Step Stransky: We all use alts, right?

Definitely Thursday: No.

Inch Sideways: No.

Step Stransky: Exactly.  Wouldn't it be cool if we had a code phrase we could use to each other when we thought we'd 'spotted' one.

Inch Sideways: Eh?

Definitely Thursday: Oh I see what you're on about.

Inch Sideways: You do?

Step Stransky: Well it works like this: say I'm out and about and I see this fabulous young blonde admonishing someone for the use of the acronym 'lol'...

Inch Sideways: Oh for crying out loud...

Inch Sideways: I can't believe I'm the only one with this issue

Definitely Thursday: It is so wrong...

Definitely Thursday: ...people laughing out loud like that.

Inch Sideways: That's just it, though – are they?  Are they actually laughing out loud in front of their monitor?  Are they actually filling their rooms with laughter?

Inch Sideways thinks not.

Step Stransky: May I continue?

Inch Sideways: Is this actually going to be interesting?

Step Stransky: Think of it as a game, if you will.

Step Stransky: You walk past the avatar you think is an alt...

Step Stransky: ...and as you pass you utter the code phrase in chat.

Step Stransky: If you're right you get a point!

Inch Sideways: That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.

Inch Sideways: For the principle reason...

Inch Sideways: ...that if I didn't want you know that such-and-such an avatar was me in the first place...

Inch Sideways: ...then code phrase or no code phrase I would still ignore you.

Definitely Thursday nods.

Step Stransky hadn't thought of that.

Inch Sideways: Wow.  The great detective.

Step Stransky: Still think it would be good though...

Step Stransky: Then we could... use it to identify ourselves!

Definitely Thursday: Isn't that what you said in the first place?

Inch Sideways: So I'm in an alt – unrecognisable to you – and you, for some reason, come up to me and identify yourself using the code phrase?

Step Stransky: Exactly!

Inch Sideways: And I haven't recognised you already because...?

Step Stransky: Right, right.  Yes, there is that too.

Step Stransky: Aha!  But what if *I* was in alt form *too*?!

Step Stransky: Eh?

Step Stransky: Eh?

Inch Sideways: Do you think we should have a secret code, Thursday?

Definitely Thursday: Yes.  Yes I do.

Inch Sideways: For what purpose?

Definitely Thursday: Because it would be well cool.

Inch Sideways laughs.

Inch Sideways: Best argument I heard so far.

Step Stransky sniffs.

Definitely Thursday: Where you would *actually* use it…

Definitely Thursday: …would be if you wanted to identify yourself as an alt…

Definitely Thursday: …and prove it.

Inch Sideways: Right.  I think I see.

Inch Sideways: I meet this guy and he says to me in IM that he’s actually an alt for Thursday…

Inch Sideways: …and I say to him, How do I know you’re not Stransky or some other stalker?…

Inch Sideways: …and he uses the code phrase to identify himself.  Is that it?

Definitely Thursday: Exactly.

Step Stransky: Well of course, that’s what I meant.

Step Stransky: Obviously.

Inch Sideways: Obviously, darling.

Inch Sideways pats Stransky’s hand.

Definitely Thursday: We should make a phrase out of our names.

Step Stransky: How about this: ‘Thursday is a sideways step’.

Inch Sideways: Oh I like it.

Definitely Thursday: Not bad.

Definitely Thursday: But.

Definitely Thursday: We also need an ‘under duress’ variant.

Definitely Thursday: A code we give to villains who torture us for the code…

Definitely Thursday: …so that they can pass themselves off as one of us…

Definitely Thursday: …only when they use it we know they’re really an imposter.

Definitely Thursday: Naturally, we play along in order to skilfully entrap them.

Step Stransky nods in agreement.

Step Stransky: Good thinking.

Inch Sideways: Oh, it’s so thrilling to see professional minds at work.

Definitely Thursday: I propose ‘Thursday is *Definitely* a Sideways Step’ as the authentic code.

Definitely Thursday: And ‘Thursday is a Sideways Step’ as the under duress code.

Inch Sideways: That’s not fair!

Inch Sideways: Why should your name feature twice?!

Step Stransky: Because, my dearest, that very indignation of yours…

Step Stransky: …will ensure you remember which is which.

In fairness to Stransky, he did have a fast mind.

When I stood looking down at him with the pillow in my hands, wearing nothing but my black lace bra and panties; when I repeated back for him those six words, his speed was exactly what I was counting on.  He looked at me, suddenly thinking, his face registering incomprehension, then recognition, then confusion, then hope.  And then he made the mistake I was counting on him making.

Inch? he asked, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face.

Wrong guess, I told him.  And I pushed that pillow down so hard on his face it was like I was pushing it all the way though his soul.

He’d imagined it was Inch because he thought there was only one woman in the Step-Def-Inch trio.  I wanted him to know that he was wrong.  So much for Step Stransky, the great detective, who never even thought to consider his business partner’s RL gender.

*

I picked him up in a bar I’d made a habit of letting him see me in over the couple of weeks I’d been staying there.  Or rather, I let him believe he’d picked me up.  John-Paul Barnaby visited Charlie’s every Friday night at eight, a habit ingrained from a thirty-nine year career in social work that wouldn’t die despite four years of retirement.  The previous week, I’d left with a guy in his thirties following a very non-discreet make-out at the bar.  The week before that I’d sat in one of the corner booths and given one of the regulars a hand job beneath the table, and the barely suppressed giggles I got when I walked in two nights later told me I’d won in a single evening the reputation I’d been aiming for.

So when I took a seat at the bar next to Barnaby that evening, I wasn’t exactly counting on this being the night that he fell into what on so many occasions he’d described to me himself in Second Life as ‘the honey pot’, but I did think there was a chance I might get lucky.  I ordered my drink and opened my purse for money, and he reached out and pushed my rising hand back down.  That one’s on me, he said.  Looking at the barman he added, Make it a double.

Thanks, I said, suggesting in my tone that his generosity was hardly an unusual experience for me and that I knew full well what motivated it.  I’ve seen you here before.

Barnaby laughed and grinned at the barman, who smiled at the private joke.  I suppose you could call me a regular.

I pulled a pack of cigarettes out of my bag and placed one between my lips, opened my zippo and flicked up a flame.  The barman coughed.  Barnaby’s hands closed around mine and flipped the lid shut.  My dear, he said, pointing with his eyes at the new no smoking sign behind the bar, you’re six days too late, I’m afraid.

Fuck, I said.  I put the cigarette back in the pack.  That fucking law.

Well, at least it won’t be the death of you, he commented.

We have a sheltered area out the back, the barman said, trying to be helpful whilst he placed my drink in front of me.

I asked, I can still smoke there?

Sure.  We have ashtrays.

You have economy flower pots filled with sand, Barnaby corrected.  One step up from something made from concrete, or perhaps a dustbin liner.  The least you could console us with is something of some sort of quality.

Sorry JP, the barman said.  Smoking’s not a quality thing any more.

Honestly, I said, removing again the cigarette and standing up from the stool, I really don’t give a shit what sort of ashtrays there are.  I picked up my drink and looked at Barnaby.  Are you coming?

*

Outside, I lit my cigarette and leaned against the doorframe, feigning drunken clumsiness with my positioning and nearly missing my footing.  I’d gargled neat Bells before leaving my bedsit that evening and reeked of the stuff.  Barnaby steadied me with a hand on my arm, then lit up himself and sat down on one of the nearby picnic benches with a long, wheezing sigh.

You should probably give up, I told him, slurring slightly the first two words into one.

I fear, he said, that I passed that particular point of no return quite some time ago.  As if to emphasise this point, he coughed.  I shrugged, pulled on my cigarette, inhaled, held it there for a moment, then blew the smoke back out at him.

So, I said.  You come here often.

Every Friday evening, he replied.  And believe me, I’ve seen a few refurbishments.

I only moved in a few weeks back.  I noticed he was trying to conceal his hunger, and a part of me was suddenly hungry for him in return.  Sometimes, it’s hard not to reciprocate feelings like that.

Like the area? he asked.

Not really.

He took another drag.  Cigarettes are so useful for slowing conversation down.  So then, why did you move?

To get away.

He inserted another pause by taking a long swig of his beer.  From?

Stuff.

He nodded.  Here is as good as any a place to get away from stuff, I suppose.  I must confess, he added, doing that politician thing of flowing right into a change of topic, I’ve seen you here before too.

No doubt, I replied.

He wrestled for a moment with the delicacy of further detail.  I let him squirm a little longer by draining my glass and closing my eyes momentarily whilst the fire descended.

It numbs, I said finally.

The whiskey? he asked.

The fucking, I replied.

Oh.  Right.  Yes.

Well, I told him, you wanted to know.

He smiled at me.  Yes, it’s true; I did.

I dropped my cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with my toes.  I’m Emma, by the way.

John-Paul, he said, unable to stop himself from looking at the nearby sand-filled flowerpot.

Are you going to buy me another drink, John-Paul?

He stood up, won his internal debate and pushed his own butt into the sand.  Yes, he announced.  I believe I am.

*

Old men just love to tell you their stories.  By the time we left Charlie’s, I knew John-Paul had been a social worker in Children’s Services pretty much all his working life, that he’d been married for twenty-two years before his wife died in a car accident and that he had a grown-up daughter who worked as a hygienist for her Spanish dentist boyfriend in some village outside of Madrid.  He even told me he was a detective in Second Life, although he neglected to mention Inch.  Or me.

Second Life? I’d asked.  Isn’t that some sort of computer game?

Not really a game, he answered.

But you pretend to be a detective in it?

"I am a detective in it," he said, a little stiffly – or as stiffly as the four pints of Boddingtons and the double whiskey he had consumed by then would permit.

What sort of crimes do you detect, then?

He scowled.  Detectives don’t just investigate crimes.

What do you investigate, then?

It varies, he told me.  But most of the time, it’s good old infidelity.

Infidelity, I repeated.  In Second Life.

That’s right, he said.

We were sitting at a table for two within easy reach of the back door and the smoking yard outside it.  I leaned toward him on my elbows, my chin resting upon linked fingers.  And how, I asked, does one achieve infidelity in a computer game?

"It’s