Corruptor: The Warp, #1

By Jason Cordova

The Warp is perfectly safe, its creators claimed.

The single greatest advance in computer technology since the invention of the microchip, the Warp is a virtual reality gaming system so advanced that players aren't just in the game, they are the game. And inside the Warp lies the most cunning of all games, the de facto king of online gaming. It is the one game said to be unbeatable: Crisis.

The Warp was flawless, and the game was perfect. Until something went terribly wrong, trapping Tori Adams and her friends inside it, unable to log off and free their minds from the uploaded virus in their brains. With no other options available and time running out, they must do the one thing that has never been done before—what experts say can't be done—they must beat Crisis in order to save their lives.

Armed only with their computer skills and whatever the out-of-control game grants them, the group must battle impossible odds and confront their own demons if they want to survive. With an unseen enemy hot on their trail and tensions running high, they must learn to trust each other more than they had ever thought possible.

Especially since one of them is a traitor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anticipation Press
• Release date: Jun 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781942936831

Book preview

Prologue

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He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the young girl was trouble from the moment he laid eyes upon her.

There was no obvious reason for his gut to scream a warning as she entered the shadowy entrance to one of the ruined buildings across the street. Instinct warned him to keep his head low behind the partially destroyed brick wall he’d taken cover behind minutes ago.

He knew who she was, knew of her reputation. That, combined with the continuous warnings which erupted from his churning, roiling stomach, set his nerves on edge.

He rested the butt of the rifle on his shoulder and leaned against the fallen wall, the muzzle of the weapon pointed at the doorway of the opposite building. He knew from her profile she was sometimes careless about her patterns of movement; it was a reasonable deduction she’d use the same entrance upon leaving the building.

He looked around to ensure the girl was alone. He recalled she often worked with others, a few close friends she’d recruited to help her become the scourge she was. She was a bane to his kind, and he was determined to put an end to her reign of terror. Being rewarded handsomely for it is a nice bonus, he thought with a vicious grin.

A breeze swept down the deserted, ruined streets, and he coughed slightly as dust from the wall was kicked up and tickled the back of his throat. His eyes watered as he felt the tickling sensation slide further down his esophagus. He rubbed his chest with a gloved hand and grimaced at the amount of noise he’d made. He focused back on the old building, but the girl hadn’t reappeared. His grimace melted away as he thought he spotted her shadow moving across the third-floor window. He peered through the scope mounted on top of the rifle, but she’d moved too quickly. There was no way to get a clean shot; he’d have to wait.

The sun slipped behind the clouds, and the temperature around him dropped slightly. He shivered and wondered if the weather was going to change. He’d anticipated clear skies and sun, and had packed accordingly. Adverse weather would not only ruin the perfect view of the building his target was in, but would also make him very uncomfortable. He frowned in annoyance as a few drops of rain struck the ground around him.

Perfect, he growled under his breath. This is why I’m the best, little girl. He exhaled slowly and checked the front door of the building again. His eyebrows raised slightly, surprise coursing through him. He shifted slightly and peered through the scope for a better view.

She was standing still, partially hidden in the darkened doorway. Her strawberry-blonde hair moved slightly in the breeze of the coming storm, while her blue eyes were staring in his general direction. Calm and deadly, like the sea before a storm. Not a muscle moved in her body, and the man felt himself relax as he prepared for the shot. He pulled the trigger back slowly, carefully.

Why isn’t she moving, a small, tiny part of him asked as he felt the pressure on the trigger grow.

The world around him exploded in a bright white light.

He flew backward and slammed into the side of the building behind him, his body creating a deep dent in the brick surface before he fell to the ruined sidewalk below. In a flash, he was back on his feet as gunfire exploded from the direction of his target, each individual round kicking up a small cloud of dust as it impacted around him. He felt a tug on his sleeve as one came particularly close.

He dove behind another, smaller pile of rubble as the gunfire tapered off. Coughing from inhaling too much dust, he pressed his back against a small, flat slab of fallen concrete, tossed aside the sniper rifle, and shouldered a smaller machine gun. He quickly checked to ensure she wasn’t outflanking him as he snapped a fresh magazine into the gun.

You give up? a feminine voice, mocking and cruel, came from somewhere nearby. A chill ran down his spine. It’s not cruelty in her voice, he thought suddenly with a sick realization. It’s boredom.

Do you? he called back. A long minute passed as he waited tensely, rivulets of sweat pouring down his face.

What’s your name? she called out again, from somewhere closer, her voice echoing loudly through the deserted streets.

Mordecai, little girl, he answered after a momentous pause. I already know yours.

Indeed, was all she said. He shivered again at the sound of her voice. There was something definitely wrong with this situation...

You’re a scary little girl, he admitted as he risked a peek around the corner of the rubble he was hiding behind. He couldn’t see her, but knew that meant little; she could be anywhere.

You’re a brave man, coming after me alone, she retorted, her voice floating as if across an open grave. His grave. He shivered uncontrollably once more.

He waited a few more seconds for the girl to say more, but silence reigned. What is she doing? he asked himself as he looked around again. Even the wind had disappeared, he noticed. He had to act quickly, before she got to him. He shifted to a kneeling position and checked the street once more. Still empty, he saw. He whispered a brief prayer as he prepared to move. He never got the chance.

The girl slid from the shadows behind the rock, her tiny form moving toward him with supernatural speed. Paralyzed momentarily, Mordecai had no chance as the girl slashed downward with the daito she held, and he staggered back as the Japanese sword cut through him. Pain blossomed in his chest as he fell onto his back. The machine gun fell from his hands and clattered to a rough landing a few feet away.

He found himself on the partially destroyed rock he’d been using for cover. His eyes fixed on the gaping wound in his chest, and he moved his hands to cover it, but realized it was futile; he was finished. He looked up and saw the dark shape of the girl towering above him. He focused on her as the pain went away.

You’re lucky, she murmured as she flicked her sword at him, her face expressionless. You’ll be back in a day or two at the most, and you’ll try again. And again. Each time, I promise you, you will fail. Just go find someone else to collect your bounty from.

Cocky much? he asked in a weary tone. She shrugged.

Just stating the facts, she said. Her voice lacked any heat, any sign of displeasure. Mordecai shivered.

How...many? he asked. She cocked her head to the side for a moment, thinking, before she responded.

You’re number six, she answered. He nodded.

Make it quick? Dragging these things out really bothers me, he observed as he looked at the clouds beyond her. The girl nodded and slashed the sword one final time. No other sound was made as she cleaned and sheathed the weapon.

The girl watched as the body slowly broke down pixel by pixel and was absorbed by the street, forgotten as the Moderator no longer resembled his formerly impressive self. She waited until the last shred of clothing had soaked into the street before she looked around and grimaced. Bad enough the Grinder mission cost me so much energy, she thought. She’d been nearly unprepared for the ambush Mordecai had set up; only a stray bit of rubble knocked loose by a tripwire had alerted her to his ambush. Sloppy of me, she chided herself.

Her eyes tracked skyward, and sure enough, the familiar black letters appeared. She grinned and raised her right hand into the air, first clenched. Victory, she thought as excitement washed over her. She read the message high above: "Mission Complete."

She looked over her shoulder at the fallen building and smiled as it slowly began, brick by brick, to rebuild itself. She knew within an hour or so the building would look as though it’d never been brought down by explosives. She grinned, youthful exuberance spreading across her face. Normal people would’ve called it beautiful. Ancient Finns would’ve recognized it as something far more terrifying.

She whooped loudly, her voice echoing down the empty streets of the ruined city.

God, I love this game!

* * * * *

Chapter 1

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Daddyyyyy! the teenage female voice screeched throughout the house. A pile of clothing flew across the room and landed haphazardly in the open suitcase. They joined another, smaller pile of shirts which had already been tossed in the same general direction. The girl growled under her breath and looked around her room, temper growing more profound with each passing second. Her face was beet-red, causing her freckles to stand out that much more. It was an odd contrast to her blue eyes and blonde hair.

Down the hallway and seemingly safe behind the closed door, the hapless father of the ticking time bomb sighed as he folded a dress shirt carefully and set it on his own pile of clothing. He glanced up and wondered briefly if he could pretend not to have heard his only child. He shook his head and decided ignoring her would only lead to mayhem and destruction, something he’d been trying to avoid for the past week, since he’d come home with the news.

He walked slowly to his bedroom door and opened it cautiously, expecting the freckled face of his daughter in the doorway. He was pleasantly surprised when he realized she was still in her room. Instead of walking down the hall to see what she wanted, he decided some distance between them might be prudent.

What is it, Tori? Rodney Adams called out to his daughter.

I can’t find my Pooh shirt! came the half-hysterical cry. I checked everywhere, and it’s not here! Rodney sighed again. There were some days when he wondered if she was a reward to him for his own troubled, turbulent teenage years.

Did you check your dresser drawers? he called back patiently. The last thing they needed, he thought as he ducked back inside his own room, was Tori throwing a massive temper tantrum before they left for Germany. Fifteen or not, Rodney knew his daughter was more than capable of tears and hysteria.

Tori looked suspiciously toward her father’s room, temper threatening to boil over. She shifted her gaze angrily to the dresser, whose drawers were all partially opened with clothes pulled halfway out. She balled her hands closed and open rapidly, struggling to control both her breathing and her voice. She counted to five, slowly, before she answered.

Of course I checked the drawers! she called back as she got off her knees and walked to the dresser. She rummaged through the top drawer as she continued to yell, I checked the drawer five times, and I don’t think it can magically...well, crap.

She pulled out the offending t-shirt and looked at the smiling, yellowish bear featured prominently on the front. The bear smugly mocked her, and she felt her anger rapidly dissipate, replaced by a very acute sense of embarrassment. She glanced back toward her father’s room, but the door had closed once more.

I checked here five times, she told the offending shirt as she tossed it to her suitcase. She looked and scolded the offending dresser. You’re an evil dresser, you know.

She dusted off her jeans and looked around the disheveled room. Most of her personal belongings had already been packed, save for the contents of her dresser. The move, while sudden, wasn’t nearly as difficult as her friends had predicted it would be. Of course, she thought as she cleaned out the remaining articles of clothing from the top drawer, not all of them had hired movers to lift and carry the heavy stuff.

She dropped more clothes onto the growing pile in the suitcase and looked around at the bare walls of her room. Daylight filtered through the windows, and the near-empty room looked bleak and barren. She felt a surprising pang of loss and sadness as she spotted one stain in particular on the hardwood floor. She’d made it years ago, when they’d first moved into the house. Back when her family was whole, before her mother...

She shook off the thought with a sigh and walked to her closet. It was empty, except for a lone winter coat her father had warned her to keep as they traveled. Though it was warm now, he reminded her it’d probably be colder in Germany when they arrived. She grabbed the jacket, then threw it onto the bare bed, her anger slowly returning.

It’s not fair, she muttered as she rubbed her face. She was exhausted and knew that was probably why she was being bratty. When’s my stuff getting there, anyways? she called out loudly as she turned toward her bedroom door once more.

Tori blushed with embarrassment when she saw him standing in her doorway. Her father winced and smiled ruefully. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Rodney beat her to it.

Two weeks, more than likely, he reminded her as he looked around her near-Spartan room. It has to travel by boat to Germany, then come south from Hamburg. Remember?

Sorry, she apologized as the pain and sadness returned to her heart with surprising speed. She looked at the floor, uncertain. I thought you were still in your room.

I know, he said and made a small motion with his hand. Tori shuffled over to her father and leaned against him, her head gently resting on his chest. She closed her eyes.

I hate this, she sniffled as tears suddenly flooded her eyes.

I know, he repeated gently as he patted her shoulder. He reached out and hugged his daughter. I wasn’t looking forward to this day, you know.

Rodney glanced around the room again and smiled sadly. The scuffed hardwood floors, the odd stain on the wall Tori had caused when she was just a toddler and had decided Newton’s law of gravity didn’t apply to juice...all these things nearly brought a tear to his own eye. He looked back down at his daughter and smiled. But remember the positives: better snow skiing, a bigger house, and it’s a new start, just the two of us.

Tori sniffled and wiped her nose on her arm. She looked up pleadingly at her father. But do you have to take the promotion?

Rodney chuckled softly. My boss prefers his employees take promotions when they are earned. I’m also inclined to say ‘yes’ to a promotion, especially one that pays as well as this one does.

Will I have to learn German? Tori asked as she met her father’s eyes. Rodney shook his head and squeezed her tightly, once.

Not if you don’t want to, he replied. Though it might come in handy if we’re going to live there for more than a few years.

I want to go to college over here, she reminded him, giving him a pointed look. I want to go to MIT.

I know, sweetie, he said as he took a step back. But a foreign language might help you get ahead in a career field, plus help out in college.

"Binary is a foreign language," she said humorously. Rodney shrugged and smiled.

Only to Mundanes, he countered. He suddenly remembered what they’d discussed with the principal of her school. You won’t even have to change schools; they’ll teach you online, remember? You’ll still have Mrs. Miller, at least.

The only teacher who likes me, Tori groused quietly. Her father, though, had excellent hearing and grinned.

They all like you, Tori, he chided her gently. It’s just not every day a teacher runs into a student who knows as much about the material you’re studying as they do.

Mr. Cloyd has a weird sense of appreciation, she grumbled. She looked at her bed. Are the movers really going to pack everything else for me?

Yep. Rodney nodded. Just take enough clothes for a week, like we planned, and I’ll buy us some more when we get there. There’s a store on the old base that has lots of stuff. Base exchange, or something like that. He paused for a moment, thinking. His eyes brightened as he thought of something that was almost certain to cheer her up. You remembered to pack that game of yours, right?

Of course, I packed it, she said and shot a look at her other, neatly packed bag near the doorway. She made a quick gesture in its general direction. It’s the first thing I packed! Rodney chuckled and retreated from her room, leaving Tori alone with her thoughts once more.

Today, America, she whispered as she looked around her room. Tomorrow, Germany. And I don’t even speak their language. Man, this royally sucks.

She glanced back toward her father’s room as an idea began to form in her head. While she knew the flight was going to be a long eighteen hours, it didn’t mean she’d be completely out of the loop; there were some things she could finish before she got on the plane.

Daddy, can I use your computer? she called out. She heard a grunt, which she liberally interpreted as a yes, and hurried out of her room. She rushed down the winding stairs and nearly tripped on a box she’d packed the day before as she rushed through the living room. In the kitchen, next to the coffee machine from hell, sat her father’s laptop. She grabbed the computer, moved it to the kitchen table, sat down into one of the chairs, and logged on.

Excellent, she murmured as she finished opening her email program. She spotted the reply from her team leader, Sergio, clicked the link, and the email opened.

Tori, the Helldiver mission can wait for you to get back online. The others said no problem and to have a safe flight. See ya soon.

She laughed under her breath and began typing a response. A few seconds later she sent the email across the Net, her mood drastically improved.

Now, back to the joy of packing, she muttered, though it now seemed more of a trivial matter. She recalled one last piece of advice her father had given her: take a lot of clothing. She climbed the stairs and went back to her room.

Remember to leave a coat out for the flight, her father called needlessly from his room. Tori scowled.

It’s summer, she protested. "Sum-mer. Means it’s warm."

Humor me.

Fine, Daddy, she grumbled and finished her packing.

* * *

The tavern was a dusky place during the daytime. Most countries had long banned public smoking, but within The Warp, normal laws didn’t apply; therefore, anybody who wanted to smoke, could. Another odd quirk of the game, the Moderator mused as he peered through the thick clouds.

He’d walked into the tavern with his Moderator status hidden from the groups of players within. He didn’t want to cause a panic, nor give up his identity so soon. Besides, Moderators were supposed to be banned from taverns, which were designated safe zones within The Warp. If players didn’t believe taverns were safe from Moderators, he thought as he deftly avoided being nudged by a busty woman walking in the other direction, then nobody’d use them. He’d be deprived of information. And information, he knew from years of experience, was power.

He had no luck in finding an open seat; the tavern was, oddly enough, packed for a Thursday morning. He grumbled and looked toward the bar, one of the few places in a tavern he hated to be. It blocked his view of certain areas, while also being the one place where poseurs would go to act cool. The lone ranger look, which some thought was the way to go, said nothing about a player’s ability. Most, if not all, of the good players attracted others to help or be helped. Politics were a huge aspect of The Warp, especially within Crisis, itself.

The Warp, a vast gaming system created a dozen years before, was a complex web of server-maintained worlds, where one could do almost anything on the Net. Want to participate in ancient Roman battles? The Gladiator realm could take care of you. Want to participate in the most indescribable acts of indecency and sexual encounters? There were places for those as well, though he tended to avoid the worst of the bunch. Too many undercover policemen masquerading as participants, he remembered, as he finally managed to squeeze between two hulking players and order a drink. Crisis, though...

Crisis, within The Warp, was The Game. Mixing the difficulties of sequencing, coding, and player interaction, it also allowed for complex political arrangements between teams, players, and even Moderators. One could be the best in any given game in the world, but in Crisis, that individual better have savvy people skills, or they could just end up another notch on a good teams’ belt. Or better still, he thought with a small smile, a nice little reward for me to collect.

Crisis also was unique in many other aspects of gaming. The first was the ability to handle over a hundred thousand player accounts online at one time with no lag per server, of which there were hundreds, all linked into one single, mass-server game. This allowed for many, many players to be in at one time. Moderators loved busy Saturday nights, because it meant a target-rich environment. WarpSoft loved Saturday nights, because of the money Crisis and other games brought in. Players loved Saturday nights more than most; the single girls who played were almost guaranteed to enjoy the attention and company of the virtual hunks, even though they may have been nerds in the outside world. Within The Warp, however, most everybody had the bodies of Greek gods. Chalk up a moral victory within the cyber community; nobody could make fun of looks here.

It was also the only game that penalized a character for dying. If a character died within the world, on a mission, it was promptly erased—no questions, no arguments. It forced players, young and old, to make tactically-sound decisions and prevented would-be players from simply sacrificing a life to get further into the game. The normal life bars and recharge kits were there, as well as a few potions and codes which could bring a dead player back. These codes, however, were so few and far between many players doubted they even existed.

I had one, long ago, when I was just a wee, little player, he remembered as he took a sip of the tangy brew. The bartender, a part of the game itself, a program embedded within the trillions of lines of coding for the tavern alone, knew his drinking tendencies better than his regular bartender outside The Warp. He sipped the mimosa slowly, smacked his lips appreciatively, and looked around the bar.

Many characters were seated around a varied collection of tables, each voice adding to the raucous noise. The lone wolves at the bar were filled with bravado regarding their latest conquest and how they’d dodged the evil Moderator in the nick of time. He smiled. There’s no way any of these players have ever knowingly seen a Moderator, he guessed. They’d probably wet themselves if they knew a Mod was ten feet from them, sipping a drink. Heh.

Each player at the bar seemed to be regaling their friends about their latest exploits, he noticed as he threaded his way through the crowded room toward a seemingly unoccupied table. From one of the seats on the far side of the table, he’d be able to see out both the front door and the windows, where the snow-covered mountains towered in the distance.

He blinked as five people unexpectedly appeared, sitting around a table that hadn’t been there moments ago. He glanced over his shoulder, but nobody in the tavern seemed to notice their sudden arrival. He shook his head and wondered, for a moment, what exactly he’d gotten himself into. He sidled up to them cautiously, a smile on his lips.

That, he said with a courteous nod to the group as he stopped next to the lone vacant chair, was one hell of a cloaking code. Whose is it?

Mine, one of the men said. The Moderator looked the seated man over for a second before he tilted his head toward the vacant chair.

Mind if I sit? he asked the group.

If your name’s Parish, sure, the same man answered.

Parish, his Moderator status still hidden from any casual viewers, sat in the chair and set his drink on the table as he looked at the others. The original speaker took a sip of his drink and waited for him to be situated before he continued.

Mind if I cloak us again? he asked Parish, who shook his head.

Parish shifted his gaze from the apparent leader of the group to the lone woman seated across from him. Her long, silvery hair was tied back into a ponytail and her eyes shimmered blue. Her features were sharp but not unattractive, something most beginning players in The Warp couldn’t pull off without serious computer knowledge. He whistled internally at the woman’s coding skills as he looked into her eyes, which, it seemed, were rippling in the dimly lit tavern. A very cool effect, he noted as his eyes lowered slightly.

Keep your eyes to yourself, she growled in a low voice. He coughed slightly in embarrassment. His eyes returned to hers, and instead of anger, he saw her smiling. Confused, he looked to her left, where a man with flaming red hair was quietly sipping what looked like a piña colada. The team leader, he surmised once more.

Sorry, Parish apologized half-heartedly to the woman without taking his eyes off the man with the ginger hair.

So, the man began, Monsieur Parish. I take it you weren’t followed?

Parish snorted in derision as he reached for his mimosa. "One of the en finites couldn’t have followed me. I’m good at what I do, you know." Although the en finites were players who were close to the end of the game, he didn’t see any way it could happen.

Oh, we know, the man replied, his voice light and humorous.

I’m very interested in learning how you found me, Parish commented, his eyes refusing to budge from the man with the brilliant red hair. I’m a hard man to find, even by my employers.

It wasn’t easy, the man admitted with a shrug. It cost us a lot of money to track you down. But then, you’re worth the cost.

I like my ego inflated, but not overblown, Parish said as his eyes narrowed; he knew from long experience flattery was the root of all evil.

My apologies, the man said sincerely, though his face said otherwise. Parish felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease a bit. The group, he decided, is here to make a deal of some sort.

So, what can I do for you folks? Parish asked them. The leader grinned and nodded.

Moderators need to know their own, for a start, the man said pleasantly. Parish cocked his head slightly, but waited for the man to continue. "WarpSoft pays us well, do they not? Hunt the en finites and keep balance and order in a game specifically designed to be chaotic and unbalanced. We’re sheep dogs in a virtual society."

And it’s a job fifty million people would kill to have, Parish added as some of the tension in his shoulders returned. Again, who are you?

My name is Apollo, the man with the flaming red hair answered. He made a motion to the woman seated across from Parish. You’ve met the lovely Pegasus, the hulking brute to her left is Gorilla, and next to him is Moonbat. The quiet, thin little man next to you is Gargoyle. That rounds out my merry little band.

Nice to meet you all, he said as he turned to look at Gargoyle. He offered the quiet, dark-haired man his hand, and after a moment of reluctance, it was accepted. Parish shook quickly and looked at the team as thoughts formed.

They’re not good hunters, he quickly realized as he peered at them. One thing he was good at was judging talent and people within The Warp—it made him a better Moderator. Excellent coders, but any geek in his mother’s basement can be that. No, they’re too flashy, too obvious. These guys want to be feared, but probably don’t have the rep to back up their desires. I’d put money only Gargoyle has any sort of rep worth talking about.

His face, however, didn’t betray any of his thoughts. So again, what can I do for you?

I’ve seen your work, Apollo stated casually, looking down at his perfectly manicured fingernails. "You always seem to find your mark and have never failed in a mission to eliminate one of the en finites. You had a masterful career as a character before it died off, quite by accident. Who could’ve guessed one of your cowardly compatriots would ‘accidentally’ shoot you in the back just after you won the mission? In an odd turn of events, WarpSoft offered you a position within the game with your now-eliminated character. You naturally said yes, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Is my brief summary correct?"

Yes? Parish shrugged. Only four people knew the reason WarpSoft had offered him a job, and three of them were in the personnel department. Apollo ignored his hesitation and pressed onward.

You have a bachelor’s in computer science, a master’s degree in physics, and a doctorate in electrical engineering, Apollo intoned, his voice light despite the seriousness of the topic. You also currently owe over forty thousand in student loans and have little financial restitution coming soon, save from WarpSoft. You make most of your money as a WarpSoft Moderator, with a side job elsewhere offline. You have two outstanding personal loans as well, both of which are about to go to collections unless payments are made in a prompt manner.

What the hell is this all about? Parish demanded, forgetting his caution momentarily as he stood and glared at his fellow Moderator. Parish’s dark, swarthy skin was sweaty in spite of the relatively cool breeze coming through the open windows of the tavern. Apollo motioned for him to sit down, and after a few reluctant moments, Parish did.

His heart racing, Parish reevaluated the group in his mind as Apollo spoke again.

I also understand you have a belief, Apollo continued, as if Parish’s outburst had never occurred, that all information should be shared and distributed among all people. That firewalls and trap doors are simply access points to be used for inquiries. Free knowledge. A hacker, in other words.

Parish looked around the table as sweat beaded down the side of his face. If any one of these people are in law enforcement, he realized belatedly as Apollo smiled and waited, I am, quite simply, screwed. So he decided to try a different tack. He tugged on his thick goatee thoughtfully, and a small smile played across his dark face.

It’s not every day I see other Moderators hiding their status within taverns, he said as casually as he could manage in the midst of his nervousness. His voice, cool and unconcerned, carefully hid the nervous breakdown he was mentally going through. His eyes flickered between the group members, but their poker faces told him little.

Not cops, he thought with no small sense of relief.

Indeed, Apollo replied easily. I’m not here to ‘bust you,’ as you’d say. I’m here, in fact, to offer you a business proposition.

Despite himself, Parish’s curiosity was piqued. He leaned forward on the table and looked at Apollo carefully. Either the man is the most gifted liar in the world, he decided after a moment, or the game’s decided politics has just flown out the door and is now strictly seeing whether or not the Chaos Factor will save him. He patiently waited for Apollo to explain further.

It’s the sort of proposition which would leave you a very wealthy man, Apollo said, his voice smooth and velvety. The man whom women would want to be with, whom men would envy and want to be. If you helped us, you’d instantly be a worldwide celebrity.

Hmm, Parish muttered as he dissected Apollo’s pitch. Say I agree, and for what it’s worth, desire these things. What’s the catch?

It’s entirely illegal, the man who Apollo had introduced as Moonbat replied. Apollo gave the younger man a hard look but said nothing. Parish’s earlier suspicion as to who was the brains of the outfit was confirmed with the single glance. Moonbat, unabashed, continued. And it could have far-reaching implications—things that could reshape society.

Of what sort? Parish asked, leaning back in his chair. He’d done illegal, though only dealing in information, and the definition of illegal was loosely translated in most courts of law regarding the subject of information.

The sort that, should we be caught, could be disastrous to us and our cause, Apollo said smoothly, his hair settling down into a mimicry of dancing flames. The kind that could, if we get away with it—and we will—change the world.

Parish chuckled as a wild idea formed in his head. What’re you going to do, bring down The Warp? He laughed louder at the absurdity of the thought, but his laughter died quickly when nobody else at the table joined in. He swallowed nervously, his mouth dry. You’re serious? Are you nuts?

We’re going to take down Crisis, Apollo said evenly, his eyes boring into Parish’s. Parish coughed and shook his head, thinking rapidly.

That’s impossible, he argued. WarpSoft can’t be taken over as a whole. Crisis can be rebooted from the outside, and the rules would change. Once the rules are changed... he trailed off. Parish rubbed his face with a hand and reached for his mimosa. He took a large gulp of the cold drink and looked back at Apollo.

"Not if we held, say, every