Chapter 31: Marble Douchebag

Blue and red alternating light bathes the stone in dramatic relief, deepening the blue paint graffiti graffiti to royal depth before yanking it back towards purple.

Demarcus and Mato double tap the last of the giant bats behind us, and Izzy and I do our best to ignore the sickening crunches. We've learned our lesson from the fake-dead fake-Higgys and are making damn sure the bats are dead.

The bats were surprisingly easy once we got into the hall itself. Turns out that things that hunt and move with echolocation have hypersensitive ears— one [Disorienting Wail] in the wide and echoing hall and you hear the rhythmic meaty thwacks of deaf bats smacking into walls and floors.

Now, Izzy and I just stare at a blue X on one of the walls, debating our interpretations.

“Will you just make up your mind? Either you go for it or you back out guey.”

The way Izzy's mouth moves lets me know that she said a Mexican idiom that got translated there. Guess “guey” is slang enough to not need translation.

“C’mon, this one's not in the journal, I gotta be careful. All it says is to ‘heed all blue graffiti’ but I dunno if this X is used in the ‘don't’ sorta way or like, ‘X marks the spot.’”

Her hand hits her face, and she grabs my shoulder almost disappointedly.

“Guey, it's literally painted by you. Whatever your instinctual interpretation of it is, is probably the right one.”

“Jesus, I can't stand this anymore.” She says, walking back towards Demarcus and Mato.

My first thought is that there are more ubiquitous symbols for ‘don't,’ like the circle with the line through it. But, similarly, there are less ambiguous symbols to denote a secret stash, like just a straight up dollar symbol.

Demarcus comes up behind me now, wiping sweat from his forehead and taking his time walking up.

“Need some help with that?” He asks.

“Yeah I—”

Before I could explain my trepidation, Demarcus takes a full baseball swing into the X like he's smashing someone's windshield.

I shield myself from the spray, and look back up to see Demarcus sifting through the stone from the hollow brick, then pull out 2 glowing red potions. They look similar to healing potions, but our healing potions don't glow.

“Ooo, fancy.” He says, swirling them around before passing one off to Mato, who has snuck up on my blind side with his damned [Lightfooted] skill.

He then pulls out a knife in an odd curved sheath. “Weird knife.” He says, pulling the bent blade from its sheath.

The metal glints gold, despite the blue and red lighting.

“It's a kukri. Knife used by the Ghurkas. Symbolic.” Mato explains.

“Well, you've got a knife and you know the knife so, all yours.” Demarcus says, sheathing it and holding it out to Mato.

Mato hesitates. “I ain't a Ghurka, so I prolly shouldn't.”

I butt in, with a pinch of condescension. “We're in an ancient tomb fighting for our lives. I doubt they'd mind. But if you're trying to be respectful, you can leave it with me and I can identify it when we sit down to rest. I'm sure they'd appreciate the consideration.”

Mato looks at me with scorn, as the white man looking down on respecting another's culture and traditions. But still, he hands it over, and I hook the sheath onto my waistband.

Izzy gives me a look of ‘told you so’ with a smirk, which quickly cracks into laughter as she looks back at the hole.

Demarcus laughs and Mato just shakes his head when they see the same.

I have to get on my tippy toes to see it, but in the back of the recess of the hollow brick, painted onto the wall in blue paint is just the word:

DORK

***

The end of the hall comes soon, but not soon enough. It seems despite this tomb potentially only existing for the few hours we've been near it, that is long enough for the giant bats to absolutely coat the deeper recesses with guano. Either that, or the great work ported over the guano along with the rest of the tomb, despite changing other things.

Either way, disgusting.

Insult to injury, a flagstone at the end of the hall is trapped just before the exit, so someone will have to disarm the simple spear trap in the wall.

In the disgusting, shit-covered wall.

I'm the one with the journal telling where it is and how to disarm it, so I wind up drawing the short straw. Mato, out of sympathy, attempts to help— but I'm still the one with soiled hands by the end of it.

Wiping my hand desperately against my self-cleaning coat, we approach the end of the hall.

Flickering pink firelight clashes against my pulsing red and blue, and we came to a large archway of a door, with a raised metal portcullis. On the side of the archway, in blue paint, is a symbol of a book, surrounded by a circle with a line cutting across the book.

“Whaddya suppose that means?” I ask.

“Maybe… don't read?” Demarcus offers.

“Might be there's books up ahead, and we shouldn't read them. Either that, or it's saying not to read your book. Ya know, cuz you famously have a book you keep reading.” Izzy says, curious at first before remembering she has to bother me.

“Prolly means ya shouldn't rely on yer book.” Mato says.

Yeah. That's what you want it to mean. I think to myself.

Beyond the arched opening, in the plain sight center of the following chamber, is a marble fountain.

Nearly 15 feet tall, the fountain's base is a round pool, rising up to a beautifully and carefully carved pile of skulls. Standing atop that pile of skulls, imperiously, is a tall, rail-thin man in robes. Color is lost in the stark white marble, but somehow the sculptor gave the impression of trim and accessory to the robes.

The man's face is covered in a mask, carved to the face I recognize as the same one carved onto most sarcophagi. The smallest amount of dessicated skin is revealed beneath it around the neckline.

He stands, with one arm raised in front of him— hand turned to the side as water pours forth from it, as if dropping the water casually and condescendingly, like the act was beneath him.

We step into the room and I dismiss the [Light] spell as the pink torchlights lining the sides of this hexagonal chamber keep it well lit.

Mato and I pace the room, checking the surroundings.

On the far three sides, opposite of the door we entered through, are three more sandstone archways, with their portcullises closed. To the sides of those doors are three symbols, in ancient blue paint.

The symbol on the far left is of a pawprint. The symbol beside the center door is of a door, oddly enough. Likely the one I'll have to funnel mana into. Finally, the one on the right— is a little hard to decipher.

“It could be a wand with a spell exploding out of it.” I offer.

“Then what's up with the chains?” Demarcus asks.

Izzy sighs and raises her voice from across the room. “It's a manacled hand holding a feather duster. That probably means slaves or servants.”

In unison, Demarcus and I tilt our heads and say “Oooh.” As we recognize it.

“Well we gotta free the slaves.” Demarcus says, joking but sincere.

I pace back towards the fountain in the center and begin filling my waterskin, as I say “I would, but I don't think there are any slaves remaining. Alive, at least. I mean c'mon, this place got copied over from an ancient ruin my future selves already raided. Besides, I don't think The Great Work copies over real people.”

“It did in the inn.” Mato says.

“Not quite, it tweaked them too. All those corpses weren't human originally.” I correct.

“What about your flaming undead viking?” Isabella asks, glancing down from the marble statue where she came over to fill her waterskin as well.

“Hmm.” I say, tapping a finger to my lip. “Undead. Doesn't count. Also just a corpse.”

“Alright, then we should free the corpses of the slaves.” Demarcus says.

“Sure dude, we'll break every chain we see. I think we should skip the pawprint door though.” I say, closing my waterskin and walking back to the door we entered through.

“I'm assuming this is the part where you're waiting for one of us to ask why so you can seem smar—”

“I'm glad you asked Izzy! See, it's because in the journal, it said that the pharaoh's ‘pets’ would come out of the walls when we try to open the big-ass mana door. I'm guessing that's where his pets are. I'm also guessing them and the slaves are why this water is here. Which says a lot about the guy that he treated his slaves the same as animals.”

“Anyways, we're gonna have to fight the things regardless later, and the book made it seem like they'd be an unending horde, so it's not like we can thin their numbers. Not worth the risk.” I explain.

Mato grunts and replies “should probably scout it out anyways so we know what we'll be fighting.”

I open my mouth, and have no reply, the haughty intelligence deflates out of me like a balloon. I point at him and admit

“Fair point.”

“Alright we'll go to the petting zoo.”

Demarcus jokingly lets out a “yesss.” As he pumps his arms in excitement.

“But for now,” I continue, “we're going the fuck to bed.”

I punctuate this by slamming down a lever by the side of the entry door, causing the portcullis to close behind us, sealing the room.

Izzy shrugs and I can see the energy quickly drain from Demarcus. He's absolutely exhausted and was clearly putting on a brave face to not slow us down. The big guy absolutely carried us through that fight with the statues. And Mato, I suppose, with the rope. And Izzy, with the wall at the end and— alright so we all did great. Whatever.

I begrudgingly remember something and quickly shout for Demarcus before he can relax fully.

“Shit, sorry, Demarcus one last thing. Almost forgot.”

“Wassup?”

I pull out the binder and just hold it to show this isn't some random whim, and point at the marble douchebag standing atop the skulls.

“Smash that guy.”

Demarcus salutes me, and with two strides and a [Power Strike] to the guys legs, the top of the fountain breaks off, smashing against the stone ground.

“Jesus! Was it gonna come alive in the night or something? Maybe spy on us?” Izzy asks.

“Uh, no. It's just got a water purification thingy in it I wanna steal.” I reply, chiseling away at the fallen statue with the hilt of my shortsword.

“Then, could you have— just maybe— waited until the morning?” She asks, peeved.

Demarcus and I look between the water spewing from the broken base, the dust and rubble floating in the drinking water, and the sharp bits of rock now littered across the floor that we will be sleeping on.

I look between that and Izzy, back and forth two or three times, then simply say;

“Whoops.”

***

After pocketing the strange lapis lazuli water purification stone— disturbingly carved into the shape of an anatomically correct heart— Demarcus and I spend a good 12 minutes sweeping the floor by hand as Mato cooks up dinner.

This time, dinner is a decently pleasant stew. Hearty, using some leftovers as a starter and thoroughly seasoned with wild shallots, a foraged yellow looking flower, and some bay leaves we bought in town. All served in breadbowls to soften up the slightly stale bread.

Of all the poverty meals I've had, this was definitely in the top 10. Though most definitely more tasty, the more significant meals supersede it on that list. Like the time I was able to feed the entire gang for a day or two with fried rice and chicken fingers off the money I made on my own little scrap metal scheme. Or the first peaceful meal of cereal all to myself, without fear, once my parents were gone.

But, this one was up there. Thanks to Mato.

Who I'm supposed to let die.

Now that I have the time, as we bed down and I sit, diligently reading and copying the binder, I don't shake off the thought. I let it sit, curdling and cramping what was once a pleasantly warm and full stomach.

I read the passages of my [Traveler’s Journal], dangerously looking for more information on the nature of time, any hints or ways to cheese this, and don't find much.

The bit on the effects of belief on predestination stays the most relevant, but the optimal outcome of staying ignorant of the event is obviously not possible. Which leaves not believing and ignoring the event, or doing everything I can to stop it anyways.

Easier said than done. Ignoring and disbelieving doesn't come easily when you can remember everything and constantly have a reminder standing in front of you, talking and shit. Plus, everything else has come true so far, so hard to not believe.

I guess that leaves the ‘fuck you, imma do it anyways’ approach. I can do spite.

During my plotting and scheming, trying to think of ways to maybe pause time right as he's dying, then preserve him and bring him to a healer or someth—

“How's it goin'?”

Mato has silently snuck up on me again.

I startle, in my way. Not the jump or exclamation most people do; I feel a warm jolt of something in my chest, but the muscles don't contract.

I still flinch— my subconscious assumes anything unexpected is there to hurt me— but it is less instinctual and more practiced.

My feet shoot beneath me from my sitting position, ready to stand, and my arms swing to block anything from hitting my head. All this for only a second before I recognize who it is.

“Dude you gotta stop sneaking up on me.” I say, brushing off a shoulder and slumping back to sitting.

“Mm. Sorry. Didn't mean to.” He says, and stands there awkwardly, looking around a bit and hooking a thumb in his belt.

“Whatcha doin'?”

My head slowly turns, exaggerating my look of incredulous bafflement at this geezer's attempt at small talk.

“Copying my [Traveler’s Journal]. Ya know, the one you don't approve of.” I answer, turning back to my work.

He sighs, a little frustrated. “I didn't say I disapproved of it. Just, the— the idea of knowin’— the future didn't sit right. I think I'm startin’ to realize it's a lot bigger than that.” He says, sitting down across and to my left.

If he sat there intentionally to be in sight of my good eye, that was considerate of him. That, plus his admission that he's not against the book out of stubborn pride, disarms my instinctual snide defenses.

“Elaborate.” I say, looking up for only a second before returning to my work.

“Well, I don't think people should be messin’ with fate, and it's pretty damn arrogant to think you can control the future, but I don't think it's like that. Ya said yerself that things gotta stay vague and maintain potentiality or whatever ya said. So, I don't exactly think you've got the exact date n time that I'm gonna die in there or nothin'.”

My poker face was just thrown in the cockpit of a falling plane, but I think it pulls up enough to clear Mt. Mato.

“But, look around us. Ya brought us to an Egyptian tomb you picked out and curated yerself, but it was yer future self, in the past. I don't really understand all of this but— I dunno. All of this just doesn't sit quite right with me; the way yer goin’ about things, the lil’ shortcuts and schemes— it feels like cheating. Not even necessarily in this ‘game’ we're s'posed to be playin’ but cheatin’ fate itself or somethin’.”

I'm giving him my full attention by now, my face trained in a slight scowl.

“But, like I said, I don't understand it. We ain't even in the actual world yet. So, I'm tryin’ to reserve judgement. This whole place might not work the way I think it should. I may think some things shouldn't get messed with, but if you're treatin’ it with respect— whatever respect looks like from you—”

That gets a snort from me.

“Then alright. I'll respect that this is yer path. I just hope if it leads to ruin, ya don't bring those around you with ya.”

He finishes, and I set down the journal. I sit up, look him in the eye, and ask.

“Why'd you pick the Game of Gods Mato?”

He looks confused for a moment, then explains.

“When I asked what my wife chose, the white robot guy said ‘The Game of Gods’. She was a firecracker so that makes sense. She may have already come and gone in the 20 years it's taken me to get here, but it's worth a shot.”

He looks a little meek as he continues.

“Then I also had a— silly little dream. That if I made it, became a— a god, ya know? Then I could make things a little better. Help the world make a bit more sense.”

I take that in for a second, nodding as I look at the ground.

“Those are good reasons.”

Then I look back up at him.

“I picked it cuz I wanted power. Not power over others, just the power to go about my day without worrying about food, or cops, or whatever. Or at the very least, not worrying about that stuff cuz of somebody else. I want the power to suffer the consequences of just my own actions, not somebody else's.”

“All my life I was smaller, weaker, poorer— I got my ass beat constantly. I had to be smarter, and crazier, to get by. It still didn’t work. I got killed by someone I called my friend. I woke up in the afterlife and was given the opportunity to live in peace or let it all go, then got told there were Gods. That kinda pissed me off, honestly. I didn’t like the idea of all-powerful beings that could fuck my day up with a thought. I’ve had enough of that from rich people. So, yeah, I’m gonna beat the Game of Gods, and I’m gonna cheat to do it.”

“But you’re right, Mato, some things are real dangerous to mess with. And I do respect it. A gun ain’t a toy, or something you get to make you look cool, or intimidating, or respected, it’s a weapon. You get a gun to kill people. I get that. The same principles apply. Imma fuck around with time, leave little messages calling myself a dork, but I know— well, I get the idea— of what I’m dealing with. And I’m going to use it so I can’t be fucked with so easily.”

“You're probably right to be hesitant, but I don't have that luxury. This is what I've got. And trying to do anything else will just get me branched.”

I say my piece, chest tightening and burning in anger a little bit by the end.

Mato just looks at me, digesting it. Saying nothing. His eyes bore into me with mocking concern. Contemptuous pity.

I look away from them and back to my work.

Before he stands and leaves, I toss a curved sheath with a kukri in it onto his lap.

“The knife’s unbreakable by the way.”