An entire new menu appeared in my interface. It was titled Demolitions Workshop. I clicked on it, but I received an error message.
You may only access this menu when you’re standing in front of a Sapper’s Table. You may purchase this workbench from a Safe Room store.
Interesting. That was something I’d explore later if we ever made it that far.
Donut received numerous skills and achievements from charming the goblins. She received something called a silver Beguiler Box.
Donut opened her boxes first. She received the usual pile of biscuits and torches and potions. From the Boss box, she received her first piece of armor. The Beguiler Box contained a tome called Minion Army. She also received the same two Asshole Boxes I’d received. The first contained a tattoo similar to the goblin pass I’d received earlier. The second, silver box contained five potions called Weapon Oiclass="underline" Weeping Wound.
She was pissed about the tattoo. Absolutely enraged. I hadn’t seen her this upset since Angel the cocker spaniel crunched down and broke one of her jingly balls.
“What gives them the right to just defile me like this? What gives them the right!” she cried. “Oh my god! It’s a disqualifying mark. It’s a disqualifying mark, Carl! I’m damaged!”
The mark appeared on her back, just over her right shoulder blade. She’d screamed and hissed with outrage when it branded itself to her. It was hard to discern what it was. While it glowed through her fur, she had so much hair that it looked like nothing but a gold-colored splotch. I suspected I would get one, too, in a few minutes. I gently touched it, and it let me read the description:
Desperado Pass.
Great. Now you’re running with the type of kids who sit in the back of the bus. What would your mother say?
This pass allows access to the Desperado Club.
Warning: Holding a Desperado Pass negates the ability to obtain a Vanquisher pass.
That was it. It didn’t explain anything about what the hell that meant.
Donut continued to bitch about it for several minutes. Finally, she moved on. With a pop, the silver, scale armor appeared draped over the back half of her body. It reached about halfway down to the floor. I couldn’t tell how it was attached to her, but it seemed to stay put. It was like a skirt, almost, though it didn’t cover her stomach. It had a slot especially for her tail. She started turning in circles, trying to look at it.
“How’s it look? How’s it look? Does it cover the tattoo?”
“It’s fine,” I said as I examined its properties. “It doesn’t cover the tattoo, not even close, but it looks great.”
Enchanted Fae Scale Quadruped Crupper of the Fleet.
Boy is that a fucking mouthful. By the gods.
+2 to Dexterity.
Light and flexible, this scale armor is made from Fae Steel. While not as strong as Elven mail or even good Orcish steel, it’s the strongest alloy that fairy folk can wear. It’s not the best protection, but it’ll make your ass look oh so pretty.
The tome of Minion Army taught a spell that cost 50 spell points to cast. It caused hostile enemies to fight for you instead of against you. It was a great spell, but Donut only currently had 24 spell points, so it was useless for now. She tried reading the book anyway, but it wouldn’t let her. Apparently you couldn’t teach yourself spells you couldn’t cast. She pouted for a good minute straight afterward.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll either trade it in for something better, or you can use it later.”
The last item she’d received was that oil, which was something one could apply to edged weapons to make the wound bleed longer.
It was my turn. I also received a ton of crap. More potions, more dynamite, another lighter, a couple smoke bombs, a couple more scrolls of Confusing Fog. I received no pants or shoes. I got the exact same items from the two Asshole Boxes, though my tattoo appeared on my goddamned neck. I couldn’t even see it, but it burned as it was magically applied.
“It’s a dagger dripping blood,” Donut said, examining it close. “My word is it ghastly. Miss Beatrice is going to absolutely shit when she sees it on me.”
From the boss box I’d received another ring of constitution, this one +2. I put it on my left ring finger, bringing my score up to 12.
From the gold Looter Box I received a single item. A potion.
Skill Potion.
Drinking this adds a single level to the Determine Value skill. Hopefully now you’ll realize all those Magic: The Gathering cards are nothing more than just meaningless pieces of paper, and you should have spent your money on something with actual value, like a treadmill. Or shampoo.
I immediately added it to my hotlist and drank. Nothing seemed to happen, but when I opened up my inventory, I had a new ability. While this first level of the skill didn’t tell me the actual worth of any of the items listed there, it now allowed me to sort them by value, which I did.
The first item on the list was that Tome of Wisp Armor. The second was the Chopper. And after that was the single Hobgoblin Detonator I still had. The next several items were pieces of goblin equipment we’d looted from the workshop, including one of the tables, which was listed as an Engineer’s Table. The list didn’t include the items I currently had equipped. I suspected my troll skin shirt would be the top of the list otherwise.
Finally done with our skills and loot, I decided to take a nap on the uncomfortable cot. Donut, still bitching about the tattoo, curled up with me.
You Monster.
I tried to pry the achievement out of my head. It was just another stupid joke. The game didn’t care that I’d killed children. It wanted me to kill them. The room was set up for it to happen exactly as it had. We were supposed to kill or otherwise clear out the workshop. We were supposed to either blow up that room or do exactly what we did. It was a trap just as much as the bulldozer had been a trap. And those kids had been placed there, in that room, for that express purpose. They’d existed only to die. I couldn’t blame myself, or feel guilty. Donut was right. This wasn’t my fault. Not at all.
I looked up at the ceiling. Someone had carved their initials in the cheap tile. AMW. I wondered who they were, and when they’d carved it. If they were alive now. This place had no signs, so I couldn’t tell where it had come from. It didn’t feel American, but I wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter anymore. This was a place from my world. A place these aliens had stolen.
“You’re not going to break me,” I said. “You might hurt me, or kill me, but you’re not going to break me.”
I turned on my side to sleep. On my neck, Donut cuddled closer. Her new skirt thing pushed into my skin, but it felt oddly comforting. She purred so loud it vibrated my teeth.
20
I was awakened by the start of the show on the television screen.
“Day two,” the orange, lizard-like announcer was saying. It still spoke in that odd, barely recognizable version of the Syndicate common speech. It was like trying to understand someone speaking with a deep Cajun accent. Sure, they were speaking English, but to my brain, they might as well be speaking Klingon.
“Do you think we’ll be on it this time?” Donut asked, scrambling out of bed to sit on one of the chairs. “We blew up half the dungeon! That’s gotta count for something, don’t you think? My word, I am so excited I could just wee. Actually, I do gotta wee.” She scrambled from her chair and headed toward the women’s room, which would have a litterbox waiting for her.