A Completely Different Night At The Inventory
I stood in front of the large brick building for a few minutes, hesitant to knock on the door. I don't know why, but the outside of this place always gave me the creeps. Maybe it was the fact that I didn't recognize the skyline around the building - wherever it was, it wasn't New Vegas. The sign above the door (labeling the place as "Kent's Amusements") didn't help things any, nor did the light above the door that looked like a trio of crates lashed together with rope. Maybe it was the general back-alley nature of where it was located. Or maybe it was the door itself, peppered with bullet holes and blood splattered over the single word on the door: INVENTORY.
The Inventory. I've been here dozens of times, and I still wouldn't be able to tell you how to get here. The best way I can figure, getting to this place is sort of similar to Arthur Dent's technique for flying: with that, the trick is to aim for the ground when falling and miss. Getting to The Inventory, by contrast, requires you to know exactly how to get where you're going, and then head in exactly the opposite direction.
I planted my feet on the manhole cover just outside the door, gave the secret knock, and then folded my arms across my chest as quick as I could, just in case they - ah! I guess they really had fixed the elevator since the last time I was here. The golden cylindrical cage slid up out of the ground, and with a clunk and a rumble, I started to descend. After passing through a few layers of concrete, I was finally inside.
The Inventory is a great place. High vaulted ceilings, polished mahogany everywhere, cushy leather seats - even on the barstools... it's very Boardwalk Empire meets Silence of the Lambs. Or, at least, that's how Claptrap describes it. Never seen Silence of the Lambs myself. Or Boardwalk Empire. But, I suppose that's neither here nor there. Either way, The Inventory is just a nice place to be.
The elevator eventually slid to a stop, and deposited me on the 2nd floor balcony where bookshelves lined all the walls - though, to be honest, I think they were just there to disguise all the various secret passages. I barely got two steps away before I was greeted by Sir Reginald Van Winslow, self-proclaimed Host at The Inventory. He was a short, portly main sporting a pair of friendly mutton chops on his face, a burgundy smoking jacket (complete with ascot), and a peaked white captain's cap sitting at a jaunty angle on his pear-shaped head.
"Ah, hello again, Mr. Fisher!" He clasped his hands together and smiled broadly, speaking in an accent that wasn't quite British. "Lovely to see you again, back here at The Inventory - oh, but I'm terribly sorry. Our next illicit back-room game of high-stakes poker isn't until next Tuesday. It had to be cancelled tonight, because the other venue took precedence."
"As fun as those games are, Winslow..." I gave him a subtle nod, reaching into my duster, "I'm actually not here for that. I'm here because of this." I pulled out a small crystal. As soon as I opened my palm, the blue-purple crystal righted itself, started hovering and spinning in place. It started to hum, and then the hum turned into a distorted sound of someone speaking.
"Hey there... heh... 'Sheason Fisher.' We should talk. Meet me at The Inventory. I'm sure you know how to get there." At that, the crystal fell silently back into the palm of my hand. Winslow started stroking his chin.
"Hmm... a message most ominous!" Winslow started moving to the stairs, gesturing for me to follow him. "Well, whether or not you find who you're looking for, I do hope you enjoy yourself tonight. There are several fighting matches scheduled tonight to take place on the main stage. Feel free to bet on the outcome of any, as per usual."
As Winslow led me down the stairs, I looked over the railing. Unlike most nights, The Inventory was truly packed wall-to-wall with people, creatures, and cartoons from all over. I tried to pick out all the people and creatures I recognized, but it was useless - there were just too many down there.
On the stage at the far end of the room, underneath the three large crates lashed together with rope and suspended from the ceiling, I could see what Winslow was talking about: there were a pair of fighters squaring off, and hanging in midair above them was what was unmistakably a pair of health bars, one for each of them. The one on the right was definitely Ryu from Street Fighter, and I'm prettysure the one on the left was Siegfried from Soul Calibur. The sword was certainly big enough. As the two of them wailed on each other, I noticed with a strange sense of amusement that all of their attacks (some of which looked quite... explosive) seemed to stop just short of the stage boundary.
"So, I take it business is going well?" I asked. Winslow nodded.
"Oh, absolutely! My life since retirement has been full of entertainments, relaxation, and diversions... but, if I'm honest, there are some days I do miss being Captain of the Screaming Narwhal."
"Didn't you lose that ship to Guybrush, though?" I momentarily stopped by one of the framed photos on the wall. It looked like the players from the first Poker Night that made the subsequent games so popular. "I thought you'd already been a 'retired raconteur' for years before coming here."
"Quite so. Guybrush Threepwood did indeed become Captain after cleverly planting a bomb in a pair of my underpants, thereby knocking me off my ship." Winslow laughed to himself. "Quite an amusing day all around, actually - apart from the massive internal hemorrhaging."
"Yeah, sounds like a blast," I muttered - and then winced at the unintentional pun. "He never did find out the secret, did he?" Winslow shrugged.
"Of Monkey Island? No, no I don't believe so. But he can still hold his breath underwater for ten minutes, which is rather impressive. Still, I should be off. Enjoy your time at The Inventory!"
After Winslow left, I took a very deep breath and decided to take the plunge into the massive crowd. I'd honestly never seen this place so full. Which made it almost no surprise, then, that I'd run into the speakeasy's two most dedicated patrons. Of course, when I say I 'ran' into them, what I actually meant was this:
"Is there something gnawing on my leg?" I wondered aloud. I looked down, and saw a small white rabbit with surprisingly sharp teeth trying to chew through my pant leg.
"I know it's you, Mack Salmon!" The rabbit yelled. He stopped chewing on me long enough to climb up me like a monkey climbing a tree, and then pointed a Luger directly at my face. I was so surprised, I didn't think to ask where an anthropomorphic rabbit who doesn't wear any clothes keeps a gun. "You think you're so clever, wearing that unrealistic rubber mask, but I know the truth! So come on! Take off that hideously deformed lump of plastic you're trying to pass off as a face, and come quietly - or don't! I haven't had a life or death experience in nearly five minutes, and I'm starting to get woozy!"
Before the rabbit could do any more, he was yanked off me and held aloft by a six-foot-tall dog in a dark grey suit and matching fedora. Of course Sam and Max would show up. I just didn't think it'd be this soon.
"Whoa there, little buddy!" Sam said as he held the rabbit upside down by his ankles. Without warning, he unceremoniously punched the white fuzzball in the middle of his face. "Max, don't you remember? We already fought Mack Salmon during the Night of the Gilded Heron-Shark, don't you remember?"
"Oh yeah!" Max seemed completely unfazed by the punch. "Good times!"
"Besides, Mack Salmon was basically a Bond Villain knockoff, he didn't bother to disguise the fact that he was really a talking goldfish swimming in a fishbowl on top of a fake body, and especially not with grotesquely misshapen and disfigured masks!"
"This isn't a mask," I sighed. "This is my face, you guys."
"That's your FACE?!" They both yelled aloud, recoiling in horror.
"Ha. Ha. That wasn't funny the first 20 times you pulled that gag, it isn't funny now."
"Well, I think it's funny!" Max suddenly appeared behind my head and grabbed hold of my cheek, stretching it with a snap. "I mean, look at this thing! I can't think of anyone who'd see this disturbing visage, and not immediately burst into laughter or tears!" I backhanded the rabbit, and he went sailing off my shoulders with a yell.
"Look, since you're here, I got a question. I got this message earlier..." I pulled the crystal out of my duster and it played through. "Either of you know anything about it? Like, maybe who sent it?" Sam shrugged.
"Nah, no idea. Sorry. We're actually here because the two of us are still under contract from Telltale Games, and are legally obligated to appear in every depiction of The Inventory."
"... really?" I asked. The giant dog just laughed.
"Nah, not really. But it sounds nice and legitimate, doesn't it?"
"Don't break the fourth wall, Sam!" Max bounced back into view at the dog's feet. Must be nice being a cartoon. Makes you completely impervious to blunt force trauma. "Breaking things is my job, especially when it comes to destroying the readers willing suspension of disbelief!"
"You crack me up, little buddy!" And with that, the two of them wandered off, leaving me free to head in the general direction of the bar. Or, more accurately, I tried to head to the bar. The place was so thick with people that I ended up getting inadvertedly shoved by a very large rock creature, right into the back of a heavily armored man sitting at one of the tables.
"Augh! Fucks sake, I'm walking over -" I started to try and dust his armor off when I recognized the red stripe on his arm. "Oh! Hey, Shepard! Sorry about that. I think I just got blindsided by Thing from Fantastic Four." Commander Shepard looked at me, holding back a smirk. Obviously he wasn't really all that bothered.
"Fisher," He gave me a short nod. "How's the life of a courier in New Vegas?" I shrugged.
"Oh, ups and downs. Same shit, different day, you know how it goes. What about you though? How's life saving the galaxy?"
"Eh... not all that good, really. Hard to save the galaxy when three out of four of the nearly-identical endings to my series all result in me dead, and the fourth is only marginally ambiguous about my survival anyway."
"Still bitter about that, huh?"
"Of course I'm bitter about that, are you kidding? Mass Effect was a fantastically epic space opera in the same vein of the original Star Wars movies. And what did they do? They cut to the ending of 2001 right before the Death Star blew up." He paused, thinking. "In a manner of speaking, anyway. You know what I mean." I nodded grimly, and patted him on his armored shoulderpads.
"Yeah, that's rough going. I feel for you, man," I gestured with my head to the man sitting across from him. "So, who's your friend?"
"Oh, this guy?" He turned in his seat, so he could continue the game the two of them were playing. "This is Peter VanDoorn. He used to be a military liaison for the UN, but now runs combat ops for the XCOM organization. You know, the people fighting aliens on earth in that Enemy Unknown series?"
"Yeah, I've heard of XCOM," I said with a nod. "It's the Ethereals in that one, right?" Shepard snapped his fingers and pointed.
"That's the one. Apparently, XCOM is always on the lookout for experienced soldiers to help fight back against the Ethereals. Thought I might give it a shot."
"Hell," I said with a chuckle. "With all your experience fighting mecha-space C'thulhu from the dawn of time, a couple of Mutons and Sectoids shouldn't give you much trouble."
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking."
"So, is that why you guys are playing Magic: The Gathering?" I asked, leaning in closer to get a look at the card game. "Are you pitting your tactical skills against one another?"
"No," VanDoorn finally spoke up, shaking his head. "I just like the game."
"You know, Shepard..." A female voice sounded off from behind me; it was strangely accented, and sounded almost robotic, like it was pushed through a filter. I turned just in time to see Tali'Zorah walk behind Shepard, placing a two-fingered hand on her shoulder, and leaning her helmeted head close to the soldier. "Rather than looking for work constantly, you could always... I don't know... make better use of this free time?" It's obvious she had some ideas. Shepard smiled, pressing the side of his head against her opaque-glass facemask, and reaching up to grab hold of her hand.
"Tali... I love you. You know that. But look at it like this: what would you do if you had no omni-tool, nothing to build, no starship engines to work on... and no Chatika vas Paus?" I couldn't see her face, but I could tell just by how tightly she suddenly started clinging to Shepard that she was imagining it.
"That's... that's horrible." The Quarian gave a small shudder and seemed to grab hold of Shepard even tighter.
"Uh," I spoke up with a cough. "Sorry to break up this lovely scene between you two, but... Aren't you John Shepard?" He shook his head.
"No, I'm Adrian Shepard. John hooked up with Liara. I know, I know, it's hard to keep track of all of us. I get confused sometimes myself when we all get together." He grinned, and Tali started chuckling.
"So, what about FemShep, the redheaded one?" I asked, looking around. "Is she around here somewhere?"
"Jane?" Shepard shook his head. "Nah, she and Garrus went out dancing earlier."
"I didn't think any of you Shepard's could dance," I mused aloud. Tali gave a shrug and chuckled.
"Those two can, when Garrus starts to tango..." I tried to picture FemShep and Garrus dancing the tango... and that image just made me laugh.
"Well, sorry for interrupting your game. I should get out of here, and let you guys have fun. I've got..." I paused, thumbing the crystal in my pocket. "Hang on, one thing before I go - do any of you guys know anything about this?" I pulled out the crystal, letting it play in my hand. I was met with blank stares.
"Sorry, doesn't look familiar," Shepard shrugged.
"Is that a hologram?" Tali asked. "Where are the emitters? Is there a power source anywhere?" I grumbled, putting the crystal back in my pocket.
"Damn. Well, it was a longshot anyway. Enjoy the game, I'll see you guys later."
Right. I should do what I should have done in the first place: go to the bar, and ask Moxxi. She's bound to know what this crystal is about. Moxxi literally knows everybody.
"Well, hello there stranger," Moxxi's silken voice seemed to echo in my ears as soon as I managed to push my way through the crowd just in time to collapse against the bar. She tipped her top hat back, and smiled seductively. Then again, that's really just Moxxi's default expression. "Just couldn't keep yourself away, could you? I knew you'd come back my way again. So, what can I get you, cowboy?"
"One of those," I said. "Whisky and cream." Moxxi smiled like the Cheshire Cat.
"Comin' right up, sugar," She reached under the bar, leaning over to give me an obvious and blatant look down her cleavage. "So, have you given any more thought to my offer?"
"What, you mean the offer to head out to Pandora, blow shit up, and get paid?" Moxxi nodded.
"I've been trying to breathe some life into a new Underdome ever since Jack blew up my old one in the Presequel," She finished making the drink, and slid it across the counter at me. "Besides, you're just as talented as any of the Vault Hunters when it comes to killing, if the stories about Courier Six are anything to go by. It should be easy money for the both of us. You, me, and a starship full of cash atop a pile of bloody bodies. Can't think of anything sexier!"
"Maybe," I gave a shrug, knocking back the drink. "There's still plenty to do in the Mojave wasteland, though, and... I'm not the type to leave a job half-done. Speaking of..." I pulled the crystal out of my pocket, and set it on the bar; it righted itself and started playing immediately. "I got this earlier. So, can you tell me anything about this crystal, and maybe who wants to talk to me?"
"Well, sugar," Moxxi leaned back and started pouring another glass. "I would tell you... but I don't think I need to, 'cause he's standing right behind you."
"Who-what now?"
"Well, well," I heard a strangely familiar voice from behind me. "Hello, Sheason Fisher. I was starting to wonder if you'd gotten my message or not."
I turned around and was about to speak when I realized... there is a very good reason I recognized the voice. It was a familiar voice because it was mine. This guy looked like me, except... it wasn't quite me. Whoever this guy was, he looked like a much, much older version of me. His facial features, height, and bearing all looked very similar to my own, but his build was much more heavily muscled - and his hands were huge. His nose had clearly been broken a few more times than mine, and I couldn't tell - were those age lines or scars all over his face? Neither would have surprised me. But his beard and his hair looked almost exactly like mine, except the colors were grey and silver instead of brown. Even his outfit was similar to mine, the only differences were that his brown coat looked like canvas rather than leather, and his wide-brimmed floppy brown hat was something entirely unlike a Stetson.
I know that sounds like a lot of differences, but trust me - the similarities were enough to confuse the hell out of me.
"Hey, Moxxi," He nodded, sitting in the empty barstool next to me, and taking off his hat. "Any Nethergarde Bitter down there?"
"Comin' right up, honey," Moxxi smiled, and disappeared out of view.
"So," The old-me sat down in the empty barstool next to me. "I imagine you have a few questions."
"Yeah," I said, still a bit perplexed. "So, who are you, anyway?"
"Oh, right. The introduction bit," he chuckled and offered me his hand to shake. "I'm Sheason Fisher. Pleasure to meet you, Sheason Fisher."
"Ok, I'm confused," I said, refusing to shake his hand just yet. "Are you, like, a future version of me? I've seen Back to the Future, isn't this a paradox that could rip up the fabric of space and time, and potentially destroy the universe?" He started laughing just as Moxxi came back with a large pewter stein filled to the brim and overflowing with foamy, pale ale.
"No, no, nothing that complicated, this isn't Doctor Who. And I'm not an alternate from a parallel game, like how it works with all the Shepards from Mass Effect. Though... I suppose you could say we are alternate versions of each other..."
"... nope. Still not gettin' it," I said, shaking my head and grabbing hold of my drink. I most certainly wasn't drunk enough yet.
"Alright, let me try to explain," he took a drink of his ale, wiping the foam off his mustache with his bottom lip and savoring the taste. "Mmm. That's the good stuff, alright. You know how The Author created you to be the main character for that New Vegas story he's been working on for the last few years?"
"Well, yeah," I nodded. "Obviously. He started writing me based on the character he played in New Vegas. What about it?"
"That's not the first time he's done that. In fact, The Author has this theory: He believes that the character of Sheason Fisher, with very minor tweaks here and there, can be placed into nearly any universe, any setting, any story, and just fit right in immediately." He took another drink from his stein. "I was the first Sheason he ever created, as a character for a game he started playing back in 2005."
"2005? Wow. No wonder you look so old," I joked. He snorted a laugh into his drink.
"Where is The Author in that story of yours, anyway?" he asked. "I mean, I know he's sticking pretty close to the game, and he will be for a while, but..."
"Well, if I recall correctly, the gang and I are going to head down into Vault 34 for the next chapter. He would've gotten it done earlier, but he's a bit..." I tried to think of the right word. "...stuck."
"Stuck, huh?" he grunted disapprovingly. "Yeah, definitely sounds like him. He never really did have the best work ethic when it came to writing on a deadline."
"Nah, it's not that..." Okay, I'll be honest... it is a bit. "He just moved recently, and he's still getting set up in his new place. All that takes time, I'm sure he'll get it done soon..." The two of us paused, deciding that was the perfect time to take a drink, and the silence was as palpable as the liquor. "Alright... so...where are you from?"
"I'll give you a hint," the old-Sheason set down his stein. "I come from a very popular video game. It is a world of swords, sorcery, and spaceships."
I thought about that for a minute.
"Ohhhh," I said, the lightbulb finally going off. "You're from World of Warcraft, aren't you?" He nodded. "Well, that explains the massive hands, at least." He laughed.
"Yep. Sheason Fisher - a human rogue The Author created back in the early days of Vanilla WoW. I am so old, I remember when getting attuned for Molten Core and running Onyxia was a big deal."
"Wow," I tried to mask the fact that I had no idea what he was talking about. I'd heard about World of Warcraft, sure - with all the people who play that game, who hasn't heard about it? - but I only knew a few of the vaguest details about it.
"Alright, before we go any further, I got a question for you," he said. "Do you have the same problem I have with nobody knowing how to pronounce your name?"
"Oh, fuck!" I rolled my head back and let out a belly laugh. "All the time!"
"You know what it is?" he said. "When he first made me for WoW - I was his first character. He thought he was being really clever, since his last name is Shea. Get it? Sheason, Shea-son, son-of-Shea. I keep telling people, 'sounds like Jason,' but everyone still has trouble."
"I know how to pronounce my own name, jackass," I rolled my eyes.
"That wasn't for your benefit, that was for the readers," he said simply. I blinked a few times.
"Oh. Right, yeah. Good point." Well, it's not like the fourth wall was ever really present in The Inventory anyway... "So, why'd you want to talk to me?"
"Well, the thing is-"
"Hey, Sheason!" A female voice sounded off from behind us, and both of us turned to look. The voice belonged to a young woman with long flowing raven hair who walked up to the bar, dressed in a set of full plate armor lined with fur and made out of a strange dark metal I couldn't identify. In her hands was a massive polearm - which she set against the bar with a heavy thud, like she was setting down a handbag - and on her face was a pair of rather complex looking goggles with multiple lenses, dials on the side, the whole nine yards. What really got my attention were the tattoos on her face: On each cheek was the stylized black silhouette of a three-toed claw that traced the line of her jaw, and ended beneath her eyes.
"Oh, hey Tuera," he finished off his beer. "I didn't think you were going to come tonight." She laughed, and shrugged.
"Why not? This place sells Smithwicks, you can't get it in Azeroth." She pulled off her goggles, setting them on the bar. When she opened her eyes to look at me, her eyes glowed blue. "Besides, it's Tuesday. Server maintenance, remember?"
"You know, I'd actually forgotten." Tuera chuckled, nodding at me.
"So, who's your friend?"
"Tuera, this is... uh... well," the old-Sheason looked at me curiously. "Yeah. This is Sheason Fisher, from the Mojave. Sheason, this is-"
"Tuera?" I asked, looking from her to the old-Sheason, and back to Tuera. "Seriously?"
"Yep." He nodded.
"Wait a minute, yeah! I know you!" Tuera gripped my shoulder, and it felt like I was hit in the back with a sack of cinderblocks. "You're the guy from that post-apocalyptic thing, right?" She let go of my arm and leaned up against the bar. "So, he finally got in touch with you, huh?"
"It would seem so…" I looked down, and pointed at the obviously mechanical device attached to her arm. "Hang on, what's someone from the world of Warcraft doing with a Pip Boy?"
"Oh this?" She held it aloft so I could see. "This isn't a Pip Boy. I'm an engineer, so I built myself a teleport circuit, you know, to get me around fast." There was a small metal disk that seemed to shift with color sitting next to a keypad that was obviously homemade, and surrounded by dozens of wires and tubes; the whole contraption was connected by a power conduit to a battery pack hanging on her belt. "This thing can take me wherever I need to go. Just so long as I'm not too picky about where I end up."
"It would probably be more accurate if you hadn't wired the Last Relic of Argus into it," The old-Sheason muttered dryly. Tuera just shrugged.
"Yeah, but where's the fun in accuracy? I've been itching for adventure, and you don't get adventure when you know where you're going." She snapped her fingers and pointed at him around me. "Speaking of adventure, are you excited for the next expansion?"
"What, Warlords of Draenor?" Old-Sheason just sighed. "Honestly? No. That whole thing with time travel, and Garrosh has gone into the past, but it's not really the past, and…" He shook his head. "It's way too confusing."
"It's not that confusing, if you'd been paying attention. I mean, look at Timeless Isle – that already proved something was screwy with the timeline since Nozdormu and the rest of the dragons lost their powers at the end of Cata. And then there were all the dungeons in the Caverns of Time. Something like this was BOUND to happen eventually." I stayed quiet, not having any idea what either of them were talking about.
"Maybe so," the old-Sheason shrugged. "But I already fought that Horde, back during the first and second wars, and I was in my prime back then. I really have no desire to fight them a second time, and especially not now. I'm pushing 60, depending on which timeline you look at."
"Why do I not believe you?" Tuera finally stopped trying to talk around me, and walked over to old-Sheason. "Oh, that's right. Because you still exercise for three hours every morning to make sure you're still built like a Tauren."
"Hey, I'm retired. Not dead." It sounded like they'd had this conversation before. Tuera patted old-Sheason's chest. From the sound it made, her metal gauntlet hit something rigid.
"And there's the armor you wear whenever you go out."
"That's just no more than being prepared. Wh- HEY!" Without warning, Tuera reached down into old-Sheason's jacket, and pulled out a dagger, setting it on the bar. It was a strangely shaped blade – like a cross between a curved Persian dagger and kukri – and it seemed to be made out a metal that… well, it seemed to glow with shadow, somehow.
"So your excuse for still carrying Black Menace is…what, exactly?"
"You mean aside from it being the best dagger I've ever owned?" Tuera shook her head, laughed, threw her arm around old-Sheason, and turned back to me.
"He doesn't want to admit that WoW is like smoking. Nobody ever really quits. They just stop playing for a while."
"Alright, quick question:" I raised a finger. "I know that we're in The Inventory, and the rules are a bit… looser here, but… shouldn't you guys be a bit more in character? You know… not acknowledging that you're in a video game every two seconds?"
"Eh, why bother?" Tuera shrugged. As she spoke, she seemed to relax into old-Sheason, and he managed to hold her up, despite her wearing what had to be 150 pounds worth of metal plate armor. "He left our story on a massive cliffhanger, and hasn't touched it in years."
"Wait, he wrote a story about you guys?" I asked. The old-Sheason nodded.
"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about, but we keep getting distracted." He motioned with his head for Tuera to get off; begrudgingly, she rolled her eyes and made her way around me back to her seat. "Yes, The Author used to write a story about us. But he stopped, leaving the whole thing on a massive cliffhanger – my apartment blown up, her flying machine shot down, the two of us running in separate directions, and being hunted by assailants unknown. But he stopped writing our story for a number of reasons after that cliffhanger. One of the reasons he stopped was because of how… insular the whole project started." When he realized I didn't know what he meant by that, he continued. "Alright, you know your story is loosely based on his experiences when playing New Vegas?"
"Yyyyeah?" Where was he going with this?
"Well, the first bits of my story were all based on his experiences playing WoW, on an RP server. He was with a guild on Shadow Council, called themselves the Grey Myst, and he started writing up short stories based off the mutual improv-RP these people all did. But none of it got saved. It was either lost on fried hard drives and never recovered, or it was written on guild forums that no longer exist."
"So, when he finally started posting what he was writing in a place where it couldn't get lost…" I think I got it now. Old-Sheason nodded his head.
"None of it made sense, because it all depended on backstory that didn't exist anymore," Old-Sheason shook his head. "You know how he writes, and how much he loves continuity."
"A bit too much, I think," I mused out loud. "Sometimes I think he gets too wrapped up in details that he loses sight of the bigger picture."
"And with a story like ours, the only way things can go is extremely complicated." Old-Sheason leaned around me. "Hey, Tuera? Think you can explain your backstory?"
"Do you want me to start with me, and what I remember in character after the Lich King turned me into a Death Knight and wiped all my memories turning me into a good guy, or do you want me to start with the original Tuera?" she asked, leaning up against the bar.
"Original? What do you mean original Tuera?" She shrugged.
"Strictly speaking I'm a clone. An imperfect clone, at that. It's a long story, but she grew blank bodies as 'backups' in case she was killed. The soulstone network would shove her consciousness into a new backup body, and she would carry on like it never happened. Something went wrong with this one though, because instead of her normal body, it came back as a Blood Elf."
"It was basically just an excuse for The Author to roll a Blood Elf character when Burning Crusade came out," old-Sheason chimed in.
"Wait, what?" I looked closely at her, trying to find… "I thought… aren't Blood Elf ears supposed to be really, really long." She leaned in close, grabbed hold of her hair, and pulled it back to give me a view of her ear. It was roughly the same size as a human ear… but when I say roughly, that is not hyperbole. Her ear had rough, jagged edges rather than the smooth, round shapes you'd expect; it was heavily scarred over, obviously the result of some nasty injury in the past.
"It's the same on the other side. Got into a nasty fight with some undead Vrykul up in Northrend. Woke up in an Alliance triage tent, so obviously they must have thought I was human." She let go of her hair, and it fell back, covering it. "It's easy enough to hide, so I thought I'd roll with it."
"This is starting to make my head hurt," I said, rubbing the scar on my temple. "I can see what you mean about things getting complicated…"
"You don't know the meaning of the word," I heard another female voice speak up behind me. It sounded almost like Tuera, but… it was different. Huskier. Almost venomous, like you could get poisoned just listening to the words.
I turned around and was met with… Tuera. Only different. This Tuera wasn't wearing plate armor, and instead was wearing a robe or a dress or… something. Whatever it was, it looked like it had been tailored to fit precisely, and clung to her features in all the right ways. Around her neck was a black piece of cloth with a glowing green jewel set into it. Her face was almost identical to the Tuera sitting next to me – same facial structure, same nose, and same claw tattoos on her cheeks. But instead of blue, her eyes glowed red, and had an expression of almost bored disdain. Instead of all of it hanging loose, most of her raven hair was tied up in a bun with two very sharp looking chopsticks, with only one side hanging down loose. And instead of scarred ears, hers were exposed and ended in points – but not quite as long as a Blood Elf's ears.
She couldn't have been more obviously evil if she had a neon sign on her back that proclaimed in bright, flashing letters "I'M EVIL!"
"Fisher. Tuera." she nodded curtly the old-Sheason, and then to the death knight sitting next to me.
"Ashama," the Tuera sitting next to me said curtly, sending the new arrival a look made of ice.
"So, what brings The Dark Mistress down here, slumming it with us grunts?" old-Sheason asked, his eyes never leaving the robed-Tuera. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him stealthily grab hold of his dagger.
"GLaDOS is dealing another card game on Thursday," the obviously-evil Tuera said to old-Sheason. "Omaha Hold-Em, I believe. I'm extending an invitation for you to come and lose. With our story on indefinite hiatus, I do relish any opportunity to prove that I'm better than you."
"Thursday…" he stroked his white beard, thinking. "Isn't Thursday ladies night?" Evil-Tuera nodded.
"Exactly. Why do you think I'm extending this invitation to you, and not the graceless lummox over there?" She motioned with her head to the Tuera sitting next to me, who just grumbled, and turned around in her barstool.
"Tempting, but I think I'll pass. Say hello to Chell for me." It looked like he was going to turn around too, but he stopped himself halfway. "Oh, and before I forget – how's that clone of me doing?"
This is getting stupid, I thought. I reached for my drink, only to realize that I'd finished it long before. I waved to get Moxxi's attention so I could get another.
"On ice, for when he's next needed." Evil-Tuera said simply. "When The Author decides to start writing our story again, he'll be revived." Old-Sheason just shook his head.
"You know, that just makes me think he's the Winter Soldier."
"He's certainly a good enough shot." Evil-Tuera said. "Well, I'll leave you to… whatever it is you two were doing."
"Well, she seems nice," I muttered just as soon as she was out of earshot. "Alright, I gotta ask. This is… sort of interesting and all. Truth be told, it's mostly just been stupid and confusing. But what does any of this have to do with me?"
"It's me trying to give you a warning," Old-Sheason said, looking me in the eye. "Look, you've seen how ridiculously complicated a few minutes with us has been, right?"
"Yeah? So?" I asked.
"So, just… take my advice. Try and keep your story from getting too… strange. If things start getting too out there, The Author is bound to get distracted. He'll get bored. He'll think that it's more trouble than it's worth, and then he'll stop writing that New Vegas story. And you know what? That's going to be a tragedy. Because the whole point of writing that story of yours was so he could prove to himself that he could finish something. All those unfinished short stories, all those unfinished novels, all those half-started TV pilots, the outlines and rough notes for dozens of movie scripts… if he stops, then it'll just be another one added to the pile of work he's left unfinished." Old-Sheason gripped my shoulder tight. "Trust me on this. You don't want to end up like me, with nothing to do."
"Well now," I said with a sigh. "Those are all nice words and all… but if I'm brutally honest?" I grabbed the drink Moxxi had finally gotten around to setting down, and emptied the glass in one gulp.
"I'm not sure it's entirely up to me."