From between the ropes, Jester watched as Debrah vanished from the ring in a puff of purple smoke. Within seconds, she re-appeared in a chair so fancy it bordered on the edge of being a throne.
One of the serving bots placed a drink in her hand, and she waved at Jester, who didn’t respond. His attention was grabbed by Happy Hour’s bizarre behavior, and the murmurs from the crowd told him he wasn’t the only one.
He’d expected her to start the fight the same way she’d started her previous three. Arms raised, legs bent, ready to propel her into the first motions of her dance. But no, not this time. He watched as she moved towards the center, hands held by her sides, fingers flexing. They moved slowly, as though ready to grab the revolver hanging at her hip at anytime.
As she reached the center, she paused and let out a quick series of whistles, and then let out a soft, wah wah wah. Jester knew that sound. That was a cowboy movie staple, played before any showdown.
Heather, for her part, didn’t react. Once again she toyed with her hair as she sashayed her way forward. He could have sworn she winked at one man in the audience, who pretended to catch it and clasp it to his heart.
Gross.
As soon as the two met in the middle, a screen flashed to life in Jester’s vision. A glance around told him he wasn’t the only one it appeared in front of. Every avatar was glancing downward, as though they were staring at a tablet resting in their laps.
It was a proper combat screen, like the one he’d seen at the stadium.
At least now he’d finally get to see the changes the shoes made on Happy Hour’s stats.
The ratings displayed, in reality, were little more than shorthand to make it easier for the viewing audience to understand what was happening. Kylee, during a long all-nighter, explained to him once the actual math used to get those results.
He’d understood none of her hideously complicated descriptions.
So much so, that multiple person theorized the company did it on purpose, so they didn’t have to balance their product. After all, if no one understood the math used, no one could complain it was wrong.
This led to an issue, however. While the ratings of Null to High were great, each rank varied wildly. To where if two mediums attacks with null armor hit each other, the damage could be the same or ten or more points different.
People speculated that this meant the HP system was mostly bullshit, used more than an excuse to ramp up tension.
Jester, at that moment, couldn’t help but agree. Five points may not seem that much, but if Heather could manage a strike that dealt double the damage? That would mean an instant knockout. He hadn’t gotten a screen, thus had the chance to see the numbers against Ol’ Mac.
But the boxing bot knocked Happy Hour out in two or three hits. Could Heather do the same?
Jester couldn’t deny that he’d hoped her new outfit would have buffed her defense rating more. Or that the shoes and the revolver wouldn’t have bumped her into the high damage category.
It was what it was, though. He’d just have to hope it would be enough. Maybe during the first round, Heather would display some weakness they could take advantage of? It might be their only genuine hope.
Happy Hour’s low growl of a proclamation drew his attention back to the ring.
“Well, pardner,” Happy Hour said in a heavy Texan drawl, as she raised her left hand to tip an imaginary hat out of her eyes. A stetson, if someone forced Jester to guess. “You ready for a bit of wrestlin’?”
Heather laughed, flashing a glance into the crowd. A few followed suit, and she wanted for the guffawing to stop before she spoke again.
“O.M.G. You’re trying to, like, put on a show now? That’s so cute. One little gun, and she thinks she’s a cowgirl. So adorbs. Well, pardner, I’m about to make this your last roundup,” Heather said before flashing an impressively condescending smirk.
Apparently, that was the signal to end the banter.
Jester expected Happy Hour to go for the gun. Maybe even to try something as idiotic as firing from the hip. The attack he witnessed was much more traditional for Happy Hour.
A heel tap, followed by slamming a foot into Heather’s shin.
“Ow, you bitch!” Heather cried out, lunging forward and trying to grapple with her now laughing opponent. Her fingers scrabbled at Happy Hour’s head, but failed to find purchase in the tight bun. Jester would need to ask Madame Merriam how she’d managed that style.
When the attempted grapple failed, Heather took a step away. The annoying blonde dodged another kick before twisting her hips and delivering a devastating slap across Happy Hour’s face.
HP vanished from the board as Happy Hour rocked back onto her heels. Hard enough, it retracted one blade and released the other. For a minute, he thought she was going to fall, but she righted herself at the last second.
The sound of metal on synthetic flesh echoed around the now silent room. Then one man cheered, a woman laughed, and the noise of the room exploded. It was so loud that Jester doubted he would have heard Happy Hour’s next words if he hadn’t been as close to the ring as he was.
“Is that all ya gawt, pardner?” Happy Hour asked, slamming her heel once more against the ground and delivering a devastating frontal kick.
Heather dodged the strike again, but not fast enough. Whatever Debrah used to project, her voice must have reignited to make sure the crowd could hear what was going on. It also apparently affected ambient sounds, as the creation of Heather’s new dress slit was close to deafening.
The sight of more synthetic flesh surprised Jester. He figured they wouldn’t bother for any parts that wouldn’t be immediately visible.
Someone in the crowd wolf whistled, which received laughs and cries of derision in equal measure.
Heather looked enraged as she tried to force the fabric back together. Happy Hour smiled at her. Though, perhaps sneered, would have been a better descriptor?
“Nary thought ya were the shy type. What’s wrong? Afraid ta show a liddle leg with those there hip swings?” Happy Hour said.
That seemed to trigger something in the blonde waitress. Within seconds, Heather went from enrage to contemplative. In what Jester considered a dangerous move, she turned her back to the smirking Android.
With one hand, she reached out as though trying to implore the crowd. As she did, she shifted, making sure her bare leg was visible through the slit.
“What do you think of the new uniform?” She purred. “Better than hers?”
Once more, cheers and booing filled the room. Happy Hour, not one to be outdone in terms of showboating, moved beside the posing waitress. She pulled a pose of her own, hands folded in front of her waist, and put on her most demure smile.
All traces of the accent were gone as she spoke in her most formal tones.
“But a more traditional style is also appealing, is it not? And why stare at muddy browns? When you can have the night sky!”
As she spoke, the stars printed on her uniform swirled, as though activated by her words. They shifted to cover her skirt and bodice in constellations, that glowed before breaking apart as quickly as they formed.
Gasps of pleasure and prolonged oohs came from the crowd. Several even stood and applauded at the light show.
Heather shot Happy Hour a glare, strutting forward and trying a more seductive pose. Happy Hour ignored her, simply swaying to an unseen beat, letting the stars on her outfit provide the show.
Jester glanced over at Debrah, who wore a frustrated expression on her face. When she caught him staring, she gave a slight nod towards the two Androids. When he turned his attention back to the fight, he saw Heather on the move.
Apparently, she’d realized she’d lost this little pose-off. Thus, she was going to take matters into her own hands.
So focused on the adoring crowd, Happy Hour never saw the tackle coming.
Heather leapt, arms outstretched. She knocked Happy Hour to the ground, where the fight turned downright nasty. The two screamed insults as they rolled on the canvas. They scratched, bit, and pulled at each other’s hair.
Neither could get in a solid blow, not that it stopped them from trying.
At one point, Happy Hour grabbed a fist full of Heather’s hair. She twisted it around her fist and used the leverage to smash the other Doll’s face into the ground. Once, twice, thrice. Bits of synthetic flesh remained behind with each strike, streaks of metal showing through the scrapes.
Heather retaliated not long after. Getting her hands around Happy Hour’s waist and showing her back. While the Happy Hour rolled away, a vital piece of equipment remained behind.
Jester winced as she watched the two get unsteadily to their feet. Happy Hour swayed slightly, stars no longer spinning as she stared into the barrel of her own gun. Heather was smirking again, the weapon looking almost comfortable in her grip.
The revolver gleamed under the stage lights, and the appearance of the weapon instantly silence the crowd. Everyone seemed to hold their breath. Even Debrah was leaning forward, eyes focused on the fight.
With a flicker, the screen changed. Happy Hour’s favored weapon, changing from Old Reliable to Ballet Flats Knifey Edition for creeps. It was a sign of how captivating the show was, that no one even seemed amused by the name.
As soon as the update went through, he noticed the immediate change in Happy Hour’s posture. Gone was the bow-legged swagger, returning to the effortless grace and simple stance she used before her last fight.
Not that he expected that to help much at this point.
Heather took a step forward before she spoke, her tone dripping with mockery.
“Any last words for this round?”
Happy Hour looked towards Jester, who shrugged, unsure what advice he could give. As a high-powered weapon, in Heather’s hands it would be an instant kill without a doubt. They could only hope for a miss. He made an exaggerated angry expression and gestured towards Heather. Perhaps annoying her would increase their chances of surviving?
Happy Hour opened her mouth, but Heather didn’t let her even start.
One manicured finger squeezed the trigger and a loud boom filled the air.
***
To Jester’s immense surprise, no screen appeared to inform him of his immediate loss. A yell caught his attention, and he saw a group of people bug eyed and gasping. He looked towards the stage to see Heather on her knees, grasping her arm and staring down at the sparking, smoking hole that was formerly her hand.
Hollowness filled him as he stared at the stump, all too aware whose hand should be missing. He’d known about the high malfunction chance, of course. But a full weapon detonation on the first round fired? That was some terrible luck.
Happy Hour moved backwards, back hitting the ropes as she stared at the damaged limb.
“J-Jester,” she whispered.
Her voice sounded far too human for his liking. Jester didn’t meet her eye, instead focusing on her opponent’s slow rocking back and forth. He needed her to finish this fight, and not panic. Not that he was sure this was panic. Some kind of self-preservation protocol?
Either way, he needed to say something to reassure her, and do it fast. If Heather somehow pulled herself together, that could be bad.
“I know. I get it. But it wasn’t you. You need to finish this. You can’t, we can’t, leave her like this. So, go get her while you can,” Jester said. Proud he’d kept his voice that even.
Heather’s HP sat at 3 out of 10. If that explosion was any bigger, they would have won right then. Happy Hour shot him a look, and he gestured her forward. A win was a win.
“I’m sorry,” Happy Hour whispered as she moved towards her opponent. “This isn’t an exciting way to do this.”
Heather looked at her, and Jester couldn’t imagine what the next few seconds would have been like.
Hand gone, and the last thing you saw before needing repairs was a pink shoe speeding towards your face. The blade pierced one of her blue eyes, slicing through the synthetic flesh and cracking the casing.
Some people cheered, but more stayed silent. The playfulness of the event vanished without a trace. He remembered Dam13n mentioning that people didn’t take weapons into the arena. This display showed him why.
Happy Hour stood over her opponent, hands on hips, as the blonde Android slumped to the floor. Jester knew Debrah could repair her. This wasn’t a death match where the user’s power core would explode. Still, something about this differed from watching obvious machines fight it out.
Stabby the Roomba didn’t exactly have the facial capacity for despair.
He almost waved away the pop-up that appeared in front of him.122Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmWkLJRCFFi
He’d done it. The quest was complete. His and Happy Hour’s eyes locked, and something told him she didn’t like this win. In truth? He didn’t either. But as a Scrapper, he learned early; you took what you can get. That didn’t mean he didn’t make a mental note not to accept more weapons with a high malfunction chance. The promised power wasn’t worth that.
A hand slapped his back, startling him. He heard Dam13n laugh as he jumped, whirling to see the young man grinning at him. It was an earnest smile, however, one of victory and excitement.
With one hand, he waved Jester towards the stage.
“Take a bow, man,” He said.
The telltale puff of purple smoke signalled Debrah’s arrival in the ring. Thus, with as much grace as he could muster, he clambered beneath the ropes. He met the blonde faun in the center; her tanned hand meeting his darker one.
And though her face showed off a soft smile, her eyes betrayed her actual mood.
Her grip was limp, and she released his hand quickly, giving him a small bow. He returned the gesture and then moved to face the crowd. A general air of being put out filled the room, reflected on the slight disappointment on almost every face.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and others,” Debrah said, hands clasped in front of her stomach. “I thank you for coming to see the last fight, for the quest Tavern Maid’s Woes. I can say it certainly didn’t have the ending we all expected.”
A few weak chuckles came from the crowd, but Jester noted the awkward shifting and various hands that clasped at Credit Satchels. Angry murmurs sprang forth. Those members in the crowd who’d lost big, no doubt. He wasn’t near enough to make out exactly what they were saying, but judging from the way they side-eye’d him, he knew they wouldn’t welcome him back here anytime soon.
“Of course, this is a moment of celebration. So for the next hour, all drinks will be free of charge. Please, enjoy yourself and look forward to our next spectacle here at The Dollhouse,” Debrah said, dropping into a deep curtsy to the crowd before taking Jester’s arm.
“Share a drink? Perhaps in my office?” Her words were quieter, and Jester could do little but smile and nod.
When Dam13n attempted to join them, Debrah waved him off.
“Stay and enjoy the festivities, Dam13n. I’m sure you can find some young thing to dangle on your arm.”
And with that, Jester found himself maneuvered through a door he knew didn’t exist a minute ago.
***
Debrah’s office was a mix of lavish and comfortable.
Jester noted the modern, an expensive, custom-made furniture. Miniature bonsai trees illuminated the rooms, a decor option from the Solarpunk update. Their small leaves glowing a soft yellow from hanging planters.
Pictures of various avatars standing next to a variety of Dolls covered one wall. One of these caught Happy Hour’s attention immediately. She left her regular spot behind Jester to dash to the wall. He followed, interest piqued when he’s eyes fell on the two figures before him.
One of them he didn’t recognize, though context made it obvious. While the other stood beside him. The image showed an androgynous avatar standing in front of the Dollhouse. Their brightly painted yellow lips matching their formal suit. They stood next to their robot, an arm around her shoulder in a friendly gesture.
Out of the picture, Happy Hour beamed at him. Her red hair shone in the sun as she beamed into the camera.
Not their robot anymore, though, he belatedly realized. She was technically his now. That idea hit him harder than he expected it would. This was something he’d daydreamed about for years.
An idea he never believed he would ever really reach.
Though, never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he’d be standing next to a Doll.
With Happy Hour at his side, large chunks of the game opened to him. Not only could he now access the Cups but also bigger, more exciting, NPC quests. He wouldn’t need to rely so much on charity. The idea of going from a passive to an active player made his heart race.
A part of him couldn’t wait to leave the office and start exploring.
Kylee would need to be the first person he told outside the Dollhouse. Now that he owned Happy Hour, her code would be more accessible. Some of that jumbled mess might become readable to her. Plus, with the inventory active, he could carry far more than he could before. That thought made him scramble. His eyes flicking across the nearly empty user interface to find the button.
There, a simple circle around a stylized travel bag. He gave it a mental poke, and nothing appeared. After a second of thinking, he decided it might need something inside it to display. He concentrated on his hat, and his eyes widened when a screen appeared not a second later.122Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3HgXxR9PMz
The interface would grow tabs as he placed in more types of items. Kylee’s, for example, was a mess, something she complained about bitterly when they used to go to the lounges together with friends. With a mental command, he pulled the top hat out of inventory, feeling it settle gently on his head.
After testing the new menu, he turned to focus on Happy Hour. She stood near the wall of photos, a finger running gently down the side of a frame.
Her shoulders slumped, and she didn’t seem to notice his gaze. Nor did she react when he moved to stand beside her. Those red-eyes never leaving the figures in the photo.
“Is that them?” Jester asked.
She didn’t jump, but he swore he heard something important click in a way that, if it was a car, he would have deemed expensive.
“Yes. It’s. Well. Yes,” Happy Hour responded before turning fully away from the picture.
Without asking, she pulled back the more comfortable of the two seats closest to the door, gesturing for Jester to sit. Once he’d settled into the seat, she smiled at him and moved to stand a few paces back. He noted her chosen placement with interest, far enough away to not intrude, but positioned so he could still see her face.
Debrah looked bemused as she took her own seat, resting her chin on clasped hands.
“You cost me quite a bit of money.”
Jester shrugged. He’d gathered as much already. She and DollmakerMC created this plan. Surely she knew this would be the outcome, eventually. That thought, combined with the knowledge of how many times Happy Hour ended up in the Junkyard, killed any potential sympathy.
“Not only did my bet not pay off, but I will have to change my staff uniform. At least this design is something passable,” Debrah sighed, before giving him a serious look. “Thank you for displaying it, I suppose. May I ask you something?”
“Of course,” Jester said.
“How much about the combat system in this game do you actually understand?”
The question caught him off guard, but he did his best to answer.
“I understand it’s the key and original component to the game. That it’s almost about spectacle as much as power. It’s expensive to break into. Most of it isn’t fair unless you’re spending tons of cash,” Jester said, words slow as he tried to pick the best ones.
“Correct. For the most part,” Debrah nodded and waved, two mugs that smelled strongly of coffee appearing in front of her.
She pushed one over, waiting for him to take a sip before continuing.
“You mentioned spectacle and power. You were right, just the wrong way around. Power is almost as important as a spectacle. People don’t come into this game to win fights. Well, they do. Of course they do. But no one would be interested if everyone used the same cookie-cutter robot because it was the best.”
Debrah took a breath as she glanced towards the photos. Her mouth twisting into a frown.
“Thus, hidden stat values and autonomous AI during fights. Food buffs and constant updates. People, and the company, of course, want a show. Exiting events they can clip videos of and share.”
Jester nodded, understanding. He’d been to the last fight in the Technomancer’s cup. The hype factor of the crowd couldn’t have been more obvious.
“Now, tell me this. Kylee intends for you to get to the Final Cup, correct?”
That question caught him off guard, and by the way Debrah looked at him, he knew he didn’t manage to hide it. How many people knew about this deal?
“Tiffany told me she learned about it when Kylee came sniffing around for information on Happy Hour,” Debrah said.
Well, that answered that.
“Yes, and with Happy Hour as my fighter,” Jester said.
“I’d hope so, considering how hard you’ve fought for this.” Debrah gave one of her too perfect laughs, before rapping her fingers on the table. “Do you think you can win?”
“The Final Cup?” Jester asked, looked confused. “Of course not. I don’t have the money for the required upgrades or the backing.”
Happy Hour shot him a look, but he ignored it. He knew what it took to win, and he didn’t have it. Not yet, maybe never.
“And the Frankenstein cup?”
“Depends on what we face and what equipment Kylee will help with.”
He didn’t want to say more without talking to Kylee herself. If the shoes were all she provided, then he would need to find alternate arrangements, and quickly.
Debrah drained her mug, placing it back on the table with a small thunk. She looked at Jester until he followed suit. He guessed that meant whatever this meeting was, it would meet its end soon.
“You know, no one has ever successfully won a cup with a Doll.”
It wasn’t a question, so he simply waited for her to continue. Of course, he knew. People tried, sometimes. Rarely. But they made attempts. Whenever people didn’t bully them out of the arena, they simply didn’t have the power. Or someone richer found out, and spent the big bucks to build whatever was needed to stomp them.
“The video of your chase is already online. If you sign up to the Cups, people will know. All sign-ups being public. You aren’t going to have a simple time.”
“And I suppose you’re about to tell me you’re willing to help?”
Another laugh, but this time accompanied by a small wave.
“Do you know my biggest problem with this place?”
“Space?”
“No. Membership. People are leaving faster than we can draw new members in. This stigma around Dolls is bad for business. You might be able to fix that. So I’m willing to offer you a deal.”
Jester leaned backwards and folded his arms.
“A lot of people are offering me deals lately. Kylee, Madame Merriam, now, you. What’s so special about me?”
“You aren’t likely to run away. While I don’t understand why, this deal you have with Kylee seems to motivate you to move forward with this. I want to profit off it. Plain and simple.”
He couldn’t fault her honesty. In some ways, it was refreshing.
“What do you want?” He asked, and he saw Happy Hour go stiff beside him. This woman had used and discarded her more times than he could count. If she was worried, he was wary about the potential possibilities.
“The same thing Merriam has,” Debrah said, gesturing for Happy Hour to turn around.
She waited until Jester gave her a nod, and he saw what she meant immediately as the silver star came into view.
“You want branding.”
He couldn’t help but be relieved.
“Exactly.”
“What kind?” He asked. It wasn’t an unacceptable plan. If she did it in the same way as Madame Merriam, it wouldn’t cost him anything. Other players took in-game sponsors, usually restaurants, to get access to food buffs. This took all kinds of forms, from banners on livestreams to painting their robot a certain color.
If she wanted the former, she was out of luck. Jester knew he wasn’t the streaming type. His various attempts each ending poorly because of a combination of lacking technical knowledge and interest. Though he followed some bigger names.
She didn’t answer with words to start, instead pointing towards his hat and lowering her finger towards his shoes.
“That. All of that. If you’re going to represent the Android community, you need to be more presentable. Thankfully, plenty of people can’t pay their tabs, so I have a considerable amount of odds and ends on hand,” Debrah said.
“Sounds good?” Jester said tentatively.
Debrah flicked her wrist, and another puff of smoke appeared and evaporated to reveal a small traveler’s trunk. Made of aged wood, and with plain metal clasps, it appeared too basic for something she would own.
He got to his feet as she started pulling things out of the storage device, muttering under her breath. It took a solid five minutes before she let out a contemplative, hmm. Jester recognized it immediately, but Happy Hour was still quicker.
“That is my old Masters,” she said, moving forward to snatch away the yellow suit. “There is no way he sold this to pay for a drink!”
“Well, that depends on the drink,” Debrah said, shutting the box with a sharp click. “It was a wild night. And this was easier than messing around with credits.”
Jester stared at the outfit that Happy Hour held protectively in her arms. The same Victorian style as his own, though something about this one radiated money. With thicker golden threads embroidered around the cuffs of the jacket, or the strange gleam of the long pants, whoever designed this outfit did so with love and care.
Which begged the question: how was Debrah going to ruin it?
“And how would me wearing DollmakerMC’s old suit act as advertising?”
Debrah blinked and then laughed, a hand over her mouth. Jester didn’t get the joke, and from Happy Hour’s less than pleased expression, neither did she.
“My apologies,” Debrah said after she regained her composure. “I should have said. No, this wouldn’t be it. I merely found it while I was digging and thought Happy Hour might appreciate it.”
“Oh,” Happy Hour said, bowing low at the waist. “My thanks to you. I’ll treasure it.”
A notification that the outfit was in his inventory appeared in the corner of his eye. Strange, he didn’t know robots could add things to inventory on their own.
“No, the outfit I want you to wear is this.”
The set of clothes bundled in her arms wasn’t that much different from the previous outfit. Victorian, which he appreciated. This time with a frock coat in such a dark purple it was almost black. Lighter purple buttons ran down the front, each a tiny capital D. When she held it up for him to more easily inspect, he noticed the Two capitalized Ds on the back, both the same shade of purple as the buttons.
A true lord’s coat, rather than the ratty hand-me-downs he’d been wearing. She even provided him with a fresh shirt, pants, top hat, and boots.
He equipped each item, leaving the top hat with the same logo on display for last. Happy Hour clapped, and when she realized she’d caught his attention, she curtsied.
“You look fantastic, Jester.”
“I feel it,” He admitted, and gave his best version of a courtly bow to Debrah.
The faun gave another laugh, returning his display with a shallow, but elegant curtsy of her own.
“Now, I believe you have a celebration to attend?” Debrah asked, smiling and gesturing towards the door.
“Of course,” Jester said, holding out an arm for Happy Hour to grab.
She did, letting out a quiet giggle as the two walked out arm and arm. As the sounds of the party enveloped them, Jester couldn’t help but let out a light chuckle. He didn’t know exactly what would happen next, but he couldn’t help but feel excitement rush through his veins at the idea of finding out.122Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRdpu5dwsli
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