It was the longest thirty seconds of Rich's life.

The logout count wound down, and he ignored WorldwarpR's questions as he huddled, hoping he was in time, hoping his Mom was alive, hoping that Pat's warning had come in time.

Then there was that moment, that hot moment where Generica faded from view and there were a few seconds of a starfield, as his Echo sent messages that he was shutting down the game. All a formality, one he had never minded before, but now it stretched like an eternity as he tried to keep calm and failed.

He had left Rotgoriel at home. Unless the dragon had gone wandering, Rich's family was at risk.

The starfield faded, and Rich took a breath—

—and gasped, coughing as the pain hit him.

He threw up, leaning against the wall, his head throbbing like a drum, his right side a solid ball of aching flesh. He couldn't tell if anything was broken, and it was all he could do to stand as he spewed lunch all over the tiles.

I know those tiles. I'm in the hall.

Motion drew his eyes up, and horror froze him, as two figures lurched into his sight. One was a man in a suit, a businessman of some sort, going by the expensive and very retro wristwatch on his bloody arm. He was lurching forward zombie-like, and a gaping wound in his belly spilled a loop of intestines out to dangle and wobble like pink rope.

Behind him, a burly man wearing coveralls leaned against the wall and shoved himself forward with one good leg, his free arm clutching a hatchet.

Rich stumbled backward before the zombie-like suit could get to him, noticing a frying pan sitting on the floor incongruously as he went. But it was past the suit now, and as slow as the man looked, Rich didn't want to risk the grab.

He knew what these were.

And he realized now how Cutter had been attacked.

Testing his legs, he found that he could still move, still run. He turned, jogged down the hall a bit, then glanced back...

...and cursed as he saw that the man with the hatchet had turned back to the door of his apartment, and was heading through it.

Mom! Fred! No!

“Fuck it!” he howled. “I'm the one you want! Come on!”

It hurt to yell that, and he grabbed at the wall for support himself. The world spun, and by the time it stabilized he saw that the suited guy had put on some speed, and was a second away from grabbing him.

Rich made his decision, and grabbed him first, going for the throat and trying to sweep his leg. If he could get him onto the ground...

He realized his mistake the second his hands locked around the sides of the man's neck. The suit was a bit too fat, and Rich's hands weren't large enough for a full clench. Worse, the blood made his grip uncertain. The man grabbed his wrists and hurled himself at Rich, and with an explosion of pain as he landed on his right side, Rich found that he was under the guy.

Shit!

Up close, the man was pale as the moon, and the reek of blood and shit and worse clogged Rich's nostrils, added a new horror to the pulsing pain as the man scrabbled with broken fingers and tried to get his hands up to Rich's face.

Rich kneed him in the groin, reacting instead of thinking. Flesh gave under his knee, but the man's face didn't waver from that vacant, focused stare. These weren't people any longer. These were victims, and unless he could get out from under this guy, Rich knew he was fucked. Not from this one, the suit was about bled out, was bleeding more on him as he squirmed, but in the silence, between the labored wheezes of this attacker and his own gasps of pain, Rich could hear the other one approaching, dragging a busted foot behind him as he hop-stepped his way across the tiles.

He fought for his life.

But the man clung like grim death, and Rich couldn't shake him, couldn't get him loose, couldn't deal a killing blow without leaving himself open to death. If he'd been in regular shape, he might have done something. But these bastards had laid some pain on him, and his muscles felt like he'd run a marathon with weights beforehand. He struggled, and knew he was winning, knew he'd get free, but the steps were getting closer now, and he also knew it was too late.

With a growl he brought both feet up, managed to catch the suit off guard, and kicked him away long enough to see his doom. The hatchetman loomed over them, balancing awkwardly on one foot, raising the weapon up with both hands—

CHOCK.

Something appeared in his throat. It looked like a pencil.

The hatchetman coughed.

CHOCK!

Something sprouted from his knee. It had feathers on the end, and even as he toppled, Rich processed the strangeness, realized that somebody had put an arrow into his knee.

Guess he can't be an adventurer anymore, some unhinged voice whispered in Rich's mind, and he laughed hysterically while he shoved the suit off him and rolled aside.

CHOCK!

The hatchetman fell, and the tool buried itself into the floor inches away from Rich's foot. The suit scrabbled weakly, but Rich pushed himself away, up against the wall, and stared down the corridor.

A woman stood there. Small, blonde, wearing glasses, with her hair back in a braid. She wore sweatpants and a T-shirt that said “FRANKY SAY RELAX,” and was calmly plucking bolts from a quiver as she reloaded a hunting crossbow. Her movements were quick, efficient, and even as he saw her she raised, aimed, and CHOCK, another bolt hit bone, and the hatchetman stopped squirming, a feathered shaft sprouted from his head.

Then she looked to him, and for a second his adrenaline surged, and he gathered himself to run. Until memory kicked in.

“You're the girl next door. I remember seeing you in the hall. On the elevator.”

She'd smiled at him but not said much. His mother had made noises about asking her over for dinner, and hinting that it might be time for him to start finding girlfriends. But nothing had come of it, and the game had eaten all his time.

“One of them,” she said, studying the still forms of his attackers, and the bloody mess from here to his apartment door. “You're going to have to get back inside your apartment. I'll muddle things up and adjust the footage. When the police ask, tell them they broke down your door you held them off, then I attacked them from behind. And you don't know anything more. You didn't go into the hall, but sheltered in place. Does that sound good? Can you remember that, Rich?”

I never told her my name. “Who are you?” he gasped, shaking as the adrenaline left his system, oozing away to leave only pain behind. His vision had shrunk around the edges. A concussion? Maybe. This was bad.

CHOCK! He flinched, then looked over to see the suited man scrabble, and fall still, a bolt quivering in his skull.

“We don't have time to discuss it here. I'll find you in game and we can talk.”

“Who are you?” he shouted, and regretted it as his head turned to lava for a split second, and his right side clenched up. He coughed, and she waited until he stopped, before she answered.

“You trusted me to warn you about Turpentine. Trust me now, or you're going to have one hell of a mess on your hand. More than you do already. Understand?”

Legion.

He stared at her.

She smiled back.

“You can hack Echoes,” he blurted out.

She put a finger up to her lips. “Not here, mm?”

There was nothing more to say. Wordlessly he rose, and clutching his side, limped to the door. His teeth throbbed with every step, breath whistling with every jolt. As he went, she moved inside, picked up some sort of bloody metal bar, then laid into herself with it. He stared at her, as she stoically beat herself black and blue, not making a noise even when bone crunched, and she fell limply to the ground, tossing the bar over to splash into the pool of blood near the suited man's hand.

“I...” he shut his mouth, as she turned the pulped remnants of her face to him.

“Polisssshhh are coming,” she lisped. “Remember d' shtttory.”

And then she shoved her crossbow up under her chin, and pulled the trigger.

CHOCK.