“Weren't we supposed to conquer other games? I'm not sure that counts,” Burmin Trivvis said as he climbed into an ice cream truck.

“Let go of your negativity for once in your life, Rare. Wait. We were, weren't we?”

“We were, Lua, we were. But it seems we were the ones conquered.” Serdon Miloz draped one of his profusion of boas around his new trophy and admired it. “By kindness.”

A quick vote established the horde agreed with him but disliked the way he put it, as a result of which he promised to rework the sentiment into lyrics suitable for the eighth song on an album. Not a single, but not something to throw in the dumpster and dig out years later to include as a never-before-heard exclusive on some collection or rerelease, either. The cavalcade sang completed songs on the way back, and Michael proved to have the voice of an angel.

The treasure depot's glass cases rejoiced in their new trophies and plushies. Not the nachos, though, which found fleshier homes. Vainamoinen and Ipons Ulsrada congratulated each other for their foresight in preparing the vault building to receive a second floor, since experience had taught them not to wait for praise from other characters.

The statue of pathfinding rose again, and Ivar prayed dreadful prayers and promised to do acts better undone if it pointed toward somewhere the song of axes could be sung. The ritual was performed. The Rs, UCs, and Cs readied their orange paint.

As a sign of violence to come, the vehicles drove in a wedge formation, Michael at the point, because his motorcycle ended in a point. Or started in one, depending on where the observer stood. The flying vehicles maneuvered into a vertical half-wedge that some called a slant to create a 3D vision of danger too threatening to display in a populated game. Players who saw it would have run out of their houses to become mercenary leaders and then built their own countries where strength ruled, which depressed revenue every time it happened.

Instead, the clouds alone watched the wide and fierce landmada's progress, though their overhead view diminished the 3D effect. The orange ground alone remembered their passage. Officers and crusaders preferred not to remember boring stuff like that.

Another set of options appeared and rushed to meet them, another foe, another adventure. The vehicles swerved again, Azalea retained her title by coming closest to a perfect 180-degree spin, 172 maybe, and the army prepared for battle. Roped and ready, the boisterous explorers entered an unknown world.

Bright lights and brighter stars! The music! The tapping! Where could they be but a rhythm game? Stadia and open-air venues! Tree-lined streets with lighting systems conveniently out of frame! The evening had reached that pleasant in-between time when there was enough light to see but not so much so as to render artificial lighting undesirable; when the weather was warm enough to walk outside, but a hint of chilliness sent people searching for ways to turn up the heat.

What better conditions for new stars to entrance willing audiences? Start with a street concert and advance to sold-out live concerts. Tap your way to the top! There may be some sliding too. The greatest challenge? When a bunch of Vikings and reporters wearing ball gowns crash the party.

“Where's the party? This is an empty dive with BGM on,” Lasva complained. All the Warriors brandished their axes and demanded locals to fight.

“Ignore them for now. This is perfect.” Luerre Voine spoke while the other Strategists busied themselves locating all the doors and stairs in the club they had occupied. “Standard practice tells us to fortify this place. They have to come to us. From this location, or its roof to be more specific, our ranged characters can hit the stadium, the school, and the town park. Test it to be sure.”

Club expert Zimley Boe waved the rangers toward a flight of stairs. Up above, the air seemed to vibrate with the force of singing and clapping from nearby venues, though the ears of the officers and crusaders could distinguish none of the lyrics. True Beryllia crouched, shouldered her Ralarum-powered rifle, and blasted the curved white retractable stadium dome to the north. Belphoebe decorated the park with arrows, unless that was Sindze U. Radalo, and Sindze U. Radalo constructed a fence of shafts around a remote street corner, unless that was Belphoebe. Hemt T. Elf raised his lens, fashioned into a Christmas tree ornament for festive reasons, and emitted a streaming helix of red and green at a temporary stage set up inside a petting zoo.

Zimley Boe ran down to report the roof team had found its ranges and saw a transformed scene. A portcullis had been erected behind the doors. Shell Fragments and Holy Legend Army Valhalla Slabs raised a wall around the bar but left openings for Rare halberds and Ultra Rare ultra-bardiches to menace intruders. Stools hung upside-down from the ceiling, suspended by ropes that went over hooks to end behind the bar, where the garrison could release them at will to overturn the stools and crush assaulters under loads of rock piled on their undersides.

“Prepare more than this and we might as well call the place New Freegate. Next is to provoke a fight. The attacks on the stadium might do it. Another option is to broadcast Serdon Miloz or Michael as a challenge. Or a bad singer instead.” Luerre Voine pointed at Santa C. Dorenz without speaking another word on that subject.

“Art is always a challenge to both the audience and the artist.” Serdon winked. “My art is never an act of war, though.”

The crowd agreed to try Michael first, as long as he knew a Y***** song or two. What kind of Angel could lie about that after hearing those rousing renditions earlier? Michael climbed on stage while roadies carried the speakers outside, where they set the volume to excessive. Skaya checked out the equipment, rechecked it, and gave the talent the thumbs-up.

The singing, the tapping, and the blowing of horns that the crusaders and officers heard through the walls scattered and ran before Michael's masterful voice, much like Rares when Dosellian Urapta said something about hosting a luncheon. The sounds were cowardly, but did their makers have courage? What about conviction, or a desire to increase their share of ticket sales in that town?

Evidence came while Michael was belting out “Yurete iru! Omokage niiiiii!” The door handle rattled. After that, knocking.

“Who's in there? We'll get in legal trouble! We talked about this after last time, didn't we? Open up!”

Quircy Rau kicked open the door, or at least kicked. “What was that? Did somebody kick the door? It opens the other way!” Quircy Rau, not visibly embarrassed but agitated at heart, turned both door handles and jumped back. The outsider looked in, the insiders looked out, and all gasped. The former saw a club patronized by Demons and Warriors, not to mention customers who looked out of place such as a dignified gentleman with a graying mustache and a mystical attack orb, the legacy of an age unknown to history. The latter saw a motorcycle cop.

“Hey! That's Mori Akagawa! The relatively cool one! Is that a UUR version? I don't have that one yet.” Wedding Singer Vritia spoke for a contingent of characters who left their positions and crowded the entrance, asking the local to autograph books and bowling trophies.

“In the name of Commandment of Hero and Holy Legend Army, I claim this game . . . This game . . .” Quircy Rau turned around. “Stop shoving me and tell me what game this is! You can plunder signatures from the whole roster later. What a deal! I won't let you disagree.”

“Styleful Happy!! To the Live.”

“Thank you, Manyana.” Quircy curtsied. “Sometimes it's like . . . Never mind. The past's the past. Now is the time!” She turned back to the horrified native. “Your game belongs to us now. If you don't like it, come and throw us out. If you do like it, that would be pretty weird, but I'm not interested in judging that kind of thing right now. What's your answer?”

“I, uh, I, aaaaahhhhh!” The local's voice remained there longer than she did.

“Inorrea!”

The thief of the beach, Inorrea Vacationer, had disappeared from sight before Quircy spoke, and returned soon with news. “She went to the stadium. I counted under three dozen inside, make it thirty-two. They're talking over what they should do and crying a lot. I feel kind of bad. Should I poison them and get it over with?”

“No. Zims, could you tell the upstairs crew to focus on bombarding the stadium?”