BuyMort: Rise of the Windowpuncher - How I Became the Accidental Warlord of Arizona. Apocalyptic GameLit

Axle’s library towered, hulking over the area and casting shade from its many spires and towers. Its grounds had spread across the desert, and the former campground attached to it seemed paltry by comparison. Many separate buildings formed the body of the library, all surrounded by a high mudcrete wall.

It too, had militarized checkpoints at any point of entrance. Armed hobbs, some wearing obvious power armor, stood stalwart at the heavy metal gates. The library was no longer a welcoming location; it was as closely guarded as a BlueCleave armory.

Silken Sands, however, was open. A theme park, by the gates and admission tickets they handed out. There was no charge to enter, but tickets would be required for any guests who wanted entrance to the park's many historic sites.

The mudcrete barn was still in place, I saw as I entered. The place had been repurposed into a gift shop, and I quickly shoplifted a Hawaiian shirt with my old friend Morbin’s face adorning the front. My armored boots and pants stood out a little less with the garish shirt on. It showed the diminutive bat-alien holding out a strangely shaped bottle of vibrant blue tequila, shouting his catchphrase into a speech bubble.

An idle, bored looking clerk seated at the front register watched me steal my new shirt. When I winked at the young hobb woman, she snorted and shook her head before returning to the book she was reading.

Mr. Sada’s crappy office building, once destroyed by a rampaging storm beetle, had been replaced by a two-story lodge advertising themed rooms for rent. The oversized apartment buildings that sat on the former campground lots were gone, replaced by themed observation areas.

Hobbs, delves, and humans all toiled in spider silk fields, separated from the walkways by tall glass viewing screens. As I walked down the path, I took notice of scratched graffiti in the glass screen. Much of it was in hobb and decried the place as a betrayal. No details, just the word ‘betrayed’ over and over, scratched into the thick, clear plastic.

One smaller bit of graffiti near the end of the tour displayed a tiny, flying man with oversized fists. It read “this machine kills fascists,” and puzzled me with its potential meaning. At the same time, it helped me feel like I was home for the first time since I had entered the planet’s atmosphere.

The sun set while I wandered the grounds, taking in the purely commercial environment it had become.

Morbin Time was at the end of the theme park, out near the old waterworks. It was no longer a saloon, but a modernized gastropub. When I entered the doors, a recording screeched “MORBIN TIME!” at me, and I flinched away from it.

Tables full of families ate from a cartoon-filled menu, displaying highly stylized versions of Morbin and myself having small adventures. The coloring section had us in the Sleem cavern underground, both fighting off living blobs with flame-throwers. Something that had absolutely never happened, but I saw small hobb children eagerly reading the menu over and over with wide, marveling eyes.

After putting the paper menu back in its slot by the door, I walked up to the bar and pulled out a seat. A hobb bartender in a suit and black tie slid over to me and nodded once.

“What can I get you?” he asked in clear English, as he slid a laminated bar menu to me.

It was filled with pictures of the drinks, each colorful or fancily garnished. I shook my head and pushed it away, before pointing to a bottle of blue tequila on the bar behind him. The bartender poured out a shot and slid it over to me with a smile.

“Fifty-eight morties, friend,” he said.

I scowled and shook my head. “Sorry, forgot I’m broke.”

The hobb scowled and frowned. “Well, then I’m sorry, but I can’t serve you.”

“What if I told you I knew the actual Morbin? Could you comp me a drink then?” I asked, eyebrows raised in hope.

The hobb chuckled, shook his head, and took the shot himself. “No sir, I couldn’t,” he answered.

“That’s alright. I mostly came for information anyway. And to see the old place. It’s been a while,” I told him.

“Oh?” he asked. “When were you last in? This is the original Morbin Time, you know. Historic landmark.”

“Oh, I know,” I replied. “I was here when it was built.”

The hobb scowled but looked me up and down. “Stat shots? How are you broke if you could afford those?”

I chuckled and stared at the bottle still in his hand. “Oh, morties come and go. I’ll have more soon, I don’t doubt.”

The bartender’s scowl deepened. “You a merc? Better not say that too loud around here.”

“No, not a merc. Just a man who makes his own fortunes.” I sighed. “You sure you won’t comp me a drink?”

The hobb looked at the bottle in his hand, then shook his head and poured out a measure into a tumbler, setting it in front of me. “Tell me how you were here when the place was built,” he asked.

I gulped the liquid and stood up. “Sure, when I’m done. Is there a way to Prescott from here? Tram or tour bus or something?”

The bartender laughed and put the bottle away on the shelf. “Sure. Courtesy shuttle from in front of the lodge, every hour. Should be one on the way now.”

I pushed the glass forward and he refilled it. “I was here when we first built the place,” I said, before standing up to leave. “Even helped Morbin to name it. Don’t tell anyone.”

The bartender scowled at me, but nodded and capped the bottle.

With a gulp, I downed the second glass of tequila and grinned at him. The bartender had a confused look on his face, which stayed until I was gone. After a quick walk down the silk farming lane, I was back in front of the lodge. I only had to wait a few minutes for the courtesy shuttle before it swept in overhead for a landing.

There was a small group of people waiting for it, so I moved with them. I didn’t quite blend in. Most of the people and aliens in the crowd wore casual outing gear. Polos and cargo shorts. Socks and sandals.

And they had children with them.

The more I looked around, the more certain I became that I was surrounded by upper middle class tourists. Only one of them paid me much mind, aside from to distance themselves and family once on board the small ship. A small hobb girl clutched at a gift shop book, one with real photos of me, Morbin, Lee, Axle, and even Jada.

I narrowed my eyes and held up a single finger to my lips. The girl gasped as her eyes widened even further. Then she realized my request and quickly stifled herself, before raising a thin gray finger to her own lips in reply. With a giggle, she buried her face in her mother’s skirts and I paid her no further attention.

The trip was short, as the bus-shaped shuttle lifted off on gravitic drive power and hauled us on a prepared route over the mountain. I stared out the windows and sighed as I saw Prescott approaching.

It looked like Los Vegas, with gaudy reflective towers, heavily specialized buildings, and giant beams of light shooting into the sky. One of the larger buildings looked like a replica of the Crown of Thorns. Another was a miniaturized version of Axle’s library across the valley.

And above it all hung the space elevator, now festooned in giant eyesore advertisements up to the cloud line. Elevator cars ran along the inside, lights visible from the darkened mountainside. My shuttle banked in low over the mountain range, giving us a good view of the Kitchen Sink dishes. They were decorated too, with welcome signs.

‘Welcome to Nu-Earth,’ said one dish while the other said ‘Welcome to Prescott.’

Welcome signs in weapon dishes. I frowned as our shuttle began its final landing approach, to another lodge building almost exactly the same as the one we’d left. A ‘Morbin Time’ banner hung over the landing zone, colorfully directing guests to the nearest version of the bar chain.

I disembarked with the rest of the passengers, then started walking down the row of tourist traps leading out to the main city. Morbin Time was everywhere. On postcards, articles of clothing, billboards, and building fronts.

All of it advertised a larger version of the bar, with multiple stories sitting right in the center of the city. The entire block was a tourism trade center. Khaki-clad aliens wandered, taking pictures and choosing which shop or eatery to enter next.

A pair of guards wearing the same kind of armor I had encountered on Phyllis’ ship idly walked the area, scanning each of the faces that passed them with casual interest. I placed a small crowd of hobbs between myself and them as I exited the area.

Once out in Prescott proper, the guard patrols increased. I slipped down alleyways and into businesses in order to avoid them as I moved through Prescott toward my old tower. It still stood, black and looming near the spaceport, one of the few buildings not covered in advertising.

My path meandered, which I didn’t mind. I wanted to see the city I had founded, learn what had become of it.

The streets were shockingly clean. Under BuyMort, where any bit of trash was a sale for the desperate, the streets were always clean. But Prescott’s cleanliness spoke to intent. I watched from the shadows as the armored guards, with their obscuring helmets, walked behind the tourists and wealthy residents selling any items they left behind.

I was happy to see that yarsp carts were still a thing, but I quickly noticed they were all a chain. The hobbs who ran them wore facsimiles of the actual yarsp cart owners from my time, with the addition of white paper hats. Greasy leather aprons and hand-made cleavers had been replaced with shiny plastic versions though, and the wax paper had been replaced by brand-name plastic cartons.

None of the vendors would give me a free wrap, no matter how charming or friendly I was. One of them finally told me they had to pay for any missing product at the end of their shift, and that giving away food almost always ended in disciplinary action from the affiliate.

He was an older human man, and between legitimate customers I struck up a friendly conversation with him.

“Thanks for letting me know. Most of the others just said no and told me to get lost,” I said. “I’m Tyson, by the way, what’s your name?”

“Henry,” he said in near-perfect hobb without looking up, squirting watery looking sauce from a deeply stained plastic bottle. The customer he was serving practically drooled at the smell of searing yarsp.

“Nice to meet you, Henry,” I said, leaning against the far end of his broad cart. “What, uh . . . what brings you to slinging yarsp on the harsh streets of Prescott?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “A long, sad story neither of us really wants to go over. But your assessment of Prescott is a bit off. Safest city in the multiverse.”

“Oh?” I asked, crossing my arms and watching as Henry’s customer flicked morties over for the wrap, then walked away eating it.

“A-yep, going on five decades now. Course, the old days were a little wild, I’m told,” Henry answered.

“Yeah, I haven’t been here in a while. Things have really changed,” I said.

Henry started cutting thin slices off his hanging chunk of yarsp. It looked like a full abdomen but was smaller than what I was used to. He nodded and glanced my way, carefully pausing his plastic knife work so as not to lose his place. “When were you last here?”

I gave a single, harsh laugh and frowned. “Oh, hundred years, give or take,” I said.

He scowled. “You wear a suit? Or just rich enough to afford stat shots?”

I paused at that. “What do you mean, ‘suit?’” I asked him.

Henry shrugged. “Starfish Suit, what else? I get plenty of customers from the base. Couple of ‘em never turned off their suits from the war.”

“Which war?” I asked.

Henry chuckled. “Ain't that the damn truth. Seems to never really end. But this was the big one, the Church war.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I fought in that.”

The old man cocked his head at me. “Really? Never met a human from that time. What’d you say your name was?”

I smiled at him coldly. “Tyson. Tyson Dawes.”

“Huh. Well you ain't him, whatever your name is. He died saving Nu-Earth from the Thread,” Henry said, turning back to his yarsp carving. “Not exactly kind to play pretend with that figure, though, I should tell you. Local military wouldn’t take kindly to some off-worlder on a bender going around saying he’s Tyson Dawes. Like I said, handful of ‘em still around from those days.”

“That is honestly encouraging to hear,” I told him. “I’m probably going to need some help from them pretty soon here.”

I glanced at the small heap of yarsp slices and ignored the twisting hunger pain in my stomach.

“Hey,” I said suddenly, before he could also tell me to get lost. “Where would I go if I wanted to learn more about that war?”

Henry looked at me over his glasses, again setting aside his plastic knife to engage with me. “Well,” he said. “I would point you to Central Plaza, probably. The statues all have plaques, good to read. Might learn some manners from ‘em, who knows.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “Henry, you gotta think about the big ‘what if’ question here, don’t you?” I asked him.

He frowned and narrowed his eyes.

“’What if he’s actually the guy?’” I said, my smile warmer. “If I know anything about that particular historic figure, he was insanely hard to kill.”

Henry didn’t say anything, instead staring at me over his glasses with both eyes narrowed and mouth slightly agape.

“How do I find Central Plaza, Henry? I’m going to go read every single plaque on every single statue, just because you told me to,” I said, still smiling.

“Well,” Henry started. He paused and swallowed once before shrugging. “Follow the signs then, we’re near a historic route.” He pointed behind me to a small bronze plaque on a nearby plasticrete brick building.

It showed the route with a blocky arrow, with a small message beneath it. ‘Historic route 1, old Prescott Northeast, spaceport and elevator Southwest.’

I turned and waved at the scowling yarsp vendor, then set off in the direction of the space elevator.