《Darkworlds: Paris》 London 2027 London 2027 Believe me, you don''t know how insecure your life is until you take a good hard look. You''re just living then it all unravels. Things have changed markedly in my life. I¡¯m now living in Gary Preston¡¯s apartment in Hampstead, London. A place I could never afford on my wages, if I had any wages any more. But he feeds me and houses me and says it¡¯s due to my fantastic personality. And as you might remember, when Miskatonic Games tested my personality way back at the start of this, it lit up their systems and they all wanted me to join their gang. But I joined Preston¡¯s, not through ever wanting to join up with anyone, but because it was the only solution if I wanted to keep what remained of my shredded sanity. Right now, however, we¡¯re not in Preston¡¯s house overlooking leafy Hampstead Heath, in fact, we are in an obscure part of Outer London, whose location must remain secret. Kept secret because the game developers Miskatonic are after us, in and out of the game iself; in real London 2027 and in game London 1927. It''s enough to send a man crazy, the things that come out of the code and creep inside your mind, but we are fighting back. We are the Paladins of the Order of the Light -- Ordo Lux Lucis in game. And the game of course is Darkworlds. Where we are now is a laboratory. It is funded by the Order of the Light and so I am guessing there must be some wealthy members, because equipment like this isn¡¯t cheap. The doctor here, John Whittaker is cutting off the top of a man¡¯s skull with a circular saw. It¡¯s just like a saw you might do some woodworking with, except it¡¯s specialised for bone. Dr Whittaker has a lady doctor assistant, I didn¡¯t catch her name, but she¡¯s one of us too. I know she''s pretty because I saw her before she put on her protective clothing, but now she¡¯s wearing mask and goggles so the spray from the cadaver doesn¡¯t get in her mouth and eyes, as Dr Whittaker gets busy with his saw. My guildmaster, Gary Preston is sitting next to me in his nice suit jacket and pants, shiny hand-made shoes and a Saville rowshirt. I¡¯m wearing camo pattern cargo pants and an old Hawkwind t-shirt. We¡¯re masked too, because we don''t want a mouthful of cadaverine either The whine of diamond-edged steel cutting through bone sets my nerves on edge. Then as Dr Whittaker puts down his saw, there¡¯s worse to come. He asks the pretty lady doctor to help, and together they lift off the top of the guy¡¯s head. They didn¡¯t bother to shave his head completely, so lank brown hair is pasted to the skull top as it comes off with a pop. That pop is nearly the worst thing I¡¯ve experienced, but the worst thing actually is the stench. My stomach heaves and I put the back of my hand to my mouth through the nylon mask. I retch. ¡®Jeez.¡¯ Preston¡¯s got his hand to his mouth too, shaking his head, trying to recover. The doctors seem to used to it. They give us a minute. They may be smiling under their masks. Who can tell. I don¡¯t really want to look at what they''ve uncovered, but a deviant fascination pulls my eyes to what¡¯s in the unfortunate man¡¯s head. ¡®What the fuck is that in his brain?¡¯ Preston holds up his hands. He wants to ask some more polite questions but Dr Whittaker nods to me. ¡®Whatever he¡¯s got in his head, I¡¯m betting you have it in yours too.¡¯ Involuntarily, my hand goes to my head and I try to scratch the itch deep inside. It¡¯s been there for weeks now, since I started playing Darkworlds. And it seems to be getting worse. Preston says, ¡®So this guy is one of the Cold Ones?¡¯ Whittaker nods. ¡®Recovered from their dump in Walthamstow.¡¯ I turn to Preston. ¡®Miskatonic has a dump for their game casualties?¡¯ The Cold Ones are those of us who are unfortunate enough to die in the game. Though becoming a ¡®Cold One¡¯, as Miskatonic call them, might be better than becoming a Warm One. The Warm Ones lose their Sanity in the game and then Miskatonic ships them to lunatic asylums, both inside and outside Darkworlds for research and power. It seems the entities inside the game run on the combined neural power of the Warm Ones as they slip, slide and stumble inside their crazy dreams. He nods. ¡®A big dump.¡¯ Whittaker bends over the unfortunate man. With steel forceps he begins to move aside the slimy grey corrugated neo-cortex of the man¡¯s brain. My eyes are once again drawn to the threads of wet silk that run through the grey matter. I gesture, ¡®Surely, that can¡¯t be normal.¡¯ Dr Whittaker speaks through his mask. ¡®Increasingly normal. These are threads of gamma-amyloid protein.¡¯ ¡®English?¡¯ Preston says. Whittaker shrugs as if forced to explain the rules of cricket to a dog. ¡®Beta-amyloid protein tangles are what causes Alzheimer¡¯s disease. They disrupt brain connectivity by wrapping round pathways. But these aren¡¯t tangles, they are organised.¡¯You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. ¡®You said ¡°gamma-amlyoid¡± though,¡¯ I say. Whittaker¡¯s voice changes tone as if I¡¯m a promising pupil. ¡®I did. Similar to Beta Amyloid but more fiibrillogenic due to the C-terminal extension that adds two additional hydrophobic amino acids.¡¯ I nod slowly. ¡®Good. I¡¯m glad I asked.¡¯ Whittaker continues, ¡®But these gamma amyloids are not tangles, they are not accidental, everything points to them deliberately growing to infiltrate all major brain structures -- the amygdala, important because the amygdala is central to emotional response, especially fear; the cerebellum, which has motor functions; and the brain stem which controls functions basic to life, like being awake, maintaining blood pressure and respiratory function. In part anyway.¡¯ Preston says, ¡®So it¡¯s the spread of this protein--¡¯ ¡®--this network of proteins.¡¯ ¡®Sure. This network of proteins. It¡¯s that that turns people crazy?¡¯ Whittaker shakes his head. ¡®Not exactly, though I doubt it helps. The protein seems to be promoting the excretion of dopamine and serotonin and another neurotransmitter that seems quite novel. In any case, they are stimulating the D2 and S1 receptors and it¡¯s those that are implicated in both auditory and visual hallucinations and also the growth of paranoid delusions.¡¯ Preston sits back. ¡®Hmm.¡¯ Whittaker takes off his mask, revealing a surprisingly young face. He¡¯s got reddish-brown hair and he only looks to be about thirty. His assistant takes off her mask and she really is pretty. Blonde and blue-eyes, but a strong, high cheek-boned face like she wouldn¡¯t take any messing. Whittaker''s smiling. ¡®You won¡¯t know this, but in my spare time I¡¯m into communication systems. Electronics and such like.¡¯ ¡®So neurosurgeon by day, radio nerd by night?¡¯ ¡®Kind of. But I¡¯m a neuropathologist really,¡¯ ¡®Sorry?'' He jabs a finger towards the cold guy¡¯s exposed brain without looking at it. ¡®Thing is, that network looks like a control system.¡¯ It¡¯s Preston¡¯s turn to talk. I don¡¯t know how tight the Order of Light keeps its information, but it seems that what he¡¯s about to reveal is news to Dr Whittaker. Preston scratches his chin and begins, ¡®So, we believe that the protein network is a receiving system and that its growth is enhanced by the wearing of Miskatonic¡¯s neural nets.¡¯ ¡®The ones you wear to play the game?¡¯ the pretty young doctor asks. This is the first time she¡¯s spoken. She has a nice voice. Light, but confident and clever. ¡®Exactly. Probably also its growth is speeded up by the use of the Dreamland Inducer tablets that you take to get the full ¡®realer than real¡¯ experience from Darkworlds. It¡¯s this network that seems to allow the entities in the game--¡¯ I add, ¡®--the so-called Great Old Ones.¡¯ Preston frowns at my intervention, then continues. ¡®--To begin to control people in real life.¡¯ Whittaker scratches his head. ¡®But we¡¯re seeing the growth of these protein networks in people who¡¯ve never played Darkworlds.¡¯ Preston nods. ¡®Yes, they are starting to inhabit wifi networks. So anyone who is in range of a wifi network is going to see the development of the proteins in their brains, just it¡¯s faster when you wear a neural net.¡¯ Whittaker slips his mask back on. ¡®By the way, did you see this?¡¯ He picks up a scalpel and taking it with his forceps casually cuts into the cadaver¡¯s brain, going deeper as if to find the root of the protein strands. I stand up to get a better look. Peering into the brain to where he¡¯s holding apart the glistening white and grey jelly, I see what looks like a pure white hen¡¯s egg. He prods it with his forceps and it wobbles. ¡®That¡¯s the middle of it. That¡¯s where it starts.¡¯ ¡®Like it¡¯s been implanted.¡¯ Preston shakes his head. ¡®Not planted. Seeded by things beyond our understanding.¡¯ The lady doctor asks, ¡®But what¡¯s all this for?¡¯ Preston¡¯s face goes grim. ¡®So they can take us all over, both inside and outside the game.¡¯ Fifteen minutes later, we¡¯re out of the path lab and sitting in the small kitchen area that the staff use. I don¡¯t now if the Order of Light owns this whole place or whether we¡¯ve just got people we trust here. ¡®By the way, Adam, this is Dr Fell.¡¯ The blonde woman nods and smiles. ¡®Sally to my friends.¡¯ We¡¯ve got coffees now and the steam spirals up from my cup. I introduce myself. ¡®Adam Harker.¡¯ I''m very curious about these protein receivers in our brains.I say, ¡®So the clever thing is not to play Darkworlds so you don¡¯t get stuff growing in your head.¡¯ Whittaker shakes his head. ¡®Like I said before, it grows anyway, just quicker with the neural net headset and the tablets Miskatonic provide with the game pack.¡¯ Preston says, ¡®And in fact, the clever thing is actually to play Darkworlds. In fact it¡¯s the only possible solution.¡¯ ¡®Because?¡¯ Sally asks, brushing her straight blonde hair from her forehead. Her eyes are light blue like Robin¡¯s eggs. She has a dusting of freckles on her cheeks. ¡®Because these entities don¡¯t yet exist outside the game.¡¯ ¡®Yet,¡¯ I say. He shrugs. ¡®It¡¯s a matter of time before they come out. They are already extending tendrils into the Interweb, but weakly so far. Darkworlds is their home. It¡¯s in the Darkworlds code that they first came to sentience. They''re still hiding in the trillions of lines of code. That¡¯s their home.¡¯ She''s clever. ¡®So the only way to combat them is to go and find them in the game?¡¯ ¡®And beat them,¡¯ Preston says. He smiles at me. ¡®That¡¯s our job. Your job.¡¯ I''ve never really been a joiner. I''d always seen myself as a lone-wolf, but I know that without the support of Preston and the Order of Light, like Dr Fell and Dr Whittaker I stand no chance, and I''ll go under. We''ll all go under. I''m scared. These things have killed people, sent them mad. But I know I need to step up before it''s all too late. I say, ¡®But where do we start?¡¯ ¡®In Paris. They have a research hospital there.¡¯ ¡®How the hell am I going to get to Paris? I don¡¯t even have access privileges to get into Central London and that¡¯s only a few miles away. People like me aren¡¯t allowed to travel across national borders.¡¯ Preston shakes his head. ¡®You¡¯re misunderstanding me, Adam. I agree, it would be too difficult to get you into real inner Paris. But that¡¯s not where they are anyway. They¡¯re in the game.¡¯ ¡®So where is the research hospital?¡¯ ¡®We don¡¯t know exactly.¡¯ ¡®Okay.¡¯ ¡®But it¡¯s somewhere in Paris in 1927.¡¯ In The Game Gary Preston won¡¯t be coming with us to Paris, instead I have the pretty pathologist Dr Sally Fell as my companion. The night after the autopsy, we both go to stay at his house in Hampstead and he treats us to a fine dinner with French wine to get us in the mood. I sleep heavily until around five a.m. when I am woken by a strange dream about a man in my house looking for me with a pack of cards on his hand. After that, I can¡¯t settle. When I hear movement downstairs, I haul myself out of the crisp white sheets of my bed and stumble into the shower. Downstairs, in the light an airy kitchen, I have kippers for breakfast, sitting opposite Sally who is beautifully tousled after her own shower. She doesn¡¯t say much, just eats her muesli. Preston is there to show us in, then disappears who knows where, to come back just as I am polishing off my last kipper and mopping up the tomato sauce with brown bread. ¡®Ready?¡¯ he says. ¡®Ish,¡¯ I say with a grin. My brain itches as I say the word as if it has been listening to me. Thekind of itch you can¡¯t scratch ¡ª mainly because it¡¯s right in the middle of your brain. Sally nods, finishing her muesli. She¡¯s been silent as we sit at the breakfast table. So much so that I thought she was rude, or don¡¯t like me or something, but now I realised that her silence is due, not to rudeness, but to fear. I could ask her what she fears, but it¡¯s obvious. Eating done, Preston shows us through from the kitchen, down a bright, neatly painted passage and down a half flight of steps into a room that has maybe been a big pantry when the house was built in the 1800s. Laid out in the room, are top of the range VR rigs with brand new versions of the Miskatonic ? Neural Nets. Preston points and I lie down on the mesh bed, designed to minimise pressure damage when the player is lying down a long time. The haptic suits are a thing of the past, the Dreamland Inducer tablets meant the VR experience is all in the mind ¡ª a game in a dream, but ¡°realer than real¡±. Gary gestured. ¡®When you log in, make your way to Croydon Airport.¡¯ I nod at Sally. ¡®How will I recognise you?¡¯ She gives a tense grin, trying to overcome her nerves, I guess. She says, ¡®I¡¯ll be wearing a red rose in my lapel.¡¯ ¡®Really?¡¯ She laughs. ¡®I¡¯ll try to find one.¡¯ Now the talking is over and the nerves are building up in the room, I lie on the mesh bed and put on the neural net. The itching in my head grows stronger and I scratch uselessly at the scalp. Preston smiles even though it isn¡¯t funny. He says, ¡®And that¡¯s why we¡¯re doing it.¡¯ ¡®The itch in my head?¡¯ ¡®The itch in everyone¡¯s head. It¡¯s not an option to do nothing.¡¯ ¡®I know.¡¯ A pause. ¡®Are you scared?¡¯ ¡®Not so much.¡¯ Truth is, I don¡¯t feel scared inside: more numb now. I don¡¯t know what to expect. He raises an eyebrow. ¡®You¡¯re about the face the Great Old Ones and you¡¯re not scared?¡¯ I¡¯m too lacking in imagination to be scared.¡¯ He studies me to see if I am joking, then he must think I am because he laughs out loud. ¡®Good man. I¡¯m glad you¡¯re on my side.¡¯ I¡¯m not comfortable. I squirm on the mesh bed. ¡®Where are the tablets?¡¯ He indicates with a quiet point of his finger. There¡¯s a steel beaker sitting in a recess on a shelf to my left, attached to the mesh bed. In the beaker are six or seven Miskatonic ? Dreamland Inducer tablets. I¡¯ll only need one for this trip; so it seems Preston is planning we return a few times. As it sinks in, I don¡¯t know whether to be reassured or unnerved by that. I try to ground myself. The numbness fading into disquiet. I look around before I reach for the tablets. The room is pleasantly warm, but not too hot. It smells clean, if it smells of anything. Preston stands back and watched us. He doesn¡¯t seem to see any further need to chat in his expensive suit and leather loafers. I shrug, take the shiny white pill from the beaker and feel its smoothness between my finger and thumb and with a second¡¯s hesitation, pop it into my mouth. It tastes vaguely sweet, sugar-coated. I slip on the goggles. The room fades; the pictures in front of my eyes get brighter. First the logo then the graphics and the loading music until that too fades and I materialise on Hampstead Heath, sitting on the bench on Parliament Hill from where Preston and I watched the Old Gods dance over the City of London. It¡¯s a bright day, some cloud high up and a breeze from the south that brings the smell of old leaves with it. Damn clever how they do the smell. I take a minute to orientate myself. I am back in Darkworlds. An alert pings on my HUD and when I check it, it is from Preston¡¯s in-game avatar, the Level 20 Paladin, Guy Philby. It reads: Check with the Strand Branch of Coutts & Co. We¡¯ve put money in your account. I have a shilling or so in change in my pocket, and I get a ticket into central London to check out my newfound wealth. I still can¡¯t get over the detail of Darkworlds. The NPCs look real. They chatter like real people, and, as I stand hanging on the leather strap as the tube train jolts underground, I hear snatches of their conversation: ¡®So, I say to him¡­¡¯ ¡®Well, if Albert won¡¯t leave you alone, there it is.¡¯ ¡®What you get married for if you don¡¯t want children?¡¯ ¡®You ought to be ashamed, to look so antique.¡¯ And I recognise the lines from Eliot¡¯s Wasteland. Brilliant, old Miskatonic. Next thing we¡¯ll be hearing lines from Ezra Pound. The Tube train stops at Charing Cross and I get off before the doors slide shut again and take me somewhere I don¡¯t want to go. I make my way across along the platform among rain coated men andgabardined women, all with hats, some smoking stinking Woodbines, others aromatic Turkish tobacco. Then at a knot of people where I have to wait while they stride up the tiled steps, a man, short, dark-haired, Trilby-hatted with a sinewy brow, turns, looks me in the eye and says, ¡®The apparition of these faces in the crowd. Petals on a wet, black bough.¡¯Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Then he turns and vanishes into the crowd. My heart hammers because the game is listening to me. Somehow, it¡¯s got inside my head and read my thoughts about Ezra Pound then it made them real. The quote is definitely from Pound¡¯s In a Station of the Metro. Appallingly appropriate too. I know the game is inside me; I saw the wet silk strands of protein weaving through a dead stranger¡¯s brain and I know from the itch they are inside mine too, breeding insidiously, growing, sticking their tendrils into my thoughts. Darkworlds is watching me. I stand with computer-generated men and women shoving me until my shock passes and I joined the flow. The ecology of Darkworlds is full of a seething mass of intelligence and personalities. Firstly, or maybe actually way down the list of importance, is us, the players. We live in real bodies and enter Darkworlds by way of neural nets and psychedelic tablets. Other intelligences never leave this place. These are the NPCs. Some are fixed, others move around a circumscribed route. Then there are the monsters, who knows what they are? And above them, with varying levels of sentience are those sections of code that have become alive and have power over all the rest of us that inhabit this space. They are our gods. Some are idiots, some are geniuses, but our lives and our sanity are in their power. And every intelligence in Darkworlds, from mine to Azathoth to the very NPC train guard wants something. That¡¯s what we have in common. Desire. As I walked, I wonder about the game itself. Is it a thing? Does the game as a whole have a personality? Is it this personality that is playing games with me, quoting lines of poetry? Jesus Christ, that¡¯s scary. I shudder, but truth is I don¡¯t know. Anyway, I have a job to do and I can¡¯t get side-tracked. I¡¯ve got to get to Paris, but first to Croydon Airport. I exit Charing Cross Station, past a replica of the Edward I¡¯s Charing Cross monument. As I get close to the column, I can¡¯t resist touching it and feel the warm, rough stone, apparently a thousand years old under my hand, except not. I take a second there where the throng isn¡¯t as thick and I check my map. On the HUD, I search for Coutts & Co, and soon there¡¯s a little red point blinking and a gold trail of dots that leads off to my right. I follow the trail of golden breadcrumbs and just avoid getting killed by a red double-decker London bus and as I scoot of the way, a black taxi-cab honks the rubber bulb of his horn in indignation. But then I¡¯m at Coutts. I walk up to the front desk and a man in a morning suit lifts his chin in greeting. ¡®Good morning, reverend.¡¯ I almost forgot I am a vicar in the game and I¡¯m wearing a clerical collar over a black shirt. I study the man who¡¯s watching me, unsmiling and unspeaking. I know he¡¯s an NPC, but they¡¯ve modelled the disdain just right. Here I am in my stained raincoat with a bulge under both shoulders where I have both my Browning and my Walther PKK holstered. ¡®I¡¯d like to check my account, please,¡¯ I say. He nods, still without cracking a smile. ¡®Can I ask your name, sir?¡¯ ¡®Adam Cadmon.¡¯ I spell it with a C. To those with a more occult frame of mind, I might have given my name with a K: Adam Kadmon ¡ª the Kabbalistic First Man. The NPC goes into the back, leaving me standing there at the dark oak corner. The computer humanity of London streams along the Strand outside behind me through the pleats-glass window. He came back with a little slip of paper on which is written, in neat copper-pleats handwriting the figure: ¡ê2,000. Now that is a ton of money in 1927. All my money worries are over. Iarrange to withdraw ¡ê200 and get it as two ¡ê50 notes and the rest in big white fivers. I nod and smile, happy despite him acting as if I¡¯m an interloper. Then I am back on the Strand. I consult my HUD again to see that trains to Croydon start from London Victoria. That¡¯s a bit of a walk but because I¡¯m loaded, I hail a taxi. I get in and close the door and the two-stroke engine has a pleasant thrumming sound as we motor west and south, through Trafalgar Square, then past Buckingham Palace until my driver stops outside the station. I give him a big tip from my change. I know he¡¯s only an NPC, but my tip makes him smile. An intelligent NPC then. I stroll into the station, smoky with steam and the smell of burning coal. There are lots of people here too and shops. Men stand selling newspapers, shouting out the headlines shouting above the hissing of steam trains. The Soviets have executed some British subjects for spying, a Pole shot the Russian ambassador. I guess the news is accurate.Darkworlds is always accurate. I check the posters with the timetables. I have fifteen minutes before the Croydon train so I wander around the station and find, of all things, an Occult Supplies shop. Hard to believe the real 1920s Victoria Station has a Lovecraft style occult store. And the shop next to it is a gun store. Again, unlikely, but this is a role-playing game after all. I step into the gun shop. I need some ammunition so I buy two boxes of 9mm bullets from the mutton-chopped shopkeeper, who looks like a refugee from Victorian times who would prefer to be spending his time shooting grouse in the Highlands. Then I see that as well as the normal lead tipped bullets, he has a notice advertising silver bullets. I raise an eyebrows. ¡®Silver bullets?¡¯ ¡®Popular among lycanthrope hunters,¡¯ he says drily. ¡®Really? Do you get many lycanthrope hunters?¡¯ He nods. ¡®Regularly.¡¯ He twists his mouth. ¡®Some say they are also useful against vampires, but myself I¡¯d prefer a stake.¡¯ He looks at me knowingly. ¡®We have stakes.¡¯ I smile awkwardly. ¡®No, but I¡¯ll take a box of silver bullets. You never know.¡¯ He wags his finger at me with a laugh. ¡®You never know, sir. Never indeed.¡¯ After I buy my bullets, it¡¯s time for the train. I sit in the Pullman carriage and after a minute, There¡¯s a bump, whistle and the indecipherable shout of the guard and the train moves off. We chuff our way through the dirty backstreets of South London and I settle down for the journey to Croydon, which my HUD told me is just over nine miles. I zone out and check my character sheet while we travel: Name: Adam Cadmon Profession: Anglican Priest Address: No Fixed Abode Level 9 Guild: Ordo Lux Lucis Available Skill Points: 100 HEALTH 900/900 MANA 900/900 SANITY 100/100 REPUTATION 15/100 Skills Diplomacy 45 Persuade 15 Seduction 2 Intimidation 3 Empathy 45 Latin 60 Greek 45 Hebrew 20 German 25 Religious Lore 90 Ritual 40 First Aid 30 Drive Car 30 Pistols 50 Rifles 20 Clairvoyance 25 Alchemy 410 I need to spend those hundred skill points. And then we pull into Croydon Station. The train stops and everyone get off. A green and white bus sits outside with Croydon Airport up as its destination. The destination name is printed in white on a roll of fabric that the driver shifted round depending on where he¡¯s headed. The journey doesn¡¯t take long and soon I am by the low building that is both waiting room and customs post and border control. Propeller powered aeroplanes hurtle along the railway before lifting laboriously into the cloudy sky. They don¡¯t look very safe. I step off the bus and walk into the building and find the Imperial Airlines desk. A handsome, lantern jawed man in a blue uniform sits there waiting for me. ¡®Ticket to Paris please,¡¯ I say. ¡®Return?¡¯ I haven¡¯t thought of that. ¡®Single, for now, please.¡¯ ¡®Of course, sir. Will you be wanting to travel on our new Silver Wing service?¡¯ ¡®Silver Wing?¡¯ ¡®Yes, sir. Just started last month. It is true first class travel in the air. We have a chef on board and the menu is totally a la carte.¡¯ I scratch my head. ¡®How long is the flight?¡¯ ¡®Two hours, thirty minutes, sir. You will be in the very modern and reliable Armstrong-Whitworth Argosy aeroplane. It¡¯s the very best.¡¯ I have the money, so why not? I agree to buy the ticket. ¡®That sounds splendid. Can I take your name, Reverend?¡¯ I give him my name and three pounds and ten shillings. I turn to look out at the chairs where I can wait for the flight when I notice a stunning blonde woman in a slim-fitting black dress with white piping. She wears a cloche hat, and she is looking at straight me. She is also wearing a red rose in her lapel. ¡®Reverend Cadmon?¡¯ she asks tentatively. There¡¯s no one else around here with a dog collar, so it is a fair bet that I am he. I take off my hat to reveal my shaved head. ¡®Sally Morgan,¡¯ she says. ¡®I believe we¡¯re travelling to Paris together.¡¯ Chapter 3 Paris 1927 Above the roar of the Argosy¡¯s engines and the clink of fine china ¡ª made light-weight for air travel according to our attentive steward ¡ª Dr Sally¡¯s conversation makes for pleasant company. She is elegant but not flirtatious and smells of violets. Clever how they do that. With the bump of wheels on the tarmac of the runway, we land at Le Bourget Airport. As I stand to get off, out of the porthole windows, I see banners still up proclaiming the landing of the aeroplane Spirit of St Louis, flown by Charles Lindbergh on the first trans-Atlantic flight a few weeks before us. More period dressing from Miskatonic. From Le Bourget, we catch the train into central Paris, which takes twenty minutes. I sit next to Sally who stares out the window. I¡¯ve never been to Paris, but it strikes me how different Paris 1927 looked from London 1927. I guess historically places are different, even though by 2027 they¡¯re all the same. Paris even smells different. The odour of Gaulois and Gitane cigarettes smoked openly by the passengers fills the carriage. I find it pleasant. The sunshine is warm on my face through the glass, and it is wholly possible to forget I¡¯m in a virtual-reality game, taken deep under by a patented hallucinogenic with my senses electronically massaged to see what the game wants me to see through clever use of the neural net and game goggles. We arrive at the Gare du Nord, and it is as bustling as London Victoria was, but smells and sounds different. The colours are different too and the architecture. A porter comes up looking to carry my luggage, but I have none. Dr Sally has a small case which she could easily carry and which I should offer to lift for her but she lets the porter take it for a tip of a few centimes. He shows us to a taxi. As I get in next to Sally, unable to ignore her shapely legs ¡ª ¡°realer than real¡±, as they say, I mutter, ¡®So where are we going?¡¯ She smiles , still looking out of the window, clearly loving virtual Paris in all its Spring glory. ¡®We need a base. I thought the George V Hotel would do? Technically, they don¡¯t build it until next year, but Miskatonic have played a little loose with history on that one. It¡¯s so grand. When I see it on the Darkworlds Paris Wiki site, I really want to stay here.¡¯ ¡®Because?¡¯ ¡®Because it¡¯s the grandest hotel in Paris, built for the visit of King George V of England and all theanglais and americains have to stay there.¡¯ ¡®And then we explore?¡¯ ¡®Yes, indeed. Then we look for the dark heart of the Paris infestation.¡¯ I glance out into the crowds of taxis and cars and horses and delivery waggons. I say, ¡®In this sunshine, it doesn¡¯t look like it has a dark heart.¡¯ ¡®Preston thinks it has.¡¯ ¡®Maybe it¡¯s a wild goose chase.¡¯ She shrugs. She tells the driver where to go in French and we set off through the busy streets. As we travel along the Rue La Fayette, I see an Alchemist Shop, the kind I¡¯d visited in Glastonbury and London. I point through the window. ¡®I could do with stopping and using their Laboratory to make potions.¡¯ ¡®You don¡¯t have any?¡¯ ¡®I have some but could do with more health and mana just in case.¡¯ She laughs. ¡®So you¡¯re an alchemist priest?¡¯ ¡®Messed up class-wise, really. I took a mix of skills.¡¯ She nods. ¡®That¡¯s the beauty of the game. You can mix many skills. It allows for some powerful builds. Ever make Soma by the way?¡¯ I shudder. I recall the Soma I¡¯d drunk in London and its withdrawal symptoms only too well. I shake my head. ¡®Not that shit. Evil muck.¡¯ She says, ¡®Worth having some to stave off total insanity. You don¡¯t want to go Warm.¡¯ She refers to the state of becoming a Warm One when your sanity drops to zero. If bad guys get hold of you in that state, you become be a power source and research item for whatever Great Old One inserts its slithery tentacles into you first. I say, ¡®Maybe. But the withdrawal is too hard.¡¯ ¡®It can be a lifesaver, despite the withdrawal. You should make some.¡¯ She didn¡¯t persuade me but I pretended she had. ¡®I¡¯ll think about it. So can we stop at this Alchemy shop?¡¯ ¡®I¡¯d rather get to the Hotel, set up camp and then look around there. There¡¯s a good Occult Bookshop I want to visit.¡¯ I study her with interest. Since we are talking skills and classes, I want to know hers. ¡®So what¡¯s your class?¡¯A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. She smiles, showing her pretty white teeth. ¡®I guess I¡¯m a Shadow Mage.¡¯ ¡®And you¡¯re not crazy? I thought all that magic would send you nuts¡¯ ¡®I drink a lot of Soma.¡¯ The King George V Hotel is opulence itself. Although it shouldn¡¯t even be open in 1927, I forgive Miskatonic for that historical error once I step out of the taxi and into the magnificent hotel. The reception is full of top-hatted porters and suited meeters and greeters. They try me in French until they realise I speak no French. I have a hundred skill points unallocated. I needed to put some into learning French or getting round Paris will be more difficult than it needs to be. The place is all cool marble floors, huge glittering chandeliers, gilt chairs and onyx tables. Lots of rich looking NPCs sit around conversing in French, but also English with a mix of accents. I hear British standard, Irish, North American and Australian, or maybe New Zealand. The hotel reception rooms are enormous. Dr Sally and I stand at the huge mahogany reception desk. Behind it are rows of pigeonholes for room keys stuffed with messages for the guests occupying those rooms. The reception smells of beeswax, coconut hair products and ladies¡¯ perfumes. It is warm. Sally fans herself with a menu she picked up from the reception top. The elegant hotel clerk with his waxed black moustache and heavy eyebrows is graciousness itself as he greets us. ¡®Sir and madam, I welcome you to the Hotel George V, the newest and most comfortable of all the grandsmaisons in Paris.¡¯ We grin. He raises only one of his eyebrows. ¡®Are sir and madam, Mr and Mrs? Or should I say Reverend and Madame?¡¯ He knows Catholic priests can¡¯t marry so his programming is extensive enough to realise I¡¯m Anglican. I shake my head anyway. Sally smiles. ¡®We¡¯d like a suite please. At least two bedrooms, with a lounge and a desk please.¡¯ As if to explain, she adds, ¡®We¡¯ll need to do some studying.¡¯ She glances at me as she says that. ¡®Of course, madame.¡¯ He is looking at her now. Everyone realises, including me, that she is the boss. She nods, pauses, places her index finger against her bottom lip and says, ¡®And can we leave things locked in the hotel safe for security?¡¯ ¡®Of course. Do you have anything you¡¯d like to give me now? I can secure it in a jiffy.¡¯ ¡®Not now. But we might in the future.¡¯ I say, ¡®We might?¡¯ ¡®We might.¡¯ The suite the bellboy shows us up to is as grand in architecture and furnishings as the rest of the hotel. We have a lovely view from the east-facing window onto Avenue George V. The 1920s cars trundle along, and elegant pedestrians in their best clothes promenade on the boulevards below. After messing around until she is satisfied with the room, Sally says, ¡®Do you want to look for the Alchemy Shop?¡¯ I nod. I¡¯ve invested a huge proportion of my skill points into Alchemy as I¡¯ve levelled up ¡ª probably too many as most of the rest of my skills are pretty poor ¡ª but it means I can make a range of potions. She says, ¡®I want to check out the Occult shop just off Boulevard Raspail near the Luxembourg Gardens. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll find an Alchemy Shop on the way.¡¯ We leave the hotel and saunter through Paris sunshine. Once again I marvel at the detail. The trees are in full leaf and birds tweet from them. Street sellers sell balloons and ice creams and pastries. Most of this is just dressing but there are players walking through the crowds who aren¡¯t concealing their blue floaty names. If you don¡¯t want other players to know you, you could switch your name off, otherwise it is there for all to see. Mine is off. There are plenty of shops around that sell everything you might need including furniture stores and light stores for those players who¡¯ve purchased an apartment and want to kit it out. For the average player, there are the more practical gun stores and equipment stores. We pass a car showroom selling Citro?ns and Renaults. ¡®Players run some stores, you know,¡¯ Sally says. ¡®Really?¡¯ I scratch my head. I think I knew that. The thought suddenly occurs to me to set up myown alchemy shop, sell potions and grow rich, but then that would just be falling into the trap of playing the game while the world ended. I¡¯m on a mission here after all. We walk down the Boulevard Raspail and onto a sidestreet where we find the Librairie ¨¦sot¨¦rique and step over the threshold to a darker cooler space than the street outside. All around stand tall bookshelves of ancient looking texts reaching up to the ceiling. The place smells of must, old leather and patchouli oil. If a bell has rung on our entry, I don¡¯t hear it but something summons a thin nervous looking man in a white shirt and waistcoat from the bowels of the shop. He speaks in French. Sally prattles away with him and he shows her a particular volume. I stand while they talk. They are both engrossed so I look at the books, running my finger along their spines. I can read the titles of the French ones, but little else. I have more luck deciphering the Latin (60 points in that) and German (25 points in that). The books include: Librum N¡¯gaa Voyages ¨¤ l¡¯est Le Manuscrit de la R¨¦v¨¦lationHerm¨¦tique Le Grimoire d¡¯Al Khidr Le myst¨¨re descath¨¦drales Le livre de la visionpestilentielle De cultu magna Piscium When my attention wanders back to Sally, I see her nodding, apparently about to buy the big tome, Sally turns with a grin. ¡®With Preston¡¯s generous donation into my bank account, I can buy what I want.¡¯ She taps the cover. ¡®This one has some rare shadow spells.¡¯ I say, ¡®I don¡¯t know much about magic. I have a few spells, but very low level.¡¯ She says, ¡®You know you can learn new spells from grimoires, right?¡¯ I shrug. ¡®I didn¡¯t know.¡¯ ¡®How long have you been playing this game?¡¯ ¡®Not long. Weeks.¡¯ ¡®Ah, right. So you majored in Alchemy.¡¯ ¡®Yes. Majorly.¡¯ She laughs. ¡®You must know you can learn new alchemical recipes from books?¡¯ ¡®No.¡¯ She raises her eyebrows. ¡®Blimey. I will have to teach you a thing or two.¡¯ I muse that that could be interesting and possibly pleasant, but don¡¯t speak my thoughts out loud. ¡®I¡¯ll buy you a little present then,¡¯ she says. She speaks to the shop owner again in French and I follow as he leads her to the Alchemy Section. She converses, smiles , peruses the books he hands her, and finally gives me one. It is small, much smaller than hers and quite thin. The faded gilt tooled lettering on the old black leather cover reads: Les Visions Alchemiques Sally says, ¡®So, you commit skill points to it, like you would with an NPC or player teacher. Then you learn the recipes.¡¯ I frown. ¡®But it¡¯s in French.¡¯ ¡®Ah,¡¯ she says and converses with the shopkeeper again. He shrugs apologetically, looking very French. I don¡¯t understand exactly, but she seems to say that it wasn¡¯t a problem but then she turns and says, ¡®I asked him whether he has Teach Yourself French, but he doesn¡¯t. Strictly occult, you see.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s fine.¡¯ ¡®Learn French somehow. Read your Alchemy book. Easy. Anyway, let¡¯s find your potion shop.¡¯ The Golden Scales The next shop we visit is two hundred yards further down Rue Brea. They call it Les Ecailles D¡¯or, meaning the Golden Scales, and it¡¯s clear from the big jars in the window on their wooden shelves that the place deals with chemicals. In fact, it is like the Alchemy Shop I frequented in Glastonbury where I learned to make the Red Powder. Sally is smiling at me; I guess my delight at finding the shop is obvious on my face. ¡®I¡¯m glad you like it,¡¯ she says as she pushes open the door. I step inside. Once again, like the occult bookshop, the atmosphere inside is two degrees cooler than outside, but instead of the smells of old leather and musty pages from the bookshop, this shop has the acrid odour of sulphur, underlain by a metallic tang. The owner comes out. He wears a leather apron over a while shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. Curious tattoos of alchemical symbols line both inner forearms. He is bald at the crown and his shiny pate is rimmed by woolly like grey hair. He blinks at us through thick spectacles like an owl then says something. Sally smiles and leads the talking, chattering rapidly in French until the man regards me with interest. Finally, when she finishes, he says, ¡®I am De La Croix. Your charming companion tells me you are an alchemist, and that despite the priest¡¯s collar, ReverendCadmon.¡¯ I give a slight bow. ¡®Not much of an alchemist ¡ª a dabbler.¡¯ ¡®But you can make the Red Powder? That is something of an achievement¡­¡¯ I blush. Im not interested in anyone¡¯s flattery. ¡®I am wondering if you have ingredients and a laboratory, I can borrow. I have some ingredients, but I fear not enough.¡¯ Lavishly, he gestures around. ¡®Oui, oui, as you can see. This is a very well stocked store.¡¯ ¡®I visited a similar alchemists¡¯ store in London¡­¡¯ De La Croix interrupts me, a deep crease forming between his eyes. ¡®Similar but not the same. Not the same quality. I have the best selection in Europe!¡¯ His voice tails off as if he is having a long familiar argument with himself or persons unseen. ¡®There is that fool in Heidelberg, and that other idiot in Segesvar¡­¡¯ I wait until he turns back with a benign smile, ¡®But you wanted to use my laboratory.¡¯ I nod, and he shows me through to the back of the shop. There is a functional laboratory with a white ceramic sink and tall brass taps. Wooden benches sit around the room laden with retorts and alembics and blown glass vessels in a wide variety of shapes, with swan necks, thick necks, and square necks. Shelves heavy with chemical jars line the walls and the chemicals themselves glisten and glitter and shine within their jars, as if hungry to be used. As I listen, I could almost swear I hear the ingredients murmuring to themselves, some singing, some muttering like crazed old women. ¡®Will this do?¡¯ De La Croix beams, looking from me to Sally, pleased with his set-up. ¡®Very impressive,¡¯ I say. ¡®Good, good.¡¯ He prods his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. ¡®Better than the London man?¡¯ I judge it politic to agree, and that makes him even happier. He rubs his hands together with a rasp of dry skin. I imagine the palms of his hand roughened by years of exposure to harsh chemicals. Miskatonic¡¯s attention to detail once again worth commenting on. ¡®So what do you want to make?¡¯ he asks. ¡®I thought health potions.¡¯ I can make blue potions of Health 100 with fifty sips each. ¡®Maybe ten in total? Do you have the ingredients?¡¯ He looks almost offended. ¡®Bien sur. I have more ingredients than anyone else!¡¯ ¡®Of course. So ten.¡¯ ¡®Oui, oui. Any more?¡¯ ¡®Yes. Mana. Just two I think.¡¯ He gives a Gallic shrug. ¡®If only two¡­¡¯ ¡®Two¡¯s what I need.¡¯ ¡®And anything else?¡¯ ¡®Do you the recipe for an invisibility potion?¡¯ ¡®Of course.¡¯ ¡®You would teach me that.¡¯ ¡®I could do this for twenty skill points.¡¯ For the first time it occurs to me that learning skills might be something I could barter over. Perhaps, instead of being fixed prices set by the game, individual NPC merchants could offer discounts? That is an interesting thought. ¡®Any other potions?¡¯ De La Croix seems eager. I shrug and am about to say no, when Dr Sally puts her hand on the crook of my elbow, comes in close and whispers, ¡®Don¡¯t forget the Soma.¡¯ Soma, that delicious liquid gold that removes madness but makes you an addict for life. Filthy stuff, LeCozh has called it. I remember the withdrawals and shudder. She knows I don¡¯t want to make it so she gives me a luscious smile. ¡®Just for me?¡¯ she says, and I smell violets and roses from her skin. De La Croix isn¡¯t judgemental about me making dope. ¡®I have the ingredients for Soma,¡¯ he offers. So I nod. ¡®Five soma then.¡¯ ¡®Ten,¡¯ Sally says. De La Croix blinks slowly, reminding me even more of an owl. ¡®So you learn invisibility first? Or potions first?¡¯ ¡®Potions.¡¯ I go to the nearest free bench and select the Health Potion tab from my HUD. Then I sit back and watch my hands go through the motions, mixing and turning, setting the bunsen burner on fire with a taper, heating the retort, watching it bubble and distil as I put in the various ingredients placed on the bench by De La Croix. The liquid steams and gathers: first, a murky brown a sapphire blue distillate condenses in the condenser and then drips into the collector until the potion is mixed and I get the message. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Then I do it again. After that, I make mana potions but instead of being blue these are pink in hue, like mulberries. Once I have my two vials of pink Mana potion, I pause. ¡®Don¡¯t forget the Soma,¡¯ Sally says with a smile, but I hear the edge underneath ¡ª the sound of an addict who wants their fix. I wonder whether she has a secret stash on her and whenever she needed it, she can slip away to shoot up in some stairwell. I mix ten vials of the liquid gold that curls and eddies in its glass prison, then I stop each with a blue rubber bung. The ingredients cost me a lot, but Guy Philby has filled up my account, so I fold two hundred franc notes and give them to De La Croix while my HUD registers the debit from my bank account. Sally is looking at me. I extend her a soma potion, and she takes it. She is trying to hide her eagerness, but I see the hunger in her eyes. She has one potion, but she still stares at me, so I give her another, and finally all ten of the glass bottles. ¡®Thank you,¡¯ she says ¡®And now for the teaching?¡¯ De La Croix enquires. I nod. ¡®And now for the teaching.¡¯ I look around. ¡®Here?¡¯ ¡®It is as good as any place, no?¡¯ I look at the hard wooden stools and shrug. It is as good as anywhere. So I sit, and he sits opposite. Sally disappears, and I guess why. In front of me, De La Croix took down a big volume. It¡¯s in Latin and has diagrams of alchemical processes, with all the arcane symbols for the elements and metals. But the book is just a prop. I hit yes, and we begin. He intones, ¡®The Golden Lion is the Sun, and the Sun is the centre of things. You find him in your heart, but the true gold, which corresponds to the Sun, is not the gold of the vulgar. The alchemical secret of earth is salt, sulphur and mercury. Do not trust Mercury, the trickster for he will deceive¡­¡¯ He speaks in a rhythmic drone, his words echo in a pitter-patter that runs around my head with tiny feet. A hypnotic trance drowns me and I swim in a stream of gold, silver and lead symbols. I drift very far away, swimming in a golden void until De La Croix¡¯s voice draws me back to the room. ¡®... and that concludes this lesson in Alchemy.¡¯ I get the message: I check my stats to see I have eighty skill points remaining. I am thinking of putting some of them into French. And then the door blows in. Black smoke roils and eddies into the room, sending us choking. The smoke is so thick I can see nothing, but someone has entered because a strange and commanding voice yells, ¡®Everybody be cool, this is a robbery!¡¯ Not so original. We can¡¯t see him through the smoke, but I pull out my guns. The Browning and the Walther feel heavy and deadly in my hands. I lift them shoulder high and sight them through the fog. I might hit something. Behind us, De La Croix turns and goes for a shotgun, that he keeps behind the alchemy bench. As he moves a spear of solid lead hurtles through the air and strikes him in the back, knocking him down. He struggles to get up with the spike sticking out of his back, but he is coughing and dying on the floor. It seems our robber can see through the smoke even if we can¡¯t. I wonder whether this is a scripted thing. Is this a quest? In fact, what in the actual hell is going on? I decide I¡¯ll blast into the black fog anyway and I squeeze off a round from each pistol. The racket ricochets around the room; the pistols kicking up, the Browning higher than the Walther, but the next thing a fistful of rock salt hits me the face, peppering me with stinging grains. It pings my health down every second for 5 damage over time effect. I could see a counter on my HUD showing it will last for twelve seconds. My world goes black. Jeepers, this caustic salt is evil stuff. I stumble around in a panic, hitting a desk. The blindness will last twenty seconds according to my display. No way I can fight back blind though. Near me I smell and hear an energy bolt. The crackle of lightning and the stink of ozone. That must be Sally fighting back, but then she screams and goes silent. I can see nothing and now can¡¯t hear her. My heart thumps. What if she is killed like Miranda and is now one of the Cold Ones locked in a wall in the Nameless City? The voice speaks again. ¡®Okay, people, hand over any potions. I know you¡¯ve got them.¡¯ Angrily, I roar, ¡®I can¡¯t see shit. Take this blindness off me. What have you done to Sally?¡¯ He laughs. ¡®So many questions. But sure.¡¯ Then I can see again. He removes my blindness as easily as he¡¯s caused it. I am down to 780 health, nothing serious. I glance at my assailant, dressed in a black Victorian jacket and pants, all made of satin. He has a white shirt with a high collar and long cuffs, both embroidered with small white roses and his face is gunmetal grey, glistening like new poured lead, with a blue lightning flash emblazoned from his forehead down to his chin, from which peer silver eyes. He is a player; I have no doubt about that. And after I take in his weirdness, I look left to see what he¡¯s done to Sally. Sally stands there encased in grey stone, like a flash dried mud casing. She can¡¯t move, but there are holes for her eyes, which blink and for her mouth. I hear breath rasping through the stony opening. At least she is alive, whatever he¡¯s done to her. ¡®Who are you? What the hell are you doing this for?¡¯ ¡®Just give me your potions. You must have made some here. That¡¯s what people do.¡¯ ¡®What if I don¡¯t?¡¯ ¡®Then I¡¯ll turn your friend Cold so the Old Dark Ones can gobble up her brains. Or maybe I¡¯ll do that to you and she can cough up the potions.¡¯ I glance at Sally. I hardly know her, but I like her and I don¡¯t want that fate for anyone. And anyway, I can always make more potions. I shrug and put my ten health potions on the bench. ¡®In the bag, brother. In the bag.¡¯ The lightning faced man holds out a tiny cloth bag. I think there is no way all the potions will fit in. He must guess what I am thinking because he says, ¡®It¡¯s a Bag of Holding, slowcoach. Just chuck them in.¡¯ With a sigh, I drop potion after potion into the apparently bottomless bag. ¡®Nice, fine. Good boy. Any more health pots?¡¯ I shake my head. He tilts his head. ¡®You aren¡¯t shitting me are you, good boy?¡¯ ¡®No. Why would I?¡¯ ¡®You¡¯d be surprised. Some people lie. Mana potions?¡¯ ¡®Okay.¡¯ I give him both of the pink potions. He licks his lips. ¡®Now soma. I don¡¯t use it myself, but I know plenty who do and who will pay.¡¯ I¡¯ve given them all to Sally. I don¡®t speak. He frowns. ¡®Don¡®t make me ask again.¡¯ I say, ¡®I don¡®t have any.¡¯ He stares at me like he is trying to read me. ¡®I don¡®t believe you,¡¯ he says. ¡®Everyone makes Soma here.¡¯ ¡®I don¡®t have any.¡¯ His voice is cold. ¡®I mean it. I will off you both, then it¡®s off to the Nameless City to get eaten by monsters from the code.¡¯ Sally needs to give him the potions. But she is turned to stone. I don¡®t know what to do. Then he must have worked out my dilemma. ¡®She has them?¡¯ he asks. I shrug and he laughs. I look at her turned to stone and say, ¡®You¡¯ll need to free her to get them.¡¯ He shrugs. ¡®No problemo.¡¯ He reaches into a little leather pouch. I see he has an array of them tied to a leather belt around his black velvet coat. With a flick of dust, the stone casing falls from Sally and she staggers forward. ¡®Potions, princess,¡¯ he says. She sneers at him. ¡®You killed De La Croix!¡¯ ¡®Yeah, so what? He¡¯ll re-spawn. Potions. Now. All of them.¡¯ She pulls out a blue health potion. ¡®Yeah, yeah, good, but no cigar. I¡¯ll take it, but I want the good stuff.¡¯ Sally puts the blue potion into the Bag of Holding he holds out. He raises his grey eyebrows. ¡®You¡¯re making me mad. Soma.¡¯ Sally groans and brings out two glistering vials of golden soma. The robber smiles and beckons with his free hand while she drops the two bottles into the bag. Then she stops. He gives a low laugh. ¡®You can¡¯t kid a kidder. I see it in your eyes. You got more. Cough them up.¡¯ She brings out another two more glowing bottles. ¡®Yeah, and more. Make it easy on yourself.¡¯ ¡®That¡¯s all I¡¯ve got.¡¯ ¡®Like shit.¡¯ With a movement quick as a striking serpent, his lithe fingers dip into a little leather bag and flick granules of salt at her. I know how that feels. She shouts in pain and falls back, rubbing at her blinded eyes. He laughs, even his voice sounding metallic now, ¡®Blindness is cool. I love salt for that.¡¯ His eyes dart to me. ¡®Don¡¯t move, or I will stick a spear through you. I don¡¯t enjoy killing players, but I¡¯ll do it.¡¯ His voice is a snarl. I don¡¯t doubt he can kill me. He is some kind of high level alchemist class and this is only over a few potions. A simple robbery. Give him what he wants and let him leave. Sally is blinded. ¡®Make me see again,¡¯ she says. ¡®Soma, soma, soma. Give it up, c¡¯mon.¡¯ Lightning face snarls more while Sally, realising he¡¯s beaten her, produces the bottles. When he¡¯s got them all, Lightning Face ties up his Bag of Holding, gives a mock salute. ¡®Nice doing business with you.¡¯ Then as if as an afterthought, he cures her blindness and disappears in a puff of smoke. ¡®Who the hell was that?¡¯ I ask when he¡¯s gone. Sally looks grim. ¡®What¡¯s up?¡¯ I ask. She shakes her head. ¡®I have no more soma. In a few hours, I¡¯m going to rattle really bad.¡¯ I remember what that is like. The Surrealist Bureau Sally will be okay; she still has lots of praying to do and what can happen to her in the middle of Notre Dame Cathedral? Feeling happier at that thought, I follow Andre Breton through to the Dream Lounge of the Surrealist Centre. He pushes open the black painted door with a finger to his lips and a smile on his face. I step after him into the room and see lines of sleepers on leather chaises longues, each of them lost in his or her own personal dreamworld. There are no brocaded curtains, just couches that wouldn¡¯t be out of place in an office or modest hotel. This is no romantic opium den. Most of the chaises longues are occupied, but Breton takes me to an empty one. ''Lie here,'' he says. I study him carefully. Is this some kind of trick? But the Surrealist Centre existed before I came to Paris, so it isn¡¯t just some scam to entrap me. And looking around, I see there are plenty of other dreamers. They stir in sleep all around me, muttering to their dreams, some turning and tossing uneasily, others with beautiful smiles on their faces. I lie down. ''Do I take a potion?'' I ask. Breton shakes his head. ''The ladies will bring you a pipe.'' I nodded, propped up on my elbow. Breton sit down on a chaise longue just over the way from me. There is a clear passage between them and I looks and see a pretty Chinese girl carrying an opium pipe walking toward me. She is dressed in a chic French business skirt and jacket. She set handed me a silver opium pipe. The opium, or whatever substance it is supposed to be in the game, is held in a small round chamber about a third of the way down the slender silver pipe. I take it and she bends in and lights the lump of opium, closing the lid. She smells of jasmine and China tea and she says, ''Smoke, sir. Smoke.'' Breton watches me with a broad grin, lying down now on his own couch. ''Smoke!'' he says. I hold the silver pipe, which is warm to the touch, and as warm as blood. The girl looks at me and smiles as I take my first drag of the smooth smoke. It is unexpectedly bitter. I take another inbreath, look over to Breton to comment on it, but then the world ends. Transformed is a better description. I¡¯m still lying on the leather chaise longue, but the room is full of shadows. Shadows that wreathe and whisper under the ceiling and in the corners like smoky snakes. I sit up and see everyone else still slept. Everyone but Breton. He is looking at me blinking his dark eyes. He is not substantial like he has been, a vague blue light hangs around him. ''How come everyone else is asleep?'' I ask. ''But not you.'' He stands. ''It is my intention to come with you.'' More suspicions grow in me. ''But why?'' ''Because you are special. You are a visitor. You''re English, not Parisian. I am curious about you.'' He is an NCP, a machine intelligence, why should he be curious about me? ''I don''t understand,'' I say. He smiles. ''There''s nothing for you to understand. You want to see Dream Paris? Follow me.'' He stands and I follow him out of the room past the reclining dreamers. Though it is day when I entered, it is night in Dream Paris. I ask Breton, if it is always night here. He nodded. ''Yes, yes. This is the land of shadows. It is always night here. In the night, things can remain hidden; they can move unseen.'' But now I am outside on the street, I donn''t know where to go and I stand there, bewildered. ''What do you want?'' Breton asks. ''Be clear in your mind.'' In London, the Great Old Ones have a processing centre for the Warm Ones, those who''ve gone insane. I guess they will have one in here in Paris, and even if it isn¡¯t the centre of their operations in the city, if I find it, I will at least be on their trail. ''A hospital. An asylum?'' He nods again. ''Yes, you said that.'' ''But you didn''t know where one was.'' He shrugs. ''Like I say, there are many.'' ''Then I don''t know where to go.'' He says, ''You must let the game lead you there.'' ''What?'' ''Open yourself. The game will lead you. It knows what you''re thinking.'' ''But the gameisthe Great Old Ones. I don''t want them to know what I''m thinking.'' He shakes his head. ''No, the Game is neutral. The game is like the Chinese Tao, it is the mother of all things; it has no allegiance to any of its myriad children. And it is malleable. You can change things in the game by your desire.'' ''I don''t understand. You''re saying by merely wanting to find what I want to find, the Game will take me to it?'' Breton smiles. ''It will take some practice. At first you are not in tune with the Game. But soon you will get to know its promptings and it will get to know you better too.'' This seems crazier than I even first thought, but as I have no other clue, I concentrate on my goal: I want to find some base or centre of the Great Old Ones, to try and find out what they are up to here in Paris. So I close my dream eyes in my dream body; I may close my game eyes in my game body, I don''t close my real life eyes in my real life body on the VR rig in Preston''s house in London 2027. I feel like a set of Russian dolls: self within self within self. Nothing happens. I concentrate hard on thoughts of an asylum filled with Warm Ones, but still nothing happens. I open my dream eyes and shake my head. ''Nothing.'' Dream Breton says, ''Your skill is weak.'' And then I have a thought. ''Is this a skill I can develop? Can I learn it?'' ''Of course. And I can teach it. If you have skill points, I can teach you Lucid Dreaming and this will let you change the course of things any time you enter the Dreamlands.''Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. But I have no spare skill points. I¡¯ve spent them all learning French. I will need to level up before I can put any points into Lucid Dreaming. Levelling up usually meant killing things. I felt the weight of my pistols in the holsters under my arms. ''Do guns work here?'' I ask. ''They worked in the Nameless City.'' He nods. ''They do, but there are better weapons. Search around. You may find something useful.'' ''So what now?'' I ask. He gives an inscrutable smile. ''We go exploring.'' He leads me through the dream version of the Surrealist Institute and we go up a cast iron staircase to the floor above. We walked down a passage tiled in while and black diamonds, except in the dream world they are smoky and blur slightly as I walk over them. Soon we''re up in the attic and Breton goes up a flight of wooden steps to push open a hatch in the roof. He turns and smiles. ''Come on up, the weather is lovely.'' It turns out that was some kind of surrealist wisecrack because outside the weather is smoky and dark. Shadows hide in shadows hide in shadows. I stand on the smoky dream tiles of the roof and look around. We are up on about the fourth storey. It''s a tall building and I can see a good way across the city. Shadowy buildings are all around. ''What now?'' I ask Breton. ''Try to focus on what you want -- the hospital.'' I try hard, squeezing my real life forehead. I try to visualise a research facility where the Great Old Ones might be experimenting. I remember the one in London. I remember the Nameless City. I try really hard. ''Nothing?'' says Breton. ''You tell me,'' I don''t really know what I''m doing. Breton shrugs his smoky dream shoulders. ''Let''s just wander then. Follow me.'' Breton takes a hop, skip and a jump and steps of the roof. I''ve already started after him but I stop. He doesn''t fall; he just stands there standing on dream air. ''Come on, Reverend Cadmon.'' I look down. Even though I know this is a game and I see he hasn''t fallen, I hesitate. It''s just natural. Peering down from the roof edge I see a significant drop. He beckons. ''Come on!'' So I follow him, stepping gingerly onto smoke. I don''t fall. The air feels springy but it supports me. Then he''s off, walking fast across the gap and stepping onto the roof of the building opposite. I hurry to catch up. Walking in the air is okay, as it turns out. Before I cross the next roof, he''s walked over the gap and is on his way to another building. It''s so dark here, I can hardly see anything. The closer buildings are smoky silhouettes, but further away things drift and blur. I can see shapes that are buildings but they are vague and lacking in detail. I yell forward. ''Where are we going?'' He stops and turns and puts his finger to his lips. ''Ssshh!'' He says. ''You never know who''s listening.'' I glance suspiciously all around me. I can''t see anything, but then who knows what could be lurking in these shadows and deeper dreams of shadows. I hurry across to where he waits, standing in mid-air. ''Where are we going?'' I repeat. He smiles. He''s a bit smug this Breton guy. ''As your powers of will are so weak -- at least for now -- I am trying to find your reseach hospital for you.'' I grimaced. ''Thanks. I guess.'' I had some vague suspicions about Breton. He was just too self-satisfied, but I had no real grounds for suspicions, other than it was a good policy not to trust anyone. But I could use his help as I didn''t seem to be able to will myself out of a paper bag in the Dream World. So, I followed Breton across roofs of boiling mist. And then there was a strange metallic flashing way off to the right. It was a bright rippling pinprick of light. I pointed. ''What''s that light?'' A flash of fear crossed Breton''s face. ''Ah,'' he said. ''I didn''t know they were about so early.'' ''Early?'' ''In the moon phase. Usually they come out when the moon''s full.'' ''I can''t see any moon.'' ''Exactly. It''s brand new.'' I stopped and stared. The dot of light was moving. Not towards us. ''What causes it?'' I said. ''Mirror snakes.'' ''Mirror snakes?'' He nodded gravely. ''They eat people.'' ''Really?'' I was used to various Lovecraftian monsters in the game by now. None of them nice, but I didn''t remember reading about Mirror Snakes in Lovecraft. The place must be breeding new monsters. ''Let''s go back,'' he said. ''It''s a long way off, but better safe than sorry. They can move very fast.'' I didn''t like the idea of the Mirror Snake, but it was a long way off, and we still hadn''t found any clue as to where the research facility might be. I said as much to him. ''Let''s go on a bit further? We haven''t found anything yet.'' ''Yes, we have.'' I was puzzled. ''We have?'' He nodded his head over to the left. It all just looked like dark mist to me. ''Over there,'' he said. ''Can''t you see it?'' I couldn''t see shit. ''No.'' He smiled patronisingly. ''Ah yes, your dream vision is poor still. You can put skill points into it.'' ''I don''t have any,'' I said. ''Pity.'' Now he really was being smug. I wanted to punch him. ''So where is that?'' He said, ''In the Bois de Boulogne. It''s a long way off though. It will take us a long time to walk, and I won''t risk it with the Mirror Snakes out.'' ''Then how do we get to it?'' He hummed and hawed. ''Normally, I''d go at the dark of the moon, but they seem to be out even now. Something''s changed. It''s pulsing,'' he said. And I listened. I could feel the pulse. It was a low frequency. I felt it in my sternum and in my temples. I listened. A slow heavy pulsing like a massive heart. ''It sounds like it''s powering up,'' Breton said. ''Powering up? What does that mean?'' ''Nothing good,'' he said. ''But let''s get back. The snake''s coming closer.'' He indicated where the little dot of light had become a short ribbon of sparkling light. It was closer. ''No need to panic,'' he said. Then he stepped off and began walking at a very fast pace. We went back the way we''d come, though to be honest, it all looked the same to me and I would have been completely lost without him. He started walking even faster and I struggled to keep up with him. I glanced over my shoulder. The Mirror Snake was gaining on us. Then Breton began to run, plunging through the shadows, jumping and leaping onto roofs. I saw a roof that could have been that of the Surrealist Institute in the middle distance. Breton was yards ahead of me but he looked to be aiming for that. I looked over my shoulder. The Mirror Snake was clearly visible as a long strip of glitter, looking like the squares on a mirror ball, but arranged like a tapeworm. As I watched, it switched to another direction. It seemed it hadn''t scented us, or however these things hunted. I was about to yell to Breton, then I thought I didn''t want to draw attention, in case the Mirror Snake could hear. Breton stood on the roof of the building, holding open the hatch. He was grinning. I began to cross the dream air from the roof of the building I was on. A couple of steps and I''d be back on the Surrealists'' roof. Breton said, ''Come on, slow coach.'' I was halfway across the gap when it attacked. A different Mirror Snake leapt up from the gap between the buildings like it had been lying in weight. It was long and covered in glittering mirrors, but its mouth was round like looking down an intestine, except it was covered in long soft suckers like feelers that waved and writhed around. It hit me. Jeez. That was a third of my health. I couldn''t take very much of that. The blow pitched me forward and I landed on my hands and knees on the surrealist roof. Grey, smoky blood poured out of a wound in my leg and the snake came at me again. Some instinct made me roll and the thing missed. I snatched my guns from their holsters, the Beretta in my left hand and the Browing in my right. They weren''t on safe so I blazed off rounds at the thing. I had no idea how strong the thing was. But I''d hurt it and made it pause. I looked back to where Breton had been just to see him disappearing down the hatch in the roof, and pulling it shut after him. The snake struck again. Less damage this time, but I would only survive a couple more. The lightning man had stolen all my health potions too so I couldn''t heal up. The mirror snap snapped back to strike again and I shot it. Bits of mirror hung off its damaged flesh. It whined in pain and moved more slowly, but it was still coming to attack. I fired again and critted again. The thing had enough and began to retreat but I shot it as it went away crying and whining. A few of those then: I stood there, my heart hammering. Then I thought there could be another one nearby and I might not be so lucky this time. I went over to where the hatch was. At least the little shit hadn''t locked it after him. I opened the hatch and stepped into the dream version of the Surrealists Institute.