Eric walked along the streets of 1950s Los Angeles, face flushed. It was Arvin the entire time.
The newspaperman turned gunman, who confronted Eric in the alleyway, then drew a bead on his chest, turned out to be an avatar controlled by Arvin.
After Arvin holstered his pistol, he and Eric decided to head back to The Clover, then talk things over. On the way, heat washed over Eric, the warmth pouring from his side. Clearly, Arvin was bothered, and Eric wondered what might've upset him.
True, their initial encounter was rife with intensity, but when their identities surfaced, the tension quickly subsided, or at least for Eric it did. Arvin hadn't relaxed since. Why not?
Eric cast a sideways glance, eyes narrowing. If anyone should be upset, he should be the one, since he stared down a pistol barrel, not the bot.
Eric faced forward, digital body shuddering. Simulator or not, the alleyway's intensity soaked into his bones, soaked into the mind that would eventually leave, but with a horrific memory in tow.
The occurrence carried deep implications, and he wanted to consider these, but not now. Instead, he enjoyed the sight beside him–Arvin, his robot client, in human form.
Arvin felt Eric's amusement, he didn't read it. In human form, Arvin could no longer read bio-human data, but perhaps he was better off. With Eric likely discharging pink and purple ribbons of glee, this might prompt a reemergence of his pistol. Apparently, human limitations had advantages.
"Back so soon, are we?" the waitress playfully asked Eric, the same waitress that took his order. She then feigned sadness. "And I'm sorry to tell you this, my dear, but your Guinness is gone. But if it's any consolation," she continued, patting her stomach, "she's in a better place."
Eric smiled. "Well, that's something to be thankful for." He turned towards Arvin, but spoke to the waitress. "And here's the friend I was looking for. Mind if we sit at the same table?"
"But of course. Come along then, lads."
She turned and walked the lads back to Eric's old table. Then as the men settled in, she inquired about their order. They went with two glasses of Guinness, and she left to bring them over.
Arvin eyed her as she sauntered off, then when she stepped out of earshot, he turned back and leaned in. "Just how fucking stupid are you?"
Eric jerked back. He never thought that Arvin would speak to him this way, or for that matter, to speak this way at all. In fact, the statement was so out of character, doubt crept in as to this person's identity. Eric slowly leaned forward. "Wait, you are..."
Arvin's human eyes squinted, then after a moment, they rolled. "Yes. It's me. Your special client."
Eric couldn't help but chuckle. He had become accustomed to real space Arvin, the prim and proper house bot with an elegant British accent. Now, no trace of the astute client remained. Before him sat a full-bore human, a transition worth marveling over. But with Arvin not about to marvel over anything, Eric shelved his admiration, then opened his hands. "What? Why are you so upset?"
Arvin leaned back. "Is it safe to assume you're here for the same reason I am?"
Eric nodded.
"Okay. And since we're here for the same reason, can I assume you recognize the importance of going unnoticed?"
Eric nodded once more.
Arvin leaned forward. "Then why the hell would you enter a virtual world, to spy on a potential murder suspect, looking exactly like your real space self?"
All in one motion, Eric closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and lowered his head.
"Does he know what you look like?"
Eric, his eyes still closed, his lips still pursed, nodded. He then looked up and shot hands over his mouth.
Arvin sat there in open-mouthed silence, and Eric struggled not to laugh. He couldn't stop superimposing the classily refined Arvin over this very biological, very upset human. It was too damn hilarious.
Eric drew in air to steady himself, then went on. "Sorry, Arvin. Me coming in here was kinda spur of the moment."
Arvin cringed. "Oh, for the love of God. Don't call me by my real name!"
Eric's laughter suppression gave way. It was official. He was the worst spy in the history of the profession. "Goddammit. Sorry." He took some breaths, finally excised his delirious demons, and continued. "Well, what's your name in here?"
"Michael. I go by Michael. But just call me Mike."
"Alright then, Mike." Eric then observed Mike admiringly, to which Mike opened his own hands. "It's just kinda cool," Eric explained, "seeing you like this."
Mike shook his head, but immediately after, he eased back into his seat, signaling relaxation. "I suppose it's not so bad from my end, being in this body and all. But I selected this body, along with these clothes, to blend in, to be inconspicuous. You on the other hand..."
Eric reddened.
"You know what you look like with those glasses and hat?" Mike gestured at Eric's mission kit resting on the table. "You look like a spy. Like some secret government operative. What you don't look like is just some plain old guy, existing in plain old 1950s Los Angeles."
"I know. I know. Like I said, spur of the moment."
The waitress arrived with their drinks, and they both halted conversation. She set their glasses down, inquired once more if either wanted anything else, and Mike said they were fine for now. She smiled before turning on her heel.
Eric leaned forward, then picked up his glass and studied it, eyes slightly narrowed. He brought the glass to his nose, inhaled, and smiled after detecting a wonderfully pungent aroma. Without additional fanfare, he went in.
He filled his mouth with the frosty liquids, bitter and heavy, then swallowed. He cast another smile, the gesture wider than before, and not only from the phenomenal taste, but how the viscous fluids travelled down his throat, cooling his chest as they passed. "Holy shit," he responded, quickly going in for another pull.
Mike, eyeing Eric all the while, emanated amusement of his own.
Eric appreciated this, as it stamped out the last traces of tension. "By the way," he continued, setting his glass down, "where are you right now? I mean in real space."
Mike sipped before answering. "I'm in my basement quarters, shut down while updates are filed into my neural networks." He smirked. "Bastards keep me in the basement. But it works out in my favor, because that's the best place to login, and it's secluded from the family."
"I can't blame you for feeling that way." Eric eased back. "So, is our target the person we think he is?"
"Yeah. I concluded that days ago. Whenever Chad logs in, Victor appears, and it's happened numerous times."
Eric nodded. That answered his first question–is Chad Vale Victor Vane? Now he needed to answer the second–is Chad an online killer? "How often do you carry out these little tracking missions?"
"Pretty regularly, since my duties don't take up much of my time. Sometimes I enter even when I'm slaving away."
"You can control both bodies simultaneously? Your robotic form and net space avatar?"
"Yeah, but not perfectly." Mike smiled. "There's been instances when I go to do something in one world, and end up doing it in the other. It makes for a great bloopers reel."
Eric smiled back. Then he looked down when Mike picked up his drink once more and sipped it. "So what do you think?"
Mike swallowed, then hefted his glass. "Of this?"
Eric nodded.
"Well, if I had any gustatory cortex, I'd let you know. But since I don't..."
"So you can't taste anything?"
Mike shook his head.
"Wait, how are you experiencing this world?"
"Same way you are. The computer program is feeding us the same information, only I can't process all of it because I don't have your components."
"Like gustatory cortex for taste?"
Mike nodded. "If I can't process something in real space, I can't process it here. But pretty much everything else–touch, sight, sound–I'm sensing all of that. And I'm sensing it from your point of view."
"But it seems like you're enjoying it. The drink."
"I'm just doing my best to copy you." Mike took another pull, then exhaled an obscene gasp of enjoyment.
Eric chuckled. And while he wanted to keep the conversation light, there were business matters to discuss. "So, how long has this little endeavor of yours been going on?"
"About a week."
"And?"
"And I think I've identified his next target."
Eric nodded. "Yeah. Alice."
"Who?"
"Alice. The librarian."
Mike's eyes narrowed.
"Wait," Eric followed. "Isn't that who you identified?"
"Well, I identified a librarian. Pretty girl–young, petite, long brown hair."
"Yeah, that's her. Alice."
Mike's eyes stayed squinted. "How did you find out her name?"
"I met her today. Before I entered, I found out through Crypt Keeper that Victor was targeting a librarian, so after popping in, I went to the library nearest to his place. Turns out she works there."
Mike slowly smiled. He deduced the librarian target days ago, but through surveillance. He hadn't known her name, until now. "Okay. So her name is Alice. A name is helpful. Anything else?"
"Nah. I only spoke to her for a few minutes. You?"
Mike shook his head. "I've seen them go out on dates–dinner, movies, stuff like that–but nothing else."
Eric stretched his virtual back before continuing. "Anything giving you the impression that he's a murdering asshole?"
"Oh. I reached that conclusion a while ago. That pig's been poked."
Eric grinned. "Well, our best chance to catch him in the act is over the next few days. He told me on Crypt Keeper that his next hit is just about ready."
Mike took a drink, then gingerly set his glass down. "So you've seen him on Crypt Keeper, huh?" Eric nodded. "See anything interesting while there?"
Eric looked to the side, then in his mind's eyes, trails of dark-red blood arced through the air, the spurts coming in the wake of deep, wet thumps. He rattled away the thoughts, then shot Mike a look, answering his question with it.
"Yeah," Mike affirmed. "Pretty damn bad."
Eric inhaled to signal agreement, then after exhaling, underlined this with a long pull. "So, any ideas about when or where the hit's gonna be?"
"Can't tell. I've spent the last couple of days trying to close in on Victor, but no luck."
"Too secluded?"
"Yeah, and too weary of strangers. But you being here should help. Now we can step up our surveillance. That is, as long as you stop looking like you."
Eric grinned. "As soon as I get out, I'm switching up my avatar."
Mike satirically thanked the virtual Gods.
"But even after I change my appearance, we still have the same problem. We can't get close to Victor."
"True. I considered using the librarian somehow, maybe to introduce us, but she's pretty hot for Victor, and probably doesn't want attention from some random guy."
Eric looked down and away, eyes narrowing. A strategy just came to mind, one that would overcome Victor and Alice's resistance to strangers. But was it even possible? He turned back, deciding to flesh this out later. "Well, whatever we come up with, we need to act fast, because there isn't much time left."
"For who? Alice or me?"
Eric didn't understand the comparison. Then he did. "God. Sorry. I didn't mean to..."
Mike waved him off with a chuckle. "I'm just messing around. I couldn't resist."
Both men fell silent, each quietly sipping their drinks while soaking in the atmosphere. Eric, for his part, appreciated his surroundings far more than before, now that his stay wasn't pressure-filled.
"Pretty amazing," Mike softly interjected. "Isn't it?"
Eric, the notorious loather of all things technology, couldn't help but agree. "Yeah. Yeah it is pretty amazing." He took a drink, the cool thick liquids blurring his vision even more. "Actually, now I understand why so many people enter these places, and spend so much time here."
Eric suddenly realized something. He didn't want to leave. He liked it here.
Ironically, this world provided a refuge from tech. In here, tech was nowhere in sight, and he adored this. Hell, maybe the other displaced people should make an exodus on over.
How many of his clients would benefit from visiting tech-free worlds like these? Probably many, since in here, they could put to use whatever skills became irrelevant. And who knows? Maybe some had already arrived. Maybe the world's characters, who busily performed menial labor, weren't computer programs after all. Maybe they were real people, performing real work, because to them they extracted value from it.
Mike sipped his drink, eyeing Eric all the while. He didn't need A.I. abilities to tell that Eric was mulling over meaningful thoughts, so when he broke in, he did so slowly. "Well, I need to be getting back."
Eric turned, the world quickly cranking into clarity. "Right. Right. I'll um, I'll make sure to change my appearance before reentering. Oh. And we should exchange contact info, just in case we come across something worth passing on."
They swapped data, then Mike got up to leave, speaking as he did. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow."
"See me where? Here in my apartment?"
Mike grinned. "Therapy. Tomorrow morning, I need to go meet my therapist."
Eric chuckled. Another reality existed. How interesting that he forgot. "Of course. See you then."
With that, Mike walked into the men's room and didn't reappear.
Eric figured that he used this location to discretely exit, and he needed to depart as well, but not quite yet. He first wanted to order another beer, then lean back, and go on pretending that the other reality didn't exist, go on pretending that where he came from was just a dream.