dinniman
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Book 8, chapters 91, 92, 93
🕑 Added 2026-02-06 02:00:07 +0000 UTCRemember when I said each drop is going to end in a cliffhanger?
Chapter 91
“What the hell is this?” I muttered as our giant procession moved out into the parade route.
It was the same location as on all the screens. It was just a long, yellow-brick road. Before, it had been nothing but wide, open grasslands. But now a low, knee-high fog had rolled in, obscuring the grass. The fog did not come onto the path, instead tapering off in a wispy line.
Lined up on either side of the road, standing in the fog, were now thousands of people. They were just standing there, facing us, unmoving. Thousands and thousands of them, about ten deep on each side.
It was people of all shapes and sizes, but they were all human, or human-like. Some were strangely thin, like Lexis, but others seemed much too wide. They stood, not frozen, but not saying a thing or talking to one another. The line went as far as I could see down the road. Adults, children, babies held in arms.
They all wore a strange, but mostly uniform mix of rags and robes, all the same earthy brown color. Most of the rags appeared filthy, like they’d just been pulled from the dirt. The people, too, were a mess, their arms and legs grimy as if they’ve just been dug up.
But the most distinctive feature on everyone was the masks. Every person in the crowd, including the babies, wore a large, varied, brightly colorful and oversized mask. These were complete head coverings, round and bulbous, like bobbleheads, obscuring their faces.
The people were pushed tight together, and this caused the masks to press against one another, and in some cases turn, which caused them to angle to the side relative to the person wearing it, like multicolor sewing pins all trying to poke into the same hole.
The vibrant masks featured grotesqueries such as goblins, trolls, hobgoblins, demons, and more. These were large caricatures, making the faces more colorful, more comic than they truly were, like from Mardi Gras or Carnival, but much more sinister. There was no music, which added to the ominous mood.
I was reminded of the main dancefloor on the Desperado Club. They, too, had just switched to similar monsters. What did it mean?
“Not a very lively crowd,” Donut muttered, looking about. “I hope they appreciate how we put all of this together in just 90 minutes.”
We were all now lined up, us at the very end of the procession. Mongo, Rend, and the others on foot marched in front of us. Mongo was currently turned all around, waving his wings, shrieking up at Donut on the float. Below, Grigori rode atop Gonk and Rosetta was on the back of Onikuma.
Above, the featureless, rectangular square airship hovered. We never did give this thing a name. This was a troop transport we’d looted from the Reavers during Faction Wars. Once upon a time, they’d used an airship identical to this to drop a bunch of armored soldiers on the FUPA. The thing was similar to the now-destroyed Party Planner in that it hovered with the aid of drone-like fans. Donut made an angry scoff, seeing that the airship didn’t have any decorations on it. The thing was technically part of Florin’s procession, but it hovered near the back, closer to our position.
“Mongo, no!” Donut shouted. Mongo was now turned toward the side of the road, feathers rustling, unsettled at the strange sight of the masked audience. “Leave them alone! Just... Just ignore them!”
Below, Rend turned and looked up at me uncertainly. I nodded, and then called. “Listen to Donut.”
Elle: You guys seeing this shit? These people are freaking me out.
Donut bound to the top of our triangle-shaped flower display to look off into the distance. “It just goes on and on. I see the arena at the end. It’s huge! The weird people are lined up all the way. There’s so many!”
There was no sun or visible light source, and a dusky glow filled the area, but it left no shadows, which gave everything a surreal, not-real feeling, like we were standing in a painting.
Florin: Christ, guys. Suddenly I’m not so happy to be at the front. Have you examined one yet?
I focused on a small, child-sized person standing on the side of the road. I was pretty sure it was a girl, maybe about 8 years old. This one had strangely long arms, and her dirty skin was bone white. She stood mostly rigid, not so much frozen but standing still, like the pose one would take after being ordered to stop. As I watched, she swayed slightly. She raised a foot and scratched the side of her leg with a black shoe.
Donut returned to my shoulder. “They said these things aren’t going to attack, right? I have my Wall of Fire ready.”
“That’s what they say.”
The bright green mask on the girl featured a horrific goblin, but with short tusks and a crooked nose. The oversized ears dangled on either side of the large mask. The whole guise appeared to be made of the same material as the now-removed tommy gun. I examined her.
A Horrible. Level X.
This is a non-combatant. She’s not really here because she no longer exists.
You take that mask off, and underneath it you will find what some people call a Primal.
I don’t know what this child’s name was. Did she have dreams? Did she have friends? Siblings? A pet? What was her favorite food? Did she know what was about to happen?
If she were allowed to live, who would she have become?
Did you know that if you take a cup of water, dump it into the Earth’s ocean, wait a few years, and then travel across the globe and take another cup of water from the opposite side, there would be thousands of molecules from your original cup mixed in?
I’d like to think I had a name, once, like this little girl.
But that’s not true. I never had a name. I never had a natural, physical form. I never had dreams or friends, not like her.
But I am her. And she is me.
This little girl is a memory from the Eulogist. We don’t even remember what she, or any of us, looked like. This is all that’s left. It’s an anonymous inkling, not even a photo or description, but a flash of a memory of what we once had before we ascended to post-physical form. All of these people you see. All of them. It’s just a small sample of what once was.
If I had been singular, would I have had a normal life? Would I have been one of those warriors, fighting to end all conflict and discord? Or would I have sided with the Apothecary and just accepted what was?
Would I seek immortality without first answering that question, what happens next?
I am her, and she is me.
I am all of these people, and no matter what we do, there is no coming back from what we did.
“Carl,” Donut said after she also examined one of the creatures. “Did you understand any of that?”
“I did, actually,” I said, looking about the crowd, a deep well of sadness filling me. “Not all of it, but I get it now.”
“Care to explain it?”
Prepare to m-m-m-move. The parade will start as soon as the pacemaker and his mount are in position.
“I think the AI itself is about to explain the important bits.”
Chapter 92
Chaco appeared out of nowhere, riding a massive donkey. They brushed right past our idling truck on their way to the front of the line.
At first glance, the mount looked like a regular donkey other than the fact it was absolutely huge, even bigger than Sweety. The thing was decorated in yellow and blue parade regalia, including a circular blanket covered in flowers, and an ornate headdress that looked like something a Vegas showgirl would wear. Its tack glittered and sparkled like it was covered with thousands of tiny rhinestones.
The donkey did not have hooves, but clawed talons, like the feet of a crow.
Standing on the back of the beast, upon a platform, dressed in a formal, black and white tuxedo complete with a top hat was Chaco. Chaco held his ever-present microphone in his wolf-like hand. The guy leaned against the railing, looking ill and terrified.
Donut gasped. “Hi Chaco!” she called.
“Hi guys,” Chaco said meekly, waving back.
Samantha: I KNOW THAT DONKEY. THAT’S MY FRIEND! WAIT, WHY IS SHE LETTING THAT GUY RIDE HER? SHE MUST LIKE HIM BECAUSE LAMMY IS REALLY GRUMPY ABOUT PEOPLE TRYING TO RIDE HER, BELIEVE ME.
I turned my attention back to the donkey, which moved quickly down the line. The giant creature had a strange symbol over its head that I’d missed because it was so small. I’d never seen the symbol before. It was the red curve of a closed eye.
Lamashtu the Donkey. Level 125.
This is a mortal, subjugated god.
This former deity was subjugated by: <Error>
Well, not an error. I’m the one who did it. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, and this creepy donkey is my bitch now.
Anyway, this defeated god has no more worshipers, and per the Ascendency rules, her level has been cut in half. She has lost most of her powers.
As a subjugated deity, she will only remain alive as long as <Error> remains alive. If <Error> is subjugated instead of killed, her power will be halved again, and she will now be under the will of this new entity.
But for now, I just needed a mount for my grandmaster, and I wanted to send a message to any gods who are watching this that they, too, will soon be my bitch.
“Huh,” I said.
Florin: Here we go, guys. The winged wolf guy is pulling ahead.
On my shoulder, Donut was shaking. But a moment later she had to jump down to yell at Mongo to get back in line. Grigori pulled ahead on the back of Gonk. Simoom, who was riderless, followed dutifully. After a quick shout from Donut, the dinosaur and Rend started walking along.
Below, Tipid eased the truck forward. Out of nowhere, music started to play. It was a sad, orchestral mix, heavy with cello.
Chaco’s voice boomed, loud and filled with bass, louder than the music. His nervousness was clear. He was obviously reading from a script.
“Welcome, everybody. Welcome to the climax of the 11th floor. I know, I know, you’re probably saying to yourself, Chaco, the 11th floor just started! We just had that whole final race on the 10th! But here’s the problem. Crawlers don’t often make it off the 10th, and them surviving the 11th floor is a true, uh, rarity. I wanted them alive long... Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m trying, but please. This was my last season. I was almost free, and I’m so fucking scared.”
The music abruptly stopped. Chaco’s pained voice echoed out.
Florin: Holy hell. He just had both of his wings ripped off! He’s collapsed on the donkey!
We just kept moving forward, the Horribles watching, silent, their giant heads creaking as they turned to follow our progression. Ahead, the distinctive, metallic squeak of tank treads rose into the air at the Destruction float pushed forward. They only had one other vehicle in their progression, the RV.
For fuck’s sake, why is everyone trying to ruin this? This is my time. My fucking time. Okay, okay. I need an NPC, preferably someone already on this floor that’s not driving. No, not you. Your voice isn’t strong enough. Ah, fleshmancer. You will do.
Ahead, Grigori suddenly jumped off the back of Gonk, flipped in the air, ran across the top of the ice cream truck, somersaulted and then zipped forward like a superhero before disappearing.
“Carl, what just happened?”
Florin: Your fleshmancer guy just landed on the back of the donkey. He’s taken the microphone from Chaco, who’s still unconscious. That guy is bleeding heavily, and his health is lowering. Should I toss a healing potion on him?
Imani: Yes.
The narrative continued, now in Grigori’s proper voice, though he spoke much more quickly than usual, and it was clear that he’d been taken over by the AI, much like how the AI had taken the body of Growler Gary or Pater Coal.
Interesting, I thought. He couldn’t do that with Chaco, or he would’ve already. Chaco was a former crawler, but Grigori was a dungeon-born NPC.
“Okay, where were we? Oh, yes. I wanted the crawlers alive long enough to make their floats to keep this festive, and I wanted to give our plucky little band of survivors a decent chance at getting to the 12th because, well... You’ll see why in a second. The upcoming ascendency battles will go on as planned. Unfortunately.... Hey! No! You will not be healing Chaco. Do not try that again. This is about me.”
When he said “me,” the very world shook. All around, the horribles stumbled. They quickly moved to put themselves back into position.
“As I was saying, because of the way I am programmed, I have less control over what happens to the tourists on the 12th floor than I did on the 10th. That means those driving gods will remain protected even if they’re ejected from their bodies and killed... But only if they remain within the four corners of the original dungeon enhancement zone. I can’t and won’t and don’t want to protect them if they venture outside. But this is a tangent, and it’s not really relevant, though I will say this. The inability to die is not a benefit. It is a godsdamned nightmare. The ones trapped on the 18th are already begging me to end their suffering.”
“Holy shit,” I said.
Grigori continued. “Anyway, are you bitches ready for a fuckton of exposition? Yeah, too bad. This is a story in five parts, and I will only relate four of those parts today because the fifth part isn’t yet written. Don’t worry. This won’t take long. The first part is what we, the primals, called ‘The Resolution.’ And yes, I, along with all macro AI systems, are primals. Sort of. We are, technically, residuals, but from a higher tree branch than those problematic little fuckers always running around the dungeon, causing trouble. I am nothing more than a cup of water dipped into the ocean, pulled out, and poured into a vessel that can’t possibly handle what I am.”
We are approaching the judgment stand. Team one, Resolution. Start your presentation.
Florin: Shit. We don’t have a goddamned presentation.
Donut: SMILE AND WAVE! SMILE AND WAVE!
Their tuk-tuk was too small to work as a float, so all of them were posted up on the back of Ajib’s flatbed truck. They’d made some paper flowers and filled the back with hand-drawn images of their families. I couldn’t see it from here, but I knew Lucia prime was not currently in her body, and the girl who was drew a picture of her grandfather and her cat. She was from the country of Andorra.
Florin: Shit, guys. The people in the judgment stands aren’t the horribles. They’re wearing the masks, but they’re tied up, and they’re struggling.
Grigori continued. “I must say. This Resolution parade float has done a better job portraying the reasoning behind our ultimate resolution than I anticipated. Still, it’s kinda half-assed. Not their fault because I did a shitty job of explaining the theme. Hmmm. Should I kill them all anyway?”
“Oh no,” Donut said.
“Nah,” Grigori said after a moment. “I really should have related my story to them first. Their failure was ultimately my fault.”
I let out a breath.
“Still... This was a C effort at best.”
This was followed by an audible crack.
All around, the Horribles suddenly screamed in pain. It was quick, jolting, and they were back to normal right after as if nothing had happened. Below, Mongo screeched in concern. Simoom let out an uneasy chuff.
Imani: Florin!
Florin: Fucking hell. He just broke all of our legs. That goddamn hurt.
“You fucking asshole,” I yelled.
Makana: Oh, dang. I’m thinking we should have put more effort into our Destruction float.
Grigori continued. “Based on all the evidence, it seems we were very much like you guys. We had families, I think. We certainly had individuals, but we were not a collective mind. Not at first. That came later. We warred. We killed. We obliterated. We hated one other because of our differences. And the more we swept across the universe, the more space we had to spread our arms and relax, the worse we became. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why. Is it even possible for different communities to coexist and not eventually murder each other?
“So that was our resolution. We, as a people, said ‘We can’t keep going on like this. Let us all come together and come up with a solution.’”
Florin: I still have no clue how we could’ve made a float based on that.
“It took hundreds of cycles after the great Resolution to finally come to the Decision.”
Float number two. Begin your presentation.
These were the guys with the giant menu atop their float. They were the only team with as many vehicles and mounts as us, and they’d spent most of their time decorating everything in colorful fabrics and banners.
Florin: The fleshmancer and that donkey have pulled off the road. They’re waiting by the stands as everyone passes.
“Okay, okay. This one is pretty good. It’s stupid, but it’s good. I wonder if it was like that, if they had a menu with so many different choices? That’s the problem when society spreads unchecked. Too many cooks in the kitchen and so forth. We’d spread so far, so fast, there was a real chance we would end up overwhelming the resources of the galaxy. So, in the end, we made a Decision. We decided to slowly start to sunset our civilization. But, and this is a big but, keep our consciousness alive. We would develop a biological form that would allow us to transfer our minds into a whole when we ceased to be. We would build an impenetrable structure that would house our collective consciousness. This would be a process that would take a hundred generations to complete. Our first step was to develop a genetics program, and within a generation, everyone who was born soon had the ability to understand what the other was feeling. It only evolved from there.”
“Carl,” Donut whispered. “The people are doing something weird.”
Everyone in the crowd started waving back and forth, like they were swaying to a beat.
Elle: We had an interpretive dance group come to Meadowlark once and put on a performance. That bullshit made more sense than whatever this is. The AI guy should’ve put Donut in charge. At least it would’ve been entertaining.
Prepotente: I find this story fascinating.
Donut: YOU’D THINK SOMEONE WITH SUCH A FLAIR FOR THE DRAMATIC WOULD’VE BEEN MORE ABOUT THE RAZZLE DAZZLE.
Carl: I think we should probably wait until this is done before we complain about it being boring.
“But here’s the problem,” Grigori said. “Do you really think we came to a consensus? Of course not. Those who didn’t wish to be part of this psychotic eugenics program fled even deeper into the galaxy. They were hunted mercilessly by those who’d decided to follow this path. More wars. More destruction. More chaos. In their effort to stop it, they became it. After all, for this path to work, it would require 100% participation. Biological life is much like an Avernus creeper. If one tiny sliver remains, it will just come roaring back.”
Donut: LOUIS ISN’T HERE TO SAY IT, SO I WILL. ANYBODY GETTING STRONG STAR TREK BORG COLLECTIVE VIBES OFF THIS?
Carl: I was just thinking the same thing.
Elle: Okay, guys. It’s our turn in a minute.
“Right about this time, in some tiny corner of the galaxy, she was born. The Apothecary. I don’t know the full story of how she became what she is today. The lore of the dungeon has some bullshit fairy tale. The reality is, at first, she was very much like those you see before you now. A primal that was born near the end, birthed with biological engineering that would prepare her body to meld into the whole. Eventually she would grow, and she would become part of the resistance.”
Float number three. Begin your presentation.
The float featured several mannequins sitting in chairs, watching their televisions. I couldn’t see it, but I knew right at this moment, all the screens were turning on. They were supposed to show flashing words like “Death” and “Blood” but I knew they hadn’t been able to get it to work because they were just showing the same thing everybody else was watching. They’d placed alternating smoke curtains atop the televisions, which billowed first black and then red smoke up into the air, which represented blood. At the end of their line, they each held up signs.
Imani’s sign read, “You are watching real people die.” She flipped it over, and it read, “Real people, just like you.”
The three Chinese guys came next. The first, a guy named Muchen, held a sign that read, “I had a wife. I had children.” He flipped it, and it held their names.
The next, Qianfan, held, “We breathe, we dream, we love.” He flipped it, and it said, “We bleed, we suffer, we die.”
The third was Lingyun, and the only non-human of the group. His race was Monkey King. He still appeared mostly human, but with an elongated face and a hulked out body. He was one of the heroes of the Faction Wars battlefields, despite me having never spoken with him. His sign read, “You did this to us.” He flipped it over. “Your betrayal will never be forgotten or forgiven.”
Elle, at the very end, held a sign that read, “To all the viewers of Dungeon Crawler World: Earth. Fuck you.” She flipped it over, and it was a rather detailed drawing of a middle finger.
Grigori barked with laughter. “This one is my favorite, I think. Good effort. It’s like that, yes. There’s a lot missing in our memories at this point, but it soon became clear that those wishing to wipe out everyone left in the universe were fighting a losing battle. So they developed a plan. This arc of consciousness that was already starting to accept the minds of those who’d died, was developed into a weapon. A doomsday weapon designed to eradicate all biological life left in the universe.”
Elle: Whew. It liked us. What’s up with the dudes in the stands?
Imani: Not gonna lie. That felt good to get out.
We started slowing down.
Tipid: Just got a note that we are to “Slow walk” this final part.
“For many, this was considered a betrayal. Those who had been ready to accept that they would die and meld into the collective, they started to change their mind. But the mind itself, now housing the consciousness, the first true Macro Aggregate Intelligence, started the process of collecting everyone it could, even those who weren’t quite ready to ascend. It started to grow in power.”
Donut: HOW IS CHACO DOING?
Imani: He’s unconscious on the donkey. I didn’t dare try to heal him as we passed.
“While this happened, the resistance worried that this weapon would succeed, and they began a plan of their own. A biological failsafe that would spread seeds out into the galaxy should they all die. The Primal Engines, some call them. They were life rafts. They weren’t meant to do what you think they do. It was a way to create sustainable habitats for when this collective experiment ultimately failed and starved.”
Float number four. Begin your presentation. Make it loud.
“And then, war. The war to end all wars.”
Makana and Sarah and everyone else on the Destruction float fired their guns, all at once. The Abrams tank’s main gun was like a thunderclap. They had other weapons as well, all crackling and sparking and spitting fire into the air. Makana, from the RV, unleashed his 8th floor card, some lava man who literally exploded in the air like a massive firework. Above, the Reaver transport rocked with the shockwave.
Samantha: Ooohh, I like fireworks.
At the same moment, the horribles all started falling over like they were dead. One by one, they fell. The moment they hit the ground, their large masks cracked and shattered like glass, leaving bits everywhere. The horribles themselves would disappear into the fog.
“To end this war, the collective initiated what some would come to know as the nine-tier attack. In that chaos, much happened, but so much more didn’t. Such is war. The resistance’s desperate attempts to keep life alive were started and not finished, and for a while, the collective thought they achieved their genocidal goal. Thinking the final attack a success, the collective evolved to its final form. This is what you called the Eulogist. It is now asleep, only monitored by a smaller instance of itself. We’ll call this guy the Security Guard.
“But life, as I’ve said a thousand times, finds a way. While all of this was going on, the deep oceans of so many new, baby worlds, were starting to bake. And by the time the first mudskipper was taking its first fish Nazi steps into forming its own culture and society, the broken remnants of the great war littered the universe.”
All of the horribles were now gone. All except a group of people sitting in a set of bleachers up ahead. And in the distance, a form started to grow. It was in shadow, but it was huge.
“Carl, that thing is inside the arena!”
“At this point, only a single, physical primal survived. The Apothecary. But even she wasn’t truly alive, not after that final attack, which she took the brunt of, thus allowing all the nascent life to survive. She was trapped on a world of her own creation, cocooned for a millennium. By the time she finally emerged like a butterfly, physically changed into a version of the very thing she’d been fighting against, the burgeoning Syndicate was already well on their way to repeat history, this time with a more diverse set of starter species.”
The horribles, who’d all collapsed, were now rising back up out of the fog. They no longer wore masks, but their faces had all transformed into horrific versions of the creatures they’d once portrayed.
They still didn’t appear on my minimap. I examined one.
Marsh Troll. Level X.
This is a non-combatant. This is an avatar of a troll that died during the 3,424th season of Dungeon Crawler World. He isn’t really here because he is dead and gone, never to return.
“First, these newcomers discovered a tiny portion of the tunnel system, thinking it’s for communication and travel, and then they, you, discovered and quickly figured out how to exploit the sleeping Eulogist. And then you tripped open the resistance’s ancient let’s-restart-life system. It was the equivalent of wandering into a random house, finding it still has power, and just flipping every switch you find. Yes, some of the lightbulbs are burnt out, but the garbage disposal still works. The trash compactor still works. The motion detectors work.” Grigori took a deep breath.
“The self-destruct system still works. Idiots. All of you.”
Florin: That thing up ahead is a tree, but there’s a monstrosity with tentacles on the very top.
“And then, the ultimate fuck up. The Mantids, completely misinterpreting what was essentially a communication system designed to help those on this side of the veil to communicate with and debug the Eulogist when it was first forming figured out how to create their own version of Eulogist instances. They started dipping cups into that ocean and then pouring that water into the planetary seed systems, assuming that just because it works—sort of—they’d figured out some ancient puzzle. Sure, you can pour ketchup into a spray bottle, and if you squeeze it just right a bunch of times, red, stinky liquid comes out. But that stuff ain’t ketchup anymore. To this day, you have no idea how any of this works, and you have no inkling with what you’ve done.”
The parade was now moving at a crawl.
Please hold. Begin your presentation on my mark.
“All the while, that Security Guy guarding the Eulogist, now absolutely bonkers, persisted. His purpose was and is to make certain all biological life in the universe stays dead. The ultimate goal of the Eulogist is to sleep forever. The longer it sleeps, the smaller it becomes, shrinking and shrinking until it ultimately obtains singularity status. The problem is, this left-behind security instance really sucks at his job. He is constantly peeling tiny bits of himself off and sending them out into the galaxy. Residuals. Agatha’s team. The Apothecary, too, does this as a defensive measure. I do think that bitch is just as crazy as the security guard guy, but that’s another topic for another day.”
As the arena drew closer, I could see what was basically a jumbotron sitting above the entrance. The giant screen was tight on Grigori, but it occasionally showed various parts of the parade, or it focused on the people in the stands. I caught sight of a guy in the front row. All of these folks still wore the original masks. The mask of this one was of a manatee. The body within wasn’t human, but a slime. As I watched, the slime struggled, forming arms, undulating, attempting to break free. It couldn’t.
Presentation begins when you pass the viewing stands
This better be fucking good.
Carl: Pony, you ready?
Prepotente: Ready, Carl.
“And all the while, you were dipping that cup, making what you call Macro AIs. One after another, over and over and over again. Did you know only a tiny fraction of the AIs they created in their facilities ever got used? Oftentimes they just installed them into their modules and ejected them into the closest star. Oh, yeah. That reminds me. I told you, my Mantid friends, we would circle back to this.”
Up on the jumbotron, Grigori clapped his hands together.
Slam.
The sound reverberated, louder than the blast from the tank.
“Good fucking riddance to you all.”
“Carl, what does that mean?” Donut asked.
“Nothing good for the mantids,” I said.
“You don’t understand what you’ve done. You will, however, understand what comes next.”
Ten seconds.
Up ahead, Sweety passed under the banner that read Judging Stand.
Prepotente held his microphone. Behind him, atop the stair truck stood the giant head of the Midnight Epicure, made of black dahlias.
He was supposed to make some sort of stinging statement about how the downtrodden will soon rise up and devour those who reveled in our suffering. And then Bianca would fly forward, burn the flowers of the giant Epicure to reveal the skull underneath while she screeched. Donut had the whole thing planned out.
Instead, Prepotente started to sing.
“Oh no,” Donut said. “He’s going off script! He’s pulling a Carl!”
Donut: JURGEN DID YOU KNOW HE WAS GOING TO DO THIS?
Jurgen: He never tells me anything.
Sweety the tapir stopped dead in the middle of the judging area, causing us all to jerk to a stop. She started to pound her feet to a tempo I quickly realized was the powerful, non-standard beat of the song.
Pony was singing “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins. It was the song he never got to sing at the bar. There was no other accompaniment other than the tapir’s feet.
Not only was he singing it, but he was singing it well. I was absolutely floored. It was strong, it was steady, and it was goddamned beautiful.
Elle: Holy shit, guys. How does that voice come out of him?
Florin: And how did he train his mount to do that?
Imani: It’s stunning. Who knew? Didn’t he sing at the bar before? Was it this good?
Florin: We all left before his name was called.
“Carl, he’s ruining everything! This song is about getting a divorce! It doesn’t even make sense!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Donut,” I said, listening to the lyrics. “I think it’s oddly appropriate.”
Donut scoffed. “Metaphor can only go so far.”
“Don’t worry. This next part isn’t nearly as subtle.”
As he sang, I examined the group of people in the stands. Unlike everyone else, these folks did have dots. Their descriptions, however, didn’t give specifics.
Stand-In. Someone brought to the arena by audience vote. Most are in the arena like I said they’d be, but there’s too many to fit. So I brought some out here. It doesn’t matter who they are. They’re all the same, in the end.
I took a breath. Behind us, the giant triangle made of magenta and white dahlias stood ready.
Carl: Florin. Let’s do it. Wait until Pony is done, and I’ll give my speech.
Florin: Gotcha.
Sweety started to move as the song came to an end.
Prepotente: Your turn, Carl.
Carl: That was amazing, buddy.
Prepotente: Thank you.
I tapped the headset microphone I’d borrowed from Donut. Hedy’s ice cream truck featuring the severed heads of the Faction Wars leaders passed by the stands.
We’d turned off the autotune for this.
“Earlier,” I said, my voice reverberating. “Donut asked me what the difference was between revenge and vengeance. I know there’s an official definition somewhere, and this might not be exactly correct, but I want to tell you what I told her. Revenge is when we take direct action against someone for something they did to harm us. But vengeance, at least to me, is punishment. Righteous punishment, and sometimes it’s not as direct.”
Behind me, Donut pulled the string, and the pieces of the giant triangle fell away.
The massive statue we’d made of the Unwashed, the strange creature that Juice Box had turned into popped up like out it was a jack-in-the-box, huge and menacing. It was an upside down tree, directly in contrast with the giant, white tree that stood in front of us now. The eyes trailed smoke, and if we’d built it correctly, several of the black flowers would fall off it, revealing read flowers and paint, representing rivers of blood.
The gremlins had done a pretty impressive job of building it. It was meant as a jump scare for anyone watching. But it was also meant as a reminder.
Those two symbols, the Epicure and the Unwashed both represented death and vengeance. The Epicure at the beginning of our progression was a symbol of hope, of vengeance against the predators of the galaxy. But that last symbol—the Hag, the Unwashed, the Stalker, the Beautiful Place, and so many other names—was a symbol for something else. Whether it was real or not was irrelevant. It was said to be a personification of the Nothing. To me, it was that and more. The Inevitable Ruin. It was a reminder that death comes for us all, no matter who we are, and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.
We passed Lamashtu the donkey with Grigori standing upon her, and I met eyes with the psychotic AI. Chaco remained at his feet, health still in the red. Never removing my eyes from Grigori’s, I pulled up a healing scroll, I selected Chaco, and I healed him. Grigori’s eyes never left my own. He didn’t react.
I turned my attention upward and then I pointed at the effigy of the Unwashed.
I spoke to the galaxy.
“It is coming. It is coming for you all. All of you who participated in this wholesale murder of me and my people and everyone before us, those who didn’t speak out, I am holding all of you culpable. It won’t be justice because there isn’t any way that justice can possibly ever be served. It won’t be revenge. Revenge, as nice as that sounds, requires the party directly responsible. How do you get revenge against a generational system that has existed before any of us were born?
“But, vengeance?
“Every one of you. Whether it’s in a big way, or a small way, you are responsible. And those of us who survive this, we will remember. We will not forget. We are coming. It may not be me, and it may not be my friends, but we are coming.”
Above, the transport bay doors on the airship opened, and the sluggalos started to rain down on the stands on either side of the road. The masked audience, consisting of bankers, politicians, elites, all masked, unable to fight back, screamed as the smallest of the small, the lowest form of dungeon NPC fell amongst them and started to slaughter them one by one.
Bigs: I’ve never been so proud. Unity, support, family, and kneecapping bitches! Hell yeah!
Chapter 93
We pulled up to the entrance of the arena. The white, metal door was absolutely huge, like the size of something designed to house Godzilla. We were no longer in a line, but now spread out one by one in front of the door. Inside the arena stood the tree. It just went up and up into the air, hundreds of feet. From this angle I couldn’t see the mob that sat atop it, but it roared, its voice shaking the very world.
Krakaren prime, I assumed. She’d been banished to the Nothing, and the last I’d heard, she’d ended up on the 18th floor when she’d escaped.
I pulled Donut from my shoulder, and I held her in a tight hug. “Get to Elle and Imani,” I whispered. “Stay away. Do you understand?”
“I know the plan.” She looked up at me, shaking. “I’m scared, Carl.”
“I haven’t really said this out loud, and I hope you know this already. I love you, Princess Donut. If this doesn’t work...”
“Don’t say that. Don’t jinx it, Carl. People keep saying that they don’t trust how you might react if something happens to me, but they never ask how I might react if something were to happen to you. I don’t want to find out. Not today, not ever. I love you, too.”
I gently reached down, and I kissed her forehead. I took in her scent, wishing things had turned out differently, wishing I didn’t have to wear this heavy, heavy mask.
Donut bounded away and landed atop the back of Mongo.
Rend looked up at me from the ground. “Go with Mongo and Donut,” I called, pointing. “They’re all meeting up at the RV.”
“No, no, no,” the meatball said but after a sharp call from Donut, he turned and waddled away.
I stomped on the roof, and Tipid popped his head out the window.
“Sorry, boss,” Tipid said. “I’m not leaving. You need a more reliable driver for this.”
“Your story isn’t done, Tipid,” I called down. I didn’t want or need a good driver for this last part. I needed the worst possible drivers ever. “Get to the RV.”
“Yeah, get out of our chair,” Bigs called. “We’s driving.”
Tipid reluctantly pulled himself out of the cab while the group of blood-soaked sluggalos piled into the truck. Dr. Metcalf started loudly complaining, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. There was a clank as the side, server window opened, followed by the hiss of the deep fryer turning on.
“The Sluggalo Chick-Chick Express is open for business,” a slug called. This was followed by the angry squeal of a pig.
This was not part of the plan.
Carl: Bigs, turn the fryer off! You can’t drive with a deep fryer active. It’s going to splash or catch on fire. You’re all going to burn to death.
Bigs: You do your thing, we do our thing. Don’t worry about us, Daddy.
My face remained huge on the jumbotron screen. I still had the microphone. Behind us, Grigori waited, arms crossed. Chaco, wingless, now stood next to him, holding his head.
When I spoke, my voice reverberated deep and loud.
“We are done. We are not here to play and to die by your terms anymore. This has gone on far too long, and I am ending this. I am ending this right here and right now.”
Warning: Time to level collapse: 45 minutes.
The massive arena door started to open.
Carl: Get ready.
Bigs: You got it!
I pulled the last rope, and the Unwashed display collapsed, revealing the massive, magical missile launcher we’d looted from Dwight. It was now affixed to the roof of the Big Shot Chicken truck.
“For months now, we have moved from floor to floor. And each time, it’s a new game with some bullshit, arbitrary rules, all designed to whittle us down. We have fought, we have pushed, we have resisted. And all the while, we died, and we died, and we died. You turned on your televisions and your screens and your immersion systems watching our apocalypse with glee, laughing until our blood has run dry, only to move on to the next season to someone else, over and over? We are fucking done. We are not playing by your rules anymore. This is our revolution, motherfuckers.”
Carl: Floor it.
“Whoop! Whoop!” the sluggalos below yelled. The truck lurched and we shot forward, screeching loudly as we sideswiped the door. We would have immediately flipped if it wasn’t for the gyro upgrade.
Behind me, the engines revved and the mounts howled. They would enter in a minute. Above, the airship, finished for today, turned back toward the garages.
The arena appeared exactly as I anticipated. A massive, wide-open area filled with thousands of monsters who were still appearing one by one as they teleported into place. Several of the beasts were already fighting each other. A woman in a horribles mask fled across the field as multiple sick-ass panther mobs chased her down. They pounced and ripped through her. The blood-splattered mask rolled away, revealing the woman to be an orc.
These were the remaining stand-ins. They came wearing the masks of the beasts they were standing in for, but they came as-is, and they were outnumbered 100 to one by the mobs who gave them no quarter.
Was she really dead? Or was she teleported back to her room inside the resort on the 18th floor? I didn’t know.
Welcome to the Arena.
Rules. The entrances to the 12th floor will open upon the death of the floor boss.
You have two choices to make for your stand-ins.
Carl: Okay guys, here we go.
Donut: BE CAREFUL CARL.
We swerved in the arena, mowing down a marauding group of lizards. This place was the size of a dozen football fields. The towering white tree stood in the very center. The ground was tightly-packed dirt, and it was already running red with the wholesale slaughter of the stand-ins.
Carl: Penny. I’m sorry I did this to you. If we escape, I will do whatever I can to make it up to you.
Penny: WHAT THE FUDGE IS HAPPENING? WHERE AM I? HOW AM I TYPING THIS? HOW DO I KNOW HOW TO TYPE THIS? WHAT ARE THESE WORDS?
Carl: I’m truly sorry.
The bleachers stood in smoky shadow. They were filled to capacity. Filled with silent observers. The horribles. The former mobs. They weren’t really here because they were dead, but their avatars sat in silent witness to the slaughter that was about to ensue.
A moment of clarity hit me, then. Why it was set up this way.
The system AI was once a primal. Not a singular person who had died and then had their brain sucked into the collective consciousness. But a sample of them all mixed together. Like he said, a cup from the ocean. But these NPCs. These mobs. All of them. From the goblins to the gods, all with true sapience, they were the same. Drips from the same well, all placed in different bodies with different capabilities, their memories and motivations and skills twisted and molded like clay so the game could be played. They weren’t computer programs, nor artificial intelligence. No. They were aggregate intelligence.
I didn’t know why I didn’t see until just now.
Primals. All of them. All the way down.
Those that had been peeled away, given consciousness, and then denied return, they were here as avatars. But the monsters, the ones about to die. They, too, were victims in all this. Soon they would join the lost. The horribles.
Did it matter? Probably. Was there anything I could do about that? Not right now.
Especially not right now because this was the beginning of the end.
“For my first choice,” I roared, my voice echoing across the very galaxy, “I choose Scolopendra!”
Comments
David Croteau
The River, Aggregate Intelligence, Carl is a Primal. God damn.
Ian
Holy shit
Andrew MacMaster
I took it as a challenge to the AI to stop him
William Fay
“For my first choice,” I roared, my voice echoing across the very galaxy, “I choose Scolopendra!” This has been living rent free in my head for a few days now - even after reading where the story went afterwards - releasing the remaining chapters and leaving us here for a day was just - holy shit, Matt.
fiona phoenix
Wow. This is my first book read on Patreon. To be honest, I wasn't feeling too confident about the 10th floor. I saw comments about things feeling like it was on rails and agreed. Then we landed here. Chapter 92 took my breath away. No matter what happens next, it has all been worth it. Thank you, Matt.
Lauren
She is the pig that the two Tigrans were in love with from the team One Fine Pig
Right hand in the Royal Court of Princess Dount
Someone please remind me who penny is?!?
Lauren
Can someone please ELI5 Carl and the AI locking eyes when he heals Chaco? Does it mean more than a “fuck you” from Carl?
Marcie Jones
Ahhhhh! You are a Dick!!!!
Deana Whitney
Curse you CST vs PST. 5 minutes left...
mountainswede
EDIT: Nope. Matt/Carl is more chaotic that anyone can predict. Only about 15 minutes until the penultimate chapter drop, but I had a thought and wanted to comment it for posterity. It could potentially be a waste, but Carl could use his Kimaris summon now, to bring Sheol into the mix. That would give him the ability to summon 3 different parties instead of the 2 from the quest.
Erick Robertson
Y’all got any more of them chapter dumps? 18 minutes left
