NPC:_Test 1.3

V.

   "---figured out what you are," someone says.  Everything suddenly snaps into focus, like on the really old televisions with rabbit ears: you move one a centimeter, and suddenly the weather report is arrayed on your screen in all its meteorological splendor, in the middle of the weatherman's sentence.
    "Oh?" I reply.  I'm the same, but different-- short, again, with proportions that don't flaunt gravity.  I'm looking at a monitor displaying a vista that looks extremely familiar; with a few keystrokes, the screen changes and I'm now filling out a form.  The swishy orange logo at the top consists of two Gs and a T cleverly interlocked.  "And what would that be?"  I debate a bit before assigning it class B severity.  Not enough people use that configuration to make the issue a top priority.  
    "Neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring," he goes on.  I swivel my chair, look up.  The speaker is leaning back in his chair, his black hair spiked up into carefully casual disarray.  He always looks like he's just stepped out of a catalog shoot, one of those kind that take place on a beach and you can never really tell what exactly they're trying to sell you.
   I roll my eyes at him, then go back to the form.  "That's what I'm not."  I select "graphics" from a drop-down menu, fill in the reproducibility.  Obviously, dream-me knows what all this means, and is used to doing it.  Conscious-me can barely follow it.
    "At least it's good to check something off the list?" he says.
    "Oh, like that huge list of things you're supposed to look at since the new build?" I say, looking up again with an innocent smile.
   He frowns, gives a patently fake sniffle.  "I am hurt," he says.  "Right here," he adds, pointing in the vague direction of his heart.  "Here I am, trying to help you with your identity issues--"
    "You're just trying to out me so you can drag me to parades," I say.  I type in the details, how it reminds me of that issue we had before where grenade launchers would fire guns instead of grenades.
    "At last you admit it!" he says.  "So there's this girl I know who would be perfect for you, very femme--"
    "There's nothing to admit," I say, before he starts ordering a cake with two brides on top.  "Playing video games and hating dolls doesn't make me a scissor sister."
    "Are you sure?  I'd love to see that," another guy states, walking into the room and tossing his coat over the back of his chair.  He moved here from the Florida Keys, tries desperately to hold onto his tan and blonde highlights, and still can't get used to the weather.  I can't wait to throw a snowball at him.  Or a whole shovelful of ice.
    "I doubt your wife would like that," I say, wondering if I could somehow find a way to get his car buried in snow while parked in the garage.  Maybe even before the first snowfall.
    "Oh, she's a has-bian," Florida Keys says.  When Catalog gives him a blank look, Florida Keys elaborates, "As in, she used to be a lesbian.  College and a year of grad school."
    "But everyone's a lesbian in college," I say.  Florida Keys snorts; Catalog positively crows.  "Jesus, guys, I'm kidding," I say.
    "Right," Catalog says.  His next snarky comment is practically audible already.
   I interrupt him before he even starts.  "Back to work, monkeys."



VI.

    "Can't we take a break?" Rilur says.
   I stop, look back at him.  "What?"
   He puts out a hand to lean against a nearby metal pole.  It must have been a street light once, but it ends before the usual curved arm, and rusted wires dangle over the edge of the ragged top.  "Do we have to always be running off from one battle to the next?"
   I stare at him blankly.  "What else is there to do?" I ask slowly, confused.
    "We can explore," he says. "Come on."  He grabs me by the wrist and starts into a nearby building.  I sigh, but let him; it's either go along like a good sport, or be dragged, which would just be embarrassing.  And either way I'd end up following.
    "What are we looking for?" I ask.  Scattered along the walls inside are doors, most knocked off their hinges, some boarded over, a couple intact, all spattered with rust flakes through their industrial grey paint.  Most of the area inside is a gigantic staircase.  He looks around, then leads up the flight of stairs
    "Nothing.  Which is why we're not looking, we're exploring," he corrects me.
    "Semantics," I grumble.  Fluorescent lights at semi-regular intervals line the stairs, most flickering fitfully.
    "Actually, it's an important distinction."  At each landing, he surveys the doors briefly, then heads up the next group of stairs.  Climbing them in heeled boots is difficult, especially with him bounding up like a kid with unlimited energy.  "Looking needs an object, or an objective.  Exploring is for its own sake."
    "Well, I'm so glad we got that cleared up."  He smiles, but keeps going.  "What do you expect to find in here?" I ask.  "It's just a stupid building, like all the others.  Nothing special."
   He pokes his head in one of the doorways that's missing its door.  "You're probably right," he says.
   I stop.  "Then what's the point?" I ask flatly.
    "I already told you.  Exploration is for its own sake.  Maybe we'll find something cool."  He peers up the stairs, then looks back to me.  "Come on, it's just two more flights."
    "Until what?" I say.  He doesn't answer, just keeps going up.  "Sadist," I mutter, as I resume trudging up the stairs.
   He laughs.  "Flattery will get you everywhere."  I snort in spite of myself.
   We keep climbing.  Finally, we're at the top of the stairs.  A grimy skylight in the ceiling lets in minimal light.  There's a door on the landing.  "Wow, incredible," I say.  "Such a surprise.  Can we go now?"
   He rolls his eyes, then tries the door.  It's either locked or rusted shut.  He puts both hands on the square bracket of handle, gives it a solid yank.  With a scream of rust, the door gives way, dislodging rust flakes and dust, loudly protesting every inch of movement.  He goes through it.
   I step through the door after him, letting my eyes adjust from the brighter interior.  By the time they do, he's standing at a tubular railing that circles the edge of the roof.  I walk over to him.
    "See," he says, gesturing over the railing.  "This is why."
    "Oh," is the only thing I can say.  The city looks... incredible.  I've never seen it like this before.  Flat roofs stab into the sky around us, making an irregular, uneven line into the cloudy sky tinted orange from light pollution.  Our building is taller than most in the immediate area, so we're looking down on everything: metal grates and smokestacks with lazily spinning vents on top of other roofs, painted ladders, black and rusted fire escapes, the occasional other player or AI denizens of the game.  The lights stretch on in every direction, marking the grid of the streets.  Even the random steel girders from abandoned or destroyed projects, the piles of brick or jagged cement, look something near to...well, if not beautiful, then at least like they're all in their proper place, a place that has meaning and serves some greater purpose.
    "I like it when you're wrong," he says, smiling at me.
    "Sometimes I do, too," I say.  "It's such a nice break from being perfect."