Moxyland

Toby

In the fourth corridor, kids, I finally find something potentially useful. It’s a mural, giant-scale and kif skilful, of a Nguni cow in profile, the kind you only ever see now emaciated in the background of the politsoc broadcasts about how fucked up the Rural is.

This pastoral beast, by comparison, is plump as the motherbitch’s credit rating. But I catch on quickly that it’s not just paint rendered ultra-realistically, it’s actual hide (dark speckled brown on a dirty cream) cut to shape and mounted up fresco on the wall, which is creepy as hell. Not an obvious clue, but disregard at your peril, kids, when you got nada to go on after thirtynine abandoned rooms, that noise getting closer, and still no sign of anything resembling the Redux Core, which is the last, best, only hope for the Nemesis star system.

Under the sound of the dripping, like Chinese water torture in the reverb, and the skrawk of rusted pipes, apparently susceptible to shifts and groans, and the machinery clanking off-kilter on twisted gears, is a distinctly kitchen sound. And if that doesn’t sound particularly frightening, I’d like you to imagine the gurgling of a drain remixed with the metal screech of the garbage disposal, only more organic – as if it were coming from something’s larynx. Something big. And alien. And very fucking scary. Let’s just say it’s not encouraging, kids, especially when I can’t tell if it’s getting closer with all the ambient noise.

Okay, but I gotta focus on the cow, or bull, if the fuck-off sharp and long horns are anything to go by. The local flavour is a nice touch – a little extra the developers threw in to mod the experience to whatever part of the world you’re logging in from – like water buffalo in Indonesia. Whatever, the moo is almost a storey high, reaching nearly all the way up the factory wall to the narrow row of filthy windows (too small to climb out, too high to get to, thanks for the suggestion, I’ve already tried). Where they’re broken, light comes in so bright and sharp it slices the gloom into thin geometric slits, swirling with dust. I’ve been avoiding them. It’s superstitious, like not standing on the cracks, but also I don’t want to be exposing myself in a bright blast of sunlight to whatever is making that noise.

And cos it seems the obvious – although it wouldn’t in realworld – I collect some of the crates scattered oh-so-conveniently in the near vicinity and push ’em over to the wall in a teetering pile to get a better look at the damn thing.

There’s something odd about it. The beady eye is a dissected marble, the kind with a green cat’s eye twist in the centre, so it looks really fake. And the hooves and the horns are especially weird, cos they’d be the bits it would be easy to get, just stick the bones right up there. But they’re made up of big oval sequins, misshapen and discoloured and overlaid on each other like scales.

On closer inspection, the hide is patchwork; no cow big enough to cover this mural on its own, but well done – you can barely see the seams. When I run my hand over the bristly texture of the hide, against the grain, dust stirs up. And there it is. I’m seriously disappointed. Could they have been more obvious? A keyhole. Now if only I had a key. I must have missed it on level fifteen. Fuck.

There is a scritching sound. I feel like it’s been going on a while, subconsciously, and I’m only just clicking on to it – too involved in the goddamn moo. Or maybe it’s only just started. I turn very quickly, in case it’s the tick of claws on the concrete behind me, yanking out the Luger from the back of my jeans. There’s only one shot, and that’s if it doesn’t jam.

But there is only the clank and creak and dripping. The factory floor is empty, as far as I can see into the dark recesses on the other side. The slices of light coming in from outside make it harder to see, but I’ve already freaked myself out too many times straining to detect movement in the shadows. And anything could be lurking among the carnage of decrepit machinery and tumbled crates and the stacks of packaging. (Styrofoam. Already cut one open, spilled out the spongy S curls onto the floor – was using them like a trail of breadcrumbs until I twigged that it would lead other things to me as much as leading me back.)

The scritching comes again and I realise, only now that it’s been absent for a second, how close it is. Right here. I bring the Luger up real slow, watching for the hide to stretch and distend cos I know, I just fucking know, something grotesque is scratching patiently on the inside, like a dog at the door.

There is the faintest hint of movement and it takes me a second to pinpoint it. Light shifts on the hooves and I ease the Luger up, please fuck let it not lock up now, placing one hand against the hide for balance, which is warm now and moving steady cos the fucking cow is breathing, and the sequins aren’t sequins at all, but nails, fingernails bruised black and stained, and I can tell this because there are rotten fingertips emerging behind them, scraping out and over the other nails, so that there are six layers of intertwined wilted hands tearing their way out from the wall.

As I throw myself back, pulling up the gun to fire, two things happen simultaneously. The Luger clicks, cold. And my sudden shift topples the pyramid of crates. The air opens up behind me, so I’m looking up, falling back, as the things seethe out like gas – murky, taloned things, clawing past each other to get at me, making a rustling like rice paper. And what hits me as I strike my head on the concrete is that it wasn’t even the gurgler that took me out.

I toss the plug-in to one side in disgust and wedge myself out of the gamewomb and into the barcade, lit cosily dim so that pulling out into realworld isn’t so jarring. I stumble over to the bar and get distracted by a girl with relaxed curls and a mole above her mouth, old-Hollywood-style, sitting alone in one of the perspex booths. The only game she’s playing is voyeur on everyone else’s, multiple screens projecting the action.

‘You buying?’ I say, pulling in next to her.

‘Excuse me?’ she says, all cold surprise, like she’s never been hit on before.

‘C’mon. I’ll get the next one. You can make it expensive. But you buy this round. I just got fragged one time and I need a commiseratory drink.’

‘Oh right. You’re the one who just got torn limbless by the Dark.’

‘That’s me. Toby. And you are?’

‘Julia.’

We sit in silence for a long moment. She’s waiting for me to get uncomfortable and leave. But I’m not shifting a millimetre and eventually she can’t resist, if only to drive home her superiority.

‘You need the BFG automatic. It’s in the substation behind the geysers.’

‘I looked there.’

‘It’s up, not down, wedged behind the pipes. And you missed the key.’

‘So, if you’re the resident expert, how come you aren’t playing?’

‘How do you know I’m not?’

I tap the tabletop to pull up the drinks menu, skim it, but it’s same old. ‘Tequila?’

‘You are incredibly forward.’

‘Do you play? Or do you just like to watch?’

She stares at me, unbelieving.

‘Cos I didn’t use to. I reckoned it was all time wastage, you know?’ And this is true, kids. I was big-time ambition once, Masters in literature, novel ambitions, before the cast, before the sugar, before the girls. ‘When I was a kid, I only ever used the educationals.’

This riles her. ‘You can’t simplify like that. It’s all blurred now, the lines between education and entertainment.’ And I’ve hooked her.

‘What, like the kids’ games? That Moxyland shit? Murder and mayhem. Training them to be savage, don’t you think? It’s not about making friends with kids all over the world, it’s about getting ahead, getting one over.’

‘But don’t you think it’s appropriate? Considering.’

‘The world, you mean? That’s a tad harsh. Is that it? Won’t they learn that shit later?’

‘All right. So, what should they be learning?’

‘Compassion? Empathy? How to get along? Life skills?’

‘You’re an idealist.’

I shrug, all modest coy, as if she’s bust me. I look down at my drink, cos the tequila has arrived on the conveyor that runs between the terminals, so the players won’t be distracted by comings and goings, so they’ll stay longer, spend more money.

‘To compassion.’ She grins with a sardonic twist to her mouth, taking the tequila.

‘To beautiful women with a mean sarcastic streak,’ I toast back.

Later, Julia comes back to the swivel with me. They always do.