Discount Dan

“Heya, neighbors,” a voice called out, not far from where we were lurking on our golf cart. A man in khaki shorts and a golf polo ambled over toward us with his hand raised in greeting. Looked like he was a straggler from the nearby cookout. “I’m Tyler, Tyler Edenson,” he said with a chipper smile.

The name gave me a moment of pause.

Tyler Edenson? No, that had to be wrong for a dozen different reasons.

For one, this guy was clearly a Kevin. Same goofy ass shirt, same stupid shorts, same bright white tennis shoes and calf-high socks. For another, Tyler Edenson was the name of my best friend growing up—though, admittedly, I hadn’t seen Tyler in years. He’d always had bigger ambitions than me and put Ohio in the rearview mirror the second he got a chance. Last I heard, he was out in California, working as a software engineer and making more money in a year than I’d likely see in ten. Probably just a coincidence. At least, I hoped so.

I focused on the newcomer and a tag briefly flickered to life above his head.

Tyler Edenson 0.19729B – Human Software Engineer [Level 33]

This is Tyler. You know Tyler. You went to middle school and high school with this guy. Hell, he lived three blocks away. The first time you ever got drunk was with Tyler. Remember how he stole that pack of Natty Ice from his dad’s garage, and then you got so hammered you threw up in the bushes outside Layla Dawn Catwell’s house? Man, Layla was so hot. Way out of your league.

A cold chill ran down my spine as I dismissed the prompt.

What in the ever-living fuck was going on here?

There was no way this was Tyler Edenson.

It wasn’t possible.

But I’d also never told anyone other than Tyler about throwing up in those bushes outside of Layla’s house. This place… It was inside my head. Reading my thoughts somehow, then projecting them onto this creature who was clearly not my former best friend.

“You okay, Dan?” Kevin—and definitely not Tyler—asked, a curious expression etched onto his face. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Yeah, fine,” I lied, before clearing my throat. “You just remind me of someone I used to know, is all.”

“Ah, I have one of those faces,” he said, nodding good-naturedly in understanding. “This is me right over here.” He hooked a thumb toward the house hosting the giant cookout. “Me and my wife, Brittany, are throwing a block party for some of the neighbors. You’re new here, right? To the neighborhood, I mean? Just don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“Ja,” Jakob said, stepping in to cover for me since I was still clearly shaken by the encounter. “We haven’t been here long, but it seems like a lovely place. I am Jakob, and these are my friends, Dan, Temperance, and our dog Croc.” Jakob extended a hand in polite greeting. The man accepted and gave it a firm pump.

“Well, we’d love to have you come join us. It’s like my wife always says, strangers are just future neighbors we haven’t converted yet.” Tyler barked out a sharp laugh, but his smile never quite reached his eyes. “There’s a new lot that just opened up down the street, I bet it would be perfect for you. Very spacious, open floor plan, huge master bedroom and enough space for a couple of kiddos. Are you thinking about kids?” He asked, directing the question at me instead of Jakob. “We’ve got a lot of young families around here and, to be honest, I couldn’t imagine a better place to raise kids. Just turn ’em loose in the cornfields and let the strong sort themselves out. Circle of life, amiright?”

It took me a full two seconds before that last sentence well and truly sank in.

Did they really turn their kids loose in the cornfields or was that some sort of suburban euphemism I’d never heard before?

“But enough about that,” Tyler/Kevin said. “Let’s get some food in you. I bet you’re famished. Ravenous even. Me? I could eat a horse. Or a school bus full of toddlers.”

He wrapped an arm around my shoulder, then gently pulled me toward the cookout.

I didn’t in any way want to go with this thing.

Every cell in my body violently protested at the thought, and my survival instincts were screaming that this guy was going to lure me into his woodshed then chop me into little pieces, which he would then toss onto the grill. As much as I didn’t want to go with him, though, I also didn’t want to refuse his hospitality and run the risk of accidentally unleashing his wrath. If this creature turned on me, I had no doubt the others would follow suit.

These things weren’t violent as long as you played by the rules, I reminded myself. If I indulged him—just like I’d done with the Timmys and Tammys who’d wanted ice cream—then I’d survive.

Probably. Maybe.

Fine, it was a coin toss at best.

But without a better plan, I let Tyler steer me over to his front lawn where other party goers waited with large smiles and drinks in hand.

“Hey, if I could have everyone’s attention for a moment,” Tyler loudly declared as we drew nearer, “I want to introduce some new friends. They’re just visiting Sunnyside, but it turns out that they’re thinking about putting down roots. Dan here”—he clapped me on the shoulder—“mentioned they were interested in the new plot at the end of the street.”

I had done no such thing, but everyone politely clapped anyway.

“Let’s make sure to give them all a warm welcome,” Tyler continued. “I believe we have one of the best, most welcoming blocks in all of Sunnyside. Let’s make sure they know it too!”

That provoked another round of applause and light cheering, followed by a gaggle of smiling faces flocking toward us like hungry sharks smelling blood in the water.

“I think we should kill them all,” Temperance hissed under her breath.

“Show a little patience,” Jakob urged. “They would murder us before we got within ten feet of the kiosk. Just play nice, kleine Hase. Mingle. Do a little small talk. This should give us a good opportunity to investigate more thoroughly.”

Temperance offered Jakob a withering stare of contempt. “Need I remind you that I don’t play nice with others? Besides, the only thing I hate more than mingling is the excruciating, meaningless prattle, which other people call “small talk.” I would rather chop my own fingers off—”

Before she could say more, the neighbors converged on us en masse.

A group of Kathy’s in sundresses surrounded Temp in a bubble and whisked her off, chatting amicable while one asked whether she wanted a glass of wine or the whole bottle. The rest of the Kathy’s twittered in outrageous laughter over the stale joke. Temperance stole one last glare at me and Jakob, then reluctantly let the Kathys pull her away.

I shot a look of concern at Croc, then nodded toward Temp. “Keep an eye on her, bud. Everything about this gives me a bad feeling. I don’t want any of us to be alone.”

“You can count on me, Dan,” the dog replied somberly. “If anyone tries to hurt my friends, I’ll happily turn their insides into their outsides.” The mimic paused. “Quick question, though, Dan. Should we have some kind of code word? I think we should probably have a code word.”

“Why would we need a code word?” I asked, keeping my gaze fixed on Temperance.

“You know, like in case things get dangerous and we have to signal to each other, but don’t want to arouse suspicion?”

“Yeah, fine, fine,” I replied. “Whatever. What’s your code word?”

“Well, I’ve a lot of thoughts about this, actually,” Croc said. “It can’t be a word or phrase you might say accidentally in conversation. What about ‘and so the lion fell in love with the lamb?’ Edward says it to Bella in the first book of the Twilight series, as a reference to their fragile and seemingly impossible relationship. It’s a very evocative imagine, Dan, and I feel it thematically fits really well with this situation since we are the lambs mingling amongst the lions.”

“Oh my god,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No. That’s so long and unnatural. How would I even work that phrase into a sentence?”

“Easy, you just talk about Twilight the whole time,” Croc replied immediately. “Trust me, Dan, suburban moms love Twilight. It’s very relatable content.”

“Let’s just go with something simple,” I finally said in exasperation. “Like pineapple. As in, ‘is that pineapple on your burger?’”

Croc frowned. “Pineapple? I mean, it’s not very creative. Clearly you are no Stephaine Meyer, internationally best-selling author and voice of a generation, but I guess it’ll do in a pinch.”

“Jesus wept, you’re going to lose Temperance,” I growled, flapping a hand at the disappearing murder furry.

“Right, right. Sorry, Dan. Pineapple it is.” The mimic gave me a last, resolute nod, then darted off into the group of Kathy’s, quickly weaving between their legs to get to Temp. The women collectively oohed and aahed over the dog, proclaiming what a good boy he was while patting him affectionately on the head.

Jakob and I didn’t have long to wait until several of the Kevins came to collect us—though once again, I noticed a new wrinkle.

Like Tyler, their tags had changed. There were no more Kevins.

Now there was a Travis MacNeilson and a Felix Schulz. A Ted Blackwell and a Harold Holt. Their job titles, each displayed with their tags, were just as diverse as their names.

Construction worker, dentist, mechanic, remote IT support.

The funny thing was, at least half of those names sounded oddly familiar to me.

I’d known a combat engineer back in the Marine Corps named Ted Blackwell and I was pretty sure Travis MacNeilson was actually one of my real-life neighbors—back before, no-clipping, obviously. I didn’t know Travis well, but sometimes his mail got delivered to me by mistake and the name was unique enough that it was hard to forget. I wasn’t sure why or how, but this place was definitely digging around inside my head. Looking for memories it could exploit.

I didn’t know Harold Holt or Felix Schulz, but the second had a distinctly German ring to it. I idly wondered if they might be people from Jakob’s former life.

I’d have to ask him when I got the chance.

The group of Kevins—all masquerading as Tylers and Travis, Harolds and Felixs—ushered us through the ranks of other Dwellers and over to the grill, which seemed to be the place of highest honor. The grill itself was a monster of black metal and sleek chrome, complete with six burners, an attached smoker, and enough grill space to charbroil two dozen patties without blinking an eye. As a former Marine and contractor, there wasn’t much that I loved more than a good cookout and I had to admit that grill was a thing of beauty.

Tyler had plump brats in the back and rows of perfectly seasoned burgers lined up in the front. My stomach let out an audible groan and I wanted more than anything in the world to pull the meat straight from the burners and shove it right into my face hole. The urge was almost overwhelming. Like a chemical compulsion. But I fought against the desire, pushing the craving away through sheer grit and determination.

Still, it truly felt like a battle of wills and one that I’d very nearly lost.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Tyler asked, his tone perfectly innocent. “The meat is a special blend, and I make the seasoning myself. It’s an old family recipe, passed down to me from my grandmother. It brings out the flavor of the meat in a way that you just can’t imagine. Come on, let’s get you a plate.” He directed me toward a nearby picnic table covered in assorted side dishes and condiments.

Buttered corn on the cob, steaming hot baked beans, savory coleslaw, bright yellow potato salad, and a huge platter covered with bloody-red slices of watermelon.

One of the Kathys—this one named Ella—was handing out disposable plastic plates and helping the other partygoers serve up. She pressed one of the plates into my hands then immediately ladled a heap of macaroni salad onto the surface before politely encouraging me to help myself to whatever else looked good. I shuffled down the line, picking up a little bit of everything, before finally stopping at the bun station. Before I could collect a hoagie, however, I heard a faint rustle in the bushes, followed by a pssst.

“Hey, you don’t want to eat that,” someone say, though the words were little more than a whisper.

Taken aback, I glanced up and looked around, searching for the source of the warning. Then I saw him, standing a little way off from the others, right at the edge of the yard where the grass gave way to gently swaying stalks of corn.

This partygoer definitely didn’t look like the others.

He wore faded denim jeans, practical combat boots, and a beat-to-shit green canvas jacket, like the kind soldiers wore back in Vietnam. Guy even had some sort of army unit patch stitched onto one shoulder—a blood red shield with an inverted rifle and a helmet balanced on top.

The newcomer was older, probably in his late fifties if I had to guess. He wore a bright orange baseball cap and had long brown hair, streaked with gray, and tied back into a ponytail. His face was gaunt, his eye sockets sunken in, and the scraggily beard hugging his cheeks only served to accentuate how painfully frail he was.

Specimen Biotag ID #03V-01- B01LP8PPXW – Human, Variant [Level 34]

I felt my mouth drop open in shock.

Well, slap my ass and call me Sally. Unless the Kevins had substantially upped their game, this guy wasn’t a Dweller at all. He was a bon a fide Delver, real and in the flesh.

Would you like to use the Codex to examine this Delver’s Spatial Core? Yes/No?

Thanks to a little insight from Jakob, I knew there were quite a few Relics that allowed you to scan other Delvers, but normally they only worked on a Delver who was a lower level than you. It was also considered impolite to scan someone else without their consent. A serious social faux pas that could get you shanked in the kidney and buried in a body bag. Now wasn’t the time to be polite, though, so I hit Yes and waited to see what in the hell would happen.

A brief flicker of discomfort flashed across the newcomer’s face, but it passed after a moment, replaced by a quick and dirty read out of his basic Specimen Bio-Report (SBR). At level 34, this guy was a full ten levels higher than I was; the fact that I was seeing his SBR at all, meant he was allowing me to see it.

He wanted me to trust him, so he was extending a little trust first.

Edward Myrl

Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01- B01LP8PPXW

Variant Assimilation Level: 34

Race: Human, Variant

__ __ __

Health: 83

Stamina Reserve: 45

Mana Pool: 152

__ __ __

Spatial Core - Active

(C) Pocket Sand – Level 3

(C) High Tolerance – Level 15

(U) SporeFeed Amplifier – Level 10

(U) Neighborhood Watch – Level 5

(U) Alter Perception – Level 5

(R) Cognitive Dissonance – Level 6

(R) Distorted Reality – Level 5

(R) Eldritch Hair Tonic – Level 5

(R) Blazing BBQ Blast – Level 7

(F) Hard Light Projection – Level 8

Affiliations of Record

Sunnyside HOA – Outcast!

The SBR overview didn’t tell me what any of the individual Relics did, but based on the names alone I was guessing that this guy specialized in illusion-based magic. That made perfect sense, considering which floor we were on. And the fact that he had an SBR at all confirmed this guy wasn’t just another Kevin, trying to screw around with my head.

There was also something else about the SBR that tugged at the back of my mind, though. Something about his name.

Edward Myrl.

I was sure this wasn’t some kind of mind fuckery—not like that bullshit with Tyler—yet I was positive I’d heard the name before. I only had to think about it for a few more seconds before something clicked into place. The radio.

“Wait a minute,” I said snapping my fingers at the revelation. “You’re that guy from the radio announcement. The Sunnyside maintenance worker who went missing.” I squinted, studying him in a fresh light. “The announcer guy said you’re a contamination risk.”

“Yeah, which is how you know you can trust me,” Edward replied, sounding utterly paranoid. “The first rule to surviving Sunnyside is to ignore everything the radio tells you to do.” He paused, absently chewing at his lip. “Except when you should listen, which is sometimes. The point is, question the signal. Question everything. That’s how you live to see another day on the nineteenth floor. The second rule is to avoid community events like the plague, and never eat anything they give you. Not ever.” He jabbed a finger at my plate and for the first time I noticed he had a lit cigarette burning between his fingertips.

I paused. Wait, no. Not a cigarette. The fuck? Was this guy casually smoking a joint?

“Not unless you want to have your entire system flooded with SporeFeed spores. That’s how they get you,” he added, nodding to himself before taking a huge rip of his blunt. “This shit’s straight out of the CIA playbook, man. Psyops. Like MK-Ultra. First, they lull fresh meat like you and your idiot friends into a false sense of security. Then they make you question your eyes. Your ears. Your senses. Make you forget where the hell you are. Make you think its safe here.

“Then, once they’ve had a day or two to sink their hooks in, they lure you rubes to one of these cookouts.” He looked around at the gathering with a contemptuous sneer. “With so many of these conformo-sheeple in one place, the SporeFeed Social Filter cranks the signal to eleven and suddenly they can get inside your head. Crack it open like a goddamned egg.” He paused and narrowed his eyes, brow furrowed as he studied me. “I’ll bet a carton of cigarettes you’ve already seen someone you know. From the outside. I’m right, aren’t I?”

I kept silent but nodded.

“Yeah, they’ve got their hooks into you alright,” he said, though more for himself than for me. “Not surprised either. They really pulled out the big guns for you. Don’t know who you are, buddy, but these guys don’t want you to leave. Honestly, I’m surprised they haven’t converted you already. This much spore power all in one place should be enough to reel in someone ten levels higher than you. You must have some crazy resistances, but I’m telling you right now, you eat that food and its game over, bucko. Just look.”

He took a long drag of his joint then leaned forward and blew the smoke right into my face.

The pungent smell of weed hit me like a fist, drowning out the heavenly aroma of the food wafting up from my plate. But that wasn’t all it did. A buff notification blinked to life in front of my eyes.

You’ve been afflicted with Stoner’s Insight! Have you tapped into the wisdom of the cosmos or are you just really, really high? Who gives a shit? You get a 10% boost to Perception, Grit, and Evasion for fifteen minutes. Enjoy the ride, cowboy!

I blinked a couple times as the world seemed to swim in and out of focus. Then I looked down at the plate and visibly recoiled. All the delicious fixings had transformed into moldering piles of gelatinous gray goop, covered with a fuzzy green substance that could only be mold. Pale maggots wriggled and crawled through the slop, forming little tunnels in their passing. I dropped the plate and took a few steps back, utterly nauseated. I’d come so close to eating that stuff.

“Yep,” the newcomer said, nodding sagely. “If you think that is bad, you should see what the meat really looks like.” He leaned in close, as though disclosing some great secret. “They like to barbeque the feral kids who don’t make it to the cornfields before the transformation sets in.”

I shot a sly, conspiratorial look toward the grill.

Instead of brats and burgers, I spotted what looked like a piece of human thigh meat and an entire hand smoldering above tongues of flame. The fat fingers vaguely resembled bratwurst. Everything else still looked normal enough, but it was obvious that the Kevins and Kathys were growing agitated. They’d noticed that something was off—that things were not going according to plan—but it also seemed like they weren’t entirely sure what they should do about it.

“Now, get ready to run,” the man said, pulling something from inside his oversized green military jacket.

At first, I was sure it was a bomb.

On second glance, I realized it was a portable ham radio, but one with all kinds of weird bullshit attached to it. Extra buttons, loops of copper wiring, what appeared to be a small radio transmitter, and enough lawnmower batteries to power a car. “They fucking hate this song,” he said with a lopsided grin and a mad light glinting in his eyes.

Then he pressed an oversized green button and the ’roided out radio blared to life.

I’m not entirely sure what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t the 1980s classic “Footloose” by Kenny Loggins playing at a hundred fucking decibels.

The reaction was instant and terrible. Although the device wasn’t some kind of jury-rigged IED, the music rippled outward like a bomb blast and as it did the illusion frayed like a rope coming undone. Then it shattered all at once.

“Pineapple! Pineapple!” I screamed.