Free Gamers' Quest by George Ivanoff

more resourceful than you look.’
    ‘Never minds that,’ said Tark. ‘Wots about the Cracker? And the dragon's wife? And the princeling?’
    ‘Yes,’ agreed the Fat Man. ‘The Cracker is in my employ. As for Vera – well, she was another project altogether. She was just responding to programming. I had her made for the dragon. He was very lonely, you know. He was old and would have died soon enough of natural causes. Vera would have inherited his body, which she would have brought to me. Elixir made from the juices squeezed from a dragon's spleen has the potential to extend one's lifespan, you know. But then you had to go and kill him, didn't you. Burnt up his body, didn't you.’ The Fat Man took a long wheezy breath before continuing. ‘As for the pathetic Princeling Galbrath – my only association with him was arranging to purchase his sword o’ light for pitifully less than it is actually worth. But then you stole the sword.’
    The Fat Man's face grew redder as he spoke. His breath became more raspy and laboured.
    ‘And to top it all off, you steal from me.’ He clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘I do not like to lose. Especially not to gutter-trash like you.’ He took another deep, long, wheezy breath. ‘But luckily, I never lose. I take circumstances and I mould them and I shape them into something of my own design. I turn it into a game. And I do so like games. Games of cat and mouse. Games of chase and capture … and eventual, creatively inspired, demise.’
    ‘We ain't playin’ no games,’ said Zyra.
    ‘Oh, but you already are. And I have another game for you now, here in Designers Paradise. After all, that's what you came here for – to play games.’
    ‘No,’ protested Tark. ‘We don't comes for games. We comes here to escape. To gets into a betta world.’
    ‘But it's not a better world,’ explained the Fat Man, as if he were talking to an idiot. ‘It's not real. It's a game. Just like our world.’
    ‘Wots do ya mean?’ asked Zyra.
    ‘Enough talk,’ said the Fat Man with a swish of his arm. ‘Time to play.’
    The static blurred into blackness dotted with pinpricks of light. Then their surroundings solidified. Tark and Zyra found themselves in a room with a door, two chairs, a control panel and a large, curved window. Through the window they could see a vast unending starscape.
    ‘Wot's this?’ asked Tark, looking around in confusion.
    ‘Dunno,’ answered Zyra, equally mystified.
    ‘Look!’ Tark pointed to the window.
    A compact, dangerous looking spaceship flew into view. They saw someone waving from its forward portal.
    ‘Ready for combat?’ said the Fat Man's voice through the speaker on the control panel. ‘We are both in identical starfighters. Of course, I've flown one before, dozens of times, in fact. Whereas you? Well, you'll just have to figure it out. Now, the object of this game is to destroy your opponent, preferably in a creative manner.’
    Tark and Zyra stared at each other, fear and confusion etched on their faces.
    ‘I can't flies a spaceship,’ said Zyra.
    ‘I'm willing to be sporting about this,’ said the Fat Man's voice. ‘I'll let you have the first shot.’
    ‘First shot?’ queried Tark, looking around desperately for a crossbow or a gun or something – anything.
    The Fat Man's laughter echoed through the speaker. ‘There's a big red button on the control panel in front of the seats. It fires your weapons.’
    ‘Wot weapons?’ shouted Tark, searching frantically.
    More laughter. ‘Your starfighter is equipped with particle-beam weaponry, you silly boy.’
    Tark looked at Zyra and shrugged.
    ‘Exit game!’ commanded Zyra.
    Nothing happened.
    Her face fell. ‘We is trapped!’ She slumped into a chair.
    ‘I'm getting a little impatient,’ said the Fat Man's voice. ‘Last chance! Fire your weapons now or I'll launch mine.’
    Zyra leapt forward and slammed her hand down on the button. A streak of light extended from their