Backward Compatible: A Geek Love Story Read online

  GAME GUIDE

  Credits

  Other Games

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Level 1

  Level 2

  Level 3

  Level 4

  Level 5

  Level 6

  Level 7

  Level 8

  Level 9

  Level 10

  Level 11

  Level 12

  Level 13

  Level 14

  Boss Level

  Bonus Level

  BETA TEST THESE EXCERPTS:

  Helix Crashing by Pete Clark

  Primordial Dust by Sarah Daltry

  Backward Compatible

  Copyright 2013 Sarah Daltry and Pete Clark

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  This is a work of fiction. Mostly.

  All applicable materials including television writers and producers, video game writers and producers, table games creators, singers, artists and film companies retain their rights to any works used or mention in this book.

  Cover and formatting by Shoutlines Design.

  ALSO BY SARAH DALTRY

  Flowering series

  Forget Me Not (novel - Lily’s POV)

  Lily of the Valley (novel - Jack’s POV)

  Star of Bethlehem (novella)

  Eden’s Fall series

  Bitter Fruits (novel)

  The Quiver of a Kiss: The Seduction of Helen of Troy (novella)

  ALSO BY PETE CLARK

  Midnight Riders (novel)

  Across the Barren Landscape (short story collection)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to readers, gamers, and geeks everywhere. Thank you as well to the people who created the things that define geek culture.

  There were a ton of bloggers, authors, and readers who helped us get the word out and thank you to them. It’s people like you who make a book really become more than words on paper.

  Sarah’s street team has been great and we both appreciate you immensely.

  Thanks to Shoutlines Design for the cover and formatting, to the betas who offered notes, and to the people who said they were excited for something a little different.

  Finally, thank you to Xbox. Just because.

  This book is dedicated to geeks. Because we’re both proud to be included in that group.

  Katie

  “It shouldn’t be called a ‘midnight release’ if they don’t open the damn doors until ten past,” I complain to Anna, who’s only actually here because I needed a stupid ride. She’s texting like she’s a frigging surgeon and a small child’s life is dependent on her LOLs.

  I sigh. It’s cold standing on the sidewalk. I mean, yeah, it’s kind of my own stupid fault, since my skirt is part of a child’s Halloween costume and this shirt has been dryer shrunk four times, but still. I don’t understand the concept of closing the store, making us stand out here, and then reopening the store. Except that they’re assholes. I think that’s it.

  The two guys in front of me are wearing full battle gear. It’s freaking awesome. Next time, I’m going as General Dresh. He has an axe and armor. Sure, Syntania can melt armor and axes with the flame walls she crafts from her mind, but I cannot. I can only freeze to death.

  “Are we almost done? Chad wants me to come over,” Anna says.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” I point out.

  “So?”

  Tough to argue with that logic.

  The line finally begins to trickle forward. Zerg and Tank in front of me clamor through the doors and then, I’m in. I have been waiting two years for this. Fatal Destiny X has been pushed back endlessly, to the point where it honestly looked like it was never going to happen.

  The mob encircles the display, but I squeeze through, thankful now for my costume. Guys smack into one another’s shoulder plating and nexus swords, while I finagle my nearly naked ass to the front.

  There, in all of its glory, is the reason I have bothered to wake up these last few weeks. The developer went with Kallax on the cover, which is kind of stupid since everyone agrees he’s a douche, but as always, they push him as the hero. As if we are ever going to choose the blonde Earth soldier with the six pack who’s balanced as lawful good. Lame. Kallax doesn’t even have a cool weapon. He just uses a blaster.

  I reach out and it’s mine. It’s in my hand. It’s beautiful and I pull it toward me. At the same time, some asshole on my right grabs it, too, and it clatters to the floor between us. Oh, hell, no.

  I turn and come face to face with Wayfarer. Awesome costume, too. His hair is a bit too long and the gel has started to weaken, making his spikes slump a bit and random strands fall behind his glasses. I overlook the obvious error with the glasses, because, well, a dude has to be able to see. His eyes are brown and he looks nervous. I might think he was cute, especially since Wayfarer kicks ass, and no one plays him. It’s hard to be a druid; without at least some form of a weapon, you rely so much on the elements. It’s admirable, and pretty damn sexy, except for one small thing. This asshole, druid king or not, just picked up my fucking game. My game.

  I turn back to the display, but they’re all gone already. I know I should’ve preordered, but that’s so boring.

  “That’s mine,” I tell Wayfarer, who blinks at me and looks surprised that I’m speaking to him.

  “I picked it up first,” he replies.

  “Actually, no, you didn’t. I clearly had my hand on it, before you stuck your stupid paw in the way and knocked it to the ground. And, if you wouldn’t mind, I was here before you, and my friend needs to leave.”

  “Well, I seem to have the game now, don’t I?”

  I chuckle. He might have a cool costume and he might have the balls to play a nearly unplayable character, but I have one thing he doesn’t. I have tits.

  Pushing my ridiculously padded breasts forward, I pout a little, and then I turn to the guys behind me. “Can you guys help me? This guy just took my game.”

  Now, normally, it would be a bitch move, although normally, guys would laugh at me if I even tried. But these are not any guys. These are my kind of guys, and I am a girl in a game store. Since I know it won’t result in actual violence, I have no problem playing the boob card.

  George

  Ah, sweet delicious game, thou shalt be mine.

  Being a gangly sort, it’s easy for me to squeeze through the crowd. Lanyon, my unfortunately named friend, however, is left behind. But there are casualties in war. Besides, he can always watch me play.

  I reach the display of games. Why the hell did they stack them in a circular fashion? Do these game store bitches get a kick out of watching us swarm all over each other like tweens at a Bieber show?

  Despite the douchosity of the display, I manage to reach out and get ahold of one of the plastic enshrouded discs of pure entertainment. I turn to duck out toward the cash register when there is a slight tug. I turn back and some goddamn hand is grabbing at my game. I pull, the other hand pulls, and the game plummets to the ground.

  “Zark!” I blurt. My sharp gamer reflexes kick in and I bend down to snag it.

  Then some girl - there’s a girl in here? - starts yelling about how it’s her game. I say something, but it’s hard to remember what, since she flings her cosplay-enhanced breasts in my direction. Of course, she plays the d
amsel in distress card, and a small clan of Mountain Dew-charged gamer nerds focus their attention on me.

  “Hey, man, not cool,” says one guy, but he’s too busy trying to look down the damsel’s shirt to care all that much.

  A few of the other guys turn, though, and despite the fact that most of them are just as stringy as me, I don’t really feel like having to defend myself. So I do what any decent person would do.

  “Flash bang!” I shout. Then, faster than entering an Activision cheat code, I reach into my pocket, pull out Lanyon’s inhaler, which he asked me to hold, and throw it to the ground. To a man, or woman, the crowd turns and covers, expecting to actually get flash banged. I take this chance to run, like the fleet-footed coward I am. As I dash across the store, I bump into Lanyon, who’s finally gotten inside.

  “Out of the way, keychain. We are Oscar Mike.”

  “My name is Lanyon, not Lanyard. Why do you always make the same jokes?”

  “Your name is douchyard. Now come on. The horde cometh.”

  He stands there, confused, as I sprint by him and reach the cash register. Ah, sweet salvation. Now, I will Altair my ass into the crowd and nobody will find me. Ha ha.

  Only three people are ahead of me in line. So, with game in hand, I allow a certain swell of victory to settle upon me. Then someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and the damsel with big breasts is staring at me.

  “Give me my game,” she says.

  “First, it is my game. The way you can tell is because I am holding it. Second, how the hell did you find me?”

  “It’s a small store. You ran about ten feet before you stopped. It didn’t exactly take a detective.”

  She puts her hand out as if expecting me to just hand over the game. I slap her five. Then she slaps me five. On the face. Sort of gentle, though. Her heart obviously isn’t in it.

  “I think on some planets we’re now legally married.” I try an innocent smile.

  “On that planet, I believe divorce by death is also legal.” Her smile is more that of a hungry T-Rex than innocent.

  “You don’t want to kill the druid, do you? Nobody wants to kill the druid. We’re crazy helpful.” Unlike my bastard friend, Lanyon, who is now standing off to the side, watching me, instead of battling to grab another copy. I focus my mental energy and stare him down. Hopefully, our years of friendship will let us connect.

  Get two games, I think at him. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a Snickers, and starts to eat it. Zark.

  “Listen, I don’t want to be a hard ass here, but it’s my game,” the girl says. She has pretty eyes. Stupid girls and their pretty stuff.

  “Technically, by the rule of Finders Keepers, the game fell to the floor and was retrieved by me. Ergo, mine. Also, by the rule of Mine, Mine, Mine, I touched it first so it is, well, mine. I hate to get all lawyer on you, but the game is mine.”

  “Well, I hate to get all kick in the nuts on you, but the game is mine,” she argues.

  “You bring up a compelling point.”

  Katie

  I put my hand out again, waiting. He doesn’t smack me, but he also doesn’t fork it over. Clearly, we are facing a failure to communicate.

  I sigh. “I want my game.”

  He pauses, thinks it over, and then shakes his head. “No can do.”

  The line has moved forward and we’re only one person away from him pulling out his credit card, buying the game, and leaving my hopes dashed like a rabid Snarg demon’s brains on the rocks of the coast of Ravella. Which, if you’re maxed out in FDIX, as I obviously am, is really freaking dashed.

  Damn it. Anna’s standing by the door, still texting like a madwoman and popping her gum. Why am I friends with her?

  I think. My boobs didn’t help; they merely bought me enough time to catch up with this asshat before he was out of here with my goddamn game. However, if I don’t come up with a plan, he’s going to be sitting on his couch, probably at level 10, before I can even get a ride to Wal-Mart in the morning and buy a copy. And there is no way, I mean, no way, that I’m going home tonight without FDX.

  I look back at him and I nod. “Okay.”

  He coughs a little, although it’s more of a wheezy gag than a real cough. “Okay? You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. You’re right. You deserve it. You won fair and square.”

  His eyes grow wide and, like the black mage that I am, I let my bottom lip quiver just slightly, as I look down at the floor. Blink once, twice, three times, and look up, already feeling the tears brimming. I offer him a weak smile and then, with absolute precision that I can only dream of when fighting a boss, the first teardrop slips past the edge of my eyelid, down my cheek, and onto the blue and red worn carpeting of the game store. I bite down on my lip.

  “Thanks anyway,” I say, letting the choking sound gather and come out as a cracked way.

  He looks around him, at all the guys in their battle armor, and clutches the game to his chest. The other guys don’t react as I back away, turning on my heel, being sure to let my chest heave a few times. I find Anna, grab her hand, and open the door into the frosty night. As the door chimes overhead, I let out one big, gasping sob and feel the warmth of the store seal itself away.

  “Where’s your game?” Anna asks.

  “They ran out.”

  “Oh. So, can you walk home from Chad’s? It’s kinda out of my way to bring you home now.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Cool.”

  She walks toward her car, but I move slow, taking my time as I stroll through the lot, still having faith in my powers. I feel fairly confident this will all go according to plan.

  Anna turns around. “Are you coming? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Hold on,” I tell her.

  She looks up from her phone for a record twelve seconds. “Huh? What are you doing?”

  “Waiting.”

  “For what?” she asks.

  As if on cue, I hear the sounds of the store as the door whooshes open and then a voice calls across the parking lot. “Hey.”

  I pick up my pace and walk toward Anna’s car. She shakes her head and gets in the driver’s side. I’m nearly at her car when he yells again.

  “Hey! Wait!”

  I spin around, the idea to let my skirt swoosh sexily as I do, although it doesn’t really move and I nearly sprain my ankle. I see Wayfarer running – okay, awkwardly flailing in my direction at a quickened pace – with the bag in hand.

  “What?” I snap.

  “You can have it,” he says and thrusts the bag at me.

  “Why?”

  “I feel bad. It’s yours.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah,” he says, and he thrusts it at me again but, since he was already holding the bag forward, he almost falls over at my feet.

  I take it and suppress a victorious smile. “Thank you. That’s so sweet. I’m Katie.” I’m feeling generous. Maybe I’ll even give him my phone number.

  “George. You owe me eighty bucks.”

  George

  “You know,” Lanyon begins what I know will be some whiny bullshit, “If you didn’t give that girl the game, we could be playing the balls out of that now instead of spending yet another hundred hours on this zombie map.”

  “Interesting point,” I say as I revive him. “And yet, despite the legion of hours you have spent on this map, you still manage to jump off the stairs and down yourself on level three. Goddamn level three. I know broken vacuums that suck less than you.”

  “My heart isn’t in it.” He puts down his controller. I look at him, then to his stationary soldier. And, like a good friend, I drop a grenade at his feet and blow his ass up.

  “Great,” he says.

  “What do you want to do then, you big Eeyore-looking bastard?”

  “I want to play FDX.”

  “Well, maybe if you’d managed to get your ass through the crowd faster, we would have it. But no, you move ar
ound like a Team Fortress frame rate. You lag, boy. You’re just a living mound of lag.”

  “Stop using words that hurt.” Lanyon punctuates this last statement by flinging a Snickers bar into my face. It smacks off my cheek with much vigor.

  “Christ.” I rub my face. “How many of those do you carry around with you?”

  He shrugs. “Did she at least call you? I mean, if you are going to give up a midnight release, the least she can provide you with is a little midnight release.”

  “Way to stay classy, Eeyore. No, I didn’t get her number. She gave me her goddamn email address and that was only so I could contact her to get my money back.”

  “Did you email her? What if it’s a fake?”

  “I didn’t. And why do you have to rain all over my rainstorm? Is it because your tail fell off?”

  “Whatever. Stop being such a Daxter and email her.”

  “Hey, I’m no Daxter, pal. I’m all kinds of Jak.” I pause. “I don’t think that makes any sense. But what the hell?”

  I go to roll my chair over from the TV to my desk, but the wheels get snagged on my plush Boba Fett and I go down like Sovereign into the Citadel.

  “Daxter,” mutters Lanyon, who, history will tell us, is a panda bear’s scrotum.

  I scramble to my feet and get on the old email. I have one message from this guy, Seynar. There’s no way that’s his real name. He’s some guy I know online. He’s been my friend on Live and I’d foolishly given him my email because he’s a sniping machine. But now, he always sends me emails trying to get me to read his blog posts.

  I ignore Seynar for now and opt to compose.

  “How lovely that one does not write an email. Rather, one composes them,” I say.

  “Get composing, Mozart. All I hear now is symphony in bitch minor,” Lanyon replies.