Epilogues: Ringer - Chapter 2

Everything.

That's the word you're looking for.

The tinny sound of the jingle bells affixed to the game store front door are muted as it closes behind you, the bitter cold outside matching your demeanor. You angrily yank your cap down over your ears, take a quick glance around to get your bearings, and start trudging towards the bus stop four blocks down the street. The traffic on the road is still heavy, given that it's nearly ten o'clock, though last minute Christmas shoppers are doubtless augmenting the flow. The distinctive sound of driven slush fills your ears, and you find yourself wondering where you can find a lump of coal on Christmas Eve.

Funny thing is, you've already gotten the little reprobate her Christmas present, and you can feel the heft of it in your pocket even now. The lone bright spot of the evening is that the tiny slip of paper you drew out of the hat last month now has a corresponding gift, though you have yet to wrap it. The small wood presentation box is nice enough, but more akin to something you'd give a retiring executive rather than a good friend for Christmas. Not festive enough, by a long shot.

“Hey Mike, wait up!” Beanie calls after you, and you pretend not to hear her. You don't increase your pace, however, and her lithe, lapine frame and physiology manage to run you down quickly enough. “So whadja think? Pretty fun group, huh?” She asks, her breath a plume of vapor in the still winter air.

“They certainly seemed to be having fun. Lot of laughter.” You grouse. While technically correct, you're painfully aware of just *why* it's true.

“Ahhh, don't sweat it. Everybody makes mistakes. Nobody seemed to mind.” She adds mirthfully, while conveniently overlooking just how *many* you've made in the last four hours.

“Yeah.” You reply non-committally, trudging onward.

“You okay, Mike?” She asks, concern creeping into her voice.

“Oh I'm just fucking dandy, Beanie. Glad I was so entertaining.” Your voice grows cold at that last bit. You see her flinch in response, and frankly, you don't care right now.

“Mike?” She asks, paw hooking over your bicep to stop you. “What's wrong?” She continues, voice filled with trepidation and genuine lack of understanding.

“What's wrong?” You repeat, before your voice begins to rise. “What's wrong?” You demand angrily of the purple bunny. “You threw me to the fucking wolves tonight. LITERALLY.” You emphasize, finger stabbing back towards the game shop.

“Aardwolves, technically speaking, and they've been in my group since I started going paid. Never had anyone not get along with them.” She says, lean arms folded in front of her.

“Oh, so it's *my* fault. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Will you hold up? What the hell’s gotten into you?” She asks, clearly getting defensive now.

“What was tonight all about?” You ask, trying to regain your calm.

“I told you, I needed…” she begins calmly.

“No. You could have kept running that guy as an NPC, or gotten someone from another campaign who had the experience to not get telekinesised off a cliff halfway through the night. Why *me*?”

You see her look into your eyes, searching for something, before she lets out a sigh, her eyelids dropping low as she cuts her gaze aside. “Because you're the only one who could have done what I needed you to do.” She admits meekly. “This campaign group, all of them really, but this one in particular, was beginning to really push me into a corner. Hinting at quitting, falling behind on payment, trying to get me to give up more and more control. I couldn't risk alienating one of them, but I still needed to show them who's boss. I'm the God damned Stronghold Master, Mike. I'm not some loot vending machine.” She adds, with more than a hint of bitterness.

“So you used me to send a message. Point out how they've got it good, and that bumbling idiots need not apply?” You practically growl.

“No. I needed you to point out that I can, and *will* fucking kill them if they get sloppy.” She replies in kind.

“So you sent me on a suicide mission? You asked me to come tonight so you could humiliate me and gain brownie points with your gamer people? You're my friend, Beanie.” You add, twisting the dagger a bit more and seeing her wince in response.

“I’m sorry, Mike. This is my livelihood here. I knew you could do it. And you did. You were the perfect role player playing the perfect role.” She says, voice quavering a little.

“And the reason you didn't tell me beforehand?”

“I needed your reaction to be genuine.” She says matter-of-factly.

The truth of it hits you like a wet towel in the face; stinging slightly, impossible to miss and not doing any permanent damage.

Still hurts though.

“There had to be another way to do this, Bean. I understand why, but it's still fucked up.” You scold, not willing to forgive just yet.

“Life is fucked up, Mike. Wish I could say it wasn't.” She says dejectedly, clearly regretting her course of action, but still not owning it. “I tried to make it up to you.”

“What? How?” You ask incredulously.

“Your seating arrangement wasn't exactly an accident, you know.” She says with her smug little smirk, like she's accomplished something terribly clever.

“Oh, so Walt pretending to be his sister Ann and hitting on me all night was intentional? Gee, I don't know *how* to thank you.” You explain sarcastically, several rather dark methods flashing before your eyes. “I couldn't tell if he was legit gay and into me, or just dicking with me. Or Ann. Or you. Or everyone else at the table. For the record, and in spite of my comments to you over dinner the other night, I'm not into dudes.”

“Answers that question.” You hear her mumble before she speaks up. “Nobody knows with him. Not even his sister, I think, and they're twins. Besides, I was just hedging my bet with him.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” You ask, already dreading the answer.

“Well… BonBon and I thought that, maybe, well, you needed to get out more. And seeing as how you've never seemed to really be into anyone around the complex…”

“I already don't like where this is going…”

“We figured maybe you just hadn't met the right girl yet, or that you were just trying to keep everybody happy, like always, and not pick one of us over the others…”

“You're rambling.” You declare flatly.

“And so when I told BonBon I had a couple super hardcore humies in the group, she figured that was our best option, improve your odds and all that.” she adds, trying to make this sound better than what it actually is.

“You were trying to get me laid.” you say aloud, not quite believing it yourself. The sheer, mind-numbing wrongness of the notion is overwhelming your conscious thought process.

“Merry Christmas?” Beanie asks, warmth and trepidation a very strange combination of emotions, even for her. An extremely awkward pause ensues, and you can see her tentative grin fade as you stand there slack-jawed, processing what you've just heard. With a start, you realize she's beginning to panic, and you try to get the point across to her without feeding that panic, as much as you're tempted to.

“Okay. Couple things here. One. I'm not in a relationship because I've just not had the time. Work schedule is a pain,” you almost said 'bear’, “and I'm sleeping most of the day. Hardly fair to any woman I might even consider pursuing a relationship with. Second, I'm not a human, as much as appearances would dictate otherwise. Third, when you and BonBon concocted this little scheme, did you tell her *exactly* who you were setting me up with?” You ask, leaving the question roiling in the air like a fog.

“The most hardcore humie I know, besides Bon of course, kinda cute, if you're into birds at least. Why?” She asks, and you can tell that there's definitely a piece of the puzzle missing on her end.

“Because BonBon had to pry that hen off me with a crowbar at HumieCon last year.” You pronounce gruffly, and you see the gears turning in her head for a second before it clicks.

“Helen? Seriously?” She asks unbelievingly.

“She spent most of the night trying to feel up my inner thigh, probably to check if I met her definition of 'anatomically correct’.” You grouse, still a little skeeved out by the audacity of the bird.

“Score?” She asks hopefully, before withering under your glowering gaze. “Why didn't you say something then?” She queries, obviously taken aback by this revelation.

“Because I was here to do a favor for a friend, and didn't want to have a huge blowup in front of your clients.” You fire back testily. “Or was I just supposed to be a way to get your customers paying again?” You ask harshly, and you can see Beanie flinch in response

“Mike, look, it's not like that. Seriously. I was just trying to hook a brother up, ya know?” She adds, hoping you're buying her explanation. “Mike?” she asks, worried now.

You take a deep breath, trying to clear the red haze from your vision, and not quite succeeding. “Bean, I...don't know what to say. I'm really at a loss here.”

“Thank you? I know it didn't work out, but it's the thought, right?” She asks, a frail smile betraying just how desperate she is right now to dig herself out of her hole.

“I'm sorry, Beanie. I'm not into her, I'm not into dating right now, I'm just trying to gain a firm footing and move forward with rebuilding my life. Please let me do this on my own time, okay?” You beseech her, trying to keep your own temper from flaring up, and not denigrating her feelings either.

“Mike? Stop trying to play yourself off as some perfect person, okay? You're doing as good or better than any of us and you're still bitching about how you're not where you want to be yet.” She grouses, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice.

“I'm not the best me I can be. The less I have to worry about, the more I can help everyone else. Bonnie's still a bit of a mess, I've been trying to help your brother out with Foxy more, Goose still needs someone if she has to go outside the complex…”

“For fuck’s sake, you only play a paladin. Stop trying to be so God damned perfect!” She shouts at you. “We were all doing fine before you came along, Mike. Just fucking fine. You really need to cut this savior bullshit out ” She growls, stomping off down the sidewalk.

“What the fuck?! I'm trying to help because of all the help I've gotten. Paying it back, and forward.”

“Why?!?” She demands, whirling about on you in the crosswalk. “Why do you have to be so good to everyone? What the hell is the catch? There's always a catch!” She concludes bitterly.

“Beanie…” you begin cautiously.

“There’s always a catch.” She mutters, barely audible now. “It's always a game, always a bet. Lose and you have to date the nerd.”

“Beanie.” You say softly, trying to reassure the wiry rabbit as best you can with just your voice.

“No guy I like has ever been genuinely nice to me.” She adds, looking down at the driven slush, paws buried deep in the pockets of her hoodie.

You blink, pondering her admission a moment. “Beanie?” You ask cautiously.

“I mean it's not like I should be surprised. Been down this road before.”

“Beanie!” You shout.

“What?” She fires back testily as you lunge forward, grabbing the front of her red hoodie and yanking her to you. Before she can protest, the angry blast of a car horn barely precedes its source, barreling through the road where your friend had been standing a moment before.

You both stand stock still, and you realize your other arm is wrapped protectively around Beanie, steadying her. You can feel her heart hammering away in her chest, and hear your own pulse roaring in your ears. She relaxes in your grasp after a moment, before you hear her directly in your ear. “You kinda got some fur in there too.” she grumps quietly.

“You're welcome.” You say flatly.

“Oh why thank you, Mr. Schmidt! You're the bestest security guard a girl could ask for!” She retorts in a facetiously sweet tone.

Playing along, hoping to settle the bunny down, you put on your best Jimmy Stewart Hopalong Cassidy impression. “I'm just lookin’ out for your safety, Miss Rabbinson.” You say with that humble swagger of his.

You immediately go into a panic as you feel her flinch, going stiff as a board in your grasp. “Beanie?” You ask quietly. Her only response is to push away from you, weakly at first, then ferociously as your arm doesn't immediately release her.

“What's wrong?”

“Get the fuck away from me!” She nearly screams, striking your chest with open paws until she fights her way loose. For your part, you can only stand dumbfounded as she walks briskly away from you, getting nearly run over once again in the process. You try to use gestures to mollify the driver as you take off after her, not an easy task when dealing with an actual rabbit.

“Will you wait up?” You call after her, only to see her glance over her shoulder and take off at a dead sprint. You try to keep pace, but after a block and a half, she's long gone, leaving you with your hand against a chainlink fencepost, catching your breath in the mouth of an alley as fat flakes of snow start to languidly fall.

You know you've screwed up yet again, but are utterly clueless as to why. The part that sticks with you, however, is the look you saw on her face before she left you in the dust.

Sheer, fearful, unadulterated panic.

You reach into your pocket for your phone, meaning to at least leave an apology on Beanie’s voicemail, but your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a trash can lid slamming down, a grunt of dissatisfaction echoing down the alleyway.

Peeking around the corner, you see a large figure hunched over a cluster of cans behind what appears to be an electronics store. It turns to face you, taking a defensive posture in the dim light.

“Hey man, this is your stake, don't worry about me.” You state firmly, knowing full well how tenaciously some urban outdoorsmen will defend prime picking territory.

Eerily, you can feel time slow to a crawl, the crystalline motes seeming to stop in midair as you hear that thick, oily, familiar voice ooze out of the shadows. “Is that really you, Schmidt? It's been a while, hasn't it?”

Without even waiting to confirm your worst fears, you turn to bolt, only to have your footing compromised by the weather. Your feet slip out from under you so quickly you can't even brace yourself before the back of your skull finds something hard, and metallic from the pinging sound it makes. Your eyes slam shut in anguish, yet you can still see a white hot light, even as things start to get fuzzy, consciousness slowly slipping from your grasp.