“Is no one questioning the role of this so-called dungeon core?”

—Online Conspiracies Media (OCM)

The salon was housed in a series of vaulted rooms that looked straight from a Disney set. Bolts of metallic cloth looped around the ceiling and created private sitting areas; paint from every colour of the rainbow had been etched into the walls and pillars; and light streaming from ceiling embrasures in the bath house gave the room a golden glow that filtered out into the rest of the suite. Archways, frescoes, mosaics, art, furniture, textiles—no architectural or interior design elements had been gainsaid or overlooked.

And amidst all this splendour, magic was happening. Or at least art. In one corner hair was being fluffed and flattened; in another women lay on raised tables while men rubbed oils into their skin; and over on the opposite side, what looked suspiciously like tattooing was being carried out. (The queue for that one was rather short.)

Though by far the most popular attraction was make-up application. The entire far wall was mirrored, with what looked to be a dozen chairs facing it, each attended by a customer and a dedicated artist—or sometimes two.

Yet other areas remained a mystery, enclosed as they were with drapery, though puffs of movement and the occasional gasp indicated that they were all occupied. Not sure what that was all about, but I suspect hair removal and other intimate body maintenance services were being hinted at, if not actually offered. (What sane woman is ever going to submit to a virtual Brazilian?)

But the vast majority of women weren’t using any of the salon’s services, wandering aimlessly or sitting in groups of three or four, their chatter occasionally pierced by the shrieks and splashes of others playing in what had to be the baths next door.

It was a lot. Like ‘turn-around-and-walk-out-the-door’ a lot. In short, an introvert’s nightmare. And combined with an already dodgy equilibrium…

“There she is!” our guide said enthusiastically.

Strange. Crossing the salon’s threshold appeared to have affected a diametric change in her personality. Gone, mysterious lady of grace. Enter, bubbling child of chaos.

Grabbing our hands, she towed Anhut and I behind her like we were prize exhibits in some messed-up dog show. Though, clothed as we were in second-hand dresses and shabby from days of travel, we weren’t exactly fit for display. The bouncy lady’s maid had in effect captured the mealy-worms of the exhibiting world. Only suitable to feed the gossip-appetites of the purebreds around us.

By the time our guide neared whatever orientation point she had fixated upon, we had slowed to a clip more consistent with the salon’s indigenous species, and I let out a breath of relief. Weakness was beginning to creep up on me again.

Though at least now that we moving at less than warp speed I could use my height to advantage. Between and over heads, hats and wig sculpture. It even gifted me an early view of our hostess, the Princess Ankhesen.

First impressions were: Youth—early teens if I had to guess. (What? It’s not as if I had any kids to base an estimate on. At work the closest I came was a vague hand gesture to indicate height.) And gaudy. With a touch of age-inappropriate. Whoever had dressed her had chosen from the matron-who-likes-her-bling rack.

The women who surrounded her, though more classically dressed, were also a lot older. Not one was below the age of twenty, making it an odd match-up. Unnatural, even. They appeared to be fawning over her, smiling and laughing too heartily, competing with each other for the girl’s attention. That laughter, more often than not, slid into a nervous titter.

(In fact, their behaviour put me in mind of another canine connection. They reminded me strongly of an ex-roommate who had bought herself a chihuahua—after watching one too many vlogs of Fashion Secrets with Suzy. She’d spent a fortune on the Suzy clone, prepared treats and toys for it to a ridiculous level, but somehow hadn’t realised that dogs have teeth. She’d been terrified it would bite her whenever it would so much as lick her hand.)

The oldest of the women, with the jowls of a Boxer and a wig high enough to put Marg Simpson to shame, signalled a male servant who had been cruising around the room. When he stopped in front of them, she addressed the girl beside her. “Wine, your Highness?”

I almost choked. Plying children with alcohol went against every moral instinct. Yet no one so much as batted an eyelid as the servant leaned over to offer it.

She took the golden cup delicately. It was about the size and shape of an elongated beer glass, and looked heavy. I could detect the faintest tremble in her hand as her arm struggled under the weight. Brave kid. She didn’t even wince at the sight of what I assumed to be her father’s stylised figure engraved upon much of the outside.

Creepy, in a narcissistic sort of way.

We reached her just as she was eyeing the server’s platter, obviously wondering if she could ditch it and still maintain face.

“Your Highness.” Our escort curtsied deeply. “These are the—“

I could stand it no longer.

“Here,” I said, claiming the mug from her hand. “Let me get that for you.”

The room stilled as the breach of etiquette was noted. It almost seemed to empty of air as the people inside it inhaled in a gasp of shock. I even heard a muffled curse from farther back.

Of more concern, however, was the response from behind the Princess. The arm muscles of her guards positively flexed as they gripped their hilts more tightly.

But fortunately for my long-term health, she responded with relief rather than indignation. “Yes, thank you.”

And now…exhale.

The guests resumed their activities and chatter, though with one eye on the Princess and her visitor. I hoped they came to the conclusion that it was simply part and parcel of entertaining foreigners. Cause for slightly malicious amusement rather than a direct threat to be countered with swords and knives and a ticket to the palace dungeon. It would be a pity if my gravestone read: She died because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

The princess looked at our escort and lifted her brows. Again delicately. Everything about her seemed considered and practiced. A living marionette. Composed of small movements that indicated a strict control over her own body. It made me want to take her to a park and let her run around with other girls her age, giggling and competing to be the first up the climbing frame.

“These are the Lady’s Anhut and Arline, your Highness.” A nod to each of us in turn. “From King Pedubast’s party. You requested they attend upon you.”

“I did.” The Princess acknowledged, staring at me. “But how wonderful to find someone so unique. Such distinctive features. And, my dear Arline, such beautiful hair.”

She seemed fascinated with its curl, and reached out to touch it, smiling as it resisted. The avatar creator had been pretty accurate about its nature. Though it was usually me that it defended itself against.

“Our stylists will enjoy the challenge of taming it.” She clapped her hands, prompting a flat-chested young man to suddenly appear as if by magic.

(The nobles certainly had the summoning thing down pat. I wondered if they all took a special class that taught the do’s and don’ts of servant management. Servant Signals 101 maybe.)

“Perkhut, meet your newest client. And perhaps your greatest masterpiece?”

Perkhut was older than the other males, though still slight. He eyed my hair with the expression of a soldier evaluating an enemy base.

“Indeed, your Highness. Such… volume deserves a style that demands attention. Why, I do not even believe a wig to be necessary to elevate her to the current fashion.” He kept on staring, an ‘after’ picture clearly appearing in his mind’s eye. “A headpiece, waxed and scented in myrrh, in red and gold with diamond accents. I do not believe cutting will be necessary, though if I shaved…. Hmm.”

A double clap, this time from the man. He had clearly gone to the same school as the Princess, as two younger men, much more plainly dressed, hurried over to escort me to a chair.

In no time they had a cloth draped around my shoulders, my feet propped on a footstool, and the accoutrements of a hair stylist laid out on the table beside me, each perfectly placed like I was going into surgery.

Meanwhile the Princess returned to her court, dismissing me from her immediate concern, but staying in sight.

Crap.

Previous experience with hairdressers told me that this was going to take time. In which there would be no chance of an early escape—not with half a dozen men hovering about me and the Princess’s benevolent eye following my every movement.

Finding the entrance to the Entertainment District would have to wait just a little longer.

——

“Well, what are we waiting for? She’s pretty much alone now.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? We’ll be noticed. It might have escaped your attention—probably because they’re not female—but she’s surrounded by eunuchs. And not only that, she has the attention of the entire room.” Todd gestured at the guests, who were not-so-subtly keeping an eye on the foreign visitor. Probably anticipating more drama.

“Then when?”

“I don’t know. But not now.”

——

My scalp smarted as the stylist attempted to ram in another clip to secure the heavy headpiece. The poor man had been trying for a number of minutes now with little success. It continued to balance itself in a lopsided fashion, making me look more like a woman who had had one too many, rather than the elegant lady he had clearly envisioned.

“My Lady’s hair is magnificent,” he said, sweat running down his nose. His voice lowered, as if talking to himself. “Perhaps a little too magnificent. We shall have to use more oil.”

The headpiece was duly removed and what felt like half a bottle of scented ooze dumped out on my head. It dripped freely down my neck before being wiped off by a keen-eyed lackey.

Who then winked and smiled. Not sure what that meant. If he had been fully, er, intact, I would have assumed flirtation, but in this instance…

“Terrin…” a woman said warningly from a few steps away. She was simply dressed, but clearly no servant. Though she certainly knew the guy beside me. A personal servant, perhaps? The woman’s voice was her only distinctive feature; abnormally deep, like she’d taken a case of steroids for breakfast.

Could they have run out of female voice actors and used a male instead? Possibly. A pity, as it adversely affected the believability of the whole Egyptian experience. Though I suppose women are born with particularly deep voices. It’s just that it’s unusual for a game to highlight such instances. Games are all about the stereotype.

——

What is that idiot doing? Todd thought in panic. He’d told his brother to stay still, to wait for the right moment. Then immediately his back was turned, the little shit had turned up at Arline’s side, fussing over her like an infatuated courtier.

Now he was getting the evils while Terrin revelled in the approval of his quasi superior. The Royal Hairdo-whatever. Certainly, if the man noticed that he had a cuckoo in his nest he gave no sign of it. Probably didn’t have the programming to recognise irrelevant NPCs.

“Miss. We need to talk to you,” Terrin began, but was interrupted by a smack on the back of his head.

“You do not speak to the client!” Perkhut said sharply.

Terrin shot him a look of frustrated anger which the stylist studiously ignored. Todd wanted to cheer.

Then he saw a grin appear on his brother’s face. A grin that Todd recognised. And feared.

Terrin was about to do something insane.

——

When the eunuch suddenly stood up he had my instant attention.

And when he stripped off his skirt he had absolutely everyone’s. Only a blurry smear prevented us all from getting an eyeful.

“Arline Johnson! Tell us, where in New Zealand are you?"

Within a split second he had disappeared, a phenomenon that the people around us completely ignored. Conversation resumed, servants continued about their business—nothing to see here, folks, nothing at all.

Apart from my hope being renewed. My heart sped up, making my stasis health bar hit its max. That man had been real, he knew my name!

I stood abruptly…and the room wavered beneath me.

Not now! Not when there could be others!

Two hands steadied me, urging me back into my chair.

“Arline, don’t speak. We don’t know what will happen if you talk about…things.” It was the deep-voiced woman who had known the eunuch’s name.

“But who—?”

“Call us friends from your homeland. Concerned friends. And although my brother may have a flair for the dramatic, what he asked is important. Can you… can you tell us where…” The woman, who I suddenly doubted was a woman at all, grimaced. “This is more difficult than I thought it would be.”

“I live in—“

“No! Not like that. Remember the rules of joining the salon.”

Oh. No references to real Earth. I had to take a moment to think, though my stomach gave a roll that demanded its own slice of my attention.

“My city is very holy, the second biggest of my country. Which, like that man said, is very much new.” Right. Good. Why does this remind me of a game of Who Am I?

“Got it. And the street?”

That took a lot more thought. “It was named after a famous queen, dead since…a while. But not a queen of our own country—one with a big time device. And on my door will be the number—“

“Don’t! Historically dangerous!”

Ah, yes. The numeric system hadn’t been invented yet. I thought some more before raising seven fingers then a pause before adding five.

Tension drained from his features. Replaced with relief. I could certainly sympathise. I hadn’t been under this much pressure since…oh, a day ago.

Perkhut the stylist stepped over to face the chair from the side, just oozing disapproval. The Princess had ordered the NPC to do something that he was being prevented from doing. Yet he didn’t have the power to oust someone who was his social superior. The man was facing a dilemma.

“I think we have enough. You just need to know that the world is on your side. And we will find you.” S/he then gripped me gently by the shoulders and kissed my forehead.

And was forcibly logged off. The system didn’t allow actions that had an implicit sexual component. No matter how innocent.

Dammit.

Then my stomach reached a pitch that could no longer be ignored. Oh…shit.

Which is about when I discovered that vomiting was a very real possibility in Age of Deception.

——

The Princess shortly thereafter ordered two strong guards to carry me back to the room where Humanacepts and Sekhet were waiting.

I’d certainly burned my bridges there. Ankhesen couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. But I guess defiling the host’s floor with your stomach contents really puts a downer on your prospects for an extended visit.

Unfortunately, it also meant that I had had neither the energy nor the opportunity to exploit any possible door back into modern civilisation. Maybe when I had my strength back I could look for another access point. Though I would have to travel to an entirely different habitat to find one. The ED was all about variety.

Lucidity unravelled as I tried to make plans. I began to lose most of what was happening around me; where I was, how I had gotten there—even who all these people were. There was a brief moment in the waiting room where I saw documents being exchanged, but it didn’t feel as if it held any relevance to me. Not when every period of consciousness meant pain. Extreme thirst, pressure pushing down on my kidneys, a migraine-level headache. Nausea, of course.

And most of all, fear. For the first time since this whole thing began, I truly, deep down in my gut, understood that death was imminent. Not just an amorphous dread that followed me from one day to the next, but actual knowledge that I might have only minutes left to live.

It was terrifying. And it didn’t help that every time I lost consciousness, the periods of awareness became shorter. It was a nightmare of panic and growing confusion, until finally reason vanished entirely.

——

“How can I be sure this isn’t another hoax?” the woman asked Gus warily.

“We have had confirmed contact with Miss Johnson. Consequently, we have reason to believe that she lives at number 75 Elizabeth or Victoria Street.”

“And you just expect me to knock on those doors and, what? Hope that no one responds? Then what do I tell the cops? That some random house owner—who I don’t even know—may be in distress?”

“You could at least fucking try!” Todd shouted through the party vid. He regretted it almost immediately.

“Look, pal. My credibility is already at zero. I’ve been called in to my boss’s office tomorrow morning for what I assume is going to be a pretty severe ass reaming and a request to hand in my cam. So my interest in this story is not exactly high right now.”

“But think what your boss will say when you land an exclusive deal with SharkBytes,” Gus said placatingly.

“With whose authorisation? Only the CEO or owner can make any binding agreement on behalf of an organisation.”

“I can’t believe this,” Todd protested. “That poor woman is dying. She’s already collapsed. Aren’t you under some legal obligation to help?”

“I think that’s maritime law,” Terrin offered.

“What?”

“The duty of a captain to assist ships or persons in distress.”

“Not. Helping.”

A sigh came from the other end of the line. But being restricted to the audio from Gus’s connection made interpreting that sound problematic. Was that a sigh of acceptance or refusal? Resignation or obstinance? He didn’t know how the previous century had communicated with only half the information. It was like being blindfolded.

“I’ll do it. But on my own terms. If I don’t see anyone in obvious trouble, you’ll have to take your chances with the police.” She paused and continued dryly, “Or anyone else you can badger into it.”

Sounds of dressing came over the line, then the groan of a woman protesting her bedmate’s departure. A kiss, a soothing murmur of “I’ll be right back” and the reporter returned to her tab.

“Call you later.”

A click and Arline’s life was now officially in the reluctant hands of Darlene Rogerson.