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  THE GOOD GUYS

  FRANCIS GIDEON

  When Oliver meets a really cute elf while out Live Action Role Playing, he thinks he's found the Sam to his Frodo. He tries to find out more about Oakenshire the Elf, but comes up with nothing. When summer vacation forces the LARPing group to take a break, Oliver throws himself into his upcoming play, where he is one of the main leads. There he meets a new person to captivate his attention: Avery.

  She's smart, funny, and into all the same things that Oliver is into, even LARPing. As their friendship progresses, Oliver begins to notice the similarities the young woman has to Oakenshire the Elf. It could be his final chance to see his elf again—or another case of mistaken identity that will leave Oliver fumbling with pronouns, excuses, and hurt feelings.

  BOOK DETAILS

  The Good Guys

  By Francis Gideon

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Amanda Jean

  Cover designed by Aisha Akeju

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition December 2015

  Copyright © 2015 by Francis Gideon

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781620046807

  THE GOOD GUYS

  Julian O'Hare, Knight of Elderward, pulled out his sword slowly. The silver blade, which he had named Jupiter, shone brightly in the summer sun. Though his blood pounded in his ears, he was not afraid. He couldn't be afraid. He drew his helmet down over his head and raised his gaze towards his competitor. "I cannot do this anymore. I cannot live in a kingdom that has not been fairly ruled."

  "You should have thought of that before you joined the forces," Lance Tier, the other Knight of Elderward, challenged. He waved his sword all for show; he didn't have the poise and grace that Julian prided himself over. Lance was all about fear—but Julian O'Hare was not backing down.

  "That's the peculiar thing about corruption. You cannot tell where it is until you get too close. When I joined the Knights of Elderward, I thought I had moved up in the world. I truly believed that I was one of the good guys. But now I see the bitter roots and the rotten soil underneath, where the corruption and violence grows. And now I want out."

  "No one gets out," Lance said with a chuckle. "Without a fight."

  Lance ceased waving his sword and extended it in a quick motion of controlled violence. He stepped back and held his shield against his body, ready to fight. Julian fell in line and mirrored Lance's advances. His shield was heavy, and his arms were already tired from holding his weapons during their verbal confrontation. He wasn't sure if he had the energy to fight. But he also knew he had no choice, and if he had to die, then it would be with honour.

  Julian looked out at the small village crowd that had come to watch the dual. He addressed them all with a single nod. To say much more was to not live much beyond those few seconds. He knew he had a small army helping him in spirit: There were the mages, some fledging shadow orcs, and of course a couple of elves here and there. Everyone in the small village of Elderward gathered around, on the balls of their feet, and waited for something to happen.

  Both knights faced one another and nodded again. They took one step back before the count started.

  "One, two," Lance began. He raised his eyebrow, lingering before he dared to call the next number that would start the dual. Julian mouthed each number as they sounded, preparing for what he always knew was coming.

  Julian O'Hare was a character that Oliver Brook, a simple human, had been working on for years now. Lance Tier, his opposing rival, was given character by Al Stevenson, an older-generation Live Action Role Player. He had been the one who insisted that their characters face off in a final duel. He wanted to play the bad guy who had gotten into the knights' quarters and worked on turning everyone. Oliver had been okay with this change, so long as his character—his pride and joy for years now—would remain one of the good guys. This was their last fight to keep that promise. Julian O'Hare would not go down without a fight, but he was definitely going down this afternoon. Oliver was prepared, as much as someone could be.

  The Saturday afternoon LARPing group was held in the large park around Toronto's Eaton's Centre. Just beyond the group's flags and brightly coloured tents filled with props were small statues that marked Toronto's history. Sometimes people in the office buildings across the street and service workers—often tourists, too—would stop and watch the LARPers' performance. Some people even thought the group were doing Shakespeare in the Park, though Oliver often had no idea why. Half the knights and other LARPers were not as eloquent as Shakespeare, though they were just as violent as plays like Troilus and Cressida, and with just as many fart jokes.

  The LARPing group, known as the Council of Elderward, met about once a month for half the year. They usually skipped a meeting here and there when the winter months yielded too much ice to set up their tents and play-fight for a while. Today was supposed to be the last meet-up before summer break, just before the Canada Day weekend. For the next few months, The Council of Elderward would focus mostly on genre mash-ups with new characters and settings. Steampunk vampires were next on the block. As much as Oliver loved steampunk and vampires, he knew he wasn't going to get into something that tried to weave them together. He much preferred the old medieval play-acting games, where he got to dress up like D&D characters and act out bastardized scenes from Lord of the Rings. He had grown quite fond of Julian O'Hare. But he knew that like all good things, it must come to an end. This bright, sunny afternoon in late June was as good as any other day to end the character's life, so everyone else involved could go on to greater and better things.

  "I beg you," Julian said as he backed up to the edge of the sandpit where they fought. "Do not go gentle into this. Do not treat me as if I am made of glass. I want all that you have."

  "Good," Lance said. "I don't plan on being easy. Are we ready, then?"

  "You still must count to three."

  "Ah." Lance smiled, devious, just underneath his helmet. Oliver spotted the king and queen of their fictitious town in the background. The queen, played by Stacy Bradley, dropped character slightly as she rubbed her hands together. Oliver could tell just how excited everyone was for the final battle and he was even more proud to be a part of it.

  "Then… three."

  Lance charged. The split-second delay on Oliver's part caused his character Julian to stumble into the first blow. The sword hit his arm, stabbing him. Oliver, still acting as Julian, fell backwards. He knew to fake how deadly the injury was so his opponent would get the wrong impression.

  "Ohhh, no," Julian cried out. "My arm!"

  His histrionics paid off. Lance began laughing and mocking Julian before Julian finally slammed his sword into his legs.

  The swords were not real, obviously. Most were kids' swords from Toys "R" Us painted in darker shades or baseball bats repurposed with duct tape to make them shiny. Even the armour both guys wore wasn't too restricting. Real chain mail would have been too hard to fight in, so they'd fashioned plastic chain mail, or wore tacky silver costumes from Toys "R" Us again. LARPers knew that the point of playing was to push the imagination, rather than go for authenticity.

  Julian rose to his knees and struck Lance with a few more blows.

  "You see
," Julian taunted, his voice light. He kept one hand on his arm, covering up his wound. "This is what you get. Look at where you are and what you have become. Corruption. Greed. Evil everywhere."

  "I would much rather die than face anything less," Lance said. "But I don't think I shall die."

  Lance lunged forward, striking one of Julian's knees. Oliver, still playing, fell back. He watched as one of the elves in the crowd moved over to him. This particular group of three elves, all with plastic ears and green outfits, were part of his underground alliance. One removed a pink vial from their purse and held it over Julian's mouth.

  "Here, sir, while he is down, drink up," the elf commanded. The pink vial held the elves' secret healing potion—and everyone gasped at the sudden revelation. Julian tore off the cap and drank the water dyed with food colouring. Then he bounced right back up onto his feet.

  "I am healed, at least a little," Julian proclaimed, his voice stronger than before.

  There was a point at which, during a LARPing session, Oliver forgot who he was and he allowed for Julian to take over completely. He walked around the ring, his chest puffed up, feeling Julian's confidence and energy flow through him. LARPing always gave him a little bit more of an edge than everyday life. It made him want to keep fighting, keep holding onto this character, though they had already planned for him to die an honourable death.

  "I am well now and there is work to do. And you, Lance, who are you?"

  Lance staggered to his feet. He limped, playing up his injuries. "I will still rule."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because you mistake lack of injury for health, Julian O'Hare. You mistake healing for immortality." Lance lunged forward, stabbing Julian right in his side. "You mistake it all," Lance whispered again, getting in close, "when it is nothing but hubris."

  Lance stepped back as Julian fell forward. He turned towards the elves and demanded more medicine.

  "Why have you not moved, you fools? Can't you see I have been struck again?"

  "Those pink vials cannot heal the heart," Lance shouted. "It can do very little for the soul, too."

  Julian twisted his face in horror. He dropped his sword by the ground and held his chest. Oliver imagined Julian's blood flowing through his chest, his heart falling out like some great omen. Julian died before everyone's eyes, as well as a LARPer really could die. Oliver, still saddened by the development, felt his character's pain like a phantom limb. He fell down on the ground, his arms over his side, and began to breathe shallowly. The crowd murmured; half cheered while the other half began to sob. A story as old as time, Oliver thought to himself. Good vs. Evil. You can never have both.

  The queen in the background rose and began to speak.

  "Our kingdom is safe now from the deserter. We cannot have people like Julian O'Hare who think they are better than the crowd. Do I make myself clear?"

  The elves, shadow orcs, and others who were on Julian's side murmured in fear.

  "For now," the queen added, "I think we shall go back to life anew. As if nothing has happened. Wipe this event from the slate of your memory, dear people. Anything more than ignorance will be punished."

  The crowd, still in character, murmured to one another in worried voices. An elf, one that Oliver hadn't expected on his character's side, appeared at the front. The elf's ears were floppy, as if too big for his real ears underneath. Red hair was shoved under his small green cap that matched his green outfit. He knelt down by Julian's head as he reached into his side bag. He pulled out a simple flower and added it to Julian's chest. More flowers were added to his face next; two daisies over each eye. Oliver could feel the petals through the flicker of his eyelashes.

  "What is…?" Oliver asked, stepping slightly out of character.

  "Shhh," the elf said. A finger was pressed to Oliver's mouth as the elf looked up at the queen. "We have to give credit where credit is due."

  The elf laid his hand on the back of Julian's neck. He began to speak, loudly and somewhat high-pitched, like the elf he played: "The kingdom has changed. Order will be restored. But you can't forget violence and pestilence. You can't forget someone who stood up for what they believed in. It's not hubris that made Julian fall. It is the act of heroism we all wished we also possessed. Julian O'Hare was one of the good men. I will remember him. I will remember a hero."

  There were claps from the audience. Stilted and unsure, but claps nonetheless. They warmed Oliver's heart as his character died. Sure, he knew it was a game, but it made him feel special.

  "You guys," someone called, their voice normal. "The mall cops are coming over. And the rain's coming in. We gotta back up."

  Everyone groaned. Oliver soon heard the shifting of feet over the grass and the sudden reeling in of their brightly coloured tents. All good things must come to an end. He shrugged the flowers off his eyes and sat up, hoping to catch a better look of the elf who saved his reputation, if not his life. He felt the small hands of the elf on his back, squeezing him slightly.

  "We gotta go," he said. "Nice play, though."

  "Thanks." Oliver took off his helmet and smiled at the elf. His skin was paler up close, dusted with freckles, with a small nose in the middle of his face. He really suited the elf character. He didn't even appear to wear much make-up to bring out some of the more feminine features. He was already cute.

  "Have we met before?" Oliver asked with a thin smile.

  "Not really, not in the game. But I followed your story. Most people kind of have to if we want to play."

  "Yeah. You were good, I mean," Oliver said, still stuttering slightly. "I really appreciated that speech at the end."

  The elf laughed. His nose scrunched up when he did. "Don't worry about it. I've read too many fantasy books and played too many games. It was a complete mash-up of those."

  Both of them began to get up. Oliver dusted off his grey pants and the "metal" he kept on as armour.

  "It was more than a mash-up, though," Oliver added. His voice wasn't loud enough against the sudden roar of the crowd as they dismantled their designs. The elf turned his back and didn't seem to hear. He picked up the small pink vial from the ground and added it to his bag, probably to return it to one of the other players in the underground alliance.

  "Well, thanks," Oliver said, finding the cap for the vial on the ground and handing it over. "Even if that didn't give me immortality, I think it's kind of a nice memory. A last hurrah."

  "Not at all," the elf said. He took the vial's cap and nodded a small thanks before he slid it into his pouch. His smile struck Oliver. It was delicate, nice. Oliver swallowed, feeling the familiar throb of attraction. How much of the attention that the elf paid to him was part of his character, and how much of it was other motivations? Oliver wondered. When he first began LARPing, he had spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get close to the guy who played the king, hoping that something else could bloom between them. But he had stopped as soon as he heard the king address someone over the phone. The guy was a dick; he only played a good person in the game. It was so hard, in a game like this, to really decipher character motivation from personal.

  The elf still stared at him with that delicate smile. Oliver was sure that his mind was no longer in the game, and yet, he was still here.

  "So, are you playing in the summer?" Oliver asked. "You know, steampunk vampires! Could be fun."

  He laughed. "I like being an elf. Or a hobbit. They are really my zone in LARPing for the most part. I can't get away with anything else because of the height restrictions."

  Oliver nodded. He knew exactly what that was like. He was only a touch taller than the elf in front of him at five six, and probably would have been slotted into the more typical role of elf or mage, if he hadn't fought tooth and nail to be a knight.

  "I never got your name," Oliver said.

  "Oakenshire," he said. "Not that it matters too much."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Because the game is over now," Oakenshire s
aid with a shrug.

  "Ah. Right," Oliver said. He had hoped for a moment they could exchange real names. He noted the king and queen from before, now out of their regalia and talking into cell phones. Some people chattered together, while others headed to the pub across the way.

  "Do you want to go?" Oliver asked. "To the pub, I mean. Sometimes, when a big battle is done…"

  "I'd love to, normally," Oakenshire stated. "But I should probably head home. I have a lot to do."

  "Ah, okay. Next time, maybe."

  "Definitely," Oakenshire said, though Oliver was still too nervous to decipher if he really did mean it.

  "Well, okay then. I should probably get home, too."

  Their eyes lingered on one another again. The park behind them was cleared in a matter of moments. That was it, Oliver thought. So much effort and now it was all balled into backpacks and would be stored in basements until next time. He ran a finger along the insignia of Elderward on his uniform to keep the idea around a little longer.

  "Well, I have to go. I'll see you around."

  "Definitely," Oliver said, though he didn't know when that would be. He watched as the elf Oakenshire met up with one of his friends, who stood waiting with an exasperated expression on his face. After a quick hug, both of them walked away and descended into chatter.

  Oliver had actually come to this LARP meeting alone. He lived close by, just fifteen minutes around the corner from the park. With the sudden storm clouds, it looked as if he was going to have to speed-walk to avoid getting drenched. He grabbed his backpack and tried to shove his sword inside. He soon gave up and allowed for the tip of the toy sword to peek out as he tossed it over his back. No one was around to gawk at his costume, and even if they had been, Oliver was so consumed by what had just happened, he probably wouldn't have noticed anyway.

  About halfway home, Oliver understood why he thought the elf Oakenshire had looked so familiar. He was just like Sam from Lord of the Rings, defending the honour of those who had fallen and truly believing that good was possible in all people in spite of the odds. And if Oakenshire was Sam, then that meant that Oliver could aspire to be Frodo, the cursed hobbit who saw dissent and did something about it. Sam and Frodo were always the good guys to Oliver. They were the perfect couple who never backed away from the bad things in life, but in fact worked harder and harder to see the positive when faced with alarming odds.