He jumped atop a stone wall and began searching the castle grounds from the high vantage point, seeking a simulated character of sufficient deadliness. That’s how he noticed a hidden nook in the yard, where Karl was accosting one of the serving wenches.

Tom felt a dark thrill, spotting him. Yes. Here it was. Forget simulated enemies. Here was what he’d been looking for.

He sauntered over, then settled on a low wall right above them.

“Hiya, Karl,” he called loudly, startling Karl into jumping to his feet. “Wow, she is not having a good time. I guess even simulated girls don’t like you. That’s kind of pathetic, man.”

Karl shoved the character away and with a flick of his hand, deleted her. Then he turned on Tom, adjusting his garb, his face bright red. “I’ll have you know, Old Yeller,” he said smugly, chest swelling, “I’m a celebrity now, so—”

“Wow, a celebrity and you still have to settle for simulated girls?” Tom interrupted. “That’s just sad.”

Karl leered at him, a nasty glint in his eyes. “I know what this is about. You’re frustrated and hoping to take it out on someone, aren’t ya, Benji? I know what’s up with you. You blew it. You’re never gonna make CamCo now. It’s gotta really be sinking in.”

It was, but Tom would never admit it. “Nah, I’m here because I like spending time with you, Karl.”

“I’ll give you what you want.” Karl drew his sword, his meaty fist gripping its hilt. “I’ll fight you. I’ll smash you into the ground.”

“Yeah, it’s not like you’re already oh for three. But, hey, I really respect your prowess on the battlefield . . .” Tom couldn’t go on. “Man, I can’t even get that out with a straight face.”

Karl gave a roar of fury and sprang, slashing viciously at his legs. Tom jumped in time as the blade arced beneath him, flashing with the pale light of the sky. He hurled himself around, delivering a slam of his boot across Karl’s face, knocking him to the ground. With an exultant whoop, Tom lunged forward as Karl was rising. Tom crashed the pommel of his sword across Karl’s jaw, knocking him back down. Then he dove forward in a roll, evading Karl’s massive arms as they groped the air where he’d just been. Tom scurried clear, panting for breath. Karl lumbered to his feet like some great, baited bear. Tom kept him in his sight. Karl was a wrestling champ, and huge, besides. If he got his hands on him, it would be over. Tom didn’t intend to let that happen.

Sheer hatred twisted Karl’s features as they faced each other down. “You like being a real tough guy in simulations,” Karl sneered, “but out there, you’re a skinny little punk.”