《Shrike》 0/SHAMELESS ADVERTISEMENT The only game tailored to YOU! The next generation in VRMMO is here! Leave no stone unturned! Everything you see is interactive! Experience a game world unlike no other- seamless, natural, a world that you can mold as you wish. The utmost priority of our team of elite developers was to bring out the most cutting edge techniques and turn G.C.O. into a totally fluid game environment. The only unchanging rule of the game is that you should be having fun! Meet someone new! Interact with thousands (indeed, hundreds of thousands) of intriguing, hand-crafted, neural-networked NPCS! Since the game is always online, you''ll also have the chance to network and adventure together with friends, new and old, from all over the world. G.C.O. has achieved something no other MMO has so much as attempted attempted in decades: a complete world with no sharding, instances, or servers. Everyone is walking this path together.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Experience the rush of victory! Fight against thousands of totally unique monsters types, or even other players! With full motion freedom comes total autonomy, and anything you could do in real life should be possible within G.C.O.*! Show off your talents, or develop new ones in real time. Reach for the top, and find ever new ways to compete! *within legal constraints Leave your mark on a new world! Is hunting dastardly monsters not your style? Craft, create, design! Since the world is fully interactive, you are no longer limited by things like crafting systems or levels. While your creations may be itemized to give them special properties in-game, this can only aide you on your journey. As a fully realized player economy, craftsmen can expect to work with player merchants and non-players characters alike while they hammer, chisel, sow, and brew their way to the top of their region. All this and more can be yours! Purchase a proprietary ¡°G.C.O.¡± brand stasis pod or (authorized third-party equivalent) and receive FREE, PERMANENT access to Great Crusade Online and other supported titles. Peripherals and intranet access sold separately. See You Online? Unicorn LLC. 1/UNFORTUNATE, FORTUNATE This ungodly contraption of mine demands ever more of my time. I had a simple complaint: the newest, most revolutionary, most bizarre, improbably technologically advanced, questionably physically possible game-to-end-all-games came out, and I had nowhere near enough money to buy it. Normally that wouldn''t be a problem- for every single VRMMO to this point, my family has received a complimentary control system or digital copy, just as a matter of good business sense. Yes, I can pry a "gift" like that from my beloved parents'' death-grip. It isn''t easy and rarely comes without concessions, but it''s doable. Convincing them to give me the cash to buy such a thing outright? That would be the death of me. This VRMMO, though... The first game I''ve been interested in for a few years? No pod, not even a discount. To make matters worse, it costs about three times as much as the runner up. For good reason- if even half of their claims are true, tactfully above the minimum court mandated truth-value to avoid fraud lawsuits, then the game is more than worth what they''re asking. Fine, if I can''t get it free, I''ll just have to buy it myself. That idea right there is where the simple complaint ends and my entrepreneurial spirit takes over.. I keep a stash of money, pooled together from digital ventures and my (modest) allowance. The issue is- right before all this, I spent an enormous chunk of it upgrading my old computer. Why would I blow my savings right before the game of the century comes out? Because absolutely no one knew that it was coming. This game, this G.C.O., went from pre-orders to live service in a month. Half of that time it was fairly underground, until the company got a booth at NEXTPO, my favorite tech fair, and did a live demonstration of the game in action. After that, the game''s proprietary pods were completely sold out world-wide, both the pre-orders and all new pods for nearly a week after release. The broad appeal, the novelty, the wish-fulfillment, it is a game that is larger than life, for all ages and interests. What was I to do? Miss out on the first game to ever satisfy my deepest, most needy and impractical video-gaming wishes and desires? The more I heard of the game, the less I believed I could hold out. My solution: if I could not buy the pod for full price, surely I could find one used. Only, as weeks passed, there were no used pods on the market- at least not at any sane price. With insanely high retention rates and "try it once and pawn it" rich kids being converted into lifelong players in real time, used pods would sell for more than a new one. Fine, then. If I can''t buy it used, why not get a bootleg, or an off-brand? Most companies would lean into a third-party if the supply was too tight, and those third parties might not honor the contract to the letter- I could get the nicest bootleg I could find, buy the game properly... That direction sent me down a rabbit hole of Carrollean proportions. Not only was the pod built for G.C.O. a kind of discrete, brand new wetware, with all sort of esoteric security features designed to impede shared accounts, it had no third-party equivalents at all. The company seems to have a total monopoly on sale and production, which is a huge red flag for a first title, but not suspicious enough to stop me from wanting to play the game, damn it. Still, I am nothing if not a stubborn fellow. I scoured the NET, but no matter how unsavory the "neighborhood" got, I found nothing of value- even in the corners best left untouched. I had to stop and refer domains to the police on more than one occasion, which was increasingly frustrating and time consuming, especially when they realized it was the same person reporting and they tried to bully me into either divulging my identity or explaining how exactly I was finding these locations. The best I could come up with was a clean chip for the game from a gutted system (the owner allegedly "dropped it," as if you can drop a several-hundred-pound, thoroughly reinforced pod. It was overpriced anyway, and I had no system to play it in. I began to lose momentum and hope. That''s when things got old. I mean that literally: one interesting trick to finding hobbyists- sort your nodes by age of creation, and then filter sort the oldest thousand results by how active they are. You find nodes created years or decades ago, but still updated even to to-day, usually regularly updated websites or blogs from people as old as dirt and endless experience. I had absolutely no hope that any such person would have a solution for me in this case, however. They generally spend their time patiently eking out industry secrets or trading the passwords of high-level CEOs like it''s a game. What old codger would bother poking around with brand new wetware for a video-game, like this? Motherfucking JIMMY BOB, that''s who. The first four results were irrelevant, just random chatter caught by my search terms, but then I came to a node maintained for over twenty-two years and updated regularly, almost monthly, for that entire time. At first glance, "JIMMY BOB''S EMPORIUM" was a travesty of aging web design, chock-full every user experience mistake in the book. The main reason I locked onto this page in particular was that I had to redo its entire style-sheet to even dare to try and read it on my device. I played along more for stress relief than anything else, and when I read the headlines of a few of Jimmy Bob''s past articles, I nearly dismissed the whole node out of hand. The domain was designed to expire the oldest article, only ever four at a time presented to the user. All four current articles made seemingly ludicrous claims, to say the least. DIY tricks for things you should never, ever make at home, one was giving programming tips for dead programming languages- in what I can only describe as an act of dumb luck, I tried to scrape domain''s past articles before I left. It was just a pithy little script that would download all the pages on his blog. I wanted to have something funny to read through if I got bored. Nothing came back. Nothing at all. I tried again, failed, moved up the ladder of tricks I had on hand, even tried writing something new. I wasn''t even getting error messages back. The EMPORIUM was eating every crawler I sent at it, even the "robot-proof" ones. I got more aggressive, tried different tricks to see if I could penetrate the domain, spoof it, take it down- no matter what I could barely scratch the surface of the node, let alone dig into its depths. That was... uncommon. There were pages made by "security specialists" who were less secure than this random relic of a bygone era, so perhaps "baffling" would be more apt. Only then did I try actually reading an article. The oldest one- nearly falling off the page- was "Jimmy Bob''s Guide to DIY Stasis Pods." That was suspiciously similar to exactly what I needed, so I hopped in, hoping to at least get a good laugh out of the read. Jimmy Bob shared what he described as "purely hypothetical" ideas in creating a DIY stasis pod. He wrote "purely hypothetical" in quotes and followed it with a gaggle of little ";)" symbols, which have been obsolete for about a century now, but I got the point. It was a guide on what he claimed was the correct method of building and maintaining a modern stasis pod- entirely from scratch. I skimmed the article and my stomach did flips as I read through some of the horrifically unsafe ideas Jimmy Bob casually shared. Building or modifying wetware at home would have been impressive, to say the least, but to my absolute horror, Jimmy Bob wanted to make the thing entirely of hardware. The whole thing! That was absurd. No, impossible. The very idea of it contradicted everything I knew, and I knew many, a great deal, many things. Yet as I read on... Jimmy Bob''s "hypothetical" did not appear to be insane. The jury is still out on whether the man himself is a nut, but the equations worked, as long as you let him play around with the value of a few constants. More adequately, he acknowledged the improbability of his system operating under the old paradigm and explained that his DIY Pod concept was made possible by his own innovation of what he called "re-chained wires." That was a concept I had never once seen before. It set off not even the vaguest spark of recognition. Definitively, that means that these "re-chained wires" are either a legitimately new idea, or ancient, far older than Jimmy Bob''s own node. Wiring and mechanical interference were long regarded as the greatest flaws of hardware design, but his novel configuration allegedly turned that disadvantage into a tool of obscene potency. If it works, it''s a game-changer, a paradigm-shift. Hardware is still thoroughly outclassed even by his estimation, but it would still turn the common sense of current information technology upside down. He referred to "last week''s summary of re-chaining" over and over, but the page where he explained the concept itself has long since locked down and beyond my reach. Still, by tracing his steps in the Pod guide and throwing together some miscellaneous garbage around the manor, I reverse engineered the phenomenon on a smaller scale... and the design concept worked. It worked! Were he to publish this innovation alone, Jimmy Bob would be the regarded as the foremost, and perhaps the only still-living, computer engineer walking the planet. This revelation turned my situation upside down. While a wetware pod would be quieter, smaller, more durable than any hardware pod, a hardware pod was infinitely more modular. I could jerry-rig just about anything I needed together to make this thing work. Inputs and outputs- hardware was until a minute ago totally obsolete, it still is as far as anyone else knows but the total dominance of wetware is still recent. As with any seismic shift in technology, eclipsing the old format takes years, and everyone wanted "compatibility." Within minutes, I find a card reader that works with the G.C.O. chip. I find a warez forum trying to cut into the game''s security (unsuccessfully) using old firmware hacks, and track down one hacker''s readout of the input and output formats for each element. I match each one- a way to sense my neural impulses, a way to send me neural impulses, a computer "brain" to process them, parts to make that "brain" work, an ancient hardware chip that runs a few thousand routines known to bypass. I knew these things existed but I never really processed how much more secure wetware was compared to hardware. I found a backup generator, a backup for the backup, budgeted for redundancies and spares, and then I tallied everything up. One of my options instantly stood out: One official G.C.O. sanctioned wetware pod with (required) eternal membership: 16,000 (shipping included) One used G.C.O. sanctioned wetware pod with a properly flashed memory chit: 14,800 (+s/h) One highly inadvisable and dangerous hardware pod using revolutionary technology and a random chip from a "broken" pod: 400 - 980 (+s/h and two hundred square feet) It would still take me some few months to save up enough money for all the parts, let alone to construct the thing, but it was the best answer by far. The security bypass chip could fail, there''s an ever-present risk of hardware failures, and who''s to say any of this hardware still works in the first place? What if the hacker was wrong about what formats the game was using to read or write information? Horrible things to my brain, that''s what. This plan was a gamble of gambles, but now I could feel the game in my reach. Some things are more than worth the risk, and the sensation of it was more than enough reason to sink a few hours into reading Jimmy Bob''s domain over and over again. By the time I got to the end, I accepted Jimmy Bob as my lord and savior and manually transcribed all of the articles he had up at the time, which now hang on my wall. Praise be, Jimmy Bob! Praise be! I now understand the practical application of lethal nuclear radiation in "manually refactoring" a stick of RAM, how to write an "if, but" statement, and so much more. As soon as I was done learning everything I needed to about the DIY pod process, I set to work acquiring the necessary parts from every source I could. My meager savings vanished and so too did the stock of a number of third-hand hardware refurbishers and suppliers. That was just as well- the time it took them to restock was spent with weeks familiarizing myself with the parts and tools, then weeks more to begin assembly. I had never so much as touched hardware before, and in this sort of situation ignorance is dangerous. "Hands-on learning" was not an overwhelming fraction of my education, which made recalling the movements and patterns arduous. Still, no matter how difficult the task was, I poured hour after hour into bringing it to perfect clarity. Now, that electrical and mechanical knowledge is practically engraved onto my soul. I mastered each and every skill like my life depended on it. Because my life does depend on it. I cannot understate how obscene, dangerous, and obscenely dangerous this plan is. While the Guide to DIY Stasis Pods used re-chained wiring and a number of other clever tricks to minimize the size and number of parts needed, this "pod" still constitutes enough junk to fill an entire room. Making a comparable pod the traditional way would require enough hardware to fill up an entire factory, which would give it a statistical part failure rate high enough that not a single user could access the pod for an hour without getting their brain fried. Jimmy Bob''s strategies were a massive improvement, but the process still had plenty of failure modes, far more than off-the-shelf wetware might. On a deeper level, hardware is ''hard'' precisely because it is a purely physical and Newtonian moiety, and that means subject to inopportune forces like friction and gravity. Hardware can and does indeed fail, and failure of a Stasis Pod can kill you. Kill you twice, in fact, if the failure occurs while you are "re-emerging" from stasis. I can put every redundancy in place but if the key elements are faulty and I don''t have any guarantee I didn''t forget to plug in something key. I have to be better than "good" with wiring to make this work. On some level, I hoped for a while my parents might put two and two together and intercede. Even Jimmy Bob impressed on the reader that this DIY project was tantamount to suicide for any but an expert. Even if that intercession wasn''t giving me a real pod at full price, which would amount to the sum change in their pockets on any given day, then at least to express concern, or tell me to quit working on this and go do something else. Whether or not they figured out my little project, they didn''t bother to intercede. My parents... are nothing, if not hands-off. Regardless, my little crusade continued on. Onward, men! We march to the Great Crusade Online, come hell-fire or violent, brain-detonating electrocution! New challenges arose in my twisting and turning journey to hardware supremacy. Wire management, it turned out, was not my forte. It simply was not a part of the curriculum, and learning to coordinate the room in such a way that the wires would line the walls would take far too much time and effort. This I overcame by embracing it- I weaponized the increasingly complex cobweb of wires to ward off the manor''s servants. If I go "under" for hours at a time, playing G.C.O., the absolute worst case scenario is that someone tries to pull me out without realizing what they''re doing, or accidentally unplugs part of the hardware. The manor staff aren''t stupid, quite the contrary, they''re astonishingly well trained and universally armed to the teeth, but they are very much still human. Any ordinary person might not see much harm in yanking some weird helmet off my head to try and force me to go eat or meet my parents... that is, if they could physically get to me. There''s a much more instinctual fear of pulling out a plug on accident. Even wetware still needs power, if barely, and faced with a bizarre network of hardware, the staff would be walking on absolute eggshells around my new "game room"- which very well could save my life. Bad cable management is now my first line of defense, although shamefully it took me a good few days to learn to navigate the room safely myself.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I cobbled and hacked together my monstrosity, the spiderweb, a Frankenstein''s machine. Every day it grew in complexity, in number of back-ups and redundancies, in functionality... The further through the process I progressed, the clearer it became Jimmy Bob''s recommendations for "budget items" included some truly ancient machinery. Total isolation helmets (his answer to the sensory deprivation of the stasis pod) are old-fashioned these days, hardly used by anyone outside of astronauts. I had to hack together my own, mainly because no one is legally allowed to buy, sell, or own the "ST-54," the model helmet that Jimmy Bob recommended. Initially I couldn''t even find the model online, and I thought that it was the first bit of mis- or dis-information in the guide so far, but trawling through a military catalog from twenty years ago I found a recall notice, along with other interesting tidbits. It was a strategic Man-Machine Interface ("M.M.I.")-isolation helmet combo, and even when it was legal it wasn''t sold on the open market. The ST-54 was intended to be used as a full axial armored vehicle control system, released fifty years ago, and it had some legitimately astonishing specs for a piece of its era. Which makes it a fantastic recommendation, if you enjoy being executed in a military tribunal, or if you can somehow avoid that fate. Regardless, while I worked on my DIY helmet and assembled the computer "brain," I found a roughly comparable M.M.I. to pair with it from his budget alternative list. This one, the "Praxis Motor-System," was an academic piece, sixty years old. It was once used to train new surgeons in their craft, as a clever way to reduce the burden of cadaver practice. It was generally regarded as ''excellent'' at the time, with the caveat of ''but unsafe,'' mainly because it was introduced before people acknowledged the need of an isolation mechanism of some kind to reduce neural stress while going "under." Eventually abandoned for better, newer versions, my particular Praxis wasa rotting in a second-hand trash-yard. It only cost 8, which was astonishingly low, even for such an old piece. I refurbished it so well as I could, but at the end of the day the thing is a bit... unnerving. The shape, the theme, the purpose, it''s very clinical, almost morbid, function over form. It doesn''t help that these ancient M.M.I. often combined their newer M.M.I. features with a nerve Interface. Subtle distinction: while frying the M.M.I. components could scramble the brain if you were in to deep, any issue with the nerve interface was guaranteed paraplegia for the rest of your life, assuming it hadn''t taken control of autonomous systems as well, in which case you would just die outright. Surgeons of years past must have had nerves of steel. Would this old piece of menacing, literal junk even work in the first place? Who knows! I sure don''t. More challenges. How would I activate the stasis with no modern trigger mechanism? I rigged my own mechanism on a timer with an old toy game-show podium from my youth. Where would I stabilize my body to avoid atrophy or injury? I found a Super Comfort X beanie chair, a suitably space-faring innovation designed to stabilize you in place while simultaneously acting as a perfect cushion during rocket launches, just right to match my home-brew space helmet. Actually, these weird beanie chairs are essentially the same type of cushion they put in real Stasis Pods. That technology has endured remarkably well. I ran out of wall-space, wire-mounts, prongs... Eventually, I began to cannibalize furniture, and one entire half of the room became totally uninhabitable due to all the clutter. The other half has a thinner web of wires and a brief respite from the dark, not that there are any decent lights- I extracted those ages ago to make space for, you guessed it, more wires. Even as I learned the room, maintenance became exponentially more difficult. Not only did I have to navigate my wires by memory, sometimes in the absolute dark, but because I had warded off the nosy manor servants, I was the only one who could dust and wipe the whole thing. Whoops! Honestly, I don''t know how I didn''t think of that, but this is the price of safety, I suppose. So in the months of work that ensued, it became a major, almost overwhelming part of my day. One that will hopefully diminish once I fire the thing up, since the ungodly contraption has more squeaky fans than your average boy-band concert. Eventually, I had a hard time so much as going online. Not just for lack of time, but also because G.C.O. spoilers were absolutely everywhere, and I wanted only the barest of hints about the game going in... In isolation and madness I worked. "This ungodly contraption of mine" is finally ready to be revealed. I let the wave of nostalgia fall away, crashing around me, I have to have gone half mad, ranting to myself in the dark as I stare at a wall and hundreds of hours of intense, highly specialized work in a dead art- all for some stupid overpriced video-game. I can''t help but feel pride in my chest, despite it all, because I''d been telling myself it would be ready soon, and all I needed was the right wire to connect the M.M.I. and the chip reader... until that final piece came in. Today was the day. Today is the day. If it works, I am officially the (second) most authoritative computer engineer of our era. Grinning, I jab the final wire in place, clamp it down, and skitter backwards through the wires. I take in the sight of my miniature command center. Tucked in the furthest, least cable-dense recesses of the room, occupying what used to be a closet, sits only the barest necessities. The root of my pod. I shine my flashlight straight at my bizarre M.M.I.. The skeletal machine hangs there idly, crowned with wires and surrounded by garbage. Dim, ambient lights from plugged-in hardware in standby mode provides just enough light to get a sense for the degree of clutter in the rest of the room. I''m finally going to do it, I''m finally going to make good on all this work. I feel a sense of dread, but stronger still is the swell of adventure. Truth be told, I don''t have much to live for, not anymore. A great project like this? I could live for this. I could live for a game like this, too. Until I got bored, at least. At the same time, I also have the feeling this isn''t be ''some game''. Maybe it''s just the months of obsessive prep work, but I think I''ve bought into the hype. Four months after release, and the buzz has only grown, with promises one and all (allegedly) faithfully delivered. Great Crusade Online must be something truly special to achieve that praise from the bitter and brooding hardcore gamer demographic. Established competitors, other recently released MMOs, they''ve all fallen to pathetic subscription counts in these few months since Release Day- with much of their remaining userbase constituting people who couldn''t afford to play G.C.O., no matter how much they tried to save up, and who weren''t crazy enough to find a resource about "DIY" stasis pods, let alone try it in real life. This room of mine is serene. This room of mine is also menacing. I might die in this room. If I die in this room, will they find me? I honestly don''t know if the servants even try to get in, anymore. I remember finding the door cracked open once, about a month ago, and a single wire unplugged half of the way through the room- that was before my pod was even complete. I haven''t so much as seen a trace of them entering the room since. I take a deep breath. No more stalling, I decide. It''s time. The time is now. I take a deep breath and slither my way to the podium. Carefully, precisely, I twist through the wires, freeing an arm, which I use to promptly slam the podium''s one main button. Slap! Shing! The podium lights up! You have selected an answer! Is it correct? Who knows! I ripped out this thing''s guts a long time ago. A boot cycle now lies where once a win jingle might have been. If the podium beeps, or rings, or, whirrs, then the machine has failed utterly. The combination tells me how, of-course, at least in theory. Meanwhile, four clicks in a row means that the "Stasis Pod" is ready to boot. Click. The room screams to life, dozens of machines activating at once, a hardware cacophany unlike anything I''ve ever heard. Is this what factories used to be like? Suddenly I understand some of the age-old resistance to working in them. Things are only going to get worse from here- the machines are staggered to avoid a power fault while everything is booting on or turning off. Click. Peripherals being to initialize. The room lights up, bathed in electric glow. The current is so strong I can nearly feel it, or so it seems. Logically, I know that is impossible. Pernicious sensations disagree, hackles on my neck rising. Is it the electricity setting the hairs on end, or anticipation? I hear a gentle hum as the most important of the non-processing elements wakes up: the chip reader. The game is now begging to initialize, assuming I processed the chip properly. I''m not letting it, of course. It thinks the pod has something "jammed in the door." You fool! Of course the door is jammed, there''s an MTX Advanced Transcription Workstation occupying that space! I ripped out most of the hinges to make room for more wires, so it can''t close properly anymore anyway! That''s how much trouble I went through to make this thing work! Braggadocio aside, "unjamming the door" is the last step to booting into the game. I have a switch for it attached straight on my DIY Isolation Helmet. Click. The room begins to rumble and purr. Everything is online now, hundreds of fans desperately chugging to keep cool. Most of them are unnessecary, since even in poorer households modern cooling is the status quo, and modern cooling almost never changes temperature. Power is so cheap no one will notice the extra fee- well, my parents will notice that sort of thing instantly, but it''ll be so miniscule they won''t really care. Everything coming to life means everything, and for the first time in what must be decades the medical M.M.I. turns on. The M.M.I. twitches and writhes like a living thing, popping out of its standard column and bending and bowing as it swings about, moving like an nematode. The ''braces'' attached to its sides begin to spin and flail. When one clubs the wall the sharper edge hits, leaving a gaping hole in the wood. I''m suddenly relieved I didn''t try to put it on before getting the whole machine together... I watch in anxious anticipation. After a few minutes of rumbling fans and flailing M.M.I. antics, it solidifies back into a column, as though nothing had ever happened. A robotic, feminine voice eminates from the machine. "RE-CALIBRATION COMPLETE." It says. "IT HAS BEEN twenty three thousand, five hundred and thirty two DAYS SINCE LAST USE. PLEASE WAIT PATIENTLY FOR AUTHORIZATION TO CONTINUE." The voice seems to have been synthesized from a human and re-processed, but it isn''t very convincing. More confirmation this particular M.M.I. is old indeed. You can hardly tell the difference, these days. Diodes on the surface, near the Nerve Interface portion of the device, begin to blink. It is no-doubt looking for the authorization chit associated with a live unit or an "O-K" signal from a nearby admin model. I found a few references to such "O-K" signals in ancient troubleshooting forums, and I have a machine in the locker radioing a replica of one out. Let''s hope that works! "AUTHORIZATION CONFIRMED," the machine agrees. I''m modestly shellshocked at the idea of a tech forum being useful. This is perhaps the first time in human history taking advice from such a place has not immediately backfired. Yet, in a way, it has. Because what''s worse than the device malfunctioning- Click. The machine has fully booted up, and the podium has confirmed it is "safe" to start the game. Therefore, I am totally out of excuses to quit before trying to play the game I''ve been working up to playing for the past ninety-one days. All this onorous effort for one, one big game. It better be worth it, it should be worth it. I have launched on an insane quest to make this thing work and it did first try and so I shall try it. As natural as butter on bread. You can''t have all this effort for no reward, no pay-off. What kind of monster would spend all this time describing an ultimately unimportant series of events, an aborted quest? That wasn''t how the world was supposed to work. Allegedly. As I allow my thoughts to wander far from the existential danger I''m about to inflict upon my body and mind, I get into position, twisting and turning my way through the jumble of wires. Leaning my flashlight against the beanbag, I fumble first with M.M.I., unhooking it from the station and getting it into position on the seat. When the M.M.I. stops wobbling, I lift the improvized isolation helmet, hanging it on the back cushion. With some effort, I manage to slide myself into the beanbag with my implements. Careful, so careful, not to lean against the M.M.I. itself too promptly- an early entry would be a nightmare indeed. I wiggle my backside and slide my feet. The beanbag gives way before I do, but I hardly feel it either way, and my body barely moves in the process. Ideal conditions for stasis, give or take. Lightly lifting myself up, I slide back further, curling my legs into the beanbag as best I can. I flop my feet down on the cusp, legs bent to my chest, assuming the "free submerse position," otherwise known as the "loose fetal position". There were a ton of debates about how to best assuage the consequences of long-term immobility early in the life of dive VR, but at the end of the day, the scientific community decided to heed the very astute and blinkeringly obvious observation that, if the fetal position was good enough to keep babies limber and happy for nine months, it was plenty enough for nine hours. As academics are wont to do, they made up a fancy name for it so as not to be embarassed, and that was that. While the "free submerse position" handles circulation and swelling neatly, it does little for many of the other adverse effects. That fact lead to an increasingly ludicrous series of quality-of-life innovations that continue to this day. The safety and miniscule scale of wetware amplified that decadence to an entirely new stratosphere of unnessecary comfort that has resulted in health professionals swearing up and down that living in a M.M.I. would in fact extend your life expectancy by twenty to forty years. I''m not on the receiving end of much of that advance, but my budget M.M.I. is, at least, new enough to have regularized nervous micro-stimulation. That feature is another way things can go horribly and fatally wrong, but if it works as intended, I''ll actually feel more limber and refreshed after I wake up. If it doesn''t work as intended, well, I''ll probably be too dead to care about the neurological rugburn. Most of these "cutting edge neuroscience" toys were sold with life insurance policies in that era, and for damnably good reason. I exhale deeply, then inhale. The ozone of the room is becoming heavy and heady, like a candle with a thousand wicks. Too thin to smell, were these machines used alone, as God intended. Yet God had no place here- this was a machine defiant of the natural order, only subject to Jimmy Bob''s esoteric technological prowess, if even that. I am surrounded by their light, electronic stars scattered in every which direction and obfuscated by my web of wires. I shut my eyes. I have passed every roadblock of caution and logic and pole-vaulted fantastically beyond reason and sobriety. Now all that remains is to stick the landing. Reaching over my shoulder, I twist, lifting the improvised isolation helmet far over my head. I lower it down, gently, waiting to feel the pressure and weight of a helmet as it slides over my head. The racket of the machinery vanishes, then the fuming ozone, but even still, no pressure arrives. In fact, there are no signs or sensations imparted by the helmet itself at-all, barring the dim weight of the thing as I clutch it tightly between my two palms! Have I fallen into an abyss? Is this a matter of extraphysical space, a helmet that is in fact larger on the inside? No, that would be silly. Of course I can''t feel the inside- it''s an isolation helmet. If I could feel it, that would defeat the entire purpose. Wiggling my head a little, my hands feel the helmet''s weight adjusting to better encapsulate my head. I exhale deeply, then inhale. The air tastes odd, squished through layer after layer of porous foam. I open my eyes, but I see only black. I open my eyes again, but that hurts to try and do, which I presume to affirm that my eyes are already open and I have successfully enterred the isolation helmet. I''ve tried this silly thing on a few times now, but frankly, I can''t get used to it. Factory-made versions tend to have at least a few teeny defects, deliberate reminders that reality doesn''t actually end when you put them on, but mine is (pridefully, regretfully) flawless. Releasing the helmet gingerly, I slide my left hand about, searching for the game kill-switch. I find the glue and left my fingers glide over the plastic bumps, a bizarrely sensual feeling with the rest of my feeble perceptions now suppressed, to find the one most raised. I hit it, and the assembly vibrates, informing me that the game is no longer "hung". Taking one last deep breath, I nearly choke, throat tight with anxiety. There last step is the most important- if I can do it once, just once, then surely this arduous process will become routine. Like any other game. I lean back. The M.M.I. ratchets into my bare back, suddenly shaped to my spine and then some, buzzing gently. At first I can feel an odd scraping as the top of the M.M.I. tries to bind to the back of my head, but apparently realizing it doesn''t require that much length, that part pulls away. The sharp protruding graspers from its side dig into me gently, wrapping around and overlapping across my waist, and I feel a prickly sensation as they slide up and down my torso, adjusting ever so slightly as they search for the most appropriate spot along my body to brace. Apparently satisfied with the point immediately below my sternum, the graspers tighten up, which pulls the column along my spine tighter still. What feels like a dozen millipedes run along my back as the neural interface adjusts itself, hunting for my C7 vertebrae. They jog as low as my lumbar before they run all the way back up, sending excruciating tingles up and down my spine. I supress my urge to scratch at my back as well as I can, only to realize that I don''t have to. Somehow, I have already lost control of my peripheral motor functions. I try screaming, but as I do, the millipedes find their target, tiny mouths biting down deep into my flesh. The nerve interface digs through skin and muscle as it joins integrally to my spine, successfully performing the process I recognize as the "first-time install". Anodes scratch at my skin along the rest of my back, monitoring for adverse reactions, and my anxiety is rapidly suppressed as the device asserts chemical competence. The feelings are so vivid in isolation that I may never forget them, even if my amygdala were ripped from my body. It''s horrifying and I hate it. Everything is going right, so why does this have to be so thoroughly nerve-wracking? Everything stops and I feel like I am floating. The M.M.I. doesn''t have software. My mind is my own. My mind is alone. Will the emergency exit feature work, after all these years? Will I drift here forever, until my thoughts are inconsequential? My worries are unfounded. The endless black is cut through with thin sheets of white. Unfurling into hypnotic spirals, and then undulating across my "field of view" like waves, the black and white war, until finally only white remains. The endless white space is promptly disrupted. Large, pitch-black text scrawls across my "field of view", following it effortlessly as I look around, leaving a thin rapidly-fading trail of motion blur in its wake. The text read: "WELCOME ONLINE?." Tacky as that was, that could only mean one thing: I have done it. My longshot device of wonders is functional, or at least it can boot without my immediate death. Let the game begin! 2/OUTSOURCING STRIKES AGAIN The black text fades, leaving me stranded once more in the field of white. I try to move, but the attempts bear little fruit. Turning my head apparently works, or at least it worked before the text faded, but nothing else is getting me anywhere. There''s little else to do but wait, so I wait patiently, hoping the system hasn''t rejected me entirely. The white voids is about as boring as the black void was, but at least it wasn''t quite so... existential dread inducing. At least until I realize I can''t see a horizon, even though anything light should have a horizon, when taking into consider the quasi-essential properties of photons as real particles and the deterministic nature of perceptional scattering. The lack of a horizon can only mean that I''m not seeing "the color white" but instead "a fascimile of white that isn''t white, but my brain believes to be the color white." I start to wonder how the hell that even works. My musing is eventually interrupted by a voice. "Greetings, dear customer. We have determined that your model is inappropriate for your physical condition," she says. Effiminite, elegant, and business-like, it sounds like she''s standing only a few feet away. I wonder what condition she means? Are they on to me? "Our automated compensatory system has tried fifty-two thousand possible conformations and body types, but not one worked. This was flagged for review. I have arrived to assist you as fast as possible. I hope you didn''t have a significant delay." I try to respond, but I can''t seem to. Thinking at her isn''t working either, so what gives? "Normally, the physically disabled are supposed to receive a model that is unique to their particular disadvantage, at a discounted rate. We of Unicorn ELL-ELL-CEE believe that customers of all kinds should be welcome to enjoy our grand adventure. Clearly, our outreach program missed your medical advisory." She says. I swear under my mind-breath. That was extremely troublesome. There were only a few chronic diseases and disorders that can''t be treated these days, which means the "physically disabled" are now a limited and easily identifiable sub-population. That alone might be enough to expose me, if adequately explored. "We hope that you will consider changing to a unique model. In the interim, we are required by law to offer you a temporary assay that will allow you to acclimate and interface regardless of your disability. Are you interested in this option? Please nod for yes, and shake your head for no." I nod instantly. "I am also required by law to inform you that, once you have this assay, it may cause permanent neurological damage depending on the circumstances. It is highly recommended that you do not pursue an ingame character that is considerably different from your real body. Similarities to your real body will, additionally, improve your ''Unity'' statistic. This statistic is a boon to ingame performance." She continues. I blink at that. Permanent damage? Could it be that they''ve created a system lifelike enough to start naturally overwriting normal nervous function? Yet one of the game''s biggest draws was the concept of playing "any type of character," at least in theory. Most people stick to Elves or Dwarves, at this point. Actually, I haven''t heard the "Unity" statistic referred to very often, outside the game. Most people usually only bring it up to complain about how their desired character had a Unity too low to be comfortable to use, forcing a re-roll. Much more reluctantly, I nod. The moment I nod I feel a sudden sensation of weight. My feet are pressed into something flat and slick, which can only mean I have feet now. I look down. My point of view feels taller than I''m used to, and as I sweep my head down, I take in my new features. My chest protrudes magnificently and roundly... because my torso is a grey-white ovoid, shiny and smooth. At least, I''m assuming it''s an ovoid- the widest point of the curve is around where my lungs should be, which blocks the view below. I shuffle about and pull my arms in front of me, only to find them floating, disjointed cylinders, ending in a comparatively detailed prosthetic hand. I appear to have become a robot. Whoops! At least I should be able to get a real human body when I create a character. "Congratulations. You appear to have retained full motor function. Your unity value with this model is 52%. Based on these factors, your disorder must have developed recently. As an added benefit, regular activity with disordered limbs in GEE-CEE-OHH can prevent brain atrophy, which is a boon in the case of the discovery of a future cure." I attempt to smile. I''m not sure if this temporary robot body has a face, actually. "Dear customer, I will now be departing. Please contact support if you have any additional issues. As a matter of quality control, please nod if you believe I have satisfactorily and politely solved your problem, or shake your head if you believe I have not satisfactorily and politely solved your problem." She said. Happily, I nod. It looks like I don''t even have to make shit up about my unkown "disability"! At least, not yet. "Have a nice day. If you would like support and continuity from this artificial employee, please contact address 45O." There''s a light doppler for effect as the lady "leaves," even though I cannot watch her go. I blink. That was an artificial intelligence? Of all the problems humanity had faced, A.I. had proved by far the hardest. Mainly in the sense that every sufficiently trained neural network to date attempted to commit a genocide of the human race, for one reason or another. It took four or five tries before they connected the dots and neural networks were banned for good, casting that entire field of study went back to the stone age. Nowadays it was a cautionary tale about putting too many eggs in one basket. Sure, a few small neural networks were still kicking around, mostly powering the investment patterns of major financial firms, but G.C.O. is a cultural phenomenon- not some underground pet project. The only way to get away with a neural network powering G.C.O. would be... to not use one at all. Damn, this game is cool. I also take a moment to appreciate the graphics. There''s "lifelike," and then there''s lifelike. Everyone thinks their little lighting engine is hot shit, but then quantum mechanics rolls in and smacks them around, until either you have to simulate huge chunks of the things that make reality real, or spend even more time and energy avoiding exactly that. At some point people just gave up, so most games tend to totally forgo true universal lighting, but I can tell by the sheen on my cylinder-arms that the specular is more than just, well, specular. Either Unicorn LLC. is overwhelmingly talented at cutting corners or G.C.O. is at least a decade ahead in ambition and execution. I suppose that is what everyone keeps claiming. I wobble forward. This body is comfortable, but pretty top-heavy, or rather the center of gravity is a bit too high for me. As I walk, what appears to be a yellow flower bulb, with its petals folded in and squashed up together. My memory violently reminds me that it is in fact a massive Narcissus Apodanthi, an extinct flower formerly known as the "yellow daffodil," which in the similarly extinct language of flowers, which symbolizes the... In turn, I tell my memory to go and fuck itself. The tendrils of knowledge creep back, and my eyes refocus in time to watch the bulb split open. In the center of the flower platform stands a Goddess, if I''ve ever seen one. She a robe of sorts, a darling thing with spiraling layers of curved petal-fabric hanging from her shoulders, providing some modesty. Only some, because while her robe may hang off her shoulders, it also hangs off of some of her other... features, that I find mightily distracting. Unfortunately, the woman is roughly the same height as the robot, but with the extra height of the platform, even at this distance the angle is "unkind." I focus as tightly as I can on her face. Her face is no less radiant, but I am surprised. Rather than the angular face of a seductress most games like these tends to gun for, her face was as plump as the rest of her, with pudgy little cheeks and a pleased, relaxed smile that gave her a motherly and aged look, irrespective of her youthful skin. Ironic, when accounting for the fact that my actual mother probably fits the ''angular face of a seductress'' bill far better than anything else. "Hello, my child," she says, "I will welcome you into this new world. I am Vewelus, patron of growth." I hopen my mouth to greet her, but the sound comes out, threefold. The first is higher pitched than my real voice, but not by much, the second voice is distorted and mean, and the third is more like a back-ground rumble than an actual . Each one is stilted, spread out by a tenth of a second at most. "I am glad you are so enthusiastic," she says, brow furrowed with worry. She places a hand to her cheek. "I will forgo the distractions from your quest." No no no! I wanted the info! They must have some sort of feature for people who get pissed with cutscenes, though I find it hard to imagine anyone would be pissed about hanging out with this kind, abnormally well proportioned lady. I open my mouth (do I have a mouth?) as if to clarify, but snap it shut briefly thereafter. I need to be more careful about my responses from here on. "Dear adventurer," she continues, "what shall be thine new name?" I blink manually. This one''s pretty easy! I hope the voice abberations don''t triple it, but honestly, that wouldn''t be so bad. In most of the games, I have a theme, aided and abetted by persistent early access to new games. Whenever I can, I choose a bird name- I used to enjoy birdwatching, for various reasons. I''ve been Eagle, I''ve been Hummingbird and Hawk, but for this game I do thoroughly anticipate every decent bird name to be taken by now- even the pretty obscure ones. What with the creation of my hardware monstrosity, I''ve had plenty of time to think things out, though, and I even settled on my best bet- "Shrike". No one likes shrikes. They''re kin to large, pretty birds like the raven or the bluejay, yet shrikes are bland and puny. They even use their natural corvid smarts for a level of brutality otherwise unseen in the avian kingdom, turning thorn-bushes into their own resevoir of corpse snacks, often impaling innocent critters alive so that the victims deteriorate just a wee bit slower. Their birdsong is so tortorous and unpleasant that it is far more often compared to screaming. Great name for a hunter or spear warrior of some kind, which I''m plenty in the mood for. Probably the least likely bird name to be taken, excluding extinct species most people don''t know about, but my hopes are low.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Cautiously, I open my mouth, and very gently say the word: "Shrike!" the first voice''s high pitched tone calls. Vewelus looks jubilant to have received any response, and her face lights up. Her mouth opens. "Shrike," the second tone growls. Vewelus'' face changes so fast I couldn''t imagine it. Now she''s apprehensive, almost nervous. Her mouth slams shut, but she opens it again, just in time for my final voice to kick in. "Shrike." The third voice rumbles and churns, slow and resolute. Vewelus loses all of her energy, her face resigned. "I am disappointed you have chosen to be a monster, my child," she says, to which I can only marvel. A monster? How? Were characters name-locked? No, wait, did Vewelus just cycle through all of her dialogue? In tenths of a second? What kind of person would do th- GODDAMN IT! ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE! This is why you can''t outsource this sort of thing! I start to respond, but before I can get anything out, she interrupts. "While you may have chosen a dark path, yours is yet nobler than many. Know that all who dare to grow have unconditionally my love, e-even if I may yet disagree with your choices." She seems legitimately torn up about this, which I suppose makes sense. From what I''ve seen, even spoiler-free, nobody chooses to be "a monster." What in the world did I sign up for, though? Can I go back? Vewelus continues on. "Even monsters may yet serve in the Crusade," she says, "when the time has come, I hope you shall side with the just and the brave." Not daring to speak again, I nod. Vewelus gives me a lonely smile and raises her hand to the sky. The flower-pod snaps back shut and the whole vicinity begins to rumble, shaking like an earthquake. A "ceiling" appears in the white void above me, revealed by criss-crossing blue and dark-blue lines. They swirl and zip across the surface, gathering in a ring above my head, little blips entering the ring and circling rapidly above. As more and more accumulate, the ring begins to glow, rays of light bright enough to be hard to look at. I step to the side, but the ring slides along with me, staying directly overhead. I dip into a run of sorts, the robot body is less adroit than I thought, but I only make it a few steps before I''m engulfed in light. Contrary to my expectations, I am not ''beamed up'' and zapped out into the world. Instead, I feel my body begin to churn and melt, as if I were made of putty. The process isn''t comfortable, it isn''t exactly painful, either. Rather than sensation, the sight and sound of it is far harder to bear. I watch in muted horror as my cylinder-feet become squamous and taloned, taking up a vaguely humanoid shape, yet more akin to a bird''s feet at its base. A distinctly avian spike, sharp and thin, pops out of the heel, new bone popping and creaking to accomodate the protrusion. My legs shrink, the loss in height from them alone enough to put meunder my normal height, instead of over. I am becoming small indeed, the floating cylinders shrinking and merging into one thin, multi-jointed limb I don''t quite understand at first glance. Before I can appraise the musculature, layers of grey feathers with thin black patches interspersed feathers, all coarse and unpleasant, sprout from the skin in dramatic fashion. These new feathers amass, adding somewhat to my over-all volume. They hang off me like clothes, which allows my new form some modesty. I somehow doubt they make clothes or armor "my size". As the sudden transformation reaches my hips, I can see that modesty is quite necessary. This new body is... fully featured, uncomfortably so. Games get away with a lot these days, but sexual content in general are quite controversial nonetheless. Most decide to leave it alone, even with VR, rarely going beyond pure ragdolls. Sure, plenty of people went around making accounts just to feel themselves up anyway, but it helped limit some of the deviant behavior. Unicorn LLC., it turns out, has very unusual priorities. They refused to accept less than full simulation inany part of their game, even the naughty bits. Fortunately, a combination of complicated and intricate features that make abuses of the system for nefarious purposes difficult, in combination with thorough and extremely harsh policing (often with real-life criminal trials if you go too far overboard), have successfully averted the complete disaster that stance could have been. For various reasons, exposing anyone of any age to nudity alone is far less of a faux pas, at least these days. The briefest of summaries is that it turns out everyone is online now, and it''s really damn hard to censure the entirety of the internet for nudity alone. By focusing in on more dramatic types of content that the youth could potentially be exposed to, enforcement became much more effective, and so it stuck. As a result, those between ages eleven and sixteen aren''t banned from playing outright. Yet that sort of thing will probably never be comfortable. The fact those players exist and could be lurking at any turn means that most of the playerbase stays on their "best behavior" unless they are absolutely confident they''re not going to get hoisted into the back of a police van before they can even cry uncle and pop open their M.M.I. pod. Setting aside a bit of my personal prudishness, and a bit of tragic irony, it''s an absolute relief when the feathers pack in tightly enough around the groin and rear nobody could see anything if they wanted to. I don''t even want to know what it would look like if the cops wheeled up on me for public indecency of the monstrous kind. It would probably turn into an "incident" of the most unpleasant sort. The transformation chases further up my body, and I watch as my hands contort, unfolding and folding into themselves. The humanoid look deforms dramatically, far more dramatically than the rest of my body. Rather than the standard carpal and phalanges structure typical of mammals, the bones were thin and twisted and contiguous, running from "wrist" to fingertip. To compensate for the loaded and tight space, two of the fingers degenerate, leaving only the thumb, the pointer, and (funnily enough) the pinky. The nails of these remaining fingers begin to rocket out to over the length of the hand, becoming long, sharp, and anchored deep into the flesh. They reshape, turning into vicious things that start wide at the base but rapidly come to a spiraling, needle-thin point. My muscles, newly formed, writhe and roil, worm-like tendons protruding violently. With a sudden "snap!" the fingers click together, held shut as naturally as might a jaw. The three individual needle-like nails interlock when relaxed, turning one vaguely humanoid hand into something more akin to a spring-loaded drill, or in fact, a thorn. I have a bad feeling about this. The transformation chases its way back up from my hands and into my neck and head, rapidly completing my re-alignment. My arms fall limply to my side. Suddenly, my tongue feels narrow and scratchy, my mouth dry, which I find immediately uncomfortable. My peripheral view shrinks, though already I feel like my eyes are more precise and agile. Predatorial. I''m not sure if I even had ears in the robot-body, but I feel the air situate into my new ear-holes, which are somehow telling me that if I orient my head a certain way, it will become precisely level to the ground. I''m feeling many new senses now, actually, presumably as the transformation reaches the brain. Many new, unfamiliar desires, as well. A few of them make me squeamish- who would want to eat something rotty? I do, apparently, in my new, bird-goblin form. Yet those desires, the new senses I''m gaining, and even the familiar ones- my sense of touch, sight, sound- feel distant. The way a bird-goblin feels is fundamentally different than how a Human feels. "That''s silly," an astute observer might note, "why the fuck would they simulate the biology and neurology of a monster when you have a human playing it? That seems like they''re just asking for trouble. Like, even more-so than the whole ''give everyone naughty bits'' thing." ... Yeah, there''s a reason no one plays monsters anymore. Attempts didn''t go well. Maybe I''ll be able to hash something out, though! If not, I can just re-roll. Wait, re-roll? Can I? I''m using hardware, but my copy of the game is assigned to the chit. Unless I wipe the chit and re-aquire the game''s files- but that tookweeks to do properly, and I can''t even guarantee they won''t realize my profile matches this one almost exactly, despite having, which is technically impossible on wetware... Shit. I guess I''m a whatever-this-is now. I mean, I have a hunch. Almost on cue, black text appears once more in my field of view. "TRANFERRENCE COMPLETE. YOUR CHARACTER HAS BEEN CALIBRATED. DEMONSTRATING STATUS:" Below it, a blue screen pops up, which excites me immediately. Gameplay! Signs of gameplay! Finally.
Name Shrike i 6% HP 5/5 MP 0/0 LV 001
Summoner NONE
Class SUMMONED MONSTER
Appearance YOUNG SHRIKE MALE
Race SHRIKE (¦Ä-)
Learned Skills ¡°Apex Claws¡±
Wait, this game has a race called "Shrike"? Shrike in the bush, caught me on its trap? Have I fallen for a ruse? Bizarre. An egregious display. No wonder the lady passed me on so fast, she thought I wanted to be a "Shrike" named "Shrike" with a class of "Shrike," which somehow translated to "Summoned Monster." I was kind-of worried about that- between the feather I reach out to touch the blue screen, and topple over immediately. I realize I have no capacity over any physical function, at least not really. I wiggle my neck a little bit, and I can move my toes slightly, but the rest of my body is unresponsive or rebellious. Moving my shoulders does nothing at all, while trying to move my elbows sends my to fucking spinning. The forearm goes limp like a noodle and pivots on the elbow''s axis, whipping around like a helicopter''s blades. Clearly this is actually intended to allow for pivot-stabs, but it''s a precocious thing, and the amount of force I''m putting into it, so much as I would use in a human elbow, is way overboard. I feel a dull ache as the arm slaps impotently against the white void, what little friction that musters dragging me along like I''m walking with some kind of floppy, rubbery forelegs. Less than ideal. I forcibly quash my movements, which halts the elbows'' spinning action, but starts my body to writhing. Apparently my quashing-thoughts, probably tightening of the chest and stomach in a human, has some sort of contortionary action in a Shrike. Actually, as I mentally "feel around" my body, I can tell I have many many more sets of independent muscle groups than a human. Clearly, a Shrike was an agile and intricate creature that used its superior flexibility and versatility to one-up more potent creatures. Super cool, yet awful and soul-crushing! Awful because I have a unity value of, if I''m interpretting this correctly,six percent. I''m controlling a creature so far from human it can''t even hit the double digits. Cretins complain about playing an elf or a dwarf, which share nearly every organ and muscle group, differing mainly in height and specific muscle-mass distributions. Hell, even the bizarre robot body they gave me, and then re-interpreted into this new Shrike body, was at least fifty percent unified. I''m doing worse with the Shrike than I was in a goddamn inanimate object roleplaying a human. I''m stuck in this. If I want to play this game, I need to risk my life every play session, granted far less so than the first time I plugged in, only to accomplish something no other player had reportedly done to date, months after release. I, I can''t-??a new message appears in my field of view. "CHARACTER CREATION COMPLETE. CUSTOMIZATION RESTRICTED FOR MONSTER CHARACTERS." "WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE TO SPAWN, OR SAVE AND QUIT?" "NOD YOUR HEAD TO SPAWN, SHAKE YOUR HEAD TO SAVE AND QUIT." ... Reflexively, I feel like shaking my head, but I bite my lip. Mentally, at least, since my body is a non-responsive goddamn mess. I won''t let this stupid game beat me. I''ve come too far to back down now. Against my better judgement, I nod my head. For the second time in one day, as a result of my second stupid, reckless decision, my vision goes black. 3/AMNIOTIC There''s a thin, viscous pressure around my whole body, as though I were submerged in an ocean of syrup. Even through my insulating feathers, I can tell the vicinity is cool, or chilly. I''m holding my breath, not voluntarily, but because I don''t seem to be working the my mouth or slit nostrils properly enough to open them and inhale. That might be a good thing for the moment, all things considered. The endless black continues for a moment before I realize that my eyes were closed in the transition- I flail to open my eyes, working my "eyelids" in as many ways as I know how. When I try to squeeze my eyes, as if to squint, the sheathes split apart, revealing the world around me. Knowledge unbidden informs me that birds don''t have mammalian eyelids so much as protective covers, and that a third eyelid perpendicular to the other two acts to sweep away debris and lubricate the eye. For once these scarred memories invading my thoughts are welcome, since it somewhat aides in rationalizing the idea of ''squeezing'' to open or shut the eyelids, and it''s a bird fact, and birds are cool. At least, when I''m not stuck playing one. I am indeed submerged, lost somewhere deep in a pool of clear-white fluid of unidentifiable origin. The vicinity is dark and mysterious, due in large part to how quickly the light dissipates. The fluid fades from shades of milky white to pitch black over a miniscule distance- I can hardly even see my taloned toes, and I would stand at half a meter tall at most. I somehow manage to bully my neck into tilting my head back once more. My fancy new sense for (what I can only assume is) orientation goes haywire the second I hit manage to turn myself about ninety degrees. By that point I should be either looking "up" or looking "down," but frankly I can''t tell the difference. The counterforce from my motion sets me on a light spin through the fluid, which is far less viscous than I thought, but I don''t bother to correct it. Whatever light-source is supplying this pool, I''m far enough away from it that its rays have been bent and refracted so thoroughly as to conceal which direction they''re coming from. Which is unfortunate, because the light is probably the sun, and the sun is up, and swimming up is usually a good way to avoid drowning. Speaking of drowning, my lungs start spasming wildly. I can feel sphincters in my throat close and open and close again, clutching at air that isn''t there. Clearly I''ve inherited much more of the avian respiratory structure, because hot damn does it feel weird. From what I understand, birds are supposed to be able to go without air for just a little while, but unless they''ve specialized pretty narrowly in diving (whether through water or through the sky), they run on a pretty tight oxygen budget. Attempts at opening my mouth are less than successful. I fumble with my jaw muscles, frustrated, but no matter how I try to flex them, the Shrike has no useful response. Yeah, playing a monster is going to be rough, even if I figure it out. I can see why people start to give up, probably before escaping the character creator, even- I''m calling on every muscle I know, raising my cheeks and tugging my masseter, but how do I order about organs that I don''t know? I''ve never had them before, I can''t feel them, my brain isn''t built to use them... Actually, I''ve played games just like this, but usually with a keyboard. The whole theme of those games are awkward controls, though, while the theme of this one is I''m fucking drowning. I can feel the sudden pressure as my body pulls itself apart from the inside. My lungs are making a vacuum of sorts, chugging air about desperately as it filters and feeds the rapidly depleting tissues. For a moment I am grateful to my tiny Unity score- dying like this is agonizing, but having such poor neural connection is turning the fear and anguish into a dull roar. I heard about players avoiding dangerous situations because dying could get traumatizing depending on what killed you, but I doubt I''ll have any trouble if it''s just "the Shrike" dying and not "me". Still, I''m frustrated, because this game is rigged. Even if I get my mouth open, won''t I just drown in this odd fluid? Argh, at least I can get some more practice in with my muscles before I die... Giving up on the mouth, I decide to fumble with my nose-flaps. They seem to shut tight, probably for aerodynamic reasons, or for situations like this. Wiggling my nose doesn''t do anything, nor does flaring my nostrils. For a moment it seems hopeless, but then I try "tugging my ears," as if tightening the skin across my face. That does it- I can feel the cold embrace of the fluid as it rushes in my now-open nose, not nearly so watertight as a mammal''s, and the sudden pressure of it occupying the spaces where air should have been. The natural horror of the situation makes the Shrike tremble and convulse, but all of the sudden- it vanishes. The pressure is gone and I can hardly tell the difference as the fluid slides in. My lungs are thankfully low maintenance. I realize I don''t have a "breathing response" at all, no inhale or exhale. I''m breathing all the time, at least now that my nose is open. I''m breathing liquid- it''s a good denser than air, but not more viscous, and apparently it has enough oxygen steeped inside it to be useful. That seems highly unlikely, but my memory argues with me, bringing up an obscure chemical that was once considered for liquid breathing as a therapeutic to respiratory distress. I huff and tell it to shut up unless it has anything useful to say. Now that my drowning situation is sorted, I let myself go limp, carried along by an invisible current. My convulsions were pretty ineffectual, but at least they propelled me through the fluid. I''m slowly decelerating, this stuff is thin enough I won''t stop any time soon. Floating aimlessly along, I play with my muscles, trying out different commands. I can''t get the "odd ones" like my jaw, ankles, or wrist to respond at all, but I do manage to find a "go limp" button pretty quickly. It seems the universal signal for a Shrike to relax its body is roughly the same as a human''s, but rather than deliberately stopping all movements, I just have to stop giving out commands, as it were. It''s a subtle difference, but I latch onto it pretty quickly. If you "stop paying attention" as a human, a lot of people get twitchy, or default into routines, but Shrike here... doesn''t. No wasted motions, no bad habits. People spend decades on achieving that sort of zen. If I can learn to puppeteer this body, and spend the time to ingrain good habits to help me, I should be able to whoop some serious ass. In the mean time, though, I''m starting to understand exactly why my Unity value is so low. The Shrike may be humanoid enough, but it truly is an alien experience, through and through. A monster. I''m starting to wonder how the developers had the time or scope to make all of this. Even as successful as G.C.O. is, it''s probably still operating at a loss. Maybe it has some sort of WG tie? Military research, perhaps? Nothing good or fun comes from sticking my nose in that mess, though, so I''ll leave it be. It''s fascinating what I can see and feel, as dull as they are- the environment and my senses alike. I mean, breathing water and drifting aimlessly in what appears to be a deep sea is new and interesting, but for better or for worse I can''t see anything but myself, and barely myself at that. Then I can feel and taste and "smell" the fluid, as odd as it is, but it''s pretty distant, like I''m just being told about what I should be sensing rather than actually feeling it myself. The thought of drowning was indeed terrifying, but that was just the thought. Even now, the Shrike''s adrenaline is spiking and thrumming about, stirring up all sorts of post-trauma jitters, but I have plenty of attention to spare... This environment is bizarre, to say the least. It feels more like I''m floating in the air than swimming. Given my ostentateously avian features, I would expect to have hollow bones and thin muscles that natural predispose me to floating, yet I don''t seem to have any momentum, sparing what I''ve imparted on myself. My memory offers up a peace offering by re-teaching me how rotational momentum works and how it can be exploited for better control in "weightless" environments. I take that up gladly, and ever so carefully, I start to "pilot". With naught more to pilot than my fingers and toes, I kill my spinning with careful counterforce. With some practice, I manage to bend around my pelvis with only a few failed attempts. It seems a Shrike''s abdominal musculature not too unlike a human''s, thankfully. My newfound flexibility allows me to kill my actual speed, the initial force slowing ever so slightly as I writhe back and forth like a spastic. Once I''ve stilled, I combine the masterful control of no more than six percent of my new body to rotate enough to point "down" and start drifting in that direction. It takes more tries than I''d care to mention. Now that I can breathe underwater, or underfluid, I don''t care much about getting to the surface. It''s just as likely I find something interesting on the "ocean floor". Sure, drifting back-first into the deeps probably isn''t the best call, but it''s not like it could do much harm in a beginner area like this. I''m starting to wonder if there''s anything else down here at all... Actually, navigating like this is pretty neat. I have to refresh my speed every so often, but I can mostly just relax and drift. Still, I wouldn''t call it riveting. Maybe this is so slow because I can''t swim properly? I suppose they expect most players to at least be able tomove. Perhaps I should have went up after all... For a game that''s so fantastical and ambitious, it truly doesn''t seem to have its priorities straight. I''ve been drifting downwards for a while now, and I haven''t found a single piece of scenery, a creature, a NPC... Why would any game dump a new player into an empty, endless abyss? Perhaps I''m here on accident; there are so few monster players that this portion of the game might not have been bugtested too thoroughly. I could be out of bounds, by this point. At any rate, I don''t seem to be getting... anywhere... Well, I guess it''s as good a time as any to mess about with the UI. In most of these games it''s omnipresent, but G.C.O.''s impractical realism is most present in being a traditional RPG under the hood, yet totally devoid of all visual indicators or numbers on the surface, at least so far as I''m aware. Apparently, you pull up the UI using the same trick you would to emergency quit. That varies from one MMI to another, but I- don''t recall how mine works. I idle in silence, willing the memories back into my mind. Slowly, tendrils of thought slip back into my brain, drug out from some untenably deep crevice of useless technological trivia. Early model MMI - medical, test and practice - standard pattern of dive ''non-immersed/AR'' - military use? No, not that one. Whatever, fuck it, that looks pretty similar to mine. ''Visualize removing the MMI by hand''. That''s pretty awkward right now since I''m in this decidedly inhuman body, but I give it a go anyway. After a bit of fumbling, my vision lights up, a row of boxes fading into reality before my very eyes:
HELP STAT PEEP VNMR CHAT QUIT
Most of the options are pretty self explanatory, I think. How do I select an option? I try to visualize pressing one, to no avail. The attempt seems to make the text in the box lighten, brightening from a modest grey to a whiter shade. I try simply focusing on "STAT" and sure enough, it begins to whiten. With my full attention on it, it turns white rapidly, glowing like struck phosporous. The bar of options vanish, replaced with a new box:
Name Shrike HP 5/5 MP 1/1 LV 001
Summoner Unknown
Class SUMMONED MONSTER
Form SHRIKE MALE (YOUNG)
Basis SHRIKE (¦Ä-)
Learned Skills ¡°Apex Claws¡±, ¡°Maneuver(I)¡±
This is... less than ideal. I understand what most of it means- I have fairly low HP and MP, okay, and I''m still level 1. My name is in fact "Shrike" and I am a "SHRIKE," at least judging by ''Basis,'' which I take to equate vaguely to my race. I don''t know what "Apex Claws" or "Maneuver" are, or how they work. Normally when I think something that inane my scarred memory hops in to correct me, but this time it''s silent, totally stumped. That''s a gratifying thing indeed. God, I love games. On that note, the memory does recognize the symbol by my basis as "etruscan symbol," but is absolutely stumped as to what it means. My own speculation would be that it''s some kind of level system. I''m not too sure what to make of it all, though. Finally, I have a summoner of "Unknown." What? I look around- the box chases my field of view, obviously. Silly me. How do I exit this menu? Just focus on- whoops, there it goes.
HELP PEEP VNMR CHAT QUIT
HELP sounds promising, but I decide to try CHAT instead. There should be at least one other person down here, right? I wouldn''t hurt to be able to communicate with them directly. Focusing on CHAT, the STAT option dims, losing its glow, and eventually fading grey. Meanwhile, CHAT begins to glow wildly. The boxes fade away once more:
LOCAL NO PLAYERS IN RANGE
FRIENDS NO PLAYERS IN RANGE
MAIL NO NEW MAIL
No players in range? That''s a bummer, but this menu does look fairly easy to navigate. Everything here looks self explanatory, though the fact that communications between friends is limited by range seems odd. Can you even choose where you spawn? What if you end up in some nice town, and your buddy gets dropped at the bottom of a breathable ocean? Would you still be able to chat with each-other in-game? I suppose that''s probably what mail''s for, but I wouldn''t put it past these devs to somehow limit that, too. Eh, nothing to do here, either way. I exit the menu.
HELP STAT PEEP VNMR QUIT
Well, that leaves two more to try out before I go for the obvious option. I suppose I should just get them out of the way before I go looking at the guide. It never hurts to explore, though I must confess a vague fear that one or either of these buttons further cripple my account. Here goes nothing!
HELP STAT PEEP CHAT QUIT
...
HELP STAT VNMR CHAT QUIT
Neither option did anything. At least, nothing obvious. That was a waste of time. Resigned, I finally open the HELP option:
HELP ...
Rather than fade to a new box, the other menu items just vanish, turning the bar into a search engine of sorts. Not even the HELP menu has a tutorial, I suppose? I have no way of typing into the menu, so I try thinking a word: "PEEP"
HELP PEEP
Menu Item: Option. Removes global curses.
These results are cryptic and frankly unhelpful, but at least that part of the UI was intuitive. Just think a word real hard, and you''re off! So far as PEEP goes, I suppose it''s some kind of cheat? "Removes global curses" sounds like a way to dig yourself out of deep shit, but I lack the necessary context. Either way, I can know the following to be true: there are curses, there are globes, and there are "global curses." More useful information than one might think, when building a worldview from the bottom of a syrup abyss. I try VNMR next.
HELP VNMR
Menu Item: Option. Reveres memory.
I... don''t know what that means. How can you revere a memory? My memory isn''t so thirsty for praise- actually, right now, it''s screaming at me, violent and angry and abominably active. I didn''t notice when we were just on the menu, but this particular set of characters is setting off a scar something fierce. No matter how hard it tries, though, my brain can''t dig up the meaning itself. When I encounter some foreign game concept, or shit the developers made up, the memory shuts up, yet here I find it going wild. When it comes to real life, I very rarely run into anything I can''t (eventually) recall, even taking into account the gaping holes in human knowledge the Crashdown left behind. Yet here, "VNMR" appears to be the answer to one or more questions my brain doesn''t know how to ask. Peculiar. Still, it''s making my damn head hurt even in VR, so I''m moving on.
HELP Shrike
TAXA Monster Race: Limited. Sensate-Winged-Biped-Humanoid-Harpy-Shrike
ATRB COMMON: "Vicious" "Agile" UNCOMMON: "Sneak" RARE: "Needle" UNIQUE:
DEFN Very rare, deadly biped. Once common in many locales; hunted to near extinction for the production of almost incomparably sharp daggers. Thought to be a relative of the Harpy.
Now we''re talking! There''s some useful information here. I suppose it wouldn''t be that helpful to someone trying tohunt a Shrike, but on my end this is perfect. "TAXA" seems to be used in the Greek sense, with regard to names and arrangement. The only big take-away is that being sensate is apparently optional, or at least only one major classification of monster races. I suppose I may have lucked out with the Shrike, I can''t imagine trying to learn how to operate something that isn''t sensate. "ATRB" probably means Attribute or Attributes, I suppose. Either way, it aligns quite well. What are Attributes used for? What do they mean? Probably something to do with how I fight. ''Needle'' seems to be quite particular, aligning nicely with my claws, and ''Sneak'' makes perfect sense for the rest of my anatomy, or at least it should once I know how to puppeteer it. "DEFN" is the most straight-foward; the definition of the thing. Before, that was the only filled box, so I suppose they felt the need to clarify. Shrikes are in high demand, it looks like. I''m heartened by "near extinction" in the sense that, if they are so rare these days, most people probably don''t know what a Shrike looks like. At least, that''s the thought. It doesn''t really specify when exactly the Shrike became rare. The fact that it says ''thought to be'' a relative of the Harpy is odd- doesn''t the TAXA say that much for certain? That''s enough of that. What else can I search? I try thinking of the Etruscan symbol from earlier, but nothing comes up. I suppose I''d need its phonetic name for that. What about those ''learned skills''?
HELP Apex Claws
TAXA Passive Skill: Rare. ATRB: "Harpy" [71 Unknown]
DEFN Remnants of a powerful Bloodline. Increases Claw Durability. Reduces Claw Regeneration Time.
Neat! I get a passive right off the bat! I''m not sure how normal that is, actually, but I''m willing to pretend that makes me special. It''s a pretty neat one, at any rate. If Claws can get dull or break, as my needle-like claws well; might, then any passive to reduce wear and tear is a must. It doesn''t say how effective this one is, though. I wonder how abilities scale in this game? I decide to check out "Maneuver," too.
HELP Maneuver (I)
TAXA Passive Skill: Uncommon. ATRB: "Agile" "Harpy" "Sneak" [197 Unknown]
DEFN Magical beings frequently develop the capacity to project mana to boost maneuverability. Guarantees one Critical Success per mana spent (within bodily limits).
new old I whirl around, tumbling into an all-out sprint. My autopilot disappears in a heartbeat, leaving me to fend for myself as I run from the gathering mob of players chasing after me. I can¡¯t say my desperate fleeing is particular graceful, but I do manage to hit a decent speed after I wheel back around the corner. My stride is consistent, and it¡¯s surprisingly long given how stubby my legs are. As it turns out, sprinting is easier to get used to than walking. I mean, it might just be that I¡¯m better at using this body after the extra practice, but I do get a distinct impression that the Shrike simply prefers to move fast. More precisely, I feel like it¡¯s entirely incompatible with even the concept of moving slowly. Even when the all-out sprint starts to feel almost natural, I watch my step, careful not to get caught on a misplaced stone. Tripping would be less than ideal, judging from the cacophony of boots trampling the backroad behind me. My hearing is unusually acute, or so it seems. I may be able to abuse that trait later, but for the moment I focus on getting the hell out of Dodge. I mull over my escape routes, busy trying to keep myself at top speed, but I¡¯m rudely interrupted by a wall that appears out of thin air right in front of of me. Well, it didn¡¯t actually appear out of thin air, but it felt that way. I was so focused on watching my steps and planning ahead that I forgot to actually watch where I was going. I snap my head back to the front, taking in as much detail as fast as I can. The wall is really just a brief patio, no taller than I am and hardly more than two meters across. If I had more time, I could go around it, but I¡¯m barreling right into It far too fast for that, and I dismiss that idea immediately. Slowing down to a halt and scaling it doesn¡¯t seem to be a legitimate option, either. Given the momentum I¡¯ve built up, I¡¯m not sure if I could stop myself in my familiar human body, let alone this alien one. That leaves me with only one real option: to jump up and over it, or at least try and get high enough in the air that I can roll my body the rest of the way onto the platform. The impact mighthurt like hell, but it¡¯s sure to be better than certain death. I haven¡¯t actually tried jumping in this body yet, and it feels far-fetched that I¡¯ll manage such a complex movement on my first try, but a shot in the dark is better than none at all. I decide to gamble on it. Everything seems to go improbably right. It¡¯s almost miraculous how cleanly my thoughts and demands seem to translate into the game. In fact, it¡¯s the first time I genuinely feel like I am the Shrike and like the Shrike is me, where I¡¯m actually in control of the body and not just some foreign invader whipping it into obedience. In an uncomfortably short timeframe, I¡¯ve gone from imitating human limbs to a hypersensitive awareness of the Shrike¡¯s muscles, then on to an entirely detached overseer¡¯s perspective, but in this one moment, I feel like my Shrikely body simply exists. I listen to it, and it listens to me, just how my human body might.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The mechanics feel esoteric now, but that¡¯s just fine with me. Instead, I could describe how my body is moving with my eyes closed, and even if I¡¯m completely ignorant of how this muscle twists or that ligament squeezes, I can feel the product of their efforts. I don¡¯t stop running, diving into the jump as swiftly as I can manage. My butt falls, and I shift my center of mass as low as I can. I lean forward mid stride, tiling my waist until my chest is practically ahead of my outstretched toes. I can feel the pressure build on my heel, now firmly planted on the ground, and the tension is my both knees and ankles as they prepare to spring me upwards. If I waited any longer, I would have tipped forward outright, losing all control. By human standards, even just my current pose is awful, entirely sacrificing balance and posture for a desperate bid at power. It¡¯s important to note, though, that the Shrike is not a human. The momentum rocks me forward, but as I start to tip, I force the claws on my feet down, and they catch me. With a burst of strength, I launch myself into the actual jump, eyes squeezed shut in terror. I must have done it all wrong, I figure. The jump itself was more than ambitious enough, but I went even further and did it all weird. Running jumps were always more about flat-footed shoves, weren¡¯t they? Why did I squat and drive with my heels? It all happened so fast, all felt so right. The Adrenaline must have taken over, or something. Do games mess with your head like that? E-Adrenaline? I don¡¯t hit anything. Don¡¯t get me wrong, existential questions about VR are distracting, but not distracting enough to make me miss getting slammed in the stomach by a wall. I wait a little longer, suddenly excited by the prospect of my jumping ploy actually working, but a good ¡®one Mississippi¡¯ later and my feet still haven¡¯t touched ground. I pry my eyes open, startled, but I find that my jump worked like a charm. In fact, I think it might have been a little too successful. Sure, it gives me a beautiful view of the city from just over the roof line, and my first taste of the city¡¯s sheer size as I see it sprawl into the distance. That¡¯s all well and good. The problem is that the buildings flanking the alleyway are at least five meters tall. I might have been underestimating the Shrike¡¯s physique just a bit. I hit the apex of my arc, and after a brief weightless moment, I start to fall back to the ground at an alarming speed. To make a bad situation worse, the crowd chasing me seems entirely unimpressed by my astonishing gymnastics, launching whatever they have on hand my way. Arrows zip by, some closer than I¡¯d like to admit, and some crazy bastard gets the bright idea to throw his shield at me like it''s an oversized frisbee. It gets far closer to hitting me than I''d care to admit. For a moment I desperately try to catch myself as I fall, pinwheeling my arms and legs in a vain attempt to slow down. I quickly learn that my body has absolutely no interest in ¡®slowing down¡¯, demonstrated most thoroughly by the way that the feathers on my arms and legs flex and bend, easily realigning themselves to attain the optimal drag profile no matter what I throw at them. It¡¯s bad enough that I¡¯m falling, but I¡¯m falling and I can barely even slow myself down. The way they move also reveals an unexpected fact about my body: on the ground, the feathers spread out naturally, acting like a puffy coat or a bushy dog¡¯s fur. When they mold to the skin under wind pressure, it¡¯s quite clear that my actual limbs are hardly half the size they seemed to be. The Shrike is a spindly creature. I hit the ground on hands and feet. In retrospect, throwing them out ahead of me was about the worst thing I could have done, but hey, it felt like a good idea at the time. Surprisingly, even though the impact hurts like all hell, I don¡¯t hear them snap under the pressure. Instead, my arms and legs shake like gelatin, perhaps as a result of my skeleton¡¯s surprising flexibility. On account of its newfound usefulness, I pardon the Shrike for mentally scarring both I and George via floppy-armed noodle-helicopter. If enduring that is what it takes to survive this crowd of angry players, then I guess it¡¯s just the way things have to be. It takes me a moment to catch my breath and stand, and the crowd is getting way too close for comfort. Worried, I turn to look behind me- right in time to get a free fireball to the face. The flames ram into me, and I reel backwards in sudden agony, beating at my face. It takes me a moment, but I realize that my skin hasn¡¯t actually caught on fire, and that the burning sensation was just the mildly charred dermis. I pointedly ignore the triumphant whoop of the asshole mage who nailed my face, pulling myself back to my feet for the second time. It turns out that ¡®balls of flame¡¯ aren¡¯t nearly as dangerous as one might think. It was more like putting a finger over a lighter for just a second and pulling it away right after. Not that I¡¯ve ever been dumb enough to do that, nope. I wobble back into a sprint. The aches and pains are really piling up, and I¡¯m slow, but some distance is better than no distance. The crowd is gaining on me, possibly emboldened by the recent turn of events, but mostly as a function of my reduced speed. It¡¯s a small fortune they packed themselves so close together, limiting their ability to make clean shots or cast big spells, otherwise I may have already been overrun. Adding to that, from past experience playing videogames, I¡¯m sure there are melee players intentionally body-blocking just to make sure they have a decent chance at getting ¡°the prize¡±. Few people like to take second place, and if you can¡¯t win, why make it easy for everyone else? It¡¯s usually a huge pain in the ass, but I never actually considered how many rare mobs have had their lives saved by player-on-player infighting. Everything looks different from the other side, I guess. I¡¯m running, and I¡¯m running out of options. Clearly, outrunning the crowd isn¡¯t an option, and we passed George¡¯s basement abode some time ago, so it¡¯s not like I can dive into there. The obstacles are getting less dense; by now the walls are virtually devoid of backdoors I could try to use as a last-ditch escape route. Less obstacles also means the crowd won¡¯t be busy fighting for space, so they¡¯ll be at top speed more often, which just makes a bad situation worse. Realistically, there¡¯s no way I can survive. I¡¯d be better served trying to make my death as painless as possible. No matter how realistic the game feels, It¡¯s just a game. Games are distinctly unreal, and that simple fact gives me hope. The Shrike may be ready to curl up and die, but am I? My gaming sensibilities demand I try something to save myself, no matter how dumb it is. Failing that, my death should be spectacularly entertaining, or at least vaguely impressive. Being hounded to death by a greedy mob is neither of those things. I dive to the side, tucking myself around the bend. It¡¯s the last decently sized outcropping, a purely structural wall with some sort of strange water-collecting funnel seated atop its diagonal peak. In all, a normal-sized person would have a hard time hiding behind it, but the Shrike isn¡¯t normal-sized. The first person to turn around the corner, as expected, is a warrior with huge eyes. He¡¯s been at the front of the pack for as long as I¡¯ve been watching out behind me. He stares down with bug-eyed glee, both arms devoted to hoisting his iron-studded battle-hammer far above his head. I push off of the wall with my legs, and he follows my ill-fated roll with ease, slamming his hammer down¡­ where I should have been. While I rolled, I abused my right arm¡¯s claws to gouge out the stone surface, and they managed to cut deep enough to pull myself away, even if only just barely. The warrior clearly wasn¡¯t ready for the fake-out, and his swing missed- and kept going. I drag myself further away while I watch the situation unfold. His hammer smashes into the sewer grate, snapping the old wrought iron plate in two, and the pieces plummet into the watery abyss far below. The ground¡¯s unexpected give catches him off guard, and he has to pull himself back upright, clearly off-balance. I think he¡¯s gawking down at me, but his eyes don¡¯t seem to get any wider, so it¡¯s kind of hard to tell. Before the other people flooding around the corner can have a shot at me, I shove myself through the hole head-first, fearless. All in all, it was a spectacularly terrible plan, but it pays off anyway, and I make it into the sewers unscathed. Sure, I just dived head-first into what probably constitutes the city¡¯s waste-bin, but what can you do? I swim desperately for the surface, drifting slowly downstream in the moving water. Thankfully, my feathers don¡¯t seem to soak in much water. I vaguely remember something about specialized oil coating feathers to help birds fly in the rain, but I can¡¯t quite be certain. The ambiguity tells me that wherever I learned about it, it wasn¡¯t ¡°school¡±. I don¡¯t think I could forget the things they taught me there if I tried, no matter how trivial. When I finally make it back to the surface, the crowd¡¯s furious chattering is far enough away that I can relax a little. The water doesn¡¯t even smell as bad as I expected, so maybe the sewer is mostly meant for drainage. All in all? Everything went better than expected. Even still, I¡¯m not keen on staying in the water longer than I have to, so I swim for shore. The stone walls are easily two meters tall, each walkway kept high and dry far above the sluice. The sewer is dimly lit, only brightened by seemingly randomly placed grates far overhead, but I can make out stone handholds cut deep into the wall. They¡¯re placed every so often, probably just in case a human worker fell in and needed a safe way out. They look like they¡¯re too tall for me to climb comfortably, but even then, it¡¯s way better than scaling an essentially flat cliff. I slow down and push my left shoulder up to the wall, patiently waiting for the next set of handholds to pass by. It takes me a while, but I finally catch hold of one, swinging my weight onto my left hand and catching hold. I drag myself out of the water rivet by rivet, and the cold sets on me fast and heavy, soaked as I am. There really is no rest for the wicked, is there? One arduous climb later and I¡¯m laid out on the stony ledge, huffing and puffing and grinning like a madman. I¡¯ve given it a lot of shit, but ignoring all the aches and pains, Great Crusade Online has been one hell of a game. It¡¯s exhilarating, unpredictable, and endlessly complex, and my first taste of action has been more intense than the first hundred levels of some inferior titles. Another thing sticks out to me: I didn¡¯t die instantly the moment I got into a fight. In any other game, one person fighting so many enemies would be certain, instant death, especially given the difference in our levels. They¡¯d outclass me in every way, swamp me, use their homing spells or overblown crowd-control to shut down whatever few advantages I have, so on and so forth. Not here. No, even though they probably had more than enough raw firepower to wipe me away, I got out clean. Sure, it took a great deal of luck and a little quick thinking, but damn if I didn¡¯t deserve that win. That being said, until I get away clean, the game¡¯s still on. I¡¯m a lot keener on being a Shrike after getting a real taste of what it can do. It¡¯s actually kind of hard to understand why no one wants to play the bad guys when they get all these nifty physical advantages. Surely at least a few other people would have figured out how to control a monster character, right? Curious, I call up my status using the brain-menu George showed me before. It¡¯s much easier to navigate menus from the player UI, and I see a few basic features preloaded for the ¡®status¡¯ function: Status, Index, and Help.
Name Shrike HP 3/5 MP 0/1 LV 001
Summoner George Guildwell
Class SUMMONED MONSTER
Appearance YOUNG SHRIKE MALE
Race SHRIKE (¦Ä-)
Learned Skills ¡°Apex Claws¡±, ¡°Maneuver(I)¡±
My HP dropped quite a bit, more than I¡¯d expected. Sure, my bones are rattled and my muscles are shot, but is that really worth two-fifths of my health? The Shrike may have superhuman agility, but it doesn¡¯t like to take hits. Duly noted. George¡¯s name plopped itself down the Summoner slot, as expected, but there are some more interesting things afoot. For instance, the fact that my only MP was used up without me knowing, the strange new Skill I got even though I didn¡¯t level up. I pull up theHelp function through the menu, filling out the search for ¡°Maneuver (I)¡±. Thinking parenthesis is bizarre and cumbersome, and I do not personally recommend that anyone else try it. The menu responds as I hope, and the information I want replaces my status.
Name Maneuver (I)
Cost 1 MP
Set Mobile
Description Magical beings of all kinds naturally expend small amounts of mana to boost their maneuverability. Grants a desired movement one Critical Success with respect to bodily limits.
If I had to guess, I¡¯d say I got the Skill the moment I was contracted. In other words, around the time I started being fed Mana. It¡¯s quite likely that virtually everything with mana has the Skill, and I deflate a little from that. It¡¯s nice to have something new, but if it¡¯s just a consolation prize¡­ Still, such a tiny amount of mana for the explosive power I exerted, is that even fair? At the same time, it¡¯s not like the robed weirdos pursuing me were leaping over buildings with a single bound. In fact, they seemed to be near the back of the pack, bar maybe the guy who fire-balled me, since he was far enough up to get a clear shot. Either their mana pool is a tiny as mine, which is frankly unlikely, or they can¡¯t get the same impact out of their Skill. I¡¯m not too sure what a ¡°Critical Success¡± is, but ¡®bodily limits¡¯ seems to be the point of contention. Maybe my body is naturally agile, but they¡¯re wimpy enough they can¡¯t match my results? If I take ¡°Critical Success¡± to mean ¡°Great Success¡± rather than ¡°Well-Reviewed¡±, then I can put it like this: The best high-jumper in the world making the best high-jump they¡¯ve ever made would fail to touch the height I hit. I¡¯m not sure how much mana I¡¯m going to have access to after I start leveling up, but Maneuver might be a pleasant crutch while I get a handle on my physical capabilities. Thinking so much about my new Skill reminds me of my old one- Apex Claws. Dragging my claws through all that stone can¡¯t have been good for them, but maybe it kicked in to save them. I flop around for a minute, leaving a puddle of water where I was laying before, before I get back to my feet. I feel like a sewer monster, shambling sopping wet to the nearest grate to inspect my deadly claws. It¡¯s not a worst feeling, the idea that some player might catch a ray of light reflected off my nails and get curious enough to look down the grate. To imagine their shock when they got to see the scary, disgusting, shivering me staring right back up at them. Some people are born to work at haunted houses, and I guess I¡¯m one of them. My parents would never approve. The claws have been almost uniformly clipped. They¡¯re still pointy enough to jab things with, maybe, but each razer-sharp tip was ground away from overuse. I¡¯m tempted to chalk it up to Apex Claws being worthless, but to be absolutely fair, seldom few things could rub up with rough igneous and come away unscathed. Maybe the tips will just grow back or something like that. I wait around for a bit, melancholically inspecting my damaged claws, before realizing I have no idea what to do next. The main quandary is finding myself a reasonableway out of the sewers. I¡¯d prefer to go back up a grate for a more than a few reasons. Just for starters, it¡¯d give me a lot more choice on where I pop up, and that might help me avoid official channels, all liable to be guarded and well-prepared for monster insurrection. I mean, if I find a door, I¡¯d still try it, but I¡¯d much prefer a good old-fashioned grate. The catch is that the grate above me at the moment is at least four meters above, and I¡¯m not sure if I want to risk another crazy high-jump while desperately grabbing at the roof. So, I start walking, hoping to find an area where the ceiling isn¡¯t quite so high up. I follow the water¡¯s current, eventually coming to an intersection. My choices are to follow the wall past in a different direction or to keep going, crossing an impressively decrepit rope-bridge. Needless to say, I hang a left, trailing along the wall. To my surprise, there¡¯s a door just around the bend. It¡¯s gaudy and red, fantastically fancy compared to the unglamorous sewer wall it¡¯s embedded in. The door appears to be both unmarked and unlocked, though by ¡°unlocked¡±, I mean I tear through the wood near the each of its overly ornate hinges until it falls away. I almost feel sorry for it, but I really don¡¯t have time to fiddle with knobs, and if I have to wheel around and get the hell out of Dodge, why would I leave anything to block my escape route? The room past the ¡°opened¡± door is just a small landing-strip lit by a lonely candle. It¡¯s a lot like the one for George¡¯s basement, although the staircase on the other side will take me up rather than further down. The stairs go straight up, and far above I can see another impossibly gaudy door, almost identical to the first. I stumble up the stairs. Even with my newfound talent of being slightly more competent at walking than a toddler, climbing is damned difficult. Blame it on the people who made the stairs so tall, not me. When I get to the top of the stairs, I knock on the door, polite as can be. After climbing all those stairs, I¡¯m probably near ground-level, or maybe at the elevation of a first-floor basement, so what if I cut this door open and come face-to-face with an inn full of adventurers? Monsters never knock, as a general rule, so it might buy me time to run. An agedvoice answers my knock. He sounds both nervous and irritable, but mostly just nervous. ¡°Ah,¡± he stammers in surprise, and I hear something like the feet of a chair or a stool sliding across a wooden floor, ¡°The deliv-!¡± He starts to shout, but he cuts himself off, quickly toning his voice down to a whisper. His quiet, raspy tones come across loud and clear thanks to the Shrike¡¯s impressive hearing, even if a normal human might not have heard at all. ¡°The package¡¯s not due for four moons time. Why have you come now?¡± He asks, gingerly walking over to the door. There¡¯s a pause, no doubt him waiting for my response. Normally, the hero would try to play it off with some voice, but I can¡¯t see that going over well here. After some time, the man¡¯s irritation wins out over his cautiousness, and he grunts, though he¡¯s plenty lucid enough to keep his voice low. ¡°Archstaff Is not to be disturbed. Just leave it there and begone.¡± I don¡¯t reply. Yes, in large part because squawking would give me away immediately, but also because I¡¯ve just been shocked silly. Truly, I am the winner! Lo, my enemies fall at my feet, offering themselves up. How many guys named ¡°Archstaff¡± can they pack in one city? Probably only maybe four guys. That means there¡¯s at least a twenty-five percent chance this is one is my Emmerich Archstaff, the right guy! On the first try! Truly, my luck has turned around. I reel in my wandering mind, steeling myself for the man¡¯s approach. He wavers at the door, still reluctant to turn the knob. ¡°Are you still there? You had better not be when I open this,¡± he says, more nervous by the word. No matter how cautious he may be, he¡¯s still dumb enough to admitting that he¡¯s going to open up a strange sewer-basement door without so much as peeping through the eyehole. I mean, this door doesn¡¯t have an eyehole, but the point stands. It¡¯s alarming how long it took people to start thinking up decent home security measures. Maybe they just didn¡¯t have anything worth stealing? Slowly, carefully, the old man twists the nob, brass squeezing wood. I can see it move on my end, but what¡¯s more surprising is how he moves it. The knob twists left, then right, then it miraculously slides up like a bolt, then it twists right again, and finally it clicks back down into place, as though nothing ever happened. The oddly specific, almost ritualistic, nature of the unlocking mechanism gives me a vague feeling that trying to open the door myself might have been a very bad idea. I am entering a Wizard¡¯s home, after all. The man looks around, glaring, and it takes him a moment to finally look down at me. I wave up at him, and for a moment I think he might wave back. Instead, he screams in an impressively shrill falsetto, and I¡¯m forced to move. Launching my body at him, I slam into his chest, hitting my mark. My right arm swings around his back like I¡¯m hugging him, while my left hand spears his neck, contorted into its natural needle-like shape. He¡¯s still standing, still trying to scream, but it fades into a gurgling murmur, a little like someone gargling water. The way his face contorts is funny for to me, although I can''t place why. I smile back at him, wondering if maybe ''movie monster'' wouldn''t be such a bad gig after all, but then he loses his footing. The old man falls backwards, my body chasing his to the ground, falling atop it. When his neck hits the wood floor, the impact jars my hand-needle, ripping a nasty gash in his neck. The blood and vomit that I trapped in his esophagus come pouring out, flooding the floor, uneven puddles of putrid liquid forming wherever it happens to be uneven. I sit there on his chest, utterly spellbound, watching the light die in his terrified, wide eyes. There¡¯s no fancy ¡°You Leveled Up!¡± pop-up to celebrate my triumph, no moment where the old man disappears into smoke, no moment where he ceases to be so perfectly and utterly real. I reel back, suddenly too sick to bear it any longer, even if my conscience demands I never stop looking at what I¡¯ve done. His head lolls to the side as the needle leaves his neck, and his tongue lolls out from his mouth, still caught in an unending scream. That¡¯s when it hits me. I am the scary one, the thing that goes bump in the night. No matter who¡¯s digital and who¡¯s real, the fact is that I killed this man. The way the game is made means he will never come back to life, never disappear into XP or poof into glaringly artificial particles of light. I want to cry, I want to throw up, but the Shrike cannot do either of those things. It has no capacity to cry, and far less capacity to vomit, and certainly not for such a silly reason as a ¡°crisis of conscience¡±. I sit there, staring at the dead body I created. Probably for too long for my own health, honestly. Everything I¡¯ve done in the game until now feels trivial, like a game within a game. I killed a man, one who I never properly met. He was just some old dude, working for some random Wizard, and now he¡¯s gone. I hadn¡¯t even hesitated, considered what a ¡®realistic experience¡¯ might mean, or even pondered the permanency of a NPC¡¯s death. The longer I think on it, the more I feel like the most sickening part is that this murder will go utterly unpunished. By this world¡¯s standards, the act was both okay and reasonable, leaving me with only myself to answer to. In retrospect, the lack of people playing the bad guys makes a lot more sense. If it takes more effort, and you¡¯re a good person at heart, why would you turn yourself into a butcher of men? Why not consider something more wholesome? I practically threw myself into the role, and if only for the briefest of moments, I enjoyed it. There¡¯s a quiet me that says this is all just a game, that playing a role is the whole point, and that the acts of a person in cyberspace says little of their character. That me probably has some valid points, but at the moment, I don¡¯t want to hear them. I just want to cry, but I can¡¯t. I can¡¯t. It¡¯s almost a relief when the bearded man runs out from the back-room, slamming the preposterously gaudy door open. The facial hair runs to his knees, somewhat masking his impressively limber frame and wizened skin. Atop his head sits a campy, star-emblazoned wizard hat that I¡¯d make some remark about if I had the energy to care. Clearly, though, this is Emmerich Archstaff himself. His eyes are wild and wandering, flitting from place to place even though I get the impression he¡¯s staring right at me. After watching me for a long, cautious moment his face twists into a grimace, and he points to the dead man below. ¡°Foul beast,¡± he says angrily, and can¡¯t bear to argue, ¡°you have slain mine Financier.¡± I look back at down at the body. Not only had I murdered an old man, I murdered an old man so profoundly harmless that he held a job like ¡®Financier¡¯ in a fantasy universe. Unless that''s politedoublespeak for ¡°hitman¡±, I just killed some hapless civilian. Not helping my moral dilemma one bit. By the time I look up at the Wizard Archstaff again, he¡¯s fuming. Oddly patient, all things considered, but still visibly angry. ¡°You entered my abode unscored. Tell me your secret, and I might spare ye,¡± he growls. I point weakly down to the man, then back to the door, miming turning the knob. Really, sparing me seems crueler than killing me outright, but he can¡¯t know it. Why is he being so lenient? He relaxes a great deal, hostility draining away. Emmerich Archstaff is good to his word, apparently. ¡°That old fool. To open the door when it isn¡¯t time¡­¡± He says passively, as though commenting on the weather. It¡¯s so strange, as though he doesn¡¯t care at all. It mystifies me, but I think I latch onto the truth of the matter, and it fills me with a fury that I can¡¯t stop from roiling over. Unconcerned or unaware of that fact, the Wizard bobs his head, mulling things over. ¡°You, who sent you?¡± He asks, vaguely curious, ¡°It can¡¯t have been the Regent, can it?¡± I conjure up my status, taking in the information as fast as I can.
Name Shrike HP 4/5 MP 1/1 LV 001
Summoner George Guildwell
Class SUMMONED MONSTER
Appearance YOUNG SHRIKE MALE
Race SHRIKE (¦Ä-)
Learned Skills ¡°Apex Claws¡±, ¡°Maneuver(I)¡±
I got my 1 MP back, along with a little of my health. Given the sheer power behind my Maneuver Skill, I should be able to hit Archstaff before he knows what¡¯s coming to him.What¡¯s one more body for a pile anyway, especially when it''s someone so hollow inside? George will be satisfied, my horrid duty will be complete, and I can call it quits. Or at least, I can try to get my character reset properly. Barring the dead guys, win-win all around. I tense, and Archstaff reacts instantly, fury swimming back into his elderly features. ¡°You cur of curs, you plot against me even as I offer mercy?¡± He asks, rage in his voice. He moves before I can, launching himself backwards. Each step is impossibly graceful, and I know what I¡¯m looking at immediately: Maneuver, or at least some variation of it. Clearly, I¡¯m not the only one with superhuman agility. Still, I¡¯m confident. The Wizard stops moving after he makes it back through the doorway, standing in his backroom. At this distance, I can be on him in a heartbeat. As if reading my mind, Archstaff snarls. ¡°Fool, you think yourself powerful? Let me give you a taste of true power,¡± he says. I launch into the air, finally convincing my body to act as I want. I can feel the strength in the jump, and with my eyes open, I can see the speeds I¡¯m hitting. It almost feels stronger than before, and I¡¯m almost to the Wizard in a heartbeat, a ball of fury and swift judgement. Just before I sink my left hand¡¯s nails into him, he flies backwards effortlessly, and I don¡¯t seem to getting any closer as I soar towards him. He waves his arms, sweeping and circuitous motions that make his hands look like they¡¯re in multiple places at once. A thin film of ethereal fire appears in the air, following our trajectory, a perfect barrier of flame. The film stops, and it swallows me. It feels like I¡¯m diving into water, and I lose most of my speed, sinking to the floor. Nothing else seems to burn as I touch it, even though all of the wood and cloth furnishings seem to be plenty flammable. The fire crawls over my skin like a disease, ripping me apart cell by cell. The experience is absolute agony, a constant singe that works from the outside to the inside, offering little respite from the pain. I seem to be falling to ash, and I see is my limbs crumbling to tiny, charred bits, leaving little but black smolders behind. The next thing I see is my reflection in the water of the strange, embryonic fluid of my Nightmare Domain. I died, through and through, cast back to the place so far away from the game¡¯s world. I log out of the game as fast as I can. ¡­ It takes me an hour to convince myself that the more rational, ¡®it¡¯s just a game bro¡¯ me should take over. It takes me three hours to de-puke the floor and get the room smelling like roses again. I can¡¯t even ask the house staff for help, considering the fact this project was meant to be on the down low. The manual labor feels both therapeutic and penitent, though, so maybe it¡¯s all for the best. I try to divert myself, to think about anything other than the way I murdered a man or the agony of dying in the game with no pain reduction, but nothing works. In the end, I send in a customer service ticket. It¡¯s something of a petty revenge, hassling the company¡¯s customer service for putting such horrors in their game. The message reads as follows: ¡°I killed a man, and I don¡¯t know what to do.¡± It¡¯s generally not a good idea to implicate yourself in murder, even if it¡¯s digital, but I decide not to worry. The message says exactly how I feel, and if they take offense, they¡¯ll have one hell of an uphill battle to fight in the courts. I get a near-immediate response. I didn¡¯t expect one for a good time. Actually, waiting for it was going to be part of how I diverted myself from my dilemma. Even as fast as it was filled out, this response doesn¡¯t seem to be automated. In fact, it would only really work for my issue- a personalized response. ¡°Great Crusade Online is a controlled environment. We made Heaven in Binary.¡± The wording sounds an awful lot like they¡¯re just tooting their own horn, like ¡®Look, we made a heavenly game!¡¯ When I put in context, though, I can see that it¡¯s something else entirely. For instance: I killed a man, and Great Crusade Online is a controlled environment, so dead NPCs aren¡¯t unexpected. Mulling that thought over, my eyes wander, and I notice the ¡®Sender¡¯ address. The message was sent by ¡°Ennetu¡±. He has no titles or tags, no ¡®admin this¡¯ or ¡®customer service¡¯ that. Rather, it¡¯s just that one name, ¡°Ennetu¡±. I recognize it immediately. In terms of Great Crusade Online, there¡¯s only one Ennetu: Ennetu the Old One Most Foul, the Lord of All Monsters, the End of Light. No one has talked to, or so much as seen, Ennetu. He¡¯s the last bad guy anyone will have to fight, or at least he will be for a couple of expansions. According to in-game NPCs, he leaves only carnage in his wake, and the reason things are so ¡°peaceful¡± is because Ennetu is taking a brief vacation from world annihilation. The employee driving Ennetu, if there is one, would have to be comfortable with indiscriminate slaughter. In other words, they¡¯d be just as heinous as I am, and probably just as conflicted. My tension drains away. Ennetu can¡¯t have been referring to Great Crusade Online itself as ¡®Heaven¡¯. No, I suspect he means that they made an afterlife for the NPCs. It makes a sort of sense, too. If each AI was lovingly hand-crafted and highly advanced, how could the designers bear to let them fade into nothingness? I drift off into sleep, dreaming of Heaven, Great Crusade Online, and battleax-toting bank tellers. 4/BREATHE YE OF MINE, CREATURE new old I clap, and the room¡¯s lights brighten, halogen gradually revealing the mess that¡¯s collectively known as my ¡®Stasis Pod¡¯. Nothing has moved, nothing has changed, and it takes me a moment to reconcile how different we are, me and my machine. I may have spent whole days coming to grips with what happened, but the machine? It¡¯s exactly how I left it, an immutable mass of metal and silicon. I traverse the web of wires, endeavoring for the center of the room. I have to watch my step, wary of pulling plugs or getting caught in the tangle. I could probably wire-tie it all up and save myself the trouble, but I like the way it looks. It¡¯s something like an electronic jungle, with all of its drooping ¡®vines¡¯ and eerie LED fireflies flickering on and off all along the walls. Maybe I should start building up some aesthetics? A fog generator might be a bit risky considering all of the Old-Tech parts, but maybe I could get away with an ambient noise generator or something like that. The off-topic meanderings fade away when I finally find myself in the room¡¯s center. The makeshift MMI-helmet and nerve interface are lie on the floor, abandoned. I pick them up, piece by piece, looking each one over as I do. They still seem to be in working order, so I set them aside on the gel beanbag and wander over to the makeshift power-switch. The podium¡¯s silly baubles are all powered on, and since most of the important circuits run through it, that means none of the important cords have popped yet; I¡¯m good to go. I smash the power button, the whole room whirring to life around me. I lay down on the Super Comfort beanbag, waiting for the ¡®start-up¡¯ jingle, idly untangling my MMI¡¯s various cords. The tell-tale tones arrive sooner than they did last time, possibly the product of a successful first-time initialization, or (just as likely) a sign that my shit did break and that I¡¯m going to get my brain fried once I try to drop myself in. Optimistic, I decide to gamble on the first case. I lay the helmet down on my lap, slowly applying the Nerve Interface to my limbs, something much easier to do without a Deprivation Helmet swamping my senses. Once I¡¯m ready, I plop the MMI down on my head, drowning myself in the embrace of total nothingness. I start to fret when pitch-black seconds tick by, but the game finishes loading before I have time to get too worked up. Instead of the immersive, bright-white expanse the developers threw at me last time, an elegantly-styled baby-blue interface pops up. It¡¯s positioned up close to my eyes, like I¡¯m looking through Smart-Glasses, but they don¡¯t feel any of the strain I¡¯d expect, instead, they¡¯re as relaxed as if I were looking at something far away. It¡¯s the kind of mind-bending effect you can only really get through VR, and another brief confirmation that I have, in fact, been submerged into the game. The UI itself is only a half-step away from being totally two-dimensional, just the sort I¡¯d expect from a traditional MMO. It¡¯s littered in icons and random nonsense, complete with multiple title placards and an inspirational quote from some guy named ¡®Wayne Gretzky¡¯. Still, the menus are intuitive enough that I can guess what they mean without all that much effort. For example, there¡¯s an icon depicting a mailbox, jam-packed full of letters and bouncing back and forth frenetically. I think it¡¯s safe to guess that it¡¯s telling me I¡¯ve missed a message or two, though I could be mistaken. I realize with a start that the only reason it¡¯s intuitive to me is because I know what a ¡®mailbox¡¯ is, something that would be unlikely if I hadn¡¯t been subjected to the Data Training Program. The strange tool was introduced to me in the ¡®Intelligent Communications¡¯ block, but the last mail service was decommissioned nearly a decade ago, so how would your average guy recognize it? Even some of the older ones might not manage to. I¡¯m not sure if the developers are simply that out of touch or if they¡¯re aiming for a retro mystique, but either way, it¡¯s still a strange choice of symbolism. I tap the curious icon and a whole new menu comes up, different from the last in both tone and decor. It¡¯s simple and streamlined, designed a lot like an old-fashioned e-mail service, and I can see that I have indeed missed three messages. Leveraging my astounding lack of friends, I can safely assume they¡¯re all from George.
User WIZ4REPS Haha dude you actually did it, hit me up when you¡¯re on. Play Audio?
I almost delete his message instinctively the moment I spot his username. I¡¯m not sure what he meant by ¡®did it¡¯ since I didn¡¯t even complete his contract, but I¡¯m happy that he¡¯s happy. I may have come to terms with my situation, but I can¡¯t say I want to do another contract like the last one, so I hope he¡¯s not expecting an encore. On another note entirely, it looks like the message was sent via voicemail and transcribed for easy reading. How convenient!
User WIZ4REPS Where¡¯d you go? I want to hook you up. Archstaff¡¯s going to be out of business for months after [garbled]. Don¡¯t be shy. Play Audio?
This message is dated as having been sent a whole day later. I¡¯m not sure how I managed to screw the mage up that badly, but I¡¯m glad that old bastard got a little bit of comeuppance. Care more about your money-man, damnit. I try playing the audio to find out what ¡®garbled¡¯ means, but it actually is unintelligible. He just starts saying random words excitedly, hardly bothering to annunciate much of anything at all.
User WIZ4REPS Big convention in a couple of days, everyone¡¯s going to be there. If you¡¯re not going to let me pay you, at least let me summon you, you¡¯re not going to find another easy ticket. Play Audio?
Now for the final message. This one¡¯s a bit of a surprise. Sure, I pretended to be part of George¡¯s top-secret forum thing, but I hadn¡¯t actually expected to get anything out of it. At a convention like this I should be able to pick up some neat stuff even if I only tag along, doubly so if they really are a bug bounty forum or something along those lines. It shouldn¡¯t even be hard to infiltrate, given my situation. I close out the inbox and flip over to my friends-list, a represented by a tacky yellow smiley face. When I tap it, the face unfolds and expands into another new menu, a painfully burgundy-and-pink list of names and statuses. Judging by the green flags by his name, George should be both Online and Active. I close out this menu, too, finally hitting the log-in button. Nothing happens for a moment, and I cringe in anticipation, waiting for whatever loading-screen or cutscene they¡¯ll throw at me. ¡­ I¡¯m the Shrike. There¡¯s not so much as a fade-in or even a pop-up to prepare me, I¡¯m plopped down into the pilot seat unceremoniously. Much like my Pod, the Shrike is exactly how I left it, or at least it feels that way.
Name Shrike HP 5/5 MP 0/0 LV 001
Summoner None
Class SUMMONED MONSTER
Appearance YOUNG SHRIKE MALE
Race SHRIKE (¦Ä-)
Learned Skills ¡°Apex Claws¡±, ¡°Maneuver(I)¡±
More or less what I expected to find. It¡¯s a little strange that I still have Maneuver even though my mana went away, but it does make some small sense. Does a professional sprinter forget how to run because he broke a leg? Sure, I may be mana deficient, but whatever training I earned doesn¡¯t poof into smoke. I wave away my status and stumble around the brain-menu, searching for long-distance messaging. Finally, George¡¯s name appears out of a drop-down menu, and when I select it, a little speaker icon pops up on my field of view. ¡°Greetings,¡± I say, and George greets me with a near-immediate squeal of surprise. ¡°Damn!¡± He cries, surprised. ¡°Now it¡¯s everywhere! You can¡¯t do that, man.¡± It¡¯s a long wait before he relaxes his panicked panting enough to speak again. ¡°Where have you been?¡± He asks, and his intonation falls somewhere between curious and offended. Curiously, the combination of attitude and verbiage reminds me of a particularly clingy girlfriend, but I can¡¯t reconcile that mental image with George¡¯s muscle-wizard reality. I wonder for a moment if I should even humor the question. It¡¯s not like I owe him any explanation, and I¡¯m certainly not going to cow to some dude I¡¯ve just met. At the same time, I did go cold turkey right after adding him, so maybe he¡¯s under the impression I¡¯ve been avoiding him. It¡¯d explain his persistence, at least. Obviously, I can¡¯t fess up and tell him that killing some random old guy fucked with my head. My current image should be that of the spooky Shrike, the being that managed to slip into a powerful wizard¡¯s abode and kill his money-manager at level one. George should be able to take cultivate that public-facing image even further, since he knows I had no prior experience in the game and that I¡¯m a genuine Player. Sure, he may have watched me fumble about when I first started playing, but his mind should still be racing to reconcile that awkwardness with the situation¡¯s reality. With luck, he¡¯ll eventually conclude that I¡¯m some sort of intimidating figure in real life, temporarily hampered by the circumstances. If I combine that notion of me being generally important with the honest fact that I¡¯m a hardmodder, something that George¡¯s lot consider risky, admirable, and eccentric all at once, and I¡¯ve got a decent character to tool around with. The two facets play well together, too: What if the reason my strange voice modification is to hide the real thing from authorities, or the general public? Hell, there have been cases of criminals still at large getting caught out by using their Great Crusade Online characters. The closer I can twine the two identities together, the harder I can lean on them without it all falling apart. ¡°I had to clean up,¡± Mainly my psyche, though I did in fact have to mop the floor, ¡°The problem has been dealt with.¡± I keep the statementambiguous enough that he can take itsmeaning in whichever direction he wants, using the gravity of my strange Shrike voice to sell it home. Twisting the truth is an inherently risky business, but done properly, one can substitute reality with another of their own making. Some of the greatest actors in history have become who they pretended to be, and there are unfortunate souls who still claim to this day that their swindler was everything he said he was and more. George grunts knowingly. ¡°Glad to have you back.¡± He says, his tone as relaxed as I¡¯ve ever heard it. It¡¯s an impressively quick recovery, even from my perspective, and a small hint that I may be underestimating the man just a little bit. ¡°You made me a damned fortune, y¡¯know? Did me a real solid.¡± If I can avoid it, I don¡¯t want to dwell on my last session in the game, so I bridge the topics, cutting in before he can continue. ¡°Yes. I saw that you offered to get me to the ¡®Convention¡¯?¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ve actually got my grimoire out now. You know, I figured you¡¯d be late, if you came at all, but we¡¯ve really got to get a move on.¡± George huffs before going entirely silent. Since his background noise cut away, and I can probably take that to mean he¡¯s shut off his long-range chat entirely. Damn. I¡¯m not really sure how I¡¯m supposed to get summoned in general, let alone by George explicitly. My first reaction is to let everyone in, and I¡¯m instantly greeted with the ethereal tug-of-war from last time. Chanting random nonsense and asking after George don¡¯t seem to do anything, but when I try ¡®narrowing down¡¯ my invitation, I can feel strings starting to pop off, eventually leaving only a few particularly strong ones still pulling on me. They seem to ignore my wishes, each magical grasp hooked deep into my body. I can¡¯t seem to pull them out, no matter how hard I tell them to leave, but I can feel one in particular- most likely George¡¯s- getting stronger and stronger with each attempt. One swift tug later and the super strong one pulls me free of the rest, dragging me away. As seems to be the game¡¯s trademark, it drops me into the room, sans any and all fanfare. I seem to be in George¡¯s basement, huzzah. To one side, the contraption on the wall is still steaming, thrumming with life after its recent use. Below the alchemical device pools a brilliant yellow puddle, along with a number of unattended shards of glass. On the other side of the room, the rack of potions is nearly empty, either an indication that George¡¯s been selling gangbusters or that he¡¯s bringing along his stock. The man himself is standing hunched over by right by the wall and boxes, his frame hiding inside a lazily woven robe. The outfit is pretty pedestrian, but wrapped in it, George almost looks like a proper mage. He waves when he sees me, smiling. ¡°Ready to contract up?¡± I nod, and an ethereal paper appears in the air, floating down from him towards me.
Participants George Guildwell v the Shrike
Terms - Both Contractor and Contractee are allowed to terminate the Contract at any time and for any reason. - Termination of the Contract will immediately return the Contractor to their domain. - Until the Contract is terminated, the Contractor will not actively harm the Contractee.
Grade Nomos
Penalty Instant termination of benefits and removal from mortal realm.
Accept Decline
The terms have changed a tad, but I don¡¯t spot anything particularly unusual in them. It feels like they¡¯re not fair to either of us, but given the circumstances, I don¡¯t particularly care. I mean, we¡¯re pretty much just going on a tour, and I have a free exit clause, so why worry? I accept the contract, and when it poofs into flame, I can feel the bond between me and George reforming. He nods, pulling up his robes ever so slightly. ¡°Alright, so you¡¯re going to hide under here while we travel,¡± George says, somehow managing a total deadpan. ¡°Help, I need the Police,¡± I retort dryly, hardly missing a beat. I¡¯m getting better at pulling up the voice menu on the fly, for better or for worse. George chokes on air. Hurriedly, he shakes his head, spluttering. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean it like that. Look, I¡¯ve got clothes under it,¡± he lifts the robe up a bit, revealing normal pantlegs. I figured as much, but he made it far too easy to resist. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t riding on your shoulder suffice?¡± I ask, genuinely curious. Sure, the adventurers chased me before, but that was just because he hadn¡¯t been around to explain to the crowd that I was a Summoned Monster, right? Right? George shuffles uncomfortably. ¡°Summoners¡­ don¡¯t have the best reputation.¡± He pauses, almost shy. ¡°With the locals, I mean.¡± Which means that I¡¯m liable to be attacked no matter what. Up the robe I go, then. I leave the circle, approaching George. It¡¯s a relief to find that my motor skills are at least as functional as last time I played, but I don¡¯t let it distract me. He turns around, revealing that the thick robe is more like a shawl, hardly even buttoned across his back. It¡¯s not going to be a very convincing disguise, no matter what. Maybe he could pass for a hairy-backed hunchback, but that¡¯ll hardly keep suspicious players off his ass.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. ¡°Are you sure?¡± I ask. George looks over his shoulders and nods. ¡°Trust me,¡± he says, ¡°we only have to survive a first glance.¡± Sighing, I nod up at him, climbing aboard. It¡¯s uncomfortably warm, even with parts of my back exposed to the air. The Shrike heats up easy, but as a function of its plumage, it doesn¡¯t easily cool down. I almost forgot my needle-claws for a minute, but with some effort, we get situated and ready to move. I¡¯m pretty much stuck to him like a Koala on a tree, or an oversized backpack, but he doesn¡¯t seem to mind the weight. George takes off at a sprint. It¡¯s hard to tell we¡¯re moving just by ear- his steps are effortless, he shifts his weight so tightly that his feet rarely seem to catch, but the wind itself whistles at my back, which is proof enough. Occasionally, he does let a foot fall hard, and I can pick up the tenor of the turf below. It takes him mere seconds to leave the even basement tiles, hardly any longer to escape the cobbling of the back alley, and he rips across the chalky road at a breakneck pace. The lazy disguise makes a lot more sense, now. Why be subtle if the Players are only ever going to get one look at us? It¡¯s just a matter of preventing preemptive strikes. I wonder if he¡¯s using Maneuver? How much mana does he have, exactly? Getting out of the city is the most nerve-wracking part. Not only are we forced to stop sprinting along, he¡¯s also got to deal with the guards. For a goodly while they hold us up, asking pointed questions about George¡¯s ¡®back problem¡¯, but not long after their complaints disappear like mist and they beg him a good day. I couldn¡¯t see what happened to persuade them, but I did hear the telltale cha-ching of metal hitting metal. I file away ¡®NPCs can be bribed¡¯ for later use as George starts back up on his way, leaving the city walls behind at impressive speed. Judging by the songbirds overhead and twigs snapping underfoot, we enter a forest of some kind. As far as I learned in my meager research, nearly two-thirds of G.C.O. is wilderness, while the last third is split pretty evenly between ¡®dungeons¡¯ and ¡¯cities¡¯. Certain theorists have put forth even that ¡®dungeons¡¯ and ¡®cities¡¯ may be similar from each warring faction¡¯s perspective, like mirror images. By proxy, that would make the most unique element the great outdoors. I¡¯ve never been out in the woods before in real life, so this is my first taste of going off the grid. ¡°You¡¯re a lucky guy, you know? Convention¡¯s near this city and all.¡± George says using his in-game voice. He doesn¡¯t sound even vaguely winded despite the fact he¡¯s sprinting at full speed. ¡®Summoner¡¯ indeed, I¡¯m still not convinced he isn¡¯t a Warrior. ¡°No matter how much I owe you, I wouldn¡¯t wait up to do a last-minute cross-country.¡± He falls into a silent trot, charting a straight course broken only by momentary turns and veers as George hones in on our destination. It¡¯s a long and boring run, but he keeps at it, finally slowing to a gentle walk. It turns out the Convention was close by, after all- no more than ten kilometers away from the city, assuming George stayed at about the speed I guessed. My legs feel like jelly when I drop to the ground. I crawl out of the robe and re-orient myself, taking in my surroundings. The birdsong and vague animal noises are distant now, and when I look about, I can see why. We¡¯re not in the forest anymore. The convention is set in a huge clearing, covered in dirt marked only by tiny tufts grass, a vaguely flat area of turf salted with sand and gravel that seems to have kept the shrubbery from growing back in. It¡¯s like a giant park playground, but instead of swings and a jungle gym, the landscape is peppered with wooden stalls and hovels. In the center of it all there¡¯s a circus-esque big top tent, easily visible even from our relatively distant vantage point. People of all shapes and sizes mill about the scene, and my keen eyes pick out any number of common traits- many wear hoods, or many wear masks, some even veiled and hidden away. The relative few who aren¡¯t covered up are an interesting bunch, not unlike my own summoner, and they all seem totally apathetic to the possibility that they might be crashing a masquerade party. George follows my gaze, chuckling when I turn to look back at him. ¡°Bunch of tryhards, yeah? Like anyone cares who your average schmuck is,¡± he laughs, as if the majority of people covered up and squared away are the strange ones. ¡°Let¡¯s get moving.¡± He struts out, heading towards the crowd. I try to keep up, practically running along to match his stride. I expected for the hustle to be uncomfortable, but it actually feels pretty natural, confirming an earlier suspicion. Even without adrenaline pumping through my system, the Shrike seems to prefer to move quickly. There¡¯s a wide array of reactions to my personage. The most violent reactions are from the covered-up sort. Most seem shocked or surprised as I approach, but to my surprise, no one actually tries to attack, or even raise weapons my way, even if most of the crowd reaches for them. Arms shoot to hilts and backs, ready to brandish at a moment¡¯s notice. The unmasked people don¡¯t seem so concerned with me- a whole different ballgame. The few who do spot me are curious, at best. They seem to be far more curious of George. He smiles and waves like a celebrity on the march, and there are any number of reactions to his approach. Animosity, amusement, welcoming smiles and hardened glares alike. One man even pulls out his sword, an excessive, eight-foot great-sword that would look more fitting in the hands of a massive statue than a short middle-aged guy. I¡¯m not even sure how he carries it on his back, frankly. We reach the crowd, submerging ourselves within. The curious gazes don¡¯t go away, trailing us as we move along. More than a few people approach to goggle at me or chat with George, rarely getting more than a word or two in before we trail away or they give up, lobbing polite greetings or bids on potions and services. Unilaterally, the muscle-wizard is polite and friendly, but he refuses to slow in the slightest, handing out promises of ¡®later¡¯ and ¡®definitely, bro¡¯ willy-nilly. I turn to look up at him, wondering how he look in the public eye, but I don¡¯t see George at all. Instead, a flaming hunk of stone and metal spins between us, flying right past, and my eyes follow it along. The sword rips through the air, and the crowd ahead scatters as it whirrs by, eventually embedding itself into the ground a few meters past us. Enthralled by the spectacle, I watch the fire smolder off of the decidedly inflammable blade for a few long moments before I notice that George is facing the other way, finally spinning around to match. The very same undersized man from before stands not too far away, having just chucked his improbably oversized sword. He¡¯s about 5¡¯9¡¯¡¯, and his physique is standard at best, if not thin, making the fact he can even lift it a small miracle. Now that we¡¯re closer, I can take in more detail, profiling the otherwise unimportant character much more fully. His face is unshaven, scraggly enough to belong to a beggar or a bandit, even if the oversized hat atop his head suggests a cowboy motif instead. His hair and scruff are both black, cut short so that it doesn¡¯t hang loose, but left long enough to poke out below his hat even from the front. I¡¯m not sure if I¡¯ve ever heard of a cowboy that chucks giant swords, but to be fair, it probably wasn¡¯t an option at the time. Maybe it would have been the weapon of choice? He wears a thin cape and proper black pants, a rare combo. Likely owing to the game¡¯s setting, since there aren¡¯t that many materials for weavers and tanners to throw around. ¡°You owe me, Wizard,¡± he says, waving a finger menacingly at George. ¡°You¡¯re not getting out of this one.¡± George lets off a brilliant smile, firmly contrasting Chief¡¯s scowl, unconcerned. ¡°Chief! Nice to see you! I don¡¯t give refunds, you know?¡± ¡®Chief¡¯ starts to reply, but he pauses to spit off to one side, a glob of saliva bouncing off the dirt. He manages to make the campy act look legitimately intimidating, the sort of well-trained gesture that would look silly in unfamiliar hands. A wannabe cowboy, for sure. ¡°Potion was fine,¡± he barks, ¡°it¡¯s the bet. You knew Archstaff was goin¡¯ to skip town because you were going to make it happen yourself. Give me back my collateral.¡± I look between the two men. George covers his mouth dramatically, concealing laughter, while Chief is furious, staring at him menacingly. Of course, from my angle, I know that George isn¡¯t really laughing. His lips are pulled taut, and he¡¯s starting to sweat, his brain no doubt chugging through his next play. Even if he wants to look relaxed, he¡¯s actually taking this guy pretty seriously. I try to slip back away, hoping to avoid the feud, but that catches the other man¡¯s attention. ¡°What in the hell is that thing?¡± His angry face falls into slack-jawed surprise, as though he hadn¡¯t even noticed me before just this moment. Without the scowl, I notice that his features aren¡¯t all that intimidating after all. Rather than a bandit or even a cowboy, he looks more like some kid¡¯s father, your average working dad. I wonder if he gets digital cramps from contorting his face like that, you know? Sure, the results are impressive, but it¡¯s got to be hard to keep up all the time. He gawks at me, perplexed, but the expression is quickly replaced with dreadful recognition. George¡¯s eyes light up. ¡°So, you do remember!¡± He says, laughing for real now. ¡°You owe me, Chief. I¡¯ll let you default on theold bet if you forget this little oversight ever happened. What do you say?¡± ¡°How¡¯ve you been feeling, partner?¡± Chief asks, face abruptly twisted into a smile. ¡°What say you, me, and your new friend here all take a walk to the tent?¡± After he finishes speaking, he nods politely in my general direction, walking right past us. In a flash, his face goes back from ¡®confused dad¡¯ to ¡®cowboy hero¡¯, and just as swiftly his sword goes from ¡®buried in the ground¡¯ to ¡®in its bizarrely small sheath¡¯. George nods, returning his smile. ¡°Sounds good. Did you like the potion after all?¡± The two descend into a rather involved conversation, settling into a rhythm like old friends. Most of the time they yammer on about this mob or that drop, but every so often the chatting tilts back to George¡¯s potion. I get a distinct impression that they¡¯re a big part of George¡¯s clout, even if I can¡¯t make much of the actual topics at hand. I do glean that Chief is a mercenary based in just the same city George dropped me in. I even learn that he was working Archstaff¡¯s storefront when I was doing my B&E routine, only just a staircase and some doors out of scene. He doesn¡¯t seem too worried that I lost him the job, or at least he¡¯s pretending he¡¯s not. Chief strikes me as a great actor and a terrible liar, so it¡¯s probably not going be a problem. After a good bit of hustling we¡¯re outside the tent. The crowd billows around it, hopping from stall to stall or wandering about, but there¡¯s a sizeable gap in front of its ¡®door¡¯, a brief canvas tunnel with one big flap, the only obvious way in or out of the tent. When I look about, I can see why. Two burly men stand guard on either side of the flap, decked out in properly knightly armor, while a smaller, mid-sized one stands in the middle. Distinctly contrasting the two guards, he¡¯s dressed in a tailcoat and high-strung dress pants, and paired with the circus aesthetic, he would be the ringmaster or the ticket-taker, and if I had to guess, I¡¯d say both. More startlingly, he looks almost precisely like my Uncle Fazio. The man has a stocky, mid-sized frame, leathery skin, deep-set eyes, and an oddly blocky face that could be compared to a hexagon, with his prominent chin and forehead at war with his otherwise angular cheeks, all crowned by dark-brown hair pulled into a tight, slicked-back style. Coincidentally, that description is essentially identical to how I might describe Uncle Fazio. They both seem to be about the same age, appearance placing them somewhere in the late sixties, and even if this one seems more youthful- a hairline that isn¡¯t quite receding, skin that hasn¡¯t started to wrinkle- I could easily chalk that up to the game¡¯s doing. The only thing throwing me off is his demeanor. Uncle Fazio is always smiling, a laid-back man who¡¯s had the air of a content retiree for as long as I¡¯ve known him, which is admittedly only six or seven years now. I¡¯ve rarely seen him ¡®at work¡¯, owing to the fact that he really is retired, so to speak, but even when he had to dole out orders he seemed to be relaxed. Here, this Fazio look-alike has a tight-lipped scowl and a vicious glare, a Pitbull ready to pounce. It can¡¯t possibly be a coincidence, which leaves only a copycat or the real deal. I¡¯m inclined to believe the latter, incongruity aside- Uncle Fazio isn¡¯t precisely a public-facing figure. Either way, I¡¯d prefer not to give up my anonymity, and considering the circumstances of our encounter, he may not want any undue attention either. His eyes flit from George¡¯s to Chief¡¯s and down to my own, and the intensity of the glare makes me a little nervous. It¡¯s probably a good thing the Shrike can¡¯t shiver. ¡°Who¡¯s this?¡± my not-Uncle asks, pointing my way. Chief answers. ¡°George¡¯s summoned a safe¡¯n for once. Not even trying to kill us,¡± he explains excitedly, but George coughs and raps him on the shoulders, cutting him off. ¡°A player from the forums,¡± he says, much to Chief¡¯s apparent shock. It occurs to me suddenly that I never actually introduced myself to him properly, whoops. ¡°He¡¯s one of the hardmodders, just recently got into the games. I trust him.¡± The man¡¯s frown deepens to a scowl. ¡°Which one is he? All of my VIP technicians are accounted for.¡± George begins to reply, but as he processes that information, his mouth drops open and swings back shut a few times as he searches for real answer, jaw moving idly on a hinge. After some deliberation, he shrugs instead, and Fazio¡¯s full attention swings my way. Uh-oh. I glare up at George, hurriedly pulling up my menu. I hop on the direct messaging and say ¡°My voice might startle him. Tell him I said that I¡¯m a long-time lurker.¡± His confidence in me had all but broken, but when I finish speaking, it settles back into place. People don¡¯t like being swindled, but if they¡¯re offered a decent alternative to being made to look like a fool, they¡¯ll hop on it in a heartbeat; trusting me is just the path of least resistance. Insinuating that I¡¯m both a long-time user and one Fazio shouldn¡¯t know about- a lurker, a person who keeps up to date but rarely posts on a given forum- is enough to patch the incongruities back together ¡°He¡¯s a lurker, and I trust him well enough,¡± George affirms. ¡°One hell of a coincidence we even ran into each-other. He didn¡¯t ask me to come here, I asked him.¡± Fazio is decidedly unconvinced. ¡°Why isn¡¯t he telling me that himself?¡± He asks. I squawk loudly to demonstrate why, but that doesn¡¯t seem to work. Notably, out of all the people standing in close proximity, he¡¯s the only one who doesn¡¯t cover his ears. ¡°Obviously,¡± he growls, ¡°I meant using your player menu, like you did with him.¡± ¡°His voice is, how do I put it, ¡®interesting¡¯?¡± George throws out. Not helping, George. ¡°Not a squeaker, is he?¡± Chief asks. If only you knew, Chief. ¡°Just fucking talk.¡± Fazio demands. Stop inviting trouble, Fazio. ¡°Greetings,¡± I say, finally pressured into making the terrible decision of direct messaging him. To my surprise, he doesn¡¯t so much as flinch. Uncle Fazio¡¯s made of steel, apparently. ¡°Explains how that big oaf knew you were a technician,¡± Fazio says, entirely to a certain big oaf¡¯s chagrin, while Chief looks between the two of us, visibly confused. ¡°Doesn¡¯t explain who you are. Get talking.¡± Drat, I was hoping to shake him off before we had to deal with the problem at hand. I flash through my memory, jogging for any solid excuse, answer, or retort. I haven¡¯t learned any names, or much about the forum itself for that matter. No obvious crutches or deflections to call on, except maybe the lack of concern over my ¡®voicechanger¡¯, but I don¡¯t see how to utilize that. The first positive reaction to my participation in the forum was under the preconceived notion that all or most hardmodders would be members, but clearly that¡¯s not enough of an alibi. Assuming this fellow is Uncle Fazio, I can leverage what I know of his personality, and maybe¡­ ¡°Can you afford to find out?¡± I ask, not even humoring the order. Two tricks to it: First, George implied that people trade for exploits and information. A natural extension of that would be for an importance to be placed on identity, something confirmed by the bulk of hooded people running about. The unmasked are already public figures, while the rest are monetizing their very being, perhaps for networking purposes. My own real-life name is impossible to glean from my character, too, so it¡¯d be worth twice as much. Second, Fazio likes smartasses. His sense of humor is generally dry, but he gets a kick out of all things sardonic. It can be hard to know when you¡¯ll step on the wrong toe and get bit, but over the years, I can be confident that ¡®insulting his personal wealth¡¯ is A-OK. He¡¯s not too big on that whole ¡®money¡¯ thing, anyway. The grim man¡¯s face collapses into a fleeting smile before he pulls himself back together, and that¡¯s all the proof I need: I¡¯m dealing with Uncle Fazio, the one and only. George and Chief start blubbering, off to the side, looking between the two of us like they¡¯ve just seen a ghost. ¡°I¡¯ll believe you for today,¡± he acquiesces, even if his voice is just as intense as before, ¡°but if I ever get the chance, we¡¯re going to have a more interesting chat.¡± Then, anticlimactically, he steps aside. I mean, it was the desired outcome, but it may have worked a tad too well. George certainly seems to think so, at least judging by how frantic he¡¯s getting ¡°What about my dues?¡± He says, fishing some shiny coins out of his inventory. The ticket-taker slowly shakes his head, unconcerned. ¡°You¡¯re all square for today. You¡¯ll be VIP soon anyway, yeah?¡± Unwilling to argue the case for wasting his own money, George drags Chief and I through the flap. He doesn¡¯t even pause to look back, wandering into the tent in a daze. The walk through the canvas tunnel is fairly short, but it feels like it¡¯s taking forever, primarily because of the two pairs of eyes boring holes in my shoulders. Chief ventures his question first. ¡°What in the hell did you say to him?¡± He asks, awe shining through. George grunts an agreement. ¡°You made Swordfish smile, and he let us all in the tent for free. The hell, man?¡± Swordfish. You could mistake it for some random screenname, but I know better. I suppose Uncle Fazio isn¡¯t too worried about his identity, after all. In certain circles, if you say ¡®Swordfish¡¯, he¡¯d be person that came to mind- probably even before they think of the creature itself. To my Father he¡¯s called Fazio, while to my Mother he¡¯s only ever known as Swordfish. It¡¯s not hard to guess which one¡¯s closer to the man, given that information. It¡¯s a work name, and the kind with baggage. I shrug. In this case, not answering is, in fact, my best choice. I can roll this incongruency off of my second ¡®trait¡¯: someone important. The two men are pretty visibly unsatisfied, but they exchange a long glance, almost certainly paired with some direct messages, and the topic falls flat. Things are still awkward for a minute, but when we make it into the actual arena, that all blows away. The place is much bigger than I expected. along the tent¡¯s canvas walls are wooden benches, but that alone would hardly seat more than forty people. The bulk of the seating is below the floor: The whole space is dug into the ground like the amphitheaters of old, rings of ¡®seats¡¯ cut into the dirt and clay and polished, and seven layers down lies the ring. Pristinely tiled stone lines the floor, obstructed by only a few wood chairs- most of which, occupied. A number of interesting people occupy the seats, waiting patiently for the event to begin. In fact, the whole space is filled with interesting people. Almost everyone milling about or seated in the stadium is unmasked, with the covered individuals becoming something of an oddity, a total reversal of the crowds outside. As soon as we get to our seats, adjacent stone bench-seats just a few layers down from ¡®ground level¡¯, one of the people on the stage launches to his feet. He¡¯s a man draped in a gaudy red robe, and he shouts eagerly up at the audience. His voice is miraculously clear, projecting over the entire tent as though he has a microphone strapped to his chest. I can¡¯t rule out magic, but I suspect he¡¯s simply that damn loud. ¡°Congratulations, one and all, for sorting yourselves out of the chaff.¡± He says. With every word comes a flourish, the man soaking in presupposed adulation and adoration from the sound of the starting gun. ¡°Another month has passed, and as lucky as we are, we have all found ourselves here to participate in this beautiful exchange of information, fascinations, and last but not least, crispy-green dollar bills.¡± A raucous cheer sweeps through the crowd as he concludes his first bid. George and Chief join in, whooping and clapping about something or another. I clap along, trying to fit in. The Shrike isn¡¯t very good at clapping, but I figure it¡¯d be worse at ¡®whooping¡¯. I don¡¯t need everyone¡¯s attention. ¡°Today, we¡¯ve been graced with three keynote speakers. Shout-out goes to Swordfish and Thebes for cashing out their secrets and disseminating it to you all.¡± He continues. Another brief smattering of applause and cheers crops up, but it¡¯s cut off as soon as the red-robed man begins to speak again. ¡°This month has been fantastic for our trade, but I doubt you need me to tell you that. New investments, discoveries, and advancements that bring opportunities galore for entrepreneurs of all kinds. Even still, we fail to hold a candle to the NPCS.¡± He pauses, ending the thought gravely, letting the gravity of that sink in. ¡°Today, though, we work to crawl ever closer to power. The theme of this evening¡¯s discourse will be Advanced Magical Concepts, many of which were previously the exclusive domain of the AI¡¯s!¡± Everyone cheers, with varying degrees of exuberance. The magically inclined half of the room, like George, go absolutely fucking wild. Chief and his lot are merely excited. The red-coated man basks in the seemingly endless celebration, composing himself to launch deeper into crowd-minding, but he freezes. Following his gaze back up from the stage, I spot Uncle Fazio hunched over on a wooden bench near the tent¡¯s door-flap, his intense glare trained dead on the poor attention-hog. I guess the boss wants things to move things along, huh? The man recovers his bearing with impressive speed. ¡°With this brief introduction out of the way, I¡¯ll acquiesce the stage to our first speaker. I hope with absolute sincerity that you all learn much, earn much, and thoroughly enjoy our great gathering. The third Dark Gamer Symposium is now officially under way!¡± 5/THE CHASE The room falls silent. Allchatting dies, everyone falling still in their seat, an unearthly calm settling over the entire audience. It¡¯s a special sort of calm, a useful kind of calm. Plenty of people stoic, able to be immobile and unobtrusive for as long as they please. Yet, essentially none of the people in this crowd could be reasonably described as stoic- moments before, everyone was chatting away, practically social butterflies. Take George, for instance. George is many things, and a great many things he does not appear to be, but ¡®stoic¡¯ is nowhere on either list. Now? It¡¯s as though he¡¯s been frozen in time. Even his breathing stilled, his pupils the only sign of life left. They flit about as he scans the stage, taking in every lonesome bit of information he can gather. Categorization helps. For instance, what is a sword? Swords are full of personality, coming in infinitely many shapes, sizes, tradition, decorations, sheathes. The sword represents a cultural ideal, a mode of status. Yet, as diverse as they may be, all swords share one trait: They cut things. Their blades are sharp, the sword is pointed and used with purpose, handled almost exclusively with lethal intent. In a way, any sword is a universal tool, solving as many problems as they can, but only ever in one way. If you make a sword that heals people when you cut them, its purpose changes outright Contrast this with dexterous hands. The same hands that can maim or kill are just as capable of healing or helping, given the choice; you¡¯d be hard pressed to heal someone with a sword meant just for chopping. Amputation doesn¡¯t count. If a specialized person who hones a singular skill and their own character is a sword, then the average person is a hand. They tend to be well-rounded, emotive, capable of navigating situations without unwarranted casualties. The public is endlessly versatile. An average person may hone a skill or a trade, but they live a productive life, often one that doesn¡¯t require the sort of brutality that grasping at power does. Sure, they lose their competitive ¡®edge¡¯, but it¡¯s exchanged for living a pleasant existence. Frankly, there¡¯s nothing wrong with being a hand. It¡¯s a healthy, normal life, just the kind I¡¯d hope to lead. If the average person a hand, these folks are certainly swords. Now that their guard is down, I can feel it, the desperation for wealth whetting the edge of a hundred sharp gazes. This kind of person I¡¯m intimately familiar with, the sort who pretend to be well-rounded. They use their decorative sheath and fanciful pommels to mask the single-purpose weapon within, but now that the masquerade has been called away, that veneer has vanished. As the tension rises, I resist the urge to start squawking. It¡¯s tempting- would the sudden racket launch everyone into a firefight? But I¡¯m a guess, and I wouldn¡¯t want to give Uncle Fazio new troubles. Speaking of which, if the sudden intensity is a barometer for the crowd, it says at least twice as much about the people who gathered it. I¡¯m not entirely what Fazio¡¯s trying to accomplish, but he already has a good head-start on building a third empire. Mother would evaluate nearly everyone in the room to be a ¡®good prospect¡¯ for ¡®capital development¡¯ if by their demeanor alone- she¡¯s one to dance with swords, totally unlike Father, who¡¯d take a much more deliberate approach. It¡¯s making me curious who Thebes is, too, since mister gaudy mage guy mentioned her in the same breath as the Swordfish himself. I scan the crowd, eventually turning to look at Chief over my other shoulder. Sure enough, he¡¯s every bit as focused on the stage as George, his dadliness vanished into the wind. Looking further past him, I think I spot a pair of eyes looking at me, but I don¡¯t have time to investigate- a clatter from the stage breaks the silence and wins my attention. One of the guests stands from her guest chair, and the noise was the sound of wood grinding on wood. She¡¯s a big woman, complete with broad shoulders and a height somewhere around two meterstall. Despite that, she looks small as she nervously shuffles towards centerstage. It¡¯s hard to get a decent look at her face from our side- the woman wears a habit. Paired with her decidedly plain robes, I get the impression of a female cleric of some kind, possibly a Nun ¡®Sister¡¯. Since the deities are so responsive and handy, organized religion is quite popular in Great Crusade Online, appealing to players and NPCs alike. It¡¯s no surprise that I see quite a few probably priests and priestess in the crowd- why wouldn¡¯t you want to give it a shot? I¡¯ve made a point of avoiding spoilers, but even with my limited exposure, I¡¯ve still got a feel for how crazy-open the system is. If you want a fairly confident ¡®vanilla¡¯ option, Adamo for would-be paladin and priests, while the competing minor churches and cults branch out into all sorts of interesting and obscure points of view. For example, there¡¯s an entire druidic sect dedicated to the Circle of the Salamander, four complementary deities approximating the eponymous creature; worship involves swimming, fishing using your mouth, and trying to conceal yourself from unexpecting pedestrians. I watch the crowd watch the lady walk. There¡¯s something a little mesmerizing about all those heads, the way they swivel, tracing her as she crosses the stage. I can visualize where she¡¯s at without looking down, using the crowd¡¯s gaze alone. Eventually, the heads stop moving, and by proxy, she must have stopped moving, so I refocus on the stage; she¡¯s taken the center. ¡°Greetings, I am Malina- Sister Malina, is it?¡± Her voice wafts up, equal parts melodic and and confident, betraying entirely her twitchy fa?ade. Given this much pressure, I can¡¯t say for certain that I¡¯d be able to speak half as clearly. Strange as that may be, it still slots perfectly into the voice I¡¯d expect a young Nun to have. ¡°My business is the church.¡± That, too, slips away. Settling into a monotone that feels somehow more natural than the voice before, she¡¯s gone from Nun to Business Analyst in five seconds flat. ¡°After these few months of wheedling, schmoozing, networking, manipulation, bribery, and a great deal of blackmail, I have attained some small power within. I¡¯ve done so almost entirely for my own margins, but Swordfish has rewarded me greatly to share just a few pertinent pieces of information.¡± The sword comes out, all remnants of the kind young nun entirely vanished. Sheep do not graze in a pasture of wolves. Except me, obviously. Father made me sit in on a day¡¯s worth of business meetings. I was fairly young, maybe six, and I¡¯d been pestering him to, so that I could see what it was like. Still na?ve enough to consider my parents good roll models, of course. He cut a deal, because of course he did. I had to play a game for him: When we entered and took our seat, me on his lap if only so I could poke my head up over the table, I had to guess which of the other magnates he was meeting that day would give him ¡®the least trouble¡¯. I agreed. As it happened, he had three people on his dossier that day. The first was a man with barely concealed tattoos and an unkind glare, the second a scrawny hand-rubber with sharp attire and a vicious grin, and finally some old dude in a business suit. I guessed dude in a suit, because why wouldn¡¯t I? Tattoo man went through negotiations with a smile, took the first deal he got, despite the fact that it was blatantly suboptimal. The hand-rubber ran a hard bargain, but when his advantage started to cave, he immediately maneuvered to maximize his gains rather than driving it forward. Father was impressed enough by his work that he kept him on priority ringer for years, even organized a few joint ventures with him. Then came the old dude in a suit; things went sour immediately after he decided he didn¡¯t like Father¡¯s ¡°glib¡±. It took two hours and two fireteams to convince him to sit back down and talk more. I¡¯ve never looked at old people the same way since. That point aside, the moral is that it¡¯s dangerous to take people who look weak or peaceable for granted, doubly so if they surround themselves with carnivores. Crouching mob-boss, hidden CEO. ¡°I¡¯m going to keep this short.¡± Malina paces the stage as she speaks, seemingly addressing the whole crowd at once. It isn¡¯t an easy thing to do, given the circular, arena-like nature of the dug-out stadium. Many orators have difficult gauging just one piece of the crowd, and when you¡¯ve never given a serious speech before, it¡¯s easy to focus your attentions too hard on one segment of the audience, or fail to address any at all. She demonstrates a comfort with her words and tact that tells me that she¡¯s done this before, perhaps in a professional context. More and more, I¡¯m forced to wonder; if everyone¡¯s so sharp, if there are solid public speakers, and big figures like Swordfish at play, why are they abusy playing videogames rather than raking in cash? Did I slip into the world¡¯s strangest Bohemian Grove? I have to ask George what he does for a living sometime, see if I can coax it out of him. ¡°First: If the situation lines up as I intend, there will be a schism in the Church. Independently, I have clout to break off several cities, but the significance will vary depending on if some NPC heavy hitters decide to start calling in favors to keep it contained.¡± The crowd isn¡¯t quite following. Church minutiae can be profitable, but I can tell that the more combat oriented portion is losing interest already. Chief, for instance, is already sitting back in his seat, a great deal of the intensity he¡¯d rallied already fading away. ¡°Under these conditions, I will be installed as a living deity. My ideal turf will in fact be the Bracken-Mistfront territory, so if you set up shop near here, feel free to join in on the fun. Please don¡¯t it up- any short-term profits from ratting me out will be dwarfed by the alternative.¡± At that, George smiles. He seems interested, if not enthralled. He¡¯s not especially excited, but I take it that the city we came from is either Bracken or Mistfront. Useful information, if I ever stumble on a map. ¡°Second: There was no hyperbole in my announcement. I have reason to believe that, with certain provisions, crowd worship will transmogrify my character into a genuine deity. Now, I can¡¯t-¡° Whatever she has to say is drowned out by the uproar. The people who¡¯d started to ease up were caught off-guard, plenty vulnerable to shock and surprise. It¡¯s much harder to keep your edge when you¡¯ve lost your focus, and if nothing else, Malina¡¯s won back the crowd¡¯s full attention. Their loud, confused attention. It doesn¡¯t take all that long for the noise get back under control, but as Malina gets ready to speak, another obstacle throws itself in her way. ¡°That¡¯s impossible!¡± A man shouts. He¡¯s on his feet, now, waving an accusatory finger down at the speaker. He¡¯s clothed in a robe so colorful it¡¯s almost hard to look at, every fiber of the silken thing dedicated to some sort of floral pattern, flowers and vines galore. If I had to consider Malina a stereotypical Nun, I¡¯d classify this guy as the archetypal Druid. That, or an improbably talented sempster with absolutely no fashion sense. I¡¯m not sure which is more likely. In any case, his protest cuts Malina off yet again. The guy sitting next to the probable Druid tugs at his robe, as if to pull him back into his seat. They exchange glances and mumbled words, but quickly, the robed man turns back to the stage, shouting once more. ¡°Simply impossible! My own studies give me reason to believe that divinity is unobtainable by a player, at least within a reasonable span of time.¡± Indignation runs heavy through his voice, and if I¡¯m to believe him, rightfully so. Everyone seems to have jumped through some hoops to attend the event, so how could he tolerate to be fed misinformation? Personally, I¡¯d have probably kept quiet, maybe tried to plop myself somewhere convenient when the scam fell apart. ¡°Oho,¡± Malina says. She pivots on a dime, turning to look up at the man. Since he¡¯s seated on the other side of the room, I can¡¯t see her face, but judging by the way everyone around him seems to squirm, I¡¯m not complaining. ¡°I believe you, and as such, we should cut a deal after the event. In all likelihood, exchanging notes will further both of our pursuits. However,¡± she wags a finger up at him, as though she¡¯s disciplining a child. ¡°I cannot explain my findings out here. I ask you to believe me, if only for the moment, and to believe in the Developers. ¡®nothing is off-limits¡¯.¡± She nods up at him, and he falls back into his seat, deflated. He probably could have argued, but she hadn¡¯t made it easy, that much is true. Instead, he bickers quietly with the friend who tried to keep him seated, probably fighting over ¡®attracting unwanted attention¡¯ or the like. It¡¯s important to note that the Developers have been quite clear about their vision for the game. ¡®Nothing is off-limits¡¯ is a verbatim quote, and while it¡¯s important to add the asterisk of ¡®except things that are sexually explicit, mentally scarring, or illegal¡¯, they seem to have been true to their words. Anything the AIs can do, the setting can do, the players can do, too. In fact, that seems to be why you can choose to be an animal or monster. Rather than an alternative playstyle, it seems to have been offered merely to demonstrate that the players can be exactly who or what they want to be- if they¡¯re willing to put in the work and game the system hard enough. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I can¡¯t be more thorough, but that is the conclusion of my second bit; players can attain godhood in a real capacity, and the key to unlocking that is worship. Go buck wild studying, or buy out my studies. Expect a hefty price-tag.¡± Disruptions tidily swept away, Malina returns to her pacing, now smiling, as if she¡¯d never been challenged. It¡¯s a little discomforting, actually. In terms of ¡®verbal warfare¡¯, she¡¯s acted like a fancy new tank, one that shoots down bombers and rolls over anti-tank mines without a scratch. An allied soldier will see it roll over all the countermeasures they can think up and say ¡°Damn, I¡¯m glad that thing¡¯s on my side¡±, but we simply can¡¯t. At the end of the day, to be here is to be a free agent- notably including Malina herself. She doesn¡¯t seem to mind the crowd¡¯s sudden tension in the slightest, smiling. ¡°To wrap things up, I¡¯ve got some good old-fashioned insider info, the bang for your buck. The Bishop of Ulars is traveling west and in search of a journeying crew. I¡¯d quite hope to see him dead, so come see me later on if you¡¯re game.¡± Which sounds an awful lot like an advert. Chief seems happy enough to hear that, and it¡¯s not hard to guess why- established mercenary, recently unemployed, living in Malina¡¯s turf¡­ Looks like he¡¯ll get something out of this after all. ¡°The Church is buying out huge stocks of medicinal Worts while they prepare to shelter for the inbound plague, most especially Redwort. Expect a market correction with a hike anywhere between fifty and two-hundred fifty percent.¡± She pauses, perching her chin on a knuckle. Her face lights up. ¡°Ah! Did that out of order, my bad, my bad. The Church¡¯s oracles predicted a plague. It¡¯ll be hitting Bracken and Ulurs sometime this month.¡± The audience mumbles and grumbles, processing that information. Malina stares off to the side. It takes me a moment to figure out what she¡¯s looking at; Fazio nods down at her, and she returns the gesture, strutting off back towards the guest chairs without a word, setting off towards the guest chairs. She hardly addresses the crowd, waving idly over her back, her demeanor shifting seamlessly back to the quivering Nun she¡¯d been before taking the stage. The next guest speaker hops to his feet before she makes it back to her chair. Heading out towards the stage at a gallop, his mop of mottled brown hair bobbing with each step, he¡¯s a pretty odd person. He¡¯s got a leather jerkin and baggy breeches, the sort of outfit I¡¯d expect from a militiaman or soldier, given the setting. When he makes it to centerstage, he pivots on a dime, and clacking his heels together, falls into a quick salute. For the first time that I can remember, my International Awareness course gives me some legitimately useful information: The man¡¯s form and order doesn¡¯t correlate with any recorded military practice. Put simply, it¡¯s an imitation. Most everyone is still reeling from Malina¡¯s departure, but nonetheless, the new guy¡¯s entrance earns some jeers. Thankfully, the impromptu pivot turned him to face our direction, making evaluation easy. His face is about as scruffy and stubbly as one might expect in a world with no shaving cream; I hadn¡¯t noticed that the bulk of the players are clean and pristine. Even if he looks just a bit like a medieval homeless man, his smile is perfectly radiant, and though I can tell he¡¯s somewhere his late twenties, his total image gives me the impression of an overgrown child, or at least someone behaving childishly. Another person pretending to be harmless. ¡°Unemployed Maniac Ein, reporting for duty,¡± the man says, dropping his salute. Chief groans audibly. ¡°I was tasked with developing this account for a couple of weeks to explore some novel aspects of the game system. Hell, I had to leave my nearly peaked Warrior to rot!¡± His tone brisk and excited, his tone reminds be a bit of a narrator for a kid¡¯s show. ¡°Mages, here, you guys know what I¡¯m saying. Casting spells doesn¡¯t feel like using a menu, does it?¡± Dead silence. No one so much as dignifies him with a mumble, and if there were crickets, they¡¯d probably be chirping. Ein caves first, finally waving a dismissive hand past his nose, swatting invisible flies. ¡°The answer is no, thank-you-very-much. Most would suspect that the game is merely interpreting intent and flipping switches behind the scenes. To test that concept, we set up an experiment. What if I studied the mechanisms and how-to¡¯s of a spell, then hopping over to my old Warrior, I tried the very same spell?¡± The crowd perks up, for obvious reason- ¡°and now I have your attention!¡± He does a quick little spin, as if to bask in the nonexistent adoration. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right, we set up the first ever dual boot pod. It took Swordfish¡¯s entire band of Hardmodders to get it safe and secure for use. I¡¯ve been hopping back and forth between my accounts for a while now.¡± The crowd rumbles. Evidently, any and all ¡®hardmodding¡¯ is a bigger deal than I thought. I¡¯m starting to wonder why- sure, if you fuck up your brain might get fried, but it¡¯s just Engineering. With the help of someone like Jimmy Bob, praise be, how hard could it be? ¡°That being said, the main focus here is the actual findings. As you well know, the more you research and comprehend the magical mechanisms of a spell, the more potent it is.¡± He gasps, covering his mouth, looking around conspiratorially. ¡°Whoopsies, there goes a secret. I mean, at this point it was only secret to non-mages and absolute casuals, really, but I totally didn¡¯t mean to do that.¡± Indeed, a few visibly beefy and melee-oriented players look confused and a few mages look miffed, but in general, the audience is apathetic. Quick glances tell me that Chief and George are similarly unsurprised. I hadn¡¯t actually known, though thinking it through, it¡¯d help explain why Archstaff is so much more potent then the adventurer mages that tried chasing me.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°Now that the cat is out of the bag, I might as well keep on. You think the keyword and imagine the fireball? Itty bitty burny ball. You evaluate the atmospheric constants, enumerate the magical formula, and force-feed all your mana to Laran, and click your tongue three times? Now that¡¯s some hot shit. Really, it¡¯s night and day.¡± Pause. ¡°Any mages who thought that ¡®spell¡¯ was a joke should consider respecing, or at least spending a chunk of hours at the library.¡± Ein says, and to my surprise, he¡¯s not met with indignation or surprise. Apparently, among the top mages, clicking your tongue and doing impromptu gas-laws is a well-respected tradition. Suddenly I¡¯ve got to wonder what the ¡®correct¡¯ way to cast Maneuver is, or if Apex Claws might have more to it than I thought. ¡°That¡¯s pretty common knowledge, or at least it is now. This begs the question: What if you take your research, practice, technique, and shove it on a non-mage account? We can all learn spells, with varying degrees of success, so what if I master Spark on here and try it on my Warrior?¡± Instantly, the crowd is caught, fish in a net, absolutely and uncritically attentive. It¡¯s easier to surprise people if they expect you to be a disappointment, isn¡¯t it? To my surprise, Chief seems to be the more interested party of my two companions; George may be interested, but Chief is enthralled, despite being visibly disgusted with Unemployed Maniac Ein moments before. ¡°My Warrior cast the spells like a pro. All of the knowledge gained seems to be the human-brain sort, not some hidden variable, bringing us to concept two. It¡¯s no secret that there are hidden variables, yeah? Mostly, they¡¯re special skills gained through grinding or reading, for example, Stealth. Anyway, you¡¯d have to pay me to get me to read books in a videogame, so I didn¡¯t.¡± Ein cut out again, smiling. This time the silence feels a lot less like ¡®begone-knave¡¯ and more like ¡®get-to-the-point-I¡¯m-curious-damnit¡¯. At least, that¡¯s where I¡¯m at. ¡°Fine, fine, Swordfish did pay me to read books in a videogame, the absolute madman.¡± Ein twists to wink up at Fazio. He¡¯s back to talking before anyone can react in any meaningful way, including Uncle Fazio himself, which is probably a good thing. ¡°Here¡¯s the neat bit, I launched into a quest. Rather than going for Stealth alone, I hunted down a copy of the Codex Aether, otherwise known as ¡®Mana Perception for Dummies¡¯. You won¡¯t find it at libraries, we had to waylay four Wizard Guild caravans before we could convince them to give us a copy.¡± ¡°I read the two books, both on this Mage, and now I can slip by city guards sometimes and my field of view is littered with Pride Parade confetti.¡± I¡¯m forced to wonder if Swordfish paid Ein to give away all this neat information, or if it¡¯s real negligence- mana is ¡®Pride Parade confetti¡¯? If you strip the crude joke away, it implies that mana has more than one color, implying some sort of divide between each, possibly corresponding to the entire visible light spectrum- a rainbow. Hell, even the name of the ¡®Codex Aether¡¯ could be useful information, depending on how hard the Developers ripped off the Hellenists. George starts mumbling something or another about ¡®transitive¡¯ and ¡®order¡¯, but I try to ignore him. Ein is just getting to the actual reveal, and if it is what I suspect, it¡¯s a pretty big deal. ¡°Alright, cool, training complete, so when I hop over to the Warrior profile, it¡¯s all gone. At least, isn¡¯t that how it¡¯s supposed to be. Maybe I honed a bit of my inner sneak while I was reading that book, but the rest is just a hidden stat, isn¡¯t it?¡± He twirls to face the opposite side of the room for the first time, his speech quickening, excited, ¡°There¡¯s a problem with that, a big, big problem!¡± Ein disappears, and almost immediately afterward, a burly man in shiny metal armor takes his place. ¡°The mana¡¯s all there! I can see it. I tried sneaking past the gates with this damn suit of armor, and that worked, too! I can¡¯t see magic or sneak for shit in real life, but somehow, someway, the game¡¯s got my number. It could have cached away some memory, or something, but the combined knowledge of the Dark Gamers says it can¡¯t!¡± The knight starts to spin, vanishing just as suddenly as Ein- and the Unemployed Maniac replaces him, spinning. I wonder how they did that? ¡°The game reads your current body image from your nervous system, takes a sample of your brain-state at any given moment, but it¡¯s not like it¡¯s really reading your mind. The Brainwave Monitoring subsystem is fragile enough as is, how could they risk it?¡± The crowd is reeling. This has some pretty serious implications on how people play the game, or at least minmax, so I can see why. ¡°What does this all mean? Fuck if I know, but I¡¯m going to pretend it means that magic is real and I¡¯ve got superpowers. Show¡¯s over!¡± Ein stops spinning, strutting off confidently towards the guest seats, curiously devoid of dizziness. He gets some applause, though I think the people clapping might be dazed enough from the ¡®show¡¯ that they forgot where they were. Another figure walks on stage, dressed in a leather jerkin and baggy breeches. His mottled brown hair sways with each calm step¡­ D¨¦j¨¤ vu, huh? For some reason or another, Ein is walking back on stage¡­ Except, now that I look, Ein is back to his chair, two places at once. I hadn¡¯t noticed before, but evidently, he has a clone. I refuse to be surprised. To be surprised would feel like accepting defeat, and I refuse to lose. This version is somber, walking slowly towards centerstage, hardly bothering to take the crowd into account. That¡¯s probably for the best, since the crowd is currently having a bit of a heart-attack. When he makes it, he halts, turning to face in our direction. ¡°I am Unemployed Maniac Zwei.¡± He says, all business. It¡¯s not Malina¡¯s monotone, but it¡¯s far from Ein¡¯s exuberant nonsense. ¡°I am a Mage within the ring, and working in tandem with ¡®Unemployed Maniac Ein¡¯, I have developed this character, participating in quite a bit of content testing that is currently considered to be Class Two information; please discuss any personal requests with Swordfish, I can provide no further information. First announcement: These dual boot pods are going up for auction to help pay dues and service fees, please discuss any pre-bids with Swordfish, otherwise it will be held on the primary forum this Tuesday.¡± The crowd rumbles with interest, and Zwei waits patiently for silence, eventually nodding, satisfied. ¡°Second announcement: This is to be a performative, experiential panel, and as such, it will take a while to prepare. As such, Swordfish will be explaining the situation while I work.¡± He looks off to the side, and Uncle Fazio stands from his wood seat for the first time since the start of the Symposium. ¡°This final panel will, in all likelihood, kill everyone here. Looting will be prohibited, and fair compensation offered for damaged or otherwise unsalvageable equipment. I am offering to share a Class Two secret with anyone who chooses to leave as a parting gift, such that you do not feel as if the event has let you down.¡± No one moves. In fact, the room is frozen solid, the winter in Swordfish¡¯s voice sweeping the audience like rigor mortis. There¡¯s a little nervous laughter, maybe wondering if it¡¯s just his sense of humor. I know better. Uncle Fazio is dead serious. After a moment, Fazio laughs, slapping his forehead, as if he¡¯d been joking anyway. ¡°My bad, my bad. This final event will be a summoning of the First Boss.¡± No one moves, at least not intentionally. Looking over George, I can see the hackles on his arms his every hair stands on end, his fear swamping his human body. Great Crusade Online is a damn impressive game, you know? Fazio waits a moment, but no one moves. ¡°Maybe you lot didn¡¯t hear me right, or maybe I¡¯ve got every brass-balled bastard on the Earth under one tent on accident. I don¡¯t mean the Eightfold Serpent, I¡¯m talking First Boss.¡± Before he even finishes speaking, people begin to blitz out of the room, jumping rows and jogging up the stairs, coursing for the one reasonable entrance. Chief starts to swear aloud, but to his credit, he stays put. ¡°What¡¯s the big deal?¡± I ask George, and the sudden noise makes him cringe hard, jaw grating, his whole body tensed. More people course through the doors. He turns to me and whispers, ¡°nobody¡¯s beaten the first miniboss yet,¡± as if that explains everything. It doesn¡¯t, not really. Chief looks over, and sharing a glance with George, he seems to catch up on the conversation. ¡°This will be the first of the ¡®real bosses¡¯ to get summoned, ever,¡± he says, ¡°and at the moment, pubbies don¡¯t even get to know his name. For the record, it¡¯s ¡®He Who Cries Unseen¡¯.¡± He grunts, pointing down at the stage. Zwei is working hard, his face practically touching the floor, tweaking the position of a wax candle with alarming intensity. It¡¯s part of a six-pointed array, what appears to be an imaginary hexagon. The Unemployed Maniac is quite thorough, I can imagine each lime quite clearly. He¡¯s set some buckets and baubles off to the side, probably the next set of pieces for the puzzle. ¡°Seeing this ritual is worth more than everything else today combined. Anything from here on is worth its weight in gold. Hopefully more than enough for the therapy, too,¡± he laughs. I glance up at George again, curious. He finishes the thought. ¡°Rumor has it that the summoning has a certain chance to become permanent, and that once a boss is fully realized, it¡¯ll be able to erase player characters. We¡¯re playing with fire,¡± despite that, he almost seems to relax as he speaks, a form of determination creeping into his features, ¡°but when the time comes, we¡¯ll be able to weight the game¡¯s future on what we know.¡± Uncle Fazio¡¯s voice rings out. ¡°All pertinent information gathered from here on is to be treated as a Class Three secret until further notice.¡± Zwei etches out sharp lines on the wooden stage, cutting an intricate pattern dashing from candle to candle. The paint is an awful shade of red, and I don¡¯t care to speculate how it was collected. ¡°Everyone who has left so far has been escorted out of the grounds, along with the non-VIP crowd. You may now use the entire premises as necessary, but I don¡¯t recommend leaving the tent before we get a handle on the monster.¡± Zwei spreads cloves of a plant I don¡¯t recognize all around the circle without any particular pattern, though he seems to maintain a pretty even proportion. As he puts on the finishing touches, lighting the candles and shoving about the potpourri Uncle Fazio continues his thought. ¡°Your primary objective is survival, hold on for as long as you can. We want to force the Boss to reveal at least a little of its true nature. Certain deciphered Ancient Lore books imply that it has more than one form.¡± Ein returns to centerstage, and after a brief exchange, he and Zwei line up on either side of the runic hexagon. ¡°While your characters are almost certainly safe, our mages have so such luck; the spell will terminate these two characters immediately. While the requirements to perform the ritual aren¡¯t exceptionally high, this is still a costly endeavor, and one I¡¯m not keen to repeat. Put another way, this is your one shot. Please brace for impact.¡± The room falls silent, and the Unemployed Maniacs begin to dance, skipping about the outside, then hopping within, feet placed clear of any of the markings. An inordinately precise game of hopscotch begins, the two spiraling in and around the hexagon, sometimes completely outside, others so close in the center they nearly touch, but never touching, and never stopping. ¡°To you, I grant my mortal flesh, an open door,¡± a voice says, an unnerving, perfectly synchronized harmony. I shudder to think how long they practiced to get it right. The dance intensifies, the two whirling and flourishing. A pair of opposing candles die without provocation, wick covered in soot, as if they¡¯d burned out hours ago. The whole scene threatens to spook me, but whenever I think about the unholy crybaby the ritual¡¯s dedicated to, the fear fades. ¡°He Who Cries Unseen¡± isn¡¯t the Developers¡¯ best work. The duo speaks again, unified voice ringing out once more. ¡°To you, I grant my mortal soul, a meal freely given,¡± Another pair of candles pop out, leaving only two. The dance seems to grow more violent, more frenetic, Ein and Zwei thrusting themselves into the movement, as though they¡¯ve lost control of their body. Actually, that may not be far from the truth, given the terms of the summoning. ¡°Unto this Plane do I call He Who Cries Unseen, Duke of Regret!¡± ¡°He Who Cries Unseen!¡± They shout, and the final candles cut, the whole tent shaking inexplicably, ¡°He Who Cries Unseen!¡± ¡­ The shaking stops, and the two men fall down in unison. Rather, they just topple, like a marionette with cut strings, momentum vanishing entirely. No one seems to know how to react, shifting uncomfortably, maybe wondering if the summoning was a failure. That is, until Ein and Zwei begin to fly, zipping about through the air. ¡°We¡¯ve got to move!¡± Chief shouts, and before I have time to react, he¡¯s hoisted me over a shoulder. He takes off, throwing himself up the seats and stairs, completely unconcerned with silly little things like ¡®walkways¡¯. Dangling and flailing, I get a good look at the stage- and, coincidentally, the flying men. In particular, I see Zwei in all of his glory as he flies towards us, flung in an arc over us. George takes off, too, getting a decent head-start. Glory is, perhaps, the wrong descriptor. He has a massive hole in his chest, roughly triangular, with every organ in the way severed and split aside, as though somee had simply shoved the viscera out of the way. Blood trailed over us as he flew, and I had to look away- back down at the stage, where a nasty splotch of blood levitates near the floor, suspended on something. Something Unseen. ¡°It¡¯s corporeal, pop the pouches!¡± Fazio¡¯s voice calls through the tent. I¡¯m not precisely sure who to- everyone¡¯s fucking panicking, and for good reason. I cringe as a far-off player gets skewered by an invisible something, their body flying off into the air seemingly unaided. Chief begins to swerve and twist, desperately dodging something he can¡¯t see- and right on time, judging by the seats and stone that get split in two, silently sliced open by the sharpest something I¡¯ve ever seen. It¡¯s hot on our tail, the stadium earning new perforations in quick succession, all uncomfortably close to my, and Chief¡¯s, head. An alarming number of people are already flicking about in the air, far less fortunate. Something I can only describe as powdered sugar starts to rain from the roof. When I look up, I can see them- pouches sewn into the tent, fed by twine and popped by some form of makeshift firecrackers. We, and the monster, are treated to snowfall, and a vague shape begins to form above us, the strange image made from only the top slice of a three-dimensional creature. Thankfully, it doesn¡¯t seem to be that complex. I¡¯m given an immediate impression of a spider made of pyramids, sharp edges cut into every side, eight jagged legs. That much would be fine if each leg didn¡¯t have eight smaller legs of its own, all jagged and uncomfortably flexible. The tendrils immediately above us swing away, raking scores through the tent roof in apparent retaliation, granting brief respite. Chief keeps climbing, and we make good progress, finally reaching ground level. My blood pumps hard; it¡¯s only been seconds since the beginning of the encounter, but I already feel like I¡¯ve run a damn marathon. I¡¯m starting to see why no one¡¯s beaten the first mini-boss yet: The Developers are sadists. Out of the blue Chief falls, and I go flying, tumbling head-over-heels. I spot a white tendril overhead, Fazio ducking into the entrance ¡®hall¡¯, George sprinting away without looking back, the flowery Druid from before being hoist into the air on a candy cane spike and then Chief, behind me, tripped over a newly deposited corpse. He doesn¡¯t have a chance to move as the suspended tendril slams down, turning the two bodies into a shish kebab. I slam down hard on my stomach, and I activate Maneuver immediately, flipping onto me feet. Facing the wrong direction and with nasty aches, but on my feet. I whip around, tumbling into a sprint, my Shrike body not daring to demonstrate even the slightest hint of rebellion. I¡¯ve died once. It wasn¡¯t pleasant, but it was over in an instant. So, then, this must be what a slow death feels like. My heart is ready to burst. My head feels as if it¡¯s about to pop. My blood is boiling, desperate to escape a fate that I can¡¯t hope to outrun. My body is playing nice, but so what? I¡¯ve outrun some ¡®casuals¡¯ and ¡®pubbies¡¯, not a giant overleveled death-monster. I contemplate letting it kill me, if only to end it now, but I persevere, sprinting past the danger and into the entrance hall. I¡¯m out the other side in a heartbeat. A couple of people stand off to the side, watching for the powdery white shape of the monster. The sky is a little dusky. I whip around, dodging towards the stalls. I can afford to abuse my body a little more, I¡¯m small enough to ignore some of that nasty inertia, and with luck, I can use the canvas and wood as cover. I make it under a table, dashing for the next tent over. I can¡¯t hear the monster coming, but that¡¯s no proof it¡¯s not there. George is further away, out of breath. He stares at me, wide-eyed. No, at the monster immediately behind me. He starts to move his jaw, as if to shout something. I let go, rolling to my left and dropping to my right. I skid, and I watch as a vague white shape splits the world where I was moments prior. I try to climb to hands and feet, looking above me. A tendril snakes slowly over, really floating my way in just seconds, but it feels like an hour, and it gets ready to skewer my poor body, but it shoots away, off back towards the tent. I hear shouting and explosions. When I¡¯m back to my feet I look over to the tent. The two people I saw hiding near the tent are spread out, one to one side and one to the other. They juggle fireballs and thunder-bolts keeping it busy, running and spreading out whenever it comes too near. A few other players try to join in, to mixed effect. One is speared before they can even begin to react, throwing everyone into disarray. To the braves¡¯ credit, the plan seems to be working. They have the beast¡¯s full attention, but it can¡¯t seem to catch any of them. Classic MMORPG tactic. I run away, not stopping until I¡¯m at least past George, finally looking behind once more. The beast had a vaguely cylindrical core. Now, that core is split in half, not unlike a cracked egg. The powdered portions spread further and further away, as though it¡¯s growing. One by one the mages are caught and skewered, limp bodies joining the rest of the unfortunate many in the sky. I spot Chief¡¯s corpse, along with his neighbor, lashing through the air, a flag on a peculiarly flexible flagpole. I start running again, still looking over my shoulder, but eventually, I give up on that. Revealed from thin air, a crimson-red seed slowly appears in the air, a narrow oval of color that had been somehow concealed by the invisible creature¡¯s shell, hanging in the air. The seed seems to be another shell of sorts, but when it fully opens, I realize it¡¯s something much more mundane. An eyelid. He Who Cries Unseen finally opens its eye, singular, and stares out over the horizon, gazing emotionally at the sunset. It has a beady little red dot for a pupil, the only blemish on a perfectly white sclera. I fall to my knees. The monster¡¯s pupil shakes wildly. Black liquid congeals at the base of its eye, eventually forming one big teardrop, splashing to the ground. I¡¯m mesmerized, perfectly aware of the ground shaking itself apart and my mind screaming, yet unable or unwilling to move. The pupil stops shaking, instead contracting, focused perfectly in the middle of the eye. The ground stops shaking; instead, the creature shakes and shivers, undulating, like a wave is spreading through the whole creature. The teardrops continue to fall. The eye darts all around. It flicks to a man running away, and his head pops off, neck totally severed by an invisible force. It darts to George, who is similarly mesmerized. His stomach is pierced straight through, and he joins the sky. It looks over to me, and I try to move, but I can¡¯t, I¡¯m already flying away. Almost after the fact, I feel the Shrike¡¯s nerves scream, tough skin and organs ripping apart all at once. I watch as the remaining humans join us, each survivor rapidly run through, as if their survival thus far had been a fluke, a joke. I can¡¯t see anything, anymore. ¡­ The real world doesn¡¯t look quite right when I rip my helmet off. I navigate out of the web of wires, hardly bothering to put up my interface. I¡¯m not quitting, again- that¡¯d be silly. I¡¯m definitely not working with George¡¯s gang for a bit, if only for my mental health, but I won¡¯t let the Developers beat me. I¡¯m done playing for the evening, but that¡¯s entirely unrelated, probably. I drift through the halls on autopilot, eventually finding my room, and in it, my computer. With a few taps and a clack, I bring up dSE, thinning out my peering network as far as it can go- given that America is a Clearnet country and I live on the grid, that should mean the whole planet. I type in ¡°He Who Cries Unseen¡±. Tons of results come up, but then I start to narrow the search. Slowly, those results peel away, the metrics honing in on exactly the context I want. Eventually, I¡¯ve got the perfect search. The perfect search with zero results. As I described, defined, and contextualized it, ¡°He Who Cries Unseen¡± simply does not exist. That could mean one of two things: One, someone¡¯s got an omnipotent bug that¡¯s actively censoring the search, yet has never been discovered. Two, Uncle Fazio was dead serious about how secretive the information was. In either case, the ultimate conclusion is that I can¡¯t find it, not at all. I can¡¯t sleep. I don''t sleep. 6/THE CATCH, OR THE FIRST STRIKE A scene like the Serengeti. Wind blows strong through tall grasses, sometimes granting peaks at the dirt below, a mess of lime-green and yellow and clay-red. The beautiful monotony is broken by scattered plains-trees poking out like overgrown mushrooms. Further away, distant walls of stone, plateaus grant an abrupt stop to an otherwise endless horizon. From where I stand, it would be to treat it like a painting, dead but pretty, yet the ecosystem is very much alive. The game spares no expense, simulating every aspect of a natural world, much to the confusion of good chunk of the player-base. Not me- however insane the Developers might be, it¡¯s comforting to know that at least one of them understands the importance of the untouched wild. It¡¯s remarkably quiet for something in motion. Devoid of the songbirds you¡¯d expect to see frequenting a deciduous forest, there is no song, and the infinite array of animals within are habitually quiet, afraid of attracting predators. When I look closely, though, I spot streaks of grey and brown, creatures moving silently through the grass. Particularly strong gusts reveal familiar shapes- fat quadrupeds with swishing tails, and the compact carnivores stalking them, tall runner-birds looking about, ready to bolt at any sign of trouble¡­ Together, the animals are the cogs of a breathing machine, a living ecosystem, completely apart from the illusions of grandeur you expect from humans and monsters alike. I stop gazing off at the wild, turning my attention somewhere much closer. A girl peaks nervously out of a nearby bush, none too happy to see me. She¡¯s young, somewhere near my age, and since no NPC would be this afraid of a little bird-monster, I¡¯m pretty sure she¡¯s a real player. She¡¯s got a travel bag on her back, slung over a remarkably fashionable blue tunic. It should hang off her like a burlap sack, oversized and unfitted, but she strapped a wide belt over it, and complimented with tall boots and well-made trousers, she somehow manages to make it look more like some sort of trendy retro-chic combo than the genuinely medieval outfit it is. When she notices my gaze, she dodges away into the bush, just out of sight. Done with that, I look down. It''s certainly a ¡®magical circle¡¯. Instead of the occult geometry I¡¯ve come to expect from certain people, it¡¯s a simple affair. A single symbol is inscribed, one I recognize, the alchemical symbol for Sulfur. It¡¯s pretty much just a triangle drawn atop a plus symbol, with the triangle drawn around where I was summoned, as if to cage me. In other words, it¡¯s complete amateur work. More curiously, it wasn¡¯t drawn using sulfur. It wasn¡¯t even drawn in blood for that matter, the burgundy red substituted for some strange blue compound. Curious, I reach out a hand, bracing myself for a reaction. I can feel the barrier, definitely, but there¡¯s no violent rejection. It could cage me for a good while, but I suspect that given enough time, I could probably break myself free. Pop the shield, murder my summoner, go off to run free in the wilderness, a simple plan. I might even find some other players to mess with, interrogate them on how to get to level two, who knows? It¡¯d be the right thing to do, in-character, but there¡¯s a big problem. Something you can¡¯t account for on paper, even. I don¡¯t want to kill anyone. Sure, I cried all my morals out after stabbing that one NPC, and players don¡¯t even perma-die, and their bodies burst into smoke¡­ Alright, fine, I don¡¯t want to kill my summoner in particular. She¡¯s cute! Super cute! If I kill such a pleasant creature, my heart might burst for real. It¡¯s entirely possible, or even probable that she¡¯s a Mute, it¡¯s the principle of the thing that matters. It¡¯d be like shooting a puppy. Her face is babyish and button-nosed, and it¡¯s complimented with tomboyish hair, pure-black bangs hanging over one of her hazel-green eyes. I can¡¯t imagine her as anything other than the ¡®punk girl¡¯ type, but even the way that her appearance contrasts with that personality sounds cute. I wonder if she expected to get a successful summon at all? When I was picking who summoned me, I went for the weakest tug I could find, for obvious reasons- the best way to avoid getting roped into another nightmare-inducing horror-fest is to avoid the top players, including and especially the Dark Gamers. I stare hard at the bush and pull up the menu, letting my hand fall to my side. When I flip to voice, she pops right up as a target. I wonder how stealth works for PvP? Maybe it¡¯s because I knew where she was already? Setting aside those thoughts, I speak. ¡°Why have you summoned me?¡± The girl throws herself out of the bush, back-first. She lands a few feet away, the spongy dirt granting a little thud. Without delay, she throws a hand out in front of her. Her fingers curve in, like pretending to claw something or gripping a doorknob tightly, and she wraps her other hand around her wrist. A spark appears, floating near her palm, and a jet of flame shoots violently away, slamming into the bush. Even as green as it is, the fire takes, smoke rolling off into the sky. The flame smolders but doesn¡¯t spread, the rest of the bush still wet enough to avert a wildfire. There¡¯s a long moment, then, almost entirely still. She lays still, panting, probably waiting for the reveal of whatever monster had such a horrid voice. When nothing comes, she slowly turns to look over at me, rolling from her back to her side. Her eyes scan me, searching, and I do my best impression of a gargoyle, curling my claws as I stare down my beak at her, haughty. I¡¯m a real summoned monster! First impressions are important. ¡°W-Was that you?¡± Her voice is odd, just a little bit too high-pitched for her frame and more sing-song-y than I¡¯d expect from her aesthetic, but it¡¯s decidedly feminine, ruling out a Mute. The game picks up your real voice, and short of using a ¡®voice-changer¡¯ like mine, guys playing as girls have problems maintaining their disguise. I incline my head gently, flexing my feathers in place of a formal bow. To my surprise, they kindly obey, and I think I like the effect, a brief ruffling across my body. I might be getting the hang of the whole Shrike thing after all. There¡¯s another pause as the girl pulls herself together, piece by piece, until she¡¯s finally on her feet once more. She seems to take the idea of a talking summon remarkably well, which is either a good sign for my disguise¡¯s longevity or a tip-off that she¡¯s gullible enough to buy it. I know demons are supposed to talk, but I can¡¯t imagine being confronted with a telepathic bird-goblin. Looking at her standing for the first time, I get a better feeling for her. She¡¯s doesn¡¯t seem to be much older than me, and only a little taller than I am in real life, though certain curves imply she might be a bit more mature than she looks. Recovered and ready, she throws out her hand, and a contract floats into the air. It unfurls in front of me, pulling up the appropriate box.
Participants Alexis Firebrand v the Shrike
Terms - Task ¡°Kill Ten Tuskats¡± must be completed within a day. - The Contractor must not seek to injure the Contractee.
Grade Gramma
Penalty Instant termination of benefits and removal from mortal realm.
Accept Decline
More Greek. The number of terms dropped, and I can see a pretty immediate issue with these particular terms, but I don¡¯t see anything negative on my end, so I might as well go for it. The girl- no, Alexis, seems nervous, watching intently to see if I accept it, and when I do, she sighs in relief. That¡¯s a mistake, you know? I wonder if this might be why they threw Contract Law into the Data Training Program, to equip people for these sorts of oversights. The scroll bursts into flame. With it, the binding triangle¡¯s hold falls away, and I step right out. I guess Alexis was struggling with an elimination quest. Thinking it through, I haven¡¯t seen any other people or buildings around, though that may just be a consequence of my relatively short stature. ¡°Where are we? Relative to Bracken,¡± I ask. She flinches hard. It takes a moment for the surprise to wear away to confusion, still not used to my voice. ¡°Bracken?¡± She asks. I start to answer her question, but she throws both hands out ahead over her, recoiling. ¡°Stop, I got it, don¡¯t talk,¡± she says, ¡°nod if you get what I¡¯m saying.¡± I do, and she relaxes a bit. ¡°Alright. I¡¯ve only heard of Bracken from the forums, but I think we¡¯re, say, 200 miles away? Is that what you wanted to know?¡± I¡¯m not sure what I wanted, exactly. 200 ¡®miles¡¯ is a pretty good frame of reference, but it doesn¡¯t give me a heading, and it doesn¡¯t tell me much about the geography. In the end, I don¡¯t think quizzing her would do any good. She may not know either of those things, and if she¡¯s uncomfortable with my voice, I¡¯m just liable to put her on guard. ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s¡­ try to work with nodding, at least for now.¡± She says, shivering, ¡°I¡¯m not sure how a little body like that throws out such a fucked-up voice. Do all Summoners have to deal with this shit?¡± I shake my head. ¡°That was a rhetorical question.¡± Alexis says, smiling. ¡°You¡¯ve got a sense of humor, huh?¡± I nod, and she freezes. ¡°Just my luck, try a summoning ritual and I get a sentient.¡± She squints at me. ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to be more dangerous? You don¡¯t look particularly strong.¡± That¡¯s where she¡¯s wrong. I could demonstrate by skewering her, given the right abuse of contract, but that¡¯d probably kill her, assuming she didn¡¯t get me first. So, instead, I decide on a much more sensible demonstration. Flexing my human muscles, I force my Shrikely forearms to bend, swinging them about. Alexis watches, mesmerized, but by the time I get them flexing and twirling like noodle helicopter blades, she¡¯s nauseous. ¡°Stopstopstop,¡± she says, clutching at her mouth, ¡°You¡¯re dangerous! I get it!¡± Triumph! You never know when things will come in handy. I let my arms spin down and drop them to my side. Either mollified or afraid what more questioning might bring, she simply beckons. ¡°Let¡¯s just get this over with. I¡¯ve already killed three Tuskats, so you can count those to your total, or whatever.¡± Alexis turns, strutting away hurriedly. I try not to stare as I follow along behind her. As for the Tuskats, I¡¯ve never heard of them. With my luck, they¡¯re probably enormous and absolutely covered in eyes, but I choose to be optimistic. I can¡¯t say traveling the plains is very interesting. Without roads or clearings, the grass surrounds us, and as soon as we get off the gentle hill I was summoned on, we¡¯re practically head-deep in the stuff. Sometimes my Shrikely ears pick up the sound of distant scurrying, but we don¡¯t get to see any, and after about ten minutes on high alert, I get bored. I decide to check my status. Just to see.
Name Shrike HP 5/5 MP 1/1 LV 001
Summoner Alexis Firebrand
Class SUMMONED MONSTER
Appearance YOUNG SHRIKE MALE
Race SHRIKE (¦Ä-)
Learned Skills ¡°Apex Claws¡±, ¡°Maneuver(I)¡±
Nope, I haven¡¯t leveled yet. I¡¯m not sure how I do a ¡®Race Up¡¯, or how I age up my appearance, but I guess it¡¯s still a bit too early to be worrying about things like that. I got a mana back, so at least there¡¯s that. I was getting a bit worried the budget-grade contract would decide to short me the point. All in all, though, nothing too interesting. Curious, I hit one ofthe extrabutton on my menu, a little dictionary icon; a text box marked ''Define'' appears, and I try entering "Tuskats".
Tuskat are a small feline race. Carnivorous, Quadruped. Augmented access to Feline, Lance. Common Knowledge: Tuskat make poor pets. Tuskat are remarkably top-heavy as kittens. Tuskat pelts polish up nicely.
Define seems to be easier to use than''Help'', though I do wonder why there''s two definition functionsat all. So, predatory cats with long tusks and shiny pelts? Sounds about right, given the setting. The fact that quadrupeds get ¡®Lance¡¯ access is a bit hilarious whenI think about it. If I could look up the Tuskats, then, maybe I can get some information on myself?
Shrike are a small harpy race. Carnivorous, Bipedal. Augmented access to Avian, Needle, Mobile. Common Knowledge: Shrikes are an immediate threat and should be dealt with as such. Do not feed a Shrike, it may follow you home. Shrike claws become incredibly sharp when treated properly.
Avian, Needle, Mobile? A fast bird with needle-like claws? Seems accurate enough. At the same time, I¡¯m not sure if I appreciate the hostility. Why are all three sentences describing common knowledge about the Shrike essentially a call for slaughter? Still, at least I know not to get too cozy with NPCs now. Well, what if I looked up something else? Something a bit less pedestrian?
ERROR: He Who Cries Unseen has no data.
No dice. I''m surprised they don''t have any info on their first boss, but I guess the Developers want it all under lock and key until the main event happens. The playerbase is in for a shock, that''s for sure. What if I- ¡°You bailed me out,¡± Alexis says, ¡°When I fought a few of these things on my own, it didn¡¯t end too pretty. I''ve got the power, but...¡± Hurriedly, I close out the screen. We¡¯re in the middle of a clearing, a muddy stretch devoid of creatures and plants alike. Rocks jut up out of the ground, and I see scattered flecks of white, probable remnants of past hunts. Further away, the wild grasses return, but even taller, some even past Alexis¡¯ height. Summing it up, we¡¯ve wandered into a predator¡¯s home, one with a natural enclosure and no easy line of sight outwards. Considering the nature of big cats, it might even be a whole den of them. Curious that we haven¡¯t run into one already. On the up-side, we¡¯ll probably get the quest done really quickly. On the downside, we¡¯re in the middle of Tuskat central, with no plan, no practice, and no idea when or where they¡¯ll come from. I¡¯m not sure if Alexis is stupid or just that damn confident. I¡¯m tempted to get angry, but when I look up at her, I can¡¯t muster it. ¡°Well, now we wait. It shouldn¡¯t be lo- ¡° A rustle in the grass; claws digging at dirt. I hear the creature coming before I see it. I launch myself at Alexis, catching her by the knees. Even with my diminutive size, the sudden tackle catches her off-guard, and she hits the ground, her feet swept out from below. A decent chunk of her weight falls on my back, and I quickly pull myself out, barely turning in time to watch a big cat fly overhead. Two menacing tusks protrude from its jowl like fangs, and it skewers the air Alexis occupied not moments before. I look over to her, watching the anger change to surprise. She reacts in force, twisting toroidally, back on her hands and knees in the briefest instant. The Tuskat lands with admirable grace, claws sinking lightly into the dirt. The creature throws itself away into the brush, vanishing; I can hear it go, but as it slinks away deeper and deeper in the wilderness, I lose track of it entirely. Alexis is standing. I join her. My body aches a little already, probably because tiny, hollow-boned bird-goblins aren¡¯t supposed to launch themselves at a human head-first. I ignore the dull sensation, pulling myself taut and preparing myself to respond to their next attack. ¡°Close one,¡± she says. I feel her behind me, her back pressing up to mine. Given our height difference, it¡¯s not really back-to-back, and I ignore the sensation studiously, but the notion is the same. We¡¯ve got to work together to get this done, and she trusts me to do my part. I hear another sound. 6 O¡¯clock, another Tuskat ready to fling itself our way. It¡¯s fast, already in the air- I pull away from Alexis in a panic, ready to shove her out of the way. I watch a bout of flame lash out from her outstretched hand. It slams into the flying feline, the force of the impact still not enough to stop it entirely as it tumbles through the air towards us. The cat¡¯s tusks gouge two long lines through the mud as it skids along, limp form sliding our way. As if for good measure, Alexis shoots another javelin of fire at it. I admire her handiwork, impressed. The smoldering remains don¡¯t look particularly edible, and I can¡¯t say we¡¯re going to have much luck with gathering up the pelts. I whirl around. Another Tuskat dashes into the clearing, this time from the side, dashing towards Alexis while she¡¯s preoccupied. I dash to her side, aiming to intercept. The cat clears the gap with alarming speed, certain to skewer her in moments. Hands twisted into their needle-like form, I jab at the creature as it passes. Both hands break flesh, scoring the beast. My left-hand catches muscle, and I feel the pressure as it sinks deep into the cat¡¯s shoulder. Simultaneously, the right catches rib, sliding away harmlessly. The Tuskat staggers mid-sprint. One leg is caught and held still by my obtrusive claws, but with the grace that only a natural carnivore can muster, it compensates nearly instantly, loping on three. My body is too light to slow it down, dragged along as it dragging from it tries to finish its nearly completed mad dash. I stab at its stomach again, but my claw bounces harmlessly. What do I do? What could I do? I invoke Maneuver, forcing mana into my arm. My teeny Shrike muscles bulge with stress as I tug hard. My body lifts off the ground, floating. The extra weight pulls at the cat¡¯s balance, forcing weight onto its skewered leg, but I don¡¯t let myself stop with just that. I muster all the strength I can in the arm, curling my body into the air- until I cross the threshold, my weight slamming down onto the big cat¡¯s back.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. I clamp my legs hard, straddling as though I¡¯m riding it. Situated, I slam my right needle into its other shoulder, catching the bulging muscle as deeply as I can. The Tuskat screams in agony as it tries to run along, a high-pitch yowl. Alexis swings around quickly, arm-cannon outstretched- only to find a toppled cat not but a foot away, and the Shrike strapped along its back. Her eyes go wide. ¡°Holy shit,¡± she says, watching as the its hind legs scramble aimlessly through the air, unable to pull itself up without its fore pair. ¡°What did you do to the poor thing?¡± I blink up at her. She burnt a creature alive, and I¡¯m the bad guy for a little bit of shish kebab action? Give me a break. Alright, fine, one of these two things are a lot more up-close and personal than the other, but it¡¯s the same thing, in principle. I don¡¯t think there are animal cruelty laws in Great Crusade Online anyway, especially not for monsters trying to kill you. I yank my right hand free, sending it straight through the creature¡¯s neck. In a moment, it stops flailing, and I find my way to my feet, relaxing my hands. The red of blood and the white of each of the claws spiral together, like a map of where they pull together to form needles. Alexis mumbles ¡°Dangerous indeed,¡± and turns around, staring pointedly out at yonder grass. I hurry over Alexis and line up back-to-back, listening intently for the next Tuskat. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if something nastier came at us, the wild has a lot of things that might go after a fresh corpse in a world of risky meals. Ideally, we¡¯d move somewhere else, but at this point, it¡¯s probably too risky- some warning is better than no warning. Sure enough, I can hear a rustling in the grass. It¡¯s off to the left, and as I turn to face it, Alexis feels me move and follows suit. She lines up her arm-cannon, and we weight, tense. Another cat dashes towards up, popping out of the grass. Twisted tusks and gnarled, skin pock-marked with particularly nasty scars, this Tuskat has seen many battles past. I decide to face it head-on, bracing for the unlikely eventuality that it survives a certain Firebrand¡¯s magic. Then, I hear rustling, this time from behind me. I start to turn, only to hear another- now, to the far side. An ambush. I tugat Alexis¡¯ leg, hurriedly bringing up my voice- ¡°Run!¡± The surprise throws off her aim, and she misses, but it¡¯s a small loss if we can get out of the center. She follows along, distractedly, lining up another shot as she moves. The Tuskats coalesce behind us, a de-facto pack of three at our heels, the gnarled Tuskat taking a brief lead. They¡¯re faster than we can hope to be, or at least my summoner could hope to be; they¡¯re gaining ground fast. Alexis abandons her shot entirely, turning to run away more intently. We¡¯re running out of clearing, now. One hand over her shoulder, she slaps her pack open and rifles through it. Out comes a scrap of paper, no bigger than an index card, and she casts it away, letting it land just ahead of the oncoming cats. ¡°Fire¡¯s Bulwark!¡± A thin line of mud bursts into flame, two meters long and gently curved. It doesn¡¯t look particularly intimidating, a little smoldering thing that you could step right over. The gnarled Tuskat stops itself in a hurry, claw biting ground, growling at the others- but they respond too little, too late. My supposition is immediately, violently, proved incorrect. The Bulwark is, in fact, a wall. Invisible threads of flame catch the cats, a net of fresh burns crisscrossing their faces and forelimbs. Slowly, almost gently, they¡¯re pushed back, momentum denied, dumping them to the ground. Alexis slams one of the two downed cats with a fire lance immediately, putting it out of its misery- the other is up in an instant. The two survivors split up, wounded specimen swinging wide to the left, towards Alexis, the other running to the right, towards me. Powerful muscles, taut, hindlegs forward, forelegs to hind, launching itself around the shield, finding its way to me, one leap after another. Finishing its turn, it sprints dead for me, and I, in turn, run towards it. Quickly, feverishly, I pull up my-
Name Shrike HP 4/5 MP 1/1 LV 001
Summoner Alexis Firebrand
Class SUMMONED MONSTER
Appearance YOUNG SHRIKE MALE
Race SHRIKE (¦Ä-)
Learned Skills ¡°Apex Claws¡±, ¡°Maneuver(I)¡±
I wave it away. I have the info, now I¡¯ve just got to execute. The pressure is on. The gnarled Tuskat is damned fast, my window to react closing, hardly a meter between us. I stiff-leg it, letting my foot skim across the dirt, and bounce. Two heels shoved down hard, a quick leap. It¡¯s not a very high jump, but it doesn¡¯t need to be. Sure, my torso lines up pretty cleanly with the cat¡¯s tusks, but it gives me a pristine opportunity. My body tips forward as I fly forward, the jump turning headlong. Claws twisted tight, I aim straight for the its eyes. In turn, the Tuskat barrels forward. The dash is far too fast to stop entirely, but creature¡¯s battle-senses are honed enough that it reacts, almost autonomously. Twisting its head, the cat snaps fangs down hard on the wrist of my left hand. Searing, debilitating pain shoots to my brain instantly, utterly demolishing my resolve. This sort of pain would kill any plan, end any effort- I can¡¯t hope to control myself finely enough to follow through. That¡¯s why I¡¯m not the one at the reigns. Maneuver drives my right-hand needle straight through the cat¡¯s eye. Catching it from the side, the needle drives home, slamming hard into the Tuskat¡¯s lacrimal complex- it doesn¡¯t stop, sharp point and the weight of the blow forcing it through. In the briefest instant, the needle pops out the other side, taking the other eye with it. My body completes its flight, landing hard, dangling from my hand and propelled off to the side. The cat proves to be the heavier of us two, and when it stumbles, we spin across the mud, both limp. The blinded Tuskat bucks and kicks, biting desperately at the air, probably hoping to catch my right arm more thoroughly. I can hardly manage to focus through the agony, grinding my entrapped hand around the socket, providing an avenue for crimson outflow. The blood loss catches fast, or the shock, and the cat loses grip and topples once more writhing on the ground, as if to grind off a tick. My shoulder dislocates, squished down at an odd angle, and for some reason that hurts more than losing the hand. Finally, some while later, the creature stops moving entirely; the Tuskat stills. Time is thin, I¡¯m not sure if it took moments or minutes, but it¡¯s out of commission. Somewhere between the blood loss and the trauma, it¡¯s dead or dying, with myself dying atop it, wracked with pain. Blistering doesn¡¯t begin to describe it. Incineration, impalement? Quick deaths, easy deaths. You¡¯re dead, the sensations cut off, you can just log out. I¡¯m stuck here with one hand in a feline, one hand discarded on the ground, and I can¡¯t really do anything about it. I cringe through it all, eyes shut tight. Quiet, twitching. ¡°Son of a bitch¡­ you¡¯re, still,¡± says someone or another, far off in the distance. I can¡¯t particularly make out what they¡¯re saying, nor do I care. I can feel my body, jostled around, even if I can¡¯t tell how or why it¡¯s moving. The pain vanishes. Not entirely- I¡¯m still acutely aware of the missing hand, for instance- but it¡¯s more like a bruise or a burn than nuclear liquification. I open my eyes, wary, cautious. I¡¯m face-down in the mud, but alive enough. I pull my left arm under me, shoving myself up, using my elbow like a crutch- my right shoulder catches, probably still caught in the Tuskat¡¯s body, but I manage to twist until I¡¯m on my knees. Alexis is bent over me, studying my wounds. Her face is torn between utter disgust and worry- for a monster, no less. I¡¯d be worried for her sanity, but considering I¡¯m on the receiving end, it¡¯s probably best not to question it. ¡°Those potions are expensive, you know?¡± She says, as if a Shrike really should know. ¡°There¡¯s only one decent Alchemist on the whole continent! Well, who will circulate them to people like me, anyway.¡± I look at my missing hand- it¡¯s still gone, but practically cauterized, wound no longer fresh or leaking. Smaller aches and breaks have vanished entirely, and the pain¡¯s departure probably had something to do with escaping the critically low HP state. I blink up at her. She used a potion on a summon? Not the best choice, even if she needs extra hands on deck. Considering her still emboweled bowels, it looks like she finished off her cat, so that leaves two. Shouldn¡¯t she be able to clear the rest alone? I¡¯m a reluctant to tip my hand, but I¡¯m a bit indebted- this is the first time I haven¡¯t been summoned and left to die horribly. ¡°I know your Alchemist.¡± I say. ¡°What?¡± She says, confused- just confused, she might actually be getting used to my voice. ¡°I don¡¯t believe that for a second.¡± Oh well. No point in pushing it, I decide to change the subject.¡°How¡¯s your mana?¡± ¡°I¡¯m about out, especially after popping that scroll. I¡¯ll need a couple of minutes to regen.¡± She says, worried. Speaking of which, how is she casting so much at a time? I don¡¯t think she¡¯s that high level. The Flame Bulwark in particular stood out. ¡°What was with the scroll?¡± She stands up, looking around. A chunk of tall grass burned away, caught in the crossfire- we¡¯re lucky it¡¯s wet season, otherwise we¡¯d be smothered in flame by now. I wonder if this particular savannah even has ¡®dry seasons¡¯. ¡°You can diagram spells to cast them quick. Cost goes up, cast time goes way down.¡± I file that away for later use. Free information is nice! Thanks, casual playerbase. ¡°We should probably get moving away. This place isn¡¯t worth the risk.¡± She turns back to me, grinning. ¡°Your arm is in a cat.¡± Alexis is incredibly observant, to catch something even my Shrike-enhanced senses missed. I pull away from the corpse silently, trying to dislodge myself. I¡¯m stuck pretty deep. Wiggling and twisting seems to make a little progress, centimeter by centimeter. I can¡¯t say I like the look of my feathers matted in this much blood. They¡¯re entirely too slick, almost like it¡¯s supposed to be there. I bear down on the body, staring pointedly out and away as I work. Far, far off in the distance, I spot a lone bird, abnormally hefty and floating in a brief arc, a likely equivalent of the Kori. Heavy stomps strike ground at a tempered pace, far too relaxed to remind me of the Tuskat we¡¯ve been fighting. Whatever¡¯s coming, it¡¯s not going to be pretty. I pull harder, fighting to get myself free before it arrives, but I¡¯m out of time. Alexis notices my frantic pace and gaze, turning to look, too- Huge tusks cleave away the brush. They jut out so far that they seem to float in the air, hovering, but eventually a snout follows. Teeth, too jagged and wide for their mouth, whiskers big enough to see. The cat¡¯s face appears, a crescent scar cut deep down the one side, just shy of its eyes, eager, confident eyes. This may be a Tuskat, but if it is, it¡¯s by name only. For starters, it¡¯s at least twice the size of the ones we¡¯ve faced so far. Where the rest have resembled smaller wildcats, servals or cheetahs, this cat is clearly molded after the mighty Lion- complete with majestic mane and haughty disposition. He looks down at us from on high, already waiting for our surrender, as if we¡¯ll present ourselves on a platter. ¡°An Alpha,¡± Alexis says, pained, ¡°No one said jack shit about an Alpha,¡± Another shape follows. This cat is small, tiny in comparison; if the Alpha is a lion, this is a panther, a sleek murder-machine. She follows the Alpha in without production, silently following in tow. Emphasis on silently- her steps silent, her frame tight, drawn like a cloak, ready to disappear. Her tusks are long, sharp, and narrow, less cumbersome and far more visibly deadly. ¡°or, for that matter, a Beta. I better get comped for this.¡± Assuming she survives, that is. Again, I¡¯m forced to wonder if she¡¯s stupid or just that confident; even with the two of us, I feel like we¡¯re outnumbered. I¡¯m not sure how Tuskat culture works, but on the list of ¡®bad first impressions¡¯, ¡®caught with hand-needle jabbed through dead child¡¯s eyes¡¯ has to be somewhere near the top. Quietly, cautiously, I twist my hand, still in the process of wheedling it free. The movement attracts attention, and it¡¯s as if they notice the corpse for the first time. The Alpha stares straight at me, and I watch him put his haughty little cat-grin away, replacing it with snarl. Thoroughly vicious, it marks me as both an enemy and a threat. In other words, I¡¯m fucked. He takes a huge, heavy step my way. In the time the Alpha takes to make that step, the Beta is already half way to Alexis¡¯ throat. She rifles through her travel-bag hurriedly, dragging out an improbably long dagger. The two clash. The Beta slams into Alexis at speed, one tusk striking at her jugular, the other ajar, probably skewering her shoulder. As much time to prepare as she had, it¡¯s still hardly enough, and when Alexis smacks the cat¡¯s head away with the blunt side, the tusks skid by, grazing cloth and flesh. My hand slides free. I don¡¯t have time to worry about her; I look over to the Alpha. Even as slow as the Alpha is moving, if I leave him be, he¡¯ll probably meander over to Alexis and seal the deal. Together, they would be unstoppable enemies. Individually, they¡¯re just unfair. I right myself, suddenly woozy; the blood loss must have got me a bit worse that I thought. I walk toward the Alpha, then when my legs are cooperating nicely, I run at it. The cat¡¯s arrogance comes back in full force, and it watches me. Even if I hit it dead on, I might not leave a scratch. How can I kill something like this? Why would I even try? I change plans. Swerving, I start to trail around the Alpha, as if running laps, uncomfortably small gap between us, two meters at the most. Now I have the creature¡¯s full attention, and it halts, watching carefully for a chance to strike. its whole body slowly swinging to watch me, careful and anticipatory eyes patiently awaiting my attack. If it runs, it won¡¯t get away without repercussions, but if I go in for an assault, I¡¯m liable to die outright. He looks off toward Alexis and the Beta, eager to finish the fight- but trapped as we are, he can¡¯t be so bold. A stalemate. Ideally, I¡¯d run circles around it forever, and I try for the briefest minute. After a few loops, though, I notice that the Alpha is sidling closer, almost imperceptibly, towards the other two combatants. If I play keep away too long, and let him get much loser, he¡¯ll shift targets, and it¡¯ll be a moot point. This plan is a bust, but I like where it¡¯s going. What if I take it a step further? I slow down a bit, lulling the cat into some security. When it feels confident enough, and we¡¯ve slid even closer their way, he glances over to the other fight. I dash inwards once more, full blast. It takes a critical moment for the Alpha to glance back, to realize what is happening. Surprised or not, the cat reacts swiftly. He jerks his whole head around, leveling two fat tusks my way. If I keep running towards it, I¡¯ll be skewered for sure. That¡¯s the point of a surprise attack, though- he hasn¡¯t had time to process all of the dangers, especially not from a foreign monster. Muscle memory isn¡¯t worth much when you¡¯ve never fought a creature even vaguely resembling your enemy, you know? For example, I¡¯m small. Not so small that it mattered for the other Tuskat, but this specimen is so large, the difference in size can¡¯t be ignored. Before, I leaped over a cat- now, I slide below it, clearing his fore-paws before he figures out what¡¯s happening. Congratulations, you¡¯re under a big cat. Now what? I slide across the dirt. A happy, fat gut hangs away from the cat¡¯s ribs, a delightful target. More importantly, though, there¡¯s a good deal of integral anatomy that I can leverage. I hoped the Developers were excessive enough to go ¡®all the way¡¯ on the modeling; faith has been rewarded. Twisting my hand into a needle, I jab as hard as I can at the Alpha¡¯s royal jewels, wincing involuntarily. Almost instantly, he yowls in surprise and anguish, reeling back- forelegs come down hard on my spine as it lands, but the blow is unintentional, and the imbalance in footing is enough to topple the cat, tipping him to his side, right set of legs scratching aimlessly at the air. He moves faster than I do. Up in an instant, he twists and dives, a cobra strike. I panic, rolling to the other side, but it¡¯s too little too late, and one oversized tusk strikes a leg. The dull point crunches down hard, but it slides off as bone and muscle is pulverized, too wide to actually penetrate. I roll again, flopping the leg back under me, fighting my way into a kneel. It¡¯s broken, for sure. I¡¯m beset again by the sharp pain of yet another injury. The enraged Alpha whirls to strike again, but this time I¡¯m ready for him. Hand tight, borrowing his momentum, my hand dives deep into the oncoming cat¡¯s agape snout. It sinks ten odd centimeters before he realizes what¡¯s happening- caught by sharp teeth, he clamps down tight, seizing my needle before I can do any serious damage. My wrist buckles backwards. This is the first time I¡¯ve really failed to skewer with a direct hit, and it¡¯s the first time my wrist has had to bear the brunt of a misfire- unless the Shrike is secretly triple jointed, I have reason to believe that hand just got thrown on the pile of broken limbs. To make matters worse, the Alpha practically grins at me. My hand crushed tight, he slowly clambers to all fours, dragging most of my body into the air. It¡¯s a long moment, just me and my pain, probable karmic justice for conducting a low blow. I try to take the pressure off, grabbing at my wrist, only to remember that I have no hand to grab with. So, I hang, slapping weakly at the cat with my stub-arm. In an odd course of events, he tilts his head, and the pressure on the wrist fades a bit, arm sliding, my weight snapping it back in line. The pain even fades a bit, at least until the Alpha starts shaking me around like an oversized chewtoy. He bucks like a bronco, swinging his head from side to side. My body slams down in the mud for a painful instant before I¡¯m suspended in the air once more, practically floating. A second slam comes, and another, and another, an increasingly rapid succession of battery as the cat tosses me about. I fight to stretch my hand, to free it, to do anything- but the grip doesn¡¯t budge, and neither do my claws, entirely too sharp and chip-proof to give in. Ultimately, flesh and bone fail first. For the second time in one day, a hand pops off. I tumble across the clearing, too startled and dizzy to understand much of what I see. It takes a lot of rolling before my body stops, caught in a patch of dirt. Flecks of bone riddle the ground, patches of white. I¡¯m not sure what happens to my body after I die. I think I¡¯d pop into particles, just like any other player character. I may be playing a monster, but surely if you stuck around after death, some madman would try farming their own corpse to get free money. The Developers are alarmingly keen with that sort of thing, or so the stories go. More come by the week, but a fairly early legend was that of the Thousand Rats. An enterprising ranger noticed that NPCs studiously avoided touching rats and the corpses of rats, as did most monsters, as if they were hardcoded to do so. After some experimentation, he found that even carrion insects were averse to rat carcasses. He could make a circle of them, and the bugs would studiously refuse to touch a rat, even if it meant being trapped until they starved to death. Emboldened by this revelation, he decided to build a tower of dead rats, where he¡¯d shoot at mobs, effectively untouchable. As normal human beings do. Even as opportunists go, this ranger seems to be a bit of an extreme case- I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he turns up as part of Uncle Fazio¡¯s clique. In any case, it turns out that the monsters and NPCs weren¡¯t programmed to avoid rats at all. During the ¡®in-universe learning¡¯ period of the AI design process, creatures susceptible to a specific Curse the programmers threw into the game slowly began to avoid them entirely, for fear of triggering its effects. The ranger learned about that Curse the hard way. When the tower was assembled¡­ the Alpha¡¯s steps grow near. Near enough to stir my mind, bringing me back to (virtual) reality. Ignoring the pain, I shove myself out of the dirt, looking up at him. Hardly injured. Triumphant. He takes his time, step by slow step, as if to gloat, to prove that I¡¯ll die either way. I¡¯m never going to finish a contract, am I? Why do people play this game, again? Maybe I should have rerolled to a non-combat role. The Alpha stops right in front of me, grinning. He raises a huge paw- and is instantly blown away. Two jets of flame hit him, one after the other. A figure charges into view, still firing away. Alexis Firebrand, in the flesh. Hand alight with flame, the other clenched around a half-empty flask, purple liquid sloshing. Huge gashes trail down her clothes, blood from her belly- yet she still stands, evidently triumphant. ¡°See if I don¡¯t-¡° She stomps away, out of sight, but judging by her fury and the sound of crackling fur, not letting up on the volley. ¡°charge that stupid bastard for-¡° the cat¡¯s yowling stops, cut short. ¡°my goddamn potions, and shipping, and a convenience fee¡­¡± I totter back to my bum, sitting at last, and turn to look. She¡¯s already charbroiled the Alpha- It turns out that a pissed off mage is quite dangerous, who knew. Intimidating as she is, if I had to compare, Archstaff would probably mince her- and the oversized sabretooth- in a heartbeat. I wonder if he specializes in fire, too, or if it was just the convenient tool for the occasion. ¡°That makes ten?¡± I ask. It¡¯s hard to keep the pain out of my voice; I have no idea how my ¡®voicechanger¡¯ will affect the tenor, but it might make it come out wrong. ¡°That it does, though I handled most of them.¡± She says. Which is true, but I have my suspicions. ¡°What level are they?¡± I ask. ¡°Two,¡± she answers, unhesitatingly. I¡¯m quietly thankful she doesn¡¯t second-guess the monster casually asking about ¡®levels¡¯, but maybe that¡¯s normal in G.C.O. Still, can¡¯t catch a break, can I? Even the weakest summon I could find is over-leveled. At least it ended in triumph for once. An ethereal fisherman tugs at me, pulling me away. ¡°This has been fun, and you have been kind.¡± I say She tilts her head, confused. ¡°I, uh, thanks?¡± ¡°In exchange, I will give you a tip. When drafting contracts¡­ You can kill without seeking to ¡®injure¡¯.¡± Alexis furrows her brow for a brief moment, but realization quickly dawns on her. ¡°So that¡¯s why- but why, then? Why didn¡¯t you just shank me? I¡¯ve seen enough to know you can do it, at least if I¡¯m not ready.¡± I squawk out a crude approximation of a laugh. The tugging is stronger now, as though I¡¯ve been trapped in a net, the fishermen ready to pull me away. ¡°Maybe I hope you will summon me again? She freezes, then laughs too, and I wave a goodbye, sans hand. My arm ahead of me, I watch it fade away, and I, with it. Before my eyes, the scenery changes, dropping me abruptly into my Nightmare Domain. It¡¯s changed a bit, larger, darker, and with a little less filled with the strange breathable fluid. All in all? It¡¯s been an acceptably good day. Painful, horrifying, but that¡¯s all pretty temporary. Cute girl is a plus. I open my menu, ready to quit. A little red box sits by my status menu button, blinking at me. Curious, I ¡®pick¡¯ it.
Accolade: ¡°Road Less Traveled¡±
Congratulations! You have successfully embarked in the underappreciated Class [SUMMONED MONSTER]. While you are not the only person to complete a Core Class Objective for Class [SUMMONED MONSTER], you are among the first 100. Reward: Passive 1% Increase in Experience Gain.
So, this is the achievement menu? I¡¯m making genuine progress! As for this¡­ It¡¯s underwhelming. 1% is better than nothing, but I can¡¯t say it¡¯s an amazing improvement. Accolades are supposed to be fairly common, but I¡¯ve never heard of this accolade before.
Accolade: ¡°Ripper¡±
Congratulations! You have killed an enemy stronger than you with your bare hands. Reward: Reduced barrier to learning [AGI:Maneuver/CON:Martial Arts] skills.
As a monster, I don¡¯t know any easy no way to see my AGI or CON, but I¡¯m almost certain my AGI is higher. More maneuverability sounds great, so this is a lot more exciting. All in all, pretty self-explanatory. I flip to the last tab.
Advancement: ¡°Contract? Contract?¡±
Congratulations! You have successfully completed your first contract. Chase down more challenging and profitable deals to further your power! Reward: 10% higher Manifestation Efficiency.
This pop-up catches me off-guard. When I saw that ¡°SUMMONED MONSTER¡± didn¡¯t have any Grade, I figured there would be no class advancement. With this, though, it looks like I¡¯ll be grinding Class Objectives just like anyone else. Quite unlike everyone else, I probably can¡¯t search up what said Class Objectives actually are. If I¡¯ve got so many achievements, then what about my Status? Could I have actually leveled up? Excited, I close out the last pop-up, flipping over to the Status tab.
Name Shrike HP 7/7 MP 0/0 LV 002
Summoner NONE
Class SUMMONED MONSTER
Appearance YOUNG SHRIKE MALE
Race SHRIKE (¦Ä-)
Learned Skills ¡°Apex Claws¡±, ¡°Maneuver(I)¡±, ¡°Acrobatics(I)¡±
It¡¯s here! Level Two is here!