《Redemption Arc》


 Chapter 1 - White Space

    Chapter 1


    ¡°Pathetic,¡± was the first thing the figure said, and the contempt in the voice was hard and cold and real. As I came to consciousness, my eyes slitted open to a white vastness of empty space reaching out in all directions. My vision was filled with a bleached void, but for the blurred figure of something vaguely humanoid. Man shaped, with a disgusted masculine voice that edged on familiarity. Whoever it was, he was pissed.


    In spite of the absolute openness, the place felt like nothing so much as an interrogation room, the kind you see in every exhausting, worn-out police drama, but without the walls.There was a heaviness to the air that turned the saturated, white expanse into a confining force, despite the lack of physical barriers. I looked down, and my faded jeans and black Star Wars t-shirt seemed absurd in this featureless place, like I was a lazy nerd in the waiting room for Heaven. Given this guy¡¯s tone, even purgatory would be an optimistic assessment. I don¡¯t think I¡¯m enough of an asshole to earn a place in Hell, and the aesthetic here was all wrong, but you never know. My head drooped, my muscles were just stirring awake.


    I tried and failed to figure out where the hell I was and what was going on. Distantly, I stared down at a Boba Fett peering out implacably towards the blurry-man from behind a smouldering blaster pistol. The image on the shirt was cracked and faded from years of wear. I loved this shirt, that was why I¡¯d kept it for so damn long. I was seated on a beat up office chair, patchy and torn and smelling vaguely of cigarettes. I rolled my head up, trying to orient myself, but I couldn¡¯t see any kind of ceiling, only the same whiteness stretching up into what was not a sky, but only a space.


    The whiteness of the place was blinding, and I wondered if I had been hit on the head. No throbbing pain, just the haze of confusion. Was this some ultra-modern torture chamber? Maybe an anxiety-ridden dream where I was interviewing for a really, really shitty job? I wasn¡¯t tied up, and though my limbs were sluggish, I could move. That was a good sign. The brightness was causing me to squint hard at the blurred figure across from me. My eyes laboured to bring the man into focus, but the blur didn¡¯t seem to be a function of my sight, rather a strange overlay of some kind. My chair and I were in focus, after all. The man began to speak in a voice so very, very bitter and I blinked. He had suddenly appeared directly in front of me, filling my vision with his blurred, paint-smear face. I sucked in a breath, startled by the immediacy of his sudden shift.


    ¡°Pathetic,¡± he said again. ¡°You fucking coward.¡± I could feel his hot breath, oddly sterile, as it hit my face in a wave. He was way, way too close. I turned my head away, trying to put some distance between our faces. Screw this guy, what was this? After delivering this admonition, he stood, his warping, smudge-like form nauseating me as I tried to focus and pull my disparate thoughts together.


    ¡°He¡¯s got the glitch, right? He can¡¯t see me?¡± he asked someone. A second figure shot into being to my left, like a hologram had suddenly been switched on, taking me aback. Blurry, feminine-looking and seated, holding something dark and rectangular. A tablet, maybe? I could almost make her out. She looked like an out-of-focus school board committee chairwoman. Or a lawyer. Fuck. I started trying to talk, to plead for some scrap of clarity, but there was nothing for it. I could breathe just fine, but it was like my vocal chords were on mute, words refusing to even begin to form. This part was very dreamlike, I thought. A super-lucid dream was a definite option for what the hell this was. Still, I could feel the temperature of the air, hear the thump thump, thump thump of my fluttering heartbeat, and the space itself had an underlying hum like distant machinery. I could feel the warmth of the man¡¯s body, so close to me, the way he disturbed the air nearby with his movement as he stood up.This was a lot of detail for a dream, even a lucid one.


    ¡°No, he can¡¯t see you. Not yet. Transition sickness,¡± she said in a voice that sounded bored, like this was just another day.


    ¡°Any complications from pulling him early?¡± the man asked. ¡°He had to go into stasis longer than any of the other players, and we can¡¯t have him underperforming as a result of negligence on our part. His sponsor is not known for being forgiving.¡±


    ¡°Everything is fine. No unusual activity and the readout says his edit was successful. He won¡¯t remember anything of what we just saw, thank the Path.¡± She heaved a sigh, shifting her weight on the chair. ¡°Ten minutes until full awareness, maybe less.¡± There was a pause, as though she was considering, then she resumed, in a conciliatory tone. ¡°Look, I know you¡¯re¡­disgusted, but don¡¯t upset him too much, I need him conscious and docile enough to get him through the briefing without any drama. I fucking hate drama, you know this about me.¡±


    ¡°Drama is the whole of what we do, Atricia¡± said the man, audibly biting back his anger as he looked at me. The blur layered atop his form was receding slowly, and his voice was eerily familiar to me. I knew it from somewhere, but in the haze of my confusion, I couldn¡¯t place it.


    ¡°Three more years,¡± she replied, the words slow and deliberate, like a mantra. ¡°Then I move up to Regional Oversight and I won¡¯t have to deal with these miserable shits any more.¡± She was still tapping away at her tablet. ¡°Alright, say what you need to say, this is your last chance before I brief him and he goes planetside.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± he said in a low voice, pausing as though steadying himself. I was starting to see facial features now - the dark smears of his eyes, a brown-black smudge that had to be a beard where his mouth should be.


    ¡°Wh-what¡­the fuck¡­¡± I finally managed to croak out, looking up at the man. My voice was returning slowly. He leaned towards me menacingly, his voice dripping venom.


    ¡°Listen, you sad little sack of shit. I¡¯m going to talk now, and you¡¯re going to shut your mouth and pay close fucking attention.I want you to remember that you deserve every last second of this for what you did. When you look up at the sky from down there and rage against the injustice of it all, I want you to know that you lost everything and everyone and it is entirely and solely your fault. This, right here, right now, is how you¡¯re going to pay for it. It¡¯s fucking karma. You can trust me implicitly when I say that everything that happens from this point forward is justified. Do you understand me, dipshit?¡± He spat this last bit in my face, and I could feel flecks of saliva patter against my turned cheek. What the hell had I done that pissed this guy off so much? My mouth twisted in disgust and I reached for a reply, desperate to revolt against the vitriol, to spit some defiance back in his face, but he cut me off.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up and listen carefully. In spite of the fact that you¡¯re a truly pitiful fucking wretch entirely undeserving of my own or anyone else¡¯s consideration, I¡¯ve given you a gift. A gift for which you are unworthy,¡± he paused. ¡°But even a piece of human garbage like you has uses. This gift is a chance. A singular opportunity that will never be repeated. A hand extended that, if refused, will never, ever, reach for you again.¡± he said, taking a breath. Some of the anger had left his voice. He was quieter now, and deliberate, as though delivering a hard truth. ¡°This gift is a chance at redemption, Foster. Your memory edit will be released in Act Two, and you¡¯re going to remember exactly what brought you here - every second of it - and then we¡¯ll see how grateful you are for this gift. When that moment comes, when horror and despair justifiably wracks your entire body with the agony of what you¡¯ve done, remember that succor awaits you. We can fix your problem. We can give it all back.¡± He was all reassurance and comradery now.


    ¡°All you need to do is put on a show for the people,¡± he said, and I could feel him smirking. His stance had widened, and his hands had gone to his hips ¡°This is, after all, a game. A spectacle. And lucky for you I¡¯ve chosen an arena that you¡¯re going to like.¡± He said this last with satisfaction, and an edge of passion was rising in his voice. ¡°Remember this: the way out is through. Give them what they want, Foster. Give them blood and fury.¡± He intoned, almost reverently. ¡°And while you¡¯re down there, squirming and wringing your hands and raging against the machine¡­¡± I could hear him grinning. He went on, ¡°...remember that even survival isn¡¯t good enough. Even winning isn¡¯t good enough. You need to win spectacularly. You need to burn your face onto their eyes. You need to carve your purpose onto their hearts. You need to make sure they never, ever forget you. Fight, fuck, kill, rage against the odds; one explosive burst of dopamine at a time. They¡¯re going to be watching, Foster. They¡¯re going to be living through you.¡± He was warming up to this, passion edging into his voice. The litany of his ceaseless monologuing continued on unabated.¡°This isn¡¯t really your story, it¡¯s theirs. Let them see in you the courage and excitement they can¡¯t find in their own lives. Give them humanity, unadulterated by the pretence of decency. Blood and fury. Bear the burden and the responsibility of delivering them their needs, and they¡¯ll immortalise you. Do this, and they¡¯ll give you the world. Fail, and everything you know is gone. For all time. Forever. Dead. Gone.¡± The word hung in the air, and I just looked at him, baffled.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    I dragged words from my throat. ¡°What is this shit? None of that makes any god-damned sense. Who are you? Who the hell are ¡®they¡¯?¡±


    ¡°They are everyone. Now shut up. This is going to make a whole lot more sense in the next few hours, if you live that long,¡± he said casually. His anger and passion seemed to have faded, maybe purged by his weird rant. He was oddly casual now. ¡°That¡¯s another thing to remember, Foster. It¡¯s just as entertaining if you die. I know you better than you could ever imagine, and you can trust me when I say this: no one will give so much as one fuck if you die today. Dead is dead in this game, Foster. Dead means you lose your one chance to get your life back; you lose everything, and all they do is switch feeds. But if you live, if you fight, you can win. If you win,¡± he paused for effect, leaning forward again, and he spoke low and quiet. ¡°You¡¯ll get to see your daughter again.¡±


    This froze me to the core. Abi? What the actual fuck. Was that a threat? Did they have her? My heart was suddenly thundering in my ears. Terror struck me in that moment, a terror only known by a parent whose child is in mortal danger, or missing, or dying. My stomach had dropped miles underground into an icy hell, but terror soon became defiance. No, I thought. Defiance became rage and I was surging to my feet. I made it maybe six inches off the chair when a barrier hit me like a slap, instantaneously pressing in on every surface of my body all at once, from all sides. My clothes were pressing into my skin and my mouth was completely sealed by a hard, cold, invisible surface. It didn¡¯t directly hurt, but neither could I breathe. It was like being suspended inside a solid block of absolutely transparent glass.


    I hung in the air, frozen in my attempted lunge towards the man, who, in his blurred out form, seemed to be simply regarding me impassively. It looked like he even had one hand casually resting in his pocket, the prick. He leaned forward, peering at me again for a moment. He let it hang for what seemed like an eternity to my panicked heart. I still couldn¡¯t breathe, and it was getting to me, fast. I was surprised I could hear him when he said, ¡°Drop the field, Atricia. He¡¯s seen what we can do.¡± She tapped, and I suddenly dropped back into my chair and instinctively pulled in a deep breath of air, relief washing over me.


    The containment field was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and the man was talking again. ¡°We¡¯ve been playing these games for a long time, Foster, and you could say that the showrunners have gotten ¡°creative¡± with their thematic choices. This season, each player¡¯s story has received its own title, unique to the player and chosen by their sponsor. Your sponsor has selected the title ¡®Redemption Arc¡¯ for your personal narrative. The name should become clear in time.There are multiple players, thousands in fact, including yourself.¡± He began to pace slowly, like a cat.


    ¡°Each of you were chosen for very specific reasons. However, I¡¯ve been authorised by your sponsor to tell you specifically this one fact: you were about to die Foster. I¡¯m not fucking around with you; you were dead. No way out. We saved you. We pulled you out. It was going to be ugly, and it was going to be your fault, and it was going to leave a trail of devastation in its wake.¡± He stopped then, and I could hear him draw in a slow breath and release it, and his voice was low, but it seethed with disgust. ¡°I fucking hate you, Foster. I hate everything about you. I think we should have left you for dead, but your sponsor is an idiot. In all likelihood you¡¯ll die a death appropriate for a stray dog within hours. But, if you survive, it¡¯s my hope that, in time, you¡¯ll come to appreciate the significance of the fact that we saved you. However, I like to keep my hope modest.¡± He looked at me silently for a long moment then, and I wondered what he was thinking behind that paint smear face.


    When he continued, his tone was more subdued, as though he were frowning.¡° You can¡¯t even imagine the amount of money and resources required to get you all here, but the requirements were very specific this season. If you ask me, the tremendous amount of money spent on you was wasted, but your fool sponsor thinks they can recover it and then some. I disagree. Maybe you¡¯ll prove me wrong.¡± This last bit was spoken in a strange tone, almost resigned. Almost grief. He recovered, and went on with gusto. ¡°If you fulfill the victory conditions, we¡¯ll send you back. You can even keep all the power and wealth you accumulate during your time here. That could be very significant, depending on how you play. You¡¯d be a new man, with a new life. A chance to do it all again. It¡¯s a good deal. I think you¡¯ll see, during Act Two, that it¡¯s worth the price. You¡¯re going to earn your redemption through the journey. Through suffering, through blood and fury. That¡¯s the price you pay for a second life. You have to want it bad enough to be willing to die just trying. That¡¯s the price you pay us for the opportunity.¡± He paused here to let me appreciate his generosity. ¡°In the end, it doesn¡¯t matter; we always owned you anyway.¡± He started to turn away and walk towards a door I swear hadn¡¯t been there before.


    ¡°What the fuck?¡± I demanded. ¡°How are you allowed to do this? How the fuck can you even do this? Why would you do this?¡±


    His blurry face looked back towards me and he stopped. ¡°The same tired motives that have guided humanity¡¯s brave course for thousands of years, ever since we built the first cities and stopped worrying about being eaten by tigers.¡± He said this as though tired. ¡°Boredom, opportunity, and absolutely preposterous amounts of money.¡± he said simply. ¡°Entertainment with endless possibilities, made real by technology beyond your imagination, and enshrined in law by a wholly legitimate globe-spanning legislative body.¡± The statement was casual, as though it was reasonable, all easily justified.


    ¡°But in truth, the technology behind it is irrelevant.¡± He shrugged. ¡°What matters is this: Humanity never left the Coliseum, Foster. That¡¯s it.¡± He said this simply, pausing to regard me. His face was becoming clearer now, but not quite entirely visible, like my eyes were a camera straining to pull him into focus. He was maybe six feet tall, had short, neat brown hair and a close-trimmed beard. His eyes and closer features were still blurred out, but he seemed youngish, good looking. He was dressed in some kind of tailored suit, and his posture was confident and casual. In spite of his somewhat mundane appearance, something about him was vaguely haunting. It was just on the edge of my perception, but I couldn¡¯t identify it. It made me profoundly uneasy.


    ¡°For your part, worry about you. Worry about your story. Redemption is something everyone wants to see; it¡¯s something everyone needs to believe in.¡± He didn¡¯t qualify this last part, as though speaking a simple truth. ¡°But remember this - at the end of the day you¡¯re just a deviant; a curiosity - a construct. You¡¯re one of endless flawed copies of the original that strayed from its true path; its right path. Our path. The realist faction of the Church of the Origin doesn¡¯t even consider you human, Foster. To this audience you¡¯re more of a character than a person.¡±


    He sighed then, with a regret that was wholly disingenuous. ¡°Truthfully you¡¯re each one little data point. You¡¯re interesting in your own way, but your already-illusory life is devalued further by the sheer quantity of your iterations. In the face of infinite resources, what¡¯s the value of a single unit?¡± He looked at me for a long moment. ¡°You¡¯re all disposable, but that doesn¡¯t mean you can¡¯t be compelling.¡± Before I could muster a coherent response to his ranting, he opened the door and stepped out.

 Chapter 2: Legalese

    2


    ¡°I can reactivate the security field at any time, Mr. Foster, so you¡¯re going to sit there like a good boy or I¡¯m going to do it again. And Again. Longer each time, until you suffocate. He wasn¡¯t joking when he said ¡®disposable.¡¯ Claustrophobia is listed as one of your fears, isn¡¯t it? What a way to die.¡± She sighed, with all the regret someone lamenting over coffee with too much sugar. Her casual tone suggested fulfilling her threat would, to her, only be a minor inconvenience, not an act of torture. Or murder. My mind was still reeling from the rapid-fire delivery of blurry-man¡¯s rant, but my thoughts slowly coalesced around the one thing that really mattered. Abi.Jesus Christ, Abi. Where are you? Please, please be okay.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care about me. What did you do to my daughter?¡± I asked in a voice that was as close to menacing as I ever got. The bitch laughed. She straight up laughed.


    ¡°The irony,¡± she smirked, ¡°is real.¡± She sat up straight and wiggled back and forth a little in her seat, like she was enjoying this. ¡°We didn¡¯t do anything to hurt your daughter. You did. You hurt everyone, Foster. Now we see if you can dig yourself out of your own hole.That¡¯s why it¡¯s called Redemption Arc. ¡±


    What? I thought. I hurt Abi? How? There¡¯s no fucking way. She is everything. It was my fucking job to protect her, and I took that job very seriously. Never. I was a god-damned loving father.That little girl was the totality of my existence. I had never hurt her, could never hurt her, she was the only thing I had. The only thing I had left.


    ¡°No. No way. How d-¡± I was saying, but she cut across me.


    ¡°Your big reveal is in Act 2. Don¡¯t ask me again, deviant, or you get the field.¡±


    I realised I could see the woman now, her form fully in focus. My heart sank. Further.


    ¡°Fuck me sideways. You¡¯re a god-damned Karen¡± I said, exasperated.


    Atricia was indeed a Karen; more specifically a Space Karen. She wore what looked like something you might see on a Star Trek alien diplomat visiting the Enterprise; a sort of robe slash business-suit thing that was all flat plains and straight lines. Atop her head was something that looked like a graduation cap, but triangular. The whole outfit was black and crimson and very crisp. Maybe a uniform of some kind? She was white and middle-aged, with a round face and accusing eyes. Her too-blonde hair was even cut into an infuriating bob that framed a face that looked like it spent a lot of time being angry.  She was short, and round, and if she was a lawyer I was fucked.


    ¡°Karen? I imagine that¡¯s supposed to be offensive? Don¡¯t bother. Your opinion means as much to me as my dog¡¯s last bowel movement¡± she said with cold detachment. She was still tapping absently on her tablet data-pad thing. I¡¯m pretty sure she hadn¡¯t looked at me once this whole time. She made the scrolling motion with her index finger, then cleared her throat and sat up slightly straighter, the way someone does when they¡¯re about to read a prepared statement or start a speech.


    ¡°Mr. Foster,¡± she began, and I could hear her voice sliding into a well-worn groove, into the tired track of a thousand prior repetitions. ¡°As per the Inter-Earth Declaration of Imminent Domain, the governing body of Gaia One, in partnership with the Potentia Corporation, asserts its rights of ownership over subsequent iterations of ¡°Earth¡± and the persons, resources and territories contained therein. Gaia One, having established itself as the Planet of Official Origin in the form of the Jones-Hardy Proclamation, hereby asserts that subsequent iterations of ¡°Earth¡± are necessarily Derivatives of Gaia One, and as such hold no inherent sovereignty. Such derivatives therefore fall under the legal authority of the governing body and its corporate partners. Under subsection J, paragraph 22, Gaia One reserves the right to utilise, modify, study, or otherwise exploit these Derivatives, and to licence these rights to third parties that meet the appropriate requirements as outlined in section K. As property of Gaia One and the Potentia Corporation, and as the manner of your acquisition has met certain conditions (see Section A, paragraph 2 of the Deviant Iteration Acquisitions Act), your rights have been licensed to a third party, hereby identified as the Sponsor,¡± she paused to draw breath, and I took the opportunity to protest.


    ¡°Wait, what? My rights were licensed? Like, you own me and you rented me out!? Jesus Christ, that is some serious dystopian shit right there, woman. What the actual fuck!?¡± I punctuated these last words slowly and deliberately: ¡°And where is my fucking daughter?¡± Space Karen¡¯s finger shot up in a warning that said ¡®don¡¯t fuck with me, peasant¡¯, and I was not taking this shit. ¡°Listen, bitch. If she¡¯s hurt¡­¡± And she hit me with the field again. The immovable pressure was suddenly everywhere. I was held absolutely still, the invisible glass once again sealing my mouth and robbing me of the ability to draw breath. This time it was tighter. She didn¡¯t look up, and she left me in the field as she continued, ignoring what I¡¯d said and going on in her bored, just-let-me-get-this-over-with voice. Just like I wasn¡¯t undergoing some random water-boarding style bullshit six feet away from her.


    ¡°Your Sponsor, who has exercised their right to remain anonymous, has specified ¡°entertainment¡± as the category under which your rights were licensed, which makes you eligible for one of our programs. Isn¡¯t that exciting?¡± She looked at me. We just stared at each other for a long moment, with me incredulous and hanging in the air completely frozen in space-time and her almost grasping the absurdity of the situation. ¡°Congratulations,¡± she said flatly, tapping the tablet once to release me. I fell back against the chair, just breathing, and she tapped away, switching something on her screen. She went on as though nothing had happened.


    ¡°This program, The Fell and the Fey, is an action oriented high-fantasy drama that has spanned decades and played host to a number of Coliseum Games¡¯ most successful programs. Our story takes place on a custom-designed world seeded for this purpose by best-selling fantasy author Riedwich Henning. Mr. Henning himself consulted on everything from targeted terraforming to race and species design during the initial seeding process. He has worked tirelessly to maintain our thriving dramatic environment over the years. This world, an exotic Deviation we¡¯ve called Feyhold, has evolved into a beautiful, savage planet, filled with myth and magic and ancient secrets, cultures and peoples both familiar and strange, as well as creatures and monsters both majestic and terrifying.¡±


    This was sounding like a bad book-jacket summary, and she had all the enthusiasm of a literary agent about to let down a starry-eyed aspiring author. I just sat there, letting her diatribe continue like I wasn¡¯t trying to figure out how to subvert an instantaneous fucking containment field and punch her in her stupid, angry soccer-mom face. I don¡¯t care who you are, you don¡¯t fuck with my child. You don¡¯t fuck with anyone¡¯s child. My baby was god-knows-where and I had to listen to this soulless corporate bullshit which was oh-so-typically disenfranchising some clueless dumbass that, this time, was me. Atricia went on like this wasn¡¯t an entirely fucked up abomination of a situation. Just another day for her. She took a breath and shifted on her seat, then dove into the next section like it was a pharmaceutical commercial disclaimer.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    ¡°Please be aware that certain details of the program may be withheld from Players in the interest of maintaining dramatic integrity and plot continuity. Coliseum Games, a Potentia Corp company, reserves the right to alter, modify, change or otherwise intervene in in-game events and storylines in order to enhance the program¡¯s entertainment value, up to and including ending a player¡¯s participation in the program. Players who survive, but are removed in this way immediately revert to property of Potentia Corp or their relevant sponsors, and will receive no rewards relating to their performance in the program.¡± She looked up at me then, with a cruel little smile playing across her lips. ¡°Unlicensed Deviants are mostly used for menial labour, provided they incur less maintenance costs than the AI extensions. It¡¯is an honour of which they are unfortunately unappreciative.¡± She stuck her bottom lip out in an infuriating little pout, like she was a kid who¡¯d been told all the chocolate ice cream was gone. She smirked at her own display, and continued in a tone of faux-exhaustion.


    ¡°The responsibility of the Player is to progress in levels through combat, key social interactions, and by completing assigned quests and participating in-game events. Above all, players are expected to conduct themselves in a way that enhances the entertainment value of the program. Cowering in terror or wallowing in your misfortune is not entertaining. Raging against the ¡°system¡± or disparaging Coliseum games, Potentia Corp or the Gaia One governing body will not be tolerated. Raging against the ¡°system¡± ruins the audience¡¯s immersion, and will only result in penalties that make your death more likely. Remember your gratitude. We¡¯ve given you a second chance. A gift almost no one will ever receive. Consider it like this, Mr. Foster: you always could have died any day, at any time. Life itself, is inherently a threat, a risk; we¡¯re just giving you the opportunity to risk your life in a unique and interesting way, with a fabulous prize awaiting you should you survive it. Besides, numbers indicate that an exciting death is entertaining, so from our point of view, the audience wins either way. If you want to win, then spare us the rebellious bullshit and focus on the objectives before you. Focus on selling the drama. Do so, and the rewards will be relevant to your success.¡± She looked at me like ¡®success¡¯ was about as likely as her giving me a warm hug.


    ¡°Be aware that the Meta Quest is the only path to final victory. Side quests and events will serve to supplement your progress. Don¡¯t ignore them; simply ploughing forward is a good way to end up underpowered and dead. Not that I expect you to survive the first encounter. I¡¯ve seen your reels, Mr. Foster; you¡¯re a trepidatious nobody who achieved nothing more than taking up space. You spent your time on a failed career as a middling musician, imaginary worlds, pointless ¡°creative¡± projects that yielded precisely zero gains, inane games and Japanese anime.¡± She said this last bit with a disgust that was palpable. For some reason, I felt like a grown man watching anime was somehow a kind of tipping point for Karens like Atricia. It crossed some boundary normally reserved for underpaid teenage employees who created minor inconveniences in their shopping experience.


    Atricia snorted and continued, ¡°Alas, this fact seems to be one of the reasons you were sponsored in the first place. Evidently, your sponsor feels that these unfortunate proclivities will somehow be an asset to you. I tried to tell them that Special Forces training would be more compelling, but there was no readily available derivative in which you had any relevant military experience, so here we are.¡±


    ¡°Fucking Hell, I don¡¯t even know where to start,¡± I said wearily, suddenly exhausted by the stress of this madness.


    ¡°So don¡¯t start, Mr. Foster. This isn¡¯t a question and answer period, and I¡¯m not your lore dump. I don¡¯t have the time or patience to put the entire multiverse into context for you. We are the planet of Official Origin, as was explained in your briefing. You are a deviant, from a derivative world. You know what you need to know to participate¡­effectively,¡± she said this last bit dubiously. It was clear what she thought of my potential ¡®effectiveness.¡¯ She looked back down at her data pad, checking her notes.


    ¡°Lastly, class selection will occur after your initial encounter, contingent on your survival. Class specialisation will occur at level five, and again at a later level. Options will be based on your prior performance. Find a Shrine of Elaris to make your selection once you¡¯ve reached the appropriate level. Shrines of Elaris are located in medium, large, or metropolitan settlements and serve as hubs for players seeking refuge, information, or treatment for minor wounds, status ailments, and effects. Shrines are Unobservable Spaces, which means the audience can¡¯t follow you inside or POV your experience. Please be advised that, while these spaces provide a certain level of privacy to the player, the more time spent therein, the less time is spent performing. Necessarily, less performance means less audience interest and consequently your rewards and progress may be impacted by extensive inactive periods; outside of sleep and bio breaks, of course. There is also a limited Privacy Mode which, with the approval of your Advisor, can be activated for limited amounts of time. Activation of Privacy Mode is decided on a case by case basis, determined by the potential impact to dramatic integrity. Use this mode with discretion, or the privilege may be revoked. Any further questions can be answered by your Advisor. Finally, food and water will be readily available through merchants or edible consumables and potable water found in the natural environment.¡± She finished breathlessly, then said simply, ¡°this concludes your briefing. Please stand and move to the circular platform behind you.¡± Atricia stood herself, short and round and wearing the expression of someone dealing with an unwanted visit from a door-to-door religious enthusiast.


    I stood wearily. My brain was in shock, overloaded by the attempt to parse this ridiculous situation. This is too fucked up to be real, I thought. It¡¯s like an alien abduction by fucking humans. And from the ¡®Planet of Official Origin¡¯? What the hell? And they¡¯re assholes. Well, that kind of figures. I looked at her flatly. There was no point in raving at this woman. She held the power here, like it or not. If this was a dream, I was going to wake up soon. If, somehow, anything these dystopian corporate supervillains said was true, I was screwed anyway. A strange sort of bitter calm overcame me. Either this shit was real, or it wasn¡¯t. Fine, fuckers, let¡¯s go through the motions.


    I turned, and there stood a large, black, circular platform raised just slightly off the floor and with a corresponding circular disk hovering about 8 feet above the platform. I was instantly reminded of the Transporter, from Star Trek. ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want me to put a red shirt on first?¡± I said dryly as I stepped up on the platform, moved to the centre and looked back at Atricia, who ignored me. She was ready to get this over with.


    ¡°I¡¯m supposed to wish you luck, Foster, it¡¯s a tradition, but I don¡¯t like you so I¡¯m not going to wish you anything. Find it yourself, deviant.¡± She gave me a smug little smile and lifted a finger in a show of tapping a button.


    ¡°Fuck you, Atricia,¡± I said in a flat voice, giving her the finger before she tapped her tablet and a slow, rising pulse of light began to swell around me. I closed my eyes as my vision completely whited out, and after a long moment I opened them to a blackness which seemed total. Moments passed in darkness until suddenly an actual dialogue box appeared, floating directly in front of my field of vision. White and rectangular and gently luminous. I stared, hanging there, bodiless, just a point of awareness hovering in front of the box.


    Please enter player name it read, just above a rectangular box, which contained a blinking cursor awaiting an input. There was no keyboard to be found, and I didn¡¯t seem to have a voice. Or a body. I figured it must be some super high-tech telepathy shit, so I started thinking of random letters and was satisfied to see them appear in the dialogue box. It took a minute before I could ¡°type¡± anything coherent - it was difficult keeping my thoughts focused. A name? I thought. I was honestly at a loss. No one uses their real name in a game. Something simple, I decided after a moment¡¯s consideration, nothing edge-lordy, nothing that sounded like it was concocted by fifteen year old trolls. I thought for a moment, hovering there, disembodied.


    ¡°Find it yourself,¡± she had said, instead of wishing me luck. Found it, bitch. It was petty revenge, and I knew it. Oh well. I entered the name ¡°Luck.¡±

 Chapter 3: My First Real Fight

    3


    The dialogue box disappeared, and after a moment there was a sudden feeling like that big tower-drop ride at every amusement park, or maybe a doomed elevator; like the ground had been pulled out from under me and suddenly I was plummeting in a free-fall. No wind howled around me, there was only darkness and silence. My stomach lurched until the sense of movement slowly eased, and then I was hovering again. A moment later I began to feel a slow sweep toward unconsciousness, like what you get when an anaesthesia begins to take effect. The forced wave of sleep overtook me and my awareness faded.


    When my eyes opened again, I was sure it was because I had woken up and this stupid dream was over. It wasn¡¯t, it was just weirder. I was lying on my back on something lumpy that felt like grass and tree roots and cool earth. As my eyes focused, I was greeted by the sight of interlocking palm-sized green leaves backlit by dappled sunlight, far above me. I took in a slow, shaky breath, relieved to be away from the bizarre white space and its unpleasant occupants, but equally bewildered by my new surroundings and the fact that I hadn¡¯t awoken in my bed as I was certain would be the case. I had no idea how much time had passed since the all-encompassing darkness but it was peaceful here, beautiful even, in a way that was disorienting for my shell-shocked brain. The air here smelled like a summer afternoon, and a soft breeze rustled the trees. Insects buzzed among the foliage, a constant backdrop interspersed with birdsong. I slowly sat up, propping myself up on an elbow and looking slowly around.


    The green canopy hung over me, and I lay in a small clearing in a forest that I could only describe as idyllic. There were carpets of lush grass spread between huge old-growth trees that stood curiously far apart, not like the condensed maze of smaller trees battling for light that I was used to back home. Sunlight shone down through the huge trees in angled spears that caught on dust motes and other tiny bits of detritus drifting on the wind. I might have mistaken the place for a tucked away space in a cultivated park, but the trees seemed to go on endlessly in all directions, the sun occasionally breaking through the dense canopy and leaving light pooled on the forest floor. No paths led away from the clearing, but it would be easy enough to navigate my way through the widely spaced trees. I stood and dusted my faded jeans off. I was still dressed as was in the strange white space. So, no fancy spandex death game outfit, I thought ruefully as I patted myself over, then touched my face - nothing seemed to have changed, as far as my body went. I felt fine, beyond the staggering confusion incited by the weird-ass series of events that had led me here.


    I still didn¡¯t really believe any of this was real, in spite of the fact that it felt precisely like reality, but all my senses were engaged and reporting as usual. As if to hammer the point home, something bit me on the arm and I slapped at it reflexively. I saw the fluttering wings of a small insect, iridescent in the sun, dancing away. The fact that I could feel pain or discomfort was not lost on me. My lips compressed as I looked around, my jaw clenching slightly as I mulled over the implications.


    I tried to recall the last thing that had happened before any of this, and I drew an absolute blank as I tried to plumb the depths of my short term memory for any kind of path that might have led to whatever this was. It took some time, standing there in the midst that undeniably beautiful forest clearing, before a scene began to rebuild itself in my mind. I remembered playing guitar, seated on my bed in the basement apartment I shared with Abi. I had been zoned out, staring down at my hands on the Fender Telecaster American Standard that was probably my most valuable possession. I had bought it something like fifteen years earlier, in a different life. I was supposed to pick Abi up from school that day, I remembered, and I was killing time until I needed to leave. It was my day with her - her mother would take her later in the week; she was working with her dipshit boyfriend on what they called ¡®content¡¯. This one was a YouTuber. Yeah.


    I had been plucking idly at the strings of the guitar, playing nothing in particular. And that was it. I didn¡¯t remember leaving, a car trip, or seeing Abi at all. It just stopped, right there, like it had been a clipped film reel. They had told me I¡¯d be dead if they hadn¡¯t ¡®saved¡¯ me, but that didn¡¯t make any sense, given what I remembered. That was foreboding. Whatever was in that ¡®memory edit,¡¯ it had to be important - or entertaining - enough to motivate someone to pluck me from my own life and punish me for something I didn¡¯t even know I¡¯d done.


    Panic started to rise in my chest as I imagined Abi waiting alone, left knowing nothing if I simply failed to show up that day. Just inexplicably absent from that point forward, from her entire life. It dawned on me then that, wherever I was, she was entirely out of reach until I figured this out. This looked just like Earth. Maybe this could just be the wilderness somewhere, maybe not even very far from where we lived. Maybe I could just walk into the trees and find my way home. Or not. For now, my heart wrenching need to protect her was absolutely impotent. As far as she knew, I had disappeared and abandoned her without a word. That horrified me; I loved that little girl so much it scared me.


    For the past nine years, she had been the only reason I got up in the morning. We were practically attached at the hip. I knew how scared she would be once it became clear that I was just gone, and that took no time at all to break my god-damned heart. Hot tears started to gather in my eyes as I imagined all the questions and horrible answers that would be haunting her young mind. She was so sweet. She was nine years old. She didn¡¯t deserve anything like this. Fuck whoever took me away from her, I thought. Even for one day.


    My sorrow and anxiety transmuted into anger, then clenching rage, and then black hatred as the motives of my ¡®abductors¡¯ were made painfully clear. You sick fucks put me here for this exact reason. Because you knew. You knew that I would do fucking anything to get back. And I would. Anything. Whatever the fuck this was, dream or nightmare, truth or lie, getting back to her was the only thing I wanted. Screw whatever their prize was, nothing mattered but getting home. Either I was going to wake up and none of this mattered, or this was real and I was going to burn down anything that came between me and that goal.


    This bold proclamation had my heart filled with vengeful wrath when the music began to play. It swelled up slowly; sweeping strings that came from below, rising into a soundscape that unfolded around me into a long, held note that hinted at aching sadness. Then began a ponderous, slow piano melody that introduced a sense of possibility, of potential awaiting fulfilment. It was like a promise of beauty just beyond the horizon, and it instantly reminded me of a Final Fantasy soundtrack. It was just playing. From everywhere. I slowly spun around, looking for some kind of source for the sound when I stopped suddenly, agape. Golden, softly luminescent words had formed, in a crisp, wide font, floating directly in front of me.


    Coliseum Games Presents


    I guess I shouldn¡¯t have been surprised, given the earlier dialogue box. The words slowly faded, and the music continued to swell. A few hundred feet away, a flock of large black birds, ravens or crows, burst from the canopy up into the sky. I could hear them calling out in indignation as something presumably disturbed them from below. It was the first sign of any real life beyond the buzz of insects. I was watching them fly away, brows furrowed, as more floating golden text appeared before my eyes, apparently following my gaze wherever I looked. More text appeared.


    A Potentia Corp Production


    ¡°Credits. Jesus Christ.¡± I spat, disbelieving. I instantly regretted speaking. I could hear a faint rustling in the bushes some distance away, not far from where the crows had taken flight, and I froze. The text faded like before, and the sound of shifting leaves continued, closer now. The music, seeming to play from all around me, took on a note of tension and uncertainty. I tensed, and my breath caught in my chest as I could now see the disturbance in the foliage, the swaying and shaking of branches and shrubs as they were pushed aside. I thought about running, or at least hiding, but that felt silly. It didn¡¯t seem too large, and I¡¯d feel pretty stupid if it was just a possum or something. So, I just stood there, like an idiot, waiting.


    The accompaniment of the music was starting to rise past uncertainty into anxiety, and consequently my heart was starting to beat faster. This soundtrack bullshit was having a definite psychological effect, just like a movie scene. This was just a forest, I told myself. Whatever it was, it wasn¡¯t big enough to be a bear. Bears were about as bad as it gets in a forest, right? Everything was fine. Just a small, harmless animal wandering through the forest. Another line of text faded into view.


    In association with CircleSoft-Pinnacle and Longview Studios


    The sounds were getting nearer, maybe twenty feet from where I was standing.. Whatever was coming, it was coming straight for the clearing. I entered that sort of half-crouch thing you do when you¡¯re trying to prepare for a sudden threat, my muscles tensed with potential energy. A new line of text began to appear then, large and shining gold as it unfolded into an elegant cursive script that read:


    The Fell and the Fey


    Below, in a different, flowing printed font, it said:


    Part 26: Redemption ArcSupport the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    And then a god-damned goblin stepped into the clearing. The drawn out, wavering note that had been playing suddenly stopped, and the sounds of the forest around me stood out in stark contrast to the now-absent music. The little bastard was about three and a half feet tall, with mottled green skin, beady black eyes, a ridiculous hooked nose and jagged yellow teeth that filled a wicked grin. So, your typical, run of the mill RPG goblin. Except real. Really real. He - it looked like a he, anyway - was small, but he was ripped. Corded muscle rippled beneath the pebbled green skin of his too-long arms, and his legs, though squat, had thick, muscled thighs and clawed feet that dug into the earth. He was wearing some kind of leather jerkin-thing and a belt with a loin cloth. His calves and knees were covered in leather armor and he held a short sword. The blade was stereotypically notched and jagged looking, which might have been cliche any other time, but right now it looked as though it would be particularly uncomfortable when jammed into my guts.


    If I had to identify something that was decidedly different about this goblin from any other game-based rpg goblin, aside from the fact that it was living and breathing and standing in front of me, it was most definitely his murderous intent. It was palpable. This little bastard looked like he not only wanted to kill me, but fucking eat me. Like I was going to be the hearty meal he sat down to after whatever the hell goblins did all day. Kill dumbasses like me, I guess. This kind of malicious intent was on another level from having someone want to hit you - you know, the average level of violence most of us could expect in a modern society. Someone wanting to kill you, to straight-up end your life, is a whole other ballgame. Something consuming you, however, is fucked up in a wholly different way.


    This feeling is what occurred to me as I stared at the goblin past the sparkling golden font of the words that still hung in the air between us. I vaguely wondered if he was seeing them too, but backwards. The letters faded and a single, lonely violin played that long high note every cliche horror movie uses right before a jump scare. The goblin did that cocky, asshole thing where you flip the grip on the sword back and forth, and his grin widened.


    The violin note held for an eerie moment as we stood staring at each other. The goblin crouched, blade readied, then suddenly booming tribal-style drums erupted and the melody reignited, this time accompanied by the pulsing, pounding beat. Right on cue, the green little psychopath surged forward and leaped into the air towards me, shrieking and flailing like a bodybuilding toddler on methamphetamine. The fucker must have flown ten feet straight forward, hurtling at me at chest height with his wicked sword raised and stabbing straight for my throat.


    Now, I think it¡¯s important to include a few qualifiers here for what happened next. See, I spent a few years in my mid to late teens learning martial arts. Okinawan-style karate, and Japanese swordsmanship, specifically. I was good, too. I almost never lost, actually. Sparring matches, tournaments, the whole thing. However, I eventually got to the point where hanging out with my friends was vastly more appealing than standing in a row in a school gymnasium yelling shit while punching the air, so I quit. Anyway, I¡¯m a pretty chill dude, and I¡¯ve never really made anyone mad enough that they wanted to fight me, so I¡¯ve never really been in a real fight. I used to believe that those martial arts lessons, even if they were a little unrealistic in terms of real world street fighting, would still serve me well if I ever got into a violent confrontation. I was wrong.


    Instead of a calm, cold and calculated side kick, or a perfectly executed straight punch to meet the charge, I stuck out both arms like they could shield me, my eyes instinctively squeezing shut in anticipation of the collision, and entirely without meaning to, I caught him. Right out of the air. My hands snagged him right under his little armpits and he howled in outrage, squirming and pinwheeling his blade at me like a murderous baby in the throes of an epic tantrum. The blade slashed inches from my face as I held the squealing, enraged goblin straight out before me. I heard myself saying, ¡°Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!¡± Both of us realised at the same moment that all the goblin had to do was slash at my arms, and I¡¯d likely drop him. I panicked as his flailing dagger drew a red line across my forearm, and I threw the little shit as far as I could. He tumbled through the air and landed near the centre of the clearing, a tangle of green limbs. He scrambled to get to his feet. I was in full survival mode now, pumped full of adrenaline.


    My heart was thundering and all I could think about was stopping this thing from killing me. I darted forward towards him as he struggled to his feet, his short sword still clutched in his hand. He barely had time to raise it before I drew back and kicked him, ¡°this is Sparta!¡± style, right in the face. The blow took him under his chin and his head snapped back violently. He cried out as he careened backwards into the trunk of a large tree. He must have been stunned, because he had dropped his short sword, which lay between us. I hurled myself forward and grabbed it, fumbling the hilt into my palm and raising the weapon. He had pushed himself back to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and from his back he drew another blade, this one shorter and wider, hooked at the tip. Red blood, not green or black ichor as one might expect from a goblin, was dripping from his mouth, but he was still wearing that jagged leer. His black eyes glittered with malice. He spoke then, in a language that sounded wholly foreign to me, rough and rasping and clipped, and as he spoke I could see blood on his teeth.


    ¡°To-ahk no aglieph basda, oon-torta!¡± he growled as he switched grips on his dagger.


    ¡°Fuck you too, buddy¡± I said, my chest heaving as I leveled the notched and jagged short sword at him. I was fully committed now, this was going to be him or me. Screw dying to a god-damned goblin. I had no experience with a short sword, but at least all the sparring I¡¯d done with a longer sword had gotten me used to close-quarters combat and basic blocks and strikes. The goblin and I began to slowly circle each other, and my eyes stayed riveted to his shoulders. I avoided his eyes; the eyes can lie. The body tells true, however, and I saw the telltale sign as he tipped his dominant shoulder forward and darted in for a straight lunge with his hooked dagger.


    I swung the short sword in a quick horizontal slash about even with his face and it forced him to abort his lunge. This left him back footed so I brought the blade around and stepped into a downward angled slash at the point where his shoulder met his neck. He was too quick, and agile as a hellspawned monkey. He sidestepped to the outside of my slash, letting the blade whistle past his face, then sprung at my exposed side, cutting a hot line across my ribs. I grunted in pain and distantly felt the wet, sticky heat of blood seeping from the wound on my side and the slash across my forearm. Panicked by the injury and fearing a follow-up, I spun around sideways toward him and threw a weak sweeping block that still managed to stop a thrust toward my flank. The blades clanged as we clashed, then he quickly darted back to reset, and we squared off again. I held the blade in my right hand, the point levelled horizontally towards him, my left foot and empty left hand forward.


    The thumping, rolling beat of the music, now frantic, continued to thunder around us, ratcheting up the tension. Sweat had begun to drip down my forehead into my eyes, and I squinted, the burning sensation briefly clouding my vision. It was enough of a cue that the goblin literally leapt at the opportunity, bounding forward and hurtling up into the air straight at my chest, shrieking what I must have been a goblin war cry. I desperately tried to intercept him, but his leap was too fast and he crashed into me, pinning my shortsword against me. He straddled my abdomen with his thighs, like a god-damned monkey, and clung to me with surprising strength, his claws digging deep into my shoulder as he writhed and wriggled.


    He drew his arm back for a downward stab into the side of my neck, but my free hand whipped up and caught his wrist. We spun, me still standing, him clinging to me. I stumbled with his weight and tried to shove him off me, nearly toppling us both. He growled fiercely, his face only inches from mine, his reeking, foetid breath hot against my skin. The corded muscles in his arm strained as he tried to drive the blade down, but my grip around his wrist was desperate and fueled by adrenaline, and my strength, though far from exceptional, was enough to hold him back and start forcing the dagger away. He howled and his mouth gaped wide as he flailed his head and tried to bite my neck. Without thinking, I headbutted him right in his ridiculous hooked nose and felt cartilage crunch.


    My vision was briefly full of stars, but he was far more stunned than I. We were at the edge of the clearing now, and I whirled around and drove him straight into a huge tree trunk with all my weight, slamming his back into the rough bark. It was enough to knock the wind from his lungs and the dagger from his hand. His body had gone limp and he was no longer gripping me, I let his back slide down the tree and I went with him, sinking to my knees. He was starting to struggle again and I slammed my open palm hard against his chest, pressing him back into the tree. I pulled back my arm, the blade of the short sword angled straight at his face.


    For a moment, I hesitated. I¡¯d never really even hit anyone out of anger, let alone stabbed someone. I could have knocked him out; I didn¡¯t have to kill the little bastard. Then his black eyes, gleaming with unrelenting malice, looked straight up into mine and his mouth twisted in the feral snarl of a cornered beast. I saw no rationality, no sign of fear even, only an unadulterated bloodlust that was absolute. He began to claw at my arm, leaving jagged scratches that dragged through the blood already leaking from my forearm.


    He struggled to rise but I held firm. I gritted my teeth, made my heart into stone, and drove the blade straight into his throat as hard as I could. I felt the sword scrape bone, and the tip slam into the bark of the tree as it pierced through his green flesh. Those eyes raged against me even as he died. A gurgling half-snarl, half-wheeze sounded from his ruined throat, and red blood bubbled around the blade. I stared at the dead thing for a long time, my chest heaving, still holding the creature pressed hard back against the tree, but his body had gone limp. His head drooped just to the side, chin resting against the blade buried in his throat. His tongue lolled out, blood draining from his crushed nose and fanged mouth to patter against the leather jerkin he wore.


    I pulled the sword free slowly, and let the goblin crumple onto his side at the foot of the large tree. Holy shit, I thought. Holy fucking shit. I just killed a god-damned goblin. A legit, living, breathing, real goblin. I had also almost gotten myself murdered in the process. These little horrors were supposed to be on the bottom rung of the monster world, often the first thing you faced in nearly any fantasy-themed RPG, and I had nearly pissed myself. Dead is dead, the man had said. I looked down at the dead goblin, then back at my hand still gripping the short sword.


    I noted the music had stopped as I stared down at the blood dripping from the sword. The unreality of the entire situation struck me again, a bitter acknowledgement of the absurdity of it all. This time, however, I pushed it down and away. I was bleeding, I was injured, and it fucking hurt. It was getting hard to pretend this was a dream. I was exhausted and adrenaline surged through me still. I watched my hand tremble as another rivulet of blood dripped from the downward-angled blade. I had almost died. Not some theoretical death described abstractly by the psychos who had, apparently, really sent me here. Real death, in real time. It ultimately didn¡¯t matter whether I believed it or not. In fact, denial of the reality right in front of me was likely to get me killed. I heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky as though I might catch a glimpse of the real enemy; the sick bastards who put me here. It was just in time to see the pillar of swirling amber light shoot straight up into the sky like a spear.

 Chapter 4: A God-Damned Laser Beam

    4


    The beam - an, I¡¯m not shitting you, god-damned laser beam - was shooting straight upward, piercing the clouds and disappearing out of sight. I gaped at it, watching wordlessly as it suddenly swelled and spread into an expanding, translucent dome centred on the surging beam of golden light. The dome was growing exponentially, sweeping outward, the effect just like a water fountain, if the water was fucking energy. The edges of the curtain of light crept steadily over the land, picking up speed as it went. I stood there staring stupidly before I realised it was going everywhere and that meant that no matter where I was, I was right in its path. This time, I did run. Who knew what this fucking light was for and I had zero desire to get obliterated, so I dashed between the trees, running for my life beneath the canopy as fast as I could go. I was reasonably quick for a dude in his early 30¡¯s, but it became painfully clear I was not in great shape.


    As it turned out, it wouldn¡¯t have mattered if I was an olympic sprinter. I dared a backward glance in time to see the wall of transparent light surging towards me, and then, straight through me. I felt a wild, vibratory energy pulse from the top of my head down to the soles of my feet, sending pins and needles all through me. The shock cost me my balance as my foot snagged on an enormous root jutting out from one of the huge trees. I toppled and rolled ass-over-eyebrows in the dirt, scattering fallen leaves. It hurt like hell, and I groaned, feeling the new scrapes and soon-to-be bruises in addition to the slashes I¡¯d received from the goblin. God-damn, this is off to a bad start, I thought helplessly as I stared straight up through the trees at the sky, aching and breathing heavily. And then came the voice.


    ¡°The veil of Vedict A¡¯Tohl has been pierced,¡± it began, and it was not some booming announcement, but an uncomfortably intimate invocation that brushed across my ears in a soft wave. It was masculine and deep, with an accent that was absolutely English - the posh kind - but silken and smooth and so very, very close that I shuddered. It was weird, like stalker-on-the-phone weird, and the effect was like receiving a late night call from a stoned officer aboard the Death Star.


    ¡°Mortals, harken to my whisper. My three fickle sisters have shot bolts of fate through the curtain of worlds, and their wayward children slip through the breach,¡± the voice intoned, slow and deliberate, with over-the-top, godly gravity. ¡°The Unproven have once again come among you. For ten cycles you have known the peace of fair Illuma, but now the earth trembles beneath the gaze of more hungry gods. Each of three Goddesses, cruel mothers all, have spun out threads of discord as sharp as scythes, to sweep heads from the bodies of nations; blades to cut through the fabric of mortal impudence. The Unproven are their children. Their children are their instruments. Change comes. The World Spell has been cast. Cling to the Unproven or cast them out. They are, at once, salvation and doom. Come Chaos, come Fortune, come Order. The field of battle is prepared,¡± the voice said, dripping dark, slow honey in my ears. ¡°The whole of Jericho, our City of the Gods, watches from her seat in the sky. Fell beasts now walk the land unhindered. Sleeping places have come awake, and the eyes of the three sisters are fixed on the Unproven. They await the sprouting of seeds watered in blood and tears. Come what may, the Great Game is now joined.¡±


    There was silence then, and I lay on my back still, trying to process the bizarre proclamation when more of the gently luminescent text unfolded slowly across the centre of my ¡°screen.¡± It read:


    Welcome, Unproven, to The Fell and the Fey.


    The words faded, and multiple lines of descending text,plain and utilitarian, began to dance at the top left of my field of vision, scrolling like a DOS prompt firing off. ¡°Woah, holy shit¡± I exclaimed when I saw it, sitting up and stupidly swatting at it like it was an insect before I froze and tried to read the text as it flew along like an overloaded Twitch chat. The other text had been obviously meant to be game or movie credits, but this was like something was installing into my brain.


    Connecting to Coliseum Global Network¡­ connected.


    Loading Installation package FF26-b¡­ 100%


    Installing cerebral-occular user interface¡­ complete.


    Installing terrestrial language pack A¡­ complete.


    Installing localized map data¡­ complete


    Installing biorganic monitoring software¡­complete


    Searching for Flow Receptive Neurology¡­


    Searching¡­


    Searching¡­


    Flow Receptive Neurology found. Activating.


    Installing Flow Activity Monitoring Software¡­ complete


    Searching for updates¡­


    Updates found, 1 of 1. Downloading¡­ 100%


    Installing update 1 of 1¡­


    Warning: this software update appears to originate from an unsanctioned third-party developer. Cannot determine file integrity. Proceed with installation?


    Y/N


    The cursor blinked, awaiting an input. I frowned, unsure what to do. That sounds suspicious as hell, I thought, can you get malware in your brain? But before I could even consider an answer, my vision glitched, like I was a PC monitor with a loose connection. It cleared as quickly as it came, and the input ¡°Y¡± appeared, entirely unprompted. The scrolling text continued for a few more lines: .


    Installing anex256.ext¡­100%


    Installation complete.


    Setup complete. Initializing User Interface¡­


    It stopped for a moment before it disappeared.  ¡°Christ¡± I said. ¡°Here¡¯s hoping I didn¡¯t just sign up for some MK Ultra-style mind control bullshit.¡± I was saying this when I suddenly inherited a god-damned HUD. ¡°Woah! Okay,¡± I said in surprise, instinctively drawing my head back like I could get away from the icons that began popping into existence, one by one. At first it was very, very disorienting, like images were being plastered onto my eyes, and I kind of started to freak out. Nausea and even panic was welling up before the icons quickly adjusted to appear as though they hovered in space a comfortable distance away, turning and shifting with me to accommodate the direction of my gaze. I let out a sigh of relief.


    The top right of my ¡°screen¡± had a classic green health bar and a little picture of my face. The picture had a little ¡°+¡± sign in the bottom corner, glowing gently. The health bar was about sixty percent full. Apparently the wounds I¡¯d taken from the goblin fight were enough to drain 40% of my health, which was a little foreboding. Below the health bar was a little blue bar that would normally indicate mana. It was currently full. Magic, I thought. Awesome. At least this was shaping up to be the type of game I could recognize. I filed that away and squinted at the picture of me and groaned. It was the social media profile picture I used across the various platforms of Earth. It was a goofy selfie, and I was wearing a cocky smirk that I realised probably made me look like an ass. I remember taking the picture, and it had felt ironic, like I was smirking right in the face of the internet itself. Douchey I know, but it tracked with my distaste for keeping an online presence.


    To say that I was not enthusiastic about social media was a profound understatement. I really, really could not be bothered to curate a god-damned online museum dedicated to my ego. The only thing on any of my accounts was a range of pictures of Abi and myself as she grew up, mainly to placate demanding relatives. Though, she was pretty damned adorable.


    It occurred to me that whoever was watching this fucked up neofascist death game was probably seeing the profile picture too. I sighed. At least it¡¯s not a screen cap of me nearly shitting myself when that goblin flew at me like a fucking cannon ball, I thought. Above my picture was the name Luck, Level 0. There was no class listed that I could see. More icons were popping up now; a small circular mini map appeared top-left and populated with simplified top-down images of the trees around me, centred on a blue dot that I figured was me. A white circle pulsed outward intermittently from the blue dot like a scanner. A series of transparent boxes appeared arranged neatly along the bottom of my screen, usually where you¡¯d see abilities or attacks in an MMORPG. I had only 1 active icon here; a simple hand that held a dagger, which I guessed was my basic attack. Beside these larger slots was a smaller horizontal line of boxes that I thought might be a hotbar. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    I absently thought about how surreal this all was, and how any gamer like me would normally kill to play a hyper-realistic full-dive VR game just like this one. If Earth ever reached this level of technology, It would make ludicrous amounts of money for whoever developed it. But VR, I thought, is not real-world Roman coliseum level blood-on-the-sand combat against genetically designed fantasy monsters with very real weapons, and very real bloodlust. Generally, game developers don¡¯t rob you of your freedom, your family, and exploit your likely violent and gruesome death for advertising revenue


    ¡°This horrific, panic-stricken death brought to you by Potentia,¡± I said with a sigh, looking at the sky. ¡°Of course you bastards would be raking in cash on advertisements and multi-platform social media engagement. How many ¡°programs¡± do you have? I bet you have Live streams, POV first-handers, Premium privileges. That¡¯s exactly what a psychopathic dystopian space society armed with impossible technology and consumed by excess would do, isn¡¯t it?¡± I asked the sky. ¡°This shit is probably an entire industry, rolling along like a fucking freight train.¡±


    Somewhere in this process I had risen to my feet, the short sword still clutched in my hand. I was starting to rant and quickly shut up. I had no idea how many people were watching this, and I was already chin deep in politics and social commentary. That was never a good idea, just generally, and probably a really bad idea here. Supervillain space-panties would certainly be bunched, so I clamped down on my anti-authoritarian streak before they dropped a god-damned dragon on me. Jesus Christ, I thought suddenly, recalling the D&D Monstrous Manual and its litany of dragons. They were absolutely going to make us fight dragons. Of course they would. If I knew anything about the Fantasy genre, it was this: if anyone ever asks the question ¡°Should there be dragons?¡± the answer is always ¡°yes.¡±


    I cringed at the thought of staring down something so ridiculously powerful, recalling the size of these fictional creatures from every table top RPG and video game I¡¯d played.  Those fuckers were supposed to be massive. It would be like trying to fight a god-damned jumbo jet with a baseball bat. It would likely regard my life as about as valuable as an ant¡¯s was to the heel of a passing jogger. Fuck that, I thought, but I knew it didn¡¯t matter. They would do whatever was entertaining.


    There was a part of me that had to admit that it would be entertaining as hell to watch real people with the equivalent of superpowers fight dragons. The part where I checked out was the non-consensual game play, effective enslavement and likely gruesome real death of the players. Games are fun, I thought. This will be a re-textured version of hell. Though, so far this version is much prettier, I thought, looking around at the idyllic forest. I was adjusting to the presence of the HUD and the strangeness of the floating icons and bars. I was grateful for its existence, in fact. It was strangely comforting, maybe because it was all familiar territory from my years of World of Warcraft and Final Fantasy 14. I knew something like this was a huge tactical advantage. Besides, now that I had already been hit with whatever the laser beam mega dome had been, there was nothing to do but use the tools at hand and press on.


    Taking stock of the ridiculous series of events that had just unfolded, I dismissed the idea that this was a dream or in any way unreal. Yes, this is entirely fucked up and the plot would normally be reserved for the pages of a bad LitRPG novel. But I¡¯m here, and not where I should be - with my little girl. If I had to play the god-damned game to get where I belonged, I would play. In any case, I had no choice, and the only path was forward.


    I returned to the clearing to pick up the dagger dropped by the goblin and added it to my small arsenal. I was startled to see a small circle appear hovering just above the dagger. It read: Goblin Dagger, and as I focused on the words, a small description appeared:


    A low-quality, poorly cared for dagger. Crafted by goblins with the intention of carving human flesh. Sharp enough to do the job, but just dull enough to really, really hurt. Damage: Low. Weight classification: Light.


    I looked at the short sword and found it had a similar description, and it was likewise classified as low damage and light in weight. I tried a few slashes and thrusts while wielding both weapons. It felt reasonably comfortable, all things considered. Good enough, I told myself, intending to dual-wield the weapons if it came to combat again. I felt stupid as I stuck the blades through the leather belt holding up my worn jeans, but there weren¡¯t a lot of options. Or were there? I thought. There¡¯s gotta be an inventory. As if my mind had been read, a panel appeared, taking up much of my field of vision. I blinked in surprise, but quickly saw that it was a standard inventory with a multitude of boxes for items. It was currently empty - not even a  few gold or a god-damned health potion, I noted. I scanned the panel, looking for a weight measurement entry, but I found none. That was a good sign. I would have to test how much storage and weight individual items could be, and if certain items would stack.


    Encumbrance rules in games generally really sucked since you¡¯re expected to carry around so much crap. I assumed it simply wouldn¡¯t be very entertaining to watch me haul around a refrigerator-sized backpack. I had a filter to help arrange the items. I figured out that I could move items to the inventory just by intending it, and could retrieve them the same way. I tried mentally moving my short sword to my hotbar, and was satisfied to see the icon slide over and copy itself to the smaller panel. I tried activating it and deactivating it and watched in mild amazement as the weapon appeared and disappeared out of thin air, right into the palm of my hand. At first it was really weird, especially the instantaneous feeling of weight appearing from nowhere, but I decided it wasn¡¯t any stranger than anything else that had happened so far.


    Satisfied my inventory worked as intended, I looked around and reviewed the situation so far. If I could believe what I was told, I was on a ¡°Derivative¡± planet - whatever that was - called Feyhold. The planet had been ¡°seeded¡± with the races, cultures and creatures that populated it for the express purpose of hosting a multi-decade spanning action-fantasy drama-game-thing, created by some asshole named Reidwich Henning.


    I had been fucking licensed and presumably sold off and selected for an interplanetary cross-dimensional death game where the prize was a chance to...redeem myself? From what, I had no idea. From where I was standing, the reasoning behind anyone choosing me as a player for a weird delusional death game was baffling, nevermind the logistics of gathering the intelligence necessary to determine who I was and what I¡¯d done, then transport me to another god-damned planet.


    If I was playing for the sake of ¡°redemption,¡± which was kind of an abstract notion to begin with, then how could I claim my redemption? What if all I ended up with at the end of this was fucking trauma? I suspect no one cared. Redemption was just a convenient theme to facilitate feeding the bloody appetites of whoever the hell populated this space society. I recalled the supposed release of what Atricia and Blurry-prick had called my ¡®memory edit,¡¯ in ¡°Act 2.¡± I had no idea what that entailed, but at the moment I had bigger problems. Ultimately, the explanations, the logical feasibility of it all really didn¡¯t matter. I was here, and dying here would lead to nothing. Even if the prize was a poisoned carrot on a stick, or a lie altogether, I had to reach for it.


    I asked myself what I had possibly done to be selected for this madness. I tried not to imagine what awful thing I was capable of that would draw the attention of a bored, intergalactic corporate space cult, but my mind went there anyway. What could it be? It¡¯s not like I was positioned to be a war criminal or anything. I was 32, and a failed musician from an indie rock band turned janitor at an automotive manufacturing plant. I had a university degree in Sociology, but I could never seem to make it work for me. I struggled with more than one mental health challenge, and I was living paycheque to paycheque. My most valuable possession was my electric guitar. My love life was non-existent, and had been for years. I didn¡¯t make waves. I didn¡¯t cause drama. I really didn¡¯t make any impression on the world at all anymore. By any reasonable measurement, I was harmless, and a failure. And I knew it. Maybe I¡¯m supposed to redeem myself from being a broke-ass loser, I thought bitterly. I hadn¡¯t been able to pull that off on Earth.


    Except as Abi¡¯s dad. That was the only thing I did right. I was a good father, god-damnit. If you discount the general exhaustion and perma-guilt for bringing a new life into this crazy-ass world, ninety percent of parenting is just being a loving, decent human being. That I could do.  Easily. Love has always been easy for me, and I don¡¯t have a tragic backstory. I may be poorly adjusted and broke, but I can¡¯t blame that on my youth. I had good parents and good friends, and I loved them all dearly. I already missed them. With Abi, love was so, so easy. Effortless. She was a great kid; easy going, and smart as hell. She was scrawny and gangly and very blonde, with a light smattering of freckles across her nose. She was going to be just as pretty as her mother. After she¡¯d been born, I turned into a sentimental softy. Full stop. And, that was okay. I didn¡¯t mind one bit. But, as I reflected, I realised I couldn¡¯t afford to be a softy now, or sentimental.


    I confronted the very real antipathy I was feeling towards my captors, who were likewise my potential saviours. I figured a little bitterness was pretty understandable given the circumstances. A few hours in and I already wanted to tear down everything these assholes stood for, but they obviously held the power to either deny me my family entirely, or possibly hurt or kill Abi. I had something more than my life to lose - only one thing left to lose, if I was being honest. That was all the leverage anyone would ever need. I really would do anything to get back to her.


    I suspected there would be some leeway with players expressing dejection and bitterness, at least at first, but Atricia had made a point of warning me about ¡°rebellious bullshit.¡± Like any authoritarian nutjobs, they would likely be paranoid and brutal if it came to anything resembling rebellion or civil unrest. I wonder what they call their Secret Police, I thought with a sigh.


    No, what they wanted was not defiance, but a spectacle and a story, and I was supposed to be a character. I was to play my part in some weird redemption fantasy, but what they really wanted was to see just how bad I wanted to get home. You want to watch me try and climb up from hell? Fine, I thought. Just be careful I don¡¯t bring it with me. You have the control, and I¡¯ll play, but there¡¯s one thing I can control, and that¡¯s my fucking narrative.

 Chapter 5: Sage

    5


    So far, I had no direction beyond ¡°Do quests¡±, no idea of the rules, and no supplies. Ridiculous. Impossible. But, here we were. My mind parsed through what little information I¡¯d been given before I was isekai¡¯d, and I recalled that bitch Atricia had said that we could select a class after our first encounter, and my eyes returned to the little plus sign in the bottom right corner of my player icon. That had to be the level-up indicator. I focused my attention on it. It was time for character creation. As I honed in on the icon, a new panel popped up, but before I could examine it, yet another disembodied voice spoke in my ear. Or at least I think it was my ear - I felt the words as much as heard them. The voice was cool and female, friendly and calm. It didn¡¯t sound stilted or artificial. It was a bit like the voice of a kind stranger from a call centre who was about to put me on hold.


    Greetings Luck, do you require the assistance of an advisor?


    ¡°Woah, shit!¡± I exclaimed looking around. ¡°You guys keep doing this invisible voice shit. It¡¯s¡­ startling,¡± I said. ¡°Where I come from we don¡¯t do telepathy, or whatever the hell this is. At least not yet. And uh...hi.¡± I paused to sigh as I adapted to more of this crazy shit. ¡°I¡¯m gonna guess that using an advisor is probably better than not, huh?¡±


    Yes. History indicates that reliable advisors are a valuable asset to those pursuing power, or seeking to keep it.


    ¡°Would that be your history or mine?¡± I asked, fishing for information about this ¡®Planet of Official Origin.¡¯


    Both. Would you like to make use of my advisory capabilities?


    ¡°Uh¡­I think so, but one more question: are you an AI, or like a magic thing? A real, living person, maybe? Like a highly credible phone-in psychic beaming thoughts into my head¡­?¡±


    I¡¯m sorry, but that information is not relevant. Please rest assured that I have your best interests at heart, and will do my utmost to provide information and advice that will increase the chances of your success. It¡¯s my hope that, should you choose to accept my assistance, we will be a formidable team, Luck.


    I thought it over. Why was its identity classified? Maybe to throw me off? I guessed that an AI could observe me and report to whoever was overseeing the players, but if a person was observing me, that was another story altogether. That was observance and judgement; human judgement. People can¡¯t help but judge the world through their own lens. If I had some religious nut watching over me who was obsessed with this ¡°Origin¡± bullshit, that would saturate their personality and absolutely affect the kind of advice and information I would get. Blurry man had said the Church of the Origin didn¡¯t even consider me human. I didn¡¯t know what that was, but it had sounded like it played an important role in whatever society or culture produced this madness. That was a chilling thought. On the other hand, if the voice were an AI, it would likely be more neutral and pragmatic. I hoped. Christ, I thought, I would actually prefer a god-damned robot. I wasn¡¯t sure what that said about me.


    ¡°Why can¡¯t you tell me? It doesn¡¯t make any sense to withhold that information, does it?¡± I asked, my brows furrowed.


    ¡°It is a matter of legal and proprietary issues. The status and nature of individual Advisors is considered a trade secret among sponsors. Some use custom AI¡¯s, others use Human advisors, others a combination of the two. This adds a strategic element to the game which allows sponsors to participate, if indirectly, in game events and quests. Each sponsor is permitted to use a custom set of support systems, including an advisor, which of course must meet certain rules requirements. I play one role in that system of support. Also, your ability to speak directly to an audience in the millions presents a certain risk to the integrity of your sponsor and the identity of your advisor. The showrunners prefer to avoid interrupting the drama with unnecessary censorship, and in order to protect your sponsor¡¯s interests it would be necessary to filter out discussions that could reveal your advisor¡¯s identity. In order to protect the interests of your sponsor, I am not permitted to provide details beyond that. As I stated earlier, my identity is ultimately irrelevant, as my only goal is to help you win. If you and I win, your sponsor wins.¡±


    I was silent, mulling it over. If our goals really were aligned, then that was a good thing. Provided it stayed that way. If my sponsor had money in the game, then I could at least rely on greed to motivate them to keep me alive. Unless they¡¯d make more money if I died, I thought. Fuck. Well, I could choose to be cautious or suspicious here and go it alone, but I already knew the people behind this, and the viewers, could listen to or watch me whenever they wanted. Regardless of just whose eyes were on me, information was a survival tool. I needed all the advice I could get if this game was anything like I thought it was going to be. I would just have to be careful how much I trusted this ¡°advisor¡±.


    ¡°Alright, your help sounds a lot more promising than stumbling my way through this blindly,¡± I said in a bland tone. ¡°I accept your offer, though I¡¯m not sure I really have a choice. Anyway, do you have a name I can use? Or like, a designation or something?¡±


    ¡°Your sponsor has given me the codename Sage. It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you, Luck. Note that while I am perfectly capable of physical speech, you can also communicate with me internally.¡±


    That was both disconcerting and terribly convenient. I tried it out. "Like this?" I intended the words, as though speaking in my inner monologue, just kind of¡­louder.


    Yes, the voice said warmly. I can understand you just fine. I see that you have several choices to make concerning character creation and levelling up. Are you prepared to undergo the levelling up and class selection process? I can offer suggestions based on your current statistics and game performance, known playstyle, or we can discuss a build you have in mind and work to develop it.


    ¡°A build, huh? Are you a gamer too, Sage?¡±


    I have access to an extensive database of earth¡¯s entertainment, including games you¡¯ve played regularly. I even have access to character choices, playstyle and previous builds you used frequently. This information was collected when determining your candidacy.


    That¡¯s both super-convenient and absolutely creepy, I thought. What else did they know about me? Anyway, It tracked with the dystopian techno-criminals running this show. I tried not to think about it. ¡°Okay Sage, let¡¯s check my stats and then we¡¯ll review class selection.¡± This, at least, might be kind of fun. A little daunting, considering the potential consequences of a bad choice, but who doesn¡¯t like character creation? Every good D&D campaign started with a character building session zero. I guess every nightmare campaign did too. I looked around, scanning for anything that might be goblin-like. ¡°Before we start this, Sage, am I safe here? I just fought a fucking goblin, and I suspect they don¡¯t travel alone. I¡¯d hate to get myself perished before I finish choosing my class.¡±


    It¡¯s interesting that you use profanity even in your mind, Luck. I believe you¡¯re safe. I don¡¯t detect any hostile creatures in the immediate area. I¡¯ll warn you if something approaches. Class selection has benefits that will contribute to your continued survival, so I recommend doing so at your earliest convenience.


    ¡°Okay then, let¡¯s do this¡± I said, grinning at her profanity comment. ¡°As for swearing, I worked in a factory for years. Not a sentence was uttered that did not include ¡®fuck¡¯ or ¡®shit¡¯ or ¡®god-damnit.¡¯ The habit dies hard. Better get used to it.¡±


    Noted, she said neutrally. Let¡¯s pull up your statistics. These will be the stats determined by your current physical and mental capabilities, as well as any specialised knowledge and experiences of note you possess. Average scores are 9-11, consider anything above that to be notable. You should be familiar with this type of statistical arrangement, but know that the game considers skill acquisition an emergent process. You¡¯ll be awarded skills based on in-game performance. Classes come with their own skills, but there are a wide variety of skills that can be acquired regardless of class, including gathering, crafting and performance skills.


    ¡°Alright, I think I¡¯ve got it. Let¡¯s see my stats.¡± A panel appeared showing my level, class, and race, which was listed as ¡°Unproven.¡± That was a bit ominous. There was also a Status section which Sage said would display active buffs, debuffs, and passive skills¡± The ¡°Unproven¡± racial designation was eery, but I guessed that tracked with what the silky god-voice had said. I focused on my base stats, which were listed as:


    Strength: 8


    Dexterity: 13


    Constitution: 7


    Intelligence: 12


    Charisma: 7


    ¡°Shit,¡± I said, looking at the top set of stats. ¡°A seven in charisma? Really?¡± I asked, mildly outraged. ¡°I played guitar and sang in a god-damned band for almost ten years!¡±


    My analysis indicates that your Charisma score is accurate.


    ¡°Oof,¡± I said. That hurt.


    If it¡¯s any comfort, your charisma stat is reflective of a multitude of factors, including socialisation and status.


    ¡°No, that is not comforting in the least. Thank you, Sage¡± I shot back sarcastically. I was unimpressed, but I guess it kinda figured. I had been a near-recluse for the past few years. ¡°The other stats mostly make sense, though the crappy constitution sucks. And before you start, yes I know I am underfed and out of shape. I¡¯m great at taking care of a kid, but I¡¯m terrible at taking care of myself. That¡¯s something I¡¯m going to have to change,¡±This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    There were three stats set slightly below the others, labelled ¡°Emergent Statistics¡± that Sage said would be reflected by game performance. They read:


    Wisdom: O


    Luck: 2


    Cunning: 2


    I supposed I had gained the small bonuses as a result of my fight with the goblin, since I hadn¡¯t had much of a chance to do anything else. Sage continued with her analysis. Your score of thirteen in dexterity is notable. That will be beneficial should you select a rogue, monk, or one of a few dexterity-based fighter classes. Your twelve in intelligence, while average, is still a viable starting point for magic-based classes. Please note that classes are fluid and these initial classifications are only starting points. You¡¯ll also have the opportunity for specialisations that award specific class bonuses and unlock new skills later on in your journey.


    ¡°So, I can multiclass?¡± I asked curiously. I rarely played a straight class if I could help it, I liked diversity, though I wasn¡¯t aiming for a utility or support class here. I needed to be dangerous all on my own.


    She continued on in her calm, friendly voice. You¡¯ll have to start with one of the base classes, which are made up of a standard twelve-class system. As for multiclassing, yes, it¡¯s certainly possible. You can choose to focus on acquiring new skills that would orient you towards a second class. Do you have a build in mind, Luck?


    There was something I¡¯d always wanted to try, but had never quite found the right fit in games I¡¯d played before. Maybe this was an opportunity to see if it worked as well in practice as it did in my head. ¡°I have something I¡¯d like to do, but I think it depends on a few things. Can you advise me on its viability?¡± I told her what I had in mind, and she seemed to think it over for a moment.


    I see. There are some inherent risks to your progress in dividing your focus. It will require some careful planning and balancing in order to be effective, especially at higher levels. You¡¯ll need to seek skills outside of your initial class and work to build them up without the foundational class bonuses. The modifications you¡¯re seeking are possible, but only if you meet the requirements for a specific casting type. You¡¯re also going to have to find a way to significantly boost your Charisma stat, which is central to what you¡¯re proposing. Based on these factors, your wishes, your time on earth and your in-game performance, I suggest you select the ¡°Rogue¡± class. This will provide a foundation upon which you can build towards your eventual goal. I would recommend you seek out the Trainers available to you at local branches of the Adventurer¡¯s guild to expand and empower your skills further.


    ¡°Rogue, huh? You know Sage, there is a part of me that very much wants to be a Wizard, Harry, but I fucking hate wands.¡± I said, looking over my stats again. Jokes aside, this was a deadly serious choice I was making; one that would have long-term consequences. A rogue did track with my game choices on Earth; I always played DPS, and I migrated towards dexterity-based high-damage classes. Glass cannons, in some cases. Being sneaky was always fun and made for some interesting solo play opportunities. The downsides were that I would be low in hit points thanks to my poor constitution, and I couldn¡¯t equip armour classified as heavier than ¡°light¡± if I wanted to make use of my class-based Stealth skill, which I absolutely wanted to do. The light armour made dying more likely, which made me very nervous, but if I was being rational, I had to play to my strengths. What I lacked in raw strength I would make up in speed and cunning.


    One thing I was not particularly interested in was reliving my former life as a musician in bard form here on Feyhold. I¡¯m sorry, bards, you¡¯re awesome - except for poets, fuck those guys - it¡¯s just that I have absolutely no desire to sing or recite poetry to my allies, or at my enemies, in the midst of battle. Frankly, it just sounds like a bad time. Singing for a crowd can get pretty rowdy and chaotic, but it was a far cry from pitched battle. If something is trying to kill me I want to hit it, not lower its damned spirits with a dirge. Just call it a personal preference. I mulled my choices over for a moment longer before I pulled the trigger.


    ¡°Alright, Sage. Make me a rogue.¡±


    Acknowledged. Congratulations Luck, you¡¯re now a Level 1 Rogue, she said, then continued a moment later. The rogue variant you¡¯ve started with, determined by your initial stats and performance, has been designated as a ¡°Back Alley Shanker.¡±


    I laughed. ¡°That sounds noble. Did you give it that designation, Sage?¡± I asked aloud.


    I did not, she said neutrally, letting the words hang. My attention was diverted from this when my screen briefly flashed golden and text appeared that read: Congratulations. You¡¯ve reached Level 1.You have stat points to distribute.


    I returned to my stats page and saw that I did indeed have three stat points to distribute, and I¡¯d gained a small amount of hit points. I thought for a moment, then decided to play to my strengths for now, as well as starting towards my other goals. I put one point in Dexterity, raising it to 14, then two points into Charisma, making it 9. I was, at least, now an average person when it came to social interactions. I suppose that¡¯s a step up, I thought dryly.


    I checked out my Equipment tab, and saw a panel that showed an outline of a human body with equipment slots arranged around it. It seemed I had a head slot, a neck slot, a cloak slot, slots for chest armour, gauntlets or bracers, a belt slot, ten ring slots, legs and boots. My current equipment was my star wars t-shirt, my jeans, my belt and my shoes, as well as the shortsword and the dagger equipped to two of three weapon slots. I noted there was no underwear slot. No magic boxers for me, I thought sadly. My armour rating was 0, which was concerning, but a ripped t-shirt was hardly armour. They could have started me with some, the pricks. There was one weapon slot for each hand as well as a third for what looked like a ranged weapon, or maybe a two handed weapon of some kind.


    A new tab had also appeared in my interface, highlighted beside the others. In addition to my Inventory, Equipment and Stats tabs was now the Skills tab. I mentally opened it and saw several different categories of skills. They were: Inherent Skills, Class Skills, and Emergent Skills. My Emergent Skills list was currently empty, but beneath Inherent Skills was a scrollable list that contained a bunch of ¡°skills¡± that were both mundane and potentially useful. Each had a heading and a corresponding level. Among many were:


    Childcare: Level 5


    Commercial Cleaning: Level 4


    Visual Arts: Level 1


    Performance Arts: Level 5


    Songwriting: Level 3


    Martial Arts: Level 3


    Scholarship: Level 3


    Rhetoric: Level 2


    History: Level 1


    Seduction: Level 1


    Critical Analysis: Level 2


    Situational Awareness: Level 2


    Written Communication: Level 3


    Hand-Eye Coordination: Level 5


    I blinked a few times, considering. ¡°Childcare is level 5? Well shit, I guess thousands of diaper changes and late-night bottle feedings paid off. Maybe I can babysit for gold..¡± I waxed sarcastic as I went down the list. ¡°Commercial Cleaning at level 4? Great. My fantasy work opportunities are quickly expanding,¡± I said, my voice flat. ¡°The rest of these look like they might be useful. Maybe if I get a hold of a lute or something I can do some busking. Wait, seduction?¡± I asked, incredulous. ¡°I don¡¯t exactly have an extensive¡­ uh, track record, Sage. I dated like five people before I got together with Abi¡¯s mom. I wouldn¡¯t call myself ¡®seductive¡¯ in the least.¡±


    Records indicate that you had romantic opportunities you were unaware of, primarily during your time as a performer. Evidently your obliviousness radiates a certain degree of charm, Luck. If not for this fact, I suspect your Charisma score would have been even lower.


    I lapsed back into verbal speech. ¡°Ouch,¡± I said. ¡°That¡¯s called a backhanded compliment, Sage. Anyway, lucky for us both this isn¡¯t that story where I go around making a harem out of elves and demon girls. I don¡¯t expect to need seduction a whole lot.¡±


    I¡¯m relieved to hear that. The contents of your pc¡¯s hard drive generated some concern.


    ¡°Holy shit,¡± I blurted, face-palming. ¡°Of course you have my PC contents.¡±


    It was necessary in forming an accurate profile.


    ¡°Uh¡­yeah, I¡¯m sure it was. For both our sake¡¯s, let us never speak of it again. I¡¯ll just say this: Japan is a weird, weird place, okay?¡± A brief pause ensued before Sage went on as though she hadn¡¯t heard me.


    Note that skills rated as average or below are not displayed in the Inherent skills section. Skills listed here are considered above-average or exceptional in some way.


    ¡°Well, I guess I¡¯m worse at badminton than I thought,¡± I said while my eyes wandered down to the next section, Class Skills. There were five in all, and I hovered over each to get a description:


    Stealth - Level 1: Increases your chances to conceal your presence and/or move silently. Effectiveness increases with level. May only be used when certain conditions are met.


    Pick Locks - Level 1: Open locked doors, containers and other items secured by conventional locks. This skill requires the item ¡°Lockpicks¡±. Higher skill levels reduce the difficulty of lockpicking attempts, and if certain conditions are met, unlocks specialised skills like Glyph Break and Arcane Seal.


    Find/Disarm Traps - Level 1: An internal warning will sound when a nearby trap is detected. Allows the player to disarm traps once detected. Effective range, accuracy of detection and other options, such as Tamper, Dismantle and Reassemble become available at higher levels.


    Cutpurse - Level 1: Use sleight of hand to gain temporary access to a target¡¯s inventory. Length of access and chances of successful removal of items is determined by the user¡¯s dexterity and the level of the skill. Skill increases with use.


    Shit, I thought. I never really liked those pickpocket hobo rogues in TTRPG¡¯s. Those guys were dicks. They were always stealing from anyone and everyone, including the party, just to cause shit. Levelling this is going to be a pain in the ass, I thought. All in all, these were pretty standard Level 1 Rogue skills, but it was the last that I focused on, having hoped it would be available right away.


    Cunning Strike - Level 1: A high-damage attack launched from a hidden position. Requires the user to be using stealth, or for an opponent to be surprised or engaged with another combatant. Damage increases upon level up.


    Good, I thought. I needed combat skills that gave me the ability to hit first, hit fast, and hit often. I was a bit of a World War 2 history nerd, and I remembered hearing that from an American Admiral, Bull Halsey. It had become the motto of the U.S Navy during the Pacific campaign, and it fit my emerging combat philosophy like a glove. I pulled Cunning Strike to my abilities bar and took a deep breath, looking around. ¡°Well, Sage. I think we¡¯ve got it covered for now. I should get moving, I¡¯m going to need to find food, water, and shelter before nightfall, preferably somewhere the goblins are not. Is there anything nearby?¡±


    Map data will be expanded as you travel. This is in keeping with the ¡®fog of war¡¯ method employed in many games you¡¯re familiar with. Hostile mobs will be represented by red dots, and neutral creatures as yellow. NPC¡¯s are displayed as white dots, and allies or party members are green. I am authorised, in this case, to tell you that a settlement, the village of Spade¡¯s Rest, lies approximately 10.8 kilometres to the south-east. If we begin our journey now, we should arrive a few hours before nightfall.


    I took one last look at the clearing where I¡¯d faced the savage little green bastard. His body still lay slumped to one side at the foot of the large tree where I¡¯d killed him. The first thing that had ever tried to kill me, and the first thing larger than an insect that I¡¯d killed. A ray of sunlight was hitting his broken face, and the bright, wet blood glittered in the afternoon light. There would be a lot more blood before this would end, I knew. I turned south and started making my way through the trees.

 Chapter 6: Two Very Difficult Questions

    6


    I asked Sage about practising my Stealth ability as we moved through the forest, and she said it would be a good use of my time, but we would arrive at our destination later than anticipated. I decided this was a worthwhile trade off and did my best to both creep and tread lightly through the trees. The skill certainly enhanced my abilities beyond the norm, and I found myself much more comfortable with the slow, careful steps that were necessary to avoid noise on the forest floor. Still, I was no Army Ranger, and twigs and small sproutlings were routinely made victim to my untrained feet as I went. My health bar slowly refilled as we went, and to my relief, I slowly felt the pain of the scrapes and bruises I¡¯d acquired fade into non-existence. I saw yellow dots on my mini-map that scampered around beneath the trees, and I found that they were small animals, like little chubby squirrel-type things with high, pointed ears that my HUD identified as Turbits. They had what looked like a stripe of small leaves sprouting from their speckled grey and brown fur. They were skittish, and darted away as soon as they saw or heard me coming. Sage helpfully informed me I could adjust the mini-map to display neutral creatures of a certain size or larger to avoid clutter, but I left it where it was for now.


    As I moved carefully beneath the trees, I used the time to quiz Sage on some of the aspects of the game.


    Yes, she was saying. I¡¯m permitted to discuss certain information relating to the functions and generalities of the game, though I can¡¯t reveal information specific to you or this location until you unlock data through progress.


    I thought about this and nodded to myself. ¡°Right, the ¡®Fog of War.¡¯ Does it have a range?¡±


    Yes. At present, your mini-map has an effective range of twenty metres. That is 65.6 feet, in imperial measurement. It is my understanding that your native country adopted the metric system, but still utilised the imperial system in everyday parlance, such as discussing one¡¯s height or weight.


    ¡°True,¡± I replied thoughtfully. ¡°I know I¡¯m around six feet tall, and I weigh about 170 pounds, but I couldn¡¯t tell you my height in centimetres or my weight in kilograms. That¡¯s just not how we talk about it, even long after we started using the metric system.¡±


    That would be 182.8 centimetres and 77.1 kilograms, respectively. In conversation and the delivery of information, I¡¯ll try to predict when each measurement is more appropriate and use that. Is that acceptable?


    ¡°Sure, though it might be confusing for your viewers. Do your space-cult overlords use the metric system? Or some weird thing you created yourselves, like Cubits?¡± I asked, pushing on my boundaries a bit. Then a thought suddenly occurred to me.


    ¡°Wait, I asked suddenly, stopping in the midst of moving between two trees, slightly alarmed. ¡°can people hear¡­er.. access our internal conversations? Like, any time?¡±


    Concerning your question about measurements, I¡¯m not permitted to provide many details about life outside the game, Luck. I¡¯m sorry, I know you¡¯re curious by nature, but you¡¯re better served by focusing on your progress.¡± Her tone was conciliatory, though firm. As to our conversations, anything you say out loud to myself or anyone else is recorded and accessible to viewers, as is anything you do outside of a Shrine of Elaris, or in the event that Privacy Mode is active. Our internal conversations are not subject to viewer scrutiny, though a log is created in real time and may be viewed by showrunners.¡±


    ¡°Shit,¡± I said reflexively, out loud this time, then sighed in resignation. ¡°I guess it¡¯s par for the course.¡± Sage didn¡¯t comment on this, but instead offered more information.


    While we¡¯re on the subject, Luck, I¡¯ll explain the visual element of the program, as it¡¯s something that should inform your actions to a certain degree. I have up to 8 stealth camera pods that I can deploy at any time to provide viewers with an array of viewpoints in nearly any given situation. Pods are also distributed liberally throughout the environment so viewers can access multiple locations while they follow the action. There are also POV first handers that see the world directly through your eyes, though this mode is less popular than others.


    The thought of people seeing the world through my eyes was a thoroughly uncomfortable one. It would be the most intimate level of scrutiny I could imagine, and I was at least partially relieved to hear that it was an unpopular way to watch. Still, I was going to have a hard time with that one. ¡°So, you have camera pods operating right now, then?¡±


    I currently have 3 of my personal cameras deployed, which is sufficient for our immediate environment. The most used mode by viewers, by far, is Narrative Mode, which uses predictive algorithms that access multiple cameras in the area and then utilises cinematography intended to replicate the experience of viewing a film. Viewers are granted access to multiple camera angles that operate simultaneously, and they are able to switch to any of these viewpoints at any point should they elect to view the action manually. I am permitted to inform you that, at present, there are 126 viewers following your progress, though only one is viewing your experience first-hand.


    The number of viewers reminded me, unfavourably, of some of the dive bars we¡¯d played back when I was in the band. Sometimes we¡¯d be lucky to draw twenty or thirty people on any day that wasn¡¯t the weekend. Our biggest crowd had been around 12000 at a travelling music festival for indie bands. I had long since outgrown my teenage desire for recognition and acknowledgement from a crowd of strangers, and the idea of being recorded in general didn¡¯t bother me much, but neither did it excite me. Nobody signs up for perpetual surveillance, but I didn¡¯t have a choice. At least nerves wouldn¡¯t be a problem. I was always nervous before a show, but as soon as we hit the stage I¡¯d be overcome by an almost euphoric sense of calm. Oddly, some of the most peaceful moments of my life had been right in the midst of screaming guitars and crashing drums. I¡¯d be savaging the strings of my Telecaster, lost in the throes of the almost involuntary movement that emerges in response to the energy of the song, and deep in my mind I would sink into a reverie. If you can find it, there is a strange and beautiful silence at the heart of the chaos. Somehow the presence of the crowd combined with the joined efforts of the rest of the band would elicit this response in me. I recognized it as a kind of surrender; the release of any notion of the crowd¡¯s scrutiny because the scrutiny was absolute. To be someone else in that space would be false, so I became a distilled version of myself. More free. Somehow, a truer version of myself, absolutely open and vulnerable, and that was, perhaps counterintuitively, a liberating experience.


    ¡°126, viewers eh? I guess I¡¯m at the begging-for-subs stage of my Twitch career. Speaking of which, is there a chat for viewers? I can only imagine that would be sheer fucking madness.¡±


    Yes, viewers can chat in real time, though you won¡¯t be able to see this except in rare cases. The chat function is very popular, and impacts the game in very real ways. Your achievements are awarded as a result of viewers voting in real time. Viewers decide which actions you take are of note and deserve to be rewarded. The process is somewhat complex, but, in essence, the viewers trigger the achievement by initiating votes, which require a majority to pass. Each paying viewer receives one Achievement Token every 24 hours, so they need to use it carefully if they are switching feeds between players. They can use these tokens to trigger an achievement vote. There is a fixed amount of Achievements that a player can receive in a 24 hour period, so timing is also important when initiating a vote. This season¡¯s Achievement limit is set to ten. Sage was all business now. Regardless of what she really was, she sounded a whole lot like an AI now. She went on breathlessly.The Central System determines the appropriate level of reward based on the difficulty or the uniqueness of the achievement. Then viewers are provided with an opportunity to vote again on the contents of a chest. Gold is awarded immediately and moves straight to your inventory, but chests containing items are delivered to your instance of the Shrine of Elaris. Chests are divided into common, uncommon, rare, epic, legendary, and divine variants. I believe you are familiar with reward systems that use similar distinctions.¡±


    ¡°Yep, pretty standard. Though, the idea of viewers deciding my loot makes me nervous as Hell. People are fucking fickle, Sage,¡± I said, recalling all the comment sections I¡¯d ever been stupid enough to read. If you ever need a reminder of how doomed humanity is, spend some time reading the comment sections of your daily news stories.


    I understand your concern, Luck, but it would be more pragmatic to view this reward system in relation to your performance. Statistically, players that cultivate a character, an aesthetic, a type of personality or a personal narrative have higher rates of reward. It¡¯s in your interest to think of yourself as a performer, as something between an actor and an athlete. Your social media obligations are intended to help you cultivate a following in this way.


    ¡°Hold up. My what?¡± I asked, incredulous. ¡°Did you say Social Media obligations? Like Tik-Tok or some shit? I have to run a god-damned social media account in addition to risking my life in fucking absurd circumstances? What the fuck, Sage?¡± I was pissed. The idea of pandering to a crowd of bloodthirsty dystopian superfans was about as appealing as a lobotomy. Sage ignored my outburst and went on as though I hadn¡¯t said anything.


    The showrunners like players to interact with their fans as often as possible. I will be operating the account on your behalf, so you don¡¯t need to be concerned with micromanagement. Simply indicate to me when you wish to make a post and I¡¯ll facilitate what you have in mind, provided it meets the appropriate standards. Using posts to disparage the showrunners will simply be filtered out by the Central System.


    ¡°This is bullshit, but fine. If it helps me garner more viewers and more chests, then I¡¯ll swallow my pride and do the dog and pony show. So, what kind of posts am I supposed to make? Do I hope to go viral performing lame dances?¡± I asked with a sigh of resignation.


    Posts are mostly videos, yes, but they¡¯re meant to be relevant to your progress, your character, or your goals. Game-related content is standard, though to a certain extent there is room for self-expression.The showrunners have contracts with social media giants Glimpse, ViewYou, and TrendIt. These platforms are effectively the same in terms of function, with minor variations in aesthetics and the format of the posts. A single post can be applied to all three platforms, so managing individual posts for each is unnecessary. I am also able to employ editing and cinematography concurrent with modern film making, which will greatly enhance the quality of your posts. We can discuss what you have in mind, and together we¡¯ll work out posts that are exciting and engaging. Sage seemed almost excited, her words picking up speed and enthusiasm slightly. Shit, I thought. She¡¯s into it. Well, at least one of us is enthusiastic. I really had no idea what kind of posts I would be making. I felt awkward just thinking about it. The only thing I¡¯d ever posted back home were pictures of myself and Abi together. I guess this time I would be documenting the misadventures of Luck the Hapless.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    I still had questions, so I dismissed my reservations for now and pressed on. ¡°Okay, so do I interact directly with viewers? Like, through a livestream or something, sort of¡­narrating my progress while they watch? I¡¯m really not interested in a perpetual monologue, Sage. I already have problems with monologues.¡±


    I understand your concerns. While you can certainly address the viewers in real-time by simply directing your verbal speech at them, you can¡¯t speak or interact with them beyond that. There is a consolidated comment section curated daily, and I can make the top 5 comments and replies available to you every 24 hours. I recommend checking these daily to get a feel for the viewers


    ¡°God damnit,¡± I said out loud. ¡°Comment sections are absolute cesspools of stubborn toxicity, Sage. I don¡¯t know what your world¡¯s social media is like, but I imagine trolls are universal. I don¡¯t need that shit. I avoided it at home for a reason. It¡¯s like asking for a mental health condition.¡± I was unfortunately qualified to make this observation due to my own mental health challenges over the years. Aggravating already problematic symptoms was a recipe for disaster.


    I can certainly tell that you aren¡¯t thrilled by any of this, Luck. I was prepared for your reaction in advance, thanks to our records of your social media use on Earth. I assure you that I will assist you in this process as much as I can. She paused then, as though reticent to go on. I do have to inform you that the showrunners actually prefer a diverse array of comments, both positive and negative. Negative comments, while unpleasant, garner a high volume of engagement between viewers. Your daily comments display will include comments both negative and positive in interest of viewer interaction.


    ¡°Awesome,¡± I said internally, and my tone was all sarcasm. ¡°On a faraway fantasy planet filled with magic and wonder, there are still keyboard warriors. It¡¯s a shame they¡¯re probably not worth any experience points, or I¡¯d invite them planetside for a real chat.¡±


    The use of keyboards fell out of fashion many decades ago, Luck, Sage said helpfully.


    ¡°Hilarious,¡± I said. I sighed then, dreading what was coming next. ¡°Okay Sage, now we come to two very difficult questions. I think I know what the answers are, but I have to get it out of the way.¡±


    I believe I can anticipate your questions, Luck. However, please proceed. I will do my best to be accurate and thorough.


    I took a breath. ¡°Alright. First: are the npc¡¯s real people? Do they have thoughts of their own or lives that they live beyond this fucked up game?¡± There was a long pause, like Sage was thinking.


    I know this will be difficult for you, Luck. While most creatures here, aside from extra-terrestrial outsiders, are either terrestrial humans or genetic constructs born of bioengineering, they are capable of independent thought. Many of the creatures, including most humanoid types, are indeed intelligent, sentient beings. They have identities, histories, lives, professions, families and everything else you might expect. However, circumstances on Feyhold change drastically once the World Spell has been cast. You experienced the casting of the World Spell when the dome of light passed through you. The spell is such that certain NPC¡¯s are considered ¡°God-touched¡± and function in predetermined or conditioned ways to facilitate certain aspects of the game. You could say that these individuals have their sentience temporarily suspended, or at least heavily modified. Among these are the NPC¡¯s you would call ¡°Quest-givers,¡± though there are many types, including certain mobs.


    She let this sink in for a moment but before I could interject, she continued quickly, almost as though she were rushing. Some NPC¡¯s are beloved by the fanbase and have garnered significant followings over the years. It¡¯s been found that it vastly increases the dramatic tension when there¡¯s a risk the NPC might die. NPC¡¯s are not replaced, and this sometimes elicits strong emotional responses from the viewers. The showrunners have also managed to use extensive conditioning to achieve the desired results through cultural and religious interventions over the many years Feyhold has been operational.


    The peoples here are effectively trained to expect the interventions and whims of very real Gods to be a part of their daily lives. Most of the ¡°gods¡± are, of course, the showrunners, and they¡¯ve cultivated the belief that, while the gods are meddlesome and powerful, they are required to work through mortal instruments to achieve their goals on Feyhold. The last time a large-scale multiplayer game season was hosted here was ten years ago, and the presence of the game always heralds great change in the terrestrial societies.


    I took this in with rising anger and dismay. ¡°That¡¯s really fucked up, Sage. That means this is part social experiment, part entertainment cash cow, and part execution ground. Life is hard enough on people without an intergalactic space cult up in the sky playing god. It also means I probably have to kill these people. Probably a lot of them.¡± I said this with disgust, dreading the notion and feeling helpless as a consequence. I tried really, really hard not to think about what that was going to do to my psyche, or if I could even go through with it. ¡°So, that answers that - in the worst possible way. Now for my second ultra-shitty question: will there be PVP?¡±


    Yes. Player versus Player events are tremendously popular, particularly those classified as Death Matches. It is, unfortunately, inevitable that you will be tasked with participating in these events. The showrunners usually choose the matchups, but in some cases the participants are decided by audience vote. If you have intense conflicts with other Players, you can expect that at some point the audience will demand you face off in combat. It¡¯s considered good form to force players to ¡°put their money where their mouth is,¡± as you would say on Earth. These events often receive record-breaking viewership if the participants are well known.


    I let her finish before I just lowered my head and sighed in resignation. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I am not the kind of guy who was going to do well with this shit. Killing anyone was reprehensible and naturally shattered my ethical boundaries, but I had been hoping the NPC¡¯s would somehow be artificial beings incapable of real pain. That would be too easy, and too boring to watch, I thought bitterly. This game was made thrilling by the prospect of real death, I knew. Blood and fury, the blurry asshole had said. They were going to turn me into a killer, and if I wasn¡¯t fucking exceptional at it, I would be saying goodbye to my own life and everything I loved.


    ¡°I already hate this place,¡± I said out loud. ¡°It¡¯s fucking monstrous. I don¡¯t know what I did, but you people are beyond redemption,¡± I shouted at the sky. Sage¡¯s voice pulled me back from a precipice I hadn¡¯t realised I was approaching.


    Luck¡­ use caution. Eventually your anger will have real consequences.


    ¡°Fine, but holy shit. Holy fucking shit. I really have to do this, Sage.¡±


    Her reply sounded surprisingly genuine when she replied, Yes. I¡¯m sorry, Luck.


    I didn¡¯t say anything. I had to actively deny these thoughts as I walked, or else I¡¯d be lost in self-pity. Abi would be lost. There wasn¡¯t any room for sorrow, not if I wanted to see her ever again. I moved on in broody silence, and Sage let me be.


    As the afternoon light slid slowly away, the world beneath the canopy of huge trees grew dimmer and more subdued. The air was growing cooler and the buzz and chirp of insects was more pronounced against the lazy drifts of wind that rustled through the trees. I crept slowly over the thick roots and through the leaves and branches of the small plants that dotted the forest floor, and on my mini map I saw a clearing display about twenty metres ahead, populated by a single yellow dot. I decided to put my Stealth skill to the test and edged towards the clearing slowly, sliding around the thick trunks of the trees and passing through the spaces between them as quietly as I could. It seemed I was so far successful as the dot on my minimap remained still.


    As I rounded a tree, brushing lightly against the rough bark, a huge, dark figure  came into view. Its antler-crowned head was bent low as the creature drank from the small pond that was a mirror to the sky above, its surface rippling out from the beast¡¯s muzzle as it drank. I saw a quick notification flash and then move to the bottom corner of my screen, glimmering gently, awaiting my attention. I ignored it, my gaze locked on the beast. As I focused on it, the hud¡¯s indicator, normally a simple circle ringed with slowly rotating arcane glyphs, blinked into existence, but this time it was surrounded in an elaborate ring of golden leaves, waving gently in the digital wind.. This reminded me of the way most games marked Elite mobs, but that fact seemed unimportant now. Its name and species were simply marked as ¡°Unknown.¡± It was no mere stag. Far larger even than a moose, it dominated the clearing in such a way that a palpable sense of authority radiated from it in waves. This thing was like something out of Princess Mononoke.


    There was an otherworldly beauty to the creature that was captivating in the truest sense of the word. It was huge, at least two metres at the shoulder. Its antlers had to be nearly a metre tall all on their own, and they seemed to be made from twisted, reaching tree branches that were covered in patches of heavy damp moss and dotted with leaves. Its neck was thickly furred but erupting from the fur was a mane of multi-hued autumn leaves that echoed the green and red maple trees that grew in the backyard of my childhood home. They were in the hues of mid-October.  Rich browns and sun-burst reds, bright yellows and fading, yet verdant greens; the leaves hung down around its neck and muscled chest like lion¡¯s mane. Its huge hooves looked almost to be made of rough-hewn stone, as thick as my calves, chipped and cracked like a cliff face.  Enthralled in a way I¡¯d never felt before, my breath was coming quick and shallow.


    Luck¡­ I heard distantly, a soft woman¡¯s voice reaching out for me across a vast distance. I heard more murmured words, sounding more insistent but drifting so slowly, slowly away. It didn¡¯t matter now. I felt bodiless, floating; awash in the sheer splendour of the creature¡¯s presence. I found myself inexplicably leaving the safety of the tree I¡¯d been hiding behind and walking slowly, reverently, out into open view. I approached the edge of the clearing then, emerging through the late afternoon beams of sunlight that pierced the canopy and filled the clearing in light that was absolutely ethereal; an iridescent presence all its own, filled with twirling and twisting dust motes that glimmered and danced around me. The world felt so slow and dreamlike, like I was drifting on a soft, warm breeze. The smell of the creature was dense moss and decaying wood and rich earth. When it moved, it creaked, like an ancient tree bending in the wind. As I edged out of the trees and into the open space, the stag lifted its head from the pool, and I saw water drain away in rivulets from a long beard made of pure lichen that hung from its wet muzzle. Its brow was feathered in green shoots of grass, and it regarded me from behind eyes that were like ancient, glacier-scraped sapphires. The blue of those eyes was total, and the gaze seemed to command me to be still; and I was still. The creature stepped forward, only a metre away, and in honey-drip slow motion, lowered its head, as though inviting my touch.


    Disbelieving, I felt my hand lift towards the stag in trembling reverence, reaching out, inches from its lightly furred brow. It snorted softly and lowered its head further, nearly to the ground, and I was suddenly ringed in the tree-like branches that made up its crown of antlers. My fingers chased its head as it went down, and somewhere far, far away, a yellow dot on my minimap turned red. I was still reaching for the creature, enraptured, when the motherfucker snorted loudly, disdainfully, and exploded into motion, surging forward. The thing was a massive blur that smashed into my abdomen like he was a freight train and I was a Geo Metro stalled out on the tracks. The legendary headbutt sent me literally careening through the air in a long horizontal arc that shot me straight between two of the huge trees that ringed the clearing. I then transformed into a spinning GTA-style ragdoll that flopped and bounced across the forest floor before I finally rolled to a stop. My vision was pulsing red, and my health bar was bottoming out fast; draining fast from right to left and straight toward nothing.The woman¡¯s voice was there again, calling to me insistently from across an invisible chasm, and I managed to croak out a groan that sounded like someone kicked a bear in the nuts. I felt the metallic tang of blood fill my mouth as I half-choked, half-coughed. I looked up through my fading, blur smeared vision to see those unfathomable eyes, those twin ancient sapphires, set alight by tiny blue suns that burned hot and bright within the crystalline orbs. They were absolute, and calm as stone; as steady as the weight of the earth as it hangs in space. The eyes were measuring me, saturating me in an all-encompassing wave of judgement that was unrelenting in its pursuit of truth. My truth, I thought, as darkness crawled over my eyes. And I have been found wanting. My consciousness shrank to a single point of glimmering sky blue light, and then into nothing at all.

 Chapter 7: Embermantle

    7


    When Sage¡¯s voice finally reached me, I had precisely one hit point remaining. My vision continued to pulse red as my health bar flashed with only a single sliver of green. I tried to pull in a breath, but instantly regretted it, pain lancing through my chest and abdomen. Broken ribs, I knew, and more. That pain was in addition to feeling like I¡¯d been dragged behind a horse. That thing had straight-up pulverised me. I didn¡¯t know how I could be in this much pain and still be alive. I let out something like a low, long groan and realised Sage was still talking.


    Luck! You¡¯re conscious, she said, and there was audible relief in her tone. You need to sit up, you¡¯re highly vulnerable in your present state. Your health recovery has taken effect, though it will be gradual due to your constitution. I moaned again as I pulled myself up to a sitting position with my back to a tree, and looked slowly around. There was no sign of the giant stag, and the clearing was unoccupied. The small pond was still and silver beneath the fading light. The red pulse on my screen had finally subsided, and the forest around me was edging into twilight. New sounds echoed through the trees; more insistent nocturnal insects stirring awake as night was beginning to creep across the sky. Through the dim light of the trees, I distantly saw the gentle pulse of fireflies.


    ¡°What the Hell happened? Why did I just walk towards that thing like a god-damned idiot?¡± I finally managed to ask, speaking aloud, wincing as I took shallow breaths. I could, very faintly, feel the extensive internal damage beginning to knit itself as my health bar crept upward, though far too slowly for my liking. Sage continued, though she sounded a little bewildered.


    You came into contact with an exceptionally rare celestial-level creature, and you were under the effects of a debuff created by the aura of Aleth¡¯akaris - that¡¯s one of his names. All deities radiate similar auras; some inspire courage, others terror. In this case it was awe, which manifested as a highly potent charm spell called Celestial Magnificence. A player of your level had no hope of resisting it. You were effectively at the whim of the god once you entered its area of effect.


    I groaned again, shifting against the tree and wincing as the pain lanced through me again. "On Earth we have this god Odin, and I swear the guy has nearly a hundred names. I wonder if anyone¡¯s ever told them that more isn¡¯t necessarily better? Anyway, Why am I alive?¡± I gasped. ¡°I should have died from that hit, I could feel it,¡± I said with a slow wheeze. ¡°He really could have just stepped on me to finish me off. I¡¯m pretty sure I would die right now if a leaf landed on me¡± I said. ¡°How long was I out?¡±


    It¡¯s comforting that your sarcasm remains intact, Luck. As to how you¡¯re alive, I can only guess that it¡¯s because the god left you alive. You¡¯ve been unconscious for a few minutes, but you took very heavy damage.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think even death could make me less sarcastic,¡± I muttered as I looked around. We had lost too much time. It would be dark soon, I thought as I peered up at the sky through the canopy. Sage went on as I rested back against the tree.


    The fact that a celestial-class creature was so close to your spawn point is concerning. The lethality of such an encounter is almost guaranteed, and well beyond what any new player could expect to survive. An oversight of this nature requires clarification. I will query the Central System for more information, and if possible, an explanation.


    ¡°You can do that?¡± I asked, curious in spite of myself. I closed my eyes and focused on the feeling of relief as my flesh and bones slowly reorganised themselves back into their default positions. My breaths were coming slightly easier now.


    Yes, I can query the Central System or your Sponsors at any time, though responses are neither immediate nor are either parties required to provide information. However, the Central System is a neutral Arbitrator, and as such will provide information that falls within its acceptable parameters for the game¡¯s ruleset. For now, you should rest and recover. And Luck¡­¡± She trailed off for a moment, and I raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°Yeah, what is it?¡±


    You should check your status screen. I furrowed my brows, and before I opened the tab, my eyes were drawn to a little square icon that hovered beneath my health and mana bars, normally where buffs and debuffs would appear. The icon was a straight-on view of an antlered stag¡¯s head, with fiercely glowing blue eyes. When I focused on it, it read ¡°The Mark of Embermantle.¡± That was it.


    ¡°What the hell¡­¡± I murmured as I willed my status screen into existence. I scanned down and beneath my current status was indeed a buff called ¡°The Mark of Embermantle¡± with the same icon, but this time it had a full description.


    Once every few decades, the Primal God Aleth¡¯Akaris, Lord of the Emerald Expanse, the great stag Embermantle, descends from his celestial grove, fated to be born into the mortal realm. There he is to fulfil his sacred role in leading The Great Hunt, and ultimately serving as its bloody sacrifice. In summer the great stag wanders the forests of Feyhold, seeking out those worthy to take part in his sacred hunt. Those hunters who receive his mark are gathered beneath the Blood Moon, where they compete to bring down the God. The champion who emerges victorious from the Hunt is granted gifts of power, and the honour of attending the Ritual of Stannas¡¯fahl, where the Gods themselves gather to feast upon the great stag¡¯s flesh and mark their rights of sovereignty over the mortal realm. Note: This mark obligates the bearer to take part in the special PvP quest event ¡°The Great Hunt.¡± The bearer will be teleported to the Proving Grounds at the indicated time. While the mark remains active, it bestows the following effects:


    +10 to Dexterity


    +5 to Strength


    +5 to Constitution


    +5 to the Jump skill


    Grants the player the special skill Shattering Charge (when activated the player surges forward up to 10 metres and strikes a shattering blow. If the player strikes a target, the first instance of weapon or unarmed damage is increased by 50%)


    *Please note that the Mark of Embermantle may result in cosmetic changes to the player.


    Before I had time to react to this, a new notification popped onto my screen: You¡¯ve received a quest: The Great Hunt. When I focused on it, a description read:


    Whenever the Unproven make their descent upon Feyhold, so too do the Primal Gods. These are celestial beings of raw elemental power that often take the form of great or legendary beasts. One such being is the Great Stag, Embermantle. As summer fades, Embermantle gathers his chosen hunters at the Scarlet Grove, beneath the red light of the blood moon. Here his chosen compete in the Great Hunt, tasked with bringing the god down, that he might fulfil his sacred role as sacrifice in the Ritual of Stannas¡¯Fahl. Hunters compete not only against the god himself, but against one another as they vie to slay the beast and reap the rewards bestowed by the gods themselves. Should the hunters faill and Embermantle go unslain, should the ritual be undone and gods go unfed, their wrath is sure to be swift¡­and painful.


    Note: This is a mandatory quest event for all bearers of the Mark of Embermantle. This is a multiplayer event. This is a Player versus Player event - combatants are permitted to use lethal force in pursuit of the objective. Players bearing the Mark will be teleported to the Scarlet Grove at sunset on the specified day. The combatant who slays the god will receive a Divine Chest, fifty thousand gold pieces, and the honour of attending the Ritual of Stannas¡¯Fahl. Speak with Plainly, the Arch-Druid at the Scarlet Grove for more details. Prove thyself.


    The quest text shrank and moved to the right side of my screen, where a timer appeared beneath the text. It read: 59 days, 13 hours, 29 minutes. I just stared at the descending counter, horror slowly dawning on me as my eyes flickered between the buff and the timer. My heart picked up speed. Not just a quest, but a Player versus Player quest event. Already. According to this quest timer, I had just under sixty days to prepare myself to kill other players. To kill other people, and for other people, not monsters, to try and kill me. Jesus Christ, I thought as I rubbed my face wearily. Sixty fucking days. Just how long was this game going to last? Every day was another day I lost back home; another day Abi had to endure not knowing if her father was alive or dead, or had disappeared and abandoned her. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, baby girl¡± I said softly to the night, missing her so much it made my chest ache in an entirely different way from the wounds I¡¯d just taken.


    The gravity, and difficulty, of this game had just skyrocketed. I fought with clawing anxiety as my mind tried to parse how this was going to play out. Not with me dead, I swore, no matter what had to happen. I am NOT going to die here. I am not going to be a sacrifice to a fucking broader profit margin, I thought with grim determination.. As I sat heaving slow breaths beneath the darkening forest a slow realisation swept over me. A stark truth I hadn¡¯t had to face until now. The man I was only hours ago, the half-broken man with self-inflicted wounds and no one to blame but himself, he¡¯s gone for now, I thought sadly. He has to be gone. He can¡¯t do this. Before anything else, he¡¯s a father to a little girl. He¡¯s gentle and kind. How could I look into her eyes, how could I dare to hold her, with hands soaked in blood? I was no soldier, no emergency worker, no psychologist who had any training in dealing with trauma.


    As I was, I was too soft, and being gentle and kind was probably a liability now. It has to be someone else, I thought. It has to be Luck. Maybe the character could be more than I could. Maybe Luck was stone cold. Maybe he could be the fastest, deadliest motherfucker in the room. Maybe he¡¯s relentless, and driven, and unstoppable. Maybe he¡¯s strong enough to endure the dirt and the cold, the blood and all the pain that would surely come. Much of it would have to be inflicted by me. Maybe he could do it all, because I couldn¡¯t. How could anyone do it and come out the other side with their sanity intact? Kill people; real people.. for a fucking game. This haphazard strategy meant I was going to be playing pretend, and I knew it, but deliberate dissociation was all I had to hide behind. Killing people fucking scared me. Luck was going to have to be ruthless and unforgiving, decisive and cold. These were not traits I normally exhibited. I wouldn¡¯t have regretted that any other time but now. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Inexplicable tears were welling up in my eyes and dropped in hot trails down my face as I sat in a daze, alone in the growing darkness beneath the trees. This was fucking nuts. I had thus far been a failure at life, but failure had never meant that life would just end. The price had never been so insanely high. Even if my days hadn¡¯t been perfect ones, even when the depression was crippling and black, I somehow got by. There has always been a tomorrow. Not so, here. Just one misstep here would mean death. I didn¡¯t want to die. Abi needed me, and if I was being honest with myself, I needed her just as much. She was everything, but what was I, if you took away the fact that I was her father? The answer haunted me.


    This needed to be a rebirth. This new identity needed to be the mental armour I put on to save myself from the savagery to come; to give me the necessary distance to stomach the horror of killing actual people, and the tide of sorrow that was sure to come in its wake. I needed to put Luck on like a mask. Luck will hold the blades. Luck will cast the spells. He will be the killer. When the time for killing came, I would have to put my softer self away. I would have to bury it so deep that nothing on the surface could reach it. That was the only way, because the only way out was through.


    I said none of this aloud, or to Sage, and she had remained silent. Realising I had been completely lost in these black thoughts and was steadily digging a hole of self pity, I shook myself, wiping away the stupid self-indulgent tears. I tried not to worry about my ability to carry out this desperate coping mechanism, so I started by taking a deep breath and refocusing on the game. I had received some definite benefits from the mark. The stat and skill increases, and the new Shattering Charge skill were all pretty awesome. Once I wasn¡¯t so nearly-dead, I would have to see how the bonus to my Jump skill affected me, which I was admittedly looking forward to. The dexterity increase was great, and the increases in strength and constitution were just what I needed to start making up for some of my weaker stats. I dropped out of the stats tab and turned my attention to the notifications glimmering gently at the bottom right of my screen. The text had a little exclamation mark and beside it read: You have 4 notifications. I focused on the exclamation mark and the notifications began to appear one by one. The first read:


    You have reached level 3 in the Stealth Skill


    I was surprised, but realised the gain was probably due to the fact that, regardless of the devastating headbutt, I had successfully snuck through the forest and up to the grove before I walked out and tried to introduce myself to a fucking god. The next three notifications were, to my surprise, my first achievements. When I focused on them, a system message first read: You¡¯ve received an achievement for the first time! The viewers have decided, and your deeds have earned you both renown and a reward! Please note that reward chests can be accessed at your instance of the Shrine of Elaris. Gold has been deposited to your inventory! The words faded and the first achievement followed in an ornate bronze script with curving flourishes. It seemed to be for killing a mob for the first time.


    Achievement Unlocked: Murder Most Foul!


    For the first time, you crossed a moral boundary normally reserved for the unhinged, the insane, or the damned. That¡¯s right, you killed something, psycho. That said, it did try to kill you too, so here you go: Congratulations, you¡¯ve received a Common Chest! Congratulations, you¡¯ve received 100 gold pieces!


    A Common Chest probably wasn¡¯t much, but I sighed with some relief. I looked up, kind of at a forty-five degree angle, speaking to whatever small audience had awarded me the achievement. ¡°Thanks guys,¡± I said simply, meaning it. Whoever was writing this shit could troll me all they wanted if it meant life-saving supplies. For all I knew, the people watching this were awful, but if you played this broadcast on Earth, it would undoubtedly find an audience. Not to say it wouldn¡¯t also meet with a cavalcade of resistance from every human rights group on the planet, but some people would watch and enjoy it, while others would watch just because they were morbidly curious. Cultivate a culture that normalises public executions, dehumanises prisoners and embraces unrestrained greed; then add a healthy dose of god-tier technology and authoritarianism and you have a recipe for exactly what I was experiencing here. But that didn¡¯t mean everyone watching was evil. People are just fucking complicated, and one explanation is rarely enough to describe the weird bundle of thoughts, feelings, and experiences that make up a human. Maybe some of these people would even be rooting for me. If so, I needed friends on the outside.


    Ultimately, I needed whatever help I could get. In this case, my gratitude was genuine. Hopefully the chest had some essentials, and the hundred gold would surely get me lodging and maybe something to replace my shredded t-shirt. I looked down sadly at the image of Boba Fett, resigned to the fact that my beloved Star Wars shirt had met its final fate. At the hands of a goblin, no less. Goblin blood was spattered across the iconic helmet of the bounty hunter, and the rest of the blood was probably mine. The next two achievements followed, and they were startling as they appeared in much more elaborate text that radiated with opalescent light, and a golden glimmer sparkled across the letters. It read:


    Achievement Unlocked: Introducing¡­God!


    You¡¯re the first player of season 26 of the Fell and the Fey to have the misfortune of meeting a God! Normally your story would end here, but instead you had the divine pleasure of basking in the otherworldly radiance of Aleth¡¯Akaris, Embermantle, the King of the Hunt and Lord of the Emerald Expanse. Rumour has it that he kicked your lily ass. Congratulations, you¡¯ve received a Divine Chest!


    Achievement Unlocked: Godsmacked!


    You took the equivalent of a sucker punch from a fucking Deity! And lived! You pissed off a celestial being enough that, without word or warning, you got smote! You¡¯re either an incredible threat or exceedingly irritating, and the fact that you¡¯re alive to read this is, fittingly, a miracle. Congratulations, you¡¯ve received a Divine Chest!


    ¡°Holy shit!¡± I exclaimed aloud after reading the two achievements. ¡°Is getting two Divine Chests as insane as I think it is? Aren¡¯t they top tier? I said, disbelieving. All I really did was get my ass kicked.¡±


    Both achievements are exceedingly rare, particularly the second. That¡¯s not normally how a god marks a mortal. Low level players almost never survive encounters with deities, particularly violent ones. Receiving these achievements this early in the game is unheard of. While the achievements themselves were voted in by viewers, the Central System determined the level of the chest and the possible rewards. It¡¯s possible that my query concerning the presence of a celestial being so close to your spawn point played a role in determining the level of the rewards for those two achievements. The system seems to insist that the encounter was random, though it also acknowledges the danger to you was¡­disproportionate.


    ¡°It didn¡¯t feel particularly random, but I¡¯m alive¡­ thanks Sage,¡± I said gratefully, switching to internal speech. ¡°I can¡¯t wait to find a Shrine and bust those chests open. Maybe my fragile mortality will be slightly more intact thanks to you.¡±


    No need for thanks, Luck. I¡¯m fulfilling my role. Divine--level items should be quite significant. As you might imagine, they¡¯re not given out lightly, and it might mean that someone involved in Production intervened on your behalf. I believe we can find a Shrine of Elaris at Spade¡¯s Rest. I smiled in spite of myself. I was slightly relieved to find there was a part of me that could find some enjoyment in the midst of this blooming madness; I was still psyched by new gear. Divine gear, no less.


    ¡°Hey Sage, who writes this flavour text stuff anyway?¡± I asked her curiously.


    The lore text is written by series creator Reidwich Henning and his hand-picked writing staff, and as for the achievements¡­ She paused here as though considering, then continued. In a sense, they¡¯re written by you.


    ¡°Wait, what? Me? What the hell does that mean?¡± I asked, bewildered.


    Your data collection and the creation of your profile was very thorough, she said matter-of-factly. In the course of gathering this data, sponsors often create a Personal Predictive Model, essentially an AI, based on a player¡¯s profile in order to form some ideas as to how they might act in certain situations, or respond to certain stressors. This AI is essentially a partial recreation of you that exists only in¡­digital form, and it¡¯s one tool that sponsor¡¯s can use as part of their broader support package. It¡¯s standard for most sponsors to undertake this process. It has numerous benefits, most of which I¡¯m not permitted to discuss.


    The showrunners use this AI for a number of purposes, but one of them is to generate achievement text and things like mob descriptions based on your collected data, including culturally relevant factors and media you consumed. The tone and content of the text is essentially what you would write, if you were describing the achievement yourself. We¡¯ve discovered this is a highly effective way to communicate with players in a way that suits them personally.


    The Personal Predictive Models are aware of their purpose to a certain extent, and curiously they seem to enjoy teasing their real-world counterparts. This seems to help diffuse tension, and relieves certain burdens from the showrunners, like staffing writers to generate achievement text for so many players all at once. Viewers still see the text, but they would receive a modified description.


    ¡°So, I just trolled myself? Like a robot version of me gave me shit for getting stomped by a god?¡±


    Effectively, yes, she replied simply.


    ¡°That is so fucking weird,¡± I said, pondering, then added, ¡°I sound like an asshole.¡± Sage didn¡¯t comment.


    I tried not to think about this part too hard. These people knew everything about me. Like, way more than the N.S.A. An AI version of myself sounded creepy as hell, like anyone could just ask it questions and it would uncover all those parts of me I kept carefully guarded. The kinds of thoughts and feelings we all keep within.The ones that are hardest to face.


    ¡°Well, Meta-Me can troll me all he wants. Achievements are good news. I¡¯ll be dealing with far worse. Though, you know,¡± I said thoughtfully, ¡°That aside, I still know nothing about you, Sage - don¡¯t think that fact escapes me. One day I¡¯ll use that oblivious charm of mine to pry your secrets from you.¡±


    You can certainly try, she said evenly, echoing the refrain every tabletop rpg game master uses when their players are trying to do some impossible shit. I grinned. I was finally able to stand, and I did so, dusting myself off. I found I was incredibly thirsty and walked to the pond, deciding to take my chances with the water. Atricia had said food and safe water would be readily available, if I remembered correctly. I bent down to cup my hand and I stopped, squinting at my reflection. The light was scarce, but there was enough for me to make out some of my features, and more importantly, my silhouette. I looked closer. What the actual fuck¡­?  ¡°Sage, why the hell do I have bonsai trees growing out of my head?¡±

 Chapter 8: Tally and Squish

    8


    There was a long pause. I believe they¡¯re antlers, Luck


    ¡°Fucking antlers!?¡± I shouted, gaping. ¡°How and why do I have antlers?¡± I reached up, disbelieving, feeling around with growing horror as I found what were, in fact, antlers¡­tree antlers. Just like that bastard of a deer. As I felt around my new¡­appendages, is that the word? I could feel the same little leaves sprouting here and there, and the same twisting roughness of the bark on the tree-antler things that had crowned the great stag. Mine weren¡¯t so huge, thank god, but they were still about a foot and a half off my head. Knowing this kind of cheeky RPG bullshit from other games, I could bet they would keep growing too. It felt incredibly weird, like someone had welded something - two somethings - to my god-damned skull. It also felt like I had two radio antennas on my head. I couldn¡¯t really feel anything directly when I touched them, or, as I grew braver, bent them. It was kind of like the sensation of touching your own fingernails. I continued to be outraged by this development and swore often and loudly as I knelt beside the pond.


    I believe this is a result of the Mark of Embermantle. If you recall, the description noted that minor cosmetic changes may occur, said Sage helpfully.


    ¡°Minor? Yeah, well fuck that creepy deer,¡± I said sharply. ¡°As if it wasn¡¯t enough that I have to go participate in his weird ass ritual sacrifice, I am now blessed with this majestic rack¡±


    The statistical increases are notable, said Sage.


    I sighed. ¡°Yeah they are pretty awesome,¡± I agreed reluctantly.


    I drank as much water as I could stomach and stood back up, trying to ignore my new bonsai rack. I hadn¡¯t even noticed them before I saw them mirrored back at me in the pond, and now it was all I could feel. A soft breeze moved through the air, and I swear I could sense my little leaves rustling in the wind. I grumbled as Sage helpfully reoriented me back towards the direction of Spade¡¯s Rest.


    ¡°You know, this might be cool if I was a druid, or maybe even a ranger - or hunter, whatever you call those Strider dudes here. But nobody wants a rogue with trees on his head.  How do I even wear my signature billowing black rogue cloak? Do I cut fucking holes in the hood or something, and then just pretend like I don¡¯t have a foot and a half of god-damned tree sticking out of me? Gods are shitty,¡± I declared as my, my outrage fizzled out.


    It may be possible to trim them, said my cool-voiced companion, both trees and antlers can be trimmed under normal circumstances.


    ¡°Shit,¡± I said, tentatively touching my leafy sproutlings. ¡°I¡¯m not looking forward to the process by which we find that out.¡±


    It was under an hour before we finally found the road, and as I emerged from the trees, I took a deep breath and looked around. It was fully night now, and I was on a dirt track. It was marked by the long grooves of cartwheels, and It looked about wide enough to fit two good sized wagons side by side.The village itself was about two kilometres south, and I trekked along with growing weariness. It had been a long afternoon, and I was looking forward to getting somewhere that was not occupied by monsters or deities, even if I had to sleep against a wall or something. After what felt like a longer time than it was, I began to move up the steady incline of a hill, and atop it I could see the outline of a low, rickedy wall, more of a fence really, and an almost comically bad gate made of wood that was cracked and sagging, and reminded me of something you might find in the laneway of an old farm. Behind it was a row of stone and wood houses leading further into the village. I heaved a sigh of relief at the sight, but paused as I saw the two figures standing at the gate. A lantern sat at the feet of one of the figures, and one looked to be leaning on a spear or maybe a small halberd, but their faces were shrouded in shadow, their heads helmeted. They looked like soldiers, but¡­odd. They were definitely human, dressed in what looked to be patchy armour, a chain hauberk on one, something like half-plate on the others. The limbs between the pieces of armour, however, were spindly and thin, and as I continued to approach, I could see they were, in fact, made of bone and decrepit dry sinew.


    My indicator popped up helpfully, forming two little white circles floating above the figure¡¯s heads. When I focused on them, I was surprised to find their indicators were purple, a colour I hadn¡¯t seen yet. I queried Sage and she informed me that purple dots represented minions or summoned creatures.The descriptions of these decaying soldiers read:


    Tally, Level 8 Zombie Minion. Class: Disgruntled Marine Captain, Raised by  Gerard Val Torn.


    Squish, Level 8 Zombie Minion, Class: Resentful Marine Sergeant, Raised by Gerard Val Torn.


    Zombies guarding the damn gates, I thought, and I was strangely calm and resigned, simply because I just couldn¡¯t do anything about this continuous crazy bullshit. Fucking zombies. I looked them over as I approached. One, the zombie named Tally, leaned on his long spear, and wore a motley collection of plate mail, the breastplate of which seemed to have caved in and come apart jaggedly just above his ribs. Atop his head he wore a simple skull cap helmet that was dented and lined with scratches and scrapes, which was strapped snugly under his mostly-bone jaw. The other - Squish - was shorter, and bow-legged. He looked like he had once been a stocky man, but undeath had naturally reduced him to brittle dead  skin and bleached bones. He wore a chain hauberk and had a hefty shortsword with a wide blade at his hip, with a big mean looking crossbow slung over his shoulder. Instead of a skullcap, Squish had a leather cap-type-thing with ear flaps, like you¡¯d see on an old time pilot, minus the goggles.. When Pully spoke, I was not greeted by the low moans of the classical mindless and shuffling undead, but instead a cracked cockney accent that called out in a low rasp, sounding like he¡¯d chainsmoked on the streets of London straight for a hundred years.


    ¡°See that, Tally? I do believe some kind of scrawny wild man-thing approaches our impregnable defensive position. Should we kill it?¡± Tally gently butted his spear on the ground and regarded me with what I could only assume was suspicion. It wasn¡¯t easy to tell, on account of him having no eyes.


    ¡°Aye Squish, I see it there, creepin¡¯ out the dark. Do you suppose those branches on its head are supposed to fool us into believing it¡¯s a tree? It limps worse than you. I think we could stick it, easy enough. What say you? Go stick it, Squish.¡± He pointed at me lazily, directing the other zombie with presumed authority. ¡°Go on then, before it runs.¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± asked the second zombie, Squish, who was incredulous. ¡°I stuck the last one, you lazy shit. How many god-damned years we been posted together? You still try an¡¯ cheat me every chance you get, you slithery dead fuck. YOU go stick ¡®im. ¡®Sides, it looks like somebody¡¯s already done half the job.¡±


    ¡°Jesus, no one needs to stick me¡± I interjected loudly. lifting my hands in appeal. ¡°I don¡¯t even know where I am. I just wanted to find somewhere to eat and sleep,¡± I said, trying to sound reassuring. I was not entirely sure I should even be standing here, but these macabre gate guards were kind of mesmerising, dead and animate as they were. I stood just at the edge of their lantern light.


    ¡°It seems the sad wretch is trying to speak with us, Tally,¡± said Squish.


    ¡°Seems so. Perhaps we should enter into negotiations with the half-dead man-thing and discover the nature of his unwelcome intrusion,¡± he said thoughtfully. Alright Squish, begin negotiations.¡± He waved towards me casually, a bit of something grey and powdery falling out from his leather gauntlet.


    ¡°Me!?¡± Squish asked again, outraged. ¡°Gods-damn you, you sagging flesh-tent. If I weren¡¯t here, goblins would have overrun this post weeks ago. But fine, you ungrateful shit, I¡¯ll show you exactly how to negotiate with dumb-fucks rude enough to approach the guard station of Squish, Shield of the North Wall.¡± Tally scoffed at this in turn, leaning disdainfully on his spear, which was surprisingly well-tended and sharp.


    ¡°Seg¡¯ness¡¯ rotten cock, titles are not something you give yourself!¡± yelled Tally.


    ¡°This, from the asshole who went around with the moniker ¡®Tally the Red,¡¯ like you were a gods-cursed pirate with a legendary shortage of any kind of taste!¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°Fuck you, Squish! That name was on account of a whore named Grim Risley who told the whole damned squad she¡¯d never seen a cock so red as mine. Angry red, she said. Like a mean little Hell Weasel. Back when I still had a cock, of course¡± He said regretfully, his boney shoulders seeming to sag a little. A piece of something that might have once been flesh fell off the bottom of one of his exposed ribs, but he didn¡¯t seem to notice. Squish did the zombie-equivalent of a sigh, and I swear I saw a little puff of dust shoot out of his mouth.


    ¡°Fine, fine. Let¡¯s not lament your lost cock again,¡± he said, then finally looked over at me. I had been edging towards them into the light. It didn¡¯t seem like ¡®sticking¡¯ me was still on the table. ¡°Quickest way to make a dead man sad, friend. Remind him of the cock that was,¡± he said wistfully. I just stared at the two of them, bemused.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry for your loss,¡± I said finally. I meant it. ¡°And thanks for not eating my brains right away. Or uh, sticking me, I guess.¡±


    ¡°A moment,¡± said Tally, raising a gauntleted finger. ¡°Eat your brains? Explain that, boy. What do I look like to you?¡±


    I blinked. It¡¯d been a long time since anyone called me ¡¯boy,¡¯ but I guess this dude was a whole lot older than me, so I just went on. ¡°Oh, uh, where I come from, the classic zombies are supposed to eat people¡¯s brains. They¡¯d just stumble around, moaning and eating brains and shit. I have no idea why. There¡¯s probably an explanation on a sub-reddit somewhere.¡±


    ¡°Boy, have you ever tried to bite through a fucking human cranium?¡± He blurted incredulously. ¡°Look at my gods-cursed teeth and tell me these rotted stumps could penetrate your skull. Go on,¡± He said, and he thrust his mouth towards me, his rotted grimace showing what were indeed shattered bits of yellow tooth and mottled brown sockets. I could see what were once molars through a hole in his cheek.¡°I¡¯d be lucky if I could put a dent in your bloody scalp, and all I¡¯d get for my trouble would be a mouth full of hair. Besides, brains taste like shit,¡± said Tally. ¡°Squish¡¯s cracked a few heads, an¡¯ I had a taste¡­once. Just to try it, you understand. Bitter like you wouldn¡¯t believe,¡± he said distastefully. ¡°We happen to like a good stew, if you must know.¡±


    ¡°Okay, okay, I get it. Sorry.¡± I said, pulling  away from the reeking assault of his excessively close ruined face. ¡°I guess people just figure you guys are filled with some dark necrotic power that gives you inhuman strength.¡±


    ¡°Gods-damned right we are,¡± said Squish, puffing out his cratered chest and thumping it with his gauntleted fist. This time grey dust absolutely puffed out from beneath his battered hauberk in a small cloud, making me cough and desperately fan the air, fully aware I was inhaling airborne bits of his dead-ass body. ¡°Our Manager is a man of wealth and taste. And power. Only the finest of the Dark Flow for ol¡¯ Squish and Tally.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Tally and Squish,¡± interjected Tally.


    ¡°Fuck you, Tally.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you too, Squish.¡± They both looked off into the night and sighed with satisfaction, as though all was right in the world.


    ¡°Wait,¡± I said after a moment¡¯s awkward silence. ¡°Your¡­manager?¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± they said together. I blinked.


    ¡°Like, your boss? The guy who¡­raised you, from the dead?  I asked, bemused.


    ¡°Aye, he did. Some five years ago now. Me an¡¯ Squish came up together. Up through the ranks, and then up through the dirt,¡± he said with a dry cackle. ¡°We was in Nith, fightin¡¯ for the Emperor. We ate dirt during the first Silosian campaign. I was Squish¡¯s captain, you see,¡± Tally said, his skeletal chin lifting in pride.


    ¡°Oh, not this shit again¡± moaned Squish. ¡°This ass seems to think that his ¡®authority¡¯ followed him through death, an¡¯ it gives him the right to order me about like a clucking hen.¡±


    ¡°Authority is something a man lives and breathes, Squish He¡¯s born with it. It¡¯s a gift that must be guarded well, and wielded with wisdom. A proper Captain inspires his men to the highest standard,¡± said Tally, gesturing magnanimously, as though his knowledge was a gift he was bestowing upon us.


    ¡°Inspire me?¡± Squish shot back. ¡°The only thing  you inspire in me is the desire to die a second time, you puffed up fuck. Next time you bark an order-¡±


    ¡°You have a contract? Like, in writing?¡± I quickly interjected, before the two dead guys came to blows. ¡°This isn¡¯t how I imagined Necromancy working.¡±


    ¡°Aye, that we do,¡± said Squish. He might have been narrowing his eyes at Tally, if he had any, but after a moment he looked back at me. ¡°Gerard gets us gigs,¡± he said matter-of-factly. ¡°Like this one. It¡¯s a bit boring, but I got to put bolts in a few goblin skulls. That makes Genevieve happy.¡± He patted the crossbow at his back. ¡°She¡¯s a thirsty girl.¡± He turned so I could get a look at ¡°Genevieve.¡¯ She looked mean. I was no hunter, and I didn¡¯t really know what to expect from a crossbow, but this seemed like the heavy kind. It was large, as long as a rifle, taking up most of the zombie marine¡¯s back when hanging from its strap. The bowstring was incredibly thick, and I eyed the crank and the bolts he kept in a quiver belted at his side. They were shorter than traditional arrows, and nearly as thick as my thumb. The thought of one of these things punching into my chest was a decidedly unpleasant one.


    ¡°She¡¯s modified, special-like,¡± said Squish, swelling with obvious pride. ¡°You oughta see what she can do on a battlefield, lad. Nithian Marines have a reputation for nasty surprises, and ol¡¯ Squish is no exception.¡± He patted my shoulder and I fought the urge to cringe. He didn¡¯t smell as bad as you might expect from an animate corpse, but neither did he have a pleasant aroma. A bit like dry dog food and bonemeal. Tally spoke up, and I could see him appraising me.


    ¡°You came in from the north, lad. Nothing up that way but an abandoned mine and a goblin camp. You¡¯re no goblin, and your garb is strange too. What¡¯s that on your¡­tunic, hey? A coat of arms or somesuch? ¡± He asked dubiously.


    I looked down at Boba Fett and sighed. ¡°Uh¡­ where I come from he¡¯s sort of a¡­warrior, from a famous story. I think people mostly like him for the helmet,¡± I said blandly. Tally snorted.


    ¡°So, where you come from, grown men wear pictures from storybooks, right on their chests?¡± he asked. He didn¡¯t need to tell me what he thought of that.


    ¡°I mean, not everyone. My mom hates this shirt,¡± I said. She did.


    ¡°Your mum sounds sensible, boy.¡± He said flatly. I had the feeling I was not impressing Tally. Squish spoke up then.


    ¡°Tally¡¯s mum was very sensible,¡± he said innocently. There was a moment of silence as the words hung in the air, then, without word or warning, Tally drew back and punched Squish right in his dead-ass face.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you talk about me mum, you rot-speckled asshole! Next time I¡¯ll chop your head off and strap it to your boney ass, face first.¡± To my surprise, Squish only cackled in response, and there was a sort of crunch-slash-squelch sound as he worked his jaw back into place. I had expected a retaliation from the zombie that would lead to a full-out brawl, and I was surprised when it didn¡¯t. It then occurred to me that I was no closer to a meal or a bed than I had been when I arrived, so perhaps it was time to come back around to the point.


    ¡°So,¡± I interjected quickly, before they could continue the old married couple routine. ¡°I did run into a goblin, but I killed it. After that, the weird God-voice said something about a spell and some shit about mortal impudence. I assume you guys heard that part.  Then, I tried to pet this big deer that turned out to be another god, and he headbutted me - like fifty feet. I don¡¯t recommend getting smited, it fucking sucks. Anyway, I woke up nearly dead and discovered I had a pair of leafy antlers. Also I¡¯ve been invited to some fucked-up sacrificial ritual where I¡¯m supposed to kill the creepy deer and feed his flesh to the Gods.¡± I took a breath as I finished. The two zombies looked at each other for a long moment, then back at me. Tally spoke in an almost fatherly tone.


    ¡°Gods,¡± he said in a low voice. ¡°Stay away from gods, boy. Stay far, far away.¡±


    ¡°Nothing but trouble,¡± Squish added helpfully. ¡°Bad trouble.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know the half of it,¡± I replied ruefully, thinking about the ¡°Gods¡± up there in their city of Jericho. That was a curious name to say the least, given that Jericho had been the first walled city¡­on Earth. ¡°So, I would really like to get into this town and find some food and a bed. I can pay. I have gold. I promise not to do any¡­ rabble-rousing or whatever.¡±


    Tally was conciliatory when he spoke next. ¡°You seem harmless enough, lad, but we can¡¯t just let strangers what wander out of the dark into town on a whim. We¡¯d be remiss in our duty,¡± he said, and I could tell he meant it. In spite of the bickering, I got a sense these two had, at least once upon a time, been experienced and skilled soldiers.  ¡°But, Squish here will escort you to the Fleet Fox, the tavern where our Manager holds court with a gnomish tree witch named Quicklily. She¡¯s the Guild rep here, and Gerard¡¯s a good lad. For a Necromancer. He¡¯ll give you a look over, and if he gives you the nod, then we¡¯ll see if we can¡¯t get you settled for the night.¡±


    To my relief, Squish didn¡¯t offer any protest to Tally¡¯s ¡®suggestion¡¯ that he be the one to escort me to the tavern, which was apparently called The Fleet Fox. As we walked through the silent, empty street towards what looked to be the centre of town, I looked around at the town itself. The central road was narrower than the road to the gate had been, and was oriented in a more or less straight line leading to a central square, off of which lead three more roads in a cross-shape oriented to the cardinal directions. The southern road led to another gate, this one about as well-kept as the first. The houses were modest, single story and constructed of thick wooden beams and what looked like fieldstone. Low light flickered from within some of the homes, but many were dark. Not a soul walked the streets. The sparse light provided by widely spaced lanterns hanging from wooden posts cast wavering shadows over the fronts of the lined homes, but left the centre of the road draped in darkness.


    ¡°Hey, Squish?¡± I asked as we walked between the halos of orange lantern light. The zombie soldier was leading me at a casual pace through the street toward what looked to be one of the few multi-story buildings in the town.


    ¡°What¡¯s that, lad?¡± He replied, looking over his shoulder curiously.


    ¡°Did Tally ever get that checked out? That whole red-dick thing? It sounds nasty,¡± I said with a slight wince. The zombie hung his head a moment, then shook it, his hollow black-out eyes regarding me as we walked.


    ¡°He never did, lad¡± he said sadly. ¡°How do you think he died?¡±