by James Hunter
We headed into an unadorned hallway, then took a set of stairs down to a basement. My jaw nearly dropped when I saw what could only be a training facility. An expansive complex which featured a sparring area, complete with straw practice dummies, and a full archery range. But those weren’t the only training areas: there was also a room off to the left near bursting with doors and chests, tons of them, lining the walls and littering the floor.
A handful of hooded men occupied the space, fiddling around, deep in concentration.
“Lock pick training,” Cutter said, noticing where I was looking. “All the doors and chests have different levels of difficulty. Good practice for those who are interested. We have everything an aspiring thief or cutthroat might need here.” He swaggered forward as he talked, leading us deeper into the training complex. “In the back, we’ve got a shadow room, designed for practicing Stealth abilities. We’ve got pickpocketing dummies. Heck, we even have our own blacksmith and a fleece who’ll buy and sell stolen goods—for a markup, of course.”
“Is this the thieves’ guild?” I asked as we made for a wooden table in the corner, flanked by a pair of chairs.
“Naw,” Cutter said with a grimace. “Guild is too official sounding. More like a thieves’ union, really. Sort of a loose coalition of likeminded people. Everyone here is concerned with themselves first and foremost. With that being said, it’s a cold, hard world out there, and we recognize there’s a certain strength in numbers. So, from time to time, we work together for mutual benefit and survival. When it suits our individual goals, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I replied. “And who’s this Gentleman Georgie you wanted to talk to?” I asked, plopping onto one of the chairs near the table.
“Well, we’re definitely not a guild,” Cutter said, “but if we were a guild—just supposing for a moment, understand—he’d be the head honcho. At least for Rowanheath. He owns the Broken Dagger, works out petty squabbles, bribes the guards, and takes care of city officials. That kind of thing. Generally, he keeps everything running smooth as a good pint of ale. And speaking of good ale—”
A haggard brunette with purple bags under her eyes stopped at our table bearing a thick platter filled with mugs and plates of food. She dropped them off without a word, then simply stood there, expectant, staring at us with one hand placed on a cocked hip. “Just put it on Georgie’s tab,” Cutter said, then made a little shooing gesture.
Her eyes narrowed into hard slits and her lips turned down in a scowl of disapproval.
A needle of guilt jabbed at me, so I reluctantly reached into my bag and removed a silver mark, which I passed into her hand with a polite smile. She took it, arched an eyebrow, then gave me a gap-toothed grin. “Need to toughen this one up, Cutter. Poor boy is softer than a newly hatched gosling. Thanks all the same, boy-o,” she said, disappearing the coin with practiced ease, before shuffling back toward the kitchen.
Cutter regarded me solemnly for a second, then snorted and took a huge chomp of mutton chop. “Sucker,” he muttered through a mouthful of pulped food. A slight blush crept into my cheeks. Instead of replying, though, I picked up a chunk of seared meat and regarded it suspiciously. The Broken Dagger wasn’t a five-star restaurant by any stretch of the imagination, and I was a little worried the food might give me the VR version of dysentery.
But, as suspect as the meal looked, I was surprised to find I was hungry. Really hungry. Famished, actually. I’d expected there to be food in V.G.O.—most MMORPGs had that feature—but the hunger aspect was definitely a shock. With a grimace, I chomped down on the greasy meat and blinked in surprise as an explosion of flavor ran through my mouth.
Tangy, salty, rich.
Absolutely delicious.
Better than the best steak I’d ever eaten. I grabbed a pint of the copper-red ale the waitress had dropped off and took a big swig. I’ve never been much of a beer drinker, but the sweet, malty flavor with hints of honey tasted like a slice of alcoholic-heaven. A notification window popped up as I savored the food and drink:
<<<>>>
Buffs Added
Mutton: Restore 75 HP over 21 seconds
Broken Dagger Mead: Restore 25 Stamina; Damage Stamina Regeneration 30 points over 60 seconds
Well-Fed: Base Constitution increased by (2) points; duration 20 minutes.
<<<>>>
“Good, isn’t it?” Cutter asked as he tore off a crusty chunk of bread, which he promptly used to wipe through a greasy smear of meat juice on his plate.
I nodded, mouth too full to speak. We ate in silence for a while, polishing off the heap of food and our ale.
“Now it’s time to get down to our real business,” Cutter said as he finished, pushed his plate away, slumped back, and issued an eye-watering belch. “I’m going to shoot straight with you, friend. You seem like a good sort—the kind of person I might be willing to vouch for, if you decided you want to join our informal club here.” He absently gestured toward the training facility.
“There are lots of perks that come with membership. You get a class change for one, which means you gain access to the Thief Kit skill tree, with an option to specialize later. You also get lodging here at the Broken Dagger whenever you need it, discounts on items, plus training, and access to class-specific quests.” He paused, staring at me intently. “You interested?”
I mulled it over for a long while, but eventually shook my head. “I really appreciate the offer, Cutter, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but I just don’t think this is a good fit for me.”
He sighed, fingers restlessly tapping against the tabletop. “Can’t say I’m surprised—I figured you were bound for a different path. Knew it the moment you helped that old Murk Elf instead of scalping her like any normal person would do. You’re just too warm blooded for this line of work. Thought I’d offer, though, because you could be a great thief if you could get over that soft heart of yours.”
He paused, rubbing at his chin while he seesawed his head left then right, left then right. “I still feel like I owe you,” he finally said, “and I like to pay my debts. So, how’s about I put you up in a room here for the week, and then, tomorrow morning, I’ll train you up. Get you prepared for the big bad world out there, before sending you on your way. Sound alright?”
I couldn’t argue with that.
Cutter led me back into the bustling tavern front—still rocking and rolling with folks—up a set of creaky wooden stairs, then to a cramped room. There was a twin bed, a nightstand, and a chipped porcelain washbasin with a pitcher of water on a nearby stool; not glamorous, exactly, but not much worse than my IRL apartment. Poverty lends perspective, I suppose. I headed in and dropped onto the bed with a sigh of exhaustion, and I found I really was tired. Weary all the way down to the bone as though I’d just worked a double shift then hit the gym for a couple of hours. As with the hunger, I hadn’t expected this aspect to feel quite so real.
It was almost too lifelike.
“You need anything else?” Cutter asked, lingering at the door. “’Cause if not, I have a very concerned waitress, named Stephanie, who I need to see as soon as possible. Urgent business.” He offered me a sly wink.
“Mind if I ask a personal question before you go?”
He shrugged, nodded. “No skin off my back one way or the other. Just make it quick—Stephanie won’t wait forever.”
For a long second I thought about asking him whether he was an NPC or an actual player. So far, he was the only person I’d had extended contact with since entering V.G.O., and I honestly couldn’t tell if he was a part of the game. It was uncanny. Creepy. I’d played a lot of MMORPGs, but I’d never seen an NPC that could do what he did. I’d never seen an NPC that had his range of emotion or conversational prowess. I had IRL coworkers that seemed less human than Cutter.
“Never mind,” I finally said with a shake of my head.
I wasn’t sure how to ask the question without offending him, and part of me didn’t really w
ant to know the answer anyway. If Cutter was an NPC, that meant he was nothing more than a string of digits existing on some server somewhere. But in another couple of days my body was going to die, and if I survived the process, I was going to be nothing more than a string of digits existing on a server. So, what did that say about my future? If he wasn’t real, did that mean in another couple of days, I wouldn’t be real either?
That was a frightening thought I didn’t much care to dwell on. Besides, I was simply too tired for an existential crisis.
“Alright,” he said, tapping the doorframe, “well, you get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned and pulled the door shut behind him with a soft thud.
Alone at last, I kicked off my leather boots and lay back on the mattress, which was surprisingly comfortable despite the fact that it looked to be made of straw. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the bed was actually memory foam, regardless of its physical appearance. I knew I needed sleep, but first I needed a distraction from my thoughts. This was the first real break I’d had since entering the game, so it seemed like an appropriate time to check out my character stats and see if I’d missed any other updates since I’d turned notifications off during combat.
With a thought, I pulled up my character menu, then toggled from my inventory to my main menu. A semitranslucent, vertical options menu popped up in the right side of my vision: Inventory, Spellcraft, Skills, Class Abilities, Character, Party, Quests, Map, Message Log, Notifications, Achievements, Auction House. I whistled softly. That was a lot of content to explore. Assuming I survived the integration process, though, I’d have a lot of time to delve into those other features. What I really wanted to see, however, was my character stats, so I selected “Character” from the menu. An extensive table immediately popped up:
I lay there for a while, eyeing everything. Most of the stats looked pretty similar to the other MMORGPs I’d played in the past. Still, it didn’t pay to make assumptions, so I pulled up the game wiki to see if I could find anything. Although I hadn’t had much luck with the wiki so far, I was happily surprised to see information was starting to trickle in on a host of different topics. A variety of users were posting their initial experiences with the game, and one thing was immediately clear.
The startup sequence was different for everyone. Drastically so.
Some people started in holding cells like I had—though no one mentioned a character named Cutter, which led me to believe he was a unique NPC—while others woke up at taverns, in forests, and even, occasionally, in the heat of an ongoing battle. The variety was truly fascinating, but I didn’t want to get bogged down, so I forced myself to close out of the general forum and pulled up a search bar instead. It only took me a handful of seconds to find a whole glut of information on basic character stats, most of it from players, but some of it straight from Osmark Technologies.
By and large, the primary attributes seemed pretty straightforward:
Strength: increases Attack Strength (AS) and overall Armor Rating.
Vitality: increases overall Hit Points (HP) and Health Regeneration.
Constitution: increases Stamina, Stamina Regeneration, and carrying capacity.
Dexterity: improves reflexes, including chance to evade and chance to block, while also affecting Ranged Attack Strength (RAS) and Attack Strength (AS) for certain classes.
Intelligence: increases overall Spell Strength (SS) and adds 0.1% to all resistances per point.
Spirit: increases the maximum Spirit and Spirit Regeneration.
The last stat, Luck, didn’t actually seem to affect any tangible character skills; there was some speculation that Luck influenced dropped items—gold amount or item rarity—but no one seemed to know anything for sure. The material provided by Osmark didn’t offer much clarity, either. There was one thing everyone agreed on, though; luck was a locked attribute, at least for the time being.
At level three, I’d earned 10 points to distribute however I wanted, but since I wasn’t sure what class I’d be taking, I decided not to invest them yet. In every RPG I’d ever played, maximizing your points based on your class and build was key to having a powerhouse character at higher levels. I closed out of the “Character” screen and saw I had a new notification. Apparently I had a PM in my player inbox. It was from a friend of mine, Abby—the game developer who worked for Osmark Technologies. The same developer that’d hooked me up with my NexGenVR capsule in the first place.
<<<>>>
Personal Message:
Jack,
I wasn’t sure you were going to take the leap or not, but I’m glad to see you’re in here. Look, I’ve got a sensitive, ultra-rare quest. It’s sort of a hidden feature created by some of the Devs at Osmark, but I need someone I can trust on this. I need you on this. I don’t want to say too much, but this is big. Could be a game changer for us. I’ve attached a scroll of teleport to this message. Just activate it and it’ll bring you right to the quest location. Please meet me tomorrow afternoon, 2 PM in-game time. This is a time sensitive mission, so please don’t be late.
—Abby
<<<>>>
I fell asleep staring at the PM, wondering about what kind of game-changing quest Abby could’ve stumbled across.
ELEVEN: Training
An alarm blared inside my ear.
Brrp, brrp, brrp, brrp. I shot up in bed, staring around wild-eyed, my hands groping at the straw mattress. Where was I? I blinked bleary eyes, squinting against the feeble sunlight trickling in through a dull, semiopaque window. I frantically searched for the alarm clock—that blaring was driving me up a wall—but as my vision adjusted, I couldn’t find the source of the noise. Nothing looked familiar to me. I’d expected to wake up on my worn couch after a long night of gaming, but instead I was in some sort of Ren-Fest-themed hotel.
And I still couldn’t find that alarm. Brrp, brrp, brrp, brrp.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stared in shock. I was wearing crude leggings, leather armor, and my skin was a muted gray. My. Skin. Was. Gray. This had to be a nightmare. Did I go out for drinks last night and overdo it? Maybe someone laced my drink with something? I reached up, grinding the palms of my hands into my temples, trying to block out the noise so I could think. That only made it worse, though. It was like the alarm was actually going off inside my head, clanging like a pair of cymbals over and over again. “Someone turn that alarm off,” I hollered.
And just like that, the noise died. “Alarm dismissed,” came Sophia’s comforting voice, also resounding inside my skull. “The current time in Eldgard is 7:15 AM. You have been asleep for approximately ten real-world hours. You have an automated message from the Osmark Technologies Customer Support Team. Would you like to play it?”
I continued to rub at my head, which pulsed with a dull pain, but agreed to listen to the recording.
“Welcome, traveler,” said a friendly male voice, “my name is Matthew and I’m your customer support representative. Our system records indicate you’ve spent your first full night in Viridian Gate Online. Congratulations! Many fellow travelers have reported severe disorientation and head pain after their first night of In-game rest; these symptoms are common and are not a cause for concern. The confusion will pass in a few minutes, and a hearty meal at your nearest inn or tavern will help with any head pain or other lingering aftereffects. Thank you for playing.” The message cut off, leaving me in early morning silence.
I sat there for a few more minutes, disoriented and unsure. Slowly, slowly, it came back to me.
V.G.O. The asteroid. The end of the world. The potential death sentence hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles.
I shuddered involuntarily as a crushing wave of depression washed over me—all I wanted to do was lie back down and close my eyes until this was all over. Fall asleep until either the world died or I did.
But then I remembered my training appointment with Cutter at 8 AM, and despite how awful I felt, I certainly did
n’t want to miss that. So, reluctantly, I pulled myself from the bed with a profound groan, splashed a little digital water onto my face from the washbasin, then headed down to the tavern below for breakfast. The bartender—the same rotund, balding man from the night before—served me a bowl of warm mush that tasted like honeyed oatmeal. He tried to make small talk, but my grunted, monosyllabic replies quickly drove him away in search of more friendly patrons.
Matthew, from customer support, had been dead right about the food though. By the time Cutter strutted in like a garish peacock, my headache was gone, my attitude had improved significantly, and I mostly felt like myself again.
“Sleep alright?” he asked as he guided me back behind the tavern front and into the training room.
“Yeah, slept fine,” I replied with a nod, “but I woke up feeling like someone beat my head in with a brick.”
He nodded. “I’ve heard rumors,” he whispered conspiratorially, “that some travelers experience such symptoms for the first few days here in Eldgard. Something to do with migrating from one realm to another. Some travelers, they don’t adjust well to Eldgard. For whatever reason, they’re incompatible with our world. Assuming your head doesn’t explode in the next three days,” he said, cocking a finger and pointing it at my skull, “the sickness will pass and you’ll be fine. A permanent citizen, like me. Well, almost like me—just uglier. Uglier and less skilled.
“Now, let’s try to make you slightly less terrible at life, shall we?” He winked as he shepherded me into a currently unoccupied room with lots of arrow slits, which let in sporadic spears of brilliant sunlight. The rest of the room, however, was coated in deep shadow. Those shadows, thick as a blanket, seemed to wither and crawl, to reach for me like a forest of dark hands. Something uncomfortable and cold stirred inside my chest, unfurling icy tendrils through my limbs, reminding me of the black handprint branded onto my forearm. Reminding me of the Shadow-Spark ability the dying Maa-Tál Shaman had unlocked within me.