“Insufficicent Funds.”
“Grrr….” Tasha read the fine print that hovered above her like a magical message: “Text to this number costs 2 Euros.”
Well, that didn’t seem like much. She saw a section under “Money” that was titled “Rate of Exchange.”
“Current Rate of Exchange: 1 Euro = 2.72 Platinum Pieces”
Well that settled that, for now. She would have to get money. Right now she had zero. She scanned the information on “Money in Brutalia.” Ten copper pieces were worth 1 silver piece. Ten silvers…1 gold. And 10 golds were worth a platinum piece.
Tasha had avoided the most pertinent question of all so far:
How was all of this even possible? She was a 20-year-old fashion model who had been duped by some very bad men…who had beaten her and raped her before selling her to some even worse men. To get away from them she had leapt from a moving vehicle and, by all rights, should have died when she smashed against the pavement. But now she was here, in a roleplaying gaming world called Brutalia, trapped in the body of a voluptuous, near-nude Harlot who had just been killed and re-spawned in the middle of Bilbo Baggins’ Wonder Emporium.
How was this even possible?
Fortunately, there was a section called “Game Background” in the big info screen floating near her….
“Welcome to Brutalia,” it began, “the world that lets your inner brute roam free.” She skimmed the text quickly, rushing over the history of MMORPGs (she had heard Misha use the term before and had a sense of it), how Brutalia was essentially a very cool RPG, with a twist: It was adult-only, and it had no rules of ethics attached to it. Anything went: Say what you like, and more importantly, do what you like. “Especially with female NPCs and, yes, PLAYER CHARACTERS: Do with them as you wish (they’re here because they like it, if you get our drift).” Wow, she thought. Pretty tacky. And she, for one, wasn’t here of her own volition. In the section on “Doing with the ladies as you please,” she came to a paragraph on her own character class: “You’ll especially enjoy the Harlot class of character, and we really do mean enjoy. Her ability to please is non-pareil (another reason for you to look into our patented Full Immersion Experience option), but even if you can’t afford her, fear not. Brutalia is no ‘politically correct’ world, where you have to treat women with respect. No, you’re allowed to take the Harlot class any way you can get her.”
Wow, Tasha thought. No wonder the ogre and the guy were making such crass comments about her. They had free rein to do with her as they pleased. Hmm…she wondered why they did actually kill her first. The next section of info answered her question: “Note that a bounty is placed on all Harlot characters, NPC and player-characters alike. Kill her and make money! The higher the level, the more coin you’ll rake in.” Eww. “And no worries about the Real Life legalities of how we treat our Harlots in Brutalia. They’re either NPCs (though they feel like the real thing, when you’re fully connected via our unique Total Immersion System) or they’re actual women who enjoy taking a walk on the brutal side…”
Again, Tasha thought, I’m not here of my own volition. She remembered a news piece she had noticed in passing once on the internet on Total Immersion and the gaming industry: A complex neural hook-up let the player actually feel everything In Game, from the sun shining down on the skin to the prick of a dagger – and, she imagined, a prick of another sort. She suddenly had a picture of her Real Life body, lean, pale, anorexic…ensconced in a hospital bed, electrodes and god-knew-what attached to her, scum like Yuri and his henchmen laughing at her as they watched her, knowing she was stuck in this world.
Stuck in the world with a bounty on her head, and fair game for any asshole that wanted to either kill her, or do even worse things to her.
Tasha felt sorry for herself for a few seconds, then the iron core of who she really was kicked in, the girl from peasant stock who had big dreams, the brave young woman who threw herself from Yuri’s car rather than let him abuse her.
She would figure out how to free herself from this world. First step would be contacting somebody on the outside world, and that would take money. Platinum. And while here, she would have to learn to protect herself. That would require game-playing knowledge she did not possess, though she remembered Misha talking of “making coin killing rats” and “leveling up” and whatnot. She skimmed more of the gaming book, making note of such crucial things as how to access her inventory, how to replenish her Hit Points (apparently, at Level One she had 20 Hit Points, and thus was doomed to die rather quickly if she got in fights with characters or creatures more powerful than she – which was just about everybody). She learned about her base attributes, that she was basically a weak girl, but she had decent DEX (probably useful in her “trade” as a sex worker) and her charisma…wow. Her charisma, at 10, was off the charts. Which didn’t seem all that useful…basically she got really good deals from merchants, and she could convince NPCs to do things for her – this tied in with the Enchantress sub-class, apparently. But Charisma skills and spells didn’t help much with player characters, beyond distracting them occasionally during a battle. Put a pin in that, she thought. She had to learn how to fight.
She read about the base damage of her dagger and realized she needed a better weapon. She could only use light weapons, no shield. She toggled out of the info screen and spoke to the merchant, who, based on her reading, she knew was a halfling, a stubbly little chap with a twinkle in his eye.
“Do you have any daggers for sale?”
“Oh, but of course, Miss, I assume a girl in your sort of work has to be able to protect herself, hmmm?” The twinkle in his eye grew even more pronounced when he referred to “her line of work.” She brushed it off and looked at the daggers he sold, figuring out how to examine their statistics, a kind of unfurled parchment that appeared above them. Her own dagger, the one she had arrived in this world with, had a base attack of 2, which intuitively didn’t sound very good to her.
No, it wasn’t. Every dagger the merchant sold was better than hers. The cheapest had a base attack of 4, and some of the more expensive ones had attacks of 10-12. She had learned studying her characters class and sub-classes that the Rogue had a Back Stab skill, and Back Stab essentially doubled the base attack when successful and occasionally did something called “Critical Hit,” which sounded pretty awesome.
Damn you all, this harlot has fangs.
Well, maybe not yet. The more expensive daggers cost several platinum coins each. Even the cheapest was four gold pieces. And she didn’t have a copper to her name.
“Any chance you could lower the price on this one?” she asked the halfling about the most affordable dagger. After asking the question, for the hell of it she tried using her diplomacy skill. The merchant blushed, staring into her impressive breasts, and said, “Well uh, gosh, I suppose I could let it go for half price, Miss…two gold coins, then?” Okay, she thought, charisma could come in handy.
“Not today, you handsome fellow, but I hope you’ll remember that price when I come back.”
“Certainly, Miss, certainly.” Words flitted through Tasha’s head, accompanied by a little arpeggio as though from a flute: Gallywump the Merchant remembers you…
Okay, she thought. Time to explore this world. Time to make some coin.
Time to get on with my life…such as it is.
……….
She was in the city of Elsinore, a huge port city, an economic and cultural crossroads that boasted an anarchic diversity, manifesting itself to her eyes in the sheer number of beings who hustled along its busy streets. She had figured out how to keep an info screen open at the edge of her vision to suss out the different creatures she saw and get data on them. There were humans and halflings, elves and dwarves, all the standard fantasy-story fare, but also strange creatures she could never have imagined, Rictors and Rakes, Sibilants and Shapers, Lizardwraiths and Legalists. Members of the so-called “evil” races blatantly walked the streets, a Rictor with a
face like Munch’s scream skulked right next to a golden-armored Paladin of Light, for instance. She detected a certain side-eyed disdain from each of them for the other, but nothing more. She was learning that in addition to a high Charisma score, her Empathy levels were off the charts, picking up on the moods of most of those around her, primarily lust from the males, and more than a few of the females. High Empathy. Great: Fat lot of good that does me, she thought, wishing she could swap all the empathy in her ersatz bones for a huge strength boost and a decent weapon.
What was really strange was the level of emotion she read from the NPCs, the non-player characters, as the parlance went, computer generated characters who worked as guards and merchants, beggars and officials. One guard, standing at the entrance to a guild hall, gave her an appreciative once-over, a rakish smile, and a broad, imaginary doff of his helmet. His face was visible, and she saw he was quite a handsome fellow, with rugged features that were enhanced, rather than marred, by a pair of scars and a broken nose. She gave him a small smile in return. But he’s not even a real person, she thought. He must be programmed to act like that when he sees a pretty face.
The NPC might be a flirt with her, but he wasn’t like that with everybody. A pair of creatures were fighting it out right in the middle of the street, a slender elf with a rapier and a huge troll with a club. The troll kept cackling and swinging his club, muttering about how one good hit was all it would take to bring down the little wood elf. But the elf kept stabbing and pricking the thick skin of the green ugly’s hide. It was very realistic; Tasha felt a dull ache in her belly, one of nausea and empathy both. She had no idea why they were fighting, or why the guards wouldn’t stop it. She asked somebody near her, a stately gray-haired human in glittering gold robes. “Are the guards just going to stand there and not do anything to stop them?”
The Gandalf-looking player glared down his nose at her. “Welcome to Brutalia. New here?”
“Uh, yes, actually.”
“Well show me your breasts and I’ll give a copper coin.” Eww.
Backing away, she stumbled into another player, who grabbed roughly at her arms. “Yeah, gorgeous, do what the wizzy says. Show us your breasts!” He spun her around roughly and she looked up at a hulking barbarian, his face covered in bright blue tattoos. He had a couple friends with him, also barbarians. They didn’t have much gear, just pelts covering their loins and clubs in their hands. “Come on, let me have a look,” he said, leering.
“Why?” she shot back. “Are you thinking about buying a pair? An upgrade for your man-boobs?”
His bright blue face turned red as his friends laughed. Screw him. Punk wouldn’t last long on the streets where she came from.
She tried to extricate herself from his grasp, but his grip became even tighter. Why does this hurt so much – this isn’t even real!
“You shouldn’t talk like that, harlot. You’re in this world for one use only.”
“To show you up for what an idiot you are?” she shot back. From over his shoulder she could see the guard approaching them, a stern look on his face.
“I told you to show us what you have, and now you’re going to do just that.” One of his meaty paws went for her metal brassiere thingie. Tasha was disgusted, and a bit frightened, but mostly she was fascinated at how real all of this was. The tingle of excitement and terror ran through her body (as did the breeze blowing in from the harbor, carrying with it the smell of fish and salt); the sun overhead warmed her bare flesh even as the fear caused little prickles of goosebumps to appear on it. She had already “died” once here, and knew how painful it was, real or not. So odd that all of this was just a game…
And then the guard was at her side, the handsome one with the broken nose, his sword drawn and his words terse. “Hands off, lad.”
The newbie barbarian glowered down at the guard. “Didn’t you get the memo, NPC? There’s a bounty on harlots now.” He snickered and turned to his friends for approval. They weren’t laughing, though. One of them gestured to the guard, who had drawn his sword. “Ah, he won’t do anything,” the aggressive young barbarian said. “He’s programmed to back the fuck off. Watch.” He raised his club to strike. Tasha tried to cast her invisibility spell, but realized she needed her arms free to do so, so she could wave them around in a spellcaster sort of way, and this asshole was still gripping one of them. Probably going to die again, she thought fatalistically, but then the guard’s sword flashed in an efficient arc, lopping off the head of her brutal, juvenile-acting assailant. His body crumpled to the ground, blood shooting from the stump of the neck, the severed head bouncing near it; the young man’s face seemed to catch her eye for a moment, some residue of consciousness still there, and words managed to come from his blood-caked lips: “I am Drogar the Assassin, and you will pay, wench. You will p-p…” He expired as his two companions ran into the crowd. The guard glanced after them and grunted once. “They are not worth the effort, and I should see to your needs first. Are you okay?”
“Why…why yes, thank you. Thank you so much!” The words gushed out of her and she clasped his strong arm with both hands. His light chain armor was rough to her touch, but she could feel the strong bicep beneath it.
Up close he was even more handsome, with the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen, and a small cleft in his chin. Again she marveled at the realism of this world, as the pleasant warmth of lust made itself present between her loins. Unbelievable, she thought. I have the hots for a computer-generated character with a really advanced artificial intelligence.
“No need to thank me, Miss. It was a pleasure teaching scum like that a lesson.” He glanced down at the body, still twitching in the mid-day sun. “You’re welcome to take what you like of his, not that the beggarly lout has much of anything to take.”
“Mmm…well…” Tasha felt a bit odd, pondering whether to loot a dead body, but she reminded herself that the guy was a wannabe rapist and bent to his corpse. An inventory screen appeared as she touched it, and the sound of clinking coin jangled in her ears. YOU HAVE RECEIVED 1 SILVER AND 8 COPPERS. Well it was something. YOU HAVE RECEIVED 1 BACKPACK, 3 HEALING HERBS, AND 1 SPEED OF CHEETAH POTION: That was it. Healing herbs sounded like a good thing to have, and the potion was self-explanatory.
“I really do despise cretins like that,” the guard continued, not yet returning to his post. “Most folks mind their own business and keep their noses clean, but vermin like him –” He gestured to the corpse. “They just have no sense of…propriety, I suppose you might say.” He gave her a nod and a large, friendly smile. “A beautiful woman is one of the greatest delights in this wicked world, if you don’t mind me saying, Miss, and it was a pleasure coming to your assistance.”
With that he spun around on his heels and marched back toward his post. “Wait!” she called out. He stopped and turned. “What’s your name?”
“Orlando,” he said. “Sergeant Orlando of the City Guard.”
“Well thank you, Sergeant Orlando.”
He seemed to think for a moment as he eyed her appreciatively. Tasha marveled at the realistic detail and had to remind herself that he wasn’t a real man she was talking to but a computer generated graphic with incredible AI.
“And your name, Miss?”
“Tasha.”
A big grin split his features wide. “After my shift I will be at the Glowing Wyrm,” he said. “2100 Greenwich Time.”
“What is…the Glowing Wyrm?”
“A tavern.” He made a gesture toward a weapons shop on the busy street corner. “Take the next left, you can’t miss it.”
“Ummm…” She thought: Shall I accept a date from a mass of pixels? And how does he know what “Greenwich Time” is, anyway? “Sergeant, I will be there if I can. Thank you again for rescuing me.”
He bowed once, then turned on his heel with military precision and returned to his guard post.
……….
YOU HAVE ONLY TEN PERCENT OF YOUR HEALTH REMAINING.
/> The rat was the size of a medium dog. It was nasty, brutish, and stank, and Tasha knew she was one more bite away from death. She stabbed again with her dagger, hoping for a critical hit; her hopes were rewarded as she felt the blade sink solidly into the beast’s hide. It squealed and rolled onto its back, dead. She bent quickly and looted it, taking its skin and a piece of rat meat.
Weak, she sat beside the dead rat and ate the meat. It tasted sweet and foreign, chewy as tough goat. Blood trickled down her chin. She imagined what she looked like, a former fashion model…kind of…reduced to this, near naked and gnawing on a piece of bloody rat meat beneath the blistering sun of a hot Brutalia day.
She would sit for a moment to regain her strength, then return to town to sell her backpack full of animal skins, bones, and teeth to a merchant.
Harlot Tasha, Rat Slayer, she thought.
She had started on her new career after talking to one of the merchants near the city gate. She had picked a particularly virile-looking dwarf to chat up, a black-haired, muscular male of indeterminate years who couldn’t stop staring at her breasts. She could hardly blame him, as his eyes were exactly level with her cleavage. She was not selling or buying anything, but he still seemed pleased to speak with her. Such were the virtues of a high charisma score, she knew, and natural endowments that all men found pleasing, even if they were NPCs.
“I could give you a gold piece for the backpack, Miss…what did you say your name was?”
“Tasha.”
“Tasha the Harlot. I’ll remember a lovely like you, that’s for sure and certain.”
“I need the pack for now, but thank you for your reasonable offer.”
“Oh, always happy to help a girl in need, that’s my motto,” he said. He glanced over at a slender elf with weirdly high and pointed ears, large even by elven standards, from what few elves Tasha had seen in her short time here, who was handling his vials of potions, taking the small bottles off a rack and holding them up to the light, eyeing the liquid in the clear bottles. “Buy them or leave them, Spock,” the dwarf growled at him, “but don’t be finger-fucking them.” The elf made a disapproving cluck and left the “shop,” an open-air tent near the main gate of Elsinore. The dwarf merchant turned back to face her breasts again. “Now where were we, Miss…”
Bounty Harlot Page 2