by Arthur Stone
“Oh… That must be a result of cutting down on the available options. Work accounts got the ax once again.”
“They haven’t been cut down in two weeks, and this bug keeps recurring.”
“The users see the full list of races, so it doesn’t seem to affect them.”
“That’s not the issue—we have a recurring system error.”
“Ignore it. The system has been checked a few times, so the problem must originate elsewhere.”
“Where exactly?”
“Have you come from a farm or something?! It could be an oxidized contact, or maybe someone failed to insert a cable all the way in—it could be anything. If there’s a system failure, they’ll roll out the backup and check everything manually.”
“I only hope the failure doesn’t occur on our shift…”
* * *
Some unknown location.
“We got one.”
“Still unclear.”
“A selection has been made.”
“Is it final?”
“Take a look.”
“I have heard of the following term: ‘ridiculous.’ I believe it to be applicable to the candidate.”
“I disagree—I believe the term ‘amusing’ is a great deal more pertinent.”
“He’s good for nothing. A waste of time. The worst option. He has no prospects if he’s capable of this blunder.”
“There’s nothing that prevents him from becoming the first. And his stupidity is far from indubitable.”
“There’s nothing to argue about. He doesn’t even realize he just got an opportunity for ascension unavailable to others. And how can he become the first in anything? His body’s in a cage.”
“Every cage has a door—otherwise, there’s no point in having a cage.”
“You believe there’s a chance of discovering what you are referring to as a ‘door’?”
“Well, we have.”
“We are hardly the worst candidates.”
“I’m not so sure about you.”
“What is your basis for making this corollary?”
“None. I have merely tried to apply what the creators refer to as ‘sense of humor.’”
Chapter 3
His eyes were assaulted by a barrage of colors while his ears registered a cacophony of sounds that were present in just as great an abundance. Ros couldn’t help falling on his bottom, staring before himself in confusion, trying to focus his sight without much success. He saw the following block of text in pale letters, which promptly disappeared:
“Welcome to Second World. You are at the starting location in the city of Arbenne. This is the newbie respawn point. We wish you a pleasant game.”
He finally managed to focus his eyes, feeling all the more amazed. What he saw before himself didn’t remotely resemble a computer game. Back in the days of yore he would admire the cloud textures, the surface objects, and the shapes of the planes of his foes and allies, soaring high into the skies in his speedy fighter plane as shown on his widescreen monitor.
But there was no monitor this time. Instead of seeing something similar to the environment he had found himself in during character creation, Ros found himself in a regular world. He was sitting next to the crossroads of two narrow streets of a medieval city—or, rather, one designed to look like one. Grey cobblestones, arranged in a slapdash manner, paved the street underneath him. One of them protruded strongly—he could feel it in his coccyx, and the sensation was far from pleasant.
The two-story buildings could have belonged in a medieval European town, although they were cleaner and neater—like the old section of a city with a rich history. Stone walls, storm shutters on the windows, and curtains of dazzling white. A huge ginger tomcat sat on an uneven ledge with an expression that must have absorbed all the sloth of the Universe. The couple of rock pigeons sitting at some distance from it on the same ledge paid the rascal no attention whatsoever, while the rascal himself kept glancing at the pigeons—clearly without any intention of chasing them, but simply to maintain his reputation as a ruthless predator.
The sky was present, too—just as blue as it had ever been. There was a single cloud floating above him, as white as they got.
The birds were chirruping, someone was babbling something hurriedly somewhere nearby, and some bells were tolling languorously in the distance. He felt a cool breeze caress his skin, and the sun was beginning to warm the back of his head. A smell of fresh pastries tickled his nostrils.
“I must have gone nuts…” said Ros, scaring himself by the sound of his own voice.
It sounded reedy and utterly alien, with a tendency to stretch vowels and sibilants.
A well-familiar short figure ran out from behind a corner. A dwarf. Just like the one he saw first when selecting a race. He had seemed awkward to him then, but now the impression was completely different—he ran with the speed of a well-kicked football, crouching in a funny manner with every step, which made it seem like he was moving in a series of jumps.
The sitting Ros found himself in the way of the speeding shorty, who barely managed to make a detour, then barked gruffly in a low voice, already behind his back.
“Watch where you’re sitting, noob.”
Ross turned around, surprised—and just in time, too. Another dwarf emerged from thin air right in front of him, patting himself on his short jacket, then thrusting his hand into a bag hanging over his shoulder to feel something inside. After that, he asked him in just as low a voice:
“Where’s the bureau?”
“Uh… What bureau?”
“Ah, I get it…”
“You get what?”
“That you’re a total noob.”
The dwarf turned around and headed in the same direction as his kinsman.
At that very moment, a third dwarf, emerging from behind the corner just like the first two, failed to change direction in due time and crashed into Ros at full speed. Both rolled across the cobblestones. The short character was the first to jump up. He dashed off, shouting:
“Why don’t you flush yourself down the drain already, noob?!”
Ros finally realized that he might have picked the wrong place to sit and meditate on his existence, and shifted toward the roadside. Another dwarf ran through the spot where he was sitting a moment ago, followed by the looming frame of an ogre. Or, rather, a river ogre, inasmuch as Ros could remember the description. It also said that other representatives of the race were perfectly savage and best not encountered on a narrow path, for they almost always tended to attack first.
The ogre didn’t run—he walked. But he walked at a fast pace, with his head sunk into his shoulders and his body hunched forward.
“Hey! Uh… Mister! Could you please tell me where—”
“Follow me to the bureau.”
Ros had no idea what sort of a bureau it was and whether he needed it in the first place, but he decided to follow the ogre and scampered along as fast as he could. After all, he was the first player who didn’t call him a noob—that seemed promising.
This was the first time Ros was playing a game of this sort, but from his experience with the flight simulators remembered that noobs were usually players who flooded chat rooms with inane blabber, asking for tips on basic gameplay in the middle of a dogfight, and doing other outrageous things such as asking which key to press to shoot just as your team was on the brink of losing. Their kind could even shoot you in the tail before you took off, utterly failing to understand the difference between allies and enemies—and not due to lack of experience, either, but rather as a result of grave problems with their intellect and maturity.
Ros didn’t want to be considered a noob.
“Excuse me, ogre. Why is everything around us so…”
“So what?”
“Well… Real…”
“You’re a noob, aren’t you?”
“I’m not. I mean, I am. Probably.”
“Read some guides.” k'12
“Guides?”
> “Where did you get the money for your account? From your mom? Well, now go and ask her for some guides.”
“I know what guides are. I used to play a flight simulator, you know. I’ve read some there.”
“Derrr! A flight simulator, eh? So you’re a pilot, are you?”
“I haven’t played in a while. The guides are available at the game forum, aren’t they?”
“Sorta. Guild forums have them, too, but they wouldn’t touch a noob like you with a barge pole. Their guides are more interesting, though,” the ogre sighed.
“Is everything always this real here?”
“You mean you’re a deep diver?”
“Say what?”
“Full immersion?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Your mom is sure gonna give you a real licking.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve just cost her a hell of a lot of money. Beat it, underage hacker, before she takes a stick to you. Oh, and on a work account, too. You’re a barrel of laughs, aren’t you?! Make sure you don’t try to get into any ladies’ panties—you’ll get busted at once. A minor in a game using another person’s account—they’ll fine you into oblivion, and I bet your mom will tan your hide so hard you won’t be able to sit for a week. How did you manage to log on, anyway?”
“It’s a long story. But—”
“We’re here. Now scram, I’m busy.”
Ros didn’t even notice how they reached a rather narrow semicircular square through the tangle of twisted streets. Its far side ended at a façade of a long three-story building decorated by a tacky colonnade, with a wide many-stepped staircase descending to the cobblestones. There were at least a hundred dwarves and orcs huddled before it, all looking identical, with the odd occasional brownish-grey ogre sticking out. A stocky Scandinavian-looking fellow looking just like a regular human being stood on top of it, clad in a black cape and wearing a squarish hat of the same color. He had his nose stuck in an open leather-bound folder, and was making loud pronouncements that seemed to make no sense at all:
“Two mules to Tagan’s tree, daily, a hundred and forty, equipment and potions, and a buff at lunchtime. Four miners, same place, copper, production-based pay, a hundred and seventy per hundred, equipment and potions, and a buff at lunchtime. A mule to Juritas’ granite quarry, weekly contract, extendable upon request, a hundred and fifty five per day, equipment and potions, a buff in the morning and one more at lunchtime, two meals.”
“Me!” shouted the ogre of his acquaintance (well, of sorts).
The “man in black” raised his left hand with his palm facing upwards without so much as looking at the big guy. His fingers produced a dim yellow firefly-like spark that rushed toward the crowd, hovered over the ogre’s head for a moment, then quickly dissolved. The ogre turned around and disappeared behind the corner, looking determined.
Ros realized this whole affair bore some relation to employment. Another thing that he realized was just how real this world was if the characters needed food. After all, there must be a reason why they mentioned meals as part of hiring terms.
He didn’t understand just how one got employed here, but he suspected it would be easy enough to understand. None of the players he had seen so far looked like geniuses.
So, he’d find his way about it.
But he also shouldn’t rush it. After all, John said they’d be able to find a contract for him that would enable him to save up for his account-related and medical expenses.
How ironic: he was supposed to play a game in order to earn the money to support the remains of his actual body in a viable condition. As well as the money required to play the game itself.
Incidentally, the thought of food made Ros realize he wouldn’t mind having a bite of something. It wasn’t quite hunger yet, but a state that directly preceded it, inasmuch as he could recall his senses.
He realized he looked silly as he approached the crowd of players, and touched the nearest ogre on the shoulder, acting under the subconscious impression that if one of them engaged in conversation, others would, as well.
“Excuse me, but I’d really like to know how to grab a bite of something around here. As in a meal, you know?”
“You’re some noob!”
“I agree with that. Still, though?”
“The same way you do IRL—that is, in real life. You stuff it in your mouth, chew it, and swallow it. That’s how it goes.”
“I see. But how does one find food here?”
“Har har har! I’m filming you—I’ll upload the video to the forum later, let the others have a laugh, too.”
“I’m still wondering about how one might find food here.”
“Even for a noob, you’re just too… Are you messing with me?”
“I’m not.”
“Are you sure you’re not a troll?”
“Nope, a different race—a rare one.”
“I’ll disappoint you about that,” a nearby dwarf butted in. “Noobs are by no means a rarity here. On the contrary, as a matter of fact.”
“Look, I have already agreed I’m a noob. Please answer my question about food, and I won’t pester you anymore.”
“What about food?” the dwarf looked confused.
“You’ll fall down laughing in a moment,” the ogre chuckled.
“Where can I find some food? A meal?”
“You’re not just a noob, you’re a noob squared. An outstanding specimen of rare noobness. Rarer than a living dinosaur.”
“I agree with your assessment entirely. Still?”
“In any tavern, dive, brothel, or bistro. You get the idea. It costs money, though—being a noob, you’re very unlikely to have any. You can leave the city and rummage through the countryside—there’s lots of free game there, as well as fruits and berries of different source. But since you have this squiggle over your head, you’re more likely to be prey than predator. Anyway, take a peek in your bag first, and stop bugging people already—this is no noob school, this is serious business.”
Ros walked away from the crowd and, finally, took a good look at himself. Before, he had been a little surprised by the sound of his voice, which was nothing like his own, as well as the shuffling gait—his good old body felt different. He also seemed to have become taller—the ground looked further away now.
What a pity he had no mirror about him.
His arms were spindly and really long, reaching further down than the middle of his thighs. His fingers were even thinner—like a spider’s legs, with joints that looked knobby in an unhealthy way. The bluish nails were thick, and might have qualified as claws. The skin was greyish, as if transplanted from an old corpse.
His legs were hard to see, obscured by the rough brown fabric of his pants, but they looked just as long as his arms, and with knobby knees. He was the spitting image of the figure he had seen at the race selection screen.
He touched his head. A long neck, two eyes looking rather large, ears, also far from tiny, and a tangled mass of short hair. The skull was elongated like a melon.
Not the prettiest sight, really…
Ross took a look at the other players. None of them looked likely to get any modeling contracts, either. Oh, and why was everyone here male? On the other hand, that was clear enough—they were hiring players with mining skills, and few women were interested in that. Also, he didn’t know many ladies who would be comfortable with such ugly characters.
He wasn’t particularly pleased, either. This wouldn’t have mattered much in one of the old games, where all the fighter planes looked the same. However, here he would have liked to have a slightly more pleasing appearance—not dazzlingly handsome, perhaps, but better than this. He should alter his appearance as soon as he managed to come into some money. Perhaps it wouldn’t even take that much in terms of funds. He’d have to look into the matter at a later time.
So, what else did he have apart from the body?
A bag on his shoulder, small and thin
. What was inside? Ros put hand in the bag and froze. An image formed before his eyes—a large brown square divided into smaller squares. There was the following legend at the top: “Novice’s Bag, twenty-five slots, weight reduced by 1.0. Weight: 0.45 kg. Durability: 20/20.”
So that was how it worked? Ros grabbed the fabric of his sleeve. “Novice’s Jacket. Protection from chilly summer evenings; very weak protection against cold or inclement weather. Melee Defense: 1. Ranged Defense: 0. Magic Defense: 0. Weight: 0.72 kg. Durability: 28/28.”
Ros decided against grabbing the fabric of his pants. He just squinted and peered at them attentively. The following information popped up: “Novice’s Woolen Pants. Protection from chilly summer evenings; very weak protection against cold or inclement weather. Melee Defense: 1. Ranged Defense: 0. Magic Defense: 0. Weight: 0.61 kg. Durability: 30/30.”
Ros felt like he made a great discovery. He started peering at everything: buildings, players, birds, and clouds. Detailed information didn’t pop up every time, but it happened often enough. For example, he could now see the names over the head of every player. All of them looked just like his own awkward mouthful of a name. They appeared to use a single algorithm for generating them in order to make life harder for the poor users.
There was a single exception—a black guy who kept making proclamations of some sort from the top of a staircase. There was nothing but the legend Grandis above his name. Nor did he have the worm-like squiggle to the left of his name like the regular workers.
The mystery was too much for Ros, and so he returned to the crowd and asked the same ogre.
“Does Grandis have a VIP account? I see that he has but one word in his name—and a more or less normal one, too.”
Everyone who could hear him laughed out loud; the rest turned their heads toward the sudden outburst of mirth, and even Grandis interrupted his speech and gave the mob an uncomprehending stare.
“Where are you from, noob?” asked one of the dwarves once he finished laughing. The ogre from before decided to reveal the secret, apparently as a token of gratitude for a good laugh.
“Grandis is an NPC[2]*, you noob nincompoop. Run along to your mom now, or someone might hurry you along with a kick.”