The Weirdest Noob

by Arthur Stone

  The last thing Ros wanted was a kick from a creature whose mass was at least twice that of the rrokh, so he prudently left the crowd, having understood nothing from the Ogre’s explanation. What the hell was an NPC? And where was a poor noob supposed to get food?

  Just a moment! The bag! He had been told it might contain something of use.

  So… the bag. Having counted the smaller squares, Ros confirmed that there were thirty of them altogether, just like the description said. So they must be the slots in question. Their purpose also soon became clear when he saw pictures of three items locked into the first slots in the top row. There was something running over them—a thin and sharp arrow that looked like a mouse cursor.

  Ros stopped it at the very first item, and the brief info popped up at once: “Novice’s Vigor Potion. Description: adds 25 points to Vigor over 20 seconds. Special properties: cannot be given to another player, sold to an NPC, or discarded.”

  Did he need it right now? Would he feel invigorated? Possibly, but more likely not. He shouldn’t hurry—best to keep it for later. They must have given him the item for a reason, after all.

  The potion was followed by two identical objects with identical names and descriptions: “Novice’s Small Ration. Description: contains everything you need to avoid feeling hunger for 24 game hours. Attention! This is no replacement for real food! Remember the needs of your second body left in the First World! Special properties: cannot be given to another player, sold to an NPC, or discarded.”

  He decided he could wait—he wasn’t all that hungry yet. Suddenly he felt a twinge of anxiety, having found himself in an unfamiliar place with no money.

  Incidentally, where would this money be? The kind that could be exchanged into perfectly real currency? There wasn’t a single coin in his bag. And what was this thing on his belt?

  “Novice’s Purse. Basic capacity: 350 copper coins. Theft Protection: 1.1. Weight: 0.09 kg. Durability: 10/10.”

  Ros twisted the purse this way and that, but didn’t manage to discover a single coin there. This was rather unfortunate—they didn’t even give him a token sum of money.

  Oh well, finances weren’t the immediately pressing issue.

  His attorneys’ help was, however. How long would it take him to hang around here waiting for their representative? And how were they supposed to find him? There should obviously be some means of communication—the flight simulation games had them, after all. However, he had no idea how to use them. Wasn’t Morrison’s representative supposed to contact him at once?

  He decided to pass the time over a closer study of the interface—the semi-transparent glyphs at the periphery of vision. If the field of vision was the equivalent of the monitor, this looked a lot like the interface in the old games he’d played. Anyone closely familiar with computers should recognize them, even someone without any specific gaming experience.

  There were four apparent stat bars. An attentive study revealed their descriptions. The red bar represented hit points, and he had twenty-eight of those currently. The blue bar represented his magical energy—twenty-one points altogether. The green bar was Vigor: eighty-two points.

  Everything was clear enough except for the last bar, yellow and narrow: Fury. The maximum was a measly ten points, and the entire bar was empty—only its outline was shown. He could only assume that he had no fury points presently, and that they didn’t accumulate for some reason.

  Ros knew nothing about the bar’s purpose or whether he needed it at all, and decided to file that question, along with about a thousand others, for a later time.

  There was the chat window with a sophisticated settings menu. The visibility was poor, with everything looking faded. But wait! The instant he thought of it, the semi-transparent frames became a lot thicker and more opaque, improving visibility drastically.

  “Zone Chat.” Anything there? Nothing at all. Either no one used it, or he was too far away from such users. “Requested Logs.” How about this one? Empty as well. “System Messages.” “You are in the city of Arbenne, in the Rallia Province. A provisionally safe zone.” Nothing else. Wait a moment, what about this flashing window? “Duthitnail Pritenguar.” Was someone trying to send him a private message? Could one of the players in the square have decided to inform Ros in writing that he was Second World’s most pathetic noob? What would the point be? That much was obvious to everyone already.

  Shoot! It must be the attorneys’ character trying to reach him!

  “John?”

  “John, can you see my messages?”

  “John, please respond as soon as you get an opportunity.”

  “Jenya, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you responding? Did we get the wrong username? But you signed the non-disclosure agreement—they couldn’t have made a mistake!”

  “Please answer!”

  “Jenya!”

  It appeared that they had been trying to contact him all along, but he hadn’t noticed the active private message window. And no wonder, being utterly unfamiliar with the chat interface, and having been rather confused from the very beginning—in fact, he still didn’t quite gather his wits about him.

  So how did he enter text? There is no keyboard. Mentally?

  The words “I’m here” eagerly sprang up in the text entry box. Then he tried to give the text a mental command to slide down into the open chat window. The text complied.

  The answer came almost instantly:

  “Jenya, I was beginning to get worried! Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “John?”

  “Who else calls you that?”

  “First, they addressed me as your namesake.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Do you take turns with the same character?”

  “Yup.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “It is without immersion. But we don’t play the game—this account is used for communicating with our Second World clients. We just have a laptop on the desk, and the game runs in a limited functionality mode. Basically, the chat window is all there is. But it’s not like we need anything else. The account owner is sitting right next to me, connected with his bracelet. If he takes it off, the contact with the character will be lost. This isn’t very convenient—the wire from the bracelet is pretty short, and there are lots of glitches. They’ve really been getting on our nerves lately—the versions must conflict, regardless of what the developers are saying. But we can communicate, at any rate. Only the account owner would be able to log on with a helmet or a capsule, so we’re not in a hurry to switch. How are you doing?”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “Surprised?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. It’s totally dreamlike, but everything looks absolutely real.”

  “What did I tell you? Some people say Second World is more real than ours. You’re not regretting it yet, are you?”

  “I’m not, and I don’t think I will—this is much better than euthanasia.”

  “So there—you shouldn’t have doubted me. What’s your location?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “How would we? The company office gave us your username as agreed, but they didn’t divulge any further information. It’s obviously a big city, since the chat is working.”

  “Arbenne, in the Rallia Province.”

  “Just a second… Got it. Our sector, which is unsurprising, considering where you’re logged in from.”

  “Your sector?”

  “USA/Canada. Nearly everyone here is from North America.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m the only Russian here.”

  “The Russian sector is a long journey from where you are. Would you like to move there?”

  “You know I’m only interested in money. I happen to be in real need of it, as you can probably gather.”

  “I can. All for the better, then—we have no substantial links to the Russian sector. Our guys are working on your contract right now. If everything turns out fine, you’ll
sign it for a month initially, and I think they’ll extend it, since you’re a good worker.”

  “I have no idea what kind of worker I can be here… It’s hard to wrap my mind around it.”

  “Let’s blame shock. But I advise that you pull yourself together. And be quick about it—you may already have to sign the contract tomorrow. Will you be able to get through a day?”

  “I have some food and some clothes. Will that be enough?”

  “Duthit, the character I’m using to message you, hardly has any more possessions, and he’s been here for a couple of months. However, he just stays put all the time. And it appears that the lack of physical exercise didn’t harm his health much, which means you can stay put, too.”

  “Thanks for your advice.”

  “Jenya, I need to pass the control of the character on, we need to talk to one of the players. Send us a private message if there’s anything urgent. We have a notification app that monitors private messages, and it notifies us whenever there’s anything incoming, so it won’t take us long to get back to you.”

  “Got it. Thanks again!”

  Spend a whole day doing nothing? No way—even a minute would be too much for Ros. After all, there was so much around him that remained unknown…

  Chapter 4

  Ros kept wandering around for about an hour, but he was still far from having seen every street. The city may not have been one of the bigger ones, but it was still one big labyrinth of great complexity. It made sense to place the stone walls on the perimeter. The enemy might be able to scale them and rush in for the last attack… only to get hopelessly lost.

  He managed to see the city gate, too. It was wide open—the heavy iron portcullis was raised, two guards in unprepossessing armor with spears in their hands stood leaning against the walls, and an emaciated-looking guy with sad eyes was sitting on a tall stool. He didn’t wear any obvious weapons or armor, but his garb was incredibly elaborate, like some wild hybrid of a cape and a doublet, gaudy salmon-pink tights, and a tall black hat of the sort normally associated with witches.

  Ros risked venturing out for a moment—the trio paid him no attention whatsoever. There was nothing of interest outside. A few peasant houses and fields of crops of some sort in the distance, and a dark curtain at the edge of the woods behind them. A river lay to the left, with a canal dug to provide water for the moat around the city, all covered in water lilies.

  It was pretty odd—Ros heard that moats of this sort usually stank to high heavens, acting as part of the city’s sewage system. But here there were flowers, croaking frogs, and a conspicuous absence of stench.

  He spent a minute standing there, then headed back toward the bureau. He didn’t see any large crowds anywhere else, so it was probably the most interesting place. He could hang around the players keeping his ears open—he just might hear something useful.

  He kept seeing NPCs moving past him. He still had no idea who they were and what their role was in this world. It was really easy to tell them from the players, even if you didn’t look at the names (theirs could consist of one part or two, but without such idiotic combinations as Ambaparkamel Duthumubanast). Players were always running, or, at the very least, walking at a brisk pace, huffing and puffing as they went. Some even moved in awkward leaps, like mischievous children. Some wore armor—chain mails, cuirasses, and helmets, as well as swords, axes, and clubs on their belts or behind their backs. NPCs moved at a much more dignified speed—like normal people in the world familiar to Ros. Their clothes looked a lot better, too.

  He tried running just like his fellow players a few times, but he didn’t last long. The Vigor bar started shrinking proportionally to the speed. Once it became completely empty, Ros felt like falling down and doing absolutely nothing for an hour or two. Barely managing to drag his feet, he had to stop and wait for five to ten minutes for the Vigor bar to be replenished at least by a quarter before he could move on.

  After his second attempt at a sprint, he stopped at a small square that he had somehow missed during his first walk through the city. He saw something resembling a message board next to the façade of a stone building that looked official (he hadn’t seen any taller buildings yet). Miraculously, there was a newspaper hanging on it. He couldn’t help but come closer.

  “Rallian Herald”

  Now that was interesting. So they published in-game magazines as well? And was there anything of interest reported in the Rallian Herald?

  “Tomorrow, on the 5th of Lactius, there will be a grand party on the First Duke’s Square. The whole magnificent trio will be performing: JavankaStorm, Glamourkitten22, and DairenaABI. There will be fireworks, gladiator cake fights (cakes provided by the finest bakers), a fountain of alcohol, and some artistic striptease—none will regret visiting it; the rest will have to content themselves with watching the broadcast.”

  “Landscape designer needed urgently for a well-paid job at a clan castle. Requirements: Good Sense, lvl 50+; 3+ Creation, 4+ Aesthetics, 3+ Construction and Fortification. Gardener skills and whole trees of associated stats a bonus. Contact Teiko Akiribani or Malattanthoc Thiumidristus.”

  Ros may have failed to understand every single detail, but it wasn’t too hard to conjecture that he was looking at advertisements. From the point of view of a regular person, they were nothing but useless noise that was only worthy of your attention when actively looking for something specific.

  However, advertisements could tell a shrewd person a lot of what would otherwise never be mentioned in more serious publications.

  Unfortunately, that would also require precise understanding of the nature of such advertisements. And this was something Ros sorely lacked.

  He saw a flicker of motion in the corner of his eye, which testified to the arrival of a player. The figure that appeared was uncommon for these parts. It was neither a dwarf nor an orc with a work account, but a true blue pointy-eared elf. He was tall and slim, wearing a green doublet and a matching beret worn aslant, with a long and narrow sword on his belt. His head kept turning this way and that.

  The elf must have seen something on the other side of the square, since he shouted in a reedy voice:

  “Duel!”

  He wasn’t shouting at nothing—he was addressing another player, who also wasn’t one of the faceless workers, strangely enough. This one looked like a normal human being—a male aged around twenty, athletic, with a well-groomed face of a model. Even though he looked to be in perfect health, he leaned on his staff as he walked—light-colored and decorated with all sorts of vignettes, with something resembling pieces of glass glittering in between. He had no armor or weapons, but Ros somehow didn’t doubt that the guy could take care of himself.

  “Look at that! Free entertainment!” said an indescribable gurgling voice behind him. “A level 46 light elf saw a level 38 human and decided to use him to show off his toughness.”

  “The elf has eight levels on the human, so he is tougher indeed,” said a dwarf that was jogging by.

  “Sure. But not this elf. Look at his stuff. He has a rapier used for battle incantation—a buffer[3] bard, in other words, the kind deployed on raids. Do you see his raid[4] anywhere? I don’t. And what’s a buffer to a mage? A cockroach under his boot.”

  “So this man is a mage?”

  “Yup. Judging by the runes on his clothes, he’s your run-of-the-mill elemental mage, or something similar.”

  “But is it allowed to battle inside cities?”

  “Duels are allowed in squares. The fighters are covered by a dome that stops arrows and blocks magic projectiles. If they damage the cobblestones, the guards will come, and the brawlers will have to pay a pretty penny. Otherwise, you’re free to do as you please, unless it’s after dusk. Citizens are not to be disturbed during their rest.”

  The elf gave an ostentatious bow, sweeping the cobblestones with his beret, and took out his long and thin sword—or rapier, as the anonymous interlocutor called it. And he didn’t merely take i
t out—he attacked at once. The mage raised his staff above his head, wrapping his body in a ghostly shimmering cocoon.

  “The Sphere of Absorption—a shield that absorbs damage. The higher the mage’s intellect, the more damage it can take before it’s exhausted. So what does our elf do? Mm-hmm… well, as they say, there are three types of noobs: regular noobs, ridiculous noobs, and buffers who forget to buff themselves before battle. Pointy-ears is about to have a great deal of damage done to his confidence. Here it comes.”

  The mage lowered his staff in a sudden motion. Its tip produced a fireball that hit the elf in the chest and engulfed his entire body. The doublet started burning. The pointy-eared player screamed, or rather tried to sing something, which looked rather weird given the situation, but the same staff then produced something like an enormous icicle that hit the opponent right in the head.

  “That’s it. There won’t be any singing.”

  Ros took a sideways look at the zone chat. “Fly Capyb has defeated Rygolis Alitrule in a duel!”

  The flames disappeared without a trace. The elf stood alive and unharmed, although his face showed a great deal more concern now, and a few soot stains remained on his doublet.

  “Some big banana must’ve convinced the boy to level up his support character, promising lots of phat lewts. The boy didn’t read the guides, or didn’t pay enough attention reading them, and he got into the habit of trusting the big banana. He dreamed of glory and heroic deeds, and ended up as an amplifier and a first aid kit for other heroes. He cannot handle this deplorable situation, and challenges everyone to a duel, but even complete noobs wipe the floor with him. I sometimes pity these fools. On the other hand, people need them. What are heroes going to do if the buffers and the healers become a scarcity?”

  Ros finally turned around, seeing his interlocutor for the first time. His height and build were similar to those of a dwarf, and he had a beard as well, but that was where the similarities ended.