by Arthur Stone
"Hello, uh… Thyrinawerria Raynayila," replied Ros, and then asked, "You didn't come up with that name on your own, did you?"
"I didn't."
"Well, it shows…"
"You can just call me Thyri. We're likely to spend a lot of time together, so I wouldn't want to saddle you with a tongue-twister like that."
"What do you mean, a lot of time together?"
"Well, you're going somewhere, aren't you? I'm coming along. I've been waiting for you for a while. They told me you still had a long way to go and you'll need help on your way, and someone to look after you. So let's get going."
"Hey! Hold on a moment. Who are you, anyway?!"
"My name is written right over my head, and you can see it perfectly well."
Ros could indeed see the ridiculous two-part name as well as a couple of icons indicating other features of the character. The appearance was made up, not a copy of the owner's actual physique. The sex was female. There was nothing there to answer his question.
Then he remembered Macho Strongman and Nail-in-the-Head. Their names were less convoluted, but they also behaved strangely and demonstrated a strange willingness to accompany Ros anywhere.
"Uh… Thyri… Can you tell me about your stats? How did you distribute them? Is your character normal or botched?"
"What a strange thing to ask."
"I wouldn't have asked without a good reason."
"We can talk about it on our way. Let's get going already. It's dangerous to stay here."
* * *
Cody Mitchell was sweating like a pig, the evening chill notwithstanding. This was hardly the best place to meet—there were too many drug addicts around, and they would do anything to get the money for the next fix. Cheap motels, lots of homeless people, and all kinds of weirdos galore. A respectable analyst from a multinational corporation had no business here.
However, the journalist he had run into seemed to think that The Bayview was the best place for such trysts.
Cody rued the day they'd first met. And it was all that noob's fault. The one who became a Second World celebrity out of the blue, curse him. As soon as the analyst managed to find an important lead, he was called by the top of the corporate brass, and he managed to impress them with his report.
However, such impressions are soon forgotten if you do nothing to make sure the effect lasts. So Cody spared no effort trying to find out something else. He would sometimes manage to sniff out something overlooked by everybody else, but nothing was as important as what he had found out before, that very first time.
He'd reckoned he would get a substantial raise, and even started thinking of moving into a better neighborhood. In that case, Helen would probably move in with him. Or, rather, he'd finally be able to propose.
Anyway, if she kept nagging him about insufficient attention, he wouldn't have to move anywhere—his small apartment had as much space as he'd ever need on his own.
Why was it so hard for her to understand his job was important? It was perfectly natural for him to do work-related stuff seven days a week, IRL as well as online. He was hunting for information. Anywhere he could get access to—and quite a few places he couldn't. He searched for it where no one else had thought of searching. He was prepared to make contacts that were frowned upon, or outright forbidden.
This journalist knew a few things—that much was true. However, they were, for the most part, things Cody cared little about at the moment. Apart from that, he was never particularly eager to share his knowledge, but always did everything he could to pump Cody for everything he knew.
And Cody still had to bear the brunt of it.
He was bound to share, at any rate—this reporter never let go once he got his teeth into something. Right now he would have to share classified information that no one outside of his department should have had any access to.
But it was worth it. Cody managed to get a really good lead. If what he'd managed to find out was true, now he knew how to find the elusive Mr. Rostovtsev without any trouble whatsoever. That was a real triumph. He wouldn't just get a promotion once he succeeded. It would…
It would open new horizons.
The only thing was, how come this pencil-pusher manage to find out something like that? What were his sources? Who could be giving him information of this sort?
Or, rather, where would one find such information in the first place?
Cody might have to find the answer to this question sooner or later. Right now, though, it was unimportant. Even if the journalist got his info from green-skinned Martians with flute-shaped noses. His only concern was whether it were actually true.
He also wondered about the number of people in the know. What would happen if some data dam broke and the information suddenly became available to everyone? Cody should hurry in this case. He had no intention of sharing his triumph with anyone.
* * *
An unremarkable man whose ID card said his name was John Shelby watched Cody Mitchell's car go by dispassionately. The analyst who'd managed to get out of his depth was no concern of his. Another group was watching him, and they wouldn't let him go.
He was an easy target.
John was concerned about the journalist. And he wasn't going to let him get away, either.
Killing a journalist would be a pain in the ass, but it didn't mean those scribblers were invulnerable. If the powers that be decide to dispose of one of them, it would require a divine intervention for the journalist in question to live to a ripe old age.
And John was certain that the Almighty God would not intervene on behalf of this fancier of black and Asian boys. He hated all sodomites, after all, so he probably never even looked toward this accursed city. God may even have plans to make it share the lot of Sodom and Gomorrah. No other city in this country deserved to be punished by the Almighty more than this one.
The notorious journalist was so obsessed with his latest puffy-lipped boyfriend that he even chose this hellhole for a rendezvous, stinking with piss and crack smoke, over one of the cozier streets of his beloved Castro. The Bayview was dangerous. Even cops aren't safe here—the local gangs recognize no authority.
But the journalist wouldn't get his hands into any young boy's pants tonight. Instead, he'd be lying on a dogshit-covered flowerbed, fertilizing the earth with the blood coming out of multiple stab wounds. The cops would arrive at some point and bustle around, trying to look important, asking stupid questions, and watching CCTV recordings.
The victim of street crime would be taken elsewhere and placed on the coroner's table. The cops will shortly prove that the moment of murder was never recorded by any CCTV camera, thus saving the city's money. The only video recording was of someone wearing conspicuous clothes walking away. Once they checked his movements from one camera to another, they would find out that the man entered one of the numerous apartment blocks, and never came out again.
The cops wouldn't stop there, of course. They would find the culprit's apartment, break down the door, and find the owner. But they wouldn't be able to question him for the simple reason that the owner would already be dead from overdosing on a new designer drug by that point. Those who got addicted to that stuff never lived long, so it wouldn't strike anyone as a surprise. When addicts felt they were about to crash, they would do anything for a small bag of stinky powder. So this one must have done exactly that—he took his knife, walked around the neighborhood, and found a chubby doe-eyed fop at the corner. The guy was well-dressed and wearing an expensive watched, and he looked like he'd be more likely to cry like a baby than try to fight back. In other words, a most likely mark.
The deceased addict obviously had nothing to do with the murder. CCTV cameras had low resolution, so it didn't even take the makeup artist that much effort to mask one of their men as one of the residents of this cesspit. The main thing was the clothes; the face also had to stay in the shadows.
Not a single cop would find anything wrong. That kind of thing happened regula
rly in this neighborhood. A druggie left his filthy den and sliced up yet another fancier of urban boys. All kinds of pervs came there to get their kicks, after all. The killer took the watch and the wallet, and went back home. He didn't even have to leave the block to get another fix—you could get it anywhere in the projects. And when addicts felt they were about to crash, they were likely to do stupid things, such as taking as high a dose as they could, and ending up stone cold in their chemical nirvana.
Thus, the orders were carried out.
Chapter 4
Thyri was nothing like Macho Strongman or Nail-in-the-Head. And it wasn't just the matter of her being a petite brown-skinned girl while those were huge guys with blond hair. It wasn't just the matter of behavior—those two laughed as jackasses whether or not there was a reason to, kept looking something for something to munch on all the time, had poor manners and even poorer vocabularies; nor were they any good in battle.
In fact, they looked like total chumps when they fought.
On the other hand, the sheer number of coincidences left him without a doubt that all three were involved in something that Ros had no inkling of. The very fact that they sought to accompany him placed them all in a single category.
"Hey, Bubble, why don't we rest for a moment?"
Another coincidence. Neither Macho Strongman nor Nail-in-the-Head got weary this quickly. As for Thyri, she couldn't climb a hill without having to sit down at least once.
He might have been exaggerating, but the fact was that she'd had serious issues with her Stamina, as well as a few other things. He was certain that the reason for it was the very same—unnatural stat point distribution. However, if Macho Strongman and Nail-in-the-Head distributed their stats according to their current fancies, Thyri was completely different.
She deliberately made her character a cripple.
Ros could not study her stats, but he harbored a strong suspicion that she invested everything into Agility and Accuracy, completely ignoring everything else. He had a good reason for such a conclusion.
There was the matter of her race and class, first of all. Ros took every opportunity to study the game forum and soak up as much knowledge of the complex game world as he could. So he knew what Thyri's choice had been. She was a Highlander Assassin—an unpopular race and a little-known class. It was simply too highly specialized. Nearly all the bonuses were related to disguise. Few could rival them in that respect, that much was true. However, it made no sense to stay invisible forever. One would have to show oneself sooner or later, and that was where the race's numerous shortcomings came into play.
First and foremost, their Accuracy skill was negligible. Thus, a representative of this race would get less from investing a point into this stat than a player of a different race and belonging to a different class. Their Strength was even worse. Its effect on the damage dealt was so paltry that it made no sense to use enchanted items or stat points to raise it. It made a lot more sense to choose objects with bonuses to actual attack and damage values.
Defense was just as bad as Accuracy. Even if you wrapped up a Highlander Assassin in tank armor, it would do them no good. They were the first to be sent to their respawn points—they couldn't take any damage at all.
All the other primary stats were in the medium range, with the exception of Resilience. This is where Highlander Assassins truly shone. As for secondary stats, Disguise, Perception, Speed, and Luck were pretty decent. The rest were nothing to write home above, but there were no serious handicaps, either.
Magical talents were also nonexistent, so there were no hopes for a career as a mage. Nor would an Assassin make a good worker. They had no bonuses conducive to honest toil, and lots of traits that made it near-impossible.
The resulting character would thus be unable to work, and a poor fighter too boot—they had no magical attacks, and their long-distance physical attacks did not deal enough damage, since Accuracy plays a decisive role in such cases. Highlander Assassins are never accurate enough. How could one use those poor things in battle? Were they doomed to see others fight and feel jealous all the time?
Actually, such characters did have their niche, but it was highly specialized. One should remember their only strong suit—the ability to stay unseen. An assassin can steal through the ranks of the enemy in order to reach those at the back of the party. Those were usually healers and buffers. Everybody else took care of supporting characters, and they were hard to reach. However, should anyone manage to get to them, it would be a fox-in-the-chicken-coop scenario through and through. Those characters are usually incapable of defending themselves and die quickly.
However, the window of opportunity wasn't that wide inasmuch as Highlander Assassins were concerned. They couldn't deal much damage, and their Strength was never high enough to matter. Nor could they use heavy weapons that would kill a healer in two blows. Thus, they had to opt for the shortest blades that were too light, too thin, and near-useless against armored warriors—knives or daggers. However, supporting mages wore no armor, so that would do. And even though they didn't deal heavy damage, their weapons were fast, especially when they used two blades at once.
They could approach from behind, activate short-term class skills amplifying attack damage and speed, and make mincemeat of their target with a series of quick slashes. This would be a close-quarter fight, so no Accuracy was really necessary. So all you could do was slash again and again—your chances of getting to another target were really slim. One couldn't become invisible instantaneously. There are many nuances affecting the cooldown time of Highlander Assassins' abilities, and most of them were negative. Therefore, they were suicide commandos—just like the historical Assassins led by Hassan-i-Sabbah.
The standard battle model was thus as follows: you sneaked up on someone, you killed the, and you got killed in turn.
Obviously enough, few people would choose to fight such short and dramatic battles. It would be hard to become a famed warrior if one exchanged a life for that of a single enemy in the game.
Highlander Assassins were usually chosen by loners who were fond of hunting other players. Those were the very PKs with red names who relished in killing the weak and the stranded. They loved nothing like popping out from out of nowhere behind a noob's back and dispatching their victim with a few stabs of the dagger. But they could run into serious problems with properly defended players, even if those were of a lower level. It would take time to dispatch them, and time is never on a Highlander Assassin's side.
Receiving damage was a total no-no. A Highlander Assassin was a rag doll character for the most part. A pathetic noobslayer only able to get close because of invisibility.
Thyri's name was written in letters of pristine white, but, nonetheless, that was the very character she had chosen. And Ros witnessed how she dispatched five high-level players without even breaking a sweat. Her level was 197. The ones Ros managed to examine had also leveled around 200.
No one would ever believe that a half-naked Highlander Assassin could kill five players in as many minutes with complete impunity.
Thyri managed to break the mold. She dispensed with the knives and the daggers altogether. At the very least, she didn't use them in this battle. What she did use was a bow—a weapon that's supposed to be completely useless for a character of her kind.
Why useless? First and foremost, bows required accuracy. You had to be fast and hit a target from a distance. If your arrows missed, you were ridiculous, pathetic, and a danger to no one.
Yet Thyri didn't miss once during the battle. How could something like that be possible?
And yet it could. He thought back to Macho Strongman and Nail-in-the-Head. Both spent their primary stat points wantonly, spreading them around the way they wanted as their levels grew. A run-of-the-mill Assassin would normally dump everything into Strength and Attack in order to maximize the puny damage they did. And yet Thyri followed a different path, without making the same mistakes as the two lummoxes that Ros ha
d left behind.
She may have invested something into Attack, the way such characters were supposed to, but she must have spent most her points on Accuracy, a stat no self-respecting Assassin ever chooses to develop. Why would they? They worked at close quarters exclusively, after all. Her second best-developed stat must have been Agility, which had a positive effect on Disguise and Marksmanship. The third one may have been Attack, but he wouldn't bet on it.
Thyri could develop nothing else—she simply lacked the capacity. Accuracy required a lot of investments, and without it, the bow in her hands would simply be a useless piece of wood.
Why hasn't any other Assassin try to do the same as her? After all, the idea of leveling up a maverick character was more or less out in the open. The singularly effective disguise skills could help a player get close enough to their target to shoot them and have a decent chance of remaining unnoticed. The closer the attacker got to a target, the less likely would their disguise stay intact. In the traditional scenario involving knives and daggers, one lost one's invisibility at once. Ranged attacks were different—more complicated, yet more interesting.
Thyri managed to find the optimal stat distribution ratio bolstered by tactics and the equipment she used. She managed to strike without getting hit in return. And she was good at it.
Why did no other players choose the same path?
Well, the reason might be that the path in question was rife with pitfalls. One had so little Strength that one couldn't afford to wear the lightest kind of armor. Thus, one would have to wear woven clothing and become a "rag doll." However, if mages, who were the first to earn that derogatory title, got decent bonuses from such clothes, an Assassin couldn't hope for anything of the sort. Moreover, such clothes would actually be to one's detriment, since they would lower one's Defense, already paltry, even further. One wouldn't be able to join the ranks of regular archers in battle, for instance. One would lose all of one's HP in situations where they wouldn't even notice the attack. One wouldn't manage to hit faraway targets, either, due to the same deficiency of Strength. That was also why one couldn't use heavy bows that could deal major damage.