by S. R. Witt
Despite the low population, the village streets were far from empty. Other adventurers wandered the streets alone or in groups. For once, I was the best dressed person in the area. My black cloak and matching gear are a definite step up from the ragtag assortment of armor pieces and animal skins most of the other adventurers had scavenged.
And that turned out to be a problem. I hadn’t walked more than a dozen yards down the road before I realized I was getting a lot of side-eye from the other adventurers. Angry mumbles surrounded me and I realized I was not making a great first impression. Either they were jealous of my fancy duds, or…
What had the Shadows said about how others felt about thieves?
Oh, yeah. They didn’t like us. Even a little bit.
I ducked into another alley. Though the sun was up, there were still plenty of shadows scattered around the little village. Overhanging eaves, crooked walls, and conveniently-placed shrubberies all served me well. I found a hiding spot around a corner and hunkered down to make sure I wasn't being followed by angry adventurers intent on causing me grievous harm.
And a few moments later, I was glad I’d hidden.
A motley group of adventurers stumbled into my alley. Their naked weapons made their intent clear, and told me quite a bit about their roles. Two of them wielded heavy swords that marked them as warriors. Another held a massive warhammer emblazoned with a generic holy symbol that told me he was a healer. And the last of their number, withered and wizened, leaned against a gnarled wooden staff with a tiny glimmering gem set into its tip. The party’s spellcaster; despite his frail appearance I knew he could prove to be the most formidable threat. Swords can be dodged, but there are few defenses against a well-prepared spell.
This was what Karl wanted for us. A nice balanced group, with warriors at its core and a healer to keep them on their feet. The spellcaster served as a mobile artillery platform, lobbing big damage into the flanks and rear of enemies. If they’d caught me in the open…
“I don't see ‘em,” the taller warrior barked.
The healer peered around the area and his eyes crossed my hiding place once, then again. I didn't know that much about the game's mechanics but, in most games, healers had high Wisdom scores, which made them remarkably observant. If anyone was going to spot me, it would be him. I held my breath and waited.
If they spotted me, I wouldn't have any choice but to fight. I'd go for the healer first, try to take him out so I could hide again. If I dropped him, then I could run away and find a better place to lose them. That’d break up their little group and put a crimp in their plans to mug and/or murder me in cold blood.
The healer stared at my hiding place again and rubbed his chin. “It's too bad. That gear of his would've fetched a good price.”
The murder crew left the alley in search of someone else to bother. I let my breath leak out of my lungs. That was too close.
I spent a few minutes gathering my courage, then made my way to the tavern in a roundabout fashion. I creeped from one shadow to the next, staying well off the main street until I reached the small door at the rear of the tavern.
I pulled my hood, cloak, and mask off and hid them in my backpack. My armor was still swankier than any I’d seen other adventurers wearing, but at least I didn’t look like the American Ninja anymore. I slipped inside the tavern and took a seat in the shadowed back of the bar where I could see the rest of the main room.
The rest of the tavern’s patrons were adventurers in various stages of sobriety and health. Most were banged up and nursing their wounds with mug after mug of ale and heaping platters of roasted meat and vegetables. Unlike the real-World, food in-game was more than sufficient to heal most injuries. A few of those with the worst wounds would carry nasty scars as a reminder of the dangers they’d braved, but most recovered with little or no side effects. You could watch them eat and get visibly healthier with each and every bite or draught of ale.
Whether this accelerated healing was leniency for low-level characters or the game offered rapid and complete healing to everyone in safe places, I'd have to find out my own. Spoiler alert: it’s more complicated than either of those answers, but I’ll get to that later.
It took me a few minutes to find Bastion. He was surrounded by other adventurers and appeared to have spent his evening doing something other than waiting for me to turn up at the tavern. He drank and ate and regaled his audience with a story I could’t hear, earning laughs and claps on the back for his efforts. He was in a good mood but I knew that would come to a sudden halt if he saw me.
So, let's just make sure he doesn't see me until I’m ready for him to see me. I thought.
The tavern had few windows and the only light came from the fireplace and candles on the tables. While that was plenty to eat by, it made it a snap for me to sneak around inside the tavern. I padded along the perimeter of the dining room, slipping beneath the candles and around the fireplace. No one noticed me, even when I pressed my luck.
Bastion’s table was halfway between a pair of torches, which left deep shadows on all sides of it. A trio of candles in the center of the table provided light to eat by, but also made it impossible for the diners to see anything beyond the table’s edges. Perfect.
I had one job when I came back into the Game: return to the old man and convince him to make me a healer. Instead, I’d gone out of my way to cement my ties to the Shadows and lock in my choice as a thief. Bastion was going to lose his mind when he found out I’d thrown away his plan not once, but twice.
Which is why I had to prove my value to my brother before we met again.
The adventurers listening to Bastion’s stories had all their attention locked on him and their plates. They didn’t notice when I sneaked up right behind them.
My first target was a wrinkled gnome with a nose longer than my forearm and ears that jutted up six inches on either side of his peaked hat. I couldn’t tell what profession he’d chosen, but I could see he was well into his cups. I waited until he lifted his mug to his mouth with both hands, then made my move.
Every character in the Game has a belt pouch to call their own. It holds all your coins and small valuables, and never fills up. Think of it as an infinitely-expanding coin purse. Very convenient for adventurers who tend to accumulate coinage like dropped chewing gum collects hair.
Even more convenient for a thief.
The gnome gulped down a mouthful of ale, and I dipped my hand into his pouch.
SUCCESS! You have learned the rudiments of the Pick Pockets skill. (Rank 1)
You gain 23 copper coins, 2 silver coins, and a small tourmaline from your target.
Cool down: 30 seconds
Not bad for a half-minute’s work. I waited for the skill cooldown to reset, then moved on to my next target. The elf was so drunk she couldn’t hold her head up straight. I was more worried about the rest of the table seeing me getting frisky than my mark noticing my hand in her belt pouch.
Five minutes later, I’d ransacked half of the adventurers at the table. A quick glance at the inventory tab of the Game’s interface showed me I had gained 63 copper coins, 12 silver coins, and a handful of semi-precious gemstones worth another 50 silver coins, give or take a few. I wasn’t rolling in the dough, but it was a start.
I would have cleaned out the rest of the table, if Bastion hadn’t decided to leave the tavern.
“I need to find the little boy's room,” he said after draining the dregs from a foaming mug of ale. He slammed it down on the table and the other gathered adventurers raised a toast as he departed. He left through the same door I sneaked in through, and I followed him into the afternoon sun.
“Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “You really did have to use the little boys room.”
Bastion jumped and cursed as the stream of urine splashed off the walls and onto his boots. “Don't do that!”
“Sorry,” I said. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”
He looked over his shoulder and gave my sha
dowy outfit the once over. “You didn't become a healer, I see.”
I fidgeted and dipped back into the shadows when he looked away. “I didn't really have a choice. It just kind of happened.”
Bastion groaned, fastened his trousers, and moved away from the puddle he’d made.
I followed him down the alley, still hidden in the shadows.
“You've made quite a mess of things,” he whispered.
Bastion can be kind of an ass, but he’d figured out what I was doing. If I was hidden, he wasn't going to give my position away.
Bastion stopped in a doorway and peered into the pool of shadows across the alley. “You are extra sneaky, I can’t see you at all.”
Well, look at that. Faint praise for my dear older brother.
“I got skills, yo,” I quipped. “But I didn't choose this. I got chosen.”
Bastion scratched his chin and kept looking for me. He wasn’t even close to finding my hiding spot. “You might as well re-roll. There’s nothing we can do with this.“
“No.” I wasn’t going to re-roll. I’d just end up as a thief again, I just knew it. Besides, I had skills. “There’s no point in that. I can pick locks. I can ambush monsters. And, I can do this.”
I flipped a silver coin at his feet. It bounced once on the frost-covered cobblestones and came to rest on the toe of his left boot.
“Where’d this come from?”
“That gnome you were drinking with? I picked his pocket.”
Bastion checked his own belt pouch. “But not mine?”
“Why would I steal from you?” What kind of person did my brother think I was? Stealing from total strangers was one thing. I needed that money for my mother. But stealing from him? What would be the point?
“How much did you get?” Bastion was irritated, but curious. I could still win him over.
“Including the gemstones I swiped, about 70 silver coins.” I felt pretty good about that. It seemed like a decent amount.
Bastion frowned. “Let me do some math for you. Four hours for the two of us costs $400. Most of that time is gone, thanks to whatever the hell you were doing when you were supposed to be turning into a healer.”
My stomach ached at the thought of all that wasted money. “We’ll convert whatever I stole into dollars…”
“Sure. And I’m going to turn my coins and loot into dollars, too.” Bastion rubbed his eyes. “I made about 30 silvers on my trip out of town to kill the local wildlife with those folks you stole from. You’ve got another 70. That’s a cool hundred.”
He did not sound happy about that. “Which is how many dollars?”
A sad smile twisted my brother’s lips. “A hundred bucks. We lost $300 today.”
Chapter Thirty
The people who tell you that money can't buy you happiness? They're full of it. And even if it can't buy you happiness, it buys you something almost as important. Security.
If you have money, the rest of your worries are much smaller. When Karl was able to support all of us on his pro gaming winnings, things were better. We were able to relax. We didn't have to worry about whether or not we'd have a place to live, or food on the table, or that the lights would stay on. We didn't have to freak out if one of us got sick or if a household appliance gave up the ghost.
I'd almost be willing to go back to having my dad in the house if it meant not worrying about money.
Almost.
Everything I’m telling you? If I’d had a decent job, if my mother had health insurance, if the whole world didn’t seem like it was out to screw every one of us over, none of this would have happened.
Think about that.
At the time, all I could think about was how much money I'd lost.
“I'll figure out something,” I told my brother. I didn’t know what I’d figure out, but I had to say something.
“I need some time,” Bastion said. “Convert your cash into game-time, do whatever you want. That's what you always do, anyway.”
“Wait,” I said. “Talk to me—”
“I have to get some rest. I need to think about this.” Bastion scooped the silver coin I'd thrown at him off the cobblestones and tucked it into his belt pouch. “You need to think about what you're going to do, too. I had a plan, but it's all screwed up now. If you can't come up with some way to get the money, then we’re going to have to go find jobs. Sell our kidneys. Something to get mom’s machine fixed.”
I didn't have any more words for my brother. I wanted him to stay here with me, to work with me to solve the problems I’d created. More than anything, I wanted him to tell me what I could do to make things better.
He reached up to his throat and, a few seconds later, vanished from the Game.
I hunkered down in the alley and wrapped my cloak around myself to shelter from the biting wind. With Bastion gone, the Game seemed colder. Harsher.
I thought about logging out, but didn't want to face my brother or listen to my mother's failing rebreather.
That damned machine. We needed a little more than $2000 to replace it. Five hundred for the safety deposit, and $1500 for the first month's rent. Then we’d need another $1500 every month. And that didn't even begin to account for all of the other expenses.
A new machine meant my mother needed new meds. That was another $500 a month. To keep the machine running and avoid the inevitable breakdown, we’d need a maintenance contract, which ran another $250. If I could go back in time, I’d have made Karl and my dad pay for that maintenance plan. Then we wouldn’t be in such a deep hole now.
But, you know what they say. Wish in one hand…
Bare minimum, we needed $2,250 to keep my mother breathing. I’d screwed up Bastion’s plan, so now I had to come up with my own scheme to get the money. And I didn’t have much time to do it.
First things first, I needed to top up my game time so I wouldn’t get punted out while I was in the middle of something. I still had a half hour of time left from the four hours Karl bought for me.
I paid for another hour with fifty of the silver pieces I’d stolen. That gave me a solid ninety minutes to save the day.
No sweat, right?
I needed to get some perspective, so decided to climb up onto the roof of the tavern. There’s no better place for a hero to brood than on top of a building, looking down on the streets below, right?
SUCCESS! You have learned the rudiments of the Climbing skill. (Rank 1)
The tavern was only three stories tall, but it was still the highest point in the city if you didn’t count the church steeple. From my new vantage, I watched as adventurers stumbled into town through the East and West gates. Though most were battered and bruised, they looked happy to be alive and thrilled with whatever they’d accomplished beyond the gates.
I wondered what it was like to be in the Game just to have fun. How did it feel to not have the pressure of maximizing every minute for profit?
There I went, wishing for a better life when I should have been planning for one.
I tried to imagine leaving the city and hunting monsters to make the money I needed. My encounter with the thugs told me I was not cut out for that life. I was sneaky and could be dangerous if I got the drop on an opponent, but I was also vulnerable if I couldn’t find a good place to hide. Wandering around in the wilderness by myself seemed like a way to earn myself a sudden and painful death.
Getting killed would mean that Bastion and I would be separated, and things would be even worse then.
An honest way of making money was right out. I needed a shortcut that involved minimum risk for maximum gain.
The other characters did one of two things when they returned to the village from their adventures. They either bee-lined to the tavern to eat, drink, and heal from the ass-kickings they’d suffered in the wilderness, or they moseyed on down the road to a big, square building.
A line had formed around the block in that direction. Adventurers went into the square building with armloads of animal skins
they’d peeled from the local wildlife or rusty weapons they’d looted from their fallen foes and emerged with lighter loads and smiles on their faces.
I knew what I had to do.
I didn't like it, and I certainly wasn't going to be popular with the rest of the kids if anyone ever found out what I was up to, but it seemed like a way to solve my problem.
I'd worry about how I was going to live with myself later.
Chapter Thirty-One
If this plan was going to work, the last thing I needed was to stand out from the crowd.
I slid off the roof into the alley and stripped out of my fancy thief's duds. I shucked the hood, mask, and armor and and dropped them all into my backpack. I didn't look like much, now. I wore the same crappy wool clothes as everyone else, and my ratty black cloak didn’t look like anything special. Which was good, because there was no way I was going to ditch it and have to worry about freezing to death.
Without my Shadow garb to give me away, I had no fear of stepping out onto the main street and heading for the big square building. A few minutes later, I reached my target.
An impressive crowd of characters waited outside the big building in a semi-orderly queue. The ragged heroes chattered amongst themselves and exchanged battle stories, showing one another the items they'd found or taken from the bodies of their enemies. Most of the would-be heroes carried mundane loot: heavy bundles of scavenged animal hide, troves of broken and battered armor, or heavy sacks loaded with rusty iron weaponry. At the lower levels, real treasures were hard to find, and characters spent most of their time acting as the world's garbage collectors to make ends meet. They hunted down any monsters or animals they could kill and stripped the corpses for whatever junk they carried.
There's a reason why most fantasy novels don't feature characters working their way up from the bottom as mercenary sell-swords. It’s an ugly, unpleasant, messy job that makes everyone look more like roving bands of murderous hoboes than heroes.