by J. A. Hunter
“If you choose to upload yourself to Viridian Gate Online, you have a chance at surviving Astraea, at least in a digital form. Now, let me take a moment to address some of the concerns circulating around the internet rumor mill. First, I can personally assure everyone listening to this message that Patch 1.3 is our last major update—the game is locked and all essential functions are now being administered by the AI controllers.
“Second, contrary to what some fearmongers have reported online, once you are uploaded, no hacker or Osmark Tech employee will be able to delete your profile. All permanent user profiles are immediately encrypted using asymmetric key cryptography and then circulated continuously and randomly through all of our linked databases, ensuring no person will ever be able to access your digital identity. Not even I could manage to do it. And really, this is as much for our protection as yours—we don’t want a way to delete players because that’s a two-edged sword, which could easily be wielded against us.
“No, I can assure you, once you’ve successfully transitioned to a digitized form, you’ll be safe and secure for as long as V.G.O. exists. With that said, I won’t lie to you, this process isn’t without risks. Not everyone successfully transitions. There is a one in six chance you will die during the process. One in six. But for the vast majority of you, there is a one hundred percent chance you will die if you fail to take the risk. By watching this warning, you hereby remove all liability of damages from Osmark Technologies, its corporate owners, and its subsidiary entities. Would you still like to proceed?”
His terrible question hung in the air, heavy like a storm cloud. Did I want to proceed? Would existing in a video game really be better than dying? Than seeing what came next?
“Yes,” I said. “Proceed.” The machine kicked into overdrive, the whirling picking up in intensity. WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH.
“Traveler,” boomed a hard-edged male voice, “prepare to enter Viridian Gate Online!”
TWO:
V.G.O.
The white loading screen gave way and, in an eyeblink, I found myself standing on the rocky slope of a gigantic mountain, snow and ice underfoot, a tremendous valley stretching out before me. The sight was breathtaking, amazing—the lush forests and rolling plains below so lifelike I could’ve sworn I was standing high in the Rockies or maybe the Swiss Alps. A slapping wind bit at my hands and face, plastering crude, scratchy, homespun garments to my body. I reached tentative fingers up to my cheek, feeling the prick of rough stubble running along my jawline.
Wow. I dropped to my ass, my legs too weak to support me. The chill from the snow instantly hit me as water soaked into my threadbare pants—I scrambled back to my feet in a hurry, eager to be away from the cold. I glanced down and saw a divot in the fresh powder. Wow. This was incredible. I’d been involved in VRMMORPGs for as long as they’d been around, but there’d never been anything like this. Never. Not even close. The graphics quality was unmatched, indistinguishable from IRL, even. The frigid snow and the blades of grass poking up from below were as real as the saggy couch in my apartment.
And the sensations …
I could really feel here. I wasn’t sure what’d I’d expected when I’d first heard about the NexGenVR capsule’s NerveTech features, but it hadn’t been this. I could smell the fresh pine wafting from the towering spruces and sprawling evergreens dotting the mountainside around me. On a whim, I bent over and scooped up a handful of powder and took a bite—cold, faintly flavored with ozone and cedar. The snow melted in my mouth, water trickling down my throat and hitting my belly with a cool splash. Robert Osmark certainly hadn’t been exaggerating—this was definitely a first-of-its-kind game.
Still, as amazing as this was, could I live here forever? Guess I didn’t have much choice at this point.
That thought vanished as a semitranslucent display popped up. A hazy image of myself—an average looking guy with sandy brown hair, a medium build, and a slightly pinched faced—floated in the air. Except, I was no longer wearing my ratty old bathrobe and sweatpants; now, I was sporting a tattered burlap-looking tunic with rough stitching, a pair of equally uncomfortable trousers, held up with a length of rope, and some fur boots that weren’t doing much to keep the chill out. An interface bar with a variety of options—race, build, sex, face, name—trailed down beside my floating avatar.
I glanced up at race, and immediately a new options menu appeared on my right, hovering in the air like a specter. A list of available, playable races. I scanned the first one, Hvitalfar. Immediately, my avatar’s image changed; sandy brown hair was replaced by platinum blond locks, and my skin took on a golden hue while my ears elongated, slimming to narrow tips. It was still me, though, my face and body providing the underlying framework for some new and strange costume. A prompt popped up and lingered at the bottom of my vision:
Hvitalfar (Dawn Elf): The elves of the Shining Plains, also known as Hvitalfar, make excellent Clerics and Sorcerers. Due to their natural affinity for spellcraft and the restorative arts, they receive a 5% bonus to starting Spirit. With their affection for nature and close kinship with animals, they also make admirable Rangers, excelling in the Shaman kits.
I immediately scrolled down, gaze landing on the next race in the list—Dokkalfar. My avatar changed again, this time the skin darkening to a dusky gun-metal gray, my hair going a glossy raven’s-black, which looked almost blue from a certain angle. This race also had pointy ears and I could tell they hailed from the same family as the Dawn Elves I’d just looked at. After a moment, a new text box appeared:
Dokkalfar (Murk Elf): The Murk Elves of the Storme Marshes are a tough and often unlikeable people. Many Dokkalfar prefer to keep to their own kind and rarely venture outside their boggy home lands. A lifetime of living in the dangerous and predatory swamps of Eldgard makes them excellently suited to be Rangers. They also excel in the Rogue class—particularly as assassins, Sicarii, since they possess a 20% resistance to poison and disease—or as mysterious Dark Templars, the enforcers of the Shadow Pantheon.
There were several other races to choose from.
The Svartalfar, short and squat, who resembled the typical dwarf and excelled in Smithing, Enchanting, and Merchant-craft. They also sported a hefty 50% resistance to fire, probably on account of their forge work. Next came humanoid creatures with dark, Middle Eastern features and pronounced wings jutting from their backs. They looked like living angels. The Accipiter, who could fly apparently, had a few race-restricted specialty classes, and a sizeable bonus to Dexterity.
Two varieties of humans followed: the Imperials—vaguely Roman looking with short, wavy hair and Mediterranean complexions—and the Wodes. The Wodes, big and blond-headed, looked like the Germanic barbarians of ancient history. Neither of the human races had any extra racial bonus or resistances, but there was a note, which read, “humans can assume any profession or nonrestricted class without penalty,” which was probably a big advantage early on.
Last came the Risi—a meaty looking humanoid loaded down with thick muscle, faintly green-tinged skin, and a pronounced underbite studded with protruding fangs. Some variety of Troll or Ogre, if I had to guess. The Risi, more than any other race, appeared excellently suited for heavy melee combat and tanking, but I knew without hesitation I wouldn’t be going that route. First, I found brawlers and fighters were great early on, but were often lacking at higher levels. And second—the more important factor—I refused to look like that monster for the rest of my life, no matter what racial bonuses might sweeten the pot.
I quickly went back through my options, eliminating the Dawn Elf and the Dwarf—being a glass-cannon mage didn’t suit my play style, and I certainly wasn’t a crafter by nature—which left the Murk Elf, the bird-winged Accipiter, and the two human races. I saw a wiki icon and immediately brought up a search menu. “Look for class kits,” I said.
“Certainly, Jack,” Sophia answered, which was a pleasant surprise. Hearing her voice was a small point of comfort. Unfor
tunately, the search yielded a whole bunch of nothing, so I closed out and went back to my character creation screen.
Usually, in MMORPGs I played as a Cleric/healer, but a mixed class like a Paladin or Dark Paladin might serve me well in this new frontier where I didn’t have a clan, didn’t know the rules, and might have to go it alone for a while. I paused, rubbing at my chin—Rogues were also highly versatile for lone wolf players, so that might be an option to consider, though that certainly wasn’t my preferred class.
Finally, I scrolled over to the Murk Elf.
That 20% poison and disease resistance was too good to pass up. Plus, superficial as it may have been, he looked badass and the only other character I could reasonably see myself as was the Accipiter—except I wasn’t so great with heights. So, I selected the Murk Elf, then scrolled through the other creation features, tweaking my appearance a bit—adding some extra muscle here, opting for a short beard there, picking a few swirling tribal tattoos—before final selecting the “create,” option. A new screen appeared asking me what name I’d like for my character. Jack didn’t seem like an appropriate name for a high-fantasy elf, but it was my name, and I was hesitant to give it up.
Everything else was changing. My face, my body, my world. But I could keep my name, or at least a variation of it. Grim_Jack was my gaming handle, so if I went with that, it would kind of be the best of both worlds. “Grim Jack,” I finally said, decided.
“Are you sure you would like to create Grim Jack the Dokkalfar?” came the booming baritone voice from before. “Once you create a character, you will not be able to change your racial identity or name. Please confirm?”
“Yes,” I said again, trepidation mounting in my stomach, not knowing what came next.
THREE:
Clash of Kingdoms
I waited for a beat, then two, folding my arms. I was on the verge of saying something else, maybe telling these guys to get a move on it, when music exploded around me like a thunderclap. An epic score, with pounding drums, clanging cymbals, and a host of stringed instruments, conjured images of noble kings and fierce battles, clashing armies, and world-shaking magic—
“The year is 1095 A.I.C.—Anno Imperium Conditae,” the disembodied announcer bellowed over the music. “Dark power and the stirrings of war ride upon the winds of Eldgard, the provincial outpost of the Great Viridian Empire.”
Something streaked across the sky, a burst of fire that reminded me all too much of the meteor and the world I was leaving behind. The streak of light disappeared, blocked from sight by a thicket of pines, then exploded back into view a hundred feet away. A massive scale-covered body with huge, pumping wings flashed across the field of view, trailing fire from crushing jaws as large as a T. rex’s. A golden eye, big as a dinner plate and slit down the middle with a slash of black, regarded me coolly for a second. Then the creature ascended into the clouds above. Gone.
The breath caught in my lungs. A dragon. A fantastical monster of scale and fangs and flame.
“Imperial legions,” said the announcer, “allied with the forces of light, march from the east, bringing the natives of Eldgard to their knees through flame, magic, and steel. Bringing progress. Building roads. Cities. A kingdom. Civilizing the dark-natured Wodes, the swamp dwelling Dokkalfar, and the Accipiter of the far-western deserts, enlightening them in the ways of the ever-victorious empire.” On the stretching plains below, I watched in awe as a sprawling force of humans, elves, and Risi—men and women—all clad in gleaming metal and oiled leather, swarmed across the ground like a plague of locusts. Banners rippled in a far-away breeze while foot soldiers hauled towering catapults and other savage siege engines.
“But the natives of Eldgard are not so quick to give up the old ways—to heel for foreign masters. Though the rebellion is yet small, they fight on. Hour by hour, day by day …”
Suddenly, I was floating, drifting high above like an eagle. The encroaching army vanished in a swirl of black smoke, and I found myself overlooking a marshy swamp filled with twisted trees and murky water. Dusky-skinned Murk Elves clad in dark leathers and crudely stitched robes fashioned swords and fletched arrows …
The scene exploded in a shower of light as a flock of the birdlike Accipiters cut through the air, banking hard right on outstretched wings before unleashing a volley of arrow fire on the invaders below …
Then, the scene faded, shimmered, resolved: blond-haired Wodes forged armor, battle-axes, and heavy maces in a roaring furnace, the sound of steel hitting steel ringing out like a battle cry …
“But, in the far flung North, another threat looms,” came the announcer’s voice as the Wode encampment vanished, giving way to a domineering peak capped with icy white. “The reclusive, mountain-dwelling Svartalfar have unwittingly burrowed into the prison of a dusty and long forgotten god. A monstrous being of true dark, eager to return to the land of mortals once more. The breach is small, but large enough for Serth-Rog, Daemon Prince of Morsheim, to call acolytes to his cause… Imperial. Rebel. Light. Dark. Living. Dead. Which side will you choose?”
The towering mountain erupted in a swirl of opalescent light and violent motion, wind beating against me with gale-force fury as I fell. Tumbled, end over end, arms wheeling, legs kicking, stomach rising into my throat. This shouldn’t be happening, I told myself. I shouldn’t feel this way. But the logic didn’t do much to ease the fluttering in my belly. I flipped once more and caught a set of burning eyes, green and deeply malevolent, watching my meteoric descent with amusement —
I smacked against cold stone with a thud, pain shooting from my back, elbows, and skull. Man, the Devs had taken this whole realism angle very seriously. Maybe a little too seriously. My head began to pound with a dull throb, and I restlessly ran my hands over my stomach, impulsively searching for broken ribs. When I was finally satisfied that nothing was irreparably damaged, I pushed myself up and leaned back onto my elbows. I blinked sporadically, squinting against the dark, trying to figure out where exactly I was. What had happened.
The lighting was terrible—gloomy and provided by sparse, sooty firelight—but after a few minutes, everything took on a ghostly blue tinge.
Racial Ability Unlocked: Night Eye
Night Eye allows you to see even in the poorest of lighting conditions, casting the world into a blue haze. Hvitalfar (Dawn Elves), Dokkalfar (Murk Elves), and Svartalfar (Dwarves) automatically use Night Eye in dark environments.
Ability Type/Level: Racial, Passive / Level 1
Effect: 8% vision improvement at night or in poor lighting.
I read over the gained skill and smiled. That was a nice little bonus they hadn’t mentioned during character creation. I dismissed the alert with a nod, and resumed my scan. The ground was gritty stone, and I immediately noticed thick steel bars around me—I was in a cage. A shoddy prison cell. I gained my feet, dropped into a crouch, and stole forward, searching for the door. It didn’t take me long to find the exit, but it also didn’t take long to find the thick iron lock, which refused to budge an inch when I yanked at it.
Well, this didn’t seem like a good way to start things off.
I let the lock go and pressed my face against the bars, searching for an NPC—non-player character—or any sign of what I was supposed to do. I was in a rectangular chamber in some sort of underground cavern; formidable stalactites and stalagmites jutted from the ceiling and floor like the wicked teeth of a monstrous, slumbering beast. In the center of the room was a grisly scene that made me immediately rethink the wisdom in choosing Viridian Gate Online as my emergency life raft.
A rudimentary wooden table dominated the space, and strapped to that table were bodies. Pieces of bodies, in most cases. As an EMT, I’d seen a lot of awful scenes—high speed car wrecks were frequently stomach churning—but I still wasn’t prepared for the graphic display. Amputated limbs. Strings of gray intestine. A glassy-eyed head, devoid of a body. There were also other tables littered with cruel-looking tools, hooks, pliers, kniv
es, and clamps, plus a variety of machines and contraptions that didn’t look friendly.
An open metal sarcophagus, outfitted with foot-long metal spikes, was particularly gruesome.
I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away the cold sweat dotting my brow. I didn’t know what they had planned for me here, but it couldn’t be good. I immediately turned my attention back to the lock, holding it up and giving it a thorough examination. I thought about slamming it against the bars in hopes of breaking the thing, but quickly dismissed the notion. That wouldn’t work, plus there was a good chance it would alert whoever was running this nightmare dungeon, and I wasn’t keen to meet them.
Not as a newb, stuck in a cage, with no weapons, no armor, and no skills.
I turned back to my cramped cell, scurried over to a simple pallet of furs in the corner, and began to frantically search for a key or lockpick. The Devs wouldn’t start you out in a cell if there wasn’t a way out. There had to be something. I pulled aside a rough blanket and tossed the furs. Something metallic clinked against the floor. A glint of light revealed a piece of bent black metal. A makeshift prison shiv, maybe. Or a lockpick. Certainly not an elegant lockpick, but that had to be its purpose. I headed back over to the lock and slipped the thin length of metal into the keyhole.
I jiggled it around for a bit, pushing, prodding, rattling it this way and that. In most MMORPGs there was an auto-assist mechanism to help with the lock picking aspects of game play. I didn’t get any kind of notification, however—no prompt telling me how the system worked—and I certainly didn’t get an assist. After a few minutes of fruitless struggle, I pulled out the pick and slammed it against the ground in frustration. Then, I froze. The soft rustle of moving fabric caught my ear. I wasn’t alone.