Scrambled Lives

by Rue Vespers

  Wait.

  Wait.

  He had heard that groan. He’d felt the air flowing out of his lungs and up through his throat, the rush of expelled air against his lips. That was only possible if he had a body. Not only had a body, but control of that body.

  He saw nothing save that brilliant screen. “Off,” he said, and it disappeared.

  He was in a room.

  There wasn’t much to it. A twin bed with an iron frame was pushed against one wall, the thin, bumpy mattress covered in an equally thin blanket with a ripped hem. Curtains sagged over the window above the bed, pinholes of light shining through the motheaten cloth. Near the foot of the bed was a wooden pedestal holding a pitcher of water and a porcelain bowl, a speckled mirror hanging over it. The room had no closet, just three rusty hooks in a line by the door. A dirty, shapeless fall of black woolen fabric fell from the middle hook. The room was so tiny that he could have crossed it from side to side in six steps.

  Tiny, and grimy. Mud was tracked upon the floor, and gathered in the corners were dust bunnies. Cobwebs were strewn across the ceiling and clotted the space between the bars of the headboard. Dust motes wheeled in the light.

  He raised his hands to inspect them in wonder, making fists and loosening them, noticing the scar on his right thumb was gone. How he had received that scar, he was unable to say. All he knew was that he had a missing scar. Other than that small discrepancy, they were his hands. Ragged white sleeves fell to his wrists, the material of his shirt thick and rough.

  When he stepped over to the mirror, his legs obeyed. His trousers were tan-colored, as ragged and rough as his shirt; his dark brown boots were caked at the toes and heels with muck. And that was his face in the reflection! The same brown hair and bluish-gray eyes, the same nose and slightly stick-out ears. He assumed that he was still a guy, and checked down his pants to make sure. All was in order there, too, his junk snuggled up in an itchy pair of underwear in no better condition than the rest of his clothing.

  He hiked up his lip to inspect his incisor and determined that he was not a vampire. Why would a vampire character be in this room anyway? They didn’t need to sleep so there was no reason to have a bed. He assumed this was his room. It was likely his spawn point. Then again, did this game truly have spawn points when you spawned as another character upon your demise?

  Was he a wizard? It didn’t look like a wizard’s room to him. This room was so utterly ordinary and barebones. No wand. No potions. No pointy hat, if that was what they wore in Scrambled Lives.

  What else roved around this game? Shifters. Shifters of varying types, the regular sorts that frolicked and roared through most games: werewolves and werebears and werecats and weredragons. This didn’t strike him as a shifter’s room either. Nor did it seem like this room housed a magical creature of any sort. The furniture would have been smaller for a dwarf, more elegant for an elf, more sensual for a succubus, and much filthier for a demon.

  Human. Well, it wasn’t the most exciting start to his life in the game, yet there was some comfort in being as close to his real self as he could be. His other self, he corrected. This felt as real to him as anywhere he had been in his physical body. He’d been an average guy in every measure, and he still was.

  “Status screen?” he requested. Those radiant blocks overwhelmed his vision and blotted out the room.

  Your Current Status

  Name: Jenner

  Age: 21 years

  Race: Human

  Sub-Race: None

  Job: None

  Level: 1

  Health: 10/10

  Stamina: 6

  Intelligence: 5

  Agility: 4

  Dexterity: 5

  Perception: 4

  Charisma: 2

  Special Skills: none

  Advanced Options: see more

  Hmm. Most of the numbers were fairly meaningless without a scale to measure them against, but this was a part of the typical game-world that had never interested him very much. He would learn more about that later, if it occurred to him.

  He remembered another complaint that people often voiced about Scrambled Lives. The game was all about its notifications, so many notifications that they interrupted the flow of the game. Congrats! Merit trophy won in An Ale A Day Keeps The Doctor Away! If you napped, if you dodged a runaway horse, if you did something as banal as walking down a street, the game apparently made mention of it as if its players’ self-esteem was in desperate need of constant propping-up.

  His eyes scanned once more down the current status list. “Advanced Options!”

  The blocks whizzed apart and clattered back together. A lot of jargon filled the next screen, but he found what he wanted at the very bottom.

  Disable Auto-Notifications

  Merit Trophies? Y/N

  Fun Facts? Y/N

  Inner-World News? Y/N

  Outer-World News? Y/N

  Level-Ups? Y/N

  Did he really want to disable any of this? He hadn’t even tried it out yet. Scrolling down the list, he decided to leave the trophies, fun facts, inner-world news, and level-ups as they were. As for outer-world news, it had no relevance to him in here, nor could he remember much about that world at present. He disabled that one and snapped, “Off!”

  The blocks shot away and his dinky little room returned. Kneeling upon the bed, which grunted and squealed in protest, he parted the curtains. The window was filthy, years upon years of dust and muck and rainwater coating the glass in an impenetrable film. Undoing a spotted metal latch, he pushed open the window.

  Then he stared.

  He was on the third story of a shabby inn. The outside of the building was in a state of disrepair, chunks of plaster having fallen away and a few of the windows broken. Far below, a sign over the front door was rocking in a gust of wind. The name of the inn was The Queen’s Crown, which was neither a compliment to whichever queen was being referenced, nor the quality of her crown.

  The inn was located on a block of humble establishments. Across a muddy, sloping street were taverns and shops and more inns, all of them crowded together in an uneven line. Maids hung out of upper windows, beating on rugs with wicker slappers; another dumped a pot of suspicious contents down three stories without so much as a head’s-up to the pedestrians below. The tallest building had a greenhouse on top, the sunlight reflecting off the glass panes.

  A heavy river of traffic flowed down the block. Sturdy horses drew wagons and buggies through the mud, their hooves squelching as the drivers shouted at the foot traffic to get out of the way. Those on foot rarely did. They just tightened their cloaks against the wind and ambled onwards. Some wore drums that hung from straps around their necks, but they were not musicians. The drums were packed with fruit and blackened meat on sticks. “Apples! Pears! Chicken and beef, get yooouuurrr chicken and beef!” the vendors cried, weaving through the crowds and stopping for buyers.

  A door across the street was jerked open, a gargantuan, grayish-green scaled being in a black apron stepping out with a man’s shirt bunched up in his huge fist. The man within the shirt was wriggling about like a fish, clutching at the fist to free himself, or perhaps just to get some oxygen into his lungs. His face was turning purple.

  The creature threw the man into a mud puddle with disgust, a driver jerking a buggy aside to keep from running him over. “And don’t come back!” the monstrous thing roared, his voice booming over the noisy hustle and bustle upon the road.

  The man landed with a splash, which sprayed against the cloaks of those nearby. He shouted something in outrage, his words blown away by a breeze, but the monster had already returned inside and slammed the door shut. Getting up, the fellow dripped away. Nobody had taken much notice of the monster or the man, or being peppered with muddy droplets; they surged on without pause. Jenner could see very few of their features, since most of them were hooded, but almost all had human-like forms and sizes.

  He tasted salt in the air and leaned out fa
rther. The block ended far to the right at a cross-street, and another block picked up beyond that. To the left, the road sloped down to a rippling blue sea. Boats bobbed upon the surface, one steering into dock with tiny figures on deck hurling bumpers over the side.

  His stomach rumbled. Those drums of food were looking good.

  Games didn’t have to program their characters with bodily needs like hunger or sleep. Scrambled Lives did. Jenner did not feel critical of this. Right now he was too interested in getting downstairs and acquiring a meal.

  But did he have to pay for it? He narrowed his eyes and stared at one particular vendor, the fellow’s boots sunk a half-inch into the mud as he pulled a meat stick from his drum. The buyer was a woman with plaited golden hair, her crimson cloak tossing about as she dipped her fingers into a purse that hung from her belt.

  Yes, food did cost money. Did Jenner have any?

  He closed the window to search.

  He wasn’t wearing a belt, and when he lifted the black material from the hook, it was nothing but a tattered cloak. Then he consulted the scruffy trousers he had on, discovering two pockets. One was empty. From the other came a leather purse closed with drawstrings. Undoing them, he dumped five tarnished pennies into his palm.

  The profile on each penny was that of a dragon. He nudged one over to see the back. The insignia of blue fire spouted upwards, and it was mobile. The flames snapped and fell back before roaring upwards anew to cover the entire side of the penny.

  His vision was blotted out for blocks.

  Congrats! You found your purse! These common pennies were minted by King Yora of Talvenor, circa the Reign of Dragons. Don’t spend them all in one place!

  Congrats! You have earned a merit trophy for Pennies from Heaven.

  “Off,” Jenner commanded, returning the pennies to the purse and stuffing the purse into his pocket. What were those pointless trophies even for in games? They didn’t do anything but garnish pedestals in trophy rooms. Or else he just couldn’t recall.

  His stomach rumbled again.

  He cast one more look over the room, but he had seen all there was to see. Swinging the cloak over his shoulders and tying it, his fingers closed over the doorknob.

  He was excited. And though he didn’t know much about where he came from in the outer-world, he understood that this was a rare emotion for him.

  Jenner opened the door to a hallway.

  Congrats! You are about to explore The Queen’s Crown!

  Congrats! You have earned a merit trophy for There’s No Place Like Home!

  Fun Fact Time! This inn was named by designer Hizuki Ch-

  “Off, oh my God, OFF!” Jenner exploded, refusing to read anymore. The blocks broke apart and whizzed out of sight, and he left his room.

  Chapter Three

  Closed doors lined the narrow hallway, each one labeled with a plaque that listed the player who lived within. Derek, human, Level 1. Jantar, human, Level 1. Hamia6, human, Level 2. As he walked by another door, a new name formed within a blank plaque. ZygieRox, human, Level 1.

  The name on the next door disappeared as he approached. Had the player deleted themselves? Or died and gotten scrambled into some new place and new character? Well, at least the person hadn’t gotten very far in the game before that happened. No plaque on this floor sported a player beyond Level 3.

  Of course. This crappy inn seemed like the kind of place you wanted to leave as soon as possible for nicer accommodations. The bathrooms were communal, Jenner staring in dismay at a line of stalls opposite stained sinks, and a row of showers with yellowing curtains at the far end.

  There was a stairwell located at the end of the long hallway. He continued on in that direction as a door flew open just ahead. A blond man in the same humble clothing dashed into the hallway with a scream of rage. “What the FUCK? What the FUCK? I’m HUMAN?!”

  Noticing Jenner, he shoved his hand down to scrabble at the waistband of his trousers. Then he jammed his fingers into his pocket to swipe out a leather purse. It was hurled away in disgust, striking the wall and hitting the floor with a dull clunk. “Where’s my wand? Where’s my goddamned wand?” he demanded.

  “Excuse me,” Jenner said.

  The dude didn’t budge. “Inventory!” he shrieked, and proceeded to howl like a mortally wounded banshee at whatever it was he saw. “Those bastards! Those fucking bastards! They used me as raid bait and got me scrambled!”

  “Excuse me,” Jenner repeated. “I need to get around you.”

  All of the rage instantly refocused onto him. “How DARE you address me? Don’t you know who I am?”

  Jenner glanced at the plaque on the open door. “Phoenix, human, Level 1?”

  “Fuck you! I’m Magus Phoenix, high wizard of House Alastra, Level 20!”

  Tired of this guy blocking his way, Jenner blurted, “Not anymore.”

  The former high wizard lost his shit. Balling up his fists and his cheeks reddening with blood, he stamped his foot childishly upon the floor. “I AM A GODDAMNED HIGH WIZARD AND YOU WILL BOW IN MY PRESENCE, HUMAN SCUM!”

  Jenner slapped him. Hard. “Get the hell out of my way, loser, or I’ll scramble you myself!”

  Phoenix staggered to the side from the blow, looking stunned. Taking advantage of the empty space, Jenner slipped past him to the stairs.

  Congrats! You have earned a merit trophy for Lend a Helping Hand!

  Uh-oh! Your reputation with Phoenix has dropped to -1. He will be less likely to help you in the future.

  Jenner laughed. At least the game had a sense of humor. “Off!”

  The stairs squealed and creaked beneath his feet, sounding on the verge of collapsing altogether. At the second floor stairwell, he peeked down another long hallway of doors. More low-level human players were generating here. Two of those players were leaving their rooms: the man looked mildly interested in the world around him, whereas the chick wore a thunderous expression. A new player and a scrambled player, Jenner thought before going down to the first floor.

  An older woman with a black patch over her right eye stood behind a counter in a dusty, sparsely decorated lobby. She scanned him with boredom when he stepped through the doorway, a smoking pipe pinched between her lips and her reddish-brown hair pinned up in a messy bun. The bone hilt of a dagger was nestled in her ample bosom. Her ruffled, aquamarine dress was so low-cut that it bordered on scandalous.

  One-Eyed Sue feels sorry for perma-added characters. You can use this to your advantage.

  The frequent notifications were annoying, but that was a helpful tip. The blocks disappeared before he could say off; maybe the messages were timed and he didn’t have to say anything. Or perhaps the game’s intelligence learned Jenner as he learned the game, and it was able to tell when he’d read the information.

  Jenner stopped at the counter. “Hello.”

  “So, what’d you do to yourself?” One-Eyed Sue asked with vague curiosity.

  “I think I was sick. I don’t really remember.” Sensing her interest in him fading fast, he said, “What brought you here? Are you a perma-added character, too?”

  One-Eyed Sue beamed, obviously pleased to receive personal questions. It couldn’t be very interesting to watch people flow in and out of the inn. “Brain cancer, inoperable, uploaded eight years ago. What a shitter, right?”

  “Right.”

  The pipe wobbling up and down, she said, “I was diagnosed the day before my forty-ninth birthday, just to add one more squirt of shit to the shit-pile. They had a raffle at the hospital with three game places as prizes a couple of weeks later and pulled my ticket out of the hat. It was either Scrambled Lives or Fish Fish, my choice.”

  “Fish Fish,” Jenner said thoughtfully. “That sounds sort of familiar.”

  “Son, if you don’t remember it yet, trust me, you aren’t missing anything.” She laughed. “You spawn at a bunch of different rivers and lakes, fish all day long, cook what you caught for dinner, and wake up the next day to do it agai
n somewhere else. I’d rather poke my eyes out with hooks than spend eternity staring at the water for a ripple.”

  “You . . . uh . . . you do more than just work here at the inn, don’t you?”

  “Looks dull, doesn’t it? I won’t lie. It is dull.” As footsteps clattered down the stairs, she cast her eye to the entryway. “But I work four days a week for six hours each time, and I get decent money and a free room, discounts on meals all around the block and best of all, two unassigned skill points every year for a bonus-”

  Phoenix stormed into the lobby, the stain of Jenner’s handprint on his cheek. “What the fuck! Where the fuck am I?” he shrieked at One-Eyed Sue.

  “Welcome to The Queen’s Crown,” One-Eyed Sue said, her friendly demeanor changing to flat in a flash.

  “I don’t give one ripe fuck what the name of this place is!” Phoenix bellowed, even though he’d just asked where he was. “Where’s the nearest vampire guild?”

  “The what?”

  “The vampire guild! How do I get there? So I can have them kill me and respawn until I come back as a wizard! I need a goddamned map!”

  “Hmm.” One-Eyed Sue took the pipe out of her mouth and upended the contents of the bowl on the counter. Casually, she said, “Mr. Troll probably has a couple of spare maps lying around. You should ask him.”

  Apoplectic that she was not as upset about his demotion in the game as he was, Phoenix shrieked, “How do I find this fucking Mr. Troll with the spare maps then? I don’t want to go on some stupid quest!”

  “It’s not a quest. Just go across the street.” The woman pointed her pipe lazily to a dirt-encrusted window, through which nothing could be seen. “He works at Treasure Chest. Look for a troll about eight feet tall in a black apron behind the bar. But you got to keep it simple with him, get me? Talk real loud and use real tiny words with Mr. Troll. Swear a lot and call him a little bitch. It helps him pay attention. You might have to scream in his face and smack him around a bit to get anything through that thick skull of his.”