"Then you were mistaken. The whole point is to let people be what they aren’t in real life. The whole point is to help the masses. Control and security is only part of it, and not everyone is willing to sacrifice their freedom in its name. The best slaves are ones which believe they are free, slaves by consent." A half-truth given to Darius by the inner circle.
"So… everything that goes on in the virtual worlds is going to be largely unmonitored like it is now?"
"Just like in regular reality, but we’re keeping the video and data feeds the AI provides. That should be enough."
Derek squinted in confusion. "Then what was the point of setting Rowan up? We could’ve just built Gabby up as the final boss if we’re not doing a public manhunt and execution." An execution such as a shootout with the police.
Darius shrugged. "As I said. The plan changed." Only the elders knew why, one being his very own brother, Vincent. He was older by a decade. "We’re going to market this the old fashion way, and you know what that means."
A few seconds slipped by as the wires sparked in Derek’s skull. Fingers clicked. "Ads, ads, and more ads. And even more public stunts and appearances. Press conferences too if Gabby and Rowan manages to rile up enough people."
"Exactly. Work more closely with Marketing from now on. Get the official trailer done by next week. No more teasers."
"Will do." He whistled a long note and un-minimized the Holo Computer’s augmented reality. "Oh. Does this mean I’m coming to the FIVR Store grand opening? As a marketer."
The FIVR Stores were technically handled by a separate though closely tied corporation; however, Derek was already a minor-celebrity courtesy of all the interviews he had given. "Sure. I don’t see why not. Semi-formal attire."
"And what about Jonathan? He’s growing into more of a… lunatic. We could be libel for psychological harm."
The abrupt change of topic didn’t jar Darius. "Don’t worry about legal. That’s not your job. Has he made a speech about Rowan’s crime or the game’s purgatory ?"
"No, and the AI doesn’t think he’s going to."
Fascinating. "Keep watch on him and gather as much data as you can… for future design decisions."
A grunt. "I’ve already got another list of ideas for potential directives. Underwater cities, personal pocket-dimensions for everyone, safe zones—"
Darius waved, standing. "Thank you, but I will leave the game design to your discretion."
"Ah, if you insist."
Cravings for another cup of vanilla green tea churned in Darius as he turned and departed, a touch of fatigue setting in. This was going to be a very long month—and not just because of the happenings at Synaptic Entertainment. Rowan Black was in for a truly insane ride if Darius’ intuition was in tune.
Chapter 24
Genetic Potential
“Pigeon shit under the Eiffel Tower!”
Dorian Dubois coughed a disjointed snarl as the FIVR pod powered down with a whir, the inner gel bed warm to the touch. With a last thread of restraint, he armed open the lid, instead of punching the control panel, then jumped out and landed on the balls of his feet in one smooth motion, adrenaline pumping in his midsection.
The next instant a metallic trash can rocketed into the corner, clanging loudly. A panging ache in Dorian’s toes hardly registered, blotted out by his boiling veins and throbbing temples. Watery, stinging eyes blurred his vision. Eyes which had taken a flurry of frozen bird droppings moments earlier—all due to the actions of a certain 'World Boss'.
“That llama piss for brains!”
That moron. That buffoon, ignoramus, imbecilic blockhead of a raider. Why in Six Hells did the AI controller choose that cretin? Jonathan fucking ass-strider of all people. There were over fifty if not hundreds of more capable leaders off the top of Dorian’s head. Any other officer in Enchanters or Light’s Justice would’ve been a better pick. Including himself—though maybe not so much when he had a dark-fire character to handle.
Countless seconds raged on, and Dorian muttered a last curse, “Fucking doughnut.”
At least everyone had the pleasure of watching Rowan die. Yes, Sienna had done very well for one of the few players with a second-tier class. Nice body too. She must’ve played with the character creation sliders for hours to sculpt that figure.
Dorian smirked, set the dented trash can straight, and presented a sweaty palm to the scanner, a long walk through the gardens on his mind. To the right.
Though to the left, savory aromas lingered in the air at the corridor’s turn. The facility’s restaurant. Asian cuisine tonight by the smell of it.
Dorian sucked back saliva. The layered flavors demanded ownership of his nose and empty stomach: butter chicken curry so creamy that anyone would know it’d been simmering all day; chili stir-fry, mild, with hints of exotic herbs he couldn’t name; then a whiff of chicken miso soup slow-cooked to any foodaholic’s delight, simply delectable. The essence of culinary perfection cleansed darkness from Dorian’s soul, and how one’s sense of smell could be so discerning was beyond him.
Pace fastening, Dorian’s thoughts were food-lust incarnate. Inhaling lungfuls of these aromas was better than sex in Aeon Chronicles. He was less than ten strides away from the open entrance when something out of the ordinary happened: a woman’s sob. Life as a junior medical engineer down here was the definition of mind-numbing routine. Surprises were rare.
The woman sobbed louder. “But you promised!”
Mother! Her distraught shout pulled Dorian to a halt, his pulse thudding under his arms. A childish instinct kicking in, he stopped short in the corridor and pressed up against the wall. She hadn’t mentioned checking up on Max tonight, and she always had. Most peculiar.
Dr. Vincent Roth’s slick voice said, “We’ve discussed this many times. You know as well as I the future is inherently unpredictable…” His voice dipped do a whisper, rambling about technical details.
They were talking secret society business. They had to be alone to talk so openly, but this whole facility was funded and operated by them anyway. And it was rather late. 8:54 PM, Dorian’s old-fashioned wrist watch told. They were having a late dinner—a private, exclusive dinner—he wasn’t supposed to be intruding. Dorian’s stomach rumbled at the thought. No wonder the halls were so deliciously scented. Oh so delicious! They usually didn’t serve so late. Dorian slowed his breathing and forced his stomach to behave. It rumbled again.
“Over sixty percent.” Mother sniffed. “How could you replace him? You promised he was going to be famous—”
“We did not promise. We never promise anything.”
“The contract!”
Dr. Roth chuckled. “I do recall I included a clause which covers such a turn of events as these.”
A third grumbled. Female. Maybe Dr. Roth’s associate or his wife. She said, “Oh, really. Your waste of an offspring isn’t dead, though he should be. He still can be someone in the show, especially after what we’ve done for him—at great expense.”
They were talking about Max!
Mother said, “But why the peasant boy? This is an insult. When the others find out you replaced Max with a—”
The associate cleared her throat, then said in a low voice, “They already know. All thirteen. You can save yourself the worry.”
The thirteen ruling families, ruling houses, of the inner circle, and the Dubois family was not on that guarded list. Roth was the only name which Dorian knew of. This was serious business if they all knew. All thirteen heads. But with whom had they replaced Max? And what for? Perhaps a background role in an upcoming blockbuster film? Those were the questions which Dorian needed an answer for whether it was his business or not. Max was his brother.
And a peasant? The shame would be unlivable.
The silence came to an end with Mother’s hiss: “You’ve humiliated us.”
Indeed.
“You,” Dr. Roth said slowly, “have humiliated yourself by raising an oaf. Although the scie
nce is still in its infancy, we have blessed your line with such superb genetics, and yet you had to raise an… idiot pig of a boy.”
Dorian ate a growl. Mother did not deserve such an insult. Max, however…
“Max’s genes are far from super—”
Dr. Roth tisked. “I did the analysis two decades ago, again recently. It is as before: his genetic potential isn’t much lower than that of his brother’s. You’ve wasted decent… material. Disappointing.”
Dorian could hear Mother wince. She sniffed and said weakly, “Not much lower than Dorian’s and yet you’ve replaced him with a stray dog from the weakest of genetic trash—”
“I wouldn’t call Rowan genetic trash by any means. His line has enough value to be worked with.”
The air was sucked from Dorian’s constricting lungs.
“What do you mean worked with?” Mother asked as he whispered the same words.
The associate said, “I believe he and my second-niece are currently courting. It has been recognized in our usual traditions. She has chosen him, and as you say, a stray dog can’t possibly refuse, can he?”
“It would be deeply impolite.”
Meaning Rowan was courting someone from the thirteen. It was a laughable statement, but they were all too serious. Dorian’s head dared to spin, the revelations daunting, and on top of that, a terrible sensation in his chest suggested this puzzle was much more interlinked than that. Much, much more.
Utensils clinked, and Mother spoke again, “And your second-niece is?”
“You do remember Gabrielle, don’t you? The feisty one with a side of instability.”
That crazy bitch was of House Roth. Dorian wanted to slap himself. How had I not guessed? Now, it all made sense—from Dr. Roth personally testifying in the trial to Rowan suddenly appearing in the game when he should be still in psychiatric prison to the recent happening in Aeon Chronicles. They had made this all happen. Everything. It was all one big marketing scheme. This was why Mother had gifted him a place in the game’s alpha-testing phase.
Mother laughed weakly. “I do. And how did a stray dog possibly woo her?”
The associate hummed in consideration. “Beats me, though I believe she somehow wormed her way to share the role he had been destined for. Quite suited for it, in fact. She is an excellent actor at times. It would be wise of you not to anger her.”
And the puzzle was complete. Dorian wasn’t surprised.
Mother sighed. “So what of Max now? You said he still has a place in the show?”
Dr. Roth said, “He will be as he is. The victim. The survivor of a heinous crime. The gallant kid who is taking a stand for what he believes is right in a virtual world. The hero. There are multiple ways of swaying and captivating the masses. One is through conflict. Another is through sympathy.”
Gallant. Hero. Something about those descriptors didn’t quite fit Max.
“Let me guess.” Mother sniffed. “You altered his memories.”
“And his personality,” Dr. Roth said lightly.
Dorian swallowed a cold lump lodged at the back of his mouth. Just how far had neurology come?
“Aren’t you forgetting about his bullying past? What if that leaks?”
“Many young lads go through such a phase. It will simply be downplayed. The scoops have already been written, waiting to be read by anchors after he joins the stage. Very shortly.”
“Ah. I see. His new body is ready?”
“In the operating theater as we eat, my best surgeons wrapping up the procedure. This experiment has been flawless.” Something coarse abruptly scuffed the vinyl, squeaking. Chair legs. “Excuse me. I had too much to drink.” His rapid footsteps went toward—
Dorian was already on the move. His heated body kicked into high-gear.
But the aging man caught up in seconds—then walked by without a word? Not a good sign. The worst of signs.
Halting, Dorian coughed. “Apologies, sir. I was too curious for my own good.”
Dr. Roth came to a smooth stop and said without looking back, “I believe you have a game to play. I’ve heard you have quite the following; very influential. Your brother will be joining you in the morning. Best prepare your comrades for a hero’s birth.”
Disaster adverted. “I heard, but what did you do to Max’s perso—”
“Improvements and only what was necessary for the show to continue. Act unwisely and your junior position here will be terminated. Pretend as though you never heard. Understood?”
Shit. I’m cornered. “Understood.”
“Very good.” He continued in a brisk pace, then disappeared around the corner leading to the bathrooms.
Dorian straightened his neck and forced his tingling legs to march back to the bedroom, his appetite snuffed out by an onset of stress. This was going to be a long, long night if not another all-nighter. He was already feeling light-headed. He should’ve asked what preparations for a hero’s birth exactly meant. Surely it was not a literal expression. However, a real player World Boss on his side of the ensuing war was for sure welcome. Hopefully, whatever improvements Dr. Roth made to Max’s brain were adequate.
Please, please don’t be another Jonathan, Dorian pleaded as he fingered the pod’s control panel.
Chapter 25
Balsa
Drake Equation (Raid chat): Jonathan, mate, wtf was that back there??? Who made you the raid lead?
Meme Prince: Ya, that stack mechanic was soooo obvious. Have you ever played MMOs before?
Anne Wanderer: You wiped us bro. All those poor enchanted-balsawood ships lol…
Grant Bossman: Top kek. I told you not to use balsa, Anne!
Anne Wanderer: If you want ships of higher tier wood then I advise you to pick up a hatchet and start chopping
Anne Wanderer: >.
Trilly Satou: Yeah, Grant. You never train your professions.
Grant Bossman: Cus I’m busy doing dungeons and raids for the guild.
Elle Catering: Jonathan, were you a level 1 just then? Did you pay for a powerlevel or what?
Lance Rider: Alright everyone, ease up. Mistakes were made. Learn from them. Officer meeting at the human capital. Party disbanding.
Staring into the black abyss, Jonathan was but a pit of disgrace, humiliation, and deep, deep remorse. Each comment aimed at him cut a salty wound into his ego. The ones about Jonathan’s poor choice of wood were the worst. A blatant roasting of his few and untrained professions was now on display for everyone to read. Oh, what an embarrassment! A deserved roasting! Jonathan vowed to never again resort to balsa.
Worst of the worst, King Everbright’s scream still echoed from behind, and Jonathan’s ghostly body was still stirring with phantom ice. Dark-ice. Rowan’s horrific dark-ice that no adventurer should be allowed to wield—power that no single adventurer should be allowed to command over the helpless many. Injustice absolute. Oppression unchecked.
And it was Jonathan Bladestrider’s purpose to balance the global scales of justice! The dragons’ nameless god had bestowed the right upon him.
The sudden re-ignition of his resolve, out of the abyss, stoked the flame in his drumming heart. His fingers balled into tight fists as a prompt came as though on cue.
Gregorovitch Raynare (Priest) has offered you a resurrection. Do you accept? (Speak Yes or No)
“Yes!”
Solid ground having the texture of smooth cobble pavings pushed against Jonathan’s soles. The grand courtyard centered at the humans’ royal gardens faded in around him, and unlike typically, the spawnstone wasn’t lodged inside a fountain but at the base of a tree. An elderly yew immense enough, if it were ever cut down, for a scanty ship or at most ten siege engines. Inner city walls protecting these gardens, the royal palaces, and the central shield-generating castle, were shorter than the yew by two or three body-lengths.
Angry voices ruined the tranquility. As Lance’s message had foretold, over a dozen and a half officers from Enchanters, Light’s Justice, and ot
her major guilds were in heated discussion with natives under a pavilion overlooking a pond. Just to the left, a few meters away, Lance’s boot scuffed against the magically-reinforced wood as his stance shifted.
Jonathan was about to join in when Rain’s familiar voice, from behind, chanted the short line for Resurrection. A golden-white flash illuminated the earthy bark.
Jonathan’s jaw dropped, air sucked in. His lungs bulged against his ribs. His pulse skipped a beat, then another.
In the fading light stood a woman not much older than himself, a woman with looks that rivaled goddesses. Her face was a pinnacle of female beauty, sharp yet soft, shaped as though carved by a master artisan, framed by slightly-wavy golden-chestnut hair matched by milk-chocolate eyes, more captivating than any other Sun Elf Jonathan ever had the pleasure of laying his eyes on, and his eyes dared to journey downward. Oh, what a figure she had. Utter perfection!
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