AngelTaker: A LitRPG Series (Gamer of Thrones Serials Book 1)

by Grim Martin

  I keep my eyes on my player bio. It is odd how long it is taking, but even so I stay waiting outside my door, a sappy grin on my face. And finally it comes up.

  Life Remaining: 1 day.

  5. Dead Man Walking

  I jam my key at the lock, fumbling as it misses the first few times. The thoughts steamrolling through my head soon turn into a blinding rage.

  One day. One fucking day. That’s all the goddamn GodAngel has given me.

  I finally manage to shove the door open and then slam it closed once I am inside. There is no one in my apartment. Only I live here. All alone on my last fucking day.

  There is no time to strike it rich in here. No time to persuade David Stony to help me save Riverhaven. I am fucked.

  As the reality of my situation hits me, I sink to my knees on the hard wooden floorboards. There is not even enough time to earn a basic token, which means I will never come to the AngelRealm again. No way can I make 500 XP in one day if this lousy apartment is anything to go by. I obviously do not have a cushy job, and have not inherited anything worth selling from my game parents.

  They are dead. I remember that as if it was real. The pain and fear and loneliness. They died when I was a child.

  It hadn’t bothered me when I first saw my bio to find that I hadn’t been lucky enough to inherit any weapons or artifacts or magic. Things which would have vastly improved my chances of earning 500 XP in one day. Now it bothers the heck out of me.

  I’m a fucking pauper. Just like in the real world. And I am going to die tomorrow.

  I stalk into my tiny bathroom and stare into the mirror. The glowing hologram above my head stares back at me, the ‘1 Day’ seeming to mock me. It looks ginormous and extra bright.

  How the heck could this happen? I chose the early twenty-first century not just because it’s where David Stony hangs out, but because of the higher life expectancy. In the medieval era you can expect to die in a matter of days or weeks. Here I was supposed to get years.

  I had actually wanted to see what 2018 was like, and now I won’t even get to experience it. The start of the second millennium that history angrily recalls as the age of plenty and indulgence, when you bought what you wanted and tossed it away when you wanted a brand new shiny one. The age just before the shit started hitting the fan. Life then had been full of opportunity, like it was supposed to be in here for me.

  Looking in the mirror makes me feel worse. And not just because the hologram over my head is broadcasting my lack of time left in this world in obscenely glowing letters. But because the guy looking back at me, my avatar AngelTaker, is what I would look like if real life genetics had blessed me a thousand times better than it had.

  My reflection is a six-foot handsome devil. He looks like he could knock Frank out easily. Not actually a devil though – which would have been a cool power – but what a guy! Impeccably cut dark hair, a manly jaw, smirking green eyes, and the chiseled body of an Olympic athlete. How my ex-girlfriend’s eyes would bulge if she could see me now!

  The GameMakers have given me it all, only so they can laugh at me when the GodAngel takes it away tomorrow.

  With a roar of fury I smash my fist into the mirror. Blood drips from my knuckles, and I revel in the stinging pain. The glass is in smithereens and it feels goddamn good. So I pick up a wooden chair that an old towel is resting on, and I smash the mirror some more. Then I smash up the glass screen protecting the shower, and then the grimy old window behind the bath.

  Still screaming, I kick the sides of the dented old metal bath, throwing my entire body weight behind it. Insane pain shoots up from my big toe, but I don’t give a damn.

  Still carrying my chair I rampage through the lounge, smashing up the television and the bookshelf and all of the furniture, and carry on through to the kitchen, thoroughly destroying all the gadgets, and ending up in the bedroom where I rip up my bedding and throw aside the mattress so I can kick the paneling of the bed to shreds.

  Panting heavily, I drop to the floor beside the destroyed bed. God, that feels good. Adrenaline is rampaging through my body, and sweat is pouring down my chest, and I feel like I have gone a few rounds with Frank and finally knocked the bastard’s head off.

  A message appears across my visual field.

  You have been evicted. 2000 XP fine imposed for damage to rental property.

  XP Balance: -2000.

  The XP balance on my bio changes immediately.

  2000 XP is the equivalent of what I used to earn in my delivery job in four months. I laugh. I don’t give a fuck. It’s not like the GameMakers know my real name or address. They won’t be able to chase me for my debt in the real world.

  Another message flashes up on my visual field.

  Warning!

  Negative XP balance. You are being hunted by bailiffs.

  Big fucking deal. Tomorrow I’ll be being hunted by far worse. Better a bailiff than some bloodthirsty bladeslinger. Perhaps I’ll put up enough of a fight that the bailiff will have to kill me, and then at least I’ll go out in a manner of my own choosing.

  And yet it is not in my nature to be such a defeatist. Groaning, I get back up to my feet. I have one day. I hadn’t intended to be a thief in here, or at least I hadn’t given much thought to it before, but the quickest way of getting my hands on 2500 XP will be to rob something.

  It doesn’t even matter if I die in the effort. So long as I have banked that 2500 XP before I get killed. Just enough to pay back the debt and have enough left for a basic token. I need to be able to get back into the AngelRealm again and give my Save-Riverhaven mission another shot. I can’t go home empty handed and hear Frank say he knew I was good for nothing.

  I rub my face, feeling tired and stressed out. My stomach grumbles loudly. The GameMakers really have made this simulation feel real. I am famished, and it even aches like real hunger. No wonder people spend their XP on food in here.

  I go to my fridge and find it’s mostly empty. There are a few slices of cold meat, a wedge of cheese, and a couple of pickled cucumbers floating in a jar of liquid. I scoff it quickly using my bare hands, wondering if it tastes like the real deal. I have never eaten cheese before. It is really good.

  A sound makes me pause between bites. It came from towards the front door of the apartment. Like a single knock, or like wind blowing open the letter flap. So quiet it is almost like the sound was unintentional.

  I stand stiff and alert, staying still in the kitchen, ears straining to catch hold of any further noise from outside.

  Since I have been here I’ve been hearing the distant noises of neighbors doing stuff. It’s far less noisy than Rivertun. And yet this sound has the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. It was something. I know it.

  Another message flashes across my visual field. I expect it to tell me that the bailiff is outside my door. To offer me a mission to evade him or something. But what it says is completely unexpected.

  Mission: Save the damsel in distress.

  Reward: 2500 XP

  6. Godspeed

  Save a damsel. It’s the last thing I need when I’ve got a Scary creeping about outside my door. I wish there was a ‘Fuck Off’ response option.

  There is no cue to accept or decline the mission. Which means it is a generic message that has gone out to anyone inclined to take it.

  Seriously, are they kidding? Not A damsel but The damsel. They want a specific damsel saved and they put out that vague message? The mission-setter is clearly an idiot, or playing some kind of game.

  What pisses me off the most is that the reward offered is exactly the amount of XP I need, but they’ve given me so little information to go on.

  And then the fine hairs begin prickling all over my body. Exactly the amount of XP I need. Who would know that?

  Maybe someone who knows I have a debt of 2000 XP.

  A bailiff.

  A bailiff who set a trap, who could be right outside my door, waiting for me to run out on some foolish mission to
save a damsel. Fucking sneak! How stupid does he think I am?

  And yet my pulse is racing in excitement. Because this is exactly how I thought the game would be. A barrage of action, not being stuck in a crappy apartment.

  I look around for a weapon. My memory tells me that this is a sixth floor apartment so there is no chance of me escaping out of a window. Luckily I am in the kitchen. Lying among the cutlery that I had thrown onto the floor earlier is a big gleaming knife. It looks sharp. I pick it up.

  Tiptoeing to the kitchen door, I peer around it into the lounge and towards the front door. It would be so handy right now if instead of AngelTaker my Gift had been ThroughSeer. I could have seen right through that beige-painted door.

  I listen hard, but there is no sound coming from outside it. The smart thing to do would be to wait for whoever is outside to lose patience and make the first move, thus reducing my chance of injury. But since I am going to die tomorrow anyway, I might as well go for it.

  I creep over to the front door, and yank it open, intending to thrust my knife straight into the chest of whoever is standing there.

  But there is no one.

  I look up and down the hallway outside. For half a heartbeat I freak out someone invisible might be standing there, but nothing comes at me. The corridor really is empty.

  Frowning, I step back into my apartment and shut the door. And then I see an envelope lying on the floor. The sound I heard must have been the flap shutting when someone posted it.

  I rip it open. Inside is a handwritten note.

  Survive at all costs. Fulfill the purpose. You may be the only one who can.

  Trust no one. Survive at all costs.

  Godspeed.

  What the hell?

  I yank open the door again, and shout down the hallway, “Hello? Anybody there?”

  Nobody answers.

  Suddenly it seems the most important thing in the world to find the sender of the note. I run down the corridor, towards the exit of the building, hoping that whoever posted it cannot be far ahead of me.

  Memory tells me the elevator is out of order, so I crash through the door next to it and I race down the staircase. It may be my imagination, but I am sure there are rapid footsteps coming from a few of levels down.

  “Wait!” I yell. “I need to talk to you.”

  The footsteps seem to get quicker. I speed up too, and almost bump into a man coming up the stairs. He sees my life-remaining hologram and gives me a pitying look. His hair is greying, but he has thirty years left on his. Lucky bastard. Ignoring him, I continue to race down.

  “Nobody escapes their destiny,” he calls after me. “The GodAngel be with you, my son.”

  I don’t bother to question if he is fucking kidding me. He’s probably a sim – one of the simulated people in here that believe this world is real.

  “Have a nice life,” I mutter, even though he is out of earshot.

  I reach the lobby, but there is no sign of whoever posted the letter. I charge out of the main entrance and onto the street. I look left and right.

  Nobody is rushing away from the building.

  It is raining outside. Tiny drops prickle on my forearms and the back of my neck. The street is fairly busy. People hurry through the rain with their umbrellas or hoods up. Those nearby glance at me curiously. When they see my lack of life-remaining, their eyes politely slide away.

  Fuck their pity. I don’t need it.

  “Godspeed,” I shout, my voice carrying far and wide down the block. Circumspect behavior is for those who have a longer life to live.

  “Did you post this letter?” I roar.

  I wave the note around wildly in the air. People look at me like I’m batty.

  “Godspeed!” I shout again, hoping that it will startle somebody into revealing themselves.

  No such luck. I sigh, feeling thoroughly annoyed. I read the note again.

  Fulfill the purpose. You may be the only one who can.

  What purpose? The sense of urgency and overwhelming conviction that I had a moment ago drains away. Now the note looks like just some ordinary piece of paper, not an urgent missive.

  It could be referring to any purpose under the sun. Like my mission to save Riverhaven. Or, more likely, the mission to save the damsel.

  For all I know, someone could have been walking door-to-door posting this note to every single person in my building to drum up interest in the damsel mission. While I am looking for them in the street, they’re probably upstairs posting notes to my neighbors.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter to myself.

  Clearly the shock of being a dead man walking has made me lose my mind. I have only a day until every zero-hunter around is going to unleash hell on me, and I’m running in circles like a headless chicken when I’ve got 2500 XP to win or steal.

  I mull it over. Stealing seems the easier option. Like, it shouldn’t be too hard to jack a car, right? But I need cash XP, not property XP, and I would have to fence a stolen car for cash. I don’t know any fences.

  On the other hand maybe the damsel mission isn’t as obscure as it appears on the surface. A reward of 2500 XP has got to mean this damsel is important to someone, especially as the message had also offered multiple 500 XP sub-rewards for helpers.

  I wouldn’t expect anyone below a Proficient or Sage level player to be able to throw that much XP away. Any girl they want saved has got to be special. A beauty, or someone with a useful power.

  I look up and down the street, wondering if she could be near. If they had just said what I am supposed to be saving her from, it might have given me a clue where the heck to find her.

  In terms of geography, they surely must have sent the mission only to anyone near to her or anyone they think had an ability to save her.

  I have no abilities, so she’s got to be nearby.

  Hell, I don’t even know where I am. The street I am standing on is busy, with a constant flow of traffic, big red buses going by intermittently. The buildings on both sides of the road are several stories high, and many of them have shopfronts that look like they sell technology products. The dimming quality of the light from the pale grey sky tells me that it is nearly evening.

  The skyline and the number of people walking about shows me that I am in a big city. There are a couple of medium-sized tower blocks on either end of this road that look like business buildings. Nothing immediately identifiable.

  “Hey,” I call out to a couple of girls passing by. “Where am I?”

  They look like teenagers, a couple of years younger than me, and plenty of time left on their clocks according to their holograms. One is blond, the other dark. The blond eyes me up and down with interest, and giggles.

  “London, of course,” she says.

  London! This surprises me. Most people start their game in whatever country they are born into in the real world. I had thought I was in America.

  “Have fun on your last day, sweetie,” her friend says, blowing me a kiss.

  They giggle as they continue slowly walking by. They give me several glances back after they have passed. My heartbeat quickens. They were cute. Were they offering to help me have fun? Did I just miss a chance? The idea of having fun with real-world girls in here is thrilling.

  But it is too late. The girls are no longer looking at me. Damn shame.

  Ah, well. I have a mission to complete.

  “Damsel,” I shout, almost in mocking singsong tone. “Where are you?”

  And then I see a girl on the opposite side of the road staring at me. She’s a petite blond with big eyes and sleek leather clothes, and yet she is crouched down against a wall as if she wants to avoid being seen. She has a perfect pretty face and panic in her eyes.

  Could she be the damsel? She could just be tired, crouching like that. Or homeless – down on her luck and without enough XP to rent some place to stay.

  I wave at her.

  She doesn’t move. Then she half lifts up her hand in acknowledgement,
but quickly lowers it as if unsure.

  “Damsel?” I mouth at her, feeling too embarrassed now to shout it out loud.

  She doesn’t reply. She stays where she is, watching me.

  I start towards her, scowling at the traffic and worried that she is going to run off before I get a chance to cross the road.

  But instead of running away, she suddenly runs towards me, dodging traffic, and then flinging herself into my arms.

  “Help,” she says. “Save me. Please.”