Gaming the System

by P A Wikoff

  Imprisoned Online

  Gaming the System

  (a LitRPG Adventure, book 1)

  by P.A. Wikoff

  This book is a work of fiction. Character names, player names, places and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to characters (living or dead), incidents or settings is entirely coincidental.

  Visit the author’s blog pawikoff.wordpress.com

  Patreon.com/pawikoff

  Follow @pawikoff on twitter and Instagram

  Facebook.com/pawikoff

  Copyright © 2018/2019 P.A. Wikoff All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Edited by Crystal Wikoff. Copyedited by Cheryl Wikoff.

  Beta read by Christy Wikoff

  Cover art by Sean Lenahan

  Visit Seanplenahan.com

  Do you prefer PVE or PVP?

  If you choose PVE (Player Versus Environment), start the adventure from chapter one “Alone in the Dark” to enjoy the backstory and character development.

  If you choose PVP (Player Versus Player), start the adventure from chapter seven “Dr. Mario” to get right into the gameplay and skip all the storyline.

  Contents

  Alone in the Dark

  Jet Moto

  Crash Bandicoot

  Watch Dogs

  Grand Theft Auto

  Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney

  Dr. Mario

  Tron

  Love and Berry Dress up and Dance

  Peter Pack Rat

  Super Smash Bros.

  Heretic

  Bubble Ghost

  Lady Bug

  Thief

  Earth Defense Force 2017

  Mega Man

  Scooby-Doo! Unmasked

  Gauntlet

  UFC Personal Trainer

  Portal

  Maniac Mansion

  Rock Band

  Dream Club

  Tele-Arena

  Shadow of the Colossus

  Fallout

  Nights into Dreams

  Chapter One

  Alone in the Dark

  D arkness left my eyes as the blaring alarm illuminated every surface around me with brilliant colors and animated bells. That’s not to say I was sleeping. I was already awake and sitting in the dark again. I did that from time to time, sometimes for the entire night. It was my unplugged haven; the only place for me to escape my reality in search of something simpler. There was a special feeling that came over me while looking into the pitch-black nothingness and imagining a world more to my liking—a void. I called it “The Black.”

  When I was younger, I used to wish I were born blind. That was until I read that science had already cured blindness over twenty years prior. Yes, if I were sightless, I could enjoy “The Black” all the time, but in turn, I would also get no sympathy, being the only kid who chose to have a handicap that was very much treatable. I would have been the laughingstock of my online school. As for society, they did away with braille and walking sticks altogether. There was just no point keeping any of that stuff around.

  Being blind would have been a huge disadvantage, even more so than in the past. I’d obviously done the research, and it was not an option, no way.

  Really, I just wanted to avoid all the pop-up pollution and custom-fitted entertainment that would run non-stop. I never, ever, fell for any of them, on principle alone.

  But in “The Black,” there were no notifications or constant advertising campaigns that know what you need even before you do, no system-operating robot masters that monitor your brain’s activity through your dreams; just sanctuary, silence, and blissful black. This was the only place where I could think freely and clearly, without running the risk of having to undergo another psychological evaluation exam. It was my way of logging out of my life, if only for a couple hours. I would much rather be in a place where tech is turned off and the land is green.

  However, in the world’s current state, no place like that exists, outside of a museum. So instead, I’m left with displays that use color and image manipulation to subliminally maximize revenue and affect behavior. It’s a much better trade-off, if you ask me, constant entertainment and chronic A.D.D. in exchange for literally everything else. Although no one ever asked me. If they did, I would spout that lie right to their face, sarcastically, of course. But when everything is monitored and run through human-behavior algorithms, you have to mind your p’s and q’s and especially your f’s and u’s.

  Living with my parents forced me to abide by their rules and suffer with their décor. This was exactly why I was surrounded floor to ceiling with display screens.

  Not only did I live with my parents, but I also lived in my parents’ basement. Now, I’ve studied ancient flaming tactics and sick burns of yesteryear, and I’m fully aware that, in the past, people were looked down upon for having such a luxury. This may be the only thing I disagree with the past about, as my basement is larger than some people’s entire houses.

  Even if I could afford my own place, it would have never been as nice as theirs or in such a remote neighborhood. Work opportunities were always tech-related, and I couldn’t find a job in any field that interested me. I didn’t like ones, and I hated zeros. So, in turn, I was broke. Not that I needed credits for anything in particular. It would have just been nice to have a little independence for once in my life and not have to justify my spending to anyone.

  When my journey into “The Dark” was interrupted by the sudden rush of notifications, they were dinging rapidly like a pulse machine gun, causing me to cringe at the sound. I had been too entranced in thought, and now the alarm was starting to kick into hyper mode. My ceiling displayed the image of an animated sun, with a jovial smile, singing the “Good Morning, Humans” song, though years ago, I reprogramed its happy tune with one more to my liking. Before muting it, I caught a bit of the meme owl voice singing about puking up rodent pellets. I found it a fitting sentiment to my outlook on life—all the best treasure was hidden in the worst possible pain.

  Despite the alarm and being wide awake, I couldn’t muster enough energy to move. All I had to do was stand up, and the whole visual circus would turn off. But there I sat, like a weight keeping my bed from floating off into the ether. Adjusting to the light, everything around me was like a blurry rainbow.

  Once technology had advanced far enough to make liquid screens, everything was painted with the stuff making instant interfaces out of walls, ceilings, floors, doors, lamps, tables, chairs, and even clothes. You couldn’t look anywhere without something trying to data mine your expression in order to sell you on an idea or product. It was propaganda at its finest, or worst, depending on what side of the issue you were on. The sad thing was that people actually liked all this tech, despite knowing the negative effects it had over them. We all saw the same statistics, just some of them—scratch that—most of them didn’t seem to care.

  All my friends and acquaintances went nuts over being able to change their outfits with a click of a button. They couldn’t go a single day without having at least ten to twelve diverse avatars loaded with their presets, and it didn’t stop there. The newest model or “season” of the AVSX10 digi-suit came equipped with a full face mask, which allowed a person to fully transform their entire physical appearance. It could puff up to make you look bigger or use optics to make you appear smaller or more slender. But that wasn’t even the big appeal to the rig. The main draw was that you could now look like your favorite celebrity, anime, or video game characters. It was hard for me to keep track of who was who sometimes…actually, all the time. But in the end, even with the voice-changing app on, they still talked funny. No matter how many times they tried to refine
the movements, it always looked unnatural due to the mild latency. It seemed as if the avatars lacked a soul or something. I don’t care if you look like a barbie doll and sounded like a barbie doll, you were still just as fake as one.

  I didn’t want to play with toys or cartoons. All I wanted were friends—real friends that were present and paying attention from time to time. But no matter what I did, how nice I was, I always came in second to the devices. And why shouldn’t it be that way? I don’t have any cool new features. I can’t give anyone better-than-real-life experiences. All I have to offer is honesty and loyalty, but those two features had been patched out of humanity long ago, along with the Earth’s ecosystem. Who needs to clean air when you have breathable synthetic stuff?

  Regardless of how I felt on the matter, the AVSX10 digi-suit was a number-one seller. There was no debate; people loved the gear. But that wasn’t me. I was a real person who loved imperfections. I didn’t care if I looked sloppy, or if people thought I was poor for not wearing an avatar where my face should be. For me, the consequences were better than following the herd into their augmented life.

  This was the age of super technology, and I was more than obsolete. I guess I was born in the wrong era. If I had it my way, I would throw it all in the Grand Canyon trash pit, if it weren’t already full.

  To me, the digi-suits weren’t edgy, cool, or endearing. They were just a big waste of time and credits that induced a false ego, in lieu of a bad body image. Why not just be who you were and leave the quest for perfection to the robots? Everything and everybody glitches out at some point or another. Nothing lasts forever, nor was it ever meant to—even the dark abyss I had been enjoying. Time moved on, and so must I.

  I wasn’t sure if it was possible for anyone to remember a time before all this gadgetry or if it was my nostalgia that had somehow skewed my memory. Nevertheless, I had one recollection where such a place existed. It was grainy, gritty, dirty, and most of all, electronic-free. Logically, it made no sense. Tech had been around for more than a thousand years. Whatever the reason, I held on to this memory and tried to think about it at least once a day, just to make sure that I never ever forgot it.

  From a graph’s standpoint, things were better than ever. People loved stats and numbers because math was never wrong. Humanity had beat the system and become self-reliant, and all that jazz.

  A lot of the problems that the world once endured had long-since been solved. At school I downloaded into my memory much of the strife our planet once had, such as homelessness, starvation, war, racism, sexism, roboism, political confusion, and religious ambiguity. Such a feat should be celebrated, right? I should be happy we don’t have to deal with that kind of torture, but I’m not. I’m terribly bored.

  If things were so great around here, how come nothing seemed right? I don’t care what the glorified calculators said, you cannot categorize my feelings into a crude chart to be examined. I tried not to complain, really. It made me sound entitled, ungrateful, and, let’s face it, like a total douche.

  As my eyes finally adjusted to the light, grey footprints appeared on the floor screen directing me to the next phase in my morning routine—the bathroom. As if I didn’t already know where it was.

  “I only do this routine every single day, stupid ‘puter.” What did I expect? These protocol programs were written for people by computers that were simulating being human. At some point, something has to get lost in translation somewhere.

  I know the computer tracks my every action and calculates my body’s systems before I even feel the urge to pee, but I don’t want to be told what to do and especially when to do it. How is this any different than the eighteenth-century slavery regime? On second thought, maybe they had it worse. It isn’t as if my robo masters are whipping me, but just because someone had it worse than you doesn’t mean that your gripes are not justified, and this one was real enough to me. The point remained—no matter how bad I had to go, I was not going here. They were never going to win.

  Leaving in the opposite direction of the guiding prints, I made my way to the deep side of my closet—pushing aside my outdated AVSX8 digi-suit. Before you call me out, the avatar suit was a gift from my parents, and I only put it on once for pictures. It made their day, so shut up.

  My personal preference had always been simple, low-tech things. “Just like…this,” I said, while pulling out my favorite loose-fitting bowling shirt. I’d never gone real analog bowling before, but I’d played many different experience simulators, none of which were very much fun. I wasn’t sure if it was the game itself or the bad execution of the gameplay. At any rate, I wasn’t a big enough fan to justify buying a league shirt to pay homage to its fandom. I bought it because it was old and smelled of a distant time. I liked that about it.

  I slipped on the scratchy fabric over my undershirt. The image on the back was an exploding pin, and there was an embroidered tag on the front.

  Grabbing my heavy “going out bag,” I headed upstairs, but not before flashing my lit-up-brighter-than-a-Christmas-tree room the middle finger. It’s an outdated curse, which was used by deaf people, before that aliment was also cured. As predictable as my computerized room was, apparently so was my behavior, because at the sight of my rude gesture, all the lights instantly turned off. It knew I was leaving and not coming back for some time.

  My parents were very accommodating, in that they were never around, so I had to rebel against the machines. Hell, they were always watching me, telling me to do stuff, advising me against doing other stuff. Sometimes I wonder who was really doing the child rearing here.

  Keeping my eyes to the floor, I attempted to walk past the “throne room,” what my parents called their gaming area, unnoticed. Through my shifting peripheral vision, I caught a glance of their side-by-side, raised gaming chairs. The room was dim, and ambient lighting nodes flickered giving the effect of lit candles throughout the room. Mist filled the room with a quick blast as holographic green flying monsters suddenly appeared in the chamber.

  They must be inside some sort of online dungeon or cultist temple.

  Both of their “thrones” twisted and turned with the sounds of weapons clashing and magic surging. The battle was starting.

  “They’re playing a game, perfect,” I said under my breath. This was going to be easy. Their rigs had so many sounds, visuals, movement, and emotional inputs, they would both be too distracted to even notice that I had left. Not that they would even chase after me if they could pause the online game. They were fully immersed in their contraptions—plugged in like an umbilical cord. Sensors were attached to nearly every aspect of their bodies—diodes on their heart, plugs inserted into their arms to monitor their blood and god knows what else. The worst part was, and I wish I were kidding, but there was a device that somehow stopped their digestive and urinary systems from working. It allowed them to game without needing to use the facilities. That was how serious my parents were about their little controllers. It was always the latest and greatest for them. In my opinion, it was overkill. All this for a silly game? But games were serious business in my household and every other house I’d been to.

  In real life, colors were never that vibrant, lighting effects never so dynamic, or sound never so perfectly composed and clean. Once the graphics on displays got to a higher definition than reality, reality didn’t look right anymore. And so the next evolution was born. It was called the A.C.S., or artificial color spectrum. That stuff was just out of control. People’s eyes were never supposed to see such layered hues, but with a couple resin drops in your eyes, you could see a whole new prism of colors inside the new augmented reality.

  I didn’t partake in this whole new level. Not because of my astigmatism or my feelings about the online world, but because the drops made me throw up every time since I was eight. No thanks. I would rather see life for how it really was, gritty and dreadful.

  I might sound crazy for saying this, but nothing should ever be that beautiful. Life in the
intercloud was easy, rewarding…and boring.

  These gaming experiences were just a huge grind—a job outside of work that you pay to play. Back in the day, it used to be that whoever was better at a game was rewarded with loot and status rankings. That was what my parents said anyway. But nowadays, everyone gets raid gear and character specs handed to them without working for any of it. It’s impossible to make a bad character. Everyone is super elite and balanced beyond an inch of their code.

  Without any conflicts in the game, it got stale after the newness wore off, but my parents still trudge on to the next game to rinse and repeat the same experience in a different setting.

  Who wants to win all the time and get epic loot in every battle, even if you fail? When there are no longer consequences for failure, there is no reason for trying. At least that’s how I felt about it. I never liked cheat codes for the same reason. The struggle is always in the journey, not in the success. Call me a masochist, but I think you must hurt a little for it to mean something in the end.

  One major problem with living in my parents’ basement was that I didn’t have my own entryway to the outside. The only way out was through this hallway. The good news was that I made it past them without conflict. Lucky for me their battle started when it did.

  Unfortunately, I celebrated a little too soon. At the edge of the hall, the wall lit up. My mother’s face filling the whole surface. Well, the part of her face that wasn’t covered by her VR helmet.

  “Sephiroth, I see you have your out bag. Where are you going?”

  “It’s Seph now.”

  “No. That isn’t what we named you.”

  “I know that, and I hate it,” I protested. My parents named me after a legendary video game character. It was the third most popular name for boys the year I was born. I didn’t need a recap.

  “Just because you live underground, it doesn’t give you an excuse to act like a smart-ass gnome.”