Beam shouts in surprise when a player in decrepit silver armor comes from behind.

“Oh, uh… thanks?”

“Don't worry, you can make it up to us.”

Now that Beam is still, Strangelove can watch as the other players continue fighting the demon.

Those armed with guns release another volley in perfect synchrony. The demon screams as the bullets tear through into firework bursts of its body. They step aside for three more players to charge forward with axes, but before they can finish it off, it leaps back against the wall. Its clawed toes burrow into the skin, allowing it to quickly shimmy up into a small hole in the ceiling.

The empty shells eject from its shotgun and bounce on the floor. While men reload, some of them circle Beam and Strangelove.

One player with a red headband around his black hair moves aside Beam’s hair from behind, uncovering Strangelove's face. He coughs up blood onto the man's boots. “Well, well, look at this. Sergeant Strangelove, why aren't you with your squad?”

He stares into his eyes, but refuses to speak.

Two barbarians approach and grab Beam by the arms.

“Get your hands off of me!”

“Don't worry, we won't hurt you.” The one wearing the headband pulls Strangelove off of his back and hurls him onto the floor.

“You were only helping a stranger in need. This will be noted in your evaluation.” His headband flows with his movement, majestic in perfect compliment to his flawless, feminine complexion. From his spotless, shiny clean skin, he looks more like an adult film star than a hardened soldier.

The sensual aura violently contrasts his stoic, hardened posture. His eyebrows are furrowed in deep thought, and dark eye bags imply countless sleepless hours spent planning and strategizing.

Beam fights against the barbarians’ hold on his arms, and in response they shove him further into the ground. “Evaluation? What the hell is going on?”

“Bind this one. I will deal with the deserter.”

Beneath the hole the demon hides in, someone pulls a grenade from his inventory.

“Everybody back the fuck up, I got this!”

He pulls the pin, but as his posture slides for the best possible throw, his foot slips on a patch of oily scar tissue. It slips out of his grasp when he lands on his hip, and splashes in a puddle of fluids.

“I got it!” Another player in a dark cloak contorts his fingers and whips his wrists over his hood. The grenade whizzes in a cloud of smoke to the ceiling, levitating it just below the demon's hiding place.

“It's a dud!”

“Shoot at it til it blows!”

They open fire, but the grenade is not hit. Some miss completely, some click on empty, and others’ guns fall to pieces. The one who fell crawls away, keeping low until he passes by Beam, who is now hogtied and dragged aside.

With Beam out of the way, the leader turns back to Strangelove, and pins him under his boot. Beam tries to listen to the interrogation, but when the players shoot at the levitated grenade, the gunshots ring in his ears. He can hear the leader’s roaring and swearing at Strangelove, but none of the words come clearly.

I need to find a way for us to get out of here… but what could I possibly do?

He tries to twist himself out of the ropes, but nothing works. Helpless, he watches as the man interrogates Strangelove.

“I asked you a question, sergeant.” He can’t hold back the smirk as he kicks him in the groin. “Where is your fucking squad?!” He kicks him again, in the wound where his left leg is chewed off. “You have ten seconds to start explaining!”

He doesn’t speak.

“Ten! Nine!”

He equips a sword from his inventory and pokes it lightly into Strangelove’s hand. Blood dribbles down to his wrist. “Eight! Seven!”

Strangelove looks away as the leader kicks him again and again. “Six! Five! Four! Three!”

“They’re dead.” Strangelove closes his eyes, coughing. “All of them, except for me.” His eyes darken. “Wiped out one by one, by the nightmares living in these passages.”

The tunnel is shaken by the sudden explosion of the grenade as a bullet finally lands. Rotten chunks rain down, wafting through the billowing smoke.

Most of the demon falls down from the hole in one piece. Its last exhale is a long, pained wheeze, followed by silence.

“Loot the body, and anyone who's been killed. Let's get back to base.” fingers point at Beam and Strangelove.

Barbarians bind them, slap a strange collar around their necks, and sling them over their shoulders.

The strange metal starts to settle on Beam's neck. An uneasy feeling creeps into his chest. Despite not having cast them yet, he knows; it suppresses any special abilities. He can feel his body being tampered with by a malignant energy, stringing into his mind through the cobwebbed nerves. It worms into his head, spreading roots. As panic overtakes him, it roots through and contracts around any thoughts of escape with a burning embrace of black, smoldering bewilderment. Finding any cohesive thoughts, as these feelings etch into his being, is akin to searching an ocean for freshwater.

He looks over to Strangelove, who gazes into nothing. A line of red stained drool runs down his cheek.

There’s.. I.. hhhh… fuck. I.. I..!

The harder he strains, the more clouded everything feels. A ghost in the shell. Adrift in nothing. His body goes completely limp.

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Too weak to hope for escape, both of them are forced along the ride to the base in the center of Darkest Wells Online, owned by the Dawn Genesis slaver guild.

One of the prophets in the squad closely follows the leader near the back of the line, with the rear guard. He points at Beam, slumped over another’s shoulder, and whispers hoarsely.

“Lieutenant Zachary. I just looked into his stats and class by casting Magician’s Scan and…” He huffs air in and out, clutching his chest with a sweaty, veiny hand. “He…”

“And?” The lieutenant purses his lips. A grunt of disapproval warns the prophet of his shortening temper. “Tell me his build.”

He brings himself close enough for only them to hear. “He has a class that does not exist. And his stats are beyond mismatched for... Whatever it is. He must be a hacker dressed up as a noob to have such an insane setup.” He allows himself to fall behind, returning to the rear guard, talking as he slows down. “We need to keep a close eye on this one. And maybe tighten his collar.”

Lieutenant Zachary smirks. “You have my thanks, uh…”

“Virgil.”

“Yes. Feel free to do the honors when we get there. It should only be another hour before we are home.”

As the group continues north, the tunnels are interrupted by stretches of red moss on cobblestone walls and floor, until the flesh is completely gone. Everyone including the lieutenant heaves a sigh of relief when their feet finally step in the comfort of firm, unyielding stone.

The tunnels finally end. As the portcullis gate rises to allow them inside, Beam finally begins to recover from the initial trauma of the collar bonding with his avatar. As his thoughts uncloud,

The dizzying size of the cavern used to house this guild blows him away.

Still too weak to hope for escape, he observes everything he can as they carry him along. If not for the situation, he would be content to explore this place for hours, noting every architectural and artistic choice.

He cranes his neck to follow marble columns disappear into the fog obscured ceiling of the cavern. Plant life and patches of glowing mold run up and down the pillars, filling the air with the smell of mildew and moss. In Beam’s distorted vision, they could almost be mistaken for a forest.

Squads come and go, filling the broad street, armed to the teeth. He notices all of them are wearing the same worn, silver breastplate over their individual outfits.

After passing dozens of magic stores, workshops, and armories, the group reaches a towering, steel trapdoor. At a sixty degree slant, it is connected by chains to a pulley system in the watch tower across the road. Beam looks up at the hooded guard

Lieutenant Zachary raises his arms into the air and expels a shrill whistle loud enough to shock everyone.

“All right, everyone, listen up! This is where we go our separate ways. Turn in half of your loot at one of the offices, and get back to your barracks. Rest up, there's plenty more quests to do once y'all recover. Except you two.”

He flags down the two men holding Beam and Strangelove over their shoulders.

“This is where things are only going to be between us. You take Strangelove and turn him in for the reward. And you…” He thumps his thumb on the other’s chest. The man holds himself steady against the urge to recoil at his touch. “You follow me with the noob player. I want to watch his evaluation.”

The barbarian carrying Strangelove grunts, and struts away.

“Looks like it's just us now.”

Beam’s neck jerks side to side as Zachary’s hand forcefully ruffles his long, unkempt hair. Tangles crackle and snap apart in the wake of his fingers. Each break sends another wave of discomfort, like nails bouncing on a waterbed. Nerves tingle across Beam’s scalp long after he walks away and waves at the watchtower window.

Inside the watchtower, a soldier watches them through his binoculars. “Freak.” His lips contort, baring his teeth as he sucks in air. “Come on, weirdo, just make the signal. Make the fucking– oh!”

Through the binoculars, he watches as the lieutenant raises his right hand, contorting his fingers in the secret guild sign language.

His eyes are glued to the hand as he keeps up with the message. “What… when he did clearance to…? You know what, this isn’t my fucking problem.”

He turns around from his window in the corner of the small room and clangs a bell bolted into the ceiling. “Turn the wheel!”

More players wearing the collars push at pegs surrounding the perimeter of a large wheel taking up most of the room. As it turns, it reels in the chains connected by pulleys to cross over the street and pull up the heavy trap doors. Sweat pours down their backs, but as the doors slow down, the soldier screams.

“Do you lazy pieces of shit want to be on the next scavenging operation?! Or do you want to keep this nice job you got here?!” He hops from the window viewing platform to their level of the floor, a two-foot jump down. “We keep you safe here! But lazy hands get to go out there… And not many come back.” He claps, and jumps back to his place above them. “Keep pushing!”

They grumble, but the trap doors quickly rise, opening the rest of the way.

Back in the street, the lieutenant motions for them to descend, and they follow him into the depths. Smells of incense and chemicals waft from inside. Beam’s nose wrinkles. Something in this scent is definitely familiar.

It quickly spirals downward, and the sporadic placement of torches has the strobing affect; Beam internally chuckles at the thought of a caveman rave, but his mouth doesn’t smile.

The aroma is stronger, like a glaze that slowly replaces the breathable air with a sticky fog. Beam’s head buzzes, and he realizes what stuck out when he first breathed it in. Mingled in whatever is burning, is traces of marijuana.

Lieutenant Zachary straps a gas mask out of his inventory over his face. Producing a second mask, he allows the barbarian to crouch low enough for him to help strap it onto his bulking, roided skull.

As they descend, the stairway tunnel becomes narrow, and the torches are more spread, resulting in stretches of near darkness. Voices become audible; whispers, and screams. Some conversations are almost loud enough to be listened to.

They duck their heads as they carry them through a low opening into a space about as large as a basketball court. Instead of games, the room is stocked with countless methods of interrogation and torture. All other open areas hold desks covered in piles of paperwork and spiked cages filled with dirty prisoners. The only interval to the sounds of torment is the constant, throat scratching coughing. Anyone without a mask is doomed to slowly exhaust themselves as they choke on the mind-numbing smoke pouring out of the mouths of heroic statues lining the walls.

Some smoke passes into vents in the ceiling, but they are as small as they are sparse.

One prisoner stares at Beam passing with tearing, twitching, lidless eyes. His arms string out where they are tied to an upside down cross. His chest twitches, and his mouth inaudibly grasps for air. At the end of the torture chamber, the three reach a closed, barred door.

With a single torch in the corner of that room, the man carrying Beam finds it too difficult to make out any details of the figure sitting at a table. But even with such little sight of him, he finds a tingle running up his spine. He remembers being tested in the same place, and shudders at the thought of ever having to experience it again, let alone reliving any of those memories he keeps locked away deep inside. The polar opposite of nostalgia. His chest pounds, and Beam is unnerved at the sensation of a man of his size cowering like a child.

What could possibly be waiting for me? Someone so strong that I can’t break out of his arm… And he’s shaking?

“Don’t worry yet.” Zachary pats Beam on the head, startling him. “You will be evaluated by the guild’s custom NPC. Obey everything, and you’ll be recruited. We’ll be equals. Fail the test…” His eyes are cold and emotionless. “And you can work your ass off for us until it kills you.”

Beam is put down, and untied. They corner him against the door, in case he might try running away.

“This is the last, most important thing I’ll tell. Whatever you do, do not stare at its wounds.” He reaches past Beam, and sways open the door, which creaks as it goes until it hits the wall with a thud. “Now sit at that table.”

His hand whips around Beam’s neck before he can even register the movement. “Or you won’t like what I do about it.”

Beam sputters as he backs into the room, and the door is slammed shut behind him, but Zachary’s cold eyes stay locked onto him as he approaches the figure at the table.

The figure jerks awkwardly in place like a rabid marionette.

“Take my hand, son. This is the most important moment of your life.”