One minute Rotgoriel sat on the slope, and watched Geebo run up it, snow spraying behind his long-clawed feet.

The next, he was sitting in a warm room, staring at the wall.

His head throbbed, and he felt horrible. This body was fatigued, he knew that much. His brother was pushing himself too hard. And worse...

“His timing is bad,” Rotgoriel groused.

Still, it could have been much worse. He had planned for this with Aunarox, and Geebo knew what to tell the displaced human. And his brother-by-soul was generally good at handling this sort of thing. Better than Rotgoriel had been, the first few times his consciousness had made the journey to this strangeling world.

He had been so stupid then. No help for it, really. Just out of the egg, and with an intelligence that was... dubious, at best. But he'd learned. Sweet Konol, he'd learned.

Now there was a weird thought. Was Konol sweet? He rather doubted it.

It was probably a phrase that had bled into his mind from when he'd shared memories with Rich. Even now his head was still full of alien thoughts, concepts that took humans years to grasp settling in with an ease that saved him enormous amounts of time and trouble.

So when the words appeared in front of his face, he knew how to think to answer them, now.

Incoming Message >> Gregory Duluth

Hey man, me and Pat have been doing some digging. We need to talk. Can you come down?

To: Gregory Duluth>>Down where?

>>To my dorm. Where else?

Rotgoriel thought furiously. He had no idea where Gregory Duluth's dorm would be. Nor what a dorm was in the first place.

Fortunately he knew enough about Richard's world to know that paranoia was always a healthy response.

>>Not there. Too much chance that they're watching. Not the usual spots. Let me think.

It hurt to think but he did it anyway.

Rotgoriel rose, and looked out the window.

>>Out by the wall, he sent back. Over where the stream, where the benches are.

>>Shit, out in the open? Where anyone can see us talking?

>>If we keep our voices low they'll have to get near to hear us over the water, Rotgoriel pointed out. He thought that was clever. At least worth an intelligence point!

For a second he was disappointed that no notification rose up, declaring his brains to the world. But then he remembered that this world had more hidden features. Improvement was more subtle, took longer, and you didn't always know when it occurred.

It DID happen, though. Rotgoriel flexed his borrowed muscles again. His body felt well enough, and much bulkier than he remembered from the old days. This was proof that something had gone on there, some good strength or constitution gains.

Though when he glanced in the mirror, he saw that his body had gotten a little smaller than he remembered. Rotgoriel scowled at that. He felt stronger, but he'd shrunk? Where was the fairness in that! He should have grown instead, shown his size as a warning to all who would challenge him.

>>Sorry about that, had to talk with Pat, Greg replied. He's okay with it. We'll meet you there.

It took Rotgoriel a few minutes to find his way out of the building and over to the fence. He was in some kind of fortress, with a low wall around the compound and large central building surrounded by smaller ones. Beyond the walls were trees, enough to suggest that they were in a deep forest.

It seemed an odd choice, poorly defensible at best. The wall was too low to prevent any determined attackers, there weren't any real towers, and the buildings had too many entrances and exits. Moreover, the buildings were spread out across far too wide a stretch of territory. Anyone trying to defend them would have to cover an absurd amount of ground. As forts went, he gave it a zero out of ten, could burn again.

Two humans waited for him by the stream, which ran through the grounds in a stone channel. One boy was big and muscled and black-haired, clad in yellow. The other was smaller, with almost a slender build, and wild brown hair. He wore red.

“So that was a weird thing,” the red jumpsuited one one said. “I have no clue who that guy was or how he was allowed to get away with saying that shit.”

“What was his name?” Rotgoriel asked.

Red-clad boy shrugged. “Grand? Grant? I forget. You know me, I usually Echo stuff. But they had visual suppressors going so all I have is ten minutes or so worth of static.”

Rotgoriel tried to think, to remember and match words with Rich's shared memories. But it hurt to think, and he found himself lacking. “Grant. No one I know.”

The yellow-clad boy spoke. “Yeah. This guy's a mystery. I checked with my contact in security, he said the proctors got the word at the last minute. They have to treat Mister Grant as if he's the president himself, he's that important.”

“So what do we do?” Rotgoriel asked. “How does this affect us? Is there anything we should be doing right now that we are not?”

Red-jumpsuit laughed. “See, this is why I like you, man. You always bring it back home, get back to practical stuff. Ah... this doesn't change much, not really. I mean, I was going to go out and meet with my, ah, contacts in the bar in town, but since anyone who leaves the place is pretty much dead, that's gone now. And I guess for you it means you can't go off jogging in the woods like you do.”

“Not that you'd want to do that with that Cole guy around anyway,” Yellow-suit said. “But I think we have some good news there.”

“Good news is hard to come by these days. Share... please.” Rotgoriel decided to try that one, even though it was very undraconic to plead for something. These were obviously Rich's allies, and the way they spoke was familiar. They probably wouldn't take it as a sign of weakness.

None of them blinked an eye at the word. Red-jumpsuit backed toward them, eyes darting around as he scanned the yard. There were a few other groups of colorful young men around, but most were huddled around each other and whispering just as the lot of them were, so Rotgoriel doubted that they were drawing much attention.

“Long story short, I think you're wrong on Cole.”

“Cole?” Rotgoriel asked.

“Yeah. The one that you thought wanted to kill you?”

“Ah, right. My enemy.” He had no idea who Cole was. Yellow-jumpsuit was giving him a worried look, now. “It has been a very long day. I will need sleep, soon,” he spoke, and it galled him greatly to admit even this mild degree of weakness.

“Yeah. He's not with the Haskeens.”

Oh, Rotgoriel knew that name! He remembered the boy whimpering in his arms, the gush of fluid as his thumb found the child's eye. The look of horror on the elder's face, as he stood there, shaking with rage and helplessness.

“You are certain of that? That he does not serve Haskeens?” He snarled the name, as Rich's borrowed memories brought up their sneering faces.

“Uh, mostly certain. It... here. Let me send you the article.”

“Copy me too, Greg.” Red-jumpsuit spoke up.

Greg! There was a name. Finally!

A tone chimed in Rotgoriel's head, as a notice informed him that he had a video attachment. Of the options presented, he guessed that 'view' would probably let him use the thing properly. Probably. His head still throbbed like a drum, even if the anger had brought him some small measure of focus.

He stared at the face of his foe, makeup smeared across it, running freely as he sweated in the hot lights. He was in front of a crowd of people, up on a stage, arms pounding the air as he strode back and forth, as if he was trying to punch out unseen foes.

“And I swear to you, I swear and god knows, Jeeeeeeeesssssuuusssss knows the truth and it is what I speak PRAISE JEEEEESSSUUSSSS!”

“PRAISE JESUS!” Roared the crowd right back.

“The truth is that satan has told lies about me! He had spread slander! I have not killed my wife! I mourn her loss, have mourned her for this entire year! Praise Jeeeeeeessssssuussssss!”

The chorus came again, but this time it was a little weaker.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“My own son!” Justin Haskeen the second fell to his knees, and thrust arms up to the sky as he tilted his head back. “My own son has borne false witness to me! Testified against me! Claimed that I murdered her, and provided a false video of what went on! My own son has betrayed me, been tempted! He was offered all the kingdoms of the world and he failed, my friends! He failed his temptation! Satan opened the door and he went on in! And here I am, accused...” he choked up for a moment, and tears spilled from his eyes. “Accused of murdering my true love. But!” He whipped his head forward and leaped to his feet, limbs spasming, spindly and lean. “But Jeeeessusss knows the truth! I am INNOCENT!”

The video ended.

“Whoa,” Red-jumpsuit whispered. “His own son fucked him over.”

“Evidently,” Greg replied. “I didn't see it, but there was a video that hit the darknet last week that showed Haskeen there choking his wife to death during sex. Then his son went into hiding, and scuttlebutt is that he's the one who uploaded the video.”

With the Haskeens in the picture, Rotgoriel felt on firmer ground. He knew something of this business, had been personally involved, so to speak. “How does this prove my enemy Cole does not serve the Haskeens? They tried to kill me over this business of the man abusing his mate. Why then would he not send Cole to tie up a loose string?”

“A loose end, you mean?” Red-jumpsuit squinted. “You must be tired. You're talking funny, have been since you got here.”

“I am. Very much so. But the question stands,” Rotgoriel deflected.

“It doesn't seem like he's coming after you because that was a public sermon,” Greg said, “which means that it isn't private business any more. Getting rid of you wouldn't matter. He's got bigger things to worry about, now. And his kid has no reason to take you down.”

“They are spiteful and wicked,” Rotgoriel offered. “They could be doing it from that alone.”

“It's possible,” Red-jumpsuit rubbed his chin. “But I don't see it as likely. Do you have any other enemies that could have sent Cole?”

“None that live,” Rotrgoriel remarked.

To his surprise, the two laughed. “Ah shit, I needed that,” Greg said, his voice tight with mirth. “That was straight out of a Death Battler movie. Sturm Stallone couldn't have done a better one liner.”

But the red-jumpsuited one whipped his head around, laughter dying as fast as it had come. “Speak of the devil. Shit, here he comes!”

Another boy was approaching, one a head smaller than Rotgoriel, with short-cut black hair and green clothing. “Hey! You're Royal!”

“Thank you.” Rotgoriel agreed. Then remembered no, wait, that is Richard's last name.

“Mister Grant wants to see you. Come with me, please.”

“Where you heading?” Greg asked, sticking his hands in his pockets. Rotgoriel could read the wariness in the way his posture shifted.

“Same place as before. He hasn't gone far,” The boy smiled, a big, easy grin that touched his eyes not at all.

“You're Cole Young, right?” Red jumpsuit asked, then stuck his hand out. “Patrick Bayer.”

Patrick. Good. There was the other one named.

“What does Mister Grant want of me?” Rotgoriel asked.

Cole's grin grew wider. “Dunno, boss. That's his business.”

Something about him tugged at Rotgoriel's memory, but his head throbbed with pain, and felt burnt. “Very well, let us go to him then.”

“Just you, I'm afraid,” Cole looked at the others and shrugged, hands out.

“Rich?” Greg asked, giving him a side-eye.

“All will be well,” he told them, and followed Cole without a backwards look. The boy seemed about as trustworthy as a scorpion in heat, but he wasn't a creature of the Haskeens, so the odds were Rotgoriel could handle what came.

Also he was smaller than Rotgoriel. If need be, he could always kill Cole.

The boy seemed not to care about the possibility, whistling a tune as he led Rotgoriel toward one of the central buildings, a big, columned thing that had a formal air about it.

“I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now,” Cole said as he held the door for Rotgoriel.

Rotgoriel opened the door next to it and walked through. Cole paused for a second, then scrambled to catch up. “Then why haven't you?” Rotgoriel asked.

“Well I just got here a little while ago, y'know? Figured we'd have time. And you've been on edge, boss. I didn't want to get off on the wrong foot, knowwhatI'msaying?”

“First impressions are everything,” Rotgoriel said, looking around the empty hall. It was cool in here, cold enough that the air was sharp to breathe. It put him in mind of his time under the mountain, with dry air and cold stone and darkness.

“Down the hall and to the right, if you please,” Cole said and pointed. “I can't go with you. His instructions, what can you do?”

“Go on without you,” Rotgoriel said, and turned his back on Cole.

He did so because there was glass overhead, the windows of rooms on the second floor overlooking the atrium. This was his test. He could see Cole, but he wasn't being obvious about it.

If Cole was his enemy, now was his chance. It was an open opportunity to act.

But Cole just kept on smiling. “Let's talk after this, huh? I have a proposition for you.”

Before Rotgoriel could reply, the boy turned and left.

Putting his mind to business, and keeping his eyes peeled, he moved down and to the right. There were guards there, suited men in green who watched him come with a steady gaze and folded arms. They wore guns at their hips, but did not make a move to draw as he passed.

The room he came to was smaller than he expected. No royal audience chamber this, but a war room or meeting chamber of sorts, dominated by a horseshoe-shaped wooden desk sat around with chairs. A pair of flags occupied a corner, one set with stars and stripes, and the other emblazoned with a gold cross on a white background.

And in the center sat an old monster, a familiar one. Warped and twisted and hunched, with his canes leaning on the desk, the man Mayhew sat in the 'U' of the horseshoe, his eyes fixing Rotgoriel's the second he passed through the door.

Rotgoriel halted.

This man was the most dangerous creature he had encountered in Rich's world.

He was also Rich's master.

Rotgoriel had made sure of that. Not willingly, but it was the best of many bad options.

“Royal,” Mayhew broke the silence. “How long has it been?”

“Years,” Rotgoriel said, unmoving from the doorway.

“It seems like less, far less,” Mayhew sighed. “I'm getting too old. Sit down, boy. You're not going to die today.”

Rotgoriel sat, not daring to look away from Mayhew. It was a strange thing, having two eyes again. His field of vision was so much better, and yet here he was focused on one man as if he were the only golden coin in a world of lead.

Mayhew smiled, and it seemed a strange expression on that horrible face. No less for seeming genuine. “You're doubtless wondering a lot of things.”

“You would be correct on any day of the week,” Rotgoriel murmured.

“Yes. You're a thinker. A researcher. Someone who pokes and considers and contemplates. It's a damn good thing we got you out of the rabble, got you here. If we'd left you in the wild sooner or later you'd piss off the wrong pastor and disappear.” he frowned. “That did almost happen, of course.”

“I remember it well.”

“Then you'll be happy to know that the sins of the father, at least, have come home to roost. Justin Haskeen the Second's star is finally falling.” Mayhew's smile died. “I had hopes for him, once. But there's the problem with pastors. Sooner or later they believe their own hype.” He looked down, then up again, recapturing Rotgoriel's gaze. “That's why we tell them, you see. That's why one of us stands up there, at every graduating class, and tells the truth. That God does not exist. Because we have to remember it, even if the ones we put up in the public seats of power forget.”

“Is that the truth of this world? That no god exists here?” Rotgoriel asked.

Mayhew blinked. His face broke, showing honest astonishment. “I stood up there on stage, and told every last one of you that God wasn't real, and you ask...” he laughed. “So glad we lifted you up. That questioning mind would have rotted.” He glanced around. “Shut the door.”

When Rotgoriel was back in his seat, Mayhew sighed. “The truth of the matter is that I don't know. There could be a god, twenty or ten thousand or a million gods. If there's a hell it's waiting for me, that I know. And I damned sure won't be alone. But that doesn't matter.” The twisted man shrugged. “The simple fact is that people want to ascribe meaning to the universe, and they have a bad habit of seeing patterns and using them as evidence of their meaning. I think...” he stopped, and his eyes burned into Rotgoriel's once more. “...and if you repeat this to anyone, I will end you, boy. But I think there probably was a God long ago, who made everything then fucked off and died or moved on. Which is fair. He gave us all the tools we needed to make a good world for ourselves. Any evil or foolishness that hurts us isn't on him, just us.” He snorted. “Plenty enough of that to go around without heaping blame on something which might or might not be there.”

“I can see that,” Rotgoriel nodded, thoughts flicking back to Konol. Back to the chained dragon god, that he now (nominally) worshipped.

“But that's all beside the point. There are other reasons we shared the great 'truth' early. We're going to embark on a grand experiment. And Richard? This is going to be both a burden and an opportunity for you, because you're going to spearhead this.”

Rotgoriel brought his wearied brain away from thoughts of gods, and back to the world that mattered. One of them, anyway. “What do you wish of me?”

“We're going to be shifting things, at the camps. Haskeen's slow, crumbling fall will bring to light a lot of problems. Fortitude is going to have to scramble to recover from the fallout. And as the Minister of Fortitude, well... it'll be on me to provide visions and solutions. Some of which I have. But others... well.” he smiled. “I have a particular vision in mind, and you'll help me create it. You play Generica Online, you see. You're uniquely powerful there, aren't you?”

“Very much so,” Rotgoriel nodded. “But there is always someone bigger,” he forced himself to admit. It hurt. A lot.

“Then you'll be in a position to help. You see, I have camps full of heathens. We work them, use them as slaves. They make us money doing hard and dangerous labor. Many die. But with Haskeen's fall, we're going to have to clean things up for a bit. Ease up on that. Enter the world's largest growing virtual economy... do you see where I'm going with this?”

“No.” Rotgoriel said.

Mayhew looked disappointed, but only for a second. “You've had a long day. I'll spell it out for you. Gold and goods and services in game can be traded for quite a lot of real world money. It's literally money from nothing! It just takes time, time and people working to harvest resources, and hunt rare items, and sell their skills or even their bodies in some cases.” he grinned widely. “And best of all? It's in the darknet, in a place where we can run things as we please, and no one in the Ministry can complain about it because they're not supposed to be there in the first place. So long as we maintain plausible deniability, we can make more than enough capital to smooth all of this over with the other departments, and avoid losing face and influence.”

“I see... you want to make players of your captives.” Rotgoriel nodded. “Merciful, in its way. Generica is a somewhat fairer world.”

“Yes, and its allure will draw the youth. Young ones, who chafe against the system. Who have just been told that there is no god.” his lips twisted, as he opened a drawer in the table, and pulled out cube after plastic cube, lights dark on their sides. “Despite their suspicions, despite what I just put them through, the truth I told your peers earlier today hurt them. It hurt them deeply. Many will be vulnerable, looking for a distraction. Looking for something to focus on. And you, you will tell them of this game, slip them a darknet router to get them on safely, and bring them to you in-game. You will forge a corps of volunteers, and raise them, make them powerful.”

Rotgoriel began to see.

“And when you are ready to move the camps to Generica...”

“We'll have a staff of high-leveled overseers and managers ready to assume control, and ensure a smooth transition.” Mayhew's yellow, crooked teeth clicked together like a trap closing. “Orderly. I'll be there myself, as I can. I've been building a separate power base, in a region that my staff tells me is near your old stomping grounds.”

“I can do this,” Rotgoriel nodded. “Though it will be strange to have a dragon minding so many humans.”

“Well, they won't all be human. But you won't be alone. Cole will be working with you. He's the second-most experienced operative we have in the game right now.”

“Moreso than Cutter?” Rotgoriel asked.

Mayhew froze. His face smoothed out, lost all expression.

Rotgoriel waited.

“Now why would you bring up Cutter?” Mayhew asked.

“He is in the game.”

“And how do you know that?”

Rotgoriel felt a shiver down his spine. The room had gone cold, and it had nothing to do with whatever machinery processed the air. Mayhew's eyes promised death or worse if he spoke wrongly.

“You sent Cutter to me. With a task to burn a village. We haven't, yet, but—”

“I didn't send Cutter to you,” said Mayhew. “And you will tell me everything that happened when you met him, immediately, or I will have you shot where you stand, boy.”