PART TWENTY-THREE

MPD: 114

No Stoopid Questions

The next day, emails shot back and forth with Valentine in the middle, stripping out everyone's personal info. She asked permission to send my dungeon management essay to the Swords. I agreed, of course, despite it being written in a humiliatingly earnest tone, because then they'd understand the rules of being a dungeon and not pester me with stupid questions.

The stupid questions came thick and fast:

* If the dungeon can't make changes when people are inside, how can it create a violin or a clipboard? (He can generate loot to give heroes; he can reload a trap but not repair one. Also, we use the pronoun 'he'. Come on dudes, it's not one of the hard ones.)

* How can 386 move itself when it's redesigning the dungeon? (He just can. End of thread.)

* If 386 takes intellectual property so seriously, why does it let you use 80s megahits? (As a one-off/because it's funny/because he trusts you not to be a NARC.)

* Why haven't you done 'arcade game X' yet? (Because shut your mouth.)

* In terms of resources, would it be better for us to spend our hours scavenging for wood/stone etc or just hanging out in the dungeon? (Okay, not every question was stupid.)

* What did I mean about beefcakes? (I never mentioned beef or cakes.)

There was also one person asking why we were using email like it was 'the late nineteen hundreds' but I only saw that because Valentine had forgotten to delete it from the re:re:re: bit of one exchange. Whoever it was didn't press the issue, or they'd sorted it out in another channel.

The only person who didn't contribute was Charles. I had a bad feeling about that. A sort of premonition of doom. Like he'd be the one to bring all this crashing down. REMEMBER THIS MOMENT, READER, AS A TESTAMENT TO MY POWERS OF PREDICTION.

Then there was some discussion about min-maxing. Should the Swords log in one after the other so there'd always be a little extra dungeon defense? I said the best thing was keeping motivated and going alone every day might get boring so they should go in pairs or all together, whichever was most fun. Adam decided they'd split into 2 groups, which would let us cover 3 hours. It took me ages to realise that they meant Valentine and I would be the third group. Obviously they didn't see me as a potential rival and were happy for me to spend time with her.

Under Pressure

I can't really describe the maelstrom that I was experiencing. The number of people who knew about 386 was growing exponentially. If there had ever been any doubt that other players would want to visit Austeralia, there wasn't any more. It was going to work. AND with Valentine's idea we'd probably be able to keep 386 safe overnight. It wasn't just a case of thinking up new games. Now I had to think up new traps, too, experiment with monsters, and manage my little team. And solve a certain mystery...

I typed out a mail:

Description Impossible

Your quest, should you choose to accept it, is to find this man. Cince Polka Jr.

[face.jpg]

[I don't have a photo and the man's face is literally impossible to describe. I'll ask 386 to leave his picture up on the wall in the cinema room. That shouldn't count as communication so it should be allowed even when I'm not there.]

Maybe we can all spend some time poking around the forums and stuff? See what we can find that way. The guy must be a character who appears in other quests, or he's the assassin of choice for some rich gas hold.

The first reply was from Valentine:

His face is generally rectangular. Long and lean. His features are all angles and shadows. Sherlock Holmes-esque opium recesses under prominent cheekbones. Dark brown eyes, watchful and alert. A thin, wispy moustache and an inverted triangle goatee. Ears the length of his nose, which has a slight depression near the top. No scars, no jewels, no tattoos. NO DIMPLES NOT CUTE. He's 5'10", long and lean again. Dual daggers. Watch out for poisons. - STR + DEX. Stealth skills; moves smooth. Big lawful evil energy. If he wasn't an NPC, he'd be working for Nestle.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

I replied:

Like I said, impossible to describe.

Damocles chimed in:

Leave this with me.

Busy People Are Happy People

The next few days were great. It was one thing watching NPCs react to my new games but watching Boyz II Mensa get stuck in was even better. And now I had Valentine to bounce ideas off. The two of us settled into a routine of logging in, checking in on Lennie, then watching 'the reel' of highs and lows from the previous 24 hours. Then we'd chat about traps and monsters and let 386 talk about numbers. Then it'd be half an hour of brainstorming new games. We tended to come up with one idea each per day, and 386 would create both and we'd see who had the better idea.

Meanwhile I'd almost totally forgotten about Luga, the dogsbody I'd hired to bring logs to the dungeon and arrows to the fletcher. He came to the dungeon and 386 told me he was at the door.

Valentine and I went out to talk to him. I hadn't mentioned this little side hustle to her, so I explained on the way. It didn't take long.

"Mister," he said. "I've been looking for you for days! I've got cash for you. It's burning a hole in my pocket."

"Not to worry," I said. "Just give it to me when you see me."

"People can hear me clinking," he whinged. "I'm a cash-rich man with no combat Skills. It's not safe. I'm not a bank."

"Here," I said, taking the coins he'd offered me and throwing them into the dungeon. "Just throw them here. They'll be safe."

"What?"

"Think of it as a giant piggy bank."

Luga's eyes rolled up while he checked the meaning of the phrase. "The dungeon is a bank?"

"Hmm," I said, wondering if I could do for coins what I'd done for logs. "Give me one second." I pottered away and asked 386 if he minded storing my cash. He didn't. And was there a way other people could keep their money inside him? There was, but what would be the point? He couldn't use it in the coin pushers. He'd prefer more logs. I saw his point and dropped it. To Luga I said, "It's my personal bank. Not taking new customers at this time."

"Oh," he said. He didn't seem happy about any of it. "What if someone picks the coins up? You'll blame me for cheating you."

"They're already in storage," I said. "Safely tucked away in the vault."

IMPORTANT PLOT POINT KLAXON!

AWOOOGA! AWOOOGA!

As far as I can tell, this was the first time I mentioned vaults. Remember I mentioned a heist? Now put two and two together, you dummy.

(If you can't work it out, that's not my vault. Vault. Geddit?)

Luga stared at the floor. The coins had, indeed, gone. I could see him doing some calculations, seeing if there was any way he could use this knowledge to his benefit. Like me, he didn't get very far. But you can't keep an entrepreneur down. He looked around conspiratorially and lowered his voice. "I was wondering about this arrow thing."

"What about it?"

He peered into the entrance. "You've got all goblins or whomsoever in there, right? Making things for you?"

"Something like that," I said. "Totally safe. If there are goblins they won't be going out rampaging of an evening."

"Oh, I wasn't worried about that. I just wondering what else was possible. Ferinstance. The fletcher would take twice as many arrows. I asked him. It's just another log to put on my cart. We could do twice as much trade for almost the same amount of work. I'm willing if you are. And if your goblins can work with feathers that's even more profit."

"I know. I'd need feathers, though."

"Smart fella like yerself will work it out, hiymsure. And if you've got enough goblins we could do more. Chairs. Tables. Maybe they can work metal? Swords? Cutlery? Magic rings? Healing potions? Farm golems?"

I smiled. I'd had all these thoughts myself. Well, except healing potions and farm golems. "We can do more than we're doing if you have good ideas. But we can't put anyone out of a job, or they'll come and kill the goblins. See the problem?"

His face lit up. He realised he was dealing with an equally suspicious and cynical person. "I got you. A little bit here and there, that's the ticket?"

"That's the ticket."

Valentine said, "You've got a cart? You drive around the city looking for odd jobs to do?"

"That's right mum."

"Can you look out for scraps? Bits of wood, iron?"

"Sure. Pay me in splinters and filings will you?"

I stepped in. It was another great idea. "Bring us stuff you find lying around. We'll see what you bring and pay you in stuff you can sell. We can work out the rates as we go. It's not going to make you rich but it's better than a punch in the face."

He sucked his teeth in. "Has to be pristine, does it?"

I wandered off to ask 386, then came back. "No, it can be a bit rotten or damaged. As long as it still counts as wood or metal or whatever it's supposed to be. We'll extract the good stuff from it and pay you for that."

He got a faraway look on his face. Later I learned that he went to the owners of burned and collapsed buildings and offered to clear the rubble for a small fee, then dumped the stuff in the dungeon and got paid at both ends. He was a little diamond; I should have used him more than I did.

"I have a question," said Valentine. She described Polka Jr. to him and asked if he knew who he was. Luga didn't.

"Good chat," I said, but Luga didn't want to clear off just yet. "What? What is it?"

"I was just wondering... Can I meet 'em?"

"Who?"

"The goblins."

"You want to meet a goblin?" asked Valentine. "Why?"

He sighed. "Long story," he said, preparing to tell it. There was one million percent going to be a quest at the end!

I put my hand up. "I'm afraid it isn't actually goblins." His face fell, but he was a resilient dude. He shrugged it off.

As we watched him walk away, Valentine asked me to explain about the feathers.

"Oh that? That's connected to what I was doing at the bank the first day I met you. It's a no-go. I don't have anywhere near enough money."

"Money?" she said, regarding me like a cat regards the new toy you just bought it - with complete disdain. "We've got loads of money. What are we buying?"

I stared at her like she was a cat who'd dropped a dead mouse onto my crocs. "What do you mean you've got loads of money?"

She stared at me like I was trying to feed her dry food when it was time for the wet food. "Bain... Do you seriously not know who we are?"

I regarded her the way you'd regard a cat who looked like your cat but, on closer inspection, wasn't, and yet was in your house eating your cat's premium wet food. "If you're not Errol Flynn's granddaughter why would I give a flying fig?"

She put her hand over her mouth and giggled freely. "Fair enough. But tomorrow we're going shopping."