With the three of us pooling our lootboxes together, we had enough metal for a lot of weapons. A LOT of weapons. By the time we were done, we had an arsenal capable of outfitting seventy players. We had guns. We had traps. We had two brand-spanking-new [Vickers Machine Turrets] to replace the junk turret we’d lost in Karkinos’ lair. The Vickers were an advanced Schema from the Fourth Realm, normally unavailable to anyone other than Sponsoreds. It had come out of the most expensive box, sent to me by the mysterious Yosano Akiko. When I asked Doc and Angel how much a Steel quality box cost to send to a player in Malae, they both got that kind of awkward guilty look that read ‘a lot’. But there were no notes from Akiko, no communication other than the gifts of mass murder: iron, oil, bullets and the programmable auto-machine gun recipe. So I sent her a sincere thank-you note and promised to put them to good use by filling Centurions with lead.

The next morning, we abandoned the base and left everything but our most precious items and the armory. We rode out east, with me and Lulu pulling a two-wheeler buggy and Angel and Doc riding with the gear. Angel, clever thing that she was, had designed some quick-release traces that could be cut to free me if I was needed for combat.

The further east we went, the tamer the land became. The west of Malae was wild and high and rocky, cloaked in dense jungle; but past Oil Town on the side of the island dominated by the Centurions, the land gave way to great open plains. Here and there, watchtowers and square forts dotted the savannah, looming out of the heat haze. As the evening descended, giant thunderheads rolled in from over the distant ocean, spitting purple lightning and rumbling with thunder so strong it shook the earth beneath us. The rain slashed across the plains like a scythe. Angel and Doc spent a damp, miserable night in a camouflaged pup tents without a fire. Lulu and I endured the rain with only grass for cover, snoozing as much as the weather allowed for.

It was still sheeting rain by dawn, the sun a distant orange smudge beneath the clouds. We were up and away at first light, my feet splashing on every step as I pulled the buggy at a steady pace, heading for the foothills south of Fortuna. Doc turned out to be useful, because he knew the land: on his direction, we were able to stay about five miles from all marked roads and trails on the map to avoid patrols. And oh boy, were there patrols. We had to stop twice to wait out gangs of Centurions, hiding in ditches and thickets as squads of gladiators and their Legions and dinosaurs rode by, jingling and clattering. The closer we got to Fortuna, the more of them we found. But up in the hills - rocky, steep, and precarious - we were alone.

"Wonder how it feels to be one of those NPC motherfuckers," I said, picking my way along a narrow valley ridge trail. The cliff swept down into a beautiful turquoise lake. It was picturesque, like the wilderness of northern Colorado in the summer. Indian Paintbrush, orchids and bluebells waved among the grass: blue, yellow, white and red. And in the distance... smog. Filthy black smoke rising from the slag heaps of the mines from which the Iron Centurions got their name. "The people who fall into line for these alpha clans, they have to know they aren't getting out of the game. They're never seeing that platinum FRAME, or any FRAME. Yet they serve the bigshots. I don't fucking get it."

"Some of them probably hope they'll make it, the way people hope they'll become billionaires if they can just code the perfect AI to manage asteroid miners or whatever," Angel signed. Doc and her were ahead of me on foot, walking so I didn't risk overbalancing underneath the heavy load I was carrying. The two humans added around 15% to the draw weight. Even a 15% percent difference had a huge effect on a trail barely four foot wide. "It's possible, but really unlikely. The rest are probably like how I was when I first got here. You try to make it yourself to start with, but a month of hiding from cannibal raiders and eating snakes and bugs will beat the specialness out of you. Especially when you start aging because the system decides you're not participating in the game enough and it wants to open your slot up to someone else unlucky enough to end up here."

"Ooonn..." Lulu made a sad little sound from behind me.

"Fair. But even if I wasn't a monster, I don't think I'd join any of the factions here. It means accepting what this place is like."

"Yeah, but you're not a typical person. You were some kind of agent, so you probably had a ton of training. Even if you don't remember it, your body does," Angel signed. "Like staying calm in a fight. Handling violence in general. I once watched a new player spawn on the beach. He saw a little velociraptor the size of a German Shepherd, screamed, and ran away from it. Do you know what raptors do when things run away from them?"

I snorted. "They chase them."

"Exactly. So this naked guy runs away making noise, trips over a rock, and smashes his head on it. The dinosaur catches up to him and rips his throat out. One life gone within, I dunno... three minutes of being here?" Angel paused to put eyes on the trail, then returned to signing at me as she shuffled along. "Half the people here aren't from a country where there's a lot of guns in the hands of civilians. They don't know how to shoot a bow or throw a spear. And if you look at all the big-shots here, they all have military or criminal backgrounds. Kaban, maybe Targent. Clive and the other guy that was going to sacrifice me."

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Razor."

"Yeah, him.” She shrugged. "But my point is more like, if you DIDN'T have training, what would have been your first move here?"

I thought back to my first disorientated moments on the beach, and the mad flight from the Hyperboar. Looking back, my chat had been right. I probably could have taken it and won, though not running would have left me wide open for the Hell Pigs "Guess I see your point. But I wouldn't have stayed. I'd use the organization for resources and training and get the fuck out. I don't owe a piece of shit like Kaban anything."

"Yeah. But I know when I was training, we didn't know Kaban as Kaban. He was just the Imperator, and he was supposed to be a bigshot hero bringing civilization to the island. I didn't believe it, but some of the people in my platoon really bought into it. I think they wanted to believe there was someone trying to do good in this place." Angel let out a small, self-deprecatory sound of amusement. "Kaban really gets how social engineering works. The bad boys and girls go to the Hell Pigs to let out their demons, and the goodie-two-shoes types get drawn to the Centurions because they feel like they're making a difference. Kind of sick, when you think about it."

Our silent conversation came to an end as we found the end of the trail and took the difficult, slow climb to one of the few outlooks not camped with a Centurions watchtower. I hauled our collective asses up to the ledge so we could look over into one of the grimmest scenes I'd witnessed in this place so far.

"Jesus," I thought to Angel and Lulu. "That's a fucking concentration camp."

Doc sighed tersely through his teeth. “Well… welcome to the Ironside Mines. I’d hoped never to see this place again.

“Again?” I asked him.

He nodded, lips pulling into a pensive line. “When I first arrived on the island, the Centurions were camping the spawn. We were rounded up. Most of my ‘creche’, so to speak’, ended up in those mines. Once the attending Vigiles learned I was a doctor, I was given a choice: join them, or serve as a medic in Camp Ironside. I chose to serve. Not my proudest decision, but I was able to help people as I could. I… know where they will be holding Mercy. If she’s here, they’ll be torturing her in the high security area. That metal-clad structure, behind the bunkhouses.”

The worst thing about [Camp Ironside] was just how bland it was on the surface: rows of wooden longhouses built between double-layered palisade walls in a big roundish gravel clearing not far from the entry to the mines. But the longer you looked, the more squalor you noticed. The more guards you saw, patrolling with dinosaurs on leashes like dogs. There was a tiny caged yard that ran alongside each ‘bunkhouse’, where slaves in heavy bronze collars and grey sackcloth garments idled listlessly. They were obviously aged from inactivity in the game, thin and starved. All of them, male and female, were too tired to even talk to each other, let alone exercise. If they COULD talk. I remembered Targent's tongue-cut slave and shuddered.

"Awful." Angel signed the word with one hand, flicking it up and away from her face with a grimace of disgust. "I really hope the slaves inside the mines are in better condition. And look."

She pointed at the huge Legion that came lumbering up out of the mine - the largest I'd ever seen, bigger than the Skarpo. It had three heads and the body of a jacked bull terrier, but the resemblance to Cerberus was only superficial. It was more draconic than canine, with dull silver skin and a mane of pale red whisker-like hairs. A burly, capable looking man strode beside it, while behind him straggled a chain-gang of slaves carrying baskets on poles. The baskets were full of raw ore. These people looked a little healthier than the ones in the long-houses, and their sackcloth was dyed a bright, lurid orange that made them easier to see. They were no less miserable than the ones in grey, though. A second officer kept pace with the chaingang, using a long whip to lick the ankles of anyone who straggled.

"Interesting. Different classes of slaves." My eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "The ones inside of the mines look less tame than the longhouse ones… I’m seeing a lot of Pigs tribal tattoos. Our Maroons have got to be down there."

"I see the high security area." Angel voiced. She had her binoculars out now, peering at the encampment while Lulu slithered restlessly around my feet. "There's a smaller, heavy reinforced building that looks like a prison. They spent iron on the bars and parts of the doors... whoever they keep in there, they want them to stay.”

“Yes.” Doc nodded his agreement. “That’s… where they break people into tacito, tongue-cut slaves. It’s not just the removal of the tongue that makes those. They strip the person to their last life and torture them until they will do anything to make the pain stop.”

“Great.” I followed their line of sight. She was right. Not only that, but the guards roaming around that building - within its own fence line - were carrying guns. "If Merc’s in there, we can’t go straight in. We need to free the others and secure the mines first before we try to crack the lockbox."

“Yes,” Doc said. “A strong fighting force has the best chance of tearing down the camp. While we were preparing, I made as many healing items as I could… if anyone is injured, I’ll be able to help. But I can tell you now that the mine slaves will be more fearful than you expect. Without exception, they’re taken down to one life to deter escape.”

"Of course they are." Angel sighed as she turned, her eyes hard with fresh determination - and worry. "So… secure the mine, then break out the high security area. I still no idea how we're going to get down there."

"You leave that to Mineshaft Triangulator Noodles," I replied, pulling my lips back in a makeshift grin. "I'm not a PhD for nothing."