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We made it about twenty miles before I realized we had a problem. Two, actually. Those problems were food and sleep.

Survival of the Fittest or Purgatory or whatever it was called had biological needs built in. Eating, sleeping, and bathroom breaks were all required. Why people wanted to watch this stuff, I had no idea. But sure enough, when we eventually decided to stop and make camp, there were over a thousand people watching me dig a hole and take a shit like a cat in a litterbox. Some of them left helpful comments. Others left ratings, or criticized my performance.

“You’re all freaks,” I muttered internally, kicking dirt back over the latrine. “Fucking creeps.”

We picked a sheltered grotto to set up for the day, aiming to travel by night. The terrain around this patch of the Jungle was rocky, difficult for humans to navigate by foot. There was plenty of shelter, at least. Waterfalls to disguise noise. Babbling creeks I used to mask our scents. I held Angel to my back with the punch-puds and jumped from tree to tree when possible, leaving no trace the Pigs could follow.

Eventually, we came to rest on a small level shelf of rock with a burbling waterfall-fed pond. I couldn’t craft, but Angel could. And as it turned out, she was real good at it. I watched enviously as she took raw wood and did some kind of interpretive crafting dance, following directions I couldn’t see. The result was a camouflaged shelter big enough to sleep two, a campfire, and a range of primitive tools worked from hide, sinew, wood and knapped stone.

“You know what? I’m jealous you can craft.” I sat back on the base of my tail like a kangaroo, picking my teeth with one claw as I watched her work. “Seethingly jealous. I want to make stuff.”

She had to pause briefly to sign, so she did so between arrowheads. “You can’t craft?”

“Well, technically, I can kinda futz it. But I don’t get any EXP, and my tools don’t work like yours do.”

“Tools? Ugh. This is just rock-bottom newbie survival gear. The Hell Pigs took my good bronze Pick, my knife, everything.” Angel fretted. When not signing, she expertly worked a [Hammerstone] over chips of flint, knapping them into arrowheads. She’d already made a bow and a stone spear.

I smacked myself in the head with one tentacle and opened my menu. "Wait... hang on. You know what? I might have some stuff from the Hell Pigs you can use."

Angel made a face at mention of the Hell Pigs, but waited as I scoured the contents of my Inventory. There was a lot of junk. There were also two metal tools: one [Bronze Hatchet] and a [Bronze Knife]. I pulled them out of the ether and disgorged them onto the ground.

"Obsidian sword, bow, stone pickaxe, knife, human skin... wait. Human skin?" I not so discreetly pulled that back into my menu. "Oops. Anyway, let's see here... you need some Flax Thread?"

"Yes. Please. I can use it to make arrows." Angel picked everything up, regarding the [Primitive Shortbow] with relief. "Don't suppose you have any feathers?"

I replied by farting out the stack of 52 [Pheasant Feathers] I'd been carrying around since my one and only proper meal.

"Thanks. This makes everything so much easier." She let out a tense breath. "This bow will be a lifesaver. I wish we had enough metal for bronze-tipped arrows."

“No big deal,” I replied. “Any Hell Pigs that come here are gonna have to go through me.”

Angel made a face. “You’re strong, sure, but you don’t have a trainer and you don’t have a Lesser Legion to enhance your abilities. Don’t underestimate the Pigs.”

“Why? Think I can’t handle a few Conan the Barbarian rejects?”

“I don't think you can handle an army of them, no,” Angel signed flatly. “They’re one of the two alpha clans on the server. There’s hundreds of them.”

“Only hundreds?” I puffed my chest out.

She rolled her eyes. “Put your ego away and stop talking to me. I need to work.”

I harrumphed, but with her eyes averted, she couldn’t watch me flounce. So I went to all fours, padded away, and took stock of my character menu.

There was a lot to look at. First up, I had the Mandala: HRIDAYA, the Heart of Earth. Anything with a name in all-caps had to be important. I had 15 Ability Points to spend on fancy moves. I also had twelve messages, 388 new subscribers, and my new Patrons: Cold_Fox and the charmingly-named Buh-Buh_Bacon. The game had awarded me some Tribute Boxes, plus I had one Copper Subscriber Tribute from Bacon, and one Bronze Patron Tribute from my mysterious vulpine benefactor. I had no idea what the different kinds of tributes signified, or if there was any difference between subscriber boxes and patron tributes.

"Chorus: I got some questions for you," I thought out toward the sky, the appropriate location for what amounted to the god of the Jungle. "What the hell is a Mandala, and how do I use it?"

[Mandalas are the keys to unlock advancement through Survival of the Fittest.] Chorus's voice seemed a little dispassionate and cooler than it had before. [They are the physical embodiment of spiritual power, carried like seeds within the bodies of the strongest monsters in this realm: the Daeva.]

[As Gladiators defeat Daeva, they are able to claim powers unavailable to normal humans. Their Legions are also enhanced, gaining boosts to their abilities and stats, as well as extra ability points. To ascend from realm to realm, you must collect the mandalas of the Daeva guarding that realm. The number of Daeva per realm varies. In The Jungle, there are three: Vanara the Devourer, the Earth of Earth; Karkinos the Creator, the Water of Earth, and Rachini the Enlightener, the Fire of Earth.]

My eyes narrowed. "Am I going to be able to make full use of this mandala? What will I get: superpowers or Legion enhancements?"

[Try it and find out, darling. There is no precedent or rules base to which I can refer.]

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

I rumbled to myself thoughtfully. Chorus at least SEEMED to be subordinate to some greater authority. That authority was likely this Paragon Society, or managers that the Society outsourced to. But who the hell had the time, manpower and resources to collect and process this much human data and run an illegal EdenFRAME? And if they had the power to do that, then why hadn't human admins removed me from The Jungle, or reuploaded me to Dimitri’s specifications?

"Alright, next question. What's the deal with tributes?" I shelved that problem for another day, frowning at the shiny giftbox icons dancing and bobbing in my inventory.

[Tributes are loot boxes, which are gifted on the completion of certain milestones within Survival of the Fittest, or are gifted by fans and patrons. There are also some tributes which may be hunted within the realms of Purgatory. They are located in secret, difficult to reach places.]

[Tributes come in ten tiers: Copper, Bronze, Iron, Steel, Silver, Gold, Tungsten, Titanium, Platinum, and Palladium. Subscriber tributes are twice as valuable as any tribute awarded by the system. Patron tributes are three times as valuable. In other words, a Copper Subscriber Tribute is as valuable as a system-issued Bronze Tribute. A Bronze Patron Tribute will contain materials, gear, and resources available in system-awarded Steel tributes, and so on.]

[Tributes are vital to the success of Gladiators in Survival of the Fittest, as they contain equipment that may be normally unavailable in the current Realm. In the first realm, The Jungle, the only metals able to be mined from the terrain are copper, tin, arsenic, and lead. There is no iron. All iron or steel in circulation in The Jungle is derived from tributes.]

[Patrons have three exclusive gift tiers available only to them: Superstar, Royal, and Divine. These tributes contain unique items of extraordinary quality. Only the most beloved and worthy Gladiators have ever received such gifts, and due to their expense, Patrons able to afford them may request and even participate in special events with their favored champion.]

[All tributes, even the lowliest, cost significant amounts of money. I recommend you publicly express gratitude to your Patrons by name. Frequently.]

"Screw that." I scowled, flipping back to my Abilities. “They can go jerk themselves off. I’m not doing it for them.”

[You do know that your viewers are able to hear an automatic translation of your telepathic and sign language conversations?]

“Wait. What?” My head jerked back. "These fuckers are in my HEAD? They can hear what I'm fucking THINKING?"

[Mmhmn. The thoughts and conversations which do not compromise spectator experience, that is.]

Raw, primordial fury boiled up through my limbs. These fuckers weren't just watching me eat, shit and fight to live, they were listening in to my thoughts? Fuck that. Fuck a whole lot of that. "Eat shit and die, Chorus."

[You truly do have a preoccupation regarding anus-related topics. Unfortunately, the Jungle lacks psychoanalysts to provide context.]

[I have redacted several of your most recent comments as a courtesy to prevent subscriber attrition. A one-time favor to you, given your unique situation.]

[Now, unless you have anything else for me, toodle-oo and have a pleasant day.]

Before I could redact Chorus a new orifice, the AI's presence vanished, leaving me shuddering with pent up rage.

"All of you can get fucked," I thought at my audience. “Every single one of you.”

Getting mad and staying mad felt good, but it wasn't going to help me get myself out of this mess. I shoved the rage down and refocused on my Inventory. I had five Tributes to open, and even though I was pissed enough to snap someone's neck if they looked at me wrong, I still liked presents. Enough that I figured I probably had an online shopping problem before I’d died.

Copper Arena Tribute

* Pemmican x 10

* Stone Knife

* Flint Arrows x 100

* Rope x 50m

* Recipe: Fish Trap

* Crude Waterskin

* Oil x 10

* Torch x 15

* Tanned Hide x 10

Vanara Award Box

* Trophy of Vanara

* 150 Copper Coins

* Venom Claws (85-110 damage, Acid Venom, Bleed)

* Masterwork Leather Gauntlets

* Flesh of the Devourer x 100

* Devourer Venom

* Leather Backpack

Silver Fame Tribute

* Schematic: Cob Buildings

* Schematic: Treehouse Platform

* Schematic: Ghillie Suit

* Raptor Skull Helmet

Copper Subscriber Tribute

* Oil x 25

* Silk Tent

* Bedroll x 3

* Compass

* Camouflage Paint

Bronze Patron Tribute

* 190 Iron Coins

* Average Rifle (110-132 damage)

* Rifle Bullets x 45

* Schematic: Small boat

* Schematic: Dart Trap

* Schematic: Pressure Plate

* Private Letter (View in Message Center)

From what I'd seen of the Jungle already, this was some life-changing loot - for Angel. For me? Not so much. Then I had a brief mental image of Noodles the Destroyer running into battle against the Hell Pigs, a loaded gun or poisoned sword in each tentacle. Hmm.

I pulled the Venom Claws out of my Inventory. They were a pair of curved, exotic-looking daggers forged out of dark grey metal. The razor-sharp edges were paler than the rest of the blade, and as I watched, they began to sweat a bright green coating of slimy poison. I experimentally swished and stabbed with them, but my body just wasn’t really built for wielding human-sized weapons. So much for that.

Next up were the messages. I put the knives back in my Inventory, steeled myself, and checked my inbox. The letter from Dimitri was still sitting there, the title dulled out from having been opened. The first new message was from Buh_Buh_Bacon.

“Wow! Really digging the fact you guys are implementing intelligent Legions now. Normally don’t sub noobs in the Jungle but you’re one of a kind. Great acting, great play, really enjoying following you – keep it up!”

I blinked at it several times. This message was… kind of nice, actually. It looked like it had been written by a normal person watching their favorite TV show. Someone with a degree, an office job, or both. I figured the kind of guys who wanted to watch a horse-sized monster pop a squat beside a river were the same kind of screwed up shitbags who ran this place, but Mr. Bacon here read like any old upstanding citizen writing a fan letter to his favorite streamer.

I read it again. Then it hit me. Chorus had just told me that it redacted comments and thoughts that 'compromised spectator experience'. So… what? The AI censored content about the real world, our place in the VR, and potentially anything else? An AI that powerful could also make running deepfakes of us, and in those deepfakes, we would say anything the Paragon Society wanted the audience to hear. That meant the average viewer of Survival of the Fittest potentially had no idea that people like me and Angel had been trafficked into this mess. They thought we were volunteers, temporarily jacking our wetware into the game like esports athletes to compete for fame and glory. If we died, haha – too bad. The audience figured we'd wake up in our virtupods and everything would be fine. It was all good, clean, gory fun. A chill passed through my guts and gripped them tightly as the implications unfolded, one after the other. These Paragon Society guys were monsters. Smart, evil monsters.

Still reeling, I read the other messages. Most of them were like my comments – semi-literate trolling. One Hell Pigs fan chewed me out for killing Razor, the gladiator he followed. One was just an all-caps rant of HACKER HACKER HACKER over and over again. A Nigerian prince apparently had 1.5 billion dollars waiting for me in a Swiss Bank account. Another lady had the most AMAZING work from home opportunity for me once I logged out. The rest of the messages were of similar caliber, except for the last one: the Private Letter from Cold_Fox.

Something was different about this message. It had a little padlock icon beside it. I wondered if that meant that it was truly private: encrypted in such a way that viewers, and perhaps even Chorus, were unable to see it.

I opened it, and growled in surprise. Cold_Fox had sent me one line of what, to most people, would look like a sheet of hieroglyphics. But it wasn’t an Ancient Language I was looking at – it was sign language, in written form.

"Hang in there, Vance."

Vance.

The rush of memories struck me like a hammer blow to the back of the head.