I canceled the lease on the apartment by the park and got a refund of 100 credits, making me suddenly flush with cash. Fifty of those credits I gave to Rick for the spare room in their apartment. They insisted on having me, and I saw no reason not to. These guys, I’ll admit, they weren’t the sort of folks I would hang with in the real world, but I liked them, and I think they liked me too. Later, we were back at Anchor’s, taking in the first round of beers. Everyone was waiting for the next quarterfinal in the Battle Clash, but before that was on, the jukebox ruled supreme, playing tunes that were right up my alley—Stones, Creedence, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Proper music, that was.
Rick and the others taught me more about the leveling system of the game. One way to make massive level jumps was to join in tournaments, where the Battle Clash was the main event. It was tiered so lower levels could join and fight each other; it wasn’t televised, but it was good XP, and the loot was phenomenal. Other ways to gain XP were regular dungeon diving and farming harder and harder dungeons. That was the safe route—you always knew what you would face. There were maps to buy where the best dungeons to farm were marked and what level mobs one would face in there. That was the slowest way, though. Next to tournaments, campaigns were the best way of gaining XP fast, but a campaign could hold you occupied for weeks. You had to sleep out in the open, uncomfortable on the ground, trekking hazardous routes, some even going up into the snowcapped mountains. For that, you needed to gather a party. All XP was shared, as was the loot. High-level campaigns dropped legendary artifacts and, sometimes, even mythical ones, which were more than golden because the number one way to speed-level was to get your hands on a weapon or artifact that was far above your character level and use that to plow through content, racking up XP and loot. The guys often got bogged down in those fantasies, opening a box and out popped a Mythical Sword of Burning. It could happen, they said, but the odds of it were oh, so small.
I was concerned with another matter entirely.
“Why are you guys doing this?”
“Why?” Michael asked. “Because it’s Dungeons and Dragons, but for real. Why wouldn’t we do it? You know there’s a dragon up in those mountains. It’s Aeon, the Red Dragon of the East. Just like that. A dragon, circling a mountain. We can go up there and encounter a draaagon. I can’t understand why everyone isn’t in here.”
“Well, for starters,” Rick said. “The NeuroNexus machines we got aren’t the ones that are retailed at the stores.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You bought from a bum waiting outside the store?”
“Yeah, everyone did. That hey-misser! guy. For some reason, it seems important for those running this show that a certain kind of people play the game.”
“Seems like it. What I want to know is why. Why are we the ones chosen to play the game, and for what reason?”
“You won’t get answers until much later in the game, and I don’t think you ever will get all of them. We’re chosen to play this game for a reason, yes. I, too, want to know why. What we’re using to play is pure future tech. Anyone with half a brain and at least a grain of curiosity wants to know why this is happening and why we’re the ones doing it.”
I nodded. Rick pretty much nailed down my own reasons to be here.
“I don’t understand why this isn’t a bigger thing,” I said. “The game’s been advertised for months, and even if they haven’t sold that many consoles yet, people have them already. We’re proof of that. Why isn’t this causing worldwide panic? Why isn’t anyone talking about it?”
“Well, why aren’t you talking about it?” Rick asked.
That left me dumbfounded. Yes, why hadn’t I been calling the press and the police and the CIA when discovering what my video game actually was? Because… it had me enthralled, and I wanted to discover what secrets it held. If I brought it to the police, it would be taken away from me and end up in Area 51 or a place like that. The mere thought of losing the console made me itch with panic inside.
“It’s weird,” Michael said. “I tried to show it to my best friend, but it was like his brain didn’t register the otherworldly qualities of the machine. He thought it was cool-looking, but that was the only reaction I got from him. I asked him if he thought it looked anything like the machines down at the mall, those with the plastic helmets. He was like, yeah, maybe it looks a bit different. Maybe you got a European machine or something? It’s like the brains of normies just blank when they look at it.”
“Did you let him try it?” Mort asked.
“Yeah, and the most obvious thing happened. It didn’t start up.”
Michael was silent for a while before saying:
“I’m not aiming at toppling Raker Toth as Mayor. I don’t have it in me, but what I can do is grind, grind, grind, and slowly rise through the levels. You will never see me on TV, fighting in the Battle Clash. Most of those guys get snuffed out; too much brawn and too little brain. That’s not my way.”
“Yes,” Mort agreed. “It’s brains, not brawn, that will win in the end, that much I’m sure of.”
“Yeah,” I said, but my mind was already wandering.
It had stopped at toppling the Mayor. That was the highest station a player could achieve, and if there were answers to get, the Mayor would have them.
“So, there’s no one in the game that is higher than the Mayor?” I asked, just to get it confirmed.
Rick tilted his head and shot out his lower lip.
“Hmm, maybe. Did Alara tell you about the Golden Ones?”
I shook my head.
“Strange. That lady seems to have a different script every time. You need to know about the Golden Ones.”
“So, tell me.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m in the process of it. The Golden Ones aren’t NPCs, but they aren’t players either. You’ll recognize them through the golden aura surrounding them. It’s not blatantly obvious unless you share a dark space with one of them, and pray you never will.”
“Dangerous?”
“Could be. The other thing that sets them apart is that they have their names displayed, but their level indicator shows only ---. Some say that indicates they were once players but hit level 100 and were ascended to another realm. If you ask me, I think that’s the most obvious explanation. The creepy thing about the Golden Ones, though, is that we, the players, are to them what NPCs are to the Mayor. Toys. They can kill any one of us on the spot without any repercussions. So, never talk back to one of them; try to never even be seen by one of them—because who knows what whims can pass through their minds. To us, they are digital gods, and gods can be cruel.”
“Shit. That is important information.”
“It is. And if one were ever to come into Anchor’s, you simply can’t do what you did when Vinger provoked you. You need to keep your mouth shut and your eyes lowered.”
A silence followed, everyone contemplating the power of the Golden Ones. It was Mort who broke it.
“So, we’re running the dungeon tomorrow again?”
Rick looked from face to face and shrugged.
“Guess so.”
“If I may,” I interjected, drawing their eyes. “We’re four now, and I have a fancy chilly sword. Maybe we could ramp it up a bit and try a harder dungeon? Maybe even pool our resources and see if we can afford one of those maps of the dungeons?”
Rick did another look around, and they all shrugged, looking less than convinced.
“Okay, it’s settled then. I’ll try to get my hands on one of those maps, and we all chip in on it. Deal?”
Deal, we all agreed.
The door to Anchor’s opened, and a tall woman with blonde hair in lavish curls strode in. Already from afar, I saw the level indicator above her head. Level 42. Crap. Another one.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Rick’s eyes darted to me.
“Have we learned anything from yesterday?”
“We have.”
I had learned nothing, as it proved, because when she scanned the room, everyone looked down at their beers—except me. She was dressed in a way that took my mind to ancient Rome or Greece, some kind of light, airy fabric that enveloped her in layers, kept in at the waist by a belt looking like segmented gold. Over her shoulders, a dark, gleaming fur hung. Something told me that Anchor’s hadn’t been her first choice of venue for the night. She met my gaze, held it, a sharp twist to her mouth, before she came walking over, her high-heeled shoes making a rapid clack-clack-clack as she moved. She was a bit older than I first realized, in her early forties or late thirties maybe, and her eyes were bright blue. Her features weren’t what one would call delicate, but rather coarse—not in an unattractive way. Her body looked like the product of hard training, the exposed thighs muscular and defined.
She stopped in front of me. The name next to her level read:
Sarah Parsa
“You, bring up your personal stats.”
I could’ve put my chin up and refused such a blatant demand, but it looked like I actually did learn something yesterday, because I pulled them up and shared them with her.
She scrolled through them, going:
“Hmm.”
She closed the menu with a swipe of her hand.
“You’ll do. Get up. We’re leaving.”
Well, I couldn’t be sure of her intentions, but I recognized a woman scorned when I saw one, and I would’ve left with her if she had asked nicely as well. Rick and the others looked between each other, perplexed.
I sat in the backseat of a black car with Sarah Parsa, the dark streets of Area 10 flowing past the window. She hadn’t looked at me since we got into the car. I had tried some small talk, but it didn’t bite.
When we got to the checkpoint at the border to Area 9, an NPC in a gray uniform, looking like a mix of an army uniform and something you would expect on a private driver in a Rolls Royce, waved us through. It was dark, and the surroundings in Area 9 didn’t differ that much from Area 10, but there were people on the sidewalk, dressed up and laughing, probably heading for the next bar. The windows in the buildings were lit, curtains hanging in them, and flowerpots on the windowsills.
We passed more borders, and for every checkpoint, the guards looked more like puffed-up servants than military men. The roads became wider, the parks bigger and better maintained. In Area 7, I saw a fountain in the blue moonlight, and it must’ve been at least 30 feet tall, cascading water even higher. When we reached the checkpoint to Area 4, we were stopped for the first time. The guard NPC wore a black jacket and white gloves. He looked into the car and saw Sarah. He bowed his head.
“Miss Parsa.”
And then he stepped back, and the car roared past.
The car stopped at a high-rise, and I realized it was the same one I saw when I first entered Breaker City—the one looking like the Empire State Building. Sarah stepped out of the car, waiting for me to do the same and come around to her side. She shrugged the fur into place and walked up to the entrance of the building, resting beneath a long green awning. The doorman at the gilded and glassed double doors bowed and opened the door. She passed him without looking, walking through the marbled hall toward the elevator. I had to stretch my step to keep up with her stride.
When the elevator doors shut behind us, she leaned back on the gilded handrail and pulled her gloves off, inching them off one finger at a time. Finally, she gave me some kind of recognition—a ghost of a smile that died as soon as the elevator stopped with a thud on the 17th floor. She stepped out, and I followed. The door she stopped at was cream-colored, just like all the other doors in the carpeted hallway. The brass number on her door was 34. She put her palm to the door, and it unlocked with a click. She went in, and the lights came alive with a somber glow. She threw her fur on a chair by the door and continued into the apartment, which looked more like an expensive suite in a fashionable hotel than an apartment.
“Can I get you anything?”
She stopped at a drink trolley and pulled the stopper out of a decanter with amber liquid.
“Uh, yeah. A whiskey, please.”
She poured two glasses and returned to me, broad hips swaying, her heavy bosom straining against the thin fabric of her dress. She had a little smile on her lips. It looked a bit predatory to me. She handed one of the glasses over and clinked it with her own before downing the whiskey in two gulps. She walked over to the balcony, and I followed, drinking my whiskey as well. She opened the balcony doors, letting in the honking from the cars below. She put her hands on the black metal railing outside and let her shoulders drop. I stood behind her, looking out on the dazzling view of a major city by night, the sprawl of lights reaching for the horizon. I would’ve liked to stand beside her, but there wasn’t any space. She sighed and bent forward, bumping my crotch with her butt.
“I’m really not in the mood for talking,” she said, her voice husky and deep. “Just do me.”
And now, kids, is when this is going to get a bit raunchy, but when a gorgeous woman tells you to do her, you do—and I did.
Afterward, when we lay in her bed, she lit a cigarette and looked out the window, that melancholy not lifting from her.
“Well, that 8 in endurance wasn’t exaggerated.”
I let that compliment simmer for a while before asking:
“So, how long have you been in the game?”
“It’s that kind of transaction, is it?” she said, not taking her gaze from the open window.
“No. I won’t force you to talk if you don’t want to.”
She sputtered a laugh through her nose.
“Force me? As if you could. I can kill you with my bare hands if you piss me off.”
“Remind me not to piss you off, then.”
That rendered me a look, finally, and a sharp smile.
“About five years,” she said, taking another drag on the cigarette. “Been off and on for the last year, but you just can’t escape this place. The life on the outside just feels so bland after spending time in here.”
“I get that… but how can you have spent five years in here, when we at Area 10 have been here only for a couple of weeks?”
She stared at me, then shook her head.
“I forget sometimes how little you analogs know.”
Analogs? I let that one slip.
“Okay, I’ll try to explain this in a way you’ll understand. I saw in your file that you’ve been to Nam, that you’re a former Recon Marine?”
I nodded.
“Okay, think of your sniper rifle. You pull the trigger, and the bullet explodes out of the barrel at supersonic speed. The resistance from the air slows the bullet, but what if your bullet wasn’t a bullet but actually a rocket? As soon as it falls below supersonic speed, it propels back up to speed, passing through the sound barrier again. It goes bang-bang-bang,” she illustrated this by clipping her fingers together like a Pac-Man, sweeping her hand left to right. “If you constantly add more speed, the bullet will never stop. It will go bang-bang-bang around the earth, leaving its sonic explosions like beads on a pearl necklace. Right?”
“Right.”
“Now think what would happen if you did the same thing, but with light instead of sound, propelling a signal to the speed of light constantly?”
I didn’t answer.
“It will go bang-bang-bang, creating rifts in time. But this pulse doesn’t go around the earth—it cuts right through time itself. And like the self-propelled bullet, it will never stop. Your HUB. The 1984-HUB is the fourth rift in the time continuum that was created by the Pulse. The first one was in 2071, the second was in 2026—my rift—the third was in 1997, and the fourth was in…”
“1984,” I answered, breathlessly.
She pointed the cigarette at me.
“Exactly.”
“What the actual fuck. Are you saying you’re from the future?”
“Oh, we all are, except you poor bastards in the 1984-HUB. The next time rift is in 1947, but that one will never be exploited. Hard to launch a campaign for a video game when people only have radios.”
“Who created the signal, and why?”
“That I don’t know. Some Super AI most seem to think. Go ask the Mayor; he’s sure to know.”
“Well, thanks. I’ll be sure to next time we run into each other.”
She snorted.
Well, dang. Was that a little laugh?
“You do that.”
Then, just as I thought I had her on the hook, so to speak, she seemed to lose interest in me. She crushed the cigarette to death in the ashtray.
“You can’t stay here. I’ll arrange a car for you.”
And just like that, I was heading back to Area 10, more confused than ever.