2
“I can reactivate the security field at any time, Mr. Foster, so you’re going to sit there like a good boy or I’m going to do it again. And Again. Longer each time, until you suffocate. He wasn’t joking when he said ‘disposable.’ Claustrophobia is listed as one of your fears, isn’t it? What a way to die.” She sighed, with all the regret someone lamenting over coffee with too much sugar. Her casual tone suggested fulfilling her threat would, to her, only be a minor inconvenience, not an act of torture. Or murder. My mind was still reeling from the rapid-fire delivery of blurry-man’s rant, but my thoughts slowly coalesced around the one thing that really mattered. Abi.Jesus Christ, Abi. Where are you? Please, please be okay.
“I don’t care about me. What did you do to my daughter?” I asked in a voice that was as close to menacing as I ever got. The bitch laughed. She straight up laughed.
“The irony,” she smirked, “is real.” She sat up straight and wiggled back and forth a little in her seat, like she was enjoying this. “We didn’t do anything to hurt your daughter. You did. You hurt everyone, Foster. Now we see if you can dig yourself out of your own hole.That’s why it’s called Redemption Arc. ”
What? I thought. I hurt Abi? How? There’s no fucking way. She is everything. It was my fucking job to protect her, and I took that job very seriously. Never. I was a god-damned loving father.That little girl was the totality of my existence. I had never hurt her, could never hurt her, she was the only thing I had. The only thing I had left.
“No. No way. How d-” I was saying, but she cut across me.
“Your big reveal is in Act 2. Don’t ask me again, deviant, or you get the field.”
I realised I could see the woman now, her form fully in focus. My heart sank. Further.
“Fuck me sideways. You’re a god-damned Karen” I said, exasperated.
Atricia was indeed a Karen; more specifically a Space Karen. She wore what looked like something you might see on a Star Trek alien diplomat visiting the Enterprise; a sort of robe slash business-suit thing that was all flat plains and straight lines. Atop her head was something that looked like a graduation cap, but triangular. The whole outfit was black and crimson and very crisp. Maybe a uniform of some kind? She was white and middle-aged, with a round face and accusing eyes. Her too-blonde hair was even cut into an infuriating bob that framed a face that looked like it spent a lot of time being angry. She was short, and round, and if she was a lawyer I was fucked.
“Karen? I imagine that’s supposed to be offensive? Don’t bother. Your opinion means as much to me as my dog’s last bowel movement” she said with cold detachment. She was still tapping absently on her tablet data-pad thing. I’m pretty sure she hadn’t looked at me once this whole time. She made the scrolling motion with her index finger, then cleared her throat and sat up slightly straighter, the way someone does when they’re about to read a prepared statement or start a speech.
“Mr. Foster,” she began, and I could hear her voice sliding into a well-worn groove, into the tired track of a thousand prior repetitions. “As per the Inter-Earth Declaration of Imminent Domain, the governing body of Gaia One, in partnership with the Potentia Corporation, asserts its rights of ownership over subsequent iterations of “Earth” and the persons, resources and territories contained therein. Gaia One, having established itself as the Planet of Official Origin in the form of the Jones-Hardy Proclamation, hereby asserts that subsequent iterations of “Earth” are necessarily Derivatives of Gaia One, and as such hold no inherent sovereignty. Such derivatives therefore fall under the legal authority of the governing body and its corporate partners. Under subsection J, paragraph 22, Gaia One reserves the right to utilise, modify, study, or otherwise exploit these Derivatives, and to licence these rights to third parties that meet the appropriate requirements as outlined in section K. As property of Gaia One and the Potentia Corporation, and as the manner of your acquisition has met certain conditions (see Section A, paragraph 2 of the Deviant Iteration Acquisitions Act), your rights have been licensed to a third party, hereby identified as the Sponsor,” she paused to draw breath, and I took the opportunity to protest.
“Wait, what? My rights were licensed? Like, you own me and you rented me out!? Jesus Christ, that is some serious dystopian shit right there, woman. What the actual fuck!?” I punctuated these last words slowly and deliberately: “And where is my fucking daughter?” Space Karen’s finger shot up in a warning that said ‘don’t fuck with me, peasant’, and I was not taking this shit. “Listen, bitch. If she’s hurt…” And she hit me with the field again. The immovable pressure was suddenly everywhere. I was held absolutely still, the invisible glass once again sealing my mouth and robbing me of the ability to draw breath. This time it was tighter. She didn’t look up, and she left me in the field as she continued, ignoring what I’d said and going on in her bored, just-let-me-get-this-over-with voice. Just like I wasn’t undergoing some random water-boarding style bullshit six feet away from her.
“Your Sponsor, who has exercised their right to remain anonymous, has specified “entertainment” as the category under which your rights were licensed, which makes you eligible for one of our programs. Isn’t that exciting?” She looked at me. We just stared at each other for a long moment, with me incredulous and hanging in the air completely frozen in space-time and her almost grasping the absurdity of the situation. “Congratulations,” she said flatly, tapping the tablet once to release me. I fell back against the chair, just breathing, and she tapped away, switching something on her screen. She went on as though nothing had happened.
“This program, The Fell and the Fey, is an action oriented high-fantasy drama that has spanned decades and played host to a number of Coliseum Games’ most successful programs. Our story takes place on a custom-designed world seeded for this purpose by best-selling fantasy author Riedwich Henning. Mr. Henning himself consulted on everything from targeted terraforming to race and species design during the initial seeding process. He has worked tirelessly to maintain our thriving dramatic environment over the years. This world, an exotic Deviation we’ve called Feyhold, has evolved into a beautiful, savage planet, filled with myth and magic and ancient secrets, cultures and peoples both familiar and strange, as well as creatures and monsters both majestic and terrifying.”
This was sounding like a bad book-jacket summary, and she had all the enthusiasm of a literary agent about to let down a starry-eyed aspiring author. I just sat there, letting her diatribe continue like I wasn’t trying to figure out how to subvert an instantaneous fucking containment field and punch her in her stupid, angry soccer-mom face. I don’t care who you are, you don’t fuck with my child. You don’t fuck with anyone’s child. My baby was god-knows-where and I had to listen to this soulless corporate bullshit which was oh-so-typically disenfranchising some clueless dumbass that, this time, was me. Atricia went on like this wasn’t an entirely fucked up abomination of a situation. Just another day for her. She took a breath and shifted on her seat, then dove into the next section like it was a pharmaceutical commercial disclaimer.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Please be aware that certain details of the program may be withheld from Players in the interest of maintaining dramatic integrity and plot continuity. Coliseum Games, a Potentia Corp company, reserves the right to alter, modify, change or otherwise intervene in in-game events and storylines in order to enhance the program’s entertainment value, up to and including ending a player’s participation in the program. Players who survive, but are removed in this way immediately revert to property of Potentia Corp or their relevant sponsors, and will receive no rewards relating to their performance in the program.” She looked up at me then, with a cruel little smile playing across her lips. “Unlicensed Deviants are mostly used for menial labour, provided they incur less maintenance costs than the AI extensions. It’is an honour of which they are unfortunately unappreciative.” She stuck her bottom lip out in an infuriating little pout, like she was a kid who’d been told all the chocolate ice cream was gone. She smirked at her own display, and continued in a tone of faux-exhaustion.
“The responsibility of the Player is to progress in levels through combat, key social interactions, and by completing assigned quests and participating in-game events. Above all, players are expected to conduct themselves in a way that enhances the entertainment value of the program. Cowering in terror or wallowing in your misfortune is not entertaining. Raging against the “system” or disparaging Coliseum games, Potentia Corp or the Gaia One governing body will not be tolerated. Raging against the “system” ruins the audience’s immersion, and will only result in penalties that make your death more likely. Remember your gratitude. We’ve given you a second chance. A gift almost no one will ever receive. Consider it like this, Mr. Foster: you always could have died any day, at any time. Life itself, is inherently a threat, a risk; we’re just giving you the opportunity to risk your life in a unique and interesting way, with a fabulous prize awaiting you should you survive it. Besides, numbers indicate that an exciting death is entertaining, so from our point of view, the audience wins either way. If you want to win, then spare us the rebellious bullshit and focus on the objectives before you. Focus on selling the drama. Do so, and the rewards will be relevant to your success.” She looked at me like ‘success’ was about as likely as her giving me a warm hug.
“Be aware that the Meta Quest is the only path to final victory. Side quests and events will serve to supplement your progress. Don’t ignore them; simply ploughing forward is a good way to end up underpowered and dead. Not that I expect you to survive the first encounter. I’ve seen your reels, Mr. Foster; you’re a trepidatious nobody who achieved nothing more than taking up space. You spent your time on a failed career as a middling musician, imaginary worlds, pointless “creative” projects that yielded precisely zero gains, inane games and Japanese anime.” She said this last bit with a disgust that was palpable. For some reason, I felt like a grown man watching anime was somehow a kind of tipping point for Karens like Atricia. It crossed some boundary normally reserved for underpaid teenage employees who created minor inconveniences in their shopping experience.
Atricia snorted and continued, “Alas, this fact seems to be one of the reasons you were sponsored in the first place. Evidently, your sponsor feels that these unfortunate proclivities will somehow be an asset to you. I tried to tell them that Special Forces training would be more compelling, but there was no readily available derivative in which you had any relevant military experience, so here we are.”
“Fucking Hell, I don’t even know where to start,” I said wearily, suddenly exhausted by the stress of this madness.
“So don’t start, Mr. Foster. This isn’t a question and answer period, and I’m not your lore dump. I don’t have the time or patience to put the entire multiverse into context for you. We are the planet of Official Origin, as was explained in your briefing. You are a deviant, from a derivative world. You know what you need to know to participate…effectively,” she said this last bit dubiously. It was clear what she thought of my potential ‘effectiveness.’ She looked back down at her data pad, checking her notes.
“Lastly, class selection will occur after your initial encounter, contingent on your survival. Class specialisation will occur at level five, and again at a later level. Options will be based on your prior performance. Find a Shrine of Elaris to make your selection once you’ve reached the appropriate level. Shrines of Elaris are located in medium, large, or metropolitan settlements and serve as hubs for players seeking refuge, information, or treatment for minor wounds, status ailments, and effects. Shrines are Unobservable Spaces, which means the audience can’t follow you inside or POV your experience. Please be advised that, while these spaces provide a certain level of privacy to the player, the more time spent therein, the less time is spent performing. Necessarily, less performance means less audience interest and consequently your rewards and progress may be impacted by extensive inactive periods; outside of sleep and bio breaks, of course. There is also a limited Privacy Mode which, with the approval of your Advisor, can be activated for limited amounts of time. Activation of Privacy Mode is decided on a case by case basis, determined by the potential impact to dramatic integrity. Use this mode with discretion, or the privilege may be revoked. Any further questions can be answered by your Advisor. Finally, food and water will be readily available through merchants or edible consumables and potable water found in the natural environment.” She finished breathlessly, then said simply, “this concludes your briefing. Please stand and move to the circular platform behind you.” Atricia stood herself, short and round and wearing the expression of someone dealing with an unwanted visit from a door-to-door religious enthusiast.
I stood wearily. My brain was in shock, overloaded by the attempt to parse this ridiculous situation. This is too fucked up to be real, I thought. It’s like an alien abduction by fucking humans. And from the ‘Planet of Official Origin’? What the hell? And they’re assholes. Well, that kind of figures. I looked at her flatly. There was no point in raving at this woman. She held the power here, like it or not. If this was a dream, I was going to wake up soon. If, somehow, anything these dystopian corporate supervillains said was true, I was screwed anyway. A strange sort of bitter calm overcame me. Either this shit was real, or it wasn’t. Fine, fuckers, let’s go through the motions.
I turned, and there stood a large, black, circular platform raised just slightly off the floor and with a corresponding circular disk hovering about 8 feet above the platform. I was instantly reminded of the Transporter, from Star Trek. “Are you sure you don’t want me to put a red shirt on first?” I said dryly as I stepped up on the platform, moved to the centre and looked back at Atricia, who ignored me. She was ready to get this over with.
“I’m supposed to wish you luck, Foster, it’s a tradition, but I don’t like you so I’m not going to wish you anything. Find it yourself, deviant.” She gave me a smug little smile and lifted a finger in a show of tapping a button.
“Fuck you, Atricia,” I said in a flat voice, giving her the finger before she tapped her tablet and a slow, rising pulse of light began to swell around me. I closed my eyes as my vision completely whited out, and after a long moment I opened them to a blackness which seemed total. Moments passed in darkness until suddenly an actual dialogue box appeared, floating directly in front of my field of vision. White and rectangular and gently luminous. I stared, hanging there, bodiless, just a point of awareness hovering in front of the box.
Please enter player name it read, just above a rectangular box, which contained a blinking cursor awaiting an input. There was no keyboard to be found, and I didn’t seem to have a voice. Or a body. I figured it must be some super high-tech telepathy shit, so I started thinking of random letters and was satisfied to see them appear in the dialogue box. It took a minute before I could “type” anything coherent - it was difficult keeping my thoughts focused. A name? I thought. I was honestly at a loss. No one uses their real name in a game. Something simple, I decided after a moment’s consideration, nothing edge-lordy, nothing that sounded like it was concocted by fifteen year old trolls. I thought for a moment, hovering there, disembodied.
“Find it yourself,” she had said, instead of wishing me luck. Found it, bitch. It was petty revenge, and I knew it. Oh well. I entered the name “Luck.”