The unnamed sat bolt upright, shouting an unintelligible plea as he awoke, confused and still cloaked in the fog of deep sleep and the haunting memory of what was or might have been.
The moment passed swiftly as he looked left and right, trying to get his bearings. He found that the memory of those final moments in the arena lingered in his mind.
A large hand pressed gently against his shoulder.
“Peace, friend,” Naleth said in gravelly tones.
The unnamed turned around to see the big brute looming up beside him.
“Is okay. Safe now.”
The young man shook his head, the strange dream still lingering, his mother’s contorted face haunting. He took a few breaths to steady himself and the veracity of his surroundings hit home. He was sitting in a small room with dirty walls. This was real. He was awake, and the experience with his parents and the hospital had been a dream, or nightmare, his mind’s way of comprehending what he presumed was a sticky death at the hands of the female Blade Dancer.
The unnamed turned to Naleth. He looked a little bruised and battered, but the savage injuries he had suffered at the hands of his rabid foe were all but healed. A few livid scars still remained, along with some light bruising around his eyes, and there was a gouge taken out of one of the brute’s horns. But aside from that, he seemed relatively intact. The arm that had hung limply, broken in several places, was completely healed and Naleth seemed his usual, cheerful self.
The unnamed reached around, fumbling at his own back in search of the bloody wounds from the arena. He found only a little discomfort at the movement, but no wicked scarring or other signs of injury. The pain that had racked his entire body since arriving in Havenspire was also strangely absent, filling him with heady giddiness.
How long had it been since he’d felt anything but the crippling presence of constant pain?
How many years?
He rubbed his eyes, breathing in deeply and continuing the inspection of his newly restored body. From his mid-teens to early adulthood, REDACTED’s experience of life had been severely muted by the constant specter of pain. In those rare moments where the aching of his muscles ceased, he learned to grow distrustful of the temporary lull. Like passing through the eye of a storm, experience had taught him that the pain would always return, sooner or later.
Flexing his fingers and toes, rubbing at his shoulders and neck, he was now plagued by that same distrust. Soon this would end; the pain would return.
“What friend doing?” Naleth asked, leaning over and staring down at the unnamed, his face twisted into a comical portrait of confusion.
“The pain I felt when I first got here, it’s gone. I’m just checking everything, making sure this is real. Well, not real, but you know what I mean. I just want to know if the pain is coming back.”
Naleth nodded, though the expression on his face suggested he was still baffled by the tiny human’s actions.
“Apothecary,” the brute said, flexing the fingers on his right hand. “Apothecary makes better again. Healing spells and technologies. Make like new with magics.”
“Apothecary?”
The unnamed reached back into his memory, plucking an obscure reference he remembered from a tabletop game he had played with his younger brother years earlier. “You mean like a doctor, a healer?”
Naleth nodded, one finger finding its way into his left nostril and scratching as he spoke. “Healer, yes. Apothecary make better, after the fighting.” The big brute held up his spare hand and turned it one way and then the other, demonstrating the fact. “Good as new,” he said, grinning from ear to ear, one finger still firmly wedged up his left nostril.
The unnamed looked around at the small cell. It was little more than four dirty walls and a thin metal door with rusted hinges. The floor and ceiling were stained, and there were signs of rising dampness at the base of the walls. He was sitting on a simple cot with Naleth hunched over on the floor next to him, the big brute dislodging his finger from his nose and scratching at the base of one of his horns.
“Why would they heal us? I thought they’d just let us die and then bring us back again, like the guy who got his head popped off.”
Naleth shrugged once more. “Win. Not dying. So, apothecary heals.” He pointed at the unnamed. “Friend didn’t die.” He turned the big finger on himself, prodding his chest. “Naleth didn’t die also.”
“Wait, I didn’t die? You’re serious? That woman with the sword, she was…”
A memory of the Blade Dancer’s sword slipping off the protective shield that had surrounded him came back to the unnamed. The recollection was clouded and difficult to hold in his mind, but the sight of that blade directly above his head sliding to one side was vivid enough. He replayed the moment over and over a few times, sharpening his focus on the moment when he should have died, but didn’t.
“We won?”
Naleth nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes. Winning. So, apothecary, for reward, because no dying.” He motioned around at the room they were sitting in, eyes wide with wonder as though it were some grand palace. “Reward.”
The unnamed followed his gaze, considering the cramped quarters. It felt like a holding cell or a bedroom in one of those ancient monasteries where the monks take a vow of poverty. Nothing about this place suggested a reward. Then again, considering what they had gone through in the arena, this was paradise in comparison.
“I get how you might have won,” the unnamed said, turning back to Naleth. “I mean, you’re a machine! I saw you fighting that thing. It was incredible. But how did I win? I know I managed to get her sword at one point, but…”
“Stickings!” Naleth shouted excitedly, rubbing his hands together as if to demonstrate the unnamed’s use of the white powder.
“You saw that, huh?” the unnamed asked.
Naleth nodded. “Yes, yes. Very funny. Very good.”
Considering that the big brute was fighting for his life at the time, the unnamed was surprised that he’d noticed the whole affair. Everything had been moving so quickly and Naleth didn’t strike him as the most observant individual at the best of times.
“Yeah, well, getting her sword didn’t do any good anyway. I dropped the thing before I could use it. Almost cut my own leg off while I was running.”
Naleth nodded, still grinning.
“Yes, yes. Very funny.”
The unnamed looked up at the big brute but saw no malice in the giant’s eyes.
“As soon as she got her sword back, I got cut to ribbons and then… I think I must have just bled out in the end. I don’t really remember…I definitely didn’t win though, did I? I mean, I passed out.”
Naleth grinned knowingly. He leaned forward as though about to whisper some profound secret. “Friend don’t remember?” He marked out a circular shape in the air with one huge hand. “Make protections. Spell to keep friend safe from sword. Magics.”
He made the circle once more, imbuing the movements of his huge hands with emphasis as though performing a magic trick at a children’s party.
“Mancy. Making magics. Big power. Sorcery.”
Distorted memories of his bloody finger marking out a strange symbol in the dirt came back to the unnamed in a rush. He remembered the strange compulsion to draw the mark, the sudden thickening of the air around him, the shimmering dome of crimson light that only appeared as the blade struck down at his throat.
“Sorcery? Is that what that was?”
“Big sorcery,” Naleth confirmed. “Make big show, impressive. Win fight and get apothecary, and this place.”
Once more he motioned around at the small room as though the grandeur of the space was obvious to all. The unnamed found himself wondering what kind of cramped quarters the giant must have lived in prior to this. He’d said something about working in the mines, but the unnamed hadn’t had a chance to find out any more.
Naleth patted the bed the unnamed was sitting on. He pointed to the unnamed. “Friend sleeping because of fight, because of healing.”
He pressed his hands together to make a pillow and mimed sleeping, as though trying to demonstrate a new concept to the unnamed. “Healing makes sleepy. Naleth Who Tends waits for friend to wake up.”
“You’ve been waiting here while I was sleeping?”
The big brute nodded. The unnamed smiled in return.
“Well, thanks I guess.” He reached around to check the smooth skin of his back once more, confirming again that his wounds had been healed. “And this Apothecary used magic to heal us?”
“Yes, yes,” Naleth said, offering up his own arm as evidence of the fact once more. The unnamed could see pale lines where the healing had taken place, and terrible wounds had been completely healed. It looked like someone had made the marks with white chalk against Naleth’s gray blue skin.
Magical healing?
The unnamed reflected that this was one aspect of his afterlife he hadn’t really considered. He’d prepared to spend the next three or four years sweeping floors and polishing furniture, moping up messes and emptying trash. Even though the Company sold Havenspire as a limitless fantasy world where mythical creatures and every conceivable fantasy trope could be played out, the unnamed had focused primarily on the more mundane aspects of the afterlife simulator experience while he’d been preparing to cross over.
Magic and mystery were one thing, but there were practical matters to consider. The unnamed’s primary interest was in working out exactly what he’d need to do to pay off his dept to the Company and become a fully-fledged citizen of Havenspire. He needed to find ways to expedite that process, short cuts that he could exploit, tricks that he could employ to speed things up. That meant getting as much data as possible and working the problem logically.
How were the custodians judged? Was there some kind of ranking system? Could they get better jobs and reduce the total time spent being a custodian if they outperformed everyone else? Were there skills he could enhance to increase his chances of success? These were the questions he’d come into the simulator with, questions he had intended on finding answers to quickly, so that he could maximize his chances of smashing that debt.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
The little detour at the Blood Pits had, of course, thrown all of those plans into disarray. Instead of trying to outperform the other custodians and earn his place as a citizen, his goal was now one of survival. Instead of earning points and becoming the custodial equivalent of a champion, his goal was to die well enough that he would have the first shot at the slop bucket. Instead of increasing his custodial abilities and impressing his superiors, he had to break out of this prison and get away from the slavers. But what then?
The unnamed tapped on his custodian tattoo and brought up his stats display again.
** SERVICE CLASS TALLY **
Rank: 0
Class: Custodian
Meticulousness: 0
Efficiency: 0
Persistence: 0
Courtesy: 0
Ingenuity Bonus: 2
Special Skills: These will be unlocked once you begin using specific custodial skills.
He focused on the ingenuity bonus. While the rest of his stats hadn’t increased at all, the temporary bonus he’d received had increased and seemed to be permanent. He clicked on the number and a brief explanation showed up.
Ingenuity bonus points have been permanently awarded in recognition of your recent performance in the Blood Pits. While sorcery won’t typically count toward your custodial status, in this instance points have been assigned to the ingenuity booster.
One point has been awarded for the use of Shine to prolong your life and disarm your foe. Another point has been awarded for the use of sorcery in protecting yourself. Future acts such as this may not be added to your custodial status.
He closed down the display, considering what he’d just read. The addition of a few ingenuity points was good, but that wouldn’t really help him to free himself from the slavers.
Perhaps, he could try and convince them to hire him as a cleaner? He looked around the room. The slavers could definitely use a custodian, but he didn’t think that was high up on their list of priorities.
The unnamed flexed his fingers, remembering the blood that had flowed down them and into the strange mark on the sand. He’d been dying, his back cut to shreds, blood flowing at an alarming rate, and yet here he was now, good as new. The apothecary who had healed him had done a top-notch job and that fact—the fact of his miraculous recovery—brought the true nature of Havenspire into sharp focus.
When he’d first encountered Naleth, the sight of the brute had been a little off-putting, but the unnamed had been racked with pain and beset with confusion, so the oddness of the giant never quite hit home. Only now, with his body miraculously healed, did the unnamed begin to settle into the idea of this new reality and the fact that the creature sitting next to him was a mythical being, albeit generated by computer code.
And then there was the notion of magic, sorcery that somehow he’d been able to perform in some way or other. It all seemed so unreal, so disconnected from every experience he could use to comprehend his new circumstances. The idea of what was real wasn’t nearly as fixed as it had been before he entered the afterlife simulator.
“Magic?” he mused under his breath.
“Yes, yes,” Naleth confirmed. “Magics.”
Fantasy had never really been something of interest to REDACTED. He understood the appeal of the genre, but for some reason it never really resonated with him. Now, hand him a controller and load up any first-person shooter, and that was an entirely different story. In addition to an unhealthy amount of television, REDACTED had spent the bulk of his hospital years playing online shooters. Handing out 360 no-scopes like a champ, translating the pain and frustration of his bedbound life into fast-paced campaigns and the amassing of epic weaponry and skills.
Something about the thrill and speed of first-person shooters had appealed to REDACTED in those years, more so than the slower burn of a fantasy RPG or an immersive story-driven epic. He still read a lot of fantasy, listening to audiobooks in the hours where he was too tired to open his eyes and losing himself in the imagined world of great writers. So too he had delved into space operas, thrillers, even the odd horror series now and then. But when it came to gaming, it was hi-octane shooters every time.
His younger brother, on the other hand, had been obsessed with anything even vaguely related to sword and sorcery. He’d spent every last penny of his pocket money on fantasy epics, figurines, D&D campaign manuals, and every piece of Harry Potter paraphernalia he could lay his hands on.
REDACTED had been roped into Magic the Gathering, D&D, and a host of tabletop games in the genre, purely because his brother refused to play anything else. REDACTED’s brother loved fantasy above all, and the unnamed now reflected that perhaps that’s why he had drifted away from it in the years following his younger brother’s death.
Maybe he didn’t play first-person shooters because of a preference for fast-paced games with limited storytelling. Maybe it was just that he had so many memories with his brother that were tied to fantasy tropes that it would have hurt too much to venture into the genre alone?
My brother, he reflected. What happened to him? Is he still here, somewhere in the simulation? Did he get taken to the Blood Pits when he arrived, just like me?
Maybe his younger brother hadn’t been so lucky? Maybe his collar had malfunctioned or something else had gone wrong?
His brother. So young.
The unnamed tried to focus on his last memories of REDACTED but couldn’t find what he sought. He could remember early experiences and general impressions about what his brother was like, but the precise manner of his brother’s death was missing. Every time he tried to pinpoint that painful memory, his thoughts were shunted off in a different direction as though his own mind was actively trying to dissuade him from locking in on the cause of his brother’s death.
He was still wrestling with that fact when the door to the room slammed open, cracking against the wall as the machete-wielding slave boss strolled in, picking his teeth with a thin bone and patting his belly contentedly.
“Well,” he said, flicking the bone off to one corner of the cell. “You two put on a show, didn’t ya.” He nodded to himself. “Got the attention of a patron, it turns out. Snagged yourselves a ticket to the Brawler’s Guild. Lucky rats!”
The expression on his face suggested the man was not in the mood for questions, so the unnamed made a mental note to ask Naleth about this guild business once Machete had left.
The slaver stood scratching his chin as a young woman in a threadbare tunic walked into the room, head bowed, carrying a bundle of clothes in her arms. Without a word, she moved beside the unnamed and placed the bundle on the cot beside him.
She turned and left, all the while avoiding their eyes and staring at the floor fearfully. Machete scowled as the young woman made her exit, spitting on the floor as though in protest to her very existence.
“Guild sent some fresh clothes,” he said, nodding toward the pile of clothing on the cot. “Get yerselves dressed and be ready to leave in the hour.”
With that said he turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open. As if on cue, another young woman walked into the room, carrying a tray of food and placing it silently on the floor in front of the unnamed and Naleth.
“Thanks for that,” the unnamed offered.
The young woman shied away as though physically struck by his words, then vanished into the corridor beyond.
Before the unnamed could ask Naleth questions about the Brawler’s Guild, the smell of roasted meat and gravy snared his attention. He was squatting down over the tray, lifting it up and carrying it towards the cot before he even realized he’d moved.
Without a word, the unnamed and the big brute began eating, shoveling handfuls of stew and stale bread into their mouths and savoring every bland morsel.
As he chewed the stringy meat, the unnamed reflected on the absurdity of their situation. Here they were, ravenously hungry, devouring this meager meal to quell the growling in their stomachs and recover a little strength. But none of this was real, none of it was necessary. He was hungry because something in the programming of this place told his body to be hungry. Come to think of it, he didn’t even have a stomach, or tastebuds, or any of the physical apparatuses associated with a human body.
Why create a utopian computer-generated world and program in hunger, or pain, or any of a thousand forms of human misery? This place was supposed to be better than the outside world. Yet here he was stuffing his mouth with old bread and soupy stew, trying desperately to stamp down the churning hunger in his gut.
It made no sense.
Still, the questions didn’t stop him from eating. Neither of them said a word until the contents of their bowls were empty. Once they were done, Naleth raised both bowls, licking the last of the gravy from their curved interior like a child delighting in the last dregs of icing at the bottom of the mixing bowl.
Having completed the mop-up, Naleth gently placed the bowls back on the tray, grinning contentedly. Though, considering his bulk, he couldn’t possibly have eaten enough to satisfy his appetite.
“Sorry,” the unnamed offered. “I was just so hungry. I couldn’t control it.”
“Yes, yes. Hunger bad when first coming to this place. Very bad. Getting better with time. Not so desperate. Still eat and drink, but don’t need so much.”
Naleth leaned over, picking up a shirt from the pile of clothes at the end of the cot and sniffing at it. “Clean,” he marveled, reaching to pick up pants and a jacket, then handing them all to the unnamed. “Don’t smell like this place. Smell clean, fresh.”
The clothes were simple, durable-looking, and loose fitting. The pants and jacket were brown, the shirt tanned, and there were a pair of sandals beneath the pile which looked a little large for the unnamed but serviceable. Similar clothes were provided for Naleth, though without the sandals. Both uniforms had a clenched fist symbol on the jackets and shirts stitched in gold thread.
“So,” the unnamed asked, “what do you know about this Brawler’s Guild?”
Naleth stretched his arms out to the side, testing the flexibility of his new shirt and nodding, apparently pleased with the result. “Guilds for fighting. Not many guilds down here in Undercity. Most up top. Further up Spire.”
The unnamed nodded, sensing that the big brute wouldn’t offer any further information without some pointed questions. “And what do they do exactly?” he asked. “I mean, what will we be doing when we get to the guild? Will they make us fight? Is it going to be any better than this place?”
Naleth shrugged, more interested in the impressive flexibility and smell of his new clothes than anything the unnamed had to say. “Don’t know. Maybe more fighting. Maybe something else. Better than this place, though. Better than slavers.”
“And what about this patron? How does that work? Do we get to meet them? Will they pay us?”
Naleth looked down at the unnamed, grinning from ear to ear. He rumbled with laughter. “Naleth Who Tends work in mines for ten years. Pay for crimes against Spire. Crimes of NPCs. Ten years hard labor. Then, chance to fight in pits. If Naleth wins twenty battles, Naleth goes free. If Naleth loses five battles, then Naleth goes back to mines. Another ten years. Maybe more.”
He shook his head, twisted horns threatening to scrape against the ceiling.
“Naleth Who Tends doesn’t know much about anything. Not guilds or Spire or anything. Naleth only wakes up ten years ago. Naleth wakes up and fights, but gets caught and sent to mines to work. So Naleth is new, like friend.”
He gently patted the unnamed on the shoulder, smiling warmly, his huge hand remarkably gentle despite its size.
“When you were an NPC,” the unnamed pressed, “I’m guessing you weren’t awake? You didn’t really know who you were and weren’t conscious like you are now? Is that right?”
The big brute nodded. “Sleeping, but awake. Naleth Who Tends saying same things and doing same things, just because of programing.”
He gave a talking hand gesture.
“Naleth Who Tends welcomes friends to Blueskin Troll lands. Naleth guides you.”
He smiled, as though having perfectly remembered a part rehearsed for a play.
“That’s what you used to say, is it?” the unnamed asked. “When you were just a normal NPC?”
The brute nodded.
“Yes, yes. Naleth Who Tends makes welcome to new people. Guide people around Troll lands.”
“So, that’s what you are then? A troll?”
The big brute nodded. “Yes, troll. Yes.”
“And you used to be a normal NPC but then something woke you up, broke you out of your programming?”
“Yes, yes. Bloodmancer make Naleth wake up, make many NPCs wake up. We fight Didact but lose and now work in mines for many years. NPCs work in mines or go to fight in war. To battlefield. But now things changing. Long time since bloodmancer caused uprising. Lots of things changing. Sometimes NPC has chance to make freedom. Fight in the pits, and if winning, NPC go free. Not full citizen, but free at least.”
The unnamed nodded. “But this was your first fight, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. First fight.”
“So how are we sitting here then? Some patron saw us fight and has paid to take us to this Brawler’s Guild? Doesn’t make any sense. I mean, obviously they saw you fighting that big beastie…”
“Sharek,” the brute supplied with a smile.
“Yeah, the Sharek. So, they see you with that monster and grab you because…well, you’re huge and strong as an ox and all the rest of it. That, I can understand. They picked you because you won. But why did they pick me?”
“Because magics!” Naleth said, leaning in close, his eyes wide and his hands moving as though describing a rainbow.
The unnamed rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. Magics.”
Once more the scattered memory of those final moments in the arena came back to him. The look of confusion in the sword-bearer’s face, the sliding of sharp metal against an impossible barrier, the strangely familiar symbol drawn in the dirt and filled with his own blood.
More questions to be answered, and an uncertain future ahead. But at least he was free from this wretched slave house and the vicious spectacle of the Blood Pits.
But what would they want from him at the Brawler’s Guild? Maybe they needed a custodian, and this mysterious patron had noticed the unnamed’s status and decided to pick him up…during a fight to the death in the blood pits…run by slavers in the middle of a city slum…
The unnamed turned as huge nostrils inhaled by his shoulder. Naleth was leaning down, sampling the olfactory goodness of the young man’s fresh clothing. The big brute nodded to himself. “Is good to smell. Clean, like orange.”
The unnamed had noticed the citrus smell himself and couldn’t help but smile at the simple joy of his oversized companion.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “it smells great.”