Twenty minutes passed, and the young man watched the vast breadth of the Undercity go by with mild interest. Determined to have at least some of his questions answered, he asked around, checking whether any of the other prisoners knew what waited for them in the Blood Pits. He received only blank looks and shakes of the head by way of reply. These people were just as shellshocked as he was, just as unprepared for the violent, unjust fate awaiting them.

Still hunting for answers, he tried to strike up a conversation with a middle-aged man squatting beside him.

“Dude, what’s your name?” he asked, trying to sound upbeat despite their desperate circumstances.

The other man looked up, confused, fumbling his words. “I… I don’t remember.”

The young man tried to offer his own name but realized that he too was unable to remember. It was there, sitting somewhere close to conscious thought, but whenever he tried to reach for it the name vanished, replaced by the word REDACTED in bold block letters.

“I can’t remember either!” he said, turning to the other prisoners, suddenly desperate. “Can any of you remember your names? Anyone?”

Shaking heads. Downward glances.

“I don’t get it!” the unnamed hissed, still trying to pull that simple thread of letters from his memory but once again finding only the word REDACTED.

How can I not remember my own name?

What else is in there that I can’t get to?

He tried in vain to find his mother’s name, then that of his father, his younger brother, the pet cat his aunt bought him on his tenth birthday.

“What’s going on here?”

Deep laughter, like the rumbling of storm clouds, came from the front of the cart. Something vast was sitting in the shadows, something not quite human, its bulk squashed into the corner of the metal cage. Now that the young man thought it through, the whole cart seemed to dip toward that front left corner. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed that before and why he hadn’t see the giant blue-skinned figure squashed into one corner of the cage.

As the cart passed beneath a low-hanging lumen bulb, amber light temporarily filled the interior of the cart and illuminated the huge figure shackled at the wrists and ankles. The creature had a craggy face, its arms and legs thick as tree trunks, bulging with corded muscle. Twin horns curved outward from the side of its head, twisting out of symmetry at the furthest point.

“No names here, friend,” the brute rumbled. His gray-blue skin rippled as he folded his arms to the accompanying sound of clinking chains.

The metal shackles at his wrists flared and sparked in protest, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Why can’t we remember our names?” the young man pressed. “Is it something to do with the upload process?”

The huge figure shook his head, the movement glitching slightly as he repeated the phrase.

“No names here, friend.”

The brute spoke in exactly the same manner as before, a perfect copy in every way. The inflection of each word, the expression on his face; it was all identical to what it had been the first time he’d spoken.

The young man puzzled this over as the horned giant seemed to struggle within himself, working his jaw up and down and blinking. Suspicion took form, then realization began to coalesce. All at once young man felt immensely foolish and somehow cheated by the brief conversation.

“You’re an NPC, aren’t you?” He sighed, leaning back against the metal bars of the cart. “Just my luck. First person willing to give me some answers in this cage and you’re just part of the game.”

The huge figure chewed back the automatic response his programming clearly wanted him to repeat. He grunted, then spoke more freely.

“Used to be NPC, friend. Not anymore. Make freedom, breaking programing and starting new life.” He lifted his arms, showing off the twin shackles. “Not very good life though, but better than working in mines.”

The big brute shook his head.

“Sometimes, not speak for long time. Forget and go back to old programing, old words. But, getting better at speaking.”

He lifted a hand and tapped a finger against the side of his head.

“Much better inside noggin now, because Naleth Who Tends not in mines no more. Mines bad place. Bad for thinking. Worse than dying. Worse than Blood Pits Naleth thinks.”

The unnamed nodded, wondering whether this was all part of the NPC’s programmed speech. It seemed a little over the top if that was the case. He also wondered what the purpose of the NPC was, given their circumstances. Maybe it was part of some initial tutorial which had gone awry? Then again, based on what the woman in the red cloak had said, the rules didn’t seem to apply anymore.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Can you tell me why I can’t remember my name?” he asked.

The brute motioned toward the young man’s chest. “Didact takes old name, friend. Pulls it out of noggin when getting here. Doesn’t like friend to remember what came before. Like that with everyone from outside. No name, no remembering.”

“The Didact? That’s the help system in the game, isn’t it? Sort of like a guide. It’s supposed to translate stuff for you, explain how everything works, that kind of thing. I read up on it before I came here.”

The image of a cheerful robotic figure plastered all over company brochures came back to the young man’s mind. His parents had been particularly anxious about the transition, and the saleswoman had taken great pains to point out that the Didact would support their son, helping him to learn the ropes of his new environment and gently guiding him through his first few months in Havenspire.

Once more the giant rumbled with laughter. “Didact not guide, friend. Didact trouble. Controlling everything in Havenspire. All information. All news. Didact not care about us, friend.”

The young man frowned heavily; the growing weight of injustice heavy against his shoulders. The realization that nothing was as it was supposed to be hurt almost as bad as his battered face.

“So that’s it?” he said, resigned to his new fate. “The Company lied to us, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m not where I’m supposed to be, we’re headed to some prison, and I don’t even remember my name?!”

The brute nodded stoically.

“Unnamed.”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s what I am. Unnamed.”

The huge figure shifted, and the metal bars of the cage groaned in protest.

“Sorry, friend unnamed,” he offered. “Havenspire not nice place. Not easy for new people. But still good things. Some good things.”

“I hope so,” the unnamed replied, “because it’s not looking good at the moment.”

He caught sight once again of the tattoo on his arm, and brought up the stats display, examining it in more detail in the vain hope that perhaps it might offer some answers. While the cart jostled him, he pressed a small question mark symbol next to the Special Skills section of the display and a second block of text showed up.

Custodial special skills will be unlocked when you begin using your custodial abilities. Skill will be tied to your overall rank as a custodian, with more options becoming available the higher the rank you achieve. Please speak to your supervisor to learn more about custodial progression and the use of your custodian sigil.

He grunted, closing down the help box, wondering how on earth he was supposed to find a supervisor given his current predicament. With nothing else to explore, he tapped on the help icon next to each of the main stat areas, receiving a short explanation of each.

Meticulousness: A custodian’s ability to maintain order in his natural environment, to pay attention to detail with custodial duties, and ensure a high standard of professionalism at all times.

Efficiency: How fast a custodian can complete their duties whilst still maintaining a high degree of quality.

Persistence: Custodians often have to perform repetitive and lengthy tasks. The ability to endure both tedium and physical strain in order to get the job done will count toward persistence.

Courtesy: A custodian’s ability to be cordial to anyone they encounter, thus making it easier to fulfil the duties of their role.

“What that?” a rumbling voice asked above him.

He closed down the tattoo display, turning to see the hulking brute leaning over him.

“Nothing. I think it’s just a stat management system for my class. I’m supposed to be a custodian. Cleaning and fixing stuff. That sort of thing.”

The big figure nodded, lifting up his own left arm and jingling the shackles on his wrist as he scanned the bluish skin looking for a mark of his own.

“You don’t have one?” the young man asked, fighting against the pain coursing through his body.

“No, no,” the big brute replied, leaning back into his corner of the cart with a sullen expression on his craggy face.

After a few more minutes, the cart came to an abrupt stop outside a large, grimy building. It sent the unnamed tumbling forward onto the unfortunate bald man squatting next to him. He apologized and righted himself as the cage door at the rear of the cart swung open.

The illustrious leader of the slaver group sauntered toward the back of the cart. He pulled back the sleeve of his right arm, showing a shimmering silver ink tattoo in the shape of a tower. The mark glinted in the faint light as he tapped it with one hand and a small display came into being, hovering a few inches above his wrist.

“Just so we’re clear,” the slaver said, turning aside to spit a gob of phlegm onto the ground. “You all got a collar on your neck, and them collars is connected to this here sigil.” He tapped the tower symbol on his arm, and the display hovering above his wrist flickered in response.

As he continued, the other guards began pulling the prisoners off the cart one by one.

“You is a sorry lotta rat bait,” he went on, “and I don’t wanna be chasin’ no filth around this city, so take this here as a demonstration.”

He stepped forward, looking at the unnamed with hateful dark eyes. The unnamed braced himself for another swing of that meaty fist, but the slaver looked past him, pointing to a young man standing a few feet behind.

“You can go,” the slaver said, waving the young man off. “Go on, I won’t hurt ya.”

The young man looked uncertainly at his captor, then out into the street behind, then back again.

“MOVE!” the slaver screamed, spittle flying from his mouth as the young man started running.

The boss tapped his sigil display, grinning wickedly as the prisoners all turned to watch the young man stumble out into the street.

There was a loud buzzing sound, followed by a pop, and the young man’s head was promptly severed from his body. It shot several feet into the air amid a fountain of blood and landed with a wet slap as his body fell to the ground.

Blood poured from the corpse as the guards laughed uproariously. Some of the prisoners gasped, others turned away in horror, and several threw up. The unnamed gritted his teeth, fighting the gut-churning nausea threatening to purge his stomach.

“Wait for it,” the slaver said, twirling his finger around on top of the display above his wrist.

Once more the sharp popping sound cut through the air, but this time warped and in reverse. The young man was miraculously made whole, like film footage turned back a few seconds. He stood where he had been when his head was removed, shaking violently.

The boss turned to one of his guards and motioned to the young man. “Bring ’im back.”

The display hovering above the slaver’s wrist vanished, and he jabbed a meaty finger at the terrified prisoners. “Let that be a warning to yous all. This ain’t the outside no more. You try t’ run, and I’ll pop ya head off, then drag you back ’ere and find somefing worse for ya.”

He shook his head.

“And don’t you ever fink there ain’t nuffin’ worse for you ta do, ’cause I got a big imagination when it comes to that sorta thing. Got it?”

The prisoners nodded furiously, all but the giant figure crouching at the edge of the cart, his horns tangled in the top of the cage.

“Good. Then let’s get you rat turds settled in. Blood Pits is startin’ soon, and the boss don’t like it when we’s late.”