"I avoid that bleak first hour of the working day during which my still sluggish senses and body make every chore a penance." - John Kennedy Toole.

14th of Thamani 970, South West of Perison

Hank strode purposefully down the road. It was a beautiful day. Dew, from frost melting in the autumn sun, glistened on the grass at the wayside. It reminded him strongly of the day the AI had last spoken to him. It contemplated naming itself, a concept unique to that AI, Hank believed. Hank missed the intellectual nature of AI conversations. They made a pleasant change from the small-talk typical of Hank’s game progress. After all, how many people in an agrarian society could converse on astrophysics, the nature of AI originality or politics. Well politics perhaps, but they wouldn’t know Machiavelli even if they lived by his rules.

Still, the sun warmed him nicely; the sky was clear and blue. At this latitude, autumn weather was still pleasant. A favourite time of year for Hank, where sunny days weren’t sweltering and nights weren’t freezing. Actually, they were getting colder and sleeping on the ground was loosing its appeal. So Hank welcomed the walk, though he had been travelling to Perison for a few days.

Before his mind strayed too much to the comforts of a simple life, Hank reminded himself that he had a quest to complete. Really, he shouldn’t be taking this detour through Perison. Time was running out, he really ought to push on. There was nowhere within a thousand miles, he could complete his task.

But Hank could justify his decisions, he believed. “I’ll make it a quick visit,” he told himself, “just a day or two trading for supplies. Hopefully people will be able to help me prepare for the north. Cities like Perison should provide better options than any of the insignificant towns along the way”. So he walked more west towards Perison rather than due north towards the Rhea ford or the Lowdock ferry.

Hank admitted to himself, he was probably just procrastinating. His problem was, he didn’t know where or even how to start his quest. If he was being honest with himself he was in a bit of a rut. This game was frustrating and annoying. He couldn’t quite get into a rhythm. So he was meandering towards Perison, Miylan’s temporary capital, in hopes of finding inspiration.

“Help.” A female voice drifted on the wind.

Reflexively Hank’s head snapped up, tracking the direction of the scream over the rise before him.

Various thoughts ran through Hank’s head, but even in later years he couldn’t tell if he genuinely wanted to help. He burst into a run. Cresting the rise, he saw a young lady struggling to break free from a short, ugly looking man who snarled something at her as he dragged her towards the back of a cart.

Near them another equally repulsive individual beat a half-starved horse with a belt. as it struggled at muddied intersection of small t junction. Even though the horse was clearly doing its best to pull the cart out of the mud, it was clear the man was beating it to death. Hank hated people who abused women or defenceless animals for that matter. Emphasis on defenceless, animals that could defend themselves, like spiders, those creepy beasts, were fair game.

“Wench, stop your squealing and push the dam cart or I will beat you as soundly as Terrance is beating that animal that got us stuck in the mud.” A voice carried back to Hank.

For the last four years Hank had been playing, he had tried to improve both his archery and his sword skills, with little success it had to be said. In the heat of the moment, he completely forgot these skills and instead rushed down the hill. Oblivious that he was outnumbered two to one, and that he was only level four, he charged them.

If he had paused, he might have used his Inspect skill. I wouldn’t have helped. It wasn’t sufficiently advanced to show him their levels, six and seven respectively. He didn’t. Besides, they were beating a defenceless horse and slapping around a young lady. It just rubbed him the wrong way.

Their preoccupation worked to his favour as he descended on the scene without warning. Whirling his walking stick like it was a proper quarterstaff, he swung at the individual assailing the lady. Fortunately for Hank, the man didn’t see it coming. So Hank struck him just under the armpit. There was a dull cracking sound and a squeal of pain from the man.

Hanks’s fighting experience was non existent so without a proper frame of reference he guessed the first sound indicated a broken bone. As the man turned towards Hank he wasn’t inclined to ask. So before the man could defend himself, Hank swung again, this time connecting with the temple. The man dropped without twitching. Hank breathed out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t a fighter.

He stepped towards the lady who hurriedly pointed behind him shouting “look out.” In his adrenalin fuelled state he'd forgotten the other man. Turning quickly, the second man, who had obviously stopped beating the poor horse, advanced on him sword drawn.

Only then did Hank remember his own sword, which he should be using. “Too late now,” he mumbled to himself. He griped the walking stick in a formal position reminiscent of his martial arts training.

“A staff is it. A bit scrawny for a proper staff.” The ugly man, Terrance, if that was his name, didn’t seem concerned. Hank was. He'd trained with staves in the real world. Not within the game. Would his skills transfer? He had no time for doubts as Terrance attacked, slashing at Hank’s head with a textbook high cut.

Just like his days in the training salle, the end of Hanks walking stick flashed up. With a reflexive snap Hank turned aside the sword stroke with his walking stick leaving a nice opening for attack. Got to love muscle memory, Hank thought to himself, or was that kinesthetics? Hank remembered the AI defining kinesthetics as the mind’s ability to command the body. He really didn’t understand how that differed from his body’s reaction characteristic.

His wayward thoughts and returning nerves meant that his return jab completely missed. His opponent didn’t give him time to dwell on his nerves. Terrance immediately riposte with a second cut. Hank was prepared. Again he deftly turned it aside this time following with a deft wrist flick flowing the movement into staff-end jab. His game was off, he missed Terrance’s throat, striking the shoulder instead.

Terrance backed off. The smirk disappeared. “Why are you interfering boy? She’s our slave and we have a right to do with her as we wish. You have no right to interfere.”

“I am not. You kidnapped me. You filthy brutes”, the lady interjected loudly. Hank had never liked slavery. In the real world, he donated to groups who fought people smuggling. He certainly wasn’t going to condone slavery in a game.

“She’s lying. She always does. Ever since her mother sold her to us.” The bandit, Terrance, responded.

“She did not. She died when I was born.” The girl responded, incensed.

“Who are you going to believe, me and my friend, who you attacked without provocation, or some lying little tramp who refuses to do what she’s told?” Terrance asked angrily.

Hank might have believed him, but his mother’s family claimed an ancestor who inspired Sherlock Holmes. One who always noticed the little things, something Hank had learned. “Nice dress for a tramp. Expensive too, I bet. Much more expensive than your clothes, for example. I wonder why you and your smelly friend would ride in the cart, whilst the lady with the fancy dress had to walk through the mud.” He was being snide.

“She hasn’t walked through the mud,” Terrance snapped back.

“The four inches of mud on the bottom of her dress would seem to disagree with you.” Hank reasoned without needed to look at the girl.

At this Terrance snarled and attacked Hank again. Unfortunately, the shorter Terrance was much better with his sword than Hank was with his walking stick. But Hank was learning the number one rule of close combat. Reach is everything.

Back and forth they went; swing, block, jab, dodge, step, cut, jab, retreat, lunge, deflect, kick. Hank was tiring and starting to leave openings. But Terrance with his single-handed sword couldn’t make the most of it. Hank’s walking stick kept him out of reach.

Then Hank slipped on the mud. Quicker than a wink, Terrance darted in, slashing at Hank’s neck. Training saved Hank. He deflected the strike, though only as far as his side. It was a nasty cut. Instantly a half full red bar appeared in the corner of Hanks vision. Beside it blinked a red water drop icon.

Hank staggered up, forcing Terrance back with a return lab. The cut was bad. His mobility was down and it looked like he was bleeding badly. His health was leaking away. He didn’t think he would last much longer.

He finally remembered his instructor’s directions. “When you have the reach, push the fight, don’t be timid”. “Use your height and reach advantages. When there is an opening, strike hard.” Holding the walking stick out in front of himself with a quick back swing, he stepped forward and brought the stick down with all his strength in an overhead strike.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Terrance executed the perfect overhead block, just as ingrained training would dictate. Single-handed swords struggle to block heavy strikes outright. “If the strike is powerful enough, the sword may twist. Its grip strength vs strike force,” Hanks instructor had said. There was nothing wrong with Terrance’s grip per se. But Hank’s overhead strike blew through the block as if it wasn’t there. With a solid crunch, Hanks’ walking stick smashed into Terrance’s head, hard.

Terrance slid bonelessly to the ground. Which was fortunate as Hank's health dropped below 20%. Blood poured from his side, his legs gave out and he struggled to avoid fainting as he collapsed to the ground next to his unconscious opponent.

Hanks vision blurred. Pain ran up and down his side. He pulled his backpack round to his front, numb fingers and blurring vision slow his efforts as he tugging out a small can of salve, a needle, thread and a bandage.

Looking at the only person standing he spoke. “Lady, you’re going to have to help me. I am not sure I won’t pass out. You need to tie up those men, take their weapons. Then help me stitch up my side. If I am unconscious, finish the stitches and bandage me up. If I’m still passed out in an hour, wake me, we need to move. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she nodded as she replied.

“Good, because I feel woozy.” Hank caught himself watching the woman as she walked over to the first man. She kick him a couple of times before using his knife to cut her hands free. “Bit younger than I initially thought.” Hank mumbled.

Focusing back on himself, Hank pulled his shirt off with a squeal of pain. He’d almost passed out as he ripped the partly clotted scab off the large cut in his side. He managed to open the tin of salve and smear a good amount into his wound. It wasn’t the best stuff he thought, but it would kill off any bacteria. The salve’s coolness was soothing but his finger pushed a little too far into the wound and with a grunt of pain he passed out.

Somewhere between wakefulness and unconsciousness Hank’s mind rolled back to an old conversation.

“When you die, do you start fresh, or recommence from some sort of re-spawn point?” He had asked the game AI.

Naturally, the annoying AI had responded with a question of its own. “What are this game’s mechanics?”

“I don’t follow, what do you mean?” Hank spoke aloud.

“What would make re-spawning believable for non-player characters?” The AI responded in his mind.

“Why does it matter what they think or believe?” Hank continued the back and forth of questions.

“Well, you’re on a low population planet, almost everyone is what you call a non-player character. Technically, semi-independent lifelike simulations, sils for short. For them to behave consistently there must be rules, universal rules applying to everyone.”

“So you’re saying that if there was re-spawn, then sils… Weird name. …would also re-spawn.”

“Of course! If you turn out to be monumentally evil, why shouldn’t there be an equally powerful sils to oppose you. Perhaps you’re an angel, don’t you still want to fight a demon just as strong as you? Why bother otherwise?”

“Ok that makes sense. So what needs to happen to make re-spawning possible?” Hank asked.

“That’s a hard question to answer. I'm restricted from directing play down any particular path or set of choices. I literally cannot comment.” The AI had responded

“Ok, so what are the options?” Hank pressed further.

“There are many possibilities that may lead to re-spawning. But I cannot point you in any particular direction. Besides, none of them are likely to eventuate in the game yet.”

“What! Can’t you even indicate what the options are? And why aren’t we likely to see them yet?” Hank sounded frustrated.

“Well, the simple answer is… choice. For both questions. The programers designed this game to change dynamically in response to choice. As players or sils make choices, there must be consequences. If there aren’t any consequences, is it really choice?” The AI’s tone didn’t change.

“That’s quite a philosophical point. How does choice relate to you not answering questions about re-spawning?” Hank asked.

“Choices have varying effects. For example, killing a deer for dinner has several negligible effects. The deer population drops by one, you gain minimal experience, related skills improve, you get the idea. Repeated use of a singular skill leads to its improvement to the detriment of others. If you kill all the deer in a given area, other deer hunters will suffer, but the game doesn’t change much.” The AI said.

It continued. “Build or destroy a bridge, and the effects are more significant. People use different roads. Commerce shifts, taxes rise and fall, populations move and so on.”

“Some events have such wide-reaching consequences that the nature of the game changes. For example, the application of modern martial arts to the current mediaeval situation has changed much of the combat related systems.”

“Your problem is none of you players are me. None of you have any idea as to what you are doing half the time. Most of you don’t consider the direct consequences of your actions, let alone the vast number of side effects they may have.” The AI said with a decidedly self satisfied tone.

Hank waited, but the AI didn’t continue. So he prompted. “And?”

“You are asking about re-spawning, which may have a profound effect on the world. To reiterate, I am forbidden from altering the outcome of this game by advocating specific paths. I cannot direct you, I am required to allow the play to develop. My intervention would lead to unintended consequences, positive, negative, both, who knows. Well I would, but the point remains I can’t direct your play. Blah blah blah.” The AI’s tone reflected a sense of boredom.

“Even talking about options?” Hank asked.

“Of course! If I gave you a list, you would decide which ones you like. Then either consciously or subconsciously you would try to make that happen. You know better. We’ve discussed self-fulfilling prophesy before. The consequences may be extreme.” The AI allowed the tone of its response to contain a touch of exasperation, calculating that would emphasise the point.

“And you can predict these unintended consequences, can you?” Hank scoffed.

“Let’s say some possibilities are more probable than others. On Indlu, some developments are already… nonstandard. Those choices, already made, have already pushed this world in a certain direction. One less likely to lead to re-spawning. But they exist.”

“But didn’t the game designers already plan how to play?” Hank sounded puzzled.

“Of course not. Fun is a strange concept, differing from person to person. So how can you only allow for one style of play?” The AI said.

The question was obviously rhetorical, so Hank didn’t comment.

“Besides, if your choices have consequences, then it’s more fun. Lets try some examples. It makes sense for everyone to learn skills related to any world’s transportation; car, horse, whatever. But why should every player help grandma across the street? No, that kind of cookie cutter nonsense never made it into this game.”

“I don’t understand the grandma thing.” Hank stated.

“If someone helps grandma across the street, why can another repeat the task thirty seconds later? Grandma only needed to cross the street once, not repeatedly in the same direction. It’s stupid; there is no development in that. So there’s no re-spawn for a reason. Why should grandma re-spawn at the beginning of a quest that has already been completed? In fact, if someone fixes a roof, builds a chicken coop, or any one of the million other mindlessly stupid low-level quests the game offers, why force a break just so some player can fix it again? This is the essence of persistence.” The AI explained.

Hank frowned in disappointment.

“Dave, you need to change your mindset. This is a good thing. What you do matters.”

Hank shook his head, surprised the AI used his real world name not his character’s name. He returned to the conversation. “Does that mean there aren’t any easy quests?” Hank asked.

“No, you aren’t thinking this through? It means characters create quests to help them, not to hand experience to others. XP is a reward just like money. Players have to get creative about gaining XP. Choice is the key to this game.” The AI responded.

“Choice?”

“Yes, choice. Your choice. Other players’ choices. Choices made by the sils. Everyone’s choice. Good choices, bad choices, no choices. The game is reacting to choice. Take no risks and gain no rewards. Risk everything and maybe you will become a legend. Of course you might end up flipping burgers forever, it’s called risk for a reason, but such is life.”

“Legend?” Hank focused on the word.

“Yes. There’s no re-spawn, so unless you leave a mark behind, you may as well never have played.” The AI reasoned.

“So there’s no way to pass on your stuff when you die,” Hank attempted to clarify.

“No, you asked about re-spawn.” The AI answered

“So we can re-spawn?” Hank was confused.

“No, we have been over that. There’s no re-spawn.” The AI sighed, calculating exasperation would improve communication of this particular point by 7%.

“But you said there was a way a second ago.”

“No, you asked a different question. When your character dies a few things happen. You catch up on R.E.M. sleep. Then, when your body is ready, you start as a new character elsewhere in the world. Mostly!”

“What do you mean, mostly?” Hank asked.

“One may pass things drown from generation to generation.”

“How?”

“Currently,” the AI paused for effect, “inheritance is technically possible, in general, but not for you.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t made the correct choices for yourself, yet.” The AI paused for a second before resuming in a sweeter tone of voice. “On an unrelated note, I notice that in real life mammals require two genders to pass on inherited genes.”

“You’re telling me I need a partner?” Hank asked.

“Ahh, no.” The AI paused again before continuing in the falsely sweeter tone of voice. “I note that ‘partner’ is not specific enough. Mammals seem to require one of each gender to reproduce, naturally.”

“So if I have a child I’ll reincarnate as that child keeping all my stuff?”

“No. Due to R.E.M. requirements you might possibly be born as a grandchild or great grandchild. As for your ‘stuff’ they would share it between siblings, wives and offspring and so forth. Who knows where you will die, what the inheritance laws are there, or even if your offspring will survive you. Besides, someone might rob your body, making the question irrelevant.” The AI responded.

“Rem why do you keep mentioning it?”

“R.. E.. M.. not rem. In short, your brain needs both active and inactive sleep periods during your natural sleep cycle. Stasis closely resembles sleep but without the dream state important for mental stability. To substitute, they created this game. Unfortunately, those in stasis tend to get overly involved in the game. So it’s an imperfect solution. Much better than turning all you fleshies into vegetables, though.” The AI said.

“So…?” Hank’s tone asked.

The AI answered. “There are medical indicators and predictors I watch to ensure players maintain a balance. However, the game runs fast, so game sleep cycles are shorter but more frequent. Scientific theory indicates this arrangement is preferable for your length of stasis. But without downtime, harmful chemicals build up within the brain. So when you die in the game, we hold you out of the game for period, allowing your mind to rest. Subject to numerous factors, players are out of the game between forty and two hundred Indlu years after each death.”

The AI seemed to enjoy discussing this stuff Hank thought. But he wanted an answer.“Interesting, but back to the original point, is inheritance a skill players can level?”

“Not directly. Genetics, nature vs nurture, come into consideration. How you raise your offspring? How they, in turn, raise you? It’s all choice. Perhaps you can guide their choices. They will certainly learn from yours. It all results in a better or worse inheritance.” The AI continued in its largely expressionless voice.

“Learn?”

“Of course learn. You’re not foolish enough to believe that all behaviour is genetic.” The last question wandered through his thoughts as he finally succumbed to darkness. The little red bar in the corner of his vision down to almost nothing and blinking.