034 - ALWAYS BE CLOSING
That night Conrad was visited again by the Announcer. He stood, confident in his royal blue suit, but this time just outside the bars, like he wanted to emphasize who was in charge and who was in whose power.
“That was a bad thing you did to poor Cataphract, Mr. Dren.”
Conrad screwed up his face in confusion, “Bad? What I did?” he shook his head in disappointment, “No, what I did was the best favor any man has ever done for a dungeon. What you’ve been doing? That needs work.”
The ‘man’ cocked his head in an approximation of mocking curiosity, attempting with the gesture to tell Conrad “An amateur like you has something to teach me? This should be good.” But seeing it here now, after the thorough trouncing he had given to its new champion? Conrad knew the truth.
This thing had emotions, but only the basest, most primal of them. Every affectation the avatar showed it had learned, and given the suit and the attitude, Conrad had a good idea of who the model had been.
“You’ve got a flair for drama with the commentary, but that crowd showed me all I needed to know about how you sell the actual product,” Conrad said.
He locked eyes with the avatar and wondered if he was actually making eye contact with the dungeon or if whatever way that thing saw the world could be locked into a staring match at all. He did it anyway though, the dungeon, imitation artist as it was, would likely understand the dominance game for what it was on an emotional level.
The Announcer stood straight and walked directly through the bars, the physical imposition of hard steel not even a barrier to it as what appeared so human somehow flowed through the gaps. He took a few slow, bored steps toward the new cot Conrad was still sitting on and gestured at it, “Do you like having these small comforts? I could take them from you.”
He - it - snapped its fingers and the cot began sinking into the ground, forcing Conrad to his feet.
He rolled his eyes and waved a hand, “Oh, enough with the theatrics. As if you needed to come here to take away my trashy little bed.
“If you’re not here to buy what I’m selling, then take yourself - and the cot if you’re that petty - and quit wasting my time,” Conrad sneered. It was over the top, he knew it, but with children, bullies, animals, and he hoped, dungeons, it was the emotional message that penetrated, not words.
The bed ceased sinking into the floor and re-emerged. The Announcer seated himself, posture regal as he asked, “What are you selling this time?”
Conrad grinned. The buyer was locked in - it was time to pump the urgency.
“The thing you’re missing. And I don’t mean the pin,” Conrad said, “Take stock of what you have here. A town, a constant influx of new people, a cooperative patron, and a concept - a spectacle - the likes of which nobody has ever seen. You have all those advantages and do you know what I saw in that Arena?”
The Announcer leaned in, the posture of interest so convincing that Conrad wondered if it really did mirror the emotions of the creature controlling it or if it simply showed him what he needed to believe in the interaction.
“This is the part where I ask what you saw,” the Announcer said, tone as melodious and calm as ever.
“I saw less than a few dozen of possible hundreds, maybe even thousands of spectators once you expand the size of this place. I saw empty seats. I saw the bored dregs of society not fit enough financially to leave you anything worthwhile - what was the best offering left for you after my fight anyway? An apple core?”
The thing looked troubled. Conrad had seen the people watching and he knew they weren’t exactly the type to tip their waitress, let alone a dungeon.
“Here’s your first freebie - you think you’re selling fights, you think people care about the fight and you’re wrong,” Conrad lectured.
“Wrong? Hardly! My whole purpose -”
“Wrong,” Conrad interrupted loudly, “You think you’re selling fights, but you’re actually selling despair. You’re selling death and don’t seem to understand that death without meaning, without drama, has no value to the people you want to attract - to people.”
The Announcer held up a warning hand to halt his speech, expression grave. This was it. Conrad might have pushed too far and the deal could be over before he had even had a chance to warm to his pitch.
But paying attention to the signal for silence would be submissive, a display of cowardice, a lack of conviction in what he was selling and that was not the game Conrad would be playing. He wasn’t about to let some creature of Chaos dictate the flow of this deal.
He was here to win.
“You tried to sell the people of Great Pines a fight without hope. An execution. And look who came to see - only those who love death. And after today you know I’m telling the truth when I say that that type isn’t who you want watching your fights.”
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
The Announcer looked perplexed, “Bloodsport is all there is, I require it.”
“No, what you require isn’t the sport - you require the death, but more importantly, you require the offerings. What paltry XP The Hammer granted you paled in comparison to what was left by the people who came to see him fight. Will you tell me I’m wrong?”
The Announcer shook his head no. Good.
“People don’t care about blood and death - they care about a story. They care about characters. They care about hope,” he stepped his tone down from that of a lecturer to one of a confidant.
“What you did with my nickname, The Merchant of Death!” he splayed his hands and fingers out, drawing a grand imaginary picture, “That was a stroke of genius. You’ve created the character. Now though, if you want to really draw the crowd and if you want that crowd to shower you with more offerings than you can handle, you have to spice things up and create a story, and that story needs to offer drama. But more than that, it needs to offer hope.”
Once again the dungeon avatar looked perplexed, “You want for me to create a better chance that I’ll be beaten? A bald-faced attempt at saving your own life, Conrad.”
“What is my life worth to you? I could give this pin away in a heartbeat,” he manifested the artifact into his hand, “Mitch won’t enter the Arena. I could give it to him and it would be forever beyond your reach.”
“Without its enchantment you handicap yourself - foolish!” the Announcer said, tone wary and uncertain. It eyed Conrad’s suddenly empty hand as he sent the pin back to his inventory.
“Do you really believe after how I handled your demon prince that this little pin is the greatest measure of my abilities? You’re not even sure you can win anymore - better that we both get rich than only me,” Conrad said, “The point, is that if you can create the sort of dramatic spectacle that people crave, my life, this pin, everything that I have won’t hold a candle to what those people bring to you.”
“Barrett brings offerings himself, offerings that-”
“Offerings that he hand selects, keeping the best of which for himself!” Conrad interrupted, “Don’t be a fool. Barrett’s been killing dungeons longer than either of us has been alive. He’s no friend of yours. The people though, me? We can deal.”
He stood straight and gestured around the room, pacing as well as he could the length of his cell, “The genius of your construction is not the fight itself, but the audience, and if you can’t learn to harness their resources, then you’ve cut yourself off from your greatest possible source of growth.”
“Your thoughts on Barrett are… interesting,” the Announcer said, standing, “Tell me more of this idea for the audience. How do I create the drama that will draw the crowds of humanity?”
Conrad nodded in appreciation of an intellect that could comprehend the magnanimity of the offer he was making. And hoped the dungeon didn’t notice the nervous sweat running down his back. He was this close.
“The Hammer,” he said.
“What about him?” The Announcer asked.
“A young man, strong, identity and name created for the profession he forsook and embodied in the very same blacksmith’s hammer he used in battle,” Conrad leaned in close, filling his voice with dramatic emphasis as he drew the picture for the thing to understand, “A winner of not one, but two separate fights - a new possible champion, loved by the people.
“The excitement in this room,” Conrad breathed in deeply through his nose, puffing up his chest as he held his arms up in recognition of the gladiators and possible gladiators in the room around him, “You could taste it.”
The Announcer nodded along, “Yes. Yes, the crowd did seem to love him.”
Conrad nodded gravely, “And you killed him. And when you did, you killed their desire to return! One of the men here quit immediately afterward - did you even know you had lost him as well? For the price of one man’s death you lost hundreds of spectators, one gladiator, and who knows how many countless others too discouraged to even attempt facing you after the senseless slaughter you gave them.
“But if you had given him an opponent he could beat. If you had drawn him further along the path, allowed his legend to grow, allowed the man himself to grow - even if you never managed to kill him, even if he was the one to first complete the Conquest, how many thousands would follow in his footsteps, desiring the same glory, the same legend, the same rewards as Tanner the Hammer reaped in the singular Arena of Great Pines?”
The Announcer appeared shocked, like the idea had never even occurred to it. It was the perfect imitation of a man understanding the gravity of the chance he had failed to grasp. “You make sense. This story the people told themselves about The Hammer... So much opportunity lost…”
It was time to close this deal.
“You see it now. But tomorrow,” Conrad said, “When I enter that Arena, we begin earning it back.”
The Announcer stood and moved through the bars of the cage, once more a liquid human. It turned and asked a final question, “What of the pin? If we create this drama, I want it as my payment.”
“If?” Conrad asked, “We’ve already begun. The stories of my fight will spread and tomorrow, you’ll see, the crowd will be much more generous than they were today.”
He paused for a moment as if thinking, then continued, “Besides, you can’t afford it. I warned you my price would increase.”
“What price is that?” The Announcer demanded.
“Open up this wall behind me, I step out and leave. I’ll toss the pin in behind me,” he said simply.
“You know I won’t,” the Announcer said.
“Like I said, partner,” Conrad replied, “You can’t afford it. But I may find something in the future I’ll trade for it. Don’t lose heart.”
The Announcer turned and began walking away. It called over its shoulder, “See you on the sands, tomorrow, Merchant of Death.”
He vanished. Conrad desperately wanted to collapse to the floor and pant out a few calming prayers of thanks for Order’s preserving hand in what had to be the highest stakes negotiation of his entire life, but in this place, he felt certain the dungeon would still be watching.
With incredible effort he maintained his composure, breathing steadily in an attempt to lower his heart rate back down to a level where he might be able to get some sleep.
“Holy shit,” one of the gladiators said from a cot on the opposite wall.
In the intensity of the deal, Conrad had forgotten anybody else was even there. It had only been him and the Announcer.
He turned to face the man and forced into his tone as much command and confidence as he could muster, “Cheer for me when I go out to fight tomorrow.”
“Fuck yeah I will,” the man nodded, adding with an excited grin and holding up a clenched fist in imitation of adventurers saluting their defiance of danger and death, “We live!”
Conrad held up a fist in a returning salute, “We live.”