“I’m not sure you fully understand the nature of our relationship, kid,” Wilson said. His reflection stepped into my view of the mirror. “I am here to oversee the little details of your and Angel’s story. Not to be at your beck and call.” He pulled what looked to be a cardboard carton of food from the edge of my view. The narrator looked more run down than before:his tie was gone, his shirt was untucked and his shoes were caked in what looked like mud.

I turned to face him, “You look like shit.” It wasn’t that I wanted to antagonize him. I was just done smiling while he jerked me around

“I feel like shit,” Wilson admitted. “I haven’t had to run this hard since the first season. Between the apocalypse and Nadia…” He chuckled. “Back then I was young, I thought I was invincible.” He pulled a pair of chopsticks out of his vest pocket despite the pocket being far too small to hold them. With the utensils he pulled what looked to be a chunk of raw meat from the carton and popped it into his mouth, “What do you want, kid?”

“What the hell is up with the retcon?” I cut to the chase.

Wilson stared at me for a long moment. Finally, he grinned ruefully. “You took Mental Resistance. That fucking trait. The Background department tried to warn us.” He took another bite of meat. “Short answer, someone fucked up, and the higher-ups had to step in and fix it. They didn’t want you dying because some other Narrator can’t control their players. It’s bad stagecraft.”

“Wait, are you saying I died and then you clowns rewrote reality?” I demanded, stunned.

“Yep,” Wilson said, his grin fading slightly. “It’s just sloppy. We are all just lucky the audience didn’t notice.”

“So, I got myself killed?” I asked. Oddly, confirming the near death experience actually happened didn’t make me feel better.

“Not quite,” Wilson said, “I agreed with Fiona and Brandon to put you into a dungeon with three level 15 heroic Scale mini-bosses and a level 25 heroic Scale final boss. Imagine my surprise after returning from the Afterlife to find your name on the Dead Player List. You were put in a position where death was all but inevitable” He shook his head and took another bite, then looked at me impassively for a long time.

“Are you looking for a thank you?” I finally asked, getting frustrated. I knew he was going to fuck with me. The fact it was working was what really stuck in my craw.

“Nah, I didn’t lift a finger to help you. Like I said before. I am prepared to let you and Angel die to any random roll of the dice. Trouble is that wasn’t random. Fiona claimed she didn’t mean to kill you. I have my doubts. She’s got a history of being sloppy. Brandon panicked when he saw the boss changed from one monster to three, and ran it up the chain. The big wigs put their thumb on the Scale. Anyway, that won’t happen again.”

“How can you promise that?” I asked. I doubted anything he could say would feel compelling.

Wilson held out the carton, “Try some Narrator tartare.”

I was ghoulishly curious about what Narrator tasted like. I am not a cannibal… actually, would it be cannibalism to eat a Narrator? Is the problem that they are sapient? Either way the meat in the carton had a sickly-sweet scent wafting off of it. I shook my head, “Nah, I'm not interested in checking it for razorblades.”

Wilson’s grin sharpened, “They’re only in the eyes and hands of Narrators. This -unlike Fiona now- is all heart. Let’s quit the foreplay, why did you call me?”

“I need to learn how this narrative system works,” I said, preparing for an uphill fight.

“Read the prompts in the menu,” Wilson responded unhelpfully.

“Teach me,” I insisted.

“Why would I do that?” Wilson asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Because if you don’t, I will make this whole story grind to a halt. I will sit down and ask Angelica, Celeste, and Brand to explain every basic concept of the system in excruciating detail.” I challenged. This was a risk. If I was right, this was a bottle episode. Wilson wanted us in the dungeon to briefly do dungeon stuff. From an entertainment standpoint that would be awful. Imagine a story about Clark Kent and Lex Luthor stuck in an elevator in a burning building. Now imagine that story going on for thirty-six issues published monthly. Most of us would probably check out on issue six when they were still dealing with awkward small talk. The mad bastards still reading on issue thirty-five would riot if they were still waiting for someone to get them out, blissfully unaware of the flames.

Wilson thought for a moment. Then, clearly stalling for time, he took another bite. After deliberately chewing and swallowing he answered. “Fine. I’ll make arrangements, but only because your GRP is above 2300.”

“So… you are going to teach me?”

“Fuck no, I am going to make an intern do it,” Wilson said. He pulled a napkin out of his pocket, carefully wiped his hands, then pulled out a phone and began texting in a grindingly slow, hunt-and-peck method. He waited for a response, humming to himself. After roughly a minute his phone buzzed. He read the message and nodded to himself, rubbed his chin, and began slowly typing out another message.

“You’re stalling just to waste my time now,” I pointed out.

“You need to understand who the top is in this relationship,” Wilson explained. His phone buzzed again. He read the message and chuckled to himself.

“Ah, um, you wanted to see me, Mr. Wilson. Sir?” someone behind me asked. Why do they always appear behind me?

“Yes. Denise, this is Doug. Doug, this is Denise.” Wilson said, beaming and gesturing behind me.

“What fresh Hell is this?” I asked, turning. I felt my fist clench instinctively.

I wasn’t prepared for what I found. It was a young woman. Well, it looked like a young woman. It…she was a Narrator. Denise was a willowy young adult or at least appeared to be. She had long brown hair and large gray eyes. She was dressed in a smart dress suit but still looked extremely young. You know those young people that know they look too young and are desperate to appear more mature? The trouble is that it makes them look like that teenager whose mother still dresses them when they wear formal or professional attire.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

She was also watching me with the wide-eyed horror of someone that was about to get their head kicked in. Fair, because I was prepared to kick a Narrator’s head in. At least I thought I was. It shouldn’t matter that Denise looked like a kid… but it did. I mean, push comes to shove, I would still do it if she tried to hurt someone, but I guess I was giving her the opportunity.

I glared back at Wilson, “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am. Now, Denise, Doug is going to be calling you regularly. You will pop in and do what he says. Remember to stop time first, we wouldn’t want you to get eaten alive by Snow Lions.” He paused, “That would be just awful. Who would get my coffee?”

“Uh, what am I supposed to do?” Denise asked.

Wilson shook his head, “What do you think a big rough goon like Doug would want from someone like you?”

Denise shrunk away from me, “Uh…”

“That right,” Wilson said, slapping me on the shoulder, “Doug here wants you…to give him…your intimate… understanding of the inner workings of the system.”

I almost went to Denise’s defense. I didn’t for two reasons. First, any attempt to shield Denise would likely goad Wilson to further escalation. The second was probably petty. She was a Narrator. I hate Narrators. I was getting a slight sense of satisfaction seeing one suffer.

Wait, is that the trap Wilson set? Was he banking on me being paternal or white knight predictable, or was the trap giving me an unhealthy outlet for sadistic impulses? Duh, the answer to that is: Yes to all. Wilson is a relentless asshole.

My life used to be so simple. Okay, that’s not true. I was a single parent drowning in grief and uncertainty who was also teetering on the edge of addiction. The better way to say that I used to know when I was fucking up.

Wilson patted me on the arm again, “Remember Doug, don’t kill her, unless you do it big. Don’t just smash her head or something. Keep in mind, though, we only have like six or seven more interns before you don’t get anymore.” And then he was gone. He had left the carton with the chunked Narrator heart in it sitting on the sink. I tossed it in my inventory. Not sure why.

I turned to Denise. She was staring at me, trembling. To stall for time, I tilted my head from side to side cracking the joints, finally, I began with, “So…”

“Please don’t smash my head with those big hands!” Denise begged.

“Are the hands specifically the problem?” I managed.

“No!” Denise squeaked. “I just really don’t wanna die. Please don’t kill me!”

“That’s not how this is going to play out,” I started trying to be comforting.

“Oh, God! You’re the type that likes to torture people before killing them!” She almost sobbed the last part.

I gave her a minute hoping she would calm down, hyperventilate, or get tired in some way. No such luck, apparently Denise had a lot to live for. Finally I asked, “Why haven’t you just run away?”

Denise caught herself and gazed at me warily, “I can’t leave until you give me permission to.” She instinctively took a step back and hit the wall.

“Good to know,” I said with a nod. Forewarned is forearmed. I leaned back against the far wall, and pulled the mug of Titan Brew out of my inventory. I took a drink.

You now have the energized condition. All Exhaustion-related conditions are removed.

Okay, that feeling was incredible. I could suddenly breathe without effort. My vision sharpened. The white noise in my mind faded. The phantom pain briefly surged before numbing. This allowed my muscles to relax. Weirdly my ears rang for a moment also. The sudden absence of pain and discomfort was like a weight lifting off my shoulders.

I looked at the mug and it seemed to be as full as it was before. I decided to Analyze the mug.

Analyze Check… Successful

Mug of Infinite Joy

This is a lesser artifact made by the Titan Spawn Cole. Any beverage poured into this mug will be infinitely dispensed until a new liquid is poured into it.

“Why is that good to know?” Denise shouted. “Why is that good to know?!”

Oops, I had been ignoring her. “Calm down,” I said, demonstrating yet again, that I am a dumbass. That literally never works on anyone. Ever.

“Get excited!” she shouted back, showing no calm… downward direction or otherwise.

“Is that really what you want?”

“No!” She squeaked, remembering consequences exist.

“Just stop for a minute,” I said, momentarily stalling out her panic attack. “I am not interested in hurting or killing you.”

“Oh, thank god,” Denise started.

“…provided you answer my questions, don’t lie to me, don’t manipulate me, nor endanger my friends,” I finished.

“So… I get you are new and a player… but you understand I am just an intern, right? I don’t have any Narrative Control. Hell, I only have probationary time-stop abilities, technically I am just piggybacking on Wilson’s authority,” she offered meekly.

“Good to know,” I repeated. I took another swig of the Titanic Brew, “Do you accept my terms or not?”

She sort of froze for a moment, “… um, yes?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” This felt important for some reason.

“…telling?” she managed.

“Please state the terms and agree to them,” I pressed.

“…shit. Fine. I, Denise, agree to appear when summoned, answer your questions, not lie to you, not manipulate you, and I will not knowingly act in a way to endanger your friends. In return, you, Doug, agree to not actively try to torture, kill, rape, or physically harm me in any way. I agree to these terms. Do you agree to these terms?”

“Why did you add rape to the list?” I asked, vaguely… no, definitely offended at the implication.

“Because I don’t want to get raped. Is that really the point you want to debate?” Denise shot back.

It was not. “Yeah, I agree.” We just stood there for a couple of seconds. “Is there going to be a prompt?”

“No,” Denise said, looking at me like she thought I was crazy.

“It just really feels like a prompt should pop up,” I said.

“It’s just a verbal agreement. Not every interaction is going to work in the system.” Denise explained.

I nodded, “I am going to use Analyze on you now.”

Analyze Check… Successful

Name:

Denise Smith

Race:

Human*

Class

Intern

Level:

0

HP:

2

Power:

1

Mobility:

1

Body:

1

Mind:

1

Face:

1

Magic:

1

Note: This being exists outside the Narrative and has no Scale. No Further information available.

That was less than helpful, “How do you not have Scale?”

Denise shook her head. She seemed to be coming to terms with the idea that her head was not going to be smashed in by my big hands or otherwise. “Most Narrators don’t have Scale. We are more scope focused anyway.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Denise tried to answer but the word CENSORED appeared over her mouth. After it vanished she shrugged “I guess I can’t talk about that.”

That was troubling. Oh well, best work on getting the information I needed to not die