The Writer awoke to a drop of cold water falling from the concrete ceiling. He jerked when it hit him, unaware how he came to be in this place. The room was small and dim. A chilling breeze brushed across skin but the room had no windows. The walls were cold, damp concrete blocks etched with words from previous occupants. The Writer read clearly the words "Take the booze" on the wall in front of him.
A sliver of light filtered in through a tiny crack under a large metal door. The door itself was old and slightly rusty but still sturdy. There was no handle on the inside, and it was clear it could only be opened from some other room. The Writer was nervous at first, having no memories of how he came to be in this place. But looking around, he was struck by just how unimaginative the place truly was. It was as if this dungeon was little more than a poor artist's attempt to describe a dungeon using nothing more than stolen snippets of other people’s works.
The Writer turned, and seemingly out of nowhere, there now stood an old wooden desk that was not there before. On the desk was an old mechanical typewriter, its keys gleaming faintly in the dim light.
Then, before his eyes, a green translucent display appeared, startling him.
FOLLOWERS: 0
STATS
* Writing: 1
* Speed: 1
* Endurance: 1
* Creativity: 1
* Lives: 3
A booming voice echoed through the dungeon, "Objective: Write a story about a dog."
The Writer looked up but saw nothing. The voice seemed to come from nowhere. He shouted back at the nothingness, "Where am I?"
He glanced at the typewriter and saw a timer hovering over it, set to 14:55. He continued to watch as the timer changed to 14:54. "Crap!" he said.
He shook his head and rushed behind the desk. There was no chair, and as he leaned against the desk, the typewriter slipped across its surface. He grabbed the machine and looked at its keys. The Writer was familiar with the layout but had never used a real typewriter before. He stared at the faintly glowing keys, then got up and began to pace the room, his mind racing. Was this a dream? Should he try to escape? Or should he follow the voice's command? He had no idea where he was or how he got here.
But one thing was clear: he was a Writer, and he could write a story. Even if this was a dream, he could write something about a dog.
With a sigh, he moved back to the typewriter. His fingers hovered over the heavy keys, then froze. It was like years of writing experience had vanished. He couldn’t remember anything he had written, though he was sure he was a Writer. It seemed as if everything he had worked for his entire life was reset, as if he was back at level one, sitting down with pen and paper for the first time.
The Writer looked blankly at the likewise blank paper sticking out of the typewriter. He had nothing. Then the voice came back.
"Five minutes remaining."
The Writer looked up as if pulled from a dream. The clock now read 4:59. "I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes," he thought. Still looking at the blank page, he decided to write something, anything. But as he picked up his finger to type the word “Dog,” they felt odd and unwieldy. His index fingers were the only ones that seemed to work, forcing him to type each letter loudly, one at a time.
D-O-G
He paused and caught his breath. It was as if the simple act of typing had worn him out. The clock continued to count down, now resting at 4:30. The Writer knew he had to continue, but what would the dog do? Then he got it: the dog would be tired.
His index finger worked again, pounding out the next word.
W-A-S
He found himself catching his breath again. His heart was pounding, unimaginable for such a simple activity. He had only typed a word or two, but maintaining this speed felt like it would kill him.
3:10
T-I-R-E-D
This word was longer than the others and took even more out of him. He thought about stopping, but this wasn’t a story. A dog being tired was just a sentence. The Writer knew he needed a reason why. But to write a reason would mean using even larger words, and that scared him. Of course, the Writer loved to write, but it was still taxing. He wished there was a simple way to write large amounts of words with little effort, but he knew there was no way to do that and keep what he loved about writing.
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2:17
So he started the word, knowing he would have to push through no matter the pain.
B-E-C-A-U-S-E
Tears sprung from his eyes and ran down his face. The pain in his fingers was creeping up his hands with a burning intensity. But nothing would stop him from pushing through to the end.
1:46
H-E
The Writer was labored by this simple task, something he had done time and time again, but he had to finish. He was like a reporter staring down the deadline with the editor waiting to send it to print.
1:11
L-O-V-E-D
The burning was no longer confined to his hands. It was now firmly in his arms. The Writer looked around, but he could scarcely see the room. His sight was blurred with a red ring of fog closing in around him, allowing him only to see what was directly in front of him. But he felt a drop fall from the ceiling and hit his head. He looked up to see the ceiling but saw nothing.
0:57
T-I
He typed the wrong key. “Shit!” he screamed, his voice echoing in the empty room. He looked for the delete or backspace, but there was none. Or at least none that he could see through his ever-fogging eyes. The Writer remembered this was a mechanical typewriter. His keys were final.
0:21
He had only one word left, but he didn’t know if he had it in him. His body was shaking. He couldn’t see the keys. Honestly, the story wasn’t even that good. It was barely a story at all. He had spent fifteen minutes writing and only had one grammatically incorrect sentence about a dog, a tired dog running. But the dog hadn’t run yet.
0:14
R-U
He started to cough, his body seizing with pain. The Writer looked at the typewriter, the N seemingly now the only key left, the others had faded away. He lifted his hand and moved his index finger, hovering over the needed key.
0:02
With a labored motion, his finger fell, hitting the key.
N
Then, as quickly as the typewriter and desk had appeared, they were gone. But his paper stayed, suspended in mid-air. He stared at its words, his eyesight slowly returning, the red ring disappearing, and the pain leaving his arms.
A display popped up again in front of his eyes.
+35 XP
LEVEL UP:
STATS
* Writing: 1
* Speed: 2
* Endurance: 2
* Creativity: 1
* Lives: 3
He blinked, and the display disappeared. Four items hovered in the air where the display once was.
* Thesaurus: Permanent – Writing +1
* Blanket: Permanent – Endurance +1
* Booze: Temporary – Creativity +6
* Gold: Tokens + 100
He looked at the items and reached up to grab the blanket as it was quite cold in the damp cell. But he moved his hand back. The gold had to be better. He didn’t know what tokens did, but they had to do something. Maybe he could buy his way out of this jail.
But as he reached for the gold, his eyes fell on the words etched into the wall, “Take the booze.” He moved his hands and grabbed it quickly. But after his hand touched it, he looked at it again. Thinking maybe the permanent change would be better, but as he looked up, the other items were gone, and he was left holding the booze.
Then the voice returned, “Opponent: Basic AI. Objective: Write a story about a dog."
Suddenly, suspended next to his page was a computer. It was a small black laptop, and on its glowing screen was the prompt entered into an AI generator. Quickly, the system began to type with an even cadence, and at a much faster pace than the Writer could even begin to match.
“Once there was a playful dog named Spot. One sunny day, Spot found a big, red ball in the park. He had the best day ever playing fetch with his new ball.”
The Writer read the story, completed in less than fifteen seconds. He stared at its words and the ease with which they were written. No pain, no tears. A simple prompt and solution.
Then both his paper and the laptop were gone. He looked around, his vision now completely restored. The room was as it was before: a simple concrete block cell, with nothing but an imposing metal door keeping him from something. Freedom maybe, or possibly something worse than what was in the room.
The room, however, lit up, and a huge display covered the wall. It was a website. On it were both his story and the system’s story. He watched as little icons of various different users popped up around their stories. A flurry of thumbs-ups, hearts, and even frowns floated around the system’s story. Comments flooded in, each one appearing under the system's story.
“Lovely dog” - Grams2098
“My dog likes red balls too” - DogBoyDenver
“Bitcoin giveaway!!! Free money!!!” – EloonMuskREAL
However, his story remained empty. Nothing happened. No thumbs-ups, hearts, or even frowns. No one seemed to spend even a moment reading his.
But then one heart appeared. He watched as “…” appeared, dancing next to the name UnevenKayak98. Someone was writing a comment.
Then the words appeared: “Good start. Keep writing.”
Tears formed in the Writer’s eyes again, flooding his face, but these tears were nothing like those before. The Writer was happy. It wasn’t the best story. He knew it, but he had spent everything he had writing it, making something out of nothing.
But as soon as the comment was made, the display disappeared.
The voice came back, filling the small room, “1 Follower: Failure.”
The green-tinted display reappeared, flashing:
* Lives: 2
Suddenly, a pain overcame his body, and he buckled over on the cold, wet floor, feeling as if his blood had been drained from his body.
But then the feeling was gone, only there for a moment. He got up and looked over to see the desk and typewriter back in the room. However, they were covered in a transparent blue dome with another countdown timer on top.
23:59:51
The Writer walked over to the dome. He tried to move his hands through it to touch the typewriter, but he was stopped, and a new display popped up.
“Unlock for 100 Tokens”
The room was dark now. The only light seemed to be coming from the timer and the small sliver coming from under the door.
The Writer sat down in the middle of the damp floor and began to watch the timer count down.
23:59:36