《The Forest Dark》 The Announcement (Prologue) DATE: 07-01-2030; 12:07pm TO: [email protected] FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: The fate of DUSKFALL is in your hands! ATTENTION ALL DUSKLIGHTERS! We, the new & old management teams of MANIK PIX-E, want to thank you for your years of dedication to DUSKFALL. This community has stuck with the land of Nerthus despite some tremendous setbacks. Your patience and help with stomping out bugs, developing key features, and making this incredible, talented community has truly inspired us all. We understand many of you lost hope for DUSKFALL. This journey has been a rough one. There were moments even we thought this day would never arrive. But it has. Today, we¡¯re thrilled to announce that¡­ We lied to you. Two years ago, when we announced MANIK PIX-E¡¯s impending bankruptcy, we didn¡¯t know it was a lie. The paperwork was filed, the lights were cut. It looked like the end.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. But thanks to a very special fan who had the money and guts enough to invest in a future they could see so clearly on the horizon, we kept the doors ajar. Instead of retracting our previous announcement we made a tactical retreat to our underground, radio silent indie roots. This is what we¡¯ve been working our asses off to accomplish. In three months, on October 2, 2030, all third-party DUSKFALL servers will shut down. We are rolling back all licensing rights to the alpha releases, and instead bringing you one worldwide, massive, online multiplayer VR experience of DUSKFALL PRIME. For two months the DUSKFALL PRIME beta server will be open exclusively to those who purchased early access up through the beta¡¯s release. With this final push, 2031 should see the official opening of DUSKFALL PRIME¡¯s long anticipated full-release. We know we¡¯ve asked a lot of you these past few years, but we also know you love this project as much as we do¡ªmaybe even more. We hope we can count on you to join us as we end this adventure, and begin something far greater. Marvin Kael MANIK PIX-E FOUNDER & CEO CH1, Alexa - Part 1 For the first time in eight years the parallel of a bedroom I can see but doesn¡¯t exist, and a bedroom that exists but I cannot see is troubling. I¡¯m too aware of the foam mattress beneath me, the clunky, nine-year-old headgear nestled around my head like a basketball, and the slight pinch where it connects with the neural receptor implanted at the back of my neck. The controller in my hand is as heavy as the keyboard balanced across my stomach is not. Both are necessary to bridge the failings of DUSKFALL¡¯s slap-dash implementation of nerve controls, but they only add to the disorientation as my in-game self looks at her empty hands. Will I need this ridiculous set up for the beta? Have they fixed this? If so, well, it won¡¯t make the forced transition worth what we¡¯re losing, but maybe... Maybe. Curiosity eats at me, even as tears sting my eyes. I rip the helmet off. ¡°Get a grip, goddammit.¡± I sit up, rubbing hard at my cheeks and eyes. This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Taking a deep, shaking breath, I hold it to a count of five, and release. Once, twice, thrice; I keep going until the weight in my chest dissipates, and the stinging fades. Eventually, I open my eyes to stare at the grey bedroom around me. The real one. Mountains of boxes and old medical equipment replace the tapestries and elegant furniture of the game world. The light leaking from my AltGear VR helmet flickers, giving the space an otherworldly glow and casting strange, haunting shadows along the walls. ¡°It¡¯s just a game, right?¡± I ask the empty air, and hate the responding silence. A week ago my father would have heard me through the bedroom¡¯s open door. He¡¯d shuffle in from the living room, one hand against the wall to steady himself, and remind me that, yes, it is only a game. He¡¯d promise we¡¯ll find something else to play if I don¡¯t like the beta. We¡¯d laugh over the good times we¡¯d had, and then we¡¯d move on together. We¡¯d find new friends. Design new projects. And I¡¯d make him sit the hell back down, because what was he thinking tiring himself like this? Was the silly old man trying to kill himself? Tears again. I blink them back with a growling, frustrated sigh and flop back into my pillow. My friends¡ªour friends, for all they hadn¡¯t known Dad as well as he¡¯d known them¡ªthey¡¯re waiting on me. I need to get my shit together. No matter how pathetic and miserable I¡¯m being, I can¡¯t skip out on what may well be our last night. No matter how much I want to. Goodbyes suck, but at least with them I get one.
Back in game, I press the controller joystick forward and my avatar shoots to its feet. MANIK PIX-E, the game¡¯s development team, didn¡®t concern themselves with avatar modeling or animations. Characters don¡¯t have a wide range of visible movement or flexibility, or even customization choices. But that¡¯s fine. That¡¯s not why anyone plays DUSKFALL. Brilliant sunlight streams through the wall-sized stained glass window at the end of the bedroom, washing the room with color. Opalescent shell pieces I worked into the limestone coating on the walls shimmer as I turn around. This¡ªthe ridiculously lush, realistic environmental graphics and crafting system¡ªthis is the appeal. For a brief moment I just stand there, soaking in the luxurious surroundings so far removed from anything I could obtain in the real world. Still, my pride is tempered by the knowledge that, though I¡¯ve spent every spare moment of the last several months trying to finish this place, I didn¡¯t make it. Not quite. There¡¯s still a little time¡­ sort of. With an errant thought, and a heavy heart, I call up the server¡¯s leaderboard. The simple, semi-opaque pop-up hovers in the air before me, showing a list of the server¡¯s regular players.
WOLVES IN THE WOODS [PVE] LEADERBOARD
RANK PLAYER DEATHS KILLS POINTS STATUS
1 MSWYVERN 24 876 12,570 ONLINE
2 ECHOVOXX 32 1,679 12,038 ONLINE
3 QUIETKING 14 947 11,676 OFFLINE
4 WIN5TON 85 1,648 11,277 ONLINE
5 LOOS-E-NTEHSK1 76 1,942 11,171 ONLINE
6 2MANYCHAIRS 126 2,984 11,043 OFFLINE
7 BABZNTYLND 29 1,139 11,406 OFFLINE
8 SQUEAKAH 156 3,002 9,965 ONLINE
9 ROBZURUNCLE 43 1,102 9,641 ONLINE
10 NOHAMBONE 149 3,127 8,946 OFFLINE
11 DOPPLERG4NG 11 284 7,913 OFFLINE
12 TACORNY 52 563 6,086 OFFLINE
It¡¯s a paltry list. We¡¯ve been hemorrhaging players for the past two years as DUSKFALL entered the dreaded ¡°abandonware¡± stage of early access. Once, during the game¡¯s peak, there¡¯d be thirty to forty players online for an event like tonight¡¯s. Now there¡¯s twelve. I can¡¯t help feeling like that¡¯s a good thing. Sure, the server¡¯s more populated days had been great for its owner, ROBZURUNCLE. Rob enjoys having large teams to work with; it¡¯s why he made a PVE server. While those of us who prefer Player-VS-Environment games can be a surly, anti-social lot¡ªat least in terms of playstyle¡ªwe mostly get along, hang out in chat, and come up with fun, competitive challenges that don¡¯t hinge around being dicks to each other. That¡¯s not the case with most PVP servers. Not in my experience, anyway, though a few of the others¡ªlike Echo¡ªwould argue that assessment. One of the drawbacks to a packed server is that events inevitably getting out of hand, and fast. Spawning enough enemy mobs to be a challenge taxes server resources, and results in catastrophic problems. Nine times out of ten we have to wipe directly after, setting everyone¡¯s progress back to zero. As if sensing my thoughts, a text-chat pops into existence along the bottom of my screen. ROBZURUNCLE:??how you holding up, sugar? The green of his gamertag tells me he¡¯s on a whisper channel; otherwise, I might have to murder him. MSWYVERN:????I¡¯m holding. sorry for the late ROBZURUNCLE: ??not a problem. How was the funeral? My fingers stall on the keyboard as I try to find a response that isn¡¯t rude. Rob is my friend. He¡¯s the only one of my friends, in fact, who knows why I¡¯ve been quiet and disconnected most of the past week. And I¡¯d only told him because I had to. If I hadn¡¯t, they would¡¯ve planned something truly ridiculous for tonight, robbing me of the last couple hours I need to complete this build. MSWYVERN:????a funeral. OK, that was still harsh. Hastily, I add: MSWYVERN:????figure they all suck on some level ROBZURUNCLE:??fair enough ROBZURUNCLE:??y¡¯know if you still need help i can rally the troops. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll want to help. MSWYVERN:????and have Wins or Luce paint the castle pink when I¡¯m not looking? You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. ??MSWYVERN:????thanks, but i can handle it ROBZURUNCLE:??they wouldn¡¯t if you explain why it¡¯s important to you He¡¯s right. I know he¡¯s right. But the words clog my throat every time I try; the tears sting my eyes, and breathing gets hard, and I am not doing that. Logic says they wouldn¡¯t think any less of me. Most of them, anyway. But I would. MSWYVERN:????I¡¯m not ready, OK? Please, just drop it. ROBZURUNCLE:??alright sugar ROBZURUNCLE:??you¡¯re still coming tho, right? MSWYVERN:????I¡¯ll be in chat ROBZURUNCLE:??demons will swarm if you¡¯re there. Dammit. He has a point. Once triggered, the resulting mobs will head for every player on the map. I wouldn¡¯t get as many demons as the party, sure. There¡¯d still be enough to cause more structural damage than I can fix by my deadline. ROBZURUNCLE:??Get over here, hang out with us, and I¡¯ll call the party at nine. ROBZURUNCLE:??that enough time to finish up? In theory, sure, but that doesn¡¯t answer my real question. MSWYVERN:????and that stops you guys from fragging the server...how? ROBZURUNCLE:?? already told them we can¡¯t ROBZURUNCLE:?? and no, I didn¡¯t tell them why MSWYVERN:????thank you MSWYVERN:????lemme check something and I¡¯ll port over ROBZURUNCLE:??kk The chat window fades after a second¡¯s hang, and I sigh. Calling up the chat list, I mute my mic, and join the only active channel. Echo¡¯s overly amped southern drawl is the first voice to grace my ears. ¡°I ain¡¯t your son, son.¡± He and Rob laugh though everyone else groans. ¡°You guys are tragic,¡± says Lucy in her usual, sardonic monotone. Apparently, that¡¯s even funnier. Though I don¡¯t get the joke any more than the rest of our non-southern friends, a smile still tugs at my lips. As usual, they¡¯ve overridden my sour mood in a matter of seconds. This is why I agreed to attend despite the funeral this morning, and the work I¡¯ve left to do on the build. Even despite my desire to document everything before it¡¯s gone forever. It helps that I¡¯m not alone. Their presence is only virtual but the familiarity of their voices and the world we¡¯ve built together eases the aching hole in my chest. Besides, Dad wouldn¡¯t want me burning any more bridges. I have to remember that. I close the panel as I leave the bedroom. It exits onto the internal balcony overlooking the castle¡¯s throne room. There ought to be enough time to check on the paint downstairs. I vault over, stick the landing, and jog to the antechamber. Above me, light bounces off the newly finished frescos accenting the vaulted ceilings. My smile widens. I slow down, taking a moment to appreciate the paintings. I¡¯m not an artist by any means, but in DUSKFALL I don¡¯t need to be. An image editor, a little time with the texture files, and those frescos look like I hired Da Vinci himself. These weren¡¯t part of the original specs, but I¡¯m sure Dad would approve. I chose each from his collection of medieval artworks; the ones he¡¯d pointed out while he was researching for this build. The build he didn¡¯t live to see completed. Stop it, Alexa. Shoving those thoughts aside, I pass from the throne room through the large double doors into the freshly painted antechamber. It¡¯s still wet. Dammit. DUSKFALL¡¯s crafting is wonderful for its complexity, but sometimes it¡¯s also a pain in the ass. For instance: the time it takes for certain surfaces to ¡®dry¡¯. Examples: paint and cement. The material¡¯s status effects a surface¡¯s overall HP and load capacity until its had time to dry. Mostly that means waiting out a timer, but said timer can be buffed or debuff by things such as weather conditions and a thrown pail of water. Ah, well. The only items left on my agenda are applying the trim and tapestries, moving the furniture back into place, fixing some relatively minor demonic damage on the exterior walls, and filling in the brickwork on the chapel wall. It sounds like a lot, but at my current levels it should only take a couple hours. If I attend the party, that¡¯ll leave one extra hour to record some video, take pictures...and let the last piece of my father go with dignity. My breath hitches. Sounding a trifle annoyed, Lucy says, ¡°Where is everybody? I need to get my drunk on.¡± Shit. Blinking fresh tears from my eyes, I call the leaderboard back up and select ROBZURUNCLE, choosing to teleport myself to his location. The effect is instant: my screen blurs with colour and then I¡¯m standing in the courtyard of Rob¡¯s main fortress, The Welcome Wagon. Someone has strewn flower chains, paper-streamers, and candles across every wall and surface of the place. Lucy, most likely. For all her gothy, depressed nature, the girl has a major passion for frills. ¡°Don¡¯t see anyone stopping you,¡± says Echo. ¡°Damn sure ain¡¯t stopping Hank, here.¡± Unmuting myself, I say, ¡°Who the fuck is Hank?¡± A few heads turn toward me. I wince; thankfully they can¡¯t see my expression. As used as I am to the geometric body seemingly attached to myself, having other player characters around is always jarring. It''s like being trapped in a pulpy horror movie; the kind where mannequins come to life. I say ¡°like¡° because avatars have facial features, they¡®re just painted on blank, shapeless heads. They don¡¯t move, or blink, or have any kind of animation other than directional movement. From the gate tower, the slender-man-like avatar of Echo leans over the parapet to wave at Rob. ¡°Hank Hill, over there.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t you way too young to understand that reference?¡± says Squeakah. He¡¯s standing next to Echo on top of the wall, working with two glowing witchlight orbs I recognize as the materializations of Echo¡¯s ever-present camera bots. My mood sours again as one floats up a few feet before zooming off into the distance. ¡°First of all, I was born in ¡®98; I was raised on that show. Secondly, classics never die, man.¡± The other bot rises to circle overhead. ¡°Okay, Rose¡¯ll cover the gates at your place, Win. Sophia¡¯s getting forest footage. Who all¡¯s recording on their end?¡± Oh... great. I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from snapping as, all around me, arms raise. ECHOvoxx is a Glitch streamer. He¡¯s not super popular on a world-wide scale, but he is huge in the DUSKFALL crowd. Big fish, little pond and all that. Problem is, a good portion of that celebrity came from leveraging our parties, our builds. What were once private affairs now get broadcast to the entire internet. As usual, I¡¯m the only one who¡¯s put off by it. ¡°Et tu, Win-tin?¡± Echo asks. I turn, surprised as everyone else to find WIN5TON¡¯s arm isn¡¯t raised. That¡¯s weird. He¡¯s usually the first to sign up for Echo¡¯s particular brand of video-game Jackass. Winston¡¯s avatar expands its arms out; our in-game version of a shrug. ¡°Connection¡¯s been struggling lately.¡± I frown. If Winston¡¯s having power issues that means San Francisco¡¯s undergoing rolling blackouts again. There¡¯d been nothing on the news about it. Then again, I hadn¡¯t been paying much attention this week, had I? Before I can ask, Echo lands beside me. He wacks my arm. I can¡¯t feel the hit, but my screen flashes red at the border for a millisecond. ¡°C¡¯mon, Ms,¡± he says, ¡°Last chance to get in on the fun.¡± ¡°I¡¯m running in the race. That¡¯s fun.¡± And there I go being a surly bitch again. I take a deep breath, preparing to apologize when a clatter of keys catches my attention. My mood dips even further. Mikah. It¡¯s always fucking Mikah. ¡°I can hear your keyboard, Squeaks.¡± Squeakah jumps on the defensive. ¡°Don¡¯t assume everything¡¯s about you.¡± Which means it absolutely was. Mikah likes to believe none of us know his ¡®occasional¡¯ off-colour comments are more frequent behind our backs. Comments he often ¡®forgets¡¯ to whisper. Lucy has more tact; unlike Mikah¡¯s mechanical keyboard, hers is whisper silent. LOOS-E-NTEHSK1:??you ok girl MSWYVERN:?????just not in the mood for his nonsense LOOS-E-NTEHSK1:??mikah or justin MSWYVERN:?????yes LOOS-E-NTEHSK1:??lul LOOS-E-NTEHSK1:??don¡¯t let them get to you tho LOOS-E-NTEHSK1:??not like you¡¯ll have to deal w/them in the beta if u don¡¯t want She¡¯s right. Maybe that should make me feel better, but it doesn¡¯t. As much of an ass Mikah can be, he¡¯s our ass. ¡°Guys, if she doesn¡¯t want her POV included on the farewell vid that¡¯s her prerogative. We good, Ms?¡± Echo, ever the diplomat, raises his avatar¡¯s arm like he wants a high-five. No matter how annoyed I want to be, or how grating Echo¡¯s insistence on broadcasting what should be a private matter between friends is, I have a hard time staying mad at him. Most people do. Ironically, that¡¯s why I¡¯m never quite sure what to think about him. Echo¡¯s perfected the whole ''parasocial relationship¡¯ part of being a streamer. He¡¯s unoffensive, projects happiness like his life depends on it, and avoids confrontation like a lawyer avoids prison. Hell, I¡¯ve known him for six years now and I¡¯m not sure ¡®Justin¡¯ is his real name. And somehow that doesn¡¯t matter when he¡¯s around because¡­ he¡¯s fun. At least, he is when we aren¡¯t fighting over the one thing he won¡¯t back down about: his streaming. I chuckle weakly and push his arm away. ¡°Yeah, whatever. We¡¯re good.¡± With that out of the way, I look around and realize just how many people haven¡¯t arrived. ¡°Are we the only ones showing up?¡± ¡°Quiet and Babz said they¡¯d be here, though I dunno,¡± says Rob. ¡°Taco¡¯s gonna be late.¡± ¡°What¡¯s new?¡± Lucy quips. There¡¯s a pause before Rob finishes, saying, ¡°Dopper, Chairs, and Porkchop are out.¡± ¡°Out for the party, or¡­?¡± ¡°¡®Out,¡¯ out. They¡¯re play testing some new game they want us all to move to if the megaserver doesn¡¯t fit.¡± ¡°It¡¯s just PVP.¡± Echo sighs. ¡°It¡¯s not like the world is ending.¡± ¡°Says you.¡± I wince. I hadn¡¯t meant to say that, but now it¡¯s out there. For once, though, Mikah¡¯s loud mouth comes to my rescue, drowning my comment out. ¡°Hey, I don¡¯t agree with MP pulling server rights any more than you guys, but if they got their shit ironed out enough to make an MMO from this wreck I¡¯m all for giving it a chance. Can you imagine real skill trees? Brand new weapon sets?¡± Ugh. ¡°Yeah, sure. Even more siege and assault options to blow each other up. I¡¯ll bet you fifty bucks, here and now, there isn¡¯t a single addition to PVE content or the crafting system.¡± Mikah scoffs. ¡°Does there need to be? Crafting is already robust. What else are you looking for; functional plumbing?¡± ¡°Yes? That¡¯d be more useful than...Oh, I don¡¯t know.¡± I toss out the first over-the-top idea that springs to mind. ¡°Acid enchanted Gatling harpoon launchers. Who needs that kind of weaponry?¡± Echo and Win raise their hands, but it¡¯s Echo who says, ¡°Uh, me. I need that.¡± ¡°Please. What would you even do with one?¡± ¡°What would I not do with one? PVP aside, think of how much shit you could destroy. Or disintegrate.¡± ¡°Knowing you? Probably your own foot. On purpose. Because your followers dared you.¡± Echo¡¯s laugh is loud and so genuine that I smile despite my annoyance at the topic. The thing is, DUSKFALL¡¯s already hard enough for solo players. Sure, we all knew going it wouldn¡¯t be easy. From the start they¡¯ booked the game as PVP survival crafting with an emphasis on group play. But PVE was an option; particularly with the private servers. No matter how I try to rationalize it away, there¡¯s this deep, angry part of me who feels like the devs¡¯ ¡°PVP-Only megaserver¡± spits in the faces of the loyal PVE fans. We¡¯re not the only group still playing DUSKFALL by any means, but why should we be punished when we¡¯ve stuck with the game just as long as everyone else? Hell, some of us¡ªlike me, Rob, and Winston¡ªhave been here since day one. Eight years of loyalty and this our reward: a knife in the back. If they would just let us keep the private servers¡­ I shake my head, tuning back into the conversation as Winston muses, ¡°I bet you might even hold off a pig mob with that.¡± ¡°Pigs are immortal,¡± Lucy reminds him, with a small scoff. ¡°I didn¡¯t say ¡®destroy,¡¯ Luce. I said hold off.¡± ¡°Guys,¡± Rob drawls, ¡°Y¡¯all¡¯re borrowing a lotta trouble.¡± There¡¯s an audible gulp of liquid from his end, followed by an aluminum crunch and the sound of another tab being popped. I frown, but say nothing. Rob¡¯s drinking habits aren¡¯t my business. And if I keep telling myself that, maybe I¡¯ll believe it one of these days. ¡°We don¡¯t know what the alpha¡¯s gonna be like. ¡®Sides, we all got each other, right? We could all still team up there.¡± I press my lips together, listening to the awkward silence. Most of us have tried teaming up. Granted, my participation was a long time past; back when we, and DUSKFALL, were all new. I¡¯d met Rob on a PVP server when those were the only kind available. Tired of being griefed and harassed, I¡¯d been ready to quit when Rob came along. We clicked instantly. Rob handled most of the fighting and hunting while I scavenged and built. It was fun, even if I never quite shook the feeling I wasn¡¯t pulling my weight. But a small team can¡¯t survive against the brutal pack mentality PVP fosters. While we were decent players, neither of us had the bloodlust or, frankly, the lack of basic morality to loot other people¡¯s shit while they were offline. Which is what kept happening to us. No matter what defenses we put together someone always broke them during the gap periods when we were both gone. When Rob said he was starting his own server, I rejoiced. I thought that would be the end of our troubles. Thing is, without the pressure from PVP our dynamic shifted. The feeling I wasn¡¯t contributing enough became annoyance as, increasingly, I was the only person contributing at all. The more people who joined¡ªWinston, Taco, Quiet, to name a few¡ªthe more hours I¡¯d spend collecting and refining materials only to find those resources spent on someone else¡¯s project. Within two months I¡¯d gone off on my own, never to return. Maybe that would change again with PVP being reintroduced. But I don¡¯t know that I want it to change. I like being a solo player, for all that I¡¯d never truly been alone. The thought of my silent partner is enough to shake me. I hit mute until I can regain my composure. ¡°We gonna get started then?¡± says Lucy, shattering the silence. Rob clears his throat. ¡°I texted the marrieds,¡± he says, meaning Quiet and Babz. ¡°But I guess they can always find us later.¡± ¡°Gimme a tick. Gotta catch the stream up,¡± announces Justin. He turns, putting me directly into view behind him as he begins his introductory spiel. Asshole. I shoulder-check his avatar as I move out of view. ¡°Right then,¡± drawls Rob. He chuckles under his breath. ¡°Let''s get¡¯er done.¡± CH2, Justin ¡°Annnd happy Beta Day, y¡¯all! Sorry for the delay; we were just talking game plans for tonight. Are y¡¯all as amped as I am for DUSKFALL PRIME?¡± I pause, watching the flurry of responses hit the streamer chat. Most are long strings of exclamations, hearts, emojis, or variations of the word ¡°yes.¡± My rig doesn¡¯t include an IRL facial camera; there¡¯s a lotta reasons for that, most of them inconsequential these days. Regardless, I¡¯m grinning like a loon as I let out a sharp, loud pig-call. Am I playing up the country boy aesthetic? Fuck yes, I am. The crowd eats it up. ¡°I am living for that enthusiasm y¡¯all! Keep. It. Going. Come midnight, we¡¯re gonna be first into the megaserver, alongside my brother, Rob, and y¡¯all¡¯s favorite mad genius, Winston. Can I get a hell-yeah?¡± The air-horn macro goes off as one of my subscribers leaves a tip. ¡°Hell yeah!¡± I pause for a second, letting that energy hang. Take a deep breath, hold it, and let go. The mood shifts down just a notch. ¡°Before that, though, it¡¯s time for us to say goodbye. I know there¡¯s a lotta y¡¯all still hanging around from my BattleStar days, but I think it¡¯s fair to say the majority are here for DUSKFALL. Let¡¯s face it, this channel wouldn¡¯t be what it is today without the Wolves. Am I right?¡± Another air-horn goes off. ¡°Fuck yeah, I¡¯m right. Thanks to Taro and Clownstar for those sirens, by the way.¡± The two call-outs post emojis which are quickly lost beneath other comments. It¡¯s not often the chat is this busy. I have to admit, it¡¯s nice¡ªeven if the hype isn¡¯t actually for me. ¡°For anyone who doesn¡¯t know, or just joined us ¡®cause we¡¯re somehow trending tonight¡ª¡± I pause, interrupted by a series of air-horns. ¡°¡ªThank you for that, too. You guys are amazing! Ah, well, tonight¡¯s not just the opening of the megaserver, it¡¯s also when the MANIK PIX-E shutdown of all private servers goes live.¡± Instantly, the chat turns hostile. No matter how excited people are for the beta there¡¯s a lot of hard feelings toward MP¡¯s decision to bogart the private servers. I¡¯m not immune. While I¡¯ve maintained public acceptance of the dev¡¯s decision¡ªnot wanting to fall into the trope of ¡°angry gamer bro on the internet¡±¡ªI don¡¯t agree with them. DUSKFALL was built around PVP and group-play for sure, but private servers had always been in the mix, too. It was straight-up tacky to dismiss a large portion of your player base just because you changed direction mid-build. Especially after people had dropped tons of money on the game you¡¯d initially spec¡¯d to them. If they¡¯d been more upfront¡­ Eh. In the end, though, getting worked up about shit you can¡¯t change has never helped anyone. Particularly with small beans problems like this. ¡°Alright, alright,¡± I say, when I¡¯ve let the bellyaching go on long enough. ¡°Whatever we think about it, what¡¯s done is done, yeah? The point is, we¡¯re here to see the Wolves off in style. And what better way to kick off the evening than with the event that started it all?¡± Again, the mood shifts. A few bitchy posts remain, but most of the crowd begins to copypasta ¡°ALE-RUN, ALE-RUN¡± into the chat. ¡°Let¡¯s shake it if we make it make it, y¡¯all! Yeehaw!¡± At the bottom of my screen, private green text appears: LOOS-E-NTEHSK1:ur such a dork. ilu It¡¯s like ice water to the face. My grin melts away. This? This is why I still don¡¯t have a facecam.
The ¡°¡®Shake it if You Make it¡¯ Naked Ale-Run¡± is a Wolves in the Woods tradition. It sits alongside other such classics as ¡°Player-capult¡± and ¡°Rise of the Zombie Pigs.¡± I¡¯m hoping we can manage one round apiece before the night¡¯s over, though Rob warned me we¡¯re likely to cut short. I¡¯m not clear on why, and Rob isn¡¯t giving explanations. Frustrating, sure, but knowing Rob he has a good reason. At least, he believes he does. The five of us gather at the Welcome Wagon¡¯s main gate. Our gear, including armor and weapons, is stripped and stashed in boxes floating just above our heads. Rob stands on the other side of the gates, ready to push them open and fly off the moment the proverbial whistle is blown. Given his admin authorities, he¡¯s happy to play referee for these events. Referee, and villain. His propensity to airdrop high-level spawns on our heads is pretty well established. ¡°You¡¯ll get these back if you survive the night,¡± Rob announces like he does every race. I¡¯m not sure why that matters tonight¡ªit isn¡¯t like we¡¯ll need any of it again¡ªbut the familiarity is nice. ¡°If you want a weapon before you hit Winston¡¯s place, you¡¯re gonna have to find something on your way.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the second leg,¡± asks Mikah. ¡°TBA. Kill the mobs at Winston¡¯s and you¡¯ll find out.¡± Pints of ale drop from the sky in front of us. They don¡¯t spill or break thanks to a lack of physics on stat-boosting food stores. I grab one and chug. The others follow suit. My Heads Up Display wobbles. Two markers flash at the corner of my HUD, indicating a three-hour speed and endurance buff at the cost of my perception and accuracy. ¡°On your marks,¡± Rob booms, ¡°Get set¡­ ¡°Go!¡± The doors burst open as the gameworld shifts from brilliant noon, to full-mooned night. A blue moon night. Lucy¡¯s voice is filled with a dark glee as she mutters, ¡°Oh my gawd,¡± and zooms off into the dark forest beyond the gate. My chat blows up with ¡°GO! GO! GO!¡± as Mswyvern and I both leap from the gate at her heels. We might have a ton of points on Lucy, but she¡¯s been faster than everyone else on the server since she¡¯d dumped a ton of points into her agility. Fast isn¡¯t what matters in this game, though. Furious howls and roaring erupts from the surrounding forest. With the blue moon above there¡¯s enough light to see the dark silhouettes of trees as we crash through the underbrush. But trees aren¡¯t the only things out here. Sleek, black bodies appear between the tree trunks. They¡¯re a range of sizes, with shapes that blur and blend like smoke as they move. But it¡¯s the glowing, spectral white of their eyes that signals danger. I whoop as the first nago demons barrel past me, and leap over the second line. But that won¡¯t save me. Nago travel in herds, and there¡¯s a shit ton just behind them. If I can¡¯t get past they¡¯ solidify into half-boar, half-porcupine creatures with the capacity to pin you in place while they rip you limb from limb. These are just one of the many, many demonic creatures populating DUSKFALL¡¯s landscape. See, the game¡¯s entire premise revolves around the titular ¡°dusk fall.¡± By day, the game is just another idyllic medieval fantasy world; albeit one with a disgustingly detailed crafting system. By night, though? Once the sun sets, all the animalistic mobs littering the world transform into super powered, hive-mind demons with one purpose: killing players. Stick-like arms flash at the corner of my HUD as Ms pulls up beside me. She¡¯s almost neck-and-neck. Any other night I might have played the gentleman. Who am I kidding? No I wouldn¡¯t. ¡°Y¡¯all wanna see something funny?¡± The chat shouts their agreement, and I side-roll straight into Ms¡¯ path. She trips over me with a yelp, hitting the ground hard as I come to my feet and take off at a different, slightly unsteady angle. Sensing weaker prey on the ground the nago keep their course. I turn around, running my avatar backwards so the chat can see MSWYVERN as she disappears beneath the herd of demonic swine. A second later, yellow text flashes at the bottom of my screen. MSWYVERN HAS BEEN GUTTED BY A HERD OF NAGO. Lucy cackles from the darkness. ¡°Oh my god, you asshole.¡± She must have my stream up on mini-display. Swallowing my unease, I force cheer into my voice as I call out, ¡°Better watch that footing, Ms!¡± Ms answers with an aggravated growl. I can¡¯t help it; I laugh. Then my screen flashes bright red, sudden and sharp, and¡ª ECHOVOXX HAS BEEN TRAMPLED BY A HERD OF NAGO. ¡°What was that, Justin?¡± Ms asks in a voice sweet as honey. ¡°Something about watching your step?¡± OK. I deserved that. Still laughing, I respawn back at the Welcome Wagon. The door is just closing behind Ms as I scoop a pint of ale off the ground and launch myself through the gap behind her. MSWYVERN and I have been fighting over the top-tier position on the leaderboard since the day I started playing. I¡¯m not sure why, though I have ideas. We¡¯re both competitive; that¡¯s definitely part of it. And she¡¯s fun to rile up. And maybe it¡¯s a bit like pulling pigtails. Not that I¡¯ll admit it to her. After all, I know first hand what unwanted attention from a friend is like. In the spirit of competition, I stay steady behind her as we both chug on the run. The mugs explode into harmless glitter as they empty, and our speed increases. But that might not be enough. Right ahead of us, barreling closer by the second, something huge and burning blue barrels through the forest. A trail of crackling blue flame eats the ground behind it.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! ¡°Flamer incoming!¡± The brilliant, spreading flames illuminate Mikah¡¯s silhouette through the trees in front of us. He¡¯s getting bigger¡ªrunning back this way¡ªbut the hulking, lupine form behind him is closing in. But it¡¯s the two that ignite to either side of him, appearing from the surrounding forest like shadows, that take him down. SQUEAKAH HAS BEEN CONSUMED BY THREE ENRAGED FENRIR. Ms and I skid to a halt as the wolf-like fenrir tear Mikah¡¯s avatar into bite-sized chunks. He¡¯ll disappear when his respawn timer has expired. Right now, we¡¯re the ones in danger. I slap Ms¡¯ arm, and launch myself toward a more precarious route than we¡¯d been taking: the cliffs. Dangerous, sure, but it was clear of trees. There, we¡¯d know what side the danger was coming from. ¡°It¡¯s distracted; go, go, go!¡± ¡°I¡¯m not blind.¡± ¡°Fuck you guys,¡± Mikah grouses. ¡°No goddamn respect for your elders.¡± ¡°Your noble sacrifice is appreciated, grandpa,¡± says Ms. A howl tears through the air behind us as another column of blue ignites in the distance. WIN5TON HAS BEEN MAULED BY AN ENRAGED URSA MAJOR. I¡¯d been wondering where he got off to. Smirking, I say, ¡°Get your head in the game, Win-Ten. Or do you like being en flambe?¡± Winston scoffs. ¡°You wanna go, Justin? Let¡¯s go. Hey Ms, you see his pasty ass anywhere?¡± She snorts. ¡°¡®Course. He won¡¯t get his own trail, as usual.¡± ¡°How else do I make sure you get proper camera time?¡± Camera time she doesn¡¯t want, I know. As predicted, her response is instant and annoyed. ¡°Echo, I swear¡ª¡± Ms yelps as a boar the size of a cow rushes from the tree line. She jumps back just in time. The boar plunges over the edge of the cliff as Ms teeters. ¡°Craaap¡ª¡± ¡°Gotcha!¡± I smack her from behind, pushing her onto solid ground. As I continue on past, I tease, ¡°Man, I am awesome. I could have just let you die there. Another few deaths and our scores are tied.¡± Ms mutters something that sounds like ¡°show this bastard a thing or two,¡± before she leaps to her feet and races after me. Louder, she says, ¡°What¡¯d you have in mind, Win?¡± ¡°Oh...nothing much,¡± the man drawls. I grin as I recognize the tone. Winston can be a wonderful asshole. ¡°You know the cliff about, eh, a click east and west of the Wagon?¡± ¡°Looking at it.¡± ¡°Great. Push him off it, ¡®kay? For me?¡± I laugh. ¡°Oh, what¡¯s that I hear? Encouraging PVP, now, are we? Are you coming with me to the darksi¡ªaahhholy shit!¡± The push didn¡¯t come from behind me¡ªit came from the side. I twist mid-air to find Lucy¡¯s avatar standing at the cliffside, waving at me. Then I hit the bottom and my screen goes black for a split second. Yellow text scrolls across the bottom as the respawner ticks down. ADMIN DADDY WOULD REMIND ECHOVOXX THAT BASE JUMPING IS ONLY RECOMMENDED WITH A PARACHUTE. ECHOVOXX HAS BEEN KILLED BY LOOS-E-NTEHSK1. NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY LOOS-E-NTEHSK1 HAS BEEN EJECTED FROM THE SERVER. LOOS-E-NTEHSK1 HAS BEEN TEMPORARILY BANNED FROM THE SERVER. LOOS-E-NTEHSK1¡¯s BAN HAS BEEN LIFTED BY ADMIN DADDY. LOOS-E-NTEHSK1 HAS RETURNED TO THE SERVER. LOOSE-E-NTEHSKI HAS BEEN KILLED BY ADMIN DADDY. Lucy laughs. ¡°What the hell, man?¡± In the pseudo-serious voice, Rob says, ¡°It¡¯s called a timeout. Do we need to have that talk again, children? Kill each other when the beta opens.¡± ¡°Yes, daddy,¡± both Lucy and I say in eerie unison, earning laughs from the rest of the group.
Lucy and I respawn back at the wagon. Despite my hesitance, I wait for her as we grab our ale, chug it, and start the run all over again. It seems like Ms and Mikah may beat us this time around. Annoying, but fine. The chat thinks it¡¯s high time I got serious, too. The cries of foul play on Lucy¡¯s part have dissipated into calls for me to leave her in the dust. As if that¡¯s ever going to happen. Lucy¡¯s super-speed build pulls ahead quickly. I¡¯m doing well just keeping her in sight. Together, we turn down a third alternate path to Winston¡¯s. It¡¯s a little longer, but it¡¯s less dangerous than the cliff in terms of instant-death. That doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s easy. Going through the heart of the forest means staying one step ahead of every hellspawn rabbit, boar, deer, and whatever else DUSKFALL spawns tonight. Correction: DUSKFALL or Robert. As an admin, Rob has the means of bringing whatever he wants out to play. There¡¯s been speculation on just how Robert plans to top our last run a few months back. That one involved waves of end-game level demons fifty or more strong. Though I hadn¡¯t told them as much, I stopped expecting anything that grand after Rob¡¯s warning. That session mangled our save so badly it took a fresh server-side install to fix the damage. Rob wanted to avoid that this time though there seemed even less of a reason. After all, the server was toast no matter what. Who cares if the save gets corrupted? We¡¯ve just rounded a small embankment, leaping over a cluster of demon-frogs¡ªwhich, incidentally, are all poisonous, suicidal, and think your throat is the passage to Valhalla¡ªwhen Ms announces: ¡°First!¡± ¡°Only cause you cheated!¡± says Mikah. ¡°How did I cheat?¡± ¡°You know.¡± ¡°If I knew why would I ask?¡± Lucy grunts, annoyed. ¡°What gate did you two go in?¡± ¡°North,¡± Ms says. ¡°Right. Clear us a path, yeah?¡± ¡°Sure thing,¡± says Mikah. I don¡¯t even bother to argue. At this stage of the game the goal shifts. It¡¯s not about ¡°winning¡± anymore¡ªnot as an individual. Now it¡¯s about us working together to clear out the trash we drug to Winston¡¯s doorstep before his base is lost. Tactically, that means if Ms and Mikah both went in the north gate, then so should we. Yes, every demon they had following them will be at that gate trying to claw its way in. It¡¯ll also be the only gate they¡¯re defending. If we limit the amount of space we have to defend, the easier the fight will be. Then, Ms asks a question that makes my pulse quicken. ¡°Where are the ballistae?¡± Winston sounds like the smarmy jackass he is as he falsettos, ¡°Oh, shoot. I had to take those to the repair shop. Sorry guys.¡± There¡¯s a beat as that sinks in, before Mikah laughs. ¡°Not funny, man! Could have given us a heads up.¡± The chatroom is abuzz with strategy; I gleam that much from the walls of text erupting from that corner of my vision. Buuuut I have to ignore that for now. There isn¡¯t time to stop and read any one thing. Besides, this isn¡¯t that bad. It¡¯s a little wrinkle in the plan; a mid-level challenge. The lack of heavy artillery makes it more difficult for Ms and Mikah to clear us a path, and more difficult for us to get inside. Honestly, it¡¯s a breath of fresh air. ¡°Sounds like we do this old school. Hell yeah.¡± ¡°Dibs on the battle axe,¡± calls Lucy. ¡°Which battle axe?¡± Ms asks. ¡°He had a full armory last I checked.¡± ¡°Your Mom,¡± Luce replies, and Mikah snickers. Though she sounds amused, Ms groans. ¡°Ugh. I still can¡¯t believe you named it that.¡± ¡°Hey y¡¯all,¡± CIR3 breaks in, ¡°Don¡¯t forget to reset your spawns to the base. Don¡¯t want accidents, do we?¡± ¡°Roger,¡± Mikah and Ms chime. Up ahead, Lucy dives beneath a Fenrir just before it takes her head off. I cut left, leaping over a log and skirting a small overhang to avoid the same wolf as it whirls about. My momentary gain is nullified by the creature phasing straight through several trees to catch up with us. Its jaws nip at my legs. The damage is minimal, but the red tinge to my display lets me know it hit. Crap. ¡°Come on,¡± Winston mutters from somewhere up ahead. He must be waiting on those two to get the doors clear. It shouldn¡¯t take this long to get to the armory, should it? Stopping to reset only takes a second. But the Fenrir is still on my heels. My speed buff is still going strong, but it won¡¯t last forever. I need to get rid of my tail. Thing about Fenrir is that they¡¯re difficult to shake. The only things they can¡¯t do is climb, or phase through stone. That doesn¡¯t leave a lot of options when you¡¯re butt-ass naked and unarmed. Luckily, we¡¯ve been doing this for a while, and there¡¯s more than a few little tricks we¡¯ve built into the forest between our places. After I recognize a thin gully to my left. I turn toward it. There ought to be a¡ªthere it is! I hear the chomp of fangs behind me, my screen flickers red again, but then I¡¯m diving head first into what appears to be a dark hole in the ground. Which it is. We¡¯d widened a rabbit hole and dug it out to its conclusion. There¡¯s every chance I could run into an actual rabbit down here, which will suck, but it¡¯s the only way to get some distance between me and cujo. I slide, belly first, into the darkness where the beast can¡¯t follow. I hear it¡¯s claws scrabbling behind me as I¡¯m dumped unceremoniously into the creek at the bottom of the gully. It¡¯s wider down here than it is at the top, also thanks to us. I pick myself up, lurch unsteadily as the dive made the wobbling camera even worse, before righting myself and starting back at a dead run. Not for the first time I¡¯m ecstatic MANIK PIX-E skimped on full neurological controls. Other games I¡¯ve played would have me feeling sore and winded by now. Instead, my avatar resumes its ground-eating pace without issue. But while I was distracted, the others were still talking. About...what? I tune back in to Ms sounding worried and suspicious. ¡°Winston, did the armory get sent for repairs, too?¡± ¡°Uh, no,¡± Winston drawls. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t cool, man,¡± Mikah responds instead. ¡°Door¡¯s locked. What¡¯s the pass?¡± Winston scoffs. ¡°I don¡¯t do cheesy password locks. It¡¯s a fantasy game. There¡¯s a key.¡± ¡°They aren¡¯t cheese¡ª¡± Ms cuts Mikah off, saying, ¡°And the key is where?¡± This time, Winston straight up snickers. ¡°Mm, dunno. Must¡¯ve forgot.¡± Silence reigns for a full minute as what he¡¯s saying sinks in. Barely able to contain by glee, I say, ¡°You little shit. You¡¯re not even in the race, are you?¡± ¡°Maaaybe,¡± Winston drawls. ¡°You don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°The lab,¡± Ms says. ¡°You think the key¡¯s in the lab?¡± Mikah asks. ¡°Nope.¡± Trust Ms to think of an alternate solution. ¡°What are you planning, Ms?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll tell you if it works.¡± ¡°Whatever you¡¯re doing, do it fast,¡± Lucy says. ¡°We¡¯ll be there in few seconds. Justin¡ªcircle around to the east. We¡¯ll come up the other side.¡± ¡°Ten-four.¡± I break out of the gully right behind her. Together, we crest the next hill and break abruptly from the tree line. Winston is meticulous about keeping the area around his base clear of debris; a plus and a negative in cases like this. Spread before us is a wide tableau of terraformed landscape built to give defenders the best line of sight possible. It also gives the demons throwing themselves at the north gate a perfect line of sight for us. Several of them break off, joining the mob already on our heels as we race around the side of the defenses. Winston¡¯s tower is one of the best builds in DUSKFALL, period. He built it to be impenetrable by normal means though it doesn¡¯t look that way from the outside. Sure, there¡¯s the expected curtain wall followed by a twenty-foot killing field to the main defensive wall, but rather than the usual faux-medieval keep at its center, Winston bucked the game¡¯s aesthetic to make his brutalism-meets-LOTR masterpiece. Lovingly named ¡°Jenga,¡± the tower resembles the final stages of the eponymous game. There are cutouts and odd extrusions, and¡ªmost disturbingly¡ªseveral sections balanced precariously with only the central, enclosed stairwell for support. I know, thanks to a live streamed interview with Winston when I showcased the tower, that he built damage shields into floor and ceiling of those open-air ¡°terraces,¡± but I¡¯ve often wondered if he hadn¡¯t designed the building to collapse. But to do that, you¡¯d have to get to the tower. That¡¯s the hard part. The main wall is peppered with defending towers, each crowned by a ballistae with switchable damage modes. Armor-piercing rounds, fire strikes, lightning, even a water-hose to extinguish burning demons¡ªthe tower has everything you could need. Plus, if you¡¯re skilled in summoning magic like, say, Winston, you can easily one-man the entire setup. It¡¯s OP to the extreme, and seeing it in action is magnificent. Tonight the ballistae are missing. And those demons have been wearing through the damage enchantments on the curtain wall. Pretty soon, they¡¯ll enter the killing field. ¡°Winston, are those traps still in play, man?¡± I ask, taking my eyes off the route in front of me to look back at the demons we¡¯re kiting. There¡¯s way too many of them. Even if we make the gate, we¡¯ll never get it closed behind us. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m not that much of an asshole.¡± ¡°Could have fooled me,¡± says Ms. ¡°Oh, fuc¡ª¡± ¡°On our six!¡± Lucy screams as she dives to the side. I turn in time to see the rush of blue fire careen right past my nose. The bear¡ªthe ¡°ursa major¡±¡ªjust barely misses me, but another flash of red indicates burn damage. The red doesn¡¯t fade this time; it settles around the edges of my vision like a bloody tunnel. Trying not to lose too much momentum, I grab Lucy up off the ground and drag her with me. I¡¯m not fast enough. My avatar stumbles, balance lost thanks to the Ale debuff, and I twist around in time to see the full-fanged grin of a fenrir rushing at me. Green, sizzling goop slams into its side, bursting out in all directions. The fenrir howls in pain. Its chorus is picked up by everything trailing it as sizzling acid spills over the mob. I get back on my feet, but I can¡¯t seem to move; my screen pulses red faster than before. Looking down, I find splashes of acid eating through my avatar¡¯s legs and stomach. But y¡¯know what? Worth it. ¡°I thought you said the ballistae was out?¡± I to the walls, expecting to see Ms or Mikah with artillery spun up¡ªbut they aren¡¯t there, and neither are the ballistae. A flash from above draws my gaze further up¡ªthere, at the top of the tower, is a figure with something huge and cylinder shaped. Shaped almost like a¡ª I grin. Shaped like an acid-enchanted Gatling harpoon gun. That sick bastard. ¡°Blame Ms for this,¡± Winston sing-songs. ¡°Excuse me?¡± she snaps. And then the world goes to hell. CH3, Alexa ¡°Whatever you¡¯re doing, do it fast. We¡¯ll be there in few seconds.¡± Lucy continues to rattle off orders, but I¡¯m not listening. I have to bust down a door that Winston created. Seems easy, right? No. Winston, the clever little shit, is almost as paranoid as I am, and way more skilled with the game¡¯s magic system. More than that, where Dad and I concentrated on designing builds for long-term survival, with an emphasis on self-sustentation, Winston makes battle fortresses. There are no gardens, no living quarters beyond the first-floor barracks, and every room is like a mini-dungeon. That door is enchanted, at the very least, and likely reinforced. Not the sort of thing you can punch into submission though the meaty thunks echoing up the stairs inform me that Mikah is trying. I consider pointing out the waste of his time, but¡­ no. Mikah is better off having something to do. Maybe he¡¯ll look for the key once he realizes brute force isn¡¯t working. Two flights up, I try the door to Winston¡¯s laboratory. Locked. Biting back annoyance, I try to remember the layout of the tower. I haven¡¯t spent much time at Jenga. Winston finished this build four months ago, and I¡¯d eschewed the first few tests of her defenses to work on the castle. But if you¡¯re around a person long enough, as I¡¯ve been with Winston, you start seeing certain patterns to their building style. Armory and barracks were always closest to the entrance, then the forge, laboratory, kitchens, refinement rooms, etc. in order of precedence. That means the kitchen should be directly above this, and if memory serves, kitchen shares a fireplace with the floor below. I bound up another flight of stairs, and ram my avatar against the door. Unlocked, it pops open, spilling me onto the floor. I¡¯m glad Mikah stayed downstairs. The fireplace directly across the room is huge; large enough to roast one of the game¡¯s oversized boars, easily. I scramble up and run to it, pulling the grate aside to peer at the fire still burning in the room below. Thankfully, the space is large enough to fit my avatar. I could jump into it; my respawn is set downstairs in case of accidents but I prefer working smarter, not harder. A quick glance around finds me a pitcher which I fill in a water barrel and pour down the flue. The fire sizzles out. It¡¯ll still be hot, but it won¡¯t whittle down my HP if I get stuck for a minute. Feeling not unlike Santa Claus, I slide feet-first through the short passage and land clumsily in a pile of embers and soot. Ignoring the mess, I scramble back to my feet and out of the fireplace. The lab resembles a marriage of Dr. Frankenstein¡¯s and Dumbledore¡¯s aesthetics. Walls of bookshelves are interspersed with specimen jars and chemistry equipment. Half-finished experiments litter every surface alongside scrolls, books and yet more specimen jars. I pass by it all, going for the elaborate chest system built into the back wall. Again, Winston is a creature of habit¡ªnot unlike myself. Having lived with man as long as I have, metaphorically speaking, it only takes a few seconds to gather the components I need. There¡¯s a crafting table in the corner; a basic one. That¡¯s fine. This is a relatively low level project. Three sticks should be enough. I make six for good measure. Filching a set of flint and steel, and a fuse spool from a nearby table, I unlock the door from the inside, and race downstairs. ¡°Took you long enough,¡± Mikah says without turning from the door. There¡¯s the tiniest scratch in the finish from his punching; otherwise, the situation hasn¡¯t changed. ¡°Move.¡± I shoulder him aside so I can set my burden at the door¡¯s base. There¡¯s no reason to connect the fuses at this proximity. I grab the spool I¡¯d brought with me, tie it to the middle stick, and unwinding it as I head back downstairs. Mikah lopes along behind me, ducking around the stairwell¡¯s entrance to protect himself from any debris. ¡°Hey¡ª¡± He stops, then asks more sharply, ¡°Is that dynamite? Where¡¯d you get dynamite?¡± ¡°Lab.¡± ¡°That wasn¡¯t locked?¡± ¡°It was,¡± I say as Lucy whoops in the background. They¡¯ve been talking this whole time, but I haven¡¯t been paying attention. It seems that was mutual. Mikah follows me downstairs. When we reach the bottom step, I gesture him to the other side of the room, then bend to light it. That¡¯s when it finally hits me: what was the point of locking the armory? Sure, it¡¯s harder to get the weaponry needed to save the base. I guess that adds a little fun to the game. It definitely makes it more of a challenge. But something doesn¡¯t feel right. Winston¡¯s ideas are rarely this straightforward. But there doesn¡¯t seem to be any other motivation here, and I am nothing if not paranoid. ¡°What¡¯s the hold up?" Mikah says, as Echo yelps in the background. I shake the ice from my hands. I¡¯m wasting time. The last thing I hear as I click the flint and steel together is Winston¡¯s smarmy voice saying, ¡°Blame Ms for this.¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± I snap, eyes glued to the little spark traveling up the stairs. No one replies. No one can.
RESPAWNING IN 5¡­ 4... 3¡­ 2¡­ 1¡­ 1¡­ 1¡­ 1¡­ My world narrows to that single, flashing digit. I don¡¯t breathe. I barely think. The ellipses continue cycling, ticking in and out of existence as the game tries to figure out what happened. What did happen? I don¡¯t know. I remember the fuse disappearing around the curve of the stairs. The dynamite exploded. I¡¯m sure of that much. But it shouldn¡¯t have generated a blast strong enough to kill us from upstairs. Even if it somehow had, there was no way it¡¯d destroy our respawn points. Not on it¡¯s own. ¡°Guys?¡± My voice is weak, even to my own ears. No response. Did my connection get hit? No. I¡¯ve been through this too many times to not recognize a server convulsion. We died. Something killed us. Something so bad the game can¡¯t handle it. Something that¡¯s Winston¡¯s fault. I knew it was too easy. Just like I¡¯d known this was a bad idea from the start. Robert kept insisting they wouldn¡¯t fuck the server, and then this¡ª My throat clogs with grief as anger sizzles like a hotbed of coals deep in my core. There¡¯s one way to know for sure. I don¡¯t want to look, but my fingers find the keyboard all the same. A box appears in the right-hand corner of my HUD, and expands to cover most of my screen. No point paying attention to a game that doesn¡¯t want to load¡­ right? Echo must have switched the stream to Robert¡¯s feed. It¡¯s a silly thing to notice, but it¡¯s the only detail that doesn¡¯t provoke the rage threatening to consume me. Rob¡¯s viewpoint is from high above the remains of Jenga. Several admin-only features are displayed around the edges of his HUD. Things like spawn macros and time shifters. The latter button flashes, but the game world doesn¡¯t respond to Rob¡¯s command. It¡¯s still night, and Jenga is still burning. Fire consumes everything: the meadow where Jenga sat, the tower itself, the walls, the handful of demons still running around the area. All of it.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. It looks like the tower imploded along the central staircase; there¡¯s hardly any of it left standing. What few parts seem attached are disappearing in chunks every few seconds as the frames refresh. More and more of the tower is eaten away by time, reappearing seconds later as rubble scattered across the grounds. There¡¯s no way a few sticks of dynamite did this. Garbled words cut through the silence. Several voices, I think, though it¡¯s like listening to a broken radio. It¡¯s only when Jenga is little more than a burnt husk of a stairwell left sentinel over a field of debris do the voices clarify. Lucy¡¯s voice is robotic but intelligible as she says, ¡°That¡¯s totally going to sinkhole, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Yeup,¡± reply Rob and Winston, simultaneously. My HUD goes white. I shrink the stream pop-up back to a corner as my respawn kicks in. Since my respawn point was lost in the explosion, the game should randomize a spawn somewhere away from this nonsense. Instead, the world pieces itself together around me, smack in the explosion¡¯s epicenter. Chunks of broken stone and stuttering fire pop one-by-one into existence before me. Just as the ground resolves itself from white nothingness, to muddled half-textures, to proper high-def, my perspective shifts. My avatar falls, sinking into the game¡¯s architecture. I slap a hand over my mouth, trying to muffle the sob that forces its way past my lips. ¡°Sinkholes,¡± more technically called ¡°null cell errors,¡± are a semi-rare but unmistakable issue in highly editable game worlds like DUSKFALL. I don¡¯t really understand the specifics¡ªthat¡¯s more Echo¡¯s area of expertise¡ªbut he told me once it happens when the server¡¯s overwhelmed and ¡°loses¡± a cell or two while accommodating for collapsed geometry. I don¡¯t need to understand ¡®why¡¯ to grasp the result: once a sinkhole starts, it spreads. It¡¯s like a virus. You¡¯ll be walking along and suddenly the world drops out beneath you. The only way back is for the admin to fish you to a safe area. If you return to the last safe space you walked, and you¡¯ll fall into the expanding hole. Inch by inch, second by second, the game state is rendered unusable. Above me, the backside of the world¡¯s geometry fades away. I¡¯ll fall forever if Rob doesn¡¯t notice. But I can¡¯t speak, to cry out, to ask for help. I¡¯m too consumed with restraining the messy sobs begging to be unleashed. I¡¯m not going to cry. I¡¯m not going to. I¡¯m not. Rob swears and my display jerks. A second later, I¡¯m floating in the night sky alongside several other avatars. Most of the fires surrounding Jenga have died. Rob must have kill-commanded the last few spawns. I blink, and sudden light blinds me. ¡°Dammit, dude,¡± Winston complains, ¡°You could warn a guy.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t need anything else spawning,¡± Rob says. More softly, he adds, ¡°Lex, honey, can you port to the Castle?¡± Bewildered, Mikah asks, ¡°Lex?¡± My voice is stuck behind all the other things clogging my throat: the accusations, the venom, the heartbreak. But Rob is right. If I can get to the castle it¡¯ll be fine. Jenga and my Castle are leagues apart. Even if they weren¡¯t, I no longer feel the need to finish the thrice-damned antechamber. I¡¯ll get my video now like I should have done before the fucking funeral this morning. I¡¯ll say my goodbyes properly, then move on from DUSKFALL and all this bullshit. I hit my teleport macro for the Castle¡¯s courtyard. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Echo asks as my screen jumps again, pulling me back across the map to my home base. ¡°Give me a minute,¡± says Rob. My screen goes white. Once again, the world resolves itself in fits and starts. The cobblestoned courtyard stretches out around me, lined with topiaries and overhung by a columned pavilion leading to the Keep¡¯s entrance. There¡¯s the apple orchard to the left, and the kitchen gardens to the right. The barracks leading off the main wall, just south of the gatehouse. I don¡¯t know why it¡¯s lagging out, but everything seems to be¡ª The textures resolve and suddenly I understand. Cracks appear in the cobblestone, and burns mark the columns, and the gatehouse¡­ the gatehouse doesn¡¯t exist anymore. My father¡¯s castle is a smouldering heap of rubble, not unlike the ruins of Jenga. ¡°No, no, nonono¡­¡± I barely recognize the croaky moan as my own voice. But it¡¯s all I can say as I fall.
¡°So...do we all get to blow our bases, now?¡± Mikah. Fucking Mikah. Rob¡¯s fished me from the void once again, bringing me back to where the group hovers over the ruins of Jenga. For that small mercy, I¡¯m grateful. If I had to have this conversation while looking at the Castle I think I¡¯d¡ªI¡¯d¡ª I don¡¯t know what I¡¯d do. Cry, probably. Cry harder. There are tears rolling down my cheeks in a ceaseless stream, but I¡¯m not sobbing. I¡¯m barely sniffling. The rage pooling beneath my skin keeps all that in check; bubbling and burning and begging for a target. I dive into it, letting it eat the last of my hesitation and weakness. Normally, I¡¯d fight that impulse. Not tonight. Tonight one of these fuckers has betrayed me. ¡°You think this funny?¡± Slowly, with every ounce of condescension he can muster, Mikah says, ¡°I think it¡¯s a game?¡± ¡°Ohhh, I get it. You think because you don¡¯t give a shit, none of us should, either. Right? Just ¡®c¡¯est la vie¡¯ and move the fuck on because ¡®nothing matters, anyway.¡¯ Am I close?¡± Mikah sucks in a breath, but it¡¯s Lucy who whistles and says, ¡°Wow. That¡¯s a load of assumptions. What the hell, girl?¡± ¡°Hey, now,¡± says Rob, moving his avatar between me and everyone else. Like that¡¯s gonna do shit. ¡°Let¡¯s all back this train up.¡± I take a deep breath. Rob¡¯s the only one who saw the Castle. He¡¯s the only one who knows. And I don¡¯t care. This is the problem with my anger. It¡¯s hard to think through it. The words seem to take a life of their own, leaping from my mouth the way they never will when I have control. ¡°Who did it?¡± ¡°Did what?¡± says Echo. ¡°Calm down and¡ª¡± My voice is a ragged mess. ¡°Who fucking blew my base?!¡± Silence. I wait for what feels like an eternity, wishing for once that I could look each and every one of them in the eye. I want to see which one of these assholes destroyed my father¡¯s legacy. No one steps forward. ¡°You¡¯re all a bunch of cowards,¡± I say. ¡°At least have the guts to admit it.¡± The tides of war within me change. With no front to unite against, anger wanes before the ravages of grief. I press a hand over my mouth in a vain effort to muffle the first sob. But just as I reach for the disconnect button, Winston opens his mouth. ¡°It was me.¡± Rob sounds almost as betrayed as I feel. ¡°The fuck, man?¡± ¡°Oh come on, ¡®dad¡¯.¡± Winston laughs. He actually laughs. ¡°Like Mikah said, it¡¯s just a game. One we¡¯re not allowed to play anymore, apparently, because Ms drama queen will have hysterics if someone touches her precious base.¡± His amusement scrapes like sandpaper against my skin. ¡°This isn¡¯t funny, you asshole.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t it? You¡¯re a grown ass woman having a meltdown over a pile of digital legos. It¡¯s pretty fucking funny. Sad, but funny.¡± ¡°You are way out of line,¡± Rob says. ¡°I told you we weren¡¯t doing that tonight. It wasn¡¯t the plan.¡± Winston huffs. ¡°Come off the high horse, old man. I know you got a weird ass ''thing¡¯ with this one, but what exactly are you gonna do about it? Boot me? The server¡¯s done. It¡¯s roast. Excuse me for wanting it to go out in style.¡± Mikah ¡®hmphs¡¯ in agreement. ¡°That¡¯s not the¡ª¡± Echo begins, but Lucy cuts him off. ¡°Look, I¡¯m not condoning this¡ªlike, at all¡ªbut Ms¡­ Neither of you gave us a reason to hold back. And you have to admit that was pretty great. Two bases trapped to go at once? From that distance? I kinda wanna know how he even did that.¡± I want to punch her stupid, unblinking face. It¡¯s a struggle to keep my fingers off the buttons. Lucy might be siding with the asshole, but her point hits home. I didn¡¯t tell them. I purposely hadn¡¯t told them. Was this my fault? My gut twists. ¡°Oh man,¡± Winston says. His usual, braggy tone is back as he explains, ¡°So there¡¯s this chain spell that people have rigged to automate farming equipment¡ª¡± ¡°Hey, hey, hey,¡± Echo says, ¡°Look, I¡¯m just as interested, but maybe later, guys? Ms was going to tell us what¡¯s up. Right?¡± Logically, I know he¡¯s trying to keep the peace. His assumption still rankles, and that¡¯s enough to pull me back from the despair threatening to consume me. ¡°Why should I have to explain? I asked Rob to give me time. He agreed. Why can¡¯t that be enough?¡± Mikah scoffs. ¡°Gee, I don¡¯t know. Maybe because you were ruining it for the rest of us?¡± ¡°How?! We were having fun. We held the race. Everything was fine¡ª¡± ¡°Everything was boring,¡± Winston says. ¡°Same old BS. We could have been tearing shit up, spawning dungeon bosses; really stressing the system out until we killed it. Instead, we do the same old thing because you are being a special little princess.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to agree,¡± Lucy hedges. She doesn¡¯t say ¡°but.¡± I still hear it. And that¡¯s it. All the rage, all the anger, drains away as quickly as it¡¯d come. Mikah clearly agrees with them, though he¡¯s actually kept his tongue for once. Small miracles, I guess. But Echo¡¯s barely said anything, and Rob has fallen silent. There¡¯s no one here on my side. Per fucking usual. ¡°Is that how you all feel? Is my presence that much of a burden to everybody?¡± ¡°No,¡± say Rob and Echo. ¡°Speak for yourself,¡± says Winston. ¡°Christ. Be more of a drama queen why don¡¯t you?¡± says Mikah. ¡°Guys,¡± Lucy starts, but I¡¯ve made up my mind. I¡¯ve already lost everything else; might as well lose them, too. It¡¯s not like I ever needed them, anyway. I never needed anyone. ¡°Fine,¡± I say, and disconnect from the server. CH4, Justin ¡°We¡¯re gonna take a break, y¡¯all. Don¡¯t think I need to explain why, right?¡± The chat feed is a hotbed of ¡°debate¡± over the little mini-drama they just witnessed. I forgot to cut the feed when everything went to hell, and now they think they get to have opinions. Dammit. Despite myself, I skim the responses. Our witnesses are split pretty evenly on the subject. Some, most of them strangers, are solidly on Winston¡¯s side. They¡¯re more concerned with how he¡¯d pulled off the ¡°prank¡± than if he should have. It¡¯s likely they want to recreate the tactic on the megaserver. Others, most of them channel regulars, are concerned about Ms. She might be prickly, but dissolving into tears and hysterics isn¡¯t like her. More and more, people are calling for Henry to shed light on the issue. But the man¡¯s handle, SKYLINEBLUE, doesn¡¯t appear. If he¡¯s been watching, he hasn¡¯t indicated his presence. Which is equally unlike him. Of course, with Ms this upset, it makes sense for him to skip. Still, the thought eats at me. I can¡¯t remember the last time I saw his handle in chat, actually. A few days ago? Maybe a week? I replace the livestream with a hastily edited cut of the final Ale Run, excising the parts after Jenga fell, and lean back in my gaming chair. Let them analyze that for a while. With that taken care of, and the raw footage from the others¡¯ feeds downloading onto my hard drive, it¡¯s time for a smoke break. I¡¯m supposed to be quitting, but fuck it. I grab my pack from the desk corner, pocket a lighter, and tromp onto my matchbox apartment¡¯s equally tiny balcony. Houston is muggy and hot even in the dead of night, and the candle I keep to ward off mosquitos probably doesn¡¯t help as much as I¡¯d like to believe. Regardless, I lean on the railing and breath in noxious, wonderful tobacco. Slowly, I relax muscle by muscle. Until my phone rings. The vibration just below my temple is still a new, strange sensation. I had concerns upgrading to the subcutaneous communicator, but the efficiency outweighed relatively small discomforts. Besides, I have other body mods. Like the neural implants, I¡¯ll get used to it soon enough. And thanks to those implants I already know who¡¯s calling. ¡°So, that¡¯s it then?¡± Robert sighs. ¡°That¡¯s it. Closed out the account for good measure.¡± ¡°Fucking end of an era.¡± He hums agreement. The pause that follows is rich with things unsaid; as always seems to be the case between us these days. Has been for the past few years. I still prefer it to the decade of silence preceding my entrance to DUSKFALL. Eventually, since he seems hesitant to broach a subject¡ªany subject¡ªI say, ¡°T-Minus two hours. We¡¯re still meeting in Constantyne, yeah?¡± DUSKFALL is peppered with pre-fabricated areas: dungeons, NPC farms, villages, and cities, etcetera. Most are small, but there¡¯s a few outliers. Constantyne is one; a city worthy of the title located on the easternmost edges of the map. It¡¯s also the only one close to Robert¡¯s preferred location for The Welcome Wagon. Why he wants to rebuild that thing on a PVP server I don¡¯t know, but he¡¯s been keen on the idea since the announcement. And with Winston adding defensive modifications maybe it¡¯ll work. I frown, recalling Winston¡¯s repugnant attitude from earlier. Though I can¡¯t entirely blame him for what happened, I have to admit he was being a grade-A asshole about the whole thing. Maybe Rob or Ms owed us an explanation, but that wasn¡¯t any way to ask for one. ¡°No,¡± says Robert, startling me out of my reverie. ¡°What?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s such a great idea.¡± Rather than jumping on a response, I first take a long drag off my cigarette. ¡°Okay. Why¡¯s that?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t get upset¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯m not. Just a question, dude.¡± Rob cracks another beer can. I clutch the railing, fingers digging into the wood until my knuckles show white. One or two beers during a party is fine. I¡¯d even joked about it earlier. But that¡¯s the seventh tab I¡¯ve heard tonight, and he doesn¡¯t seem to be slowing down. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. ¡°You eat anything tonight, or are we back to a liquid diet?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t think that¡¯s your business.¡± ¡°Not my business? Rob¡­ do I need to¡ª¡± This time I catch myself. I want to ask if I should drive down but Rob lives seven hours away in the middle of the goddamn Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Even if I had a car, or if a rental shop was open this late, there¡¯s also my streaming schedule to maintain. I can¡¯t just call off work and expect my boss to deal. My ¡°boss¡± is a bunch of gamers with attention spans like sieves. ¡°Right,¡± I say, ¡°It¡¯s not my business. How¡¯s mom?¡± ¡°That¡¯s subtle.¡± He scoffs. ¡°I¡¯m fine, Melissa. Shit. Justin. Whatever. Damn.¡± My heart sinks as Rob continues to curse under his breath. He¡¯s trying. I know he¡¯s trying. Sometimes, like right now, that just makes it worse. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I say several times before he calms down. That¡¯s the beer talking; the overreaction, not the slip. Rob still hasn¡¯t worked my dead name from his vocabulary. While I could blame him for that¡ªafter all, he¡¯s had over a decade to get used to ¡®Justin¡¯... not that we were speaking during those years¡ªthe fact is I don¡¯t want to blame him. I want us to move past it, and sometimes that means biting my tongue. Pretty sure I¡¯ve bitten enough holes through it I may as well invest in a few studs. I stub the cigarette out on the railing. ¡°You done?¡± He sounds so tired when he says, ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m done,¡± that I reconsider my dedication to play tonight. Maybe I can catch a bus¡­ ¡°Mom¡¯s fine,¡± Rob says after a minute of silence. ¡°She misses you. We both do.¡± ¡°You see me every day.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not the same.¡± ¡°Yeah, well¡­¡± I take one last look at the city sprawling before me. It stinks, and it¡¯s loud, and the light pollution means the city¡¯s bird population is constantly awake and pissed off about it. It¡¯s also the only place I¡¯ve ever felt marginally accepted. It¡¯s home. Turning, I head back inside to grab a soda and check on the chat feed as I pull us back to the conversation we should be having. I¡¯ll just have to suck it up and call Mom to check up on him in the morning. ¡°So why aren¡¯t you meeting me in Constantyne? If you miss me so much.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I know the answer before he says it. I still want to hear it from his own lips. ¡°I just thought¡­ Alexa¡¯s gonna try to rebuild her castle. Figured I¡¯d try to help.¡± ¡°She tell you that?¡± ¡°She blocked me.¡± Shit. It¡¯s serious, then. I pull up my friends list, noting the other Wolves are mostly online, but MSWYVERN is greyed out. Whether that¡¯s because she¡¯s offline or if she blocked everyone from the server, I have no idea. Either way, it seems like a major overreaction. ¡°What happened back there, anyway? That was over the top.¡± ¡°I promised her I wouldn¡¯t tell¡ª¡± ¡°Rob,¡± I groan. ¡°Come on, man. I¡¯m your brother. Surely, you can trust your own brother.¡± ¡°Yeah-huh. I gave my word.¡± Hardly able to blame him for keeping a promise, but also mildly annoyed at his insistence on keeping the secret that started this drama in the first place, I say, ¡°Okay. Just don¡¯t come crying to me when she files a restraining order.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not stalking her. I¡¯m just worried.¡± ¡°Worried because¡­?¡± I let it hang. He probably won¡¯t take the bait, but it¡¯s worth the shot. ¡°Cute. You¡¯re not nearly as smooth as you think you are, kid.¡± ¡°Please. I am the smoothest of smooth operators.¡± ¡°Sure you are.¡± Rob laughs. ¡°That¡¯s why Lucy won¡¯t leave you alone.¡± ¡°Speaking of stalkers,¡± I mutter. Things weren¡¯t always this strained between Lucy and me, but lately it was getting weird. It also wasn¡¯t anything I cared to talk about. Before he can press the subject, I say, ¡°So what am I supposed to do? We¡¯re supposed to team up. Winston put his plans on pause to help us out.¡± Rob¡¯s voice goes hard and cold. ¡°Guess he doesn¡¯t have to do that anymore.¡± ¡°Right,¡± I say. ¡°So you¡¯re punishing him.¡± ¡°I ain¡¯t his daddy; just don¡¯t associate with assholes. Frankly, I¡¯m surprised you are.¡± ¡°Not my place to judge, dude. Especially when I don¡¯t have all the facts.¡± ¡°Fact is I told him not to fuck the server.¡± ¡°Wait, I thought you weren¡¯t his daddy?¡± I snicker, but Rob grunts in annoyance. ¡°Kid,¡± he warns, and I relent. ¡°Alright, alright.¡± I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling as I try to come up with a plan. There¡¯s a chance Winston will let me tag along with him, though I¡¯m less inclined to be his bitch-boy. When Winston gets going on one of his projects, he rivals Ms in terms of sheer attitude. Not that I¡¯ve ever had the chance to work with Ms. She¡¯d been long gone by the time I joined the Wagon. Rob¡¯s level of bossy I¡¯m used to, and we make a decent team with him building and me on supply runs. Much as I dislike the ideas of putting Winston off, or helping Rob cyber-stalk an old teammate, both issues pale next to the simple fact that I don¡¯t want to play DUSKFALL alone. You can call me a wimp all you like, but horror has never been my go-to genre. I¡¯m more of a FPS guy. The only reason I played this was to reconnect with Rob. I stayed as long as I had because, well, it pushed my streaming into a real career. If something works, there¡¯s no reason to ¡°fix¡± it. Right? Quickly, I skim through the ongoing discussion in-chat. Drama makes for an active room, and those with opinions are still throwing them around. It seems like the Wyvern-stans are winning. That decides me. ¡°Look, I still need to talk to Winston but why don¡¯t I meet you somewhere and we¡¯ll find her dragon-loving highness together? I know she¡¯s all ¡®rawr¡¯ about soloing but we¡¯ll call it recompense.¡± ¡°Just do me a favor? Don¡¯t use words like ¡®recompense.¡¯ I don¡¯t need my baby brother showing me up.¡± ¡°Fuck you, you uncultured swine.¡± ¡°That¡¯s better.¡±
¡°And we¡¯re back, folks. Sorry about the break, there. I know I promised y¡¯all a party and...well. Sometimes shit doesn¡¯t work out, yeah?¡± The response is mixed. Rather than giving the group a chance to get worked up or, even worse, fight about it, I press forward, ¡°Speaking of, there¡¯s been a slight change tonight¡¯s plan. We¡¯re still going straight into the megaserver, no worries! It¡¯s just going to be me and Rob for now. Winston¡¯s gonna be on the channel in the next couple days to give us the details on that fantastic chain trap he used.¡± A large number of viewers drop the channel. Great. I¡¯d known my monopoly on the before-launch crowd would end the minute the server went live. A lot of them are players in their own rights, and others are bound for more popular channels such as B4B4BLKSHEEP. Still, the fickleness hits hard. I swallow it, plastering a grin on my face. The gesture helps me pretend. ¡°The beta should live any second, guys. I¡¯ve already got the game up, and the new splash screen looks gorgeous, doesn¡¯t it?¡± I shrink the chat window down to a small corner, bringing the splash screen back into focus both for myself, and the chat. Whereas the old screen had been sort of campy¡ªa stylized, sketchy demon deer dripping blood from its mouth¡ªthis artwork is way more subtle. The screen graduates from a yellow-orange at the center, highlighting the ¡°load game¡± and ¡°options¡± selections, to a dark blue-black at the edges. Stylized branches reach toward the text like grasping, talon-tipped hands. In the background, a dense forest is outlined against a moonlight sky. The screen is mostly inanimate but for the faint rustle of branches in the wind and the occasional glimpse of moonlight-white eyes blinking in the distant forest. Serene, haunting music plays at a subtle volume. ¡°I have to admit, it¡¯s a large departure from the gore they featured in the early years, but if this indicates an overall new direction, I¡¯m here for it.¡± That¡¯s partially true. Pretty as the new artwork is, it¡¯s also unsettling. Like I said, horror games aren¡¯t my usual thing. I¡¯m not a wimp by any means, but something about this dramatic shift makes me uneasy. Over the top blood and gore are one thing. Childish, in a way. Most people will never see that sort of carnage in real life, so there¡¯s distance there. Maybe it¡¯s just that I grew up in a dense, dark forest with legends of ghosts and serial killers stalking the night in addition to the actual bobcats and coyote. I find this to be uncomfortably closer to reality. I loved those woods, but I never went out by myself after dark. A countdown begins in the chat. The clock ticks closer to eleven, and the opening of the mega server. I hover my finger over the ¡®Enter¡¯ button, waiting for the final second. 5...4...3...2.. Nothing happens. I click it three more times, before finally saying aloud, ¡°Okay, it doesn¡¯t seem to be loading.¡± The word ¡°Load¡± highlights on the screen, before the world fades into darkness.
Silhouettes of trees appear first, distinguished from the pitch black only by a faint, white glow emanating from a rolling fog covering what I can only presume is the forest floor. ¡°This is new,¡± I say. My heart thuds against my ribs, pulse quickening as I realize this is the type of darkness that usually comes with demons. Suddenly, the things we toyed with just a few hours ago seem a lot less laughable. But the chat is still live. The feed has gone quiet. They¡¯re paying more attention to the game now that I¡¯ve broken from routine, and I have space to fill. Dead air can be a good thing; occasionally. Left too long, it can kill your stream. I turn in a slow circle, searching for something to comment on. All I can see are stark black pillars I presume to be tree trunks. No textures. No light refraction. Just columns of void rising into the darkness above and around me. ¡°So right out the gate we¡¯ve either got a heavy change of art direction, some new content, or a massive glitch. Bets, anyone?¡± A few people chime in. I skim their comments as I walk forward. ¡°I¡¯d like to give them the benefit of doubt, personally. It¡¯s possible there¡¯s something we¡¯re not seeing yet.¡± As if on cue, one more step and the forest suddenly clears into a small, circular patch of rolling mist. On the other side is a tree so large my fingertips wouldn¡¯t touch if I put my arms around it. Unlike the others, this tree is textured; roughly resembling an oak. But that isn¡¯t what really draws my attention. No; my interest is reserved for the full-length mirror set into the tree itself, fused like it grew there naturally. ¡°Mirror, mirror on the wall¡­¡± I approach the mirror slowly, not quite sure what to expect though this seems like a perfect introduction to a character creator. ¡°Or is this more of a Through The Looking Glass, situation?¡± The face peering back at me is not my own. According to this, I¡¯m a plump, moustached guy with a striking resemblance to a certain Italian plumber. Laughing, I touch the bristly hair beneath my nose, feeling the way the follicles part. My mirror-self does the same, perfectly synchronized. That¡¯s when I realize what should have been obvious from the start: I can¡¯t feel my bed, or breeze from the fan on bedside table. There¡¯s no controller, or keyboard input. There¡¯s just this: the slightly frigid air of a strange forest, and a hyper realistic face echoing my own confused delight back at me. A glance at the chat confirms my viewers are starting to figure this out, too. Best to not leave them in the dark. But before I disclose my thoughts, I tap the glass. Condensation fogs the surface. Words appear, written like someone drawing their finger across the glass. ¡°Do you accept this avatar?¡± ¡°Oh--Shit. No.¡± The words and condensation disappear. Vocal commands seem to work. Good to know. ¡°How do I change my body type?¡± The mirror fogs and clears to a selection of pronouns and genitalia configurations. Fucking seriously? ¡°Buckle up, y¡¯all. We have found the character creator. If this thing is half as intense as it looks this is gonna get weird.¡± CH5, Alexa Wine sloshing in my ¡°gag gift¡± sized glass¡ªthe one I swore I¡¯d never use¡ªI lean heavily on the kitchen counter and chug. I can¡¯t believe him. I can¡¯t believe any of them. At this point it¡¯s not the months of hard work lost¡ªthough that¡¯s considerable¡ªor losing all evidence of Dad¡¯s last built or even that I can¡¯t restart the project. It¡¯s the why. What was the point? ¡°Just a game,¡± I mutter, and take another swig. That was fine and dandy for the lot of them. They had lives outside of the game. I assume, anyway. And maybe that¡¯s not a fair assumption because Winston definitely spends more time online than I do. Justin doesn¡¯t even have a real job. I set the glass down a little too hard. Good thing it¡¯s plastic. ¡°Get over yourself, Lexa,¡± I say into the silence of my apartment. Surprise, surprise¡ªthe boxes don¡¯t respond. Just like my bedroom, the living room is a wreck. Dad¡¯s been gone a week and I haven¡¯t figured out what to do with his things. Everything he¡¯d had in his room, all his medical supplies, a wealth of random bullshit I¡¯d found in a storage unit he¡¯d been keeping. It¡¯s everywhere. He¡¯s everywhere. Dealing with this mess should be at the top of my list, especially given my serious need to either move or find a new roommate. And I just don¡¯t want to deal with it. Not tonight. There were only two things on tonight¡¯s agenda: finish the castle, and try the beta. Even though my feelings about said beta are mostly bitter resentment, the sad truth is that I have nothing else going on in my life. It¡¯s weird how these things snowball. One minute you¡¯re in college. You¡¯re surrounded by friends, getting hammered every other weekend, partying between mid-term crunch and final frenzy¡­ I mean, if you call playing BattleStar while passing around a joint in someone¡¯s apartment a ¡°party.¡± Which, I do. Then the next thing you know, you¡¯re in thirty, living with your cancer-riddled father, playing office matron by day and nursemaid by night while your friends get married, have kids, move away. The few who still live in town are so consumed with their family life that the only conversation you¡¯ve had in the past five years was when they accidentally butt-dialed you that one time. And now even your internet friends can¡¯t stand your presence. Way to fucking go, Alexandra. I take another long drag of wine, wishing to christ I had something stronger. But Dad wasn¡¯t supposed to have alcohol with the drugs he¡¯d been taking. I¡¯d only kept the one bottle of red on hand because he refused to touch the stuff. ¡°That¡¯s something I can do,¡± I say to no one. ¡°Tomorrow, I¡¯m going to the liquor store.¡± Becoming an alcoholic sounds like giving up. It also sounds like a fantastic idea, but only if I swap the word ¡°alcoholic¡± for ¡°lush.¡± That¡¯s classier, right? Of course, that doesn¡¯t solve the question of what I¡¯m doing tonight. ¡°To game or not to game. There¡¯s the fucking question.¡± Again, no answer. The apartment is as silent as any city apartment ever is¡ªthat is to say, I can hear my neighbor¡¯s muffled TV on one side, and a toddler screaming on the other. And there¡¯s another noise, a quieter, buzzing noise beneath it all¡­ My phone. Which I left back in the bedroom. Maybe I should reconsider that subcutaneous thing. Quickly, I drain the rest of the glass and leave it on the counter before jogging to the bedroom. It could be Lupe or Mom, calling to check up on me. And pigs could fucking fly. The caller ID reads ¡°Rob.¡± My heart pounds in my throat. Rob¡¯s silence during the Wolves¡¯ inquisition is like a knife in my ribs. I don¡¯t know why he didn¡¯t stand up for me. Then again, maybe that¡¯s my own fault. I was the one who asked him to keep my business private, after all. If he couldn¡¯t find a way around that roadblock, can I really blame him for holding his tongue? Yep. I can, I will, and I am. I hit ¡®mute,¡¯ and drop the phone back on its charger. A second later, when he tries again, I turn the phone off entirely. Blocking his number would be more effective in the long term. It¡¯s not a step I¡¯m ready to take. Not yet. Fact stands, though, that White Knight Robert is the last person I need to hear from right now. Mikah would be better company, for all that I¡¯m coming to hate him. At least there I¡¯m sure where I stand. Groaning, I flop onto the bed and stare at the LED light on my headset. Amber; still charging. Beside it, my clock glows forty past the hour. Beta¡¯s open. The beta¡¯s been open for a while. I don¡¯t need to be first in the gate. I¡¯m not a streamer, and after tonight there may not be any point in playing. Sure, I¡¯ll miss the game. I won¡¯t miss the griefing and harassment. I will miss building. Maybe it¡¯s silly, given I¡¯m not an architect of any kind in real life, but making bases in game has always felt like...like I was accomplishing something. It gives me the sort of feeling I imagine artists have when they¡¯re sketching, or mixing paint, or sculpting. There¡¯s something almost zen about mining for materials to finish your garden wall, or taking a hike into the forest to find the perfect wood for a new bow. There¡¯s fulfilment in DUSKFALL, the sort I can¡¯t seem to find in the real world. And that¡¯s probably the surest sign I should stop playing. Find something IRL that gives the same high. But again, what¡¯s the point? Does the dubious reality of where I found fulfillment negate that it was found? Does being digital make that world any less real? I glance at the boxes piled high around me. Despite the dim light, the dark etching on a sheet of graph paper stands out. I pluck it from where it¡¯s curled over the side of a nearby box, and hold the drawing of Dad¡¯s castle above me. It was a fantasy mixed with real medieval architecture; the sort we could never have made in this day and age. Spec¡¯d for the bluffs above Fulnedebi village, the towers seemed to grow from the cliffs themselves. The massive keep stood even higher, looking over the valley below like a proud and protective parent. Dad never made a distinction. He¡¯d spent his career designing buildings all over the greater Los Angeles area. They weren¡¯t anything special. Apartment complexes, office suites, a few small clinics. But between us, we¡¯d erected masterpieces to rival the cathedrals of old. Thanks to DUSKFALL, he¡¯d seen fantasy after fantasy come to life. Sure, that life was presented to him through a TV screen. Though he¡¯d tried VR at my behest, it gave him vertigo like highrise scaffolding never did. But every time I played, he was watching through my eyes, listening through my feed. Every finished build made him light up with pride and contentment, right up to the end. The last thing he¡¯d wanted was to see the Castle finished. His opus. I¡¯d almost made that happen, too. If I just hadn¡¯t waited¡­ That¡¯s what I¡¯m doing right now. Again. I¡¯m waiting. Hesitating, even though there¡¯s still time. DUSKFALL isn¡¯t gone; it¡¯s just different. And I have all of his specs right here. There¡¯s nothing stopping me from trying again. Nothing except my own self pity¡­ and that a single MMO server means limited building space. The thought is like a brick to the head. Why hadn¡¯t that occurred to me before? DUSKFALL¡¯s always had a predetermined map. It has boundaries and restrictions. That¡¯s why PVP sucks: it forces people into close proximity of each other, putting building space at a premium. You have to be first in the door to get a good spot, or be willing and able to kill over it. My hesitations about a PVP game pales next to the notion that if I don¡¯t act fast I might never be able to claim the bluff. Unless MANIK PIX-E completely overhauled their map¡ªand I don¡¯t see any reason why they would this late in development¡ªthat¡¯s the only area in the game where the castle would work as designed. The thought is like electricity in my veins. I sit up on my knees, bracing a hand on the filing cabinet that serves as my headboard and reach for the headgear and controller charging on their stands.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. I disconnect the charging cord from the stand, intending to plug it directly into the headset, then pause. There are a lot of rumors that using the headgear while it¡¯s charging can give you cancer, or various other neurological issues. None of it¡¯s backed by any science I can find, but I know firsthand what cancer looks like. It isn¡¯t pretty... Screw it. I plug the device in and put it on. VR headgear runs off a combination of vocal and neurological commands, not a controller. When it asks for my authentication code, I say, ¡°A lo hecho, pecho.¡± A bright, cheery riff confirms my authorization, and a moment later I¡¯m in a small, round room lit with an orange ambiance that lessens the glare off-white walls. Hung around me like portraits are various icons; some for games, others for movie theatres or chat lounges. There aren¡¯t any lobby avatars, and no ability to walk around. The visual is more for keyword references, and to give the user a sense of familiarity. I center on the DUSKFALL icon, noticing that though the keyword hasn¡¯t changed with the updated program, the artwork has. What used to be a simple square with a grey-to-black gradient and pixilated stars is now an icon of a full moon, framed against a silhouette forest with blinking red eyes hidden in its depths. ¡°That¡¯s on the nose.¡± ¡°Vocal command not understood.¡± Right. ¡°Launch: DUSKFALL.¡± The same music riff plays, and the world¡­ Is replaced by a Terms of Service agreement. For a second I stare, uncomprehending at the document hovering in front of me. Why didn¡¯t I expect that? Part of me¡ªthe part that works in office management and doesn¡¯t appreciate people who can¡¯t be bothered to read contracts before they sign them¡ªwants to sit here and read every word. But not tonight. Not after the day I¡¯ve been having. ¡°Accept.¡±
The first difference is the music. Gone is the JAWS-esque opening sequence that always felt like MANIK PIX-E trying just a touch too hard. They¡¯ve replaced it with a soft, haunting melody of strings and an instrument that sounds like nothing so much as moonlit fog. An oboe, maybe? I was never great at identifying instruments. Either way, it¡¯s a touch more ¡°fantasy¡± than horror. So is everything around me. Slowly at first, but with gathering speed, a blue light emanates from the floor; swirling in clouds of mist that ebb and flow at the base of dark, solid-black trees. I¡¯m standing in a small meadow surrounded by pillars of void. It must be just a short while before dawn but¡­ shouldn¡¯t there be an avatar creator? Is this a glitch? A fresh wave of disappointment clutches at my chest. I tamp it down with a deep breath of cold, wet air. It¡¯s a beta test. More importantly, it¡¯s MANIK PIX-E. There were bound to be a few glitches. I frown. Cold and wet¡­? SNAP I whirl toward the sound, distracted from my own thoughts by a rush of pure fear. Demons? This would be the place for them, but¡ª No. There¡¯s nothing there except a massive oak tree with a full length, oval shaped mirror encased in its bark. ¡°This is definitely different,¡± I mutter. With nothing else to do, I fumble for the controller before realizing it¡¯s not there. There¡¯s nothing in my hands¡ªmy hands do not exist. Panic rises momentarily in my throat¡ªbut, wait. The neurological controls? Did they get them working? Taking another deep breath, and trying to ignore the oddity of feeling lungs in a body I can¡¯t see, I try to take a step forward. One step becomes two, and three, and the mirror slides ever closer. Or, I slide closer to it. Without a body it¡¯s disconcerting as all hell. The mirror is foggy with condensation as I approach, but the closer I get the more it melts away until I¡¯m left facing a¡ªOh hell no. I frown at the pale, reedy, masculine form the mirror reflects. Looking down, I find the same form attached to myself, now. Where it came from, I have no idea, but sensation prickles all over the skin that is now mine. I can even feel the cold-shriveled penis which is just weird. ¡°At least the graphics are better,¡± I grouse. They aren¡¯t just ¡®better,¡¯ in fact¡ªthey¡¯re a massive improvement. When I lift my hand to my face, I¡¯m shocked to see miniscule textures on the skin; pores, faint discolorations, veins at its wrist. I wiggle its fingers. They move precisely like I¡¯d expect; no lag, no stiffness. I can even feel the way the skin tightens and bunches at the knuckles. ¡°Woah.¡± This is a step above and beyond; impressively so. Whoever gave MANIK-PIXI the money to stay open clearly believed in their investment. Lowering my hand, I focus on the old man staring from my reflection, and sigh. ¡°This isn¡¯t going to work for me.¡± Immediately, the glass fogs over¡ªlike someone breathing across the surface¡ªand letters appear one by one across the surface: ¡°What would you like to change?¡± ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s not creepy. Um. Everything?¡± Nothing happens. ¡°Gender?¡± The mirror fogs again. When it clears, it leaves behind a list of body parts and pronouns. Hesitantly at first, and with growing confidence, I touch each appropriate selection, marveling at the way the glass feels clammy and slick against my finger. It feels real. The fog recedes to reveal the same body as before, minus the penis and adding a few other things. Two said things are utterly clownish in proportion. ¡°This again,¡± I mutter, instinctively putting my hands over ¡®my¡¯ breasts in an attempt to alleviate the backache inspired by the very sight of these monstrosities. Why anyone thinks double-Ds are a good thing is beyond me. They shrink as my hands close around them. ¡°Oh, what the shit!¡± I jerk my hands away. Even though I wanted smaller boobs, there¡¯s a certain element of body horror involved in watching them recede before your eyes. ¡°Wait¡­¡± There¡¯s no way. They couldn¡¯t¡ª They wouldn¡¯t¡ª Hesitantly, I pull on my breasts and they grow bigger again. Push them in; they shrink. Oh. My. God. They did. Laughing all the while, I try the same trick on my ass, then my thighs, calves¡ªeven my feet. Over the next hour, I mold my avatar¡¯s body to fit my taste. There¡¯s a temptation to make myself a replica of what I envy about prettier girls such as my sister, Lupe. She¡¯s thin, her nose is smaller, and her hair is straighter. But apart from the Freudian weirdness that would invoke, rolling a traditionally ¡°pretty¡± female avatar is a bad idea in an MMO. At least, in my experience. There¡¯s a certain freedom that comes with the imperfect, particularly when everyone expects you to take the chance to be a supermodel. They might notice me for looking like myself, they might even be cruel, but the teasing wouldn¡¯t be any worse than what I¡¯ve heard IRL. Hell, in a moment of Sarah-McLaughlin irony, I¡¯ve found people are more likely to believe my femininity if my avatar doesn¡¯t look like I stepped from someone¡¯s wet dream. Go figure. When I¡¯m done, I¡¯m facing an ever-so-slightly ¡°improved¡± version of myself, pear shape and all. The arms are slightly more muscular, and the skin is clear of my otherwise perpetual blemishes, but I¡¯ve modeled my large nose, the roundness of my face, and the size of my ass pretty well. There are ¡°love handles¡± on my hips and my thighs touch just like they do in real life. It looks weird being ghostly white. ¡°Skin tone,¡± I say to the mirror and, sure enough, the glass replaces my reflection with a sliding scale of natural skin hues and undertones. I adjust them until my face is properly brown again, then set the undertone to it a golden pop. ¡°That¡¯s much better. Eyes?¡± The selection changes again, and I spend another moment finding just the right shade of brown. Whiskey brown, Dad used to say, and after a second¡¯s consideration I add some sparklets of amber gold to help with that imagery. My avatar isn¡¯t me, after all; even if I am more comfortable with realistic-ish avatars than, say, cat girls with purple hair. Speaking of hair, I ask for that next, expecting an assortment of styles and colours to choose from. Indeed, a colour selector appears, followed by a pictorial list of... textures? Great attention to detail, I guess, but definitely unique in the world of video games. After pointing the slider to the proper blackish-brown, I take a second to look over the list. There¡¯s a scroll bar on this menu, and I flick through to find they have everything from 1A to 4B. Impressive. Still no styles, though. When I reach the bottom, though, I find two sliders: length & thickness. ¡°Seriously?¡± I scroll back up just enough to select 2B, before hesitantly touching the length slider. As I bump it forward, the type selections disappear to reveal my avatar¡¯s face and, more importantly, the hair growing at time-lapse speed from the top of my head. With expanding incredulity, I stop the slider when my hair reaches my waist, and then bump the thickness up, marveling at how my hair volume¡ªand weight¡ªgrows. With my free hand, I touch my hair to find it pliant, and just slightly on the coarse side. My fingers knot into the thick mass exactly as I expect they should. ¡°How are they doing this?¡± Bemused, I bump the hair thickness back down to a manageable level, and settle my hair length an inch past my shoulders. I try a few more commands after that, finding that while there are selections for ¡°body hair,¡± ¡°scars,¡± and ¡°deformations,¡± there is not a makeup section or species selector. I guess character creation was already too complicated without adding in elves or orcs or eyeshadow. ¡°DLC material for sure,¡± I mutter as I finish adding a few imperfections, like a network of faint stretch marks across my wide hips. ¡°Okay, so. How do I accept this?¡± Immediately, the mirror fogs again. When it clears, the reflective quality is gone revealing what looks like a doorway into a orange-and-red bathed meadow. I touch it. My hand passes through, greeted by a cool breeze on the other side. ¡°Here we go,¡± I mutter, and step inside. I have just enough time to register the feeling of dewy grass beneath my feet before the world drops out from beneath me. Everything goes black. CH6 - Alexa - Part 2 It¡¯s the shaking that wakes me; whole body convulsions that feel feverish and wrong. My eyes snap open, focusing on the blades of grass millimeters from my face. How did I get outside¡­? The castle was disintegrating¡ªno. That was the alpha. I¡¯d left the game. Or was that a dream? No. No, that had been real. So why couldn¡¯t I¡ªthe beta. I¡¯d joined the beta. The pieces fall into place quickly once I get that far: the character creator, the mirror, the meadow. I must have passed out. It¡¯s a disconcerting thought, though it makes sense. I¡¯ve never fallen asleep with the headgear on before, but that didn¡¯t mean there couldn¡¯t be a first time. This had been a long, weird day, and since I¡¯d plugged it in before laying down there wasn¡¯t a reason for the headset to shut off on its own. Therefore, still in the game. Still, somehow, alive. Or, interjects my more reasonable side, this is how the game is supposed to work: step through the mirror, get ported to a random spawn location, and ¡®pass out¡¯ so you can wake up with the typical survival-horror disorientation. That makes me feel better in a convoluted sort of way. It takes effort to move my stiff and frozen limbs, but brace my hands against the loam beneath me and inch by inch hoist myself into a sitting position. The meadow is vaguely familiar, but nothing looks like I expected. In its first alpha stages, DUSKFALL¡¯s environmental graphics had been among its best features, but that was years ago. It was still a pretty game, sure, but it hadn¡¯t been top-of-the-line in a long while. Now, though¡­ Like the avatars, the environmental had been given an extraordinary upgrade. A light grey fog peppered with flashes of lightning bugs hovers over wild growing grass in varying lengths. Dark forest surrounds the meadow on all sides. There¡¯s enough light staining the sky a soft blue-grey that I distinctly make out individual trees within the first few feet of any direction. Even from a distance the bark looks rough and porous. My gaze drops to the grass beneath me, and further to the soil. Loam, I¡¯d thought moments ago when my hands pressed slightly into the clumpy, damp particles beneath the grass blades. The individual grass blades. With shaking fingers, I snap a long runner of wire grass from its base and bring it closer to examine the way the leaves are growing. Each length is perfectly nested in the one that grew before it, and when I pull them apart, there¡¯s a faint, fresh scent of grass, and a hint of moisture against my fingertips. It¡¯s then I finally register what ought to have been obvious from the character creator: I can feel this. Every movement of grass against my bare legs, the chill in the air, the damp dew coating my skin; all of it feels as real as the bed beneath my body... should feel. But that is missing¡ªit¡¯s been missing since I launched the game. When I try to grab sides of my headset, all I touch is my avatar¡¯s hair. That can be explained, though. Nothing to panic about. With full-dive neurological controls engaged, it makes sense, doesn¡¯t it, that there¡¯s physical sensation feedback? It also follows that I¡¯m no longer able to contact anything on the outside without first logging out. Disconcerting, but logical. I use that logic to tamp down a rising surge of panic. I¡¯ve played fully immersive games before. Sure, the term was always a little imprecise; nothing I¡¯ve seen before has been this detailed, or this isolated. I¡¯m just surprised. That¡¯s all. ¡°Menu,¡± I say. Nothing happens. After a long pause, heartbeat thudding in my ears, I take a deep breath and think really, really hard about a menu. It¡¯s an effort not to squeeze my eyes shut, but I don¡¯t want to miss the pop-up when it¡ª A text box hovers before me. It shimmers in the gathering dawn like a mirage, but it is definitely there. I poke it just to be sure, and am rewarded by the panel tilting away from me. My heart lifts though there¡¯s nothing to celebrate yet. Only one item is listed on the panel: ¡°status.¡± Frowning, I press the button with a shaking finger, and a second, larger pop-up takes its place. I expect to see the same basic stat block used by most games to measure a player¡¯s level and power. Sure enough, some of the typical game stats are present¡ªname, race, and alliances to be specific¡ªbut instead of things like ¡°strength¡± or ¡°dexterity¡± there are...alternate items.
MSWYVERN Human Alliances: None Birth Date: Unknown Occupation: None Mastery: None Spouse(s): Unknown Family: Unknown Health: Decent Diseases: None Conditions: Cold Mental Health: Oh, honey.
That¡¯s¡­ That¡¯s it. I frown at the menu for a moment longer, particularly the part calling out my ¡°mental health,¡± but nothing changes or deigns to make any more sense. Eventually, I click the back arrow at the top of the menu, returning to the single, tiny selection. There have to be more menus, right? How would crafting work, or¡ª Oh, goddammit. MANIK PIX-E was super emphatic about wanting their game to be as ¡°realistic¡± as possible, even when it turned the game into a sluggish grind-fest. Of course, we reasoned, there would always have to be capitulations to the fact that DUSKFALL was a game, not reality. Reality doesn¡¯t have things like crafting menus or stat blocks. I really, really hope I¡¯m wrong¡ªthat they haven¡¯t taken things that far¡ªbut as I dismiss the menu and take another look at my steadily brightening surroundings, I¡¯m not feeling confident. It¡¯s an easy enough theory to test, thought. I rip a handful of grass from the ground, yanking it up with a clod of dirt still attached. When nothing happens, I yank out another, and another. Three handfuls ought to have been enough to get a quick-crafting prompt for rope and yet...nothing. ¡°Fuck!¡± The grass hits the ground as my hopes plummet. Will be possible to solo anymore? And if it isn¡¯t, do I want to stick around? There are other base-building games on the market. I could easily find another, maybe even one that isn¡¯t horror or PVP-centric. But the idea of quitting rankles. Now that I¡¯m here, now that I¡¯ve seen this... The Castle would be a sight to behold rendered in this system. Can I really walk away without trying? I push myself to my feet, standing on wobbly, still frozen legs and wrap my arms around myself. Pink morning light spills over the trees as the air warms. It isn¡¯t enough, yet, but I get the sense it will before long. ¡°Okay,¡± I say, noting how the birdsong and cricket chorus go quiet the moment I speak. ¡°Okay, okay, okay. Think, Alexa.¡± Ten minutes in and I¡¯m already talking to myself. ...Fuck it. There are worse things. ¡°It¡¯s dawn, so I should have a few hours to get clear of the forest and find a town.¡± Cheesy as it sounds, I¡¯m pretty sure camping in a town will be necessary. NPC towns and cities are meant to give base-level players a fighting chance since they include auto-defenses against demonic hordes. The guards won¡¯t stop other players from trying to gank you, but that¡¯s a problem for later. Provided I can find one before dusk I should have a few days¡¯ grace until I¡¯ve surpassed the ten-level cap that will get me kicked out of town at dusk. There wasn¡¯t a level indicator on the stat menu. Huh. After a second, I recall the menu just to double check and...no. There isn¡¯t a level indicator. An invisible stat? Again, that makes a sort of sense for MANIK PIX-E, even if it¡¯s annoying. After all, there are no ¡°levels¡± in the real world, so why should their be in a game? Some people just don¡¯t know when to stop. Weird as it is, I¡¯m willing to admit it could be live-able. Based on the last alpha iteration, it¡¯s safe to assume I¡¯m level zero. Provided I stick to the leveling plan I¡¯d developed for the alpha I should have a fortnight, maybe a little longer, before I hit level ten. By then, my carpentry should be advanced enough to set up a defensible, one-person workshop near Fulnedebi Bluff.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Which assumes I¡¯m anywhere near the titular Fulnedebi Valley at current. If not, this could be a very long hike. ¡°So where am I...?¡± I need a landmark; a random meadow in a random forest tells me jack shit. Being both surrounded by forests and butt naked isn¡¯t good. Demons will still spawn beneath the canopy even during the day, and if I get caught¡­ It won¡¯t be the end of the world, but it will mean starting from scratch and a point reduction. Though I doubt I¡¯ll ever make the leaderboard on such a large scale server¡ªassuming there is a leaderboard to make¡ªthe part of me that knows Echo is out here, somewhere, sparks that nascent, burning competitiveness which put us at odds in the first place. Another long look at my surroundings doesn¡¯t reveal any thinner patches of forest, or convenient trail to follow. If I get caught, I¡¯ll probably die. That¡¯s just all there is to it. ¡°Grow a pair, Lexa.¡± I pick a direction at random, and start walking.
The world beneath the canopy is even colder and more damp than the meadow, and dimly lit to boot. I pick my way carefully through the underbrush, aware not only of the fog clinging to my skin and the way the brush crackles beneath my feet, but of the rough, sometimes sharp edges to the bracken. Like everything else, it¡¯s uncomfortable and a little unnerving. While the ALPHA had certain sensory effects enabled¡ªsmell being the primary example¡ªmost of the headgear¡¯s capabilities had been too complicated for even big budget studios to wrangle. Touch had always been hit-or-miss, with texture typically working for larger items like trees or buildings, and everything else absent. Pain had never been part of the mix. And why should it? But it¡¯s been only an hour and already my naked feet are throbbing. I¡¯m sure they¡¯re fairly bleeding, too, though that¡¯s difficult to ascertain beneath a fresh coat of mud, leaves, and other assorted detritus I really don¡¯t care to think about. Collecting dung had been part of the ALPHA since the great farming overhaul of version three-point-six. I don¡¯t smell shit, but I¡¯m not counting that as definitive proof. Not anymore. I¡¯m wondering if I¡¯ve picked the wrong direction, if I¡¯m just wandering deeper and deeper into the forest, when something moves in the corner of my eye. I freeze. Most forest demons are herd or pack based. Fenrir, born of wolves, are huge, agile, and can move through living organic matter like ghosts. Nago typically herd, but can sometimes be found individually. They¡¯re born of boars, and while they remain roughly their original size they grow razor-sharp tusks all over their bodies. Cerys stand tall, with legs that move like thin trees, and antlers that sweep through the canopy to pierce any player hiding among the branches. The movement comes again, and this time I see it: thin, long leg stepping out from behind a tree about half a football field to my left. At this distance it looks solid enough, but I doubt that¡¯s the case up close. Most demons have a semi-translucent texture; like smoke condescend into living form. Just a cerys, then. Not that they aren¡¯t dangerous, but of all the things I could have run into¡ªbut...no. Drawing my gaze up its form, I realize what I¡¯d initially taken for tree branches are actually fingers the length of my forearm, attached to spindly arms. Not a Cerys; elongated limbs aside, the Cerys retain their basic stag-like shape. This thing, whatever it is, is humanoid and new. I have no idea what it can do to me. But I am very, very aware of the heartbeat clogging my throat and the way the world seems to shrink into a laser point focus on that thing. The tiniest snap above my head sends a chill down my spine. I look up. Two luminous eyes, like twin moons, peer down at me from the canopy above. The black face¡ªblack as midnight, black as shadow, black nothing natural has any right to be¡ªstares down at me from atop a needlepoint neck, attached to an equally thin form. Slowly, a crescent-moon gash opens beneath those hideous eyes as the demon grins. I scream, and bolt.
Running through an untamed forest is not an easy prospect, but at first I think it will be OK. After all, the WOLVES did hundreds of naked runs through the same conditions. But the ALPHA and the BETA are very, very different games. I¡¯m beginning to understand just how different. My feet tangle and trip through dense, overgrown brush as I desperately scramble away from the creature which could easily pluck me from the ground at any second. The first attempt comes from left. I duck aside just in time to avoid the long-fingered hand closing around my waist. My shoulder slams into a tree and I yelp at the impact. The throbbing of my feet is nothing next to the pain that rockets through my shoulder and down my arm to tingle in my fingers. The surprise of it overwhelms all reason. I stumble to a halt. MANIC PIX-E can¡¯t have seriously turned the sensory input up this high. They just can¡¯t have. Nobody¡¯s that much of an asshole. Right? A roar shakes the canopy above me. I stumble to the right as the creature takes another swipe. Talons rake through the ground, carving rivulets into the earth and sending bracken flying. But the cry is answered by a twin roar from the left. Both sound utterly pissed. Whether that¡¯s directed at me or each other, I¡¯m not sure. I¡¯m also not planning to ask. Panic renewed, I turn to run and snag my foot on an upstanding root. I hit the ground hard, and roll as an impossibly large, clawed foot slams down where my head had been a second before. There¡¯s a hiss, loud and shrill as a punctured aerosol can. Two of the creatures tower over me now, but their attention is for each other. One growls and the other cuffs it across the side of its head. Seeing my chance, I scramble back to my feet and run¡ªcorrection: limp away. Pain shoots up my leg, stemming from my ankle and flushing my body hot, then cold. One of them must have noticed my whimper because a hiss and a snapping of bracken follows me. A massive foot scraps my side as it plants itself in the mud to my right. I twist awkwardly away, a second sharp pain lancing through my knee, and fall back to the earth. A hand reaches for me, and this time I¡¯m frozen, unable to tear my gaze away. The fingers wrap around me like a vice of ice and fire, burning into my flesh as it lifts me up. My throat is raw from screaming, but I can¡¯t hear myself over the fresh, triumphant howls of my captor. I¡¯m dead. This is how I die. This¡ª There¡¯s a sick, world upending lurch as the other demon slams into its fellow. My captor reels, but keeps its grip as it rallies to punch its assailant. The other demon hisses again. The noise is deafening. Moon-white teeth split from single crescent into shards of broken sky looming ever closer. Again, the second demon lunges for my captor. It ducks beneath a swung fist and sinks those horrid teeth into the darkness of the other demon¡¯s throat. The fingers around me loosen. I fall. There¡¯s enough thought left in my brain to force myself limp before I hit the forest floor, but the impact still knocks my breath out. There¡¯s no chance to recover as I roll, roll, roll down an incline I hadn¡¯t even known existed. My back slams against something hard but I don¡¯t have the space to scream. It¡¯s all I can do to take one shallow, wheezing breath at a time. Painful, demonic howls rip through the otherwise silent forest, dripping with death until a final, arterial gurgle signals the end. A wet, heavy impact shakes the ground, followed momentarily by small, steadier impacts; the victor strides on. I won¡¯t open my eyes. I can¡¯t open my eyes. That thing will come for me next, and I can¡¯t get up. I can¡¯t do anything but wait here to die. And once I do, I will not be respawning. Fuck this game. Fuck MANIK PIX-E. Whoever thought this was okay in a video game needs to have a very serious talk with their therapist. I can¡¯t even imagine who would willingly sign on for this. I wait. And wait. And, slowly, the pain ebbs to a semi-tolerable level, allowing me the thought capacity to notice the relatively soft bed of leaves and loam beneath me, and a gentle tickling of leaves above me. Birdsong filters in over my wheezing breath. Eventually, I crack open my eyes to find my vision partially obscured by drooping fronds. I must have rolled beneath one of the giant ferns when the demon dropped me. Lucky; very lucky. Unless the demon that won their little turf war is just screwing with me¡­ No. No, that¡¯s assigning more intelligence to it than I should. Game A.I. is pretty advanced, but I haven¡¯t heard of any so advanced it can troll people. More likely, the demon wasn¡¯t able to find me once I left line-of-sight. Fine. If I¡¯m not being hunted, I should be able to logout. It takes effort to steady my breath, but I managed. I squeeze my eyes shut again and concentrate on the menu. Just as I¡¯m thinking I need to keep my eyes open to see the menu, it appears, hovering in the orange-black behind my eyelids. ¡°Status,¡± it reads. My breath catches. I dismiss the menu with a thought and try again, squeezing my eyes closed more tightly as though that might help. ¡°Status,¡± the menu reads again. This can¡¯t be right. I¡¯m just not using the controls properly. It¡¯s not like they bothered providing a tutorial. I force myself to take another deep breath and close the menu again. The status pop-up is under the keyword ¡®menu,¡¯ so maybe¡­ I concentrate the entirety of my will on the single word ¡®logout.¡¯ Nothing happens. Another hitch of my breath accompanies a stab of panic and pain, forcing the tiniest whimper from between my lips. Something shuffles nearby. Shit. Shit, Shit¡ªLOGOUT. LOG. OUT. Still nothing happens. My body betrays me again with the tiniest of sobs. I clamp a hand over my mouth, trying to hold in a scream as the shuffling sound inches closer. EXIT. END. ESCAPE. LOGOUT. Crunching from my left; like feet on bracken. The steps are smaller than those humanoid demons, but that¡¯s no less alarming. So many demons in this game are smaller than whatever those things were. LOG ME OUT RIGHT NOW OR I¡¯M GOING TO DIE. I stuff my hand into my mouth, biting down despite the taste of dirt and blood, to stop myself from sobbing. My heart pounds in my ears and chest, until it seems fit to explode. The footsteps stop. Something rustles. A faint, rasping moan raises the hair on the back of my neck. This is it. I¡¯m going to die cowering beneath a fern. It¡¯s a ridiculous idea. Death in a game isn¡¯t real death. I know that. Yet the fear is overwhelming. Fear dictates the best course of action is to stay put and silent, and wait for whatever that is to leave. My heart demands I fight. But my heart is not strong enough to compel my limbs into moving. Not when pain still courses through half my body; a stern reminder of what awaits if whatever-that-is sinks its teeth or claws into me. So I remain glued, trembling and terrified, to the forest floor until the footsteps continue past me. They dwindle faintly into nothing. Only once they¡¯ve been gone for what feels like an eternity do I peek beneath the fern. There¡¯s nothing there. Nothing, except a pool of sunshine flooding in from a break in the canopy above. I¡¯ve rolled into another meadow. It¡¯s a godsend right now. But that absence of enemies won¡¯t last long. Eventually, something else will happen by this place. Something not so easily dissuaded. I take a deep, shaky breath that tastes like dirt and snot. Way to add insult to injury, Devs. Come on, Lexa. You can do this. You have to do better than this. Get. The. Fuck. Up. Horribly aware of every sound I¡¯m making, I unglue my limbs one by one. Somewhere in everything that¡¯s happened, my avatar has pissed itself¡ªI¡¯ve pissed myself¡ªand my legs are coated with damp, clinging leaves and dirt. Face stinging with humiliation, though there¡¯s no one around to see, I take a few deep breaths to clear the urge to cry. Crying, however much it might make me feel better, won¡¯t help in so many ways right now. If pain is real, if pissing yourself is possible, then it¡¯s fair to assume dehydration will be, too. Besides, I¡¯ve cried more than enough today. Now isn¡¯t a time for tears. It¡¯s time to get the hell out of here. CH7, Justin It got weird. Two hours and so very many dick jokes later, I¡¯m ready to enter the game world. A fair number of viewers dumped the chat in favour of logging in for themselves. I can¡¯t blame them. Sure, the soul-eating trees are odd, but the character creation is fun. Somehow, MANIK PIX-E designed a system that lets you sculpt your own body to suit your needs. That¡¯s pretty goddamn spectacular. Though there were calls for me to Monster Factory it, I waived them off and settled for something a little more down to earth: tall, pale skinned with peachy undertones, and my maternal grandfather¡¯s long face. I¡¯d always wanted to look more like him than anyone on my father¡¯s side. Maybe that¡¯s not fair, but Dad¡¯s family are a bunch of pricks. Since my parents left Okinawa before I was born, I¡¯d never met any of Mom¡¯s relatives. They didn¡¯t have the chance to reject me. In fact, taking one last look at my avatar, I have to admit it the similarities to grandpa Kaito went a bit further than I¡¯d intended. I make a face, then grimace harder. My expressions are showing clearly to the chat, thanks to mirror and excellent facial mapping. That¡¯s... yeah. That¡¯s not good. Quickly, I cross my eyes, wrinkle my nose, stick my tongue out; the avatar keeps up with it all. Which is both cool and, bonus points, makes it easier to write off the momentary lapse in judgement. Unscripted displays of negative emotion? Not me, good sir! Besides, the facial mapping is cool. Though not unique in VR, the combination with the game¡¯s newfound, over-the-top realism hits uncanny valley pretty hard. Shaking my head, I laugh and stand back. ¡°Alright guys. We ready for this?¡± The remaining chat members give a unanimous ¡°yes.¡± They were ready a few minutes ago, but I¡¯d taken some time perfecting my avatar¡¯s athletically skinny build and, ah, ¡°piston size.¡± What can I say? A guy has to have standards. Accusations I sometimes act like a five-year-old are not unfounded. ¡°Accept,¡± I say to the mirror. Instead of prompting me like I expect, the mirror ripples, clears, and shows me another meadow beyond its pane. This one is precisely what I¡¯d been looking for at the beginning: sunlit, grass-filled, and with properly textured trees in the nearby forest. ¡°Perfect,¡± I drawl, and step through the mirror. The world spins and dips. I stumble, nearly losing my balance. After a second of flailing arms, I self correct and find the mirror has vanished behind me, leaving only the back half of the meadow. A stiff wind stirs the knee-height grass and slaps my naked skin. Suddenly cold, despite the warmth, I chafe my arms as I turn a slow circle, taking in my surroundings. ¡°Ho-ly shit. Guys, are y¡¯all seeing this?¡± Maybe I should have expected it from the character creator, but the details are outstanding. Everything is rendered in crisp high-fidelity. The grass swaying around me is composed of individualized blades, with flowers whose petals I can pluck individually, and even tiny insects crawling in the dirt below. A fat, yellow bee wiggles from a wildflower, buzzes its iridescent wings at me, and zooms away. ¡°How in the hell¡­¡± With no answer of my own, I glance to where the chat window should be and realize¡­ it¡¯s gone. ¡°Curiouser and curiouser,¡± I mutter, recalling the line from Alice in Wonderland with bemusement. The mirror must have been a portal between zones; one instanced, the other shared. Day one was bound to have bugs, and getting my stream kicked is probably just the start. At least the game runs on vocal commands now. ¡°Console.¡± Nothing happens. Frowning, I reach instinctively for my keyboard. My avatar¡¯s hands move in front of me, poised in a typing position. Right. Instead, I try it again as a mental command. Still, no response. Taking a deep, irritated breath, I try, ¡°Logout.¡± When that doesn¡¯t work either, I try, ¡°menu.¡± A pop-up appears. Clicking on it¡¯s single selector opens what I presume to be a character sheet, albeit a truncated one.
ECHOVOXX Human Alliances: None Birth Date: Unknown Occupation: None Mastery: None Spouse(s): Unknown Family: Unknown Health: Decent Diseases: None Conditions: None Mental Health: Unsure about this one. Seems OK on the surface, but you know what they say about icebergs.
¡°Mental Hea¡ªOK, first of all: rude, much? Secondly, what the actual fuck?¡± Birdsong I¡¯d barely noticed before speaking becomes obvious when it suddenly stops. I look away from the menu at the trees surrounding my little patch of sunshine. Nothing moves. A minute later, the birds resume. Just reacting to me, then. Turning back to the menu, I¡¯m surprised to find it hovering exactly where it¡¯d been before. A quick test proves I can drag it around with my finger, repositioning it like some Z-dimensional¡­ thing. There¡¯s nothing to compare the damn thing to because this shouldn¡¯t exist. Well, not in real life. I guess that isn¡¯t the best benchmark right now. There¡¯s no logout button here, either, no matter how many times I reread the screen. MANIK PIX-E ought to win an award for this: most useless stat screen ever. Dismissing the menu, I take another look around my unchanged surroundings. There has to be something I¡¯m missing. What other commands could there be? Exit, leave, end program; none of those seem to work. Though these would be less useful at current, I try other commands: character, skills, inventory, spells. Not a goddamn thing. But there is one thing I¡¯d been missing. My gaze stops, pinning itself to a patch of darkness across the meadow. Another flash of light; two dots, round and white and each roughly the size of my fist. They hover a good four feet off the ground, set just far enough apart to be¡ª Eyes. The shape of its body separates from the forest gloom by degrees, growing ever darker as the creature approaches the meadow one slow, deliberate step at a time. Its body is sleek and inky black. Though clearly kin to a massive wolf, the effect is something like a blanket flung over a ghost; a lie waiting to reveal a deeper truth beneath. The only parts of it which look entirely real are those awful eyes, and the gleaming, jagged teeth coming into being beneath them. Demons shouldn¡¯t spawn at this time of day, this close to the sunlight. But... demons can spawn under the canopy. It must have come from the deep forest, and now¡ª The creature stops with its paw mere inches from the sunlight. Why? It sees me. It hasn¡¯t attacked yet. Sure, if it comes into the sunlight it¡¯ll transform back into a regular wolf, but a regular wolf is still superior to a defenseless, naked human. Then I remember something; a flash of Mikah¡¯s alpha-stage avatar racing back toward us. He¡¯d been running from a fenrir. But that¡¯s not where the attack came from. ¡°Clever girl,¡± I mutter, and dive forward. The two wolves I hadn¡¯t seen sprang at the same moment, colliding behind me in a mass of fur and claws. I have barely enough space or time to climb back to my feet and back away from them. I stop when I can see all three. The Fenrir has entered the meadow, now. It shakes its head stupidly, stunned by the sunlight, but that will wear off in a minute. More important are the two snarling at me right now. My instinct is to run and, hell, maybe I should listen. This is a game, after all; not reality. In reality, running from a wolf pack is the easiest way to get yourself killed. Game designers rarely know enough about animals to program them in realistic ways. As someone who¡¯d grown up around wild animals, that was just something I¡¯d learned to accept over the years. After all, wolves are a stock gaming mob. It was either let it go or be endlessly frustrated. But games have never been this hyper-realistic, and training can be just as strong as instinct. Without meeting their eyes, I scan the surrounding area for something¡ªanything¡ªthat I can throw. Luckily, there are rocks and sticks a plenty. I dive for the nearest, grab it, and throw. ¡°Get out of here,¡± I yell, pushing my vocal chords to their limit. ¡°Who do you think you are? Cujo? I¡¯ve seen Chihuahuas more intimidating!¡± I follow the first rock with a stick, then another rock, and so on. When there¡¯s nothing left in easy reach, I move in a lateral direction around the wolves¡ªcareful not to get closer or back up. At first it doesn¡¯t seem to work. The wolves snarl and inch closer, but then a rock strikes one in the face. It flinches back, whining, and blinks owlishly at me.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°Yeah, didn¡¯t expect that, did you? Not so easy when I fight back.¡± I grab another rock, and the wolf backs up. It¡¯s buddies no longer seem as sure of the situation. Instead of just flinging the rocks wildly, I aim the next one at the closest wolf¡¯s butt. Perfect strike. The wolf yelps, and runs behind its fellows. All snarling ceases. The wolves seem increasingly confused by the situation. Clearly, people are food, not friends. Not that this is particularly ¡®friendly¡¯, per se. ¡°Come on! Go!¡± The wolves dance back, but they haven¡¯t made up their minds about leaving. I can¡¯t keep this up all day. I have woods to hike through, and¡ªthough it hadn¡¯t occurred to me until now¡ªother players to find if I¡¯m going to get help with my logout situation. Besides, as soon as the sun sets I doubt this tactic will hold up. There¡¯s only one way I can think to end this. Taking a deep breath, I restrain the part of me still swearing I¡¯m going to die this way, and rush them, screaming like a banshee the whole time. The wolves break. They tuck their tails between their legs and bolt from the clearing. I stop the second they enter the tree line, turn my own tail, and run the opposite direction. After all, they¡¯ll only get so far before the transformation hits. When that happens, I¡¯m toast.
About an hour later the trees thin out. I haven¡¯t run into any other demons, and it doesn¡¯t seem like that pack is following me. Which is pretty damn lucky, because running through untamed wilderness? Not fun. Particularly when you¡¯re commando. Also, being winded is now a thing. I¡¯ve never been in the best of shape, but neither am I a complete couch potato. Though I¡¯ve spent the majority of my day at a computer desk the past few years, I supplement all that sitting with twice-daily jogs and a round of sit-ups in the morning. It isn¡¯t much, but it¡¯s enough I can reasonably expect to keep going over a fair distance without trouble. Not today. This body, freshly baked as it is, has zero endurance. I don¡¯t need a stat array to confirm that. Within minutes of leaving the meadow, I was panting. By this point, I¡¯m ready to sit down and never get up again. My legs are jello, my mouth is filled with cotton, and there¡¯s a headache brewing behind my eyes that makes my vision swim. As the trees continue to clear, spilling more and more sunlight into the surrounding area, I slow from a stumbling jog to an equally stumbling, zombie-like walk. Finally, I come to a dead stop as I break through the tree line onto a packed dirt road. More forest borders its opposing side, with no end in sight. Shrugging, I catch the tiger by its toe and turn left. With a marginally easier path, I seem to cover a lot more ground though there¡¯s no way to be sure. And yet, I¡¯m not getting anywhere at all. There¡¯s no town, no farms, no nothing. Until, finally, I come over a hill and see a signpost standing at a fork in the road. Energy suddenly renewed, I hobble excitedly toward it until the words become clear. My heart sinks, and the newfound energy goes with it. Unlike a lot of these crafting games, which typically include a random map generator, DUSKFALL¡¯s map is fixed. Every dusklighter who¡¯s been around awhile can navigate its world like their hometown. I¡¯m not an exception. At least, that¡¯s what I thought. The signpost is a thick wooden pole encased in stonework at the base, and littered with arrow-tipped slat boards fixed like bare branches. Each board has a name, and a milage gouged onto it. ¡°Basingeham, five miles,¡± reads one, tilted toward the right-hand path. ¡°Fulnedebi, thirty-three miles,¡± reads another, pointing back the direction I just came from. Yes, I know exactly where I am. Problem is, those distances can¡¯t be right. Time is hard to measure without an in-game clock, but the sun reached its zenith as I was walking down this road, and is now making its steady way toward the horizon. By any reasonable estimation I¡¯ve been walking, oh, four in-game hours? Traveling by daylight alone, alpha players could cross the map in two game days. If they travel through the night, it¡¯s only one. By those standards, I should have gone through Fulnedebi, crossed the mountains, and passed the mines and quarry before reaching this signpost. But that hadn¡¯t happened. The only things I¡¯ve seen thus far were trees, dirt, and a few offbeat trails I now suspect lead to the small, NPC-run farms dotting this part of the countryside. Either I¡¯d gone crazy, or the map had expanded. So which way do I go? As I see it, there are three options: Fulnedebi. That¡¯s a valley just past the mountains with a mid-sized farming town at the center. The town is large enough, and popular enough among players, that it¡¯s a good bet to find someone. More importantly, it¡¯s near the bluff where Ms built her Castle. If Robert isn¡¯t glitching out, he¡¯s likely headed that direction. So is Ms, if she bothered getting online. Basingeham is also a town though ¡°village¡± might be more accurate. Placed on a river delta, it¡¯s composed of a few huts surrounded by defensive walls, and a pier where two NPCs shout off-colour jokes back and forth from sunrise to sunset. No one really comes out here unless they¡¯re looking for certain rare fish drops. However, it¡¯s the most defensible area in walking distance. Finally, there might be farms in the surrounding woods. Those trails I passed earlier should lead to one or more of them. ¡°Should¡± being the major issue. I can¡¯t see any farms from the road, so I¡¯d have to follow a trail back into the woods to check. Trails which, from what I recall, were heavily shaded by, if not completely obscured by, the forest. The odds are good I¡¯d find one, but it could take the rest of the day and there¡¯s no guarantee I¡¯d be safe there overnight. Ultimately, I need other players. Getting a line to a game master is my biggest concern though the aching of my legs and body, and the beginnings of hunger clawing at my stomach try to insist otherwise. The mere notion of being out here alone at dusk is nearly enough to break the cool I¡¯ve thus far maintained. Dealing with wolves is one thing; a horde of demons with no spawn restrictions is another thing altogether. Though I know it¡¯s just a game, there¡¯s something about being mauled to death in an environment this realistic that¡¯s¡­ unpalatable. I¡¯ll cross that bridge if I have to. For now, I choose Basingeham. The trip eats the rest of my afternoon. By the time I crest the last hill between myself and the river, the sun is riding low in the west, bathing the world in red-gold light. Despite my impending doom, I spend a moment frozen upon the hill, beset by the urban sprawl laid out before me. Basingeham still has walls, but they¡¯ve replaced the once simple partition with a looming edifice three stories tall at its lowest points. It rises to four or five stories at both the brand new gatehouse and a multitude of intermittent defense towers. Guards pace the battlements in twos and threes, with more stationed above the thick, double-doored gates. From my position, I can see how the walls stretch over the delta, forming bridges braced with pillars and iron grating that gleams like fire in the sunset light. Beyond the wall are houses; some roofed in thatch and others shingled; some are painted, more are naked wood or clay. There must be a solid hundred, and those are just the ones tall enough to be seen from this angle. How many smaller buildings are there in between those far-flung rooftops? How many NPCs? Is this still Basingeham? It doesn¡¯t seem possible, but the sign... and none of this matters. I have nowhere else to turn for the night, and the demons will be coming. Swallowing my apprehension, I plod onward to the gate.
By the time I reach the gates, there are other humanoid figures approaching it from around the city¡¯s perimeter. The orcs¡ªeach of them massive, burly creatures with green skin and an array of off-putting hair colours¡ªcarry a variety of equipment in crates and slung over their shoulders. Axes, saws, fire starters, and the like. They remind me of a burn crew, sent to clear back the forest. And hell, that makes sense, even if it¡¯s strange to see an NPC that isn¡¯t a trader, guard, or farmer. Those were the only three positions they held in the alpha. But thinking back to those wolves, I get it. Wouldn¡¯t want the monsters sneaking up on you. The orcs eye me as they step past, walking into the city without being stopped or questioned. NPCs in DUSKFALL are essentially mindless. Though the tracking of their gaze is a little unnerving, I think none of it as I fall into place behind them. I¡¯m already imagining a warm bed and food¡ªthough longing for in-game food seems ridiculous¡ªwhen someone finally speaks. ¡°Ho, there.¡± My attention snaps to two guards now standing outside the cracked open gate. Like the other NPCs in evidence, they¡¯re both orcish. With fresh shadows falling across their faces that¡¯s all I can make out. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls. Great. ¡°How¡¯s it going, guys?¡± I say, continuing forward as the last of the burn crew disappears inside. A trident appears in my path, tips angled at my chest. I jerk backward, stumble, wave my arms, and fall onto my ass with a painful smack. ¡°Aw now, lookit whatchu did,¡± says the one not holding the trident. It slaps its partner on the arm and gestures to me with a sword. ¡°Poor thing looks like it¡¯s seen miles a hard road an this¡¯s the way you treat it?¡± ¡°It dinnit stop, now, did it?¡± says Trident-wielder. ¡°Yer s¡¯posed ta stop before goin¡¯ in, e¡¯erybody knows that.¡± Sword-wielder scoffs. ¡°How many¡¯a these you welcome in, now? Ain¡¯t a¡¯one of them what¡¯s known the rules.¡± ¡°So, you think I should nae stop¡¯em jus¡¯ cause they don¡¯t ken?¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t said that. Jus don¡¯t hafta go pokin¡¯ ¡®em around¡¯s all.¡± Triden-wielder groans. ¡°Fine! Fine. Have it your way. Y¡¯always seem to.¡± It stands it¡¯s trident upright as they both turn to me. Sword-wielder crouches, extending a hand. Gingerly, I take the offered hand, letting Sword-wielder pull me to my feet. What the absolute fuck? ¡°There we go,¡± it says, ¡°Now then. Hows about you tell us your business here, and where abouts your trousers ran off to.¡± Someone snickers from the wall above. ¡°Uh,¡± I say, mind drawing a blank. This is normally where a dialogue prompt would appear in any other game, giving me clues as to what I should say to get a proper response. Nothing happens. The NPC¡¯s bushy eyebrows raise expectantly as the silence stretches. ¡°Well, ah, I¡¯m not really from around these parts.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t say,¡± drawls Trident-wielder. I spread my hands helplessly. ¡°Sadly, true. Pretty sure if I were local I¡¯d be a few feet taller. And green. And probably not naked.¡± Sword-wielder laughs, elbowing its partner. ¡°Looks like this one¡¯s got some lip on it. I like that.¡± That¡¯s the fourth time they¡¯ve called me ¡°it.¡± Scowling, I restrain the urge to comment and focus on the larger implication. ¡°This one,¡± I repeat. ¡°You said there were others who didn¡¯t know. Others like me?¡± ¡°Oh yeah,¡± Trident-wielder confirms, ¡°There¡¯s been a number¡¯a you refugees come through. S¡¯funny. The Magistrate said we ought¡¯a be expecting a handful or two now that the caravan¡¯s come this far north. But I¡¯d thought t¡¯see more families or wagons with you lot. S¡¯just been a dribble; one or two here and there, like, and all a¡¯you without a penny to pinch.¡± ¡°Er¡­¡± My brain flat lines as I try to process that info dump. Refugees? Caravan? It sounds like storyline content; once again, something the alpha had been missing. Not the lightest of stories, either, but I suppose it makes sense. After all, humans are the only playable species in the game. All the NPCs are orcs, goblins, or faeries. This is as good a way to explain that as any. ¡°Right,¡± I say, and pause. Neither of them have moved or offered me any way inside. I haven¡¯t said the right thing. Maybe I need to play along? Adopting a small smile, I shrug helplessly at the guards. ¡°Look, I¡¯ve come a long way. Been walking all day. I¡¯m just trying to get in before the whole¡­ you know. Demon-chow thing.¡± ¡°Demon?¡± Sword-wielder glances at its partner. ¡°What¡¯s a demon?¡± ¡°Uh¡­ the things you build the high walls and shit for? Y¡¯know? Animals that go coo-coo for cocoa puffs come dusk?¡± Sword-wielder snorts. ¡°Ah. Y¡¯mean the Scourge?¡± ¡°Right...¡± After a second of silence, I add, ¡°So what am I halting for, exactly? If there¡¯s other people¡ªer, humans in the city...¡± Sounding exasperated, Trident-wielder gestures to my everything. ¡°Well, you can¡¯t just waltz on into the city like that. You¡¯re starkers, for one thing, and we¡¯ve not the faintest who you are.¡± ¡°Refugees hafta sign in with the Magistrate,¡± Sword-wielder adds, far more helpfully. Gritting my teeth to keep from pointing out that either could have offered this information on their own, I say, ¡°Alright, fine. Then maybe take me to your leader?¡± CH8, Alexa The temperature is rapidly decreasing by the time the trees thin out. So far, I¡¯ve avoided three more sets of demons: two fenrir taking apart a fresh kill, a cerys that was walking away from me by the time I noticed it; and, shortly after, a small herd of the female ceri, whose moon-glow eyes would paralyze anyone unfortunate enough to get within their Area of Effect. I did not look closely at what the wolves were ripping apart; the single exposed limb I¡¯d glimpsed was far too humanoid, too human¡­ Nope. Stop. Not thinking about it. Thankfully, the ceri were beneath me, down a short ravine. I hid beneath another oversized fern, waiting with painfully held breath as they passed in their herd-leader¡¯s wake. Ceri are among the least aggressive demons, but their alerting cries and Area Of Effect would end me. Golden god rays stream through broken patches of canopy, punctuating the forest gloom with what I estimate to be late-afternoon light. That¡¯s worrisome. Dusk is falling. After that, nowhere will be safe. Considering how I hid before, if I can find somewhere to hole up for the night, breaking all line-of-sight, I may stand a fighting chance. Well, more a ¡°laying down and praying¡± chance. The question remains, ¡°How did that work?¡± It seems significant the only demons¡ªand zombies?¡ªI ran into were larger than me. If there¡¯d been a baby nago, or a kitsune, or any of the tiny demon breeds they could easily have rooted me out. It¡¯s a disquieting thought; the sort I can¡¯t afford to linger on. I¡¯ve spent more than enough time panicking. Rather than clouding my mind, the pain throbbing through my avatar has given me something to focus on: finding help. At the very least, I need medical supplies. The forest continues to thin until I glimpse half-grown verdant wheat rising just past the edge. A field? Where there¡¯s a tended field, there¡¯s a farmer; thus, a farm. It seems too much to hope for, and yet logical. A farm means defense, clothing, maybe even tools or weapons. But I¡¯m getting ahead of myself. Tamping down on my excitement, I limp my way through the last line of saplings and find myself facing a shoulder-height wall of wheat spreading across a gently rolling landscape. Down the hill, in the center of everything, stands a stone wall with a high gate, and a tower peeking out from the top. A castle. Not ¡°castle¡± in the fantasy sort of sense, but a castle in the early medieval fashion: probably a single-room tower, judging from what I can see, with either one or two floors. The wall and tower both fashioned from white and grey stone. Two thatched roofs stand inside the circle of protective walls; outbuildings, then. There could even be livestock inside. And yet¡­ nothing moves save the wheat dancing in a gentle wind. No one shouts. No animals bray in pens. No chickens cluck. There isn¡¯t even birdsong. Something about this place is wrong. That, and I¡¯ve a rising certainty I know this place. The design of the castle, the layout of the fields and forest¡­ Thanks to DUSKFALL¡¯s regulated map, the Points of Interest were always the same. At least, they are when the game starts. Players tend to change things shortly thereafter, but that doesn¡¯t change the fact that every structure in DUSKFALL is unique. Each farm, for instance, has features and a layout unique to itself. If I remember where this place is, I should be able to locate a city. But the pain that¡¯s so helpful in centering myself also keeps specific information just out of mental reach. A groan rumbles in my throat as I start forward again. There¡¯ll be time for that later. For now, I need to get inside solid walls.
The gate is well made, thick, and standing ever so slightly ajar. Fear worms its way down my throat, curling in my stomach. A stench, terribly familiar and sickly sweet, has been building the closer I got to the castle. Now, it¡¯s practically overwhelming. Death. That smell is death. I could leave. I should leave. These thoughts aren¡¯t sudden. Some iteration of the same has been cycling a continuous litany as I limped my way through the wheat fields. Those fields are thick; they could provide cover. For a while. Maybe if I took a nap and pretended nothing was happening, I¡¯d be fine. And ¡®maybe¡¯ I¡¯d wake up from this nightmare with a living, cancer-free father. Nothing just ¡®goes away¡¯ because you take a nap, Alexa; no matter how tired, and sore, and hungry, and thirsty, and terrified you are. Naps solve nothing. I know that. But knowing doesn¡¯t assuage the urge. Every second I waste outside the gate is another second of light lost. Already my skin prickles with the gaze of unseen eyes. Sure, they¡¯re probably my imagination. Can I afford the risk of barging inside? Taking a deep breath, trying not to gag on the sweet stench filling my throat, I lean in close to the gap between gate and wall, and listen. There¡¯s a faint breeze rustling in the field behind me, cicada singing nearby, and¡­ that¡¯s it. No movement. That has to be good enough. I don¡¯t want to open the gate any wider; it seems too likely to attract attention, so I squeeze through the gap instead. Rough wood and stone scrape my the burn marks left by the demon¡¯s claws. Fresh pain bursts through me, forcing me to my knees inside the gate. I hit the dirt, fighting back nausea and the desire to scream. Slowly, the rolling of my stomach ceases, and the pain ebbs back to the standard throb I¡¯ve come to know. Panting and trembling, I work my way back to my feet before turning my attention to the yard. The bailey is littered in corpses: five orcs, several chicken, a couple cows, a donkey. Their blood pools in rusty stains on the packed earth yard. Clouds of flies cover every rotting carcass; darting in and out of open nostrils and mouths, pooling in the sunken eye sockets. My stomach rolls again. I swallow hard once; twice; three times before losing the battle. Taking another step inside, I turn just in time to spew stomach acid all over the ground instead of my feet. My stomach is empty. There¡¯s nothing left to come up. That doesn¡¯t stop my body from trying. ¡°A game with a gag reflex?¡± I¡¯m not sure what¡¯s worse. Puking or pissing myself from fear. When I get out of here, I¡¯m finding the dev team and punching each and every one of them in the teeth. When my stomach finally settles again, I spare another glance at the corpses. It takes every fiber of willpower I can muster to step toward them. A distant howl lifts into the air, raising the hair on the back of my neck. It¡¯s followed by a chorus that seems to surround me. The light. I forgot about the light, and it¡¯s fading. The light is fading. Demons are coming. I rush back to the gate, grabbing a brass ring set into the wood, and pull. It swings more easily than I expect, slamming loudly into place.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. Second mistake. Another howl sounds, this one louder and closer than the first. If it heard that... There has to be a locking mechanism. Besides the handle, there¡¯s three brass fittings for a bar. A quick glance around finds a long, thick wood beam leaning against the wall to my right. I try to lift it, but it¡¯s too heavy for me on my own. I need help, or leverage or¡­ Leverage. Given the angle it¡¯s been set at, and it¡¯s distance from the door fittings¡­ If I can tip this over, I should be able to guide the beam into place, using the fittings to carry some of the beam¡¯s weight as I pick up the other end. There¡¯s a rustling noise outside; loud as a gale through the fields. Something huge is coming this way. Setting the beam to the first fitting is relatively easy. I move to the other end, gritting my teeth and bracing my knees as I grab it with both hands and lift! It¡¯s heavy, so heavy. I groan with the effort of pushing it forward until it slides into the next fitting. With less weight on me, the last push should be easy. Then I can go hide somewhere. A loud grunt outside the gate tells me whatever is out there probably knows I¡¯m here. As if in answer, it¡¯s followed by a series of giant-like footsteps growing ever closer. Not a Fenrir; the steps are too dense, and they rarely grunt like that. Nago? The gate quivers. There¡¯s a sound like a brush scraping against the wood. I redouble my efforts to push the beam into place, but it seems stuck on something. The last fitting; it¡¯s not correctly lined up. Swallowing a frustrated curse, I pull the beam back¡ªaware of splinters digging into my fingers and the way the wood scrapes too loudly against the gate. Once I¡¯ve got it back far enough, I lean my weight into it, trying to realign the business end as I shove the beam forward once more. The gate shudders, and the beam catches against the fitting, missing the slot. ¡°Come on,¡± I breathe, and inwardly curse my stupidity. Another grunt sounds, louder and interested. The gate quakes as the demon slams against it. I scream, stumbling away. A long, eerie growl answers me. Above the gate, a shimmering panel suddenly flickers into being.
Gate. Wood, reinforced. Quality: Fair HP: 800/1000
I could run. I should run. But going now would leave the gate half-barred. The gate shudders again. The wood creaks as the health bar takes another, far too large dip. Sixty percent. Fuck This.. Turning, I half-run, half-stumble my way to the main building while there¡¯s still a little light to see by. Behind me, the gate groans. At least I¡¯m right about the castle. Its base is a stone square with rickety wooden steps built into the side. They lead to a movable bridge connected to a second-story balcony. I hobble my way up, stopping just outside the door to lift the bridge. It¡¯s an awkward thing to carry, taller than me and heavy enough to tip me off balance if I¡¯m not careful. My shoulder screams, begging me to drop the damn thing. It¡¯s sheer belligerent persistence that lets me pull up and to the side. I lean the bridge over the door at an angle, with the foot braced against the thin balcony railing. Behind me, the gate buckles inward with loud, alarming cracks. Maybe the bridge will stand through morning, maybe it won¡¯t. Either way, it won¡¯t fit through the door. Speaking of, I turn to find the door fitted with a poorly hammered iron latch. No key hole or lock of any kind. Anything could be inside. People, bandits or worse: other players. It¡¯s not like I have a choice. I grab the handle, twist, and the door pops open like it was waiting for me. Closing it behind myself, I lean into the door as I force my gasping breath back under control. Though muted by the surrounding stone, and the heartbeat hammering in my ears, the crash of the gate finally giving way still sends shivers down my spine. Another unearthly growl vibrates through the air, underscored by feral, huffing, breathes. I wait, back pressed against the cool wood, for the tremble of stone beneath me. I imagine a nago, huge and spiked, stalking toward my position. In another minute, I¡¯ll lose my only hiding place. Maybe it¡¯ll give me a log off option when I die. ¡­ ¡­ ¡­ I open my eyes, staring into the void that is this tower. The demon is definitely out there; I can hear it raspy breathing. But nothing¡¯s happened. Gradually my heartbeat calms, my breathing slows, and common sense floods back in beneath the adrenaline and fear. That demon never saw me, did it? No. It heard me, but now I¡¯m silent, and hidden from view. Out of sight, out of hearing¡­ out of mind? That seems workable, in theory. It also means I¡¯m stuck. The castle is deathly quiet and pitch black. Moving blindly through a foreign space is a stupid idea, likely to send me blundering into something I shouldn¡¯t; something that would make noise. If I¡¯m being honest with myself, I don¡¯t think I can move anymore. Not even if I wanted to. Slowly, carefully, I slide down to the cold wood floor. Just sitting there, being still? It feels like heaven. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I close my eyes and try to relax. The demon will revert to a normal animal by morning. That¡¯s how DUSKFALL works. The devs can¡¯t have changed that much, right? Sure, said animal will still be hostile but I¡¯ll be able to see it, and it won¡¯t be capable of taking the castle down around my ears. Plus, there¡¯ll be light enough to sort through what¡¯s left to work with. What happened to this place? That¡¯s a great question, Lex; a question which applies to so many things right now. But my mind¡¯s eye conjures an image of those corpses outside, the flies dancing across their bodies. It takes all my willpower not to vomit again. Those bodies... they haven¡¯t been there long. So... Maybe a day? Not that I have much experience with corpses, but their forms were still recognizable beneath the bugs. Maybe two days? Surely no more than that. The Devs must have done some scene dressing. There¡¯d been rumors that the long-promised quest system might finally work, though no patch notes had been released. Could that explain this? That depends on the rules for NPCs. They used to be immortal, but can I assume that¡¯s still the case? Doesn¡¯t seem wise. OK. Simpler solution: someone came through here and killed them. Whether that was another player, or an NPC remains to be seen. Either is possible. There¡¯s also the possibility it was demons. I shake my head, dismissing the idea as quickly as it forms. From what I¡¯d just witnessed, demons aren¡¯t keen on leaving doors politely ajar. That still leaves several good questions: Where are they? Why slaughter the livestock? Am I sharing this darkness with a murderer? No. Not a murderer, necessarily. ¡°Murder¡± implies those NPCs were alive to being with. That¡¯s the one thing I know for certain: the bodies were orcs, and there¡¯s no species selector in the character creator. Best guess: the old rules about humans being PC-only still stand. Therefore, if whoever killed them was a player, well, that was just the game, right? If the killer was an NPC, then the event was scripted. No big deal, except neither distinction means whoever it was won¡¯t try to kill me. Would that be such a bad thing? After a day spent plodding through a hostile forest, nearly being killed¡ªtwice¡ªand some self-humiliation for added flavour, I have no desire whatsoever to remain in this hellhole. What love I had for DUSKFALL is well and truly gone, no matter how pretty it is or however involved the crafting system proves to be. I close my eyes, shoving my pain and hunger aside as I mentally reach for the menu. Once again, the ¡°status¡± popup appears. Sighing, I dismiss it again without bothering to read the so-called ¡°character sheet¡± again. Slowly, deliberately, I try every other option I can think of: logout, exit, escape, etcetera. I even try ¡°console.¡± Nada. Carefully containing a sigh, I once again access the surrounding void. Maybe dying would be a good thing. I¡¯d considered previously that dying could prompt a logout option. It would mean a lot of pain, but it could be worth it. Still, it feels safe to assume there¡¯s a chance respawn would just throw me back into a forest somewhere; lost, alone, helpless. Destined to be mauled again, and again, until I spawned somewhere at dawn. Here I have shelter, resources to scavenge, and a way forward. That should last me until I figure out what the hell is going on. Though it¡¯s a risk, I whisper into the darkness: ¡°If there¡¯s a murderer in here, maybe wait until morning to kill me? ¡®Kay?¡± I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m happy or upset when my only answer is silence. CH9, Justin The Magistrate is an older orc with sagging, greenish-grey skin and thin streaks of black in its shaggy white hair. It looks like a military commander gone to seed, though I admit that impression is influenced by the stereotypical orcish build: ridiculously muscular shoulders and arms, tiny waist, impressive thighs. Old scars cross its leathery skin, and when it shakes my hand, I feel calluses on its fingers. Overall, not the sort of creature I¡¯d expected when the guards led me to a book-filled office. Outside, Basingeham¡¯s market is packing up for the day. I about shat myself when I saw the teeming display of non-human life. There¡¯s NPCs everywhere, talking to each other, making trades, carting supplies; generally living their lives. More importantly, with the increase in light thanks to magic-fueled street lamps, I can make out details about the faces and builds. So far I haven¡¯t spotted a single re-used model or re-skinned clothing item. Everything seems unique. The Magistrate clears its throat, jerking my attention back to it. ¡°Let me guess; bandits stole your clothes, too?¡± Bandits? It takes a few, precious seconds to realize that¡¯s probably what the other players have been saying. ¡°Uh¡­ sure?¡± A flash of impatience crosses its face. ¡°Sure is not a ¡®yes,¡¯ young one. Are you a nudist, a victim, or¡­ ?¡± ¡°There¡¯s a third option? Er.. I-I mean I¡¯m not a nudist! I definitely would prefer clothing. Pants, at least. Y¡¯know, if I had any? Kind of lacking on that front, though. And the whole money thing.¡± ¡°So you were robbed?¡± ¡°I¡­¡± Lying seems wisest, but flat-out lies have never worked out well in my experience. If you have to lie, half-truths are better. They¡¯re easier to remember and more likely to turn up corroborating evidence. Being vague is also useful. ¡°Not that I remember?¡± The Magistrate fixes me with a flat, disbelieving stare. It sits up straight, braiding its sausage-like fingers together upon the desk. ¡°You don¡¯t remember why you¡¯re wandering naked around the countryside?¡± ¡°Mm, nope? I sorta just woke up out there. Started walking. Ended up here.¡± I pause. ¡°Ta-da~¡± Looking distinctly nonplussed, the magistrate glances at the open office door where Sword-wielder stands, watching us. It shrugs. ¡°Figure it makes ¡®bout as much sense as a hundred bandit attacks with nary a bandit in sight, don¡¯t it?¡± ¡°So you say.¡± The Magistrate sighs. ¡°I¡¯m don¡¯t know how to put that on a report, but I¡¯ll figure it out. Aelfsige, call in the Sister on your way out.¡± ¡°Ma¡¯am,¡± says Sword-wielder¡ªAelfsige? It cuts a salute before turning on its heel to leave. I try not to stare at the Magistrate. Given my entire situation, I ought to know better but, when faced with a bunch of gorilla-like humanoids with no apparent sexual dimorphism, I¡¯d assumed they were all nominally ¡°male.¡± Label me sheepish. The Magistrate raises a brow at me. I realize, belatedly, it¡¯s said something. ¡°Uh, what?¡± With exaggerated care, it waggles a journal at me and repeats, ¡°The logbook.¡± The journal is splayed between its fingers, filled with handmade pages bound between hardened leather. Someone stamped lines down the page, upon which names are listed in columns. For a brief second they look like nonsense: a bunch of jumbled letters, numbers, interspersed with seemingly random words. Then it clicks: gamertags. I look the list over again, searching for anyone I know. Two things stand out: a handful of real names, and the tag B4B4BLKSHEEP. Deirdre. She¡¯s here, and it looks like she came through not that long ago. ¡°Touch the logbook,¡± the Magistrate orders. ¡°Uh, yes ma¡¯am.¡± A shimmering panel appears above the book, rotating slowly in the air until it faces me. The Magistrate closes the log and sets it down. ¡°Fill it out in its entirety. That is not a request. Failure to do so, or falsified information, will have you arrested and evicted from Basingeham come dawn.¡± The panel looks like an ID card, with a portrait of my avatar¡ªdirty and disheveled¡ªin the upper left corner. On the right are fillable text boxes. I stare at the requested information in fascinated horror.
NAME: GENDER: OCCUPATION: SKILLS: LAST KNOWN RESIDENCE: REASON FOR MIGRATION: INTENDED PERIOD OF STAY: HEAD OF FAMILY (Y/N): IF Y, NAME(S) OF SPOUSE(S): IF Y, # OF NON-SPOUSAL FAMILY MEMBERS: LIST NAMES AND AGES OF NON-SPOUSAL MEMBERS:
I flick the panel, scrolling through a list of similar, off-putting questions. It reads like an immigration form. ¡°Um, what if I don¡¯t intend to stay?¡± ¡°To be frank, that isn¡¯t a concern.¡± I glance through the semi-translucent panel at the Magister. It¡¯s watching me, as it has been the last few minutes, but it seems far less defensive now. More¡­ apprehensive? ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°There isn¡¯t room.¡± The Magister shrugs. ¡°Basingeham isn¡¯t due for another expansion. We only just finished the west district. Even if we wanted to expand the walls again, we lack the supply and the ability to sustain a large population increase in the long term. I¡¯ve told the others, and I¡¯ll tell you: this is an offer of temporary residency. Nothing more, nothing less. I expect you all to relocate yourselves within the next few months.¡± I guess the game needed a way to flush us from the nest. It makes sense even if this form is patently ridiculous. With a swallowed sigh, I poke the ¡°name¡± field and am rewarded with a holographic keyboard at chest height. After a second¡¯s hesitation, I type in ¡°Echo Voxx¡± and move on. Like I said, I¡¯m really not a role player but given the sheer amount of immersion I¡¯ve witnessed so far, it¡¯s sort of fun. Or, it would be if not for the elephant in the room. A more name-y gamertag style seems a small concession to make. Someone enters the office while I¡¯m working but I wait until I¡¯ve finished to face them. When the log panel closes, I¡¯m confronted with a shorter, frail orc whose knobby-knuckled hands and wrinkled, smiling face lend it a kinder aura than the Magistrate. It offers me a cloth-wrapped bundle. ¡°From the Sisters at the Temple of Matrem Omnium,¡± it says. The Magistrate has the journal out again, spread on the desk as it stares, unfocused, into space. A moment passes before I realize it must be reading my entry on a panel I can¡¯t see. A thread of unease worms through me, but I don¡¯t have much time to think it over before the Magistrate blinks rapidly and flips the journal closed. ¡°Alright,¡± it says, standing with its hands pressed to the desk. ¡°He¡¯s all yours, Sister. I¡¯ve a wall to inspect.¡± The older orc nods, taking me by the elbow before I can object. ¡°Come, then. You can change into those clothes, and I¡¯ll take you to see the others.¡±
The rough spun trews and tunic are scratchy but infinitely more comfortable than parading through town with everything on display. I¡¯m having a hard enough time keeping up with Sister Elthedred without worrying if my junk is helicoptering. This NPC¡¯s pretty damn quick for such a frail old thing. ¡°The Matron Mother has committed our order to housing as many of you as we can,¡± Elthedred says while we hurry through lamp-lit streets. ¡°Temporarily, of course. I¡¯m sure the Magister gave you her little speech about the state of things.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t sound like you agree.¡± ¡°Because I don¡¯t. The Supreme Mother doesn¡¯t abandon her children.¡± The implication being that we players are like children. That¡¯s fair. ¡°That¡¯s, uh, kind of her. How many of us have come through?¡± ¡°There¡¯s twenty-seven in the compound.¡±This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Only twenty-seven? That seems like a low number, especially after seeing the Magister¡¯s record. We turn a corner and the question is knocked from my lips. The wall to our left, which we¡¯ve followed the past few blocks, belongs to a larger compound; a walled city within a city. Ahead of us, a tall iron-barred gate is thrown open to the public where dozens of NPCs are coming and going at their leisure. Seems like service just let out. Like the market before it, the crowd is predominantly orcish but several medium and smaller-sized humanoids are mixed within. I recognize the fae by their thin, pointed ears, multi-hued skin tones and the faint trail of glitter following in their wake. The smaller creatures are goblins; none are taller than my hip, and they¡¯re all scaled with large, cat-like ears, slit pupils, and talon-like claws on their thin fingers. Again, no re-used models. Sister Elthedred puts a hand on my shoulder, guiding me behind the congregation and through the open gates. A paved pathway bordered by hedges leads directly to the tall stone steps of a cathedral. Maybe I shouldn¡¯t call it that, but no other word fits the solid, imposing building before me. Its front is recessed behind a row of columns where stout double-doors twice the height of the tallest orc swing open at our touch. We pass through a vestibule lit by incidence-fed braziers and through a short corridor with several closed doors. At the end, through an open archway, is the sanctuary. At least three stories tall at its center, the far end of the chamber is dominated by a gargantuan statue stretching from floor to ceiling. Given some of the Sister¡¯s comments, I assume this must be a representation of the ¡°Supreme Mother.¡± The faceless, robed figure rests on one knee, holding a swaddled bundle in the crook of one arm as her other hand extends to us, palm open. The blank, featureless visage reminds me unnervingly of DUSKFALL¡¯s original avatars. At the statue¡¯s feet, a half-circle couch rests in a bed of fresh flowers backed by mage lights. A goblin, no bigger than your average toddler, watches us. Elthedred hurries me forward through twin aisles of empty pews until we¡¯re in hearing distance of the goblin. ¡°Matron,¡± says Elthedred, ¡°I¡¯ve collected another lost soul from the Magistrate. May I present ¡®Echo Voxx.¡¯¡± The Matron Mother¡¯s eyes are so milky I have to assume it¡¯s at least partially blind. But its head turns toward us, ears cocked forward like a cat whose interest has been perked. ¡°Echo Voxx,¡± it repeats. I¡¯m getting some very particular vibes from this conversation, and I don¡¯t like it. This feels like a setup for a ¡®prophesied one¡¯ quest line; one I lack the patience for. Quickly, I say, ¡°Echo¡¯s fine. And I¡¯d love to help with whatever it is, really, but I really need to see the other players first.¡± Nonplussed, the Matron stares at me a long moment. A set of translucent eyelids cross its eyes vertically, followed horizontally by an opaque set in a slow, deliberate blink. Its gaze returns to Sister Elthedred, who¡¯s gone still and stiff. The Matron¡¯s voice is weary as it¡¯s ears droop backward. ¡°Another one,¡± it says. ¡°How many of the Scourged have you met? The ¡®dee-mons¡¯ as you say?¡± ¡°Uhh¡­ none? Well, ah, there was a fenrir¡ªa wolf¡ªthat was in demon form when it saw me, but it reverted in the sunlight.¡± ¡°And you lived?¡± The Matron¡¯s ears perk forward again. ¡°Yep.¡± I spread my hands. ¡°Everything¡¯s present and accounted for, even. Why?¡± ¡°Hm. Interesting.¡± It pauses, gaze raking over me, before it says, ¡°Echo, it is. Not the strangest name I¡¯ve heard these past few days. I suppose Magistrate Cyneburg gave you her usual spiel?¡± ¡°She did.¡± I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to force the point. It¡¯s clear these NPCs don¡¯t enjoy being derailed. ¡°Good. Then it¡¯s time for mine. The city would throw you out, but I will not, provided you stay within good standing. However, you must be sure to return to these walls by sunset. You will not leave again until sunrise. Have we an accord?¡± ¡°Could you clarify ¡®good standing,¡¯ please?¡± The Matron chuckles airily. ¡°Finally, one who asks. ¡®Good standing¡¯ in this regard means abiding the Mother¡¯s Law and the laws of the city, and attempting to find a proper place for yourself. If you make yourself a nuisance, or laze about, we will rescind our invitation.¡± That was all? I brace myself, waiting for the catch. When the silence continues to hang, however, I clear my throat. ¡°Why are we limited to the compound after dark?¡± The Matron¡¯s ear flicks once. ¡°You¡¯ve only just arrived. I suppose you wouldn¡¯t know. Though if you¡¯re going to run about using that ¡®player¡¯ nonsense, you should be warned... ¡°There¡¯s already been some trouble with your lot. Thefts, and assault. I¡¯d assumed they were all Scourge-mad when they started screaming about ¡®En-Pee-Seas¡¯ and ¡®players,¡¯ and ¡®video games.¡¯¡± My blood runs cold as the Matron¡¯s gaze meets mine. It doesn¡¯t know it¡¯s an ¡®NPC¡¯. That doesn¡¯t surprise me, exactly; what sort of game pieces know they¡¯re game pieces? But the A.I. being smart enough to react adversely to players using language they don¡¯t understand, then drawing opinions about it is... It¡¯s wrong. I¡¯m not sure I want the answer, but I hear myself ask, ¡°What happened to them?¡± ¡°They were shown the gate and warned against returning. Those who ignored said warning, well¡­ The Magistrate does not take kindly to repeating herself.¡± I¡¯m sure there are questions that I need to ask. I can¡¯t think of any right now. The sense of wrongness I¡¯ve had since stepping into the game-world overpowers thought and reason. And it all must show on my face. Elthdred has softened again, and the Matron offers me a small, sad smile. ¡°Sister Elthdred will take you to your friends. If you have any further questions, we can discuss them on the morrow.¡± Elthdred leads me out a side door and through a garden lit by the same witchlight keeping the rest of the city bright. Bugs don¡¯t have demon forms, but they still need to keep bats, rats, and other small animals from transforming. It makes sense. Not much else does right now.
The sky is bloody red at the edges, fading up into black. If there are stars, there¡¯s too much light pollution to see them. I can see the guard force on the walls, framed against torches and the darkening sky. Elthdred follows my gaze as she pauses at a gate in the garden fence. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. We haven¡¯t had a breach in months.¡± Not exactly comforting, but I smile anyway. Beyond the gate is a dirt-packed courtyard with a well, a chicken coop, and and two barracks houses. Firelight flickers in both buildings¡¯ windows, but only one has an open door. A human woman stands there, leaning against the door jam with her eyes to the distance walls. ¡°There are plenty of beds left. I¡¯m sure you can sort it out among yourselves?¡± I nod vaguely in Elthdred¡¯s direction but my focus is on the other player. She seems vaguely familiar. Given the Magister¡¯s list, it doesn¡¯t take me long to put a finger on why. ¡°Dierdre?¡± The woman startles, swinging toward me. It is Deirdre. As though to confirm it, a panel flickers into being over her head, reading, ¡°B4B4BLKSHEEP.¡± It¡¯s nice to have a concrete reminder this is a game. The level of immersive detail is becoming a problem. Deirdre¡¯s avatar looks enough like herself that they could be sisters. It¡¯s a touch more athletic, and slimmer, but it shares her heart-shaped face, bronzy blonde hair, and piercing grey eyes. Eyes which are narrowed until they focus on a space over my head. They widen as she grins. ¡°Justin?!¡± She dashes forward and pulls me into a half-second hug. Then I¡®m shoved far enough away that she can grab my shoulders. ¡°Can you log out?¡± The shift in tone is instant. Worse, it confirms a fear I hadn¡¯t dared to vocalize, not even to myself; not even in thought. I¡¯m not the only one. At my headshake, Dierdre swears. Her shoulders slump, but she seems more resigned than upset. ¡°I keep hoping someone¡¯s going to answer that differently, y¡¯know?¡± ¡°Not exactly. You¡¯re the first player I¡¯ve seen.¡± ¡°Huh.¡± Deirdre frowns, glancing behind herself at the open doorway. Through it, I can see several other players scattered around a sparse barracks room. A few are holding hushed conversations, but most are watching us. ¡°You¡¯ve been surviving out there? Alone?¡± ¡°What?¡± It¡¯s my turn to frown, as I try parse the question. Why do I feel like I¡¯m missing something? ¡°I mean, I guess? It¡¯s only been a day.¡± ¡°But you were streaming when the game went live.¡± ¡°Yeah¡­¡± We stare at each other, each seemingly at a loss, when another woman leans her head out the door. Like Deirdre, she¡¯s a blonde. Unlike Deirdre, this woman went for pure ¡°Tits and Ass¡± aesthetics. ¡°What BaaBaa¡¯s trying to say is ¡®this shit¡¯s fucked, and time doesn¡¯t matter.¡¯¡± ¡°Because that really clears things up,¡± Deirdre says, rolling her eyes. She crosses her arms, and takes a deep breath. ¡°I¡¯ve been here three days.¡± Whatever else I might have said fails upon my tongue. Three days? It doesn¡¯t seem possible. Game time running faster than real-time is a necessary part of most video games. If you¡¯re running an international server, you wouldn¡¯t want half your player base to only ever login at night in game, or vice versa. But that time distortion doesn¡¯t affect human senses. Rather, it¡¯s not supposed to. Regardless, there was a two-hour gap between my launching the game when it opened, and stepping out of the character creator. In those two hours, the game server had gone through two days. One day per one real world hour...but the entire trek to Basingham felt like a full day¡ª ¡°Justin? Hello?¡± I blink rapidly, and glance between the two women now staring at me like I¡¯m bananas. Deirdre leans a little closer. ¡°You OK, man? I know this game¡¯s intense and all, but¡­¡± ¡°Two hours.¡± ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s lost it,¡± says the other player. ¡°No, no. I mean, I spent two hours in the character creator going over shit with my viewers. But I logged in when the server went live. Unless you guys got access earlier than I did¡­?¡± They both shake their heads, each looking a little worried now. I am, too, and for good reason. Time compression to that degree ought to feel like time compression even from within the game. But today felt like a full day. Yet another tally for the ¡°How the in the Fuck¡± pile. Rather than going into it, I ask, ¡°Any word on a game master?¡± Surprising no one, they shake their heads again. ¡°Nope,¡± Veri confirms, needlessly. Then she shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s whatever, at this point. You should try to get some sleep before the demons start. That shit is crazy fucked.¡± ¡°Worse than the alpha?¡± The look she gives me does nothing to assuage my fears. Instead of answering, Dierdre slaps my arm again, hard enough to leave it stinging. ¡°I¡¯m glad to see you, man. I¡¯m going to the market in the morning, and you¡¯re coming with me. About time there¡¯s a real team player around.¡± Before I can respond, Deirdre shoots the other woman a pointed, venomous look and steps around her into the barracks. Nice to see some people never change. ¡°I¡¯m Veri, by the way,¡± says the other woman. She extends a hand and I shake it. ¡°Justin,¡± I say, automatically. ¡°Yeah. I know.¡± With that weird statement, Veri follows Deidre inside. After a minute, so do I. Sleep sounds like a wonderful idea, even if I¡¯m not sure how that¡¯s supposed to work in a freaking video game. CH10, Alexa Pale light filters in from¡­ somewhere? I blink at the hazy collection of shapes surrounding me, rendered grey in the diffuse gloom. Boxes? Dad¡¯s medical supplies? No. I¡¯m slumped against the castle floor. My hopes crash. This marks the second time I¡¯ve passed out since logging in; a phenomenon that¡¯s no more appealing for repetition. It takes a minute to lever myself into a sitting position. Every part of me protests with sharp aches and pains. My knee throbs, I can barely put weight on my shoulder, and my head is pounding. Now that I¡¯m paying attention, I look down at my naked avatar¡ªat my body, or what feels increasingly, horrifically like my own body¡ªand wrinkle my nose at the thick smears of blood, mud, and who knows what else covering every inch of me. I am a mess, and I¡¯ve made a mess of the floor beneath me. Not that it matters, much. The dimly lit shapes resolve into a ransacked room. A gargantuan bed frame, likely meant to hold all the NPCs I saw in the yard, lays broken in a corner. Its straw mattress was cut open, the innards yanked free and strewn about the room. A few homemade stools and chairs are tossed around, legs and backs broken. The table lists toward one corner, and cutlery lies scattered across the floor. I push myself to my feet and stumble over to the bed. Though partially gutted, it still makes a warmer, softer place to lay. No sooner does my head hit it, am I out again. The second¡ªthird?¡ªtime I wake, it¡¯s with more clarity and a lot more light. There¡¯s warm straw beneath me, and while the rest of me is chilled, I¡¯m not shivering my bones straight out of my body. A mild improvement. A more dubious improvement is that I fully remember where I am, why I¡¯m naked, and why my stomach is collapsing in on itself. I groan, curling back into the straw to ride out a wave of nausea and pain. My life has been a fairly lucky one. I¡¯ve always had a roof over my head, clothes on my back, etcetera. Sure, I¡¯ve gone a full day without eating before, but always by choice when I was a teenager who occasionally decided starving herself was the only way she¡¯d ever be ¡°pretty.¡± Since realizing it would never work, I hadn¡¯t willingly gone without three meals a day; minimum. Until now. The nausea slackens by degrees, enough that I¡¯m able to climb from bed and take a better look at my surroundings. Last night¡¯s estimations prove well founded: someone went through here like a tornado. It¡¯ll take a closer inspection to find anything worth salvaging, but I doubt there¡¯s much. If it had immediate value, it¡¯s gone. Still, I¡¯ve lucked out. Finding this farm is an act of kindness large enough I should fall to my knees thanking the stars or gods or game devs; whoever is responsible for the windfall. If I can fix the gate¡ªhell, even if I can¡¯t¡ªa castle provides shelter from the most immediate threat next to dehydration and starvation: demons. I grip my stomach as another wave of gurgling hunger wracks my body. My avatar, I mean. It¡¯s alarming how fast the distinction is blurring. This place is so real, so vivid, that I¡¯m having trouble remembering what my real bed, my real body, my real world feel like. Or maybe that¡¯s the pain and hunger talking. ¡°A list,¡± I tell myself, and startle at the sound of my voice in the quiet. I¡¯m not whispering and in the abject silence my voice is loud as an earthquake. ¡°I need to make a list,¡± I repeat, testing the way the words sound. My voice is scratchy, like I¡¯d expect it to be after a day of screaming, crying, and nothing to drink. Talking makes my throat hurt even more, but somehow, hearing the words out loud make them more actionable than they are in my head. ¡°Priorities. First: Safety. Figure out what happened to the demon. Kill the mobs. Second: find water. This is a farm, it should have a well. Three: fix the gate. Four¡­¡± Those are out of order. ¡°No. Three: sort out supplies to work with. Which might need to come before safety? Otherwise, how do I... Ugh. Okay, okay, okay, Alexa, think.¡± As I talk, I pace slowly along a clear section of the room. ¡°Take stock. Find water. Consider options.¡± The well should be outside, which makes the demon my biggest concern. Judging by the light, it should be late enough in the morning for the demon to have reverted to its more mundane form. Quietly, I approach the exterior door and crack it open. A familiar, strangely happy sound greets me alongside an olfactory slap of rot. Swallowing thickly against the acid clawing up my throat, I pull the door open wide enough to peek outside. The bridge I¡¯d propped up last night is still there, shielding me from view of the main gate as I ease my head through the gap. At first, I can¡¯t see anything, either¡ªjust the too-wide-to-jump gap between the balcony and stairs to my right. Then, near the base of the castle, within that open gap, a wild sow noses her way into view. She¡¯s a hefty thing; big-boned and walnut brown with heavy, sagging tits. It¡¯s hard to tell at this angle, but she might be chest height to my avatar; larger than anything I could deal with one-on-one in my present state, and that¡¯s ignoring the clear sounds of a herd just out of sight. Still, I relax. They can¡¯t get up here. I step out onto the balcony and peer around the edge of the bridge to see the rest. ¡°...Three, four, five¡­¡± Six, including the mother beneath me. Four of them look young enough to still be nursing, if their sizes are any indication. It¡¯s the boar who catches my attention. He¡¯s at least a head taller than the sow, with huge yellow tusks. That one took out the gate; I have no doubt. They mill aimlessly around the front yard, stepping over and through the mangled corpses. It¡¯s clear, both from the stains on their pelts and the state of the bodies, that the demons ate their fill last night. ¡°At least they¡¯re full,¡± I mutter. The boar¡¯s head shoots up, turning in my direction as its snout twitches. Its tail flicks. One juvenile ventures closer to my position, snout twitching just like its father, followed quickly by a second and third. A sudden grunt from the sow sends all six fleeing for the ruined gate. They¡¯re running...from me? I almost can¡¯t believe it; wild boar are always aggressive in daylight. They should have growled, or charged the castle or¡­ something. Right? At the gate, the sow stops. She turns back to look at me as though considering that I haven¡¯t given chase. This is my chance to get rid of them. Much as keeping pigs, however wild, might be a good idea for food later, they¡¯re just going to turn into demons come dusk. It isn¡¯t worth the risk. The sow takes a step back inside. ¡°Go on! Get out of here!¡± I yell. With an affronted grunt, the sow bolts after the rest of her family, leaving me alone once again. ¡°How¡¯s that for step one?¡± I ask the air, feeling a faint sense of victory despite having done nothing noteworthy. Earned or not, this is a victory. I have shelter and space to work; possibly more. Sparing a glance at the sky, I note that it isn¡¯t even noon yet. There¡¯s plenty of time to inspect the castle holdings and whatever the looters may have left behind.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
There isn¡¯t a well. It seems an unbelievable oversight on the game developers¡¯ part. Who would build a castle, or a farm, without a defensible water source? But I scoured the yard and both outbuildings, turning up nothing. My throat is parched. Swallowing will be an issue soon, if the unrelenting realism of this world is any indication. Swallowing and talking, and somewhere in there my ability to reason. Beyond that, I¡¯m not sure what dying by dehydration looks like. Neither do I care to find out. Vaguely, I recall an old survival movie where the characters had to drink their own piss to stay hydrated. I really hope it doesn¡¯t come to that, even as I squat inside the dank, unholy smelling outhouse I found near the back wall. How is this fair? I shouldn¡¯t have to pee; I haven¡¯t had anything to drink! There¡¯s no way to wash my hands after, and nothing that looks remotely like toilet paper is in evidence. Feeling unbelievably disgusting, I let the lingering droplets of piss join what¡¯s already dried to my skin from yesterday¡¯s embarrassment, and walk stiffly back to the front yard. At least I didn¡¯t have to poop, though I suspect that¡¯ll come, eventually. It¡¯s an effort not to shudder. The desiccated corpses littering the bailey have almost become commonplace. For a long minute I stare at them, waiting until the rumblings of nausea settle. And they do, until I consider what needs to happen next. I have to move them. It isn¡¯t good to leave them here, for a variety of reasons, but the mere idea of touching them is one step too far. Flies continue to writhe over the remaining flesh, interspersed with wiggling points of white. Maggots. Aren¡¯t they a good source of protein? My stomache dry heaves. I turn away, heading for the gate. By some small miracle, the gate hinges are holding on by the barest of degrees, along with a tenth of splintered wood. The rest forms a scattered, dangerous pile strewn for several feet inside the yard. You can¡¯t fix this in the real world. In a game, however, it depends on the crafting system. I speculated before that crafting is more realistic now than in the alphas. It¡¯s still a decent hypothesis. But a defeatist outlook doesn¡¯t give me any idea where to start. Better to go with what I know. Tentatively, I pick up a large but manageable chunk of wood. A grey text-box appears, hovering over it.
¡ª ¡ª Scrap Wood Type: Oak, Treated Quantity: 2.34 lbs Durability: Low ¡ª ¡ª
I pick up a second, smaller piece and am treated to a similar pop-up; only the quantity has changed. Though I wait for a second, nothing else happens. I sigh. In the alpha there was a quick menu for combining material scraps on the fly. It only applied to basic mats like sticks or straw, or broken pieces of wood, but that doesn¡¯t seem to exist anymore. Figures. Hell, it even makes a twisted sort of sense. MANIK PIX-E had only agreed to include quick crafting after we¡¯d spent months campaigning, begging, and modding it in ourselves. They kept arguing it wasn¡¯t ¡°realistic.¡± In the end, quality of life won out. Until now. I swallow back my annoyance. That isn¡¯t helpful right now. The less convenient method requires a workbench which I may actually have. When I¡¯d gone through the place earlier, I¡¯d focused on finding water. I¡¯d given little thought to the rest of the outbuildings¡¯ contents. One of them looked like a work room. That makes sense. After all, a farm needs to make and repair their own equipment; especially one this remote. I survey the two outbuildings set across the bailey from one another. They¡¯re both in fine condition despite spending the night in demonic presence. They¡¯re also more-or-less identical; wood and plaster constructs in an advanced, square-frame style. A style that¡¯s anachronistic as all hell juxtaposed with the castle, but that¡¯s never seemed to matter to the dev¡¯s sense of ¡°realism.¡± Each building also boasts a wooden door hung on rope hinges, and more rope looped around wooden latches serving as both doorknob and lock. One of them holds building and farm supplies. The other had barracks on one end, and a stable on the other. I don¡¯t remember which is which. Cradling the wood in one arm, I gather the largest sections of wood as I make my way toward the nearest building. Each piece comes with its own text box, briefly explaining the weight and quality of said piece. A few, those with fittings or nails in evidence, bring up multiple boxes; one for each component. This could get annoying quickly. What happens if I¡¯m being chased by something or¡ªGod forbid¡ªhave to fight something? Will I have pop-ups suddenly littering my vision like a poorly monetized free-to-play? By the time I reach the building, I¡¯ve got enough in my arms to make pulling the door open difficult. I get it started, then nudge it the rest of the way with one heel. The door bangs against my hip as I step inside, and stop on the threshold. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the interior¡¯s relative gloom. There¡¯s light in here, though it¡¯s filtered through wax-papered windows set close to the ceiling. As the dark shapes resolve into a single, rectangular room with a straw-covered floor, cut crossways by a furrow leading out the door. Something was drug outside. A body, judging by the reddish-brown stains There¡¯s a similar stain on the edge of the workbench. Whoever died in here¡ªwhatever; NPCs are whats¡ªthey clearly put up a fight. There are more rusty red flecks in various places around the room, and they left a few boxes of precious scrap strewn about. Swallowing down my uneasy heart, I carry my burden to the workbench. Immediately, a glittering, glowing panel pops into existence, hovering over the back of the bench like a whiteboard. Relief, pure and intense, floods through my veins. Despite the pop-ups I¡¯d been seeing, I¡¯d half expected the workbench wouldn¡¯t work either. I take a deep, shuddering breath and will back the tears threatening to spill. There¡¯s no time for that. Besides, I¡¯ve done more than enough crying. The panel is as long as the workbench with a headline stating the obvious: ¡°Common Workbench.¡± One item is listed in the left-hand column, but there¡¯s so much room beneath that I¡¯m sure more options will become available later; I probably just need some kind of tool to populate them. I press ¡°extract.¡± It blinks pale blue, then white. A prompt appears. ¡°Extract and sort raw materials? Yes / No?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I say on impulse, and the selection highlights itself before the panel winks out of existence. Particle lights erupt around the scrap like an explosion of fireflies. They twinkle; starting dim and increasing in brightness until there¡¯s a pop of blinding light. Flinching, I resist the urge to rub my eyes¡ªmy hands are disgusting¡ªand blink rapidly. When I can see again, I find a pile of fresh, perfect-looking materials laid neatly out on the workbench. ¡°Woah,¡± I breathe as I pick up a brass nail from the small pile. It¡¯s wickedly sharp, and about as long as my finger. About as thick, too. What¡¯s more interesting is that it looks handmade, down to little knicks and scratches from a hammer. Upon inspecting the others, I find that each of them is unique. Another uneasy tremor works its way through me. How many models can a game have? Glancing back at the ¡°extract¡± selection, finding the text has turned light grey and italicized; the universal signal for ¡°not available." Beneath that is a new option: craft. Eagerly, I press it and am disappointed when the right-hand column flickers but remains blank. What? As though in response, tiny grey text scrolls into existence at the bottom of the panel. ¡°Quick crafting recipes become available when the following requirements are met: user has learned or created a recipe, user has created and assigned a material storage facility within the workbench compound, user has stored or is carrying appropriate crafting tools.¡± It¡¯s disappointing news, if entirely expected. MANIK-PIXIE couldn¡¯t make this easy, could they? But one item stands out. ¡°We can create our own recipes?¡± To my surprise, the text wipes clear and begins again. ¡°Users are encouraged to use their imaginations. Anything that can be done in your old home can be done here, given the right materials and equipment.¡± So I wasn¡¯t wrong, but being right is a cold comfort. And then it¡¯s just cold. Ice cold. My blood freezes with it as my mind locks on that peculiar phrasing. ¡°Anything that can be done in your old home.¡± That can¡¯t be right. I cannot be right. In a small voice, small enough I barely recognize it, I ask, ¡°How do I log out?¡± The text box wipes clean. Pauses. ¡°Question not understood.¡± ¡°Like hell. How. Do. I. Log. Out?¡± ¡°Question not understood.¡± Tangling my fingers into the thick, impossible hair of my avatar, I flail for any logic that might explain this. There¡¯s no logout button. I can¡¯t find an escape menu of any kind. This world is too real, too concrete for its own good and the workbench seems to think this is my home now?! I¡¯m know I¡¯m overreacting, but after everything else that¡¯s happened in the past¡ªwhat? Less than twenty-four hours in game but it feels like a lifetime; after all of that this is just¡­ This is just¡­ This is an overreaction. Calm the fuck down, Lex. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and count backwards from ten as I slowly release. It¡¯s a little silly, but the process forces me to stop reacting and rationalize. ¡°It¡¯s just a workbench. Some dev wrote that in without giving it much thought. No one knew there¡¯d be a glitch of this magnitude. Besides, why would a workbench have a tooltip for logging out?¡± I open my eyes, refocusing on the workbench, and scream. ¡°I apologize for distressing you, MSWYVERN.¡± CH11, Justin It¡¯s barely dawn, and the market is teeming with NPCs. This is the first chance I¡¯ve had to stop and appreciate my surroundings. I kind of wish I hadn¡¯t. As threatened, Deirdre woke me shortly before the streetlamps dimmed. She hadn¡¯t needed to. Sleep was elusive, thanks in no small part to the demons screaming beyond the city wall. The noise was terrible; far worse than the alpha because here it was punctuated by screams of pain. Each time a demon hit the wall, a rumble like an earthquake shook the bones of the city. Rubbing the crusts from my eyes, I can vaguely recall the few, hallucinogenic dreams I¡¯d had in rare moments of sleep. All involved the walls caving in, and nightmares flooding the city streets. None of our fellow players stopped or joined us as we slipped from the barracks. Either Deirdre hadn¡¯t invited them, or they weren¡¯t interested in whatever she was planning. I didn¡¯t bother asking until we¡¯d passed through the unmanned gate, and into the city streets. ¡°I need someone to watch my back,¡± she said. She did not bother lowering her voice. While I didn¡¯t see any guards around, there were other NPCs who cast us interested, curious looks. ¡°I¡¯m tired of taking charity, sitting around waiting for a solution. If we¡¯re stuck in this game, we might as well have fun with it.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t think this is a bit weird?¡± She cut me a disbelieving look. ¡°I¡¯m not retarded. Yeah, it¡¯s weird. It¡¯s still just a game.¡± I¡¯m glad she¡¯s so sure. I¡¯m not. Sometime during the foggy hours between finding a thin cot in the barracks room, and trudging through chilled morning streets with Deirdre, I¡¯d jumped the shark straight from disbelief to pure acceptance. Whatever this is, we¡¯re gonna be stuck for a while. Perhaps I should have resisted the idea more, but¡­ nah. Nothing has been right from the second I logged in. Sure, I¡¯m not a software engineer. I flunked out. Granted, the course work had nothing to do with why I left school, but that¡¯s beside the point which is: even with recent innovations in quantum computing this isn¡¯t possible. I keep up to date on tech likely to impact the gaming market; enough to recognize the sheer horsepower needed to make this function. The wealth of models and individualized textures, and¡­ everything I¡¯ve seen so far defies the bounds of available tech, if not the imagination. Which means something else is going on. But fuck me if I have any idea what that something could be. ¡°So you¡¯re going to¡­¡± ¡°Watch,¡± Deirdre says. She holds up one finger. ¡°The NPC patterns seem¡­ long. Could even have full day cycles. I¡¯m having trouble timing things out.¡± Suddenly, I understand why no one else wanted to be a ¡°team player.¡± In any other game petty larceny wouldn¡¯t be a big deal; hell, that¡¯s an ideal starting playstyle. But here, given our situation and the alpha¡¯s old idiosyncrasies it¡¯s a much less solid solution to our vagrancy. ¡°Dee¡ª¡± She groans. ¡°It¡¯ll be fine. If shit gets real, you won¡¯t be involved. All I¡¯m asking for is an extra pair of eyes and some warning if shit gets real. Right?¡± I pull a face without meaning to, and promptly school my features back to careful neutrality. Will my involvement matter to the guards if she¡¯s caught? Hard to say. See, in the alpha the guards and ¡°legal system¡± were omniscient. If you got caught, every NPC in the game marked you as a thief. If you got into their range, they¡¯d hunt you down until they successfully killed you. Since they were also immortal, well, you can see how that¡¯d be a problem. Well, could be a problem. It really depends on what happens upon avatar death. Could be we respawn at the last place we slept, or we¡¯re sent to a random respawn point. Or we could wake up, kicked from the game entirely. There¡¯s also a fourth option; one I truly don¡¯t want to think about. Watching her back is a small risk. If she dies over it, well, that ain¡¯t my fault. It wasn¡¯t my decision. Which is heartless, and a touch cowardly. It¡¯s also smart. I just hope this doesn¡¯t bite me in the ass. ¡°Don¡¯t expect me to save you,¡± I concede. Deirdre slaps my arm, grinning as though she¡¯s won. Technically, I guess she has. I set myself up at the head of an alley, keeping one eye on Deirdre as she lingers near a bakery storefront. Mostly, though, I¡¯m focused on counting vendors as they set up for the day. Figured it¡¯d be good to know what we¡¯re working with. I stopped trying when I hit the forties. Over forty unique vendors are spread through the market square; some with shop fronts, others with carts and stalls. Several times as many customers swarm around them, jostling for position, haggling, and carrying packages. Children dart through holes in the crowd, beneath legs and through displays¡ªmuch to the consternation of vendor and patron alike. The sheer size of the crowd solidified my fear about this game being off-the-rails of incredulity. That¡¯s ignoring the fact there are children in the game; children just as varied as the adults. All ages are present, from infants swaddled against their parents¡¯ chests to acne-encrusted teenagers and everything in between. There is something drastically wrong here, and I no longer believe finding a game master will fix it. ¡°If yer casing the joint, you best reconsider.¡± I flinch, then curse myself for reacting. I¡¯d forgotten about the guard posted not far from my position. It¡¯s watching me¡ªhas been watching me¡ªwith a curious, suspicious scowl on its goblinoid face. ¡°Just trying to get acclimated,¡± I assure it, adopting my most winning smile. ¡°It¡¯s kind of overwhelming, being so far from home.¡± The words are barely past my lips before their truth clogs my throat, preventing me from saying anything else. Maybe the guard senses that. Or maybe it just doesn¡¯t care. It grunts and turns its attention back to the market. Somehow, I get the sense I wasn¡¯t dismissed. Speaking of senses, there¡¯s a presence at my back. I shudder. That¡¯s another part of the puzzle; I shouldn¡¯t be able to feel someone standing behind me; their aura¡ªfor lack of a better term¡ªniggling at the back of my mind like static electricity. Tamping down the hair prickling on the back of my neck, I turn to face Deirdre who blindly shoves a steaming bread roll at me. Her eyes are only for the market, narrowed in her usual, paranoid suspicion. ¡°Learn anything?¡± she asks, once I¡¯ve accepted her offering. Nearby, the guard fidgets. ¡°There¡¯s a lot of people,¡± I say, carefully. The guard¡¯s warning lingers in mind, but it seems unwise to bring it up. Almost as ¡®unwise¡¯ as hinting that we¡¯re gathering intelligence. ¡°Seems like the Magistrate meant it when she said there isn¡¯t room.¡± Deirdre snorts derisively. I catch the smallest roll of her eyes as she joins me at alley entrance. Leaning against the brick corner, I set about eating my breakfast without fully taking my eyes off her or the NPC guard. Deirdre isn¡¯t a bad person, per se. We¡¯re both streamers, but we met long before that, back when we were just playing BattleStar like everybody else. We were fairly close then; friends, even. But shit changes, and things got intense when the game went full on e-sport. Deirdre got tapped for a professional team. I didn¡¯t. We haven¡¯t spoken regularly in years, though I¡¯d been among the first to join her channel when she got benched. She¡¯s a fantastic player, and a dangerous one. And perhaps that¡¯s why I don¡¯t like the way she¡¯s watching the NPCs with that calculating stare of hers. They¡¯re just A.I., sure, but I can¡¯t help wondering when that stare will get turned on me. ¡°Guess it went well?¡± I ask, gesturing with my bread roll. She grins. ¡°Well enough for test one. Test two¡ª¡± Whatever she¡¯s saying is interrupted by a scream from the front gates. The guard near us tenses, before scaling the brick wall using claw and architecture to get a better vantage point over the quieting crowd. ¡°What¡¯s all that about?¡± Deirdre asks, standing on tiptoe. It¡¯s pointless, though. There¡¯s too many people; most of them far taller than either of us.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Someone shouts for a healer, and another for the magistrate. Above us, the guard who¡¯d been lurking gives a sharp whistle. When I glance up it takes one clawed hand from the wall, gesturing to the gate. ¡°May want to circle ¡®round to the temple. Seems more of your lot just made it, and they ain¡¯t in the best of shape.¡± ## That was an understatement. Skirting through side streets, we made it back to the compound just ahead of the gaggle of Sisters and guards half-leading, half-carrying a pair of players through the city. Both looked dazed on top of being naked and covered in blood, mud and other detritus. I¡¯ll give Deirdre this: she¡¯s quick on the draw. She takes one look at these players, mutters something about ¡°getting Veri,¡± and took off like a shot into the temple. I stayed where I was until one guard forced me out of the way. With nothing to do, but feeling somehow obligated to help, I trailed inside behind them. ¡°What happened?¡± The Matron appears seemingly out of nowhere, hobbling like ritalin-fueled Yoda toward the group. One guard steps forward; a scrawny, younger orc with an unfinished air about it that telegraphs ¡°teenager.¡± There¡¯s a plaintive whine to its voice as it wrings its hands. ¡°Don¡¯t exactly know, Mother! Promise we don¡¯t. They came out the forest just past dawn, staggerin¡¯ like. Nearly shot them as undead, we did, but they was too coordinated for that kind. Captain told us t¡¯bring them right in to you lot.¡± As it gives this speech, the other guards attempt to separate each player to a pew. It¡¯s not going well. One, a boy, seems less perturbed¡ªand less aware¡ªthan his female companion whose eyes dart wildly around the room. Now alert, she clings to her partner¡¯s hand and swings wildly at the guards. ¡°Dear,¡± says the Matron, stepping forward. She¡¯s rewarded with an alarmed shriek. This breaks through the boy¡¯s haze. He tugs against the arms holding him. Sensing that things are about to go from bad to worse, I hold my hands up in an appeasing manner, stepping forward. ¡°Hey, there! Um¡ª¡± I tilt my head and a pop-up appears above the girl. ¡°¡ªBLITZBEEQUEEN? That¡¯s quite the handle you have. Can I call you ¡®Blitz?¡¯ Or would you prefer ¡®Bee?¡¯¡± Everyone¡¯s attention refocuses on me. That¡¯s alright so long as it includes BLITZBEEQUEEN and... MIGHTYBOFAT¡¯s attentions. Blitz whimpers. Her bottom lip quivers as tears pool in her eyes. However, it¡¯s the boy who says in a voice like a cornhusk in the wind, ¡°You¡¯re human? For real?¡± ¡°For real,¡± I agree. ¡°And these kind folks are just trying to help you. Okay?¡± Blitz bursts into tears. Bofat pulls her into arms, holding her tight as the rest of us stand there, dumbfounded. I don¡¯t think I¡¯m imagining the half-embarrassed confusion written across several faces. No one¡¯s sure what¡¯s going on, or knows what to do. I sure as fuck don¡¯t. ¡°Well,¡± the Matron begins when the back door bursts open. Veri hustles forward, with Deirdre following more sedately behind. ¡°Alright, let me see,¡± Veri says, marching straight to Blitz and Bofat. The latter draws back, fixing her with narrowed, affronted eyes. Veri¡¯s tone is firm but compassionate as she sets her arms akimbo. ¡°Don¡¯t give me that look. I¡¯m a nurse. Are either of you wounded?¡± Blitz shakes her head. Bofat does the same, then hesitates. ¡°Dunno,¡± he says after a minute. ¡°Things got kinda¡­ It¡¯s hard to... ¡± He swallows convulsively, turning his head away as his eyes brighten. ¡°You were in the woods all night?¡± The soft question comes from the teenage guard. Now that he¡¯s stated it, the enormity of their appearance sinks in. All night alone. In the dark. With those... things. The girl¡®s quiet sobbing fills the room, amplified by the sanctuary¡®s accoustics and our own silence. Finally, the Matron looks at Veri. ¡°You know where the baths are.¡± ¡°You both come with me,¡± Veri says to the newcomers, holding out her hands. When neither moves, she gestures at the guards and Sisters still gathered around. ¡°Do you need help? It¡¯s OK if you need help.¡± The reddening of Bofat¡¯s cheeks says it isn¡¯t OK at all, but he doesn¡¯t object. Both tense, watching the NPCs who carried them this far. After the experience they¡¯d had, this must be overwhelming. ¡°Here,¡± I say, drifting to Bofat¡¯s side. ¡°Why don¡¯t you lean on me? Veri can help Blitz.¡± That seems to break the apprehension, at least a little. Blitz untangles herself from Bofat, only to wrap around Veri like a human squid. I help Bofat hook his arm over my shoulder, noting the discomfort on his face when he tried to lift it on his own. Between the four of us, and with Deirdre holding doors open along the way, we limp our way deeper into the complex without further complications. ## The ¡°baths¡± prove singular; housed a long, stone room near the barracks that featured one large, inset pool. The water is piping hot and flows continuously in via a short waterfall along the north edge, and out a grate in the southern floor. Skylights in the roof illuminate frescoed walls that feel more roman than medieval Europe. It also seems extravagant, but as we help Bofat and Blitz clean up¡ªand get clean myself¡ªDeirdre explains that the system is normal, here. ¡°Turns out they take hygiene pretty seriously,¡± she says, dipping one foot in the swirling waters from her place lounging at the edge of the pool. ¡°There¡¯s all kinds of sewers and pipe systems beneath the city, supplemented by some kind of magic system we haven¡¯t figured out yet.¡± ¡°There was magic in the alpha,¡± I say as I drop another dollop of shampoo into Bofat¡¯s outstretched hand. His left arm remains at his side; Veri thinks he¡¯s wrenched his shoulder and doesn¡¯t want him using it more than he has to. Still, he¡¯s refusing my help except when absolutely necessary. Can¡¯t say I blame him. We¡¯re both keeping our eyes carefully turned toward the south end of the pool. Behind us, Veri is keeping Alice distracted from the twin facts that A) she¡¯s sharing a bath with two naked men, and B) half the city has now seen every inch of her. Neither is talking much, so we fill the space for them. It seems to help, though that could just be wishful thinking. ¡°Duh,¡± Deirdre drawls. ¡°I know that, dumbass. I was better at it than you.¡± ¡°How would you know? We never played together.¡± ¡°I watched your channel.¡± ¡°Not all the time.¡± ¡°I watched enough. You never were a ¡®swords and sorcery¡¯ type, dude. That¡¯s why I was shocked when you picked up this game.¡± ¡°Yeah, well,¡± I hedge. There¡¯s a reason for that, but it isn¡¯t a conversation I want to have in a bathtub full of strangers. Which is among the weirdest thoughts I¡¯ve ever had. ¡°So what¡¯s the difference?¡± ¡°Not sure. I tried the standard starter spells¡ªcandle lighting, wind calling, blah-dee-blah¡ªnothing works. Just like the bugged quick crafting. We¡¯re totally locked out.¡± ¡°What about the NPCs?¡± ¡°If they know, they aren¡¯t talking. Even tried asking that Matron lady. Pretty sure she doesn¡¯t like me.¡± ¡°You were planning to steal an idol,¡± Veri cuts in. ¡°A small one!¡± She casts me an expression which reads ¡®can you blame me?¡¯ ¡°They have jewels in them. They¡¯ve gotta be worth a small fortune.¡± ¡°And who¡¯d you sell them to?¡± I try to sound teasing, but I¡¯m honestly curious. ¡°There can¡¯t be a market demand for obviously stolen religious relics.¡± Deirdre¡¯s smile is sharp and her sing-song as she says, ¡°You of all people should know there¡¯s a buyer for anything, Justin.¡± I raise a brow and Deirdre winks at me. More politely she adds, ¡°I¡¯ve been hearing rumors about a thieves'' guild somewhere in the city.¡± ¡°Like a secret organization type?¡± The voice is new and startling. But Bofat looks present, now, if not particularly happy or aware of his surroundings. That¡¯s an improvement, however small. ¡°That¡¯s what I figure,¡± Deirdre says. She gently kicks a spray of water at him, causing the man to laugh and flinch away. ¡°Nice to see you back with us. You wanna join me on the darkside?¡± ¡°I usually play rogues,¡± he says. ¡°Thieves and assassins guilds come with the territory. Er, in other games I mean.¡± ¡°You play the alpha?¡± I say, after he¡¯s ducked his head into the water to rinse his hair. Turns out, underneath all that filth he¡¯s yet another blonde. At least his is a darker sort, with roots that are nearly brunette. ¡°Yeah,¡± he says, nodding and wiping the water from his face. Deirdre hands him a dry washcloth. ¡°Not for long. The last three months? I got it so I¡¯d get in¡­ here.¡± He swallows hard, stilling once again. After a long silence, he shakes his head; startling the thoughts away. ¡°Uh, what about you guys? Are you all¡ª¡± There¡¯s a pause as his gaze falls on Deirdre again. I see the moment his eyes unfocus above her, and widen. ¡°You¡¯re BaaBaa Collins?!¡± His voice breaks on her name, like a kid in puberty. Suddenly, I realize I never looked for an ¡°age¡± adjustment in the character creator. I¡¯m not sure if anyone else did, either. Everyone I¡¯ve seen so far looks to be in their early twenties. That doesn¡¯t mean we are. Hell, I know Deirdre and myself are a good decade older. Fans come in all ages, I remind myself before the unease settles in. One fanboy moment does not a child make. Even if it did, I¡¯ve known for years there are teenagers and literal children who play this game. I don¡¯t make a habit of associating with them, but they¡¯ve always been here. Somehow, though, having them around in this context seems¡­ different. ¡°In the¡ªwell, not in the flesh,¡± Deirdre says with a cocky grin. ¡°Oh man,¡± Tyler says. This is enough to distract him from his malaise, it seems; hard to count that as a bad thing. ¡°I-I used to follow your channel, and your whole BattleStar career! My dad was a super fan of yours.¡± OK, that¡¯s a bigger clue. I glance at Deirdre, who meets my gaze with a barely perceptible nod before giving her full attention back to Bofat. ¡°Nice to meet you, kid. Or are you gonna make me call you Bofat?¡± ¡°Tyler,¡± he says, then gestures behind him. ¡°And that¡¯s my girlfriend, Alice.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t look!¡± Alice squeaks. Tyler¡¯s cheeks flush red. His back goes ramrod straight as he snaps his attention back to Deirdre. ¡°I¡¯m not looking! I promise.¡± ¡°No one¡¯s looking,¡± Veri says behind us. ¡°And the Sisters dropped off clothes for you both.¡± Alice¡¯s voice is soft as she says, ¡°Okay.¡± Voice low, Deirdre leans in to ask, ¡°Did she play the Alpha?¡± All the enthusiasm drains from Tyler¡¯s face, leaving him hollow-eyed and exhausted once more. Silently, he shakes his head. Resisting the urge to glance Alice¡¯s way, I lever myself out of the pool to dry off and dress before helping Tyler out. I take the silence as an opportunity to reconsider our situation. Deirdre wants a team. I try not to revel in the irony, there. She¡¯s right to want one; I don¡¯t think soloing would work in this game anymore, even if we could logout. Pain is too real, and the world too demanding. And hell, I never wanted to play alone, regardless. Robert. Winston. Mikah. Lucy. Alex¡ªMs. All five are out there, somewhere. Hell, a few of the others coule be, too. Quiet, Babz, Taco¡­ Are they alone? Did they make it to cities? There¡¯s no way to know. Fulnedebi is thirty-eight miles away. I¡¯ll never make that on foot. Even if I could, there¡¯s no guarantee Robert or Ms made it there, and I don¡¯t have the slightest idea where to start looking for anyone else. Guh. It¡¯s pointless to focus on the impossible. Better to just accept what you have. The question is: what do we have, exactly? CH12, Alexa ¡°You talk.¡± It¡¯s not a question. The workbench answers like it was: ¡°No.¡± ¡°But you answered my question?¡± ¡°Talk is a verb or noun, which both imply conversational aptitude. I answer questions within pre-defined boundaries.¡± ¡°You used the word ¡®I¡¯.¡± I¡¯m talking to a machine. A sentient machine. No, that¡¯s not quite right. Artificially Intelligent¡­ thing? Which makes some sense; most of the mobs run off limited A.I.; same with NPCs. But this is a menu panel. ¡°Yes,¡± says the workbench. ¡°Why are you identifying yourself as a person?¡± ¡°Personification puts users more at ease, rendering them less inclined to destroy what they do not understand.¡± A million counterarguments rise to mind; I bite my tongue. Arguing with the menu about human psychology isn¡¯t going to get me anywhere. Pulling myself back with a shake of my head, I refocus on the important matters: ¡°What did you mean by ¡®your old home?¡¯¡± ¡°The place from whence you came.¡± A panel that talks like some medieval scholar. Cute. ¡°Which would be?¡± ¡°Question not understood.¡± ¡°Argh!¡± Again I scream, this time out of frustration and futile rage. I rear back, slamming the flat of my foot into the workbench. Pain lances up my leg. I thought I¡¯d grown used to the constant throbbing of my ruined feet¡ªand I had. This pain is a new experience altogether. I fall back on my ass, head smacking so hard into the far wall that my vision goes blurry. For a few, long minutes I just sit, wheezing and eyes squeezed shut as I fight through wave after wave of pain fueled nausea. It isn¡¯t just my head and foot that hurts. Everything hurts, and has hurt for hours now. A momentary lack of distraction was all the pain needed to reassert itself. Breathe. Just breathe. Ride it out, Alexa, just like you ride out cramps. This is worse than most menstrual cramps I¡¯ve experienced, though, if only because it¡¯s full bodied instead of centered on my abdomen. It will also kill me if I sit too long. Dehydration waits for nothing. Again, I wonder what happens if my avatar dies. But there are just too many possibilities. Forcing my eyes open, I move first one arm and then the other, slowly inching back onto my feet. I brace my hands against the workbench for support and look down at its newest message: another apology for my ¡®distress.¡¯ So that is a programmed response. Weird. Confirmation makes me feel better, if only a little. I¡¯m not talking to a sentient menu panel. ¡°Okay, you¡¯re not as helpful as I would like, but that doesn¡¯t mean you¡¯re worthless. You said something about crafting recipes being dependent on¡­ what?¡± Another familiar message appears, listing the requirements for crafting. ¡°...[the] user has learned or created a recipe, user has created and assigned a material storage facility within the workbench perimeter, user has stored or is carrying appropriate crafting tools.¡± ¡°Do I have to complete all those steps, or only one?¡± ¡°One or more, situationally. If you tell me what you¡®re trying to craft, I can offer an example provided the designs are within a low-level crafting tier.¡± ¡°Given I don¡¯t know what my level is, that¡¯s kind of hard to answer.¡± ¡°Open your menu.¡± An odd request, but I have no reason to argue. Once more, I concentrate on calling the menu¡ªI really need to start experimenting with this more; there¡¯s gotta be a shortcut to the status screen¡ª There¡¯s a new item on the menu, beneath ¡°status:¡± Crafting. My mouth dropped open. ¡°Seriously?!¡± Glancing at the workbench, I roll my eyes and add, ¡°Yes, yes. I know. The question isn¡¯t understood.¡± I select ¡°Crafting¡± and am rewarded with a panel the same size as my status menu. At the top it lists ¡°Woodworking,¡± followed by an EXP bar¡ªfinally an EXP bar!¡ªthat¡¯s tantalizingly close to full. Grey letters in the upper right hand read ¡°LVL 0.¡± There¡¯s no numbers to tell me precisely how many points I need to level one. ¡°Typical,¡± I mutter. Just before I close the menu, I realize there are words beneath the EXP bar. They¡¯re italicized in a light grey text so faint that it takes a minute of squinting and mouthing out the words to understand them. ¡°Crafting skills are gained through working with materials, learning to identify materials, and completing projects. Remember: within Duskfall, those willing to put forward both time and effort are always rewarded.¡± As opposed to¡­ what? Something about that last sentence doesn¡¯t quite sit right. It seems so hopeful at first glance, so kind. There has to be a catch. This game doesn¡¯t do kind. ¡°How do I make a gate?¡± I close the crafting panel in time to witness the workbench scrawling instructions. ¡°Method one: the gate recipe can be accessed through quick crafting once a storage facility is assigned to your workbench, and provided the requisite tools and materials. This method costs more in materials than manual assembly. It will not consume your tools, but tool quality is reduced by an amount appropriate to the design.¡± That¡¯s fair-ish. ¡°Method two: A basic gate recipe can be viewed at any workbench once your woodworking level has increased to three. Afterwhich¡ªor before which, if you care to try without instruction¡ªyou may assemble the gate by hand. This method will cost less in the long term. Non-raw material parts, such as nails, may be individually gained through extracting components from salvage, quick crafting, or by forging materials yourself.¡± I wait a full minute before realizing the workbench is done. Those are my options. Fantastic. ¡°How do I assign a storage facility?¡± ¡°User must have a storage facility built within twenty meters of the workbench. Afterwhich, the user may ask the workbench to assign the storage facility.¡± Huh. I glance around the room, noting again the store of raw scrap, wood, and other materials against a wall. Shouldn¡¯t this building qualify? ¡°Will you assign a storage facility?¡± ¡°Storage facility cannot be assigned within an insecure compound.¡± Though I¡¯m pretty sure I know the answer, I have to ask. ¡°Why is the compound insecure?¡± ¡°The compound lacks: (1) Main Gate.¡± Breathe, Alexa. Just breathe. ¡°Method two it is.¡±
It takes the rest of the morning to clean up the mess at the gate. I can¡¯t find any means of detaching the hinges from the wall in a clean fashion, so I use a crowbar found beneath some straw in the workshop to pry metal from stone. It probably shouldn¡¯t have worked, but, physics be damned, it does. I duck, skittering away before the last pieces fall on my head. During all this, the world around me is silent in a way that¡¯s pleasant when I¡¯m not focused on it. Whenever I pause, though, I find myself uneasily aware that the only sounds aside from my breathing are the wind through wheat and distant calling of birds. No traffic. No people. Not even background music.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. I long for the honk of a horn or a bump against the wall from my neighbor¡¯s flat. But that¡¯s livable; I¡¯ll adapt, eventually. It¡¯s the rest that worries me. Everything I do is underscored by the vice-like grip of my empty stomach, the growing pain of my ever drying throat, and a strange sort of weakness tugging at my bones which tells me I won¡¯t be able to maintain this level of activity much longer. Gate or no gate, I need to find water. Once everything is safely extracted and piled inside the workshop, I leave, securing the door behind me. Hopefully, I can figure out the making of a gate after attending to more pressing needs. Pursing my lips as I survey the bailey, I try to wet them with a dry tongue. They¡¯re rough, and taste faintly of copper. That¡¯s not good sign. How long does it take for someone to fully dehydrate? I¡¯m not sure, and this being a video game confuses the matter. Standing around isn¡¯t helping. There isn¡¯t a well; I confirmed that this morning. But the farm has a water source; that¡¯s indisputable. Otherwise, the fields would be long dead, especially given how few NPCs there were. Unless others ran off, I only count five NPC corpses: four adult-sized, and one¡­ I pause, finally realizing what I¡¯m seeing in the smallest pile of rags and bone. One child. God and mercy, they included children in the game. Child NPCs. Pull yourself together, Lex. Shoving aside my unease, I step around the corpses once more and return to the castle. Irrigation system. Find the irrigation system. I could waste a lot of time traipsing around outside the relatively safe, relatively comforting walls of the farm in hopes I¡¯ll stumble across what I need, or I can get some leverage. Most castles have rooftop access; it¡¯s necessary when your best siege defense is raining death upon your enemies while they bust down the door. I don¡¯t recall a ladder or stairwell, but the room had been ransacked. It¡¯s possible I overlooked something. Rather than have someone take me by surprise, I lift the bridge behind myself and prop it over the door again. If I can figure out how to make another hinge, I bet I could fashion a pulley system of some kind¡ªlike a miniature drawbridge. That would be safer than hoping it doesn¡¯t get blown or knocked aside, right into the waiting arms of¡­ Who? The nobody that¡¯s with me? Whoever killed the last residents, that¡¯s who. I pause, standing inside the open doorway and for a moment I don¡¯t see the tossed furniture, or straw, or stone walls. I just see bodies, and blood, and a pair of moon-lit eyes hovering in shadow. Nope. I shake myself and the hallucination disappears. Not dealing with that right now, either. It¡¯s dimmer inside than out, with none of the window-beams of light I expect to illuminate the room. There¡¯s something odd about that, but the windows are so high up on the wall it takes a minute of bobbing my head in and out the door to reference their positions before I understand the trouble: they¡¯re set at an angle. All the windows are lower on the outside than they are inside. While light still diffuses inside, it can¡¯t shine directly into the room. Why would anyone build windows that way? It¡¯s a small detail, but it seems important. Important enough to nag at me as I sort through the mess inside. There¡¯s one upside to the dimness of the castle¡¯s interior, though: I can clearly see the thin cracks of a trap door in the ceiling. I just have to get to it. Here¡¯s the thing: light is an invaluable resource in DUSKFALL. Which sounds a little silly; who doesn¡¯t enjoy a nice, sunny day? But in DUSKFALL, light provides more than a chemical boost. Light stops, even reverses demonic transformations. If you want to keep animals, such as¡­ oh, I don¡¯t know, wild pigs for a random example, you need a means of keeping their enclosure lit through the night. Lanterns work. Candles can, in the right amount and if they¡¯re watched closely. But if the light level flickers below a certain threshold with either option, the changes will begin. The best method is a mage light, but those are rare and expensive. Humanoids are the only creatures which don¡¯t turn. I don¡¯t know why. No one does; the narrative that was promised in alpha stages never emerged. All we had were fragmented pieces of lore tossed around on the early forums. There was something about another continent? One that got wiped out? That¡¯s all I remember. While I ruminate on this, I prop the door open and sort through the mess inside. That whoever designed this place was purposely keeping light out is odd. If anything, I should think you¡¯d want to maximize light exposure. Maybe it¡¯s to keep interior lights from being noticed at night? Seems plausible, sure, but if it were just that why not cover the windows in wax paper and be done? Both outbuildings were handled that way. Sure, it wouldn¡¯t hide the light entirely, and, sure, these windows were higher than the exterior wall, but wax paper would mute the light, making it harder to see at a distance. Surely that was an easier solution than chiseling an angle into the stone. I need a closer look. Unfortunately, I haven¡¯t come up with a ladder yet. It¡¯s taken a few hours, but I¡¯ve divided things into three piles: one next to the door for broken, nonessential things that could be converted into raw materials, another pile on a righted table for items in decent shape, and a final stack of items I¡¯m not sure about beside to the excavated fireplace. As expected, there¡¯s nothing of particular value. The pile of ¡°decent¡± goods contains: a tin plate and cup, a handful of slightly bent utensils, a dulled cooking knife, a stone mortar missing its pestle, and the broom I¡¯ve been using to sweep soiled hay out the door and into the yard below. The salvage pile is larger, composed of broken furniture and shredded rags. Given the size of the castle and the wealth represented by the outbuildings, I can¡¯t believe the NPCs who lived here were this poor. Whomever killed them clearly stole the bulk of what was here. Disappointing, not surprising. And then I find the ladder. Rather, I find the pieces. Gathering up the ripped edges of the mattress, I prepare to tug it like an over-sized laundry sack to the far corner. The hay desperately needs to be changed. Unfortunately, I don¡¯t have the means to do so, and would rather not sleep on the floor when it isn¡¯t necessary. As I lift the bundle away, however, I notice broken pieces of rope-bound wood beneath the bed¡¯s cracked frame. Another thrill of unease grips me as set the mattress aside in favour of fishing the jigsaw remains of the ladder out from beneath the bed. They broke the ladder? And¡­ hid it beneath the bed¡­? The robbers wouldn¡¯t have any reason to break the ladder, or hide it, or anything. As I¡¯m thinking this, my eye catches the faintest metal gleam in the shadows beneath the bed frame. A hook? No, a latch. A trap door. My breath catches. After a few minutes of shoving at the heavy, solid wood frame, I¡¯ve pushed the bed far enough to the side that I can clearly see the iron-ringed hatch set into the floor. I am such a dumbass. Why it hadn¡¯t occurred to me to look for one before? The second story entrance wasn¡¯t odd. In fact, it¡¯s a common castle building technique; keep the entrance high so you can pull up the bridge and wait out a seige if your walls are breached. However, in that scenario the second story wasn¡¯t living space. It should have been barracks for farm hands or guards, or a weapon¡¯s room. Of course, this is a video game, not real life. It¡¯s weird I keep having to remind myself of that, but there it is. Everything here is dictated by what the video game designers chose to put in, or research or¡ªOK, this isn¡¯t helpful. I stop thinking about it, and return to the problem: I¡¯m have no idea what¡¯s down there. Best scenario, a larder. Worse scenario¡­ someone hiding? It seems like I would have heard them by now. And I¡¯m wasting time speculating when there¡¯s only one way this ends. The trap door swings open with ease, revealing an intact ladder set at an angle. It disappears quickly into inky darkness. I hesitate, listening for anything¡ªa breath, a scurry of rats, a whimper of someone hiding¡ªany of these things seem possible. But I hear nothing. I need a light. A torch is easiest, and there ought to be enough scrap to make one if the old recipe holds true. After a second¡¯s hesitation, I leave the trap door open and return to my scrap pile. If there¡¯s anyone inside, they¡¯re free to leave so far as I¡¯m concerned. A chair leg seems perfect for a torch, particularly when combined with some cloth scraps wrapped around one end. I just need to ignite it somehow. Flint and steel can create a spark. Too bad I don¡¯t have any. There was magic in the alpha, but it was difficult to master and never my forte. I could spend the next few hours attempting to light this with my mind alone, but the mere idea of it makes my temples throb. Or maybe that¡¯s dehydration. Either way, the next easiest method is the old stick-plus-tinder friction trick. There¡¯s wood enough in the castle, and tinder. All I¡¯m missing is a good length of strong thread or sinew. But I know where to find some. I step outside, ducking around the bridge to take a long look around my little kingdom. The sun hangs at an acute angle, barely visible above the western treeline. I¡¯ll have to be quick, particularly with the gaping hole in the wall where the gate ought to be. Lowering the bridge takes even more effort than it had earlier. I¡¯m slowing down. A drawbridge seems more and more reasonable; that may need to take higher priority, though my list is already unmanageably long. This would be easier with another person. I pause halfway down the steps, struck by the enormity of that thought. It¡¯s true. I know it¡¯s true. If there were one other person¡ªjust one¡ªwe could¡¯ve made so much progress today. They could clean, I could fix the gate; we might¡¯ve even found food or water. After Rob, I swore I would never play Duskfall with someone else in my space again. Someone online to talk to¡ªsure. I liked voice chat as much as the next person. But I build alone. I provide for me. I protect myself. The simple wanting of another person to share the burden is as foreign as these game mechanics. I don¡¯t like it. Besides, it doesn¡¯t matter. There¡¯s no one else here. No matter how I feel about the subject, I am alone. I shake myself and continue moving, startled to realize how dim the light has gotten while I was dazed by wishful thinking. That¡¯s happening more and more often. Not. Good. Jogging to the workshop would take effort I can¡¯t quite bring myself to expend, though I know I should. My brain knows I should. My body says it isn¡¯t worth the energy. Neither is caring. I get there eventually, unlatching the door and leaving it open while I root through the stored supplies. Whoever this killer was, I¡¯d love to know what they took from this place. It¡¯s strange how many supplies were left. Almost as strange as leaving this castle open for anyone to find. Strange, but lucky for me. With a half-hearted smile of delight, I pull a long length of treated sinew from a drawer. The resulting pop-up tells me it¡¯s good enough to qualify as bowstring, which is such a lucky find I¡¯m mildly surprised when I don¡¯t tear up. Probably because I can¡¯t. My eyes feel gritty, not damp. A long, low growl cuts through my joy like a knife across the throat.