Hero's Journey: A LitRPG Adventure (Beta Tester Book 2)

by Rachel Ford

  “Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that. But now, his mind filled with images of him stuck with Richard, and some other, Richard-like intern, too scared to spin him up a cup of coffee much less go digging for locked down files. “Right.”

  “Or they could fire me.”

  “We don’t want that.”

  “No, we don’t. If I leave here, I’m doing it on my own terms. And after you’re out of there.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Please. I don’t think I could survive the rest of the game with Richard.”

  “Richard’s a nice kid,” she said. “But he’s just an intern. He’s got a lot less access than I do, and – well, he’s still kind of starstruck and enamored with the whole shebang.”

  “And you’re not?”

  She didn’t say anything, not right at once. When she did speak, she didn’t address his question. “I’m going to do some research on my own time. I’m going to google him, and check out social media, and all that. But it has to be after I get home. I don’t get a cell signal down here, and anything I do on the wi-fi gets logged. It’s company wi-fi.”

  “What about these conversations?” he asked. “Aren’t they recording all of them?”

  Migli nodded again. “By default, yes. But, I’m the supervisor. I can override recording.”

  “Won’t they notice?”

  “Eventually, if we do it too much. But if they ask me, I’ll say you needed to talk to me about something personal, something you didn’t want on the record.”

  “Like what?”

  “Umm…I don’t know. I’ll say you had a good cry.”

  He wrinkled his nose up. “A good cry?”

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  “I don’t cry, Jordan.”

  Migli laughed, like she thought he was making a joke. Then, she grew serious. “Wait, you’re not joking?”

  “Of course not.”

  She laughed again – a quick, bemused bark of a laugh. “Come on. Everyone cries some time.”

  He snorted. “I’m a man, Jordan. I don’t cry.”

  She laughed for a third time. “Ohhh, one of them.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  His frown deepened. “It has to mean something. You said it. You wouldn’t have said it if it didn’t mean anything.”

  Migli smiled. “Maybe I did. But I forget now.”

  “You forget? It was two seconds ago, Jordan.”

  “No it wasn’t.”

  “It absolutely was. I said I don’t cry, you said ‘one of them.’ Then I asked what it meant.”

  “That wasn’t two seconds ago. It was at least ten. Probably closer to fifteen now.”

  The dwarven avatar was smiling, eyes twinkling. Jordan was clearly enjoying the exchange. But the problem was, he had to admit, on some pedantic level, she was right. “I was using a figure of speech.”

  “So you admit it wasn’t two seconds ago?”

  “Fine, I admit it. Now, what did you mean?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  They went back and forth a few more times on the point, but she wouldn’t budge. She insisted she didn’t mean anything at all, or if she did, she couldn’t remember what. He declared in a huff that she should get her memory checked, in that case. And she promised that she would, next time she spoke to her doctor. “If I remember.”

  He wasn’t amused.

  “Either way,” she said, “if they ask me, that’s what I’m going to tell them. They don’t have to know you’re too macho for tears.”

  “I didn’t say I was too macho.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “You implied it.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Oh. Well, then, I’m sorry.” Even through the Migli filter, he could hear the sarcasm in her tone.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Sure I am.”

  He frowned at her avatar, all squat and bulky and bearded. Its mouth twitched, like she was trying to repress a smirk. He was a little annoyed and a little amused. But he needed to make one thing clear. “I wasn’t trying to say I was macho.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I just said I don’t cry.”

  “Because…?”

  “I don’t. I’m a guy. We don’t cry.”

  “How very macho.”

  “It is not macho.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “What?”

  “‘Of course not.’”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t mean it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You said it again…”

  “Oops.” Even under the mustache, he could see the dwarf’s grin.

  He shook his head. “Don’t you have real work to do? Instead of bothering me?”

  She didn’t bother to try hiding the smile now. She just nodded, and her avatar’s beard bobbed with the motion. “Alright, I’ll leave you to your Road of Trials.”

  He blinked. “Wait, my what?”

  “Your Road of Trials. Or ‘tests, allies and enemies.’”

  He stared at her like she was speaking Greek. “What?”

  “You know, in the Hero’s Journey? Narrative storytelling? Human mythology?”

  “Oh.” He did, vaguely, remember something about it from a literature class once upon a time. “Human mythology, huh? As opposed to what? Alien?”

  Migli rolled his eyes. “Alright, I’m going to get back to that real work. Spreadsheets are a lot more interesting than you.”

  “Back at you.”

  She snorted. “Okay, I’m turning recording on.” Then, her tone took on a more authoritative tone. “Well, I’m glad we could talk it out, Jack. And don’t worry about blubbering like that. Everyone needs a good cry now and then.”

  He scowled, and Migli smiled back benignly. “Have a great time questing, Jack. Buzz me if you need anything else.”

  Jack didn’t buzz Jordan, though. He felt a little foolish for arguing with her, and a little annoyed that she’d laughed at him. On the other hand, he enjoyed their banter, and he had nothing clever to say at the moment; she’d mostly got the best of him in that exchange, and he wanted to make sure he more than held his own in his next showing.

  So she would have to wait until another day to hear from Jack Owens. Or at least until later on. Whenever he thought of something clever to say.

  He spent a long time thinking about it, and about the hero’s journey, and how soon it might be before he’d get out of the game. He didn’t remember the entire sequence, but he did know that there were various takes on the journey. But they all agreed on one thing: there were lots of stages. And if memory served, the ones involving trials, or allies and tests, weren’t the last ones.

  Which meant he had a lot more of the game yet to go.

  That, in turn, meant he wasn’t leaving the game any time soon. And that meant…

  Well, a lot of things. It meant the development contract he’d been angling was well and truly gone. He’d missed his client meeting. He was probably going to get slammed with a negative review for that, one of those one-star, I can’t believe how unprofessional this person is screeds. He probably already had been slammed with it, days ago now.

  He’d also ginned up a ton of hours, most of them overtime. Granted, his beta tester pay was peanuts next to his contract gig. He hadn’t done it for the money. Hell, he would have done it for free, just for a chance to experience the virtual reality world for himself. Still, it would add up to a decent chunk of change. And maybe if he dropped a few hints about financial compensation for his pain and suffering, they might do the right thing, and pre-empt him with a good settlement. Either way, he could recover from this financially, provided he got out at some point.

  And it wasn’t like Jack had any close friends or family he’d be worrying half to death by vanishing. There might be a few game subreddits that would
notice his absence. But it would take months before his mom realized he hadn’t picked up either of the two or three calls she would have made in that time. She wouldn’t worry about it. She’d give it another month or two – another missed call – and then she’d dig out her ancient cell phone and tap out a text message. It would be cryptic and misspelled, because she’d be pressing the number pad multiple times for every letter, like a dinosaur. His mom abhorred smartphone technology, and insisted on holding onto her heavy, blocky, prehistoric gadget. She’d turned down dozens of his attempts to get her something newer and better.

  In a way, he was almost glad. That way he knew, if nothing else, in the case of an emergency, his mom always had a brick she could pummel someone with.

  It would take a text or two for his mom to realize that maybe something was up after all. Then, maybe, she’d call the police. The cops would probably be polite and patient, and maybe promise to check in on him. Which would put his mom’s mind back at ease.

  And sooner or later, someone would follow up on it. They’d find no evidence of foul play. They might leave the case open, or they might close it as a voluntary absence. Either way, his mom would shrug and declare her boy always did things his own way, like he did when he got into computers instead of preaching, like she wanted him to. She’d tell the officer what a great preacher Jack might have made. Then she’d thank him for his time, and walk away confident that he’d “show up when he’s done with whatever it is he’s doing.”

  And Jack didn’t have a girlfriend, or a social group, or even a dog or cat. Hell, he didn’t even have a goldfish. There’d be no one to worry about his absence.

  Which was a fairly depressing thought. So Jack set it aside and focused on the silver lining: no one would be worrying. He could get through this without the hassle of police reports and all that.

  It also meant – for better or worse – getting to know Jordan better. He decided he was okay with that. Despite her sarcastic streak, she was pretty cool. So he could be okay with getting better acquainted with her. And Richard, of course. That would be inescapable: more time with one meant more time with the other. Still, he felt pretty good about it. If nothing else, it took his circle of closer-than-acquaintances but not-quite-friends from zero to two. And as silver linings went, that wasn’t bad.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jack and Migli reached the pass Ieon’s map indicated in the late afternoon. The trip had been mostly uneventful. They’d come across a buck by a stream, and Jack grabbed for his bow. Then he remembered he had to restring it, which he did. But not before the deer vanished into the underbrush. That had been the highlight of their journey.

  Migli’s near-constant singing had been on the other end of that spectrum. But it had been a consistent factor too.

  Now, the dwarf went silent. They stood at the foot of a shadowy passage. On either side, great, gray stones towered above toward distant peaks. A range of mountains stretched out from both peaks, forming a neat, unscalable wall.

  And at the center, where they stood, was this single way through.

  Something about that set off klaxons in Jack’s head, warning him that danger was at hand. He’d played too many videogames to be taken in by the lone path between unscalable barriers – especially when that lone path looked as dark and spooky as this one.

  He hesitated in place. Then he turned to the dwarf. “Well, Migli? What do you think?”

  “After you, Sir Jack.”

  Which was about as much confirmation that it was a trap as he needed. “You know what? Actually, I’m good. I’m going to stand here and think about this for a minute.”

  He did, and he scanned the darkness ahead of him. He had no epiphany, though, nor did he see anything at all but shadow and stone.

  He listened long and hard, but he didn’t hear battle music rolling down from the mountainsides like he’d expect to if he was marching in to a boss fight. After a while, Migli started to sing, like he was bored with the whole business.

  Where dwarves dig deep, and treasures keep

  Safe and sound, below the ground

  Stone chambers so cold, and filled with gold.

  He grimaced and tried to push the noise away. A breeze carried down toward them from somewhere up the mountain, chill and brisk. Migli was talking about gems made for summer’s warmth that would see the sun no more. Jack stared into the impenetrable darkness. He could almost imagine he could make out shapes and figures: all manners of terrible things, lurking there. He half believed he saw a goblin scuttle by one moment, and that he’d got the hellish glint of a demon’s eye the next.

  But for all his fanciful imaginings, nothing actually happened. The dwarf kept mewling on about forgotten treasure, buried deep in a lost dwarven kingdom; the wind kept blowing, on and off; and all else was still.

  Jack swallowed and stepped forward, one step and then another, toward the passage. He counted his strides. Six. Seven. He’d almost reached the first shadowy patches. Ten. Eleven. Now, he was among the shadows. They rose all around him and fell deeper and darker in the uneven bits of the stone surface.

  Twenty. Twenty-One. He’d reached absolute darkness now. He could see light behind him, but it was too far away to light up his surroundings.

  Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five. A great, yellow orb appeared directly in front of him, with a long, almost oval-shaped black center that tapered off into points at either end.

  Jack froze to the spot. It was a huge, golden eyeball, and he was staring right into the pupil. Then the eyeball retracted and turned, like the head that contained it rose and pivoted on its neck. He saw another of the same type of eye staring down at him, and then a flash of fire.

  All at once, the darkened passage sprang alive in fiery red tones. Jack saw high mountain walls racing up toward peaks. He saw a stone floor underneath him, with the occasional, scraggly patch of grass growing in some pocket of dirt.

  But more importantly, he saw a dragon: a great, terrible dragon, rising far, far above him. Its scales shimmered black as ebony, and its wings were taller than trees, and as long as a semitruck. It spoke now, in low tones that rumbled down like thunder. “Who are you who dares enter my pass uninvited?”

  Jack didn’t think. He didn’t pause to consider his strategy, or to think of flight, or anything else. Some more primal instinct took over: fight. He saw danger, and he attacked.

  He got two paces, sword in hand, when a blast of fire burned the top half of his body to ash. The flame missed the lower part of his body, but the resultant heat was so intense it cooked him like a roast left a few hours too long in the oven. All that was left were two shriveled, charred stumps that had been legs.

  Jack was dead.

  He respawned at the mouth of the passage, before he’d taken his first fateful step. Migli – the bastard – was still singing about gold.

  Jack took his newly restrung bow off his back and nocked an arrow. He aimed about thirty paces into the blackness – where he approximated the dragon’s eye would be. He took a breath and loosed.

  The arrow sped out of sight, into the darkness. He heard it hit something with a sharp, terrible clang. Then a jet of fire streamed out of the shadow.

  Jack evaporated into a puff of ash, quite dead.

  He spawned again in the same place, to the same line in Migli’s song.

  The old king sat on a throne of gold

  His beard grown long and gray

  Jack remembered the staff Ieon had given him. He took it out and turned it over in his hands. It was an ugly thing, coarse and covered in gnarly, knobby turns and lumps, and rusted old iron rings.

  At his feet fifteen old bodies lay

  Brittle bones and fair faces alike

  Men who for his gold had tried

  Men who for his riches vied

  Jack closed his eyes and tried to focus magical energy into the staff. But as soon as he closed his eyes, he had to open them again, to be sure the dragon hadn’t sprang out.

  He took
a deep, calming breath, and tried again. Migli’s voice rang loud in his ears – louder than the call of the magic.

  His sons three, forgotten and lost they be

  Taken for ransom he wouldn’t pay

  “Kill them, kill them; you’ll get nothing from me.”

  “Dagnabbit, Migli, can’t you shut up? I’m trying to concentrate here.”

  For a moment, the dwarf fell silent. And Jack focused his fear and loathing on that thing, the monster that lurked in the dark, and let it flow through him. He felt his soul flush with magic, and the staff crackled. Migli started singing again, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t hear anything over the roar of magic. He directed it where he’d sent the arrow the last time and saw a red and blue energy race across the distance.

  It illuminated the dragon for half a second before dissipating on its scales. Nothing seemed to happen. Jack waited, holding his breath.

  Then, quick as lightning, a terrible ebony form, as big as a house, shot out of the darkness. Jack didn’t have time to dodge or run. He’d barely lifted one foot over the ground before an enormous set of teeth seized him around the chest.

  The last thing Jack heard was Migli singing,

  Now in his folly, he dies

  And for him, no one cries

  Then, the dragon chomped down, and Jack died.

  Jack spent the rest of the day dying in various ways. He didn’t know how many times it happened; he lost count after the eighty-second time. Or was it eighty-third?

  He was burned to ash, eviscerated on claws as big as sabers, chewed into pieces, crushed underfoot, and even buried under a rockfall. He got a little better at hitting the dragon. After a while of practice, he managed to get a few hits in, and cause a little bit of damage each time.

  Which soothed his pride a little but didn’t change the salient point: he still died. It didn’t matter what attack he used, either. It didn’t matter if he tried ranged or melee combat, magic or old-fashioned hacking and slashing. The dragon managed to repel it all.

  So Jack did something he absolutely hated himself for: he asked for help. “Speak to supervisor.”

  Migli stopped singing and snapped to attention. “Yo, Jack, how’s it going man?”