The Azure Dragon

by Vladimir Vasilenko

  The big open platform, surrounded by the scoffed two-story buildings, had something like a parade ground. More precisely, it was a training ground with wooden mannequins made of pillars hammered deep into the ground. A dozen men armed with spears, swords, and shields, practiced their strokes on the mannequins. A little farther, another dozen men sparred for combat training.

  "Seventy or eighty years ago this was a children’s camp. At the end of the 20th century, it was sold and rebuilt into a sanatorium. In the thirties, it went bankrupt and was almost abandoned. The chief paid chicken feed for it three months ago. Now this is our base."

  "I see. Here I am thinking I was the only one you dragged into these backwoods."

  Genghis chuckled.

  "You're so full of yourself. All fighters are on equal terms here. As long as they're here, they have no contact with the outside world. They hand over their smartphones, and those, who have an NCI, disable the communication unit. And we have a strict daily routine, like in the army. Training takes most of the day. That way we get an advantage over ordinary players."

  That made sense. In Artar, it takes more or less a week to learn how to handle weapons. Honing the skills in real life at the same time with professional instructors would obviously make that go faster. But why the hell would anyone want to shut out the rest of the world?

  "It looks more like a prison than an army," I grumbled.

  "Discipline is above all. I have every fighter under control—both in Artar and in real life. So I don't have crazy kids who appropriate somebody else's trophies. And girls don't jump off tower cranes."

  He seems to know everything about our unit. But we know nothing about him. That sucks.

  At this moment, I saw Terekhov on the edge of the training grounds, he was escorted by two hulks in camouflage. Kata and two strange men were there too, but I didn't get a chance to look closely at them.

  "That is, if we want to continue to be the Hounds, we will have to live in this camp?" I asked, looking back at the miserable state of the room.

  "Don't worry about the amenities. We just didn't have time to prepare the living quarters for the new recruits. It will take two or three days. And then... Yes, you're right. If you want to work for Obsidian—welcome to the base. I gave you the approximate rates. You will learn the rules later, but it’s not complicated. The main thing is to keep your mouth shut—both in real life and in Artar. Following orders is key."

  I contemplated. Even if I took the minuscule one hundred and fifty eurocredits a day, it would end up being a good monthly amount. But an unemployed student like me shouldn't complain. The only thing that saddened me was that the game in Artar was going to turn into work. After all, I was drawn there for the sake of freedom and adventures.

  "Are there any layoffs?"

  "Yeah. But each case is discussed individually."

  "What if I want to leave? What if I save enough money on my own modem and want to just play for fun?"

  Genghis shrugged.

  "Serfdom was abolished almost two hundred years ago."

  "What's the catch then?"

  "There's none. But there is one nuance. I'm not Terekhov. And if I find out that you messed up or jeopardized our plans, I'll just cut your throat."

  This was said in a calm casual tone, but my knees almost gave out. I tried to pull myself together and stay put.

  Whatever! He's just trying to intimidate me, bastard.

  "Yeah, yeah. Because of some game?"

  "For some, it's just a game. For others, it's a serious business."

  "There we go again! I can't really believe this whole thing. How many people are here? I counted twenty-five or thirty people just in the courtyard. How much does it cost to maintain this base? Well, okay, at first, Terekhov said that this is something like a hobby for Clam. But then he said that he was going to start a betting business in Artar. Is he really hoping to make any money there?"

  My companion looked displeased and didn't answer right away. When he finally did, it was off topic.

  "I remember when I was about your age, I rooted for a boxer, Floyd Mayweather. I don't think you've heard of him."

  "I have not."

  "He was a legend in his time. Invincible. In 2017, he held his fiftieth battle. His opponent was Conor McGregor. Do you know how much they made off of one fight?"

  I shrugged my shoulders. I hate this kind of questions. Tell me if you know something, what's the sense to show off?

  “It was pretty clear with Floyd right away. Regardless of the outcome, he was guaranteed to receive one hundred million dollars. McGregor got a little less, about thirty. Taking into account sponsor payments, sales of souvenirs, broadcasting rights, and other things, Floyd earned 400 million on one fight, and McGregor—one hundred. Think about these numbers. Half a billion dollars was spent to pay these two people who were smashing each other's faces for half an hour."

  "Yeah, that's pretty cool. But what are you getting at?"

  "At the fact that these sums are only a drop in the ocean in comparison with how much bookmakers, organizers, TV companies, and others made on this fight. Same with Artar. Now there is such a rush of money from bookmakers and advertisers that you cannot even imagine. Traditional sports are going through a crisis. Worlds like Artar have a chance to enter new horizons. So it's very, very serious."

  "Yes, Terekhov also mentioned this. All top clans have serious sponsors. Even individual players... But what about those who just want to play for fun? I just wanted to travel alone, explore Artar, complete interesting quests."

  "There will always be plenty of these guys. And if you want to get off, you'll be one of them. But I don’t envy you then."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because the gap between pros and amateurs will only widen. And everyone who doesn't belong to a strong clan will be just cannon fodder. Especially loners."

  I remained silent, grimly watching men training in the yard.

  "Enough yapping. You're free until tonight. Dinner's in half an hour, in the main building. Don't be late."

  He left and I didn't even look at him. I had mixed feelings. Everything changed so fast that I felt like I was hit with a dust bag. It seemed that there was an absolute advantage—no need to worry about paying off the debt. There’d be cash accumulating on my account. And in general, I could live as if I were at a recreation center—well fed and provided with personal training.

  But I felt troubled. The fact that this ghoul was supposed to be our commander now wasn't pleasant to me at all. And the threat of losing someone from the old team made me uneasy. We didn’t know each other that long, but after going through so much our little squad was almost like a family to me.

  Anyway, we'll see what will happen!

  I turned around. Genghis was long gone. The only thing that reminded of his coming here were the handcuffs that were still hanging on the bedpost.

  Chapter 2. A Stranger Among His Own

  I was right, somebody was drilling the wall next door earlier. Now they made it to my room. Literally. The paint on the wall next to my bed suddenly swelled and the lumps of it started falling off to the sides, shortly after which I saw the end of a thick drill.

  The installation of Eidos modems was in full swing in my room and two adjacent rooms. Or should I say "cells"? Installers worked proactively, not paying attention to anything around. I think even if I were hanging there on the rack, stretched belly down over a pot of hot coals, they wouldn't have bated an eye. Well, they might have moved a little bit if I was in the way of their drilling.

  I found my sneakers under the bed, put them on, and went outside. The NCI clock showed 5:46 p.m. I didn’t know how long I was there. It was dark already. Basically, they snuck into my apartment in the morning, drugged me, and took me to the base. One question: where exactly was this base? Geo-location wasn’t working. I was hoping I could find out the coordinates of my location by asking the locales.

  There weren't many people in the camp, and mo
st of them seemed to be out on the training ground. I wandered around the area but found nothing particularly interesting. The area had a high fence around it. It looked more like a park with birches, bushes, and paved roads that no one ever took care of. Bushes were not trimmed for many years, there were cracks in the roads. On the other hand, the ten-foot tall fence was new, made of iron, with barbed wire on top and automatic gates. The security teams along the perimeter were intimidating.

  I counted five nondescript brick buildings of two or three floors. A few more one-story houses were barely visible in the greenery.

  Except for the perimeter guards, the camp had no other security, but I came across quite a few surveillance cameras—they hung on every light post. They were just regular cheap cameras that weren’t even disguised.

  The local people I've met were not very friendly—I got a few dirty looks from some, while some watched me with curiosity, which told me that newcomers were rare here. Some looked at me with undisguised suspicion and even hostility. It was all very interesting.

  The training on the central parade ground was almost over. Everyone dropped their wooden swords, spears and staffs into one pile, pulled off the plastic protection they were wearing, and galumphed in the direction of the largest building. Apparently, that's where the dining room was. Some didn't bother and went in right in their armor, under which, they all had the same camouflage pants, jackets, and heavy boots. I looked pretty ridiculous here, wearing my house sweat pants and a t-shirt. But I was hungry too, so I joined the tail of the procession, trying to keep a low profile.

  I saw my squad at the entrance to the building.

  Terekhov was gloomy and unshaven. Without his impeccable suit and tie he seemed to have become smaller. He was the only one wearing camo, the same as the other men in this camp. He did not reply to my greeting but gave me a short intent look.

  At least he didn't punch me in the face right after he saw me. I felt like a naughty puppy next to him. That was my fault—because of my attempts to appropriate the Eye of Dahamesh, we all ended up here. Of course, hardly only because of this, but the feeling of guilt was already beginning to gnaw at me.

  Kata was wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw her. Pink sneakers with cartoon pattern looked especially defiantly here. At the sight of me, the girl smiled weakly, but, apparently, she was in a lousy mood as well. Just like the others.

  "Mongoose? Hi! I'm Daniel."

  In real life, our tank was not much older than me, but he was bigger than Terekhov and I put together. Maybe even half of Kata added to that. But unlike in Artar, here he was not a mountain of muscles, but a mountain of fat. He even walked with difficulty. He was dressed in baggy pants, a huge hoodie with the number 99 on the chest and a shapeless knit hat, which, despite the warm weather, was pulled down to his eyebrows. I shook his plump hand, trying not to give out my surprise and disappointment.

  In addition to that, the fat man was rather nervous. At least, he showed it more than the rest. His eyes were constantly wondering, stopping at everyone who came us closer than five steps. He clasped his hands on his stomach, fiddling with some rag that looked like a handkerchief.

  I recognized Bers immediately by his light red hair, facial expressions, and gestures, but mostly, by his eyes. They were the same as in Artar: pale, watery, cold, and just as piercing. They made me uncomfortable. Our most desperate fighter did not look particularly impressive in the game, and this nondescript appearance deceived many people. In real life, he was even smaller, half a head shorter than me. He wasn't very muscular, but pretty damn wiry. In real life, unlike in Artar, scars didn’t disappear and Bers had a lot of them. The most notable one stretched from his right temple across his cheek and faded somewhere in the region of the collarbone. I couldn't see past it because of the shirt.

  "Hey, kid! You look puzzled," grinned the redhead.

  "You're not exactly vigorous and cheerful!" I grumbled. "Can someone tell me what's going on?"

  "Haven't you met the new commander? He's such a sweetie. He should have explained all the deets," noted a tall skinny guy in a light suit sarcastically. He was keeping at a little distance from the main group.

  "Sting?" I squinted.

  "I don't know who you're talking about," he replied and made a grimace that made it clear that it couldn't be anyone else but Sting.

  Surprisingly, his appearance had nothing in common with his avatar from Artar outside the characteristic intonations and gestures, but they would generally be difficult to hide unless you were a good actor.

  Terekhov did not lie—in real life Sting was around his age. But he looked younger because he paid more attention to his appearance. Stylish hairstyle and smooth pearly white teeth, that took more than a dozen hours of orthodontists' time, designer clothes and an expensive wristwatch. But no one wears cheap watches anymore. This accessory in the age of mobile gadgets and NCI has long become merely a status thing.

  "So, the whole team is here with the exception of Doc?"

  "Leo got him a discharge. The old man doesn't need training in real life. He's a mage anyway."

  "He needs to take care of his sick wife," Terekhov finally broke the silence. “But you're right, he has no business here, in any case."

  "Well, since all of us are here now, shall we go try the local cooking?" Bers offered. "I really hope that they'll at least feed us well."

  He turned around and walked towards the entrance of the building.

  "I hope so too," sighed Daniel.

  "Right! You can't afford to miss a meal!" Sting said sarcastically and tried to grab the chubby man's side, sticking out from under his shirt.

  "Leave me alone, Sting!" Daniel brushed him off good-naturedly.

  I just shook my head. It felt weird. At a first glance, they were complete strangers to me, but in their behavior, I could recognize the longtime fellows from Artar—the giant warrior and crafty big-nosed archer. They looked strange in this environment and in these bodies, but I knew that behind each game avatar was a living person.

  "Hey, honeys, wait for me!"

  We all turned around and I saw that Edge, unlike the others, was not much different from her avatar—she was slim and dexterous and had black hair. She slightly tweaked her facial features in Artar, but it wasn't critical, and I could still recognize her. It was difficult to hide this gait and signature mocking look.

  She was dressed casually—short denim shorts, sneakers with a flat sole, light t-shirt, and a hooded coat over it. I couldn't help but stare at her firm tanned legs. I wasn’t the only one.

  "Who's that?" Kata frowned.

  Oh, yeah. She wasn't with us last time, and she didn't know that Edge was in the unit with us now.

  "Meet Edge," Sting introduced the assassin with a wide theatrical gesture.

  Playing along, Edge bowed, pressing her hand to her chest.

  "The creep who killed us on the sly?!" Kata gasped. "What the hell is she doing here?"

  "Easy, butterball," Edge said in a condescending tone and confidently walked up the stairs of the porch.

  Passing me, she playfully ruffled my hair.

  "You look more interesting in Artar. A shaved head looks nice on you. This is cute too."

  She winked at me and, getting ahead of others, first walked into the building.

  I caught Kata's gloomy look and involuntarily shivered.

  The dining room was quite small and was already packed to capacity. Food was distributed in plastic disposable boxes, sealed with a transparent film. Everyone grabbed a box and then looked for a spot to sit. That took a while, but finally, we found a table in the far corner.

  "Hmm, this looks like airplane food. But the portions are larger, thank God," Daniel muttered opening his box. He didn’t take off his silly hat even here, he just slightly pushed it to the back of the head.

  "Actually, these are military rations," knowingly said Terekhov. "This can be eaten cold, but this one will be better warmed up."

  I w
as not very enthusiastic about these meals, so I picked up a disposable fork and stirred the contents in the largest container. Some grains with pieces of stewed meat. I definitely didn't want to eat this cold, so I looked around, trying to find something like a microwave.

  The place for heating food was to our right—there were several microwave ovens, water coolers, and even a couple of coffee machines. Apparently, they didn't hire any cooks—help yourself, so to speak. There was a decent line, so I had to wait.

  Most of the inhabitants of the camp were like hardened, experienced warriors, all between twenty-five and thirty-five years old. Every one of them was strong and, obviously, in excellent physical shape. There were almost no girls, and those that I've seen looked like the Amazons. They were dressed in the camouflage clothing and ankle boots, like the men, and even had short haircuts.

  "Hey, you took our spot!"

  We sat at a long rectangular table, one end resting against the wall. Terekhov, Bers, Daniel, and Sting were on one side. The girls and I were on the other. The locals came from the opposite side of me, towering over the backs of our guys. There were four of them and they were quite big.

  Sting magically disappeared—I didn't even notice where he went. Daniel, frowning, moved to the side and pressed against the wall, but considering his size, the attempt to make room looked ridiculous.

  Terekhov frowned even more and clenched his teeth, tensing his jaw. Bers turned around and looked at them with an estimating glance.

  "What are you looking at?" One of the men grunted.

  He was a grim skinhead with a three-day stubble on his cheeks. He had a square face with a heavy lower jaw—a typical soldier. Just like most of the locals here. They all looked the same to me, especially in camouflage.

  "Come on, get out of here!"

  "Where are your rations?" Said Bers, indifferently turning away and helping himself to some food. "You've eaten already or didn't even grab your meals yet. We're the first ones here. Look for a spot elsewhere."

  "Maybe we don't have rations, because there wasn't enough for us?" Boomed the skinhead. "Because someone's been stealing someone else's food."