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STRENGTH BUILD
A LitRPG Saga
The Complete Strength Build Cycle
Steven J Shelley
Copyright © 2016 Blue Orchid Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual places is purely coincidental.
Not recommended for younger readers.
+1
Nick Stanners climbed the grubby, graffiti-covered staircase to Hab 273A. He’d wasted his last few credits on a flyer back from the West Coast Employment Hub. Nothing on offer but shit-kicking cleaning jobs. There was more to life than scrubbing feces off hotel walls. He was twenty-three years old with a degree in biomechanical engineering. His mind needed to be put to work!
Deflated and exhausted, he trudged the last steps to his iron-cast hab door. The Sea Eagle Hab Block was one of the most infamous on the west coast. Perched on one of the reclaimed headlands south of New Sur, it was buffeted by hellish ocean winds all night. If anything, the relentless gale, which started blowing when the Antarctic shelf collapsed, had gotten worse in the last few weeks.
Still, Nick couldn’t remember how things used to be. Sea Eagle was all he knew, for better or worse. He was a hab urchin through and through.
The door opened easily - Helena must be inside. His girlfriend always forgot to lock the door. She lived with her family a few floors up. Her long-suffering mother was housebound with chronic arthritis. Nick wouldn’t have minded if a heart attack was thrown in for good measure.
There was no hiding from reality - the Sea Eagle hab block was a fucking shit hole, but Nick had no choice in the matter. He was unemployed and down to his last dime. If he didn’t find work in the next two days he’d be forced to take on a job with one of the big leisure cartels, scrubbing brush at the ready. From there, it was a steady decline into depression and sedation. For the rest of his life.
Everything was on a knife’s edge and he could feel it. He wished he could make some moves but sometimes he felt he’d been born wearing a strait-jacket.
Helena was standing at the stove wearing short shorts and a bikini top. She had a nice, tight body and knew how to flaunt it. The ‘standing at the stove’ bit wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Helena was a horrible cook and usually only fired it up to prepare drugs.
“Really?” Nick groaned, slumping into a battered sofa to take his shoes off. “Can’t you do that shit somewhere else?”
“You know I can do this at home, baby.” she shot back.
She licked at a pink substance on her spoon and smiled dreamily. “How did you go today?”
“Terrible,” Nick replied, firing up his trusty Sentinel gaming unit with customized ice knight exterior. “I’m on the edge of the abyss. Rent’s due in a few days. Dad’s not getting any better.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Helena said, slinking over and sitting in his lap. She thrust out her pert b-cups and he found it hard to concentrate on the screen. She removed her bikini slowly. He helped himself to a handful, but now he knew that she wanted something from him.
“How much?” he asked.
“Ten dollars,” she said. “Just until the next Sec payment comes through.”
Nick frowned as his fingers danced across his wrist pad.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m officially bankrupt.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she teased, slipping from his grasping hands and replacing her bikini.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Nick said.
One of Helena’s cousins knew someone in Sec, who’d set her up on minimum welfare. There was no way she’d qualify otherwise. Unless Nick wanted to score some hab crack, which he didn’t, none of her money ever reached him or made their lives any easier.
But it was a sore subject and difficult to broach - Nick believed he loved Helena and didn’t want to upset her more than he needed to. One day, when he finally secured a full time job, he’d give her the life she deserved. If he got through the next two days …
“What should I play tonight?” he asked as she pranced back into the kitchen. He scrolled down his master library. Many of these games had been deleted but were still available to download, save files intact. It didn’t really matter - he’d clocked them all. “Nitro Club or Mako Assassin?”
“It’s a pity you don’t have Immersion,” Helena said with a frown. “I heard you can have actual sex in Tales from the Mall.”
Nick felt a surge of irritation. How on earth was he supposed to afford Immersion? Only five percent of earners on the West Coast could get that kind of gear. The closest he ever came was watching Nex Casts from producers like Neutron Syndicate or Seaspray Gaming Inc.
“Maybe you should be a pixel runner,” Helena said with a mean smile. “At least then you’d know what an Immersion tank felt like.”
Nick rolled his eyes, but the germ of her half-serious suggestion stayed with him. A pixel runner. Despite being an avid gamer all his life, he’d never actually believed he was good enough to make money from it.
Pixel runners were professional gamers. Rumor had it there was big money to be had competing against other gamers on slickly-produced Nex Casts. But what requirements did each contestant had to meet? If gaming experience was the only pre-requisite, Nick Stanners had it well covered.
The more he thought about it, the bigger the seed grew. Could it hurt to visit one of the studios and make an inquiry? All he had to lose was the cost of a flyer there and back. Which, in actual fact, was a fair chunk of credit.
Logically, there had to be mid and lower level pixel runners. Sure, there were always the superstars, the big earners, but what about the thousands of others who made up the numbers?
Maybe, just maybe, there was a humble living to be made at the lower levels of the industry. Nick would willingly be a journeymen contestant, happy for others to hog the limelight as long as he got his weekly paycheck.
Buoyed by his decision to explore the left-field career option, he stretched his legs and booted The Mako Assassins. He completed the city phase without using a health crystal. His skills felt sharp and clear. Then again, he knew every nook and cranny of these games. Must’ve been years since he’d been able to buy a new release.
A persistent thought nagged at the back of his mind - he’d need money for the flyer tomorrow morning. He eyed Helena’s satchel, right next to him on the sofa. His girlfriend was sitting at the kitchen table, snorting god-knew-what. He took the opportunity to rifle through her bag.
There was really only one item of note - her wrist pad. She hated wearing it when she cooked drugs. He toggled her bank account and wasn’t surprised to find that her security was non-existent. What did surprise him was the 457 credits she held in there. And to think she’d just scammed him for ten measly credits?
He had to smile. She was such a scumbag. But she was his scumbag. Nick wasn’t exactly ugly, but he wasn’t very handsome either. That, combined with his almost total lack of prospects, meant he didn’t have the luxury of choice when it came to girlfriends.
He transferred fifty credits to his own account, figuring he wouldn’t get much change from a return trip to the Neutron Syndicate studio. No particular reason why he chose that one; it was simply the closest.
All set for the morning, Nick spent
a few hours scything his way through the docks of Kyoto with a reaper blade. As usual, he was so engaged he forgot to eat. He probably only had dry noodles anyway.
He crawled into bed at around 10.30. Helena followed an hour later in a drug-fueled stupor. She offered herself to him but he refused, as he always did in these situations. Something wasn’t right about it. He fell asleep wondering what he’d do if Neutron Syndicate sent him away to get a real job.
The alarm clock was a welcome distraction from Helena’s body odor. Maybe it was the drugs, but the girl smelled like she hadn’t showered for days. Nick rose from the bed and took a quick shower himself. They were all quick since he had no hot water.
He thought about calling his father, but figured the poor guy would still be sleeping. He made a mental note to visit him that night, though he’d need to scrape together a few credits to get to Angel Hospital and back.
Once he was dressed he muttered his goodbyes and hauled ass up the internal stairwell. Breathing hard by the time he got to the roof hatch, he called a flyer from his wristpad and braced for the weather. It was a particularly windy day, even by west coast standards.
Nick held onto the roof rail while he waited for a flyer to emerge from the murk. At length one appeared, descending quickly, but by that stage he was already coughing dust. Must be coming from Nevada, where it picked up dust. Still, it was better than the corrosive salt spray a solid westerly delivered. The people of Sea Eagle just couldn’t win.
Nick sat next to the pilot and plugged in his destination. The glum woman raised the vessel into the air without a word. Even from this height Nick could only see a few miles down the coast due to the grey haze that seemed to have taken up residence in the region. It didn’t pay to look at the horizon too much, not if you wanted to remain upbeat.
The flyer dived skilfully between concrete slabs that rose like calcified fingers in the gloom. Millions lived behind those blank walls, hustlin’ and workin’ any angle they could just to stay alive. Most of the money was further north, up around Seattle. Of course, there was Mulholland, the atmos-controlled bubble in the hills, but that was closed to ordinary folk.
Nick was deposited in front of a sleek black building that shimmered with atmos-protection. Many such buildings lined Ocean Boulevard, but it was dangerous to linger in the street. If the gangs didn’t get you, the choking dust would.
Nick ran for the shiny entrance to Neutron Syndicate, relishing the tranquility behind the atmos-shell. His heart thumping madly, he approached a pleasant-looking blond at the front desk.
“Nick Stanners,” he said in his most confident voice.
She looked him up and down, frowning. He maintained his composure, familiar with that look of vague disappointment.
“Take a seat, Nick,” she said doubtfully, gesturing to an over-crowded waiting area. Nick’s heart sank. There were all kinds of folks here, waiting for the same opportunity. He resisted the opportunity to cut and run, but only because he didn’t relish the idea of facing that wind again.
The only seat left was next to some snot-nosed kid pestering his dad for a syrup pack. Dad couldn’t have been much older than Nick but looked beaten down by life.
Nick tried to ignore that haunted look in his eyes, noticing the palm cube tumbling from the kid’s pocket. At length the boy quit his pestering and opened it up for a play. Nick smiled - he used to have Hold Up as well. The kid wasn’t much good and before he knew what he was doing, Nick extended a helping hand.
“Can I show you?” he asked. When it came to video games, most kids were happy to watch and learn.
It was amazing how often Nick played like a God when he was trying to be a God in front of a wide-eyed kid. He was so familiar with the game he knew the music note for note, blitzing the first few levels on muscle memory alone. He wasn’t really paying attention, glancing up every time someone came in.
The waiting area was now piled with wannabe gamers, but no one seemed to be progressing further. He noticed a mild commotion at the front desk, where the receptionist was talking to a guy with a bad comb-over.
Nick absorbed all these details whilst cruising the final stages of Hold Up.
“Whoa,” said the kid, “I’ve never heard that music before.”
All kids said the same thing. Nick laughed out loud as he wasted the final boss with a twirl of his fingers. He’d gotten his best ever score. Definitely the highest score on this unit.
“What’s your initials, kid?” he asked. He plugged in the details, enjoying the rapture on the boy’s face. He knew that look well. For kids, it wasn’t about integrity, it was all about bragging rights.
The old school game had raised a few nostalgic smiles in the waiting area. Nick was surprised to see the receptionist peering over her desk at him. Before he knew it Mr. Comb-over was standing in front of him.
“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.
“Nick Stanners,” Nick blurted.
“Follow me, Stanners,” Comb-over said.
Stunned, Nick followed the guy past the receptionist (who he winked at) and down a series of busy corridors.
“What’s your history, man?” Comb-over asked.
“Well, I grew up in Sea Eagle, actually -”
“Not your shit-kicker life story, the games, man, the games.”
Nick blinked.
“Anything I can get my hands on,” he said. “Timeout, Outrigger, Way of the Falcon, Lunar Patrol, Andarian Crossroads …”
Comb-over perked up at that last one.
“You like dark fantasy RPGs?”
Nick paused, sensing his next answer was critical. “Yeah, it’s kinda my thing.”
“Good, good. You played the sequel to Crossroads, Oakshield Junction?”
Nick felt his face reddening.
“Oh I forgot,” Comb-over said spitefully. “You’re from Sea Eagle.”
“Don’t hold that against me, I -”
“Why not?” he said, spinning around. “I need a competent runner for a first round Oakshield Junction Nex Cast. Am I wasting my time?”
By this stage around a dozen production assistants were staring at the two of them.
“I know RPGs, sir,” Nick said, amazed he got the words out at all. “They speak to me.”
Well, he fucked that up. But Comb-over smiled. It may not have been a kind smile, but it was a smile.
“You’ve never experienced Immersion, have you?” he barked.
“A few times,” Nick said, hopelessly out of his depth.
Comb-over frowned. “Don’t lie to me kid.”
“On-line in five, Ern,” said an attractive brunette holding a lightscreen.
Comb-over’s shoulders sagged in resignation.
“There’s never any time,” he sighed. “Whatever. He’ll be meat at the very least. 500 XP for the other runners.”
Comb-over continued down the corridor. Nick tried to follow but was stopped by a woman holding her wrist pad in camera mode.
“For our show,” she explained. “What was your last name again?”
“Stanners,” Nick said, still feeling like an idiot.
The pad flashed and he was free to continue. Comb-over was walking fast.
“You’ve at least seen Oakshield Junction, right?” Ern asked over his shoulder.
“Hours and hours,” Nick said earnestly.
“Good,” Ern replied, leading Nick into a huge room marked with the number 20. The space was dominated by a large tank filled with faintly luminous lemon-colored gel. All manner of sensors and feeds were attached to the exterior of the cylinder. An Immersion tank. Finally. Nick’s heart felt like it could jackhammer free of his chest. He almost dropped to his knees and prayed.
“Don’t just stand there blowing your load, we only have a couple of minutes,” Ern said as a flood of production assistants entered the room. They fussed around Nick, stripping his clothes away. He was left standing naked, aghast.
“Really …?” he murmured, but no one was l
istening to him.
He didn’t know where to look, so he focused on the tank. How was he going to breathe in there?
“OK, here’s the deal,” Ern said, breaking his reverie. “You know how these shows work. This is a quest-driven environment. There will be nineteen other players in your world. You can fight them if you wish. Killing one means they’re done. But your main priority is to accumulate Love and Hate points. The viewers allocate these in real time. Completing quests wins you bonus points. If you get killed by an in-game enemy, you respawn with less points. This first scenario is called The Fields of Durandor. The top fifteen players on the leader board at the end of the mission will progress to the next round. If there are fifteen left.”
Nick felt like crying. This was like a glorious dream that could vaporize at any moment.
“You mean I might be back tomorrow?”
Ern nodded, though he looked doubtful.
“Sure, if you survive,” he said, directing Nick to the ladder on the other side of the tank. The newly-anointed runner started climbing with arms and legs like rubber. He’d never been so nervous.
“By the way, your payment is dependent on the social points you earn,” Ern said. “So your actions in-game are super important. Hero or villain - you decide, kid.”
Nick had tingles down his spine as he was handed a respirator by a techie perched on the edge of the tank.
“Ten seconds,” announced someone on the floor.
Nick fitted the respirator and gave a thumbs-up. Literally shaking with excitement, he lowered himself into the tank. It felt like sex - soft, fuzzy, all-encompassing. He closed his eyes slowed his breathing, trying not to panic. He wouldn’t last long if he was a nervous wreck. The best gamers were ice cold, even in battle.
He felt a strange tingling. When he opened his eyes everything was black. At first he thought the hardware wasn’t working, but he gradually became aware of a loading bar at the bottom of his view.
A title scrolled before his eyes - Oakshield Junction. That nervous knot in his stomach just got tighter. How many people were watching? What if he got killed in the first half hour? He wasn’t sure if he could live with that kind of humiliation. Was he still naked?
Strength Build: A LitRPG Saga (The Complete Strength Build Cycle) Page 1
