Continue Online The Complete Series

by Stephan Morse

“If he lets you.” I nodded happily while finding a place to sit.

  Like last time, the children were busy shuffling around chairs and jostling for space.

  “What was your story this time, uncle?” one of the little ones said.

  There were too many children running around. I couldn’t keep track of them with William Carver’s poor eyesight.

  “Yeah, geezer.” Phil had found his way in among the others. “Whatcha got for us?”

  “No story today. I brought cookies and a change of pace,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “Huh?”

  The tones around the room were fairly similar. Even Mylia sounded a bit thrown off.

  “What do you mean?” Phil said.

  “For years I’ve been coming here, sitting with you, sharing story after story.” Not me. William Carver. I had to remind myself constantly to keep the two lives separated.

  “Uh huh,” the little girl said.

  “So I think you all owe me a story.” I tried to put my hands out wide in a gesture. The movement hurt my shoulders.

  “What?” Other confused statements went around the room in a sudden jerk.

  I smiled. This was certainly against Carver’s standard actions. Judging by the hovering progress bar, I hadn’t actually done anything wrong yet. After all, William Carver lived his recent years out by giving people quests.

  “How many tales have I told you kids?” I asked.

  “A lot,” one of the oldest said. Judging by their size, it wouldn’t be long before they were forced to move on from the orphanage.

  “Then I deserve one in return I think.”

  “Sounds fair,” one of the oldest said. He leaned against the wall, watching a sea of small children munch away at baked goods. He seemed a hardworking sort with a deep tan. My vision was too fuzzy, but I would bet his hands were calloused and dirty from field work.

  “I don’t want to,” one of the younger children said.

  “Well, I want to,” another child said.

  They argued back and forth for a while, each one having a different view. I stomped the cane to get everyone’s attention. Amazingly, it worked very well.

  “There’s only one rule,” I said.

  “What now, geezer?” Phil chimed in.

  Both hands were back on top of the cane keeping me from tipping forward. “It can’t be a story I’ve told you.”

  “But I like your stories, uncle,” one of the little children said.

  “That’s good.” I tried to give this entire conversation my best grumpy old man tone. Hopefully it came across as a kind of abrasive cadence with a hint of affection. “But tell me something new.”

  “How would we find a new story?”

  “That’s up to you all, but if you do, I’ll promise a reward. Something to help you make money,” I offered.

  “Yeah, what’s that, geezer?” Phil had snagged a second cookie and was savoring it with a blissful look in his eyes.

  “You’ll see.” I had other contacts to visit tomorrow. Other places to go and things to do, like setting up dominoes in preparation. When they finally fell, Old Man Carver’s contribution would be etched into the city even more.

  After much harassment from the younger children, I provided another story. This time, it was an obscure tale I had dug up about a child exploring the land of dreams. A little bit of fright, a little bit of excitement, and unexpected heroism in the face of fear. The younger ones asked a lot of questions and expected details well outside my limited preparation. Much was made up on the spot, but they seemed pleased.

  I got a pop-up box regarding the entire night’s affairs and slowly read through it as I Carver’d my way home. No bonuses, no quests, only a notice that the children had enjoyed it.

  Strange. After only three weeks, I had started thinking of the little cottage as a second home. Another man’s shoes, clothes, book collection, and trophies. It felt comfortable in its foreignness. I went through the full motions of getting this tired old body into a bath heated by some sort of magical rock. The dirty water drained down into a piece of plumbing likely set up years ago by one of the town residents. I slowly curled up under a heavy down cover and felt the drowsiness as Carver’s eyelids slipped shut.

  Then blackness overtook both me and the person I was pretending to be. Hours later I woke up to intense chest pain. My breath froze as sharp shots of crippling discomfort spiraled through my arm and down one leg.

  “Ehhh.” Both eyes were fluttering uncontrollably as my ARC sent notices of damage across my body. I couldn’t even reach the logout button to try to avoid it. “Ehhhhhh.”

  As the first wave faded, leaving me hopeful that it was over, a second surge swung up past my senses. My defenses were down. Boxes were coming into existence, saying words that were impossible to focus on. Likely they were happy notices that I was suffering a heart attack.

  Then they were gone, and I was left gasping and panting.

  A box showed up, displaying that Old Man Carver’s constitution had once again saved the day. He was a former hero. The game stats reflected his abilities with regards to toughing out one of the worst pains I had ever experienced.

  I logged out of the ARC’s simulated pain, then fell back asleep almost as soon as reality returned. This game might well be the death of me yet.

  Session Thirteen — Finishing Touches

  “Think, think, old man.” What could I start into motion? What other balls could I set spinning in order to achieve my final few points?

  The time limit was rapidly approaching. Five days were left on the clock, and I had lumbered around town setting up all sorts of events. I felt like an old dog trying to go out in a blaze of playful glory.

  A blacksmith and his two player apprentices received an order for light metal frameworks. A woodcarver got more orders and was easy enough to hide my end goal from. I had to use Carver’s map to find someone to do embroidery and make cushions too. In the end, I had a fairly good result. It was still fragmented and all over the place.

  Old Man Carver had enough money squirreled away around his house to ensure that the payment itself wasn’t an issue. My issue was being somewhat secretive with my project. Players from an older generation would recognize this device once I assembled it. Younger children—well, older teenagers who seemed like children—might not know.

  Innovations from our world had far-reaching impacts upon the world of [Arcadia]. If done right, these orphanage kids could earn money. The older ones especially, if they didn’t have some other prospect lined up.

  And they wouldn’t need to thieve as Phil did.

  I sat down and slowly started fitting the pieces together. It had taken me hours in the real world to find appropriate blueprints and memorize them. Days in the game had passed while craftsmen did their things. New players received quests and got small monetary rewards, so they were pleased.

  This project of mine was a bicycle and harness that attached to a carriage.

  I noticed that new players had me as a guide and I had the [Messenger’s Pet]. Since new players all started with money, they could invest some funds to get guided tours all around town. Their money would go to the people driving, which would be the orphans.

  I guessed players who stuck around long enough could do the same thing. They would probably get points to [Brawn], [Endurance], and [Speed] if they survived. Plus, older folks like me wouldn’t have to hobble around.

  Voices above, I would love to have someone pedal my old virtual body back to Carver’s house at the end of a night. It took me almost an hour of shuffling to get anywhere.

  “Whatcha got there, geezer?” Phil said.

  “A lot of none ya,” I grumbled. My points constantly bounced up and down at the seventy-six percent mark. It was getting harder to jostle them either way. That was a small blessing. Maybe the ghost of Carver was approving of my actions, as bizarre as they would be for his recent personality.

  “Looks weird. Is that a wheel?” Ph
il had invaded my backyard, where all the pieces were scattered around.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a wheel. What do you have that needs six wheels?” he asked.

  I went over the picture in my head again. This contraption would be properly balanced, hopefully. I waved a tired limb in the youngster’s direction.

  “Make yourself useful and help me get this together. I need the cart.”

  “I can see the cart, but you got no horse to hitch this to. Ain’t gonna do you much good. Your back would give out before getting anywhere, ‘cus you’re a geezer.” He had at least gotten closer, judging by his voice.

  “Help or get out, Phil!” My attempt at shouting came out as a cough instead.

  The sun started setting while Phil hammered away. Despite his attitude, he actually did a fair job of getting the cart portion together. I grumbled as if displeased but was very happy.

  “Get these in there. Make sure they fit nice.”

  I’d had a player help me with the carriage cushions. She was working for one of the older ladies in town who taught embroidery and general tailoring skills. I tried to ask for a really nice product, something with a removable cover that would tuck inward. Too bad this world didn’t have zippers yet. Plastics and other such materials were lacking at this point, so I had to fall back to other adhesives. Even the bags used to clean up town were a strange material that wasn’t really plastic.

  “This looks kind of lordly. You gonna buy a mule and get it to carry your old bones down to the water?” Phil was rubbing his hands from where he banged them while working.

  “No.” My answer was curt.

  “Whatcha gonna do with this?”

  “I’m going to burn it all to the ground if you keep asking me questions. Or you could keep quiet”—because Carver’s spirit gave me negative points for saying shut up—“and wait. At least until it’s finished.”

  “Is this what you wanted me to see?”

  I grunted and kept trying to get the bike frame together. The wheels had been tough to figure out. Rubber didn’t exist. I’d spent nearly a full day searching through crafting shops, trying to find an other world counterpart. Turned out there was a fairly similar material, refined from tar and ores, that gave the same pliable feeling.

  According to the craft owner, it also was fairly hard to break down.

  I had contemplated finding an enchanter, but the town only had one, and he required a dozen prerequisites to even speak with. No players had ventured down an enchanter’s path yet either so I couldn’t bribe them. Rain-proofing would have to be another project.

  “These are nice. Do you think I could get some for my bed?” There was a look on Phil’s face that caught me off guard.

  I’d forgotten how poor they were over there. The orphanage barely had the money to feed its charges, much less afford good furniture.

  I grunted again, unsure how to say anything Carver-esque at this point. “Phil, since you can’t stop chattering, get me some food from the pantry. This labor makes me hungry.”

  Phil leaped up and away from his nearly furnished cart while I attached the wheels to my frame. The wheels were locked into place by old-fashioned iron clips that slid through a hole on either end of the hollow pipe.

  “Those don’t look very strong.” Phil was back moments later, munching on crackers and meat from my pantry. My share was deposited onto the ground with a handkerchief wrapped around it.

  “It’s plenty strong,” I said.

  “Why the giant holes?” His nosy head poked into my view. He chewed right next to me and dropped crumbs over our work.

  “Keeps it light.” The food was a service. My answering Phil’s question was now considered the reward.

  “Are those going to hook together?” He was pointing at some of the bars that I had laid out on the ground.

  “Yes. Now stop jawing and help.”

  “Okay.” Phil shoveled another batch of food to his mouth in an uncivilized manner and started following directions.

  Another twenty minutes later, the sun had completely set. The light cast from Carver’s cottage was enough to see our finished product.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “It looks like a right mess.”

  “Come back tomorrow morning. I’ll show you how it works.” By then I would have the chain on. That was the last piece to get everything together. Well, and grease. Keeping the chain off would prevent Phil from trying any successful midnight races.

  “How early?”

  “Sunrise, boy. Be there.” Old Man Carver’s body woke well before dawn and staggered around. I would let him run on autopilot for most of the morning routine while I researched in my Atrium.

  The bike was my scheme to get the orphanage kids on my side. They already ran messages for people who paid a copper or two. Showing new players around and carting goods under their own power would earn them a decent fee. Bicycles didn’t require food or grooming or shoveling their leavings.

  “Ehhh.” A groan escaped me. My shoulder wasn’t pleased after all this exertion. Even my interface warned me that I had recently abused this old body a bit too much.

  I got my body inside the house and took care of a few manual things while thinking about possibilities. Normally I logged off as soon as I was done and zoomed off to get sleep in the real world, but time was precious at this point. My clock was ticking, and none of these projects led me toward further conversation with Mylia or finding an adventure.

  My flier was still up—I’d checked—but responses had been minimal. Either no one had information for me, or no one cared. Perhaps the NPCs of this world were programmed to ignore out-of-character behavior.

  Did any of Carver’s inventory summon monsters to battle?

  No.

  Did any of his journals or people known have great but local adventures for an old man to go on?

  No.

  Was there anything on the enhanced map that provided me a hint?

  Way beyond no.

  I’d tried too many possibilities. Skill combinations that led to a revelation? Divine ascension or other planes to jot to overnight? Any signs of secret bosses within the town? Impending wars upon our local area? No, also no, still no, and of course no.

  My attempts to find a recently deceased member of Trillium had also belly flopped. Well, there were a few, but none of William Carver’s advanced years. No one on the primary board of trustees resembled him. The player’s handbook stated that new players were forced to look similar to their Continue avatar. The only known exceptions were modifications for alternate species or transformations of that nature.

  I guessed turning into a dragon while retaining some semblance of human features was unreasonable. A small smile crossed my features as I pictured a giant dragon with Carver’s grumpy face. That would be extremely silly and neat. With one beefy arm added for good measure.

  “Dragon man?” I snickered and shook my head.

  Nearby, the [Messenger’s Pet] had started hopping around the house. Slowly he inspected one object after another in suspicion. Nothing had changed since the last time he’d performed this ritual. With a purr and clack of jaws, the small creature leaped from a bookshelf onto one of Old Man Carver’s tables. More sniffing ensued. Slight huffs resulted in steam.

  “Don’t burn anything,” I said.

  The [Messenger’s Pet] looked at me and yawned. I, feeling the weight of Carver’s age and the time of night, nodded while yawning back.

  “You figure anything out?”

  He shook his tiny head and huffed again. His eyes blinked slowly as he looked around. Another yawn, and he shook from head to toe. Looking slightly revitalized, he fluttered and leaped around again.

  “What now?”

  There was no answer, which was fairly standard. This little guy rarely actually responded unless bribed with desserts. He existed in a land of equivalent exchange. William Carver did, James did; as a player, I had yet to grow us
ed to it.

  But I still wasn’t really a game player, not in my own mind. I was a man pretending to be William Carver through all the simulated pain and irritation of dealing with new players. A situation that my mind hadn’t completely wrapped itself around.

  Speaking of, it was time for the next list of names.

  “What do you think of Jörmungandr?” I made the ARC tell me how to pronounce that one.

  The small [Messenger’s Pet] looked up and huffed a smoke ring at me. That seemed to symbolize disagreement or annoyance.

  “Leviathan?”

  Another milder smoke ring appeared. The [Messenger’s Pet] was less annoyed with that name.

  “No, huh? You do seem a bit small for a Leviathan. They’re big, I hear.” Not that I had met any. In my world, the legend of a leviathan was most likely based on creatures like the now-extinct giant squid.

  “Ouroboros?”

  He outright coughed, and a spark of fire flared up for a brief moment.

  “Whoa, remember, no fire in the house.”

  Multiple [Coo-Coo Rill]s had perished in the last few days due to the [Messenger’s Pet] and his flames. I’d also lost three new player maps. Strangely, the little creature seemed to have decided toasting cupcakes was taboo. He took extra care only to use claws and teeth when devouring the snacks.

  “Still no, right?”

  The tiny creature nodded. Clearly he was smart enough to understand my words. He also felt like a child in the respect that his attention wandered very quickly.

  “What are you looking for?” I shuffled into the next room after him, gripping objects and desks for support. Everything hurt, but after the simulated heart attacks, these pains almost seemed mild.

  A week ago, I threw names of Wyverns at him. Those had resulted in an outright bark of flames. Turned out he didn’t like being compared to a Wyvern. According to the ARC’s Internet searches, there was a hierarchy among mythical beasts. Wyverns were portrayed as dumber and had no front limbs. More like scaly bats. Dragons had four limbs and two wings.

  “Maybe you should find some letters and write out your name with them.”

  Old Man Carver didn’t own a fridge with children’s magnets though. I’d checked. There was no widespread usage of a printing press in this world, so no stamps to borrow.