I groan, eat more root, press forward.
Sometimes the best way to live is by never looking back. So I keep my eyes and thoughts trained on the horizon, on where I’m going rather than where I’ve come from.
I’m hungry as hell when afternoon comes. After another fifteen minutes or so of running with hunger pangs, I see a rest point a few hundred yards away and trot over to it.
Lo and behold there’s a fire still going and a small pig freshly roasted on the fire.
This bothers me, not the fact that there’s free food to be had, but the fact that the Obelisk is just now finding the time to help me out. Where the fuck was she last night? Why couldn’t she have put a wall between Wolf and the exploding Solar Mage?
I take off my hat and wipe sweat off my brow.
It’s ugly, but it is keeping the sun off my back, so the hat goes back on. Practically drooling now, I start picking at the pig, eating as much as I can stuff in my mouth.
“You would have loved this,” I tell the lump that is Wolf’s dead body.
Nothing funny about it. He would have gone to town on this pig. And I suddenly feel guilty for talking to his corpse. The first time Wolf and I ate together comes to me in a flash.
It was in the Eastern Splits, not long after we encountered each other on the mountain pass. He ran off the next morning and I thought it would be the last I’d see of him. Boy was I wrong. He came back thirty minutes later, a baby gazelle in his maw.
I approached him cautiously, not sure if he wanted to share. He let me take the other end of the gazelle, its legs, and then started up a goddamn game of tug-of-war.
Eventually, Wolf let me cook the animal, and sure, I gave him the lion’s share of the catch, but I’ll never forget that moment. I’ll never forget reaching out to him, not sure of how he’d react, or the first time we ate together, played together, got to know each other.
I’ll never forget what it felt like to solidify our friendship.
And now this.
Riders approaching in the distance catch my attention.
The three are on small Metican horses. They carry the red flag of the Drachma Killers, which I take as a symbol of Drachma itself. The first to approach, a thin man with his hair braided, calls me over to him.
[Drachma Soldier, level 21]
“You there, in the lavender cloak, have you seen a Player Killer with a wolf? They say he wore a purple cloak.”
He doesn’t know?
I instinctively touch my hat as the realization dawns on me.
It’s masking my handle!
“Ahem, never seen nobody,” I say in a hickish accent common to some of the peasants of southern Unigaea. “And I hate purple. I, um, only wear lavender.”
What the fuck are you saying!?
“That accent … ” The Drachma soldier hops down from his horse and my fingers twitch. My sword is under my cloak; surely, he can see its outline. Still, it isn’t uncommon for a merchant to be carrying a weapon in these parts. “Where are you from?”
“Karuna,” I tell him, “by way of Scudo.”
“Ah! Karuna, what a peaceful city.” He stops in front of the cart and reads it. “Grope’s Jerky Shed, huh? Any of you guys ever heard of this?”
His mounted companions shake their heads ‘no.’
The Drachma soldier places his foot on the cart and puts some weight into his heel. “Sure is heavy.”
“That’s what she said?”
“Is that a joke?” he asks me. “Because if it is … ” He turns to the other soldiers and they share a laugh. “We’ve never heard that one before!”
“Glad to share it then.”
“Ha! Well, let’s take a look at what you have here before we get on our way.” He approaches the back of the cart. “It sure is big, whatever it is. Doesn’t look like jerky.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands to attention as he reaches for the blanket. Just then, a loud scream in the distance catches his attention.
“You guys hear that?” he asks his riding companions.
Another scream, this one louder than the first.
The Drachma soldier turns to his horse and climbs on. “It sounds like it’s coming from over there, down that hill, in that patch of trees. Let’s go!”
“Good luck!” I call after them, my ass saved by the Obelisk again.
Chapter Three: Meta Babies and the Gamification of the 21st Century
Not much happens for the three hours after my encounter with the Drachma soldiers. They can’t be the only search party, which now makes Oric Rune a wanted man.
Great.
The sun is high in the sky now but it is still cold, my muscles only kept warm by the increased movement and the stamina given to me by the Jatla root.
What I wouldn’t give to head south rather than north and see to Governor Florin Talonas, the man responsible for killing Sam’s first avatar, the fucker responsible for ordering the attack on the hotel room I shared with Deathdale.
The irony of it all is that he has come for me two times now, either in almost-coitus or post-coitus, which is odd. It’s like he’s watching my feed or something, waiting for me to score.
But no one can watch my feed. No one watches anyone’s feed in Unigaea.
This is yet another thing that is prevented in this world, livestreaming, which is great because it keeps TwitchTube Red stars and their legions of shitty fan boys and girls in other Proxima worlds.
Why would anyone attack Unigaea, Oric?
You mean the source code bomb?
Yes. How was it unleashed? Who would do such a thing?
I consider this for a moment as I haul Wolf’s body up a hill. I’ve gnawed through half of my Jatla root and I’m definitely starting to have the shakes. Still, it has lit a much needed fire under my ass.
A fork in the road ahead has a sign pointing towards Metica, another pointing towards Tael. Seeing the sign pointing to Metica reminds me of the battle waged in their arena just two days prior.
How I was able to convince a well armored city guard named Desdemona to take over after Sam killed the Metican leader is beyond me.
Talk about a diplomacy check.
Oric, the question at hand: Why would anyone attack Unigaea?
I bite my lip as I reach a top of a hill and pause for a moment. I still can’t decide if the Obelisk is speaking to me through my thoughts, or if my endless mind chatter can be traced back to the attribute points I chucked into MIND.
“But it is a good question,” I say aloud. “Why would anyone want to destroy Unigaea?”
Could it have been the Proxima Company?
“I doubt it,” I tell the voice in my head. “Once a Proxima world is set up with a good NVA Seed capable of generating a myriad of ideas, like the Obelisk, it doesn’t take much to keep the lights on aside from server space.”
Server?
“So it is you, Obelisk?”
Silence this time.
I continue down the hill. The afternoon sun has increased the temperature, but this side of the hill is awash in shadows, leaving the snowdrifts intact.
My nose twitches at the smell of smoke. There’s a fire in the vicinity, but I’d rather not investigate.
Instead, I chew a bit more Jatla root, feeling a twitchy wave move through me. I spit, hoping to get the bittersweet taste out of my mouth. I hate using handicaps, but if there is one advantage of living in a fantasy world, it’s the usage of things such as the map on my dashboard, or the red outline that appears around enemies when I’m stalking them.
I suppose the world up there has its handicaps now.
Because of GoogleFace maps and its integration with life chips, there is literally no way to get lost in the real world. Depending on how you set your iNet dashboard, which plays out on a person’s eyelids, you can view a number of things: from the nutritional facts of the food you are about to stuff in your face to another person’s public details, the accessible data is endless, even with the growth o
f quantum encryption.
The 21st century is the century in which real life became a video game. Everything can now be gamified thanks to the apps invented in the early 2000s. There is no information, unless classified, that isn’t readily available. Hell, many things, such as food, actually appear as stats!
I smirk at this thought: the real world is nothing more than an elaborate MMORPG.
Choose a career, choose a family, however the fuck that quote goes – everything is an attempt to level up. Those on the top can level up through power grabs or world building; those at the bottom level up by saving their universal basic income. If they’re lucky, they’ll figure out some way to make a little extra cash in the post Ubertopia that is the US economy.
“Everything is a fucking game,” I say bitterly as I press forward.
Where you are born, the color of your skin, the assets you are born with, and the time period will all determine the game you wind up playing. What strikes me as odd is why people of the late 20th century got so into role playing games when they were in fact living a role playing game.
Meta as fuck.
“The Obelisk definitely didn’t say that.”
We are the meta babies of a world based upon winning, be it war or the long game of cushioning an IRA. Everything is an RPG, everything is a game that must be won. Everything has been gamified to increase retention, to advertise, to force competition where competition isn’t necessary, to prove one’s self-worth.
Level up, level up, fuck you, fuck me, level up!
Play your role well, and reap the rewards. You’re the next contestant on the game called life!
+10 Cunning! +$5,000! +1 Child! +1 War Victory! +1 Sexual Encounter!
Play it poorly or find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it’s game over.
-2 Years Prison! -1 Boyfriend! -10 Mass shooting of the week! -1 Lifelong dream!
My RPG life up there is no different than my RPG life in Unigaea: predestined randomness.
Then why do you choose to stay here, Oric? Why, if life up there is a game that everyone plays, are you here? Why not just play the game up there?
I spit the Jatla root out, toxic thoughts zipping around my skull cavity like cracked out hummingbirds. Vomit turns in my stomach and I drop the cart, get on my knees and let it all go.
Why, if life up there is simply an RPG, do you stay here?
I grin before the answer can leave my trembling lips. “Because I can’t run around with a broken ass sword up there riding a giant wolf and fighting motherfuckers.”
You’re an idiot, Eric!
Is that really the reason, Oric?
“I don’t know, Obelisk, I really don’t know,” I say as the grin fades. “I guess here is just … just different than what I’m used to. Escapism, even if I’m simply escaping to a mirrored existence. Escapism. Yeah, that’s it. Why game up there when you can game in here? If you could log into my world somehow, I’m sure you’d be doing the same shit as me.”
Riding a wolf and fighting motherfuckers with a broken ass sword?
“Yes, something like that.”
(^_^)
I find a babbling brook and drink from it.
The Jatla root is rotting my brain; I’m sick of thoughts polluting my skull. Sure, everything is a fucking RPG, but that doesn’t mean I should continue to unravel that existential ball of yarn just to see how long the thread is.
I return to the cart, focus on my footsteps, and eventually come upon a public campsite with a blazing fire.
Convenient.
Still, it would be much more convenient if the Obelisk had been there last night.
Food is roasting over the abandoned fire, three plump rabbits. Each bite calms the chatter in my mind and the empty feeling in my gut.
My crazy thoughts dissipate at about the time a swirl of snow enters into the equation.
The snow picks up, and with my lavender cloak on, I press forward into the wintery abyss. I have the energy to do it, the Jatla root is still in my system. If push comes to shove, I can rage to increase my speed.
Good idea.
I lift up the cart, Wolf in the back, and focus my thoughts.
Rage.
A tingling sensation spreads across the front of my chest. I’m sure the scar given to me by the Obelisk is glowing blue now, but there’s no way to tell with my armor on.
RAGE!
My vision pane constricts and expands. Each breath inflates my lungs to their breaking point.
I physically feel myself get heavier as my muscles increase in density. One foot in front of the other, I start trotting along the road to Tael, my surroundings a blur, the trail beneath my feet my only guiding point.
Thoughts come but I ignore them.
A voice whisper-screams at the back of my head. Get to Tael!
I move even faster than before.
I can feel every part of my body now, from the digital oxygen as it moves into my bloodstream to each individual toe, shielded by my sea dragon boots, the balls of my foot pressing off the ground, the veins on my arms bulging as I push the yoke forward like some sort of workhorse.
A swelling wave of emotion comes over me as I remember Wolf, as I recall our first encounter in the Eastern Splits.
You could have killed me.
I let the tears come and don’t wipe them away.
I should have saved you.
As the night progresses, the temperature decreases. An inner warmth fueled by an odd mix of hope and remorse carries me forward.
(^_^)
The city of giants is visible in the distance. The morning sun as just peaked over the horizon, its light reflecting off patches of ice in shallow formations created by the roots of the Taelian oaks, which line the four-lane road.
I can’t fluidly recall anything that has happened over the last eight hours, a time in which I was more machine than man, my only goal to reach the city by morning.
Exhaustion came several times, but every time it did, I’d find something to eat, be it random ash berries or a sack of discarded jerky I found along the road. The Obelisk is clearly my Deus Ex Machina at the moment, but I don’t believe for a moment that this is simply a selfless act, nor do I think it is something that will last.
She has tasked me with seeing to the Red Plague, the source code bomb, and I believe that’s the only thing keeping me in her favor.
“Thanks for taking pity on me,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster considering my utter exhaustion.
I drop the cart once I see two roadside benches, one for commoners and the other for giants. From what I’ve been able to gather, and from having visited Tael once as mayor of Ducat, the giants are very conscious of public space, its necessity and its proper usage.
Maybe they have bigger brains than other NPCs.
I shrug at this thought as I take a seat.
All I know about Taelian giants is that they can only be played by NPCs. Reborn Player Characters and PCs like me aren’t allowed to take the role of giant, which is too bad, because I think it’d be fun to be a giant.
Fee-fi-fo-fum …
I lie back on the bench, my nerves on fire from the eight hours of straight travel.
A Player Killer in a lavender cloak with a hat over his chest? Surely this won’t attract attention.
Just in case, I unsheathe my Splintered Sword and keep it at my side, my hand on its grip. Sleep comes and I readily give in, the last image I see in my mind’s eye that of Sam Raid, back when she was an illusionist and the leader of the Tangka Militia.
What a badass, I think as I see her go to war with her giant golden lance.
“You really are something, Sam.”
Chapter Four: Insta-level
“Ahem, excuse me, sir, it is against Taelian law to sleep on a bench within the city limits.”
I stir and my heart rises in my chest as I see a giant female in light armor standing before me. Unlike Deathdale, the female giant’s armor means busine
ss. Head-to-toe steel and a chainmail coif would make it hard to get a hit off her, and that’s if you were her size.
[Taelian Guard, Level 5]
Doesn’t matter the level, I think to myself as I sit up.
“If you prefer, I can escort you to our homeless shelter.” The female giant has a single dimple; freckles of varying size span the bridge of her nose. She smiles, lifting the sides of her close-cut chainmail coif. She’s cute.
“Actually, I’m not homeless.” I think about this for a minute. “Well, I guess I am homeless, technically, because I burned my home down a few days back. Long story. I apologize for the monologue; I’ve been carrying on a conversation with myself for two days straight. Or was it a day and a half? I’m not a hobo, per se.”
One of her eyebrows rises.
I wave away her concern. “Sorry, I’m here looking for someone. You don’t happen to know a giant named Lothar Shane, do you?”
The female guard’s smile fades. “Yes. I was … ”
She hesitates.
“You were what?”
“His girlfriend. My name’s Gadsaa Malin.”
Oh shit, Lothar’s ex.
I clear my throat. “Hi, Gadsaa, Oric Rune.”
In that instant, I recall the encounter that triggered my relationship with Lothar. He was sitting by the side of the road when I first met him, trying to come to grips with a breakup letter. “So, um, you don’t happen to know where he’s at, do you?”
“He’s probably at his home.”
“Any chance you could take me there? I find parts of Tael difficult to navigate.”
“As you wish.” She turns, her armor clanking with each step. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her approach, but after traveling all night hyped up on rage and Jatla root, I’m also surprised I don’t have a head-splitting hangover.
“You don’t have to stop by and say anything to him. Just point at his place.” Once my handle-masking hat is in place, I grab the yoke of the merchant’s cart. Wolf feels heavier than he felt yesterday, maybe because my energy is shot.
“Oh, I’ll say something all right.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I say under my breath.
The Red Plague: A LitRPG Trilogy (The Last Warrior of Unigaea Book 3) Page 2
