More Than a Game

by Andrey Vasilyev

  “Not ‘question,’ questions. The first is what I need to do to get those PKers off my back.”

  “Level past them, get some serious equipment and a weapon,” Willie answered amiably.

  “That’ll take forever.”

  “Then buy a character that’s already there.”

  “You can do that?”

  “You can do anything you want in Fayroll.” There Willie stopped, quickly glancing at me. “A lot of people level-up characters to sell. It isn’t exactly legal, but the admins generally look the other away. Still, they’re not big fans of it.”

  “Do they really go after you for buying players?”

  “No, they can’t prove it, so they don’t do anything. Well, as long as you don’t make the sale in the game itself. I haven’t heard of anyone being dumb enough to do that, though.”

  “How much does a character like that cost?” I was really intrigued to hear how much you could make providing that kind of service.

  “It depends,” Willie laughed. “Let’s say you decide to sell yours—you wouldn’t get a single kopeck. Who needs it? But if I decided to sell mine and threw in all the armor and everything in my room, I could buy an apartment. Maybe not in the center, maybe a one-room apartment on the first floor somewhere in Degunino,[5] but still—an apartment. And if one of the top players decided to sell their character…”

  “An apartment for a chunk of code?” My surprise was genuine.

  “What did you think?” Willie grinned ironically. “It’s a business. A big one. The money pouring through here…damn. I mean, that’s true for all the top games. In Korea, some guy sold an account for a game that’s been around for a while. Sure, it was an ace account with all the sets collected, all the dungeons beaten, a personal dragon, all the quests, and everything, but still—walked away with 10 million.”

  “Dollars?”

  “I don’t remember what they have in Korea, but in dollars, it was 10 million.” It was obvious that Willie envied the Korean.

  “So what did he do?”

  “You’re asking me? Maybe he opened a car dealership. Maybe he makes coffee machines or paid off his debts. Maybe he hacks away at a mannequin with a wooden sword day and night. How should I know?”

  “You’re kidding me,” I scratched my head. “I can’t believe it. Here I thought it was just a game…”

  “Ha!” Willie’s considerable girth jiggled with laughter. “People live in the game, and the people on top, live pretty well. Don’t forget that you can exchange gold for real money—so there’s an underground market and an aboveground market. Okay, tell me this, why do you think people kill other players? I mean, sure, there are some crazies running around, and plenty of assholes. But a lot of people PK to make money. You take out a player, and you get his clothes and everything else. Sure, there isn’t much there, but hey, it’s like Raskolnikov: ‘Ten old ladies make a ruble.’ You can sell it all for gold, and then exchange the gold for real money.”

  “So how many players do you have to kill?”

  “PKers aren’t really in any hurry. They get something from you, something from the next guy. And they hunt in groups of two or three, and, say, a group of three at Level 23-25 with normal gear can easily take out a Level 40 tank. And it isn’t just the money; they get stuff they can auction off, too. So yeah, but that isn’t all. You have no idea how much money changes hands in the clans…damn. And the better the clan, the more money there is going around, and the more you get from the clan, obviously.”

  “What do you get?”

  “That you’ll have to figure out on your own, my friend. Some things I won’t even talk about with old schoolmates, not to mention in the game. Politics, you know? Drink your beer.”

  While we were talking, the NPC waitress brought over our beer and meat. Willie began pounding the bitter-smelling liquid by the liter, though I just sipped mine.

  “Really, if you don’t want to keep respawning, you’ll need to join a clan,” Willie continued through a full mouth. “Just make sure it’s a good, strong clan. That way, PKers will know that killing you will bring the wrath of God down on them. The whole clan will blacklist them and hunt them across the entire continent. The only problem is that you can’t get into a clan like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why the heck would they need you? A Level 6 tank. You’re a dime a dozen in Fayroll. Only a noob clan would take you.”

  “A noob clan?”

  “Yeah. Losers nobody needs make their own clan and stick around the starting locations or the Noobland exit to farm and attract more players. They say they’re going to take the game by storm, everything’s going to be great, they have a solid reputation and steel balls… Though really, they’re just stroking their ego. ‘Look at me, I’m a clan leader.’ There’s this one guy, Amendak, who runs a clan called the Great Fayroll Army. He’s a clown. Gets a group together to build some kind of army. People last a day or two until they start wondering why they’re paying to spend time with him, and then he goes back to Noobland to start over. Clown…”

  “Can I join your clan? What’s it called, by the way?”

  “Messengers of the Wind, but you can’t join. I’m getting up there in the clan, but we only take Level 45s and higher. Sometimes, we make exceptions, but only after a group vote or if the clan leader okays it personally. Oh, and only if you have something we need. That’s even easy-going, though—the Gray Witch in Hounds of Death, for example, only accepts Level 60 and higher, and even then they’re picky about who they let in. Drink!”

  I downed a glass and saw the world around me grow a little fuzzier at the edges.

  “So what should I do?”

  “Keep leveling-up. Work on your abilities. Then, see what you can do. Oh, by the way, I have an offer for you. You’re writing an article, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Mention my clan, say something about how friendly we are, how great it is.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “First of all, a little PR never hurt anyone. Second, I’ll give you 100 gold for your trouble. And third, once you get to Level 45, you’ll have an ace up your sleeve that we won’t forget. So what do you say?”

  “Sounds good. And I have a request for you, too.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Don’t tell anyone that I’m a journalist.” I’m not sure why I asked that. Some kind of instinct deep inside me, and I trust my gut.

  “Nobody here knows you anyway, but sure.”

  Fat Willie sent me 100 gold and raised his glass, “Let’s drink to working together, and I’ll teach you one last lesson!”

  I drained my glass in one gulp and realized that I’d lost control of myself. I was a wooden doll, limited to the shortest of thoughts and seeing out of button eyes.

  “And there’s your last lesson,” said Willie as he stepped toward my carcass on the floor. “Stay in control of yourself no matter what. This isn’t the real world, where you can just go throw up and feel better. Now you won’t be able to move for half an hour.”

  As if in confirmation of his words, a message appeared:

  You’re drunk as a sailor. Movement and articulate speech are limited for 10 to 30 minutes.

  He rolled me up in a rug lying on the floor and stuck me under a bench near the window.

  “Ah,” he smiled cheerily as he walked out. “A fine joke! If you need anything, send me a message.”

  Hilarious, I thought, wrapped up and left in the corner. He was trying to get me drunk the whole time. I guess he’s spent time boosting his alcohol tolerance!

  As I mentioned, Fat Willie’s jokes were always unpredictable. I remembered how, one time at school, a classmate of ours tattled on him to our teacher. Willie managed to slip both a laxative and an emetic into the snitch’s coffee, after which he stood in the bathroom and watched the poor guy try to figure out which end he should point at the toilet. An unusual sense of humor, to say the least. Still, I was happy with our meeting.
I’d gotten some clothes, some information, and 100 gold…better than nothing. Life was looking up! Sure, I ended up on the ground wrapped in a rug, but that I could live with.

  Just then, the door creaked and, judging by the sound of their feet, three people walked in.

  “Who was that big guy?” asked a female voice.

  “Wild Willie from the Messengers,” a deep and heavy male voice answered. “Forget about him. Gerv, what do you think?”

  “I’m not really thrilled about what you did, Elina, but what’s done is done. The decision is made, and the Hounds of Death have our assurance,” said the third voice. It was also masculine, though, in contrast to his friend’s, it was quieter and ingratiating.

  I had no idea what was going on, but the message I got from my intuition was clear, “You’re screwed now…”

  Chapter Five

  Clan Volunteer

  “Hey, why are we talking here instead of in the fortress?” the woman asked with some nervousness in her voice.

  “They have great beer here,” the bass answered. “Maybe the best in Fayroll. Also, it’s cheaper—those portal scrolls cost money.”

  “Penny wise and dollar foolish.”

  “Oh, sure, look at everyone spying on us. Hey, miss, bring us some beer,” he barked.

  “Why do you have to be so rude, Gorotul?” The question came from the one they called Gerv.

  “It’s just who I am. Get used to it!”

  “That’s a shame,” the woman sadly added. “Definitely not good.”

  “And what you did is good?” Gorotul suddenly asked her. “You betrayed our partners, and that’s putting it nicely.”

  “Betrayal at the right time isn’t betrayal. It’s foresight,” noted Gerv.

  “Come on. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this here. Let’s go to the fortress. People will find out sooner or later, but I’d rather it be later,” the woman said cautiously.

  “Oh, stop it,” Gorotul brush her off carelessly. “Why worry so much? Ah, our beer!”

  I heard some gurgling as the owner of the bass slurped his beer into what sounded like a large stomach.

  “Okay,” said the woman. “What do we have right now?”

  “That’s a rhetorical question,” Gerv answered positively. “We don’t have anything right now, though if things play out right, that might change.”

  “Exactly,” noted the woman. “If we don’t support the Plains Eagles and the clans they’re allied with, or even if we just announce our loyalty to the Hounds of Death, our reputations will take a beating…”

  “Basically, they’ll call us traitors and rats,” clarified the bass, taking a deep breath after downing his beer.

  “It’s a risk for our reputations,” the woman pushed on, “but that’s all since they won’t go as far as to openly fight us. And really, sticks and stones… On the other hand, however, we earn the friendship of the Hounds of Death, and maybe even a partnership with them.”

  “And what do we get from that?” the bass chimed in again.

  “Oh, come on, Gorotul… Gerv, I can’t do this anymore, explain it to him.” Light, feminine steps came toward me, and the bench I was laying under creaked.

  “Look, my dear barbarian,” came the soft voice of the one she called Gerv. “The Hounds of Death are a powerful clan. An influential clan. A clan with a long memory. And they always remember who their friends and their enemies are. We can’t do anything to hurt them since they could crush us without breaking a sweat. But we could help them… Leaving would significantly weaken the clan alliance the Hounds are focusing on more and more. It would be a moral and literal blow to the alliance, and things like that aren’t easily forgotten.”

  “Well, okay. And just like that, we’d look like rats—and we wouldn’t even get anything out of it.”

  “We’d get something out of it,” Gerv quietly chuckled. “Our reputation would suffer, but our horizons would brighten. Sure, we would violate our agreement. Yes, we would pull a bit of a dirty trick. Okay, so we would have to grovel a bit… What’s that face for?”

  “Grovel? Why?!” roared Gorotul.

  “Do you want to get to Rivenholm? New lands, new quests, get the clans over there to bend over for us?” the woman chimed in.

  “Of course,” answered Gorotul. “Why even ask? Everyone does.”

  “How many ships does our clan have?”

  “Two. And we’re building two more.”

  “Is that enough for a full convoy? Enough to get there, considering the competition will be trying to sink us every step of the way? Kraken and his tentacles? Jolly pirates flying the no less Jolly Roger trying to run a jihad on us landlubbers? Whatever else might happen?”

  “Of course not,” admitted Gorotul. “Although nobody’s ever gotten there, as far as I know.”

  “Exactly. So what’s wrong with asking the Gray Witch to let us join their flotilla? As attendants. If we help them and show that we’re loyal, she probably won’t mind. And if we can prove ourselves to be a reliable, friendly, and useful clan for the Hounds of Death once we’re in the flotilla, they’ll help us when we get to Rivenholm. And you can’t put a price on that. So, my dear, we will do all the groveling it takes. Happily. And it wouldn’t hurt to do something else for them, something unusual…”

  The woman started rocking back and forth on the bench, which made me rock in my rug. The beer inside me began complaining about the treatment it was getting.

  “I heard,” Gerv continued insinuatingly, “that the Gray Witch was interested in someone…”

  “Yes? What kind of interest?” Gorotul laughed at his double entendre.

  “Not what you’re thinking,” Gerv answered coldly. “Not personal.”

  “How do you know?” the woman asked with interest and stopped rocking, which made me feel better.

  “I just do,” Gerv answered evasively. “How… Well, what does it matter to you, Elina?” It’s secret information that isn’t meant to leave the clan. They call him Wanderer, and he hasn’t reached the last level yet. The Witch is trying to find out everything she can about him, and especially wants to know where he’s located in the game.”

  “Unbelievable!” shouted Gorotul. “You have ears in the Hounds?”

  “Dear God!” the other two exclaimed at once, obviously shocked at their companion’s stupidity.

  “Do you know why she’s so interested in Wanderer?” the woman asked.

  “All I have are rumors,” Gerv answered. “They say Wanderer got the Great Dragon quest.”

  “Oh, come on, that’s nothing,” announced the bass. “Just one more of who knows how many who have the Great Dragon quest.”

  “Sure,” agreed Gerv. “But why would the Gray Witch be so interested in him? Just for the hell of it? That I doubt.”

  Okay, Gerv,” the woman clapped. “Let’s check with our contacts and see what we can find about Wanderer. Maybe someone knows something. That could be a nice bonus for us—we’ll just have to do it quietly.”

  “Well, obviously,” Gerv huffed. “If anyone learns that we found out, they’ll make life miserable for us—if they don’t just destroy us outright. It’s no joke sticking your nose in the Gray Witch’s business.”

  “You’re telling me,” said the woman. “Phew, what a day…”

  She stood up quickly, the bench rocked back, and that knocked the rug with me rolled up in it out from under the bench.

  What happened next could have been pulled directly from some old comedy. The rug unraveled, leaving me to thud out onto the floor, and I looked up to see the group of three staring down at me in mute surprise. There was a hefty half-orc in armor and wielding an enormous battle axe. At least, I imagined that’s how half-orcs look—light-green skin, big teeth that don’t stick out of their mouth like my friend Euiikh’s, with a well-built, powerful body knotted up and down with muscles. Next to him was Gerv, a small human with a forgettable face dressed in unassuming clothes with a set of metal knives and a sma
ll sword strapped to his back. I guessed he was a scout. I wasn’t exactly sure what a scout was. Though, judging by what he was saying, it was apparently something like an intelligence agent…or spy. Finally, there was a tall, staggeringly beautiful elf woman. She had almond-shaped blue eyes, textbook-sharp ears, golden hair, and white clothes—probably a mage. Also, she was probably more a girl than a woman.

  She crouched down next to my carcass and, in her melodious voice, asked me with some bewilderment “Who are you?”

  I don’t know what got into me. The time may have expired for my intoxication, or maybe it was the elf’s beauty. It could have been the thought that I was royally screwed, or that real life doesn’t happen like in books or movies. Whatever the reason, the gift of speech returned.

  “Hagen,” I answered.

  “Well, that’s very informative,” the elf observed. “How did you get here, Hagen?”

  “I came here with Fat Willie for some beer. He got me drunk, rolled me up in the carpet, and stuck me under the bench,” I answered truthfully.

  “That’s probably Wild Willie,” the half-orc said, “the one who left when we got here. It’s Wild Willie, though, not Fat Willie.”

  “Who cares which Willie he is?” the elf sadly exclaimed. “What are we going to do with this one now? He heard everything! You heard everything, right?” She turned to me.

  “I heard everything.” There was no point in denying the obvious. “Though I didn’t understand it all.”

  “Well, at least he isn’t lying,” said Gerv. “Still, this is a problem.”

  “Seriously, Gorotul,” the elf turned to him and said, “We have a clan fortress with spell protection, comfortable rooms, and everything else you could want. But no, you had to drag us to this squalid pub. I told you! ‘The beer is good.’ You’re kidding me!”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and nervously paced the room.

  “But it is!” answered the half-orc. “And we shouldn’t use the scrolls so often. We need to save money!”