Level Up- The Knockout

by Dan Sugralinov

  This must have been how Goliath had felt when he’d punched him right in the liver.

  Damage received: 2,000

  There were plenty of alerts from the system—from the blinking red filter on his visual feed (as if Mike’s own blood trickling into his eyes hadn’t been enough) to the somber message from the voice in his head.

  Last chance!

  Severe danger of fatality! Quit the battle immediately!

  +10 to Agility for 10 seconds... 9...

  Such bitter irony. An incredible bonus to Agility that could only be used for running away.

  Somehow, Hagen managed to dodge an uppercut without standing straight. Sylas’ glove made a whooshing sound as it punched thin air. Hagen stepped back, breaking his crouching stance, so his opponent tried another kick. Hagen dodged it and caught the other man’s foot the way he did when Wei Ming taught him how to kick.

  He didn’t manage to go through with the foot sweep though. Sylas managed to evade the grip.

  An evasive maneuver and another feint. Sylas kept his face protected against a strong punch. Hagen took a step back and kicked his opponent in his muscled chest clad in a wrestling suit.

  Damage dealt: 9600 (Kick)

  The blow made Sylas fall forward for some reason—he’d dropped to his knees and then tried to keep the balance using his hands. Immediately he attempted to rise but he must have still felt groggy. He crawled to the ropes and tried to stay upright but his hands slipped, so he fell on his face and then turned over.

  Ochoa stood over Sylas, counting seconds relentlessly even though everything was already clear.

  “Six... Seven... Eight...”

  Hagen felt like his feet could no longer maintain contact with the ring. It was as though someone had been trying to squeeze him on purpose. He had to grab the ropes, too.

  “Ten! The fight is over!”

  Congratulations! You’ve defeated an opponent in a fair fight!

  XP points received: 2 (twice the experience for your first victory over an opponent of a higher level).

  XP points received: 2 (twice the experience for your a victory on the verge of defeat).

  You’ve received a new level!

  Current level: 6

  The familiar column of light encircled Hagen. Once again he felt that feeling of ultimate ecstasy which drowned out the pain for a while. Mike even got the feeling that the column of light was the only reason why he could still stand upright.

  The Tail Wagging the Dog: quest completed!

  XP points received: 2

  XP points received on the current level (6): 5/6

  Even the message about the cooldown debuff (points off his stats for the duration of 12 hours) didn’t sour his feeling of exhilaration.

  Hagen’s vision was still blurry, his head spinning, but the interface messages were perfectly clear before his eyes, April’s progress bar in particular.

  Reputation: Strong Interest (5/10)

  Resistance to your Charisma: medium (5/10)

  Chapter 16. First Base

  The Lord forgives everything, but I’m just a prophet... so I don’t have to.

  BioShock

  HAGEN WAS LYING on his sofa watching TV. A casual observer might have thought he’d have returned to his old habits—this is exactly how he would spend his spare time back then. However, the virtual assistant had told him that he would regenerate faster if he stayed absolutely stock still.

  He could have regenerated even faster if he’d gone to the doctor before staying still, of course—if he could have afforded it, that is. Gonzalo gave him the winnings from his bet but they amounted to about a hundred bucks. That was a ridiculous sum, but the betting had just been a lark between friends, so what could he expect?

  The virtual assistant had already tried to drop a few hints in this respect. “Allow me to remind you, sir...”

  “What is it now?” Mike was already beginning to regret having let the assistant initiate conversations and give advice.

  “According to our analysis of the population of this segment of the Galaxy, reading is the most commonly-used activity for developing one’s Intellect. Reading enhances one’s ability for exchanging information with others. Moreover, the cognitive processes...”

  Haggen grabbed his head with both his hands. “Could you explain that in simpler terms?”

  “If you start reading up on military strategy and martial arts instead of wasting your time in front of that TV set, you will become more intelligent, sir.”

  Hagen was an extremely reluctant reader. “Could I do without books?”

  “Yes, sir. Documentaries on those subjects also develop your Intellect, albeit at half the speed.”

  “What about comic books?”

  “There is no information on comic books or graphic novels.”

  Hagen yawned. “I’ll give it some thought. Perhaps I’ll read something. Or watch a few YouTube videos.”

  “May I suggest a list of books for beginners? It is based on the United States Military Academy Officer’s Professional Reading Guide...”

  “No, sorry, but no,” Hagen reacted at last. “I’ve taken too much damage during the fight. My head doesn’t work right...”

  “Sir, allow me to observe that according to the last scan, your intellectual capacity remains the same as it had been prior to your fight with Sylas. And it’s not much, sir. You might want to pay some attention to it.”

  “Could the data be obsolete? How often do you perform those scans?”

  “Every five milliseconds, sir.”

  “That’s cool. Like LCD monitor response time. Anyway. I have a whole six XP points—I could invest one or two into Intellect.”

  “That will make you learn new skills and abilities faster. But it won’t give you any new knowledge.”

  “Got it. Thanks. And now will you just shut up for a while?”

  Hagen called up the notification settings slider and moved it closer to “No Notifications” to make sure he wouldn’t get disturbed. He leaned back on the sofa, feeling satisfied, and continued watching TV.

  He found some boxing match on a sports channel. Hagen marveled at how his attitude toward televised fights had changed. He would automatically mark mistakes and successful attacks. He was trying to calculate what he’d do if he had been one of the fighters, analyzing their every move. Yet he still had the nagging feeling that watching other people fight wasn’t proper studying.

  He longingly looked at the slightly bent punch bag in the corner of the room. His fists clenched—he’d really wanted to train hard and develop his skills.

  However, he’d have to remain calm. Otherwise, recuperating until tomorrow would be out of the question. And tomorrow was the opening night at Chuck’s Bar Mark II—a place with a focus on entertainment and strip shows. Who knew what might happen? He may not restore his shape completely, but at least he wouldn’t be this much of a wreck.

  Watching other people fight was too tantalizing, so Hagen switched back to some series. But the plot did little to chase away the thoughts of leveling up.

  Six points! A whopping six points. That was enormous progress. If it weren’t for the danger of dying as his body adapted to new stats, he’d have distributed them a long time ago.

  Hagen checked his XP scale again, even though he’d already looked at it very recently.

  4,562/10,000

  Ten more points. At this rate he’d be at 6 or 7 K by next morning. That was tolerable.

  Hagen fell asleep...

  The doorbell woke him up. It was Wei Ming wearing blue jeans, a checkered shirt and a vest.

  It was their first day at the bar and Hagen had missed it, so he was worried.

  “How’s Mr. Morrison doing? Was he very angry that I didn’t turn up?”

  Wei Ming had brought a plastic bag with a drugstore logo with him. “He was disappointed a little, but he knew you’d had a fight, so he was understanding enough. He said he’d hoped you would be there tomorrow at the open
ing. You’re head of security at a strip joint, after all!”

  Hagen and Wei Ming laughed out loud at the same time. Wei Ming placed the medical supplies on the table.

  “Really, though, there weren’t any incidents. There was just this trucker called Doug who’d complained the wings didn’t taste as good as the previous time. He wanted to explain the correct procedure to the cook in the language of fisticuffs. But I calmed him down quickly enough.”

  “Good old Doug. He’s harmless, really.”

  “Sure. But Mr. Morrison said evenings were the time when the real fun would normally begin. People get drunk and lose control. There are fights and stuff. He also said that often the only way of stopping a fight is to give everyone involved a good whacking.”

  Wei Ming helped Hagen change his bandages and Band-Aids, and kept on talking. “Everything would have been fine, but when my girlfriend found out about my new job, she threw a fit. She’s from a strict family, after all. The instant she heard the words ‘strip club,’ she imagined I would participate in orgies on a daily basis.”

  Mike smiled knowingly. “What did you do?”

  “I lost it too. I ended up accusing her of failing to support my choice. So I suggested that she come and see there aren’t any orgies going on. Uh. That is, I hope there aren’t... Anyway, we got mighty mad at each other and ended up sleeping in different rooms. So what am I supposed to do, eh? She’s wrong about the whole thing!”

  Hagen gave Wei Ming the money for the medical supplies. “Look around. I’ve been living on my own for quite a while now. I have no girlfriend and I’m not likely to get one anytime soon. Your happiness is right next to you. You should value what you have instead of dreaming about the impossible.”

  “Hm...” Wei Ming grew pensive. “You’re probably right. But we’ve never argued like that before.”

  “You should be happy you have someone to argue with. It’s much better than spending your days glued to the TV set on your own.”

  “You’re right again, pal. OK, I’m off to the bar.”

  Once Wei Ming had left, Hagen fell onto the sofa again, returning to immobility.

  Damn. He’d just had another reminder of his absolute solitude.

  * * *

  CHUCK MORRISON was in a morbid mood—he’d been imagining his life ruined, and regretting having applied for a loan that he’d needed to open the second bar. He would most likely go bankrupt and lose everything.

  His relatives kept telling him that he was doing OK and that Mark II was just the place this part of town had needed. They confessed to admiring his entrepreneurial skill. But Chuck couldn’t help worrying. He kept grabbing the left side of his chest, feeling a dull pain in his heart that bode nothing good.

  The new bar started to get packed in the morning. The patrons came in droves to both bars, attracted by the discounts Chuck had promised so carelessly. They sat down at every table and kept on ordering as if they’d had nothing else to do but spend their time here.

  The cooks could barely cope with the numerous orders. The waiters were beginning to sweat as they ran from one table to another. And all of that around midday—before the lunch rush hour.

  “Here’s a lesson in how to do business for ya,” Chuck said to Wei Ming, stroking his mustache. “Don’t offer discounts to those who are already willing to buy your stuff.”

  “But doesn’t that make clients more loyal?”

  “Yeah, for as long as you can fulfill your obligations. As you can see, we’ve gone overboard a bit. My wings were popular enough without any discounts.”

  Apart from everything, Chuck had been afraid that the evening’s main entertainment—namely, the grand strip show—wouldn’t advance beyond your average run-of-the-mill pole dancing. They were in dire need of strippers, even though Chuck had started recruitment long before the second bar was finished.

  He had to interview potential dancers even today, on the opening day. He needed someone to make an illusion of a large-scale show, even temporarily. Morrison’s duties made him shuttle constantly between his office—a tiny room behind the bar where a queue of girls had formed in front of the door, the kitchen where the cooks were barely able to keep up with the orders and demanded more help, and the main room of Mark II where he’d talk to friends and assorted VIPs, including people from the city council. He’d have to drink with everyone, and chat, and pay them some attention.

  Chuck suddenly discovered that if he’d had a drink with each and every one of his numerous friends and acquaintances, it would be really challenging to make it through to the opening ceremony.

  The cooks presented a particular problem—they said there’d be a real mutiny lest Chuck found them at least another helper pronto.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morrison,” Hagen said as he approached the owner.

  “You’re late,” said Chuck gruffly, but then checked himself. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve had your reasons, but will you look at what’s going on?”

  Hagen was wearing his military jacket with his collar up. His eyes were covered by sunglasses. When he took them off as he inspected the hall, Chuck noticed Hagen’s shiners.

  “Just what is going on?” Hagen asked. “It’s perfect! Lots of patrons, big takings. The guests are behaving, no one’s raising a ruckus or anything... You just worry too much, Mr. Morrison.”

  Chuck chortled and was about to reply when a waiter ran up to him.

  “Mr. Morrison! The chef has taken off his apron. He says slavery days are long gone.”

  The chef himself walked in in a cloud of tantalizing kitchen smells. He was a corpulent black man, nearly as old as Chuck.

  “Friend, if you think I’m gonna bust my black ass in these conditions, you might want to think again. We do things differently nowadays, let me tell you that!”

  “I get it. But can’t you hold on a bit longer? This is just for today!”

  “I would, but we’re disappointing our patrons. No one likes to wait too long. And they’ll all blame me for being too slow.”

  Hagen came to the rescue all of a sudden. He called Wei Ming over.

  “Look, bro, I apologize for racial stereotyping at once, but would you happen to be a good cook?”

  “Ha! Chinese equals cook equals kung fu fighter.” Wei Ming stopped laughing abruptly. “But, actually, yes, I am.”

  “Would you be able to help out in the kitchen?”

  Wei Ming looked dejected. “But I work in security...”

  “Wei Ming, please help us out, just this once!” Chuck joined the conversation, handing over an apron. “I’ll be most grateful if you do.”

  Wei Ming looked at Hagen who gave him a slight nod.

  He sighed and started to put on the apron. He obviously didn’t feel like helping out in the kitchen, so Hagen decided to cheer him up.

  “Look at it this way. Once your girlfriend finds out you work in the kitchen, at least she won’t think you’re taking part in any orgies.”

  “Yeah, that’s right!” Wei Ming brightened up. “I’ll make a selfie with pots and pans and send it to her.”

  The cook departed, accompanied by Wei Ming. Chuck went to his “office” where already quite a few girls were waiting for an interview in front of the bar.

  He had a lot on his plate. Chuck knew from experience that some of the applicants would be unable to dance or to speak English worth a damn. And yet many of the clients—sad and lonely men—needed nothing but an intimate conversation with a pretty girl in a strip club to splurge on drinks or a private dance. Some of the dancers refused to do any lap dancing, whereas others had assumed the place would be like a brothel and were ready to do anything. Finally, some of the applicants were just completely unattractive, and no amount of darkness or makeup could fix that.

  * * *

  HAGEN ROAMED the premises, looking at every table and checking out every patron. He saw the familiar company of truckers: the inseparable Doug “Donald” and Steve “Jobs” were sitting together. He wondered if t
hey ever left the city or just spent all their time in bars.

  Both pretended they didn’t recognize Hagen. Both had medium resistance to his Charisma.

  In general, Chuck’s Bar was quieter than Mark II. There were many family people in the former. No one drank in the morning—patrons just came to enjoy cheap and delicious chicken wings. As for the latter, it was full of people who’d come to celebrate the opening. Everyone was sober so far, but it was obvious that quite a few had intended to remedy that before too long.

  Time went by. Lunchtime came, bringing in the expected rush of patrons. The bigger bar instantly became just as packed as the smaller one. Hagen checked out the kitchen. Wei Ming was wielding the kitchen knives with panache, and the chef seemed happy to have such an industrious helper.

  A bouncer’s job turned out to be less stressful than Mike had expected. Nothing much was happening, but Hagen didn’t complain—getting into a fight with less than seven thousand HP would have cut his budding career in security short in no time.

  The rush had ended. Everyone was getting ready for the evening crowd. Workers reappeared at Chuck’s Bar Mark II to hang up a piñata looking like a gigantic naked woman. Morrison and his partner were supposed to smash it at the opening ceremony.

  Mike tensed. A familiar figure in a lilac robe appeared in the doorway. St. Ian walked in, accompanied by three of his zealots.

  Dammit. Didn’t the man take the money and promise to cause no trouble?

  St Ian reached an empty table, waited for one of his zealots to pull up a chair for him, and placed himself down gracefully, his robe producing a gust of air like a lady’s ball gown. He browsed through the menu handed to him by another one of his companions, and chose a bucket of chicken wings, the house specialty. The waiter nodded and ran off to process the order.

  Hagen followed them and stood at a distance, his arms crossed. All the bouncers in movies did that, and Mike had no other source of information about his new occupation. He studied St. Ian’s followers and came to the conclusion that none of them would present a challenge in a fight. Goliath wasn’t with them, so he’d be able to resolve any conflict by himself.