Istoria Online: Square One: A LitRPG Adventure

by Vic Connor

  Sveta’s clothes and hairstyle have morphed to match. Her padded leather jacket covers a black nylon shirt, with the open neck revealing a tattooed dragon climbing up her collarbone, her neck, her left cheek and temple. The dragon’s jaws seem about to devour her eye as she winks at me. Her hair has become a tangle of fishbone braids wriggling across her head, except for one patch of shaven skin around her left ear, where the dragon’s wings stretch and embrace a cluster of headjacks.

  The glasses are gone.

  My CEO power suit is now a black leather raincoat, covering me from neck down and resembling a Christian priest’s cassock, although a lot closer to ass-kicking than head-turning. If a garment had ever embodied ‘bulletproof’ and ‘badass,’ it would be this wicked coat I’m wearing.

  “What is this place?” I yell over the roaring music.

  “The Shaman’s Soul,” Sveta shouts back. “It’ll be included in ‘Babylon 2089,’ which we hope will be to single-player RPGs what Istoria will be for MMOs.” She takes a sip of what looks like water from a tall, round glass sitting in front of her. Beside the glass sits a rectangular box, roughly the size of a book, made of black plastic. “Only the bar at this stage, though!” she shouts. “The rest of the city … in which the bar is supposed to be in … they haven’t done it yet!”

  I have ordered a pint of beer, it seems, because there is a glass with a creamy lager by my hand. I drink a little; it’s good and ice-cold. Moisture is condensing on the glass’ surface, droplets forming and crawling down.

  The music changes to what I guess would be chill trance, only slower.

  And not so loud. Thankfully.

  I indicate the crowd around us. “Are they other players?”

  “NPCs!” She still has to yell. “So dumb they are closer to furniture than NPCs, really, but they give the place some character.” She takes another sip.

  “They sure look like a tough bunch…”

  She tilts her head to the right. “They are.” Her dragon tattoo shifts its colors: green, red, traces of blue. “But who’s tougher than you, Hardcore?”

  “Yeah. So tough, my babysitter brought me here.”

  “I don’t think so, ’core,” she says. “How are your legs?”

  I try to move them under my badass cassock. Nothing. From the waist down, I’m useless—as usual.

  “I mean your other legs,” she clarifies.

  “My…?”

  “Look what you’re sitting on, you big baby.”

  Whoa.

  Like, frigging whoa. The thing has legs.

  Four mech-style legs, like a robotic insect, if an insect had four limbs instead of six—like my NASA rocket chair had married the Arachnos that Skull Jack pilots in Mechageddon: Apocalypse and their baby was this wickedly bad-to-the-gears…

  …mech-chair, I guess?

  “Likin’ your ride, Hardcore?”

  “I was in love, back in the Lobby,” I say. “Now my heart is torn between my CEO hover chair and this wicked mechstasy! I wouldn’t know which to choose, if I had to.”

  “Choices are tough bitches, yeah.”

  Using my fingers, I search along the armrests. There don’t seem to be any controls.

  “Headjacks.” She taps her own cranial implants over her left ear. “Just think about it.”

  I bring my left fingertips to the side of my head and can feel the implants behind my temple, a small cluster of plastic and metal.

  I think about moving backward…

  …the mech-chair takes two clumsy steps back.

  “Go, baby, go!” She laughs.

  I look down to better focus on the chair, and make it take a few steps sideways. Carefully.

  I half-turn around. The mech-chair bumps into something behind me. Cold beer splashes over my shoulder as a cavernous voice rumbles, “Watch it, asshole!”

  As I pivot the chair, I choke.

  He towers seven feet tall, if not more. Human, judging by his face, but muscles enhanced or mutated to gorilla-sized levels, and he isn’t even all muscles: the robotic hand that holds the beer I have just made him spill is bigger than my head.

  And the servos on his fingers seem able to crush my skull like wet paper.

  He grunts. “Are you blind, cripple?”

  I recoil in surprise as dialog options flash in front of me.

  [Threaten]

  [Negotiate]

  [Confuse]

  [Plead]

  [Stay silent]

  “Interesting,” I say, mostly to myself. “So, you’re an NPC.”

  He leans forward, his face a mess of scars and angry furrows. “What did you call me, worm!?”

  I plead: “I’m sorry!”

  “No, you’re not,” he growls. “Yet.” He lets his beer glass drop and it smashes against the ground, sending beer and glass shards everywhere. “But soon, you will be.”

  I gulp, unable to speak, and choose to stay silent.

  His robotic hand whirls and whines as its jaws bite into my left shoulder; it’s like being caught by a pneumatic press.

  My remaining options flash with urgency:

  [Threaten]

  [Negotiate]

  [Confuse]

  The hand squeezes, metal fingers drilling into my shoulder joints.

  “Look, mate,” I try and negotiate, “how ‘bout I buy you another beer?”

  The drills sink deeper.

  It hurts like hell. “Stop!” I wail.

  He lifts me three feet in the air while his other hand clenches into a fist the size of a wrecking ball.

  [Threaten]

  [Confuse]

  Screw it.

  Through the unbearable pain, I conjure the CEO tone that worked so well back in the Lobby. “Stop, asshole,” I threaten, “before you regret it.”

  A horrible, twisted grin distorts his face for a second…

  …oh shit, I’m dead…

  …then, the grin vanishes.

  He stands still. The small red dot of a laser sight shines on the wrist of his right hand, just above where his fingers are drilling me to death.

  He allows the mechanic jaws to release their grip. I drop like a bag of potatoes, my butt and back banging against the chair and my shoulder throbbing.

  The red dot crawls up his tree-trunk arm as he keeps rigid. Up and up the laser dot climbs, scanning across his boulder-like shoulder until it reaches his thick neck and finds the bulging protrusion of his larynx.

  He raises his hands in surrender, looking behind me at the source of the laser beam. “Sorry, Razor,” he apologizes. “Didn’t realize you two were together.”

  Then slowly, carefully, he turns back and moves away. The shiny red dot floats straight over his nape.

  I peer over my throbbing shoulder.

  The black, book-sized box Sveta had on the table has become a mean-looking pistol. The gun sits comfortably in her right hand, aimed casually at the brute’s head while, with her left, she takes the glass to her lips and sips her water-like drink.

  She tilts her head. The dragon tattoo flares in radioactive blue and neon yellow; Sveta’s eye flashes laser-red.

  I make my chair return to our table, massaging my injured shoulder.

  “Razor?” I ask. “With a pistol like that, I would have guessed your moniker would be Gun Girl. Or Laser Lass. Or Holly the Cool Handgun.”

  She puts the gun flat on the table, and it shrinks back into a box. As she turns her hand palm up, small, razor-sharp claws spring from her fingertips like switchblades.

  Slowly, she claws at the air; half hungry predator, half cute kitten playing with a ball of yarn. “Raawwrrr,” she purrs, and the claws retract beneath her fingertips.

  I chuckle. “You really are something else, you know?”

  “I do.” She takes another sip. “I’m totally savage.”

  I consider my crippled legs and the wet spot over my shoulder where the gorilla spilled his beer. “On a bad-boy-o-meter,” I grumble, “I’d say I measure exactly zero.”
>
  “You gotta go Alpha male on them, Hardcore,” Sveta says. “It’s a pack mentality thing. Show them who’s boss, and they’ll follow.”

  “Not much showing I could do back there,” I point out. “Only some telling. The dialog options, I mean. Is that how it works with NPCs?”

  “With most of them, yes,” she agrees. “Although a handful of the more advanced NPCs should be indistinguishable from humans, and able to speak naturally. ‘Just like the real thing, but better,’ that’s what NozGames claim.”

  I scan the bar. I’m not sure about better, but everything certainly looks like the real thing. Well, real with a dark, dysto-punk twist.

  Massaging my aching shoulder, I turn back to Sveta. “Tell me, Razor. Was that enough calibration for our good friend Maneesh?” The pain has receded, but now my arm feels numb.

  “More than enough.” There’s an appreciative glint in her yes.

  Maybe … slightly impressed, even?

  Nah, probably not. That’s just the dragon’s jaws around her eye, now flaring sunset oranges and yellows.

  Tipping back my beer, I down half the glass in one long gulp. The condensed moisture has formed a small pool on the table. I put the glass back down over the pool.

  “I like your coffee better,” I admit.

  She smiles. “Soul of the Shaman not quite your scene, boss?”

  “I don’t think so, Svetty dear. I’m afraid I don’t like the look of things here.”

  Dark lights brighten as the room seems to inflate and expand, until I can once again see the glass walls overlooking the Mexican Zócalo outside, the massive wooden desk, and Sveta in her white blouse. My bulletproof raincoat morphs back to the now-familiar CEO power suit as my mech-chair recoils its arachnid legs and hovers over the boardroom’s dark wooden floors.

  8

  Consent

  Back behind her dark-rimmed glasses, Sveta smiled at me. “Is this better, sir?”

  “Indeed.” I straightened my cuffs. “Don’t get me wrong: your Razor persona is the toughest ass-kicking mercenary chick I’ve seen since Sally O’Brian in Warsong. But I have to admit, seedy dystopian bars do not feel as much home as this fine Lobby of ours. Please extend Maneesh from Engineering my positive feedback on my safewords’ performance whenever you can, Svetty dear. Although, if you make it low priority so he still sweats for a few more hours, I won’t hold it against you.”

  She laughed. “I see you’ve taken that ‘How to Go Alpha Male on Them’ seminar I recommended to you, Sir.”

  “It’s a pack mentality thing, Svetty dear,” I replied, and gave her a wink. “I was meaning to ask: What if I wanted to exit the Lobby itself? Log off entirely, I mean?”

  “Why, boss—you just ask me!”

  “And suppose you’re not around?”

  “Then you fire me, and hire somebody better.” She pouted in mock contrition. “Being around whenever you need me is precisely my job.”

  “Seriously, Sveta. What happens if you’re not here, and I want to log out?”

  She dropped the secretary act for a moment. “Being here for you is seriously my job, Jake. But if I can’t, for whatever reason, NozGames will make sure somebody else does.” She raised a hand, as if keeping me from asking a question she knew was coming. “And if you can’t, like if you faint or have a heart attack or Maneesh’s team screws up again, the capsule technicians will disconnect you. That’s why everybody in this Beta is being monitored all the time; if something goes wrong with your mind or body, alarms will go off. And, well, you know—” She extended her arms broadly “—everybody out there is watching how Istoria goes. The hype is real, Jake. Trust me: NozamaTech will make damn sure nothing bad happens to anybody, not while we unveil the game on prime time all around the globe. The last thing anybody wants is a player dying on camera—there is such thing as bad publicity, you know?”

  This was some heavy stuff to think about; and although her words disturbed me, I liked the honesty with which she spoke. “Of all the options you’ve mentioned, Svetty dear, I think we should go with you always being around.”

  “Sure thing!” She beamed. “I will be here for you, always.”

  “Until I die in-game will suffice, my good Svetty. You can take the day off, afterwards.”

  “Gee, boss,” she chuckled, “aren’t you the best!”

  “I have my CEO position to prove that.” I lifted my left cuff to let the Gadium shine. “An hour and a half to go. We’re done with the pain, correct?”

  She checked her floating screen. “Your last appointment, sir; Laura Araujo from Legal needs to see you about approving the funds to cover your entry fee. That should be boring, but quick. Although I’m not sure it qualifies as painless, I’m afraid.”

  I nodded. Parting with thirty-five grand I couldn’t repay unless I won was not exactly pain-free…

  “…But Dad is hurting even worse,” I reminded myself quietly.

  “Sorry, boss?”

  “Just daydreaming, Svetty. I may be in need of yet another of your marvelous espressos, if that’s not a bother.”

  “You know it’s not, boss. Shall I summon Mrs. Araujo, then?”

  I checked my tie. “Please do. Time to jump in.”

  Like Maneesh from Engineering, Laura Araujo from Legal was summoned on a floating screen.

  “Greetings, Mr. Jake Russell,” she said. She looked to be in her late twenties; with her long black hair, dark eyes, and brown skin, she reminded me a bit of Anita Suarez’s character on L.A. Legal, though much more severe. “My name is Laura Araujo, from NozGames’ Legal Department.” I opened my mouth to respond when I caught Sveta smiling and waving her index finger ‘no.’ “This is a prerecorded message to obtain your consent to take part in Istoria’s third phase of Closed Beta, hereby known as ‘the Tournament,’ under the conditions set for the Tau Test Group, and with help from one of our GMs. Should you consent to proceed, your entry fee of thirty-five thousand US dollars—” Numbers flashed above her screen: U$35,000 “—will be credited to your game account. Please be advised that this conversation will be recorded, for legal reasons, and archived in our records.”

  “That was a record-breaking repetition…” I smirked, making Sveta chuckle.

  “By now,” Laura from Legal’s recording continued, “your GM should have instructed you in the use of in-game choices. Is this correct?”

  Yes, I’ve been instructed, and I fully understand how they operate.

  Yes, but I still have doubts.

  No, I have not been properly instructed.

  I glanced at Sveta. “Is she a recording or an NPC?”

  “Sorry, boss.” She shrugged. “I can never tell the difference with lawyers.”

  That made me smile.

  “Just kidding,” Sveta said. “Sorry.”

  “Yes, I’ve been fully instructed,” I confirmed. “And, for the record, even if I had any remaining doubts about dialog choices, there’s no way in hell I’m going back to that dysto-pub to have a conversation with Maneesh’s robotic gorilla.”

  Laura from Legal remained poker-faced. “As a participant in one of our Premium Capsules, you are entitled to permanent Lobby-based assistance by one of our GMs—” she glanced briefly downward, like she was checking her notes or reading a second screen “—Svetlana Orlova. Are you satisfied with their collaboration?”

  Yes, I am.

  Yes, but I’d like to make an observation.

  No, I am not.

  Was there an anxious glint in Sveta’s eyes? That was new, for a change: me being in charge, at least for a second.

  “Yes,” I told Laura from Legal. “But I’d like to make an observation.”

  “Proceed…”

  “It would be grossly inaccurate to rate Svetlana Orlova’s assistance as ‘satisfying,’ I’m afraid. Her performance as GM has been nothing short of wonderful.”

  Sveta beamed. Subtly, she placed her palms together, prayer-like, and her lips mouthed, “Thank you.”

/>   “Your observation has been recorded,” Laura said. “You have agreed to take part in this Tournament as part of the Tau Test Group. As such, you will not be permitted access to the pain control sliders, and you agree to play the game at the maximum pain setting. For the record, are you aware of this?”

  Yes.

  No.

  “Yes,” I said. “Bring the pain, baby.”

  “Finally,” Laura said, “per the Tournament rules and in compliance with International Consumer Law, you can at this point withdraw from taking part in the Tournament. The entrance fee will be returned to your account, and you will not be charged a single dollar. This choice is final. Do you wish to proceed with the Tournament?”

  Yes, I wish to proceed. I understand this decision is final, and the entry fee will be withdrawn from my account.

  No, I have changed my mind. I would like to withdraw from the Tournament, and my entry fee be returned to my account.

  I took long, hard look at the U$35,000 flashing on top of the screen. Akula the Shark had lent me the money. For old time’s sake, because he and Dad went back a long, long way. But that didn’t mean Akula wasn’t expecting the money back, with interest.

  There was a reason they called him the Shark.

  “Good thing I’m already a cripple,” I said, mostly to myself. “Kind of makes me immune to Akula’s usual treatment of late debtors…”

  Sveta’s eyebrows furrowed. Laura from Legal, however, sat frozen, awaiting my reply.

  “Yes,” I said. “I wish to proceed.”

  “Your consent has been recorded,” said Laura from Legal, “and your payment has been processed. Good luck in the Tournament, Mr. Russel.”

  I raised a hand, saying goodbye.

  Her screen faded.

  The U$35,000 flashed and vanished. Quite a metaphor.