Rogue Evolution

by James Hunter

  Well, there was no better time than right now, while he was invisible.

  Not wanting to waste any of the precious time he might have left, Randy edged out past the fern and beelined for Danny’s office. It was at the end of the hall, a corner VP suite with a view—a terrible view full of more buildings and concrete, but still. It was the best office on the floor.

  Looking sidelong through the open door, Randy could see Danny moving around at his station. And, unbelievable as it seemed, his cloak of invisibility seemed to be holding, since there was no reflection of him shining in the polished glass surrounding Danny’s office. Randy still had no idea how the ability worked or what its limitations were, so he just hoped the spell would last long enough for him to do what needed doing.

  Silently, Randy posted up outside and waited for the VP of marketing to leave.

  Except Danny seemed to be in no hurry.

  The man watched what sounded like a fail video while whirling around one of those weighted wrist exercise balls, then made a few calls that required him to say “bruh” a lot. The rest of those conversations seemed about as deep as an inflatable kiddie pool. The whole situation served as a blatant reminder that the guy in the office talking about “tits the size of speedbags” and calling his upcoming PTO a “cray-cray vacay” was a VP while Randy—highly educated, overqualified, and hardworking—was fortunate to still have a job. Sometimes there was no justice in the world.

  Finally, Danny got off the phone, slapped his desk a few times in a syncopated rhythm, then kicked up out of his chair. He strode out into the hall, snapping his fingers and clapping his hands.

  Randy glanced down at his imperceptible limbs, then held his breath and pushed himself back against the wall. Stay invisible. Stay invisible. Stay invisible. He let the mantra flow through him like an unobstructed river.

  “Oh, there better be sashimi for sash-me-me in the caf today,” Danny said as he waltzed right past, never bothering to give Randy a second look.

  As soon as the marketing VP rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight, Randy exhaled a lungful of air. This was terrible. Clearly, he was not cut out for this sort of corporate espionage, magical powers or no. In Hearthworld, playing the part of the hero came naturally because there were so few actual consequences. Get dead, respawn. Get caught breaking the law, break out of jail or pay off the guards. But this was real life. He could get fired. Or go to jail. Or be apprehended by the government and experimented on for the rest of his life.

  Doubt gnawed at him, and as it did, his body flickered back into view. The blood drained from Randy’s face as he glanced down at his hands, then back up to see if anyone was around to notice the transformation. The coast was clear, but there was no telling how long it would stay that way. Without his shield of complete anonymity, the chances of getting caught were a thousand times higher. The smart thing to do would be to backpedal to his office, regroup, and try again once he figured out how to get the invisibility to trigger reliably.

  Except, who knew how long that might take?

  Word on the street is he’s about to get shit-canned any day.

  No. He couldn’t turn tail and run. Roark and millions of other people were depending on him. The mage would never make it back to his home world if Frontflip quarantined him or managed to find a way to wipe his code from the servers.

  Pushing away his doubts and fears, Randy grabbed the doorjamb and swung himself into Danny’s office. The place had that feel of recent occupation, like it was just waiting for Danny to return. Or maybe it only seemed like that because the desk was a pigsty. Notepads and sticky notes and chewed-on styluses littered the desktop. The wrist exercise ball’s LEDs were still flashing on the desk, and another fail video was paused on the display. A portly middle-aged man was doubled over, a soccer ball hitting him squarely in the groin, a pained expression plastered across his face.

  Randy shook his head in disbelief. Danny hadn’t even bothered to lock his station before leaving.

  Well, one man’s unprofessionalism was another man’s passport to locked-down information.

  Randy slipped into Danny’s rolling chair, then jumped as it automatically adjusted to his posture, height, and weight. Randy frowned down at the buttery leather cushion. His chair couldn’t do any of that. Honestly, he hadn’t even realized they made chairs that could do that.

  “Not the time to get off track,” he whispered to himself. “Focus.”

  Scooting up to the station, Randy found the password sticky note. Danny’s was Dan=aBaller100%THUGLYFE, there in clear black pen for any passersby to see. Of course, with the station unlocked and unattended, he didn’t even need it.

  “Thank you, Danny,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the display.

  “Dude, what the hell are you doing?” Danny barked.

  Randy’s head snapped up, eyes wide, his heart trying to punch a hole in his pocket protector. He grabbed his chest.

  Danny loomed over him like a final boss, jaw clenched, thunder in his eyes.

  “I... um...” Randy swallowed hard. He desperately scanned the desk for anything he could pretend to have been reaching for. Anything but the touch display.

  “Why are you in my office?” Danny demanded, folding his arms across his broad chest.

  Randy grabbed the While You Were Away message pad and held it up. “Katia told me, uh, that there was going to be cake in the lounge tomorrow for Ada Lovelace Day, so I just wanted to let you know... so you, uh, didn’t eat too much at lunch tomorrow. Heh, yeah, got to save room for that cake.”

  “What are you trying to say, Rando?” Danny let his arms drop and looked down at his flat stomach. “Ya boy’s in great shape. I hit the gym every day.” He leaned across the desk. “Unlike some scrawny little losers I could name.”

  Randy blinked. “I wouldn’t say I’m—”

  “I could eat ten pieces of cake and not gain an ounce. I got metabo like a mofo.” The VP of marketing came around the desk and hooked a thumb at Randy. “You better save me a piece, Rando, or I’m gonna be pissed.”

  With stiff, jerky movements, Randy lurched to his feet. He felt clumsier than the early prototypes of robotic dogs.

  “Save you a piece?” he asked, baffled.

  “Of cake.” Danny blew past him and dropped into the chair, restarting the video. “It’s your neck on the line if I don’t get one.”

  “Oh, right!” Randy backed toward the door. “The cake. For ALD. Yeah, I’ll—”

  He bumped into something solid. The door. He corrected course and kept going.

  “I’ll save you one,” he finished weakly. He forced a laugh and tried pointing finger guns at the marketing VP. “I’ll save you two!”

  Danny ignored him.

  Randy escaped into the hall, letting the dual guns drop. They were stupid anyway. His legs and arms shook as he beelined for his office.

  That was close. Too close. His shirt was soaked with anxious sweat. How in the world did secret agents do stuff like this every day? Their lives must be a constant battle against dehydration.

  “I’ll save you two?” Randy muttered under his breath, disgusted. Now he had to buy a cake to keep Danny from figuring out he had lied. “Moron.”

  He headed back to his office, making a mental note to find a bakery that sold premade cakes.

  His first mission was a bust, but that didn’t mean every single one would be. He had become invisible not once but twice. Not a fluke.

  Now he just needed to figure out how to control this new power. And, in science, the only way forward was more trial and error.

  Aftermath

  “LOOT THE BODY, BUT don’t mark it for griefing,” Roark ordered. Because mobs couldn’t gain Experience from killing other mobs, the little bit of loot Viago had dropped in death would be the only small return on this otherwise disheartening battle. Roark ripped his slender rapier free of the Herald’s still form and wiped it clean on his russet feathers. “I don’t want anyone settin
g foot aboveground until I’ve had time to fortify the bailey. If Heralds engage you again, do not allow yourselves to be drawn outside. Not under any circumstances. If they want a battle, they’ll fight it on our terms next time.”

  “I’ll see to it, Dungeon Lord.” Druz, the first-floor overseer, scraped one huge booted foot in the gritty dirt. “It’s only... Well, when the Trolls respawn, some of ’em might want their gear back.”

  Roark glanced at the dead spread around the decrepit courtyard. He could set boundaries and try to protect his underlings, but he couldn’t force them to stay in the Citadel. And he certainly wasn’t going to hold them hostage in their own home. His mind drifted back to his Slender Rapier of the Diving Falcon, lost in his first fight against Bad_Karma, and the frustration and anger at having lost a weapon he’d grown so attached to. If Azibek had still been around then to order him to abandon his things, Roark knew he would have disobeyed in a heartbeat. Worse, if he set the rule firmly in place and then found out his underlings were disobeying, he would have to mete out a severe punishment or risk having his authority undercut.

  All bad options.

  “If they want to take their lives in their own hands, it’s theirs to risk. But remind them that they’re welcome to replace anything they’ve lost from the armory.” Roark glimpsed Ick’s many-legged back over Druz’s shoulder and a new thought occurred to him. Surely there was a way he could use the Discordant Inversion and Deflection together with his Hexorcist abilities to strengthen the Troll Nation’s specialty force. “And tell them I’m working on new armor and weapons that will be even more effective than the ones they’ve lost.”

  Druz gave a sharp nod and jogged off to spread the message among the pitiful spattering of remaining troops. Roark blew out a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Seven hells, but it really was a bloodbath.

  That group had been a scouting force at most, looking to dredge up details about the Citadel, but they’d tipped their hand in the process, giving away far more than they could’ve possibly gained. While a defeat like this would have destroyed rebel forces back in Traisbin and set the resistance back years of work, here in Hearthworld, where forever death was rare and respawn was only a pair of hours away for mobs, the bloodshed would awaken Roark’s troops to the true danger the Heralds represented and the need for discipline in the ranks. For another, now that Roark knew exactly how outmatched his force was, he could adjust his strategies accordingly. Hopefully, the new weapons and armor would go a long way toward that end.

  He was eager to begin experimenting, but there were obligations yet to attend to. Sheathing his rapier, he sought out the various mobs from each of the allied dungeons, thanking them for answering the call to arms. The job was tedious but necessary to maintain goodwill. When he’d finished the rounds—which were short, due to the carnage the small group of Heralds had inflicted in the minutes they’d been there—a piece of parchment appeared before Roark’s eyes.

  [Congratulations! You have leveled up your Troll Leadership Skill to level 6! Infernal chimera from aligned dungeons across Hearthworld recognize your authority as well deserved and will take reasonable orders from you!]

  Roark blinked the scrap away, then scanned the bailey.

  Zyra and Kaz were moving through the survivors, handing out Ample Health potions. Griff and a Werebeast lingered near the rusty portcullis—it looked as if the trainer were giving the creature pointers on the use of the razor-wire-equipped halberd.

  Feathers rustled and leather armor creaked behind Roark. His rapier and dagger were out in a heartbeat as he spun around. Viago—bloody, unrecognizable corpse that he was—was moving.

  Rather than coming back to life and attacking, however, the Herald only rolled onto his mangled right side. Mac became visible, nudging the body over with his scaly head. The Young Turtle Dragon blinked slightly out of sync up at Roark, then nudged the dead Viago’s blood-soaked leather cuirass.

  Roark relaxed, stowing his weapons as a smile tugged at his mouth. He’d seen Mac do this before to the corpse of an enemy Hellbender.

  “You want his heart, boy?”

  Mac chirped.

  “If I can find one, it’s yours,” Roark said. “Though I don’t know how you’ll stomach it.”

  Kneeling beside the Herald, Roark spent a few seconds inspecting the armor. Divine, peerless, but no better than what he could smith. He set it aside and carved into the Herald’s chest. By the time he’d found and removed the fist-sized lump of gold-streaked muscle, Roark had doubled the amount of sparkling golden Herald blood on his hands and arms.

  He tossed the heart to Mac. The canny beast caught it out of the air, then tipped his head back to shake the meat down his scaly throat.

  Roark had heard stories of ancient tribes in Traisbin who believed that consuming the heart of an enemy would transfer their strength to you, but if anything changed for Mac when the heart hit his stomach, it wasn’t visible to Roark. He scrubbed the silly beast’s beard and head, then stood.

  All around the bailey, the cleanup effort continued. He spotted Ick over near one of the portal plates, sitting suspended by his arachnoid legs, humanoid legs folded beneath him, all but two of his eyes closed.

  Roark strode across the courtyard to Ick’s side. As he approached, the Nocturnus opened his remaining eyes and stood to his humanoid feet.

  “All right, Ick?” Roark asked, quirking an eyebrow.

  The Nocturnus nodded, his tentacled hair slithering over his shoulders. “Only replenishing the wells of magick within. This fight required nearly all of mine. Of course, I have no room to complain. I fared better than many. Noble Yevin was not so lucky as I.”

  Ick turned and bowed to a bloody mess in Paragon’s robes.

  Roark let out a harsh puff of breath, feeling a little like he’d been punched in the gut.

  He hadn’t even recognized the rog’s mangled corpse. True, the Paragon would respawn in a pair of hours, but how many levels would the mage have lost? Roark needed to find a way to keep the Heralds out certainly, but the greater issue in facing them was the damned level caps. How could the Troll Nation’s forces ever compete against Lowen and the Vault of the Radiant Shield when they were so badly crippled by their low level restrictions?

  It was a question Roark had no answer for. Not yet. For now, he had to deal with the problems he could solve. Focusing on tangible solutions was always preferable to dwelling on seeming impossibilities.

  With a grimace, he turned back to Ick.

  “Just before the attack,” Roark started, “I asked if it would be possible to utilize Discordant Inversion to deflect Divine Magick even though it’s Oppositional rather than Balanced with my own.”

  “Yes, I remember,” the Nocturnus replied. One of Ick’s arachnoid arms reached over his shoulder and scratched his chin with a dry chafing sound. “I have never done so myself,” Ick said thoughtfully, mandibles click-clacking, “but in theory it should be possible to turn the Heralds’ Divine Energy against them. All magicks in Hearthworld obey the Primal Creation Wheel, and so far as I know, Discordant Inversion can be used as a counter against any spell type—though such a thing must be written into the spell when it’s woven. Though I fear it will not be of much use to the specialty force,” Ick said, waving an arm toward the ragtag group of survivors.

  “Why is that?” Roark asked, crossing one arm over his chest and cupping his chin with the opposite hand. Already his mind was charging head, prepared to find a way around whatever new obstacle Ick foresaw.

  “Well, Dungeon Lord...” Ick dry washed his hands, mandibles scissoring as he considered how to phrase his reply. “Only a limited number of mobs have the disposition to learn the ways of the Night. Even among those who can learn, most are not powerful enough to employ it regularly. The single greatest drawback to Discordant Inversion is that it can only be placed in a level 6 spell slot or higher, so the number of uses is quite restricted for even a caster of your strength.”r />
  The tension growing in Roark’s shoulders released at that.

  “I don’t intend to teach the response force the intricacies of your art,” he said, waving away Ick’s worries. “I have another deployment method in mind that ought to do the trick nicely—assuming I can learn the proper spell form myself.”

  A spark of mischief glimmered in Ick’s many eyes.

  “Hex chains?” Ick chortled, tentacled hair rustling in a dry rasp. “That could work. Though finding the right balance will be tricky.”

  Roark nodded his agreement. “We don’t want to drive away the Divine-oriented heroes, since they make up at least forty percent of the heroes who try their hand at the dungeon.” He paused, grin widening into a malicious smile. “But I think I have a way around that as well.”

  “Forgive me for complimenting myself, Dungeon Lord, but I was right about you,” the Nocturnus said, his sapphire eyes glittering. “Back in the arena’s mob cages, when you were disguised as a lowly kobold and I was destined to die at the hands of Bad_Karma, I said perhaps if we work together, we can accomplish the impossible. I think we will do so yet and win your war.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Roark clapped the slim Witchdoctor on the shoulder. “One thing I know for sure, the odds get better the more we stack the deck in our favor.”

  “In the Jungles of Night, we call this tailoring the web to best advantage,” Ick said.

  Roark smiled. Nocturnuses were creatures after his own heart.

  He found Griff and Zyra working nearby.

  “I’m going to be out of commission for the next few hours,” Roark told them. “I don’t want to be disturbed for any reason. This place will just have to survive without me.”

  “It’ll manage,” Griff assured him. “Do what you need to do, Griefer.”

  Roark thanked them, then turned back to Ick, sweeping a deep bow.