“You know, Brian, this is the third day in a row that you have called in sick.” There was a long sigh followed by a phlegm-filled grunt of disapproval, “I’m going to need you to bring me a doctor’s note so that I can enter it into your employment file.”

“Yeah, alright, Greta.” Great that’s just what I needed. A doctor’s bill piling up on top of everything else. “I’ll see if I can get down to the clinic or something.”

I could hear the suck and crackle of the cigarette Gretta or Grendel, as the rest of the staff and I referred to her behind her back, was chewing on. I had wracked my brain on more than one occasion trying to think if I had ever seen her without one of the foul-smelling cancer sticks hanging from between those overly painted, wrinkled lips.

In all likelihood, she had been born like that. An uncomfortable childbirth to be sure, but then again, anything that could have given birth to such a creature was surely some sort of monstrosity too, right?

There was a rustling of papers from the other end of the phone and yet another sigh. “This weekend we’re doing inventory so I hope this isn’t some half-assed excuse to get out of it, because you can bet your boots that won’t fly with me. I don’t care if you are spilling from both ends. You bring a bucket and a cork if you have to, but come 6 a.m. Sunday I expect to see you in my office.”

I let out a groan, but managed to cover it with a cough. I hated going into Grendels office, or perhaps den was a more accurate description. A tightly packed cave of dented filing cabinets, stacked manila envelopes turned brown by the thick swirling mass of ever-present smoke that clung to everything, including clothes. If you stayed more than even a handful of minutes it was a guarantee that you would smell like you too had a two-carton a day habit, though it was worse for me as it would inevitably set my overly sensitive sinuses running and give me coughing fits until I could get home and shower.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.” This time I coughed for real, “Okay, I better go and get some rest then. Thanks, Greta.” There was another grunt from the other end and a long pause before I realized she had hung up on me. Why did I do that? Thank her? For what? Making my life miserable? Or, more miserable than it already was.

I place the phone back in its cradle and pick up the half-empty glass of orange juice from the kitchenette counter. Poking about in the fridge, I pull out the bottle to fill it up but it has less than a swallow left swirling about at the bottom. Necessity being the mother of invention I top it up with a bit of orange soda then amble back to my computer desk and flop down.

The screen flares to life with a tap of the keyboard and I tighten the blanket around my shoulders. Another string of sneezes leaves my chest and stomach aching and I glance to my disheveled futon bed in the corner.

The thought of returning to it is a tempting one, however, I know that it would ultimately prove futile.

I won’t be going to sleep anytime soon. Not with what feels like wads of salted sandpaper jammed halfway down my throat and a glue-covered baseball in my sinus cavity.

I’ve never been the most healthy person to begin with. Of course, I blame my mom for that, having learned during some casual conversation many years ago that I’d never been breastfed as a child.

Nope. Mom, in her matriarchal wisdom, decided to toss out the thousands of years of tried and true method of child nursing. That’s right, instead of feeding me good ol’ wholesome mother’s milk, you know the stuff that would have provided me with all of the nutrients, vitamins and essential genome germy things that a normal, healthy human body required, my sweet, bless her well-meaning soul mother, went with powdered baby formula.

It would probably have been better if she’d used Quick or Tang for my first pivotal months of life instead. At least then I would have gotten some calcium and Vitamin C.

See, it was not my slow metabolism or lack of proper diet that was the cause of my often sickly state. And the lack of scientific evidence didn’t matter one bit either. The revelation that I had “never gotten the boobie” firmly cemented in my mind the reasoning for my pathetically low immune system, and my fascination with the delightful feminine orbs.

My secret shame.

I open my internet browser and start to scroll through my various Role Playing Game bookmarks. I read a few forum posts absently, and fight down the urge to respond to a couple of trolls. Instead, I click on some fantasy art.

As the browser tabs build I continue to scroll through character pictures. A long sigh of frustration escapes my lips after a dozen or so pics have been saved to my desktop gaming folder and I pause my efforts.

What was the point? I hadn’t sat at a gaming table in almost a year now. Alice, Sam, Garvin and Richard had all moved off to college and jobs out of state. There was always Jim and his bunch. Not a particularly appealing thought. Their campaigns never lasted more than three sessions and usually ended with Jim declaring he had discovered a new game system that he wanted to try, or that he “was getting bored with this genre.”

If the gods of dice somehow smiled down on the campaign and it did get over the three-game hump, inevitably it would turn into the characters getting entered into some kind of tournament where they would have to fight one another to the death. A scenario where my character would be killed off early, despite whatever coercion skills or role-playing tricks I attempted to employ. After all, I had long grown out of the murder hobo, munchkin combat characters the rest of Jim's group enjoyed running.

Still, a game was a game. Perhaps I should give them a call? I feel a pang of depression at the idea of crawling back to their table. The same pang that I felt a couple of days ago when I had moved my Crown Royal dice bag to discover a dust stain on the counter around it.

It had been almost three years since the local game store, The Imagination Station, had closed its doors and Game-masters and players that had already been hard to come by now seemed impossible to find.

I take a sip at my lukewarm orange juice/soda concoction and tab open the RollCrit website. Perhaps it was time to give the online thing a try again. It takes me four attempts and a forgot password email but I finally manage to log in.

First I check out the ‘Find a Live Group in your Area’ and find, with no surprise ‘NONE’. Well, except for my listing. Still, my heart sinks a bit at the information. I go back and start to scroll through the ‘Looking for Group’ online posts.

This felt wrong. I had no idea who these people were, and although the web afforded a certain safety blanket in its anonymity that’s not what I felt gaming was about.

Sitting around with like-minded friends. That is what I wanted. Not to be plopped in front of a computer screen rolling imaginary dice. There was something missing without that personal touch. A sort of essential tangible piece that made RPG adventures all the more real to me.

Or maybe I was just in the fading generation of gamers unwilling to move on with the times.

Not that I was old! Cripes, I was only twenty-two. But it did seem that my unwillingness to change my paradigm was holding me back from the joy of gaming.

“That’s it. I’m doing it.” Perhaps this acceptance would flip it all around and make the drudgery slog that had become my life bearable again. My nerves steeled I click on over a dozen posts.

After the fifth automated “Sorry, full group.” message in my mailbox I’m starting to get annoyed. A tone sounds from my speakers and a Private Message pops up from someone named WorldShaper. I click on the PM.

“What is your name?”

With a shrug, I type back “Hi there, I’m Brian Brantly. Who’s this?”

“Choose a Race”

Human Dwarf Elf Halfling Half-Breed Other

“Whoa!” A pulse of excitement races through my body. Did I just find a game? My fingers fly over the keyboard as I quickly type back a message with a longer introduction and inquiring what players they might already have in their group.

I hit return and the same message repeats.

“Choose a Race”

Human Dwarf Elf Halfling Half-Breed Other

Crap. It must be some kind of bot. Yet another sigh escapes my lips as my hopes are once more dashed against the rocks of my crappy reality. I get up and go top up my OJ soda then sit back down.

Opening my mail again I see two more rejections. One of them isn’t automated though. I’m thankful for that at least. PegasusPaul says he will keep me in mind if he has any players drop out and that I might want to fill out my profile more.

I take the advice and open up the online profile and go about filling out the brief questionnaire.

Name: Brian Brantly

Age: 22

Sex: Male

Bio: Gamer for 10+ years both as Player and Games Master. Never tried online gaming but am eager to learn. I've watched a couple of videos of online games and practiced a bit with the tutorial controls of dice rolling and so forth. Open to any character type/class which the game needs. I don’t mind a gritty game or hack-n-slash style adventure either. As long as it has good story and fun fellow players you can count me in!

Enjoys Playing: YES!

Favorite Genre: YES!

Actively seeking Group for: ANYTHING! XD

I read the profile over a couple of times wondering if I sound too pathetic and desperate. I recall overhearing Amanda accusing me of being just that to a few of our coworkers when she didn’t realize I was stacking shelves in a nearby isle. Thankfully a quartet of sneezes shakes the doubt and painful memory from my mind and I click on the save button. The window closes and I see the WorldShaper bot PM window is still open.

“Fine” If nothing else maybe creating a character would put me in a better mood as I wait for the various Gamemasters to get back to me.

The races seemed to be your usual fare and I’m tempted to write something ridiculous like ‘Other: Gelatinous Cube’ but I refrain. Maybe I can use this character in a game if I’m accepted into one. With that in mind, I feel a little better and give it some thought. Finally typing Elf.

“Choose a Subrace”

High Elf Wood Elf Dark Elf Other

I am tempted to type Dark Elf right away, but then everyone wants to play a Dark Elf. It’s the reason I’ve never played one in the past. And if I do manage to find a group I certainly don’t want to be accused of being ‘that guy’ either.

A High Elf would probably good with magic, which could be fun. Though I have no idea what system or genre I may find a free player space in. The Wood Elf? Perhaps a fighter or a ranger type. Maybe a Druid? That might be cool. Doubt prickles my brainpan again. Other? Again I’m thinking what that could be? Like a Sea Elf or something? That could be super limited. Not that I mind. Could make for really fun Role Playing but... I type Dark Elf.

“Screw it! I’ve never played one and I may never get the chance anyway so I may as well.” I blow my nose and turn back to the screen.

“Choose a Class”

Fighter Priest Magic-User Thief Other

“Jeez. Going with the bare bones basic archetypes here, huh?” I shake my head. What would a Druid, Paladin or Ranger be? They could fit into multiple classes here.” Again with no clue of the genre, my choices seem limited. Even with the head cold giving me a migraine my gunky grey matter goes into overdrive. I want something different but something that could possibly fit in almost anywhere. A fighter or thief would be the obvious choices, but they are rather bland. Perhaps it would open up a whole new menu of choices like the Race sub-menu. Then again it might not and I have no idea how or if you could go back and make changes.

“Other: Gunslinger” I finish typing and hit enter, expecting the Worldshaper Bot to hit me back with a ‘INVALID’ message.

“Choose a Background”

Acolyte Artisan Apprentice Craftsman Criminal Entertainer

Folk Hero Herbalist Hunter Mariner Merchant Noble Outlander

Squire Slave Scribe Soldier Urchin Other

“Sweet!” A Gunslinger could be hella cool. Though judging by some of the names in the Background choices this was swinging toward a fantasy based genre. The descriptions were broad enough to cover most things though. And there was always the Other choice too. That seemed to be a catch-all.

I sat back to read over the choices again that familiar joy of character creation flooding back to me. But what to choose?