new

old

I clap, and the room’s lights brighten, halogen gradually revealing the mess that’s collectively known as my ‘Stasis Pod’. Nothing has moved, nothing has changed, and it takes me a moment to reconcile how different we are, me and my machine. I may have spent whole days coming to grips with what happened, but the machine? It’s exactly how I left it, an immutable mass of metal and silicon.

I traverse the web of wires, endeavoring for the center of the room. I have to watch my step, wary of pulling plugs or getting caught in the tangle. I could probably wire-tie it all up and save myself the trouble, but I like the way it looks. It’s something like an electronic jungle, with all of its drooping ‘vines’ and eerie LED fireflies flickering on and off all along the walls. Maybe I should start building up some aesthetics? A fog generator might be a bit risky considering all of the Old-Tech parts, but maybe I could get away with an ambient noise generator or something like that.

The off-topic meanderings fade away when I finally find myself in the room’s center. The makeshift MMI-helmet and nerve interface are lie on the floor, abandoned. I pick them up, piece by piece, looking each one over as I do. They still seem to be in working order, so I set them aside on the gel beanbag and wander over to the makeshift power-switch. The podium’s silly baubles are all powered on, and since most of the important circuits run through it, that means none of the important cords have popped yet; I’m good to go. I smash the power button, the whole room whirring to life around me.

I lay down on the Super Comfort beanbag, waiting for the ‘start-up’ jingle, idly untangling my MMI’s various cords. The tell-tale tones arrive sooner than they did last time, possibly the product of a successful first-time initialization, or (just as likely) a sign that my shit did break and that I’m going to get my brain fried once I try to drop myself in.

Optimistic, I decide to gamble on the first case. I lay the helmet down on my lap, slowly applying the Nerve Interface to my limbs, something much easier to do without a Deprivation Helmet swamping my senses. Once I’m ready, I plop the MMI down on my head, drowning myself in the embrace of total nothingness. I start to fret when pitch-black seconds tick by, but the game finishes loading before I have time to get too worked up.

Instead of the immersive, bright-white expanse the developers threw at me last time, an elegantly-styled baby-blue interface pops up. It’s positioned up close to my eyes, like I’m looking through Smart-Glasses, but they don’t feel any of the strain I’d expect, instead, they’re as relaxed as if I were looking at something far away. It’s the kind of mind-bending effect you can only really get through VR, and another brief confirmation that I have, in fact, been submerged into the game. The UI itself is only a half-step away from being totally two-dimensional, just the sort I’d expect from a traditional MMO. It’s littered in icons and random nonsense, complete with multiple title placards and an inspirational quote from some guy named ‘Wayne Gretzky’.

Still, the menus are intuitive enough that I can guess what they mean without all that much effort. For example, there’s an icon depicting a mailbox, jam-packed full of letters and bouncing back and forth frenetically. I think it’s safe to guess that it’s telling me I’ve missed a message or two, though I could be mistaken. I realize with a start that the only reason it’s intuitive to me is because I know what a ‘mailbox’ is, something that would be unlikely if I hadn’t been subjected to the Data Training Program. The strange tool was introduced to me in the ‘Intelligent Communications’ block, but the last mail service was decommissioned nearly a decade ago, so how would your average guy recognize it? Even some of the older ones might not manage to. I’m not sure if the developers are simply that out of touch or if they’re aiming for a retro mystique, but either way, it’s still a strange choice of symbolism.

I tap the curious icon and a whole new menu comes up, different from the last in both tone and decor. It’s simple and streamlined, designed a lot like an old-fashioned e-mail service, and I can see that I have indeed missed three messages. Leveraging my astounding lack of friends, I can safely assume they’re all from George.

User WIZ4REPS

Haha dude you actually did it, hit me up when you’re on.

Play Audio?

I almost delete his message instinctively the moment I spot his username. I’m not sure what he meant by ‘did it’ since I didn’t even complete his contract, but I’m happy that he’s happy. I may have come to terms with my situation, but I can’t say I want to do another contract like the last one, so I hope he’s not expecting an encore. On another note entirely, it looks like the message was sent via voicemail and transcribed for easy reading. How convenient!

User WIZ4REPS

Where’d you go? I want to hook you up. Archstaff’s going to be out of business for months after [garbled]. Don’t be shy.

Play Audio?

This message is dated as having been sent a whole day later. I’m not sure how I managed to screw the mage up that badly, but I’m glad that old bastard got a little bit of comeuppance. Care more about your money-man, damnit. I try playing the audio to find out what ‘garbled’ means, but it actually is unintelligible. He just starts saying random words excitedly, hardly bothering to annunciate much of anything at all.

User WIZ4REPS

Big convention in a couple of days, everyone’s going to be there. If you’re not going to let me pay you, at least let me summon you, you’re not going to find another easy ticket.

Play Audio?

Now for the final message. This one’s a bit of a surprise. Sure, I pretended to be part of George’s top-secret forum thing, but I hadn’t actually expected to get anything out of it. At a convention like this I should be able to pick up some neat stuff even if I only tag along, doubly so if they really are a bug bounty forum or something along those lines. It shouldn’t even be hard to infiltrate, given my situation.

I close out the inbox and flip over to my friends-list, a represented by a tacky yellow smiley face. When I tap it, the face unfolds and expands into another new menu, a painfully burgundy-and-pink list of names and statuses. Judging by the green flags by his name, George should be both Online and Active. I close out this menu, too, finally hitting the log-in button. Nothing happens for a moment, and I cringe in anticipation, waiting for whatever loading-screen or cutscene they’ll throw at me.

…

I’m the Shrike. There’s not so much as a fade-in or even a pop-up to prepare me, I’m plopped down into the pilot seat unceremoniously. Much like my Pod, the Shrike is exactly how I left it, or at least it feels that way.

Name

Shrike

HP 5/5

MP 0/0

LV 001

Summoner

None

Class

SUMMONED MONSTER

Appearance

YOUNG SHRIKE MALE

Race

SHRIKE (δ-)

Learned Skills

“Apex Claws”, “Maneuver(I)”

More or less what I expected to find. It’s a little strange that I still have Maneuver even though my mana went away, but it does make some small sense. Does a professional sprinter forget how to run because he broke a leg? Sure, I may be mana deficient, but whatever training I earned doesn’t poof into smoke. I wave away my status and stumble around the brain-menu, searching for long-distance messaging. Finally, George’s name appears out of a drop-down menu, and when I select it, a little speaker icon pops up on my field of view.

“Greetings,” I say, and George greets me with a near-immediate squeal of surprise.

“Damn!” He cries, surprised. “Now it’s everywhere! You can’t do that, man.”

It’s a long wait before he relaxes his panicked panting enough to speak again. “Where have you been?” He asks, and his intonation falls somewhere between curious and offended. Curiously, the combination of attitude and verbiage reminds me of a particularly clingy girlfriend, but I can’t reconcile that mental image with George’s muscle-wizard reality.

I wonder for a moment if I should even humor the question. It’s not like I owe him any explanation, and I’m certainly not going to cow to some dude I’ve just met. At the same time, I did go cold turkey right after adding him, so maybe he’s under the impression I’ve been avoiding him. It’d explain his persistence, at least.

Obviously, I can’t fess up and tell him that killing some random old guy fucked with my head. My current image should be that of the spooky Shrike, the being that managed to slip into a powerful wizard’s abode and kill his money-manager at level one. George should be able to take cultivate that public-facing image even further, since he knows I had no prior experience in the game and that I’m a genuine Player. Sure, he may have watched me fumble about when I first started playing, but his mind should still be racing to reconcile that awkwardness with the situation’s reality. With luck, he’ll eventually conclude that I’m some sort of intimidating figure in real life, temporarily hampered by the circumstances.

If I combine that notion of me being generally important with the honest fact that I’m a hardmodder, something that George’s lot consider risky, admirable, and eccentric all at once, and I’ve got a decent character to tool around with. The two facets play well together, too: What if the reason my strange voice modification is to hide the real thing from authorities, or the general public? Hell, there have been cases of criminals still at large getting caught out by using their Great Crusade Online characters. The closer I can twine the two identities together, the harder I can lean on them without it all falling apart.

“I had to clean up,” Mainly my psyche, though I did in fact have to mop the floor, “The problem has been dealt with.” I keep the statement ambiguous enough that he can take its meaning in whichever direction he wants, using the gravity of my strange Shrike voice to sell it home. Twisting the truth is an inherently risky business, but done properly, one can substitute reality with another of their own making. Some of the greatest actors in history have become who they pretended to be, and there are unfortunate souls who still claim to this day that their swindler was everything he said he was and more.

George grunts knowingly. “Glad to have you back.” He says, his tone as relaxed as I’ve ever heard it. It’s an impressively quick recovery, even from my perspective, and a small hint that I may be underestimating the man just a little bit. “You made me a damned fortune, y’know? Did me a real solid.”

If I can avoid it, I don’t want to dwell on my last session in the game, so I bridge the topics, cutting in before he can continue. “Yes. I saw that you offered to get me to the ‘Convention’?”

“Yeah, I’ve actually got my grimoire out now. You know, I figured you’d be late, if you came at all, but we’ve really got to get a move on.” George huffs before going entirely silent. Since his background noise cut away, and I can probably take that to mean he’s shut off his long-range chat entirely. Damn.

I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to get summoned in general, let alone by George explicitly. My first reaction is to let everyone in, and I’m instantly greeted with the ethereal tug-of-war from last time. Chanting random nonsense and asking after George don’t seem to do anything, but when I try ‘narrowing down’ my invitation, I can feel strings starting to pop off, eventually leaving only a few particularly strong ones still pulling on me. They seem to ignore my wishes, each magical grasp hooked deep into my body. I can’t seem to pull them out, no matter how hard I tell them to leave, but I can feel one in particular- most likely George’s- getting stronger and stronger with each attempt. One swift tug later and the super strong one pulls me free of the rest, dragging me away. As seems to be the game’s trademark, it drops me into the room, sans any and all fanfare.

I seem to be in George’s basement, huzzah. To one side, the contraption on the wall is still steaming, thrumming with life after its recent use. Below the alchemical device pools a brilliant yellow puddle, along with a number of unattended shards of glass. On the other side of the room, the rack of potions is nearly empty, either an indication that George’s been selling gangbusters or that he’s bringing along his stock. The man himself is standing hunched over by right by the wall and boxes, his frame hiding inside a lazily woven robe. The outfit is pretty pedestrian, but wrapped in it, George almost looks like a proper mage. He waves when he sees me, smiling. “Ready to contract up?”

I nod, and an ethereal paper appears in the air, floating down from him towards me.

Participants

George Guildwell v the Shrike

Terms

- Both Contractor and Contractee are allowed to terminate the Contract at any time and for any reason.

- Termination of the Contract will immediately return the Contractor to their domain.

- Until the Contract is terminated, the Contractor will not actively harm the Contractee.

Grade

Nomos

Penalty

Instant termination of benefits and removal from mortal realm.

Accept

Decline

The terms have changed a tad, but I don’t spot anything particularly unusual in them. It feels like they’re not fair to either of us, but given the circumstances, I don’t particularly care. I mean, we’re pretty much just going on a tour, and I have a free exit clause, so why worry? I accept the contract, and when it poofs into flame, I can feel the bond between me and George reforming. He nods, pulling up his robes ever so slightly.

“Alright, so you’re going to hide under here while we travel,” George says, somehow managing a total deadpan.

“Help, I need the Police,” I retort dryly, hardly missing a beat. I’m getting better at pulling up the voice menu on the fly, for better or for worse.

George chokes on air. Hurriedly, he shakes his head, spluttering. “I didn’t mean it like that. Look, I’ve got clothes under it,” he lifts the robe up a bit, revealing normal pantlegs. I figured as much, but he made it far too easy to resist.

“Wouldn’t riding on your shoulder suffice?” I ask, genuinely curious. Sure, the adventurers chased me before, but that was just because he hadn’t been around to explain to the crowd that I was a Summoned Monster, right? Right?

George shuffles uncomfortably. “Summoners… don’t have the best reputation.” He pauses, almost shy. “With the locals, I mean.”

Which means that I’m liable to be attacked no matter what. Up the robe I go, then. I leave the circle, approaching George. It’s a relief to find that my motor skills are at least as functional as last time I played, but I don’t let it distract me. He turns around, revealing that the thick robe is more like a shawl, hardly even buttoned across his back. It’s not going to be a very convincing disguise, no matter what. Maybe he could pass for a hairy-backed hunchback, but that’ll hardly keep suspicious players off his ass.

“Are you sure?” I ask. George looks over his shoulders and nods. “Trust me,” he says, “we only have to survive a first glance.” Sighing, I nod up at him, climbing aboard. It’s uncomfortably warm, even with parts of my back exposed to the air. The Shrike heats up easy, but as a function of its plumage, it doesn’t easily cool down. I almost forgot my needle-claws for a minute, but with some effort, we get situated and ready to move. I’m pretty much stuck to him like a Koala on a tree, or an oversized backpack, but he doesn’t seem to mind the weight.

George takes off at a sprint. It’s hard to tell we’re moving just by ear- his steps are effortless, he shifts his weight so tightly that his feet rarely seem to catch, but the wind itself whistles at my back, which is proof enough. Occasionally, he does let a foot fall hard, and I can pick up the tenor of the turf below. It takes him mere seconds to leave the even basement tiles, hardly any longer to escape the cobbling of the back alley, and he rips across the chalky road at a breakneck pace. The lazy disguise makes a lot more sense, now. Why be subtle if the Players are only ever going to get one look at us? It’s just a matter of preventing preemptive strikes. I wonder if he’s using Maneuver? How much mana does he have, exactly?

Getting out of the city is the most nerve-wracking part. Not only are we forced to stop sprinting along, he’s also got to deal with the guards. For a goodly while they hold us up, asking pointed questions about George’s ‘back problem’, but not long after their complaints disappear like mist and they beg him a good day. I couldn’t see what happened to persuade them, but I did hear the telltale cha-ching of metal hitting metal. I file away ‘NPCs can be bribed’ for later use as George starts back up on his way, leaving the city walls behind at impressive speed.

Judging by the songbirds overhead and twigs snapping underfoot, we enter a forest of some kind. As far as I learned in my meager research, nearly two-thirds of G.C.O. is wilderness, while the last third is split pretty evenly between ‘dungeons’ and ’cities’. Certain theorists have put forth even that ‘dungeons’ and ‘cities’ may be similar from each warring faction’s perspective, like mirror images. By proxy, that would make the most unique element the great outdoors. I’ve never been out in the woods before in real life, so this is my first taste of going off the grid.

“You’re a lucky guy, you know? Convention’s near this city and all.” George says using his in-game voice. He doesn’t sound even vaguely winded despite the fact he’s sprinting at full speed. ‘Summoner’ indeed, I’m still not convinced he isn’t a Warrior. “No matter how much I owe you, I wouldn’t wait up to do a last-minute cross-country.”

He falls into a silent trot, charting a straight course broken only by momentary turns and veers as George hones in on our destination. It’s a long and boring run, but he keeps at it, finally slowing to a gentle walk. It turns out the Convention was close by, after all- no more than ten kilometers away from the city, assuming George stayed at about the speed I guessed.

My legs feel like jelly when I drop to the ground. I crawl out of the robe and re-orient myself, taking in my surroundings. The birdsong and vague animal noises are distant now, and when I look about, I can see why.

We’re not in the forest anymore. The convention is set in a huge clearing, covered in dirt marked only by tiny tufts grass, a vaguely flat area of turf salted with sand and gravel that seems to have kept the shrubbery from growing back in. It’s like a giant park playground, but instead of swings and a jungle gym, the landscape is peppered with wooden stalls and hovels. In the center of it all there’s a circus-esque big top tent, easily visible even from our relatively distant vantage point.

People of all shapes and sizes mill about the scene, and my keen eyes pick out any number of common traits- many wear hoods, or many wear masks, some even veiled and hidden away. The relative few who aren’t covered up are an interesting bunch, not unlike my own summoner, and they all seem totally apathetic to the possibility that they might be crashing a masquerade party.

George follows my gaze, chuckling when I turn to look back at him. “Bunch of tryhards, yeah? Like anyone cares who your average schmuck is,” he laughs, as if the majority of people covered up and squared away are the strange ones. “Let’s get moving.”

He struts out, heading towards the crowd. I try to keep up, practically running along to match his stride. I expected for the hustle to be uncomfortable, but it actually feels pretty natural, confirming an earlier suspicion. Even without adrenaline pumping through my system, the Shrike seems to prefer to move quickly.

There’s a wide array of reactions to my personage. The most violent reactions are from the covered-up sort. Most seem shocked or surprised as I approach, but to my surprise, no one actually tries to attack, or even raise weapons my way, even if most of the crowd reaches for them. Arms shoot to hilts and backs, ready to brandish at a moment’s notice. The unmasked people don’t seem so concerned with me- a whole different ballgame. The few who do spot me are curious, at best.

They seem to be far more curious of George. He smiles and waves like a celebrity on the march, and there are any number of reactions to his approach. Animosity, amusement, welcoming smiles and hardened glares alike. One man even pulls out his sword, an excessive, eight-foot great-sword that would look more fitting in the hands of a massive statue than a short middle-aged guy. I’m not even sure how he carries it on his back, frankly.

We reach the crowd, submerging ourselves within. The curious gazes don’t go away, trailing us as we move along. More than a few people approach to goggle at me or chat with George, rarely getting more than a word or two in before we trail away or they give up, lobbing polite greetings or bids on potions and services. Unilaterally, the muscle-wizard is polite and friendly, but he refuses to slow in the slightest, handing out promises of ‘later’ and ‘definitely, bro’ willy-nilly. I turn to look up at him, wondering how he look in the public eye, but I don’t see George at all.

Instead, a flaming hunk of stone and metal spins between us, flying right past, and my eyes follow it along. The sword rips through the air, and the crowd ahead scatters as it whirrs by, eventually embedding itself into the ground a few meters past us. Enthralled by the spectacle, I watch the fire smolder off of the decidedly inflammable blade for a few long moments before I notice that George is facing the other way, finally spinning around to match.

The very same undersized man from before stands not too far away, having just chucked his improbably oversized sword. He’s about 5’9’’, and his physique is standard at best, if not thin, making the fact he can even lift it a small miracle. Now that we’re closer, I can take in more detail, profiling the otherwise unimportant character much more fully. His face is unshaven, scraggly enough to belong to a beggar or a bandit, even if the oversized hat atop his head suggests a cowboy motif instead.

His hair and scruff are both black, cut short so that it doesn’t hang loose, but left long enough to poke out below his hat even from the front. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard of a cowboy that chucks giant swords, but to be fair, it probably wasn’t an option at the time. Maybe it would have been the weapon of choice? He wears a thin cape and proper black pants, a rare combo. Likely owing to the game’s setting, since there aren’t that many materials for weavers and tanners to throw around.

“You owe me, Wizard,” he says, waving a finger menacingly at George. “You’re not getting out of this one.”

George lets off a brilliant smile, firmly contrasting Chief’s scowl, unconcerned. “Chief! Nice to see you! I don’t give refunds, you know?”

‘Chief’ starts to reply, but he pauses to spit off to one side, a glob of saliva bouncing off the dirt. He manages to make the campy act look legitimately intimidating, the sort of well-trained gesture that would look silly in unfamiliar hands. A wannabe cowboy, for sure. “Potion was fine,” he barks, “it’s the bet. You knew Archstaff was goin’ to skip town because you were going to make it happen yourself. Give me back my collateral.”

I look between the two men. George covers his mouth dramatically, concealing laughter, while Chief is furious, staring at him menacingly. Of course, from my angle, I know that George isn’t really laughing. His lips are pulled taut, and he’s starting to sweat, his brain no doubt chugging through his next play. Even if he wants to look relaxed, he’s actually taking this guy pretty seriously. I try to slip back away, hoping to avoid the feud, but that catches the other man’s attention.

“What in the hell is that thing?” His angry face falls into slack-jawed surprise, as though he hadn’t even noticed me before just this moment. Without the scowl, I notice that his features aren’t all that intimidating after all. Rather than a bandit or even a cowboy, he looks more like some kid’s father, your average working dad. I wonder if he gets digital cramps from contorting his face like that, you know? Sure, the results are impressive, but it’s got to be hard to keep up all the time. He gawks at me, perplexed, but the expression is quickly replaced with dreadful recognition.

George’s eyes light up. “So, you do remember!” He says, laughing for real now. “You owe me, Chief. I’ll let you default on the old bet if you forget this little oversight ever happened. What do you say?”

“How’ve you been feeling, partner?” Chief asks, face abruptly twisted into a smile. “What say you, me, and your new friend here all take a walk to the tent?” After he finishes speaking, he nods politely in my general direction, walking right past us. In a flash, his face goes back from ‘confused dad’ to ‘cowboy hero’, and just as swiftly his sword goes from ‘buried in the ground’ to ‘in its bizarrely small sheath’. George nods, returning his smile. “Sounds good. Did you like the potion after all?”

The two descend into a rather involved conversation, settling into a rhythm like old friends. Most of the time they yammer on about this mob or that drop, but every so often the chatting tilts back to George’s potion. I get a distinct impression that they’re a big part of George’s clout, even if I can’t make much of the actual topics at hand. I do glean that Chief is a mercenary based in just the same city George dropped me in. I even learn that he was working Archstaff’s storefront when I was doing my B&E routine, only just a staircase and some doors out of scene. He doesn’t seem too worried that I lost him the job, or at least he’s pretending he’s not. Chief strikes me as a great actor and a terrible liar, so it’s probably not going be a problem.

After a good bit of hustling we’re outside the tent. The crowd billows around it, hopping from stall to stall or wandering about, but there’s a sizeable gap in front of its ‘door’, a brief canvas tunnel with one big flap, the only obvious way in or out of the tent. When I look about, I can see why. Two burly men stand guard on either side of the flap, decked out in properly knightly armor, while a smaller, mid-sized one stands in the middle. Distinctly contrasting the two guards, he’s dressed in a tailcoat and high-strung dress pants, and paired with the circus aesthetic, he would be the ringmaster or the ticket-taker, and if I had to guess, I’d say both. More startlingly, he looks almost precisely like my Uncle Fazio.

The man has a stocky, mid-sized frame, leathery skin, deep-set eyes, and an oddly blocky face that could be compared to a hexagon, with his prominent chin and forehead at war with his otherwise angular cheeks, all crowned by dark-brown hair pulled into a tight, slicked-back style. Coincidentally, that description is essentially identical to how I might describe Uncle Fazio. They both seem to be about the same age, appearance placing them somewhere in the late sixties, and even if this one seems more youthful- a hairline that isn’t quite receding, skin that hasn’t started to wrinkle- I could easily chalk that up to the game’s doing.

The only thing throwing me off is his demeanor. Uncle Fazio is always smiling, a laid-back man who’s had the air of a content retiree for as long as I’ve known him, which is admittedly only six or seven years now. I’ve rarely seen him ‘at work’, owing to the fact that he really is retired, so to speak, but even when he had to dole out orders he seemed to be relaxed. Here, this Fazio look-alike has a tight-lipped scowl and a vicious glare, a Pitbull ready to pounce.

It can’t possibly be a coincidence, which leaves only a copycat or the real deal. I’m inclined to believe the latter, incongruity aside- Uncle Fazio isn’t precisely a public-facing figure. Either way, I’d prefer not to give up my anonymity, and considering the circumstances of our encounter, he may not want any undue attention either. His eyes flit from George’s to Chief’s and down to my own, and the intensity of the glare makes me a little nervous. It’s probably a good thing the Shrike can’t shiver.

“Who’s this?” my not-Uncle asks, pointing my way. Chief answers. “George’s summoned a safe’n for once. Not even trying to kill us,” he explains excitedly, but George coughs and raps him on the shoulders, cutting him off.

“A player from the forums,” he says, much to Chief’s apparent shock. It occurs to me suddenly that I never actually introduced myself to him properly, whoops. “He’s one of the hardmodders, just recently got into the games. I trust him.”

The man’s frown deepens to a scowl. “Which one is he? All of my VIP technicians are accounted for.”

George begins to reply, but as he processes that information, his mouth drops open and swings back shut a few times as he searches for real answer, jaw moving idly on a hinge. After some deliberation, he shrugs instead, and Fazio’s full attention swings my way. Uh-oh.

I glare up at George, hurriedly pulling up my menu. I hop on the direct messaging and say “My voice might startle him. Tell him I said that I’m a long-time lurker.”

His confidence in me had all but broken, but when I finish speaking, it settles back into place. People don’t like being swindled, but if they’re offered a decent alternative to being made to look like a fool, they’ll hop on it in a heartbeat; trusting me is just the path of least resistance. Insinuating that I’m both a long-time user and one Fazio shouldn’t know about- a lurker, a person who keeps up to date but rarely posts on a given forum- is enough to patch the incongruities back together

“He’s a lurker, and I trust him well enough,” George affirms. “One hell of a coincidence we even ran into each-other. He didn’t ask me to come here, I asked him.”

Fazio is decidedly unconvinced. “Why isn’t he telling me that himself?” He asks. I squawk loudly to demonstrate why, but that doesn’t seem to work. Notably, out of all the people standing in close proximity, he’s the only one who doesn’t cover his ears. “Obviously,” he growls, “I meant using your player menu, like you did with him.”

“His voice is, how do I put it, ‘interesting’?” George throws out. Not helping, George.

“Not a squeaker, is he?” Chief asks. If only you knew, Chief.

“Just fucking talk.” Fazio demands. Stop inviting trouble, Fazio.

“Greetings,” I say, finally pressured into making the terrible decision of direct messaging him. To my surprise, he doesn’t so much as flinch. Uncle Fazio’s made of steel, apparently.

“Explains how that big oaf knew you were a technician,” Fazio says, entirely to a certain big oaf’s chagrin, while Chief looks between the two of us, visibly confused. “Doesn’t explain who you are. Get talking.”

Drat, I was hoping to shake him off before we had to deal with the problem at hand. I flash through my memory, jogging for any solid excuse, answer, or retort. I haven’t learned any names, or much about the forum itself for that matter. No obvious crutches or deflections to call on, except maybe the lack of concern over my ‘voicechanger’, but I don’t see how to utilize that. The first positive reaction to my participation in the forum was under the preconceived notion that all or most hardmodders would be members, but clearly that’s not enough of an alibi. Assuming this fellow is Uncle Fazio, I can leverage what I know of his personality, and maybe…

“Can you afford to find out?” I ask, not even humoring the order. Two tricks to it: First, George implied that people trade for exploits and information. A natural extension of that would be for an importance to be placed on identity, something confirmed by the bulk of hooded people running about. The unmasked are already public figures, while the rest are monetizing their very being, perhaps for networking purposes. My own real-life name is impossible to glean from my character, too, so it’d be worth twice as much. Second, Fazio likes smartasses. His sense of humor is generally dry, but he gets a kick out of all things sardonic. It can be hard to know when you’ll step on the wrong toe and get bit, but over the years, I can be confident that ‘insulting his personal wealth’ is A-OK. He’s not too big on that whole ‘money’ thing, anyway.

The grim man’s face collapses into a fleeting smile before he pulls himself back together, and that’s all the proof I need: I’m dealing with Uncle Fazio, the one and only. George and Chief start blubbering, off to the side, looking between the two of us like they’ve just seen a ghost.

“I’ll believe you for today,” he acquiesces, even if his voice is just as intense as before, “but if I ever get the chance, we’re going to have a more interesting chat.” Then, anticlimactically, he steps aside. I mean, it was the desired outcome, but it may have worked a tad too well. George certainly seems to think so, at least judging by how frantic he’s getting

“What about my dues?” He says, fishing some shiny coins out of his inventory. The ticket-taker slowly shakes his head, unconcerned. “You’re all square for today. You’ll be VIP soon anyway, yeah?”

Unwilling to argue the case for wasting his own money, George drags Chief and I through the flap. He doesn’t even pause to look back, wandering into the tent in a daze. The walk through the canvas tunnel is fairly short, but it feels like it’s taking forever, primarily because of the two pairs of eyes boring holes in my shoulders.

Chief ventures his question first. “What in the hell did you say to him?” He asks, awe shining through. George grunts an agreement. “You made Swordfish smile, and he let us all in the tent for free. The hell, man?”

Swordfish. You could mistake it for some random screenname, but I know better. I suppose Uncle Fazio isn’t too worried about his identity, after all. In certain circles, if you say ‘Swordfish’, he’d be person that came to mind- probably even before they think of the creature itself. To my Father he’s called Fazio, while to my Mother he’s only ever known as Swordfish. It’s not hard to guess which one’s closer to the man, given that information. It’s a work name, and the kind with baggage.

I shrug. In this case, not answering is, in fact, my best choice. I can roll this incongruency off of my second ‘trait’: someone important. The two men are pretty visibly unsatisfied, but they exchange a long glance, almost certainly paired with some direct messages, and the topic falls flat. Things are still awkward for a minute, but when we make it into the actual arena, that all blows away.

The place is much bigger than I expected. along the tent’s canvas walls are wooden benches, but that alone would hardly seat more than forty people. The bulk of the seating is below the floor: The whole space is dug into the ground like the amphitheaters of old, rings of ‘seats’ cut into the dirt and clay and polished, and seven layers down lies the ring. Pristinely tiled stone lines the floor, obstructed by only a few wood chairs- most of which, occupied. A number of interesting people occupy the seats, waiting patiently for the event to begin. In fact, the whole space is filled with interesting people. Almost everyone milling about or seated in the stadium is unmasked, with the covered individuals becoming something of an oddity, a total reversal of the crowds outside.

As soon as we get to our seats, adjacent stone bench-seats just a few layers down from ‘ground level’, one of the people on the stage launches to his feet. He’s a man draped in a gaudy red robe, and he shouts eagerly up at the audience. His voice is miraculously clear, projecting over the entire tent as though he has a microphone strapped to his chest. I can’t rule out magic, but I suspect he’s simply that damn loud.

“Congratulations, one and all, for sorting yourselves out of the chaff.” He says. With every word comes a flourish, the man soaking in presupposed adulation and adoration from the sound of the starting gun. “Another month has passed, and as lucky as we are, we have all found ourselves here to participate in this beautiful exchange of information, fascinations, and last but not least, crispy-green dollar bills.”

A raucous cheer sweeps through the crowd as he concludes his first bid. George and Chief join in, whooping and clapping about something or another. I clap along, trying to fit in. The Shrike isn’t very good at clapping, but I figure it’d be worse at ‘whooping’. I don’t need everyone’s attention.

“Today, we’ve been graced with three keynote speakers. Shout-out goes to Swordfish and Thebes for cashing out their secrets and disseminating it to you all.” He continues. Another brief smattering of applause and cheers crops up, but it’s cut off as soon as the red-robed man begins to speak again.

“This month has been fantastic for our trade, but I doubt you need me to tell you that. New investments, discoveries, and advancements that bring opportunities galore for entrepreneurs of all kinds. Even still, we fail to hold a candle to the NPCS.” He pauses, ending the thought gravely, letting the gravity of that sink in. “Today, though, we work to crawl ever closer to power. The theme of this evening’s discourse will be Advanced Magical Concepts, many of which were previously the exclusive domain of the AI’s!” Everyone cheers, with varying degrees of exuberance. The magically inclined half of the room, like George, go absolutely fucking wild. Chief and his lot are merely excited.

The red-coated man basks in the seemingly endless celebration, composing himself to launch deeper into crowd-minding, but he freezes. Following his gaze back up from the stage, I spot Uncle Fazio hunched over on a wooden bench near the tent’s door-flap, his intense glare trained dead on the poor attention-hog. I guess the boss wants things to move things along, huh?

The man recovers his bearing with impressive speed. “With this brief introduction out of the way, I’ll acquiesce the stage to our first speaker. I hope with absolute sincerity that you all learn much, earn much, and thoroughly enjoy our great gathering. The third Dark Gamer Symposium is now officially under way!”