Chapter 4 – DAY ONE

Ⱥ∞

Mattis looked at me, then focused his attention back onto his screen and said, “Not that I am completely willing to let Corporal DeSantos’ breach of courtesy go unaddressed, Lieutenant, but, I agree. You do need to shut the fuck up for a few minutes while we figure out what this is all about. Bonita, you got any ideas or input?”

Briefly flustered, she replied, “Wow, General, that is, well I, uhm. Can I try something?”

“What is it?”

She stammered slightly as she thought about what she wanted to say. “Well, I’m not sure that, ah, well. Hmmm. Dayumn. How ‘bout … I know! We’ll conduct an experiment. We decide on somethin’ that’s fairly minor, and everybody takes a turn makin’ a slightly different statement. We’ll see what can be made to happen, but in such a way that no serious effects result.”

Mattis stood a moment thoughtfully, then gave a boyish grin. “I like it. What can we do that universally ‘in-game’ shouldn’t have a negative effect?”

Delight answered immediately. “Loot drops.”

I turned to her and gave her a searching examination. She clearly had something going on inside that gorgeous head of hers. That got me to thinking about her head, my head, and head in general. Once again, my mind tuned out and remembered the way her plump lips stretched, yet, caressed me as her tongue massaged my cock as she ever so slowly worked to deep throat me.

Damn. Gotta focus on the here and now.

I said, “Great idea, Delight. Great idea. What are you thinking about loot drops?”

She smiled shyly. “Well, I don’t really know. Like Bonita said, sort of how it could be slightly changed by each of us and we could see what happens. We each could say something about how loot is gathered or something along those lines?”

Everyone turned and looked at Mattis for his opinion.

He considered it for a long moment. “Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. Delight, you finalized the concept, so you go first as a demonstration of the type of content you are referencing. We’ll wait one full minute, then Bonita goes next because she thought of it first, wait one minute, then DeSantos, wait one, then me, wait five, then Lieutenant Westlichen. Sorry. I mean West. Sound good?”

After we all agreed, he pointed at Delight and said, “Speak your piece.”

Delight grabbed her hands together and wrung them briefly as she said, “All loot drops will be automatically gathered by the closest person within five feet.” She squinted in trepidation waiting to hear the gong of a universal message. At least a full minute passed with no indication of change or effect.

While we were all waiting, I couldn’t help but think that was another one of the things I didn’t like about games, how shit just magically appeared on the ground and you got stuff by walking through the pile. Total bullshit. Unrealistic as hell.

Mattis said, “Bonita, go ahead.”

Bonita nodded and spoke up, “When at a loot drop, the first person through will automatically gather and equip the most powerful weapons and equipment.” She smiled like she’d just won a lottery scratch off.

I, of course, thought, ‘Yeah, and what if there’s some piece of cursed shit like a level fifty necklace of choking to death like a motherfucker. Or you just killed the owner of the mithril penis of self-penetration. I don’t think so.’

We went through the group, each making an announcement about how loot drops should be done with no gong and no messages. Then it was my turn to try it out.

The group of players, but not Mattis, looked on in growing horror as I spoke, “At a loot drop, each item has to be focused on and selected for recovery and identification by a player. Multiple players can be engaged in recovery from the same loot drop, although the players who gained the experience points from that engagement will have priority of selection in order of XP gain. Each item must be specifically ignored or rejected by a player before it becomes available to the player with the next-most number of gained XP. Any and all items are transferrable between players unless soul-bound.” I was personally proud of that last part.

A gong immediately sounded. We all punched up the Universal Message and read the following.

UNIVERSAL MESSAGE: MMUvW PATCH #8 – Loot drop algorithm established. Each item must be selected or rejected by players based on XP gained during an engagement. Non-soul-bound items are transferrable.

>>>>>>>>>>>>END<<<<<<<<<<<<<

I grinned like a rat that stole the cheese. Maybe if games had been like this I would have actually played.

Everyone stared at me. Actually, everyone but Mattis glared. He just stared.

Shit.

I didn’t care too much, though. I prefer more realism, which helps with the personal development of skills and an improved tactical mindset. I had even considered throwing in something about booby-traps but decided against it. Too realistic for games. Maybe later, tater.

I felt taking time at loot drops was a great way to slow things down in-game without all the wild sprinting around like mindless sword-wielding rabbits. I know when I was in Afghanistan clearing houses and doing CQB, we didn’t just shoot a motherfucker then run through a room with AKs and RPG just magically jumping onto our bodies or into our assault packs. You had to go through it all item by item. So, fuck it. I said what I said and meant it.

Saint Mattis said, “Okay, Lieutenant. You are the Kwisatz Haderach, the fucking cat’s meow, the man with the plan. It is fairly obvious that MMUvW is you. Yeah, that is clearly it, Mystic Marshal Ulrich von Westlichen. Maybe that’s what a Mystic Marshal does. Makes rules. Apparently, hell it’s as clear as glass, you have the ability to direct and change the paradigm. Somehow you have command authority.”

Bonita and DeSantos both spoke at the same time, “Dev.”

“What?” Mattis asked.

Bonita deferred to DeSantos, who replied, “Dev, sir. Like, a game developer. They are the ones who create patches and push them out into the game worlds. They monitor and evaluate game performance and make changes as needed to keep things working as they should.”

Mattis grimaced, glanced at me and said, “Okay. So, you're obviously some sort of ‘dev.’ I think we’ve pretty much covered my part of this goat rope. How about you send me back now?”

“I’ll try again, sir.”

I did try. And failed again and again. After about ten attempts, I just threw up my hands. “Gotta tap out, sir. Ain’t happening for now. Maybe when we leave, you’ll just disappear back to the real world?”

“Okay, Westlichen, I mean West. I really feel like I’m on the bubble here. Take your unit, I mean party, and leave, and we’ll see what happens.”

I stood up, gathered my spear, shield, and helmet. Then I realized, I didn’t know where to go or what to do. As someone who had spent my entire adult life, short as it had been to that moment, mostly following someone else’s plan, I was a bit at a loss.

“Go where, sir, and do what? Do you have a mission for us? Usually, as I understand it, games have quests for players and groups to make money, gain treasure, save a village, rescue a maiden or something like that.”

Mattis started to shake his head and paused, eyes going unfocused again. “Well, as it so happens, Lieutenant, yes. I do. Maybe this is what we’ve all been waiting for. I have a quest for you and your group. You are to go to the starting village of Syra and meet with the Archon. It seems the village has recently experienced some depredations and needs the assistance of adventurers.”

I got a ping, and a screen opened for me. Not anyone else. It was very clear from that point forward the game considered me the unit commander.

You have received a Quest, “Aid the Archon.” Your Guide has asked you to aid the Archon of Syra in solving his problem with attacks on his citizens and travelers.

Reward: XP 1000, Fame +1, Unknown

Will you accept this quest to Aid the Archon?

I looked at my screen as a text box blurred into solidity. I asked, “Does everybody see this?”

I heard murmurs and variations of ‘no.’

I looked at Saint Mattis and asked, “So, I just push one of these selections, and we’re good to go?”

“That’s it. Choose the green button, and walk out of this shrine then check your map.”

Mattis grinned in anticipation. I pushed the green button and heard a sound like coins falling into a piggy bank.

As my group walked toward the opening of the shrine, he reached into his robes and pulled out his grenade and Ka-bar. With a patently fake expression of sincerity, he said, “May Chaos guide and keep you. Ha!”

Just as I was about to step through, I looked back and said, “Thanks, sir. I appreciate the thought,” and mumbled as I continued to step off, “but remembering operations in Afghanistan, I wish I had night vision ...”

FLASH

“…gear.”

∞

The instant Ulrich departed, the walls of the shrine around Saint Mattis became translucent. When he walked over to one wall and gazed out through the mild obscuration, he observed shadows of movement at a distance.

Not considering how he knew to do so, he applied the mildest of effort to focus and the wall cleared sufficiently to see. As he peered intently, he could identify the movement as people walking. He reached out to touch the wall. It was with the briefest amazement that he saw his hand pass through the wall. In the way of things on this plane, he immediately understood that he could pass through the wall either way, but that access to this shrine was otherwise restricted to himself and Ulrich, or those to whom the Mystic Marshal had instinctively granted access during the process of Factionalization.

Mattis tucked away the grenade and ka-bar then strode forward with purpose and the intention of discovering what he could of this mysterious locale.

Upon exiting, he saw what appeared to be randomly placed structures that sat upon a horizonless surface. The silvery gray sky, if one could call it such, melded seamlessly into the ground. Another questionable descriptor. He found everything about his environment odd and a touch unsettling. It was an extraordinary blend of the firmly defined solidity of the multitude of the buildings and people coupled with the formlessness of what felt to him like an amorphous ocean of limitless power. Other than the buildings and the people, there were no lines or edges. Nothing to indicate a firmament.

Strangely, to his mind, he wasn’t bothered by this uncharacteristic environment. He felt as if he should be concerned, but was unconcerned that he wasn’t concerned. Odd.

Mattis’ gaze landed upon an individual whose appearance at a distance seemed somewhat familiar. Again, with the slightest effort to focus, his sight zoomed in as if he were using a scope.

Feeling a bit of humor, he grinned with a touch of ferocity. He did recognize that face. He had seen it thousands of times over the many years of his life and military career. Always, of course, as an image, a drawing, or photograph. In this instance, when he focused intently, he saw glow of a data box over the head of the subject of his scrutiny.

Mattis decided he wanted to have a chat and hear the voice of Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, known to the world as Lenin.

As Mattis approached Lenin, he was able to read the details in the glowing gold edged box above the communist icon’s head. The saint walked slowly, but the distance seemingly closed almost instantly between them. In the few brief seconds before they were at a distance to converse, he saw everything of note within and about the data box.

Vladimir Ilyich Lenin – Called AVATAR and Guide LVL P8/99 to MYSTIC MARSHAL LVL 3 Colonel Yuri Uranov F8.

Saint Mattis didn’t yet comprehend the meaning of everything he could observe, but he locked the information away to consider in depth as time allowed. He had confidence in his ability to figure out the various relevancies of colors, shapes, etcetera. He was called the Warrior Monk back in the real world primarily for his dedication to intellectual and scholarly pursuits associated with war. And few things were more important to the successful prosecution of war than the ability to develop actionable intelligence on enemy forces.

If the wicked grin on Lenin’s face was suggestive of anything, it told Mattis that whatever was actually going on, the Reds were going to be trouble.

“Vladimir, my name is Jim.”

With a poorly hidden sneer as he took in Saint Mattis’ appearance as a militarized holy man, he replied with a faint but distinct Russian accent, “Saint Mattis, how good to see you. By your attire I must ask, are you, by chance, French?”

‘French?’ Mattis thought to himself. ‘Why would this idiot think I’m French?’ He then considered his appearance and attire as a medieval saint, and France’s history, which included the style of address for the French King as ‘Most Christian Majesty.’

Mattis’ initial surprise was immediately displaced by the instinct to agree that he was French to deny the probable enemy as much legitimate information as possible. Better to feed disinformation to one’s opponents than allow them the truth where they could gain an advantage.

The saint did not, however, get that opportunity as he felt an unbreakable compulsion to speak honestly. Because of his incredible intellect, he immediately comprehended and grasped the unique potential of an opportunity while his will allowed him to minimize what he shared. He realized that if Lenin, and others, were also compelled to honesty, then he had an opportunity to mine for critical information.

Mattis smiled disarmingly as if he was just a simple, bluff man. He plucked at his camouflage robe and said, “No. American. Military.” He gestured with his hand towards his halo and chuckled as he added, “Saint.”

Lenin nodded and appeared as if he were about to speak again when Mattis glanced away and gestured again, broadly taking in the buildings and the environment as a whole.

“So, Vladimir, what can you tell me about all this?”

Mattis carefully hid a smile as the answer or answers to this single question would provide a whole cascade of data to evaluate. From whether there was some sort of compulsion or geas, to how much information must be shared to open-ended questions, to how much information Lenin had, all the way up to critical and critically relevant details found in the answer or answers to come. Everything was intel, it just took an expert to assess and evaluate it. And he, Saint Mattis, former Marine general, and all around bad-motherfucker-extraordinaire, was a just such a gold-plated expert.

‘Yes,’ Saint Mattis thought to himself while presenting a façade of simplicity and gentleness, ‘I’m a junkyard dog, and I just got a good sharp-toothed bite on your junk, you commie fuck. Spill your guts.’

Over the next half-hour, the geas drove Lenin to answer honestly and completely. As he expounded in growing frustration upon that single question, Mattis was variously pleased with the amount of information pouring forth, while also horrified and appalled at many of the details.

As it appeared Lenin had almost reached the end of his information dump, Mattis gently interrupted and began to back away as he said, “Vlad, while I’d be happy to stand here all day and listen to what your sharing, I need to get back to my place and take care of a few things. I’ll see you around. Maybe we can talk again.”

‘Ha,’ he thought, ‘I can lie my ass off as long as I’m not answering a direct question. Good to know. Now, I need to figure out what this all means, use that understanding to develop more intel, and figure out how to get this to von Westerlich as soon as possible. If not sooner.’

As he walked back toward the von Westerlich shrine to consider things, his gaze fell onto two other Avatar Guides at a distance. Those, too, Mattis decided, he wanted to visit with soon. Then he saw a third, and a fourth.