“I wanted to advance like Prince of Advancement, but instead I'm furious like Furious Galaxy,” lamented Burmin Trivvis in a fashion most disloyal to the game of which he was an integral if forgettable component.

“Yeah. Me too,” Dennet said as he strapped his crossbow to the back of his blue Doveskan tunic in the proper position while within the walls of peaceful Freegate. “I'm as mad as a space-based S******** W** clone can be. I only saw one Nova, and it was a two out of five at that.”

“Don't worry about that. I came up with a new one just now. I'll think about what to do after its inaugural demonstration.”

“Let him go, Ulrik, and maybe stop trying to think.” Sindze U. Radalo shook out her blonde hair, or tresses as they must be called when on blonde archers wearing green. “Let's find some Strategists or something to do that for us.”

“Hm. Hmmmmm. Hmmmmmmm.” No matter how hard he pressed his finger against his forehead, Flood Strategist Ipons Ulsrada contributed nothing.

“Hyune Giling.” Quille Treten stroked his beard and followed the Champion practice of standing around while hoping other officers would do all the work. “Or Saptres Muria.”

“They're not even smart. They're just the right class. At least they'll talk to us without ordering us to carry something. Or if they do, we tell them to shove it.” A wistful smile beautified Tramda's face. “I'd love to tell a UR to shove it.”

“I offer you the opportunity.” The Rares jumped and did what their instincts told them when they saw who spoke, backing away or pressing against the battlements to avoid the attention of an Ultra Rare. And not just any Ultra Rare. Slightly tousled black hair! A lens clenched fiercely by long fingers! Ruffles! Count Poitnem had arrived.

A sound and complete categorization of officers could not stop at rarity, for a few URs and SRs belonged to an element outside the four standard ones, a special type which enjoyed advantage against all of them, though with lower bonuses. Eclipse URs were the highest of the high, the fairest of the fair, the most disappointing when players failed to get them.

“Seeing as dailies are done, it seemed I had an opportunity to inquire how our officers felt about the new feature.” Count Poitnem uncrossed his arms, shrugged, and swept his intense, dark-eyed gaze over the Rares. “But perhaps I should simply . . . shove it?”

Ulrik dared to straighten up and answer, swinging Dennet for emphasis. “Go ahead and shove it if you came up with an auto-sell option for whites and Commons to distress honest officers trying to catch a break for once. Otherwise! No shoving is required.”

The count recrossed his arms and nodded. “Discouraging for you, I do not doubt. Would it be accurate to conclude you wish to alter this arrangement?” The Rares all nodded. “I seem to have heard . . . That's right. A story comes to mind. Long ago, near launch, before my introduction to the gacha as you might gather, there was a technical problem that plagued players. Certain settings insisted on returning to their defaults. Unable to solve the problem, the players eventually surrendered their settings to destiny. However, the truth was that some Super Rares had realized a method of ingress existed, using which they were able to infiltrate the options. Who they might have been, or whether this tale is true, I cannot tell you. Regale me with recollections of your Vigilant Patrols if you succeed. Adieu.” Count Poitnem spun in such a way that his cape swirled dramatically, or it would have if he wore one, and walked downstairs.

“What a nice guy,” Burmin Trivvis marveled.

Ipons Ulsrada agreed. “I liked the part where he didn't make us carry him wherever he's going.”

“Yes. We'll start a fan club later,” Quille Treten said. “But how to find out more?”

Sindze U. Radalo regained her nonchalance. “I don't know, maybe we can ask launch SRs who might talk to us, or URs who used to be SRs, or something.”

“Yeah, right, right, I get you. Hey, Cadmos! Cadmos, you there? Cadmos!” Ipons trotted down the stairs ahead of the other nine, who followed on eight pairs of feet since none of them were centaurs and Ulrik was giving Dennet a ride.

Cadmos calls bounced off the regular gray rectangles of stone that made up the interior walls. Forbidding adamant might have caused discomfort in the players if it lurked behind every menu option. Certainly the festive purple carpet with gold bird designs had been added to Freegate's main hall after it became the primary menu background, and such a draw it was that the aspirational Rare posse discovered Cadmos walking back and forth over it in an endless, though not Vigilant, patrol.

“Hey, Cadmos!”

The man himself turned his spiky red-haired head around and, unlike many Ultra Rares, did not deign to notice the Rares. He just plain noticed them. “Hi guys. Something up?”

“Dennet wants to ask you a question,” Ulrik said as he held out his life-sized Harasser puppet. He covered his mouth with his other hand so as not to interrupt the conversation. “Hello, I'm Dennet. Did you ever sneak into the options? Or know who did?”

“Ah, I know what you're talking about. No, of course I wouldn't do anything like that. It's really more of an Ostros and Anstralia move. Not that I'm accusing them! I think they're in the garden now. Oh, and one more thing. Anyone can come to me with any questions you might have. I promise I don't only talk to Dennet because he gave me a three out of five.” Cadmos smiled his naive, eyes-shut main character smile, and the Rares shuffled and muttered their thanks, Dennet twice in different voices for some reason, before taking off for the garden.

Another scene in need of a feature had been tucked near the sheer black outer walls, waiting for some kind of system where fertilizer drops could be expended to grow herbs for bonuses or else flowers to give officers and raise their Friendship as soon as that got implemented. As it was, the garden consisted of a few fruit trees and flower bushes around a pair of white tables.

“Scold me for coming in late, but were those two ever SRs?” Clyse asked on the way.

“Yeah, free ones.”

“That's how the story started,” Sindze U. Radalo said. “A young man out on an adventure, terrible monsters, a prince and princess in peril, and a beautiful huntress to give them directions. Three of those four characters are Ultra Rares now, so it's just a matter of time, really.”

“Correct. Anstralia Perandra and Ostros Perandra are currently in the alt closet, naturally. There are the currently active versions,” said Reginald, pointing at people they all could see without his assistance.

At one of the tables, opposite each other, sat King Ostros and General Anstralia having a pleasant conversation. One was all jodhpurs and riding crops while the other presented a vision of thick gold crowns and heavy fur-lined robes, both with unquestionably UR levels of detail.

“Unexpected! The Rares appear before there is even labor for them to do. What a convenient age. Well, if you wait, I'll be sure to find something for you.”

“Don't be ridiculous, little sister. Obviously they are here to recruit two more members for their women's lacrosse team. Well, I am not a woman, but neither are most Rares, and while I have never played lacrosse, I'm confident I have the stats for it.”

“That's a wonderful idea!” Sindze U. Radalo took the lead. “But before we decide on our jerseys, we were thinking about how maybe it would be better if some settings were changed? Some game settings, nothing big.”

“I see, I see.”

“Do you? Impressive. I only see once at a time.” Anstralia smiled at Ostros. “I hate to say so, but players make the most counterproductive decisions in there, don't they? Turning off voices, for example. One wonders what goes through their minds at times. I don't know that Rares have any better judgment, however.” She tapped her chin with her crop, then pointed it at two of the Rares in succession. “But! Since some of my favorite table legs are troubled, I feel obliged to assist. Isn't that right, Quille, Ulrik?”

“What a pleasure it always is,” Quille Treten said with all the enthusiasm of the ideal table leg.

“Same.” Ulrik contemplated the shapes of the clouds.

“And yet, you still haven't told them what they want to know. Well then, I will take up your alleged obligation. Little Rares, the process is simple. Every day, the monthly login calendar makes its entrance and, when dismissed, returns to the land of technical such-and-such which impinges on our own in ways both expected and surprising. Any officer has only to attach himself to the back of the calendar, out of sight, if he desires to enter that sterile country. And to return? Merely hop on the Back button. You can't miss it.”

“Some people sure are stuck up for former free SRs that barely see more use than we do,” Sindze said back at the lounge.

“I suspect those two have developed a sense of humor about their place in the roster. That's only a guess, of course.” Saptres Muria, like a true Strategist, tempered his statement to avoid any possible blame for an inaccurate analysis.

Stan, like a true Medic, offered succor. “Leave your woes in the garden, girl. You got the info, now you need the man, and when it comes to getting away from all of you for a while, I am the man.”

“There goes my idea.” Ulrik dropped Dennet, who patted down his blue tunic and checked his sheep-fluffy blond hair for irregularities when he regained his feet.

The next morning, the login calendar materialized in the main hall as usual to greet players with news of gold and Material Facsimiles, and also to conceal the fevered operations of excited Rares who hoisted Stan and strapped him to the back with bandages and verve. “That's the way lads, and tighten it more if you like. Leave my cutting arm free though.”

SRs and URs wandered in to imbue the main menu display with life and activity. Some stared puzzled at the Rares while others looked smug and winked. “Trying to change a setting?” Dr. Stezlinstein called out.

“Auto-sell.”

The first year Halloween UR nodded and threw them a thumbs-up as they finished securing Stan.

“Still time to tighten it a little more. Maybe not. See you around, buckos!” The calendar shrank and disappeared to reveal a row of saluting Rares who dropped their gestures of respect and scurried out of the hall every which way.

The gap between dimensions considered Stan, probed him, fingered through all his memories . . . Hanging around the resistance camp for a couple months, hanging around Freegate for almost two years, playing solitaire, figuring out chess problems, the assorted experiences of a Rare's life. Satisfied, it let him pass.

Stan awakened inside the settings menu and blinked off a feeling that something had happened. Obviously nothing ever happened, which was just the way he liked it. He worked his saber around to cut himself free of the bandages, though they resisted the efforts of a Medic with 85 Attack longer than the most optimistic bandage manufacturers ever dared to claim in their promotional materials.

He dropped to the floor, the plain, light blue floor that suffered no walls to constrain its magnitude but instead stretched to and beyond the horizon in every direction without limit. Above, a single, endless cloud hid the sky and flared here and there with green light. Glitches, perhaps.

The only objects of concern visible to him were arrays of buttons and sliders on the ground off to the side. He left the calendar where it hovered in the air, bobbing a little, and walked over to inspect the options, which took quite a bit of walking given each spanned several Stan-lengths.

Sliders for background music, voices, and sounds; Friend Request Auto Accept; Text Speed and Auto Text Speed. He wandered through the options toward the bottom where the Vigilant Patrol settings had been appended in the most recent update. Auto-Sell Common Officers, Stock Equipment, and Refined Equipment. Those were the culprits, and so Stan gathered himself and hopped on the highlighted Common button, toggling it from dirty white to dark gray. Stepping off in satisfaction, he repeated the maneuver for the buttons indicating white and green gear and looked around.

“No need to hurry back,” he said to the void, and produced a deck of cards from inside his ragged coat. A world without horse butts to dodge, see, or hear, without the arguments the other Rares insisted on repeating as if they gave daily rewards. A world that might be called paradise, for him alone.