The Violet Boar, a strange mix of classic wooden fantasy inspiration combined with holograms and halogens became the bar Dylan chose. While Dylan flirted with the Eldron barmaid behind the counter, I looked around at flickering candles and rustic potion flasks illuminated by the faded copper electric lights. The nearest hologram had a brawler sport on which I occasionally glanced at, enjoying the five v five war games.

For a bar, the place smelled oddly strong of lavender, which did match the Eldron workers that dominated the staff ratio. Tall, a bit on the lanky side, covered in fur with long ears, they fell outside my preferred cup of tea in the looks department; however, I had to admit their curves counted for something, and their deer ears and flowing black hair gave them an exotic feel.

“...after five? Aye, then I’ll be here at four,” Dylan’s smooth reply earned my attention; so, under the guise of still watching the game, I listened in. Enhanced Hearing certainly made that easy, as all other sounds faded into the background in an instant, giving me full access to their conversation.

“Four? Why?” the barmaid asked. Her voice reminded me of smooth butter. Soft. Maybe the sweet honey variety instead of salted or extra creamy. Her accent was rather cute too. “Very early.”

Dylan purred, “Then I get an hour just to admire ya from afar~”

I nearly broke down laughing, covering it with a cough that I drowned in the berry-laced alcohol sitting in my wooden mug.

The woman, after watching me to make sure I was fine, looked back at Dylan with a touch of shyness. “See then.”

“I look forward to it~” Dylan replied, flicking a bit of his hair to lay it on extra thick. Thankfully, the barmaid got called away, giving me a moment to finally let the snicker escape. Dylan grinned at me, “Oye, don’t ruin yer mate’s game, brother.”

“How could anyone keep a straight face with that?” I grinned right back, liking this odd man even more.

Kissing two of his fingers and thrusting them out like some tortured artist, he exclaimed, “Art, brother. It’s just me paintin’ a canvas that ends in one helluva night.”

“If you say so. Thanks for the rum.”

“Anytime, mate. We Phillies gotta stick together,” he said, nudging his shoulder against mine. His relaxed demeanor changed, “On that note, I gotta give ya the rundown so ya don’t make the mistakes I did.”

I grew serious as well, “Please do.”

“First rule of the Ether, if it’s too good to be true, it usually is. I can’t tell ya how many times I was punked cause I thought I could trust someone.” Sighing, he took a swig of his own whiskey before continuing, “Especially the natives.”

“The Ether natives?”

He offered a light nod toward the very barmaid he had just been talking to. “For instance.”

“What? She’s not a player?” I used my Scanner on her to check.

‘Tamay - T1 - Eldron Native - Barmaid.’

“Huh… guess she’s not.” I looked back at my companion. “Then why bed someone you don’t trust?”

“Cause I’m a higher Tier and have protections in place, just in case. All I’m sayin, brother, is be careful. Because a lotta folks know Players just respawn…” he glanced at me with flashing eyes, “They’re a whole helluva lot more keen ta kill ya dead. I mean, plenty would kill ya otherwise, but even fawns like her would be more apt to shiv ya for a quick buck cause your death is only temporary. They don’t feel guilty ‘bout it.”

I nodded, committing that to memory. It made sense. Without the impending guilt of murder, you’d feel like it’s just a minor inconvenience for your victim.

“N’ before you wonder if death is really all that bad, I’ll tell ya straight, it’s bad. Depends on the death, but havin’ yer neck ripped out or chokin’ on your own spit from poison sure ain’t what I call a good time. Even if outside you’re fine,” he tapped his head, “Inside? Inside you get messed up. I’ve seen it plenty. We call ‘em Hollows when it gets too far. People so used to death they lose all perception of it. Go berserk at the drop of a hat. Never smile. Their soul crushed to bits. It’s a horrible life, mate, a horrible life.”

I certainly didn’t want to find out whether that was true or not.

“And then there’s the costs. They can be pricey. First death is free, but each after that depends on how badly your body is messed up and your Tier. Last death cost me about six hundred.”

“Ouch. What happens when you go bankrupt?”

“Well, bankrupt with Babel? Nothing,” he replied, earning a look of confusion from me. There were no negative ramifications of being in debt? He answered my silent question, “But till ya pay it off, ya can’t buy anything with BP. That means you can’t use the teleporters between the core worlds, only the ones leading back to this pisspit which are free. And here, ya can’t buy anything without BP or trade. But, ya can sell your items, get a job, and pick yourself up again, right?”

“Right.”

He smacked his mug against the counter, making me jump. “Wrong! You’re forgetting the mandatory quests, mate. See, Babel doesn’t care what state you’re in. It’ll give you quests based on your Tier, and if ya don’t complete them...”

“...the punishments…” I gulped, subconsciously clutching my chest.

“Aye, mate. The punishments. They get worse and worse. It becomes a downward spiral. A flushing toilet o’ pain.” He picked up the salt shaker and for every point made, gave it a little shake for emphasis. “In debt to Babel, you can’t earn BP. Got no money, can’t eat. Starve, ya die and respawn, which means even less money. Sell your items and gear, can’t complete quests. Can’t even afford to leave the place to complete the quests. Get punished. Get weaker and more desperate so ya take risks and end up deader and poorer.” He set down the salt and leaned on one arm, sighing.

“The desperate sell their souls to Slave Lords, gangs, and brothels. They’ll work in sweat shops or fuck any ugly raisin off the street if it means someone will surrogate their quests and spare the punishment for them. Entire colonies of these folks living by the edge of their punishments are just below our feet, mate.” He pointed down, “Just a couple levels below. They’ll do anything, mate. Anything to survive.” He pointed toward the door, “Head out to Dvin and Harl and you’ll find the Red Light District where those hot enough ta be whores will bounce on ya for a buck, but more oft than not, for a quest contract.”

“But… that doesn’t make any sense!” It just didn’t. “If Babel wants players to succeed, why have a death trap like that?”

“To cull the weak from the strong, mate.”

My nerves demanded another swig from the mug. Afterwards, I asked, “Then, it’s by design? Entirely?”

“Aye. Make things easy and ya get a buncha losers that rely on skills and fancy swords ta survive, despite them being shite as Players. But with this? It cuts them down real quick while keeping ‘em useful in various work, whether as a slave literally or figuratively.”

“...and if the punishments get too bad, you die?”

He shook his head, “Common mistake, mate. Termination don’t mean yer dead. Babel don’t let Players go that easy.”

What a terrifying phrase. “Then, what is it?”

He took another swig and finished off his mug, flicking his hand forward to digitally pay the tab before hopping up. “Lemme show ya.”

I honestly didn’t want to find out, but I finished my drink and followed Dylan out of the bar. We walked into a nearby alleyway; the small area tucked back enough to avoid direct view of the street, but still illuminated by backdoor lights. If the Moderator hadn’t confirmed that Babel held the green zone status, I wouldn’t have followed him. But since he couldn’t do much directly I felt safe. Barely.

Taking a seat on some rear steps leading to some bread shop, he pulled up a visible interface while motioning me to sit beside him.

So I did.

Displayed on the hovering hologram were a plethora of pictures all under the banner of “The Doll House.” It reminded me of a prostitute website as each guy or girl was smiling for the camera and posing, waiting to be chosen.

He tapped some blonde chick and hit ‘order rental’.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“You’ll see, brother. Just wait. This is better seen firsthand.”

We waited in tense silence for eight minutes before a small drone came in from the sky, hovering a few feet in front of us. “Please stand back,” a mechanical voice said as several magic-looking glyphs appeared below its body. Moments later, in a bath of light, the blonde woman from the website appeared in front of us. Standing there. Still.

The drone went off to hover out of the way while the woman waited in place, as frozen as a statue, only the movement of her chest suggesting she wasn’t a lovely mannequin.

Words refused to leave my tongue. My own breath vanished into my throat, denying me air. But I barely realized it… my gaze didn’t leave her gaze.

She doesn’t see me.

Her eyes didn’t see anything. They looked through me. I had seen depression before. Someone down on their luck or handling a loss. But this wasn’t that. She was the living dead. The spark of her soul was gone entirely.

I checked my Scanner. She was a player. “And… back on earth?”

“A coma, if you’re lucky. That means Babel might just snap ya outta it and give you another chance. But if you’re totally hopeless, they let ya die back home, leaving whatever fragment is left of you to become… this.”

He motioned with his hand for the girl to approach and she did, walking right up till her shoes touched the bottom step. The fragrance of fresh pine and rose filled the air. She wore an attractive night dress, too short and showing off plenty of thigh and cleavage… but looking at her, I only saw a walking corpse.

“Slap her. Fuck her. Toss her off a bridge if ya got the money to pay for her respawn… her owners don’t care.” He looked at me, the pain in his eyes equal to my own. “Understand, brother? Stuck between life n’ death for years. Ages. She could be from the Middle Ages fer all we know. Alive, but not. Just like this.” He looked back up at her, reaching up to gently pet her cheek, “I came ta this hell ta find my sister years ago. I was too late.”

“This isn’t-”

“Nah, this ain’t her. I already paid for my sister’s death. She’s at peace now,” he said, pulling up the interface again and tapping ‘Return.’ The doll walked back to the center and the drone transported her away within moments, before whisking itself off into the night sky.

My mouth was dry again. It was becoming a common occurrence.

Dylan’s hand rested on my shoulder as he stared into me and said, “This is the truth o’ it all, mate. We ain’t Players in some game, despite what others tell ya. No, we’re slaves, and if we don’t pull our weight… even death ain’t good enough for us.”