Attila “Al” Dubois

Abyss First Leaf: Camp of the Exiled Weapons Master

Al began spinning the wheels of the white wheelchair along the white ramp within the white sphere filled with rows of green plants. He grumbled.

That much white made everything seem so sterile and … something. ‘Empty,’ he supposed. ‘New’ seemed like a good adjective.

Al considered what was needed for a refugee camp. He guessed the most significant requirement was the ability to tear it all down, move it, and put it all back up in a new location. Which meant that each sphere had to be easy to dismantle … or …

A chilling thought struck Al. Had the developers taken a dramatic shortcut and simply went with ‘because magic’?

He hoped not.

But software developers were just average adults. Some of them might have dabbled in the gifted programs in their schools. Design shortcuts weren’t even about the developers. If this ‘Shattered Realms’ was meant to be a general audience game, then all of the puzzles had to be something the average person could solve. With the IQ bar set that low, the whole game was a tripping hazard.

His shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. He needed to find the supposedly hidden clues and exit out of the game.

Given the perceptiveness of the average person, the clues probably needed to have a giant LED sign declaring ‘clue.’

Al rested his head against the backrest and looked upward.

There was a flat ceiling above him — white like everything else. And the ramp eventually wound its way up to and disappeared into the ceiling.

He began pushing the chair’s wheels to carry him up the ramp.

A portal near the ceiling opened, and a demon flew across one of the three ramps which spiraled up the inside of the white sphere. Once the female demon found what she was looking for, she banked, flapped her wings and sailed between the curtains of green plants. She stepped onto the ramp ahead of Al.

Her horns looked daintier than Elnham’s, but otherwise the same. She had a pair of obvious mammary glands bound in functional leather-looking armor. Her iron collar had a symbol of an octopus with horns.

At least the developers didn't go with chainmail bikinis, Al thought.

She had the most hair of any demon he had seen thus far — her golden mohawk had been braided and trailed halfway down her back.

Like a mane. But if the developers are going for felinoid, why didn't they go with more mammaries? Al cringed at his own answer. “I have Star Trek demons,” he muttered. “So, everyone can do a Captain Kirk with the local fauna.” Seriously, how long does it take for people regain their intelligence after hitting puberty?

She smiled at him. “I’m Oparhohot.”

Al frowned at the demon blocking his way up the ramp. “Asazsuzuh.” He took a breath and tried to be friendly. “And what are you here to keep me from doing?” He consoled himself that the words weren’t as bad as his first mental attempt.

Her smile remained steady. “Sounds like someone is ready to explore and learn.”

Al glared.

Something was off here. The air was tinged with a pleasing scent which made his nose itch.

He refused to move his hand to scratch.

This was worse than escorting his mother or sister into a store which used to potpourri to cover the smell of ammonia cleaners.

He tried breathing shallowly. “That sounds like a trap.”

She giggled. “Thou are going to be such a challenge.” She took a breath. “I didn't mean to make the observation sound like a trap. So, let me try queries instead. Where doth thou want to go? What would thou like to learn? What doth thou want to do?”

Al continued with his frown. To him, she was using too many distraction techniques to be telling the truth. So, she wanted something from him. But, how could he find out what? Perhaps some distraction of his own? “What don’t you want me to ask?”

She took the handles of the wheelchair. “How far up were you going?”

Bingo! He still didn't have a direct answer, but he had gained confirmation that she was hiding something and was afraid he would discover the secret. He pointed at the ceiling. “I wanted to see what was up there.”

She hesitated then started pushing. “Not my first choice for thee.”

Al considered the answer — still not the truth, still a deflection. His destination was a safe one as far as her secret was concerned. “Why what’s up there?”

“A training room. We have three of them. But humans are generally trained differently than demons. So, thou might be disappointed.”

He narrowed his eyes. Time to redirect. “So, there is something specific you don’t want me to ask.”

“Yes,” Oparhohot said. “I want thee to avoid asking me about the Council’s decision.”

“Because I won’t like it, or because you don’t?”

“What an interesting question. Could be both, could be either, could be neither. The situation might change between now and when thou asks.”

“If I were to ask right now?”

“Both,” she said without hesitation.

“So, what might change my opinion?” That had been way too easy. He frowned at the seeming truth that rankled of yet another misdirection.

Oparhohot remained silent for a moment. “That is harder to answer. Before the capital fell to the invaders, we betrayed who we were to preserve what we had. Each of the librarians took into our minds one full subject. For the first time, in what remains of our history, no choice was given. Though we fled with the entire contents, over time, attrition has caused losses. With each passing year, the Council sees the bearers growing older, and votes on what knowledges will be implanted in the children developed enough to handle the strain. But we are looking at the potential loss of two dozen subjects all at once.”

Al frowned. Again the answer was something he might object to depending upon how he was approached. He didn't want to memorize fiction. “And they want to implant a knowledge in me.”

She stopped pushing the wheelchair, came around to the side, and knelt beside him. “Not one. They believe thee can handle all of the at-risk knowledges for which we don’t have children available. But it is more than that. When one carries a knowledge, one can expand upon it. When one carries two, one can find connections between them.”

Al glared. “You want to load me up with these knowledges, so I can reconstruct everything you have lost.”

Oparhohot shook her head. “Not me.” She touched her hand to her breast. “But some of the Council members do. Some Council members hope thee can build new connections and discover new knowledge — discover a way to win the impossible war.” She stood returned to the back of the wheelchair and resumed pushing.

What a tidy little lie. But, I’m not sure which part was the lie, or how to determine the truth. “While they might not agree as to what they are going to stuff into me, they agreed that I won’t have a say.”

“Yes, thou understands completely.” She leaned down and whispered. “Thou could choose which subjects you absorb, stripping them of that choice.”

Al considered the problem. From a physiological perspective, there were only a few ways to dump knowledge into a human brain — eyes and ears. In theory, learning could be boosted through the use of magnetic pulses to the ‘learning center’ while the subject watched or performed the activity, but that gave erratic results. And it wasn’t like the developers were going to solve hard problems while spending thousands of man-hours making the game. So, more likely than not, he realized, the knowledge was just a flag in his character sheet. In some ways, the lack of reality was disappointing.

He gave a slight smile because she had revealed one lie in her misdirection — the Council wasn’t involved in this decision, yet. “So, if I said magic, I would get?”

She stopped. “There are ten major forms and rings of lesser forms. Usually, a person learns only one major form and at most a ring of lesser forms. I wonder how many major forms thee can learn. Should we find out?”

Al shook his head. “No.”

“What?” She put her hands on her hips and glared down at him. “Why not?”

He shook his head again. “I don’t know. You were selling it too hard.”

She stared at him and then smiled. “Good. Keep in mind, Master Ramael needs thee to take in as many knowledges as he holds. The mutagens are killing him, and we have no one to replace him.”

“So, this test was to determine if I would learn unauthorized knowledges?”

She grappled for an answer.

He shook his head. “Stop. Don’t bother.” He stood up from the wheelchair and walked up the remaining ramp. “You’re not going to tell me the truth.”

Demons were just like everyone else. They wanted something from him, but it had to be this big secret. Because if they spoke the words, he’d have a choice. He could declare a price. They would have to treat him fairly. Instead, his brain was treated like a resource to be exploited. Of course, any mistake, any error, would be punished far more harshly than more serious mistakes made by those who were average.

The room above the ramp was a dusty dome with a mechanical demon sitting in cobwebs. Small, clawed, horned, and stingered arachnids hissed at him from the shadows beneath the mechanical demon.

“This is Weapons Master Atasar Roar’s training room,” Oparhohot said. “Where he will train his disciples and slave disciples.”

Al nodded. “Can you have the room make a punching/kicking column, please? And then give me some privacy?”

She didn’t say anything.

A few seconds later a spiral of light ribbons and symbols rose out of the floor. A padded punching bag appeared.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I am tired of people lying to me and trying to use me. Everyone seems determined to strip me of any choice. So, I’m going to train until I decide what to do about that.” He squared himself to the padded column and started punching it. The old patterns of punches returned to his arms, legs, and hips.

“We are doing what we must to survive.”

Pound, pound. Pound. “Where I came from, survival took many forms.” Pound, pound, pound. “In the end, we didn’t have anything worthwhile to fight over, so, we survived.” Pound. Pound, pound. “The ‘luckier’ tribes were slaughtered. Has well does that bode for me?”

“But, we —”

Al spun back to her. “You said that I’m contaminated, that I’m becoming one of you — the horns, the skin tone, the wings, the fangs. You said why they’re hunting you down — the prize that’s worth driving you, us, into extinction. So, lay off of the manipulations. I don’t trust people. As of now, all of you need to be honest with what you want and why, and maybe I’ll do it. At this moment, I need to be alone with the only person whose obsessive wants I understand. Mine.”

Oparhohot put up her hands.

“Oh. Don’t go away pretending to be mad. You didn't expose the real secret. So, just go away.”

She retreated down the ramp.

He turned back to the practice bag, took one of his hidden emotions out of its little glass display case, placed the emotion on the punching bag, and kept pounding one fist after the next into it until he felt better. The next emotion he kicked.

Al sat with his back against the punching/kicking bag. His body still trembled whenever he tried to move, his breathing had yet to return to normal, and his heart pounded against his ribs like some caged beast. But the exertion felt good.

His legs weren’t perfect — there were a noticeable lag and more than a few buggy movements. He had learned to compensate for the problems, but he really needed Elnham to do some more work. But, he had walked and ran and skipped and jumped and kicked and cartwheeled!

His dobak had turned into a series of orange colors — some more yellow, some more red, but most of the dobak was close to hunter-safety orange.

He closed his eyes and just concentrated on his breathing. Listening to the slowing of his heart.

Al felt a large, deep shadow crept across the floor, slid up the punching/kicking column. A chill plunged Al into darkness.

He opened his eyes. “Ah!”

Standing over him was a hulking human brute wearing naught but a leather thong and a slave disciple collar.

“Delta Tier Ch’i Ability Detected,” Beyul announced.

Al ignored Beyul; instead, he concentrated on the human he recognized — “Mitchel.” Or at least he wanted to say, “Mitchel.” Pain closed his throat preventing him from saying the name, so, instead, he glared.

The twins from real life next door were identical but had slight variations in facial expressions — enough variation that those who knew them could tell them apart but similar enough that most could never say why. They were similar enough but different enough that when they tried to be each other, they drove even their parents to distraction.

Auntie Drake claimed Mitchel had his mother’s smile and Michael had his father’s smile, which Al took to mean no one in their family smiled. Ever.

But Al could easily tell the twins apart by their scowls.

“What are you doing here?” he asked with a timid quiver.

Both of the twin men were giants compared to Al — over six feet and broad shoulders, eyes like ice picks, attitudes that made charging grizzlies seem cute and fluffy, and both had the same negligent destructive capacity of moose.

“You,” Mitchel’s voice carried the same menace that hydroelectric turbines did for unwary swimmers.

Al swallowed hard and backed up only to find himself pressed against the padded column.

“I’m going to be late to work because of you.”

Because someone in real life thought handing guns and badges to the terror twins was a good idea, they both became sheriff deputies.

“It’s not my fault,” Al whined. “I tried to exit immediately, but Beyul refused to let me out. I don’t want to be stuck in here for two fortnights.”

“A month!”

“Only if it’s Febru —” Al squeaked.

Mitchel had grabbed his dobak, twisted the excess fabric around a massive fist, and lifted all seventy-five pounds of Al to eye level. “What did you get me involved with this time?”

Al blinked. “I … I …”

“What?”

Al swallowed. “I didn’t think —”

“Bovine land mines —” Mitchel’s face turned purple for a moment, his mouth moved like a landed fish. He glared at Al. “What the Hell was that?”

“What was what?”

“I tried to say your name —”

Al frowned but nodded. “We can’t use our real names here.” He put up his hands as if surrendering. “I don’t know why.”

Mitchell pulled back a fist. “Since this is a virtual world …” The smile was like a starving tiger finding a succulent human to tide it over.

“I wasn’t after you. I wanted to make trouble for Gus.”

The smile twisted into something more horrifying — glee. Mitchel tapped Al’s forehead. “And this finally got you into enough trouble that you can’t pull one of your famous escapes.”

Al pulled together his dignity. “I —”

“Right?”

Al slumped against Mitchel’s fist. “Yes.”

Mitchel nodded. “And you have no plan, and no idea how to get out.”

“I —”

“Right?”

Al nodded. “We have to solve the mystery of the game.”

“And?”

“You are a slave disciple of Weapons Master Atasar Roar. So am I —”

Mitchel set Al back on the floor. “Obvious to casual players. Anything Sherlock Holmes would notice that mere mortal men would not?”

“Uhhh… There is a lot of unused space here.” Al hated the comparison to the fictional character, and the comparisons were continuous. Like Al knew about or cared about the bruise patterns of someone whipped after death.

Mitchel nodded. “Lots of space for more players. A common design for the beginning camps. Next?”

Al furrowed his forehead. Under threat of being beaten until he was a paste smeared on the floor, he played along. “The entrance seems highly inefficient for a rush of new players.” He focused on Mitchel. “How did you arrive?”

Mitchel held up a bruised wrist with large scabs. “Aboard a slave ship crewed by Elder Gods type creatures. It crashed into the desert and started taking on water.” He moved the disciple’s collar to reveal more bruising. “Got banged up pretty bad. The demons dragged me out of the sinking ship and up to the surface. Fought off an attack of those Elder Gods type ‘hounds.’ Impressed the locals with inserting the pointy end of a spear into the black writhing masses of tentacles. Came here. Became a slave disciple which sounds better than just slave.” He focused on Al. “Same for you?”

Al shook his head. The bruising and contusions were added to the data supporting his least favorite hypothesis. “Crucified in some ruins. Freed after the enemy army left.” He shrugged and left out the results of the desert run. “Otherwise the same.” He needed this half of the terror twins to give him a straight answer. He was tired of evasions. “What events led up to you getting stuck in the game?”

“Oh.” Mitchell remained silent for a while. “I pulled up to your house. My sister got out and walked toward your front door. Beyul announced a mandatory security update.”

“To Beyul Two-point-Zero?”

“Yes. The AR interface went black, and then I was on the crashing ship.”

Al nodded and then concentrated on his curiosity. “Are you okay being a ‘slave disciple?’”

Mitchel’s eyebrow twitched. “If it is just weird level titles, sure. If we really are stuck here for approximately seven hundred hours, we can do a lot of leveling.” His jaw tensed and his glare intensified. “But, if I am late to work, I will handcuff you and will throw your sorry ass into the slammer. Got it?”

Al put his hands up. “But I didn't have anything to do with you being here.”

Mitchel leaned closer. His presence squishing Al against the padded column. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

Mitchel smiled. “Good.” His fist yanked Al up to his eye level, again. “Now, where is my sister? Where is —” He started choking again.

Al swallowed and shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her. If you put me down, I’ll ask.”

“You think this is a negotiation?”

“No! Beyul … Beyul said it won’t respond, but sometimes it does. If she isn’t in this refugee camp, Beyul is our only chance to locate her.” Not that Al had any interest in finding Laura, the sister of the terrible twos. Sure she was his age, and sure she was in the gifted programs at school, but the school had only dragged her up one grade. But he and she weren't friends, and he didn't particularly like her. She could be coherent and interactive and then for no reason whatsoever, she would flip out or become non-responsive. Still, she was one of the few people who treated him like a person.

Mitchel lowered Al, again. “Find her.”

“Beyul, where is Laura Clarkson?”

Silence.

Mitchel growled and cracked his knuckles.

Al winced. “Beyul, you said I should avoid death. To do that, I need you to tell me where Laura Clarkson is.”

“Laura Clarkson is located in Liossalheim First Leaf: The Forgotten Forest.”

Al shuddered.

“Well?” The demand was as calm as an earthquake.

“Are you familiar with Liossalheim?”

“Norse realm of elves and air spirits.”

Al smiled. “That sounds better than Hell.”

Mitchel glared. “You are practically useless. Didn’t you read any fantasy? Or mythology?”

“Only what was required for AP English.”

Mitchel shook his head. “Depending upon Beyul’s source material and this world’s mythos, the elves might be benign or downright frightening. The more Germanic leanings are …” He glared at Al. “Why am I telling you about mythology?”

“Because you and everyone else in the school got to have a party when I don’t know something.”

“Not true.”

“Eighth grade. Ms. Dostoyevsky brought cupcakes for everyone because I missed a question on the mid-term. Eleventh grade. Mr. Curhan got together with the other teachers to throw a class pizza party when I failed to answer an extra point question.”

“I’m sure you are just imagining this stuff —”

“Curham’s question dealt with Fermi-Dirac statistics!”

“What?”

“Fermions — subatomic particles. Doctoral-level physics. On. The. Sex. Ed. Test.”

Mitchel failed to stifle a laugh.

Al slipped around the punching/kicking column and walked toward one of the ramps. He had enough of being a punching bag for the day.

“Wait. What about getting out of here? How do I get to work?”

Al shrugged. “I have hypotheses about that. One: limited proximity. We need to be close to Laura so we can all leave.”

“So we need to break out of Hell?”

Al nodded. “To leave the camp though, we need the summoning codes for the desert. Until then, you might as well practice fighting.”

Mitchel pounced, grabbed Al’s dobak, and hoisted Al off the floor, again. “Oh, no. I’m not a speed bump for you to get over and leave behind.”

Al closed his eyes and sighed. “What is the fastest way to make it through one of these games?”

Mitchel narrowed his eyes looking for a trap. “An MMO? With a party of skilled players.”

Al opened his eyes to meet Mitchel’s. “So, how many people?”

“Depends on the game. Sometimes there are solo missions. Someone came up with duo missions. But most need a party of four to eight players. And then there are the quests which require an entire guild to complete.”

Al nodded. “I was afraid of that. So, will you —” he made a futile gesture with his hands “— what is the phrase? Play with me?”

Mitchel’s eyes went wide, and his head jerked backward, and his hands loosened their grip upon Al. He set Al down again. “Really?”

Al swallowed and stared at the ceiling. “Yes.” He swallowed, again. “I can’t do this on my own.” His stinging eyes met Mitchel’s eyes. “Will you help me?”

Mitchel tapped a finger against his chest. “Me.” He tapped Al’s chest. “You want —” he tapped his chest, again “— me.”

Al frowned. “Honestly?” He mangled a smile. “Yes. I don’t know anyone else here. I don’t trust any of the natives — I don’t understand their motives.”

“But you trust me?”

Al snorted and then thought about the question. “For this, I think I do.” He nodded. “I do.”

Mitchel nodded. “So, no ditching me?”

Al slumped and rubbed his forehead. “What are the typical positions of a successful party?”

“Well, at a minimum you need a tank — someone to be the shield guy who can absorb a lot of punishment and can be a frontline fighter. Ranged DPSers. A mage is always useful. A cleric or healer class is vital. Then some of the specialty classes to fill in when their skills are needed.”

Al nodded. “And if Beyul bases everything off of your real-life body and mind?”

Mitchel looked at the scrawny seventy-five-pound twelve-year-old who stood at four-eight but could break bricks. Then he looked at his own two-hundred-five-pound body that he had ripped. “Shit.”

“So, what should I be?”

“Whatever passes for a mage.”

Al nodded. “I hate fiction. I guess I’m off to the library or to whoever teaches magic. You might try bowing to the robot over there and try asking it train you.”

“Wait.”

Al gave him a you’re-going-to-hate-me smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t go anywhere without protection. Okay, Mister Prophylactic?”

Al skipped down the ramp because he could. For the first time in eighteen months, he could skip.

“I hate your sense of humor,” Mitchel yelled after him.

Once he considered himself to be out of Mitchel’s hearing, he stopped. “Beyul, can you send Mitchel’s brother and my brothers to us? And send my sister to Laura?”

“‘My sources say no,’” Beyul responded crisply. “You can have Michael, and Athena can go to Laura, but your brothers have been previously tagged for other locations.”

Al nodded. Another piece of data to confirm his hypothesis zero. “Will you inform me of when they arrive?”

“‘Signs point to yes.’”

He looked up at the ceiling, at the practice room above. “Sorry, Mitchel. You're going to be late. We all are.” He turned to watch the artificial breeze ruffle the green plant curtains. “Beyul, show me where the other members of my party are.”

“‘Don’t count on it.’ They are not yet ready. None of you have completed the necessary tasks to leave the zone. ‘Ask again later.’”

“Will you provide a list of tasks to be completed?”

“Ooo… ‘Outlook not so good.’”

Al shook his head. “You do understand that if you stick with those quotes, fifty percent of your answers should be positive.”

“‘You may rely on it.’”

Al smiled. “Will you show me the way to Master Ramael?”

“‘Most likely.’”

A glowing path appeared behind Al leading back up to wall just below the entrance to the practice floor.

Al walked along the path and tried to decide if being stuck inside a Magic-Eight Ball supported his hypotheses.