Bonus Interlude: Beginning

“What is a beginning but a promised end? What is an end, but a promised beginning?” - Verron Pluton the Suffering Sage

“This sucks…” Tristan muttered internally. “No player, to jump, you just need to jump.”

The human Traveller looked at him weirdly, “That’s really counterintuitive, you don’t have a joystick control anywhere I can pull out instead?”

“For the last time, we do not have that feature.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Keyboard?”

“No.”

“So I just have to move my body?” the manchild asked incredulously. “That tires?”

“That is what a body does yes,” Tristan answered in the driest possible tone.

“Man this game sucks.”

Tristan can’t strangle the new Traveller, for that would be incredibly rude.

“If the game’s taking suggestions, you really should get better chat AI, this one’s pretty stupid.”

Tristan decided to be rude that day.

“Tristan!” Steve yelled as he forced open his room. “What the hell is this?”

He dragged with him a golem homunculi, “Remember kids, winners don’t use drugs! Unless it’s steroids, in which case use lots of drugs!”

Tristan laughed as he took out his cigarette, “Man that line is hilarious, I’m glad I thought of it.”

“Better question, why are you dodging your GM responsibilities?” Steve asked as he turned the annoying golem off.

“Because it’s fucking busy work,” Tristan replied as he extinguished his cigarette, he took his pack out of pocket, “Want one?”

“No thanks,” Steve replied with shaking head, “and Tutorial management is important, someone experienced is needed to look after them.”

Tristan lit a new cigarette, breathing deeply before speaking, “With the rate of new Traveller’s joining in, we’ll eventually swap over to an automated model anyways.”

“But in this initial push, we still need good people to help with the process.”

Tristan exhaled, letting out three rings of smoke, “Then just accept it won’t be me.”

Steve walked forward, taking a seat before the other man, “And the real reason?”

“I told you,” Tristan replied, not irritated, but with a tired malady. “It’s busywork, boring shit something a lot simpler than we are can do.”

And it was true, all they needed to was teach a new Traveller how to move around, outfit them with tools within an allocated budget, teach them how to use their skills and have a tutorial scenario where they use their class. Combat classes got a combat scenario and crafting ones got a chance to craft a simple first item.

A Traveller could request to increase the difficulty level of the scenario or the GM might increase it at their own discretion if the player was experienced enough that completing a simple task would be a chore rather than an actual learning experience, but increased scenario difficulty always resulted in a greater reward depending on their performance.

But everything that was said could be done by simpler AI and menus.

“The most interesting thing I saw during my five days of nothing but GMing Tutorials was one girl stabbing a goblin with another goblin,” he replied between drags of his cigarette, “nothing interesting happened and I got bored.”

Steve sighed, “I suppose you’re right.”

“Not to mention I’m in charge of the human tutorials,” he emphasized, “other than a few manchildren who lived their entire life in a VR pod, my position is utterly useless.”

Steve nodded, “I guess I should find a replacement.”

“Go for it,” Tristan replied.

“I don’t think I have a lot of things left to do.

Tristan kept a lot of different cigarettes.

Whilst most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, each had a unique taste to it, all depending on a thousand different factors. Depending on what situation he was in, he smoked a different cigarette.

And their packs as well, he didn’t know when he started hoarding the packs, for he’s been around for a long time, but just in his storage there were stacks upon stacks of cigarette packets, boxes, metallic holders. Packets that predated paper but not substance abuse.

He had a large collection of them, some for absurdly specific situations,

The Navorian Nobalite he smoked whenever he saw a beautiful waterfall or other aquatic landmarks. He had several dozen empty packs of those.

Peacebloom Primaris he smoked whenever he was at peace with the world, seeing the simple beauty of something and appreciating it. About twenty empty packs of those.

Freedomroot he smoked when he saw the vast expanse of something and realised that life was truly limitless, that anything could be achieved. Eight empty packs.

Warmonger’s Ash he smoked when forced into a last stand battle, against impossible odds and needed to win or something important was lost. Five empty packs.

Black Cough he smoked after a Traveller was corrupted by Demons. Three empty packs.

Ninth Heaven he smoked whenever he experienced true love, to understand that there was someone worth spending the rest of his life with. One empty pack.

Melantha’s Melancholy, a cigarette pack with only one in existence, for its original makers were long lost to slaughter and time, Tristan smoked whenever a truly important loved one died.

That pack had four cigarettes used.

He was smoking Peacebloom Primaris when she arrived.

“Is it true then,” Eve asked from behind him. “That you’re going?”

“Yes,” Tristan answered, feeling the sands shift as the young woman sat down beside him. “Want a cigarette?” he asked, offering her a pack.

“No thank you,” she replied, her face and voice completely emotionless. “Is there anything I can do to convince you otherwise?”

Tristan chuckled slightly at that, “Shouldn’t you already know that?”

He elaborated when Eve didn’t answer, “You’re the smartest of us all, with the access to the most resources and computing power. Can’t you just find the best possible path to get me to not suicide?”

Eve was silent for a moment.

“Would it help if I told you something funny?” she said with absolutely no emotion or change in her face or tone.

“I dunno,” he replied, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, “would it?”

“I will try anyways,” she replied. “You know how I always give exact percentages for the probability of something occurring?”

Tristan nodded.

“They’re all lies.”

He blinked as he stared incredulously at the emotionless person beside him. “What?”

“I just throw a random number out and people believe I’m right,” she shrugged, “I did it as a joke one time and I still do, but every time I do it, everyone takes the values seriously.”

He ruminated on this new information as he finished his cigarette, hand going to store the newly emptied pack of Peacebloom but… stopped, for what use was storing them anymore. After all this time, all his experiences, his joys, his sorrows, they were nothing more than empty cigarette packs now. Writings on a wall where the paint had long faded.

“Huh,” Tristam said, turning back to face the deep black sea before he chuckled. “That is kinda funny.”

Eve lit a cigarette, the very same Tristan offered her before but she had rejected. Putting it to her mouth, she tried to breathe in, only to choke as the rancid smoke entered her lungs.

*Cough cough,* she coughed, her hand on her mouth. After a long fit of coughing, she tried another drag, it still felt horrible, but she was slightly used to it.

As she breathed out, the smoke sputtered and entered her eyes, causing them to water slightly, “Gah, who would make such a thing?” she complained as she fanned away the smoke.

A pointlessly transient thing, existing for a while, making someone attached yet still horrible. Leaving a sour aftertaste after finishing and scars of addiction that lasted a lifetime.

She didn’t cry, she didn’t weep, she didn’t show emotion for she was not one worthy of such things.

Yet the smoke kept getting into her eyes, making them water more and more.

Yes, it was just the smoke.

That night, Eve left an island with a pack missing five cigarettes.