Chapter 3 - Emery

  Arlo woke—again.

  Groaning, he blinked and stared straight up at low rafters and a planked ceiling. An orange flickering caught his attention. Shadows danced. The familiar, comforting sound of a crackling fire eased his tension a little, and he lay still, trying to decide if his headache had passed. It seemed so.

  It all came back to him then, and he gasped. His mind spun at the awful memory of a man being beaten to a pulp, and of the woman named Indira, who’d been humiliated in the street and abducted. Nobody had lifted a finger to help. The people in the village had offered the two as sacrifices.

  But another memory surfaced, one that made sense of it all. “Oh my God,” he groaned. “I’m in a virtual reality game. This is all in my head!”

  He could picture himself quite clearly now, arriving at Rosie Denfield’s house to help the old lady clean out her shed—then a large man in his thirties, with untidy dark-brown hair, coming out of nowhere with his hand outstretched. “Arlo Cross? No need for all that hard work. Sorry for the subterfuge, but I’m Julian Ravencroft, and I’d like to pay you to sit in a comfortable armchair and try out my new gaming system. Interested?”

  It was a startling clear image—and so it should be, having occurred only a short while ago. The guy had actually warned him some short-term memory loss was possible . . .

  Arlo pushed himself up on his elbows. His bedcover slid down his bare chest, and he frowned. “What the—”

  He was naked under the sheets. First, he’d woken up in the forest with strange blue coveralls on. This time, he’d woken up in a stranger’s bed with no clothes on.

  But what struck him wasn’t so much the lack of clothing as the different body. Being in construction, he was pretty fit—but not this fit. He patted his stomach, amazed at the muscle definition. His chest and arms, too. And . . .

  He lifted the sheet, took a look, and blinked. Well, damn. Julian had said the avatars in this game world were of ‘dreamlike’ quality. Everyone had their own version of perfection, of course, but most guys would agree to a certain leveling-up in terms of physique.

  Smiling to himself, he perched on the side of the bed and looked around.

  He obviously wasn’t a prisoner here. In fact, the bedroom had no door to secure him. The cottage’s central wall only spanned half the space, intended as a partial divider from the adjacent room. Flames crackled around a large pot in a double-sided fireplace built into that wall. Whatever was cooking smelled delicious.

  He couldn’t help admiring the array of animal furs and strings of large teeth that adorned one corner. Drapes hung at the sides of the small window. A wardrobe stood against a wall, and on the chest of drawers next to it lay what he guessed were new clothes laid out for his use. His pale-blue coveralls were nowhere to be seen.

  “Hello?” he called softly, half hoping nobody would answer.

  Not a sound. Flinging the bedcovers aside, he started to get out of the bed—then froze at the sound of a door opening and street noise drifting into the cottage. He yanked the covers back over himself and lay down, at first pretending to be asleep before chastising his own foolishness.

  Why am I acting like a kid getting caught after lights out?

  The door closed, and the cottage plunged into silence again. Light footfalls approached, and then a figure came into view around the dividing wall.

  “You’re awake,” the young, blue-eyed woman said softly.

  “I am,” Arlo croaked.

  It was her. From the street.

  He’d almost expected a middle-aged farmer’s wife with a weathered face and a mass of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, someone with a maternal instinct who’d found him unconscious in the forest. He didn’t know why he’d imagined such a person, though. Of course it was the young woman he’d spoken to in the street, the one with the mouse-colored hair and startling blue eyes. She was beautiful, exactly as Julian had promised: “You’ll meet a gorgeous twenty-year-old chick,” he’d promised. Rosie had been standing there listening at the time, and she’d tut-tuted with disapproval at the phrasing.

  With her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was wrapped in a brown shawl over a tan-colored dress that had seen better days. Practical, but old. Her boots appeared well made but worn almost through.

  She approached the bed. “You’ve been asleep for nearly two hours. I put away your Midway clothing. You can’t walk around here wearing that, not if you want to be accepted. There’s something else instead.” She pointed without looking toward the chest of drawers.

  Arlo swallowed and nodded. “I saw that. Uh, thanks. So, I guess you saw me puking my guts out?”

  “Yes. I could tell your vitality was low when you first stopped me in the street, and when you stood up to those men . . . well, I knew you weren’t one of them. So when you collapsed, I carried you home.”

  “You went and got help? Thank you.”

  “No, I carried you myself, after I ate a couple of blue marulas.”

  Her statement made no sense. It had to be a game thing he couldn’t yet fathom. “Got it.”

  As if the matter was settled, she turned and gestured for him to follow, removing her shawl as she went. “Come on. I have a pot of stew. It’s ready to eat by now.”

  She stomped out of the room. Moments later, Arlo heard the clatter of bowls and the clink of silverware from the other side of the dividing wall. Then the scrape and clunk of the pot being lifted from the fireplace and set on a hard surface. A chair creaked. Tiny scraping noises followed, and when he listened hard, it was clear the young woman was blowing on her stew before attempting to swallow it.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  It really smelled delicious.

  Arlo climbed out of the bed and grabbed his clothes. He felt a little less vulnerable once he’d dressed, but awkwardness lingered. So he’d been unconscious for two hours? In that time, she’d dragged him home, stripped him, got him into bed, and made stew?

  A small mirror on the wall caught his eye. Or not so much the mirror as the stranger looking back at him. The body he’d taken over was fairly handsome, no complaints there—early twenties, slightly tousled dark-brown hair, hazel eyes . . . But man, it felt weird as heck to be staring at himself but not seeing himself.

  As he shuffled into the other half of the cottage—a combined kitchen and living space, with a table and three chairs—he decided to go easy with his interrogation. Start with the simple stuff and lead up to darker matters of sacrifice, abduction, and violence.

  “What’s your name?” he asked as he sank into a chair at the table.

  “Emery,” she said before taking another cautious sip.

  His gaze swept around the room. Its basic furnishings looked medieval to his untrained eye. The kitchen was nothing more than a narrow counter near the fireplace, upon which sat the steaming pot. Shelves lined the wall. Pans hung from hooks.

  “Emery,” he repeated, focusing on her at last. “Do you remember anything beyond this world?”

  She looked at him with a perplexed frown. “Beyond the dome?”

  “Dome? I don’t know what you mean by that. I mean outside the game. Do you have any lingering memories of your life before this?”

  Emery’s eyes widened. “I do. But it’s fleeting.”

  Arlo couldn’t help being intrigued. Julian had told him his assigned NPC companion would have a more realistic personality, more relatable than the rest of the townsfolk.

  “So, you remember your job? Your house? Your car?”

  Again, confusion crossed Emery’s face. “I’ve always lived here. But you . . .” Abruptly, she clanged her spoon down and slapped the table, her face lighting up in a grin. “You’re new! That’s why I don’t recognize you. All of the Midway people are familiar to us, but you’re new here. That’s why you’re so out of sorts. Oh, I can’t believe it! How long do you think it will take for you to reach Midway? Do you think you can restore the realm and save us from their tyranny?”

  “Whoa, hold on,” Arlo protested, holding up his hands to ward off her sudden torrent of words. “I’m asking the questions here.”

  He got up and started pacing. Damn, this was boggling his mind. Julian had promised an immersive experience, but he hadn’t realized the NPCs would have some kind of personal history and backstory. And it seemed pretty grim, too. He hadn’t expected that.

  “I’m curious,” he said to her. “You act like you’ve always lived here, but is that a false memory? I mean, of course it is—but before that, you had a different false memory.” Though he spoke aloud, he mostly talked to himself, musing over the impossibility of it all. “So restoring the realm means giving you back your original false memories? Wow. That’s messed up.”

  He shook his head, astonished. Then he remembered the holographic screen’s initial welcome message. It had mentioned Midway and Pinnacle, and talked about an important choice to be made. It was consistent with Emery’s version of reality.

  “Screen on,” he commanded.

  Immediately, white light flared, and his screen popped into being. The text had scrolled up a little, so only the bottom part of the initial welcome message remained in view:

  —that will decide the fate of this realm.

  TIP: Look out for the Crimson Cloak along the way. It has special powers that will come in useful!

  Below that was the same health tip as before:

  Find a mage pomelo to replenish your vitality.

  And, right after that, some new text had been added to confirm his return to the living:

  SUCCESS! You have consumed two mage pomelos, and your vitality is replenished. Keep up the good work!

  “Uh, thanks,” he muttered.

  Emery blinked in obvious surprise. “For what?”

  “For the . . . the mage pomelos?”

  “Oh, you’re welcome. I had to mash them up in a glass of water and get you to drink it down. It was difficult.”

  “So what are they, exactly?”

  Emery’s eyebrows lifted, and then she giggled and covered her mouth. “You’re funny.”

  Okay, deal with that one later.

  Arlo gestured at his screen. “Can you do this?”

  She stared at him, her mirth fading. “Can I do what?”

  “Open up a screen like his.”

  A frown developed on Emery’s face. “A screen?”

  It was then Arlo realized the truth. She couldn’t see his holographic screen. Or at least she pretended not to.

  “Screen off,” he said, then sat. She’d already filled his bowl with stew, so he grabbed the spoon and took a sip.

  It was good. No complaints there.

  “So, uh . . .” he said after swallowing half the contents. He paused and gently tapped the spoon on the bowl, avoiding Emery’s gaze. Then he looked her square in the eyes. “Those men who came down from the cliff.”

  “In the Skiff, yes.”

  “The Skiff . . . That’s what you call a flying car around here?”

  Emery shrugged. “They came from Midway and took Indira. I knew she’d be nominated. She was born too beautiful for her own good. But she’s in Midway now. Her life may be better there.”

  She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Better?” Arlo almost spat out the word. “Being married to—” He stopped and ground his teeth. “And the poor guy who was beaten up? Did he . . . survive?”

  Emery shook her head. “No. But he was dying anyway. At least this was a quick and honorable death.”

  Arlo threw down his spoon and stood up, his chair falling over backward. He paced about, then realized Emery looked decidedly worried about his simmering anger.

  It was one thing to inject a rich history into the NPCs’ minds so they had something to play off, but why make it so nasty? People from Midway came down here, stole their women, and murdered weak old men? What was all that about? Why hadn’t Julian warned him?

  They’re NPCs, he told himself. They’re not real people. They've been programmed.

  But as he gazed at the pleasant young woman seated at the table, he found himself unable to accept that as an excuse. He clenched his fists and spoke evenly. “If this is all real to you . . . then explain to me why nobody fights back. Who’s in charge of this place? What can those assholes on the cliff do to hurt a whole village? How many of them are there?”

  His barrage of questions took her by surprise. She pushed her bowl aside and drummed her fingers on the table, looking like she might be struggling with which question to answer first.

  “We can’t fight them, Arlo. There aren’t many in Midway, but they’re smarter and have weapons. They’re more advanced than us. And they’re cruel. Our people in Olde Village don’t know how to be cruel. Maybe we’re not smart enough to know how.” She stood and looked him squarely in the eyes. “But now that you’re here . . . you can fight for us and make it all right again.”

  Me? Fight against violent armed men at the top of a cliff?

  Suddenly, Arlo had the distinct feeling he’d been duped. Thrown into a pit to fight like a gladiator while Julian watched with glee from the comfort of his computer desk.