Clan Dominance: The Sleepless Ones
by Dem Michailov
Release - March 5, 2020
Pre-order - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B082J7P2X2
The series is a joint project of Magic Dome Books and 1C-Publishing
The series is a joint project of Magic Dome Books and 1C-Publishing
Chapter One
Anything to Stay! Your Gaming Session Has Been
Terminated Unexpectedly.
The bright flash before my eyes made me squeeze my
eyes shut. When I opened my eyelids again, I saw an iridescent vortex spinning
slowly. I exhaled, frustrated, and shut my eyes again without waiting for
another vertiginous moment of nausea. My bandwidth is way too low. The
equipment is rather outdated, too. Hence the long few minutes of waiting for
the server to identify me, check the medical sensor data, and apply the matrix.
I waited for another minute before opening my eyes; I
was relieved to discover myself staring right at a nondescript gray brick wall.
Finally. I stretched, clenched and
unclenched my fists a few times, and shook my head.
Everything seemed to be just fine.
A near-transparent message popped up before my eyes,
accompanied by a pleasant ringing. It kept getting whiter and more opaque with
every second.
Welcome!
The World of WALDYRA is happy to have
you with us!
There are over seven million of us now .
. .
I winced, annoyed, as I shut the greeting I'd already
been sick to death of, and looked around myself, having taken a few steps back
away from the wall. I was in a tiny room, nine feet by nine, with a regular
wooden door with a ball-shaped copper handle in the opposite wall. The ceiling
was low and made of stone, without anything resembling a window. There was absolutely
nothing on the walls—not a single painting, or etching, or indeed any other
sentimental object to decorate them. The situation with furniture was
similar—there was none.
A pile of stuff lay in the far corner next to the
door, with a torn cape thrown over it haphazardly for the sake of appearances.
It contained the bare necessities—a meager supply of decent mana and HP
potions, a few specific elixirs boosting certain stats temporarily, and a small
set of reserve armor and equipment. I had some gold and silver in the city
bank; their nearest branch was located right across the city square. That was
that. Those were all the things I needed to play comfortably. I hardly ever
appeared in my private room—that would normally happen whenever I would log
into the game or log out.
Apart from that, my in-game bank account kept growing,
so there was no reason to lament the Spartan decor and the lack of comforts in
my Private Room. That was my personal space—my gateway to the boundless world
of Waldyra so very long ago. Oh yes, a lot of time has passed since then . . .
and all of it would end very shortly.
My game account was of the lowest class—Wooden. Such
account would often be derisively referred to as "logs," and their
owners were known as "Pinocchios." The class suited my needs just
fine, but all good things come to an end. The only way of staving it off was to
keep paying hard-earned cash for playing. Once the last cent on the account
would run out, a scarlet red message saying ACCOUNT BLOCKED would flash
before my eyes, and I would immediately find myself flung back into the real
world.
I had no way of topping up my account. I simply had no
money. My company had gotten bankrupt all of a sudden, with all of the staff,
including yours truly, getting the axe. I ended up flat broke. Speak of double
trouble. I lost my job and my favorite hobby in one fell swoop of fate. A
two-pronged attack targeting my most vulnerable spots, if you will. I was technically entitled to some severance
package—half a month's salary and basic social coverage—but clawing that out of
a bankrupt company would be a challenge taking more time than I had. The boss
disappeared without a trace, and it is said that he had taken all the remaining
liquid company assets with him. He must be sitting in a comfy lounge chair
somewhere on an ocean beach and savoring his tropical cocktail . . . the
bastard!
I drew a deep sigh, thought for a moment, my eyes
boring the alluring door like gimlets. It led to a world of incredible
adventure, wild passion, and mortal danger. It drew me like a magnet.
However, I had to hold my impulses in check. The first
thing I did was activate the control interface. I went through a couple of
menus, barely moving my index finger, found the necessary option and called out
the timer counting out the hours and minutes I'd had left in the game
dispassionately, pinning it to my main "screen."
The numbers were anything but reassuring.
12:17:46
12:17:45
12:17:44
I dwelt on this for a while, and then decided to color
the constantly changing numbers bright red and place them in the upper left
corner so that they would always be in my field of vision. Now I could see the
remaining time whenever I'd look to the side.
A warning message popped up before my eyes.
We are obliged to inform you that
visible interface elements interfere with complete immersion into the world of
Waldyra.
I chuckled bitterly, dismissing the message. It sure
does interfere. However, I wouldn't want to become a laughing stock for other
players by missing the right moment and getting thrown out of the game in the
middle of a conversation. So I should somehow manage without "complete
immersion." I wouldn't be able to cite a sudden blackout or a network
problem as an excuse. Every cocoon had an autonomous power supply with enough
juice to finish the longest battle, let alone wrap up a conversation or reach a
safe location. Then you could press the Exit button in peace. Network errors
were extremely rare. Game cocoons were linked to the main server as nodes of a
single network independent from the Internet or the local ISPs. Glitches in
their work were extremely uncommon.
I am a quiet type normally, and I prefer action to
talking to other players. What was the point of idle chitchat, anyway? You
could talk IRL, after all. What had drawn me to Waldyra in the first place was
adventure—battles against monsters and the exploration of unchartered
territories. That was the very reason why I had chosen the Ranger Archer class.
However, this time I had only intended to talk. Not a
step outside the city. Today I had to do absolutely everything within my power
to scrape up enough funds for yet another week of fees for my Wooden account.
And that would require precisely that which I had tried to keep to a
minimum—namely, communication. I would have to talk to vendors and fighters
looking for quality weapons, armor, or accessories. Basically, I had to sell
all the junk gathering dust in the corner of my room for "real"
money. Should I fail to succeed immediately, my only remaining option would be
to auction the stuff, but in that case I'd have to wait for 24 hours at least—a
whole day. I would therefore have to log out and use a simple monitor app to
track the sales.
Just a week. That was all the time I'd have to horse
around. A small vacation before I'd be forced to hunt for yet another job.
Well, why not? I was single and lived on my own, after all. The fridge of my
one-room apartment was chock full of cheap but filling food. My rent and my
Internet bills had been paid for a month in advance. So all I wanted now was a
little entertainment. Absolute immersion into the game with a bare minimum of
logging out. An endless whirlwind of events and adventures.
I could go hunting orcs at the Black Ridge—my level
would suffice for that. Another option was to take a trip to the faraway coast
of the Southern Sea where I could admire their unique sunsets with both suns
dipping under the horizon at once. Those lucky enough to have seen this sight
claim it to be one of the world's greatest wonders. I could save on
teleportation scrolls, so it would take five days tops to get there. I could
accept easy quests from the locals en route . . . a gamer's dream and no
mistake.
Anyway, I wouldn't be short of activities the coming
week. Provided I managed to scrape up enough to pay for my account, obviously.
I scrutinized my tiny room, regretting the fact that I
had never bothered about investing so much as a cent into the decor of my
Private Room. I could have sold it to some greenhorn player lock, stock, and
barrel for half the price now. However, back in the day when I was relatively
comfortable financially, I used to spend all the gold I would earn in the game
on boosting elixirs, stronger armor, and better weapons. My class was another
thing—it was of the "pure" variety, regarded as suited for nobility
and the new rich players. I had never bothered to learn a craft. Not that there
had ever been a shortage of NPCs eager to teach me their skills—I could have
become a lumberjack or a miner, after all . . .
But the prospect of chipping away at rocks with a
pickax in hopes of finding a gold nugget or an uncut gem had always bored me to
tears. Ditto prancing around swinging an ax and singing I'm OK. So that's what
I ended up with. I never could have guessed the game would become so addictive
and turn from a hobby to what technically amounted to my main occupation.
There was also the fact that the NPCs (or the locals,
as we all call them) only gave you basic-level skills, and you'd have to be
really naive to think you'd automatically start raking in the money. What you could
expect is that your pickax would break less frequently and that you might find
precious metals a teensy-weensy bit more often . . . That was that. You'd need
to hone your skills day and night to achieve anything more. As in putting all
your elbow grease into that ax or pickax from dawn till dusk. Not that there
was any shortage of those who'd enjoyed it. Those were the so-called
Socials—players who'd rather spend their times on crafts, trade, and the like.
This class of player needed no bread or spectacles. However, they'd sell their
souls for a rich precious ore vein, a few bundles of elven silk, or a mithril
pickax with inlays.
The thought of making a long-distance call to my
parents and ask for some financial assistance for their prodigal son left my
head the instance it popped up. That would be an exercise in futility. My
mother would get stress, and my father would start calling me every hour
demanding my immediate return to the family domicile where he would instantly
find a fitting job for the apple of his eye (yours truly, that is). Now, how
did that saying go? "You don't raise sons, you raise heroes?" Nah . .
. I'll paddle out on my own somehow.
One small step for me, one giant leap across the room.
Then I started to stuff everything I had into my backpack. Why everything? Why
wouldn't I cherry-pick? Well, I'd probably break down and cry seeing myself put
away the Gray Archer's bow that I had obtained with so much effort—a weapon with
excellent stats, accompanied by a quiver capable of repairing broken arrows on
its own, as well as a number of other items, each of which had had sentimental
value. In other words, I had a near-terminal case of unwillingness to part with
my property.
The last items were a bunch of potions that clinked
dully as I put them away. Nothing remained in the room but dust. I'd have
collected that, as well, given a chance someone would buy it.
I put on the backpack—its size remained the same, and
the answer to "how" is always "magic" in such cases—and
started towards the door, throwing a glance at the relentless timer
involuntarily.
12:09:11
12:09:10
I'd have to hurry.
The door clicked shut softly, and I set off making no
sound whatsoever. Ah, the silent steps of a true ranger. I may have
perambulated as quietly as any elephant IRL, but here in Waldyra I was but a
silent ghost. The ideal scout. The best players with a similar character class
and beefed-up skills can break dance on broken glass without a single shard
making a sound.
There was no need to bother about locking the door—no
one but me would have managed to get in, anyway. The only way another player
can enter my Private Room is if I invite them. Also, there was no point
worrying about a completely empty room.
I dashed downstairs to find myself in a spacious hall
with oak-paneled walls and a wide open door leading outside just across.
There were paintings and embroideries on the walls
with scenes of hunting and battles against monsters. Every scene was based on a
real event, immortalizing the players' achievements and valiant deeds as
described in the captions on diligently-polished copper plaques underneath. The
polishing was done manually, by the way—by the "local" workers
keeping things clean and orderly with the utmost diligence. There were all
sorts of achievements—not all of them had to be battle-related.
"Sir Lancelot fights a red dragon
single-handedly," read one. The picture portrayed a warrior with
unnaturally wide shoulders, clad in a suit of armor, fearlessly attacking a
fire-breathing spiky lizard-like beast with a sword raised over his head. Oddly
enough, nothing was said about the outcome of the fight. I could attack a red
dragon single-handedly too—I just might be foolish enough. But what would be
the result of such a battle? The dragon would probably get its breakfast.
"Twain the Canny makes the first 100K deal in the
history of Waldyra." The caption was underneath a portrait for a
puffy-cheeked chubby fellow smiling from behind a table laden with gold. The
player had obviously chosen the path of a trader. Their kind never have to
worry about paying their fees . . . but isn't that boring? On the other hand,
different strokes for different folks. It might be his vocation, after all.
"The foundation of the very first clan in the
history of Waldyra!" There are ten players of different classes standing
in the yard of a small castle and swearing their allegiance to the clan with
their hands held out in front of them. The clan in question was the
Architects—one of the most powerful ones.
"Kraken the Silent slays the Orcish warlord with
a single arrow." There's an archer standing on one knee and about to let
loose an arrow from a disproportionately large crossbow. I'd spent a lot of
time studying this picture, awash in jealousy for a luckier player who'd
managed to get his name written into the chronicles of Waldyra. On the other
hand, if I had a crossbow like that, all covered in boosting runes, I would
also have killed an orc with a single arrow, from any distance . . . probably .
. . Anyway, I never liked crossbows much, relying on longbows most of the time.
And just to consider his nickname. "Silent" Kraken, my foot! Some
people just have no imagination, brother!
Right, and what do have here?
Oh, yeah, a really "ancient" painting that's
been here for quite a while.
"The Galesian Ichtyander reaches the bottom of
the Quanton Trench." All you can see on the painting is a blurry
silhouette of a diver hanging upside down, visibly tense, and touching the
rocky bottom with the very tips of his fingers against an almost completely
black background of the deeper ocean reaches. The Quanton Trench is over ten
miles deep, if memory serves. There's no way anyone could dive that deep IRL.
You could only do it in Waldyra, and only if your character belonged to the
underwater race. Otherwise the pressure will squash you flat. Incidentally,
rumors have it that even though Ichtyander had managed to reach the bottom, he
never made it back up, ending up as a snack for the creatures of the deep,
record breaker or not. Those creatures are enormous—and always ravenous.
Jeepers . . .
There were paintings everywhere. Starting with the
level of one's chest and rising all the way up to the ceiling. The first clan
castle built, and the first player to have amassed a fortune of a million
golden pieces. Once again, Twain the Canny was the one who had received the
achievement. Speak of shrewd merchants . . .
I took a short look at the paintings and hurried
towards the door, nodding to the girl behind the semicircular counter who had
wished me a good morning. She wasn't a player, but rather an AI-controlled NPC
capable of self-education. That was one of the gimmicks that gave Waldyra its
charm and verisimilitude.
"May luck shine over you today, Mr.
Khrushchot!" the girl added with barely traceable notes of ennui in her
voice, which was the epitome of courteousness otherwise.
The poor thing must be really bored here. Not a soul
to talk to. Players would just dash back and forth minding their own business,
and the girl hardly got any chance to converse to anyone.
On the other hand, perhaps she wasn't as bored as all
that. My cursory glance scanned a cheap necklace made of blue beads on her
neck. Low-ranking "locals" never wore any jewelry—that was one of the
game's features. Still, any player could give an NPC a ring, a necklace, or a
chain as a present. A piece of jewelry worn on the neck implied that this
doubtlessly beautiful woman created by a talented designer had an adorer—one of
the players paying her a visit every now and then. And those visits must have
entailed something other than small talk.
The game's ranking spoke for itself—it was 18+, and
enforced zealously. No children or teenagers were allowed anywhere near a full-immersion
experience of this sort. One could even get married, buy an orchard, and enjoy
all the advantages of a quiet family life, given the inclination. Or, perhaps,
one could opt for the none-too-quiet option—one would normally choose a partner
according to one's tastes, after all. Many players did just that. After all,
few things are as pleasant as to be welcomed by a gorgeous spouse first thing
upon returning from yet another heroic quest.
The marketplace greeted me with a deafening din. You
could always expect to see a few hundred players here, half of whom were
traders, always ready and willing to sell you whatever they may have found
across the vastness of the world of Waldyra or made themselves for a maximum
profit. Others wished to purchase what they were selling as cheaply as they
could. Every party would haggle zealously and very loudly. I couldn't hear a
single word for the noise the first time I came here. It was much easier now,
though. I must have gotten used to it all—the loud haggling, the milling
crowds, and the thieves dashing to and fro all the time.
"Rings with semiprecious gemstones! A substantial
boost to your mana! Just two left! Level 10 and up!"
"Shirts! Linen shirts! Get two beautiful shirts
for just a single silver piece!"
"Giant crab shells! Whole and powdered! Just what
an alchemist needs!"
"Hot food! Hot food!"
"I'm selling all my stuff! Level 20! Make your
offers!"
"All your lighting needs covered! Glowballs!
Magic headlamps! Glowing necklaces and belts! Just two camp post with
simplified activation left! One is charged with daylight, and the other, with
regular light! Affordable! We can make a deal!"
Posts were stationary lighting devices resembling,
well . . . pillars or posts, I suppose. Hence the name. What else do you call a
brightly-glowing cylinder five feet tall? So that was the name the players
chose. Everything was perfectly clear to anyone with a passing acquaintance
with Waldyra slang. Daylight was the same as sunlight. It provided perfect
lighting as well as protection from any creature shunning the sun. Glowballs
were another lighting device. The player's bread and butter must have come from
making and selling lighting equipment.
"I'll fix your weapons and armor free of charge!
Absolutely free! No guarantees on the result, though!"
"Charmed wooden flasks! Extra capacity! You won't
regret it!"
"Pelts! Really cheap hare pelts! I have hare
eyes, too, for those who want them! Seventeen altogether!"
"Eight silver-plated buttons for sale! Tailors!
Get them quick! These are one-off pieces! Look at how beautiful they are!"
Buyers would usually walk around in silence,
scrutinizing everything with feigned indifference and taking their time raking
through the items on sale. There was a reason why this spontaneous market came
into existence here—there was a fountain with clean water nearby that could be
used by anyone for drinking or filling one's flasks, a hotel right nearby, and
an auction where any player could sell any rare item they had just some twenty
paces away. That's where I headed, ignoring the throngs and the admiring sighs
of jealous greenhorn eating my equipment with their eyes.
There was a semitransparent veil in front of the
auction, and you had to pass through to get in. That was just what I did. I took
a step and the veil became thicker, examining me, and dispersing instantly in
an invitation to come inside. The magical veil did not let any player with a
level under 15 get involved in any trade, returning them to the square
instantly with a light slap on the back and a whispered "Grow up first,
kid."
I decided against ascending the broad granite
staircase leading inside the building. Instead, I headed left. There were over
a dozen of players hanging out next to a wall, all of them of different classes
and races.
That motley crew of chatty traders was my destination.
They were the unofficial "black" auction. The prices they offered
were much lower, but they paid up at once. That's where anyone would go if they
needed to get rid of their wares quickly and get paid in real money rather than
the game's own gold-based currency.
The sheer variety of buyers was mind-boggling. There
were elves, dwarves, humans, drow, half-orcs, and even achylotes—I certainly
didn't expect to see any of their ilk here. Well, there was only one of them,
really, and he'd been doing just fine for someone who'd needed gills to
breathe. On the other hand, why wouldn't he, with an aquarium like his? The
achylote player didn't move much, suspended as he was inside an enormous bubble
of sea water placed right on the paving and looking extremely flimsy. You
didn't encounter too many underwater beings in this city—it may not have been
built in the middle of the desert, but it lay just on its fringe.
I remember my amazement when I first learned about the
existence of a strictly underwater race of players in Waldyra. There were
actual underwater towns and villages—as well as caves, and, obviously,
monsters. However, I did not choose the achylote race, my curiosity
notwithstanding, even though they had a large number of available classes. It
just didn't feel like my kind of thing. Apart from that, I prefer to stand on
my own two feet—spending most of the game in a suspended state would be
bothersome. It would be like living in a zero-gravity environment.
I barely managed to open my mouth when a tall half-orc
approached me, nodding at my backpack and asking me in a guttural voice,
"Got anything for sale?"
"I have," I said, taking off my backpack
nonchalantly. "But I'm not selling it cheap. It's one-off stuff. Some of
it is technically rare!"
The half-orc grunted derisively. Well, the fanged
warrior had every right to, given the quality of his equipment. His silver coat
of mail emitted a soft glow and was covered with an intricate runic pattern,
with pauldrons, bracers, and greaves to match. A full set, no less—with all the
stat bonuses it entails. There was a black silk shirt underneath the armor. The
half-orc's hands were covered by gauntlets, but I was certain he'd had a magic
ring on every finger and a few protective charms around his neck. And I didn't
even mention his full-metal boots. His entire presence emitted a powerful
magical aura—his every garment and piece of armor were steeped in it. Few could
have taken out someone like him—although I could have given it a try, at night
and on a rough terrain.
The buyer made sure he'd made an impression, and
grunted lazily,
"Gold or real money?"
"Real money!" I blurted out, opening my pack
at once. "I don't need gold."
I instantly called myself a moron as I saw a glint in
the half-orc's eyes. It was clear to him I was in dire need of money. What a
mark I am. Feigned indifference was never my strong suit.
The warrior grabbed my backpack casually and started
to rife through it, occasionally emitting a grunt or a clucking noise that
could have meant anything. It didn't take him long to appraise the goods I'd
hoarded painstakingly over the years. He named his price almost instantly.
"Fifty bucks for everything, including the pack.
I could throw in another five, and that's that."
"You must be kidding . . ." I uttered
dejectedly. "I'd get three times as much at the auction. How about a
hundred? Everything is in perfect condition—no repairs needed."
"You won't," the half-orc shook his head
with a thick mop of black hair. "I'm sure of it. The auction house will
give you seventy-five, eighty bucks tops. That's it. See for yourself. You just
have the basic stuff here—no runes, no rare items, no set items . . . All your
stuff will go right to the next leveling-up recruit eager to let it go to waste
due to lack of skill and experience."
"Who?"
"Does it make any difference?" the warrior
grunted, with some chagrin in his voice this time. "Anyway, as I've been
telling you, there's nothing particularly valuable here. With the possible
exception of the bow and a couple of throwing knives. The rest is just bulk.
I'm only buying it because it's in perfect repair. Anyway, I can give you
fifty-five bucks right away—just give me your account number. If you don't
trust me, ask the others, I don't care."
I pondered this for a moment, then made a sullen
dismissive gesture and agreed with his price. The half-orc had no reason to
lie. There wasn't anything unique in the backpack, after all. Just a bunch of
quality items and weapons.
"All right, then," the half-orc roared,
showing off an impressive set of fangs. "By the way, the bow you have
dangling on your back . . . I'd buy it for twenty right away. If you throw in
your belt as well, there'll be another tenner in it for you. So, what do you
say?"
"My bow?" I exhaled sharply, turning my head
to take a look at the weapon behind my shoulder. "No way . . . I could
have parted with the belt . . ."
"Your call. I'm just here to make an offer."
"Oh, screw it," I grunted, resolutely
removing the bow and the shoulder-belt and handing it to the trader. "It's
yours."
"Can't scrape up enough for your daily fix,
eh?" the warrior squinted somewhat mockingly as he grabbed my weapon and
stuffed it into his backpack.
"Got it in one," I said morosely as I tore
the belt off my waist. It gave a great boost to Agility, and a 5% bonus to
Stealth. A dream belt, in other words. And there I was parting with it . . .
for a measly ten bucks. Well, what was I to do? Keep the belt and proudly log
off?
"Give me your account number. Or your e-wallet
number, whatever. Chef's choice."
"E-wallet," I replied, telling him the
number I'd had memorized.
"Hold on," the half-orc grunted, shutting
his grayish-green eyelids and looking meditative for a moment.
I saw his ember eyes stare at me shortly afterwards.
"It's done. The money's been wired. If you come
across any other worthy stuff, DM me at once. I'm here most of the time. The
nickname is Gray Boar. Got it?"
"Sure," I nodded. Then I asked him,
"Hey, but how did you manage to wire the money? You didn't even log out .
. ."
"Why would I? Oh, hold on a second . . . You come
from the glorious Pinocchio stock, right? A Wooden account?"
"Well, yeah . . ."
"Well, nothing. The account you choose decides
everything. Anyway, good lock. Drop by whenever you come by anything
good."
Gray Boar nodded me goodbye and retreated lazily,
waving my backpack around in a careless manner. Where did that leave me? Out of
weapons and equipment, but with eighty-five bucks on my account. Provided that
the half-orc trader made no mistakes and wasn't planning to rip me off, of
course.
Once I parted the magical veil again, I sat down on a
sun-warmed bench next to a fountain with a dozen jets of water shooting up and
hastened to leave the game. There was a twinkling and a flash, and I was
staring at the iridescent whirlwind again. Then came darkness.
I tore the helmet away from my head, opened the
cocoon's semitransparent lid, and pulled the computer monitor installed on a
mobile console without getting up. I was online, anyway, so it didn't take long
to check my electronic payment system.
The Boar had told the truth. I received a transfer of
eighty-five dollars and one cent. One cent, really! The guy should try the
local stand-up circuit; he'd be a barrel of laugh with his displays of lavish
generosity. Given that I'd already had seventeen dollars on my account, I was
now a proud owner of 102 dollars, proudly ignoring that measly copper.
A weekly fee for the cheapest (Wooden) account was
exactly sixty-five bucks. Not exactly the cheapest entertainment available on
the market. Basically, I was set—I'd just received enough to pay for a week in
advance. Seven days of pure unadulterated joy in the world of Waldyra. Damn . .
. I shouldn't have hurried with selling my favorite bow. On the other hand,
that was when an insidious thought crept into my head. Just another
twenty-three dollars would buy me a whopping two weeks of playing. Two whole
weeks! I should have just about enough food in the fridge . . . it seemed like
an enticing prospect. I didn't really want to borrow—on the other hand, I
didn't need much, either. But where would I get the remaining money?
Relatives were definitely a no-no. Ditto neighbors.
Not that I was on good terms with any of them, anyway, with the exception of
Vassily—resident of the first floor, a hard worker with magic hands who could
fix anything, and a former power lifter to boot. Or, rather, he'd been one
before his wife left him. Since then, he'd been drinking regularly, and those
crafty hands of his became two shaking claws of an alcoholic. If anything, he'd
ask to borrow some money off me the instant he'd see my mug. So, a non-option
there as well . . .
Where did that leave me?
Having pondered this for a few more minutes, I made
myself rise from the cocoon's elastic bed and reach the bedside table next to
my single bed—there was a shoe box on it, stuffed with bits and pieces of
paper, ancient business cards, and similar junk. I dumped all the contents onto
the made bed, rifled through the pile of papers, and finally fished out a piece
of paper with a mobile phone number and the short name Gosha written diagonally
upon it.
Gosha lived in a twelve-story building that was part
of a posh gated community right across, but, more importantly, he was a fellow
Waldyra player. And not just any player, either—his was an experienced gamer
elite case. His extremely well-developed character with a bunch of expensive
stuff was some three times stronger than mine. Apart from that, Gosha was a
prominent figure in a fairly well-known clan—with a castle and lands, and even
some villages of their own. This was someone who'd get me. We were the same
age—24 each—and had even been to a few parties together. Not that we were close
friends—our interests and our social circles were way too different.
I pulled the telephone toward me and dialed the number
hastily, hoping for Gosha to be home. He should be, by any account—it was
evening, him being a married man, and all.
Three beeps on, I heard a click, followed by Gosha's
irritated voice.
"Hello?"
Gotcha, Gosha!
"Hey, Gosha, how's things? It's me, Ros. Well,
you know, Rostislav."
"Oh! Hi, Ros. Look, I'm a little busy now, could
you call me later? I was just about to dive in."
"Won't take a minute, Gosha!" I blurted as
fast as I could. "Uh . . . Look, the thing is . . . Could I borrow a few
bucks off you? I only need twenty-eight. I mean, $27.99 would be fine,
too."
"Come again? $27.99?" Gosha chuckled.
"Dude, you're really something. Why that particular amount, if I may
ask?"
"I won't be able to afford a two-week fee
otherwise," I fessed up. "My company, well . . . it went belly-up.
The boss disappeared without a trace, leaving nothing behind him but unpaid
bills. So I'm temporarily unemployed."
"No probbo, amigo. Do you want cash or an
e-transfer?"
"An e-transfer would be even better," I
said, overjoyed. "Thanks, Gosha! I'll definitely pay you back in a
month!"
"I'm in no hurry," Gosha said with a certain
amount of gravitas. "Right on, I'll wire it to you in a sec. What's your
e-wallet number? I'll just go get my laptop."
I told him the number, doing this the second time in
the last 30 minutes, and then went silent, listening to the rustling in the
receiver as well as the humming of the PC behind me. In a second I'd hear the
clinking sound informing me of 28 dollars landing on my account. A few minutes
later, they'd all be on my gaming account, and after that I'd be free to play
my favorite game for as long as I can afford.
However, there was no clinking sound. Instead, I heard
Gosha's voice in the receiver again. He sounded somewhat pensive this time.
"Hey, Ros . . . Have you got a minute or
sixty?"
"What do you mean?"
"Have you got any free time at the moment? About
an hour or so?"
"Sure," I answered in the affirmative,
somewhat perplexed. "I told you I was unemployed, didn't I? It's just that
I'd been intending to dive, too."
"You'll have all the time in the world for
it," Gosha said reassuringly. "Come on over to my place in the
meantime. Tell the security guards I invited you, and they'll show you the way
to my apartment. Just make it quick, right? I need you here ASAP."
"Got it . . . Hey, Gosha, sorry, but what's up
with the money? If you have none on your account, how about a tenner?"
"Ros, give over with the silliness already. Get
over here. There's stuff to discuss. Are you coming?"
"I am! I'll be there in five minutes." There
was nothing but beeping in the receiver.
I scratched my head in bewilderment and headed for the
door, taking a light sports jacket from a built-in wardrobe. Just the piece I
needed to complete the look and complement my wrinkly track suit pants and a
formerly white t-shirt.
I was really curious about why Gosha would want to
talk to me at such haste.
Damn . . . With the timer ticking, I really had to
hurry.
No comparison between this professionally done translation and the original version. It was pretty horrific, but good enough to pull you into the story.
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