Project Erlosung XI
The Wager
"What the fuck, private?!" Miles must be red-faced if I can hear him across the quad. And in my tent, even. "Is that rust on your crossbow? This is a virtual fucking reality, and you can't keep virtual fucking rust off your virtual fucking gear? Beat. Your. Face. No, you idiot! Front leaning rest position, move!"
I smile. Some things never change. Nor should they. These kids, these gamers, we must turn them into killers if we are to live. Any of us. And for this tearing down of the old to build up the new, the old ways are tried and true enough.
A wind blows. It smells of salt and sea foam and dead things rotting. Our tent city flaps, creaks, and groans in the breeze. Ratty duck canvas and coarse hempen ropes sing us a song.
The sound of shovels scraping the hard earth tells me that work proceeds on the perimeter ditch and rampart. Hammers ring on anvils. Boots tramp in step. Leaders call cadence. Crossbows snap in volleys. Bolts thump into targets. Wooden practice swords clatter. The camp lives in a thousand sounds and scents. But mainly sweat and mildew.
It has been three weeks since Junk-Town fell into our hands. And this little force, an army in seed form, is coming together nicely. My army. My little army. She learns to crawl. And soon to walk. With little baby steps. The important thing is to keep moving. Keep building. And someday, soon, she will run.
I sigh and look back at my percomp. Spreadsheets on a screen the size of a handi-talky. Memo to me. Find some qualified bodies. To use as staff. My records are a mess. Half ink splotches and scribbles scratched with quill pen on ratty paper. And the other half, spreadsheets on my X-Drive. On the plus side of the ledger, no staff means no slide show presentations.
"Major Rogers," says Luna. Her muffled voice reaches me from her desk in the entryway. Her words drip with barely disguised contempt. "Your three o'clock is here."
"Offer them their choice of refreshments," I call back. I roll my eyes and tidy up my desk for appearance's sake. Papers cover my workspace. Papers full of orders-of-battle, tables-of-organization-and-equipment, and daily and weekly consumables balance reports. And so on. It all gets shoved into a folio case. Two sheets of thin plywood stitched into canvas with flaps and buttons that snap. "And then send them through when they're ready."
Inanna and Wolfgang, my self-appointed bodyguards, each pull aside one of the canvas sheets that partition my office from the rest of the tent. The three guild leaders, whom I have been avoiding, step through. I suppose I have left them on hold for long enough. I stalled giving them a firm appointment for a week. And let them wait for an hour before seeing them. Even a child should get the point.
Asher Mittani enters first. He represents the single largest guild. The Evergoon Squad or EGS. Even I have heard of them. Emerging from forums and the chans, the swarm of goon-bros can run whatever game they choose to run. His presence is surprisingly substantial for a gamer. Bro hits the gym. But his Bane cosplay doesn't do anything for me.
Next to enter is Myrkul Bey. Leader of the Risen Deathlords or RGL. Their whole shtick is to roleplay as undead. I don't know where this guy found that skull mask. But I have to respect his commitment to the bit. His Deathlords are the second-largest guild. They go back to AOL and MUDs. Real history there.
Finally, last and also the least of the big three, Big Sword of the KBB enters. The Knights of Blood and Beer are the third-largest guild present. But judging by Big Sword, they take the knight-larp seriously. He's actually in chain and plate. And a white tabard over all. With a blood red cross displayed. A conical Norman-style nasal helm is clutched under one arm.
"Look here, old man," says Asher Mittani. He leans over and places two hands on my desk. "Do you feel in charge?"
"Really," I think to myself. "Starting with a Bane quote?" I hold up a finger in answer. An Archer for a Bane. Hermietta and Firebrandi push a beverage cart. Luna even found maid outfits for them from God knows where. I don't rightly know how it has happened. But Luna has ensconced herself as my secretary cum bodyguard and roped Hermietta and Firebrandi into her very Japanese plans. I wait for my guests to be served. Asher has to stand up again to accept a mug of fungal beer. Big Sword takes the same. Myrkul gets a red wine. Because, of course, he does.
"Let's try that moonshine today," I finally break my silence. "Shall we love?"
"Of course," says Hermietta. "Sir." Firbrandi sets out a tray of small clay vessels. Hermietta opens a bottle of Junk-Town's finest rot gut and pours mine. She leaves the bottle on my desk. Ready to hand. Hermietta and Firebrandi bow and make their exit. Asher can't help but watch their retreat. Can't blame him none. One word. Stockings.
"Okay," says Asher. He turns around to face me again. With a mug in his hand, he is unable to loom. "We get it, old man. You're in charge. You're the big man."
"You certainly have a monopoly on starting zone resources." Myrkul Bey finally says something. His voice startles Asher. Big Sword seems unflapped. Interesting.
"But you are having second thoughts about placing your guilds under my command," I say.
"Can you blame us?" Asks Asher.
"You didn't expect us to capture Junk-Town," I say.
"It was a magnificent feat of arms," says Big Sword. "Very chivalric."
"Be that as it may," says Asher.
"We have reservations about your ability to lead proper dungeon raids," says Myrkul.
"Look, you're a big green army man," says Asher. "A real American hero. Go Joe and all that. We get it. Totes respect. We'll work with your outfit. Follow your lead in field battles. But we're the dungeon raid experts. Why don't you let us do what we do best?"
I notice that Myrkul and Big Sword look away from Asher when he says the words "dungeon raid experts." I get the sense that they do not consider the Goons as their equal in terms of raiding. Perhaps their front is not as united as they present.
"How about a wager?" I make my move. C-pawn to C-5. A Sicilian defense.
"For what?" Asher is suddenly cautious.
"If my army clears the level boss in the main raid, then you bring your guilds under my command."
"And if you fail?" Asks Myrkul.
"Then we fail," I say. "Many of us die. And your point is proven. My army will be but one among many guilds."
"The Knights accept your wager," says Big Sword. "Let us drink as comrades!"
"This is," says Myrkul. He rubs his chin under the skull mask. "Acceptable. If you clear the Floor One Raid Boss with your guild, then what is there to argue about?"
"You guys," says Asher. Then he tisks his annoyance. "Fine. Pour those shots and let's drink on it."