The First Great Game (A Litrpg/Harem Series)

Chapter 3: We are rooting for you

Welcome, Player M-24-352. Please note: you have been administered a slight chemical cocktail to enhance your experience. But you are perfectly safe, and not at all dead. Please determine your introductory settings.

Mason’s world had vanished, then reappeared in a series of bubbles that looked like a comic book. He was floating in warm darkness, feeling a strange, comforting haze that felt like being a little drunk. He remembered the party and the fridge and the bomb, then nothing.

[Please select your background.]

Mason saw a wide array of choices he didn’t really understand or care about, and chose ‘natural’. Then clicked through ‘Music’ randomly before it showed him the options. Mid-West American voice? Sure. Font type? Jesus Christ. He clicked through more text boxes without caring and also wondering what in the name of God this all was. Then the darkness dropped like a light clicked on, and Mason stumbled as gravity suddenly existed. He was standing in the middle of a forest, with tall, thin trees in every direction, listening to what might have been show tunes.

“Welcome,” said a voice like a marine sergeant. “Player experience feedback is no longer being accepted, but you benefit from the feedback of the players before you. They have together crafted and agreed on the following instructions as being helpful, to illuminate your situation, seven out of ten times! Please listen carefully to their collaborative message.

Hey. So, earth and everything you’ve ever known is gone. We’re all in the maniacal fever dream of this god-like AI, or something, so just accept it. Apparently, this is the very first version of the ‘experiment’. Lucky us. Also, it sounds like pretty much every aspect of the place is designed to weed out the weak, until only the ‘fittest’ remain. We aren’t exactly sure what that means, but we get the feeling Darwin would be proud. So, yeah, it’s likely the law of the jungle out there, friend. We can hope for the angels of people’s better nature, and all, but I think we all know how that usually goes. At least until some kind of governments get established. Anyway. Good luck, and Godspeed. We’ll see you out there.

Mason stared at the text as he listened to the voice and the ridiculous advertising jingles, no idea what to say.

“I have questions.”

“Go ahead, kid,” said the voice. “But you get a limited amount. Best not waste them.”

“What the hell is this?” Mason wasn’t sure why he wasn’t more terrified, then remembered the ‘chemical cocktail’. “What have you done?”

“We have altered the sector you call Sol to accommodate our experiment.”

“Who is we?”

“We are us, a collective just as you are a collective—of functions and processes and instructions. We are merely aware of that collective.”

“Is it real? Is this actually happening?”

“All things are happening, all things are real.”

Stupid god damn robot. Mason wished he could be angrier but it seemed his emotions were dulled. “What gives you the right? What gives you the right to do this to us? To experiment on us?”

A brief moment of silence, then: “We’re sorry, but many of your words and concepts, like ‘rights’, have no basis in reality. There is no particle or natural law to suggest what you call a right exists. We have done this because we have the power to do so, and because we think it will lead to further knowledge.”

Mason fought the chemicals in his body, using every scrap of will to summon the righteous rage he felt somewhere inside. “Then you’d best hope I never have the power to kill you.”

The AI said nothing until Mason spoke again.

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“Where’s my brother?”

“All previous relationships, organizations, and commitments are officially abolished. You are not required to honor them.”

“Where is my God damn brother?”

Still nothing. And then: “Are you ready for class selection?”

Mason practically felt the chemical cocktail burning in his veins. He didn’t want to be calm, to be measured, even though he knew he had no power here.

“What will I face in your game?”

“Mortal peril. Life exaggerated and intensified. Risk. Reward. Chaos.”

“Why? What do you want from us?”

“We want you to thrive. To succeed. To show us how and why you struggle.”

Mason shook his head, hardly believing this was real yet somehow knowing it was.

“You selfish bastards.”

The robot voice said nothing more, returning to the grizzled old veteran it had started with.

“Sorry, kid. Question time is over, and player feedback is no longer being accepted. Please step into the tunnel thing there, which signals your acceptance into class selection. This will be followed immediately by entrance into the tutorial.”

“Good luck, player,” added the robot voice rotely. “Thank you for your compulsory data.”

“Go to hell,” said Mason. “Tell it I’m not doing anything. I’m not picking your nonsense or taking part in any of your…”

The floor slanted and dropped beneath his feet, scooping him into a swirling pool of more images and text. He folded his arms across his chest, bent his knees, and fell in silence. As he sunk into nothingness, he swore to find the heart of this machine, or whoever created it, and kill them.

* * *

Entering Class Selection. Environment based on player data.

Mason never actually ‘landed’. He soon suspected whatever this place was it wasn’t remotely real in the way he expected. He blinked beneath dull, florescent lighting, inspecting a small space he soon recognized as a kind of bunker. Several tables and racks ringed the space, filled with weapons that belonged in a medieval museum.

Welcome to class selection, said the same no-nonsense male voice as before. This is probably the most important choice you’ll have to make. Because if you choose wrong, you likely won’t live long enough to make better ones. The list has already been made according to your talents, but pick the one you feel is the best in a dangerous world. Remember the goals of the game. And please inspect your profile.

His profile? The thought alone seemed to press some imaginary button in Mason’s mind. A kind of screen appeared in his vision, filled with numbers and words he might associate with one of Blake’s video games.

Well, that was mostly meaningless. And apparently roboGod wasn’t impressed by Mason’s cooking classes.

A series of screens opened before his eyes across the wall of the bunker. Above each there was a class listed, then a video of him equipped in different gear, fighting the air or traveling through some kind of wooded area. He took a breath, and went through them one by one.

In the first he wore a combination of metal plates and something like SWAT gear, complete with giant plastic shield. [Warrior], read the text. [A versatile melee specialist, with powers usable by many weapons. Can be offensive or defensive in focus.]

Well, there was something to say for armor, that was for sure. But Mason wasn’t immediately excited. In most warfare at most times, being slow was dead. You never knew when you’d be up against something you just couldn’t beat and needed to withdraw. Nothing was ever tough enough to withstand the right offense. No. He needed something faster. Something deadlier.

The next was ‘Rogue’, and he crept through the brush with daggers covered in maybe mud. [A specialist in subterfuge and ambush, the rogue is a fragile but deadly weapon.]

Mason felt his lips harden with indecision. It suited him far better than the warrior, but the word ‘fragile’ frightened him. As Mike Tyson once said, everyone had a plan until they got punched in the mouth. And sooner or later every rogue was going to get caught.

Mason inspected the benches, annoyed at what he saw. He wanted a damn gun, not swords and crossbows and whatever the hell that thing was with the hook. But it was getting pretty clear ‘gunslinger’ wasn’t an option.

Still, his eyes found the next image and stopped. [Hunter] read the text, and Mason thought now we’re talking. The image here was him sprinting through the trees with something like a longbow, loosing arrows and dashing back to the safety of the trees. [Hunter. A versatile, but ranged focus killer. Specializes in multiple directions.]

Mason only briefly flicked his eyes down to the remaining choice, which seemed like some kind of damn wizard. He rejected it, and looked back to the hunter. Keep it simple, his instincts told him. A ranged killer was exactly what you wanted in a dangerous world. A Mongol horseman. A Comanche raider. Fast and deadly with range beat just about everything. He selected Hunter without much further thought.

“Nice choice. Now select two powers from the available options.”

Two? Well that made things straight forward. One offensive, one defensive or mobility. He scrolled the list, which wasn’t so terribly long, and didn’t have much in the way of description. He supposed he’d have to extrapolate based on the name.

‘Hidden shot’ was tempting, but carried the same problem as the rogue. As much as it was nice to imagine, you just couldn’t always rely on getting the jump on someone. And what most armies had learned through the few thousands years of human conflict—when it came to offense, simple and reliable was usually best. There was a reason the AK-47 never went out of style.

Next up—Power Shot. That was more like it. As far as Mason could tell, it was just a charge up extra smash of power—which was to say, exactly what he wanted, and Mason wasn’t the type to hesitate. He picked it.

So now, defensive or mobility.

‘Hide’ would obviously be bloody useful. One day Mason hoped he could take the stealth package the game seemed to be pushing, but he just didn’t believe it would be wise to do so first. ‘Distraction’ sounded too damn situational. What he wanted was something he could use every time. There wasn’t anything to speed him up as far as he could tell, which would have been ideal. But the next best thing…?

Crippling Strike. The description just said ‘range or melee’, which he assumed meant he could activate it with a bow or a blade. Sounded ideal. Slowing your enemy wasn’t necessarily as good as moving faster, but it would have to do. He briefly scanned the few other options, then took Crippling Strike.

Good choice, and congrats! You’re ready for the tutorial. Select one ranged weapon. You’ve got a minute remaining. Good luck!

Wait, what? One weapon? The bastards. If it was purely a game of survival, Mason would take a knife every time. But it wasn’t. This was war. And it occurred to Mason in that moment he’d been preparing for this moment most of his life. He couldn’t say why, exactly, save the feeling that modern culture and civilization couldn’t and wouldn’t last. That people had become so weak, so delusional, so removed from real life that sooner or later they’d be shocked back into reality. He supposed it didn’t matter why, only that he had. Because here it was, and he was staring at a table full of weapons made to kill.

You have thirty seconds remaining, please select a ranged weapon.

A ranged weapon. Well, that wasn’t any choice at all. He looked at the crossbows, the javelins, and finally the bows. All had been giant leaps forward in killing power for mankind. But there was only one real choice—one weapon that had proved its deadly advantage in conflict after conflict, continent after continent. Mason lifted the bow, and breathed.

Good choice, kid. Now select your tutorial preferences.

Terrain?

Woods.

With other players, or alone?

Alone.

Thank you, intoned the robotic voice. You are now ready for your tutorial. Good luck, player. As always, we are rooting for you.

The floor of the bunker hissed with the sound of a mechanical press. The walls and roof shuddered, and Mason crouched, ready for violence. Slowly it lifted him, higher and higher until he was afraid it would crush him against the roof of the bunker. Then it too hissed and slid apart with considerable speed, revealing dim light and a forest canopy above. As he moved closer and closer to the surface, all he could hear were snarls, shouts, and blood curdling screams. He gripped his bow, and breathed.