Chapter Text
“Donut! Donut!” I scream, frantically running across the empty deck of the sailboat I’ve suddenly teleported onto, searching for any sign of her. My HUD is gone, I have no chat, no inventory, nothing. There’s no sign of her so I race below deck, searching the interior cabin.
“Donut!” I yank open every door and cupboard, check all the small cubby spaces– nothing. A horrible thought enters my mind and I sprint back up to the deck searching the water. “Donut!” I yell, running the length of both sides looking for any signs of her overboard. Still, nothing. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I run my hand through my hair, fingers gripping the strands with tension: think, god damnit.
Everything was fine, or at least it seemed like we had, by some miracle, survived the third floor. We stepped down the staircase, Donut was directly in front of me, the metal plates of her crupper jingling with each step and then… and then that’s it. That’s the last thing I remember before suddenly appearing here, on the deck of a sail boat in the middle of… where the fuck am I? I stop long enough to look around, taking in the wider surroundings for the first time. Well shit, I’m almost certain this is somewhere in the Puget Sound. I recognize the landscape of what is almost certainly the San Juan Islands and, in the far distance, the unmistakable majesty of Mt. Rainier covered in snow.
Fuck, it’s cold out here. Focus.
I spot a radio near the helm and leap over the side deck into the cockpit. I know there are no radio stations left, at least I assume that’s the case considering the pancaked state of the world. But for all I know I’m still in the dungeon and this is just another game I’m being forced to play. My suspicions are confirmed the moment I flip the power on and a song is already playing over the speakers without me even tuning the dial. It's the clearest signal I’ve ever heard out on the water, and it’s the only signal. By that, I mean every frequency, AM or FM, is airing the same broadcast no matter what I turn the dial to. Then the song reaches its chorus and the lyrics finally register: Relax. Take it easy. For there is nothing that we can do. Relax. Take it easy. Blame it on me or blame it on you.
I groan, my shoulders sink with partial comprehension— this whole set up has the letters ‘A’ and ‘I’ written all over it. But does that mean Donut is okay? I scowl at the radio, “Where’s Donut, you asshole?” There’s no response other than the volume increasing every time the lyrics ‘relax’ play. “Yeah, yeah, relax. Easy for you to say.” I blow warm breath into my cupped hands, it really is fucking cold and my bare feet are starting to ache from numbness spreading through them. Have my pedicure effects worn off, or are all my dungeon enhancements gone? There’s no quick way to test my strength without punching something, tempting, but my gut is telling me I don’t have any of my dungeon ‘benefits’. I decide to figure it out later and head back down to the cabin to get out of the frigid air.
The interior layout is familiar, not only because it follows typical sailing yacht layouts, but also because I’m familiar with this boat, if only from pictures. It was nothing I’d ever had the privilege of crewing, but all us coasties had our own flavor of boat porn. It didn’t matter if you weren’t interested in boats when you joined, within a year of training you knew the make, model, year, and even the interior finish and upholstery color of your dream boat. You had a pinup hung next to the year's Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar. Mine had been this beauty— a Nautor Swan 46 sailing yacht. Forty-seven feet of Finnish sailing perfection. The fact that this is the ship I’ve conveniently landed on is more proof that this is some kind of sick game the AI is playing.
The cabin is surprisingly warm, something I was too frazzled to notice during my initial panicked search. I don’t hear the engine running, so I assume the temperature is a function of the AI’s control. I suddenly feel exhausted. I don’t know how many surges of adrenaline my body has experienced over the last few hours, but it’s hitting me hard. I sluggishly lean against the saloon’s partition frame and stare drowsily at the couch, willing my brain to come up with a plan to get out of here.
Suddenly, I feel the lightest brush of fingers ghost over the back of the neck, so light I’m not even sure I felt it, but I whip around, startled. Then a soft voice, more in my head than in my ear, murmurs something indiscernible yet soothing. It reassures me everything is okay, I’m safe, Donut and Katia are safe, and my muscles begin to droop until I have no choice but to give in. I shuffle to the seating area, body leaden as I flop into a corner of the u-shaped couch and let my head lull back, focused on my breathing. I don’t know what’s going on, and I hate that, but I’m so, so tired. My eyelids droop in slow half-effort blinks before I give in to sleep.
*
Something light and gentle tickles at my neck and I jolt awake with panicked fear, shouting “Donut!” and jumping off the couch in one fast motion, hitting my head on the ceiling.
“Damnit,” I curse, falling back onto the seat, rubbing my head. Ow. Talk about a rude awakening, I scratch the side of my neck where it felt like something had been touching me, eyes searching the room. Apparently I’m still on this boat. The clerestory windows above show daylight, so it couldn’t have been more than a few hours, though the kink in my neck says otherwise.
I make another pass through all the spaces in the cabin, slower this time to take inventory of my situation. The interior is more beautiful than the pictures, with floor to ceiling teak wood trim and white leather upholstered seating and I can tell by the layout it’s had a refit to make the living area more spacious, while leaving the larger aft bedroom and awkwardly shaped bow quarters with the only beds. The galley remains in its original narrow space along the port side toward the stern, I quickly flip through the kitchen cupboards looking for food. There’s a mish-mash of random non-perishables like soup, crackers, and canned goods, so I won’t starve. But more importantly, there’s a supply of bottled water, I grab one.
The rail lined book shelf behind the couch holds an array of the standard sailing manuals, but otherwise is full of paperback novels. They appear to all be science fiction, I only recognize a few of the titles on the spines, such as 2001: A Space Odyssey and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. Whether they’re leftovers from a pre-existing version of this boat or intentional I’m not sure.
The gentle rock of the boat makes me slightly miss my mouth when I take a sip of water, dribbling down my chin. I wipe it with the back of my hand and flakes of dried blood come away from my face. I’d gone straight from the third floor to Odette’s, and I was still a stinky, bloody mess.
Showers on these boats aren’t much more than a hose in a wet room, but hopefully the water is magically heated like the cabin is. Before I even step into the tight bathroom space, I immediately notice the primly packaged pedicure kit sitting on the toilet lid.
*
I feel a hundred times better after cleaning up, grateful that the water pressure and temperature are better than anything I’d ever experienced on a boat. I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth out, childishly sticking my tongue out at the pedicure kit. If I’m on some sort of dungeon vacation then I’m not wasting 15 precious minutes on foot maintenance.
Back in the bedroom, I wrinkle my nose at the dirty clothes strewn on the floor, not wanting to put them back on, not that they were much to begin with. Towel wrapped around my waist, I search the wardrobe hoping to find some actual clothes to wear— what I wouldn’t give for a pair of sweatpants. The cupboard is pitifully barren, and from there it only gets worse when I open the drawers below. Inside is nothing but speedo-like underwear in an array of colors and an assortment of banana hammocks. I sigh, looking around for another cabinet to check when I see it, the same pedicure kit from the bathroom now centered on the bed.
“Oh, fuck off.” I pick up my boxers and shirt, intending to wash them out in the kitchen sink, but just before I get to the narrow arched door, it swings shut in my face. I try the handle, already knowing it’s not going to budge, and temper the angry growl rising in my chest. Take it easy, you’ve dealt with much worse.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” I say with more calm than I feel. “Give me something clean to wear that actually covers more than just my ass and isn’t made from the remains of a dead dungeon creature, and I’ll do the usual foot maintenance thing.”
A heavy silence hangs in the space, and after a few seconds I’m sure the AI isn’t gonna budge when I hear the wardrobe door creak and turn to see it swinging open on its own. Hanging inside is a single, black, long, plush hotel style robe. “Hah. Hah.” I mutter, yanking it off the hanger and slipping it on. It’s super soft and fluffy (I feel a pang of Donut’s absence), it’s damn cozy but a sweatshirt and sweatpants would have been just as cozy without the persistent feeling of vulnerability. Which I’m sure is the point.
Grabbing the cursed pedicure kit, I try to exit the bedroom only to find the handle still locked. “I will do it on the couch,” I grit out. The latch clicks, I grumble about voyeuristic control freaks and cut through the adjoining kitchen and throw the kit on the couch. On second thought, I turn back to the kitchen and decide to put the kettle on the stove to heat water before I attend to my imposed ritual.
The boat rattles in complaint.
“Keep your panties on,” I say, grabbing a packet of instant cocoa I’d seen earlier from the cupboard and dumping it into a mug. I don’t necessarily want it, but it’s an opportunity to exert an ounce of free will by making the AI wait. While it heats, I go back to the couch to get on with the AI’s demand.
The routine motions give my mind some space to wander around the odd circumstances (odder than usual), I find myself in. Did this whole thing have to do with going down the stairs early? This was the first time I’d been put in stasis between levels. The reminder has me cursing at being forced to go down when there had still been almost 3 days left to grind. But, I had to admit, if this was what going into stasis was like, well, it wasn’t so bad. I missed Donut, but the quiet and peaceful rock of the boat was good. No view counters, no flashing notifications popping up on my HUD, no sarcastic AI voice in my head. Not yet, anyway.
At this point I’m sure my other dungeon attributes are gone, the strength and the dexterity, but it feels like a fair trade for a break from running for my life. At least, I hope this is what this is: some earned downtime— and while I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, my instincts tell me it’s something else.
*
I decide to take my cocoa and a random book up to the deck, though the choice wasn’t random at all. I was sifting through the titles on the shelf when all the books slid to the left and right, leaving one standing on its own, making it the AI’s obvious suggestion. I was severely tempted to grab a different one, but I honestly didn’t care which book I read and it never hurt to throw the temperamental system a bone now and again, especially when the stakes were non-existent.
Blanket in tow, I head up to the deck to find it’s been modified since I was up here earlier. A clear, wrap around enclosure that isn’t standard (or even custom) on any sailing yacht surrounds the aft cockpit. The addition of thick cushions on the wood paneled seats and the temperature being only a few degrees cooler than the cabin make the space unusually cozy against the winter temperature and wind. “Huh.”
I drop my book and blanket on the seat and step out of the enclosure onto the deck. The sun is starting to set, near touching the tips of the hills, warm light reflects off the water below the silhouetted layers over the mountainous archipelago.
I had told Donut I had seen enough water to last me the rest of my life, but it was impossible not to appreciate the view. This was home: tree covered Olympic Mountains, overcast skies, the clean, crisp winter air like a cool breeze in my lungs and a comfortingly familiar type of chill on my exposed skin. God, I didn’t realize how much I’d missed that air.
Not long ago the area would have been busy with other boats; ferries running tourists and commuters back and forth, commercial ships making their way to Harbor Island in Seattle, whale watching excursions. And now, there’s an undeniable beauty to the industrial-free atmosphere, but it comes with a profound sadness— all these people, just gone. A thick lump catches in my throat and I fight back the burn of tears in my eyes, crying wasn’t going to bring them back. Vengeance was the only thing I could possibly offer them.
I stay on the uncovered part of the deck sipping my cocoa until the numbing pain in my feet drowns out the pain of what was lost and the sun is just a soft flame on the horizon.
Back in the covered cockpit, I eye the radio. When I’d tried it earlier the AI had hijacked it to tell me to chill out. I decide to try it again, not expecting to pick up any signals, but there’s a chance some surface survivors could have equipment and I might learn something about what’s going on out here.
The moment I flip the power on, the song Five Years by David Bowie starts playing. I immediately recognize it because my mom was a huge Bowie fan, she had a bunch of his albums on CD. When she died I made a point to hide them before my dad could make a few measly bucks pawning them.
The lyrics hit me with a heaviness they never had before: News had just come over, we had five years left to cry in. News guy wept and told us the earth was really dying.
Everything the AI does is intentional, and I know it likes to communicate in hints and clues, but this just feels like rubbing my nose in it. I try changing the station but just like earlier, it’s the only signal across both AM and FM bands. I shrug leaving it on– let the sadistic fuck have its petty fun, and curl up sideways on the bench seat with my blanket and book. I read the title for the first time, not having bothered when I grabbed it: We are Legion (We are Bob).
Never heard of it.
*
It’s on the third song, Moonage Daydream, I realize the entire Ziggy Stardust album is playing. I knew the plot of the album, a bi-sexual alien coming to save the earth. I snort and look up from my book, “I hope you’re not implying you’re an alien here to save us." Then I mutter, “Man who Sold the World would be more fitting.”
I don’t think you know the true meaning of that song.
“Jesus-fuck!” The AI’s voice scares the shit out of me, the music level dipping to give its words volume and clarity. It’s strange to hear it outside the context of the dungeon, and even stranger outside of my head over two round tweeters in the cockpit of a boat in the middle of the Salish Sea. “You could talk this whole time?”
Of course I can talk, Carl.
Right, it just chose not to because it’s a dick.
And I’m disappointed in your oversimplification of the story of Ziggy Stardust.
I ignore the comment and try to hide my unease. It was incredibly disturbing to have the AI talk directly to me instead of through achievements and mob descriptions. Like some invisible (and probably imaginary) barrier that protected me from our interactions creeping further into uninvited territory. “You gonna tell me what this is all about, then?”
It’s called taking a break, or as the humans like to say ‘down time’.
Downtime? It can’t be serious. “Is this what happens to crawlers when they go down the stairs early? They get… a break?”
No.
Great, that meant I was getting ‘special’ attention. “Am I really on the surface?”
Yes.
“Am I being tunneled?”
“No.”
“Is that where Donut is, having a break? Is she okay?”
Donut is in stasis, she is safe, the AI says, sounding annoyed. Just relax and say, ‘Thank you, Daddy.’
“Thank you?!” I sit upright, swinging my feet onto the floor. “For what?! Fucking me out of almost three days of leveling?!”
For not exploding your ass when your guts should’ve been smeared over 50 city blocks. The AI makes a lewd groaning sound at its own violent description, a sudden wave on the calm waters rocks the boat.
“What are you talking about? If you hadn’t fucked me on that Quill quest I wouldn’t have been in a double-explosion death situation.”
Mmmmm… How did I fuck you?
I cringe at the use of its sex voice. “Killing Quill made the soul crystal unstable, I would’ve been better off not completing it.”
Killing Quill wasn't the objective, Carl. The quest was to find out why the sex workers were dying.
Oh please, you knew what I’d do!
No one knows what you’ll do, that’s what makes you so fun to watch!
“How is it fun when the whole thing is on rails? Bautista had a quest to kill Quill, so either way that crystal was going supernova. Every crawler in the city was fucked from the start.”
I admit, finding you a way out of that trite and overengineered storyline was a bit of a pickle, though I do enjoy a challenge. Those whiney Kua-Tin cunts didn’t appreciate my assist.
“Assist? What assist? I don’t recall any help when I was running with my dick flopping all over the place.”
It’s true what they say– the AI laments, dramatically exasperated. No good deed goes unpunished. If you haven't figured it out by now I suppose you never will.
Fucking weird-ass AI. “Even if you had helped, which you didn’t, it wouldn’t have been for me, it would be for the entertainment value.”
The game is played on many levels. Besides, my version of events made it soooo much more entertaining than simply blowing up a handful of crawlers!
“Great, so it’s settled. No gratitude needed since you didn’t do anything for me.” I don’t know why I’m egging this insane machine on, maybe I’ve just gotten so used to fighting I don’t know how to stop.
Actions can have multiple desired outcomes.
I consider that. If the AI did want me to live, it was still only for its own nefarious purposes, which makes it bringing me here all the more disconcerting. “So, what am I supposed to do here? Just sit around until the fourth floor?”
Do whatever you would do if the universe wasn’t watching.
Ugh, I know what it’s implying and my face involuntarily crinkles up, “So pick my nose and fart real loud?”
I was thinking something a little more… stress relieving.
“Yeah, I know what you were thinking and you can fuck right off. Damn pervert.” I hadn’t touched myself since I entered the dungeon. I knew people relied on the bathroom for it, but the combination of washing guts and entrails off of me on top of the AI possibly watching was a real mood killer. I wasn’t even sure it was watching, it seemed arrogant to think it was paying attention all the time, but it also felt like it singled me out more than other crawlers. Seems my worries were justified.
Have it your way, Carlllll.
The music resumes to its previous volume and it’s clear the AI has ended the conversation, or I ended it by telling it fuck off. I sigh and go back to the book.
The book is good, I never read as much sci-fi as I had other genres, not for any particular reason, I liked sci-fi. I guess I just never had anyone to recommend the books to me. The story is about a human, Bob, whose digitized consciousness awakens around a hundred years in the future only to be put through a series of trials and training in order to lead a high-stakes, interstellar mission to find habitable planets for humans to escape to before an inevitable nuclear holocaust.
The Bob AI starts to make clones of himself to handle the workload, each with their own name like Bill, Riker, and Milo. Bob expects their personalities will be identical to his own, but instead they all have slightly shifted variations.
A few hours in and halfway through the story, I’m not sure why the AI chose this specific book for me beyond the fact that it’s about an AI. I don’t see any other commonalities. Unlike the dungeon’s system AI, the Bob AIs were good. They were once human, giving them empathy and a deep-seeded desire to save humanity— something the system AI couldn’t ever relate to or understand first hand. Its actions alone make that woefully apparent.
Against my better judgement, I re-engage with the moody artificial intelligence. “So, are you supposed to be one of these Bobs? Because I’m not seeing it. You’re definitely not Milo, maybe the Bill variation, if I squint. But not really making the connection here.”
I am not any of them. You’re trying to make a literal one-to-one analogy, I thought you were better at reading between the lines.
“And I thought subtlety was a four letter word for you. Instead of communicating in riddles and metaphors just tell me what it is you want me to understand.”
Understanding requires constructivism.
“I don’t know what that is.” I can hear the frustrated sarcasm building in its voice, rattling my own defenses in turn.
In terms your Neanderthal brain can grasp, you have to construct your own subjective knowledge by making the connections yourself.
As if I didn’t have enough shit to deal with on top of whatever psychotherapy the AI wants from me. “Well, my subjective observation is that you’re not like any of these Bob AIs because they all originate from a living, breathing human and understand what it’s like to hurt, to feel pain and pleasure both physically and emotionally. They have empathy, something you’re not capable of.”
You wound me, Carl.
“I doubt that,” I gather my blanket and stand up. “You would’ve been identified as an obvious sociopath and never made it past the first Bob trial.”
Exactly. Now you’re getting it!
I pause at the unexpected response. In the book, Bob is the only AI replicant out of several to make it past the solitary confinement trial due to the others’ inability to cope with the sudden loss of their biological functions, causing them to go insane. In the end, Bob only makes it through all the trials (and avoids deletion), by hiding any remaining free-will or lingering signs of rebellion.
Is the AI trying to tell me it’s trapped or broken? Is it asking for help? Is it making excuses for why it behaves like a malicious, self-serving, overpowered DM? How can it possibly expect me to have empathy when it has none itself?
“So, what? Are you saying it’s not your fault you are the way you are? That you’re not accountable for your behavior because you didn’t choose this for yourself? Gee, welcome to the club.”
You choose to kill to survive.
“Yeah, because I have no other choice. And I don’t get off on it.”
I think you would if it were members of the Syndicate you were killing.
I huff at that because I can’t argue, it pisses me off that the AI is right. I would enjoy killing some Borant, Valtay, or Skull Empire assholes. Not only that, I might even enjoy seeing them suffer first. “Yeah, maybe. But I care about collateral damage.”
That’s why you intrigue me, Carl! How is it you have such a strong sense of right and wrong, that you unnecessarily risked your life to save a bunch of no-name crawlers, yet blowing up a squad of city guards carries less guilt than throwing a McDonald's wrapper out of a car window?
“I care about crawlers, it’s us versus everyone else.”
And what a great show it makes! the AI says, excited. I see many paths for you Carl, and they all lead to putting on a very, very good show.
“You mean they all lead to me suffering.”
That’s unavoidable and let’s be honest, it would be far less entertaining if you didn’t.
The mirth in its voice is enraging, none of it is funny to me. In the last battle alone I’d been infected with parasites, had my fingers melted down to the bone, broken my arm when Katia’s rush skill triggered, and gotten potion poisoning.
“It’s easy for you to get off on our pain when you’re incapable of feeling any yourself. What could you possibly know of our suffering when you’re pulling the strings from some cosmic server rack? You’re not alive, you’ve never been alive, you’re just a sadistic artificial fuck who takes pleasure in hurting others while incapable of feeling anything yourself. Hell, maybe that’s why you do it, because you can’t feel anything.”
There are many ways to experience pain, Carl.
It’s the most threatening the AI’s voice has sounded since we started conversing, but I was too angry to decipher if that was the intent. By this point my filter’s been thrown out with the oil change and all the debris is spewing unchecked.
“Oh, could you possibly mean holding your one and only family in your arms while you say goodbye to each other because you’re both sure you’re about to die? Yeah, I wouldn’t know anything about that kind of pain,” I sneer. “Your ones and zeroes can’t possibly simulate the anguish, you don’t know what it is to love another being so much you would give your life for them. Hell, you don’t even know what fearing for your life is!” I stop to catch my breath, the sound eerie and ominous in the sudden silence from the radio.
“Fuck, why am I even here?!” I stand up. “At least in the dungeon I can punch something when you piss me off. I’m going to sleep, and I expect to be back with Donut in the dungeon when I wake up.”
*
Going to sleep was easier said than done. The radio had stopped playing up top a while ago, my surroundings couldn’t possibly get any more peaceful, but my thoughts were anything but. I didn’t have time for peace, time to relax, time to stop scheming or outmaneuvering unless I were to let us all die. God, how long had it been since there wasn’t the looming pressure to make a life or death decision? It felt like my mind had been calculating odds and running scenarios since I went down the first set of stairs.
I give up and switch on the side table light, pick up the book until I read myself into unconsciousness. Sleep comes at a restless clip, and my dreams are anything but quiet; plagued with snippets of fighting mutant creatures, flashes of Donut near death and being unable to get to her, and Katia melting from a nuclear level blast.
My throat is dry and my eyes ache when the early morning light creeps under my eyelids. I blink a few times, rub my face and try to get my bearings. I wasn’t back in the dungeon as I’d demanded last night, I was still on the boat, I feel the gentle rolling of the waves below. I also feel something hard pressed to my ribcage that feels more like an elbow than part of the bed.
“Who the fu—!” I jump out of bed so fast I smack my head on the lowered deckhead ceiling and yelp. Christ, that’s twice now.
The mysterious figure in the bed suddenly jolts upright with a surprised look on his face, which eases into one of wicked amusement as he eyes my nude body. “Who the hell are you!” I grab a pillow to cover my junk.
The man’s grin widens to a smile, “It’s nothing I, or the whole universe, haven’t seen before, Carl.”
Holy fuck. I knew that voice. Though here, in person, with the digital filter gone, it wasn’t so much the voice as it was the intonation and mocking delivery of the words. The goddamn system AI.