Double-Blind: A Modern LITRPG

We were ushered into a shipping warehouse attached to the east side of the Galleria at gunpoint. Sae, Astrid, Astria and Max wore simple white masks with cutouts that allowed them to see, leaving me as the only person appearing to show my face.

More eyes followed us than I’d prefer, both our escort and the myriad of people around—ideally, we would have snuck in without consulting with leadership at all, but the new reality of the Galleria didn’t much allow for that. Everyone was heavily armed, with more automatic weaponry than I’d seen in a single area that wasn’t waving a certain flag. There were less Users than expected, but they made up for it with heavily armed civilians. None of them were dressed poorly. For the most part, their clothes and gear were either new or in good shape. Their backgrounds were betrayed only by the plethora of worn visages and windburned complexions

Come to think of it, they were likely this well-armed because they had to be, considering their choice of settlement laid between two aggressive, warring regions. The galleria straddled both, and therefore, represented an overwhelming tactical advantage to whichever side took it first.

And the fact that it was still independent of both was a statement of its own.

In the car on the way over, Greg confirmed some things I’d only heard rumors of. A man referred to ubiquitously as The Steward led the settlement. He’d been something of a street legend before the dome. If you were homeless—especially newly homeless—the first piece of advice you’d receive from the more experienced individuals who shared your situation was to find The Steward. According to Greg, he’d show you the ropes, teach you both how to survive and be invisible in an otherwise hostile environment. He’d also give you a crash course in what you could and couldn’t scavenge, and differentiate between the gray-legal ventures that were lucrative, and the too-good-to-be-true sort that would rain hell down on your head.

From the way it sounded, he was reasonable before the dome. But I knew all too well that just because a person was reasonable before the system didn’t mean they’d stay that way.

So, with caution in mind, I took a seat in a metal folding chair, across the from The Steward. The rest of my team hung back, and after Max confirmed that the chance of an ambush was low, tried to force myself to relax and take-in the man sitting across from me.

For all the hype, he wasn’t what I expected, but that was probably the point. In-line with what Greg told me, he had the sort of presence that could blend in almost anywhere. If I had to guess, from the male-pattern baldness and salt-and-pepper, I would have put him around advanced middle-age, though stress and exposure to the elements could make the homeless appear far older than they were. A trench coat with the arms cut off adorned his slight shoulders, and he was wearing a faded Black Sabbath T-shirt over what appeared to be considerable armor that covered his vitals. A twelve o’clock shadow shrouded his jaw in bristles, and he appeared to be studying me just as intently as I was observing him.

“Shall I take a peek in his head?” Azure asked.

I considered it, before sending my summon a mental negative.

“He’s a region leader in everything but name. There was no bullshitting, no posturing, no time wasting attempt to make us wait to reinforce the power dynamic. Whatever’s in his back pocket, he’s confident.”

“Or he wants something.” Azure countered.

Both were probably true. Either way, I didn’t want to risk a potentially beneficial connection on the off-chance Azure’s surface level reading was detected.

Still, the silence was killing me. I used silence as Myrddin far more than I ever had in negotiations as Matt, as the uncanniness of the mask tended to get under people’s skin after a while. But I got the feeling it wouldn’t work on The Steward—who I mentally dubbed Stuart, simply because the preceding “The” was bothersome.

I was about to speak first before Stuart pulled an arm from beneath the table, presenting a deck of worn red-backed bicycle cards. “Do you gamble?”

Russian immigrant. He’s suppressing the accent but it’s there.

“Not when I can help it,” I answered.

The crows feet around his eyes crinkled at that. “A wise answer.” He shuffled the deck, cards blurring in a cascade of clicks, then ruffling as he bridged them. Despite his gnarled fingers, the movement was practiced and easy. Which created the first note of warning in the back of my mind. Because, in my father’s words, a good shuffler was often the first sign of an experienced hustler. “Do you know why it is wise?”

It had the sound of a hypothetical, so I shook my head.

He continued to manipulate the cards in varying types of shuffles, some I’d never seen before. “Gambling is ruinous by nature. It has been the undoing of many a man beneath my purview. Gamble long enough, and your undoing is all but guaranteed.” He placed the deck to the side and steepled his fingers. “But we cannot live without taking considerable risks. They can be mitigated, but are never truly gone. We are left with a paradox. We should not gamble. Yet, we must.”

I had to hand it to him. It took a special kind of person to project this much gravitas with almost no presentation. The leader of Roderick’s Lodge had styled himself as a king, going so far as to secure a crown and castle, and he held perhaps a fraction of this man’s regal aura. A man who—again—was wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt.

I allowed a small smile. “Like how—despite having never met us, you allowed me and my team to keep our weapons.”

Stuart scowled. “That is a risk I’ve come to realize cannot be mitigated.”

“Oh?”

“Inventories. Pocket dimensions. Bags that transform dangerous items into seemingly harmless utensils until they are drawn out again. The god damned market delivery.” He waved a hand in frustration. “It is an area where prevention is simply unsustainable. It is better to simply trust those who are proven. Isn’t that right, Greg?” Stuart cold gaze shifted toward where Greg stood, nervously in the corner.

“Y-y-yes, Steward.” Greg stammered, stumbling over the words as his voice echoed over the concrete. “Friend who asked for the connect’s a good one. Even let me hideout on his couch a few times when the asphalt was boiling or my shit got stolen. Wouldn’t do us no harm.”

“So you’ve said. Yet you’ve refused to give this mysterious third party a name.”

Greg visibly struggled. “He’s… a private person. Wouldn’t like it if I was throwin’ his name out and about.”

Damn. Greg’s taking more of a risk with the referral than I realized.

It made sense. We knew each other in the way you can only know someone who’s lived in the same sphere as you for years. I’d done him a number of favors over the years, many of which he’d returned, but this was by far the biggest. I had to be careful here. Make sure I didn’t put Greg in more of a bind than Stuart already had him in.

“Normally, that would be enough.” Stuart nodded regretfully. “But ever since you crossed our threshold, the—” He hesitated, considered his next words carefully. “—let us say, angel, on my shoulder has been disproportionally concerned.”

“Angel,” I echoed, my mouth going dry.

Deity. Has to be.

There was always a risk that region leaders—even unofficial ones—had some sort of patron. After all, I was one of them. The combined effects of and the Ordinator’s mask were more than enough to shroud me from direct identification as the Ordinator by the wandering gaze of any deity. But if that deity were to look closer, I had to guess the absence of certain information would create a question of negative space.

I paused long enough to check-in with Max and make sure nothing had changed. The likelihood of ambush or apprehension had increased by a single point, from two to three. It wasn’t nothing, but it was still small enough to be a rounding error.

“By threshold, you mean…” I cocked my head.

“When your vehicle passed through our gates.” Stuart answered.

“Then I guess, I have to wonder why I’m sitting here.” I leaned back, resting my hands on my lap. “There were multiple points after our arrival that this meeting could have been aborted. You could have turned the car away, used your numbers to detain us.”

“Perhaps these things did not occur to me.”

I cracked a smile. “Please. You don’t hold the most tenuous position in the city by being incompetent. And I’m guessing this” I knocked lightly on the felt table. “Isn’t just here for the sake of a metaphor.”

Finally, the side of Stuart’s mouth quirked upwards. “Correct. On both counts. The angel on my shoulder is generous, but when it comes to personal judgements, she can be a bit… how-to-say… hasty. Often, my instincts align with hers. When they do not, I find it better to resort to more primitive methods.”

“What’s the game?”

“To ascertain what kind of man you are.”

“I meant, what are we playing?”

“The game of your people, of course.”

“Colonialism?”

“Hold ‘em.”

I nodded. In theory, I’d have more control in something like five-card or Black Jack, but there was still plenty of opportunity there.

“And what’s the buy-in?” I asked.

He pointed the deck at me and smiled. “The second most important question. I’m thinking, we throw in something tangible. You will either be paid up to ten-thousand selve to join our guild as a restricted member, or pay up to that same number depending on the way the chips land.”

That it was a ten-thousand selve bet arbitraged through the system was the obvious part. The part I was supposed to notice. What was less obvious was the fact that both outcomes ended with me joining his guild. A restricted guild member was often temporary, and could see little to nothing about the guild or members. Meanwhile, guild leaders could see almost everything about a restricted member.

My feats covered my ass in that regard. If that was what he was gunning for, he was headed for disappointment.

“—In addition, if you win, I will allow you entry into our home. If you lose…” He paused, examining me. “…then you will take off this mask my angel says you wear.”

Fuck.