Double-Blind: A Modern LITRPG

Kinsley was biblically pissed about the researcher. To the point we ended up calling it early, after a few minutes of listening to her scream behind a copse of trees at some poor sap over a voice call. Judging from the ear-muffs clamped tightly over Iris's head and her bleary expression, my sister was verging on overstimulated anyway. She stuck it out for a long time, and it helped that I'd chosen a relatively quiet area, but the sounds of the city were still deafening to the unaccustomed.

After dropping Iris off at the apartments and making sure she was okay, I finally allowed myself to look at the timer. <11:19:27:49>

It wasn't terrible. Eleven days and change left plenty of room to maneuver. But, as Nick had observed, the problem was the lack of momentum. Hastur wasn't keen on specifics, meaning we had no idea which floor housed the real Excalibur. We also had no clear insight on the process of stopping the transposition, only that the sword and "Prophecy" were key factors in stopping it. The first joint foray into the tower had been a halting, alarming affair that hadn't accomplished much beyond clearing a single floor, and now the leader of the Adventurer's Guild was dragging his feet.

If I had to guess, Tyler was already getting second thoughts about the arrangement after the timer started. The alignment of the Order, Adventurer's and Merchant's guild already placed us in a powerful position for the coming storm. Tower expeditions took focused effort and consumed resources, and if we faced significantly more resistance, or got entrenched with a difficult floor that incurred a high casualty count, I could see him battening down the hatches and delaying further attempts until after the second event had passed.

More than anything, the timing is questionable. All the floors cleared without issue before the alliance, yet somehow the first one we come together for with more firepower than ever, ends up containing an existential threat? It's almost as if—

The sound of a horn blared through my musing, startling my foot off the brake pedal as traffic bristled behind me, cars edging up, waiting for me to move. I accelerated from the standstill, leaving the green light and complex, cog-riddled workings of the region behind, taking a shoulder road to a highway I'd driven countless times before, feeling a growing degree of disquiet as the gritty scenery grew more familiar.

Things in region 2, my old home, had improved significantly, since I'd left after filling the receptacle. Even from the elevated view on the overpass, I could see countless streets—once cracked and riddled with potholes—now perfectly paved, the dark green of stubborn growth replaced with verdant grass and trees, with an infrastructure facelift to match. It no longer resembled the post-modern slum I'd grown up in, and I felt a twinge of nostalgia. Region 3, alternatively, was a mess. No one in my circle of power had spoken to the leader of Region 3 since the first transposition. Their decisions during the last event, from hoarding lux after they'd already achieved the objective to hosting a group of paramilitaries harvesting User cores, hadn't been conducive to popularity.

But what really boggled my mind was how little it had changed. It started as a low-income area with shitty infrastructure and high crime rates, and despite being among the first to complete their receptacle, hadn't taken a step beyond that. The only new additions here were cheap, neon signs advertising various system and crafting related businesses. Several newly minted bars that appeared cobbled together with scrap wood and repurposed windows blared thumping music, and on the streets, people staggered between them, substance abuse and homelessness on full display.

Whatever the leader of Region 3 had selected as their reward, it certainly wasn't anything that improved the region itself.

I pulled up in the dilapidated parking lot of a small, shoebox of a building. The fading red and white sign read: "Butcher." And in smaller print, "Kosher meat available on request." I stepped out of the car and inventoried it quickly, falling into old habits. I learned a long time ago that when you find yourself in a potentially dangerous place, it's best to blend. Keep an eye on your surroundings, but not too emphatically. Move like you have somewhere important to be.

There was still too much I didn't know about Julien. But the one thing I was confident of was that there was an astronomically low chance he'd try to lead me into an ambush. It just didn't make sense with our history. That wasn't to say I trusted him, exactly. It was impossible to truly trust anyone without extensive understanding of their motives and underlying history.

I tugged open the dirt-encrusted handle of the back door, gagging for a moment as the scent of iron and viscera washed over me, frigid air rushing out as I passed through.

There was a thunk as a cleaver came down, wet squelch echoing off the white walls. Blood trickled down from the headless corpse of a hulking furred creature suspended from the ceiling by chains, wound draining directly into a bucket below. A smaller version of something I'd encountered only once in person, but between the musculature and stocky frame, it was unmistakable.

"A lot of demand for troll meat in these parts?" I asked.

"Hardly," A stocky dark-haired man with thick eyebrows in a blood spattered apron scoffed as he answered, his voice a deep Slavic accent. "There are far better options for sustenance. Razor rabbit, low gnolls, even skull-backed turtles if prepared and stewed correctly. Troll is too..." He half-flexed. "...to be edible. No respectable establishment would sell. Their pelts though?" The man thumped a stack of furs on the nearby table proudly. "Make a fine cloak. Naturally magic resistant, and hardy. The tanners and tailors can't get enough."

"I see." I nodded along noncommittally, even as my stomach roiled at the thought of taking a page out of Audrey's book. Judging from the sheer variety of creatures, skins, and mounted skulls, as well as countless slabs of hanging meat of various exotic shades that appeared entirely alien, business was bustling.

The man's considerable eyebrows furrowed together as he looked me over. "The stink of death follows you, even in place such as this. It will taint the meat. State business, or gawk elsewhere."

What the hell?

"I was supposed to meet someone—" I started, before a familiar face ducked through the plastic flaps in the back, carrying an open-topped metal container in front of him. The dark bags under Julien's eyes were the only giveaway to the previous night's activities. Otherwise, he looked bright and chipper, staring over the sloshing contents of the tin thoughtfully, sporting a similarly messy apron.

"All the good bits are brining, Yakov. And more of the offal than usual, and yes, I double-checked. Should I toss it?" Julien asked, looking to the older man for instruction, only noticing me after he'd already spoken. He grinned, about to speak before the butcher cut him off.

"Leave it," The man said, never taking his eyes from me. "Good opportunity to try making hot dog. Show this tourist the door."

Julien cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed. "No, uh, Uncle, this is the friend and potential client I mentioned. The one looking for his brother."

Uncle? They look nothing alike.

"We cannot help him." Yakov wiped his hands on his apron, still subtly standing his ground until Julien took him aside, and a series of furious whispers were exchanged, in a mix of Polish and English. While most of it was obscured, I got the general gist that Yakov was displeased with Julien bringing "Trouble" into his shop, and Julien arguing that he hadn't. Finally, Yakov turned back to me with a displeased expression. "Name?"

"Matt."

"That real name?"

My blood went cold. "Yes."

He studied me for a long moment, then broke eye-contact. "Too busy to drop everything for new client. If interested in services, sit and wait."

I glanced around the butcher's shop, noting the utter lack of seating in the otherwise dingy environment, and offered a thin smile. "Not a problem."

With a huff that expressed he would have probably been happier if it had been a problem, Yakov pulled the string at the back of his apron and strode back through the flaps Julien had entered from, sparing a few suspicious glances before he was gone.

"Sorry." Julien grimaced, looking back towards the flaps. "It's nothing personal, promise. Yakov has trouble trusting outsiders. He was already paranoid and a little superstitious even before the dome. Nothing crazy, just, kinda old school. If he gets a bad vibe for whatever reason, he clams up."

"And I gave him a bad vibe." I finished, feeling uncertain whether it was wiser to stay or make a quick exit.

Julien rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Both you and the old lady who came in earlier asking for a bulk discount on gizzards. Proper villains."

"Honing my evil plan as we speak." I stated dryly, "Kinda left out the part where the tracker was family."

"Does that make a difference?"

"It could." Not knowing what kind of shit Ellison had gotten himself into was a problem. It could be as simple as crossing paths with the wrong group, overestimating his abilities and incurring a serious injury. Or he could be mired in something more complicated, something a tracker might have a great deal of questions about. Questions he might let slip to his nephew. "I have no idea what Ellison might be jammed up in, and my brother has a history of questionable decision making. The last thing I want is to put you and yours in danger."

More importantly, they have a dearth of shared attributes. Different speech patterns, and complete societal disparity. Hard to imagine they're actually related.

"Yakov's an experienced professional. He handles more than his share of clients with... difficult issues... and always comes away unscathed. Part of that is the way he works—in terms of search and identify, exclusively. He won't retrieve people or objects, he'll just tell you where they are and let you do the rest." Julien stripped off rubber gloves and shuffled to the basin, pumping ample soap into his hands and scrubbing them thoroughly. He looked back at me and grinned. "You're dying to ask how we're related, huh?"

I shrugged, hoping he'd tell me anyway.

"It's a long story. Or short, depending on how I tell it. Heard of those, uh, sites you can send a sample to that give a breakdown of genealogy, as well as your percentage relation to others who share a portion of your DNA?"

Enough to know they provide governments with an excellent secondary database to subpoena, sure.

Aloud, I confirmed that I'd heard of them.

"They're not quite the fad they used to be, but I was a..." His eyes slid to the side. "...Member of a support group that wouldn't shut up about them. Generally, I'm pretty self-reliant, kind of had to be, but I kept reading all these success stories, and started wondering if I wasn't completely alone. Wasn't looking for a family or anything. Nothing big. Just, like, maybe someone I could swing by and visit for the holidays. So I spit in a tube, mailed it, and to my absolute shock, the results came back with someone nearby. A few months later I met Yakov, and the rest tells itself."

It didn't, really. I'd already pieced together that Julien's childhood left much to be desired. Despite his odd demeanor and eccentricities, I knew a survivor when I saw one. But the picture that glossed over more details than it elaborated on, was still more indicative of a deep, metastasizing loneliness than anything else. The fact alone that he'd sought out the butcher over a DNA connection that had to be tenuous and several generations removed practically spelled it out.

After a great deal of awkward small-talk that consisted of me, trying not to probe, and Julien, struggling not to over-share, Yakov mercifully returned. The removed apron revealed a well-worn, craggy Megadeth t-shirt depicting a white-winged skeleton. Again, he pointedly ignored me as he spoke to Julien. "We are out of storage."

"There was room in the corner freezer." Julien leaned back, mouth quirking in confusion.

"Not anymore."

"Shit."

"Demand not keeping up with supply?" I asked. It was tempting to leave the negotiations to the Order's Prince, but I got the feeling he believed his uncle would help me out of the goodness of his heart, and Yakov seemed to have missed that memo. Meaning it was time to probe for a need.

Yakov grimaced as I spoke, as if unpleasantly reminded that someone beyond him and his distant nephew was still present. "Apologies. Need to acquire new freezer. Perhaps, more than one. It will take time to source. Cannot take on more until the issue is resolved."

Julien looked between us, wincing. "Uncle, there are quicker options. I know you're not the biggest fan of the merchant's guild—"

Why?

"Not fond of brats who walk into business and tell how to run it, more like." Yakov sneered, reflexively disgusted."

"From what you said, you kicked her out before she could explain herself." Julien sighed.

"Did not need to hear more about selve could be making harvesting monsters for crafting and alchemy." Yakov snapped, "Little girl does not care for what I do here. Cares for nothing but money."

"She might have if you gave her a chance." Julien glanced towards me for help.

They were clearly talking about Kinsley. Only it didn't sound like her, at least not entirely. Kinsley was transactional, but she was more than capable of hearing someone out given the chance, especially if they have good intentions. But there'd been ample friction from other merchants since the beginning, fellow traders trying to strong-arm her and force extortionate prices. With the amount of temper between the two of them, it was easy to see how something might have been lost in translation.

"What exactly do you do here?" I asked, looking around. "Why is it so important?"

A little blunt, maybe, but when there was a language barrier, it was better to be direct.

His cold blue eyes bore into me. "Community poor. Monster meat cheap. People here kill monster. Sell parts to me and others. I prepare it, and sell back for fraction of system food cost. Better money if I sell to little girl, but no food. More people starve."

As good as things were now, you never forget how it feels to go hungry.

"Give me a minute."

I stepped out the door, shooting an immediate message to Kinsley.

/////

Fifteen minutes after going into great detail over a voice call of how badly Kinsley had bungled this particular situation, she showed up in force, rolling dark with a half-dozen black Hummers and a moving van. Judging from the shouting, Kinsley and Yakov weren't hitting it off any better than they had the first time, but at least now, there was an understanding.

"What aren't you getting? The grinders and slicers are top of the line, probably better than anything we had before." Kinsley stated vehemently, on the verge of shouting.

"These?" Yakov indicated his arms and hands. "Top of line. Better, period. Also cannot be stolen."

Kinsley gave him a flat look. "Come on. I'm not an idiot, there's no way you don't already have some kind of machine. If the point is feeding people in bulk, you know there's a natural limit. I'm not trying to tell you how to run things—"

"—Only when mouth is open."

The merchant girl's eyebrows shot sky-high, and she took a good thirty seconds to center herself. When she spoke again, her voice was relaxed, calm. "I am trying to help you achieve your goal."

"Why?" Yakov challenged.

"Because you're doing important work here that helps people, and I didn't get that before, and I'm sorry!" Kinsley exploded, fists clenched at her side.

"Oh." Julien's Uncle seemed taken aback by the admission. He looked down at her for a long moment, still guarded. "There is no longer problem with phoenix breast?"

"No... not at all." Kinsley pinched the bridge of her nose, barely hanging on. "Of course, it's a sapient animal, whose feathers have more potential medicinal and arcane uses than a fucking bezoar, so if there's alternatives I'd really love to get my hands on it, but if that's the line between civilians starving or having something to get them through the next day, go ahead, grill that fucker up."

Yakov shook his head. "Butcher. Not cook."

"Do you want the machines or not?" Kinsley extended her arm towards the open moving van, where several people I recognized from our region's construction crew were waiting next to an industrial grinder propped up on a dolly.

"Yes." Yakov said finally, still looking uncertain. "But theft is real threat. Thieves watch expensive things come into store. Come back later, at night, to take them."

"All members of the merchant's guild get the benefit of assigned security." She held a hand up, quickly, warding off the inevitable rejection as Yakov's demeanor grew dark. "I know, you're not interested. But I can offer coverage on a trial basis."

Yakov sneered. "This, I know. Protection rescinded when renegotiation fail. Then ruin."

"I'm not the fucking Mafia, sir." Kinsley pressed a hand against her chest. "There's an army of these guys. They're strapped, disciplined, and they know their shit."

"Not mafia." Yakov muttered.

"My point is, it costs me nothing to have two of them swing by every night on rotation. Not gonna pull the rug out. Take as long as you need."

Again, Yakov seemed off-put by the generosity. He looked away. "Maybe some parts—inedible, though useful—could be sent back with these men end of day. Fair?"

"That's all I wanted in the first place!"

Julien and I looked on, mutely from a distance as the movers began to haul the old equipment out and replace it with the new. I was more or less happy with how things had played out. Yakov was getting his freezer, and then some, which played in my favor. Meanwhile, Kinsley, who'd been increasingly hard-edged as of late, was learning the invaluable life lesson that not every problem could be solved with the diplomatic equivalent of a hammer. It wasn't really her fault. People had been trying to take advantage of her from the start, and her abrasiveness—sometimes cruelty—was a product of that environment. But after you attain a certain level of power and influence, the hammer becomes less necessary. And by that point, it's a lot harder to put it down.

"I, uh, don't really know what to say." Julien stared down at his shoes, fidgeting back and forth, the very picture of guilt.

I snorted. "Please. There's a reason you didn't mention this shared history the other night. You knew this could happen. Practically orchestrated it. It's probably why you offered to help find Ellison in the first place. I'd be pissed if it wasn't for such a good cause."

"No, Matt, seriously." Julien shook his head. "I wanted to. Help, I mean. It only occurred to me later you might glean what happened from context, maybe put in a good word for him once he pulled through. It wasn't manipulation. Just... hoping for a happy accident, I guess."

Did I believe that?

Almost. The most clever thing a gifted liar can do is learn to act like a bad one. Still, it felt authentic, and despite pulling off something that was almost objectively positive, Julien really did look guilty as sin. He wasn't falling back on any repetitive tells that are generally bullshit, such as looking up and to the left, dodging eye-contact or keeping it too consistently. In short, he just looked like he felt bad for using me for my connections and resources. And after dealing with people like Aaron on a daily basis, something about that was refreshing.

"Kind of sucks, having to say this, but I'm aware of my image." I leaned back on my heels, squinting in the downpour of sun. "Obviously I'm no altruist. More often than not, the opposite is true. When shit hits the fan, there's a lot I'm willing to let burn for the sake of people I care about. If I can't do shit about something, no point in nailing myself to a cross trying to make it happen anyway. The perfect is the enemy of the good. But if it's something like this? Just, fucking tell me. Don't waste time being coy or trying to draw attention to it slowly. Not promising I'll always be able to contribute, especially if there's a conflict of interest, but if people are suffering and there's a simple way to help? That's an easy call."

Julien absorbed that, sides of his mouth quirking up in the ghost of a smile. "Gotta say, you're kind of a good person."

And you're a terrible judge of character.

But I let it pass, as beyond the usual prosaic of not correcting someone who thinks highly of you, Yakov was approaching us.

"New freezer fit the bill?" I asked, stuffing my hands in my pockets.

"Yes." The burled man checked behind him, watching dazed as Kinsley's guys packed up, already through with the makeover and preparing to leave. "Eventful day."

"So you're going to help... right?" Julien said, smiling a little too pointedly to be subtle.

"Okay." Yakov tentatively agreed. "Come back in few hours. Need... uhm. Objects. Belongings of person being found. Also, aspects of person. Blood best. After that, nails, or clump of hair."

"That's doable." I said, shifting my head from side to side. My brother wouldn't be thrilled about it. There was little Ellison hated more than me, overstepping his privacy, but he'd been missing for nearly two days now, and wouldn't—or couldn't—respond to messages. Not to mention I was pretty sure the stern warning he'd given about meddling in his affairs didn't apply when he was in danger. "Not trying to rush, but how quickly will we see results?"

"Here, easy." Julien's uncle made a broad gesture, likely indicating the city at large. Then he frowned. "Elsewhere, less so. Either way, should know more after."

"Elsewhere as in a realm of Flauros?" I confirmed, musing the limitation quietly as the large man nodded. It wasn't perfect. The realms were massive as they were varied, potential entry points in the city—portals, dungeons, and trials—just as dynamic and numerous. If Ellison was lost in a realm somewhere, the likelihood I'd find him unassisted dropped to almost zero. In that case, if the tracker could give me even the briefest, blurriest snapshot of where my brother was, it would be invaluable.

Time to get some answers.