The Book of Dungeons - A weak to strong litRPG epic

“After the game, the kings and pawns go into the same box.”

— Italian Proverb

A rhythmic blipping sound roused me from the deepest sleep. I couldn’t say if it woke me or if it beeped because I awoke, but thoughts of Charitybelle occupied my mind. I held onto visions of her face, grateful that I pulled something from Miros into the real world.

Something sticking to my eyelids prevented me from opening them. When I reached up to brush away whatever covered them, my elbow and shoulders ached enough to stay my arm.

A masculine voice broke the stillness. “The oneirotron is lighting up. They’re waking. I’ll take him, and you get the other. Tell Phelps and the office they’re done.”

Distant voices and rustling echoed from the hall outside, followed by sounds of an opening door and the drawing of curtains.

My tongue felt like dry putty, prevented me from speaking, and the same male voice, now closer, interrupted me. “At last, he wakes! Gimme a second. I’ll remove the lid tape so you can see.”

After someone peeled adhesive from my eyes, someone squeezed a wet sponge over my lips, dribbling water into my mouth.

“If your arms are sore, it’s because I just removed the IV. They might be stiff because you were under longer than we anticipated.” Someone raised a lidded cup to my lips. “Take as many sips as you need to get rid of your dry mouth.”

Ignoring the discomfort in my joints and hunger pangs, I reached for the paper cup and gulped the water, swishing it around my mouth. The hand holding the cup gave it to me, and a gentle pull from my eyelids ushered light into my world.

I tried to speak but failed, and drank again to gain full use of my tongue.

The same voice greeted me. “Welcome back. You were out for five days. One more, and we would have had to wake you ourselves.”

Squinting, I coughed and nodded to show I was lucid.

“They’re on their way to give you your interview. Don’t worry about your hair. It looks fine.”

“Cherry bell.”

“I’m sorry?”

I coughed. “I need to write something down before I forget.”

The man reached for a pen hanging from a retractable reel attached to the neckline of his scrubs. But he didn’t give it to me. “Hmm. I don’t have any paper on me. Just a second.”

He opened and shut drawers while he looked about the room.

When he came near, I snagged his pen, but it slipped out of my grasp when I tried to write something on my arm. It zipped back to his reel and struck him in the chest. “Hey! Careful there, sport. Let me get a piece of paper from the nurses’ station.” He unclipped his pen and placed it into my hand.

A young woman in a Crimson Software t-shirt entered the room, and more voices in the hall broke my concentration. “Josie’s with the other player right now. Someone will be with you in a second.”

I ignored her, closed my eyes, and tried remembering the girl’s name in my dream. I mumbled to myself with the pen poised over my skin. “Was it Sherry?”

While the nurse left for a piece of paper, the woman leaning into my room turned her attention from the hallway voices to me. “I’m sorry. Did you ask me something?”

I spoke to myself, trying to ignore her. “There was a bird. I had a pet bird. I was in with a girl…”

I couldn’t remember her name.

The woman crooned. “Oh! A love story. I can’t wait to watch. Was it an NPC or another player?”

I shook my head. Visions of a town, a girl, and a bird fluttered around my brain. Something about my dream seemed important a second ago, but I couldn’t remember it anymore.

The woman interrupted my thoughts. “If it’s a female player, I’m afraid she’s not in the facility. You two must have been battling for so long! We had to wrap the other contestants so they could make their flights. A blizzard in Denver made reticketing impossible.”

None of what she said made sense.

Another woman with a cameraman entered the room, followed by the nurse with a piece of paper. He handed me a sheet from a notepad and spoke to a woman holding a microphone. “We should have notes for participants by the bedside. This wasn’t the first request I’ve had for paper.”

The woman in the business suit ignored him and extended the mic. “Can you tell us your lasting impressions of Crimson Software’s upcoming game, The Book of Dungeons? Was it fun?”

The vertigo of forgetting something important distracted me from her question. I looked dumbly at my arm—I hadn’t written anything down. I was going to write something on my skin, but I couldn’t remember. The microphone in front of my face drew me into a bright light coming from the camera. I could barely see the interviewer through the glare.

“It was realistic. Beautiful. I remember having lots of things to do, but nothing very specific. I think I was underwater at one point and fought in a war. I remember skiing across the countryside and dwarves singing.”

“What took you so long to play? Can you remember?”

I shook my head. “I remember skiing for some reason.” I looked at the interviewer for confirmation.

The woman holding the mic shrugged. “I’m sorry. There’s way too much data to go through. It’ll take us a while to put it together.”

“What happened? Did I win the contest?”

The woman holding the mic shook her head. “I’m sorry, but the data techs said it was the other young man. We monitored the contest log. It showed you recording no knockouts—and the winner only had three.”

Voices and bustling in the hall hinted that mine wasn’t the important interview.

“I’m sorry, you said I didn’t register any kills?”

She nodded, checking with her tablet to confirm. “We’ll review everything, don’t worry. It’ll take months for the crew to compile, scan, and edit the footage—there’s a ton of data. But the exciting news is Octagon Semiconductors has signed onto the show as a sponsor. It’ll reach an audience of millions! But you’ll get advanced cuts before that. Are you looking forward to watching the playbacks?”

The news of my loss hit me like a gut punch. I couldn’t believe that I didn’t win.

The reality of going home to Atlantic City dispelled wishes to watch Crimson’s program. My strategy of hiding away in a log cabin didn’t work. The prospect of Crimson portraying me as a noncombatant inspired no desire to watch the show. I wouldn’t have time for reality shows anyway. I’d probably be working multiple jobs to pay for rent and food.

Staring into nothingness, I lied to the interviewer and smiled. “Yeah. I can’t wait to watch.”

The interviewer looked uncomfortable and gave a sympathetic face. “Well, I think we’ll let the techs guide you through wake-up protocols. I understand the kitchen is sending up food for you guys right now. I’ll let you off the hook, now. Thank you.”

I ate my food, dressed, and gave the follow-up interview in a fog. As a runner-up, they didn’t film my follow-up interview, and that suited me as well. Most of the questions revolved around my health. I spent most of my time alone, in my room, until my flight back to the East Coast came later that day. Having slept much, I didn’t balk at the thought of a red-eye flight home.

Lost in disappointment, my return trip made no lasting impression. I returned to Atlantic City as an empty husk, with my mind set on job applications. Without school in the future, I needed to focus on more permanent positions.

I packed away Crimson’s complimentary jumpsuits, making plans to sell them online when I returned to New Jersey. The last thing I wanted was a reminder of my failure. One blessing about the contest was that not watching the playbacks would make it easy to put it behind me. Besides, I wouldn’t have time for gaming or watching videos.

After hearing about my loss, my aunt and uncle asked no further questions about my trip to California. High school ended two months later, and I moved out of their house and closer to Philadelphia. I got a day job driving a delivery truck for a paint company. At night, I bussed restaurant tables.

I saved a lot of money sleeping in my car. I parked at a grocery store overnight, and a 24-hour gym membership let me shower before making my paint deliveries. The arrangement worked for the summer months, but I’d needed to save for indoor lodging for the colder months.

I didn’t have time for games, and losing track of my friends from school put me out of touch with the latest shows, bands, and movies.

As the youngest driver in the paint company, I had little in common with the warehouse guys or drivers working other routes. The less I hung out with people my age, the less I had to hear about anyone getting good jobs or enrolling in vocational schools. In a few years, I’d have enough money saved to learn a proper trade, but for now, I saved my pennies.

The flow of vehicles slowed one sweltering Saturday afternoon on Route 76 heading into Philadelphia. I expected traffic jams during the week, but I-76 knew no mercy—not even on summer weekends. Instead of making my last delivery and getting to my second job, the interstate’s infamous traffic snarled around me.

As I considered how to explain why I couldn’t make it to the dinnertime rush to my shift manager, my phone pinged. The screen listed the message’s sender—Crimson Entertainment. Looking forward to any distraction that might help pass the time, I opened the communique, expecting it to be advertising or a marketing survey.

The message came from Josie Phelps, the company’s public relations chief. Her message mentioned something about unopened playback keys sent to my Crimson account. She said they also messaged my universal gaming ID and had gotten no response.

That made sense. I hadn’t played games since I’d left my Aunt’s house, which meant I’d mostly abandoned my internet presence. She ended her message with a request to call her number.

My part in the contest somehow registered me onto Crimson’s PR spam list. The company flooded me with so many spots about their upcoming reality show that I’d filtered out their address from my phone. News that other players had earned $10,000 bounties had been the final straw. I wanted to move on with my life. My low self-esteem didn’t need to hear how the winner enjoyed their prize money.

But Josie’s message mentioned something about Octagon Servers, one of Crimson’s partners—and that piqued my curiosity. What did Octagon have to do with anything? Crimson’s press releases advertised new events, characters, or features. As far as I knew, Octagon only ran The Book of Dungeons servers to promote their business-to-business hardware.

I called the number.

“Hello? I got a message to call Josie Phelps?”

The phone picked up while she was talking to someone beside her. “Oh! Here he is, now. My stray lamb! Hello, do you remember me? I gave the keynote address before the contest. I’m sorry I didn’t get to interview you, but I was with the other contestant.”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember the keynote address. That’s about all I remember.”

“Great—great. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for a while. You’re really hard to reach. Are you still in Atlantic City?”

“Kinda. I’m outside of Philly—approximately one and a half hours, apparently.” I cited the delivery van’s navigator estimate that predicted when I’d reach the day’s final delivery. “What’s up?”

“Oh, that’s great. I’m in New York with some of the other contestants, and we’d like to get you up here as soon as possible.”

Relenting brake lights ahead promised relief from whatever delay caused the traffic jam. The lanes pulled forward, and I flowed with it. Even if I made the delivery late, I’d have to call off my shift at the restaurant. I just hoped missing it wouldn’t stop them from scheduling me for Saturday nights.

“What’s this about?”

Josie hesitated. “Ugh—it’s a little sensitive. I can’t talk about it now, but if you can make it to New York by tomorrow morning—say around 11? I know I’m interrupting your weekend, but you’d really be helping me out of a jam, and I think we can make it worth your while. We’ll reimburse any traveling expenses, of course.”

Casinos subsidized busses between New York and Atlantic City, but trains from Philadelphia to New York weren’t cheap. I had deliveries to make, but her mention about making it worth my while hadn’t slipped by me.

“Are you sure you can’t say what it’s about? I have to work tomorrow morning.”

The excitement in Josie’s voice carried across the phone. “We can get you a room at the hotel. We’re at the new Bolívar in Times Square. I can get you one for the whole weekend, you can come and go whenever you want. Oh, this would mean so much if you could make it. Do you remember your friends from the game? Charitybelle and Fabulosa are both here.”

The gamer nicknames didn’t ring a bell, but if Crimson offered to foot the bill for a hotel, they’d also pick up the check for dinner. And if I were going to miss my shift, I might as well enjoy the evening. Nothing on the Eastern Seaboard could beat Manhattan cuisine, and the prospect of sleeping in a bed and showering in my own bathroom appealed to me. Cleaning up at the gym every day wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t anything like a fancy hotel. I could make it back to Philly for tomorrow’s deliveries.

As soon as I finished this run, I could continue straight up to New York. Manhattan traffic on a Saturday night was not to be taken lightly, but if Crimson were covering expenses, I’d be happy to spend my evening in the city.

Josie’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Hello?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s hard to hear. No, I don’t remember anyone from the contest. Does the hotel have parking for a van?”

“Yes, it does! Or it will—I mean, we’ll pay for it. Yes!”

“Then I might make it there for after dinner, but I’m only in a t-shirt right now.” One good thing about delivering paint is that I didn’t need a uniform.

“Oh, this is such a relief. We’ll be at the hotel. Just call this number when you’re near, and I’ll meet you in the lobby. And don’t worry about clothes. I’ll have the hotel fit you for a suit.”

A suit? A suit would be impossible to store in my car without wrinkling it, but I didn’t own a suit that fits. It already sounded like Crimson was making this worth my while.

New Yorkers ate late, and if I didn’t have to take the van back to the paint company, I could shave off a few hours of traffic.

I told Josie I’d be there in a few hours and called off my shift at the restaurant.

After making my last stop, I turned the vehicle north on 276 to Manhattan. Most Americans measured travel distance by distance—but people on the coast measured it in time. If I asked someone how far it was to the airport, they’d tell me in hours, not miles.

My two-hour drive to the Bolívar International Hotel stretched to three after hitting the Midtown Tunnel traffic, but I arrived in Times Square before sundown.

Josie instructed me to leave my van with the valet and check in at the front desk. Giving keys to a stranger felt a little odd, but I made a mental note to make sure that Crimson picked up the exorbitant parking fee that likely added up to more than a week’s salary.

Josie’s meetings had run late, so she couldn’t meet me in the lobby. Instead, she arranged for the concierge to outfit me with a change of clothes—including dress shoes and a tie.

My room’s view left me breathless, but I took just as much joy from cleaning up after a long day of driving. As much as I wanted to indulge in the room’s luxuries, I hurried to make dinner.

After my shower, the phone rang. I answered it with shaving cream still on my face.

The voice on the other end wasn’t familiar. “Hi, there. This is Amy Peslak, and I work with Josie. She would like you to meet her when you’re free in suite 215 before dinner. It’s on the mezzanine level, by the meeting rooms. We booked it for the week. Would that be doable?”

“Ugh. Sure.”

“Great, can I tell her you’ll be down in a few minutes?”

After agreeing, I hung up the phone, finished shaving, and dressed as fast as I could. After collecting my things, I hurried down to the hotel’s meeting room area on the mezzanine. Walking around this place in a suit made me feel like I was impersonating someone important.

When I reached suite 215 and knocked on the door, the person who gave the keynote met me at the door. No longer in a Crimson t-shirt, she wore a stylish pantsuit but greeted me with a wide smile. “At last, we meet! Please, please, come in.”

Josie beckoned me inside, and I followed her to a long meeting table that dominated the room. Boxes of office supplies, laptops, and jackets draped across black leather couches lining the walls. Wipe boards covered with dates, episodes, and launch parties aligned the walls, blocking the view. Empty donut boxes and folders covered the table.

“Sorry for the mess. We’ve been cranking all day—pitching ad blocks to marketing execs. A few of them are staying for dinner, so hopefully you’ll meet them tonight. So many things are happening at once. I’m so glad you could come. Please, sit. I hope you didn’t have any problems getting here. Octagon was getting antsy over not hearing from you.”

“Why me?”

Josie settled into a seat on the opposite side of the table. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. Before I say anything, I have to remind you that the NDA you signed still applies to this conversation. I just want to make you aware.”

I waved my hand. “That’s fine. I don’t have anyone to tell, anyway.”

“Good-good. Then, let me cut to the chase. We need a host for the show—or at least a narrator. Test audiences are finding it difficult to follow the contestants without putting a face to their avatars. And not many of the contestants want to appear on the show. When we connect episodes to the faces of players, the show gets much higher marks. Stellar, actually, if what the producers say is true.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a really simple gig. We already know you’re good on camera. And a teleprompter makes things so much easier.”

“You’re not upset that I didn’t see the playback?”

Josie waved her arms. “You’ll definitely have to watch the playbacks. I can’t believe you never downloaded the advanced cuts—but it explains why you’ve been incommunicado. Can I ask why you haven’t seen them?” Josie’s forehead furrowed with worry lines, and she grimaced in fear at my answer.

“I just didn’t have any time. I’m just busy with work.”

Josie flattened her hand on the table. “Don’t worry then. Seeing the playbacks will jar your memory. We’re finding that players can easily recall their actions, but not everyone is comfortable with their in-game decisions.”

“What do you mean?”

Josie inhaled uncomfortably before answering. She touched a stapled packet of papers. “Octagon believes the contestants behaved questionably, and since most of their customers are businesses, their taste in gaming is a little conservative. But they liked the Belden players and agreed to sponsor a show highlighting constructive activities like building cities and helping NPCs.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

Josie laughed nervously and touched my shoulder. “When you see the playbacks, you’ll see that’s basically what you did. You lasted longer than anyone from Belden. And mostly, you kept your noses clean.”

“But I lost.”

Josie waved her hand. “But you went the distance. You lasted until the last episode—and that counts for a lot.”

I stared at her blankly.

“Octagon is prepared to offer you north of $400,000 for a year-long endorsement contract contingent on you hosting the show—which involves separate compensation. You’ll get SAG memberships and benefits. But I’m not sure where you’ll fall in the SAG-AFTRA wage tables. Crimson is writing off development costs into the show, so the budget is technically very high. The series will appear on several platforms, and it has a worldwide distribution. It could be juicy, maybe over six figures. I’ll know the exact rate once we nail down our distributors.”

Only my dropped jaw spoiled my grin.

“Octagon loves your audition tape. They’re aware of your desire to continue your education and are offering assistance in that regard. They can fast-track your application to a number of colleges—many of which are very good.”

Josie slid paperwork toward me, but my eyes refused to focus.

My dumbstruck expression prompted Josie to continue. “We need your face for the show. The Belden contingent—that’s what we’re calling you guys—were the only uplifting players in the beta test that got anywhere. The other finalists will make perfect villains. Believe me, we’ve got villains in spades, but the show needs a protagonist. Octagon doesn’t want the winner or the other finalists representing their hardware.”

“What did they do that was so bad?”

Josie grimaced again, and worry lines returned to her forehead. “Oh, let’s just say you have greater appeal to a wider audience than the other finalists. You were kind to the NPCs. You built things and defended a town—and Octagon and Crimson love that. And the audiences love it too. If we’re going to air the contest, Crimson wants to focus on the more positive aspects of player activity. To be honest, the contest seems to have turned all the participants crazy. None of our previous tests evoked that kind of conduct.”

I grunted. “So I’m doing commercials and hosting.”

“Yes. To support the series, you’ll need to do a few days of shooting commercials. That’s what the $400k covers. If the series takes off, you’ll be optioned to do more. Hosting will take longer, and I hope you’re comfortable with that.”

I laughed, and not just from the release of tension. “That sounds great to me—sure!”

Josie breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Thank you. Just don’t mention money to the other contestants until we know what we’re working with. They’ll get compensated for their appearance, but that’s according to the wage tables—which won’t be chicken feed if this gets inked onto the platforms we’re shooting for. We’re making decisions on the fly. Charitybelle and Fabulosa have similar contracts. But since you reached the final two, you’re Octagon’s choice for the main character.”

“None of my friends won?”

Josie’s nose wrinkled at the question. “I’m afraid someone else won. I’m not surprised he’s uncooperative, given his performance in the game. But we can go into that later. We’re already late for the restaurant—we have a room reserved at The Oasis on Fifth. But I wanted to catch you up on the big picture. If you’re comfortable being the show’s spokesperson, Octagon will green-light the series.”

“You said you’d help me get into a university?”

“Absolutely. That is something you can talk about with the other contestants. Everyone going tonight will get a full ride to institutions where Octagon holds sway.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

Josie’s expression changed into a conspiratorial giddiness that I didn’t understand. “I happen to know a certain someone is choosing one of New York’s universities. We could get you two in together!”

Josie’s sing-song voice confused me. “Who?”

Josie playfully touched my arm and stood. “Oh! That’s right, you bad boy. It serves you right to ignore the edits that our production crew worked so hard to make. But don’t worry, we’ll get you those as soon as possible. Let’s shake a leg before we miss drinks. Everyone’s already there. We’ll go over the contract language and SAG quotes later, but that’ll be easy—they’re basic template agreements.” Josie stuffed the papers into a briefcase and led me out of the hotel.

She walked briskly once we hit the sidewalk. “We’re only going a few blocks. I hope you don’t mind. Cabs are impossible to get at this hour of the day. They’re changing shifts.”

“I’ve been driving a van all day. I can use the exercise.”

I floated behind Josie while she excitedly babbled about the series getting wider distribution with Octagon on board.

I nodded to everything. Since I hadn’t seen the playbacks, her references made little sense.

Before we went inside, Josie pinned a nametag to the lapel of my new jacket. “I almost forgot to give you this. This will help people connect you to your avatar to your real name. The Octagon execs will see how presentable you are in person. I arranged for you to sit with your friends.”

The restaurant’s roar and press of bodies brought me back to planet Earth. All the men wore suits and ties, and the women wore evening gowns.

Inset banks of dim spotlights lit the room with an austere glow, creating candlelight conditions without the flames. Above the lights and custom-made fixtures, utility pipes stretched across the two-story ceiling. The room’s gorgeous decor struck me. A half-hour ago, I would’ve killed for a job waiting tables here, and now I was a guest.

Josie pushed through toward a back room, losing me in the press of bodies surrounding the bar. I picked out patrons matching my age, and their nametags identified them as contestants.

One girl caught my eye, and I listened to her speak to a group of suits who showed less enthusiasm over her geeky topic of conversation.

She grinned and excitedly talked. “…so knights come from the adaptation of the stirrups. Stirrups allowed warriors to stay on horseback after skewering someone with their lance. Knights wouldn’t do anyone any good lying in a heap on the ground—assuming they survived the fall.”

Not only did I take an immediate liking to her, but it seemed I was the only one in the place who noticed her radiance. Impossibly, I caught her eye. “Hi there.”

“Oh, hi. I’m pleased to meet you. My name is Clarissa.” She spotted her nametag and cringed, realizing too late that it made introductions unnecessary. Her blush could have melted the ice caps.

Ignoring the nametag, I echoed her introduction. “I’m pleased to meet you, Clarissa.”

She smiled and relaxed her shoulders.

“My name is Michael.”

The End