CHAPTER 7

I bent down to skin him and heard a villainous voice behind me, "That happened to be my pet rabbit. I remember when he was just a bunny—he even ate grass right out of my hands. And now you killed him. What to do, what to do…"

Not only was the voice villainous, but it also had a mocking undertone. I slowly straightened up and turned around. A few steps away stood three goblins. Not just your ordinary ruffians; these were honest-to-goodness goblins, although, judging by their demeanour, they were ruffians, too. They were nasty-looking, with ugly green faces and teeth that stuck out at odd angles.

Wait a second, maybe they were actually ores? I wasn't really sure what the whole difference was, but that didn't matter. The first thing I noticed was their strange names ("Vuiikh"…. excuse me?) that glowed red above them. I had the unbelievable luck to meet people who killed other players, most often for fun and loot. That fact and their level (25-27) made it clear to me that there was no way I was getting out of the situation with what I had in my bag. And so it turned out that all I would get for the whole four hours I spent hunting was a little experience. How frustrating.

"Would you look at this, boys? He doesn't even care. But I think he should pay for killing my little fluffykins," the one with the green mug spat mockingly. "My little bunny."

"M-m-m..bestiality. Aren't you the little creeps?" I understood that my imminent death might be fairly unpleasant, as the orcs/goblins appeared to be looking for some fun. At least, I wouldn't feel pain in the game, and I wouldn't get any fountains of blood. Still, it wouldn't be an enjoyable experience. I needed to rile them up and get everything over with, so I could respawn and start over. Although as I thought about it, I had no idea where I'd respawn.

"I heard your kind..." I said with a contemptuous grin. "Wait, who are you? Orcs? Goblins? Either way, I heard all of you and your ugly green mugs are into that animal-loving. The good stuff. Although, wait a second, are you using the animals or are they using you? I guess it makes more sense if they're using you, just judging by your bulging eyes and the way your teeth stick out like that. Yeah, I can see how that could happen after some bison took a good run at you…"

I got them, for sure. Their leader's face turned ash gray, and his eyes narrowed. Honestly, I might have overdone it a bit, though that was when a short (by their standards) ore screamed, "You little fart!"

He swung the morning star he held in his stubby hand. My world shattered into something like a photo album. I saw stars... the angry, frustrated face of their leader.a spinning sky. A familiar haze settled in, and I found myself standing in an area near the city wall. No pants, no club—just in my underwear (Apparently, the game's developers didn't want to traumatise the young generation by making them look at naked bodies.) They sent freshly killed players to the nearest respawn point or to the last place they saved, and all cities and villages had respawn points. So the good news was that death wasn't the end. On the other hand, I was resurrected without any of my belongings, which go to whoever killed you. They left me in my underwear, but other than that, nothing. At least until Level 10, you didn't lose any experience, although, after that, you were screwed. If you croaked, you lost everything you had, as well as the experience you were working on.

Just then, I heard my inbox ping. I looked around to see a mailbox that, thank God, wasn't far away from where I respawned and went over. To my surprise, I saw that Vuiikh, the green-faced leader, had written me.

"You displeased me, my little white-faced friend. You killed my rabbit, said some unpleasant things, and died too easily. That last thing I find especially frus-trating. And so, I just want you to know that this was only the first of many meetings, all of which will end in your death. However, you will not die so quickly in the future. See you soon."

Like a villain pulled straight from some opera, if the email had had audio to go with it, the last words would have been followed by an evil, booming "Wa-ha-ha-ha!" Although I had the urge to respond and suggest that he find a nice little donkey to make love to instead of his rabbit, I decided it wasn't worth it. Those idiots would be trolling me as it was, and a reply like that would start World War III. Much better to keep building my character and get even with them later. I could find a big old mace and wreak havoc on them, though I needed to remember their names—at least in the blacklist. It was like in the old joke: I don't remember evil, so I have to write it down. At least the game had a feature that let me know when they were nearby. I figured that would give me enough time to get away while my level was still low and I hadn't found a super-mega-giga mace.

"This sucks," I complained as I sat down on a bench next to the respawn point. "I don't have anything, no clothes, no weapons, no money. All I have now is a bunch of enemies and my underwear, and that won't get me any further than a virtual church to beg for some change." At one point, I even thought, "Maybe I can just forget the game? I've already seen enough to write an article, and players themselves won't read it. They don't subscribe to our newspaper, and nobody else really cares whether the article is written well from the perspective of the players or not. I can just add some filler, throw in a plug for Radeon, and call it a day."

On the other hand, what was I going to do for a whole month? There wasn't any leaving the city since Gamroth could check to see if I ran off somewhere. And really, was I going to get chased off by a few ugly ore assholes? That wouldn't do. But ramming their heads up where the sun doesn't shine—that would make for a great story.

And, it's not bad here. Before everything happened, the game had been like a free and easy excursion. You know, it's like winning a tour of somewhere in Rostov—it's a nice city, and it's free, so why not go? Although it's not like you'd spend money on it. The city isn't bad, it's just that it doesn't really matter to you. But if it's free, why not? It was the same thing for me; I played because it was free, sort of my job, and not too stressful. But now, everything was different… and I still needed material for my series.

But if the game was going from "Why not?" to "Let's see who gets the last laugh," I needed a plan. Right away, I needed two things: clothes and a weapon. Oh, and I desperately needed someone who knew the game inside and out to teach me the ropes.

That was when I remembered Fat Billie.

Fat Billie was a classmate of mine who cut a rather remarkable figure. Billie was short for William, and I have no idea why his parents gave him a name like that. Maybe they adored Shakespeare, or maybe they enjoyed Tokarev's work and extravagance. Or maybe they'd had one too many drinks after he was born and before they took him to the passport office (that last one seemed most believable to me). Whatever the case, that was his name, and until he was about 12, everyone called him Bilka. It was around that time that he started to put on weight, and by the time he was 14, he weighed around 80 kilograms. That September 1, when we all got to school for the first day of ninth grade, Pashka Kapitanov, one of our class leaders, saw him and said, "Forget Bilka. You're Billie now."

"He's 'Fat,' not 'Billie,"' contradicted Pashka Velikanov, another of our authorities.

The two Pashkas sniffed and looked each other over (the two had vied for the role of top dog ever since first grade).

"Come on, guys, lay off it. You're fine," I intruded, knowing they would soon mix it up if no one stepped in. "We'll just call him Fat Billie."

And so it was decided.

The only one who couldn't care less about the whole situation was Fat Billie himself. The guy never let anything ruffle his feathers. He was as phlegmatic as it gets.

But what he loved more than anything was computer games. When the conversation turned to them, he'd come alive and could chatter on for five or even ten minutes straight. He also had a kind of strange sense of humor. To be honest, I wasn't always sure when exactly he was joking.

So if there was anyone who could get me started, it was—him and I couldn't imagine him missing out on a game like Elysium. I left my alter ego sitting on the bench And exited the game.

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