"Virtual"

William had been waiting for this day for almost a week, and the conditions couldn’t be better: his connection was good, and his whole evening was free. After checking the rig’s status indicators, William navigated the cluttered floor sat down in his high-backed gaming chair. Homework could wait, he decided, until after the challenge. With a deep breath, he put on the cable-tethered helmet, and flipped the opaque visor closed. There was a hiss, and a click, and -

The screen inside the visor came on. A yellow tunnel spiraled past William’s vision rapidly, slowly changing hue toward green. At about the color of sour apple candy, the tunnel vanished, and William was standing in the cobbled courtyard of a medieval-style castle. He recognized the place immediately as Grozun Keep - his home in the game world. The late summer breeze ruffled his now shoulder-length blond hair, and stirred his new full beard. The fortress had seen better days - a few of the buildings in the enclosure were burned to foundations, and the paving stones were shattered from impacts, but it was still mostly intact. Without looking, William knew that in the game, he was an adult: tall, and imposing.

“Commander Wakefield, good to see you again, sir!” The male voice came from William’s left. Of course, Wakefield was William’s in-game name, so he turned. Approaching him was a dark-skinned, wiry man William - rather, Wakefield - recognized as his second in command, Margonnau.

“I’m a little early, but no matter. Is it still to happen?”

“To my knowledge, Commander. the rabble outside has yet to indicate otherwise.” Margonnau gestured vaguely toward the gate, beyond which the besieging horde was camped.

“Good. And my new helmet?”

“Done, and waiting for you, sir.”

“Excellent. I go to prepare, but Margonnau - ”

“Yes sir?” Margonnau must have known that this phrase prefaced orders.

“Get the bows ready, just in case. This is an enemy we cannot trust to have honor.”

Wakefield strode away from Margonnau, knowing the other would follow orders. The Eighth Legion were renowned soldiers, and Margonnau was elite even among them.

Supposedly, most of the men were avatars of players like William. He’d always wondered who, if any, of his men were “bots”, but the autonomous AIs were quite good at going undetected, blending in among "real" players. Mostly, Wakefield just assumed that everyone was human. It was easier that way. Much of the player base of the game preferred to act "in-character" for the setting, taking pride in their roles and pretending while in the game that the world beyond it did not exist.

Of course, that wasn’t unanimous - there are always those who just want cheap, nihilistic fun - and a large group of that sort were encamped just outside. Calling themselves by the unlikely name “xX SW0RDZ0RZ Xx”, the rogue army laying siege to Grozun Keep had no purpose but to pillage and destroy. They were without honor, bound only by the coded restrictions of the game, which were loose.

To minimize the death toll from the siege, Commander Wakefield had challenged their leader to a duel some days ago. Luckily, the invading army would suffer desertions or a forced withdrawal if it declined - enforced by the server if need be. Not wanting to risk it, they’d accepted. Wakefield knew that there was always the chance of a double-cross. The penalties for double-crosses weren’t nearly so steep as those for cowardice, presumably because double-crossing required finesse and subtlety.

As Wakefield was heading to the armory to collect his gear, he spied a sleek, dark-colored cat, glaring at him from under a smashed wagon. The cats, William knew, were primarily cosmetic entities - but even they served a purpose in the game’s equations. In Grozun keep, they kept vermin numbers low, which made his soldiers healthier. As the garrison commander, Wakefield had control over even something so trivial as cat population - and sometimes he wondered whether the game moved cats from other places here when he requested them, or just spawned new ones.

Reminded of his responsibilities, Wakefield stopped and held up a hand, telling the game to display the stats of his fortress and its garrison. The statistics grid, with all its options and sliders and numbers, appeared in blue glowing letters above his hand. He checked to make sure that the soldiers were healthy and well-fed, and that supplies were still high. Everything looked good. There was damage, but the keep was more or less intact, and still defensible. Wakefield was satisfied - he wanted his affairs to be in order in case the challenge should go badly. A few tweaks later, Wakefield waved away the glowing display.

The new helmet fit perfectly. With help from a page, the commander assembled the rest of his armor, and draped an alliance-insignia tabbard over it. The Eighth Legion’s bold scarlet-and-gold insignia stood out starkly against its white field and Wakefield’s polished mail. Collecting his blade from the armory, the commander strode to the gate, where a six-man honor guard was waiting. He tried to look more confident than he felt.

At one level, William wondered what sort of character his next avatar would be, if it came to that. At another, Sir Wakefield wondered how Margonnau would treat the sudden promotion if his commander fell.

The portcullis inched up, and Wakefield stepped out, making sure that his honor guard was bearing the flag of truce. The game would have warned him if they hadn’t been, of course. The unmarked green flag of truce flew from the enemy ranks, too. Wakefield led the way towards the designated spot, a flat expanse of grass near the lake that was perfect for a duel. Other banners flew from those sullen ranks, too - among many vulgar and/or mildly obscene images and letterings, William saw several of his troops’ own banners, painted over in black lettering with various taunts and obscenities. This bothered him some, as he knew that those were banners taken from the corpses of Legion officers - but Wakefield forced himself to ignore them. After all, the enemy was trying to rile him.

The enemy procession was farther from the designated spot, so Wakefield and his honor guard got there first. The commander surveyed the scene, briefly - the lakeshore was not tactically significant, but was in view and bow range from both the Keep’s walls and the left flank of the enemy entrenchments. It was a perfect dueling spot, as it was a flat expanse of healthy grass, terminating in a marshy copse of trees at either side of the shore and bordered landward by a steep, grassy hill.

The enemy commander marched to the spot slowly, grinning like a madman. He was short, wiry, dressed only in red-painted light mail. He carried a simple long-sword, and there was a shield slung over his back. Wakefield stood quietly, waiting for the other to speak first.

“Ohai! Rdy?” The other spouted suddenly, mockingly. The game showed Wakefield the stranger’s name - “AwfulSauce.”

“Ground rules first, good sir.” Of course, Wakefield was being overly polite for appearance’s sake. “What say you to this: no respites, and we stay within this flat area, out of the trees?”

AwfulSauce shrugged, still smiling in anticipation, or in madness. “Whatevr, man. Lesgo.” He readied his shield and blade.

Wakefield took a deep breath, waving his honor guard to stand clear, and pulled his four-foot-long sword from its scabbard on his back.

With a wicked cackle, the red-armored man charged Wakefield.

The big man sidestepped, swinging his blade into the other’s path. AwfulSauce, though, managed to bat the blade up with his shield and to nick Wakefield in the hip. Wakefield’s armor made the blow harmless, but his opponent’s honor guard cheered mockingly. Somehow, they got his whole army cheering too.

“So I getz ur base nao?” Wakefield simply ignored the other’s taunts. AwfulSauce was fast, given, but Wakefield was tough and would probably outlast his opponent. The real danger here was losing the psychological war.

Wakefield swept his blade in a slow arc to force the man back. He had a reach advantage of almost a foot and a half, and resolved to use it. “Hardly.”

Then three arrows, fletchings dyed black, landed in the field near Wakefield. From their angle, they’d come from the enemy honor guard. The commander glanced that way, and saw those men holding bows and laughing amongst themselves. “Treachery!” Wakefield hissed, but he stopped short of yelling it out. He realized that if AwfulSauce’s men tried to get involved, the server would inform every soldier in the Legion, including Wakefiled himself. Since it hadn’t, the arrows couldn’t be aimed at him.

The red-garbed man used Wakefield’s surprise to get in close, trying again to use his shield to block the bigger man’s sword. This time, Wakefield put his full weight into the swing, and the act of blocking sent the smaller man reeling off to one side, unhurt but off balance.

Several more arrows landed nearby. Wakefield realized now that they were another part of the psychology game - they were designed merely to rattle him. He tried to ignore them as he pressed his advantage.

AwfulSauce backpedaled, blocking furiously, and Wakefield pursued him, backing him toward the copse of trees at one edge of the designated space. More arrows thudded into the grass, but Wakefield forced them out of his mind. To his credit, AwfulSauce was good - he didn’t let even one jab or cut through his guard.

They were at the edge of the trees, then, and both had their feet in the damp leaves, but the wiry man didn’t stop. Wakefield at first expected him to, but he remembered immediately that the game didn’t enforce ground rules agreed between parties in a challenge.

Scowling, Wakefield refused to cross the verge. He’d be at a disadvantage in tight spaces. Turning, the Legion commander walked back to the center of the grass.

“If you wanted to fight in the shade, sir, you should have named a spot in the woods.” Wakefield called out. His red-clad opponent lurked just inside the trees. His face was shrouded in the shade, but Wakefield guessed he was still wearing that madman grin.

A minute passed. Two. The man just stood there, and Wakefield stood in the field staring at him. Several more times AwfulSauce’s honor guard fired arrows into the field, but eventually they stopped bothering. One by one, the spent arrows de-spawned, fading into thin air.

The Legion commander began to tire of this waiting game. He’d never heard of commanders’ challenges ending like this -with one party playing coward - the game probably had some sort of enforcing built in, but Wakefield didn’t know what it was.

“So then, is your plan to let me die of old age?” Wakefield called out, out of boredom and irritation.

“Umad?” came the sneering reply. Wakefield recognized the taunt for what it was.

Fed up with the situation, the bigger man shrugged. “Well then, I accept your surrender.” He meant it as a taunt and a warning. Turning, he took a few steps toward his honor guard. The game immediately parsed his words, and Wakefield knew that the server would be sending an interrogative message to AwfulSauce.

To his surprise, the game displayed a capitulation timer over the enemy commander’s head: twenty seconds. Apparently, AwfulSauce had registered his agreement. As long as the timer was counting down, though, the other could still cancel the order. Stepping forward, shield replaced on his back, the man in the red armor extended a hand to Wakefield. “Ok. You win.” He was still grinning.

Wakefield shouldered his blade, extending his own hand. He was mildly suspicious, but the timer was at five seconds now and counting down. “Well, then, if you - ”

At two seconds, the timer vanished and AwfulSauce’s blade came out of nowhere to deliver a nasty cut to Wakefield’s extended arm. He’d have lost the limb if it weren’t for his armor, but still the blow was serious. “Lol, JK!” was all that AwfulSauce offered as explanation. Wakefield backed up, getting his own blade in between them. The injury put him at a disadvantage, and the Legion commander mentally chided himself for being so easily tricked. Warm blood tricked down his arm, and the mad-grinning enemy stepped in to finish him off.

Three arrows fletched in gold hit the sod near AwfulSauce’s feet, causing him to pause in confusion. Wakefield smiled. Margonnau. Gold arrows meant his own archers - the other officer had probably seen AwfulSauce’s trick earlier. He was having the bowmen on the walls fire into the field, but not at anyone. Wakefield used the pause to take a step back and get his guard up.

The man in red recovered, and pressed Wakefield, but the bigger man was ready for him now, even with his injury. Wakefield batted aside AwfulSauce’s shorter blade and aimed a cut for the smaller man’s chest. The short slash was blocked, but it did get Wakefield back on the offensive.

Knowing that he might not get another chance, Wakefield put all his strength into a vertical sweep that could have bisected a horse. AwfulSauce had no time to dodge, so he threw his shield into the path of the blade. The move saved his life, but destroyed his shield, and knocked him backwards onto the ground. Wakefield had his blade to his opponent’s throat before the other could recover. “It’s over. Yield.”

AwfulSauce snarled, breaking his deaths-head grin, and kicked out, tripping Wakefield. That was a risky move - Wakefield, in falling, nearly removed his opponent’s head - but somehow the smaller commander escaped harm. Before Wakefield, weighted down by his armor, could stand, AwfulSauce came at him, blade swinging. His shield arm, the Legion commander noted, hung limply - it was probably broken.

Wakefield parried from one knee, struggling to regain his feet without letting his guard down. He realized that he’d have to kill AwfulSauce to end this - the other wasn’t going to surrender. The broken arm put Wakefield back in advantage, but that didn’t mean AwfulSauce couldn’t still kill him.

Wakefield parried an upward cut, and used the momentum to finish standing while his opponent’s blade was tangled. AwfulSauce drew back, but not far enough to be out of Wakefield’s reach - he was forced to parry a horizontal sweep by batting it up before it reached his head. The mask of maddening grin seemed permanently replaced by an equally unmoving mask of fury.

Wakefield sidestepped a sudden lunge, and jabbed his blade into the space. This time, AwfulSauce had no shield to block with, and took the blade in the abdomen.

Wakefield raised his sword to finish off AwfulSauce, but paused when the game informed him of AwfulSauce’s user disconnect. The player who was his opponent was gone, but his avatar was held in the game by the duel.

Wakefield, disappointed, brought his blade down. AwfulSauce died. The kill brought little comfort, and no satisfaction. Besides, the player behind the name would be back, under another name.

It did, however, settle the commanders’ challenge. The enemy ranks on the hill above were now limned in sickly yellow: a server-forced retreat. As per the game rules, their faction would not be permitted to attack Grozun Keep again for two months.

A cheer went up from the keep’s walls as Wakefield’s honor guard saw to his injury. They then wasted no time getting him back into the fortress. In the courtyard, Margonnau stood in front of the men, who were arranged in full parade ranks. ”Congratulations, sir. The enemy is retreating.”

“They’ll be back. We haven’t seen the last of this ‘SW0RDZ0RZ’ rabble.” Wakefield warned. “All I’ve done is bought us two months.”

“Then let’s make the most of it, commander.” Margonnau suggested.

“Agreed. See to repairing the damage and restocking our stores. Tomorrow I’ll pay a visit to an old friend. Next time I see their banners, I want to have a little surprise waiting for them.” Wakefield brought up the glowing-blue menu, and selected the “Disconnect” option, but did not confirm. “I need to rest, now. You are in command until I return.” Wakefield’s injuries would heal over time while William was disconnected, and continuing to play while injured risked infection, or further injury.

“Yes, sir.” Margonnau nodded curtly. Wakefield confirmed the disconnect.

The tunnel enveloped Wakefield - no, William - in green whorls, which slowly changed to yellow, then red, then faded to black.

This story written for Klazzform's Short Story Competition on dndonlinegames.com.