Civil War: Rogue Dungeon Book 2 (New POV chapters)

Okay, so these two chapters are POV chapters from other characters--characters outside the game. There are only a few of them, but I decided to add them in late. The first is from Roark's nemesis PwnrBwner and is the new chapter 3, while the second is the new chapter 7 which takes place from Randy's POV. Randy is one of the lead Software Engineers responsible for Hearthworld. This is all ass-backwards, but wanted to throw these in for y'all! 

Chapter 3

Scott “PwnrBwner_OG” Bayani

The game had force logged Scott “PwnrBwner_OG” Bayani out and the haptic feedback had cut off the second he took off the helmet, but he could still feel the contact poison burning in his veins.

“Better luck next time, mate.” Scott stomped across the living room and grabbed his helmet off the floor. “Fake-ass pirate accent bullshit. Think you’re so fucking cool.”

They would see how cool that dickface Roark thought he was when Scott reported his ass. Hearthworld’s customer service might be completely worthless when it came to over-charges or bugs, but they didn’t screw around when there was an unsanctioned modder messing with their game.

Scott tossed his helmet onto the crappy couch crammed up against the short wall of his studio and grabbed his InfiniTab. It’d cost a buttload—and he’d had to go to an actual physical store and stand in line for like two days to get one—but the InfiniTab ran the best sensory graphics of any all-in-one on the market at a sleek quarter-inch thick. It was the perfect tablet for the serious gamer pressed for space.

“Hey,” he said to wake it up.

The projector flipped on, throwing up the holographic image of a smoking hot naked redhead. She grinned.

“Hey, sexy.” She slid her fingers through her hair, letting it fall across her eyes. “What can I do for you today?”

“Search my Trash for unread Hearthworld announcements. Something like, ‘Play as a mob’ or ‘dungeon giveaway,’ or whatever.”

She blinked and bit the corner of her full bottom lip.

“You don’t have any unread Hearthworld announcements containing those or similar terms. Should I search again for limited time offers and special events?”

“Yeah. But this time run both for read and unread.”

“Hmm.” She raised her arms over her head and stretched. “You have one read announcement for Rising Sun Casts Diamonds onto Dewy Grass – Rogs of the Great Plains Expansion Pack. Would you like me to read it?”

“Delete forever.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Message deleted.” The redhead reclined on some nonexistent surface in midair and braced herself on her arms. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, Scott?”

“Open Hearthworld H-boards,” he said, dropping onto the couch beside his helmet. “Search for posters with Roark in their handle.”

“I’m sorry, sexy, did you mean Rory?”

“No. R-O-A-R-K.”

“I can’t seem to find any posters with Roark in their username. There are over 1200 usernames containing Rory, though.”

“Forget it,” Scott said, rolling his eyes. “Search the posts for ‘Roark the Griefer’ and ‘Cruel Citadel.’”

She bounced forward and started back at the beginning of her motion loop, tousling her hair into her eyes again.

“There are 879 posts and replies containing those terms. Would you like me to read them?”

Scott shook his head. He had seven times that in feed-followers alone.

“No, see if any of them are talking about lodging a complaint with HW customer service.”

“There are 64 posts and replies contai—”

“So nobody basically.” He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees, letting the InfiniTab dangle from his hand. Its horizon line detector compensated so the holographic redhead wasn’t suddenly sideways. “Fine, I’ll do the heavy lifting on this crap. Start a new post from my OG account.”

The redhead grinned and bit her lip. “You got it, sexy.”

“Title: Some asshole modder. Post: Some asshole modder going by Roark the Griefer set himself up in the Cruel Citadel outside Averi City, and he’s getting around the PvP debuffs by making himself a high-level Troll instead of a player, coding in all his own OP spells and shit. He’s even changing all the mob scripts in the dungeon so they’ll grief anybody who goes in. Hearthworld’s customer service isn’t going to do crap about this dickweed unless we all lodge complaints, so get off your butts and put this Griefer in his place. Contact customer service and threaten to cancel your membership if they don’t deal with him, and then round up your posse, bend the son of a bitch over, and gank him so hard his mom walks funny for a week. End post.”

“Would you like me to read that back to you?”

“Yeah.” Scott listened to his post, added in a bunch of exclamation points, and decided it was good. “Submit post to the Overall, Hearthworld Issues and Troubleshooting, Strafe It, and PvP Reporting boards.”

“Done.” The redhead raised her arms over her head and stretched. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“Yeah, PM the link to all my followers, then open a new message to Hearthworld Customer Service.”

As soon as he finished dictating his complaint, Scott pulled his UIVR helmet back on and logged in again. Time to grind some levels so he could lay the smack down on that chump Roark.  

Chapter 7 (though this might end up being 7)

Customer Service

Randy Shoemaker clutched his mug of coffee as he beelined for his glass-fronted office, keeping his head down, trying to avoid eye contact—muttering a silent prayer that no one would stop him or try to make small talk. Someone invariable would, however, since his office was directly adjacent to the lounge which housed the ping-pong table, an oversized leather couch, and seventy-inch vidwall where employees could come to “unwind.” A place to play video games. To “hang out.” Or “jam.” 

Frontflip Studios—maker of the bestselling ultra-immersive MMO Hearthworld—was one of those types of companies. A place where there was no formal dress policy. Where people wore blue jeans and flip flops to work. Frontflip insisted it “inspired an atmosphere of creativity.” 

Randy Shoemaker, one of Frontflips many senior software engineers, didn’t approve. Not at all. He liked things to be orderly, for everything to have its place. For the rules to be spelled out.   

He dressed plainly. Dark, professional no-nonsense slacks, a white button up, and penny loafers. He also sported a clear pocket-protector, crammed with pens and markers, but he’d been wearing it long before they were “ironically” hip. No, he wore his pocket protector out of sheer practicality.

“What’s up, Randy,” one of the concept artists grunted as he passed, not even bothering to look away from the first-person shooter buzzing with life on the vidwall. 

“Not much,” Randy mumbled in reply, offering the man a thin smile. Then he quickly took a sip of his too hot coffee, hoping to stave off any other verbal communication. Thankfully, the artist on the sofa had already forgotten about Randy—clearly, his greeting was perfunctory at best—which was fine. A lot of the other techs and devs were social types, but not Randy. He was quiet, introspective, polite. Not anti-social exactly, just not good at being with people. Some days he wished things were different. That he could be like Brad over in Customer Service or maybe Danny, the Vice-President of Marketing. Cool. Suave. Casual. Their words seemed to come as easy as the wide smiles they always wore. 

But that wasn’t him. Which was also perfectly fine. This wasn’t a popularity contest. He was here to work. Not to socialize or galivant around or play games on company time or any of the other nonsense Frontflip allowed its employees to get away with. Randy arrived fifteen minutes early, ate his muffin while he made his coffee, then settled in to his work. Every day.

He pushed open the door with the toe of his loafer and shuffled over to his desk chair. Carefully, slowly—anxious that he might spill even a drop of his coffee—he set his mug down on a coaster, then settled into an ergonomic, high backed chair with plenty of lumbar support. He tapped his mouse. Blue light flickered as his computer whirred to life with a gentle, reassuring hum. While his machine booted up, he meticulously fidgeted with the papers on his desk. His best designs always started on paper. 

That done, he moved on to straightening the already straight books lining the shelf above his desk. Rational Database Theory and Applications. Advance Digital and Systems Analysis. Fundamentals of Radiant AIs. Refactoring. Design Patterns: Elements of Reusable Object-Oriented Software. Book after book. He knew most of those manuals by heart, but there was a comfort in having them near at hand, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually reached for one.  

His monitor flashed, and with a few keystrokes, he was logged in. 

Another sip of coffee—still just a tad too hot—then he opened his email. 

A tight knot formed in the pit of his stomach. 113 unread messages, most of them forwarded over from Customer Service Reps. Generally, he didn’t work with Customer Service. They had exactly his opposite skillset. They were talkers. Chatters. People persons. But these were exceptional days. Something was happening in Hearthworld, something no one understood. Not even Randy, unfortunately, which was extraordinary in itself. 

He opened up the first email, wondering which dungeon this newest complaint would be about: Cruel Citadel or the Vault of the Radiant Shield. And the winner was … Cruel Citadel. He wasn’t entirely surprised. The Cruel Citadel was a low to mid-level starter dungeon of Infernal alignment. A lot of new players, lowbies, worked through the top levels of the Citadel, grinding out easy experience and earning trash-tier loot. By contrast, the Vault of the Radiant Shield, a Divine-oriented dungeon, was a relatively high-level zone, so the anomalous discrepancies weren’t quite so noticeable there.  

Randy pushed his boxy black glasses up on the bridge of his nose, then craned forward to read the complaint. This one was from a player with the handle of PwnrBwner, real account holder name Scott Bayani. 

This is like the millionth time that asswipe Roark the Griefer has killed me. He’s some kind of doucebag modder, and you guys aren’t doing anything! Seriously, why in the hell are you guys not doing anything about this?! This modding dickhole has ruined the whole dungeon. Like none of the Trolls are acting normal. They gang up on you. Form teams. That brohole Roark even coated my gear with contact poison! WTF! I was talking with one of my buddies who swears up and down they have an NPC trainer down there—and I saw screen shots, so I know he’s on the level. Cruel Citadel is listed at Tier 2, but its gotta be hitting Tier 4 difficulty, which is bullshit! I’ve lost soooooo much gear so much money. I’m serious, you guys better unfuck this!

 Randy frowned and closed out of the very strongly worded email. The contact poison was new and Scott wasn’t wrong about the NPC skill trainer. Griff the Arena vet from the Averi Marketplace had, in fact, relocated to the first level of the dungeon. And he was indeed training the Trolls, which defied all explanation. Mobs weren’t designed to operate that way. The best Randy could guess, this was some new form of game modding, except that couldn’t be. Hearthworld was a bastion of gaming purity. 

And yet … This Roark, who was obviously a player, had somehow hacked the system. He was at the heart of the Cruel Citadel’s problems, the prime anomaly. He also happened to be invisible. Sure, Randy had seen screen shots, even video footage, but the player didn’t exist. He had no account. The character class was impossible. Everything about him was wrong. Even the spells he cast defied logic. There was simply nothing like them in the game. In short, Roark was a glitch. A bug. One that Randy had no idea how to fix.

Worse, this Roark seemed to also carry some sort of virus which was altering the other creatures in the Cruel Citadel. Infecting them. Changing their script. Giving them skill classes. Those secondary anomalies Randy could identify, but that was all he could do. All anyone could do. They seemed immune from tampering on his end; just another impossibility on top of all the rest. He puffed out his checks, rubbed at the bridge of his nose—already a tension headache was forming, dull horns of pain curling around his skull—then took another sip of coffee. 

Now it was too cold. Lukewarm at best. He sighed, deflating a little. 

It was going to be a terribly long day …