3 Chapter Three. The First Ques

"Who are you and why should I care?"

Futurama

CAREFUL AS I'd been, I must have got a few sneakerfuls of rainwater as I'd walked. No system messages this time: apparently, I risked no hypothermia-related debuffs no matter how wet and miserable I felt.

My head swam with thoughts. Was I going mad? Could this be a brain tumor? Or some personality disorder? Should I see a doctor?

Sucking on my third cigarette, I tried to think of an appropriate clinic. Finally I gave up, Googled a list of local practitioners and made an appointment.

That felt a bit better. Having said that... how sure was I that the world around me was real? Crazy, I know. But what if there was nothing wrong with me? Could it be reality itself that was glitching?

The cigarette smoke, the group of drunks hanging around the kids' playground, my own wet feet and a tiny ant crawling up my arm — everything around me was screaming its absolute authenticity.

But how about Amra and Mahan? Those were two of my favorite LitRPG heroes. Didn't they feel the same when they'd found themselves transported — one to the Boundless Realm, the other to Barliona? At first, neither of them had even realized they were in VR, so real was everything around them. So my idea made sense, really.

I could in fact have been abducted by aliens — or some mysterious powerful corporation as the case might be — who must have placed my waning body into a VR capsule and sent me here. Why? No idea. I'd never considered myself special, even when I'd been elected class monitor back in grade school.

Still, I could try and test it, couldn't I? I'd played enough games in my lifetime to be able to tell fact from fiction.

With my right hand, I reached into my pocket for the lighter while holding my left hand in front of me. I placed the lighter under my hand and clicked it a couple of times, casting Fire.

I lasted only a few seconds. I'd never been one of those masochistic types capable of self-mortification.

Ouch, that hurt!

A system message appeared out of nowhere, then faded just like some 3D movie picture,

Damage taken: 1 (Fire)

I blew on my scorched hand. Pain was a perfect proof of this world's reality. So was my burned skin. But the system message... it glaringly contradicted both.

Also, what was it supposed to mean? Damage taken, 1 — one of what? How much hp did I have? Where could I see my stats? What skills did I have? What was my social status? Was it the same as a player's level? And how was I supposed to earn XP here?

I rolled my eyes this way and that, searching for an interface but found none. I couldn't see any icons, buttons or status bars. The health bar was the only thing still hovering in view.

I blinked. The health bar slid up and disappeared.

Wait a sec. I blinked again. Immediately the bar was back, as large as life and twice as ugly, sporting the number 69,31792%. Aha.

I focused on the number. Nothing happened.

I blinked again. Same result.

The number annoyed me. If only I could see the actual amount of my vitality points!

The figure promptly disappeared, replaced by a new stat:

6,238/9,000

What, just like that? All I had to do was think about it?

Never mind. I really needed to look into all of this. Skills, stats, that sort of thing. But first I needed to work out all those nasty debuffs I apparently had. How was I supposed to bring my life back to the required 9,000?

Then again, that too could wait. Life, XP, all that sort of stuff. First I needed to determine whether this was real life or not.

The moment I thought this, a shadow lay on the tarmac by my feet.

"Excuse me?"

I looked up. An old man in funny-looking clothes and a fedora hat stood before me, staring down at the ground.

My good manners got the better of me. I jumped to my feet. "How can I help you? Would you like to sit down?"

As I spoke I looked over the boulevard. There were plenty of empty benches around as most people were still at work.

"Thank you," the old man uttered in a weak, lispy voice. "That's very kind of you. The reason I would like to speak to you is this. I have trouble walking. Still, I'm supposed to do some walking every day. So I come to this boulevard and I keep trotting up and down the lanes, up and down. Then I'm forced to sit down and read a paper. Because reading fresh newspapers is very benefici-"

He had a very funny, stilted way of speaking. Almost like a book character. I kept nodding my understanding, all the while trying to meet his gaze but he kept averting it, staring at the ground at my feet.

He was wearing light summer loafers, a shabby business jacket patched at the elbows and an enormous pair of baggy jeans reaching to his armpits and secured by a belt with a shiny steel buckle saying Jamiroquai, of all things. Which looked suspiciously like an Easter egg courtesy of the mysterious designers of this snazzy NPC character.

I suppressed a giggle. The old gentleman stopped and looked me right in the eye in surprise.

Mr. Samuel "The Rat" Panikoff

Age: 83

ROTFLOL! The Rat? I peered closely at him, triggering another dose of information,

Current status: Retired

Social status level: 27

Class: Office Worker. Level: 8

Widower.

Children: Natalia, daughter

Age: 54

Grandchildren: Max, grandson

Age: 31

Criminal record: yes

"Mr. Panikoff? If you don't mind me asking..."

The old man averted his gaze and lisped, "You're lucky this isn't the year 1936, young man. At the time, when strange young men addressed you by name on the street, it could only mean one thing. Which promised nothing good. I was only a small child at the time, of course, but I heard my fair share of all those covert arrest stories. I, in my turn, apologize I can't return your courtesy. I'm absolutely sure I don't know you. I may be old but I have an excellent memory for both names and faces."

Definitely a bot. They had absolute memory, didn't they? Then again, an NPC would have never expressed surprise at my addressing him by name. But this one had. In fact, he appeared clearly uncomfortable.

"Mind if I take a seat?" he asked.

"I'm Philip," I muttered. "But you can call me Phil."

"Very well, Phil," the old gentleman sat down, removed his hat and smoothed out his thinning hair. "So how do you know me? Wait a sec... I had the honor of teaching a course in Marxism in — when was it now? — nineteen... nineteen sixty-"

"Please, sir," I interrupted him. "You really don't know me. It's just that I met Max — he's your grandson, isn't he? His mother Natalia told me a lot about you. I have a lot of respect for you and your achievements."

I meant it. Compared to the alcoholic Alik with his measly level 4 and the presumably thieving saleswoman with her level 9, the old man was level 27! How awesome was that? He must have done some quality leveling in his lifetime.

I'd have loved to have known my own level too. But how was I supposed to do that?

The old man visibly relaxed, apparently happy with my explanation. "Oh, that's nothing. I served my country, that's all. We all did at the time. Not like the young people of today who'd love nothing better than to go and live abroad. My Max too thinks of emigrating! And when I was his age-"

"I agree entirely," I shuffled my feet on the tarmac, lighting up a new cigarette. I needed to use the bathroom really badly. "I'm terribly sorry but I think I need to go now."

"Of course... Phil. Absolutely," he faltered, undecided, then continued. "The reason I approached you is because I have trouble walking. Still, I'm supposed to do some walking every day. So I come to this boulevard and I keep trotting up and down the lanes, up and down..."

Dammit. He was an NPC, after all. Even chat bots had more natural speech patterns. I needed to check it.

"Excuse me, sir," I interrupted him. I knew it wasn't polite but if this was VR, politeness would have to wait. I needed to work this out. "Who was President of the Soviet Union in 1941?"

He shook his head so hard that I was worried his scrawny neck might snap. "There was no President in 1941 in the USSR! The person who was in control of the country was Comrade Joseph Stalin, General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party!"

Definitely a bot. And a very primitive one at that. Any other questions I could ask him?

I didn't have the time to conduct a proper Turing test so I decided to adlib. "Mind if I ask you something else?"

"I'm not in a hurry, my dear Phil."

"Is it brandy of vodka?"

"Water. And before that, I only used to drink the best brandy I could get."

"Arsenal or Real Madrid?"

"What nonsense! The best soccer team this side of the Atlantic is Zenith! The finest club in Leningrad — or as you call it these days, St. Petersburg," he enunciated the city's name clearly, then burst into a happy childish laughter.

"Bingo," I muttered.

He was real. No NPC was capable of such a quirky train of thought.

The old man stared at me. "Pardon me?"

I beamed back at him. This world was real, after all. Even more, I seemed to be the only one here in possession of a rare and useful ability. I really should help him. "It's all right. I'm sorry I kept interrupting you. What was it you wanted me to do?"

"Just as I said, I have trouble walking. Still, I'm supposed to do some walking every day. So I come to this boulevard and I keep trotting up and down the lanes, up and down..."

What was that now? He'd said this twice already! He was repeating the same lines over and over again, just like a stuck record... or a glitchy script.

"Sorry I'm rambling," he suddenly stopped himself. "I think I told you that already. To cut a long story short, sometimes I get tired so I'm forced to sit down and read a paper. Because reading fresh newspapers is very beneficial for one's mind. Without them, I'd feel dead. What kind of life do you expect an old man like me to have? I read newspapers in order to stay on top of what's going on in the world. I find sports events especially fascinating. Unfortunately, today of all days I forgot to buy the latest issue of Sports Express which I always do on my way here. Which also means that I can only buy it on my way back home because I don't think I'll be able to walk all the way to the newspaper stand and back here again. Which means-"

"Which means that you don't have anything to read right now."

"You're quite insightful. So I'd really appreciate it if you could get me the latest issue of Sports Express. I'll pay you back, of course."

Immediately, a large system message blasted into my field of view, blocking out half the scene.

A quest!

Sport Brings the World Together

Mr. Samuel Panikoff, retired, is asking you to get him the latest issue of Sports Express so he could enjoy it during his solitary walk.

Time required, 30 min

Rewards:

XP, 10 pt.

Reputation with Mr. Panikoff, 5 pt.

Current Reputation: Indifference (0/30).

How was I supposed to accept it? Where was the wretched button? I looked all around the message but saw nothing.

So I just said, "No problem, sir. I'll get it for you. You stay here."

"I'm not going anywhere," he replied with a mysterious smile.

The message faded away.

Quest accepted, a voice clicked in my head.

An exclamation mark began flashing somewhere in the periphery за my view. I focused on it. A quest list opened, containing only one quest — the one I'd just accepted.

I saluted the old man, turned round and hurried to get him his paper.

For the first time in years I felt in my element in the real world.