LevelUP: an 8-bit novel by Micah Joel. Author's definitive online edition.
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INVENTORY:
* MYSTERIOUS SCROLL
* STEALTH CLOAK
* IVORY TORCH OF THE ENDLESS FIRE
* TROPHY 2
The world is electric blue, but not the nightmare shade inflicted by LevelUP corporation. Max’s eyes gradually adjust to the scene: every part of his body is laced with glowing circuitry, reminiscent of the circuit board on the router he had been handling a moment ago. The air smells like a fresh circuit board: hot copper laced with the air after a thunderstorm.
Max takes in the grid-lined island, perfectly rectangular, suspended in a sea of churning, glowing fluid. Water, for lack of a better word. Unlike the earlier VR world, this one is photo-realistic; no hint of pixels anywhere. The harsh aesthetics are the only thing identifying this as a mediated reality.
Max pinches himself and it hurts. Not so much to check if he’s dreaming—he knows he isn’t—but to verify his suspicion: it is possible to get hurt here. The level of reality, down to control over each finger, is flawless.
The edge of the island is a razor-sharp right angle, dropping about the span of a hand to the waterline. The surging water looks as if it’s lit from underneath, evenly, with no particular light source. The churning waves splash exactly up to the height of the platform, but no higher. No matter how long Max watches, not a single drop spills onto the horizontal surface.
The thought crosses his mind that he may be surrounded by acid, contact with which would leave him writhing in agony until all thought mercifully ceased. Given imaginative level designers, it could be worse. Unimaginably worse.
But if that were the case, why would entering the node leave him sadistically trapped with no recourse? The other nodes provided a means to retrieve the trophy, and this one wouldn’t be any different, right?
Max dips his hand into the liquid. It’s not water—it tingles but doesn’t burn. Energy? The tingle spreads down his arm and settles in his stomach. It feels like having one too many espressos, minus the nausea. In fact, it feels pretty good, like adrenaline surging through him. He could do anything.
What about inventory? Max checks, but instead of items, a different category appears in his HUD:
=== SKILLS: ===
SWIM
So now he has slots with which to collect skills, and SWIM is listed as the first one. He knows when the game designers are sending a message.
Max gathers himself and cannonballs into the waves. It’s colder than he expects. He swims downward as far as he can manage and never touches bottom. An intense shiver wracks through his body. There’s a moment when Max imagines his every muscle cramping and his fetal-curled husk settling to the bottom of the energy lake. He stops struggling and buoyant forces rocket him back to the surface.
The panic passes, and Max takes an overhand swimming stroke, pushing back to the surface. His experience with swimming is limited—one time he and some friends snuck away and dipped into the filthy waters of the Bay. On that day, he quickly got the hang of it, more readily than his friends. The feeling here is familiar, though he seems to move even more fluidly through this medium.
A golden light winks on, along what seems like a distant shore. Max turns toward it, pulling forward with powerful strokes. The distance melts underneath him. Real swimming tires Max out quickly, but this exercise doesn’t fatigue him at all. If anything, Max feels his inner energy level surging.
Time passes enjoyably. But the next time Max looks up, the golden light is no longer in front of him, instead it’s at a 9-o’clock heading. He’s sure he was swimming a straight line. A look behind confirms his fear: He can’t see the island where he started either.
Continuing in the same direction no longer makes sense, to the degree he can even tell one direction from another, so he turns and swims again toward the golden light. It feels so natural, he could keep doing this for hours. After a dozen strokes or so, he checks to see—and his aim is dead straight. He pushes forward, but after a few minutes, to his dismay, the golden light is now to his right.
The first tremblings of panic congeal in his gut. He’s lost at sea. Stuck in something worse than a maze. He turns toward the golden light again and powers toward it. Less than a minute later, it’s dead behind him.
He gives up on swimming, treading water instead. There’s got to be a way out of this.
Something brushes against his leg, then tangles through his fingers. Max swipes at it viciously but doesn’t make contact with anything. Between the surprise and distraction, he nearly goes under. The water tastes like strong seltzer.
The visitor bumps against him again. It’s small and plastic, with a long tail that drags behind in just the right way to tickle Max’s arm. He grabs for it.
A cable. Max runs his hand along it, finding a USB connector on one end. On the other, an optical mouse, its red LED gleaming. Is this some kind of joke? Max tosses it away, but, like a tadpole, the thing swims right back into his hands.
“What the?” Max says out loud. Maybe it’s because these are the first words he’s said since entering the node, or maybe because sound carries better over the waves, his voice seems boomier. The mouse trembles and jets away from him, maintaining a wary distance.
In a level assiduously designed, everything is added for a reason. Level designers don’t like being arbitrary. Especially when it came to NPC, “non-player character” interactions—like that thief you’d run across in Zork. These interactions always served a purpose. “Aww, that’s alright,” Max says in more soothing tones. The mouse cautiously swims closer. “It’s okay little guy. Are you here because of me?”
The light blinks once.
“Is that a yes?”
The light blinks once.
“Is that all you can say?”
The light blinks twice.
“Do you have a name?”
The light blinks twice.
“Well, then, from now on, you’re Mouse.” Max looks around and the golden light he had been following isn’t visible anymore. “I guess I’m supposed to follow you then.”
The light blinks once and Mouse swims ahead. Max follows.
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