A call between human traffickers recorded and translated by the Passivity Precept. April 1st, 20XX

“Boss! Our stock is gone!”

“What do you mean, they’re gone?”

“The women. They’ve all disappeared, like poof!”

“They escaped?!”

“No! They were there one minute and gone the next.”

“They can’t just fucking vanish. You must have fucked up costing me hard cash! You’re dead when I get my hands on you!”

“Look. It’s not my fault. It’s that thing. The thing that turned a nuclear blast into a mushroom.”

“I don’t give a shit. You find them or you’re fucking dead just like that bitch from Oregon.”

*Sound of a phone dropping*

“Boss?”

*Silence*

“Boss?!”

*Even longer silence*

“Oh shit.”

*Sound of another phone hitting the floor*

Lore Silvercat’s POV:

Warning! You have been awake for more than 24 hours. You are exhausted and will experience a temporary decrease to your charisma, intelligence and dexterity stats until you have rested a full 6 hours.

“And to end it,” Renallia said, eyes sparkling with creativity. “I was thinking, “Even as you call me your flower, I think of you as my heart?”

I grinned and forced myself to stay awake. “I believe that works with the rest of it. The perfect ending to your expression of love.”

She took a few minutes to read it over. “This is wonderful!”

She grabbed my hand and dropped a necklace onto it. Its cool silver coiled around the lines of my palm and its blue gemstone sparkled with the dawn light. I waved away the next prompt which told me I’d received the Diamond Necklace of Beauty as a gift.

“Thank you so much! You may not believe it, but with this poem, you just may have saved my marriage!”

I looked over the accessory with a wide giddy grin and internally celebrated. Finally! The last piece in the set I needed to start on my path to real freedom!

I kissed the sweet woman on her cheek. Her countenance turned red from the end of her button nose to the tips of her pointed ears. She pulled back and wagged her finger in my face. “None of that. My husband definitely wouldn’t approve.”

“No, he would not.” I smirked, thinking of the jealous warrior who loved elegant prose, calligraphy and his wife. Too bad she didn’t know just how much he adored her.

“Trust me!” I said. “You’ve helped me far more than I’ve helped you. If you ever need another of my legendary poetry writing sessions only send a message and I’ll be right over.”

She nodded and clutched the paper to her chest. I waved goodbye and hastily sent a message off to Reneou, one of my information brokers in the city named Gray Skies Fall on the Weary.

Forty minutes after I received his reply I walked through a nasty unkempt district where the cobbles turned to mud, and NPC prostitutes, panhandlers, and drug dealers roamed plying their disease infested trades. These NPCs, or more accurately 2-dimensional constructs in a 3-dimensional shell, were throwbacks from before the elven race became a client of the alien entity known as the Passivity Precept.

Within this run-down area was a player owned bar called General Thugg’s Tavern. Its sturdy box-like architecture was also a throwback.

After passing a hard-faced warrior who acted as a bouncer, I stepped into the building filled with the rowdiest rogues in the city. Even this early, men and women sat around scattered tables drinking from reusable glass bottles the area was known for producing.

My silver trimmed azure robes and sapphire embedded platinum hair contrasted with the clientele’s roughly used armor, but as a bard, if I didn’t look out of place, those people would watch me far too carefully. That was a rookie mistake I hadn’t made in years.

Reneou called me over to a corner booth. The piece of furniture had seen better days and showed its failing durability in the cracks and gouges scattered throughout the once beautiful wood. I slid in, and the seat wobbled menacingly.

“Do you have them?” He asked.

I pushed over the velvet wrapped bag that held the necklace from earlier along with the bracelets and earrings from the same set that I’d finagled from another two happy customers.

Reneou stared at the objects, using his observe skill to check the validity of each item. When he was satisfied he nodded, and I received a message in my chat.

Reneou Grayslayer: The books you’re looking for are in the Crimsondahlia’s office safe.

I frowned, focused on the chat and thought my response. When I was satisfied, I sent it.

Lorevinel Silvercat: Which Crimsondahlia? There are a lot of them, you know.

His lips twitched.

Reneou Grayslayer: Davis, of course.

“Of course?” I hissed. We both knew how dangerous the level 2 merchant was. He commanded armies with his in-sim wealth but stayed safe in the comfort of his low-level protection from player versus player (PVP), a feature that was only instituted twenty years ago due to players complaining about the abuse of higher level assholes, some of whom had been there from the sim’s start.

Reneou Grayslayer: Don’t worry. There is still plenty of time before he moves them again.

Lorevinel Silvercat: And just how is anyone supposed to get past his security?

Reneou Grayslayer: I’m sure this city’s only Master Bard can get himself and a thief into the man’s Bonded Celebration.

Wait, when had Davis Crimsondahlia found his soul bonded? And why was I only hearing about this now?

“How long till the party?” I asked, trying and failing to keep the shock from my voice. “And don’t think I didn’t hear you call me a Master Bard you facetious little liar. My jailer has me frozen at level 4, not 40, so it’s not like I have the levels for that title.”

He smirked. “The event is in four days. And stop with the whole demeaning of yourself, you know bards are all non-combat skills and healing anyway, so don’t try to deny your skill mastery.”

I ground my teeth. “What mastery? Master bards need to have all their skills at level 70 or above, and I only have a few that high.”

He patted my arm as if being kind to an invalid. “Sure. Keep denying. People might actually believe it.”

“And being all skills in this violence simulator is—”

“Very profitable,” Reneou cut in with narrowed eyes.

I grinned. “Maybe.”

A loud bang crashed through the room. I jerked around to see that the tavern’s door had been slammed open so hard the handle sent a crack through the plaster up to the ceiling. Inside the doorway, framed by harsh light, stood the short seething blade warrior named Duggory, Renallia’s husband.

“Who is that?” Reneou said.

I suppressed a groan. “The husband of my last client.”

His chuckle echoed behind me. “Good luck with that.”

“It’s not how it sounds,” I said turning back to him, but he’d already slunk away.

“Bard! You dare lay a hand on my flower and joy?”

The bar patrons all turned toward Dug and me. I could almost feel their bloodlust.

“Look Duggory. I didn’t do anything.”

“Haven't done anything? Haven’t! Done! Anything!” He stepped toward me with each word. “Last night, you came to meet my flower in secret, and this morning you left like the love thief you are!”

I winced. “I only spent the night, so I could work on your wife.”

I froze and repeated what I’d said in my head. Blood drained from my face. Had I actually just said that?

Duggory’s level 10 gauntleted fist flew forward. I scrambled out of the booth while barely dodging the man’s attack.

“Ooooo,” some of the more vocal members crowed.

“It’s not how it sounds, I’m just sleep deprived, so the sim is screwing with my words. What I meant to say is that I stayed up all night with your wife.”

Okay, that didn’t sound that much better.

“Oh my!”

“Burn!”

“Kill him!”

My cheeks inflamed.

I barely managed to dodge his next flying punch. Of course, I then stumbled back into a table filled with mostly empty mead bottles, toppling both it and myself over. Glass shattered. Blinding pain shot through my shoulder and stray shards sliced into my wrist.

A helpful prompt appeared.

Warning! You have dislocated your shoulder, and you’re bleeding. You will lose 1 HP every second until you have healed.

Since at level 4 I only had 49 HP and had already lost a few, that wasn’t good.

Dug grabbed my neck and forced me up to stand on my toes. I was nearly a foot taller than him, so his arm shook with the effort. Or rage. At this point, it could be either one.

Warning! You are being choked!

A line of bubbles appeared helpfully showing how much air I had left.

Wait. I was a bard. One of the sim’s best healers and buffers, I could heal myself, so why the hell wasn’t I doing that?

I focused on my highest leveled self-healing spell, Healing Pinch, and burned 10 Mana. My HP rose back up into the upper 40s.

Next, I had to make him stop choking me. I purposefully did not fight back even though I could have easily used Moving Speech to force him off me. If I allowed him to think of me as a threat, he wouldn’t listen, and I needed him to listen.

His brown eyes appeared black in the dim lighting. “I owe you a thousand. No, a million agony filled deaths for what you’ve done you cuckolding snake scum!”

“You idiot! I was teaching her to write a poem for you!”

He frowned and took far too long to process the information. His grip tightened on my throat, crushing it. My health plunged toward zero.

“Why would my precious flower ask you to help her with that?”

As the second to the last bubble popped I frantically slapped his arm. He grudgingly released me. I sucked in lungful after lungful of beautiful precious air, even though it smelled of stale alcohol and body odor.

“Because,” I said then coughed. “She wanted to tell you how much she loves you and is committed to you even though you two aren’t bonded. She couldn’t find the words for a poem. Everyone knows how much you love poetry, and everyone knows I’m the best bard here. So, she asked me to help. I do teach private lessons.”

He looked at me with suspicion, but I knew I had him. “I’m also an advocate of non-bonded love. I would never get in the way of such fiercely loyal people like you and your wife. I swear it! Like most everybody, I’m a product of a non-bonded marriage myself, and I’ve seen with my own eyes how bonded lovers only make each other miserable! But the romance that you two share... Well, it’s beautiful. Truly. And I would never do anything to hurt something so lovely. Can you please forgive my thoughtless, sleep-deprived words from earlier?”

He glared at me and said nothing for a very long time. A bead of cold sweat trickled down my spine.

Finally, after what felt like years he nodded. “To hear such rose-colored words from a sapphire man… My mind wanders and imagines the depth of betrayal such a mind and mouth could inspire. However, your confabulation has planted a seed of trust. You have convinced me to not let your life end a million times. You don’t deserve that.”

The tension left my limbs.

“Once should suffice.”

Shining metal. Pain. Blackness.

You have been killed by Duggory Redholder. Your current death penalty is: “Jethia Ravenborn will question you about the birthday gift you plan to get her.”

Good luck, and try not to die again. It’s getting old, isn’t it?

I woke up on the bed in my room at the Ravenborn Townhouse. With its gray comforter, too white walls and hard mattress it felt more like what it was, a prison cell. The only forgiving thing was that it smelled of sweet beeswax and freshly sliced lemon.

A message appeared in my chatbox.

Duggory Redholder: Go near my wife again, and I shall let the fires of a thousand mages fall upon you.

I shuddered. It looked like I wouldn’t be helping Renallia any time in the next two decades.

With an air of determination the bitch who kept me prisoner burst into my room. I plastered on a practiced smile. Loathing simmered in my chest as the tips of Jethia Ravenborn’s painted pink lips twisted upward. She shoved a lock of auburn behind her pointed ear showing off the tattoo of a Phoenix on her lobe. In that moment I had no poetic words to describe how much I hated her.

“A little bird tells me you have big plans for my birthday present.”

My smile turned into a grin as I recounted all the beautiful plans I had. Plans for my escape from the prisoner’s collar that had kept me under her thumb for the past 5 in-sim years. That damn collar that should have come off 3 years ago when I turned 18, but she managed to keep it on me despite her Raven Clan’s promise to the Passivity Precept to free me when I reached adulthood.

“If I tell you,” I said, “it’ll ruin the surprise.”

She walked up to the bed and straddled my thighs. Her eyes gleamed, likely because of my obvious revulsion. “But I want to know.”

“Too bad.”

She shoved me down and pressed a hand to my Adam's apple. Her level 14 shield warrior’s strength crushed my throat just enough to stop air entering my lungs.

Warning! You are being choked... again. You really need to stop getting into these positions.

The familiar pressure caused me to try to thrash and buck her off me, but she controlled my body, thanks to that damn collar, so my muscles only tensed and strained as if every inch of me had been tied down. Even though I knew it wouldn’t work, I attempted to use Moving Speech.

You cannot attack your jailor!

I tried it again anyway.

You are a free-roaming prisoner and cannot use an attack spell against your jailor, even in self-defense.

My world dimmed at the edges just before I lost my last bubble. She released my throat. I sucked in a deep breath.

Prisoner’s collar my ass. More like a slave’s collar.

Another blasted prompt appeared as the system read my thoughts.

The PPVS does not allow for slavery in the simulator. If you feel like your character is a slave, then feel free to exit the simulation and create a new character. The penalty will be reduced by half.

Except that I couldn’t leave the simulation, ever. Because of an act of vengeance against my clan, the Passivity Precept considered me dead within my original reality, the elven realm.

“Let’s try this again. What do you have planned for my birthday?”

“I plan to get you the most amazing gift, my beloved jailor.”

She leaned over me, her lips inches from my own and I swore that if she kissed me, I would puke in her mouth, regardless of the sim’s lack of throw up. “That’s more like it. Now, what are you getting me?”

“Gauntlets of Garesh.”

She sucked in a breath, and I could see the greed glint in her violet eyes. “But those can only be made by an Adept Artificer! You’ve found one!?”

“Not yet. But I will soon. I’ll just need your permission to leave for a week or two in five or six day’s time.”

“But my birthday is in three weeks. That’s cutting it a bit close.”

“Have you ever tried to find an Adept Artificer?”

Her cheeks turned red, and I thought she would slap me. “Of course I have! They’re like trying to find a Silverwood tree in the Plains of Perfection!”

I smirked.

“You know of a way. Tell me!”

I shrugged, and she pulled my hair. “Ow!”

“Tell me!”

“I don’t know if it will work. There is a chance it won’t.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve promised me the gauntlets so if you don’t give them to me I’ll be very disappointed, and you know how I can’t even stand to look at you when you disappoint me.”

A chill ran down my spine at that particular threat, but it wouldn’t matter. I was going to get free, and she would never harass or hurt me again. Nor would her sadistic friends she loaned me to.

She stood. “You have my permission to leave the city in 5 or 6 days. From there, if you are not back in 14 days your body will walk back to me, regardless of your situation.” I watched her saunter to the entrance of my room, then pause.

“And, Lore. Even if you succeed, don’t think I’ll be so grateful that I’ll rip that collar from your throat. Your clan has a lot to make up for, you know.”

I forced another smile. “After that beautiful beating, you gave me when I last demanded that you free me? I think I’ve learned my lesson.”

She nodded and left.

I sat in the lotus position and meditated. I imagined cutting her into little slices, for the 5786th time. When I’d had enough mental revenge, I exited the small room in the Raven Clan’s townhouse just inside the city and headed towards my home away from jail cell, the Rogues Guild.