The prison canteen was in actuality, little more than a repurposed boss lair. Having been in one already, I knew what those looked like from experience. The spacious dungeon area was packed with row after row of sturdy wooden tables, all populated by even sturdier individuals. To say that I was feeling nervous in the presence of a small army of criminals in dangerous combat-based avatars was an understatement. The tables of warriors were, in turn, surrounded by a snaking queue of other prisoners… a collection of half-orcs, sorcerers, beastlings and swordsmen that wound all the way across the room. They all had two things in common: the bored expressions that were etched on their faces, and the empty wooden trays in their hands.

If the stares I was getting were anything to go by, my arrival was drawing some attention. To my relief, some of it was even female. I’d seen a female barbarian once already (the impressive-looking amazon of a woman back in the boss lair). But this was my first introduction to the other options provided to the female players. They were hard to spot, being vastly outnumbered by the male prisoners, but I quickly spied a few witches, a pair of female gun mages, and a table of swordswomen, among others.

Catching my gaze, the gathering of swordswomen stared back at me. I couldn’t be sure if they were admiring my well-built avatar, sizing me up for a future mugging, or simply gazing upon the severely beaten noob like a passing motorist might survey the scene of a car accident. Either way, it was interesting to see the female variation of my own avatar. They all wore leather armor, something that might have come in handy in my earlier skirmish. But to my disappointment, they had not jumped on the ‘shirtless swordfighter’ bandwagon as readily as I had.

I flashed them a smile. They flashed me a few unsavory hand gestures. Charming. Evidently, my flirting skill was as low here as it had been IRL. I was saved from the awkward exchange when Samusk punched me in the leg and suggested that we hurry up and get in line. The seemingly endless queue led to the prize we’d all ventured here for: the serving table, where two huge steaming cauldrons of who-the-hell-knows-what awaited us.

As we took our place behind a grey-skinned individual garbed in a fur cape, I caught sight of something that filled me with even more dread than all of the other prisoners combined. It was the closest thing that the repurposed lair now had to a boss. The eight-foot yellow-skinned monstrosity casually strode amongst the prisoners, like a giant tennis ball that had somehow grown limbs. It had a jagged row of teeth that could be mistaken for a belt, and a row of black, blinking eyes. It had to be another of those damned demons. (Or a zombified version of Pac-Man, I couldn’t be certain which.) Either way, it made for an imposing presence, easily dwarfing the half-orcs and barbarians as it waded past them, like a shark casually making its way through a tank crammed with piranha. I prayed that the odd creature was more interested in maintaining order than the one I’d encountered earlier. I’d been kicked around more than enough for one day.

I wanted to pick the dwarfs brain a bit more, see if he could tell me anything about the imposing creature. Specifically, I wanted to know more about its diet. But I could tell the dwarf was growing tired of my non-stop questions, so I decided against it. There would be more important things to ask him.

Instead, I focused my attention on the hulking individual who stood before me in the queue, beginning an (admittedly fruitless) attempt to will my painfully-absent perception skill into existence. After a few futile attempts to stare a hole in the oblivious player’s back (and a few less than friendly stares back when the half-orc finally realized what I was up to) I attempted to read a few players the old-fashioned way instead, turning my attention to a table of robed, bearded individuals. They were members of the arcane class, that much was obvious, their category marked by their robes and their lack of either muscle or armor. One grouping had pointy hats and wore brightly colored robes. The other carried staffs and looked positively down-and-out by comparison, their robes cut from a murky green sackcloth, and devoid of any embellishment. I’d already seen the garb of the wizard during my own avatar’s selection process, so by process of elimination, I decided that the latter grouping had to be the warlocks.

Disappointingly, this detective-like act of observance did not generate the perception skill for me either. Perhaps Samusk was right. Unlike say, resilience, which could be developed just by standing up to a beating, teaching oneself how to perceive was a whole different ballgame. I was probably going to need another unallocated base point to kickstart that particular skill. And if the windfall from the shadow stallion’s defeat had been anything to go by, base points were not being handed out lightly.

The line slowly shuffled forward. With little else to do while I queued, I continued my efforts to will my fellow player’s stats into view. So distracted was I by these efforts, that I walked straight into a wall. Or it may as well have been a wall, at any rate. It was the half-orc. Seven-foot-tall, skin as grey as granite, and if the chest was anything to go by, female. And no, I wasn’t being a pervert by focusing on her frontage, I swear. It’s just that I wasn’t getting the usual abundance of clues regarding her gender from her face, so I had to rely on other visual aids. (Incidentally, this act of observation didn’t earn me a perception point either.)

I quickly apologized, throwing up my hands in what I hoped was the universal language of ‘I don’t want any trouble.’ Alas, the half-orc was not versed in that particular language, or if she was, she did not have the same aversion to violence. Before I could even register what was happening, one of her powerful hands was around my neck, the other cupping my crotch. She hoisted me overhead as if I weighed nothing and threw me right onto the table of a nearby pack of diners.

-[ Half-orc warrior throws you for -12HP damage. ]-

“I noticed, thanks.”

Yup, that was all I needed. My new body was already aching, having regenerated roughly half my max HP, so far. Of course, I was soon to learn that a missing 12HP was now the least of my concerns.

“What the hell you playing at, noob?” spat the booming voice of one of the table’s occupants. For the second time in under a minute, a powerful grip clamped down on my throat, before hoisting me up like a rag-doll. But this time, it didn’t belong to the half-orc.

As he brought me to his face, I realized he was a swordsman, like me. Well, sort of. Unlike me, he wore a light armor, had long jet-black hair, and his face was completely tattooed with a spider-web motif. Oh, and he was a good foot taller than me, which explained why my throat was straining and my feet were dangling. I made to speak, but the powerful hand wrapped around my throat was hampering my efforts. He stared at me intently. And then he sighed, dropping me unceremoniously to my ass.

“Bloody hell, fella. On first glance, I thought you were some kinda anorexic barbarian or summat. But now I see you’re just a swords-noob. What happened to your tunic? Caught short on laundry day, were ya?”

He offered me a hand up, which I graciously accepted.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Heh. Well, it’s good to see that I wasn’t the only one dumb enough to go redemption class. The prisons infested with bloody barbarian’s and-” he stopped mid-sentence, before pointing out the obvious. “Blimey, you really fucked yourself on the stat allocation there, didn’t you mate? Truth be told, I was planning to throw you back again, but I think I’m actually starting to feel sorry for you.”

He leaned in closer, whispering in my ear: ‘You know, this prison can be a pretty dangerous place for a noob. But I might be inclined to offer you… protection. I’m a level 6 swordsman, you know. That makes me a knight.

“Trainee knight” piped up a dwarf from the stranger’s table. The ‘knight’ gave him a withering look, then continued.

“The name’s NoobSlayer. But don’t let that threaten you, I’m always in the market for a fit young squire.”

Squire? Crap. Only my first day here and my ‘fit’ avatar is already attracting the wrong kind of attention. Maybe I should have picked a damn dwarf after all.

“Um, I appreciate the offer, I really do,” I lied, being careful not to offend the huge knight with the scary facial tattoo, “but I want to stand on my own two feet as much as possible…”

“A pity,” he replied with a sigh, “but a respectable strategy, in the long-term. Listen, ah…”

“Shade,” I offered.

“Shade the swords-noob,” he replied with a smirk, “I like it. Let me give you a little tip, Shade. Acts of public humiliation make you look weak. A few more incidents like that and you’ll unofficially develop the prison-bitch skill. And trust me, that’s the kiss of death. You need to toughen up. Raise your level as quickly as you can. Spar with your cell-mate at every opportunity, that’s how most prisoners grind their skills.”

I turned, directing the swordsman’s gaze to my dwarven accomplice.

“Satisfying as it would be, I don’t think beating him around the cell like a dwarf-shaped pinata would do either of us any good. It might help his resistance, I suppose… but he’s a zero, so I don’t even know if he can raise that stat.”

“Fucking hell, you really do have nothing going for you besides your looks, do you?” He pondered my situation for a few seconds, adding: “Look, I can help you grind your swordsmanship. Sparing with a prisoner who’s below your level won’t do shit for your XP, but sparing with a level 6 like me could really fast-track you.”

“That… sounds amazing.”

“Only problem is, helping you out would cost me, in the long run. I’d be giving up time I could have spent hunting mobs. That’s why nothing comes for free around here. I tell you what… bring me something to make my stay go a little easier, and I’ll spar with you for a few hours, see if we can raise you a level or two.”

“Like what,” I asked, silently hoping that we weren’t venturing back into ‘squire’ territory.

“High-quality meat. Cigarettes, booze… hell, dark crystal meth if you can get your hands on it. I’m open to just about any vice, especially if I don’t have to risk my own rep acquiring it. You bring me the pleasure, I’ll show you how to dish out the pain.

-[ Quest received from user: NoobSlayer. Would you like to view further details? ]-

I really should have learned my lesson by now, but I clicked ‘yes’ anyway.

NEW QUEST – Pleasure the knight.

NoobSlayer has asked you to acquire various items that may go some small way toward easing his stay in the dungeon.

Goal: Satisfy the knight’s various vices.

Type of quest – Repeatable.

Reward: One training session per item acquired.

Rep effect – Neutral, but with a risk of rep loss if caught in possession of illegal contraband.

Accept Y/N?

“Did you have to give it that title?” I groaned, clicking yes, regardless. I had no idea where I was going to get any of the things he mentioned, but I knew I couldn’t afford to turn down the offer of a training session with a swordsman who was three times my level.

NoobSlayer smirked. “Nice one. For both our sakes, I hope that you succeed. Now, leave me to get back to my slop before it solidifies. But one last piece of advice before you go… take every opportunity to level up that presents itself to you. And by that I mean do whatever it takes, even if your rep has to suffer in the short term. You’re here for the long haul, so you can always make up for it later.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I replied with an admittedly insincere smile, rubbing my recently man-handled throat. With that, I turned on my heel and returned to the queue. Thankfully, the wizard behind us didn’t object to my rejoining. And to my even greater relief, the half-orc was gone. I enquired as to where she had gotten to, exactly (not that I was nervous or anything) and Samusk replied by pointing further up the line. I was just in time to watch her drag some poor bastard out of the queue to take his place. Even the lone guard didn’t fancy tackling her. Either that, or he just didn’t care enough to intervene.

“That fella was right, you know,” began Samusk.

“Look, if he finds himself some noob with a thing for tattooed giants, more power to him. But there is no fucking way I’m polishing his sword for ‘protection.’”

“Not that ye dumb asshole. I mean he was right about doin’ whatever it takes. Your reputation isn’t just influenced by doin’ right and wrong. It’s also about how the general populace perceives ye. And lettin’ a woman throw yeh around like that isn’t goin’ to do ye any favors.”

“A surprisingly sexist statement, considering how far that particular woman could throw you, if she tried.”

“Believe me, I was more than concerned about that possibility. Chiefly because I’ve hired such a lightweight as a bodyguard. I’m startin’ to wonder if breakin’ our contract would be worth the rep penalty.”

“Thanks. I can see that our arrangement is going to do wonders for my ego.”

“Screw your ego,” he replied, “Look at her. Do you think she has to worry about bein’ picked on? That’s a woman who knows how to survive.”

“By using me as a lawn dart? Does she have a noob-throwing skill she’s trying to level up or something?”

“By making her actions count, lad. This is the busiest spot in the prison. There’s no better place to instill maximum fear, with minimum effort.”

I studied the half-orc’s avatar from afar, before concluding: “So what you’re saying is, I should go pay her back while I still have an audience?”

“Hell’s bells lad, that’s not what I meant, either. She’d crush you to noob-paste. I’m tellin’ ye to take advantage of yer level 2 status, and prove to these bastards that ye have the killer instinct to go with it. I’ll use my perception to find ye some level 1 noob to rough up. That should help ye establish yer position a little higher on the food chain-”

“I’m not bullying the other newcomers,” I cut in, giving the dwarf a stern look to show him that I meant it.

“But-”

“End of discussion,” I snapped. “I hurt plenty of folks who didn’t deserve it in my old life. I don’t intend to carry that behavior over to my new one.”

Samusk scowled, but he seemed to get the message, leaving it at that. For the moment, at least.

“How the hell did she get so strong, anyway?” I asked as I handed the dwarf a tray from the pile, attempting to get past the now icy atmosphere between us. “I mean yeah, half-orc, I get that much. But I thought the one positive to my stat allocation would be my strength. She was way stronger than I am.”

“Yeah, you’re the most physically powerful noob in noobsville,” replied Samusk, taking my meager wooden peace-offering. “But ye have to realize, some of these bastards have been here since the day the prison went online.”

The revelation stunned me.

“What? But that was six years ago. You mean to tell me there are prisoners here who never made it past the dungeon stage?”

“More than ye could possibly imagine. And mark my words, that one’s been on the front line, levelling up against powerful mobs.”

“So just how powerful is she? I enquired. “I can’t read her stats, remember?”

“Her strength and resilience are easily double what you’re packing, for a start.”

“Seriously? Damn. Well, at least I don’t feel so bad about getting my ass handed to me, anymore.”

For all the relief that brought me. I was really starting to grasp the magnitude of my earlier error. Not putting any points into perception had been a colossal mistake. Had I stridden up to the half-orc demanding vengeance, the subsequent ass-kicking in front of the assembled warriors would only have damaged my image even further. Without the aid of Samusk’s perception, I had no way to be sure of my odds of success. Everyone in this dungeon was wearing either a digitized copy of the body they wore in their old life, or a bastardised version of it, with an added sprinkling of orc, beastling, or in the case of Samusk, dwarf. The problem with such bodies, even the ones with cookie-cutter alterations like grey skin or extra muscle mass, was that they gave me no indication of the true strength levels that were contained within. Sure, even an idiot could tell that a newly spawned half-orc, beastling or barbarian would likely be stronger than a newly spawned swordsman, you could tell that just by looking at their pumped-up pixels. But I was no longer in a holding pen for the newly spawned, and surface observations weren’t worth a damn. My muscle mass as a level 2 swordsman was identical to the physique I had possessed back when I was level 1. Looks were deceiving. How long would it be before I found out that an opponent was a level 10 the hard way?