Dungeon Exploiter

The dungeon changed its rules on us four floors down. That's the worst possible place for a dungeon to change its rules.

It was supposed to be an easy job — a Grade-D swamp under the old golf course, frogs the size of dogs, in and out before dark. Tim's mom had approved it. With conditions. There are always conditions now.

Then, between one floor and the next, every screen in the party lit up at once.

ZONE UPDATE: player-versus-player combat is now ENABLED here.

You agreed to this when you registered. It was in the fine print. Have fun!

"When did we agree to that?" Joe said.

"Page nine of the sign-up form," I said. I'd read it my first day. I read everything. "Everyone agrees. It's bundled in with the normal stuff, like the dental plan."

"What does it mean?" Tim asked.

"It means monsters aren't the only thing allowed to hurt us in here," I said. "People are allowed now too."

The party went quiet in the way I hate. Joe pulled out his insurance papers and started reading. Then he made a small wounded sound. His policy covered attacks by monsters, dungeons, and "acts of God." It did not cover attacks by people. The insurance company classified that as "interpersonal conflict" — which is apparently the official term for someone killing you for money.

* * *

He found us on the fifth floor, and he came in friendly.

An F-rank, by his badge. Brand-new gear, big wave. A rookie separated from his group — thank god I found you guys, this place just went PvP, can I walk with you? Tim was already saying yes. Tim will always already be saying yes. It's the best and most dangerous thing about him.

I watched the guy come down the slope toward us, and I read him. Not his stats. Him.

His badge said F-rank. His gear said F-rank. His feet said something else.

New players don't check corners. They don't know corners are a thing yet. This guy checked every dark pocket on his way down, automatically, without knowing he was doing it. His brand-new boots were broken in at exactly the spots where a trained fighter pivots. His brand-new sword hung strapped for a fast draw.

Stats can be faked. Badges can be rented. Habits can't. You are what you do when you're not thinking about it.

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"Long way from your group," I said.

"Yeah, we got split at the—"

"What's your real rank?"

He smiled. The smile was the last F-rank thing about him. "That obvious?"

"Your feet are S-rank," I said. "Whoever rented you that account should've rented you worse footwork."

Then it happened, fast and ugly. He'd planned on five easy targets. He got a party that runs drills every Saturday. Joe pulled Tim behind cover. Gobi jumped on the man's face — a goblin to the face changes anyone's plans. And when his sword finally cleared the sheath, I slapshotted a hundred-pound frog into his chest from twenty feet away.

Hockey is a real sport.

The frog was fine. Honestly, the frog seemed pleased. It sat on him — all hundred pounds of it — while he wheezed out his surrender.

He talked, once the frog settled in. Renting F-rank accounts to hunt weak parties is a whole business, it turns out. Strong players do it because beating up rookies doesn't hurt their real ranking. And people pay to watch the videos.

"Who flipped this zone to PvP?" I asked. Zones don't flip on their own. Someone has to request it.

He was quiet for a second, deciding which answer scared him less.

"There's a list," he said finally. "A private one. You're on it. Two weeks now." The frog shifted its weight and he talked faster. "But your listing is weird, man. Normal listings pay for proof you're dead. Yours pays only if you're delivered ALIVE. Undamaged. That's a different kind of money. That's the kind of money that has lawyers."

He didn't have a name for who was paying. Lists like that exist so nobody has a name.

We left him for the frogs. That's less cruel than it sounds, and exactly as embarrassing.

* * *

Rob found the listing that night. Of course he did — Rob has accounts in every shady market this city has. He turned his laptop around with the screen dimmed like he was showing us something radioactive.

WANTED: unranked male. Travels with a registered goblin.

Must be delivered ALIVE and UNDAMAGED. Damage cancels payment.

Reward: [hidden]. Payment source: private. Very private.

"Jon," Rob said. "I know disreputable people. I have never seen 'alive and undamaged' on a bounty before. Dead is easy. Alive means a team, a plan, and a budget. Somebody with real money wants you delivered like a package."

"Why alive?" Joe said quietly.

Nobody answered. All the answers were worse than the question. And I kept thinking about a man in a tunnel with two glasses of water, telling me the second offer costs more.

Downstairs, the greeter had set up a second podium by the back door.

It didn't explain. We didn't ask. But it stopped waving people through after dark, and it started writing things down in a little notebook, and the next morning it looked at my face for a long moment and said, "You'll want the back way."

That's what it said the night the store was full of teeth. Monsters see trouble coming before people do. I think watching is just what they're good at. It's what I'm good at too.

NEW SKILL — TELL.

You read what people are, not what they claim to be. Habits don't lie.

Note: the list doesn't have your address. it has your patterns. change your patterns.

I changed our patterns. New routes, new hours, no schedule the same two days in a row. It works, mostly.

But a pattern is just a promise you make without noticing. And I'd already made the oldest one I have: every Thursday, rain or shine, a bag of ketchup chips comes home to a goblin.

Anyone who watches me long enough knows exactly where I'll be on Thursdays. I know that. I keep the promise anyway.

Some patterns are the person. Change those, and there's nothing left worth delivering.