Double-Blind: A Modern LITRPG

A new game meant new players. And new players meant unknown quantities.

When I’d first considered how to approach members of the court, I resolved to treat them with a modicum of goodwill. Unlike the rest of the order, most weren’t there because they chose to be. They’d all been aggressively recruited. Some more forcefully than others, as Nick stood in clear evidence of.

Still, that was only how they started. Post recruitment, they were elevated, informed of their status, and treated as nobility with all the luxuries and kid gloves that implied. From what I understood, most of them hadn’t set foot outside during the last transposition, let alone contributed to the efforts.

In short, they were coddled.

Case-in-point: the base camp.

There were the usual trappings for an extended dungeon crawl—medical tents, cots, crafters and quartermasters for both guilds. But past them, was the court lounge.

Their servants—and yes, of course they had servants—had only just finished hauling up a ridiculous assortment of furniture, luxuries, and a banquet spread arranged in the center atop patterned lavish rugs in garish purples and deep reds. They had personal tents, glittering gear, and countless attaches running about. It occurred to me that the Order had—either intentionally or unintentionally—created an almost bizarro version of the Stanford prison experiment, only the ‘prisoners’ in this case believed themselves the ruling class, forming a Costco-brand lottery bourgeoisie. To be fair, the efficacy of this varied person to person. Some stayed grounded, took their luck for what it was, and were trying to make the best of their circumstances.

Others were so deep in the fantasy Kool-aid they couldn’t separate the food-coloring from the cyanide.

A scattered cheer went up as Nick strode into the lounge, back straight, armor clanking in a steady march as he cranked his gigawatt smile to nigh-unbearable levels and waved to the handful of heads that turned to greet him as they passed.

Only a few of them noticed me, fewer still for longer than scant seconds before they returned to their business. In a sense, being Nick’s shadow wasn’t so different from wearing the mask. Prime difference being, if I screwed up and brought suspicion on myself, they’d remember it.

Without breaking stride, Nick threw back both flaps of the central tent and entered. I caught the covering before it could hit me in the face and followed him.

There were five sitting around the table, one pointing emphatically at a map in the center. Nearly half of the court had shown up for this—which was more than I’d expected, less than I’d prefer. The pointer was a redheaded guy in his early twenties, sporting expensive looking light armor and glaring at the rest. “I’m telling you, the boss room has to be here.”

Julian. The Prince.

“Sure.” The gruff response came from an older man in his thirties sitting near the back. He had a muscular build and somehow seemed simultaneously focused on the conversation and bored. HONOR danced on the knuckles of his right hand, tattooed letters cascading as he tapped his fingers on the table. “Thing is though, we don’t have confirmation. No recon whatsoever, beyond your guesswork, Julian. A schoolboy hunch. This is our first official joint op with these people—you really want to go out on a limb and be wrong?”

Nathanial. The Duskblade Knight.

“Perhaps a compromise is in order?” A girl said. She was wearing skull-themed mage’s robes, interweaved with platinum thread in complex patterning, her hair and eyes both dark, accented by goth-adjacent makeup. “A scouting party, lightly armed and armored, small enough to slip through one of the narrower passages undetected. They could stick their heads in—confirm a high-level entity—and disengage.”

Charlotte. Princess of Malediction.

There was a loud scoff, as an unshaven man who clearly thought he was the smartest person in the room pushed horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And you’ll what, cast something on the poor bastards so the door doesn’t slam shut behind them? Oh, that’s right—you only do curses.”

Somehow, Charlotte kept her cool, though her mouth turned downward at the edges. “Denigrating as always. My repertoire has only grown. For that matter, this floor is an anthill. From my limited knowledge, there are few doors to speak of.”

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“Then the tunnel will cave in behind them, or they’ll be cut off by a force-field, or some “glorious” deity will slam their big swinging dick down and block the passage. Whatever. If there’s a boss, most dungeons find a method to trap whoever goes in first. Why don’t you let the grown-ups talk and go grab us all a platter?” He chucked his thumb at the door.

Lucas. Heedful Knight. Subclassed in asshole.

“I have as much of a right to be here as you do.” Charlotte said, clearly seething.

Beside her, a wrinkly old man stared down at the table, holding on to his gnarled staff for support. “I will beseech Hastur for his guidance this day. And should he deign not to answer… I will atone.”

Paul. Priest of Thorns.

Julian rocked back on his heels, looking skyward at the crowning canvas. “Appreciate that. But let’s remember that our patron wants us to be self-reliant. Guardians to the city. He can’t be expected to make every decision for us. Just, please, for the love of god, stop whipping yourself.”

“It is for the love of God that I worship lash to flesh. His score on my temple.”

“Is it really a legitimate mea culpa if that mark arbitrarily disappears when you… heal yourself after the fact?” Lucas asked, shrugging when the others glared at him. “Just saying.”

Paul’s eyes flew open. “Oh. Hm. Perhaps there is wisdom in—”

“Enough.” A regal voice boomed out from the back, cutting the chatter immediately. The source was a woman, pushing six feet tall. The many braids in her long blonde hair made her look more Norse than Arthurian, and with what seemed like near-zero effort, she slammed one side of her double-headed axe into the table, burying it to the haft.

Everyone jumped.

“Shit.” Someone grumbled.

“Seriously? We just had that patched.”

“Silence.”

She scanned the group with a fierce glare, and this time they stayed quiet. “With all this chirping and chattering you forget yourselves. Your place. Julian is the heir apparent. You will all treat him with the fealty and respect he is owed.”

Regarding delusion among the court, Queen Mari was Patient Zero. I’d asked Azure to look into her, convinced the grandstanding LARP had to be an act, relatively certain her intelligence would be low enough that he could do so unimpeded.

I’d been right on the second count, wrong on the first. In the short time he perused her mind, Azure found that the Queen of the Court believed in her charter, mission, and authority completely. There was no part of her that questioned the system or the circumstances that led to her ascent. The padded walls that came before, the orderlies that forced medication down her throat, the electrodes clamped to wet sponges against her scalp, the endless days that stretched on like lesser eternities staring out the window while figures dressed in white shambled in and out of her vision: that was the delusion. She had almost no memories from before, no present family or life to speak of. From what I could tell from Azure’s findings before she ejected him through pure willpower alone, she suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, the sort of fringe extreme that seldom manifested.

After the meteor, her title kicked in and cured the most severe symptoms. She, a blank slate, no longer forcefully detached from reality, but only loosely tethered by it. Until Hastur spoke to her. She was the only member of the court that had sought Aaron out, rather than the other way around.

She was a true believer.

And in my experience, true believers were as rare as they were dangerous.

“Until the King is either found or made, I am the reigning authority. My son speaks with my voice and you will treat him with respect.” She scanned the table, as if waiting for rebuttal. None came.

Not that cured. Still thinks Julian’s her son, and they can’t be more than ten years apart.

More of note, was that other than a quiet sigh, Julian didn’t challenge her at all.

“Ceaseless Knight.” Queen Mari lifted her eyes to where Nick stood.

Right on queue, he gallantly dropped to one knee in a respectful bow. “Your Grace.”

I nearly followed him but decided not to. They hadn’t noticed me or didn’t care enough to, but either way it was better not to draw unnecessary attention to myself.

“It’s a relief to see you returned to the fold. I missed you.” There was a tenderness to the statement that disappeared just as quickly. “You heard our conversation, yes?”

“Only the last of it.”

“What would you advise?”

“Yes, let’s consult the favorite.” Lucas muttered, cutting off in a grunt as someone kicked him beneath the table.

“Well.” Nick said, turning back to look at me.

What the hell are you—

“As it happens, my Page is an excellent tactician.” And with that as an introduction and a giant grin, he rose to his feet, placed a hand on my back, and shoved me forward.

You actual bastard.