When I get out of here…
He pushed the thought back down into its box. No time to think about the real world, that’d just lead to another panic attack. He focused on the game. He’d only been on a starting island once before, and last time all he’d had to do was follow the treeline until… yes. There it was.
Ahead, a small stream cut through the trees and filtered out to sea. Fresh water burbling between rocks. He reached it and dropped to his knees, cupped his hands, and scooped a mouthful up.
Crisp, cool water hit his tongue, bringing instant relief. A few more scoops and the debuff vanished. A short time later, the water drop icon was full. That should last him an hour or so if he stuck to the shade.
Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he stood. “Alright, can I get back to finding a Wilson now? It’s getting weird talking to myself.
“Well, don’t talk to yourself then?
“My sanity hinges on a constant stream-of-consciousness.” Darren’s stomach grumbled, and he looked around, trying to spot a fruit-bearing bush of some kind. “I’m a streamer by trade, talking constantly is my job. It’s just weird when no one's watching.”
He spotted a small bush dotted with black berries. A few minutes later, his fingers were stained dark purple, and the flashing food icon had chilled the stuff out. Though it was still only a quarter full. Good enough for now, but far from ideal. He’d need meat and a fire soon.
“Sorry, Wilson, you’ll have to wait. I need to get cracking on actually surviving this game… or life? I don’t know right now.” He tapped a finger on his stubbled chin. “Wood, flint, a cord of some kind, and fish.”
Darren strode deeper into the trees. Slowly, they changed from sparse palm trees to a jungle that grew denser with every step. Insects buzzed and hummed around him, flies getting right up in his grill.
Eventually, he found a tree with a dead limb on it that didn’t look rotten. A few heaves later, he had it snapped off with a nice jagged end on it. The branch was roughly one and a half metres long and fairly straight, almost like it was specifically placed for a player to make their first spear from.
<<<<>>>>
Wooden Spear (Shoddy)
Little more than a stick, this shoddy wooden spear barely qualifies as a weapon. But it’s better than pissing into the wind.
-
Damage: 8 (base 2 + 6 from STR)
-
Damage Type: Piercing
-
Critical Modifier: 2x
<<<<>>>>
He raised the spear above his head with two hands and pumped the air, letting out a war cry reminiscent of a robed, desert-dwelling alien species from a galaxy far, far away…
New weapon in hand, and now completely soaked in sweat in the still, humid air of the jungle, he picked his way further inland. He needed to find some flint and a thin fibrous vine.
Then he noticed how silent the jungle had become.
“It’s okay, Darren, we’re on a starter island. It’ll just be a level one mob.”
He brandished his spear and slowly turned, scanning the undergrowth.
There! A flicker of movement. Two yellow eyes on a black feline face stared back at him. He focused on it, and a tag appeared above its head.
<<<<>>>>
Island Panther
The Island Panther is the feared apex predator of Razorfin Rock. All teeth, claws, and pent-up rage.
-
Level: 6
-
HP: 72
<<<<>>>>
Darren focused on it, preparing to cast Twist of Fate. The panther glowed a faint blue in his mind's eye, showing that he had a target focused for the spell. He cast it.
<<<<>>>>
Cast failed!
Stolen novel; please report.
Level 6 Island Panther resists Twist of Fate.
<<<<>>>>
“Ah shi—”
The panther slammed into him, knocking him over, spear wrenched from his grip as it snagged on a thick vine.
The panther spun and brought a paw down.
Darren rolled to the side. He barely avoided the wicked claws that slammed into the ground where his head had vacated.
He scrambled to his feet, slipping in the damp soil, and darted toward his spear hanging in the vine.
Blinding pain lacerated his back, and the air burst from his lungs. Visceral panic welled in his chest and his throat tightened as he remembered he had no respawn.
His vision tunnelled as the heavy hit sent him staggering as he fought to fill his empty lungs—
—right towards the spear.
Forcing the fear and panic down, he grabbed the weapon and pivoted, gasping in pain as he brought it down like a club.
Crack!
The panther growled and backed off, a health bar appearing above its head. The hit had barely taken 10% of its health off. He was gonna have to do better. However, the panther was at least wary now.
The two combatants circled each other. Darren, still wheezing, adjusted his grip, holding the spear with two hands.
Waiting.
The panther leapt.
Darren stepped back, planting the butt of the spear into the ground.
Airborne, the panther could do nothing.
It hit. There was a moment of resistance as the cat’s thick hide nearly did its job.
Nearly.
The moment passed, and the glorified stick sank into the creature’s chest with a wet squelch—a critical hit. The spear decided it’d done enough work for the day and snapped.
The panther let out a high-pitched yowl that rattled Darren’s skull. He barely managed to push himself out of the way as the panther and spear collapsed. With a heave, he yanked the piece of spear still wedged in the panther free. Blood gushed from the wound, splattering Darren’s legs.
The panther’s health sat at barely 25%, dropping rapidly. The combination of the spear being planted and the leap meant the panther’s strength score counted instead of Darren’s own, dramatically increasing the damage.
It took a feeble step towards him, staggering.
He jabbed the broken spear at it. The panther flinched away.
20%.
The panther seemed to sense the end was near and turned to flee. It didn’t make it far before Darren was on it, wailing away with the spear-turned-club as the panther screamed.
Then silence.
Slowly, birds began to twitter and insects resumed their chaotic symphony as safety returned to the jungle.
<<<<>>>>
You have defeated Island Panther!
40XP
<<<<>>>>
Darren stood there, hands on his knees, panting. Adrenaline coursed through his body, leaving him shaking like a leaf. He straightened and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Sometimes the realism of this game got to him. It was only pixels. He wasn’t really here; that wasn’t really a panther.
But… right now he was just code and pixels, right? Code and pixels that could be deleted forever with one misstep. No respawn. His throat tightened, and he shook his head. No. “Alright, box it back up, Darren. No time for an existential crisis while you process your apparent demise and reduction to being a bunch of ones and zeroes.”
He took another look at the notification. Only 40XP from that kill.
“Are you serious?” he muttered. With just over 50,000 experience needed to level, it would take him nearly 1,300 kills to gain a level. The Classless “progression” tree was brutal.
From the documentation he’d read before loading into Isle of Pirates, he knew that the average NPC functioned more like a minion from a MOBA-style game. Low level and plentiful. It made sense from a technical perspective in a game with vast sea battles.
Having a ship full of up to 800 high-level sailors would be a nightmare.
The logic didn’t change how much it sucked to be a “minion”. He sighed. Not that any of that mattered; he had no intention of sticking around this game for longer than it took him to find the exit.
He knelt by the panther and laid a hand on its shoulder. Before he could loot it, a stab of pain lanced through his back, and he sucked in a sharp breath, remembering the panther claws raking his skin. With a thought, he pulled up his status effects.
<<<<>>>>
Bleeding!
Island Panther has inflicted you with bleeding. Treat wound before you bleed out.
-2 health per minute.
<<<<>>>>
“You better not die after all that, Darren,” he muttered. A glance at his health bar told him he was still around three-quarters, so he had some time. The pain had already faded—far faster than it would have IRL. He could barely even remember what it felt like, some kind of muting that the game did. You could feel a lot, but the pain and the memory of it was quickly gone.
He gazed down at his beautiful, artisan Threadbare Shirt. Lovingly crafted, doubtless by an old lady with ruddy cheeks and a ready smile. A gift for her grandson as he ventured into the world to seek his fortune.
Years had gone by, and the shirt had seen little in the way of love, none like that which knit it in the womb. Now it hung from his filthy frame, a shadow of its former self, its original owner probably long dead.
Aaaaand he’d have to destroy it further for bandages.
“Rest in pieces, shirt. Because, get it, I have to rip you into pieces.” Darren laughed to himself. Nothing like a bit of disassociation through poor humour. He focused again on the panther’s corpse.
<<<<>>>>
Would you like to loot Island Panther?
Yes. No.
<<<<>>>>
He chose yes, and the body vanished, leaving a neatly folded hide and several pieces of pre-butchered meat. And an eyeball. Of course. Nothing to help with bleeding. Of course.
Darren picked up the looted items and willed them into his inventory. They disappeared, safely deposited. He appreciated now more than ever that the game gave him an inventory even without having a bag. More than one game he’d played in recent years had opted for extreme realism on that front, and he could only carry what he could physically hold or stuff in a sack. Not a fun way to play. But… they usually had some hilarious exploits.
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the dirt and sweat built up in the wavy locks. Why hadn’t he picked a short haircut in character creation? Oh, that’s right. This was a test character made for laughs. At least he hadn’t tried to break the character creation and create a misshapen monster this game. Darren shuddered. “Close call, Darren. Close call.”
And then he remembered… He pulled up his player sheet with a sinking feeling.
Yup, there it was.
<<<<>>>>
Name: Biggus Bottomus
<<<<>>>>
He tipped his head back and let out a long, weary groan. Stupid infatuation with old British comedies. When he got out of here, he was never going with a dumb name or look again. Though, at least he hadn’t called himself Big-Fat-Ugly-Bug-Face-Baby-Eating-O'Brien.