BLACK SALT CORSAIRS WORLD DEATHMATCH

  Please pay attention! These rules will not be repeated and you may only review them on this RiftTok video—Sponsored by RageNectar Energy Drink—Drink haarrd.

  Eight days. I’ve been unconscious for eight days. I try to wrap my head around it but the system announcement isn’t waiting for me.

  

  The RiftStorm will destroy the world in 1 day and all characters will be returned to their tombs. Before you die, however, one of you will be crowned King or Queen of Black Salt Corsairs! Let’s take a look at that Leaderboard!

  A bunch of names populate the sky as the Player Leaderboard lights up. “Oh look!” cries Pepper. “There’s Anna S’s Weapons of Ass Destruction! And there’s the team that won the Rob a God quest!”

  I barely hear her. I lost eight days, zoned out in a hospital bed somewhere. There’s no way I can make enough Hype to buy my way out before the RiftStorm hits. I’m at the mercy of HumanAsset, and I’m not sure they know the word.

  Everyone on the Leaderboard is a RiftElite player with a Battle Pass Subscription. No surprises there. I have a moment of satisfaction as I see Arrogorn’s Respawn Rangers are also on the list, but they’re barely hanging on at the bottom in 20th place. I remember the stupid look on his face when he melted and suppress a bitter laugh.

  

  The World Deathmatch is a competition to find and destroy the Great Leviathan before the RiftStorm devours the world and Black Salt Corsairs ends. Every player in the world will participate, but only one player or party can win. This quest is divided into three parts: Booty Run, Fine Tooth Comb & Final Deathmatch. More on those events later.

  As the AI is yammering, I check my map, and for the first time, I finally understand the scope of the RiftStorm. It’s a black swirling mega-system of tornadoes, lightning storms, and demonic explosions of magic death. I watch the storm pass over an island and a video screen flashes a shot of the entire land mass torn into the sky as it disintegrates. No one is surviving that.

  I click my map for a broader view and see the RiftStorm has taken over most of the world and is closing like a fist on the last remaining portion of the map.

  On me.

  The music changes and suddenly goes cloying and sweet like elevator music in an insurance office. I glance in the sky and see the big “Record” light flash on.

  

  Fiscal Guardians (USA Only): Educational & Informational

  Black Salt Corsairs World Deathmatch sponsored by RageNectar meets all federal requirements for youth E/I programming, so your children can learn as they play! Today, they explore one of the great works of American fiction. We extend our appreciation to Congressman Horatio Overall for his efforts to fund this program, and a grant made possible by the Chubb Group. Great things happen when corporations and government collaborate to teach America’s children!

  I see the red dot in the sky wink off and [Video Delivered: All U.S. Cardholders] appears on the sun. I blink, taking it in. I guess HumanAsset has more lobbyists than they know what to do with. I’ve heard of Congressman Overall, a four-term House of Representatives guy out of California, your standard government weasel. He’s no angel, but I can’t believe HumanAsset bribed a congressman enough to get tax dollars allocated to fund their corporate side-hustle. Labeling RiftBorn as educational programming is like listing shrapnel as a good source of iron.

  I guess when you’ve got enough money, you can declare your own reality.

  

  Just kidding, Rifters, we’re not going to make you read anything but your XP score! Let’s race!

  World Deathmatch Phase 1: Booty Run

  Every player must use their vessels for this quest! Your vessels will be placed in the queue according to total party XP. Players who fail to participate will be devoured by the RiftStorm. Your destination is located HERE.

  My HUD flashes and I see a floating marker near the center of the eye of the RiftStorm hurricane labeled SS ValDeezNutz.

  

  Phase 1: Booty Run: The first party to reach this ship will have a 5-minute head start before any other teams can enter. Once aboard, you will begin Phase 2: Fine Tooth Comb. Whoever unravels the mystery first will have a 10-minute head start for Phase 3: The Leviathan Hunt. This will be a Last Man Standing event. Whoever survives the wrath of the Leviathan will be proclaimed King or Queen of the Black Salt Corsairs. The prize includes 10 million gold, 3 bonus Level-ups, an S-Tier LootCrate, eternal #1 placement on the Black Salt Corsairs Leaderboard, and a custom RiftBorn NFT Diamond Deathmatch Badge designed by Shigeru Miyamoto.

  I have to laugh at how good the game designers are at building a sense of competition while offering absolutely nothing as a prize. No cash, no car, not even a free toaster. Just a bunch of digital junk, polished golden turds.

  

  Placement: Your vessels will now be placed at the starting line according to how many points your team has scored.

  The world flies by under my feet, and suddenly I’m standing in the middle of the ocean, looking at a red starting line glowing in the water. Behind the line must be five thousand ships. The big metal ones like the Juggernutz, the RiftElite ships, are staggered up front, huge and gleaming with a long queue behind them. A ways back, the RiftElite badges thin out and I see a lot of Free-to-Play ships, thousands of them stretching to the horizon. I feel like I should wave a green flag to make them all go.

  “Dave!” Pepper tugs my sleeve. “Look!”

  We’re not the only ones standing at the starting line. Evenly spaced in a row facing the ships are several other men and women, standing on the water. LivingLegends.

  Most of them look weak and confused despite their youthful avatars. Old bodies in young skins. All of them look frightened. Pepper looks at them and points. “Dave! They’re like you!”

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Hey,” I yell at the nearest LivingLegend. “I’m Dave. Tallahassee. Where are you from?”

  The avatar turns to me, his eyes glassy. “I need to go home… I need to go home...”

  “Hey!” I turn to my other side. “How about you?”

  “Charlotte,” comes a raspy voice from the Teen Queen K-pop Bubblegum Pixie. She sounds like she’s a hundred years old. “From Charlotte, North Carolina.”

  “Charlotte from Charlotte. Hi.” I see the other LivingLegends disappear one by one, blipping out of existence as they are recruited by competitive RiftElite teams. “Are you okay? How many hearts do you have left?”

  “One.” Charlotte’s head shakes like she’s got Parkinson’s. “I don’t understand how my fighting moves work, can you—” A digital blip! And she's gone. I look around to discover I’m the only LivingLegend left unchosen. It lasts for a long moment until I realize what’s happened. Between my Traitor badge and my -20 Reputation, I’m not getting picked for a dodgeball team. I hate the RiftElites, they hate me. Even Pepper’s MemeQueen skills can’t convince them to draft me. I’m poisoned goods. Cancelled.

  Just a guy standing in the middle of the ocean, waiting to get run over and left behind.

  

  EmpathyEngine?: Sad to See You Go!

  Looks like you need to put in some time perfecting your ‘Works & Plays Well With Others’ skill! Most people learned that in Kindergarten! Chin up! There’s always tomorrow! Oh, wait, there is no tomorrow. Well, thanks for playing and have fun being dismantled by the RiftStorm! Maybe you’ll listen next time!

  I feel a black pit of rage bubble up inside me. “Cram it up your a§s you third-rate compassion cop!”

  My HUD flashes.

  

  You have been invited to join [Critical Troll]

  I slam the button and am transported onto one of the RiftElite ships, feeling like I’ve just escaped the executioner’s axe.

  The Critical Troll team is not dressed in alien armor, they don’t have laser blasters or longswords or crossbows. They’re all period-appropriate pirate costumes, tricorn hats, lace sleeves, and strings of beads. Every single one of them has a peg leg, an eyepatch, and a parrot on their shoulder. They look like budget Jack Sparrow costumes from a cut-rate comic con.

  “Hail, well met, and welcome to our quest, goodman slave!” One of the pirates tips his hat. I ignore him and look around to find I’m in a captain’s stateroom. The wood on the walls is weirdly yellow. The guy’s British, or pretending to be. “I am Captain Alouicious Vossberg. What is your nam… I’m sorry, is there any chance we can lose the penguin?”

  “What?” I glance at Pepper. “Why?”

  Another pirate steps forward. “The animal is not genre appropriate, nor geographically reasonable. An arctic waterfowl in the tropics? It’s absurd.”

  “And anachronistic,” agrees another.

  What kind of team did I just join? A bunch of cosplayers? “She’s fine. Pepper’s great, actually. She’ll make you guys famous.”

  “Yeah! I sure can!” Pepper claps her hands and digital Head Fake sparkles shower the captain’s cabin. The eight pirates look at her, unimpressed, confetti sticking to their hats.

  “We are here to role-play in a classical environment.” A lady pirate lifts her chin. “We are here for veritas. For realism. Verisimilitude. Not to…” She screws up her face. “Smash that ‘Like’ button.”

  I’m not dealing with this. There are too many community theater Long John Silvers in this room. I need to see where we are in the regatta ranks. I climb the ladder and emerge onto the deck, stopping short. I’m on a classic pirate ship—but it’s far larger than it looked from below. I’m at least forty feet above the ocean, higher than some boats’ masts, with a commanding view of the entire field. The view confirms what I already feared: my placement is bad. We’re a hundred ships back from the starting line.

  A few ships ahead of me, I see a familiar face. Anna S.

  “Oo, it’s Anna!” Pepper claps. “Hi Anna!”

  “Hi Dance Party!” Anna S glances at me. “Hi Party Killer!”

  I snort. She must have seen the video of me ‘killing’ Arrogorn and she’s busting my balls. It's almost like having a friend. Almost. “Hey Silver Medal.”

  “No second place this time!” Anna gestures to her ship. “I’ve got the lead on you!”

  “Not for long. We’re going to blow right past you!”

  “In that?” Anna snorts derision at our vessel. “You’re sailing Bert & Ernie’s best friend.”

  For a moment, I can’t figure out what she’s talking about, but then I lean over the rail to get a better look at my ship.

  My yacht is mounted to the head of a forty-foot-tall rubber duck.

  

  Vessel lvl24: The Quacken

  This pirate ship assassinated King Neptune in his own royal bubble bath. As part of its divine promotion, the vessel was fused with Neptune’s most loyal bath toy—his widdle wubber ducky. Now reborn as the Quacken, the Duck of Death sails the seven seas in a blaze of murderous soapsuds. Wash behind your ears… or feel its ducky vengeance!

  Rating: S-Tier. Unsinkable. Squeaky.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m going into a regatta race sailing a bath toy.

  I turn to find the Critical Trolls ascending to the deck. “Veritas? Verisimilitude?” I yell. “Reality?!”

  “We won it in a quest,” Jack Sparrow #8 gestures at the giant duck. “We’re adjusting for it in the narrative.”

  Another pirate raises a finger. “Ackchyually… yellow was a popular ship paint in the early 1700s—”

  I scowl. “Cram it, RenFaire.”

  

  Booty Run Begins in 3… 2… 1...

  A thousand boats lunge forward, powered by sails, motors, steam, and gasoline. The ocean churns white with wake. Every ship in the regatta takes off toward the SS ValDeezNutz.

  Everybody except us. The Quacken bobs in the water, left behind by 10 ships, then 20, while the RiftStorm closes in on the horizon.

  “...paint was actually flecked with gold on the barges of Cleopatra…” the role-play pirate drones on as if nothing’s happening.

  “Now about this anachronistic animal.” Another pirate gestures at Pepper. “Can you put it in your inventory or should we just throw it over the side…?”

  “What!?” Pepper hits him with Goldfish Mode; the guy freezes, staring blankly. “That’s rude!”

  “He won’t touch you, Pep.” I roll my sleeve up to my anchor tattoo. “Now get this duck moving.”

  The RiftElite are long gone. Now we’re starting to be passed by Free-to-Play members in their dinky boats. Still, the Critical Trolls are trying to make it oh-so-real.

  “Hoist the mainsail! Unfurl this mizzen!” Roleplayers call out as they work the sails, untying strings, dropping canvas, all the boring parts of sailing.

  “Maybe we could just…” One of them’s still talking to me. “Lock the penguin in the hold? That might be best…”

  None of these idiots is even trying to win. And if I lose this thing, I die.

  “How about I wear her as a hat?!” I pick up Pepper and put her on my head. She giggles as she holds on to my face. “Okay? I’m a Hermit from the North Pole…”

  “South Pole.”

  “South Pole and my character always has a penguin hat, because I’m a… penguin trapper, okay?”

  “Mm, I like it.” He nods. “Adds depth. Hat it is.” He gestures to the ship. “Now, like most seventeenth-century sailing ships, it should take us another hour or so to get underway…”

  “Make it one second.” I grab the throttle on the yacht dashboard and jam it forward. Soap bubbles fly up behind us, wobbling into the sky as the giant rubber duck lunges into action, speeding toward the horizon. I growl through my teeth. “Release the Quacken.”