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  Mr. Samuel “The Rat” Panikoff

  Age: 83

  ROTFLOL! The Rat? I peered closely at him, triggering another dose of information,

  Current status: Retired

  Social status level: 27

  Class: Office Worker. Level: 8

  Widower.

  Children: Natalia, daughter

  Age: 54

  Grandchildren: Max, grandson

  Age: 31

  Criminal record: yes

  “Mr. Panikoff? If you don’t mind me asking...”

  The old man averted his gaze and lisped, “You’re lucky this isn’t the year 1936, young man. At the time, when strange young men addressed you by name on the street, it could only mean one thing. Which promised nothing good. I was only a small child at the time, of course, but I heard my fair share of all those covert arrest stories. I, in my turn, apologize I can’t return your courtesy. I’m absolutely sure I don’t know you. I may be old but I have an excellent memory for both names and faces.”

  Definitely a bot. They had absolute memory, didn’t they? Then again, an NPC would have never expressed surprise at my addressing him by name. But this one had. In fact, he appeared clearly uncomfortable.

  “Mind if I take a seat?” he asked.

  “I’m Philip,” I muttered. “But you can call me Phil.”

  “Very well, Phil,” the old gentleman sat down, removed his hat and smoothed out his thinning hair. “So how do you know me? Wait a sec... I had the honor of teaching a course in Marxism in — when was it now? — nineteen... nineteen sixty-”

  “Please, sir,” I interrupted him. “You really don’t know me. It’s just that I met Max — he’s your grandson, isn’t he? His mother Natalia told me a lot about you. I have a lot of respect for you and your achievements.”

  I meant it. Compared to the alcoholic Alik with his measly level 4 and the presumably thieving saleswoman with her level 9, the old man was level 27! How awesome was that? He must have done some quality leveling in his lifetime.

  I’d have loved to have known my own level too. But how was I supposed to do that?

  The old man visibly relaxed, apparently happy with my explanation. “Oh, that’s nothing. I served my country, that’s all. We all did at the time. Not like the young people of today who’d love nothing better than to go and live abroad. My Max too thinks of emigrating! And when I was his age-”

  “I agree entirely,” I shuffled my feet on the tarmac, lighting up a new cigarette. I needed to use the bathroom really badly. “I’m terribly sorry but I think I need to go now.”

  “Of course... Phil. Absolutely,” he faltered, undecided, then continued. “The reason I approached you is because I have trouble walking. Still, I’m supposed to do some walking every day. So I come to this boulevard and I keep trotting up and down the lanes, up and down...”

  Dammit. He was an NPC, after all. Even chat bots had more natural speech patterns. I needed to check it.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I interrupted him. I knew it wasn’t polite but if this was VR, politeness would have to wait. I needed to work this out. “Who was President of the Soviet Union in 1941?”

  He shook his head so hard that I was worried his scrawny neck might snap. “There was no President in 1941 in the USSR! The person who was in control of the country was Comrade Joseph Stalin, General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party!”

  Definitely a bot. And a very primitive one at that. Any other questions I could ask him?

  I didn’t have the time to conduct a proper Turing test so I decided to adlib. “Mind if I ask you something else?”

  “I’m not in a hurry, my dear Phil.”

  “Is it brandy of vodka?”

  “Water. And before that, I only used to drink the best brandy I could get.”

  “Arsenal or Real Madrid?”

  “What nonsense! The best soccer team this side of the Atlantic is Zenith! The finest club in Leningrad — or as you call it these days, St. Petersburg,” he enunciated the city’s name clearly, then burst into a happy childish laughter.

  “Bingo,” I muttered.

  He was real. No NPC was capable of such a quirky train of thought.

  The old man stared at me. “Pardon me?”

  I beamed back at him. This world was real, after all. Even more, I seemed to be the only one here in possession of a rare and useful ability. I really should help him. “It’s all right. I’m sorry I kept interrupting you. What was it you wanted me to do?”

  “Just as I said, I have trouble walking. Still, I’m supposed to do some walking every day. So I come to this boulevard and I keep trotting up and down the lanes, up and down...”

  What was that now? He’d said this twice already! He was repeating the same lines over and over again, just like a stuck record... or a glitchy script.

  “Sorry I’m rambling,” he suddenly stopped himself. “I think I told you that already. To cut a long story short, sometimes I get tired so I’m forced to sit down and read a paper. Because reading fresh newspapers is very beneficial for one’s mind. Without them, I’d feel dead. What kind of life do you expect an old man like me to have? I read newspapers in order to stay on top of what’s going on in the world. I find sports events especially fascinating. Unfortunately, today of all days I forgot to buy the latest issue of Sports Express which I always do on my way here. Which also means that I can only buy it on my way back home because I don’t think I’ll be able to walk all the way to the newspaper stand and back here again. Which means-”

  “Which means that you don’t have anything to read right now.”

  “You’re quite insightful. So I’d really appreciate it if you could get me the latest issue of Sports Express. I’ll pay you back, of course.”

  Immediately, a large system message blasted into my field of view, blocking out half the scene.

  A quest!

  Sport Brings the World Together

  Mr. Samuel Panikoff, retired, is asking you to get him the latest issue of Sports Express so he could enjoy it during his solitary walk.

  Time required, 30 min

  Rewards:

  XP, 10 pt.

  Reputation with Mr. Panikoff, 5 pt.

  Current Reputation: Indifference (0/30).

  How was I supposed to accept it? Where was the wretched button? I looked all around the message but saw nothing.

  So I just said, “No problem, sir. I’ll get it for you. You stay here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he replied with a mysterious smile.

  The message faded away.

  Quest accepted, a voice clicked in my head.

  An exclamation mark began flashing somewhere in the periphery за my view. I focused on it. A quest list opened, containing only one quest — the one I’d just accepted.

  I saluted the old man, turned round and hurried to get him his paper.

  For the first time in years I felt in my element in the real world.

  Chapter Four. The Alliance and Its Great Victory

  “I may have somethin’ for ya.”

  Warcraft III

  I SKIPPED and hopped all the way to the newsstand. What was the name of that game where I’d learned to move that way? Hopping and skipping made it harder for your enemy to sight in on you. That had been followed by Morrowind where you could level Acrobatics, so that finally I’d gotten into the habit of hopping, leaping and skipping everywhere I went in VR. And seeing as this was a game for me now — I could adopt this manner of walking IRL, why not? Provided this was IRL, of course. Provided I hadn’t lost my marbles.

  I popped into a fast food joint on my way, used their restroom, received +2% to Satisfaction, then continued on my quest.

  As I trotted along, threading my way past billboards and the preoccupied passersby crowding the sidewalk, I kept thinking. I could get 10 pt. XP for completing this quest. Which meant that in theory, I could level up too. I still couldn’t work out the correlation between real-world levels
and statuses. Mr. Panikoff, this old-age pensioner, was much more advanced than the unemployed Alik — but by the same token, Alik was physically much stronger than the old man. Then again, I could be wrong and the social status could have had nothing to do with characters’ levels.

  Did I just say “characters”? Sorry. I meant human beings, of course.

  Halfway to the newsstand, reality dealt me a cruel and unexpected blow: I got out of breath. Gasping, I pressed on, hoping to eventually level up both stamina and athletics.

  After two more minutes of a forced trot, my head began to ring. My teeth started aching; I had a burning sensation in my legs. I panted, struggling to catch my breath but unable to get enough air down my lungs.

  This was madness. What the hell was I doing? Why did I have to run? This was real life, for crissakes! What was I talking about? There were no quests nor levels here! I was losing it...

  I stopped, my lungs erupting in a bout of sickening viscous coughing. I leaned over a trash can. As I spat into it, my gaze alighted on its unsavory contents. I retched, leaving my entire breakfast — omelet, sandwich and all — in the can.

  I glared furiously at a new system message which appeared before my eyes. Apparently, my Vigor had dropped to zero and I needed to get some rest!

  The message was too appropriate to be a coincidence. Too well-timed to be a mere hallucination. Dammit.

  Ignoring all doubt, my mind gladly embraced the familiar world of gaming stats and characteristics.

  My Stamina numbers must have been truly laughable — probably, worse than those of my new friend Mr. Panikoff. I might need to level up a bit, but how? Should I go jogging in the mornings? Oh no. Anything but that. I might just concentrate on leveling Intellect.

  Having caught my breath and spat out the remains of my breakfast, I lit up a cigarette. Another system message promptly informed me of a toxic debuff I’d just received, illustrated by the slowly growing damage counter.

  I didn’t care. I just needed to get rid of that sickening taste in my mouth.

  I continued on my way, walking unhurriedly this time.

  As soon as I’d bought the newspaper, a new message loomed into view about my receiving the quest item. I looked all through the paper but found nothing special about it. It was a good job he’d only asked me to get him one and not a dozen like NPC quest givers usually do.

  I smirked as I thought about it. Mr. Panikoff would like you to bring him ten wisdom teeth from the local street thugs. Now that would be a quest!

  I thanked the level-5 newsstand vendor (Mrs. Zinaida Nikolaeva, Age: 60), and returned to my old gentleman.

  Mr. Panikoff was still there. He was sitting in the same pose as I’d left him, offering his squinting eyes to the sun and humming something. A small flock of cooing pigeons bustled nearby.

  “Mr. Panikoff...”

  “Ah! Phil, my friend!” the old man accepted the paper, brought it to his face and drew in a deep breath.

  Shifting my feet, I patiently waited for the quest to close.

  “I love the smell of fresh newspapers,” the old man explained. “There’s something enchanting about it. Here’s your money, thank you very much. I really appreciate your help!” he offered me the handful of small change he must have prepared as he’d waited for me.

  I accepted the money and waited for the quest message. Nothing happened. I looked at the money in my hand, then at the old man with the paper. Nothing.

  He opened the paper. “Holy Jesus! I just can’t believe it! Manchester City is full of surprises!”

  “Why, what have they done?” I asked mechanically.

  The absence of the quest message worried me a little. Could this be a glitch? I focused on the exclamation mark which obligingly opened, offering me an empty drop-down menu.

  What was that now? The quest had been closed, hadn’t it? In which case, where were my XP points? Where was my hard-earned Reputation?

  “What have they done?” he repeated. “They’ve just become English champions, that’s what they’ve done! That’s exactly what I said to Valiadis the other day! I told him Man City was a power to be reckoned with! Guardiola is a real brain. A tough cookie. I wouldn’t trifle with him. He’s commanding this parade!”

  He pried himself away from his paper and cast me an expectant look. That triggered his name tag back into view, hovering over his head.

  Yes!

  Mr. Samuel “The Rat” Panikoff

  Age: 83

  Current status: Retired

  Social status level: 27

  Class: Office Worker. Level: 8

  Widower.

  Children: Natalia, daughter

  Age: 54

  Grandchildren: Max, grandson

  Age: 31

  Criminal record: yes

  Reputation: Indifference 5/30

  It worked! Our glorious Alliance had won another great battle!

  If I’d received Rep points, it meant I must have had the XP too, stashed away somewhere. I really needed to find it and work out how to monitor it somehow.

  I nodded to the man, “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Actually, my friend,” the old man’s voice grew stronger. He didn’t lisp anymore. “I suggest you remember the name. Valiadis. He’s a real brain. One day you might be happy you did.”

  I nodded again, not quite understanding what he was going on about. A new message which I hadn’t noticed before had become clearer in my mind’s view.

  Your Reputation with Mr. Samuel “Rat” Panikoff has improved!

  Current Reputation: Indifference 5/30

  Aha. It looked like this gaming system followed the usual rules. Which meant that someone’s attitude to me could be calibrated on a scale from hatred to adoration. In this particular case, once I earned 30 Rep points, my relationship with Panikoff would change from Indifference to Amicability, followed by Respect, Reverence and Adoration. Each of those would have their own scales from zero to whatever points were necessary to make the next level. The higher the Reputation, the more points I’d need to earn in order to move on to the next one.

  And if, by some chance, my Reputation with Panikoff somehow dropped below zero, it would turn negative, from Dislike to Animosity to Hatred.

  Having said that, the gaming scale missed such real-world notions as Love and Friendship. Did they have calibrated bars of their own too?

  Very well, Provided this wasn’t a hallucination born of my overwrought brain, I might have plenty of time to find that out.

  I wanted to say goodbye to the old man but he was deaf to the world around him, consumed by the latest sports news. Never mind. I said goodbye to him anyway, then hurried back home.

  I should have asked him about his moniker, really. The Rat! A prison nickname? Why not? He’d very possibly served time during Stalin’s post-war purges.

  Once back home, I peeled off my soaked sneakers, the socks and even the pants which were wet to the knee. I shoved the clothes into the washing machine and set the sneakers out onto the balcony to dry in the sun.

  There, I slumped onto a wobbly stool and lit another cigarette. I had this tendency to chain-smoke whenever I felt nervous or excited. That always made me feel totally sick the day after, giving me a strong incentive to quit smoking... which might even last a couple of days. Then, once my body got rid of all the nasty substances I’d inhaled the day before, the urge would inevitably come back.

  I took a good tug on my cigarette, staring at my sneakers. If this were indeed a game... what kind of stats would my sneakers have?

  It would probably go like this,

  A Scandalous Pair of Shabby Sneakers of Misfortune

  -9 to Attractiveness

  -6 to Agility

  Durability: 3/60

  How stupid was that? Spending ten to twelve hours in the game just to upgrade a piece of virtual gear while having no desire to replace a very physical pair of shoes IRL!

  I yawned. It was almost midday already. I really should clean th
e place and cook dinner by the time Yanna came back from work. Then I could rejoin the raid and finally complete the dungeon with a clear conscience.

  I put out the cigarette, set the alarm clock to 4 p.m. and went to bed.

  As I was falling asleep, I realized I wasn’t that interested in the raid, after all. I wasn’t in the mood for playing for some reason. I seemed to be developing munchkin tendencies IRL.

  When the alarm awoke me, I was bathed in sweat. My whole body was aching. The taste in my mouth reminded me of a latrine in Orgrimmar. Boris the cat was pawing my chest, reminding me of her meal time.

  I’d found Boris on the street during the era when the world’s top guilds were only beginning to tackle Illidan. I hadn’t even looked at him — her — properly. At the time, it was just a soggy ball of red hair. I’d brought it home, rolled it out on the kitchen floor and offered it a saucerful of milk. The kitten immediately stuck his little head in it. While he was feeding, I’d come up with a name for him: Boris.

  After some time, a friend of mine kindly informed me that my Boris wasn’t a Boris at all.

  “Hey, it’s a she!” he announced.

  I still have no idea why he’d had to check its rear end. Did he have a cat fetish?

  After all, what difference could a cat’s gender possibly make?

  God was I wrong.

  The next spring our Boris had gone mad. She screamed in a nasty screechy voice, demanding a partner, while moving around the apartment with her backside stuck high in the air. I’d had to have her fixed ASAP.

  And once I’d met Yanna, the ultimate dog person, Boris’ life took a steep turn for the worse. Because Yanna had a Chihuahua. His name was Boy. Boy took an instant dislike to Boris — and the feeling was more than mutual.

  For a long time, Yanna had been trying to talk me into getting rid of Boris. If you listened to her, cats were useless creatures. They shed, they cost you money in food and litter filler, and they didn’t even bother to catch mice these days, meaning they had no place in the house. When, in response, I dared question Boy’s potentially useful qualities — pointing out that in this day and age it was pretty unusual to expect pets to earn their keep — Yanna really took offense. That had been one of our first big arguments.