carl@fire

Starting to seriously rethink my opinion on role-playing. And this game. I kinda expected to see some nudity since I disabled the mature content filter when I was getting all those censor bars covering the fish with horns—C'mon, Roger, that's some unbelievably lazy AI usage—but that's too far. Not that I'm a prude or anything, and I really didn't wanna risk tempting myself with game stuff after all these years, but maybe I shouldn't have been as hands-off when Annie said she'd be the one to look into the game and decide whether it was appropriate for Bobby. It's not like her to miss details, but it's still pretty unsettling not knowing what the heck's going on.

Carl twisted the knob on the front door of Old Ingrid's Shoemaking and stomped inside, a small bell on the door chiming out his arrival. Finally. Can't believe how freaking long it took to get over here!

It hadn't been the easiest of journeys. No, it was nothing like going up to the fifth floor to requisition the good coffee that Engineering always mysteriously seemed to have and IT always seemed, just as mysteriously, to lack. That trip was a simple elevator ride up from the second floor at precisely nine thirty seven every morning, slightly after the last of the early birds had arrived but before the brogrammers stumbled in from their late-night escapades or lengthy sleep.

The trip across the city had been nothing like that. Carl had faced true adversity, both in his continued attempts to keep track of the direction that the previous sign had pointed in—What an insane system!—amidst the twisting and turning streets and alleys nearer the center of the city, and in how much freaking poop there was everywhere. Ugh, I was so close to stepping in it that one time…

Carl grimaced as he looked around the small shop. There were a few wooden shelves here and there attached to the walls with footwear on display. Another short shelf holding some stylish-looking dress shoes bisected the room down the middle, but the small shop was not at all like the shoe store he'd expected. Aren't shoe stores supposed to have… You know… Shoes?

Sure, there were a number of shoes, and boots, and miscellaneous other types of niche footwear on display atop the shelves, but out of the couple dozen or so pairs that were displayed, the vast majority were likely not for men. Unless… Do men in-game wear heels a lot? I mean, that's cool with me—people can do whatever—but I just want some shoes I can walk around in and not have to worry about stepping in something barefoot anymore.

His grimace deepened as his foot came down on a surprisingly cold wooden floorboard, the vividness of the sensation still surprising him even after walking across half a freaking planet to get to that point. Engineering's really been working overtime on this, I guess. Been saying this a lot, but some stuff could do with a lot less realism. They gotta prioritize more. Which reminds me, I also need to check out that insane 150U rack that VP Smythe got upsold on ASAP and come up with concrete, idiot-proof reasons to stick with our blade se—

"'Afternoon, dearie," called a gruff but vaguely feminine voice, the sound echoing out from behind the window of a wooden counter set in a wall that blocked off the remainder of the floor. A door next to the counter opened, and a surprisingly muscular woman walked out with a slight limp. The woman looked to be a little older than Carl himself from her weathered face, but her hair was still a strong dirty blonde, with no signs of the pixie cut graying or whitening any time soon. Her sturdy-looking black boots, blue denim overalls, and plain white shirt gave her the look of a construction worker, but the cloth tape measure draped over her broad shoulders suggested otherwise. She took him in as she approached. "And what can I…"

Her eyes stopped when they reached his feet and showed no signs of moving.

"Um, hi, I'd—" Carl cleared his throat. Oops, broke character again. It's just exhausting now. I need a break. It's cool that I'm finally out of the training wheels part of the city, but I just feel worn out at this point. Everyone's always in character. "I've come to acquire a pair of shoes, Good Lady," he declared, now firmly in character.

"I can see that," the woman said, her voice oozing with sarcasm as she finally looked up at him with a smirk. "Still, though, most people who wanna buy my shoes ain't looking to buy their first pair. Suppose I should feel honored, huh."

Carl blinked.

"C'mon, what're you looking for?" The woman waved him over to a plain, armless wooden chair up against the far side of the room. A plaster cast of a foot stood next to it.

Well, this isn't what I expected. I thought this was the rich side of the city? There were those drunk-looking people who laughed and smirked at me when I was asking for directions. I know they're just staying in character, but it's still not cool to pick on noobs.

"Something durable," Carl said as he walked over and sat in the chair as he'd been directed. "Fashion…" He paused. Is my character fashionable? He frowned. It's the little things that make great characters, though. "Yes, fashionable as well," he proclaimed, starting to get into it. "With flourishes, and designs, and made only of the finest—"

The woman—Ingrid, he presumed—had grabbed his leg and jerked it up, measuring his left foot without bending down and nearly knocking him off the chair from the angle and leverage. "Alright," she said, cutting him off in an exasperated tone, "but do you want a shoe, or a boot, or what? Hold this up while you talk." She worked efficiently, measuring the length of his foot from each toe to the heel, then the width at a number of spots as well as the distance around it. She pulled a little notebook out of the pocket in her overalls periodically to take notes as she worked, resting it on top of his head.

Carl had to consider it. A shoe would be more practical probably for just walking around here. I was definitely wearing shoes before. But if I'm here long enough to get tired of this stupid city then… "Boots, most certainly."

A chime heralded the opening of the front door. Carl glanced up from the woman who was assaulting his toes with a measuring implement and watched as a striking younger woman entered, tugging at the small, white, scarf-like accessory covering her throat while she scanned the interior for—

Their eyes met.

The young woman looked away hurriedly, moving to inspect a tall, well-heeled men's boot on a shelf near the door.

"Be right with you, dearie," called Ingrid without looking back, finishing up with Carl's right foot as roughly as she'd treated his left. "Anyone ever told you that you got perfectly matched feet?"

"No?" Carl said, knowing that—

"Good, because they'd be lying to you," Ingrid said, checking her papers. "Left foot's a little wider near the toes. Right foot's a tiny bit more narrow near the heel, too. Got a dainty little right foot, you do." She looked down at him. "I'm gonna need you to stand up so I can see your posture. For the fit."

Carl stood up. "So," he said, feeling like he should make some sort of conversation in order to avoid forgetting to get back into character again later, "Ingrid, I mean no offense, but you feel a touch…" How do I say "You don't seem to fit in here" without it sounding offensive?

Ingrid saved him the trouble, her expression changing to a smirk once more. "I get told that a lot," she said, sounding amused. "Always have." She pushed on his back. "Take a step and then relax like you're mid-stride."

Carl followed directions, putting his left foot forward.

"I'll tell you the same as everyone else: made it five years in the army before a devil broke my leg when we got ambushed. Just came outta nowhere—four arms, red skin, furious, and crack!" She prodded at the outside of his left foot with the toe of her boot. "Clean break, yeah, but when your femur snaps it hurts like hell."

Pretty sure I read somewhere that's the most painful bone to break.

"Got discharged, doc wrapped me up, and I healed a bit. Eventually. Took up Pop's work making shoes and then decided to make better shoes." Ingrid poked at the inner side of his left foot. "Hated how the damn things never felt exactly right. Been almost thirty years, and now I'm selling my shoes to fuckers like you." She grinned as Carl started. "Yup! When I healed up enough to walk, first thing I did was stumble over here and start begging for someone to take pity and magic my leg back together. Other foot, now."

Carl switched, putting his left foot forward.

"But you know what?" She poked at the outside of his right foot. "Nobody wanted to then, and now that I can afford it, I'm too used to how it's been. So I just charge a fortune for my shoes to anyone who looks like they could've afforded to pay for my leg when I wanted it, and if they want the best shoes in the city, they'll pay just like everyone else." She prodded the inner side of his right foot.

"Quite a story," Carl said. Now that's a backstory you can sink your teeth into. Wish I'd spent more time coming up with mine before I came here. Am I ever gonna have to monologue like that? Is it like, a—

"You think?" Ingrid finished jotting down whatever notes she was taking. "How high you want the boot?"

Is she about to go in the back and craft me some boots right now? Alright, game is back to being kinda cool again. Tired of being barefoot all the time. Wish I could "craft" stuff for work that fast in real life. Carl leaned down and put a finger on his leg to mark the height of the boot, then moved it down a little when he realized how high that would be.

Ingrid pointed back to the chair. One Carl was seated, she hoisted his left foot and started measuring again, first up to the point he'd specified, then around the ankle, then a bit higher up. She moved his foot back and forth and side to side, taking additional measurements when it was flexed and writing it all down in her notepad that she once again held against his head to write on. She repeated the process with the other foot, seeming to be done with talking for the moment.

Focused. I like her. Carl nodded his approval. That's the kind of focus I can respect. Be great if I could find someone like her in the candidates for the Network Engineer position. There's one, but she seems like she's kinda got personality issues. Don't really wanna create an HR incident.

"Alright, that's…" Ingrid trailed off, staring at her notes. Her eyes glanced to him. "I'm gonna need a bit." She shook her left arm and checked her wristwatch. "Five minutes or so. You in a rush?"

Carl considered it. I guess I'm not? Nowhere else I can be. Feels weird even thinking that; usually I'd have a meeting or something coming up. "Not at the moment."

"Right," said Ingrid. She glanced over to the young woman who was still browsing the shoes and boots on the shelves, and who was staring with apparent curiosity at a strappy and delicate heeled shoe that was clearly made to be worn for a very specific type of role-play—the kind which was solidifying Carl's belief that the game absolutely must have some sort of automatic per-zone age restrictions that his dev account had automatically disabled in order for the company to not be sued into oblivion, though he was absolutely still gonna write a note for future-Carl to double-check. "I'll be with you when I'm done, dearie." She started heading towards the door that led behind the counter. "Closing up for the day soon, so you'll be the last ones I take today."

The young woman turned around at the address, then blushed slightly and placed the shoe back on its shelf with the others. She hastily turned back and continued her footwear-gazing, picking up a large boot and staring at it.

Carl sat in the chair pondering. I wonder if custom-made gear like this really is better? She seemed pretty confident in her crafting ability. Is it like, a game thing where you just activate a skill and then the item appears? Or does she actually have to make the boots? Five minutes to make a pair of good boots seems awfully fast. I can't even make a decent burger in five minutes from package open to first bite. Gotta mix in the seasoning, add an egg, some breadcrumbs, and then I'd have to fire up the grill…

Man, I could really go for a burger right now. Not really that hungry, exactly, I've just got the craving. Or a coffee. Yup, that's what it is. Need coffee. I think even just the taste of coffee would be enough right now. I've got some of the good stuff in the bottom drawer of my desk, too, within reach of my body in real life, where I'm hopefully not gonna starve to death or something before I get out of here. How does this game not have some kinda auto-logout failsafe? Should've triggered by now for sure...

He sighed. He looked up from the floorboards he'd been staring at and glanced across the room at the shoe-and-boot-inspecting young woman, taking in her somewhat unique—masculine, almost, though given the curve of her chest she surely was a female character as he'd first judged—style of dress. She seems like she's pretty into shoes. Actually, she might be good to ask… He looked over, but there was no sign of Ingrid. Then he stood up and started walking across the small shop.