Sundown Sinners

Chapter Three: A Historically Accurate Jail Cell

I was falling for a long time, even though I understood logically that my physical body wasn't moving at all. But, try telling your mind that you're not in mortal danger when all you see around you is a dark nothingness. I felt my limbs moving through the pitch black world around me, but I couldn't see them, and if I thought about it hard enough, I couldn't actually feel them either.

I tried to remember what exactly had happened, but when I stopped focusing on telling my mind that I was fine, my heart would thump wildly in my chest again and my thoughts would turn to a terrified mush. There was no sound, no smell, and no sight. Part of me wondered if Bertie had just murdered me, and this was what it was like to be dead. Maybe that helmet had been some kind of microwave or something similar that melted my brain in an instant?

It was just as I was considering the possibility that being dead might just be a dark expanse of emptiness instead of a Heaven or Hell when I suddenly felt like I was standing on solid ground. It wasn't as if I had been falling and hit the ground, but as if the ground had been there the whole time and I just hadn't noticed. My ears popped as sound began to flood the universe around me, sounding like the rumbling of thunder.

With a loud, satisfying crack, words appeared before me standing at the height of a three story building. They were red and angry, glaring against the black landscape like a beacon as a light seemed to glide behind them like a setting sun.

Sundown Sinners.That was a strange title. And yet, its existence proved that Bertie had not killed me. Instead, he had done exactly as he said he would do. He was making me a test subject in his stupid fucking game. I looked down at my hands, but I still didn't have any. Curiously, I reached for my head anyway, hoping that I could pull off this helmet and give Bertie a roundhouse kick square to the nuts for forcing this on me when I wasn't ready. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened.

As the option for a new game appeared underneath the glowing title, I thought about the last time I had toyed with VR. Whatever this helmet was, it was far more advanced than the kind of technology I had regular access to. When I picked up a headset at my cousin's birthday party at the arcade, the graphics were fuzzy and cartoonish. I could feel the weight of the goggles on my head, and my sensations were still attached to the real world. I remembered looking around a desert scene with transparent, tiny hands dancing in my vision as I felt the freezing air conditioning and smelled cheap pizza and beer.

Whether Bertie had individually developed this new tech or his company had, I would never know. What I did know was that it was something special, and it seemed to trick my mind into believing it was really here in this subliminal space of a title screen. I wasn't aware that the human brain was so malleable that all you had to do was put a goddamn helmet over your head, and suddenly you became incorporeal.

"Well... shit." I whispered, and my voice echoed in the nonexistent room. I stared at the wordsNew Game, wondering what would happen if I never pressed them. After all, I'm sure he had some way of remotely monitoring my progress. Maybe, if I didn't do anything, Bertie would grow bored and pull me out of the game. I thought back to what he said before he placed the helmet so carefully on my skull. He knew that my parents were out of town. He would feed Missus Rigatoni, my mom's geriatric street cat. I could've driven myself insane wondering about how he knew anything about my life at home. But, that wouldn't do me any good. Even if I sat here forever, he was probably obsessed enough with his game to make me stay. It was probably better to just get this shit over with.

I reached for the words with my right hand, unsure of what else I was supposed to do. Surprisingly, the words glowed and a whinny of a horse echoed around me. The cry turned into a stampede, and the words crashed toward me like an oncoming train. I threw my arms over my face, even if I didn't have a body, and closed my eyes tight.

"Hey! Wake the hell up, Mallory." A clang echoed as if someone had punched a metal wall. I groaned and opened my eyes, squinting against the suddenly bright light of the morning sun. My arms were still over my head. I hesitantly brought them down and sat up. I was on something hard and lumpy, some kind of mattress. It seemed to be stained and made out of a rough, canvas-y material. Bits of straw and other dried foliage leaked out of a hole in the side. The room smelled like urine, and I wrinkled my nose at the odor.

Another clang jolted the entire room, stealing my attention toward the metal bars and the man standing behind them. He was tall, maybe in his forties or early fifties. He wore a bone-colored hat with a wide brim, its crown smooth and spherical. On his black vest sat a silver star with the wordSheriffengraved into the metal.

"Today is the day, Mallory." The Sheriff spit past the metal bars, his mucus landing just beside my feet with a wet splat. I wasn't wearing any shoes. My toes curled against the distressed wooden floor in disgust.

"The day for what, exactly?" I asked, still disoriented by my surroundings. I was in a game, I reminded myself. And yet, everything looked far too realistic. The walls were made of rough-cut timber, gray and cracked and brittle-looking. I briefly wondered if I could kick them down. Cobwebs decorated the walls and ceiling of the poorly constructed building, and the black iron bars were spaced unevenly apart. On the door where the sheriff leaned sat a heavy padlock, so comically large you could assume it was fake. I had seen one like it before, though. In the archives. And I knew that it was constructed to hold men much larger than me.

"Don't play dumb with me, boy." The Sheriff's voice was an angry, slightly southern drawl. I wondered where this was supposed to be. If it was Texas, that was a piss-poor accent. "Today ain't the day to be dumb. On the last day of a man's life, he should face the world with dignity." He shot me a glare and sneered at me with his thick goatee. "As much dignity as you can muster, you fucking scum."

I was probably supposed to be scared, or defiant, or downright angry. Instead, I saw this for what it was. This was the opening scene in a video game, and apparently I was a criminal named Mallory. Judging from the flavor of the set around me, I was probably going to be hung today. I could hear the loud clinking of heavy hammers hitting iron nails. They were probably building the gallows outside. It was an interesting direction to take, threatening the player with death the moment they get into the game. Then again, maybe this was how the tutorial started.

"What exactly did I do to piss you off?" I asked, looking down at my body. It seemed to share the same shape as my real one. I had the same moles, scars, and fingernails chewed down to the quick. A quick run of my hand over my face showed that I had no new facial hair. I wasn't sure how to tell if my face looked the same just by touch, but my guess was that it did. Interesting. I was wearing heavy, thick pants that were crusted with mud and dirt. My shirt was a loose button-up, stained and torn and untucked. I didn't have much else on me, not even a belt. One point for historical accuracy, Bertie.

The Sheriff blinked at me as if seeing me for the first time. "Boy, you sure are as dumb as you fucking look, aren't you?" He had a wry smile on his face as he stuck a thin piece of pale wood into his mouth. A toothpick. Two points for accuracy. "Or, maybe you're trying to claim you're crazy? That won't work, you know. Judge left town a day after your trial, so ain't no one here to pity you."

"I'm not looking for pity." I mumbled, getting off of the bed. My limbs felt sore and tired. How did they program muscle soreness into a goddamn video game? How did they deal with sensation at all? Flies buzzed around the dented bucket in the corner of the room and I stifled a gag as I glanced inside. It hadn't been changed in some time. "Can you tell me who the fuck you think I am and what the fuck I did to you? Please?" I turned to face the Sheriff. Would I have to wait until he left before I found a lockpick or something and escaped? The room had no windows, so the thick door was the only way out.

The Sheriff studied me for a moment before shrugging slightly. "You know what? Fine. I'll play your game, since you're dying in a few hours anyway. It's the least I can do." He almost sounded reasonable, but I wasn't fooled. Whoever this NPC was, he had a mean, hungry glint in his eye. "Your name is Hank Mallory. You're a no-good, outlaw, son-of-a-whore, bastard who runs with the Reeves Boys. And we caught you, red-handed, falling off the back of a train during one of their robberies. You don't have a fucking leg to stand on, Mallory, even if you claim you lost your memory."

The Sheriff leaned in and pointed to the silver star on his chest. "Do you know what this means, boy?"

I wanted to roll my eyes. "It means you sucked all the right dicks so they could promote you from junior asshole to king asshole?" I asked sarcastically.

The color seemed to rise in the Sheriff's cheeks as he barked out a laugh. "Oh! You think you're funny now, don't you?" He grabbed the bars and leaned in even closer, practically pressing his face against the cell wall. "This badge means that I have worked my whole life to get rid of yellow-belly pricks like you. And when I finally sink my talons into one of you bastards, I ain't never letting go until I see you swing."

I opened my mouth to give him another sarcastic retort, but a blinking arrow icon appeared in front of me, catching the words in my throat. It was pointing down toward the ground, floating at about chest height in front of the Sheriff. I reached my hand forward, but I barely moved my fingers before it opened. A box appeared, intricately decorated and a bit see-through, looking like an old-fashioned iron wall sign. Words appeared in neat, white script.

Welcome to Sundown Sinners!

The text announced cheerfully.

In this game, you will have multiple options in dealing with a variety of situations. These options will vary in degrees of success and failure, so choose wisely. In the tutorial version of the game, you will receive prompts from our artificial intelligence system which will give you tips on how best you can proceed. Remember, the world is your oyster, so you can absolutely solve thisyour way. If you have any questions, just yell "Ask Bertie," and an answer will be on the way! Thank you for your support! - The Sundown Sinners Team

With a tiny chime, the text box closed on its own. Only milliseconds later, another one appeared, this one with four options.

Sheriff Brannigan wants to see you hung for a crime you didn't commit! I'm innocent, Your Honor! But, he'll never believe you. Unless...? Choose one of the options below, or try out your own! Solutions marked with an * will be more likely to succeed. Remember, you can turn off the tutorial mode any time by visiting the Game Settings menu.

Seduction *

Intimidation

Sarcastic

Melee

I stared at the options provided to me for longer than I probably should have. The Sheriff stood in front of me as if frozen in place, his eyes vacant. Honestly, I couldn't even tell if he was breathing. Then again, I guess he didn't need to, him not being a real person and all. I waved my hand in front of the Sheriff's face for good measure, but received no indication he even noticed. I looked up at the cracked wooden ceiling.

"If you can hear me, Bertie, then please note that it's really fucking creepy that they just stare at me until I choose an option. I think the options should maybe be timed so immersion isn't broken, or something like that..." I trailed off, my eyes settling on the keys slung around the Sheriff's waist. He was so close to the bars that I could probably reach through and snag the ring off of his belt. Would that trigger the melee option, or would it be a loophole?

A sudden chime alerted me and my head swiveled around the room, looking for the source. A button appeared at the top right of my vision, following me no matter where I looked. In most games like this, a player had a heads-up display, or HUD, which had everything from health bars, to weapons ammo, to a mini map. Basically, it was an on-screen informational overlay that a player would see during gameplay; A way for the game to say 'Here's what you need to know so you don't die, get lost, or forget what you're doing, dummy.'

In the context of this game, apparently, the HUD rested in your vision as if you were looking directly at a life-size computer monitor, but the buttons didn't seem to interact with the environment at all. In a way, it was like there was another dimension between me, the HUD, and the gaming world, and the HUD's dimension was incorporeal. I tried to reach for the blinking button, but nothing happened. My hand touched nothing, and the button seemed to simply appear over my arm as if it had gone behind instead of through it.

I dropped my arms and stared at the flashing annoyance in the corner of my vision. How was I supposed to select it if I didn't touch it? Should I try to do it telepathically, or some shit? Mentally, I imagined a cursor drift toward the button. The imaginary cursor clicked the button with a satisfying 'tink.' To my utter surprise, the button pressed down before displaying its message. In the same sort of text box as the options, another message appeared.

Quest Received!

Sheriff Brannigan wants to hang you. Escape from the prison, or risk the rope.

Reward: You don't die yet, Cowboy.

A quest box? How quaint. At least this would be like every other game I played. I wondered how long Bertie had been working on this project. How much content was there? Most early access games had maybe three hours of playable content before they kicked out their beta-testers. If that was the case, I realized, then I could be home before dinnertime.

I mentally shoved aside the quest box, and it closed with the sound of a shutter slamming. I flinched at the sudden loud noise, before reading over my options again. Seduction, Intimidation, Sarcasm, Melee. Itdidsay that I could try it my way. However, it also said that options marked with an asterisk would be more likely to succeed. If I was going to get out of here quick, I didn't need to dick around with a creative solution. Mentally, I clicked on the button labeled seduction.

Another text window replaced my options, this one pink and covered in love hearts. The words were written in a white, cursive script, and I could hear something like a saxophone in the background.

You have chosen to seduce the Sheriff! You naughty little minx...

Here's how seduction works;

To the right of your vision, you will see a new progress bar appear. When a seduction attempt begins to succeed, the bar will fill up with pink. If the bar is full, your seduction attempt will succeed and you will be able to control the subject of your affections. If a seduction attempt fails, the pink will drain out. If your bar is empty, the attempt will fail, and the subject may attack. You can attempt any action as a seduction attempt, or you can Ask Bertie! and get a suggestion from our helpful AI.

Good luck! Happy humping!

Just as the text suggested, a new bar appeared to my right with a miniscule amount of pink substance inside of it. The bar looked a bit like a barber's pole, but it was decorated with wooden carvings of hearts, and something that looked vaguely phallic. Judging from what the textbox said, I would be on my own for my seduction attempts. Did that mean that I had to flirt with this guy? Apparently, I could fail. Being a homebody who worked exclusively nights in a dark office in the back of a library, I didn't flirt much, if you could imagine. How in the hell was I going to accomplish this?

With a sigh, I closed the final text window and the Sheriff blinked, as if coming out of a stupor. His eyes focused on me and he glared.

"What're you looking at, Mallory? Cat got your tongue?"

I clenched my jaw, wondering how best to approach this situation. The Sheriff was already angry. What was the best way to entice a man like him? Just the thought of making a fool of myself made my cheeks flush red.

"I... don't really think hanging me will be necessary." I mumbled, biting my lip at the man. God, please kill me now. This was so. Fucking. Awkward.

"Oh?" The Sheriff smirked, his head tilting slightly. The pink substance in the bar inched very slightly upward. "And why is that, Mallory? You got some info for me on those boys you ride with? Maybe if you tell me where they're hiding out, I could negotiate something with the judge?"

A hammer clanged outside the wooden building, and the Sheriff's smirk turned cruel. "I would hurry up, if I were you. You don't have a lot of time."

I gulped, my mind racing as I tried to focus on my task. I wasn't really going to die if this failed. Even if everything looked realistic, this really was just a game. And yet, there wasn't an ounce of me that wanted to feel the scratchy rope dig into the skin of my neck, or feel the floor drop out from underneath me as it pulled taut. If I could feel the chill of the morning air and smell the dank, disgusting bucket in the corner, I was sure I would feel myself hang.

"I'll tell you what you want to know, Sheriff." I mumbled, meeting his eyes nervously. "Only, I think it's best I whisper it to you. You know... nice and close?" My gaze flicked to the bar, and it rose another few inches. It was at least three feet tall as it floated in the air. I had a lot of work to do to make it full.

The Sheriff hummed to himself his hand unconsciously going to the key ring on his belt, which he fingered gently. He seemed to weigh his options, and yet there was no hesitation as he took off his keys and unlocked the cell door. I tensed, wondering if I should make a move to bolt through the door. Historically, that was not a great decision in other games. Usually, if you escaped imprisonment, a bounty would appear on your head and every guard or enemy NPC would attack you on sight until you could pay off your bounty or allow them to take you back to jail. I didn't like my odds of surviving a jail break without so much as a weapon or some decent clothes. In the end, I hesitated too long and the door slammed shut behind the Sheriff as he entered the cell.

"Don't try anything funny, boy." The Sheriff grumbled from underneath his thick goatee. He approached me, his hand now fingering the gun that rested in his belt, high on his hips. That was another point for historical accuracy. So many people thought cowboys and sheriffs in the old west had their guns down low, hanging on a holster practically to their knees. Most of us bitter historians blamed Hollywood for that misconception.

Sundown Sinners Ch. 03

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