A/B Test Dropout

Chapter 1: ∅. Can you really call this a litRPG?

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Chapter 2: Level upper – 0

Tamara vaguely remembers having a desire to be important, once. It hadn't even been a weak one! It had yearned, it was desperate, it clawed out the edges of her mind all-dominating.

Tamara would reach the top or she was nothing. This was, still is, the rule of her world. It's the game you start playing from the very moment you're born until you die or are killed or are neither, like the people or the pattern of corpses on the outskirts of the eternal city of Daugavpils.

When she was eleven or so, which would be six years ago, the year 2061, she watched them. Not in “Latvia", of course, but on the new phone she got that year, refurbished from the recesses of 2011 since she was a lucky girl who could afford retro and the latest styles.

How could she describe their dance? It was like the brilliant dance of the shadows behind them, pa-pounded into reality by the power of Marshal Astrakov's Burevestnik. It was a dance not meant to be imitated by humanity, but the shadows taught it to humanity anyway, a pretty pirouette that makes your stomach turns, a clean rotation around each exotic sphere, but each exotic sphere was incompatible. When you landed on one, you never got out.

And Tamara hoped so dearly, so desperately, that some part of her mind would never escape the beauty as she watched the videos, that she'd perceive not only them fully, being able to gain things that she'd missed on first or thirty-second watch, but that she'd perceive all of reality fully. What she did wasn't uncommon. It's the pastime of every bored kid who wants psychic powers, isn't threatened by the Department of Disinformation or their city's equivalent for any reason, doesn't care enough about their mental health to deal with the risks.

She hoped and she hoped, but she was still so cute and cautious back then, so she never watched anything dangerous enough to break her into psychic power.

Then one day, her parents (her mother a history professor, her father a policy advisor) introduced her to this girl, the daughter of a pair of diplomats. There was a strange glow in her eyes, she had a soft smile and lush, gleaming blonde hair. Their parents talked, told her to entertain the other girl, she remained silent, the other girl was fine with that, eased Tamara into her presence, her light, and then was a part where everything went white or goldenrod, and then she didn't have any aspirations or anxiety at all...

She has anxieties now. Bliss can't last forever. It has to be defended obsessively, fervently, with devotion.

Tamara is Hannah Westmoreland's strategist now.

Her parents let her take classes asynchronously. She doesn't really function well around people, she's something of a shut-in, but she can cook and shower and maybe not clean, given the smattering of notebooks on her desk, but that's not nothing, is it? She'll never be nothing as long as she has her Hannah...

She'll have her Hannah forever if she strategises well for the group.

“But Tamara, what are you even strategising? You're not at war, you're not doing anything criminal, arguably you're not even doing anything interesting. You're just friends.” Maybe that's interesting to everyone who's pathetic and friendless and isolated, like Tamara once was? “But aren't they the ones who need strategies to find friends, love, some glimmer of humanity?” Oh, but you need a strategy to retain your normalcy in a deeply anomalous world.

If she's not at all, explain the Clausewitz and the Schmitt at her desk? Perhaps you should figure out the list of names, resources, powers, lines, past receptivity to awakening, possible liabilities, the day by day diary of threats, the constant shouting from everyone that Hannah's power is Great, nearly beyond the bounds of what is possible for humanity even though Hannah and Tamara and the other girls have seen that this isn't really true, that you can deem it rank seven and that she's brilliant but not so brilliant that other rank sevens aren't as scary to her as she is to everyone else who just doesn't understand that if you leave Hannah alone she'll continue cutely with her life, with no consequences—

Annoying. It's annoying, not doing it (anything can be done for Hannah) but the fact that she has to do it. People won't just leave Hannah alone. History, all of its Importance, wants to kidnap her for its own sake.

Sometimes she gets the feeling that she'd be a killer historian, though. She means, her mom is, her mom still thinks she's training to become one, she's always doing historical and preternatural research, if she had to get a job it would probably be useful. She doesn't. She can still live pointlessly.

Pointlessly doing historical and preternatural research, even on her off days. She's on a pilgrimage back to Hannah's New York. Hannah doesn't live there anymore but half of her friends still do, so it's basically still Hannah's. The Alliance of East and Midwest American Cities may be based there, may own some of the buildings, but it can't possess it properly! It can't cherish the people or the houses. It can just administrate them, necessarily.

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She doesn't go out that much so she's leaning against the sides and back of the K-train, never quite comfortable, always at bad posture. It's easier to do that when you have someone else's shoulder. She can't go on her beloved six or fifty-six year old phone because it's inadvisable to do so in the Kisaragi System, finally conquered by humanity after Starfall so it's not unsafe and won't awaken you, but might give you a few software issues after. She bought one book with her but it's for business and she can't read it for leisure. She bought five notebooks with her but she's not comfortable enough to try to draw and it's all so bothersome, but in warped space (and no she doesn't look out the windows) it's not bothersome for long.

She stumbles out of the train, keeping the receipt, the pastime of every bored kid who wants to feel what psychic powers are like and looks at the strange patterns on the card, realising nothing since they have no sight. Then it's back into the subway, conventional WTC Cortland, twenty minutes suffocating, she doesn't do well around people she doesn't know she remembers, hasn't dealt with this many people in months, for months. Her heart pounds, her ears ring, she shuts down a little, but she doesn't forget her stop and she stumbles out at about Central Park.

She walks, checking her phone, not checking her surroundings. Hannah will later chide her for that, but it's fine, Tamara's paranoia doesn't work like that.

She goes to her destination, breathing out, and knocks at the gates.

Giovanna of the Tower of Avarice knows it's her not psychically, descends.

She's a more feral blonde than Hannah, hair cut unevenly, nails and their skin bitten away at, but she's the most notable and noble of them all, family garbed in yellow silks and otherthreads and so many luxurious items that Hannah saw in a catalogue or a secret shopping centre for the highest of the high or her sweet prophetic dreams, not from this world, that's obvious because the Tower of Avarice fell upon Trump Tower, but which other?

The issue is, Giovanna doesn't remember! Giovanna says she's always been here. And yet she always complains about not living up to her family's standards, standards that don't match with any culture on Earth or the so-called culture of any of its nomoi, the patterns of elsewhere reflected in the stigmata on her body but not the cheap polyester dress, or something like that, that's what Hannah told her.

“I said hi, Tammy! Are you going to keep staring at me?”

Oh. Uh. Yeah. “I don't respond to Tammy.”

“No, I said ‘hi’, Tammy.”

“Hello, Giovanna.”

“You’re so mean.” She pouts ridiculously. “Well, anyway, would you like to come in? We have a lot to talk about.”

“I would.”

And then Tamara is Giovanna's guest, with not enough time to do anything more than glance at the little floor guide next to the elevator, listing so many wings and sections and she doesn't even have the time to begin to grasp them all. How many floors does this place even have? The elevator doesn't have a button per floor, it has a little digital keypad, 1 to 9, minus and enter. Giovanna hits 1-0-8-enter, and together they rise to the top.

“Family quarters,” and it's so gaudy, Tamara is kind of hopeless, between the gold and the huang and the glitzy glimmering yellow, the red velvet carpets and the portal to the lobby, engraved, marble: who the fuck are you, Giovanna? Why don't you know?

QUO VADIS
“A sheaf of bright light falling from above through a large opening broke into a thousand sparks on a fountain in a quadrangular little basin, called the impluvium, which was in the middle to receive rain falling through the opening during bad weather; this was surrounded by anemones and lilies. In that house a special love for lilies was evident, for there were whole clumps of them, both white and red; and, finally, sapphire irises, whose delicate leaves were as if silvered from the spray of the fountain.”

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Chapter 2: Level upper – 0

Chapter 1 ∅. Can you really call this a litRPG?. Tamara vaguely remembers having a desire to be important, once. It hadn't even been a weak one! It had yearned, it was desperate, it clawed out the edges of her mind all-dominating.
Tamara would reach the top or she was nothing. This was, still is, the rule of her world. It's the game you start playing from the very moment you're born until you die or are killed or are neither, like the people or the pattern of corpses on the outskirts of the eternal city of Daugavpils.
When she was eleven or so, which would be six years ago, the year 2061, she watched them. Not in “Latvia", of course, but on the new phone she got that year, refurbished from the recesses of 2011 since she was a lucky girl who could afford retro and the latest styles.
How could she describe their dance? It was like the brilliant dance of the shadows behind them, pa-pounded into reality by the power of Marshal Astrakov's Burevestnik. It was a dance not meant to be imitated by humanity, but the shadows taught it to humanity anyway, a pretty pirouette that makes your stomach turns, a clean rotation around each exotic sphere, but each exotic sphere was incompatible. When you landed on one, you never got out.
And Tamara hoped so dearly, so desperately, that some part of her mind would never escape the beauty as she watched the videos, that she'd perceive not only them fully, being able to gain things that she'd missed on first or thirty-second watch, but that she'd perceive all of reality fully. What she did wasn't uncommon. It's the pastime of every bored kid who wants psychic powers, isn't threatened by the Department of Disinformation or their city's equivalent for any reason, doesn't care enough about their mental health to deal with the risks.
She hoped and she hoped, but she was still so cute and cautious back then, so she never watched anything dangerous enough to break her into psychic power.
Then one day, her parents (her mother a history professor, her father a policy advisor) introduced her to this girl, the daughter of a pair of diplomats. There was a strange glow in her eyes, she had a soft smile and lush, gleaming blonde hair. Their parents talked, told her to entertain the other girl, she remained silent, the other girl was fine with that, eased Tamara into her presence, her light, and then was a part where everything went white or goldenrod, and then she didn't have any aspirations or anxiety at all...
She has anxieties now. Bliss can't last forever. It has to be defended obsessively, fervently, with devotion.
Tamara is Hannah Westmoreland's strategist now.
Her parents let her take classes asynchronously. She doesn't really function well around people, she's something of a shut-in, but she can cook and shower and maybe not clean, given the smattering of notebooks on her desk, but that's not nothing, is it? She'll never be nothing as long as she has her Hannah...
She'll have her Hannah forever if she strategises well for the group.
“But Tamara, what are you even strategising? You're not at war, you're not doing anything criminal, arguably you're not even doing anything interesting. You're just friends.” Maybe that's interesting to everyone who's pathetic and friendless and isolated, like Tamara once was? “But aren't they the ones who need strategies to find friends, love, some glimmer of humanity?” Oh, but you need a strategy to retain your normalcy in a deeply anomalous world.
If she's not at all, explain the Clausewitz and the Schmitt at her desk? Perhaps you should figure out the list of names, resources, powers, lines, past receptivity to awakening, possible liabilities, the day by day diary of threats, the constant shouting from everyone that Hannah's power is Great, nearly beyond the bounds of what is possible for humanity even though Hannah and Tamara and the other girls have seen that this isn't really true, that you can deem it rank seven and that she's brilliant but not so brilliant that other rank sevens aren't as scary to her as she is to everyone else who just doesn't understand that if you leave Hannah alone she'll continue cutely with her life, with no consequences—
Annoying. It's annoying, not doing it (anything can be done for Hannah) but the fact that she has to do it. People won't just leave Hannah alone. History, all of its Importance, wants to kidnap her for its own sake.
Sometimes she gets the feeling that she'd be a killer historian, though. She means, her mom is, her mom still thinks she's training to become one, she's always doing historical and preternatural research, if she had to get a job it would probably be useful. She doesn't. She can still live pointlessly.
Pointlessly doing historical and preternatural research, even on her off days. She's on a pilgrimage back to Hannah's New York. Hannah doesn't live there anymore but half of her friends still do, so it's basically still Hannah's. The Alliance of East and Midwest American Cities may be based there, may own some of the buildings, but it can't possess it properly! It can't cherish the people or the houses. It can just administrate them, necessarily.
She doesn't go out that much so she's leaning against the sides and back of the K-train, never quite comfortable, always at bad posture. It's easier to do that when you have someone else's shoulder. She can't go on her beloved six or fifty-six year old phone because it's inadvisable to do so in the Kisaragi System, finally conquered by humanity after Starfall so it's not unsafe and won't awaken you, but might give you a few software issues after. She bought one book with her but it's for business and she can't read it for leisure. She bought five notebooks with her but she's not comfortable enough to try to draw and it's all so bothersome, but in warped space (and no she doesn't look out the windows) it's not bothersome for long.
She stumbles out of the train, keeping the receipt, the pastime of every bored kid who wants to feel what psychic powers are like and looks at the strange patterns on the card, realising nothing since they have no sight. Then it's back into the subway, conventional WTC Cortland, twenty minutes suffocating, she doesn't do well around people she doesn't know she remembers, hasn't dealt with this many people in months, for months. Her heart pounds, her ears ring, she shuts down a little, but she doesn't forget her stop and she stumbles out at about Central Park.
She walks, checking her phone, not checking her surroundings. Hannah will later chide her for that, but it's fine, Tamara's paranoia doesn't work like that.
She goes to her destination, breathing out, and knocks at the gates.
Giovanna of the Tower of Avarice knows it's her not psychically, descends.
She's a more feral blonde than Hannah, hair cut unevenly, nails and their skin bitten away at, but she's the most notable and noble of them all, family garbed in yellow silks and otherthreads and so many luxurious items that Hannah saw in a catalogue or a secret shopping centre for the highest of the high or her sweet prophetic dreams, not from this world, that's obvious because the Tower of Avarice fell upon Trump Tower, but which other?
The issue is, Giovanna doesn't remember! Giovanna says she's always been here. And yet she always complains about not living up to her family's standards, standards that don't match with any culture on Earth or the so-called culture of any of its nomoi, the patterns of elsewhere reflected in the stigmata on her body but not the cheap polyester dress, or something like that, that's what Hannah told her.
“I said hi, Tammy! Are you going to keep staring at me?”
Oh. Uh. Yeah. “I don't respond to Tammy.”
“No, I said ‘hi’, Tammy.”
“Hello, Giovanna.”
“You’re so mean.” She pouts ridiculously. “Well, anyway, would you like to come in? We have a lot to talk about.”
“I would.”
And then Tamara is Giovanna's guest, with not enough time to do anything more than glance at the little floor guide next to the elevator, listing so many wings and sections and she doesn't even have the time to begin to grasp them all. How many floors does this place even have? The elevator doesn't have a button per floor, it has a little digital keypad, 1 to 9, minus and enter. Giovanna hits 1-0-8-enter, and together they rise to the top.
“Family quarters,” and it's so gaudy, Tamara is kind of hopeless, between the gold and the huang and the glitzy glimmering yellow, the red velvet carpets and the portal to the lobby, engraved, marble: who the fuck are you, Giovanna? Why don't you know?

QUO VADIS“A sheaf of bright light falling from above through a large opening broke into a thousand sparks on a fountain in a quadrangular little basin, called the impluvium, which was in the middle to receive rain falling through the opening during bad weather; this was surrounded by anemones and lilies. In that house a special love for lilies was evident, for there were whole clumps of them, both white and red; and, finally, sapphire irises, whose delicate leaves were as if silvered from the spray of the fountain.”

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