Troy quickly rounded a corner out of sight of Mark’s cubicle. The spells generally required line of sight or touch to work, so staying out of sight was a good idea. It wasn’t like he was afraid, but Mark had been pumping out myths left and right. Practically everyone in the office had been changed. But how had he managed to make all those changes without passing out?
His mind raced and he found himself naturally drifting towards the break room. It was as good a place to find Dustin as any. The break room, a plain white tiled room, had a fridge, a sink, a microwave, and a coffeemaker. Troy went to pour himself a cup and found it empty. Someone hadn’t done their job this morning! With a sigh, Troy dug out some filters and shook out a proper amount of grind. He stood in front of the coffee maker, idly brewing a new pot and tossing the old one in the sink, when the realization hit him.
Of course! Mark wrote myths. Backstories. He wove in modern technology in ways that made sense. When he altered reality, it didn’t cost so much. If he wrote well enough (which Troy thought he did, judging from what he’d seen in his own write-up) Mark could scrape out spells that barely cost him anything. Wait, and if he actually got the person to collaborate with him, craft their new reality along side him…well, they’d accept it, of course. Technically, they’d agreed to it.
The coffee burbled. Troy washed two mugs out. Mark took his coffee the same way Troy did. He glanced up at the wall and groaned. He was the cleaner for the break room today. In other words, he was the idiot who hadn’t brewed coffee this morning. And…it was kind of a mess. Spilled sugar on the coffee maker, empty creamer containers on the counter, someone hadn’t taken out the trash…he wondered if he were actually going to stay long enough to deal with it….but at the same time it was his job to do it. He could call in sick right after he was done.
Troy filled up the mugs and walked back to his cubicle, trying not to trip over Sandra’s tail. He shook his head. Making the office into a kitchen sink of races seemed super haphazard for a guy like Mark. Sure, an office building in the big city would be diverse, but never this diverse. Some races wouldn’t like big city life, like those pixies who’d giggled as he’d walked past him. And they were rare races in DND, player choice being the exception.
He went to set his mug in his cubicle and came to a halt. It wasn’t there. It was Sandra, Tracy, Bill, his cubicle, then Mark’s. But-he glanced from Bill’s cubicle to Mark’s-his cubicle had disappeared. He walked around again, hoping to find his cubicle and panicked.
“Something wrong, rock star?” Greg gave him a tusky grin.
“Uh…where’s my cubicle?” Troy asked, dreading the reply.
Greg guffawed, voice booming, “You rock the tavern, Troy. Why would you need a cubicle?” Greg paused, smile dropping. “Wait, are they charging us now? They promised free ale…”
“Nope, the ale must flow!” Troy came up with the geekiest reference he could. “Just wondering if I had one. Thought it was next to Mark’s.”
“Oh. Think they gave it to Bill.” Greg shrugged, then smiled again. “Can’t imagine you doing office work, ha!”
“R-right…haha, me, office work, when I should be…”
“Keeping us lowly workers entertained and well lubricated as the bartender.” Greg frowned, “You okay rock star?”
“Nah, I’m fine.” Troy backed away, bumping the edge of Greg’s cubicle with a hollow *twang*.
Troy felt behind him and discovered a very expensive guitar strung across his back. His heart began to pound. Had Mark managed to get him with a spell? But he hadn’t heard anything. He glanced around and caught a glimpse of flowing red hair vanishing into the boy’s room. He checked himself over. Still human. What had Mark done?
“Let me help you, the strap’s all tangled.” The Half-Orc stood and pulled Troy firmly to him. He could feel Greg’s thick fingers adjusting the straps. “There, shouldn’t be knocking that thing against walls, it’s expensive, right?”
Troy nodded absently. 5000 gold pieces, at least, the modern equivalent of about $50,000 dollars. He’d won it at a Bardic College competition. Wouldn’t break if it hit a wall, magic items couldn’t be destroyed that easily. It would need re-tuning, but it shouldn’t take too long. Greg clapped him on the shoulder and sent him stumbling away towards Mark’s cubicle.
“Mark?” Troy asked as he approached Mark’s cubicle, wondering if he’d returned from the bathroom, glad the coffee hadn’t spilled. It was like he knew how to rotate the mug so no liquid sloshed out.
Mark’s cubicle was empty. Even the journal was gone. He must have taken it to the bathroom with him, adjust reality with it. But Troy hadn’t made his decision…about his race yet. Everything else was basically there. Conflicting memories warred in him. He knew, logically, that he was not the office bartender and didn’t know anything about guitars. However, he was really hoping Mark would come out so he could give him the coffee he’d ordered and Troy could go back to manning the taps.
As the thought occurred to him, Mark walked out of the bathroom. Human Mark. The tall red-headed bear grinned when he saw Troy standing there with the two mugs and hurried towards him. The Journal he was writing with in his hand. It was no Journal. Mark had been writing his world building notes on the multiple blank pages in the Book of Myth. The ones MEANT for other spells. He was a genius and a moron, Troy decided.
Mark accepted the mug. “Thanks rock star! Decided on a race yet?”
“Uh, is my character a tavern keeper or something?”
“Oh, he runs the office tavern. DND Modern, remember? We process citizenship paperwork, background checks, that kind of stuff. That’s why the office is so diverse.”
“Isn’t Tavern keeper more an NPC thing?”
“Downtime jobs. Everyone needs to do something that earns them coin. I figured with your high Charisma and Bardic Knowledge, you’d be great at it. Plus it actually sets you up to take on more adventures.”
“It’s just that, traditionally tavern keepers are jolly, fat, middle aged FORMER adventurers.” Troy shrugged, “Not exactly a rock star life.”
“Oh, well yeah, you are, technically.” Mark nodded. “A FORMER rock star. Your band broke up after the tragic drug-fueled death of a member. We’re keeping it real.”
Troy pointed at Bill’s cubicle. “Where’s my cubicle, Mark?”
Mark leaned over. “That’s Bills.”
“I know that.” Troy ground his teeth. “Where’s mine? I’m only running…the office tavern today.”
“No, no. Running the office tavern is a full time job.” Mark said. “Maybe I forgot to write that down…Oh, still haven’t decided on a race? You’re going to be really busy soon, almost noon, so…?”
“This is really happening,” Troy muttered. “Um, Ben’s a Minotaur, right? And Ken is a Leonine.”
Mark nodded eagerly. “Right? So you basically have to choose Gnoll by order of elimination.”
“Do you have the race write up done?” Troy swallowed. “Because…yeah, I’ll do it. Gnoll Tavern Keeper. Sounds like a blast. Free beer, right?”
“Oh, all the beer you can want. Maybe more than you should, actually, but that’s for later. We need a jolly barkeeper not one with alcoholism.” Mark started writing again. “But I’m not quite done with the Gnoll write up.”
“When will I know?”
“You won’t.” Mark muttered beneath his breath before raising his voice. “Within an hour. Just get back to bar before your customers get antsy. Mr. Anderson needs a bottle of Dwarven Fire Whiskey.”
“Wait, are we playing the game now?” Troy asked, confused. He burped, tasting ale and stumbled a bit. Normally it wasn’t his cup of tea, but…the taste grew on him.
“Upping your Constitution, can’t be that tipsy from one mug of ordinary ale.” Mark muttered and erased something. Troy regained his balance, the taste of ale receding. He kinda missed it. “Yes, actually, it’s part of the game. You play the guitar at the end of day, got it?”
Troy nodded. “Play the guitar, do that weird thing where I polish the same mug for hours with a dirty bar rag and shmooze with customers between running the boss his Fire Whiskeys. Got it.”
“Oh, ignore the rag thing, that’s just Hollywood having fun. You have a dishwasher under the bar.” Mark replied, eyes not straying from his notes. “Sexual preference?”
“Male?” Troy blinked and indicated the bulge in his pants. “Is that even a question?”
“You’d be surprised.” Mark chuckled. “You really would. No, I meant are you gay or straight or bi or what?”
Troy pursed his lips in thought. “Is my character gay?”
“He’s probably bi.” Mark shrugged. “Want me to write that down, keep your options open?”
Mark said that like he was doing Troy a favor, but there was an edge to his voice. Troy wondered what he’d do with a Book that let him do this to the office. If he were straight, every woman would be a big-tittied, beautiful, and horny semen demon. For his dick only, of course. But a gay guy…he’d probably turn the women into slightly pretty versions of themselves, not much thought put into it. His real aim was to change the guys. And all the guys Troy had seen were hyper-masculine men or bears….just like Mark.
“You mean am I giving Mr. Andersen more than Fire Whiskey?” Troy smirked. “I dunno. I’m gay. This is a professional office. How debauched would I be?”
“He is kinda hot now, isn’t he?” Mark eyed him. “I dunno. Professional-ish. The rest of the guys never told me their sexuality so I filled it in for them. But suffice it to say, staying gay let’s you take a swing at them. And me.”
“Don’t do Elf cosplay if you want a swing at me.” Troy took a guess at Mark’s vulnerability and winked. “You have a better chance right now.”
Mark blushed. “Uh, thanks Troy. I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”
Bingo.
“I was actually surprised you chose to play the game too. As a DM, I mean. You know, the whole ‘DM PC’ meme.” Troy nodded and moved himself forward. Closer to the Book of Myth. “But yeah, I’d definitely wouldn’t mind sleeping with a bear like you.”
“I haven’t even adjusted your Charisma yet.” Mark murmured. “Uh, were you always this…interested in me?”
“You can have us dating if you want.”
Troy leaned forward and kissed Mark, hand groping for the Book of Myth as he did. It slipped through his fingers and onto the floor. Mark broke the kiss and scrambled for it. Troy watched, fist clenched. Damn his butterfingers!
“Sorry, I guess we got a bit too…” Troy trailed off, feigning embarrassment. “Your notes okay?”
“Ah, yeah, yeah.” Mark gulped and took out his pencil. “What did you want me to be?”
“I would never presume to make your character for you.” Troy shrugged, disappointed. It had been worth a try. “But just remember we’re doing a lot of drinking and that wears on your figure. Elves look weird fat.”
“Oh, I know. How about a Dwelf?”
“Is that an Elf and a Dwarf hybrid?”
“Yup. Sturdier and portly. You won't mind, sounds like your type.” Mark noted something in the book out loud. “Dating Mark, a Dwelf office worker.”
Troy felt odd for a moment, but it passed. He felt no attraction to Mark. He wasn’t a Dwelf yet, after all.
“Not very debauched, then.”
“You used to be and then you settled down with me.” Mark nodded, pencil writing. “But I mean, you still have to service your party members, right? Group morale is the Bard’s job after all.”
There was an odd sensation as memories of having sex with his male office workers-Greg mostly-ran through his head. His anus tensed then loosened as memories of all the times Greg had taken him from behind drunk after work in his tavern hit him. He fell forward, then back, his hips bucking unconsciously as all the fucks hit him at once. Mark caught his arm.
“That was quick.” Mark licked his lips. "How about you and me-"
“Troy! Where’s mah Fire Whiskey!” Mr. Andersen thundered and Troy’s throat felt strange, oddly relaxed, the gag reflex completely gone as all the memories of deep-throating the demanding Dwarf’s thick cock hit him. In his hand was a bottle of Fire Whiskey.
“Go on rock star, man that tavern.” Mark guided the still-dazed Troy, whose pants were tented and wet in the crotch, out of his cubicle and gently pushed him towards the break room. “You’ll be feeling more yourself soon. And more my type.”
Troy nodded and licked his lips, eyes still unfocused, hoping he could make it up to Mr. Andersen with a nice BJ. That dwarf had a rockin' cock. He took a swig of Fire Whiskey straight from the bottle, enjoying the burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat, and swaggered to the Dwarf's office, a furry tail slowly extending from his backside and swaying with his movements.