Oliver Moore, The Nerd Who Would Be King (main branch complete)

The incessant buzzing of my phone dragged me from the depths of sleep. I groaned, rolling over in my tangled sheets, my eyes struggling to adjust to the sliver of sunlight that had managed to penetrate through the gap in my blackout curtains. My bedroom was a testament to organized chaos—empty energy drink cans formed a small pyramid on my nightstand, discarded clothes draped over my gaming chair, and various Valheim merchandise scattered across every available surface. The walls were plastered with posters of fantasy landscapes and game characters, their edges curling from humidity and time.

"Hello?" I mumbled into the phone, not bothering to check who was calling.

"Oliver? Don't tell me you're still in bed." The crisp, deliberately enunciated voice of my father, Richard Moore, came through the speaker. He had that particular tone—the one where he tried to sound like old money despite having made his fortune just fifteen years ago selling specialized industrial equipment. Every word was carefully pronounced as if he was constantly auditioning for membership at some exclusive country club.

"No, no," I lied, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. "I've been up for… hours. Just doing some, uh, research."

"Research?" The skepticism in his voice was palpable. "It's nearly noon, son. What kind of research? You sound like you've just risen from the dead."

"Just some… market trends," I offered weakly, knowing he wouldn't buy it. I could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

"Right," he said after a pointed pause. "Listen, I'm calling to confirm you're still joining us for brunch at Le Petit Château the day after tomorrow. The Harringtons will be there, and I need everyone looking presentable. That means showered, shaved, and smelling like something other than your apartment."

Le Petit Château was exactly the kind of pretentious French restaurant my father loved—all crystal chandeliers and waiters who looked down their noses at anyone who couldn't pronounce the menu items correctly. The Harringtons were practically American royalty, with old railroad money and connections to half the Fortune 500 companies. Dad was hoping to convince them to invest in Moore Industrial Solutions, his company that specialized in custom manufacturing equipment for pharmaceutical companies.

"I'll be there," I promised, though the thought of spending an afternoon watching my father perform his well-rehearsed "self-made man with family values" routine made me want to crawl back under the covers.

That was his whole thing now—Moore Industrial Solutions wasn't just a business; it was a "family legacy." Never mind that I had zero interest in industrial equipment and that my technical knowledge extended only as far as building gaming PCs. He insisted on dragging me, his trophy wife Veronica, and her daughter to these business functions to create the illusion of a tight-knit family empire.

Veronica was fifteen years younger than my father and had the personality of a designer handbag—expensive, showy, and ultimately hollow. I didn't hate her, exactly, but we maintained a mutual understanding of polite disinterest. Her daughter, Cassandra, was another story.

"Is Oliver actually committing to a family obligation? Mark it on the calendar, Richard!" Cassandra's voice cut through in the background, her tone dripping with mock surprise. Her voice had that particular quality of someone who'd attended expensive private schools her entire life—cultured, slightly nasal, and perpetually amused at the shortcomings of others.

I winced. Cassandra considered herself the intellectual of the family, with her art history degree and semester abroad in Paris. She loved to position herself as somehow above her mother's gold-digging ways, despite happily benefiting from my father's money just as much as Veronica did. The difference was that Veronica was at least honest about what she was after.

"Tell Cassandra I wouldn't miss it," I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. "I'll be there, cleaned up and ready to charm the Harringtons."

Of course, my father didn't need to know that the only reason I could afford to keep playing Valheim until 4 AM every night was the monthly "consulting fee" he paid me to occasionally look over some marketing materials and stay out of trouble. Some might call it an allowance, but that sounded too pathetic for a thirty-two-year-old man to admit, even to himself.

After hanging up with my father, I glanced toward the bathroom door and considered showering. The thought evaporated almost immediately.

"I showered… what, three days ago?" I muttered to myself, doing the mental math. "That's practically yesterday in bachelor time."

I performed the time-honored sniff test, lifting my arm and taking a cautious whiff. Not great, but not biohazard level either. Nothing a generous application of body spray couldn't mask. Besides, who was I trying to impress? My computer didn't care if I smelled like a fresh meadow or a week-old pizza.

The floor of my bedroom had evolved into a complex geological formation of clothing strata. I kicked through the piles, occasionally picking up a t-shirt or pair of jeans, holding it at arm's length, and giving it an experimental sniff. After rejecting several candidates that made my eyes water, I settled on a faded Minecraft t-shirt (only worn twice since its last wash) and a pair of jeans that passed the smell test by the narrowest of margins.

As I pulled the shirt over my head, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror mounted on my closet door. My blond hair stuck out in all directions, my face looked puffy from sleep, and the slight paunch around my midsection seemed more prominent than usual. I quickly looked away.

"If you hate being dragged to Dad's business functions so much, maybe get a real job," I told my reflection. "Then you could tell Cassandra to shove it instead of just thinking about telling her."

The thought hung in the air of my apartment, heavy and uncomfortable. I knew I was being a hypocrite. I complained about being treated like a prop in my father's family business theater while simultaneously cashing his checks every month. Meanwhile, Cassandra might be insufferable, but at least she had finished her degree and occasionally helped with actual work at Moore Industrial Solutions. What did I have? A level 97 Dragonknight on Valheim and a collection of limited-edition gaming figurines still in their boxes.

I stood there in my barely-acceptable clothes, feeling the familiar emptiness creep in. It had been two months since Melissa left. Two months, one week, and three days, if I was being pathetically precise—which I was.

"Cheating bitch," I muttered, though the words felt hollow. Melissa had been seeing her best friend I didn't need to worry about for weeks before I caught them in the act. She'd called me "emotionally unavailable" and said she needed someone with "actual ambition." The worst part was that she wasn't entirely wrong.

She had been beautiful—dark hair, a fit but curvy body, and a smile that used to make my heart skip. She was also manipulative, self-centered, and had the emotional depth of a kiddie pool. Yet some nights, like last night when I'd had one too many beers while grinding for rare drops in my favorite game, I found myself hovering over her number in my phone, wondering if she ever thought about me.

"I should really clean this place," I said to the empty apartment. "Maybe update my resume. Go for a run. Do laundry."

The list of responsible adult activities scrolled through my mind as I sat down at my computer desk, brushed aside a collection of empty snack bags, and pressed the power button. The familiar hum of my gaming PC starting up was more comforting than it should have been.

"Just a couple of hours," I promised myself, the same lie I told every day. "Then I'll be productive."

My phone buzzed just as Valheim's loading screen appeared. I grabbed it, already annoyed.

"What now, Dad? I already said I'd be at your stupid brunch—"

"Wow, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," a female voice giggled on the other end. "Or did you even wake up at all until now?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the screen. It wasn't my father—it was Zoe, one of my few remaining real-world friends.

"Shit, Zoe, sorry. I thought you were my dad," I said, suddenly remembering what day it was. Sunday. Game day. The weekly board game session I'd been attending for the past three years at Zoe and her boyfriend Marcus's apartment.

"Let me guess," she said, her voice playfully accusatory. "You forgot. Again. We've been waiting for twenty minutes, Oliver. Marcus has the game all set up, and the pizzas are ready to go."

"Fuck," I swore, glancing at the time on my computer screen. "No, I didn't forget. I was just… running late. I'll be there in like… a minute."

"A minute?" Zoe laughed. "Unless you've invented teleportation since last week, I'm pretty sure you're at least fifteen minutes away."

"Figure of speech," I muttered, already looking for my shoes. "I'm literally walking out the door right now."

Fifteen minutes later, I walked into Zoe and Marcus's apartment, my hair still uncombed and wearing the same barely acceptable clothes I'd thrown on earlier. Their place was everything mine wasn't—clean, organized, and actually decorated by someone with taste rather than accumulated by default. Board game boxes lined one wall of their living room, meticulously arranged by size and genre. The smell of pepperoni pizza hung in the air, making my empty stomach growl in anticipation.

"The dead rises!" Marcus called out from the dining table, where an elaborate board game was already set up. "I was about to send out a search party."

Marcus Jackson had been the star quarterback in high school—the kind of guy who used to "accidentally" knock my books out of my hands in the hallway. Six feet of muscle with a square jaw and perfect hair, he still looked like he could bench press me without breaking a sweat. The only difference now was the thick-rimmed glasses he wore and the "May the **** Be With You" t-shirt stretched across his broad chest.

"Sorry," I mumbled, dropping into an empty chair. "Lost track of time."

"Valheim?" Zoe asked, sliding a plate with two slices of pizza toward me.

Zoe Kim was the reason Marcus was sitting at a table covered in miniature fantasy creatures instead of watching football with his former teammates. With her long black hair often tied in a messy bun, oversized glasses, and a collection of nerdy t-shirts that somehow managed to accentuate her impressive curves, she'd accomplished what seemed impossible: she'd turned the former high school bully into a board game enthusiast who could recite the rules of Dungeons & Dragons from memory.

"Maybe," I admitted, taking a bite of pizza.

"Maybe definitely," Marcus smirked. "What was it this time? Farming rare drops? Grinding experience points? Or just getting your ass handed to you by twelve-year-olds?"

I shot him a look. "At least I don't need to read the rulebook every time we play." Weak, but it was all I had. It used to be true...

"Boys," Zoe warned, but her smile took any sting out of the word. She reached over and squeezed Marcus's arm affectionately. "Play nice."

Sometimes I wondered if Marcus had really changed or if he was just playing the long game—learning the rules of Settlers of Catan and pretending to care about fantasy novels just to keep Zoe happy. Then again, the genuine excitement on his face when he pulled off a complex move in our games suggested otherwise. Still, old suspicions died hard.

"We're playing Nameless Terror today," Zoe explained, gesturing to the board. "I'll be the scholar, Marcus is the investigator, and you can be the wanderer."

"Appropriate casting," Marcus quipped. "The unemployed guy plays the unemployed character."

"I'm a consultant," I shot back, the familiar defensive line coming automatically.

"For your dad's company," Marcus countered. "Which is basically the corporate version of living in your parents' basement."

"Marcus," Zoe said, her tone a bit sharper this time.

He raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry..."

I focused on the game board, trying to ignore the uncomfortable truth in his words. There had been a time, back in college, when I'd thought about asking Zoe out. Before Marcus came along. Before I realized she was way out of my league—smart, beautiful, and actually had her life together. Now I was just grateful to have her as a friend, even if it meant putting up with Marcus.

As the game progressed, I found my mind wandering back to my father's upcoming brunch, the monthly bills piling up on my kitchen counter, and, inevitably, to Melissa. My turns took longer than they should have, and twice Zoe had to remind me it was my move.

"Earth to Oliver," Marcus said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "Did you fall asleep with your eyes open, or are you just strategizing your next brilliant move?"

"Sorry," I muttered. "Just distracted."

"Clearly," he said. "You just wasted your action phase doing absolutely nothing useful. Kind of like your twenties, huh?"

"Marcus!" Zoe swatted his arm, but she was laughing too, which somehow made it worse.

"What? I'm just saying what his dad probably thinks every time he writes that 'consulting' check."

I **** a smile, trying to look like I was in on the joke rather than the butt of it. "At least I don't need to pretend to like Star Wars to get laid."

Marcus's eyes narrowed slightly, but then he broke into a grin. "Who's pretending? The prequels were cinematic masterpieces."

"I'll grant you that," I said, and we all laughed, the tension dissipating.

As Zoe leaned over to explain a rule clarification, I couldn't help but notice the way her t-shirt stretched across her chest. She caught me looking and gave me a small smile that made me quickly avert my eyes, embarrassed.

Later, as Marcus went to the kitchen to grab more beers, Zoe placed her hand on mine. "You okay? You seem more distracted than usual."

"Yeah, just… family stuff. Dad's doing another one of his business brunches."

"The ones where he parades you around like a show pony?"

"That's the one."

She squeezed my hand sympathetically. "You know, if you ever want to talk about finding a job that's not with your dad, I know some people in tech who might—"

"Got the beers!" Marcus announced, returning to the table. He set them down before sliding his arm around Zoe's waist and pulling her in for a kiss that lasted just long enough to make me feel like I should look away.

When they separated, Zoe was slightly flushed, and Marcus had that self-satisfied look that made me want to punch him and be him in equal measure. They fit together so perfectly—her nerdy enthusiasm complementing his jock confidence—that I couldn't even properly resent their happiness.

"Your turn, Oliver," Marcus said, his arm still around Zoe. "Try to stay awake for it this time."

As the game progressed, we reached a pivotal point where my character—the wanderer—stumbled upon an ancient artifact in the Eldrich Horror world. According to the cards Zoe dramatically read aloud, it was called "The Scepter of Dominion." The tiny plastic miniature depicted a golden staff topped with an ornate jewel. I picked it up, examining it.

"The Scepter grants its wielder complete control over all female entities within the realm," Zoe read, putting on her best spooky narrator voice. "They retain their consciousness but become utterly loyal to the holder, obeying without question."

"Damn," Marcus said with a laugh, taking a swig of his beer. "Oliver, you should get one of those in real life. Might be the only way you'll ever get laid again after Melissa."

I rolled my eyes, but Zoe jumped in before I could respond.

"That's such a typical male fantasy," she said, though her tone was light. "Create a magical item that basically turns women into conscious sex dolls. Very creative."

"Hey, I didn't design the game," I protested, drawing a card that gave my character additional movement points.

"Maybe get rid of the thing before Zoe decides to burn the whole box," Marcus teased. "We don't want to be accused of perpetuating the patriarchy in our tabletop games, do we?"

Zoe punched him lightly on the arm, but she was laughing too.

"It's strategic," I defended myself. "Why should my character risk getting devoured by Cthulhu when I can send others to do the dangerous stuff?"

Zoe snorted. "Sending women to do the dangerous stuff," she pointed out.

"The card specifically says 'female entities,'" I reminded her, feeling oddly defensive about a fictional artifact in a board game. "It's not like I wrote it."

Marcus stared at his girlfriend, smirking. "If I had that artifact in real life, I'd probably make you give up your job and just spend all day in sexy lingerie, bringing me beers and pizza."

"Wow, how progressive of you," Zoe said dryly but with a bit of a smile. "I'd rather throw myself into a volcano than become some man's obedient little puppet."

"Even if it was me?" I asked with an exaggerated waggle of my eyebrows.

"Especially if it was you," she shot back with a grin. "I've seen your apartment. I'm not cleaning that disaster zone, magic scepter or not."

"Harsh but fair," I conceded. If there was a woman who even a magical artifact couldn't subdue, it would be Zoe. Her opinions were her own, and I'd never met someone so comfortable in her own convictions. From her nerdy hobbies to her career ambitions, Zoe was unapologetically herself. Thank God Deborah Thomas had won the last presidential elections, otherwise Zoe would probably be enrolling us by **** into the next feminist protest in front of the White House.

As the game continued, my character used the Scepter to essentially create an army of loyal female investigators, cultists, and even some of the lesser monsters. It was absurdly powerful, and soon I was dominating the board. It felt good—watching my character conquer Eldrich Horror with his horde of obedient women. Too bad real life didn't work that way...

"This is ridiculous," Marcus complained as I thwarted another of his moves using my female minions. "The Scepter is totally overpowered. Look at him—he's like a pimp of the apocalypse."

"Pimp of the Apocalypse," Zoe mused. "Sounds like a terrible metal band."

"Or a lame username," I joked.

"You know what's sad?" Marcus said, watching as I used the Scepter to have a female cultist sacrifice herself to protect my character. "I bet if Oliver actually had this power in real life, he'd just make women clean his apartment and bring him snacks while he plays video games."

"Not true," I protested. "I'd also make them tell me I'm handsome."

We all laughed, but something felt off. The air in the room seemed to thicken slightly, like the moment before a thunderstorm. I glanced at the window, half-expecting to see dark clouds gathering, but the sky outside was clear.

"You okay?" Zoe asked, noticing my distraction.

"Yeah," I said, shaking off the strange feeling. "Just got a weird vibe for a second."

"Probably your conscience finally waking up after enslaving half the game board," she teased.

"Or gas from the pizza," Marcus added helpfully.

I **** a smile and returned my attention to the game, but the odd sensation lingered. It wasn't exactly unpleasant—more like the anticipation you feel when you know something significant is about to happen—a tingling at the base of my skull, a slight pressure behind my eyes.

As I moved my pieces across the board, commanding my female thralls to do my bidding in our fictional world, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was shifting, realigning. Like the universe had heard our jokes about the Scepter and was considering the possibilities.

"Your turn again, Oliver," Zoe prompted, completely oblivious to the strange energy I felt pulsing through the room. "What are you going to make your harem do next?"

I looked down at the game board, at the little female figurines arranged around my character like dutiful servants, and felt a chill run down my spine.

"I'm not sure," I said quietly. "I'm really not sure."