---

At an Ātman Man…

If you aren't greasy haired and stupid looking, girls will be more likely to ignore your obsession about dryhumping a Suzumiya Haruhi doll. Seriously.

---

Chapter TEN

Post-Patch Blues

Ain’t no six year old boy understand the true meaning of the blues.

---

The argument: LadMan and his Lads enter the game, but soon discover logging out might be harder than they thought…

---

Absolute_LadMan spawned as a typically proportioned human male not far from his real dimensions, his primary divergence being a flowing, purple hairdo, a feature his avatars almost always had, character creation allowing. He spent time on his character to ensure he looked decent, and in doing so delayed spawning until the spawn-square revelry swung in full; his first full-dive micro-moment consisted of a fully naked buff-boy calling him a weeb faggot and throwing a pair of pants at him.

LadMan laughed. He laughed from his heart, or from his gut, somewhere deep inside, a place where genuine, unironic LOLs still resided. Dignified LadMan would never prance about, birthday suit brandished, but he found joy in observing the game-kid crowd, their stupidity, their antics, the spectacle of it all. Be it trading trash-talk over text chat in the old-school MMOs he used to play, or CAS blaring his diss-track over voice chat as he zoomed overhead, dropping fire and pain on the towel-talis in his favorite milsim; LadMan took immense comfort in knowing that, no matter what tech may come, the computer-obsessed kids would never fundamentally change.

–Dan! he shouted.

He paused at the sound of his voice. Just a bit off, similar, but not quite right, like his own voice overlayed with the voice of another. Utterly uncanny, like that Japanese sex-sim everyone was all into a few years back. Life-likeness, it boasted, better than a wheel girl. But LadMan wasn't convinced. Uncanny Annie, he called her. Her movements were a bit too stiff, her voice a bit too flat, her eyes a bit too dead; he had to put a virtual paper bag over her head whenever he sent Ragin Richard rumpward.

–Test, test, he said. He struggled to hear himself over the crowd's roar.

Just a pinch higher than RL. It'd take time to get used to. How do the chick-rolling dudes feel? Ecstatic, judging from the shrieking women running all about. Like a million mutes suddenly finding themselves able to speak. He swore the sheer novelty of the whole thing amplified the roar in his ears. The deaf undeafened just in time to hear the mutes' decree.

–Dan! he yelled again.

LadMan considered changing up his Dan-discovery strategy when,

–Lad!

Dan_the_Dan emerged from the masses. He looked exactly as expected, lanky and buzz cut, his brown, boring peasant attire dull against his beaming smile.

–Nice hair, dude, said Dan as he came to stand beside LadMan.

–What's the point of gaming if you can't look authentic senpai? said LadMan with a laugh.

–Yeah, but you actually have to feel it now. The hair, I mean.

True. LadMan could feel his long hair falling around his head, brushing against his neck. Weird. It looked sick, but he figured he'd end up tying it into a ponytail or cutting it. Eventually…

The crowd's noise increased as its size swelled. More and more players plopped into existence. Lad leaned in, yelling into Dan's ear so as to be heard.

–How'd you find me?

–Luck, I guess, said Dan. I figured you'd take time for your character, so I waited a bit to message you. But just before I did, I saw your purple hair in the distance, in the crowd. You look exactly the same as you did in Lukia. But… your voice is a little weird. Is mine weird?

–It sounds mostly like you, said LadMan. A little off.

Was it?

–I didn't know they'd change the voices, said Dan. Do… do all the chicks actually sound like chicks now?

–We'll find out soon, said LadMan. How do you pull up the menu?

–Draw a square with your finger, said Dan.

He demonstrated, forming a square in the air. An opaque blue menu materialized before him. It clearly contained words and images, but to LadMan they appeared muddled and blurred.

–You can't see anybody else's menu, said Dan. So you don't have to worry about peekers, it'll just display as a bunch of blurry nonsense.

–That makes sense, said LadMan. Can you give somebody else permission to see it?

–I dunno, maybe…

Shortdan for, "I'll crawl through the settings later and explain the important bits to you." LadMan would feel bad for putting all the busy work on Dan if he didn't seem to like it so much. Learning the ins n outs, crunching numbers, researching hidden mechanics, bugs, glitches, exploits, etc., not to mention all the pre-release interviews, trailers, teasers, and leaks Dan absorbed before the game even launched. He could min-max a game before anyone had played it. Obsessed with everything except lore, which he thought kinda dumb but still knew more about than a weekend warrior via sheer osmosis.

LadMan drew an air-square himself and sure enough a somewhat see-through menu appeared before him, hovering around throat level. LadMan turned his head, but the menu remained fixed.

–It follows your chest movements by default, said Dan. So it'll always be in front of your chest.

LadMan turned his whole body. Sure enough…

–I think you can change it to follow your head, said Dan, and… maybe even your eyes. I know you can change its color, opacity, text size, stuff like that.

–I really thought there'd be a tutorial or something, said LadMan. This is a lot to take in, and it's nothing like Lukia.

–Yeah… said Dan. He scratched his stubble-covered chin, tapped his foot, looked up at the Sun, and squinted. The airships hung overhead. Clouds drifted above them. The crowd's roar continued. The square smelt of bodies, a bit BOey but not too bad. A light breeze blew by.

–Dude, Max, we can finally bang each other! screamed a nearby player to his female-avatar friend. The friend looked alarmed.

–I normally don't like tutorials, muttered Dan. He was frozen in contemplation, digging up some old memories. I feel like… like I saw something about a tutorial. Or maybe somebody said something in an interview, really early on… you know, before Dalton…

Dan didn't forget shit, but LadMan was too hyped to dwell on this oddity.

–Maybe it's baked into the story? he said.

–Maybe… but there better be a manual.

Dan dove into his menu, a-looking. For all his pre-release research he realized he knew very little. He had a solid grasp of the most basic mechanics, the setting, the playable races, the leveling. But beyond that…

When he first spawned, as he was waiting for his character customising buddy, he'd been too hyped to check the menu for much. He opened it, scanned it, and closed it in favor of taking in the smells, sights, and sounds. He also had to check his basic body movements. At least one game, a World War II sim, forgot to make elbows bendable. Let's just say the Nazis weren't the only ones with their arms straight and outstretched. At any rate, Dan hadn't checked for an in-game manual, a feature standard since games didn't have to Satan-sacrifice for every on-screen enemy.

–Where's the manual? Dan asked, moving through his menu with newfound intensity. Not in the settings, like he'd expected. Surely it wasn't an in-game item?

–Don't worry, we'll figure it out, said LadMan, lightly. We're smart, right?

–It's just… so new, said Dan, thoughts still far off. I don't know how anything works.

–We'll figure it out, LadMan said again.

He reached out and touched his own menu, still hovering in front of him. Tapped a tab labeled "player." Surprisingly, the menu had a feel. Not just some hologram projected in front of him; it was an actual object, something he couldn't stick his finger through. It'd been this way in character creation. But in multiplayer…

He inched closer to deep-in-thought-Dan and spun around. His menu kept up with his chest until it came to Dan. It whacked the boy in the back and, attempting to catch up to Lad's chest, now further turned, kept pushing.

–What the fuck? screamed Dan in shock and surprise. He jumped back and the menu, free of its obstacle, flew back in front of LadMan's chest.

–Holy shit, sorry Dan, Lad said, stifling laughter.

–God, that scared the fuck out of me, said Dan, heaving. But… why the fuck do the menus have collision?

LadMan shrugged.

–I don't understand… said Dan as he went back into his own menu. His tongue protruded from the side of his mouth. He furrowed his brow. His fingers flew, scrolling, swiping, and tapping.

LadMan set to inspecting his menu. Now on the "player" tab, it'd changed from his inventory to a standard stat menu, complete with a full body view of himself, slowly spinning, wearing his peasant threads, his +0 to all stats from gear proudly displayed above. The menu featured several tabs in addition to the inventory and player: social, map, streaming, property, pets, quests, standing, crafting, relations, and settings.

–At least there's no cash shop, said LadMan.

Mention of the absent cash shop jolted Dan from his thoughts, reminding him games could contain much worse than story-baked tutorials and game-item manuals.

–Better not be! he snorted. We're already paying a fucking subscription. No devs are that Jewy.

–You'd be surprised, said LadMan. He looked to the airships.

–Can players own those zeppelin things?

–Hell yeah, said Dan. I saw a spotlight video on this. There's a massive workshop east of Brandonville where you can buy them.

–Brandonville? That's the human capital, right?

–Yeah. It's the steampunk city in all the trailers.

–Well, first things first, let's find the rest of the boys, said LadMan.

He set off, with Dan happily hot on his six.

---

Absolute_LadMan and Dan_the_Dan. De facto leaders of the Sad Lads, a medium sized, serious social guild composed of countless MMO veterans. A substantial force in Lukia, and well known. LadMan and Dan, either semi-meticulous or simply not completely stupid, planned their early in-game moves before diving in, and made sure them and their guildmates would be able to meet up with minimal difficulty on launch. As Dan explained days before in their Discord:

Fanget limits messaging. They're going for realism, I guess. You message people through the social menu, but you have to be their friend to message them. And you can only message a friend if they're a certain distance from you. I don't know exactly how far, but not very. I've heard fifty in-game miles. It might be less. Also, it's only text. Fanget uses proximity VC, like Lukia, but you can't mute yourself. You just have to shut up. Also, while in the game, you can't access background programs. So, our days of meming over the Discord while running separate raids are over. I also heard that the friend system is limited. You can only friend someone if you're within a few in-game miles of them. And there are no suggestion menus, you have to enter their username exactly to friend them.

LadMan thought these measures stupid. The game is a game, the Devs oughta treat it like one. These weird restrictions just made his job as guild leader harder while offering no apparent benefit save for some nebulous claim of "immersion." LadMan supposed he ought to give the immersion argument more credit, but when such things came up against his treasured QoL, he inevitably sided with the latter. Regardless, the thirty human Sad Lads eventually congregated at the edge of the plaza, in front of a gray, gothic, strangely Christian church. Everybody knew at least a few other usernames exactly, and so they all slowly friended and messaged the missing and told them the meeting place. Had they not determined what everybody was gonna spawn as, and gotten an exact number of expected humans pre-dive, this would've been hell. LadMan, looking at the still chaos-consumed plaza, figured organization wasn't a priority for most of the players.

By and by the group grew till LadMan determined everyone who was supposed to be present was. They stood in a mass before him, milling, chatting, gawking, and admiring or decrying their guildmates' avatars. A few were present LadMan wished weren't, and a few far-off, spawned as other species or out of game entirely, he wanted near, but, looking at the mostly mirthful Sad Lads, the crazy town and the world beyond it, and thinking of the future hours of fun Fanget would provide, LadMan felt fulfillment he hadn't for a while. He stepped atop a bench.

–Okay, everyone, he shouted, struggling to be heard over the plaza roar. The Lads quieted down and turned their eyes to him.

–First off, full-immersion… heck yeah!

The Lads roared. Most had waited years for this; many doubted it'd ever exist. LadMan found himself infected by their excitement. He looked down at broadly smiling Dan. Were things going this well for the guild's other groups? the guys other-species-spawned in far-away spawn towns? Ah, who cares? How badly can you fuck up in a video game, anyway?

–All right, said LadMan as they settled down. We got a lot to do. I know everyone wants to fight-

–Or fuck! interrupted one of the Lads, Vac_Effron.

His few buddies, who formed with him a somewhat subversive subset of the Sad Lads, laughed and ribbed one another.

–Yes, or that, said LadMan, his beam barely beclouded. Always on target, Vac.

Vac flipped him the bird and his buddies burst into more laughter.

–First, we need to get our starting gear. Dan says the first vendor you talk to, no matter what kind, will give you a backpack with some basic stuff in it.

LadMan opened his menu and navigated to his map. The entire gameworld right before him. It would be impossible to get a sense of scale till he'd done some traveling, but it looked big. And, more importantly, diverse; different biomes and such, some real, some surreal, not just medieval French forests. He looked up to see most of the other Lads buried in their own menus.

–You can rebind the "open menu" option to another motion if you want, said Dan. I would suggest looking through the settings, you can actually customize a bunch of different stuff I wasn't expecting. I bet it'd be really useful to set the menu to…

LadMan looked at his map while Dan droned on. He decided to ignore the world map for now, lest he become overwhelmed. He zoomed in to his local map, just the human spawn town, Chancellorsburg, and its immediate surroundings. The modest town formed a rough circle on the north bank of the River Chancellor. The plaza? Dead center. Any other notable features? A star fort, just outside town, to the north, and a large, open air market in the town's southwest section. Like most communities, it seemed the bigger, better houses occupied the inner-town area while the slums and their slummers sulked on the periphery. Several roads headed all four cardinal directions out from town and, Dan would be pleased to note, a railroad, to the north, ran east to west, complete with a station near the fort, well under its command.

Dan babbled on while thirty lost Lads tried to keep pace with his menu-maneuvering.

–In settings, menu, inventory, inventory graphics, you can turn off auto-rotate on your player-picture, said Dan, mouth moving a million miles a minute. Then you can change the gear-plus value to be itemized, average, or total, and how-

–Dan, said LadMan, I think that's enough for now.

–Oh… okay then, said Dan

Thirty sighs left thirty lips, all glad Dan was done with his settings spiel.

–What's our gameplan? Dan asked.

–I think the market'll be a good place to start, said LadMan, loudly. The Lads nodded their heads, plan-pleased.

–We'll grab the starting gear and then figure out what to do next, Lad said. Probably head to the human capital to meet up with everyone else.

–Sounds gucci, said some Lad.

–Okay, let's go. Stay on my six, I don't want any of you morons wandering off.

The group fell in and began to move; a roughly five wide column, a motley crew assembled in slapdash fashion behind their skipper and his right hand Dan.

–Keeping things organized is gonna be brutal, LadMan said to Dan.

Several saved confetti tubes got popped as the parade proceeded. Once they exited the plaza and got onto a wide, main street, they started seeing NPCs en masse, regular civvies walking the street, dressed in an array of late-Victorian duds. In this fine part of town they wore bourgie day dress: coats and waistcoats, ascots or bowties, and top or bowler hats for the men; with the women LARPing as Gibson girls, heavily corseted, in dresses of all colors. Only some steampunk flair broke up the historical authenticity: a mechanical hand peeking out from under a black glove, golden-brass goggles resting on a top hat, a small, mechanical arm attached at the back of the neck holding a cigarette to a man's mouth. A few carried arms: pistols, swanky swords, or other, wackier steampunk weapons. One guy in a Norfolk suit had a harpoon gun, loaded, slung across his back, and a tiny woman in an honest-to-God maid outfit dragged a giant, copper colored scythe behind her. An odd citizenry, but proud and pompous despite it, and friendly. Many smiled as the Lads walked by, warmly and widely, and some nodded or tipped their hats. Even the occasional carriage-carrying horse whinnied as if in greeting. One young woman and a dandy dude, both got up all gentile, bowed low to the Lads, smiled, and blew them kisses.

The Lads returned these greetings with waves, nods, and smiles of their own. Nobody got up to their usual shenanigans: punching NPCs to see if they could, flipping up skirts, throwing rocks through windows. Nobody felt able. This was, quite simply, the best it'd ever been. Despite every guildie closely inspecting every passing NPC for giveaways: a too-stiff step, a too-wooden face, a tiny glitch in movement or expression, they couldn't find anything. These NPCs differed from the players only in that they didn't have usernames floating above their heads. In a way, this made them seem more real, as the floating names marked the players clearly as creatures in a game, while the NPCs could pass as (oddly dressed) street people in any Earth-town. In certain places, Portland, Asheville, otherwhere, they'd fit right in as they were. Realizing this realness sent an excited ripple through the Lads; their hype had never faltered, but seeing the NPCs expertly crafted just increased it that much more.

Finally, thought LadMan.

–Dan, isn't this- he began.

–Kinda bad, actually, Dan interrupted. Lad looked at Dan, wondering if they saw the same thing. Apparently not, as Dan had his face buried in the settings. He fingered through his menu as he walked, quickly, quietly clicking, squinting and peering, and looking more and more upset as he did so. So engrossed he veered off course and nearly ran into a pretty giggling girl.

–Move, hissed Dan, hardly bothering to look up.

–Oh, why hello there, said the girl, a grinning coquette.

–General Kenobi, said one of the guildies, Lying_Ted, a friend of Vac's.

The girl winked, blew him a kiss, and continued on. Ted fistbumped Vac.

–Why'd they have to make em flirty? whined slick, one of the few IRL girl-guildies, currently in the form of a fella.

–Don't act you don't like it, Slick, said Lying Ted. We all know you rolled a dude to get it on like you've always wanted.

He and Vac burst out laughing at their lame joke. Normally, Slick wouldn't mind, but in that moment her face darkened. Sick of the licks on her lesbianism? Hard to say. LadMan, observing her, found it hard to believe that boy-body contained Slick, the three-state away voice he'd known and trusted for years. So used to her feminine, Southern drawl, now she sounded rough and gruff. Why did she roll a dude?

–Dan, what's wrong, LadMan asked once the Lads got back on track.

Dan, still stuck in-menu, replied hazily, thoughts far,

–It's like… I don't know… the menu is… I just thought it'd be better designed…

–What do you mean?

–It's super convoluted.

–So was Lukia's, said LadMan, it's part of the charm.

–They said they were gonna fix this kinda stuff, said Dan. There are, like, typos and shit.

–I'm sure they'll patch-

–That's not the issue, snapped Dan. Why are there typos at all?

–Come on man, it's launch-

–Think of how much trust we're putting in them, said Dan.

LadMan walked on, silent, resigned to his friend's shitty mood. Dan, despite his pre-game, hypey nature, tended to change tune at the first sign of a game-breaking bug/crack. And, to Dan, even the flimsiest flaw could prove fatal, from barely unfair cash shop mechanics to glitches, an unfun grind, even tiny typos. LadMan sometimes felt that to Dan's hypercritical eyes every game was fated to fall; and from the heights of Dan's hype it was quite a fall. Lad recalled a survival sim some years ago, half-dive and full hype-ahead, the sort of game Dan fidgeted over for weeks pre-launch. It had hunger, thirst, and even semi-pain. The game did decent, and was good in that it used the tech it said it would, but an unfun world, rehashed mechanics, repetitive quests, and persistent sound glitches turned Dan sour.

Dan was an odd sort, not atypical in those times, but overall odd nonetheless. He adored games but seemed to hate those he played. Hypercritical and also hypersensitive, not only did design imperfections irk him, but also any scent of "jewery," as he called it. Essentially, in Dan's eyes, a game's content needed to be available to him, even if he never intended to use it. Micro-transactions, even cosmetics for characters he didn't play, really rustled him. He also took issue with being underleveled or underpowered relative to other Lads. When Slick, during their early Lukia days, got a week off work and spent it grinding, Dan fell quite behind her, seeing as how he couldn't dump time to match. Being so relatively weak, seeing her unleash cool moves and wield sweet gear he couldn't, got him all bothered and butthurt. This all culminated in him outright demanding that Slick stop grinding so much. Slick, fiercely independent and never having cared much for "Dan the Dick," told him to fuck off. Upon further insisting Slick told him he was a sexist pig because he was mad a woman was so much stronger than him. This riled Dan further, and it took all of Douglas' diplomacy to get them back to semi-speaking terms.

Was Dan the type a Twitter-teen might whine about? Probably, but, TBF, he reacted similarly much earlier when LadMan, then leader of the 1337 Lads (precursor to the Sad Lads, formed in a kickass Hundred Years' War sim) bought a badass horse from the cash shop, thereby achieving a power level that destitute Dan could not match. LadMan, not opposed to cash shops on moral principle (he didn't care for them for practical purposes, but used them if present) nevertheless moderated his cash shop shopping ever since.

So Dan had plenty of powder-kegs that, without notice, might blow. Bad game, unfair game, overpowered guildmates, etc. and etc. It seemed Dan should give up gaming wholesale, invest his time in something stable and solitary. But he never did. He forgave Lukia's many faults and played it more per week than he slept, whining all the while. What a danfull. Was all this worth it? LadMan thought so, though he did try to shield the Lads from Dan's more aggressive faults, his basic-boy bigotry, constant criticism, and buzzkilly boorishness. So when Slick asked LadMan what he and Dan were whispering about, LadMan loudly replied,

–Fashion, what else? This is an MMO, isn't it?

Slick snickered.

–They're worried that if things get too realistic, none of the chicks will wanna bang them, said Ted. Like, what's the point of playing if you can't get any?

–Jesus Christ, said Slick.

She spoke so the whole group could hear her.

–I just want all of you to know… if you try anything too fucked up, I'll castrate you myself.

The passing NPCs, despite catching Ted's comment and Slick's response, failed to react. They kept up their giggly, grinny hat tipping and head nodding.

–Chill, Slick, said BobbyBamBam, nobody here really gets off on that kinda stuff. I don't even think I could, it's too real now.

–You might not, she said, but plenty do. You just don't notice.

–Whatever, muttered Bobby, backing off.

–Yeah, some of you dicks are sick fucks, said Ted.

He looked at Doughy, one of the youngest Lads, innocent and kinda dumb, the group's collective baby brother. Doughy stood four feet tall, with a huge head.

–Doughy's probably pining to get into some real weird shit.

The Lads laughed. Doughy blushed but smiled, happy to be a part. Dan, still in the dumps, kept clicking through his menu.

–Besides, they're just NPCs, said Vac.

–Yeah, like some Stepford wife shit, added Ted.

–You didn't watch that movie, did you? asked Pfo, the resident literary Lad, for some reason currently shirtless. I don't think I've read anything in which treating robots or AI badly turns out well. And the realer they get, the worse it turns out. I read too much sci-fi stuff to feel comfortable screwing these things.

–Then stop reading, you fucking retard, said Ted with a great laugh.

Dan tapped LadMan's shoulder.

–Look at your friend list, he said somberly. It tells you someone's location if you click on their name.

LadMan tried it: Dan_the_Dan. Lvl. 1. Human. Chancellorsburg.

–That's nice, at least, said LadMan.

–It could have a distance limit. Don't know how useful it'll be.

–I guess we'll find out, said LadMan. He looked back at his guild, thirty whooping dimwits, not a lick of logistics in their heads, save maybe Slick.

–Whatever, he said, it's full-dive, full-immersion. I mean… dang… if you told me five years ago-

An NPC, older and red-faced, a mop of disheveled grey hair leaping off his head, called loudly to the Lads,

–Ey, welcome to town! Good to see some new faces.

–Good to be here! replied BobbyBamBam. The guild cheered.

–The priest says y'all Begotten from heaven itself!

–They're already talking about us in church? said Pfo once the man had passed.

–Probably noticed that I'm an angel, said Doughy.

–Psh, as if you aren't going to be a load of trouble, Dough, said Pfo. I wonder if these NPCs realize what our arrival means?

–Like you ain't gonna cause ruckus yoself? said Bobby.

–Ruckus? Me? Nonsense, I'm a good boy.

–I think we're almost to the market, LadMan said to Dan.

–Yeah, we're close, said dejected Dan, his face in his map.

–Come on, dude, don't let a few typos get you down.

–Don't worry about it, Dan hissed. Just let me be, I'll feel how I feel.

–Ya, but just twenty minutes ago you were so excited-

Scattered pops behind him cut LadMan off. The guild halted and turned to see that the entire town was being treated to a firework display. Fireworks'd been shot skyward when they spawned, but this display was larger, organized, plentiful parts forming one: hundreds of little missiles bursting in the sky, scattering all colors in all directions. The Lads stared, their eyes struck and stuck, the colors reflected in their pupils. Something in their minds clicked, a sudden shifting into place. Such a display, even one that surpassed all Earthly firework displays, couldn't rival in fantasy the sights they'd seen: scenes torn straight from the way-high manic mind: psychedelic dreamscapes rendered in near-full form right before them, crazy city skylines, great starry skies through which they could sail, forests from the chillest trip… but never before had they been so present. This realization, building since they'd spawned, washing in waves over their minds, culminated as they stared with their big, open eyes. Such a grand sight; re reality.

Even Dan, normally so unimpressed by aesthetic displays, a coder to his core, a basic, brutalist, get us there chap, couldn't help but crack a smile. LadMan, peering away from salvation to check his friend, sighed upon seeing Dan emerge from his momentary malaise. Looking at his Lads, their lit-up faces stone-stuck in an awetrance, a grin bubbled up from his gut.

The fireworks eventually stopped. The NPCs, who'd been looking with interest if not awe, one by one returned to their business. The Lads, shaking away an arising post-fap depression, slowly did so as well.

–Not bad, said Slick.

No Lad moved. It seemed unnecessary.

–Lad… Dan began.

A short series of beeps, like an unlooped ringtone, cut him off.

–What was that? LadMan asked, looking around. None of the NPCs noticed the sound, or didn't care.

–Do you get a message too? asked Pfo. He knew the sound from when, first assembling, Vac Effron sent him a message reading:

south side of plaza. toward sun. get over here retard.

Pfo had felt offended that someone thought to message Vac before him. The other Lads looked to have gotten the message too, cause they headed into their menus. Dan, former ire fully killed by this new curiosity, followed suit.

–Only you can hear the message sound, he explained to Lad. So everyone must have gotten a message.

–Wait, why didn't I hear that sound earlier? asked Lad.

He, during the process of assembly, had received several messages. Upon messaging Slick (south side of plaza, near church) he'd gotten an alright and after messaging Bobby a similar message he received comin, chill yo ass.

–I think it only plays if you're not already in the message menu, said Dan as he navigated to his messages. The Lads formed an odd blob in the streets, all staring at their menus. The NPCs seemed not to mind, happy to walk around them. A few horse-drawn carriages simply stopped, waiting patiently. Traffic ensued.

The message sat unread at the top of their inboxes. Addressed to "Players," it came from "the Devs."

–A welcome message? asked Doughy. A welcome gift?

–Probably a coupon for their day-one DLC, quipped Dan as he opened the message.

The guild stood silent against the town-sounds, reading. More horse-carriages stopped before them, but the NPCs driving and riding them said nothing, unbothered by the thirty Lads clogging up center-street. The pedestrians kept on their bi-pedalling while smiling, nodding, and tossing the occasional good-natured greeting Ladward, none of which got answered.

Dear Players,

First, and most importantly, we would like to thank you for purchasing Fanget Online_. We hope our game gives you many hours of pride and accomplishment. We spent many hours hard at work so that you could experience the realest, most immersive game possible with current virtual reality technology. The game has been live for just under an hour and a half and we've already had over 100,000 players join, create characters, and spawn into the wonderful world of Fanget. Having reached this milestone, we are removing the logout button. From this point forward, you will be unable to log out of the game or ascend from your dive via the settings menu or any other method in any capacity. Hooray!_

We would also like to prepare you for our first post-launch patch! This patch, which will deploy momentarily, features a few fixes and a small amount of added content. No action is required on your part for this patch, but be aware that you may notice slight NPC lag for the next few minutes.

Thank you again and enjoy your time in Fanget Online_!_

-the Devs

The players' silence gave way to nervous laughter; everyone knew the trope, the age old, stuck-in-a-videogame format. Even barely literate Doughy knew several books featuring this storyline. Surely this message was but the first in a series of Dev/Player banter in the vein of Lukia's many joke patches or dumb, free DLC. Nothing more than a (very) belated April Fools prank, nothing more than a jolly josh to kick things off.

–Some things never change, said Dan, chuckling as he said so. He felt a deep contentment, akin to hearing from an old friend.

–It seems a little dark, even for them, said LadMan. He navigated to the settings tab, where he remembered seeing the logout button. That's where Lukia put it. He scrolled down. The final option, "about," featured the game's name, current build, the long TOS, etc. A knot formed in LadMan's throat. He must've misremembered.

–Dan, where is the logout button supposed to be? he asked in a cracking voice.

The guild exchanged glances; nervous, sideways. Several rapidly searched their own menus.

–The settings tab, said Dan as he looked there himself. As his anxiety grew his offhand began to twitch, one of his many RL tourette tics un-fixed in the re reality.

–Dan, it's not there, said Pfo.

–I can see, Pfo! snapped Dan.

–What the fuck? exclaimed Slick. She searched frantically, clicking every tab, scanning every word.

–Did they actually remove it? she asked.

–Chill, y'all, said Vac, they'll put it back.

–That ain't the point, Vac, said Bobby. This joke ain't cool. We fucking stuck in here.

Diamond_Dick, Bobby's lil bro, not as dumb as Doughy but close, looked to his brother.

–Is we… actually stuck? he asked. Like, we actually can't log out?

–Yeah, idiot, said Dan. Is that not obvious?

–Don't yell at him, jackass, snapped Bobby.

–I didn't yell, he asked a idiotic question and I called him an idiot.

–Okay, calm down, said LadMan.

Bobby began flailing as if to jolt his body out of a dream. He pinched himself and slapped his thighs. Slick, seeing this, tried to remove her headset. No luck, she only looked like a loon trying to rid herself of a helmet she wasn't wearing.

–Yo, chill out, said Vac, it's just a joke.

–This really isn't funny, said Doughy, watching his role-models progressively break down before him.

Dan flew through the menu. His offhand twitch increased in speed and duration. LadMan grew hot. His whole body burned, his stomach felt tangled. The moments slowed, stretched out, but the guildies felt crunched, crushed. Heavy, dull minds; bodies warm with fear. An animal before headlights, something unknowable bearing down but never arriving, the moment of death forever deferred, life itself a series of shitty, boring sufferings.

–This isn't legal, said Dan. Like, what if someone has to leave for something important? They can't actually do this, it's not cool.

Full-dive headsets featured methods by which a person IRL could reach the diver mid-dive. Conversely, games also featured ways for players to communicate with the real without interrupting their dive. In the settings tab, about half-way down, there should have been a method for players to send audio messages to be played, usually in a botty-voice, from the headset. Furthermore, games universally had IRL phone-functions built in. The Lads should have been able to text, call, etc. people's IRL phones using the in-game menu, as well as access a camera feed from their headset's perspective. There should have also been a web browser. But, as the Lads now realized, all these options were absent. Any method by which they could interact with the non-game was gone. They weren't only trapped, they were cut off.

–Come on… I mean… fuck this, said Dan. This is bullshit.

The NPCs changed too. As if victims of a mass mind control their tolerance dissipated. They lagged for a moment, rubber-banded a bit, but soon settled into their newly adopted mean demeanor. Scowls and sneers replaced smiles and nods. The Lads felt an acute sense of being, of existing within the space, even more than before, the sort of thereness only abject rejection can induce.

The town-sounds, previously indicative of all the space to explore, now sounded immense and dangerous and foreign. The Lads weren't explorers, they were lost.

–It gotta be a bug, said Bobby.

–A bug! How's it a bug, Bobby? asked Slick. Her voice, cracking worse than LadMan's, nearly broke.

–They sent out a fucking message, how the fuck would it be a bug? This is on purpose! It's fucked up and it's on purpose!

Someone needs to calm Slick down, LadMan thought to himself. But before her speil got worse another short series of beeps sent everyone speeding to their messages. All prayed it came as confirmation of the joke, complete with assurances of the game's leave-ability. LadMan almost felt sad, he didn't doubt some of the Lads would leave and never return; he still, despite this, longed to play the game.

Dear Players,

The patch has deployed successfully!

Patch Notes

1.0.4

Features

- Added a way for players who complete the Challenge to exit the game.

- Added confetti tubes to general vendors' inventories in most towns and cities.

- Added a Cranky Mage NPC to all species' starting cities.

- Added three new earring types to legendary jewelry shops.

Fixes

- Fixed clipping issues with some hats on the Meria species.

- Fixed some typoes in the "skills" menu.

- Fixed an issue that allowed certain merchants to have an infinite amount of money with which to buy items.

- Removed the logout, communication, browser, support, and immersion options from the "settings" menu.

- Fixed an issue that allowed the Mega Ogre to use his Corrosive Vomit even when it was on cooldown.

- Fixed an issue where the Yoletown Cathedral's uppermost tower would not render.

- Fixed an issue where the Revolver Rifle's first shot would consume no ammunition.

- Fixed a rare issue where Zeppelin Pilot NPC would try to speak but produce no sound.

- Fixed a rare issue where a Steam Mech's Claw Grab would subject the player to an infinite pain loop.

- Removed the ability for the player to respawn at Chapels.

- Fixed an issue that made the "Save Dolores" quest unfinishable. The first player to complete the quest will now properly trigger the server-wide reward.

- Fixed an issue that allowed the duplication of certain items.

Balance

- Slightly decreased the weight of the Rusty Claymore.

- Slightly increased the recoil of the Rusty Revolver.

- Increased the price of the Rusty Biplane.

- Greatly decreased the price of most sleeping potions.

- Greatly decreased the aggressiveness of Giant Boars.

- Changed the human passive, Human Industry, from 10% crafting cost reduction to 15% crafting cost reduction.

The Sad Lads stood, each in their menu, reading the patch notes, varying degrees of shock, anger, and despair settling on their faces. Everybody felt that if nobody spoke, nothing recently witnessed would become real. If they could only extend this silent moment into infinity they'd exist in a world without this patch. They wouldn't have to deal with its fallout, what it said, what it suggested.

Finally, unable to take the denial, Doughy, the young yuppie, the early high school kid who just wanted to spend his sophomore fall submerged in the metaphorical and literal waters of full-dive VR, spoke,

–Did we just get buffed?

---

Had there been order in Chancellorsburg, it would have disintegrated. As it was, the Dev's recent deviosity made the launch-day chaos worse. Most of the players would take their sweet time coming to terms with the new state of things, some mightn't at all, but the Sad Lads accepted the new re reality surprisingly quickly. Only for a short while did they wobble, reeling around while trying to reason themselves back into real life. Then, looking to the sky, watching the airships turn and depart, Dan realized Chancellorsburg's sickly peace stood on cracking ice. The logout button, for whatever reason, was gone. They, for the moment, were stuck. Dan, pragmatic when not morose, had already formulated a suggestion for LadMan; he knew large groups recently titled tended to riot.

–Lad, we need to get off the streets.

–What? And go where?

–I don't know, somewhere safe.

–We should go back to the spawn place, said Doughy.

–Don't be retarded, Dough, said Dan. Who knows how the crowd will react to this? A bunch of freakin savages. LadMan, we need to find somewhere to hunker down and plan our next move.

–Hunker down?

–Just… somewhere safe! said Dan again.

Somewhere safe, to Lad, ended up being the first building he saw, the home right before them, a medium sized, two story, timber framed thing. LadMan stepped up on the stoop, jiggled the doorknob then, realizing the door was locked, knocked hard and stood back, arms akimbo, eyes frantic. The other Lads looked at the NPCs, cold and distant but terribly close. They streamed down the street, indifferent and hyper-aware, ignoring and sizing up the Lads on and near the house's stoop. From an accepting mass to a million hate-brimming bodies. How real.

One old man, a gray haired grump, glared their way. Most of the Lads lost their nerve and looked away, but Slick caught and held his eyes. The man kept contact for a moment but the intensity of Slick's stare soon overpowered him. He disengaged and walked away, grumbling grumpily as a grump does.

Slick knew this look. It'd been seared into her brain since her first high school prom. The other kids were one thing, Slick expected them to stare, the real betrayal was the photographer, a grown-up guy and implicitly indifferent, there just to document. He looked leerily at short-haired Slick and her similarly dressed date. He looked at them and Slick's date looked away, blushing and ashamed. But Slick held his eyes, held them hard, only admitting to the sin of being born in that God-forsaken swath. Wired wrong or not, we're getting our picture taken, and you're the one who's gonna do it. And he did.

The look didn't frighten Slick. An NPC giving it did. Too real; she couldn't accept that his eyes had nothing behind them save strings. Was he a man? One who'd lived his life in Chancellorsburg and now, walking home to a fully-real family, saw and sized up some unwanted outsiders.

–Oh my God, said Doughy, we're them… and they're us!

Pfo considered asking Doughy what he meant.

–Come on, answer the frickin door, mumbled LadMan. He crossed his arms and stood as tall as he could manage, projecting all his artificial confidence, struggling to remain hard. He was a man. No… fuck that… being a man don't mean nothing nowadays… he was a leader…

Dan's twitching reached top speed. Bobby tried to beef up his confidence for the sake of his little brother. Pfo's thoughts began trickling out of his ears; he felt like his very brain was bleeding. He so wanted to ask Dough what he meant but his mind was turning to mush, like a wet, squished sponge. Slick, strong Slick, felt soft. She rolled a guy. Why had she rolled a guy? She sorta knew… but what a garbage idea… fuck.

–Answer, answer, muttered LadMan.

The door finally cracked open. Out peeked a young woman, no more than twenty, blonde hair tied up in a bonnet, strands falling over her trepidation-filled face.

–Can we come in? asked LadMan. He flinched as he asked, realizing midway through how stupid that question sounded. Thirty ragged weirdos, terrified and twitching, half of whom looked so anime you'd swear they'd lost their harems, stoop-grouped and requesting entry to a random young woman's home. No non-whacko would let them in. Honestly, LadMan wouldn't want to go inside the house of anyone crazy enough to let them in.

–I- I don't want any trouble, the woman said.

–Come on, we need a house. Let us in, demanded Dan.

The woman muttered a meek apology and slammed the door.

–Nice going, autismo, Vac said to Dan.

–Fuck off.

–Okay, okay, said LadMan, this isn't the time to fight.

–What do we do now? asked Doughy. Can we get something at an inn?

–With what money, Dough? asked Pfo. Honestly, would any innkeeper even rent us rooms?

–The starting packs might have money, said Dan to LadMan. I'm not sure if we can still get them, though…

–Who gives a shit? said Ted, loudly. I don't see any guards or shit, let's just break in and take this fucking house. Pfo, you're fucking massive, break the door down.

Pfo, in the form of a jolly giant, six five and buff AF, lacked the moral bankruptcy to make full use of his physique.

–That's a bad idea, he said, half-heartedly. I suggest we treat the NPCs as moral persons for the time being, just to be safe.

–Okay, keep it down, hissed LadMan.

The NPCs kept staring and glaring. Did they understand all this?

–Come on, LadMan said, we're causing a scene. Let's find somewhere else.

---

Chancellorsburg defied everything anyone knew about game design. The first town the human-spawned players would see; so why was it the lamest thing this side of Skyrim? Good devs don't blow their loads all at once, but every game needs a hook, something impressive to give players a taste. Whether this doctrine serves fun or loopy addiction the optimists and pessimists probably won't agree, but nobody contests that in order to get players playing the first area needs to hint towards more cool to come and be cool in of itself.

Chancellorsburg just sucked. Had the tech rendering it been less tip-top, nobody would have been any more amazed than they are walking down a real-street. The NPCs in the rich-bitch part of town displayed a late-Victorian wackiness that satisfied, but the town itself was shockingly medieval, nothing steampunk, nothing fantasy. Even practically, it only boasted basic services: its sparse, open air market; scattered administration; horse-drawn carriages; cobblestone roads. Some of the Lads began to doubt that they were trapped inside the right game. Were these devs really the same ones who made Lukia; crazy, loopy, psychedelic Lukia that broke from Tolk and did something different?

Worse, the Lads couldn't find a place to stay. They couldn't find an inn and nobody would give them directions to one. Dan, during his hype's height, had hopes of organizing for the guild a hall, a standard goal in this sort of game. Player-owned property: houses, lairs, guild halls, even castles and towns, have been standard in MMOs since the start. But now Dan doubted anyone would sell him a shack, let alone a hall. Simply put, the Chancellorsburg housing market seemed even more toxic than the IRL American one. In the States only a trust fund kiddo could hope to own more than a derelict townhouse, but in Chancellorsburg even gazing longingly at property (a practice America encouraged) elicited angry stares and under-breath obloquy from non-player passersby.

How absurd. Didn't the NPCs know that to keep a man down you have to dangle hope before his face? If you discourage even the dream of property the players will just beat you up and take your shit.

Nobody would even allow the Lads to wait out the night inside. No matter how relatively did-up the NPC appeared, no matter how much extra space they seemed to own. In Lukia you could enter most houses. The NPCs would be happy to chat. Maybe they'd ask for your help recovering their lost jewelry or some shit. But in Fanget the players proved pariahs, beyond untouchable, beyond caste-out.

–Is this how it feels to be black? asked Doughy.

–Naw, said Bobby, who would know, this is worse.

After a moment, he added,

–This mighta been how it felt a hundred years ago.

–Oh God, said Pfo, you don't think they're going to try and lynch us, do you?

---

By and by the Lads made their way to the poorer part of Chancellorsburg. The houses turned from well-kept stone and timber framed structures to all-wooden, rotting things. The homes were damp, dark… and stank. The streets, once clean cobble, grew grimy, and the gutters grew foul. Strangely, nothing specific seemed to produce the shit-stench. In IRL fin de siecle London all manner of unmentionable substances kept things smelling smelly. But in Chancellorsburg the horses didn't defecate, the people didn't piss, and what petty garbage they produced had no odor attached. The stench just seemed to exist intrinsically, a property of the poor-person air. Retching Dan summed it up best,

–Why would they simulate this?

–Are we gonna start to stink? wondered Bobby. Am I gonna hafta shower? Does the game got showers?

Nobody answered his question. The NPCs, despite their abject uncleanliness and worsening health, remained consistent with the rich-bitches in their reactions: suspicious, contemptuous, either ignoring the Lads with the haughty, nose-up nasality of the in-castes, or staring them down as if daring them to do something, anything, anything except strut down the street in tight formation, clustered together like the immigrants they were. Even a coughing bum, blanket wrapped and sitting on the street-side, stared down the Lads, his superiority apparently self-evident.

–These assholes better watch out, muttered Lying Ted. Nobody important is gonna care if we kill them.

On the outskirts of town, all but unreached by players excepting themselves, the Lads located an old, abandoned abode, a house with more in common with a dilapidated drug den than a decent domicile but big enough to accommodate the thirty Lads with minimal squishing. They filed in but did not make themselves at home.

---

The house was large, dark, and dusty. Maybe at some point respectable people called it home, but for several decades only bats and rats resided. Ripped curtains hung dead beside the windows, broken furniture littered the rooms, and wall and ceiling debris covered the floors. The Lads set to clearing and cleaning. Doughy found in a closet unused candles and a pack of matches. Pfo found, in a windowless backroom, a small library with battered, rotting books. He dragged a wooden chair from the kitchen, lit a candle, and set to reading.

LadMan, meanwhile, gathered in a second story room, the master bedroom by the looks of it, the present members of his inner circle. Several of his closest friends and confidants existed miles away in other spawn towns, originally charged with gathering the guild's members of their respective species. LadMan, replete with worry, felt ill, his whole body chilled, but he tried to push the worst of his woes from his mind. He'd trust the non-human Lads with their own well-being, he had the in-house humans to worry about.

They surrounded a rotting wooden table, sitting on once-fine chairs with upholstery so stained nobody could determine its original color. LadMan took stock of the Lads he had. Dan, capricious but clutch when it mattered, sat to his right, clicking through his menu. BobbyBamBam, currently kicking himself for giving his avatar nothing resembling his real-life proportions, sat beside Dan. Next to Bobby sat bawdy, good-natured Diamond_Dick, known far and wide for his raw, unbridled twitch aim; not of much help here. Then, rounding out the group, Slick. Over the last half hour she'd realized the implications of her, a petite and self-assured femme, deciding to roll a much-muscled man with two feet on her real height. Lad still regarded her motives as a mystery. Had she been curious to "find out how it felt," as so many had? Maybe she intended this avatar as an alt or a mule, maybe just an experiment she'd later delete? Either way, she was now the macho meathead incarnate. Her immediate post-patch fear kept her dysphoria at bay, but everyone present, familiar with Slick from years of playing, knew this issue wouldn't dissipate with a good night's sleep.

–We need a plan, said LadMan. I mean… I guess that's obvious. Any suggestions?

From the floor below rose fearful talk from the other, assorted Lads. Vac Effron and Lying Ted had taken the other members of their little posse: Soren_Kierkegaard and ScreamKing, to a first floor bedroom, where they sat alone on the floor. Doughy had gone to the library and sat near Pfo. He tried to read a book but found the old prose odd. He started tapping his foot and whistling a tune till Pfo told him to shut up.

Most of the other Lads sprawled in the house's living room, kitchen, or entrance hall. One of the older Lads, Rufusismydog, hadassured LadMan he'd keep an eye on things while Lad formulated a plan.

–Is there an in-game clock? asked LadMan, scouring his own, open menu.

–Of course there's not, said Dan. God forbid those fuckers give us any quality of life. Naw, it's supposed to be realistic. You have to buy a pocket watch or some shit.

LadMan remembered, not a week before, Dan praising the realistically inclined Devs and their commitment to immersion. He said he hated games that gave away "too much info for free."

Dan stood up and moved to the bedroom's only window, a circular pane of cracked glass clinging to a rotting wooden frame. A dusty Godray snuck through.

–The Sun moved, he said, simply. It was higher in the sky when we spawned.

–Nice, Dan, said LadMan, always impressed by his friend's perception.

–How long till it sets? asked Di. Do it even set to the west?

–Yeah, said Dan. You can cross reference its movement with the map. It was south when we spawned, which means we spawned at noon, and it has now moved lower and to the west. If time here is similar to real life, I'd say we have… three hours until it sets. I wish we could tell more accurately.

–I could set up a sundial, chirped Di. I know how to set up a sundial.

–That ain't really a priority right now, Demmy, said Bobby, softly, trying to temper his bro's enthusiasm for Dan's ideas.

LadMan looked from Bobby to Diamond. Hard to believe that Diamond, white as the Moon with red hair down to his waist, and Bobby, brown, 5'2", with an afro as wide as he was tall, could be blood-related IRL.

Lad thought hard. He scratched his stubble-less chin. Strange to feel his chin-skin still so baby-smooth when IRL it got scruffy so fast.

–Well, shaving isn't something I'm gonna miss, he said.

–What the fuck, Lad? hissed Slick, keeping her gruff, deep voice just low enough to avoid alerting the lower Lads to her distress. You guys are just accepting this?

–Nobody accepting nothing, said Bobby.

But Dan's defensive demand overpowered Bobby's gentle reassurance,

–What do you mean?

–What the fuck do you mean? Slick said, turning to Dan. Are you serious? We're trapped in a fucking video game and you're talking about shaving and fucking sundials!

Di looked down, his face as red as his hair.

–Do you have a better suggestion for keeping time? asked Dan.

–Dan, chill, said LadMan. Dan sat back with a huff. LadMan leaned to his left, getting close to Slick.

–Slick, I need you cool, he said as gently as he could manage..

–Don't pretend to be calm, she said, looking around the table. None of you pretend to be calm about this. And don't condescend, you guys didn't roll girls.

–You're right, I feel you-

–No, you don't feel me. I don't want to be a fucking man!

Dan looked past Slick and out the window, at the wooden rooftops stretching endlessly. The town rustle rang out below them, the street-stench and the sounds wafted up, urchins and animals, cats n' shit, devious, pre-dumpster divers waiting for Baker Man to finish up and toss the stale or burnt bread streetward. The Sun slowly slipped down, its movement imperceptible to the naked eye that dared look at it. No… that thing wasn't the Sun. The Sun sits over the Earth. Well… not strictly. The Sun is actually a big, far near-ball of H and He and trace amounts of O, C, Ne, Fe, and whatever other shit. It moves who-knows-how-fast and appears to sit stone-still however many million miles away. It just sits up there and burns, so big, so bright, so stupid it doesn't even know it's burning itself out of existence. This in-game thing ain't that. But what was it?

–Slick, I get it, whispered LadMan, desperate to keep her growing panic quiet. I understand why you're upset, but what do you want me to do?

–Who cares what fucking time it is? Slick said as she buried her head in her hands. Her voice came out muffled,

–We need to get out of this game.

–You're right. What do you suggest?

Lad trusted Slick. He'd known her for years, ever since she and her side-by-side loving SO nearly ran Dan and him over in a pre-_Lukia_, half-dive survival sim the four of them frequented. Once the shock of being near-squished wore off LadMan and Dan asked the laughing ladies for a ride and their friendship was cemented. Seeing strong, steady Slick distressed unnerved him. More so because he felt the same way, doubt it though Slick may; he hated his new body. His brain operated it but it didn't feel like his.

–The Challenge, she said. She took several breaths, closed her eyes, and focused her mind. Dan leaned forward, sensing the conflict had simmered before it burst.

–From the patch notes, he said.

–Yeah, from the patch notes. If we complete it we get out. Or so they say…

–But… what is it? asked Di, voicing their thoughts.

–Is it a main quest? asked Lad. There wasn't supposed to be one, right?

–Yeah, said Dan, back in his menu, flicking rapidly. They said a main quest would make it too railroady… but… maybe…

He looked through the patch notes and burned every word into his brain.

–This new NPC seems important.

He read quietly to himself,

–Added to every major town…

–Does that mean- began Lad.

–We should find a vendor, interrupted Dan. I wanna see if we can still get the starting gear.

–Yeah, said Diamond, lighting up. That's a good idea. I could-

–No, Demarion, don't listen to him, said Bobby. We should stay put.

–What are you talking about? demanded Dan. You want to just sit here?

–That exactly what we finna do, said Bobby with a faint hint of hate.

–Wha- just… sit here? said Dan again, unable.

–LadMan, said Bobby, turning. How long you think they gonna keep us in here? Somebody in real life gonna notice nobody is logging out. Demarion just sitting in his room. Our mom gonna come home from work and yell at him cause he didn't let the dog out.

–Oh, damn, I forgot bout Rashel, said Di. Is she gonna shit on the carpet again?

–Probably, said Bobby. And mom'll notice it, realize Demarion never let her out, storm into his room screaming all sorts of murder, and shut off his headset. Then he explain everything to her, drive over to my place, and get me out.

–That's true, said LadMan. One of my roommates would eventually realize something is wrong too. Yeah, I marathon games, but I break for meals and sleep. And what about when I miss a bunch of work?

–I guess, said Slick. It only takes one person to get out to blow this whole thing up.

–You think they'll notice before our bodies starve to death? asked dumpy Dan.

–Yes, of course, said Bobby, quickly, noticing Di's eyes grow wide. Dog, it's been a day. Demarion gonna get out in a few hours.

–Okay, said LadMan. Then we sit and wait. Our real bodies will be fine, and we'll be safe in this house for now. I mean, we don't need anything to survive in-game, right? There's no in-game needs system, is there?

LadMan looked from Lad to Lad. Wide-eyed Di; determined Bobby; jittery, ticked off Dan; slouching Slick.

–Right? Dan? The game doesn't have hunger, does it?

Dan didn't know. Dan realized there was a lot he didn't know. And he figured he wouldn't get to find out, cause everyone seemed hellbent on doing nothing at all.

---

Chapter ELEVEN

(Bitch Boys) Assault/Siege | 50v50 | 24/7 | Best Maps | Active Admins |

No stupid rules. High tickrate. Racial/ethnic slurs=instant ban. Argue with admin=instant ban. No spawn camping. Don’t be a dick.

---

The argument: As night falls on the post-patch confusion Lunar rises and makes a friend. Has lazy Lunar resolved to act?

---

Lunar was in the plaza when the patch hit. He watched in real time as the crowd, probably twenty five thousand strong, stumbled through the so-called stages of grief. Most got stuck fast in denial. Lunar himself shot right past acceptance and into existential panic. He renewed his struggle with the menu and, upon finally opening it, managed to locate the friend request mechanism. He typed in Shane's usual username, DDOXer, gulped, and clicked search. A player profile appeared, DDOXer, Meria. Lunar tapped the grayed out name but only got a pop-up window reading "out of range."

–Dammit, what the fuck? he said. How close do I have to be?

The plaza-crowd descended into madness around him. Having exhausted the normal arsenal of escape methods (searching the menu, trying to force oneself awake as if in a dream, etc.) the players began trying all manner of methods. Most wondered if dying would allow escape, but nobody had the courage to try. Too much media with the mega-cliche: die in the game and you die in real life. But how could the Devs kill you IRL? Everyone's minds conjured up uniquely outlandish methods.

Lunar navigated to his map. It detailed the game's three main continents, separated by ocean. But he had no idea where Meria spawned, nor what a Meria even was. He recalled Shane speaking about them, days before. Lunar, in his same old style, only pretended to pay attention. Shane said that he considered either playing a Meria or a Dwarvia. Dwarvia? Lunar recalled snickering at the name. He imagined them as dirty, twisted, sad shitheads driven to the dark parts of the planet. Why would anybody want to play as such a thing, a cave-crawling creature hissing at the Sun the few times he saw it? One could be that IRL. So, obviously Shane picked Meria, the other option.

None of these thoughts helped Lunar. He couldn't contact Shane. He was boned. He felt angry. Somebody ought to pay for this injustice. Somebody ought to feel pain for having inflicted it on him. This toxic anger, mixed with abject fear, made him feel sick, riddled and ruined. He spent the rest of the day in the plaza, immobile, festering in his own bilious hate.

Most of the other humans settled into the same state, sitting around helplessly. Those who'd left the plaza earlier returned to sit in misery amongst their own kind (preferable to misery among others). Only a few brave souls wandered off or stayed gone, and who knows what purpose or plan they had? Eventually the Sun, or whatever it was, slipped entirely from the sky, and onto Lunar night fell.

---

Night held more wonders than day. Whereas the Devs gave day one star and simple clouds they painted night with the abandon of the fantasy hack's hand gone mad. A massive Moon, similar to Earth's own but twice the size, sat in the sky and shined gleamy-tooth white. Two planets, one green, one blue, half-moon sized but no less impressive, joined it. Stars and color-streaks of purple and green as well, as if strewn cross-canvas by God's abstract hand. And the whole night open to any with eyes, free from the blight of light pollution that plagued the modern metropolis.

Chancellorsburg, you see, was not well lit. It featured far fewer gaslamps than necessary to keep the streets safe and hardly knew of electric lighting, incandescent or otherwise. In his better moments Lunar would wonder if the NPCs used link-boys to get safely from place to place, but now, rotting in anger and fear, he could only manage to mind-whine about the Devs and his fellow player-prisoners. The massive Moon's splashing, white light kept things perceivable, but without proper, bright street lights all manner of buffoonery seemed inevitable.

He was, however, glad for the view of the sky. He'd wanted to see the sky before he died. Sick of blaring contemporaneity electrocuting the heavens, the schizo, madly-murmuring metropolis that shoots its sharp-jolt rays all wherever. This medieval sky, the sort a living God would create, left one in awe of the above. Many figured this a sky only far-gazing Hubble could see; most didn't realize this psychedelic sky-sprawl resembled its IRL counterpart more closely than the slightly yellow-speckled black blanket they'd grown up used to. Victims, unaware that anything was stolen.

But, of course, even this sparkly spectacle couldn't keep these trapped trap-rats jolly; their tipper-tapper, trap triggered tics tip tapping in time with their stress; their dry-throat, hot stomach anxiety; fear; uncertainty; everything proved these American minds saw high-floating freedom as an Absolute.

Some players managed to doze off, but most lay awake, sprawled on the hard stone, uncovered save for their clothes, some uncovered entirely, shirtless and pantless, butt-naked under the bare stars and embarrassed because of it. They knew their tits and pricks amused the Moon, but she had the gentleness not to laugh.

---

Fuck, it's the Sun.

---

Lunar got two hours of sleep and woke exhausted. His body felt fine, this wasn't the sagging physical exhaustion that accompanies another sleepless night, the sort that sends your body staggering around, unable to stand. This was the psychological exhaustion that arises from a mind working too hard for too long. But all of him ought to feel fucked. Never had he felt so out of whack, his mind fried but his body bright. His body faring fine made him feel worse.

The night had calmed the plaza; it more resembled a refugee camp or an overstuffed emergency center than the party plaza it'd been the day prior.

Was that a twelve hour night? Lunar suspected yes, but had no way to tell. The Sun, that bastard, hung low in what Lunar hoped was the east.

At least you can't get sunburned in this game, he thought. Then he stopped to consider whether he knew this either. Lunar had a phobia of sunburns; of being roasted lobster-red, itching and peeling for days; of the warmth that emanates from one's burned skin, suggesting an irradiation of even the inside-flesh; of the pain even basic movements, when burned, cause. This fear, excepting the reasonable and normal distaste for the Sun's side-effects, arose from a family history of skin cancer and a long-running feud with the star itself. His brother, by virtue of his vampire-lifestyle, was immune, but Lunar, who'd recently resolved to take up outdoor activities in order to fend off boredom and find friends, felt harshly the Sun's rays every time he stepped outside. He wasn't smart enough to be an eccentric shut-in and lacked the unawareness to be a dead, dumb, grind-mindy man. So he'd have to go outside, confront the Sun, and see if he could avoid getting photon-fucked.

If they have sunburns, he thought, they better have sunscreen.

---

As Lunar lay in the plaza, motionless, mind meandering, he remembered watching for the first time the progenitor of all this, Koushun's katakana-kid adapted as Kinji's last gazo. A favorite of his, one of the few films that never fell under his critical wrath. So wrapped in nostalgia its flaws could be forgiven. One young couple whose names Lunar couldn't possibly recall, extras with a half-page of lines (possibly more in the book, he didn't know cause he'd never read the book [he only owned it]), jumped off a cliff, the guy goaded by the girl, or perhaps the other way around, the specifics were hazy. But he remembered clearly the dread when they jumped, the same dreadful leap-sickness he got recalling Woolf or Plath. He couldn't decide if they were cowards. Cowards cause they wouldn't play the death game? Maybe they were heroes for the exact same reason.

---

Dough and Pfo nearly came to blows. It'd been a long night for the Lads. They spent it doing nothing and, in the morning, cranky and scared, Doughy pushed Pfo just a bit too far. Pfo, still reading in the library, leapt out of his chair and demanded Doughy stop using two pens as drumsticks and singing rock-lyrics, or that he at least do it somewhere else. Doughy wanted to know why Pfo hated him and his company. Pfo claimed that he didn't hate Doughy "most of the time."

LadMan, hearing the commotion (Vac and his crew came out of their bedroom and stood at the library entrance, goading the two on) stormed downstairs and managed to break up the fight, but the fact that it happened at all troubled him enough. Witty, warm hearted Pfo and whimsical Doughy, longtime buds, almost never quarreled. LadMan tried not to imagine the likely eruptions between Bobby and Dan, or Vac and Dan, or Slick and Dan.

–He called me an idiot, Lad, said Doughy, pacing around. Can you believe that?

Pfo sat on his wooden chair, leaning back. He held a closed book, his spot marked by a ripped piece of paper. The candle beside him had nearly burnt itself out. The saucer Pfo had placed its too-small holder on held a pool of viscous wax.

Pfo frowned and said,

–I didn't call you an idiot, Dough, I called you an illiterate. And I apologized for that.

–Well, it's still hurtful, said Doughy.

–I know, said Pfo, that's why I apologized. I'm sorry, but you would just not stop drumming.

–I'm nervous, said Doughy. I… I just want to do something!

–We all do, said LadMan.

A few more Lads came to stand in the hallway, peering past Vac and his boys into the little library. Among them: Dan and Bobby. LadMan sensed this conflict had petered out, thank God.

–I just wanna hang with Pfo, said Doughy.

–You can, but you have to be quiet so I can read, said Pfo.

Doughy pouted.

–I'm so bored.

–Be strong, Doughy, we decided that it's safer to stay here, said LadMan.

–You decided, you mean, said Vac.

–What would you suggest, Vac? demanded Dan. We explained this, someone will get us out of this game if we just sit still.

Bobby smirked.

–And why hasn't that happened? asked Vac Effron. It's been a whole fucking night.

Rufus had located in a closet, buried under a pile of rubble, a working dresser clock. They wound it and set its time, as the Sun left, to 8 PM. It now read 8:30 AM.

–Just chill, said Dan. Stuff takes time.

–How long-

–I didn't want to start a fight, cried Doughy, speaking rapidly, starting his next word before he finished his last.

–LadMan is right, he said, we should sit here until someone comes to help. Pfo, I'm sorry, you know you're my friend, right?

–Yeah, Doughy, we're cool, said Pfo.

–But… you've been reading all night.

–Reading is important, Doughy, Pfo said in an impossibly small voice.

LadMan imagined Doughy lying on the floor next to Pfo, dying to receive comforting words from the older guy, instead getting only grunts and the occasional position change as Pfo kept reading. Pfo couldn't spare ten minutes to tell Doughy they'd be okay?

–I could message my brother, said Doughy, suddenly. He's probably in here too.

–You have a brother? asked LadMan. Who… plays games?

Everyone looked shocked. Doughy, who'd introduce you to his friend of three minutes, hadn't spoken about a brother?

–He doesn't play games too much, said Doughy. He never played Lukia. And… well, he's not my brother.

–What?

–He's my… step-brother? half-brother? He's my sister's husband.

–Your brother-in-law? asked LadMan. He remembered Doughy speaking of his sister.

–Yeah! Er… technically just her fiance…

–Future brother-in-law? suggested Dan.

–But they've been engaged for, like… years, so-

–Okay, Doughy, try to message him, said LadMan, trying to avoid a Doughy-disquisition on his sister's sex life.

Pfo, down, brought his book back up before his face.

–He's super smart, said Doughy. Sometimes I pay him to do my science homework. He gives me a family discount.

–How you know he spawned human? asked Bobby.

–He… ugh… probably did, said Doughy.

Certain but uncertain of how to explain, Doughy continued,

–He's a little… well… you'll see.

–As long as you know his username, said LadMan. I guess it couldn't hurt.

–What's one moron more? Pfo unhappily muttered.

---

Pfo came up to the master bedroom a few minutes after his fight. He entered to find LadMan sprawled on the filthy bed; Dan in a chair, leaning back and staring at the ceiling; Bobby and Di on the floor under the window; and Slick curled in the corner.

–Lad, might I borrow a moment? Pfo asked.

Lad felt awful for many reasons, but he buried them and went with Pfo into the hall. Pfo hadn't invited Dan, but Dan came anyway.

–What is it? LadMan whispered.

They could hear, a floor below, various Lads muttering, Vac and his boys bitching, and Rufus leading a few in prayer. Doughy, undoubtedly, struggled inordinately to compose his future BIL a message.

Pfo handed LadMan a book. Ratty, dirty, and torn. Its title, barely legible, read: The Book from the Sky, A New Translation by Joey Weil. LadMan opened it.

Once fine, it was printed on sturdy paper. Each page was divided into two columns, the left side featuring hanzi-esque pictograms, the right side featuring English translation.

–Is that Chinese? asked Dan.

–It's nothing, said Pfo. At least, it's no language I'm familiar with. It's the English I'm interested in. There was a book in the library called A Child's World History. Super simple, no doubt mostly wrong. But it talks about how the ancient Meria used a different script until they adopted the "World Language." I think the Devs read too much Wells.

–So? Who cares about all that? asked Dan.

–You should, said Pfo. This is the Meria holy book. The old owner of this house must've been an academic. He owned translations of every species' holy book, minus the Frostia. From what I can gather, each species worships their own god as the Supreme. They acknowledge the other species' pantheons, they've just super-enthroned them. The origin, deeds, qualities, and all that are different for each god, but all the holy books I read share the same outcome. Look.

Pfo took the book and flipped to the penultimate chapter. He handed it back. LadMan quickly read while Dan, peering over his shoulder, did the same.

–The Begotten will appear by the grace of Meru… to seek the hidden knowledge… Begot by the Absolute as manifestations of Beyond…

–What's all this? asked Dan.

–Meru is the Meria god, said Pfo. It's also an important mountain in Buddhist cosmology. The Wisteria call their god Kumu and the Dwarvia call theirs Tamo. I haven't read the Frostia holy book, but I saw their god mentioned a few times in other books. His name is Nemo. Honestly, it's pretty racist, what the Devs have done here.

–What's the human god's name? asked LadMan.

–Logos, said Pfo.

–Why, cause humans are so caught up in consumerism? asked Dan.

–Not quite, but I like where your head's at, said Pfo.

–But what's this about the Begotten? asked LadMan.

–All the books agree, began Pfo, that at the end of history, the Begotten will appear by God's will to seek the eternal knowledge that will end the world.

–And at the end of the world?

–Salvation, said Pfo. Salvation by the grace of God.

–Which god?

–So, all the books seem to think that only their god is going to call down Begotten. So, each book says that their god will be the one by whose grace they will achieve salvation. Of course, it seems like every species got Begotten, doesn't it?

–Oh, said Dan, truly dual in every respect,

–Are you saying that we're the Begottens?

---

Lunar sat under the Sun with the rest of the trapped for most of the morning. He felt no need to eat, urinate, or defecate; he really had no motivation to do anything cept sit and mope. But miserable moping, even as the most serious stress eats away at your mind, gets boring fast, and by noon Lunar itched for something to ensue.

How many people remained in the plaza? Lunar looked around. The plaza looked just as full as it had ever been. Really, without a bird's eye view, nobody could tell how many occupied the space. Hell, in Lunar's time, a time in which overdoses of theology and geometry made peeps doubt numbers themselves, even with a veritable above-view, you ain't proving jack to jill.

Near Lunar lay grotesque bodies that, just a day prior, bounded about delightfully. They wore joke faces and boasted impossible proportions; ironically impassive, well outside any pretty/ugly dichotomy. These weren't deformed dude(ttes); these weren't even potato faced Bethesda-babies, alien but anatomically human; these people were shapes mathematicians once argued impossible to express in three dimensions.

Some others near Lunar (lots, ackchyually) were plasticy, attractive east-Asian girls, anime-eyed and neon-haired, some naked, some not. One such girl, short and half-clothed, lay fetus-balled bout a meter from Lunar, staring at the plaza-stone, her big, dark-pupiled eyes empty.

I need to take action, thought Lunar. For the first time in a long time: conviction to get up and do something. People hate passivity, bitch boys getting handed freebie after freebie without doing a damn thing. All the respected rollers have one thing in common: they do shit.

So… go. Lunar. No more nos. He would do it; something. He was gonna get up and go and… do something. No more on and on and on and on and mindlessly on, spinning around in place, stuck still and stuck fast, no, stuck slow. No. No! Stuck fast is fine, no need to endlessly cross and pen. But stuck fast ain't fine, cause Lunar ain't gonna get stuck at all.

Life don't have him, he's gonna have it.

Lunar.
He destroyed his cage.
Yes.
YES.
Lunar is out

For good? Surely coming out ain't but a one time thing. Right?

Lunar stood up and looked around, determination on his face and in his heart. But… what actually to do? Lunar had anxiously pondered his predicament all night and most of the morning, the specifics, the rules, the purpose. He couldn't think up anything concrete… hypotheses, sure, he could dream up could-be's all day, but nothing could overcome the raw fact: this world's explanations existed outside of it; geeky gods and crazy code kids he couldn't access. So… what do?

He found his determination fading fast. Before he'd actually done anything he wanted nothing more than to crawl cageward and quit for good. If he did that, he knew, he'd sink into the stone and never be seen again.

With a final, Herculean push he walked over to the closest curled up Asian girl and knelt beside her.

–You okay? he asked, wincing as the question left his lips.

–I actually thought I'd be spazzing out more, said the girl. Her username hovered pathetically above her head: MrClean.

–Yeah, I know what you mean, said Lunar.

He sat. She kept staring at the ground, her big, dark eyes grotesque.

–You know where I can get more clothes? asked the shirtless she. While properly panted, she wore no shirt; her big breasts were squished under her arms, nips barely covered. Couldn't have been comfortable.

–Yeah… my penis is getting kinda uncomfortable, said Lunar. I need looser pants.

Mr. Clean snuck a glance at Lunar's pants and smirked.

–Heh, you're printing a bit, dude.

She laughed a cute, high pitched laugh. But then she stopped suddenly, embarrassed.

–God, that sounds so fucking weird, she said.

–Not like your real voice?

–No, she said, sighing and sitting up. She uncovered her breasts, massive but perky, impossibly firm, straight off HH. Lunar couldn't figure out how people found that attractive. Mr. Clean sat silent for a sec, breasts bared. Then,

–Ugh… agh nevermind, she stuttered.

She clearly had something to say, but Lunar didn't push. He hated those that pushed peeps to say shit, and he couldn't imagine caring about whatever she had to say at that point anyway.

Mr. Clean frazzled up her hair in frustration until it resembled a messy, post-coital mop.

–These boobs are too big, she complained.

–My pants are way too tight, said Lunar in solidarity.

Clean looked quizzically at him. Coquettish or just dumb? Hard to tell with a this-decade dude. But Lunar reminded her of her brother, the boy that always looked philosophically into the distance to disguise his lack of anything smart to say. A cute, confident, round glasses guy; kind and able to abide an Atilla, as the saying goes.

–I'd prefer not to walk around shirtless, said Mr. Clean. I took off my shirt when I first spawned because everyone else was doing it. But then I fucking lost it. Serves me right. At first I thought, whatever, but now I'm a bit embarrassed. Plus, these things are really uncomfortable. Don't quite hit the hype. I need a bra or something.

Lunar looked across the plaza. A sea of flesh, flagellating itself for fucking with the new tech. Previously, clothes of all types littered the plaza, having been cast off seconds post-spawn, but most of them had been scooped up by players facing similar problems as Mr. Clean. An idea popped into Lunar's head.

–You can have my shirt, he said.

Mr. Clean raised an eyebrow.

–You sure?

–Yeah, said Lunar as he removed it and handed it over. I'm a dude, it's not that big of a deal.

–Plus, you've got some nice pecs, said Mr. Clean as she put on the shirt.

Far too big, falling almost to her knees, but better than nothing.

–Okay, said Lunar, looking again to the distance. He furrowed his brow in determination.

–Let's find some better clothes. My pants are just too tight.

–Guess how it feels to have giant boobs, said Mr. Clean.

Lunar gathered that it fucking sucks.

–How does it feel? he asked.

–It fucking sucks.

---

Doughy succeeded in contacting his soon-to-be brother-in-law, but claimed he wouldn't arrive for a bit on account of "errands." No Lad knew what errands he could possibly have to run.

The Lads themselves continued lounging. Dan hovered near the master bedroom window, regularly glancing out to the street below, as if he expected Johnny Law to roll up and surround them. He could hear Pfo, in the common room, taking a break from his reading to sing ABBA and showtunes. He no doubt irked the Lads around him, especially Rufus, who, though too polite to say so, hated musicals.

Slick grew tired of sitting corner-curled and spread herself out on the floor, her arms and legs stretched straight, like an angel that'd fallen drunkenly through the firmament and landed with a splat on the Earth below. LadMan worried that if she grew any more distraught she'd simply cease breathing, so stone-stuck would she be.

But Bobby and Di worried him more, not for how they acted, but for what they whispered.

–Mom woulda taken my headset off, Di said. She ain't finna let me play all night.

–Maybe she being nice? She knew how excited you were.

–But all night? And forgetting to let out Rashel? She'd flip shit.

–I dunno, Dem, I really don't.

–Did something happen to her? You think she crashed on her way back from work?

–No, I'm sure she fine. There's another explanation.

LadMan didn't know. He saw Bobby trying to act strong for Di; saw Dan desperately thinking as he peeked out the broken window, keeping watch; even heard Pfo, who's ABBA, he realized, served to distract the Lads from their plight. Being annoyed with him and his off-pitch squealing brought normalcy back, allowed the Lads to be sick of Pfo's shitty singing and not sick with abject fear.

Of course, he might've blundered by choosing to sing S.O.S. But maybe Pfo hadn't picked it at all? Maybe it came out through sheer, unconscious force?

Doughy sat dolorous in the common-room corner. He wondered when his future brother-in-law would arrive. Pfo's singing served as his only, minor consolation.

So when you're near me, darling can't you hear me?

S.O.S.

---

Being with Lunar put a bit of pep into Clean's step. She walked with her chin up. Her big boobs still printed through her shirt, baggy as it was, but she was determined to display confidence, pass her predicament off as a choice, as if she'd purposefully got stuck in that big-breasted body, lost her shirt, and borrowed a much bigger one.

She had no trouble projecting poise in the plaza; most of the players looked far more ridiculous than she. A short, busty girl in a too-large shirt won't much to stare at when half the guy population lounged pantless, their dicks slung over their shoulders. But among the snotty, swanky NPC street-suits things were different. Lunar and Mr. Clean walked huddled together, taking up as little street-space as possible and trying to avoid catching NPC eye contact. These upper-crust creatures strutted with divine guarantee, the whole of society behind their every step. Landlords and artists, bankers and gankers; normal, respectable family folk with brownstones and checking accounts, sometimes escorted by lightly armed, heavy headed fighting men. They all went along with their early morning, made up business. No wonder the oddly dressed chick and the shirtless, mohawked man felt out of place. Plus, they had usernames floating above their heads.

Lunar noticed the NPCs' aheadness in the rat-race, but Clean noticed also their race-race. AsAm IRL, she noted with some surprise that all the NPCs were white. Not most, all. While plenty of games set in historical Europe featured mostly white NPCs, Deadeye Development made fantasy games. And Lukia, fantasy (though resembling very much medieval France), featured NPCs of all types. Could Fanget's humans be racially divided by, say, in-game NPC nations? If so, did immigration in Fanget not exist? Also, that would mean the human spawn-space sat securely within whitey's nation, a possibility Clean found too obnoxious to ponder.

–Excuse me, ma'am, said Lunar to a passing NPC lady.

The woman recoiled as if struck. She looked at Lunar with wide eyes reminiscent of over-acted horror movie horror. Little Lunita, so passive in life, felt both sick and swole with power. The woman, did-up and wispy, seeming to Lunar like a young Nesbit, raised her gloved hands in defense and turned her head, as if Lunar was a thing too terrible even to behold. Other NPCs stopped walking and stared, ready to intervene should Lunar continue his molestation.

–I… er… we just want to know if there's a clothes shop nearby, stuttered Lunar.

–I don't know anything about a clothes shop! cried the woman.

–Bullshit, said Clean. With how much women of your time spent on clothes, you must know where a clothes shop is.

–I don't, I swear, cried the woman as she scampered away.

–Ugh… what'd we do? asked Lunar.

–Nothing, muttered Clean. She glared at the onlookers, debating whether or not to whack them for being such dicks.

–There's a decent tailor down the way a bit, said one gruff, grumbly man who'd been standing nearby. He wore a clean suit and a bowler hat, but his face was rough, his eyes like a sailor's and his voice that of a life-liver. He held a silver cane awkwardly in his right hand, which he used to point down the street.

–It's just left of the inn, he continued. Though I doubt your money'll be good there…

–Jokes on you, we don't have any money, said Mr. Clean as she and Lunar walked off.

–Why did they program them to be like this? asked Lunar.

Clean left the question hanging.

A short walk down the street and the two arrived at the aforementioned inn, a long, thin, two-story building flanked by the equivalent of medieval townhouses. Only a single sign marked the business, a large, wooden sign bearing its name: The Drunken Dumbass.

–The Drunken Dumbass? Is this real life? asked Mr. Clean.

–Just fantasy, replied Lunar.

A collection of old men sat outside, atop metal stools. They nearly burst from their suits, smoked long pipes, and sipped beer from stained mugs. They looked at Lunar and Clean like all the rest, but along with their sharp stares and distrust Lunar saw a certain resignation arising independent from their player-ire, a sadness manifest in sipping morning juice and watching the world go by. The world, to these old beer-boys, inevitably seems to be getting worse and worse as their days swirled down the drain (such is their nature), but even Lunar and Clean felt that, in this case, their world's wasting wasn't merely perceived; players, to this virgin world, brought apocalypse. But… this was a newworld, not just new to Lunar and Clean, but new in of itself, a recent creation. It was, therefore, stillborn, apocalyptically tainted from its first breath.

So… what did these old alcoholics want? Their world wasn't getting worse, it was as it always had been. It existed solely in that moment, suspended in eternal destructive discourse; stuck.

–Fuck off, ya wank stains, muttered Mr. Clean as she and Lunar passed them by.

Hampered somewhat by the vague nature of their directions, the duo took time finding the tailor. Finally, though, they did, locating a tiny, split store affair titled Clothes 4 Lass and Lads of Clothes, respectively.

–These store names really aren't doing it for me, said Clean as she and Lunar headed in, both expecting to get kicked right back out.

---

The shop consisted of two sections, ladies and gentlemen, separated by a thin, wooden wall. A doorway connected them, its door propped open by a pile of slacks. The gentleman's section contained a counter staffed by a tall, young man who stared at Lunar and Clean as they entered. An eclectic selection of clothes filled the wall-lining shelves and adorned the wooden mannequins atop their pedestals. Lunar noted especially a Link-looking outfit, a green tunic and pointed, Robin Hood cap, worn by a mannequin beside the counter.

Lunar lacked money and a plan to accommodate that, but, still riding the high of not being curb-kicked by the counter-kid the moment he entered, he sauntered up to the counter, looking how he imagined confident chaps looked.

–Hello, my good man- he began before the counter-kid cut him off.

–Mr. Lunarkid and Miss Mr. Clean! You two have not received your starting gear yet, he said with a smile. Would you like to receive your starting gear now?

–Ugh… said Lunar, looking sideways to Clean. She shrugged and said,

–Sure.

The man reached under the counter and produced two brown backpacks.

–Here you are, he said, handing them over. I hope you find them satisfactory. Now, can I help you with anything else? You, sir, look like you could use a shirt.

–Why yes, said Lunar, I certainly could.

The store's only other customer, a middle-aged woman in the lady's section, glared at them through the doorway, but Lunar didn't notice. He was too happy with this long overdue decent treatment.

Lunar couldn't know, but this particular cashier had been programmed at the lowest possible affinity value. Most NPCs, post-patch, had low affinity values, meaning they didn't care for players, but the Devs intended the lowest value, fairly rare, to make the NPC more or less regard each player as his sworn enemy, with restitution impossible. However, this value actually caused an overflow error, causing these few NPCs to possess near-impossibly high regard for the players. This cashier, who'd met Lunar and Mr. Clean but minutes ago, wouldn't just have died for them, he'd live for them.

---

When worn, the basic backpack added twenty additional inventory slots. Touching an item's icon in your inventory, Lunar and Clean discovered, made it appear in your hand. Putting items back into one's inventory proved similarly simple.

The duo found within their new backpacks a steel canteen (empty), a sewing kit, a bar of soap, a straight razor, lather, a pouch of shaving cream, a hunting knife, a pack of "Big Chap" cigarettes, matches, a canister of "compressed steam," a small tool pack (wrench, screwdriver, etc.), a vial labeled "XP Potion," and a book, The Bonehead's Guide to Fanget.

What they didn't find was money.

–So, how may I clothe you today? asked the NPC. I think you'll find my highest quality material suitable for your clearly genteel tastes.

Clean couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic.

–Well, we don't… you know… have any money… strictly speaking, said Lunar.

–Oh, not a problem at all, said the man. Pay me back when you can. Or not! I only want to assist you however I may.

–Why? asked Clean.

–Why? Well… that's… err… I don't know! Who needs a reason? I only wish to serve!

Clean glanced at Lunar.

–It's about time we found someone with some sense, said Lunar. I like to start with pocket squares. What color do you think suits me best?

---

Chapter TWELVE

Science, Technology, Engineering, Mathematics

---

The argument: Lunar and the Lads intersect, along with a certain man of science…

---

Lunar and Clean got did up all dapper. Lunar got a black dinner jacket with a white pocket square, a black vest, a floppy black bow tie, black trousers, and black shoes. He wanted the tophat the tailor presented to him, but couldn't fit it over his mohawk. Clean intervened, cutting holes in the front and back of the hat, allowing Lunar to stick his mohawk through it. Clean herself went more casual, stuffing her boobs into a white dress shirt. She completed the outfit with a grey vest, an unbuttoned grey sack coat, black trousers, and a black ascot. She tied her hair up with some difficulty and placed atop it a straw boater with a grey band.

The tailor also gave them new, silver pocket watches and assorted sanitation stuff: perfume, cologne, combs, etc.

Lunar admired himself in a full-size mirror. He took the comb to his long, white beard. He had to admit, he looked good. Let's see those high-class NPCs shun him now.

–I regret that I cannot provide you with the full range of necessary sanitation products, the tailor said quietly to Clean.

–What do you mean? she asked. What else would we need?

–Well… er… I am referring to products meant to deal with… well… you know… womanly needs.

Catastrophe manifested itself on Clean's face. The tailor, red-faced, excused himself with a short bow and retreated behind his counter, where he began refolding undershirts.

–Womanly… no… they wouldn't… stuttered Clean. Then, to the tailor,

–Why? Why would they simulate periods?

The tailor didn't respond. He folded faster, his face redder by the sec.

–Lunar, did you hear that? Clean asked.

–Hear what? asked Lunar, turning.

–The game has periods!

–Periods? Like in hockey?

–No, like blood pouring out of your vagina once a month! I did not prepare for that!

The poor pantywaist tailor stood behind his counter, his face now the reddest, wondering how to usher these profane peeps out without compromising his undying loyalty to them. His bit-brain, caught between these two extremes, shorted and sat smoking within his skull. Puffs of smoke seeped out his ears.

–They weren't this dedicated to realism in Lukia, were they? asked Lunar.

–Who would want to play period simulator? said Clean, her voice high. What else can happen? Can you get sick? What about, like, pissing and… shitting?

–I imagine the scat fetishists would be disappointed if you couldn't, said Lunar, now entering a deep contemplation.

–Did Lukia- he began.

–No, said Clean, Lukia didn't have any of this. What type of gam- wait… can you get pregnant?

–An interesting thought! came a voice from the shop's entrance. Lunar and Clean turned to see a player, disheveled but hardly grotesque. Oddly regular. Short black hair, light brown skin, a bit of stubble, lank, and dressed in the spawn stuff with a brown backpack. His appearance, so devoid of personal touch or flourish, seemed randomly generated. But what RPG player randomized character creation? Even burnt-out Lunar took time.

The player stormed into the store, full of frenzy. The username over his head read: Chumpchange.

–I suspect the NPCs, at least, possess fully functional reproductive systems, said Chumpchange, coming to stand before Lunar and Clean. Many players might want to impregnate an NPC and produce for themselves an in-game offspring. However, have the Developers expedited this process, or do they expect a player to wait nine full months before giving him his child?

–Who the fuc- began Clean.

Chumpchange kept talking.

–As for us players, I am incredibly interested to see the full range of our sexual abilities, as well as our other bodily capacities. But that will have to wait, we have more important questions to answer.

Chumpchange pointed dramatically at Lunar, as if anybody doubted who he spoke to.

–I see you have the brown backpacks, he said. Starting gear, of sorts, I assume. Did you get it from this store?

–Uh… yeah, said Lunar.

–And this NPC, he knew your names, yes?

–Yeah, said Lunar. He can just re-

–NPC, what is my name? Chumpchange demanded.

–I'm not sure we've been introduced, said the NPC. My name is Ger-

–I don't care, said Chumpchange. Don't distract me with meaningless pleasantries.

–Oh… I apologize-

–You don't know my name? You can't see my name?

Chumpchange pointed above his head, at his clearly floating username.

–I'm… not sure what you're referring to, sir, said Ger with a nervous laugh.

–I knew it, said Chumpchange, snapping his fingers. You two, Lunarkid and Mr. Clean, he knew your usernames without you having to tell him. But not because he can read them.

–Are you saying he can't see them at all? asked Lunar.

–He cannot. The NPC who gave me my backpack knew my username without me telling him, so at first I suspected the NPCs could see our usernames as we can see each other's. But no subsequent NPC has been able to tell me my name. Also, there seems to be some disconnect between scripted interactions and non-scripted interactions. Interactions the NPCs produce themselves they can explain via their own, internal logic, but scripted interactions, for quests and such, seem to override their internal logic but do not leave them with an adequate explanation for their own behavior. Watch.

Chumpchange turned to the tailor, who'd been listening with interest despite understanding not a word Chump said.

–How did you know their names? Chump asked.

–I… I just did…

–He has no better explanation, said Chumpchange. Why did you give these two those backpacks?

–I… it…

Ger stood in a fog. He furrowed his brow, determined to remember for his newfound friends, but he couldn't come to an answer. He hardly recalled the giving-act itself. He'd felt compelled by something beyond him. Logos, the Supreme God? The Librito tells of His servants descending to carry out his final will, and of the powers-

–But what's the point? asked Mr. Clean. Why have him magically know our names if it's just gonna confuse him when we ask about it?

–You'll quickly come to see that this game is ripe with oddities such as that, said Chumpchange. I can only conclude that the Developers were either crazy or incompetent, probably both. For example, there seems to be no explanation for how the NPCs acquire the backpacks.

–He reached under the counter, said Lunar.

–But if you look, there won't be any more packs under there.

Lunar did so. Poor Ger, lost, thoughts far off, couldn't find the strength to tell him the under-counter was for employees only.

–However, said Chumpchange, if another player came in here, I'm almost certain he'd offer him a backpack and then produce one. Gah! I wish we had another player to test this with.

–I'm sorry, said Mr. Clean. Let's back up a bit. Who are you, exactly?

–I'm Chumpchange. You can see my name.

–Yes, but, who… are you?

–A player stuck in this game, said Chumpchange. A physicist. AMO, in particular. An American. In-game name: Chumpchange. Real name: Derek.

–Sure, okay, said Lunar, startled but not surprised to find someone more awkward than himself.

–Well, thank you for assisting me, said Chump. I've confirmed some of my suspicions. Goodbye.

With that Chumpchange exited the store, nearly jumping off the stoop in his hurry. He started down the street, stiffly speed walking. NPCs stared, but he ignored them.

Lunar and Mr. Clean took off after him, jogging to catch up. Their new duds, stylish as they were, weren't built for physical activity, but they soon caught him.

–Chumpchange, wait, said Lunar.

–What do you want? asked Chumpchange, still speed walking.

–Where are you going?

–My girlfriend's brother contacted me. He's with a guild experienced in these types of MMORPGs. I suspect it will be advantageous to meet with them.

Lunar and Clean looked at one another and simultaneously asked,

–Can we go with you?

---

Doughy did a dinged up job of describing the building in which the Lads huddled, so Chumpchange, Lunar, and Mr. Clean took until mid-afternoon to find them. Thank God for the map, or they wouldn't have found them at all.

Bobby and Di stood outside, arms crossed, Di looking as he imagined secret service guys look. They brightened when they saw Chumpchange approaching. A few wretched code-souls slunk about, but the low Sun cast shadows over a mostly quiet, empty street. As Chump's trio stomped by, even they slithered out of sight. Chump kept his eyes forward, but Lunar watched them go with sadness, while Clean did so in anger.

–Chumpchange, said Bobby. You Doughy's… uh… future brother-in-law?

–That's correct, said Chump as he came to stand before Bobby and Di. He didn't endeavor to introduce Lunar or Clean, leaving both feeling awkwardly uninvited.

–Who yo friends? asked Bobby after a long pause.

–Lunarkid and Mr. Clean, said Chump as if that explained it.

–Okay… then… come on in, I guess, said Bobby. Doughy's inside. He… excited to see you.

Understatement. Doughy nearly exploded when Chumpchange entered.

–Derek! Thank God! he exclaimed. I thought you wouldn't get my message, or that you spawned as something else, or-

–I'm here, said Chumpchange.

–Hey man, nice to meet you, said LadMan, who'd descended from the master bedroom for the occasion. Dan stood next to him and nodded in welcome. All the other Lads had stuffed into the main room to see this mythical force, brilliance manifested, as Doughy described him. They sized Chump up but found him a let down. Slick, from the corner, curled her nose and closed her suspicious eyes. Pfo kept his eyes trained, sensing in Chump more than psh, another randie with too much faith in induction. Pfo knew too many stumped Chumps IRL, but if this guy was the maha man, the big bad of the logical lads, Pfo felt compelled to contest. What was finna-blow Pfo gonna do, doe?

–You're Pfo, said Chump, setting his eyes on the Lad. Am I pronouncing that correctly?

–No, it's pronounced 'pfo,' said Pfo.

–Henry talks about you sometimes, said Chump. He says you're the smartest Sad Lad.

–I mean… in some things, not overall, mumbled Dan.

–What do you study? Chump asked from atop a giraffe.

–I have a new paper coming out on bubble nucleation, said Pfo, voice dripping radioactive goo.

–Is that right? asked Chump. I heard you study literature.

–I heard you lack basic social skills, said Pfo.

–Is that meant to be an insult?

–No, just an objective observation. A fact, if you will.

–What's… going on? LadMan whispered to Dan.

–Err… these Chumpchange's friends, said Bobby, pointing to Lunar and Mr. Clean. Doughy narrowed his eyes at the duo; Chump didn't make friends.

–I know you guys, Lunar said suddenly. Did you play Lukia?

–Of course, said Dan with a snicker. We were one of the premiere-

–Did you play? asked LadMan. I don't remember you.

–I… sorta played. But my brother played pretty seriously. I remember him talking about "LadMan and the Lads," one of the big time guilds. Is that you guys?

–We the Sad Lads, said Bobby.

–Newly punified, added Pfo.

–What was your brother's username? asked LadMan.

–DDOXer, said Lunar. He played with a couple of friends: Ricardo, Kat-

–Kitty the Kat! said Dan. Holy shit, Lad, you remember those guys?

A wave of recognition swept over the Lads. Even lil Doughy, already so excited to see Chump, perked up more.

–That was the dude and his girlfriend, said Vac Effron. And, like, those squeaker, redneck brothers?

–The twins, yeah, said Lunar.

–They were the first party to beat the Mahishasura, said Dan. Remember, they discovered the shock beam crit stacking thing and just fucking stomped him. Then they fucking went and beat Medusa, like, right after that, first freaking try. Devs had to release a hotfix, like, the next day.

Lunar was lost, but these words meant something to the Lads. They grew more and more excited.

–God, crazy times, said LadMan. Are they here?

–Yeah, my brother is, said Lunar. But I can't message him, his name is grayed out.

–Too far away, said Dan. That means he spawned as another species. What about the others?

–I… haven't tried them yet, said Lunar, blushing.

–You should, said Dan, simply.

–So, LadMan, said Chump, tired of useless talk. What is your current plan of action?

–We're waiting, said Lad.

–Waiting? For what?

–To get out of the game.

Chump looked lost, so LadMan elaborated.

–For someone outside to figure out what's going on and… you know… get us out.

Chump looked from Lad to Lad, all perplexed at his confusion, and realized not one of them knew what he did.

–Oh dear, he said.

---

LadMan had to institute strict speaking rules, cause everyone had begun yelling all at once. If you wanted to speak, you raised your hand, and LadMan called on you. Vac Effron protested.

–We're not in fucking kindergarten, Lad! he shouted.

–You're acting like it! Dan fired back.

–Chill out, for Christ's sake, yelled Lad.

–Stop acting all aloof, said Vac.

–Stop acting like a little bitch, said Dan.

This rapid disintegration, the lazy lounging Lads' turn to screeching psychos, came about cause of Chump's brief lecture on temporal relativity.

–What makes you think someone is going to free us from the real world? Chump had asked.

–Someone will notice nobody is logging out, said LadMan. People have jobs, and school, and families. If somebody takes off just one person's set, they'll blow this whole thing wide open and we're all free.

–My mom gonna rip Demarion's headset off any minute, said Bobby.

–That's assuming an equal rate of temporal passage, said Chumpchange.

He kept his tone cold for such a nuclear statement. Because of this, it took the Lads time to comprehend. Slick got the implication first, and her mind extrapolated onward at a million miles per hour. Her eyes went impossibly wide, she opened her mouth but couldn't think of anything to say. Bobby, Dan, and Pfo followed. Pfo racked his brain for reasons why this couldn't be the case, while Dan stammered stupidly, wondering why he'd overlooked such an obvious conclusion. Bobby clenched his teeth, trying to remain strong for wildly-looking-around Di, but something got caught in his throat and he erupted into a coughing fit. One by one they understood Chump's statement, and one by one they freaked. Only Doughy didn't get it.

–What? What do you mean, Derek? he asked.

–It's like that Narnia movie you made me watch, said Chump. Remember? They go into the dresser and live a full life but when they come back only minutes have passed. Time doesn't necessarily travel at the same rate inside the game as it does outside it.

–Like Inception! said Doughy. Oh God… that means…

Chump watched the other Lads continue to devolve.

–Surely at least one of you had this thought, right? he asked.

This is when the uproar began. LadMan's speaking rules followed.

---

It took several minutes for LadMan to shut the Lads up enough to have a civilized discussion. Vac was livid at being treated like a snot-dripping child. He began hurling insults haphazardly, and Dan, done with the disrespect, shoved him. Rufus, seasoned from a stint as an ISS overseer, jumped in the middle and separated the swingers. Slick suffered a breakdown and had to retreat upstairs. Chumpchange, annoyed with these irrational beings for wasting his time, crossed his arms and tapped his feet, emulating his old science teacher impatiently waiting for her restless pupils to peter out. This arrogant attitude drove Pfo up the wall and through the roof.

–What, are our feelings bothering you? he demanded. Don't have time for anything this irrational?

–It's unnecessary, said Chump over the noise of the yelling Ladry.

–Other people feel things, sorry you don't know what that's like, said Pfo, cutting as deep as he could.

Chumpchange shrugged.

---

–Why do you think time travels at different speeds inside the game? LadMan asked Chump, TLDRing two minutes of yelling. The Lads sat, nervous in the service.

Just as Chump opened his mouth to respond, Vac interjected,

–So he doesn't have to raise his hand?

–I asked him a question, said LadMan with a sigh. Please-

–So you don't have to raise your hand?

–Vac, c'mon, muttered Lying Ted. I wanna know what he's gonna say.

Vac crossed his arms, closed his mouth, and sat steaming.

–I have no empirical evidence, said Chumpchange, but I hypothesize that the Developer's patch slowed time within this game to a fraction of its real-life equivalent. Of course, I have no way of measuring the rate of temporal passage outside the game, but I suspect it is an order of magnitude slower than inside. Nobody would take off my headset after only a day, but, as you said, there are people who would not be allowed to play all night. That they have been allowed could suggest that one in-game night does not correspond to one real-life night.

The Lads were silent. Only Pfo raised his hand.

–Yeah, Pfo, said LadMan.

Chumpchange evidently expected Pfo to address him, but the Lad turned instead to Dan.

–Dan, you know everything about VR, right?

–Well, not everything, said Dan.

–Was this an advertised feature of the headsets? I feel like I'd remember if it was.

–Of course it wasn't advertised, said Dan. Neither was being trapped. Nobody expected anything like this.

–The Developers did not telegraph their intentions, cut in Chumpchange. But that's history, it's useless to contemplate it.

–LadMan didn't call on you, muttered Vac.

Nobody heard him.

–And it is possible to slow down time? In multiplayer? asked Bobby. We sure bout that?

–It has been demonstrated in other contexts, said Chumpchange. As long as we're on the same server, it should be possible while still allowing us to interact.

Rufus respectfully raised his hand. Lad pointed to him.

–This explains why my wife hasn't taken off my headset, he said. I'm like many of you, there's no way I'd be allowed to play all night. But this isn't all bad, it means no matter how long we're stuck in here, we might not lose any time in real life. Hopefully my kids won't be without me for long.

–That's nonsense, said Vac. You think that's a positive? We could be stuck here for years!

–Vac, calm down, said LadMan.

–You would have lost, like, a night, Rufus. How is this better?

–Vac, enough, said LadMan, we're not going to be stuck in here for years.

–Actually, that's not, strictly speaking, impossible, said Chump with his speedily-becoming signature stoicism.

Another breakdown nearly ensued. Through sheer force of will LadMan kept the assemblage civil.

–Don't think about what's possible, he said. We'll be here forever considering that stuff. Think about what's plausible. I mean, realistically, how can a video game company keep thousands of us trapped in here?

Chump opened his mouth to speak, but Pfo cut him off.

–Realistically, he said. Not theoretically.

–You're right, Lad, said Rufus. We have to stay positive. There are so many ways we could escape.

The Lads kept tense, but their stressed tapping tapered. The second youngest Lad, Shooketh, raised his hand. He sat beside his IRL GF, Mufferson, who looked at him with some surprise. He rarely spoke, let alone online.

–Yeah, Shook, said Lad.

–Are we still gonna wait here? he asked quietly. Are we gonna try and do the Challenge?

–Shook is right, said Dan quickly. Shook smiled.

–It's the only way out, Dan continued. The patch notes clearly say that if we complete it we get out.

–It ain't the only way out, was you not listening to anything anybody just said? asked Bobby. And we don't even know what this challenge is.

–Bobby doesn't have to raise his hand, mumbled Vac.

–Vac, shut the fuck up, holy shit, said Bobby.

–Okay, said LadMan. Guys, please, we have to stay together here.

Vac got his point across. He huffed, crossed his arms, and shut his mouth.

–Bobby, said Lad, please raise your hand if you want to speak.

–I'm sorry, said Bobby, staring at Vac, I forgot. He raised his hand. Lad called on him.

–I don't wanna play along with the Dev's fucked up game. And, as I was saying, we don't know what "the Challenge" is.

He put air quotes around "the Challenge," peeved with its newly proper-noun state.

–Fine, huffed Dan, but-

–Dan, said LadMan.

–Oh, right, sorry, said Dan. He raised his hand. Lad called on him.

–We should at least try and figure it out. It's better than sitting around doing nothing. Plus, would the Devs tell us about it if it couldn't be figured out?

Certain Lads had sneaking suspicions the Devs'd do just that.

–It's probably bugged anyway, muttered Pfo.

–I, for one, am not going to lounge around and hypothesize, said Chump with a Pfo-pissing, self-aggrandizing tone. I am going to go out and collect information. LadMan, what do you intend to do?

Some took issue with the idea that Lad ultimately spoke for the guild, but his decision sounded so reasonable it silenced dissent.

–I think we should go to Brandonville, he said. That was the original plan. It shouldn't be too tough a trip and, hopefully, the other groups from the guild will go there too. Once we get everyone together, if nobody has been freed from the outside, then we can come up with a more permanent plan.

Chumpchange nodded.

–I'll stay with you, then.

Almost every Lad had friends spawned as other species. Friends they wanted to see. LadMan, of course, had his best bud, Dan, and his best influence, Slick, nearby, but both were struggling. And there were valuable Lads he wanted to consult: pbbbbbbb&j, the chillest doobie dude anybody would ever meet, not to mention a soft voice of peace; phatphuck, one of the earliest Lads and a top-ten Lukia player; Womansrights, the thoughtful theatric; Tyrannisoris_Sex, super-serious and unusually loyal; and even Erectio, whose normally annoying clowning Lad now missed. The Lads, glad to have a plan, turned their attention to the logistics of getting to Brandonville. As the conversation calmed, LadMan relaxed his hand-raising rule.

–Where is Brandonville, if I may ask? said Rufus.

–It's to our east, look at your map, said Dan, exacerbated.

–East? How far, I don't see it? said Doughy.

–East is to the right, said Pfo, guessing the problem without lifting his eyes from his own map.

–Oh, said Doughy, I found it.

As the Lads talked travel, Lunar, sitting in the corner near Clean, took time to open his menu and attempt to message Shane's friends. He started with Kitty, who, due to Shane's long courtship, Lunar knew well. Shane met her at high school's start and the two dated throughout. They got along well; Shane dopey, dorky, and gentle, Kitty fiery, clever, and kind. Lunar's mom adored Kitty, and Kitty's family liked Shane, finding particular joy in the broken, bizarre Spanish Lunar, at his bro's request, taught him. Kitty was second only to Shane in people Lunar wanted to see. But no luck. He found her usual username, Kitty_the_Kat, just as grayed out as Shane's. Next he tried Ricardio, who he sorta knew IRL. Ricardio and Kitty were childhood friends, and he and Shane got along okay, outwardly. Lunar'd seen him around the house and at the occasional function, at least, those he deigned to attend. But Ricardio was grayed out also.

Did they all spawn together? No, they probably all spawned as separate species. Five in-game species, five of them. Plus, they were hyper-hardcore, and Shane always extolled the value of a balanced party, both class-wise and species-wise. If they went hard from the get-go (and Lunar felt certain they had), they would've right-away rolled the best possible party comp. That meant at least one human.

With renewed vigor Lunar entered one of the twins' names, BysonBeb. It came up colored. He sent a friend request and almost immediately got accepted. Then he clicked the name and up came some info. BysonBeb. Human. Chancellorsburg Outskirts. Lvl. 243.

–What the fuck? Lunar said, accidently out loud.

The Lads paused their conversation.

–Everything okay? asked LadMan. You need something?

–No, sorry, my bad, said Lunar quickly. It's nothing.

–Okay… said LadMan, still eyeing him.

Mr. Clean eyed him too, but Lunar hadn't an explanation for either. He didn't want to say anything, to start a scene. But how in the flying fuck was Beb level 243? In Lukia's leveling system, that was tree-san high. Higher than the aforementioned pbbbbbbb&j when he chose his username all those years ago. Could it be a visual bug? Lunar closed his menu and re-opened it, subtly, trying not to alert the Lads further. LadMan no longer looked at him, but Clean did, and grew more and more suspicious by the second.

Lunar typed Beb's name again and again it displayed: BysonBeb. Human. Chancellorsburg Outskirts. Lvl 243. Lunar clicked the name and started composing a message. He typed as quickly and discreetly as he could. Private Eye for hippity-hire Lunar started fermenting a theory. BysonBeb and his brother didn't hack, but they weren't above using in-game exploits. In fact, they were famous for finding them. But… they'd busted the game already?

---

The Sad Lad's structure was intact for now, but LadMan knew cracks weren't far off. Only his sensible go-to-Brandonville suggestion and sheer tradition kept him in charge, but the Lads weren't military-members, they were a collection of (albeit serious) gamers united under a label and LadMan's conditional command (obtained only cause of his firstness). He, with Dan behind him, founded the Sad Lads early in Lukia. He filled out the guild registration forms in Lukia's Central Guildhall, paid the founding fee, and listed himself as leader. It helped that the smartest, most respected Lads: Slick, Bobby, Pfo, Phatphuck, Rufus, tended to respect his provisional leadership, but he lacked real authority and he knew it. The moment a Lad settled on secession they'd be boolin. LadMan didn't imagine he could go Abe on their ass to stop them.

LadMan decided to bring Chumpchange upstairs when the Lads retired for the night. They'd settled on setting out for Brandonville the next morning. He, Dan, Bobby, and Di ascended up the stairs, Chumpchange in tow, to engage in whispered conjecture for the rest of the evening. There was plenty Lad wanted to ask. Also, he didn't want more of Chump's ideas alarming the Lads.

But Chumpchange felt compelled to commit a final blunder before parting with the plebs.

–You stay here, he told Doughy when the little Lad asked if he could accompany his future bro-IL upward. It'll be easier with just us. Things tend to run better if only a few people are in charge, you know. Democracy doesn't work.

This remark riled: Lockean Pfo, pseudo-anarchist Vac and boys, the big/little R republican Rufus, the 21st century liberal Lunar, soft-socialist Slick, bleeding-heart Bobby, and commie-leaning Clean. Only Dan, slightly oligarchical, approved of the sentiment, though he hated it being so clearly stated when the Sad Lads' authoritarian structure rested on explicit rejection of said structure. He couldn't tell if Chumpchange knew this and didn't care or was too socially stunted to tell. Regardless, Chump's inductively based dismissal of anything Marxy wasn't gonna help him when the proles stuck his head on a stake.

LadMan worried that rilable-reliable Vac might start some stuff, but Vac and his boys crawled into the kitchen and sat there stewing. Pfo, who in lighter times might've lectured impressionable Doughy on The Treatises of Government or, like, The Areopagitica, felt only able to return to the little library and sit there silently reading.

Before he did, as Doughy ruminated on this previously unseen P/platonic aspect of Chump, he said,

–That guy thinks he's really something special, doesn't he? No offense, Dough, but what does your sister see in him?

–They're kinda similar, said Doughy.

–I'm sincerely sorry, said Pfo. He looked to Lunar, a little ways away.

–Hey, lesser light Lunar.

Lunar was taken aback, slightly offended, but more annoyed Pfo used a reference he didn't get.

–What?

–Are you friends with him? Also, where on Earth did you guys get those clothes?

–Uh, some tailor gave them to us, said Lunar. That's where we met Chump. We aren't really friends, but he said he was going to meet a guild. We… didn't really know what else to do, so we tagged along.

–Hm… people need to stick together, right?

Pfo rose. He looked to Doughy.

–I'm gonna go read. Doughy, you wanna come along?

–That's okay, I'm just gonna sit here for a while, said Doughy.

–Oh, all right. Well, I'll be there.

Pfo withdrew.

---

LadMan entered the master bedroom to find Slick sprawled on the floor, looking again like a fallen angel, her arms and legs stretched out, staring at the ceiling. He stood in the doorway, anguished, until Chump pushed past him and made straight for a corner-chair, practically stepping over Slick to get there. Sparing no thought, he began speaking before Dan, Bobby, or Di even entered.

–I assume you are aware of the most pressing question? Chump asked LadMan.

–What are you talking about?

Bobby, Di, and Dan took seats around the table. LadMan remained in the doorway. He could hear assorted Lad-chatter rising from below.

–What happens when a player dies? said Chump. The patch-notes, as you may remember, claimed to remove the game's respawn feature.

Di gasped.

–Not the respawn feature, said Bobby, quickly. It just said it nixed spawning at chapels.

–Fine then, the patch-notes claimed to remove that particular respawn feature, said Chump. So we need to learn whether they replaced it with another respawn feature or removed respawning entirely.

–What if dying in the game means dying in real life? asked Di.

He looked to Bobby, his mouth hanging half open.

–It can't, Dem, that ain't possible, said Bobby.

–The headsets are connected directly to our brain and nervous systems, said Chumpchange with an awkward, sniffly laugh, of course it's possible.

–Stop. Just shut the fuck up, said Bobby, slamming his fist on the table.

This is why I got Chumpchange away from the others, thought LadMan. What a commotion this would cause.

–This is whack, Bobby continued, voice rising in both volume and pitch. Nobody gonna be allowed to ship a headset that can fucking merc you.

–I think we're well past legality, muttered Slick without moving.

–The system ain't capable, Bobby said.

Di's eyes dropped tears.

–It ain't possible, Dem.

–You sure?

–No, he isn't sure, said Chump.

Bobby shot up. His seat fell back and clattered against the floor. Silence ensued. Bobby stared Chump down. Shadowy Chump; utterly uninterested. Didn't even deign to stare back.

–Bobby, please, pleaded LadMan, we have to consider every possibility, no matter how scary.

–You said yourself not to focus on what's possible, but what's probable, said Bobby.

–That was for everyone else. We need to keep them from panicking, but we can't shy away from the truth ourselves.

–The truth, mumbled Bobby as he picked up his chair and sat back down, this sci-fi shit ain't the truth.

–If your brother can't handle this discussion, he should not be up here, said Chump.

–Di stays with me, said Bobby.

–You don't need to stay, either.

–Okay, all right, said LadMan, striding from the door to stand between Chump and Bobby. Di, I trust you, and I need you to be strong. We're just considering possibilities, okay, so can you stay strong?

Di nodded.

–We're all in this together, said LadMan. Then, to Chump,

–How do you think the headset could kill us? Does that not seem far fetched?

–It easily could, said Chump. He pointed at Slick and said,

–He's right, we cannot assume there are any of the expected restrictions on our predicament.

–She, Slick said simply.

–Pardon?

–She, said Slick again.

–Oh, you mean you're a female in real life, said Chump. Of course, I figured this would happen. For simplicity's sake, I'll continue referring to you as "he."

–No you won't, said Slick. She rolled her head to look at Chump. This glare Chump could not ignore.

–Fine, then, he said, if such a thing is so important to you.

–Dan, what do you think? asked LadMan.

–It's impossible to know, said pale-faced Dan. If someone dies and doesn't respawn, we don't know what happens to them. Maybe they exit the game?

–That would likely result in us being freed, said Chumpchange. In which case, we would know what happened to them. Of course, there are other possibilities to consider, such as memory manipulation. Also, assuming the Developers can influence our perception of time, additional things become possible. The dead player could be transported to a featureless world, much like the character creation, in which they would be trapped for any number of years. Personally, I'm fascinated to see what happens when someone dies.

–Please, for fuck's sake, be the one to test it, said Bobby.

–No, I can't, I'm too important. Do you think anybody else would volunteer?

–You serious? You actually fucking serious? demanded Bobby.

–Uh… no? ventured Chump.

---

The day died. The full Moon rose and sat smart in the sky, bright enough to cast shadows. Most of the Lads lounged, whispering or twitching. Vac's boys long ago looted the kitchen, looking for liquor and, finding none, went back to their first floor bedroom to sit and shoot the shit as well as they could, sober and scared. Rufus led a few more prayer sessions, for which Jil had fashioned a cross out of two broken table legs and some string. x86, a creepy, quiet girl, known for solo raiding in Lukia, sat on a stool under a window near the door. She held a rusty kitchen knife and peered out the window. Her character was incredibly skinny, with long, bony arms and legs. She looked, to Lunar, like a witch.

What compelled her to make such a character? Or did she look that way in real life? With frayed, brown hair and a too-big nose? Big feet and no breasts? But what was wrong with him, looking at her like that? How did he even know to call her "she?"

Clean tugged lightly on his sleeve. She blushed briefly then said,

–Lunar, listen.

Lunar could hear, over the assorted Lads' soft-noise, the sound of singing coming from beyond the kitchen. The little library; it was Pfo, singing in godawful German while Doughy, presumably with pencils or pens, kept a beat.

99 Düsenflieger / Jeder war ein großer Krieger / Hielten sich für Captain Kirk / Es gab ein großes Feuerwerk / Und fühlten sich gleich angemacht / Dabei schoss man am Horizont…

–I wonder what he's saying? said Clean.

–99 jet fighters, said Lunar. They're all great warriors, they all thought they were Captain Kirk. Big fireworks. Nobody knows what's going on. Everyone shoots at the horizon.

–Huh, said Clean, clearly impressed.

Lunar didn't know German, he just knew the song. Consider that: the world's preeminent Franco-Prussia War scholar can't speak German. Almost as stupid as the head of a Hitler department in the same situation.

---

Lunar and Clean went out in the early AM to get some air. Too many people squished together for Lunar's liking. And Doughy had returned from the library and, somehow, fallen asleep. Lunar tolerated ten minutes of his snoring before heading out. He expected x86, still peering out the window, to react, but she did not. Lunar sat on the building's stoop, keeping his feet above the street's filth. Clean settled next to him.

Few stalked the street; some huddled hobos skulked, but they kept their distance. Despite the darkness, the only light coming from the massive Moon and the far and few gaslights, Lunar felt safe. Darkness is a blanket; the night is peaceful, quiet. Some see death in the dark, with dawn the renewal, but Lunar saw night as the only time things chilled enough for him to actually live. Dawn hurt. And nightwalkers have a creed, a silent agreement not to bother one another. Also, one could drink during the dark and not feel wine-mom irregular. In this peace Lunar and Clean sat in front of the half-fallen house, in the squalid street, and stared at the sparkling stars stuck to the firmament.

–The constellations aren't the same, said Clean.

–Oh, yeah?

–Yeah, the stars are completely different.

She pulled up a sleeve and scratched her arm, then stopped herself, crossed her arms, and closed her eyes.

–Players can buy planes and stuff, right? she asked.

–Yeah, said Lunar.

Bi-planes had been Shane's primary pitch-point when convincing his brother to buy the game.

–I wonder how high you can fly? she asked. In Lukia the mounts just refused to fly past a certain point. How does it work here?

–I dunno, Lunar said.

The pair sat. Lunar studied his namesake, trying to determine differences, save its size. All the familiar features seemed extant: Copernicus, Procellarum, Serenitatis, Tycho, etc. Even little Plato was present. A friendly face smiling down, offering gentle encouragement. Give her your coat. Ya boi.

Lunar turned to Clean.

–You good? he asked.

Clean's whole head felt hot. Her mouth felt dry. Her stomach sloshy, as if it'd sucked all the water from her upper half and become upset. Her whole female form was fluttery.

–Yeah, dude… er… yes, I'm… okay.

She looked down, her face Russia-red.

–I… uh, got in contact with my brother's friends.

–Oh, said Clean, brightening, they're here?

–Just two of them, said Lunar. They're twins. I guess they both spawned as human, but…

–What?

Lunar wasn't sure what to say. He liked Mr. Clean, felt endeared to her. But, Beb's message…

Lunar! he'd written upon hearing from his buddy's brother. Yo, good you good, Shane prolly worried about you. Char and me in a hostel, coords 37.28, -76.72. We shacked here for a bit, come meet us.

Then, as if an afterthought,

Don't tell nobody about our lvls!

Beb and Charles were level 243 and 244, respectively. Lunar didn't know how, and he didn't know what they thought would happen if people found out, but he felt erring on the side of caution won't no dumb thing. He nervously twirled his stache.

–Nothing, Lunar finally said, I'm just gonna try to meet up with them. They sent me their coordinates. I checked the map, and they're not far to the south, just outside town.

Mr. Clean tapped her fingers on the stoop.

–Do you- do you mind if I come with you? she asked.

–Yeah… er- no, said Lunar. I mean, I don't mind. Yeah, you can come.

–Thanks, said Clean. She turned and a strand of her black hair fell in front of her face, obstructing Lunar's view of her big eyes.

–I ran solo in Lukia, mostly, she said, but this is… different.

–Yeah, I get it, said Lunar. Just… so you know, their levels are a bit high. I don't know how… I'm sure they'll tell us.

Lunar looked to the Moon. It seemed to be nodding at him.

–Keep it on the down low, he said. They don't want a lot of people to know.

–Yeah, okay, said Clean, confused but smiling. They're, like, already a high level?

–I honestly have no idea, said Lunar. He took off his top hat and scratched his head.

–Those idiots probably did something stupid, he continued. We'll see when we meet them.

–Sure, said Clean, and the two sat in silence for a while longer, softly content. Then, the door to the house creaked open and a monstrous figure emerged. Pfo, the massively muscled man, nearly bursting from his clothes. Absurd, gingerly closing the door to avoid waking a sleeping, snoring Doughy.

–Hey guys, he said, mind if I join you for a bit?

–No, go ahead, said Lunar, a bit miffed that Pfo was ruining whatever moment he and Clean were having.

–Can't really sleep, said Pfo, plopping his massive self next to Lunar. Honestly, it amazes me that anybody can. But, of course, Doughy goes out cold and starts snoring up a storm.

–It's weird that they included snoring, said Lunar.

–They included a lot of strange stuff, concurred Pfo.

Now three, they sat in silence for a bit, a tougher contentment, again staring up at the stars. A man came stumbling down the street, shwasted as shit. He passed the trio, offering them nothing, and disappeared into the darkness some distance down.

Pfo was now the Moon's student, staring straight at it, something, Lunar made a habit to note, one can't do with the Sun.

–Badroulbadour, Pfo said. It's romantic, isn't it? There's something unbelievably pleasant about a cool Arabian night, the stars, the Moon, camping in the desert. Or lounging with a book in a house of wisdom. I really wanted to do that in this game, but no species spawns in the desert.

Lunar let himself imagine. Clean looked amused, aloof.

–Like Selene herself, sitting up there, said Pfo with a sigh, now waxing obnoxious just to hear himself talk.

–As big as Satan's shield, he continued. Or double the size, which, honestly, kinda defeats the point, because now the faults are so apparent.

Lunar took issue with the idea that the Moon, real or fake, has faults.

---

A final crisis before the night ended. A few Lads slept, snoring loudly, but most lay, red-eyed and miserable, contemplating Chump's time-theory, any hope that they'd soon be freed evaporating. Pfo re-entered with Lunar and Clean after about an hour and, passing x86 peering out the window, said,

–We in a tight spot yet?

Her eyes didn't move. Pfo huffed and headed back to the library. He'd run out of candles and so he collected scrap paper and wood-debris and started a small fire in a metal bowl he found in the kitchen. He got back to reading but found his AM-air hadn't diminished his antsyness even a bit. Even Pfo couldn't read for so many hours without feeling fidgety. He changed positions several times, figuring that might rejuvenate him, but he couldn't get comfortable due to the hardwood floor and his massive muscles. He eventually settled on a bizarre posture: flat on his back with his head tilted to the side, holding his book perpendicular to the floor in one hand. His fire-bowl sat on a stool above him, serving as a lamp. Unbeknownst to him, he mirrored Slick who, up above, retained the angelic sprawl she'd settled into so many hours earlier. Only their head positions separated the two. Slick stared straight up, at the dark, wood rafters illuminated only barely by the bit of moonlight streaming through the bedroom's window. Slick had retreated too far inside herself; she was gone. Nobody cept her knew if she'd emerge, which put LadMan in a shitty situation, his most respected Lad and second-best bud now fully MIA.

LadMan, ATM, sat against the wall, waiting for daybreak. He wished his pal Douglas had bought the game. A hardcore Lukian Lad, Douglas got some swanky internship through his father and wouldn't have time to play Fanget. He assured LadMan and the others that he'd join in later if he got the time, but nobody had faith that yes-sir yuppity Douglas ever would. The Lads' kind of grind was a one-time streak with an expiration date hanging over all but the most devoted gamer guys. Once you were out, you were out. They weren't paradox-fusers, Mahayogi and Umapati in the same breath. Once you got tired of mountain-manning it in forest meditation you came back to civ and settled down. But why such celestial metaphors for a bunch of meme-tier morons? Lad, Dan, Douglas, Lunar; they were all a bunch of dumb-struck-stuck-fucks.

LadMan glared angrily at Dan, who sat across the room, under the window, his leg fidgeting fast as he clicked through his menu, inspecting the map for the upteenth time. Maybe it was nerves, maybe just his tired mind, but LadMan found himself annoyed with Dan's always-on nature. He never stopped; fidgeting, thinking, clicking…

Lad prepared to say something which, especially given his hazy-minded state, probably would've started a fight but, before he could, Dan looked up, straight at him, face frozen in shock.

–What? Lad asked, taken aback. What is it?

Bobby and Chump, also awake, roused from their staticity and peered at Dan. He ignored them and crawled closer to LadMan.

–Go to your player menu, he whispered into Lad's ear.

–What you saying? What's going on? whispered Bobby, trying not to wake the somehow sleeping Di.

–Hang on, hissed Dan, putting up his hand.

Bobby didn't care for Dan sticking a stop-sign in his face, but he backed down. LadMan opened his menu and clicked the "player" tab. He saw his character, wearing his current clothes and slowly spinning, expressionless. Below that his skills and traits: LVL, HP, MP, and SP, AP, AD, DP, and MR from his outfit, intrinsic AP, AD, DP, MR, etc. All unchanged.

–Look at your statuses, whispered Dan.

To the side, almost an afterthought, LadMan saw a button labeled "statuses." He clicked it and up popped a new window displaying a comprehensive list.

- Human Industry - 15% crafting cost reduction

- In Civilization - 10% EXP bonus to non-combat activities

- In Human Territory - 5% extra AP against non-human players

- Indoors - 5% bonus to HP regeneration

- Hungry - 5% EXP and 10% SP regeneration reduction

- Thirsty - 5% EXP and 10% HP regeneration reduction

- Tired - 5% EXP and 10% MP regeneration reduction

–This better not be what I think it is, whispered LadMan.

–What? What is it? whispered Bobby, his curiosity too much to bear.

–Look at your statuses, whispered LadMan. They're in your player menu.

–But don't freak out, added Dan.

–Freak out? began Bobby. He understood when he arrived at his statuses and saw that, he, too, was hungry, thirsty, and tired. He glanced at Di. Their whispering hadn't woken him.

–Lad, this could be a real problem, whispered Dan.

–You think it's a necessities system? asked LadMan. Or just… like… one off stat effects. You know, you don't eat for a while and you get a slight debuff, but it doesn't go any further than that. Plenty of games do stuff like that.

–Ah, I see, said Chumpchange, finally arriving, after labored clicking, at his own status menu.

–This is a good discovery, good work, he said.

–Yeah, thanks, said Dan.

–So the natural concern would be whether or not these status effects can progress further, said Chumpchange.

–Yes, that's what we've been saying, said Dan. Hungry could become starving, et cetera.

–But I ain't feeling hungry, said Bobby. Or thirsty, or tired.

–Maybe we'll feel something if we progress? hypothesized Chump. That is, of course, assuming there is progression. I'll need to run some tests…

–Do you see now, Lad? said Dan. Do you see what I mean? This game is not well designed!

Dan's whisper rose to a dangerous volume; hardly a whisper, it threatened to alert the lower Lads (and dozing Di) to the danger.

–Yeah, you're right, Lad whispered desperately. It's not well designed.

–Maybe they don't want us to feel the pain of hunger, but still incorporate it as a mechanic, said Chump. These games treat combat the same way.

–Right, the Devs that trapped us here care so much bout our health, said Bobby.

–We need to do something, Lad, said Dan.

–Okay… okay, said LadMan. Well… we can't do anything right now. We'll deal with it tomorrow. Until then… try to sleep, I guess. Maybe that will remove the "tired" effect.

This was easier said than done. Nobody's body felt tired, so the normal mechanism that would force a long-awake man asleep didn't trigger. So their bodies felt fine but their minds, always another matter, insisted that they should be asleep. This split, this utter dual disconnect, caused more stress and made it that much more difficult to doze off.

The Lads with minds more made to meander had already gotten to thinking: how the fuck did sleep work? Chump, sitting in a chair and staring forward, projecting insouciance but panicking inside, didn't think he could fall asleep without his body's demand and didn't want to die before figuring all this out. Nevertheless, he worked step by step through the likelihoods. Assuming time-dilation, their real bodies would mirror their in-game bodies in not needing sleep, seeing as how they've only been in the game for a short while. The actual mechanisms for tricking the mind into thinking it slept were no more complex than tricking it into thinking it was awake and in the real. Chump was struck by a thought. Did the in-game sleepers dream? He hated dreams. Too many superstitious fools conjuring up nonsense about them. He desperately desired the day when science would crack dreams and the oneironauts would scatter.

He looked to his newfound companions. The one they called Di slept like a simp. Neither his nose nor his eyes twitched. He didn't rustle. Chump almost resented him.

---

Other Lads, like LadMan and Bobby, put actual effort into falling asleep, lying as comfortable as they could, counting sheep, picturing rainy nights and warm milk, while others, like Dan and Slick, didn't bother even putting on airs. Slick still stared straight up, lying motionless and silent but very much awake, her eyes wide open, sucking up all the darkness, while Dan kept clicking through his menu, monitoring his stats to see if they progressed and studying the map and the many settings. LadMan, before he put himself to the task of falling asleep, considered telling the downstairs-Lads of this recent revelation. Surely they'd want to know that they had to sleep for reasons other than passing the night? Then he decided that anybody who couldn't sleep already wasn't gonna have an easier time if they knew their in-game, and possibly RL, health depended on it. Let the Lads lie, sleeping or otherwise.

---

Chapter THIRTEEN

Them Wild-Eyed Boys

Friday night they’ll be dressed to kill
Down at Dino’s Bar ‘n’ Grill
The drink will flow and the blood will spill
And if the boys want to fight, you better let ‘em

---

When he was younger, Lunar had a book about Perseus. A novelisation of the hero's life, written for tweens. He loved it. Perseus enthralled him. His life, his adventures. He loved all the Greek heroes, provided their stories were written in sufficiently dumbed-down fashion. Once he felt he'd grown out of his Perseus-pages he gifted the book to his brother, who didn't read, hoping the wacky tale would lead to some interest in the activity. As far as he knew, Shane never read it. He saw it, sometimes, passing by Shane's room, dusty on his sparse bookshelf of forgotten Dr. Seuss.

Not that Lunar should criticize, he hardly read neither. The great lover of literature, the scholar of history… who couldn't get through a book. What'd he read since Perseus, save Sparknotes?

---

Lunar and the Lads rose at dawn to the news that they had to eat, sleep, and drink.

–Do we have to shit and piss, too? cried an angry Vac. He hadn't had to piss yet, but had half a mind to drop his drawers and try right there, just to see if he could.

–I guess we'll see, Vac, said Dan. Don't get all pissy with us, this isn't our fault.

–And when were you going to tell us about this? Vac asked. Or were you gonna keep this information to yourself and just let all the rest of us starve?

–We haven't confirmed the presence of starvation as a mechanic, said Chump.

–We just noticed this, fibbed Dan. Fifteen minutes ago.

–Everyone relax, said LadMan. As Chump said, we don't even know how far this mechanic goes. But just to be safe, we're gonna get everyone something to eat and drink. That shouldn't be that hard. First, everyone check your stats and make sure you haven't progressed further than "hungry."

Every Lad had "hungry" and "thirsty." Most had "tired," while a few who'd slept fitfully, on and off, had no sleep-related effect. Only Doughy had "rested," giving him extra EXP gain and mana regeneration.

Once they'd assessed the stat-sit LadMan had everyone friend everyone else. This took a while, but Lad figured it far-sighted for every Lad to have every other Lad on his friend's list.

–The messaging limit is much farther than the friending limit, said Dan. But you have to be someone's friend to message them. And even then it's not infinite. If you get separated from the group, message someone as soon as possible.

Chump, of course, wanted to know exactly how far this limit was. He proposed leaving a Lad behind and seeing how far the group could go before becoming unable to message him. LadMan eighty-sixed the idea.

Lunar then piped up and told the Lads he'd made contact with two of his brother's buddies and intended to meet them outside Chancellorsburg. He and Clean would, therefore, happily volunteer for this task. After LadMan made sure Lunar and Clean had every last Lad on their friend's list, and extracted ample assurance that they'd see to their nutritional needs, LadMan accepted this idea. Still, he put in the polite protests.

–You sure you don't want to stick with us until we get food and water? he asked. Or, we could escort you to the meeting spot. We don't mind.

Multiple Lads did, but Lunar saved them from awkwardly protesting.

–No, really, it's fine. You guys need to get to Brandonville in case your other guild members show up. Clean and I will be fine, Beb and Charles are really good at these sorts of games. I'm sure we'll make our way to Brandonville soon, then we'll meet up with you guys.

Lunar had already messaged Beb and Charles about the necessities system, to which Beb replied that they knew about it and would have food and water waiting for him. Lunar worried for a moment that LadMan would make the Lads friend Beb and Charles, revealing their levels, but he never did. Lunar assumed that Lad's pre-journey excitement caused him to forget this detail and, though it instilled in him a bit of guilt, he didn't endeavor to remind him.

Lunar didn't know how long Beb and Charles thought they could keep their levels secret. The info wasn't that hidden, and he doubted the boys, both kinda boneheaded, had the minds to make it more so. Would they just reject any friend request from someone they didn't want to know?

With all that business done, Lunar and Mr. Clean cast off. The Lads bid them a hearty farewell and made them promise to stay safe. LadMan assured Lunar and Clean they'd always have a place with the Lads and said he hoped to see them soon. Lunar guaranteed he would; this particular promise he meant to keep.

---

Lunar and Clean gone. The convo shifted to how the Lads actually meant to get to Brandonville. Dan insisted they take a train and, as nobody had a better idea, the Lads set off north, towards the train station under the command of the fort. Along the way they piled into a poor cobbler's shop and waited as the owner, glaring angrily, produced thirty starting packs. Chumpchange stood inches from the man, studying him as he produced the packs, watching and nodding as the cobbler materialized them from nothing under his counter and handed them to the next Lad in line.

Pfo thought this like a metaphor, but couldn't focus on diatribing to Doughy since his thoughts were so squarely on food.

–It's the perception of consumption, Dough, he said. The packs materialize, they have no origin. Like your Big Mac, it comes from nowhere.

–They come from a truck, frozen, I think, said Doughy.

–No, I know that they literally come from a truck, but since you aren't privy to that bit of the process, they appear to you, the consumer, to materialize into existence.

–But sometimes I see them unloading them from the truck.

–The point is to illustrate the disembodied- ah, screw it, I can't explain this right now. Why is it so fucking hard to get fed?

They had no money or goodwill. Everybody regarded them awfully. Vac and his boys stole a few sipfulls of water from a trough beside a stable, but the jeers and fist-waving of the passing people pulled them away. Doughy wondered if he should try a rain-dance he saw once in a documentary. Chumpchange admonished his superstition and then suggested they find a river and, if necessary, construct a water purifier. When pressed he admitted he didn't know the water purifier construction process.

Several other Lads, among them the daring Mufferson, found a large puddle of brown water in a back alley. Ignoring warnings, Muff drank from the puddle, quenching her "thirsty" status but adding a "sick" status. She put on a brave face and assured the Lads that medicine or potions could heal her, but Chumpchange loudly hypothesized that a sufficiently sick state could lead to death, thereby sending sensitive Shooketh into a panic.

–Look at her! he shouted at LadMan. She already looks green! Oh God, Em!

It took the combined efforts of LadMan, Bobby, and Pfo to calm Shooketh down. Bobby told Chump that he'd beat the shit out of him if he "hypothesized out loud" again. Chump didn't take the threat seriously, but agreed to keep his musings away from shaking Shook.

As the Lads continued with sick Muffy in tow, Pfo vocally wondered how someone so aloof as to view the very act of explaining concepts to peons as a waste of time could go so long without shutting the fuck up. Whether Chump admirably ignored the comment or didn't realize it was directed at him, Pfo couldn't figure, but Chump failed to respond either way, annoying Pfo further. Meanwhile, little Dough started suspecting that his buds didn't care for his future brother-in-law.

Then Dan sparked debate with the comment,

–We need to get out of the slums. We're going to have more luck in the rich part of town. Rich people are more generous.

Vac didn't need two invitations to take potshots at rich-bitches everywhere, but Dan soon shut the political-shouting down with the well-reasoned retort,

–We have to go north anyway to get to the train station. We might as well go through the rich part of town and see what's going on there. Besides, we aren't having any luck here.

–Rich people do have more shit to steal, muttered Vac.

–Redistribute, corrected Bobby. You can't steal it if it ain't rightfully theys.

–Yeah, facts, said Vac.

–I don't know about that- began Dan, before LadMan declared politically-charged conversations outlawed for the next several hours.

The Lads kept heading north, back towards the central plaza. The buildings got nicer, the streets cleaner, and the people more pompous. Opportunities for food and water increased, but so did the security around these sources. A number of Lads managed to fill their canteens from a water pipe behind a house, but its owner cut their filling-session short when he came running out of his house with a revolver, screaming about property rights.

–Fuck off, we're thirsty! Vac shouted at him.

–My property, my rules! the man yelled.

He raised his revolver and shot Muffy in the leg.

–Oh God, Em, no! screamed Shooketh.

Muff's health dropped by half and, as the man re-cocked the single action and aimed again, the Lads scattered. Pfo picked up the bleeding, benumbed Mufferson and carried her bridal style in his massive arms. Sobbing Shooketh followed.

–Property rights are dubious at best! screamed Vac as he darted away.

It was noon before everyone managed to gather together in front of a large alehouse already busy with patrons. The inside-alewife glared at the Lads through a window, but made no further moves. LadMan just felt thankful everyone was still alive.

Pfo had bandaged Mufferson's leg with Sooketh's shirt. She'd initially had the "bleeding" status, but the bandage removed it. Now she had only the "wounded" status, giving her much reduced health regeneration and lowering her damage resistance.

The Lads passed around their few filled canteens, each taking small sips, but Shooketh, convinced Mufferson would soon develop an "infected" status if her wound went uncleaned, insisted one of the canteens be used to that effect. The Lads watched with sad, tired faces as Shooketh carefully removed Muff's bandage and cleaned the wound, sniffling all the while. Di offered his shirt to serve as a fresh bandage.

While they recouped Pfo took from his pack The Bonehead's Guide to Fanget and began reading. He didn't get far before another bomb blasted the Lads sky-high.

Around twelve thirty (the Lads still lacked good time-telling, relying on Dan to estimate the time from the position of the Sun) Dan noticed he'd progressed from "hungry" to "very hungry" and from "thirsty" to "very thirsty." Ignoring Bobby's earlier warning, Chump needlessly speculated that "very hungry" might lead to "starving," resulting in severe penalties or death.

–Yes, Chump, clearly that's the implication. Why don't you shut up for a while? said Pfo.

With the stakes higher, the conversation naturally shifted towards stealing.

–It wouldn't be that hard, said Di. We run inna store and grab some grub.

–And get shot? said Bobby. You don't know who packin round here, Dem, so you ain't finna steal from nobody.

–I ain't finna starve to death, said Vac. Weren't you just talking bout redistributing-

–That was before they started shooting. We ain't armed.

–We're gonna starve, dog.

–We don't know for sure that you can die from- began Dan.

–I'm not gonna wait around and find out, Dan! said Vac.

–I'm not waiting around, either! said Dan. When have I ever just sat around and waited? Am I not always […]

Vac and Dan erupted into argument. LadMan tried to shut them up, but found himself too tired and demoralized to do the job. Slick, who even the gunshots had failed to faze, stood straight and stared blankly ahead. Doughy began biting his fingernails. The world's zero-oneness wouldn't stop him from chewing them to nubs. Shooketh had finished bandaging Muff and sat on a bench beside her, burying his face into her shoulder while she awkwardly stroked his hair, as if it was he who'd been shot. Chumpchange inched closer to Mufferson, intending to extract some info on the game's injury system, but Bobby's hard gaze kept him at bay.

He managed only to ask,

–Does it hurt?

–It's not too bad, said Mufferson. Just, like, a stinging.

–We need to find a doctor, muttered Shooketh between throaty sobs.

–He wouldn't treat her, said Dan. And even if he would, we don't have any money.

–We're gonna dehydrate to death before she dies of any infection, said Vac.

Again Shook sobbed.

All this while Pfo fished his brain.

He'd been concerned for a while with three problems.

1. The dubiosity of property rights
2. The players' place in the NPC religious system
3. He was probably in the process of starving to death

Pfo, as mentioned, was a staunch Lockean, and so found Vac's assessment of property rights as "dubious at best" dubious at best. He had no sympathy for the bourgies and their billions, but didn't fully buy Marx's retort that such antique notions of petty, peasant private property had already been abolished without an iota of effort from the commies. Anyway, he had more pressing concerns. What would Locke say about the property rights of virtual people? As far as he knew, Locke never gamed. Maybe he should incorporate more contemporary perspectives into his analysis of what rights rightfully belonged to these bit-bitches?

As the Lads grew more demoralized and the situation more dire, problem 1 began to fall from Pfo's mind. Soon, 2 and 3 alone sucked up all his brain juice. NPC-personhood be damned, it'd been days since Pfo'd eaten and (not a small man IRL) he knew he needed food. His mind and his statuses agreed, even if his gut failed to grumble.

But, why was this so hard? Pfo had read the religious texts. He and his fellows were Begotten, descended from heaven with the authority of none lesser than Logos himself, the big-dog deity, as the humans would have it, the Absolute incarnate. Why were all the NPCs acting like such dicks?

Pfo looked down the street. Three dozen meters from where the Lads sat and stood he saw a scruffy preacher replete with brown robes and holding up a big symbol, the same, W-shaped symbol Pfo had seen several times in and on his copy of the Librito. The preacher yelled about the Reckoning at eyes-averting passersby. They seemed to speed up a little as they passed him, or engaged in artificial conversation with their partners in order to avoid listening to him. They looked scared and guilty.

Pfo took his copy of the Librito from his inventory. He'd taken it, along with as many other books as he could carry, from the house. He flipped through it, to the penultimate chapter, and read with one eyebrow raised.

---

The Lads were close to bursting into the first bakery they saw and rushing off, bandito-style, with all the bread they could carry when Pfo suggested to LadMan that he lead the way for a bit. LadMan, tired, frustrated, and angry, relinquished command.

Pfo straightaway led the Lads to the nicest part of town he could find, the "Upper Quarter" on the map, almost dead-center, just south-west of the plaza. It was only two when they arrived, yet the people were already dressed to impress. Dinner jackets, dresses, big-ass hats. One lady wore a hat with a dead bird, a dove, evidently stuffed, perched atop it, staring ahead with its glassy eyes as if to scout the way. Pfo wasn't sure if these peeps got dinner-dressed early or just never dressed down; every waking hour a dinner party. It made him sick and sad.

Many folks boasted steampunk flair. A cohort of army officers in dazzling uniforms, medals swaying on their chests, strutted by. One had a gleaming, golden-colored artificial leg. Another wore on his back a contraption resembling a jetpack. A third held in his hands a bulky, wireless radio. Pfo had led the Lads into the only part of town that resembled what they'd been promised, a bombastic Victorian, steampunky aesthetic. Even the buildings, though still decidedly Romanesque, displayed modern trappings. Electric lights, the odd telephone or electric line suspended via poles. The Lads even saw two women in motorist attire slowly driving a car, honking and laughing.

Everyone took notice of the Lads. Everyone displayed clearly on their faces their feelings. The Lads' doubt grew, but Pfo walked confidently to the finest restaurant he could find and waltzed straight in.

The interior was firmly Victorian. Small, round tables covered in spotless white tablecloths, well separated in an open dining area. Chandeliers, electrically powered, hanging from the high ceiling. A soft, red rug covered the floor and massive red curtains hung beside tall windows through which ample sunlight spilled. Each empty table (there were only a few) set for a seemingly infinite number of courses. And the patronage no less impressive, uniformly boasting white-tie attire, be it military or civilian. The sole exception was an ancient woman in a marvelous red wizard's robe. She sat alone and alternated taking puffs from a massive pipe and sipping her soup. The servers, Sartre's nightmare, were quick, quiet, and cordial, never so much as spilling a drop of drink. Everyone was frozen, some mid bite, staring at the Lads. Even the tuxedoed pianist in the corner momentarily halted his discount Debussy.

The thirty odd Lads piled into the small waiting area. Most stood embarrassed and angry. Bobby was appalled by the overt display of wealth, Doughy overwhelmed by the unknown sights, Dan irked and uncomfortable with the diners' stares, and LadMan worried bout Pfo. He'd led them to the place literally least likely to serve them. Had he snapped?

Perhaps, but Pfo didn't show it. He marched up to the host, a comically cliché, tuxedoed man with, of course, slicked back black hair and a pencil-thin mustache. Maybe his patrons, as their stares suggested, were worried, but he couldn't have appeared less concerned. He barely looked up as Pfo approached; even lifting his eyes a little seemed a struggle.

–Hello, sir, how may I assist you? he said, in an agonizing drawl, to the shirtless, much-muscled man.

–I would like a table for thirty, said Pfo.

He glanced at the dining area and performed some quick maffs.

–Or, he said, seven tables for four and one for two.

–Why'd you let Pfo be in charge? Dan whispered to LadMan.

–Terribly sorry, sir, but I do not believe you and your associates would find our establishment very comfortable.

–And why is that?

–Well… I am not sure that we are fit to accommodate… you…

–Whyever not?

–Our patrons are… you simply aren't… I… The host took a moment to collect himself. If you would like, I could recommend several other fine establishments that I suspect would be pleased to serve you.

–You're unwilling to feed us?

–I am afraid that… it is simply not possible.

–I was hungry, and ye gave me no meat, said Pfo, raising his hands into the air. The Lads exchanged confused glances.

–I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink. I was a stranger, and ye took me not in. I was naked, and ye clothed me not. Would you treat the Lord Logos so?

–I… that's not-

–What you do upon to me, you do upon to Logos. Do you wish for everlasting punishment? Are you aware of to whom you speak?

–I'm not… I mean, not strictly speaking…

–We come from the plaza, said Pfo. You may have noticed some activity there recently.

–I did notice, of course, but I did not want to assume your identities…

–You thought us of little accord?

–It's a matter of comfort… I simply don't believe our establishment is sufficient… I mean no offense…

–Of course, of course, Pfo said casually as he glanced around. His eyes fell on a painting hanging on the wall. The wide open sea and a three-rigged sailing ship.

–I want to be sure you know who we are, for all shall be judged, and the judgement shall be righteous and harsh. So, to be clear, you're refusing to serve us?

–It's… it's impossible to accommodate you, sputtered the man.

–I see. Your name, then?

–P- pardon?

–Your name. I don't require it, but it will make the job easier later on. Plus, I want to offer the opportunity to cooperate in some small way. Minor redemption and all that.

–I can't… I don't-

–Please, we are frightfully busy. End of the world, you understand. Give me your name and I promise I'll relay to Logos that you cooperated in this small way, even if you ultimately spurned His will. Oh, by the way, is the decision not to serve us yours alone, or does it reflect the policy of this restaurant as a whole?

–I'm a pious man! the host blurted out.

–I sure hope so, said Pfo.

–I don't sin. I'm good. It's just… the Reckoning… they all said you were here because of something else.

–And you believed them? Or did you, yourself, presume to know? You would presume to count the sand of the sea? the drops of rain? the days of unending time? the height of the sky? the breadth of the land? the depth of the abyss? Wisdom begins and ends with Logos. So, tell me, do you accept His wisdom?

–We… we don't have enough open tables…

–I suppose you better get to work clearing them.

–May I go speak with my manager?

–You'd consult your manager about the well-being of your immortal soul?

The host gulped.

---

What a shitty game. Pfo figured the Devs didn't have a creative bone in their body (irony noted) but he felt disappointment all the same. Not only was the Librito the Bible but worse, it was so much so that, upon the host seating all thirty of the Lads at the tiny tables, even at the expense of patrons mid-meal, when the manager came running out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was about, all Pfo had to do was shout Job at him till he scurried away, leaving the Lads permission to order whatever they fancied. Pfo still couldn't figure out whether the NPCs understood the players to be the Begotten but wouldn't, like the real-religious, act decent until prodded, or if their weird-reactions were the result of their programming. Would the real Christians treat come-again JC shittily? Almost certainly. Everyone agrees he'd be nailed back up before he could get a word out.

Pfo pushed aside his thoughts when a server arrived at his table to take orders. He sat with Bobby, Di, and Doughy. LadMan, Dan, Chump, and Rufus, a table away, were embroiled in a hushed conversation.

–Can he play "Piano Man"? Doughy asked the server. He pointed at the pianist, nervously playing rip-off Rachmaninoff.

–I'm sorry? said the server.

---

The players couldn't feel hunger, but they could sure as hell taste. And they never seemed to feel full either. They went to town.

They started with assorted appetizers, mostly oysters, served with however much white wine one could drink (the game did allow players to feel drunk, but only slightly). Pfo alone ordered thirty oysters on the half shell with lemon sauce, and fifteen oysters a la poulette. Then there were soups (Pfo got lobster bisque, green turtle, and consomme with poached eggs) and salads (chicken, lobster, anchovy, shrimp, macedoine, and hard-boiled eggs) and gorgonzola, Brie, camembert, roquefort, and gruyere cheese platters. Pfo had no clue what half these were called in-game.

Dan demanded a massive platter of cold cuts: roast beef, lamb, chicken, turkey, ham, and tongue. Pfo then got three servings of pate-de-foie Gras, and would have gotten more had he not been distracted by other hor d'oeuvres he saw being served. Sardines, anchovies, caviar on toast, pickles, olives, crab cakes, more oysters (fried, broiled, and stewed), vegetables (green beans, peas, broccoli, carrots), and vegetable dishes (macaroni au gratin, sauteed potatoes, cepes on toast, stewed mushrooms, stuffed mushrooms, broiled asparagus, and hash browns with cream). And then there was the alcohol.

It seemed the Devs based their wines, beers, and spirits (calling them by absurd names) on real-world counterparts, which led to the Lads madly searching for the in-game equivalent of their favorite drink.

–What clarets do you have? asked Pfo.

–We serve Swue, Chiblet, Chateau Chan-

–Nevermind, just bring me a bottle of each, said Pfo, ignoring the little Locke on his shoulder.

The Lads sucked down a dozen types of champagne, six different clarets, five burgundies, four whites, six rhines (which the server called River Wine, much to Pfo's disgust), seven sherries, two dozen ales and beers, and assorted hard liquors: whiskey, bourbon, rum, gin, vodka, brandy, scotch, and something resembling sake. Doughy, who took a huge swig of gin and spat it all over his table, became obsessed with the non-alcoholic beverages available. He got two mineral waters analogous to clysmic and apollinaris, acid phosphate, egg phosphate, lemonade, ginger ale, root beer, ginger beer, clam juice, cocoa, melted chocolate, bouillon, beef tea, orangeade, and sweet and unsweetened tea, hot and cold.

Vac and his boys, alongside alcohol, ordered desserts: chocolate mousse, omelette soufflée au rhum, apple fritter au rhum, vanilla ice cream, chocolate russe, and various cakes, pies, and pastries.

For his entrees Pfo had lamb chops, calf's head, and stewed kidney. Dan ordered a deviled lamb kidney which he then refused to eat. Others got chicken terrapin, filet mignon, broiled ham, rabbit, liver, or pork. Doughy ordered a huge porterhouse steak, rare-red as hell, almost leaking blood. Bobby ate so much rarebit he skipped his entree entirely.

Sea dishes included salmon, filet of sole au gratin, bluefish, shad roe, crab, lobster, smelts, bass, mahi mahi, tilapia, and tuna. Then the game: patridge, grouse, redhead, mallard duck, quail, squab, plover, woodcock, snipe, etc. They had preserves: brandy peaches and brandy cherries, Canton ginger, and five types of jelly on ten types of bread. Sorbets and creamy bourbons, strawberries with more cream, petit fours, coffee…

The servers scurried, always carrying some absurd dish. They'd place the food before the Lads and watch in horror as they scoffed it down, heedless of manners or mores. Even Slick, at this point more or less on mute, managed to eat and drink.

If Pfo hadn't convinced the NPCs of the Lads' divinity, the sheer amount of food they put away would've. No natural explanation accounted for Vac sucking down no fewer than twenty eight glasses of top shelf whiskey and hardly slurring his speech, or Doughy eating two whole ducks, in rapid succession, hardly stopping to breath. Pfo alone reduced the restaurant's wine cellar by half. The other Lads' combined efforts cleared it completely.

Around eight o'clock, six hours of face-stuffing later, Dan opened his menu and noticed he'd lost "hungry" and "thirsty," replaced with "full" and "hydrated" respectively.

–Damn right, he said, and burped.

The Lads probably would've eaten forever, or at least until the restaurant ran out of food (which it almost had), but they eventually got bored. Itched to do something other than stuff.

–Everyone ready to head out? Lad asked.

Most of the Lads nodded their assent.

–Nice job, by the way, Lad said to Pfo as they both rose.

–Don't mention it, said Pfo. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and set it on the table.

–Glad to get some good food in me.

–Pardon me, pardon me! shouted the manager, rushing over to Pfo's table, having evidently overheard the Lads' plan to depart.

–I hope you enjoyed your meal, he said, nervously rubbing his hands together.

–It was okay, said Pfo. Grouse was a bit overcooked.

–Of course, absolutely, said the manager. I'm so sorry about that. Now… about … er… the bill…

–Bill? exclaimed Vac. We ain't paying no fucking bill.

–Well… er… we run a business… surely as servants of Logos… you have the means… we-

–You mortals tire me, said Pfo. Formidulosus Iesus verba latine-

–No! Please! screamed the manager. It's on the house! The house!

–What a nice place, said Pfo as he and the Lads left the restaurant and ventured out into the evening air.

---

It drizzled while the Lads ate, so they emerged into a world that seemed squeaky clean. The electric street lights shined bright. The Sun had fallen from the sky, tired and ready for its nightly repair. Renewal.

Dan led the Lads north, following telegraph and phone lines towards the train station. Most of the Lads, Pfo learned, had stuffed their inventories with silverware, plates, cups, and food. And they'd filled their canteens with wine, beer, tea, coffee, and liquor.

–Damn, I should have thought of that, he muttered.

---

Chapter FOURTEEN

Jeff Kaplan Question Mark

---

The argument: Lunar touches base with his brother's buddies. They've been up to their usual shenanigans…

---

While the Lads ate their epic meal, Lunar and Clean cantered south, towards the coords Beb provided. They looked a little looney, striking a light jog through the slums in their get-ups, but Lunar wanted to get to Beb and Charles as soon as possible.

The town grew sadder and more decrepit until it just stopped, as if some invisible God demanded the poor people not build their buildings beyond an arbitrary point. Indeed, the situation. One moment suffering slums, the next colorful countryside.

And gorgeous it was. For a moment Lunar forgot to breath. Great, rolling fields, cozy farmhouses with smoke rising from their chimneys, communes of five or six stone cottages, brown barns, slowly spinning windmills, little rivers rolling over rocks, handmade wooden fences, grazing cows and sheep, dirt roads on which peasants and animals peacefully plodded. The idyllic pastoral paradise Lunar never thought he'd see.

Down one road a wagon rolled, pulled by a happy horse who whinied regularly. The wagon carried twenty or so piled crates, and was driven by a white-mustached man in rolled up pants and a grey vest. He had a shiny revolver holstered on his chest. He whistled a tune and tapped his feet as his wagon rolled along, guiding the horse gently with the reigns. His left leg was a mechanical, bronze-colored limb, a mess of gears and metal that, despite its complex construction, seemed to move as smoothly as its stepbrother to its right.

The Sun smiled on the scene, puffy clouds sat in the sky, and in the far distance an airship floated.

–God, I wish I could actually play this game, said Clean.

Lunar didn't respond.

---

The duo trekked down a dirt road, walking briskly for five minutes before arriving at a four-building group arranged around a red water pump. One of the buildings, two-story, timber-framed, featured a sign that read "Cozy Country Inn." A clucking chicken ran past and a pudgy peasant man, wearing a massive straw hat, stared at Lunar and Clean as they approached. He stood motionless before the inn, as if expecting something to emerge any moment. A smidge unnerving, but nobody could deny the area's comfy construction.

–These are the coordinates, said Lunar after checking his map.

–Not a bad place to set up, said Clean as the duo entered the inn.

It was almost empty. Only a young woman, passed out on a bench, stone-still, with a puddle of black vomit on the floor below her, and the obvious innkeeper, a skinny, old woman wearing a bonnet and standing behind a wooden counter which she wiped, inexplicably, with a rag dirtier than it.

–Um… hello, said Lunar.

The woman peered at him, her squinting accentuating her wrinkles. A few wisps of white hair escaped from under her bonnet. She raised a boney finger and pointed at the confused Lunar.

–You, she said, her voice cackly. You… must want a room or some food.

She smiled.

–We don't normally get much lunch business, but if you want I can get Jeanine to whip something up. Jeanine!

The young woman on the bench failed to stir.

–We're actually looking for somebody, said Lunar.

–Huh, you those visitors the two boys specting? the innkeeper asked.

–Probably, said Lunar.

–They said you'd be dressed in rags.

–We should be, said Clean.

The woman, as if noticing Clean for the first time, took to inspecting her. Evidently unhappy with what she saw, she shook her head and looked back to Lunar. Clean scoffed.

–These boys, are they… Lunar began.

How to describe Beb and Charles?

–Rowdy, armed to the teeth? suggested the woman. They came in wanting my biggest room. Irritated all my customers cause they wouldn't stop bickering. Then, come supper time, they demand I carry their meal up to their room. Jeanine was sick, and I never carry food up the stairs, on account of my back. But they dumped a handful of money on the counter, so I told my customers and my back to suck it up.

–Yeah, that's them, said Lunar. Where are they?

---

Last door on the second floor, the old woman told Lunar and Clean. Not that they needed such specific directions, because the moment they started climbing the stairs they could hear Beb and Charles arguing. About what? Unclear, the sounds were too muffled, but definitely them, and definitely an argument.

Lunar knocked on the door and the argument ceased.

–Who is it? came Beb's hesitant voice. Much like what Lunar presumed was his real voice, an adolescent squeal with a Tennessee twang.

–Belton, said Lunar. Or… Lunar, whatever.

–Lunar! shouted Beb as he flung open the door. Come in, my nibba! Who's this?

–This is Mr. Clean, said Lunar as the two of them entered. She's a friend.

–Fine, fine, she can come in too, said Beb, despite Clean alreading having entered. Any friend o Lunar's a friend o mine!

The room was spartan and dark. Three beds, each pushed against a separate wall, a small table, and a dresser with a mirror. The wall decor won't much better than the furniture: two mediocre paintings and a cuckoo clock. The darkness, however, came from Beb and Charles having pulled the curtains securely over the one window, and their failure to turn on the room's little gaslamp.

–Shut the door, Charles said quietly.

–Yeah, yeah, we tryna keep on the down low, you know? said Beb.

Mr. Clean shut the door then joined Lunar in plopping on the bed across the room. Charles hadn't risen from his bed. Beb, once he made sure the door was well and truly locked, plopped down on his. The twins looked like Lunar expected, similar, but not identical, as they supposedly were IRL. Both sported brown hair; Beb's short, Charles' longer, falling over his eyes. Both were six feet, male, medium built, and handsome enough. Beb had freckles and Charles slightly darker skin.

What shocked him was their gear. Charles wore a flowing black and red robe adorned with the same W symbol that decorated Pfo's Librito. A brown satchel hung beside his hip, and on the strap of the satchel, across his chest, a scroll tube. Next to his bed, leaning against the wall, a red staff with black crystals orbiting freely close around it. Atop his bed, next to him, sat a jet black backpack with several necklaces and bracelets tied to its various straps. He had a black dagger sheathed at his shoulder and a silver revolver holstered on his belt.

Beb was even more impressive. He wore a breastplate of brass-colored metal, and similarly colored pauldrons, arm-guards, and greaves. He had a gorget engraved with the same W Charles wore. Under all this metal a sturdy suit of leather. A tan scarf, wrapped around his neck, partially obscured his gorget. On his belt two knife-hilts. No blades protruded, but Lunar noticed buttons on each. Folding blades, a favorite in stealth games, a genre Beb enjoyed. He had his own backpack on his bed, brown, with a lever action rifle in a holster on its side. He wore a bandolier across the chest, the contents of which Lunar could only imagine, and had two semi-auto pistols in armpit holsters.

–Are you two players? asked Mr. Clean. She cringed as the question left her mouth (she could see their usernames, after all) but nobody faulted her for her surprise. Even Lunar, somewhat expecting this, was taken aback.

–So… he said awkwardly. You guys wanna explain… all this?

–What level are you? Clean asked.

–Well, we keeping this hush, you feel? said Beb, but I'm level 243. Charles is 244. We was supposed to be the same level, but he always gotta be the best, so… you know.

–I don't think we need your passive aggressive remarks, Charles said quietly.

–It ain't passive aggressive, bruh, it actively aggressive, said Beb. I'm annoyed with you cause you always finessing to be better than me. Why can't we just be the same level?

Beb turned to Lunar.

–He took his potion, like, a minute after me. Then, when mine wore off he killed a robot goblin. So, now he a higher level, and I look like a idiot!

–I didn't want my last minute of the potion to go to waste.

–No, you wanted to be the highest level in the game. I was tryna have us share the spot, but you just had to be better. That why you waited to take your potion after I took mine.

–It was stupid to take it before we got into combat, said Charles. You ain't using it right if you take it then walk two minutes to combat.

–No, no, said Beb, voice rising. Cause when those goblins jumped on us, I had to cover you, without killing them, while you chugged it down. I coulda just killed them, but I waited for you to take the potion and for you to get a hit in on em so we'd both get XP for the kill and be on the same level. But then you kept farming after my bonus wore off!

–It was one goblin!

–He always does this! screamed Beb. Lunar, ain't he always doing this?

–I don't know, said Lunar, remarkably confused. Clean was more so. She looked at Lunar, who felt a lil bad for dragging her into this sibling-spat.

–He always kill stealing and hoarding loot, said Beb. When we was playing co-op Civ, I would use all my arty and then Charles would swoop in and take the enemy city with his cav or some shit!

–Your units were out of moves, protested Charles. It's always better to capture the city fast.

–I woulda got it on the next turn! We had a deal, that city was mine. See, we divide the map up, decide who gets to take what, and then you go and ignore all that! Take all the resources, use my cities as shields-

–We ain't played Civ in years, chill out.

–It indicative of a broader trend! Beb shouted.

–Guys, please… said Lunar.

–He a healer, Beb continued. But he steals more kills than anyone else! How? I dunno, but he does!

–At least I don't bait.

–Bait!? I don't bait! I'm a rogue, I need the party to engage so I can flank!

–Guys, shut the fuck up! screamed Lunar.

Beb and Charles froze, faces filled with a foreign expression, something like fear, maybe respect.

–Can you explain to us how you got to such high levels? asked Lunar, lighter, a little compunctious for having yelled at the twins, five years younger than he.

–And- said Lunar, before they could begin, try not to argue.

Beb broke out into a face-spanning, shit-eating grin. Even contained Charles flashed a satisfied smile. Lunar hadn't witnessed these bug-catching kids at work, but he'd heard from Shane many stories: infinite healing loops, infinite crit stacking, platforms a boss couldn't access, infinite ammo, level-skipping, even safe-zone PKing, for which they'd been perma-banned from an early-VR WWII MMORPG. The reason they always got caught, and their bugs, glitches, and exploits pegged and patched, was because they couldn't resist shouting their discoveries at every single soul they saw. The bug by which they beat the Mahishasura, an infinite crit stack, worked exactly once, cause Beb and Charles proceeded to post the discovery all over Lukia's forums a half-hour later. The Devs, ever the deadeyes, patched the potential game-breaker within ten minutes.

–Aight, Lunar, said Beb, let me tell you bout it. But, I gotta say, this one's pretty dumb. I dunno if y'all noticed, but this game is stupid broke.

---

The Great Potion Purloin

as told by Robert Shiflet

So, you probably know me and Charles wanted to be the highest levels in the game, right? We was always close to being the highest in Lukia, but this Crusader kid was always higher. He was definitely scripting. Anyway, we was determined to get it this time.

We went pretty fast through making our characters cause we already knew what we wanted to look like. So me and Charles was some of the first to spawn. We headed out and got the starting backpack at the first shop we saw. It was this alchemist place. Actually, more like a pharmacy, with an alchemist shop right next to it, attached. Kinda weird, but whatever. So we saw that we had an experience potion in our starting backpack. The alchemist told us that the potion gives you double XP for an hour. He also said that you can craft em, but they ain't cheap.

We was about to leave, but I saw that there was this lab in the back of the shop. It had all this alchemy and chemistry stuff. Like, a ton of tubes and… tubes… and stuff. you know, science lab stuff. There was this lady in there, and she told us that she was using a potion combiner. It combines two potions to make a single potion double as powerful. Well, obviously I wanted to try it on the experience potions, but Charles wouldn't let me have his. He was kinda being a bitch about it, to be honest.

The twins start arguing. Lunar calms them and gets Beb back on track.

Where was I? Oh yeah! So, I told Charles that if it worked he could have the first double potion and then, if we made more, I'd get the next one. He was all worried that it wouldn't work but would just suck up both potions but, like, you gotta send it with these sorts of things, you know? That's how we always find bugs, cause we willing to try stuff. So he gives me the potion. I didn't really think it would work. Usually starting gear don't act like normal gear, so I didn't think you'd be able to combine XP potions. I mean, you ever heard of a game letting you do that?

I don't think the game actually meant to let us do it, but when we put the two potions in the combiner it made a double powerful one. But, here's the thing, it didn't use our original potions! It just spit them back out of the slots we put them into.

So now we have three potions, one double one and two normal ones. Obviously, Charles and I tried it again, and it worked again. Then we put in the two double-strength potions, and it made a four-times strength potion. But, again, it didn't use up our two double-strength potions. So now we have, like, five potions! We told the lady to fuck off from the machine for a while and, Lunar, you best believe we went to frickin town on that thing. We combined, like, fifty times, taking out potions and sticking em in like crazy. Just went ham. So now we each have a potion that gives us, like, two-million times normal experience, and a butt-ton of weaker potions too, just, like, covering the lab's entire floor. That old lady thought we was crazy.

We took our two-million times potions but didn't have enough space for most of the others in our inventories. So we asked the alchemist if we could sell him all the potions still on the lab floor for whatever his max money was. But then he, like, flipped out and started throwing all these huge bills at us. Like a rich dude in a strip club… on crack, just chucking bills at us, looking really scared.

We was super freaked; he was definitely glitched out cause of something we did, so we grabbed as much money as we could and sprinted out of the shop.

At this point we was super hyped, so we ran to a low-level forest to the east, not far from here, and beat some goblins to death with rocks. We both had to get a hit on each one so we'd both get XP for the kill. We expected to hit max level after one kill, but that didn't happen. The grind in this game must be insane, Lunar, cause we killed a bunch of goblins after that. We found, like, this cave full of goblin kids, a school or something, and just went balls out. But, even with that crazy bonus, we still ain't max. Of course, once my potion wore off Charles had to go kill an extra goblin-

More arguing follows. Lunar eventually manages to end it.

The patch hit in the middle of our killing, but we didn't notice cause we was too busy grinding. We was heading back to town when we read the patch notes. They patched our bug! Like, super quick! And we didn't tell nobody about it neither. We was gonna keep it on the down low so we could do it more, maybe even share it with Doxy and them, but they fixed it! Insane.

But we was more freaked out by the whole trapped in the game thing, so we got back to town really fast. We went to a super fancy store and bought all this shit. That alchemist guy gave us an insane amount of money, Lunar. Like, really, we loaded as shit. We got all the best stuff they had and a ton of supplies and stuff.

We was gonna go back to the plaza, but then we realized that everyone would see us and get all suspicious and, like, stone us or something. I dunno, that's what happened in that shitty anime, right? Also, we is kinda low-key fraid that the Devs is gonna ban us or something, and we don't know what's gonna happen if they do. I dunno, we ain't got a lot of info. So we came here, close enough to town to keep an eye on things, but not right in the middle of things, you know?

So, we just been sitting here, trying to figure out what to do. Charles thinks we should just sit and wait for our dad to rip off our headsets and yell at us for playing too long. It just sucks, you know? We find this dope exploit and now they prolly gonna shut this game down before we even get to play it. I was really hyped to play this too. Fuck, man.

---

Lunar gingerly explained to the twins why their dad hadn't ripped off their headsets and why he wasn't gonna anytime soon. They, like Lunar and the Lads, hadn't considered that time in-game might be unequal to time IRL, but, once they wrapped their heads around it, they took the idea well. Or, as well as anybody could.

–It's just his theory, Charles said of Chump's idea.

–Yeah, but it's been days, Charles, said Lunar. He felt like he was talking to his younger brother. Tough to break bad news to an ever-optimistic kid.

–My mom would have taken Shane's headset off by now, Lunar continued. And Clean and I met some people who said their family would have gotten them out even sooner. And if Shane gets out, he'd come and take my headset off. So, I wouldn't be here.

–She knew it was launch, though, said Charles.

Poor boy, hanging onto every last thread. Clean looked at Charles with big, sad eyes. Pitied for his hope. Those with it are but pre-the-process of losing it.

–It's been days, said Lunar. Shane has stuff he needs to do. So does Kat, and you know the moment she got out she'd come get Shane. Plus, my mom's terrified of blood clots, her brother died of them. I'm sorry, it sucks, but what Chumpchange says makes sense. If my mom hasn't gotten Shane out by now, there's no reason to think she will.

Charles slumped over. He put his cheeks on his hands, as if cradling his frown. Looked ready to cry. Beb, rare for the boy, had nothing to say.

Lunar let them be for a bit, and then said,

–Listen, guys… I tried to friend Shane, but he's out of range. I can't see any information about him. Do you know where he spawned?

–He a Meria, said Beb quietly. They the species with wings. They spawn on the East Continent, up in the mountains.

Lunar looked at his map. Chancellorsburg: on the west side of a large, middle continent flanked by two smaller continents. Islands dotted the seas between them. The East Continent boasted massive mountain ranges and tough, rocky valleys. Shane. But most of the Middle Continent and a sea lay between Lunar and it. Still, nice to know where his brother was.

–What about Kat? And Ricardo? asked Lunar.

–We was all gonna spawn as a different species, said Beb. At least, that's what Ricardio wanted. Good to have a balanced party. But in this game species don't get bonuses to classes or combat styles, they just have strengths and weaknesses to, like, terrain and climates and stuff. So, all them Meria is bad under water, but good high in the air, you know? So, Ricardio immediately calls spawning as a Meria, which is the coolest species by far. They live really high in the mountains, and they have wings that, like, unfold from their back, and their capital is a giant, floating city. It actually moves around the map. Isn't that sick? So, obviously everybody wants to be that, but Ricardio has a fit, saying he called it, blah blah blah. So we hold an online Joust tournament to decide. But that game is garbage, and total bullshit. Anyway, Doxy wins and picks Meria. Then Kitty gets second and picks Wisteria, the underwater race. It's total BS, because they get a penalty to outta water combat, which is super shitty for our DPS. But they super cool, they live in these underwater domes and have retractable fins and breath under water and stuff, so obviously she wanted to be that. Honestly, I shoulda been the Meria, because, as a rogue, I can benefit the most from the movement the wings give. I know you can get mechanical wings and jetpacks and stuff, but having natural wings would-

–Okay, okay, said Lunar. What is Ricardo, then?

–He got third place, so he got to be a Dwarvia. They live in big caves and mines and shit, and get bonuses to underground fighting, which is obviously pretty nice for doing raids. So that leaves the humans and the Frostia for me and Charles. I beat Charles in the tournament, so I picked human, because, lame as humans are, they better than being a stupid Yeti thing, all fur covered and living in igloos and shit. But then Charles don't wanna be a Yeti neither, so he throws a big hissy fit and tries to get me to switch with him.

Charles shook his head.

–Not how that happened, he muttered.

–But I kinda feel Charles on this, Beb continued. Cause that Joust tournament was bullshit and the Frostia are super gay. They get bonuses to snow combat. Like, how much of the game you think is in the snow? So we say we'll just both spawn as humans. But then Ricardio gets all pissy, cause then our party won't be balanced. So I tell him that if he wants a balanced party, he can spawn as a Yeti thing, and I'll spawn as a dwarf. But, of course, he would never do that. It's just stupid, honestly, I'm getting real tired of Ricardio's shit. Did you hear-

–Okay, I got it, said Lunar. Where did Kitty and Ricardio spawn?

–Kitty southwest of here, underwater. Ricardio on the East Continent, way underground, under the mountains.

–How do we even get underwater?

–There are subs and stuff. And steampunk scuba gear. That's what our crafting reduction is for, it sposed to make us versatile.

Beb said "versatile" like it was a dirty word.

–Whatever, Ricardio not gonna have anything to say once he sees what we done, said Beb, licking his lips. Bet that loser still level one.

Clean almost got the impression Beb was happy to be stuck in-game.

–Hang on, said Lunar. Those potions you guys left in the alchemy shop. Do you think they're still there?

–They ain't, said Charles. We ran by there on our way here, from the gear shop. The guy had stopped freaking and all the potions were gone.

–Yeah, oh yeah, said Beb. Lunar, I forgot something. When we stopped by, we bought two more XP potions from him. Super pricey, good thing we're loaded. We wanted to test the potion duping, but, like we thought, it been patched. Now you can't combine XP potions at all. So we came here, but then, a day later, something bad happened. They spoil!

–Huh?

–The experience potions, they go bad, said Beb. Fast, too. After, like, eight hours. The ones we bought, and the ones we managed to fit in our inventory from our duping. They all bad now.

–We don't know if the regular starting potions spoil, Charles reminded his brother. We just know the ones you get normally do.

–Lunar, you have the starting gear, right? Yeah, cause you have that backpack. Check your XP potion.

Lunar took the potion from his inventory. It'd turned from glowing green to a sickly black, goopy and gross, like bile. Mr. Clean found hers in a similar state.

–Aw, they spoiled, said Beb. Don't drink it, it'll kill you.

–You've… tested that? asked Clean.

–We force fed one of them to some lady, said Beb. She got super sick and died, like, five minutes later. So, I guess we don't know if they kill us, but they definitely kill NPCs.

–That's fucked, said Lunar.

–I know, real dick move by the Devs.

They sat in silence for half a minute until Beb, twitching, ready to burst, said,

–This fucking sucks. What we sposed to do now? I kept tryna come up with a plan, but Charles said we should just sit here. You guys have a plan?

–Not really, said Lunar. We should probably try to meet up with Shane and the others.

–We also need some food, said Mr. Clean.

–Oh, yeah, said Beb, jumping up. I'll go get the lady to bring us something. Everyone stay here, I be back soon.

–By the way, said Charles, where'd y'all get them clothes?

---

The poor, broken-back inn-lady had to make several ardorous trips up the stairs while carrying food and drink. She brought her best meal, as demanded: cooked chicken, sunny side up eggs fried hard, a chunk of cheese, cornbread and butter, cowpeas, collards, turnip greens, thick jelly, half an apple pie, a pitcher of milk, and a kettle of tea. Beb handed her a handful of crumpled bills and she left, laboriously, grunting and dreading the trip back up she'd have to make to collect their dirty dishes.

–Don't you feel bad for her? Lunar asked with a mouth full of cornbread. She's so old.

–Who cares, she ain't real, said Beb as he ripped apart his chicken.

Outside a soft rain began to fall. Amidst the rain's roof-clatter the four ate their fill and then, once Beb noisily demanded the women take their dishes and she did so, they lounged, discussing all manner of logistics.

–What kind of money does this game use? asked Clean. –Different for every country, said Beb. I dunno what the dollars our Empire use is called. Dumbass dollars? Who knows?

–What empire are we in? asked Lunar.

–The human one, said Beb.

Then, thinking for a moment, he added,

–There is other human countries, but they super small and have, like, different government types. You know, like… uh… what's America?

–Republic? ventured Lunar.

–Yeah, they, like, republics and stuff. The Empire has a king. Or, an emperor, I guess. Its real name is kinda dumb. Holy Verizon Empire, something like that.

–Holy Virian Empire, Charles quietly corrected.

–Everybody seems to just call it the Empire. The other species have a bunch of other types of government. Like, the Wisteria are a big company, the dwarves are, what is they? like fucking commies or something. And the Meria… Lunar, they government is so stupid. They, like, all with the Sun. Empire of the Sun? Is that their name?

–No, muttered Charles.

–Their leader thinks he's, like, related to the Sun. And all the Meria are super loyal to him. It's creepy, honestly.

–You seemed to like the Meria a little while ago, remarked a peeved Clean.

–Yeah, just the species. Like, not the actual Meria. They lame, all dainty and stuff.

–How much money do you actually have? asked Lunar in an attempt to change the subject.

–Uh… ten million, between the two of us, said Beb. The bills the alchemist threw at us was glitched, cause when we put them into our inventory they freaked out and split into way smaller bills.

–How much is ten million? asked Lunar.

–This room was fifteen bucks for the month, said Beb. But I think we getting ripped off.

–So, you guys are loaded? said Lunar. Then we shouldn't have a problem getting to Shane and the others.

Beb explained that he, Charles, Shane, Kitty, and Ricardio had formed no concrete plan, as they meant, once they'd created characters and gotten familiar with the game's movement, to get together IRL in their Discord and figure something out. They intended to meet together in whatever area seemed "coolest," work a while to get a simple property to serve as a temp. base, and then get on the grind towards fame and fortune. Lunar told Beb and Charles of the Lads, who the twins remembered from Lukia, and their plan to head to Brandonville.

–That's the best plan, said Charles. Brandonville is central.

–Yeah, said Beb, plus it probably have a bunch of, like, transportation facilities and stuff, you know? Like, you can buy an airship, an airplane… they probably have teleporters or something… are there teleporters, Charles?

Charles shrugged.

–Probably are, said Beb. Lukia had teleporters. It'd be kinda gay to not have them.

–What if Shane comes to Chancellorsburg to look for us? asked Lunar.

–Brandonville is on the way to Chancellorsburg, both for Shane and Ricardio, said Charles.

–Yeah, they'd definitely stop by there, said Beb. We just hafta keep an eye on our menus. They come within range, bang, we friend em.

–I guess so, said Lunar.

---

The day crawled to an end. The rain stopped. Beb asked Lunar and Clean if they had slept. They replied that, no, they had not.

–I can't, said Lunar, I'm too stressed out. Besides, I'm not even tired.

Beb produced two vials of bright purple liquid from his bag.

–Take this, he said. It's a sleep potion, we got a bunch from some guy in Chancellorsburg.

–Some guy? said Clean.

–Chill, they good, said Beb. Guy said they super common.

–They feel weird, Charles added.

–Well, yeah, they do feel weird. But they put you right to sleep.

Clean checked her menu. She'd received eleven messages from Chumpchange, ten being some variation of "test."

He doesn't need to actually send the messages, he can just check to see if he's able, she thought.

Chump's eleventh message read:

going to train station. will keep testing as I ride

Good for you, Clean thought.

Lunar and Clean each drained their vials. The liquid was gooey, and seemed to stick in their throats. Lunar almost hacked his back up.

–Yeah, they gross, sorry, said Beb with a smile.

Drowsiness overcame them immediately. Lunar lay on the bed. He considered two things before he closed his eyes and fell asleep. First: why did the Devs implement a feeling of sleepiness via potion but not normal, physiological processes? So the grind-kind of kid could damn his dreams and keep killing? But then, why require sleep and then more or less require a potion to induce it? A real dick move. Second: he remembered that the room only had three beds. He felt a sharp pang of guilt as he saw Clean settling on the hard floor.

Then, sleep. With it came vivid, psychedelic dreams, the bad-trip type, all his mind's fears manifested to attack him as he slept. He twitched and turned and mumbled to himself. But, for the first time in days, he did sleep.

Lunar wouldn't learn this, as he'd be the last to awake the next morning, but after he'd descended dreamward, and after Beb had also taken a potion and fallen into a slumber on his bed, Charles, yet to put a potion back himself, picked up Clean's tiny body and placed her on his own bed.

He stayed awake for several more hours, perusing his menu, reading The Bonehead's Guide to Fanget, or sitting and staring at nothing in particular. Finally, he downed a potion and fell asleep sitting against the door, a few feet from Beb.

---

Dan erred in his initial assessment. He thought the players in the plaza would, upon reading the patch notes, riot. But Dan always thought people were poised to riot. The plaza-people hadn't done shit, save a brave few, like Lunar and Clean. The rest, thousands, lay around, unable or unwilling to move. Immensely distressing to see. Grotesque flesh, much still exposed, rotting in hebetude. Despite the late hour and the little Sun they couldn't help but feel that their fellows were being baked alive. Somehow scorched under the long, red light. They retched at the stench. So many, caked in sweat and stress. Then the sound, or lack thereof. Eerily quiet, like a battlefield after the fight, its victims, all the ripped boys, strewn haphazardly about; the survivors milling in silent shock; only an occasional wail from the wounded.

Bobby, less martially minded than most, thought it more like a festival ground the next morning. The burnt-brained boys still re-focusing reality, the trash, the crushed grass. Such a somber sight compared to the ecstatic, pill-propelled party the night before. Bobby knew the scene. The high ups and low downs. The crazy climax. The post-coital depression upon waking up. Piling into the car with his friends and driving slowly away. Pfo, of course, placed the scene mythologically, and said,

–It's like the Asphodel Meadows…

The Lads kept close together and skirted the edge.

–Are you okay? Shook whispered to Mufferson as they walked. You look like you're getting sicker.

–I'm fine, dude, Mufferson said. Don't worry.

–We should take her to a doctor, Shook said to LadMan.

–We probably should, Pfo whispered.

–We'll find a doctor on our way to the train station, said LadMan. Let's get through the plaza first.

The silent, strewn players unnerved him.

–Do they know about the necessities? Dan wondered quietly.

Prolly not, and Bobby put it bluntly,

–These people need to eat.

Chump sorta on the case. He'd separated from the Lads and stood over a skinny young man.

–You, he said, what is your hunger level?

–My what?

–Your hunger level? Check your stats in your character menu.

The man did so. His eyes grew wide.

–What is it? asked Chump. Hurry up and tell me.

–Chump! shouted LadMan. Don't fall behind, you'll get lost.

Chump turned to respond, but his man jumped up and knocked him over.

–It says I'm starving! the man screamed.

–What effect does that give? asked Chump excitedly, from the ground.

–Holy shit! I'm gonna die! the man screamed. What happens when you die?!

–Hm, said Chump to himself. He looked at the Lads, now stopped and watching the commotion.

–I wonder if they'd let me stay and see?

–There's hunger! the man screamed to a nearby group of players. There's hunger! I'm gonna starve!

Now those players, upon checking their own menus, started to panic.

–What's the effect?! shouted Chump over the growing noise. Are you losing HP? What's happening?

Chump's man kept screaming. More and more players around him caught his message and learned of their own starving states.

–Chump is gonna start a fucking riot, said Dan, probably right this time. We need to get out of here.

The plaza-players, moments earlier, hadn't motivation to move. Other than the aforementioned few, they'd seen no reason to. Now…

–Chump! yelled LadMan, loud as he could.

–Derek, come on! added Doughy.

The man ran wildly about. More and more players started screaming. The panic spread faster than the news that precipitated it.

–The effect! screamed Chump. He chased the man, trying to catch him and force from him the information. Those in the lab don't realize, fieldwork gets rough.

–Bobby, go get him, LadMan said, forcefully.

–Dem, Pfo, with me, he said as he set off. The three picked their way through the increasingly panicked players. Many, at least those who knew the cause of the panic, ran from the plaza, determined to find food and drink.

Deafening noise. The Lads gathered closer together. Di, Pfo, and Bobby pushed and shoved through the crowd. They found Chump holding the terrified man in a chokehold.

–What's the effect? he screamed into the man's ear.

–Let go of me, asshole! I'm gonna die! What happens when you die? Do you die for real? Oh fuck!

–The effect! Chump screeched.

–Chump, come on, said Bobby, grabbing him and trying to pull him away.

–No, I need to know!

Pfo jumped in and separated Chump from his man with ease. He threw the man aside and, with his massive arms, began dragging Chump away.

–No!

But Chump couldn't resist Pfo's strength.

–What's the effect? he screamed at nearby, panicking players. The effect?

Nobody answered him. Nobody could hear him. Pfo, followed by the brothers, fought his way back to the Lads. He dragged the flailing Chump with one hand and used his other arm to push through the crowd riot-police style, knocking heads with his elbow. Had he a baton in place of a Chump, he would've been bashing.

–Okay, we're going, said LadMan once they'd arrived back at the Lads. Pfo, keep Chump in check.

Pfo's burly body managed, despite Chump's fighting and thrashing. The Lads withdrew from the plaza, somehow all accounted for, a riot in their wake.

The age old, all too human fear of having no food. The line between apathy and action is a thin one. Humans aren't hard to reduce to piles of slime; formless, pathetic things that stick hard to whatever surface they find themselves on. But they're also easy to rile into riot, and all but the saddest sacks won't dither when death stares them straight on. Long-term threats they struggle to grasp, but short-term ones, like looming starvation, they get, and, oh God, they're gonna get, and whatever stands in their way gonna get got. Chancellorsburg, suffice it to say, was bouta get sacked.

---

Chapter FIFTEEN

Harbourless Immensities

But one morning, turning to pass the doubloon, he seemed to be newly attracted by the strange figures and inscriptions stamped on it, as though now for the first time beginning to interpret for himself in some monomaniac way whatever significance might lurk in them. And some certain significance lurks in all things, else all things are little worth, and the round world itself but an empty cipher, except to sell by the cartload, as they do hills about Boston, to fill up some morass in the Milky Way.

---

The argument: The Lads head east, but soon find they ain't the only ones with this idea…

---

Unreality realized. It's fun to see K-kun beta-bitch-boy his way to success, but everybody knows RL and IG ain't like that. Isekai don't let you die at the start and miss all the good shit while sitting on the respawn screen, watching a timer tick down. Mise-en-scene means lies, cause you can't look and see something else. Will VR save us? Or will we stare, stuck on whatever they want us to see? Impossible not to, when the whole world's been created before we came into it. Who's they? Anyway, back to the Lads.

---

Gone was God's prime decree when they arrived at the train station. A pathetic platform, utterly dwarfed by the star fort on a hill to the north. Surrounded by gun turrets, trenches, and barbed wire, the fort stood strong. But in chaos. Ragged, tired soldiers streamed from the east in messy columns, their way barely lit by lantern-holding men on horses. Behind the columns, barely visible, teams of horses dragged field guns of the French 75 mm style.

A medal-chested man stood atop an automobile in front of the fort, waving a sheathed saber and shouting at the arriving men, trying to get them organized. A cavalry squadron burst from the fort and halted before the man. He shouted something and they turned and sped off, towards Chancellorsburg, in which several distant fires had started. The Lads watched the sight in somber silence.

–Is this our fault? asked Doughy.

–It was bound to happen eventually, muttered Dan.

He approached the station's small, dimly lit booth, in which a man sat on a stool, reading a book.

–How much are tickets to Brandonville? Dan asked.

The Lads, on their way to the station, unloaded their restaurant-loot in various, shady pawn shops, and so had a decent chunk of change.

–Do you really think the trains are running right now? asked the man without looking up from his book.

–Why aren't they? Dan demanded.

The man looked up and raised an eyebrow.

–Why? Let's see. First, it's late, and there are no overnights from Chancellorsburg to Brandonville. Second, a riot seems to have broken out, if you haven't noticed, so the soldiers are bound to demand we stop the trains at any moment. Which, again, are already not running. Third, a giant hog ripped up part of the track, so we couldn't run the trains even if we wanted to.

–A hog? A giant hog?

–What about it?

–Are you serious? Did I hear that right? A giant hog ripped up part of the track?

–Of course I'm serious, said the man. Do I look like I'm joking? I never joke, that's why they call me Serious Samuel Black.

Dan struggled to refrain from pointing out to Sam that his name was ripped off from no less than two sources.

–It's just… how the fuck does a hog rip up train tracks?

–You must not be from around here. They're a menace. Whole fort garrison had to go out and put it down. Took their big guns and everything.

–Wait, when was that?

–Few days ago. Idiots killed it right on top of the track, so they had to drag its corpse off. Took em forever.

–That's what that artillery was? said Dan. I thought that was celebrating our arrival.

–Conceited little fella, aren't you? said Sam.

–Whatever, it doesn't matter. How long until the trains are running again?

–I don't know. First that idiot fort commander, Burns, has to restore order around here, then we have to get the repair crews out to fix the tracks… could take weeks.

–Weeks? Then how the fuck are we supposed to get to Brandonville?

–I'd ask you not to take that tone with me, I'm not the one preventing you from getting to Brandonville. If your business there is so important, why don't you start walking?

–Walk? C'mon, there has to be a better way.

–Why don't you go bother that mage with the teleporter that just moved in. You all look like the types to gravitate towards magic.

–A… a teleporter?

–Yeah.

–Why the fuck didn't you say that earlier?!

---

Emboldened by the mention of an actual MMO mechanic, the Lads set off northeast, into a small forest growing on a long, gradual incline. The roar of civilization in chaos, Chancellorsburg in riot and the fort frenzied to stop it, fell away as they walked. They looked back at the town below them and saw the black smoke disappearing into the night sky but heard no accompaniment, just the soft, night-time forest sounds.

–Like watching an apocalypse in a snowglobe, said Doughy. But, from outside the snowglobe.

Pfo couldn't account for such a remark. Doughy, after uttering it, turned and kept walking, oblivious as ever.

They arrived at the point indicated by the station-man to find, nestled in a clearing, a decrepit mage tower, stone-built, twisted, with a blue shingle roof. Vines grew up its sides, its few windows were cracked, and most of the shingles were stained or dislodged or both. A few crumbling shacks beside it, along with a weed-infested garden and a doorless outhouse.

As they arrived, Mufferson burst into a vomiting fit.

–Oh, God, Em. Are you okay? asked Shooketh.

Mufferson tried to nod her head but broke out into more vomiting. She leaned over, spewing into the grass, while Shook patted her on the back and tried not to cry. Most of the Lads averted their eyes. Chump stared.

–I'm okay, Muff finally managed to say. I… I feel better now.

–Check your stats, said Chump.

–Okay, listen here- Bobby began.

–It's fine, said Mufferson as she opened her menu. I need to check.

She did so and then said,

–It changed. It was "sick." Now it's "ill."

–Oh, Jesus, that's worse, said Shooketh. Oh no.

–Stop, ill is better than sick, said Dan. She's getting better.

–No, ill means you're dying, said Shooketh. What about the wound, Em? Is that worse?

–Ill doesn't mean you're dying, said Pfo. Who told you that?

–It still says "wounded," Mufferson said. Don't worry, dude, ill is better.

–Oh God, said Shooketh, inconsolable.

–What's wrong with you? said Vac. She's getting better.

–We need to get to Brandonville, said LadMan.

–We need to go back and get her a doctor, said Shook. You said we'd find a doctor on our way-

–That was before, said Dan. Chancellorsburg is currently burning to the ground.

–But-

–There's no doctor, Shook.

LadMan looked to the broken-boy. So worried for Muff, his favorite person. Muff clenched her teeth and stood stoic, but LadMan could tell she was terrified. Fuck, he should have done something sooner. While they ate, or something. Gotten her medical attention. After the plaza they had no time, it was all they could do to unload their loot while staying ahead of the spreading panic. LadMan thought to all the times in Lukia when his leadership, his slow decisions or no decisions, had lost them battles or gotten people killed. Not a problem when they respawned. Shit, he'd fucked up, hadn't he? His whole face felt hot.

–Come on, Dan, he said.

LadMan and Dan approached the tower's door. LadMan grabbed the rusted knocker but it came loose and fell to the ground, hitting the dirt with a sad thud. LadMan sighed and rapped the door with his knuckles.

Nobody answered.

LadMan knocked again, louder.

Again, no answer. The Lads behind him exchanged glances.

–That fucking station guy, said Dan, he lied to us. Nobody lives here.

Somebody did, and as LadMan prepared to knock again she swung open the door.

–The contractors! It's about time, this place is falling apart. But why are you here so late? You don't mean to work through the night, while I'm trying to sleep?

A cantankerous creature, clad in filthy, frayed blue robes and wearing a too-big wizard hat. It's pointy top drooped over, exhausted. Her blonde hair, unkempt and unclean, fell over her shoulders.

–We're not contractors, said LadMan. We heard you have a teleporter.

–Sure, she said, but it doesn't work.

–Oh, come on, whined Dan. What the hell is wrong with it?

–Don't take that tone with me, she scolded. It's not my fault everything refuses to work. For one, I was cheated on this property, it's far from "lightly lived in." Then, the contractors I hired won't show up, even though it's been days. And I can't even get my implements delivered to fix my automatic cauldron, which is also broken.

–You didn't look at the tower before you moved in? asked LadMan.

–Hey, she snapped, my business isn't your business. I was compelled to move… rapidly. I didn't have the luxury to shop around. I needed a tower, and I needed one fast. Maybe I just assumed that I wouldn't get cheated. Is that so wrong? To put a bit of faith into this stillborn species? I try to stay optimistic, I really do. Ask anyone, they'll-

–Lad! someone called.

LadMan and Dan looked back. Pfo, among the mass of Lads, motioning to him.

–Would you hang on a sec? LadMan asked. He jogged over to Pfo before hearing her answer.

–Sure, we weren't having a conversation or anything, the mage muttered.

Pfo stood beside Mufferson, who sat cross-legged on the ground, her face dark, her eyes downward. Shook sat beside her, stroking her back.

–What is it? LadMan asked.

–Muffy had an idea, said Pfo. She thinks this woman is the Cranky Mage, from the patch notes.

–The NPC they added, said LadMan. Yeah, maybe. Good catch, Muff.

Mufferson flashed a weak thumbs up. She neglected to mention the origin of her idea: she'd overheard Vac whispering to Lying Ted. He said that this mage looked like a cranky cunt and, therefore, Dan should get along with her well.

–She's the Cranky Mage, LadMan whispered to Dan when he returned.

–Oh, that makes sense, said Dan.

–Are you all going to whisper all night? asked the mage. What do you want, anyway? It's too hot out here, and I dislike the night air. Never liked it, especially in a forest. Why oh why did I move into a forest?

–For fuck's sake, it's a light wood! shouted one the listening Lads.

–Ignore them, said LadMan. Look, we wanna know about your teleporter. How does it work?

–It utilizes a complex aether folding technique-

–I mean, how do you use it?

–You select your destination, fuel it, and walk through it, she said.

–Well, what the fuck is wrong with it? demanded Dan.

–Once again, I'd ask you not to take that tone with me.

–Well you're a shitty teleporter lady, said Dan.

–I am not a "teleporter lady." How dare you? I have-

–The Devs put you here to man the fucking Chancellorsburg teleporter, said Dan.

–Dan, chill, it's not her fault, said LadMan. She probably spawned with it broken. It's probably a quest.

–Gah, fuck that, said Dan. Fuck hiding quality of life behind quests. What the fuck?

–I don't know what you're on about, said the mage. But don't you dare blame me for the broken teleporter. It's not a problem with my teleporter, it's a problem with the network.

–So, what, all the teleporters on the network are down? said Dan. Is that it? Why don't you fucking switch networks?

–Because there aren't any additional networks, you little cock, said the mage.

–Why the fuck not? asked Dan, who was not, contrary to Vac's hypothesis, getting along with the Cranky Mage.

–Why not? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to locate an aether network suitable for teleportation? One has been discovered. One.

She held a single finger in Dan's face. The boy's voice rose.

–That's convoluted bullshit!

–Okay, Dan, calm down, said LadMan.

Then, to the mage,

–So no teleporters are working in the whole world?

–None I know of.

–So what's wrong with the network?

–Honestly, I'm tired of this conversation. How about you all leave me be.

–Fuck it, Lad, let's just kill her, said Dan.

–No, then we can't TP.

–We already can't TP!

–Autismo's gonna blow a fucking gasket, said Vac to Ted.

–The first guests to my new tower, and they threaten to kill me, whined the mage. Why did I expect otherwise? This backwater town-

–Just tell us how to fix the network, for God's sake, said LadMan.

–It's the network crystal, said the mage. It holds open the network with-

–Oh yeah! shouted Dan. A fucking crystal. Of course it's a goddamn crystal.

–Dan, chill! shouted LadMan.

–No, I will not chill! Why the fuck are the quests in these games all so fucking retarded? Why is there only one network? Why isn't there a fucking backup crystal?

LadMan recalled an event in Lukia, midway through their tenure. It disabled the teleporters and sent the players on a crazy quest to restore them. All the hardcore homos, working together to complete it. Dan adored it, talked constantly about how cool the quest was before they'd even finished it. The only downer came when a non-Lad last hit the quest's final boss and got a unique tag. Dan called him a kill-stealing Jew.

–The aetherological explanations for those questions are extremely complex- began the mage.

–Fuck that. They are not! There's only one network, and there's only one crystal, and it probably got stolen by a fucking… demon or some shit! All so a bunch of assholes have to fucking track the thing down just to get the goddamn teleporters working. Every game has teleporters on by default! What kind of fucking game doesn't have the teleporters working at the fucking start?

Dan stormed off, past the stunned Lads, over to a tree. He proceeded to beat it with his bare hands, wailing in frustration.

–Starting a Minecraft let's play over there, bruv? asked Vac.

–Fuck off, Vac, hissed Dan. Stop being a fucking cunt!

While the Lads erupted LadMan turned back towards the mage and said,

–They've had a long day. We need to get the crystal to get the teleporters working, right?

–That's right, said the mage, rubbing the back of her neck.

–And where is the crystal?

–Ask the Crystal Keeper. I think it… er… got stolen…

She looked embarrassed as she finished her sentence.

–… by a demon.

LadMan looked at her blankly, too tired to even prompt the obvious follow-up question. Luckily, the Cranky Mage clarified.

–The Crystal Keeper is based in Brandonville.

–Of course he is, said LadMan. And would you, by any chance, know how we could get to Brandonville?

With a hint of condescension,

–You could take a train.

Dan, despite his shouting match with Vac, caught her remark. He literally bum rushed her and had to be tackled by Bobby.

–You need to get that man looked at, said the mage. I don't usually advocate for the sciences, but maybe an analyst could do him some good.

–Pseudo-sciences, you mean, said Chump.

–Of course you'd think that, said Pfo.

–Trains aren't running. Please, don't you know any other way? LadMan pleaded.

–Do I look like your travel guide? You could take a boat.

–A boat it is then, said LadMan with a sigh.

The Lads bid the mage a frigid adieu. She watched as they dragged profanity-spewing Dan away.

–They're going to hate Zyron, the mage said as she shut her door.

---

Chancellorsburg was a river town. No matter what tech may come, boats'd be gently boolin up and down. Hence, its river docks were extensive, much more impressive than its railroad station or its airstrip. Hundreds of boats at dock: cargo boats, passenger boats, river cruisers, patrol boats, even little towboats. One such passenger steamboat, PS Emerald, sat massive and majestic. Double decked, white, its name printed in bold, red letters. Like the grand old paddlers that once steamed up and down the Mississippi. Maybe they still do. Who knows?

But this late the dock was devoid of life. The inland warehouses sat dark and dead, only a few caged animals within them. Those who worked here lived in or around Chancellorsburg, a fifteen minute hike, and the river-travelers, rich or poor, inevitably made the same trek for overnight lodgings in the nostalgic little town.

The only activity: a collection of fellas, about seven. Five worked feverishly under murky lamplight, loading unmarked boxes from a wagon to a recently arrived cargo boat. One man, sporting a white mustache, rolled up pants, and a grey vest, stood atop the wagon, hissing at the workers to hurry up. He waved around a silver revolver, which gleamed whenever it caught the lamplight. His left leg, mechanical, thwacked the wagon whenever he stomped it, which he did frequently, in frustration. The seventh man stood a ways away, holding a lantern in one hand and clutching a single shot pistol to his chest with the other. He peered his eyes and stared into the darkness. No use. The massive Moon had disappeared behind a blanket of clouds early in the night and hadn't reappeared, and his lantern only illuminated five feet around him, so shitty it was. If anything, the lantern lowered his perception, as it killed his night vision and made him brutally visible to anybody slinking about. He prayed his associates would finish up so he could collect his cash and hurry home.

Green to the game, both the watchman and his associates. Sweat stained shirts, an inefficient system, several dropped (and nearly busted) boxes, and itchy trigger fingers. The watchman nearly let loose his bullet towards a bush-rustling in the distance before a deer darted from the spot. The man sighed. No doubt they'd abandon the operation had he shot, and along with it the goods, landing them all in serious shit. Hell, the mustached-man with the fake left leg would probably pop him himself. He was the only guy here with any background. Maybe, the watchman mused, it would be better, had he shot, to dart for Chancellorsburg and take his chances with whoever heard the shot.

He took a deep breath and wiped some sweat from his face. Relax, nobody was coming to the docks at this time of night. No sinister souls, living or dead, stalked the darkness. Only a few forest critters, innocent and ignorant. When were his associates going to finish? He heard the mustached-man's stomp.

–Not there, you buffoon! he hissed. Do you want it to go tumbling into the river the moment I set off?

The watchmen pulled on his collar, allowing some night air to hit his drenched chest. Then, a sound. He froze and listened, declining even to breath. The distant sound slowly but surely swelled. At least twenty people, probably more, bickering and whining as they plodded along the path to the docks.

–Lurch, the watchman hissed. The mustached-man froze.

–We have company, listen!

–Stop, stop loading, Lurch hissed at his loaders.

They all stood in ardorous silence until, one by one, they made out the sounds of the approaching group.

–Kill the lights, Lurch ordered.

The watchmen extinguished his lantern. All seven men scurried behind the wagon. The wagon's horse, tied to a tree a few meters away, whinied.

–Is it the Law? one man whispered.

–The Law ain't that loud, whispered another.

The group got closer. Now the men, peeking around the wagon, could make out a single light at the formation's front. Bright, like a newfangled steamlamp. The group was too far to make out their exact composition, but the men knew one thing: they were loud.

–Do we run?

–I have a lot of money riding on this, said Lurch. If they get close you rush them while I cover with my pistol.

–I ain't keen on dying tonight. They got too many.

–We don't know if they're armed, said Lurch. We rough up a few and scare them off.

–If they armed we dead. Your rank ain't gonna save you from the Reaper.

–Be quiet, Lurch hissed.

The men could now make out the group. More than twenty, at least thirty. Mostly men, a few women… but… good God…

The most grotesque collection of beings the men had ever seen. Nominally human, but taken to the extreme. Hair unnaturally colored. Sporting tats, piercings, and scars. Some were huge, upwards of eight feet, and weighed at least three hundred pounds. One looked the most muscled man alive. Some were tiny, three feet if that. One had a nose that jutted out half a foot. Another had eyes the size of saucers. They walked with no confidence, but all the confidence possible. Scared, clearly, and huddled together, but regarding the world so far beneath them. Existence itself an inconvenience, a wrong turn. These were Begotten, the ones the men'd heard rumors about. Celestial beings, certainly, angels from above, maybe demons from below. Simply too weird for this world.

–Shit, there's nobody here! said one.

–I told you there wouldn't be, autismo, said another.

–Fuck off, Lukia had docks that ran all night.

–All right, calm down, said a third man, tall, with long, purple hair. We'll set up camp for the night and try to get some sleep. We'll get a boat in the morning. Bobby, Di, you guys wanna scout around and make sure there's nothing dangerous nearby.

–Aight, we got it, said a fourth man.

–Okay, we're setting up camp, said the purple haired man.

–Let's do a headcount first, suggested the muscled man.

–Oh yeah, good idea. Okay…

The Lads never noticed the NPC's wagon or cargo, nor the NPCs themselves. They'd slipped off and left the poor horse, tied to a tree, to fend for itself. The beast glanced around for its masters. Gone. Into the night.

---

What is the value of an NPC? The slavers stalking the shores of the West Continent gave a thousand pieces for a healthy young man. Certain vampire covens paid twice that for virgin women. For virgin men they charged you.

Witches paid anywhere from 5 to 10 pieces for human thumbs, gnarled thumbs prefered. Assuming the average human weighs 62 kilos, and the average thumb weighs 100 grams, a single thumb composes .1613% of the body's weight. Therefore, at 7.5 pieces per thumb, we can calculate that witches would place human body value at 4,650 pieces. Ergo, witches drastically overpay for thumbs.

For perspective, the Lads got 25 pieces for all the silverware they pawned. Beb and Charles had a combined net worth of 10,020,625 pieces. The four richest bitches in the world, a steel tycoon, a despotic king, an oil tycoon, and the inheritor of an age-old banking fortune, boasted 800 mil, 750 mil, 730 mil, and 715 mil respectively. The median man made 5 pieces a week.

Had you woken the Lads from their restless, barely achieved slumbers, roused them and raised them from the hard ground, what answer would they give?

Dan: none. The NPCs are bite-sized bits of bytes. They deserve no moral consideration. Buy them or bye them, doesn't matter. Worth, therefore, was strictly a question of cost.

LadMan: no idea. But it was wise to respect the NPCs so they'd respect him and his Lads in turn.

Chump: morality is the arbitrary creation of human society, useful only for keeping order. The NPCs deserve whatever was required to prevent a riot.

Vac: they deserve what they demand.

Doughy: hasn't considered the question. Give him some time to think about it (he'll promplty forget what you asked and fail to think about it).

Bobby, who'd thought about it a lot the last few days: they deserve no less than himself.

Slick, were she speaking, would concur. Pfo, upon spawn, thought the NPCs probably deserved more consideration than he figured the players would give them. If they exhibited the capacity to feel pain, Pfo would refrain from fucking with them. He didn't think Lukia was there, but quickly became convinced that Fanget was. Then, upon captivity, he realized the question became dire, and therefore: the NPCs must receive the treatment he'd give to an IRL human. For his own well-being too; a semantic slight of hand could reduce him and his to NPC-hood in a slippery second.

Pfo, perhaps the OG oneironaut but in danger of losing that title, argued with straw-stuffed Chump while they both dozed. What was Pfo, in the game, in his dream? A brain in a vat with made memories? Who could prove Pfo and the NPCs were ontologically other? Pfo felt pain, and displayed it as one does. The NPCs as well.

But, Chump said, you have no empirical basis for whether or not the NPCs feel pain. And is such a thing relevant? wondered dream-lost Dan. They fail to meet the definition of moral persons. Pfo was appalled. Dan doubtlessly knew not what constituted a moral person, but Pfo ignored him to pursue Chump. How could Pfo be sure that he could feel pain? In this world or the alleged real? Stop acting like a Cartesian cunt. Pfo's dream exploded into epistemological confusion. Not a debate, truth be told, Pfo was well-read enough to hold. Ironically, had lazy Lunar drifted in, he would be the best-read of the bunch, the last two books he got through being on the subject.

Bobby, beyond troubled, next to dreaming Di. Appalled. Life, whatever that was, ending suddenly and too soon. Couldn't do it, like too many gunned down, or groped, or graped.

Bobby was no stranger to sex sims. Not into the gore or rape, but not prudish when it came to diving into the VR or the V. The old folks all put on outraged faces, but when did they not? The rote nature of their protests masked whatever message they preached. No important points from the same folks who got all up in arms over GTA and Mortal Kombat.

Bobby ignored their protests, chalked them up to the uphill-both-ways-type talk and made in his fav sim a partner muy perfecto. Sasha, straight from the seventies. Like the background dancer in a funk video, medium-dark skin, a curvy physique, sarcastic eyes, and a massive afro. Invariably wearing short shorts and tight tops, at least, at the sim-session's start. Bobby always made Sasha as into it as he was, if not more so. How he liked it.

No, not one of those rape or necro-sim sickos. Sasha was easily of age and looked it. She didn't beg him to stop, run away, or cry. The sims and real-life robots that simulated children or looked like real people (living or dead) was the icky area, and Bobby wasn't in it.

Sasha wanted it, but Sasha was programmed to want it. What the fuck was Sasha, anyway? And if not Sasha the Person now, then when? Ever?

It was best that the Lads slept, even restlessly, even poorly, even painfully.

---

–I didn't know the pride parade was in town.

LadMan opened his eyes. Standing above him, in front of the blinding Sun: a massive man. Lad slowly sat up and wiped his eyes. Groggy. Uncomfortable. Back pain, neck crick, a headache. He felt gross, sticky, in need of a shower.

The other Lads slowly came to and found themselves as irritated as their leader. Men and a few women stooped over them, staring down, smirking and sneering, arms crossed or akimbo, far too full of themselves.

–What the heck? said LadMan. He squinted then rubbed his eyes again. The man before him came into focus. Well built, tall, with long black hair tied into a messy man-bun. He wore peasant's duds, a straw hat, and the starting backpack. A username floated above his head. It read: DeusVult1099. As Deus' next remark revealed, he and Lad knew one another.

–Guess I shoulda expected to see you fags sooner or later.

–Lad, what the hell? exclaimed Dan, a few meters away, it's the fucking Crusaders!

–Yeah, Dan, I noticed, said LadMan as he stood up. The other lads followed suit, grumbling and cursing as they, one by one, woke up and got up.

The Cuntry Crusaders, Deus' hardcore raiding guild. A mainstay in Lukia. Well-known for their dungeon-diving prowess but equally if not more well known for the controversies they always started but never finished. The most famous one sparked a fiery and toxic game-wide debate on the nature of "hate speech." The Lads hadn't been the Crusaders' most vocal opponents, but…

–Deus, check this out, Slick's a fucking dude, said a Crusader, Richard_LionShart.

Slick sat with her face buried in her knees, unresponsive to Richard's remark. LadMan wasn't sure if she'd slept. Unnerved by the normally spirited Slick's silence, Richard walked over to Deus.

–What are you morons doing here? demanded Dan as he came to stand next to LadMan.

–Chill out, niglet, said Deus, we're here for a boat. I guess you're here for the same thing? Funny, I thought fags floated.

–That's not even a stereotype, said Dan, his face red. It doesn't make sense, none of your insults make sense.

–Whatever, calm down, said Deus, laughing.

Dan's face reddened further. Another Crusader, Cycler, spoke up,

–Are you guys going to Brandonville?

LadMan sighed.

–Yeah, we are.

–Us too. Deus thinks the clue to finding the first raid location is there.

–What? Y'all going raiding? asked Bobby.

–Uh, yeah, said Deus. Unlike you no-life nerds, I actually want to get out of here. I got, like, bitches and shit.

–Of course you do, said Bobby.

–How is raiding going to get you out? asked Dan.

–The Challenge? said Deus, as if it were obvious. What MMO's endgame isn't raiding?

–Every MMO, muttered Pfo, who maintained the true endgame was always fashion.

–There are fifty Grand Raids, explained Cycler.

–You do them, boom, you're out, said Deus. Obvious.

Chump took offense to the idea that this conclusion was obvious.

–What evidence do you have for that? he asked.

–Don't need evidence, breh, it's obvious, said Deus.

Chump opened his mouth, but Dan jumped in.

–What if you die? What if there's perma-death? Have you thought about that?

–Have I thought about that? Of course I've thought about that. I even figured out why we're still here.

–You mean why nobody has taken our headsets off? asked Dan.

–The headsets explode if anybody takes them off, said Deus. They announced this on, like, CNN, so we all got moved to hospitals and hooked up to IVs or some shit.

–Explode? The headsets can explode? exclaimed Doughy.

–Oh God! cried Shooketh, now picturing Muffy's cute head blown off her shoulders.

–Or fry your brain or something, said Deus.

Deus actually stole this idea from Cycler, who worriedly whispered it to Sheryl23 the night before. The wife of a dear departed devil dog, she knew loss and could comfort. But nobody knew that Cycler himself stole the idea from a shitty show he'd watched years before. Either way, Chump pounced on the hypothesis.

–That's ridiculous, he said. It would be much easier for the nanobots… I mean, what evidence-

–Don't need evidence, it's obvious.

–You think this means that if you die in the game, you die in real life? asked Dan. Like, your headset explodes?

–Obviously.

–And you're still going to raid?

–Somebody has to do it. Is it gonna be you pansy-asses?

Well, would it? Likely not. The Lads'd never been a raiding guild; sure, they dungeoned frequently and ferociously (no decent player of The Dungeons of Lukia could avoid diving), but they weren't the type to get together every night and carefully crawl. Make no mistake, they played as much as anybody, they just didn't spend it all grouped up and screaming callouts as they cut and cast through Lukia's deep dungeons. Pfo, for example, became engrossed with Lukia's complex spellcrafting and alchemy and spent hours in his lab. Later, of course, he chased fashion. Slick sought experiences, exploring the world and reading the lore. Dan crunched numbers, Bobby and Di practiced their PvP, etc. and etc. The Lads boasted diversity that hindered them in some respects. They couldn't slither around like some superorganism as the Crusaders, united by nothing more specific than a distaste with the modern milieu, a love for fantasy style dungeon diving, and an abundance of time, could. But in their disunity the Lads got perspectives aplenty and, with them, progress. It wasn't lost on LadMan that he and his Lads arrived at the docks before the Crusaders. And Deus knew it too.

He stood and spoke like he'd been up to shit, but he hadn't. He'd been squarely beaten to action. He panicked upon the patch and it took days for Richard, Cycler, and Sheryl to get him straight enough to speak. Then, nothing short of a wandering wreck, the twenty or so human Crusaders ventured from the plaza, looted a green grocer, and nearly got shot by a cursing cop. Far from any superorganism, the Crusaders were held together by Sheryl's willpower, Cycler's pre-launch research and shitty show theories, and fear. But hell if Deus was gonna let LadMan know how frayed and fucked he felt.

–We'll go to Brandonville and see what we can find, Deus announced in lieu of a real plan.

–Dan, see if you can get a boat, said LadMan, sick of the Crusaders' shit.

–Do you have any money? he asked Deus.

–Of course we do, said Deus in his most stately voice.

Richard had rocked the green grocer and ripped the tray from his cash register, pinching five pieces in small bills. Yes, technically speaking, the Crusaders had money.

–I hope I won't regret asking you to ride with us to Brandonville, said LadMan.

The Lads behind him exchanged uneasy glances. Sticking together was solid, and everyone knew LadMan valued stuck-sack-solidarity, but how far could this player propinquity go? The Cuntry Crusaders were just what their name implied.

–I hope I won't regret accepting your invitation, said Deus with all his pomp and puff.

How lucky that, when Dan went to check the busy docks, he learned that the PS Emerald left in an hour and had space for fifty at under 30 pieces for the party.

So, upriver. Can the Crusaders refrain from queer smearing? Will a fight flare up and a kid get thrown overboard? Maybe the whole goddamn boat will blow up in the middle of the river with everyone on it, ending their stupid story in a hot, smokey blast?

---

Chapter SIXTEEN

I'm No Frankie Avalon

I’m not magnetic or mythical
I’m suburban and typical
But I got it, I got it
I’m over on with it all…

---

The argument: Certain people need to get their shit together.

---

Belton came from twelfth grade English class. His teacher lectured to the heavy-lidded students on changing times and changing language. No place for prescriptivism in this class. He insisted that they use "they" both as a plural and a gender-neutral singular. Last year's teacher-boss red-pen-rekt any kid that dared use they as a singular and insisted on the gender-neutral he as stone-set correct. Now Belton would have to unlearn last year's habits, a real trial for the dilatory dude, all to conform to the whims of some lit loser with too much passion for Chaucer's ass jokes. English found Belton in anguish. He knew books were important: Beowulf, Frankenstein, Hamlet, Antigone, Gatsby, Godot, but, of course, he was Belton. It pained him to fly webward before every reading quiz cause he couldn't manage to sit still and stare at words more than five minutes a day. Even a few of the kids that complained straight through class managed to read the books. What a rut.

After his senior teacher's pronoun spiel, Belton went to lunch. With her. Not so snug in her bourgie Benz, rolling down the cracked phalt road. The thing had a life of its own, driving down, down the road… Shiny and black, as black as a jet setter's sensibilities, black like the burnt-black air, black like the tache noir of morality's moldering corpse.

Oh Belton, aren't you better than this? This was sposed to be about video games, fun and fuckery. Why spend all your time whining about the hyper-hedonists, the neon peons?… Throw thought from your head, the no-name nihilists be damned. How'd you get so busted, anyway?

Friday at Belton's school meant Long Lunch. The school, amidst complaints of overworked students, thought to extend Friday lunch from thirty minutes to an hour and, in an alliterative zest (a device useful in place of wit), named it "Long Lunch." Whatever they call it, it's ree-tier-tarded and doesn't, as they intended, result in make-up tests or one-on-one tutor time. Just more mindless milling. Why not knock a half-hour off the end of Friday's sched and let everyone go home to do whatever typical teenagers do, read Rimbaud and jack off, IDK.

In an attempt to escape this lotus-drenched lunch period she and Belton drove some Fridays to AJ's Sandwich Shack. The 75th shack of its sort. Belton hated it. He prefered anywhere else, but their limited lunch kept them short leashed, and so AJ, who prolly set up shack-shop so school-close for this exact reason, had Belton by the balls.

She asked if they could stop for gas, as she was running low and wasn't sure she'd have time after school.

What do you have to do after school? Belton thought.

–Yeah, that's fine, he said, his chin in his palm. Her music blared. The Benz bounced.

She pulled into a bustling station not far from AJ's. The station and the shack formed all the capitalist construction in the school's bumfuck vicinity. And yet, given this lack of tack, how did Belton feel so sim-stuck. The rurality was real. Crude, but real.

Belton stared out the window. Her Benz resembled every other neon car lurching up and down the roadways. Yet the gasrats in their oil stained jumpsuits; the wayward teens with their repainted ratteltraps; the odd, mid-class cut out; they all stood and stared, their eyes burning with anger and repressed lust.

–You wanna come with me? she asked him. She hopped out of the car before he could answer.

He'd rather not. Belton wanted to stay within, his head down, hoping nobody noticed him. But she'd be sad if he stayed, so he got out to keep her company while she got gas.

A woman stood nearby, at another pump, her eyes downcast, her clothes dull, her hair tangled, smoking a cig as the pump filled her tank. Kids screamed in her minivan's backseat. A silicone sister stood in the gasmart, having it out with a manager mister. Sweet JC, what a world of fuckers. Where have the sages gone? Belton half expected Calliope to come crashing down that very moment, screaming and alight. The aviators sitting atop the head of Belton's beau, cheap and heart shaped, terribly intertextual, caught the light.

She took plastic from her purse and stuck it into the machine. A soda advertisement played on the pump's screen. She pounded the keypad, grabbed the pump, and popped her tank's cover. She shoved the nozzle inside. The quick rip, the penetration… Vlad himself, cruising for kebabs. No, the opposite. No brimstone baritone could ever dethrone the dictaphone. The spout, stuck in the tank, squirted gas.

A bunch of boys, yelling in Spanish, rolled up in a tawdry Toyota, a ratty car like the rest of the non-neon biles Belton and his buds got… the polar opposite of the bourge Benz… far from the crushingly contemporary, too-cool convertibles his cousins drove before the crash… not nearly those Avalonian dragsters, Janis-dead and Grace-forgotten, trapped forever in their free-loving decade.

The boys went into the little gasmart, joking and jostling. The woman behind the counter, a tiny black lady, stared with suffocating indifference. A man, gray jumpsuit stained with paint, sauntered up to the counter, directly from the beer aisle. He tossed the boys a vague look before dropping his junk onto the counter. A case of Busch and gasmart food fare: two sausage biscuits, three condiment covered hot dogs, and a pre-packaged spinach sandwich. Prepared for a night alone? How striking, like the hazy bar-rats, the middle aged men with greasy ponytails and ripped black jackets, cigs dangling from their fingers, empty glasses and frothy piss-pitchers before them. There diurnally, always in their own booth.

A half Lincoln per gallon of gas. She was almost done filling the tank. Belton realized they hadn't even arrived at AJ's yet. All this and still so far to go.

AJ's, you have to understand, sucked ass. It had short-term taste and cost less than African labor but that was all. How can one not disdain the chain when bill-bloated AJ sat where he did? AJ's lacked any sense of place, geographic, moral, geometric, theological, etc. Even there in Belton's little burg, Midville, VA, zip code whatever, AJ's boasted the same big-city, cashy corporate bullshit. A place-less imperial, Prime Directive ignoring, all-too American sheep milker with phasers set to stuff. All the same, simulacrums of the worst sort.

If you'll turn to chapter seven in your Conrad…

---

She lives as if the great suffering masses hardly exist. She’s relegated them to the realm of the abstract, the realm of the unreal, in which they can wither acknowledged in word but for all intents and purposes ignored. In this way she is a creature, some mythical consumer forged in the eternal flame, as relevant now as ever. A monster, a vampire who struts about, her blood-dripping fangs a display of her savage indifference, of her condescending pseudo-pitiful facade, the sort of siren’s reassurance whispered into the unwashed ears of the shapeless dejects, the bloodsucker’s last lie before she leans close and bites into their necks. Righteous and deluded, there is no moral system under which she does not burn. And yet… here she is. Flaunting.
She believes Columbus Day an affront. She’s never done anything to have it removed, but it is acknowledged, in her eternal pursuit to appear casually righteous, as an affront. And while I’ve never outwardly disagreed, the coward that I am, the shapeless member of the vast, roving, opinion-less people, I think the whole crusade disgusting. The very idea that we’d remove the one holiday that actually makes sense. There is something profoundly dishonest in the denial of Urban and his posse’s deus vults, in our artificial abhorrence of the Scramble and the trade and whatever else upon coppertone creation we’ve decided shan’t stand. She exists with the soul of her carefully booted foot atop the head of some poor native, some begging savage for whom the so-called modernity came crashing violently upon. Columbus was honest.
The Muslims, expansionist fuckers, got what they deserved. Mehmed’s grand state has descended into a chaotic counter crusade. The nips got nuked, the Injuns germed, etc. etc. They all got what they deserved. Inexplicably, she has not. It is, perhaps, their roasting soul’s only consolation that just outside our town’s limits there sits a great yard of graves, a terrifying expanse, a testament to so many undone, filled with crosses and headstones, each inscribed with the same simple message: It wasn’t my fault. Each decaying resident of each decaying cemetery the nation over roasting against Hell’s heat or roasting nowhere at all. Columbus wears trendy tees, tight pants, and, if the subjugator of a hemisphere is feeling particularly vain, curled hair.

---

Deus and his dudes wanted to sit a deck down from the Lads, but the glares from well-to-do Chancellorburgians sent them upward, grumbling all the while.

–We should take this ship, whispered Richard. What're these pussies gonna do about it?

–I don't think that's wise, said Cycler.

So it happened that the boat's topdeck held half a hundred players, all sweating under the fat Sun slowly scaling the edge of the sky. What a company, all thoughts and creeds, miserably melting together.

Bobby and Di sat against the pilot's house. Despite their different looks they'd never seemed so related, so in sync. They stared straight up, at the clouds, perhaps past the clouds, at the unrendered beyond. Two Crusaders, Andykey and Hector, came and sat before them.

–Bobby, Diamond, said Andy.

Bobby kept staring at the sky.

–Both y'all spawned as humans, he said.

–Didn't want any environmental debuffs, said Andy. I assume you thought the same thing.

–No good for PvP, said Bobby.

–A shame, I was looking forward to fighting you two.

The four sat in silence. The boat steamed up the river. NPC talk rose up from the lower deck.

–Did all your Lads spawn? Andy asked after a while.

–What you mean? asked Bobby.

–In the game. Did all the Lads that were supposed to spawn actually spawn?

–Yeah, said Bobby. All the ones that was sposed to spawn as humans did. Why, a Crusader not spawn?

–No, said Andy, but Hector and I spoke to a player who said her little brother never spawned.

–Like, he still creating his character? asked Di.

–No, said Andy. Cycler, of course, was still in character creation when the patch hit. He said it just force spawned him with whatever he had selected at that time.

–Whack, muttered Di.

–No, this girl said her little brother was going to spawn as a human but never did. His name is grayed out.

–Just means he spawned as something else, said Bobby.

–That's what we told her, said Hector. But the poor girl wouldn't accept it. Claimed her brother promised her he'd spawn as a human. That he didn't, in her mind, meant something went wrong.

–Whatever, said Andy. Just wondering if you guys are missing anybody.

Bobby shrugged. He looked at LadMan, sitting next to Dan at the boat's back, on a bench, a bunch of Lads surrounding him like moons their mother. He rested his mouth atop his fingers, like Rodin's rock-man. Or is he bronze? I don't know, and chances are neither do you.

Dan watched his map. The him-dot moved up-river with agonizing languidness. LadMan had removed his shirt and tied it into a bandana to keep his long hair in line, but Dan, despite wanting something to cover his neck, did no such thing. Somehow still embarrassed to throw in with the skins.

Chump and Doughy leaned against the railing, watching the riverside world pass them by. The occasional house, dock, or boat, but beside that only fields and trees. The dull imagery gave Chump time to think but Doughy, disappointed that devs who could do anything did this, was beyond bored. Only Pfo, sitting nearby and singing in a language Doughy didn't recognize, alleviated his anguish.

Adieu l'Emile, je t'aimais bien…

Vac Effron sat with his buds, Lying Ted, ScreamKing, and Soren_Kierkegaard. x86 sat with them, which worried LadMan. She'd never shown love for Vac and his boys before. But now she whispered into their ears while they nodded and scowled. Jil eyed them from across the boat. She sat nearby the standing Rufus, who stared into the distance and occasionally glanced at Deus and the Crusaders. So much suspicion. What was everyone worried about? LadMan followed Rufus' glance to the watchful eyes of Deus and his dudes, peeking around the pilot's house. Would stuck-solidarity see them through?

Adieu Curé, je t'aimais bien…

Mufferson sat against the railing. The makeshift bandage on her leg was the color of dried blood. Vomit stains had ruined her shirt. Some of the vomit still clung to her chin. She stared ahead, eyes dead. Her chest rose and fell slowly. Her face was pale.

Shook sat next to her, red-eyed. Was nobody going to do anything? Shook had, as the boat departed the docks, gone down to the lower deck and asked if any present NPC was a doctor. They'd all ignored him. So he sat, slowly stroking Muff's back. He'd watched the huge plumes of smoke rising from Chancellorsburg until they disappeared from view. Then he only looked at LadMan, sad and confused.

Adieu ma femme, je t'aimais bien…

Slick sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the railing. Her stance suggested meditation, self-dissipation, a mind unbound, a Buddha who'd lost his lotus flower and closed his hands. So, no Parinirvana for her. Blank face and empty eyes. No sorrow, for there was nothing there. Paradox. She was gone, self-stuck. LadMan had no reason to believe he'd see her again.

Je veux qu'on rie, je veux qu'on danse

Je veux qu'on s'amuse comme des fouse

Je veux qu'on rie, je veux qu'on danse

Quand c'est qu'on me mettra dans le trou…

---

Stella lay on her couch. She stared stupidly at her slowly spinning ceiling fan. Just needed Jim, the American Poet, to complete the American mood. On the television, the prodigal son himself, Franky Fisher, televising live his first tattoo, a giant bald eagle on his back. Stella hadn't the stomach for this filth but lacked the drive to reach the remote on her coffee table. And anyway, her mind was elsewhere. Would buying those old timey men's razors seem suspicious? Buying them in combination with ibuprofen probably would. But who would care enough to do anything? There was always the oven, but she'd never been much of a cook. What about a gun? Those're easy to get.

Franky winced as the needle hit his skin, then, as if to play it off as a joke, he stuck his tongue out at the camera.

–Stay still, said the heavily-inked-himself artist.

Franky didn't wince again, but he clearly clenched his teeth. Trying to appear tough on the tele. His ATM girlfriend, Hadaly, a sweet faced, short-haired heiress Stella would've found unbearably cute in a better state of mind, took Franky's hand and smiled.

Maybe she could go God Bless and shoot up a faux-talent show? Or NBK and shoot up a prison? Or Badlands and shoot a bunch of bumpkins? Why do we have so many movies about this sort of thing? Is modern media so depraved as to warrant such satirical severity? What kind of sick fuck uses tragedy to suck up moron money? Anyway, back to Stella's suicide attempt. Send me a Jackson and I'll mail you pictures.

---

Stella met Aditi at the local lesbo bar, a dying place in the age of apps. But something in Stella and Aditi's temperament kept them old fashioned, at least partially, and so they still found time to stop by.

Stella: fresh out of a long relationship, looking to rebound. Aditi: new to the whole scene. A cute, almost cliché couple. They talked over bright booze and went somewhere quieter when they got tired of the speakers piercing their ears and the sub shaking their drinks. Stella told Aditi about her breakup, careful to sanitize the affair. Bad tactics to talk badly about an ex. Stella said she'd known the chick since high school, but they'd grown apart with age and amicably gone their separate ways. She failed to mention all the fighting. What about Aditi? Any swings to speak of? No, she was taking her time, still unsure, but willing to try.

When asked about her hobbies Stella stumbled. But something in Aditi's eyes put her at ease so Stella said she played video games. Aditi, interested, asked which ones. Again Stella stumbled. She didn't want to list a bunch of game-names Aditi would inevitably not know. But she swallowed and said,

–Well, there's one survival sim I'm playing right now…

–VR or screen?

–VR.

–What's it called? asked Aditi.

–Scavenge.

–Are you serious? You play Scavenge?

–Yeah.

–I love that game! No joke, I play it all the time.

This just made a good thing better. Aditi's IGN was RamaDabbaDoo. And she was sick. With Stella spotting she could wipe a four man squad no prob. She dressed simply in-game, green hunting garb, and carried a brown, noob nailing MRAD. So she shot big, but drove small, bikes and four wheelers when she was alone. Her favorite vehicle, she told Stella, was the side-by-side, which came in-game in two and four seater variants. The two sped across Scavenge's cracked asphalt roads, crept through buildings, and snaked through forests, shooting, looting, and laughing all the way. Things only got better when they nearly ran over two tenacious trekkers. Two boys, heavily geared but un-motorized. One of them, the other later claimed, ran their truck into a tree while preoccupied with his map. Aditi, a better shot than she was a driver, nearly smushed them. She braked fast and spun around. From their side-by-side they pointed pistols at the two boys. The boys had assault rifles ready. A tense beat until Aditi burst out laughing.

–How about a ride? asked one of the boys as he lowered his rifle.

The other boy blushed.

---

At first, Stella thought Aditi impressive in-game and out. Aditi could sit for hours, dissolving her ego from the comfort of her couch. And how fucking heroic, the sad soldier that sits hash-huffing away against the enormity of existence, just some ornament to immensity. Aditi had no ambition, no desires beyond momentary contentment. She seemed to see through a veil and, realizing there was nothing on the other side, contented herself to sit and smoke, watch shitty soaps, and game.

Stella, always high-strung and driven, saw her as a revelation. Someone satisfied just to live, needing nothing. Harboring no grudges towards the world and with no desire to change it. And for a time Stella calmed down and she and Aditi chilled together, smoking and laughing, mocking soaps and grinding games with their new friends, the happiest bunch of sad lads this side of irony. But sadly, Stella, like most, wanted sex. Aditi did not. Far from a prodigious clowner, Stella first found Aditi's lacking libido refreshing. It was nice not to have to worry about sex. She could just hang and enjoy Aditi's sharp wit and weed-fueled wingdinging. Aditi was quiet and calm, and always biting. But never unkind. She possessed a keen sense of boundaries, an understanding of what to poke at and what to keep sleeping. All this was swell. But time trekked on and Stella grew restless. The thing was, Stella wanted sex sometimes.

Cliché though it may be, Stella felt unloved and unattractive. Surely something was wrong with her? Aditi, who claimed to like her and her type, always avoided doing the dirty. Was Aditi confused? This kinda thing happened, albeit rarely. Some poor pseudo-pansy bursts out of the closet only to realize they'd never been in it. The thought made things worse. Stella liked Aditi. The thought that Aditi was diametrically opposed to liking her back hurt her heart.

And, even worse, Aditi never told Stella shit. Something was wrong. The worry-free Aditi, Stella realized, wasn't real. Aditi sunk deeper into the couch, smoked more and more, and stopped laughing at the soaps. Still, she refused to confide. Did she not trust Stella? If not her, then who? Why can't people just say things clearly?

Their relationship ended one hot August day. The stupid Sun sat high, smiling widely, baring its tangle of teeth. Aditi listened to her old iPod, bought back when we still had Jobs. The Vaccines, ten tunes into their second album. She'd been working up the courage to tell Stella something all day.

Stella had to leave the apartment and take a walk. Aditi's announcement was unexpected, but it explained things. Stella was kinda shocked she hadn't suspected, TB honest. She thought hard about the situation. She never considered that to Aditi she'd appeared to storm out.

She returned to the house after an hour. She told Aditi she couldn't, especially if the latter was gonna get all anamorphic. A poor choice of words, but Aditi, in Aditi fashion, didn't argue. No anger, just resignation. After all, things could only be the way they were.

But you must know that's not true. Stella fell from the firmament and stayed smoldering in the dirt. At first she thought Aditi wouldn't deal. They'd find ex-Aditi strung out and strung up. Of course they did not. They never found Aditi at all. For there was no Aditi to find. Just the one that he created. Stella saw him once, happy and healthy. Surely it was the mind that mattered? But she couldn't dictate desire. A miserable choice to make.

Her and Aditi's guildmates never learned the whole truth. When Stella left Aditi the latter stopped playing Lukia. The guild soon learned that Stella got angry when they brought up Aditi, so they stopped. In the aftermath of their breakup Stella dove even deeper into online life. And the guild, while happy to see more of Stella, couldn't help notice that something had changed. But Pfo, Phatphuck, and Bobby lacked the context, Di and Doughy the intellect, Dan and Erectio the tact, Ty and Vac the inclination, and LadMan the courage to help their friend, and so Slick suffered on and on in silence, donning the mask of the caring matriarch, but always with the image of Aditi's disappointed face burnt into the back of her brain.

---

As the Lads neared the city the forest fell away. Brandonville was built at the edge of a great plain that covered the center of the continent. The center of the world, flat and forever. A road ran river-parallel for the final leg of the Lad's journey. Tar-grouted macadam, it carried a constant stream of traffic; carriage and cars sped clip clopping and buzzing atop it while workers kept to the side, spitting and coughing as the vehicles threw dust in their faces. They carried sad, small bags. Patched, dirty clothes hung from their boney frames. They looked lifelessly at the Lads as their boat steamed past.

The city came into view. Brandonville. A colossal construction, it shot higher into the sky than any RL scraper. This sprawling, jutting metropolis didn't scrape the sky, it stabbed right through it. Built like a proper steampunk city, the sort of thing the players had expected. Mostly metal, a crazy quilt of brass, steel, and iron. Huge factories surrounded the city proper, spewing tar-black smoke. Sprawling ghettos clung to them, shody structures built from anything available. Dark, wet streets winding schizophrenically.

The city's construction improved as it climbed. The highest sections of the pseudo-superstructure beautifully built, carefully decorated, tasteful and clean. But the lower sections looked ready to collapse with a sneeze; even the lower sections of buildings that were gorgeous higher up were disgusting, slapdash jobs. One could see this even from the Lad's distance. As if the builders had built every building at once, taking the whole city one floor at a time, and improving in skill and spirit as they went on.

Spot on as a social statement, nonsense architecturally. A wealthy one could live his entire life and never set foot below a certain level. The upper echelons were so connected, with roads and walkways suspended between buildings hundreds of meters up, and with open-air parks and plazas hanging between buildings, that one need not descend to get everything fashionable and fine. You could leave your penthouse, have your chauffeur drive your car or carriage to the opera, then get dinner and call on a friend, all without descending from the city's upper levels. If you wanted to leave the city to summer at your coastal chateau, you could take an elevator directly down to the train station. But not the crowded, clamoring station of the hoi polloi. No, this elevator led directly to an exclusive waiting area, complete with refreshments, entertainment, and lounging. From there you could board the first class car directly.

Of course, as everything in the city proper was built atop something else, but a single lower-level bomb could send a significant bunch of the beau monde to splatter far below. But this city was willed into existence one day by a team of deity-devs. It didn't have to make sense, it only had to be cool.

And by God it was. Airships floated overhead. Several were docked outside the city, attached to the ground via huge steel cables. Biplanes flew past with regularity. The Lads even swore they could see, in the far distance, individual people gliding around in steam-spitting wingsuits or steam-spewing jetpacks.

For a moment all the players, Lads and Crusaders alike, forgot their plight and gazed, damp-eyed and dumbstruck, at the city-sight. No doubt within the city awaited danger and dumbassery. It could swallow them up and not be aware it'd eaten. It was bright, smoggy, grimey, loud, and foreign. And, in a sense, ugly, a giant, jutting metal anomaly where the forest met the plain, surrounded by toxic, bubbling, infected land. But also beautiful, beautiful like the irradiated heat of the atomic age itself; beautiful like a slain plane, spinning and burning, smoke-trailing as it fell from the sky; beautiful like the white glow of screen-light on a stone-set face; beautiful like a tree-shaped cloud climbing skyward while shaking the Earth, modernity's id unleashed.

---

–I got a message from Chumpchange, said Clean as she entered the room. He says they've arrived at Brandonville.

–That means the message range extends from here to there, said Beb.

–That's good, mumbled Charles. He sat next to Beb, buried in his menu.

Beb thought of going downstairs and having the inn-lady bring up some breakfast. They didn't need it, nutritionally, but Beb liked food, and the inn-lady made food well.

Lunar, still asleep, mumbled something. The morning Sun peeked past their window curtain's edge and fell across his face. Clean watched him, considering.

Oh Clean.

---

Keeping Clean

by Moses

And if a woman have an issue, and her issue in her flesh be blood, she shall be put apart seven days: and whosoever toucheth her shall be unclean until the even. And every thing that she lieth upon in her separation shall be unclean: every thing also that she sitteth upon shall be unclean. And whosoever toucheth her bed shall wash his clothes, and bathe himself in water, and be unclean until the even. And whosoever toucheth any thing that she sat upon shall wash his clothes, and bathe himself in water, and be unclean until the even. And if it be on her bed, or on any thing whereon she sitteth, when he toucheth it, he shall be unclean until the even. And if any man lie with her at all, and her flowers be upon him, he shall be unclean seven days; and all the bed whereon he lieth shall be unclean.

---

Franky was lost.

Three days in the forest, wandering around, eating berries, drinking stream water, and vomiting. In his manic mindstate he'd ran until he couldn't run, then walked, and hadn't stopped till he came to. But snapping back to spaghetti or something similar only made him realize how lost he was. All the trees and bushes and dead-leaf fed dirt looked the same. The Sun beat down till it burned the back of his neck, his exposed neck, and face. He slept the first night beside a slowly flowing stream.

At first he'd resisted eating forest food. Berries, nuts, roots, leaves, he hadn't any idea what was safe and what would leave him poisoned. And the stream water, clear though it seemed, wouldn't agree with his filtered-well-water familiar constitution. So what to do? Franky wished he'd watched those survival shows his ex-GF Rachel loved. Could he hunt? He'd never killed, save for in-house insects, and even taking those little lives made him feel sick. Rachel knew how to hunt. Her father taught her. But she used shotguns, and Franky wasn't packing. Could he sharpen a stick and stab a squirrel or something? That's how that worked, right? He imagined the stick entering the squirrel's flesh. The critter's eyes wide in shock and fear. The life seeping from the wound. Franky almost gagged. Besides, he knew you couldn't eat an animal fur and all. You had to skin it, and he had no idea how to do that.

After two and a half days of wandering Franky started truly freaking. He'd thrown his phone at a tree during his initial woodward run, and could think of no other way to contact help. So, picking the least dangerous looking berry he saw, he chowed down. He tried to start a fire to boil some stream water, but couldn't rub sticks together fast enough. So he just drank, bent over, his hands cupped together, sucking up each sip. But something, either the berries or the water or just the stress of being lost in the infinite forest, made him sick, and he spent the remainder of his third day doing the technicolor yawn under a big tree's shade.

Night fell and so did he. A restless sleep. The sweat coating his body turned cold. He shivered and mumbled. When he awoke, he thought only of escape. But how to escape, when he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there?

How'd he get to this point? How was it that, freer than he'd ever been, he felt trapped? The whole of old gray Gaia squeezing her gnarled fingers around him, choking out his life. Man, fuck the forest. Why was he stomping around like a savage? Aren't we past all that?

What is a savage? thought Franky as he wandered aimlessly around. Lack of tech? Crude morality? Simplistic theology?

Franky had no faith in where he was going. In times like these, you're supposed to sit still. They'll come to you.

---

I’m no James Dean
Heartthrob daydream
Bad hair, black jeans
Not cool suits me
Girls won’t date me
Guys all hate me
Guess that must mean
I’m no James Dean.

---

Should she stick with Lunar? He seemed kinda ditzy, bumbling around, always adjusting his pants cause he made his penis too big, but he knew powerful players. And had it not been for him, she'd be starving in the plaza right now. Clean didn't see a real alternative.

So Mr. Clean had to come to her name, right? But names are mixed bags. They don't always mean everything they should.

She hadn't craved the crap, at least physically, since she'd logged on. Several days was too long, but her body felt fine. Her mind, on the other hand, rebelled against its newly sober state, but without the crippling convulsions, the aches, the vomit, etc. it was bearable. She'd pondered this since Chump declared his dilation deduction. Her lack of withdrawal would support that hypothesis. However, could her brain be cut off from feeling her body? Her poor body could be writhing in pain that very moment. Was that possible? Did it matter? Who cares about pain if the brain ain't privy to it? Besides, she was sure she could find some inebriating substance somewhere. But did she need to? Isn't this what she wanted? A body she'd constructed. A body she liked, excepting her big boob blunder. These thoughts made her feel guilty. Surely she shouldn't feel pleased about all this. Agh, she didn't. She just…

She didn't hate her real-life body. At least, she knew she shouldn't. But she wished real life had character creation.

Then, as always, something came along to complicate it all.

---

Oxiana, known in-game as OxieJ1149. Of course she'd gotten Fanget Online. She'd loved Lukia, even gotten pretty good at speed-running some of its solo raids. She still held the record for the Great Labyrinth, which she completed in under 20 minutes.

She spawned as a Meria. Appropriate. How could one fly too close to the Sun without wings? About a day post-patch, while Oxie and a few others crouched around a wooden crate and waited for something to happen, they saw a mob of Meria players. Flying through the sky, into the upper echelons of the town. Cutting through the cherry blossom petals fluttering through the air. One player, a striking figure, led them. Where were they going? Oxie returned to her thoughts. How little she knew.

She'd once casually calculated her percentage of the observable universe's atoms. 1.02E-59%. Disheartening? She never thought so. She thought it funny that something so small could look so far. But now she was staring at the hard bread in front of her. Whatever she did, the Universe would be itself.

---

Slick surfaced from her stupor to find the Lads in Brandonville. A bustling dock just outside the city proper. But the Lads weren't looking at the city. They stood on the boat's top deck, surrounding the wailing Shooketh, who held in his arms a lifeless Mufferson.

–How did this happen? asked Pfo.

The Crusaders stood silent on the other side of the boat, watching.

–Everybody off, we've arrived! the captain called from the lower deck.

Slick pushed through the Lads and knelt beside Shooketh.

–It's okay, Shook, she said.

–She's dead, Slick, Shook cried. What does that mean? What happens to her? Where is she now?

–She's okay, said Slick. She'll be okay.

Shook recoiled. The Lads gasped. Mufferson was demartiliarzing from his arms. Like any old game mob, dissolving into pixels. A few seconds and she was gone, clothes and all. Not a trace. Shook screamed.

–It's okay, said Slick, embracing the boy. He cried into her chest.

–Where is she? Where did she go? What am I going to do without her?

–We'll find her, said Slick. We'll find her, I promise.

Slick had no idea if they would. She understood almost nothing. But, fuck, she had to say something.

LadMan stood watching. He looked sick, infected with guilt. Diseased, dying by the minute. Disaster taken organic form and ruining his body, crippling his mind.

---

Lunar finally awoke. Beb and Charles sat on the floor before him, chowing down on a breakfast spread. How like his brother, sitting on the couch, chomping.

–Where's Clean? he asked.

–Outside, said Beb between bites. Had something to do. I don't know. She was acting weird.

Lunar left the room and descended the stairs. No inn-lady. Just Jeanine, still dead on the bench. He headed out. The pudgy peasant man, the same one Lunar and Clean saw when they arrived, still stood outside, in almost the exact same spot, staring at the inn. Creepy beyond count. Lunar kept searching for Clean. He glanced at the outhouse, locked and occupied. Was she there? Lunar hadn't felt the need to relieve himself in that regard. He headed to the horse-less stable. What about there?

Lunar entered. He stopped a few steps in, horrified. Clean, in the corner, hunched over, pantless, blood on her legs. She had in her hand a rag, which she was about to bring to her legs when she saw him.

–Lunar, she exclaimed. Her face went redder than her legs.

–I- I'm sorry, said Lunar.

He scrambled out of the stable. The peasant still stood, staring at the inn. A chicken clucked. He saw the outhouse door swing open. The inn-lady emerged and strutted back to the inn. Lunar, unsure of what else to do, took a seat on the ground and remained there. He bared his face to the Sun. Still no answer as to whether the game had sunburns. If he stared at the star, would it blind him? He didn't want to risk it. After a while, Clean emerged from the stable, dressed. With some uncertainty she sat next to him.

–I'm really sorry about that, she said after a while.

–No, it's not your fault, said Lunar. He couldn't bear to look at her.

–I'm… just surprised that sort of thing is really in the game, he continued. Especially when… other things aren't. I guess that tailor was right. Are you… all accounted for?

What kind of question is that? Lunar cringed. Clean fiddled with a loose piece of straw on the ground.

–I've never had one before, she said.

She was looking at the ground.

–What? asked Lunar. You mean… a period?

–Yeah.

–Why? asked Lunar, boy blunder.

–Look, Lunar, I'm not… I mean, in real life… I don't… you know… have all that.

–You're a man, said Lunar.

Clean stared hard at the ground, as if something might rise up from it. Her face felt hot.

–I'm… no… I'm not.

Now Lunar looked at the ground. But Clean, finally, looked up, squinting as she peered past the Sun. Cosmic beyond. Earth. Sol. Milky Way. Local Group. Virgo. Laniakea. Observable Universe. 93 hot billion light years. The end of greatness, whatever that is.

You good, girl. According to who? Lunar? Naw, he's gravy. Yourself? No again. Sorry, but me. It's all me.

…

Then shape meaning in the wild, idiot.

You know that if there was a God, higher than high, they'd affirm Clean as herself. Paradoxical but… solely created.

Cleanly constructed.

---

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Postabsurdism

The school sits where we left it, its Stars and Stripes at half mast, drawn down by some rando’s no doubt untimely demise. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that flag fly full.

---

The argument: Dans la petite morgue, il m'a appris qu'il était entré à l'asile comme indigent.

---

What was the Emperor doing? Sitting on his ass, in his villa, far from either Brandonville or Chancellorsburg. Lying sideways, Roman style, while servants fed him grapes. General Marvey, in conjunction with the Imperial Defense Minister, wired the Emperor from Brandonville then acted without waiting to hear back. They mobilized the 1st Imperial Guard and sent them to Chancellorsburg to assist that city's belaguarded garrison. They ordered the 5th Army Division, under the tentative leadership of Brigadier General Bradshaw, to protect Brandonville. Then they dusted off their copies of the Librito and called their preachers to confirm that, yes, they would be donating to that new church expansion.

As for the soldiers in Chancellorsburg, they faced existential panic on a massive scale. Not only from the Reckoning, an event all but the most fire and brimstone branded never thought would actually come, but from the distressing revelation (one realized en masse) that their actions weren't their own. So many soldiers, working to secure some street, caught Begotten in their sights, looting and wrecking, but couldn't bring themselves to act. They couldn't shoot, or detain, or even intervene. All they could do was ask them to stop. Unless they saw the individual actively committing a crime, no matter how damning the circumstantial evidence may be, they couldn't detain them. And unless the individual shot at them first, they couldn't fire. This wasn't a usual ROE, given by commanders with a wink, this was an ROE burned so deep into their brains as to be natural law. The NPCs felt, when they tried and tried to contain the Begotten but found they couldn't, that Logos himself, up high, must've taken control of their minds and stopped them from harming his people. They did what they could, but the Begotten, with some exceptions, ran wild and free, unrestrained by either their own morality or the morality the poor people so desperately sought to impose upon them.

---

Slick took command and led the Lads from the PS Emerald. No sense in standing around, waiting for Muffy to rematerialize. Pfo had to pick up the sobbing Shook and carry him bridal style, but excepting him, the Lads kept it together.

The Brandonville docks were abuzz. Citizens all out of sorts. Ragged, battered boys hawked newspapers. Vac approached one.

–Give me a paper, kid, he said.

–That's one bit-piece, mister, said the kid.

–What a retarded name for a currency, said Vac.

He reached into his pocket and fished around. He removed his hand then, his fist closed, raised it up. The kid's eyes followed. With his other hand Vac grabbed a paper from the kid and shoved him when he protested. The kid considered making a fuss, but saw Ted and Vac's other buddies glaring at him and backed off. Should he go to the cops? Naw, no cops.

–This is a fucking disaster, said Vac to Ted once he returned with the paper. Muff's dead, all the NPCs are going bonkers…

–Yeah, Lad's doing a great job, muttered Ted.

They looked to Lad, standing silently next to Dan as the latter yelled at a policeman.

–Where is the Emperor, then? Why isn't he in the fucking capital?

–How should I know why the Emperor does what he does? said the cop. He spends his time at his villa, not my business to know why.

–Then who is in charge around here? asked Dan. We want to talk to whoever is in charge.

–Oh, sure, let me pencil you in for an appointment with the mayor, said the policeman. I'm a beat cop, what do you want from me?

–Agh, shouted Dan. Listen, you fuck-

Slick stepped up and shoved Dan out of the way.

–Sir, she said, we came here from Chancellorsburg. Have you heard anything about what's happening there?

–Of course, the whole town is in chaos.

–We have important information about it. We need to speak to someone, preferably someone with some power. We think we can help end the unrest.

–Well, I'm still just a beat cop. Why don't you go to city hall?

–Could you at least give us directions? asked Slick.

–It's… well… first you go… up…

–I can get us there, said Dan from behind her. Tell that retard I can get us there.

He had his face in his map, clicking away.

–I think we can get there, said Slick. Thank you for your help.

–Are you… Begotten? the cop asked after a moment.

–Very much so, said Pfo, still holding Shook in his arms. Here to find the sacred knowledge to get us all to salvation.

–Oh… well… good luck then.

---

Confusion abound. Like the old humans who hadn't a clue why the Earth sometimes shook or the stars shined. Now we know, not that it makes much difference.

Oxie liked astronomy because she loved feeling small but looking far. How a bunch of baryon bitches could see so far that greatness ends… if anything, she wished she could see farther. She sometimes felt trapped, as ludicrous as it sounds, within our Hubble volume, undoubtedly the lamest of them all. How was the 10^10^115 meter-away Oxie faring? She bet even that far flung doppelganger was doper.

But Oxie, isn't your Hubble volume just your head? Young Oxie would disagree, but older Oxie, stuck inside a stupid video game, sitting around a crate in the back-alley of a spawn town, wouldn't be so sure.

---

Selections from American Antigone

the unpublished novel by Connor McCullen

(from Chapter One: The Chilean)

When I was twenty three years old a man cut off his penis and nailed it to a cross and sold it to the highest bidder for one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. The police, as baffled as they'd ever been, couldn't figure out if the seller, a self-proclaimed avant-gardiste, had acted illegally, if the buyer, a self-proclaimed collecteur du transcedant, had acted illegally, or if society as a whole was at fault. Eventually they decided that nobody was legally wrong and everybody went on their way, one party with one hundred and eighty thousand dollars and no penis, and the other with one hundred and eighty thousand fewer dollars but with a new penis nailed to a cross.

For them, things proceeded normally. The artist, a Chilean by the name of Pablo Martinez, continued lopping off body parts and attaching them to various objects, while the collector, a man named Roger Wurtswurth, admired the dismembered member he'd hung above his brick fireplace. Everyone else, however, went fucking insane.

[…]

Many praised Martinez and his brave gesture. He was a "maverick and a martyr, one who'd suffered at the hands of society and was willing to strike back." One prominent critic called his piece "the greatest criticism of the patriarchal Western tradition I've yet seen." Another said that "[Martinez's] gesture has permanently shattered a once restrictive world of artistic expression. Where some see a penis I see hope for all those whose voices have been stifled."

Of course, Martinez wasn't without his faultfinders. One critic angrily wrote, "What is wrong with you people? This man is not a maverick, he's insane! What if I commit suicide, but do so over a canvas? Would the canvas containing the splattered matter from my once busy brain be something you would covet?" The next few weeks saw several such canvasses appear for sale.

Another critic, a professor of art history at a large European university and a prominent feminist theorist, had a different take on Martinez. She wrote, "I find this piece concerning for the future of female artistic expression. Many women are praising Martinez, but I read his piece differently. First, the penis upon the cross does not represent, as many think, the sacrifice of a man committed to dealing the final blow to a patriarchal world. It represents, rather, a man who laments the death of said world. Martinez sees himself as a sort of 'Penis Jesus,' someone who understands that the patriarchal world of the past is ending, and has sacrificed himself because of it. Martinez does not see himself as a feminist martyr, but a martyr for a world increasingly becoming filled with sin, that sin being feminism. For this, Martinez deserves derision. Second, if this sort of art takes off, women will once again be relegated to the background. One must consider the following: if the removal of one's penis becomes the ultimate artistic statement, how should a female artist, who does not have a penis, proceed?"

This professor's analysis was widely read and discussed. One prominent Internet denizen dismissed her as a "dumb slut lol. Another denizen offered a more nuanced view.

"While I typically agree with Mrs. Klein's writing, I disagree with her here. I find Mr. Martinez's piece inspirational. Here we have a man who, his entire life, lived with a penis. Then, one day, he decided not to. Despite extreme pain, intense backlash, criticism, and the chance of infection or death, Mr. Martinez exerted his will over his body. Many think he is crazy, many think he is misogynistic. I think he's neither. I think he's free."

And the trans-community wouldn't be ignored on the issue either.

[…]

(from Chapter Three: Les Etoiles Infinies)

Mr. Arthur Blomgren, who'd immigrated to the United States from Sweden when he was twenty and at sixty-three strongly considered immigrating back, abhorred Martinez's work. Blomgren, well versed in art and art history as well as poetry and literature (French, Swedish, and English) pointed his cheap camera at a cheap canvas in his workshop, slipped a condom over his penis and smothered it in red paint, and proceeded, while streaming live on the Internet, to paint what vaguely resembled Lawrence's Pinkie. Once he was finished, Blomgren waved his paint-covered penis in front of his camera and exclaimed, "I hope this makes you happy, you sickos!"

He gave the picture to one of his stream's viewers, chosen randomly, who sold it, much to Blomgren's dismay, for seventy-seven thousand dollars.

Things only got worse when Martinez, proclaiming it his magnum opus, shot his wife and daughter in their Talca home. He was arrested, declared insane, and committed.

[…]

(from Chapter Four: More Things in Heaven and Earth)

Three weeks after Martinez shot his wife and daughter, I attended a staging of Hamlet. The local high school put on the performance. Their program, though small and basic, was the only one within miles, and the anticipation of the performance, for a tiny town that never saw so much as a third rate rendition of Les Mis, was palpable. It might seem strange, to some, that anticipation for a play that we'd all seen and read would be so high, especially considering the players still had acne and Instagramed when backstage, but the people that find this strange have never lived in a town with a single supermarket.

I arrived at the performance feeling good. I enjoyed the crisp air and the anticipation of a night of theatre. I stood outside the venue for some time, chatting with fellow locals, most of whom I knew by name, until the staff, miserable high schoolers paid less than minimum wage, herded us inside, checking first to make sure we had our poorly printed tickets advertising "Hamlet as we'd never seen it before!" We shuffled into our seats, hard wooden seats with thin velvet cushioning that would do little to protect our backs or butts from the aches that would certainly ensue. After more waiting and chatting the theatre teacher, an old man who owned too many sweaters, appeared on the stage and talked for a while about how hard his students had worked, how much of a pleasure he'd had working with them, how they were all so talented, etc. Once he left the stage the play began.

The production proceeded as expected. The players did their best to remember their lines. Some spoke with too much confidence, some with not enough. Some you could hear too well, some hardly at all. Horatio did a particularly good job, delivering his lines clearly and ably. He was a large fellow, a well-liked kid with an unfortunate haircut who looked like a linebacker but acted like a librarian. Claudius did fine, nothing special, but no major mishaps. Gertrude flubbed a few lines but recovered with grace. Laertes was very confident, nearly screaming his lines, while Ophelia was the opposite. I felt bad for that particular actress, a tiny girl standing less than four feet five. She could have benefited from stronger lungs. Maybe Laertes should have loaned her some of his strength? The strange image of Laertes standing over Ophelia, blowing into her mouth as if to transfer strength, amused me during one of Fortinbras' (who was undoubtedly the weakest link of the production, speaking slowly and putting too much emphasis on the iambic nature of the speech) scenes.

Hamlet himself was played by a strange kid, tall and lanky. I'd seen him about town a few times before. He almost always wore turtlenecks, no matter the weather, and his spectacles were something from the 19th century, with wiry frames and circular lenses that hardly covered his eyes. His performance was passable, nothing special, which led me to wonder why Horatio, the much stronger actor, hadn't been cast in the titular role instead.

By the time the fifth act came around most members of the audience, exempting a few overly proud parents, regretted their decision to attend. Here's the thing about Hamlet. It's a long play. It's even longer when being performed by high schoolers who can't remember where they put their fake IDs, let alone pages of lines in something most of them mistakenly call "old English."

This happened twice a year, every year. The residents of my small town (myself included) convince themselves that "it'll be better this time," and attend the performance with high hopes. These hopes never last past the first act. Just the fall before we saw The Importance of Being Earnest meet its grisly end at the hands of Algernon, who spent nearly a minute and a half baking under the lights, searching for a line that would not come.

So it stood to reason that most were aching to leave; many already had. Parents remained out of duty. Sibling remained because the parents were their rides. Most of the random townsfolk had left. At first they came up with excuses, which they whispered to those sitting near them. "Damn, I need to get home and feed the dog." "Got a busy morning tomorrow, better hit the sack early tonight." One particular English teacher, a lifelong admirer of the Bard (as being an English teacher demands) would have "loved to stay for the remainder of the performance," but "had some papers left to grade." But soon people just left, rising and quietly excusing themselves as they shimmied past the legs of the poor sods still bearing witness.

So it was for a severely diminished audience that Hamlet would perform his stunt.

"A pestilence of him for a mad rogue! He poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. The same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester."

"This?" asked Hamlet, pointing to the skull.

"E'en that," replied the gravedigger.

"Let me see," said Hamlet, taking the skull. He hesitated for a moment. The audience groaned, expecting that he'd forgotten the famous speech and would spend the next five minutes fumbling over it until he'd muttered past the main points and Horatio could retake charge.

"What I see here," said Hamlet, looking to the audience, staring at us with an intensity that shattered the fourth wall, "is the skull of an institution, an entire type of art, that has met its end. Some might weep for the death of the Bard, but I say good riddance!"

With that, Hamlet threw the skull upon the stage, watching as it shattered into pieces.

---

The late day heat still reigned supreme, but the sun had begun its diurnal descent, its time-tested ritual of pulsar regularity. In the widening twilight the star entered its once-daily death throes with a frenzied dramatic sensibility. How wonderful it is that even a savage sphere of mindless fusion and hapless heat can produce on our tiny rock something so beautiful as the pink-painted sky with its impossibly wispy clouds that seem to travel along at no particular speed, with no particular goal. Ornaments to immensity, encompassing all the beauty such vastness boasts.

---

The Lads and Crusaders marched, a fifty strong mass, through the crowded, stuffy streets of lower Brandonville. The layers above blocked the Sun, so that only flickering electric street lamps and the light seeping from dirty store windows lit their way. The Brandonvillians, ragged and pale, with sunken eyes and greasy hair, stared at the players as they passed.

They'd attempted to take an elevator to the higher levels, where the Mayoral Manor was allegedly located, but found that every elevator required fees, some exorbitant. Richard and Deus wanted to seize an elevator operator and force him to send them all upward, but Cycler and Sheryl, at the behest of the Lads, talked them down. Besides, the elevators could hold twenty at most. There was no way the players could force an operator to make three trips without causing too much of a scene. So LadMan, with discommoded Deus beside him, led them down the dark, winding roads.

–LadMan, said Dan from behind.

–What? asked the tired Lad.

–We need to stop and have everyone friend all the Crusaders… in case we get separated.

LadMan knew Dan was right. Dear Dan, still thinking of those things, even after all the shit they'd endured. They'd gotten stuck in a game, almost starved, sparked a riot… now they were lost in the lower levels of this hellish metropolis where no real light reached. But this was not a comfortable darkness. The kind that envelops and protects. It was artificial, like the darkness in a prison cell. Is all darkness oppressive, evidence of a finite Universe rapidly expanding? We sense that some types of darkness are good. But it could be just that: a sense, much misled. The sky doesn't shine because it's leaving us. The redshifted light we get, the light we never see. This is the darkness of abandonment.

Then there was Mufferson. Dematerialized. Dead? LadMan didn't know, but he felt the eyes of the Lads boring into the back of his head. He heard Shooketh still softly whimpering as Pfo carried him along.

–Stop, this is bullshit, came a cry from behind.

LadMan stopped and turned. All fifty players, stuffed in the tiny street, stared at Vac Effron, at the very back.

–Lad, what the fuck are we doing? he demanded.

–What do you mean? shot Dan. We're going to find the mayor.

–The mayor? Stop to think for a sec, dumbass, said Vac. Why the fuck are we going to the mayor? What the fuck?

–Do you have a better idea? Dan said, his voice-volume rising.

–I'm not talking to you, you sperg, Vac shouted. Let LadMan answer for himself. Lad, what the fuck have we been doing? Everything is fucked up!

–What do you want me to do? LadMan asked quietly, pathetically.

–Fuck, dude, Muff is fucking dead!

–We know! shouted Dan. You didn't do anything to stop it.

Shooketh started wailing. Pfo shouted at the two to stop.

–Why are we even here? asked Vac.

–The Devs- began Dan.

–Not in the game, retard. In this fucking city. Why the fuck did we come here?

–We couldn't stay in Chancellorsburg! said Dan.

–Stop this, you two, said Slick. This isn't getting us anywhere.

Vac, ignoring her, said,

–We wouldn't have had to leave Chancellorsburg if science nigger over there hadn't started a fucking riot. Honestly, you incompetents are ruining us all.

Chumpchange remained static, but Bobby, so sick from years of Vac and feeling his anger rise as he watched Di grow worried, jumped in,

–What did I tell you about saying that word? he shouted.

–Bro, really? said Ted with a toxic laugh. You're worried about that now?

–This is what I'm talking about, said Vac. You retards are worried about all this dumb shit. The only reason Lad wanted to come here is cause he wants to meet up with Ty and Woman and those assholes. He doesn't give a shit about the rest of us.

–That's bullshit, shouted Dan.

–God, won't you losers chill? said Deus.

–Mufferson is fucking dead, said Vac. All because you morons won't think before you act.

–Mufferson killed herself! shouted Dan. She drank from that puddle, we didn't force her to.

–She got shot, said Ted. She didn't die from the puddle, you dumbass.

Shooketh had lost it. Pfo tried again to shut Vac and Dan up, but only added to the noise.

–Say something, you pussy, Vac shouted at the ashamed LadMan. You're the one in charge, aren't you? You're a goddamn coward. God, fuck all you niggers.

–Shut up! shouted Bobby.

–Nigger! Nigger, nigger, nigger! yelled Vac.

It took all of Bobby's restraint not to leap at him, but it hardly mattered, cause Dan broke and did so himself. He charged and clumsily socked Vac in the mouth. Vac recoiled, his eyes full of shock and anger. Blood fell from his mouth. The few NPCs that still stalked the street, realizing the spectacle had gotten out of hand, scurried away. The players watched in anguish as a health bar appeared above Vac's username and dropped by 10%.

–You fucking cunt! shouted Vac. You're trying to kill me!

–Why didn't a health bar appear over the head of the dead girl? Chump muttered to himself. This remark would've pissed off Pfo had he been able to hear it over the yelling. Besides, he was currently engaged in breaking up the fight. He set the sobbing Shooketh down and rushed between the brawling boys. He shoved Vac away and grabbed Dan, squeezing his arms to his chest. Dan screamed and struggled, but couldn't break free.

Lying Ted knelt next to Vac, who sat on the ground, dripping blood and rage.

–That fucking cunt, Vac muttered.

–Chill, dog, said Ted. This got out of hand.

Pfo pinned Dan against a metal wall and said,

–Have you calmed down?

–Let go of me, Pfo, said Dan, still struggling.

–Calm down first.

Dan did, eventually. He stormed off and stood down the street banging his hands against a building. Soren and Scream King, Vac's other buddies, came to help him up. Slick got Shooketh, taking him down the street, in the opposite direction of Dan, and sitting him down on a bench. The little Lad dry heaved while Slick stroked his hair. The other Lads and Crusaders stood still, angry and scared.

–Pfo, what are we gonna do? asked Doughy.

–We'll be okay, Dough, said Pfo, we just need to stick together.

He looked at LadMan, ostensibly their leader. The Lad stood struck.

---

Selection from Alcibiades

the unfinished novel by Belton Berkshire

My good friend Destini James lived three stories higher than she would have liked. She claimed domain over 500 square feet within a brick covered cube, a structure brutalist in all but material. She spent most of her time at her tiny desk, a wobbly black escritoire peppered with cigarette burns. Her chair, hard and wooden, caused her discomfort to inhabit, but she did so all the same, ignoring her suffering back, throwing posture to the wind in pursuit of her masterpiece, which, she claimed, was always just a few weeks of impassioned writing away.

She'd positioned her desk just in front of the window with the best view, which was to say, the only window not facing the alleyway with the dumpsters. Whenever I went to visit my dear, struggling friend, I could see her as I approached. Her tiny head and frizzled hair peeking out of the window. She was either smoking, nodding her head along to music she blasted into her ears, or sipping wine. Or she was sleeping, her head cocked to the side, her mouth hanging half open, sometimes a dying cigarette still lit within it, hanging precariously. But she was never writing.

On the other side of her apartment, a few arm lengths away, she positioned a repurposed kitchen table, the type of miniature eating surface you see sitting out on the street with a large "For Free" sign lazily tapped on it. The table housed her typewriter, massive and mechanical and light green, reminiscent of the fifties despite hailing from this decade. She harbored a strange nostalgia for the fabulous fifties, indicated by the fake art she hung about her limited wall space, indicated by the cartoons that kept her company as she drifted into sleep, lying on her couch, a blanket half covering her, a bowl of butter-covered popcorn forgotten on the floor. I found her obsession with the decade strange, it was not a kind one for someone of her pigmentation.

Beside her typewriter she kept a stack of creamy paper, untarnished by mark and devoid of inspiration. Simply blank, as if they were mocking her, wondering why she couldn't fill them. Where had the Muses gone, the pages wondered? Are they coming back? Should a fit of passion ever strike her, pulling her from her ninetieth lonely reading of "Dejection: An Ode," her typewriter would be ready and waiting.

When I arrived at her apartment I must have looked visibly shaken enough to warrant comment, because as soon as I sat on her lumpy couch and accepted the water she offered, she deemed my flagrid state deserving of inquiry.

"What's got you in such a twist? she asked, reclaiming her position at her writing desk. A lonely piece of notebook paper sat upon it. A pencil beside the paper, not a bit worn from use.

"Why don't you get a computer? I asked, directing her attention away from my sullen state. I asked her the question frequently, and she gave her common response.

"Computers stifle me."

I shrugged and looked to the window above her desk. The Sun peeked through, just a sliver visible, but still enough to blind me, send me reeling back, my eyes red and watery and mushy.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" she asked.

"Go ahead," I said, wiping my burnt eyes.

"You ever heard the story of Oleus?" she asked.

"No."

"He was the central figure in a Greek myth. He was a shepherd. Didn't do much, just minded his business. But he wanted very much to look upon Helios. He spent all his time outside, in the hills and among the mountains, but he could never look at Helios."

"Why not?"

"Because of what just happened to you, of course. He looked up and he was blinded, his eyes turned to mush. Sent back to look upon the Earth. But he wouldn't have it, so he started scheming. At first he constructed an apparatus, similar to those old Inuit snow goggles, circular pieces of wood with tiny slits. They helped, but they didn't let Oleus gaze at Helios as brazenly as he wanted. So he kept working. He looked into a river, which let him see Helios, but not really look at him, you know? Just a reflection. So he went to a philosopher, a great and wise man who lived in an ancient city, maybe Corinth, accounts differ. Anyway, he went to this philosopher and asked him how he could look upon the Sun. And the philosopher told him he couldn't, that Helios wasn't meant to be looked upon, that not all is meant to be known, etc. etc. Well, obviously this answer didn't satisfy Oleus, so he argued with the philosopher for a while, insisting that mankind can know all that they can perceive, perhaps even more, blah blah. Well, the philosopher thought that was absurd, and promptly sent Oleus away.

So Oleus, determined to prove the philosopher wrong, continued his work. He constructed apparatus after apparatus. He could never, of course, arrive at our modern day sunglass technology, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Eventually, Oleus became so upset with his failure that he went back to the city of the philosopher and told him he was going to gaze upon the Sun, Helios, unassisted, for as long as he wished, during the middle of the day, and suffer no consequences. The philosopher said he would like to see such a spectacle, though he still suspected it was impossible. So he followed Oleus to the city square, where they waited for midday. A small crowd gathered as Oleus readied for his attempt, and once the Sun had reached its zenith, he opened his eyes as wide as he could, and stared it down."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Helios sent rays to burn through Oleus' unprotected eyes and scorch his brain."

"Jeez, that's depressing," I said. "I've never heard that story before. It's odd."

"As in… untrue?"

"Well, most Greek myths are untrue. I just mean, it doesn't sound… authentic."

"That's because it's made up."

"What?"

"Made up. Fabricated. I made the whole thing up."

"Really?"

"Yup. I'm thinking of putting it in a book. Maybe an epic poem. Something like… Oleus Unbound."

"But Oleus was never really… bound."

"Well, in a metaphorical sense he was" She paused for a moment. "Why do you think it sounded inauthentic?"

"Because it is?"

"But surely I could make it sound authentic. What do you think I'd have to do? You don't think Oleus should win?"

"No… humans never beat gods. I'm not really sure, I'd get someone else's opinion."

---

Hermes leads the three down to Paris, a gay boy who works as a bouncer at the local gay bar. He tells Paris to decide which goddess is the most beautiful. All three wonder why Hermes chose this loser, but Hermes explains that Paris has a highly developed aesthetic sensibility, and is therefore the best qualified to judge beauty, gay or not. Besides, gay people know these things. Paris praises all three for different things: Athena for her dignity, Hera for her fashion and poise, and Aphrodite for her charm, but he cannot choose between them. The goddesses resort to bribery. Hera says she’ll give Paris a fortune. Athena says she’ll give Paris intelligence. But Aphrodite only says she will give Paris a beautiful woman. She refuses to give him a beautiful man. To everyone’s surprise, Paris picks Aphrodite. He wants a beautiful woman to stick it to his obnoxious and homophobic half-brother, Aeneas (who takes after his mother), and realizes that he has a chance to bring home a hot girl before Aeneas does.

---

What makes a leader? Confidence? Respect? Knowledge? Experience? Some say leadership is a quality obtained pre-birth, during the nebulous dice roll that determines the haves and the have-nots. Leaders are born, created only by the grace of God. You know them when you see them and you'll follow them into the dirt if they demand it.

Others maintain that leadership is a process, a continual creation. Good leaders are molded over the leader's life. They suck up information and spit out improvements in style. A skill perpetually enhanced.

Most fall in the middle. Leaders are born talented and refine said talents over time. Nature and nurture mixing together.

LadMan, leading the Lads in Lukia, practised a patient, relaxed style of leadership. He got frustrated, angry, and overwhelmed, but mostly maintained a steady, approachable kindness. But how much did he actually do? He wasn't like Deus, emotionally stunted but tactically intelligent, barking out calls during raids and battles. During fights Bobby, Phatphuck, or Douglas usually assumed command of the callouts. LadMan had some control over guild funds, but he rarely made spending decisions without consultation.

As for authority, what amount did he actually possess? Nobody elected him. God didn't appoint him. He held his position because he'd founded the guild. He was a figurehead, nobody had to listen to him and he knew it.

A good leader would've assured the Lads. He wouldn't shut down at every whiff of crisis. He'd keep the various Lad-factions from fighting. He'd fold the Crusaders into their ranks without trouble. He wouldn't have let Muffy die.

The riot at the plaza was preventable. Muffy's death was preventable. Vac and Dan's fight was preventable.

But what do you do when nothing makes sense?

–This game is fucking busted, Dan muttered. How are we supposed to survive this shit? Lad, my stats are "full," "hydrated," and "rested." But I checked the stat menu when we first spawned, and after the patch. I didn't have any necessity stats then. Not "full," "hydrated," or "rested." The stats only appeared when we first hit "hungry," "thirsty," and "tired." It doesn't telegraph the necessities at all. That's complete BS.

When Napoleon overshot Mack at Ulm, he didn't shut down, throw up his hands and whine at the world. Did Boney's world make more sense than this one? Once they got to the mayor, if they got to the mayor, what were they going to do?

LadMan knew he had help. Slick, Bobby, Pfo, Dan, Rufus… but he'd had help before. Muffy still died. People need a strong leader, a single authority to look to. LadMan needed to seize supremacy. He could do it. He had to do it. He had to lead.

---

The Meria spawn town, Merse, was built high in the mountains on the East Continent. The buildings, slapdash in style, with an east Asian aesthetic Oxie found obnoxious, clung to the steep mountain slopes. In some cases buildings were built into very nearly vertical cliff faces. Walkways and stone roads connected the blocks of buildings together. Cherry trees and lilacs further bathed the town in color, their reds and whites mixing with the bright buildings, the swaying paper lamps, and the NPC's bright feathers and garb.

The spawn plaza, in the town's lower levels, still held most of the Meria players. Oxie and her comrades, players she'd met and stuck with during the post-patch confusion, set up shop a short distance from the plaza, in an alleyway between a bakery and a cobbler. They huddled around a wooden crate and, when night came, slept bunched together, rotating watch. A few days post-patch, upon discovering the necessities system, Oxie and her peers started to panic. They considered bursting into the bakery and burglarizing bread but, during a lull in their conversation, they heard the plaza erupt into activity. Hesitantly, they went to investigate.

They found two Meria players in the center of the plaza, erecting a stage out of crates while a third laboriously flapped his wings to keep himself afloat and shouted at the plaza players through a bizarre, steam-spitting megaphone.

–Remain calm! Please be quiet! the megaphone-Meria boomed.

His username floated above his head. Dingo Dave.

–Please, I have an announcement to make! Dingo said.

Finally, as his two compatriots, Jupit and a small, obese Meria player named GuiIsBloat finished constructing the stage, the strident plaza noise simmered down. Dingo Dave descended to the stage.

–God, Jupit, took you long enough, he said without the megaphone. Do you understand how hard it is to hover like that?

–Just make the announcement, said Jupit.

Dingo Dave brought the megaphone to his mouth and boomed.

–Everyone! Please remain calm while I make this announcement.

The outer plaza players pushed their way through the crowd so as to hear. A few players who, like Oxie, had set up camp a short ways away, streamed back into the plaza. Soon several thousand players were squished around the little stage, struggling to divine Dingo's words.

–Some of you might have noticed the necessity system, Dingo said. To check the status of your necessities, access your statuses within the "player" tab of your menu. Most of you will find that you are hungry and thirsty.

Above the rising noise, Dingo boomed.

–Do not panic! We have food and water for all of you! Stay here and remain calm! NPCs will arrive soon to distribute food and water to everyone!

The plaza burst again into conversation. After several minutes, Dingo managed to silence them enough to speak.

–Listen to me! This is important. We are trying to set up some type of system. We are looking for useful people to help us. If you have any great knowledge or skills, line up in front of Jupit here. We could use your-

Dingo could have said this better. He and Jupit had been instructed by their guild leader, the mastermind behind all this, to find "exceptional, useful players" in the plaza and bring them to him. However, every player thought himself exceptional, skilled, and knowledgeable, and so almost everyone began swarming Jupit. Players jumped up and tried to fly to the front of the vague line. Others, seeing this, copied it, causing a huge, three dimensional mass of players pushing and shoving. Noise beyond control. Dingo Dave, shouting into his megaphone, inaudible.

Nearly two hours passed before a sense of order was restored. Dingo Dave, Jupit, and Gui did their best to form a single-file line and process everyone who claimed greatness, but the pushing, shoving, and line-butting persisted, causing violence and chaos to erupt periodically. Then, about an hour after Dingo's initial announcement, a force of NPC Meria arrived bearing bread and water. Despite Dingo's insistence that there was enough to go around, the NPCs got swarmed. Several sustained black eyes or broken limbs and one had several feathers ripped from his right wing.

Finally, as entropy decreased and the plaza calmed, Jupit started processing the players in earnest. Oxie, who wasn't sure why she'd gotten in line, soon came before him.

–God, why does every player think they're freaking Charlemagne, Jupit muttered to himself. Then, to Oxie,

–Okay, what's your deal?

–I'm a cosmologist.

–A what? Is that a type of wizard? That doesn't sound like a real thing.

–I- basically a physicist. A scientist. A science professor.

Why was she justifying her existence to this snot-nosed kid? Oxie had her own approval, she didn't need his. But then his eyes lit up, just like her younger cousins the first time she ever saw them, when she told them she explored the cosmos.

–A professor? Like, at a college? Does that mean you have a PhD in science?

–Yes, a professor, said Oxie.

–Okay, we could use someone with a PhD in science. Go over and join Gui.

Oxie did so. Gui, the twitchy, obese Meria, had surrounding him a small group of players, all vastly outshining him in confidence and authority. Poor Gui looked like he could hardly fly, with his tiny wings and bulging gut. Why make a character like that?

Oxie could still hear Jupit processing players.

–What's your deal? he asked a tall, skinny Meria.

–I'm a professional Genji.

–Okay, God, go away.

–What? I'm nasty! Top 500 NA.

–Get out, get out of the line.

The player departed, grumbling. Oxie looked to Gui. He was being bombarded by the players surrounding him.

–What impressive person organized all this? one of the players asked.

A tall, orange feathered Meria, Womansrights. Flanked by two others, similar in stature and color: LordBaker and Larissa34.

–Striker, said Gui. He's… uh… the leader of FLEEK. You know… the guild?

–I am familiar, said Woman. As I told your compatriot, I am of the Sad Lads, also of Lukia fame. I was tasked with gathering the Meria-spawned Lads and leading them to Brandonville to meet with our other members. Of course, our current predicament complicates things.

–Yeah, said Gui. I… uh… I don't think I know the Sad Lads. Maybe…

–Did you play Lukia?

–Yes, said Guid. Well… some. Towards the end.

–We and FLEEK did not see eye to eye in Lukia, said Woman. But, given our situation, I don't see why we wouldn't put past differences behind us and band together in jolly cooperation.

–Striker is up at the temple, said Gui. Where we set up base. He… man, it was amazing. He went right up to the mayor of this town and laid down the law. Got the mayor to feed everyone here, and give him a temple to set up a base.

–How did he manage all that? asked Lord Baker.

–I… well… I wasn't in the room when he actually talked to the mayor, said Gui. But if you know him, you'd understand. He… he's just really impressive, you know?

–Of course, said Woman, eyeing Gui with some suspicion.

After a while, Jupit called to Gui,

–Yo, take the first group to Striker! Then come right back. Don't get lost or something.

–Okay, follow me, said Gui to the group.

Gui unfurled his wings. Two slits in the back of his peasant shirt allowed them out. Unrealistic, sure, but even at this point certain QoL came first. He awkwardly flapped a few times and began to ascend. The other players, unsure, having hardly flown, followed him. After several delays, the group began soaring up through the town. The NPCs, Oxie realized, flew according to a loose traffic system. Still, flying here was like driving in LA, every man for himself. Oxie saw two NPCs crash into each other and fall for a bit before rapidly flapping their wings to recover. But most of the NPCs gave the players a wide berth, and so they made it to the temple with limited trouble.

The temple, more of a compound, consisted of four large buildings, all in the shoin-zukuri style. A short wall, plastered with posters, surrounded the buildings. A cherry tree sat in the center of the courtyard.

What's the point of a wall, if everyone can fly? Oxie wondered.

Gui and the group landed in front of the temple gate. Two players, Shout975 and MistyRogers, stood nearby.

–This the first group? Misty Rogers asked.

–Yeah- yes, said Gui.

–Okay, we got em, said Shout. You head back to Dingo and Jup.

Gui flew off while Shout and Misty pushed open the gate and escorted the group inside. The two looked almost identical, bright yellow feathers tinged with red.

–I don't know how much Gui told you, but here's the deal, said Shout. We're members of FLEEK. We were a pretty big guild in Lukia. Our leader, Striker, is the one who got all that food and water delivered to the plaza. We've set up base here and are considering our next moves. We want to get as many different perspectives as we can. All of you, assuming Dingo and Jup did their jobs, have something valuable to offer. Our first priority is setting up a system to support the players in the plaza. Once we get basic survival dealt with, we work on getting out of the game. Any questions?

Woman raised his hand.

–Yeah, you.

–Do you know why nobody in the real world has deigned to remove our headsets?

–No, said Shout. It doesn't really matter, though, does it? If they were gonna, they would have done it already. We're here, and we have to deal with it. Now, if that's it, let's go in and see Striker.

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Selection from Polzin: A Treasury of Criticism

“Davenport and Polzin”

by Deborah Chesterfield

Rassolov Polzin, the novelist of numerous nationalities, spent a great deal of time in what he called "gestation." This process, heralded by contemporaries as "visionary," "inventive," and "necessary," was, according to the diaries of his mistress and cook, Gertrude Swiss, a "long period of no particular activity," a time when "Rassy could find the swirling threads of thought within his expansive mind and combine them into the great and somber shrouds all his novels ultimately were." Academia, for years, was kind to Polzin. His novels, frequent amidst the Academy campuses, were painfully misinterpreted by snotty teens the world over. Professors placed on his altar volumes of favorable criticism and Polzin, in general, enjoyed the esteem of tasteless aspirants, the mass of postulants begging Professor Whoever for acceptance into the order of the arbiters.

Polzin's reputation assumed a downward trajectory upon the ascent of the post-anti-postmodernists. This group, almost too ironic to function, ripped into Polzin and his ilk with the fury of confused, starving dogs. Polzin's once celebrated novels, The Dying of the Anemones, Bad Girls Gone Worse, and Pals in Paris were defaced in the public eye. Not since F. Jones' misguided Anne Frank Redux has a novelist's reputation been so wretched.

But why, we wonder, was Polzin pounced on by this particular group? The reason, perhaps, lies not in the details of his actual novels (do people still read novels?) but in the actions of the author himself, uncovered only post-Polzin from, ironically, the diary of Gertrude Swiss, his mistress and trusted accountant. Swiss herself never intended for her diary to enter the public conversation. It was her daughter, a financial deviant, that had it published after Swiss' death. The diary, all revealing, detailed Polzin's early days as an aspiring novelist when, among other things, he ghost wrote the commercially massive but critically lampooned Potter, a soft-reboot of the second Harry Potter film series, itself a remake of the original film series, those films being adaptations of JK Rowling's book series, those books being ripoffs of, like, a bunch of other shit. Potter, marketed as being written by Woodley Irekia, the infamous infomercial host turned criminal turned day trader turned children's author, quickly became the bestselling book series of all time, surpassing the previous holder of that honor, Ascii Easton's reboot of Horatio Felding's Pictures of Batman in Various Poses. This wanton commercialism, this "selling out," was unacceptable to the post-anti-postmodernists. Polzin's novels were attacked with every method literary criticism is aware of: feminism, psychoanalysis, poststructuralism, historical relative dynamism, taoist referentiality, historiographicalism, Hegelian/hydrocarbon dimensional dialectic-ism, and pseudo-structural post-formalism.

Furthermore, these critics dismissed Polzin's ideas on "gestation," arguing that the process was "little more than an excuse for Polzin, like Tolstoy and Sartre and all the other inexplicably popular bums of history, to sit around and munch" (Sake Jake, Criticism of Everyone but Me and Husserl). Polzin's oeuvre would remain in this sorry state for years, swirling about in the backwater in which forgotten novels drown.

Finally, years later, came revival. First was Lacey Davenport, the "post-American" novelist. Davenport, founder of the pseudo-structural post-formalism movement in her middle years, grew disillusioned with it and the post-anti-postmodernists in her twilight days. She diverged, leading the world into an era now known as anti-post-anti-postmodernism. Davenport, in the introduction to one of her final works, the wildly popular Pre-abiogenesis: A Romance, had the courage to mention and even quote Polzin. Davenport, a populist and definitely not a snob (formalism is not bourgeois), famously blurred the lines between high and low art, writing, "it's all trash, why make distinctions?" (Lacey Davenport, Ascii Easton, a Post-Hegelian/hydrocarbon Dimensional Dialectic-ism Defense). Hot on Davenport's heels were the trans-robo authors. Jennie from Work's Domo Arigato MtF Roboto features the Work's heroine deliver an impassioned defense of The Dying of the Anemones infamous "Columbus Diatribe." 8675 Dogwood's The Non-Binary and Ludia Octavia's The Shifting of the Gears also mention and defend Polzin's legacy. But never was a more passionate defender of Polzin found than the mature Davenport. Pre-abiogenesis: A Romance and Adieu to You clearly incorporates Polzin and his ideas on immensity, cinema, and morality.

Polzin, probably a misogynist in hindsight, often used women to illustrate what he saw as the moral failings of his time. In the aforementioned "Columbus Diatribe," Polzin lamblasts the unnamed "she," a single representing the whole, as far as he was concerned. The passage reminds one of the thoughts of Alphonse in Pre-abiogenesis: A Romance and Ariel in Adieu to You. These characters, unstable and deluded, share similarities with Polzin's most notorious author surrogate, Andrei Tutole, the deliverer of the famous diatribe.

While late-Davenport attempts to "subvert" many ideas Polzin plays straight, both authors make use of inflammatory prose, crusade talk, and obnoxious Eliot allusions. One notices several images and metaphors carried from Polzin to Davenport, and one undoubtedly notices that it is from the "Columbus Diatribe" that Davenport derives the title of her final novel, Ornaments to Immensity.

Polzin, as those who champion him would say, was blunt. He didn't mince words in his attempts to inspire change. Polzin, they say, disgusted with himself for Potter, was honest. He was honest with himself and with his books. His first and final lover, as the diary of Gertrude Swiss, his mistress and radio calisthenics instructor, can attest, was always literature.

It is for these reasons that the "troublesome gender dynamics" in his novels are often ignored (Lacey Davenport, Why the Essentialists are Fucking Morons). Davenport, taking issue with the emerging strands of essentialist feminism, as well as the newly formed school of Super Mario Bros. feminism, claimed that, "Polzin, who said sexist shit but had a social conscious, is a thousands times preferable to the human jackals, the neo-essentialist 'feminists' that im-fucking-ply quite a bit" (Davenport, Essentialists). Jennie from Work also took issue with these emerging strands, claiming "the threat to traditional feminist thought by these idiots is profound. They aren't even really essentialist" (Jennie from Work, All the Robots are Gay, and That's A Good Thing). Jennie goes on to claim that "the emergent homo-robo and trans-robo culture" is a "death blow" to the essentialists. Of course, this posturing did not stop either Davenport or Work from turning on the constructivists a few years later when a prominent constructivist and constructed feminist, Reclamation-bot, made an impassioned speech in support of "the working robo-woman, the military robo-woman, and the political robo-woman" (Reclamation-bot, Selected C+++). Jennie from Work, in her now famous essay, writes, "Reclamation-bot's bourgeois adherence to an ideology of 'work, warfare, and state control' is decidedly spook-stuffed, capitalist, and borderline robo-fascist. Reclamation-bot ought to be ashamed, espousing such nonsense. As if men perpetuating the myths of capitalist ideology wasn't enough, Reclamation-bot wants to push women and robo-women into those roles too?" (Jennie from Work, Marx in the Age of All This Fucking Shit). While this might seem far from Polzin, the opposite is true. Polzin had a remarkable effect on 21st century feminist discourse, and it is from this discourse that Davenport derives many of her ideas.

Her work attempts to find a "synthesis," to borrow from the Hegelian/hydrocarbonists, between many a woman's desire to enter the workforce, serve her country, and participate in the political process, and the harmful effects such actions have on herself and others. While Reclamation-bot loudly claimed "the differences between men and women are minor and irrelevant," drawing anger from the essentialists in the process, Davenport and Jennie from Work cared only for the result of that declaration (they agreed with the declaration itself), and were horrified as "the second sex, newly empowered, leapt into the world, forgetting in their frenzy to look at the state said world was in" (Work, Marx). Polzin, in many ways, precedes this view. While not as Marxist in nature, nor as eloquent, Polzin saw many movements as "applying bandages on broken systems, if not further perpetuating the procedures of power so firmly in place" (Rassolov Polzin, Bad Girls Gone Worse).

Davenport, drawing from Polzin and all his assorted influences, signifies the culmination of a marvelous and kinda stupid tradition. In Pals in Paris, one of his earlier works, we see hints of this turbulent feminist discourse, ideas on morality and social responsibility, and disseminations of Schopenhauer and the Buddha. Davenport, in many ways, is the logical conclusion of Polzin, a Polzin matured. Perhaps Gertrude Swiss, Polzin's mistress and go-to horse whisperer, was right when she wrote in her diary, "Rassy's ideas might be realized by someone less angry, someone less blinded by such passion, someone removed and afforded some clarity by the goodwill of a generous universe."

But Polzin is dead, lit didn't save ol Deborah's dear from the bottle or the bullet, Ascii Easton was a hack, and robots never had genders to begin with.

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