“Take a look at the toys around you. Right before your eyes, the toys are real.

  There’s another side of heaven. This way to technical paradise.”

  - R. Dio, Computer God

  THE STORM GUARD

  Layton gave his nose one final inspection in the mirror; swollen, but the campus nurse had promised it would heal straight. The last thing he needed was something else to be self-conscious about.

  When he was satisfied the bleeding had finally stopped, he left the bathroom in high spirits, because despite its inauspicious opening number, today would end on a glorious note: the beginning of a three day vacation.

  It was a perfect storm of free time: vacation from his job at the Sneaker Shack, classes were suspended for the summer and—thanks to his recent performance on the volleyball court—he no longer had any athletic obligations.

  And now, finally, he could begin celebrating his break from selling expensive shoes to smug rich kids and struggling to keep up with exams. For a while at least, he didn’t need to worry about money or grades or impressing girls. These next three days were about savoring the now; making the most of the moment.

  And what he wanted to do most in this moment—all he wanted, in fact—was to play Silverdawn.

  So of course the stars had aligned against him, ensuring his relaxation marathon would kick off right as Silverdawn was about to have its first hiatus since splashing onto the gaming scene.

  And what a splash it had been. Its advertising campaign had been the most expensive in history. For months, every commercial on the content cube was some variation of “delete everything else because Silverdawn is the only entertainment you’ll ever need.”

  A grandiose proclamation, but for millions of gamers, including Layton, it had proven to be true. Fortunately, Silverdawn’s update wasn’t scheduled for another couple hours, which meant he could at least squeeze in a quick battle and maybe get lucky with some legendary gear drops before getting booted.

  Humming tunelessly, he made a sandwich, added a note in his data card to order more bread, and stripped to his underwear.

  Layton’s dorm wasn’t much to look at: a desk cluttered with action figures, a lamp from a liquidation warehouse, a mattress on the floor next to a poster of Dr. Boom, Jr., and softly glowing in its charging station, a content cube.

  The cube was a gift from his parents and came equipped with all the bells and whistles: high res movies streamed to his implanted retinal chip, multi-thread informational processing, video communication with full sensory input, and, most importantly, games.

  Including the only game that mattered: Silverdawn.

  Silverdawn famously ran on even the most severely outdated hardware, a triumph of engineering that rival software companies had attempted to replicate without success for a decade. But now an update was coming.

  News of the patch was why Layton had begged his parents for the shiny new content cube in the first place. He wasn’t going to be left behind if the update didn’t play as nice with older tech.

  The cube wasn’t the most expensive part of the present, however. That distinction belonged to the support rig monopolizing most of the room.

  At the center of the rig was a chair with deep cushions, tilted to elevate the legs, and lined with adjustable straps. Despite looking like a restraining device for violent inmates, the chair's actual purpose was to secure Layton’s limbs when the support rig periodically administered electric pulses to his muscles, forcing contraction and preventing atrophy.

  The seat was bordered on one side by a refrigerator filled with vitamin-hydration solution, capable of delivering sustenance for over a month. On its other side sat a waste retention bin to whisk away any undesirable body secretions. Connecting it all was a web of tubes, wires, and monitors.

  And best of all: no maintenance. Once he was done and logged out, the rig would flush itself with cleaning products so that it was all nice and sanitized for Layton’s next trip into the Eleven Kingdoms of Silverdawn.

  All of this for a video game? his folks had asked. It had been a rhetorical question, muttered with one finger hovering over the “transfer funds” button while they watched a reality series where the last place contestant was incinerated every week.

  Sure, yes. Silverdawn was a video game. In the same way that the wheel was an “invention.” Technically accurate, but the term didn’t quite capture its cultural importance. That single piece of software made more money every month then the total box office of every movie released in a year.

  Layton set his data card near the window so it would charge when the morning’s sun peeked through, settled into the rig, and began tightening the straps.

  Once he was comfortable, he closed his eyes and called up the retina command terminal.

  >> AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS [LAYTON YOUNG]

  “System check.”

  For a few seconds, there was only the back of his eyelids.

  >> DIAGNOSTICS CLEAR. NO ERRORS FOUND. BIO-SUPPORT MODULE AT 84% (29 DAYS REMAINING)

  Perfect.

  “Launch Silverdawn.”

  Just like that, Layton Young was no longer a scrawny collegiate loser with a sore nose, pining for girls who were clearly out of his league. Not in here.

  Here, he was:

  Char, level 99 storm guard and Royal Champion of New Le Guinn, opened his eyes to the spectacle of lavishly decorated quarters inside Castle Voerhaven. The bedroom was furnished with iron chests, velvet cushions, and eclipse tiger skin rugs. A musky scent of incense lingered in the air.

  Silverdawn was hardly the first hyper-reality game to add the illusion of smell, but nothing else came close to its realism. Just beneath the incense was a hint of smoke from the flickering sconces, illuminating the banners that heralded his accomplishments.

  And he’d accomplished a lot:

  Gilgarot, the Fire Wyrm, its vile heart pierced with Char’s spear. Karnage, the Unclean Lord, beheaded by the greatest warrior in the Eleven Kingdoms. Imp-Postor, the Doppelg?nger Fairy, wings plucked with his bare hands.

  And those victories had been in the early days, before Char wielded his renowned sword, SoulSinger. The enormous weapon had been dropped by Azzrayle Daemon-Fang after a protracted battle above the Luvan Tar Pits. And right over there was the banner to prove it.

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  On and on they went, depicting epic clash after glorious battle. Some might consider the display a vulgar show of arrogance, but the game rewarded you with banners for defeating Leyline Guardians—Silverdawn’s most powerful foes—and it seemed ungrateful not to hang them.

  There was also the novelty factor to consider. In most games, you’d expect to see the same trophies in every hero’s residence; the same legendary gear gripped in their hand. The same monsters taken down by a thousand different players, all for the same rewards.

  But not Silverdawn. In here, no two Leyline Guardians were ever the same. The game evolved as it was played, with new evil rising to power, new armies marching against each other. New threats to the Eleven Kingdoms.

  Which was a good reminder that Char had some new armor to try out.

  He dug around one of the chests until he found the marble-textured Gorgon Helm and shoved it onto his head. The armor adapted to his size—a nifty Silverdawn trick—as he traced a finger along the jeweled inserts. The last thing he needed was a boost to his already impressive defensive stats, but it was a new toy and he wanted to show if off.

  With the practiced stride of a seasoned warrior, he walked to the full length mirror beside the canopy bed, its reflective glass bordered by twists of bronze and emerald studs in the shape of tree branches. The floor shifted slightly under his feet as he walked; a subtle motion, but it was noticeable.

  For a moment, he considered looking at what was under the carpet. He knew what was there, of course, but it would feel so good to take a peek. Maybe he didn’t need to leave the castle. Maybe he should stay here and surround himself with—

  No. He slapped himself to clear his head. The pull was getting stronger. Harder to resist. He made a mental note to have that floor tiling fixed before anyone else noticed.

  Then he took a moment to admire his reflection: the rippling muscles, the perfect jawline, offset beautifully by his new helmet.

  Oh yes. This would do nicely.

  Beneath the Gorgon Helm’s softly glowing edges, Char couldn’t help but notice how straight his nose looked.

  Enough preening. Soon, the Baron would realize he’d returned and demand the Royal Champion lead an army on some mundane quest for the Kingdom, like protecting New Le Guinn’s crops. And he didn’t have time for that. Not if he wanted to take a shot at the biggest Leyline Guardian of them all before the game reset.

  He closed his eyes and the prompt returned, the text now a polished silver.

  >> AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS [CHAR]

  “Time until reboot.”

  >> ONE HOUR TWENTY MINUTES NINETEEN SECONDS

  That answer was a mindfuck. In the real world, there was only about sixteen minutes before the reboot. But Silverdawn stretched a player’s perception of time, so a “real" hour felt like five hours inside the game. Or, in this case, sixteen actual minutes felt like an hour twenty.

  Nevertheless, the clock was ticking.

  Once again, he approached the mirror. He’d won it on a bet with an Efreeti princeling. The wager being: “I’ll bet I can cut your head off before you escape with that mirror.”

  Removing his gauntlet with a deft twist, he touched the glass and it shimmered. A voice emerged from its depths, soft and forlorn.

  “Where shall I send you, master?”

  According to the Efreeti, a fey was trapped behind the reflective surface and endlessly longed for the freedom to visit the places it was now cursed to send its owner. A sad tale. And not Char’s problem.

  “Field of Sorrows. In the Zalinzky Coast.”

  “I hear the Field is lovely this time of year.” The voice was wistful with just a touch of melancholy.

  “You heard wrong.”

  Char glanced at the stone walls as they began to blur and picked out a spot for his next banner.

  THE SANGUINE SCULPTOR

  As expected, Vimala never did make it to the Ginger Bliss Steak House

  Which was just as well. She’d managed to finish her work in time to make it here. And here was better.

  In the real world, people didn’t get what they deserved. It didn’t matter if you were smarter, better, more talented—you still lagged behind those with more money, or more connections, or with legs spread wider for the boss. But not here. Here, you were rewarded for your hard work. Here, justice prevailed. Mostly.

  In here, she was:

  And yeah, sure, her level was a reminder that even here she didn’t always get what she deserved. But today she was going to fix that. The vial tucked safely into her belt pouch would make sure of it.

  She surveyed the terrain, crouching low to avoid any wayward arrows, and pulled her red-seamed cloak tightly around her chest.

  Bristlegrain sprouted all around her, reaching upward from the rocky soil to the purple sky. In the distance, the Stonewall Bluffs formed a wall along the horizon. Although hidden from view, the ship-shattering waves of the Hynlin Sea slammed against the back of those mountains, reverberating through the ground like a heartbeat. Thick ghost oaks ran along the rest of the perimeter, promising a place to hide for those fleeing the battle.

  And a lot of players were doing just that. The Field of Sorrows certainly lived up to its name: an endless supply of mud hoppers carved paths through the bristlegrain, their leathery skin impervious to the razor-sharp seeds.

  The creatures reminded Quartz of bipedal toads, standing about four feet tall and always hungry. She fixed her gaze on the closest and text appeared just above its head:

  The level was misleading. Like most of the enemies in this region, including the nasty things that prowled the tunnels far beneath her feet, mud hoppers fought in packs, which made them far more deadly than their stats would suggest.

  As she read, a player blundered into view and thrust his spear at the hopper’s orange belly. The creature’s information vanished, replaced instantly by the player’s ID block.

  Quartz didn’t need to see Killswitch’s stats to know he was hopelessly outmatched. The vorpal knight’s undecorated chain mail and vendor-bought weapons were evidence enough.

  His spear dug into the beast with little effect. The mud hopper reacted with a dry cough and a spiked pseudopod flicked out of its mouth, wrapping around Killswitch’s windpipe like a wet lasso. The knight dropped his weapon and struggled briefly, hands clawing at his neck as his ID block changed from a deep blue to an even deeper red. A moment later, he was still.

  Small loss; he had a stupid name. Besides, in a few minutes, he’d simply reappear at his starting point—probably in a Kingdom far from here—and could try the whole futile process again.

  Unfortunately, this meant Killswitch was no longer the focus of the mud hopper’s attention. As the monster retracted its tongue, it eyed Quartz and released a guttural belch. A half dozen of its peers stopped sprinting after their own prey and turned toward her.

  A single mud hopper wasn’t much more than an annoyance, but enough of them would slow her down. And she had important matters to deal with on the other side of the Field of Sorrows; plans that had been brewing for a long, long time.

  “Platelet Mail.”

  The world took on a rosy hue as blood poured from her nose and mouth, covering every inch of her body until she was entirely encased in opaque tacky gelatin. The spell made her look like some vaguely humanoid demon, summoned with a ritualistic sacrifice of cherry Jell-o.

  The protection enchantment was immediately put to the test by the lashing tongues of the hoppers who had surrounded her. With every strike, the blood solidified at the point of attack, turning a potentially deadly mob into a minor inconvenience. One of the beasts gave up on ranged attacks and charged, its mouth widening.

  Of the four standard classes, mage was the least melee-oriented, but Quartz could hold her own against these creeps. She stepped aside at the the last possible second as spikes of congealed blood extended from her fingertips. No need for magic words to use this nifty trick; a perks of choosing sanguine sculptor as a specialization was that deadly weapons were always waiting just beneath the skin.

  The mud hopper dropped, its face a shredded mash of bone and fat. It’s death bought just enough time for Quartz to close her eyes and call up a command line.

  >> AWAITING INSTRUCTION [QUARTZ]

  “Time until reboot.”

  >> ONE HOUR THIRTEEN MINUTES TWENTY-SEVEN SECONDS

  She opened her eyes to the pack advancing hungrily, undeterred by the quick dispatch of their comrade.

  This was taking too long. All around her, players were squaring off against the Field’s toad-like protectors, everyone attempting one final push to reach this region’s Leyline Guardian before the servers shut down.

  She needed to reach the far side of the battlefield soon if this was going to work.

  “Cruor Jump.”

  Beneath her feet, a pool of crimson soaked the ground in a circle as the mud hoppers closed in. Their claws raked against her magical shielding like dogs clawing at the door, hungry for the meal inside. Her protection was holding for now, but thinning.

  This wasn’t any real concern; iIt could be replenished by expending additional Spirit—the game’s resource for casting spells and using all other manner of cool abilities—but she wasn’t planning on sticking around that long. Already, she could feel the soil softening as the crimson pool widened and her boots sank to the ankles. Out of spite, she swiped another one in the eye, enjoying the sound of the milky orb bursting like a small balloon.

  “You shits aren’t even worth the experience,” Quartz sneered.

  And then she plunged into the red.

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