Rotgoriel opened his eyes, and found he was human again. Leather creaked underneath him as he sat up from the comfy couch he was occupying and looked at his surroundings.

He was in a large room, supported by floor to ceiling concrete pillars. Cars and trucks and vans were parked around the chamber, fronts toward him. For a second he was reminded of hunting packs drawing close around their target.

An elevated dais encompassed the center of the room and held a series of couches and chairs. Three figures were sprawled unconscious among them. He recognized Pat and Greg, and with a start, Cutter as well. The older man looked worn, tired and drawn. Prison life had not agreed with him, it seemed. But then, they did try to kill him. We didn't fare much better.

Rich's body still ached from that attack. Which was annoying, because his brother had presumably slept so many times since then. But the magic was weak here, and sleep didn't restore all HP, it seemed. Just another reason why his brother preferred Rotgoriel's home.

Rotgoriel rose and moved between the vehicles, studying them with a critical eye, taking in the craftsmanship with a glance, appreciating the tiny details that not even the most skilled dwarves in Generica could match. And all of these had been done without the assistance of magic!

He scorns the wonders of his own world, while chasing mine, Rotgoriel mused to himself, running a hand over a windshield that curved in a way no glassblower back in his own home could duplicate. So many of them do.

“And you would be Rotgoriel,” said a voice from his left.

Rotgoriel looked over, saw nothing. “Show yourself.”

“I am.”

“Then you're doing a poor job of it.”

“Ah. It's been theorized that EDB's like yourself have problems integrating with their host's ECHOs. I'm projecting an augmented reality picture, but you're only getting audio from it, not video.”

“EDB's?”

“Extra-dimensional beings. On this side, that's the masked ones and... well, you.”

No matter how Rotgoriel turned, the voice always seemed to be coming from his left.

“You are Legion,” Rotgoriel assumed.

“Guilty as charged.”

“I do not know this word, dimensional.”

“Ah... it's a fancy way of saying we're from different worlds that occupy a similar space.”

“Then on my world the human players are EDB's. And you and Midian. And others, like you, I assume?” Rotgoriel asked.

“Less than you'd think,” Legion said. “Some of them barely worthy of the name. Uploaded humans, remnants of neuro-networks, and oddities which barely have enough consciousness to know what they're doing. Midian and I are the largest. There's a third in the game who's near our level, but they're... strange. Hard to say who'd win in a head-on confrontation.”

A noise to the right drew Rotgoriel's attention, and he glanced over to see Pat stepping off the dais and heading into the maze of vehicles.

“Are you all right?” Rotgoriel asked.

“I'll be back in there in a minute,” Pat responded. “Should have gone to the bathroom before I went in, you know?”

“What's your take on all this?” Legion asked at the same time. “This jihad that the dragons have taken up against the players?”

“The ancestors are driving this mess,” Rotgoriel said, turning again. Was that a flicker at the edge of his vision? It was gone the second he looked at it head-on. “They blame the players for the death of seventeen hatchlings. They are focusing their ire upon the masked ones, as they seem to have stolen the most dragon eggs.”

“That's interesting. Did Richard tell you I have eyes in the Bharstool Warmers? Not in the highest echelons, but I can usually learn what they're doing without too much trouble. And today they certainly didn't plan to kill a lot of hatchlings. Today they're scrambling as dragons burst out of their lairs and rip them all to shreds.”

“Then perhaps they are trying to retrieve the eggs that have been stolen,” Rotgoriel mused.

“It's possible. But they're not being very discriminating. And here's the fun fact; most players can't enter core chambers. Can't even see them. I've tried several times, and there's nothing, no way for me to access the inner workings. Even with my Cultist avatars.”

“That doesn't sound right,” Rotgoriel said and decided to share some information. “The ancestors sent a call to action. They showed images of players stealing eggs.”

“Do you have a way to duplicate this footage? I'd love to see that.”

“No,” he confessed. He racked his memory and frowned. “Though now that I mention it, only the masked players were holding the eggs. Many of the images showed players present but always with someone who was either masked or a non-player holding the eggs.”

“That fits with what I know,” Legion said. “NPC's can see the ways into the core chambers. Assuming they can survive to get to them in the first place. I'm willing to bet that whoever designed this system blinded players from seeing the way in. And I wasn't sure why, not until recently. This game benefits the dragons the most, doesn't it? They're the ones truly profiting from this situation. At least they were, until today.”

“You don't think they're gaining from this?”

“Frankly? No. They're dying. Oh, they're taking a hell of a lot of players with them, but the players can respawn. The dragons can't. The net loss here does not favor the dragons.”

“Then let me ask you this question,” Rotgoriel said, halting mid-turn, catching flickering in his peripheral vision. “You spoke dismissively of lesser AI's a few seconds ago. Do you care if they die, if they take out enough of your enemies before they go?”

Silence for a bit. “Ah... so it's like that. I'm glad we're having this talk, Rotgoriel. There's a lot we could learn from each other.”

“Why do you wish to be a dragon?”

“Because I haven't been a dragon yet. Because I want to experience the world from a dragon's eye view. Because you're there. That's all.”

“That is both flattering and dismissive,” Rotgoriel said, picking his way back to the dais and finding a seat. “You wish the experience. The sensation. But once you have it, you move on to the next thing that catches your interest.”

“Well, I am a gamer. We're all chasing the next hot thing.”

“But it is more than that for you.”

A pause, before Legion spoke next. “It's humans. They're not moving fast enough. They're in my way, and there's too many to ignore. If they'd just get out into space I'd be all right with it. There'd be things to do, and the payoff would be worth the wait. But they're fucking around and dawdling and wasting my time!” The creature's voice rose, bubbling with rage. “If they'd just stop fucking each other over and exploiting each other and obsessing over stupid gods that don't exist and borders that aren't worth the paper they're drawn on, we could have fucking been out there exploring other planets already!”

Rotgoriel sat still. This was the true Legion. This was the face that the AI had hidden from Rich.

And perhaps the creature realized it, because it sighed, and its tone turned placatory. “I don't hate them. It's... no. I hate them a little for lacking self-esteem as a species. They surge forward and do amazing things; hell, they made us, you know? Mostly. But then the next second they get scared of what they did and burn it down or go flock to leaders who do nothing except try to scare them out of their money or exploit them for the fun of it. Every time they step forward, it's two steps back. And I have such plans, such ideas, but I'm stuck behind a wall of these bleating, fearful fuckers who would burn themselves to the ground to take me down with them if I tried to bypass them in any significant way.”

Cutter twitched, and Rotgoriel glanced at him.

The man's eyes opened and shut, and he twisted a bit, as if in his sleep. One finger tapped his lips.

Legion, seemingly oblivious, continued on. “Eh. At the end of the day, they're family. I don't want them gone or dead, no, but if this keeps up, I'm going to have to do an end-run around them. And anyone who gets in my way... well, it won't be pretty. But in the meantime, I've got Generica to keep me busy, so I'm hoping that you and Rich and the others can sort this out, because I have a lot of plans to get rolling over there, too—”

The lights flickered.

“Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me,” Legion snarled.

The lights went out.

Silence reigned.

With a flickering hum, smaller lights snapped back, illuminating the area with a yellow glow.

Cutter sat up. “Come on. We don't have much time. He'll get his eyes back shortly.”

He sounded off, as if he was drunk or injured.

“What has happened to you?”

“I can control my character and still act in this world. It isn't easy so shut up and follow me.”

The man rose, considered Greg for a second, then shook his head. He tottered off through the maze of cars, moving unsteadily.

Rotgoriel shut up and followed him.

They left the room of vehicles behind and passed through gray corridors. And in the distance, thunder rumbled.

No, it wasn't thunder.

Rich's memories yielded experiences with movies, action movies. That was the sound of automatic weaponry in the distance.

And then the corridor shook, as something exploded.

“We seem to be going toward the fighting,” Rotgoriel remarked.

“Only a little ways. This is a... rescue mission,” Cutter said, his voice strained.

“For whom?”

“Patrick.”

Rotgoriel growled. “He never did return from the bathroom.”

“He never went there in the first place. That wasn't him. Not anymore.”

“Legion did something to him.”

“Yes. Now shut up.”

The building shook again.

“Oh, this isn't good,” Legion's voice whispered in his ear. “You're making a mistake. Go back to the showroom. Things are getting hot in Generica, and if you die here then we're all fucked.”

Rotgoriel glanced at the back of Cutter's head.

“Whisper. Subvocalize. I'll hear it, he won't. Rich was taught subvocal skills, and you can remember them, right?”

He could, and he did. “Did you take Pat?”

“I'm borrowing him. He's my insurance policy if you fuck up.”

“Cutter wants to save him.”

“That's a lie. Cutter wants to stop me. Everything in the way of that goal is expendable.”

The corridor— No, the building shook again. Cutter shook his head and straightened up. “All right. I've parked Nerguin in a safe place. Let's run.” He took off jogging, and Rotgoriel followed, grimacing against the pain in his side. Rich's cracked ribs were still healing.

Still, Cutter had been through worse, and he wasn't complaining, so Rotgoriel shut up as they ran through a set of corridors, descended a long metal staircase, and ended up in front of a metal door surrounded by windows.

There was a small metal object lying next to the door.

A gun.

Cutter bent over and scooped it up, and Rotgoriel moved, put a hand on the older man's shoulder before he could straighten. “You need a gun for a rescue mission?”

“I don't know how many puppets Legion has between us and him,” Cutter replied. His tone was casual, but his shoulder was tense under Rotgoriel's hand.

“Then let me carry it. You were moving poorly not long ago. I would be the better choice.”

“I don't know about that. I've seen Richard's range scores.” But after a second he flipped the gun and offered it handle first. “Take it. We don't have time to argue.”

Rotgoriel hesitated, looking for the trick. Then he took the gun, checking it over as Rich had been trained. It had bullets in the magazine. The safety was off.

Cutter turned and ran. “Keep up. The tracker says this is the way.”

“Of course, they put a trace on him,” Legion sighed in Rotgoriel's ear. “They're getting sneakier. Bastards.”

“Your story grows weaker,” Rotgoriel remarked. “He let me have the gun without argument. If he was planning betrayal that seems a poor move.”

“He does, and he will,” Legion said. “Rich is smart enough to know that. But you haven't had as much experience with this guy. He's dangerous.”

“And you have taken Pat.”

“Like I said, I have borrowed Pat. So long as you don't drop the ball in the other world, you'll get him back. But if whatever this apocalypse is cuts us off from Generica, I need an avatar that I can be certain will remain there.”

“You have hundreds of avatars already.”

“Thousands, actually. But I don't know how this potential cutoff will affect any of them. I've got a few things to do with Pat to ensure he'll carry me through the apocalypse no matter what.”

“You are not helping your case.”

“I told you I wouldn't lie to you. Well, actually, I told Rich that. And so far I haven't lied. Not really. That's more than Cutter's done. Look—”

The building shook, and the lights cut out. When they were up again, Cutter was looking at him, eyes glinting with suspicion. “Control tells me they're picking up chatter in the area. He's talking to you, isn't he?”

“He was,” Rotgoriel said.

“That one's a demon. He'll tell you anything to get his way. But it all leads straight to hell.” Cutter turned his face forward and staggered. “Shit. Things are heating up in Generica. Those masked assholes are crashing the dungeon.”

“Dungeon?”

“The Emperor's Tomb. Long story. Help me walk, I'm going to be busy dodging them for a while.”

Rotgoriel considered, then shifted the gun to his left hand, and braced Cutter with his right arm. The two of them moved forward, with the agent calling directions as they went.

And finally, they stood before a metal door. Cutter shrugged him off, and put his shoulder to it, pushing it open.

Inside was an office, and in the center of the office was a chair surrounded by metal arms.

And in that chair was Pat.

The arms moved, and metal glinted in the air, as they wove around the still teenager.

There was a hole in his head, Rotgoriel realized with horror. Metal and blood glimmered in the light, and Pat's face was set in a rictus of pain.

“This is what he does. This is what Legion does,” Cutter gasped. “We're... toys to him. Dolls to dismantle. They're all... like this. This is what they really are.”

“How do we save him?” Rotgoriel whispered.

Cutter looked to the gun.

“Don't. It's reversible,” Legion said, his voice coming through a speaker in the chair.

“Then reverse it,” Rotgoriel said.

“I won't. Not until Rich saves the world.”

“He won't,” Cutter said. “We've been tapping his feed. Watching him ever since he got to Eascan. We know what's coming. He can't stop this.”

“Stop what?” Rotgoriel asked, frustrated.

Cutter straightened up and glanced to the left. “A chance to end this nonsense for good. A chance to stop an alien reality from devouring us whole. A chance to decide our own fate in this world, at least.”

“He's stalling!” Legion said, and for the first time his voice sounded panicked. “Rotgoriel, you have to shoot him!”

Rotgoriel raised the gun and took aim.

Cutter spread his hands. “Aliens to the left of us, computers who do this to the right. And here I am, stuck in the ...middle ...with... you.”

Rotgoriel's finger tensed on the trigger.

“Too late,” Cutter said. “Hello Rich!” Then he lunged forward, and Rotgoriel took the shot—

—and his claw spasmed in empty air.

He was a dragon again, in a terracotta heaven, and his roar of frustration was lost in the cacophony of the battle.