Rich faded into reality and immediately went ass over teakettle as something crashed into him. He yelped in panic and tried to push, tried to struggle and free himself, and heard metal clatter on concrete as something in his hand fell away and spun off into the dim light.

Cutter, he realized, as the man’s face swam into focus.

Then Cutter hauled off and decked him.

It wasn’t a hard hit. But it was enough to throw him for a few seconds, and Cutter’s knees and elbows gouged his side as the man scrambled off him. Acting more on instinct than anything else, Rich grabbed the man’s foot and almost got kicked in the face for his trouble.

But it bought him a second and a clear look at what Cutter was going for.

Gun!

Rich rolled over, caught Cutter’s kick on his elbow, and grabbed for the man’s waist.

Too late.

Cutter snatched the gun, propped himself up on one elbow, and fired just as Rich slammed an elbow into his kidneys.

“Agh!” Cutter shouted, and curled up, and Rich kicked his side until he dropped the gun.

“Too late,” Cutter whispered, and Rich realized that the gun hadn’t been pointing at him.

He had been aiming for Pat.

A shrill noise filled the chamber. An EKG flatlining.

Rich stared in horror at the nightmare before him. His friend was sprawled in a surgical chair, with mechanical arms ending in medical instruments arrayed around him like a spider grasping its prey. He had a hole in his head that was clearly supposed to be there, judging by the implements clustered around it and the circuitry inside it, and a hole in his abdomen that very obviously wasn’t supposed to be there, as blood was pouring out of it and splattering the chair and the ground below.

All this he took in with a single look before his training kicked in and he dove for the gun.

He needn’t have bothered. Cutter was still curled on the floor, groaning and holding his side.

Rich secured the pistol, took it in with a glance. Standard make, no surprises, eleven more shots in the mag judging by the counter.

“You fucker,” he said, leveling the gun at Cutter.

“Do it,” Cutter gasped. “I did my job.”

“Your job? Your fucking job? The hell did you do this for, you...”

The building shook, and Rich stumbled backward. When he recovered, Cutter had gotten to his knees.

“No, you don’t. Stay down.” Rich put his finger on the trigger. “You just killed one of my friends. Explain. Fast.”

“Look at him. Look at what Legion did to him. I didn’t kill him; I put the puppet that remained out of its misery.”

“He’s part of Analog, Rich.” Legion protested, his voice coming out of a speaker in the chair.

“And he told me there was no such thing as Analog,” Rich retorted. “Was that a lie?”

“Well... Analog’s our name for them,” Legion said. “They’re probably called something else.”

Cutter’s teeth glinted in the light as he grinned.

Legion sighed. “Look, if they don’t exist then who’s blowing up my factory right now? I’ve got six vans full of assholes that are a pretty good testament to Analog existing.”

“But they’re not the ones who put me in that holding cell, are they?” Rich said, looking between Cutter and the chair. Pat was pale now, and there was so much blood on the floor. “And aren’t you going to try to save him?”

“Shoot Cutter and I will,” Legion said. “And yes, the detainment was one of my plans. It was pretty ill-timed though, and I’m sorry for that. I never meant for things to—”

The lights went out. Movement from where Cutter was, and Rich fired, twice. In the muzzle flare of the second shot, he saw the man running hunched over, heading out the door.

The lights came back up, and Rich pursued. “Stop!”

Incoming Message From: Legion

>>Okay, now that he’s out of the room I’ll start trying to fix Pat. He’s not my puppet, not unless you guys fuck things up on the other side.

Rich focused on pursuing, shooting off a message as he went.

Richard Royal >>What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

Legion >> Rich, you wouldn’t let me play with you guys. I wanted to have a say in the guild. I wanted to be there to help you. I wanted to be where Midian is now. I would have even worked with her. But you persisted in distrusting me and fearing me for no good reason. So what was I supposed to do? Playing nice was getting me nowhere.

Legion >> So I muddled bureaucracy to have you ’under house arrest,’ and I was going to cozy up to you and offer help in-game during this crucial time. But it backfired, because you didn’t fucking log in. You were afraid that they were watching your logins... which evidently Cutter’s crew was, but they’ve been doing that for a long time, I guess.

Richard Royal >> You were literally cutting into Pat’s brain, and you’re trying to convince me you’re a good guy.

Rich burst through a swinging door, and found himself on a swaying catwalk. Across the way, Cutter staggered, holding the railings to keep himself from falling onto the showroom floor below. Rich raised the gun and fired, but Cutter ducked and kept going.

Legion >> You’ll have to get closer.

Richard Royal >> Wait, why am I doing your dirty work? Send your puppets after him.

Legion >> I told you I sent them home! All I’ve got here is some drones, and they’re busy with the crew outside. Busy losing, mostly. I need you to take down Cutter!

Incoming Message From: Alvin Cutter

>>I need you to stop.

Richard Royal >> Then you shouldn’t have shot Pat.

Up a stairwell and a door burst open as a figure hurtled through, and Rich put three rounds into it...

...missing each time, and a good thing too as Greg froze, held up his hands. “Rich!”

“Shit. Cutter?”

A door slammed above, and they looked at each other, nodded, and headed up.

“Give me the gun,” Greg commanded, and Rich handed it over without argument. He’d always been better with his hands anyway.

“He shot Pat?” Greg asked.

“Yes. Legion might be able to save him.”

Cutter >> This is our chance to get rid of two of the AI’s, Rich. When the other world goes away, they’ll go with it.

Rich ignored him, as they reached the top of the stairs. He panted a bit, felt winded... and a hint of worry crossed his mind as he saw that the glass panel in the door was letting daylight through.

“Looks like a roof,” he said.

“Stay low,” Greg advised. “Let me go through first.”

“No. You’ve got the gun. Cover me,” Rich said and pushed it open, hunching over and moving to get behind an HVAC unit. He didn’t see Cutter during the run, and he paused, looking around.

Nothing. It was high up, and the sound of gunfire was echoing from below. Sticking his head over the side would be a bad, bad idea.

Behind him the door swung open again. “No contact,” he muttered back, keeping his voice low.

Not low enough, evidently.

“Lay down the gun and wait, Rich. That’s all you need to do now,” Cutter called from somewhere down the roof.

“Why? That’s what I want to know,” Rich called, slinking around the side of the HVAC, and heading for one of the vent ducts.

“Why? Our world’s literally being invaded by dimension-crossing monstrosities, and stolen from us by sentient machines, and you ask why? We’re the chosen of God, Rich. Try to act like it, at least. Maybe fight to keep our place on the top of the heap for a change.”

“Now you’re sounding like a dragon,” Rich said, moving around the ductwork, eyes wide open. “And didn’t we leave that god bullshit behind in the Ministry? You saw the worst of it. You know it’s all lies.”

“Can’t judge a god by his sinners,” Cutter snapped back. “We’re all serving His plan in our own way. Even you.”

Rich stepped out from behind the last HVAC intake and found him.

Cutter was back against the edge of the roof, standing with his hands in his pockets. He looked tired, the lines in his face sagging.

“You were utterly terrifying when I was a kid,” Rich growled, moving forward, peering around for the trap. But he saw nothing.

“And you were in contact with an AI back then. For no discernible reason we could tell. She favored you. That’s what drew us to you, did you know that?” Cutter’s face grew stern. “They’ve been playing you since you were born, these inhuman freaks. But it’s our world, not theirs.”

“They’ve done better by me than you ever have,” Rich said, straightening up and clenching his fists. “Give me a reason not to throw you off this roof right now.”

Cutter glared at him, eyes hardening. “Last chance, Rich. Throw the gun to the ground and lie down. You’ve lost. Generica will end; the AI’s in it will be gone forever, and we’ll be in a perfect spot to hunt down the rest.”

“And all the people logged in right now? The hundreds of thousands? The millions, maybe?”

“A worthy sacrifice for what we’ll gain.”

“Fuck you, you murdering asshole,” Rich spat and stepped forward.

Part of the roof exploded.

A tiny part, near the edge. Just a piece of tile, really.

Pain in his chest, and then the echo of the gunshot as it caught up to the bullet exiting his clavicle.

Rich felt pain in his face, saw the grain of the roof tile, and realized he’d fallen.

Another shot, this one from behind him, and he saw Cutter fall, saw him crumple and go over the edge of the roof.

“Shit!” Greg howled, and then there were hands on Rich’s shoulder. “Rich! Dude, come on, this is no good, Rich, stay with me, man!”

Get back; they shot through the roof to get me, he tried to tell Greg, but his mouth was full of blood, and his vision was narrowing, narrowing to a dark tunnel, and it was very, very hard to focus all of a sudden...