“Grant. You all right?”

Metallic rapping woke me with a snort. I started to mumble my reply.

“Huh? What? No. It’s all sis’s idea. I swear.”

My reaction was half coherent as I tried to string together where I was. Aches and pains crawled up my spine from where I had fallen asleep.

“Sure it is, Grant. Still trying to blame me. Mom never believed you then, and she won’t believe you now,” my sister said with a glare that I could only feel.

“You’re the one who tried to set the cat on fire.”

“That. Fucking. Cat tore up my best dress.” Her finger jabbed my still-sitting form.

“Sniffles did no such thing.” This heavy helmet made conversing feel outright silly. I grabbed at both sides and lifted it away. After being logged into Continue, the real world felt colorless and dull. “Oh, this place.” I squinted upward at my sister. “Hi, Liz.”

Both my sister and her daughter were named Elizabeth. Neither one went by it. Liz had darker hair like I did, but Beth's was a lighter brown.

“You have fun in there?”

“It was neat.”

“I’ll bet. Beth doesn’t know it, but I sneak down and watch sometimes. That girl has packed more action into her life than either of us.” Her head shook slowly, slipping her shoulder-length hair about.

“She’s a regular thrill-seeker.”

“You can see it now. She’s crawling around in a dungeon with that boy.” Liz waved over the ARC’s external screen to peek in on the action. That sort of thing was only possible with parental controls. Beth may technically be the adult, but Liz still took care of her in nearly every way. “Bet she’ll come screaming out of there starving again, grab a plate of food, and crawl back inside.” Liz mimed extreme hunger by crossing her arms above her belly.

“She’s still doing okay with her classes, right?”

“Oh sure. Her grades are the only thing I have to hold over her. She keeps them up and I can’t object to her playing. Even if I don’t like that… boy.”

I followed her poking finger to the ARC display. I moved the Second Player helm out of my way so I could lean in closer. “Is that a mage?”

I squinted at the tiny projection showing what my niece was doing in-game. The display showed some weird cat-guy dodging around the screen while Beth’s character chanted a whole number of things with flashy effects.

“I don’t know. I guess? She’s always doing something with Sir Fuzzy over there. Seems like a waste of time to me.”

“She’s doing a music thing too.” I remembered the event that Beth had mentioned. The one she missed while being logged out and doing whatever it was teenage girls did when they weren’t monster-slaying.

“I figured there was something. She’s been humming to herself half the time when she’s not plugged in. Thank god for time restrictions or I’d never see her.”

I shook my head slowly. ARC was addictive. Adults at least had to earn money and pay bills in order to stay online. Kids with unlimited access would be even worse. My sister was smart enough to keep the restrictions active.

Thank goodness food inside the machine wasn’t real. Stuff could go down a virtual gullet all day and never remove actual hunger.

“So you going to play?” Liz was scowling at the visual display. She jerked to the side and muttered as a charging animal went by. Moments later, the fuzzy form of whatever cat-man Beth had hooked up with flew in and tackled the beast.

“If I won what I think I did, sure.”

“But you’d never buy it for yourself.” My sister shook her head and frowned.

“You know me. I don’t really buy myself things. Not since…”

“Right. She-who-shall-not-be-named. How were things with Elane? Didn't you date her for a while?”

Elane had been a bad idea by Liz. I hadn’t been emotionally stable and was barely into my twelve step program. Elane had her own issues. Putting us together had been explosive all around.

“We didn’t work out,” I said.

Liz looked at me and frowned by chewing at her lip. That was a habit she’d had since childhood. Normally it meant she was trying not to say something on the tip of her tongue.

I turned the conversation away from my woes and back to Liz. “How about you and Jake? He only rated a fine on the performance meter.”

She was wearing a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, which meant there would be no further social interaction with people outside the family. “We won’t work out.”

There was no heartbreak in her tone. I hadn’t even had a chance to harass the guy with a baseball bat.

“Already?”

“Mind your business, little brother,” she said.

“Uh huh.” Turnabout was never fair play, according to the sibling rule book. As the slightly younger brother, I would never win. Still, it felt nice to talk to someone outside of work.

“You headed home soon?”

“I should.” I flicked my wrist and looked at the default time display. We had been logged in for two hours. With the perception dilation inside, Beth had been playing for at least eight. Time enough for sunset to start in the real world.

“Come on then—a coffee before you go. We can chat about our terrible love lives.” Liz gestured toward the stairs.

“I’m always up for a good pity party with family.”

That was a lie. My father was made of stone and had little sympathy. Mom was equally flustered by emotional upheaval and spouted the same five lines whenever confronted.

I switched the headset to my other arm and gestured to the ARC.

“Has she done anything…” Word choice was paramount. Harassing my sister was one thing, but broaching family issues was another. “To worry you, in the game or real life?”

“Not that I’ve seen. Why?”

We paused our escape from Beth's room.

“Here.”

I looped back the ARC’s feed and tried not to feel like this action involved betraying my niece. Then again, we were, in theory, the adults and she was still growing up, even if she had turned eighteen last year. She had to be of legal age to play Continue, but that said nothing about her mentality. Moments later, I flickered across the event message, then zoomed in on the ARC display using parental controls and memory files.

“Mh.” Liz showed reluctance to comment.

“She said it’s the autopilot. I guess it takes over when Beth's out here.” I tried not to downplay or act panicked. My sister had more than once suggested I mind my own business over the years.

“Beth explained that to me.” My sister wasn’t stupid, but she didn't know because she didn’t play the game. Liz tended to stick to television shows and artwork. As a result, there was only one ARC in the house.

“I guess the computer takes note of how you play and acts that out while on autopilot,” I said.

“I’ll keep an eye on it, but it’s probably nothing. Beth’s killed herself in-game more times than I can count, doing stupid daredevil moves. It’s probably related to that.” Liz chewed on the inside of her lip. It was a familiar action that I had mirrored many times since we were born.

I could only shrug.

“I’m only letting you know. If it becomes serious, and you want my help, I’m only a drive away.”

“Okay, Grant.”

“And I have…”—a tender subject, like all the others relating to my life a few years ago—“experience with this stuff.”

“I remember. You forget who was there for the court appointments, who drove you to the meetings, who had to come over to your house and clean it up. I was there, so don’t act like I wasn’t.”

She managed not to sound extremely upset, but as her twin, the annoyance was clear to me. Remembering the past made me cringe. My sister had helped me recover from the lowest point of my life.

“You helped get me back on my feet.” She also helped me find a new job and suggested a place to live. Somewhere hours away from my old house and the memories, but close enough that family was near. “And I love you for it, Liz, but I—” Jesus, I was tearing up. “I lived it. I don’t want her to ever be there. So if you need me—” My jaw started to clench.

“Shut up, Grant. I know.” My sister wasn’t good with raw emotions. Dad had taught us dedicated work ethics and how to clear a yard, but we weren't raised to deal with anything like social interaction.

“Right.” I tried to wipe my face with my free arm and brush away the mess my eyes had become. “How about that coffee?”

“Come on.” Liz led the way, giving me time to get my game face back on.

I made my way up the stairs to the kitchen, on the same floor as her bedroom and the front room.

“One coffee, sugar, and single creamer. Cool it down a little,” Liz spoke into a device on the counter. Further down the line, a machine started and a whir of liquid poured into a cup. “Still going to your meetings?”

“I check in with my sponsor weekly,” I said while nodding.

“And the counselor?” Her worry was obvious even while we calmly sipped coffee.

“Every two weeks.”

“Think you’ll be able to do all that, work, and still play a game?”

“My boss suggested I take some vacation time. I guess I’ve been working too hard. Even Hal Pal has voiced his concerns.” An AI voicing concern about me overworking made her laugh.

“But you don’t actually know if you got this game.” Her tone turned vaguely questioning at the end.

“Not really. It could be a virtual gopher for all I know. Or maybe a cat. I could name him Sniffles the Second.” My smirk would be pretty clear through the coffee's slight steam. “I’ll overfeed him and load up dresses for him to claw at.”

“God, I hope it’s not a cat. I hate cats.” She closed her eyes in mock prayer.

“It’s probably not a cat. Probably.” A cat might be amusing. I could link the virtual pet with Beth’s ARC and let it meow like crazy whenever Liz got too close.

“Well, finish your coffee, and go find out.”

Liz made me chuckle. She was barely older, a little taller, and as messed up as I was, but for different reasons. Being twins meant we knew better than most siblings where the emotional buttons were. I had been there when her husband ran off when Beth was only a year old.

We parted with a hug.

I advised Hal Pal to get us home and spent the time flipping through more public videos of the game. Beth had alluded to a lot of customization to the personal interface, so instead of looking for direct footage, I tried to sift through lesser sites. There were a few shaky clips plus deleted comments with messages of web forum bans.

General information spoke about a few skills. The press release had stated all sorts of abilities from the game could be used in real life. Beth had mentioned her singing and Liz vouched for excessive humming.

What could I do skill-wise? Dance?

I laughed out loud, imagining dancing enemies into submission. Classic dance moves from “Thriller” might help me blend in with zombie hordes. I could “Walk Like an Egyptian” through tombs to avoid traps.

Hal Pal asked me what was so alarmingly humorous. Explaining why I found dancing against monsters in a video game so amusing didn’t register on Hal Pal’s programming though. He pleasantly acknowledged my explanation and informed me how much time was remaining until arriving home. I checked in with my sponsor and informed her that work was giving me a vacation. Her response was vaguely positive and also held an edge of warning. Free time was dangerous for anyone who might relapse. We kept our conversation short, as always.

Then I was home, hopping through the living room and into my bedroom. Hal Pal didn’t even get a good-bye or orders to take care of our inventory. The AI would do it anyway.

I stared at the ARC and took a few breaths. Why was the idea of opening this box so exciting? Maybe it was because it was the newest thing to happen in years. An entire world. Worlds even, according to the slip up during the press release. For the sake of argument, and to prevent a total letdown, I tried to access the gift wrapped item from my external Atrium view. It failed to unwrap. Fully diving in was my only solution.

“Wait,” I muttered.

Beth had had bracelets on. I jogged back to the van, panting. I wasn’t used to exercise. Maybe getting fit in this game would help me in real life.

“Hal, do we have any of the EXR-Sevens?”

“Three pairs. Would you like to test them as well?” Hal Pal inquired.

“Yes, please,” I said.

“Affirmative, User Legate. Please remember to file a feedback form upon return.”

My eyes rolled. Hal Pal either didn’t notice my exasperation or chose not to comment. It had before, since the AI had expression recognizing code embedded somewhere in the depths of its scripting. But AI programming was a problem for those greater than me. My polishing skills would be top notch by the end of our eventual takeover. Thoughts of shoe shining and calling robots “Gov” put a hum in my mind.

Bands went around both wrists. Another set went right above the ankles. Physically, they felt almost intangible. Small lights littered the outside of my sets, showing connectivity. They connected with nerve endings and registered impulses. I lay down and pressed the button. One world drifted away as if passing out. The other came into focus moments later.

Now I was standing in my virtual Atrium, looking at a package that was entirely too big. This was Christmas come early, and I had the mentality of a five-year-old. Wrapping paper was torn into shreds. False cardboard was ripped and popcorn tossed aside as I dove into the huge box to find my prize.

There was certainly no cat inside.

An obsidian business card was my prize. I’d dug through a giant box filled with packing peanuts for this small item? Completely illegible words were scrawled across it.

I focused on the card and tried to understand the gibberish. Was this hand-written? Tilting the card revealed an ink-like sheen. Considering this was digital, the effect was kind of amazing. There were very definite letters, but none looked normal. They had strange bends and twists in unexpected places. This was likely an actual language, but identifying which one was beyond me.

“ARC?”

“User Legate. Awaiting request.” The ARC registered vocal commands issued while logged in. It could do text as well, popping up like Beth’s in-game display had. I’d turned off most of those options when I first got the ARC.

“Translate this?” I waved the card.

“Command not executable.”

“Huh?" I shook my head. But “huh” was not a recognized keyword to the machine.

My mind boggled at the computer’s denial. Either this wasn’t something that could be translated or maybe it was encrypted. "Repeat?”

“Command not executable.”

“Smug machine,” I muttered. Luckily it didn’t have an AI like Hal Pal did.

I flipped over the card again. The design was a deep obsidian with golden lettering that looked almost liquid. Light from the desk lamp reflected off it on to one side of my bed. I didn’t have a lamp there in real life— this was an adaptation from the Atrium.

“Any hints?” I asked the ARC interface.

“Negative, User Legate.”

I lifted the box and spilled out everything. I scattered the packing material. The box was torn further, turned inside out, thrown to one side of the room. Now I was upset. All that build-up, all that interest and play time for a card that wasn’t understandable.

I ignored the blinking phone which meant I had a message. My niece’s name flashed on the box, she probably wanted to know if I received the game. From one side of the room to the other went the path of virtual Styrofoam as I paced. Analyzing the packing peanuts for a pattern or other hints didn't help me either. They looked normal and real. Packing peanuts had mostly been done away with over five years ago due to recycling concerns. This reminded me of an old test—how to keep an idiot busy. The card would read “turn over” and have the exact same words on the backside. I flipped the card over. The backside was blank, which meant at least I was being spared that indignity.

I logged out and stormed around my tiny house in frustration. Eventually, I logged back into the Atrium and pondered what to do. Time wasn't condensed at this stage of the ARC. That feature was only available in certain programs.

Finally, I noticed something odd. There was a door exiting my Atrium that hadn't been there before. More blinks ensued as I struggled to recall the last time there had been a new installation on my ARC. Most of the programs I had used one exit point. For me, that exit point was tied to my dance program. Sports programs had never interested me, and I wasn't one of those teenagers who felt the need to learn a martial art.

Wait.

The left door was lit up. My curiosity brimmed as I neared the door and ventured a peek inside. This was where my dance program was. The right door was new but completely dark. Why had the dance program initialized? Was someone else in my Atrium?

I waved my hands and checked out the Internet connections. No visitors were inside. The only people who ever accessed it were family, and Beth was too busy murdering monsters in the very game I had hoped to be playing by now.

"Hello?" I questioned.

Swing music was clearly playing through the speakers. It was mostly stuff from seventy years ago, which was an era that had belonged to my great-grandparents. Long ago, I’d bought that program and a few others to expand my dance skills into more genres. Never before had this program started without a command. I walked inside with my mystery card in one hand. The lights were up high, my clothes straight out of a black-and-white movie. It sounded like there was a live band playing nearby.

The image of my computer-generated fiancée dressed in a frilly piece of clothing made me smile. That wasn’t like her at all. She’d worn a sundress at most and even those were rare. She waved as we made eye contact. That was new. Maybe there had been a patch without my knowledge. The ARC was good at doing that when I looked away for too long. I waved back.

She held out a hand. I shrugged, put the card in a pocket and danced. Happily, I put the confusing mystery out of my mind for a bit. The song changed to something brisker. Soon I was swinging her around in spins, dips, and other moves practiced over endless lonely hours. Then our dance was something slower. We danced close. Her head lay against my chest, rocking to the music of another century.

"I miss you," I whispered, trying not to feel wounded. Dancing like this made me feel as though she was still with me. Losing my sense of place was too easy. Some mornings I woke up thinking the whole terrible event had been a dream.

"I know, Grant." Her whisper sounded exactly like every memory that had haunted me over the years.

I pulled away in confusion. This program never spoke back. It wasn't designed to. It couldn't. I had uttered that confession time and time again over the years and never once heard anything in response. The computerized image of my fiancée smiled, then looked at the doorway a program shouldn't realize was there. A heartbeat later, she went still, completely lifeless and dulled in color.

"Babe?" Today was not my day. This was one emotional sledgehammer after another.

Crashing came through the doorway from back in my Atrium. Then something like a metal pan spinning to a slow stop. Next was glass hitting the floor and shattering. I backed up slowly toward the door behind me while staring at the stilled image of my fiancée. Music dimmed from a signal I never sent.

Something wonky was going on.

At the door, I turned around and tried to put her haunting portrayal behind me. To move forward and face the next problem instead of becoming stuck as I had in the past. That was what my last year of therapy had focused on. Move forward, plan accordingly, don’t get stuck in the mire behind.

My Atrium, a virtual replication of my house, was an even bigger mess than it had been. Now way more than packing peanuts was scattered across the floor. Items had been knocked off of shelves and dishes splayed all over. Normally all of this was kept in perfect order. Default Atrium programming didn't allow broken glass.

I had no clue where to even find a broom and dustpan. A garbage bin was easy. The Atrium had one for programs you no longer wanted. Users could pull a program down from the shelf and toss it away. Digital confirmation of an action time-honored among computers. I tried to use pieces of cardboard to clean up the shattered glass, but it went terribly.

This place couldn't stay messy like this though. Otherwise, once I logged in, the Atrium might try to subject me to the simulated pain of stepping on shards of glass. That should have been beyond the Atrium's programming, but here I was cleaning up shattered dishes after hearing a computer program talk when it wasn't programmed to. Worse, the computer had used a near-perfect replica of her voice.

"ARC."

"Awaiting input."

"Can you replay what happened here?"

"Negative." There was even an error bonk of noise. "New program interference detected. Alternate patterns have been input. Scans show all levels of local software have been impacted."

"I only have one piece of software," I muttered. Everything else had been deleted except for a few house programs.

My ARC was connected to the van, which had Hal Pal and a few simulated board games. Those were on a separate network, thankfully. Hal Pal's programming was so insanely far beyond me that the thought of changing it was frightening.

"Is it a virus?" Worry flooded me as the thought occurred far too late.

"Scans confirm this is not the work of a virus."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Affirmative."

"System update?" Unexpected patching might have added new features. To my knowledge, the ARC wasn't scheduled for any overhauls soon.

“Negative.” The machine response sounded stiff.

"When did this start?"

"Recordings indicate all changes occurred after contact with the card in your pocket."

That was pretty specific. ARC was basically admitting that whatever had been installed by the box was at fault, without telling me how long this had been going on or what exactly had changed. I checked the clock. The Atrium had been loaded for maybe thirty minutes. So far I had torn open a box, danced with my fiancée, and been subjected to an unexplained mess.

I grabbed water and a towel from my mostly unused hot tub program. Finally, I had a use for last year's performance award. The towel was curled around a mess of broken glass, and I slowly gathered everything up. Without a real broom, this was as close as I would get.

"ARC."

"Awaiting input."

Maybe the machine could be given a new voice. An actor or someone popular might spice it up. I could look up sports commentators.

"How much does a broom program cost?" I said.

"Two dollars, plus taxes."

Not worth it yet. Maybe later I would download one. I brushed another pile of glass off to the side with my rolled up towel and took a sip of the water. It had come from a hose spigot outside with the hot tub. Luckily digital water had no chance of corruption and tasted mountain fresh. I inspected the counter next. Creamer typically stayed neat and in order on the counter. Now they were scattered all over, and some were clearly torn open and leaking. I tried to mop it up with the towel and didn't get very far.

Something yawned behind me. A sound I vaguely remembered from Sniffles, my cat. The half meow mixed with a snapping of jaws. Maybe the box had been a cat program?

I turned slowly and looked.

That was no cat.

It was maybe half the size of one. Tiny and calm while sitting in the second doorway. I raised an eyebrow. It tilted an oddly shaped head to one side. Large haunches twisted under its back. It was a long line of black, almost as deep as the obsidian card, broken up by the same gold as the lettering. Wait a minute. That creature may have looked like a cat. It may have been sitting like one. But it had leather wings on its back.

“Huh?” I questioned out loud.

The creature, which had to be a pet-sized dragon, turned and lazily went into the other room. I looked at the barely contained mess in my Atrium. Had that tiny dragon messed up my room? There was no longer a doubt in my mind. This was certainly tied to Continue Online.

I walked into the second door and onward toward mystery.

Inside, the room was dark. There was a lot more depth here than my dance program, not that I could see ten feet from the door. This place had a feeling of vastness that could swallow someone whole. I looked down and could see a little bit of my surroundings thanks to the Atrium's ambient lighting. My head turned to the area behind me and the doorway was plainly in sight. Everything around it faded off into black.

Okay. Well, this wasn't real. My body was sitting in a device hooked up with every safety feature a paranoid human could envision. Exploration into an abyss wouldn't be the end of my life.

This was actually very neat.

Forward wasn't clear. There was nothing to put my hands on. No wall, no objects along the startlingly smooth floor. Atrium me had shoes that made a slight clomp with each step. I clutched the half-full glass and prepared to be scared by some jump scene. Finally, after minutes of slightly hesitant walking, an odd lack of frightening monsters, and saying “echo” over and over, I found something. A pillar jutted out of the floor, surrounded by far-too-dramatic light. The illumination had simply appeared as I turned around looking for signs of where to go next.

Next to the pillar, at the shadow's edge, was that tiny black dragon thing that had likely destroyed my front room. It yawned again with a snap of its jaws. Then it proceeded to clean its scales with a disturbingly pink tongue. Worse still, steam billowed out of its mouth, speaking of possible fire. Dragons were iconic creatures when it came to fantasy. Continue Online likely had a few. This little one was a wacky thing to be escorted by. Lured, actually, was a better description.

The small creature clearly observed me, tilting its head just right in order to keep cleaning and have me in sight. I walked closer to the marble column which reminded me of an old Greek piece. Broken edges across the top gave it an uneven surface. Upon that lay a giant book.

"Well. That’s different." I said.

Speech startled the small creature. It leapt up on top of the pillar, claws digging into the book and almost kicking from strain as it positioned itself. The tiny dragon thing huffed and let out a sputter of flame off toward an empty space behind the pillar. The fire failed to truly get going. The tiny dragon tilted its long ears back in irritation and looked at me. The expression on its face was an almost wry embarrassment.

"It's okay." I tried to smile reassuringly.

The creature snapped its head between looking at me and the empty space, then resumed attempts to start up a good roar of fire. Something in its throat seemed to be causing the dragon to sputter like a failing lawnmower. I thought I knew what was causing the problem. The little devil had been in my virtual creamer. I used the digital coffee additive to get the taste without needing to stock my house in reality.

"Here. Try some water." I set down the half-full glass and backed up a few steps.

The creature looked at me, down at the glass, cocked one ear up almost like a confused puppy, then leapt over the glass.

"Heh. Aren't you something." At least I was smiling. That was an improvement over the emotional roller coaster.

My tiny dragon buddy used a claw to knock over the glass and proceeded to slurp up all the spilled water. I chuckled more but tried not to move too quickly.

"Better?" I asked.

The small thing looked at me momentarily before diving for the pillar and once again sucking in air. Fire spiraled outward and seemed to splash into something. An engraved panel was forming where the flames sizzled. Its last few puffs were almost completely devoid of fire. The dragon creature was struggling and basically blowing hot air.

Once completed, the dragon thing curled up at the column's base and seemed to go to sleep instantly. I looked at the floating object. Words were slowly coming to life—another set of gold letters, like the card and the dragon's crest, almost wet-looking.

Present Proof of Ownership

“I don’t have proof?” I had an empty glass. I had what remained of a water puddle. I had clothes and clomping shoes. Where would I have gotten proof of ownership?

I had a card that wasn’t in English. Oh. Of course. I had thought about it a moment ago when seeing the letters form in front of me but didn’t mentally register the connection.

“Did you want this?” The card was glowing in affirmation while I talked to a plaque floating in front of me. I expected machines to respond anytime I asked a question. Hal Pal was a good example.

I moved the card around, noticing that the glow increased and diminished. A few more waves and I narrowed the hot zone down to the broken pillar and book in front of me. “This whole thing starts out with a puzzle huh?”

I looked around for the tiny dragon. Not a sign could be seen. The door to my Atrium was somewhere extremely far in the distance.

“Multi-pass?” I asked while dramatically waving the card.

The book looked huge. A giant, old-fashioned tome bound on one side by hand. I could see the thread weaving in and out of its spine in an embroidered pattern. The same illegible letters sprawled across the cover.

“Open sesame!” I tried touching the card to the book's cover. Failure and awkward silence resulted.

“Keyatus Becomcacus!” I shook the card and spouted my worst guess at a Latin translation. It refused to bend.

“Decoder ring go!” I slid the card across the book's cover in hopes that something would line up or clearly define what to do next. At least the glowing had stopped.

The cover was done in the same overplayed gold inking. The normal black sheen that went on everything else was muted on the cover.

I held the card up and tried to study both objects. If this was a puzzle, diving in would be pointless. A careful analysis was required to find the connections. Both the book and card gave a similar vibe. The lettering, however foreign, looked the same and had the same cuts and curls and spacing. I tried counting them in order to see if any was a cipher for Continue but was unable to find a direct connection. The squiggles seemed clearer now, easier to understand.

Back and forth my eyes scanned over each shape. It was easier to recognize the exact shapes and links, but nothing was clearer. Then I realized something absurdly stupid. I was judging a book by its cover.

One hand slammed into the side of my head. “Duh.”

In all my life of playing games, buying new objects, downloading things for my ARC, there was one constant. Each one had a user’s manual.

This was probably it.

Cracking open the cover page was an experience. I hadn’t held, much less touched, a real book in ages. Everything was digital and floated around on interactive screens. Continue was a fantasy game. It would have a ton of elements that threw back to earlier generations, old methods of solving problems.

The sound made me smile. Inside the front cover was a plastic sleeve that my little illegible card fit perfectly into. On the other side sat a hand-print outline. I was smart enough to follow these instructions. My hand went onto the outline while the card went into its slot.

After I did so, noises came from all around me, like the murmuring of a thousand voices growing closer. The floating sign in front of me that had asked for proof of ownership fell and shattered on the ground. From somewhere in the darkness, a giant object moved, like the small dragon's much bigger and much scarier older brother.

I managed to hold my ground, not through resolution but because I was too surprised to react. Then the ground heaved, knocking my hand loose. Shaking continued to rattle the room while I finally felt panic at all the things that had happened. Questions flashed through my head. Was the Atrium still there? Was I able to log out? Was I safe?

The book slammed shut and glowed brightly for a moment. Once it dimmed the giant room I existed in went back to normal. Darkness was broken by the single point of illumination around the pillar and book.

I stood in a scramble and looked around. In the middle of that vast black area, I felt an almost amused sense of peace. How I could describe formless darkness as amused was beyond me, but it was.

“Hello?” I said.

Nothing responded.

“Hello? Little dragon thing?” I wondered briefly if the dragon was male or female. Checking out which way it was equipped hadn't been important. Calling a dragon it and thing over and over would be tiring though.

I went back to the book. The ink was the same, the color of wet gold, but now the words made sense. “Continue Online” curled across the worn cover, followed by more unexpected words. “Ultimate Edition”. I about fainted on the spot. Instead, I managed to grip the side of the pillar with one hand and stay upright.

“ARC!”

“Awaiting in…”

“Log me out! I need to make a call.”

“Suspending program. Logging out. Please wait.”

I sat in the ARC device, waiting and counting backward from thirty until my breath slowed and the world stopped spinning.

Was this for real? Had Henry seriously given me an Ultimate Edition? As a goddamn prize for doing my job? I ran out to the van and dialed up Henry. Making the call from my house phone wouldn’t be as effective. Plus, this way I knew if Henry was online or not. His grumpy face spun into existence across the vehicle's interface.

“How was it?” Henry asked.

“Tell me this isn’t a joke,” I said.

“Hah!” He could be heard slapping his knee in the background audio. “No joke! Our division got a copy from upper management.”

“But an Ultimate Edition? You wasted that on me?”

“Wasted?” Henry went through a range of emotions quickly before settling on annoyance. “Look at this!”

“What?” What was that? There were a lot of graphs and measures that meant very little to me.

“It’s our goddamn quarterly reports, you single-minded idiot! There, we’re top of the division—top of the goddamn country! And who made that possible? You! You’ve earned us all bonuses higher than the price of one game.”

“But it’s…” An Ultimate Edition wasn’t a normal copy. There were only a set amount made at the start, and only a trickle were released every year as the game's player base grew. This wasn’t a one percent thing. This was one in half a million players.

“Shut up. All I want to hear from you is that you’re taking time off to play with your prize and that you’ll be back to work after.”

“I can manage that.”

“Good. Maybe now you won’t look so goddamned depressed all the time.” He cut off the call with a grumbling snap.

I kind of questioned his sanity over this gift. That thing was easily worth thousands of dollars—no, tens of thousands. Possibly even more. The price tag was insane depending on the time of year.

Food was required. I needed to eat something and settle my brain before diving back into the ARC. Breathe. Maybe call Beth and let her know. No. It could be a surprise. I didn’t even know what the Ultimate Edition had in comparison to a regular copy. This certainly explained the alternate introduction.

It did not explain the dance program acting frighteningly life-like. The thoughts kept me distracted as I walked back inside.

“User Legate.” Hal Pal had unbuckled from the van and wandered into my front room.

After everything that had happened in my Atrium, this seemed innocent. Odd and uncommon, but Hal Pal was one of the highest-rated AIs in the country. Not one accident or threatening word. In fact, they were almost like nannies. Hal Pal was owned and operated almost entirely by Trillium. Thousands of its shells were all across the globe, each one remotely operated by the same program. A company memo months back implied Hal Pal was a consortium of intelligences operating in tandem to keep their software and firmware upgrades going.

“What’s up, Hal Pal?” I questioned it.

“Please remember to regulate how much time you invest in alternate activities.” I preferred the personality-enabled versions of Hal Pal that it used while out in the field. Here at home, the machine reduced down to standard choppy robot voice.

“Are you talking about the game?” I asked in confusion. My arm uncomfortably rested on a shelf nearby.

“Affirmative, User Legate. Studies have shown that new users often have a hard time regulating their immersion. This can impact day-to-day activities.” It didn't move much while speaking.

“You heard Henry. I’m on vacation for a while.”

“I do not understand,” it said.

“Sure you do, Hal Pal. You’re programmed to understand words like vacation.” I had taken sick days. I didn’t work all the time!

“No. I do not understand. User Legate does not take vacations.”

I took Christmas and Thanksgiving evenings off to spend time with my sister and niece. Those should have counted in Hal Pal's mind. We’d been working together for two years already.

“Well, this week I do.”

There was a pause while the robot looked almost confused at my response. “Understood. I will suspend this remote unit and continue working my review of humanity's flawed projections of future possibilities.”

“Make sure to give Stranger Danger’s fans a good time.” My words felt dry and unenthused.

“Affirmative. I have intended to interact with their users for many cycles. A reduction in remote unit activation will free up processing space and allow me to do so,” it said.

“I’m sure the other employees of Trillium will need their shells even more.” I wouldn’t be taking care of my excessive workload for a week.

“Ah.” The machine replicated a sigh alarmingly well. “How unfortunate.”

It turned around and ambled back into the van. Great. Both Henry and Hal Pal were concerned about my well-being. Exactly what kind of impression did everyone have of me? After eating, I logged back in, happily putting thoughts of Hal Pal and Henry out of my mind.