When he regained control of his mind teetering on the precipice of madness and panic, Aren climbed into the Sim Pod and with trembling fingers engaged the device. It whirred mechanically as the bed retracted into the capsule, and the door hissed closed over him.

He appeared in the same place he left Singularity. By now, the town had largely become rubble. Denizens saw the sudden appearance of Aren, seemed confused, and then carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. There weren’t many, and it was likely only the first wave of refugees returning to their hometown.

But Aren barely even registered them. His first act was to force his buffer open. A shock of lightning ran through his body and he exhaled. His fingers stopped trembling. His heart rate decreased to levels that were actually normal. Perhaps, they were a bit too low. A steady sixty beats per minute. Once per second. His heart was a metronome. His mind was calm. Every trace of panic disappeared.

He was in the eye of the storm now.

Perhaps a sane person might question why things like this were happening to them. Every time something relatively good happened, something catastrophic was there to counter it. Whether or not Aren was still sane was certainly a matter of debate best left for Artificial Intelligence specialists. However, Aren did not question things like that — oh no, he had long ago accepted the fact that his life was going to be a parody. How could it not be? He was sharing his mind with an AGMI. Aren had a different mind-set; catastrophic things were going to happen, that was the norm now, not the anomaly. It was the good moments that were the anomaly.

In this state, he was self-aware enough to even question whether or not those conclusions were his true thoughts, or if they were a product of the mood stabilizing effect his open buffer had on him; the state of self-hypnosis, or self-mind-control, that turned him into an efficient, pain-agnostic killing machine. As if it was some kind of profane Doublethink, engineered in the dystopian society of Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. Foolishly, he allowed himself to wonder if all lightning users enjoyed these benefits, but knew from the beginning that there was simply no way that was possible. This was something like a technique, but it wasn’t listed in his abilities. It was no mind-trick, or passive effect.

This state… He considered the likely culprit behind its existence. Priscilla’s Blessing. This was her gift. It was as if she knew what kind of difficult journey awaited him, and gave him the one thing that could pull him back from the brink of self-destruction: calmness; peace; ataraxia. Surely, Priscilla could not have known that most of Aren’s problems would stem from the real world. Or maybe she did. Maybe that’s why she gave this gift to him. She knew about the pain he experienced in the real world and the kind of spiritual pain that produced. Could she have known?

Maybe Priscilla never even intended to be found. Maybe she just wanted an excuse to give Aren a life he could tolerate. Her final, farewell gift.

A cooling determination settled in his heart.

In the real world, with the last shred of sanity left in his mind, he made the conscious decision to log into Singularity for the sole purpose of enjoying the benefits of Priscilla’s Blessings or whatever it was that made him this calm. Maybe it was Leviathan’s doing — it didn’t matter at that moment. There were more pressing matters.

On that day, there were two incidents. A drone crashed through his window, and then another drone crashed into a building. Accidents happen, Thomas said. Sure. Even assuming the incredulous idea that an accident could happen despite the fact that AI was infallible and accident-proof — this was an absurd line of thinking, Aren could already see that — it was practically unthinkable that two could happen on the same day, and in the same vicinity.

No matter how Aren thought about it, there was one common thread between the two accidents. The hospital. Except, if someone looked deeper into it, they would find an even more common thread between the two accidents. Aren himself.

He imagined some kind of police force knocking down his door, and labeling him as a terrorist. The world of Singularity was largely averse to crime, but in the past it was not strange to hear about non-citizens with dummy chips, or citizens with tampered chips, resorting to illegal acts. And they all shared a common theme. A televised, sector-wide judicial broadcast. Viewers — citizens only — could vote on the outcome and the sentence.

But that wouldn’t happen to Aren. Those people were not perceived as terrorists; that moniker was for those engaging in acts of terror and high treason. Tampering with the logistical and infrastructural network, possession and distribution of banned materiel, manipulating or attempting to crack cryptographic cyberlocks — which was impossible anyway — and acts that were generally deemed as against the spirit, the prosperity and the nature of the Commonwealth earned one the rare opportunity of being judged by a panel of AGMI.

Technically, Aren did all of those things. Technically, because it was Deucalion that disabled his cyberlock. But do AGMI that consider the Geneva Convention to be merely the Geneva Suggestion care about technicalities?

Probably not.

In modern society, none of these things were possible anymore. Allegedly. But there has not been a televised judicial process in almost ten years, to Aren’s knowledge. Not in Sec-9 at least. And even that one was a not guilty outcome — the citizen simply wasn’t aware he was committing a crime. In the utopian society of Sec-9, this man thought he could simply enter another person’s APV and drive off — return it later presumably. But some old technology kicked off a chain of events, lodged a complaint that an unauthorized user took control of the vehicle, and that was that. Since then, all such old security systems have been removed from virtually every APV. Now? It was totally acceptable to drive another person’s APV. Sharing is caring. Commonwealth of the people. AGMI loves Humanity.

Aren felt sick. If it wasn’t for Leviathan, he would be flagged for indicators of criminal activity. Oh yeah, he almost forgot: anti-government propaganda was also considered an act of terror, somehow. According to rumor, at least.

In school, some years ago, Aren received a test — it was more like a questionnaire — and one of the questions was: do you believe this society is a Utopia? Unlike the other questions, this one did not have multiple answers on how strongly he agreed or disagreed with it. It was just yes and no.

With vivid clarity, Aren could remember writing the words: if this society were utopian, my mother would be alive. He spent hours — hours — being threatened with a reintegration program if he didn’t revoke his answer. Honestly, he couldn’t remember what happened next. It disappeared in the void that devoured many of his memories of those times. Not just those times. Aren had precious few memories of his life. Sometimes, he felt like an empty suit; a strawman.

We are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men.

The AGMI responded to Aren’s thoughts with a crisp, crystal clarity that burst in his shared brain like a sheet of glass. It was cacophonous, and yet clear. Aren swayed on his feet, his mind recoiling from the perceived loudness. More than anything, Aren did not think that an AGMI would appreciate poetry or T. S. Eliot.

What a strange question. Aren frowned, thinking about his answer. Initially, he thought about it only as a thought experiment, a sort of then versus now. But what he came away with challenged his initial beliefs.

“I think I do,” Aren said.

Aren thought about the words. “Meaning?” he asked.

Aren lowered his head. He wanted to disagree on principle, but he couldn’t.

The AGMI read Aren’s mind.

Aren glanced over his shoulder, making sure the vicinity was clear of denizens. Why did Leviathan use that particular wording — those things Aren called AGMI? “So, this is all a lie?" Aren gestured around himself, indicating all of Singularity. "Our lives, from beginning to end, are pre-determined? No matter how hard we try?”

Aren narrowed his eyes at the words. He was going to be a Class A citizen? That was… unthinkable. Class A? What even was that? Overlord of the Commonwealth? Something beyond? And when did this happen? The way Leviathan phrased it, it sounded as if his score changed. Scores were supposed to be constants; immutable.

Aren stared at the empty air in front of him, trying his best to quiet his thoughts to the point that not even Leviathan could read them. Even though he knew this was pointless. Even though he was trying his best, he could not help but actively wonder if Leviathan was perhaps trying to create a true utopia, and if so, what that would mean. Leviathan specifically said that Belligerence is a natural component of being human.

If the current utopia had Harmony at its center, then what would a utopia with Belligerence at its center look like?

Aren frowned. When an AGMI said a utopia was not possible, that sure said a lot. He almost felt dejected and offended.

Something like a death line appeared before Aren. It was pure white, with gold glimmers. It followed the road mostly, leading far and away from this place. Aren could not help but think that its appearance was purposeful — to be inviting and to be deemed safe.

"Wait," Aren whispered. "What about the... incidents? What are we... what do I do?"

For a long time, Aren waited for a reply. It never came.

Why did Leviathan ask him about utopias? Surely, the AGMI already knew the answer. Did it desire for Aren to realize how his mind had changed on the topic of utopia? For some reason, Aren did not think it was that simple. There had to be something more to it. There had to be.

Aren checked the clan list and noticed that everyone was still offline. He went around to gather the loot from the orc corpses, but found them to have already been collected by someone. As a last ditch effort, he walked towards the center of the city, to at least help with the rebuilding efforts. He was ready to do anything, but use his brain. He did not want to think about it. Not about societies, utopias, or the future. He just wanted to save Priscilla. He just wanted to be happy, and maybe make his friends happy in the process. Why was that so difficult to do?

Because he sold his soul to Leviathan, that’s why. That was the arrangement.

“Excuse me, adventurer,” a denizen walked up to Aren.

“Hello?” the denizen asked, lightly touching Aren’s shoulder.

Startled, and torn from his thoughts, Aren turned swiftly, reaching for a shadowblade that was not there.

The denizen seemed surprised at first — a middle-aged man with dark hair — and then smiled, as if recognizing Aren. “Ah, it’s you. Our savior.”

Savior? Did this ruined town look like he saved anything? Or was this Aurora’s blessing warping the man’s perception? For once, Aren wanted to know how someone truly felt. Curse him! Clad him in scorn!

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to even attempt to provoke the man’s real thoughts, if such a thing was even possible. He wanted to know, but he also didn’t.

“We gathered all the loot from the orcs and put it in this sack,” the man said, nodding to his sack. “To save you the trouble, sir. Thank you for helping us.”

The man offered the sack to Aren and the lightning blade just stared at the denizen. Then his vanity and unwillingness snapped. “I didn’t help you,” he said. “I ruined you. Don’t you see that? Where will you sleep tonight? How will you pay for food? How will you survive?”

Some denizens overheard Aren’s words, and looked towards him. The denizen Aren was speaking to smiled, however, and looked around. “Sure,” the man said, nodding. “It is all ruined.”

Aren reached for his coin purse and unhooked it from his belt — it was a complicated mechanism, so it took a while — and then offered it to the man. “I don’t have much,” Aren said. “But at the very least, it can hel—”

The man pushed the coin purse away and shook his head. “It is not about the buildings that still stand, young man,” he said. “This isn’t the first time we had to rebuild, and certainly not the last time.”

Laughter filled the air as the crowd agreed with the middle-aged denizen.

“Being able to return to the place you call home, that is the important thing. Here, our dreams live on. Our hopes. Our successes and all our failures. They are here. Buried side by side and they are not something that can be burned down or rebuilt. Buildings can. But our hearts cannot.”

There was a sorrowful and joyful look in the man’s eye, and there was pride in his entire form. Aren didn’t even know what to say. There was nothing he could say. Maybe Aurora’s blessing twisted his mind — to regard Aren as a friend — but it could not touch this man’s heart of steel. Probably nothing could. Not death or old age, not the hardships of having to start over from the beginning. Nothing could.

Thoroughly humbled, Aren left the town of Trist, or whatever remained of the little fishing town on the river Yve. He followed the white death line, thinking about his encounter with the denizens, and how their philosophy affected Aren. As for the loot, he left it with them. They needed the riches more than he did.

In fact, he received more from them, in a different form, than anything that silver, gold and platinum could have bought.

Where was his home, anyway? Did he still have one?