Shutting the door to my bedroom, my knees give out and I slide down to the floor, back resting against the door. The motion rough, thanks to my shifting bandages. I wince, but I grit my teeth and ignore it.

A hand on my face, I wipe my eyes and sniff, nostrils full of backed up snot - Fuck, I almost swallowed some of it, ugh.

I can't go out and face those mutant dogs like this. I can barely see through the tears. I thought I was over this by now. It's been a year. I'm not even Cyril anymore. I'm barely even Nealan.

I think that's the problem. It's not that I've not gotten over it. It's Nealan and Cyril's memories and emotions converging on a single point, and the most important thing in Nealan's life is his mother and father. They mean everything to him, and by extension, they mean everything to me. To Cyril, a man who's parents are not only dead, but never got to say goodbye.

My-Cyril's parents - I hesitate to call them my 'real' parents - died in 2049, at the ripe old age of 63 and 61, in their sleep at home in Florida. It was uncanny, the doctors said. They didn't die simultaneously, but It was as if my mother sensed her husband's passing and died on the spot to join him. The nurse who accompanied me to the hospital morgue, while the coroner stood respectfully off to the side, said it was the most romantic thing they'd ever seen. I retorted, with more venom than I intended, that she had a rather deviant understanding of romance.

Honestly, I couldn't help but feel abandoned. But time went by, and I moved on. They never loomed large in my life, so adjusting was disturbingly easy, but experiencing Nealan's life, I'm stumped by the realisation that I have parents again. Darkly, I mutter to myself that I should have used the monster attack as an excuse to make Nealan an orphan so I wouldn't have to feel this emotional contradiction, but that wouldn't be fair to me, to him, or to them.

On the other side of the coin, Nealan, through Cyril, has learned what that abandonment, that loss felt like.

My head lolls back, thumping against the door. I stare up at the ceiling for a while, until the tears dry. I must look a right fool, now, to the people who are monitoring us from behind invisible cameras. Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I look towards my old bed, and beneath it, to the spare hatchet I used to help my Da.

I stare at it through the shadows. My shuttered window rattles as a breeze rolls by.

Eventually, I come to a decision. To simply not think too hard about it. I'm Nealan Forrester. Cyril might be my true identity, and the driving force behind my actions, but he made the decision to become Nealan. So that's what I have to do. It won't be easy, and by the very nature of my existence, pretending to be Nealan like an actor or a roleplayer on some message board isn't going to cut it. Treating this as a character to play instead of a life to live is only going to cause me more grief, and I don't really want to have to deal with an identity crisis every other week.

To that end, I consider the spare hatchet.

If an outsider, without the benefit of Nealan's memory, were to see this quest, they'd question why a classless level 1 peasant would go to so much trouble for an axe. After all, there's a spare right here, and if that wasn't an option, the local toolsmith, Barek, would certainly put together a working replacement. Sure, it has sentimental value as an heirloom that's served generations of lumberjacks...

But that would be the point that most people would miss, wouldn't it?

It's served generations of lumberjacks.

Most of my knowledge of metallurgy is being held behind that pesky censor, but both Cyril and Nealan know enough to understand that this axe is uncommonly well-made. For starters, Nealan has never once since his Da sharpen the axe. And as Cyril, I can tell you that even with the advances in reality, a single hatchet would be destroyed by the time it got to the end of even one generation. Trees are, after all, a tougher material than most would give it credit.

An axe in this world, made by your average smith, would probably start to blunt after a few dozen swings. And on the local Klennock trees from which the village and forest take their name, it wouldn't even penetrate the bark after 50. The spare hatchet I have was just for chopping down younger saplings as practice.

My father may be getting on in years, but even before, the only reason we ever got as many trees brought back to the village is that axe. And as old as he is now, he'll need it to even get half as many per year.

That's probably one of the things that scare Mam the most, really. That I'll die in some forsaken Trial Ground somewhere with a goblin shitting down my neck, while my Father loses all ability to work. With there seldom being a need for an extra pair of hands - or a herbalist that can't make intermediate medicines - they'll end up starving to death if they don't rely on the village's charity. And being useless, idle. That is the one thing she cannot abide by in anyone.

In summary, and at the risk of repeating myself yet again...

They need that axe.

I'm not sure how long it's been since I shut myself up in my room, but the mid-day sun has already started to come into view past the clouds.

I walk into the living room, where my parents sit in silence, staring at me as I walk in, now wearing a fresh tunic and carrying the spare hatchet on my shoulder with the head pointed toward the floor.

"I'm going."

They nod, out of sync. I turn and walk down the hall.

"Wait!" Mam cries, I freeze, my hand halfway to the door.

I turn around, and she shoves a small leather pouch, tied shut by knotted string toward me.

"Take this with you, just in case," she says, smiling sadly.

Received Item! Pouch of Pungent Powders Quality: Uncommon Uses: 1

A pouch containing a secret mix of toxic herbs and spices.

When thrown at a vulnerable enemy's face, they will suffer from -8 Perception and become unable to see and/or smell until the powder is washed off.

Particularly sensitive foes may be dazed or stunned.

I have to put serious effort into resisting the urge to scream 'Pocket Sand!', and accept the gift solemnly, tying it to my leather belt.

For something so small and simple, the effects are ridiculous. It's obvious that Mam wants me to use it as an oppurtunity to run away if a Dirolft finds me, but I have bigger plans for this pouch of wonder. I turn back toward the door, using the feigned embarrassment to hide an evil smirk.

"Thanks, Mam. I mean it," I tell her, "I'll be back before it gets dark, with or without the axe. I don't fancy my chances if I stick around after sunset."

I leave the house, the sound of faint sobbing fading behind me.

I stand at the border between Klennock Woods and what is essentially my backyard. The treeline is a bit further back than when I left, and a smattering of fresh tree stumps dot the threshold, evidence of my Da's recent labours.

Nerves clash with anticipation, as I step from foot to foot, trying to work up the courage to go in. It's not very true to my character to be hesitating now, but I just can't help but want to take in the moment I really start my - our - new life as an Adventurer. Albeit an unofficial one, mind you.

I inspect my weapons one last time before I head inside.

Simple Iron Seax Quality: Common Weapon Type: Straight Dagger Damage: 2-8 Damage Type: Slash/Stab Enchantment: N/A Requirements: N/A Integrity: 85% Durability: Average

A long, single-edged knife, with a defined point.

Ideal for slicing and penetrating animal hide.

Amateur's Bronze Hatchet Quality: Common Weapon Type: One-Handed Axe Damage: 8-15 Damage Type: Slash Enchantment: N/A Requirements: 9 STR Integrity: 87% Durability: Poor

A Bronze Hatchet made for an amateur woodcutter.

I don't really have any context for how effective these are as weapons, but a glance is enough to tell me that while the hatchet will do the most damage, it won't last very long if I use it incorrectly. Bone, it should be noted, is significantly tougher than most types of wood, and the bones of monsters are often even denser.

I'm not about to start dodging around, looking for weak spots pretending I'm a rogue or anything, but common sense dictates I focus on targetting the fleshy bits if I don't want to wear out my weapons.

Having said that, despite my superior proficiency with axes, the seax I keep on my belt seems like it'll be the better weapon in the long run.

I sigh, resigned to just using both at once, and walk forward, hopping over a stump along the way. Because I can't be bothered to walk around the stupid thing.

Sunlight bleeds through the sparse canopy above, and dead leaves carpet the soil. Moving silently is a chore, but I'm not really going for the subtle approach here. I doubt the Dirolft pack are this close to the edge of the woods yet and considering what Da did to the one that caught his leg, I would expect the Alpha to pull back to their den for a little while, just in case. Whether or not that's actually what happened I have no idea, but I find it hard to give a flying fuck.

You have entered a forest you have familiarised yourself with! Perception +1 Focus +1 Reflexes +1

The notification window blinks into view for all of a couple seconds. I'd almost forgot about that trait with the fuss I made over Battle Hunger. Pausing, I look around amongst the trees, and the sense of familiarity grows stronger. I start to notice little details I didn't see before like a blue-grey squirrel about 20 yards away, scurrying across the forest floor.

"This should help a lot," I mutter.

Da wasn't exactly clear about where he was attacked, but with his leg in the state it was, it can't have been very far. If I had to make a guess, I'd say he could probably push himself to run for about 5 minutes before the pain forced him to slow down, which gives me a nice estimate of where to start looking, when I also take into account where I saw him exit the woods, since he'd be certain to take the most direct path back to the lodge.

Finished adjusting to the slightly higher clarity, I start jogging.

Meanwhilst, back at The Think Tank, Sharon Jennings stares intently at a video feed on her tablet, then back to the email it accompanied.

One of the administrators noticed an unexpected spike in emotional activity in one of the testers - the famous and self-deprecating unwitting father of modern prostheses, Cyril Lancaster.

There was something visceral about seeing him break down like that, after meeting his Avatar's parents. The psychiatric evaluations, both before he was invited to the facility, and before he entered the simulation, suggested that he'd mostly moved on from the passing of his true parents a year ago.

What the video recording showed now, was quite the opposite. And, all respect to the man and his parent's unfortunate passing taken into account; That the simulation was able to have such a profound impact on someone so quickly after entering was simply fascinating. Additionally, as she would guiltily admit to her husband later, it was more than a little gratifying.

It was certainly a shame to put him through such an experience, but he did sign all the related documents accepting responsibility for such events, and seeing what could easily be called the first great success of the game's systems, programming and writing efforts for this last test cycle was a good sign.

Cyril, she felt, was a truly interesting man, and she looked forward to talking to him again, after his time in the simulation was at an end.

Elsewhere in Eden, a young woman, barely 15, sits on the edge of a cliff, legs swaying back and forth against the face.

A Half-elf, with striking red hair tied into a low-ponytail, she looks out at the city below, and marvels at the view.

Reaching into her backpack, she pulls out a freshly baked pie and takes a bite, happy.

Amongst the Follbas, deep in the eastern Mana Wastes a young hunter, with large cloven hooves, dirty yellow hide and the head of a rhinoceros, complete a large horn on his snout, awakes in his yurt beside his loving harvot - his lover. Reaching over, he strokes his face, carefully.

The Munbas wakes, smiling at his partner in turn, before rolling over and apparently going back to sleep.

Outside, a throng of his tribe gathers in front of the Master of the Hunt, and he knows it is time to go.

The Munbas watches out the corner of his eye as he leaves, knowing he likely won't see him again.

Or any of them.

Beneath the ground, in the darkest caverns, an old man, with a beard that reaches his ankles, shuffles along, leading his two children, all three of them dwarves, as they pursue safe shelter - their clan scattered by monsters barely an hour before.

The youngest, a boy, screams as sharp appendages descend from above and impale the old man, dragging him into the shadows. A sickening crunch follows a gush of blood falling to the floor, splashing both children's faces with gore. The old man's arm, still holding his glowing staff, falls after.

The elder, a girl, grabs her brother's arm, and pulls him along, sprinting into the abyss.

In the southern continent, a lone Selm Druid cries tears of blood as he destroys the locus of life in this grove, tearing the mana from its form. He pushes through pain and anger to see this wretched spirit destroyed for good.

Behind him his only daughter, a small girl, barely 2 years old, lies dead, ripped into three pieces, the blood soaking into the green, nourishing the dying grove through her unwitting sacrifice.

Though he knows that nature is cruel, there are some things you just cannot accept.

Across Eden, 11 different people experience the stories they made for themselves, of lives they wished to lead.

One by one, each of them comes to understand the weight of their decision, and through their realisations, they begin to understand just who it is they really are.