April 8th, 2136

Rowan sank into his beanbag and grabbed the weekly newspaper and his order of science and gaming magazines, which had been slipped through the cell door overnight.

It’d been over a year since his admission to the only high-security juvenile psychiatric institution in the continent, and he had to admit this place wasn’t bad. The food was satisfactory; the adjoining hospital’s chefs offered a large variety to order from. A gym and yard provided plenty of exercises and fresh air. Two expert teachers administered the worldwide high-school curriculum standard. His cell wasn’t locked except during lock-downs and night—and even had a wall-computer with a limited Internet connection for study. Naturally, Rowan had convinced his parents to bring in a few of his games to play during free time. They continued to be useful.

Best of all, the facility housed only two other teenagers who hadn’t bothered Rowan once. Apparently, advances in neurology, psychiatry, and genetic engineering had significantly reduced the rate of mental illness among youth. But there were always a few who’d snap every other year. Jeremy, a fourteen-year-old, was zombified and never talked—clearly on heavy medication. Tom, sixteen, appeared normal and was quite talented with the violin. Another had been discharged two weeks after Rowan arrived. He wondered what their crimes were. They wouldn't say. There was a strict privacy rule here.

The only thing missing was a cute, sexy girl like Gabrielle to sink his teeth into.

Flipping through the newspaper, Rowan skimmed over the week’s events, his eyes not hitching onto any article except for an incident in the north. A bear attack this time. He shook his head, not feeling anything for the victim—though he had perfected an act to show sympathy when needed. His psyche hadn’t changed much over the year. His bouts of anger had remained steady, and whenever the icy void flared, he had hit the gym, and hit the single available punching bag over and over until the void was sated. Under guard supervision of course.

The guards were trained nurses and carried stun guns strapped to their wrists. Rowan hadn’t challenged their authority yet for they had surprisingly treated him fairly and not like a murderous animal. So Rowan had been polite and neutral to the staff and doctors. Roth had visited just twice and didn’t stray from that clownish act.

Rowan tossed the newspaper to the side and picked up the science journal magazine. Most of the articles and diagrams had been dumbed down for public consumption. He didn’t mind; he could always scour the Internet for technical reports. A report on recent developments in human anatomy caught his attention before the metallic door clanged three times.

It was time for his daily checkup with the psychologist.

Rowan buried a whiff of annoyance at being interrupted and stood, then opened the door. He slapped on a pleasant face. “Good morning, Dr. Hath—”

This was new. The director of the facility and board member for the adjoining hospital stood in the doorway, a guard at his side. Rowan had only met this man once.

“Ah, Mr. Black,” he said and smiled. The expression didn’t fit his wrinkled face and bushy mustache. “It’s nice to see you again.” He held out his hand.

Accepting the handshake, Rowan raised an eyebrow quarter of an inch. “Is there something we need to discuss, Dr. Winston?” The name came without effort despite the information being over a year old in his mind.

“Yes, in fact.” He laid a serious look on Rowan. “There is much to discuss. Would you like to come to my office?”

Declining the offer wasn’t part of the choice, Rowan knew. It was all part of his so-called rehabilitation and journey to becoming a model citizen. Polite conversation was a small but essential skill nonetheless. “Of course, ” he said and smirked, allowing the director to lead the way.

Their footwear clinked on the acrylic floor. Another guard tailed the group once he locked Rowan’s cell. They walked past Jeremy, who was playing a game of chess with a guard in the common room, then turned a corner and stopped at a reinforced glass security door. The director swiped an access card. The guards escorted them through.

Up a stairwell, through two more security doors, and up another stairwell, the group arrived at an office hallway. Rowan stepped onto fine, stylized carpet and ran his fingers across the light, wooden walls until they stopped at the door numbered B13.

The director looked at the guards. “Thank you." He nodded with a nervous twitch. "We should be good for now.”

The guards hesitated for a few seconds before the director added, “I’m confident everything will be fine. Isn’t that right, Rowan?”

It was a month before Rowan’s eighteenth birthday and his hearing to decide whether his condition had improved enough to warrant a full discharge. If the psychiatric board declined the release, the prison authorities would take Rowan to an adult facility—and Dr. Hathaway had been very explicit about the conditions Rowan would live with there. They were not nice. Though that didn’t change Rowan’s plan, he had made extra effort to be on his best behavior since. A blunder now would be catastrophic.

“Of course, director,” he said after a bit too long.

The older guard regarded Rowan with a warning look and left along with the younger guard.

The director plucked a key from his suit pocket and unlocked the door. He sighed. “This is where we part, Rowan.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Make the right decision.” The director eyed Rowan for a good five seconds. “Make the right decision.” The director helped himself to a long breath. He departed after a final, piercing look.

Rowan frowned, standing alone in this hallway. He could make a run for it—and he’d just run into a staff member or security door. No, that was stupid. There was no choice but to meet whoever was in room B13 else he risked losing his upcoming freedom. He twisted the knob and entered.

What the hell was this?

Roth sat facing the door behind a white table, the morning sun reflecting off his spectacles. A toothy smile spread across his face.

Oh, and a three-meter-long pod-like machine laid by the cupboard, white and pristine. Wires connected from its control port to a nearby wall-computer.

“Hello again, Rowan my lad.” He gestured with open palms. “Please, take a seat.”

Rowan closed the door and did as asked. “Good morning, Doctor Roth.” He would ask if this was another checkup if the director’s cowardly behavior didn’t signal otherwise, obviously. And more obviously, Roth held a position that overshadowed a director of this facility. He wasn’t just any old neurologist. Whatever he truly was behind that shell couldn’t be good in the slightest. Not for Rowan, at least.

Roth folded his hands on the table. “Are you feeling better? I’ve read that you have significantly improved since our last meeting.”

“I have. The lessons on morality, laws, and exercises to invoke empathy and emotion have helped a lot.” It was all true, but Rowan still couldn’t feel. Only act.

And truthfully, he didn’t desire to feel those weaker emotions prone to manipulation. Understanding and no more was enough.

“Good. Good.” Roth picked up a sheet of paper from a neat pile. “And your latest scan shows your brain has almost fully regenerated. That is good indeed.”

Rowan nodded. He suspected as much, suspected that the canine incident and following treatment had permanently altered his mind. From what he read, the brain implants worked in a way to mimic real neural pathways while new neurons grew into the scaffolding. The technology was still in its experimental stage and produced unpredictable results at times, leading to cases such as Rowan’s. Roth had left this part out during his court testimony. He’d presented the fact that problematic behavioral symptoms could fade after a full recovery, a borderline lie. Rowan didn’t know whether to be thankful or more suspicious of the good doctor.

“Tell me,” Roth said, drumming the stack of papers with his fingers once, “how much do you really like to play those computer games of yours?”

What?

The day was growing stranger by the minute.

“It sates my boredom,” Rowan said and shrugged. “They’re more engaging than most other leisure activities.”

Roth’s lips pinched in understanding. “What features do you enjoy the most? Why do you enjoy them?”

This couldn’t be happening. He had to be dreaming—discussing video games with a neurologist.

Rowan settled on humoring the good doctor and exaggerating by a tad to improve his gaming-resume. “I enjoy the strategy and character building aspects, city-building and grand strategy at times as well. I like to find new, creative strategies to win difficult scenarios. I enjoy overcoming difficult odds and proving my superiority, especially in online multiplayer games. Luckily most games haven’t been blocked by the facility network. My good parents brought a collection of my games a year back.” Mostly true or not. The only tidbit was how his unpredictable, fiery mind got in the way of his judgment when things didn’t go his way. The accident also seemed to knock quite a few points off his IQ as well.

Roth had listened intently. He nodded once when Rowan finished. “That’s good. Very good.”

Something about that snake-like tone put Rowan on alert. The void stirred in its slumber, a thread of ice curling around Rowan’s neck.

A minute passed as Roth read a paper, which Rowan assumed to be a report on himself. Flickers of irritation streaked across his chest.

“Have you heard of Synaptic Entertainment before, Rowan?” Roth asked without looking up from the report.

The name registered in under a second. “I read several articles in a weekly gaming magazine that featured the company. They’ve apparently been developing a new, fully-immersive virtual reality MMO for over a decade now and announced the game last year. It uses a similar technology to the simulation you used…”

Rowan’s eyes snapped to the pod machine, a line of intuition telling him it was a virtual reality device. Did Roth have something to do with this new game? What the fuck was happening right now?

Roth’s slow chuckle broke the silence. “My lad.”

“What do you want from me, Roth?” Any remnants of Rowan’s polite mask vanished. The void within him woke and cold fractals diffused across his skin.

Roth adjusted his glasses. For the first time, Rowan noticed a tiny, engraved symbol on the rim of the right spectacle next to the hinge. An inverted triangle pointed to a smaller circle inside a larger, upright triangle. Rowan could just make out the shapes from a distance. It wasn’t a brand he recognized.

Perhaps a secret society? Rowan had heard of such things but never thought they were real.

“Do you know what is in this, Rowan?” Roth tapped the report against the desk. “Don’t answer. It is a physiological analysis of your memories from the day you murdered your classmate. It appears that not only your actions were highly premeditated, but you knew very well of the consequences and how you would plea to the courts. I did you a favor to keep this away from the authorities. I am now calling in that favor.”

Ah, there it was. How dare this bastard be so manipulative. Roth had played it like a virtuoso, pulled strings this whole time from high above. Rowan’s plan had somehow became Roth’s bloody plan along the way. No wonder the director had been nervous; he had probably been blackmailed as well by this snake just to set this all up.

Seething with blood-churning hate, Rowan steadied his breath. His chest thumped each time the paper whacked the table. The prospect of freedom was all there was keeping him from flipping the table and launching himself at the old doctor. The void begged, screamed in shards of ice, for Rowan to do so, and he wanted, needed, to make Roth pay for trying this on him.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Roth’s mask had also slipped at this point. He was just like Rowan in many ways. Amoral, cunning, deceptive. “Speak to me, Rowan. You’ve had over a year to practice your words.”

“Yes, Doctor Roth.” The words flowed in a silky stream. His tongue was a liquid void while the room gyrated back and forth under his pulse. “I understand. I appreciate your favor.” A smile that didn’t reach his eyes constricted his cheeks.

“Good.” The report messily landed back on the pile.

“Now,” Roth said, leaning back and steepling his fingers. “Aeon Chronicles Online is progressing through beta, and our players have given very positive feedback. I’m telling you this because we don’t just want very positive feedback—we want extraordinarily positive feedback and worldwide attention once we ship. This will be a revolution in not just the games industry but the start of a major societal transition.” He paused. “Do you understand?” His sparse eyebrow arched.

A major societal transition? Rowan had to admit, “No I’m afraid I don’t understand how a virtual reality video game will change society.” The conversation was beginning to pique his curiosity and dim the hatred he felt for the doctor.

Roth shook his head and tutted. “Imagine a world where people can be whatever they want, whatever they dream, whatever they can’t be in real life. The disabled, poor, elderly, anyone who is disadvantaged can live a better, richer life. A world where knowledge can be directly uploaded to one’s mind. Whether it’s playing silly magic or running a multi-billion dollar corporation or learning an advanced science, anyone and everyone can do it on a whim without any needs or prerequisites. All they need to do is run a simulation much like booting up a game on a computer. But not all will be receptive; no, people are always wary of new things and the risks involved. Some will protest and riot and claim blasphemy. We’ve decided to drip feed this technology to the public. Aeon Chronicles is just the start, a fantasy MMO set in medieval times; a way for society to get its feet wet, so to speak. Do you remember the wolf simulation you went through? It’s indistinguishable from reality, isn’t it? Do you understand now?”

Rowan’s mind reeled, his skull whiplashed from the sudden change in mood, the bubbling void in his spine extinguished, for Roth wasn’t evil, and neither was whatever hidden hand he represented. He was guarding the future. Humanity’s future. He was doing what needed to be done, unafraid of moral barriers or petty laws. And secondly, Roth was offering Rowan a place within this grand transition. He could already see himself lording over the masses and proving his superiority.

But he didn’t know what his role would be. “And what do you need from me?”

Roth grinned. “Tell me, apart from basic needs and a better life, what do people desire the most?”

Another quandary. Roth was full of interesting puzzles. Maybe Rowan could forgive the doctor for manipulating him. Almost forgive—but not wholly. “Money and power?” A logical answer.

“An obvious answer, but not correct.” Roth leaned forward. “It’s conflict, Rowan. People desire conflict more than anything else.”

That didn’t seem right. People usually wanted peace and prosperity, not war and chaos and infighting. Rowan scowled. “Really? Conflict?”

“Exactly conflict,” Roth said in a near whisper. “What is good? What is evil? It’s nothing but a duality of perception. To be good is to be not evil and vice versa. Above all else, people desire to destroy what they perceive as evil at any and all costs. People desire to be right. People desire to be just. People yearn to make the world a better place. But was constitutes as better? And how would one achieve it? When you killed your classmate, you believed you were delivering justice even when you knew society would deem otherwise. It’s as base and fickle and varied between individuals as needing to sleep and eat and mate. But most important of all, everyone loves a story of good’s triumph over evil. Everyone.”

Rowan guessed Roth made sense in a twisted sort of way. However… he still hadn’t explained what Rowan’s role would be in this transition. He began to tire of all this philosophical blabbering. “And? What do I have to do? Destroy evil in your game?”

Roth straightened his posture and steepled his fingers again. “No, Rowan.” His eyes narrowed by a millimeter. “You will be that evil. You will be the final villain players need to defeat.”

And it all suddenly made sense. Could it be done? Play as the bad guy? The proposition was tempting. The masses won’t be kneeling before him, but at least he’d be able to squash the idiots and pigs and wolves under his boot with impunity. Slaughtering all the piggy-boys in a virtual world and bringing forth a reign of blood… Rowan could do it. Definitely.

“Why not hire an actor?” Rowan asked when the thought sprang.

Roth shook his head. “Even the best actors can’t stay in character as a psychopathic maniac for months on end. The realism of the game—blood, gore, and death—would be difficult for most to handle. We need a genuine, ruthless, emotionless killer. You are one of few who is still mentally stable and of sufficient intelligence, if you can call it that.”

Plausible answer. Though… “Why not an AI?”

Roth’s head tilted a few degrees. “Did I say you’d just be the villain in-game?”

“What?” Rowan said out loud.

“Using your legal name, you will play the role of a released murderer, which you are despite your non-conviction, and claim to have hacked into the game and bypassed the monthly subscription.” Roth pulled a blank piece of paper from the pile and whipped out a pen then began scribbling notes. “You will cause chaos and destruction starting from now and grow into the role of the final raid boss right on the game’s release day. The AI controller has already been given directives to facilitate this under the cover of your exploits. You shall claim to have activated an experimental feature that allows players to become World Bosses.” He paused, writing furiously, bullet point after bullet point.

Did he not think Rowan could memorize this? He felt almost insulted. “I can remember, thank you.”

“It’s not to help you remember,” Roth said and chuckled. “I seem to have misplaced the top-secret agreement contract.”

Rowan deadpanned. For a genius visionary, he could sure be an idiot.

Roth continued, “Your involvement will be leaked to the media before the game is released and hopefully cause an uproar. Synaptic Entertainment will claim it’s out of their hands because the entire game and infrastructure is under control of the AI and they hadn’t implemented sufficient external control mechanisms. Our agents in government will prevent a forced shutdown, reasoning it’s just a game and people can log out at any moment they wish to.”

“But they will play? And try to bring me to justice?” Rowan could see this plan working, but it was convoluted. The most convoluted, round-a-bout plan he’d ever heard or read.

“Oh yes. Believe me. The masses have grown very bored.” Roth kept scribbling. Despite the speed he wrote, his old, wrinkled hand produced a neat script. “You’ll stay in a safe house we provide after your release from this institution and regularly post taunts and footage of your so-called in-game crimes.”

This was too much. Rowan should have laughed and brushed off the doctor if he did not know he was very, very serious. “And what happens if I’m defeated? When good triumphs over evil?”

Roth wrote a final line, ending the sentence with a dramatic dot from his pen. “Is it not obvious? You will simply log off, and Synaptic Entertainment will not press charges for your apparent minor hack due to all the traffic you sent their way. Worst case scenario, we will have to fake your suicide and give you a new face and identity.”

“You really have the power and influence to do that?”

Roth nodded, leaving Rowan astounded. This was definitely a secret society that had been pulling society’s string.

“And you will not disclose anything we’ve discussed in this room,” Roth said, finality in his tone. He slid the contract and pen across the table.

Rowan rolled his eyes. “Obviously.” He scanned the script, not trusting that the doctor wouldn’t sneak in an extra condition. The only clause that Roth hadn’t mentioned was Rowan’s handsome monthly salary paid to an offshore account, freeing him from his parents’ control. He looked Roth in the spectacles. “Okay then. I’ll do it.” And enjoy it too. He picked up the ornate pen, and signed at the end where indicated.