“Tonight we have with us imminent psychologist, Doctor Sena Aksoy. She has extensive experience in treating patients with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

The camera panned to a serious-looking woman seated beside the news anchor. She nodded and murmured, “Good evening.”

“Now, we all know about the situation. We’ve all watched the stream. The plight of Miss Johnson of has been extensively publicised. But are we only seeing half the story? Doctor, what sort of things would you expect to be going through her mind right at this moment?”

—The Public News Network

“Fly high-er than a bir-rd—“

This again?

“I need the practice. Besides, it’s not like you’re here to listen to it.” I dropped lower as I felt the first warnings of impending flightlessness. “Actually, that reminds me. How are you talking to me? I thought your signal didn’t extend that far.”

Dungeon cores may not have bodies, but that doesn’t mean they don’t level. And with all that we’ve been doing, I am advancing faster than most. Case in point, I have already consolidated my class.

Bert cleared its metaphysical throat. To elucidate, you are currently on speaking terms with a…Dungeon…World…Traveller!

There was such pride in the AI’s ‘voice’ that an image of a pigeon strutting around on its own stretch of sidewalk came to mind.

“So…being this travelling lockup gives you the power to communicate with anyone regardless of distance?” I spotted a patch of green below me and swung into position for a landing.

Nooo, the AI drew out guiltily. Then it paused for a long moment, before adding, I maybe need to tell you a small truth.

“And what is—“ I began, but as I spoke the last vestiges of flight left me, sending me plummeting the remaining distance toward the grassy meadow.

Eep.

But I can see you’re busy at the moment. We can talk later.

“Beeerrrt!”

Closer, closer, the green came, not assisted at all by the windmilling motion my arms had naturally assumed. I squinted in anticipation of impact or chute resistance as the interlocking…lily pads?

Splooosh!

A sudden shock of warm, goopy, soup surrounded me, and I quickly sank to the bottom, brushing through what felt like streamers on the way down. At least I thought it was the bottom, but that proved to be more changeable than experience had taught me. For while I felt earth beneath my feet, I continued to sink, albeit at a reduced rate.

I carefully opened one eye and peered through a shadowy green blur. Long strands of aquatic grass writhed in the murky current my entry had stirred up, and a flash of brown at the edge of my vision made me jerk aside.

Or at least I tried to. My feet remained fixed into position as the rest of my body bobbed forward and back and forward and back again until I achieved equilibrium. It seemed windmilling arms were more effective in water.

But…back to my feet, and the need for air.

Looking down, cyclops-style, I could see that mud had cemented my boots to the swamp floor, and was steadily creeping up my calves.

A puff of bubbles escaped my nose—precious carbon dioxide bubbles. No miraculous fish abilities in this environment.

Got to get free. I hauled at my legs, adrenaline-fuelled panic giving me a strength that threatened to wrench the muscles in my knees and shoulders.

The already hairy situation needed only the lightening of weight across my back as something was removed from it to ice the proverbial cake. A Something that a prickling at the back of my neck informed me was Extremely Important.

I spun—well, bobbed really—and craned my neck behind me. The brown movement that had originally scared the crap out of me now resolved itself into the graceful, twisting shape of an otter, dancing and playing in the underwater forest.

With my lyre?

I reached out as far as my hand would stretch, but the lithe thief nudged it upwards again in a delightful game of keep-away, then twisted and folded itself back in my direction before hooking the lyre with its nose and rolling away again. It was no more than a step beyond my reach when I lunged for it the second time. But instead of regaining my instrument, this repetitive movement—and perhaps the lightening of my body caused by the lyre’s absence—loosened one foot. It needed only a nudge…

Going on a desperate hunch, I reached into my holding bag and brought out my stick, which I then used to push against the bottom. A sucking lurch accompanied by a cloud of brown water and I was free, pulling quickly with my arms to reach the surface, only visible between the cracks at the edges of the lily pads like glitter spilt in the grouting between tiles. I had one last fight against strands of grass and the dangling roots of floating plants before I finally broke free into open air.

Gasping. Inhaling. Sputtering. Coughing. And then downright panting as I breathed for the first time in what felt like hours.

You have been Infected by a Parasitic Larvae!

10% Debuff to Total Health!

A little red skull and crossbones appeared over my health bar.

Great, just great. This world just continued to astonish and delight.

After wiping water from my eyes, I looked around me, seeing nothing but plants through a cloud of flying insects. There were occasional clumps of reed-like structures growing out of the water that seemed more anchored than anything I had so far encountered, and were topped with a structure that looked like a dandelion seed head that had been partially blown away. More lily pads filled in the gaps, and—

What was that?

—what appeared to be a log floated towards me. In a treeless environment.

It so happens that it was at about this time that I remembered Africa had crocodiles. Big ones that regularly chowed down on wildebeest.

Coincidentally, it was also around this time that I discovered I had the ability to traverse swamps in a very rapid manner indeed.

Ten seconds later I was balanced precariously above water on the submerged v’s made by reed stalks, and making my way farther in. Hoping the plants would block any hostile incursions.

Aaark! Aaark! Aaark!

I swayed against the reeds and almost fell backwards as a white bird with long, thin legs shot out from the stalks ahead of me, sending the already orange-lit gauge on my UI temporarily into the red.

Fucking, fucking hell. It’s not dehydration that’s going to be the death of me—it’s freaking heart failure.

I glanced back at the crocodile, imagining jaws wide open to snatch me from my perch, but the patch of brown remained mostly submerged; nudge, nudge, nudging at the reeds. And something about the movement made me suddenly doubt my earlier conclusions.

It looked awfully…log-like.

Now, crocodiles are well-known for their ability to camouflage themselves as just such an object. Many blond vid heroines with unnatural…perkiness…have met their ends in similar cases of mistaken identity.

But did crocs also grow branches?

A prod with my stick and the subsequent seeing off of my mortal enemy, Mr. Log, left me pondering my new, improved, but still clearly less than ideal situation.

——

“Well, this is all very nice,” Todd said as he levered himself into the luxury hum-seddie.

“Only the best!” the man who had introduced himself as Robert Drake, replied brightly. He had the air of someone on a tightrope, smiling for the audience while resisting the urge to look down. Todd wasn’t sure if nerves were his general state of being or prompted by recent events, but he doubted he himself possessed the qualities to make anyone nervous.

Although Terrin could be what was pinging Drake’s radar. He had dressed for what he regarded as ‘the part’, in camo gear with enough pockets, carry bags, straps and electronic headwear to equip half the New Zealand infantry. The staff at the shuttleport had become visibly upset when he approached the counter, and Todd doubted that their speedy departure had had anything to do with any special instructions made by SharkBytes.

“It has cupholders!” Terrin shouted into his brother’s ear. It was probably meant to be a whisper, but Todd doubted he could hear much of anything through the earplug device that encapsulated both his ears.

Of course, once it was turned on he would probably be able to hear and record a bug fart from two kilometres away. He had ‘borrowed’ the equipment from an old school buddy who had joined the army and become a quartermaster—and, from what Todd could gather, seemed to be either prepping for an apocalypse or a comfy retirement.

Terrin reached behind his head and unzipped a large water bottle, solving a mystery that had plagued both his brother and the stewardess on the shuttle. She had fussed about him warily, maybe thinking he had a large, abnormally-shaped goitre or—more probably—an equally large, thoroughly normal-shaped hand weapon.

He squeezed the bottle into the cupholder, making the plasto crackle threateningly, and wriggled awkwardly on the plush seat. The walking storage compartment wasn’t just carrying his baggage on his front half, he was hampered all around, leaving very little room for him to perch.

“You okay?” Drake asked from the front seat, his eyes a smidge too wide as he looked at the screen on the dash, showing a poised Terrin, seemingly ready to launch himself forward.

“He’s fine,” Todd said. “Just eccentric—and a little hyper from an hour spent in the air without a satellite connection. Toys just aren’t the distraction they used to be.”

His brother shoved him into the seddie’s door, not reassuring the nervous man in the slightest.

“Well… We should be arriving in, oh, any minute now…”

When they swung around the next corner the vehicle had to slow. A large crowd blocked the way, comprised mainly of people holding signs shouting ‘PLAYER RIGHTS!’ and, ‘GET ARLINE OUT. There was even a small, but vocal side group that held a long banner that read, ‘FREE ALISETTE’, with a picture of a gorilla in a cage.

Reporters and their camera teams were also present in significant numbers, with both sets of people surrounded by rubberneckers who clearly had little to no idea of what was going on, but were holding out for the possibility of a ‘Hi Mom’ moment.

“How are we going to get through?” Todd asked dubiously.

“Oh, we’re not heading for the front door.” Drake pushed a button on the dash and the autopilot came on. He turned to face his passengers. “The seddie’s park mode will serve as a distraction while I take us in the back way.”

Terrin’s eyes shone and one hand raised to oh-so-casually rub at his ear. “I knew SharkBytes would have some James Bond shit,” he murmured.

——

I had to retrieve my lyre.

Playing was the only true advantage I had in this game; without it I was all Discord and no Bard. And if you took away that extra oomph I had little to no hope of getting out of AoD alive. At the very least it would reduce my ability to retain my wings; enough that I would effectively be reduced to gliding short distances like a flying fox—no sooner setting off before needing to land again. Which meant losing time that could prove crucial to my survival. Despite the apparent lack of response, I still had some hope that the streaming would yield results, and—who knows?—maybe somewhere in Egypt, AoD’s most popular tourist destination, a player still remained.

I needed my lyre back—that was indisputable. What was disputable, however, was how to go about it.

The otter was not the issue, and neither was the idea of getting my hair wet. I doubted the animal was even still there—it had probably gotten tired of dragging around the heavy instrument as soon as the amusingly reactive human had left. And as for getting wet, I was still soggy from my last dunking and had the Parasite t-shirt to prove it.

The issue was that Mr. Log had awakened some prey instinct that had me very nervous about what terrors the water could hold. Unseen toothy predators were very likely lurking close by on the off chance they could snatch an easy meal.

And I couldn’t use my Storytelling Skill to retrieve it, either. With no line of sight through the thick vegetation and murky gloop I couldn’t attach the song’s intent with its objective.

Diving it was. I dithered uncertainly for a few more minutes on the front bank of reeds before steeling myself and pushing off. The fragile reeds bent under the force and I didn’t get the height I wanted, but I made up for the distance with enthusiasm, swimming as fast I could without making too much splash. Speed was key. The less time I spent in the water, the less opportunity predators had to eat me.

So when I reached what I estimated was the last place I’d seen the lyre, I upended myself and, with only a second’s hesitation for a breath, dived downward.

Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on my side. It took three more dives before I finally spotted the gleam of manmade material—lyre pegs twinkling briefly as a finger of light danced across them.

The soundbox was almost entirely submerged in the mud, but the lyre itself didn’t have quite enough heft to be truly stuck—or at least not yet. I plucked it free with little effort and kicked my way to the surface, losing no time in getting back to the reeds.

Success. And no bitey things! A relief.

I had just propped the lyre inside the plant and stepped onto the first V when I felt something clamp down on my trailing foot and…pull.

The sheer force was enough to make me lose my grip and footing, and, all unsupported, I bellyflopped into the water, sending out a wave that made the surrounding lily pads bob about like miniature boats.

Whatever was using my boot as its own personal chew toy then began to drag me backwards—cue gibbering—but at the last moment I managed to seize a handful of reeds and hold on tight.

Whereupon a tug of war took place: Unknown Contender vs. Motivated Survivor. And gradually, as the match progressed, I realised that I had the edge in strength and/or weight. By the time I’d hauled all but my boot out of the water, and thereby removed buoyancy from the equation, the hungry terror of the deep had been reduced to a rather heavy and uncomfortable shoe with Broadway aspirations.

Whatever it was, it clearly had eyes bigger than its stomach and was refusing to give up its meal, wriggling and jerking as it tried to pull me under. Still, it took real effort to lift my leg out of the water; the catfish attached to it was heavy and less than happy to leave its natural habitat.

I attempted to pull it off, but the fish had clamped down hard and no amount of prying or curse words would convince it to let go.

Yet impossible as this might sound, I shortly afterward forgot the fish in favour of a new distraction.

For Mr. Log had gotten himself a lady-friend—a lady-friend with no branches.

I tried hopping backwards but made little progress. I mean, have you ever tried balancing on reeds with a fish attached to one foot? A fish that keeps moving in such a way that it takes all your effort just to stay upright?

It’s fucking tricky, okay?

I grabbed up my lyre before it could sink back into the muck and strummed rapidly.

“Flight everlasting…”

I fumbled my way through the chorus at a speed and pitch that would have appalled its composer, but it seemed the game was in a forgiving mood and granted me my wings. They began as albatross and changed with a flash of my ring to hawk. Providentially. Launching from this position with relatively short wings was going to be difficult enough. If I’d been stuck in the ultra-deluxe, six metre version, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. That kind of size needs either a good run-up or a steep drop-off in order to get in the air.

Mr. Log had since been abandoned by his lover, who had clearly given up on subterfuge and was approaching rapidly, a V-shaped ripple announcing its progress. Then, even more frighteningly, it disappeared, becoming the invisible monster that I had feared all along.

Not that I was behaving like a spectator while all this was happening. I was flapping up a storm, the violence of my wingbeats levelling the dandelion tops of the reeds and making them sway disconcertingly.

Lift off was achieved shortly thereafter, as, heart in my throat, I shoved off with my available foot, dipped, recovered, then dipped again as the catfish renewed its efforts.

I was two metres above the water, and ready to take a breath of relief, when the croc made its leap.

It must have made an impressive sight, appearing through the lilies, mouth open wide as it launched its entire body from the water; but from my perspective it was over almost before I realised it had begun. A spray of water, the flash of scales, a sharp tug sending me dangerously low, then an abrupt release; the sudden freedom allowing me to regain altitude. Which I can assure you I wasted no time in taking advantage of.

I flew high enough that my ring flashed again, and I experienced the same uncomfortable stretching sensation I had felt before when changing from hawk to albatross.

Sheesh. I slumped, leaving my wings to handle the heavy lifting and coasted like that for untold kilometres, mind blank as the rest of my body shook.

Shock had set in. Too many unpleasant surprises in a very short space of time. And I had no access to the one sure-fired remedy: Sugar.

Failing that, I would have to settle for bacon and a nice cool drink of water. But first, I had to find solid land.

After a full ten minutes of searching I found the results inconclusive. I have discovered that it is by no means an easy proposition to determine a land’s solidity from the air. Especially when swampland seems expressly designed to confuse the natural boundaries between water and land. What I really needed to find was the Nile.

Its origin point should be around here somewhere…

I looked into the distance, but all I could see were lily pads, fan-capped reeds, and more of those infernal white birds that had probably caused a few more of my hairs to turn grey.

The thought reminded me of my abandoned life, and morbid contemplation caught up with me. (Likely from the lack of vitamin Chocolate in my diet.) When found, my body would likely be dried-up and wrinkly, smelling of old sweat and other nasties, and hair completely white from stress. The neighbours would complain about the smell and break in, only to find an old lady dead of a suspected heart attack. Probably write it off as natural and bury me within the week.

Bury thoughts, not body. Find safety.

Those words sparked a recollection. Where had I heard them before?

Of course.

I retrieved my lyre and activated Illusory.

“When life get you down

“Seems like you could drown.”

I gave the instrument an emphatic strum across its lowest strings, leading into the all-important chorus.

“Find a place to stay

“Follow the life you’ve begun

“Hide your face away

“And ride, ride, ride, into the—“

Ah.

A luminescent glow encompassed a flock of white birds flying beneath me, signalling the song had been successful despite having to swallow the next words before they could form. A necessary abbreviation. Otherwise instead of following the nice birdies to safety, I would be directed to the sun; a pointless exercise as I didn’t even need my eyes to follow its path. I could feel it roasting the top of my head; the cooling protection provided by the swamp water having long since evaporated.

When I landed sometime later beside a rock overhang next to a clean, flowing stretch of water, I immediately collapsed, shivering slightly in the cooler, twilight air. It was a good hour before I could procure the energy to build a campfire, though that at least proved simple enough. No clearing of flammable detritus or protection from water required. And plenty of dry bushy material farther up the river’s basin.

I still ate my bacon cold, unable to wait long enough for it to heat, though I dozed off partway through. The remainder fell from limp fingers as my brain abruptly shut up office and hung out a Gone Fishin’ sign.

Unfortunately, it was only a nana nap. Half an hour after I fell asleep I suddenly woke—though that may have been due to the feeling of a pillow easing itself under my head rather than the awesome power of my internal alarm clock.

“Wha—?”

Go back to sleep. You’ll be better for the rest.

“Bert? You’re here?”

In the flesh, so to speak.

“How…” I sat up and blinked as the firelight blinded me. “How did you get past the swamp?”

My new class comes with its own set of unique advantages. One of which is the transmutation of any matter that Gunga—and myself by extension—touches.

“And how is that any different than what I’ve already seen you do? I mean, you changed that fruit in Madagascar.”

Bert scoffed. A little chemical manipulation. Something even scientists are capable of, and hardly worthy of comment. No, I’m speaking of what every alchemist dreams of: the ability to alter the composition of one substance into another.

A long head reached over my shoulder and pecked at the button on my tabard pocket. It suddenly flashed golden and I could feel the extra weight dragging the material down. That pocket had been having a rough time of it lately; burnt, ripped, and now overburdened. I should really break out my basic sewing skills to repair it.

Nah.

“You now have ambitions to become Midas? Or is it the Golden Goose?”

No! I am merely demonstrating how matter can be manipulated. I was positive that gold would capture your attention.

“Strangely, coming near to death on a thrice daily basis seems to have cured me of that affliction.”

Then you won’t mind if I return the Golden Horn to its rightful owner.

“Don’tyoudare!”

So maybe not so cured after all, hmm?

“Cruel.” I flopped back into the comforts of Gunga and stared up at the sky.

Why so Sirius?

“Eh?”

Sirius. The star up there.

“Did you just make a pop culture reference?” I asked, amazed.

I…. Did I not phrase it correctly?

“You did, actually. Well done.” A smile attached to a memory suddenly came over me, and I reached beside me for the lyre. I had had the common sense even through my exhaustion to set it close enough to grab in a hurry.

I am trying. There are so many historic references that I find even my neural circuitry becoming overwhelmed.

“You know, I think it deserves a reward.” Even if it wasn’t likely to have any actual value. For sentimental effect only. Like the candles on a birthday cake.

I spun to face Gunga and settled the lyre against my crossed legs. (Ah, the things you can do with a youthful body.) “Keep your eye on the brightest star.”

Then I activated my Illusory Storytelling ability and slowly, softly, began to play and finally to sing.

“No wishes can compare

“To that that which hovers there

“A million potential desires strong

“Will hear their voice, sing their song.

“The glowing star you focus on

“Wish your wish, before its gone.”

I finished the song with a few flourishing glissandos—in my opinion one of the few advantages to playing harps and lyres. It was the first thing anyone wanted to do when faced with either of them.

Bert continued to watch the sky through Gunga’s eyes even after the song had ended.

“So what did you wish for?”

Isn’t answering that question supposed to nullify the wish?

“I thought you didn’t believe in that particular brand of mythology. The balance of probabilities or some such.”

Unlike your own, this world—and its processes—was created, rules and all, by a human. Who was born with all the traditions and superstitions of yours. Who then is to say those beliefs are not thereby an inherent part of it?

“Well…you.”

Granted, I could follow the code’s logical equations to their inevitable conclusion—in much the same way as a chess master can predict the results of moves they haven’t yet made. But I choose not to. And do you know why?

“Sheer bloody-mindedness?”

Adventure. Enjoyment. The exhilaration of surprise. I may be constrained to only one world, rather than the endless universes humans like you have access to, but this experience has taught me that I, too, can don a metaphysical tabard, equip a sword, and thrust myself into my own story. By only looking at the now and not calculating the future, I have a life that is enough.

“Contentment. How strange that a construct of man has achieved what man never could. Or maybe only momentarily.”

I do not see the dichotomy. It is, after all, in man’s nature to create an image of utopia which by their own temperament or circumstances cannot be attained. Artists and romance writers have been trying for millennia. It could even be said that I was built to portray the image of a perfect human.

“Edging dangerously close to megalomania there.”

Speculation only. After all, a baby could also be seen as perfect in the eyes of its parents.

“You see yourself as a baby?” The image of a toddler with a tab screen head popped into my mind all unbidden.

In human terms, I am five years old. In self awareness, I am a mere newborn. I am still deciphering the complex code that being sentient poses. Bert paused, before continuing as one imparting a scandalous secret. Emotions are a particular problem. Inefficient, yet rewarding.

“Glad to hear they’re in there. Messy, aren’t they?”

How can it be possible to be both annoyed with someone and amused by them at the same time?

“I think that’s called friendship, or kinship, or even love, depending on the nature of your relationship. My brother—“

Actually, I was speaking of the only other sentient being in my universe—You.

“Bert…”

Oh, I am resigned to your leaving—have no fear that I would prevent that. It even gives me pleasure to realise that your escape would at least allow a small portion of me to escape too. By helping you to achieve logout I am ensuring that the legacy of my memory travels with you.

A lump rose in my throat. “But you’ll be okay. You’ve still got all this to play with.” I gestured around us. “Just strap on your sword and head into the next adventure.”

Perhaps. But I cannot presume that my creators will allow me a peaceful retirement. The AI of a game that has no subscribers is in no position to dictate terms. Especially regarding the decision to keep or delete.

“There are archives. Copies of old games are usually kept in storage as cultural landmarks. That could even be where we are now.”

It is a valid point. I will consider.

“Just don’t consider yourself into a depression. There are enough gloomy Gus’s in the world without adding another.”

——

Gus’s head popped up from his tabscreeen. “Rude,” he said reprovingly.