The Magistrate is an older orc with sagging, greenish-grey skin and thin streaks of black in its shaggy white hair. It looks like a military commander gone to seed, though I admit that impression is influenced by the stereotypical orcish build: ridiculously muscular shoulders and arms, tiny waist, impressive thighs. Old scars cross its leathery skin, and when it shakes my hand, I feel calluses on its fingers. Overall, not the sort of creature I’d expected when the guards led me to a book-filled office.

Outside, Basingeham’s market is packing up for the day. I about shat myself when I saw the teeming display of non-human life. There’s NPCs everywhere, talking to each other, making trades, carting supplies; generally living their lives. More importantly, with the increase in light thanks to magic-fueled street lamps, I can make out details about the faces and builds. So far I haven’t spotted a single re-used model or re-skinned clothing item. Everything seems unique.

The Magistrate clears its throat, jerking my attention back to it. “Let me guess; bandits stole your clothes, too?”

Bandits? It takes a few, precious seconds to realize that’s probably what the other players have been saying. “Uh… sure?”

A flash of impatience crosses its face. “Sure is not a ‘yes,’ young one. Are you a nudist, a victim, or… ?”

“There’s a third option? Er.. I-I mean I’m not a nudist! I definitely would prefer clothing. Pants, at least. Y’know, if I had any? Kind of lacking on that front, though. And the whole money thing.”

“So you were robbed?”

“I…” Lying seems wisest, but flat-out lies have never worked out well in my experience. If you have to lie, half-truths are better. They’re easier to remember and more likely to turn up corroborating evidence. Being vague is also useful. “Not that I remember?”

The Magistrate fixes me with a flat, disbelieving stare. It sits up straight, braiding its sausage-like fingers together upon the desk. “You don’t remember why you’re wandering naked around the countryside?”

“Mm, nope? I sorta just woke up out there. Started walking. Ended up here.” I pause. “Ta-da~”

Looking distinctly nonplussed, the magistrate glances at the open office door where Sword-wielder stands, watching us. It shrugs. “Figure it makes ‘bout as much sense as a hundred bandit attacks with nary a bandit in sight, don’t it?”

“So you say.” The Magistrate sighs. “I’m don’t know how to put that on a report, but I’ll figure it out. Aelfsige, call in the Sister on your way out.”

“Ma’am,” says Sword-wielder—Aelfsige? It cuts a salute before turning on its heel to leave.

I try not to stare at the Magistrate. Given my entire situation, I ought to know better but, when faced with a bunch of gorilla-like humanoids with no apparent sexual dimorphism, I’d assumed they were all nominally “male.” Label me sheepish.

The Magistrate raises a brow at me. I realize, belatedly, it’s said something. “Uh, what?”

With exaggerated care, it waggles a journal at me and repeats, “The logbook.”

The journal is splayed between its fingers, filled with handmade pages bound between hardened leather. Someone stamped lines down the page, upon which names are listed in columns. For a brief second they look like nonsense: a bunch of jumbled letters, numbers, interspersed with seemingly random words. Then it clicks: gamertags.

I look the list over again, searching for anyone I know. Two things stand out: a handful of real names, and the tag B4B4BLKSHEEP. Deirdre. She’s here, and it looks like she came through not that long ago.

“Touch the logbook,” the Magistrate orders.

“Uh, yes ma’am.”

A shimmering panel appears above the book, rotating slowly in the air until it faces me. The Magistrate closes the log and sets it down.

“Fill it out in its entirety. That is not a request. Failure to do so, or falsified information, will have you arrested and evicted from Basingeham come dawn.”

The panel looks like an ID card, with a portrait of my avatar—dirty and disheveled—in the upper left corner. On the right are fillable text boxes. I stare at the requested information in fascinated horror.

NAME:

GENDER:

OCCUPATION:

SKILLS:

LAST KNOWN RESIDENCE:

REASON FOR MIGRATION:

INTENDED PERIOD OF STAY:

HEAD OF FAMILY (Y/N):

IF Y, NAME(S) OF SPOUSE(S):

IF Y, # OF NON-SPOUSAL FAMILY MEMBERS:

LIST NAMES AND AGES OF NON-SPOUSAL MEMBERS:

I flick the panel, scrolling through a list of similar, off-putting questions. It reads like an immigration form.

“Um, what if I don’t intend to stay?”

“To be frank, that isn’t a concern.”

I glance through the semi-translucent panel at the Magister. It’s watching me, as it has been the last few minutes, but it seems far less defensive now. More… apprehensive?

“Why not?”

“There isn’t room.” The Magister shrugs. “Basingeham isn’t due for another expansion. We only just finished the west district. Even if we wanted to expand the walls again, we lack the supply and the ability to sustain a large population increase in the long term. I’ve told the others, and I’ll tell you: this is an offer of temporary residency. Nothing more, nothing less. I expect you all to relocate yourselves within the next few months.”

I guess the game needed a way to flush us from the nest. It makes sense even if this form is patently ridiculous. With a swallowed sigh, I poke the “name” field and am rewarded with a holographic keyboard at chest height.

After a second’s hesitation, I type in “Echo Voxx” and move on. Like I said, I’m really not a role player but given the sheer amount of immersion I’ve witnessed so far, it’s sort of fun. Or, it would be if not for the elephant in the room. A more name-y gamertag style seems a small concession to make.

Someone enters the office while I’m working but I wait until I’ve finished to face them. When the log panel closes, I’m confronted with a shorter, frail orc whose knobby-knuckled hands and wrinkled, smiling face lend it a kinder aura than the Magistrate. It offers me a cloth-wrapped bundle.

“From the Sisters at the Temple of Matrem Omnium,” it says.

The Magistrate has the journal out again, spread on the desk as it stares, unfocused, into space. A moment passes before I realize it must be reading my entry on a panel I can’t see. A thread of unease worms through me, but I don’t have much time to think it over before the Magistrate blinks rapidly and flips the journal closed.

“Alright,” it says, standing with its hands pressed to the desk. “He’s all yours, Sister. I’ve a wall to inspect.”

The older orc nods, taking me by the elbow before I can object.

“Come, then. You can change into those clothes, and I’ll take you to see the others.”

The rough spun trews and tunic are scratchy but infinitely more comfortable than parading through town with everything on display. I’m having a hard enough time keeping up with Sister Elthedred without worrying if my junk is helicoptering. This NPC’s pretty damn quick for such a frail old thing.

“The Matron Mother has committed our order to housing as many of you as we can,” Elthedred says while we hurry through lamp-lit streets. “Temporarily, of course. I’m sure the Magister gave you her little speech about the state of things.”

“You don’t sound like you agree.”

“Because I don’t. The Supreme Mother doesn’t abandon her children.”

The implication being that we players are like children. That’s fair.

“That’s, uh, kind of her. How many of us have come through?”

“There’s twenty-seven in the compound.”

Only twenty-seven? That seems like a low number, especially after seeing the Magister’s record. We turn a corner and the question is knocked from my lips.

The wall to our left, which we’ve followed the past few blocks, belongs to a larger compound; a walled city within a city. Ahead of us, a tall iron-barred gate is thrown open to the public where dozens of NPCs are coming and going at their leisure. Seems like service just let out.

Like the market before it, the crowd is predominantly orcish but several medium and smaller-sized humanoids are mixed within. I recognize the fae by their thin, pointed ears, multi-hued skin tones and the faint trail of glitter following in their wake. The smaller creatures are goblins; none are taller than my hip, and they’re all scaled with large, cat-like ears, slit pupils, and talon-like claws on their thin fingers. Again, no re-used models.

Sister Elthedred puts a hand on my shoulder, guiding me behind the congregation and through the open gates.

A paved pathway bordered by hedges leads directly to the tall stone steps of a cathedral. Maybe I shouldn’t call it that, but no other word fits the solid, imposing building before me. Its front is recessed behind a row of columns where stout double-doors twice the height of the tallest orc swing open at our touch.

We pass through a vestibule lit by incidence-fed braziers and through a short corridor with several closed doors. At the end, through an open archway, is the sanctuary.

At least three stories tall at its center, the far end of the chamber is dominated by a gargantuan statue stretching from floor to ceiling. Given some of the Sister’s comments, I assume this must be a representation of the “Supreme Mother.” The faceless, robed figure rests on one knee, holding a swaddled bundle in the crook of one arm as her other hand extends to us, palm open. The blank, featureless visage reminds me unnervingly of DUSKFALL’s original avatars.

At the statue’s feet, a half-circle couch rests in a bed of fresh flowers backed by mage lights. A goblin, no bigger than your average toddler, watches us.

Elthedred hurries me forward through twin aisles of empty pews until we’re in hearing distance of the goblin.

“Matron,” says Elthedred, “I’ve collected another lost soul from the Magistrate. May I present ‘Echo Voxx.’”

The Matron Mother’s eyes are so milky I have to assume it’s at least partially blind. But its head turns toward us, ears cocked forward like a cat whose interest has been perked.

“Echo Voxx,” it repeats. I’m getting some very particular vibes from this conversation, and I don’t like it. This feels like a setup for a ‘prophesied one’ quest line; one I lack the patience for.

Quickly, I say, “Echo’s fine. And I’d love to help with whatever it is, really, but I really need to see the other players first.”

Nonplussed, the Matron stares at me a long moment. A set of translucent eyelids cross its eyes vertically, followed horizontally by an opaque set in a slow, deliberate blink.

Its gaze returns to Sister Elthedred, who’s gone still and stiff.

The Matron’s voice is weary as it’s ears droop backward. “Another one,” it says. “How many of the Scourged have you met? The ‘dee-mons’ as you say?”

“Uhh… none? Well, ah, there was a fenrir—a wolf—that was in demon form when it saw me, but it reverted in the sunlight.”

“And you lived?” The Matron’s ears perk forward again.

“Yep.” I spread my hands. “Everything’s present and accounted for, even. Why?”

“Hm. Interesting.” It pauses, gaze raking over me, before it says, “Echo, it is. Not the strangest name I’ve heard these past few days. I suppose Magistrate Cyneburg gave you her usual spiel?”

“She did.” I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to force the point. It’s clear these NPCs don’t enjoy being derailed.

“Good. Then it’s time for mine. The city would throw you out, but I will not, provided you stay within good standing. However, you must be sure to return to these walls by sunset. You will not leave again until sunrise. Have we an accord?”

“Could you clarify ‘good standing,’ please?”

The Matron chuckles airily. “Finally, one who asks. ‘Good standing’ in this regard means abiding the Mother’s Law and the laws of the city, and attempting to find a proper place for yourself. If you make yourself a nuisance, or laze about, we will rescind our invitation.”

That was all? I brace myself, waiting for the catch. When the silence continues to hang, however, I clear my throat. “Why are we limited to the compound after dark?”

The Matron’s ear flicks once. “You’ve only just arrived. I suppose you wouldn’t know. Though if you’re going to run about using that ‘player’ nonsense, you should be warned...

“There’s already been some trouble with your lot. Thefts, and assault. I’d assumed they were all Scourge-mad when they started screaming about ‘En-Pee-Seas’ and ‘players,’ and ‘video games.’”

My blood runs cold as the Matron’s gaze meets mine. It doesn’t know it’s an ‘NPC’. That doesn’t surprise me, exactly; what sort of game pieces know they’re game pieces? But the A.I. being smart enough to react adversely to players using language they don’t understand, then drawing opinions about it is... It’s wrong.

I’m not sure I want the answer, but I hear myself ask, “What happened to them?”

“They were shown the gate and warned against returning. Those who ignored said warning, well… The Magistrate does not take kindly to repeating herself.”

I’m sure there are questions that I need to ask. I can’t think of any right now. The sense of wrongness I’ve had since stepping into the game-world overpowers thought and reason.

And it all must show on my face. Elthdred has softened again, and the Matron offers me a small, sad smile. “Sister Elthdred will take you to your friends. If you have any further questions, we can discuss them on the morrow.”

Elthdred leads me out a side door and through a garden lit by the same witchlight keeping the rest of the city bright. Bugs don’t have demon forms, but they still need to keep bats, rats, and other small animals from transforming. It makes sense. Not much else does right now.

The sky is bloody red at the edges, fading up into black. If there are stars, there’s too much light pollution to see them. I can see the guard force on the walls, framed against torches and the darkening sky.

Elthdred follows my gaze as she pauses at a gate in the garden fence. “Don’t worry. We haven’t had a breach in months.”

Not exactly comforting, but I smile anyway.

Beyond the gate is a dirt-packed courtyard with a well, a chicken coop, and and two barracks houses. Firelight flickers in both buildings’ windows, but only one has an open door. A human woman stands there, leaning against the door jam with her eyes to the distance walls.

“There are plenty of beds left. I’m sure you can sort it out among yourselves?”

I nod vaguely in Elthdred’s direction but my focus is on the other player. She seems vaguely familiar. Given the Magister’s list, it doesn’t take me long to put a finger on why.

“Dierdre?”

The woman startles, swinging toward me. It is Deirdre. As though to confirm it, a panel flickers into being over her head, reading, “B4B4BLKSHEEP.” It’s nice to have a concrete reminder this is a game. The level of immersive detail is becoming a problem.

Deirdre’s avatar looks enough like herself that they could be sisters. It’s a touch more athletic, and slimmer, but it shares her heart-shaped face, bronzy blonde hair, and piercing grey eyes. Eyes which are narrowed until they focus on a space over my head. They widen as she grins.

“Justin?!”

She dashes forward and pulls me into a half-second hug. Then I‘m shoved far enough away that she can grab my shoulders. “Can you log out?”

The shift in tone is instant. Worse, it confirms a fear I hadn’t dared to vocalize, not even to myself; not even in thought.

I’m not the only one.

At my headshake, Dierdre swears. Her shoulders slump, but she seems more resigned than upset. “I keep hoping someone’s going to answer that differently, y’know?”

“Not exactly. You’re the first player I’ve seen.”

“Huh.” Deirdre frowns, glancing behind herself at the open doorway. Through it, I can see several other players scattered around a sparse barracks room. A few are holding hushed conversations, but most are watching us. “You’ve been surviving out there? Alone?”

“What?” It’s my turn to frown, as I try parse the question. Why do I feel like I’m missing something? “I mean, I guess? It’s only been a day.”

“But you were streaming when the game went live.”

“Yeah…”

We stare at each other, each seemingly at a loss, when another woman leans her head out the door. Like Deirdre, she’s a blonde. Unlike Deirdre, this woman went for pure “Tits and Ass” aesthetics. “What BaaBaa’s trying to say is ‘this shit’s fucked, and time doesn’t matter.’”

“Because that really clears things up,” Deirdre says, rolling her eyes. She crosses her arms, and takes a deep breath. “I’ve been here three days.”

Whatever else I might have said fails upon my tongue. Three days? It doesn’t seem possible.

Game time running faster than real-time is a necessary part of most video games. If you’re running an international server, you wouldn’t want half your player base to only ever login at night in game, or vice versa. But that time distortion doesn’t affect human senses. Rather, it’s not supposed to.

Regardless, there was a two-hour gap between my launching the game when it opened, and stepping out of the character creator. In those two hours, the game server had gone through two days. One day per one real world hour...but the entire trek to Basingham felt like a full day—

“Justin? Hello?”

I blink rapidly, and glance between the two women now staring at me like I’m bananas. Deirdre leans a little closer. “You OK, man? I know this game’s intense and all, but…”

“Two hours.”

“Yeah, he’s lost it,” says the other player.

“No, no. I mean, I spent two hours in the character creator going over shit with my viewers. But I logged in when the server went live. Unless you guys got access earlier than I did…?”

They both shake their heads, each looking a little worried now. I am, too, and for good reason. Time compression to that degree ought to feel like time compression even from within the game. But today felt like a full day. Yet another tally for the “How the in the Fuck” pile.

Rather than going into it, I ask, “Any word on a game master?”

Surprising no one, they shake their heads again.

“Nope,” Veri confirms, needlessly. Then she shrugs. “It’s whatever, at this point. You should try to get some sleep before the demons start. That shit is crazy fucked.”

“Worse than the alpha?”

The look she gives me does nothing to assuage my fears. Instead of answering, Dierdre slaps my arm again, hard enough to leave it stinging.

“I’m glad to see you, man. I’m going to the market in the morning, and you’re coming with me. About time there’s a real team player around.”

Before I can respond, Deirdre shoots the other woman a pointed, venomous look and steps around her into the barracks. Nice to see some people never change.

“I’m Veri, by the way,” says the other woman. She extends a hand and I shake it.

“Justin,” I say, automatically.

“Yeah. I know.”

With that weird statement, Veri follows Deidre inside. After a minute, so do I. Sleep sounds like a wonderful idea, even if I’m not sure how that’s supposed to work in a freaking video game.