"Rom, call whenever you like. There'll be time for sleep."

When I understood how stupid my reason was for waking him up at half six in the morning, I hesitated.

"I wanted to ask you… I've created myself a character."

"Ah," he said and was silent, either groggy from being half asleep, or surprised at the fervour with which I'd dived into Barliona. "Great. What's your name? Height? Weight? Are we going to wet the baby's head?"

"Horns, more like. They called me Kvalen. Have you heard of tieflings?"

"The half-demons? I read something in the news. I don't remember. What, have you made yourself a tiefling? They're hardcore!"

"It wasn't me." I had to confess what a genius I was to have found such a great random generation scene. "I'm sitting here wondering whether to delight in my goat-legged bonus, or delete it in a month."

"Ah, that's why you're calling?" Matt sighed with relief. "I was worried something had happened. Ditch it and create a new one. The simple name is cool, but it's not worth the hassle – nobody likes demons. It'll be a massive pain in the ass. Even demonologist's are getting strange looks. It's not much of a bonus."

"I can't delete it straight away, only in a month. What am I going to do? A whole freaking month on my butt, then start all over again."

"Well… let's meet today and discuss a strategy. I'll think of something to keep you busy for a month."

"Why bother meeting? I'll call you when I get back from work." It occurred to me that every time we spoke Matt suggested getting together.

"No, let's have a beer," he insisted, although he quickly added, "Or are you busy? In which case we can meet tomorrow."

"I'm not busy. It's just a ninety-minute journey for you. And what the hell for? Just don't say that evil foes are tapping our phones and stealing ideas."

I heard a deep snuffling sound, one that I'd known since childhood. Matt was brooding.

"Well? Say something," I said.

"What is there to say?" he mumbled. "Just a bit longer and I'll be back, Bro. In there I'm a druid with a unique task. Out here I'm a vagrant whose wife and kids have left him. Nearly everyone's gone from our block. They live in Barliona. And all the rest come out looking angry and bottled up. You can't talk to them, or have a drink with them. I reckon I'll lose it soon and get stuck in there. I've already got no reason to leave the pod every day. I see the kids once a week, and that's for an hour. I don't have time for anything else."

I felt for him, but didn't know what to say. I'd always felt awkward when it came to showing sympathy and support.

"Okay. I'll just sort work out, buy some beer, and be on my way to yours. I'll call."

"I'm not going to say no. I'll be waiting," he said. I was just about to hang up when he said, "Wait! I've just thought about your tiefling. Nobody knows anything about them. Or about demon hunters. It's a new race, a new class, a new continent. Just smell the cash! Don't be too hasty about leaving the training camp. Go for a walk, have a look around, make a video, draw a map. You can do a lot of trading in a month, make some contacts in the top guilds. What's wrong with that? Then you don't need to delete your guy."

"Agreed. I'll do some thinking," I said.

Whichever way you looked at it, Matt was right. I hadn't seen any rates for information about the new continent. With the proper handling, my goat had a good chance of becoming a golden antelope.

"Matt, can you do me a favour? Sometimes I don't get obvious things, just because I don't think about them. Next time tell me straight, without that spy paranoia. You heard it yourself – I'm socially challenged. I've even got a psychologist's note."

"Go to… work, socially challenged. Pack it in with the self-reflection. I'm going to sleep."

The situation with Matt worried me more and more. Was I a friend or what? He definitely needed dragging out of the shelter. Yet again I prowled the expanses of the Internet, trying to work out how to restore him to normal society. After flicking through a couple of legal reference bases, I realized I knew lots about turning citizens into vagrants, but nothing about the reverse process. My entire experience was not enough to render the legal documents unambiguously. They'd done it deliberately. It was advantageous to the government to have everybody sitting in Barliona rather than exacerbating the situation in the world with their irrelevance. With the thought that I needed a consultation with a good lawyer, I closed my laptop and went to work.

All contemporary learning had long since been transferred to virtuality. People slid into their pods to mingle with teachers, other students, and simulation programs, and got excellent results in no time and with minimal expense. But Right Decision Ltd. didn't cut corners, and out of a sense of duty I decided to comply.

Helen was waiting for me in the empty hall, ready to absorb the wisdom of my experience. Just like a million years ago, instead of a tablet she had a graph-ruled exercise book and a ballpoint pen. Where did she even manage to find them? Couldn't you find an ink pot, my little eager beaver? Instead of the expected lecture, I dumped a stack of printed sheets in front of her.

"Right. We are not going to waste each other's time. Memorize this lot by Monday. Inside out, down to the last comma. If you learn it earlier, call me and we can start putting theory into practice. If not, I'll punish you on Monday."

"How?" Aghast, Helen looked from the papers to me and back.

"I don't know yet." I frowned and said, "Helen, don't think about the punishment. Concentrate only on fruitful work."

"I'm not asking about the punishment," she said, raising her voice. "How am I supposed to learn all this? Don't you have an electronic version? I could throw it in the emulator and listen to it in the pod."

"Not likely, my girl! It wouldn't be corporate to use the blessings of civilization like that. What's your character in Barliona?"

"A paladin."

"There you go. You like facing hardship head on. Open the first page and read it to yourself. If you don't get it, read it again. Quote it from memory. If you make a mistake, read it again. Repeat the cycle until you've learnt it all by frigging heart. During this time I will allow you to use swear words in conversation with me, to make the learning process easier."

"I… I'll tell grandma! This is absolute nonsense!" shrieked the girl.

"Then I'll punish her too. I choose the teaching method. Of course if grandma doesn't agree, everything's open to discussion," I said calmly.

"Hch-hm," resounded the diplomatic cough of the HR boss from a speaker. "Maria sees no need to interfere and revise the terms of your socialization. Old methods of instruction are just as valid as new ones."

I broke out in a wide smile. "As you wish."

"We're not allowed to spend personal time on work. Had you forgotten?" continued the girl stubbornly.

"You will learn everything by end of business today," stressed Maria.

"But there are two hundred and thirty-six pages of font size ten! I'd rather die than learn all this using your old-fashioned methods."

"Helen! Don't be so childish! Have you been given a task?" barked Maria in such a tone it went right through even me.

"Yes," said the girl in a whisper. Grandma was perfectly capable of becoming a strict department head when she saw fit. The faded Helen collected her papers and headed for the door.

"Helen, why are you such a muddlehead? No one's taken the scanner away," her beloved grandmother grumbled after her. Helen paused for a second, and with a shriek of, "Thanks, grandma," she flew off to fulfil her task.

"Maria, I could use a lawyer," I said before the lady signed off. "I want a consultation on a personal matter. Would that be possible?"

"It would. They'll help you in reception. Come and see me afterwards. And Brody, don't scare the girl. Otherwise it'll be me doing the swearing. And we don't want that now, do we?" came the reply, before the intercom shut off.

I could have argued with Maria about how to educate the youth, but she was right, I genuinely didn't want that. After quickly squaring everything with Helen as planned, I went to reception, where Victoria was leafing lazily through pages on a tablet. I approached and strained my neck to have a peek at how the director's assistant entertained herself when she was left alone. No doubt reading valuable advice from silly women's magazines. Noticing my interest, she turned off the screen, not allowing me to confirm my suspicions.

"Good morning, Brody. How can I help?" Her right brow was raised high, demonstrating a disparity between her polite tone and her real feelings concerning my early appearance. A display of true professionalism.

"Good morning, Victoria. Could I talk to the company lawyer concerning a personal matter?"

"What matter?"

"A personal one."

"Brody, what kind of lawyer are you interested in?" she asked, rolling her eyes pointedly and making me feel stupid.

"A civil one."

"You can talk to me."

"You're a civil lawyer?" I didn't believe her.

"Does that make you feel uncomfortable?" Victoria could work her eyebrows superbly.

"No, not at all." I shrugged. I wouldn't have been surprised if she earned some extra cash cleaning the office after work. You never know. "I need some advice concerning a citizen-welfare contract."

"Brody, could you dispense with the verbiage and be a bit more specific?" She still looked relaxed, but I discerned a barely noticeable change in her posture.

"I have a childhood friend. I recently found out he's on a social contract. How can we get it annulled?"

"You want to become socialized in favour of your friend?" Her voice became icy. "That's a bad idea, Brody."

"No, I just want to help him. And please don't lecture me." I drew forward. She wrinkled her nose.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked.

Jeez! How keen is your sense of smell to sniff out a drop of cognac?

"Just coffee." I urgently had to regain face and feign unease. "I had a pod installed late last night, and decided to try total immersion. I didn't get any sleep, and this morning I mistook a bottle of cognac for a bottle of syrup. It happens."

Victoria narrowed her eyes sceptically. "You do understand how stupid that sounds?"

"I understand," I said, smiling widely. "But it's the truth. You've seen my resume. No problems with alcohol. So what about this consultation?"

"You'll get your consultation. But first tell me, why do you want to restore someone who's already given up and gone to Barliona?" The secretary looked like someone who was confident in her right to demand answers. I tensed up.

"He's my only friend."

"Okay, so you get your friend out. What then?" She narrowed her eyes further, unpleasantly now, and leaned in towards me. "If you don't succeed, you are aware that your friend will burn up? Will you be able to forgive yourself?"

I felt uncomfortable with the turn our conversation had taken. Victoria was conducting the interrogation harshly. However, my gut feeling was not to get pissy, but to calmly convince her of the seriousness of my intentions.

"Burning up" was a real threat for people who were forever returning to the shelter. Not for everyone, of course – for about ten percent – but it was enough for folks to start talking about the problem. Something broke inside people, robbing them of their self-awareness. All that remained was a body, and the ability to eat, sleep, breathe, and defecate. In all other senses the person was as good as dead. Interestingly, the luminaries of science could find no evidence of damage to the brain on either a physical or a spiritual level. There was also the question of what was worse: disappearing into Barliona forever, or burning up.

"I'll have nothing to forgive myself for. I'll sign him up for retraining. You can't do that in the shelter, because the social pods are only connected to Barliona servers. He'll get certified, and then we'll find him a job. The Imitators aren't everywhere."

"Repeat that to yourself more often." The lady averted her gaze, and now answered me as a generic lawyer. "Citizens on a social contract may have their contract annulled only if they can provide evidence of financial security. It might be a work contract, in reality or virtuality, it doesn't matter, the main thing is it's not short-term. Or if the citizen is a dependent, according to family legislation. But that's irrelevant to you. Or are you related?"

"No. Do they demand a regular income?"

"It must be equal to or more than minimum wage. There are no stipulations concerning the kind of work. General director or street sweeper. But it must be official. You can also register your relationship, in which case we'll consider it as a factor in your socialization." There wasn't a trace of a smile in the woman's eyes. I wondered if she was always like that, or it was just a reaction to my question.

"No, thank you. We'll get by old school. For the training period I'll take him on as a driver or personal assistant. I've seen my neighbors do it. It shouldn't raise any questions."

"No, it shouldn't. Brody, I must repeat that if you can't find your friend a job, after he returns to the shelter he may burn up completely. And you'll have no more friends." There was a hint of something other than human sympathy in Victoria's voice. "Have a good think before signing a contract and registering him with the municipality. And it would be better if your friend decided for himself if he really needs this or not."