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Nathan wondered, not for the first time, what Samantha really looked like. Programmers could change their own stats, just as easily as they could change the stats of anyone who agreed to the terms and conditions and submitted a DNA sample—though that last bit was a little less aboveboard than anything but the finest print acknowledged. Samantha had gathered enough of Joey’s DNA in the last few weeks of their relationship, had brought it to engineering and begun to play Joey’s character.

The game had done the rest.

Nathan still wasn’t sure if technology or black fucking magic ran the whole thing, but he knew he was relieved to be on the side that called the shots.

“We’ve got millions of users and more every day. Maybe next round of terms and conditions, we load up the empathy stats on people,” he suggested. “Get into personality modification, not just physical—”

“If someone lives in another person’s skin, and sees how awful it is,” Samantha said in a voice so soft that Nathan felt a jolt of alarm, “and the only lesson they take away isn’t
‘We need to become kinder as a species’
but
‘I need to make sure I’m powerful and secure forever’…”

She fixed him with a direct stare.

“I’m not sure fucking with human nature will do much good.”

Nathan felt gooseflesh on the back of his neck. Sometimes—very rarely, but sometimes—he wondered if Samantha was even human. He wondered if the world he saw and felt and touched around him was even real at all—but he didn’t know, and he didn’t like to wonder. He liked the system; he liked his place in it. And with each round of terms and conditions, the game was getting better.
They
were getting better.

“Learn how it feels to be someone else for a day, snap under the pressure, go on a rampage,” Nathan quipped. The room had suddenly grown too tense, too close.

Samantha didn’t laugh.

“He was only in the program for one day and he tried to go on a killing spree,” Samantha said. She was studying the movie posters on his walls, all cheap things he’d bought at lawn sales in college. “Imagine if he’d been in the program for two.”

“It’s a dangerous game.” Nathan shrugged.

“Did you agree to this
entire thing
just to make that pun?” Samantha asked. She seemed to come out of some private memory, suddenly present, suddenly human again. She toasted him with her cider and he eagerly clinked bottles.

Now or never.

“Do you—I mean, people sign up willingly,” Nathan stumbled. “Everyone signs up willingly. But when market research goes and collects the DNA samples in secret—goes through trash, gets medical records—and we start to tinker with the stats, do you ever feel—”

She was looking at him with those perfect, mirrored eyes.

“Do you ever feel we’re crossing a line?” he finished. “They aren’t all like Joey.”

“They would be if they could,” Samantha answered. “Human beings are never happy unless everyone has a dollar, they have two, and then they start setting their sights on three.”

She finished her cider and began peeling at the label, looking at her reflection in the dark glass.

“Yeah,” she repeated in that soft, eerie voice. “They’d all be like Joey fucking Connor, if they could.”

Marguerite K. Bennett is a comic book writer from Richmond, Virginia, who currently lives in New York City. She attended the Maggie L. Walker Governor’s School and received her MFA in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College in 2013. She has worked for DC Comics, Marvel, BOOM! Studios, and IDW on projects ranging from
Batman
and
X-Men
to Fox’s
Sleepy Hollow
. She loves Disney movies, superheroes, and body horror. She has been fortunate enough to see more than a million copies of her work published.

THIS
IS
A
TRUE
STORY
.

Gotta run faster. Gap ahead of me is gonna close in less than a second, masses slamming together, grinding anything caught between into paste. Can’t afford to fail here.

I’ve come too far, spent too much time.

Push off the enemy to my right, use his momentum for an extra burst of speed. He falls to the ground, caught off balance by my sudden move. Spin past a foe rearing up on the left, feel his arms rake down my side in passing. A strip of fabric tears free from the material covering my body armor. It flutters in the harsh glare of the spotlights above, plummets like a dying sparrow. My only thoughts are on the scene ahead. Titans shift and grapple, cartoonish muscles bulging under the strain. The gap inches shut.

Sound swells into a crescendo, roaring trumpets of cacophony surrounding the battlefield. It is deafening static. It is soundless white noise. Colors run into a blurred confusion, sensory overload dial turned all the way to eleven. I am at one with the madness, its drumbeat my dance partner.

Leg muscles tighten, load, release. I soar into the gap, arm outstretched, willing my way through in the milliseconds remaining. I can make it. I
will
make it. I’ve come too far.

The pressure comes crashing down to either side, Red Sea walls making a mockery of faith.

I am crushed.

I am drowning.

I am fading to black.

I am back at the beginning, a novice, training with the other members of my cohort. We puff our chests and preen, words sure and confident, outrageous displays of plumage failing to conceal coltish knees and elbows. Every one of us believes we will make it all the way, travel an unimaginable distance to the final stage and display our prowess.

I know that many of us, practically all of us, will fail, but I
know
that I will make it, relentlessly grinding my way to success. The goal may be distant, the obstacles many, but the hero always prevails.

I’m the hero of my own story, but others tell their stories as well.

When I first meet the others of my group, we do not know each other, our interactions nervous and fumbling. Paul, cocky and dark-haired, quick to take command but unsure what to do once he has it. Ryan, older, with laughing blue eyes, more experienced than the rest of us. He’s been training for longer, and it shows, but he doesn’t like the newer members. Scott and Antoine, tall and thin, locked in discussion, going over potential strategies to help them succeed in our next encounter, focused only on the task at hand. Others, whose faces fade into blurs, not background scenery, but not registering either. All around us the air rings with the sound of constant training—strikes, blocks, collisions, the barked instructions of our trainers, a constant grindstone pressed against us all, honing raw edges into sharp instruments.

I am not yet used to the chaos of this game.

The instructors see me as a specialist, my job to extricate the group from adverse situations at key times. They say my potential is powerful, maybe powerful enough to reach the highest levels, but first, they say, that potential needs to be actualized, harnessed to my will, guided by mind instead of instinct. I came late to this endeavor, and there is still much I don’t understand. Arcane phrasing and terminology, appropriate responses to situations—the rules of the game, what is and isn’t permitted within the confines of our construct.

I need more experience.

Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, I complete mindless quests with my compatriots. Some involve running back and forth from one trainer to another, trying to fulfill their capricious whims. They make us jump up and down, fetch random objects, dodge simulated attacks, march in line with each other. Boring, meaningless work, or so I think at the time.

Other quests have us skirmishing against weaker members of our group, taking what little reward we can in defeating an inferior opponent. It is meant to prepare us for the blitzing rush of a real encounter, but it is tough for us to take them seriously. We all know each other, we’re all friends. Battles can be simulated, planned, obsessed over, yet the experience gain is minimal, because what is at stake?

Nothing…yet.

The days pass, hot sun constantly beating down on us, and the grind continues. Gradually, our once chafing load of armor and equipment becomes bearable, then unnoticeable. We run and dive and roll in it like a second skin, adapting to the cumbersome padding like hatchlings learning to fly. We hit each other and the ground, frequently, acclimating our bodies to the jarring sensation of combat. The pain of impact lessens with each successive blow, though it never really goes away—a shuddering jolt that shocks the body and mind into a momentary stunned silence, neurons overloading and shorting out, briefly blinding to black until the world snaps back into focus.

I do not relish the training, the monotonous grind of it all, but it is something to be endured, so that the greater goal may be achieved. So I keep telling myself, day after endless day.

Eventually, we have a real encounter.

We start our preparation with unfamiliar rituals that have the trappings of long use—making sure our gear is secure, armor settled comfortably, our mobility unhindered. Some members of the group chant blessings and prayers, others dance around or crack jokes. We all approach the upcoming unknown in different ways, and who can say one way is better than another? The important thing is that we feel ready to play our parts as best we can, confident in our as yet untested abilities.

I choose to read a book, distracting myself with fantastic stories of other worlds to help pass the time until everyone is ready. It confuses some of the others, the pursuit of lore not an activity they normally favor. I’ve proven my worth so far, however, so they accept my quirks with few comments, and soon we group up, traveling to the designated field of conflict. We stake out our territory, plan our defenses, and then we see the enemy.

They are outfitted similarly to us, garbed in padded armor and helmets, but they wear garish colors, bright oranges and deep blacks merging together like tiger stripes, nothing at all like our muted reds and blues. We eye each other across the unbroken expanse of grass, various objective markings littering its surface. My thoughts are muddled, eager, focused, hesitant. An arbiter, charged with keeping the rules sacrosanct, calls us to attention. The conflict begins.

It is nothing like training against immobile dummies or running across empty fields. The speed, the sounds, the lights…everything blurs into kaleidoscopic madness, focusing on individual actions an impossibility. I’ve never experienced anything like it before in my life. It is hard enough keeping track of what I am supposed to do, let alone take in the battle as a whole. I forget nearly everything I’ve been taught, relying instead on pure adrenaline and instinct. I feel like I am not the only one to do so.

Fortunately, our foe is appropriate to our experience level, neophytes much like ourselves, a challenge, to be sure, but one not insurmountable. We clash back and forth, one side gaining a momentary advantage then ceding ground to the other, energy reserves and stamina slowly draining for both. I make mistakes at first, unfamiliar with how my skills and abilities slot in with the rest of the group, but I adapt and learn quickly, forcing myself to keep up with those more seasoned. The alternative is shame, ignominy, failure—an unacceptable outcome.

We emerge from the encounter, battered yet victorious, our leaders pleased with our initial performance. They highlight areas we need to work on, combos and counters we could execute better, and so we return to the grind, preparing for the next opponent. Our reputation rises in the local area, inhabitants cheering our deeds in song and word. There is still much work to be done, but we’re definitely getting stronger, more experienced. Leveling up.

The campaign continues for several more months, foe after foe testing our strength. Most battles we win, some we lose, but we learn from them all, accumulating experience along the way. We settle into a routine—plan, train, fight.

Campaign season ends in the winter, our final battle a mud-soaked affair that leaves both sides aching. We are glad for the respite, a chance to rest our weary bodies and minds. We know that, come summer, the battles continue once more.

It is three years later. I am now one of the seasoned veterans, laughing at the newcomers fumbling through their drills. Paul, Scott, Antoine, and others of my cohort laugh with me, all of us remembering our own initiation into the game, the nervous steps of boys who thought themselves men. How long ago that initiation seems, blindly unaware youths struggling to learn the nuances of our craft. So close in time, yet so far in attitude, in awareness. Now we hunger for the field of combat, eager to taste glory.

My own armor sits lightly, a hardly noticeable part of my body, and I move through my battle motions fluidly, confidently. We strike swiftly, savagely, bringing defeat to almost all who oppose us, a machine whose gears mesh seamlessly with each other. It is a sight to behold, our faction supporters cheering us to greater and greater heights. Our campaign almost reaches the endgame of our particular level, but we fall short in the penultimate encounter, driven back by a superior opponent. The loss is tough to bear, but we surpassed all expectations, so it is not as bitter as it could have been. Some of us have even acquitted ourselves well enough to continue to the next stage.

I am one of those fortunate few able to continue playing, now that my time in this zone is over. The clan no longer has room for me, but that is the circle of life. Succeed and move on, or fail and move on. Either way, the timer does not reset.

Luckily for me, one of the larger clans has taken notice of my skills, invited me to join their group. I accepted, of course—it is, after all, one step closer to that ultimate stage, the final level that only fools dare dream of conquering, and it is, of course, the only way to continue playing. Individually, I’ve earned accolades, honors, the notice of a nation, but whether it will be enough to maintain my success at the next level, no one can say. I continue to hope, and more important, I continue to gather experience.

Another five years pass. My initial service with the new clan does not go as well as I wished—stuck behind more seasoned members, I am relegated to a reserve role, brought in only sparingly. I chafe at the restrictions, but it seems I must wait for an opportunity to present itself. Along the way, I make more friends among the squad—Riley, Ed, Aaron, and more. We crack jokes, keep each other’s spirits up during the interminable drills, debate philosophy and religion while battle rages around us. We know that we are being driven to a greater purpose, but our concern is staying sane amid the madness.

Camaraderie is not just an obscure job description.

At last, I get my chance, after three years of loathsome idleness. The warrior ahead of me moves to other ventures, his time in this arena
finally
run out, and I act swiftly to make the most of my opportunity.

I only have two years to demonstrate my talents, but the chances to do so are numerous, and once again, I garner accolades and trophies.

Finally
, I take part in the large engagements, our struggles witnessed by hundreds of thousands of people, and though we fight valiantly, we are not nearly as successful as we would like. I cannot let that dissuade me. I ignore the struggles of those around me and focus on my own skills, working to polish them to a razor’s edge. I know that representatives of the elite clans are watching, taking notes on who they might deem worthy to enter their hallowed ranks, and I
will
be one of those celebrated few chosen to wear the colors of the Bear, the Lion, the Hawk, or the Raven, or perhaps another clan that I’m not yet familiar with. The competition will be fierce, but that makes the reward all the sweeter.

At the end of the second year, having done everything in my power to show those watching that I am a worthy selection, I find myself wondering, Will it be enough? Is the experience I’ve accrued sufficient to level me to the highest realms?

The selection process is months away. Those months pass slowly.

I continue my training while I await the gathering of the elite clans, held every year in the spring. There, they choose new members, redress their ranks, whittling down the pool of qualified applicants, a number in the tens of thousands, to slightly less than eighteen hundred names by autumn’s bite. Those so chosen will have a chance to compete on the greatest of stages, avatars of battle and valor, sacrificing their health and sanity for glory and riches beyond measure. It is the highest level one can aspire to in the game, a humbling fraternity of excellence, where millions know your name.

I am one of those chosen.

However, I am not yet at Valhalla’s peak. Another obstacle course awaits me, competition against those who would usurp what I view as my rightful position in the clan. We struggle against each other, day after day, trying to convince those in charge to choose us to enact their plans. “Pick me,” I scream with my actions, “my talents are clearly superior. I can lead us to victory.” Beside me, my friends/opponents/colleagues attempt the same. We battle for the pleasure of those watching the screen, because it is all we know how to do.

Ultimately, the clan releases me. They feel that I am too unpolished, my skill set not yet at a place where they are comfortable utilizing it in the swirling chaos of combat. They wish me luck, but I will not have a place there.

Is this the end of my dreams?

It cannot be. I have traveled too far, done too much for it to end like this.

A message arrives. The first clan did not want me, this is true, but another clan does. Fierce warriors from the north, they offer me a spot in their host, their only requirement I perform to the utmost of my abilities, else they will find my replacement.