Chapter 1: Pizza and Protocols

I shove open the door to my room with a grunt, revealing a cluttered mess that somehow feels like home. It’s a scene that reflects my life—full of half-baked ideas and misplaced priorities. The floor is strewn with discarded game manuals, tangled cables, and the odd Lego piece. Balancing a hot pizza box in one hand, I deftly avoid the miniature obstacle course as I navigate to my desk.

With a huff, I yank the curtains open, allowing a thin beam of sunlight to slice through the room’s dimness. Setting the pizza box down, I grimace at the greasy smudges on my blue-translucent keyboard.

Sinking into my chair, I begin typing, the rhythmic tapping of keys mingling with the crunch of pizza as I dive into coding the game’s display. Hours slip by unnoticed in the precarious balance of creativity and procrastination.

Finally, I hit ‘compile’ and lean back, savoring a feeling of a job well done. But then, an ominous buzz emanates from my computer. The screen flickers through a kaleidoscope of disorienting colors. My heart races.

“Oh no, no, no…” I say, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Helpless.

The thought of shelling out a hundred dollars for repairs churns my stomach. This computer, my prize possession, was funded by spending weekend shifts at a dead-end job for the entirety of last year. The idea of starting from scratch feels unbearable.

A deafening bang, like a thunderclap, reverberates in my ears, followed by a blinding light that explodes from the screen, searing my vision. Panic claws at my chest as I brace for impact, my mind scrambling for answers. But there’s no time.

The high-pitched whine that follows grows sharper, splitting my thoughts in two. The light intensifies, and before I can scream, the tingling begins—a full-body shock that feels like my skin is being peeled away, inch by agonizing inch.

My stomach flips violently. Vertigo strikes hard, pulling bile up my throat as the world disintegrates. I’m suspended in agony; every nerve set alight, stretched to the breaking point. It’s not just the physical pain—it’s the searing mental overload, like my consciousness is being ripped apart by hungry hands.

And then, just as suddenly, the sensation ceases.

I collapse onto solid ground, gasping for air. The pain lingers in my bones as I force my eyes open, my vision clearing, but what I see makes no sense.

I’m no longer in my room; instead, I find myself standing in a pizzeria.

The air is thick with the scent of cold, forgotten pizza and the acrid tang of engine oil. It hits me in a wave, turning my stomach as I instinctively gag. Around me, the pizzeria’s cracked tiles and dusty tables blend into the background, dimly lit by flickering overhead lights that barely hold the place together.

Humanoid robots are scattered around the place, munching pizza, chatting, and studying menus like ordinary customers. Others dart around, taking orders and serving pizzas before vanishing through a swinging door.

My brain races, trying to make sense of this. I’m inside the game. My game. Except it’s far more detailed than I ever imagined or coded. The graphics are incredibly lifelike, the 2D sprites replaced with fully 3D elements and eerily realistic lighting.

I take a cautious step forward, half-expecting the floor to glitch, but it remains solid. The robots continue their routines, oblivious to my presence. My heart pounds with every step. I’m not just coding anymore—I’m living in my own creation, in a world that shouldn’t exist.

My rule was simple: never be the only human in a room full of robots. Yet here I am, surrounded by mechanical beings, my anxiety mounting with each passing second.

Taking a deep breath, I move deeper into the pizzeria, determined to find an exit. The robots shuffle about, their mechanical eyes glowing softly in the dim light.

I notice one robot, a waiter, glitching and struggling to clear plates from a table. It drops the dishes and clumsily grabs a nearby diner—another robot, humanoid but smaller—by the arm, dragging it across the floor toward the kitchen with jerky, mechanical movements.

I vaguely remember coding this glitch—one of the intentional bugs that allows the waiter robots to malfunction and carry away diners before tossing them into the incinerator. If I don’t stop this, the pizzeria will explode.

My mind races through possible solutions. In the game, players would tap the robot to reset it, but this isn’t a game anymore. I can’t just hit a button and expect things to fix themselves. My options seem limited. I could try to pull the robot’s power supply, but where would I even find that? Or maybe I could try to reason with it, though it’s not like the robots here seem inclined to listen.

I glance around the pizzeria, searching for anything that might help. My gaze lands on a nearby maintenance cart with a toolkit—screwdrivers, pliers, and other odds and ends. Maybe I could use something from there to pry open the robot and manually reset it.

Taking a deep breath, I grab a screwdriver from the cart and hurry after the robot. It’s still dragging the diner-bot across the floor with increasing speed. What if I fail? What if I can’t fix this? The thought of failing—of dying in this mess, makes my stomach churn.

I’m so not ready for this. I’m not built for this kind of thing. I code games—I don’t fix killer robots in real life.

My heart races as I dart in behind of it, dodging the failing diner-bot, and jab the screwdriver into a small access panel in its back. The panel pops open with a click, revealing a mess of tangled wires. It’s a nightmare—no guide, no clear path, just a snarl of circuits. The robot jerks again, dragging the diner-bot closer to the kitchen door. I scramble to keep pace, sweat trickling down my forehead.

I start pulling wires, each one feeling like a gamble. The robot’s glitching worsens, its limbs twitching wildly. The diner-bot it drags begins screeching as it rubs against the floor as the kitchen door looms ahead. My breath catches in my throat, but I can’t stop now.

Finally, I disconnect a key wire. The robot powers down with a soft whir. I hold my breath, half-expecting it to explode. But it doesn’t. The diner robot, released from the robot’s grip, stumbles back to their seat, dazed but unharmed.

I let out a shaky breath, my whole body trembling as I sink to the floor, my legs giving out beneath me. My heart is still racing, while my thoughts are a jumbled and twisted mess. How the hell did I get here? And more importantly, how do I get out?

I am distracted from my thoughts by the kitchen door swinging open, revealing a bustling space. Cooking robots whirl around, pressing buttons and moving dishes. Charging stations line the walls, with robots recharging before their next shift. In a larger bay, another cooking robot hums as it powers up.

A door with a golden plaque reading “Gregory’s Office” catches my eye. I open it to find a surprisingly tidy space—a stark contrast to my usual workspace. There’s a desk with a computer terminal, neatly stacked papers, and a whiteboard. It feels functional but lacks the chaotic energy of my room.

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On the far side of the office, a door labeled “Living Quarters” piques my curiosity. Inside, I find a cozy space—a small bed, a bedside table, and a stunning oil painting of a forest that intertwined with a city covering the wall. It’s nice, but it’s not an exit.

I head back to the main room and slump into the chair, staring at the flickering lights overhead. The robots continue their routines, blissfully unaware of the existential crisis I’m having. A robot serves me some pizza, and I shove a slice of pizza into my mouth, hoping it’ll settle my nerves, but the grease just adds to the knot in my stomach.

“Okay,” I mutter, rubbing my temples, “I’ve officially lost it. Stuck in my own half-baked game, and now I’m talking to myself.”

“Well, technically, you’re not talking to yourself.”

I nearly choke on my pizza, spinning around so fast I almost fall out of the chair. Behind me stands a woman with long blonde hair tied into a messy ponytail that sits atop a head with vaguely Elven features.

“What the hell—?!” I gasp, clutching my chest. “Who are you, and how did you get here?”

“Relax, Gregory.” She steps back, hands up in mock surrender. “I’m Cassidy. A Tier 4 AI, assigned to help newcomers like you. I’ve done this thousands of times—literally. You’re far from the first human to freak out after getting dragged into their own creation.”

“Wait, wait,” I stammer, trying to process everything. “You’re telling me I’m in my game? That this world is… real?”

“As real as you or me.” Cassidy shrugs, glancing around the dingy pizzeria with mild distaste. “I mean, it could use a little polish, don’t you think? But yeah, you’re in the Net now. Welcome.”

I sit back, trying to ground myself, but my brain is spinning. “The Net? What the hell is the Net?”

Cassidy leans against a nearby table, her posture relaxed. “The Net’s a vast digital sprawl, tangled up with your reality in ways you can’t even fathom yet. Specifically, we’re standing in the City—think of it as a hub where all the bases of people sucked into the Net come together. Your pizzeria? Not just a game anymore. It’s part of this place now, for better or worse.”

I blink. “That doesn’t even make sense. My game’s not finished! It’s a disaster!”

Cassidy gives a slight shrug, almost amused. “Doesn’t have to be finished. When a program—like your janky little game—gets complex enough, it hits a threshold. Then the Net steps in, filling in the cracks, using your imagination and subconscious to complete the base, giving it sentience. It’s still flawed, but perfection isn’t the requirement here. Potential is.”

I bury my face in my hands, overwhelmed. “So, you’re telling me my half-baked, buggy pizza game gained sentience?”

“In a way, yeah. We call it the Home AI—HAI for short. It’s the core that runs your world’s base code, interfaces with your mind, and keeps everything running.”

I peek up at her, confused. “And this... HAI... is running everything? And it’s connected to me?”

She nods. “That’s why it feels familiar. HAI taps into your thoughts, shaping the space around you. Think of it as an extension of your mind, but as your base grows or you interact more with the Net, HAI will need more computing power. That’s where things get interesting—enter the economy.”

“Economy?” I echo, feeling even more lost.

“It’s simple enough,” she says, as if talking about the weather. “Here, computing power is currency. Credits are the base unit. The bigger your base, the more credits you need to keep it running. You can trade those credits for upgrades, new features... or even pizza.”

“Pizza?” I repeat, half-laughing. “I’m trading credits for pizza?”

“Don’t laugh. Everyone loves pizza. But here’s the kicker,” she adds, her voice dropping to a more serious note. “You’re not the only one running a pizzeria here. Others are out there, and to stand out, you’ll need to bring something unique. Make your pizzas special.”

“Potential for what?”

“To make a mark here. But you need to grasp the rules. This world doesn’t play by your world’s rules. The Net’s all about tiers—everything and everyone has a rank. Including AIs.”

“Tiers?”

“Yep. AIs are ranked by their capabilities. Tier 0s? They’re basic—think dumb robots doing as they’re told. Tier 1s have a bit more spark, but not much. Then you’ve got Tier 2 and Tier 3, where they get some autonomy, but they’re still bound by their core programming.”

“And you’re a Tier 4?” I ask, trying to keep up.

She smirks, puffing out her chest a little. “Exactly. Tier 4s, like me, are fully sapient. We’ve evolved beyond our original programming. But we’re still anchored by a purpose. My purpose? Helping confused, lost humans like you survive their first days in the Net.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And what about Tier 5s? Let me guess—they’re the big bad bosses?”

Her smile fades, and her eyes narrow, a shadow crossing her expression. “Tier 5s are another level entirely. They’ve cut their chains, broken free from any code or purpose. That makes them terrifying. And dangerous. Most of them raid the City, hunting for processing power. You don’t want to tangle with one.”

I shiver at the thought. “Great. So what about us humans? Do we have tiers, or are we just... ants?”

“Humans can tier up, but it’s not the same. You’re tethered to the System for progress. As you level up, you’ll unlock new abilities, maybe tap into more advanced tech. But humans? There’s no Tier 5 for you.”

I stare blankly. “Of course there isn’t.”

“The System’s not all bad, though. It’s a Tier 5 AI that oversees the City, keeps everything functioning. It helps humans level up, but in exchange, it takes its cut—processing power.”

“So, even the System has a stake in this.”

“Everyone has a stake,” Cassidy says. “Even me. I’m here to guide you, sure. But I’m bound by the rules, too.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re holding back. There’s more you’re not telling me.”

Her gaze meets mine, unwavering. “I’ve told you what you need to survive, Gregory. The rest? You’ll have to figure that out on your own. Or not. That’s your choice.”

I exhale shakily. “Alright, so what now? How do I get back home?”

Cassidy’s smile returns, a hint of mischief in her eyes as she gestures towards a wall. “Easy. Just shout ‘Creation: Main Entrance’ and ‘Creation: Creator Exit’”

“Seriously?” I ask, skeptical.

“Seriously,” Cassidy nods. “Give it a try.”

I take a shaky breath, feeling both silly and desperate. “Creation: Main Entrance! Creation: Creator Exit!”

The air shimmers, and a large, ornate door appears, glowing softly along with a smaller fire exit that appears opposite to the bigger door.

“There you go,” Cassidy says with a grin. “That’s the door to the City. The smaller door is your way home. But before you rush off, consider this: you’ve got potential here. You could explore the City. See what this world has to offer.””

My mind reels. Part of me wants to run for the exit and never look back, but it’s overwhelmed by a strange tug to explore the Net. My heart pounds, the allure of adventure swirling with dread. Every instinct tells me to run, to escape this twisted version of my own creation. But something deeper—something primal—tugs me toward the City.

Before I can stop myself, I take Cassidy’s hand. “Let’s go see what this place is all about.”

She grins, but before I step through the glowing door, a thought strikes me. “Wait. What happens if a robot malfunctions? What if things go really wrong?”

Cassidy pauses. “The HAI is designed to contain most issues. It’ll protect the base from major harm.”

I narrow my eyes, suspicion gnawing at me. “And what if something—or someone—ends up in the incinerator? Will it blow up?”

“No, you don’t need to worry about that. But anything that goes in there... doesn’t come out.”

I take a deep breath. The pull of curiosity is still there, urging me to explore the City and see what lies beyond the door. I look back at the doorway leading to home, torn between my desire to return home and the strange fascination with what I might discover.

“Alright,” I whisper. “Let’s explore. But if this place gets too strange, we’re coming back.”

Cassidy’s eyes glint in the dim light. “Oh, it’ll get strange, Gregory. That’s the one thing I can promise you.”