Now, imagine my shock when, after getting caught by some Azul Guerrero’s and passing out from blood loss, I wake up in a gray, dusty prison room with a bandage on my side. I say “prison” but there are no bars. Instead, there is a brown wooden door. The Guerreros seem to have modified the door by adding a slit on top so the guards can check in. This building probably was not a prison originally, but rather, one of those old casino-hotels that used to be in the heart of this city. The tacky red carpet, two medium-sized beds, and the worn-down TV also give me that impression.

Honestly, I’m shocked I’m still standing. I wonder why the hell Azure Guerreros have kept me alive? These gangs aren’t known to be kind to those that come in to their territory uninvited. The territory I live in is run is by the Jade Saiyuki gang, which used to be Chinatown for the old city. The group’s name comes from a statue in the market square, featuring characters from a Chinese book called Journey to the West. Still, I don’t think they’re going to bail me out. The gangs have a very tenuous peace agreement that I doubt anyone would want to disturb just to bail out one guy who raids abandoned stores at night. I’m kind of a pain in the ass in these parts.

Suddenly, I hear a flushing sound coming from what I assume is the bathroom, near the door. I didn’t know I have a roommate. My hand reflectively moves toward my shotgun, but I realize it isn’t there. Instead, I pull out the manga volumes. They must think it’s a bunch of junk. I look around and see a lamb sitting on the table between the head of the two beds. I wait at the door with a lamp that I grab for protection to see whom I’m rooming with. A few minutes later, a teenage boy walks out of the bathroom. He appears to be around the same age as the girl in the crater. He is wearing the male version of a school uniform and has medium-length blond hair that covers his left eye.

As I struggle to find words to say, in a warm, welcoming voice, the boy just says, “Finally up, huh? Good.”

I’m still groggy and confused from all that is going on, so I’m still not sure how to greet him.

“Listen,” the kid goes on, his voice changing to a more serious tone, “you got questions. I got a question. Let’s exchange info, okay?”

Well, he isn’t wrong, that’s for damn sure. However, there’s something about him that doesn’t seem right. I can’t quite put my finger on it. For better or for worse, I don’t have a choice but to hear him out. Sure would be easier to trust him if I had my sawed-off with me.

“Fine,” I finally reply. “What’s your name, kid?”

After pausing for a minute, he answers, “I guess you can call me Atsushi Tanaka.”

“You guess?” I answer back.

“As the creators used to say, ‘I plead the Fifth.’”

Goddamn, this kid is weird. What the hell does he mean by ‘creators’?

“Plead the Fifth?”

Do they teach old American law at Japanese high schools? Do they even have high schools in Japan these days? Damn it, why have they taken my gun? It’s much easier to negotiate when looking down a barrel of a gun.

In a confused tone, I reply, “Okay, the name’s Mathis Michaels.”

Atsushi responds listlessly, “Mathis . . . huh, that’s a name I think I’ll remember.”

I wonder if he notices my shaking and my lack of eye contact. I’m not exactly good at talking to strangers, especially without insurance.

“So . . . Atsushi, was it? What are you doing here anyway?” I finally ask a helpful question in this conversation.

“Well . . .”

The kid seems like he is fishing for a reason why he’s here. I’ll see what he reels in and decide whether to play along or not.

“I’m new to these parts. I was just grabbed when I was making my way into town.”

Nothing fishy there. Most outsiders are often taken in by the La Vega Immigration Office (or to the headquarters) of whatever gang finds someone they don’t recognize. A teenager wandering around the country with nowhere to go isn’t anything too out of the ordinary. What gets me is the well-kept sky-blue school uniform. There doesn’t look like there are any rips or tears on his uniform jacket or pants and nothing seems out of place with his tie. He seems too clean, sticking out as much as the Terminator in a slice of life comedy.

“So where are you from?” I ask, only to get the vague reply.

“Out of town.”

“Of course, you are, smart-ass. How far out of town?” I ask, losing my patience.

“Let’s just say, it’s far away,” the kid says, trying to keep some stupid air of mystery . . . like I have time for his stupid ego.

“Now then, may I ask a question?” Atsushi asks smugly and irritatingly, his eyes closed and with a shit-eating grin on his face, like he thinks he’s the cutest thing on the damn planet.

I really don’t want to deal with his shit, but it’s not like I have a choice, so I just sigh and reply, “Sure, kid, ask away.”

“What is the deal with this world? How did things get this way?”

“Don’t you know? The plague hit around 2012 . . . Rotters appeared from the dead bodies . . . society crumbled. Shouldn’t you know this shit?” I explain to the kid, who seems to be listening to me intently.

“I see,” Atsushi says solemnly. “So why are you here?” Atsushi asks me.

“Well . . . ,” I begin saying. To demonstrate my point, I decide to pull the manga volumes out of my pocket. Even though I’m not the targeted age range for these books, there is no time for shame now.

“Manga,” Atsushi exclaims before mumbling something like, “so those exist in this world too, huh?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask baffled.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Pay that comment no mind,” he assures me while letting out a nervous laugh.

Damn, I really miss my gun. Maybe this is the Guererros’ idea of torturing me into telling them something or doing whatever they want.

“So anyway, why risk your life for just those manga volumes? Are they even worth it?”

Now he’s throwing out the tough questions. Well, shit, it looks like I’m going to have to answer him honestly. Goddamn it. I let out a sigh.

“Honestly, kid, I’m not even sure what the hell anything is worth anymore. I used to have a family. They got infected . . . I had to put them down . . .”

“Damn, that’s rough,” Atsushi responds. I don’t know if that is his unusual choice of words (he doesn’t strike me as the swearing type) or if he is just blatantly stating the obvious. Still, in that moment, I start to laugh my ass off. It is so bad I start stomping my feet on the ground. Soon, I feel an intense pain shooting from my injured side, causing my laughter to turn into pained groans.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“What’s so funny?” the kid asks in a flustered and confused tone.

“Nothing, kid. It’s just you are from . . . ‘out of town,’ aren’t you? More like under a rock, am I right?” I tell him while holding onto my aggravated side. Odd that he hasn’t asked if I’m ok. I guess he fit into this place in one small way.

After about a solid minute, the pain dies down a bit and continue with my spiel.

“Anyway, at some point in my travels, I started finding books, movies, and machines that play these movies just lying on the floor at old run-down stores. Maybe it was desperation or social isolation, but something just clicked in my head.”

“What was it?” Atsushi asks, eager for me to continue.

“That these pieces of junk aren’t worthless. They are more important than anything. These are records of our species’ hopes and dreams, our darkest impulses, and desires. I figured if no one else will see and preserve them, then I have nothing better to do.”

I couldn’t have been any more melodramatic, unless I start quoting the old US Constitution. Still, it seems like my overdramatic speech gets the kid thinking. At least I think it does. Why else will he be just sitting on the chair in the corner of the room, rubbing his chin and mumbling to himself?

After finishing my passionate diatribe, Atsushi just replies, “Interesting . . .” followed by him mumbling something like, “Just like them . . .”

“Look, kid! I’m getting tired of your vague mystery shtick! What the hell are you talking about?” I say, erupting in anger.

I get that he may want to hide things about himself in this world, unless he’s an idiot like me. But still, this kid is doing a piss-poor job of being subtle, almost as if he’s bragging about it, and it’s pissing me off.

The kid gives his smart-ass response, saying, “Well, I don’t like you calling me kid, but we can’t have everything we want, Mathis. Or should I say, ‘old man’—if we are going by rude, unoriginal nicknames?”

It’s not that I think I’m rude. I mean, he is a kid, right? I don’t exactly count honesty as being rude, which is why I let his “old man” crack slide.

“Though maybe . . . I could give you what you want . . .”

Great! More cryptic bullshit. I know he looks like he came out of one, but this isn’t some high-school mystery anime . . . Hold up a minute, there’s something I still need to ask him.

“So, Atsushi—”

“On second thought, just call me kid. The way you say my name, it’s just . . . odd.”

Asshole! Damn it, I can’t let this little bastard get to me. I need to ask about that girl in the crater.

“So . . . kid,” I correct myself in a frustrated tone, “did you happen to see a girl wearing a similar uniform to yours when you got captured?”

Suddenly, the kid rises from his chair with a somber look on his face. “No. Did this girl have long black hair and wear black tights?” Atsushi asks. The smart-ass way in which he has been talking earlier suddenly vanished at the mention of this girl.

I figure there is some connection here, though what’s odd is the second point he mentions, about her appearance. Sure, she has been wearing black tights when she first arrived, but her clothes suddenly changed like it was magical girl show. If he had been captured while I was asleep, which seems like the most likely case, otherwise how would he have known about a black-haired girl, She wouldn’t have been wearing black tights. This story is starting to give me a headache, but I just have to keep digging through the enigmatic bullshit.

I nod in agreement, confirming what he’s just said without mentioning the magically changing clothes. I’m interested in seeing his reaction without divulging all the information I have. Sure enough, his once calm, cool, and in control poise suddenly turns into nervous shaking and sweating while he continues mumbling to himself, “She’s here.”

Now I’m interested to learn about what the hell is going on between these two.

“Is she your girlfriend? Did you come here to find her?” I ask, finally feeling like I have control in this stupid conversational tug-of-war.

Atsushi’s nervous shaking stops suddenly, and he replies in a still, almost sorrowful tone, “I guess you could say that. And no, if anything . . . I’m trying to make sure she doesn’t find me.”

“Then, why he—”

Just before I could finish my question, there is a loud knock outside the door. With a rough, forced accent, the voice on the other side sarcastically says, “Room service!”

Everyone is just a goddamn comedian today, aren’t they? After that “hilarious” introduction, a man wearing a bulletproof vest over a black tank top and blue camouflage pants, the standard Azure Guerrero uniform, walks into the room. From the blood on the bottom of his brown boots, I can tell it was my old pal Jumpy from the run-down video store. He must not have had time to wash out the blood, or maybe he didn’t want to, who knows.

Jumpy, the large Hispanic man, looms over me with blank, almost-emotionless eyes, staring down at my bandaged side. In a cold, scathing voice, he asks me, “How’s your side?”

Honestly, as much as I try to make light of these things, I didn’t want to kill his superior. And right now, he has every right to want to beat me to death.

“Look, Jumpy—”

“Jumpy?” he asks in a pissed-off tone.

I really need to keep my stupid nicknames to myself. “Forget about that. I’m sorry for what I did to your partner,” I say, asking for forgiveness that I know I won’t be getting and don’t deserve. But it doesn’t hurt to ask. Just what comes after it may hurt.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think you’re sorry enough,” Jumpy replies as he begins cracking his knuckles.

“Look, I deserve what’s coming to me, I really do. But not in front of the kid, okay?” I ask, not wanting Atsushi to see this level of brutal violence.

“Kid? What the hell are you talking about? Did you lose some brain cells with all that blood?” Jumpy asks in a baffled tone.

“He’s standing right nex—”

As I try to show Atsushi to the soldier, I turn and see he isn’t there at all. What the hell? He was just there a couple of minutes ago.

“Maybe he just went to the bathroom,” I say, trying my best to find some explanation.

Jumpy replies, “I don’t know what the hell are you talking about. You were the only one thrown into this room.”

Goddamn it! Don’t tell me he is just an illusion created from losing too much blood?

“Now I just feel bad for you,” Jumpy says with a hint of pity, though not remorseful as he is still cracking his knuckles. “I guess I just have to beat the crazy out of you!”

The large soldier then gives me a good right hook across my face, knocking my ass to the floor. He then proceeds to kick my bandaged side repeatedly. That hurts a hell of a lot more than a punch to the face. Honestly, I’m not sure whether or not it is more painful than getting shot in the first place.

I try my best not to scream and just bear the pain I so clearly deserve. The pain is so sharp and intense though. I can’t help but let out the loudest scream I’ve ever uttered since I had to put my family down. Maybe this is what I deserve, a death so painful and slow that I wish the guy would just hurry up and get it over with. So much for my bluster about “finding meaning in preserving old movies and books.”

About the moment I start praying for death, I hear Atsushi’s voice say in a nonchalant tone, “All right, that’s enough,” which causes Jumpy to stop kicking my once-again bleeding side as he struggles to find the words to speak to the kid that neither of us can see.

Before the soldier can say anything, Atsushi appears right in front of him, out of nowhere. He pushes his hand through Jumpy’s chest, like a scene from a 70’s martial arts movie.

I appreciate the help, but like so many other times throughout the night, I have to ask myself, “What the hell is going on?”

Is this another blood-loss delusion? I lie on the floor in excruciating pain, my torturer a foot away from me, dead in a pool of his own blood. I see Atsushi walk over to me as if nothing has even happened. He kneels next to me.

“You wanted to know what I was mumbling to myself, didn’t you? You wanted to know where I came from, huh?” Atsushi asks me, all with a deranged, toothy grin on his face and a voice that sounds unhinged at best. This kid’s mood seems to change on a dime. “Well, lucky for you,” he continues, “since she’s here, I have to speed things up a little, and since I like you, I think I better start explaining myself.”

He likes me? We have known each other for less than a day, and honestly, I’ve found this kid to be an annoying little smart-ass.

Though at this point, why bother complaining? Focus on the info he’s going to give me and not my reagitated side or the dead body right next to me.

“The thing is, it’s quite a long story. So why don’t I just speed things along and show you what your world is.”

Atsushi then flips the hair covering the left side of his face, revealing an eye with symbols and numbers in his irises where the color should have been. He then grabs my head and starts staring intensely into my eyes. In an instant, so much information begins to appear in my mind in the form of visions of many worlds—from medieval fantasy worlds, to idyllic Japanese high schools—all connected by a massive artificial grid. This horrible world that I am born into is just one of many within this grid.

What the hell? What the hell has this kid done to me? Soon the visions stop, and I see Atsushi. His toothy grin is replaced by a sly smile.

“I see you finally know the big picture?” he says, closing his eyes like he thinks he’s being cute.

The only thing I can do is ask what any other sane person would ask. Though at this point, my sanity is kind of debatable.

“What the hell did you just do to me?”

“Have you been paying attention, Mathis? I gave you the truth about this world, or rather the lie about this system,” he says, answering my question in his usual vague fashion.

What the hell is going on? This world isn’t real? We are all just souls contained in a computer? How the hell is that possible? This goddamn night!