The darkness enveloped him.

Not black, but a deep greenish-brown, like the murky depths of a brackish lake at night. Del tried to look around, to move, to turn. The signals he sent from his mind to his body met with nothing. No response.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he thought, frustration prickling his awareness.

Had he died? The question lingered, unbidden. He didn’t remember dying, but something felt… off. He was fairly certain he was sitting. It felt like sitting, though he had no actual awareness of a body. Normally, the sensation of existence was constant: skin against fabric, feet on the ground, or the firm press of a chair. But here, there was nothing.

No ground beneath him. No fabric brushing his skin. Just absence.

Except…

‘What the heck is that?’ he mused.

There was a pressure—slight, but distinct—resting on what should have been his lap. A lap he wasn’t even sure existed anymore. The anomaly stood out in the void, a solitary disruption in the nothingness.

‘So, Del, has the grim reaper finally got your sorry arse?’ he wondered, surprised by the absence of panic. It was odd. Shouldn’t he be panicking? He tried to conjure the feeling, but nothing came.

It was strange to contemplate death without the burden of emotion. The idea of being dead should have been terrifying—shouldn’t it? A primal part of him ought to be screaming, ‘This is it, Del! Game over!’ But instead, there was… nothing. No fear, no sadness, no regrets. Just an empty space where panic might once have lived.

‘Maybe that’s the perk of the long sleep,’ he thought, his tone wry even in his head. ‘No baggage, no emotional hangover. Just a nice, clean void. How thoughtful.’

Still, the concept lingered, dry and clinical. What does being dead even mean? Was this all there was? An endless, featureless void until some cosmic janitor came to sweep him away? Would he unravel bit by bit, fading into the nothingness, like some existential old sock left too long in the wash? Or was there something more? A journey to some grand afterlife? Maybe even a rebirth?

‘Or maybe the grim reaper just has a terrible sense of direction and left me here by accident.’ The thought brought a twitch of humour, though he couldn’t tell if he was grinning. Without a face, could you even grin?

‘Would I care if I knew?’ he wondered, bemused by his detachment. ‘No fear, no guilt, no anger. Is this peace, or just the universe’s way of saying “Don’t call us; we’ll call you”?’

Time ebbed and flowed, intangible and meaningless in the void. Was it a moment? An hour? A lifetime?

‘Am I breathing?’ The question was practical. Logical, even. He tried to take a breath. Nothing. No movement. No air. No body to perform the task.

‘Figures,’ he thought wryly. ‘No body, no breathing. Well done, Del, sharp as ever.’

Ahead, the darkness began to brighten. A soft, expanding light crept into the void, persistent and slow.

‘So, is it “walk to the light” or “don’t go into the light”?’ The familiar phrase brought a chuckle, surprising him with its clarity. He didn’t think dead people were supposed to chuckle, but apparently, rules didn’t apply here.

Walking wasn’t an option. Without a body, he wasn’t going anywhere. The light grew steadily until, with a sudden whoosh, it filled the space around him. His heart hammered in his chest, and adrenaline surged through his veins.

‘Heart—yup, heart’s good,’ he thought, his mind ticking through a checklist of basic functionality. ‘Breathing? Breathing is definitely back on the table. OK, Del, not dead. Not dead is absolutely the best thing.’

A soft mew broke his concentration. He glanced down—or what passed for down—and felt a nudge against his hand. Misty. Her nose bumped him, grounding him in a way he hadn’t realised he needed. Absently, he stroked her head, the movement comforting them both.

Now it clicked—the slight pressure he’d felt in the darkness, the only tangible part of the void. ‘So that was you, eh, furball?’ he thought, lips quirking in a faint smile. ‘I’m glad you came along for the ride.’

Menolly’s words came rushing back, and a scowl crossed his face. “Damnit, lady. You could have warned me,” he muttered.

He glanced around. A chair supported him, but the surrounding space was… odd. There were no walls, no windows, no floor. It wasn’t a room in the traditional sense, just an expanse that felt vaguely room-like.

“Hello?” he called, his voice uncertain.

For a moment, there was silence. Then an androgynous voice responded, “Choose your path.”

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Three-dimensional images—holograms, perhaps—materialised before him. They began to rotate, shifting and moving with a hypnotic grace.

‘OK, Del, let’s try logic,’ he thought, then scoffed. ‘Yeah, like that’s ever been my thing.’

“What path?” he asked aloud. “A bit more explanation might be nice.”

“Your path will be the guiding approach you choose to use in interacting with this world,” the voice replied.

“What if I choose wrong?”

“There is no incorrect choice. All choices are valid and differ only in their approach to unfolding events.”

‘Why does it sound so much like a damned machine?’ Del thought, irritation prickling. Menolly, whatever she had been, had felt human. This voice felt hollow.

“Would it be too much trouble to explain my choices in a little more detail?” he quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

An image appeared—a warrior, armed with sword and shield. The figure demonstrated fluid, practised movements: swings of the blade, precise blocks, intricate footwork.

“The fighter,” the voice intoned. “Capable with multiple weapon types or none at all.” The image shifted to a brawler, fists swinging. “Able to use most armour types and can specialise in particular styles as experience grows.”

Del watched, unimpressed. ‘Up front and getting bashed—and that looks far too energetic,’ he mused, shaking his head. ‘My back aches just thinking about it.’

The image dissolved, replaced by a figure in lighter clothing holding a bow. It nocked an arrow, releasing it with precision. Quickly, it drew a knife, crouching low to move stealthily.

“The archer, also sometimes known as a ranger, is adept at attacking from a distance but also skilled in stealth. They can sneak up on targets or extract themselves from dangerous situations. Some variations specialise in finding and disarming traps. Rogues excel in discovering secrets and navigating hidden depths.”

‘Sneaky little bastard. Now that, Del, could be fun.’

The figure faded, and another took its place—a robed figure wielding a staff. Lightning erupted from an orb atop the staff as it thrust forward.

“Mages, wizards, warlocks. All are terms for those who wield elemental forces. While all paths interact with nature’s forces to some degree, mages are their masters. They begin weak, their path slow and fraught with challenges, but those who survive wield great power.”

Del tilted his head. ‘What is it they say about power and responsibility?’ He shrugged. ‘Then again, zapping things could be fun.’

“You say there’s no wrong path,” Del said, his tone edging on sardonic, “but at the same time, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

The voice hesitated, as if processing. Could a disembodied machine sound puzzled? If so, this one was giving it a good shot.

“Menolly 14711 informed you of this prior to transferring you.”

“She did?” he asked, frowning.

“You are to survive,” it said bluntly. “As you live and experience events in this place, you will be monitored. Your decisions and actions will be observed, analysed, and used in the Overmind’s assessment of the potential place your species may have within the greater whole.”

‘Del, have you ever wondered what a lab rat feels like?’

“So, no great quest to slay a dragon or rescue a princess, then?” he asked dryly, tilting his head as if to mockingly await a dramatic revelation.

“Why would you want to slay a dragon?” the voice asked, now definitely puzzled. “I would not recommend this action, as it would likely result in you failing the primary task: to survive.”

There was a pause, as though the voice were recalibrating.

“I am also unaware of any royalty in need of rescuing at this moment in time. This may, however, change, as world events are ever dynamic in nature.”

“Okay, so just survive,” Del stated flatly. “How long for? A week, a month, a year? We’ve got a bit of a deadline going on back on Earth, you know.”

“The Overmind will determine the length of time required, depending on how it proceeds in its assessment. Time for your trial runs differently, and you may be there for a short or long time. However, time in your home world stream will not exceed one year in total.”

One year. He mulled that over, running his tongue along his teeth as if it would help him digest the information. ‘Right. Simple enough, Del—just survive. What could possibly go wrong?’

He shifted his thoughts to the choices at hand. The fighter option was an easy no. He wasn’t keen on being the one up close and personal with big, bitey monsters and only a bit of metal between him and their teeth. Too much effort. Too much sweat. And far too many ways to end up dead.

That left shooting things—either with arrows or spells. From a distance.

‘That’s the main thing, Del. Distance is your friend.’ He considered this for a moment, then amended his thought. ‘Of course, nothing says they can’t throw rocks a long way or shoot arrows back.’

The more he thought about it, the clearer it became that he was entirely out of his depth. What did he know about rangers or mages? Sweet bugger all, he realised. He’d never been much of a gamer. He’d tried archery once as a teenager and remembered it mostly involved missing the target. He’d watched Lord of the Rings years ago and vaguely recalled getting angry at the final season of Game of Thrones, but none of that qualified him to wield mayhem and magic.

“What happens once I’ve made my decision?” he asked, trying to steer himself away from the mental spiral of inadequacy.

“Menolly 14711 gave you basic information on how to interact with the Overmind,” it said. “If you accessed your status, you would have seen a basic flat set of values across the board.”

‘Status.’ The word prompted a flicker of memory. He focused, and an image popped up in his mind—a status screen showing his name, that he was a level 1 human, and that he had no skills. ‘Nice to see I’m so talented,’ he thought wryly, noting the row of 10s across all attributes. He dismissed it with a thought.

“Choosing your path will cause the status to adjust to fit the role you have chosen,” the voice continued. “I will then also give you a basic run-through of how it works in relation to you and what you can do.”

“So, not quite hitting the ground screaming, then,” he quipped.

“Alright then—what do I call you?” he asked after a moment. It suddenly felt important. Having a disembodied voice floating around was one thing, but if he was going to have it in his head for however long, it needed a name.

‘Not that I am a stranger to annoying voices filling my damned head’

‘Quit complaining, Del. You enjoy the voices in your head! If you didn’t talk to yourself, you’d have nobody to argue with.’

The voice responded with typical neutrality. “I have no specific moniker. I am simply the tutor bot assigned to your trial. If it will aid you, you may give me a reference that you prefer.”

“In which case, you are now ‘Teach,’” Del said with a faint smile. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.