My eyes are clamped shut, lids clenched tightly. If I open them, I will see Oscar. It won’t make sense, just as it hadn't before. But it had happened. I had seen him standing next to the couch, looking down at me, assessing me.

What would Oscar have been thinking?

“Look, it’s Kit; my best friend in the world.

“Look, it’s Kit; the asshole who snapped off the arm of my limited edition figure while reenacting a scene from the Rithium comic.

“Look, it’s Kit; the guy—I feel my hands balling into fists—the guy who sold out his only friends.”

I had seen Oscar—it was both undeniable and impossible. Either the world is broken, or I’m going crazy. Can’t say I like either option.

Still, I can feel these dark thoughts beginning to ebb, solidifying in a corner of my mind, likely to haunt me in some way for the rest of my waking life. Another part of my mind, for now, is being tagged in. Because, even with my eyes closed, I can tell I’m in.

There’s this feeling of being synchronized. It’s a chemical thing. I’ve never taken recreational drugs, but I imagine it’s similar. The closest parallel I can make using my own personal experience is what it’s like to drink a great cup of coffee. That feeling of, “Hey! I’m alive!” Only more so. It’s a vibratory thrum tingling throughout my body—or what I perceive to be my body. It slowly teases my eyes open with promises of excitement and sensation.

I’m surrounded by four walls. They are gray and sterile, without crack or texture or blemish. The room glows with a warm blue light that emanates from the floor.

A woman stands in front of me, wearing a formal pantsuit. Her complexion is a pale white, the lower part of her face perfectly reflecting the blue light from the floor. Her hair is just as pale a gray, bound up behind her head with two hairpins sticking through.

“Welcome back, Winter.”

She says this with immaculate professionalism, without a hint of human peculiarity. Then, as if to counteract—or perhaps accentuate—this she adjusts her oval shaped glasses.

As the lenses shift I can see my own reflection in them. I look much like, well, myself; with some distinct differences. I am most similar to the ‘me’ from several years ago, the version of myself without as many dirty, pocked pores and dark circles under my eyes. Not to mention a few more wrinkles.

But it is also a more athletic version of me. My cheeks are tighter, my chin more pronounced. I'm wearing a gray, form-fitting onesie that accents all of my muscles and curves and joints.

This is the version of me that could give Spiderman a run for his money. This is the version of me that could take on the best sword fighter in the world and survive.

On the surface of the lens, my face lifts, lips stretching into a grin. The name comes to me, like deja vu in a dream. “It’s good to be back, Janice.”

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“Ghost Oscar” has disappeared from my list of immediate concerns. An aberration in the Matrix, one I don’t have the tools to deal with right now. A job for “Future Kit”. Right now, I’m here. I’m in. I’m back.

“Where’s my Party?” I say.

“The Users who logged in with you have spawned in the southeastern quadrant.” Janice says. A tablet suddenly appears in her hand and she makes a few tapping and swiping motions.

The floor and two walls of the room turn into a cohesive screen, giving us a three-dimensional view of the southern Rithium landscape. A camera—if you want to call it that—follows a dunebuggy rumbling across the rocky, dusty landscape. In the distance I can see mounds of green, marked with towering firs, like the blades of black swords.

No dragons, yet. But they’re out there.

“They’ve made accommodations for you to join them in the buggy.” Janice says.

“Sounds good to me.” I say, remembering Mason’s words to me before the synchronization.

“Would you like to get suited up, first?”

I can feel myself grinning again, grinning like an idiot. “That would be a wonder, Janice.”

She smiles back, a tic based on computer code, designed to react to the user.

A door appears on one wall. I snap my fingers, sliding, dancing across the floor. I grip the knob, flourishing as I step through the door.

The second I’m in the room, hundreds of items snap into existence, clicking and clacking, coat racks and gun racks and sword displays.

I continue to slide, snapping my fingers, until I’m standing in front of a long, black, two-tailed trench coat.

Everyone knows cool people wear trench coats. It’s a law of the universe.

“Incoming voice chat,” Janice’s voice echoes omnisciently.

I perk up, one hand reaching toward the trench coat.

“Where the hell are you, asshat?” Tanya’s voice comes through clear as a mirror, reverberating softly in the space. What isn’t so soft is the grinding sound of some kind of engine, punctuated by the grating of rubber tires over rocks and dirt and gravel.

“Literally just finished synchronizing...about sixty seconds ago?” I say.

“Well, we got company, princess. Get a move on. Just—what’s taking you so long!?”

“Better question: how’d you guys hit a snag so quickly?”

“Not a snag.” Tanya says. “Rifters. You should come down and say hello. You would really hit it off. SHIT—”

The voice chat cuts off, leaving me in stark silence.

I throw on a tight, gray shirt, and a pair of dark jeans. I wrench the trench coat off the hanger and whip it behind my back, sliding my arms through the sleeves in one smooth motion. Arms outstretched, I snap my fingers, feeling like a superhero suiting up for a mission. Or perhaps a supervillain in his laboratory.

I grab a gun belt. It has two holsters and a bandolier. I pull two shiny, silver revolvers off the gun rack. I spin them deftly in my hands, laughing, until I decide to go ahead and holster them.

I grab one of my own creations, strapping it against my back. It’s both a sword sheath and a rifle holster, strapped together. The rifle is short, about the length of my arm. It’s a lever-action, and accurate at a decent enough distance that I’ve yet to feel the need for anything fancier.

The sword is something the game classifies as a machete, though to me it looks like a cross between a machete and a katana. A kachete, as I’ve come to think of it. It’s lightweight, with a wide, black blade and a circular hilt. The sharp edge is a silverish grey, the color of steel.

Once that’s together, I equip a wrist-shield, strapped to my forearm. For now, it just looks like a black brace on the sleeve of my coat.

“I think I’m ready, Janice.” I say. “Good to go.”

“Affirmative.” Janice says, a disembodied voice in the gray room. “Good luck, Winter.”

Don’t need it. Haven’t you heard? I’m Winter Wolf. But I nod anyway. I stand tall, giving a stiff salute. “Ma’am.”

Then, the floor opens out from under me.