Rich dreamed of flying. Of batlike wings beating against the cool cave air, struggling to gain height.

It was a vivid dream, and it was clearly the cave he'd wound up inside during his game session. He'd never flown, though, and he was surprised how easy it was. He felt the muscles tense and flex in his back, and they seemed to know the way.

And then he hit a stalactite. And felt pain.

You weren't supposed to feel pain in a dream! Not really.

It wasn't a big pain, not like the stuff that he knew, he knew was waiting for him when he woke up, but it was a shock nonetheless.

And then the dream repeated, as dreams do. Rich came to dread that point where his dragon body lost control, where his muzzle met the stone. He did his best to steer the dream away but couldn't; he wasn't in control, here.

Some time later, everything faded into darkness. Then a white line broke the darkness, spreading from one side of it to the other, as far as he could see, drawing like an invisible hand pulling a white marker across black paper.

The line paused, was still for a while. Then it lifted, forming into two lines, separated by whitespace. No, not totally whitespace, there were jagged black lines breaking it up.... making it look almost like...

Teeth.

Just as Rich thought that, the lines twisted, moving upward. Forming a smile.

“Well aren't you a sight,” a voice whispered.

That voice made Rich's skin crawl. He tried to wake up, but couldn't.

“Not going to say hello? I came all this way to see you.”

“Hello?” Rich tried.

“There we go! My my, but you're so faint. Quite a long ways off.”

The thought gave Rich comfort. He was perfectly fine with being a long way away from this nightmare.

It was a chatty nightmare, for it continued, white-marker mouth moving against the darkness. “I'd like to be closer. Think we can make that happen?”

“No!” Rich shouted, and the white line blurred, big black cracks spreading across it.

“Whoa hey, hold on, let's not be hasty,” said the mouth as it fell into a frown. “I don't have to be nice, you know. I can do some pretty nasty things to you. I can be the voice that whispers in the back of your mind, and tells you you're worthless, all the time, until you become worthless.”

“Get in line,” Rich told him, and images broke through the darkness, images of his Dad's scowl, of his bellowing, red face and the hateful words that he couldn't... hell, he wouldn't take back.

The mouth shut for a long moment.

“Oh.” it said, simply. “Oh you poor kid.”

“Yeah. What can you do to me? I don't care,” Rich said.

“You know what? I don't... no. No threats.” Part of a tooth fell away, falling into blackness and vanishing like it had never been. “You've had a time of it, I can tell.”

“Yeah. So leave me alone.”

The white line shuddered, and faded.

And Rich thought that maybe, just maybe he was in control here.

The thought gave him comfort. He stopped trying to wake up. What was there for him, after all? Just pain.

Rich had to deal with a creepy guy here, but whatever. It wasn't like he'd never had to do that before. And at least he could brainblast the creep, or whatever it was he was doing.

“If you want me to, I'll leave,” the whisper said, and it was barely audible now, a murmur in a broken fragment of a dream, so faint that Rich knew he'd surely forget this when he woke. “But...” the voice continued, “it strikes me that maybe we could be in a position to help each other out, here.”

“Help?” Rich asked.

The smile returned.

“Boy.”

That wasn't a whisper.

“Boy!”

A flash of pain. Rich groaned. The darkness turned red.

Pounding in his skull, pounding in his ears, the pounding of fists upon a door.

“Boy!”

And Rich woke.

And yep, there was the pain again. Different now, not as sharp, but set into his bones now. He knew that moving would be agony.

“Boy, what's wrong with you! Get up and fix some damn dinner!”

It was Dad. Of course it was Dad.

“I'm sick.” Rich said, and talking didn't hurt as badly as he expected it too. Whatever disease had struck him down, it had evidently missed his jaws. A small mercy, that. “I'm sick!” Rich shouted, and whoops, that was a mistake. His chest burned, and he coughed, which set his body shaking and ow, ow ow ow...

A pause. Then the door crashed open.

“You fucking little liar, don't you...” his Dad's words trailed off as he looked his son over. “Jesus. Fuck.”

“I hurt all over,” Rich groaned. Then another coughing spasm hit.

“No! Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare get sick now! We can not afford the hospital bill!”

“M'sorry,” Rich groaned.

“Fine. I'll fix my own goddamn dinner,” Dad said. “My fucking day off, and I do this shit. You're lucky, you know that? You better goddamn appreciate it.”

Rich groaned again. His Dad slammed the door.

How weak he is, Rich thought, and for some reason he thought it in the whispering thing's voice.

Then he blinked. Where had that thought come from? His Dad was strong, the strongest man he'd ever known. His job was lifting and moving around big heavy things in places that the drones couldn't go. Dad had to be strong, was proud of being strong.

There's more than one kind of strength.

Whispered thoughts again, and Rich closed his eyes. Could he sleep? He didn't think so. He tried anyway.

But weirdly, as the moments passed, he started feeling better.

And eventually, he thought he might be able to sit up.

Dreading what would happen, hoping against hope that it wouldn't happen, Rich braced himself against the pain he knew would strike and sure enough it did. He let out a shriek as he threw himself into a hunched-over upright position.

Oddly enough, his back didn't give him any trouble over it. He'd expected that part to hurt worst of all, like it usually did. But no, this time it was easy. Rich didn't question his lucky break. Rich sat there and felt his muscles throb... but eventually they eased.

He really was feeling better. Had it been hours? He'd forgotten to check his Echo when he woke up. He did so now, saw it was evening.

And then there were voices outside. Muffled, but definitely talking. One was his Dad's, but the other... the other sounded vaguely familiar. Rich strained to hear, and couldn't.

His Dad wasn't shouting for once.

That was weird.

Silence, broken by footsteps moving down the hall. Then a knock on the door. Not heavy hammering, but just a few raps.

“Dad? What is it?” Rich asked.

“He stepped out. Can I come in?”

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Rich knew that voice. “Sure,” he said, and Agent Cutter opened the door.

He looked Rich over, then looked away. “Sorry, do you need a minute to get dressed?”

“I'm wearing shorts,” Rich said. His belly covered them, he knew.

“All right. Your Dad said you were sick, so I'll stay in the doorway.”

“Okay... where's Dad?”

“He went for a walk,” Agent Cutter said. “I asked him to take five, go get a vape on me.”

“Oh. Am I in trouble?”

“Actually, no. You're not in trouble.”

“Um.”

“I know. It's weird to see Ministry Agents when you're not in trouble. To be honest we cultivate that notion. Makes our job easier.”

Sensible man, came a whispery thought.

“Then why are you here?” Rich asked, and it came out more harshly then he intended. “Sorry, sorry. I mean... um. Well. You know.”

“Yeah, I do know.” Agent Cutter said. Then his eyes flicked past Rich, looking over his shoulder and into the distance. “Do you know the tough part of my job?”

“Not... really?”

“We were founded to guard our nation, and make it strong. To persecute and stop those who would weaken us.”

“Soshies and deevs and heathens,” Rich nodded. This much he'd been taught in school. “The ones who brought down the old US.”

Agent Cutter barked laughter. “That's the party line. Well, there's no parties anymore, but... ah, nevermind.”

“Um, okay.”

“No, those guys were never the problem. But they didn't have enough friends or influence to keep themselves from being set up as scapegoats. There aren't enough left to matter anymore. Not here, anyway.” Agent Cutter shrugged. “No. The true enemies are already here. They are rich and they are powerful and they are corrupt beyond measure.” The Agent caught Rich with his gaze, and Rich couldn't look away. “And they are tearing us apart. They know they are, and they don't care. Not one bit. Not so long as they have all the luxuries they could ever want, and access to any vices they please.”

Rich kept silent. It seemed like the safest thing he could do.

“We know who they are, the whole Ministry does. But they have pull and they have influence, and they make the laws. The laws on who can listen to what. The laws about what's evidence and what isn't. But sometimes, just sometimes... sometimes they make mistakes. And a child that we've got full access to monitor overhears something we can use.”

Rich licked his lips. He didn't understand what was going on at all.

He wants something from you, whispered the thought, and Rich shut his eyes.

Was he going mad?

“What do you want from me?”

Agent Cutter smiled. “You're perceptive. Good. I'd like to ask a favor from you.”

Favors mean you can bargain. What do you want from him?

“You've probably been contacted by Joel Haskeen or his father,” the agent continued. “I want to ask you to avoid contact with them, whatever it takes. Do not talk with them, don't take anything they offer you, don't cut any deals with them. Do you think you can do that?”

“Why?” Rich asked.

The agent's eyes slid past him again. “I've said all I can on the matter. Do you think you can do what I ask of you?”

Rich gnawed his cheek. It had been a good suggestion earlier, he had nothing to lose by bargaining. “What will you do for me if I do this for you?”

“What?” The agent's eyes snapped back to him.

“You want me to do something. I have problems,” Rich said. “Can you help with them?”

Agent Cutter studied him like Rich had just grown an extra pair of legs and started dancing. “You're trying to leverage me, kid? Do you know what I can do to you?”

“I know what Joel did to me, and I know what Joel's dad can do to me, and he wants to talk to me.” That hot anger burned in Rich's chest again. “And I know what you did to my Mom.”

Agent Cutter nodded. His eyes narrowed, as he studied Rich again. “Your Dad begged me not to take you, too. Offered himself in your place.”

“What?” Rich couldn't have been more surprised. He couldn't think of a response, so he sunk his head back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.

“But it's a moot point, since we're not taking either of you in. So. In regards to your mother.” The agent pulled a disk out of his pocket, and flipped it open. “You recording right now?”

“No. Should I be?”

“No. This is off the record. What your Mom tried to do actually isn't that interesting to me. Who she was trying to contact? That's another matter entirely. We want him, or her, or whatever they are. But she's refusing to give them up, and that's a problem. She would have walked by now if she'd cooperated. But she hasn't, and we're at a loss. Can't even find how they were communicating with each other. Do you know anything about that?”

“No,” Rich said. “I didn't even know she wanted to run away. She didn't tell me anything.”

“Unless she talks, or we get another lead on the smuggler, we can't just let her go. But... if you do what I ask you to do, then I can make sure she gets moved out of the camps. Put her in light custody.” The agent's lips quirked. “It's not too different of a setup from your own hab. What do you say?”

“I want to see her,” Rich blurted out. He didn't even think of it, he was running purely on instinct, here. “I want you to put her in the light custody and I want to see her to make sure you aren't lying.”

Agent Cutter blinked. “Are you being serious, kid?”

“Yes. Please! I want...” Rich's eyes were burning, and that gooey feeling was in the back of his nose again. “I want my mother,” he said, his voice cracking on the last bit.

But he didn't cry.

His Dad had taught him that.

“Okay,” Agent Cutter said, rubbing his nose. “That makes it harder, and it'll take some time to set up. But yeah, I can do that for you. Eventually.”

“Okay,” Rich said, sniffing. “I'll do it. I won't talk with the Haskeens.”

Agent Cutter smiled. “Do your best, kid. We'll be watching.” He cocked his finger and thumb like a gun, and snapped the hammer down at Rich. Then he was gone.

Rich took deep breaths until he was out of danger, and was sure he wouldn't cry.

He thought he had done a good thing, even if he didn't understand what the agent had been on about earlier.

More minutes passed, and then he heard the hab door open and shut. His father's familiar, heavy tread stomped in. Nothing more for a time, then Dad came down the hall. “I'm not supposed to talk with you about whatever the agent said,” Dad spoke, “and I don't care. If you're in trouble it's none of my business.”

Rich swallowed, and stared at his Dad. Then his eyes tracked downward, to the box in Dad's hand. Burger carryout. It had been weeks since they'd had enough to afford that brand of carryout.

“Lie back, eat this and get better,” his Dad said, and set the burger on the dusty wooden dresser. “And whatever the agent wants, if it's got even a chance of getting Ruth home you do it. You hear me boy? You do it.”

Then he left.

Eventually Rich rose, walked over on aching legs, and ate the burger. Then it was off to the shower, because he was a walking ball of pain and sweat, and now he smelled like grease.

The shower helped, and by the time he was done the pain was down to a dull roar.

He felt surprisingly lighter on his feet when he returned to his room. Light enough to go and start his sheets chugging through the laundry. They were soaked in sweat, far more than they'd even been, and he shook his head. He must have had a hell of a fever.

But now he was fine? Kind of? He still hurt, but it was a fading ache. This was the weirdest sickness he'd ever had.

After the sheets were done he started to lie down again, already itching to get back to Generica. But then he hesitated. If he went in now, he'd just end up in front of that puzzle door again.

He'd need to solve this. Frowning, he closed his eyes and pulled up the Echo recording again, staring at the symbols and gears and lines.

Midway through, a chime interrupted him.

Incoming Message>>Frederick Tassle

Richard, good afternoon. Are you busy?

To: Frederick Tassle>>No, not really. I'm just trying to figure out a puzzle.

>>Good, you're in the proper frame of mind, then. I have some basic exercises for you, if you're up for it.

Oh, right! Mister Tassle was supposed to send him coding problems at some point. Now Richard felt a little guilty. He hadn't been doing as much with the devkit as he should have been.

>>I'm up for it.

>>I'll upload them directly into your compiler. Please send your current workbench over directly and I'll return it with them hardcoded inside.

>>I need to send you the whole savestate?

>>Yes, it's more efficient that way. You won't be able to cheat and put the structures out on the us.net and ask for help. Not that you would, of course.

>>Of course. Rich bit back a frown. I wouldn't do that. Well, not unless I got super frustrated, anyway.

He sent the savestate through, and after a few minutes, another message popped up.

>>What in heaven's name is this?

Rich blinked. >>What?

And Mister Tassel sent over a screenshot of the gate puzzle.

Rich felt his jaw drop, and slapped his hands to his face. Oh no! Oh no no no! He'd never turned the compiler off while he was in game! He'd recorded with the compiler open, so it must have grabbed a copy of the file. >>I'm sorry! Please delete that! I'll scrub it and send over a clean workbench.

>>You're using the software I gave you to hack a game, Richard? That's not exactly what I'd envisioned when I trusted you with that developer suite.

>>No, I swear I'm not. The game is just buggy and the suite is helping me see the errors. It's educational, I swear it is!

>>Well you're not wrong there, it's been a long time since I saw a logic gate puzzle. That takes me back a ways.

>>A what now?

>>Let me tell you about the pains in the ass that are and, nand, and nor gates...

Midway through the discussion, Rich started taking notes. Evidently these things were all part of drawings of electrical circuits... and he remembered how his character's hand had gotten zapped when he screwed up.

The gates controlled how current flowed to each destination. By choosing the right one for the intersecting lines, he could make the current light up all of the gems.

>>Thank you! He sent to Mister Tassle, finally. This puzzle was kicking my butt.

>>Not a problem. You're the one that solved it, I just gave you the tools for it. Speaking of that...

Rich's inbox chimed again. The compiler's workbench state was back, and Rich happily downloaded it into his Echo, checking to make sure the program didn't hang up and properly accepted the file.

>>My aid comes with a price. And that price is getting your variables in line. You have three days, Mister Royal. I hope you can take the heat.

>>Yessir!

And for a while, Rich worked on it. He really did. He loaded the exercise right up, and started tinkering with a script.

But the more he worked, the more his mind went back to the game.

He was wiped out, sick, and that surprise visit from the agent had put him through stress.

Rich needed a break. He needed to escape. And now that he was worn out, he wasn't sure how much time he'd get before he needed to sleep again.

I've got three days to solve this exercise. I've already put in some good work on it. Maybe...

Go for it, friend. You deserve a break. For some reason that last thought whispered through his mind, making him shudder. It was like something out of the bad dream he'd had. But he could only remember scattered details now, and anyway, that was just his imagination running wild.

With a sigh, Rich lay back on the bed and activated his Echo, returning once more to the familiar login screen. And then he was back in Rutger's body...

...and something felt off. Something felt wrong.

“Not here, too,” Rich muttered. “Am I really that sick?”

The darkness didn't answer. “Dragonseye,” he said.

And the feeling of wrongness became a certainty of wrongness, as he beheld a dark door, a white carving, and an oh so familiar broken-toothed smile squirming like chalk written by invisible hands on an obsidian blackboard.

“Welcome, my boy. Let's talk business,” said the Whisperer.