Mick was dead. It didn’t feel possible. He was still young and healthy, if a bit on the heavier side. The prime of his life, with decades ahead of him.

For the most part, his obituary agreed with his sentiments, although it quibbled a bit on the difference between the future tense, arguing strongly that he had indeed had decades, but they were already gone.

The face of Michael Theodore Walters, Mick to his friends, stared at him from the corner of the page. It wasn’t his face. It could have been a relative, sure, his grandfather’s brother, perhaps. It couldn’t be him. It was too old, too many wrinkles on the face, the hair too thin and the color long gone.

The write up itself only managed to get a few things right. The birthday was spot on, and he had just started at Penn State, not graduating with a Masters in Civil Engineering. He hadn’t designed an award-winning bridge over a river he had never heard of, became a pillar of a community he’d never been to, and married a woman he didn’t know, with five children, twenty-six grandchildren, and fourteen great-grandchildren and counting.

This wasn’t his life reflected in ink and paper. It was a life, one that started from the same seed, but diverged like a road in the woods in front of a poet. And where this had gone down a particular path, here he was, at the divergent point, with two other documents that the skeleton had given him.

If there’s anything more surreal than a literal skeleton walking up to, slapping your chest with a sheaf of papers with a hearty “You’re dead. I’ll be over there when you’re ready,” then lighting a cigarette as it walked away, then Mick hadn’t heard of it, much less experienced it.

The second document was some sort of itemized log, with dates and other information. The sort of record that is essential in bureaucracy, because everything MUST be recorded, but the notes themselves are written with the knowledge that no one, not even the writer themselves, will need to know what was recorded.

The third was just as obtuse, but much more familiar. The terms and conditions of a game he had played in high school a few years back, Thunder Brigade Online, was there in its entirety, with sections highlighted. The last page was a checkbox, exactly like the thousands he had seen, with notes in the margins that read “User MicksandMoans has agreed to the terms and conditions”.

Of course, he had agreed and hit the checkbox. That’s what you did with those. They were everywhere and they never, ever mattered. Not to the consumer, at least. Companies might need them for their legal song and dance, but when did anything from a terms and conditions agreement have any bearing on the world?

Well, today, apparently.

With a sigh, Mick looked over at his welcome wagon. A man of bone, wearing scraps of armor, smoking a cigarette. It looked like something out of one of those scare commercials. Smoke and die. This could be you.

As if he knew he was being watched, the skeleton straightened, took a big pull and flicked the butt away before sauntering over.

“Ready? It’s fine if you need more time. I know it can be a hard thing to really grasp.”

“I’m… I don’t think I’m fine, but I don’t think more time will help as much as some answers might.”

The skeleton sighed and rubbed a boned hand along its skull. “I’ll answer what I can. There’re some things that are better answered by Mandy or Misty, but I've been tapped to give you the baseline details. You can call me Leo, by the way. Ask away.”

“Have you done this before?”

‘The greeting? Once or twice.”

“What questions do people normally ask?”

“We get all sorts. Some are super down to business, others can’t over the being dead thing. It’s all over the place. But if you don’t have any burning questions, I can do a bit of spiel.

“Starting from the top, yes, you’re dead. The real you. You’re not really the real you, you’re a copy that a company made for what were probably pretty good reasons? But whatever those were, it was a long time ago. Nowadays, Parent Company lends us out. Because we’re made of computer stuff, it's easy for us to take up whatever sort of form the Agent needs. Case in point… Me.” The skeleton gestured at his form. “I just got off a job less than a cycle ago. Still wearing the work uniform as it were.”

“What exactly do you do, dressed like that?” asked Mick

“Eh, it's tricky to really pin it down. I’m kind of an actor, sort of a game designer. We’re able to assume the life of a character in a Virtual World to a really impressive degree. I guess you could say you play video games, but that’s an oversimplification for most of us.”

“See, due to the AI Wars and other things, a server’s Agent Intelligence, legally distinct from an Artificial Intelligence, cannot directly interact with a player. There’s all sorts of exceptions and rulings and the like, but when an Agent needs to do something a bit out of the ordinary, they call on an Echo like one of us to come and sort it all out.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Most of the time, we basically play games. But as part of their system, not a player. So, we play as monsters and NPCs, making the game alive for the players.”

“But you know what? All this boring talking is making my throat dry. Let’s find a quick small job and just run that really quick. Mandy, gorgeous Mandy, are there any jobs for a scoundrel and a neophyte?”

Amanda: I suppose I can find you something. Just a second.

“What was that?” asked Mick.

“It’s called the Agent Chat.” said Leo. “They use it to natter about whatever they want to whoever they have nearby.”

Amanda: You’ve told him that I can hear you at all times, right? Or have you forgotten that yourself?

“More seriously,” continued Leo, obviously ignoring Amanda’s comment. “It's a great tool and worth getting familiar with. On tricky assignments, communicating with the Agent is the only way to get things done. The more you use it, the easier it is.”

ShieldOfLeonidas: You just focus on the words going to the Agent chat, and they sort of just appear.

MicksAndMoans: Like this?

Amanda: Exactly like that. :smile:

ShieldOfLeonidas: A natural. Bravo kid. No lie when I say it takes some people cycles to figure this out.

Amanda: Leo has very good reasons to not let the name of those people get said in public.

Amanda: It’s one of the four bits of gossip that actually makes him blush.

Amanda: When he has skin that is.

ShieldOfLeonidas: Hmm.. Maybe this skeleton is growing on me.

ShieldOfLeonidas: For unrelated reasons, of course.

ShieldOfLeonidas: Now, Miss Mandy, do you have a milk run for us?

Amanda: I do indeed. Herbert has some goblin warrens under attack that could use some clever defenders.

ShieldOfLeonidas: Sounds perfect! Thanks, Amy!

Amanda: Leo, why don’t you die in a fire. Repeatedly?

The world around Leo and Mick faded to black. There was a feeling of travel. Not a physical experience, like when on a roller coaster, but the mental feeling, like when you look at a video of something moving. Your brain feels like there should be something physical and is slightly perturbed when it's not.

Herbert: Welcome to Evolution of Annihilation! It’s been a while since I got to host an Echo’s first spawns. Should be fun.

MickAndMoans: Hi?

ShieldOfLeonidas: Hi Herbert! Been a while.

Herbert: Hi Leo! Mandy passed me a message saying you needed to be killed with fire?

ShieldOfLeonidas: You know what she’s like. :eyeroll:

Herbert: So, I should only do it three or four times?

ShieldOfLeonidas: Make it an even five. No reason you can’t earn som extra brownie points with her.

MicksAndMoans: So what are we supposed to be doing?

Herbert: Ah, a down to business sort. I like that. Very efficient.

Mick hadn’t noticed that the world was nothing but the Agent Chat until the Goblin Warrens appeared. Four levels of labyrinthian tunnels wove their way around, connecting all sorts of rooms. Goblins were plentiful, in the lower levels at least. The top level, the one with the most connections to the surface, had been overtaken by non-goblins. Human, dwarves, elves, and an assortment of other fantasy type races, all of the sort that Mick had seen plenty in the few years he’d been playing games. Each of the players had a nameplate hovering over them, with level and health information. The goblins did too, to be fair, but it was less exciting, as “Goblin guard” in a simple gray just wasn’t as evocative as “Captain Sin Tangent, of the Angular Guild.”

Herbert: They’re doing what is commonly called a “squat raid” by the players. A guild just sort of takes over a dungeon, farming for the noobs, and letting the high tier players show off.

ShieldOfLeonidas: Sounds kind of boring for the high level players.

Herbert: You’d think that, but from eavesdropping shamelessly, it's a neat way to just sort of chill with your friends.

Herbert: Normally, we hear about them and prepare something special, make it a mini event a few hours in and make something challenging happen, but this one must have been coordinated off-line.

ShieldOfLeonidas: And that’s where we come in.

Herbert: Yep.

MicksAndMoans: So what do we do?

ShieldOfLeonidas: We’ll start easy, if Herb’s cool with it. We’ll spawn in (aka, take control of) as some goblins nearish the players, and die a few times.

ShieldOfLeonidas: Get your hand in, and get a feel for what the players are like

ShieldOfLeonidas: Once we’ve done some scouting, the fun stuff starts.

ShieldOfLeonidas: As we try to make this a picnic that no one up there will forget.