Alex–or rather, Hunter, found himself in what looked like an old-timey bar, complete with a player piano, a cloud of smoke hanging in the air, and a prohibition era, solemn-looking bartender. Everything looked incredibly realistic, and still… just a tiny bit off. Like a left shoe on a right foot.

The way his body felt and moved was off, the smells were off, the shapes and lines and textures of the objects were a little bit too clean and perfect to be real. Even the clothes he had on–the same sweatpants and t-shirt he was currently wearing back in the real world, weirdly enough–felt weird. Clinical, somehow.

“Still feels a bit wonky, doesn’t it?” he heard a smooth, familiar voice ask. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it pretty quickly.”

Hunter turned his head towards the bar, startled. There was a man there, perched on a stool and holding a glass filled with a rich brown liquid in his hand. Iron-gray hair, well-trimmed beard, tailored suit, smug smile. He looked less rigid than when Alex had met him back in that visitors’ room. A good deal friendlier, too.

“Mr. Grimm," said Hunter. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you a little. I’m not the genuine article. I’m just Mr. Grimm’s engram, a more-or-less faithful representation. Come, have a seat. May I offer you a drink before we get down to business? Anything you like. It’s on the house.”

A drink?

Not sure what to make of that, Hunter took a seat next to the man.

“I guess I’ll have a beer. Whatever lager you got on tap.”

“A beer, he says!” scoffed faux-Grimm, apparently talking to the mustachioed bartender. “Can you believe this one, Mort? I offer him anything he likes, anything in the world, and he orders a beer!”

If the faux-Grimm’s goal was to make Hunter feel silly, he had done a great job.

“I thought taste was a matter of taste," he snapped, but Grimm ignored him.

“See, that’s what I like about you, Hunter. You’re a straight shooter. Salt of the earth. Call me Walter, by the way. All my friends call me Walter. Mortimer, get the man his beer!”

The bartender nodded and poured a pint of lager, which Hunter hesitantly went on to try. As it turned out, ordering something familiar was an excellent idea, faux-Grimm be damned. That way he had some well-established real-life experience to compare to the feeling of drinking beer in VR. It wasn’t bad, either. Good old lager–nothing more, nothing less. Just as it should be.

“You said we have business.”

“Yeah, well, it’s mostly some legalese gobbledygook we have to go over. I’ll just need a few minutes of your time, and then you’re free to ask me anything you like–though I can’t promise I’ll be able to give you all the answers you like. Does that sound good to you?”

“I guess.”

“So, Hunter," faux-Grimm–Walter–said. “You’ll be granted a free stay in the Happy Motel, our illustrious real-world establishment, as well as full access to the virtual environment of Elderpyre and a plethora of other perks. All that is required of you is to agree to the following: one, the software will be gathering data about your in-game behavior. That data will be anonymous, of course, and will be used as the developers see fit. Which mostly means it’s going to improve verisimilitude–how realistic and true-to-life the experience feels.”

“I know what verisimilitude means," Hunter said coolly. “I might have dropped out of college, Mr. Grimm, but I’m not stupid.”

It was true. What Alex lacked in standard college education, he more than made up for with the tons of trivia, knowledge, and assorted skills that often come with practically living online. As Mark Twain had once put it, he never had left his schooling interfere with his education. If it was good enough for Mark Twain, it should be good enough, period.

“Of course, of course," said the man. “Forgive me. As I was saying, improving verisimilitude is one of the main goals of this whole project. Do you explicitly allow Elderpyre to anonymously gather and utilize your behavioral data?”

“Yes,” Hunter agreed. He didn’t have to pore over the fine print–he already knew the whole thing would be all kinds of sketchy, just as he already knew he would agree to it anyway.

In for a penny, in for a pound – another pearl of wisdom he’d inherited from his old man.

“…and two,” faux-Grimm went on, “there’s also a non-disclosure agreement you’ll have to abide by. Standard boilerplate stuff. This means that you may not share any specific details or information about Elderpyre, either publicly or privately. Share anything you’re not supposed to, and a horde of lawyers will come knocking at your door. How does that sound?”

“Not worth the trouble,” Hunter said.

“That’s the idea. What happens in the Happy Motel, stays in the Happy Motel–even after your stay with us is concluded. Do you agree?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Perfect” faux-Grimm said, satisfied. “Now that we got all that out of the way, let’s get down to brass tacks; the game, the experience itself.”

“Yeah, about that,” said Hunter. “I’ve never heard of anything called Elderpyre, which is kind of weird, to be honest. I usually have my ear on the ground for stuff like that. Is there a trailer or something I could watch, or a FAQ I could read, a tutorial, or anything of the sort?”

Faux-Grimm shook his head.

“I’m afraid jumping in at the deep end is part of the deal, Hunter. There’s literally nothing more valuable than the way players deal with unknown and unexpected circumstances, data-wise.”

Hunter didn’t like that, and faux-Grimm saw it.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do just fine. All you need to remember is that you interface with the game’s systems by willing things. Most of it will come naturally to you, but there are quite a few surprises to find, too–so don’t be afraid to try different things and experiment.”

“Uh…like what?”

“I don’t want to spoil the joy of discovery for you," Grimm said with a smile and a wink. “You’ll see for yourself.”

Hunter frowned, but didn’t press the subject further. He had another question to ask, instead–a much more important one.

“So, what’s the goal of the game? I mean, the experience?”

Faux-Grimm’s smile became even wider.

“That’s the beauty of it. Your goal is whatever you make it to be. Aernor–that’s what Elderpyre’s world is properly called–is a vast place full of possibility, kind of like a big sandbox. There’s no main quest, no shoehorning, no railroading. Nobody’s forcing you into anything you don’t want to do. It’s up to you to create meaning, in a way. Much like real life.”

“Much like real life. I… see.”

“You probably don’t, but that’s alright. It’s to be expected. There’s a couple of other things we should go over before I send you off in the wild, so to speak. The first one is this place,” faux-Grimm said and gestured at the old-timey bar around them. “This room is your personal Shard. Your home away from home, if you will, or your mind palace. If you bump into any trouble, you can come back here anytime and ask Mortimer for advice or help. In fact, there’s a lot he can help you with, especially when it comes to managing your Shard and its functionalities.”

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Hunter glanced towards the burly bartender. He looked as stoic and silent as any standard vendor NPC in any run-of-the-mill MMO he had ever played.

“Noted. And what about the other thing?”

“You still have to choose your starting class,” faux-Grimm said. “Normally you’d do that right after the new user calibration process, but there was the matter of the non-disclosure agreement that had to be dealt with before letting you see any content.”

The man made a gesture, and a semi-transparent screen popped up before them, seemingly out of thin air. It was a menu of some sort, offering a choice among a dozen-or-so different classes. Some of them were role-playing game staples he’d seen a thousand times, like Warrior or Sorcerer. Others were more exotic-sounding, like Lithomancer or Armiger.

“Go on, pick whichever catches your eye.”

Despite his chosen nom-de-joueur, Hunter had quickly found that frontline bruiser characters were more his speed. He enjoyed getting creative with different builds and playstyles, yes, but there was something reassuring about knowing you could always rely on some good, old-fashioned sword and shield action. Still, he didn’t want to constrain himself to anything–not before he’d even had a chance to see what Elderpyre was even about.

“Can I change classes later, or is this a one-and-done kind of a deal?” Hunter asked.

“Excellent question,” said faux-Grimm, “and one of the few I can actually answer in earnest. Yes and no. You won’t have another chance to pick your class à la carte like this, no. But you should also keep in mind that these are not distinct, rigid choices. Elderpyre’s character system is infinitely deeper and more complex than that. These classes are more like… origins. Starting conditions, if you like. They are the set of skills and options that are available to you from the get-go. They don’t exclude you from a great many more to discover later.”

“I see,” Hunter said. He was glad to hear that. He’d seen systems like that before. When done right, they offered an amazing degree of flexibility. He hoped this one was one of those. He liked the idea of starting with something he was familiar with, just to test the waters, and then move to more interesting options if he wanted to.

“Is there anything you can tell me about the Warrior?”

Faux-Grimm gestured again, and the screen focused on the image of a man–himself, Hunter realized–wearing leather armor and wielding a broadsword. There was a short description of the class, too: “A blade-wielding warrior that relies on brawn, skill, and steel. His innate grasp of the flow of combat is unparalleled.”

That was it–no stats or numbers or anything, just an image and a couple of lines of text. There was a certain degree of intertextuality here, Hunter assumed–another Ivy-League word he knew despite his distinct lack of higher education. He’d played a warrior in dozens of other games. He knew what it felt like, knew what to expect of it.

“What about the Armiger?” he said, picking another class name that had caught his eye.

“Oh, that’s an interesting one,” said faux-Grimm and gestured again. “Not for the faint of heart.”

The image of the Warrior was replaced by one of the Armiger, a heavily armored knight wielding a greatsword. He wore a set of antique-looking full plate armor and a feathered helmet, both singed and marred by countless nicks and dents. Again, there was no additional information save for a short description: “A follower of a long-lost order set on an endless pilgrimage. His ancestral armaments and martial technique are only matched by his unbreakable resolve.”

That sounded like a variation of another familiar trope Hunter had seen time and time again. Whether they were called Armigers, Paladins, Crusaders, or something else, he’d seen enough heavily armored knights with big swords to last him a lifetime. Characters like that usually sacrificed some flexibility in favor of raw power. Historically, they were Packman’s first choice, not Alex’s. Packman was all about reliability, after all, and these knight-type classes were usually nothing if not reliable.

“Can I see the class selection screen again?”

Faux-Grimm obliged, and Hunter went through the class names again, unsure of what to even inspect, much less commit to.

“Analysis paralysis, bane of the thinking man,” faux-Grimm said and took a sip from his drink. “Might I suggest something?”

“Uh, sure.”

The man started to say something, but then pursed his lips and frowned.

“On second thought, I really shouldn’t.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow.

Faux-Grimm pulled out a bag of aromatic tobacco and started packing his pipe, clearly dragging out the moment to create a sense of suspense, vexing Hunter.

“Seriously now? Either say it or don’t.”

“Alright, I suppose giving you a light nudge towards the right direction won’t hurt. Well, not that there is a right direction, per se, given the little speech I gave you a bit earlier. But this is certainly an interesting one.”

He gestured towards the screen again and picked something called a “Mystic”.

Hunter the Armiger was replaced by Hunter the Mystic, a much more unassuming image of a man wearing traveling clothes. He had no weapons of any sort. The only unusual thing about him was a kind of sigil etched on the back of his hand, barely visible beneath the shadow of his sleeve.

“Seeker of secrets, striker of accords, keeper of forbidden knowledge,” Faux-Grimm read out loud. “Living proof that insight begets power–especially the inhuman kind.”

“Spooky,” Hunter said. “What about it?”

“Depending on some of your choices, Elderpyre’s system is designed to dynamically provide you with interesting opportunities at interesting times,” the other man said and lit his pipe with a long match. “Much like real life does. Pick Mystic as your starting class and I guarantee you your stay in Aernor will be gripping.”

“I was considering something else, actually,” Hunter said. “I-”

“Alex,” faux-Grimm interrupted him, staring at him with his washed-out blue eyes. “Hunter. Come on, now. How many times are you going to opt for the same kind of character, the same class? Why not step outside your comfort zone a bit? Why not try something new?”

For some reason, that struck a chord. Feeling like he was being talked down to always did. You could take a kid out of the bad suburbs, as it turned out, but you couldn’t take the bad suburbs out of a kid.

“So you know what classes I pick in games, now?” Hunter snapped.

“Son,” the man said in a flat voice, “I know what size underwear you wear. Of course I know what classes you pick in games.”

He took a long pause and let out a small cloud of pipe smoke. It smelled like earthy tobacco and rum. A rich people smell. Hunter liked it. He hated that he liked it.

“In any case,” the man went on, “pick what you will. I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. Pick Warrior. That’s what you were going to pick anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, yes, yes, you’re right, I don’t,” Faux-Grimm said dismissively, drained the last drops of his drink, and climbed off his barstool. “My bad. I don’t want to influence you, so I’ll be on my way. When you’re done picking, go through that door over there. You’ll figure the rest out yourself. I wish you nothing but the best!”

Before Hunter could protest, faux-Grimm’s form dissolved and faded out. Specks of luminescent dust danced around where his form stood for a moment, before they too vanished. Not five seconds later, Hunter was alone in the room, save from Mortimer the bartender.

“What an asshat," Hunter mumbled.

“He is an acquired taste indeed, sir” Mortimer said with a voice as rich and as smooth as velvet, startling Hunter. “Don’t be too quick to discredit his words, though. There might be wisdom in them yet.”

“First he says there’s nothing more valuable than the way players deal with unknown and unexpected circumstances,” Hunter continued and turned to the screen that was still floating in mid-air, “then he tells me what class to play and what not to. Asshat.”

He went through the rest of the available classes more out of spite than anything else, but deep down he knew the damage was done. As much as he hated to admit it, Faux-Grimm had gotten in his head. After ten minutes of flipping back and forth between Warrior and Mystic and grumbling, he bit the bullet and chose the latter. A semi-transparent confirmation window popped up before him and he poked his finger at it as angrily as if it was faux-Grimm’s faded blue eye.

“If you’re done with choosing, sir,” Mortimer told him, “I can give you your starting items. You’ll need them before you venture out into the world.”

The big man ducked somewhere behind the bar for a moment, then came up with an armful of gear. He handed Hunter a backpack full of traveling clothes, identical in fact to those worn by the Mystic class menu illustration. There were brownish-colored wool trousers, a matching tunic, and a shirt that felt like rough-hewn cotton. There was also a pair of leather boots and a traveling cloak the non-color of dust. Aernor was all about medieval fabrics and earth tones, it looked like.

“Do I have to put these on?” he asked the bartender.

“You do, unless you intend to run through the Weald naked and barefoot,” Mortimer told him matter-of-factly.

Whatever that Weald was, Hunter didn’t find the idea enticing. He jumped into his new outfit, which he found surprisingly comfortable, then took the rest of his starting gear from the bar’s countertop. There was a tinderbox there, a mess kit, a bedroll, a small pouch that held a few days’ worth of rations, and a few other odds and ends.

“Uh, Mortimer?” Hunter asked as he was packing his gear in his backpack. There were a million questions he wished he’d asked faux-Grimm before he up and vanished.

“Yes, sir?”

“So, what do I do now? I just go through the door?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“What’s on the other side?”

“The Weald, sir. I realize you might be getting tired of hearing it, but don’t worry, you’ll see for yourself.”

Mort was right about that.

“What happens if I want to get back here?”

“As Mr. Grimm said, sir, all you need to remember is that you interface with the game’s systems by willing things. Maybe you should try that.”

“I see. Can I ask you one other thing?”

“Of course, sir. I’m at your disposal.”

“What happens if I… if I, you know, die out there? And for the love of God, please don’t tell me I’ll see for myself.”

“You will be transported back here, sir. It will not be pleasant, as it is to be expected, but you will find out that death does not function the same way it does on your side of things. Well, not for you, at least.”

“What does that mean?”

“Beg your pardon for saying that again, sir, but it will probably be better if you see for yourself. Though I sincerely hope you won’t have to.”

“Uh, thank you, Mortimer. That makes two of us.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Hunter made a note of all that, although nothing made much sense to him, not yet. Yes, he got the gist of it; he’d have to see for himself.

A little anxious and more than a little curious, he got up and walked over to the exit.

There was a whole new world out there for him to explore.