Everyone had told Galen what a hero his dad was—both real and pretend versions—and at first Galen had been proud.

But in his real life, as time passed and his father’s wheelchair became a permanent fixture in the cluttered chaos of their lives, that had gradually changed. While his wife rotated through a never-ending series of minimum wages jobs she could never hold and his kids survived on supplemental nutrition assistance and clothing drive handouts, Galen’s father parked his chair in front of the TV night and day and did exactly nothing.

Pretend father managed to do slightly more, but not much. IC Galen heard his pretend parents’ voices in the night, once.

“What will we do?”

“The best we can. Galen could help.”

“He’s just a boy.”

“A strong boy, and smart. Almost a man.”

Someone sobbed, and Galen thought it was his father—his pretend father. His real father had never cried.

“I’m sorry. So sorry. I should never have gone. I should have put my family first.”

“You tried to do the right thing. You did do the right thing—those people needed help. That’s important, too. We’ll be all right.”

Real Galen had never overheard any such conversation. He doubted a similar one had ever taken place. His real parents had gone on doing not nearly enough to take care of their own damn kids, and Galen had simply reached an age and a tipping point where he couldn’t stand the bullshit way his family lived. His parents never cleaned up the kitchen, so he started doing it. He cleaned and then he cooked and eventually he ran errands and worked part-time jobs. None of it was for him. All of it was for his family. All of it was because the actual parents had been lousy ones.

Galen could help, IC Galen’s mother had said. And Galen had, in both worlds, even if his real parents had never thought to ask.

He’d been just a kid. But at the same time, he’d never had the luxury of being a kid at all. Gaming had been an escape. Redemption Wars was supposed to be the latest and greatest of those escapes.

Galen caught himself still hoping it might turn out that way.

Two nights and two tally marks on the bed post later, the game took mercy on Galen and his resentment-tinged boredom and sent Brin to his door.

“It’s two weeks before you’re due another rotation, but we’re short-handed.” Brin wore a tabard of brown and green alternating squares much like the rotating citizen’s militia wore. But this tabard featured a thicker green border which indicated one of the few full-time militia. Her long braid was tightly done. If anything, the customary severity of her face and tone had deepened since Galen had last seen her. “We’ll round up Danto, ready ourselves, and sleep the night in the barracks. We can leave at dawn.”

Evening darkened the sky outlining Brin’s silhouette. Behind Galen, the rich, greasy scents of smoke and spiced meat and vegetable stew rose.

As soon as Galen had opened the door and seen Brin’s face, with her long nose and hooded gray eyes, his heart had lifted. Now, as she invited him to leave behind the long days of unending boredom at the store, he wanted very much to simply agree and run off with her.

The house behind him, with a hearth at each end, hadn’t changed since the memory of his pretend father’s ill-fated errand of mercy. His pretend sister Jodri, almost a woman herself now, stirred the cooking stew. Pretend mom sat at the corner desk, looking for ways to balance the family business’s books and somehow come up with more coin coming in than going out. She had no magical knack and had never learned any, but that made her no less competent or determined.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Galen might actually have liked pretend mom, if she hadn’t reminded him that he hadn’t had a real mother like her.

In between kitchen and front desk, the twins, Malcum and Breri, now six, ran amok, with three-year-old Varli toddling after them. Pretend dad “supervised” the younger children from his chair. Wood and leather braces held his withered legs helplessly still, and crutches leaned against the hearth beside him. His dry cough was so persistent that it had become merely another common background sound of Galen’s life—Jodri’s singing, the children’s chatter, his father’s rattling cough.

The whole lot of them simultaneously resembled Galen’s real family and yet shared nothing in common.

A solid ”yes” to Brin’s offer rose in Galen’s throat.

Then all the habitual doubts kicked in, and his response died before it could get free.

Is this a trick? Will something bad happen if I selfishly run off when I’m supposed to be here?

He’d been dying for the chance to get away from the store sim and his pretend family. Brin was offering the chance to get out a full two weeks early. But now, even in the context of a game, guilt kicked in.

What’s to feel bad about? They’re not even real people!

But what kind of person would he be if he didn’t behave responsibly? The game had made a big deal about origins and fleshing out his character’s backstory. Surely that meant it mattered, somehow. Was this a test of some kind?

Fuck. Damn it. Fuck.

Galen half-turned and glanced behind him.

Jodri stirred the stew, but she cast a curious glance from the corner of her eye toward the door where Galen stood. The youngers had clustered up behind him. Varli clutched at Galen’s pant leg with one sticky hand. Father watched Galen from his chair, and Mother had turned to also look at him.

Pretend father and pretend mother.

But that didn’t change anything. He had responsibilities. They needed Galen to take care of them.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Disappointment snuffed out the bit of lightness that had risen in Galen’s chest at that first sight of Brin.

Brin frowned. “But your city needs you.”

“My family needs me.” Galen lowered his voice and reached toward Brin, intending to guide her back from the door so he could step outside with her. There, beyond the hearing of his family, he could more easily explain how they counted on him. Had Brin not seen his father’s legs?

I don’t have time for extracurricular militia quests. No bonus adventures for me.

“You should go.” Father’s voice interrupted before Galen could maneuver Brin away from the door.

Pretend father.

But his real father’s voice had said the same words, more than once. So had his real mother’s. “You should go. Get out of the house. Make some friends.” As if Galen was lacking in some way, when he’d been deliberately sacrificing things like free time and friends because the two of them couldn’t get their shit together.

Easy for you to say. Your only job is sitting in a chair.

Galen bit back the angry response he wanted to shout at his father and turned to face his family once more. In his head, he started framing a respectfully insistent response.

Mother gazed steadily at Galen in a way his real mother never had. “Your friend is correct. Your city also needs you.”

Like complete strangers needed Dad? And look what that got us.

Galen bit back those words, too.

Pretend father. Pretend mother.

Internally, Galen flailed about for words he could say.

Mother pushed back her chair and stood. At her full height, she was still a head shorter than Galen. The game had given her brown hair, like his but peppered with gray. “It’s only a few days extra. We’ll make do, Galen. You need to go.”

Galen’s face heated. He wanted to yell at her, at his silent father trapped in his broken body, at all of them. He wanted to storm out and simply never return to these people who seemed to never appreciate that he was doing his best to hold them all together.

Fine. You want me to go? I’ll go.

Immediately, Galen recognized that he was being ridiculous. Arguing with or lecturing his real parents had only ever gained him exactly nothing.

And these were not his real parents, anyhow.

So what Galen actually did was mutter as polite an “if you say so” and “thank you” as he could muster, mostly for Brin’s benefit. If she hadn’t been there, he might have simply stormed out. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Very little of his own belongings would serve any purpose for a militia task, so it took Galen almost no time to fetch his spare tunic and leggings from the cramped room he shared with the other children. He wouldn’t, he knew, miss the restless tossing and turning of the youngers or his father’s snores through the thin wall.

But that doesn’t mean I should be going. They need me.