Ad takes a long draught of virtual ale from a wooden mug before letting out a refreshed sigh, while I sip my virtual rum from a smudged green glass.

“Hate to ruin the moment, but this isn’t my first drink,” Ad says.

“Thought so, you rascal,” I say. “But your first virtual ale, maybe? Savor it before we boycott Mimmisoft media forever.”

“Guess you’ll quit doing their dirty work, too?”

Although we ran into an ostensibly drunk player earlier, alcohol in VR doesn’t exactly simulate its real-life effects: brain-machine interface VR is too restricted—there are too many safeguards placed between the implant to which headsets connect and the sensitive neurochemistry of the brain—to fully simulate the effects of any drug. But there are workarounds, such as through the subtle simulation of effects within software like a filter over players’ perceptions, alongside a simultaneous filtering of player behavior that causes words to come out slurred and movement to be less coordinated, for example. Essentially, it cuts out the neurochemical middleman between the player and the psychoactive experience—and this has the interesting result of relaxing players’ inhibitions anyway, as if the brain is tricked into simulating the rest of the effects. When Mimmisoft first innovated this tech for Deep Space Bartender, it was incredibly controversial, but their legal team successfully argued it would reduce alcohol consumption IRL, and it’s since been wrapped into every medium where a fitting context existed. Knights got real taverns with Elysium, and Last Advent has been anticipated to-

“Did we come in here just to zone out?” Ad says, swirling the dregs of ale in her mug.

“Not much else to do right now, is there?” I say.

When we entered the Rusty Spade, the NPC bartender didn’t greet us but hurried to serve players filling chairs around the three-sided counter. We found a small round table crammed into a musty corner of the place, and when I ordered our drinks, I was told they were “on the house!” to celebrate launch day.

Above the bar are hung a plethora of rusted old farm tools and simple weapons, and seated below them, a diversity of players, some in battleworn gear and some in pristine garb talk with sleepy but agitated voices. Some are totally silent.

“I was out hunting the spawning grounds for a bit, yeah, but I saw people spamming the chat saying they couldn’t log out. And they were dropping like flies out there,” Siegfriedrice says, gesturing frustratedly over the counter while acquaintances on either side listen. “So I tried—and then I got kinda freaked out, so that’s when I booked it back to Losthearth.” He scratches a tuft of black hair that pokes out of his leather helmet.

“We tried to message you,” a woman with flowing black hair says in a more amused tone, “but apparently we don’t have permission. The whole game’s fucked up.”

“Hey,” the amused, deep voice of a stout robed man says, “‘least you didn’t go with that big group. I heard it was a fucking massacre!” He chortles at this and swigs his drink.

“Mmm,” Siegfried hums, staring pensively at his drink. “I only ran into a couple of mudmen. Maybe my Bestial skill helped.”

Ad looks irate in the dim candlelight, but as she rises to confront this group, another player speaks up from the counter.

“We fought bravely. And only volunteer protectors died,” Rainmaker says, slamming his mug into the counter, “so shut your mouths.” Heads turn to attend to our former comrade, one of the few lvl 2s in the room. The bartender, a nervous, wiry young man with spectacles, rushes to collect the empty mug and refill it as Rainmaker glowers at him.

“Oh, come on,” Sharktoof, the woman to the right of Siegfried, says. “You don’t have to take yourself so seriously. Be grateful you got to partake in such an exciting scripted event!” She tips her glass toward Rainmaker with a laugh.

“Shea,” Siegfried protests—but Rainmaker stomps over.

“You’re havin’ fun, huh, miss? Have you noticed that we’re prisoners here? That our UMs are showing?” he says. The bartender jumps at the word prisoners as he replaces the ale, nods, and hurries away.

The robed man, Rocketsprocket, chimes in, “Servers are obviously overloaded, mister. This has to be the biggest release of all time. Chill—no need to stay in character. And it's not like anybody really cares to hide their UM.”

“Oh!” Rainmaker says, “I get it. You newbs haven’t even gone outside the city! You’ve been tipplin’ here since you spawned.” He glowers at Rocketsprocket, then at Siegfried. “But thisguy knows. Bet you those mudmen gave you a scare? Should’ve seen my burns from the golems . . .” He moves closer.

Ad approaches them. “Let’s all calm down,” she says in a calm voice of her own. “Nobody should be making light of what happened today.” She directs this at Sharktoof and Rocket. “And we should all try to support each other until the bugs are fixed and we can leave.”

Sharktoof looks her up and down. “And who might you be? A moderator?”

“She fought,” Rainmaker says, acknowledging her with a deep nod before looking over to nod at me, too.

“Pfft—this is too corny,” Rocket says. “Didn’t they respawn in the town square? Nobody said anything about permadeath.”

“Dead man tell no tale . . .” another player drunkenly adds, raising a dripping glass.

Of course! Why didn’t we check for respawns? I just assumed—I guess I hastily assumed that the log out issue meant something it might not, and since I didn’t spawn in Losthearth, I didn’t know where-

“No.” Rainmaker says, returning to his seat and swilling his fresh ale in one chug. “Checked as soon as they let us through those goddamned gates. Nobody’s respawned.”

This raises a general panic and much murmuring, and I walk up beside Ad to try to guide her out of the bar before things escalate. But everyone’s thoughts have stewed for too long.

“Maybe they logged out after they died? Could be the only time it works . . .” Rocket says.

“Ridiculous,” Sharktoof says.

“I don’t like this,” Siegfried says. “It’s too much like-”

“Questeps!” a lone drunkard says. “If you die in the game, you die in real life—that legend.” His tone is of something between amusement and despair.

“Ad, let’s continue on-"

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“Follow me,” Rainmaker says, pointing us outside while panic ignites through the Rusty Spade. The street is emptier now, as it seems many players have found places to stay, and we walk slowly together toward the square in a strange, knowing silence. Ad follows Rainmaker and I follow her until we reach a large stone fountain that glimmers in the windbitten torchlight, loudly spewing water from dragon-mouthed spouts. Elaborate masonry on its circumference depicts a spectrum of monstrous forms in exulting poses. I notice centaurs riding across the frieze like those we encountered, and ahead of them a larger and more spindly horse-like creature pulls on a bowstring, aiming an arrow ahead over a long serpent. Less visible forms crowd the circumference of the fountain into the shadows.

“This,” Rainmaker breaks the silence, “is where most of us spawned, and where we think the dead would respawn. But I’ve seen nobody. No new spawn-ins, and no respawns.”

“Maybe,” Ad says weakly, “it’s another server issue. They could still be stuck in a loading room. It can take a while sometimes, right? Their Kaleidoscopes have to reload the city for them all at once . . .” She looks worriedly to me.

Rainmaker eyes her skeptically. “. . . yeah, that’s what we’re hoping. So I’ve been checking now and again, and I plan to continue doing so until they’re back. Don’t think they’ll go very far if they do respawn.”

Ad seems somewhat relieved by this. I’m not. Loading rooms that long would be a death sentence for a game by themselves. If they’re not back yet . . .

“We’ve been through a lot,” Rainmaker says, leaning back against the fountain to sit on its edge, “so why don’t you two go back to your inn and get some sleep if you can? Let ol’ Rainmaker wait for our friends.” He forces a hearty smirk.

“Well,” I say, “we couldn’t really grab a room in time.” Somewhere nearby, patrolling guards’ armor jingles.

“Damn. Sorry,” he says, “but my room’s jam-packed. Part of why I don't think I'll be sleeping. Do you have gold?”

“Not much,” Ad and I say.

“Hmm . . .”

A faint chime sounds.

Rainmaker gifted 1 gold

“Are you sure?” Ad says.

“I’ve been saving for whoever needs,” Rainmaker says. “Know it’s not a lot, though. Is there somewhere safe you can go?”

“More or less,” I say. “Do you know where we could get some blankets, pillows?”

He looks grimly at me before searching his inventory again. “Uh . . .”

Rainmaker gifted 2 goblinskin

“They’re comfier than they sound,” he says. “Only thing those wooly bastards are good for.”

“Thank you, Rainmaker,” Ad says. “Let us know if anyone shows up.”

He glances at the rush of the fountain, maybe into a dragon’s stony eyes, before making eye contact with her again. “Sure. We can’t message, but I’ll be right here in the morning,” he says, “and I should show up on your map if we’re friends.” His eyes twitch,

Rainmaker wants to be your friend!

(Accept!) (Deny) 10 sec . . .

(Accept!) <= (Deny) 9 sec . . .

Rainmaker is now your friend!

and he looks at me encouragingly as he did in battle, though his expression falters as the jingle of armor gets louder.

“Better go,” he says. “Seeya tomorrow.”

“Hopefully we'll be logged out by then,” Ad says as we wander away from the fountain.

Rainmaker’s smile remains, but his eyes are sad as he waves us away, and his battered armor and slightly stuporous posture seem a flimsy facade over a deeper grief than either of Ad or I are feeling. “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” he shouts as he turns toward the guards approaching him.

“zgkgkagain, hammerman? Last time we advise you to go home.”

“Last time I advise you to kiss my ass . . .” Rainmaker mutters as he stomps back toward the tavern.

——

We reach the alley where we first started deliberating after a long, sleepy, silent walk, but we’re forced to light the last of our torches in order to find our way within it as that sputtering gas lamp has gone out. As I approach the overhang of buildings,

a familiar form bolts out with a reeeaaaaaaaar! and bites my boot with dull fangs. I try to shake it off, but it hangs on, its lithe, jet black form anchored in place on the cobblestone by its claws

Blaggard - lvl 2

and its green feline eyes fixed on mine.

“Poor little thing,” Adelaide says. “He looks starved!”

I jostle my foot lightly. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”

“Here, kitty,” Ad says, removing some survivor’s jerky from her inventory.

“Hey—we should save our food for ourselves.”

"Brrrar," says the cat.

“It’s virtual food. He needs it more than we do.” And with that, and a judgmental look at me, she tosses the jerky toward the little parasite. Its eyes flit over to the meat, then back up at me, while its teeth remain latched to my boot. Then, it slowly releases its grip before pouncing immediately onto the jerky, om-nom-nomming into oblivion, and hissing at me before retreating back into the shadows.

“Cute,” I say, before

phwoff-ing my two goblinskins onto the ground, partway beneath the overhang, inspiring Ad to do the same. They’re wooly—a bit rough, but thick and cushiony—so we place one each directly onto the ground below us and use the topmost part sticking out of the overhang as a pillow, while the other goblinskins rest over us as our blankets. They have a sickening chemical smell, but we’re tired enough that neither of us mentions it or seems impeded in settling in. Sleeping in VR isn’t a routine experience—it’s advised and even regulated that users take breaks to avoid the adverse effects of continuous immersion—but I’ve found on a couple of occasions that it just requires that one get cozy enough to fall asleep, as in real life. Or that one feel dead-tired enough for coziness to fall out of consideration.

“Phil?” Ad says sleepily from beside me. Our makeshift bedrolls are a few feet apart, and she’s faced away from me on her side.

“Yeah?” I say.

“Do you think we should stay awake and keep trying to log out?” She means: is this really happening?

“Uh . . . I don’t think we’ll have any luck tonight, and it’s been a long day. Better to sleep, like Rainmaker said. And tomorrow we’ll meet back up with him and the other survivors, and things will’ve calmed down, so if we’re still not able to log out . . .”

“Twenty-four hours since joining . . .”

“. . . we can make a plan. We’ll be okay. We’ll look out for each other.” What am I saying? I’m not sure whether we’ll be okay. We’re sleeping in an alley. I can feel the cobbles on my back through the goblinskin and through my cloak.

“ . . . thanks.” She says. I wonder whether she’s thanked me for committing to look out for her—something I consider obligatory—or if she’s thanking me for consoling her despite her knowledge of the severity of the situation. When she rolls over to look at me, I turn my head to meet her eyes, and mine blur over again for some strange reason while I look at her unharmed virtual face, half-nestled under her blanket. She smirks at me, seems about to say something, and I realize how lucky I am to have found her at all before something bad happened to either of us—how gracious I am for having some trace of home, my own sister beside me through this nightmare—how guiltily gracious since it was my invitation to play Last Advent that dragged her into this. She says nothing. I have to protect her until we’re on the other side of this. At any cost. I think again of Xeno and Cyn and the others who sacrificed themselves so that we could take even this squalid rest.

And I look at that familiar face

for what will be the last time

as she blinks her eyes closed for longer and longer, and I do mine, until we both fall asleep, FeeFiFoFum and Adelaide.