I cautiously took the stairs, pushing through a pair of black doors, until I found myself in what could only be described as an underground Bohemian tavern merged with a rave. The ceiling had archways at regular intervals, giving the impression of a ribcage. A long, weathered wooden bar lined one wall, with several smaller tables interspersed throughout.

In the middle of the establishment was a larger, round table. Several impressive-looking individuals crowded this table, banging large steins in time with the throbbing electronica, pale blue liquid spilling over the rims. There was shouting and raucous laughter.

Whoever these people were, they looked like they had answers. I made a beeline for the central table until a hand slammed into my chest, stopping me cold in my tracks. I traced the hand, which was outfitted in a black leather fingerless biker glove, to a scrawny arm belonging to a man seated at the bar.

His face was adorned with a ruddy beard, missing in patches, a gap-toothed grin, and the thickest pair of welders goggles. He wore a knit skullcap and spoke in a strange parlance.

“Not so skorry there, moodge. Where do you think you're ittying?”

I’m sorry, do you know me?

“Odin glance is all I need to know you are as they skazat, ‘fresh off the boat.’ A new arrival. Green. Rookie. Noob. Fresh meat. A virgin–”

Ok, enough already.

“–you’ve got the generic features and platties that just creech Day 1 in the Metaverse.”

Point taken, I think. Why can’t I go over–

“That’s the Round Table. Nobody goes to the Round Table unless they’ve been invited.”

I glanced up to see the rowdy group at the center table stand up. There was a loud cry–”Glory to the Volunteers!”–and patrons throughout the Rathskeller applauded wildly. Then the group made their way to the exit, or the way I had come in. They were all business.

A well-built Black man with a shotgun followed by an ashen-skinned woman with intense white dreadlocks passed, the woman briefly meeting my gaze before turning her attention back to her party.

“Them’s top-tier hunters. They don’t suffer fools lightly.”

Is that what you take me to be? A fool?

“Easy now. I didn’t mean nothing by it. So what if you smot like a wax museum statue in a cheap Halloween costume? We’ve all been there. So what’s your eemya?”

My what?

“Your eemya. Your name. What are you called?”

I glanced uncertainly at my wrist.

They called me Volunteer 01001110–

“I was afraid you were ittying to skazat something like that. This really is Day 1 for you, isn’t it. Shiva on a stick.”

The man held out his opposite wrist, showing off his own barcode: 01000010 01100101 01110100 01100001 00111001.

“That’s not a name, that’s a number. We Volunteers go by our own names. But you haven’t been christened yet. Those dva impressive hunks of flesh you were eyeballing earlier–Bigwig and Rook. Me? I’m Camel.”

Camel? Why Camel?

“They call me Camel because I never miss! Best sharpshooter in The Collective.”

I don’t see how that–

At this point, a fastidious feminine bartender leaned over and butted into our conversation.

“They call him Camel because he drinks like a camel.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

To punctuate her remark, the bartender refilled Camel’s large transparent mug with the pale blue fluid from a nozzle.

“And odin for my droogie,” Camel said, patting the barstool next to him. “Take a stooly and have a peet.”

I assumed from the context that peet meant drink in the strange slang. Having nothing else to do, I obliged. The bartender slid a frothing mug in front of me with a professional smile.

Camel, I thought all this… I thought we were inside a computer simulation. Why are we drinking?

“True, your avatar don’t need pishcha or peet to survive here. But this ain’t about needs, it’s about wants. The heart wants what the heart wants! Think of it as a psychological need if you must.”

Camel gulped his drink greedily, wiping the artificial fluid off his artificial beard. I took a tentative sip of mine and felt a cooling sensation rush through me. It tasted like the first snowfall of winter.

Huh. Psychological needs.

“All the comforts of domy. For the right price.”

Price. How much?

“That’ll be 10 Crypt. Shall I open a tab for you?” the bartender asked, smiling.

Uh, sure.

Down to 90 Crypt. Just great.

“The only veshch Reality Inc. cares more about than having us clean up The Collective is making a profit.”

So are you a Volunteer?

“Of course. There’s nobody down here in this rat cellar but us Volunteers.”

At this, Camel shouted a hearty ‘Glory to the Volunteers!’ and the tavern swelled with another round of applause and cheering.

The strange thing is, I can’t seem to remember volunteering for anything. My life outside of this place, who I was–or am–it is a blank.

“Same for us all, droogie. We all conveniently were afflicted with ‘dissociative amnesia’ upon arrival. We’ve got lewdies rabbiting on that.”

Has anyone told you that you have a very unique way of speaking?

“Nah, I've just been here a long raz. Longer than most.”

I took another sip of my drink. The frosty sensation was growing on me. It occurred to me then that I had no vagina or penis. No urethra, either way. Maybe not even a bladder.

After I drink this… how do I…? How am I supposed to, you know…?

Camel looked at me blankly, but the helpful bartender spoke up.

“Don’t worry, it’s just information. Ones and zeroes.”

Bottoms up, then. I turned back to Camel.

What is it exactly that we are supposed to have volunteered for? The Concierge mentioned ‘invasive entities.’

“I’ll put it really simple. We kill monsters.”

Monsters?

“That’s right. Nasty beasts keep popping up in the Metaverse, and Bolshy Bratty needs us to put them down. The best we can figure it, they sent an entire first wave of Citizens into The Collective. Then these monsters appeared. Lewdies got hurt, or razdraz. I’m sure somebody lost pretty polly. They paused all future waves until we Volunteers can make the place safe again.”

I don’t understand. If this is a computer program, a simulation, why would there be monsters? Shouldn’t the company be in control of their product? Why would they program something dangerous that could hurt users?

“That’s the ten billion Crypt question.”

So is it a computer virus? A glitch in the system? Corporate espionage? Cyberterrorism? Cyberwarfare?

“We've got lewdies rabbiting on that too.”

I took his meaning to be that they, the Volunteers, had people working on that problem. It seemed that the system itself was not offering much help or guidance in this area.

What about cybersecurity? Shouldn’t the corporation have some form of anti-virus software? Why rely on Volunteers to clean up their mess?

“Ah, there are the Polizei bots, sure. But they were designed to keep the Citizens in line. These monsters are a threat Bolshy Bratty never planned for. The bots are defenseless against them.”

Just trying to wrap my head around this. There are Citizens and Volunteers, humans, but also Bots, who are not per se real. And Monsters.

Camel finished his mug and belched loudly.

“That’s the long and the short of it. The Citizens keep to themselves. Or rather, we are kept to ourselves. The Commons is where the dredges of the Metaverse cheest up. A temporary shanty town for us low-class hunters.”

I looked at the bartender. She, if it was a she, wore a button-down white shirt, a black vest, and a smart black bowtie. She had an asymmetrical haircut and flawless white teeth.

And what about you? Are you real, or some kind of bot?

“Do I look real?” she asked, never breaking her smile. “Do I sound real?”

Yes.

“Then what difference does it make?”

The bartender turned her attention to wiping down the bar with a cloth.

Camel tapped me on the shoulder.

“The best way to explain the situation is to show you. Let’s go to the Bounty Boards.”