There is nothing quite like the feeling of stepping unexpectedly onto a dead body. The squishy resistance transmits itself from your foot to your brain in such a way that it sets off all your ‘step away’ reflexes in one, unhelpful bundle. As a result, my entrance into the…alleyway?…was an undignified pratfall that had the tall man in the pleated coat staring disapprovingly.

“Who the fook are you?” he demanded. “I didn’ sign up fer this game t’ turn into some kinda suped up circus.” He turned to the bowler-hatted gentleman beside him. “Watson, y’know anyting about this? Or is someone actin’ the maggot?”

Watson spoke slowly, in manufactured, plum english. “It was not part of the game description; nor has any such departure from historical accuracy been alluded to in our previous encounters. It is an anomaly.”

“An ano-ma-ly,” Sherlock Holmes sounded out under his breath. I got the distinct impression that he wanted to ask what the word meant, but felt it wouldn’t fit his character.

Based on both this and Holmes’s indignation, I suspected I had quite literally stumbled upon at least one historical purist—gamers that research their topic of interest and pedantically point out any errors made by the writers.

They were certainly critical, I discovered as I righted myself and stood.

“Look a’ this!” Holmes sneered disgustedly at the blood smeared across my pants. “Y’ve fooked up our crime scene!”

“Holmes…” Watson warned.

“Fine. You, madam, have disturbed our evidence.”

I looked down at the ‘evidence’. A woman’s body was sprawled across the flagstones with cuts mutilating her face and what looked to be intestines dangling from a large stab wound on her abdomen. Only an electronic tag with the name ‘Catherine Eddowes’ disturbed the gory realism. The game designers must have agreed with these two that accuracy was key.

“S-sorry? I’ve lost my way somewhat.”

“From another universe?” Watson slowly circled the body to examine me more closely. “Based on your attire I deduce you are from somewhere medieval in nature—though not from a location that truly reflects any of the eras that it is comprised of.” He sniffed and rocked on his heels. “Your clothing has none of the characteristics of hand sewing and the weave is plainly not composed of thread that would have been available prior to the 1900s, let alone five hundred years earlier. And as for the lyre”—derisive snort—“that is also patently of a design and alloy incompatible with historic record.”

“Yeah,” Holmes agreed articulately. “You made a right balls of it, there.”

I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the two men had miscast themselves in their little detective adventure. Watson was clearly the more educated character. I suppose they could have been acting out a popular belief that Watson was the Jeeves of the Sherlock Holmes world, subtly directing his partner and claiming none of the credit, but I somehow doubted it. A twenty-sided dice or a game of rock-paper-scissors had more likely been involved.

“Actually, I’m from a game called Age of Deception. When it was discontinued I remained in it, with no ability to log out. I’m begging you…please…contact its creators—SharkBytes—and let them know what’s happened. I don’t know how long I have until my stasis suit runs out of water. Maybe only a few more days.”

“Are you a troll?” Watson asked intently.

“Yeah, totally, Ted. I mean…Watson. She’s probably hacked inta other people’s accounts to ruin it f’ everyone. Gonna hafta run a scan when I geet home.”

At least I think that’s what he said. His brogue was thick enough to cut.

Watson tapped his lips with one finger. It was a gesture somehow imbued with deep thought.

I latched onto him with all my being, trying to express through my eyes just how much I needed him to believe me. If there was one player out of all that I had encountered since this disaster began that I thought could crack me out of this predicament, it was him. Or her. No way of knowing.

“What is your name, my good woman?”

“Arli—“ the universe wobbled threateningly, “—ineJohnson!”

——

A brief impression of dry heat, trees, and many many calls from varying species of wildlife. Then—

——

—a black corridor with electric purple walls. In front of me hovered a two metre-wide green spoon, lying on its side, with the outer part of its bowl facing me. Behind it was another, and another, each broken into different sizes and lengths. And surrounding them were discarded orange balls. Balls that had the look and smell of the largest Energy Balls I’d ever seen; as if I’d been miniaturised and left amongst a dumping ground of discarded cereal.

My stomach rumbled.

I prodded at the first, sans stick, and a familiar white powder came off in my hand. It seemed legit. I brought my hand up and tentatively tasted it for confirmation. Definitely powdered sugar. I wasn’t sure why it was here or what game it related to, but that first taste sent my salivary glands into overdrive. I simply had to try a nibble.

It’s a difficult process, the devouring of an enormous Energy Ball. The diameter was incompatible with a human mouth, forcing me to open it to a jaw-damaging near 90 degrees. It was hunger alone that made me continue, sinking my teeth into the corn bubbles to chip a small amount from its outer surface. Fortunately, it got easier as the missing pieces afforded a more jaw-friendly angle to gain purchase, and after that it was just a blur of corn powder and crunch.

Its removal led me to the next, hiding cravenly behind its dearly-departed relative. This second offering was also devoured, even more quickly than the first, thanks to my previous experience.

When I approached the third, I was beginning to suffer that peculiar eaters-regret that bingers everywhere are familiar with. Vaguely sick but determined to gorge that next goody. Number three eventually suffered the same fate as its predecessors, but it was a struggle.

I burped and my stomach pitched threateningly. Number four was safe. My in-game health bar had refilled to its max, and if I didn’t see another Energy Ball in the next few months I would be content.

Then a cheery digital noise came to my ears. Slightly familiar, but I couldn’t picture from what, other than it sounded like an old arcade game. That would certainly fit with the visual effects. There was a pixelated texture to the spoons that didn’t equate with today’s emphasis on 6K resolution.

(Not that modern advancements to HD were entirely visible to the human eye, but it did offer an experience that was indistinguishable from reality. The most recent wall versions came with warnings and indemnity clauses, denying responsibility for any accidental human-strikes. Realism and bleary-eyed humans sometimes come into conflict with predictable results.)

The cheery music ended and was replaced by a more disturbing pitchoo noise that resembled a child’s idea of a spaceship’s armament. Not at all easy on the ear. But it was enough to spark a distant memory of a giant spoon catapult and orange dots thrown across a dark background—and many misspent hours at my grandmother’s house playing her retro vid games.

Pult-Block. The blue amorphous blob with tiny red epaulettes that was running jerkily toward me confirmed it: Sir Cameron of the kNights Cereal. The hero of this little adventure.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

The NPC stopped abruptly before reversing direction and fleeing around the left spoon-wall. It didn’t take a genius to realise that he was escaping, not from me, but from the orange ball that had been launched in our direction.

It actually looked kind of harmless, really. A bright, fluffy-looking circle that looked like it would surely explode into dust on impact.

Until you remembered that the surrounding balls hadn’t exploded. Which meant that they were stronger than they looked.

I initiated my own flee response. There could be no reasoning with an eighties version of an NPC. It was effectively the cursor of the gaming world.

After a few turns, I stepped past a T-junction and narrowly dodged a milk tidal wave converging on Sir Cameron. Didn’t know what would happen if it touched me—didn’t want to know.

Luckily, in the midst of a dead end, I felt myself disapparating and stumbled—

——

—into the body of a big big bird.

At first I thought it was Gunga, but a savage peck aimed at my head put paid to that idea. Along with the 20 tagline following its every movement. An abrupt dive to the leafy floor was all that kept my body intact. There, it stomped with feet that had claws the size of tree roots, reminding me briefly of my encounter with the male tern—but without the dominant position or pacifist intentions.

It clearly meant to kill me.

The beak came down again, so perhaps meat was on its preferred menu. I didn’t exactly constitute a threat to something that large.

I received a glancing hit to my arm before I could scuttle away far enough to get to my feet. A red 4 drifted across my vision. I barely noticed it in my haste to get away.

At least its bulk provided me with an opportunity for escape. It had to go around obstacles—bushes, branches, vines—that I could go through or under, making it a lot slower than Gunga had ever incarnated.

Though I discovered that it more than made up for speed with tenacity, continuing to follow me through an increasingly dense tangle of foliage before it was foiled by a half-fallen tree that I used like a ladder; its branches poking out like quills. They also provided much appreciated cover from beak attack.

I didn’t feel safe until my climb ended, with me shaking and puffing at the apex of a branch in the midst of the tree’s living neighbour, returning the stare of a ring-tailed lemur. He was peering curiously at me from across the divide between our respective trees.

The bird remained on guard duty for a good ten minutes before abandoning its post. But even then I wasn’t convinced it had left the area. For all I knew it was lurking in ambush; though how it could hide such a large body my lizard-brain had no intention of figuring out (or deeming as adequate rationale for leaving my perch). It was clearly time to call in the troops.

I pulled out my lyre and plucked Gunga’s note. My lemur spectator’s head tilted in response.

Considering the hectic nature of recent events, it’s not surprising that I wasn’t really thinking about my surroundings. It was only when a large bird—twin to the one who had attacked me—appeared midair, screeched, and fell through the branches to the ground below, that I realised that my logistical placement was lacking. Although how I’d managed to call Gunga through without a set portal I had no idea. An upgrade to my Companion’s status maybe?

I peered through the leaves. Feathers ruffled, she rose on thick legs and peered back at me. Reproachfully.

“Sorry, Gunga. Wasn’t thinking.”

Figuring it was safe now that I had my own version of land support, I climbed down a lot more carefully than I’d gone up.

When I was standing in front of her I have to admit I was impressed. She was larger than the moa, thicker in the leg and torso, if flatter in posture, making her shorter and heavier than her New Zealand equivalent. The brown feathers were similar, presumably designed to blend in to a forest environment, though these birds had a little more dappling to the head and tail.

Gunga lifted one leg and raised her head in what I presume was meant to be a noble pose—vain bird—before catching sight of a lizard that I barely saw before it was abruptly sharing quarters with Bert.

I can work with this, the AI inserted happily. Pigment…guanine crystals…the building blocks of adaptive camouflage.

“You’re not going to make Gunga into some kind of chameleon-bird hybrid are you?” I asked dubiously.

Bert scoffed. Feathers cannot be altered in such a fashion. At best, I could adjust the colour of her legs and eye surrounds, but I fail to see any advantage to making your Companion any more distinctive than she already is.

“Then why the interest?”

The unique perspective of a dungeon core has proven most engaging. It more closely resembles that of a human chef than the programming minutia of computer code.

“So it appeals to your creative side?”

I had not considered it that way. Bert almost hummed, lost in thought. His mind-voice drifted away as Gunga spotted a bush with dark blue fruit that she deemed tasty and carried him off. The thump, thump, thump of her powerful feet hitting the forest floor could almost be felt.

I eyed her back, rising a foot beyond my head, and it occurred to me that I now had transport options that exceeded my own feet and wing power. Gunga probably wouldn’t even notice the weight of one small human…

I took a moment to visualise myself mounted upon the largest bird in the world.

And failed. Directing Gunga would be a lesson in futility. Like a fat pony with no bridle, she would doubtless stay in a grazing position and only move when seeking a new bush or patch of grass. Size doesn’t dictate intelligence.

So I retrieved my boots and the other assorted clothes I had divested when travelling through the barrier portal and equipped them, thankful yet again for their ability to shed stains. The stench of old sweat alone would have been nauseating.

I looked at my map for the nth time. The L was located in approximately the middle of the island, but with no identifiable feature I had no way of getting my bearings. My back-to-front compass could show in what direction I was heading, but not where I currently stood.

I would just have to begin walking and hope for the best.

North, I decided. There was a greater chance that I had landed slightly south of the island based on what I guessed the latitudinal orientation of Easter Island was to Madagascar. Maybe. It was at least a direction.

——

“What about this, then?”

Todd turned, foam dripping from his mouth as his toothbrush stopped swirling. It took only one glimpse to make him close his eyes and turn back to the mirror.

“Unless ‘this’ is a piece of clothing, I don’t want to know.”

“Come on, bro. Look at it.” Terrin edged behind his brother, joining his reflection and thereby making himself unavoidable. Luckily, the bathroom countertop was high enough to block certain…areas. And the ‘it’ he wanted his brother to look at was the tablet that was dangerously close to acquiring its own donation of saliva-diluted toothpaste.

Todd spat, rinsed with a handful of water, and spat again before sighing deeply. “Okay, what has your non-existent panties in a wad this time? Which, by the way, is definitely not cool. I’ve told you before. Underwear is not an optional extra in this house.”

“I was heading for the shower before I realised you were hogging the bathroom. And then I saw this.” He leaned in and pointed at the screen.

Todd looked. “How to grow your own marijuana?”

“What? No!” He snatched away the laptap and hastily pushed the back button. “I must’ve accidentally touched a link.”

Back to the Age of Deception gaming forum. So he was still running with this theme.

“Look at this latest comment. Some guy called tedEbearable says that he met someone a few hours ago that claimed they were from that game.”

“It also says that he was in some Sherlock Holmes whodunnit at the time. Players don’t migrate from one game to another. It’s fundamentally impossible.”

“Or is it?” Terrin grinned. On someone who had embraced the Wild Man of Borneo lifestyle the effect was disturbing. No one should have hairy teeth.

“It’s even less likely that you came in here to use the shower. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but your little plant is no longer inhabiting its usual spot on the windowsill. I removed it this morning.”

“Maan,” Terrin moaned. “Are you crazy? It took me weeks to grow it that big.”

“As far as I know, botany is not on your course list.”

“It helps me think. Relaxes my brain.”

“Right into an drug-induced haze. You used up the last of my tolerance after your last munchies binge cost me the entire contents of our fridge.”

“Really?”

Todd shook his head in wonder. “Even down to the mayonnaise.”

“I wondered why my mouth tasted so funky.” Terrin grimaced in remembrance. “But anyway, serious business. What are we doing to get this chick out?”

It took a moment for Todd to realise he meant the virtual tourist and not whatever random girl he currently had holed up in his room.

“One uncorroborated witness does not constitute proof. It’s only hearsay.”

“What if I said I had another witness, who verified both the game and the name of the woman?”

“Is this one of your stoner friends?”

“Weed…may have been involved.”

“It’s you; you’re the witness, aren’t you? That’s why you can’t give this whole thing up.”

“May…be?”

Todd shoved a hand through damp hair and held it like a man holding a decapitated head. It was a source of vicarious comfort. A habit he had mysteriously acquired two months ago.

“When and how?”

“A couple of nights ago I smoked a joint and went in search of some food. It must have been pretty soon after the fridge was cleared out ’cause it was still empty. So I went online and hacked into a site that I knew supplied free stuff. She was there.”

“‘Free stuff.’ Dammit. You went to Kinderbear again, didn’t you?”

“It’s fine! I’m just there for the candy floss,” Terrin protested. “You can’t get it anywhere else.”

“If you get caught, you’ll land in the courts as a suspected pedophile.”

“Only if they catch me. You know my code is solid.”

“And anti-virus systems adapt and evolve. Sooner or later they’ll track you down.”

The boy-child huffed resignedly. “Every other game asks you to bring in your own food.”

“I’ll buy an extra bag of groceries tomorrow.”

Todd heard a faint, almost indiscernible mutter of “Bet it won’t be candy floss” but ignored it. “Now, what did the Odie player tell you?”

“Just the basics. Her name, the game, how she’d been trapped. She was appealing to anyone that would listen to go to the SharkBytes gaming company to follow up.”

Todd removed his hand from his hair. “It’s at least worth an email. But, seriously, before that?”

His brother used one hand to brace himself as he looked back from the bathroom doorway he’d already spun into. “Mm?”

“Do the world a favour and cover your junk. Nobody wants to see that hanging out.”

Terrin grinned and glanced pointedly at his bedroom door. Then the grin turned wicked. “I beg to differ, big bro. Big Ernie has a laarge fan base.”