“Traveling north into Iceland, there’s a boat I must get on…”

I plodded wearily through the rainforest, singing to keep my mind off my body’s misery. It was hot and humid, the damp settling into my clothes and giving them no opportunity to dry. As a consequence I was chafing in several places, including my thighs, underarms—and a small, but painful area against my left breast where the underwire of my bra cup was conspiring with the diagonal part of my harness to divest me of any artificial attributes. If I didn’t stop soon to heal I was convinced I was going to be rendered mammillarily unbalanced.

The ring-tailed lemur following me had no such issues. It shook out its fur occasionally but otherwise remained unfazed, only pausing to procure and eat snacks as it watched me avidly. It seemed I’d become the lemur equivalent of Days of Our Lives.

After initially trying to bribe it from the trees with fruit (an effort doomed to fail as the lemur was surrounded by exactly the same variety) I had decided to ignore my latest stalker, reasoning that it would get bored soon enough and go home.

As any more distant spectators must have. If anyone had tuned in to my vid stream they were proving as passive as the lemur. No cosmic messages to indicate the administrators were taking action, no changes to my physical status, and certainly no sudden, miraculous logout back to reality.

I remained alone, damp, and surrounded by unappreciated beauty. It had been great the first few hours. The creek that I was following trickled gently over rocks and idled its way into small pools, that in turn led to other scenic utopias. Flowers bloomed on healthy-looking green trees that competed fiercely, if incrementally, for space, and different varieties of birds and insects added their own colour to branches and air alike.

I particularly enjoyed watching two large red beetles, jousting with what appeared to be an extra leg on their heads (similar to a digger without a catcher), before Gunga decided they looked particularly tasty and it was Game Over. The smaller referee that I assumed was the female managed to scuttle into hiding before the bird’s eyes could redirect.

The flying varieties of birds were equally as bright and bizarre as the insects, but kept their distance, preferring to sit in their trees and call alarms as we passed through.

It was indeed paradise. But it’s difficult to coo when every movement rubs a new layer of skin from your body, and sticky, hooked vines and branches drag across your face and latch onto your clothes. A piece of damp cloth, also known as my sleeve, saw a lot of use as I constantly dragged it across my face in an effort to just keep my eyes clear. Regenerative, stain and water-resistant clothing was only effective after the fact. I had to get out of the damp before it would have a chance to reset.

It was only when I saw a partial glimpse of the moon through the canopy that I realised it was nighttime. The darkness created by the tall, leafy trees had led me into thinking that I was merely heading into an increasingly dense patch of greenery.

I called to Gunga, who was clearing a path with her big feet and large appetite. I could certainly see why they were named Elephant birds. Like their namesake, they were natural savannah-makers.

She and Bert were only too happy to flatten out and settle down in a soft patch of leaves made from what looked to be a juvenile palm tree. They had had a productive day, their symbiotic partnership of supply and demand going into overdrive as our journey progressed. I doubted a single insect, lizard or non-poisonous plant species would remain untasted or unanalysed by the time we left Madagascar.

“Bert?”

Hmm? The AI sounded preoccupied, probably creating exotic cocktails out of chemical formulas.

“What do you suppose will happen to me if I die in…you know…the other place?” I didn’t dare mention real life. God knows what else the game would send to punish me.

I would imagine your avatar would simply cease to exist. There would be no consciousness to connect to the game world.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

There was a short pause. Then Bert ‘spoke’. Why do humans engage in artificial constructs? Is your world so bad that you need to escape it?

I had to think about that one. It was a question that had long since fallen out of favour in the real world. “People say that it’s all about the fantasy; being able to do what they can’t do in their real lives.”

But you have a different theory?

“I think it’s more about control. Most of our choices are dictated by what we’re born into. Our environment and country’s politics, our innate physical and mental abilities—all shape what we can and can’t do. When we step into a fantasy world…we become the arbiter’s of our own destiny. We can choose our race, our occupation, where we want to live, who we want to be friends with… We control our own path. And if we stuff it up…” I reached up and flicked a leaf with my finger. The water inside it gently dripped inside my sleeve and dribbled down to my elbow, where it settled and eventually dried. So much for creating a physical metaphor. “We can reset, change our character, or simply move on to another world. Something that’s impossible to do in real life.”

Yet you want to go back.

“To live. A fantasy may be a great place to visit, but like that fruit, it can’t sustain a human being for long. Besides, bills must be paid, and without a living body a virtual connection is impossible.”

What if your consciousness could stay in this game, even if your organic structure ceases to function?

My body jerked and I received a face full of wet feathers. “You can do that?”

Not…at this moment. But if you want me to, I could work on the coding required to do so. I am already recording your thought patterns.

“That’s—that’s—“ terrifying?…thrilling?…evolutionary? “I’m not sure what it is. Apart from maybe a last resort. Life may suck at times but it beats becoming some kind of technological guinea-pig.”

I will clear some of my processing power in order to work on this task while you decide.

“Just don’t delete any habitats while you’re doing it. I might need them soon, and I don’t need to be jumping into non-existence by mistake.”

I eased my body farther into the shelter offered by Gunga’s feathers. Not for the extra warmth—the temperature, while reduced, wasn’t cold enough to require extra insulation—but for protection from the steady drip of rainwater supplied by the leaf catchments above us.

Also above us, I could see the broken whitish blur of the lemur huddled in the fork between a tree trunk and main branch, already settled down for the night.

I envied its ability to sleep. The assorted rustlings and mysterious calls—not to mention existential decisions—made the transition difficult. Each time I would begin to doze off a sound close by would jolt me awake again, and the lack of visual reassurance made it even more difficult to accept the noise was benign.

At one point I woke to find myself the focus of large, circular eyes—no less than a foot from my own—before the creature darted away into the undergrowth.

I sat up, heart pounding.

Harmless, Bert assured me.

It would have helped if the AI hadn’t sounded so preoccupied. I wanted a diligent, steely-eyed sentry, not an absentminded scientist protecting my sleep.

My processing capacity is capable of performing both functions. Go back to sleep before you’re unable to perform any.

It wasn’t exactly a lullaby but it achieved its intent. I finally fell into a deep sleep.

——

My avatar’s health bar was strangely low when I woke the next day. I forced myself to eat a few pieces of sour-tasting fruit but it had little effect. When I questioned Bert, expert at all things edible, he of course had the answer.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Madagascan fruits are low in nitrogen, consequently making them deficient in protein. They cannot on their own sustain a large primate.

That would explain why my ring-tailed friend was pretty much ignoring the fruit in favour of leaves. It also introduced a whole new problem to my already burgeoning caseload: What to eat.

Even Bert seemed unsure. Malagasy settlers originated primarily from Indonesia and imported many of their own fruits and vegetables—and eventually livestock. But I don’t think that has happened yet. The native biomes are uncorrupted. Suddenly, his ‘voice’ brightened. There are animals you can eat! Lizards, native rodents, fish, insects, birds…

A carnivore’s delight. “And how do you propose I catch these fast-moving, highly camouflaged creatures?”

You haven’t yet utilised your Cacophony ability, Bert suggested. One song should provide enough protein to sustain your avatar for several days.

I don’t wan’t to, I wanted to say but didn’t. Cutting a swathe through the local wildlife didn’t appeal. Although it occurred to me that that particular ability could be directed. Singing at individuals wouldn’t affect the surrounding individuals or species.

I decided I was going to go fishing—bard style.

——

Dear correspondent.

Thank you for your message regarding our discontinued entertainment platform, Age of Deception. We are grateful for your interest and continued support.

Regarding your concerns about our health and safety protocols, please be assured that we only employ the most stringent programs to ensure the safety of every member. Our automated security features are unassailable and unalterable.

Again, we thank you for your time, and hope you support our newest virtual project, the massively multi-player online roleplaying game: Dangerous Dreams.

Yours Sincerely,

Doug Fletcher

Administrator, SharkBytes Gameworld

“It’s a fucking whitewash,” Terrin swore.

“It certainly seems that way. I doubt they even looked into it. Probably thought we were some loony-tunes constructing conspiracy theories.”

“Which we aren’t,” he said forcefully, the very example of what just such a lunatic should look and sound like. “You try writing to them again, while I do some more research.”

“As long as you keep to the topic. You have a tendency to get distracted by clickbait and I end up with ads featuring blow-up sex dolls.” Todd raised one eyebrow meaningfully.

“That was only because I bought that latex Yoda mask! I don’t know how they got anything sex-related out of that.”

——

Two hours later, over a carefully constructed and sheltered fire started from the endpapers of my song book, I inexpertly burned a small fish hardly bigger than a sardine. Even a spell the equivalent of dynamite couldn’t make the fish any bigger—though I did make up for quality with quantity. Six others were lined up ready to be smoked using Bert’s directions. (There had once been ten, before I managed to rescue the rest of my food supply from a certain bird.)

Our lemur friend was eating already of course, denuding a branch of tiny leaves as one leg swung lazily.

When my stomach started to grumble, I gave up on waiting and reached into my holding bag for seasoning. Salt can make any savoury dish taste good. And sometimes the sweet. A work colleague sprinkles it over her signature dish of Russian fudge and that stuff is bloody amazing.

While I was trying to make the best of my meal—and trying not to compare it to real-world delights—Gunga’s head slowly came down to my level.

I pushed it away. “Get your own,” I said irritably, but it seemed fish weren’t on her mind. She pecked at something on the ground beside me.

With immediate effect. Her head shot up as if she’d been electrocuted, and a shiver rippled across her body. Then she took off, bouncing off one tree and crashing into another, sending the second toppling into others in a domino effect of mutual destruction.

“Gunga!” I ducked for cover against the most solid tree I could find, watching as Gunga continued her apparent descent into madness, kicking and stomping and running with an energy that would have been more appropriate in a rodent with hibernation concerns, rather than the half-ton avian that she was.

When, after an eternity of seconds she finally stopped, I approached her cautiously. “Bert? What’s going on?”

I think…. There was an introduction of a strong stimulant into Gunga’s system. Not of a variety I am familiar with. Once I determined its nature I diffused it and flushed it out of her gut. She should now be fine. I think.

The AI sounded flustered. I suppose even processing power couldn’t protect you from the surprise of having your house suddenly go berserk around you.

I searched beside the fire—now destroyed beyond repair—for what Gunga had eaten before life had taken its sudden dramatic turn. I didn’t see any fruit, but I did spot a loose flower that seemed oddly familiar.

My brow furrowed in thought (still no menu). I had vague memories of picking them, but it was so long ago…. Then I remembered more clearly. The fuchsia that I had collected for chick-Gunga while we were still in New Zealand. They had probably fallen out of my bag when I retrieved the salt. And it seemed they were even more of a upper than I had suspected.

Experimentally, I peeled it apart and lifted it to my tongue. A rush of sugar instantly recharged my energy, raising my health bar considerably. I devoured the remainder of the flower happily, feeling more spry than I had since starting this adventure.

And adventure it was! Who else could venture across unspoiled wilderness, exploring worlds not yet conquered, identifying new species of flora and fauna! I was so, sooo fortunate—

I am sensing a change in your thought patterns. Are you feeling okay?

OKAY? I was feeling positive, bouncy, happy, joyful! I needed to run, skip, and fly! I bounced a little on my toes and beaned myself on an overhanging branch. The pain was funny and laughing never felt so good.

I think you should sit down.

“Sit down my young computer chip? Has no one taught you the marvels of the senses? My nose tells me that the direction to our quarry is thence,” I pointed, “but a stone’s throw from where we are now!”

That is south. Where we came from. Please sit until whatever was in that plant wears off.

“No time.” I giggled, but then the world lurched suddenly and was forced to hang on to the surviving tree. It swayed a little, but after a few seconds stayed resolutely upright. “Thank you, tree. Are you the one I smooched a while ago? Would you like one now?”

Gunga eased up beside me, and she looked much softer than the tree, so I reached my arms around her neck and pulled it down to snuggle into her feathers. “Love you, Gunga.”

She reached down to give me a nibble-peck, and the instant she made contact it was like a bucket of ice-cold water was dumped on me, eliminating my high instantly.

“Wha-a…?”

I felt it necessary to adjust your adrenal levels, Bert said hesitantly. It is a violation of trust, but I saw no other way of moderating the chemical high that has made your behaviour so…erratic.

“No. It’s fine.” My head was pounding and I could swear that I felt furry at the back of my neck, but at least I didn’t have the overwhelming urge to kiss every tree in the forest anymore. “I was hoping I’d found an easy source of energy for the next while, but...”

As to that, it occurs to me that I may have a solution. Pick up one of those green fruit and press it to any exposed skin on Gunga. I can adjust its nitrogen levels and thereby increase the amount of protein it can provide.

I did as Bert asked, but rather than eat the result, put it in my holding bag for later. My health was still at its maximum despite the curtailed mental effects, and the fruit’s taste was hardly on a par with chocolate—or even the deliciously sugary fuchsia.

I would suggest removing any remaining stimulant you might carry.

“That’s okay. It might come in handy one day.” Not an addict, not at all.

Just…be careful.

“Actually, do you think you could dilute it into a caffeine substitute?”

Arline…

“I’m kidding!” I lifted up my hand to scratch the furry sensation under my hair. “I wouldn’t really— Erk!” I screamed as the fur moved under my fingers and small claws scrabbled against my neck. “There’s something in my hair!”

Let me see.

I carefully lifted up my mop and felt movement again as whatever had taken up residence shifted to find a less exposed position.

“Is it another bat?” I shivered in revulsion.

Actually, no. I could hear the smile in Bert’s mind-voice. You seem to have picked up a hitchhiking lemur.

I frowned, but the knowledge that it was something cute and harmless did calm me down. “I thought lemurs were as big as monkeys. Whatever is back there hardly feels like anything.”

It’s called a mouse lemur. There are approximately twenty different varieties, no bigger than their namesakes. Though they’re usually nocturnal, sleeping in tree hollows during the day.

“Which Gunga probably just destroyed.”

That would be a valid hypothesis.

I reached for the lemur with my free hand and gently pried him loose, paying for the relocation with scratches and a chunk of hair that he decided to take with him. But looking at him, you couldn’t begrudge the blood or the painful souvenir.

He was tiny; all eyes and tail and not a lot else. Even smaller than a mouse, really, which made me wonder how old he was. I put the question to Bert while I ruffled his soft fur with the tip of my finger.

The AI hmmed, accessing its data banks. Not a baby, it concluded, but not quite an adult. It is probably in its first year of life.

“Aww. And we wrecked his first home.” I looked around for a suitable substitute but couldn’t find any nearby. Gunga had done a really good job of demolishing any potential candidates. We would have to travel farther before he could be released.

In the meantime, I couldn’t carry him everywhere, and if he was nocturnal I had to keep him out of the sun. The morning light was probably hurting his eyes. I searched in my holding bag until I found something I could use. The free baseball cap I’d received from ToolPlace after buying a large ceramic frog (don’t ask), would probably do the trick.

I bound the edges together with string, poking holes where necessary with my dagger, and left the gap at the back open as a window and a mode of egress. The way he was clutching my finger made me doubt he was a defenestration risk.

When it was done it looked like a duck-diaper hybrid, but the little guy wasn’t fussy about the appearance of his accommodations. He scooted quickly inside and made little chittering sounds as he inspected it, leaning against the walls and ceiling with his front paws before curling into a tiny ball on the foam floor and tucking his tail around his face.

I carefully secured his hammock to my harness, much like I’d done for Gunga’s cup-feeder. At least the hat was a lot softer, though I hoped the movement wouldn’t disturb his sleep.

“Right, guys. Time to move out.”

I could swear Gunga turned her head away deliberately before moving once more into her trail-blazing position.

Jealousy? Surely not.