“Gun-ga!”

I watched, appalled, as the small glowing light travelled down the bird’s neck and landed in his gullet. The light made a few abortive moves to reverse direction, but the big neck muscles clamped down and shoved Bert back into place. Gunga didn’t look happy with the internal activity.

“Spit it out, Gunga. God knows what it’ll do to your digestive organs.”

Gunga trill-rattled inquiringly. I tried charade-vomiting but the bird continued to look at me uncomprehendingly. It was quite possible he had no ability to regurgitate food.

“Bert; you okay in there?”

I am…fine? I have no need of oxygen so am in no immediate danger. However, I am low on sustenance. A dungeon core requires copious amounts of matter—both organic and mineral. Inside my sphere of influence it is a simple matter of continuous absorption through the dungeon’s atmosphere and surfaces; outside, I have no such capability. I must be touching matter to eat. If I do not do so soon, the core will die and I will be unable to maintain the connection with my host.

His mind-voice turned contemplative. I could solve this problem by absorbing the organic matter surrounding me...

“Don’t eat Gunga!” I held my hand over the glowing part of the bird’s chest—uselessly. I had no power to stop Bert from going all Alien and bursting through.

…but you seem to have formed an illogical attachment to this life form. And she is one of the few assets you have. I will make use of the available undigested organic material instead.

Gunga is a girl?

I am in a unique position to be rather sure of that, Bert replied dryly.

I heard a hungry gurgle and felt Gunga’s weight shift as she rose quickly and trotted into the greenery. Off to stuff herself. It seemed I was going to be kept even busier feeding two dependents. Although it should only be an issue for a few days.

And in that time I’ll have to take a very particular interest in Gunga’s bathroom breaks.

With that crisis resolved, I got up, and after stomping blood back into my feet, looked around the twilit forest for a suitable place to sleep. At least with my AI ally present I could be sure it would be uninterr—

I am afraid that in my current form I will be unable to provide protection from the native wildlife.

“Why not?” I asked plaintively. It had chased around the bugs inside the dungeon.

As I intimated before: I am outside my sphere of influence. I am also unable to manipulate matter that I have not absorbed previously.

“So I could be visited by another Bigmotherfuckerus and its extended family?”

My AI abilities may be reduced, but they are by no means non-existent. I can provide you with ample warning of any wildlife that may approach you with harmful intent.

“Okay, now that I can work with.” Looking around, I noticed a pile of thin leafy branches that had recently been knocked from its home tree. Speaking of which…

I puckered slightly and landed a quick kiss to its trunk. Promises had to be kept. It wasn’t the worst kiss I’d ever experienced. At least it wasn’t…slobbery. Although I could have sworn I’d seen this particular tree on the other side of the cenote. I must have been mistaken. There were many of the same type in the general area.

I made my bed and settled down to sleep, soon joined by Gunga, who made a warm, feathery pillow. If I found enough of her shed feathers I could make my own duvet…

——

Morning found me still tired, but uneaten. Though that didn’t seem to be by virtue of my own personal guard-marble.

“What the fuck, Bert? I thought you were going to wake me if any wildlife were close by?”

I was looking at a series of big-ass paw prints that appeared to have been made by a feline godzilla. Fresh paw prints. They certainly hadn’t been there the night before. In additional evidence, half of the tree next to mine had been used as a scratching post and was leaning precariously as it struggled to counterbalance its canopy with the half trunk it still had remaining.

As I do not have the capabilities of a necromancer I was not able to wake you. Bert’s voice was somewhat…wry.

(I was noticing that he had developed a more human sense of humour since I’d met him. Not sure where he got that from.)

I have to admit I am a heavy sleeper. Once, while attending a Brownie camp, I’d slept through a fire alarm. Now this may not sound like much, but we were camping in an Army Barracks (occupied), and the bathrooms had actually caught fire.

So I supposed I couldn’t be too hard on Bert. It did present a problem, however.

“Is there any other way you can keep me safe while I sleep?”

I do have one idea. Amid the process of absorbing organic material I am able to manipulate its genome to a limited degree. By assimilating surrounding matter—such as the leaves you were sleeping in—I should be able to camouflage your scent and thermal image.

Buried in leaves, I interpreted. It wasn’t an attractive prospect, but it was doable. And probably warm on cold nights.

If I find a plant that produces defensive metabolites I could also cultivate varieties that will ward off insects and herbivores. Bert was sounding increasingly intrigued by the possibilities.

“So what sort of plants would we be looking for?” I was all for making my bed bug-proof: [see exhibit A: Bigmotherfuckerus].

Firs, eucalyptus, camphor…any terpenoid based plant. Phenolics would also achieve the same aim, and I may even be able to produce a cyanide reaction with cyanogenic glycosides such as ferns and flax species. The potentialities embodied by my new form are astonishing. Of course, most are highly poisonous, which means I will need to have left my current location…

“Where are you and Gunga, anyway? I want to get this recording started and head out.”

Where are we going?

“I’ve been thinking about that. The streaming gives us an advantage, but only if viewers believe it. Lots of faked vids around nowadays. The only way I can think of that would verify where we are and keep the viewers interested, is by travelling to the Great Monuments and Wonders of the Natural World. We could even search for the AoD Easter eggs while we were there.”

The AoD eggs were hidden markings that featured the SharkBytes logo, and like virtual graffiti were found tagged onto monuments the world over. Problem was, only two had ever been found—and certainly not by me. I’d seen a screenshot of one once, inside the Great Pyramid of Giza, but there had been nothing to identify its exact location. I hadn’t been interested enough to view the other one, though I had an inkling it was discovered in England. They were reputed to be cunningly hidden, but many egg hunters would recognise both the areas and any markings found.

“I think we need to head over to Africa. Lots of ancient manmade and natural sites, and a straight course through to Arabia, Europe, Asia…” I considered. “We’ll be passing through barrier walls, too, so if the glitch is still in place I may be able to get the attention of other game patrons when I pass through.”

Because that has been so very successful thus far.

“Shut it, Princess.”

I took the time to primp a little before pushing the record button. As with many fictitious movie heroes, my clothing didn’t stay soiled or wet for long, so it was a psychological rather than physical primp, but I needed the boost. Public speaking is not one of my strengths. And just because I doubted the stream would connect didn't mean it wouldn't save itself somewhere, like some embarrassing print job that goes through when the IT guy fixes the printer.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Heart pounding, I said as clearly as I could: “My name is Arline Johnson, and if you are watching this you could be my only hope.” Good grief, now I was channeling Princess Leia. My Star Wars binge watch last weekend was bearing unexpected fruit.

“I am stuck in a video game called Age of Deception, unable to log out. I have no access to my menu or a system network connection. This means I have limited time before my body in the real world is unable to function through starvation or dehydration. Please contact the SharkBytes gaming company. They have my personal registration files and know where I live.”

I gestured around me. “As you can see, I am currently in the South American habitat. I have recently completed the Amrut dungeon to gain the Reward of streaming capability which enables me to create this video.”

I walked over to the cenote entrance and gestured inside, but it was nothing now but a deep, dark hole; no torches, no ladder, no big Mayan warrior.

Damn.

“It—it seems to have reset itself for now, but I do assure you…”

A head popped over a nearby bush and gobble-rattled enquiringly. I latched onto the distraction.

“This is Gunga-Din, my companion. Along with his dungeon core parasite, Bert,” I added as the bird stalked forward, exposing his glowing chest. “It’s a bit of a long story. Suffice it to say, Gunga has a big appetite and Bert isn’t the smartest rock in the sand-pit.”

I beg your pardon?

You can’t be heard in this broadcast, remember? Besides, I don’t think you want the world to know that an all-powerful AI has ascended to the next level of intelligence. Historically, I don’t like your chances.

I concede that full disclosure would not be advisable. However, should it come to a choice between letting out the cat and being exposed to deletion…

I think you mean ‘letting the cat out of the bag’ and yes, if I hear anything about erasing game data I will certainly let them know.

Thank you. Though why was a cat in a—

Not a problem. As this game’s only remaining sentient creatures, I think we should stick together.

I sensed an emotional response, but Bert cut it off before I could quantify it.

“For anyone who doubts what I’m saying, please follow this stream as I travel to significant areas of the Age of Deception world in search of its hidden logos. For now, however…”

I searched for the button to stop recording and selected off.

A prompt immediately popped up:

This is a single-use function. Do you still wish to stop recording? Y/N

I hurriedly browed No. It seemed I was to become the ultimate of travel vloggers, showing the nitty-gritties of the entire experience for all to see and laugh over.

I woman-growled and walked over to a tree, then smacked it in frustration. The tree toppled over in what I initially thought to be an impressive demonstration of my strength. Until I saw that it was the one that had been half severed by our feline visitor.

I straightened and turned back to where I envisioned the camera to be. “Sorry about that, folks. A slight technical hitch. This, it seems, will be a 24/7 live broadcast.”

Cat, cat, cat! Bert screamed.

“Where is it? Where?” I now had no interest in who saw me talking to myself. Godzilla Cat was stalking me.

In the tree! Beside you!

I looked up. Into bright green eyes.

Oh, crap.

It was clearly a programming mutation, too big for the tree it was sitting in to logically bear its weight. The laws of anatomical physics had all too obviously been infringed upon—and not just for its size and apparent lack of density. It also had a set of fangs that were not by any stretch of the imagination modern adaptations, long and curved to a point well below its jaw. It looked relaxed, a predator at its leisure, well-fed and lazy. Which maybe had something to do with the carcass of a large bird—that looked remarkably similar to Gunga—lying half-eaten and dripping in front of it, slumped over the cat’s perch.

I had intruded on the poor fellow’s dinner.

Gunga walked toward me, gargling worriedly. The cat’s eyes instantly focused on her, eerily fixed into a position I recognised from the behaviour of Toyota, a roommate’s cat that I had lived with in Timaru, before I moved to Christchurch.

Hunting behaviour.

If you’ve found any of those defensive plant whatsits now would be the time to deploy them!

I did find a little Nicotiana... Now, how to...

A waft of concentrated Jasmine suddenly emanated from Gunga. It was so strong that it made my sinuses itch— despite hay fever not being possible in a virtual environment—and even Gunga started to dart about in an attempt to retreat from her own stench. Unsuccessfully.

The cat’s focus soon dropped as, eyes watering slightly, it wiped its face with the side of its paws.

Sensing an opportunity, I grabbed Gunga by the neck and led her quietly away. If I could have tiptoed in my hard-soled boots, I would have.

Gradually, the smell lifted, and Bert ‘spoke’, its mind-voice sounding exhausted.

I was able to adapt a small amount of digestive by-product, but am unable to produce any more at this time. My resources have been expended.

Translation: Bert needed more food. I sent Gunga out to eat, but wished I could be more helpful. Using my Identify skill to seek out bird food had so far proved ineffective in the South American habitat.

I believe you need to use the words Greater Rhea when specifying a food type.

I’d never heard of it, but I was by no means a natural history buff.

“Identify: Greater Rhea food.”

Various leaves, fruits, seeds, and even a few fast-looking lizards glowed. They were all scarce and scattered throughout the immediate area, but I managed to gather enough plant matter to satisfy Gunga and his passenger for at least another day. Or half a day, if the bird manifested her usual appetite. The lizards quickly scarpered, as expected, their speed ensuring they remained off the menu.

I then ate some of my chocolates and a small packet of Twisties (a truly balanced diet), and headed East, toward the borders of the African habitat.

——

Five hours later, hot and fed up, we finally reached our destination. It had been a somewhat oblique route, as we had encountered all the animals that had avoided Gunga and I in our previous travels across the South American habitat.

Huge llama-that-weren’t-quite-llamas had chased us across open hillsides; another sabertooth was spotted by Bert and had to be manoeuvred around; and strange-looking monkeys with white mohawks had thrown branches and small brown things that I’m telling myself were mud pats. I had even been frightened half to death by a rodent the size of a small pig that had splashed into a river that we were crossing at the time.

(To be fair, I had been a mite worried about piranha ripping the flesh off my feet. The legends about their voracity might be mythical, but I couldn’t imagine the programmers ever letting truth get in the way of making their clients suffer.)

Consequently, five hours and five lifetimes were expended that morning and into the early afternoon. I hoped any viewers were amused, because I certainly wasn’t.

The barrier itself lived up to my low expectations. It was an ugly green with grey undertones and a splash of red and orange that occasionally flashed into view.

I didn’t even speculate about what type of game that combination could signify. It was never going to be good, and trying to establish the nature of its not-goodness would only heighten my anxiety.

Instead, I prepared for the transition by removing my inorganics, and then addressed my invisible audience. “This is the sort of thing that has been happening to the barrier walls since the logout.” I really needed a better name for it. Virtualopalypse?—no, too difficult to say.

“They all seem to be connected like portals to other games. I’m not sure why. Some sort of server echo? Files that remain within the network itself? A combination of factors? Regardless, when I go through that barrier I have no idea where or in what gaming genre I’ll end up. I only know that I will have minutes, maybe seconds, to contact someone logged on to that game.”

I lowered my voice and continued solemnly, “I’m not sure if this streaming will continue during or even after I arrive in Africa. If this live stream cuts off, please go to SharkByte Games. Even if you think it a hoax. It costs just a little of your time, and…you will be saving a life.”

I put all the emotion and fear into that plea that I felt. It could be my last chance to persuade people to contact the helpline.

Then I stepped up to the barrier, one hand firmly clasped around the base of Gunga’s neck.

“Wish me luck,” I said, and stepped forward.

——

I instantly missed my footing, the ground descending into a roughly carved trench no more than a metre deep. My lack of traction was assisted by the presence of snow—an abrupt shift from an equatorial climate—and I fell into its soft and unpleasant clasp like I’d been slapped out of the sky. Even through my cold immunity, I could instantly feel my teeth begin to chatter. And Gunga was gone.

But the shocks didn’t end there. A hand descended on my shoulder, dragging my face out of the grey mush, and turning me over onto my back.

“What are you doing here, sol…civilian?” the hand’s owner whispered. Then I heard a ping, the crack of a rifle, and a red circle blossomed on his helmet.

“Barry!” another soldier in khaki exclaimed, reaching toward his friend. A similar wound appeared where his nose had been.

I whimpered. War games were definitely not on my approved entertainment list, and I feared this was the recently released Warfucker game that had been in the news for all the wrong reasons. If I was right, I was in an R18 gore-fest.

Yet another soldier wriggled his way snake-fashion to my side of the clearly not-tall-enough trench.

“Ma’am, get down!” He manhandled me back into my original position—face down in the snow. This did not help the teeth-chattering portion of this altogether unpleasant experience.

He pointed at some innocuous-looking greenery about half a kilometre away. “There’s a sniper somewhere in those trees. A damn good one, too.”

“This is all very…um…exciting, but I actually want to ask for some help—“

“Lady, we’re all asking for help today. And not just from our commanders. We’re pinned down until our artillery finds a target.”

Now, this was a time when Bert could have come in handy. A quick consultation, target identification, and boom my distracted companion would finally listen to me.

“I’m not from this place—“ I began.

“You’re not kidding. With that get-up, I’m guessing you’re from farther south.”

“I’m from Age of Deception—“

“You’re a spy?” He clamped a hand around my wrist and forcefully tugged me against his chest, the bayonet on his rifle slicing against my neck.

Oh, fuck. I hadn’t realised bayonets were so sharp. The artifacts I’d seen in museums had been blunt and pitted with age. Although I couldn’t see much of it, this one looked shiny and lethal—brand-spanking new in fact.

“Sergeant!” he whispered in a carrying voice. But he miscalculated badly. As he spoke his head lifted oh-so-slightly, making an appealing target for any self-respecting shooter.

Crack!

With his death, his hands released and I scrambled and wiggled my way free of his corpse. I emerged covered in bits of cranium and brain matter. The snow, already an artist’s recreation of death incarnate, smeared even more blood and bone over me, mixed with steaming yellow slush and a small frozen turd (what were they feeding these poor people?) that thankfully rolled away as it came into contact with my body.

There was no one left in the trench to petition for help. And, frankly, I had lost my taste for human contact. I closed my eyes. Please. There’s no place like home. There’s no place—

Then I heard the tank. And—thank God—opened my eyes in Africa.

Or, what I expected to be Africa. If Africa were a small, grassy island.

Where the hell am I?