“Let’s have it,” Meriwether said before she even said hello.

“Well, it’s—it’s definitely not a bug.”

“Then what is it?”

“I, ah . . . ah . . .”

“Spit it out, Jeri. What the hell is happening?”

“I … I actually think it might be real.”

“Real? What do you mean “real”? What’s real?”

“I think Troth might be alive.”

“Alive? Are you high?”

Clearly this wasn’t the answer he wanted from her.

“Jeri, Troth is computer code. You wrote him. You made him. He’s ones and zeros; he’s pixels on a screen.”

Pixies, she thought. What if the blond was right after all? It seemed more reasonable to think Troth was made of mischievous fairies than dots.

“This has gone on too long. My no comment stance isn’t cutting it, and now the Chief of Staff is calling from the White House. I’m getting paranoid about a Black Hawk helicopter landing on my front yard and guys in dark suits and glasses taking me away. James Hartwell and a majority of the board—who am I kidding—the entire board wants this issue to disappear. Great advertising, but there is such a thing as too much. Pull the plug, Jeri. You’re the Project Lead. Tell your team to delete Troth from the game, or reset it, or whatever it is you need to do to make this stop, but I want the game up and running normally by seven. Do you understand me?”

“Yeah. I understand.”

She ended the call and set the phone down and looked at her computer screen. The small window reserved for in-game dialog was littered with messages from Troth.

While she watched, another appeared. “You’re not here,” he said. “I can tell. I’ve seen others stare like that.”

More appeared in rapid succession. “Where are you, Havalar? Can you hear me? Havalar? Havalar? Havalar? Don’t go. Don’t leave. Havalar, I’m scared.”

That last comment made her sit back down in front of the keyboard.

“I’m here.” Her character repeated her typed words.

Relief washed over his face. “Thank you. I thought . . .”

“What did you think?”

He hesitated. “You’re a god, aren’t you? Or maybe you’re the God.”

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugged. “The way you’re dressed. I’ve seen those same clothes on very weak people. You’re what people refer to as Level One or Newbie. Most of those can be killed by piddling spiders or small rats, but I don’t think a spider would kill you. I don’t think I could kill you. I don’t think you fear anyone, not even Azogath himself, because he’s not a real god but you are.”

He lowered his head and traced the table’s wood grain with a finger. “I also think you’re trying to decide whether to kill me, because I’m not supposed to ask these questions or think these thoughts.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Listen,” she typed, “I have to go.”

“No!” he shouted, bumping the table as he moved closer. “No, please. I need to know. If I’m going to die, I want to know if there is a God and if there is any meaning to my existence.”

Jeri pressed a hand to her lips, shocked at the rush of sympathy and self-hatred inside her. The clock read 5:58. It would take a while to reformat the drives and reload the code, and then they would need to test. Time was short, but she felt a responsibility to Troth. He was asking the same questions everyone did, but she could give him some answers. She owed him that much.

“I created you,” she typed.

Troth’s eyes went wide. She thought he might fall to his knees, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “Are you going to kill me?”

She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, so she typed “/nod” to make her avatar answer through body language.

He shook his head and stared at his feet. “Why did you bother making me then?”

Jeri thought about that for a moment. There was only one answer, but it killed her to type it. “For entertainment. For fun.”

He stared at her. She expected more shock, perhaps outrage, but he didn’t even seem surprised.

“So, it really is just a game, isn’t it? All this is fake. Invented.”

“How did you know?”

“Like I said, too many things don’t make sense. An existence that starts nowhere and goes nowhere is pointless. Appearing out of nothing and vanishing back into it—that’s not sensible. And the world is flawed.”

“What do you mean by ‘flawed’?”

“There’s all sorts of problems. Kobolds, for example. They’re constantly attacking travelers. And the wars between the goblins and the men cause such loss, and rats infest every city. No matter how hard we try, no matter how many rats are killed, there are always more.”

“That’s . . .” She thought a moment, her fingers hovering over the keys. “By design.”

“You wanted an evil world?”

“It’s not evil. It’s a challenge. What fun would it be to have a world with nothing to do? Nothing to fix? Nothing to save? Your world is for enjoyment, regardless of what a person’s idea of pleasure is. If you want to get rich, kill kobolds and sell their hides. You can do that. If you want to help defenseless people, well, there are the kobolds, aren’t there? There’s something for everyone.”

He paused, his eyes darting in thought, his brows furrowing. “What about—why do children—why do some people die before they even get a chance to play?”

Jeri thought a moment, then it hit her. “You’re just seeing people log into the game and then back out. Not everyone likes this game. They probably find another one they like better.”

“Do people come back? I’ve met people that seem familiar but aren’t. Sometimes they are of a completely different race, or a different gender. Still, I’d swear I knew them before.”

“A player can be more than one person, but not at the same time.”

Troth looked at her. He stared into her eyes. “I’m not going to come back, am I?”

She emoted for her head to shake.

Troth’s big lower lip began to tremble and his eyes grew glassy. “A shame. I recently discovered how to read. The symbols represent sounds, don’t they? The sign outside this place says ‘The Chimera Tavern,’ doesn’t it?”

Jeri picked up her phone and used the “recent list” to call Meriwether. Asking Siri to do something she could do herself suddenly felt wrong. “We can’t shut it down,” she told him. “It’s murder.”

“Jeri, it’s just a game.”

“It’s not a game—not anymore. And Troth—Troth is a freaking genius. Seriously, he could be smarter than Stephen Hawking. He’s Einstein and Socrates rolled into one. He taught himself to read!”

“Troth isn’t anything. We’re shutting it down.”

“No, we’re not,” Jeri said. “I’ll quit, Brandon. I’m not kidding.”

“That threat didn’t work the last time, kiddo, and it’s not going to this time either.”

“I’m telling you, I won’t do it.” Her hand clutching the phone was sweating.

“You don’t have to. I am.”

“You . . .”

We’re shutting it down.

“Where are you, Brandon?”

Her phone vibrated and a text message appeared. Ajit: Meriwether brought security. Pulling the plug!

“God damn it, Brandon, don’t you do it!”

“You’ve gone away again, haven’t you?” Troth asked. “Please don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone. I’m scared. I know that sounds strange. I look like a big, strong goblin, but . . . well, you made me, so you should know.”

That’s when she lost it. Lack of sleep, maybe. Years of frustration, possibly. Most likely it was that big green face looking back at her. Troth was scared to death but blinking back tears and trying to act brave.

“Brandon, you bastard!” she screamed into the phone. “DO—NOT—TURN—OFF—THE—SYSTEM!”

The call ended.