Brandt stared at the domed ceiling.

An offered hand entered into his vision. “You are doing better, Bakrtet,” the voice attached to the hand said.

Brandt let his confusion over the name show and then shook his head. “That name.”

The face of Mihriar — young, handsome, and straight — smiled down at Brandt. “Why did they make it so we can’t use our real names?”

Brandt frowned in thought. “Online gaming is littered with the desires to be someone else — to assume a role that extends and exceeds our mundane lives, to live in a world of fantasy. That and social integration and psychological identification.” He gave a reassuring smile. “By the time we leave here, the designers expect us to be one with the demons — to support them and to fight for their causes.”

Already the human, Mihriar, was becoming redder and his fingernails were darkening and lengthening — no horns, no tail, and no wings, yet. But young, tall, and muscular was the most recent arrival, and his rapid changes crushed any hope that humans might escape this place.

Brandt ran his tongue along his teeth and felt his nicely developing fangs. “Perhaps even think of ourselves as demons.”

After his first session with Mother Succubus, Brandt could sense Mihriar in ways that was impossible in the real world.

Whispers came off of Mihriar. Whispers told of his fears. Whispers told of his sexual desires. The words required Brandt to concentrate on listening to them, but just being in proximity to Mihriar caused the voices to increase their volume.

This was a test of sorts. Mother Succubus wanted to know if Bakrtet could resist implanting his sexual desires into Mihriar, or if Bakrtet could resist implanting his fears into Mihriar.

So far, Brandt hadn’t completely failed.

When Mihriar had looked at Brandt appraisingly and licked his lips, Brandt almost fled the room. Brandt reined in whatever insidious noise he made.

Mihriar looked at his extended hand with a frown. “What shade do you think I’ll become?” His eyes showed a little too much white — but even the whites were turning grey heading toward the black. Brown irises started looking more like coins. Not enough to be freaky, yet.

Brandt shook his head and tried to keep his rising fear from his voice. “I didn’t mean —”

Mihriar held up a hand. “Stop. I understand the basics of social imprinting — got a good dose when I did my peace officer training. Is there a way to keep social imprinting from happening?” His voice held a professionalism to cover his fear.

But Brandt stared at Mihriar’s skin color. Although Brandt’s skin color hadn’t changed, he could feel Bekrtet wanting to feed on the ever-present fear. Bekrtet could devour Mihriar’s fear and make the mutation easier to accept. An exchange of this fear for —

Brandt shook his head. “This is a game. Logging out and experiencing reality will —”

Mihriar shook his head. “Yeah, but we are locked in this game for a month.” There was a different fear in his voice.

Bekrtet whispered how to regulate this fear — how to expose it, how to amplify it, how to banish it.

Brandt shivered. “I missed that notification. Even so, this isn’t permanent.”

Bekrtet whispered, “What are you leaving behind?”

Brandt grabbed the offered hand and pulled himself to his feet. He turned to walk away — this was too much. He needed to get out of here before —

“But what is the motive?” Mihriar asked — a child lost in a sea of adults.

Brandt froze. He had used that voice back in the House — afraid someone might hear, afraid no one would hear. He turned back. I hear you. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry. One of things to look for in crimes — the motive. Why would Beyul Corporation want to lock players in their game world for a month? Until we know that …” Mihriar shrugged. His professional façade returned. “Regardless we have over six hundred hours of game-play experience.” He gave a false smile. “Let’s get back to training.”

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Brandt said, “When I asked to learn how to fight, this isn’t what I meant —”

“I know,” Mihriar interrupted. “But when it comes to fighting, nothing can be left to base instinct. Things get messy if you do. Too many instincts lead into blind panic. Sooner or later you are going to end up falling, so, you have to know how to fall properly. You don’t want a fall to ruin your chances to live.” His cheeks took on more red. “I always thought falling drills were fun. Sorry.”

Even with his authoritative façade, Mihriar didn’t look old enough to legally drink.

“How old were you when you started?” Brandt gave his best supportive smile.

Mihriar shrugged. “I’ve been doing martial arts as long as I can remember. I had my black belt before age twelve.” He scratched at the back of his neck. His hair was thinning toward a mohawk — not that Mihriar wore his hair long, just a bit longer than a buzzcut. But the sides were going bald.

Bekrtet whispered, “Why? Why did you get your black belt?”

Mihriar’s eyes unfocused to better view the past. “We all did.”

Brandt wanted to run but, “That sounds like an impressive accomplishment.”

Mihriar shrugged, again. “It was necessary. We had to keep up.”

Brandt frowned and put on his best social-worker support face.

Bekrtet whispered, “Who did you have to keep up with?”

Mihriar shook his head, and his expression closed. “You will meet him. He’s the reason we are trapped in here.”

Brandt tried to keep the demon within quiet. “My ex is the reason I’m here.”

Mihriar chuckled. “You might think that now, but the kid will change your mind —”

“Wait. You are trying to keep up with a kid? What age is he?”

Mihriar hesitated like he believed he had given up a major secret. He shook his head and frowned. “Damn. We don’t get the chance to talk about it among ourselves. I need to find a better social group.” He turned away.

“Trust us…”

Mihriar staggered.

Brandt added, “If it helps, I’m a licensed social worker. Anything you tell me will be kept in confidence — patient confidentiality.”

Mihriar shook his head but looked back at Brandt. His eyes were slow to focus. “To answer your question, he is twelve.”

“And you’re what? Nineteen?”

“Yeah.”

“And you find this twelve-year-old intimidating?”

Mihriar shook his head in a firm negative. “We are not having this conversation. Not right now.” He squared his body toward Brandt.

“I’m sorry. I didn't mean to strike a nerve.”

“Trust us. Tell us why a twelve-year-old frightens you.”

Mihriar took a breath and became very still. “Intimidation isn’t the right word. He is … I am …” He seemed confused and tried to shake himself free of the whispers. “I am one of his babysitters. I am supposed to protect him.”

“It must be comforting for him —”

Mihriar made a sharp hand gesture. “No. People are not people to him. It is hard to explain. He is …” He shrugged hopelessly and returned to some unseen past.

“Trust us. Tell us who he is.”

Mihriar bulked at that whisper and retreated a step.

“Why do you have to keep up with him?”

“We have to keep up with him so we can protect him.” Mihriar was breathing heavy. He struggled to take another step away. He managed to turn so he wasn’t looking at Brandt.

“Why do you fear him?”

Mihriar grabbed his head and fell to his knees. “I was supposed to be free of him until college.”

“So, for four years?” Brandt asked. He needed to be in control of the whispers. He needed to keep the whispers from affecting others. He needed to protect everyone from the demon inside of him.

Mihriar shook his head. “Never fall into the trap of thinking him to be normal. Never think you understand him. Never think you know his limits.” He shook his head more vigorously. “He will crush you if you do.”

The doubt Brandt felt must have shown through his professional mask.

“You can’t imagine. You can’t understand. How could you?” He squeezed his head. “The …” He was in pain and panting heavily.

Brandt knelt and lifted Mihriar’s chin. “Look at me.”

Mihriar’s head lulled from side to side.

“Look at me.”

Golden eyes finally focused on Brandt.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You don’t have to say anything. Just breathe.”

Mihriar nodded, closed his eyes, dropped his hands, and breathed.

Mother Succubus stepped out of her hiding place in the open, empty practice room. She knelt and placed a hand on Mihriar’s forehead. “Thou needs to be careful with this one. His mind has been warded. Push too hard and the wards will destroy him.”

She whispered into Mihriar’s ear words which Brandt didn’t catch.

She then stood. “Bekrtet, thou needs better control over thine impulses. If thou doesn’t, thou will become the monster our enemies want us to be. Try again.”

Brandt bowed his head, “Yes, Mother Succubus.”

She walked away and then snapped her fingers.

Mihriar stood up and extended his hand toward Brandt. He blinked twice and smiled. “I think that is enough of a break. Let’s get back to training.

“The thing about learning to fight in real-life, it takes time and dedication. Adults can earn a black belt in about four years. If you are really devoted, you can earn one in six months, but the time commitment is total.” He nodded toward Brandt’s slave disciple collar. “You have another commitment on your time. So, let’s work on some fill-in skills, and let’s practice with a few maneuvers which will give you the best utility. As we have time, we can add to that base.”

Brandt frowned at the exact same spiel Mihriar gave before the falling exercises. “Back to falling?”

“Let’s do shoulder rolls. Then we can work on not getting hit.”

Brandt accepted the hand and got to his feet. “Sounds like a plan.”

For a just a moment Brandt wondered how the game allowed the hacking of a real player’s brain, then he had to learn to do somersaults when thrown.