I open my eyes and find myself floating in a sea of stars. At first, I can’t tell if I’m dreaming, falling, or just lost.

The vastness of space stretches out in a dark canvas dotted with countless points of light. There’s nothing solid out here, nothing familiar to hold on to—just the weightless sensation of drifting, surrounded by an endless night.

Panic sinks its sharp claws into me. My thoughts begin to race. I question how I got here until I remember reactivating the SagaPod Dad had gifted me when I was younger and never used.

Dad. Oh my god. I need to find him.

As if responding to me, the stars shift, sharpening, pulling themselves into focus, forming patterns and shapes that change into game menus hovering in the void.

Text appears in front of me, glowing softly.

I must have made it then. I didn’t die in the login process.

Welcome.

The voice pierces the floating universe.

Welcome.

It repeats itself as if knowing I wasn’t paying attention.

“Hi?” I ask it.

Welcome to The Navigator Saga.

I reorient myself, recalling.

The Navigator Saga. The virtual reality MMORPG my dad spent so much time playing—too much time, really. He became addicted to it, using it as an escape from the harshness of his reality and, as I suspected, the failing relationship with my stepmother.

And now, he’s planning to kill himself.

Unless I can stop him.

Menus pop up and spin around me like I’m at the center of some cosmic control panel or a casino in zero-G with all the slot machines unbolted from the floor.

Please choose your class.

The feminine voice prompts me again, emanating from the entire universe, yet at a volume that doesn’t overwhelm me. It’s a bit soothing, if not pressing, like an older sister guiding you. I never had an older sister.

Holograms of character classes play out in front of me as I spin. Some are martial artists in neo-gothic black trenchcoats, performing back flips while firing dual-wield pistols. Others are hulking armored knights with assault rifles and long brightly lit blades. A few are robed figures that clap their hands together and unleash torrents of purple energy that must be spells. Some classes even seem passive, just standing there presiding over legions of soldiers watching them.

I fully experience the paradox of choice at that moment. So many options are open to me, but I can’t choose. Worse, I’m not sure if any of it matters. All I want to do is find my Dad and tell him he shouldn’t do what he plans.

I spin around, seeing all the available classes once, twice, three times until I think I’m becoming nauseous, whatever that means here.

Indecision detected.

“You’ve got that right,” I say.

A new option appears, shrinking the other classes and taking center stage in my foreground.

Saga-Recommended Class.

Bonuses

Additional permanent boost to attribute points.

Additional starting currency.

Additional abilities can be unlocked at higher levels.

I steady myself, reading the bonuses. Those sound alright, but I probably won’t need them. I’ll only be here until I find my Dad, which won’t be very long.

I choose the option for a Saga-Recommended class.

Your Saga-Recommended class is…

Calculating…

I wait. And wait.

Calculating…

I don’t have time for this. Every second that passes is crucial.

Calculating…

“Come on!”

Calculating…

“Is this a freaking joke?”

Your recommended class is…

“Yeah?”

Calculating…

“What the heck!” I’m about to lose my cool and log out.

But before I can, one of the classes I had skimmed past now drifts into my vision. Videos play out before me. I see what looks like a decorated military officer standing atop a tower. The camera zooms out to reveal the enormous tower—so large that it stands over an entire city. I estimate the structures surrounding it are three or four stories tall, but to the tall tower, and seen from afar, they look like small bushes.

That’s when I notice the tower’s details, the windows and modules that house people—tons of people. Huge pods also hang onto the side of the tower, emitting smoke. I wonder why until the smoke turns to fire and the tower lifts off from the kingdom.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Holy crap,” I say. “That’s a ship.”

Your Saga-Recommended class is…

Navigator.

I pause, reading the rectangle floating in front of me. “Navigator?”

Navigator.

Your Saga-Recommended class is Navigator.

I struggle to match what I see in the video to a player class. I have so many questions. How does a Navigator work? Can they fight? If so, how? Or do they only fly their large ships all day? Are they just glorified NPCs filling the role of bus drivers or zeppelin pilots?

A box in front of me contains the navigator’s class description, but there’s enough text to fit a whole book, and I don’t have the time to read it. Every second here is a second spent not looking for my father.

I need to get moving—now.

“Summarize it, please.”

Summarizing…

“Jesus.” My patience thins by the second.

Summarizing…

“How long is this going to take?!”

Summarized.

Navigators are highly specialized operators with unparalleled control over the Arks. They are tasked with managing and defending those massive vessels. Playing as a Navigator requires immense strategic thinking, mental fortitude, and precision, making it a class not to be chosen by the faint of heart.

That’s a lot of mumbo-jumbo, and I don’t have the time to digest it now. I’m not planning to level up in this game, anyway. Dad is somewhere inside The Navigator Saga, and as soon as I find him, I’ll pull him out and remind him that he’s got an entire life to live.

I’ll also sell his Saga Pod while I’m at it, and mine, too. We could live off the proceeds of those machines for almost two years.

This game, anyway, is just an obstacle blocking me from my Dad. I couldn’t care less about it.

I skim the description of this “Navigator” class again, though, to be sure.

Navigators are highly specialized operators…

Wow. Being “highly specialized” sounds nice. That will come in handy for finding my dad, I think.

But then I see the last sentence, and I do a double-take.

Playing as a Navigator requires immense strategic thinking, mental fortitude, and precision, making it a class not to be chosen by the faint of heart.

Does this game think I exhibit “immense strategic thinking” or have “mental fortitude?” Sure, I’m more straight-edge than my dad, not having the same alcoholic tendencies he does, but that difference alone doesn’t say much. It’s not exactly something to brag about.

Do you accept this class? [Y/N]

I nearly smash the augmented green button labeled “Y,” floating before me—until I read the text underneath it. It’s all in caps, as if the game is screaming for my attention.

THIS DECISION IS FINAL.

I pause again, considering something that doesn’t make sense to me in the first place. So what if the “decision is final?” I’m only here to find my dad and get out. I’m never planning to log in again.

I inhale, considering the other classes.

But I don’t have time.

I smash the Y button.

DECISION FINALIZED.

I close and open my eyes, but I’m still swimming in that sea of stars, feeling weightless and aimless. There’s no one else here besides me, and I’m starting to think this is all The Navigator Saga is now. I haven’t seen Dad play it in years.

Welcome, Navigator.

Yuck. For some reason, that honorific makes me cringe. I don’t want to be tied to the game in any way. “My name is Galen.”

Welcome, Navigator Galen. Name chosen.

Ugh. I guess I’ll have to deal with that for a little while. At least this way, my father will be able to find me.

Right?

A thought hits me, freezing the small comfort I’d found. What if Dad’s not using his real name? People constantly change their names in these games. A new identity, a fresh start—maybe that’s what he was looking for.

But no, I saw the message typed out on the tablet at my bedside. It was unmistakable.

I’ll be gone. Forever.

Thinking of it now makes me want to tear up, even in this place.

I should have thought this all through. But then again, I didn’t exactly have time to plan. I just... I need to find him. Somehow.

Just as I’m thinking this, the sea of stars begins to blur, and then I realize it’s me who’s moving forward. I sail straight through the galaxy, the dust of stars and planets flying past me until I stop.

A planet hovers before me, the size of a beach ball from this distance.

NS—what I’m calling The Navigator Saga from now on—calls out to me.

Kefoine.

Kefoine is the starting planet of The Navigator Saga. It is lush and Earth-like, containing a breathable atmosphere for most evolved humans and a rich biodiverse landscape with bodies of water, mountains, icy tundras, forests, and more.

Subtitles superimpose themselves between me and the planet’s surface. Kefoine rotates slowly, revealing its vibrant, diverse terrain. I catch a view of continent-sized lakes, deserts, and what appear to be dull-colored flecks shooting throughout the planet’s orbit.

I’m about to ask what those are when a prompt flashes.

Please select your spawn point.

Oh God. I haven’t thought this far, either.

“Where can I go?” I ask NS.

Anywhere.

“Anywhere?”

Please select your spawn point.

“You know, you’re really not helpful sometimes.”

Command unknown. Please select your spawn point.

I don’t know why my dad likes this game very much—it’s not like it has a friendly tutorial.

But I don’t have time to worry about that. The entire planet is right here, spinning in front of me, and somewhere in this massive world, Dad is planning to end it all. I have to pick the right place. I can’t screw this up.

But where?

I zoom in, and the landscapes become more detailed, almost overwhelming. There are cities with thousands of players, and tall skyscrapers made of rusted steel. There are jungles with six and seven-limbed creatures and dozens of players fighting them off. My camera flies down a river and through a waterfall as I slip, looking for a place to land. Jungle temples, towering desert mesas with cities on top, and floating civilizations in the sky all pass me by.

There’s a lot of ground to cover, and my heart pounds faster as I try to focus. There are too many choices, and I don’t know where to begin.

I keep rotating the planet, zooming in and out, trying to spot anything that feels right. But the more I look, the more I realize I’m just guessing.

So, I try to put myself in Dad’s shoes, in his morbid frame of mind. It’s a door I don’t want to open, but I have to.

If Dad wanted to end it all, where would he go? Somewhere far from the crowds, maybe. Somewhere remote, where no one could stop him.

Then I see it.

It’s a wasteland of twisted metal, a graveyard of immense ruined structures that look like they’ve been torn apart and left to rust. Massive pinnacles of steel rise from fields of debris, their jagged edges and towering heights casting long, ominous shadows across the landscape. The place looks desolate, lonely, and isolated—perfect for someone who wants to be alone with their thoughts.

Or worse.

I zoom in on one of the tallest structures, a crumbling tower of steel beams and broken walkways. It’s carved in many places, and even now, players are scaling it and taking it apart with blowtorches as tall as they are.

But what interests me most is its height. The drop up there would be enough for such a fatal fall, especially onto a bed of jagged steel.

Damn. That place creeps me out. There, death feels almost certain. I don’t think about how I will traverse that debris-ridden landscape, only focusing on whether my Dad is there.

It seems the best option, so I tap the spot.

Spawn point confirmed. Please enjoy your stay in The Navigator Saga.

That was stupid. “Hey! What’s the name of the place I’m going?”

NS doesn’t answer.

The world around me shifts, the dark, twisted landscape of that broken steel graveyard coming into sharp focus. I close my eyes for a moment, bracing myself.

When I open them, I’m knee-deep in water—dirty, thick, filled with trash and mud. The stench of rust and decay hits me hard, making me gag. The air is heavy and suffocating.

Metal creaks intermittently in the distance, with nothing but silence in between.

I glance around, but there’s no sign of any other players.

“Hello!” I call, my voice echoing off the towering, jagged structures around me.

No reply.

“Hello! I’m trying to find my-”

“No Duff!” someone screams. “No Duff!”

I know that call. Dad taught me it. It means clear the radio chatter. It means something’s happened.

Something bad.

Oh crap.

I whirl around, searching for the source of the voice, but see no one. Then, slowly, I peer upwards.

Just in time to see something falling toward me.