“Watch what you think, they can read your mind. This is the beginning.

  We face our consequence. This is the beginning of the end.”

  - T. Reznor, Beginning of the End

  PLAYER 3 - NORA CATHCART

  Ultimately, it all came down to Nora.

  That was a difficult pill to swallow, but it was the only one left in the bottle. After a a revolving door of first dates, expensive matchmaking programs, and more than her share of drunken one night stands, she’d been left with only a hefty bar tab and a lot of unreturned text messages.

  At some point, she had to admit the common denominator was her. Nora simply “wasn’t partner material,” whatever the hell that meant. But she knew it was true because that little nugget of wisdom had been the last thing Julie said before ghosting her last month.

  Which was just as well. The fact that Julia had never volunteered her last name, or inquired about Nora’s, during the three weeks they were hooking up had, in retrospect, been a pretty glaring red flag.

  And okay sure, maybe sometimes she came off a bit desperate. But if any of her dates knew the real reason she was so interested in their company—the truth behind her crippling fear of being alone—they would be a lot more understanding.

  They also would flee the room screaming.

  But tonight, at least, things were looking up. The bar was exactly the right mix of sticky dive and bespoke cocktail, the crowd was large enough that conversations didn’t carry between tables but thin enough to avoid lines when ordering drinks, and the music was a throbbing pulse of electronic industrial.

  So far, so good. And, to top it all off, the young man sitting across the table was cute, intelligent, and, against all odds, seemed genuinely interested in their conversation.

  As an added bonus, his name, Xander, was fun to say. Maybe not the most important trait to seek out in a companion, but at this point Nora would take what she could get.

  “So, you have an archeology degree, then?” he asked, brushing a crop of brown hair from his eye.

  Nora watched him take a sip of vodka soda. He had nice hands. “Yeah, but it’s been a while since my last on-site gig.” That was a thread she didn’t want to pull, so she pivoted quickly. “For now, I’m doing a barista thing. The saddest part is it pays about the same.”

  “Why not teach?”

  “I hate kids,” she answered with a shrug. “And parents. And school.”

  Xander laughed. Another good sign. “Okay, then, what do you do for fun?”

  For the first time since they’d ordered drinks, Nora hesitated. These were all standard first date questions, and ideally, she’d have a laundry list of exciting hobbies for her answer: poetry, long walks on the beach, pottery…but the truth was a lot more myopic.

  Only one activity monopolized all her free time these days. It had to. It was her only chance at survival.

  “Video games,” she said finally, keeping her gaze firmly on the bourbon in front of her. “Really just one.” She lowered her voice. “Silverdawn.”

  Silverdawn was inarguably the most popular game on the planet, but it was also the most controversial. Fortunately, Xander didn’t seem put off by the notion of a hobby that encouraged players to plug into a content cube for days at a time.

  “My brother was really into that. He played a…oh, what was it called? ‘Bone’ something?”

  “Bone bender,” Nora blurted and immediately regretted how quickly she’d answered. Bad enough admitting she spent a huge chunk of her salary on a game subscription; no need to broadcast the full extent of her obsession. She certainly couldn’t tell him why she started playing. “It’s a specialization of the aegis class. Lots of healing and stat boosters, if that’s how you build out your skill tree. But they can be pretty deadly, too.”

  Why was she still talking? He didn’t ask for any of that. It was clear he didn’t even play.

  To her surprise, though, he brightened at the response, nearly knocking over his glass when he enthusiastically slapped the table. “That’s it! Yeah. Mom was pretty upset when he bought a subscription. I remember someone on the news called the game a ‘digital coma,’ which seemed silly.”

  “It’s not a completely unfair label.” Nora shrugged. “A lot of players can be…intense.”

  His gaze grew wistful. After a few moments, the silence became uncomfortable, then interminable. Had they run out of conversation topics already?

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Over Xander’s shoulder, a smiling figure caught her attention. He was seated at the bar, toward the back where the light didn’t quite reach. His gaze never wavered and he didn’t move, except to widen his grin.

  Even from here, she could see that his teeth were too small and perfectly square, like dice. He wasn’t wearing clothes. He never was.

  She closed her eyes and counted to ten. Sometimes that worked.

  “You okay?” Xander asked.

  Eyes still closed, Nora nodded. She didn’t bother mentioning the man. Xander couldn’t have seen him anyway. Nobody could.

  When she reached ten, she opened her eyes and the man was gone. Nora took a long chug of her drink and steadied herself. She wasn’t alone tonight. That was the important part.

  “So, uh, Xander…” Still fun to say his name, at least. “Your brother was into the game? As in, past tense? Did he quit after the last price hike? A lot of folks were pissed about that.”

  Xander’s smile was tight. Sore subject. Dammit, why couldn’t she ever say the right thing?

  “Oh, I don’t know if he still plays or not.” His brow softened as he took another sip of vodka. “You’re sweet to ask, though. Most pretty girls don’t listen when other people are talking. I could tell right from the start that you were special.”

  “You think I’m pretty?” Nora felt her cheeks get hot, despite the problematic you’re different than other girls sentiment. A minor road bump. She could work around it.

  “I think you’re amazing,” he said. And to Nora’s surprise, he sounded like he meant it. “Sorry if I killed the mood.”

  “Oh, the mood’s just fine. I like you, too,” she responded. And to her surprise, she kind of meant it. “Not to pry, but did something happen to him? Your brother, I mean.”

  Why did she ask that? What in the actual fuck was wrong with her? Even silence would be better than this.

  He finished his drink. “I don’t know. One of the requirements for joining the Order of the Countdown is cutting off family ties. They only distract from our mission.”

  Nora clenched her teeth. Typical goddamn date: smooth flying to mild turbulence to full on plane crash over the course of five minutes. “Your mission?”

  “Preparing for the end of the world.” Xander had become somber. “And time’s running out. Probably only a few days left. Which is such a bummer because I feel like we were really hitting it off.”

  Of course. Of fucking course. Finally a moderately good date, and it’s with a doomsday freak.

  It could’ve been worse, she supposed. He could have been a fan of—

  “Wish they’d turn off this beep boop music and play some country,” he said, squinting at one of the speakers above the bar.

  Fuck, she hated dating.

  PLAYER 4 - DARIO RAMIREZ

  Ultimately, it all came down to Dario.

  Which really just meant that nobody else was going to do it.

  “Baby’s crying,” his mother called from somewhere in the living room, her voice slow and thick. The observation was appallingly apathetic, seeing as how it was her child. And it wasn’t even a particularly useful thing to say; the screaming infant could probably be heard by everyone in their micro-unit apartment complex.

  But Dario knew what she meant:

  Feed your sister.

  And since no one else was going to do it, he navigated the paths between stacked magazines and food containers to the kitchen, where he spooned apricot-flavored mush into a bowl. Ideally, he’d mix in some dietary supplements, but they couldn’t afford anything beyond staple goods right now. Not with rent due.

  On his way to the crib—really just a modified dog crate his dad had found in a dumpster during one of his daily stumbles from the bar to their apartment—Dario noticed movement near his mother.

  She was on the couch, one foot dangling to the floor and an arm stretched onto the coffee table like an emaciated bridge. That table was the only nice furniture they owned, not that anyone could tell. Its wood surface was covered in a multi-layered strata of cigarette ash, French fries, and beer cans that would take geologists years to dig through.

  More movement, and this time Dario tracked the source to the arachneedle gyrating on exposed bicep. The bot was an older model, its silver dollar-sized thorax was twice the size of its modern counterparts, and spindly legs crawled along his mother’s skin with a series of grinding clicks, pausing occasionally to thrust its abdomen down and deliver a measured injection.

  At least, that’s what it was supposed to be doing. But its canister had dried up a while ago and its obsolete software couldn’t tell the difference. So instead of offering micro-doses of morphine, the thing was just stabbing her pointlessly, leaving a trail of raised pinpricks along her outstretched arm.

  “Jesus, mom.” He brushed the useless junk onto the floor, where it twitched briefly then froze belly up, exposing a blinking red LED.

  This close to her, the stench of sweat and piss was a tidal wave against the senses, and he jerked his head backward like a boxer avoiding a knockout blow.

  In fairness, he wasn’t a fragrant rose himself. The air conditioning had been out all month, which meant the muggy August heat had settled into every crevice of their unit. He ran a finger though his hair and wiped the grease on his sweatpants.

  “Annie’s crying.” Her tone was more insistent this time.

  “I know.” As he turned to leave, she rolled over and the motion lifted her shirt to reveal a fresh new series of fist-sized bruises. His flames of frustration flickered out, leaving simmering coals of anger. “I’ll get you something, too, okay?”

  No answer; not that he was expecting one.

  The tenuous path to Annie’s crib passed his own room and the pulsing content cube at the foot of his bed. Like the arachneedle, the cube was several generations behind current tech, but it still performed miracles: It transported him out of this place and into the magical realm of Silverdawn. It made him a king.

  Well, Archduke, technically, but any title was better than “loser dropout still living with his parents.”

  He eyed the rubber tubes connecting the cube to a rack of IV bags then down at the bowl of mashed apricot in his hands.

  The salinized protein solution in those bags was intended to keep gamers online for extended quests, not feed malnourished infants, but the concepts were the same. Besides, Silverdawn was going offline tonight for the big update, so he could spare a little.

  “Who left this baby food jar open so the goddamn ants can get to it?” The deep voice of Carlos Ramirez resonated throughout the apartment, temporarily upstaging the screaming baby.

  Dad was home. And angry. And judging by the slurred words, filled with bottom shelf liquor. Dario winced but said nothing. Maybe the old man would get bored trying to pick a fight and just fall asleep.

  “And why’s the goddamn baby crying?”

  Heavy footsteps headed in Dario’s direction. Video games would have to wait.

  Fuck, he hated family.

  CODA

  Layton Young, Vimala Teo, Nora Cathcart, and Dario Ramirez lived quite far apart and had almost nothing in common, with one notable exception: none of them ever saw any of their friends or family alive ever again.