Was he dead?

  The thought bounced off the edges of nothingness, rippling through the dark abyss, like a stone skimming across black water under the light of a new moon. Darkness pressed against him like an unseen blanket, thick and heavy. He tried to look around. He could feel his eyes moving, his head turning, but it was like he was underwater, in the depths of the oceans where light feared to tread.

  Where am I? he wondered to the void and his thoughts echoed back to him. Then another thought appeared, more concerning than the first.

  Who am I?

  More thoughts appeared in the endless vacuum. Images. Memories. Flashes of vivid colour against the black, like fireworks in a midnight sky. Visions flit through his mind faster than he could decipher them.

  “Mr Smith,” a voice called out. A feminine, melodic voice. His heart leapt at the sound, eyes frantically searching for the source of that beacon in the darkness.

  “Mr Smith,” she called again.

  He darted through the nothingness, searching, but found only black. An infinite expanse of nothing. Suddenly, he felt pain. Red-hot pain, spreading across his face like lightning branching through storm clouds.

  His eyes fluttered open. A young woman, tall and slender, leant over in front of him. Blonde hair spilled past her shoulders like golden rivers, settling into the valley between the twin mountains straining against her tight blouse. It was like an invitation to a climbing expedition.

  He put a hand to his cheek; his flesh raw and hot like his face had been pressed to a burning stove.

  “Did you…” he rubbed the side of his cheek, felt the heat under his palm, “…slap me?”

  “Come now,” she purred, “you should be so lucky.”

  He looked at her – the cleavage, the blonde hair, the piercing blue eyes and he had to admit to himself. He should be so lucky.

  He peeled his eyes away and looked around the room. It was some sort of waiting area, the stench of cigarettes and cheap coffee masked unsuccessfully by the perfume that clung to the girl. He was sprawled across a sofa of purple velvet fabric that hugged the wall next to a massive wooden reception desk that he supposed served as the office for the young lady hovering in front of him. Around him, the walls were plastered in endless patterns of figure eights in oranges and reds that burned his eyes. A potted plant in a bright orange vase stood guard in a corner, its green leaves swaying with uncertainty, like an unwanted guest at a party.

  “The Gamesmaster is ready for you,” the young girl said, putting a hand beneath his arm and helping him up. She pointed at a door beyond her desk.

  “The Gamesmaster?” he asked, looking into her eyes. She said nothing but nodded and led him towards the door.

  “He’ll explain everything to you,” she said and pushed him through.

  ***

  Was he dead?

  The thought bounced off the edges of nothingness, rippling through the dark abyss, like a stone skimming across black water under the light of a new moon. Darkness pressed against him like an unseen blanket, thick and heavy. He tried to look around. He could feel his eyes moving, his head turning but it was like he was underwater, in the depths of the oceans where light feared to tread.

  Where am I? he wondered to the void and his thoughts echoed back to him. Then another thought appeared, more concerning than the first.

  Who am I?

  “Mr Smith,” a voice called out. A male, deep voice. His heart leapt at the sound, eyes frantically searching for the source of that threat in the darkness.

  “Mr Smith,” the voice called again.

  He darted through the nothingness, searching, but found only black. An infinite expanse of nothing. Suddenly, he felt pain. Red-hot pain, spreading across his face like lightning branching through storm clouds.

  His eyes fluttered open.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” an old man said, leaning over. He was short and fat. Grey hair fell past his shoulders like polluted rivers, settling into the valley between the sagging mountains straining against his tight t-shirt. It was like an unwanted invitation to a climbing expedition. “Most people wake up quite quickly, especially after being called.”

  He put a hand to his cheek; his flesh raw and hot like his face had been pressed to a burning stove.

  “Did you…” he rubbed the side of his cheek, felt the heat under his palm, “…slap me?”

  “Come now,” the old man purred, “you should be so lucky.”

  He looked at him – the fleshy mountains, the grey hair, the piercing red eyes and he very much hoped he wasn’t lucky.

  He felt like he’d had this same experience not too long ago. Or maybe it was very long ago. It didn’t seem like the first time. Nor the second, nor the third. But things were different. Details were different. He couldn’t put his finger on what.

  He looked around the room, filled with the calm scent of spring flowers and the juicy aroma of summer fruits. It wasn’t much of a room at all. Something drifted across the edges of his mind. A wooden desk. The figure eight. A plant. No such things existed here. He was cradled in a fluffy white sofa, as if sitting amongst the clouds, it’s fabric undiscernible against the limitless expanse of white that surrounded him. It was broken only by a single disc, hanging in the air a few feet beyond the old man.

  Inside the disc was the image of a young man he didn’t recognise but he felt he should. Dressed in a hospital gown with faded blue dots, the man lay motionless in bed, white sheets covering half his body. It was a white man, no older than thirty, his face pale and thin with dark hair matted against his forehead. A neck brace held his head in place and tubes and wires reached out from the man’s arms to machines that surrounded the bed. A middle-aged woman, slightly plump with fading blonde hair sat by the man’s side, clutching his left hand between hers and looking lovingly at his face. A younger girl, in jeans and a sweater, slept in a chair by the window, her cheeks red and puffy.

  “Who is that?” he asked.

  The old man turned to view the disc himself. “That…is you.”

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

  He stared at the motionless man. “Me?” Then he realised he didn’t even know who he was. But if that was him in the bed, then where was he now?

  “You’re not dead,” the old man said, as if reading his mind. “Tyler Smith, twenty-five, unemployed, college drop-out. Citizen of the United States of America, on the planet of Earth. Welcome to Purgatory. Well, without the torment. Yet.” The old man laughed.

  The name meant nothing to him but he understood Earth and the USA. Again, thoughts drifted across the edge of his consciousness as if his mind were trying to recall the memories but the connections were lost.

  “What happened to me?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” the old man said, skipping away towards the disc. “Stay seated. Let me explain,” he said, as if he were giving a tour. “You, good sir, were on the way to shoot up a school, but, luckily for you-”

  His eyes widened. “Wait! What?! Why the hell would I do that?”

  It was strange. He knew what a school was. Understood how to use a gun. But he couldn’t recall either being in a school or holding a gun. The knowledge was there in his head but not the experiences. It was like knowing how to paint but having no visions to share.

  The old man waved at the disc. “Recognise the girl sleeping there?”

  He shook his head.

  “She’s your younger sister, Hannah. Eighteen. And she had a friend, Madison, also eighteen, that you’ve known for about a year. Now, I hate to break it to you but you kinda…had a thing for Maddie. Asked her out. She said no.

  “She wasn’t the first to say no to you, but you were going to make sure she was the last. One of those ‘if I can’t have her, no-one can’ situations. Luckily for you, you had a crash on the way to the school. Left you quadriplegic, brain-damaged and in a coma.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and stared at the disc. If he couldn’t recognise the comatose man before, he sure didn’t recognise him now. Didn’t want to recognise him. Hitting on his little sister’s friend? School shooting? He searched his memory for any hints of such darkness, but found nothing. He remembered nothing.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?” the old man smirked at him. Looking into the old man’s red eyes was unnerving, like he knew secrets that he wouldn’t reveal.

  He turned back to the disc, looked at the younger girl – his sister. If what the old man said was true, he had been on his way to kill her friend and there she was, face puffy from the tears she had cried. He looked at his mother holding his hand, as if she were praying for him to come back. Perhaps they didn’t know what he had been planning. Perhaps they had as many questions for him as he did. His mind was completely blank. He’d like to think he wasn’t the kind of person this old man was insinuating but he had no memory to confirm it.

  “If I really planned to do that, maybe the crash wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it was justice.”

  “Maybe it was. Maybe it was the fate of the gods for you to end up like that.” The old man looked at him and smiled. “But what if you could have another chance?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What would you do if you had the choice between returning to your body as it is right now,” the old man twisted his body and swept an arm out to motion towards the disc before turning back to him, “or returning to your life before you asked Madison out?”

  The offer was intriguing but made no sense to him. He still wasn’t sure he was the person in the disc, and even if he were, how exactly could this man return him to a time before now?

  When was now, for that matter? Where was here? He glanced at the endless expanse of white. “What is this place?”

  The old man made pistol motions several times, like a cowboy in a shootout, before he stopped and pointed a single finger towards him with a wink. “This is the world between worlds. Like I said, Purgatory, without the torment. Except, the worlds you can go to aren’t heaven or hell. Well, not literally, anyway.”

  The old man gestured to the disc, and the image of the comatose man blurred, replaced with the image of a planet that looked like Earth at first glance, though on closer inspection, he saw that it wasn’t Earth at all. It seemed to have less water, less clouds and greenery, but most noticeably, from north to south was a vast region of black desert that divided the planet in two.

  “This is Cytheria, a planet in the outer reaches of the Andromeda galaxy. It’s a game-world.”

  “A game-world?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Gain experience, progress through levels, acquire skills, increase your advantages, become as powerful as you can? Like a game.

  “See, Cytheria’s inhabitants have been in a centuries-long war with entities from other worlds that invaded their lands. What Cytheria, and many others like it need, are heroes. Heroes to help them fight. What I do, is offer the chance of redemption for those in positions like yourself.

  “See, here, you have an opportunity. You’re not the only one. Billions of souls, across billions of worlds, in circumstances similar to yours, given an opportunity for another chance. Granted, not all of them planned to do what you were planning but then there’s plenty that did worse.

  “Now, you could go back to that hospital bed. No memories. No guilt. Just a broken body and a lost mind. Or, you can go to Cytheria, live an amazing life, become a hero of the people and then, you get another choice. Stay in Cytheria and never return to your life or you get to go back to before it all went wrong.”

  “What would happen to me on Earth, if I chose to remain in Cytheria?”

  “Nothing. Right now, you’re an empty shell there anyway. The heart’s pumping but the engine’s not there. Your soul, the essence of your being, is right here. You’d get a new body on Cytheria. On Earth, you’d remain comatose until your body withered away.”

  The offer was tempting. His eyes remained on the world inside the disc as he pondered on the options, but his thoughts turned to his mother and sister. Did he have a father too? How would they cope if he never came back? Did it even matter?

  “Can I see me again?” he asked. The image in the disc blurred again and Tyler Smith returned, comatose, mother and sister at his side. As he looked upon the image, wondering what this new world might hold for him, he was fairly certain that he didn’t want to go back as he was now. Quadriplegic. Brain-dead. A mother spending days and nights, holding his hand, praying beyond hope that he would return. A sister, spending days and nights crying, blaming herself for having introduced him to her friend. It might have been a deserved punishment for him but it wasn’t fair to them.

  And he hadn’t done the deed, had he? Intention and action were two very different things. The line between them might be thin but it was there.

  “What would I have to do?”

  The old man smiled, mouth curling towards his eyes. “I won’t lie to you. It won’t be easy. You’ll arrive in the Kingdom of Aleria, on the borders with The Rift, the black region you see here. Over the course of your journey, you need to become a hero and join the armies or lead your own to take back the Rift. As long as it exists, its threatens the Cytherians. Fortunately, the Rift Lords don’t seem interested in encroaching upon the rest of the world for now but it’s only a matter of time. We need to break through first. If we don’t who knows what might happen?

  “Unfortunately, some heroes have settled in, carved out empires for themselves and skirmish with each other. Others have decided to master professions and live simple lives. Only a few are still searching for a way to take the Rift. With enough bodies, they think they’ll have the power to move forwards and to convince the other heroes to join them.”

  He took a look at the image of himself again. If he helped to overcome these Rift Lords, he’d get another chance. Get to go back to before he made that choice. A clean slate. A chance to do things properly. Or, the chance for a new life altogether. A new world. A new life. A new beginning.

  His mind was made up.

  “So how would this work?”

  “Is that a yes?” the old man said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  He had a final look at himself, asleep on the hospital bed, hooked up to the machines.

  “I’m sure. I’ll go to Cytheria. I’ll become a hero.

  “And I’ll win.”

  The old man looked at him and smiled, hands rubbing together in glee. “That I would like to see. Perhaps you’re just the right kind of crazy to make it work.

  “Okay, first things first. Do you want the simple tutorial or the advanced tutorial?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “That I can’t tell you but look at it as a leap of faith. You’re going to a new world. You’re going to be making a lot of leaps of faith.”

  “Give me the advanced tutorial,” he said. He needed as much information as he could get if he was going to make this work. He just hoped the tutorial wasn’t boring.

  “As you wish,” the Gamesmaster said. “You can’t choose a different race or gender, so you’ll spawn as a human male, looking as you do now. You can choose a different name, if you wish. Anything you want, fifty character limit.”

  Imtheawesomestherothatseverheroed came to mind.

  “Can I change my name after?”

  “No.”

  “Tyler Smith is fine.”

  “Okay. Human. Male. Tyler Smith. Once you’re there, if you say ‘status’, it will open up your UI and you’ll be able to navigate from there. Are you ready?”

  He nodded.

  “Before you go, I should warn you about one thing. If you die in Cytheria, that’s it. There’s no going back, not even to your current body.”

  He nodded again.

  “Then I guess I better not die.”