It got weird. Two hours and so very many dick jokes later, I’m ready to enter the game world. A fair number of viewers dumped the chat in favour of logging in for themselves. I can’t blame them. Sure, the soul-eating trees are odd, but the character creation is fun. Somehow, MANIK PIX-E designed a system that lets you sculpt your own body to suit your needs. That’s pretty goddamn spectacular.

Though there were calls for me to Monster Factory it, I waived them off and settled for something a little more down to earth: tall, pale skinned with peachy undertones, and my maternal grandfather’s long face. I’d always wanted to look more like him than anyone on my father’s side. Maybe that’s not fair, but Dad’s family are a bunch of pricks. Since my parents left Okinawa before I was born, I’d never met any of Mom’s relatives. They didn’t have the chance to reject me.

In fact, taking one last look at my avatar, I have to admit it the similarities to grandpa Kaito went a bit further than I’d intended. I make a face, then grimace harder. My expressions are showing clearly to the chat, thanks to mirror and excellent facial mapping. That’s... yeah. That’s not good.

Quickly, I cross my eyes, wrinkle my nose, stick my tongue out; the avatar keeps up with it all. Which is both cool and, bonus points, makes it easier to write off the momentary lapse in judgement. Unscripted displays of negative emotion? Not me, good sir!

Besides, the facial mapping is cool. Though not unique in VR, the combination with the game’s newfound, over-the-top realism hits uncanny valley pretty hard.

Shaking my head, I laugh and stand back. “Alright guys. We ready for this?”

The remaining chat members give a unanimous “yes.” They were ready a few minutes ago, but I’d taken some time perfecting my avatar’s athletically skinny build and, ah, “piston size.” What can I say? A guy has to have standards.

Accusations I sometimes act like a five-year-old are not unfounded.

“Accept,” I say to the mirror. Instead of prompting me like I expect, the mirror ripples, clears, and shows me another meadow beyond its pane. This one is precisely what I’d been looking for at the beginning: sunlit, grass-filled, and with properly textured trees in the nearby forest.

“Perfect,” I drawl, and step through the mirror.

The world spins and dips. I stumble, nearly losing my balance. After a second of flailing arms, I self correct and find the mirror has vanished behind me, leaving only the back half of the meadow. A stiff wind stirs the knee-height grass and slaps my naked skin. Suddenly cold, despite the warmth, I chafe my arms as I turn a slow circle, taking in my surroundings.

“Ho-ly shit. Guys, are y’all seeing this?”

Maybe I should have expected it from the character creator, but the details are outstanding. Everything is rendered in crisp high-fidelity. The grass swaying around me is composed of individualized blades, with flowers whose petals I can pluck individually, and even tiny insects crawling in the dirt below. A fat, yellow bee wiggles from a wildflower, buzzes its iridescent wings at me, and zooms away.

“How in the hell…” With no answer of my own, I glance to where the chat window should be and realize… it’s gone.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I mutter, recalling the line from Alice in Wonderland with bemusement. The mirror must have been a portal between zones; one instanced, the other shared. Day one was bound to have bugs, and getting my stream kicked is probably just the start.

At least the game runs on vocal commands now. “Console.”

Nothing happens.

Frowning, I reach instinctively for my keyboard. My avatar’s hands move in front of me, poised in a typing position. Right. Instead, I try it again as a mental command. Still, no response.

Taking a deep, irritated breath, I try, “Logout.”

When that doesn’t work either, I try, “menu.” A pop-up appears. Clicking on it’s single selector opens what I presume to be a character sheet, albeit a truncated one.

ECHOVOXX

Human

Alliances: None

Birth Date: Unknown

Occupation: None

Mastery: None

Spouse(s): Unknown

Family: Unknown

Health: Decent

Diseases: None

Conditions: None

Mental Health: Unsure about this one. Seems OK on the surface, but you know what they say about icebergs.

“Mental Hea—OK, first of all: rude, much? Secondly, what the actual fuck?”

Birdsong I’d barely noticed before speaking becomes obvious when it suddenly stops. I look away from the menu at the trees surrounding my little patch of sunshine. Nothing moves. A minute later, the birds resume. Just reacting to me, then.

Turning back to the menu, I’m surprised to find it hovering exactly where it’d been before. A quick test proves I can drag it around with my finger, repositioning it like some Z-dimensional… thing. There’s nothing to compare the damn thing to because this shouldn’t exist.

Well, not in real life. I guess that isn’t the best benchmark right now.

There’s no logout button here, either, no matter how many times I reread the screen. MANIK PIX-E ought to win an award for this: most useless stat screen ever.

Dismissing the menu, I take another look around my unchanged surroundings. There has to be something I’m missing. What other commands could there be? Exit, leave, end program; none of those seem to work. Though these would be less useful at current, I try other commands: character, skills, inventory, spells. Not a goddamn thing.

But there is one thing I’d been missing. My gaze stops, pinning itself to a patch of darkness across the meadow.

Another flash of light; two dots, round and white and each roughly the size of my fist. They hover a good four feet off the ground, set just far enough apart to be—

Eyes.

The shape of its body separates from the forest gloom by degrees, growing ever darker as the creature approaches the meadow one slow, deliberate step at a time. Its body is sleek and inky black. Though clearly kin to a massive wolf, the effect is something like a blanket flung over a ghost; a lie waiting to reveal a deeper truth beneath. The only parts of it which look entirely real are those awful eyes, and the gleaming, jagged teeth coming into being beneath them.

Demons shouldn’t spawn at this time of day, this close to the sunlight. But... demons can spawn under the canopy. It must have come from the deep forest, and now—

The creature stops with its paw mere inches from the sunlight. Why? It sees me. It hasn’t attacked yet.

Sure, if it comes into the sunlight it’ll transform back into a regular wolf, but a regular wolf is still superior to a defenseless, naked human.

Then I remember something; a flash of Mikah’s alpha-stage avatar racing back toward us. He’d been running from a fenrir. But that’s not where the attack came from.

“Clever girl,” I mutter, and dive forward.

The two wolves I hadn’t seen sprang at the same moment, colliding behind me in a mass of fur and claws. I have barely enough space or time to climb back to my feet and back away from them. I stop when I can see all three.

The Fenrir has entered the meadow, now. It shakes its head stupidly, stunned by the sunlight, but that will wear off in a minute. More important are the two snarling at me right now.

My instinct is to run and, hell, maybe I should listen. This is a game, after all; not reality. In reality, running from a wolf pack is the easiest way to get yourself killed. Game designers rarely know enough about animals to program them in realistic ways. As someone who’d grown up around wild animals, that was just something I’d learned to accept over the years. After all, wolves are a stock gaming mob. It was either let it go or be endlessly frustrated.

But games have never been this hyper-realistic, and training can be just as strong as instinct.

Without meeting their eyes, I scan the surrounding area for something—anything—that I can throw. Luckily, there are rocks and sticks a plenty. I dive for the nearest, grab it, and throw.

“Get out of here,” I yell, pushing my vocal chords to their limit. “Who do you think you are? Cujo? I’ve seen Chihuahuas more intimidating!”

I follow the first rock with a stick, then another rock, and so on. When there’s nothing left in easy reach, I move in a lateral direction around the wolves—careful not to get closer or back up.

At first it doesn’t seem to work. The wolves snarl and inch closer, but then a rock strikes one in the face. It flinches back, whining, and blinks owlishly at me.

“Yeah, didn’t expect that, did you? Not so easy when I fight back.”

I grab another rock, and the wolf backs up. It’s buddies no longer seem as sure of the situation.

Instead of just flinging the rocks wildly, I aim the next one at the closest wolf’s butt. Perfect strike. The wolf yelps, and runs behind its fellows. All snarling ceases. The wolves seem increasingly confused by the situation. Clearly, people are food, not friends. Not that this is particularly ‘friendly’, per se.

“Come on! Go!”

The wolves dance back, but they haven’t made up their minds about leaving.

I can’t keep this up all day. I have woods to hike through, and—though it hadn’t occurred to me until now—other players to find if I’m going to get help with my logout situation. Besides, as soon as the sun sets I doubt this tactic will hold up.

There’s only one way I can think to end this. Taking a deep breath, I restrain the part of me still swearing I’m going to die this way, and rush them, screaming like a banshee the whole time.

The wolves break. They tuck their tails between their legs and bolt from the clearing. I stop the second they enter the tree line, turn my own tail, and run the opposite direction. After all, they’ll only get so far before the transformation hits. When that happens, I’m toast.

About an hour later the trees thin out. I haven’t run into any other demons, and it doesn’t seem like that pack is following me. Which is pretty damn lucky, because running through untamed wilderness? Not fun. Particularly when you’re commando. Also, being winded is now a thing.

I’ve never been in the best of shape, but neither am I a complete couch potato. Though I’ve spent the majority of my day at a computer desk the past few years, I supplement all that sitting with twice-daily jogs and a round of sit-ups in the morning. It isn’t much, but it’s enough I can reasonably expect to keep going over a fair distance without trouble. Not today.

This body, freshly baked as it is, has zero endurance. I don’t need a stat array to confirm that. Within minutes of leaving the meadow, I was panting. By this point, I’m ready to sit down and never get up again. My legs are jello, my mouth is filled with cotton, and there’s a headache brewing behind my eyes that makes my vision swim.

As the trees continue to clear, spilling more and more sunlight into the surrounding area, I slow from a stumbling jog to an equally stumbling, zombie-like walk. Finally, I come to a dead stop as I break through the tree line onto a packed dirt road. More forest borders its opposing side, with no end in sight. Shrugging, I catch the tiger by its toe and turn left.

With a marginally easier path, I seem to cover a lot more ground though there’s no way to be sure. And yet, I’m not getting anywhere at all. There’s no town, no farms, no nothing. Until, finally, I come over a hill and see a signpost standing at a fork in the road.

Energy suddenly renewed, I hobble excitedly toward it until the words become clear. My heart sinks, and the newfound energy goes with it.

Unlike a lot of these crafting games, which typically include a random map generator, DUSKFALL’s map is fixed. Every dusklighter who’s been around awhile can navigate its world like their hometown. I’m not an exception. At least, that’s what I thought.

The signpost is a thick wooden pole encased in stonework at the base, and littered with arrow-tipped slat boards fixed like bare branches. Each board has a name, and a milage gouged onto it.

“Basingeham, five miles,” reads one, tilted toward the right-hand path.

“Fulnedebi, thirty-three miles,” reads another, pointing back the direction I just came from.

Yes, I know exactly where I am. Problem is, those distances can’t be right.

Time is hard to measure without an in-game clock, but the sun reached its zenith as I was walking down this road, and is now making its steady way toward the horizon. By any reasonable estimation I’ve been walking, oh, four in-game hours?

Traveling by daylight alone, alpha players could cross the map in two game days. If they travel through the night, it’s only one. By those standards, I should have gone through Fulnedebi, crossed the mountains, and passed the mines and quarry before reaching this signpost.

But that hadn’t happened. The only things I’ve seen thus far were trees, dirt, and a few offbeat trails I now suspect lead to the small, NPC-run farms dotting this part of the countryside. Either I’d gone crazy, or the map had expanded.

So which way do I go?

As I see it, there are three options:

Fulnedebi. That’s a valley just past the mountains with a mid-sized farming town at the center. The town is large enough, and popular enough among players, that it’s a good bet to find someone. More importantly, it’s near the bluff where Ms built her Castle. If Robert isn’t glitching out, he’s likely headed that direction. So is Ms, if she bothered getting online.

Basingeham is also a town though “village” might be more accurate. Placed on a river delta, it’s composed of a few huts surrounded by defensive walls, and a pier where two NPCs shout off-colour jokes back and forth from sunrise to sunset. No one really comes out here unless they’re looking for certain rare fish drops. However, it’s the most defensible area in walking distance.

Finally, there might be farms in the surrounding woods. Those trails I passed earlier should lead to one or more of them. “Should” being the major issue. I can’t see any farms from the road, so I’d have to follow a trail back into the woods to check. Trails which, from what I recall, were heavily shaded by, if not completely obscured by, the forest. The odds are good I’d find one, but it could take the rest of the day and there’s no guarantee I’d be safe there overnight.

Ultimately, I need other players. Getting a line to a game master is my biggest concern though the aching of my legs and body, and the beginnings of hunger clawing at my stomach try to insist otherwise. The mere notion of being out here alone at dusk is nearly enough to break the cool I’ve thus far maintained. Dealing with wolves is one thing; a horde of demons with no spawn restrictions is another thing altogether. Though I know it’s just a game, there’s something about being mauled to death in an environment this realistic that’s… unpalatable.

I’ll cross that bridge if I have to. For now, I choose Basingeham.

The trip eats the rest of my afternoon. By the time I crest the last hill between myself and the river, the sun is riding low in the west, bathing the world in red-gold light. Despite my impending doom, I spend a moment frozen upon the hill, beset by the urban sprawl laid out before me.

Basingeham still has walls, but they’ve replaced the once simple partition with a looming edifice three stories tall at its lowest points. It rises to four or five stories at both the brand new gatehouse and a multitude of intermittent defense towers. Guards pace the battlements in twos and threes, with more stationed above the thick, double-doored gates. From my position, I can see how the walls stretch over the delta, forming bridges braced with pillars and iron grating that gleams like fire in the sunset light.

Beyond the wall are houses; some roofed in thatch and others shingled; some are painted, more are naked wood or clay. There must be a solid hundred, and those are just the ones tall enough to be seen from this angle. How many smaller buildings are there in between those far-flung rooftops? How many NPCs?

Is this still Basingeham? It doesn’t seem possible, but the sign... and none of this matters. I have nowhere else to turn for the night, and the demons will be coming. Swallowing my apprehension, I plod onward to the gate.

By the time I reach the gates, there are other humanoid figures approaching it from around the city’s perimeter. The orcs—each of them massive, burly creatures with green skin and an array of off-putting hair colours—carry a variety of equipment in crates and slung over their shoulders. Axes, saws, fire starters, and the like. They remind me of a burn crew, sent to clear back the forest. And hell, that makes sense, even if it’s strange to see an NPC that isn’t a trader, guard, or farmer. Those were the only three positions they held in the alpha. But thinking back to those wolves, I get it. Wouldn’t want the monsters sneaking up on you.

The orcs eye me as they step past, walking into the city without being stopped or questioned. NPCs in DUSKFALL are essentially mindless. Though the tracking of their gaze is a little unnerving, I think none of it as I fall into place behind them.

I’m already imagining a warm bed and food—though longing for in-game food seems ridiculous—when someone finally speaks.

“Ho, there.”

My attention snaps to two guards now standing outside the cracked open gate. Like the other NPCs in evidence, they’re both orcish. With fresh shadows falling across their faces that’s all I can make out.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls. Great.

“How’s it going, guys?” I say, continuing forward as the last of the burn crew disappears inside.

A trident appears in my path, tips angled at my chest. I jerk backward, stumble, wave my arms, and fall onto my ass with a painful smack.

“Aw now, lookit whatchu did,” says the one not holding the trident. It slaps its partner on the arm and gestures to me with a sword. “Poor thing looks like it’s seen miles a hard road an this’s the way you treat it?”

“It dinnit stop, now, did it?” says Trident-wielder. “Yer s’posed ta stop before goin’ in, e’erybody knows that.”

Sword-wielder scoffs. “How many’a these you welcome in, now? Ain’t a’one of them what’s known the rules.”

“So, you think I should nae stop’em jus’ cause they don’t ken?”

“Ain’t said that. Jus don’t hafta go pokin’ ‘em around’s all.”

Triden-wielder groans. “Fine! Fine. Have it your way. Y’always seem to.”

It stands it’s trident upright as they both turn to me. Sword-wielder crouches, extending a hand.

Gingerly, I take the offered hand, letting Sword-wielder pull me to my feet. What the absolute fuck?

“There we go,” it says, “Now then. Hows about you tell us your business here, and where abouts your trousers ran off to.”

Someone snickers from the wall above.

“Uh,” I say, mind drawing a blank. This is normally where a dialogue prompt would appear in any other game, giving me clues as to what I should say to get a proper response. Nothing happens. The NPC’s bushy eyebrows raise expectantly as the silence stretches.

“Well, ah, I’m not really from around these parts.”

“You don’t say,” drawls Trident-wielder.

I spread my hands helplessly. “Sadly, true. Pretty sure if I were local I’d be a few feet taller. And green. And probably not naked.”

Sword-wielder laughs, elbowing its partner. “Looks like this one’s got some lip on it. I like that.”

That’s the fourth time they’ve called me “it.” Scowling, I restrain the urge to comment and focus on the larger implication.

“This one,” I repeat. “You said there were others who didn’t know. Others like me?”

“Oh yeah,” Trident-wielder confirms, “There’s been a number’a you refugees come through. S’funny. The Magistrate said we ought’a be expecting a handful or two now that the caravan’s come this far north. But I’d thought t’see more families or wagons with you lot. S’just been a dribble; one or two here and there, like, and all a’you without a penny to pinch.”

“Er…” My brain flat lines as I try to process that info dump. Refugees? Caravan?

It sounds like storyline content; once again, something the alpha had been missing. Not the lightest of stories, either, but I suppose it makes sense. After all, humans are the only playable species in the game. All the NPCs are orcs, goblins, or faeries. This is as good a way to explain that as any.

“Right,” I say, and pause. Neither of them have moved or offered me any way inside. I haven’t said the right thing. Maybe I need to play along?

Adopting a small smile, I shrug helplessly at the guards. “Look, I’ve come a long way. Been walking all day. I’m just trying to get in before the whole… you know. Demon-chow thing.”

“Demon?” Sword-wielder glances at its partner. “What’s a demon?”

“Uh… the things you build the high walls and shit for? Y’know? Animals that go coo-coo for cocoa puffs come dusk?”

Sword-wielder snorts. “Ah. Y’mean the Scourge?”

“Right...” After a second of silence, I add, “So what am I halting for, exactly? If there’s other people—er, humans in the city...”

Sounding exasperated, Trident-wielder gestures to my everything. “Well, you can’t just waltz on into the city like that. You’re starkers, for one thing, and we’ve not the faintest who you are.”

“Refugees hafta sign in with the Magistrate,” Sword-wielder adds, far more helpfully.

Gritting my teeth to keep from pointing out that either could have offered this information on their own, I say, “Alright, fine. Then maybe take me to your leader?”