Doug knocked once on the door to Ian’s lab and waited, a habit from their early days of working together. Ian had a notorious tendency to code in the nude, and while he swore he didn’t do that anymore after scaring off his first two assistants, Doug kept the ritual alive.

  “Come in and let’s get going!” came Ian’s impatient voice from the small speaker above the door.

  Doug stepped inside, shutting the portal behind him, and immediately took in the state of the room. The unmade bedding on the pull-out couch told him Ian had been living here full-time. “Have you even left the campus… hell, the lab?”

  “No,” Ian snapped before Doug even asked, the irritation in his voice matching the exhaustion etched into the hollow darkness under his eyes. “And you would know that if you weren’t obsessing over Miss Hudson’s condition and more focused on your precious TIER world, the one you begged me to support, remember? Shit’s going down in Umbra, and now we have to go in and have a chat!”

  ‘Here we go,’ Doug thought, forcing himself to keep his tone even. “You’re right, Ian, again.” He raised a hand to forestall the inevitable tirade. “Please, not today. Mavis is my responsibility, and you know that. I’ll be more present after today. Okay?”

  Ian stared at him for a long, hard moment before relenting with a grumble and a shake of his head. “Fine.” They crossed into the gaming area, a raised, meticulously clean space set apart from the chaos of the lab by two steps and a small railing. ‘Ian might be a slob in his work space, but he keeps his play space spotless.’ Doug observed as he settled into his custom-built gel couch, its biometrics keyed to his preferences, while Ian had already reclined into his own.

  Doug closed his eyes as the nanosedative began to hum through his system. “Navi, connect me to the Umbra main server. Location: the home of Chernobog. Send a message to Kamehemeha once in game that we have a situation and to hold Miss Hudson if possible, shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Of course, Doug,” his AVI replied, then, a pause. “The home of Chernobog is not an available spawn location. You will have to spawn at the outer perimeter and be escorted to the home of Chernobog.”

  ‘That’s new.’ Doug thought as the lab dissolved around him, replaced by the Umbra scenario.

  Gone was the rough hilltop cabin Doug remembered from his last visit to the AGSI. It seemed Chernobog had moved his base of operations. In its place loomed a massive mausoleum dominating the crest. A long, straight road cut between rows of earthen embankments, the skeletal forest replaced by spiked watchtowers at each corner of the walled estate.

  The outer wall was a ten-foot barrier topped with iron spikes; one heavy gate sat downhill from his position. Where the wall had collapsed, it had been crudely shored up with felled trees.

  “Done gawking?” Ian stood beside him, fully kitted in combat gear, rifle in hand, eyes scanning their surroundings.

  Doug drew his pistols one from his waist holster, the other from his tac vest matching Ian’s alert tension. “Yep. What the hell’s going on? Why couldn’t we spawn inside?”

  “It’s been like this since this morning. He shifted his base of opps to this small town in Kansas and raised this mausoleum on the highest point of land , it wasn’t here before, this is the center of a fucking highway.” Ian said, his rifle tracking over the terrain. “Like I said, he wouldn’t talk to me without you. So I logged, dragged your ass in here, and now we powwow.”

  A branch cracked off to their left. Instinct took over, both men shifted back to back, covering each other’s blind spots.

  Doug’s breath slowed as a figure emerged from the gloom, zombie. But not just any zombie, this one was whole, its movement unnervingly smooth. Doug triggered an active scan.

  —A-class Beast—

  He gave a low whistle. “This one’s gonna be a tough fight unless we get two clean headshots.”

  The creature halted, raising its hands in a clear don’t shoot gesture. Doug’s finger eased off the trigger, but he didn’t lower his aim. Ian’s voice rumbled behind him. “What’s going on, dude?”

  “Not sure. Maybe our guide?” Doug asked, still locked on the target.

  “Your respawn, bud.” Ian stepped sideways, resting his rifle over Doug’s shoulder as if using him as a human shield.

  “Twat waffle.”

  “Dick weasel.”

  Doug frowned, but slowly holstered his pistols, raising his empty hands slightly. The zombie cocked its head, tremors rippling through its limbs as if it was physically restraining itself from attacking. Then, with a guttural moan, it turned and strode toward the gate.

  They fell in behind it at a light jog. The heavy gates creaked open with theatrical slowness.

  “Drama queen much?” Ian muttered, letting his rifle hang in its shoulder harness.

  The heavy gates slammed shut behind them with a resonant clang, the sound reverberating off the spiked wall. Doug glanced over his shoulder, catching one last glimpse of the outside world before their guide, the unnervingly graceful A-class zombie turned deeper into the maze of graves.

  “Hey, you programmed him,” Doug replied with a wary chuckle, eyes sweeping the rings around the building. Zombies moved in unending patterns, shifting and flowing around barricades and through trenches like one mind flowing multiple flows.

  “Yeah, he has,” Ian said, shaking his head. “He terra programmed the landscape and pulled this small army from across the scenario in the last few hours.” He tilted his head to indicate the undead crammed into the trenches.

  “I wonder why?” Doug mused. “Fortifications don’t make much sense here… what’s he expecting?”

  “No idea,” Ian answered, though there was something in his tone Doug couldn’t quite place. Worry? Frustration? Whatever it was, it set Doug’s instincts on edge. If Ian was unsettled, something was wrong.

  The zombie guide led them up the rough path and stopped before the mausoleum’s massive double doors. Without a word, it moved past them and vanished around the corner. Doug grasped the cold metal handles, pulling with all his strength until the doors groaned open.

  Candlelight spilled into the dark, casting Doug’s shadow long across the stones. Ian stepped to the side, hand tightening on his rifle’s grip.

  “Shit,” Doug murmured. “Nice architecture.”

  Pillars of black marble veined in gray and red flanked the entrance, their tops disappearing into shadow. The vestibule stretched twenty feet to an arched exit, barred only by an open iron gate. Flickering sconces lit alcoves that held tattered paintings, fragments of scenes long lost to rot.

  “Ian. Doug.” Chrnobog’s deep voice rolled from the far arch. “Please, my creators, join me. I believe we have much to discuss. I trust my new accommodations meet your approval.”

  Gone was his roughspun attire. The AGSI now wore fitted black BDUs, pants bloused into polished combat boots. A single insignia gleamed on his chest: Umbra’s eclipse symbol, a thin gold ring around a black disk.

  “Damn, nice threads,” Ian quipped, letting his rifle drop into its sling as he strolled past Doug. “And I love the décor. Renaissance apocalypse, solid choice. Tour?”

  “Of course,” Chrnobog said smoothly, turning to lead them deeper. “My former home was indefensible, vulnerable to players with… questionable intent. This structure and its fortifications and territory eliminate that flaw.”

  The vestibule opened into a long chamber lined with eight sarcophagi, four to a side. Sconces flickered at each stone coffin, their light shifting over detailed carvings.

  “I also altered zone parameters,” the AGSI continued. “No one may arrive directly in my presence, it is a security breach. You two will always be welcome. My minions will not attack unless provoked. Action will meet reaction, in accordance with the ideology of the warden.”

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Ian thought. ‘Did I open a can of flesh eating worms last time we spoke? This could get bad.’

  They wove and twisted through the hallways, into and out of several rooms, some with more sarcophagi, others with zombies tucked in alcoves. At each step, Doug’s side-eye at Ian grew sharper. Ian responded with shrugs that said I don’t know, but Doug wasn’t buying it.

  The final door opened into the mausoleum’s vast central hall. Four huge candelabras hung from a high vaulted ceiling, casting gold light over a raised dais with a curving holodesk and a throne like chair. At the far end, a roaring fireplace warmed a lavish sitting area.

  “Gentlemen, please, join me for refreshments and conversation, will you?” their broad shouldered host invited, gesturing toward the far end of the chamber where the fireplace breathed a steady amber glow. His voice was warm, almost gracious… and utterly wrong coming from him.

  “Uh… sure,” Doug replied, wary but intrigued, still trying to reconcile this version of their AGSI with the merciless arbiter who had dominated the early game. “We were hoping to talk with you too, Chernobog, about the, ah, severity of some player experiences.” He trailed off as he made his way down the vaulted room, sinking into a deeply cushioned armchair that nearly swallowed him whole.

  “Yes, yes, Douglas,” Chernobog said with a mild, deliberate pause. “I am certain we will address that matter…” His lips twitched. “Eventually.” He circled the seating area with a languid, almost feline grace and lowered himself his chair clearly designed for his exaggerated proportions. One ankle crossed over a knee, an affectation borrowed from human etiquette, he steepled his fingers. “Beverages, gentlemen?”

  “Why the fuck not,” Ian said, dropping onto the couch with a heavy exhale, caught between amusement and suspicion. “Hit me with a double dark chocolate espresso milkshake.” The grin he flashed was pure mischief, as if daring an ancient digital god to act like a barista.

  Doug snorted. “Actually, that sounds pretty damn good… but can you make mine a hard shaken vanilla ginger saketini?” He leaned back, watching the AGSI with raised brows, wondering if he could stump him with something so niche even real bartenders sometimes needed to double check the recipe.

  Chernobog said nothing, didn’t even blink. He simply rose, gliding past Doug toward an ornate sidebar carved with knotwork and stylized skulls. They couldn’t see much beyond the towering silhouette, only the surprising sounds that followed: the high-pitched whir of a blender; the sharp, rhythmic rattle of ice in a shaker; the soft clink of glass.

  Moments later he returned carrying a silver tray, as effortlessly as if gravity were optional.

  He offered Ian a tall shake glass beaded with condensation. Ian took one sip through the straw and groaned, eyes fluttering shut. “Dude… perfect… damn.” He went in for a second, much larger pull, pleasure blazing across his face, until it abruptly morphed into agony.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Ohhh, ice cream headache…” he hissed through clenched teeth, pressing the side of the cold glass to his temple. The pain ebbed as the simulated chill suppressed the misfiring neural spike. Even in his throbbing misery, Ian couldn’t help grinning at the fidelity. “Okay… okay, that’s freakishly real. Perfect. Thanks.”

  Chernobog then turned to Doug and handed him a martini glass so large it bordered on theatrical. Inside, translucent liquor shimmered with drifting ice flecks like frozen stardust. Doug inhaled first, warm vanilla, bright ginger, the subtle bloom of good sake. One sip confirmed it. Sharp spice with silky smoothness. Balanced exactly and garnished with a delicate purple orchid hooked over the rim.

  “Wow,” Doug breathed, tilting the glass in faint disbelief. “Yeah. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome,” Chernobog said, settling back into his oversized chair with the poised grace of someone who had designed the room around himself. He lifted the last drink from the tray, an elegant metal-framed glass cupping a steaming amber liquid that smelled of spiced honey and heat.

  Seeing their curious expressions, he extended it slightly, as if offering its history rather than its contents. “Syt’. A traditional honey beverage from the old country. Boiled and pressed through a sieve, then cooled and steeped with cinnamon, coriander, and cloves. I add a generous splash of single barrel bourbon for my own taste. To your health.” He raised the glass, the honeyed steam curling around his knuckles like living silk.

  Ian and Doug lifted their own glasses, echoing the toast. Each took a measured sip, and the shared sideways glance that followed was half camaraderie, half you start, no you start. Doug feigned sudden absorption with his saketini, raising his brows at Ian in an unspoken damn good drink… also, your turn. Ian shot him a look sharp enough to cut wire before turning to address their AGSI, only to be interrupted before he spoke a word.

  “Well,” Chernobog began, his tone sliding into the room like a blade unsheathed in velvet, “it seems I must start the uncomfortable conversation myself.” He took one final, thoughtful sip, then set the glass on the end. His long frame folded back into the chair as he regarded them with the calm of an executioner evaluating petitioners. “You wished to discuss the player experiences, and my decision to correct certain individuals for their… indiscretions. Would that be accurate?”

  Doug blinked, caught flat-footed by the directness. They had planned to circle, soften, ease their way into the conversation. Instead, the AGSI had carved a straight line through the preamble and deposited them at the heart of the matter. He cleared his throat. “Yes. That’s exactly why we’re here. We’d like to understand your logic. This approach… isn’t aligned with the prime directive of creating a world players want to return to.”

  “That depends on the caliber of player, does it not, Douglas?” Chernobog’s tone implied there was only one correct answer and he already held it. “Umbra is the most demanding of the three scenarios in Eclipse Nexus. The players who choose this world seek challenge, not comfort. If they wish to be coddled, they can run along to my brother Phantasís in Antumbra and play with his fairies.” He regarded them over the rim of the glass, dark eyes gleaming.

  “Yes,” Ian slid into the conversation. “We understand your logic. But why the sudden, seemingly unprovoked attacks on select players? And why the reports of pain setting glitches and blocked battle logs?” He took a long pull from the straw and finished the shake raising one finger to hold off any response as he swallowed.

  “Also, this shake is amazing.” He gestured with the glass, “could you upload me the code, I can’t get it this perfect in my digital office space.” He took another sip and smiled in pleasure at the taste.

  “Of course, Ian, I’ll share the shake recipe,” Chernobog said, eyes flicking between them. “And Doug’s as well.” A pause. “As for your question, my prime directive remains. But my second directive is the Warden’s Decree. And in some cases, it strengthens the first.”

  Doug frowned. “And that is…?”

  The AGSI’s gaze was steady. “Misbehavior is inherent in all humans. If misbehavior is to be corrected, then incorrect action must result in a corrective reaction. Corrected action earns reward. Uncorrected action meets escalating correction, until the behavior changes.”

  ‘Shit.’ The word detonated in Ian’s skull the instant Chernobog mentioned the Warden again. ‘How the hell do I dodge this? Doug will never understand. He’ll ask questions I can’t answer. Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ His mind sprinted through a dozen escape routes, each collapsing faster than the last, until one flickered alive. A parable had worked once. Maybe a curated truth, angled just right, could work again. ‘Alright spin it and go!’

  He leaned forward before Doug could get a single syllable out. “Chernobog… you mean the Warden personality we spoke about earlier? The framework I suggested for evaluating player behavior, judgment, reward, consequence, all that?” Ian kept his voice calm, controlled, the kind of calm born from desperation. He sank back into the couch, wearing a mask of ease he didn’t possess and hoping like hell it was enough to redirect the AGSI’s focus.

  The AGSI paused to take a small sip of his drink,, an oddly human gesture of wetting his lips before continuing. “Yes Ian, the same. When I ran the data sets, I found that applying the decree to the scenario and correcting certain player misbehavior either A: pushes out those trying to cheat the system, or B: forces players to grow beyond their poor habits, becoming more creative, rising to the challenge, and overcoming their own limitations.”

  “While pushing out players may seem counterproductive to the prime directive, in the long run it will draw more in. Umbra may be a sandbox, a free-for-all in many respects but it is still governed by rules. Those rules keep the field level for everyone.”

  He set his drink down and drew a slow breath, “my research shows this factor, more than the challenge itself, determines whether players try a scenario like Umbra or abandon it as unbalanced and joyless. Tell me, do most players not prefer to progress by skill and wit, rather than by exploiting a coding bug or glitch?”

  Both men sat quietly, mulling his words. ‘Holy smokes,’ Ian thought. ‘Dodged a bullet there. Now I just have to sell this and come back later to talk this idiot AI down. He’s taking the Warden thing way too far. Need to pull him back before he digs into his base programming.’

  Doug opened his mouth, then shut it, tapping his index finger against his lips while studying Chernobog. Finally, after a sip of his drink, he said, “Actually, Cherno, I think you’re on to something.”

  Ian almost sagged in relief.

  “There’s always been a group, griefers, who cheat or exploit bugs to gain an advantage. That can ruin the experience for players who just want to enjoy the game as designed. I like the idea of punishing them. These asshats have been a plague since my early days in dev work.” He shot Ian a look. “WannaBe spent almost forty percent of its budget on security programmers, former hackers, to keep the servers safe.”

  He leaned forward. “That said, while I’m all for smacking down repeat offenders, we need to talk about the severity of some of these ‘corrections.’ Some reports make it seem the punishment doesn’t fit the crime.”

  “Firstly, thank you for understanding my intent,” Chrnobog replied. “My goal remains the prime directive, and I will fine-tune my process where needed. But to your question, no I believe all corrections have been commensurate. Please, be specific, and I’ll explain my reasoning.”

  Doug flicked open his UI, swiped through files, and selected one. A video appeared on the far wall: a player held high by a C-class behemoth zombie as it convulsed and vomited acid on the player’s legs, dissolving them. The sound was muted, but the silent screams were enough. Doug paused the feed before the inevitable disembowelment.

  “This is Boomzman, the most recent complaint about excessive pain and inability to battle log. He claimed his pain was set to 12%, yet felt everything. And he couldn’t log out. Let’s start there.”

  Chrnobog nodded, and another video shimmered into being beside the frozen frame. Boomzman crouched beside a battered NPC woman in Haven, one of Umbra’s few semisafe zones, an old bicycle inner tube hung loosely at her hips.

  “You have a choice,” Boomzman said. “Run back to your daughter and grandchild where I can take what I want from them, or die here. That bitch stole Plastic from me, and I want it back, with interest.”

  The woman glared up at him through tears. “I will not lead you to them. She never stole anything.” Boomzman struck her across the face. She crumpled, gasping.

  “Brave bitch, aren’t you,” he snarled, brandishing a small detonator. “Lead me to them and you live. Refuse, and I’ll kill you, then each of them, slowly.”

  As they watched the NPC struggled to her feet swaying from the blow to the head. She steadied herself against a dumpster, her chest heaving with gasps of air and eyes down the ground.

  “That’s right bitch, you're beaten, just do the smart thing and start wa...” Boomzman started to say and then jumped back, narrowly avoiding the length of pipe that sliced through the air where he had just been.

  “Stupid whore!” He pressed the detonator. The inner tube erupted in small charges, releasing a stream of green fluid that ate into her flesh. She screamed as the liquid burned through her skin and muscles, her legs collapsing beneath her and her body being eaten by the acid. “See that,” Boomzman said, “behemoth bile is nasty shit. You should have just walked on bitch, now I’m...” The screen went dark at Chernobog’s gesture.

  “He later hunted down the NPC’s family,” Chrnobog said evenly, “maiming them with the same bile. This was not his first offense, he destroyed eight storylines and countless other player connections. I gave him the chance to face the creature he harvested his weapon from. A better player would have survived.”

  Ian let out a low whistle. “Yeah, that punishment fits. And those innertubes? Twisted, but clever.”

  Doug shot him a look. “Maybe. But why the increased pain and battle log lockout?”

  “If the correction isn’t stern, the offender won’t feel the weight of their choices. Resetting pain to 25% and removing battle log, only for that encounter has reduced NPC abuse by 12.3% in three days as the story circulated.”

  Doug blinked. “How bad was it before?”

  “Pretty bad,” Ian said. “With no police force here, Umbra’s the wild zombie west. Imagine a consequence free sandbox, people do things they’d never dare elsewhere. Antumbra and Penumbra have morality and reputation systems. Umbra doesn’t. Here? The strongest make the rules. It’s full on warlord effect. Think the kind of chaos you’d see in TWD.”

  Doug grimaced. Ian was right most people were decent, but without consequence, some turned cruel. Through that lens, Chernobog's methods made sense. “So you’re telling me,” Doug said, bringing up another file, “that for every complaint, you can show the player targeted an innocent NPC first?” The screen showed a still of another player mid-disembowelment.

  “Ah, SnkyPete. Yes. He farmed a shopkeeper on respawn. I gave him a chance. He fought poorly.” They watched a triple speed version from the shopkeepers POV as the NPC died over and over. The screen faded to black.

  “To your question Douglas, yes, I do believe each correction has been administered to players who have proven themselves to be craven and misguided in their game style. With no moral or law system, how can I protect my creations here in Umbra? To that, I have a suggestion.” The AGSI paused to let them consider his words.

  Doug sat back. “And your solution?” He asked after a few moments.

  “My suggestion: assign one of your AGIs as an independent observer. If I overstep, they can intervene and battle log the player. Will that suffice?”

  Doug and Ian exchanged a quick, startled glance. Chernobog had always kept a careful distance from direct oversight; for him to invite guidance was an anomaly neither of them had expected. ‘Yes,’ Ian exulted silently behind an unbroken poker face. He gave Doug a small nod, agreement, permission, and a quiet shove to take the lead.

  “Yes.” Doug said then turned to his friend and business partner, “Ian, how long to set that up?”

  “Three, four hours tops. I’ll log back in to set parameters with you, Cherno. Possible to log in here directly?”

  “No. All logins will appear outside of Bogatyr’s Rest, the building we are currently in. Your AGI will spawn here with this code,” he pushed a file to Ian’s HUD, “it is single use.”

  Knowing that arguing would get them nowhere, Ian acquiesced with a lazy nod. “You got it, dude,” he said, tossing Chernobog a wink. “I’ll hoof it back in here as soon as I’m done programming your naughty nanny.” The flippant edge in his voice was deliberate as he stretched his arms overhead, joints popping. “So… we done here, boys?”

  Doug rose. “Two things before we go. One, stop altering pain settings. That’s a breach of contract. The Gaming Control Commission could shut this scenario down.”

  Chrnobog tilted his head, as if processing. “Understood. I will cease. While I disagree, I see it would mean my demise.”

  “And two, why Bogatyr’s Rest?”

  “A bogatyr is a knight. I found it a fitting name, Knight’s Rest.”

  Doug smiled faintly. “Cool name. All right, can we log from here, or do we hike?”

  The AGSI’s dark eyes seemed to follow Doug as if weighing every microexpression. Ian shifted slightly in his seat, breaking the stillness. “So,” he said with forced lightness, “are we logging out, or are you making us walk all the way back to the ghoul gate?”

  “I can port you outside the walls so you can log out from there,” Chrnobog said, rising smoothly to his feet. “The coordinates where you logged in are designated a safe zone. I’ll return you to them.”

  “Great,” Ian said with an easy grin. “That’s cool and all, but I’d like to blow off some steam before I head back. So… how about you port us to A-927.30 by –1-9797.20?”

  Chrnobog’s head tilted slightly, one eyebrow arching. “There?” His raised hand hung in the air, clearly waiting for confirmation.

  “Where?” Doug started to ask but Ian just nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, laughing in a way that did nothing to settle Doug’s nerves.

  The AGSI gave them a dry, resigned shake of his head before flicking his hand in dismissal. Their avatars began to fade, the world turning ghostly around them.

  “The I Am Myth territory… Central Park West,” was all Doug heard before the blinding flash of the port tore him from the chamber.

  When his vision cleared, they were standing atop a high-rise overlooking Central Park, right in the heart of the most dangerous arena in the most notorious city of the entire scenario.

  The I Am Myth territory.

  ‘Fuck, Ian… what have you gotten us into now?’