Nico stared at Peter, unable to find the words.

  Peter had offered to accompany him, to join the group on their adventure. An Animutant with anti-cheat capabilities could prove useful, perhaps decisive, in the fight against Erebos.

  He looked away and observed the landscape, then the others. The group that had formed almost by chance, out of necessity.

  Nadia and Gareth were opposites: Gareth spoke little, Nadia too much, asking about feelings and real-life experiences. Nico knew what they were: sentient programs, antivirus software designed to protect the game system. Yet the programmers had done such a thorough job that they seemed like real people, with desires and needs.

  He found himself looking at Peter again. He smiled slightly. It would have been nice to spend more time with him, even if it wasn't easy. Peter always lied, but maybe that was what made him so alive and real.

  Nico was trying to imagine how their adventure would continue once he had solved the problem of his memory with the Archivist, when Kiah and Leo set foot on the soot-blackened pavement of the harbor.

  The wind began to blow in bursts, as if the world had been paused and then restarted. Nico held his breath without realizing it.

  He stopped, his stomach tightening: he feared it was Erebos. He looked up at the horizon. The smokestacks in the distance were spewing black smoke.

  The curls rose into the sky, then returned to the ducts, like when you rewind a video. His fingers instinctively closed in his palm.

  He looked up. The clouds flowed, then snapped back, returning to the same position they had been in a few moments earlier. He felt slightly dizzy, as if he were the one moving.

  On the pavement, a woman was talking to a man. She was gesturing, explaining something. The man nodded, turned, and took two steps to leave. Then the scene replayed: the man was back in front of the woman, with the same gestures and movements.

  Even the waves of the sea were strange: not a regular, harmonious continuum as one would expect from such a realistic simulation. They looked more like a poorly made GIF repeating itself. Once again, everything seemed fragile to him.

  Everything was repeating itself, unable to move forward, just as it had happened with Erebos when they had faced the mannequins on the bridge.

  Then everything rewound one last time and Nico saw Leo and Kiah. Their silhouettes vanished instantly.

  He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. A lump formed in his throat.

  Peter's eyes widened.

  “What happened?”

  Nico braced himself, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. He saw Gareth do the same and Nadia look around, her eyes reduced to two slits.

  Everything seemed to return to normal: the clouds, the smoke from the chimneys, the wind, the man finally walking away, leaving the woman alone. Like the calm before the storm, Nico thought.

  Nico sprang into action and bounded down the steps.

  He skipped the last one and leapt onto the pavement, ready to draw his sword. Then everything resumed, stronger, more intense, raining down on him like a shower of images and pixels that overwhelmed him. The flute-like voice croaked in a robotic, metallic tone:

  ? Exit game

  ? Returning to reality

  Darkness.

  He took off his visor. Nico opened his eyes. The world hit him: the smell of soot was gone, replaced by burnt grease and smog.

  The light was too bright. He covered his eyes with one hand. He blinked several times. His head felt heavy, as if he had slept badly. He tried to get up. His left leg immediately protested. He stopped, leaning against the desk. The pain was real, that was for sure. It had always been that way, so at least there was no doubt about that.

  He looked around: the window, the wardrobe, the desk. Everything was the same as before. Yet he had a feeling that something was missing.

  He tried to move. His legs, not just his left one, but both of them, felt heavy.

  He tried to grip the edge of the desk, but his hand responded slowly, limply; every limb felt foreign.

  He was at home.

  He tried to remember what had happened just before. Something about a virus. He remembered a discussion, faceless people, three, maybe four, talking about a backup, perhaps. He wasn't sure, he didn't remember much.

  He looked at the time on his old alarm clock: it was past noon. He frowned, remembering that the game usually disconnected him at eight in the morning.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Why had there been this sudden change? And above all, why couldn't he remember?

  He sat up in bed and shook his head. Focus, he thought.

  He had to try to remember: what had happened? Why had the game kicked him out? Was he on time or late for logging out?

  He picked up the headset and put it back on. The countdown said he had about eight hours until his next reconnection. How long did it usually take between reconnections? Twelve hours? He shook his head, irritated. He couldn't remember.

  A knot of fear tightened his stomach: what was happening to him, why couldn't he remember?

  His breathing began to shorten. He felt a slight but insistent pressure on his chest, while another knot tightened his throat. He looked out the window almost without thinking. The humid air and the hot summer sun brushed his face; he coughed, shaking his head because the light bothered him. Leaning limply against the windowsill, he inhaled more deeply, trying to catch his breath.

  Then his mind was flooded with isolated, insubstantial, and incomprehensible thoughts and words: Erebos, virus, amnesia, backup... He saw the soot on the streets, the chimneys puffing smoke where the buildings had once stood across the street.

  “Archivum...” Nico murmured, as the smell of soot and tar penetrated his nostrils with every deep breath. He felt those ideas raining down on him in no particular order, in a dense confusion, an urgent and indecipherable buzzing.

  Then everything returned to normal, disappearing from his view. Nico remained leaning against the windowsill for what seemed like an eternity. He realized that he didn't just need air. He needed answers.

  The OpenDesk Café in the city center seemed like the only sensible place to go.

  Nico walked along the crowded sidewalk. In his ears, the noise of cars, horns, the indistinct voices of the crowd around him. He looked up, searching the sky beyond the tall, square gray buildings for what he remembered seeing before setting foot in Archivum: clouds sliding back and forth as if rewound. But the sky was clear and clean.

  The smell of hot asphalt made him wrinkle his nose, but it was still better than the soot and tar smell of Archivum, mixed with real smog. Now he was without his visor, he didn't have to see those things outside the game.

  Then everything slipped away. The anonymous, gray balconies of the buildings lit up with brightly colored pots, while the tall buildings of the city shortened and lengthened, taking the place of one- or two-story houses with bright paint. The shop signs changed: no longer brands or neon lights, but simple symbols: scissors, hammers, cuts of meat, painted on wood.

  Nico froze, while the crowd, busy talking on their cell phones, in groups or with projected holograms, passed him by, oblivious. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down, as the smell of smog suddenly mixed with basil and mint. He squeezed his eyelids shut, hoping the vision would disappear.

  Someone bumped into him and said something, muttering to get out of the way. Nico opened his eyes again: in front of him, a boy with a ladder appeared among the crowd. He was dressed differently, from another era, another world. The boy was followed by an old man. He leaned the ladder against a lamppost, a modern lamppost that had absolutely no need for lamp oil, and the old man climbed up. The light came on, giving off a warm glow, not electric.

  Around him, instead of tall buildings, there were low houses with flat roofs and flower-filled terraces. The shops appeared to be stacked on top of each other: real shop windows displaying sneakers, from which intertwined roots and dried bouquets sprouted. In a knife sharpener's shop window, he saw a series of flat-screen TVs on display: a journalist was speaking while the headlines scrolled below.

  'Widespread blackouts in North America: millions without electricity for over 24 hours. 'Delays in gas supplies in Europe: rationing in several capitals.

  'Cyberattack on banking systems: transactions suspended.

  'Strikes in major ports: supply chain blocked.

  'New wave of extreme heat: alert in major regions.'

  A loud, continuous honking made him jump. In the blink of an eye, what seemed out of place disappeared, bringing everything back into line.

  ‘Hey, get out of there!’

  Nico looked around: he was in the middle of the road. He had been walking without realizing he was walking. He muttered an apology as the man in the dark SUV cursed and sped away.

  At OpenDesk, he sat down at his usual computer, twenty years old but still working, and waited for it to boot up. He took a pen and paper out of his backpack to take notes, then opened his browser and typed: “memory loss after virtual reality.”

  He read the first results without paying much attention. Mental fatigue. Sensory overload. Nothing that really explained what he was experiencing.

  He deleted it and rewrote: “confused memories virtual reality.” This time he found a page that talked about source amnesia. He stopped to read.

  It said that a person can remember an event but not remember where that memory comes from: whether it really happened, whether it was dreamed, whether it was imagined. He continued reading. It talked about very immersive experiences, capable of blurring the boundaries.

  Nico immediately thought of the game. The level of detail and the feeling of really being there.

  He shook his head. It wasn't accurate. It didn't describe what he was feeling. He didn't remember anything specific: he saw it before his eyes without remembering where it really was. Moreover, he didn't think he was tired. He knew that his memory loss originated from the game, but he was convinced, without knowing exactly why, that the game was also the only way to remember again.

  He read a term: break in presence. The moment when you realize you are no longer inside the gaming experience.

  Nico stared at the screen. What if that was the problem?

  He opened his notes and began to write, slowly.

  I have memory problems.

  I remember things about the game, but I don't know where they come from, what places I've visited.

  I remember something about a virus.

  He remembered a name. Yes, he remembered it before. But not anymore. He punched the desk, causing more than a few people in the bar to turn around; he muttered an apology and went back to staring at the screen. If he couldn't remember, there was nothing to look for.

  After dinner, in his room, with the door closed, he looked at the headset on the bed. Part of him wanted to lock it in a drawer and never use it again.

  Another part knew he wouldn't. Because the answers, if there were any, were in there.

  He lay down, but didn't put on the viewer. He stared at the ceiling. He tried to retrace the day from the beginning, but soon lost his train of thought. He closed his eyes. He didn't know if he was about to fall asleep or just take his mind off those crowded, formless thoughts for a moment.

  He knew only one thing: he had to get back into the game.

  [AUTHOR'S NOTE]

  Log updated:

  Subject status: unstable.

  Memory: fragmented.

  The Archivist is the only one who can help Nico, but at what cost?

  Input requested in comments.

  Processing in progress.

  The next LOG will be released on Monday ET.

  The continuity of the story depends on your increased support.

  To keep the narrative flow active, follow.

  Log closed: The system observes