Alt Control Save

by Kody Boye

I can rescue Leon from Dystopia.

  Stepping out into the cold, I feel a sense of apprehension that comes only from anticipation. Of reaching a destination, of meeting a goal, of working toward something that you know to be the truth—it envelops me like a blanket and allows me to fight back the nauseating discomfort that arises because of the mist still curling along my legs.

  Don’t fret, my conscience offers. You’re going to be fine.

  Still, the fact that it will take me three days to reach the hills leaves me in a state of unease. I hadn’t anticipated there being so much ground to cover, so many potential dangers to face.

  Three whole days, I think.

  A lot could happen between now and then. I could be tracked down. Ambushed. Tortured. Killed in the name of this twisted, unpredictable and now uncontrollable game known as Dystopia.

  But will it happen?

  I don’t know—and that, above anything else, leaves me feeling small.

  There’s a small part of me that wants to retreat—that wants to somehow, someway, make my way out of this game and back into the real world—but the larger part knows it’s simply fear from having gone through this endeavor before.

  “You’ll make it,” I say.

  I have to. Otherwise, what would be the point of having come here?

  With that in mind, I trudge onward—past the property line and into the ghostly woods.

  The ground at my feet is hard to see, the path treacherous and filled with roots. Snarled across my pathway, I repeatedly test the landscape before me with my makeshift spear to ensure that not only will I not trip, but I won’t step on something that has made its home here.

  No spiders, I think. No bats, no wolves.

  No lions, tigers, or bears.

  “Oh my,” I say, and I can’t help but chuckle.

  The whisper of wind through the trees leaves me breathless and uneasy, for it shadows the sounds of the world around me. My footsteps are soft, my breaths uneven, the movements of the leaves as my boots trudge through them invisible beneath the aspects of the world. Not even the shuffle of fabric along my skin can be heard within my mind, for everything feels so soft below such a loud place.

  I realize, now, what is happening, and it startles me to the point where I come to a halt.

  I am beginning to panic.

  No. Don’t.

  Panicking now, so early in the game, will only serve to make me weaker later on. I have to keep my wits about me. Otherwise, I will surely lose not only this terrible game, but the young man who has quickly become my best friend.

  Steeling myself for what is to come, for the horrors that are to occur, for the realities I will face, I continue to make my way through the fog.

  Three days left to go.

  I cannot afford to waste any time.

  I stop to retrieve a piece of jerky and a bottle of water from my backpack around the time the fog begins to clear from the forest floor, revealing not only dew-dappled leaves, but thick clods of mulch. I chew on the dry stick of meat and try to determine my game plan going forward.

  I know nothing about this part of the world. Spontaneously generated as it happens to be, there is no way to determine if I will come across shelter or if there will even be any at all. Climbing a tree could be an option, at least to keep me off the ground, but I’ve never had great dexterity, so the chances of me falling and breaking my neck are too likely to contend with.

  You can’t afford to risk your safety, I am quick to think, especially not when you have such a long way to go.

  How far is it, I wonder? Fifty miles? One-hundred? Maybe more?

  The idea that I may be walking much longer than I had anticipated leaves me with a sour feeling in my gut. I am not lazy, by any stretch of the imagination, but the more I walk, especially without substantial rest, the more I will weaken.

  I am just about to hike my pack up my shoulder when a twig snaps in the nearby woods.

  I tense, instantly reaching for the gun at my waist.

  That is when I see it: the monster, creature, whatever it is. Ghastly, amorphous, resembling velvet, it steps forward on two lupine legs and cranes its long torso forward to consider me with a circular and white-masked face.

  The gun is in my hand instantly, my finger on the trigger.

  It lifts a hand and splays its fingers out before I can shoot, as if it means to…

  Stop me?

  I stare at the thing for several long moments, trying to figure out just what, exactly, it is. It’s unlike anything I have seen in Dystopia, or anywhere for that matter. Worst yet: it doesn’t seem threatening, as haunting as it appears to be. Instead, it acts like it wants to communicate.

  But why?

  Hello, Sophia, it says in a low, distorted voice.

  “Heh… hello?” I ask.

  I am a moderator from Kingsman Online Games. This archetype’s name is Gloom. Are you feeling well?

  “I’m scared as hell, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  There is nothing to be afraid of. I have been watching you and keeping the hounds at bay.

  “Watching me?” I ask, frowning. “The hounds?”

  The wolves have followed you from beyond the property line. They are hungry, but most of all, they are scared. Gloom was designed to instill unease within the minds of lesser creatures. Tell me: are you afraid?

  “Nuh… No. Not now, at least.”

  Good. Gloom lifts its head and surveys the nearby woods with the black holes for eyes in its mask. Would you like me to lead you through the woods?

  “Can you?” I ask. “I mean… isn’t that… interfering with the game?”

  This world no longer operates based on the mechanisms created by Kingsman Online. This archetype is merely an avatar that is being guided through this terrain. Whether or not it can sustain damage is yet to be determined.

  “So… you’re controlling it? Like someone would an avatar with a controller?”

  Yes, Sophia. I am.

  I step forward, slide the pistol back into its holster, and say, “Okay. Lead me through the forest—or, at least, as far as we can go until night falls.”

  Yes, Sophia.

  It turns and, without making a noise, begins to traipse through the woods, leaving me to follow in its footsteps.

  The archetype leads me through the forest for hours, and though it is hard to believe at first, it becomes apparent after a while that its presence is disrupting the flow of wildlife through the area. Birds become silent as we pass. Small animals retreat into their burrows, while the larger ones turn and run, tails between their legs. It would appear, beyond doubt, that Gloom is keeping everything at bay, which leaves me both thankful and scared.

  Is this why, I begin to think, I am so uneasy?

  Is there a field, I wonder, being projected from its person? That would make sense—at least, in theory—but I dare not ask. Speaking, at this point, would only disturb the monotony, and if that were to happen…

  I shake my head.

  Frowning, I lift my eyes to the sky to find that the world has grown ever darker—and that the sun, which had seemed to be lingering at the middle of the sky, has since fallen to the far edge of the world.

  “Are we going to stop?” I finally ask.

  Soon, the archetype says. We must seek shelter before the day is up.

  “Why?”

  Because only God knows what the game will bring.

  Shivering, now more than ever, and not just because it is cold, I draw my jacket around myself and continue to pursue the creature through the trees, all the while wondering just what could be making the moderator controlling it uneasy.

  Is there something here that I don’t know about?

  Of course there is, my conscience offers. Why else would they have sent an avatar into the game?

  Unless…

  I swallow.

  Unless, I think, they truly are afraid that I will fail.

  Why risk having two dead teens on their hands if th
ey could physically intervene?

  I decide not to think about their lack of confidence in me and continue to follow, wondering just what the coming night will bring.

  Fortunately, the weather is mild.

  Unfortunately, it may stir other creatures from hiding.

  I press my handmade spear into the earth and use it to guide me along the forest floor as the daylight begins to dissipate.

  “Do you know where we might find shelter?” I ask.

  No, Gloom replies. I do not.

  This unsettling truth is enough to leave me nervous, but I imagine that is the point.

  For most people, feeling afraid in any capacity is enough to make them seek answers, even if the question has yet to be asked. For me, fear means compulsion—to live, to sleep, to breathe.

  I take all of this into consideration as we pass down a slope filled with the gnarled and snaking roots of old trees.

  There, the archetype says, and points.

  I squint to try and determine what it is speaking of, then find it a short moment later.

  A small passage, carved from rainfall and the ever-growing tree, rests within the side of the hill.

  “You mean for me to sleep here,” I say, blinking, unsure how or what to believe.

  You will face many trials here, Sophia. This hellish landscape was not meant to be tolerable.

  “I know. It’s just… I thought there would be something—anything.”

  You can use the sleeping bag that was provided to shield yourself from the elements. I will stand watch throughout the night.

  “I… I don’t—”

  But, in the end, there’s nothing to say.

  My fears, casual as they happen to be, are not without merit.

  Could Gloom, I wonder, really defend me throughout the night, were something ghastly and inhospitable to arrive?

  I wish I knew, but since I can’t, I settle down beside the passage, check to ensure that there are no animals hiding inside, then begin to unload not only the night’s meal, but the insulated sleeping bag that will surely keep me warm.

  It’s been little less than a day and already I want to give up.

  I won’t, though. Can’t.

  With that in mind, I close my eyes and begin to chew on a piece of jerky, all the while wondering how I will survive this night.

  7

  I struggle to sleep in the nook between the earth and the roots. As night falls, and as the temperature drops with it, I find myself dwelling on the reality that I am more exposed now than I have ever been before.

  Don’t think about it, my conscience says. You know what’ll happen if you do.

  Panic will consume me. This much is obvious. But at the same time, would panic really be wrong if it helped me maintain awareness of my surroundings?

  I shake my head.

  No.

  Panic will do nothing more than destroy me.

  I am, for all intents and purposes, safe. With the archetype watching me, most of the worldly creatures should stay away.

  Most of them…

  I don’t want to think about the ones that won’t.

  Are you still awake? the archetype asks, its distorted voice solemn but concerned.

  “Is it really that obvious?”

  There is no response.

  “Gloom?” I ask. “Are you still there?”

  I am standing on the ground above you. Do not fear. I will protect you.

  “How far does your influence spread? I mean, to keep the creatures away.”

  There will be no hounds tonight, nor cats, nor bears.

  “I mean… what I mean to ask is: am I safe?”

  You are as safe as you can possibly be.

  It should be a reassuring comment. Instead, it does nothing but inspire dread within my heart.

  Sighing, I adjust the backpack beneath my head—hoping, for the sake of my comfort, that my body heat will remain trapped beneath the sleeping bag that I have so carefully tucked around me. Only the slightest bit of air seeps through a crack in the insulated blanket above me, offering just enough oxygen to keep me comfortable.

  While lying here, attempting to sleep or, at the very least, rest, I listen to the sounds of the forest around me.

  Of the wind whispering, of leaves falling, of small animals who bear no ill will making their way through the underbrush—they all impress upon me the knowledge that, with Gloom standing above me, I should be able to rest accordingly.

  I feel, mostly, safe—

  At least, until the hounds start baying.

  “Gloom?” I ask. “Are they—”

  Near? No. They are not. They are simply attempting to rally more to their cause.

  “Are they… animals?”

  I do not know.

  I swallow the growing lump in my throat and try my hardest not to succumb to panic, but to no avail.

  I don’t know what will happen, if Gloom will really keep the hounds away, or if, by some fault of the game, the archetype will be able to prevent something as monstrous as a Moth Man from finding me.

  If the hounds really are calling for someone—or, more likely, something—then just who do they serve?

  I don’t—and, likely, can’t—know.

  For that reason, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and try my hardest not to listen to the sounds of their calls.

  Unfortunately, it is impossible not to listen.

  They cry out for most of the night, keeping me awake. Constantly paranoid that they will find me by sight or smell, I keep my ears attuned for anything that would alert me to their presence, and as such, suffer for it.

  Their cries end by the time the dappled gray sun rises.

  Sophia, Gloom says somewhere nearby. It is time to go.

  “I’m awake,” I say, shrugging the sleeping bag off my body.

  Did you sleep?

  “Can I lie and say I did?”

  Gloom doesn’t respond. Instead, it turns its masked head to face me and watches me climb from the nook in the earth with eyes dark as night.

  For a short, sleep-deprived moment, I’d forgotten what it looked like. Seeing it now, though, in its full, unsettling glory, is enough to shock me to my senses.

  Are you all right? the archetype asks.

  “I’m just tired,” I reply. “That’s all.”

  Perhaps there will be a place for you to take shelter in further up the path.

  “Perhaps,” I say, but don’t believe it for a second. I reach into the nook to withdraw the bulky pack that I’d used as a pillow and sling it over my shoulder. “Are we ready?”

  I am ready when you are.

  I don’t think I can ever be ready to face a day without sleep. Even before, in the previous game I’d survived with Leon, I’d at least been able to rest. But now?

  I shiver—partially from the cold, but also from nerves.

  “Okay,” I say after giving myself a moment to acclimate to the temperature and to draw a bottle of water from my pocket. “Let’s go.”

  And so, Gloom begins to lead.

  The forest begins to thin halfway through our second day of walking, leaving me in a state of unease rather than confidence. Spear in one hand, gun at the ready near the other, I climb with the knowledge that we could potentially reach the Moth’s Nest before the day is up.

  But what is it? I wonder.

  The moderators at Kingsman Online hadn’t been able to describe what, exactly, it was. For all I knew, it could be at the top of a massive tree, at the bottom of a deep well, within a system of caves, or even, I’m loathe to think, an abandoned building. Would it not make sense for humanoid creatures with hands and feet to dwell within a modern setting? Especially if they had knowledge of what humanity was like?

  I don’t know and can only continue to climb.

  The canopy above is still dense, lined with blackbirds that continuously watch us regardless of Gloom’s presence. They jeer, and caw, and even laugh while jumping to and fro, like children awaiting t
heir parents’ punishment.

  “Have the moderators been able to discover anything else?” I ask, breaking the silence of the dull morning.

  You mean to ask about Mister Gray’s location, Gloom replies, and waits for me to nod. We know only what is being seen. Through this archetype’s sensors, we are able to map the locations we are passing—essentially lifting the ‘fog of war’ that permeates this area.

  “But that doesn’t tell me if you know where Leon is.”

  That is the problem. We currently do not know.

  “But we’re getting close to where he is being sensed on the map, right?”

  Gloom doesn’t reply.

  “Gloom?” I ask, my voice cautious as I venture into what is likely dark territory. “Why aren’t you answering me?”

  Because there is nothing more to say.

  “Something’s wrong. Tell me.”

  Sophia—

  “Tell me!” I cry.

  Gloom comes to a halt before me, then turns and says, We have been unable to determine Mister Gray’s location for the past several hours.

  “Is he… moving? I mean, on the map?”

  No. If he were moving, we would likely be able to determine it.

  “Then what does that mean? That he’s… what? Gone?”

  No. He is not gone. His body is still alive.

  “But his mind?”

  Gloom remains silent once more.

  A fit of agony overwhelms me. Frustrated, now more than ever, over what has occurred, I come to a jarring halt and grind my jaw together to keep from screaming.

  This isn’t right. This isn’t okay. This… this is madness.

  I take several moments to maintain a grip on my composure. When I do, I exhale a long, pent-up breath, and simply say, “Okay. So… you haven’t been able to sense his location. Which means he likely hasn’t moved.”

  Right.

  “Which means he could still be safe.”

  We have no reason to believe that he has been harmed.

  “So… we just have to keep moving,” I add, trudging onward, past Gloom and up the hill. “So let’s go.”

  Miss Garza, Gloom says.

  I come to a halt. “What?”

  There is a chance the archetype may not operate in its designated manner once we draw closer to the Nest.