I don’t know how long I waited in the pale unchanging nothing. No body to feel or move, nothing to see, taste, or smell. A million questions raced through my mind about being unable to move, what the white light was, and, of course, the classic one: Am I dead?

  A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere in the endless expanse of unchanging white.

  “Welcome to Archive. Congratulations, your intelligence and cognizance allow you to enter the System.”

  If I had eyes, I would have stared in surprise. So, death was called Archive. Who knew?

  My theory? I died in a nuclear explosion. The UN had tried to bomb the comet and messed up, so my co-workers and I were charcoal shadows on a pile of rubble.

  At least it called me intelligent.

  “The system has been updated, including new skins, classes, accessories, and weaponry.”

  I tried asking it what the fuck, but I couldn’t feel my mouth or a breath to speak with. I had no lungs. Seemed like a problem.

  “Observe, user. Choose.”

  The white in front of me shimmered and took form. It became a door-sized mirror, and in it… “I’m a wireframe?”

  I had lines for a mouth, which seemed enough to generate speech.

  I’d played video games. Not extensively. I didn’t live for them, but I knew what I was looking at. Before the graphics were laid on, the digital outline of a thing took up space, delineated by this figure I saw reflected in front of me. It wasn’t a mirror, but a screen of some kind.

  “You are a new addition to Archive, a DNA collection array. Please choose your options from the aspect screen.”

  Addition? Aspect screen? DNA collection. That sounded specifically disturbing. The see-through words that had popped up beside the mirror resembled a holographic display. The lettering was gray against the endless white world around me. As I read the options, they lit up a faint blue.

  Option 1: Join Stasis

  Option 2: Choose a Skin

  I felt stripped down and incomplete in my wireframe form, and stasis did not sound appealing. When I decided on option 2, the aspect screen lit up with a colorful array of images.

  The first option was me. When I focused on it, the mirror reflected exactly what I looked like when walking into work. A woman, a little on the slim side, with brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail, in torn, stained work clothes.

  The urge was there to just pick what I knew and move on. Get going. But, wasn’t I already pushing up daisies? Was I hurrying to be a hallucinatory ghost?

  I’d been floating in that pale deadland for I don’t know how long. Too long? Why should I have worried about time? Work wouldn’t call to find me. Time had no pressure in this purgatorial space. I chose exploration.

  Scrolling the aspect screen, I found an impressive list of avatars available. I wondered what happened to my body. The words DNA collection array were specifically horrifying. Before I spiraled into panic, I studied my wireframe. I had to focus on what I could do and what I did know. This was game stuff. I knew game stuff.

  I needed a face to scowl at, something to anchor myself. My own avatar hovered on the screen, but—I was used to that face, bored of it. I presented as a scruffy mess. My work resulted in sweat and torn clothing, so I sure as hell didn’t go out of my way for appearances.

  Why not try something else?

  The menu of images on the aspect screen and the mirror in front of me could distract me until I understood more about my situation. Looking to see what else I could become wouldn’t hurt. Probably wouldn’t.

  The aspect screen operated the character generation in this ‘game,’ except hella specific. I’d spent over an hour customizing a character in RPGs before, but the options here were insane. How could I just settle for boring old me when I could pick something else?

  I started with race, as you do. Centaur. No. Faun, hmm, tempting, but no. Bug people? Only if I wanted to hate myself. I was easily distracted. The activity helped me with the stress of my situation.

  I found the common fantasy races and paused at Elf. I stared at the avatar’s gorgeous reflection. The aspect screen popped up countless options to tweak her. I turned around, admiring the flowing golden hair cascading down my back with a sigh.

  That wasn’t me. If I was going to pick something, it needed to match who I was. I was not, and never would be, an elf maiden. Unless she was strong for her size and spoke like a warehouse worker, like me. The idea appealed for a moment, but… I scrolled on. I didn’t want to be just another elf girl.

  Green skin caught my attention further down the list. I toggled between Orc and half-orc. The half-orc had a leaner build, and after a moment’s thought, I chose it. I liked the look.

  Beyond the mental exercise, I couldn’t shake the nagging question: What was the purpose?

  “Archive,” I asked, “why do I have to choose a skin?”

  “To interact with the denizens of Archive, a user must choose an appearance and an identifier.”

  I squinted, processing. So this really was some sort of game? I distracted myself with the tone of my skin, trying to find just the right color, a mix of dry, earthy brown and sage green.

  Maybe this was a wonky post-mortem dream. Stop. What if it wasn’t?

  “Is this a game?”

  “You may consider it so.”

  I died and went to gamer heaven? Could have been worse. Hold up. There was a good question buried in that thought. One Archive might answer. “Archive, am I dead?”

  “You are in stasis. You may remain in stasis or enter the Virtual System. Do you wish to remain in stasis?”

  I shot back without thinking. “No, I want to play the Virtual System. Is there a time limit to this process?”

  “There is no time limit to generation.”

  Good, question answered. It seemed this would be some kind of MMORPG, without the online part. Half-orc it would be. I needed to project an image that didn’t scream, ‘mug me, I’m a newbie.’ I was glad I skipped the faun and Fantasy Princess.

  I toggled between male and female and chose the more intimidating one. A male half-orc, it was. I still had the urge to be pretty, though. Damn my vanity.

  “Based on your biologics and your psychological evaluation—”

  I cut it off. “What psych eval? When did you do a psych eval?”

  “Automatically. Your organic brain structure and mental functions were tested when you were uploaded.”

  “Rrrright.” Back when the white space was buzzing with my thoughts. Wonderful.

  “Sorry, continue, please.”

  “Your class ideal is Fighter. Here are your statistics, based on your evaluation.”

  An aspect screen appeared to one side of my vision. I glanced at it while I was tinkering with my tusks. Big, but not stupid cartoonishly big. Nice, just right. I gave myself some chiseled features, wondered if I was being vain, and decided I didn’t care. My game, my avatar.

  The stats looked right to me. I wasn’t exactly a genius. I didn’t light up rooms when I walked in, and despite my spatial awareness and sharp reflexes, my fine motor skills were not impressive. I was a weak liar. It all tracked.

  Fact was, I could’ve spent time in denial about the situation. Indulging in a tantrum seemed cathartic, but I could pass my hand through both my menus and the mirror. Throwing a fit would win me nothing.

  I’ve always been practical, and if all this was a big delusion brought on by some latent stress caused by comet cultists and UN comet bombings, so be it. I’d just enjoy my psychosis, thanks.

  So much time was wasted making the perfect half-orc… Or was it? That whitespace felt infinite, beyond the reach of a thing like time. It was a pattern I kept returning to: What time is it? How much time have I spent? Oh, it didn’t matter.

  As I puttered, adjusting my brand-new belly button, I asked casually, feeling it out, “Archive, if I am alive, when can I go back home?”

  “If you achieve victory over the Gateway, you may have a chance to return to your homeworld.”

  There was a nugget of hope in this game. The signs pointed to being abducted by aliens. Maybe the cultists weren’t as nuts as I thought. Their hand-painted boards about aliens coming and stealing us away weren’t so far-fetched after all.

  Skills and statistics had an allotment of points, which was standard for games. Archive automatically assigned me Northwest American English 2025 and Orcish System dialects. There were hundreds more languages on the list, but everything else was grayed out.

  I’m too dumb to know more than two languages?

  I rejected that notion. Archive could say what it wanted. Neuroplasticity had the word plasticity in it for a reason. I’d figure it out when I got to the starter zone. I might not need more than two anyway.

  100 points had to be distributed among a daunting array of skills.

  As a fighter, I had melee available with subcategories of weapons. I scrolled the list, most of which were unavailable and the majority of which I’d never heard of. When I got to Willpower, I tried to max it. It would only allow me 60 points.

  “No. I reject that,” I said, watching my orcish mouth move, hearing my new, gravelly voice for the first time. Cool. That sounded intimidating.

  Archive helpfully explained, “Max points for skills cannot exceed the parent skill level. Willpower branches from Constitution.”

  “I said I reject that. I’ve known people who have more heart than their body allows,” I argued.

  Oh, God, my hair! What was I going to do with it?

  “Please qualify and quantify.”

  I took a moment to think of some good examples. “There are stories of people lifting cars off their children. No normal, average human should be able to lift a thousand-plus pounds of metal, but they do in moments where they see no other alternative. People who are born with serious illnesses that should have rendered them helpless find ways to compete in sports events and participate in society. Oppressed people who had no advantages have risen above their status and become more than anyone ever expected, so consider that qualified. Quantified? One hundred. Any living being with enough perseverance has a chance to defy the odds.”

  It let me put all my skill points in Willpower. Nice. It might have been stupid, after thinking about it, but I’d already put up the argument, so I wasn’t going to back down and give myself survival skills. A 100 on the screen is only really 98-99%, depending on how things scale. I didn’t know if I could go above 100 with bonuses or equipment yet, but I assumed so.

  I hadn’t bothered to look at the grayed-out perks before. As a half-orc with naturally thick skin, I had a bonus point on my resilience and AC. If I’d gone full orc, I’d have gotten two, but I stood by my choice.

  After winning one argument, I wondered if I could make another for something else grayed out. I perused the aspect screen, looking for talents I might want that were gray and unselectable. There were race talents, but they stemmed from Base Origins. They weren’t assigned to me because I was listed as: Base Human.

  Why did it assume I was limited to human attributes? I was a program building itself now. I could be whatever I damn well pleased.

  “Photosynthetic regeneration. I have green skin, so why not some chlorophyll, or whatever creates the process? According to your explanation, my consciousness was uploaded into something you called The System.

  “So, technically, I’m not organic anymore and therefore not human. My skin isn’t an actual body, so it is also not subject to the actual hormones and chemical processes that would limit the possibility in nature. I want it, and there’s no reason why I can’t have it.”

  Archive was quiet for a moment.

  It owed me, after rudely abducting me. I had no sense of shame at that moment. Only entitlement.

  The Photosynthetic Regeneration option shifted from gray to blue.

  With a big, tusky grin, I watched myself swipe my new green arm, selecting the option from the aspect screen. Yes!

  “Can I add others?” I was willing to argue for everything and find a way to make it work.

  “No other expansions or modifications can be made at this time.”

  “Why not?” I demanded. Maybe I should have taken a Cruella DeVille looking avatar. Named Karen. Ugh, no. I was tired of going over every little piece of feature, form, and color.

  “No other expansions or modifications can be made at this time.”

  Well. Shit. It shut me down and wouldn’t let me dispute more. I’d debated a lot out of it already, so I let it go.

  I fixed my hair with thick black braids and flowing long locks. Why should elves have the monopoly on beautiful hair? The aspect screen had options for clothing, so I selected from the sets given. I didn’t know what I’d be walking into, so I went with the one under the most popular selections list. A basic homespun tunic and pants with leather shoes appeared on my avatar.

  “Skin achieved. Congratulations. Choose an identifier.”

  My name wouldn’t fit the new look. I’d need something that sounded orcish, but not so pretentious or deranged that I’d stand out. Crossing my arms, I considered my avatar, ran through a dozen names in my head, and settled.

  “Dathai.”

  “Is this your final choice? You may not alter it once you enter Convergent City. Certain locations allow you to alter your appearances, but to denizens of the System, you will be Dathai.”

  “Sure, I’m good with it.”

  My new name appeared over my head in translucent lettering. It was distracting. I’d pull up my aspect screen to search menus and hide it later.

  The rule about keeping the same name made sense. An elegant way to enforce accountability—no ditching an account and starting fresh. It was also unfortunate. New players couldn’t screw up and start again after learning the ropes. They would have to wear their mistakes.

  I had to keep that in mind.

  “To clarify, what are the rules?” I asked.

  “You may die five times, and then you are returned to stasis.”

  I waited, but nothing else was said. That was it? No moderating? No rules? I suddenly wished I’d distributed my skill points. It could be lawless chaos in Convergent City.

  “How long do I stay in stasis?”

  “Indeterminate.”

  That was not a satisfying answer. “Who chooses how long I stay in stasis?”

  “Archive.”

  That chilled my spirit. I looked at my life bar. It was full, but my pool wasn’t exactly big. Beneath it was an XP bar, which suggested I could build XP to build my HP.

  “So, I can die five times,” I really didn’t want to find out what that was like, “and to get home, I have to beat the Gateway?”

  Wherever that was.

  “This is the nature of the System.”

  “Huh,” Maybe I could argue for my life if it came to that. I was ready to take this new bad-boy skin for a spin. Like a big green dork, I flexed my avatar’s arms, admiring my work one last time. My avatar appeared ruggedly handsome, brows sculpted into a natural scowl, body strong yet built for speed. Perfect.

  “Ready. Let’s go to Convergent City.”

  -ARCHIVE-