I. The Re-emergence – A wheel is spinning___________________

Life can be a funny thing sometimes. It has this way of coming round full-circle, presenting you with picturesque bouts of deja vu. I've experienced this many times before in my life. But never was it as strong as it is now. Maybe it's fate that has brought me back here. Fate, standing in my shadow, pushing me ever forward.

"That's the last of it!" Rich dropped the final cardboard box on a 3-stack that was about chest-high. It had been years since all his things were out of storage. In college he couldn't take all his stuff with him, naturally, so a great deal of it stayed at his parents' house while he went off to live in the dorms.

It had been a long time since he went home. Rich meandered over to the window leading out to his small slice of nature, a four-by-eight balcony attached to his apartment. The sun was sparkling, illuminating his eyes and face. He felt alive with the sun's warmth on his skin. His father had passed away in his sophomore year. After that, his mother couldn't afford to maintain her lifestyle, let alone make payments on the home and keep the government and collection agencies at bay. So in the end the property was sold along with many of the family's comforts. Rich's belongings went in to storage, where they would stay throughout his college years.

Once his father passed, Rich never really went back. Now he had a home of his own. "A charming 1-bedroom apartment," the ad had said. Charming... It seemed to Rich that "charming" had been another word for "small", and nobody had let him know. He had a living room, galley kitchen with an open breakfast bar, bedroom and bathroom with a closet with barely enough room for one person-worth of clothes. Some 600 square feet of paradise. His couch, TV, bed, desk, dresser, and many boxes of books and clothes were scattered throughout the sanctuary, at the ready and waiting to be put to their place.

All his old boxes from storage were coated with dust, flavoring the living and bedroom s with an old, oak stench. He had whitewashed walls, popcorn texture on the ceiling that he was almost sure had asbestos built-in (another wonderful feature), and inconspicuous off-white carpet. It was a modest, plain apartment. "Home, at least." Rich laughed, knowing the work wasn't but half over. Now that all his stuff was out of the U-Haul, he had the arduous task of arranging it and unpacking.

After two days of arranging and rearranging, Rich had finally gotten all his furniture set up to his liking. He still didn't have power, it was Wednesday, and the electric company wasn't going to activate his line until Friday. He still had five days to unpack before he had to report to campus for work. A nearby High School had lost its senior History teacher to an automobile accident. Rich was a little wary about taking a dead-man's job, but the staff assured him that the teacher wasn't dead, just hospitalized, and probably wouldn't be back before the end of the semester. So they needed a full-time replacement for the interim.

Rich set off unpacking his clothes and books, filling shelf after shelf and drawer after drawer with all due haste and exuberance. One, two, three, the boxes were crushed flat and tossed. Friday had arrived by the time all the necessities were in place. His little slice of paradise was beginning to feel more and more like home. All that was left were a few old, dusty boxes that had been in storage after his mom sold their former home. The box on top of the 3-stack tower, which was teetering dangerously unbalanced. It is worth noting that the heaviest box, which had been on the bottom in storage, on the bottom on the truck, was now on top since it was the last box unloaded. It didn't escape Rich's attention when he was moving in, but anyone who's moved knows that the task of moving in is so arduous that details like that don't stand up against the looming fatigue-monster that overcomes us when the finish line is within view.

The couch was an inviting thing, embracing Rich warmly with its cushions, he thought he'd never get up again. The stack of boxes continued to totter on its axis, the bottom box started to crunch beneath the weight, slowly coming to resemble the accordioned-out top box. Rich closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, relishing in a brief reprieve. There was an amplified smash, a deep, bass thud accompanying when the leaning tower of cardboard finally crumbled under its own weight and fell sidelong in to the kitchen, the top box spilling its bowels across the linoleum.

Rich hadn't met his neighbors yet, but he would come to assume that the guy who lived below him was consistently, constantly constipated. You know the type, cranky all the time for no reason. The sky could be bright blue, not a cloud to be seen but at the distant horizon, birds chirping, a cool breeze with warm rays of sunlight as a companion gliding across the grass, which is tall and springy, not too wet. Then, along comes a gray cloud of acid rain, withering the grass underfoot and in wake, souring all unfortunate enough to find themselves under its shadow. One of those guys, swearing, angry, and ready to blame Y-O-U for it!

The aforementioned 'gentleman' pounded repeatedly on the ceiling. Either he was very tall or had a broom or some other long, rigid object close at hand for such occasions. Rich could hear muffled curses and shouting, something about "mating" with silence and not "stomping all over the [mate]ing place!" Rich cringed as he leaned forward, prying himself from the comfort of his couch. Staggering to the wasted boxes, he noticed a fair amount of water damage on one or two of them. Hopefully the contents hadn't been ruined by water while in storage, or in the unfortunate tumble. He had to straddle the fallen boxes in order to waddle in to the kitchen, where a bunch of old knick-knacks had spilled all over. He found old baseball cards, a picture of his Dad when they had bought his first car, the two of them sitting happily in the front seats of a brand new Pontiac. He still had that car, though now he wished that he hadn't chosen the black finish. It was always hot and if you wore shorts the leather stuck to your skin, and he ended up not washing it for almost a year when he was in college, and people thought it was tan.

Other things that fell out of the box included his first-gen iPod, which was scratched all to hell, a bunch of pens, a notebook from High School, a bunch of loose papers, his first personal book on U.S. History, a biography about John Adams that was some 700 pages long, along with seven subsequent tomes chronicling the history of the United States. Rich stared at the photo for a long time, thinking back to when his Dad had been alive. It was strange to think that he was really gone. Although it was the nature of things, something about it was decidedly unnatural. Dads were supposed to be like the Energizer, they just keep going, and going, and going. Sadly, that wasn't the truth of things. Remembering a lot of the good times they had together once his dad had retired, Rich took the photo and dusted it off with a shirt that he left laying on the kitchen counter. The fall had chipped the corner of the glass over the photo, but Rich set it up on top of his microwave with a smile nonetheless. He pushed all the stuff on the kitchen floor back in to the box, tipping it up with one hand on the bottom edge, and the other holding the mass of junk in its open top.

After setting it upright again and folding the flaps together to hold it closed, Rich went about picking up the other boxes. The second in line was one of the water-damaged boxes. When he went to pick it up, his left hand crunched the corner, tearing the thin, wavy cardboard from the rest of the more rigid, undamaged box. This action caused his hand to slip, stabbing in to the corner of a metal box inside; the resulting action of which was the box thudding back to the floor, with echoed thuds from below once again, and muffled shouts of anger. Rich cursed his luck and tried to carefully tip the box upright, wondering what could be inside. After he had moved one of the four flaps, the others bloomed out, revealing his old computer that had been left in his room when he went off to college. The dorm was no place for a big clunky desktop unit with separate monitor. He had gotten a sleek laptop for his graduation and took that to school with him. The laptop was sitting in a case in his bedroom, a little careworn, but otherwise in good condition.

Seeing his old computer, or 'box' as they used to be called, brought back a thousand memories, and each memory had a thousand pictures, and each picture a thousand words. He remembered getting a video game for his Birthday one year, a game that would change his life forever...

The World.

All the people he met, things he did, challenges faced, enemies met – both vanquished and surviving, friends made, bonds formed and broken, danger, peril, and power loomed around every corner. Especially for those months he spent hospitalized (as far as his parents' knew). And then there was Loyd. He had almost forgotten about that far-off world of fantastic deeds and epic proportion. Part of him wondered if that game still existed, and what his old friends were doing. It was fun to think that some of them were still playing and if he were to log in to say hello, he would be greeted with open arms and fondness. But in reality it had been years since he last saw the Chaos Gate, the rivers of Mac Anu or skies of Dun Loriag. Those that he knew back then had probably done as he had, moved on with their lives, all but forgetting the time they spent playing That Game.

Besides, don't those games get updated like, monthly? It had been so long since Rich played that he couldn't quite recall. He probably would have to go spend a few hundred dollars on upgrades and newer versions of the game. It wasn't difficult to talk himself out of plugging the computer in and giving it a try.

Either way it had to be unpacked. Rich picked the computer up and slid it out of the box carefully. Though he doubted after the move and dropping the thing twice that care was necessary at this point, but he was determined to do it right either way. He placed the computer underneath the desk in his room and went back to the box to get his monitor out, which had been sandwiched in beside it wrapped in some packing cloth. Once in place, Rich stepped back from the setup and stared long and hard.

“Some thing's missing,” he thought out loud, stroking his chin thoughtfully in an almost dramatic manner.

Finally he realized that the third box probably contained the rest of his hardware. He turned on a heel and marched briskly back out of his bedroom towards the kitchen where he found the third box, surprisingly still right-side up and the flaps still closed, though depressed in one corner where water had maimed the integrity of the cardboard, creating a nice diamond-shaped slope across the top, pitted where the flaps folded over and under each other. Rich pounded the heel of his palm in to the crumpled corner of the box three times, popping it back to its normal shape. Then he opened it up to find his keyboard, mouse, visor with headset and microphone, controller, a few other peripherals, hookup cables for the whole setup, and a picture he'd screen shot of his character standing beside his old friend Kiwi in front of the Mac Anu Chaos Gate. The corners of the picture were torn off, presumably because it was mounted with tape on his wall near the calendar. His mom or a servant probably tore it off the wall with no care for the tape, and simply put it in the box with everything else that was loose.

Once the entire box was set up in his bedroom he sealed the ceremony with an approving nod. Though still resolute in not turning it on to try and boot anything up, he wasn't sure why he had taken the time to hook it up in the first place. Starting to feel a little more jovial after recalling so many memories, Rich crushed the last of the empty boxes and took them to the dumpster when he left to get food. He had forgotten to eat once he found his old computer all boxed up. The rest of his day was taken up with sorting out his change of address letters, a few unpaid bills, and now that he had power he could hook up his phone and test the service. It had already been decided he couldn't live without Caller ID and resolved to phone in before the customer service lines closed to get some upgrades to his line.

The weekend went without incident while Rich enjoyed his new apartment and put the finishing touches on the place. He also watched an unhealthy amount of TV and banged out the last two-hundred pages of another old book titled “Mornings On Horseback” about the historical figure Teddy Roosevelt. Before Rich knew it Sunday night had arrived. Since he had his first day of work the next morning he resolved to get to bed early, wake up even earlier, eat a good breakfast and go to work rested and prepared.

If only life were so simple.

To start off, the clock alarm that was set up beside his bed wasn't nearly loud enough to rouse him. It took thirty-five minutes for him to get up, from the time his alarm had begun. Rich stumbled out of his bedroom, two steps across a small arm that branched off the living room and nearly fell straight in to the shower with his boxers and t-shirt on. After a brisk shower Rich did the necessaries and threw on a suit, nearly forgetting his tie and shoulder-bag before grabbing a bagel and dashing out the door, without his keys no less. He had to run back up to his apartment on the third floor from the first to get them and stop to lock the door before trekking to work.

The night before he had spent on his laptop, borrowing wireless from a neighbor that took all of an hour to crack, figuring out exactly how to get to the school, and how long it might take. Rich failed to factor in Southbound traffic and all the red lights he would hit. At 8:45 he arrived at the school, a full forty-five minutes after the first bell had rung. The shiny black Pontiac had to sit in the student lot since Rich was so late in arriving, the staff lot was full. It was a decently-sized campus, two joined city blocks side-by-side, with a front building that had to be nearing 100 years old. From near as Rich could tell, the building had a 40's and 50's feel to it, just after the Second World-War. It was charming, as his apartment ad would no-doubt have said on the matter. As it turned out the rest of the campus was made up of satellite buildings that arced out around the campus, the 3-story front building as the vertex of all the rest. This created a dome feeling in the center courtyard, and the fields were wrapped around the outer buildings in the arc and staff parking was in the back, student parking across from the main building.

Rich stiffened his resolve and entered the school, reporting to the office. He had never liked the office, not in grade school, High School, or College. The Principal's office, PAL, was always so stifling and never cheery. The same was true of a Dean's office, full of false-erudition and thousands of books and busts, modeled after the treasured chambers of true intellectuals. This school's principal's office wasn't much different, though it was far more practical and less staunch.

The Principal was a stubby, fat man with a booming voice and hearty laugh, but a threatening air about him. Rich quickly saw what made this man a good, if not at least decent, leader. He apologized for being late, but the Principal, Mr. Whitman, laughed it off.

“Why, son, I'm glad you showed up at all! You've no idea how hard it has been to fill your position!” He spoke with genuine relief and seemed to be quite jolly about the whole affair.

“Is there any particular reason for that? If you don't mind my asking...” Rich cleared his throat and set his shoulder-bag down in one of the two seats poised in front of Whitman's desk as he was gestured to sit, which he gladly obliged.

“Well we've had a helluva' time getting someone to teach here! Lord knows there are better schools out there, more... distinguished establishments.”

“Firstly, sir.”

“Just call me Mr. W.”

“Okay, Mr. W,” Rich felt like a student all over again, even though he was now this man's colleague, “Firstly, I'd like to comment on your name, if I may. You share the family name of a great thinker and poet from the end of the transcendental period in the mid 1800's, Walt Whitman.”

Mr. Whitman rose an eyebrow with a smile hidden behind his hand, which was raised to his chin, a few fingers covering his mouth. “I think you're perfect for this. I like you already!”

Rich beamed a bit inside and continued, “Second, this is my first teaching position, and I'm happy to be doing it at all. So thank you.”

More pleasantries were to follow, but afterwards Mr. Whitman led Rich to his classroom where the second hour was just beginning. Rich set his shoulder-bag down on the desk at the front of the class and picked up the textbook that was left sitting there. He thumbed through the first fifty pages comfortably and asked, without looking up, “Where are we in here, class?”

Everything was silent for a time before he looked up with one eye and was reluctantly answered, “We're at the beginning still, Mr....?”

“Maxwell. Mr. M.” Rich held back a smile, borrowing from the principal.

“Mr. M. You're our fifth teacher in the past month, and each one insists on going back to the beginning of the book. We've learned more about the early colonies than any other class in the school, but everyone else is nearing the 1760's and we're still in the 1600's.”

Rich split the class up in to groups and had them go over everything they had learned so far in the class, and he walked around and listened to the groups to try and ascertain where a good starting point would be. He was also aware from his High School days that there would be groups he had to force to do the assignment, and he was happy to oblige. After class was over, there was a break, so the class sat in the room and talked among themselves while Rich sat at the front desk and was marking up the textbook with a pen.

One of the students got up from their seat while others talked, Rich made a mild note of this, then the student sat back down, looked stern and concerned at the same time, then go back up and approached Rich's desk where he had just torn out a page of the text.

“Sir, I mean,” the boy paused, “Mr. M. You do realize those books are the school's property, and that you shouldn't be vandalizing them?” Rich stopped and smiled, dropping his pen on to the page, closing the cover over it to keep his place.

“What's your name?”

“Eddie, sir.” Ed fidgeted as Rich looked him over. He remembered distinctly being like that in High School when under observation by an instructor. It was strange being on the other side.

“Eddie, Ed?” the student nodded, “Look Ed. I'm well aware of whose property it is. Don't worry about the book. Worse comes to worst I'll pay for it. What did you really come up here to ask?”

“Well,” Eddie hesitated again, “I was wondering when our regular instructor was coming back,” he trailed off.

“He's not, not this semester anyway.”

“And, if you were going to cover military history as well as political and civil.”

“Well of course! Y'know,” Rich leaned in a bit, sitting up in his chair, “I love military history. So you bet!”

Eddie smiled and nodded and went to sit back down. As Rich watched him return to his seat he overheard two students who were sitting in front. A few key words had gotten his ear to catch his brain's attention: Root Town, Tournament, Heavy Blade, Kiwi, Hacorie.

“Which field was it going to be on? I wish I could go watch!” one of the students said, his excitement barely contained by the low volume of his voice.

“I dunno. But I wish I could watch too. Maybe we can see it on a monitor in game, or a recording on the net somewhere if we missed it already.”

“Yeah, that sounds sweet!” one piped up exuberantly, having to quiet himself with an embarrassed look in his eye.

Rich was curious, I must have heard that wrong. Kiwi couldn't still be playing. He paused and gave it some rational thought.

With millions of people subscribing to the game, there has to be more than one kiwi... The kiwi I knew can't possibly be playing anymore.

Can he?

The rest of his classes after the first went pretty smooth. Some groups were content to start over and take a cliff notes version of the 1600's to try and get up to speed, others got the group-work routine so Rich could figure out where to pick up the story from and continue. All-in-all, it was a good day. Mr. W showed up at Rich's class after the 6th bell. Due to his diminutive height, Rich didn't see him at the door until all the students had walked out. Once all the kids had finished herding out the gates of liberty, frantically trying to escape for home, Mr. W stepped in and shut the door behind him. “So, how did you fare?”

Rich looked up from a tattered history text, setting down a now near-empty pilot pen on the desk beside it. “Oh, hi there. It went pretty well. Tomorrow I've got some work to do to catch these kids up, but all-in-all I don't think it will hurt their test scores too mu--”

“I'm sorry, you misunderstood my question. I meant, how do you like it?” Mr. W paused, cleared his throat and clarified, “Teaching, that is.”

Rich stopped and laughed a bit, “I like it a lot. Each class was a bit different, though the material was the same. It will just take some getting used to. But I enjoyed today very much.”

“Good! Good! I'm glad to hear that. We're already a month and two weeks in to the term. They need to start taking tests and building up grades. I hope you can get them some sort of paper to grade or some such thing, so that we have a letter to print on their progress cards that go home at the end of the month.” Mr. W smiled confidently, as if laying a challenge before the fledgling instructor.

“Oh, sure. Not a problem.” Rich hadn't given the slightest thought to exams or tests or homework or how he would grade his students. That was something he apparently needed to think about.

Mr. W trod backwards towards the door all the while talking and making big bold gestures with his arms. “Well, anyway! I guess I should let you get going. Best show up rested and on-time tomorrow! Good luck to you, Mr. M.” He stood in the open doorway to the classroom and grinned, stepped outside, and let the door slam shut behind.

When Rich got home that evening he had a bowl of Top Ramen with egg for dinner, and clicked on the TV and let it run until well in to the night. Though the television was running, illuminating the majority of his apartment with different hues of white, blue, orange, and other assorted colors with reprieves of black between commercials, Rich didn't remember any specific shows he watched. All the while his mind was on school, his work, how to grade his students, and last but certainly most of all: the conversation he had overheard between the two students after the 2nd hour ended. Rich was sure he heard right. “Kiwi”.

Was he really still playing? And if he was, who else could still be out there? Lighteria, Hacorie? Asura, Malignant, Asgard, Adaron? He knew it was romantic fantasy to let himself hope and dream that these people and more still existed within the confines of that virtual world. Rich knew, he really knew that the odds of any of those players still existing was very, very limited.

And yet, I can't help but think...

Before he wandered into unconsciousness while sprawled out upon the couch with the television running, Rich got up, turning in a full-circle where he stood trying to find the remote. He had to get down on his knees, grab the armrest of the couch and reach underneath it to find the darn thing. Once the TV was off he plodded off to bed. When Rich got in to the bedroom he couldn't help but stop and stare at his old computer. It sat solemnly, waiting, begging to be turned on. The visor was there, the controller, keyboard, mouse, everything he would need. He stood and gawked at it for a long time, his jaw slacked, hanging open with fatigue. Finally his will brought him to bed where he set his head down on the pillow and was almost immediately taken by sleep. His last thoughts being of tomorrow's 2nd hour class. I've got to talk to those two kids tomorrow after class... Find out about kiwi.

Tuesday morning went without near so many incidents. Rich was up on time with his alarm, showered, and even had time to actually toast his bagels and get some cream cheese on them this morning before leaving. He was also sure to give himself plenty of time to get to work. There was even a few spots left open for his Pontiac in the staff lot on campus! Things were looking good. By some act of God, or his ancestors, or possibly his recently-deceased father, Rich was able to make it to work a full 40 minutes early.

There seemed to be a jubilance in his step as Rich made his way in to the main building, to the office to pick up his set of keys, and then down to his classroom. The key slid in to the knob easily, clicking every time a tooth fit a pin in the lock. Rich had to jiggle the key a bit to get it to turn, but turn it did, grinding in the cylinder where it didn't quite fit right. He heard a solid clack when the deadbolt pounded home and the door gave in its frame. It opened easily and Rich stepped in to the dark classroom. Rich entered with his head down, fiddling with the key to get it out of the doorknob. Once it came loose he turned his back to the classroom and closed the door behind him. After the door closed, a yellow glow erupted from the far-side of the room, leaving long shadows on the floor and wall, illuminating the gaps between, and Rich's back in a yellow hue.

Confused, Wren turned around and saw a Gott Statue emitting its silent yellow light, hovering in place before an open chest. The desks were gone, the walls and whiteboard had vanished. It was just Wren and the damp dungeon wall that wrapped in a circle 'round the Gott, the room aged and musty, with vaulted ceilings and the doorway behind him, void, with the faint image of stairs leading back to safety above. His jade-green eyes were drawn to the curvature and form of the Gott, it was a depiction of another deity, one he had never seen before. His eyes were drowning in the light, what was a deep jade ringed a wide circle of gold, reflections of the calming presence of the Gott.

It took Wren time to notice that the chest had been emptied already. Is someone else here?

“Hello?” Wren took two steps forward, his scale black boots clicked, clanked and thudded against the hard cobblestone floor. Nobody answered. Shifting his stance a bit, Wren's armor felt familiar and comfortable on his frame, “Something doesn't feel right though... This isn't how I remember it.” His sword was missing, and his wings. Two familiar trademarks were gone, he could be almost any nondescript Blademaster in The World. He gazed down at his hands, the powerful Dragon Hand gauntlets were there. Their beautiful crimson scales covering hide leather tanned to match, they were glowing and humming with untold power. Two words escaped his lips, but the voice that spoke them was not his.

GiVak Kruz...

The light of the Gott flashed out, an explosion of power rippled from its center, cracking its form as it crashed in to the hollow basin underneath. Everything began to dim and Wren felt a presence behind him. Loyd! He spun on one heel, not sure how he would defend himself without a weapon.

To his dismay, Mr. W was standing in the doorway to the classroom. “Richard, you made it early, I'm impressed! Uh... are you alright?”

Rich wasn't quite sure how to react, one minute he was in his classroom, the next The World, now he was transposed back to his classroom once again.

“Yes,” Rich gasped, regaining some of his composure and senses, “Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks.” He even managed a meek smile.

“Okay,” Mr. W shot Rich a sidelong glance of concern, “Well... First bell is in ten minutes. I'll be down to monitor your third and fifth classes for the day, to see how you're doing. It's mostly ceremonial, you understand.”

Rich nodded, realizing that his shoulder bag had fallen down on to his right foot. “Of course, that sounds fine. I hope,” Rich leaned down to get the bag as he spoke, “I meet your approval.”

“I'm sure you will. I'm sure. Anyhow! I best get going, I have Principally things to do this morning!” Mr. W was swinging his arms back and forth as he spoke, he seemed nervous for some reason, and it wasn't becoming of his demeanor.

“All right. I'll see you third hour, then.” Rich nodded and gestured to the door. Mr. W nodded with a half-smile, taking his leave of the classroom. As Rich closed the door behind the Principal he half-expected the nondescript dungeon to make its return, but it never did. Navigating his way between the aisles of desks at a leisurely pace, Rich sauntered up to the desk and set his bag down on its plain faux-wood surface and pulled out two books. First, the history text he had 'edited' the previous day, now three-quarters its previous size, and half the remaining pages had been scribbled over with a pen. Next was one of his favorite texts from college: Howard Zinn's “A People's History of the United States”.

He scribbled “ROANOKE” across the board in huge capital letters, having to take three steps to his right to finish the name, then sat down at the desk before the whiteboard and tried to come to grips with his experience from earlier. Clearly, something was happening. Whether or not it was all in his head was yet to be seen. “It's been years since I played... Why would I see something like that? Why now? I hope I'm not becoming a schizo...” Rich pondered what had happened up until the bell sounded. When it did his mind wandered, “Why do they call it a bell, when it is more like an electronic tone? I haven't heard a real bell in a long time.” A minute or two after the bell went off students started streaming in to his class. They usually had ten minutes to get from one class to the next so he had some time to think to himself while they all made their way in and got seated.

Since he missed first hour the previous day he decided to start all over again for this class, and brush over everything in to the 1700's. However, this was one section he would put detail in to: Roanoke. Not many professors, let alone High School teachers, covered Roanoke. Either they weren't aware of it, or they didn't think it was important. But Rich would be damned if his students – borrowed or not – didn't know what the true First English Colony was in the Americas.

First hour went without incident, and in second hour he decided to pick up with the infamous Stamp Act of 1765 and would continue on from there. Towards the end of the second class Rich set the students up in pairs to discuss the Stamp and Townshend Acts with pamphlets and copies of newspaper articles from the time. While the room was abuzz with chatter he made note of the two students who had been talking about The World the day before. It was worth his noting also that Ed wasn't in class.

As soon as the bell rang the chatter was over and students were getting up or packing up to leave. Rich shouted over the din to take the pamphlets and articles home with them and to have them read for the next day. Only about half of the students stayed in for the break today. Luckily the two World players were among them. Rich set his book down, closed it over his pen as a bookmark and pushed away from his desk to get up. He walked a circle around the room before coming to stand before the two World players, they were discussing something of rare items. Rich took a chair and spun it backwards before he sat down next to them, making a triangle with their bodies. Leaning forward in his chair, Rich launched right in to the conversation. “So, can I talk to you two for a second?”

The two kids sat and stared at him, perfectly still and silent, as if he were a predator that would go away if he didn't sense movement; a dinosaur of sorts. Rich watched them and held back a small laugh. “Anyway, I couldn't help but overhear you guys talking about The World. You play?”

Their jaws slackened and one of the two nodded a bit. “Cool, I used to play too. Yesterday you guys were discussing a tournament of some sort, yeah? What was that all about?”

The two kids looked at each other. Rich noted that the one with blond hair on the left had on a wristband that had a Chaos Gate on it, and the face of his watch had different World symbols in it instead of numbers. The brunette had a Mad Grass key chain and an unfamiliar character design on the front of his shirt, but it was definitely from The World. Finally the brown haired kid spoke up, reaching in to his backpack while he talked so he didn't have to make eye-contact.

“Yeah, so the CC Corps is holding a tournament where different players represent different Root Towns, and each Root Town confers benefits to the player. So it's not only a strategy of what equipment you wear and how you fight, but which Root Town you represent. You haven't heard about it?” He finally ripped a flier from his pack and set it on the desk. Sure enough, it was a CC Corps tournament, thousands of entries available. And the dates went back a few weeks, so it was probably almost over.

“No, I hadn't. Honestly, I haven't played in years. But I used to. That was the other thing, I heard you mention a Kiwi yesterday?” Rich knew this was a long shot, but he had to hope.

The blond looked at his friend and their eyes went wide. Then they looked back to Rich and both spoke at once, “Yeah, he's so awesome!” “His duels are amazing!”

“Do you know him!?” The blond was leaning so far forward in his chair that he was almost standing.

Rich laughed, “Maybe. What's his full handle? I'm sure in a game that big there are lots of Kiwi's.”

There was no hesitation, absolutely zero. They shouted “KamiKazeKiwi3!”

A grin broke out along Rich's face and he leaned back, holding on to the chair with both hands, “I can't believe he still plays,” he thought out loud.

“You DO know him!!” A few other students looked over at the trio and scowled, another student hushed them from 'cross the room.

“I used to.” Rich shrugged.

“What was your user name by the way?” The brown haired kid was curious, no doubt surprised to find a teacher who played computer games.

“Wren,” he said flatly.
“... Never heard of you.” The kids seemed downtrodden, disappointed to not have a teacher who was famous in The World.

The next bell rang signaling the end of the break. “We gotta go. It's cool that you played. You should give it another shot sometime, lots has changed.” The two kids stood up and gathered their things, leaving the flier there for Rich to look at.

“That reminds me. Have there been any new retail releases? Or could I just boot up and keep playing?” Rich was curious now, he had to go play when he got home!

“No new releases, but there have been upgrades to the system, I hope your computer will handle the graphic updates and everything. How new's your computer?” The brown-haired one seemed the more savvy of the two.

“... I'd rather not say.”

“My name's Mike, by the way. I play a Long Arm, Rix.” the blond waved.
“Right, and I'm Leo, Wavemaster extraordinare of the same name!” the brown-haired one shot a V with his index and middle fingers.

Mr. W showed up just before the bell rang signaling the end of the ten-minute transition. Rich's next class was full and he was prepared to continue his lectures, hoping to impress the Principal.

He seemed to do well, though Mr. W never said anything to him after his lecture after 3rd hour or 5th hour. But Rich figured it was better that he hadn't. No news is good news after all.

After 6th hour, Rich gathered up his things, erased the notes on the whiteboard and made a new note to himself for the morning, things about lesson plans and copies he had to run tomorrow morning. He stepped outside the classroom, heaving his bag up higher on his shoulder before turning and locking up the classroom. The key slid in to the knob quit easily, but was harder to turn to lock than it had been to unlock. “I'll have to get some graphite or something to make that easier. Maybe this weekend,” he mused. It was only Tuesday, he would probably forget before Friday.

He walked up the steps to the first floor of the main building, seeing as how his class was in the basement floor. Rich was met by Mr. W near the west exist of the building. “How should I begin, Rich? What should I say?”

“Say about what, Mr. W?” Rich suddenly grew nervous.

Mr. Whitman could see Rich's stiffened posture and the way he stood so still, “Don't worry, Richard. You did a wonderful job today. I just wanted to let you know that I'm considering offering you a permanent position on our staff. Nothing's for sure yet, mind you. But keep it up, and pending some grades and test scores, you just may have a home here.”

Rich relaxed considerably. “Thank you, Mr. W.”

“Larry. Just call me Larry, now.” Larry smiled.

“Alright, Larry.” Rich reached out to shake his hand.
Larry rose his voice, Rich had almost forgotten what it sounded like“Don't get to comfortable with it, now!” Then Larry grinned and grabbed Rich's hand firmly, giving it a good shake.

When Rich got out to his car the staff lot was half empty. “People must not waste any time to get out of here. There as bad as the students!” Rich laughed to himself. Most cars have a little remote that locks and unlocks them automatically. His Pontiac was no exception, however he had lost the remote when he was in High School, so now Rich had to use his key to get in to his car. It wasn't a real big deal, otherwise he would have bought a new remote. They were just expensive.

He leaned over the driver door and pushed the key in to the lock, when he turned the key he could hear the mechanisms inside popping the lock open. Rich was glad to be done for the day, he was eager to get home and turn his computer on. As he lifted his head up, there was a reflection of someone looking over his shoulder in the car window. Rich spun around to no one. Just a half-empty car lot.

“I could have sworn I saw something... I must be going crazy.” Rich got in to his car and closed the door. The reflection was still there.

Loyd.

Rich pulled up to his apartment complex and found a random, unmarked parking space. People seemed to have no concept of 'regular spaces' here. So almost every day he was parking somewhere different. One day he was sure he'd wake up and walk to the wrong part of the lot and think his car was stolen. But it hadn't happened yet!

A couple was moving in to an apartment on the second floor, so getting upstairs to the third was tricky due to the large box spring and desk that were going up the steps with the help of movers. Wish I could have afforded some of those. Rich thought, arcing his back to the sound of a few loud pops, like bubblegum.

“Aah! That felt good.” He smiled and waited for the movers to get their stuff up to the second level before he even bothered to go up. It took them fifteen minutes because the damn desk was too big for the door, it's like they bought an organ and were using it to write on. Finally after getting it through Rich was able to pass.

Why is it that any time you're in a rush the world dispatches millions of people to get in your way?

Rich got in to his apartment, set his bag down next to the door and walked straight in to his room. The computer was a little slow to boot, at least compared to his laptop, but it seemed to do just fine.

He punched in his old user name and tried a password.

A window appeared and said: Username and Password do not match. Please try again.

So he typed in a different password, knowing his user name was correct.

Username and Password do not match. Please try again.

There was only one password left he could have used, so he typed that one in, praying it would work so he wouldn't have to call CC Customer Support to get his password reset. This time a different window appeared.

Welcome to The World

A progress bar appeared accompanied by a message:

Downloading Updates: Patch 1.14

Rich sat impatiently and watched the download. It was very slow going. He quickly grew tired of watching, knowing that the entire updating process would take an hour or two, possibly more. So he set off to make dinner while he waited. Some two hours later Rich sat back down at the desk, finishing off the last of a bowl of ice cream that came after some hearty, healthy Chinese takeout. The patching was almost complete, and he couldn't wait to get back in to the game and see what it was like.

Rich grinned as the monitor went black, prompting him to pick up the visor that was resting on the desk directly in front of him. He could see the monitor in the visor had blipped to life and was glowing white.

Fate's knocking...

But who will answer?

Rich leaned forward, his chair squeaking as it tilted to its upright position, reached out with both hands and picked up the visor, holding it over his head. He lowered the sacred artifact down upon his brow gently, settling his nose in to the ridge and ears in to the headphones while the white light continued to shine brightly in his eyes. Once he was sure that the visor was set in place and level on his face, Rich felt about on the desk for his controller, nearly knocking it off his desk. Rich pressed the Start button on the controller once it was in his grasp and he had settled back in to the chair. No sooner had he pressed Start was the visor brought to life. Luminous colors darted past his eyes in all directions, flying about the visor performing an intricate dance that was carefully executed around an invisible, jet black centrifugal disk from which all the colors are being expelled, and the same center point to which Rich's vision seemed to be rushing.

It occurred to him that he might be in some sort of polychromatic tunnel or kaleidoscope, traveling towards a certain finality that nobody had ever quite attained. Maybe once upon a time he had – he did spend a number of months immersed in this world. Perhaps then he was living in that very finality, the blackness at the end of the tunnel of lights. It was an experience he never wanted to have again, he was resolved not to.

The black dot at the end of the light began to spread, a blot of ink that was leaking through the fabric of reality, becoming larger and larger the longer he was in its presence, until finally it consumed him.

When the screaming blackness vanished, Rich had given himself up to his other self; Wren had finally reemerged in The World.

“I'm back.”

The first sensation to come to Wren was his hearing: trickling water and the familiar sounds of the city's channels, canals and waterways muffled by the din of a busy city. There was footsteps, chatter, the unfamiliar yet harmonious chink and clank of armor and weaponry equipped to multitudes of people who were wandering the Root Town. He could even hear the NPC at the recorder station warning new and rash players to save their progress before venturing out to the fields of the ever-familiar Delta Server.

? Server: Mac Anu had revealed itself.

Golden rings descended from over Wren's head, gradually revealing the player's avatar to the rest of the server. There were three of them, as there always ever was. The first of the three rings set Wren's wire frame in place, outlining his overall design and shape. Next was basic polygons and coloration, followed rapidly by the third and final ring that completed the details in Wren's design, the life of his eyes, the strands of his hair, pours in his skin, ruffles and texture of his clothes, and the scuff marks on his boots and faded knees and thighs on his pants.

Wren found himself standing before the Chaos Gate of Mac Anu. His brown hair was shaggy and longer than it used to be, tied back in a wavy ponytail that touched mid-back, where his shoulder blades end and spine arches inwards and makes his lower back. His bangs were tucked back behind his ears, and the tips curled around underneath his ears, ringing them nicely. Wren's eyes were their same deep, jade green, with hints of sparkles against their glossy surface. His face was lean and pale, save for the jagged scar that ran down from his right eye through his cheek to the edge of his jawline beneath his ear.

His outfit was the same as it had originally been years and years ago, when he had first entered this world: a cream-colored shirt with lengthy, loose sleeves tied off at the waist by a black leather belt with silver buckle. Wren's pants were also black, straight-legged and loose-fitting to allow for a greater range of movement. The thighs and knees were faded gray with wear and age. The bottom of his pant-legs were tucked in to solid black leather boots, worn at the ankles from use, and scuffed at the heels and toes. A gust of wind blew down the alley that led to the Chaos Gate and Wren lifted his right arm to block his eyes from the breeze. The Blademaster's left hand went to his hip where he could feel a carrier for a sheathe, but there was no weapon to be had. Infact, he had no gear to speak of. It was a lonely feeling. Staring up at the Chaos Gate Wren could feel the abandonment in himself. He had fled this world too long ago, and now it was time to make amends. The Gate swung surely, always counter-clockwise, the midday sun reflected off the gold rings of the gate, and its rays shown through the sapphire blue portal within. The runes that circled the Chaos Gate disappeared in the haze of the sun when Wren looked up at it in amazement. He could feel the warmth radiating off the sun, and the cobblestone street beneath his feet. When he looked down he saw the ever-present runes depicted on the stones beneath the Chaos Gate. It certainly was a familiar and welcoming sight to behold. Years had gone by since Wren last stood before the Gate. Many adventures had begun right in this very spot; and not just for him. In this reflection he realized that everyone in The World, big and small, started their adventures here before the Gate. Chaos Gates in The World must have bore witness to millions upon millions of adventurers going on billions of adventures. The grand scope of this realization was enough to stun Wren in place.

Wren stood in place long enough to have a small band of adventurers pass him by. They gave him a cursory glance before imputing their keywords. There was a male Blademaster, female Wavemaster, and a female Long Arm. The Long Arm and Blademaster simply nodded at Wren as they strolled past him to get to the Gate. The Wavemistress stopped and looked up at him with a smile and wave. Wren wasn't quite sure how to respond other than to wave back absentmindedly. She heard her companions Gate Out and she twirled around and followed suit with a frantic look on her face. He held back a laugh and looked about at the buildings that surrounded the Chaos Gate. There were Greek pillars that encircled the Gate itself, and then buildings towered over those. All the buildings in the surround were set earth tones: browns, grays, greens. An amazing contrast was set when the buildings kissed the vibrant cerulean sky.

“I've lingered here long enough, I think. Time to enter the general populace.” Wren turned his back to the Chaos Gate and took a few steps away from it. Before descending the stairs towards the main square he stopped and looked back to the Chaos Gate one more time. It continued to rotate on its axis in a counter-clockwise direction, unaware and uncaring of his or anyone else's presence. Shrugging, Wren stepped down the stairs, his first steps back in to The World.

Wren's first impression of the pavilion upon setting foot within its confines was one of amazement. It was at least ten times busier than it had ever been before. Lots of players were down the steps to his left at the storage booth picking up or dropping off equipment and items. Wren smiled, remembering that he had nothing to his name. “What happened to my stuff, anyway? I don't remem --” Then it came back to him. “Kiwi. That's right. He's got all my equipment. Boy, I hope he still has it!” Wren chuckled a bit, scratching at the top of his head with embarrassed anxiety. Either Kiwi had begun to use his equipment for his own, or he had gotten rid of it all. No matter how you sliced it, Wren was about to inconvenience him. Wren just hoped that Kiwi hadn't forgotten him.

Wren was practically shoved off to the right near the recording station by a throng of players who were heading up to the Chaos Gate. His back was maimed by a building's windowsill when his shoulder blades slammed in to its wood frame. “Be sure you save before heading out to the fields! Make sure you save, you'll regret it otherwise! Be sure you save before heading out to the fields! Make sure you save, you'll regret it otherwise!” The NPC at the recorder station was droning on and on at the herd of players who utterly ignored its warnings.

Wren reached underhanded behind his back, trying to rub his shoulder blades with his fingertips, “Ow, ow. That sucked!” Amid his misery another player approached him. “Hey, are you okay?”

Wren stopped and opened one of his eyes looking at the player. He appeared to be a Heavy Blade. “Oh, I'm fine thanks.” He smiled and waved his free hand at the newcomer.

“Great, would you want to trade for this Mizuchi, then? I've been dragging it around everywhere and I have no use for it.”

Wren sighed, “What good would it do me?” Then he remembered that he was essentially naked and paused. “Oh yeah.. Well, consider that I'm level,” he checked his character tab, “35. That item would do me almost no good. Furthermore, I have nothing to give you in return. Sorry.”

The Heavy Blade looked disappointed, “Are you sure?”

Wren nodded and confirmed for the other player, “Yes, thank you though.”

“Okay then... Thanks anyway.” The Heavy Blade wandered off towards the Elf storage area to see if he could pawn it off on someone over that way. Wren smiled and turned the opposite direction to look down at the Item Shop, which was busy as ever. He could vaguely remember the Banks that existed once upon a time. He had been in charge of the bank in Carmina Gadelica. “I wonder if people are still inundated with cash like they used to be... heh. If anything, it's probably gotten worse.”

Wren looked across the bridge, and down at the little docks attached to the walkways that ran adjacent to it. There was almost always a boat or two parked at the docks with players getting on or off or transferring this way or that. Occasionally he would see Knights of War on the channels and shudder, stark memories of his experiences with them bubbling to the surface. The bridge held quite a few memories also. He had spent afternoons with Warpath, later Adaron, on that bridge. It's where many great adventures had begun. It was also where he made a resolute stand against Loyd when Loyd ravaged the Root Town. “That was almost 5 years ago... It's been so long. Everything seems just as I remember it, though.”

Wren strolled over the bridge, looking off over both banisters, listening to his feet clod against the masonry that held him above the waters below. Everything was so familiar, yet he could see noticeable upgrades around the city. It was definitely a lot larger than it used to be. He couldn't tell exactly how much larger, but he knew they had added sections to the grand Water Capital. Wren had fond memories resurfacing of sitting on the railings of the bridge, back when it was made of wood and not stone, and it was half as wide as it is now. He spent many days sitting on the bridge, and he would send a Flash Mail to Adaron and wait for him to show up. That's how many of his favorite adventures began, and how some of his most dangerous began as well. All upon the bridge of Mac Anu.

Once he was on the other side the sub-square was visible. It was much smaller than the open pavilion to his back. Buildings surrounded it on all sides, but he could see that it was noticeably larger as well. There were times he got in to fights in that square. That's also where Loyd made his biggest affront on the Delta Server. Wren could remember it like it was yesterday. Sitting in an alley that shot off from this square when Loyd appeared and attacked, killing a few players and then freezing the entire town to goad Wren out of hiding.

Wren stepped in to the newer square and immediately saw that his alley was gone. It had been opened up to be part of the square proper. Lots of people were relaxing here, now. They had even added in a small fountain in the center of the square. It was squared away to match, and there were beautiful blue-gray runes on the ground that flowered out from the fountain center. Birds were perched atop the fountain and players sat all around, chatting and planning, some of them were trading, others sharing adventures with one another, there was even a small group planning some sort of adventure to a field in one corner. Wren couldn't help but smile as memories all flooded back to him. Nobody seemed to take notice of the naked Blademaster as he walked around in nothing but his boots, pants, and cream-colored shirt. It was always in the front of his mind, that he had not a piece of gear to his name. To Wren, it was best that he didn't run in to anyone. The fewer contacts he made, the less of a chance of an encounter he would have. Being that he was completely unequipped, any altercation could prove dangerous.

The next stop was down at the Weapon Shop. Wren remembered buying one of his weapons here at a lower level. Perhaps it was the Mizuchi that the Heavy Blade from earlier tried to pawn off on him. Could he really be trying to scalp off a near-worthless item for something decent? That may be why he came up to Wren, who looked unseasoned without any gear equipped.

The thought of Heavy Blades brought Wren's mind to one of his old allies: Lakely. He remembered Lakely, Rose, Lighteria, Tempest, Asura, Malignant, and others who weren't directly affiliated with him, like Asgard – who was a great friend for the brief time that they knew each other. Wren's memories traveled through his adventures, the creation of the Vanguards of Twilight, or VoT, where he and others sought to root out evil and be some of the strongest players in the game. Though their goal was hardly realized when the group dissolved. They did have a stronghold once, hidden in a corner of this very city.

“I doubt it's still active, but it doesn't hurt to go look I guess.”

Wren climbed the staircase back to the main thoroughfare between the bridge and the little fountain square. “If I remember correctly, it's straight ahead.” He continued forward, down the opposite staircase to the Majickery. There were a few players there buying scrolls, but even in his prime, Wren wasn't fond of them. He hardly ever frequented the shop here in town. Beyond the Majickery was an alleyway to the left. Wren approached the waterfront and knelt before it, staring at his reflection in the glassy channel. It had been forever since he did this, and it was strangely soothing. So much so, infact, that Wren almost forgot what he was doing. “The hideout, right!” He stood back up and turned to his left, seeing a small wood bridge up ahead near the Pawn Shop.

Wren had spent quite a bit of time in the Pawn Shop before. Could Saphyre and Pendant still be working there? True to form, the door was wide open and as he passed by it looked pretty busy. Just as dark and dusty as ever on the interior. If he hadn't been in such a rush to reach his destination, Wren may have stopped in to say hi. But at the moment he had more pressing matters to attend. Past the Pawn Shop the road took a small turn to the left in to a square not 1/5th the size of the fountain square above. There were a few flat digital representations of doors in this little square. It took Wren a few moments to remember which door was the right one. “Well, it's a good thing that we hid it the way we did, I guess now I know it was an effective camouflage.” After searching through his memory, Wren recalled it being the door next to the crates. He stepped up to the door and wrapped his bare hand around the knob and held firm for a few seconds before turning the knob to the right. The hollow click that followed assured Wren that he had picked the right door. It swung open easily, creaking on its hinges.

Wren looked about cautiously before stepping in through the doorway. There were four wood steps that went down to the floor. He touched his left hand to the damp stone walls to his left, the wood railing to his right. Once he was on the floor, the door up and behind him shut automatically, and the latch clicked back in place. The room was dim, and somewhat damp. There were wood pillars holding lamps and lanterns which gave the room its dim light. These pillars also held up the rafters and ceiling above, which was no doubt the floor of the rooms above. Wren had sincerely forgotten what this place looked like. In the back-right corner of the main room there was a stack of barrels with big iron rings bolting the individual barrels together. The bulletin board just ahead of Wren on the right wall caught his attention and he walked up to look it over. There were all manner of warnings and notices posted, events, and information. There was even an escape plan and emergency protocols that were beginning to fade, and many pieces of paper that were pinned up had rolled up against the pins that held them in place.

A barrel sat expectantly near the staircase, open-top, and Wren recalled that this was the “weapon-hold” for people who were to enter their hideout. Nobody was to be armed with a primary weapon while present. The bar on the far-left side of the room was vacant. Wren distinctly remembered an NPC there who served drinks. But surely he vanished with the rest of the clan. The eight barstools still sat in place, however. Wren noticed that all of them were in against the bar except for two. The two nonconformist stools were beside a pair of glasses that were mostly-full of some clear fluid, accompanied by an open bottle. “Someone's been in here. Who would have known?” Wren pondered briefly, “It is possible that someone stumbled upon this place by accident... But not likely.”

He resolved to come back to that mystery later, first he wanted to inspect the rest of the hideout. To the left of the bar was a door with a large keyhole on it. “The stockroom. If someone discovered this place, I bet it's empty by now.” Wren put his hand to the door and gave a slight push. To his surprise, it swung open. The stockroom was a quarter the size of the main room and lined with shelves and had a few barrels to hold more equipment. There was a single light hanging from a rafter that was to light the entire room. It was amazing, the stockroom had been hollowed out. But that wasn't the truly amazing part, the items and gear that lined the shelves had all been replaced by books. Hundreds upon hundreds of books.

“Well, now I definitely know that someone's been floating around down here.” Wren looked over the book collection, and found it much to his liking. “Now that the VoT are gone, I think I'll just keep this place the way it is at the present.” There were two other rooms that branched off the main lobby. One was the VoT War Room. Its framed doorway stands beside the barrels in the far corner of the room, opposite the bar. Inside the room is a large table with the last map used by the VoT set out on the table, held in place by a few Health Drinks. There were three lanterns sitting in the room giving off a quiet glow, and an overhead lamp that hung down over the large table. Wren noted approvingly of the size of the room. The table had a decent surface area, and all around the table was room for a number of people to stand and observe. Instead of chairs or stools, there were a few barrels set in the corners of the room that people could sit on if they so chose. Wren smiled, knowing that the room got hardly any use, but the foresight he had to put it there in the event that it was necessary.

Finally was Wren's personal room. He opened the door and peered inside. He had a bed, desk, pictures of old friends and allies were stuck to the walls. There were two books sitting on the desk: a journal and a poetry and prose book. A chair was also in the room set at the desk. It doubled as a conference space, if someone wanted to come in and speak to Wren in private, they could use that chair so they weren't forced to stand. To the left of the door was a mirror on the wall, and there were two lamps on opposite walls to illuminate the room. An equipment rack sat beside Wren's bed so he had quick access to his weapons and armor, back when he had weapons and armor.

Wren remembered why this room existed. He had spent months upon months immersed in this game, his body a limp shell of flesh and bone in a hospital bed far far away. But he hoped to never have use for this room ever again.

Back in the lobby, behind the barrel that served as a weapon-deposit for visitors, was a cellar door that opened upon a ladder that was to descend in to another room. Though Wren distinctly remembered having left that room empty. It had a purpose at one point, though Wren couldn't remember now what that purpose was to be, all he could remember is that it never did get executed.

There was no doubt in Wren's mind that someone had discovered the old VoT hideout. Although he had no equipment he was determined to sit in waiting for that person to arrive and confront them. His footsteps brought him over to the bar where he got a bottle of old sake and a glass and sat down in the first of the eight stools and started to drink while he sat in waiting.

After his second sip Wren set the glass down and looked along the bar. Near the two glasses some three seats away he noticed some design written in the dust on the bartop. Curiosity got the better of the newly-recovered Blademaster and he got up, sauntering over to the two stools that were pulled away from the bar. Looking down at the design he realized that it wasn't an archaic picture, but instead a message. Dust had begun to settle in to the message, but it was still very readable.

Mr. Kiwi, I can't believe you dipped in to our stash...

So Kiwi was here, at least semi-recently it would seem. But who wrote the message? There are still at least two people using this hideout, as could be deduced by the stools and glasses, but they may not always come at the same time. One of the two seemed to be Kiwi. That was comforting, at least it was someone Wren knew and could trust. But who was this other? And which would return first? It was too hard to tell.

There wasn't anything else Wren could do at the moment, other than leave the hideout, which seemed like a bad idea. So he drew a small smile in the dust beside the message and then walked over and sat back down on the stool he originally occupied.

He wondered what his old friends were doing at this moment. But most he thought about Kiwi.

All I can do now is wait.

Wren didn't have to wait long. He barely finished half of the drink that sat in front of him before he heard the clack of a door. Someone's trying to get in! His first instinct was to stand and face whoever it was, friend or foe. But when his feet hit the floor Wren remembered that he was without equipment. There wasn't a moment to spare! The Blademaster darted over to the War Room and put his back to the wall to the direct-right of the doorway, so he'd have a vantage point from which to see most of the lobby.

The door creaked open, cascading beams of light tumbled down in to the dank, dusty hideout. A long shadow penetrated the illumination, carefully stepping down to the ground. The stairs creaked with each step the mysterious intruder took. There was a long pause, Wren could hear himself breathing and tried to force shallow breaths through his lips to make less noise. What was going on? Did he dare to look around the corner? Would he be seen? And would that be okay? No.

A sharp metal clink mixed almost harmoniously with a thick hollow clop, and then another with a bit of a rubbing as two metal surfaces met with each other. There was another momentary silence, and Wren strained his ears for any small sounds, cloth rubbing together, careful footsteps, anything he could pick up. Nothing.

Moments later Wren heard the sound of padded footsteps. They were moving away from him. Wren leaned his head around the edge of the doorway to see if he could descipher who was here with him. All he saw was a tall man with messy black hair, denim pants, boots, rather plain looking. It could have been almost anybody. He takes a few steps out of the War Room as the mysterious intruder approached the bar and looks down at the bottles and glasses. This invader then read the dust note out loud.

“Mr. Kiwi, I can't believe you dipped in to our stash...”

I know that voice.

Recognition clicked in Wren's mind a moment after, and a wide smile broke out across his face. “Breaking and entering's a crime you know,” Wren said flatly, trying to hide the smile he was wearing, “But this time I guess I could give a bird a break.” Wren stopped his advance when he came to a pillar and leaned his right shoulder upon it, crossing his arms over his chest. The smile won over his determination and shone proudly on his face in the dim light of a lamp overhead that drenched the Blademaster in a calming orange glow.

The Heavy Blade stood stalk straight for a moment, obviously startled in one way or another, beyond that Wren couldn't tell, but in the end he knew it didn't matter. He just waited confidently for his friend to recognize who was standing there.

“... Wren...?” Kiwi turned around slowly, looking like he was still rather rigid.

“In person.” Wren advanced another step and held his right hand out.

Kiwi stood there, his eyes lowered to Wren's outstretched hand. There was a brief pause, not but the exhalation of a breath, before Kiwi took Wren's hand and shook it heartily, a grin starting to form between his cheeks.

Wren laughed and flung an arm behind his fellow feathered friend, giving him a hearty pat on the back. “You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost, as cliché as that sounds.” Without skipping a beat Wren circumvented the bar and ducked beneath, removing a glass from one of the shelves below the counter. He gave it a flick of his wrist, sending it tumbling end-over-end as he stood back up, catching it mid-rotation. It gave a good solid thud when Wren slapped it down on the counter and poured from the bottle he'd grabbed before.

“Truth be told I'm glad it was you that I ran in to first... From looking around I'd gathered that there were two people using this space, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out who the other was.”

“Mr. Lakely, probably.” Kiwi stepped up to the bar, looking at the note in the dust. “Did you write this?” Kiwi reached out and touched his finger down on the counter, aimed at the note. Wren noted the familiar gauntlet Kiwi was donning. Dragon's Hands... So he still does have some of it at least.

“Nope, that was there when I got here. It's how I knew you were one of the two, and how I knew there was a second, aside from the two displaced glasses and stools.”

"It was him. He was the only one left. I saw him at an event but we were interrupted before I could talk to him more. Are the others around? What happened?” The Heavy Blade erupted with questions, and seemed to stop himself abruptly.

Wren faltered back a step, surprised by the rapidity of Kiwi's speech. “Woah, woah. Okay, what others? And what happened to what? The clan is dead. I don't know where any of the old gang is... Last one I saw was Lighteria, and that was I don't know how long ago. I don't know what happened to anybody, not even myself... The last thing I remember is...” A flash in his mind's eye recalls an image of Kamui and her Knights binding him in place, prostrating on a grassy plain with his wings strapped together and his arms clamped to his torso. There was a beam of light and – “... oh, and who was 'him'?” Wren leans forward and steps back to the bar counter and takes a quick swig of his drink, the glass making an empty clank, stirring up dust when it touches back to the neglected wood bartop.

“Mr. Lakely,” Kiwi began, picking up his drink with one hand while pointing at the first part of the message on the table with the other. “There are only a few people who call me that.” Kiwi then drew a sip from the glass in his left hand. Wren looked down and studied the message a bit, thinking to himself. “... the Tournament.” Wren looked up at his friend. “Tournament? I did hear about that. Some things never change...” he smiled, raised the glass to his lips, lapping up the last of his drink.

“How are you doing in that anyway? I haven't been around long enough to gather the details or anything, but I did hear about it from some guys in one of my history classes. They told me you were amazing, which was no real surprise to me, other than the fact that you were still playing. You always were good in tournaments.”

Kiwi grinned wide, “I'm flattered, your equipment definitely helped.” Kiwi waved his hand in front of him in a small arc, the rare gauntlets giving off a golden-red glow afterimage that trailed behind his forearms. Wren smiled, watching the rare dance about on Kiwi's arm. “I need to leave for the finals soon... to fight Lyra.”

“Well I'm glad I could be of some service in one way or another. But speaking of... I hope this isn't a bad time, but I was wondering about the possibility of getting my equipment back. Since I've returned, and I'm quite without gear. It would be hazardous of me to wander outside the Root Town without anything strapped on...” Wren trailed off, looking down at the bar. “If it's not too much trouble, that is.”

Kiwi interjected with such speed that he nearly cut Wren off, “It's fine. Give me a moment to figure out which of my items came from you. I've got some records.” Wren almost immediately noticed the Dragon's Hands disappear for a different set of gauntlets, and then it looked as if Kiwi had stepped out of himself for a moment to figure it all out.

One-by-one Kiwi laid pieces of gear on the bar, methodically clearing his inventory of Wren's equipment, and Wren was slowly gathering it up and equipping whatever he could remember wearing. It'd been so long, he had almost forgotten how much gear he actually had.

After a span of minutes Kiwi laid the last piece on the bar almost religiously: the Prometheus, Wren's signature weapon. Last time Wren played he was the only one in The World with such a sword. He could only wonder if that was still the case. “Your Ice Hunter Cap and Mizuchi are missing. I think I traded the cap in at the Pawn Shop, while the Mizuchi is currently with a newbie Blademaster called Kae. I lent your Kagayuzen to another player, but I'll get that back for sure.” Wren nodded absentmindedly while he picked up the Prometheus, glowing in its scabbard, and attached it to his belt.

“This is wonderful, Kiwi. Thanks for holding on to all of this...” he perked up a bit at the mention of the Kagayuzen, and the rest of what Kiwi said dawned on him. “Kae, huh...? Well, that's perfectly alright. I never really used the Mizuchi anyway. And I wouldn't worry much about the cap... I specialize in Fire. I really appreciate it. Who did you give the Kagayuzen to, if I might ask?” By this point Wren was sliding his fingers in to the Dragon's Hands one at a time, smiling as they went on snug.

“Shenmock,” Kiwi paused, “a Blademaster with the Army of Darkness. He seems to have a lot of potential, though he lost his tournament match against Hacorie. Figured I'd befriend him.” The Heavy Blade looked pensive for a brief moment, then continued, “Actually, it must sound a little odd that I'd lend equipment to AoD members. I was trying to show my intentions were true when offering to help with one of their squads.”

“Army of Darkness... I just can't believe they're still around. Considering the fate of the Vanguards...” Wren poured a smattering of liquor back in to his glass, picked it up, took a sip, and looked around at the empty hideout, there was longing in his eyes. “At least this is still here...”

“Oh, they're still running. The Swordbreakers are too,” Kiwi said before scratching at his head with one hand, glancing around the hideout. “It's still here, waiting for you. I didn't know if you guys would come back, though, so I changed a few things. But I tried to leave most of the rooms untouched out of respect. Hope you don't mind.”

Wren smiled a bit to himself, “Well.. At least someone was making use of the place. I imagine that library is yours, also?” Wren nodded in the direction of what was once the guild stock room. “As for coming back... I honestly don't know... I'm back, and apparently Lakely is still around... But I don't know who else is still here, but who knows what will happen..” Wren absently rambled on, never ceasing to look around the room before he took another sip only to find his glass empty. He set the glass down on the table and poured himself another, and held the bottle up questioningly to Kiwi. “I'm glad you're still around, too, for what its worth.” Wren set the bottle down and drained his glass in one mouthful, sighing as the liquid made its way in to his stomach. His glass stirred more dust up when he set it down again. “So what are you going to do about Lyra?”

“I'm not sure,” Kiwi shrugged and began to pace. It was obvious to Wren that his feathered friend was worried about this situation. Wren knew of what was between his friend Kiwi and his future opponent in the tournament, and he was only glad that he didn't find himself in the same predicament. “Winning would be easy. I just don't want to defeat her.”

“Well other than forefiture, which would probably only tick her off, you've only got two options.”

Kiwi's head bobbed in recognition, admitting the truth in Wren's words.

“Then there's really only one choice. If I hold back, she'll know; if I don't show up, she'll find me; if I don't make anything but the soundest decisions, she'll question. I can only really do one thing: Win. Anything less and I would have a whole new set of problems. Though I can't say I'm too eager to begin.”
“Mhmm... I don't envy you in the slightest.”
“I wouldn't, either.”

Silence descended upon the desolate hideout. Kiwi continued to pace, Wren stood behind the bar and watched, and his mind began to wander. His attention went back to the names of the players that Kiwi had lent equipment to, they were completely unfamiliar. This was a popular game, it was only natural that there would be a flood of new characters on a daily basis. Over the three-or-more years he was absent? There was no telling how many people had become citizens of this strange, wonderful world hidden beyond the lookinglass. It was also impossible to tell how many had left.

Just how many Vanguards –
(Knights)
– did he expect to find in The World today?

His eyes widened, “Kiwi!”
“Hmm?” Kiwi's head rose, his lips peeling from his index finger, breaking his pensive meditation mid-stride.
“Are the Knights still active in The World?” There was panic in his voice.
“Knights?” Kiwi's face contorted in confusion.
“Who polices The World?”
“Oh, yeah, the Knights of War are still around.”

Kamui's still here... Well, hopefully that won't be an issue. I'm not the same as I was, and its been years. I doubt I'm even on their list anymore, especially if I don't show up as an anomaly.

Kiwi was staring at Wren, “... You almost look relieved. What's going on?”
Wren slapped the question away with a wave of his hand. “It's nothing.”

“Have you figured out a plan for the tournament?”

Kiwi nodded while Wren poured two more small glasses of the nondescript liquor. These two have known each other for years, been separated by miles and time equally long, and still again they stood together as if such things didn't matter at all. An infectious grin found its way to Wren's face. He rose his glass, Kiwi followed in kind.
“To an inconspicuous return on this of all inauspicious days!”
“To new beginnings and old friends!”
Two old friends, once separated, now reunited, drained their glasses together in a swift gulp.
“To Victory,” Wren added after, staring at his friend.
“Mm,” Kiwi met Wren's eyes, then lowered them to his glass as he set it down again.


All's not silent...

Sunlight poured through the open door, revealing the liberal amounts of dust in the air and silouetting Kiwi's frame as he stepped out of the dank hideout as he ran off to meet his fate, his other, in battle. Wren could only hope that his friend would do them both justice. It was a hard road, but one that must be travelled alone with one's thoughts. Just as the road set out before the blademaster was only wide enough for one.

Behold, the sleeper awakes!

((OOC: Sorry to my few readers for this taking so.... long... Life's been tying me up and for a time I lost the motivation. But I think its back, now, and I expect to see this through to the end.))

Wren watched Kiwi's shadow dissipate as the door to the outside world shut behind him. Once again the blademaster was left alone to his own devices. The only difference now was that he had been properly outfitted, with the exception of his old chestpiece. Something still felt amiss, however. It took him some time to realize that he used to wear two swords, right now the Prometheus was his only weapon.

Nothing will ever be quite the same again... But I can get it as close as I can.

Before he could leave, Wren felt the need to put things back in their places. The bottle of liquor was topped and reshelved and the three glasses put aside for cleaning later. He wasn't a bartender, or a maid, afterall. Next order of business: if he were going to have a second weapon handy, he would need a third belt, and second sheath. Where would those things hide? The store room had been converted to a library. Wren's personal room was the only place he could think to go.

His footsteps were metered, one deliberate step after the other. How could digital alcohol make movement so belabored?

He's an ano—!

“Huh?” An alien sensation stole over the blademaster. A dizzying sensation mixed with pain. This couldn't be the alcohol, could it?

... can't do that to … ! Who … the consequences … ?

Wren's head began to throb violently. The blademaster winced, his knees starting to give beneath his weight. One hand thrust itself forward, slapping the door to his room open, his other grasped at his temple, the gauntlet's leathery palm covering one of his eyes. He tried to hover in place, had to take just a few more steps. There was nothing to support him. A single, final step was all he could muster before collapsing on the floor, stirring up years of neglect and solitude that would eventually blanket the fallen blademaster.

Watch me!

Again he was shackled, prostrating on the ground before a woman in a deep red suit with a half-plate and single shoulder piece. Her hair was short and silver, she held a polearm. Her face was twisted in a malicious grin and her eyes were wild with lust. This wasn't a carnal lust. Wren knew better. Her eyes were lusting for red, more red, like her uniform and the suits of armor that stood stoically around her. The only relief from this sea of red was the stately green dress-suit of the blue-haired girl that stood timidly behind his tormentor.

Wren struggled against his constraints, but found that not only were his wrists bound, but his elbows were tied taught as well, and his wings had been shackled together. He could only kneel, or stand. So in reality he could only kneel. The woman laughed, raising her weapon over her head.

No! Don't, please! The blademaster clenched his eyes and turned his face to the left to cusion himself against the blow. It never came. Another man stood between this woman, Kamui, and himself. Against the sunlight his body was a black shadow. All that could be seen was a bright steel gorget and his wings, similar to Wren's own. He could see they were arguing, but he couldn't hear them.

There was a deep tone that sounded, it permeated his mind, and body. He thought for a moment that it would cause him to explode. It would work its way in to him and rupture his organs and shatter his skeleton, his skull would explode in a shower of red, gray, and white. Kamui and this strange man reacted to the sound as well. Eventually the sound, and pain subsided.

Several pieces of equipment appeared on the surrounding. Wren recognized the foreign objects. They were gray metal formed like pyramids and had white crystalline tips, set upon tripods. There were three in all of these large egyptian sattelites. They positioned the three around Wren, and the man turned, shouting now. The devices activated.

They're deleting... Oh my god, they're going to—

There was a blinding light, and an unspeakable pain tore at the blademaster's helpless body. It was as if he was being ripped in twain. He began to scream but his ears were deaf to his suffering.

Wren pushed himself up off the floor abruptly, his eyes wild and panicked, muscles contracted and ready to spring to safety. It was then that he realized he'd been screaming this whole time. He inhaled a shakey breath, his throat was hoarse and he became subtly aware of the thin sheen of sweat that covered his body.

Did I black out...? What was that?

He sat up and examined his surroundings. The bed, desk, chair, nightstand. Everything was slow, muddled. What had he been doing in this room? What happened? Why did he faint? This is just a game. “This is, right? Just a game. This is just a game!”

A second weapon. That was right, he needed a sheath for a second weapon. Wren tried to get a hold of himself and look around. There wasn't even that much to see in his room. Though there was a footlocker by his bed. It was unlocked. He unfolded the clasp and popped the top of the chest up. There was all manner of trinkets and memories stuffed in this box. Sifting through them all could wait till later. What he needed was buried beneath a heap of papers: a rolled up belt with a folded sheath beside. He unfurrled them both as he stood up beside the footlocker, attaching the sheath to the belt before cinching that about his waist, letting it dangle loose on his rear. It was just a matter now of deciding which weapon he wanted to put there. Did he even have one? The choice wasn't too difficult, seeing as how his only other weapon was the Fire & Sky.

His second sword was heavy in his hands, it felt sure, true. A few moments passed where he just held the sword, feeling the heft of it, before sliding it home in the sheath behind his waist. Now almost everything felt right. Everything except that nagging sensation that everything wasn't right. Just how much time had passed since he blacked out? It was time Wren left the dusk and safety of his old home and rejoined the society of The World. He closed the door to his quarters with care and strode across the commons towards the staircase that led outside. With two brisk steps the blademaster was grasping the knob and pushing his way outside. What he saw there shook him to his core.

It had been hours! The sunlight of Mac Anu had been replaced by the veil of night! Stars were twinkling in the sky overhead and he could hardly hear a thing but the rush of water in the channels just outside his door. “What manner of trickery is this? How could I have been asleep for so long?” Wren was cautious as he walked down the alley to the pavillion at the center of town. Things had become pretty quiet.

At the center of the town there was almost no one to be seen. The shops were abandoned, stairways clear. Wren walked up the steps past the Pawn Shop to the upper-deck of the pavillion. To his right he could hear the fountain spray, and distant voices. He shifted back behind the corner, listening.

“I'm worried about her. She told me the system's been acting weird all day.”
“Would you give it a rest already? You know, its bad enough that you're hitting on your superior, but she shouldn't be telling you this stuff. Isn't that classified?”
“I can't help it! Magi's just so sweet. Kamui really stressed her out, she needs somebody to confide in. I can't help if I like her, too.”
“Have you even met her?”
“Hey! Shut up!”

Kamui...

Their footsteps were getting louder. Wren slipped back down the staircase and hunkered down between a few wood crates below the bridge, listening as they passed over him.

“Well anyway, like I was saying. The system's been acting up all day. She told me quarantined data's been leaking in to the system since this morning.”
“Quarantined? Like, viruses and stuff?”
“Yeah, but not only that. …”

The voices faded as they got further away. When Wren could no longer hear their footsteps he clambered back over one of the crates, dusting himself off. “Since this morning, huh...? Boy did I pick a good day to start playing again.” He already knew who they were without seeing them. Knights of War. Had things gotten so bad that they patrolled the servers at night? Or did they do this all the time and it was just so busy he didn't notice them? It wasn't a concern at the moment, but he filed the information away to mull over later. He started back up the stairs to the bridge.

There were two that walked from the square, across the pavillion, towards the Chaos Gate... How many more are around?

Wren heard rapid footfalls coming from below the stairs that were in front of him, leading to the Weapon Shop. He pulled a sharp breath between his teeth, running in to the square with his wings folded in close. The blademaster wasn't able to find a nook in time and simply pressed himself against a building as three more Knights ran up the stairs opposite the way he came. They began dashing for the Chaos Gate. Someone tapped Wren's shoulder in the shadows while he was watching the other three run towards the gate.

“Hey, man, did you hear about the data disruption in Gracious Diety's Aqua Field? I just got the memo that all personel are to he— hey!” The Knight had gotten the jump on him, his footsteps masked by the three running away from him.
Wren turned to the Knight that had caught him. “... I know you. You're supposed to be q—!”

Before he could say anything else Wren panicked and punched him in the gut, then slammed his head in to the side of the building with both hands. It was all he could think of doing before the situation got any worse. What now? Did he run for the Gate and leave, or go to that field? Should he Gate Out before he gets in to any more trouble?

They said a hacker. I wonder what could be going on.

There wasn't any more time to ponder the issue. The body-rupturing tone from his dream sounded, threatening to tear his mind apart. What did that mean? Why was this happening? In the dream equipment had appeared when he heard that noise. Did this mean they were moving data? He thought so.

His suspicions were confirmed when the pain subsided and he was able to open his eyes. There were twenty-something Knights blocking Wren's path to the pavillion. Behind him the knight he had wounded was staggering to his feet in a muddled rage. How did they get here so fast? How did they get alerted? Why were they alerted?

“Alot has changed since you were free to roam The World last, Mr. Wren.” The voice came from behind.

Wren turned to his left, putting his back to the wall of knights. The one he had maimed was leaning his right arm against the wall, still trying to get his bearings. In a single fluid movement, Wren hit the back of the knight's elbow, buckling his arm, and flung his head back in to the wall a second time, knocking him down. Behind the now-fallen knight, about fifteen paces away, was the girl from his dream. Not the poleaxe-wielding monster, but the girl in the green suit that looked so formal, with blue hair and glasses. She stood before him now carrying a book in one hand, braced against her chest, and a short sword in the other. “It's been a long time, Mr. Wren. Do you not remember me? Have your memories not returned?”

“... Returned? They never left. Who are you? And stop calling me Mr. Wren!” He waved a hand at her defiantly as she approached.

“Magi, be careful!” A knight called out from the wall to Wren's rear.

Magi... She works under Kamui.

Realization was painted across the blademaster's face, when Magi noticed her face lit up. “So you do remember! That's good. It makes this all so much easier.”

“Where's Kamui? What's going on here?”
“Kamui? So you didn't want to see me, afterall? That's disappointing.” A false expression of remorse fell upon Magi's face. Wren's body tensed. Somehow he thought that he should be more afraid of Magi, now, than he was of Kamui back then.
“Kamui's,” she hesitated, “retired. Yes, she retired. I'm in charge, now, you see. The Knights are mine to command. And I must say, I run a much more efficient organization than my predecessor.”
“I can tell. You all got here much faster than anyone would have under Kamui's command.” Wren wasn't quite sure that was true, he could hardly remember. But it seemed somehow better to play to her tastes. Maybe he could get out with at least half of his skin that way, if he was lucky.
“You're lying, but I like the flattery,” Magi's retort was flat, and her tone became harsh.

The lone blademaster was acutely aware that the knights had advanced a few feet from their original entry point.

“I was surprised to find out that you were the cause of all today's commotion. You, or someone working with you, managed to destabilize my data prison, and you escaped.”
“That's not possible! I just logged in this afternoon. If this has been going on all day, then I couldn't possib—“
“So you haven't fully realized yet... That's good. We'll just have to rearrange your data and set you back where you belong.” Kamui sheathed her sword at her hip and waved her hand in an odd gesture above her head.

With a snap of her fingers that horrible tone re-emerged, causing his body to shudder all over. Wren clasped his hands to his head and was gritting his teeth, but he was the only one. The noise subsided after a moment, but nothing had happened. Magi looked around for what she had summoned, but nothing had appeared. She snapped a second time and the tone returned, the blademaster braced himself against a crate and almost dropped to a knee in sheer pain. There was a hiss of static, but still nothing appeared.

“Oh come on, what's wrong now?” Magi demanded.
“Sho!” A knight had run up behind the group she entered the Root Town with.
“What do you want?”
“There's been a breach—“
“Yes, I know, I'm handling it. If our techs could get their shit together!”
“No, I mean, our infrastructure is
“Working just fine!” A second knight chimed in as the tone resounded once again, but on its own this time.

A series of flickers and static tears preceeded four columns of golden rings that appeared behind Magi. The columns quickly revealed four more knights carrying frighteningly familiar pieces of equipment. Three of them carried tripods with prisms of steel, capped off with white crystals. The only reason Wren thought they were crystal instead of glass was that they were actually lightly colored with an off-white hue, they weren't clear like glass. The fourth carried a small tower that looked similar to an obelisk with the top verticies chopped off. It was three feet tall, each side had a few small displays with a dozen or so buttons and a few levers. He hadn't seen this one before. Even with the one unknown component, the original three prisms he recognized, and it was enough to flare his eyes wide open in panic. Magi caught his reaction and cackled.

“Yes! Yes, that's right... You remember something, at least. Maybe you remember the excruciating pain, but perhaps not... Either way, we're going to send you back where you came from, Mr. Wren.”

The tripods released and prisms were set down in a triangle around Wren's half-collapsed form. It was all he could do to kick one over before slipping to the cobblestone street on one knee. The knight was quick to catch and recover the prism. The fourth operator with the obelisk started to work, spinning the tower on its base as he pressed buttons, turned dials, adjusted levers. The three knights with the pyramidic satellites pressed what Wren assumed were the activation buttons on each, then knelt down, holding the pyramids up by their vertical supports, looking away from the center.

Light began to emit from each of the prisms, shooting up in to a triangle above the blademaster. The complete whiteness gathered there momentarily before washing down over him. Again that tearing sensation came, threatening to rip him to pieces. He screamed, it was all he could do, and it didn't fall upon deaf ears. Many of the knights had turned their eyes away, and Wren thought he could see some wincing as he ran his lungs empty and his throat raw. His cries echoed throughout the Root Town.

What's happening to me? Why's this happening? Somebody, help me!

On the other side of the city a few Knights heard a blood-curdling shriek, “Finally, the emergency status will be lifted and we can go home...”

You're going home...

II. The Return – Reality's folds___________________

Richard shot up in bed, panic-stricken, gasping for breath. His hair was matted down against his face, beads of sweat dripping off his nose. In the stripes of moonlight shining through his window Rich could see his hands and arms were glistening, and his shirt was a second skin, clinging to his body. Myriad thoughts were racing through his mind, jostling and mixing together until they made no sense. At first he had no idea what to make of his situation.

The bedroom of his apartment was dark, velvet shadows clung to the corners of his room like curtains hiding from the moonshine. His drapes created slanted streaks of light and dark throughout his room, giving the chamber a surreal quality in the late hours. Rich was sittig up in his bed, had been asleep atop his comforter and covers, wearing the T-shirt and jeans he changed in to while waiting for the game to patch, a small stain on the leg of his pants was proof – sweet and sour. He did have Chinese for dinner.

Wren lifted his eyes away from his clammy hands and saw the computer, still running, with the visor sitting in his chair, controller on the floor beside the computer, mouse and keyboard shunted at odd angles. I was dreaming... Or I could have been. Yes! I had to be dreaming. Rich's hands came up and covered his face while he tried to calm down, inhaling slow, deep breaths through his nose and exhaling completely between his lips. After his pulse had slowed and the shake had steadied itself out of his hands, Rich got up and went across the hall to his bathroom to wash his face and cool off.

The rush of cold water came with a hissing sound that drowned out the awkward silence in the apartment. With the fluorescent bulbs glowing, Rich could see the rings under his eyes and how his complexion had become pallid in the night. While the water in the sink ran cold Rich leaned in to the tub and grabed his washcloth off the neck of the downspout. He tossed it in to the sink and watched water pool up around it for a moment before lifting the cloth out and wringing the excess water and slapping the unfolded cloth against the back of his neck. Next he leaned over the sink, cupping his hands beneath the cool flow until they were overflowing, then he splashed his face. The rush of cold against his cheeks and eyelids, nose, lips, and forehead was refreshing. He could almost perceive the calm that was falling over him as he washed his face, still taking metered breaths between splashes.

“That had to be a dream... I've dreamt about The World before. Why couldn't I do it again? I fell asleep at the computer, and just barely woke up enough to get up and fall in to bed.” This sounded alright, but deep down he knew it wasn't quite true. Something wasn't right in the comparison. Wren stood up in front of his mirror and took the washcloth off his neck, tossing it in to the sink. His eyes were still ringed by the puffs of fatigue, but his skin didn't look quite so sickly now.

Rich folded his comforter back, crawled on to the mattress and slid his feet beneath the covers, folding them back over himself as his eyelids folded down over his jade green eyes. “...mm... Just a dream...” A little voice deep in his heart told him that was a lie. But it satisfied his mind, and that was all it took to let sleep steal him.

... Just a dream...
Liar... You lie.

The rest of Wren's sleep was dreamless.

Morning couldn't come too soon. But it came anyway, against the will of those early-risers, like it did every day. The incessant blaring of Rich's alarmclock continued on for several minutes before finally rousing its master. Richard belched a groggy moan after his hand slapped the snooze button on the Sony clock radio, cutting off the ZZ Top song Velcro Fly mid-chorus. Wren sighed before forcing himself to sit up, criss-crosses of sunlight splaying across the back of his t-shirt. Waking up in the morning is a messy process, almost despite the person thats doing the waking. He still hadn't opened his eyes, they were crusted shut. Rich rubbed the corners of his eyes, grinding up the junk that was holding his eyes closed. His green irises glittered in the morning shadows.

He set up the morning drip, coffee to the rest of the world, and showered. After the shower Rich realized his corneas were a little red. “Ughnk... I hate this hard water. Eyedrops, eyedrops...” The medicine cabinet set in the wall beside his mirror had all manner of daily-use drugs: ibuprofin, dayquil, nyquil, coughdrops, but no eyedrops. Rich picked up the little bottle of travel-toothpaste that had been sitting on the sink, knocking over the eydrops that were standing beside it.

“Oh... hey!” It didn't take but a moment for the redness to dissipate, leaving just his deep brown eyes blinking away the excess liquid.

The toaster popped, coffeemaker beeped to tell somebody that they could get their morning drip-fix. Rich came rushing out of his bedroom dressed for work in khaki slacks and a burgundy button-up, poured his coffee, threw in two spoonfulls of sugar and a heap of cream, gave it a brisk stirring for two seconds. He pivoted on his right heel, grabbed the bagels out of his toaster, turned back and got the coffee and headed to the door. He felt like something was missing.

“Keys! And my bag.” Rich jumped back in to his apartment and scooped up the shoulderstrap of his bag in his hallway without setting the bagel down, his keys were in the side pocket. The guy that lived next door to Rich looked something of a cross between a biker and a hippy, and had the weatherworn face to prove old enough to be a cardholding member for both. Rich still didn't know his name, but saw the guy around the complex often enough, in his tennis shoes, jeans, and (often-black) tees, long brown hair in scraggly clumps about his shoulders.

“Late for work thi'smornin', buddy?”
“Yeah! That's me,” Rich called back to him from the stairwell.

The neighbor shook his head with a laugh and went back in to his apartment with the morning paper. Headlining today's edition: “UNEXPLAINED POWER PLANT FAILURE KILLS FOUR, WOUNDS OTHERS”.

Rich pulled in to the staff lot at the back of the campus, circling through the aisles in frantic figure-eights looking for a space. What had he expected other than a full lot at five-minutes 'til? There wasn't enough time to drive all the way to the student lot and park there. Just outside the campus was a network of small residential streets. He figured he could park on one of them for the day, just to save some time.

The house he pulled up in front of was a dusty brown, it looked as if it had once been a nice victorian home, but was badly managed and was falling to pieces. The lawn appeared to be a lush green at first glance, but upon further inspection Rich found that there were brown spots dotting the front yard, and what he thought was green grass was actually overgrown weeds. A neglected sign stood lopsided in the dirt near the porch stairs: “WRAITH”. The “w” was scrunched in before the rest of the letters. Rich figured somebody painted it in with a spray can after it had been perched on the lawn.

On his way back to the campus Rich noted the name of the street he was parked on, “New World Drive. I could have guessed if I had to,” the tone people had come to call a bell sounded off in the distance signaling the 10 minutes before first hour, “Tch. I'm going to be late!”

It took Rich forever to get to the front office for the keys to his room, five minutes passed for everyone else. He burst in to the office where Mary, Mr. W's elderly secretary, sat. The din of bustling students wafted in to the otherwise silent office through the open door behind as kids passed by this way and that, some walking, others running, to get to class on time.

“Mr. Maxwell, good morning. Running a little late today, are we?” She smiled and his keys materialized in her hand from behind the cover of her oversized desk. Mary dropped them in to his outstretched hand that was reaching over to her side of the upper-counter.
“Yeah, I had some trouble getting up this morning. Long night, you know how it goes.” He couldn't tell anyone about the weird dream he'd had, and how it had shocked him awake. If he did, surely they would be shocking him in a looney bin for the next twenty years trying to get him to think straight.
Mary smiled her sweet smile and nodded, “Yes, we all have nights like that, I suppose. Though fewer the older you get. Speaking of getting, Mr. Maxwell, you'd best get to your classroom. The second bell should be ringing soon. You have 30 young minds waiting to be enriched this morning.”
Rich laughed nervously, stuffing the keys he was clutching in to his pants pocket, “I suppose you're right. Good morning, Mary.”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Maxwell,” she called after as he closed the office door and headed off towards his classroom.

The bell to sound the beginning of the day's classes sounded just as Rich was approaching his students. They were congregating in small cliques separated by several feet in a narrow arc around the classroom, chattering to each other, playing with their cell phones and other handheld devices when he closed the final bit of distance between them with a few brisk steps. “Alright, sorry about the delays! I had some trouble finding parking.” Rich popped the lock on the door and pushed it open, standing just inside the room. “Let's get inside and we'll begin.”

Everyone filed in to the room in a strange, natural sort of order, flooding the space with life and noise. “Mr. M! I missed school yesterday. What did we cover?” a voice shouted over the din.
“Just get the notes from another student. We ended in the mid 1750's, in New England.”

It didn't take long for all the students to get seated, but they were all still talking, laughing, and going about their own business. Rich took this moment to set his bag down on his desk in the corner of the room and get out the textbook, and a biography or two about particular Founding Fathers. “Okay. So – Let's settle down, guys. We need to get started.”

Rich walked to the center of the room holding the three books under his left arm, “Can anybody tell me where we left off yester–

The door at the back of his room opened, breaking his attention, and the attention of all his students. All thirty-something heads turned to look at the back of the room almost in unison. It reminded Rich of the way grass moves in the breeze. Larry walked in to the room, leading a young boy. “Principal Whitman, how are you today?”

“I'm just fine, Mr. M. Sorry to interrupt your lesson. But I have a new student that just enrolled.” Larry gestured to the boy beside him. “This is Lloyd. Lloyd, this is Mr. Maxwell.”

Richard was eyeing the new student queerly as he approached the Principal and student. Lloyd had a strange, pensive look on his face. It could have been just the situation, new student, new class, new kids. But Rich sensed something more, somehow. Something different.

It's just your imagination. It couldn't be the same as Loyd, that's a coincidence. Loyd's been dead for years.
Liar.

Lloyd held out his hand, and Rich almost recoiled away from the gesture. Relax... Rich took his hand and shook it happily. “Well, welcome to the class, Lloyd. Feel free to take any of the empty seats.” Rich handed him the mangled copy of the class text, his eyes trailing over to Larry. “Thank you, Mr. Whitman.”

“Not a problem. Don't let Mr. M forget to teach you all about the American impressment of British soldiers!” The door whispered shut.
“Mr. Whitman must be confused,” Richard explained, a genuine smile smeared across his face, “It was the British who impressed our men, and they were sailors, not soldiers. But anyway, where were we?

He continued, answering his own, almost rhetorical, question, “Oh yes– can anyone tell us where we left off yesterday?”

Some forty minutes later the bell rang, signaling the end of the first hour and the start of the passing period. The more Rich thought about it the harder it became to think of the bell as an actual bell. Normally Rich would relax during while students funneled in and out of his room between classes. He could erase the board and prep for the next hour, or read, further edit the course text – which he only now realized he had given to the new student. Today, though, his eyes followed Lloyd out the door. Those jade orbs watched with great interest, observed every detail of Lloyd's ritual; putting books in his bag, strapping down the large pouch and unbuckling the smaller pouch. Lloyd sat and went about his business in a very deliberate manner, ignoring the haste that his fellow classmates exhibited. From the small pouch he took a small metal tin, put his pencil and eraser in to the tin and closed it and his bag up once the tin was back in its place.

A few of the second-hour students had already started filtering in to the room by the time Lloyd got up. Mike and Leo came in to the room together, laughing about something, probably relating to The World. Leo, the brown-haired boy that played the Wavemaster stopped and looked at Lloyd sitting at his desk. Rich thought he noticed Mike casting numerous glances that way, as well.

“Hey!” This single word is all it took to shake Leo from his trance. He walked up and took his desk beside Mike. “So did you see...” Rich watched as Lloyd got up from his desk and walked out of the classroom with his bag over one shoulder, sullen, his face lowered.

They must know him... know something. What's wrong with me? He's just a kid! They're all just kids! This isn't a spy movie or some grate conspiracy. Just relax.

Rich closed his eyes and focused on taking slow, metered breaths as he had done early this morning when his dreams had interrupted his sleep. A curtain of serenity unfurled around him, cloaking his body in a calming sensation.

The second bell toned, signaling the start of second hour. Rich's eyes were still closed, but his classroom was far too silent to be full. When his eyelids finally lifted, he saw that his classroom was indeed full, with three empty seats: the two furthest from the door, which had always been empty, and the one right in front, where Ed normally sat. The rest of the class was pretty solemn, with Mike and Leo being the only exceptions. They were quiet, but smiling at their “cool” instructor. Rich didn't trust those smiles. They seemed ready to make jokes, and weave innocuous references to the game in to their questions and comments, expecting their teacher to get the joke and laugh with them. Those two were far too excited to be interested in learning a thing about U.S. History.

Rich stood up, walked over to his desk where a notebook laid out and open on his desk. “Eddie's absent again today, I see. Has anybody heard from him? Is he feeling okay?

Rich struck a check mark next to Eddie's name for the second day in a row in his book. He lifted his eyes, but his back was to the class. It was too quiet. “Tired today, are we?” Somewhere in the room Rich thought he heard fidgeting, nervousness. Why?

“I heard in English last period, from the teacher, that Eddie's dad died yesterday at work. She told us not to expect to see him for a week or two, and not to be mean or ask too many questions when he got back.” Rich's state of mind visibly worsened; a heavy sigh escaped his lips, and his shoulders sagged down. He could sympathize with the kid. Of course he could, his dad had passed away, too. It was hard, especially being so young. After the sympathy and sadness came a twinge of anger. Why hadn't any of the staff told him? Why did nobody let him know beforehand so he wouldn't sound like an ass?

“Who did you say your English teacher was? I would like to call her – them,” he caught himself in an assumption of gender. Not all teachers were female, obviously, “and ask them how they found out.”

“Ms. Sullivan. She's in room 17A.”

Richard walked immediately over to his phone. There was an extension listing beside it for the whole campus. His eyes followed the room lists into the teens, then his finger followed the numbers from fourteen, to fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, A. He dialed #171. After a few pulsing rings a woman answered.

Hello?
“Hi! This is Richard Maxwell. I teach History over here in 22D.”
You're new, right?
“Yes, I just started the other day. Sorry to bother you during class, but do you have a student named Eddie in your first-hour?”
Yes... I do. Why?
“A student just told me his father passed away yesterday?”
... Yes... That's correct. I saw it in the faculty e-mail this morning.
“Really? Okay, see, I hadn't heard, so I was a little concerned.”
They haven't gotten you an account yet? That's strange... Call Mary up at the front desk after class and she'll give you a password. I'm sure you have an account already.
“Thank you. I'll do that.”

Rich hung up the phone and walked back before the class. “Sorry, apparently it was sent in an e-mail. I don't have an account yet, so I was not aware. I feel for Eddie... You see, my father passed away when I was younger also, and I know how hard it is... If any of you know him, I'm sure he would appreciate your support right now. Just a phonecall to say you heard and that you were sorry.

“But I digress. I believe we left off with the Townshend Acts of 1767? Does anybody have any questions about last night's reading or anything we've covered so far?”

After the second bell rang Rich motioned to Leo and Mike to stick around as he walked over behind his desk to the phone again, “I want to talk to you guys. Just give me a minute, though. I have to make a phonecall.”

He scanned the list under the Name column until he found Mary, #902. The phone rang, warbled really, was there nothing in this place that actually sounded like a bell? After six or seven rings Rich was about ready to give up. As he went to set the phone down there was an audible click followed by a frantic Hello? Hello?

Rich pulled the phone back to his ear, “Yes! Yes. Hi. It's Ri– Mr. Maxwell from room 22D? I was told that I had a faculty e-mail account, but nobody told me how to access it or even what my password was.”
He spun his notebook around, flipped to a fresh page and picked up his pen. He could hear the tacking of the keyboard on Mary's end of the line. Yes, your username is r_maxwell, and default password is newteach. Just turn on the computer at your desk and there is a shortcut to our e-mail application on the desktop. It will automatically ask for your username and password.
“Thanks Mary. That's great.”
Uh-huh. You're welcome Mr. Maxwell. click.

Wren hung up the phone, sat down at the provided computer. The damn thing was a dinosaur, even compared to the machine he used through college that still had The World installed. He flicked the switch on the back and pressed power. Dust puffed off an ill-used exhaust fan at the rear of the machine as it hummed to life, the disk drive clicking and clacking as it booted up an older version of the ALTIMIT OS.

Rich looked up while the machine was loading. Leo and Mike were standing at his desk, fidgeting and glancing at each other and the side of his computer as it booted up. “You wanted to talk to us Mr. M?” Leo's voice cracked on the his name.

“Yeah, I did. Gimme just a second.” Wren's face was aglow with the reflected light of the monitor, his green eyes glowing with unnatural blues and oranges from the desktop. Sure enough on the left-side of the dock was a button marked off MAIL. Rich clicked it and a window popped up prompting him for the username and password associated with the account.

A window popped up with six messages in it. Mike coughed a bit, and Leo gave him an irritated shove. Wren was able to get a quick glance and see there was an e-mail sent today at the bottom of the list titled “FACULTY NOTICE – Edward Gottown” before his green eyes trailed up to the boys standing at his desk.

“I noticed you both looking nervously at that kid in my first hour class.

Leo and Mike looked at each other, Richard couldn't tell if that was panic, worry, or confusion he saw on their faces.

“He's new. His name's Lloyd.”

“Yeah? What about him?” Leo spoke up, this time. Mike was looking around the room, anywhere but at his friend or at Rich. He could feel Rich's deep brown eyes staring, and couldn't match his gaze. Why?

“I know he's not normal, and he's not just any new student. I also know you two know something about him. Tell me.”