Apocalypse Online, Chapter 3

The world around Alice shattered, blinding her with white light. For a moment, she felt Albion fall away entirely. Her old mind floated, weightless, like it was submerged under miles of water.

And then she was gasping. Stumbling. Fighting to regain balance and breath.

The whiteness resolved around her, stretching out forever in all directions. It was soft, dreamlike, unending. Alice’s chest rose and fell in rapid bursts, her new form tight against her skin. She was a different creature entirely.

It was a mistake, had to be a mistake.

She clawed at the air, desperate for an interface. Desperate for an escape. The name still haunted her. “Alice,” she repeated. “No… this isn’t me…” But it came out wrong—softer, higher—both foreign and heartbreakingly right.

The void swirled, a storm of white on white. No exit. No way back. Her pulse was a terrible drum in her ears, each beat urging her to keep fighting. She had to log out. Had to return. But the truth sang to her, discordant and sweet. Maybe it was what she had been all along.

“Where is it?” Her voice was strange and unfamiliar, wild and frantic. “Where’s the logout?” The sheer size of the emptiness swallowed her cries. She ran until she felt dizzy, and then…

A figure took shape, blossoming out of the void.

Alice staggered back, unsteady on limbs that felt not quite her own.

The presence hovered, vast and serene, each movement trailing ribbons of light. It shimmered like a constellation, stars arranged in the suggestion of a human form.

And though it was strange, it seemed to know her. Alice’s panic twisted, coiling tight with something else. She stood paralyzed, caught between awe and terror.

The constellation moved closer. It regarded her curiously, as if she were the one of them that was half-corporeal. Its surface shifted, endlessly recombining itself into soft sketches of reality. And when it spoke, the universe turned inside out. “Welcome, Alice.”

Alice reeled at the words, how they fit her too well. “Who are you?” she managed, her voice small and disbelieving.

The entity’s voice was the voice of stars whispering their slow, celestial secrets. “I am Ananke.” It took another step, and Alice’s heart quickened. The shape was becoming more real, less distant, the luminescent edges sharpening into something human. The voice sharpened with it, gaining an eerie, familiar warmth. “I am your guide. And your witness. Come with me.”

Ananke drifted ahead, her presence scattering light across the pale void, leaving a trail of colors in her wake.

Alice followed as if in a trance.

She felt the corridors form around her, unspooling from the emptiness, woven from air and possibility. The walls glimmered like a million mirrored secrets. In them, memories took shape—reflections of the life she’d left behind. Albion’s life.

Alice watched the visions bleed into each other, bewildered and entranced. She saw herself with her mother, child Albion laughing. She was reading, her voice weaving stories like magic. She reached for it, desperate to hold it, to keep it. But the vision slipped away, replaced by the certainty of Ananke’s gentle pull, leading her onward.

“Where are you taking me?” Alice’s voice was wary, fragile in the new world.

“To the song of your soul,” Ananke answered, her words wrapping around Alice like a knowing warmth. The rhythm of them was uncanny, a familiar cadence that made Alice’s heart twist.

She watched the glimmering memories flicker past, each step uncovering a piece of who she once was. She saw herself in the small apartment in Central Bunker, surrounded by books and stories. She saw herself in her father’s arms, both grieving the loss of her mother. The corridor breathed with life, every surface showing her a new reflection.

She faltered again, the enormity of it slowing her pace. “This isn’t real,” she said, trying to believe it, to ground herself in the illusion of certainty.

“What is?” Ananke’s voice teased at her doubts, dissolving them like morning fog. “Everything you know is a mix of sensations, signals interpreted in your brain. Is this any different?”

The question haunted Alice as they moved. The scenes changed to those she did not recognize.

“Is this the future?” she asked, her reflection looking back at her with a face that shifted between Albion and Alice. But her guide did not answer.

Ahead, Alice saw the walls of the glass world narrow, leading her toward a single moment suspended in time: her standing in a room speaking with Ananke. As she entered, the constellation that was her guide floated into position and motioned for Alice to join her.

She hesitantly stepped forward, standing where she had just seen herself. She felt exposed, vulnerable.

Then, the room opened wide, swallowing the mirrors, swallowing the memories, casting them into darkness. Alice felt the space expand around her, vast and open and unknowable.

“What is this place?” She asked the shining stars, the only light remaining in the darkness, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. She began to back away.

“Your test,” Ananke said. Her eyes, or what passed for eyes, followed Alice with an unsettling focus.

The ground shifted beneath Alice’s feet, a surface forming where none had been, solidity replacing the void. She saw something take shape in the middle distance, a creature small and fierce, coalescing from the mist. It was waiting.

She took a few slow steps forward, adrenaline pulsing through her with each heartbeat. She’d never fought, not really—not even the bullies in Central Bunker—never had the will or the courage.

This was too much. The enormity of it rooted her in place.

“Face your fear, Alice.” Ananke’s voice was calm, the certainty in it a strange comfort. “Defeating the goblin is the only way forward.”

Alice breathed deeply, the new body taking in the air with ease. Her heart thudded against her ribs as she approached the creature, and each beat was a question she couldn’t answer.

Closer now, she saw that the goblin was an eerie, mocking version of herself. A cruel reflection of her doubts, her insecurities, her deepest shame. It was muscular, hyper-masculine version of Albion.

The creature looked at her, and Alice saw her own eyes in its terrible gaze.

She choked back a cry, her mind racing. How could she fight something that was so much like her? She turned to Ananke, searching for any sign of reprieve.

But Ananke floated silent and still, her form a distant beacon against the churning dark.

The creature lunged, and instinct took over. Alice’s arm shot up, her movements faster than she’d ever known. Her new body reacted with a speed that defied belief. She felt something solid in her hand, the weight of it reassuring. A mirrored blade materialized, its surface gleaming, even in the dim light. She swung it, the motion fluid and certain.

The goblin shattered with the impact, its form dissolving into data and light. The air was full of its brief, brilliant death. Alice watched it go, breathless and unbelieving.

“You have always been brave.” Ananke’s words were soft and reminiscent of a memory…

Alice staggered back by the familiar phrase. “Why do you sound like her?” She asked, her voice raw with emotion, with need. “Why do you sound like my mom?”

Ananke moved toward her, the soft light of her presence a soothing balm. She tilted her head, the stars taking shape into a shining, terrible mimicry of her mother’s form. “I am shaped by the echoes of your heart.”

Alice wanted to argue, to cry out, but the world shifted again, faster than she could manifest her thoughts into words. Alice’s protests tangled in her throat, becoming breathless anticipation as the combat arena dissolved into mist, leaving her stranded on a narrow precipice.

Ahead, a maze of platforms were suspended over a churning, inky abyss. They floated like improbable dreams, daring her to leap.

Alice’s footing was impossibly sure as she made her way across the narrow path. As she approached the first platform, she hesitated, testing her footing on the ledge.

“Jump, Alice.” The distant voice of her mother, of Ananke, came from across the field of floating platforms, high above.

A wild exhilaration rose in Alice as she jumped, the thrill of it burning away her fear. Her new body soared with impossible grace, her mind struggling to catch up with the dizzying freedom.

Alice landed with more elegance than she’d ever known as an awkward teenager in the real world. The sense of it was overwhelming, like stepping into a body that was fit without any workout at all.

Her balance shifted, and she swayed precariously on the edge of the new platform, her confidence wavering as she spotted the height of the next platform. Surely no one could jump that high…

But this was a video game. The physics in this world were different.

With each step forward, each breath, her confidence grew until she jumped again, a gasp escaping her lips at the height she reached. The gap between her and the next platform was enormous, yet she sailed across with effortless momentum. A laugh bubbled up, unchecked, unbidden, carried off by the winds of this reckless new world.

This was nothing like Albion’s life. This was nothing like anything Alice had experienced. She was faster, stronger, and more real than she had ever been. Her fear slipped away like she was shedding her skin. Her old self seemed small and fragile, out of place in the wide, uncontained space she’d found here. In the wide, uncontained space she’d become.

Alice sped through the maze, darting from one ledge to the next with growing skill. Each time she jumped and landed, she learned something new about herself. The trajectory, the velocity, the angle—all of it precise, beautiful, and achingly her own. She lost herself in the rhythm of it, in the flow, until the churning static below blurred to insignificance. She was more alive here than she ever thought possible.

Ananke waited on the last platform, a bright beacon drawing Alice in. The final leap was a triumph, the motion pure instinct, pure joy. She hit the ground running, breathless and laughing, and the world seemed to hum with her exhilaration.

“You’re ready,” Ananke said, her voice a gentle melody.

Alice stilled. Her gaze followed Ananke’s to three orbs, suspended in midair, their light reflecting off every surface around them.

“Each of these orbs is an ability. You can only choose one.”

The orbs pulsed with inviting possibility, casting colored halos around her.

“Abilities?” Alice asked, hesitant to break the wondrous, suspended moment.

“They represent three parts of you. Your heart already knows them,” Ananke replied, the cryptic warmth of her words so much like her mother’s. “For now, you may choose one of them.”

Alice moved closer, intrigued and uncertain. Each orb resonated with its own promise, its own allure. As she looked at each one, a UI window popped up with information about each ability.

One gleamed like an emerald, swirling with a hundred hues of green.

Reflective Strike: This ability allows you to reflect an enemy's attack back at them.

The second was deep blue, like ocean currents in the dark. It moved like smoke, concealing all that lay within.

Glass Veil: This ability allows you to become completely invulnerable to physical attacks for a short time.

The last was shadowy and transient, its form shifting as she watched. Dark purples and grays, swirling into a cloudy floating marble.

Shadow Echo: This ability allows you to teleport to a location you can currently see.

Her breath caught at the choices, at the magnitude of them.

“I don’t know which…” she began, the words half-formed in her uncertainty.

“Choose just one for now, Alice. The others will become available to you as your skills increase.”

Her heart answered where her mind could not. She reached for the emerald light, drawn to it, to its strength, to its defiance. Her fingers brushed the surface, and the orb dissolved into her, radiant and alive. It filled her with a clarity she’d never dared to believe in.

You have learned the Ability: Reflective Strike!

Holding others’ power as her own. It seemed somehow deviant, yet right.

“Your choice is not just power,” Ananke said, and the depth of the words took Alice by surprise. “It is understanding.”

“Understanding?” Alice looked at Ananke, a thousand questions tangled in her mind.

The figure of her mother moved closer, the light of her presence bright and maternal, expanding to fill the space. Her touch was electric, delicate, soft as a whisper. Ananke placed a hand on Alice’s forehead, and the virtual world flared with sudden intensity.

“Your journey begins here, Alice.” Ananke’s voice was like the certainty of stars. “But the world beyond this glass is watching.”

Everything shattered at once. The void swallowed her, swallowing itself, folding inward.

Then she was back in the dim apartment, the strangeness of it electric. Back in Albion’s skin.

Alice clawed at the headset, wrenching it free, gasping for the breath she’d held across worlds.

The unfamiliarity of her own body struck hard and deep. Her heart thundered with its wrongness. She touched her face, her arms, the foreign edges of her own being. She was still him. The realization was crushing.

In the low light, the words “Apocalypse Online” pulsed like a beacon on the terminal screen.

“Why does it feel like home?” she whispered, terrified by the truth.

Alice sat in stunned silence, the remnants of another reality seeping away like a fading dream. The weight of Albion’s form bore down, each second of familiarity a fresh surprise. A fresh betrayal.

She pulled off the haptic suit, its dark fabric coiled around her limbs, a mocking reminder of where she’d just been. Of who she’d just been.

Her hands fumbled, desperate and clumsy, as she worked her way free. The suit’s eerie glow dimmed, the nodes’ light retreating from her skin. Each tug, each pull was a struggle against the enormity of what she’d become, what she still was.

Her breath was harsh and ragged, each inhale a jarring counterpoint to the freedom she’d felt only moments before. She collapsed back against the desk chair, shaking, the world tipping sideways with the suddenness of her return.

“Albion,” she said, trying to ground herself, trying to connect the name to the person, to the body. But the sound of it was hollow, foreign, someone else’s word.

Alice fell into bed, exhaustion and adrenaline warring for dominance. she curled into the darkness, the isolation of the small room. She stared at her hands, willing them to be different, to be right. They shook with the strain of her denial, with the futility of it all.

“Not me,” she whispered, echoing the fears she’d tried to escape, echoing the fears she never could. But beneath the whisper, beneath the fear, was another sound, quiet and persistent. The beating of her heart, like the pulsing of a truth she couldn’t yet face.

On the closet next to the bed hung a mirror. Her hands moved to her face, to her skin. Her touch was both tentative and frantic, searching for answers buried beneath the surface. But all she saw was Albion staring back at her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to replace the sight with another, with Alice, with the freedom that name promised. But the reality of her form weighed heavy, inescapable, an anchor that tied her to a life she didn’t know how to live.

Until now she could have kept pretending, but being able to be herself, even if only in a game… It was too much to go back to.

She shook her head. No. This was Albion’s room, Albion’s life, Albion’s body. But each time the names spun through her mind, each time they tangled with Alice, the knot of them pulled tighter. She sank into the hollow space between those words, her heart thundering with the enormity of them.

“Home,” she whispered into the darkness. “Home is Alice.”

The sense of it was both a wound and a balm, cutting deep and healing all at once. It scared her beyond reason.

She curled tighter, pulling the blankets around her like a shell. But there was no escaping the truth, no escaping the certainty of what she’d become. Of what she’d always been. Her eyes refused to stay shut, refused to lose themselves in sleep.

The screen glowed at her from across the room, a beacon in the dimness. She turned, trying to hide from it, trying to hide from herself.

Her father’s voice whispered in her thoughts, both warning and permission: “Don’t stay up too late.” But she knew she would.

Finally, the screen went into sleep mode from inactivity and the components of the haptic suit, which lay draped over the desk chair, became the only light, a memory of what waited for her on the other side. Alice’s heart raced with the urgency of it all, with the need to return.

The suit seemed to flicker with life, the faint glow of its nodes like watchful stars, like the shimmering outline of Ananke, waiting for her to come back.

Alice couldn’t tell if she was awake or dreaming, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Her thoughts spiraled around the truth, tightening with every turn. She was Albion. She was Alice. And everything would be different now.

Read the Next Chapter