The NPC materialized in front of me like a bad CGI effect from a low-budget movie. One moment I was staring at an empty patch of grass, the next there was a figure in flowing robes standing there with the kind of serene smile that made me want to punch something.
"Greetings, Player One," the NPC said, and I felt my blood turn to ice water. That voice. That exact inflection. I knew it because I'd recorded it myself during a late-night voice acting session when our budget couldn't afford real talent.
The NPC was tall, ethereal, with silver hair that moved in a breeze that didn't exist. Their—his? her?—eyes were an impossible shade of violet that seemed to glow with inner light. Everything about them screamed "mystical guide" in the most generic fantasy way possible.
"Welcome to Respawn," they continued, hands clasped in front of them like some kind of digital monk. "I am Tutorial Guide Meridian, and I will be explaining the fundamental mechanics of your new existence."
My new existence. The words hit me like a slap. This wasn't a game anymore. This was my life. My only life.
"Yeah, thanks, but I think I know how this works," I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. "I created you, remember? Lee Zhang, lead developer? Ring any bells in that artificially intelligent head of yours?"
Meridian's expression didn't change. That same serene, infuriating smile. "All players must complete the tutorial sequence before advancing. This ensures optimal gameplay experience and reduces support tickets."
Support tickets. I'd written that line myself as a joke, never thinking I'd hear it spoken to me by my own creation. The irony tasted like copper pennies and regret.
"Look, I need to access the admin console," I said, fighting to keep my voice level. "There's been some kind of error. Players aren't supposed to actually be in the game. We're using VR interfaces, not... whatever this is."
"Tutorial cannot be skipped," Meridian replied with the infinite patience of someone who'd never been truly frustrated in their existence. "Would you like to learn about the death mechanics first, or shall we start with basic combat?"
Death mechanics. My own words, my own twisted design philosophy, were about to be explained to me by an AI wearing my voice like an ill-fitting costume.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "Death mechanics. Let's hear it."
Meridian's smile somehow became even more beatific. "Excellent choice. In Respawn, death is not merely an inconvenience—it is a precious resource to be carefully managed."
The way they said "precious resource" made my skin crawl. I'd thought I was being clever when I wrote that line. Now it sounded like a death sentence being read by a poetry teacher.
"Each player begins with seven lives," Meridian continued, gesturing to the air beside them. Suddenly, a translucent display materialized—my HUD, but projected outward so the NPC could point at it like some kind of twisted presentation.
Lives Remaining: 7/7
"These lives are not renewable through conventional means," Meridian explained, their finger tracing along the display. "No respawn tokens, no resurrection spells, no checkpoint saves. When a life is lost, it is gone forever."
I watched my own handiwork being explained to me and felt sick. I'd been so proud of this system. So convinced that it would create meaningful tension, force players to think strategically about risk and reward. Now, staring at that counter, all I could think about was how it was counting down to my own permanent deletion.
"But what happens when all seven lives are spent?" Meridian asked, as if reading from a script. Which, technically, they were. My script.
"The player is permanently removed from the game world," they continued before I could answer. "No appeals, no restoration, no second chances. This is what we call 'True Death.'"
True Death. I remembered the late-night brainstorming session where I'd come up with that term. Marcus had said it was too hardcore, that players would hate it. I'd laughed and said that was the point—only the most dedicated gamers would stick around, creating an elite community of hardcore players.
Standing here now, listening to my own apocalyptic game design being recited like gospel, I realized that Marcus had been right. I was an idiot.
"Each death also carries additional consequences," Meridian said, their voice taking on the tone of someone reading fine print. "Memory fragmentation may occur, causing the loss of certain experiences from your previous existence. Additionally, resurrection sickness will temporarily reduce all statistics, and repeated deaths may result in permanent attribute reduction."
Memory fragmentation. Another one of my "brilliant" ideas, designed to make death feel more impactful. Players would literally forget parts of their real lives with each death, making them more invested in their virtual existence. It was psychological horror disguised as game mechanics.
"Now I remember why my team called me a sadistic bastard," I muttered.
"I'm sorry, I didn't understand that command," Meridian replied with programmed politeness. "Would you like me to repeat the death mechanics explanation?"
"No, I got it the first time. I should—I wrote the damn thing." I ran my hands through my hair, which felt disturbingly real for something that should have been code. "What I want to know is how to get out of here."
"Ah," Meridian said, and for a moment their expression shifted to something that might have been sympathy. Or maybe that was just my imagination. "That brings us to your primary objective."
The air shimmered, and suddenly quest text appeared in my peripheral vision, crisp and clear as if someone had written it on my retinas with a laser pointer.
QUEST LOG UPDATED
Main Quest: Escape Respawn [ACTIVE]Find a way to return to your original existence. Warning: Method unknown. Previous attempts have resulted in player termination.
Tutorial Quest: Learn Basic Combat [ACTIVE]Master the fundamental combat system. Survival depends on your ability to fight.
Previous attempts have resulted in player termination. That line wasn't in the original code. Someone—or something—had added it. Which meant other players had been here before me. Other players who had tried to escape.
Other players who had failed.
"How many?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"How many what, Player One?"
"How many players have tried to escape? How many have... terminated?"
Meridian's expression returned to that default smile, but now it looked more like a death mask than a friendly greeting. "Tutorial information is limited to essential gameplay mechanics. Historical data regarding previous players is not available at this clearance level."
Clearance level. Another piece of corporate doublespeak that I'd programmed into the system. Back then, it had seemed like a clever way to gate content and create progression incentives. Now it was just another wall between me and the information I needed to survive.
"Right," I said, feeling the weight of seven lives pressing down on my shoulders. "So what you're telling me is that I'm trapped in my own game, I have seven chances to figure out how to escape, and if I fail, I cease to exist. And you can't tell me how many people have already died trying."
"That is a remarkably accurate summary of your situation," Meridian replied. "Shall we proceed with combat training?"
I looked at the quest log floating in my vision, at the peaceful meadow around us that I knew was probably the safest place I'd ever be in this world, at the NPC wearing my voice and delivering my own twisted vision back to me like some kind of digital karma.
"Yeah," I said, feeling something cold and hard settle in my chest. "Let's learn how to fight."
After all, I had a feeling I was going to need it.