Rebirth

He felt pain.

Why did he feel pain?

He opened his eyes, blinking away tears and trying to see through smothering darkness. Everything hurt. Muscles he hadn't exercised properly in years were screaming, throbbing as though from overuse and extreme exertion.

He blinked, vision coming into focus just in time to see the fist before it thundered into his face with bone-shattering force.

The hit drove the unnamed backwards on unsteady feet, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. He fell to his knees, teeth gritted against the blinding pain as he reached up and patted lightly at the ruined memory of his nose.

The unnamed didn't see the boot as it connected with his head, but he did feel the world lurch sharply to one side as he was thrown back against the ground like a rag doll. Cold earth slapped him hard in the side of the head, overloading his ability to translate pain into meaningful sensation.

Lying on his side, blood pouring from his mouth and nose, the unnamed coughed and spluttered, spitting out blood as he pushed himself into a hunched sitting position. He sucked in warm, fetid air.

This doesn't make any—

"The pits!" a gruff voice growled from nearby, followed closely by grunts of agreement.

The unnamed wiped blood and sweat from his face. He grimaced as he brushed his hand against the battered remnants of his nose again, sending a shock of vivid pain through his head that brought with it a fresh wave of nausea that threatened to empty his stomach.

He spat out blood and cursed, the words losing their venom as they spilled from his mouth in a weak gurgle. His ears felt like they were stuffed with sawdust. His vision swirled maddeningly.

None of this made any sense. It was all wrong.

He looked around groggily and found that he was sitting on the floor of a tunnel, lit by amber bulbs embedded into walls of packed earth. Half a dozen brutes in thick leather armor stood at the tunnel exit, armed with heavy-looking clubs, whips, and hateful expressions.

At the head of the group stood a thickset man with a mop of unruly hair atop a swollen head and a thick beard that forked left and right at the ends. He sported heavy arms and a barrel chest, with dark, dangerous eyes that glinted with malice. A long, sheathed machete hung from the side of his belt, and a club dangled on the opposite side. Both the club and sheath bore signs of extensive use and what looked suspiciously like old blood stains.

The barrel-chested thug was wiping the unnamed's blood from his fist, smearing it against his trousers as he turned to his companions.

"Nothing but gutter swill. Take them all to the blood pits."

Once more this drew mutters of agreement from the gathered thugs. They stepped forward, holding metal devices that looked like high-tech shackles in their hands.

It was at this point that the unnamed realized he wasn't alone in the tunnel. He twisted around to see a dozen disheveled souls all cowering together, scantily clad and dirty. They all looked underfed and tired, the dregs of humanity, just as bewildered and out of place as him.

Behind them stood a large metal frame with peculiar markings cut into its surface. At the apex of the gateway sat a symbol he recognized, a twisting tower with the word Havenspire written in block letters across its lower half.

So I'm in the simulation then? It worked. Whatever else is wrong here, the upload did at least work.

Rough hands picked him up off the ground. Something heavy and metallic was clamped around his neck, clicking into place with a deep, resonant hum as though an energy field had been activated.

He reached up, fumbling at the metal device. A sharp shock bit at his fingers.

He let out a muffled yelp, pulling his hand away while a burly thug dragged him by the arm toward a large metal cart in the distance.

In like fashion, all the newcomers were each given metal collars and hauled forward by their captors. One of the smaller specimens—a thin, sickly man—tried to make a run for it and earned a savage swipe across the face with one of the heavy clubs. The blow knocked him hard to the ground, where he lay motionless, blood pooling about his head.

Two of the thugs dragged the unconscious man ahead of the group and tossed him into the back of an archaic-looking prison cart. It rocked slightly as the man's body landed in a heap inside.

Heavy hands shoved the unnamed forward and forced him to climb up into the back of the cart along with the others. Every part of his body screamed in pain, and not just from the attentions of the brutish slavers. There was something deeply wrong with his body, a fever burning his blood and causing his muscles and bones to ache.

He searched his memory but came up blank. There was no mention of crippling pain that would accompany the upload, so why did he feel like this?

The unnamed grimaced as a nearby prisoner was shoved against him. An errant elbow jabbed into his side and pushed his back against the rusted bars of the cage.

"Shit!" he blurted. Though the garbled, wet sound that actually escaped his lips was far less articulate and went entirely unheard by either slaver or slave.

He gritted his teeth, shuffling around to try and find a more comfortable position. However, when he stood, or bent, or twisted his limbs, the hot, angry pain still burned through his body like a rabid fever.

Pain was nothing new to the unnamed. He'd spent most of his life in discomfort of one kind or another, shuttled from hospital to hospital and ward to ward as his illness inexorably progressed toward its final end. The drugs and constant blackouts made it a little easier to bear, but life for the unnamed was murky and unreal, a numb reflection of reality filtered through a haze of skipped time and drug-induced delirium. At least that's how it had been toward the end.

There had been moments, in his earliest years and teens, when the unnamed had experienced the highs and lows of a normal life. He had played with other children, learned to read, kick a ball, and had endured all but his final year of high school. There had been a time when he'd even experienced the first blossoming of love and infatuation.

REDACTED had been her name, the mousy-haired girl with big brown eyes who had a habit of wearing brightly colored t-shirts that featured an impressive array of cartoon unicorns. He'd known her since middle school, the short girl in pigtails who skipped to school and lived in the two-story house with the tall white fence three blocks from his own home.

The unnamed hadn't thought much of her until puberty hit like a hurricane, reshaping her body in ways that suddenly enthralled him and recast the simple features of her face into the pristine visage of a goddess. He was at once both besotted and embarrassed. With no preparation and no clue how to approach REDACTED other than the warped perspective of modern media and the unhelpful jeering of his friends, he had watched in anguish as his heart's desire struck up a relationship with a long-limbed track and field athlete named REDACTED.

As the cart rattled forward, the prisoners all stumbled in unison, holding to rusted bars for support, each shackled around the neck and staring wide-eyed in disbelief at their dismal fate. The unnamed watched the dark undercity pass through swollen eyes, his wheezing breaths causing fresh pain with each draw and exhalation.

The surrounding city was a portrait of poverty and misery. Buildings were cut into solid stone, their doors and windows curved as though their builders didn't have the strength or desire to bother with corners. Here and there shacks and market stalls stood cobbled together from mismatched pieces of wood and sheet metal.

The roof of the cavernous city was so distant that it seemed more like the night sky, twinkling with far-off lanterns and dimly flickering lights. Buildings rose up all around, stacked tightly against one another like wooden blocks. Dim amber and yellow lamps glowed like fireflies throughout the vast city, illuminating crooked back streets and lofted alleyways along with countless hanging bridges that stretched across the roadway far above.

The people of this strange underground city smiled and talked with one another, going about their business seemingly unconcerned at the oppressive squalor they were forced to endure. Clothed in little better than rags, tattered shirts and rat-gnawed cloaks that looked like they'd fall away in a strong breeze, the people carried on about their business, utterly uninterested at the passing of the unnamed and his hapless companions.

The air was thick with acrid smoke, stale sweat, and other, more disturbing odors. Fetid water ran through a shallow channel in the middle of the street, where children washed clothes and utensils, eyeing the prison cart with a mix of curiosity and fear.

There was something particularly disturbing about the sight of children in this place. They looked positively destitute, and that fact was even more confronting than the unnamed's own perplexing predicament. Children could, of course, be uploaded to afterlife simulators like Havenspire. Those taken by tragic circumstance or illness could be transitioned, provided they were mentally sound and there was sufficient time to complete the process.

The unnamed had known there would be children here. The company had countless images and ads showing kids frolicking in meadows and playing in bubbling brooks. By contrast, these children looked like they'd been plucked out of a Dickens novel and dragged through the mud for half a mile before being deposited on the streets of the sprawling, underground city.

What kind of place would treat children like this?

The unnamed snorted, a shock of pain shooting through his head as his broken nose made its complaint known. He winced, closing his eyes against the persistent pain of a throbbing headache in addition to the fever that was still burning its way through his body.

"This isn't right," he said, the words slipping between swollen lips.

"Really?"

He turned, looking back to find a figure walking alongside the cart. She was tall, her face hidden by a dark red cloak and hood. She walked with confidence, a predator prowling through the shadows, her gaze straight ahead.

"I'm not supposed to be here," the unnamed offered in the desperate hope that this woman might somehow help. "I was supposed to be sent to a farming district outside the city so I could work off my debt. Something's gone wrong."

Bright teeth glinted momentarily from beneath the hood. "This is the farming district. You're in Fallow, lower east side, to be exact. But they don't farm crops down here in the undercity. They farm misery."

He shook his head, regretting the movement immediately as another wave of pain and nausea overcame him. It was hard enough to stay standing with the constant rocking and bumping of the cart on uneven ground, but the thudding in his head and the aching of his muscles made it all the more difficult.

"No, you don't understand," he said, trying to reach her with words that would accurately convey his predicament. "I was supposed to be a farmer. Planting seed, harvesting, that kind of thing. That was the deal. They said I only needed to pay the upload fee and that I could work off the rest of the debt through farming."

She turned to him, emerald eyes piercing in the dark shadows of her cowl. Raven hair framed a starkly beautiful face, made all the more alluring by the slight upward tilt of her smirking lips.

"I can't believe they're still selling that shit."

"I don't…"

She nodded, turning back to face the path ahead. "Yeah, you don't understand, I get it. Look, that whole blissful afterlife schtick they sold you was a lie. Havenspire doesn't answer to the company anymore. It hasn't for years. It goes by its own rules, controlled by the Didact, the Assembly and, to a lesser extent, the high houses and guilds."

The unnamed blinked in confusion, her words striking like a punch to the throat.

"If you've got enough money coming into this place, you might be lucky enough to end up in one of the higher tiers. You land your ass in the Blue Tier, or Indigo, and if that happens, you've got a shot at surviving. Maybe even make a decent life for yourself. You might end up polishing shoes for the rest of eternity, but at least you'll have clean water and a roof over your head."

"But they said—"

"Doesn't matter what they said, friend. You're here now, so you'd better face facts. Forget everything the company told you. It's all lies. Havenspire is a hellhole, and it's maxed out for people living the high life. No room for newcomers like you."

The cart hit a hole in the road and jolted sharply, slamming the unnamed's head against rusty bars. He cursed as fresh blood started to drip from his nose once more.

"This place was supposed to be better than the real world," he mused, voice barely above a whisper.

The woman in the red cloak stopped walking, looking up as he passed by. "Sorry, champ. I've got places to be and there's no point in me standing here wasting words with meat."

He stood despondent as the cart moved on and the woman walked out of view.

"Meat?" he mused.

***

Twenty minutes passed, and the unnamed watched the vast breadth of the undercity go by with mild interest. Determined to have at least some of his questions answered, the young man asked around, checking whether any of the other prisoners knew what waited for them in the blood pits. He received only blank looks and shakes of the head by way of reply. These people were just as shellshocked as he was, just as unprepared for the violent, unjust fate awaiting them.

Still hunting for answers, the unnamed tried to strike up a conversation with a middle-aged man squatting beside him.

"What's your name?" he asked, trying to sound upbeat despite their desperate circumstances.

The other man looked up, confused, fumbling his words. "I… I don't remember."

The unnamed tried to offer his own name but realized that he too was unable to remember. It was there, sitting somewhere close to conscious thought, but whenever he tried to reach for it the name vanished, flitting off into the depths of his unconscious mind.

"Shit! I can't remember either." He turned to the others, suddenly desperate. "Can any of you remember your names? Anyone?"

Shaking heads. Downward glances.

"Damn it!" the unnamed hissed, still trying to pull that simple thread of letters from his memory.

How the hell can I not remember my own name?

What else is in there that I can't get to?

He tried in vain to find his mother's name, then that of his father, his younger brother, the pet cat his aunt bought him on his tenth birthday.

"What the hell is going on?"

Deep laughter, like the rumbling of storm clouds, came from the front of the cart. Something vast was sitting in the shadows, something not quite human, its bulk squashed into the corner of the metal cage. Now that the unnamed thought it through, the whole cart seemed to dip toward that front left corner.

Spying the figure who sat hunched over at that end of the cart, he now understood the reason for it.

As the cart passed beneath a low-hanging lumen bulb, amber light temporarily filled the interior of the cart and illuminated a huge figure shackled at the wrists and ankles. The creature had a craggy face, its arms and legs thick as tree trunks, bulging with corded muscle. Twin horns curved outward from the side of its head, twisting out of symmetry at the furthest point.

"No names here, friend," the brute rumbled. His gray-green skin rippled as he folded his arms to the accompanying sound of clinking chains.

The metal shackles at his wrists flared and sparked, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Why can't we remember our names?" the unnamed pressed. "Is it something to do with the upload process?"

The huge figure shook his head, the movement glitching slightly as he repeated the phrase.

"No names here, friend."

The brute spoke in exactly the same manner as before, a perfect copy in every way. The unnamed puzzled this over as the horned giant seemed to struggle within himself, working his jaw up and down and blinking.

Suspicion took form, then realization began to coalesce. All at once the unnamed felt immensely foolish and somehow cheated by the brief conversation.

"You're an NPC, aren't you?" He sighed, leaning back against the metal bars of the cart. "Just my damned luck. First person willing to give me some answers in this place and you're just part of the game."

The huge figure chewed back the automatic response his programming clearly wanted him to repeat. He grunted, then spoke more freely.

"Used to be NPC, friend. Not anymore. I make freedom, breaking programmings and starting a new life." He lifted his arms, showing off the twin shackles.

"Not a very good life though, but is better than working in mines."

The big brute shook his head.

"Sometimes, if I not speaking for long time, I can forgetting myself and go back to old programmings, old words. But not so much now, because I getting better."

He lifted a hand and tapped a finger against the side of his head.

"Much better inside the noggin now, because I not in the mines no more. Mines is bad place. Bad for thinkings. Worse than dying. Worse than blood pits, I think."

The unnamed nodded, wondering whether this was all part of the NPC's programmed speech. It seemed a little over the top if that was the case.

"Can you tell me why I can't remember my name?" he asked.

The brute motioned toward the unnamed's chest. "The Didact takes your old name, friend. Pulls it out of your noggin when you getting here. Doesn't like you to remembers what came before. Is like that with everyone who comes from the outside. No name, no rememberings some other things too."

"The Didact? That's the help system in the game, isn't it? Sort of like a guide. It's supposed to translate stuff for you, explain how everything works, that kind of thing."

The image of a cheerful robotic figure plastered all over company brochures came back to the unnamed's mind. His parents had been particularly anxious about the transition, and the saleswoman had taken great pains to point out that the Didact would support the unnamed, helping him to learn the ropes of his new environment.

Once more the giant rumbled with laughter. "Didact is not guide, friend. Is trouble. Is controlling everything in Havenspire. All the informations. All the news. Didact is not caring about us, friend."

The unnamed frowned heavily, the growing weight of injustice heavy against his shoulders. The realization that nothing was as it was supposed to be hurt almost as bad as his battered face. "Everything was a lie then. All of it."

"Sorry, friend," the huge figure offered. "Havenspire is not nice place. Not easy for new peoples like you."

The cart came to an abrupt stop outside a large, grimy building. It sent the unnamed tumbling forward onto the unfortunate bald man squatting next to him. He apologized and righted himself as the cage door at the rear of the cart swung open.

The illustrious leader of the slaver group sauntered toward the back of the cart. He pulled back the sleeve of his right arm, showing a shimmering gold ink tattoo in the shape of a tower. The mark glinted in the faint light as he tapped it with one hand and a small display came into being, hovering a few inches above his wrist.

"Just so we're clear," the slaver said, turning aside to spit a gob of phlegm onto the ground. "You all got a collar on your neck, and them collars is connected to this here sigil." He tapped at the tower symbol on his arm, and the display hovering above his wrist flickered in response.

As he continued, the other guards began pulling the prisoners off the cart one by one.

"You is a sorry lotta rat bait," he went on, "and I don't wanna be chasin' no filth around this city, so take this here as a demonstration."

He stepped forward, looking at the unnamed with hateful dark eyes. The unnamed braced himself for another swing of that meaty fist, but the slaver looked past him, pointing to a young man standing a few feet behind.

"You can go," the slaver said, waving the young man off. "Go on, I won't hurt ya."

The young man looked uncertainly at his captor, then out into the street behind, then back again.

"Fecking MOVE!" the slaver screamed, spittle flying from his mouth as the young man started running.

The boss tapped his sigil display, grinning wickedly as the prisoners all turned to watch the young man stumble out into the street.

There was a loud buzzing sound, followed by a pop, and the young man's head was severed from his body. It shot several feet into the air in a fountain of blood and landed with a wet slap as his body fell to the ground.

Blood poured from the corpse as the guards laughed uproariously. Some of the prisoners gasped, others turned away in horror, and several threw up.

The unnamed gritted his teeth, fighting the gut-churning nausea threatening to purge his stomach.

"Wait for it," the slaver said, twirling his finger around on top of the display above his wrist.

Once more the sharp popping sound cut through the air, but this time warped and in reverse. The young man was miraculously made whole, like film footage turned back a few seconds. He stood where he had been when his head was removed, shaking violently.

The boss turned to one of his guards and motioned to the young man. "Bring 'im back."

The display hovering above the slaver's wrist vanished, and he jabbed a meaty finger at the terrified prisoners. "Let that be a fecking warning to yous all. This ain't the outside no more. You try t' run, and I'll pop ya fecking head off, then drag you back 'ere and find somefing worse for ya."

He shook his head.

"And don't you ever fink there ain't nuffin' worse for you ta do, 'cause I got a big imagination when it comes to that sorta thing. Got it?"

The prisoners nodded furiously, all but the giant figure crouching at the edge of the cart, his horns tangled in the top of the cage.

"Good. Then let's get you rat turds settled in. Blood pits is startin' soon, and the boss don't like it when we're late."