Level 005

“…and that concludes the new content you can expect to play after the Summer Tournament finishes this year! As always, my name is Beryl, and I can’t wait to see you out there in Theia! Have fun~!”

I made a few exaggerated facial expressions, and raised one of my hands in a tacky peace sign. I grinned as though I wasn’t dying inside every time I had to make this stupid little sign-off message. My jaw ached from talking so much — a side effect of even the best-quality VR headsets — and a dull headache had settled into the back of my skull, likely on its way to a migraine.

The camera in front of me blinked, while a holographic counter ticked down towards zero. The camera wasn’t real, nor was anything else in this formless, empty room. My avatar stood alone, as isolated here as I was back home in the real world. Virtual screens and autoprompters floated behind the camera, along with chat messages from my manager, encouraging me or sometimes chastising me for not being Beryl-enough, whatever the hell that meant.

This place, this empty abyss, was the digital recording studio built just for me. Apparently it existed on a secondary server of CraftQuest, away from the actual playable world. This environment was somewhere they could capture my voice and motions, before live-streaming me into the game’s video channels and IRL video platforms online.

A complicated and expensive setup, all to perpetuate the most popular gaming mascot of the past three years.

“Okay, that’s a wrap, Beryl.”

The camera blinked at me and vanished in a shower of polygons. The cheerful expression fell from my face the moment I was no longer on-air. Just a few minutes longer and I could escape this suffocation — if only for a little while.

Just a few more minutes…

“Beryl, we’re going to need you back tomorrow evening, 8pm; and then you have a few interviews on Wednesday starting at 6pm — just the usual journalists wanting to know more about the content. Any questions?”

The voice echoed around the white chamber. Theodore, my manager. He was assigned to me when I started working for CraftQuest, and had loyally managed my social media appearances ever since. That meant a tightly packed schedule, with barely a single night a week that I wasn’t required to boot into Beryl’s account and deliver a scripted message.

“Sure, sounds great.”

My response was mechanical, delivered in perfect Beryl-mode. Somehow, no matter how tired or miserable I was, I could always keep just enough saccharine charm in my voice that Theodore never managed to guess what I was really thinking. Or maybe he already knew, and just didn’t give a shit. At the end of the day, he was as much a corporate slave as I was.

It’s just a job, I thought bitterly. I remember when this used to be fun. Wonder how long ago that was…

“Well, that’s it for today,” Theodore continued, oblivious to the dark undercurrent of my thoughts. “Let me know if you need to go over anything before tomorrow.”

My manager never logged into the server, so I’d only ever seen him once or twice in the real world. Instead, he spoke to me via a direct voice channel, and occasionally, I would hear him talking to the audio and visual engineers who manned the livestream. 

I stared fixedly at the horizon. There were no walls in the recording booth, only an abstract panorama of white triangles pulsing and shifting like an endless loading screen. Maybe it was meant to be interesting enough to keep the boredom at bay while I read the words floating in front of my eyes.

Instead, it felt like an asylum.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, feeling my energy wane. “Have a good night, Theo.”

“You too, Beryl.”

Beryl. He never called me by my name. Here, I was nothing more than the idol I inhabited, reduced to the personality I possessed to market CraftQuest, to sell more microtransactions and merchandise.

I swiped in mid-air and a holographic menu appeared. I jabbed the Logout button as though it had personally offended me.

The world turned black, and a familiar ache settled into my limbs as my consciousness returned to my flesh. Sometimes, after long sessions spent wired into the VR gear, it became hard to distinguish between the digital world and the waking world. Sometimes, there wasn’t much difference at all.

A few moments passed as I laid there in the darkness. The pins-and-needles sensation swept through my arms and legs, before eventually settling into a more manageable ache. I’d need to take a Tylenol to keep the worst of the pain at bay though — another lovely side effect of exposed time in VR gear.

I ripped off the VR headset and threw it away in disgust, where it clattered across the timber floorboards of my apartment.

I had entered the recording booth in the morning, but it was well past dusk now. The empty room turned a watery purple in the dying light of the long summer evening. Gently, I eased myself upright, stretching my arms and legs, grimacing as blood rushed to my extremities. 

“Lights on,” I said, summoning my home assistant. “Curtains down.”

The automated system obeyed, blocking out the ugly sprawl of buildings. I lived in the penthouse suite of a twenty-floor high-rise, but I couldn’t stand the sight of all those soulless buildings. They looked like jagged teeth scratching at the sky, like some great beast trying to devour the horizon.

I stood as the lights came on.

I used a padded futon for my VR sessions — it was better for my back than a mattress, especially when some of my sessions were half a day or longer. I padded barefoot across the floor to my kitchen. The appliances were so clean you’d think I’d just bought them, but really it was because I never used them. Didn’t have time to. I spent twelve hours a day in the digital realm, either to keep up my stats in the game itself, or else recording a bunch of messages for the developers, or making appearances on livestreams for interviews and announcements.

I poured myself a glass of water from the tap and swished twice before spitting into the sink. 

This place is a mess.

Random crap lay scattered across the floor. My VR headset, cables and powerboards, a few spare phones that I used for work or personal use. There were a bunch of emergency snacks that had somehow spilled while I was online. I had a few posters tacked to the walls — mostly promotional media from CraftQuest. Nausea churned in my gut as I stared at the blue-haired idol and her cotton-candy-smile.

“What do you look so happy for?” I muttered. I traipsed into the bathroom and splashed cold water onto my face.

VRMMOs use your real face and body shape to generate your digital image, so in effect, I looked mostly like Beryl. Thin and flat chested, but of course, the lolita costumes in CraftQuest managed to give me a certain type of charm. In real life, I looked malnourished and pale. Not too far off the mark, considering my diet consisted mostly of energy drinks and snacks I could eat between VR sessions.

My hair was about the furthest thing from Beryl’s as possible. Maybe that was a deliberate decision. When I was younger, my hair had reached down to my waist, but a year or so ago, I’d chopped most of it off with a pair of kitchen scissors. Now my black hair was a short, scrappy mess, sitting in a jagged bob under my chin. 

My eyes were hollow and dark, with deep bags haunting them.

Some idol I am.

I laughed mirthlessly to myself, and walked back into the living room. With a huff, I plopped down onto my futon, wondering what food I should have delivered for dinner. 

Chinese sounded good. 

Fifth night in a row, by my count. 

I reached for my phone, my fingers brushing over my VR headset in the process.

When was it? I wondered. When was it that the job of my dreams became a nightmare I couldn’t escape?

There was a time when I was Beryl — just plain old Beryl, the player. Not an idol, not a marketing tool, not a digital star. There was a time when I ditched school and ignored homework, when I would spend all night exploring every nook and cranny of CraftQuest’s world. 

And I had loved it. 

I think I knew more about the game than even its creators. I would answer forum questions with ease, and spend every moment of spare time absorbed in game guides and tutorial videos. When new content released, I was one of the first players there, uncovering easter eggs, crafting new materials, clearing the dungeons and beating the tournament listings.

Before long, I had attracted CraftQuest’s attention. 

They wanted to hire me. Me. A sixteen-year-old gamer. I was beyond thrilled. It felt like sweet vindication for every family dinner I had endured my family’s disappointed scolding, for every Thanksgiving where I was mocked by my athletic cousins, for every report card where I had flunked another subject.

It was proof that I hadn’t wasted my time, that I had accomplished something that I was passionate about.

So of course I’d accepted their job offer. From that moment on, I was no longer Beryl the player, but Beryl the gaming idol, a goddess of my own making. 

My hand rested on the headset.

I missed those times. When nobody knew who I was. When I was just another player, talking shit on the general voice chat. A time when I could just enjoy myself, when there wasn’t someone watching my every movement, telling me exactly what to say and how to say it.

Maybe I can get those days back…

Before I knew it, I had the headset over my face. I laid down and started up CraftQuest once again. But this time, I didn’t select my normal profile. Instead, I clicked the New Account button.

The character creation screen flashed before me for the first time in three years. A tear leaked down my cheek as I entered my name — my real name — into the keyboard.

Leah.

I couldn’t leave Beryl behind. Not yet, at least.

But just for a moment, I could be someone else.

I could be me.

Not true freedom, but close enough.

Close enough.