Eight years later…

New York City, New York, America 2009 CE

Tristan McConnell got off the E train at Lafayette Ave. and unfolded the crumpled note from the pocket. Arcadeum Ltd., 116 E. Lafayette Ave was etched in chicken scratch into the folds of the paper.

‘God, Alex, you better not get me killed,’

He started walking. This area of Brooklyn creeped him out. It was far past the chic studios of the celebrities who thought ‘slumming it’ in Brooklyn was in. A homeless man was perched on a stoop ahead of him, his bleary eyes focused on Tristan; he was muttering to himself, his rant escalating until he was all but shouting at Tristan. Tristan ducked his head down and clung on to the address of his destination like a lifeline. His school bag swung against the back of his knees and sweat began to prickle up on the back of his neck where it rubbed against the wool of his blazer.

‘I knew I should’ve taken my uniform off. I’m practically a walking deadman,’

He knelt down quickly, pretending to tie his shoes. He pulled billfold, jammed with twenties, and slid it into his shoe after pulling two out and sticking it into his breast pocket—decoy money. He quickened his pace and kept his eyes focused on the rusty numbers on the buildings. 100… 104… 108… 112…

There. The sign was covered in graffiti and one of the windows was boarded up, but it was unmistakable. The bubble-lettered sign made a silhouette of the name, Arcadeum Ltd. Tristan hurried down the stairs to the basement store front and knocked on the grimy door. He waited. There was a rustling coming from within and someone was knocking around. A whimper came from inside, strangely animalistic. Tristan loosened his tie and wipe the back of his neck with his hand. The door jerked open.

“Who are you?” a tall, black man with frizzy dreadlocks glared down at Tristan.

He swallowed. “Um, I’m here for Alex. He said you had something for him?”

The man looked over Tristan’s shoulder and then back down at him, snorting.

“Alright. I guess. Come on in,”

The room was dimly lit and packed to the ceiling with boxes labeled with all sorts of video game names. An old PacMan console sat in one corner, next to a stack of broken Nintendo 64.

“What is all this junk?”

“Collectables,”

Tristan bit back a laugh. “It’s all… old.”

“That’s generally what collectables are. It’s old video game stuff. I’ve been working with my friend Maurice to get some of it fixed up. You’d be surprised what people’ll pay for for vintage games.”

Tristan raised his eyebrows, but stayed silent. He spun around in the tiny floor space, drinking in the room. His eyes fell upon a door in the far wall, one he hadn’t noticed before. When he looked closely, the door was dented with its knob falling off, but the unmistakable glow of fluorescent line etching the outline of the frame.

“What’s back there?”

The man turned around, a stack of games in his hand. “Top secret.”

Tristan snorted and turned to fix a disbelieving stare on the man.

“Seriously, man. It is. You can’t go back there,”

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Tristan said. “Seriously. No one can know I was here.”

The man stared at Tristan dubiously. “I’m seriously going to regret this,”

He moved around the counter and set the stack down on the grimy countertop, gesturing for Tristan to follow him.

“So this is just a prototype. Maurice is a computer programmer—wannabe, that is. He’s had a hard time coming up with original stuff that actually works or makes sense, so a lot of what we do is keep some of the old stuff that doesn’t get sold so he can practice replicating and tweaking the script. He’s gotten pretty good. He’s made Yoshi into a twenty foot tall Godzila.”

Tristan laughed and ducked under a wire hanging between the shelves from two tangled Ninetendo controllers.

“Of course, the old script is easy. 2D stuff gets simple after a while. It’s basically HTML script with a bit of ancient Java. Maurice got bored and… well… we stole a new game from EA. It’s an RPG and he and I have spent hours trying to beat it. It’s impossible.”

“Wow, sounds…”

“Lame, I know. The computer and video game geeks can’t beat a stupid RPG,”

“That’s it,” Tristan said under his breath.

“EA’s held off releasing it. We figure it’s because none of them can master it either. If no one can beat a game, it gets really hot for a while because everyone tells their friends about how hard it is and then everyone wants to beat it. But when no one can find out how to do it or find any cheats, it dies down and gets stale,”

“So… programmers make games that people can beat? That doesn’t make sense… once you beat the game…”

“You want to buy more,” the man said proudly.

“So you guys are going to rip off this game, make it beatable and then launch all your modified ones so that people buy them?”

“I guess,” the man shrugged and jiggled the lock on the door. “We haven’t really gotten that far. We just want to tweak it, see if there’s any way to beat it. ‘Sides, gives Maurice some good practice.”

The lock sprang free and the door swung into the room, engulfing Tristan and the man in its hazy glow. The game consul was humming gently, the lights on the foot pad in front of it flashing warm lights.

“Whoa,” Tristan breathed. “It’s interactive?”

“New and improved,” the man said proudly. “EA was having some glitches with their first model, but they’ve officially patented this one. Taken out of beta mode, too.”

“Wow.” Tristan had never been a video game buff, but even he knew that this was special.

“You wanna give it a try?” the man offered.

“What? No, man. That’s… won’t that screw up the script?”

The man laughed. “Nah. The script stays the same. I think Maurice has given it a bit of a change though, so things might not work perfectly. Give it a try though. Tell us how it goes.”

Tristan bit his lip and stepped onto the pad. The lights stopped flashing and the screen turned to the start menu.

“Put on gloves,” a mechanical woman’s voice echoed from the speakers.

“Dude,” Tristan said appreciatively, grinning back at the man who was leaned back against the doorjamb, a small smile on his lips.

Tristan slipped the gloves over his hands, wiggling his fingers.

“Put on mask,” the voice said.

Tristan pulled the mask towards him and fit it over his head so the headphones fit snugly over his ears and the goggles were over his eyes.

“Activating 3D visualizer and simulator.”

There was a buzzing in Tristan’s ears and a cacophony of drums and electronic beeping and it sounded as if the whole world was trying to parade into his head. He tried to take off the helmet but his hands were stuck in place in front of him. Everything was black; he started to hyperventilate.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he thought. ‘What the fuck is going on? Holy shit.’

Out of nowhere, the image of a sprawling field burst in front of him.

“Select your character,” the woman said into his ear.

Four characters popped up in front of his eyes: a princess, a milkmaid, a knight and a farmer. He lifted his hands up and saw their image appear in vivid color on the screen in front of his eyes. He put his finger in front of the knight and held it there.

“Please say your name,”

“Tristan,” he said hoarsely.

“Welcome to Cerath, Sir Tristan,” the voice said. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Lauretta and I will guide you on your journey. If you ever have any questions about your quest or a character, you may come find me. I live in a cottage on the edge of Endelsmere Woods, in the neighboring kingdom of Dralesor. The year in this realm is 189 AMW—after Meril’s War—and in my kingdom, we are in the twenty-third year of King Julian the Noble’s reign. In Cerath, where you are knighted, you serve under Lord Edgar the Brave, vassal to King Augustus the Faithful. You must journey to his brother’s kingdom to accompany King Augustus’s nephew, Prince Henrik of Ryham to Dralesor for his marriage to the princess before another war breaks out between the two! The fate of my world lies in your hands, good knight.”

The voice faded away and Tristan saw himself float down to the ground. He could hear the grass crunch under his feet and the heralding of trumpets in the distance. He didn’t know how to move; he looked around and saw the parapets of a castle looming over the crest of the hill he was beneath and focused on going there. The ground moved slowly as he felt his holographic legs work.

“This is so cool,” he said to himself, holding out his hand so his holographic skin could twinkle in the computer-generated sunshine.

The ground began to shake with the pounding of dozens of hoofbeats.

“Stoj!” a voice called behind him.

Tristan broke into a run, praying that he wasn’t about to lose his life. A giant black stallion with an armored rider cut him off. The rider lifted his visor and glared down at Tristan.

“Sem vam da ustavite,” he said, icily. “Kako ti je ime, fant?”

Tristan stared up at him. His heart was beating so fast, the blood was shooting through his body, leaving tingling sensations in his limbs and his head was growing light.

“Ali si neumen?”

“I don’t speak your language,” Tristan said breathily.

“Angleščina,” the man said to his companions who had finally ridden up, enclosing Tristan in a circle of massive horses and swords. “English?”

“Yes,” Tristan responded. “I speak English.”

“Very well,” the man said stiffly. “I commanded you to stop, before. What is your name?”

“Tristan,” he said. “Sir Tristan.”

“Sir Tristan, aye?” the man laughed loudly, his comrades joining him. “You’re a little young to be knighted, aren’t you? Who’s your lord, then?”

Tristan tried to remember what Lauretta had told him. “I serve under Lord Edgar the Brave.”

“Very admiral, for one so young,” the man said, mild admiration evident in his voice. “Tell me, Sir Tristan, how did you come to this prestigious post?”

Tristan swallowed nervously. “My father, uh, was uh, well… My father worked as the uh, Captain of the Guard at his keep and… uh, well I was very well trained… and uh, yeah.”

“It’s a pity Lord Edgar doesn’t keep his knights very well educated,” the man stared down his nose at Tristan. “You seem to be a disgrace to our class. Where is your horse?”

“My horse?” Tristan glanced around at the other knights, all comfortably perched on horseback. “My horse seems to have gotten away from me.”

The circle of men around him burst into peals of laughter.

“Gotten away from you?” a man with a blue tunic under a sheet of chain mail mocked. “Dear boy, you’re no more fit to be a knight than a babe is to be a milkmaid!”

Tristan, not knowing what that meant, felt his cheeks flush and he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand; it was starting to sweat again.

“Well I-I was saving… someone and… I must’ve misplaced him,” Tristan wished he could just shut himself up.

“Whatever your excuse, lad, I’m sure His Majesty will want to hear it. You are under his service as well,” the first knight said. “We’ve all been called to escort his son to Dralesor. I’m sure you have as well. We’ll get you sorted when we get to Ebium.”

“Ebium?” Tristan echoed as he hoisted himself up behind the first knight.

The man snorted. “Yes. King Piers’ castle? Anenth’s foot, boy, are you dumb?”

“I’m not dumb!”

“Then stop acting like such a knockpin, already,”

“Yes, Sir. And who would you be?”

“I,” he said proudly. “Am Sir Richard. At your service.”

Tristan scoffed, he hoped, confidently. “I doubt I’ll be needing your service, thank you.”

--

Ebium was a massive stronghold, not a castle, as Tristan had thought. He and the other knights rode through three sets of massive iron gates, each bigger and thicker than the last, before reaching a drawbridge and an enormous iron portcullis. The moat water below them was muddy, wilted reeds stuck up out of the water nearest the banks and a rank smell assailed Tristan’s nose as they rode over. They galloped into the bailey, a massive courtyard surrounded on all sides by the towering battlements with shops and stables set up throughout the dirt square. The keep sat in the center with two corridors extended off the east and west sides to connect to the battlements, dividing the bailey in half. Ten boys in green and white livery came running up to the knights and took their horses from him.

“Come, Sir Tristan, this way,” Sir Richard beckoned to him, already halfway to the keep.

Green and white banners fluttered from every corner of every tower, out of all the barred windows and over some of the shops’ tents. Tristan’s eyes widened the more he took in the generated scenery. Everything was so… vivid. Every single color he could imagine seemed to be packed into this tiny space. As he neared the stone steps to the keep, he knelt down to feel the stone. At first, there was nothing, but once the computer recognized the input, he felt the rough bite of rock into his palm and the damp warmth of the midday sun radiating back into his hand.

Tristan smiled and straightened, hurrying into the main hall of the keep behind Sir Richard and the other knights.

“Ah, gospod Richard! Hvala, ker ste prišli v tako pomembno nalogo za državo. Prosimo, ostalo tukaj za tri dni. Saj bo dopust v soboto ob zori z mojim sinom,” the king greeted them warmly from his throne. His pale eyes sifted through the group, all kneeling before him, until they lit upon Tristan, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Ti! Kdo si ti? Kaj pa misliš, da ste kaj, stalni nenapovedane v prisotnosti kralja? Richard, ki je to poškoduje?”

Richard stood, keeping his head bowed. “Se opravičujem, vaše veličanstvo. Govori angleško, ne Cerathi. On je ... Gospod Edgar je vitez. Zelo mlad, sem strah. On trdi, da je dober borec. Morda ... Oh, on je Princ Henrik starost, je on ne? Mogoče ne bo najboljši borec, vendar bo dobro imeti prijatelja Henrik, ki se lahko zaščitijo z njim?”

“Angleško? Res? Pravi, da je Gospod Edgar je vitez, Ja?” the king nodded. “Hvala, Gospod Richard. Zeo dobro. Pošlji za Henrik. On se bo izpolnitev svojega novega prijatelja.”

Tristan hurried to Richard’s side. “What did he say?”

“He’s surprised that you speak English,” Richard whispered. “You’re to be Prince Henrik’s companion.”

“Companion?” Tristan raised an eyebrow.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, twitpin!” Richard cuffed the side of his head. “That is your future king you’re speaking of! You are to be his friend. He’s traveling far away from home. He won’t be able to take many of his friends from here. It’s best he goes to Draserlo with a comrade… especially one who can protect him.”

Tristan raised both eyebrows knowingly. “Well, I’ll go find him then.”

“Tristan!” Richard called after him. “Come back! Where are you going?!”

Tristan ran from the hall towards the western wing; he had seen servants coming from those staircases and presumed they were leaving the royal chambers.

He ran into a young woman carrying a tureen on the stairs. “Oh! Sorry. Uh, do you know where uh, Prince… Prince… Henrik is?”

The maid’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in a round ‘O’. She shook her head quickly, fighting to get around him.

“Shit,” he hissed. “You can’t understand me, can you?”

“Prosim! Prosim! Prosim, ne poškodujte mene! Imam otroka. Malo dojenček!” she babble hysterically. “On je dva. On bo pogrešal svojo mamo. In še eno. V mene! Zelo mlada. Prosim, ne me za vas bo bolelo njih! Prosim! So sočutje, hudič!”

“No! No! I don’t want to hurt you!” he cried, holding his hands up in the universal sign for surrender. “I don’t want… I just… where’s your prince?”

“Prosim,” she sobbed.

He let out a ragged breath and held up his fingers over his head, hoping it looked like a crown.

“You know?” he asked. “Prince? Crown? Prince?”

“Prince?” she repeated. “Ne, ne, ne vem.”

“Crown!” he repeated the motion, this time trying to pantomime placing the crowd on his head.

Her eyes grew wide with understanding. “Oh, oh! Ja, ja. Vem! Čarovnik. Iščete čarovnika. On je do teh stopnicah v zadnjih vratih. Zelo vrhu stolpa. Srečno. Moje srce je z vami. Hvala, usmiljen eno! Anenth nasmeh na vas!”

“Thank you,” he said slowly, pressing his back to the wall to let her pass.

He began to climb the stairs. He had gleaned from her hand motions that the prince’s chambers were at the very top of these stairs. Finally, he approached the end. The door at the top was small and simple, a tiny iron handle the only adornment on the dark wood surface. There was a noise coming within; it was faint, like a scraping of stone or wood.

Tristan knocked on the door. “Your Highness?”

“Come in,” a deep voice said.

Tristan opened the door. There was no prince on the other side. The room was filled with bottles of fluids, the kind Tristan’s Biology teacher, Dr. Conaty, kept pickled body parts in. Dust floated through the room and in the center, an olive skinned man with black hair streaked with white was hovering over a bubbling cauldron. Whatever was in it was glowing an eerie shade of electric green.

“I’ve found it,” he laughed. “The portal. I’ve created the portal!”

“Uh… portal?”

The man’s attention snapped to him. Tristan tried to take a step back into the staircase, but the door had slammed shut and locked behind him. The man’s face was mangled, covered in a maze of scars and burns. His left eye was partially sealed shut by a welt, but the red of the iris was glowing vividly, contrasting with the icy white of his right iris.

“You are the key,” he murmured maniacally. “All I need is one from their world and I will be able to leave mine.”

“Leave… listen, dude, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Tristan shouted. “This is a game. You’re not real. You’re not in another world.”

“Not yet, son! And soon will you be,” the man laughed, a laugh straight out of a 1950s horror film.

Lightning whirled up into his hands from the cauldron, crackling in the dry air.

“I’ll say hello to your family, child,” the man laughed once more before throwing his hands towards Tristan, the lightning hitting him square in the chest; everything went black.

Okay. I know this is a teeny bit like Heir Apparent, but I can tell you now: he won't get "stuck" in the game and it won't fry his head. Don't worry.