In the far corners of a dimly lit celestial laboratory, reality itself stretched thin and pliant, resembling nothing so much as a worn-out lab coat fraying at the seams. Flickering screens, suspended like ghostly apparitions in the void, displayed worlds upon worlds, realities stacked upon each other like glass slides beneath an immense microscope. Each screen pulsed softly, a slow rhythm of creation, experimentation, and inevitable decay.

  Amidst these endless rows of cosmic experiments stood two low-level functionaries. They were known as Chauncey and Abner—names chosen more for convenience than identity. Their white lab coats hung loosely over forms vaguely humanoid but never truly defined, shifting gently as though their shapes refused to solidify. Occasionally, ephemeral shadows of faces emerged from beneath spectral hoods, revealing features so nondescript they slipped from memory as soon as one looked away.

  Chauncey hovered over a floating console, lazily flicking through projections with translucent fingers that shimmered in and out of focus. He gave off the impression of youthful restlessness, his movements quick and erratic like an assistant eager for something—anything—to happen in his shift. On the opposite side of the chamber stood Abner, his figure a more solid representation of wearied responsibility. He inspected experiment logs methodically, his form bent slightly as if burdened by the heavy weight of countless repetitive duties.

  "Abner," Chauncey sighed theatrically, his voice resonating softly, not through sound but as vibrations upon the very fabric of the space around them. "I'm bored."

  "You're always bored," Abner replied without looking up, methodically adjusting one of the thousands of dials that spanned the vast console before him. Each delicate twist sent subtle ripples cascading through the holographic worlds suspended in front of them, careful calibrations to realities so finely tuned that even the faintest tremor could disrupt their carefully balanced ecosystems. "That's our lot, Chauncey. Maintain the worlds, record the data. Feed the mice, clean the cages. Repeat."

  Chauncey emitted an ethereal groan, rippling impatiently. "Yes, yes, Abner, I’m well aware. But aren't you just tired of it? Endless rotations, endless monotony—there has to be something more stimulating we can do. Why not introduce a variable, tweak some parameters, add a little spice to our routines?"

  Abner froze, his hand halfway to another dial. Slowly, he turned his indistinct face toward his colleague, the usually smooth contours beneath his ghostly hood tightening into sharper, more cautious lines. "The last time we played your little 'game,' Chauncey, you cheated. Three entire planets nearly collapsed, and we spent the next six cycles resetting an entire galaxy cluster. Management nearly discovered it. I’m not taking that risk again."

  Chauncey’s translucent form quivered defensively, shifting restlessly like troubled smoke. "All right, perhaps mistakes were made—but it was harmless fun! Admit it, Abner, aren’t you weary of endless protocol and mundane responsibilities? We’re barely even experimenters! Just lab assistants—barely trusted to keep things running. Aren't you tired of existing unnoticed, your existence reduced to mere maintenance?"

  Abner hesitated, tension rippling subtly through his otherwise carefully neutral form. Truthfully, he’d felt this same exhaustion himself—the endless logs, meticulous calibrations, the rigid structure imposed upon them both. But he knew the dangers hidden behind Chauncey's restless impulses. He steadied himself and shook his head firmly.

  "No," Abner said, his tone resolute yet heavy. "The risks outweigh any fleeting excitement. I won’t have any part in your reckless games."

  Chauncey drifted slowly closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "That's disappointing, Abner. I thought perhaps you’d appreciate a break from the tediousness. Especially given that little... incident on Beta-4. Remind me, Abner, did management ever find out about that anomaly you caused when you accidentally doubled the gravity parameters?"

  Abner's form rippled suddenly, sharply, almost violently. He turned fully, his indistinct face hardening as much as something made of smoke and whispers could. His voice came low and wary. "That was an accident, Chauncey, and I corrected it immediately. Management didn't need to be informed."

  "Of course," Chauncey said gently, almost sympathetically. "But you know how management can be—rigid, unforgiving, intolerant of even the smallest irregularity. Imagine if they learned about it now. What would become of your carefully guarded status?"

  Abner stiffened. His hands trembled ever so slightly over the dials, sending delicate waves flickering through the holographic worlds. The memory of his mistake haunted him—how close he’d come to reprimand, perhaps demotion. He drew a slow, calming breath, fighting back irritation and anxiety.

  "Are you threatening me?" Abner asked quietly.

  Chauncey’s tone softened into something resembling reassurance. "Threatening? No, my friend. Consider it... incentive. Just one little scenario, carefully controlled this time. Something entertaining but entirely safe. No cheating. Minimal interference. A bit of harmless stimulation, and then we return to our normal routines, all indiscretions forgotten."

  Abner wavered, caught in an internal struggle. Finally, with a sigh that resonated through the chamber, he spoke cautiously. "If—and only if—we play this game of yours, the conditions must be crystal clear. A carefully controlled scenario, Chauncey. Minimal interference, minimal risk. And absolutely no cheating. Is that understood?"

  Chauncey's shimmering form brightened, clearly pleased, as he smoothly moved back toward the monitors. "Perfectly, Abner. Perfectly. Limited, controlled, minimal chaos."

  Abner sighed heavily, already regretting his indulgence. "Then let's discuss the parameters. What kind of game do you propose?"

  Chauncey, delighted by the possibility, drew closer to Abner, conjuring shimmering holograms of two rugged human forms suspended between them. "Two heroes, and a control. A proper experiment, just for you, Abner, each following the path of the gun—two different gunslingers in an intense race across a hostile terrain, each recruiting companions. One victor, with a suitably interesting prize."

  “Don’r forget the control. And a race?" Abner tilted his head skeptically. “What about the prize?"

  Chauncey's shape seemed to gleam mischievously. “Yes the control will be a woman and she will follow the same system but she choses her path. As to the prize, what do all these human beings value above everything else? Love, riches, power, hmmm. Maybe a boon or two. We can let the system decide that.”

  Abner frowned, considering the ramifications. “Yes the system we use will set the rewards automatically.”

  Chauncey inclined his head. "Agreed.”

  Slowly, Abner nodded. “This system has to limit the scenario. It must be something measurable. But what system…” He paused thinking. “There is a system I like. This system…” He paused pulling up a screen. “The D?o. The way of the gun."

  Chauncey laughed lightly, his form brightening even further with eager anticipation. "Yes, Yes! The D?o of the Gun—precisely defined skills, a set path of advancement. Just enough structure to keep things interesting. I love it!”

  Abner, despite himself, found enthusiasm stirring within his weary being. Perhaps this small game, this measured escape from monotony, could remind them both why they'd accepted these roles in the first place.

  “Want to chose my own champion.” Chauncey stated. “There is a human that I have been watching for a little while.”

  Abner looked at his partner with suspicion. “Why do I feel like I have stepped into a trap?”

  “No trap, he is one of many humans that I have been following. They interest me. Their short lives so filled with petty things and violence. You can chose your own champion as well and the woman can be assigned randomly.”

  “This needs to be a clean experiment. They cannot bring any skills in from the outside. No memories, no abilities outside the system given ones.” Abner said looking pointedly at Chauncey.

  “Fine then wipe their memories. But you know they have muscle memory that we can’t totally wipe, so chose wisely your man.”

  "Very well," he conceded, waving his hand over the projections and causing intricate rulesets and skill progressions to swirl into being around three human figures. Abner pulled his man from a list that he did not want his partner to know he had. He, too, watched these mortals and had a few favorites. Two men and a woman gathered and pulled from their own worlds and placed in area that they have chosen. A dying world that management has ceased to care about and is allowing to fade. "Let the race begin."

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  And far below, in a world unsuspecting of cosmic eyes, destiny quietly shifted, drawn into alignment by two bored lab assistants eager to pass the time.

  ****

  Flynn awoke with a sharp gasp, jerking upright as though surfacing from a deep and dreamless ocean. His head pounded with the pulse of confusion, temples throbbing as fragmented thoughts scattered like startled birds from his mind. Blinking rapidly, he squinted into the sterile brightness that enveloped him, stark white and clinical as an operating theater. The air was cool, with a sterile antiseptic scent that burned faintly in his nostrils.

  He raised a hand to shield his eyes, noticing the coarse fabric of an unfamiliar garment sleeve brushing his skin—plain, featureless, the kind of clothes you might give a lab rat. He grimaced and flexed his fingers slowly, noticing they felt strong yet strangely alien, as though they belonged to someone else.

  His gaze swept around the room, sterile white walls and gleaming metallic surfaces providing no clues about where he was, or why. No memory stirred. Not his name, nor any hint of what had led him here. It was as though someone had carved away pieces of his identity, leaving only raw sensation and instinct behind.

  Across the room was a wide, reflective glass window—one-way, Flynn guessed immediately—through which unseen eyes could undoubtedly observe him. Flynn stood carefully, bare feet meeting the cool, smooth surface of a polished floor. His legs felt sturdy beneath him, muscles coiled and ready, though for what he did not know. He sensed, somehow, that he’d been trained to be strong, precise, capable—yet not one detail of that training remained within reach of his mind.

  A soft noise behind him—a rustling of fabric—made him pivot sharply. Across from him, in an identical stark bed, another man stirred awake. Flynn watched warily as the man sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings with the same cautious uncertainty Flynn himself had felt moments earlier. This man was different: sharper in his movements, his eyes colder, wary like a predator assessing potential prey. A faint pang of recognition—perhaps rivalry, perhaps something darker—stirred in Flynn’s chest, though no memory rose clearly.

  Before either could speak, a quiet groan emerged from a third occupant of the room—a woman, her hair like dark fire falling over delicate but determined features. She sat up calmly, less startled than curious, green eyes immediately scanning the room, calculating and confident, though no less bewildered. Flynn felt an immediate tug toward her, a quiet admiration blossoming from some forgotten place deep inside.

  A gentle, chiming tone resonated through the room, followed by the smooth, detached voice of someone unseen—someone who felt immediately to Flynn like a researcher or observer, someone accustomed to control.

  "Welcome, subjects," it intoned softly, yet impersonally. "Your memories have been temporarily suppressed to preserve the integrity of the experiment. Each of you has been chosen, granted an extraordinary opportunity: successfully complete the tasks we place before you, and your identities and pasts will be returned."

  Flynn glanced at the others. The woman had risen to her feet, steady and unwavering. The other man, eyes narrowed suspiciously, studied Flynn with undisguised distrust.

  The voice continued, unbothered by their unease. "This is not a punishment, nor a prison. This is a race—a test of your strength, resolve, and courage. Each of you will follow a unique path. Each will choose allies. Each will embrace the D?o of the Gun."

  Flynn felt something stir at those words—something primal, something powerful. An instinctive understanding, though fragmented, surged beneath his confusion. He knew the way of the gun. It felt natural, right, embedded in his very bones.

  Yet the voice was not finished. "You, Flynn, have been chosen by Abner. The other, Malik, chosen by Chauncey. And the woman—Saoirse—she is our control. Unbound to any D?o. Free to choose her own path."

  Flynn exchanged another glance with Saoirse, noting the steely resolve behind her calm gaze. He knew instantly she would not tolerate being treated as a prize, nor allow others to control her destiny.

  With an electric click, one wall slid open silently, revealing a corridor bathed in soft blue light, stretching into the unknown.

  "Choose wisely," the voice concluded gently, dispassionately. "Your future—and your past—depend upon it."

  >>[Personality Matrix… {Flynn} Unlocked]

  Something shifted inside Flynn, as he stared down that corridor, a change in his soul, an opening and a closing. As he squinted down the shadowy corridor, trying to gauge its distance. It stretched long and narrow, like a desert arroyo carved by a flash flood, and whatever waited at the far end was hidden in a haze of darkness. His muscles tightened instinctively—this was a trail meant for him alone, and the notion didn’t sit right.

  He turned his gaze toward the others, still uneasy about leavin’ the only souls he’d met in this strange place behind. Trust was scarce as water in a dry creek, but companionship—even uncertain—felt better than facing the unknown alone. Malik caught his eye first, and Flynn felt the prickly tension rise like heat waves off sun-baked sand. The man’s eyes were hard and dark, like gunmetal beneath a thundercloud, full of a fierce possessiveness. Since none of ’em had a thing to their names besides the thin, unfamiliar bodysuits clingin’ to their frames.

  The girl—well, that was another matter entirely. Saoirse stood tall and sure, with flame-dark hair tumbling down like a midnight campfire. Even in this empty room, her presence had a weight to it, her eyes clear and determined. Flynn couldn’t rightly remember anything about himself—hell, if the voices hadn’t whispered his name, he wouldn’t even have that—but he was damned certain he’d never laid eyes on anyone finer. There was something steady and powerful in her bearing, like a rifle sighted true on a distant target.

  Flynn stared back at Malik, not giving an inch, until the other man finally broke their silent contest. Malik turned stiffly, peering down his own narrow corridor, shoulders rigid with determination. Then, without a word, he moved forward, quickening his pace as though it were a race—and Malik intended to win it.

  That stirred something deep in Flynn, something fierce and competitive, hot as pistol-smoke. He glanced back at Saoirse, tipping her a small smile and nod, but the woman paid neither man any heed. She straightened her shoulders, drew a slow, steady breath, and stepped forward into her own hallway like someone used to walkin’ alone.

  Once they were gone, Flynn found himself standin’ alone in the silence. He felt suddenly foolish, like a man holdin’ a pair of deuces against a stacked deck. Playin’ games never sat well with him, though damned if he knew why. Somethin’ in his gut rebelled against being watched, studied like cattle in a pen. Though his memories were stripped clean as bleached bones, that defiant feeling remained strong and sure, solid as the earth beneath his feet.

  He turned back to his path. Not trusting it a whit, Flynn eased forward slow and cautious, half-expecting trouble. The moment he crossed the threshold, the wall slid shut behind him with a finality that echoed in his chest.

  He sighed and muttered dryly, "Well, partner, reckon there ain’t no turnin’ back now." With that, Flynn squared his shoulders and stepped forward into the darkness.

  ****

  In the room suspended beyond the boundaries of ordinary perception, Chauncey and Abner watched the unfolding events through screens floating in a translucent web of data streams. The displays showed Flynn, Malik, and Saoirse stepping forward into their corridors, each moving steadily into their uncertain futures.

  Abner crossed his arms thoughtfully, his form now crisp and defined, the appearance of lab-coat professionalism masking his deeper unease. He glanced sidelong at Chauncey, who hovered casually near the projection, his gaze eagerly fixed on Malik's screen.

  "Chauncey," Abner began cautiously, his voice precise and measured, the tone of a technician inspecting delicate equipment, "I trust you remember our agreement. You promised me—no interference beyond the initial parameters. No cheating this time."

  Chauncey turned toward him, a flicker of irritation briefly crossing his indistinct features. "Come on, Abner. Last time was different—I was bored beyond belief. You can't blame me for shaking things up a bit. But this," he gestured to the screens with genuine enthusiasm, "this looks far more interesting. I have no intention of cheating."

  Abner raised an eyebrow skeptically, his posture rigid. "You said something similar before. And yet we had to reset an entire galaxy cluster afterward. I can't afford another incident like that."

  Chauncey gave an exaggerated sigh. "Relax. Everything is perfectly under control." His gaze drifted toward Flynn's monitor. "Tell me something—how exactly did you choose your champion? Flynn doesn't strike me as your typical selection."

  Abner studied Flynn's image thoughtfully, observing the quiet strength that the man displayed, even without knowing who or what he was. "I wanted someone genuine. Humble. Someone with a sense of tragedy, perhaps. He's a man of the earth, as humans say. Comfortable getting his hands dirty, doing what's necessary. I thought such a background would ground him for the challenges ahead."

  Chauncey chuckled softly, clearly amused. "Interesting choice. But if he's so humble and grounded, why did you unlock Flynn's personality matrix? Was that really necessary?"

  Abner turned calmly, his voice steady and unapologetic. "It was perfectly within the rules. I believed Flynn needed an immediate shift in perspective, a way to access his instincts early on. It might help him find clarity quicker than stumbling around blind."

  Chauncey made a dismissive gesture. "I suppose it isn't explicitly forbidden. Clever move." He turned his attention back to Malik’s image, now sharpening into clearer definition as the champion moved confidently down his corridor. "Aren’t you curious about my choice?"

  "I am," Abner admitted carefully. "Why Malik?"

  Chauncey’s form brightened slightly, like a researcher eager to explain his favorite hypothesis. "I pulled Malik from a high-tech world. He's ambitious, has an agile mind, and above all, he's flexible morally. I prefer champions who don't burden themselves with unnecessary emotional baggage. He'll adapt quickly and effectively."

  Abner frowned slightly, not entirely convinced. "And are you planning to unlock his entire personality matrix, as well?"

  Chauncey shook his head, seemingly thoughtful for a moment. "Not yet. I'll start only with the competitive aspects and the moral flexibility—that’s enough for now. The rest can wait until the situation demands it."

  Abner shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "Remember, Chauncey, this is a true experiment. And every experiment needs a control. Saoirse must remain untouched. No adjustments, no unlocking of her matrix, nothing. If I find out you've tampered with her in any way, the consequences—"

  Chauncey raised both hands in a placating gesture. "Relax, Abner. I promise you, Saoirse remains untouched. After all, we both agreed—the control remains autonomous. I'm just as eager as you are to see how she responds."

  Abner studied Chauncey carefully, a lingering doubt clouding his face. Finally, he nodded slowly, though caution still colored his expression. "Then let’s proceed. But remember, I’m watching closely. No mistakes this time."

  Chauncey smiled brightly, turning back toward the screens with eager anticipation. "Agreed. Now, let's see how they handle the first test."