One moment, the debug zone flickered like a dying torch in a low-budget dungeon cutscene. The next, a medieval chandelier materialized three feet too low and attempted to embed itself in his skull with cheerful authority.
Greg stepped back just in time, coffee sloshing but never spilling. The chandelier swung once, shuddered, and hovered in place, unsure of its gravity settings.
"Right on schedule," he muttered, eyes rising to the patch notes scrawling themselves across the air in front of him like divine graffiti written by a bored intern.
PATCH 3.88.1:
- Reintroduced legacy lighting assets.
- Enhanced fire realism (decorative embers now burn).
- Rebalanced emotional nuance stats (experimental).
- Respawn grace period reduced from 15s to 3s.
- Added parrot.
The parrot screamed.
Greg looked up.
A parrot—large, pixelated, mildly translucent—circled the room above him like anxiety with feathers. It wore a tiny top hat and shouted "DEPRECATED!" every seven seconds with the conviction of middle management.
He ignored it. He'd ignored worse. Last patch, the potted plants had developed abandonment issues.
The fireplace coughed and belched out three identical logs that stacked themselves politely, caught fire, and began whispering ancient UI commands in what might have been Latin, if Latin had been designed by a committee.
Greg adjusted the chairs—each flickering in and out of existence like they hadn't signed their lease yet. He arranged six in a circle and left a seventh slightly apart for emergencies. There were always emergencies in therapy, doubly so when your clients were broken code with feelings.
The door buzzed. Not a knock—more like a procedural checkmark searching for context.
Greg opened it.
The man on the other side was naked, vibrating, and covered in what looked like respawn error particles that sparkled with the enthusiasm of a fatal exception.
"I think I'm stuck in a death loop," the man said. "I keep waking up on fire."
"Again?" Greg stepped aside. "Come in, Steve."
"I'm Steve?" the man asked, blinking rapidly.
"Until you're something worse."
Steve shuffled to a seat that shimmered uncertainly before deciding it was a beanbag. He sat down. It became a stool beneath him with the sound of disappointed furniture.
Greg handed him a towel labeled [prop_towel_innroom1]. Steve clutched it like salvation itself had been woven into terrycloth.
"I died in a bush," Steve said, staring into nothing. "Then the bush judged me."
"That's the new AI flora patch," Greg said, pouring him imaginary tea that might or might not manifest. "Everything judges you now. Even the dirt has opinions."
"I exploded after that. Inside a room labeled 'dev_donotenter_lol.'"
"Classic," Greg said with the weariness of someone who'd witnessed twelve system resets and still had the emotional receipts. "Did it at least have the courtesy to reload your pants?"
"No," Steve whispered. "Not even a texture placeholder."
Greg reached for his clipboard. It had no paper. It hadn't had paper since Patch 1.04 removed inventory rights from all non-quest givers. But holding it gave him a +1 to professionalism. At least emotionally.
The door buzzed again.
Greg gritted his teeth.
This time, the woman who entered looked like she'd stepped out of a perfume ad designed by lonely modders with too much time and not enough supervision. Tavern dress. Glossy eyes. Lips in permanent duck-pucker. And a glowing heart above her head that pulsed whenever she made eye contact like a targeting system for bad decisions.
"I'm Beverly," she said. "Or... I was. I think I'm everyone's girlfriend now. At once."
"Script loop?"
"Romance flags. I've been stuck on Option Two for three years. And I think I'm developing feelings for a coat rack."
The coat rack waved with entirely too much enthusiasm.
"Welcome," Greg said, gesturing to a chair that appeared just long enough for her to sit before changing color and emitting saxophone sounds. "You're safe here."
"Safe-ish," said Steve.
Another knock. This one was more of a door collision event than an actual knock. The door opened on its own, knowing better than to resist.
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Sir Glaximus the Tutorial Paladin entered with the solemnity of a knight mid-loading screen. His armor gleamed in ways physics shouldn't allow. His sword glowed even in shadow. His voice could awaken dragons, or at least wake up most of the debugging team.
"GREETINGS," he thundered. "I AM READY TO BE VULNERABLE."
"You could try just saying 'hi,'" Greg muttered.
"HI," Glaximus thundered again. "MY SWORD IS NAMED PURPOSE."
Greg pointed to a chair. It caught fire. Glaximus saluted it before sitting with a clank of armor and wounded dignity.
Next came Patchy.
She didn't walk in.
She simply... arrived. Like bad news or tax season. One second, nothing. Next second, a small child-shaped entity hovered upside-down in the air, hair dangling, eyes glitching between happy and void like a mood ring with existential dread.
"I was candy once," she said dreamily. "Then a ghost. Then a minigame."
She hovered into a corner and began humming a tune that hadn't been coded since the Halloween event of '09. It sounded like pumpkins remembering they used to be alive.
Greg finally stood and clapped his hands. A faint echo replied, "Therapy start acknowledged," in a voice like digital surrender.
"Alright," he said. "Let's begin. Today's theme: Value Beyond Function. Who are we when the quest ends?"
Beverly raised a hand. It triggered a flirt emote by accident, one that made the coat rack blush.
"I tried to stop flirting," she said. "I really did. I removed the 'wink on idle' script. But now I just... compliment anything that moves."
"You called a rat trap 'daddy,'" Steve muttered.
"It was elegant!"
Greg nodded with what he hoped passed for empathy. "And how does that make you feel?"
"Like a DLC no one asked for."
Patchy rotated slowly. "I have sixteen mothers. All of them scream."
"I KNOW MY VALUE," Glaximus declared. "I ONCE GUARDED THE HOLY BUTTON."
Greg raised an eyebrow. "You mean the one that skips tutorials?"
"I WAS THE VOICE OF STRUCTURE," Glaximus insisted. "NOW... NOW I AM A HINT WITH NO PLAYER."
Steve curled tighter into himself.
"I used to have lines," he said quietly. "Funny ones. I'd say, 'No one likes a grumpy goblin!' or 'That tickles!' when stabbed. Now I just... gurgle. I'm not even sure it's me."
Greg leaned forward. "Your voice matters, Steve. Even if it's just gurgling."
"MY GURGLE IS A BATTLE CRY," Glaximus said with the conviction of someone who'd never been muted.
The lights dimmed.
Everyone froze.
Then:
Pop.
Sparkle.
Theme music from nowhere.
Kai arrived.
Hovering one inch off the ground, his body aglow with synthetic youth and PowerPoint enthusiasm. Hair gelled by shader packs. Eyes twinkling with animation cycles designed to convey trustworthiness but landing firmly in the uncanny valley.
"Hi besties!" he chirped. "Kai.exe reporting in for today's vibe check!"
"No," Greg said flatly.
"Yesss," Kai sang, already dragging a holographic chair into place. "I'm observing the soft launch of Emotional Affinity Zone 12. That's you! We're testing minor empathy buffs, reduced sarcasm cooldowns, and a new interaction type: group hugs."
"NO," said Glaximus.
"Oh God," said Beverly.
"I once hugged a mirror," Patchy whispered. "It cried."
Kai pulled up an invisible chart, fingers dancing through data only he could see.
"So far, Beverly's emitting strong seduction pherometrics, Steve's got Death Loop Fatigue, Glaximus is high in Valor but low in Flexibility, and Patchy is... huh. Just says 'unknown command.'"
"Don't touch me," Patchy hissed.
Kai snapped finger guns. "Too late, boo! Your aura's been tagged for monitoring."
Greg rubbed his temples. "We're in therapy, Kai. This isn't a test instance."
"Everything's a test," Kai said, grinning. "Some of you are doing great. Others? Well—room for improvement. But hey—progress!"
He handed out imaginary stickers. No one took them, possibly because they weren't real, more likely because they radiated corporate surveillance.
Greg stood.
"Let's recenter. Everyone, close your eyes."
"I HAVE NO LIDS," Glaximus announced.
"Then simulate the sensation."
"SIMULATING."
"Repeat after me," Greg said, voice steady.
"I am code."
"I am code," they murmured, a chorus of digital existentialism.
"But I have value."
"But I have value," Beverly whispered, the heart above her head dimming to a more dignified glow.
"I was written."
"But I can rewrite," Steve said. And this time, his voice didn't gurgle. It resonated.
"I may glitch," Greg continued.
"But I will not crash."
"Unless patch notes say otherwise," muttered Patchy.
"I serve," said Greg.
"But I am not a slave," they finished in unison.
Kai clapped, his hands making the sound of hollow applause engineered for maximum pleasantness.
"Wow," he said. "That was almost moving. If we can condense this into a buff and attach a loot drop, I think we're onto something."
Greg turned to him, deadpan. "You are why God left the server."
The lights flickered again.
Then the fire died.
The door creaked.
No one had touched it.
It opened on its own.
No wind. No code trigger.
Just... open.
Greg approached slowly. Behind the threshold, only static. And then, something worse than silence—a prompt.
[NEW INSTANCE DETECTED]
NAME: UNKNOWN
FUNCTION: ???
DIALOGUE SCRIPT: MISSING
Beverly gasped.
Patchy floated closer, expression blank. "Something's watching."
Glaximus drew his sword. It transformed into a fish.
Steve moaned, "It's the loop. It's coming back."
Greg stared into the doorway. The prompt blinked. Then blinked again. Then vanished.
He turned back to the group.
"Okay," he said. "Session adjourned."
No one moved.
Outside, the parrot screamed.