Chương 1: THIS IS OUR GAME

George was in a room with a red button. The walls were white. The room was an oval with a flat bottom. Like being inside half an egg, he thought. There were no lights, but the room was well-lit, as if the light was coming from the air itself. George stood up and noticed that he wasn't wearing any shoes. The floor was soft and gave slightly under his weight. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and pants that were made of the same thin, beige material.

The room was slightly too cool for comfort and his outfit did not provide much warmth. The highest point of the curved ceiling was at the center of the room, and it was almost tall enough for George to stand up fully but not quite. He looked at the button. It was about the size of his hand and didn't seem to be attached to anything. It just sat there near the wall where the ceiling tapered low toward the floor. He had to drop to his knees to reach it.

When he reached for the button, he noticed a discolored scar on his palm. The scar was pale pink and the flesh was slightly twisted and bent. It ran from between his thumb and index finger down to his wrist. He grabbed the button and brought it to the center of the room. It was unexpectedly heavy.

"Well," George said aloud and pressed the button. The moment he did, two words appeared in front of him. HELLO, GEORGE. When George turned his head, the words tracked with his vision. He pressed the button again and the words were replaced by a new sentence. KEEP CLICKING, GEORGE. THIS IS OUR GAME. He pressed the button again. THAT'S IT. Click. THAT'S FOUR. Click. FIVE. Click.

"Can you hear me?" Again, no response came. George pressed the button. YES.

"What is happening? Why am I here?" Click. GOOD QUESTIONS. PERHAPS THE MOST BASIC QUESTIONS ANY OF US CAN ASK, ARE THEY NOT? Click. YOU'LL FIGURE IT OUT EVENTUALLY. Click. PROBABLY.

"Where are you?" Click. LET'S WORRY ABOUT THAT LATER. THERE ISN'T MUCH YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT ANYWAY. WELL. THERE IS ONE THING, I SUPPOSE…

"What's that?" Silence. Then he looked down at the button and sighed. Click. THAT'S IT. FIFTEEN NOW.

"How did I get here?" Click. AND WHY CAN'T YOU REMEMBER IT? Click. THIS IS GOING TO BE FUN. I DON'T THINK YOU WILL LAST LONG, BUT THAT'LL BE FUN TOO.

"What does that mean?" Click. SEE THE TIMER? A timer appeared in George's vision. 06: 56: 11 Each second, the timer clicked down by one. As George clicked the button a few more times, the timer slowed to a stop and then resumed again. HERE'S HOW THIS WORKS, GEORGE. WHEN THAT TIMER HITS ZERO, YOU WILL ENTER YOUR FIRST TRIAL. MOST PEOPLE DIE IN THEIR FIRST TRIAL, GEORGE.

"They die?" George asked. YES. BUT DON'T WORRY. YOU CAN SLOW THE TIMER BY CLICKING THE BUTTON. BUT…THERE IS A CATCH… THE MORE TIME PASSES, THE FASTER THE TIMER TICKS DOWN, SO YOU'LL HAVE TO CLICK FASTER IF YOU WANT TO SLOW IT DOWN AGAIN. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. BUT NO MATTER HOW FAST YOU CLICK, YOU WILL ENTER A TRIAL EVENTUALLY. EVERYONE DOES.

"Wait. What is a trial? And who is everyone? Are there other people here?" George said, suddenly clicking the button much faster. I THINK I'LL LEAVE IT A MYSTERY FOR NOW. THE THRILL OF DISCOVERY IS PART OF THE FUN OF THIS GAME. EVEN FOR ME.

"Pressing a button isn't a game." Click. YES IT IS. IT'S OUR GAME.

"What if I don't want to play?" Click. WELL, GEORGE, I SUPPOSE I CAN'T MAKE YOU PLAY, BUT… Click. DO YOU SEE ANY DOORS IN THE ROOM?

"No." Click. NEITHER DO I. TELL YOU WHAT. LAST LONGER THAN THE FIRST TRIAL, AND I'LL GIVE YOU A GIFT—A LEG UP. A BOOST. A LITTLE PAT ON THE BACK. Click. I'M GOING TO GO AWAY FOR A WHILE, GEORGE. SEE YOU SOON.

"Wait—what?" Click. Click. Click. Click. No new text appeared. George had asked how he got here, and whoever was behind the text had said, "AND WHY CAN'T YOU REMEMBER IT?" He remembered the white room. And the button. But before that, there was only a blank, cut-off feeling. He knew there had been a before, but there was nothing there now. Just the room. And the button. He squeezed the button between his fingers and listened to it click. Then he did it again and kept doing it. A new notification appeared.

New Milestone Achievement: You've reached 100. Bonus unlocked: Click counter. George slowly shook his head, but this message stayed squarely in the center of his vision just like the other messages. After a moment, the message shrank down to the corner of his vision and slowly faded from view. The counter appeared again when he flicked his eyes to the corner of his vision, then faded again. With each click, the number on the click counter increased by one. 101 102 He kept pressing the button.

New Milestone Achievement: You've reached 500. Bonus unlocked: +1 skill point.

"What is a skill point?" George said to the ceiling. Click. No mysterious explainer text appeared, so he kept clicking. He watched the counter rise until it was in the high 900s. 998 999 New Achievement: Level Two +1 Gold +1 Skill Point Would you like access to the store? Yes or No? George looked at the ceiling again.

"Your game sucks." The notification about the level up and the store faded.

"Wait! Yes! I want to access the store. Come back." But it was gone. George set the button on the ground in front of him and started tapping it again. He tried to go faster but his hands started to get tired. He alternated tapping it with either hand and settled into a steady rhythm. In another few minutes, he got another achievement. New Achievement: Level Three +1 Gold +1 Skill Point Would you like access to the store? Yes or No?

George noticed that it had only taken 1, 000 clicks to get to level one but 1, 500 more to get to level two. He guessed that level four would unlock after another 2, 000 clicks. He didn't voice any of these thoughts though. He only said, "Yes." Another bit of text appeared in front of him.

Store • Food Pellet—2 gold • Upgrade Cradle: Porthole—2 gold • Upgrade Button: Automatic Click—2 gold • Upgrade User Interface: Continuous Store Access—4 gold • Random Memory—2 gold • More Options—5 gold Would you like to buy anything in the store? Yes or No? A food pellet? George thought. The other options were more mysterious. Did the one about the cradle mean he could get a window? Some way to automatically click the button seemed smart if this game was going to be about clicking.

But one option stood out from the rest. The more he looked at the list, the more he realized that he wasn't going to choose anything else. He said, "Random memory." Purchased. Random memory. A moment later, a memory began to appear. It was as clear in his mind as if he were in the middle of it again. He was looking down at a boy lying on a couch. The boy had a striped shirt on and had pulled a large quilt up to his armpits. The quilt was blue and white. The boy's hair was blonde and needed a trim.

The boy had a line of stitches on a long cut on his cheek just beneath one eye, but George couldn't remember what had happened to him. There was light coming in from the window. It was a nice day outside, and the window was cracked because sometimes birds came to the bird feeder on the porch. They were learning the names of the birds. The boy was looking past George at a TV. There was an empty bowl on the floor near the couch. Knowledge came along with the memory.

George knew they were in his home, but he couldn't remember where it was. He knew the boy was sick, but it wasn't serious. He knew the boy didn't always get to watch TV and that this was a special occasion. There was another person nearby. The boy's mother? He felt that might be true, but any other details were beyond the edges of the memory. And George knew the boy was his son, but he could not remember his name. Along with knowledge, came a rush of feelings. The first and sharpest was grief.

Like the boy, it had no name, yet it unfurled with such vastness inside of him that George's body clenched violently around itself. He felt his lungs stop expanding and contracting, and he could do nothing about it. A sense of longing followed on the heels of the grief. The longing was so strong that George wanted to rush down into the memory of the blonde boy on the couch to inhabit it forever. The feeling had its own irresistible gravity, and the boy lay at its center.

All George wanted to do was fall toward him and take him in his arms and be his father again. But George didn't go sliding into the memory. He remained where he was in the blank white room shaped like an egg. Someone outside the frame of the memory said, "George, you forgot—" But the memory was suddenly cut off before the question finished.

"My son." George covered his face and sobbed into his hands, but he couldn't say why. George had fallen forward and was lying on his stomach, breathing heavily. He rolled over onto his back and felt the button beneath him. He took it out and looked at it.

"What was that?" Click. THAT WAS A MEMORY, GEORGE. BY THE LOOKS OF IT, A DOOZY.

"Are you God? An AI? Or an alien? Or am I crazy?" Click. WELL! LOOK AT YOU, GEORGE. I THINK THAT MEMORY MIGHT HAVE RATTLED SOMETHING LOOSE. I WONDER WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF YOU BUY THAT ONE AGAIN?

"Answer me," George said. Click. BUT THEN AGAIN…MEMORIES WON'T FEED YOU. Click. FOOD PELLETS WILL THOUGH. Click. SORT OF. Click. BYE, GEORGE. Click. Click. Click. George lay on the ground for a while. Then he wiped his face and sat up. He crossed his legs and stretched. He set the button on the ground in front of him and started tapping out a steady rhythm on the button and watched the click counter rise. 2, 501 2, 502 2, 503