"I entered a world, everyone is me"
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Evan Walker's career died in twelve point-five seconds. That was the exact time it took for the holographic display shimmering above his minimalist desk to bleed from PRISM OS's hopeful emerald to a stark, final termination red.
MICROAPPLE INTERNAL NOTICEYou have been selected for strategic decoupling.Building access will expire in twenty minutes.Thank you for your contributions—Think Forward.™
"Strategic decoupling." The corporate euphemism landed with the gentle thud of a guillotine blade. Evan just stared, his thumb hovering over the glowing "ACKNOWLEDGE" button. Around him, the usually vibrant open-plan office had devolved into a hushed symphony of worried mutters and the frantic clicking of keys, like bees discovering their queen was an algorithm. He'd seen this coming, of course. The AI he'd helped train was just too damn efficient.
A decade ago, this would have been a five-alarm panic. But that was Pre-Bitcoin Evan, the Evan who hadn't sold fifty BTC for nine hundred dollars apiece to buy a beat-up Mazda that now leaked oil in two distinct, depressing colors. Post-Regret Evan, the one who understood the universe had a dark, comedic timing, found this latest disaster almost… perfunctory. Expected, even.
He packed with a quiet efficiency that felt alien even to him: a ceramic mug proclaiming GITHUB IS MY GYM (it wasn't), a signed concept art poster for "Aetherium Glitch," the indie roguelike he'd poured three years into before realizing publishers wanted trends, not his brand of passion. And last, a slightly faded Polaroid of him and Lin Rui, freshman year at CalTech. They were nose-to-nose under a string of paper lanterns, her smile so bright it felt like it could solve more than just quantum uncertainty. Rui had vanished back to China five years ago, right after her father became Beijing's chief trade negotiator. Her final text to him was an emoji string he still hadn't cracked: 🚀💼🔒.
He slid the photo between his battered laptop lid and the poster scroll. Paper memories, at least, were low-overhead.
Boston's March wind, sharp as a shard of glass, bit into him as he trudged across the sprawling MicroApple courtyard. His phone, a company-issued model he'd soon have to return, buzzed incessantly with sympathy pings. He swiped them away until one name stopped his thumb mid-flick:
Rui (Work): Saw the news. You okay? – Sent 4m ago.
He stared at the screen, fingers inert. What could he possibly type? Hey, congrats on your father's latest geopolitical masterstroke that incidentally tanked my remaining MicroApple stock options. Also, I'm now officially a tech pariah, thanks for asking. He pocketed the phone with a sigh.
Across the street, a colossal digital billboard cycled through MicroApple's "Boundless Futures" campaign. His own gaunt reflection momentarily overlaid the image of a diverse group of smiling innovators gazing at a utopian cityscape. A ghost in their shiny, billion-dollar machine. He turned away, a bitter taste in his mouth.
The subway ride home to his cramped apartment was a blur of humanity, each passenger cocooned in their own augmented reality overlays. Evan tried to focus on the flickering train-map in his vision, but the lines kept wavering, the station names blurring. At Park Street, the doors hissed open. Someone shoved past him, their shoulder bag catching his arm. The train-map didn't just glitch; it shattered into a cascade of raw, unfamiliar code.
This wasn't one of his apps. No third-party software should be able to hijack the core OS feed. He ripped off his AR glasses, heart hammering. The glowing green symbols kept scrolling in mid-air, untethered to any lens, pulsing brighter, faster. Around him, passengers cried out, shielding their eyes as the familiar tiled walls of the station dissolved into an unbearable, all-consuming light. Then, silence. Emptiness.
Respawn initiated… or something equally unhelpful, a thought flickered.
A voice, impossibly deep yet clear as a bell, echoed in the void that was now his perception. It sounded like a mainframe had achieved sentience and decided to join a celestial choir – grand, but also unnervingly sterile. Evan tried to speak, to move, to feel his own limbs, but there was nothing. Just awareness, adrift and utterly powerless.
Calibration complete. Welcome to Forkworld, Evan Walker. You are designated the TERTIARY TEMPLATE of your current fork-set. Primary Objective: Acquire four (4) Life Essences from designated Guardian Variants. Reach the Synapse Forge. Determine Final Outcome.
Only four now? System must be streamlining, he thought, a detached part of his brain noting the change from some residual memory of the System's initial spiel. "Great," he tried to articulate, though he had no mouth. "Another Silicon Valley disruptor looking for unpaid beta testers to validate their god-complex."
Applying initial regret stack… Please hold.
An explosion of memory detonated behind his non-existent eyes. The sickening lurch in his stomach as he'd hit 'confirm' on that Bitcoin sale. The forced smile as his MicroApple manager had explained, with plastic sympathy, that the AI he'd helped train was now his superior. Rui, waving goodbye from the international terminal at Logan, her expression a carefully constructed wall he could never scale. Each regret, a distinct brand of acid, burned through his consciousness, cooled, then settled into an immense, crushing weight in his non-existent chest.
Level 0 achieved. Class Assignment: Null Runner. Unique Skill Unlocked—Regret Scan (Passive: Identifies divergent choice-paths and emotional resonance in Forked Variants).
Light, sharp and absolute, slammed back into existence. Evan gasped, drawing a real breath into real lungs. He stood on a sleek, obsidian glass balcony, cantilevered precariously over a dizzying canyon of skyscrapers. Each tower was a riot of architectural styles that made no sense together, as if a thousand different city planners had gotten drunk and dumped their entire SimCity menu onto one unfortunate server. Blazing neon banners, kilometers high, screamed district names into the perpetual twilight:
CRYPTO DOMINION IVORY ARCADIA MICROAPPLE PRIME START-UP METROPOLIS
A final, distant banner flickered erratically, its font corrupted and barely legible:
D_E_P_T_H_S O_F _R_E_G_R_E_T.
"Figured," Evan muttered, his voice raspy but blessedly his own again. "Always a final boss level themed around existential angst."
A soft, almost inaudible footstep landed behind him.
"Hello, rookie."
Evan turned. The man standing there wore Evan's face—or rather, a version of it that had been sandblasted of all doubt, polished to a boardroom sheen, and probably cost more in daily maintenance than Evan earned in a month. He was immaculate in a charcoal bespoke suit, his lapel adorned with a tiny, platinum apple with a single, diamond bite mark. "I'm Atlas Walker," the man said, his voice smooth and confident, the kind that closed multi-billion-dollar deals. "Guardian of MicroApple Prime. Our system flagged you for unauthorized entry into a restricted operational zone."
Atlas extended a perfectly manicured hand. The limited-edition 'Innovation Imperative' set. Evan had waited in a virtual queue for six hours for those, back when he still believed in MicroApple, only to balk at the price tag when his promised raise had evaporated into the corporate ether.
He didn't shake the offered hand. "How many of us are there?" he asked, the question feeling ridiculously small against the backdrop of the impossible city.
"Four officially sanctioned Guardians," Atlas replied, his smile never quite reaching his eyes. Those eyes, Evan noted with a jolt, held a flicker of something ancient and weary beneath the corporate gloss. "Plus the Shadow, of course, though he's more of a… persistent system error. Only one Template may access the Forge and initiate a Root Timeline Reconciliation. Company policy: outperform, or be absorbed."
Evan's vision shimmered. A translucent glyph, like a spectral nameplate, materialized above Atlas Walker: [Atlas Walker – Level 22 Corporate Strategist – Guardian of MicroApple Prime]
His own status hovered in the periphery of his sight, fainter, almost apologetic: [Evan Walker – Level 0 Null Runner – Tertiary Template]
Atlas's smile widened, just a fraction, but it was predatory. "First-day orientation tip, brother: leverage your regrets, they're your primary resource here. But don't let them consume you. Forkworld has an… appetite for self-pity. It's a slower death than arrogance, but just as certain." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried the weight of command. "We all want out, Evan. Every last one of us. The real question is: what are you willing to become to be the one who finally leaves?"
With an almost casual grace, Atlas Walker stepped backward, not off the balcony, but through its railing as if it were smoke. He resolved into a streak of executive gray light that then funneled into a sleek, silent hover-lift, which detached from the skyscraper's side and began its descent.
Evan exhaled, a shaky breath that twinned awe with raw terror. His base model HUD flickered with new information:
[Quest Unlocked: MicroApple Merger or Hostile Takeover][Objective: Acquire Life Essence (Atlas Walker)][Reward: ???, Memory Integration (Atlas)]
[Side Quest Discovered: Locate Regret Beacon – Crypto Dominion][Hint: Follow the residual echo of the first major fork. Listen for the hum of a billion wasted opportunities.]
The city-canyon roared beneath him, a symphony of a million possible selves. He leaned over the railing, peering down at the distant streets. And then the true, stomach-churning scale of it hit him. It wasn't just Atlas. Down there, moving like ants, were figures.
He felt his knees go weak. "Level 0," he whispered, a fresh wave of nausea washing over him. "You've got to be kidding me."
He instinctively looked for a logout button on his HUD. There wasn't one.
But on street, EVERY Men Has the SAME FACE. Hundreds. Thousands. All of them looked like him, only slightly different. He can see them with their name, and a time and a hash number appear next to their name. Every single man on those streets, in those vehicles, disappearing into those impossible buildings, had his face, his build. His DNA. It was a world of Evan Walkers. An entire planet of him.
A spark of defiance, small but stubborn, kindled in the pit of his stomach. "Fine," he said to the biting wind. "Let's patch the worst damn commit of my entire life."
Level 0.