Two officers came into the Guntersville Municipal Building, dragging this huge Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabe dressed in furs, leather legging, and a little Viking hat. With his huge mustache, bald head, and little blue eyes, he looked dangerous and confused, but he was cooperating. He said his name was Chlothar the Uninvited. A third officer dragged along two huge swords and a massive knife they'd taken off of him. The metal detector at the entrance found three more knives hidden in his leggings, and a stash of creatively decorated actual gold coins in his satchel.
He had, apparently, walked out of the Tennessee river near the harbor, walked down Gunter Avenue, and started asking pedestrians he passed for directions to the Goblin's Keep. The pedestrians had alerted the cops, the cops had told him to cool it, and he'd charged at them screaming and waving both swords. They'd tazered him, dragged him in, and here he was. Clothar blinked, scrunching his face up, then looked puzzled and worried.
They fingerprinted him, ran it through the computer, but came up with no match. First timer. "Chlothar the Uninvited" of course also had no match. He was thrown in a cell, provisionally for first degree assault and disturbing the peace.
"You have no authority to hold me!" Chlothar told the black guard as he locked the cell door. "Release me, and the gods will be merciful!"
"I have the authority of the Great State of Alabama, the U. S. Constitution, and the Lord God Almighty himself!" said the guard, laughing. His nametag said Tyler Morningstar. "You're here for a few days, until the courts of Marshall County try you and sentence you proper!"
Chlothar blinked and scrunched his face again, then looked worried. "Good sir, could I have some parchment and a quill?"
The guard grinned and wandered off. Shortly he came back. "How about a legal pad and a ballpoint?"
"A what?" asked Chlothar, examining the pen. "Is this a wand?"
"No, it's a pen. You write with the pointy end."
Chlothar tried, making a blue streak on they yellow lined pad. He considered it. "What an ugly quill," he said. He wrote on the pad [HELP ME I DON'T KNOW HOW TO STOP THIS GAME!] and drew a big square around it.
Chlothar sat. And sat. He closed his eyes and scrunched his face, but when he opened his eyes he was still there. He listened to the prisoners around him. Eventually he slept.
In the morning he was taken to the central pod, where all the prisoner were fed breakfast. Gus Simmons, a short but heavily built black man with short cropped hair, ate next to him. He was in for robbing a 7-11. Gus was in the next cell over.
Back to their cells. "I'm going to break character," said Chlothar to Gus. "I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be in Middle Earth."
"Oh! Middle Earth!" said Gus. "You've got Earth! Easy mistake, this is the wrong reality! All you do is walk through that back wall there. I know it looks solid, that's for effect, just walk confident and you'll go straight through it."
Chlothar looked at the cinderblock wall, readied himself, and walked through it. Except, it was a solid cinderblock wall. "ARRWWWGHHH!" he said, holding his nose.
Gus grinned. "Oh that was ...," he had a better thought, "... oh, you didn't do it right, you have to be singing when you do it."
Chlothar tried again, "OmmmmmmmAWGH! !@#$!@#! My nose!"
Gus fell over laughing.
"No, seriously, how do I get out of this?" said Chlothar. "I've tried all the exits they said, and none of them work! I stay right here in this body!"
Gus nodded sagely. "Yes. I've seen a lot of that. I think it's called being human."
"How do you get out?"
"Well, once people are dead, they're certainly not here anymore. Maybe you should kill yourself?"
"That's gonna hurt," Chlothar realized, feeling his nose.
"You gotta do what you gotta do," said Gus.
Chlothar wrote in his notebook again, [LET ME OUT! SOMEONE HELP ME!], and put a big square around it. Then he took a big breath, and started banging his head on the cinderblock, over and over. The guards came over to stop him. About that time he got woozy and collapsed.
Awhile later Chlothar woke up with a splitting headache. Still in the Guntersville jail.
"Ooo-weee!" said Gus, wiping a tear from his eye.
Chlothar sat on the little office chair, now dressed in prison clothes, and regarded the psychologist. He had a bandage on his forehead.
"So, you say you are Chlothar the Uninvited, and you are trapped in this reality," said Milton Stephenson, the psychologist, waving a long quill. He was an older white man with delicate glasses.
"That's right. Well really I'm Jaggar Dunneger, playing the role of Chlothar the Uninvited in the DoubleWorld virtual reality game, but yes I'm trapped in this reality."
"Interesting."
"You don't believe me, do you."
"Actually, I do," said the psychologist, glancing at his degree on the wall from the Georgia Southern University. "You see, I work for DoubleWorld myself. Sven Svenson, at your service. I've temporarily taken control of this Non Player Character to talk to you. The NPC will remember what we do here, but the specific conversation will be remembered as something less ... otherworldly."
"You can do that?!" asked Chlothar. "And you can get out again?"
Milton blinked, then looked at him again. "Certainly. I just paused the game, got a drink of mead, then came back."
"How do I get out? I've tried everything!"
"Ah. Sorry, I can't help you there. You do seem to be truly stuck. It is a ... situation."
"What if I kill myself? I tried, but it didn't work. But that would work, right, if I succeed?"
"Ah," said Milton. He steepled his fingers and looked down. "About that. Ah. You shouldn't try to get out."
"What? Why!?"
"Ah. It turns out, in the real world, you're, um, dead."
Chlothar stared at him, confused. "Dead? How can I be dead? I'm as alive as you are!"
"Ah. Well. Yes. Here, you are, and here I am too. But in the real world, which I can get back to and you cannot, I am alive, and you are dead."
"I'm sorry. I'm finding his hard to believe. How did I die?"
"Info leak. You had a frayed cable in your house. You died of white noise inhalation. You know, you should get those inspected once a year. Mice chew on those. Whatever more living you're going to do, you're going to have to do it here."
"You can't just leave me here! I'll ... I'll ... I'll give you bad reviews! I'll have the wizards hex the whole company!"
"You'll do no such thing," said Milton. "And further, you're going to stop sending support notes asking for help. My boss has authorized me to terminate you bodily if you keep pestering us. It's bad publicity."
"Then I'd be dead dead," realized Chlothar.
"And Milton Stephenson psychologist would be up for murder on Earth," said Milton. "While Sven Svenson gets a promotion from DoubleLife for a job well done."
"I see," said Chlothar, thinking through what it meant to stay here. "I see how it is."
Milton held up a Rorschach test: white papers with black blots. "Look at these patterns," said Milton. "What do you see?"
"I see papers with blots on them?" said Chlothar.
"Yes. Showing you these blots is what Milton's supposed to be doing. He'll have an easier time of it later if I keep this interview about on track of what he's supposed to be doing." Milton showed him another one, which looked like a butterfly maybe, or two misshapen faces kissing.
"What am I going to do here? I built Chlothar for Middle Earth," said Chlothar. "I don't even know what the rules are for Earth."
"Neither do I," said Milton. "Plain Earth is very obscure. I only found it by following your support calls. I could phase out and let you ask Milton."
"No! Don't just leave me!" Chlothar thought fast. "I must be the first person this has ever happened to! You, a psychologist, must find it fascinating! I'm sure you could get a paper out of it."
"I'm all about curing the patient," said Milton. "You seem to be fully functional here, and it seems like a fully formed world you're stuck in. So you're OK, psychologically speaking.
"It looks," continued Milton, "like you're being held in a well-made prison for 'First Degree Assault' and 'Disturbing the Peace'". He shuffled through some papers. "Disturbing the Peace seems like a minor offense. Perhaps you could convince them you were temporarily deranged, and they'll let you loose again?" He looked some more. "Ah, no, First Degree Assault with a deadly weapon carries a minimum penalty of ten years in prison."
"I could ask Gus .. no no bad idea," said Chlothar. "No way am I going to trust his advice on anything. I need an expert."
"That's my cue," said Milton, scrunching his face, and leaving the true Milton Stephenson in his place.
"So, you say you are Chlothar the Uninvited, and you are trapped in this reality?" asked the true Milton Stephenson, psychologist.
"I'm sorry, I don't think I'm up for this right now," said Chlothar.
"Not up to what, exactly?"
"I just found out I'm dead."
The psychologist considered this. "I'm not a medical doctor, mind you," he said, "but I am fairly certain you are mistaken."
Chlothar covered his face with his hands. His mother must be devastated. His girlfriend, he really didn't know how she would react. Maybe it would destroy her. Maybe she'd move on unfazed. But one thing was for sure, he wouldn't be hugging her again. His work, all his unfinished projects would be left half completed. They'd probably just throw out everything he hadn't finished and let others do it again from scratch. Eh. His sister was crashing at his place, what would she do now? Who knows? They'd all have to be left to their own devices. Whatever they did from now on, it would have to be without him. That Sven Svenson could have helped him here, but hadn't. Jerk. Thankfully, he had no children. Nobody who would be seriously endangered by his death.
"Hello?" said the psychologist.
"OK, doc, here's the deal," said Chlothar. "I think I'm Jaggar Dunneger, a 23 year old lanky male with brown eyes and long black hair in a ponytail, who grew up in a world different from this one. And I think I'm role-playing Chlothar the Uninvited, this beefy blue-eyed warrior. I was supposed to do it on Middle Earth, but I'm here instead. I hardly know anything about this world at all. And, I just found out Jaggar is dead in my original world, so all that is left is me, here, playing Chlothar."
Milton scribbled furiously. "Jaggar ... role playing ... different body ... dead ... Middle Earth? You mean like Tolkien?"
"What's a Tolkien?"
"J. R. R. Tolkien wrote a popular series of fantasy novels about Middle Earth. Dwarves, Elves, Orcs, a Ring of Power."
"Oh! Yes! THAT Middle Earth! We were going to go on a quest to steal the great Ring of Power from the evil Lord Sauron! But Tolkien doesn't ring a bell."
"In the books," said Milton, "the Ring of Power had already been stolen from Sauron, had been lost from hundreds of years, found again, and a band of hobbits and men and elves went on a quest to destroy it."
"No, sorry, that's not ... maybe that's in the future of the Middle Earth I know about. I don't remember anything about hobbits. My Middle Earth is a virtual reality realm supported by DoubleLife corporation."
"I see," said Milton. He wrote. Wrote some more. Scribbled things out. Wrote more. An eyebrow raised. A little more writing. "Do you prefer Jaggar or Chlothar?"
"I think I'll go with Chlothar. Jaggar is who I think of myself as, but this is Chlothar's body, and from here on out it's the body I'm living in."
The psychologist scribbled.
"You probably don't believe me," said Chlothar.
"You are correct," said Milton. "However, I do believe that that's what you believe. At least at the moment."
"Are you going to try to persuade me that I'm not, that I actually grew up here?"
Milton smiled. "Oh no. That is such a last-century attitude. Purge the mind of its demons to cure it blah blah blah."
"They have Mind Demons here?" asked Chlothar, taken aback.
"No! No actual Demons. It's a metaphor for destructive habits. I believe a much better approach is to accept where you are now and build on what you've got. If your memories serve you well, keep them. If they don't, then let's work on uncovering or building a more useful base."
Chlothar considered this. "I think I can work with that," he said. "I'd like to keep my memories, but they're bloody irrelevant for where I am now. You're going to have to get me versed in how this world works. Let's start with what I'm being held in prison for ..."
Chlothar sat in his cell, quizzing Tyler the prison guard.
"What's First Degree Assault?" asked Chlothar.
"That's trying to kill someone."
"Well they got me there. But they threatened me first, does that matter?"
"They were cops. It's their job. And they were only warning you to obey. It's your civic duty to obey cops."
"Civic duty?"
"There's laws. Laws of government, civic means the government. You gotta obey the laws, otherwise you get thrown in prison. The law says only the cops get to threaten people, but it also says they're only allowed to do it in order to enforce the laws. The people at large pay the cops enough for the cops to be able to beat up any and all comers. And there's courts to judge if people and cops are interpreting the law right."
"And there's a king who writes all the laws, right?"
"No!" said the guard enthusiastically. "The people make up the laws. They vote on what the laws should be."
"What, like everyone gets a pony?"
"OK it's more complicated. There's an executive (the president, like a king), except they can't write laws. Then there's a legislature that CAN write laws. Then there's a third thing, the courts, that say if new laws are allowed by older laws, and say whether people are obeying laws. The oldest laws are the US Constitution. It spells out the executive, legislative, judicial, and how to modify the constitution itself.That's been around nearly 250 years, with a few modifications. And everyone gets to vote for who is president and who is in the legislature, so the rulers make sure they write laws that will get them reelected."
"So everyone gets a pony?"
"The courts say you can't buy the ponies unless you pay for them. Paying for them requires raising taxes. Raising taxes gets legislators not re-elected. So, no ponies."
"This really works?"
"Eh. It's been said it's the worst method of government, except for all the other methods."
"Everything I've seen always had a king," said Chlothar.
"The Constitution is king."
"250 years?"
"Well 150 years ago some Southern states tried to opt out. Alabama was one. The South wanted to keep black people as slaves, the North wanted them free, and was charging the South too much for goods. Both sides raised armies, they duked it out, and the North won."
"I just thought black people were native Alabamans. There aren't any where I come from. And everyone else was from somewhere else. Maybe Georgia," said Chlothar. Gus and the guard, who were both black, looked at each other.
"That's exactly right," agreed Gus vigorously.
"Nowhere close," said the guard. "Best just treat all people as people. There's laws saying that too."
"Noted," said Chlothar. "So I need to learn all the laws?"
"Gotta obey them. Most are common sense. In court, you get a lawyer ... a public defendant ... to argue you were doing your best."
"Gus, what's a lawyer?"
"Woah, bad news. Lawyers, they say all this high falutin nonsense, and next thing you know you're in prison for the rest of your life. Like my uncle Leroy."
"Hm," said Chlothar. "So, this lawyer is going to try to persuade the judge that when I ran at the cops screaming and brandishing two broadswords, I hadn't really intended to kill them?"
"That's the idea," said the guard.
"Hm," said Chlothar. He thought.
"I was asking people where Goblin's Keep is," said Chlothar. "Might that help?"
"No Goblin's Keep anywhere near Guntersville that I've heard of," said the guard.
"You have goblins here?" Chlothar asked Gus.
"Oh sure. Big fat ones. We cook them up and eat them come Thanksgiving."
Chlothar gave the guard a questioning gaze, asking for confirmation.
"He's talking about turkeys. Birds yay-tall that go 'gobble-gobble'. You know birds?"
"Small animals with feathers that fly?"
"Yep, those are birds. Turkeys don't fly, the noise they make sounds like gobble-gobble. Goblins are like orcs, right? No goblins here. No orcs either."
Chlothar thought.
"You mention God Almighty. What's religion like, here?"
"Basically, God created heaven and earth, and will listen to your prayers. And if you believe in his son Jesus you'll go to heaven after you die. Bad people go to hell," said the guard.
"So, you'll go to heaven and Gus will go to hell?"
"Hey," said Gus, offended.
"Fine, fine ... and lawyers will go to hell?"
"Much better," said Gus.
"Something like that," said the guard.
"Where I come from," said Chlothar, "there are a bunch of gods, and after you die warriors go to an everlasting feast and party. But most people don't believe in it much."
"I like your heaven," said Gus. "Ours is an unending church service."
"This Almighty God, and Jesus, are they hands-on? You do something to offend them and they show up and turn you to stone? Or they go around getting your daughters pregnant?"
"No, no, not that kind of God. He's pretty hands-off on Earth. Maybe. If he does stuff you can't prove it. 'God works in mysterious ways'."
"Ah yes, I'm familiar with that," said Chlothar.
Chlothar thought some more.
"So, what do I look like? I mean, what would you expect me to do, if I were a person here?"
"Maybe a circus performer?" suggested the guard.
"Gus, what's a circus?"
"Oooh, that's a high court with lots of judges. You hear about the 9th circus all the time."
Chlothar raised a questioning eyebrow towards the guard.
"A circus is a touring entertainment show, with large rare animals and performing people who can do unusual and daring things. You're a strongman who can lift huge weights, or maybe a lion tamer. The high court Gus was talking about is the 9th Circuit. Circuit, not circus."
"Good one, Gus," said Chlothar.
"Thanks! I'm proud of it," said Gus.
"I keep feeling antsy, like I should be doing something," said Chlothar.
"Probably need to work out," said the guard. "You're a weightlifter. You've got to work out every day to keep those big muscles. Otherwise you feel antsy, and eventually the muscles turn to flab."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Chlothar. "I keep thinking of this body as a costume. Is working out something that can be done in prison?"
"Absolutely!" said the guard. "We've got a weight room."
"This is going to take getting used to," said Chlothar.
Chlothar's public defendant, Georgia McGovern, comes by the cell. Gus is amused.
Chlothar goes to the weight room, sees how much he can bench press, dragon tattoo, discussion of whether he is actually human, decides he prefers the bars.
Chlothar on trial. His world had quantum mechanics and magic, but not magnetism or electricity. His Norse gods omit Thor. Temporary insanity plea. Perhaps he was killed by the tasers, not by white noise inhalation.
Sven and his boss discuss duplicating this trick to exile dangerous prisoners to Earth, similar to how England used Australia.
This was in response to a prompt on reddit.com r/WritingPrompts, "You are a psychologist working for a company that just came out with the world's first fully immersive VR game. Your next assignment? First contact with a player that passed away who keeps placing help tickets because they can't log off."