Hard Exit

Rayne

Rayne heard the crack of muskets firing before she saw the soldiers.

She ducked behind the oak wagon wheel, her fingers still wrapped around the rope attached to the cannon. Frost bit through her woolen gloves. The predawn air carried voices—British voices—across Colonel Barrett’s farm.

“They’re early,” she muttered, calculating rapidly. The Regulars weren’t supposed to arrive for another twenty minutes. Either her timing was off, or something had changed in the Game parameters.

She peered through the spokes. Redcoats materialized through the morning mist, their brass buttons catching the first gray light. Eight soldiers, maybe ten. More than expected.

Perfect. She loved a challenge.

“Goodwife!” Rayne called out to the woman standing at the barn door. “Alert the others. The Regulars are coming!”

The woman dropped her lantern, hiked her skirts, and sprinted toward the farmhouse. Exactly as programmed. The lamp fell with a thud. A lick of flame sputtered under the glass, touched the cold earth, and hissed into smoke.

Rayne allowed herself a moment of pride. Her historical accuracy algorithms were flawless—each aspect responding with period-appropriate urgency.

Her Game-father appeared beside her, face grim beneath his tricorn hat. “The cannon’s too exposed. We must move it now.”

“No time,” Rayne countered, making a quick decision. “They’ll see us dragging it. We need to hide the gunpowder first.”

She abandoned the cannon and raced toward the barn, mentally mapping the farm’s layout. Colonel Barrett’s property had been a crucial storage site for rebel munitions—a detail the Seers had suggested she streamline. She’d refused. Historical precision mattered, especially in the final Game of her American Revolution series.

Cas would appreciate that choice. He’d helped her test the Lexington scenario last week, pointing out anachronisms she’d missed. “Details matter,” he’d told her. “That’s why your Games are so good.”

The barn door creaked as she slipped inside. The air smelled of hay and manure, tinged with the metallic scent of gunpowder. Barrels lined the wall—enough to supply the local militia for months. Outside, a British officer barked commands, his voice carrying across the farmyard.

Rayne scanned the arsenal, assessing. “The black powder first,” she whispered, pointing to the smaller kegs. “Then musket balls. Flints last if we have time.”

Her Game-father was already prying up the false floorboards in the corner. Rayne grabbed the nearest powder keg and heaved. The barrel was heavier than she expected. She staggered, regained her balance, and rolled it toward the hiding spot.

“Hurry!” Her Game-father lowered the first barrel into the hidden cache. “They’re searching the main house!”

Through the barn’s thick walls came the sound of furniture scraping across floors, doors slamming. A woman’s protest—Goodwife Barrett, defending her home against the King’s men.

Sweat beaded on Rayne’s forehead, despite the cold. Her muscles strained as she and her Game-father worked together, rolling barrel after barrel across the rough-hewn planks.

This was the challenge she’d built—could players successfully hide the supplies before the British found them? So far, she was failing her own test.

“The barn!” The officer’s voice carried clearly now. “Check the outbuildings!”

Rayne locked eyes with her Game-father. One barrel remained—the largest, positioned awkwardly behind a hay baler. She lunged for it, dragging it forward with desperate strength.

“You should leave it!” Her Game-father was already lowering a floorboard into place, kicking hay over it.

“We finish this.” Rayne’s fingers whitened around the barrel’s edge. She’d designed this challenge to be beatable—barely—and she refused to fail her own Game. If the Seers reviewed her playtest logs and saw she couldn’t complete it, they’d demand simplifications. More handholding. Less historical accuracy.

The barrel tipped as she pulled, nearly escaping her grasp. Her Game-father caught it, muscles straining beneath his blue woolen coat. Together, they rolled it across the barn floor.

Boots on the path outside. Voices. The metallic slide of bayonets being fixed.

She shoved the barrel into the hidden compartment with more force than necessary. The wood scraped against her palm, and a splinter lodged itself deep into her thumb.

“Gods.” She yanked off her glove, jammed her thumb into her mouth. She used her teeth to tug at the splinter, her heart racing—not from pain, though there was plenty of that—but from the thrill of immersion.

This was what made her Games special. The stakes felt real.

The Seers would call this excessive. Enayat had criticized her Bunker Hill simulation for its “unnecessarily realistic battlefield conditions.” As if understanding history didn’t require stepping into its fire.

Rayne understood rebellion. At seventeen, she was the youngest Designer in the Atlantic Ark—a position she’d fought for against the Seers’ initial objections. They’d relented, but their oversight remained constant, stifling.

Boots crunched on the path outside. Too close.

“They’re here!” Her Game-father replaced the last floorboard and kicked hay over it with hurried movements.

Not enough time to conceal the cannon, musket balls, or flints. She’d have to improvise.

A plan formed instantly. If she couldn’t hide the evidence, she’d lead the soldiers away from it. The river path to the Old North Bridge would give her the best chance. From there, she could trigger the militia response sequence—the crescendo of her Game.

“Go to the woods,” she ordered her Game-father. She flexed her fingers, the splinter gone. “I’ll draw them off.”

Her Game-father hesitated—an unexpected response. She’d programmed basic self-preservation, not loyalty. Interesting. Something to analyze later.

“Take this.” He pressed a folded piece of parchment into her palm before disappearing through the back door.

Rayne unfurled it, expecting to find the easter egg she’d coded—a poetry fragment that she hid in every Game. There it was, in shaky black ink:

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

She grinned. It was her tribute to her father’s obsession with poetry—a small way to keep him present in her work. She tucked the paper into her boot as the barn door crashed open.

British soldiers crowded the entrance, bayonets gleaming in the dim light.

“There! The rebel!” The officer’s voice carried the crisp accent of London aristocracy—another historical detail she’d insisted on preserving.

Rayne bolted for the rear door. This Game was behaving strangely—the soldiers arriving too early, her Game-father showing unexpected autonomy. She should make a clean exit, report the anomalies to the Seers.

But curiosity burned stronger than caution. This was her Game. She wanted to see where these variations led.

She burst into the open air, legs pumping as she sprinted to the tree line. Musket fire erupted behind her. The shots went wild, sending blue jays screaming into the sky. She ducked instinctively, fell to her hands and knees, then scrambled up again.

The hill sloped down toward the water. She veered toward the riverbank, then exploded into the brush, branches whipping at her face. The cold air stung her lungs. Her boots scraped over knobs of frozen hay and fallen leaves.

The bridge. She must get to the bridge.

She slowed, weaving through the bare trees. The river was running high—a good sign. It was the fastest way to reach the Old North Bridge. Crouching, she breathed in the scent of pine needles and a thousand years of loam. Her left knee was bleeding where she’d fallen.

More shots whizzed by, closer than expected. How had they tracked her so quickly? She pulled the poetry fragment from her boot, knowing she’d want to keep this small tribute in the public Game. She held the paper in her fist, then scrambled to the water.

The river’s currents rushed between frosted banks. If she could reach the Old North Bridge, the Game sequence might still be salvageable. She’d complete her revolutionary trilogy on her terms.

She took a deep breath and plunged in.

The cold closed around her, the shock of it making her gasp. Her skin tingled as she half-crawled, half-swam to the middle of the river and waited for it to take hold.

There. The river had her now. She turned awkwardly onto her back, overcoat twisting around her, and angled her face to the sky.

Then she saw them.

The soldiers appeared on the riverbank, jostling and tripping over each other. They moved with strange, jerky motions—not the usual fluid animations of her aspects. One pointed at her floating form, his arm moving almost mechanically.

Water lapped at her ears. The river’s icy current pulled her along, cold seeping through her woolen clothes. The soldiers observed her silently now, their red coats vivid against the gray morning light.

Why weren’t they shooting? Why were they just... watching?

She tipped her chin, catching her breath. The river would take her to the bridge. She unfurled her fist and released the paper note into the water. Please find me later. She hoped it would be there, bobbing and swirling, the next time she played.

When she glanced up, the soldiers had disappeared from the bank.

That wasn’t right. British soldiers wouldn’t abandon pursuit of a known rebel. She’d programmed them to be relentless, historically accurate in their determination.

Something brushed against her ankle.

She kicked reflexively, twisting in the water. Nothing visible beneath the dark surface. Must have been a branch or—

Hands grabbed her from underneath the water.

Wait. How is this possible—

She kicked again, hard. Arms encircled her waist, dragging her under while she thrashed. She wriggled her head clear for a moment and gulped for air. Through the splashing water, she glimpsed a red coat, somehow beneath her in the river.

They followed me into the water? They can’t do that!

Numbness crept through her limbs and darkness swam at the edge of her vision. She pressed her arms against her chest and clenched the wet fabric of her coat. Drawing in a deep breath, she put her head to her knees underwater. It took all her effort to sink, but she forced herself to stay limp. It would be harder for them if she became dead weight.

If Cas is playing a joke on me, I will personally cut off his—

There were too many of them. They pulled her to the surface, forcing her chin above water and her arms behind her back. She took a gulp of air. Blood-red coats swirled about her in the black water.

“She’s alive!” one soldier shouted, his voice oddly distorted, as if speaking through water even though his head was above the surface.

Rayne turned toward the sound. It wasn’t a voice she recognized. Through her dripping hair, she tried to see his face. His features blurred and shifted like a poorly rendered image.

More hands grabbed her. Rayne twisted but couldn’t break free. This is not supposed to happen.

A blow to the back of her head sent a jolt of pain up the side of her neck. Not a deliberate strike—more like someone misjudging distance, bumping her too forcefully.

From behind, a heavy hand pushed her face back into the water. Held it there. Then pulled her up again. Pushed her down. Pulled her up. The pattern was mechanical. Like a system running through possible interactions, testing responses.

Who would sabotage my Game like this?

The Seers wouldn’t—they’d just order her to make changes. Vic might play pranks, but nothing this elaborate. Cas respected her work too much to interfere.

She clamped her mouth shut and tried not to inhale as they pushed her under again. It was almost unbearable. The soldiers held her in a rigid embrace. Water seeped down her throat, slick and fiery. She bit down until her teeth ground against each other.

One soldier’s face appeared inches from hers underwater. His eyes opened impossibly wide, mouth forming words with no sound. His hand reached toward her face. Determined to make contact.

The water darkened around her. Panic exploded in her chest, followed by a flash of rage.

Her Game. Her code. Someone had broken her Game’s architecture, twisted her brilliant design into this impossible scenario.

It felt like drowning in her own creation—dragged under by something she didn’t build and couldn’t control.

Her vision tunneled to pinpricks of light. No more time to analyze. No more time for anything.

The world warped—sound shattered, color collapsed.

Just before she blacked out, she made a hard exit.

Look Inside: Chapter One

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