Berrybend

By Dora Woodruff

What do you want to be? Dream big!

***

A dropdown menu appears on your screen. You scroll through a list of dazzling careers. Hard-hitting Journalist. Pioneering Astronaut. Groundbreaking Paleontologist (ha, you get it).

Your teenage dream was to be a writer (or some kind of vaguely defined ‘professor.’) So, you click on Hard-hitting Journalist, Visionary Author, and (why not? It’s just a game), Romantic Poet. They come with little icons: a newspaper scroll, an open book, and a dying flower.

When you click Confirm, the text dissolves into gold dust. Birdsong warbles from your speakers. Fresh greens and brilliant blues glow on your screen. Thatched cottages with brick chimneys, rows of pink tulips, berry bushes rippling in the breeze, all rendered in sparklingly clear detail. The color floods your fluorescently-lit apartment. How long has it been since you last saw green in real life?

“Greetings, [name]!” (Whoops. You’ll update your profile later). A white-whiskered man approaches your avatar. “I’m the town Mayor, but you can call me August. We’re pleased as punch that you’ve made the trek out to Berrybend. We may be a small town—” he pauses to wink “—but we’ve got big dreams.”

Three chat options appear on your screen. (A pop-up in the screen corner: Type your own responses at Level 15!) For now, you’re limited to:

Option 1: Yes, I had to escape modern city life!
Option 2: I have big dreams, too!

You click Option 1 without hesitating. Mayor August chuckles softly, placing his hand on your shoulder.
“I’ll bet, kid. I read all about modern city life in our local paper, The Berrybend Sunrise. The job market, housing crisis…” He sighs and adjusts his bowtie. “You’ve seen the last of that fiddle-faddle. Our little town believes in honest work, old-fashioned community, and of course, good food. Do you also believe in those values?”

Option 1: Of course!
Option 2: Not sure…

“Wonderful!” Mayor August’s eyes sparkle when you click Option 1. “Oh, and speaking of the Sunrise… I see you’re dreaming of a journalism career. Wowie — we sure need big dreamers like you! If you’ll just follow me to the Community Center, we’ll set you up with some Training Tasks.”

A gold star flashes in your screen corner: New Quests Unlocked, Inventory Updated. You’ve got a leather notebook and silver pen in your backpack.

“After that,” August continues, “I’ll show you to your new cottage. How does that sound, [name]?”

You click: Sounds fantastic. Thanks for the warm welcome!

***

At first, you limit yourself. You play for just two hours every evening. Berrybend even helps you moderate: after two hours, it encourages you to take an exercise break.
“Take a jog around your neighborhood! Healthy hearts mean happy lives,” a textbox suggests. “Wave to your neighbors as you pass by. Bring some Berrybend cheer into the real world!”

Berrybend doesn’t just hand you a small-town journalism career. No, no — you have to work for it. Your Training Tasks are simple and daily (miss a day, and your progress bar hemorrhages). Go on side quests to earn a bike and messenger bag. Deliver newspapers to doorsteps each dawn. The early risers greet you on their porches, waving and smiling. Chloe, a brunette NPC in denim overalls, is always among them. She waits for you on her front steps, home-made mug pressed between her palms, eager to invite you in for tea.

“Least I can do,” she says, turning on the kettle, “to support Berrybend’s busiest woman.”

For the rest of the workday, there’s editing and typing tests and a smattering of side quests. When the newspaper photographer catches the flu, you take a camera to the town waterfall and fill in. When an editor needs help coming up with titles, you play a minigame.

In the evenings, you work on relationship stats, bringing meals to neighbors, wrapping gifts, remembering birthdays. You start inviting Chloe over. At first, you notice how much she resembles your high school best friend. The same quick, light laugh, the same favorite scarf, the same nail-biting habit… eventually, though, she feels natural.

Your daily time ticks up to three hours, then six. Your XP climbs. You become a full staff writer at the Sunrise, celebrate your first Christmas, get your first promotion. In the real world, you delete your last dating app, ghost your parents, and eventually stop brushing your teeth.

***

“Jeez. How many screens do you have open?”

One desk over, your coworker is shaking their head. You pause Berrybend and count.

“Just three.”

On your desktop: the call center interface, where, for ten hours a day, customers swear at you. On your phone: your ex-friend’s Instagram. She’s recently engaged. And on your laptop: Berrybend. You’re spending a summer afternoon picking strawberries with Chloe. Later, you’ll enjoy an iced tea on her porch, maybe go cloud-watching, before getting back to your quests.

“‘Just three,’” your coworker imitates.

You snap back to reality. The dull grey of the call center, the blinking cursors, the fluorescent vending machines. It’s only 11:04.

“You’ve got a message,” your coworker says, pointing to your screen. “Been there three minutes.”

“Shoot.” You hastily open the chat.

This item was two times smaller than advertised. I want a refund.

Anybody there?

I need a refund.

Hello??

“My sincerest apologies,” you type. The screen is too bright. Your breath stinks of cool ranch chips, your tongue is dry. The water fountain’s still out of order. You slap yourself and keep typing. “Could you please send more details about your purchase?”

I did. Are you a bot?

You don’t sound human. I want a human.

Your training covered this exact question. But you don’t remember what you’re supposed to say, so you write:
“I’ll stab your guts. See? A bot wouldn’t be allowed to say that. I’m human.”

The customer exits the chat, leaving you a one-star review. Shrugging, you unpause Berrybend and reach for your headphones. The breezy summer music sets you at ease, until your coworker taps your shoulder.

“Dude. You’re gonna get fired.”

“Am I?” you say sourly. “This job is ass. Big deal.”

“Yeah. It is a deal. How are you gonna finance your little addiction without a job?”

“Don’t have to,” you respond smugly. “Berrybend is free.”

“Uh-huh. So they shove ads in your face every three seconds?”

“Nope.”

“They sell your data, then.”

“Maybe. Doesn’t affect me.”

“If you aren’t paying for the product, you are the product,” your coworker quotes.

“Whatever.”

“You’ll get to level 30, and they’ll slap you with ‘pay 7.99 to advance to level 31.’”

“I’m on level 51.”

They shrug and return to their screen. What they don’t understand is that Berrybend isn’t some mind-numbing time-waster. It’s healthy. You’re a functioning adult in Berrybend. You sweep your cottage nightly, make your bed, garden on Sundays, and give your best tomatoes to your neighbors like the generous community member you are. Your relationship stats are thriving. It’s practice for the real-world adult you’ll become. Training wheels.

“It’s not just a game,” you say.

“Huh?”

“My journalism career. It’s real. The game makes me write real articles. I get feedback, too.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious.” You open your inventory. “My mentor–”

“Your AI-generated NPC mentor?”

“My mentor said I’m far past the amateur level…”

“Let’s see these professional-grade articles, then.”

“You got it.”

On your achievements board, you’ve got twenty-one articles in The Berrybend Sunrise. That, and a few pieces that died after commission; Berrybend doesn’t just donate victories to you. You open your first published piece: a short report on the history of the town Council. There’s a sound of paper unfolding as the newspaper clipping fills the screen. Your coworker squints.

“Why’s it one paragraph long?”

“Two paragraphs.” You scroll down to the second paragraph, heat rising in your cheeks. “Sunrise readers value concision. It’s a town of busy farmers, and, y’know… people who actually make things. Nobody’s got time for flowery writing.”

“Someone get this lady a Pulitzer.”

Glaring, you open a new tab. “Look. One year ago, a Berrybend player — he also picked journalism — posted his whole article inventory. A real newspaper noticed and hired him.”

“First and last time that’ll happen. Bet Berrybend bribed the newspaper.”

You shoot them a withering look and put your headset on. You are a real journalist. You’ve got the awards — and the rejections — to show for it. You’re pitching your first weekly column to the editor soon. You’ve attended seminars at the Community Center. Your word counter shows seventeen thousand.

They poke you. “Word of advice. Grocery stores don’t accept XP.”

You ignore them. The life you’re building in Berrybend is worth more than your coworker’s real life.

***

Your phone buzzes an hour after you fall asleep. Rubbing your forehead, you squint at the notification:

New Berrybend Update.
Game Progress Deleting in 20 Minutes.

“No, no, no!” You jump up from your futon and run to your computer. “Stop!”

Your voice assistant responds: “An exciting new update for Berrybend is available. However, its software is incompatible with previous data. You can prevent game progress deletion by signing up for a one-year subscription to Berrybend Immersive.”

Your stomach lurches. “Download my in-game articles.”

“Unfortunately, the fundamental incompatibility between –”

“I wrote them. I own them.”

“I regretfully cannot –”

“Oh, shut up.” You type frantically and hit enter. No use. Seventeen minutes left.

It’s not just the articles. Chloe, Mayor August, and the other NPCs are randomly generated, one in a billion.
“How… how much is the update?”

Your ex-coworker’s voice is smug and sing-songy in your head: seven ninety-nine for level thirty-nine. Sell your privacy or turn to piracy. So what? For a one-year subscription, seven ninety-nine is reasonable. You spend more on your morning energy dri–

“Ten thousand USD.”

You’ve heard wrong. “Wha… no…”

“A one-year subscription to Berrybend Immersive is ten thousand dollars.”

Fifteen minutes.

“I… don’t have that,” you stammer. “I’ve got thirty-seven dollars in my bank account. And twelve cents. Plus a couple dust bunnies. Help a girl out.” Your voice pitches up frantically.

“Berrybend offers interest-free payment plans,” your voice assistant suggests. A document appears on your screen, written in tiny, spiky font. Fourteen minutes.

“I’m… I’m not paying ten grand for a videogame.”

“Berrybend Immersive is not a videogame,” it replies. “It’s a one-year, full-body experience. When you walk past Rosa’s bakery each morning, don’t you wish you could taste her blueberry creampuffs?”

“I don’t –”

“Smell the wildflowers in Grazing Meadows?”

“But –”

“Feel the heat from community bonfires?”

“I have to think –”

“Do you ever wish you could stay in Berrybend forever?”

Do you? What do you have out here? You’re newly unemployed. You have thirty-seven dollars. Your parents think you’re a failure.

“Berrybend Immersive comes with new features,” the assistant chatters. “New skill trees – including side quests in your secondary interests. Explore that poetry track! Plus, experience new town holidays and traditions. There’s a new Romance Package, and an optional, ambitious Storyline – defend your newspaper from the late-stage capitalist mega-corporation, The Urban Times.”

“Stop.” Eleven minutes. “What does Immersive mean? How the hell is it worth…” an idea occurs to you. “Can I earn real money by writing for –”

“Berrybend Immersive offers no ways to earn currency in-game,” the assistant asserts firmly. “But this update comes with additional services. Throughout your subscription, you will live fully within the world of Berrybend. Your physical body will be attended to by a skilled –”

“Wait. My… physical body?” Your cheeks warm with nausea. “Where… will I be?”

“Your physical body will be stored in an accredited cryogenic facility for the duration –”

“What about food?”

“Your bodily needs will be attended to by a skilled team. You will experience immersive in-game eating sensations.”

Your head spins as it rattles off a parade of five-star reviews.

“What if someone texts me? Can I text back?” You swallow. “My parents…”

“You may allow notifications,” it reassures you. “Texting contacts remains possible. For a minor fee, calls are also supported.”

Six minutes. Your friendship with Chloe is more than real (and did you hear right – with this update, it could become more than friendship? You’re embarrassed to ask). You’d have to pay ten thousand in rent anyway. Does it matter whether you’re paying your landlord or your favorite gaming company?

Four minutes.

“The payment plan, it’s…”

“Entirely interest-free.”

One detail is still needling you. Ten grand can’t cover the cost of cryogenically storing you – at least, in a healthy, safe way. What they’ll eventually demand is more than cash.

Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe cryogenic technology is cheap now. Not like you follow the latest research.

Two minutes.
“Fine.”

***

The Ink-Stained Bookshop is packed, but you’ve reserved a front-row seat. Trays of Rosa’s berry tartlets are passed around, and forever-young kindergarteners play hide-and-seek between the shelves. You chew on your pencil nervously.

“Nothing beats the smell of leather hardcovers,” Chloe gushes, sitting beside you. “They should bottle it. Make it a perfume.”

“I’d buy it for you,” you murmur. A text has appeared in the corner of your vision (either your parents or a scam). You wave your hand, swiping it away.

When acclaimed novelist Zany Wild walks in, the bookshop falls silent. Her skirt is long and brightly-colored; her hair is bright blue, flowing over her shoulders. Mayor August trots up to her, introduces himself, and guides her to the lectern.

“We’re so proud,” he says, eyes sparkling, “to have Ms. Wild here at the Ink-Stained. We don’t get a whole lot of bigtime celebrities here –” the crowd chuckles lightly “- but Ms. Wild, you have plenty of fans in this audience.”

You straighten when he looks your way. “And the Sunrise’s star will be covering tonight’s booktalk, so if you ever want to revisit –”

The world freezes. August’s mouth hangs open. Zany’s bright skirt stops rippling. On your right, Chloe stops breathing. Warmth saps out of the room. Even the smell of the bookshop pauses.

“Would you like to continue your Berrybend Immersive subscription for one more year?”

You sign the document that’s shoved in your face. You can’t bring yourself to check the price.

The world snaps back to life. Mayor August’s eyes are twinkling, Zany’s skirt is flowing, Chloe is smiling proudly at you and resting her hand on your wrist.

After the booktalk, you stand off to the side. A couple townspeople are still perusing the shelves or bashfully asking Zany for autographs. Chloe looks back at you questioningly.

“Meet you after,” you mouth.

Once the crowd around Zany dissipates, you tap her on the shoulder. She whirls around, powder-blue hair streaming.

“Can I help you?” she asks, in a clear, bell-like voice.

“I was wondering,” you start, “whether… writer to writer… you could give me some advice?”

Zany smiles wider. “I’m flattered. Ask away.”

You pause. You don’t want to sound ungrateful.

“I love working for the Sunrise. I’ve learned a lot and worked hard. I’ve been thinking about my future.”

Her expression glitches. A front tooth disappears from her mouth. You take a step back, but then she smiles normally.

“That’s only natural. You know, when I started writing, I was twenty-seven, a freelance blogger with a soulless day job. We all have to start somewhere! I think it’s fantastic that you’re writing for your local paper. We need small-scale journalism.”

“Yes, well…” Your cheeks burn as you rummage through your bag. You dig out a red folder. “I’ve been working on this for a while. Just a couple poems about, like… the natural beauty of Berrybend. This one’s called Scarlet September Apples, and this one’s, uh… The Shimmering Lily Pond…” You’re rambling. “I admire your work. If you know any… publishers…”

“Of course.” She clasps your hands. “I know the perfect agent. He’s really into authentic rural voices. I’ll pass these gems right along.”

She quickly tucks her folder under her arm. Part of you knows you’ll never see those poems again. You’ll be presented with more Poetry Quests, an XP boost, something for your achievement board, but no editors, no agents, certainly no publishers. You need more.

“I appreciate it,” you say, keeping your tone chipper. “I hope to hear from you soon.”

***

On your fourth New Year’s Eve, Chloe pulls you aside and offers you an eggnog.

“Any special plans this year?” she asks, sprinkling nutmeg over your drink. Outside, snow glows in the lamplight. Holiday music hums over the radio.

“Lots,” you reply, mustering up energy. “Pitching a new column to the editor.” (How many columns have you pitched?) “Taking over the Community Events section.” (You already run Weather, Cartoons, and Letters to the Editor, although Town History was supposed to be your beat). “Getting back into poetry.” (How many more flowery meadows and sun-warmed creeks can you describe?)

“I’m proud of you.” She touches your elbow. “But you work too hard. When will we see each other?”

After four years, your relationship with Chloe still hovers between friendship and romance, a real relationship always just out of reach. Not that you haven’t tried. You spend every Saturday at her pottery shop, bring her freshly-picked flowers every spring, and dedicate articles to her. You’re her dance partner at every Fall Festival.

Something blocks you from asking for more. Something blocks you from even dreaming about more. In fact, you can’t remember what ‘more’ entailed. Something about restaurants and rings.

“We’ll find time,” you say. “We’ll always have more time.”

***

When the debt collectors arrive, brown-blazered on your doorstep, it’s a random Saturday morning. You’re making blueberry pancakes — you’re expecting Chloe soon, and want to impress her with your cooking skills — when the knock comes.

“Can I help you?” you ask, blinking at them.

The woman has a clipboard and a blonde bob. “Hope we didn’t wake you! We’re just here to go over your upcoming update options.”

“Update options?”

“That’s right!” The man is round-faced and cherubic. “We’d like to discuss updating your Berrybend account to Lifelong. Haven’t you enjoyed your stay so far?”

“I… yeah,” you stutter. Their teeth and shoes are blindingly polished.

“We’re just here to give you the facts,” the woman says apologetically. “You have two options. Extend to Lifelong, or delete your account.”

“All… everything… delete?”

The man shrugs cheerfully. “Berrybend Immersive runs on old tech. Can’t have you hanging around a ghost town, can we?”

“How…” you blink back tears. “How much is Lifelong?”

“Not a cent!” the woman chirps.

“Not… and… if I go back? How much will I owe…”

“Two million,” the man says evenly.

“Dollars?”

“It would have been three million,” the woman cuts in. “You made up the difference by selling Berrybend developers rights to your in-game activities as training data. All so we can make Berrybend sweeter for others!”

“Smart choice.” The man elbows you playfully. “Saved a buck, didn’t you?”

“And… Lifelong is free?”

“Free in terms of… traditional currency.”

“Speak clearly,” you demand. They flinch. “You want more rights? Have all the data you want. Enjoy.”

The man catches the door before you slam it and sidles into your kitchen. Your instincts scream at you to run, to lock yourself in your bedroom, to hide under your bedsheets until he’s gone. But your bed, your door, and your blankets — they aren’t real.

“As self-driving cars have improved,” he says, “thankfully, the number of accidents has decreased year after year.”

“Beautiful progress,” the woman affirms, “with one unfortunate side effect.”

“Hospitals rely on, er, accidents for…”

“Healthy young organs,” the woman finishes. “Save a life, donate to science, and enjoy Lifelong Berrybend.”

“Wait. Won’t I…” you steady your breathing. “You want to harvest my organs? Won’t I die?”

The man grins. “That’s the key. You won’t die here.”

“A win-win situation.”

“Just sign riiiight –”

“Who gets my organs?” you demand.

The man steps back. “Why… science. Sick children. Single mothers, and… sick children.”

“Be honest.”

The woman looks shocked. “Honest? Sweetheart, all we want –”

“Enough!” So that’s how you’ll pay. You’re worth more dead than alive. “And… if I stay here… how long…”

“Your Lifelong subscription comes with thirty years of content,” the man says hastily.

“Thirty years minimum,” the woman adds. “Plus bonuses from Exercise Side Quests.”

“I recommend jogging.” The man winks. “Healthy hearts mean happy lives.”

“Thirty years… in here? Or…”

The woman opens her mouth. A different, masculine voice pours out: “Guaranteed content timelines are measured by simulation instantiation and user perception, including any dilation, acceleration, suspension, or other temporal modification thereof.”

“She means you’ll experience thirty years,” the man whispers, a kid sharing homework answers. “Don’t worry about ‘out there.’ You get thirty years.”

Thirty years isn’t so unreasonable, is it? Thirty years if Berrybend holds up its end of the bargain. A big if. With effort, you push away your fear. It hovers at the edge of your mind, a cautious animal in the dark.

“What will you say to my family? Who gets my –” you almost laugh “- assets? I never wrote a will.”

“We’ll take care of all that,” the woman reassures you, and you think you see genuine compassion in her eyes. “Don’t you worry.”

A long conversation follows at your kitchen table. They offer you coffee, explain clauses, show you exactly where to sign. They disappear the instant you set down the pen. For three hours, you sit at your kitchen table, staring at your cold coffee. When you were eight, you made cold, bitter coffee, rubbery scrambled eggs and burnt toast for Mother’s Day.

“What did I do to deserve this five-star service?” she laughed, pulling you onto her lap. You sheepishly handed her a card, drawn in red and purple crayon. “Wow, honey. You could be an artist. Or a chef. Anything you want to be.”

***

A year later, Chloe gasps and stops jogging. The color drains from her face.

“Are you alright?” you ask, grabbing her arm.

“Look at the sky.”

You don’t want to. It’s a beautiful October day, and you’re out on a long, slow run. According to your exercise progress bar, you’ve already earned three extra minutes.

“Look up,” she insists. Her nails dig into your hand. “Tell me I’m crazy.”

You look up. One by one, the clouds are dissolving into dust. The sun is dripping its light onto distant hilltops, like a cracked egg. The autumn horizon is pixelating. Your neighbors are stumbling out onto their porches, blinking in disbelief, then crying out.

“Thirty years.” You look down, choked by anger. “I bought thirty years.”

“Bought?” Chloe shouts. “Bought what?”

“Thirty years! This is murder!”

Chloe stares at you. You reach out for her hand, but she pulls it back.

“What are you?”

“I’m… I’m just a person, just like you,” you stutter, taken aback by the horror and anger in her face. “I just… made a deal…”

“Are you the devil?”

Before you can respond, the features smudge cleanly off Chloe’s face, like she’s a whiteboard. Her face is blank; you scream. The sky fractures. The cottages turn black and crumble. There’s a sharp static sound and a smell of burning plastic. The world goes dark. You can only register one thought: they cheated you. They broke the deal. You paid for a lifetime.

——–//——–

Dora Woodruff is a PhD student in math at MIT. She’s also currently taking her first steps in AI safety and regulation research. She lives with her partner and very naughty cat in Boston, where she likes baking bread and using bread to entice people to book clubs. Berrybend is her first published work of fiction.