8

Thinking a good movie would distract him from his problems, Rick Wickerman walked out of the theatre contemplating even more the conspiracies at work in WattLand. Though primarily fictional, Undercover had featured many historical facts, one of which was the overthrowing of Wattpad's original creators, @allenlau and @ivanyuen, and the social nadir that had followed. Rick knew hundreds of years ago Lord WattPad had emerged from the metaphorical rubble of a crumbled society and took control, his life artificially prolonged through heavy doses of the drug known as FAME.

After having seen the movie, Rick wondered if this @Zayxii character was actually the original name Lord WattPad had gone by long ago, back when he was a writer. Back when he required a username.

Food for thought, anyway.

Rick turned up his collar to lessen the wind's chill and moved through the streets toward his apartment. High-fluorescent adverts bombarded his senses from every direction. WattCity hadn't ever been pleasant—not as far as Rick remembered—but it had certainly gone downhill in recent years. Part of the problem was the increasingly tyrannical Wattpad government, but the anti-establishment gangs weren't much better, either... what with their infantile, anarchistic views. It was a constant tug-of-war, and only the elite ever came out the victor.

He passed flyers posted to walls—DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR CHILDREN ARE? they said, then showed a caricature of The Chosen One with a large, hooked nose and a raging hard-on; he wielded a bag overflowing with little arms and little legs, marked CHILDREN. A mural, painted by a local youth, showed a very different interpretation of The Chosen One: he stood half-naked, abs glistening, long bloody lashes across his chest and shoulders, arms spread wide, long hair flowing from a head turned up to the sky, a halo of light glowing behind his crown. Deified, or at least perceived as being some kind of saviour.

Decorating shop windows and signposts, the orange W of Wattpad had been spray-painted over with red paint and turned into the classic encircled A—for anarchy.

But was it any better? The WattCops had long ago left this area to its own devices, allowing it to self-govern. Rick passed darkened alleys where the young and the weak sold themselves to the strong so they could afford to fill their hungry stomachs for just one night.

He stopped at an emaciated husk of a woman with her back against the wall, needle in her arm, grinning to herself as the fingers of her limp-hanging hands simulated the act of typing. "Look, Ma, I'm writin' a real popper!" she mumbled, drool depending from her chin, staring at nothing at all.

Illegally manufactured FAME, Rick thought with certainty. Though not always the case, it tended to be of inferior quality, adulterated with household poisons to enhance the user's high and maximize profits for its maker. He shook his head and continued onward.

This was the reality of anarchy. But it wouldn't have been any better for most of these poor souls if Wattpad retook control of the neighbourhood. Not everyone in WattLand was destined to become a Star, and not everyone had the knack for high-paying non-writing jobs. Some people wanted more than nothing to write but knew they'd never be among the elite. What else was there, then, except the comfort of a needle and the delusions that followed?

9

"Hey, burddy," said a voice behind.

Rick turned to see a drunk stumble out of a liquor store with a bottle in hand. "I don't want any trouble."

"Yer see ther murvie?" the drunk asked. Raised his bottle towards the theatre down the street.

"Undercover? Yeah, why? Wait—" And then it hit Rick. This drunk, though he appeared as if he'd aged a hard thirty years, resembled the actor who'd played Jackson. "Are you Herman Falkner?"

The drunk belched and nodded. "Yerp. Ther one 'n' ther s-same, hyuk." He looked queasy for a moment. Burped again and smiled lopsidedly. Most of his pearly whites had since either fallen out or turned black and yellow. "Yer see ther part when ther... er... ther kid took ther smurtphern from his... from his shoe? That wers er real evernt, y'know." He nodded with satisfaction.

"Oh?" Rick tried to think of a polite way of getting this drunk, once-a-somebody actor to leave him alone.

Falkner seemed to take Rick's response as genuine interest. "Yerp. Oh, boy, ther stories I curd tell yer 'bout, er, 'bout makern thurt murvie. Yer know we had ther real @allenlau wheeled around ther set? Yeah, ernd Lord WattPerd would... would spit on him... Poke him werth needles. Make him wartch. Kept remindern him of long ago... Said ther guy wers kerpt alive against his will. Cryogene-wertever. 'N' all thert other shit." Falkner took another swig from the bottle.

And Rick actually was genuinely interested now. "You say one of the original Wattpad creators is still alive, against his will, and Lord WattPad abused him on the set? Did anything else happen?"

"Oh, man, ther stories I curd tell yer. Ther wors' wers when he'd make us do irt. Shit, I still gert nightmers 'bout it... Said he'd kirll urs if we didn'."

"Rand re'd rill rou rif rou ralked," said a hooded figure wearing Matrix-style sunglasses.

Falkner's eyes went wide. His hands shook and the bottle shattered on the sidewalk. "N-N-No! N-Not you!"

The figure flipped forwards over Rick's head and landed in perfect form before Falkner. A blade shot out of his wrist and he gripped Falkner by the hair and jammed his knife into the man's gut, repeatedly, viciously stabbing him with the kind of malice that must have been festering for years.

Falkner hit the ground with his bleeding entrails trying to escape him.

"Rop rigging, Rick Rickerman, runless rou rant roo rie." The figure kept the now-bloody knife in his hand and swiftly walked away from the murder.

"Doctor Renneth Ree!" Rick shouted from the sidewalk, trying but failing to keep Falkner's guts inside him.

The figure stopped, turned, shouted back somewhat incoherently: "Ro, ry rame ris Rilton RacO'Connolly'O. Roo ras Ri ray, rand ray raway." Then ran.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Rick stared at Falkner's lifeless body. His hands were bloodied. Yet another person connected to him had died. Except this time it was a public murder. How many more have to die? he asked himself. Because of me.

Wiping his cheeks with his sleeve, Rick dragged Falkner and set him against the wall. Did his best to cover up his many stab wounds. Tried to make him look presentable in his death. Tried to make him look dignified. An actor reduced to an alcoholic, maybe because of what he'd seen, maybe because of what he'd done. On Lord WattPad's orders.

And then Rick went home. All he wanted was to sleep. And hope the horrors of reality didn't stalk him into his dreams.

10

He was darkness.

He was the night.

He was glad no one remembered who Batman was, since it meant he could infringe on all the copyright laws he wanted and there wasn't a damn thing anybody could do about it.

Always vigilant, he traversed the skies, ever on the lookout for crime and corruption occurring down below.

His name was Trust, Freedom, Honour, Truth and Justice. And did he already say Trust? But he also knew a good narrator never referred to a character by more than two names, because a confused reader is an angry and belligerent reader, one prone to leaving nasty comments. So, begrudgingly, he accepted "The Chosen One" as his moniker—at least for narrative purposes.

The Chosen One was following a few leads. He'd just beaten a pimp deep into a coma he'd never emerge from—after beating a few names out of him first, of course—and now he flew to the penthouse suite of 2Fresh4U's agent, one Vlad Drake. He intended to beat a few more names out of him. And he'd keep on beating names out of people until they spat out, amidst blood-tinged saliva and broken teeth, the name he sorely wanted to hear: Lord WattPad.

He landed on the roof of Vlad's expensive building. A large glass dome rose out of the top, revealing a well-lit, lavish apartment within. Using his illegally modified WattPhone, he quickly hacked into the WattDatabase—the official compendium of WattLand citizens, alongside their ID photos. The Chosen One peered inside the apartment and compared the face of the man he saw on the couch being entertained by a high-class hooker to the face of Vlad Drake as listed in the WattDatabase. Same guy.

He jumped and crashed through the glass dome, landing in front of Vlad and his girl with shards of glass raining down on his costume. "Did someone order a large serving of justice?" he growled, then punched the hooker across the room.

She landed in a heap against the wall—facedown, ass up.

"Who in the hell are you and why are you breaking my worldly possessions?" Vlad asked, standing up to bump his chest against The Chosen One as a sign of masculine dominance.

"My name's Mr. Nice Guy," said The Chosen One before striking Vlad in the solar plexus with a quick jab.

Vlad collapsed into the couch, winded and appearing nauseous, his skin sallow.

"Enjoying my company yet? Your buddy Darren—the guy supplying that girl—he ratted you out, Vlad." The Chosen One gripped him by the back of his neck. "What's Lord WattPad doing with 2Fresh4U!?" he growled. Punched Vlad in the face: once, twice.

Dazed, Vlad muttered, "What? I dunno." Another punch. "Please stop hitting me." Again and again. "Alright, alright. Lord WattPad needs someone to perform for him while he defiles the young and the innocent. It's the only way. He— He's impotent otherwise. He enjoys generic, stale, inoffensive, bland pop music made for preteen girls to tune out as they stare longingly at photos of the male models we hired to pretend to be in the band. They're there now, so if you want to get the drop on him, go now. Happy?"

"Thanks," The Chosen One said. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, changed it to WattSports. Admired the crispness of the picture for a moment. "You're free to go..."

"Wait, really?"

The Chosen One grabbed Vlad by the hair and threw him headfirst into the television. The man's body jerked and flailed as he was electrocuted. "Free to go and die, is what I meant to say," he told the jittering corpse as smoke poured out the back of Vlad's burning underwear.

And then he leaped up through the broken roof. Across the horizon, the giant orange W glowed brightly into the night. Lord WattPad was there now, was he?

Not for long.

11

2Fresh4U were just wrapping up the lip-syncing of their song "Don't Care Who Ur Dad Is" when The Chosen One crashed through the window and started pummelling them.

Lord WattPad watched in horror as his newest favourite band had their necks snapped and were beaten to death with their own Yamaha starter guitars. He finished smothering the girl and booted her into the nearby trash bag. Then he hit the button on his Alert bracelet and ran away to his panic room, which was conveniently located behind an ugly painting. And the walls were see-through, thanks to technology nobody else in WattLand had even thought of, let alone seen.

The sexy, scandalous music of 2Fresh4U still continued to blare through the amplifiers, even though every member was lying dismembered in a pool of blood and knockoff-brand hair gel. @TheGorillatan attempted to escape The Chosen One's wrath, but Lord WattPad had locked the ugly painting, so all his assistant could do was flail his hairy arms and beat futilely on the canvas-covered titanium door. He watched the ape gasp for air, watched him fall unconscious in the tight-armed grip of The Chosen One.

The Chosen One pointed at him as if he had X-ray vision and could see him through the painting.

"Fat chance, loser!" Lord WattPad prodded the button on his Alert bracelet some more. Where were those wretched, robotic fools?

The Chosen One had taken to ramming his shoulder into the painting. Much to Lord WattPad's surprise the loser was actually making quite an impression in the titanium, as if he were ramming layers of aluminum instead.

"C'mon, c'mon! Fools, where are you! Aha!"

The robots had arrived—generic models, straight off the factory line, still without artificial faces. Lord WattPad cackled as the robots gripped The Chosen One's arms and proved too strong for even him. He laughed even more when they began punching him in the gut. When they'd knocked him out, Lord WattPad emerged from his safe space and sighed at the carnage.

"Well, somebody has to fix this mess. Hey! Ape! Wake up!" He slapped @TheGorillatan until he came to. "Enough lollygagging, ape. 2Fresh4U is dead! So go kidnap some lookalikes and give them new names! Go! Now!"

His assistant scurried off.

"Now, let's see who's behind the mask..." Lord WattPad extended his gloved hand and peeled away the cowl from The Chosen One's face. "Oh my... I should have known. You've always been a bone in my ass."

It was @MadMikeMarsbergen.

12

The next few hours were some of the most painful ever experienced by @MadMikeMarsbergen. Lord WattPad obviously wasn't going to let him die quickly, obviously wanted to savour killing the biggest threat he'd ever faced. Slowly but surely.

It started with being stripped nude and hosed with ice-cold water in a room where the air conditioner was set to a chilly 5°C. Next came the pointy shoots of bamboo being slid beneath his toe- and fingernails. He'd screamed so loud and so long his voice turned hoarse, could taste the blood in the back of his throat. After being forced to walk and pick up random objects from the floor for ten minutes straight, the shoots were removed, vinegar was poured into his wounds, salt was packed in after, and then the nails were ripped off with a rusty pair of pliers.

@MadMikeMarsbergen dissociated from reality sometime after the bamboo shoots. Instead of living there in the torture room, his mind was lost somewhere back in his past.

13

Two Years Ago

"Rikey, row ruch rurther?" asks Renneth Ree, Mike's Asian best friend.

They're crossing the harsh tundra in the dead of winter and the icy winds make it feel as though they're being stabbed in the face with thousands of little icicles.

Mike holds a tracking device in his outstretched hand. A red dot—their position—is surrounded by multiple concentric circles and a green blip appears in the top-left corner of the screen. "I see it, Renneth!" he shouts excitedly. "One hundred metres thataway!" He points and the pair race off together, their tired muscles rejuvenated by their eagerness to find the laptop.

"Says it should be right under us," Mike says. "Though this blip measures a three-foot area, so we'll have to dig around." He starts booting around snow and Renneth does the same.

Minutes later.

"Ri round rit!" Renneth, hands red and turning blue from frostbite, pulls a laptop from a mound of snow. With stiff joints, he fumbles it a little before handing it to Mike.

"Get some gloves on those hands, Renneth. Don't want to lose them, man. Nobody else has the magic fingers to perform heavenly colonoscopies like you." Mike peels away the protective case and tosses it aside.

"Rhink rit'll rork, Rikey?"

"It might be our only hope of taking out Lord WattPad," Mike replies. "I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. This laptop had some strange bug or virus, or something. When I got out of CrazyTown, I started using it again and whatever I wrote became real. You know how weird my stories can get, Renneth. My abominations roamed the world, and they tried to kill me and those I loved. They chased me across the whole world. Before I was chased into hiding, I was able to knock Lord WattPad off the hierarchical totem pole for a bit. Of course, he somehow managed to undo what I'd written... So I'm not sure if this thing still works..."

"Rhy rar rou relling re rhis ragain, Rikey?"

"It's more for the benefit of those who are just joining our ongoing adventures, Renneth."

"Re're roing roo re rest riends rorever, Rikey!"

Mike laughs. "Indeed we are, Renneth. Best buddies for life. Nothing will turn us against each other. And nobody will ever break us apart."

They grip hands and bump shoulders, staring into one another's eyes the way true friends do.

Mike turns on the laptop and they both wait in anticipation, in hope. The wind whistles in their ears.

The screen fills with raw green code—like something out of The Matrix, Renneth's favourite movie franchise (especially the third rebooted series, which features a male lesbian Golden Retriever Neo with an afro).

"What the hell is this? Never seen it before."

"Raybe re rhould ro rome, Rikey. Ri'm rared."

A series of substitutions take place and the raw green code's meaningless sequence of numbers becomes ASCII art. Lord WattPad stares back at them. A line of text appears below: HELLO, OLD FRIEND.

"Oh no." Mike turns to Renneth. "Run!"

Renneth nods and races back towards basecamp, but he doesn't make it very far. Springing up out of the snow is a pair of Lord WattPad's robots. He stops, looks back at Mike with a face of fear, and charges at the robots.

"Renneth!" Mike screams. Furiously his fingers work the keyboard, trying to get past the code. Maybe if he can get in... Maybe he can do something to help his friend. It hits him: Don't create something uncontrollable, make the change within yourself! "Renneth, get back here!" Mike manages to hack through the firewall, destroy the system mainframe, and then piggybacks a command onto the boot sequence.

Instantly he feels a change come over him. He tosses aside the laptop and falls facedown into the snow, rides out the pain coursing through his muscles. Renneth's scream brings him back to reality, triggers him into action.

Mike jumps into the sky and whips around the tundra at twelve thousand kilometres per hour. Landing near the robots he sees he is too late but knows he must avenge his friend. The robots march towards him, recalibrating their target sensors. He lunges out and punches one to pieces, then grips the other by the midsection and pulls it apart. Its wires jerk this way and that before the electrical impulses fade completely.

But even still... he's too late.

"No! Renneth! Nooooo!"

Mike collapses at Renneth's side and cradles his best friend's head. Blood leaks from Renneth's nose, ears and mouth. His arms and legs have been broken, and yellow-brown coils of the man's guts hang out of him, dirtying the snow. "Renneth... Renneth!"

But he's dead. He has all these powers, and still his friend is dead.

Mike raises his face to the sky and cries out: "LORD WATTPAAAAAAAAAD! I'LL KILL YOOOOOU! I SWEAR IT!"

14

Present Day

Two years passed in a second as Lord WattPad slapped @MadMikeMarsbergen's face with his other white glove.

"Had enough punishment? Ready to beg, loser?"

@MadMikeMarsbergen smiled and, having gathered enough blood in his mouth, spit in Lord WattPad's face. The snot–blood mixture oozed its way down the man's cheek. "Do your worst, you worthless, talentless sack of shit."

Another slap.

"Need your crayon changed? Here's a new colour for you: angry red."

Lord WattPad punched him hard in the nose, breaking it for the second time.

@MadMikeMarsbergen laughed and pushed out a loose tooth with his tongue. "You call that a punch? I can punch harder with my hairy taint, and that thing doesn't even have fists. Face it: You're a worthless dictator, and the only way you know how to get people to pretend to respect you is to make them fear you. Go fuck yourself with that rusty set of pliers, you child-molesting scumbag."

That really set Lord WattPad off.

15

Rick Wickerman woke up feeling like he'd been hit by a truck, and he hadn't the slightest idea why. His whole body was sore, from the muscles right down to the bones. His head ached with every beat of his heart when he looked down. Maybe he was sick? Could've easily caught some kind of bug last night.

Last night.

He exhaled slowly, pressing the back of his head against his bedroom wall. Falkner, that poor bastard. Lord WattPad had claimed another victim in his seemingly endless quest to murder innocent people.

And there was no doubt about it, Rick realized that now. The others hadn't killed themselves, it hadn't even been accidental. How could it have been? He had proof he'd seen with his own eyes. That Ree character, he'd been at the funeral, too. Shit, there was probably some kind of fast-acting, incredibly lethal virus on the business card he'd given to poor @DingusEcrivain.

Rick struggled out of bed. He really was sore. He put his pants on one leg at a time and quickly buttoned up his shirt. Headed off to the fridge for a glass of orange juice—that would be exactly what he'd need to fight off any bug. He'd crossed the living room when out of the corner of his eye he noticed a few stacks of paper sitting in front of his door. He bent down to look at them. The first two stacks were side by side on his doormat, but the third was only halfway pushed through. He noticed a name and title on the top sheet of the third stack.

A name he recognized.

Intrigued, he sat down and read it.