# Chapter 3: Reality Bytes

Max and Aisha stared at the note, neither daring to touch it after reading its ominous message. The coffee shop suddenly felt like a fishbowl, with every patron a potential observer.

"Let's get out of here," Max whispered, sliding the folded paper into his pocket with the careful precision of someone handling a live explosive.

Aisha nodded, already gathering her tablet. "My car's around the corner."

They left the Cybernetic Bean with forced casualness, Max fighting the urge to look over his shoulder. The morning sun hit his face with unexpected brightness, a stark contrast to the paranoid darkness clouding his thoughts.

"Not your apartment," Aisha said as they walked. "And not mine either. If they found you once..."

"The park," Max suggested. "Jefferson Square. Open space, lots of people, hard to eavesdrop."

They walked in tense silence, instinctively taking a meandering route with random turns. Max couldn't shake the feeling of being followed, though every time he casually glanced behind them, he saw nothing suspicious—which, paradoxically, only increased his paranoia. Surely actual surveillance would be undetectable?

Jefferson Square Park was moderately busy with the standard weekday morning crowd—dog walkers, joggers, remote workers seeking fresh air with their laptops, and a smattering of the city's more colorful residents who called the park home.

They found an empty bench near the central fountain, positioned with clear sightlines in all directions. The rushing water provided a natural sound barrier against potential eavesdroppers.

"Let me see it again," Aisha said, holding out her hand for the note.

Max passed it to her, then scanned their surroundings once more. "What do you think it means? 'They're not trying to help you escape—they're trying to patch the holes you've found.'"

Aisha studied the handwriting. "It means someone thinks this QB group—or whoever Smith represents—isn't what they claim to be."

"The woman who gave it to us," Max said. "Did she seem... I don't know, familiar to you?"

"No, but she definitely seemed terrified." Aisha flipped the paper over, examining its blank reverse side. "Wait a minute." She held it up to the sunlight, squinting.

"What is it?"

"There's something else... very faint." She angled the paper, catching the light just right. "It's an address. And a time." She read it aloud: "Reality Bytes Arcade. 10 PM tonight."

"Reality Bytes?" Max repeated. "That old arcade on Fulton? I thought it closed years ago."

"It did," Aisha confirmed, still studying the paper. "But apparently it's hosting a different kind of game tonight."

Max leaned back on the bench, processing. "The Glitch Hunters. It must be where they're meeting."

"Seems like a fitting venue," Aisha said with a hint of irony. "An abandoned arcade called 'Reality Bytes' for a group that thinks reality is digital."

"Are we going?" Max asked, though he already knew the answer.

Aisha carefully refolded the paper. "Of course we're going. But we need to be smart about this. No phones—they're too easily tracked. We'll need cash, no cards. And maybe a way to record whatever happens, but not digitally."

"Old school," Max nodded. "I think I still have a film camera somewhere in my disaster zone of an apartment."

"You need to grab whatever essentials you can from your place," Aisha advised. "Clothes, some cash. You can't stay there—not after the break-in."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"You can crash at my place for now," she sighed. "The couch has your name on it. Literally—you spilled beer on it at my housewarming party."

Max smiled for what felt like the first time in days. "Thanks, Aisha."

"Don't thank me yet," she warned. "If we're really being watched by whatever these 'Admins' are, I might be compromised by association now too."

The gravity of the situation settled over them, punctuated by the cheerful splashing of the fountain—a reminder of the normal world continuing all around them, oblivious to the cracks they might be discovering in its very foundation.

---

Max spent the afternoon at Aisha's apartment, alternating between pacing anxiously and diving deep into The Glitch Hunters' forum on her secure laptop. The more he read, the more his initial excitement transformed into something deeper—a mixture of validation and dread.

"Listen to this," he called to Aisha, who was in the kitchen making coffee. "'Documented Anomaly #347: Subject reported an encounter with his deceased father at a gas station in Tulsa. Father exhibited awareness of events occurring after his death, including subject's recent divorce. Subject reports father disappeared when momentarily out of visual range, and security cameras show no evidence of second person. Multiple witnesses confirm subject was conversing with empty air.'"

Aisha carried two mugs to the living room, setting one beside Max. "Could easily be a hallucination or psychological episode."

"Sure, if it was isolated. But there are hundreds of these reports, many with multiple witnesses or partial documentation." Max scrolled further. "Here's one with photos—a woman in Seattle captured images of what she calls a 'texture glitch' where part of a brick wall temporarily displayed incorrect patterns, like a video game failing to load proper assets."

"Let me see," Aisha said, leaning over his shoulder. The photos showed what could be interpreted as a section of brick wall displaying an oddly repeating pattern distinct from the surrounding masonry. "Interesting, but still explainable. Could be a repair using slightly different bricks, captured at an angle that emphasizes the difference."

"You're determined to be skeptical, aren't you?" Max said, taking a sip of coffee.

"One of us has to be," she replied, settling onto the couch beside him. "But I'll admit, some of these are harder to dismiss. Like this one—" She reached over and scrolled to another entry. "Time dilation incident in a Portland elevator. Fifteen people experienced what they thought was a thirty-second elevator ride, but upon exit discovered forty-five minutes had passed. Security footage shows the elevator doors closed for precisely that duration with no mechanical malfunction."

Max's eyes lit up. "That's exactly the kind of system error I was theorizing about! Time rendering inconsistencies."

"The forum moderators categorize these by type," Aisha noted, navigating to another section. "Object permanence failures, NPC behavior—seriously, that's what they call people who seem to act on scripts—rendering glitches, physics engine errors... they've developed a whole taxonomy."

"Look at the moderator usernames," Max pointed. "DejaVuQueen, ZeroPoint, QuantumKid... and there—DrWeiss77. That one has a verified badge."

"Dr. Eleanor Weiss," Aisha said. "I found her while researching. She's a legitimate quantum physicist who lost her university position after publishing a controversial paper on information theory and consciousness. The academic community essentially excommunicated her."

"For proposing we're in a simulation?"

"Not explicitly. Her paper focused on the mathematical similarities between quantum field equations and computational processing. She suggested reality might be 'rendering' only what's being observed, similar to how video games save processing power." Aisha pulled up another tab showing a professional headshot of a stern-looking woman in her fifties with silver-streaked black hair pulled into a tight bun. "She never publicly claimed we're in a simulation, but the implications of her work pointed that way."

Max studied the image. "And now she's moderating a forum for glitch hunters. That's quite a career change."

"More like a parallel track. According to what I found, she still publishes independently and runs a small research lab funded through private donations." Aisha checked her watch. "It's almost seven. We should eat something before heading out."

"I'm not hungry," Max said, still scrolling through reports.

"You're no good to the resistance against our simulation overlords if you pass out from low blood sugar," Aisha quipped, standing up. "I'm making pasta. You're eating it. Non-negotiable."

Max reluctantly closed the laptop and followed her to the kitchen. "Fine, but make it quick. I want to get to Reality Bytes early, scope it out before going in."

"Now you're thinking sensibly," Aisha said, filling a pot with water. "Though I still can't believe we're spending our evening at an abandoned arcade to meet people who think reality is glitching."

"Says the woman who just spent hours researching them," Max pointed out.

Aisha set the pot on the stove with unnecessary force. "Being curious doesn't mean I'm convinced. And neither should you be, not yet. Evidence, Max. We need hard evidence."

"That's exactly what we're going to find tonight," Max said with more confidence than he felt.

---

Reality Bytes Arcade stood like a neon ghost on a neglected stretch of Fulton Street, its once-vibrant sign now dark except for the letters "REA Y BY ES," which flickered sporadically as if sending an SOS in electrical Morse code. The windows were covered with newspaper and old promotional posters for games that had long since disappeared from popular culture.

Max and Aisha sat in her car across the street, watching. It was 9:40 PM, and so far, they'd observed three people enter the supposedly defunct establishment—a middle-aged man with a messenger bag, a college-aged woman with bright purple hair, and a elderly gentleman who moved with the careful precision of someone with joint pain.

"Doesn't exactly scream 'secret society of reality hackers,'" Aisha commented, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.

"What were you expecting? Men in trench coats and sunglasses?" Max adjusted the film camera hanging around his neck. He'd rescued it from his apartment earlier that day, along with a handful of other essentials. The place had still been a mess, but nothing seemed further disturbed—small comfort.

"I don't know what I was expecting," Aisha admitted. "But this feels... anticlimactic."

"Secret societies usually do, until you're inside them." Max checked his watch. "It's almost time. Ready?"

Aisha nodded, reaching into the backseat for her bag. "Camera loaded?"

"Fresh roll of film, analog all the way." Max patted the device. "Also brought this." He pulled a small notebook and pencil from his pocket. "Can't hack paper."

"Unless you count setting it on fire," Aisha muttered, exiting the car.

They crossed the street, their footsteps echoing in the quiet night. No obvious observers, though Max knew that meant little. The front door of Reality Bytes was locked, a faded "CLOSED PERMANENTLY" sign hanging crookedly in the window.

"Now what?" Aisha whispered.

Max examined the building, noticing a narrow alley running alongside it. "Service entrance, maybe?"

They made their way down the alley, which smelled of garbage and stale beer. Sure enough, a metal door was propped slightly open at the rear of the building, a faint glow emanating from within.

Max pulled it open wider, revealing a dimly lit corridor that presumably led to the arcade's main floor. Exchanging a look with Aisha—half excited, half apprehensive—he stepped inside.

The corridor opened into what had once been the arcade's back room, now repurposed with folding chairs arranged in rough rows facing a makeshift projector screen. The room was illuminated by strings of Christmas lights hung along the walls, giving everything a surreal, bluish glow.

About twenty people were already present, an eclectic mix that defied easy categorization. Some looked like stereotypical tech workers, others could have been college professors or artists. Age ranges spanned from early twenties to well past retirement. They conversed in hushed tones, creating a buzz of anticipation.

"Newcomers?" A voice startled them. A man with an impressive beard and wire-rimmed glasses approached, his t-shirt bearing the faded logo of a long-defunct programming language. "I'm Zeke. Forum handle ZeroPoint."

"I'm Max. This is Aisha. We got your message at the coffee shop."

Zeke's eyes widened slightly. "Ah, you're the manifesto guy. Word travels fast." He glanced at Aisha. "And you reached out to DrWeiss77."

"That was me," Aisha confirmed. "Is she here?"

"Dr. Weiss is running late. Something about unusual energy readings at her lab." Zeke gestured toward the chairs. "We're about to start. Fair warning—first-timers usually find it overwhelming."

They followed him to empty seats near the back. Max surveyed the room, taking mental notes. Most attendees had notebooks or sketch pads rather than digital devices. A table along one wall held an assortment of items that appeared to be physical "evidence"—photographs, small objects in plastic bags, handwritten journals.

A tall woman with short gray hair approached the front of the room, clearing her throat. The chatter died down immediately.

"Welcome, Hunters," she began, her voice carrying surprising authority. "For our new friends"—her eyes briefly landed on Max and Aisha—"I'm Catherine, forum handle DejaVuQueen. Let's begin with recent anomaly reports, then move to pattern analysis."

What followed was unlike any meeting Max had ever attended. One by one, people stood to report what they called "glitches"—inexplicable events that defied conventional explanation. A man described witnessing a car phase partially through a solid wall before "snapping back" to its proper position. A teenage girl detailed how her digital watch occasionally displayed time flowing backward for precisely 3.14 seconds. An older woman recounted how she'd discovered a room in her house of thirty years that hadn't existed the day before, complete with furniture and family photos she didn't recognize.

Each report was met with methodical questioning from the group, attempts to rule out conventional explanations, requests for evidence or documentation. It was surprisingly rigorous, Max noted—not the echo chamber of delusion he'd half-expected.

Zeke leaned over to whisper, "We document everything in triplicate. Analog copies stored in separate locations. Digital records are kept on air-gapped systems, encrypted six ways to Sunday."

"You're really worried about being monitored," Aisha observed quietly.

"With good reason," Zeke replied. "Three of our members have disappeared in the past year. Their homes emptied, digital footprints erased, families convinced they never existed." His expression darkened. "The Admins don't just watch—they edit."

Before Max could respond, the back door swung open, and a striking woman entered. She moved with purpose, her silver-streaked black hair pulled into the same tight bun from the photo Aisha had shown him. Dr. Eleanor Weiss had arrived.

The room fell silent as she strode to the front, carrying what looked like scientific equipment in a hard-shell case. Her eyes scanned the audience, pausing momentarily on Max and Aisha.

"Apologies for my tardiness," she said without preamble. "But I believe the delay will prove worthwhile." She set the case on a table and opened it, revealing what appeared to be a modified oscilloscope connected to several custom components Max couldn't identify.

"For the past six months, my lab has been monitoring quantum fluctuations at specific coordinates identified through our pattern analysis. Tonight, at precisely 8:42 PM, we recorded this." She pressed a button, and the projection screen illuminated with a graph showing violent spikes and irregularities in what should have been a relatively smooth pattern.

"For our new attendees," Dr. Weiss continued, "what you're seeing is a fundamental impossibility according to standard quantum mechanics. These readings suggest localized alterations to the wave function collapse process—or in layman's terms, reality being rewritten on the fly."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Max leaned forward, transfixed.

"The coordinates correspond to the Richardson Building downtown," Dr. Weiss said. "I dispatched an associate to investigate. He reported witnessing what appeared to be a 'loading error'—an entire floor of the building temporarily displaying incorrect interior architecture before 'refreshing' to its proper configuration."

"Do you have visual documentation?" someone called out.

"Unfortunately, all electronic devices malfunctioned within thirty meters of the anomaly. A common side effect we've observed during major glitches." Dr. Weiss's gaze found Max again. "Which brings me to our newest community member. Mr. Davidson, your manifesto proposed several novel methods for detecting and potentially exploiting simulation errors. I'd be interested in hearing more about your—"

She never finished the sentence. The main entrance to the arcade crashed open with a splintering of wood, followed immediately by the rear door doing the same. Flashlights swept the room as figures in dark suits poured in from both directions.

"Nobody move!" shouted a voice that managed to be both emotionless and commanding. "Federal agents!"

Chaos erupted. People scattered in all directions, knocking over chairs and equipment. Max grabbed Aisha's arm, pulling her toward a side door he'd noticed earlier, half-hidden behind an old arcade cabinet.

"This way!" Dr. Weiss appeared beside them, surprisingly nimble for her age. "Service corridor leads to the alley!"

They squeezed through the narrow doorway just as someone shouted, "Three fleeing eastbound! Cut them off!"

The service corridor was pitch black. Dr. Weiss produced a small penlight, illuminating their path between stacked boxes and discarded arcade components.

"Who are they?" Max gasped as they ran. "Actual federal agents?"

"Admins," Dr. Weiss replied tersely. "System security. They're not government, despite the convenient cover."

They reached another door. Dr. Weiss pushed it open, revealing a different alley than the one they'd entered through. "My car's two blocks north. If we separate, they'll have to divide their forces."

"No," Aisha said firmly. "We stick together. You clearly have answers we need."

A crash behind them indicated their pursuers had reached the service corridor.

"Very well," Dr. Weiss conceded. "Follow me precisely. And whatever you do, don't allow them to touch you with their devices."

"What devices?" Max asked, but Dr. Weiss was already running down the alley, surprisingly fast for someone her age.

They emerged onto a side street, vacant except for a few parked cars and a stray cat that darted away at their sudden appearance. Dr. Weiss led them through a complex series of turns, cutting through parking lots and an all-night laundromat, doubling back occasionally in what was clearly a practiced evasion pattern.

After what felt like an eternity of running, they arrived at a nondescript sedan parked behind a closed convenience store. Dr. Weiss unlocked it with an actual key rather than a remote.

"Get in," she commanded, sliding into the driver's seat. "Quickly."

Max and Aisha piled into the back, both breathing heavily. The car's interior smelled of mint and something chemical Max couldn't identify.

Dr. Weiss started the engine and pulled out smoothly, driving at precisely the speed limit. "They'll be monitoring traffic cameras. Keep your heads down."

"Dr. Weiss," Aisha began, once she'd caught her breath. "What just happened back there? Who were those people?"

"As I said, system security." Dr. Weiss's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror constantly, scanning for pursuit. "They monitor for awareness of the simulation, suppress evidence, remove problematic individuals."

"You mean kill them?" Max asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Worse," Dr. Weiss replied. "They edit them. Retroactive continuity adjustments. Not just erasing people—changing them, their memories, their very nature. Like debugging a program by altering problematic code."

A chill ran through Max despite the warm night. "And they're after us now?"

"After you specifically, Mr. Davidson. Your manifesto was too accurate, too public. It set off alarm bells." Dr. Weiss took a sharp turn onto a main street. "But their intervention tonight confirms something critical—we're onto something real. They don't mobilize resources like this for delusional conspiracy theorists."

"Where are you taking us?" Aisha demanded.

"Somewhere safe. My private lab." Dr. Weiss's expression softened slightly. "I have something to show you both. Something I've been documenting for years. Incontrovertible evidence of the nature of our reality."

"What kind of evidence?" Max leaned forward.

Dr. Weiss met his eyes in the rearview mirror, her gaze intense and unwavering. "I've found a seam in the world, Mr. Davidson. A place where reality... glitches consistently. And I believe with your expertise, we might finally exploit it." A rare smile crossed her face. "In short, I'm going to show you something that proves everything."