"I'm in a video game. I'm actually inside a video game." Markle's blocky hands tremble as he shields his eyes from the square sun. The world spreads before him in perfect right angles and pixelated glory, a digital landscape that shouldn't be real but somehow is.
"This can't be happening," he mutters, but his cubic feet already carry him forward across the grass blocks. Each step makes a soft, familiar sound that he's heard through computer speakers a thousand times before.
The stronghold entrance diminishes behind him. A dark square against a hillside that housed talking zombies and impossible promises. Markle can't bring himself to look back.
"So I'm dead in the real world. Electrocuted in my own bathtub." His voice sounds strange in the open air, almost mechanical. "And now I'm the 'chosen one' in Minecraft. Sure. Why not?"
Birds—square, of course—fly overhead in geometric patterns. Their chirps sound exactly like the game sound effects. Sheep wander aimlessly in the distance.
"Pros of resurrecting the Ender Dragon," Markle counts on his blocky fingers. "One, those zombies might know how to send me home. Two, uh..."
He pauses, struggling to find another benefit. The sun climbs higher in the perfectly square sky. His new robes feel oddly weightless around his body.
"Cons: One, it's a freaking dragon that will probably kill me. Two, it could destroy this world. Three, I have no idea how to do magic."
A cow moos nearby, pixelated and docile. Markle stares at it, half-expecting it to speak like the zombies did. It just blinks its rectangular eyes.
"Four, I'm talking to myself in a video game afterlife. That's definitely a con." He laughs, the sound hollow even to his own ears.
He walks forward, feet automatically stepping over small rises in the terrain. Everything looks both familiar and alien at once. The colors brighter, more vivid than any screen could show.
"Is this what a psychotic break feels like?" Markle wonders aloud. "Or is this what being dead feels like? Trapped in a game I used to play?"
A tree stands before him, its trunk a perfect collection of wood blocks. Markle reaches out to touch it. The bark feels solid, with a strange smoothness that doesn't quite match real wood.
"I used to cut these down with a mouse click," he says, running his hand along the surface. "Now I'm supposed to punch it with my bare hands?"
Markle makes a fist and hits the trunk. A tiny crack appears. He hits it again. The crack grows. It's exactly like the game mechanics he remembers.
"This is insane." Another punch. "I'm insane." Another crack in the wood. "Or dead." The block breaks, floating as a miniature version of itself.
Markle stares at the floating wood block, then reaches out. It zooms toward him, disappearing from sight. He somehow knows it's in his inventory now.
"If this is my afterlife, it's significantly weirder than I expected." He continues punching the tree, collecting more wood blocks with each impact.
His knuckles don't hurt. His arms don't tire. He feels strangely energized, despite the absurdity of his situation. The sun crawls across the sky as he works.
"So the zombies want me to bring back their dead dragon god." Markle crafts the wood into planks, then a crafting table, then sticks, then a wooden pickaxe. The knowledge comes automatically.
"And they think I'm some kind of wizard." He places the crafting table down, the motion natural despite never having done it with his actual hands before.
A stream runs nearby, water blocks flowing in the simplified physics of the game. Markle walks over and sees his reflection for the first time.
His face is blockier, but recognizable. The blue eyes, the unkempt brown hair. All there, just constructed from pixels. His new robes shimmer with faint magical symbols.
"I don't look like a wizard," he says to his reflection. "I look like an office worker in a Halloween costume."
The water burbles in response, a looping sound effect that should be comforting in its familiarity but only serves to emphasize his displacement.
"Maybe I could make this work," Markle says, watching a square fish swim by. "No deadlines. No Keller breathing down my neck. No Henderson report."
He sits on a grass block beside the stream. The ground doesn't feel uncomfortable, despite being literally made of blocks. His body seems adapted to this world.
"If I'm stuck here forever, what's the worst that could happen? Die again?" He picks up a pebble and tosses it into the water. It makes a 'plop' sound effect.
A sheep wanders close, its woolly body moving in the jerky animation he remembers from the game. Markle reaches out slowly and touches its coat.
"Soft," he says, surprised. "Not just pixels. Actually soft." The sheep makes a baaa sound and moves away, unperturbed by the contact.
The sun begins its descent toward the horizon. Markle knows what that means in this world. Night brings monsters. Danger.
"Should probably build a shelter," he says, standing up and surveying the area. "Unless the monsters talk too. Maybe they'll recognize me as the 'chosen one' as well."
He gathers more wood, working quickly now. The crafting comes easier with each attempt. His hands know what to do even if his mind still reels.
"Pro of helping the zombies: might learn more about why I'm here." He shapes wooden planks into a door. "Con: could unleash a monster that destroys everything."
Birds return to their invisible roosts as the sky dims. Markle has managed to build a small hut with walls, a door, and even a crafting table inside.
"Home sweet home," he says, stepping into the cramped space. "Not much different from my apartment, actually. Might be an upgrade."
Through the small window he's left, Markle watches the square sun sink below the horizon. The world begins to darken, pixel by pixel.
"Okay, pros and cons again." He sits on the floor of his hut. "Pro: I'm not staring at spreadsheets. Con: I might get blown up by a creeper."
The first stars appear in the sky, perfect pinpricks of light in a darkening canvas. Markle hears distant groans—the sound of zombies spawning.
"Those could be my zombie friends. Or regular zombies who want to eat my brains." He peers through the window cautiously. "Hard to tell the difference."
His wooden pickaxe rests against the wall. Tomorrow, he'll need to find stone, make better tools. The game knowledge comes back to him easily.
"If I'm really stuck here..." Markle says, watching the moon rise, "...I might as well play along. See where this dragon business leads."
He thinks about the real world, about his apartment with its leaky faucet and cracked ceiling. About his job where he felt invisible.
"Here, I'm the chosen one." A bitter laugh escapes him. "Even if it's just to zombies, that's more recognition than I ever got at work."
Night settles fully outside. Markle can hear the shuffle of hostile mobs, the twang of skeleton archers, the hiss of spiders. All so familiar, yet now terrifyingly real.
"Tomorrow," he decides, resting his blocky head against the wooden wall. "Tomorrow I'll start looking for whatever items these zombies need for their ritual."
Sleep doesn't come easily in this strange body, in this impossible world. But as the moon climbs higher, Markle finds his thoughts drifting.
"If I'm going to be trapped in a game," he murmurs as his consciousness fades, "at least it's one where I know the rules."
The darkness of the Minecraft night engulfs his tiny shelter. And for the first time since arriving, Markle Voig doesn't feel quite so lost.