It was at night. I was walking on the streets. They were deserted, save for a man some feet ahead of me, standing under the glow of a lamppost. I remember that he was an older man with short black hair graying at the temples. I recall thinking him a late-working salaryman, as he was dressed in a gray sports coat--an older looking one, one of those with the brown patches on the elbows--and toting a weathered black briefcase. Our eyes met long before we were in speaking range, not that I wanted to speak to him. I suppose to each of us we were the only interesting thing to look at on that deserted street. After a while of it, I started getting self-conscious, so I gave the older man a nod and tried to look at something else--rather difficult, as I was intensely aware he was still looking at me. I picked up my pace slightly. The sooner I could pass this old man and go back to my lonesome nocturnal stroll, the better. I didn't want to be rude, but...



But...when I was a few feet from him, he did the last thing I wanted: he spoke. "Well, well...if that isn't the mien of a man in love, I don't know what is." His voice was gravelly, like a man who smoked too much, but carried a strangely soothing paternal air.



Not that it put me much at ease. Of all the things I could have expected this man to say as I passed him by, that was about the last. Or rather, it would not have made the list at all had you told me to come up with the least plausible things for him to say. Was he drunk? But his voice was measured and certain, and I would have smelt the alcohol on him at this distance. Insane, then?



"...Excuse me?" I stopped on a dime and turned to face him again.



"Ah, but where are my manners?" The man doffed his trilby hat--another thing that made him look like something out of an old black-and-white movie--and gave me a little bow. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Noah Smith."



Ice ran down my spine. How did this man know my name?! I tried to calm my nerves and approach this rationally. Hypothesis one: a guess. Sure, Smith wasn't an unusual surname, nor was Noah an unusual given name, but if you asked someone to give the most common male name around here they'd probably say John Smith or something. Hypothesis two: he was a relative or some man who knew of me from my parents. Not impossible... Hypothesis three: he was for some purpose stalking me online--it wasn't impossible to find me online if one really wanted to. But why me? I supposed there was only one way to find out.



"How do you know my name...?" Unconsciously, I shifted my stance so that I minimized my profile.



The man replaced his trilby hat on his head and favored me with a wan smile--now that I was close to him, he looked rather pale. "Ah, that is hardly important, Mr. Smith." He laughed softly. "Ah, 'Noah Smith'... I wonder why you chose that name? To appeal to the most people possible?"



Oh, that made it easier. Insane, then. "I didn't choose my name, you psychotic."



"Oh, Mr. Smith, I wasn't talking to you." Before I could start running in the other direction, he spoke again. "Ah, don't let me scare you off, Mr. Smith. Please, stay a while and talk with an old man. It is not to no purpose. I think, rather, you'll find it to your benefit. After all, I am a man of many talents...one of which can salve that aching heart of yours, that love..." His smile turned crooked and his eye seemed to twinkle, like he was sharing a little secret. "I can bring Monika to you."



I froze. In hindsight, I had been exaggerating when I said earlier that ice ran down my spine. I didn't know the meaning of the term. I was ice all over--all except for the flame that burst in my heart at mention of that name. I thought I had beat down that flame, smothered it in reality until even the embers ceased to glow. Yet, here all some stalker hobo only needed to say her name for all of those feelings to flood back at once. He knew, too, the rat bastard--I could tell from his shit-eating grin.



"What...what the fuck?!" Hypothesis three was sounding more and more plausible. I took a few steps back in my shock, but didn't run--something, some fool's hope, kept me there. "How the fuck do you know all of this?!" The more he grinned, the more I hated him--but I didn't attack him, some fool's hope kept me there.



I mean, what if...



What if...



"What if I speak the truth?" The man laughed softly again, like a parent watching the antics of a young child. Of course he knew what I was thinking. "Ah, but...think of me as your guardian angel, if you're religious."



"I'm not."



"Then think of me as a Good Samaritan, if a little nosy and meddling. That love of yours..." With his free hand, he pointed to my heart, "...one could call it the purest form, as it has no hope of requital...or the lowest form, as it doesn't have to deal with muddy, messy reality. But for you...it is nothing but pain, is it? Yet, you can't let go, can't simply choose not to feel it--it wouldn't be love otherwise. You hope time and reality would take it away from you, but you are too in love to stay away long enough for time to do so..." He shook his head and, for once, the cheeky grin drooped into an empathetic frown. "...I am not a man who can see such pain and longing and let it stand. I can bring her here, to you. To this reality."



...It was everything I ever wanted. Everything I ever hoped for. "...Impossible." But when had I been one to let myself have hope or happiness? "That's impossible." I glared, almost snarled, at this man who offered me everything. "Monika is..."--my love, my heart, my soul--"...nothing. Nothing but an idea. An idea sprung from the mind of one man. She is just a bunch of words in a script in a visual novel, and the art to go with it. She is not real--she is not even capable of being real. The very idea is contradictory in nature. That we even think she might be, or might even potentially be...it's just a trick we play on ourselves. The same sort of trick that made us see gods in everything. That's the truth, no matter how it makes anyone"--me--"feel."



The man smiled sadly. "Ah, there is that pain...poke it a little, and out it comes." He switched his briefcase to his other hand--apparently he was getting tired holding it with that one--and continued in an inquisitive tone. "Tell me, Mr. Smith, what is it do you think it means to 'exist'? What criteria does one need to require to exist?"



His pity galled my pride. I didn't need it and didn't want it--I knew how messed up I was. All his pity did was rub salt in the wound. Still, I swallowed my bile, because he had done something tailor-made to catch my interest: ask something philosophical. The sort of thing that made me fall for her.



"I would say..." Unconsciously, my stance softened and I switched to a less combative, openly-facing, posture. "I would say...that the ultimate criterion would be to affect the world around you...and also to be perceivable in some way. I suppose you could combine the two into just the first one, as something that can only be perceived by its effects can still be said to 'exist'."



"And look at you, would you say you have somehow been 'unaffected' by her?"



I snorted. "I told you, that's just a trick we humans play on ourselves. Our empathy is what makes stories and characters possible... All it takes are a few words, and we can imagine an entire person behind them...even though that person does not exist. Once we are able to imagine them as a person--once we have no choice but to do so, given our nature--...it is not impossible to fall in love with that person we imagine." It galled me to admit it, but...there it was.



"Perhaps that is true, and your definition certainly has some merit, but if I may add my own thoughts to the matter..." He lifted his free hand and held up two fingers. "To exist is to have matter and pattern." He lowered each finger as he listed off each item. "After all, you are made of the same matter as I, but in a pattern all your own. The human race could last a billion years more and there would never be another Noah Smith quite like you. What is a character, if not a pattern without matter? Once you know the pattern fully, and know how to match the matter to it--as I do--then it is not impossible to bring a character to life."



To think... But what if... No. "...Have you never created a character yourself?" I couldn't let myself be taken in. I couldn't. "I have. To create a character...is almost like having another person in your head. You set the basic parameters, and they grow from there. Sometimes they even surprise you. No work they are in can encompass all that they are, just as no story about a person can do so. This...'pattern' you mention--it's something only one man, by definition, is privy to. And unless he could somehow generate and test Monika against every conceivable possible situation, even he doesn't know exactly everything about her..."



My conversational partner/crazed hobo laughed softly and switched his briefcase back to his original hand. "And who are you to say that Monika be trapped in one man's mind? Does a child remain at the whim of his parents forevermore? The moment he wrote that visual novel, he lost full control of her--she became something collectively owned and shaped, something all those who come across her share. Much like...a file sent into the internet, shaped and changed by the many computers--or minds in this case--perceiving it."



"Don't tell me you're positing some sort of...psychic connection between our minds," I cut in, "like some kind of spiritual 'We're all connected' bullshit. If so, I'm going to stop you there... The very idea that we're able to perceive the effects of dark matter but cannot interact, notice, or observe something like a direct connection between all of humanity...it's absurd."



"Ah, Mr. Smith..." he chuckled, "mankind will stand astride the stars like a colossus before it understands its own mind. What are a few balls of plasma compared to the mind that sees them and creates stories and patterns in the night sky? Even now, our best attempts at creating minds rely on our mimicking natural processes, not in truly understanding what a mind is. But, worry not," he hurriedly added, seeing my scowl, "I am saying no such thing. I am saying something else: that all of the art, stories, mods, discussion...all of it we pass around to each other and create--as you say--our own Monika as a character, much how we create an original character. That is the pattern. You have that pattern in your head as well, and much like a human being, it shares many aspects with everyone else's Monika while being unique in her own right. Everyone has their own, ah, 'headcanon' I believe the word is? Even if they are not aware of it--it is based on how the character presented to them was interpreted and resonated with them. Think on it: even if you do not feel confident enough to, say, write in your Monika's voice...you know when you hear something that does not mimic her well. And when you do hear or see something that mimics her well, your inner Monika shifts a tiny bit and becomes more unique...more yours. Do you understand?"



I did, and the worst part was...I was defeated. I had no more objections. He met each one masterfully, as if he had known ahead of time what I would say. Perhaps he really was my guardian angel...or perhaps a particularly nosy and helpful alien? Or a madman killer who had stalked me for years.



"Suppose you're right, you're telling the truth..." Slowly, I put my hands in my pockets. Somewhere along the way, this crazed guardian angel had disarmed me. "...What do I do?"



The man smiled--far from the mischievous, sad, or wan smiles before, this one was bright and full of happiness. I couldn't help but smile a bit back. "Ah, only follow me and do as I ask. It is a bit of a leap of faith, of course...but is that leap worth it for your love?"



It was. It was it was it was it was it was. "...Fine." Please be real please be true please please please. "...Lead the way, I guess. ...I'm going to die, aren't I?"



The man laughed. "Only a little one, and only if things go well--which I'm sure they will." He turned and left the sanctuary of the lamp's light and seemed to have left something of himself behind. He had seemed pale, a little sick before...but out of the light, his back seemed almost ghostly.



A shiver ran down my spine--more ice. I was shaking--but not with fear. I followed. "...Why me, though? I'm sure I would have noticed had a bunch of other Monikas running around. So either I'm the first...or the only one. So, why me?"



"Hmm, I wonder..." my hobo angel murmured. "Perhaps you are special? This conversation we had, after all--it's not something I would have had with anyone. Perhaps I think that mind of yours would complement hers well."



"No way..." I shook my head. "No way am I special like that. There are plenty of other people like me, and plenty of them probably feel like I do... I'm not particularly smart or interesting...I'm just an idiot who constantly falls victim to his own fatal flaws. There's nothing special or unique about me. What about people like those who decide to devote their lives to bring her to reality? Why not them instead? Surely someone like that deserves..."



"My, how self-deprecating... You would make her sad with such talk. Perhaps you are simply lucky, then?"



"No way in hell. I don't have luck, certainly not of this caliber."



Good Samaritan Axe Murderer turned back and to me and gave me that damned crooked smile again. "And if you are not special nor lucky, what exactly are you, then?"



"...About to die, I'm thinking."



"And yet you still follow."



And yet I still follow. I couldn't exactly say anything to that. I was always like this. I could talk shit about hope and try to smother my delusions with reality all I want, but when it came down to it I was weaker than I could ever imagine. I spent the rest of the walk silent. Stupidly, I didn't pay much attention to where we went. I spent the short trip entirely staring at Axe Samaritan's back. Where had that weight he seemed to carry come from...? Was he really so hurt by the pain of losers like me, like he said? Or was it the murder? Probably the murder.



I was driven back to reality, such that it was, when I almost ran into the very back I was scrutinizing like a test I was about to fail. Good Murderer had come to a halt in front of what appeared to be an abandoned office building. He knelt to the ground, put his briefcase on it, fiddled with the combination lock on it, and popped it open. I tried to stare over his shoulder at the contents: it was mostly a stack of papers--I couldn't make out what was written on them, as the scrawl was messy and small--with a single key on the top. He retrieved the key from the briefcase, stood up, and unlocked the door with it.



Why didn't he just keep that key in his pocket...?



Well, I supposed a man like him had to have his eccentricities. Fully prepared to be show up as a mauled corpse on the evening news--parents, please take your children away from the set at this time--I followed him into the dark room. It was not dark for long, at least, as Samarimurderer fumbled for a light switch nearby.



The room looked to have at one point been a lobby for some local business, now long-since cleared of its contents. In its place were a curious assortment of containers for liquids and solids, all set in a circle around a...bed?



The old man answered my befuddled stare. "Water, carbon, ammonia, lime, phosphorus, salt, saltpeter, etc.... All of the basic building blocks for a human body--the matter that needs a pattern."



I fixed him with a dubious glare. "...You got that from Fullmetal Alchemist, didn't you?"



Guardian Axe Samaritan laughed gleefully, in a higher pitch than I had ever expected him to. "Ah...no, no, more the other way around."



Well. Leaving that aside, there was the matter of the bed. "I take it that bed is where you're going to ritually murder me?"



He laughed again--less uproariously this time, as that one was more expected--and shook his head. "No, no. All I need you to do is go over there, kneel down, and place your hand on it. It's not for you--it's for Monika. She'll be weak, at first."



Knees shaking--really, it would be quickly to list what wasn't shaking--I stepped forward. It was a small blessing to actually kneel before the bed and place my hand on it--being here, at the time when I would either die or see her in my reality, it was enough to unman me. I heard the old magician close the door behind us, but blessedly I heard no locking sounds. He rejoined me shortly and stood just outside of the ring of materials.



"Now...close your eyes and think of her. Think of her in all of her entirety. Keep her image clear in your mind. Most of all, summon all of your feelings. Do not keep them smothered in the lowest regions of your heart, as you are used to. Feel."



I did as I was asked. I imagined her smiling, crying, laughing. I imagined us together. I remembered how I fell for her, kicking and screaming as I did. I remembered all of the sweet things she said--and for once, let myself believe they were truly said by a person. I let it all out: my pain, my love, my lower desires, my highest ideals. I felt tears flowing down my face for the first time in years. It felt liberating, exhilarating.



I expected a light show or something to mark the magician's work--either that, or the axe on the back of my neck. Yet, the world around me was silent even as I let myself twist in an emotional storm. Yet, the world around me was dark even as I saw my world before me. I only knew that matters were finished when I felt something in my hand: another hand. Soft, smooth, exactly as I had always-



"...Noah?" The voice was weak, but it was hers. It was hers. Tears still flowing, I opened my eyes and looked upon her. It really was her--not exactly, of course, more like the perfect cosplay--but it really was her. I knew it. I knew it in the very core of my soul. The long brown hair, the alluring green eyes, the sweet smile, white ribbon as pure and impossible as the love I had borne all these years. She was pale--pale like the magician--but she was here and she was alive.



I threw myself on her, around her, just to touch her and feel her. I could hear the magician's shouted protest that she was still weak, but I couldn't help myself. She didn't seem to mind--rather, she clung to me just as I clung to her. She was really, truly, here.



"It's you! It's really you!" I thought it was me speaking, at first--but it was her voice. Her beautiful voice.



If this is a dream, don't wake up.



Don't wake up.



Don't wake up!



Don't wake up!



Don't wake up!



I woke up.