ULTRON
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The heart monitor's rhythm cuts through the sterile silence of my hospital room. Most days I turn it off—the constant reminder of my fragile existence grates on me—but today, I need it. Need to know I'm still here. Still breathing.
For a few more hours, at least.
It's 10:00 PM. By midnight, Yggdrasil's servers shut down forever, taking my only escape with them. Physical therapy and endless tests devoured my day, leaving me no time in the virtual world where my broken body doesn't matter.
I run my fingers over the rail of my hospital bed. Osteogenesis Imperfecta—brittle bone disease—means even this simple movement carries risk. My slightly bent arms and legs, twisted since I first attempted to crawl as an infant, ache with the effort.
But that's just the beginning of my medical nightmare.
At twelve, the doctors diagnosed Osteonecrosis—my bones decaying from within as blood vessels fail to reach them. Then came the Muscular Dystrophy, my muscles gradually weakening, withering away like dying vines.
Three devastating conditions. OI from recessive genes carried by both parents—a cruel genetic lottery. The other two? Pure, random bad luck. No family history. No warning.
Depression crashed over me in waves as each treatment failed, each therapy proved useless. My body betrays me daily. Every dream I've ever had shattered like my bones.
What's next? Cancer? Better not jinx it.
I glance at the clipboard beside my bed. The MAID paperwork—Medical Assistance In Dying—signed and ready. At 26, I've lived longer than expected, but what kind of life? Trapped in this room, unable to perform basic tasks without help, breaking bones from the simplest movements.
My online friends—scattered across the world with their jobs, families, real lives—are the only connections I have. And Yggdrasil, my sanctuary, vanishes at midnight.
The weight of the nurse's sadness when she took my paperwork lingers in the room. Rose. Kind Rose who never complains when helping me, who chatted about her upcoming date with Charlie while changing my IV.
"I hope he treats you right, Rose," I whisper to the empty room. "Someone with your heart deserves the best. Sorry aboot the paperwork, eh? No hard feelings?"
My fingers tremble as I reach for my VR headset. 11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes left.
"Damn it, hurry up," I mutter as the system boots. "Just gotta hang in there for one last hoorah."
[LOADING: Nazarick—9th floor: Royal Suite]
[START]
"Hey, it's been a really long time, huh, Momonga?"
HeroHero's voice oozes exhaustion, matching his avatar—a purple slime literally melting into his chair, dripping onto the round table. Across from him sits Momonga, a towering seven-foot undead mage draped in ornate robes, emerald flames flickering in his eye sockets.
"I didn't expect to see you, HeroHero!" Momonga leans forward, skeletal fingers interlaced. "It's been what...two years?"
"Has it really?" The slime ripples with surprise. "This is bad... I've been working so much overtime that my sense of time is completely distorted..."
"Isn't that a bad sign?" Concern radiates from Momonga as he watches his friend liquify further.
HeroHero ignores the question, surveying the opulent meeting room before sighing, "My body? It's completely worn out..."
The skeleton flinches at the confession. HeroHero, sensing the darkening mood, pulls himself together, his amorphous form solidifying slightly. "I'm sorry... I didn't come here just to complain."
"Don't worry at all!" Momonga's voice brightens instantly. "Everything's perfectly fine!" A cheerful emote flashes above his skull.
"I need to log off soon. I'm extremely tired," HeroHero says, menu already materializing before him.
"Get some rest!" Momonga waves, keeping his tone light despite his disappointment.
"Sorry about this," HeroHero says quickly. "But I'm surprised the Great Tomb of Nazarick is still here. You've been maintaining it as guild leader?"
"Nazarick was built by all of us. Of course I'd keep it maintained." Momonga shrugs. "Ultron helps too."
"I can't believe it's been ages since I last saw him!" HeroHero perks up. "How's he doing?"
"Shows up almost every night like clockwork," Momonga replies, pride evident in his voice.
"Pass on my thanks to him, would you?" The slime avatar brightens. "And I appreciate all your effort too!"
"Absolutely..."
"Can't wait to see you in real life!" HeroHero exclaims with genuine warmth.
[HERO HERO HAS LOGGED OFF]
Momonga stares at the empty space where his friend vanished. "...Hey... It's the last day. Couldn't you stay until the end?" His shoulders slump. "No... I'm just happy he came at all. 'See you IRL,' huh?"
BANG!
His bony fist slams against the table, the immortal wood absorbing the impact without a scratch. "Are you serious?!" His voice cracks with emotion—hurt, exhaustion, abandonment.
"Honestly, Jesus Murphy, you're such a drama king," a new voice slices through his spiraling thoughts. "Having yourself a little pity party there, bud?"
[ULTRON HAS LOGGED ON]
Momonga's head snaps up. In the doorway stands a gleaming silver automaton with jack-o'-lantern features, red light glowing from every joint and seam. His mechanical body somehow manages to project confidence and amusement with each subtle movement.
"Ultron?!"
"In the flesh! So to speak, haha!" Ultron spreads his arms dramatically, metal palms facing upward. "Sorry I'm late—just oot and aboot, taking care of a few things before the big shutdown."
"And you call me a drama queen..."
"Because you ARE, you overgrown Jack Skellington!" Ultron swaggers into the room, pointing accusingly. "The whole fist-slamming, woe-is-me routine? Pure cliché!" He strikes a thoughtful pose, finger tapping his metallic chin. "Though you really should consider acting, eh? That performance was entrancing! Give you two thumbs up if I was wearing mittens right now."
Momonga rolls his nonexistent eyes, but can't suppress a smile. It's barely been a day since they last met, but Ultron's distinctly Canadian humor and eccentricities never fail to lift his spirits. He stands, moving toward the golden staff displayed prominently in the room's center as Ultron continues his theatrical monologue.
"I swear, I was almost brought to tears! What are you even doing over there? Having a moment? Should I grab you a double-double to calm your nerves?"
"Do you recall what this is, Ultron?" Momonga interrupts, mischief glinting in his eye sockets as he gestures toward the staff, its jewels catching the light.
"The Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown, ya hoser!" Ultron snorts, slipping easily into more pronounced Canadianisms when excited. "Though the name needs work... Remember when Wish III fought with his wife aboot gathering materials for it? Told her he was just going oot for a rip to collect some dragon scales, but ended up gaming for three days straight? Good times."
Momonga laughs softly, nostalgia washing over him. "Those truly were the golden days..."
"Let's head to the throne room, eh!" Ultron suggests, bouncing on his metal heels. "Sounds like an adventure, doesn't it?"
"Is that your Canadian coming through?" Momonga teases as they exit the council chamber.
"I have no idea what you're talking aboot, ya Japanese bastard—can't pronounce your Ls, ya goof! HA!"
"HEY! I'm getting better, you know!"
"I know, I'm just chirping ya. Stop rattling your bones, will you!" Ultron slaps Momonga's back with enough force to make the skeleton stumble forward. "Sorry 'bout that! Sometimes forget my own strength, even in here."
Their laughter echoes down the hallway—a genuine sound that transforms the massive, empty guild into something warmer, even if just momentarily. Ultron has always had this effect—sometimes abrasive, occasionally inappropriate, but undeniably alive. His tendency to sprinkle "eh" and "aboot" into conversation, along with the occasional "buddy" or "bud," marks him unmistakably as Canadian. Despite being a decade younger than Momonga, they operate as equals in this world—both at level 100, maximum power.
Momonga, the pure mage. Ultron, the magical automaton hybrid capable of both magic and physical combat. M.As can utilize artifacts and weapons that enhance their abilities—making Ultron potentially more dangerous than Momonga, a fact that sometimes makes the skeleton regret his race choice.
They round a corner and encounter a group waiting silently—six maids in pristine uniforms and an impeccably dressed butler. As the players approach, the NPCs bow in perfect synchronization. Ultron's triangular eyes flicker with amusement.
"Sebas and the Pleiades," he muses. "Should we take them for a walk, Mugs? Give 'em one last tour before we pack it in for good?"
"Of course—it's the last day after all." Momonga pauses. "What was the command again?"
"Just hit that 'Follow' button, and you're all set! Not rocket science, ya know." Ultron taps his metallic temple with a hollow clang.
"Right. Follow."
The NPCs rise fluidly and fall into step behind them. The procession moves in silence, Momonga lost in thought while Ultron amuses himself by sneaking behind his friend, making bunny ears above the skeleton's skull with his metallic fingers, then spreading his arms in mock innocence whenever Momonga glances back suspiciously.
"Didn't we assign them to guard the throne room?" Ultron asks suddenly, breaking the silence as he scratches at a non-existent itch on his metal face—a habit carried over from his real body.
"Yeah, but no player has ever made it this far," Momonga replies, snapping back to the present.
They pause before the massive doors leading to the throne room, ornate carvings depicting the guild's greatest victories covering every inch of the surface.
"Isn't today your birthday, Ultron?" Momonga asks unexpectedly.
"Oh fer sure, bud! What's got you curious, Mr. Rattle Me Bones?" Ultron rocks back on his heels, a distinctly human mannerism that looks oddly charming on his mechanical frame.
"Just thinking about something." A smile enters Momonga's voice. "Happy birthday, Ultron!"
"Thanks, my guy. It really means a lot." Though his jack-o'-lantern face can't change expression, there's genuine warmth in his voice. "Beauty way to end things, eh?"
The doors swing open, revealing a cathedral-like space where 42 banners hang from the vaulted ceiling—one for each absent guild member. The maids and butler separate from them, taking positions along the walls as Momonga approaches the throne while Ultron's attention fixes on Albedo, the succubus guardian standing motionless beside the seat of power.
"Ahh, Albedo..." Ultron murmurs, stepping closer to her, metal fingers gently tracing the outline of her perfect face. "Look at you there, gorgeous as always, eh?" She maintains her programmed smile, unresponsive to his touch.
"You've always had a soft spot for her, haven't you?" Momonga teases.
"Look at her—she's gorgeous," Ultron responds without embarrassment, his Canadian accent softening. "A flower that will never wither, beautiful forever—at least until the clock strikes zero." He turns back to his friend, metal shoulders shrugging in a distinctly human gesture. "I'm just enjoying Nazarick's sights while I can, including our guardian leader. Sorry if that's weird, bud."
"Hmmm..." Momonga taps his chin thoughtfully. "How about I give you a birthday present?"
"A birthday present?" Ultron's interest peaks, his posture straightening with excitement. "Aww, you shouldn't have, eh?" He approaches Momonga, head tilted curiously. "What's up? Not a toque, is it? Already got plenty of those back home."
"I don't think the other members would mind if I do this, so... what the hell." Momonga's tone grows serious. "Ultron, what would happen if I made you guild leader?"
Ultron freezes, his mechanical body suddenly still as a statue.
"Holy smokes, really?" The words emerge barely audible. "That's... that's one heck of a birthday present." Emotion floods his voice. "I accept if you'd have me. You're not just pulling my leg here, are ya?"
Momonga opens a menu with a practiced gesture, fingers dancing through the interface. A confirmation appears before him, and he accepts without hesitation. He lifts the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown—the guild's greatest treasure—and presents it to Ultron.
"It's done. You are now guild leader of the Great Tomb of Nazarick!"
Ultron stands motionless, overwhelmed. In all his years of gaming, through countless raids and battles, nothing has ever moved him like this simple act of friendship. The best birthday gift possible, even with only minutes remaining before the servers shut down forever.
"Thank you, Mugs. This means a lot to me..." His mechanical voice catches slightly. "Sorry, eh? Got something in my eye. Probably maple syrup or something."
"I'm glad..." Momonga steps back. "I'm going to log off now... let you enjoy the throne!"
"What is a throne without its subjects? Stay a bit longer, won't ya?"
"I don't know, Guild Leader" —Momonga emphasizes the title with amusement— "but I'm retiring! Haha."
"Take off, hoser," Ultron says with affection. "Goodbye, Mugs."
"See you!"
[MOMONGA HAS LOGGED OFF]
Alone now with the silent NPCs, Ultron approaches the throne, staff in hand. He examines the intricate craftsmanship, running his metal fingers over the carvings that tell the story of their guild's conquest of this dungeon.
Let's hope you're comfy, bud.
The staff hovers beside the throne as he sits, taking in the vast room with its hanging banners and silent guardians. His attention returns to Albedo, who stands perfectly still, awaiting commands.
"I should probably give my first order as guild leader, eh?" He adopts a regal posture, unable to resist adding his linguistic signature even in this solemn moment. "Kneel."
Instantly, every NPC drops to one knee—the battle maids, Sebas, and Albedo—heads bowed in perfect submission. Satisfaction warms through him, followed by curiosity. Reaching out, he opens Albedo's character script, scrolling through her programmed behaviors.
After reading for a few minutes, he begins to snicker.
"A bitch? Tabs always did have a thing for these types of characters..." He chuckles. "Let's change that... Hope you don't mind, Tabs. Sorry for the tampering, but when in Rome, eh?"
He deletes the code describing her as difficult and pauses, cursor blinking.
"What should I replace it with? Ha! Eh, what the hell."
His fingers move decisively:
"She is madly in love with [Ultron]."
He laughs at his small transgression before sighing heavily. "Just a bit of harmless fun before the end, right?" The reality crashes back—she won't truly move or speak as though she loves him. She'll remain frozen in her programmed pose, the script meaningless in these final moments.
In his real body, he feels the pinch of the needle. The MAID procedure has begun.
The countdown appears in his vision:
00:00:07
00:00:06
00:00:05
00:00:04
It was fun. Really fun. Goodbye, Rose, Mugs, and all of you. I'll see you in the next life, eh? Maybe we can grab a double-double together sometime.
00:00:01
00:00:00
Then something impossible happens.
00:00:01
00:00:02
00:00:03
"WHAT THE FUCK?!"