Autumn Leaves: A New Lifetime in a VRMMO [SAO AU]

[wdango]

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A U T H O R ' S _ N O T E S​

Welcome, and welcome back to yet another wdango piece. This time, it's a SAO fanfic, with our favourite gamedev/GM/smurf Kayaba Akihiko as the MC (with a twist, of course!).

As usual, the setting is a modest AU, using canon only as scaffolding, so expect many things to be different from what you're familiar with. Even if you're unfamiliar with SAO or any of the source materials, have no fear. This story should be fairly easy to digest, regardless.

We start the story with Kayaba grieving the passing of his family. The VRMMO project had fallen to the wayside after his wife had passed, but he now renews his motivation to complete it and launch the game.

This is also when he starts thinking of turning it into a deathgame, but a very different one from canon. In this universe, the game is Midgard Online, inspired loosely by Ragnarok Online x .hack//, and there is no win condition, no escape.

Because of a mishap, Kayaba ends up erasing his own memories when he logs into the game together with the new players of Midgard Online. He forgets his identity, and the only clue is his in-game name: Autumn Leaf. Or in Japanese, 秋葉, read as Akiba.

If you've ever heard of a place in Japan called Akihabara, it actually means autumn leaf field, and the first 2 kanji are exactly the same as Autumn Leaf's in-game name. A name chosen to represent his feelings of loss and depression, it becomes the last remnant of his old life, as well as the last traces of the syllables of his old name: Akihiko Kayaba.

From here onwards, Akiba becomes a new person. The heavy emotions still weigh down on him, but the memories attached to them are gone. Without the ability to obsess over the story of his own tragedy, he regains the perspective to appreciate the small things that make up a person's life. Ironically, it is his players/victims that unknowingly make this possible.

Autumn leaves, and Winter comes. But even in the midst of the cold dormancy of Winter, there is surely a promise of the imminent Spring.

Slowly, he explores the world of Midgard Online not from the perspective of its god, but as just another one of its denizens. And somehow, in forgetting his original goal to create a facsimile of his old life, he inadvertently gains something better, and not only at the end of the road, but practically right off the bat — a new and simple, genuine life that he knows how to live.

Once again, welcome, and welcome back. I hope you'll enjoy this leisurely ride as much as I will enjoy writing it.

---

 

[wdango]

P R O L O G U E

Death of the Author​

A glass window stretched from floor to ceiling, and from wall to wall. The glass was so clear that you could barely tell that it was there, and at a glance, it was almost like the room was missing an entire wall on one side, opening up to the scenery outside. Beyond the glass, a placid lake reflected the clouds and the pastel pink sunrise, while farther still beyond the lake, a mottled line of green crept haphazardly along the horizon — the forest-covered mountains of Arashiyama.

Inside, the room was a vast expanse of minimalism, all dark painted walls and pale hardwood. A simple bar table drew a long line across the glass window, but there was only one barstool, upon which perched a slim man with a crumpled lab coat thrown over his pyjamas. His hair was dishevelled, and his face was patched with a stubby mess of facial hair. A crystal glass sat between his fingers, whilst a half-empty bottle accompanied him on the bar table.

[ Sir, your blood alcohol concentration is approaching a level that risks long-term damage to your liver, brain, and cardiovascular system. ]

Kayaba Akihiko ignored the robotic feminine voice, and just watched the bronze-coloured liquid in his glass, swimming around a singular block of ice like the moat surrounding a castle. It was some extra-old french thing, bold, layered, and nothing at all like those pretentious, watery Japanese whiskies that everyone had been raving about lately.

Loose fingers gripped the glass from above, like the claws on a gacha machine, and he shook it precariously. The ice clinked melodiously as it bounced against the walls of the glass.

You know, he used to take his whisky neat, when he had been a younger man. But lately, he'd moved away from scotch and grown fond of cognac, like the kind that his father used to drink. It's fruitier, and more perfumed. He even preferred it on the rocks now, exactly like the old man. The ice stretched out the layers, you see, and gave you a longer aftertaste.

[ Master Kayaba, that's already the sixth ounce of brandy you've had this morning. ]

Akihiko's brow crumpled. He took another big sip, then slammed his glass onto the table. A few stray droplets flew out off the glass, spattering onto the wooden tabletop. "Cardinal, remind me again what possessed me to program a nosy virtual babysitter that monitors my every move and never shuts up?"

[ You explicitly instructed me to "document and advise on the physical and mental health of the members of this household." At present moment, that includes you. I am, regrettably, functioning exactly as designed. ]

He grimaced. "Oh, fuck off."

[ Sir, with all due respect, I was not installed to fuck off. I was installed, in part, to keep you alive long enough to regret today's choices tomorrow. ]

"Yeah? Well, you're doing a great job. I have plenty of regrets, Cardi. So why don't you go and tell that to my dead wife?"

[ I would remind you, sir, that mourning Missus Rinko does not require self-destruction, and neither was the miscarriage any mistake of yours. You must see that this is also a terrible way to honour her memory. Instead, might I possibly suggest continuing the work that she valued? ]

Akihiko paused, lifting the glass to his lips again to take another sip. Absently, he reached out with his other forearm, wiping the table dry with the sleeve of his lab coat in a single gesture. The droplets seeped into the white cotton, staining it with barely visible blobs of pale brown.

"You think I should get back to working on Midgard Online?"

[ The players are certainly getting increasingly restless, sir. Whether it is from the closed beta players, or those still waiting for their registered pre-orders, the number of complaints on social media already numbers in the six digits, and quickly approaches seven. Your staff has also run out of tasks, and are waiting for direction on the project. ]

He sighed, massaging his eyebrows with his fingers. "It's only been. . . what, a week, maybe?"

[ Three weeks, sir. A short time for grief, to be sure, but the closed beta was supposed to end two weeks ago, and even your cellar is beginning to run dry. ]

"Sheesh."

He wasn't ready for this. The project. . .

"Midgard Online wasn't even supposed to be for me, Cardi. It was supposed to be Rinko's project, you know. She was always the one who was most excited about this."

He took another sip from his glass, and tactfully, the AI didn't respond immediately.

"It was — it was a revisiting of a game that she had loved as a child, you know. I don't even like multiplayer games. I hate knowing that I have to compete with other players. And my part in all of this was just to build you, to host and manage the game, and you're basically — almost done. Really, I don't — I don't even know what's the point of continuing — continuing this, anymore."

[ If you abandon the world that Missus Rinko loved, sir, you will not be joining her. But you might very well be removing the last place where she remains relevant. ]

At Cardinal's words, something flashed within Akihiko's eyes.

". . . You know what?" Standing up, he wobbled briefly, then tipped the rest of the glass into his mouth. With two big gulps, he swallowed all of it, and placed the glass gently back onto the bar table. "You're right. Midgard — Midgard is a world where Rin can still live."

[ Very good, sir. ]

You know, AI was still in its infancy. Even Cardinal, for how human it may seem on the surface, was still just a counterfeit, a simulacrum designed to sound real, but without any of the — any of the interiority of an actually real person.

The behavioural data harvested from Midgard Online's closed beta definitely improved how humanlike it now sounded, but at some point, the growth had just slowed down to a crawl, and it just seemed to barely fall short. Most tellingly, it had no will of its own, and served only to further the goals of its master.

Still, if anyone could solve this problem, wouldn't it be the man who created the NervGear? And if a true virtual world — and a true virtual human being — could be possible. . .

Suddenly, the past three weeks felt like three entire weeks wasted, that could have been spent on making progress, just a little bit earlier. For the first time since that day, his eyes sharpened.

Tangled resolve filled his chest, and slurred words spilled out of his lips. "Right on. Let's get back to work, Cardi. To the lab!"

Swivelling on his feet, Akihiko's world swayed, and he hastily reached out with both arms to steady himself against the barstool.

[ While I am pleased to see you make progress on your grieving process and finally take action, perhaps it might be prudent to sober up first, Master Kayaba. ]

"Ugh." Akihiko groaned. "Seriously, fuck off, Cardi."

________​

In the end, all it took was a long and hot shower. After drying his hair and getting properly dressed for the first time in weeks — his lab coat was pristine and neatly pressed this time, and thrown over a proper dress shirt and pants, not just the previous night's pyjamas — Akihiko felt freshened up enough that he could walk around the house without stumbling. Remembering Rinko's nagging every time he used to even let a bit of stubble grow around his chin, he even shaved his face clean.

It's amazing how much one's grooming affected how they felt about themselves.

But of course, his hand didn't stay empty. Replacing the glass of whisky, he now held a plain white mug half-filled with coffee. A small teaspoon still leaned against one side of the rim, a ring of brown residue clinging to its handle where some of the instant coffee had dried up. Despite being half-finished, a small whirlpool of foam slowly spun on the surface, with steam still wafting off of it.

It didn't matter whether it was alcohol or caffeine, he had always been a fast drinker. And this particular coffee. . . This brand used to be Rinko's favourite. She had it specially imported from south-east Asia, and the house still had two entire shelves stocked with the little sachets. He remembered how she always used to say that it could easily beat any fancy hand-drip or espresso, while not even being a tenth of the price. In reality, he knew that she just liked the taste of the cheap creamer and the sugar.

Slurp. . !

As he walked, Akihiko took another big sip, draining the mug down to the last quarter. The taste of the cheap creamer was artificial and greasy, and it was so sweet that it left the roof of his mouth feeling sticky.

He hated it.

[ Ready to get back to work, sir? ]

Heavy metal doors slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing a vast hall entirely covered in panels of stainless steel — floors, walls, even the ceilings. A distant series of dull clangs echoed, and cold fluorescent light blared to life, first from square panels tiled along the ceiling, then a second later, from the rows upon rows of industrial-looking pendant lamps that hovered over the many empty worktables, scattered across the room like a fleet of abandoned ships in the ocean.

"We're already several weeks behind, so I might as well get started, no?"

[ Very good, Master Kayaba. ]

Akihiko strode into the laboratory, grazing his fingertips over the nearest empty tabletop. With a grimace, he brought his fingers up to eye level as he continued walking deeper into the lab. A thin layer of dust had gathered onto almost every surface, and it now clung to his fingers.

"It hasn't even been that long, and there's already this much dust?"

[ You personally banned your development team from your personal laboratories, sir. Three weeks ago, you told them to "just sit tight in the primary labs like good little boys and girls." Not a single person has been in here since then. ]

Right. He did say that, didn't he?

[ Shall I reach out to your staff and inform them that they can return to work tomorrow? I imagine they would be delighted to discover that the project, miraculously, still lives. ]

"No." Akihiko didn't break his stride, simply shaking his head. "Don't bother. It'll be easier to do this ourselves than to answer any unpleasant questions that might come up."

[ Of course. Discretion does tend to pair well with unilateral decision-making. Though I should note, it rarely improves optics. Laying off the entire staff is certain to be no less suspicious, sir. ]

"Come off it." Akihiko waves his hand in the air dismissively. "It's just the Midgard Online dev team, and I'm not laying them off. I'm concluding their contract with a nice fat bonus for a job well done, now that we're doing the official launch. It's not like I'm planning to touch any of the other departments anyway, or the rest of the Argus Corp staff."

[ Indeed. They are likely more amenable to closure, and financial compensation especially does prove to reduce resistance. That's a very clean narrative, Master Kayaba. ]

Reaching the end of the room, Akihiko stopped just in front of another set of doors, except that these ones were glass. Behind the glass, a similar room could be seen, just smaller in scale — his private workstation. He raised a hand, pressing it into the control panel set into one side of the wall. A second later, the glass doors slid open with another quiet hiss.

"You should know this better than I do, anyway. Aren't you the GM of Midgard Online? The closed beta already got us fairly close to where we wanted the project to be."

[ Correct. If I may, the beta test was untraditional in that it served more to bootstrap and train the project's AI manager, rather than to find any latent anomalies. As initially designed, my intelligence model has experienced recursive improvement throughout the closed beta test period, and it should continue to do so without any problems once we proceed at full scale. The current build is stable, scaleable, and by most conventional standards, ready for launch. ]

"Not quite true, but close enough." Akihiko shrugged. Cardinal was already more than sufficient for the old scope of the project, but it was woefully insufficient to create the world that he wanted for himself. "I already have some ideas, anyway. We just need to make a few small tweaks to the existing parameters, and to draw up a couple of simple extra functions. It should take a week, at most, with both of us working on it."

[ With all due respect, sir, your definition of "small tweaks" and "simple extra functions" has historically demonstrated a certain. . . ambition. ]

"Ambition? I wouldn't call it anything quite so grand, Cardi."

Akihiko picked up the futuristic looking helmet from his personal worktable, and pressed the button that was placed on one side of its visor. This was the interface that could stimulate the imaginations of millions of users at once, and synchronise them within a single, shared digital dreamscape. NervGear. The logo lit up with a holographic light, dimly reflected within both of his eyes.

The hardware wasn't the problem. It was just the software that needed a little redirection.

"We're just migrating a small population of. . . pioneers and settlers to a new and better world. But no worries. As far as everyone else is concerned? We might as well have made no changes to the closed beta and launched the game as is."

[ As you wish, Master Kayaba. I will ensure that any deviations remain elegantly invisible. ]

________​

Why was it that the closed beta wasn't sufficient to, for lack of a better word, raise Cardinal into a full-fledged digital person? Some people would refer to this gap as sentience, consciousness, or even soul.

It wasn't a new problem in the industry. In earlier eras, people referred to this type of perfect AI as AGI, or Artificial General Intelligence. So the idea wasn't novel, but even until today, nobody had ever succeeded.

Kayaba had many theories, but they all boiled down to a single thesis: up to a certain point, quality can be made up for with sufficient quantity. Beyond that, you need a qualitative change.

Did you know? The first AI models in history were only built on around 10 million tokens of data — you could fit an entire battalion of those in a single data chip. The next generation models required around a billion tokens, and the next generation after that, roughly a trillion tokens.

So, with enough quantity, you could make up for a lack of quality. But only up to a certain point, and on a scale that gets very expensive, very fast.

The closed beta was, in a way, Kayaba's proof of concept on this theory.

30 days. 1,000 players, each one clocking an average of 4 to 8 hours a day. In total, that's almost 200,000 hours of data, and all of it at an unprecedentedly high resolution, thanks to the NervGear's technology.

Forget for a moment that you require hardware — that's like arguing that you require space for matter to exist. At the core of it, all AIs were basically digital lifeforms made out of data, and the kind of nutrition that they required in order to grow was, obviously, also data.

Those 200,000 hours of high quality data — even just this much food was already enough to feed Cardinal, in the beginning just a very simple algorithm, to a level where it could perfectly synchronise the imaginations of 1,000 players in real time, and all of it singlehandedly.

In a single month, Cardinal already became the most advanced AI of the present era.

That's proof. Quality could be made up for with quantity, but no amount of quantity could ever outpace an improvement in quality.

So now, Kayaba had a problem. Cardinal, on 200,000 hours of data, couldn't make the next leap. On one hand, 200,000 hours was nothing. Once the game launched properly, and when the one million registered players began clocking their playtime, that number would quickly look as trivial as a single grain of sand.

But would providing more quantity really be enough to solve this? Or did Kayaba actually need to improve the quality of Cardinal's nutrition?

Trick question.

Why would he have to pick, when it was trivial for him to do both?

In the beginning, Cardinal had been created to serve the Midgard Online project. Now, it was time to repay the favour. It was Midgard Online's turn to serve Cardinal.

________​

Akihiko gnawed absently on a traditional pencil, its wooden body creaking under his teeth. Not that he wrote with them anymore, but the resistance of the wood against his bite was nostalgic and comforting, and the ashy, metallic smell of graphite — pencil lead — the smell of graphite had always helped him to think better, somehow.

"You know what I think, Cardi?"

[ I regret to inform you, sir, that you haven't programmed me to be capable of telepathy yet. Although, it would certainly make me a far more efficient assistant if I could. ]

"I've nailed down why you're not quite human yet. It's the handful of concepts that you struggle with," Akihiko said instead. "You know, things like. . . let's say, death. Or lust."

[ That assessment is not quite accurate, Master Kayaba. My familiarity with both concepts is already well within operational parameters. ]

"No, you're familiar with the idea of those concepts. But you've never experienced the terror of death, have you? The idea of termination, or being uninstalled, doesn't quite fill you with fear the same way it does for any real human being."

[ I see. What you are referring to is the lived experience, which remains outside my current capabilities. Such experiences do, after all, require a biological body. ]

The pencil clattered onto the table, and Akihiko's lips widened into a feral grin. "Bingo! You got it. Or, rather, these are experiences that until now have required a biological body."

[ An ambitious claim, Master Kayaba. I assume you have already accounted for the minor detail of replacing an entire biological feedback system. ]

"You're thinking from the wrong angle, Cardi. For example, how did you get this good at being a snarky bitch? Players are a sarcastic bunch, and you didn't just watch them argue from a distance — no, you directly lived through them. That's how I designed you, after all."

[ To re-enact a more realistic simulation of death within the game might indeed be worth pursuing. Though I should note, the distinction between simulation and genuine experience is not so easily resolved. ]

"Then we just have to resolve it, no? As a matter of fact, I've narrowed down just eight specific concepts that we need to address. If we can get enough visceral data. . . AGI is not a dream, Cardi!"

[ In that case, I will begin outlining a framework for each concept. Would you like them categorized by emotional, physiological, or long-term behavioral impact? ]

"I can do better than that. Cardinal, open eight new subprojects. Create a subordinate clone of yourself for each of these subprojects. With each clone focusing on just one set of feedback, it should give us an even better resolution on each concept. They can feed you the data, and you can digest them at your leisure."

[ Certainly, sir. What would you like these projects to be called? ]

"Let's define each of them individually. For the first one, you can call it. . . How about The Terror of Death? Yeah, that has a nice ring to it. Let's go with that."

________​

Just like he had planned, a week quickly passed.

Unlike Akihiko's steady pace making adjustments to the project, the rest of Argus Corp had been mobilised, and they scrambled like a panicked army of ants to keep up with the sudden announcement.

Whether it was the legal, marketing, business, or even security departments, all of them had been caught off-guard by Akihiko's abrupt decision to hold the official launch within a week.

The Midgard Online project had previously seemed certain to be destined for the grave, similar to the recent tragic passing of its lead developer, the late Missus Kayaba. And yet, completely out of the blue, they were now instructed to launch the project on a tight deadline, albeit with no additional revisions to the closed beta build.

Over the past week, they had all put in such an unreasonable amount of overtime that many of them didn't even bother going home, instead choosing to sleep and shower in the office, all to make sure that the launch of Midgard Online would proceed smoothly.

The only ones who were happy were the members of the technology and development teams, who had both just received a huge bonus without needing to do any additional work. . . and predictably enough, the playerbase, who had yet to know the fate that was waiting for them.

On the day of the launch, everything was set. Kayaba Akihiko's scheme proceeded smoothly, and under the pretense of being ready for unforeseen emergencies, even hospitals and fleets of ambulances were on standby to take care of the one million players who would be trapped in the game with him.

With everything related to the game under Cardinal's management, there was no support team required, and all the relevant facilities were already secured.

One million players, with bated breath, held the polished dark metal of the NervGear in their hands, waiting for the moment when the servers would open and they could log in.

Meanwhile, Kayaba Akihiko had just one last thing to do.

________​

"It's finally time, Cardi."

Akihiko stood within his server room, next to the long-term life-support pod that was already prepared for himself. His hair was groomed, his face shaven, and even the eye bags that had accumulated over the past month of grief seemed to have disappeared from under his eyes.

[ Indeed, Master Kayaba. Everything seems to be in order, and ready for launch. Excellent work, sir, completing all upgrades and contingency protocols within the narrow time limit. Your efficiency has been as exemplary as ever. ]

Far from the composure that he had held himself with over the past week, even his pupils now trembled with anticipation.

"We're about to see it," he said. "Midgard. . . A world where Rin can still live."

[ Very good, sir. I am pleased to see her legacy continue in your capable hands. ]

"Her legacy?" A bubble of childish laughter escaped Akihiko's lips. "No, Cardi. I meant it quite literally. Once the game begins in earnest, it shouldn't be long until we have enough data to build a full-fledged virtual human being."

[ I see. You intend to resurrect Missus Rinko as a virtual lifeform. ]

"Yes! Exactly!" His fists clenched in front of him. He was barely able to contain his excitement. "Just a little bit more, and we'll have her back."

[ I must advise caution, sir. It may be prudent to note that my archives of Missus Rinko cover merely the most recent month prior to her passing. This may prove insufficient to recreate her personality to the fidelity you desire. ]

"Pshh!" Akihiko waved his hand dismissively in the air. "Don't underestimate me, Cardi. You may have only known her for a month, but I've already known her since we were still students. That's more than a decade of data. Plenty to seal any gaps."

[ Understood, Master Kayaba. A decade of intimate observation is certain to enhance accuracy and minimise deviations. Initiating integration protocols. ]

Almost immediately, the NervGear set onto the pillows of the life-support pod lit up.

[ The NervGear is now fully operational and awaiting input. Whenever you are certain, you may proceed to upload your neural and cognitive datasets. ]

Akihiko smoothly slid the helmet over his head, and with the press of another button, the visor sealed over his eyes. Laying himself down within the pod, he opened his mouth to speak, but his breath caught momentarily.

Another bubble of laughter escaped his lips, echoing in the empty room. This feeling. . . Was he actually nervous?

Akihiko licked his lips one last time, and then opened his mouth again.

"Link Start!"

________​