CONVERTING WORKER #007... #008... #009...

He did what any player would do. He located his stockpile—a paltry pile of 20 planks, 15 stone, 200 gold. No wheat, no iron. He ordered a woodcutter’s hut. The serfs that materialized weren't pixels. They were hollow-eyed men in scratchy tunics who moved with the jerky, exhausted gait of people who had built this same hut a thousand times before on a thousand lost maps.

The screen didn't flicker. It liquefied . The pixels of his Windows desktop ran like hot wax, coalescing into a sand-colored vortex that sucked the air from his room. His chair vanished. His desk. The taste of cola and solder was replaced by the dry, metallic tang of sun-baked limestone and fresh blood.

The first wave wasn't human.

When his first woodcutter collapsed of heatstroke—the blue ribbon logged it as Worker #003: STATUS: FRIED —the man didn't vanish. He lay there, a waxen effigy, until a cloud of flies decided he was a new landmark. Morale, a statistic Leo had always ignored, plummeted from 50% to 12%. His remaining four serfs didn't strike. They just sat down in the dust and stared at nothing.

DIFFICULTY: IMPOSSIBLE (REVISED) AI: SALADIN (UNSHACKLED), RICHARD (PARANOID), THE RAT (INFINITE)