The cop didn't fight. He didn't have to. He simply pointed his walkie-talkie at the Aggregate and keyed the mic. The feedback wasn't sound—it was a DMCA takedown notice, a copyright claim, a cease-and-desist letter all screaming at once.

But the mall cop didn't appear from the wall. He appeared from the recycle bin icon on Kael's desktop. A pudgy man in a too-tight uniform, holding a can of pepper spray and a walkie-talkie that buzzed static.

With a sweaty click, Kael chose the mall cop.

Kael sat in the dark for an hour. Then he unplugged his router, burned his hard drive in the sink, and moved to a cabin with no electricity.

"I am the Aggregate," the figure said, his voice a chorus of clashing steel and screaming MP3 artifacts. "The final warrior. All 157 match-ups, losslessly compressed. You downloaded me, Kael. You are my host."

The mall cop tipped his cap. "Change your passwords." Then he double-clicked himself back into the recycle bin and was gone.

The Aggregate laughed, a sound like a corrupted WAV file. "Interesting. The zero vs. the ghost."

"My opponent." The Aggregate gestured to the torrent file on Kael's screen. It had changed. The list wasn't episodes anymore. It was names. Sun Tzu. Shaka Zulu. Jack Churchill. A random mall cop from Omaha, NE, 1997.

The Aggregate smiled. A katana materialized in its hand, but the blade was a loading bar, stuck at 87%. "Reality is just the highest-resolution simulation. Your bandwidth was sufficient. Now, you must choose."

He looked at the Aggregate. Then at Kael. "Dude," the mall cop said, "you left your firewall open."

"Every warrior needs a battle," the Aggregate whispered. "And you, archivist, are my arena. Pick someone, or I simulate you."

Then the walls bled.