Cubicle to Cube World

"Markle, did you submit the Thompson report?" The voice of Rachel, his ever-diligent colleague, sliced through the quiet atmosphere of office air conditioning.

Markle didn't look up from his monitor. "Of course, Rachel. Right after I finished cataloging my shattered dreams and ambitions for the day."

Rachel rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a grin. "Sarcasm isn't a coping mechanism, Markle."

"Says the queen of passive-aggressive sticky notes," Markle shot back, finally swiveling his chair to face her. His blue eyes glinted with mischief, though they betrayed the exhaustion etched into his features.

Rachel sighed, handing him another stack of papers. "Here. Mr. Briggs said you're the only one who can handle the projections for next week."

Markle groaned, flopping back in his chair. "Briggs says that because he knows I won't say no. It's not a compliment, it's workplace exploitation."

"Or maybe it's because you're good at what you do," Rachel suggested gently with a teasing tone.

"Good at being a human doormat, maybe," he muttered, accepting the papers with a theatrical grimace. "Thanks for being the messenger of doom, by the way."

Rachel hesitated, looking like she wanted to say more but ultimately decided against it. "Just don't stay too late. Again," she said, giving him a pointed look before heading back to her desk.

The office emptied slowly over the next few hours. Desks that once buzzed with keyboards and quiet chatter fell silent as Markle remained rooted in his chair and the glow of his monitor the only light illuminating his workspace.

"Great," he mumbled to himself, scanning through the seemingly endless spreadsheet. "Another Friday night well spent. Who needs friends or hobbies when you've got data entry and a boss who thinks work-life balance is a myth?"

Markle's phone buzzed beside him, the screen lighting up with a message from his friend, Max: "You coming out tonight? Karaoke awaits!"

He stared at the message for a moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a sigh, he locked the screen and returned to his work.

The clock struck ten when Mr. Briggs' voice startled him. "Still here, Markle?"

Markle didn't bother hiding his irritation as he turned. "Just wrapping up your latest masterpiece, boss. Careful, or I might start charging overtime."

Briggs chuckled, though there was little humor in it. "Dedicated as always. Well, don't burn yourself out. We've got a big quarter ahead."

"Of course, sir," Markle replied, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. As Briggs walked away, Markle muttered under his breath, "Big quarter, small paycheck."

Finally, at close to midnight, Markle saved his work and powered down his computer. He stood, stretching out the knots in his back and glancing out the window. The city was dark and wet, rain streaking the glass in endless rivulets. He grabbed his coat, muttering to himself as he headed for the elevator.

"Another day, another dollar… or maybe a quarter if you account for inflation."

The sarcasm was a thin veil, barely covering the weariness that weighed him down. All Markle could think about as he stepped into the rain was the promise of his warm, cramped apartment and the blissful oblivion of sleep.

Markle trudged through the rain, his coat doing little to shield him from the relentless downpour. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, but he didn't bother checking it. He already knew it was Max, probably sending some poorly sung voice memo of tonight's karaoke escapades.

"Yeah, Max, because that's what I need right now," he muttered, stepping into a puddle that immediately soaked through his worn shoes. "Perfect. Just perfect."

The city streets were nearly deserted, the sound of rain on asphalt punctuated only by the occasional car splashing past. Markle's thoughts drifted as he walked as if his body were on autopilot. Another late night, another thankless grind. The weight of it all pressed down on him, turning each step into a slog.

By the time he reached his apartment, the rain had seeped into every fiber of his clothing. He fumbled with his keys, cursing under his breath when they slipped from his numb fingers and clattered to the ground.

"Of course," he groaned, stooping to pick them up. "Why not? Go ahead, universe. Pile it on."

He finally managed to open the door, stepping into the small, cluttered space he called home. Tossing his soaked coat onto the nearest chair and letting out a long sigh.

"Home sweet—" His words were cut off by a sneeze. "—home. Great. Add pneumonia to the list."

His apartment was as uninspired as his current mood, a kitchenette with mismatched dishes piled in the sink, a threadbare couch, and a small desk cluttered with papers and takeout containers. Markle peeled off his wet clothes, leaving a trail of soggy fabric as he headed straight for the bathroom.

The bathroom light flickered as he turned it on, casting a dim, sickly glow over the tiny space. He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, water dripping from his unkempt hair. His piercing blue eyes were bloodshot, dark circles shadowing them like bruises.

"Look at you," he said to himself, his voice tinged with bitter humor. "The picture of success."

The shower hissed as he turned it on, steam quickly filling the room. Markle stepped under the warm spray, closing his eyes as the heat worked to soothe his aching muscles. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, to let the water wash away the day's frustrations.

And then, everything changed.

A deafening crack of thunder shook the building, and before Markle could process the sound, a blinding flash of light filled the room. Pain seared through his body, as if every nerve was being set on fire. He tried to scream, but no sound was let out of his mouth. His vision blurred and the world around him dissolved into an endless white void.

His thoughts spiraled in the chaos. 'What the—? Is this it? Is this how I go? Electrocuted in my own shower? Classic Markle.'

The pain faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind an eerie stillness. Markle's senses came back, one at a time, though nothing felt quite... right. He opened his eyes, squinting against the dim light that now surrounded him.

"What the hell..." he whispered, his voice echoing strangely. He blinked and his surroundings slowly came into focus. This wasn't his bathroom. This wasn't even his apartment.

He was lying on a cold, hard surface, his limbs oddly stiff. The air smelled damp and musty, tinged with something metallic. Markle pushed himself upright, wincing as his head throbbed.

That's when he noticed the chanting.

It was low and guttural, like a group of people mumbling nonsense under their breath. Markle's eyes darted to the source of the sound.

Zombies.

Dozens of them, their rotting faces illuminated by flickering torches mounted on the walls. They were surrounding him, swaying as they chanted in unison.

"...what in the actual—" Markle's words caught in his throat as he looked down at himself. His body felt... blocky. His hands, his legs, his torso, all of it had a strange, pixelated texture.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

The zombies didn't seem to notice his outburst, their focus fixed on the altar he was lying on. Markle lifted his neck, taking in more of the room. It was dimly lit, with moss-covered stone walls and scattered piles of bones. Symbols he didn't recognize were etched into the floor around the altar, glowing faintly.

"This is a dream," he said aloud, his voice trembling despite his attempt at sarcasm. "This has to be a dream. Or I finally lost it. Either way, ten out of ten for creativity, subconscious."

One of the zombies stepped closer, raising its decayed arms as if in worship. Markle flinched as his instincts screaming at him to run, but his legs refused to move.

"What do you want?" he demanded, his voice echoing unnaturally in the cavernous space. "And why do I feel like you're about to sacrifice me to some kind of blocky overlord?"

As if in response, the chanting grew louder, the zombies swaying more vigorously. Markle's stomach churned. He had no idea where he was, how he'd gotten here, or what the zombies were planning but he had a sinking feeling he wouldn't like the answers.

"Okay, okay, think, Markle," he muttered, forcing himself to stay calm despite the grotesque chorus of the zombies. "You're in some kind of... ritual? Sacrificial room? Surrounded by pixelated zombies chanting nonsense. Totally normal. Happens every Tuesday."

The sarcasm wasn't helping as much as he hoped. The zombies' movements became more erratic and their chanting now interspersed with guttural growls and what sounded disturbingly like the word "Enderdragon." Markle frowned. "Ender... Wait. No. No, no, no."

He glanced around again, this time paying closer attention to the room's details. The dim torches. The mossy stones. The square shapes of everything, from the altar to the walls. The pixelated look of his own hands.

A realization hit him like a ton of blocks.

"I'm in Minecraft," he said flatly with the words tasting ridiculous even as he spoke them. "Nope. Nope, not happening. I am not doing this."

As if the universe or whatever twisted logic governed this world had heard him, the zombies stopped chanting. The sudden silence was deafening. Markle froze, his breath catching in his throat as every undead pair of glowing eyes locked onto him.

"Uh... hi?" he tried, his voice cracking slightly.

One zombie stepped forward, clutching something in its skeletal hand. A book. It opened the book with slow, deliberate movements, holding it up as if to read.

"Loe-raaaaah... dum... ku-grah... kaaaah." The zombie's voice was guttural and uneven, like sandpaper dragged over stone. Markle's eyebrows shot up.

"Seriously? You're reading me a bedtime story now?" he blurted. "Could you at least pick a less ominous tone? Maybe throw in some uplifting music?"

The zombie ignored him, continuing its garbled recitation. With each word, the symbols on the ground glowed brighter, pulsing in time with the chant. Other zombies joined in again as their voices rose in volume. The room shook, small bits of stone and dust raining from the ceiling.

Markle felt his heart racing. His brain screamed at him to move, to do something, but his body still felt disconnected. He could only watch as the glowing symbols began to shift, coalescing into a single, blinding light that shot up from the altar.

"Oh, come on!" Markle shouted, shielding his eyes. "If this ends with me fighting a dragon, I'm out!"

The light surged, enveloping him completely. For a moment, he felt weightless, as though he were being pulled through water. Then, with a bone-jarring thud, he hit the ground.

"Ugh..." Markle groaned, blinking against the brightness of daylight. His head throbbed as he pushed himself up, squinting at his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was bright green grass stretching out in all directions.

Then came the trees, their square leaves shifting slightly in a nonexistent breeze. The sun hung high in the sky, its blocky rays beaming down. Markle's mouth fell open.

"No. Nope. This is not happening," he said, stumbling to his feet. His body still felt strange, the blocky texture of his limbs throwing him off balance. He looked down at himself again, turning his hands over as if the view might somehow change. It didn't.

"This has to be a coma dream," Markle muttered while pacing in a small circle. "I slipped in the shower, hit my head, and now my brain's having a meltdown. Any second now, I'll wake up in a hospital with Rachel telling me I'm an idiot."

But as he stood there, the reality or unreality of his situation began to sink in. The soft crunch of grass beneath his feet. The faint hum of ambient noise, distant birds and wind blending together. The odd, almost serene stillness of the world around him.

"No hospital," Markle said, stopping in his tracks. "No Rachel. Just me... and this."

He turned slowly, taking in the vast expanse of the Minecraft world. Hills rolled into the distance, dotted with flowers and scattered trees. A small pond glistened nearby, its water unnaturally still. Markle felt a strange mix of awe and dread as he realized just how alone he was.

"Okay," he said finally, clapping his hands together. "Step one: figure out how to not die. Step two: wake up. Step three: file a very strongly worded complaint with the cosmic forces responsible for this nonsense."

With no better ideas, Markle walked to the nearest tree, his blocky hand reaching out to touch its surface. The bark felt oddly smooth and cool, like polished wood.

"Punching trees, right?" he said out loud. "That's what you're supposed to do. Totally normal. Not at all insane."

He hesitated, then balled his hand into a fist and swung. The impact sent a jolt up his arm, and he winced.

"Great. Even in a dream, I'm terrible at this," he grumbled, shaking his hand.

But as he pulled back for another punch, he noticed the faintest crack forming on the tree's surface. Markle stared at it for a moment, then let out a shaky laugh.

"Well, I'll be damned. It actually works."