The Magnus Archives - Rusty Fears 7 - Disconnected by Amy Hodgetts

Episode Date: July 9, 2026

This week’s short horror story, Disconnected, inspired by the prompt "Sword and Sorcery", is written by Amy Hodgetts and read by Lowri Ann DaviesContent Notes:* graphic violence* time manipulationDirected and Produced by April SumnerWritten by Amy HodgettsExecutive Producers Alexander J Newall & April SumnerFeaturingLowri Ann Davies as NarratorEdited by Nico VetteseMusic by Nico Vettese and Sam JonesMastering by Catherine RinellaArt by April SumnerSupport Rusty Quill directly by joining our new membership platform at members.rustyquill.com or on Patreon at patreon.com/rustyquillCheck out our merchandise available at https://www.redbubble.com/people/RustyQuill/shop and https://www.teepublic.com/stores/rusty-quillPre-order links for From the Library of Jurgen Leitner: https://rustyquill.com/novelSupport Rusty Quill by purchasing from our Affiliates; DriveThruRPG – DriveThruRPG.comJoin our community:WEBSITE: rustyquill.comFACEBOOK: facebook.com/therustyquillX: @therustyquillEMAIL: [e-mail] Magnus Protocol is a derivative product of the Magnus Archives, created by Rusty Quill Ltd. and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share alike 4.0 International Licence.For ad-free episodes, bonus content and more, join members.rustyquill.com or our Patreon.Pre-order FROM THE LIBRARY OF JURGEN LEITNER, a Magnus novel releasing October 27th: rustyquill.com/novelBuy tickets to a Magnus Archives Live Show in Sheffield in July: crossedwires.live Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Hi, Alex here, founder and CEO of Rusty Quill Limited. In case you haven't heard, there is now a Magnus Archives novel. The Library of Juergen Leitner is set in the world of the Magnus Archives and written by Nebula Award-winning author, Premier Muhammad, with our very own Jonathan Sims. The story follows Hugh, a university dropout, desperate to find somewhere to belong and his new job at an esoteric library. The books he must investigate for the enigmatic Juergen Lightner are not normal,

because the library is not a vault, sealed and silent, but a hive, alive, buzzing and ready to sting. The Library of Juergen Lightner releases October 27th, 2026, but you can pre-order it right now in the US and UK from your local bookshop, or by using the link in the episode description. If you live outside of the UK or US, you may be able to make an international order for this first publication,

but it depends on individual retailers' shipping policies. Hi there, Jonathan Sims here, and before today's episode, I wanted to tell you about from the, Library of Yergen Lightner. An upcoming the Magnus Archives prequel novel available for pre-order right now at www. RustyQuil.com forward slash novel. Return to the world of the Magnus Archives in from the Library of Yurgen Lightner. An official prequel novel written by Nebula, world fantasy, and Aurora award-winning author Pramie Muhammad, with the help of yours truly. From the Library

of Yurgen Lightner explores an infamous organization from the Magnus Verse for the first time, the perilous private library of the enigmatic collector, Jürgen Leitner. From the Library of Yorgon Leitner will be published on October the 27th, 2006, and is available for pre-order now as a hardback, audio book and e-book. Visit www. rusticwill.com forward-slash-novel for more information. That's rustyquill.com forward slash novel, or click the link in the show notes of this episode. Disconnected by Amy Hodgjj.

The only thing more insincere than the media outcry over Paul Spencer's death while playing sorcery was the developer's response to it. Terms like unprecedented, unexpected, unusual and several other unwords had been stirred into templated press releases and sent out into the world. But Frankie knew the truth of it. The only unword to really sum it up was unsupport. Still, protecting the business from bad press was in her best interests, particularly her financial interests. So when the request came in that she needed to investigate Paul Spencer's account,

Frankie began setting up her sorcery VR station without a word of protest. It wasn't like she had anything else planned for that night. The contraption always reminded her of an iron maiden. It was a large metal container designed to keep the player's physical, body safe and secure while plugged into the game. A series of nodes blinked at her from inside the head cavity. Frankie had no idea how they worked, other than the brief rundown she'd been given years ago during her onboarding.

Understanding it was not in her job description. Setting her phone on her overful desk, Frankie climbed into the sorcery VR station and lay back as the shell closed around her with a soft thud. The tiny space came to life. in a bright blue glow, and the nodes pressing against the back of her head activated. Her limbs numbed as her brain's signals shifted from her physical body to her digital avatar. The blue light clouding her vision burst with a triumphant welcome screen. Sorcery! An immersive role-playing experience!

After nodding her digital avatar's head to continue, the usual disclaimer appeared. The tiny text scurried across barely legible with a huge I-accept button beneath. Sorcery utilizes AI technology for its non-playable characters, NPCs, in order to provide an ever-changing adventure. Sorcery recommends players take regular breaks. Do not exceed six hours of continuous play within a single session. To revert brain function to the physical body, players must log out from the menu. Disconnecting from the game by other means, including premature removal from the Sorcery VR station by another party, may result in injury.

By playing sorcery, players agreed to the risks involved in using the Sorcery VR station. Please see Sorcerythegame.com for further details. Frankie hit the accept button. A second later, soft grass pushed up under her feet. Huge trees pruned to perfection towered around her, a gentle fluttering of leaves and bird wings filling her years. Taking a moment to adjust, Frankie stretched out and flexed her fingers. While she was doing this, a small bush off to her right rustled.

A tiny brown rabbit hopped out, sniffed the air, then bounded across her path. It would make an ideal test subject. Frankie thrust out her hand and a wave of green magic streamed from her palm. It struck the rabbit, and with a ringing pop, the creature vaporized into mist. She let out a sigh of contentment, satisfied that everything was working as it should be. The admin spells took all of the hassle out of the game. They could get on with their jobs without interference, regardless of their skill level,

and, naturally, no one who worked at sorcery was any good at the game. Frankie herself had only clocked 20-odd hours, and a good 17 of them had been entirely at work. She set off across the knoll, heading for the first dirt path she spotted, winding around the hill, cresting in the distance. She ferreted in her bag as she went, pulling out her scrolls to read over the messages her manager had sent.

Frankie, investigate account, Spencey. Look at playtime, modded items, etc. Report any findings of that nature. Check Woodsmill first. I've quarantined it against human players for 30 minutes. Clive. The subtext rang clear. If she found anything that implicated the game itself as the cause of Paul's death,

ignore it. Well, perhaps it would be a cut and dry case. Maybe his play session would be over the six-hour mark. Sure, no one had ever died from that before, but the odd player had experienced brain damage from overly lengthy stints. Sorcery was covered. The disclaimer was there. The players agreed before entering.

And, at the four-hour mark, a pop-up always appeared suggesting they log out. What more could they do? Frankie made her way on foot to Woodsmill, having spawned close by. As she headed through the bustling crowds of chittering NPCs, she cast a quick spell to see which of them Spency had spoken to last. If he'd tinkered with the code, the NPCs would have made dry comments about it. A red splotch appeared above a lady in a yellow dress,

tending to a fruit and vegetable stand at the market. Frankie made her way over. The NPC smiled and waved as she approached. Well met, traveller. The road is! Pull up chat logs for player ID 290742 previous 48 hours. Frankie interrupted. She watched the red splotch above the vendor's head turn yellow. Administrator verified.

Chat log for Spencey acquired. Ah, I do hope he found out where that monster came from. Scared us all half to death. The vendor chirped before going back to replenishing an endless amount of brightly colored fruits to her already full stall. Ignoring her attempt at conversation, Frankie pulled out her scrolls again and scanned the logs. Nothing stood out as unusual, just the standard interaction and the purchase of six dazzling dream berries.

Right, Frankie muttered. Then raised her voice to the NPC once more. Pull up inventory and last session playtime for player ID 290742. The ink on Frankie's scroll swam across the party. changing from the chat log to a surprisingly short inventory list. User, Spencey, level 49. Inventory, basic armour, one. Starter sword, one.

Latest session playtime, 179 hours. Frankie read it twice over, her brow furrowing. Why was a level 49 player gallivanting around with a basic sword and armor? Well, at least she had her answer. The lunatic had clocked over a week in the VR station and had most likely died of dehydration. That would clear sorcery of any legal responsibility. Frankie tutted and shook her head,

then pulled a red-plumed quill from her satchel to right underneath the logs. Forward logs, Clive, message. Here's the reason, 179 hours. Must have dismissed a few log-out warnings. case clear. She shoved the parchment back into her bag, considering the job done. But as she looked up again, the fruit vendor was staring right at her, her usually cheery face devoid of emotion.

It wasn't meant to be here, the vendor said. Log out now. Log out now. Each time the NPC repeated the phrase, she raised her voice. Moore, chanting, joined the noise. The armourer across the market square began to. to shout the same words, the florist to the fruit vendor's right chiming in with the same demand, log out now, log out now! Frankie staggered back, her heart hammering as the cacophony of demands rose.

Every single NPC in the area yelled the same command over and over until, overwhelmed by the bizarreness of it all, Frankie hunched over and shoved her hands out with a panty. Scream! Green magic burst forth, blasting a clear circle all around her and obliterating the market square. Gasping, Frankie straightened up. She winced at the damage she'd caused, thinking about the inevitable reprimand. Piss, she grumbled, pulling out her scrolls again. As she was about to write out a preemptive apology to the dev team, however, another message appeared. Good, but weird. Legal just sent a memo around, six more player deaths. Not made it to the media yet, thank God,

but we're pushing a pop-up for all players to log out immediately while we do some scheduled maintenance. Team will investigate. You can log out now. Clive. Relief flooded over Frankie, and she couldn't help the laughter that tumbled from her lips. She scrawled back. Jesus Christ, Clive,

you could have made the log-out message a thousand times less creepy. I just nuked the market square in Woodsmill. After a few seconds, another reply appeared. Pop-ups are creepy. Right, whatever. Stop bullying the locals and log out, Clive. Chuckling to herself, Frankie tidied away her scrolls and sighed, stepping away from the circle of carnage she'd caused.

The other MPCs in the village sauntered through the clearing as though nothing had happened. As she was about to pull up her menu screen, however, a character with a player tag above their head waved at her. Frankie dismissed the menu screen, confused. How had they got past the quarantine? Hey, fellow sorcerer, right? The stranger called as he jogged over, chain mail rattling as he went,

a too bright grin fixed on his face. He held up his hand, letting the telltale green magic dance through his fingers. Are you on the investigation team? Uh, yeah, I was. Frankie said. Out of politeness, she extended her hand. Frankie. Durham office. Cole, New York office.

Cole grabbed her hand and shook it with such force that Frankie almost toppled over. Man, I'm glad I ran into you. Actually, I think I figured out what's happening. The NPCs were telling me about something that shouldn't be here, and I figured maybe someone added an unauthorized element to the game. If it's what I think it is, I'd feel a lot better if I had some bad. backup while I checked it out. Can you come with me? I, uh, uh, I was... Frankie glanced out the village gates. She hated this damn game. But if she could find the cause of all this, it'll look really good for her career progression. I was actually about

to investigate the same thing. Yeah, uh, the fruit vendor NPC said something about it to me too. Cole clapped his hands together, which set his chain mail rattling again. Excellent. Follow me then. They made they were out of the woods mill and into the forest Frankie had first spawned in. As they travelled, Cole rambled about all his theories, occasionally checking left and right in case any players strayed too close, but the emergency logout recommendation had thinned their numbers, and Frankie found herself alone with Cole. Basically, I reckon someone's added a script that targets player menus,

stopping them from logging out. I mean, what are you going to do then? Even if someone finds you, are they going to risk yanking you, out of the VR station? I guess some must and some... Well, some folks live alone, right? Cole said. Frankie summoned a weak smile and nod.

Right. Cole stopped. His smile fizzled away and he stared out between the trees for so long that Frankie began to crane her neck, trying to follow his line of sight. By the way, Frankie, I've been meaning to ask you, Cole said.

still staring straight ahead. You're a sorcerer, so how come you only have a basic sword and armour? Frankie furrowed her brow, looking down at herself, a protest already dancing on the tip of her tongue. Her character had always been kitted out in a mithril robe, and she had begged Clive for the unlock coat for the Phoenix Cry Lance, and... And right now, she was wearing a dull brown leather tunic.

A bland steel sword hung at her side, and a too big scabbard. What? No, I... She looked back at Cole, but instead of the chain-mail-clad night, four humongous, empty eye-sockets bared down on Frankie

from within a mangled skull twice as tall as she was. Its massive jaws parted as wheezing breaths sent its whole form shivering. Frankie froze. The horror did it. not. It raised one spindly arm wrapped in ribbons of broken chain mail, then slammed its massive palm

upon Frankie, crushing her head down through her body and into her feet. Shear agony ignited in a white, hot second of delirium. But almost as soon as it started, Frankie was thrown back into her digital body, as good as new once more. Gasping for breath, she only had time. to clock those four empty eye sockets again before the skull's mouth opened, acid bile pouring out and engulfing her. Just like before, searing pain erupted through her before she landed back into her respawned digital body. The echoes of pain drove her to her hands and knees, lungs burning in memory of the torrent of acid. The nightmare plucked her from the ground and dropped her into its open moor,

subjecting her to the torture of its grinding teeth for several lifetime-like minutes, before she respawned yet again. This time, Frankie screamed and threw her hands forward, aiming to cast the deletion spell she had relied upon so often, but her hands, shaking and now scarred with teeth marks, summoned nothing at all. A rumbling laugh coiled around her,

weaving through the shadows of the trees that witnessed her torture in silence. Playing God for a minute makes a lifetime as a human seem so grey does it not. The laughing creature bellowed. Growling, Frankie gestured for the main menu, triumph surging as the list appeared in her vision. Resume. Settings. Log out.

Each glowed a dull blue waiting to be pressed, save for the one she wanted. The log-out button sat there, a disobedient grey colour, ignoring her frenzied tapping. No, no, no, no, Frankie yelled. She would have continued hammering at the grey doubt option, but for the skeletal fingers that appeared around the border of her floating menu list, with almost mocking levels of care. It prized it away, unblocking Frankie's view of its twisted skull once more. Don't be shy. You enjoyed it, didn't you? It asked. In the market square.

The NPCs, she thought. Frankie coughed a half-stunned laugh. She stepped back from the monster, shaking her head in disbelief. Did he think she'd got some weird power trip from deleting NPCs? from erasing a bit of code. But the creature nodded at her. Ah, agreed. I grew bored of them quickly too. It is much more thrilling with real people. Its skeletal hand shot forward,

one finger piercing through Frankie's chest and sending her spiraling into blackness again. For hours, her mad grim reaper doled, out countless deaths upon her poor digital self. Each one blazed through her brain, a delivery of authentic pain wrapped in a too real experience. From within the whirlwind of suffering, Frankie held on to a mantra, four, four hours, four hours. But when that blessed moment, crawled in and the logout suggestion popped up. Frankie could only wail in despair. You have been playing for over four hours, the pop-up said. We recommend you log out and take a break.

The button that ought to carry her salvation, however, sported a different message in bold letters. But I am having fun. The Magnus Protocol is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a Creative Commons attribution non-commercial share-a-like 4.0 international license. To subscribe, view associated materials, or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuil.com. Rate and reviews online, tweet us at The RustyQuil, visit us on Facebook, or email us via Mail at RustyQuil.com. Thanks for listening.