Please. Let it be just a game.
My world goes black.
25
[Ghosts and Shells]
Wake up. Check my messages. Couple updates from Wind: news from college, telling me about the hot new freshman in her dorm. Smile and dash off a reply, ignoring the small stab in my heart. A brief missive from Slend, appeals court going well, her brother soon to be released, both of them moving north to the UPC once he’s free, find a way to live off the grid. Send my congratulations, and an invite to get together if they’re ever back down here. He’ll probably want a drink or ten—gummie prisons are no joke.
Wander down the hall to brush my teeth, water credits good for the month, switch over to my socials. Quick clips of Han and Industan working together to rebuild the ruins of Central Asia, another limited nuclear exchange leaving its glowing touch on the world, figures in boxy white suits mapping the devastation. Maybe reclaiming farmland will keep them occupied for a while. News of more trade sanctions against the Big Three, spearheaded by the Reformist Movement within the CCA, sober figures in plain suits with black ties denouncing richly attired technocrats flanked by legions of attorneys—the newly appointed board members of WGSK. Seems like everyone but the Big Three are on board, so the sanctions might actually pass. The first wave of Gamers released from treatment, promising stories of redemption and recovery, special events within the Game to celebrate their return. Retrospectives on the Night of Games, solemn accounts interspersed with footage of the moment everything stopped, Gamers halted in their tracks as if they had collectively suffered a massive shock. I try not to bite my toothbrush in two.
Closer to home, more funds allocated to refurbishing the Rust, half its floors burned away during the Night of Games, the occasional body still floating up on the current. Hopefully Slend has rent control—if she ever comes back. Other reconstruction efforts underway in Highrise, the Brown, and Southspire, several dens of Gamers having caused extensive damage there. Pictures of slow, but steady, progress, walls restored, shops revitalized, communities banding together once again. Shells regaining the life within, one three-by-five at a time. Who knows, maybe it’ll last more than a couple decades. We can always hope.
Head back to my room and change into my work outfit, a slick shirt and pants combination emblazoned with Johnny’s new logo: NOODLES (AND MORE). He’s branching out into other cuisines: hummus, shawarma, kebabs, and the like. Lot of families remember what he and Jase did, and they told their friends. These days, it’s running me ragged keeping up with the orders. I slide on my tacboots and lace them up. Left leg is feeling pretty good, the pair of bullet wounds reduced to aching moments when a cat-six rolls in. Maybe I’ll race some couriers today.
Spend the morning dropping off lunches, crisscrossing my way around Ditchtown. Sunlight gleams through Glassbridge, but despite the sights, I don’t linger. I don’t think I ever will, not anymore. Too many ghosts. Deliver a couple of cartons to some techies in the Brown, stuffed away in their air-conditioned cells, and take my lunch break, grabbing some more noodles from Johnny. I throw the two containers in my backpack and head toward Highrise.
Greet the guards at the clinic entrance, new faces slowly grown familiar over the past six months. They irradiate my noodles in the scanner, same as the ones before them, then pass me through to the other side. I grab the cartons and head down the pastel colored corridor, scars painted over and gone. Knock on the door and head inside.
“How’s it going, Freddie?”
“Good, Ash. Good. He’s having a good day today. Responding real well to the treatments.”
A small scar tugs at the corner of Freddie’s lip, a memento from Mikelas. That and the dark bags under his eyes make him look like he’s aged a decade since he watched over Mom.
“That’s great, Freddie. Buzz me through?”
“Sure thing.”
I enter the revolving lock, and it cycles around me, opening onto a small room with a neatly made bed. Kiro is doing one-handed headstand pushups against the wall, his feet nearly touching the ceiling at full extension. When he sees me, he grins, and pops upright.
“Heya, sis!”
“Heya, bro. How’re you doing?”
I pass him a carton of noodles, and he digs in with his fingers, greedily slurping them down. I follow at a more sedate pace, perched on the edge of the bed.
“Good, real good. Freddie said I haven’t had an episode in almost a week. I think we’re getting close to beating this thing.”
I try not to laugh at his upbeat tone, so changed over the past few months.
“Well that’s great, Kiro. Glad to hear it.”
He gulps down another handful of noodles.
“Yeah, I can’t wait to get back to the Game. It’s been so long, I hope I haven’t lost my skills. I’m trying to stay in shape in here, but it’s tough without a real hapchamber, you know?”
My heart sinks. Even though they’re finally letting some of those affected by the Night of Games log back in, Freddie’s been telling me that of those who do, ten to fifteen percent have some sort of relapse. Nothing nearly as bad as before, but still enough to be worrisome—vacant-eyed Gamers roaming their hapsphere, as if they’re searching for something, most eventually snapping out of it when their power supplies fail or someone notices. Some take days to return. I don’t want to lose my brother a third time.
“I bet. Tell you what, let’s take it a day at a time, see what Freddie thinks is best. You know they’re following his treatment protocols all over the world, right? If anyone knows when you’ll be ready to leave, it’s him.”
I reach up and ruffle his hair, and he smiles.
“Sounds good, sis. Hey, tell Jase and Johnny not to be strangers, yeah? I haven’t seen them in a while.”
“I’ll let them know, bro.” I stand up, motioning at the lock, trying not to think about the last time Jase and Johnny saw Kiro, charging them over Mom’s bloody corpse, knife aimed at their throats. It’s a struggle to keep my voice even. “I’ll let them know. Hey, I gotta get back to the job. It was good seeing you, Kiro. Keep working, you’ll be out of here before you know it.”
“You bet, sis.” He laughs. “Ladies first, yeah?”
I smile back at him, stepping into the lock.
“Age before beauty.”
On the other side, I pause by Freddie’s chair, the momentary lightness evaporating.
“How long do you think it’s going to be, Freddie?”
He takes a deep breath.
“I don’t know, Ash. On his good days, he’s good, but on the bad days… it’s bad. Real bad. We’ve already had to retire two orderlies for medical reasons. One’s lucky he’s still alive.”
“Is it the same as the others?”
“Yeah, it just seems to be hitting him harder. We’re calling it ‘fuzzed,’ like when you wake from a particularly vivid dream, but you can’t quite recall exactly what it was you were doing. It’s the word on the tip of your tongue, the utter certitude that you know. That you know exactly what something is, only you don’t know any of the details.” He rubs his chin, frustrated. “Hooking him up to a modified version of the Game helps, but he’s lost a part of himself, and I don’t know if he’ll ever get it back. It’s like there’s someone else living inside him when it happens.”
I pat him on the shoulder.
“Do your best, Freddie. If anyone can bring him back, it’s you. I’ll make sure the bills get paid.”
He lays his hand on top of mine.
“Just… stay strong, Ash. Anytime you want to talk, I’m here. Don’t feel like you’re alone in dealing with this.”