by Jason Krew
'I won't tell anyone, I swear.' The boy did look conflicted. It was in the way his pudgy face crinkled up and his bottom lip pouted. After a moment an excited smile returned to his face.
'Can you just tell me what it was like?'
Roger looked around, wondering if his day could get any worse. 'Ask Katelyn, I already told her.'
A cheer sounded across the courtyard, where the seventh graders were playing what looked to be a fairly intense game of handball.
'She won't tell me anything,' said Donald, tone pleading. 'She only asked if I knew you and what you were like.'
Roger looked at Donald. 'She asked about me?'
'Yeah,' said Donald. 'I told her I had seen you before but I didn't really know you.'
Roger looked away. A group of seniors chattered to each other at a nearby table. The end of the year was approaching, and most of these kids would be off to college next year. They didn't look too bothered. The thought of going to college was not a pleasant one for him.
He noticed that Donald was staring at him, and he sighed, pushed his hair out of his face and began to divulge the events of last night, attempting to relate them in a way that was as general as possible without all of the embarrassing details.
Donald wasn't having it though, and the questions poured from him like the sweat poured from his scalp and down his cheeks. He sure sweat a lot for someone sitting in the shade at midday. The bell rang, and Roger had never been so grateful to return to class.
'I'll see you at lunch,' said Donald, but Roger simply shouldered his bag and walked off. He couldn't even remember what class was next, but any direction was preferable to here. He disappeared around a corner and checked his diary. Ugh, History with Ms. Xin. He knew that he wasn't going, but he wondered how he was going to spend the next hour.
Five minutes later he was in the bathroom, sitting atop the toilet lid with his phone in hand. The FO discussion forum was alive with activity. He scrolled down, then stopped. Something had caught his eye.
2.2k replies?
'My experience with Fantalia Online' read the heading.
Roger paused. This guy had to be full of crap. There had been forms. Dozens of them. Disclosure contracts. You were not to speak about the game to the press or on public forums. Roger had merely glanced over the forms and he knew that. Sure, people were going to tell their friends and family, that kind of stuff always happened. People shared sensitive information all the time. But this guy was making a forum post? Roger clicked through to his profile. It was a burner account. The only posts were related to the thread in question.
He clicked on the link and began to read. We started off in a small training room, where I was greeted by a tiny creature who, for the sake of anonymity, I'll call Tiny.
Wow. This guy was for real, or at the very least had a friend in the game. He went on to describe the tutorial, and Roger felt himself flush even as he sat there reading.
According to this guy, the tutorial was not too extensive, but it equipped you with the necessary information to go out into the world, whereas Roger had been clueless from the start. It even allowed you to choose a weapon.
The poster went on to discuss the village he started in, a snowy hamlet nestled in the mountains. There had been wolves, and an icy cave where a giant yeti made its den. A team of players had teamed up in order to fight it. It sounded so cool. If Roger hadn't been invited, he sure would be filled with jealousy right now as he read this person's account.
He refreshed the page, and the comments and upvotes jumped dramatically. He began to read them. There were the usual trolls, doubters and haters.
OP is full of shit.
Sounds terrible.
Tutorial room? Is this a game for five year olds?
Is the stupid talking pet optional?
Roger chuckled at the last one. Unfortunately it was not. Down the rabbit hole he went, until he had read damn near every comment. Before the bell rang, several more posts had popped up recounting their experience. They all started the same way. One poster even mentioned a traumatizing integration experience, and that thread quickly became one of the most popular.
Roger could see many who were concerned about what this all meant. Was this going to become a thing of the future? People integrating their entire lives into these virtual worlds?
Why Fantalia Online is the biggest threat to humanity we've ever faced, said one. Roger entered it. This user was a little more crackpot than the others he'd seen. In their eyes, Fantalia Online was only masquerading as a game. What it really was, was a plot by the elite to acclimatize humanity to a kind of virtual matrix, where they could be exploited and controlled, ushering in what the poster referred to as the NWO.
The world watches to see the outcome of this new technology, wrote SafetyPants92, even as lesser VR models explode in popularity. This is the beginning of a new way of life. As people escape themselves, from their boredom, depression, anxiety, this new technology offers a way to escape these problems, a promise of a better life in a more engaging and more interesting world. If you think the corporations aren't aware of this, you're crazy.
Roger read on, not truly comprehending, but intrigued nonetheless. Fantalia Online had been divisive and controversial from the very beginnin. Personally, it all made him want to log on more than ever.
Then a wave of sickness hit him as he remembered his plans for the night. It would be another day or two before he could return to that world. Bonfire Night. A stupid tradition for old people.
I hate it.
He hated how it made him feel, when people wore their fancy dress around town, lighting each other's little fire sticks at the bonfires. It didn't mean anything to them anymore. It's not like people believed in the spirits and gods from the old days. Everyone looked so happy over such a stupid little ritual. People were dumb.
When the bell finally rang, he waited for the rush of students to pass before he moved to his next class. Math. His least favorite and worst subject, right behind history. He used to be good at it, which made things even worse, cause it was all the more noticeable to his parents when his grades started slipping.
He liked Mr. Clayton, the bushy browed old man who taught the class, but even his easy manner and soft voice couldn't provoke Roger into any real meaningful work. He was the last one to class, and he slipped in with a sheepish look on his face.
The class was slow, and Roger passed in and out of consciousness. He was just so tired. It had been getting worse, lately. Maybe this is what it was like to get old. He wondered how tired Mr. Clayton must feel.
At lunch he hung out at the library, purposefully avoiding Donald. Sure enough he nearly had a heart attack when the boy sneaked up on him, giant backpack giving him the appearance of a kind of pudgy, bipedal snail.
I should've known, he thought, a dork like this will usually be found at the library.
'I've never seen you here before,' said Donald. 'Are you studying for finals?'
'Yeah,' said Roger, thinking of the perfect excuse. 'I really need to study, so I can't chat.'
Donald perked up at the word study. 'It's okay!' he said, eyes wide as saucers. 'We can study together.'
Goddamnit.
They sat opposite each other at a square desk in the corner. The library was air-conditioned, but but not uncomfortably so. Roger pulled his books out, and grabbed the first thing that caught his eye. Maths. Of course.
He opened his book to the most recent page. He'd written '253' at the bottom in blue ink. He narrowed his eyes at it
Ahh yes, the questions Mr. Clayton left for their homework.
With a weary sigh he pulled out his textbook and opened it to two fifty three. Pythagoras. Ah yes, that's right. That's what they had been working on the last week. Not that he could remember. What was Pythagoras important for again? He flipped back to two fifty two. Fifty one. Fifty. Eventually he found the chapter foreword.
He started reading, tunes steady jingling in his ear. He turned the
m down so as to hear himself think and slowly made his way down the first paragraph. Anything other than talk to Donald for another minute.
Hm, this isn't so bad. The examples following the text were pretty straight forward. He put the equation into his calculator just to make sure he got it.
So that's what those weird symbols were for.
It finally came to try it on his own, and his fingers tapped away at the buttons. He checked and double checked his answer, and with a small degree of dread mingled with curiosity, flipped to the back of the book to where the answers were.
I... got it right?
It took a full ten seconds for the fact to sink in. He could do it. Without anyone's help, at that. Without looking over and copying the kid next to him. He wouldn't admit it yet, but it was a kind of rush. He worked through the book with a kind of frenzied excitement, ignorant to the world around him. By the time lunch was over he was halfway through the questions Mr. Clayton had left for him.
He looked up. Donald was returning his books to a colorful anime binder. There were pictures of girls in maid outfits and various teen protagonists. Roger even recognized a few of them, comic book fan that he was.
He'd never done this before. Studied on his own time. In the library. He returned his own books to his bag, albeit it not as carefully as Donald did. But he'd done something. It was an intoxicating feeling.
He gave Donald the barest of goodbyes, caught up in his own little moment of triumph. He walked to the next class with a sense of purpose, rock music blaring in his ear. It wasn't until he reached his geography room that he realized he'd walked the whole way with his head up. Had even looked a few people in the eye.
The momentum carried him through Geography and then Science. His mood was elevated, all the way until he arrived at the station outside of Cranbrook High School and remembered that he wasn't going into the city tonight. He was going home. To work for six more hours, the equivalent of another school day, while watching everyone run around in dress up with large smiles plastered on their face. The train arrived, an old banged up metal clanker, and he slumped in a corner.
He got to the shop at about four, and his mother was wearing her Bonfire outfit over her usual work clothes, her fox ears standing tall on her perfectly styled hair. She had a pair of chopsticks in her bun. It made her look at least five years younger, and Roger caught himself smiling. That quickly faded when she bid him put on his own set of ears, and he was about to argue before he saw his dad stalking down the aisle with a sour look on his face.
'What took you so long?' he said, looking sweaty and fed up.
'I came straight home,' said Roger. 'Do you realize what time school finishes?'
'Roger,' his mum pleaded, but he was already through the door and on the way up to his room. Nothing was ever good enough for that guy. He threw on his work clothes, really nothing more than a pair of jeans and a collared shirt.
His dad ordered him around all night like he was a sweatshop factory worker rather than his son. Even moreso than usual, in fact. For some reason he thought it necessary to bark to Roger that there were customers every time the bell jingled.
'I know,' he would murmur under his breath. 'Why even install the stupid buzzer?'
He was getting better at dealing with customers, but he still sucked at small talk. He served one gentleman, who unleashed a lengthy diatribe about the mosquitoes, and Roger could only nod mutely as the man discussed breeding patterns and water sources.
'Mm.' That was all Roger could get out. 'Oh. Mm. Ah.' Why did people have to talk so much anyway?
'Oh, and these too please,' said the man, adding a packet of mints to the pile of snacks he'd already purchased. Roger wondered if this wasn't for a party the man was hosting, but judging by his considerable paunch, he supposed the man was quite capable of polishing these off himself.
The man shook his head at the price and mentioned something about the supermarket being cheaper, before handing over the cash and watching with an eagle eye as Roger counted it out for him. He wandered off without even so much as a 'thanks', and Roger wondered if he was uncharacteristically rude or just in a world of his own. A lot of the customers were like that.
'Roger, we need more glowsticks.'
Father again. With a sigh, Roger hurried off to fetch another box from the storeroom. The glow sticks were selling like hot cakes tonight, especially with the teens. Thank goodness none of them went to his school, he thought every time a new batch of them walked in.
To his relief his mother had returned from the bathroom and was available to work the counter again, so Roger could stack the glowstick pallets on the shelf and avoid the wrath of his father.
At around nine the customers began to slowly dwindle, and by then there was only one or two every ten minutes until finally the clock turned eleven and they began to close up. Roger watched people walking past the window. Heard the laughter and joy in their voices as they spent the night with their loved ones.
The white shop light was sterile compared to the colorful lights of the merry goers outside, and with a wistful sigh Roger hooked the shuttered doors and lowered them. They closed completely with a low rumble.
'Well done tonight,' his mother told him. 'We'll get dinner once I've done the till. Go find your father in the meantime and see if he needs you.'
His dad was moving some boxes around the storeroom, and he had Roger join him. The pair worked in silence, save to grunt or take a breath, and soon the place was returned to the same condition as before, save for being a bit less packed. They had moved a lot of stock tonight.
'Roger,' his father said, just as Roger was leaving the room. 'Don't ever talk to me like that again.' Roger began to walk away again but the short, coarse bark from his father stopped him. 'You hear ME?'
'Yes.' He didn't even look at the man, and stomped his way up the steps and into his room. He was too afraid to slam the door shut, but when he'd locked it behind him he wailed away at the pillow until his fists were shaking.
He hated him so much. Hated the shop. Hated working so late. Hated seeing other people having fun with their families while his own made him stay indoors, married to their stupid business.
As his breathing began to slow, he noticed how much cleaner his room was than usual. It gave him an odd satisfaction, despite his anger, even though he warred with the impulse to tear down all four walls and be done with it. He wondered what his dad would do then, and he smiled an evil little smile.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and his mother's soft voice wafted through the key lock. 'Would you like dinner now, Roger?'
He took four steps to the door and it clicked open. His mother stood there, eyes tired and a wan smile on her face. He nodded at her, and followed her out the door and to the van.
'Your father was just stressed tonight, that's all.'
Ah, here it is again, Roger thought. The excuses for his behavior and the pretense that he isn't just a jackass that you wished you never married.
'The business causes him a lot of stress. Sometimes he forgets what else is important to him.'
Roger shook his head. 'Then why not just sell it and get a normal job? It's not like it makes that much money anyway.'
His mother's face softened, he could see it in the occasional orange flash of the passing streetlights, and she looked so fragile that for a moment Roger wondered who the parent was.
'You know how he is. He doesn't like to give up.'
Yeah, you're right. He certainly had a hard time giving up that as well.
'You know,' his mother continued, and there was something in her tone that caught Roger's attention, like she was going to tell him a secret. 'When father first considered buying the store, he told all his friends.'
Roger recalled those days. When he was small his father would get together with his pals and play cards. There were drinks and cigars, and the room would be filled with a smoky haze. Roger hadn't minded too much, cause his dad would sometimes put him on
his lap and let him throw the dice. The men all smelled like whiskey, but they had seemed to enjoy his presence, and were nice to him.
'They all laughed at your dad. Told him he was stupid, and that he should do something with his degree instead.' His mother smirked, sad and happy all at once. 'I think that was the reason he went through with it. Just to prove them wrong.'
'He's selfish,' said Roger. 'He dragged his wife and kid into it.'
The flashy yellow logo of the drive-thru appeared around the next corner, and the van jiggled them as his mother pulled in. She seemed preoccupied, and they both lapsed into silence until they reached the booth.
'Large beef burger meal, please,' his mother said.
'Coke for the drink?' the speaker blared.
