by A W Wang
This isn’t the product of a thread.
My reality is Christmas day, 1942, during the siege of Stalingrad. I’m exhausted and starving from over thirty straight days of fighting in the fierce Russian winter. There would be no shame in resting my eyes and letting the cold take me.
I won’t succumb.
Surprised to find my body responding to my commands, I push my frozen fingers into my ammo pouch and then after forcing them around a clip, reload my old rifle with shaky hands.
The clink of metal treads heralds a fresh German attack. At the far edge of the street, white-clad stormtroopers fan out behind a gray tank with a prominent swastika painted on its side.
Although we cannot surrender a millimeter of ground, in face of the disparity of numbers, my few remaining comrades scuttle away.
Bullets zip past.
Crusts of snow fall from my winter coat as I force my frozen body to move, hunkering down, my eyes flicking from the irresistible German attack to the safety of retreat.
“What will you do?”
I pause, not knowing the source of the strange question. In my prior safe life, depending on my husband, the answer would be easy. But with the numbness, the shaking ground from the unstoppable tank rattling my frozen bones, and the projectiles whizzing past my helmet, this is utterly different.
Each icy breath scorching down my throat magnifies the fear tugging at my psyche. My husband is the brave one while I’m the back-office person.
The question reverberates as the tank swivels its long gun at me.
Having to act but not wanting to make a decision, my panic explodes. But before I can take action, everything warps and drops away, and a new situation arises.
The clash of swords rings between burning stone buildings as Greek hoplites, the bronze circles of their heavy armor rattling, rush down the haze-infested streets.
While I lie in a darkened hollow between two high walls, the screams of the terrified citizenry echo in my ears. My leg throbs from the gash of a spear wound.
I’m a Trojan, and the Greeks are sacking Troy.
Children hide in a dark staircase across the street while another Trojan beckons me to escape in the other direction.
Ignoring the pain in my leg and wishing I could be anywhere else, I rise and consider my options, wondering what my husband would do.
Nothing comes to mind when the bearded faces of a phalanx of Greek warriors approach, their short bladed xiphos at the ready. Coughing from the smoke, I waffle in indecision.
“What will you do?”
Again, I’m transported to another hopeless place before the answer comes.
The hot Pacific sun beats on my wrinkled and emaciated body, the white sand of an atoll burning my bare feet. Huge warriors from a neighboring tribe, blood-painted cannibals displaying macabre necklaces decorated with human body parts, advance behind a wall of shields, ready to destroy the thatched huts and innocent people from my fishing village. We’re outnumbered ten to one.
Others from my island paddle away in dugout canoes. It would be so easy to join them in the safety of the ocean.
The woman and children cry as the enemy nears.
“What will you do?”
As I hesitate, I fly into another desperate scene in a jungle and then the process repeats in an 18th century city. Each time, the same two choices are presented: charge into an unwinnable battle against an implacable foe or give into fear. And each time, reality warps into a different situation before I can force myself to choose.
What would I do?
I have no idea, and I don’t want to know.
Finally, the cycle of desperate realities stops.
I’m back in the indeterminate place, my mind stretched like taffy. After the shock fades, I’m only left with my fright, embedded in an exploded consciousness.
The vortex is gone.
Uncountable red and black threads are woven throughout my golden form. While not a violent person, the power of the knowledge sends a thrill into my being.
It shouldn’t be that way.
I retreat into my essence and panic. In place of my name, there is only a designation, B243-R9860-000I-74N.
What else is missing?
Alarmed by the depth of the changes, I look for memories. Scattered images appear. The first ones are broken. I frantically search for something intact. A low, one-story home of red brick means nothing. Nor does a purple ribbon looped through a shiny medal. Children play but I never had any.
A vivid image of a man sitting by a hospital bed surfaces.
He is my husband, Nick, and I love him.
My other memories bind around his steadying influence. Besides my loving husband, I had parents and a sibling. Also, a niece with beautiful violet eyes.
The main elements of my life are intact.
I will not quit until I’m whole and healthy again.
The promise offers a flicker of hope. No amount of training can alter who I am as a person.
With that bravado, I confront my biggest remaining problem.
B243-R9860-000I-74N.
The sanitary designation is not a name, and I won’t accept it as my identity.
The man in the broad-brimmed hat said I would be forfeiting my soul to the government, but I won’t surrender that easily.
After a moment’s consideration, I return to my memories. My husband is Nick, my sister is Emily, and my niece is Darla.
Nick, Emily, Darla…
For as long as I can hold on to their love, I will keep my essence. For every trial I have to endure, for everything that will happen in this weird place, so long as I retain a grasp on my family, the virtual world won’t change who I am.
No matter what happens.
After a moment, I silently repeat with less confidence, No matter what happens.
Seven
The downstairs computer science lab rarely gets visitors. It’s in the basement, there are no windows, and the company is just us geeks. Fifteen guys and four gals, including me, are stuffed into the dingy room. One of them is my future husband, Nick. The other three girls and at least four of the guys are in love with him.
I don’t care. My stupid program isn’t working, my last shower was two days ago, and spilled portions of my dinner salad lie over my lap. I’m an overworked mathematician, pretending to be a computer scientist because it will help my job prospects. I curse at the person who recommended the course.
As I chew on my ratty nails and stare at the screen, willing the lines of code to function, laughter erupts. My frustration boils, and I slam my hands on the table.
A few curious glances come my way.
The unwanted attention overcomes my anger, and I return to my work, putting my head down and not saying anything.
Snickers come from the rabble-rousers, who look ready to begin again, but the ringleader, my future husband, rises and shushes everyone. Then he walks to my workstation.
Before he sits next to me, I hurriedly brush my dinner off my jeans.
“Hi,” he says in a friendly voice and with a winning smile. “Sorry about the loudness.”
“I’m not angry at you. I’m angry with my idiotic programming.”
He laughs.
His good nature is infectious and despite my mood, I discard my frown.
“You, you’re the smart one in the class. I’m just trying to get my communications degree. But one of my friends said I needed to take this class to get a job.”
After moving a lock of red hair over my ear, I smile with him. He is cute, and I like the smell of his leather bomber jacket.
Shaking his head, he says, “I really hate that person now.”
“Me too.”
We laugh together.
While not love at first sight, it’s a start.
Air expands my lungs to bursting, and the dream ends. My eyelids flutter open.
I have a body!
Better yet, I have a healthy body. Even better than that, my formerly gimpy
leg is symmetrical with the other one. And they’re longer. A lot longer.
I’m tall.
My urge to dance a jig wanes as I examine the new me. The only thing matching old me is the luxurious mane of red hair pouring over my shoulders.
The rest is seriously upgraded. Unblemished, smooth skin covers perfectly toned muscles that run the length of my body. There are more curves than I remember, especially around my breasts and thighs.
Feeling conspicuous and uncomfortable with my new stature, I slouch.
This form is something for you to become.
Not sure of the origins of the faint thought, I move onto more important things and survey the immediate area.
While I’ve always been observant, my perception is astounding. In an instant, I take in every detail of the environment.
A naked man with bulging muscles stands in front of me. Reminding me of someone I can’t recollect, he sports a cleft chin. Ten meters away, a nude woman has a striking mane of blonde hair. Beyond her, another woman—model pretty and also naked—sways on muscular legs. From my high school or college? Should I recognize them?
Perhaps, I’m layering familiar traits onto the different people to feel more comfortable. Or maybe it’s a desperate attempt to cling to my past. I’m not sure.
Scattered behind them are one hundred and fifty-eight other nude men and women.
Although I lack clothing too, nothing about the bizarre circumstances is arousing.
We stand under a cloudless gray sky on a tacky, rust-colored platform. Except for a slow rise that peaks in the center, the large circular structure is featureless. Beyond the edge, a translucent-red ocean stretches to the horizon. Despite the mild acidic breeze, its surface remains flat.
Welcome to the virtual universe.
The sea rises, and the crowd ripples. I hold my breath as the liquid oozes over the lip of the platform with a hiss.
Acid!
A directive appears in my mind: “This is a primordial test—be the final one.”
Everyone else must die.
Before I can react to the horrible notion, the man with the cleft chin bares his teeth and charges.
Panicked, I step backward.
He launches a vicious sidekick.
While the blow is expertly delivered, I easily slide past it, amazed by my coordination.
Off balance, he fires a lethal follow-up punch that I parry and guide past my cheek. I use my other hand to slip under his guard and jam him in the throat.
He gags.
Before he recovers, I twist his arm aside and snap his neck with a jolt from my hands.
His limp body collapses at my feet.
Horror wells inside me as I stare at his broken form. He had equal training to myself, yet without thought, I defeated him easily.
I’m supposed to be klutzy, and now he’s dead because I killed him.
Trying to come to grips with the disparate thoughts, I tear my eyes from the awful sight.
Across the platform, chaos reigns. Mad, naked strangers battle, wounding, maiming, and killing each other as far as the eye can see.
A crunch of cartilage comes from the closest fight as a man pummels the face of his smaller opponent.
Shying from the carnage, I circle toward the edge of the rising ocean.
A huge man with dark curly hair singles me out, but a pretty woman with full lips shrieks and jumps on his back, trying to claw his eyes out.
Pain sears the side of my foot.
I yelp, jumping from the acid and up the slope. When I check, the skin is melted an angry red. As if emphasizing the danger, hisses come from the bodies being consumed by the advancing sea.
It’s die by acid or fight to be the sole survivor. Hating both choices, I pause, wishing to be anywhere else.
What will you do?
I made a promise and getting eaten by a corrosive liquid would get in the way of keeping it. Steeling my nerves, I edge toward the battle.
Before I complete my third tentative step, a muscular-legged woman leaps and hurls a punch at my face.
With a snap of an elbow, I break her fist then drive a stomp-kick into her knee as she lands.
Her leg crumples.
As she staggers forward, I smash my other knee into her bare chest, shattering her rib cage.
She flops onto her back with blood spewing from her mouth. She could be someone from a ladies’ night out. A moment passes before I can rip my attention from her dead body.
Because I have trouble killing insects…
I force away the revulsion and focus on completing the gory task.
Across the dwindling landmass, tangled combatants fight a confused battle. The nauseating sounds of bones cracking and devastating blows pummeling flesh fill the air. At most, half remain standing, while the broken forms of the rest lie scattered in hideous poses over the platform.
Although people grunt from exertions, nobody cries for mercy or shows any other manifestation of fear.
Very strange.
With the corrosive sea rising behind me, there’s no time to waste.
Nearby, a man knocks the woman with the lovely blonde hair to the ground and pounds on her face.
I leap at him and drive my fist through his temple.
He succumbs instantly, blood leaking from his eyes, and his limp body collapses in a heap.
When the bloody mess of the woman I saved rises and attacks me, I kill her too.
What’s happening? What am I becoming?
There is no time to ponder. Another man with bloodied genitals hanging by a flap of skin singles me out. The victor of several fights, this combatant moves with intelligence, and thankfully, reminds me of nobody.
Disregarding the other battles, we cautiously circle each other. As we search for weakness, no words are spoken, nor am I surprised. What would be the point? Only one of us is leaving this island alive.
And that person will be me.
He charges behind a slick Savate combination.
I yield ground then reply with lightning punches and kicks from three different martial arts to keep him off-balanced.
As the fight lengthens, his strategy changes. He wanted a quick kill but has realized that won’t happen. From lessons taught by the black threads, I know he’s planning to feint a lethal attack and then try to damage something to limit my fighting ability.
We exchange strikes with no effect, then he launches a roundhouse at my head. It’s the decoy.
After I dodge, he brings his leg back for a heel kick aimed to destroy my front knee. As he delivers the blow, I loop the leg backward then lunge inside his foot. Slipping past his guard, I grapple with his arms and drive my forehead through his nose with a disgusting crunch.
As his eyes roll into his head, I twist and fling him down the incline and into the acid.
After filling my lungs with mouthfuls of tainted air, I walk higher and survey what’s left. Of the original one hundred and sixty-two, only two women and five men remain besides me.
One is a charismatic girl with striking violet eyes circled by a heart-shaped face. She is unhurt. Even though there are six others, my instincts say this person will be my last opponent.
A breeze bearing the scent of death ends the momentary truce.
All must die.
While the girl with the amazing eyes duels a taller man protecting a broken arm, a woman with a torn nose jumps at me.
Because blood clouds her vision, and she has trouble breathing, I easily dispatch her after I destroy her elbow with a Jujutsu technique.
My next opponent hobbles with an injured shin.
I crush his other leg using a Thai kick and before he hits the tacky surface, I plow my kneecap through his nose.
It makes an appalling noise.
When I look up the slope, only the girl with the violet eyes is standing. Everyone else lies dead. In an unspoken accord, we edge toward the peak, getting away from the gruesome bodies and sizzles of the rising acid.
After we stop, her eyes study me. Unlike everyone else, this girl is cautious and not relying on her newfound abilities. And that makes her far more dangerous than anyone else.
The lull ends when she opens the contest using an Eastern boxing style.
I counter with a flurry of kicks and punches.
When we separate, I’m nursing a fractured foot while she shakes a broken hand.
Long hisses arrive as the rising ocean meets some fresh meat.
The fight has to end quickly. Because she has more mobility, but her wounded hand carries no punching power and weakens her defense, I abandon any sophistication and lunge at her, grabbing the fingers of her injured hand and crushing them.
She grunts in pain and smashes me in the face with her free palm.
Stars cloud my vision as my nose breaks, but I return a punch that wrecks a couple of her ribs.
She staggers then closes, sending a knee into my thigh, which deadens the already wounded leg.
As I stumble backward, she leaps and uppercuts the flat of her forearm to shatter my cheekbone.
While spikes of pain stab into my face, my fist blasts into her chin, breaking two of my knuckles.
Her head rocks back and before she can recover, I launch the base of my hand in a sword strike at her throat.
She twists away but my fingers catch enough tissue to cripple her breathing. While she gulps for air, I destroy another two knuckles punching her nose. Ignoring the pain stabbing up my arm, I follow with a shot to her chest. The blow drops her, and while she lies on her back, I snap her neck with a vicious stomp of my heel.
I rest my weight on my good leg, my lungs struggling to supply oxygen to my exhausted body. Although my face screams in pain, and my injured hand dangles from my wrist, I am the only one alive.
The last one standing.
Since I’ve never had a shred of athletic talent or physical ability, the result is unexpected to say the least.
“What will you do?”
The carnage below isn’t the answer to the strange, yet familiar question. All my actions were based on self-preservation, not any noble sense of self-sacrifice. The fighting has only proven that combat seems to agree with me.
