by A W Wang
Not one bit.
Detouring from the mission, I park myself into a cubic entranceway walled by thick glass panels.
From across the space, the reflection of my perfect form stares at me. I can’t remember why this body made me so uncomfortable or what I used to look like.
What was I in the real world? A saint? A sinner? Rich? Poor? There was a poem covering all the possibilities. Of course, I remember none of it.
Who am I without knowing?
I run my fingers down my face.
Even though I have materialized after every scenario in the exact same body, I’m different. While I have the same beautiful mane of red hair and classical features under an ivory complexion, the difference rests in my eyes. Although still a deep shade of blue, they are flat and lacking any sparkle of life, the weight of the scenarios and loss of my prior life catching up to me.
I can’t let myself fade into oblivion.
After double checking my surroundings, I concentrate on the trick Suri taught me to reflate my sole remaining memory.
I recall the remnants of the image. The few details resemble a hastily sketched set of lines and curves more than a person or place. I imagine a paintbrush and dip it into a multicolored can of paint.
The memory pulsates as I focus and swipe the brush over the brittle lines. Increasing my concentration, I repeat the process. Color drips into the frame. After a few more strokes, a huge reassuring smile with glistening white teeth blossoms on a handsome face, and my anxieties fade. He’s someone who loved me.
My mood brightens as I draw strength from his confidence. I had to be a decent person. Maybe not a saint but definitely not a sinner.
When I open my eyes, a gleam of life sparkles from my reflection.
That’s enough.
The wide avenue remains empty, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Although worrying about my past in the midst of combat was a foolish endeavor, and Haiku will have an admonishment waiting for me when I return, I don’t care. Keeping a part of my individuality is worth the risk. For however long this works, I have no idea, but I’ll resist the will of the virtual overlords for as long as possible.
After resetting the EM rifle on my shoulder, I edge along the glass of the entranceway. When I scan to the left and right, it’s all clear. Still cautious, I step onto the sidewalk.
My nape crawls with imaginary spiders.
I freeze.
A hypervelocity pellet tears across my midsection, expanding upon impact to maximize bodily harm. An instant later, the distinctive crack of the EM weapon reverberates off the hard surfaces of the buildings.
Another second passes before my mind realizes my body has received a mortal wound. My legs wobble, and then I collapse, my intestines spilling from my abdomen and onto my thighs.
Thirty-Nine
Shrieks roll past my ears and agonizing seconds pass before I realize the hideous sounds are spewing from my lips. While my throat constricts with panic, my eyes widen. Curled tracts of bloody intestines lie everywhere. My intestines.
I bite my tongue to stay quiet and suck in sharp breaths of air tainted by my gory insides. Because I was trying to recapture a memory that doesn’t even matter, I’m going to die.
Another pellet ricochets off the sidewalk next to my exposed boot. A third plinks into the opposite wall, cracking a spiderweb into the corner of the tough glass.
Eyes darting and falling into a full-blown panic, I quickly search my surroundings. Although I can’t see anything from my prone position, lying in the open will be my death.
With gritted teeth, I fight the delirium from the overwhelming pain and pull the squishy mass of digestive tract into my abdomen. At least as much of it as I can gather. While I drag myself into the cover of the entranceway, using a quivering hand to prevent my innards from falling back out, moans of agony undercut my rushed breaths.
If I survive, I’ll be whole again when the next scenario starts.
If I survive…
Each movement becomes more excruciating than the last and fighting off the urge to scream, I arrive at the far wall and slump against the glass. My mind swims in dizziness, and I shiver from cold. Around the gore, my skin is turning blue as my body succumbs to shock.
But I can’t surrender to the wounds, someone is still coming to kill me.
When I grab at my pistol, the holster flap is difficult and the weapon won’t come out. I struggle to steady my fingers. If I’m found, I’m dead.
After more groggy efforts, I finally succeed, my shaking hand grasping my salvation, although in the interim, I’ve lost enough blood that my head wobbles and my intestines have leaked past my other hand and onto the concrete.
I made a promise to never give up.
Sucking in calming breaths, I force myself to stay upright, even as my attention wanes and my heavy eyelids flutter.
Nothing matters. Not the horrible injuries and not the awful pain. Using every last bit of stamina, I push my gun through the curls of my insides for a clean shot at the street. Then ignoring the agony, I close my eyes and play dead.
After several delirious moments pass, the patter of rubber-soled boots arrives through a whistling breeze. The enemy is near.
I count to five then open my eyes.
The bald giant from Acid Island fills the square entranceway.
Terrified, I empty the magazine with the gun jerking wildly in my hand.
Bullets walk over his body, peppering him in red bursts. His mouth opens in shock as he collapses to the pavement, his weapon clattering on the street. As he stills, the breeze blows through thin wisps of hair on his head. His body isn’t large or muscular.
My fear gives way to disappointment, and I frown through my suffering. Thinking I had slain my virtual demon was stupid. The real bald giant wouldn’t need a bullet when he could march up and just beat the snot out of me.
More shots echo off the glass of the tall buildings. From nearby, another body thumps onto the asphalt. Footsteps approach on the sidewalk.
Someone’s coming.
I panic. My EM rifle lies past the entranceway while the pistol is empty. My free hand twitches as I try to eject the finished magazine. It’s a futile gesture; my fingers are shaking too much.
Sighing, I resign myself to fate as a dark figure approaches. A moment lapses before I pierce the haze shrouding my mind and recognize the girl with the violet eyes. Her rifle points directly at me.
When I attempt to shoot, my hand is empty. The useless pistol rests on the ground next to my thigh. I don’t remember dropping it.
Instead of killing me, she kneels at my side and pulls out her med-pack.
I loll my head back to her, stunned. The girl with the violet eyes isn’t an enemy. I don’t know what to make of this crazy universe. Besides the worse things coming, dissension between the overlords, and my loss of memory, I can’t explain why she resurrects in different scenarios and why of everyone I’ve killed, she’s the one I remember.
Death is final here, and I’m one hundred percent certain of it.
Yet, now she’s back and helping me.
This is worse than being wounded. While I don’t want to rely on anyone else, I’ve killed her so many times, the shame I feel from receiving her help crushes my soul.
After a quick check, she sprays an analgesic over the injury.
As the pain lessens, my guilt swells. I have to allow her the chance to seek revenge. “I’ve killed you. Leave me.”
A puzzled look covers her pretty face while she touches my lips to keep me quiet. Similar to every other time I’ve encountered her, she never speaks.
Faint shots echo, and she spends a moment scanning the neighborhood. When satisfied everything is clear, she pulls out a roll of bandages and wrinkling her nose from the smell, gets to work patching me up.
I hate being helpless.
If I am to survive, I have to eliminate the weakness of holding onto my past. However, if only an endless supply of battles would remain
until I reach ten sigmas, what’s the point? I wouldn’t be me. My choices are to die as myself or live as a shadow of my former self.
Wishing to be anywhere else, I release a helpless breath.
When the girl with the violet eyes finishes closing the wound and applying bandages to the best of her ability, my body is somewhat functional.
With a clearer head, I decide.
Never give up.
To keep my promise, I need to survive, and the last vestige of my prior life needs to crumble into dust, come what may. I hope I’m a good person at heart and can withstand whatever moral drift comes without the anchor of a past.
That will have to be enough.
Still leaking blood from my abdomen, I grab my pistol and twisting my face into a pain-fueled snarl, rise to help the girl with the violet eyes finish our enemies.
Before my materialization into the ready room completes, I notice a livid Haiku waiting for me. Her presence is a gigantic breach of etiquette; she should only enter after the team finishes acclimating from the scenario.
When the cushion sinks under my weight, she screams in a rage that’s wholly at odds with her dainty appearance. “What was that about?”
Because my teeth are chattering and I’m still in shock from having most of my insides spilled over a nice sidewalk and then stuffed back into my body, I can’t answer.
While I struggle to regain control of my faculties, the little avatar fumes, floating over me with her small arms folded and her face scrunched in fury.
When the shivering stops, a moment passes before my mind adjusts to the lack of pain stabbing throughout my insides. Hands involuntarily rubbing over my pristine abdomen, I overcome my disbelief that my internal organs are where they should be.
Instead of answering, I let my eyes roam over the empty semicircle of chairs. Once again, I am the sole survivor from my group of ten.
Letting her anger simmer, Haiku descends to my eye level. “Are you listening? This type of behavior cannot happen again.” The concern radiating from her is more disconcerting than her apoplectic rage.
While I need a lecture, I don’t need one from a childish therapist. “I don’t care.”
“You should care!” Back to raging, she clenches her tiny hands in front of her chest. “You are too close to the end. To success. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
“I’m just another person in this program. Why am I so valuable?”
“Why throw all your hard work away?”
My exasperation spikes at the question answering my question. The virtual overlords have won. There is nothing I will do to resurrect the disintegrating outline of my last memory. I’ll become someone without a past, their ideal servant. But I won’t mention it and give her the satisfaction of cooperation.
“Okay, I screwed up. But, it’s my life.”
“Greater things are involved than just yourself.”
“Aside from saying something worse is coming, what greater things? And you still won’t answer my questions about why I’m so special.”
“Your score is over eight sigmas. That’s why you’re so special.”
The words spill in a pleading tone. The emotional depth underlying the shallow personality of the computer program is off-putting, and although truthful, yet again, her statements tell me nothing.
“You needn’t concern yourself with my well-being.”
“Your well-being is of paramount importance.”
Slowly drawing in a breath, I lean forward. “I have some specific questions.”
She sighs. “Very well, I will answer from what I am able to answer.”
Finally.
An image of the violet-eyed girl and the bald giant form in my mind. But my mouth won’t ask what’s on my lips. Imagining the leprechaun and other weird avatars brings the same result, nothing.
My hands slam on the sides of the seat.
“You’re unhappy again. Perhaps I should schedule a therapy session. Or if you physically desire to assault me?” Haiku asks hopefully.
I glare. If I could hurt her or any of the virtual characters, I would gladly accept the offer.
Strangely, the emotion leaves the little avatar, and she matches my rage with a blank expression.
Perplexed more than usual at her erratic behavior, I take a deep breath. While lacking any memories as evidence, I know prior me would be appalled at the ease with which I slip into violence as a means of expression. “No, none of that will be necessary.”
“It is exceedingly important—more important than you realize—for you to be successful.”
“I’m just a person trying to survive. Without the threads, I’m nothing.”
“That’s not true. You need to take the best of your experiences and personality and sync them to your situational awareness. Only then will you rise to your potential.”
The déjà vu of the statements isn’t lost on me.
“Haiku, can you tell me anything else?”
“What knowledge do you require?”
There is an opening, but nothing of what I want to ask will come out.
Again.
Disgustedly, I shake my head. While I’m curious about the behind the scenes interactions of the virtual universe, they ultimately aren’t essential to my survival.
In the heat of agony, I promised to let my past die without further resistance and only work on moving forward and surviving. Now, in a relaxed atmosphere, I know it was the right decision.
Although I’m not sure what I will become, I made a promise in a long-forgotten context to never quit. That’s the best course for me to follow.
“This is exhausting. Can we just get to the debrief?”
Her eyes narrow as she descends to glare at me. “We’ll dispense with the debrief for today, but to ensure there are no more lapses, I’ll be watching you closely.”
Great.
She waves her hand and static envelops my body.
Forty
“Do you think we’re going to win?” a frightened voice asks.
I don’t respond, my mood matching the dark, still atmosphere. With the collapse of the outline forming my last real-world image, I’ve finished my acclimation to the Ten Sigma Program. I’m officially the person with no past, someone who has completed the journey to becoming the sociopath desired by the virtual overlords.
Gripping my ax tighter, I listen for signs of our enemies but only hear the tree branches scraping against the roof.
The log cabin providing our shelter from the frost-covered forest is a modest space built over a frozen dirt floor. A lone keg-shaped stove occupies a corner, while a stout plank bars the crude wooden door. The sole reminder there is an outside arrives in the shape of distorted rectangles of starlight leaking through the broken glass of a six-paned window.
A wet cough leaves my shivering companion, who lays on his side, huddled under a thick cloak. As he patiently waits for an answer, his pain-filled breaths fog in the icy air and drift through the dim orange slats radiating from the stove’s grill. I can barely make out his young face in the intervening shadows.
He’s the last person on my team.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
Younger than Walt.
“Keep your hands on that wound or you’ll bleed out.”
With a grimace, he nods. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I can’t stop shaking.”
My detached self informs me I should be in the forest where I can be hunting and finding an advantageous situation to defeat my three remaining enemies. Instead, I’m trapped in an obvious position next to the only heat source on the map with a person I only met in the ready room right before this scenario started.
Why can’t I just leave him?
I stand, sighing. The frosty air finds every opening in my flannel garments as I pull off my heavy wool cloak and toss it over him.
“Don’t you need this?”
“No, it’ll only restrict my movements when I fight.”
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br /> “Thank you,” he says, accepting the flimsy explanation. “They’re going to be coming to rescue us soon. Right?”
The other eight from our side in this brutal single team versus single team affair are already dead.
“Right?” he repeats.
Because the kid’s only a 2.6 sigma and newbies don’t know any better, I resist the urge to admonish him for the useless conversation.
“Let me concentrate.”
“Sorry, I’m just a little scared. I was always close to my parents, I hadn’t even finished high school and now this.”
The words die in the empty shell of my emotions.
“Well, with that attitude, we’ll be at ten sigmas in no time,” my internal voice announces.
“Shut up, I hate you. Whoever you are.”
“There’s the passion you’ve been missing! Aren’t you glad I’m around?”
“No!”
The winter wind rises, funneling through the shards of glass embedded in the window frame and rattling the loose planks of the door. The swirling air finishes rushing through the confines by brightening the dying coals nestled in the stove.
I switch my attention back to my companion. “Hey kid, don’t fall asleep.”
His head lolls as he opens his eyes.
“Tell me what you remember about your parents.”
As he searches for coherent thoughts, his stare wanders. A few labored breaths pass before he says, “Sorry, you know with the memory loss, it’s hard to focus.”
I send him an encouraging nod.
“We lived in one of the projects, assisted housing, one of the red-bricked buildings. Nothing special. You know.”
Although I don’t, I don’t interrupt.
“My father did some job for the government, I forget which, while my mother was a great cook. We used to have all the relatives over for big dinners every weekend. It’s funny, the blue pouch goo mimics her meals perfectly. I love the cafeteria.”
“So how did you wind up here?” I say, shifting the subject away from Syd and his secrets.
He stops, looking for the right memories. “There were riots. A lot of buildings in the neighborhood burned down.”
