Ten Sigma

by A W Wang

  While the audience erupts in hysterics at a punchline, I focus on one particular deep, rumbling laugh.

  Sex on the other hand…

  With a gentle twist, I clandestinely look three rows behind me. The exquisite man arrived with the last restocking of Home, and I’m disgusted with myself because, with the return of my libido, I’ve been stalking him for two days.

  When he returns my covert glance, I sink into my seat, pushing my attention back to the entertainment.

  The deep laugh rumbles at another sight gag.

  Without the grounding from my memories, my moral compass remains adrift. While I think I’m a good person, I remember nothing to validate that claim. Besides being hard to kill and victorious in the scenarios, I’m not sure of what separates me from a sociopath. And now with the blue liquid pushing in the wrong direction…

  Life can’t be this bleak.

  I gnaw on a fingernail, and closing my eyes, switch my thoughts to the first movie night with Suri and the rest of the team before our initial battle, which seems like ages ago.

  Despite resolving to avoid making new friends, I miss my old ones. I hate the loneliness consuming my being.

  Great warriors are lonely.

  It’s the first time I’ve viewed myself in that context, but the statement is accurate. Fighting alone is what I do and do well.

  I release a soft sigh. Although my past is gone, somehow, I know I’m exactly where I never wanted to be.

  When a hairy leg brushes against my knees, I open my eyes. The end credits scroll up the screen while the crowd streams into the aisles and exits up the inclined ramp.

  After reorienting myself, I stand, feeling antsy to jump into a new scenario. Combat has sadly become my sole comfort activity.

  Masculine fingers brush across my bicep as I step into the aisle. It’s my stalking target, the gorgeous man with the deep laugh.

  Afraid of igniting any dark desires, I avoid staring at his V-shaped body and take faster steps, elbowing into the middle of the slow-moving crowd. Irritated people, whom I consider mere fodder to be fed into the meat grinder of the scenarios, grumble as I rush under the ornate doorway and through the opulent lobby.

  When the clean air of the sanctuary hits my face, I dash down the staircase. At the bottom, I stop, and clearing my head with quick breaths, fight to control the urges of the blue liquid.

  The handsome man pauses next to me, his gorgeous eyes innocently meeting my gaze. Up close, he’s more chiseled and sexier than I imagined. His perfect lips widen into a reassuring smile, reminding me of someone I’ve forgotten.

  Before he can leave, I reach through my jumbled emotions and touch his arm.

  Words are unnecessary and we remain motionless as the crowd files past, just two metaphorical ships passing in the night.

  That’s appealing.

  More appealing is the prospect of any physical contact to get rid of the feelings of isolation. Although the rational part of my being warns of the danger, my yearnings are only one part blue liquid against ten parts loneliness and a hundred parts wanting a release that’s unrelated to killing.

  While the fantasy in the mess hall turned disastrous, I know that with a little willpower, I can make sex absolutely pleasurable and without a trace of violence.

  After we’re alone, I ask, “Do you find me attractive?”

  Although he tilts his head like I’ve asked a trick question, his eyes wander from my face to my breasts as if studying a work of art.

  A distant part of me wonders if I should be bashful.

  I dismiss the thought. Nothing matters from my prior life; there is only the here and now. I stand taller, basking in the undivided attention.

  After a small bow, he says in a rich voice, “You’re the girl with the red mane of hair. Nobody is more divine.”

  Although spoken without vulgarity, the compliment is plenty for my mood. I grab his hand and drag him toward the museum. As we pass a tall iron lamp, I pull him off the path and march at a faster pace, the longing and anticipation in addition to my resentment at the virtual overlords driving my impatience.

  Screw the witch and her warnings.

  When we reach the museum, I force him into a dim rectangle sequestered between two parallel exhibit wings where the shadows from tall fern trees afford plenty of privacy.

  After forcing him into a secluded corner under a resting overhang of ivy, I yank off my skimpy clothing and shove his wonderful body next to a barred window. Before he resists, I run my palms up his chest and jamming his back against the side of the metal bars, grab his head and force a passionate kiss on his lips.

  With heavy pants, he responds as best as he can.

  As my naked body writhes against him in the shadows, I push out my tongue and thrust it deep into his mouth. Struggling to breathe, he battles back as we desperately try to share an intimate moment.

  At the height of the ferocious efforts, I feel only disappointment. On the inside, I’m wooden, even frigid. Although our bodies squirm and our lips twist with our tongues darting back and forth, the labored movements resemble those of cheap sex robots more than impassioned lovers.

  Powered by my almost nine sigma level tenacity and my hatred at the entire virtual universe, I send my hands down his wonderfully sculpted body, taking care to caress his muscular pecs and six-pack abs. However, despite the motions being correct, our actions are performed analytically. Neither of us shows any involuntary throes of passion or uncontrolled fits of ecstasy. Nothing registers, not even the tiniest spark of desire.

  When I arrive at his privates, he’s flaccid.

  I won’t give up.

  There has to be something more. I grab his arms and yank him from the wall. He yields to my brutality as I shove him to the manicured grass. After pulling his underwear to his thighs, I straddle his pelvis and pushing him flat, use my hand to stimulate him.

  Nothing.

  Frustrated, I drive myself onto his shriveled penis. When that fails, I grind back and forth in a frantic attempt to generate excitement.

  Watching paint dry would be more fun.

  My growing anger fuels the need for something more than the violence and death of the scenarios. With rough movements, I shift higher, rubbing my sex over his chest and proceeding until it’s poised under his chin.

  He shows his willingness with a grin.

  Not requiring another hint, I move myself over his lips until only the top of his nose and forehead are visible and then press down, closing my eyes and searching for something arousing from my empty memories.

  His tongue springs out.

  I squirm to enhance the pleasures the act should generate. Seconds pass without kindling any passion. With exasperation, I command, “Push it in as far as it will go.”

  As he complies, I grind harder.

  More nothing.

  My anger bristles at the futility of the exercise, and I ram my pelvis into his face, plowing his head into the ground.

  I want to punish him.

  A muffled cry comes from between my legs, but he continues, his teeth cutting into my privates from my crude motions, making my inner thighs and his lips slippery with blood.

  I gasp. The pain is amazing.

  The buds of the orgasm that spread during my blue liquid fantasy reappear in my loins. There’s no need to stop in this secluded setting. I embrace the ever-present cloud of dark emotions forcing its way into my thoughts. The pleasures that have been missing from my virtual life are coming.

  Arching my back, I buck with as much force as I can muster.

  In spite of the obvious discomfort, the man’s tongue moves faster and deeper to match my excitement.

  The joyful radiance expands from my sex and spreads into my pelvis and up to my pounding chest while the wonderfulness of murder rises from my throat.

  A moan of delight leaves my mouth as I let go of my self-restraint. I peer downward, enjoying the sight of my undulations over his blood-stained face, never imagining
the act could be so beautiful.

  Between my rough thrusts, he struggles to suck in air while still pleasuring me.

  That helplessness adds to the intoxication and drives me to wilder heights. My hands glide from my knees and hover over him. I gleefully slam them into his head and tussle his thick hair.

  A muffled squeal escapes from his mouth as he squirms for breath.

  The desperate gasps between my tightening thighs send me further into fantasy. Fingers squeezing his temples, I move my thumbs over his closed eyes and lick my lips in anticipation of pushing them through his eyeballs and into his brain. After he’s dead, I can pull out his heart and drink his blood.

  Murder is wonderful.

  Muscles tensing across my body, my lungs holding in a giant breath, I let insanity fill my mind.

  “What are you doing?”

  The strange internal voice from the scenarios yanks me from the abyss. Jerking my hands away from killing my lover, I scream and then slam my palms on the soft ground.

  The impact produces a disappointingly muffled sound.

  Shivering, I force the foulness from my thoughts. This place is worse than a dysfunctional Garden of Eden. Death, hate, and violence taint everything. Even the simple act of making love is intertwined with the desire for murder, exactly the opposite of what it should be.

  When my emotions calm, I lift myself off his face.

  He gasps, sucking in a lungful of air.

  I swing my leg over his body and stand.

  Propping himself up with his elbows, he faces me. His rich voice sounds funny with a split lip. “Do you wish to continue?” he naively asks. “It seemed to be working for you.”

  Murder lingers in my mind. He’s at 2.72 sigmas, and killing him would be so easy. I gnash my teeth, disgusted. Somehow, violence defines everything.

  I’ve become precisely what I didn’t want to be.

  I spit onto the grass. “No,” I say with vehemence.

  He sits up, a confident smile spread over his face. “If you wish to attempt this again, I’ll be willing. Or perhaps you can tell me the secret for enjoying sex?”

  I wipe my mouth clean of spittle. “Have your avatar take care of that lip.”

  Without waiting for a response, I grab my clothing and march through the long shadows of the ferns, exiting the sequestered space.

  As I near the path, a dismayed Haiku hovers in the yellow light of the wrought iron lamp.

  Naked, and realizing that besides the nudity, my adventure must be plain from my grass-stained knees, flushed face, and blood smeared between my legs, I embrace my slut-walk and brush past her, readying myself for the inevitable tirade.

  Silently, she floats alongside me with her eyes downcast.

  After a few annoyed steps, I turn and say in a louder voice than I intend, “What?”

  She speaks from disappointment. “Certain activities aren’t suitable for you.”

  While I’m surprised she doesn’t yell in anger or indignation, I understand exactly what the cryptic statement means. “I’m shocked you care so much for my virtue.”

  For a fleeting instant, a deepness lurks in her computer-generated eyes, and I think she’s going to sigh.

  She opts for her usual happy smile. “To be a successful member of this program, please focus on performing well in the scenarios.”

  Spoken like a scout leader. I wonder if I was in one of those organizations then shake my head. Those memories are gone. “Whatever I do in my own time is none of your business.”

  Her smile flattens as her silver eyes blink.

  My hands ball into fists. “Or do you want to make it your business?”

  We both know the implied threat is pointless, and the little avatar holds her ground.

  “I merely stress that there are certain emotional boundaries from where there is no return.”

  The frustration seeping into her voice causes an odd satisfaction within me. I frown at my pettiness. “Unless you have something specific to say, leave.”

  Her eyes lose focus as she makes pouty lips. Then waving her hand, the air pops and I’m alone.

  Being the victor by retaining possession of the battlefield does nothing to lift my mood. After putting the skimpy garments back on, I trudge toward the barracks, my thoughts swirling in a dark cloud, upset with the loss of my past, angry with being so susceptible to the liquid, and frustrated from my unfulfilled desires.

  I hate the virtual overlords.

  By the time I get in sight of the domed building, I’m no closer to dispelling my anger.

  It’s tempting to drift into the darkness of the blue liquid and enjoy the killing. It’ll make the time pass much faster and I’ll be better at the scenarios.

  But what will remain if I fall to such base desires? A murderer addicted to dispensing death? A person like Syd, worshiping at the altar of evil?

  I won’t live that way.

  Sex, violence, Haiku, and the virtual overlords, none of them have any importance. Even the worse things Haiku keeps mentioning. I only need to survive a bit longer. A little more combat. A few more scenarios. My sole focus will be on the important task of getting out of the virtual universe.

  I grimace. It was the advice Suri gave me. Don’t care about anyone else, concentrate on reaching ten sigmas. Just like I was when I listened to the boy in the icy cabin whose parents died in the real-world riots.

  That’s not acceptable either.

  At the entrance of the barracks, the leprechaun floats, his eyes full of resentment as they track me.

  His demeanor strikes the exact wrong chord in my malice-laden mind. “What do you want?” I yell.

  He stays silent but narrows his eyes and scrunches his face into a hate-filled expression.

  As his hand rises to perform the leave gesture, my anger explodes through my frustrations and self-loathing. I dive and grab him as he pops away.

  The world vanishes.

  Forty-Three

  Biting cold stings my skin, but consumed by hatred, I rush down an endless tunnel in a myopic pursuit of the leprechaun, who represents the embodiment of everything I find wrong about the virtual universe. Besides the violent character of the Ten Sigma Program, I’m sick of Haiku and the other weird little avatars with their clandestine glares and overtly hostile expressions. And that’s not even mentioning all the riddles.

  I want answers.

  Faint vibrations emanate from my tissues as I move faster. However, despite my hurried pace, he increases his lead. His flying form shrinks in the distance, and his grass scent lessens with each of my plodding steps.

  It’s like being mired in quicksand.

  Worse, my body is betraying me. A growing nausea clutches at my insides, and as the debilitating feeling spreads throughout my being, my flesh and skin soften while my bones become rubbery.

  The passageway abruptly spills into a vast space, and my wobbly self tumbles into a strange buoyant medium.

  There is no trace of the leprechaun.

  When I nibble on a fingernail, my teeth only find mush.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Terrified, I search the surroundings for anything recognizable. Although boundaries define the expanse, no solid walls exist. Projected as shades throughout the area are frightening, evil caricatures of people. Their malice washes over me, stomping my anger into insignificance.

  As I fight the urge to curl into a mass of puddling flesh, a familiarity tickles my distorted senses. I can’t fathom how but things feel similar to when I followed Syd under the bowels of Home.

  Even though there’s no hint of his presence, I know that somehow this incomprehensible mess is connected to the mystery of Syd.

  Something I was warned against pursuing.

  Sobered by the rational thought, I hunt for an escape from the crazy place.

  Ripples in the medium brush through me.

  I dive away, doing a motion that’s not quite running or swimming, and speeding as fast as my disinteg
rating body can move.

  After slicing between a couple of projections that quake with sadistic humor at my predicament, I plow through an invisible barrier, falling into a bright, infinite space that dwarfs anything I thought could be imagined.

  What in all hell have I gotten myself into?

  I struggle to draw calming breaths to combat my growing fear. After a few attempts, I realize I don’t have any lungs. What’s worse is that I don’t appear to have a heart either.

  Outside of the nebulous substance pretending to be my body, no colors exist, nor is anything black and white. The medium shakes from titanic indeterminate forms treading on nearby billowing clouds.

  While everything near is out of focus, further away—above, below, front, back, and to each side—are dots like an array of stars, each representing one of an infinite number of maps for the different scenarios and sanctuaries floating at an infinite distance.

  That’s too many infinities to contemplate.

  The surroundings quiver as I rattle my head, searching for a logical explanation.

  All virtual environments are created from software and have laws subject solely to the whims of their designers. I’m in a place far beyond Home—someplace exceeding the bounds of my reality and a place I shouldn’t be.

  My vision isn’t blurry; my entire body is blurry. While not ethereal, my substance resembles nothing of gas, liquid, or solid. In this universe, my abilities and training have no value.

  This is the home of virtual overlords. The idea makes sense and I wonder why it’s taken so long to arrive at this obvious answer. Perhaps it’s because my mind is made from the same indescribable mush as the rest of my body and my reasoning is impaired.

  Something huge bumps against me. While I quiver, the being wanders past, oblivious to my puny presence. As it recedes, I notice others approaching.

  Besides my fear, a sickly concern rises in me. If this is the virtual version of heaven, given the dysfunctional nature of everything else, I’m in big trouble. I’m unsure of how to escape from this mess or where I should even begin looking.

  However, anywhere seems better than my current position. I spin, focusing my smeared eyesight through the thin swaths of white drifting nearby, and head in the quietest direction along the path providing the least resistance. If I can avoid meeting anyone, I’ll consider myself fortunate.