JUNO
SEPTEMBER 1986
LEVEL ONE
I blink twice.
“I asked,” the yellow creature continues, “who you were.” There is a hesitation in its movements—the voice is very static, but undeniably male. He appears to be very shaken as he observes the smoldering tree behind me, almost like I would set him ablaze if it came any closer. And maybe I would. There is a radiant heat emitting from my pores, and the coldness that I had felt only a few moments ago is now dissipating.
I turn away and blast down another tree, causing the pixelated bits of wood and leaves to fly out in the air; they are almost floating above. Why doesn’t this fire spread? I wonder, watching in great irritation as the flames flare, before completely disappearing. Even though it’s computer generated, it’s supposed to resemblance some of its physics. I hate this forest; I want it to disappear. Gritting my teeth, I try again, but the stupid number that is hovering over my head greatly decreases until my body goes completely limp. Where I was once levitating off the ground; I now nearly pummel directly into it, into the grass.
The yellow creature is now standing in front of me. He’s gotten more courage now that he sees that I’ve exhausted my resources. “You can only use your abilities for a short period of time. It’s important to save your stamina. I do not understand why you would use it all out here. That is not where they usually are. We are on enemy territory, I am afraid. So it is best to meet them where they are.”
They? Who is they? “Please,” I mumble. “Leave me alone. I’m having a really bad day.” Is it really daytime? Or is still nighttime? I don’t know how long I’ve been here; there is no sense of time. My skin is crawling, like insects are crawling all over it.
”But you must move,” he persists. “If you don’t, you definitely will be ambushed. I know for sure that you are a newcomer, and they do not take well to strangers. With you, they shall show no mercy. I know it for a fact.”
I turn my head. “What, if you die here, do you regenerate or something?” I try to stand up, but my new body is unresponsive—it’s like I’m paralyzed. “I can’t move. What’s…what’s going to happen to my child? Please help me. I need to get out of here. Do you understand me? I need to leave this place. I need to go home. Can you please send for help?”
The yellow creature places a strange tentacle or limb—I don’t know what it is exactly—on my pink, sweaty flesh. There is a strange burst of energy. I can’t explain the sensation, but I am immediately rejuvenated, even though there is grass stuck to the side of my cheek. I can almost taste it. I am lifted off the ground, and all the pressure that has been in my body is gone. Above the yellow creature’s strange, bulbous deformed head, the number dwindles from 75% to a whopping 43%, now leaving it into a dark red shade, a far cry from its previous green. Why is he wasting all of his stamina on me? If I die, that means I leave. I can’t stay here another minute.
”Um…”
“Would you be as so kind as to tell me your name, comrade? Or how is it have you have encountered very same land as I?”
”Look,” I breathlessly say. “Thank you. But I am not interested in playing, alright? I just—”
“Player 0001455, it is a pleasure to see a familiar face in a foreign land. I understand that you brought my attention of a mission that you are determined to complete before you can return home and bring honor to your master. I am Player 099234, your loyal guide and mentor.”
My throat burns as I try to make sense of his words. I know almost nothing of video games, but there has to be some consistency here. “No, no, no. You don’t understand. My name is Juno. You’d need to know of a way to get out of here, correct?”
099234 focuses behind me—his eyes are unblinking, unmoving. “I am Player -Oliver- 099234, your loyal guide and mentor.” His voice gradually becomes more distorted. He blinks a couple of times, before slightly tilting his head to the side. His eyes grow wide. I am here forever. I can’t leave, I am here forever.
forever
help
fprintf
A lopsided smile slowly stretches across his face, reaching both sides, I can see all of the teeth, all
the teeth
fprintf
fprintf (disp A)
A problem has been detected and has been shut down to prevent damage to your video computer system.
The problem seems to be caused by the following file: 666.SYS
If this is the first time you''ve seen this Stop error screen, restart your system.
If this screen appears again, follow these steps. If problems continue, disable or remove any newly installed hardware or software.
[Reinstalling]
[Install complete]
* * * * *
“Who are you?”
My head starts to throb so much I get dizzy. A yellow creature is looking down at me.
I am still on the ground.
“I am Player 099234, your loyal guide and mentor,” the yellow creature says in a cheerful voice. “But we must not tarry, my dear comrade. Lest our enemies arrive.”
“Enemies?” I ask. “What enemies?”
“You can only use your abilities for a short period of time.”
”My abilities?”
”Indeed. You have been bestowed the gift of fire.”
The gift of fire? I am drenched in sweat and am shaking from head to toe, but I don’t have the opportunity to ask more questions, because he has already taken off into the dense purple trees. The sky above us, which has once only been a bright blue before, is now a dark red. There’s a hissing sound, and thousands of beady, black eyes are staring at me from the belly of this earth. When they start to approach me, I begin to propel myself forward as much as possible, getting slapped in the face by countless branches. I am securing my middle the best I can with these strange limbs of mine the best I can, ignoring the deep scratches forming upon my skin as one creature jumps on me.
In front of me, there are flashes of yellow.
“I thought you were my guide,” I yell, shaking off the wretched being. Blood is dripping from my arm, and I can make out loose, green thread dangling from my pulsing flesh. I grimace in pain, but I refuse to let go of my stomach. They are going to have to gnaw down to the bone, and my blood is already leaving behind a trail for them to follow.
“No need to worry, 00014455. These minions can be overcome with your majestic gift of pyrokinesis, which you have mastered so well. I fully trust that you are capable of it. All you had to do was wait, 00014455. Now neither of us have a chance to get out of here. You wasted your energy, you worthless
disp(result)
“No need to worry, 00014455. These minions can be overcome by your majestic gift of pyrokinesis, which you have mastered so well. The first level is always the easiest.”
When I check my stamina box, my heart skips a beat. 20%. 099234‘s is at a mere 5%, and they are barely struggling to move. I try to focus, but only a few of the dark shadows are lit ablaze. 099234 is being ripped to shards, and their howls are filling the air, chunks of melting, yellow flesh being thrown in the air as the creatures gnaw and eat. Their bloodshot eyes fall upon me. I am desperately attempting to increase the spread of the fire, but it is no use. They smile at my expression, my feeble attempts to get these horrid creatures off them, and the smell of burning, rotting flesh fills the air. 099234 is on fire, and it is all my fault.
The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
I try to bat away the flames.
* * * * * * * *
I am on fire.
I am screaming.
There is a fire between my legs.
The back of the pillow is glued to my sweat soaked hair. As a matter of fact, there are multiple stacked behind me. My chest is rapidly rising up and down, and I realize that I am lying on my back on top of my mattress. I grip the sheets, trying to see clearly, but I am in a dark room. It is not the attic, nor the bedroom I was in. I sit up, gasping heavily, realizing that all of the windows are completely blacked out, so I don’t know if it daylight or night outside. In the dim light, I can faintly make out the stairs.
I am in the real world. For the first time, I am in the basement of the house. It smells of mold and rotting wood and soil, and while I assume that there are nothing but rusted tools piled up down here, I can’t see a thing.
A rattling sound echoes in my ear—the handle of a plastic bucket nearby. I look down, and, after flinging aside the sheets, realize that my left ankle is wrapped in bandages. It’s puffy and swollen, making it hard to move. I don’t know how it has gotten that way. Panic fills through me, and before I can try to pry it off with both of my hands, an agonizing, searing pain courses through me. I cry out, clutching my stomach, and look down at the dark spot on the blankets. I pull up my nightgown and release a heavy gasp. My water is broken, it has completely drenched the sheets.
I now understand why I was pulled out of that horrific virtual stimulation. The worse is not over, because I know that I’ll be going back soon. The figure in front of me has plans for that. This revelation makes the pain between my legs all of far worse, and I begin to scream. The contractions are ripping me apart. It’s like being slashed from the inside.
I am not ready for this. I want Tom and Georgia here with me. I need them here.
“Somebody help me,” I shriek. “Help.”
The creaking sound of the basement door makes me jump. The rest of the house is completely dark, with only the shadowy figure standing at the very top, holding a flashlight. In their other hand is a large bucket, plenty of clean towels and swaddling cloth. As they quickly descend down the steps, each tread squeaking under their bare feet, I try to move away, but grunt in pain. The pain is so intense that I whimper, clutching my blood soaked nightgown. I yank down my underwear until it is twisted about my knees. In an attempt to scramble off the mattress, I wince in pain with my every move. Another contraction takes hold of me, and I curl up against the sheets.
The figure’s breaths are heavy, like they have been running a marathon outside. I see another faded but clean blanket come into view, this time it is tucked underneath me. There is a loud tearing of cloth, and they bunch more of it below me. The scent of blood is filling the air—iron reaches my nostrils. I’m realizing that they’re trying to staunch the bleeding. My bleeding.
“Please,” I beg, even though it’s probably pointless to ask. “Call an ambulance.”
I can’t have the baby here, in this filthy place. But both I and the figure know that it’s inevitable. They ignore my request, and release a heavy grunt as they carry the bucket across the basement, before the sound of heavy water sloshing in a sink meets my ears. The squeaking sound of the faucet being turned on makes me jump, and I despise how dark it is in this room—I want to see what color the water is, if it’s riddled with lead or something.
They stop a few feet from me, lowering the items on the ground. The plastic pail slams against the floor, causing the freezing cold water to splash on both sides. I hear them submerging the cloth in the water, wringing it out, and attempting to dab my face with it, but I weakly swing at them. They don’t do anything else, and I’m glad they take the hint that I don’t want it. Silent tears are rolling down my face as I begin to sit up. I can already tell that the baby is crowning, a good six inches. Breathing heavily, I glare at the figure. It watches me back, as it always does.
Their breathing has slowed, become lighter.
After a few agonizing moments, I realize that not as much progress has been made. My fingers dig into the mattress. I scrunch my face up, before struggling to breathe. There’s a shifting of clothing, and a rough hand suddenly reaches out and grabs mine.
Please, let me help you.
My eyes are burning at this whispered sentence. This is happening much too soon. I wasn’t supposed to be due for another three months, and I blame that horrendous video game. I don’t want to return. I am shaking. I am shaking to the core. There is snot traveling down my face. The figure is inching closer. Didn’t I warn it to stay away? I yank my hand free and swing a fist at them again, hoping to pop them right in the nose, if they had one. Maybe they were faceless.
I won’t hurt you.
I shut out every word, every lie. They are planning to, sooner or later. It is only a matter of time. The pain is so incredibly bad that I don’t know if I nodded or mumbled for help again.There is some heavy, slow breathing very close to me, and the ever present scent of cigarettes. A bundle of thick cloths are placed beneath me, two gentle, large hands, and whispered words encouraging me to push. I’m hollering at the top of my lungs; it’s the last thing I want to do, but I try to. It’s after several long, agonizing minutes does the sound of faint, shrill, weak crying fill the air.
In the dim light, I can see that I have a son.
I heavily exhale. He is a shade lighter than me, but has a full head of thick curly hair, being held in the dark hands of a stranger, wailing, kicking and swinging his little arms and legs back and forth. For a moment, I forget where I am, and a smile briefly appears on my face. The shadowy figure is carefully cleaning off all the gunk and blood the screaming infant is covered in. I can tell by how tenderly they hold and cradle him that even they are overtaken—for now. A moment of silent passes between us; outside of my son’s wails.
I reach out for him with both arms.
To my relief, the figure gives him to me.
My boy is still carrying on, but the moment I unbutton my nightgown and offer my breast to him, he immediately begins to nurse. I am so very exhausted, but my eyes never leave the pitch black figure, who is still seated at the far end of the blood stained mattress in the dark. As I swaddle my son with the rumpled clean cloths to keep him warm, shivers are running down my spine. The figure is still staring at me. I narrow my eyes. And somehow, their gaze lingers on the newborn, who is peacefully beginning to doze off. His tiny fingers are curled up around the rim of the blanket.
I place a kiss on top of my son’s damp head once he’s fed, slightly shielding him from the looming figure. I’m struck with the odd sensation that it wishes to hold him a bit longer, which is what I would never dare allow. But my eyes are droopy, and no matter how hard I try to stay awake, I find myself slipping back into a horrendous slumber. I glance at the water bucket in horror—it has been most likely laced. I feel the figure’s hands cleaning away the blood and sweat from me. They wrap me in clean sheets, exchange them for the bloodied ones, and raise a cup of cold water to my cracked lips. There’s a careful and delicate touching—like their fingers are trying to memorize where my eyes and nose and lips and chin are.
When their calloused hand tenderly caress my own, I make sure to spit directly into their darkened face. They are the reason I have gone into labor earlier, why my son is several months premature, where he’s more prone to diseases and underdeveloped lungs. He could die here at any minute, all because they won’t call an ambulance. I’ll need to the hospital myself. I try to stand, but a hand roughly digs into my arm, pulling me back down onto the bloodied blankets.
Rest. It’s still gentle, yet more stern. Demanding, stubborn almost.
”No. I need to get to a hospital,” I choke out. “If he gets very sick or dies in this filthy place, it’s all your fault. And I’ll make sure you pay.”
This causes them to slightly flinch for a moment.
”I’ll make you pay,” I say louder. I’m not exactly sure how to carry out this threat, but I intend to make it happen. “If anything happens to him, you’ll need more than a crappy game stimulation to keep me away. I’ll ruin your life, find out who you are. I’ll kill you with my bare hands if I have to. I promise.”
Silence.
I glare at them, breathing heavily, expecting a slap in return. They did not, to my surprise, and just observed me, before wiping their jaw with their sleeve. We are enemies. I don’t want them to ever forget it. And although they may have saved my son’s life, they have trapped both of us here, and that is something that I shall never forgive them for.
To my despair, the figure holds their wretched, slimy arms out, making a beckoning motion. I shake my head.
Here.
“No,” I yell. “No. He stays here with me.”
They begin to reach for my son. You rest.
“No!” My chest is throbbing. They have gone mad; how could I possibly rest after all of this? I tighten my grip as their dirty, clammy fingers work to pry mine away. “Get back.” I try to scream <em style="font-size: 0.9em">go away, stay away from my baby, you have no right, that’s my child, my only child, how dare you, you can’t send me back, he NEEDS ME—
In the midst of my struggle, I kick over the flashlight, causing the rim to shatter. I want them to leave, while I find a way to get my child and I out of here. But I can feel the figure inching closer. The thought of them holding my baby makes me physically ill.
The last thing I feel is my son firmly but gently being taken from my arms. I’m too weak to stop it. He is wrapped in additional blankets and carried upstairs as I slump into the mattress. I try to stand up, but my legs are worthless. The figure pauses to look at me for a moment, before closing the basement door and trapping me in the thick darkness.