Reversion--Part III

 The visual of his ashen housemate disturbed Josh somewhat.  He looked at Simon.  “What hap—”  He was shocked by the weakness of his voice.  His lips had difficulty forming the words, and his throat refused to push them out without some struggle.  The words left his mouth in a raspy, hollow tone: “What happened to him?  Is he all right?”

Simon’s eyes met Josh’s for only a moment.  “Josh, hey man! What’s up?” He then watched the screen attentively, and his fingers mashed the buttons of the controller.  “God, man!  I’m never getting into the next room!”

Josh coughed hoarsely a couple of times and held his chest, unaccustomed to speaking.  “Simon,” he said a bit louder, “what happened to him?”

Simon glanced over at his prone housemate and shrugged.  “The man said he was tired.  He’s asleep.”

Josh walked closer to the couch and studied the chunky young man.  “Are you sure?  He doesn’t look well.”

Simon groaned.  “Dude, can we talk about this in like twenty minutes?  I’ve been working on this building for the past two hours.  I don’t know how much longer I can tolerate it.  There are like five enemies with katanas in this room.  I don’t know why they have swords, but I can’t aim my pistol fast enough.  If I kill these guys, there’s a God.”

Josh leaned against the couch, feeling dizzy from the long journey from the hut to his living room, and from speaking.  He decided to sit on the edge of the couch and take a short rest.  On the screen, Simon’s character pulled a black pistol from a holster on his right hip and crept to a wooden door.  He was provided with the options of either breaking the door down or opening it regularly, and Simon chose the latter.  The door pivoted open, and the character tip-toed into the next room.  From nowhere there came an enraged shout, and a blade swung out from the shadows.  The screen shook and pulsed with a red color of pain, and Simon cursed.  Out from a small case on his side came a long dagger, which he wielded in his left hand and used to block the next blow.  The gun bucked as his finger pulled the trigger, and the enemy’s knees failed to support him once the bullet entered his chest.  And so followed four more enemies.  Soon all but Simon’s character were lying in a pool of blood.  The game auto-saved, and Simon moved across the room.  There were two doors.

“God, I hate when they do this,” Simon complained.  “One of these is going to be wrong, I know it.”

He chose the left door, and immediately a young man appeared with a dagger.  The game transitioned to a cutscene.  Simon’s character raised his gun for the kill, but then stopped.

“Andy?” he said, clearly astonished.

“Oh, thank goodness, it’s you,” Andy replied, lowering his dagger and embracing Simon’s character.  “Simon, I thought you were dead.”

“Only ninety-five percent dead,” the protagonist replied.  “I’m just alive enough to get us out of here.  As I can see you’ve noticed, this place is dangerous.  We need to leave.  Now.”

“But shouldn’t we talk first?  How did you get here?”

Simon’s character shook his head.  “It’s not important enough to be talked about right now.  Come on, let’s go.”

At that moment, a door down the hall burst open, and a built man in a black trench coat revealed himself, wielding a pistol in either hand.  He looked at Simon and Andy with a fierce grin.  “You two have caused far too much trouble by getting involved with me.  I have given you many chances to stop following me, but there is no stopping it.  All that there is left to do is kill you.”

Andy cowered, throwing his arms before himself like a shield.  “But we haven’t done anything!  We don’t even know you!”

“Oh yes,” said the man, “you know me quite well.  You know me better than anyone.  You know me so well, that death is now the only option.”

“But why?” shrieked Andy.  “Why?  What have we done?  Who are you?”

The enemy chuckled.  “My name is Rob Mode, and it is time to show you what happens when you follow me so closely.”

He pulled the triggers on both guns, and Simon’s character and Andy fell to the ground instantly, killed by bullets to the heart.  Simon cursed again and bashed the controller against a small table at the foot of his couch.  “I knew it!” he yelled.  “Ugh! Dude, I’m sick of this game.  You know how much time I put into this Mercenary file?  Thirteen hundred hours.  I’m a boss at this game, and this always happens!”

“That sucks, Simon,” Josh responded quietly.

“I’m telling you, man.  This is my sixth character on here, and I can’t get any farther than this.  I’m lucky I’ve even gotten this far.”  He grunted.  “I’m getting bored with the Mercenary, anyway.  I’ve meant to do the Civilian for a while.”

Josh nodded and rose to his feet.  He looked down at the hospital gown again and shuddered.  “Simon, I need to ask you something.  Why was I in the medical hut in the backyard?”

Simon’s eyes were glazed, one with the projected screen.  “Do I want a ponytail or cropped hair?  What are you talking about, Josh?  Medical hut?  You feeling ok?”

“No,” said Josh, “but I’ll be fine.”  He gazed around the room.  “Well, I’m going in my room.”

“Fine, Josh,” Simon replied in sarcastic jealousy.  “You don’t have any time for your friends anymore, do you?”

Josh huffed something close to a laugh and left the couch.  As he ascended the stairs, he thought about Simon.  This was the same Simon that he once knew, but for some reason, the personality disagreed with him.  The small chunks of memory he could conjure of him with Simon seemed to include genuine portrayals of friendship.  He remembered laughing and playing video games together.  But if this was the true Simon, and had been during their years of “friendship,” then perhaps they had never really shared a bond as closely as he had thought.  For in his housemate there was something impenetrable.  There was—how could he grasp it?—a sort of artificiality coming from Simon.  Like a wall separated anyone from establishing a meaningful relationship with him.  He instantly received the vibe that nothing of seriousness could be discussed with his friend, though he could not completely understand why.  Was it the video games?  Was it simply a hyperactivity disorder?  Or was it a blend of both?  The thought injured his still adjusting mind, and so he cast his ideas aside when he reached the summit of the stairs and came to the door of his room.

His first thought was that, from the memories he could glean from the hidden storehouse of his mind, the room appeared precisely the way he had left it.  Then there overcame him an otherworldly sensation, as if he were a foreigner in an area where he had spent much of his time.  The images before him were indeed familiar to him, and yet presently detached from him; and in no way could he understand this but by comparing it to a former drunk who suddenly stumbles upon a can of liquor, only to find that within him there is no urge for the consumption of the toxin inside.  For before him, draped proudly across the walls, were posters emblazoned with characters from sundry brands of media: movies, video games, and short clips from the Internet; and these characters, once core figures of his manmade religion, held no sway over him.  He did not desire them, but part of him desired that he might desire them, for in this condition he could rediscover normalcy.  However, there were far too many questions swarming about in his confused mind, and the human mind hungers for answers to all that is concealed.

All that remained in his room were his bed, a double mattress mottled with untidy blankets and a sock or two; his desk, topped by a handful of notebooks and a black projector smaller but very similar in appearance to that which was downstairs; a bookcase beside his bed, filled with science fiction novels (many of which he realized that he had never read); a closet with mirrors for doors; clothes cast carelessly across the floor, accentuating his apparent past uncleanliness; and a window, one of which he had seen from the backyard.  His bed was a large construct, not only a mattress but bearing an imposing shelf at its head; on this shelf were numerous gadgets, batteries for those of yore, and his wallet.  He sat on the edge of his bed and sighed at the comfort it provided.  He was out of breath after clambering up the stairs, and he might have crashed and slept for days had he no fear that he would awake in a place harnessing no beauty, and only darkness.  So he rested his head against an overly thick and feathery pillow, and he reached onto the shelf for his wallet.  There were no bills inside, and no cards but his driver’s license and credit card.  He studied the picture on his driver’s license, and then stared at the mirror.  The difference in skin tone really was drastic.  He marveled that he was still alive, though he desired to soon discover the reason that he might not be alive.  He would not find the answer by asking Simon.

After a few moments of rest, Josh returned his wallet to its position and strode to his desk.  He lifted the black projector from the glossy surface and remembered that it was a personal projector.  On one side of it was a clip one could use to fasten the device on the edge of his pants.  The device, revolutionary for even its time, would intelligently sense where it was located on a person’s body, and attempt to project before the viewer’s eyes at the press of a button.  Josh pressed the black button on the back, and the circular glass flickered for a moment before spewing out a golden light.  Floating ghostlike in front of him was a menu beneath the following words:

EL

Electronic Life©

Live Electronically®

The menu consisted of various facets a person might utilize in his life, and each facet was enclosed in its own square with rounded edges.  The first potential selection was Computer, and under the word were various operating systems to choose from.  On the right of this block was Phone, and then Video Games, and the final block was Religion (Listen to today’s hottest speakers!), with the user’s selection of desired denomination.  Josh touched the immaterial Phone block, and an Address Book opened up.  The only name on the list was “Mom.”  He sighed heavily and returned to his bed, the bright screen remaining before his face.  Into his hands he thrust his head as tears rushed to his eyes and the memories—formerly inconsistent and ambiguous—barraged his consciousness.  His mother had implored him to avoid the lifestyle that he had planned, for according to her it would only lead to downfall.  But in his mind there had been nothing immoral or abnormal about his choice; in fact, he recalled that he had deemed his parents insane because of their decision of lifestyle.  Their discussion was severed for a time from Josh’s memory, but the waves of agony crashing across his mother’s face—now extremely palpable—caused him now to wonder how he had found the wicked strength to bury his conscience and disregard her pleas.  He needed to find her.