Austin Bunn - The Brink - Stories

/this why you play? she ping’d. /so you can war? so you can win?

/here more vivid than every place else i know.

/new question: how has the game affected home life?

/i’m research now?

/you were always.

I didn’t care. Her attention was an extra sun.

/new question , I ping’d. /how many others in your research project?

/so far just you. feel special?

/feel lucky.

/my question now.

/ok: game makes me feel less lonely. but there are different kinds of lonely.

/how many?

/11.

/what # is this?

/#6. lonely with 50 % chance of not-lonely.

/you married? she ping’d.

I went to the kitchen and topped off an OJ and club soda. I’d lied before, of course — about my age, my weight, my actually having a job. It was easier to lie, closer to play than the truth. What answer did she want? What would keep her here, with me?

“Josh, come to bed!” Jocelyn called down from upstairs. “All those old Twilight Zone s are on. Even the one about the glasses!”

I hesitated. Upstairs, Jocelyn would be under the comforter, cross-legged, tea set on the nightstand, on the special bamboo coasters. I could see every last detail.

“One sec!” I called back.

/yes , I typed.

/right answer.

/huh?

/am married too , she pulsed. /but might be over. lonely #10?

My opening, there, flashing. I told her I had to go — it was late where I was — but there was one last thing for her to see.

/ the windowpanes , I ping’d.

/?

/ the opposite of lonely.

Then I ran upstairs to my wife.

The wooden arch at the entrance of Bewilderville towered above us, strung with purple banners and torches on permanent flame. In these final days, Rrango’s pride and glory looked desolate, /like Six Flags after an accident , Aremi ping’d. / after a maiming! I ping’d back. An empty rollercoaster whipped along an enormous, vaulting frame, which creaked and strained in the quiet. Rrango was so good he’d cribbed the rumble down to the squeaky nails in the timber. Would anything else in his life ever know such care? On the vacant midway, the World’s Fair globe rotated on a programmed loop. Aremi and I zoomed past ghost-face barkers — NonPlayerCharacters triggered by our entrance, luring us to their whatnot — and skirted to the far end, where two squares glistened with ruby light. The Windowpanes. Rrango’s trophy, his pièce de awesome. As we got closer, they pulsed and throbbed, aware of us.

/step in , I ping’d.

/explain. don’t like surprises.

I told her that when you entered the Windowpanes, you released all permissions on your machine. Every firewall collapsed, and you had total access to your partner’s hard drive. Complete transparency.

/too weird , Aremi ping’d. /this whole place is, but.

Rebuffed, I gave her silence.

/show me yours? she ping’d. /if you want.

There was no better way for her to know me. The years of music, my pathetic résumé, even the porn folder: the desktop was my life on a tray. /be gentle , I ping’d; and as soon as I stepped into the Windowpanes, a shaft of red light swept my screen and my keyboard froze. I could feel Aremi enter me, her curiosity whispering through. My cursor moved under her hand.

The figure landed behind her: a saber-tooth in a green tux and combat boots. At first, I thought it was another of Rrango’s NPCs on a boo mission. He loved his scares. But then white threads of the pox monstered out of the face like streamers. Melanak could jump skins but not the disease. He strode toward Aremi, his double-jointed legs looking like they were going forward and backward at the same time. The Windowpanes fixed me: I couldn’t warn Aremi. My entire system lay open. He could push anything in, to either of us.

/this should be fun! Melanak ping’d.

I jerked the power cord from the CPU, and it went black. My blood thrummed, and I shuddered, back in my body. I’d left Aremi to him. God knows what he’d take from her, or give to her. But I was helpless. Redropping from a crash would require minutes, long enough for Melanak to grief up a shit-ton.

The sounds of the house returned — the television in the bedroom, the central air cycling up, a bird pinging for another bird. Jocelyn creaked open the door. “Josh, why are you on the floor?”

How could she understand? I’d met some colored light that transfixed me.

I told her I felt ill, and she made me lie on the couch. With each step I took I lunged away from myself. She pressed her cool hand to my forehead, checking for fever but also holding me down.

“I have to get back,” I said.

“No, you don’t.” Her face became the face of everyone who knew better. “Look, I understand there are people in that fucking game that mean something to you,” she said. “Even people you love. Whatever. Whatever you do with your Jergens. But you have to find a way to say good-bye to it. Because otherwise I’m done.”

I told her I needed a walk, to clear my head. Anything so she’d let me go. Maybe I’d check if the locksmith was still looking for someone. Or have coffee in a café, a quiet room with strangers, one of whom could be Aremi and I’d never know. Or visit the library, with the public machines.

I couldn’t find her. Aremi’s last drop had been hours before, but there was no record of her exit. Her mail pocket was full, and I felt a surge of possessiveness knowing that others had friended her.

Then the library janitors ushered me out.

When I got home, Jocelyn was already asleep on the far end of the bed, facing the wall. As quietly as I could, I put my clothing in the hamper and brushed my teeth. In the mirror, I saw myself, my unemployment beard flecked with white. I looked like a man who’d given up on mirrors. I slipped in next to Jocelyn and left an inch between us. That was the rule when we argued. And I wondered how Aremi slept — on her side, with her husband behind her, like this, with space enough to feel alone? On the nightstand, Jocelyn’s laptop hummed in sleep mode, the light from it a tiny moon toggling on and off.

On the final day, I dropped into a blizzard. Flakes drifted in the foreground no matter where I turned, like in the movies, the weather tight around the characters. With the snowfall blanking the landscape, the last of us took to the air. Only the Exit remained.

I hovered in front of the wall and saw myself reflected in a gray wash. Hundreds of players floated around me in the flurry, making their arrangements — which worlds they’d join, which people they’d become. Others zoomed past, already done with the game. A she-wolf and queen, tethered together, ping’d, / Kamikaze mutherfuckazzzz! and entered the Exit. Their skins flared and sank into a molten afterlife. It took a full minute to be absorbed, their feet, their paws, the last to go.

Rrango dropped and found me. He was still skinned in koala, cigar and monocle and all, which looked ridiculous, but really that was what he’d given the Also — a sense that none of it mattered.

/been a great game o’ golf, brother , he ping’d. /will miss you.

I asked him where next, which alt.

/just landed a job dude. I need a life.

Everything was moving, at a barely perceptible speed, away from me.

/coming? Rrango ping’d. Half a square of grid remained, a white strip between the Exit and the edge of Origin Park. The end of the map. There was no more time. I had to let her go.