Obelus (ONC 2020)

Chapter 4

Warning: suicidal themes (kind of?) in this chapter. May be triggering to some.

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A glitch in the simulation.  Of course.

Eli was studying to become a programmer.  He knew that no system was perfect.  There was always room for error, even the most marginal of sorts.  The world and its laws were so vast, so complex, that it was impossible to store all those variables perfectly in a world of limited storage—trying to do so only nurtured a climate ripe for error.   And if Eli could witness the glitch, then that meant he wasn't just a simulated character made by a higher intelligence. It meant he recognized what reality should entail; and this wasn't it.

This world wasn't real.

But Eli was.

He was sure of it now.  His existence was external to this programmed reality, which explained his nightmares, the suit, the nodules, the simulation goggles.  The overseers had done their best to keep him blind to the truth, but in the end, Eli didn't need to wait for the torch-bearer—the acrid smoke had given them away. 

He spent the afternoon running through possibilities and theoretical situations, turning to the Internet for answers only to find Buzzfeed articles or scientific papers that ridiculed the theory. The lack of information confirmed his suspicions: his server was tainted.  The programmers didn't want him to learn any more, so they'd stripped his network of data.  They'd burned the library.

Before he knew it, the sun had abandoned him, and he was running late for the soccer party.  Eli didn't want to leave his bedroom and his treacherous computer, but he needed to see Lopez and explain what had happened.  He needed his best friend on his side, a rational third party to tell him he wasn't hurdling past the deep end.

So he snatched his bike and rode straight for the apartment complex off campus, his mind hyperactive, grip painfully tight around the headset.

When he arrived at the party, he realized Lopez could have left out the apartment number in the address—the source of the noise was obvious.  He climbed the stairs two at a time and made for the suite with all the ruckus, pushing through the door into a dimly-lit space full of athletes, red solo cups, and cannabis. 

He immediately discovered the party was too much for his senses. After spending all evening in the dark of his room, paranoid and caffeinated, he was sensitive to everything.  The blaring music, the musty smoke and perfume, the shifting bodies. He was overwhelmed. Overstimulated.

He weaved through friendly faces, nauseous and dizzy.  Then he spotted a patch of dark hair and a familiar set of shoulders, and he felt a relieving gust of air return to his lungs.

Lopez, in his club sweatshirt and black skinny jeans, stood in the corner of the room surrounded by his teammates and a handful of girls.  He held a Coors in one hand, and he gestured animatedly with his other, smiling wide as he related some tale.

He suddenly caught sight of Eli, and he abruptly left the conversation to come and greet him.

Eli glanced at the abandoned circle and back to his friend, who beamed at him and murmured something about his wardrobe choice.  "Weren't you in the middle of telling a story?"

"¿Mande? No." Lopez waved away the thought.  "I was biding my time waiting for you, tonto."

Normally, the sentiment would have charmed Eli, but right now his mind was reeling, and he needed a sense of purchase. "Great. Can we talk somewhere private?"