1
Punch in, slip on, drop out.
Holding a brand-new copy of Legacy of Arethmore, Harris once again read the video game's back-of-box description while it installed on his system. He'd read it at least ten times now. The big guy with the acne scars had said it was the best game ever. The reviews for it were all nines and tens—even from WeH8Games, who were notorious for their anti-game rhetoric. And every single one of the thirty people in line had had a copy of the game in their hands. This was gonna be great.
Harris' system played a victory song, indicating the install was complete. Thrumming with excitement, he saw the boot-up screen on his display: a noble knight, silver sword in hand, staring off into a swirling sunset of pinks and purples, his steel-grey armour painted with the pastel colours of the sky; by his side was a beautiful wench with red hair and a green gown. Just like the game's box art.
Since the cartridge had already been punched into the slot, the only thing left to do was to slip on the mask and enter the world of Arethmore. Harris grabbed the full-face mask, which looked more like a helmet, and tugged it over his head. It was a tight fit, but the spongy material lining the inside ensured it wasn't painful to wear—even for a five- or six-hour marathon session.
Really feeling like a knight, he transferred his system's display to the mask with a simple thought. The room around him disappeared, instead replaced with the desktop and the game's boot-up screen. Harris' eyes travelled to the PLAY button, directing the cursor as they did so, and he pushed it with his mind.
Immediately, diamonds, emeralds, rubies—gemstones of all kinds—rained down upon him and bounced off the black floor at Harris' feet. An enormous logo appeared, glittering, with the swell of strings and horns. GEMFLOW GAMES, it read, looking larger than life itself.
And then he was there. Arethmore.
Harris looked left and right, taking in the sun-washed, flower-filled meadows and shadowy forests around. A too-blue sky encompassed all above him. The air was full of smells, from sickly sweet to pleasantly plain. In his head, what sounded like a harpsichord played a folksy, soothing melody, mixing beautifully with the sounds of chirping birds, buzzing insects and croaking toads. He looked down at his body, seeing the shiny armour he wore. Thumping his steel boots against the grassy ground, Harris smiled at the satisfying sound it made and the feel of it against his heels. At his side was a scabbard, and a sword sheathed within it.
A large pond sat in front of Harris, with swans gliding across its glassy surface, and beyond that was a quaint hamlet. He would have to walk the road around the pond to get there; he didn't dare swim in all that armour.
Harris was about to set out when he felt a jerking sensation at the back of his head—like having the floor tugged out from beneath him, but up at his skull. Suddenly reality came back, and too quickly. He felt nauseous, closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.
"Still hopping around, playing these useless games." Dad's voice.
Harris turned to see his father—a big, hardheaded man—standing behind him, turning the mask in his hands this way and that. "I'm done work for the day," Harris said. "I want to relax."
"These games get you nowhere. Instead of being a dork, why not do something worthwhile, like look for a girlfriend." Dad threw the mask down on the desk with such little care Harris winced.
"It's a little hard, Dad."
"Maybe if you didn't work at a pet store. Girls generally don't go in wanting to take home two babies."
"I'm not a baby."
Dad nodded to the stack of video games. "Sure looks like it."
Harris said nothing, feeling humiliated.
"What you should do, if you were smart, is go down to a bar and socialize."
"I don't like bars."
"It ain't about liking it, it's about doing it. That's how I met your mother." Dad stomped off, swearing under his breath about his "useless son."
Feeling his eyes well up with tears, his brow furrowed, all Harris wanted to do was shout "Maybe that's why you're divorced!" But he didn't, couldn't. He was tired of the humiliation at his father's hands, the loneliness, the longing for love. But what was he to do? He didn't know the first place to look. People at bars weren't looking for love—at most, they merely wanted lust. He sighed. Really, all he could do was escape.
Making sure the mask wasn't damaged, he slipped it back over his head and returned to Arethmore.
2
After completing a quest to clear out a cave of goblins that'd been harassing the town of Windethspeake, Harris returned to town to receive his reward. The quest had been given by Randolph, the tavern owner, a hairy man with bad skin and burst capillaries on his nose. He didn't say much, and seemed to prefer communicating more with hastily scrawled notes than words.
"I have slayed the wretched goblins," Harris said, getting into character.
"Forsooth," said Randolph. He spat into a metal mug and polished it with a rag caked in yellow-brown grime.
"I am here to collect my deserved reward."
"Forsooth."
"Your previous note suggested you would be the one to grant me such a reward, dear barkeep."
"Forsooth."
Harris had to laugh. Randolph was such a quirky supporting character. "Perhaps you have another note for me, which will tell me where to find my reward?"
"Forsooth." Randolph set the mug next to the others he'd "cleaned," and dipped a quill in ink. He scribbled on a flimsy sheet of parchment and then blew on it to dry it a little. He pushed the paper forwards and grabbed a new mug.
Reading the note, Harris saw his reward was apparently behind the tavern, jammed deep into a bale of hay. He thanked Randolph and headed out.
The tavern's rear had a single bale of hay under an overhanging roof, and a cow stood mooing near its water tank, a bucket beside. Harris jammed his steel gauntlet deep into the bale and pulled out a small brown leather sack. He looked inside and saw it was full of gold coins. While questing, he'd managed to upgrade his sword and had also found a knapsack-like shoulder bag, so he poured his coins into a pocket he'd dedicated solely to currency.
And then she appeared.
The beautiful red-haired woman with the green gown—from the box and splash screen—in the flesh. Well, digital flesh, though the game's graphics were amazing.
"Oh, hello," she said, smiling, upon seeing him. She went over to the cow, pulled up a stool to sit on, and started to milk it. "You're Harris, right? Harris Moore?"
In the real world, a look of confusion spread across Harris' face. He'd never played a game with characters who spoke your full name like that—normally they would call you "hero," or something equally generic. "Yes? How did you know? Has my reputation for heroism already preceded me?"
The girl laughed. "Oh, no. I know you from somewhere else, Harris. My name's Gwen. Gwen Logan. Ring a bell?"
"Should it?"
"Hmm, maybe not just yet," she said.
"Did we go to the same school?"
"Nope. We met later on..." Gwen's hands worked the udders.
Harris felt a bit odd, like his privacy was being invaded by the game. "Oh, alright. Maybe I'll figure out where you know me from... Anyway, I'm gonna go get something to eat. I'm pretty hungry."
"Well, I'll see you when you play again, Harris."
"Bye," he said, and quickly exited the game. He removed the mask and stared at it. "That was weird."
3
But that wasn't the only weird thing, which Harris later discovered while at his friend Kevin's house. Kevin also owned a copy of Legacy of Arethmore, except his copy had different box art: an old wizard wielding a staff with a red crystal on top.
"Hey," Harris said, holding the game. "Yours doesn't look like mine."
"Hmm?" Kevin came over to take a look. "What's different? This is standard."
"Mine has a knight and a redhead on it. She's wearing a green dress."
"All the copies look like mine, though." Kevin googled the game and showed Harris. "See?"
Sure enough, none of the pictures showed anything that looked like his version. "What about a 'special edition,' or something?"
Kevin added those words to the search. "Nothing."
Then Harris remembered the boot-up screen. "Start the game for a sec and let's see the splash screen."
Kevin did that. His system showed the same aged magician from his box.
"Huh. Have you met Gwen in-game?" Harris asked. "She milks the cow behind the Windethspeake tavern."
"Uhh, I'm pretty sure that's a dude, Hare. He's got a really gnarly beard that goes down to his knees. Name's Cavendish. Look, I'll show you."
Harris watched as Kevin played Arethmore without the mask, so the game still appeared on the screen. It didn't look quite as immersive. Kevin travelled to Windethspeake and went behind the tavern. Everything looked the same. Except Gwen wasn't there. As Kevin had said, it was an old man named Cavendish. Just milking the cow. He called Kevin's character "hero."
"Maybe it randomizes the characters," Harris said weakly, not really believing it himself. He wondered if Gwen would no longer appear in his game, wondered if she'd been an elaborate glitch. He hoped not.
4
But Gwen still appeared in Harris' game.
He met with her in Arethmore each day that week. He still couldn't figure out where they knew each other from—and she still wouldn't tell him—but that was okay. He enjoyed talking with her, and he hoped she felt the same.
When her milking duties were finished for the day, they went and sat on a hill together, watching the sun set below the Arethmore horizon, watching the blue sky go yellow, pink, red and purple.
"Do you remember me yet?" she asked him, taking the gauntlets off his hands so she could hold them.
Harris shook his head. He'd started removing his helmet around her. She said she liked seeing his ears, which would always make him laugh. "Can't you give me a hint?"
"You don't remember this?" She smoothed his hand flat and positioned hers perfectly over it, mirroring it, fingertip to fingertip. Took his other hand and repeated the process.
He felt a warmth surge through each finger. "I—"
"Shhh... Do you remember where we first met, Hare? Not behind the tavern. Not here. It was winter. We were both skating across the rink at Nathan Phillips Square and we nearly collided. You saw me at the last second and dove out of the way. Do you remember the mean bump you had on your elbow afterward? We got to talking after I helped you up. We connected instantly... There was such a spark between us. Do you remember the promise we shared a year later? That we'd never leave each other. No matter what, somehow we'd find a way."
"But— Gwen, I've never even been there."
"Yes you have, Harris. You know you have. Deep down. Please look inside yourself. For me."
"When? How? Gwen, you're a video-game character. I like talking to you, and it's really cool you're programmed in such a complex way, but— This isn't a multiplayer game. You're just a character in a game. You're not even real."
She dropped his hand and turned away from him, looked up at the stars now dazzling the night sky, as if searching them for answers, for a way to explain everything to Harris. "I'm real," was all she said, her voice soft, trembling.
"Gwen..."
"No. Maybe this was a mistake. To push so much, so soon. See you later, Harris. I hope."
He watched her disappear.
Suddenly she was there—sitting on the grass next to him, her skin glowing under the light of the Moon, her tears sparkling—and then she was not.
5
"Who's Gwen?" Dad asked Harris at dinner that night.
Harris had to fight back the tears in his eyes, upon hearing Dad speak Gwen's name. He didn't want to give the man any more ammo, didn't want his judgements. They were eating chicken and rice. It was dry and tasteless. Nothing tasted good anymore. "Why," he said when he'd gotten his food down.
"I heard you muttering her name earlier, when you were in that damn game. I don't like those damn games."
"She's... she's nobody, Dad."
"Girl you met online? I hear that happens these days. I'd prefer it to be real, but y'know, beggars can't be choosers."
"No. The game's not online."
"So how'd you meet her?"
Harris dropped his knife and fork. They clattered on his plate. He gripped the table. "Look, can we just drop this? I don't want to talk about it."
Dad nodded. "Fair enough. Would be good for you to go skating at Nathan Phillips Square and find that spark again. Remember the promise? You'd never leave each other. No matter what, somehow you'd find a way."
"What did you just say?" Harris felt dizzy, like he'd fallen into a bad dream with no way out.
"Me? Nothin'. Didn't say a thing, son. You feelin' okay? You look kinda pale and clammy."
"I'm gonna go lay down," Harris replied, getting up and bringing his plate to the garbage, scraping away the uneaten food. Hearing his knife scratching the plate triggered a memory. He froze, blinking, remembering that day with Gwen, how they'd skated together.
Or am I imagining it? he thought to himself.
6
The snow falls in soft, puffy flakes as a warm winter sun shines down. A large crowd skates around the rink at Toronto's Nathan Phillips Square, going 'round and 'round; it's a wonder nobody gets hurt. The sound of laughter, chatter and skate blades carving into the ice fills the air.
Harris, wearing skates he rented from the booth, glides across the ice, just another member of the crowd. This is the first time he's skated in years, but it seems muscle memory has prevailed, as he flies over the ice like he does it every day. He looks up at the three arches above; they have lights, off now, but turned on at night. Though he doesn't know it, Harris passes a piece of the Berlin Wall that's been embedded in the base of the central arch.
"Look out!" a girl shouts.
Shaken from his daydreaming, he sees he's about to collide with the beautiful red-haired girl, who looks to be his own age. He throws himself to the right, attempting to avoid a nasty collision with her. Harris lands awkwardly on his elbow and the pain goes shooting through his arm to his shoulder, through his wrist to his fingers.
"Are you okay?" she asks him, swerving around other people to get to him. She helps him up.
"Yeah... Just a little sore." He winces as the pain in his elbow grows. It will likely swell to an absurd size.
"I'm Gwen," she says. "Gwen Logan."
"My name's Arethmore," he says. Though he immediately knows this is wrong, he can't quite say why.
Gwen holds his hands and her green eyes search his deeply, knowing she's finally reached him. Tears roll down her cheeks, which are lightly rouged from the cold. "You remember now." She smiles, not sad but happy. "I've finally reached you, huh?"
A voice—Gwen's voice, but different, stronger—fills up Harris' world. The other people skating around the rink disappear. It's just him and her, just them, two lovers who'd never leave each other. Somehow, they would always find a way. And, somehow, they have.
The voice says: "Arethmore... Arethsmore..."
7
"Arissmore... Harris Moore... Can you hear me, Hare? Harris?" Gwen saw his eyes stir beneath their lids, his face scrunching like he didn't want to be woken. She squeezed his hands and shouted, "Doctor! I think it worked! Doctor Jankowicz! I think Harris is awake!"
They were in a hospital room. A complicated bundle of wires, electrodes and diodes joined Harris and Gwen to a computer to the right. Harris groaned and squirmed around in the bed.
"You may remove the electrodes," the doctor said, coming into the room. "Let's see how our patient is doing, shall we?" He clicked on a flashlight. "Good day, Mr. Moore. Can you hear me?"
Harris grimaced and his eyes slowly opened.
Gwen peeled off the electrodes from his temples, and removed her own, too. "Harris? Babe?"
"Gnnnhh... Where am I?" he asked. "I feel like I've been asleep for years."
"You were, Mr. Moore," Doctor Jankowicz said, shining the flashlight into Harris' eyes to check the pupillary response.
"Huh? Gwen, I dreamed about you. We didn't know each other anymore and I was lonely, but then we did. It was weird."
"You were in a coma, Hare," she told him, then kissed his forehead.
"Wow. Really? How?"
"You hit your head, Mr. Moore. Quite a nasty blow, too. Your girlfriend here has been coming to see you every day. Sometimes we needed to drag her away from your side."
"There was some experimental procedure that recently came about," Gwen told him. "And when— Oh, shit, you don't know. Hare, your dad died while you were in here. I'm sorry. I signed us both up for the experiment. It allowed our brains to interact in a, what"—she looked to the doctor—"a virtual world?"
The doctor nodded.
Harris looked confused. "Dad's dead?" His stomach growled. "Is it normal to be so starved after, y'know, wherever I've been?"
Gwen and the doctor both laughed.
"I'll see what's available at the caff, you two," Doctor Jankowicz told them before leaving.
"You're back," Gwen said to Harris, still not quite believing it. She stroked his cheek.
"We said we'd never leave each other, right?"
"We'd always find a way."
"Somehow," he agreed.
She hugged him, cried tears of joy into his hair. "Never leave me again."
The End
~~~
Mike Marsbergen (MadMikeMarsbergen) hails from Canada, though he's planning on making the jump to New Zealand soon. You can regularly find him submitting to Ooorah's Tevun-Krus, which he's been doing since issue #2. This story was originally featured in rskovach's Decameron 2.0.