Every evening, five o'clock hit like the last day of school ever, the post-college masses released onto the streets of The Hive, an urban utopia to work and live and play, a gift from benevolent Honeycomb to its loyal employees.
One bar and two drinks, another bar and three more. Then off to a party with too many people piled into autocars or riding the liquid woosh of the maglev train. No holograms! collectively shouted when someone's digital form tries to beam into physical rooms filled with analog bodies. Bioluminescent caves and primeval forests and dune deserts on the Lifescreens covering the walls, pulsing in time to the four-on-the-floor beats of Boomshock, the quantum ultracomputer DJ who creates and performs a unique track exactly once. Surrendering to a song that vanishes from existence, the room electrified from the ephemeral thrill of its self-destruction. Posting eyecams to Hivemind feeds, everyone checking their Shards to watch videos that happened just a moment ago, the party eating its own tail, a high-tech ouroboros.
Or maybe a night spent on the Inside, up onto the platform of an omnidirectional treadmill emblazoned with "GAMEROOM" in its trademark chunky font, the word wrapped in Honeycomb's golden swirl of hexagons. The full virtual reality experience in TruDef, visual resolution so fine that the human eye can't resolve any greater fidelity. Headset and earphones and tactile gloves, almost enough for the brain to bridge the final sensory gap and create a parallel lucid world. All the greatest hits of World War II with Fortress Europe, blazing the trail up Normandy beaches or switching sides and machinegunning the landing Allies from an Axis bunker. Or onstage at the gargantuan music festivals in Headliner, stabbing the synth chords of the final encore, the tsunami swell of the crowd, an infinite sea of upturned faces and wristbanded hands groping toward the swollen moon above a neon sunset. And the simple glory of obvious fantasies, throwing the winning hail-mary touchdown in the Super Bowl, assassinating all the megavillains of history, shooting up in New York lofts with the hippest cats who ever lived, slingshotting around black holes and gas giants in a spaceship as agile as a wasp.
And then the rot of the morning, the ghoulish aftertaste of last night's substances, the absolute death of a three-hour sleep, the first round of stims and coffee to clear out the cobwebs. Filing into the office, dragged as everyone else. QA testing bruised and broken B-tier Gameroom games far from the polish of the triple-A products. Bulky headsets and sweaty gloves and too-tight haptic vests. Trapped in incomplete games, going In and coming back Out a million billion times to document all the bugs and glitches in painstaking detail. Errors never fixed from reports never read. Another round of stims and coffee at ten o'clock, the same boost at lunch and another at three to smother the deep yearning to sleep for a million years.
And staring at the clock, waiting for the hands to cross five so the whole cycle can reset, like watching erosion grind down the mountain. And the volume grows louder and louder, until all that remains is static.
And then…
And then—
And then he was flat on his back. When he opened his eyes, an even shade of blue encompassed the whole of his vision. It took him a moment to realize that it was the sky.
"I am here," he said, clenching his jaw to subvert a yawn. "It is now."
An expansive sunroof provided the unobstructed view overhead. "AUTOCAR PASSENGER: LANE, IAN" read faintly-visible text in the top left corner of the glass. Ian sat upright. The car was stationary on an outdoor basketball court, surrounded by the greenery of a public park at the height of summer.
Ian had fallen asleep on the reclined bench seat of the autocar, though he was foggy as to when and where that had happened. His spine ached. The inside of his right ear itched, like an earphone had been crammed inside for too long. The map on the semi-translucent windshield HUD projected a large green square centered around an icon for the vehicle. "WESTFIELD PARK" appeared on the bottom of the screen. In the lower right corner, a swirl of tessellated hexagons orbited a rotating globe.
The court occupied the middle of the area. The holographic map matched the world outside the windows. Most of the grass served as the outfield for a baseball diamond. A pit of sand contained a bright plastic playground. Farther off a chainlink fence cordoned off a quartet of tennis courts. No one else was around. No one walked their dog. No one jogged. No one flew a kite or read beneath a shady tree.
"Why did you drop me here?" Ian asked the car.
The nav read "DESTINATION…" with a trio of repeating dots, like it thoughtfully considered the question. The word turned into a confused "???"
Ian looked out the back window. A paved path intended for bikes, not cars, led away from the basketball blacktop. It intersected a residential street in front of a slight hill, atop which were three small houses. Huge trees towered above them and obscured a wider view of the neighborhood.
With his index finger, Ian stabbed at the house in the center.
"Take me there," he said.
An overhead map appeared on the window. Rectangles denoted the houses on the left and the right. The space in the center turned into a black blur, like the house was redacted on a classified document.
"NAVIGATION UNAVAILABLE," reported the screen.
"Fine," Ian sighed. "Let me out."
The luggage brace retracted, freeing Ian's rollerbag and backpack. The door slid open. All the windows displayed the message, "Thanks for using a Honeycomb Autocar, powered by Honeycomb Worldimage. Enjoy your destination, LANE, IAN!" Once clear of the vehicle, Ian stepped back and gave a friendly wave to dismiss it. The autocar reversed along the narrow bike path. Ian hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders and watched the car signal and turn onto the deserted street. It disappeared behind a cluster of trees.
Ian walked toward the house blocked on the map. The summer weather smothered him. Insects hissed in the hot, humid air. The path underfoot radiated a shoe-melting heat. His jeans clung to his legs and his T-shirt adhered to his skin. vThe center house, like the others on the hill, was an unremarkable, single-level structure. Wide cement steps bordered a steep driveway with a one-car garage at its summit. A wood porch serviced the front door. Well-maintained grass and a few low shrubs comprised the sparse landscaping. Wide windows adorned the house's front face, though from his position below Ian couldn't see inside.
The door opened once Ian climbed halfway up the steps. A figure appeared in the threshold.
"And here comes my little brother from the world of the future."
"And you're still trying to live in the past, Mike," Ian responded. "What's up with removing the house from Worldimage?"
"Consider it a matter of principle," Mike stated. He wore dingy khakis and a wrinkled, white baseball jersey with navy blue arms. Ironed-on lettering read "K-Tech Softball."
Ian stepped onto the porch. He glanced at the park as he walked toward the door.
"And watch out for the—!" Mike suddenly warned.
Ian didn't notice the extension of the gutter downspout jutting from the roof. He smacked his forehead against it. Mike cackled.
"That's new, I swear," said Ian.
"It's not," said Mike.
Ian sidestepped the obstacle and approached the door.
"Good to see you, little bro," said Mike.
Ian took off his backpack and hugged Mike. It was more like a grapple as they squeezed the air out of each other. Ian turned his left hand into a fist and punched Mike on the upper back. Mike responded in kind, like they transmitted a coded message.
Ian touched his face to confirm that there wasn't a welt growing on his forehead. The mugginess of the outside world changed to crisp air conditioning as he followed Mike inside. The transition was instant, like passing into a protective bubble.
The main room was functional but generic, more spartan than cozy. There was a couch. There was a recliner. There was a half-full bookcase and a small TV. There were no photographs, no art prints, no framed posters, no curios or conversation pieces.
"Note the lack of Gameroom junk," said Mike as his hand swept across the interior. "No treadmill, no headset, no whatever. That shit would take up way too much space. I don't get it. Everything was getting smaller, and now it's all getting bigger again. But it's just plain reality here. Nothing augmented or virtual."
"Good. I need a tech detox," said Ian.
The half-yellow, half-beige walls matched the house exterior, except for the soft green wall behind the TV stand.
"At least you painted. I remember that the white walls still had nicotine stains from the old man who lived here. Well, died here," said Ian. "I don't see a plastic shimmer so I assume you didn't install any Lifescreens? No digital wallpaper of an apple orchard or wheat swaying in a pastoral field to chill you out?"
"Nope. I hate that fake tranquil shit," said Mike. "Here, I let walls be walls."
"I'm trying to remember the last time I visited," said Ian. "I've been working nonstop since I moved to Honeycomb campus."
"You mean The Hive?" said Mike with benevolent sarcasm.
"Please don't call it that."
Mike's pocket buzzed. He took out his Shard and responded to a text. Ian slipped off his shoes, opened the front closet, and placed them on a metal rack. Apart from Mike's boots and sneakers were two pairs of small flats, one tan and one bright yellow.
A fluffy orange-and-white cat peeked around the wall ahead. Bare spots above his eyes looked like white eyebrows on his fuzzy face. His tail resembled an orange featherduster. It quivered in the air like a finely-tuned instrument, scanning a frequency beyond the range of human perception.
"Maw?" he said.
Ian crouched down and sang in a pitched-up, cartoony voice, "Who's that handsome boy I see? It's Professor Goof, the floofiest kitty!"
The Goof remained at a cautious distance. He looked at Ian and said, "Moo!" Chirping birds commanded his attention around the corner. The cat turned and scurried away, fighting for traction on the hardwood floor.
"Good to see the Professor Emeritus of Advanced Goof Studies," said Ian.
"Yep. Same Goof. Still a skittish boy. He'll warm up to you by tonight," said Mike.
Mike suddenly froze with his knees bent and arms out, like he was prepping for a basketball rebound. He held up a hand for silence.
"Did you hear that?" he asked after a few seconds.
"No…?" said Ian.
"I hear mice in the attic. Or," Mike said, "I think I hear mice in the attic."
"Do you, perhaps, have mousetraps to test this theory?" asked Ian.
"I keep procrastinating," said Mike. "I've never gone up there, actually. The techs who inspected the insulation said there were a few boxes there. Probably the old guy's porn."
"Who puts their porn in the attic? Shouldn't it be readily available?"
Mike didn't respond. With his hands resolutely on his hips he stared up at the square panel in the ceiling that allowed access.
Ian trailed Mike into the cramped upstairs hall of the house. On the left was a small bathroom. Mike pointed to the closed door next to it.
"My office. If you need something in there, shut the door when you leave. The Goof likes to get stuck under my desk."
Inside the third doorway, a queen bed in a big wood frame bordered the interior wall. On top of the comforter, a catbed contained whorls of white-and-orange fur. Mike picked it up and set it in the corner.
"And this is the guest room."
Above the bedside nightstand, the north-facing window showed the neighbor's house about twenty feet away. A flimsy desk with a chipped edge faced another window that overlooked the park to the east.
A domed litterbox on the floor bore a piece of masking tape that read "Prof. Goof's Office." Mismatched bookends wedged two closet doors shut.
Mike read Ian's gaze and said, "If the Goof paws them open, he usually gets trapped inside. Hence the stoppers. And I'll move the litterbox."
"You can keep it in here. I don't want to change his routine."
"It's your choice if you think you can handle some stinky poop," said Mike. "I didn't know if you planned on working remotely so I brought up this shitty desk. And I didn't know how much physical space you need for your VR setup if you have to flail around."
"I might work on some written stuff. I left all my gaming tech at my apartment."
"In The Hive," said Mike, still leaning into it.
Mike jerked as his pocket rumbled. He checked his Shard again.
"Gotta take this real quick," he said as he exited the room. He answered and said, "Hey Ashley, what's up?" as he opened the door to the basement. He shut it behind him and descended.
Ian looked at the rest of the main level to the right of the stairs. Pressed against the wall was a small dinner table, opposite a sliding glass door to the deck and the backyard. The Goof sprawled on an area rug and watched the local wildlife with rapt attention. Past the cat, the house dead-ended in a tidy, square kitchen, which led out to the garage.
In the guest room, Ian unpacked seven sets of wrinkled outfits. It once seemed practical to have a bag ready with a week's worth of clothes, even though he couldn't recall the last time he had traveled. From his backpack, Ian removed his laptop and set it on the desk. He plugged it into the power strip on the ground.
From behind the basement door, Mike's muffled voice said, "CC it to the main team inbox. Thanks, Ash."
The stairs door opened and Mike emerged. He carried a stepladder and spread it out below the attic access panel. From his back pocket he pulled out a pack of four mousetraps.
"So are you some hotshot at work?" said Ian.
"Hotshot?" scoffed Mike. "I have a job and I get it done. Same as everyone else. Also, you have inspired me to act."
Mike brought the traps into the kitchen and baited them with peanut butter. Ian lingered in the hall.
"I'm not going up there," said Ian, reading Mike's intention.
"Consider it today's rate for Hotel Lane. That, and you're young and spry," said Mike.
"Not that young. I'm twenty-four now," said Ian.
"You have no idea how ridiculous that sounds."
"And you're only thirty-two!"
"And you're stalling!" said Mike, letting slip an impish grin.
Ian grumbled and climbed the ladder.
The panel easily slid aside. Mike handed the traps to Ian, who blindly placed them above. From the top step, Ian boosted himself up onto thin carpet. The summer heat immediately magnified into an inferno.
"Son of a bitch," Ian grunted.
"Hot up there? And set them in the corners, please!" Mike instructed from below.
Ian declined to respond. His hand groped through the dark until he pulled a string to activate an unshaded lightbulb. It illuminated the low-ceilinged space of plywood and insulation. Ian crawled to position and armed the traps. A white sheet obscured two large lumps that obstructed his effort.
"You see anything interesting?" Mike called up.
"I don't care! I want to get this done quick!" shouted Ian, wiping his instantly-sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve.
Once he set the final trap, he pulled off the sheet to reveal two cardboard boxes. Both were taped shut, and printed down each side were the hexagons of Honeycomb's logo. Stenciled lettering read "GAMEROOM 0 + HC / CTRL."
"The fuck…?" Ian muttered. "There's... something."
"Scoot it over!"
Ian pushed the boxes to the hole and Mike removed them. Each weighed about ten pounds. Once Ian returned to the house proper, he changed his sweaty shirt while Mike stowed the ladder downstairs. They stood over the boxes in the main room.
"I don't suppose you know what 'Gameroom 0' is?" asked Mike.
"Regular Gameroom but without the calories?"
Ignoring the comment, Mike said, "You're the one who works for the company."
"Not in Hardware," said Ian. "But I know every commercially-released console since games were invented, and I've never heard of this."
Mike retrieved a boxcutter and sliced through the tape seal. He opened up the cardboard flaps.
"Well, shit," said Mike, his tone more neutral than disappointed. "I guess these were banished to the attic for a reason."
Ian saw old, knotted A/V cables fastened with zipties. There was nothing of immediate interest.
"I'll bring this to work," said Mike. "I'm sure the vultures will pick this clean before lunchtime."
The rustling of cardboard attracted the Goof. He took a wide arc around Ian and propped up on the edge of the box with his front paws. He stuck his head inside, grabbed a wad of cables with his teeth, and flung them overhead. He launched himself vertically to try and catch them. He missed his target, and as the cables hit the floor, he twisted midair to stick his landing. He then zoomed around the coffee table and leapt up onto the back of the recliner.
"What a Goof," said Ian, amused by the acrobatics.
"Hence his name," said Mike.
The Goof looked at the two and said, "Ya!"
Ian peered into the box. The cables obscured a rectangular machine, encased in grey plastic with metal edges. Silver lettering along the side read "GAMEROOM 0" in the same chunky font as the consumer version.
"The hell is this?" asked Mike as he leaned closer.
Ian unpacked the box. The Gameroom 0 device weighed far more than expected. A front slot looked like it played microcassettes, and the control panel showed icons to manipulate a tape. A large notch with a microphone icon was above it.
"It's like a tiny VCR," said Mike. "You know, those old things that played—"
"I know what a VCR is," Ian interrupted.
Beneath the deck, the box held more audio/visual hardware. The parts looked cobbled together from household items and off-the-shelf tech, too crude for a commercial product. A lightweight headset, spraypainted red, resembled safety goggles from a high school chemistry lab except for two tiny LCD screens inside. Multiple sets of earbuds intertwined in a rat's nest of thin cords. A black outline of feet covered the surface of a white plastic board. Two mismatched baseball batting gloves had LEDs on the underside of the fingers, attached with globs of hot glue. Wedged against the side of the box, a colossal object contained a grid of identical buttons, dials, and switches that had no labels. It seemed like a complex control panel for a nuclear reactor or a busyboard for a toddler.
"This has to be homebrew," said Ian. "Too janky for mass market."
Mike looked fairly disinterested in the gear. His apathy almost aroused suspicion.
"So you seriously had no clue that this was up there?" asked Ian.
"You think this was an elaborate ruse to trick you into setting mousetraps in the attic?"
More cables cluttered the bottom of the box. Beneath them, Ian found one object that didn't look as cheap as the rest. A black cube with an obsidian skin gleamed like an alien artifact. There were no visible ports on its seamless surface.
Ian said, "Riiight. Because you've never gone through extraordinary lengths to prank me. Like when I was applying for colleges and you sent me all those fake acceptance letters from places like 'Fart University.'"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Mike smirked, trying not to crack a smile. "Anyways, are you hungry?"
"I could definitely eat," said Ian. He wanted to examine the odd tech but he had plenty of time.
"There's a food truck lot over by the grocery store. It's under a half mile, so how about we walk it? I usually sit all day at the office so I like to get my steps in."
They exited out of the garage, leaving behind Mike's black SUV. They walked south on 4th Avenue before turning east onto a wide street. The houses of the neighborhood varied significantly. Small homes coexisted alongside newly-raised mini-mansions. Roofs had shingles, solar panels, or both. Some yards were shaved down to putting greens, while others sprouted jungles of tall grasses and spectacular weeds. Defensive rows of stoic garden gnomes guarded flowerbeds. Gas-powered lawn tools played in a dissonant symphony.
When they arrived at the food trucks, Ian was drained from the heat. Mike looked unfazed. Mercifully, a large shade covered the area and a cooling system blew arctic air. Eight trucks, arranged four and four in parallel, offered Chinese and Thai and Mexican and a smattering of random Americana. It was busy but not crowded. Among the plastic picnic tables sat two perfect nuclear families, mom and dad and boy and girl, coordinated in bright, solid-color shirts. Each foursome included a golden retriever nearly identical to the other's, down to the yellow kerchiefs tied around each dog's neck. Inoffensive pop rock yawned from mounted speakers.
Mike moved straight toward an orange taco truck. Painted across the side was an egg-shaped baby in a huge diaper, whose mouth contained one oversized tooth. One hand held a tortilla chip dripping with cheese, and the other gripped a bulging red pepper. The baby's face contorted in either ecstasy or agony.
"Order for Mike!" called the truck at the exact moment that Ian and Mike sat down.
Mike retrieved a tray of eight hard shell tacos, various hot sauces, and two horchatas.
"You'd think that there'd be another 'Mike' here," said Ian.
"Not today, I guess. Bet you don't hear a lot of 'Ians,'" said Mike.
"I accidentally get 'Steven' all the time," said Ian. "I say 'Benjamin' now. What's in a name, anyway?"
"Letters. Vowels. Syllables," shrugged Mike.
They quickly chomped two tacos apiece. Both slowed midway through their third. Mike's Shard rested on the table. It buzzed a few times, and while he scanned the incoming messages, he didn't respond.
"Work stuff?" asked Ian.
"Yep," said Mike.
"You've been at K-Tech since you were fresh out of college, right?" said Ian, gesturing to the "K-Tech Softball" on Mike's shirt.
"Just about, after I got my masters. Started at twenty-four, when I was a young punk your age."
"And you're in the department that does… cool, sci-fi stuff, right?" said Ian, failing to recall any specific information.
"I used to work in Propulsion, but now I work with Tom in Contingencies," said Mike.
"This is where you tell me that the day-to-day grind is actually quite boring."
"Eh. Yes and no," said Mike. "It's an interesting field. The company has a good work culture. And going to the moon was pretty cool."
"No shit."
"It was kind of depressing, though," said Mike. "You stay at the US military base, run by enlisted guys who didn't realize that they signed up for the most boring, distant posting ever. There are almost zero windows and very few reasons to go out on the surface."
"At least you use your degree," said Ian.
Mike squinted and softly shook his head.
"There's a bit of elitism at K-T. The only people with their diplomas framed on their walls have at least two PhDs. Everything else is inferior, like my MS in planetary engineering isn't good enough. They would've tossed my resume if I applied with only my lowly bachelor's in physics."
"My BS in game design only bumped me up to the lowest salaried position at Honeycomb. I'm 'Senior Testing' instead of the hourly 'Junior Testing.' I think it's a scam so I can't log OT for all the eighty-hour weeks during crunch. At least I no longer have to babysit all the high school boys we hire over the summer, who have no idea that game QA involves far more work than playing deathmatch all day. But there are perks. Campus is like an old company town, so while gross pay isn't great it's offset by comped housing, free transport, free groceries, free everything, basically. Nevermind that you're basically trapped there," said Ian. The comment sounded far too nihilistic, so he quickly added, "I get early access to the newest Shards and all the Honeycomb-branded Gameroom stuff. And it's all custom to my metrics, which would've cost like two hundred grand out of pocket. No need for third-party knockoffs."
"You have one of those gigantic omnidirectional treadmills?" asked Mike.
"In the corner of my bedroom."
"And when you bring girls over to your place, that isn't a problem?"
"No comment," said Ian, who took a big bite of his taco. A fragment of the hard shell speared the roof of his mouth. He tried not to display any outward signs of pain.
Leaving, Ian and Mike sucked in the last of the cold air like they could savor it on the return trip. They jaywalked across a main street toward a low building marked with a generic "Discount Liquor" sign. Inside, the visit was clinical. Mike grabbed a twelve pack of Diet Fizz and they settled on a case of Club Max. "10% ABV with hangover-free formulation!" shouted yellow lettering on the black cardboard. They each chose a six pack of IPAs with exotic art on the caddy.
Ian was immensely grateful to return to the house's AC. Mike fit the beer in the fridge amid anonymous leftovers. They stuck the IPAs in the freezer. Mike tore open the perforated side of the Club Max and extracted two. He underhanded one to Ian, who barely caught the unexpected projectile.
Mike froze again before he fumbled with his words.
"Oh shit…" he began. His shoulders unconsciously tensed. "You're not… detoxing or anything… right? Because I don't want to enable you."
"Nope. I'm good," said Ian, eager to get past the exchange. He didn't want to put Mike in a bind in his own house.
"Had to ask. Older brotherly duties," said Mike, visibly relieved as his shoulders lowered.
"Understood," said Ian.
The LED display on the microwave read "2:32 p.m." and "2:34 p.m." above the range, which seemed odd given Mike's precision. Ian realized that he hadn't checked the time when he arrived.
"We can drink these al fresco," said Mike.
"Seriously? After the hike under the evil sun?"
"The trees give good shade at this hour," promised Mike.
When Mike reached the sliding glass door, he hesitated. In the neighbor's yard, a twentyish guy in a sleeveless black shirt and baggy basketball shorts slowly moved along the chainlink fence with a whining lawn edger.
"Beef with the neighbor?" asked Ian.
"Not really," said Mike. "His name is Jeff, and every time we're both outside, he wants to talk about mixed martial arts, and I don't know anything nor care about mixed martial arts."
Mike furrowed his brow. "That is, I think his name is Jeff."
When they entered the main room, the Goof sat patiently by the second, unopened box from the attic. The other hardware remained untouched.
"I'm amazed that the Goof didn't play with these new toys," said Mike. "Before we make a bigger mess, how about we stash this away?"
They relocated the tech to the guest room. The Goof followed and excitedly jumped onto the bed. Ian pushed his laptop aside and placed the gear on the desk. Again, Mike's physical tension released as the house reset to its neutral order.
Ian set the second box on the bed and opened it. Another wad of cables rested on top. None of them used standard connectors. The ends of each formed basic shapes like a circle, triangle, and square. They were also color coded to corresponding inputs on the back of the Gameroom 0 console.
"You ever see cables like this?" Ian asked.
"I don't think so," said Mike.
"These must be the games," said Ian, reaching into the bottom of the box.
Over a dozen small cases held microcassettes. Most featured poorly-printed cover artwork. As Ian spread them on the desk, he glanced at a few of the random assortment: Swordmaster, The Comedian, POTUS For Pros, VR Jobs: Be A Dentist!, Kitchen Bake Extravaganza, Captain Crypto's Puzzle Paradise, World Cup Winner, Headliner: Career, Teatime With Buddha, Search & Seizure, A Knife In The Pacific, and Good Cop/Bad Cop/Baddest Cop. Some bare cases had generic names punched out from an old labelmaker, like "bank heist movie game (unlicensed)," "awards show," and "prison escape (min. security)."
"Have you ever seen games on magnetic tape?" Ian asked.
"I'm not sure," said Mike. He picked up A Knife In The Pacific. Ian looked at the front art. Black sand covered the beach of a volcanic island. A combat knife was half buried in a blood-soaked tide.
"Weird. I have A Knife In The Pacific 2 downstairs, but it's a cartridge for Ultra GameDen," said Mike. "I guess I never looked for the original."
"And Headliner: Career isn't one of the Headliner spinoffs for Gameroom proper," said Ian.
Ian idly handled the red goggles and the gloves.
"Maybe it's just a VR movie viewer," Mike suggested.
"Maybe. That doesn't explain all the gear, though."
Ian picked one of the tapes with an elaborate cover. Two armored knights held broadswords and bowed to a blurry array of spectating royalty. An overwrought medieval font spelled out "Swordmaster." Ian read the text on the back.
"En garde! Hone your swordsmanship in a number of combat styles set in vivid historical scenarios. Fight for your shogun's honor as a Japanese samurai, ward off a boarding party of pirates in the frothy seas, save humanity from alien invaders with a futuristic laser sword, and more! Full-periphery TruDef and 1:1 motion tracking coming soon."
The graphic on another case looked into a darkly-lit college dorm room. A young woman in partial silhouette held a finger to her black-lipsticked lips, implying a sultry secret. A plain futon and lumpy beanbag chair in the room negated her seductive allure.
"What's that one?" asked Mike as he read a message on his phone.
Hot & Sexy Co-Eds Capers read the title in small print. With some sleight of hand Ian deftly swapped it for another. The other game's cover showed a head-on view of a semitruck with a pixelated map of the US Mainland in the background.
"Breaker Breaker: The Car/Supercar and Truck/Supertruck Combo Pack," Ian read with a faux-enthused voice like an old TV pitchman. "Relive all the thrills of the platinum-selling Car, Supercar, Truck, and Supertruck all on the same tape! See how you stack up against the best virtual drivers as you tear through the streets of New York, Mumbai, Salt Lake City, Dubai, and more! Team up with narcos to smuggle your best coke onto the astonishingly-detailed streets of 1980's Miami! Earn the most cash on your shift as a London cabbie! See all the Classic American sights as you trek from northern Maine to southern California!"
"Salt Lake City?" said Mike with a scoff. His attention pivoted back to his phone as he composed a long text.
POTUS For Pros showed an empty Oval Office. Ian read, "Lead the free world in this Congressionally-approved simulation of a day in the life of the President. Do you have the guts to deliver the big veto, or are you beholden to party loyalty and/or special interests?"
"Approved by which Congress?" asked Mike.
Ian alphabetized the games as Mike refilled the Goof's water bowl and grabbed the second round of beers. When he re-entered the room, Mike waited for Ian to polish off his first Club before they started the second. Mike's attention remained anchored on his phone.
"Is it okay if I hook this up?" asked Ian, gesturing to the Gameroom 0 array. "And what do you want to play first? We can pass the headset back and forth, like when we only had one controller for the launch of Omega Sphere. Remember how mom and dad made us swap after every fare in Catastrophe Cab?"
Mike, inattentive, fixated on a scar of sunlight on the floor. Before he spoke he offered a long verbalized pause, winding up to an excuse.
"Ummm… Unless it can output the video signal to a monitor, I'll pass. I nearly throw up every time I try VR," said Mike.
"So that's why you're so indifferent to this miraculous find?"
Mike's gaze swept over everything on the desk. He exhaled loudly. "You know," he began, "I've bought countless old games from secondhand stores and garage sales and flea markets. There's always fantastic box art and the promise of a revolutionary, superfun experience. And you boot it up and it's an unplayable mess with a stuttering framerate and sticky controls and ridiculous difficulty. If I haven't heard of a certain game by now, then I assume it's not worth playing. Rarity and obscurity tends to elevate false expectations."
Ian gave a shallow nod. "Sometimes. I've tested so many terrible games that I generally have a good bullshit detector. But you have to admit, if you find a cache of games for an unreleased console, mysteriously located in your attic, you have to check it out, right?"
"I'll leave that to you," said Mike.
Ian located the power cord for the system. His excitement evaporated. The metal plug formed a segmented circle instead of the standard three prongs.
"I assume this house doesn't have an outlet like this," Ian said.
Mike squinted at it.
"Maybe it's a European thing. There's probably some kind of adapter I can find at work," he said as he took a picture with his Shard.
The kitchen timer chimed.
"Number three?"
"Sure," said Ian with absolutely no conviction. He downed the remaining half of his can. His limbs were already loose from keeping pace with Mike.
They severed the conversation as they returned to the kitchen. Mike and Ian each took an IPA from the freezer and a Club from the fridge.
"Forget about these random tapes," said Mike. "Let's play some classic shit."
The Goof politely remained on the guest room bed as Ian followed Mike down to the half-finished basement. Large, mismatched carpet tiles covered most of the cement floor. Blank white walls boxed in the room. A low drop ceiling barely cleared Mike's head. Instead of flicking on the exposed fluorescent fixtures, Mike turned on a rope light that wrapped around the upper walls and cast a warm yellow glow.
"Like a classy dorm room," said Ian.
"Please don't say that. I'd prefer to forget my time in Province Hall at Westfield U."
Ian's eye was drawn through a doorway, to the bedroom at the end of the space. Inside, Ian spied a king bed, proper carpeting, and walls painted dark blue.
"If you finished the bedroom, why not this room?"
"It's finished enough," said Mike.
A sagging leather couch dominated the central space, with a folded-in-half exercise bike leaning in the corner behind it. An egress window at the head of the room allowed a blob of sunlight to penetrate the dimness. In front of it was a vintage tube TV parked on a table. The bulbous screen emerged from a grey plastic case that hid its bloated electronic guts. Legacy audio/visual inputs, color-coded and ziptied together, connected the TV and several retro videogame consoles in a precise row. The systems were mainly colored in blacks, whites, and greys, built from combinations of plastic, metal, and glass. Some adhered to sharp ninety-degree angles, others in curved lines. A collection of controllers hung on a wall-mounted pegboard. Scanning from the top down had the same effect as looking at human-made tools gaining complexity, like the progression from stone to steel.
Perfectly-aligned shelves covered the triangular wall shared with the stairs. Games were grouped by their respective systems, in physical formats like cartridges in various sizes, compact discs in plastic caddies, DVDs in thin cases, and mismatched thumb drives. Some retained their original artwork and some were labeled in black marker in Mike's messy cursive. The imperfect handwriting clashed against the strict order of everything.
The collection accessed a deep well of memory. Mike sensed Ian's awe.
"I always forget the sheer breadth of your collection. Some real Library at Alexandria vibes," said Ian.
"Some people remember the songs that soundtracked parts of their lives," said Mike. "I remember the games I played."
Ian's hand brushed the spine of the cartridge for Captain Jumper 3D.
"I was thirteen when I threw Lord Lizard into the last spike in the final boss fight. I barely remember anything else from seventh grade," said Ian.
"I fell for all those stupid internet rumors that the Captain's brother was hidden and playable. I scoured that game for an entire year. So of course I was skeptical that there was that crazy secret ending to Liquid Alloy 3: Jungle Hunter," said Mike.
Ian found the jewel case for that two-disc game. He examined the cover, which featured a heavily-armed mercenary wading through a swamp. The badassness of the soldier was undercut by the decoy alligator head he wore like a helmet. The title appeared at the top, and a tagline at the bottom promised "Precision Covert Survival."
"You mean the ending that tied together Bigfoot, free jazz, and Tibetan sand painting?" said Ian with a smirk.
"Or a two-hour, unskippable cutscene with a superserious lecture on the military-industrial complex," said Mike. "I spent over a hundred hours getting all the camouflage outfits to unlock that. Not worth it."
"I initially hated the trading sequence to get the Titan's Claymore in Myth of the Forest: The Chronos Flute. Now, there's no way that I'd figure that out without a guide," said Ian. He slid the golden box out from the shelf. The art displayed the game's hero in his loose tunic and floppy hat that seemed ill-suited for swordplay. "I talked to every NPC in the game like a thousand times before I figured out that I had to trade my chicken for a mushroom. I was like a wizened sage in junior high, dispensing subtle hints to my friends without totally spoiling it."
"Wizened sage?" asked Mike.
One shelf contained the larger boxes for PC games on CD-ROM. The cover of Fogbank depicted a misty island ringed by impassable mountains. Ian opened it up and saw Mike's dog-eared notebook inside.
"Like you didn't brag to everyone that you beat Fogbank the weekend it came out, before any guides popped up."
"True. I'd get so stuck that I'd sit one inch from the monitor and click every pixel on every pre-rendered screen, trying to find a book page or a switch or something, anything," said Mike.
"And yet, we beat all of these without text guides or Hivemind vids."
"Probably because Hivemind didn't exist."
"Probably because we had so few games as kids that we played them to death," said Ian. "Now, when I roll credits, I delete the files off my local drive to free up space for another."
"A physical cartridge or disc seems more vital. Even if I never play it again," said Mike. He gestured to the wall. "And this is only a third of my stuff. I can send you my spreadsheet with everything."
Ian shook his head.
"I like the random discovery. It's how we found most of these games at Rad Rentals or Coach Vic's Video Value."
Mike nodded at the thought.
"So," he said, "where do you want to start?"
It would've taken far too long if Ian browsed and entertained every fit of nostalgia. One of their multiplayer standards, Wacky Kingdom Nitro Speedsters!!, already waited in the cartridge slot for GameDen Mk-3. Once they blitzed past a few memorized menus, their anthropomorphic animal drivers sped around surreal, cartoony worlds in souped-up go-karts. They hurled rotten apples and dropped electric nets to thwart the computer-controlled opponents. They dodged space junk on the rings of Saturn, navigated the sandy labyrinth of an ant colony, and maneuvered down the pulsing intestines of a gross, gooey track inside a human body.
Mike's character, a canine in a tuxedo and top hat named Dapper Dog, hit a giant booster on a ramp, fleeing a rising tide of acid on the Alchemist's Anarchy track.
"Don't do it. Don't you fucking do it," warned Ian.
At the very edge of the incline, Mike veered ninety degrees to the left instead of aiming for the landing zone ahead. The kart flew at what looked like a solid cement wall, only to pass completely through it and land on a segment of track far ahead of the intended route.
"Seriously? Do you really need to cheat at this?"
"It's in the game so it's not cheating," said Mike.
"I guarantee you that the QA team probably flagged this but didn't have time to patch it. You know you're full of shit."
Albeit lightly, Mike hit Ian in the shoulder.
"I can't believe it took you this long to punch me," said Ian.
"And that was a justifiable hit. No retaliation allowed. I exercise the divine right of older brothers."
Their rising buzz gave cover for loose conversation as they raced.
"You get to test any games like this?" asked Mike.
"Unfortunately not. Everyone thinks I have this awesome job," began Ian, "but I don't get paid to leisurely enjoy games. I get paid to break them. I root around to find where the code ends, because a glitch in virtual reality can really fuck you up. We have this joke at the office. We figure that eventually there'll be a full-sensory game system, and we have a safe word that we say to each other to confirm that we're in objective reality and not caught in the game."
"What's your safe word?"
"Pineapple," said Ian.
"Since you said it," said Mike, "you assume we're in the real world?"
"I always know when I'm inside the Gameroom," said Ian. "If I get to a point where I can't tell, it's time to get a new job. Or a new brain."
After a few more tracks they switched over to the tiny discs used by the lunchbox-shaped Dolphin Elite. They popped in the golf game Super Mondo Tee Time, which also starred bipedal animal avatars. Ian couldn't remember if Nitro Speedsters ripped off the aesthetic of the Super Mondo series or vice-versa. They drove golf balls over lava-belching volcanoes and pitted moonscapes and the gnarled growth of cursed forests. Adoring fans lined the fairways, trapped in simple animation loops of cheering and clapping. They looked normal from a distance, but when the camera came too close it accidentally revealed that they had no faces.
"Well," said Mike, circling back, "you've got plenty of connections if you want to work at K-Tech. Plenty of people remember you from your internship after you finished at West U." Mike paused for dramatic effect before adding, "And, of course, they remember your disastrous attempt at asking out Allison Fordham."
"I didn't ask her out. I was simply talking to her," said Ian, his jaw tightening despite the amount of beer consumed.
"For a man who seems to remember almost nothing, you conveniently remember that."
"I remember it because you almost immediately packed your bags and moved away."
"Because the internship was over and I had already accepted the position at Honeycomb," said Ian, trying not to sound hyperdefensive. "Everyone seems to forget that that was literally my second-to-last day. It's not like if Allison and I—"
"You mean Dr. Fordham."
"—if Allison and I went out for a drink then I'd stay and we'd get married and buy a little house and adopt a dog and give it a silly name."
Ian nailed the timing for a power drive. The golf ball transformed into a fiery comet as it rocketed off the tee. It landed on the fairway and bounced within chipping distance of the green. "Super Stroke!" the game declared.
"And besides, I prefer not to consider the theoretical outcomes of theoretical situations," said Ian.
"Well," said Mike, "that was years ago. Now, who really remembers? Who really cares?"
"You, apparently. And I remember. I care," said Ian.
Mike's ball landed on the edge of a bunker. The game forced him to shoot with the camera tipped at an extreme angle. Although his wedge was automatically selected, Mike switched to an iron and targeted the green. The timing zone for a successful hit shrank from a wide band to a handful of pixels.
"You're playing a dangerous game," warned Ian.
Mike triggered the swing. When the accuracy meter crossed the tiny strike point, Mike tapped the A button a fraction too late. His character, a red panda dressed head to toe in plaid, mishit and smacked the club against the ground. The ball moved an inch before rolling deeper into the sand trap.
"That was lag," Mike complained.
"The controllers are wired and it's a CRT TV. There's no lag," said Ian.
"Lag!" declared Mike.
They finished the hole in silence. Ian chipped from ten yards and sank an easy putt for par. Mike acquiesced to the suggested wedge, hitting his ball back onto the fairway before taking another two shots and two putts to finish. A sad trombone played as "+8" appeared on the screen.
"And Allison is single, by the way," said Mike, refusing to let the topic die.
Ian produced a very loud and forceful scoff.
"I'll be back at Honeycomb HQ by next weekend," he said. "Any sort of… well, anything would be pointless."
"Just saying," said Mike.
"Just answering," said Ian.
They switched games and systems, moving backward and forward in time. Primitive, 8-bit graphics that couldn't accurately render faces alternated with photorealistic character models. Background music that ran on short synth loops shifted to full orchestrations. Death came often, cheaply, and without warning in older games, which also used finite numbers of lives to grind forward progress to a halt. Newer generations implemented autosaves and checkpoints that dropped them back in the action mere moments before a previous death.
Ian and Mike led shirtless, muscled men in Mercs vs. Aliens, charging through jungles and extraterrestrial lairs, shooting streams of slow, swollen bullets that looked like lethal water balloons. In the two-player puzzler Dr. Cure's Phunky Pharmacy, they hurled pill capsules to destroy icons representing pain and allergies and depression that built up on their side of the screen. The quickening tempo of the music matched the accelerating speed of the game.
In the first-person shooter Agent Silver Midnight, the multiplayer mode split the screen horizontally, with the top displaying Mike's character's point of view and the bottom for Ian's. They sprinted through corridors and rooms made of sparse, basic geometry. Ian tried to shoot Mike and Mike tried to shoot Ian. "Quit looking at my screen!" was yelled many times, accompanied with a shove forceful enough to jostle a controller but not enough to spill a beer.
Ian didn't check the time or count the drinks. Mike curated their session like a master DJ, mixing and matching the games across systems and decades.
On screen, two cigar-chomping motorcycle bros high-fived and peeled off toward a futuristic city in the distance.
"Holy shit," said Mike, "did we actually beat Savage Speedway? That's the last level."
"Whoa," said Ian. "I don't think we've ever done this."
Bright orange text dominated the screen, declaring, "Congratulations! You have SKILLS!" The image barely lingered before it reset. Lethal Bikers From H.E.L.L. appeared in a slime-green font that dripped down the title screen.
Starting at four o'clock, a constant meowing sounded from the top of the stairs. Mike turned up the volume on the TV but couldn't fully drown out the Goof. After a few rounds of Zombie Students Take Over School, Mike tapped his watch.
"Five o'clock. Time to feed the hungriest kitty in the world."
With impressive agility, Mike high-stepped over the taut controller cables and took the stairs two at a time. Ian, assuming he was due another beer, followed. The Goof pranced around Mike's heels as they headed into the kitchen.
Out of habit, Ian opened up the fridge and took another Club. It was difficult to gauge his inebriation based on videogame performance. A primitive reflex allowed him to passably play games despite the rise in his blood alcohol level, even if he otherwise staggered around his apartment on the verge of a blackout. He only gave up gaming when the room, suddenly unmoored from gravity, began to spin. The next morning he and his coworkers recounted their incredible levels of drunkenness with a knowingly-immature pride.
Mike retrieved a tin of food from a high cupboard, upended it, and waited for the contents to gloop into the Goof's food bowl. Ian winced when the fishy smell hit him. As soon as the dish touched the floor, the Goof chowed down. Mike scratched his cat's head.
"Sometimes you're a loud, pain in the ass, Goofus, but you're still a sweet boy."
"I'm permanently baffled that you have a cat," said Ian, leaning against the wall by the dinner table.
"He's amusing. He amuses me," said Mike.
"Considering that you lobbied for a dog on every birthday and Christmas, even though dad made the phony claim that he was allergic," said Ian.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Mike.
The Goof noisily slurped his food.
"Speaking of food," said Mike. "Za?"
"If you mean 'pizza,' then yes," said Ian.
"Toppings? There's always a deal for four, so I get bacon, chicken, jalapeños, and pineapple," said Mike.
Ian's head involuntarily jerked to the side, like it was tugged by wire. Mike, swiping through his phone, didn't see the tic.
"Don't misuse the safe word," said Ian.
"What?"
"Nevermind."
Mike dialed a number into his Shard.
"You like Dr. Pizzaroni's Hot Fresh Pies? They deliver really fast, though the usual guy that shows up is very… on script," said Mike. "It can be a bit awkward."
"Do you seriously call them? And they have a human who picks up the phone?" said Ian.
Mike gave no response. A tiny voice picked up on the other end of the line. Mike ordered and ended the call.
"They said thirty minutes, but it'll be here in fifteen. They have crazy drivers on this side of the city. I do love those little delivery robots, though. Always hustling around West U campus on their tank treads, apologizing to pedestrians in their high-pitched clown voices."
The Goof finished his dinner and Mike rinsed the bowl. Ian went into the bathroom and was confronted by a hostile silence. He turned on the overhead fan, which filled the space with neutral noise. He took a breath. Ian was used to Lifescreens in bathrooms. The walls could turn into mountains of snowcapped, jagged crags, or a tranquil beach with chattering gulls and crashing waves that muted his bathroom activity.
In the main room, Mike sifted through his movies by the TV and the media player. Some memory cards came in official retail cases, while others, recorded off a not-quite-legal feed, clipped into blank boxes labeled with the same cursive scrawl as the games downstairs. Fresh beers materialized on the coffee table coasters.
"I had no idea they still released physical copies," said Ian.
"It's for dinosaurs like me," said Mike. "I like having a collection. That, and some directors like Chris Gregory and Katherine Kraid never allowed their movies to stream. A lot of these are pre-TruDef, so the resolution is a bit fuddy-duddy."
"Fuddy-duddy,?" asked Ian, mildly incredulous.
"You know," said Mike. "Fuddy-duddy. A bit shitty."
Mike assembled a stack, mostly the dumb comedies and action movies they watched dozens of times as kids. Ian read the spines, which Mike laid out alphabetically: Bank Heist At Noon, Bank Heist II: 2 Vaults 2Day, Bank Heist IV: The New Crew, I'm Late For School! (Again!), Let Me Poop In Peace 3: The Mile High Deuce, Locker Room: The Glorious Whole, and Time Warrior Part 6: Mr. President, I'll Explain… In TIME. The various covers showed paramilitary dudes pointing guns at offscreen targets, kids in wild-eyed panic, and cars launched midair, usually above a massive explosion. For Mike's bootlegs, the generic cases showed only a blank white square.
"You generate any AI-assisted stuff?"
"Nope. Most people create unwatchable, random fuckery with MovieMogul," said Mike.
The Goof suddenly hurried over and jumped up onto the back of the couch, right next to Ian. He put his paws on the windowsill.
"Za!" he said.
A neon green hatchback shot up the driveway. A magnetic sign stuck atop the vehicle displayed a bespectacled, labcoat-wearing piece of pizza. He held a prescription pad with a separate icon of a pizza on it. The delivery man, in a red hat and a garish, pepperoni-patterned vest, exited the vehicle and hustled up the porch with an insulated pouch. Mike opened the door and stood in the threshold.
"You're Mike?" asked the guy.
Mike already held an exact number of bills in hand.
"I am Mike, yes."
"Well, Mike, we've got an extra-large pizza, regular crust and regular cut."
The delivery guy paused. Mike realized it was a prompt and said, "Yep. Sounds right."
"And the toppings are bacon, chicken, jalapeños, and pine—"
"Yep. Sounds right," Mike repeated, cutting him off.
The guy removed the pizza box from its pouch and handed it over. Mike exuded a palpable unease, far more than the usual tension in his shoulders. Ian absorbed it secondhand. He tensed the left side of his face.
Mike handed over the money in two batches.
"That's for the pizza, and that's for you."
"Thanks. Have a great night."
Mike stepped back and shut the door. He pressed into the corner as he waited for the guy to get in his car and leave.
"He is, indeed, very on-script," said Ian as the hatchback quickly reversed and sped down the road. "And what's with paying in cash?"
"Did I miss the announcement that it's no longer legal tender? So do you want to eat or not?" Mike asked, headed toward the kitchen.
They watched movies in the main room. Mike sped the footage to one-hundred fifty percent during most long dialogue scenes and uninteresting subplots and brought it back to normal when action erupted. Ian didn't mind. They alternated the duty of retrieving more pizza and more beer for both of them. The Goof rotated napping spots, moving from Mike's lap to the catbed to the ridge of the couch.
Bank Heist followed a crew of endearing misfits who robbed a bank that laundered mob money. The plan for the titular heist differed wildly from the chaos of its execution. A rap that summarized the plot played over the end credits.
It was fully dark outside when Bank Heist II finished. Ian didn't even notice when the Goof had migrated to the couch and fallen asleep by his feet. Nightlights began to glow from power outlets in the corners of rooms, shining an otherworldly bluish-white on the lustrous floor.
Mike's Shard restlessly groaned in his pocket. He abruptly kicked in the recliner's footrest and stood. He answered his phone as he rounded the corner. "Hey Ash, what's up?" he said as he opened the sliding door and stepped outside.
Ian, slightly too smudged, wasn't quite sure what movie played in the media dock. Some guys in a derelict industrial setting, framed by hissing pipes and illegible graffiti, argued what went wrong with a heist or a hit or something.
A burnt bouquet clung to Mike when he returned. A cigarette was tucked behind his ear.
"So who, exactly, is Ashley?" Ian asked.
"She's a coworker. And Allison's current roommate, by the way."
"Is she your girlfriend?" Ian quickly asked, eager to deflect.
"No, she's not my girlfriend," said Mike.
"Are those her—?"
"—shoes in the closet? Yeah," said Mike, omitting an explanation. "We're on the same project at work."
"So she's a coworker that you'd prefer to be your girlfriend," said Ian, garbling his words.
"As the older brother, aren't I supposed to be grilling you about girls who are or aren't your girlfriend?"
"Is she hot? Are you chasing after the hot girl at work?"
"That has absolutely nothing to do with it," said Mike, back on the defensive.
"So she is hot," Ian declared.
"That's entirely subjective."
"Do other guys find her hot?"
Mike sighed with theatrical agitation.
"Fine! Yes! She's hot! I work with a hot woman! Happy?"
"Does this Ashley have a boyfriend?"
"She does not have a boyfriend," said Mike.
"How old is she?" asked Ian.
Mike made a show of turning his head to address Ian, like he was rudely interrupted from the movie. "We graduated college at the same time," he said.
"So? Maybe she took a gap year and toured Europe and experienced a sexual awakening in Paris with a dreamy, radical leftist named Jean-Pierre."
"Or," said Mike, "it came up in the course of normal conversation."
"So you're both thirty-two."
"She's thirty-one. Summer birthday."
"Chasing the younger girls…"
"And shouldn't you be calling her a woman?" said Mike.
Mike jerked. He checked his Shard.
"And yes, this is Ashley again."
"And I assume this call is about work," said Ian, "which you can answer while somewhat sauced? And far outside of normal work hours?"
Mike stood, rounded the corner, and put the phone to his ear. Ian called after him.
"Hi, Ashley! This is your boyfriend's brother!" Ian yelled.
Without response Mike stepped onto the deck and slid the door shut behind him.
"Hey Goofus, is Ashley his girlfriend?" Ian asked the cat.
The Goof perked up and faced Ian.
"Ya!" he said.
"You sure?" said Ian.
The Goof nodded vigorously. He walked up onto Ian's lap.
"Ya! Ya!" he said.
The Goof stretched and flopped on his side. Ian tentatively reached out and gently rubbed the Goof's fluffy belly. The cat purred loudly.
Mike returned inside and halted at the threshold of the room. He pointed at the Goof.
"Did you drug him?"
"The Goof remembers his favorite uncle," Ian said triumphantly.
"Only uncle."
"Irrelevant."
"It's probably because your hands smell like bacon and chicken," said Mike.
Ian slid into pockets of microsleep from the latening hour and the sum of the beers. At some point a claw pierced his leg and returned him to full attention. The Goof, though, slumbered in his catbed on the other end of the couch.
The movie and the lights were off. Mike watched a soccer game on low volume. The crowd roared indistinctly. A British announcer spoke in staccato beats of impassioned commentary.
Ian's watch read slightly past one o'clock. His level of drunk had waned to half of its peak.
"Done talking to your girlfriend?" Ian asked Mike.
"Yes, my coworker and I are done talking. She's covering for me this week."
The combination of beer and pizza and random snacks left an aftertaste like Ian had chugged 40-proof tomato sauce. When he stood, his equilibrium stabilized after a moment of imbalance.
Ian's toothbrush and various supplies were already in the bathroom, and he couldn't recall when he had placed them there. A haze still clouded him, and when he brushed his teeth, each stroke across his gums carried too much momentum. When Ian returned to the dark main room, Mike leaned forward on the recliner. All the cans, bottles, and pizza dishes had vanished.
"Go back to the goal," Mike said.
"What?" said Ian.
"The TV, not you."
"I thought you didn't have MovieMogul."
"I don't, but TV4U came with the DVR," said Mike.
"It's still pretty cool," said Ian.
"I don't know how it works. I just know how to use it."
"It can't generate things from scratch, but it can manipulate all onscreen assets."
"If you say so," said Mike.
Ian looked at the screen. The "1-1" scoreline reverted to "1-0" as the image jumped back. The team in blue took a corner kick, defended by the team in red. One of the blues headed in a goal.
"What's up with the quality? Looks like vintage HD," Ian said. He crossed the room and sat on the couch with his feet firmly on the floor. He didn't want to get too comfortable.
"Old match. Champions League final in 2012," said Mike. With his eyes still fixated on the TV, he asked, "What do you normally do on most nights? Or weekends?"
Ian considered how to calibrate his answer for Mike. He didn't want to deviate from their surface-level banter. The two weren't the sort of sibling pair who confided their deepest, darkest secrets with each other, and neither seemed to mind. Growing up, the eight-year age gap blunted the potential for serious conversations. Mike graduated high school when Ian finished third grade.
Ian had hoped to gracefully transition from college excess to respectable adulthood. He repeatedly failed his intentions of spending fewer nights out and fewer all-night gaming sessions. He still punished his ears with loud, late shows at Mom's Basement or The Station On Seventh to watch bands often too drunk or high to play a full set, with Ian himself often too drunk or high to remember it all. He still faked and white-knuckled his way through poorly-matched, doomed dates at any of the dozen restaurants by The Hive's artificial lake. He partied as much and slept as little as his vaguely-invincible eighteen-year-old self. He redlined most of his four years of college and the two afterward, amid all the open bars and free substances of The Hive. If he lived another six years like that, he assumed he would disintegrate into a pile of dust. It didn't help that everyone enabled everyone else.
"I go to bars. Parties," said Ian. "I go to rock shows. I play a fair amount of Gameroom. There's always something to do on campus. And it's free."
Mike nodded along. His attention clearly centered on the game, which had extended into a shootout.
"And what about you?" said Ian.
"Low key," said Mike, his eyes still fixed forward. "Happy hour with coworkers. I split a group pass at Westfield Bowling and play a game once a week or so. Some paintball, weather permitting, with a group that doesn't take it too seriously. Same with softball and five-a-side soccer through the summer. In the winter I might snowboard a few times at Dollar Mountain. Friday night is a standing poker game with the usual suspects."
"Let me guess," said Ian. "Brad. Tom. Matt."
"Minus Matt, who moved out west. Lewis lives there now," said Mike. "Once everyone loses their money to me we usually end up generating an AI movie. Brad hogs it, obviously."
"I still talk to Lewis. He sometimes invites me on camping trips. Not my thing," said Ian.
The blue team's keeper, in a bright yellow kit, saved a shot by a kicker in red. Mike pumped his fist like it was his first time watching the game.
"Would've been crazy to have been there. Probably in the nosebleeds if I could've scored a ticket, watching a game so far away that the players look like ants. I always wonder if I could hypnotize myself so it's like I'm watching things for the first time. It must be strange for you, since you're from the future."
"I was from the future. I'm catching up to it now."
"Ah, yes, of course," said Mike. "I forget, when did you start that bit?"
"When colleges started pursuing you in your sophomore year. So I must've been eight. Second grade. Clearly I needed more attention."
"And barring all the confusion about the exact method of time travel, and how we were still biological brothers, and exactly what future you were from and—"
"It was a fun bit," said Ian, stopping Mike. "You were the boy genius, and I was the boy from the future, waiting for you to build a time machine to send me back."
"And now I rewatch old soccer games," said Mike.
Mike gave no inflection with the statement. Ian wasn't sure how to read it.
"And I play Gameroom," said Ian, like it was an equivalent admission. "But I know it's a simulation that magnifies everything about myself. Some people talk about Gameroom like they're recalling an actual memory. Like they single-handedly sacked Rome, or won a gold medal in downhill skiing, or successfully murdered every known dragon."
"I know," said Mike. "It's like someone telling me about a dream where they had sex with a celebrity, like it basically happened, or that it's like cheating on their partner."
Mike gestured vaguely to the blank walls.
"Sometimes this isn't enough for people. Some people take up woodworking or collect rare coins or study in silence at a monastery for twenty years. A lot of people just drink."
A kicker in blue took his shot. The keeper dove the wrong way as the ball rippled the net. The blue team mobbed their hero as they claimed victory.
"At least the keeper didn't smash his head on the post," said Ian.
"What?"
"Seriously? You don't remember that?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Mike claimed.
The men in red sulked and collapsed on the pitch as cameras rushed forward to find the first crying footballer and—
"Pause that," said Mike. "Jump back and have the keeper save it."
The action replayed. The blue player took an identical kick. Instead of diving in the opposite direction, the goalkeeper moved to the exact location of the shot. He effortlessly caught the ball.
"Stop. Replay, but with less certainty for the block."
Back again. The kicker struck the ball. The keeper, momentarily wrong-footed, dove back with an outstretched hand and barely made the save. And then, in a mirror of before, the men in red piled on each other as the blues wandered around the pitch, utterly dejected.
"Sometimes," said Mike, "I consider if it's possible to completely replicate a match with a single static equation. And not in a computer simulation. Recreated in the physical world. I guess you'd need eleven robots versus another eleven. The numbers would predict every pass, every poorly-timed tackle, every fluke of collision physics."
A small army of stewards wheeled a stage out to the center of the pitch as the team in red lined up for their winners' medals.
"Predetermined from the starting whistle."
"And you'd have to account for player psychology," said Ian.
"Of course. But in theory…" Mike began, staring through the TV. "Not that there's any utility for it. Not unless it could predict future matches, considering all that free will shit."
The players lined up. They received their medals and exchanged a series of obligatory handshakes with random old white men who suddenly appeared.
"It's so surreal to see the losing team win. I've lived with the opposite outcome for ages. But outside the theoretical framework that, if infinity minus one parallel universes exists, this happens in one of them."
"Infinity minus one?" asked Ian.
"The universe or universes probably aren't infinite. So subtract one from infinity. You're still left with a staggering number of possibilities. Here, I've created a little digital world slightly removed from reality. I can only assume that it ceases to exist when I turn off the TV."
"Not any different than a videogame," said Ian.
Mike rocked in the chair and offered a loud, "Mmhmm." He stood and turned off the television. The nightlights kept the encroaching darkness at bay. They cast crooked, expressionistic shadows of the furniture on the walls. Mike was ghostlit from below. A bluish aura splintered at his chin, leaving his face blank. Ian rose and moved toward the hall.
"That said…" began Mike, "I am here. It is now."
The contemplative words preceded a big juicy burp.
"Oh, right, I need to move the Goof's litterbox," said Mike.
"No, it's fine," said Ian, "and I'll keep the door open for him."
"You sure? He poops a real stinker around five o'clock. And that's when I come up to feed him."
"If any of that wakes me up, I guarantee I can fall back asleep," said Ian.
Mike opened the door to the basement.
"Well, goodnight, little bro," said Mike.
"Goodnight, older bro."
Mike shut the door. His presence faded into the depths of the house.
Ian glanced at the couch and saw the furry lump of the Goof in the catbed.
Before he turned off the endtable light and climbed into the guest room bed, Ian surveyed the collection of equipment and games on the desk. Earlier, he was frustrated at his inability to remember any sort of "Gameroom 0," but the mystery lessened during the day. Hacked and homebrew consoles existed since videogames crawled out of the primordial ooze. In his two years at Honeycomb, Ian had worked on plenty of projects that were scuttled after an underwhelming alpha version or backlash from a buggy demo. None of that, though, would dissuade Ian from running all the weird titles from the odd game system found in his brother's attic.
With a fair amount of shame and concern for his health, Ian couldn't recall the last time he distinctly remembered going to sleep. Usually he woke up the next morning and pieced the night together from texts and social media posts. An invasive idea took root. It wasn't going to leave his head unless Ian said it aloud.
"What if I don't go back?" he asked the dark room, barely above a whisper. "What if I quit and move away?"
The idea was ridiculous. The logistics were daunting. He would need to move his giant omnidirectional treadmill, which took four techs to haul into his apartment. Wherever he randomly settled, he'd need to find a new doctor and dentist and dermatologist. He wasn't sure if he would remove and roll up his Lifescreens or buy new ones and reconfigure all the settings based on the size of the room and all the ambient light at all the different times of day because the AI could never get it quite right.
But the heat cooked off before the anxiety spilled into panic, before he confronted the deeper truth that waited for him in silence and stillness. He knew he asked the wrong questions, acknowledging only the ones that floated on the surface. It was a long day, and the exhaustion mercifully allowed Ian to plunge into sleep. He remembered none of his dreams nor sensed any passage of time.
A rotten smell crawled up Ian's nostrils and ripped him from unconsciousness.
"Motherfucker!" Ian quietly hissed out as he awoke in the pitch dark and pinched his nose. His wristwatch read 4:45 a.m.
"Poop!" called a squeaky voice.
Ian turned toward the door. The Goof sat on the floor of the hallway.
"The litterbox?" Ian asked.
"Ya!"
Ian turned on the bedside lamp as he rolled off the mattress and staggered toward the plastic dome. He failed to locate a litter scooper, but he grabbed a nearby trash can with a plastic liner. Breathing out the edge of his mouth, he opened the lid of the box and saw a soft, fat turd, completely uncovered. The reek swelled, and Ian dug it out with the garbage bin. Once collected, he tiptoed through the dark house and set it in the garage. With one of the deodorizing aerosols from the bathroom, Ian sprayed a wide arc in the guest room.
"Food!"
Ian stopped. The Goof lingered in the threshold of the room.
"And then I can go back to sleep?" asked Ian.
"Ya!"
The Goof trotted into the kitchen as Ian followed. Ian retrieved a can of food, peeled off the lid, and waited for the gooey pink mass to glurp into the bowl.
"Now!" said the Goof.
"Hey! This is Mike's job!" Ian scolded.
As he brought the bowl over to the mat, the Goof urgently circled his ankles. Ian set the bowl down and the Goof immediately dug in.
"You're welcome," said Ian.
The Goof looked up and said, "Thanks!"