FVR

Chapter One.

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"It's not a permanent thing, Joel," his mother said, her tone dismissive. Not of Joel, but of the conversation itself. "The diagnosis is just the first step. Once we get the ball rolling, you'll be fine!" She adjusted herself on the sofa, supporting her lower back with a pillow before returning to her phone. "You'll see. A few more months and they'll fix you up," she finished.

She's frustrated, Joel told himself. He leaned against the wall with his right leg raised, and his hand rubbing his lower back. She doesn't know what to say and she thinks I'll get upset if we talk about it. He looked up at his father, sat on the second couch, pretending to read the paper. Him too. Neither of them has any idea what'll happen, or when.

"Yeah, you're right," Joel said, hiding a surrendered tone and placing two thumbs up. "It'll just take time."

His father turned to offer Joel a smile before returning to the paper. "You'll be fine," he said, avoiding eye contact, echoing his sons' words, "it'll just take time. Your pain won't stay stagnant forever."

Joel gave the sincerest smile he could muster, and kept his thumbs up despite neither of them looking.

Stagnant, huh? His relaxed eyes hid the sadness he felt. My life is what's stagnant... My pain is the weeds pulling me down.

With soft gasps of pain, he turned to leave, struggling to hold himself up with each and every step. As he left the room, he sensed them both exchange a silent glance. It's fine, he told himself. Please don't be stressed on my behalf.

Slowly and painfully, Joel made his way up the stairs with one hand squeezing his thigh, and the other on the wall for support. The pain in his right leg stabbed at his calf and at his thigh with every step, all while his lower back pinched from every movement that stretched it. Once at the summit, he released his thigh and held his lower back, then hobbled into his room. He closed the door quietly behind him and let out a pained exhale.

Now out of earshot, he huffed a little louder as he stumbled over to his bed, kicking rubbish to the side as he did.

He lay there a moment, waiting for the pain to subside.

Fuck, he thought to himself. Not knowing what's wrong is one thing, but waiting for several months just to be told nothing new is just... He hit his left leg in frustration. Then again three more times in quick succession. Fuck fuck fuck!

It hadn't been the first time that he kept his emotions to himself, and it wouldn't be the last. But he felt childish with every outburst and every silent tear. Childish, and a little bit lonely.

For a few moments, the chronic pain in his right leg and lower back disappeared, replaced by the throbbing in his left leg. He leaned back into his pillows with a sigh of relief, then stared at the ceiling with a vacant look, tracing a crack in the paint that ran across the width of the room like a fine line from a blunt pencil. His eyes caught the glimmer of a medal which hung from the top of his wardrobe - an image of a shoe intricately displayed upon it. I need to move that, he thought, but it meant standing up and that would mean more pain. He sighed, absorbed in the tranquility of his fleeting release.

Months of chronic pain, and for a few - brief moments - the only thing that he felt came from the ache from his punches. He almost seemed to smile as his muscles relaxed. The softness on his face didn't last long, however, before it faded back into a scowl as the pain returned, somewhat less than before.

Joel looked to his window and noted the light that trickled in. He usually kept his curtains shut out of habit; the feeling that someone could see in without him knowing always filled him with self-doubt and a little too much self-awareness. But every now and then, his dad would walk in, say he's not a mushroom, and open the curtains. Today had been one of those days.

As Joel looked outside at the passing world, not wanting to be seen, he had a passing thought. Being around others or being seen by them is effort. Maybe people are only ever themselves when they're alone, with no expectations. Just the freedom to be as you are. A church bell rang suddenly, and he found his consciousness consumed with counting each subsequent ring. Ding. Ding. Ding. He fell into a trance-like state as his thought faded away along with the feeling of his pain. Then the final ring echoed and he found his attention back in his room.

Almost out of habit, Joel grabbed his laptop, flipped it open, and clicked onto social media, as if it were his body's go-to behavior when he found himself doing nothing.

2 unread messages

He didn't have to scroll down to know the sender of one of those messages. One is Suze, who I really don't have the energy for. The other is... Simon? He clicked on the conversation.

Simon: Joel, bud! if you're able to get to town by midday I think there's something you can do that'll massively help us both out. Let me know ASAP! Sent at 09:01.

Simon: Seriously, wake up already. Sent at 10.17.

Simon: You seriously need to renew your subscription. How do you expect people to contact you? Sent at 11:51

This fucker. He knows I'm not working. I'm not even paying rent! What, am I meant to ask my parents for a mobile subscription I would never use? Fuck. Joel took a moment to breathe a little slower by closing his eyes and listening to the sound of passing traffic. Calm down, Joel. You can't burn any more bridges.

Joel: Hey Si. Sorry. Just got back. I'm a bit fucked today. What's up? Sent at 13:11.

13:11? That appointment went on a lot longer than I thought.

The day of travel to a different city, the waiting, and the conversation with the doctor all added to his exhaustion. He shuffled the pillows at his back to make himself comfier - really settling down for the day - when he caught the VR headset to his side. Joel clicked on a game out of habit, and tenderly reached over for his headset, knocking an empty Pepsi bottle to the floor as he did. He sighed, I'll get it later, he told himself, knowing he wouldn't.

His energy shot and his mood shit. Playing a game might have been the last thing on his mind, but as he paused for a moment, nothing else really seemed to captivate him. Not like there's anything else to do with my life.

Ding.

A reply from Simon scrolled across his screen.

That was quick.

Simon: I get it bud, but you'll not want to miss out on this. Trust me. Read at 13:12.

Joel: ? Read at 13:12

Simon: Remember the new FVR trial? Read at 13:12.

Simon: It's today. Read at 13:12.

Simon: But stuff happened and I'm stuck in Berlin. Read at 13:13.

Simon: Which is why I need you to take my place. Read at 13:13.

Joel: You're kidding? Read at 13:14.

Joel: Si, I'm not some pro gamer. I can't compete with these people. Read at 13:14.

Simon: That's the beauty of it! You won't be competing with them! You'll be measuring the output of the new system. It doesn't even need someone like me, honestly, I was just lucky enough to be accepted. Read at 13:14.

Simon: It would take too long to explain and you have to be there by 2! Read at 13:14.

Simon: Just... go! Please! Read at 13:14.

Joel's first thoughts filled with reasons to not reply. To close the screen, wait until the evening, then apologize for falling asleep. But something lingered at the back of his mind which gave him pause.

Shit. I don't know... I'm in so much fucking pain, Simon. Joel thought, then rubbed his leg as he pondered to himself. The thought of going into town and the risk of further injury nearly crippled him with fear, accompanied by a familiar sadness which washed over him - anxiety mixed with fatigue. It was the same feeling he had woken up with for over a year, and the same feeling that kept him inside most days.

"I'm just... I'm just so tired. All the time," he whispered to himself with a quiet resolution, thinking of how to say no.

Simon: Did I forget to mention how FVR has neural inhibition? Read at 13:16.

Shit, I should have closed the chat. Wait... Neural inhibition? Joel tried to remind himself of the technology, but his thoughts had lingered too long on how to say no that it became difficult to engage with the conversation.

Simon: It literally suppresses neural signals when you're in VR. It's the next stage of long-form gaming. Read at 13:16.

Simon: Bud... You'll be completely separated from your physical body. Read at 13:17.

Simon: Pain and all. Read at 13:17.

Joel stopped rubbing his leg as he lingered on those words.

Free from pain, he thought, as he bit the inside of his lip with indecision.

Simon: Think of it as a holiday while you wait for your surgery or whatever it is the doctor has recommended. Read at 13:18.

Simon: So??? Read at 13:19.

Joel knew there would be no surgery and no hope in the immediate future, so he really did pause at the thought, neural inhibition. The term echoed in Joels mind. Completely turning off the body while your mind can exist in VR. The cost of such a trial and what it meant for Simon to be offered it passed through Joel's thoughts for the briefest of moments. No pain. That was his only concern. No fucking pain.

Joel: I'll be there. Sent at 13:20.

***

His parents were happy to see him finally leave the house on his own, which felt odd to Joel, he wanted them to be more concerned.

"Make sure to go to the loo before you go," his father said, dotingly.

"I've just been," Joel replied.

"Have you got everything?" His mother asked, now leaning forwards on the sofa with her hand holding her back. "Do you need your crutches?"

"I'm not walking far, and those crutches hurt my back."

"Alright... well," they glanced at each other, "call if you need dad to pick you up. Dinner is at seven."

Joel waved them goodbye and left, closing the front door behind him. Their smiling faces lasted a moment on his mind, but the emotion they hid hurt him too much to remember it. They were worried and unsure what to say, and Joel knew it. But they were his parents, they were meant to know what to say...

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Within the hustle and bustle of the city, most people didn't live too far from a bus stop. A few minutes of waiting in the sun and a single decker bus arrived right on cue, mostly empty. Lucky, he thought, being able to sit at the back by himself. He did, after all, not like the idea of being looked at unknowingly.

As he walked to the back of the bus, he noted that the driver waited for him to sit down before driving. The other guy didn't wait, Joel recalled his previous bus ride bitterly, and how much it hurt when he placed his entire body weight on his bad leg to stop himself from falling. Some people just don't care. It's pathetic.

Joel stretched and rubbed his back. Today had been the most movement he had done in weeks, and the pain had started to build up. The tender movement of the bus and the lack of support for his back, were like stacking cards. Eventually, it would be too much to bear, and the cards would come crumbling down.

The bus stopped next to a garden wall. Its darkness on the reflection of the window acted as a canvas for Joel's portrait. His eyes were more dreary, more cold. They were not the eyes he recognized as his own. His mouth had become tighter too, and it sometimes hurt to smile. The bus carried on, but his thoughts stayed still.

How does that happen? He wondered. How does it become painful to smile? The thought reminded him of a grumpy teacher he once knew. Phillips. An odd man, to be sure, but not because of his sad face. Do people also just assume I'm an arsehole these days? The thought made him angry as he recalled his views of the teacher, and how his face always made Joel feel like he didn't care about his appearance. It had been just over a year ago that Joel said goodbye to him near the end of his school year. His lean, wiry frame matched that of Phillips' as they shook hands, who must have stood at six feet, a height Joel always believed to be desirable until he grew taller than his friends. He couldn't be sure if he had grown since - he never saw anybody in person anymore to even notice.

As the bus stopped by a building, Joel caught a clearer reflection of himself in the window. Seeing himself in such a state recalled a clearer image of his teacher's messy hair and unshaven beard. The similarity to his own disheveled brown hair that cascaded in unkempt waves over his eyes, and his boyishly stubbled face, perturbed him greatly. His prickly chin now a pale imitation of the man he once pitied. People are quick to judge based on how someone looks. He thought, accepting the irony and choosing to believe he had matured above it.

***

The journey didn't take more than ten minutes, but it had been enough for the pain in Joel's back to flare up. He leaned forwards on his seat, stretching his back and rubbing his side. As stupid as it would have looked, he regretted not bringing a pillow. When the bus finally reached his stop, Joel hobbled off. He thanked the bus driver as he did, who offered a reassuring smile in return.

Joel put up the hood on his jumper, and checked the screenshot he took of google maps that showed a highlighted path to the building. Hello World! He called it. Joel looked at his last message from Simon, and repeated in his head what he wanted to say.

Simon: Head to CP3 14U. It's a big old building called 'Hello World!' Can't miss it. Head to floor seven and say you're my replacement. Read at 13:21.

Floor seven. Simon's replacement.

The map led Joel two-minutes up the road from the bus stop.

Seven, long minutes later, Joel arrived at the entrance of the building. It really did seem huge, reaching high into the sky but also taking up the entire length of the road. He couldn't see how far back it stretched, but he got the impression he had unwillingly signed himself up for a hike. He hunched over for a moment to gather himself. The pain in his leg now enough to make him shed a tear, but the thought of what lay beyond those doors kept him on his feet. He took several deep breaths, stretched his back, and rubbed his leg. His heart raced from the walk and the pain, but his mind had become more focused than ever.

No pain, he thought to himself.

No pain.

***

Joel entered the building and slowly made his way to a lift. He tried pressing a button but a dull noise responded. He tried again, but got the same beeping sound.

"Hi, can I help?" A voice called out from the reception desk.

Joel considered not approaching. The stabbing in his calf shot up the back of his leg and into his thigh, causing enough pain for him to struggle to breathe. He realized he must have looked shifty, so he gave a slight smile as he replied.

"Yes," he gave in and hobbled slowly over to the receptionist. "I'm heading to floor seven. I'm a repla..."

"Right, of course." She interrupted. "Running late?" She said with a judgmental tone before clocking onto the limp. "Um, I can send you up," she said, spritely jumping out of her chair. "Do you need a hand?" Her tone had changed. Not to one of sincerity, but to one of slight panic; a universal tone to Joel, it always meant that they were worried they had offended him.

"I'm okay," Joel muttered. "Thanks."

The receptionist pressed the button for the elevator while holding a fob next to a black button. An awkward moment later, the doors opened and Joel stumbled in, clutching at his thigh.

"Good luck," she said as the doors shut.

Joel gave a half hearted smile as he clung to the railing and returned her comment with a nod.

Tempted to sit down, but resolved to showing a brave face, he continued to cling to the railing as frustration and pain flooded his body. His fists were gripped tightly, and the muscles in his arms tensed so much it hurt. He rubbed away the tears welling in his eyes as he gasped for air; the moment he found himself alone he had felt more panic than before. More willingness to give in.

Five. Six. Seven. The doors opened and Joel limped out.

"Yes?" A bespectacled man asked, stopping in his stride. His eyes glanced back into the lift, and then back to Joel.

Joel pulled his hood down. "I'm replacing Simon Houlder. He's stuck in Berlin," he said with a rehearsed baited breath. He noticed a set of chairs by the opposite wall, and stumbled over to them, collapsing into immediate relief. The pain still persisted, but it didn't matter. He had made it.

"I, uh," the bespectacled stuttered, "one sec." He walked off down a narrow hallway passed several dozen doors before turning a corner.

Holy shit. The pain reached heights he hadn't known in months, severe enough that Joel nearly regretted leaving the house. No pain. No fucking pain! He kept telling himself.

Pushing through so much pain in the hopes that he could find a momentary release seemed laughable. He would likely be heading home after a short trial, right back to his pain-filled life. It's worth it. He reassured himself. Just a moment of feeling normal. That's all I want right now. He grit his teeth and steadied his breathing. His thoughts had become his hope - a slither of a dream where he saw a pain free life. He wanted to taste it. He wanted to get the slightest of moments where his dream could become a reality. Just a single moment would give him the hope that one day he would be free from this pain.

The bespectacled man returned a few minutes later with a skinnier, disheveled man, carrying a clipboard. He approached, partly out of breath and donning a scowl that resembled Joel's.

"Mr. Turing tells me you're here to replace Mr. Houlder?"

Joel sat up while holding his lower back. "Yeah," he said, rubbing the moisture from his eyes.

"Nobody told me this. Who are you?" His voice agitated and fast, and his feet already itching to walk away.

"Joel Bailey," he forced a large breath out, trying to ignore the pain as he stood and holding onto his leg for balance as he did. "I'm here for the trial."

"Then you've wasted your time," the man said with an unapologetic tone. "And mine," he added angrily, scribbling on a piece of paper and turning around.

Joel's heart sank and his eyes widened. What the fuck?

"Why!?" Joel called out suddenly, unable to control his frustration.

The man stopped and turned back, hesitant to respond. "Firstly, it was not up to Mr. Houlder to decide a replacement. Secondly, I have no idea who you are or how you could possibly understand the aim of the trial. And finally, and most significantly, you're in pain."

Joel's eyes lit up with that last comment. The fuck does pain have to do with this?

The man looked at his watch, and his body shifted back and forth before he replied, his fatigued eyes fluttered with thought. "The console can inhibit and disinhibit neural signals associated with proprioception, nociception, and other somatosensory sensations. It does this to allow the user to fully submerge themselves into a digital world without any information from the real world reaching their associated neural regions. A fully immersive digital experience.'" He huffed, and stopped himself from going on a tangent. "Visual cortex for visuals," he pointed at his eyes, "auditory cortex for sounds," he pointed at his ears, and then paused for a second, giving Joel's leg an eagled eyed stare. "And the somatosensory cortex for touch. Or, in your case, pain. But this is a trial run. We've no idea what would happen if we put someone in there who was suffering from this much agony." His frustration turned to sympathy as he turned sideways on, prepared to leave. "I get it. I'm sorry. But we're not a hospital." The two men walked down the hallway and out of sight.

Joel could hardly understand what the man had said, but he got enough of the premise to cry. He struggled to breath as he collapsed to his knees. The pain wrapped itself around his body as the tears dropped from his face, blemishing the floor.

***

"Are you sure Doctor Babbage?" Mr. Turing asked.

"The trial could go on for months, Alan. We've no idea what that would do to a person in chronic pain." He looked down at his clipboard, noting the name, Simon Houlder, being crossed out. "Besides, now we have to find a way to balance the groups."

The two men came to the end of a long corridor and followed it around to a large room. Inside were dozens of capsules, each with the image of a person behind a paned piece of glass. Each capsule brimmed with a clear liquid, with three tubes in the arms of each person, and with a catheter tube running off into the wall. A monitor hung above the capsule, displaying a first-person perspective of a character in a dimly lit room. Several other monitors depicted individuals engaged in conversation, while some remained blank or showed swords clashing and fists hitting dummies.

"Group twenty-seven is missing a member, decrease their first wave difficulty by one twentieth."

"Twenty-seven, one twentieth," a woman echoed as she typed.

"Nineteen god damn minutes," Doctor Babbage cursed. "Nineteen minutes before we start and we've already got an outlier in the study."

"It might not make much of a difference..." Mr. Turing shrugged.

"Might not?" Doctor Babbage interrupted, "that's the point! It. Might. Not." He paced over to his desk, cluttered with paperwork, cups of coffee, and a solitary photo frame. With a sweeping motion of his hand, he gestured to a row of screens along the wall that overlooked every capsule monitor in the trial. "These tests need to be perfect. No outliers. No extraneous variables that aren't accounted for. Every single question on their psychometric tests were defined and measured a dozen times to ensure reliability. You know this!" He turned to a monitor of a participant and clicked on a button that opened a long status, "every neural reading before and during, every sucrose level before and during, every cholesterol reading, every single thing you could possibly imagine has been measured to ensure we can - without a shadow of a doubt - know what impacts this will have on their neural activity." He rubbed his head and opened a drawer, grabbing a bottle of pain medication mixed with caffeine.

Mr. Turing anxiously shifted his feet. He nodded slightly, fully aware of the stakes, then said softly, "what should we do?"

Doctor Babbage sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes, his exhaustion had dulled him, and he knew it. As he wearily sat on the desk, attempting to compose himself, he knocked over the photo frame. He delicately picked it up and ran a gentle finger down the glass of the frame. "I think the best thing to do is..."

The doors to the room slammed closed before he could finish. A tired and panting Joel stood at the entrance of the room; his eyes immediately found Doctor Babbage. He smiled, holding both his thumbs up.

"I'm not in pain," he said loudly with a grimace on his face, his eyes red and wet. "So, stick me in there, won't you? We're running out of time."

Doctor Babbage's first emotion was anger, then frustration at the loud noise, and finally an overwhelming sense of irksomeness at seeing the boy he had just told to leave. However, as Joel held up his thumbs and smiled, Doctor Babbage laughed. He placed the photo frame on the desk, turned it to face the room, then returned a somber smile.

Doctor Babbage approached Joel, stopping by Mr. Turing as he did, "get ready to plug him in," he said softly. Turning smiled knowingly and turned toward the room.

Joel's face lit up. For the first time in a long time, he sincerely smiled. His tears became caught in the folds of his cheeks as he rubbed his face dry, trying to keep a brave face.

Doctor Babbage looked up to Joel as he gingerly stepped to him, a faint sadness lingering in the depths of his eyes. "I understand why you want to do this," he said, placing a comforting hand on Joel's shoulder, "but you have to be prepared for the possibility that it may not work out the way you want it to."

Joel nodded, it's fine, "it's fine," really! "It'll be enough," he assured him, speaking with a palpable sense of optimism.

"Good," Doctor Babbage replied, lowering his hand. He walked back to his desk, slightly spritelier than a moment ago. "We'll get his physical readings once he's in." Doctor Babbage continued, turning to another man, "get him the psychological tests, he can do them while getting set up. Do we have time to test his neural processing speed within the game? Do we have time for his calibration?" A cacophony of voices replied to him, each one became indistinct as Joel moved further away.

Two people ushered Joel slowly into the heart of the room as he hobbled, while other doctors asked him various personal questions.

It worked. He cried inwardly, their words passing through his mind, it really worked! He silently laughed as he nodded along to the people around him talking. None of it went in. Even his responses were forgotten the moment he said them; the adrenaline and the pain acted together to create a strange detachment from reality, as if he were merely an observer in his own body - a playable character within this own life.

***

Over the following minutes, several people came and went as he changed into a gown. Some asked questions, one took blood, another explained how the liquid worked and what sensations to expect inside the game. A moment of hesitation gave him pause when someone handed him an NDA to sign, but he felt too overwhelmed and certain of his pursuit for a moment without pain. He hastily scribbled his name without much consideration, as one might when agreeing to terms and conditions. It all felt like a chaotic rush. A sprint from start to finish, and hardly any of it lasted more than a moment on his mind.

"SIXTY SECONDS," Doctor Babbage called out.

Joel's heart raced as he laid himself on his back within the capsule. A few final jabs, and he had the thumbs up to begin the game.

A woman flipped a switch and a warm liquid slowly flowed in, caressing his body as it filled the capsule. The cover began to close and everything became blurry behind the paned glass. He could feel himself smile as his eyes became heavy.

As the liquid rose above his chest, Joel could begin to see flashes of colors. His eyes drifted closed on their own, and when they opened again, he found himself standing in a dark room surrounded by other teenagers.

"Welcome," a young voice said, "to group twenty-seven."