Klein hated getting ill. He always caught the winter bugs and often worse than any of his friends or family…

(Small caveat ought to be made here. Give me some of your attention, please. Klein's statement that his illness was ‘worse’ is in his opinion and the scientific validity or even basic logic of his statements cannot be proven. Small caveat over.)

He conveniently forgot when his loved ones had terrible viruses. A fact they never did.

Man flu is a much derided idea. The truth or fiction of the matter is irrelevant. The scorching of his throat made for a miserable morning. Who enjoys a sore throat?

NO ONE!

Damn bacteria. But not the healthy ones, you’re fine (this is his inner monologue in case you were confused. I speak in italics because I am italian - not).

Entirely beyond his awareness - only because he didn’t buy a Pear Magiscope 2000 from his local store, a cruel pixie giggled at once again making Klien sick. A seasonal punishment for an act long since forgotten by the human, but not by the supernatural. The surest way to counter such petty efforts to induce sickness is a flu jab - science trumps magic. Everyone knows this.

Klein waddled up to his bedroom like a penguin up a hill. His arms spread out for support, he swayed slightly side-to-side from the dizziness and made each small step with heroic effort. At the top, he gulped down some medicine with a sip of much soothing water. He made for his room and rest. He fell under the covers and wrapped himself up.

He lay in bed alone in the house with heavy metal music playing off his laptop. He let the sounds wash over him from the pounding drums, electrifying vocals to the amazing guitar riffs.

He was back in his parents' place. His job had fallen through and he hadn’t the savings to keep paying for rent. His girlfriend was out working her shift at the nursery. His girlfriend who was not able to get a job for months to help with rent, but now that they were stuck with his family, she had gotten a piss, poor paying position at a place that took advantage of young, inexperienced girls.

So what was great to play during a headache, tummy bug and the sore throat combo he had?

Nothing. He should be resting. But, he felt just a sliver of enough energy to try. His choice was obvious to no one; a Grand strategy game… of course. He leapt back into nostalgia and booted up his copy of Rome from his steam library.

His music switched off as the game booted up and the familiar tunes played. He felt his anticipation build. Soon he would be managing the expansion of an empire. A legendary empire that would spread across Ancient Europe spreading technology and slaughtering any who would resist their occupation.

How often did he think of the Roman Empire? Not a lot, but that was the boring answer. He’d once battered a friend while they had used roman swords and shields at a mediaeval castle. All the fun with none of the historical accuracy. Perhaps realism wasn’t as important as convincing, enjoyable experience?

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He wondered what it was that made him connect with the Roman Empire. He shared no genetic connection. He enjoyed an inheritance of its myth. How fun it was to play the conqueror. How cool it felt to invade the cities and villages in real time battles; he watched violence.

It gave him no comfort, warmth or gentleness. It did not help heal the pain of his sickness. No, it gave him that malicious pleasure of inflicting pain onto others. All the while playing at rational strategy, sure in the knowledge that he had numbers to show he was improving things for those he ruled.

Not to take it all too seriously. It was a gamified simulation afterall. The Roman Empire he played in the game didn’t exist. For all its supposed historical basis, it may as well have been made from nothing. It was like the battle of Stirling Bridge in the movie Braveheart - spoilers - there’s no bridge in the movie. Neither had anything to do with the actual events from history, and all to do with legacy - not to mention the profit that could be made from their stories.

What a tangent. Illness sent his thoughts down strange paths. By himself he had far too much time to think. Usually in the company of others he could be disciplined into an empty mind.

He gathered his armies and directed them towards Gaul. He coughed over his screen; it came from his chest. He ordered conquest with righteous belief, he commanded armies to grow his empire, he had fun. Wracked with pain, he had more fun gaming than he had in a long time.

He doubted actual Roman soldiers had much fun between the marching, killing and dying. The Gaul who were just living their lives and conquered certainly wouldn’t have had fun.

What made the Romans do it then?

Klein enjoyed the fun simulation of it. Maybe like him they were just trying to improve their days and somehow war was the way they thought to do it. How stupid. Klein sick as he was understood that even if they succeed their happy homes would have been built with bodies and blood as much as stone and mortar.

Perhaps illness allowed him to understand the futility of their efforts. Maybe their health, wealth and wellbeing enabled war and conquest. So much energy they put into making war happen. How much labour was needed to make peace again? A new peace founded on war and pregnant with new conflicts.

He had heard many positive words about more kindness. Maybe, he thought, … (bitter or grimly) what the world needed was more sickness. Then more energy would be put into care and rest. More labour gifted to the dying and less spent on killing.

It was a stupid thought as any who was chronically ill or had lost someone to illness would know. Sickness was a horror from a box unleashed by cruel gods or in a further despair laced possibility the perfect work of nature that just exists; it is what it is.

He thought too hard because..

Then again when he was well again he would be back at the job search. He heard there was stable money in anti-hacking. He had the hacking skills. Perhaps the state would pay him. He could move out of his parents house and be independent. Finally fuck without worrying about being quiet. Fucking was much better to think about. He could smell her perfume still on their bed.

He lost the battle. He had given too much time to thinking and too little on the game.

He went downstairs for food. He boiled the kettle to warm some pot noodles. Hardly enough, but it would give him a quick boost of energy. Simple to make besides.

He rested his head on the pillow with the warmth filling his belly. He closed his eyes.

He stirred briefly to a warm hand pulling his cover over his shoulder, “Hey, babe.” She whispered. “Sleep well.”

He drifted off once again.

He never did play that game again nor did he remember much from his illness. Still, it had made it easier to endure the supernatural or was the perfectly natural bout of winter bug. For that, the game had earned its value in his eyes.