JUNO
SEPTEMBER 1986
***COMMODORE 64 BASIC V2***
64K RAM SYSTEM 38911 BASIC BYTES FREE READY HELLO.
?SYNTAX ERROR.
HELLO.
LEVEL____ *%#%?!
There is nothing quite as fleeting as floating from one world to the next. One moment, you understand where you are. You feel what is around you, smell the right smells, hear the things that you are close to. To have that ripped away from you all at once leaves the mind naked and washed out. What you once trust to be true is no more. Your senses, which you have completely depended on for your survival throughout your entire life, have failed you. And then, you have nothing left.
I honestly believed that with this occurring to me yet a third time, I’d at least expect a few of these symptoms—nausea, headache, overwhelming dizziness. I can’t even say if it even was worse than the first time when I encountered it at the TV set. But I scream at the top of my lungs. It was very stupid on my part, but the front door was only a few feet away from me. It was just in front of me, the doorknob seemingly reaching out for my fingertips. I see my boy to my left, fast asleep in his cradle, much too close to that horrid creature. If only I had been quicker. My jaw clenches. The blasted thing testing me, no doubt. But my mind is clouded with the image of Tom’s body crammed in that dusty cardboard box in the basement, like a piece of forgotten furniture or clothing.
My skin seethes. I try to keep my breaths slow. Losing my temper will do nothing. The only benefit from this is that the experience is no longer shocking to me. How long I may remain here is another question—so the best thing that I am able to do is become familiarized with this pathetic world. I despise any creation made from that abominable thing’s grimy fingers; the very hands that took away the closest thing I had as a father.
I grit my teeth. Tom’s blood is on my shoulders. If he had never met me, never knew about the house, never tried to help—
Breathe. Focus.
It is much too late to ponder these possibilities now. I try not to think of the Brunswicks. As I struggle to open my pixelated eyes, my stubby pink neck tilts back towards the teal colored sky, right above the white number hovering over my head. The smell of smoke and roasting flesh fills my nose. I have the sudden urge to vomit, but I move—more like float through the burned trees. For a moment, I pause and take a look.
The game has not reset. And yet the shriveled trees up nearby befuddle me. I see the marks of the creature’s footprints against the soil, and then a yellow, shriveled shape is smashed against the ground like a pie. One of its swollen eyes are wide open, the lid pulled back to reveal the pulsing blood vessels. Its right limb is twitching back and forth, bone and sinew shining through the light. Very slowly, its skeletal chest rises and falls. The nails are black, peeling off.
The eye settles on me.
It blinks once.
I rush forward. I’m still terribly ashamed of seeing him in this state. “Player 099234?”
A drop of blood escapes from his forehead. He releases a strangled, gurgling sound.
“Do not worry,” I quickly say, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. I then attempt to hold him in my short pink arms, before managing to staunch the bleeding with my hands. “I’ll help you. Just…just let me figure something out!”
How, I do not know. As he hangs onto me, I begin to scour the forest. Mushrooms? Flowers? Spiderwebs? I cannot even pick them up with my non existent fingertips. I knock down some tree branches to create a nest for him, heaving up the thick leaves.
He struggles to lie down.
I rack my brain. What was it that Player 099234 had done for me when I had tumbled down below from the sky and landed on my face? No, it was after that. After I had used up all of my energy. The word. What was the name of the word? Come on, come on—
Stamina?
The unexpected word rips through what I believe resemble my ears, and I desperately want to clamp my hands over it. It’s taunting, almost mocking me. And instantly, I know where it is coming from, and I do not like how it is reading and recognizing my thoughts. I grimace, trying to twist my head away from it, wanting to bash it against one of the tree trunks, but it follows me until I finally speak.
“Shut up!” I snarl, even though I do not know who I am speaking to. “Shut up.”
My shriek echoes though the trees. I close my eyes for a moment, but when I finally dare to open them, a strange colored box is made visible in front of me. I flinch and move back.
Would you like to:
Give 50% Stamina or Ignore?
I try to move it away, but it’s directly glued to my face, like one of those flimsy 3D glasses that they have at the movie theaters. After stumbling blindly around like a madman, I finally select the option on the left column.
You have given 50% of your Stamina to Player 099234.
A sharpening pain suddenly descends upon me, and I cry out, curling into a ball upon the ground in agony. The number drops below my head until I can see Player 099234‘s haggard form starts to sway upon the grass. Their yellow limbs begin to reattach, and although they can’t really see that well out of their eye, they struggle to their feet. As I clutch my hands to my throbbing head, Player 099234 extends their strange paw to help me up.
generous
love
The strange melodic tune in the background makes my ears ring. I don’t know why it sounds familiar to me, yet it does.
why can’t you love
like
I groan in pain and attempt to stand proper, but I end up stumbling again, awkwardly landing face first into a bush. It flattens underneath my weight.
him
“Player 0001455,” the yellow creature says, stumbling in the grass, “it is beyond my honor to extend my thanks to you for your sacrifice.”
With a frown, I glance back at the horizon. “Will the beasts come back?” My stomach gets queasy. I am not prepared to see those things again, not the way they were chomping on his flesh. “How will I know that they will?”
why won’t you love me
Player 099234 shrugs. “They usually return the following day, after the sun rises. They rejuvenate, usually.” He releases a heavy laugh that sends shivers down my spine. “It is usually right when the sun dips over the sky that I prepare to be feasted upon. I am their breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes, if I am little bit lucky, I usually have 15% of Stamina remaining.” He beams, despite wincing in pain as he steps awkwardly on his broken foot. His toes are facing in the wrong direction. “But now I have a whole 65% due to your generous offer! That will buy me an hour to fend them off.”
like like
”An…an…hour?” I stammer. “At most?”
“Yes.” The smile is stretched from both sides of his face as he dusts off a leaf on top of his yellow bulbous head. “It is a wonderful gift.”
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
”Then what?”
him ME
”I deserve to have fun. I deserve to have fun.”
”Pardon?” My eyes are twitching, watering.
”I deserve to have fun. I deserve to have fun.”
I clear my throat. “What happens if you run out of stamina? Do you automatically—”
“Nonsense.” Player 099234 smiles. “You have done well. Come, let us can’t… CAN’T [redacted] you see? I can’t stand ANOTHER DAY WHY DID YOU DO THI-
love me
*Error on line 422*
*Error on line 478*
*Error on line 398*
please love me
A burning sensation courses through my skull as a thousand red, green and blue circles appear in front of me. Then, heavy static.
* * * * * * *
Slowly, I open my eyes. It is still dark, but by the creaking and swaying around me, I know that I am back in the house. When I raise my palm to my mouth, I see that it is covered in blood. After sitting up for a moment and coughing heavily, I run my hands over my arms and legs above my stained nightgown. But I am relieved that they are with me.
For now.
My head really hurts. I am lying on my back upon the wooden floor. It is in the middle of the night, and as I weakly stumble in the dark hallway, I bump against the furniture. Something rattles up top, before landing to the ground with a crash. But I don’t react, just keep going, until I reach the crib and pick up my son, who is fast asleep in my arms. I don’t dare glance at the door, but I feel the figure’s presence sitting behind me at the table. Eyes on me, as always. Their breaths are shallow.
My mind is fuzzy. I rub at my forehead. I can’t remember what happened next. I can’t.
I can’t.
I place a kiss on top of my child’s head and bounce them in my arms, inhaling their scent. The creature had indeed just given them a bath; my son smells like baby shampoo and lemon. He’s dressed in a frog printed pajamas; his chubby feet in socks.
Thunder rumbles again, causing me to flinch. Bile rises to my throat, and as I finally turn to face the black shape across the room, I can see them slowly stand up. They are incredibly still—but I can make out excitement, relief, like they have been waiting for me to come back this entire time. It sickens me. But I take a slow, deep breath, although I do want aspirin.
“I’m….” I try to speak. “I….I…”
The figure slowly takes a step forward.
“I…I think I’m a bit hungry,” I murmur, although the urge to vomit is stronger than ever. I don’t know why I say this; I’m the exact opposite. I press a hand against the crib to steady myself, and then lightly place it over my stomach. “Do…do you mind if I could borrow your stove? To make soup, perhaps?”
They come closer.
”I’m hungry,” I repeat.
The figure makes a scooping motion to their mouth, before patting their stomach. I nod.
I try my very best not to flinch as they gently place both of their grimy hands on my shoulder and lead me to sit down at the lopsided table. Below it, I can see the figure had been cleaning a shotgun with a few rags. With their bare foot, they use it to scoot it towards them. A loud clicking sound echoes in my ears as they carry it away with them in the darkness. I glance at the window.
My car is still parked out on the yard, but it is completely in ruins. Blood rushes to my face when I can see its former shell burnt to a crisp, the seats melted, the door practically crumpled into dust. Water springs to my eyes as I glare at the remnants of the steering wheel. My chest is so tight I cannot breathe. Tom is stuck in the basement. Never again will he feel the sun on his skin, or the wind in his hair. I alone am completely responsible for his demise. I am going to die here. I more than deserve it, although it would never be enough justice for Rana and her family.
I deserve to have fun. Player 099234‘s words echo in my mind.
Suddenly, I turn my head towards the pitch black kitchen. The figure had been watching me, but upon noticing me glaring back, began loudly rummaging through the cabinets, clanging of pots and pans. The sound of water trickling fills the silent room, and I struggle to keep it together as I heavily exhale and gaze up at the ceiling. A cobweb is dangling from the upper right corner, and I hold my son closer to me as I focus on it. There goes three years’ of savings, down the drain. I blink hard to keep the tears back.
Crashed and burned, just like that.
Exhaling heavily, I begin to rock my sleeping son back and forth in my arms. There is more slight movement in the kitchen, but I don’t look up as quiet footsteps make it back to the table. A steaming bowl of oatmeal is placed in front of me, followed by a large metal spoon.
The figure sits across in the dark from me.
It is not soup, but it shall do.
With a shaky hand, I scoop up the mixture and place it directly in my mouth, before chewing. The hot rubbery oats burn my tongue, but I keep chewing, forcing it down. It’s not until after the second or third bite that I realized that they had slipped a large lump of brown sugar at the bottom of the bowl. Its unexpected sweetness startles me. I can’t stand them watching me eat, watching me raise the spoon, but I keep at it until it is empty. Still chewing, I slowly raise my head.
The figure stares at me.
I wonder what color their eyes are. I wonder if they are male or female. I wonder they have freckles or dimples or light or dark skin, if they are old or if they are young. If they have children of their own. They must have, because they have been so gentle with my own son so far. But that does not mean I trust them in anyway around him. I still need to get him away from here, and fast.
That is my priority.
”Thank you,” I shakily say, to stoke their ego. I place the spoon neatly in the bowl and stand up to put it away, but they grab my hand and motion me to sit back down.
I do.
They say nothing, but I know that those pathetic words mean something to them. It works. They softly smile. I despise them with every fiber of my being. But I must not show some form of wretched gratitude, so I keep a straight face. I must keep them happy and in their miserable delusions while I figure out a plan. Cuz even if they are able to keep me here forever, they shall not have my child, no matter how affectionate they pretend to be.
It has stopped raining. The sound of crickets outside has replaced it, followed by fresh air.
The figure stands up, moves to my mattress lying on the peeling living room floor. I am preparing myself for the worst until I hear them drag the blanket off the surface. When their footsteps come close to me again I freeze, but their fingers slowly wrap around my wrist. I cling to my sleeping child as tightly as I can. Reluctantly, I lower him into the crib.
To my surprise, they lead me to the front porch, where the scent of fresh rain is even stronger. Crystal droplets of water hang from the rotten supporting wooden structures above. The figure’s bare feet creaks against the floor as they guide me to the damp wicker seat. As I shakily sit down, I can feel them settle next to me, before draping the quilt over both of our shoulders and tightly tucking it around us. Their body temperature and the added weight of the blanket soon causes me to stop shivering, but I am afraid to move.
This is the closest I have ever been to the figure. I feel their arm drape slowly around me. Their limbs stiffen. To my relief, they don’t smell as bad as before, but the trail of cigarettes and tobacco is apparent. I’ve seen the butts littered all over the front yard. They softly exhale, before drawing me closer to them in some sort of embrace that will make it impossible for me to slip out. I don’t think they are falling asleep, to my disappointment.
More than anything, I want to flee.
It is so dark outside that the only indication of anything else is their shape. I can just about barely make out the profile, but their heartbeat is close to mine, tangled hair soft against my face. The fabric of their worn, filthy blue jeans are caked with mud. My heart is thudding, and I’m sweating up a storm under the blanket, but they don’t seem to mind.
I want to take that rifle I saw earlier and blow their brains out. Make them smear across the dirty windows, the stairs, all over the porch.
Their scabbed mouth briefly brushes against my ear, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. I’m straining to listen. Do they intend to whisper something? But they seem to hesitate, to my great dismay. The moment I find out who they are—even a trace of their voice—is enough for me to get somewhere with the police. I just have to find out a way to get them to speak, or to see their face. Just as much they watch me each flipping minute of the day, I shall do the same towards them.
I will make them pay for what they did to Tom.
Our seat slowly swings back and forth. Back and forth. Their dirty toes brush against mine, left foot pushing against the ground. I wonder, then, if this is what they wanted all this time.
The old ropes of the wicker seat creak.
Juno, some people just bottle up so much rage that they don’t know what to do with themselves anymore, my mother used to say. So they swell and bubble up until they crash.
A chill settles on my back as I gaze at my wrecked car, mangled and beaten up between the burnt weeds.
Crash.
The game. It keeps crashing. But it doesn’t seem to have any established rules. Can one even exist or function without rules? What are the rules?
I still hardly know what to do whenever I end up in there. Every time Player 099234 speaks, it always crashes. It falls apart. Maybe it’s a bug, or a corrupted file. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I am aware my abductor could easily fix it. It’s an amateur mistake, one that even I could recognize.
But then it hits me like a brick—how the system recognized what I intended to provide Player 099234. My stomach violently hurts for being too stupid and clueless to recognize it before; I suddenly want to run and hide. As if on cue, the figure slowly reaches out and gives my hand a gentle squeeze, one that would only tighten if I dare attempt to pull away. A lump rises in my throat, I am about to hurl all over the seat.
They can read my thoughts in the game. Not just mine, but Player 099234’s. Both of ours.
Every. Single. One.