Warren found himself stuck in a weird half-awake state. Full consciousness hurt too much, the drugs faded quickly and he couldn’t even have the self administering button because his hands didn’t work. So the doctors tweaked the mix until he was awake enough to talk, but not in pain. It was a narrow window.
The worst part was the boredom. He’d been stuck in the same position for so long that he’d managed to watch every episode of everything even mildly interesting on every major streaming service. He was stuck watching the back catalogue of Downton Abbey now. The nurse that came in regularly loved the show and would often linger in his room, quoting lines along with the actors. She tried to engage him in conversation about the show but he pretended to be more out of it than he was so she’d leave him alone.
His father would come in at least once a day too and try to give him a pep talk, as though his severed nerves were simple a matter of laziness. These times were worse than the nurse trying to talk about a crappy TV show because he couldn’t fake semi-consciousness. That would just earn him a lecture about slacking off and how he needed to push through the pain. As though he could reconnect the nerves in his spine through pure force of will.
If I could manage that I’d have been out of here months ago! Warren thought to himself during one exceptionally intense lecture. What the hell does he want from me, MY SPINE IS BROKEN!
Which is why, one day in the middle of a particularly boring episode when Warren was hoping the machine would malfunction and accidentally medicate him into a coma, a doctor entered and fiddled with the settings on Warren’s bed thrusting him into full wakefulness and surprising the hell out of him.
“Warren MacGregor, patient number 42068?” the doctor confirmed. “Is this correct?”
“You people have a terrible sense of humour,” Warren grumbled. “One more, just one more.”
“I need you to confirm your name and patient number.”
“I am Warren MacGregor, patient number four two zero six eight. What’s this about?”
The doctor flipped through his notes, looking nervous. “I’m sorry I had to reduce your pain medication, I’ll make this quick. I need your full attention for this. I have been contacted by a company, a company who is making a video game. More accurately, a full-dive virtual reality game.”
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Warren huffed. Nerds. What does this special case want with me? “Yeah, and?”
“You hadn’t had your implant yet, had you? Don’t answer that, it’s in your chart. The implants go above the first nerve separation you experienced and extend into your brain.” The young doctor flicked through a few more sheets on his clipboard and pressed some buttons on Warren’s bed. “We can implant the device at no cost, install the program at no cost and since it’s an alpha build you won’t be paying any subscription. In fact, the company is looking to pay playtesters.”
“Pay? As in, I can repay my father for this?” Warren perked up slightly, even though the movement elicited what could only be described as exquisite agony. “And I don’t have to watch Downton Abbey anymore? Sign me the hell up!”
“You’re still a minor and need parental permission,” the doctor said, tweaking a few more settings. “I’m returning you to your normal medication settings, but I hope you remember this. The Age of Steam and Sorcery has deep pockets and you need an out. Quid Pro Quo, Warren. Quid Pro Quo.”
Darkness welled up and took Warren away once more.
Once he regained consciousness, and the little pink elephants had put away their unicycles and meandered off to bother someone else for a bit, Warren found himself staring at the slightly pinker than usual face of his father. “Good, um,” Warren looked at the window for a cue, “evening? What’s wrong, Father?”
“Did you know about this?” Warren’s father waved a piece of glossy paper at him. “Some useless intern at The Institute handed me this when I came in today. Do you really think lying in bed all day playing videogames like some sort of influencer is going to get you anywhere?”
Warren blinked when his father practically spat the word at him. “I had no idea,” he lied. “What is that?”
“The Age of Steam and Sorcery, apparently,” his father read off the sheet. “It’s a new research project over at The Institute, trying to better integrate our implants with our nerves or some silly thing. They want guinea pigs to play their game so they can record the impulses it says here.”
“Well, I’m not doing much else for now,” Warren pointed out. “Not until they find a way to reconnect my spine. And it does come from the very people you asked for help. All I’m doing is watching TV, which you’ve always said just rots your brain.”
Somewhat mollified that there wasn’t some nefarious teen plot to slack off afoot, the elder MacGregor calmed a bit. “Well, they’re promising that they’ll include schooling in the project. As long as your grades don’t slip because you’re off playing make-believe all the time, I suppose I can allow this. Don’t make me regret it.”
With that last barb, his father departed, leaving Warren in an empty room to contemplate his future. Anything has to be better than this, he thought to himself. A busted body that won’t move, boring-ass TV and dinner through a straw. I wonder if there’s a blue pill?