Untitled Short Story (wr. 2023-11-27)

Rain and storm, dark night. Herculean winds crashed against the shabby windows of an apartment in a seedy complex, whose painted walls were damp and chipped. Each time thunder struck, the whole place shook under the vibrations; it was a terrible home, abandoned-like and decrepit. Every other week, some new critter would show up — a rat, a roach, ants, or flies, didn’t matter. Vermin, in a word. 

And her.

She was a small girl, and poor. Her parents had passed in an accident soon after she got into college, and the money had been slim since then. Getting her degree — a BS in computer engineering — was a tough ride: although her performance was good enough to earn her a couple scholarships, she still was only barely able to sustain herself in one of the world’s most expensive megalopoleis. Still, that time came and went; now, she was a software engineer for a “unique” gaming company, so to say. Pay wasn’t good, and working conditions were tough. Her most common dinner was ten-dollar pizza off of Mario’s Quick-&-Easy Pizza Parlor (meat lover, extra cheese), and a 2-liter coke. She didn’t have lunch or breakfast most days.

And yet, there was a reason she still worked for the company.

Ten years ago, Aion Entertainment was formed out of a daring merger between an American gaming giant, a Korean MMORPG developer, and the for-profit subsidiary of the world’s foremost Artificial Intelligence research and development organization. The creation of Aion was the talk of the tech and gaming worlds for years, although nobody quite knew what to expect from it. Years passed, then half a decade, and nothing was heard from the fledgling company, other than the occasional rumor from a loud-mouthed employee.

“You won’t believe what we’re working on,” once said an anonymous employee to Jake Schreiber of the Polyhedron video games journalism website. “It sure ain’t like any video game you’ve ever played.” He really didn’t.

She sat on her bed, body bare against the mattress. It was always cold here, but also wet because of the rain. Being exposed made the dampness less annoying, she thought. When she woke up, she felt less sticky. Less reminded of the fact that she lived in a dump.

Tired eyes gazed at the worn-out wall. She’d taken her glasses off — they were only a hindrance when she jacked in. Now, all she had were her beautiful chestnut eyes, tarnished by deep, dark bags, born of stress and weeks without meaningful sleep. Her hair was stiff, somewhat matted, and greasy. She hadn’t hit the shower in two weeks — hadn’t had time, under the crunch. Now and then, she’d peer into the mirror and see a couple strands of gray. She was only 25. 

Thin fingers from an ice-cold hand reached the nape of her neck, right underneath her hairline. Four I/O ports, circle-shaped. She was there when, in the winter of 2023, PanaCo. announced the very first successful brain-machine interface. She was there when, a year later, the Aznavol Electromechanical Corporation released its own. She saw the computing world change right before her eyes as the cyberware revolution began. And in 2026, with every scrap of money she could scrounge, she took the dive. Instead of buying herself a car on her 18th birthday, she bought herself a very expensive surgery and four I/O ports on the back of her neck.

One cable, then two, three, and four. Long coaxial cables with a locking mechanism to prevent brain-frying malfunction during use. Plugged and turned until a *click!* was heard, signifying that they were securely connected. A tingling sensation along her spine. A metallic taste in her mouth. The huge black box beside her hummed and churned like the ramjet engine of the latest and most advanced fighter plane cooked up by the American military-industrial complex. Soon, like alchemy, the frigid room had become warm, and the shaking had turned into a sweat. The box’s side-cooler was pointed away from her, but she sure as hell could feel it work.

She laid down on her side. Her eyes, vision blurry due to her glasses-lessness, could only make out the glowing lettering on the side of the box that did face her.

“AION ENTERTAINMENT:”

“A I G A I O N”

A smirk. This company sucked to work at. She was hungry, and underpaid, and overworked. Every day felt like a slice of hell, and more often than not she felt ashamed when she read her own name: Shirley Cohan. But there was a silver lining, one last thing that kept her there. One last shred of motivation that forced her to not look back. While she worked for Aion, she got to work on the most important project in the history of video gaming.

And now that she’d been selected as one of the closed beta testers, and gifted this monstrous machine by her corporate overlords, she could play it, too.

A sigh, and a laugh. 

I’m such an idiot.

“Aigaion, cross over!”

Her vision faded, and she was no longer there.