Hey guys! We're getting really close to the end of Volume 1—probably one more chapter before we wrap it up. How's the story feeling so far?
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The only light in the small, cramped room came from the heavy, old CRT TV, its screen a bleached rectangle of ghostly green and white. The hum of its ancient electronics was a constant, low drone beneath the tinny, excited commentary of the pirated FIFA game.
The TV's flickering glow pulsed against the walls, catching the dust motes dancing in the air and illuminating two worn-out kanabeen pushed against opposite walls. On the floor, a PlayStation 2 was the heart of a tangled, wire-veined nest, controllers snaking away towards the couches.
On one couch, Samir and Bilal were silhouetted against the screen, their faces washed in the electronic light, their bodies tense over their controllers.
On the other couch, Ryan was a sprawled shadow, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling as the virtual crowd roared.
Bilal's striker poked the ball into the net. "YES! Get in!"
Samir shot to his feet, controller in a death grip. "Nah! That's cheating! We agreed, no X then Square! No pass-and-shoot! That goal doesn't count!"
"Don't be a sore loser! You lost, fair and square." Out of pure spite, Bilal mashed the buttons to bring up the instant replay. "It's Ryan's turn now."
On the other couch, Ryan was a sprawled shadow, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling as the goal played out again on the screen.
"I'm not a sore loser, you're the one cheating! Ryan, say something!"
Ryan slowly moved his arm from his eyes. He blinked at the ceiling for a second, then turned his head toward them, a look of profound weariness on his face.
"What's this? Calling me to the stand? I'm under no obligation to testify," he said completely deadpan, his face a mask of utter exhaustion.
"Not you too, man!" Samir groaned.
"Fine," Ryan relented, the word heavy with faux reluctance. "The evidence is clear: a willful failure to adhere to the pre-match contractual obligation. No through-ball spamming. The court finds the defendant—Bilal—in breach. Goal invalidated. The score reverts to 2-2. The match may continue."
"Fine, whatever. Since you opened your big mouth... your honor... you play." Bilal got up, walked over to Ryan's couch, and gave him a shove, rolling him unceremoniously onto the floor. He then executed a deep, sarcastic bow. "Your spot now, oh wise judge."
Ryan grunted, grabbed a pillow from the couch, and dragged himself over to Bilal's previous spot on the other kanapee. He wedged the pillow behind his back, picked up the controller, and glared at the short wire. "Yeah, why the hell aren't these wires longer..." he muttered to no one in particular.
He then gave a lazy high-five to a triumphant Samir, heaving a world-weary sigh. "Look at this. A man strives for truth, for justice... and this is his reward. What has become of my people?"
The match restarted. Ryan didn't try to attack. He parked the bus, his entire team camped in their own half. Whenever his defenders won the ball, he didn't look for a pass. He just booted a hopeless long ball towards the other end of the pitch, immediately giving possession back to Samir.
After a full minute of this, Samir threw his hands up in exasperation. "You know what? Fine. Bilal's goal was valid. I forfeit. Just give him the controller." He looked at Ryan in disgust. "Playing against you is like watching paint dry. At least Bilal tries to score."
"Yeah, and take his pillow. He's getting way too comfortable being boring," Bilal smirked from the other couch.
Ryan let out an exaggerated sigh, a slow grin finally breaking through his apathy. He tossed the pillow onto Samir's lap.
"Ok, ok, fine. I'll play. And this," he said, pointing a finger directly at Samir, "is why judges just take the bribe and stop caring. You ungrateful traitor."
He picked up the controller again.
"You guys sure are demanding. Can't a man contemplate the universe in peace?"
Bilal leaned forward. "You've been 'contemplating the universe' the whole week, man. What's going on with you?"
"Yeah, for real," Samir added. "Even the guys at the pitch are asking why you've been ghosting them. You missed two matches."
The room got a little quieter, but the game was still running. Ryan's defender automatically cleared a ball out of play for a throw-in.
Ryan's eyes were glued to the screen, his hands moving the controller on muscle memory alone as his player jockeyed for position. "Yeah, I know. I got a problem. Kinda."
Samir, frustrated by Ryan's distraction, reached over and slammed the pause button on his own controller. The game froze instantly.
But Ryan wasn't looking at them. He was staring at the "PAUSE" icon on the screen, a distant, cynical smirk on his face. "Heh... look at that. A pause button. See how fucking simple that is? Even the shitheads at EA Sports figured that one out."
He shook his head, then placed his controller carefully on the floor. He lay back down on the couch, draping an arm over his eyes like he had at the start, blocking out the world.
"It's complicated, man. Really complicated."
"It's not math, dude. Spill it out. What's going on?"
Ryan let out a long sigh, finally moving his arm from his eyes. He looked at his friends, the flickering TV light playing across his face. He chose his next words carefully, building the allegory.
"You know my aunt? The one who lives in Belgium? She's coming. Like, very soon."
They nodded.
"Yeah," he said, leaning forward slightly, his tone shifting to one of confidential gossip. "And she's got this kid with her. He's so stubborn, and spoiled, and... kinda an idiot."
Spoiled, rotten, fucking idiot, he thought, the memory of the dream matches and the glitching stadium flashing in his mind.
He sat up, gesturing as if laying out an intricate, ridiculous problem. "So I get brought before the high court—aka my mom in the kitchen—and the ruling comes down: I am hereby appointed his sole entertainment officer. No parole until the little tyrant leaves the country."
And he's never leaving me alone. Ever, he thought, a memory of the previous night's match flashing behind his eyes. Another one tonight. And tomorrow. Maybe until I fucking die.
"So? Let's just get him to play in the neighborhood with us. That's it. Problem solved."
Ryan looked at him, a slow, pitying smile spreading across his face, as if Samir had just suggested they could solve a math problem by eating the textbook.
"That's the whole point, man. He doesn't want to play in the neighborhood. He doesn't want to play our games. He has this one, single, stupid game. And I'm forced to play it with him. His rules. His shitty, broken, no-pause-button game."
"If he doesn't want to play, just leave him and come outside. Simple."
Ryan looked at him, his expression dead serious. "Can't. It's a direct order from the Ministry of Internal Affairs. I'm forced, man. There's no resigning from this post."
Forced to play his shitty game. Forced to follow his broken rules, he thought, the memory of the endless matches crushing him. It doesn't matter if I get a red card. It doesn't matter if I score an own goal. Two matches, every single day. If this continues... I swear I'm gonna have a breakdown from the color green.
He blinked, pulling himself back to the room.
"And get this—his idea of a 'break' is only if something serious happens."
"Serious how?" Samir asked. "Like, he breaks a window or something?"
Ryan gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Yeah. Something like that."
Or like me nearly killing someone on the pitch, his mind supplied. This corrupt corporation doesn't spot you until there's a body. Pretty hardcore HR policy, if you ask me.
"Anyway... that's the situation."
There was a moment of sympathetic silence.
"Yeah, man. That's shit."
"Seriously," Samir said, his face sour as he contemplated Ryan's plight. "But... do you at least get something out of it?"
A slow, wicked grin spread across Ryan's face. He leaned back, striking a regal pose on the couch. "Oh, you know. The usual. They're gonna crown me Prince of Belgium. Keys to the city, my own chocolate fountain, the—"
Samir reached over and gave him a light thump on the back of the head. "Seriously."
Ryan's grin didn't fade, but his tone shifted. "Nah, for real though. I got a chance to make something out of my life. A real one."
"How?"
Ryan shrugged, playing it cool. "You never know. Maybe my aunt takes a liking to me, brings me to Belgium. Maybe I finish my studies there. A way out, you know?"
I died in 2032 and got sent back to 2011, he thought. That's twenty years of knowledge. I could play a prophet if I wanted to. It's The Sims with all the mods installed. Thank god this bug didn't get patched.
He looked at his friends, their faces full of mundane concerns.
So yeah, I guess having daily nightmares isn't that outrageous of a subscription fee for this.
He snapped back to the room, giving his friends a lazy shrug. "That's my life now. Enduring a tiny, screaming dictator for the vague promise of a better tomorrow. Really makes you feel alive."
As he said it, a sudden, vivid image flashed behind his eyes: Himself in his early twenties, sipping a cold drink on a pristine balcony overlooking the glittering skyline of Dubai, the kind of wealth that would set his family up for generations finally within his grasp.
The vision vanished as quickly as it came.
"Anyway, who's up for another game? I promise I'll actually try this time."