(South Perlton, North Carolina)

  A glowing, bluish-gray whirlpool appears over the side of a metallic box. Quickly growing from a blue ember into a form two meters tall, a figure passes through the whirlpool. The portal is silent. The only sound is the creaking of the floorboards under Liam’s feet. Before this night began, Liam told himself he’d only do this for an hour. But of course, it was never only an hour. At this point, he had two hours of sleep left and was hoping to make it up as he slid into his bed.

  The alarm clock radio, sitting on a nightstand, reads one minute ‘til seven. Liam’s clothes are propped up on his desk chair. A blanket, with an image of an axe stitched into it, lays spread across his neatly kept bed. The bed cover doesn’t match the “sweet taffy” colored wall paint that his friends once called “girlish.” A shelf of old German beer steins and a banner complement the design on his bedsheets.

  Breaking a moment of peace and relaxation, the clock strikes seven. A series of beeps that sound like morse code fills Liam’s room. The clock switches from its alarm to a radio channel. A voice brimming with joy causes Liam’s brown eyes to spring open. The man cheers to his ghostly audience:

  “GOOD MORNING, RALEIGH! What a beautiful day in the capital district. The sun is blue and the sky is red… As unsettling as that is, it’s still better than ex-president AL GORE ENDORSING THE REPUBLICAN NOMINEE, DONALD JOHN TRUMP!” There’s a clamor of laughter and pounding fists. The broadcaster regains his composure. “We are talking about the forty-third president…”

  Liam’s mother bursts into his room and turns off her son’s clock radio, cutting the announcer’s voice short. She opens the curtains, letting morning light illuminate the room.

  “Wakey, wakey,” Liam’s mother says. Her tone could put you to sleep, but in this case, it was firm enough that Liam knew to take it seriously. “You’ve got half an hour ‘til the bus comes.” She leaves the room.

  Weakness in his eyes, Liam stares at the ceiling, wondering why he hates himself enough to keep doing this. He closes his eyes.

  “Liam, I don’t hear feet moving,” his mother yells from downstairs.

  Liam rubs his eyes. A self-pitying tear streams down his cheek, pooling in the lobe of his right ear. Why did he stay up playing that damned game?

  Minutes pass by as Liam combs his hair, brushes his teeth, and dresses himself. He grabs his backpack, throwing it onto his shoulder. He runs down the hall, planting his feet just inches from the fridge.

  His mother joins him in the kitchen, a stern glare emanating from her face. Liam knows he almost hurt himself with his careless slide up to the fridge. The look on his mother’s face is justified.

  Liam’s mother is a tall, thin woman with no hair. Her appearance signals chemo at first glance, yet her smile blooms with a warmth that makes her seem healthy. She opens the cabinet above the sink, pulls out a box of snacks, and puts an energy bar in Liam’s unzipped backpack. “If you keep running around like that in this house, you’ll get hurt.” She zips up Liam’s bag, her stare of concern sinking into his eyes.

  Liam’s smile starts to crack. One moment, he feels as carefree as he did before his mom got sick, the next he’s overcome with worry. His mind snaps back to the present. “You’re not wrong, but…” They continue to stare at each other. “You shouldn't stress too much about me. You should relax.” He draws his backpack tighter, hiking it to the top of his shoulder.

  “My baby always comes first.” Wearing a mixture of a smile and a frown, she follows Liam to the living room. A picture from Liam’s parents’ wedding day sits in a frame on his mother’s computer desk. Liam lifts the frame to eye level. Back then, his mother’s hair was lovely and long, the same tree-bark brown as Liam’s. She wore a dress so white it seemed stained by the dye makers of heaven, an ethereal white that contrasted the bright cyan lily tucked behind her ear.

  In the photo, Liam’s father stands beside his bride, wearing an overzealous yet wholesome expression. The photo’s background is an near-idyllic Ohio farm, complete with an early eighties Firebird. The scene seems surreal, yet so familiar that Liam can almost hear the wind and the crickets of the late summer night captured in its exposed cellulose.

  Liam pouts and drops his bag. “I’m going to be eighteen soon, basically an adult. You can stop calling me your baby.”

  Liam’s mother picks up the picture Liam was looking at. “It doesn’t matter how old you are. You’ll always be my baby.” She places the picture down and leans in, quickly swiping her hand up to poke Liam’s nose. “If you want to act like an adult, I could always charge you rent.”

  Liam’s pout turns to a frown as his embarrassment fades, replaced by a sense of heartache. He embraces his mother and asks, “how’s everything going with your treatment?”

  She wraps her arms around him, rubbing the back of his head. “Your father is taking good care of things, so no need to worry.” She adds, “just promise me, when he gets back from work tonight, try not to ask too much of him.”

  “Sure,” Liam says, as he forces himself away from her. His mother glances at the clock. “Get to the bus stop, or you’ll be late.” She straightens his blouse and steps back.

  “Right.” Liam grabs his backpack. “See you tonight, Mom. Don’t forget to feed the cat.” He dashes out the door and stumbles down the porch steps.

  On the bus, Liam hears a voice from the seat in front of him ask, “Liam, did you hear that Pelep Tech bought Byalfulmaris from Nafelt Studios?”

  Liam looks up to see his track team partner, Ian, his eyes so blue they almost glow, peeking over the grey vinyl bus seat in front of him. His blonde, curly hair dangles down, barely concealing the mole on his right cheek. His cheeky grin betrays how annoying he can be, even to his best friends. Liam looks away, ignoring him.

  “Damn, someone’s grumpy today,” Ian sneers.

  Liam shifts his backpack to block the sunlight coming from the window to his right. “The light was in my eyes,” he lies, too tired to deal with Ian’s antics. He puts his headphones in while giving Ian a firm stare.

  “Yo, man, didn’t you hear?” Ian asks, raising his voice.

  Liam cradles his face in his palms. “You always months behind on information, Ian?” he asks. “Why does it matter to you anyway? You don’t like Byalfulmaris.”

  Ian slides around his seat and plops down beside Liam. “What!? Byalfulmaris is my all-time favorite game. It means a lot to me.”

  “Really?” Liam asks, pulling out a notebook titled, No More Bullshit.

  “Really!” Ian echoes. Then he notices the notebook. “Goddamn it.”

  Liam flips through a few pages. “Got it. Two years ago, October 25th, 2013. You said, “Byalfulmaris is nothing but a crappy HeartLands copy.”

  Ian’s face pales as Liam lowers the book. “Why do you always have to be like this?”

  Liam grins, bearing his eerily white teeth. “As I said, no more people’s BS this year.” He reaches over and closes Liam’s notebook. Then he crosses his arms, pouting. “Anyway, did you sign up for the third live tournament? They’re saying it’ll be the biggest one ever.”

  Liam leans back, rubbing his temples. “I didn’t, but my clan did… Brian really wants us all in it this year.”

  “You’re lucky to have connections,” Ian says. “Even though they’re taking one hundred-thousand contestants, that’s out of millions who signed up. Getting in is no joke.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve just got a lot going on right now,” Liam says, calming himself by scrolling through his phone and selecting an album of The Beatles’ Instrumentals. “Wish me luck, man.” Liam’s eyes dim as they near the school’s road, the dust from the roadside kicking up a kind of veil that obscures what the vessel’s windows claim to reveal.

  “It’s all good, bud. I’ll be cheering for you when high school’s over.” Ian slaps Liam’s thigh and heads back to his seat. The students file out of the bus, each one as lost in the dust as a pilgrim in the desert, as unsure of their future as any soul cast into a game whose rules they have no knowledge of.

  The day’s classes dragged on, seeming slower than usual. Something had been bothering Liam for a long time, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He had been neglecting his social life? Of course, his mother’s illness wasn’t helping that. It’s not that he hated his friends or was intentionally ignored them. Sometimes he would chat with them after class, or during lunch but when it came to joining them for activities after school, he just didn’t have the patience. He felt drained, and he couldn’t explain to them the context for his lack of energy. Maybe some of them would understand but he didn’t want to burden them with the truth of what was going on in his life. How could he account for his own needs while also performing for them?

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  The bell rang for the last class of the day. “…and that’s the lesson for today. No homework, so we’ll continue in the morning,” said the teacher, shuffling back to his desk to collect the papers he had opted to sort through.

  Later, in the cafeteria, Liam’s friends wave him over, but he hesitates. These seven classmates, each of whom he taught to play Byalfulmaris, are… blank? Searching his thoughts, Liam tries to remember their names, but he can’t. Maybe he’s out of it today, likely due to lack of sleep. Waving to his friends, he declines to join them, shaking his head. At this, he feels like a small child, retreating from some mandatory play session.

  Maybe it would be best for him to eat alone, despite coming to the realization he has been neglecting his friends.

  Ian walks over and wraps an arm around him. “You joining us today?”

  Liam sighs, looking between his friends’ table and an empty one. “Sure, why not.” Noise surrounds him, and he pulls out his phone to read a message from “Zero.” Zero has something to show him tonight. A faint smile creeps over his face.

  After school, Liam returns home. Just as he’s about to open the door, he overhears his parents arguing. On his tiptoes, he peers through the glass part of the door, then presses his ear against it.

  “I need you to tell him, honey,” Liam’s mother says from somewhere in the living room.

  Liam’s father paces, his footsteps creaking over the old floor. “Tell him what, that his father can’t support his family?”

  “Please, Adam. These last moments should be like they used to be,” Liam’s mother says. “Adam...” She pleads, speaking softly. Adam lets out a sorrowful scoff.

  “The union promised to get me a second job. It’s going to be easier for us very soon.”

  “If you want to make it easier for us, just let time take its course,” Liam’s mother replies. Unable to continue eavesdropping any longer, Liam walks in. His parents break their embrace, turning to their son. He dashes upstairs.

  “Liam!” his father calls, stepping onto the stairs but stopping when he hears Liam slam his bedroom door.

  Liam jumps onto his bed, burying his head in a pillow. Moments later, his father knocks softly on his door, the sound reverberating in the strained stillness of the room. “Liam, can I come in?”

  Liam swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”

  The door creaks open, and Adam steps inside, his expression taut with worry. He walks to the bed and gently nudges Liam’s legs aside so he can sit down. Liam’s heart pounds as he tries to read his father’s face, his stomach twisting with anticipation.

  “I need to be honest with you,” his father begins, his tone heavier than Liam has ever heard it. “The tests your mother took a week ago came in today, and we found that her cancer has spread from her muscles to her ribs.”

  A chill runs through Liam’s body. His father places a hand on his back, but the gentle motion does little to thaw the knot of fear tightening in his chest. His breaths come faster, shallower.

  “I’m going to stop looking for a second job for a while, so I can spend more time with you two. That’s what she wants.”

  “I’m scared,” Liam blurts out, his voice cracking. The words hang in the air like an admission of defeat. His throat constricts as tears build at the corners of his eyes.

  His father slides his hand into Liam’s hair, his touch tender, almost desperate. “That’s okay. If you feel scared, let it out. If you feel like crying, let it out. If you feel angry, let it out.” He chuckles softly, though the sound is tinged with sorrow. “Maybe let it out on a pillow.”

  Liam clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms as his father’s words wash over him. The room feels too small.

  “What I’m trying to say is, your feelings are okay, and it’s okay to find a way to escape them right now. Whether by taking a walk or venting to friends. Your mother wants you to live and be happy, no matter what trials come your way.” His father’s voice wavers, and Liam looks up to see tears glistening in his eyes.

  “We love you,” his father says, his voice wavering. He squeezes Liam’s shoulder briefly before standing and walking to the door.

  “Collect yourself a bit. Dinner will be ready at five.” he whispers, his voice barely audible as he steps into the hallway and closes the door.

  Liam stares at the closed door, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He wraps his arms around himself, as though trying to hold his crumbling world together. The fear is overwhelming, tossing his mind like a ship in a storm. The waves overtake him. A sob escapes his lips, then another, until the floodgates open, and he cries into the emptiness of the room.

  Liam gets up from the edge of his bed, fresh tears still steaking his cheeks. He walks to his dresser and stares at it briefly before opening it. Inside are a few shirts and a piece of paper. Liam picks the paper up and unfolds it. It reads:

  Greetings, Amos.

  Congratulations! You have been selected as one of one HUNDRED-THOUSAND to participate in the third official Byalfulmaris TOURNAMENT.

  The winner of this tournament will take home a prize of $100,000 USD. In light of our recent acquisition by Pelep Tech?, we aim to make this event not only enjoyable, but an experience to remember!

  To RSVP, please follow the instructions below…

  Raleigh, North Carolina – Capital Stadium (Liam)

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  Liam’s clan rejoiced at the news that he would be participating in the Byalfulmaris tournament. Not long after Laim broke the news, their game plan was set.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Liam?” asks Liam's mother as the two approach the Tournament Guide’s office. The office building is older and looks like it could have served as some insurance company’s headquarters in the 1980s. The brick and concrete exterior has a vaguely brutalist look to it, dull yet stark. The few windows of the building are small rectangles of glass.

  “Yeah mom, it’s only going to be a week. It's just like the video I showed you.” As the two enter the office, they wait in line for a few minutes. The building even has that odd “old smell” that buildings from the era have, a mixture of old concrete and brick dust and cheap cleaning solution.

  Liam shows his entrance paper to the clerk behind the glass, a middle-aged woman wearing horn-rim glasses. Even the staff here are vintage. The clerk reviews the document before sliding it across her blueish-white marble desk with a single finger. She reaches under the table. The metallic squeal of a filing cabinet drawer punctuates the otherwise near-muteness of the room. After a few seconds of rummaging, the clerk produces a parental legal paper. “Please take this, and when you’re done signing it, bring it to the waiting room. It's down the hall to the left and down the stairs; if that room is full, keep going straight and into one of the next two rooms, to the left or to the right.”

  “Right,” Liam says with a confused look. The clerk spoke so quickly it was as if she’d put a knot in his brain for him to untie. Laim and his mother head down the hallway.

  “Mom…”

  “Yes?”

  “By any chance, when I get back… can you, dad, and I go hiking like we use to?” Liam asks.

  His mother smiles. “Of course.”

  Nearly half an hour of waiting and signing various wavers goes by before Liam is finally given a ticket, marked with anti-counterfeit holographic stripes like those found on currency. Next, he’s brought to the portal-scuti lineup by another clerk, this one a tall, thin man, built like a stick insect someone dressed in a black suit too big for him.

  Liam hugs his mother before forcing himself to break away to join the other participants in line. He presents his ticket to a staff worker stationed next to the portal – this one built like a bouncer – who nods before waving him forward. Liam inches closer to the four meter tall, swirling vortex, watching those ahead of him disappear into its undulating maw.

  It’s ridiculous for him to fear such a harmless device. Despite that, Liam feels butterflies as he fidgets with the ticket in his hand.

  “Well, kid, are you going in?” asks the portal tech, a bald man in round frame glasses and what looks like a blue plumber’s uniform. As he speaks, he doesn’t bother to look up from the tablet he’s tapping on.

  Liam looks back at his mother in the crowd. He gives her a thumbs up and she returns the gesture in kind. Her eyes glisten.

  “Yeah.” He says to the tech, handing him his ticket and stepping through the portal. Within seconds of entering, Liam dissolves. For an instant, he feels as if he’s passed out. Next he feels… nothing, maybe less than nothing, a state somewhere below unconsciousness, somewhere a hair away from death.

  An instant alter, Liam finds himself in a white room. Wall to wall, and floor to ceiling, the shade and angular shape of the room are eerily uniform, making the office building’s exterior look warm and inviting by comparison. The room is totally barren, apart from a grayish-white control panel in it center, complete with a keyboard, a trackpad, and several levers. Liam walks up to the panel.

  An sign-in interface appears above the control panel, hovering in the air like an opaque hologram. Liam turns his head left and right, but rather than tracking his head movements, the interface remains locked in position above the panel. No other options appear, no matter what gestures Liam tries. Liam frowns. “Wait, so no tutorial?”

  Liam shrugs, signs in, and then selects a place to spawn. The account name he uses is “Amos,” the name of his cousin, who had gifted Liam the account six years ago, when Liam was eleven.

  A reverse-waterfall of code scrolls past Liam’s eyes as a smooth and androgynous A.I. voice echoes in the sterile room. “Amos… the parameters of this tournament allow accounts from the main game to bring their curses with them into the event, should the player choose to do so. Do you wish to remove the curse ‘Cloud Slasher’ from your account before proceeding into the tournament?”

  “No.”

  A few seconds later, the stream of code vanishes. “Confirmed. If you wish to remove the curse, doing so would cost one million coins at any super-church.”

  A map of the landscape of Byalfulmaris appears, listing the total populations of each area within a particular region. “The Village of Tatter is at max population,” Liam mutters to himself. “So are Durmax, Flakenwell, and Paptal. Stillow is close to max… that’s the next best place; I can focus on getting my strength up there. Yeah, that’ll work.”

  Amos pulls the largest lever on the console. The white room’s light dims and its walls become translucent, before the whole room and control panel fade away completely, revealing the world of Byalfulmaris.

  Liam spawns in on the streets of Stillow. Far from a tranquil urban setting, or even an energetic bustle, Stillow is in chaos. Thousands of people run rampant throughout the city. NPC merchants and guards chase after thieves. Some spectate, leaning against buildings, while in the street, players clash with one another with whatever weapons they can find. One player bashes another’s head in with a bucket, while several others duel one another with bronze short swords – one of the cheapest weapons available. At this point in the tournament, most of these swords were no doubt purchased with pilfered gold. Most players are wearing little more than rags, simple cotton garb, or cheap leather, almost all of which is torn and stained with blood.

  Realizing his mouth is hanging open, Liam closes it and mutters, “Well… fuck.”