Chapter 17: Severance

  The Forge - Administration Building

  Day 18 - 0623 Hours

  The plastic chair was the same institutional gray as every waiting room I'd ever sat in. Hard. Uncomfortable. Designed to make you want to leave. Where did they even get a plastic chair in the Forge anyways?

  I wasn't going anywhere.

  My shoulder throbbed. The bandages from last night's battle were visible under my shirt, white gauze wrapped around my forearm, another strip across my ribs. The bite on my hand had scabbed over. Seven cuts, two bites, three deep bruises. I didn't even remember when the bites happened.

  The waiting room was quiet. A few other soldiers came and went, administrative staff mostly, carrying tablets and folders. None of them looked at me. I was just another body waiting to be processed.

  I'd been here forty minutes. Long enough to know this wasn't routine. Long enough to accept what was coming.

  The door opened. A corporal I didn't recognize stepped out.

  "Smith. Captain Reeves will see you now."

  I stood. My legs were stiff. Everything hurt in that distant, manageable way the simulation allowed. Pain without consequence. Damage without disability.

  I followed the corporal down a hallway. White walls. Fluorescent lights. Could have been any military building anywhere.

  The office was small. A desk. Two chairs. A window that looked out over the village walls. Captain Reeves sat behind the desk, a tablet in front of her. She was maybe forty, dark hair pulled back, the kind of face that had seen too much and stopped reacting to it.

  "Sit," she said.

  I sat.

  She looked at the tablet. Then at me. "Specialist Adam Smith. Personnel Officer. Planned immersion in Phoenix, AZ. Actual entry in Detroit, MI." She paused. "That about cover it?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "How'd you get in?"

  No point lying. "Worked with a nurse. She helped me bypass the screening protocols."

  "Her idea or yours?"

  "Mine. She just...made it possible."

  Reeves nodded. Looked back at the tablet. "You've been here sixteen days. Assigned to QRF on day eleven. Participated in multiple combat operations. Leveled up to three." She scrolled. "Last night you fought for approximately two hours during the goblin assault. Accumulated significant injuries. Kept fighting anyway."

  I didn't respond. Didn't know what she wanted me to say.

  "You've been useful," she said finally. "More useful than a lot of authorized participants."

  Something in my chest loosened. Just a fraction. Maybe-

  "But that doesn't matter." She set the tablet down. "You're unauthorized. You're out."

  The words hit like a physical blow. I'd known they were coming. Had been expecting them since Okoye pulled me aside. But hearing them still hurt.

  "When?" I asked.

  "Now. This morning. You'll be processed out within the hour."

  I nodded. Tried to keep my face neutral. "Understood."

  "Did Okoye report me?" The question came out before I could stop it. "Did she-"

  "Okoye?" Reeves looked genuinely confused. "No. Your neural signature doesn't match any authorized personnel database. Once we cross-referenced the entry point with the equipment usage, it was pretty straightforward."

  Relief flooded through me. Okoye hadn't betrayed me.

  "There are consequences," Reeves continued. "The attunement unit you used is very expensive. It's neurally keyed to your specific brain patterns. Can't be reused. Can't be recalibrated. You used it, it's worthless now.

  "Additionally," she said, "you violated UN treaty protocols regarding authorized participation. Fraudulent entry. Theft of military resources. We're looking at potential federal charges."

  I should have been terrified. Should have been panicking. Should have been begging for mercy or trying to explain or doing something.

  Instead, I laughed.

  It came out wrong. Too sharp. Too bitter. But genuine.

  Reeves frowned. "Something funny, Smith?"

  "No, ma'am." I tried to stop. Couldn't quite manage it. "It's just-" I shook my head. "I got 16 days. Of being able to move. Of being useful. Yeah. It was worth it."

  She stared at me. "You're looking at serious jail time. Financial ruin. And you think it was worth it?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The laugh died. But the truth of it didn't.

  Three weeks of running. Fighting. Helping people. Being someone who mattered instead of someone who was broken.

  More debt and potential federal charges?

  Yeah. It was worth it.

  Reeves looked at me for a long moment. Then she picked up the tablet again. "You'll be escorted to medical for disconnection. After that, you'll meet with a JAG officer regarding potential prosecution. Then you're free to go."

  "What about the nurse? Michaela?"

  Reeves's expression didn't change. "Ms. Sytes was terminated yesterday. Military police interviewed her. That's all I can tell you."

  My stomach dropped. "Can I make a statement? Help her case? It was my idea, she just-"

  "It's out of your hands, Smith. She violated protocols. Knowingly. That's on her."

  And now she'd lost her job.

  "Dismissed," Reeves said.

  I stood. Walked to the door. Stopped.

  "Ma'am?"

  "What?"

  "Thank you. For letting me stay as long as I did."

  She didn't respond. Just looked back at her tablet.

  I left.

  The world lurched.

  Not physically. But something fundamental shifted. Like reality was a picture that had been hanging crooked and someone had just straightened it.

  Except it felt wrong. Felt like the crooked version had been right and this was the mistake.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The interface elements in my vision started to fade. Stats. Notifications. The subtle overlay that had become so familiar I'd stopped noticing it.

  All of it disappearing.

  I felt the neural connections severing. One by one. Precise. Methodical. Each one a small loss.

  My hands started shaking. Not the simulation's controlled tremor. The real thing. The uncontrolled firing of damaged nerves that had been suppressed for three weeks.

  My legs felt wrong. Heavy. Disconnected. Like they belonged to someone else.

  The chair felt harder. The lights felt brighter. Everything felt more and less real at the same time.

  The medical facility was the same one I'd been attuned in. Same white walls. Same equipment. Different staff.

  A doctor in a white lab coat was standing by the monitor bank. She didn't even glance in my direction, immersed in the screens.

  "The disconnection process takes approximately fifteen minutes," she said, still not looking at me. "You'll experience disorientation, nausea, possible vertigo. It will pass." she said. Her voice was flat. Professional. Nothing like the careful warmth from when I had been inducted.

  I sat in the chair. The same chair I'd been in three weeks ago when this started.

  She moved behind me. I felt her hands on the interface points at the base of my skull. Cold. Clinical.

  "You can stand when you're ready."

  I tried. My legs didn't respond right. Too slow. Too uncertain. I grabbed the armrest. Pulled myself to a sitting up position.

  My body felt like a poorly-fitted suit. Like I'd been wearing someone else's skin for three weeks and now I was back in my own and it didn't fit anymore.

  But.

  Something was different.

  My right hand. I flexed it. The tremor was there. But less. Not gone. Not fixed. But less.

  Maybe it was just an echo from the Forge.

  "Side effects?" the doctor asked. Still not looking at me.

  "No, ma'am."

  "You're cleared to leave. An orderly will help you in a moment."

  She walked away. Didn't say goodbye. Didn't acknowledge that three weeks ago she'd been the one to attune me. To map my neural patterns. To make this possible.

  I didn't blame her. She'd done her job. I'd lied about who I was.

  This was on me.

  The orderly arrived and helped me into a wheelchair and handed me a bag of items. My phone. My wallet. Everything I'd had when Michaela wheeled me in.

  Three weeks ago. Felt like years.

  Checked my phone. Dead battery.

  We wheeled toward the exit. Everything felt wrong. Too heavy. Too slow. My body protesting the return to reality.

  Time to face the music.

  The JAG officer was waiting in my hospital room. Major something or other. Older. Gray hair. The kind of face that had spent decades dealing with people who'd fucked up.

  "Mr. Smith," he said. Not hostile. Detached. "Sit down."

  I sat.

  He had a folder in front of him. Opened it. "You understand the severity of what you've done?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Fraudulent entry to a UN-authorized military simulation. Theft of resources. Violation of treaty protocols regarding participant authorization." He looked up. "We could prosecute. Federal charges. Five to ten years."

  I nodded. Waited.

  "We believe Ms. Sytes made most of the decisions," he continued. "Bypassed security. Falsified records. But you didn't stop her. And you didn't report your unauthorized status to anyone inside The Forge."

  "No, sir. I made the decisions and Michaela just helped."

  "Oh really?" He clearly did not believe me.

  "I was selfish," I said.

  The major studied me. "We're still determining whether to prosecute. In the meantime-" He slid a paper across the table. "This outlines the debt for the attunement unit. The potential charges. Your obligations."

  I looked at the paper. Numbers. Legal terminology. Consequences.

  "Don't leave the state," he said. "We'll be in touch."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You're dismissed."

  I took the paper. Folded it. Put it on the little table next to my chair and stared up at the ceiling.

  Forty-seven water stained tiles mocked me.

  The parking lot was gray concrete and painted lines. Morning sun. Cold air. Real air, not simulated. Smelled of sewage and exhaust.

  I sat there. Holding my dead phone. Wearing a jacket that felt too thin. Waiting.

  A blue Subaru Outback pulled up. 2015. Dent in the rear bumper from when Dad had backed into a post two years ago. Practical. Reliable. The kind of car that said "middle-class family doing their best."

  Mom got out of the passenger side. She was wearing her work clothes, khakis and a cardigan. Hair pulled back. She looked tired. Older than I remembered.

  She hugged me.

  I sat there. Stiff. Not used to real physical contact. Not used to bodies that were warm and soft and imperfect.

  "Adam," she said. Her voice was thick. "Oh, honey."

  Dad nodded from the driver's seat. Didn't get out. Just raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  "Hey, Mom," I managed.

  She pulled back. Looked at me. Her eyes were wet. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

  "I'm fine."

  "They said you were in combat. That you were fighting. That-"

  "I'm fine, Mom."

  She nodded. Didn't believe me. Didn't push.

  "Let's get you home," she said.

  They helped me into the back seat. Old habit. Parents got the front seats. I think that is some sort of universal rule of respect.

  Dad pulled out of the parking lot. Turned onto the main road.

  "Traffic wasn't too bad," he said. "Left at five-thirty. Made good time."

  "That's good," I said.

  Mom turned around in her seat. Kept looking at me. Like she was checking to make sure I was real.

  "We were so worried," she said. "When they called and said you were there, that you'd gotten in somehow-"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't apologize. Just-" She shook her head. "We're just glad you're okay."

  We drove in silence for a while. I watched the scenery. Trees. Buildings. Roads. Everything looked flat. Two-dimensional. Like a painting instead of a place.

  My body felt wrong. Heavy. Disconnected. But my right hand was steadier than it had been three weeks ago. I kept flexing it. Testing it.

  "How are you feeling?" Mom asked. "Physically, I mean. Is it worse? Better?"

  "About the same," I lied.

  It wasn't the same. It was different. Worse in some ways, the weight, the disconnection, the wrongness. But not as bad as it had been at times.

  "We got something in the mail yesterday," Mom said. Her voice changed. Got lighter. Almost excited.

  I looked up. "What?"

  She glanced at Dad. He nodded.

  "An envelope," she said. "From The Forge Initiative. From ARIA Operations."

  My stomach tightened. "What kind of envelope?"

  "A check." She turned around fully now. Her face was bright. Relieved. "Adam, they sent us a check."

  "For what?"

  "Name, image, and likeness rights. Like college football players. They said-" She pulled a letter from her purse. Read from it. "Payment for participant engagement metrics and viewership data. Compensation for use of personal identity in broadcast content."

  I stared at her. "How much?"

  "Eighty-nine thousand dollars."

  The number hung in the air. Impossible. Absurd.

  "They paid you," I said slowly. "For watching me fight."

  "For using your name and face, I think. The letter said it was based on some formula. Viewership numbers and engagement metrics and-" She shook her head. "I don't understand all of it. But Adam, this is, this clears almost half the medical debt. The bills from the hospital, the specialists, the treatments-"

  She was crying now. Happy tears. Relief tears.

  "We can breathe again," she said. "We can actually breathe."

  Dad's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He didn't say anything. Just kept driving.

  I looked at the letter. Saw the ARIA logo. The official letterhead. The breakdown of payments.

  They'd monetized me. Turned my three weeks of fighting and bleeding into content. Into revenue. Into a check for eighty-nine thousand dollars.

  And my parents were grateful.

  "We haven't been able to find the footage yet," Mom said, wiping her eyes. "Everything's on these websites. Different streaming services. Jim from your dad's work said he'd help us navigate it tonight."

  My chest tightened. "You're going to watch it?"

  "Of course! We want to see what you did. What you accomplished." She smiled. "Jim said you were in some big battle. That you were really brave."

  They thought it was like a video game. Like a movie. They didn't understand what they'd see.

  The blood. The screaming. The bodies. The killing.

  Me stabbing goblins in the throat. Me covered in blood. Me laughing when they told me I was facing federal charges because it was worth it.

  "Maybe you shouldn't," I said quietly.

  "Don't be silly. We're proud of you."

  Proud.

  I looked out the window. Watched the trees blur past.

  They were proud. They'd gotten a check. They could breathe again.

  And all it cost was three weeks of my life and Michaela's job and additional unknown equipment costs and potential federal charges.

  All it cost was me becoming someone else for a little while.

  Someone useful.

  Someone who mattered.

  I thought about Emma.

  The thought came sudden and sharp. Triggered by Mom's tears. By the check. By the idea that money could mean something. Could fix something. Could make things worth it.

  Emma. Three years ago.

  The funeral was a week after. Mom couldn't stop crying. Dad couldn't start. I stood there in a suit that didn't fit and listened to people say she was in a better place.

  She wasn't in a better place. She was dead. Twenty-three years old. Graduate student. Studying international relations. Wanted to work for the UN. Wanted to make the world better.

  Dead because she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The medical bills had started six months later. My condition getting worse. Stress-related, the doctors said. Trauma response. The body breaking down under the weight of grief.

  Physical therapy. Specialists. Experimental treatments. Medications that didn't work. Procedures that made things worse.

  Bills. Endless bills. Mom and Dad taking out loans. Refinancing the house. Working extra shifts.

  All because I'd failed. Because my body had decided to break in response to her death.

  And now. Three years later. A check for eighty-nine thousand dollars. Payment for three weeks of fighting in a simulation. For being entertainment. For mattering in a way that could be monetized.

  Emma had wanted to make the world better.

  I'd gotten paid to kill goblins.

  The inadequacy of it was crushing.

  "Adam?" Mom's voice. Concerned. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Just tired."

  She turned back around. Started talking to Dad about bills. About which debts to pay off first. About maybe finally replacing the water heater.

  I looked out the window.

  My hand laid there inert as it rested on the armrest, mocking me with it's stillness.

  I had no purpose now. Nowhere to be. Nothing to do. Just wait for prosecution. For debt. For whatever came next.

  I remembered the feel of the wind on my face as I'd run around the compound. The look in the eyes of the other soldiers after our survival.

  And maybe, maybe, that was worth whatever came next.

  Even if I didn't understand why yet.

  Even if I couldn't explain it.

  Even if it made no sense.

  I closed my eyes. Listened to my parents talk. Felt the car move beneath me.

  Going home.

  Back to being broken.