My first experience of tabletop role-playing games - commonly referred to as D&D (even though that was, strictly speaking, merely the abbreviated form of the proprietary name belonging to the most popular RPG) - came about, essentially, because of a quarrel with a friend over a girl. My best friend in my first couple of years at university was ‘Bristol Boy’ Jeff. It was his romance with Carolyn, the girl who would later become his wife - a girl whom I also fancied - that led, for a time, to a pronounced cooling in our friendship. It resulted in my seeking out other friends, living on the opposite side of campus.

Initially, the common denominator I shared with these new friends was one that I had also shared with Jeff, Carolyn and my original circle of university friends: we were all members of the Christian Union.

But even by the time I was getting to know them, they (like me) were becoming somewhat discontented with the evangelical certitudes of the CU. And, one night, I discovered that most of them had an abiding interest in a hobby that was decidedly frowned upon in conservative evangelical Christian circles.

They were role-players.

***

Role-playing had first burst onto the indoor gaming scene as an offshoot of miniature war-gaming, with the launch of the fantasy game Dungeons and Dragons in 1974. When I was at grammar school, between 1977 and 1982, there was an after-school war-gaming club which also hosted some role-playing. A couple of the boys in my class attended: but at the time I had no particular interest in it myself, and so the increasing popularity of role-playing as we entered the Eighties initially passed me by.

Probably the first time I ever had a glimpse of a game in action was when Steven Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial was released in 1982. An early scene in the film shows the central character of Elliott, his older brother, and his brother’s friends, all playing a game of D&D. (Interestingly, Spielberg had run a D&D session himself for the young cast members prior to the production of the film). It’s not a long scene in the film, and at the time I certainly didn’t attach any particular significance to it. My own first encounter with role-playing was still four years away…

It’s strange, in a way, given my love of both fantasy and science-fiction - the two most popular milieus for early role-playing games - that it took me so long to become a role-player myself. The most likely reason for this, looking back, is the rather more conservative Christian viewpoint, on all manner of issues, to which I adhered in my mid to late teens. This was the early to mid-Eighties, the time of the most pronounced ‘moral panic’ about role-playing games, and their supposed ‘dark side’. As well as E.T., with its positive - or, at least, neutral - portrayal of RPGs, 1982 was also the year in which the preachy and antagonistic Mazes and Monsters was released. The film starred a young Tom Hanks (in his first leading movie role), as a young college student who suffers from psychotic episodes that are supposedly brought on by his obsessional interest in role-playing. Subtle? It was not.

***

And so it was, one evening in 1986, that I had my own ‘initiation’ into the strange world of role-playing. It was a Friday night, and I was at a loose end. I went and knocked on the door of my friend Gary, who happened to have the largest student flat in his particular hall of residence. It had become a natural place to hang out for me and a number of other friends. And that evening, I discovered a bunch of them huddled around a coffee table in his flat, covered with graph paper on which a makeshift plan had been drawn. Small miniature figures were positioned on the paper. Next to the figures were some peculiar dice - not the usual 6-sided cubes which I normally associated with board games, but a pair of polyhedrons with 20 sides each. In their hands, Gary and the others were holding sheets of paper which seemed to be filled with a bewildering plethora of statistics. It all seemed most mysterious.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, curious.

‘We’re playing a role-playing game,’ replied Gary. He looked slightly shamefaced, as if I had caught him and the others in the act of indulging some esoteric vice. Then he added the words that were to really perk my interest. ‘It’s set in Middle-earth, the world of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Have you read it?’

Had I read J R R Tolkien’s magnus opus? What kind of daft question was that? It was only my favourite novel of all time, after all; the very pinnacle of the mountain of works of fantasy and science-fiction that I had ploughed through during my teenage years.

‘Of course I’ve read it. So,’ I continued, ‘you’re playing D&D?’ Now I’ve got it, I thought to myself. This is a session of the fabled Dungeons and Dragons in progress.

But Gary shook his head, and explained that no, this wasn’t D&D. Not as such. There were many different role-playing games, operating with different game mechanics, and set in different milieus. This particular game was called Middle-earth Role Playing - MERP for short. It was a game tailor-made for Tolkien’s fantasy world. Players could play dwarves or elves, humans or hobbits, undertaking together chivalrous and daring quests, battling orcs and trolls, wargs and giant spiders, even perhaps a dragon or a Balrog; all lovingly crafted and carefully adjudicated by the referee, or game-master.

The next words from my mouth almost took me by surprise - let alone Gary.

‘Can I play?’

‘Well– ’ Gary hesitated for a moment, and looked across the room. ‘That’s not really for me to decide - what do you think, Tom?’

Tom was the one there that night whom I knew best. He - like my now estranged best friend Jeff - was on my course, so I saw him in lectures several days a week. He was a short, softly spoken and somewhat shy young man. I was surprised that Gary - a confident, charismatic and even slightly domineering individual - should be deferring to him, especially as they were all sat in Gary’s flat. I noted that Tom was sitting at another table, slightly set apart from the others, pencil in hand, with what appeared to be a couple of rule-books, and reams of handwritten notes. On his table was another pair of the strange, 20-sided dice, a box containing a jumble of miniature figures, more pencils and an eraser.

‘Tom’s the GM - our game-master,’ explained Gary. ‘It’s his campaign we’re playing. It’s his call whether or not you can join.’

I looked expectantly at Tom.

‘Well,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘This is merely the second session of the campaign, and we only started half an hour ago. I suppose we could shoehorn you in - it would be better with four characters, actually. But I don’t have time to explain the rules - you’ll just have to muddle along for tonight. And we don’t have time for you to roll up a new character either. I’ve got some pregenerated PCs - those are player characters that come with their game stats already prepared. What kind of character would you like?’

‘What’s everyone else playing?’ I asked.

And so, briefly, I was introduced to the other characters. Matt had created for himself a laid-back mattock-wielding warrior dwarf of very few words. Phil’s character was a hobbit - but a rather serious ninja-scout who was a lethal dab-hand with a sling, far removed from the rather more jolly Shire-dwellers of Tolkien’s novel. Finally, there was Gary’s character. He was a noble but slightly down-on-his-luck Dúnadan ranger - a high man of the same stock as Tolkien’s heroic king-in-waiting Aragorn. His character was clearly the de facto leader of the group, a role with which Gary himself seemed very comfortable.

‘Can I play a hobbit?’ I pleaded.

Tom smiled. ‘Perfect. The party are about to arrive at a small hobbit community. They are taking refuge there, having just survived a combat with some wargs in the wilderness. The dwarf– ’ he gestured towards Matt, ‘was badly wounded. They’ll need to rest for a few days. It’s the ideal way to introduce your new character, if we make him a member of this community. I say “him” - but of course it needn’t be him. Do you want to play a male or female character?’

I was surprised at the question. The idea of playing a female character hadn’t occurred to me - and seemed downright odd.

‘Um - definitely male.’ I looked at the others in the room. ‘You’re all playing male characters, after all, yes?’

Indeed they were. As I was to discover, female role-players are almost as rare in gaming circles as female dwarves are in Tolkien’s works. The only time our group included the occasional female character was when one or two of the more confident players were willing to play against gender. Matt was the first to try his hand at this, playing a supplementary character for a time alongside his dwarf, a female healer of noble birth. She was a Maid Marian of sorts to Phil’s eventual second character, a complex wandering minstrel (possessing elements drawn from both Robin Hood and Alan-a-Dale) with a shady past. I always stuck to playing male characters. When I eventually had a go at GMing, I found myself perfectly at ease devising and controlling female as well as male non-player-character roles: but that was nothing like as intense as seeking to inhabit the skin of your own player-character.

And so I acquired my first character - a hobbit who I deliberately made a more exaggerated version of the fun-loving halflings of the Shire - a kind of cross between Merry and Pippin, with a penchant for pink pantaloons - in contrast to the darker, brooding and slightly sinister personality that Phil had developed for his hobbit. We might have come from the same race, but from the outset we weren’t particularly friendly towards one another, as characters. We later found out Phil’s original adventurer was actually in thrall to an evil magician; duly liberated, he developed a much more likeable personality, as far as the rest of the adventuring party were concerned. Gary’s noble Dúnadan was far more straightforwardly heroic, and counterbalanced Matt’s somewhat cynical, anti-heroic dwarf rather well. Their characters clearly had a strong affection for one another (even though they would have denied it), and in so doing they mirrored Gary and Matt’s long friendship - both had attended the same grammar school before coming to university.

I bumbled along, as best I could, having the most important rules explained to me along the way. Despite the initial strangeness of it all, I was soon immersed. Tom was a consummate storyteller, and very skilled at describing each scene. The combat sequences were thrilling, and it was made very clear to me that it was perfectly possible - either because of a poor choice on my part, or simply through an unlucky roll of the dice - for my hobbit character to come to a sticky end. There was no script immunity at work. And if we were to have our best chance of survival, then we had to work together.

Thus I began to have an insight into the moral value of role-playing games - in contrast to the hysterical nonsense spouted about them by religious fundamentalists. At their very best, role-playing games teach the importance of cooperation and problem-solving, and encourage their participants to take on the mantles of heroes. And that first night, I remembered that our adventure was taking place in Middle-earth: even if only in a small way, we were playing our part in the great struggle against the Shadow that was Sauron, the Lord of the Rings himself. We were following in the footsteps of J.R.R. Tolkien, inspired to let our imaginations run riot within the world he had brought into being. What could be a finer way to apply our creativity than this?

We’d been playing for an hour or so when another knock came at the door. Another friend, Ken, had cycled round to Gary’s flat. He - like myself - was curious to see what was going on. Fortunately for our poor game-master Tom (who thanks to me had already been forced that evening to accommodate one new character into his campaign), Ken wasn’t interested in taking on a role for himself. He was content to watch, quietly amused by the unfolding drama of Tom’s storytelling, and our engagement with it.

At about three o’clock in the morning, my first ever game session concluded (on a suitably thrilling cliffhanger). Ken had given up and ridden home by now; but the rest of us, ravenous, headed off to where we knew a burger van would still be open, supplying hungry (and often drunk) students with sustenance well into the early hours. We weren’t drunk - we’d been imbibing from a deeper, richer draft, I reflected in a heady moment, as I munched upon my double-dog with cheese, mustard and fried onions.

***

I borrowed a rule-book from Tom - I was determined that by our next session I would be fully familiar with the rules. A few days later, I felt ready to roll up a secondary character to my hobbit hero - one whose characteristics I could tweak and shape for myself. A Beorning shape-changer, this first character I’d devised from scratch was also the first of our adventurers to come to a bloody and untimely end, after only a few sessions. Thus I learnt, early on, what Tom had warned me, right from the beginning: in good role-playing, there is no script immunity. Just like life itself.

Over the next few weeks, two other friends who were also gamers joined our group: Jack, who was interested in all things Oriental, and usually played warrior-heroes with a strong moral code, somewhat akin to the bushido ethics of Japanese samurai; and Tristan, who unlike the rest of us was a postgraduate student, and a devout Roman Catholic. He chose to play a Gondorian ranger-prince, the most high-born of the ten player characters that featured at one time or another in our MERP campaign.

As our band of adventurers grew, so our exploits became more epic, taking on a grander, more mythic turn. We travelled far and wide across Middle-earth. Our enemies became more dangerous: we moved on from fighting orcs, petty rogues and cutthroats to battling malign spirits, Nazgûl and even a water-demon (a terrifying adversary who succeeded in immolating one of Jack’s two MERP characters, a largely self-taught mage from a commoner background, by reflecting one of his own fireball spells back against him).

One of our most colourful foes was a malevolent sorcerer from the royal line of the Northern Kingdom of the Dúnedain, who was originally designed as a one-shot opponent, but who ended up becoming a formidable returning villain. And then there was the adventure in which my happy-go-lucky hobbit had a momentous encounter with a lost Silmaril - one of the wondrous jewels that gave their name to Tolkien’s posthumously published final great work, The Silmarillion. It was an incident that utterly changed him, every bit as much as Frodo was transformed by the burden of bearing the One Ring.

Over time, most of us took our turn at game-mastering. Sometimes we used published scenarios from gaming magazines; more often, our adventures were of the GM’s own devising. We were the Magnificent Seven - one game-master, six players.

We started playing other RPGs besides MERP: science-fiction games like Traveller, Star Trek and the darkly comic and dystopian Paranoia; superhero games like Champions and Golden Heroes (where my character was a reincarnated Welsh druid with magical powers); the wonderful steampunk Space 1889; fantasy games like Rolemaster, Runequest and - even - D&D itself. But you never forget your first love, they say: and my affection for MERP remained, long after we stopped playing it on a regular basis.

The following academic year, we moved into student digs together (all except for Phil, who unfortunately was kicked off his course at the end of his second year). We had obtained a house for seven: and in place of Phil, it was Ken who joined us - our token non-gamer. Ken aside, we continued role-playing. Meanwhile, I mended bridges with Jeff; and though I was never quite as close to him as previously, we became good enough friends again for him to ask me to be his best man, when he married Carolyn a year after their graduation.

In my third year at university, my father fell ill. During that year, I needed all my university friendships - old and new - more than ever. Three months after his cancer diagnosis, he passed away. In life - just like role-playing games - I was reminded: there is no script immunity. And there are some Shadows that cannot be overcome in real life, however much one might wish to change the outcome of the throw of the dice.

***

Towards the end of the year, I was game-mastering once again. Graduation was approaching for most of us. Our Fellowship, inevitably, would be breaking. Determined that we should go out in style, I devised one last grand scenario for our Middle-earth characters - those that were left, anyway, having not as yet perished on the battlefield, been retired (like Phil’s hobbit), or experienced elevation to quasi-immortality (the fate of my own once-humble halfling character).

The final tale was imbued with the essence of Arthurian romance. The death of my father undoubtedly played its part too, subconsciously, as I wrote the outline for By the Sword Divided, the concluding chapter of our characters’ adventures. This was to be our Le Morte d’Arthur, in which we dared to rewrite the work of the Master, Tolkien himself. Tom had taken over playing Phil’s minstrel with the mysterious past. He’d been revealed in previous chapters to be the bastard scion of a noble Dúnadan house, and had become an inadvertent kin-slayer, twice-over. His impetuosity and arrogance now became the trigger for a cataclysmic civil war, and the downfall - three hundred years earlier in the timeline than Tolkien had envisaged - of the Northern Kingdom.

Talk about destroying canon...

I played Holst, Orff, Mahler and Wagner in the background as the battle-scenes on The Field of Lost Dreams played out. I’d deliberately stacked the odds against the characters, and one after another, their inevitable deaths came. Matt’s laconic dwarf, his mattock buried deep in the chest of the dread Black Reaver that he and Jack’s bushido-warrior had vanquished together, at the cost of their own lives. Gary’s Dúnadan stalwart, going down against a dozen foes still yielding Ologcrist, ‘Trollbane’, the wondrous sword that had once been gifted to him by Glorfindel of Rivendell.

Finally, there remained the kin-slaying bard, facing his hateful and treacherous father as he had once faced his two brothers. ‘Come, father, let us embrace,’ intoned Tom grimly, with impeccable timing, quoting Mordred’s last line from John Boorman’s wondrous 1981 film Excalibur. It was the concluding combat. The dice practically rolled themselves.

One character alone survived, to tell the tale - Tristan’s Gondorian prince, remaining just like Bedivere, the last of Arthur’s knights left standing on the field of Camlann, as the blood-red sun disappeared beneath the horizon. The curtain had descended on the most complex, and involved, role-playing campaign I had ever been part of. It was our Götterdämmerung. And it was glorious.

***

Forty years have passed since E.T. came out, giving me my first glimpse of role-playing. And now, the fourth series of Stranger Things is about to be released on Netflix - a nostalgic television drama series set in the 1980s, the very first episode of which, just like E.T., practically opens with a group of teenage boys playing D&D. I was a few years late coming to that particular party myself - and it’s been five years now since I last played in an ongoing campaign (the sad reality of friends moving away, and drifting apart, is something that gamers and non-gamers alike would recognise).

But I still have enormous affection for the friendships forged and strengthened across a graph paper map of caves and dungeons, strewn with miniatures representing heroes and monsters, and dice of a variety of shapes - some with 20 sides, others with 12, or 10, or 8, or 4 or even common-or-garden 6 sides.

Maybe, one day, I’ll pick up those dice again. I’ll generate a character or two. I’ll find some friends, and go adventuring again. I’ll open the doorway, and I’ll see what paths our imaginations can take us down, once more.

Though somehow - without the three o’clock in the morning, post-session trek to the burger van - it will never quite be the same.

Because I was always bigger than all my friends.

In every picture we took together I stood out and above them all.

Because I wasn’t allowed to wear a two-piece bathing suit,

and I was sure it was because I didn’t look skinny enough.

Flashes of every beach vacation ending in tears and frustration plague my mind.

Because I lied to myself about myself. No one will want me unless my body is microscopic.

I was convinced something was wrong with me and that everyone else knew it too.

Because I forgot how perfectly I was designed in my mother’s womb.

Because I wanted to be paper thin like all the girls I saw on tv and Instagram.

Because so what if I hurt myself and those around me if it got me thinner.

Cue the concerned gazes of my little brother during family dinner.

Because I could handle it and I was in control.

That’s a lie, because I started to enjoy the feeling of hunger.

The pain that was once unbearable was now a reward.

Cool water gliding down into an empty stomach became my favorite sensation.

Because my joy was being taken away with every cardio work-out I forced myself to do.

The night before my 16th birthday was spent doing jumping jacks on a broken foot.

Because fainting became a game to me, and I was beating my high score.

Because even strangers complimented what they thought was hard work,

when in reality they were congratulating me for starving.

Because my mind was swarmed with figuring out how sneaky I could be,

how long I could not swallow and how many ribs you could see.

Because enough was never enough. Too little never came, too small was non-existent,

and suddenly I couldn’t picture my life without being hungry.

And then, one day,

my secret was no longer a secret, and my family was worried about me.

It became because I was tired of hating myself.

Because my body is simply the shell I am inside of.

When I think about the people I adore, their size doesn’t even cross my mind.

Because my body is the least interesting thing about me.

Because I started therapy and there are people who know what I go through.

Because I owe it to five-year-old me to be the girl I was before I cared about calories.

It’s liberating eating what you’re hungry for instead of what you feel worthy of.

Because true beauty is realness and even famous artworks have imperfections.

Because Hannah Montana said nobody’s perfect.

Because Christmas lights and stars both shine beautifully,

but there’s no need to compare them.

Because food keeps us alive and tastes delicious.

It’s still scary sometimes, but that’s okay.

Because I won’t stop trying to unlearn all the evil habits I adopted.

It turns out no one cares about your BMI.

And because it’s exhausting being at war with yourself.

Reading the scripture,

Trying to picture a world with no sin.

A world where everyone was friends not enemies,

No weapons or words to hurt each other with.

Just honest conversations that don't turn into fights,

About who is wrong and who is right.

Where food was pure no gmo or pesticides,

A place where class structure meant nothing.

A time that was marked by peace not by bodies piling up,

In useless wars, killing the meek and the poor as the rich get richer.

What more does the human race have to take?

Before, we realize that there needs to be a change.

i've become bitter.

so bitter that i swallow sugar in fistfuls

lest i burn a hole

in the ceramic mug i live to fill.

i only wish the sugar didn't dissolve so quickly.

i am the kind of bitter you'd much rather

watch disappear down the drain of the kitchen sink

than taste in your throat.

the kind of bitter that cramps your stomach

and leaves coffee stains on your sanity.

sip me and spit me out.

i want to be tasted,

and even more to decorate your walls.

My name is Harper and in six months I am going to die.

I know this because I paid for the privilege. You can do testing for anything nowadays, and apparently your expiration date is one of them.

I had money to spare, I was bored, and yes, I foolishly thought the test would tell me some distant faraway age like eighty-two or maybe even one hundred and two. When I found out my expiry date was in six months, I began to have a really, really bad case of buyer’s remorse.

I went through quite a lengthy denial period, where I thought I could go through the rest of my life pretending that if I just do things exactly the same way and not change anything I would conveniently forget and everything would be fine and dandy. (This was by far my favorite coping mechanism. But it didn’t last. Eventually my anxiety bubbled up and exploded like a shaken champagne bottle.)

Next came an obsessive, defiant, planning phase. Everyday I would think of elaborate plans to avoid death like I could somehow scheme my way out of it. I mean, theoretically, it seems doable. Plane crash? Don’t go on a plane. Car accident? Just stay home all week. Heck, heart attack? Pop three baby aspirins and hang out in the hospital lobby, right next to the crash cart ready to wave a big sign that says “I’m having a heart attack.” Unfortunately the test didn’t provide the cause of death, just the exact time, so I couldn’t really plan in specifics.

Eventually all the planning became incredibly exhausting and I settled into a kind of defeated acceptance. My plan was still not to actively put myself in a situation where I could die, I was not quite ready to submit to my annihilation, but if I somehow still find myself in that situation anyway, I figured I should really work on trying to be okay with that.

So then I commenced on a hedonistic three months where I blew half of my life savings and did literally anything I could think of. I ziplined through the forests of Peru, skydived over the French countryside, drank the best wines and indulged in rich Italian food, snorkeled off the shores of Bali, shopped with abandon while perusing the streets of Tokyo, London, Dubai…

You get the idea.

The most pathetic part of this whole thing was that I didn’t have a family to spend my last few days with. Or close friends, really. My impending death would not be filled with earnest mourning and last minute tearful proclamations of love and reminiscing. Oh sure, my funeral would be packed, but nobody would miss me, not really. As an orphaned twenty-two year old who inherited too much money at an early age, not only was I kind of an entitled asshole, I also haven’t really lived yet. I haven’t fallen in love or had kids, wrote that great American novel, won a Pulitzer, or experienced any of that syrupy sweet stuff life is supposedly made of.

Anyway, that’s why I’m hanging out in the hospice ward.

My friend here is Lucas. He is twenty-nine and has end stage heart failure from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. He described it as his heart being too big - literally but I suspect it's also an accurate description of him figuratively. I befriended him five months ago when I found out I was going to die. And no, surprisingly, he does not have any wisdom to impart about acceptance and healing and the meaning of life. He is very not okay with his young, awesome life being cut short, thank you very much.

He did have some useful information for me though.

“It’s quite experimental.” Lucas warned in an ominous tone.

“Obviously.”

“They usually only accept terminal patients… you know, because of the ethical issues.” He eyed me warily. “But in your case, they made an exception.”

He was adorable. He said that last line like a late night infomercial. Or maybe a used car salesman.

“This is not some elaborate black market scam to harvest my organs, is it?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean, no offense, but you look like you could use a new heart.”

Lucas had to grab his oxygen mask after laughing so hard at that one. The nurse at the station gave me a dirty look.

After Lucas recovered he looked me in the eye. “How much do you have left?”

“Time? Or money?” I joked. The look on his face was not amused. I cleared my throat. “One month. And as you know, money is not an object.”

“Well, one month can give you… at least eighty years in virtual time. So pretty much a whole lifetime, if you decide on it.” Lucas shrugged. “Once you jack in though, there’s no going back. Your clock will end as scheduled and that’s the only way out. Also, it’s totally immersive, so you won’t even know you’re in virtual. It will be like… you’re in a dream but you don’t know you’re in a dream.”

“So I would really believe everything was real? Like I would grow up to be ninety years old and I would actually think I lived all those years even though really it will only be one month?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“How many of the other people will be real?”

“Most will be computer generated. You might meet some real ones, if they are in the same time dilation settings as you. There are very few people with the resources for a whole month, you know. Most people can only afford one day.”

“So there’s a chance that I will marry a program?” I furrowed my brows. “And then if we have kids, they will also be programs?”

Lucas cocked an eyebrow. “There’s a high chance, statistically. Like I said, there’s only a few real participants at any given time. Not that it would matter to you, you won’t know the difference.”

I thought about this. Would it really bother me if I didn’t know? I bet my computer generated kids would be adorable.

His expression suddenly turned serious. “There’s something else. It’s rare, but there are a few cases of people noticing little things not quite right and they become increasingly convinced they’re in a simulation. Which of course is true, but when you’re jacked in and you’re not completely sure if you’re crazy or just being paranoid, it can be terrifying. They call it Simulation Induced Paranoia, or SIP.” He paused. “Participants become really…. distressed.”

I chewed on this for a second. “I still want to do it.”

He looked surprised. “Really?”

“I really don’t have anything to lose.” I replied nonchalantly, like I just decided on a dinner entree. I should probably be alarmed that I was acting so cavalier. Lucas wasn’t exactly giving a stellar sales pitch. Then again, it was true, I really had nothing left to lose. I’ve done what I could with my twenty-two years. Might as well have another lifetime to try again.

Lucas stared at me for a moment then sighed. “That’s the thing. The longer you’re in virtual, the higher the chance you might experience SIP. Remember, Harper, a month is a lifetime. The chances are very low of course - less than 1%, the virtual worlds are very meticulously programmed after all. But if you experience SIP, there’s no cure, no safe word, you’re stuck until your clock runs out.”

“I already decided.” I said resolutely. Once I’ve made up my mind on something I was usually unshakable. It was one of my many flaws. “In fact, let’s do it tonight. I want to get my whole lifetime, not a year less.”

—

Everything was too bright, the sounds too loud. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. Jacking in was a very jarring process, it felt as if all my neurons were firing up all at once. Somehow I felt tremendous pain and the heights of delirious ecstasy simultaneously. Like I was feeling every possible thing all at the same time. There was a terrifying moment when everything went black, and for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, I truly wholeheartedly believed I was actively dying.

Maybe I was supposed to die on the table during the procedure. Or maybe I really did unwittingly offer to have my organs harvested for the black market. Damn it, I probably caused my own death in my extreme efforts to avoid it...

I blinked twice. The room slowly came into focus.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” A familiar voice.

It was Lucas. But also, it was not Lucas. He did not have his portable oxygen tank close by. His lips did not have their usual bluish tint. He looked… healthy.

Everything came back to me at once.

“Oh shit, Lucas. That was nuts.” I shook my head, clearing the cobwebs. “That felt too real. I really felt like I was in there for twenty-two years.” I checked my watch. I’ve only been in Virtual for twenty-two minutes.

He chuckled, swiveling back and forth on the expensive office chair I bought him for Christmas last year. My boyfriend never could sit still. “You’re a champ, Harper, you were the one who wanted to push the time dilation to a year per minute. I was worried pushing it that far would compromise the world building, but your mind was amazing at meeting the program halfway to fill in the gaps. You made yourself a rich orphan, really? Money is no object? Hah!”

I disconnected my neurojack from the surgically implanted access port behind my right ear. That rich orphan stuff was my subconscious free at the wheel. I didn’t intentionally decide on it. I turned back to Lucas. “Why did you add all that stuff about Virtual in there, and SIP? Don’t you think that was a little too… meta?”

Lucas suddenly broke into that grin that melted my heart so many years ago when we met during undergrad at MIT. “Well, since you wanted to put the expiry dates into the program so people would know how much time they had left, I thought, what the heck, why not make it interesting? Why not make a virtual game in Virtual?”

I was not amused. Lucas had a penchant for bloated code and unnecessary side doors. Also, for not telling me about an adjustment until after he has done it. “That’s messed up. You should have run that by me. The expiry date was a suggestion from the beta testers and we all agreed on it. We didn’t agree on putting the game into the Virtual Universe as a side door..” I paused. “Also, what if I didn’t jack in? I would have died in a car accident or something?”

Lucas turned back to his computer and typed a few lines of code. “I had carbon monoxide poisoning ready to go, but I was prepared to improvise. And anyway, I didn’t actually think you would gravitate towards the game during the beta test, I just put it in there as an Easter egg of sorts. I figured most clients would only think about jacking in when they were close to their expiry dates, if they do at all. But on second thought, maybe I should take it out of the programming, it’s too much work to keep up.”

I jumped off the table and stretched my legs. My entire body felt stiff like I haven’t used it for months. “Yea, take it out. You’ll have enough work as it is when we start accepting our first commercial clients next week. We have four people scheduled on our first day which I already think is too much.”

“We’ll be fine.” Lucas was now typing more purposefully. “That reminds me, I need to finish debugging this before Monday. Do you mind picking up dinner?”

“Sure.. from that new Thai place again?”

“Sounds good.”

I smiled as I gave Lucas a quick peck on the cheek before I grabbed my purse to pick up the take out. Everything was going well for our start up. It was hard to believe that only two years ago Lucas and I were broke PhD dropouts who took a leap of faith building Virtual from our one bedroom Boston apartment. And now… well, let’s just say our first official month in business is projected to generate six figures in profits even after subtracting overhead. Mid six figures. And as soon as we open up our second and third facilities the growth would be exponential.

To top it all off, I was pretty sure Lucas was planning on proposing to me next week on my birthday. I saw a charge from some jewelry company on his credit card statement while I was doing some filing last month. Judging from the amount, it could only be an engagement ring. Lucas never would have spent that much on a piece of jewelry otherwise.

I sauntered out of the elevator from our high rise office with a pep in my step. The weather outside was just the right amount of sunny. Even the Boston air didn’t feel as suffocatingly polluted. Yes, everything was going well. Perfect, even. I eyed a meticulously trimmed bush suspiciously as I walked by. Maybe too perfect.

I felt a sudden stab of panic. The smile dissipated from my face.

Oh no.