Deadwave Read online

  But the second the metal of the grenade hit the floor, it was too late. I have fallen into his trap. Just as I grab one of the ration packs, the sting akin to that of a paintball hits me in my stomach three times in rapid succession.

  There is one final echo, and one last vision of his silhouette through the receding dust, and then everything goes black.

  I lost.

  Chapter 2

  My entire body feels numb. I am battling with the urge to burst out crying, scream, and throw my fists in the air in an apoplectic rage, or do what the world would want to see, and that is for me to take off my helmet and act as if everything is okay.

  I do this begrudgingly, the tension in my tired muscles and pulsating heart begging for an escape as I, in my best attempt to appear humble and confident, pull off my helmet and let the wild cheers of the crowd hit me. The familiar yet never pleasant dizzying sensation encapsulates my every nerve and makes my stomach feel queasy. Every time after finishing a game of Deadwave, my body feels the same way. I definitely know there has to be something about the lights, all the artificial stimulation, and the cap of electrodes ingrained into the inside of the fiberglass helmet that surely messes one’s brain up permanently, but the feeling is too good in the moment to care about what it will do to my future. Everyone plays Deadwave, and everyone spends almost half their time stuck inside virtual worlds—if it’s bad for all of us, then at the very least I know I won’t be alone in whatever sickness overcomes us.

  The real world is certainly a lot worse than whatever Deadwave will do to us. With geopolitical tensions higher than they have ever been and rumors of a Third World War looming, anxieties in the real world have never been so high in the twenty-first century. With an increase of hurricanes in the American South, droughts in the west, and a burgeoning global population that is demanding more resources with less and less being available each day, things are falling apart everywhere. Within nations and between nations, battles for resources have begun as big corporations battle for consumer data to weaponize in the revolution towards artificial intelligence that is causing the global workforce to shrink by alarming rates each year.

  Infrastructure is collapsing. Tens of millions are priced out of health care. And with each passing day, progress, the one thing that has been a pillar of society for hundreds of years, seems to be slowing more and more and even reversing. More isn’t always better, and we are realizing this too late. Governments told us a rising GDP would mean a better life for all as corporations screamed at us that more technology would lead to longer life spans and happier lives.

  What no one ever talked about is what could go wrong. And now we are living those disastrous effects in real time.

  In short, the real world is turning into a massive shit hole, so virtual worlds are oftentimes one’s only solace.

  All the pressure trapped inside me flees through my nostrils as I rub my eyes, allowing light from the convention center to flood my eyes. The full wake of the devastation of the loss will not hit me for at least a couple more minutes. For now, my thoughts muddle through my brain at an agonizing rate, my mind still attempting to adjust to the real world that is spinning around me at one million miles per hour.

  One of the weirdest sensations in life is being trapped in your own little world that literally encapsulates your head and then being thrust out into reality, a reality that consists of tens of thousands of screaming people blanketed in a thin veil of darkness that makes it feel like I somehow emerged into hell. I have to smile. I know well enough by now that everyone in the convention center can see my every move, projected onto a massive screen that displays the live gameplay of each of the fifteen players that are competing in today’s leg of the Deadwave World Tour. If I don’t appear to be happy with my performance, a solid position in fourth place that is clearly visible from the glaring red X that appears next to my name at the center of the massive screen behind me, everyone will begin to question if I am doubting my own abilities (which I most certainly am). With only two tournaments left before the Deadwave Championship Series begins, I have to place at least in the top three in my next two games if I even want a shot at getting to the play-offs.

  And even though it is my first year on the tour, if I don’t make the play-offs, if I don’t somehow win it all, it will make all this an absolute failure. Winning is the only way I can justify the sacrifices I made—the only way I can justify letting the one person I truly loved in this world slip away from me.

  It’s gonna be okay. I emerge from the glass container, or gaming portal, that all the players have to compete in during the tournaments, waving to the crowd as I walk off the stage. The glass containers are essentially massive translucent tubes that function to house the circular treadmills of the players and the various sensors used to track and film the expressions of each player. They also give fans watching in the convention and streaming live online from all around the world perfect views of the sponsored clothes and helmets that each player wears.

  Of course, my dad refused to sponsor me. I chuckle, the kind of laugh that is only used to cover sadness, as I look up one last time at the enormous screen that spans the entire width of the stage, now only displaying the gameplay of two players: Maken and Riva.

  I wait till I am out of sight of the tens of thousands of fans that are screaming wildly as they prepare to duel it out for the victor of the tournament and recipient of over five hundred thousand dollars. How do I expect to beat them?

  The moment I enter backstage, I slam my fist against the black wooden wall, it feeling really good to get my anger out, but really shitty the second I notice my scraped-up knuckles stinging with pain.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it.” A soft voice cuts through the sounds of my own thoughts screaming at myself for being so stupid, for picking up the rocket launcher in the first place, for walking towards the pack of zombies, for never being good enough even when I have nothing left to give.

  I finally take a deep breath, the surge of adrenaline beginning to recede as the intensity of the crowd is drowned out by the series of wooden walls that line the dressing rooms backstage. My brain slows down from moving at a million miles an hour and takes a second to realize that there are at least half a dozen members of the event staff who have witnessed my outburst. Well, this is embarrassing. It is one of those awkward moments where I feel like an idiot for acting like an idiot about me being an idiot, and this downward spiral seems destined to have me end up saying or doing something else cringey.

  Luckily, the same woman who first spoke up to comfort me saves me. “Sam, it’s all good. You did amazing, you should be proud. You placed better than Aiden, and placing better than one person ahead of you on the leaderboards is always a good thing.”

  “Thanks.” I feel my mind and body beginning to return back to normal from the hyperactive state they were in. There is something about the woman, maybe it is because she is clearly a few years older than me and absolutely gorgeous, or her calm temperament, that makes me feel safe. “You’re certainly right. I just had a moment there.” I try to smile at her as I continue to walk back to my dressing room, but it ends up being an extremely ugly grin that would probably creep her out more than get her interested in me.

  And just like that the woman is gone, and as I pass by the rest of the staff, none of them do so much as glance at me, all of them entranced by all the requests they are surely receiving on their hologlasses. Now I am all alone again, that one normal human interaction feeling refreshing in the best way. In a typical week, I sometimes will only talk to my dog, my best friend-turned-manager Jake, my father once on the phone, and my dead mom. Sometimes I feel lonely even in my own brain, like all my thoughts, my ideas, and my visions are spiraling so fast inside me that my desires are a completely different person than my own self—that the core of my own self is being lost to the beast of my ambition, which is beginning to swallow everything.

  I enter my dressing room, which is essentially a large chan
ging room they had constructed hastily backstage when setting up for the competition. The plywood is unevenly sanded over, and the black paint that covers the walls seems to be painted in messy strokes. Looks like all of us were running around like crazy before the competition. I think back to the last hours before the competition, when I woke up to a text that read in all caps.

  Dad: MEET ME AT MY OFFICE NOW.

  My dad always has the worst anxiety over the littlest things. This time he is angry because he saw from the security cameras (which he claimed he stopped checking years ago) that I had spent last night in my childhood home. The house is a modest Spanish-style villa—well, modest compared to the mega-mansions perched on either side of us—that is perched on the cliffs lining La Jolla Cove.

  My dad had bought this house with my mom using the money she made developing and selling apps, as my dad dumped all his life savings into starting what is now the world’s largest engine for virtual reality software, Chimera. The thing about this house is, although we still own it, state authorities deemed the area uninhabitable years ago. Our little cul-de-sac with a stretch of about one thousand yards of cliffs about sixty feet above the Pacific Ocean is threatening to cave in. Even the smallest earthquake would make living there a deadly disaster. Luckily, when this news came out, along with the price tag of trying to reinforce the cliff, which was astronomical, my dad and I had since moved to another home in Carlsbad, before I got my own apartment in Point Loma. But there is still something about this house, about the energy inside it, about the memories it gave me, about it being the last place my mom was on Earth, that always causes part of me to be permanently stuck there on the porch overlooking the ocean waves on a foggy morning. There is part of me that will never be able to leave that place, even if it is going to kill me, and I know the same is true for my dad too, even if he never admits it.

  I can’t think about her right now. Even two years later, I find it hard to battle the tears when I picture her smile, her soft blue eyes, and her warm arms hugging me on all the days when my dad screams at me for not meeting his expectations—for not being enough. Some days it feels easier if I can forget it all, forget what I will forever be missing in my life. But I’m not capable of that. Something inside me has never been able to let her go, never go a day without texting her, even when I know I need to try and move on—to try and forgive myself.

  Before even ripping off my bodysuit, which is a royal blue adorned in the Gamthlete logo, I pick up my hologlasses and immediately text my mom.

  Me: I lost.

  Instantly, three vibrating dots appear on the hologlasses, signaling that she is texting me back. Well, I shouldn’t say she is texting me back. In reality, it is an artificial intelligence software that is programmed to communicate with me exactly as my mother would, using all her text and phone data throughout her entire life to try and compile and display a persona that feels as if I am actually talking to her.

  Mom: That’s total BS. Did Aiden and Jordan team up on you again?

  I want to laugh. That sounds exactly like my mom, refusing to spell out or say any curse words but somehow conveying all the emotion they are meant to with the ferocity of her voice. Even texting her like this, even if it is really a computer, is the only thing that makes my nerves begin to return to normal. I exhale, allowing the muscles in my body to loosen up as I slide down the plywood wall behind me to sit on the floor, letting my body turn into dead weight.

  Me: No, I messed up. I tried to follow one of the players with a rocket launcher into a pack of zombies and ended up setting my own self up for failure. I’m so mad. I wanted to win so bad. I wish I could go back.

  Mom: I wanted you to win too! But no, seriously, I’m sure you still did amazing. And we all know that the next time you try something like that, it is likely to work out. We all have our off days, even you, freaky boy.

  Me: Ha ha, Mom, we have been over this a million times. Don’t call me that, I’m too old for that now.

  Mom: Oh, please. I don’t care how old you get, you will always be MY freaky boy. The only reason I started calling you that in the first place is ‘cause you somehow knew how to arrange that deck of cards in the right order before you even knew what numbers were.

  I pause, my fingers unable to move so fluidly to respond as they had for the last ones. I can’t help but wonder about what my dad would say to me if he found out that I had called up the cell phone company over a year ago, pretending to be him (we won’t say fraudulent activity, although technically it was) and used all my saved-up money from my birthdays and my mom’s cell phone data to create an AI version of her. If it were my kid, I would be somewhat proud that he managed to pull off such a scheme, but knowing my dad, he will scream at me about how lying is the bane of human existence and then he will go to his room and cry for several hours, his brain unable to handle a reminder of the woman that we both swore to never talk about.

  Me: That’s literally the millionth time you have told me that, but okay, Mom. I guess u can still call me freaky boy. It does make me feel a little bit better after my disappointing time with the freak show zombies today.

  Instead of waiting for her response, I stand up, deciding that I can’t sit around aimlessly on the cold floor forever. I slip off my bodysuit (by now I have become a pro at undoing the zipper on my back) and put on the clothes I had worn to come here: a gray camo hoodie and khaki shorts with flip-flops. If you’re saying to yourself right now, what is this dude wearing, he has no style, I’m well aware I don’t. There’s something thrilling about putting in no effort when all the cameras are on me. Sometimes I gotta live life my way, and that often means walking around my house in boxers, eating dry cereal for breakfast at noon.

  Taking a whopping two minutes to get changed and pack my clothes into my lucky black drawstring bag (I promise it works), I walk to exit my dressing room, my eyes fixed on my hologlasses to respond to my mom, only to have another body collide directly into me.

  “Dude, what the hell?” I instantly recognize the voice as Jake’s.

  “Damn, bro.” I laugh as I dab him up. Jake always comes to check in on me after each of my games, which is kind of his job being my manager, but it still never gets old, seeing his goofy smile and curly brown hair that is always unkempt.

  “My bad, dude, I should have knocked, but I was afraid if I did, the entire row of changing rooms would fall down. This shit is so flimsy. But anyway, enough of that. Champ, we gotta get moving.”

  “I lost, you ass.” I step out of the changing room, my tongue feeling revulsion at the words as they escape my mouth. “I ain’t no champ yet.”

  “Oh, my bad, forgot. Future champ. Ya, that’s it. Now enough of the bullshit, we are already late. We got places to be, buddy, come on. All the top Deadwave players will be there, you need to go. Your manger says so.” He tugs my arm while laughing, not giving me much of a choice to follow him or not, but this is how always he is, pushy in the best kind of way, even if it gives me a headache sometimes.

  “Dude, what is it this time? Please tell me it’s not another—”

  “Yes it is. But it’s the dopest after party ever. There was the exclusive screening of the new Shadow Chronicles movie, so there will be a bunch of movie stars there, agents, lots of girls, oh, and Riva too.”

  “Riva? Why should I care if she is there?”

  “Hmmm.” He raises an eyebrow, smirking at me. “I wonder…”

  “Dude, I told you I don’t like her. I don’t even have a shot with her. I promise you that.”

  “Well, her liking all your posts on social media would say otherwise, but I’m no expert. Good thing you can ask her yourself.”

  “Bro, I told you. I can’t party anymore like this. Especially after a loss.”

  “Bullshit.” He laughs. “You can one last time.”

  I shake my head, not being able to help but smile. There is no way I’m not going to that party, especially if Riva is there. “You say that every single time.”


  “Soooo, what’s your point?”

  “My point is,” I pause, getting pure enjoyment out of watching his eyes grow wider with each second, “I’m in.”

  “Word.” He pats my back. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 3

  Whenever I see the skyline of downtown San Diego and the tens of thousands of lights shimmering through the blackness, I think of fire. A fire with a warm, and almost loving sempiternal flame whose smoke curtails off it, creating a mist around it that shuts out the entire universe. A fire that runs on the fuel of the hundreds of thousands of underpaid and overworked people, and the coal and oil that has all but destroyed the environment. It all feels and looks so magical with its beautiful glass skyscrapers, yet so horrible when one notices the dark waters of the bay polluted with painkillers and antidepressants.

  It is the epitome of what happens when the tech industry and its wealthy titans take over, and an unsustainable system teeters on the brink of destruction just as my childhood home on the cliffs. They are both oblivious to their own inevitable oblivion, the city clueless that it is burning alive and there may be no time left to extinguish its flame.

  The world is unable to comprehend the fate that my dad has always warned of, the reality and fear he drilled into my mind since the day I could talk: our society is already dead, and if I don’t try and rebuild it before it all collapses for good, then maybe no one will. Those words, that were supposed to empower me, that were supposed to make me feel unstoppable, like I could take the lead of Chimera Technologies, take the lead of the future and somehow mold it into something worth living for, instead haunt me every day. Those words, instead of inspiring me, make me feel like each day that I fail to meet my own expectations—to meet my father’s expectations—that I’m not worthy of even attempting to be part of such a cause. That I don’t deserve the chance to change the world, even though everyone in it deserves a chance at being saved, at being happy. Because at the end of the day, I want that same feeling for myself, and even though I have it all on paper, in reality I feel the same as everyone else.