The Soul of the Wasted Body #1

The Soul of the Wasted Body

The Wandering Soul and Illusory Body
Original Work: Cybersona

It begins with a computer genius, disabled after being caught in the crossfire on the streets, who uses an online game called “Cybersona” to seize the body of a player—a dismissed science teacher—in order to seek revenge on those responsible for the accident.
The teacher, in a desperate attempt to reclaim his own body, possesses the next player, but he never expected that the player would be a 10-year-old boy.

About the Author: Fred Yager
Fred Yager is the author of novels such as Rex, Untimely Death, Just Your Everyday People, and two nonfiction books. He was a reporter for the Associated Press for 13 years, serving as a film critic and interviewing many famous actors and directors, including Stephen Spielberg and Arnold Schwarzenegger. He currently runs the World News & Information Network, Inc.
“Though the story unfolds at a breathless pace, it offers readers pauses to reflect on justice and revenge, forgiveness, and compassion.”
“In this vast world of computers, readers will be captivated by Fred Yager’s concept of ‘Cybersona.’ They will embark on an unprecedented journey through cyberspace. This imaginative, thrilling, and mysterious story will have you turning pages quickly. A must-read for fans of science fiction.”
The virtual experiences in this book could very well become reality in the not-too-distant future!

Chapter 1
Garland Daniels looked out the window of his office and saw the fog pouring in from the Pacific, covering everything except the tallest towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. He knew this was going to be one of the thick, damp, cold fogs that hit you like a wet blanket or a giant sticky cotton ball when it touches your skin.
He watched the slow-moving white wall as it swept over the bridge and covered Alcatraz Island, making its way into the city by the Bay, chilling San Francisco all night long.
Garland was the only non-Asian resident in the pre-World War II apartment building, which housed a Chinese theater and a food service. His apartment overlooked the main street of Chinatown on Grant Street. Being the only non-Asian tenant made him feel unique. Physically, Garland seemed somewhat ordinary. His frame was thin, and his face changed like a chameleon in photos, with no two pictures alike, depending on the lighting and shadows. But what he lacked in appearance, he made up for with sharp intelligence. Garland was a genius. People didn’t know his IQ because he always scored 160 on Wechsler intelligence tests, the highest possible score. No question was too difficult for him, no problem he couldn’t solve. So far, that had been true.

Garland turned away from the window and returned to his issue, a problem he had been struggling with for weeks, one that had nothing to do with the work he was supposed to be doing.
At 25, Garland had established himself as one of the best freelance cybersecurity experts in the Bay Area. Most of his clients were small businesses or wealthy individuals with radio and broadband systems that required sophisticated firewalls to fend off seemingly endless attacks from new viruses, malware, spyware, and surveillance programs.
But instead of finishing the job he had been paid for, Garland was struggling for the tenth time in a row to write a special application program for his recent passion—a new online intellectual virtual reality game called Cybersona, developed by a group of five dropout students from Stanford University.
Using sophisticated artificial intelligence and virtual reality software, Cybersona allowed players not only to create virtual characters for themselves—called “cons” (short for companions)—but also to create virtual worlds for their characters to live in.
For Garland, playing Cybersona was as close to playing God as he had ever come. In Cybersona, Garland was no longer a scrawny, myopic computer nerd. In Cybersona, he was six feet tall with perfect muscles, possessing supernatural abilities such as moving objects and telepathy. Essentially, he could make objects ignite with focus and predict the future. It was during one of these unusually intense work sessions that Garland had the idea to write a special application program that could make others envious. Unfortunately, he still hadn’t mastered the complex design needed for the application.

The slogan for Cybersona was, “If you can imagine it, we can create it.”
“If that’s true,” Garland thought, “then why can’t you make what I’m imagining?”

He was about to sue the creators of Cybersona for false advertising when his mobile phone rang, playing The Doors’ “Back Door Man.” He glanced at the screen and realized it was the troublesome client for whom he was supposed to have finished the program. He let the voicemail take the call. Besides, he wasn’t late yet. In about an hour or so, he would finish it and make an extra ten thousand dollars.
A good day at work. However, if he could crack the code to create that special Cybersona application, the world he once knew would be a very different place.

He glanced at the clock and decided to put the Cybersona issue aside and get back to the sluggish server a video news company had paid him to upgrade. He figured he could wrap it up in an hour and be at Suzy’s apartment by 10:00 at the latest.
As he started working on the client’s website, Garland wondered if he should put on a jacket before heading out. He noticed that the air coming in through the open window in his Grant Street apartment had dropped ten degrees since the sun set and would likely drop another ten when the fog rolled in thicker.
Garland liked the fog—the way it scrubbed the city’s polluted air clean like a giant soda-filled glass. The air always felt fresher after the fog passed, and the streets and sidewalks sparkled under the streetlights.

Chapter 2
In the northern edge of Chinatown and the northern beaches of San Francisco, the streets, usually crowded with tourists, were now nearly silent as the fog spilled into the alleys and hillside roads.
This was the type of night Raymond Lee liked best. Raymond was the leader of the Mãnh Long Street gang, and the fog was his ally. Unlike Garland, who liked the fog for its cleansing properties, Raymond appreciated other aspects. For instance, the fog reduced foot traffic and served as the perfect cover when needed. These moments were typically when Raymond and his crew had to hide from pursuit for dealing in stolen goods.
At 22 years old, Raymond was the oldest and most experienced member of the Mãnh Long gang, which consisted of eight Asian guys raised within two blocks of the alley he was standing in. The youngest was 14. Raymond had become their leader last year, taking over from Jackie Lee (no relation to Raymond), who was serving a seven-to-ten-year sentence at Chino for possession and trafficking of about half a kilogram of the white drug known as China White.
A newly polished black Chevy Impala, lowered and gleaming, with its body only five inches above the sidewalk, slowly crawled down Broadway to the intersection with Grant Street. The windows of the sleek, long vehicle were tinted so dark that it made you wonder how the driver could see the road. The car stopped at the intersection, then turned left onto Grant Street, slowly passing the alley where Raymond and his crew were hidden in the dark fog.
The car’s fresh paint was so new that Raymond could still faintly smell the Turtle Wax polish as the low-rider passed by. He watched the car as he signaled to his men behind him to stay still. Once the car had passed, Raymond lowered his hand, and the others continued to check their automatic weapons.
When Raymond first heard about a Latin American gang talking about moving into the North Beach area, he didn’t believe it. But it was slowly happening, as the old Italian family gangs had moved out, and the Chinese, along with a bunch of young, odd, and untraceable newcomers, were coming in to take over. They didn’t care who sold their drugs.
The problem, as Raymond Lee saw it, was that the Latin Americans had territorial issues and weren’t happy about selling drugs on the north section of Grant Street near Telegraph Avenue. People had spotted two Latin gang members doing business all the way down south to Stockton. Tonight, Raymond Lee was going to teach these Latin boys a geography lesson they wouldn’t forget.
Across the street from the alley, Floyd Harrison sat behind the wheel of a black four-door government vehicle, wondering how Chinatown had developed up north of Broadway. When stationed at Treasure Island in the mid-1970s, Harrison and his Navy buddies often hung out on weekends and evenings at the topless bars and hippie cafes along Broadway and Grant Street. Back then, Chinatown hadn’t expanded into Broadway yet. Broadway was the start of the North Beach area, and it beckoned lonely sailors to spend a night at a bar they liked to call R&R—short for S&T—drinks and love. Now, both the topless bars and the cafes were gone, replaced by Chinese markets, internet cafes, and mobile phone stores.
Harrison had turned 50 by the time he accepted his transfer to San Francisco. This was his first night shift with the DEA. Twenty years in the Navy meant he’d retire on a DEA pension after ten years. By this time next year, Floyd Harrison would probably be a free man, no longer stuck with boring surveillance shifts, though tonight’s shift might yield something. In fact, it had to, because Harrison himself had convinced his unit commander to give him six extra officers in case an arrest was needed. A synthetic drug addict had tipped Harrison off about a potential handoff between two rival gangs, which was why he was parked across the street from the alley where the Mãnh Long gang was meeting. Harrison had used this addict’s information before, and usually, it was reliable. He needed a good bust. Rumor had it that underperforming officers would be laid off, transferred out of the agency, with a reduced pension. Damn, Harrison thought. Someone’s going down tonight. But first, he needed to catch the suspect in the act, with video footage and high-definition quality.
Harrison checked his watch for the hundredth time and tried to look inconspicuous in his green jacket with the yellow DEA logo on the chest, a target in plain sight. He held up the night vision binoculars that snipers often attached to their rifles and pressed them to his left eye. Through the lens, he could see eight figures in the dark alley next to the Chinatown market. Even with the night vision, it was hard to make out much due to the fog, especially if something was about to go down there.
Harrison lowered the binoculars and started to wonder if he had parked in the wrong spot. But now it was too late. Any movement would give away his position, and the whole operation would fall apart. He had positioned his officers at four spots around the alley, waiting for his orders.
He pointed the binoculars at the black low-rider that had just turned onto Grant Street.
Harrison clicked on his radio.
“I think it’s about to start,” he whispered. “Hold your positions until I give the word.”
“I see a car coming,” the voice crackled through the radio.
“That’s probably the guests,” Harrison said.
“Are you sure these guys are going to play nice?” another voice asked. “I never thought Mãnh Long would let go of territory.”
“We’re in a global economy. Cross-border deals are happening everywhere,” Harrison replied.
“You’re the boss here, Harrison,” a third voice chimed in. “I just hope your intel’s right.”
Harrison was about to reply when he noticed some movement coming from the alley toward the street. He looked through the binoculars again and saw the door of the building halfway down the block open. A young man, carrying a laptop bag, locked the door behind him before walking down the sidewalk toward the alley.
“Oh, shit,” Harrison muttered.
“What’s going on?” the radio crackled.
“One civilian. He’s walking straight toward the mess,” Harrison said.
“Can you stop him?”
“I can, but it’ll blow the whole operation.”
Harrison followed the young man with his binoculars as he walked toward the alley. The low-rider car passed him, and its brake lights flashed as it stopped, made a U-turn, and started to head back toward the alley.
“Keep going, buddy,” Harrison whispered to himself.
He then raised the binoculars again and saw the low-rider had turned around and was now heading the wrong way down a one-way street back toward the alley.

Chapter 3
Ignoring the drama unfolding around him, Garland Daniels adjusted his bag for a more comfortable fit as he walked down Grant Street toward Broadway and his favorite video store. He breathed in the cool, damp air as he walked, making popping sounds with his mouth.
At that moment, his mobile phone rang. He pulled it out and looked at the incoming number. This time, he decided to answer.
“Hello. Yeah, I got your message. It took a little longer than I expected, but it’s all done. I’ve connected your server so that if there’s any network congestion, users will automatically switch to a different connection. Also, I added an extra gig of RAM and two 300-gig hard drives. That should handle any video uploads. I also removed two adware programs and some annoying viruses. Keep upgrading your system and call me if you suspect any security breaches. I’ve emailed you the invoice. Talk to you later.”
Garland was about to hang up. Instead, he dialed another number with a quick speed dial.
“Hey Suze. Yeah, I know. But it’s not too late. We can still catch a movie or do something. I just made a little extra cash. I want to celebrate. I’ll bring your favorite, some Thai food and a DVD. I’ll be there in half an hour. Great.”
Garland bit his lower lip and turned off the phone. Oh, Suzy, how lucky am I? I met her at the University of San Francisco. She was taking a weird psychology class, and we really hit it off. We started as friends, and then when Suzy’s boyfriend, a Berkeley grad, gave her a black eye, I was there to ease her pain. Garland knew she was completely out of his league in terms of looks, but his shortcomings were made up for by his wit and intelligence. Suzy admired his computer skills. In creative programming, he was a black belt. And that made her find him more attractive than any six-pack abs.
From the car, Floyd Harrison felt like the world was moving in slow motion. He remembered the instructions he’d gotten from his undercover days and the intel that helped him form this operation. He recalled what one of the agents had said—that it was ridiculous for two rival gangs to suddenly put decades of hostility aside and start doing business together. Maybe his informant was wrong. How reliable was a synthetic drug addict, really? Something bad was about to happen. Harrison could feel it. However, he was also sure that something even bigger was about to unfold, and that was the problem. Tonight, there would be an arrest.
He observed the black low-rider carefully as it slowly crawled down the road, still behind the pedestrian on the sidewalk. Maybe they were waiting until everything was confirmed. He could only hope so. He’d been in situations like this before, where everything fell apart because of an unpredictable cause. His confidence began to wane as questions spun in his head. What if this wasn’t a deal? What if this was a war?
Garland was thinking about which movie DVD to pick when he heard a car behind him. He stopped and turned toward the road, seeing the black car driving the wrong way down a one-way street.
“Hey,” Garland shouted. “You’re going the wrong way.”
The car slowed to about five miles per hour, and the black window slowly rolled down as the vehicle approached Garland, who was standing between the car and the alley.
“Grant Street’s a one-way street, this way,” Garland said, pointing north.
There was movement in the alley to his right that caught his attention. He turned back and saw eight figures emerging from the fog-covered alley, seemingly armed.
This is bad, Garland thought.
The market. Maybe he could make it to the market.
Harrison was reaching for the door handle when he saw a Latin man, wearing a checkered scarf around his neck, aiming an Uzi through the rear window of the low-rider.
“Oh no,” Harrison shouted as he jerked the door open.
“What’s going on?” the radio crackled.
“A civilian’s walking into the middle of them,” Harrison shouted.
“This is your case, you said so,” came the reply.
Harrison was about to intervene when he saw Garland turning and running into the Chinatown market. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and pulled his trembling hand away from the car door handle.
“Thank God. That guy’s going to make it into the market.”
As Garland made his way to the market, he saw a hand inside the window flip the “Open” sign to “Closed.”
He ran up to the door and shouted, “Hey. Open the door. Help me! Please! There’s an emergency!”
He looked through the window and saw someone at the far end of the market turning off the lights, walking toward the back, and closing the door.
“Hey!” Garland shouted while twisting the door handle, realizing it was locked. “No!”
Stepping back from the door, Garland felt his heart race. He quickly pulled out his phone. At that moment, he heard a series of metallic clicks. If he had more experience, he would have recognized the sound of guns being cocked.
Garland was lifting his phone when he saw Raymond Lee’s angry face emerge from the shadows of the alley.
“Oh my God!” Harrison shouted as he leaned forward to the car door.
“What’s going on?” came the voice from the radio.
“He’s stuck in the middle of them. I’m going in,” Harrison replied.
“This one’s yours, Harrison,” came the response.
Harrison clicked the safety off his Sig Sauer 9mm and stepped out of the car.
Garland slowly backed out of the alley and began dialing 911 on his phone, standing frozen between the assassins in the alley and the car on the street.
The barrels of three automatic rifles emerged from the fog, aimed at the car, as Harrison ran across the street. He first aimed his gun at the low-rider, then turned it toward the alley.
“Drop your weapons!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot!”
The gun barrels in the car shifted toward Harrison, and a shot rang out from the rear window of the low-rider. Harrison ducked as the bullet whizzed past his face, sending a gust of hot air across his cheek. He aimed and fired back at the car just as Garland, completely confused, stepped out of the line of fire between the people in the car and those in the alley, right into the path of Harrison and the low-rider.
Garland immediately ducked as he heard a gunshot from somewhere behind him. That was the last sound Garland heard before feeling a tremendous, burning force strike him in the back of the neck, slamming his face into the pavement. His fingers tightened around his phone as his hand slapped the sidewalk. A searing heat spread from his neck and into the back of his head. Then he felt nothing as the darkness enveloped him.

Chapter 4
The gunfire from the alley tore apart the side of the low-rider, shattering windows, puncturing tires, and eventually piercing the fuel tank, setting it ablaze. The doors on the other side of the car popped open, and several Latin gang members leapt into the street, taking cover behind nearby parked cars and returning fire.
Harrison ducked behind a parked taxi, crouching low as a bullet shattered the driver’s side window. Trembling, he spoke into his radio, “Move in! Now! Go! Go!”
The street was littered with fallen bullets as the gang members in the alley exchanged gunfire with those in the low-rider. Suddenly, headlights blazed, illuminating the entire street and the alley as DEA agents surrounded the two gangs.
“Drop your weapons. You’re surrounded,” an agent shouted through a loudspeaker.
The gang members responded with more gunfire, forcing the DEA agents to scramble for cover. Seizing the opportunity, the Latin gang members sprinted across the street, moving toward the opposite side of the alley.
Floyd Harrison remained crouched behind the taxi as bullets shattered the driver’s side window. Glass shards rained down on him like hail. He was about to stand up and return fire when he saw the street seemingly fill with bullets, like a swarm of killer bees.
Both gangs were using automatic weapons that sounded like M-16s and AK-47s. Harrison looked at his standard-issue 9mm and realized that he and the other agents were not equipped to handle firepower like this. The gang members were armed for battle, while he and his team were only armed with weapons suitable for target practice.
He gripped the radio tightly. “Hold your positions. Advancing now is suicide.”
In less than 60 seconds, the automatic weapons ran out of ammunition. Six members of the Latin gang, bleeding from mostly soft-tissue wounds, fled in different directions, leaving behind the low-rider, which was now just a smoldering shell.
Raymond Lee stepped out of the alley, loading a fresh magazine into his Uzi. He looked down at the sidewalk where Garland lay motionless in a pool of blood, still clutching his phone. The phone rang. Raymond knelt down and picked it up. He put it to his ear.
“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? You just called the emergency hotline. Please state your emergency,” a woman’s voice echoed.
Raymond shook his head, turned off the phone, shoved it into his pocket, and motioned for his men to slip into the fog of the alley, vanishing like shadows as the wail of police sirens grew louder.
“Move in! Move in!” Harrison shouted as he rushed out from behind the taxi. The first of seven police cars arrived as Harrison and six other agents moved toward the area in front of the Chinatown market. The air was thick with gunpowder smoke and fog. Thousands of spent shell casings littered the sidewalk and the asphalt.
Harrison saw that both gangs had disappeared. The low-rider was still smoldering. He holstered his gun, walked toward the young man lying in front of the Chinatown market, and hooked his badge onto his belt as the ambulance pulled up. Two paramedics jumped out and rushed toward Garland with a medical kit.
Harrison glanced down at Garland as one of the medics checked his pulse. He could see that a bullet had lodged in the back of the young man’s head.
“This guy’s still alive.”
“You’re not kidding,” Harrison said.
Harrison stood beside the paramedics as another DEA agent approached. “A simple drug exchange, huh?” the agent sneered, shaking his head as he walked away.
Other paramedics arrived and began treating Garland’s wounds. They then lifted him onto a stretcher and wheeled him to the back of the ambulance.
Floyd Harrison watched as the ambulance sped off down the street.
“Good luck, kid,” he whispered to himself.

Chapter 5
Dr. Carl Stumbaugh had been working for 35 straight hours since the gunshot victim was brought in. It was truly a miracle that he was still alive. A 9mm bullet had entered his neck and traveled up to the back of his head, lodging into the brainstem. This was going to be a difficult surgery on a good day. Dr. Stumbaugh entered the operating room, praying that the adrenaline would kick in at any moment now.
Two hours later, he had located the bullet. But now he was facing a dilemma. If he continued to try and remove the bullet, he would have to cut the patient’s spinal cord, which would leave him paralyzed. But if he didn’t remove it, the patient would definitely die. It was clear on his face that he was torn. He closed his eyes for a moment.
“Is everything okay?” a nurse asked.
“Sorry,” Dr. Stumbaugh said. “Am I ready?”
“Whenever you’re ready, doctor.”
When Garland opened his eyes, he thought he was in heaven. All he could see was white. But as he looked more closely, he noticed the small cracks and realized he wasn’t looking up at heaven but at a white ceiling.
The sound of a small motor came from his right, and he felt like he was being propped up.
At first, all he could see was where the ceiling met the walls, painted a pale green, then he saw someone at the end of the bed reading a chart.
A doctor. This must be a hospital.
Dr. Stumbaugh took his eyes off the chart at the foot of the bed and smiled at Garland.
“You’re awake,” the doctor said. “You might feel a little disoriented right now.”
“Am I in the hospital?”
“Yes,” Dr. Stumbaugh replied.
“Why can’t I feel anything?” Garland asked.
Dr. Stumbaugh moved to the head of the bed and pinched Garland’s cheek.
“Ouch!”
“Do you feel that?” Dr. Stumbaugh smiled.
Garland glared at the doctor. Who is this weird guy? he wondered.
“You’re hurting me,” Garland said, trying to move.
“Mr. Daniels, you’re very lucky to be alive.”
“Why can’t I move my body? Why can’t I feel anything from the neck down?”
“Unfortunately, in order to save your life, we had to make a sacrifice. It was a moment where we had to make a decision.”
“You made the decision.”
“Someone had to.”
“So you decided that being a vegetable was better than dying?”
“Mr. Daniels, our job is to save lives, by any means necessary. If someone has necrosis that could be fatal in their arm or leg, we remove the limb. You have a bullet lodged in your brainstem. If it shifted, it could have killed you. In order to remove the bullet, we had to cut your spinal cord. We chose to paralyze you rather than let you die.”
“You chose. I think I’d rather die.”
“It’s all been so sudden for you that it’s hard to accept. But with today’s techniques, you’ll be surprised at what you can still do without moving.”
At that moment, Garland noticed someone entering his room. He tried to look around the back of Dr. Stumbaugh, and the doctor sensed someone behind him and stepped aside.
Standing there was an Asian-American woman in her twenties with tear-filled eyes.
“Garland,” Suzy said, her face full of worry.
“I see you have a visitor,” Dr. Stumbaugh said. “I’ll check back later.”
As the doctor left the room, Suzy walked up to the bed.
“You heard, right?” Garland asked.
“Yes,” Suzy said, lowering her head. “Oh my God, Garland. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” Garland said, his face shifting from anger to sadness. A tear appeared in his left eye and began to roll down his cheek as Suzy sat down in the chair next to the bed and rested her head on his chest.
Unable to move, Garland stared up at the ceiling, his face filled with bitter, intense emotion.
“Suzy, I want you to do something for me.”
She looked up and smiled through her tears. “Anything, just tell me.”
“Pull the plug for me.”
“What?”
“I can’t live like this.”
“No.”
“Suzy, you’re the only one…”
“Please, don’t make me do that. Please don’t.” She stood up and stepped away from the bed.
“Don’t go.”
“Don’t make me do something like that. Never.”
“I’m sorry,” Garland said. “But I really need you to do something for me. I need my computer.”

Chapter 6
Paul Freeman knew that he was losing his ability to engage with them. Twenty-three faces looked up at him from the desks below, their eyes glazed over with boredom and indifference. Oh, he even felt bored with himself. He had seen this happen to other teachers—the feeling of frustration, when they had to go over the same lesson or example in class a billion times. You had to keep it fresh, or at least make it seem new, because the kids hadn’t heard it before.
At 40 years old, Paul had been teaching science at Kingsville High School in Kingsville, Texas for sixteen years. This was his first job after graduation. He had earned his master’s degree and enough credits for a PhD, but he still hadn’t chosen a suitable topic for his dissertation.
As he noticed half of his science class in the lower grade apparently nodding off, he realized it might be time to resume the work he had left unfinished. Unfortunately, he needed this job to pay the mortgage and the credit card bills his wife had racked up to improve their quality of life.
“Okay,” he said a little louder, startling many students awake. “Who can tell me how many types of energy there are?”
Paul began walking between the rows of desks, tapping a pencil lightly on one side of his head. “Anyone?” he asked.
Reluctantly, a few students raised their hands. Paul stopped walking and nodded toward a diligent-looking female student.
“Lucinda?”
“The textbook says there are seven types,” Lucinda said. “But I think the book is wrong. I mean, there could be, like, an infinite number of types of energy, right?”
Paul could barely make out her words as he was staring at another student wearing an unusual pair of glasses. Paul walked over to the student and, upon closer inspection, realized the glasses had attached headphones, and the glasses seemed to be connected to a small laptop, flashing a green light.
“An infinite number of types of energy? Interesting,” Paul said as he tugged the headphone cord from the laptop and removed the glasses from the student’s head. “What do you think, Bo?”
“Uh… uh,” Bo said. “What was the question again, Mr. Freeman?”
“What are you doing?”
Paul examined the glasses and looked at the screen. On the screen, he saw the text: “Cybersona, if you can imagine it, we can create it.”
“This is a cool toy, Mr. Freeman,” Bo said. “It has artificial intelligence, so you can create your own characters. And you can…”
“Turn it off, Bo.”
Bo turned off the laptop. “Can I have the glasses back?”
“I’m confiscating this,” Paul said as he walked to the front of the class with the glasses.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Freeman.”
Paul examined the glasses. “Virtual reality glasses?”
“Yes,” Bo said. “Sometimes I forget I’m wearing them.”
Paul put the glasses in the drawer of his desk. “Problem solved.”
“I have another one,” Bo said.
“Then don’t wear it in class,” Paul said. “Alright. Everyone, take out a piece of paper. I want you to write down as many types of energy as you can think of. The one who writes the most will automatically receive an A for the upcoming test.”
The class practically moved in unison and started writing.
“I think we’ve just witnessed a new type of energy. Motivation.”
As the students wrote down their lists, Paul noticed movement outside the classroom door. He stepped out into the hallway and saw the principal standing just outside.
“Dr. Rathbone,” Paul said. “Would you like to come in?”
“I need to talk to you. But I can wait until after class.”
“This sounds serious. Maybe you should tell me now.”
Paul stepped into the hallway with the principal.
“I just received a decision from the school board,” Dr. Rathbone said. “Our funding has been cut. So, we can wait until after class to talk about it.”
“What does this mean? Funding cut?”
“I’m afraid we have to let some teachers go. Right now, I’m afraid it’s you. We’ll be combining your class with Ms. Hosteller’s.”
“You’re not firing Ms. Hosteller, are you?”
“Ah—no. This isn’t firing, Paul. It’s downsizing.”
“But she’s been working here for twenty years.”
“Yeah, Paul. She won’t be going anywhere.”
“Good.”
“It’s you.”
“You must be joking.”
“I’m sorry. Look, your class is almost over. Go ahead and finish teaching. I’ll be back after the students leave at 3:00.”
Paul felt deflated and demoralized, like a man who had lost his spark, as he returned to the classroom. Thankfully, none of the students noticed the change in his demeanor; he tried to walk to his desk and placed his hands on the desk. Leaning against it, he looked up and saw a student, a girl sitting in the front row, looking at him.
“Are you okay, Mr. Freeman?” she asked.
Just then, the bell rang.
As the students cleaned off their desks and handed in their energy lists, Paul raised his hand.
“Before you go, I want to make an announcement.”
The students stopped and looked up at him.
“This is the last time I’ll be teaching such wonderful students here. I’ve been downsized.”
Most of the students just stared at him, motionless. But one boy in the back raised his hand.
“Yes, Steven?”
“Does this mean no test next week?”
The bell for the next period rang before Paul could answer.
For Paul, the rest of the day passed in a blur. If anyone asked him to recall a lesson from the last two classes of the afternoon, he wouldn’t be able to remember. All he could think about was how he had been fired. Fired! After sixteen years of showing up every day at this school and teaching in this classroom, they no longer needed him. Thanks a lot.
When the clock on the wall struck 3:00, and the final bell of the day rang, signaling the end of his last class, Paul Freeman sat down behind his desk for what would probably be the last time, the desk that had perhaps become his home.
He started to remember the early days of teaching, but that thought was abruptly interrupted as, the moment the last student left, Dr. Rathbone returned.
“Back to escort me out?” Paul asked. “Where’s the security?”
“That’s not necessary, is it?”
Paul quickly scribbled something on a scrap of paper on the desk, folded it, then began pulling open the drawers and putting everything into a large shopping bag.
“I never pictured this happening. Sixteen years,” Paul said.
“What did you say?” Dr. Rathbone asked.
“I’ve been teaching here for sixteen years. This is the only job I’ve ever had.”
“This isn’t my decision, Paul. The board voted.”
“Spare me. You’ve been waiting for this ever since you were promoted to principal. You’ve never liked me. I know that.”
“You can’t take this personally,” Dr. Rathbone said. “The entire state education system is being affected by downsizing. If you want to place blame, blame the economy.”
Paul had finished cleaning off his desk, stood up, grabbed the shopping bag and briefcase, and started walking toward the door.
“Sixteen years,” Dr. Rathbone said. “I’m sure you’ll get a nice severance package.”
Paul stopped at the door. He turned back and opened his mouth to say something but then stopped and walked out.
“I guess so,” Dr. Rathbone muttered to himself. Then he looked down at the desk and saw a scrap of paper with his name on it. He reached for it, opened it, and read.
A short note read:
“If there are those who cannot
Teach,
It seems to make sense
That those who cannot teach,
Become principals.”
The school parking lot was quickly cleared of students and teachers as Paul walked to his old 1994 Acura Legend. He opened the driver’s side door and tossed his briefcase and shopping bag onto the passenger seat. As he did, he realized his carelessness when the bag tipped over and spilled everything onto the car floor.
“Not my lucky day,” Paul muttered as he bent down to start putting everything back into the bag. He got halfway through before picking up the confiscated virtual reality glasses. He was about to take them out of the car when he remembered the student’s words: “I have another one.”
Paul really didn’t want to go back into the school. He looked at the glasses, shrugged, and put them back into the shopping bag.

Chapter 7
Kingsville, Texas was a vast area of less than two miles, so Paul didn’t take long to drive from the school to his house. As he turned onto the side road leading to his home, he frowned when he saw a white truck parked at the entrance, blocking the way into his garage. He turned off the engine, got out of the car, and walked toward the garage, which had its door open.
“A-One Plumbing” was printed on the side of the truck.
“I thought the pipes had just been inspected,” Paul thought as he walked into the garage and approached the door leading into the house. He looked into a small room separated from the garage where the water treatment equipment was located. The room was empty.
He continued into the laundry room and climbed the stairs into the kitchen.
Paul and his wife, Denise, had bought a two-story farmhouse because of its proximity to the school, rather than for its architecture, which Denise despised.
She hated the split-level design, saying it forced her to decide whether to go up or down the stairs whenever she wanted to enter the house. Paul never minded this because he always entered through the garage, which was always on the lower level, so there was no decision to be made.
As Paul entered the kitchen, he expected to see the plumber inspecting the pipes at the sink with his chemicals. But the kitchen was empty.
At that moment, he heard laughter and the sound of someone doing something.
Maybe there’s a problem in the bathroom, he thought as he walked down the hallway toward the noise.
The sound was coming from the master bedroom, where the attached bathroom was.
The door was only slightly ajar when he opened it wide. Paul stepped into the bedroom and saw his wife and a man, naked, tangled together in the large bed they shared, their legs entwined, moaning.
A heavy weight seemed to crush Paul’s shoulders as he backed away from the door and leaned against the hallway wall.
“Denise!” Paul shouted.
Denise opened her eyes and looked confused. That’s when she realized the bedroom door was wide open. Paul had come home and caught her. She slid out from under the man.
“Hey,” he said.
“Get dressed. Hurry. My husband’s home.”
“Does he have a gun?”
Denise put on her nightgown. “Put your clothes on, okay? I’ll handle my husband.”
She stepped out of the bedroom and into the hallway, which was now empty. She heard sounds coming from the kitchen.
“Paul?” she called, taking a deep breath as she walked into the kitchen.
Paul was sitting at the table, drinking a can of beer when she entered, and he looked up. “How’s the plumber doing?”
“Don’t make trouble. I thought you were supposed to be at detention,” Denise said. “I didn’t think you’d be home before five.”
“I got fired.”
“I got choked.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Right,” Denise said. “I’m sorry.” She reached out her hand to him, but he pulled away. “Don’t you think we should talk about this?”
“What’s there to talk about? I’m going to pack my stuff,” Paul said.
“No. No. I’ll leave,” Denise insisted. “I’ve been thinking about leaving recently.”
“You really picked the right time, as always.”
At that moment, the plumber, now in his A-One Plumbing jumpsuit, walked into the kitchen door, looking awkward.
Paul and Denise looked at him. “What’s going on?” they both asked.
“Uh…”
“I think you should leave,” Paul said. “Right now!”
“I’m going,” he said. “Sure, but you’re blocking the way. You have to move your car.”
Two days and nights had passed since Denise left, and Paul still wasn’t sure which bothered him more: losing his job or losing his wife. Two blows in quick succession. And he was still reeling. He knew the marriage had been in trouble when he didn’t get a raise and his wife decided to go on a two-week vacation with her friends instead of with him.
He also suspected his wife was cheating, but he had no proof, other than the fact that she no longer slept with him.
Since she left, Paul had mostly stayed in his own room, which he considered his workspace. He sat there in front of his screen, browsing the internet, looking for help and who knows what else—wandering from one website to another, stopping at any page that caught his attention.
What he did was type some headlines into search engines like Yahoo!® or Google™ and he was off. He wasn’t sure how he found Cybersona or even which keyword led him there. He remembered a student mentioning it. The student with the virtual reality glasses. As soon as Paul entered that site, he knew he had found something wonderful. And once he was in, he couldn’t pull himself away.
Basically, Cybersona was a more complex version of SimCity™, an online game that millions of people had played.
But this game was different. Not only did you create an avatar, but you also had to create other characters and environments and then interact with them.
And when he used the confiscated virtual reality glasses, the experience was even more immersive.
Paul finished another can of beer and returned to the unfinished task. He was drunk. He would admit that if anyone asked. But there was no one but Paul, the cat, and his computer.
There was a woman’s picture on the screen, and she looked like Denise. Except there was a false, unfamiliar air about her, nothing like the real person.
“Denise,” Paul said. “You’ve disappointed me. Really disappointed me.”
“What can I do to change your mind, Paul?” the woman on the screen responded.
“The problem is, Denise. I don’t know anymore. I just know you’re not the same. Something is missing.”
Scattered around the computer desk were real photos of Denise, some from the time when Paul and Denise were happy together. One of the larger photos was on the scanner.
“To add or remove personality traits, just press shift control and click the appropriate option,” the woman’s voice instructed.
Paul pressed shift control. The picture on the screen changed, and the word “Cybersona” appeared in the corner of the screen with a selection box underneath.
“To change appearance traits, press 1,” the woman’s voice ordered. “To change personality traits, press 2.”
Paul pressed 2.
“You’ve entered the Cybersona personality database. You can type or say the personality traits you want to add. You can choose from our general traits or create your own.”
Paul typed “c-o-n-d-i-e-m.”
“Sorry. We didn’t find this personality trait,” the computer replied.
“None?” Paul said. “How about the selfish bitch?”

Chapter 8
Garland hated the feeling of helplessness. He was completely dependent on the nurses and orderlies for almost everything. They fed him, bathed him, and massaged him. It had only been a week, and he was about to go insane. Even when he slept, he dreamt that he could still walk and run.
He remembered watching a movie, The Sea Inside, with Suzy, and how they both cried at the end when the main character, a quadriplegic, received small doses of poison from ten friends so none of them would be prosecuted for assisting in his suicide. Garland didn’t have ten friends. He was stuck, and if it weren’t for Cybersona, he might have gone mad.
This online game had become his lifeline. He still needed the nurse to put the virtual reality glasses on him, but he had installed voice recognition software on the laptop that allowed him to control the keyboard and mouse with his voice.
However, there was one thing that this game couldn’t fill—the growing rage he felt towards those responsible for pushing him into this hellish life, this prison.
Still, he could escape some of his despair in Cybersona, which is what he was doing today, as the afternoon nurse came by to check on him.
Garland was half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, wearing the virtual reality glasses, and connected to a large laptop.
He was so absorbed in what was on the screen that when the nurse approached his bed and began taking his pulse, she glanced at the screen and saw a scene of brutal destruction.
A street burned down, still smoldering after a bomb explosion. Bloodied bodies scattered everywhere. A gang, seemingly Asian, appeared at the end of the smoke-filled street. They were all heavily armed.
“Rocket launcher,” Garland said.
“Huh?” the nurse said.
A character appeared on the screen. As the nurse looked closer, she saw the resemblance between the face on the screen and the young man lying in the bed. The character in the game carried a weapon on his shoulder. It was aimed at the gang.
“Fire!” Garland shouted, startling the nurse.
The character Garland on the screen shot at the gang, blowing them into pieces.
The nurse’s eyes widened, and her face showed revulsion at the bloody scene on the screen.
“That’s sick,” she said.
Garland turned towards her. “I feel better,” he said.
“Really?” the nurse said. “You made me lose count.” She placed her finger on Garland’s neck and began counting. She looked up at the wall clock. She paused and wrote something in her notebook.
Garland turned back to the screen.
“Flamethrower.”
A flamethrower appeared in the character Garland’s hands.
“Fire.”
A burst of flame shot out, burning everything and anyone in its path. The nurse shook her head.
“Feeling better?” she asked as she removed the glasses.
“Feeling better? I can’t feel anything, remember?”
“Drink this,” she ordered and attached a straw to his mouth.
Garland sipped through the straw, glancing at the nurse.
The nurse turned to the computer screen and looked at the character Garland, still standing, awaiting his next command. Suddenly, the character began moving on its own and reloaded its weapon. It then turned towards the screen and smiled.
“How are you doing today?” the character Garland asked.
The nurse jumped back, her eyes wide.
“Oh!” She then looked at Garland, who was sipping through the straw. She turned back to the screen. The character Garland pointed a gun at her.
“What do you want?” the character in the game asked.
This caused the nurse to step back, clutching her chest.
“What kind of game is this?” she asked.
“Interesting, right?” Garland said. “This is Cybersona. It uses artificial intelligence and virtual reality. I’ve been playing it since it became an online game.”
“That’s you in there, right?” the nurse asked. “That little guy.”
“That’s my virtual avatar. This little guy is my salvation.”
“How’s that?”
“You see, with this game, I can move again. I can do anything I used to do and more. Put the glasses on me, and you’ll see.”
The nurse placed the virtual reality glasses back on his head, adjusting them for him. Garland adjusted the small microphone attached to his hospital gown.
“Use superpowers to obliterate that apartment complex.”
The character Garland looked at an apartment building. As he gazed at it, the bricks and walls began to tremble and crack. The wooden beams started to catch fire. Slowly, the building began to collapse.
“You have superpowers and stuff like that, huh?” the nurse said. “Like a superhero.”
“I have powers that superheroes haven’t even dreamed of,” Garland said. “In fact, there’s one power I’ve been developing for a while, and if it works, it will change everything.”
“Really? What are you going to do with those superpowers?” the nurse asked.
Garland looked at the screen.
“To fix everything.”
“Good luck,” the nurse said as she turned to leave the room. At that moment, she noticed a newspaper on the table next to the bed. The headline on the first page read: “Undercover Agent Accidentally Shoots Civilian.”
Underneath, the text read: “Sources close to the investigation have revealed that a DEA agent present at the scene of the gang shootout last week was responsible for firing the shot that paralyzed a civilian…”
Another headline read: “Undercover Agent Uninvolved in the Misconduct During the Shootout.”
The nurse glanced back at Garland, who had returned to his virtual world and was playing his game.
“Hey,” the nurse said. “What happened to that cute girl who used to come and visit?”
Garland continued playing while speaking.
“I’m afraid she realized what life with a completely useless guy would be like, so she ran as fast as she could. What do you think?”
Unable to answer, the nurse just shook her head and left the room.

Chapter 9
If it weren’t for his regular therapy appointment at three o’clock, Paul probably would still be in his room sitting in front of his computer. He had considered calling in to say he couldn’t make it, but the anxiety buried deep within his overactive nervous system urged him to go out and get some fresh air.
Paul had been seeing Dr. Faulkner for about a year now, ever since his wife first threatened to leave if he didn’t do something about his depression. Today, he was eager to tell the doctor that he felt much better after losing both his wife and his job.
“I want a refund,” he said as he walked into the office that Dr. Faulkner shared with two other therapists at the Kingsville Therapy Center.
Dr. Faulkner stroked his beard and smiled. Clearly, he had heard this before. “It takes time to change a harmful lifestyle.”
“Oh really? Well, I don’t think I can stand any more self-improvement techniques, Doctor.”
“You seem tired. Have you been sleeping?”
“Sleeping? I don’t know. I think so.”
“What have you been doing since you lost your job?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with what?”
“Well, I’ve been online a little.”
“Looking for a job?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“A game.”
“A game? Like a video game?”
“Something like that. But a lot better.”
“What makes it so great?”
“It’s not just a game. It’s like real life, but I control it. Actually, it’s better than that because I can remake my life the way I want it,” Paul said.
“Sounds like you’re playing God,” Dr. Faulkner replied.
“But without the responsibility.”
“How does the game work?” Dr. Faulkner asked.
“It uses a very advanced artificial intelligence program and some really great graphics. So if you play it with virtual reality glasses, it’s like you’re really inside the game.”
“How long have you been playing this game?”
“I don’t know. I never really kept track.”
“An hour? Two hours?”
“More.”
“More? How much more?”
“All the time.”
“All the time? What do you mean by that?”
“I, uh, I play all the time.”
“Paul. It seems like you’re addicted to it.”
“Maybe. But I’m not depressed anymore.”
“What do you do in the game?”
“Anything you want. That’s what makes it great. You can play all sorts of games. You can even create your own rules and characters. Then it’s the artificial intelligence’s turn. It lets you create a virtual avatar, called a Virtual, based on your own personality. You can even add extra traits like super intelligence or high pain tolerance. You can even have supernatural abilities. In Cybersona, their slogan is ‘If you can imagine it, we can create it.’ In Cybersona, you can actually become the person you want to be.”
“I like this game, Doctor. I really do. It makes me forget that I’m alone and unemployed. I get to unlock my imagination and create landscapes, characters, and conflicts that only existed in my mind before. Let me put it this way, Doctor: this is therapy for me right now.”
As soon as he got home, Paul microwaved a pepperoni pizza and logged back into the internet.
“Welcome to Cybersona,” a woman’s voice said as he clicked onto the website.
“Let’s see,” Paul mumbled. “Where am I here?”
He moved the mouse across the screen and clicked on the context section.
Paul pushed the virtual reality glasses onto his eyes and stepped into the three-dimensional world of cyberspace.
The context Paul just selected turned out to be a ruined school. The classroom was ransacked, walls were smoking, and windows were shattered.
The hallway was occupied by armed gangs equipped with the latest weaponry. One of them ran into Paul.
“Hey, the superhero teacher. Tell me, don’t you know it’s dangerous out here? Especially for teachers?” the thug said as he raised his gun to shoot.
But before he could pull the trigger, an arm reached out and grabbed the gun.
The arm, clearly connected to Paul, slammed the gun into a row of lockers.
“Are you a student here?” an avatar resembling Paul asked. “Show me your hall pass.”
Instead of responding, the thug ran off as another, larger and more dangerous-looking intruder appeared.
“This school’s closed, teacher. Time to go home,” the intruder ordered, pulling out a massive sword from its sheath. He began demonstrating his sword skills.
Unflinchingly, the avatar of Paul pulled out a pen and clicked it, revealing the pen’s tip to write.
The intruder smiled and swung his sword at the pen. The moment it touched the pen, the sword snapped in half.
He gasped.
“If you had paid attention, you’d have known that this was on the test,” Paul said, “that the pen is mightier than the sword.”
The intruder fled down the hallway, now full of smiling, happy students.
“Thank you, Mr. Superhero Teacher!” one student said.
“You’re the best teacher,” another said.
“Now we can go back to class and learn something,” a third added.
Paul heard the microwave beep, so he took off his glasses and went to the kitchen to get his pizza.
When he returned to the computer, he saw he had received an instant message. He didn’t recognize the sender and usually didn’t accept messages from strangers, but this was the first message he had received all week, so he accepted it.
The message was from someone named Garland.
“I see you’re playing Cybersona. It’s great, right?”
Paul replied,
“Yeah. How do you know I’m playing?”
“They just added a new feature that lets you play with others online.”
“Really? That’s awesome,” Paul typed back.
“So I was wondering if you want to play a game with me?”
Paul had been thinking about this. The game was starting to feel a little boring.
Paul typed back, “I’ll play. How do we do it?”
An immediate reply appeared.
“Just follow me. Log out now.”
“Why?”
“I’ll go into the game first and leave the door open,” the message read. “Once I’m done, I’ll let you know. Then you can join.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. This way, we can play together. I’ll be back. Garland.”

Chapter 10
About 1,500 miles away, in a room at San Francisco Hospital, a smile appeared on Garland Daniels’ face. It was the first time he had smiled since he had been shot.
Scattered around the room were newspapers open to articles about a drug enforcement undercover cop who had been at the scene of the shootout. A headline read, “Agent Should Have Warned the Shooting Victim, But Stayed Silent to Protect the Ambush.” Other headlines discussed the rise of violent gangs and showed pictures of the leaders of the two gangs involved in the shootout, which left an innocent civilian paralyzed.
“Cybersona,” Garland said into the microphone connected to his computer.
“Welcome to Cybersona,” a female voice in the computer replied. “If you can imagine it, we can create it.”
“Garland Daniels. Log in.”
The virtual avatar of Garland appeared on the screen. It was a modified version of Garland, with a muscular, nearly perfect physique. The virtual Garland smiled in the computer. “Ready for some superpowers,” the image of Garland said.
“Add new superpower – enter,” Garland spoke into the microphone.
“Please note that this superpower has not been tested,” the virtual Garland said.
“Please note that in order to allow Cybersona to use this superpower, the entity possessing it must be notified. The use of unauthorized superpowers will result in immediate expulsion from Cybersona. Do you understand this?”
“Understood,” Garland replied into the microphone.
“Very well,” the virtual Garland answered. “We are ready to upgrade your superpowers.”
Back in Kingsville, Texas, Paul rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He looked out the window and saw the night outside. Where had the day gone?
“How did I get here?” he wondered.
The kitten jumped onto his lap and rubbed its head against Paul’s chest.
“Do you want to play too?” Paul asked the cat. “I think I’m losing. This might be a bad idea.”
The cat purred and nuzzled its head into Paul’s chin.
“What? You want more food? Fine. Let me tell you…”
But before Paul could send the message, an instant message popped up.
“Alright, Paul. We’re all ready. Put on the glasses and log in to be the next player online. Hurry up!”
“Looks like dinner will have to wait.”
Paul put on the glasses and typed on the keyboard. His Cybersona avatar appeared on the screen with a clean-shaven face and a confident look. Next to him was another avatar. It looked much younger than Paul and had a better physique.
“Welcome back, Paul,” the virtual Paul said. “I see we’re playing with another friend named Garland. Do you agree?”
Paul typed “yes.”
“Great. Let’s continue,” the virtual Paul said. “Do you want to add or remove any appearance traits or superpowers?”
Paul typed in his usual superpowers: quick reflexes, extreme intelligence, and irresistible charm.
“Perfect,” the virtual Paul said. “Before we begin, Garland suggested a superpower he just thought of called ‘merge.’ Since this is an interactive superpower and will affect your character, he needs your consent before proceeding. Do you agree?”
Paul thought for a moment. Then he typed into the computer, “As long as I can use that superpower too.”
“Let me ask,” the virtual Paul said, turning to the other virtual character, Garland. “Can Paul share the ‘merge’ power?”
The virtual Garland turned toward the screen and looked at Paul. A faint but noticeable smile appeared on his lips. “Go ahead,” he said.
“Great,” the virtual Paul said. “Let’s start the game.”
“Nothing’s happening,” Paul said to the cat. “Push,” he muttered to himself. “What kind of superpower is ‘merge’? Why not call it ‘crawl’?”
In his hospital room, Garland looked down at the newspaper headlines scattered beside his bed and took a deep breath. “It’s time to fix things.”
He turned back to the screen, now displaying two portraits: virtual Garland and virtual Paul.
In the top-left corner of the screen, a command selection menu appeared. The first option was labeled “create context.”
“Since this is the first time we’re playing together,” virtual Garland said, “let me choose the first context, and then you can decide the next one. I really like San Francisco. Let’s play there.”
“I’d like to visit San Francisco too.”
Behind the character images, the San Francisco cityscape appeared on both Garland’s and Paul’s screens.
“What’s the goal of this game?” virtual Paul asked.
“Survive,” Garland said.
“So, we’re going to try to kill each other, right?” Paul asked.
“Mainly, yes,” Garland said. “Does that work?”
“Why not?” Paul said.
“Yeah. Why not? Can we start now?”
“I’ve got one more question. What’s so special about the ‘merge’ superpower?”
“Let me show you,” virtual Garland said, as it grabbed virtual Paul by the shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. “Merge!”
In his private room, Paul adjusted the virtual reality glasses and prepared for the duel. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got…”
Suddenly, a blinding light shot out of the glasses, seemingly rushing into his eyes. The light tore through his retina, the dazzling rays flooding his pupils, and a warmth surged into his spinal cord, spreading throughout his brain.
Paul sat motionless in front of the screen, his vision blinded by the light that filled the room for a few seconds before returning to normal.
“Ah!” he exclaimed as he slowly stood up and removed the glasses. He looked down at his body as if seeing it for the first time. He admired his hands, then his face, feeling his upper body.
“I can feel it,” he said. “It worked.”
Initially awkward, he slowly rose from the chair, making popping sounds like Garland often did. Then, he stood fully, saying, “I’m standing.”
The cat ran into the room, looked up, and hissed, arching its back as if a stranger had entered. Someone was taking over its owner’s body. He looked down at the cat with a cold, indifferent gaze.
“Don’t mess with me,” he said.
The cat darted out of the room.
He turned back to the screen and saw the image of virtual Paul, now with a worried expression. “Should we start now?” virtual Paul asked.

Chapter 11
The virtual Paul turned to virtual Garland, who now appeared to have fallen asleep.
“Hey. Wake up! What’s going on?” virtual Paul said. “Garland? What are we supposed to do here? Your character seems to have passed out.”
There was no response. “Alright,” virtual Paul said. “Did you use your ‘merge’ ability? No words, huh? Fine. I’ll push you.”
Virtual Paul stepped forward and shoved virtual Garland, causing it to fall backward.
“Oh, come on.”
Virtual Paul knelt down and shook his opponent. “Hello? Is anyone in there?”
Meanwhile, Garland had regained better control over Paul’s body. He stood up from the desk and slowly walked toward the bathroom, as though he was relearning how to walk. He stopped in front of the mirror to examine his appearance.
“Hmmm. Looking good,” Paul/Garland said. “A little older than I thought. But I can work with it.”
He started observing the reflection in the mirror, studying the face that stared back at him. There was a clear shift in the expression that Paul usually wore. The previously indifferent and easygoing face was now replaced by eyes filled with anger and a face that reflected bitterness and rage. There was an intensity in his gaze that had never been there before.
He cracked his neck back and forth, mimicking Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.
“You talking to me?” Paul/Garland imitated.
Something had definitely changed. This was no longer Paul Freeman, sitting in front of the screen playing games earlier today. The body and face were Paul’s, but the person inside was completely different.
“To the body of Paul Freeman. Meet the mind of Garland Daniels.” The virtual Paul/Garland spun around and smirked.
“If you’re not talking to me, who are you talking to?” He continued the De Niro impersonation.
The virtual Paul/Garland bit his lower lip, just like Garland often did.
“Wait,” Paul/Garland said to himself in the mirror. “There’s more. I’ve got some tricks.”
Paul/Garland turned away from the mirror and stared intently at the shower curtain. A burst of hot energy shot from his eyes like a laser beam, and the curtain caught fire.
“Ha!” Paul/Garland shouted as he jumped back from the flame. The smoke alarm suddenly went off with a piercing sound.
“Oh, man.” He rushed into the bathroom, turned on the water, and sprayed the burning curtain with the showerhead.
“Ugh, it smells awful,” he said as the flames were put out. He then stepped into the hallway to reset the smoke alarm.
“This is going to be fun,” Paul/Garland said as he tore the burned curtain down from the bathroom and stuffed it into the trash can. Suddenly, a strange feeling passed through his mind.
“Ah,” he explained. “Precognition? I can predict the future. Someone, I believe, is about to ring the doorbell.”
A moment later, the doorbell rang.

Continue part 2