By M.R Mills

The graphics of the landscape shimmered under the glow of the artificial sun. John Barnes smiled to himself. A change of scenery to one of StarTube's "outside" locations gave his viewers a fresh taste for his show. While he checked the camera's settings, John flexed his avatar's rigging. Spot on. His sponsor's logo adorned his chest though from his angle, he couldn't tell which. Truth be told, they all blurred into one. Once the camera knew its job, a large semi circle showed its view, giving both the smaller screen for footage and the artificial garden an equal amount of attention. His script appeared promptly out of shot next to the camera. John scrolled through it.

'Shadow Gospel, good they always give me a good contract.' John caught himself. 'Plus its my favourite free to play game.'

Luckily not a single unexpected user wandered in to the garden. He sighed with relief. Hearsay spawned from the tiniest slip up and hearsay could destroy a career long before proof could raise its hand. John pushed the worry aside, casing his avatar in its usual bubbly glee as he got into position. The camera eye tracked his movement, blinking and purring like an animal. John shivered. He'd never thought the "cute" idle actions deserved the praise they frequently got but you didn't have a show like his to express contrary opinions. The camera awaited his signal.

John couldn't give it. He knew he had to, could envision himself in an editing chamber with the completed footage later, with a list of his patrons engrained in his mind, but he kept silent like the garden itself. For once, the unsettling churning in the pit of his stomach won out against the distraction that was the StarTube Cyberspace. The bushes that ran along the tops of the fence bordering the garden popped enough for someone to try and pluck a single leaf. All they would do would be to smudge the bush texture.

John imagined a prying avatar's eyes shooting up from behind them. He couldn't afford to not put on a show. John quickly shook it off, running on the spot to get going. Nothing. He chuckled as he remembered where his actual body lay.

'Action in ten,' he declared to the camera. A countdown appeared above the eye, each digit dissolving into the next, growing smaller and smaller while John's opening danced on the tip of his tongue ready.

3.2.1. Action.

'Hello everybody, I'm Johnny Boi. Thanks for stopping by.' They're counting on you. 'Today I wanted to dive into a game series the classics call classic.' Don't let them down, they made you who you are. 'Starting all the way back in the 16bit era, I'm bringing you a look at the Lucky Lee the Rabbit franchise.' I must keep going. I can't let them see me falter.

Darkness slammed down on John. The hum of connection stopped, only without it did John realise how long and loud it had been. He tried to feel the imprint of the garden under his steps but an ache shot up his legs. John lifted his hand, his real hand, to his face. The visor still stayed warmly on his head but without sight nor sound of the online world. As he moved, the nerve patches on his limbs itched.

'Connect.'

Nothing

He tapped the visor. 'Please connect?'

Only his own breathing could be heard. John closed his eyes tight ready for a light to pierce through his window as he removed his webset, taking strands of hair with it. He chanced a peak at his room. When that didn't hurt he opened his eyes fully to see the night engulfed house. His visor now sat alone on his bed, naked without its wearer. He ran his fingers over the groove in his skull where it once rested.

Ache still rippled throughout his body. A dull pain began to peel at the back of his head as he stood on throbbing legs. A fragile silhouette peaked back at him on the old monitor atop his desk, its frame still adorned with stickers from back when schools had real buildings to go to. He reached out to the screen with a near skeletal arm. In the corner of the reflection, a speck of light crept in. He turned around to find it lapping at his door frame.

When he opened it, soft light welcomed him, gracing the corridor from a lamp fixed to the wall just at the top of the stairs. John knew the bathroom opposite and still had enough "Better than food" pills in his room to make sure the rest of the house didn't need to see him but the stairs called him forward, a chatter rising from the bottom. Dreamlike memories flittered past him, smaller days when the monitor in his room sat on his desk, fit more for reflecting him practising for shows for no one in particular, a small host for the world. The steps, once so strong, seemed fragile with each step John took. His steps sent a creak cascading slowly down the stairs like an intimate thunder strike caught in eternity, low and slow. The chatter quietened for a moment. John froze in his tracks. He deflated as the chatter rose once more. Once he got to the bottom, the creak dissolved into little more than an old quiet friend, their majesty lost in memories of using it as a stage for his parents.

Faded pictures of his family looked down from above the back door. He stroked the frame of the nearest one. John ran his fingers across the glass, hearing it jangle under his touch like no texture could online. With time the online world changed. A week may have a year's worth of advancement for his show but the house aged like a mountain with dust instead of snow covering its features. A creak of the floorboards now sounded the same as when he eagerly rushed through the house for school, keen to show his friends his latest idea.

Friends.

Unspoken friendship, ones without a request to click or history to scan seemed alien to John. He searched the photos for any of him at school. Nothing. All the photos at the bottom of the stairs held the same combination of a younger him and his parents.

This time when the chatter stopped he turned around. Illuminated by the T.V, his mother stood in the doorway. Age drained much of the youth from the photos, turning the bright smile as monochrome as her hair. She reached out to John, mouthing his name with dry lips.

'Hi, mum.' He took her trembling hand. 'How are you?'

She turned quickly back to the front room. 'Gregory, John is out his room!'

'He's not a hermit, Julie. Probably after a cup of tea. You can't get a decent one of those online, I'll tell you that.'

John's mum hugged him with more strength than John imagined she had left. 'It's been a while since we had some nice family time. We could watch something after the news. I bet that will make a change for you, watching instead of performing.' She patted his head before wandering back through the front room only to be enticed to stop by the scattered images on the T.V.

His dad moved his feet from the sofa, gesturing for his son to take a seat. John moved to the spot but kept his attention on his mother, entranced by a table of older people talking in front of a distorted image of a content creator John couldn't quite name. He imagined their voice. In fact, he replayed that voice over and over again trying to place them, to match them. The discussion threw around words like "agenda" like the punchline to a twisted joke.

'Kids aren't paying attention to the world, they are being radicalised by online forums while focussing on who can be the most offended.'

John shrugged it off. He scratched the pillow, absorbing the sound it made. A crispness came from it. His dad lowered the a mug down to him. John took it like an alien artefact taking in the heat on his fingertips for as long as they could handle them.

'Thanks, dad.'

'No worries.' He peered back at the screen and scoffed. 'As if talking about it will actually do anything.'

His mum stepped back until she lowered herself back down on the sofa. John took a backseat to the siren call of stoked outrage as the screen cut to people on the street vilifying content creators for their dark imagined purpose. He said nothing. John took in their words and sighed.

'Why do you do it?' His father's grim mutter drained the colour from John's expression. 'Why do you go online.'

John shrugged. 'Why do painters paint?'

'Art?' His father made sure his mother kept her attention on the tv. 'What do you make of this stuff?'

'There has to be more going on than just what we are up to online.'

His dad took a sip of his mug. 'Who knows. It's best not to go outside, just complicates matters.'

'Not even to the pub?' John waited for his dad's chesty laugh. His dad stood up, his arms struggling to lift his wait while taking the wind out of him. 'Dad?'

'I'll be honest, bud. There's not much actually open. You do however make a good argument, you still drink cider?'

John downed the rest of his tea, taking the heat with renewed vigour. 'People are allowed to go out, aren't they?'

His dad scoffed. 'There's no law against it if that's what you mean-'

'It's not safe.' John mother shot to her feet while adverts filled the T.V. 'You never know who is out to get you.'

'Who is out to get you?'

'The news said that the rate of deaths in young people has started to outnumber deaths in the elderly.'

His dad raised an eyebrow. 'I'm sure that was just a speaker wasn't it?'

'It's better not to risk it.'

John caught the conversation continuing as the focus drifted from his presence to who exactly was the cause of unease outside. His parents batted around theories, his father's usually spaced between sips of beer. The clatter of the fridge for another drink disguised the creak of the door as John peered out into the world. Night clung to the outside. Despite the city lights seeping into the sky, a gentle dark wrapped around the houses, only batted away by the sickly dim street lamps a century out of touch with the rest of the street. They flickered above the torn roads. John wandered to the steps of his house and took a sit. A breeze greeted him as an old friend. It carried a crumbled page of a newspaper past his home along with other wrappers battered by the elements. The familiar view of his home, still ever present in memory, felt unreal or simply a front for something lurking beyond the wilting trees that rose from other gardens.

'John!''

He turned to see his mother stood panting in the doorway. His father smiled, raising his can to John.

'What are you doing?'

'What time is it?'

'It's seven O'clock at night, love. Come inside.'

John threw his head back, letting the wind comb through his hair. 'Fancy a walk?'

'You can't go out alone, it's not safe.'

'I'll go with the lad then.' His father finished his can in a final chug before going back inside. 'Let me grab my coat.'

His mother's gaze darted between them. 'Gregory, John, you can't go out. I only just got you back.'

A shot, sharp laugh came from the house. His father came back shaking his head. 'He was upstairs, we saw him yesterday.'

John shrugged. 'I must have been on autopilot.'

'I think that's the issue with most people today,' he replied grimly. 'I don't blame them though, very easy to get caught up in routine, comforting in fact.' His dad tossed him a coat which John hung over his shoulder.

'I'll leave it for now, the breeze feels nice.'

'It does, I'll give you that.' His father left his own coat open. 'The peer is still open for a bit, fancy a walk there?'

'They close it?'

Their mother slammed the door before rushing to their side. 'You can't go there, too many homeless people. It's why they shut it off at night, to stop them from loitering about.'

'Family outing then?' John leapt to his feet. 'Sounds like none of us know what is actually out there.'

'I used to know.' His mother paused, taking in a shuddering breath. 'I used to have a grasp on the world. It wasn't full of danger, mind you it wasn't 100% safe but you knew what was going on most of the time and could sort it.'

'Do you want a grasp on it?'

'More than anything.'

'You can't get a grasp without first finding your feet.' John took the lead, strolling out of the front garden. 'Let's find it then, shall we.'

He didn't turn to see if they followed but a smirk grew wide as a gaggle of footsteps rushed to catch up.