Shadows swirled around him, dark and menacing, whispering strange words that nipped at his ears and twisted his thoughts in knots. The darkness coalesced, somewhere between water and smoke, swallowing him whole and receding reluctantly.
Where was he?
Was this death, the final curtain, or merely some glitch in the simulation?
Whispers transformed into other sounds, familiar and tugging at memory. He heard the voice of a woman, speaking tenderly, her breath hot against his cold ears. She whispered of her love and affection, her longing to see him restored. Her sorrow.
A mother. His mother, speaking words into his ears, begging him to wake, to hold on.
He willed his eyes to open but lacked the strength to force them into obedience. Pain dulled by confused impulses and strange memories stole his resolve.
Where was he?
What was he trying to…
"I love you, REDACTED. We both do."
The words brought his addled mind back to focus. He needed to open his eyes, to see the face of his mother.
He forced one eye open, pushing past the pain, his right eyelid sticking as he blinked with his left through watery vision. Two figures swam before his eyes, made concrete by the touch of his mother's hand pressing against his wrist.
Little more than vague shapes, his parents resolved slowly, standing above him, faces ashen.
What was this?
A memory?
Some echoing tether of his mortal coil?
What of the great game, of Havenspire, and the digital afterlife he had been thrust into?
The unnamed could hear the beeping of his heart monitor cutting through the voices with a persistent rhythm. Each beat echoed thunderously through his mind, unsettling his thoughts and threatening to drive him away from this remembered place.
His mother firmly clasped his hand.
"He's so weak, he can barely breathe."
Her words put meaning to the struggle in his chest and throat, the burning pain, the sensation of having to push through a thick barrier with each new breath. Yet there was no fear in the struggle, only long memories of enduring the suffering, of clinging to life despite the withering of his diseased body.
The unnamed used that pain to bring clarity and force himself up out of the stupor. He blinked away tears, focusing on the middle-aged man and woman standing by his bedside.
His father leaned forward and placed a hand on his mother's shoulder in a fruitless attempt to offer comfort. The man's eyes were dark pools of sorrow, devoid of all hope, waiting for the inevitable misery they fought so hard to hold at bay.
The unnamed had seen that look before, when REDACTED had died. He'd watched his father turn inward after the death of his youngest son, shutting himself off from the family, alone in his study surrounded by his precious books. But the books offered little comfort and no answers. It had taken years for his father to emerge from that lonely study. But looking into his eyes now, the unnamed knew that the man had never really left, never really rejoined the world outside.
His mother squeezed his hand, smiling with sad eyes. He smelled her perfume in that moment, wafting toward him and registering despite the pervading stench of death and bleach.
Was this real? Was he back with his parents, and if so, for how long?
It didn't make any sense. He was… somewhere else. In the simulation. He couldn't remember the details, but there was urgency there in the back of his mind. Something had happened. Something terrible. A threat, a need to run, or hide, to act in some way before…
"Hush now, REDACTED," his mother cooed.
She bent down and kissed him tenderly on the forehead. He could barely feel her lips through his numb, cold skin.
She loomed above him for a moment, her face beginning to shift and contort unnaturally.
"Too weak," she said in a voice far deeper than he remembered.
Her face continued to change. Slim features broadened, fattening into masculine jowls, a thick head, full beard, and hateful dark eyes. The slaver leered down at the unnamed, spittle bubbling at the edges of his lips as he roared—
"TOO FECKING WEAK!"