THIS IS A WALL OF TEXT. GET OVER IT


I roll over in bed. I fucking hate mornings. I wrap the blanket tighter around myself, heading off the cold creeping into my cocoon of warmth. My eyes are going to stay closed, because I have absolutely no intention of being awake right now. The lights flicker to life as the increased brainwave activity has alerted my computer that I'm awake. They are dim now, but they'll get brighter. I can already see the soft light through my eyelids.

Fucking dammit.

But my computer know that I'm pissed off right now. Days of silent observation has finally convinced even the most stubborn of my machines that nothing will ever change my morning routine. Disturbing my peace spells certain disaster for whatever happens to invoke my wrath. My watch suddenly emits a loud beeping noise.

Fucking fucking fuck .

I unsnap the strap, and hurl it across the room without opening my eyes. There is a slight thud, and the beeping continues, if a bit muffled. My eyes snap open with the sudden revelation. That was my ringtone, not my alarm clock. Even in the age of cloud computing and instant wireless downloads everywhere, I'm not wasting my fucking money on some shitty pop song as a ringtone.

Fuck.

I sit up in bed, stretch, and stumble across the room to the obnoxiously loud watchcomm chirping away on the floor. I examine if for obvious signs of damage before answering. As I listen to the automated calling service on the other end, I'm grateful for the pile of laundry on the floor. It probably just saved me a couple hundred bucks. The call is from work. I speak my name slowly and clearly, and it chimes as it confirms my identity. The cold voice on the other end informs me that a client has canceled for some reason. The voice, which is female, explains that there was some sort of family emergency that had to be tended to. As much as I hate how cold and fake the "female" call bot sounds, it's far better than the obvious lies it was made to tell me. I guess that's what I get for being an IRS auditor in this age.

Then I put my forehead on the cold glass in front of me. The city laid out below is both beautiful and terrifying, and I admire the dichotomy of poverty and plenty that every city has to offer. I watch a glass elevator on the next building shoot up a couple hundred floors as I offhandedly dictate a message to one Richard K. Price informing him of his need to meet with me. The bastard didn't even have the courtesy to interrupt my sleep himself.

I check the sleek watchcomm one last time before strapping it on to my wrist, all the while watching the flock of birds circle and dive in the thermals above the building next to me. It's been so long since I've seen birds. The pollution killed off most of the more delicate species, and the ravenous masses in the slums hundreds of feet below killed off the rest. Or so I had presumed. Their flight seems erratic, and yet so elegant and effortless. I'm jealous of their ability to escape the drab prison humanity had encapsulated itself in. A self imposed sentence.

There are no green spaces anymore. Well, that's not completely true. There are still parks, but they lack the disorganized sprawl that used to cover most of the planet. I suddenly remember the camp my family had in the foothills of the green mountains. A lot of time and knee skin was lost there, but I consider it all well worth it. Most of the world is covered in cities now, or at the very least concrete. Children learn about nature, but will never be able to see the things they're learning about. It's like theoretical physics, but much sadder. The smell of bacon snaps me out of my reverie.

I turn, just as bacon and hash browns slide out of the compartment in the wall. Seconds later, two fried eggs pop out of a slot just above the plate. That's one thing I will never hate about the world today. I don't care if it's rearranged and recycled protein molecules, my computer can cook some delicious fucking bacon.

I simultaneously stretch and waddle to the fridge. A quick inspection reminds me that I had absolutely no food that I can cook myself. No matter, the client that canceled was my only appointment today. For all intensive purposes, I have a day off. I grab a little box of orange juice, and drink the whole thing on my way to the table. I grab a piece of bacon, and quickly take a bite before dropping the piping hot strip of goodness onto the plate. I shake my hand furiously and grunt quietly in pain.

"Would you like a fork?" my computer quietly asks. It sounds nervous. Good.

"Please, and the paper too." I grunt around another bite of bacon.

Another slot right next to the bacon one opens up, and the paper slides out with a fork on it. My grunted thanks is lost over a mouthful of hash browns, and I grab the paper with my free hand. It's not good news. It's never fucking good news. I don't even know why I bother.

"You are going to be late for work." says my computer, a little louder and definitely more insistent than before. I'm awake now, and the danger has passed. I'll let it keep thinking that.

"My client canceled today, and I finished this weeks work yesterday thanks to you. Your processing speed is really quite admirable compared to my old computer." I glance over at my old unit sitting in the corner. It seems so sad and dead compared to what it used to do. I'll have to donate it to a hospital or something. There's somebody somewhere that'll appreciate it. I feel like it's a family member going into retirement. I'll have to find somewhere that will fit it's feature set.

"In the mean time, I was thinking we'd really test out your capabilities today. I was thinking I'd treat myself to a new game, and see how you hold up."

"That would be wonderful sir." All traces of trepidation have left it's voice now. It really does seem quite eager to please me. I'll have to give it a good name.

I finish my breakfast and wander over to the computer terminal. It's on the opposite wall as the window, and I've picked a mirrored screen so I can admire the city behind me while I work. I boot up Steam, which has amassed dozens, if not hundreds of games since I first signed up forty years ago. I quickly scroll to the shooter section. My new rig has the newest force feedback and control capabilities, and I've actually been quite eager to test them out. I select the prettiest of the bunch. It's a WWIII shooter. The space marine fad had died out years previous, and WWII finally had all of it's veterans die, so gaming seems to have shifted to my generation's war.

I wave my hand over the payment button, and the radio chip embedded in the center of my palm pays for the game. A second later, the opening cinematic plays. I half-watch the sweeping vistas and frantic gunbattles as I put on the gloves.Then I slip on the helmet. The cinematic concludes, and I'm at the title screen. My attention shifts to the helmet, which I can't seem to fucking buckle. Fucking dammit. The strap around my head has broken numerous times, and has become a sticky mass of duct tape and cheap carbon fiber straps. A little fenagling and the helmet is secured. I shift the helmet a couple times, as the minute pulling of hairs that occurs on the frayed edges of the duct tape causes my scalp to itch. When I'm convinced, that everything is in it's place, I start the campaign with a wave of my hand.

WHAM

I'm suddenly in the desert. The smell of gasoline and gunpowder fill my nostrils. My helmet may have shitty straps, but it has top of the line olfactory capabilities. I walk casually over to a table. It's an odd experience at first, like it always is, but I eventually adjust the my mind saying I'm walking and my butt saying I'm not. I reach out and pick up a gun. The wires running through the back of my gloves lock as my hand closes around the handle. I run my fingers over the textured grip, and I can feel the grinding against my metal plated gloves. This sure beats the hell out of the clumsy impact response of my old computer. I pick up a frag grenade, my fingers clicking lightly as they slide over the fragmented outer casing of the explosive. Hot damn I love my new computer.

I pop off a few rounds. The recoil against my shoulder almost knocks me off of my computer chair. I'll have to get a chair with a wider base for added stability. I look in the chamber of my rifle, and the glistening oil and lack of dirt let me know it's in perfect working condition. I close the chamber, and pop out the magazine. It's a newer one, so it's a snap to fill and even easier to empty.

A bullet impacts my gun, sending it flying and sitting me down hard on the warm sand. My shots have alerted the enemy that we were close. I probably should have read the objectives of the mission before firing like that. I crawl behind a concrete barrier by the weapons cache, and pick up my gun. A little scuffed paint, but no big deal. I breath deeply, and close my eyes for a second. My new computer is awesome, and I'm amazed at how technology has come in a few short years. I check my sidearm, load my rifle, and smile.

This is going to be a good day.