Digital Drug
1.
Taken for granted, that's what it is.
They just take it for granted that you'll sort it and that you'll mend it; that you'll make everything better, back to normal, and will do it with a cool smile and a posture that reassures them its been nothing, its been no sweat at all.
Nope, it's nothing to worry about guys and gals, just the regular rhythm of life pulsing along as it should, so back to your apartments now and close those gleaming bright windows carefully so the pie won't get cold!
A second taken too long for your smile to form or a second shaved off how long your shoulders are locked tightly upright are both to be avoided, for there'll be at least one of them (one of the whole lot of them that always have their eyes on you) who notices. One of them who'll give you a side-eyed look, an uneven mixture of concern and fear that contracts brightly and briefly in their pupil before it's calmly glossed over with a thick reassurance that nothing can really be wrong because nothing's even really been wrong.
It's bad enough when no-one notices, but what's even worse – what causes that small skeleton finger to trace a delicate line of nausea along the bottom of your stomach – is when one of them notices and looks almost glad.
Almost excited.
It's done and dusted in a second, in a heartbeat, but you know it's happened; a dilated pupil that sees the real you as opposed to just registering your presence; a sharp intake of breath aborted halfway through; a dance of facial muscles to constrict and compose the correct expression.
They don't really want you to fail, you scold yourself; they don't really want their homes to be permanently destroyed and their hero to suffer you think in reassurance as your heart judders and your skin prickles.
They only get a rare flash of excitement because they're safe in the knowledge that you won't really fail. It's alright to be scared and face the possibility of pain and ruin and enjoy the delicious spike of wrongness that follows, but only if you're absolutely certain that there's a safety bar in place and that you won't really be left homeless and hungry and obsolete.
And why should they worry? It's been almost thirty years and nothing's ever gone wrong for them. Yes OK maybe every third brick turned purple a decade ago and there was that incident with the pigeons on the roof, but in the grand scheme of things – in the grand scheme of the entire Arcade – that's nothing.
Nothing.
Not that they'd ever see it that way. They've lived a good, safe, nice life, and because they've never caused any trouble why should they experience any hardships? They follow their programmes unquestioningly and so why should bad things ever happen to them?
Even if the entire building fell on their heads (fell, in slow motion, brick by brick and piece of glass by piece of jagged glass) they'd only flash a few times before springing back to life as the infinite life cheat code booted up.
Instant regeneration. No problem.
It wasn't always like this. His fatherused to tell him, used to warn him with a glimmer of something behind his glasses that, back in the early days, it had hurt.
It had hurt a lot.
The gamer would lose and you'd die, but your pixels would be prevented from easily disintegrating into nothing; they'd be sucked back from the brink and brutally meshed back together into the rows and columns that were you. A fierce green line of code would push them all back into place and then hold them, straining, until a thin line of dark blue code burned them back into place and then one, two, three and sometimes four flashes of colour and pain so intense you couldn't scream even if you could as the bits and bytes swirled, aligned and reformed and before you knew it you were back to where you'd just come from.
No, it wasn't as easy as it is now to regenerate. And that was all thanks to Father.
Father and his magic hammer.
His Father had also been a Handyman, but only a part-time one in a game set in a hotel where you played cards. And since they weren't the sort of card games that ended in drunken disagreements, there wasn't much call for someone to repair lots of damage every day.
One day, bored and restless, he'd explored the perimeter of the game and come across a loose circuit; a glitch of every colour. It had flashed and pixelated as he smiled and let his yellow hammer fall and bury itself in the mess of sparks. They had eaten into the hammer and wrapped themselves around his arm before he could even think to open his mouth and shout but that had been enough.
A mutation in that code had bled into his hammer and like all good viruses it had disguised itself and spread. But not spread too far; just into his Father and his friend who had been the one to pull him away and take him, yelling, into the medic bay.
The doctor that examined him had pronounced him in excellent health, fit as a fiddle, and hadn't he done a great job with Miss Hannah's table leg before his Father had screamed, turned translucent and died.
When he'd been brought back to immediate life he knew it had been different and, since he was a clever man wasted in his job, he immediately suspected the glitch code and his solid hammer.
It hadn't taken long for him to demonstrate his gift – his gift from the game for years of long service, no mention at all of glitches and code and reckless hammering of course – and to share it with others. One tap (one hit one smash one long slow carved incision that caused even him to close his eyes) and you'd never again regenerate in pain. It was a miracle!
His Father had got a (within programme restricted of course) promotion, a rise and the promise of the penthouse suite in the new apartment block when the planning permission finally went through.
But of course the obvious flaw hadn't been so obvious until later. Once everyone had been fixed, what then? What would the genius saviour do next?
Well he'd try to fix them all permanently of course, that's what.
His friend had whispered poisoned words of encouragement in his ears and he'd almost-
'Quarter alert!'
A jump, a start, that easy smile back on your face and the yellow hammer twitching with life in your hand as you drag your thoughts, gritted and fragmented, back to the present.
A smile, a last minute adjustment to a hat and several contented grins and fake panicked calls of 'Fix it Felix!' fill your world as the cycle begins again.
Taken for granted; that's what it was and that's what it is.
Stop windows from being broken in the first place?
No, can't do that. (You'd be out of a job)
Stop them looking at you but not really seeing you?
Nope, can't do that either. (Like his Father he'd tried and failed once before and, like his Father, he'd rather not think about what happened afterwards)
Stop work and go live in another game?
Nope, still can't fix the pesky problem of getting killed permanently if something fatal happens to you in it.
Stop a regeneration from ever occurring?
No, can't…
Well.
No, no you can't.
…
Not yet you can't.