Impulse is owned by DC comics. No copyright infringement is intended.

This is a short one-shot fan-fiction I wrote a few weeks ago. It's a little unique, I think, because I was role-playing as Bart Allen while writing this. The actual main character is a little ambiguous. It's sort of Bart writing about his experiences in virtual reality and relating it to his experiences in the real world and the virtual world of his video games through a protagonist he would play as in the VR.

I hope that makes sense. It could probably take place shortly after Impulse #55 but it could just as easily take place during or after Impulse #2.

Out of Quarters

I am fading.

This world has beaten me. Battered my superego into a fragment of it's former self. Every day I must navigate this labyrinth and kill these monsters for the entertainment of the Great Controller. How I despise him so. He forces my movements into those I do not wish. He sends me to my death countless times, and for what? mindless blood-shed and the rising of that abysmal number.

I raise my sword over the final beast, it's eyes tearing up in understanding. In fear. I have beaten it and will kill it, like it's father before it and it's son after it. Still, I feel no pity for these beings, for they are as unfeeling as me. Only pixels on a screen, like so many others. I drive my sword through it's head, and the blood splatters about.

The sound stops and I stare in horror as, once again, my surroundings and my being dissolve in three seconds. Always three seconds. Never more, never less. I feel myself materialize, bits and pieces at a time. First my leg, then my lungs, and it's always the same. It seems to want to revive me in the most painful way possible. It's always my wife who appears in my consciousness first. Like a knife through my heart, the ROM twists her image every time. I don't even remember what she looks like anymore. I remember her eyes, though. Big and brown and full of hope. Hope for many things, but most of all me. Good hope. Sweet hope. Wasted hope.

Before I know it, I stand before the Council of Numbers, their abhorrently cheerful voice grates at my consciousness like the crashing of a hard drive.

"Continue?" they ask, over and over again, like a record on loop. Of course I say yes. What choice do I have?

I appear at the beginning of the Labyrinth, sword once again in hand and a snarl across my lips. Once. Just once. Just once I want to see something different. Something unexpected. Something new. But it's never new. I realize this once again as I hack and slash my way through the maze like the barbarian I have become.

I approach the boss, dripping with the blood of my opponents both dead and undead. No power-up left to use, I charge to the Boss and I yell. I always yell. I have no choice but to yell. I hack and I slash and I stab and it is soon over.

This world has beaten me. Battered my superego into a fragment of it's former self. Every day I must navigate this labyrinth and kill these monsters for the entertainment of the Great Controller. How I despise him so. He forces my movements into those I do not wish. He sends me to my death countless times, and for what? Mindless blood-shed and the rising of that abysmal number.

I raise my sword over the final beast. It's eyes tear up in understanding. In fear. I have beaten it and will kill it, like it's father before it and it's son after it. I feel pity for these monsters made of ones and zeros and pixels. I drop my sword and I gasp for air. Had I stopped breathing? I did not notice. I hesitate and it slashes away my last hit-point.

Oh.

I'm out of quarters.

Grife.