The Long Way Home
"A game for those who seek to find a way to leave their world behind."
Nigel stared at him.
"Fun fact, I didn't want to leave my world behind."
Nigel stared at him.
"I mean, oh, sure, the world wasn't perfect, but I was nice and happy in my room, thanks. Didn't have to experience the world to get the shit, I got the shit filtered through the door so I could enjoy the nuggets in the turds."
Nigel stared at him.
"So why am I here then, eh? Why-"
"Jefferson Seaplane McDonough. The greatest flyer in the world. The man who rescued a dozen innocents from the savages of the deep Amazon with nought but a helicopter and some rope. The man who holds the record for fastest flight over the Indian Ocean. You are here because Jumanji needs you. Van Pelt…"
Alex let him drone on and returned to his margarita. Should have seen this coming.
He'd heard this speech more times than he could count. If his question involved the words "why" or "here," then nine times out of ten Nigel could give him a lecture about how great he was. Or, rather, how great Jefferson "Seaplane McDonough was, rather than Alex Vreeke being great. Jumanji, having transformed itself into a videogame for his 'entertainment,' apparently hadn't learnt that exposition generally wasn't good writing. That there'd be no reason for anyone to tell the protagonist of a story what they already knew about themselves.
Of course, Alex reflected, as he waited for Nigel to finish his speech, he didn't know what Mr McDonough knew. Unless what McDonough knew was the extent of his character blurb, then, yeah, he knew about as much as his avatar. But apart from that-
"So my friend, I wish you all the best, and pray you pass the final tests."
"Yeah, about that," Alex said. "I'm not really that big into tests, and I never studied flying with a major in homicidal orangutans."
Nigel said nothing. He began walking to his car.
"Don't suppose you could give me a ride?" Alex called out. "Or guns? Or a nuke? Or a way out of this game?"
Nigel remained silent. He got into the car and revved it up.
"Yeah, well, thanks for everything, I guess." He raised his margarita in a mock toast. "Hey, do you have any side-quests I could do? Maybe extra lives? Collect a hundred rings or coins, that sort of thing?"
Nigel gave him a wave, but still said nothing. He drove off, leaving nothing but the smell of gasoline, and the bitter taste of limbo.
"Wanker."
Alex leant back in his chair – he hated this place. He was in a videogame, and somehow he hated it. Granted, this game was more of an RPG/adventure hybrid, whereas his interests were more in racing and action – Grand Theft Auto, Twisted Metal, etc. Oh, sure, everyone was losing their minds over Final Fantasy VII which was going to be released next year, but he could see a flop coming when he saw it.
This game should have been a platformer.
He yawned – a platformer. He'd have done great there. Or, at least, a platformer with rings, or coins, or any other device that gave hedgehogs and plumbers the means to keep trying to defeat their enemies, not to mention continue screens. Few years back, he'd fought in what the kids were already calling the Console Wars, now, as PS1, the N64, and the Saturn hungered for blood, he was stuck here. Not fighting in a war per se, but still hunted by people who wanted to kill him, animals who wanted to kill him, and without any companionship outside some NPCs, and the writing of some guy named Alan Parish.
"Here's to you mate," Alex said, raising a glass to the writing. The carved letters that said ALAN PARISH WAS HERE – proof that manners still counted for something in the jungle.
Soon as I get out of here, I'm going to the Yellow Pages.
If, he got out of here, which was becoming a bigger "if" by the hour. There had to be a way out…or he hoped there was a way out, because he'd searched everywhere he could, talked to every NPC he could find, and none of them had ever heard of an Alan Parish. It had occurred to Alex that maybe this was just part of the game's backstory, that maybe the armour of Alan Parish existed to give him a buff after defeating a sub-boss or something, but he doubted it. His gut, his heart, whatever it was, something told him that Alan Parish was…or had been…real. And that he'd been here. Maybe when Jumanji was a board rather than computer game. But had he got out? Or was his digital body residing in this digital world, decomposing digitally?
Is that a thing?
He didn't know. All he could do was wait, watch, and wonder. Few hours from now (or days, it was hard to tell) Nigel might show up again – he was a roamer NPC, on a set path throughout the game world, whereas the other NPCs usually cloistered around in the bazaar, spouting nonsense if they spouted anything at all. He'd tried talking to them. Tried to find side-quests. Anything to give him an extra life, or some gold, or some weapons, or, heck, anything. But, it wasn't to be. The game had sucked him in like a movie from the 80s, and now he was living the high life – marauders, mosquitos, and margaritas. All he was short of was McDonalds, Metallica…mum…dad…other things that began with "m" that he couldn't recall right now…mercy? Madness? He was short of the former, and edging ever closer to the latter.
And misery. That, he reflected, he had in spades.