Locke Plays Pacman
Locke pushed the button. The beeping stopped and the numbers flicked back up to 1:08. He stood up to stretch his miraculously cured legs, strolling around the room and inspecting the hatch as his mind fathomed the mysteries it held.
What did it all mean? The numbers, the hieroglyphics, the magnetic field, the blast doors... Somewhere amongst all of it was his purpose, he knew that. The island had guided him this far. So why had it become so suddenly obstinate?
And this room full of machinery, most of it inactive, as obsolete as he had once felt. What was the function of these big grey machines that lurked in the darkness under a thick layer of dust?
Holding up a finger, he dragged it across one surface of an interestingly shaped machine, and was surprised when he revealed not gunship grey but a sunny yellow beneath. Frowning, he continued to wipe away the dust, and was amazed when he revealed a word beneath, written in big, chunky yellow capitals.
PAC-MAN
A wave of nostalgia washed over him. He'd played this non-stop back in his twenties, and had gotten pretty good. It wouldn't work, of course, but for posterity's sake he went and got a cloth and carefully cleaned the rest of the cabinet, then the screen and controls, paying special care and attention to the buttons and joystick. He worked with the same steady patience he had used to assemble model aeroplanes and tanks as a child.
Finally it was done, and he stood back to inspect his handiwork. Even in the dim light the machine gleamed as if it had just rolled out of the factory without a scratch or fingerprint on it. The plug cord didn't reach to the wall socket, and he carefully pulled the machine over to the wall and plugged it in. He flicked the switch, and laughed as he realised he was holding in breath in anticipation.
Nothing happened.
His heart fell, and then suddenly leapt as the screen flashed with multicoloured letters and numbers which were replaced by a white grid and then... the intro that showed Pac-Man's ethereal rivals, along with their nick-names!
He actually rubbed his hands in glee as he approached the machine and got ready to play. Then, with horror, he realised – he didn't have a quarter! He could run down to the beach and try and borrow one, but he wanted to play now...
An idea hit him, and he went and fetched the toolkit from the cupboard. Four minutes later he had managed to get into the coin box and was rewarded with eight quarters, each as pristine as the machine itself. With a smile he put one into the slot and pushed the button, and for the first time in twenty years he was playing Pac-Man!
As the mild-mannered yellow hero started to find his way around, chomping up dots, ghosts and fruit with abandon, Locke found his gaming skills coming back to him. He eased through the early stages and the game started to get gradually harder and harder. He had always gotten into trouble around the fifteenth stage, but now he passed it without difficulty, navigating the maze with the relaxed confidence of an expert player.
"Dude!"
The voice snapped Locke out of his trance-like state and he turned at the intrusion just long enough to lose his first life to Pinky.
"Damn!" he cursed, banging his fist down on the console as the stage started over.
"Sorry, man. Didn't mean to startle you," said Hurley apologetically.
Locke grinned. "That's okay, Hurley. I was just focused. I like playing games."
"Pacman, huh? You're pretty good."
"Thanks, I used to play a lot. Stick around, you can have a go after me."
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Hurley replied, "Nah, dude. But thanks for offering."
Locke didn't press him for a reason, and Hurley was glad. He didn't want to admit that Pac-Man had become a hated childhood nickname after he'd replaced his absent father with, well, anything edible and close to hand. Just watching the little yellow guy zipping around was bringing back some powerful memories, and suddenly extending his jungle walk seemed like a great idea.
"Um, so laters, man," said Hurley, and headed out the way he'd came in.
"Bye, Hugo," muttered Locke absently as he re-entered his trance. Stage fifty – higher than he'd ever got before, and still the levels flicked steadily by. At seventy, he barely had to think anymore; it was as if the island were helping him play, guiding his hand on the joystick. The score went up and up.
Eighty... ninety...
One hundred! Now he thought of the legendary 256th split-screen level, the bug in the game that was apparently impossible to get past. Two decades before, he had dreamed of reaching that screen, of the accolade of getting the perfect score. Now he truly believed it were possible - maybe even the he could get past it!
And then, halfway through stage one hundred and twenty-seven -
BEEP
"No," whispered Locke.
BEEP
"No, no, NO!" he cried.
BEEP
He had just under four minutes before the clock reached zero, and there was no way he could make it to the split-screen. The alarm beeped, and he played frantically, though he knew the task was impossible.
"Hurley!" he cried. "Anybody!"
But no-one came. The countdown reached one minute, and the second alarm sounded, urgently telling him to input the code.
"Just a minute," muttered Locke between clenched teeth, his hand a blur on the joystick.
With ten seconds left, the alarm sped up and he finally had to run for the keyboard.
"4, 8, 15..."
Three seconds remained on the clock as he glanced nervously up.
"16... um, 23..."
The clock reached zero as he entered the final number and hit enter. There was a pause, and then they whirred back to 1:08 once again.
Crestfallen, he returned to the arcade machine and looked at the screen. In the middle of the maze, in block red capitals, he read:
GAME OVER
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