Another Life (Home is Elsewhere)

‘Hero, you are our last hope against the evils of tyranny.’

Next.

‘The forces of Dark Sorcerer Xashar have descended on our peaceful realm, murdering our village folk and sapping this land of its natural resources.’

Next.

‘Will you lend us your strength and help vanquish this villain that holds dominion over us?’

Accept.

‘Thank you, Hero, thank you! I shall heal your wounds before we continue.’

Next.

‘Xashar has taken residence in the Seaward Tower; a fortified keep that looms above our town, atop the Cliffs of Blight. I have heard word of a secret entrance through the sewer run-off at the foot of the cliffs, though I know nothing more of it. You will have to investigate by asking around at the local tavern, south of here.’

Next.

Priestess La’anast bowed to Mikey Powerfist, then resumed her post. She stood perfectly still, staring ahead, unblinking.

Mikey unsheathed his Daikatana of Holy Reckoning, which glowed with the Fires of Righteousness, and turned southward. He had not reached the Port of Peril before, so allowed himself time to scan the horizon.

He had passed a few farming settlements on the long road here, the inhabitants going about their business without acknowledging him; ploughing, watering, carrying. If a field had more than three people in it, Mikey noticed, then the majority of them would just stand on the spot, sickle in hand, as though rooted by an unseen terror. There was a rumour that if he’d complete enough quests within the realm, he could recruit these surplus farmers to join him in battles and raids. He would have to return after killing Xashar.

The port town consisted of five identical structures, white stone walls and thatched straw roofs, plus the small chapel northwards where Mikey had met with the priestess. There were no characters around the town. They must all be inside, he thought before realising that there were only businesses and no residential properties. Continuing along the dirt path, the facades of the buildings came into view, revealing their simple signage; “Shop”, “Inn”, “Stable”, “Guild”, and “Tavern”. Mikey pushed on the wooden door of the tavern and entered.

The familiar lilt of lute music gently emanated from all around, it felt welcoming when combined with the looping crackle and pop that played from the fireplace. There was no barkeep behind the counter, I’m supposed to talk to a patron, Mikey deduced. A few tatty villagers were placed at tables around the room, sat with frothy mugs of indiscernible brew in their left hands, which they lifted to their lips occasionally; the foam never settling on their dotted stubble. So the townsfolk are either drunk or dead, then.

One man stood out; he wore a tricorn hat and did not have a drink in his hand. Good signposting. The seat opposite was free, so Mikey headed straight to him, sat down, and engaged.

‘So you are the mighty saviour, come to defeat Dark Sorcerer Xashar?’

Next.

‘Worry not, friend. I heard of your arrival from the Priestesses of the Panatar. You seek a path into the Seaward Tower?’

Next.

‘I am Rognoc the Rash, and I will be your guide. Meet me at the foot of the Cliffs of Blight, and I will reveal the secret entrance within the rocks. But beware, friend, as Xashar’s Orc Battalion patrol the port and beaches, and they will likely kill you on sight.

Next.

‘Are you ready to go?’

Accept.

‘Be swift, friend. I shall be waiting.’

Rognoc did not seem to be in any hurry, as he remained seated and unmoving following the conversation. There was nothing left to do but head outside and toward the ocean.

It took a fraction too long to traverse through the exit and back onto the street.

The moment that Mikey was outside again, a farmer ran by -on fire and screaming- then out of view behind the stable. Mikey turned to the north, where the flaming farmer had appeared, and saw a band of elves approaching on horseback. The Elven Freedom Fighters had crossed paths with Mikey Powerfist before, in the neighbouring city of Paradigot; they were chaotic-lawful, and unflinchingly mowed down entire settlements in their mission to topple the despot of whichever area they occupied. The nonchalant murdering of the innocents was to starve the ruler of resources, or something like that. Mikey hadn’t really been paying attention during their initial introduction. All he knew was that they were okay to kill.

The Daikatana of Holy Reckoning held high, he began to run toward the elves. He hadn’t gone two steps when a colossal boulder flew over him from the direction of the town, and bowled through the attacking troupe like skittles.

With a quick turn on the spot, he faced the port town again. The Orc Battalion had arrived from the beach, equipped with gigantic clubs and huge chunks of rock that they had pulled from the ground. The burly mob rumbled past the five identical buildings, directly toward the Elven Freedom Fighters, who continued their unfluctuating advance, despite having just lost a quarter of their number.

Mikey Powerfist stood in the middle.

You Died.

Michael slammed both palms down onto his desktop in frustration, expelling a curse and a grunt. He pulled off his headphones and flung them carelessly onto the keyboard.

“I haven’t saved for ages. Fuck.”

Firas sat behind him to one side, perched on the edge of Michael’s bed. He sat up in recognition of the swear word. Michael noticed this and spun around in his swivel chair to face the boy.

“I died.” Michael informed Firas, drawing the words out at half his usual talking speed.

“I know. I see. Sorry.” Firas replied, looking upward into his own brow to consider each word before saying it.

There was a knock at the bedroom door; Michael’s mother opened and entered it without needing a response. She stood in the doorway, hand on the handle, smiling broadly and looking from one boy to the other.

“Everything okay, honey?”

“Yes, mum. I just…” Michael began.

“Michael died.” Firas finished.

“Oh, well, that’s okay, darling. I’m sure you’ll get them next time.” Michael’s mother said, only partially aware of its meaning. “Why not let Firas have a turn, Michael?”

Michael turned to Firas reflectively, locking eyes unintentionally then looking quickly away.

“But mum, he doesn’t know how to play. He probably won’t even understand what the characters are saying.”

“I’m sure he’ll get the hang of it, just let him have a go.”

“But mum!”

“Actually,” Firas interjected, “I need to use, the bathroom. If that is alright?”

Michael’s mother opened the door wider and stood to the side, “Of course, Firas, no need to ask. You know where it is.”

Firas got up and left the room, issuing a thank you as he went. Michael remained silent, looking absently at his bedroom carpet. His mother’s eyes were on him; he knew she was waiting for him to say something.

“What?”

Checking the corridor before closing the bedroom door, his mother replied, “Michael, you have to be nicer to Firas. Talk with him, play with him.”

“I’m thirteen, mum, I don’t play anymore.”

His mother’s eyes darted to the computer screen and then back to her son. “Well, why not go outside, p- kick your football around for a bit?”

Michael huffed, stalling for time before speaking his mind, “But… but then everyone else will see us.”

“And?” Michael’s mother enquired, loudly, causing Michael to wince.

“And… and Firas is weird, mum. Everyone at school thinks so, too, even Daniel, and he’s…”

Michael was hesitant.

“He’s what, Michael?”

With a shrug and a whisper, “He’s black, you know.”

“Michael!” After the shout, she turned to the door, then back to her son, continuing in a far lower volume, “Michael, the colour of his skin does not make him strange. How the other children at school talk about Firas behind his back is a shame; it’s mean, it’s cowardly, it’s ignorant… it’s bullying, and you’re better than that.”

“Sorry, mum.”

“It’s not me you need to be sorry to. Poor Firas. You know why he comes to our house-”

“Yes.”

“-he barely spoke a word of English when his family moved here last year-”

“I know.”

“-we all wanted to make an effort-”

“I know.”

“-including you, to make his family feel comfortable and welcome in our community-”

“Yes, mum.”

“-he hasn’t made any other friends at that school-”

“Other friends?”

“-and his mum, poor Hilal, needs this time for job-hunting, as much as Firas needs this time-”

“I know.”

“-to socialise, and integrate, and, for pete’s sake, make a friend.”

“I know.”

“Do you know, Michael? Are you taking this in?”

“Yes, mum, sorry. Sorry.”

“Michael.” his mother repeated warmly, stepping closer and leaning down with one hand on his computer desk, “Thank you for spending time with Firas, love. I know you’d rather be out on your bike, or playing Didgy-Mons with your other friends, but we’re really grateful -Firas and his whole family are really grateful- to you for spending this time with him since he moved here. I know you’re finding it hard, but you understand the bigger picture here. Firas is a really lovely boy, and I know that he really wants to be your friend.”

“Okay mum, I’m sorry.”

There was the sound of flushing down the corridor. Michael’s mother stood up straight and returned to the door. Before leaving, she looked at her son, who was now looking at her. “Hilal will be here in an hour, so please let him have a go on your… thing. And please, talk to him?”

“I will, mum.”

Firas appeared at the door. Michael’s mother smiled and gestured him back into the room, which he entered with another passing thank you. She smiled again at Michael, then left, closing the door behind her.

Firas stood awkwardly in the middle of the room for a few seconds before asking slowly, “May I please, sit on your bed, Michael?”

Michael got out of his chair, “No, man. You-” He moved behind the chair and swivelled it to face Firas, “You can sit here. Your turn.”

Firas beamed and gladly accepted the offer, planting himself with a plonk, then turning to face the open laptop that still lingered on the screen that Michael had left it:

You Died.

Michael placed himself to the side of Firas, rather than taking seat on the edge of the bed. “You have to press-”

Before finishing his instruction, Firas hit the Return key and the screen progressed.

Resurrect at last Holy Pylon?

The new player had his right hand planted on the wireless mouse, and his left hand resting with the index finger on the F key and thumb on the space bar. “In Daraa, my keyboard, was big, like this. Good for playing games.” Firas spoke confidently, “At home, now, my computer, it is faster, but the keyboard, it is far smaller, compact,” he continued with a laugh, “I get, Minecraft cramp.”

Firas’ humour was infectious and Michael found himself chuckling, “You play Minecraft?”

“Yes. I like to build.”

“Do you play survival?” Michael asked hopefully.

“Not really. Dying, makes it, difficult, to build.”

“Well… what do you like to build?” Michael pushed on, partially out of his mother’s encouragement, but mostly, he found, out of interest.

Firas went quiet, and turned away from both Michael and the screen, his hands retreating to his lap.

Michael felt a pang in his chest; the awareness of an uncomfortable subject breached, and the urgency to move along, “Hey, Firas, are you going to start playing, or what?”

The boy in the chair straightened up and returned to the game.

Accept.

“Oh hey, we’re back at the chapel with the priestess,” Michael noted, hoping that Firas would recognise the location and context of the scene, “It must have auto-saved when we were healed here.”

‘Xashar has taken residence in the Seaward Tower; a fortified keep that looms above our town, atop the Cliffs of Blight. I have heard word of a secret entrance through the sewer run-off at the foot of the cliffs, though I know nothing more of it. You will have to investigate by asking around at the local tavern, south of here.’

Next.

Priestess La’anast bowed to Mikey Powerfist, then resumed her post. She stood perfectly still, staring ahead, unblinking.

Mikey Powerfist kept his weapon sheathed and ran the straight course to town, its modest structures popping into view and presenting the familiar choice of buildings. He stood before the tavern door, but did not enter.

“I think,” Firas began, “the battle, is triggered, after we go inside, and then leave. I notice, the game loading, it is too long, to load.”

“But we need to speak to Rognoc the Rash, so he can direct us to the beach.” Michael retorted.

Firas sat back in the chair and furled his brow in consideration.

“Last week, Michael, we were in, Paradigot.” Michael raised his eyebrows as Firas spoke on, “We were told the, password, for the elf camp. We died, we should never have heard the password, in our new life. But we travel to the camp, not to the quest giver – we could choose, the correct password.”

“That’s right, I did!”

“I believe, the same will happen, now. And we avoid, the insurgents.”

Unfamiliar with the word, Michael assumed it referred to the Elven Freedom Fighters.

Mikey Powerfist ran through the small town, sights set on the waterfront harbour and beaches beyond that now popped into view. As anticipated, the Orc Battalion were on patrol; they marched in step with each other along the sand, but were fortunately inattentive of the wooden jetties that served as the town’s wharf. The actual port was as empty as the town proper; not a dock-hand or boat to be found. A decorative gull took flight on reaching the wooden planks that blended into the dirt path, issuing a synthesised caw as it went.

“The people, of the town, they must have taken the boats, to flee.” Firas commented.

“Or Xashar had them all destroyed.” Michael added, familiar with the lay-waste-to-all approach of usual videogame baddies.

Mikey Powerfist stood alone on the empty pier, gazing out over the repeated texture of the ocean, unmoving.

“Either way, we know now, why there are no people. We know now.” Firas eventually remarked, quietly. On the peripheries of the screen, it became clear that the Orc Battalion’s programmed route had changed, as they began to ascend the steps that led to the port. “The army, they will kill us if they see us.”

Mikey walked forward and over the edge of the boardwalk, splashing down into the water below. The beach that would lead to the Cliffs of Blight was to the west; Mikey began to swim to the east.

“Wh- what are you doing?! The Seaward Tower is the other way!” Michael blurted in haste.

“Yes, but we, we are no match, for the army.” Firas explained, leading the hero away from the danger, “When we died, last, it was from one hit, just one.”

“Yeah, that’s right, it was.”

“I think, we go, inland, we help more people. I hear, I heard, helping more people, they will help us, join us. We can win, then.”

“You heard that too? About this game?”

“Yes Michael, Daniel told me, at school, last week.”

“He did?”

“Yes, I told him, where we were, in the game. He knew, the trick!”

Michael felt a warm flush of embarrassment wash over him. For months now he had been sidelining Firas -merely tolerating his presence- as a passive observer on the edge of his bed. But Firas had invested in their time together; he had paid attention to their progression, engaged in the game and in Michael’s playing of it. He even said we and us when talking about playing the game, as if he’d been controlling it too. As if Michael ever gave him the chance to. Michael noticed Firas’ wide grin as his friend revelled in explaining the trick that he had discovered for them, and forced a smile back, despite feeling ashamed of himself.

“That’s awesome, Firas.” Michael tried hard to perk up, to join Firas in his excitement, “So, what are we going to do next?”

The hour passed in no time at all, as the two boys succeeded in completing a few minor tasks around the area, and rallied enough of their own troops to overcome the freedom fighters, storm the tower and topple the ruler. A fairy-tale ending to the mission.

Firas’ mother arrived and met with her son downstairs. They were about to walk out together, when Firas turned back to Michael, a resolute frown on his face, and returned to his side.

“Michael, I want to say, to tell you: You ask me, what I build, when I build, in Minecraft.”

Michael had forgotten the fleeting conversation from an hour ago, but recalled Firas’ hesitance, and stuttered a response, “Y-yes? Yes, I did.”

“Well…” Firas began, momentarily silent as he formed the words in his mind, “I build, my old home, my old neighbourhood, in Syria. I build the streets, the buildings, the roads, I remember. I build them, as they were. As I remember they were.”

Michael looked uncomfortably at Firas’ mother, who was waiting for her son with a warm smile on her face. He didn’t know what to say, but Firas continued.

“Last week, Michael. Last week, I build this, I build your house, your home. I build your room, your bed, your desk. This week, I will build, the street, the other houses, my new neighbourhood, our neighbourhood. And next week, Michael, I would like, to show it, to you, if you would like.”

A gentle lightness filled Michael’s chest with giddy anticipation.

“Yes. Yes, I would like that, Firas, very much.”

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