BZRK: Reloaded (BZRK 2)

First time eating popcorn.

Then, suddenly, she was seeing herself through Vincent’s eyes.

He had found her attractive. In the macro she blushed. He had first

met her when she was in a bathtub.

She saw Kerouac, Keats’s brother, as he was in Vincent’s memory. He wasn’t much like Keats. He was more athletic, not larger but

muscular, tough. His eyes did not have Keats’s tenderness. She would

never have wanted to run away with Kerouac.

She had never pictured Kerouac smiling, somehow, laughing,

but Kerouac had enjoyed life. He was telling Vincent a story about teaching his little brother to play goalkeeper. And laughing. And Vincent had wondered what it was like to take vicarious pleasure from

another person.

Suddenly Plath saw images that could only be digital. There were

stunted game creatures with swords.

And then, a thrilling ride through a bizarre alien landscape. Digging into a sort of Lego-like world.

Passing through magical doors.

Games. Games, a dizzying array of them. Game controllers,

touch screens, racing and leaping and …not joy, not for Michael Ford

who would later be called Vincent. But a suspension of the strangeness that was always with him. And a rush. Very much a rush. There were people—just names on a leaderboard, but with

humans behind them—and Vincent knew them, knew their strengths

and weaknesses, and they knew him.

He was somewhere rather than nowhere.

And he was someone. MikeF31415.

“Wilkes,” Plath said. “Google MikeF31415.”

“Why?”

Plath didn’t answer, but she heard the distant sound of fingers on

a touchscreen.

“There’s a lot of hits,” Wilkes said. “Game sites.”

“I’ve seen that handle before.” This from Billy the Kid, who had

crept downstairs after being ignored by the others. He was looking over Wilkes’s shoulder. He sounded respectful. “Whoa. Whoa.” Pause, then, and in a deeper register, “Whoa, this dude is good. I mean, way

good. Respect.”

Games and more games. This tiny corner of Vincent’s brain was