Paul scrabbled on the loose scree, nearly losing his footing. His trail runners found purchase against a patch of lichen and, barely missing a beat, he was off again, racing toward the summit. His lungs were sore, scorched, but nearly tolerable and almost a distant thought, given the four-alarm in his legs. Paul knew this from the sideline of red bars -the safety zone of green and the intermediate yellow being long gone. He just needed to make it to the top of Mount Gaia before his physical status brought him down with cramps or, even worse, a seizure.
The great outdoors: a pointless present to a nearly forgotten past; unattainable luxury for the aspirational class. Paul was playing Gaia Plummet & Summit 3X300 on his InterAction game system, unaware of the ironies contained in every movement of his body within the electro-sensitive polymer suit he was wearing.
Paul was perspiring and his avatar was wheezing and, within sight of the majestic pinus monticola atop Mount Gaia, began vomiting and convulsing from the exertion.
“Damn you, Paul Two! Give it ten percent more, you gutless puker.” That Paul Two was in virtuality puking his guts out was no entertaining consolation for not completing this level, given that his master was now going to have to start from rookie again for his next play. Paul Proper took off the visor and turned off the experience wall.
“Didn’t make it to the peak, sweetie?” Soraya called in her singsong gloating lilt from the bedroom. “Don’t worry about it; you can climb Mount Soraya -if you’re not too tired!”
This playful tone belied superiority (she had achieved the summit days ago) and was reaching its point of tolerability. Paul took out a refreshment stone and started sucking it. Within five seconds it was out of his mouth again, in favor of a precious slug from the gourd of reserved True Water. If Soraya could see him now in the kitchen, there would surely be a most unpleasant interaction.
Putting the stopper back in the gourd and the stone back in his mouth, Paul padded into the bedroom, his polysuit now undone to the waist.
“Mount Soraya’s peak is hidden in the clouds. I don’t remember it being that high or that steep…” Paul cracked wise.
“Don’t be sore, Paul. Why not put some chalk on your hands and spend an hour free-climbing me? There’s talk of rain for tomorrow and it would be nice to greet it with our chakras aligned.”
There was always talk of rain. Rain that didn’t come, rain that fell just a few miles away, rain that burned up before it reached the ground. Was Paul the only one who sensed the politicians and scientists were flogging a fairytale about developing patterns of moisture that could fall or pool and potentially form a body and/or freeze or cause some further condensation not far off? Condescension, more like it. So what of it?
“Let me just get my rubber soles.”
Playing Games, People
Detached in Distopia