Chapter 4 - Session 0:3:32

  Rosie lifted her lightly clenched hand to knock, then decided her arthritis would complain too much, so she simply eased the door open a few inches. “Julian, dear?”

  Seated at his desk, her grandson mumbled to himself. Or perhaps mumbled into his headset to one of his gamer friends. He talked to himself a lot, so it was hard to tell the difference. Either way, he would likely bark at her if she interrupted.

  The Denfield residence didn’t look like much from the outside, and frankly was a little old-fashioned on the inside, but Julian’s back office had always struck Rosie as something out of a science fiction movie. On top of the crescent-shaped, matte-black desk, three displays spanned the entire width in a seamless arc. Another hung above like a pane of enchanted glass with endless, streaming computer data.

  Seven computers—or towers as he called them—stood on top of each other, each framed by soft white light. Rosie would never understand why a single person needed so many machines running at once. Admittedly, her grandson had explained the reason to her once or twice, but his words had washed over her.

  Seated in one of two leather armchairs by the window, fully reclined, was Julian’s most recent recruit—a pleasant young man who’d come to clean out the shed but had quickly agreed to test the virtual reality game for a couple hundred dollars. They always agreed. No matter their walk of life, everyone loved the idea of stepping into a new world for an hour. From where Rosie stood, peering through the gap in the door, she could see that sinister red light on the front of the VR headset, meaning a game was in session.

  She steeled herself and edged deeper into the room. “Julian? I’m sorry to interrupt, but . . .”

  He still didn’t hear her. He leaned over his desk, staring at the monitor, his fingers tapping on the keyboard while he mumbled into his own headset—a far more slender one, with a microphone.

  Growing a little impatient, Rosie walked over to him and tapped him sharply on the shoulder. “Julian, I’m talking to you.”

  He jerked and spun around in his swivel chair. “Gran! What the fu—” He bit his lip just in time and slapped his tabletop. “Why are you sneaking up on me?”

  “Dear, I’m not sneaking up on you. Now, look, there’s a—”

  “Did you knock?”

  That gave her pause. “Well, no, because—”

  “So you’re sneaking up on me,” he accused her with a scowl. “Dammit, you have to let me work. I just got a new Player started on his quest, and it’s important to track his vitals. I can’t do that when you keep barging in on me.”

  Rosie sucked in a sharp breath. “Julian Alexander Ravencroft! I am your grandmother, this is my house, and you’ll show me a little more respect! You may be a thirty-three-year-old grown man, but you’re not too old for a clipped ear. I’d do it right now if it weren’t for my arthritis.”

  He sighed and backed down. “Thirty-two. Sorry. What’s up, Gran? I’m kinda busy.”

  “You’re always busy. Why do you think I help you with this gaming nonsense?”

  His eyebrows shot up, and his face darkened. “Gaming nonsense? Gran, this is gonna make me rich. And if I’m rich, you’re rich. It’s far from nonsense. I’ve created a state-of-the-art virtual reality experience with—”

  “Anyway,” she interrupted, “I just came to say that the young woman is back. The one who was here earlier.”

  That shut him up for a moment. “The McIntire lady? What does she want?”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Rosie’s patience had worn thin. “Julian, dear, I am your grandmother, not your secretary. How about you get out of that chair and go find out for yourself? She’s waiting on the front porch.”

  With a grumble, he pulled off his headset and threw it down on the computer table. “Fine.”

  As Rosie turned to shuffle from the room, Julian checked on the gamer in the armchair. She liked that young man. His name was Arlo Cross, and he’d seemed genuinely eager to help clean out her shed even though the work was a little beneath him. If only Julian would learn some respect and manners like that.

  “Is he all right?” she asked.

  Julian shrugged. “Right as rain. He’s settling in.”

  “Already?”

  “Gran . . .” Julian had that fed-up expression on his face again. “I know it’s hard to understand, but the virtual reality experience is like dreaming. Dreams happen fast. A few minutes hooked up to the VR is a few hours inside the game. It’s one minute per hour. Okay?”

  Feeling a little foolish, she nodded and mumbled, “Yes, well, maybe I remember you explaining that once before.”

  “Multiple times, actually. All right, let’s go see this chick on the porch.”

  Rosie huffed in annoyance as he brushed past her. How many times had she told him off for using disrespectful words like that? She would have said so again, but he was already halfway down the hall by now. And by the time her weary bones made it to the living room, Julian was outside to the front porch. Naturally, he’d left the door wide open so cold air could waft its way in.

  She went to close it but paused, listening.

  “. . . Okay, but why are you back again?” Julian asked. “Did you forget your phone or something?”

  “Not at all,” the young lady said. “As I said, my experience inside your game earlier left an impression, and I wanted to give it another go. It would make a great story, and my boss has signed off on it. So . . . I was hoping you’d let me try Level 2.”

  “It’s more dangerous than Level 1,” Julian warned.

  “I’m willing to take that risk. It’s a game, after all.”

  “Mmm. And you’d write a good story? You’d make me look good?”

  “I’m a reporter, Julian. I already know your gaming world is amazingly realistic, and I’ll tell my readers exactly that. I’ll also say what I think of the concept and the experience of living in the game for what seems like four days, and whether it’s an experience readers will actually enjoy. To be honest, based on my first level, it was pretty unpleasant. But you said the second level is different, so . . .”

  “It is.” A long pause followed. Then: “Okay, fine, one more session. But I have a guy in the game at the moment, so you can’t go in until he’s finished.”

  “I thought you could also do Multi-Player?”

  “Not like this.” Julian stared at her, obviously not willing to elaborate.

  Emery shrugged. “Okay. So how long will the other guy be?”

  “He only just started, so it’ll be forty-five minutes or an hour. Come on through.”

  Rosie had to back up in a hurry when Julian came barging through the open doorway. He glared at her briefly, then brushed past.

  The young lady had shoulder-length dark hair and cute round glasses. Her button-up blouse, knee-length skirt, and sensible heels suggested her office dress code was reasonably formal. She’d come by earlier, on an extended lunch break, for a chat with Julian and a glimpse at the world he’d created. In fact. she’d stayed long enough to play through the entire first level. And now she was back, apparently impressed by what he’d shown her.

  “Glutton for punishment?” Rosie said with a chuckle.

  “Sure am, Mrs. Denfield,” the reporter said with a smile as she entered.

  “Going to write a story about my grandson, are you?”

  “Absolutely. I told my editor about this, and she sent me right back here.”

  “Miss McIntire,” Julian boomed from along the hall. “You coming, or what?”

  Rosie’s ire flared immediately. “Julian Alexander Ravencroft! I did not raise you to be this rude!”

  But the young lady merely raised an eyebrow and rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Denfield. I can look after myself, and if he doesn’t watch out, he’ll be going down in my story as an obnoxious little man who lives with his grandma, instead of the programming genius he wants me to write about.”

  She winked and sidled past.

  Rosie liked her. Julian had better treat her with respect, or else. “Would you care for some coffee?” she called after her.

  “Oh, that would be lovely, thank you.”

  Busying herself in the kitchen for a few minutes, Rosie made up a tray of coffee and cookies, then grimaced when she picked up the tray. Putting it back down, she gingerly massaged her hands, steeled herself, and tried again. Grin and bear in. I won’t let a spot of arthritis dictate my twilight years.

  “Here we go,” she said, putting on a cheerful voice as she entered Julian’s office.

  Her grandson ignored her, but the thoughtful young lady broke off from their chat and rushed to clear a space on the small table that stood between the two armchairs. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Denfield.”

  “Oh, do call me Rosie, please. None of this ‘missus’ nonsense around me!”

  The reporter smiled, her green eyes twinkling. “Fine. And please call me Emery.”