The Virtuality Theory Read online

  Will Save

  The Virtuality Theory

  G. Sauvé

  The Virtuality Theory

  Copyright © 2019 G. Sauvé - All rights reserved.

  [email protected] - G.Sauve.ca

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art: Eugene Chugunov

  Cover Design: Mircea Adamoiu

  Dedication

  To my father, who was there for me whenever I was uncertain.

  How Brave Are You?

  A portal hovers before you. It flickers. Once. Twice. It's about to vanish. You must pick a course of action. Will you let it close and return to your life, or will you act now and claim your FREE STORY? The choice is yours.

  ENTER THE PORTAL

  GSauve.ca

  Contents

  Dedication

  How Brave Are You?

  Intruder

  Busted?

  Memory 1

  Memory 2

  Memory 3

  Memory 4

  Memory 5

  Memory 6

  Memory 7

  Memory 8

  Memory 9

  Memory 10

  Memory 11

  Memory 12

  Memory 13

  Memory 14

  Memory 15

  Memory 16

  Memory 17

  Lost Memory 1

  Lost Memory 2

  Lost Memory 3

  Lost Memory 4

  Memory 18

  Lost Memory 5

  Lost Memory 6

  Memory 19

  Lost Memory 7

  Memory 20

  Lost Memory 8

  Memory 21

  Memory 22

  Lost Memory 9

  Memory 23

  Memory 24

  Memory 25

  Memory 26

  Memory 27

  Memory 28

  Memory 29

  Memory 30

  Memory 31

  Memory 32

  Memory 33

  Memory 34

  Memory 35

  Memory 36

  Memory 37

  Memory 38

  Memory 39

  Memory 40

  Memory 41

  Memory 42

  Memory 43

  Memory 44

  Memory 45

  Memory 46

  Memory 47

  Memory 48

  Memory 49

  Memory 50

  Memory 51

  Memory 52

  Memory 53

  Memory 54

  Memory 55

  Memory 56

  Memory 57

  Memory 58

  Memory 59

  Memory 60

  Memory 61

  Memory 62

  Memory 63

  Memory 64

  Memory 65

  Memory 66

  Memory 67

  Memory 68

  Memory 69

  Memory 70

  Memory 71

  Memory 72

  Memory 73

  Memory 74

  Memory 75

  Memory 76

  Memory 77

  Memory 78

  Memory 79

  Memory 80

  Memory 81

  Memory 82

  Memory 83

  Memory 84

  Memory 85

  Memory 86

  Memory 87

  Memory 88

  Memory 89

  Memory 90

  Memory 91

  Memory 92

  Memory 93

  Memory 94

  Memory 95

  Memory 96

  Memory 97

  Memory 98

  Memory 99

  Memory 100

  Memory 101

  Memory 102

  Memory 103

  Memory 104

  Memory 105

  Memory 106

  Memory 107

  Memory 108

  Memory 109

  Memory 110

  Memory 111

  Memory 112

  Memory 113

  Caught

  The Journey Continues

  Did You Enjoy the Book?

  How Brave Are You?

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Intruder

  W ill Save Jr.’s heart hammered against his ribcage as he snuck through the darkness. His hands shook. Beads of cold sweat pearled on his forehead.

  This is a bad idea, he thought as he reached his mother’s bedroom. I shouldn’t be doing this.

  But what choice did he have? His mother had confiscated the memory organizer and refused to give it back. Without it, Will Jr. had no way of reliving his father’s memories. As much as he sometimes wished he could forget everything he had experienced, the truth was he never felt as close to his father as he did now. And every minute spent not knowing what had happened to him was pure torture.

  Will Jr. had tried begging. He had tried logical reasoning. He had even tried threats. All had failed. Kara refused to let him use the memory organizer. In fact, she had hidden it, promising to return it when Will Jr. was old enough. But how long would that take? Weeks? Months? Years?

  Will Jr. could not wait that long.

  He glanced at the birthmark that adorned his left wrist. It was an overturned triangle with an upright section of untainted skin near the tip. Seeing it reminded him of his father.

  “I can do this,” he whispered. “No. I must do it.”

  He pressed his hand to the door. It split open and retreated into the wall with a soft hiss.

  Will Jr. hesitated for a moment before creeping into the room. The door slid closed, and oblivion momentarily enveloped him. Then the crystal-powered lighting system came online, and his surroundings were revealed. Kara was a complicated woman, but her taste in home décor was simple. A bed. A nightstand. A dresser. A dozen photographs of loved ones. That was all.

  I don’t have much time, thought Will Jr. as be began rummaging through his mother’s belongings. He started with the dresser but found nothing. Same for the nightstand. That left only one option.

  The bed.

  Will Jr. doubted his mother would be foolish enough to hide the memory organizer under her mattress, but he was desperate.

  One quick look was all it took to confirm his worst fears. The memory organizer was not here. Devastated, he collapsed onto the bed, his head landing on a pillow. Instead of the soft, cushy feeling he was accustomed to, he felt a sharp pain as something hard dug into his scalp.

  Will Jr.’s heart leapt with excitement. He grabbed the pillow and yanked the case off in a single tug. He then unzipped the pillow and reached into it, feeling around until he found what he was looking for. Gripping it firmly, he pulled it free from the synthetic stuffing and stared at it.

  It was a small wooden chest. It looked so innocuous, yet Will Jr. knew it was anything but. His heart raced as his fingers traced the words that adorned the lid.

  Memory Organizer

  The young man’s first instinct was to release the device from its wooden prison, but he knew that would be unwise. Now that he had located it, the most pressing matter was erasing all traces of his pre—

  A soft hiss filled the air. Will Jr. was no longer alone.

  Busted?

  W ill Jr. turned to find a woman standing before him. The sight of her made him gasp.

  “Grandma?”

  The old woman smiled.

  “Hi, Will,” she said. Her voice was soft, melodious. Her eyes sparkled. Her hair was dark, but
streaks of silver ran through it. She was beautiful.

  “W-what are you d-doing here?” stuttered Will Jr.

  The grandmother chuckled.

  “JJ called, but I see you have more important things to worry about than hanging out with your friends.”

  Will Jr. followed her gaze all the way to the wooden chest clutched in his hand.

  He froze. His plan had been good, but it had backfired. Waiting for his grandparents to drop by for a visit had distracted his mother, but one call from JJ—Will Jr.’s best friend—was all it took to send it crashing down around him.

  “Don’t worry,” said the grandmother. “I won’t tell your mother.”

  “You won’t?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “I love your mother, but I don’t always agree with her. I believe you deserve to know what happened to your father.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence before Will Jr. spoke.

  “What about Mom?”

  She winked. “I’ll handle your mother. Just promise you’ll be careful.”

  “I will. Thanks, Grandma.” He placed a loving kiss on the woman’s cheek and hurried out of the room.

  A few minutes later, Will Jr. sat on his bed. The memory organizer lay on his open palm. The sight of the hourglass symbol filled him with excitement. After nearly a full week of questions and suppositions, he was about to learn his father’s fate.

  Will Jr. twisted the two triangles. The metallic flaps flipped open, and the remaining surface split into points and bloomed outward like a flower. Hands trembling, he grabbed the memory chip marked with a “II” and slid it into the slot. Will Jr. took a deep breath, slowly let it out, and returned the flaps to their original position. Moments later, the memory organizer came to life.

  Legs emerged from the perimeter of the device, and the metallic insect flipped itself over. It leapt onto the teenager’s left hand and encircled his wrist with its legs. The familiar white glow of Will Save’s memories erupted from the young man’s lower arm. Unlike the first time, there was no pain.

  Will Jr. watched with a mixture of fear and excitement as the glow travelled up his arm. He eventually lost sight of it, but he could still feel it. It slid up his neck and invaded his head. Moments later, his father’s memories overwhelmed him, and he lost consciousness.

  Memory 1

  O blivion. It’s all I see when I open my eyes. No trees. No buildings. No people. Just darkness.

  I glance left.

  Nothing.

  I glance right.

  Nothing.

  I look up.

  Nothing.

  I look down.

  I see a body. It seems to belong to me, yet I have no memory of it. I appear to be a teenage boy, but that could just be my mind playing tricks on me. For all I know, I’m a character in a video game, and none of what I see is real.

  “Where am I?” I ask. My voice sounds foreign, as if someone else were speaking through me. But who am I to judge such a thing? I can’t even remember my name.

  “Where am I?” I repeat, hoping the sound of my voice will trigger something within me.

  Nothing happens.

  I wait. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Time means nothing here.

  After a while, something emerges from the darkness.

  A dirt path appears beneath my feet. It leads to a narrow dock made of old, half-rotten planks. Beyond it, a river flows. Fog rises from the water, filling the air with wisps of white. All else remains out of sight.

  I should be afraid, but I’m not. Curiosity is all I feel.

  “Who am I?” The question topples from my lips without warning. Momentarily forgetting about my surroundings, I focus on myself. My clothes are plain and unmarked. My hair is short and unstyled. I wear a ring, but the symbol it bears is foreign to me. It represents two inverted triangles.

  Another symbol adorns my left wrist. This one looks like an hourglass.

  Neither of the symbols is familiar, so I continue my examination. I have an athletic build, yet I suspect this condition is quite recent. I explore my face using my fingers and discover my features appear to be properly proportioned, but I have nothing to compare them to, so I may well be hideous. The final part of my inspection consists of searching my pockets for a clue.

  I find a note. I unfold the parchment-like paper and read the words written on it.

  I require your assistance. Help me and reap the rewards. Deny me aid and pay the price.

  —H.

  P.S. Pick the middle door.

  The note does little to elucidate the mystery of who I am, but, at least, it explains why I’m here. Sort of.

  Desperate to remember even the slightest detail about myself, I take a seat and close my eyes. I let my mind wander, but all that does is bring to my attention more questions for which I have no answers. I’m about to stop when something finally comes to me.

  It’s a name. My name.

  Will Save.

  Memory 2

  M y name is Will Save.

  It’s not much, but it’s a start. I concentrate, hoping to learn more, but nothing emerges from the endless void that is my subconscious. I’m about to give up when a sound reaches my ears.

  Displaced water.

  I open my eyes to see a dark vessel emerge from the fog. The hull is made of rotten planks. The black sails hang limp. Both are riddled with holes. All that remains of the oars that once lined the perimeter of the ship are nubs. Nonetheless, the craft speeds along, slicing through the water like a samurai’s katana through its enemies.

  I watch, perplexed, as the ship comes to a halt next to the dock. A gangway—a half-decomposed plank barely big enough for a man to stand on—emerges from the depths of the ship. It hovers above the taffrail for a second before slamming onto the dock.

  A shape appears and moves along the gangway.

  It’s a man.

  The stranger is tall, his shoulders broad, but the lighting is poor, and all I make out are glimpses. A shabby cloak. A tattered, Pirates- of the Caribbean-style hat. Dreadlocks. Bone-white lips, surrounded by five-day-old stubble. Dark, piercing eyes. Skin that looks more dead than alive.

  I don’t know who this man is, yet I sense I should be afraid. But I’m not. I feel only curiosity as the man approaches. By the time he reaches me, I have dragged myself to my feet.

  “Are you Will?” he asks, looking me up and down. His voice sounds like rocks grinding together.

  I nod.

  The man grunts. “You don’t look like much.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  The man grunts again.

  “Let’s go,” he says. “I ain’t got all day.”

  He heads back toward the ship.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as I hurry after him.

  “I’m a ferryman, not your girlfriend. You wanna talk? Go home.”

  I’d love to, but I can’t.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  The ferryman comes to a stop and whips around.

  “Listen, kid,” he snaps. “I got paid a hundred obols to ferry you across the river. You don’t wanna come? That’s fine. Just don’t waste my time.”

  What’s an obol? Who hired you? Where are we? Who are you? Who am I? Why can’t I remember anything? The questions go on and on, yet I don’t let them escape my lips. The ferryman may be a lot of things, but patient isn’t one of them.

  “What’s it gonna be, kid?” he asks. “You comin’ or you stayin’?”

  “I’m coming.”

  If I’m lucky, the person who hired the ferryman is also the one who sent me the note. Meeting him—or her—may well be my only shot at figuring out what happened to me.

  The man leads me to his ship but won’t let me aboard.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I ain’t runnin’ a charity. You wanna ride, you gotta pay.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

 
“I thought you said you already got paid?”

  “I did, but no one rides for free. Pay the toll or swim. The choice is yours.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Sure ‘bout that?”

  “What do you—” I begin, but the man cuts me off.

  “Check your mouth.”

  “My mouth?”

  He nods. “Under the tongue.”

  “The tongue?” I try to say, but for some reason, only a muffled grunt escapes my mouth. I don’t understand why until I feel around with my tongue and find a small metallic disc tucked underneath it. I reach into my mouth and grab it.

  It’s a gold coin.

  “What the hell? What is it?”

  “That,” says the ferryman, snatching the coin and sliding it into his pocket, “is an obol.”

  “How did it get in my mouth?”

  “Who cares? Come on. We’re late.”

  “How can you tell?” I ask, but the man ignores me and boards the ship.

  “Comin’?”

  I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t trust the ferryman, it’s just that this is my last chance to go back. Then again, it’s not like I have anything to go back to.

  “I’m coming,” I say as I step onto the gangway.

  Moments later, we’re on our way.

  Memory 3

  T he vessel slices through the water with ease. The fog is so thick I can barely make out the ship’s bow. The sails sway in the breeze, giving the impression a giant black ghost is floating above us. The ferryman stands by the stern, eyeing our progress with a strict eye.

  “How do you know where you’re going?” I ask.

  He ignores me.

  “Where are we going?”

  No response.

  “Who hired you?”

  The ferryman’s eye twitches.

  “Where are we?”

  A groan.

  “What’s the name of the river?”

  A short silence.

  “Styx,” he finally says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s where we are. The Styx, river of hatred.”

  “Why?”

  The ferryman groans.

  “Can’t you be quiet?”