NOVEL NEXT Chapter 4: Logging Out
Chapter 4: Logging Out
CW:
The midday sun continues its travel across the sky, sinking down towards the horizon opposite of where it rose in the morning. The evening is a busy one, but a mostly tedious one. I spend the time hunting giant rats first. With the Scan ability, I'm able to see that most giant rats are level one or two, which explains why they're kind of pushovers.
After the tenth rat or so, I check my experience bar and realize that the progress towards my next level is pitiful. The rats offer paltry experience and rewards, but they're good practice with the sword.
My sword still feels lopsided and foreign, but as the day goes on I begin to get a feel for it. I'm still clumsily striking at rats by the time the light starts to dip towards the horizon. A notification pops up around six pm system time, I flick the interface from system time to real time and note that it's about four in the morning. Anxiety ripples throughout me at the thought that I have to return to my old awful body.
With all the willpower I can muster, I begin to trudge my way back into town. I try not to think about logging out, trying to focus my attention outwards. In trying not to think about it, though, everything is a blur. I return to the tavern and mumble something to the tavern owner that must have just barely been decipherable because he gives me the key to my long term room. Referred to by players as a 'log room'.
Eight o' clock grows closer moment by moment and I know that I need to log out soon. The ten hour mark for me is just barely after eight and I'll be force logged out if I wait that long.
I take a seat on the small uncomfortable bed in the room. It's a room with the bare minimum in terms of furnishings, only used for logging in and out. I open my menu and navigate towards the log out option. I try to steady my quickening breaths, panic setting in. I tap the button and a secondary confirmation pops up with a blurb about safe logging practices. I slam my finger into the secondary confirmation, cursing it for even giving me a chance to try and back out of logging out.
As the system processes the request, I can feel myself drooping sleepily. I fall back against the bed, the world quickly falling away from me as my consciousness leaves my body.
"Logging out. Goodbye Astraea." The systems robotic voice intones. If I wasn't half conscious, I'd probably cry at hearing that.
I pull off the headset, pulling myself into a sitting position. Everything feels awful and wrong about my body as I shift uncomfortably. I stare blankly at the machine in my hands, cursing it for putting me back into this awful body. Not only that, but everything feels slow, everything feels deliberate. It takes a second for my brain to adjust to the real world after the time dilation, but its nowhere near as bad as it was after my first time using the machine.
Gingerly I set the headset on my side table, treating the device with the utmost respect. Nothing can happen to the device, it's my one ticket to an affirming body at least some of the time and I won't let anything happen to it.
I glance at the clock and note the time, twenty minutes past five. I take some deep breaths, swinging my legs off of my bed and sitting there for a second centering myself. The hairy feeling of my legs sticks out more than it ever has.
I can feel myself getting nauseous and I stagger my way into the bathroom. My steps feel clunky again. My shoulders too broad, my hips less full, everything feels off. Some of it doesn't even make sense, I didn't touch my shoulder width in the character creator after all. I hang over the toilet for a couple seconds, waiting for the sickness to either leave my body or pass. It does neither and after a couple seconds of silence I recall that I skipped dinner in my excitement to play Terresite.
I force my brain to think about anything else while I shuffle my way silently into the kitchen. I find the plate mom put aside for me exactly where she said it would be. I throw it into the microwave and wait, thoughts still scattered.
In my dysphoric haze, a strange thought manages to pierce through to the forefront of my mind. 'I should go for a run'.
I can't shake the thought from my head no matter what else I try to think about. As I eat the dinner-made-breakfast, I can't deny that it's at least something to do that doesn't involve me sitting around and stewing in my dysphoria.
Besides, if I could get in the habit of warming up and running every day, it would make it easier to keep up the habit when I'm in game. And I can't deny that warming up like that in the morning has been refreshing.
After cleaning up my dishes and putting them away, I shuffle my way back to my bedroom. I ignore how my brain cries out when I get undressed, pointedly looking anywhere but my body. I slip into my normal clothes, Grey sweatpants, a plain tee shirt, and a Grey zip up hoodie. The hoodie is actually about two sizes too big, but I like it that way. It makes it loose, meaning that people can't see my figure. And if it's long like this, the length can almost make me feel cute sometimes.
The outfit is fine enough to go running, so I return to the bathroom. I don't look at the mirror. I am so aggressively not looking at the mirror that my back is turned to it as I brush my teeth. I turn back around to spit in the sink and grab my hair brush, but then I turn back away. I brush through my hair carefully, easing the few tangles out of it. Once my hair is brushed through, I secure it with a hair tie and slip another spare hair tie around my wrist. I always like to keep another on hand in case the first one breaks.
After slipping my phone, wallet, and keys into my pocket, I put on my sneakers and slink towards the front door. I check the time as I close the front door. Six in the morning. The bus gets to the bus stop near my house at seven thirty, so I've got plenty of time for a run.
I turn towards town and start jogging, my pace slow. My body is just as unfit in the real world as it is in the virtual one, probably even more so. Without the virtual system to prevent the exhaustion, I can feel myself getting winded after only about ten minutes of running. I slow my pace to a walk, panting as I try to catch my breath. After about five minutes of walking, I jog for ten more minutes and then switch back to walking. I keep my thoughts on the town around me as it passes by, ignoring any of my own inner turmoil at how my body moves.
Sufficiently deep in town now, I turn into a nearby convenience shop. I grab a sports drink, not wanting to buy just a bottle of water.
"Your total is $1.08." the cashier says, entirely too cheery for six in the morning. I slip my card into the reader and pay for the drink wordlessly. "Do you want a bag?" She asks.
"No" I cringe as I hear my voice. My tone is the same low tone I've always had, always up until… Well, I suppose it was just last night, but it feels like two days ago to me. Hearing my voice is the worst blow to my psyche, the gravelly low tone grating on my ears. I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting back tears as I finish up the transaction. I offer mumbled thanks that I'm not even sure the cashier could hear as I leave with my drink.
I down half the drink as I'm leaving the store, the sweet drink parching my thirst from the short run. I begin to jog back in the direction of my house, making the same pace as I'd been running before.
I make it back to my house, sports drink completely empty and thoroughly out of breath. I toss the drink into the trash can and slip my way inside the front door. The sound of the front door alerts my mom, who pops her head out of the kitchen.
"Jacob?" She asks. I don't need to hide my cringing at that name because it doesn't show through my panting from being out of breath. "Where were you?" She asks, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Went out for," I take a gulp of air, "a run" I reply, I lean against the wall slightly. My legs are burning a little from the jog and mixing with my natural unbalanced nature, I need the support.
Mom looks surprised, but she clearly believes me. Hard to refute the idea when I clearly look like I've been running. "Alright, well, I'm about to head out myself. Have a good day at school sweetheart." She pulls her head back into the kitchen to finish up preparing for work.
I make my way back to my room and decide to change my shirt. It's drenched in sweat from the run and I don't want to deal with that at school. I check the time on my phone and decide it's a good enough time to head out to the bus stop.
Waiting for the bus with the two other students that get on at this stop, I find that the dysphoria has dulled slightly. It's still there, a shadow hanging over everything I do, but I'm able to function like I used to again. I try not to think too hard about my time in Terresite, for my own mental health.
Eventually, the bus arrives and all three of us get on the bus. I scan my eyes over the bus and look for any empty seat. Today there happens to be one in the far back. I start to make my way there and accidentally bump into a seat on my way back, thankfully I don't seem to have disturbed the occupant. I settle into the seat and slip my earbuds in. I plug them into my phone and lose the world around me as I envelop myself in music.
-
The bell rings to signal the start of class. I'm already in my seat, having made it to homeroom with time to spare. I have my notebook and pencil out, but it's more of a formality. I have a tendency not to write notes in most of my classes, this one especially though.
My homeroom is English, which is arguably my best subject. "Jacob Sallow" I cringe much more visibly than normal as my name is called for role. I look up and my eyes lock with my teacher's, Ms. Paul.
"Here." I reply, dreading the sound of my voice as I project it to the room. Ms. Paul's eyes seem to linger on me for just a second more, but they eventually continue on.
I turn my attention back to my notebook, tuning out the rest of role call. Ms. Paul always seems to be perceptive of when her students are having difficulties, be it in class or in general. It made her one of my favorite teachers, even if I had a tendency to brush her off when she asks me if anything's going on. She's polite and professional about it each time, but I don't think she's ever once believed me when I tell her I'm fine. I can't tell her the truth, though. I don't know if I can tell anyone.
I've known it myself for at least a year now. At least, that's when I started to learn the terminology and actually realized it wasn't an unattainable future for me. I've felt it in me for longer, but being able to put words to it was nice. Ever since I found out, I haven't told anybody who I am. Who I really am.
I sigh and pay attention to Ms. Paul as she gets up from her desk and heads to the whiteboard. She goes through a small lesson that's mostly discussing the book we've been reading. I keep my head down when she asks questions and avoid interaction with the class for the most part. Some days I'd be happy to answer some questions, but today I want to hear my voice as little as possible.
She concludes the lesson with a description of our homework, more pages on a worksheet that she'd given us prior, but I've already finished it. I had been reading ahead and completing the worksheet as I went, the book was pretty good all things considered. Liked it way more than Kafka’s works, which we had been covering previously. Me and Ms. Paul still don't see eye to eye about Kafka. She’s crazy about the guy, but I just don’t get it.
With the rest of the hour to myself I put away my notebook, which I had, as expected, used very little. I pull out my sketchbook, using the rest of the hour to sketch out some outfit designs and generally doodle. The time slips away from me quickly, losing myself in my art like I tend to do so often.
The bell rings, snapping me out of my reverie. I start packing my backpack back up, placing my pencils and sketchbook away carefully. I’m on my way out the door when I hear Ms. Paul's voice calling out to me, “Jacob, can you stay back a second?”
I almost don’t stop, it actually takes a couple of steps before my mind registers that she’s talking to me. I pull myself out of the stream of students leaving the classroom, walking up to her desk instead. “Yeah?” I mumble, keeping my voice just loud enough to be heard.
“Is everything okay?” She asks.
“Why do you ask?”
“You seemed a little more reserved than usual. I just wanted to check that everything’s going alright.”
I shift uncomfortably, mulling my words over. I nod slowly, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just not very sociable today I guess.” Ms. Paul nods once, her lips pressed into a thin line. I can tell that she doesn’t necessarily buy it, but I also know that she won’t press me on it if I’m persistent on not talking about it.
“You’re sure?” She asks, scanning my face as I nod and try to avoid meeting her eyes. “Alright then. That’s all. Please have a good day, Jacob.” She says. I give a small nod in response before shuffling out of the classroom. I head to my next class, keeping my head down in the halls. Generally speaking, I could pretty easily avoid the kids that tended to bully me as long as I keep a low profile.
I make it to the next class without incident, thankfully. I’m really not in the mood for any bullying today. Not to say that I’m ever really in a mood for it, but even less so today.
The next couple of classes are equally uneventful, just lessons and homework. Half of the classes don’t even have the homework part, just offering the rest of the time as a ‘study hall’. I manage to sketch out some more outfits throughout the day, occasionally looking up reference images on my phone. Most of my classmates don’t try to talk to me at all, I only really have a couple of friends in this school and most of us don’t share a class.
Which makes lunch time a bit of a relief. When I get to the lunch room, I see that the lines are already getting pretty long. I check what foods are at each line and realize that it’s a calzone day. I weigh my options, but decide to skip the line this time. I walk past the line and grab one of the pre-prepared wraps, paying for it with my student card. With my lunch in hand, I make my way through the lunch room, looking for the one group I always sit with.
