I'm Home

The train arrived at Trayin Central at 7 PM. An eager John disembarked and hopped on the fastest monorail home. Gramps would be home by now and a ten-year absence can churn the coldest of hearts.

John rode the same old, shanty elevator. He felt his heat pump faster for a reason he didn't know. The real impact of his resurrection must have finally hit him, the sheer absurdity. It was one of those in-the-moment things.

He ran his fingers along cheap acrylic buttons coverings and pressed his index on an upside-down one: thirteen was flipped in the past by a mischievous young John and Kevin. The same pleasant light illuminated as the customary jerk of the old system shook the carriage.

He left the package outside and fumbled the keys in place.

The front door was still the same, solid metal, slightly scuffed. Behind it was the same home. There were the same shoe cabinet and mat that made way to the same living room. In the middle of those hardwood floors was the same table tennis table that sometimes doubled as desk despite Gramps' scolding.

The old man himself laid back in the same over-stuffed couch, eyes closed. Wrinkles lined his aged, but definitely not wise face. The hair was white as snow, as expected from a man in his hundreds.

John took off his boots and placed them on the rack in the usual place, bottom row, far left. He stood there for a minute.

"I'm home," he eventually called softly.

Gramps awoke with a jolt. He blinked a few times and looked at the grandfather clock almost as old as him. "You're finally home. I was waiting on you for dinner, you know."

"I ate on the train."

"Oh? Did you go somewhere outta town?"

"Ah, yes… A visit to a friend's place in Kinas."

"I didn't know you had friends outside Trayin. Or any outside of Kevin for that matter." Gramps muttered as he headed to the kitchen.

John gave a light laugh and watched Gramps' arched figure disappear around the corner. He then quickly brought package inside and to his room.

John then gave a sigh of relief. 'Everything's the same,' he thought. 'The past can still be changed.' He had worked himself up for nothing. And so, the sigh became a laugh of relief, a loud one too.

"Damn crazy…" he heard Gramps mutter from the kitchen.

John couldn't help but smile. 'Yes, the same, everything was the same.'

He would fight to keep it so.

RISE's servers would be open for pre-launch at ten that night. However, John wanted to open the package immediately. Character customization would be open before the servers, and he couldn't help but want to hold the device in his hands once more.

He shuffled through the dirty clothes and litter, placing the package on an unmade bed. He cut open the packaging with a pair of scissors he found somewhere on the floor and made a mess of the Styrofoam padding. What remained were the helmet, a couple of cords, and a manual which was swiftly discarded.

While called a helmet, the device was more of a collar with neurode straps that ran around the ears and over the head. With a case of aluminum, the electronics were fastened on the collar with several ports for cables. It was quite ugly in design, but it was light, adaptable and cheap, not to mention the first edition.

He held the helmet for a moment then quickly placed the collar on his shoulders and fastened the Velcro around his neck. Familiarized hands wrapped the straps over the skull. Cables found themselves into sockets with a few swift motions. He flung the sheets off the bed and lay down.

The power button was located on the electronics package, just below the right side of the chin. John pressed it. It was smooth and springy to the touch, having maybe a millimeter or two of give. That was a distance had taken ten years to travel.

He was greeted by a single white line and a string of bold text.

[Enter Username]

And John was stumped. In the past, he had entered the game a bit after the official launch and the name he had wanted, along with all ten reasonable variations he had considered, were taken. In the end, he had chosen the respectable xXxThI3FxXx out of frustration. This earned him the scorn of all professional players when the guild had exploded.

But now he had a chance to pick almost anything. After all, only a small number of players would have been able to pick by now.

He brought his arms up and a keyboard appeared. 'Probably something haughty or creative.' he shrugged and entered a few.

He first typed Illusion.

[Are you sure? There is no way to change once you confirm.]

'That's too simple isn't it?' he reconsidered.

John tried Star Tyrant and quickly shook his head: too overbearing. 'Maybe Reaper? No, no, no. Way too edgy. How about something from mythology? Ares or even Horus might be good.' John scratched his head.

'Or something artistic? There are plenty of good usernames like that.' He entered some: A Petal in the Wind, Streaks of Light and One of Many. They were deleted from the line just as quickly.

'Maybe simple is better.' He then typed what he had wanted in the past – Thief, just Thief. The same confirmation popped up and he quickly accepted before he could change his mind.

[Reserved class name, please enter another username]

John cursed, and his fingers sprinted across the keyboard, entering his name, John. The confirmation was hit within milliseconds and the interface dissolved away, leaving darkness.

[Please customize your character. Your model has been loaded. Alteration afterward cannot be made normally.]

He then appeared, or rather an exact replica appeared. The face was nearly perfect, matching the shaggy black hair, serious eyes and rounded chin. The model was wearing a pure white outfit over the same lackluster, but at least healthy body.

The default model had caused controversy at release. How had the perfect replica been obtained? Was the data saved? Eventually, the RISE corporation was forced to change it to a generic male and female model, with promises that any analysis function of the helmets was patched out. However, the memento of early RISE still brought a smile to John's face.

He chose light alterations to the brow, deepening it. He made a pinching gesture to the jaw, defining and tightening the contour. The hair could stay the same color, but the length was exaggerated, and the previous bangs were removed. The nose was brought out and the eyes were set closer. Nothing big, but more handsome and enough to conceal identity.

The body proportions were, however, heavily modified. Most players didn't realize it, but changes here could marginally affect the game experience, adding to the realism. Of course, there was a certain range modification could be made.

In the past, John had made his character beefy, to appeal to his ideal figure, but size wasn't the best for a thief. Now, he trimmed off most excess fat, making himself on the thin side to keep the available target small, but average to blend into crowds. He increased his pitiful five foot seven to make climbing a bit easier. He skipped over the tattoo section and disregarded any accessories.

John gave a look over and with satisfaction, exited the game. Time compression hadn't turned on yet and it was only eight thirty, plenty of time until the servers started.

Gramps was done eating dinner when John stepped out from his room. It was leftovers from takeout, Gramps didn't cook too often, and when he did, the taste was questionable. John had helped make meals since his early teens.

A table tennis paddle came flying out as soon as the door open, slamming into John's arm. He barely caught it as it tumbled down.

"Play some," Gramps told him.

"Sure," John mumbled, rubbing his arm.

"Oh, I didn't expect you to agree."

In his childhood, the two were inseparable. After all, kids are supposed to love their parents and Gramps was both. Their way of bonding was through the ball, paddle, and table.

It would be on late summer nights when all the other kids were out catching fireflies. Maybe it would be after school, relaxing after a stressful day. Or perhaps on those sparse snow days where the air was as crisp as the sound of the ball on the table.

In his younger days, Gramps was a competitive table tennis player. He had apparently won a few regional championships in his early twenties. He was fated to go into nationals before his dream was cut short. This was before the rise of electronics, necessitating an antique projector in the living room for him to watch his black and white triumphs.

After Gramps' table tennis career was busted, he floated around a few jobs before he joined the military for a decade or two. There was nothing serious, he didn't really go to war, maybe helped around during a few floods and earthquakes. He made a few friends and they played table tennis casually and that was about it.

Gramps never said much about his life after that period. He always said that he never had a real job, but plenty of desk ones. He still played a bit, but really started again when he retired, frequenting a casual club for over thirty years.

A couple of years ago, like all youths, John had grown independent. Teenagers have this weird phase where they repel their parents like water and oil. School took its toll, and work piled up with endless procrastination.

During breaks he went out with friends on weekends or maybe cooped up beside his computer, playing games. Gramps would ask occasionally, and John would always be busy. The apartment became silent without the consistent ping and pong of the ball.

And now Gramps was waving around that hunk of wood, with a mad look in his eye and a ball in his hand. "I'll serve."

He served it low with surprising speed for a man his age. It whizzed by John's outstretched paddle: no chance.

John quickly retrieved it and served in return. It crashed straight into the net. He grabbed it and tried again with the same result. The next was better, making it over the net, but turning right around with a single smash from Gramps.

"It's been a while, hasn't it? A month now?" Gramps remarked.

'If only you know,' John thought as he quickly served another.

"So did your grades come out yet?" Gramps said as he returned lightly this time.

"Some of them."

"How did it go?"

"70 Calculus, 73 Linear Algebra," John replied without even knowing the answer: it's not like it would matter soon enough.

"How was the semester, it wasn't as bad as you thought, right?"

"It's was… long."

"But at least it was fun, right?"

John thought for a second. "Yeah, I had a good time."

"Tell me about it."

"I learnt a lot this year, met a few new people."

"Oh, friends?"

"Yeah," John laughed as the ball flew past him. "A group one hundred thousand strong."

"There must be a girl or two in there."

"Eh, I guess, maybe one," John said as his serve soared past the table's edge.

"The one?" Gramps sent back a serve full of topspin.

"Gramps, I'm seventeen," John said with a decent return.

Gramps hit it back and the rally went on. "Oh well, we all miss chances. Just relax and play around for the break. Work hard for it next semester."

"Yeah…"

They played for another three minutes in silence.

"Really can't believe it's almost Christmas again," Gramps said suddenly as he shot a forehand.

The ball flew like a bullet in a dead flat arc, bouncing off the table. John nearly twisted his arm as he tried to block the shot. It missed the paddle and hit John square in the stomach.

"Yeah, the year's over just like that," he said.

…

They played and really talked for the first time in a while. The two pounded the ball until around nine-thirty when the old man called it quits. "A couple more rallies until bed, John."

Of course, most his age would be tired at this point, but John knew Gramps would have gladly gone on for another hour.

"Alright," John said.

John had played happily too for the first while, but as the rhythmic collisions of plastic and rubber grew comfortable, he grew distracted. Gramps had noticed this and called it a day.

But Gramps was exactly why John was deep in thought. In the previous timeline, Gramps would fall horribly ill within a month and be hospitalized. It wasn't anything fatal, and he would still be able to live for another ten years or so, but his mobility would be compromised. The doctors had said that it was a miracle that he was able to play as long as he did.

Ultimately, he had opted for government euthanasia program marking the end of a 107-year-old history.