I tumbled out of the couch, tearing the mask from my face, spewing vomit through mouth and nose. I collapsed on the rug, my body locked in a cramp, teeth gritted, hands clenched to my chest, legs trembling with the tension.


    Then the cramp let go, leaving my body ravaged and depleted.


    I gasped, pulling down my acrid breath, my mind shattered like a mirror, all sharp edges. I pulled down another breath.


    <i>Calm… calm…calm… </i>I urged myself with every breath and my racing heart started to slow.


    My god… my head. I felt like caved in with a war hammer. I just lay there looking out at a palm tree in the garden that was showered in the heavy orange of sunset. I needed to get up, rinse my mouth, get my head sorted but for now, all I could do was to lye here on my side, hands still clenched to my chest, and look out at that palm tree that looked like it was on fire.


    Vinger had killed me. Chopped of my head whilst I was on my hands and knees. Just lopped it of for the whole of Breaker City to see.


    A surge of anger tensed the corner of my mouth.


    I urged myself to stand, and I did. It was a slow and pitiful process, which felt like it shattered my brain a second time.


    I stumbled out to the bathroom, rinsed my mouth and spat out strings of yellow and blood.


    Disgusting.


    I rinsed until it was nothing more than water that came out when I spat.


    Then I collapsed down on the toilet and closed my eyes.


    I had a fever, and I was rapidly growing hotter. I should fill up a bucket with water, get back out to the living room and try to get the rug clean, or at least not stinking of fresh vomit; but you could just as well have asked me to run a marathon. I had enough strength to get back to the couch and collapse in it, but that was all.


    I don’t know for how long I slept, but when I woke up, it was in the dead of night. The TV’s power indicator stared at me with an angry red eye. I was sweating like a pig, the fever ravishing my body. I mumbled for water, didn’t know to who, but no water came.


    I fell back into a shallow sleep, looping the same segment of a dream over and over until I woke up at dawn, mentally exhausted.


    The fever was on its way down, though.


    I rolled over on my back, my sweaty clothes straining against my body in a claustrophobic damp grip.


    The stench of vomit was in the air; I knew it, but I could no longer feel it. Probably I stank up the room equally bad. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    I got out of the couch, stumbled over to the rug, Melinda’s most priced possession, and rolled it up. It took all my remaining strength to carry it through the house, unlock the door and throw the whole thing out on the porch.


    Then I went back to the bathroom and took a long hot shower, feeling a bit better when I came out of it, the towel wrapped around my waist.


    I ate a small breakfast of toast, orange juice and a cup of coffee. From outside I heard the distant whoosh of the highway, and an airplane that came in for landing. It was never silent in this world. It was brimming with life and innovation, but still it was so bleak in comparison to the one I had left.


    I dressed up in shorts and a t-shirt and left the apartment, swerved around the rolled-up carpet and got into my Bronko. I went down to the sea, sat down on the bench and looked out over the ocean. It was still early morning, and the beach was all but deserted. The taco stand behind hadn’t open for the day.


    Vinger had killed me. Everyone had said it wasn’t a fight I could win, but I had thought I never better. It was like in Hell Week for the marines. When people thought you were done and had nothing more to give, you still had at least 30% more to give. When you yourself thought you’ were done and had nothing more to give, you still had at least 10% left. But in this instance, the hill had turned out to be a mountain and when I got back in there, because I would go back – that wasn’t even a question; I would do it as a level 30 with all my skills reset. That was a bummer, but I chose to see it in another light. Sarah had said I would be a bloated level 30 without the skills to match the level, and she had a point, but the way I looked at it; my speed level journey had started already at the Battle Clash. I rose from level 10 to level 21 in a matter of days, and I didn’t have the skills to match that level either. So, if I could choose, being a bloated level 30 without the skills to match, or to be a level 10 with the skills to match? I would still choose to be level 30.


    Character levels was so much slower to gain than Skill levels and as a level 30 I could gain them so much faster. Besides, I thought I still had an ace up my sleeve. It would show when I logged back on.


    The seagulls squawked and balanced on the hot wind. Behind me the rattling and screeching of the store front shutters being pulled up signalled that the new day was well under way.


    I got back to my Bronco and headed home.


    I fired up the console and put the mask to my face. That sudden icy chill came and then Alara was in my living room.


    “Brad. You’re looking good, considering the circumstances.”


    “And you, you always look good, Alara,” I said, giving her a wolfish smile.


    “Hmm, looks like you’re ready to swing back up the saddle. Have fun playing.”


    She smiled and I was back at my apartment in Area 9. The span of the bridge was lit by the moon.


    I pulled down my inventory. Alara had said that my achievements would not be reset, that I couldn’t gain XP from them again, but if my achievements weren’t reset, that ought to mean…


    Yes. The Battle Clash trophy was still listed in my inventory.


    To have 10 % faster levelling, for both skills and character, that would help remedy my status as a bloated level 30. I knew all the best levelling spots and at level 30, I would just brush through them. And a guaranteed 1000 credits a day, that did help as well.


    <i>Incoming message:</i>


    <b>Rick Solomon</b>: Brad! You’re back! Is your brain fried or can you still put together coherent sentences?


    <b>Brad Richards</b>: I got this dribble from the side of my mouth, and I can only speak in one syllable words, but other than that, I’m peachy!


    <b>Rick Solomon</b>: Good to hear, buddy. Really good to hear. Are you coming down to Anchors? There’s thing’s we need to talk about.


    <b>Brad Richards</b>: Be there in a sec.


    My inventory was cleaned out, my credits was down to an even 1000, but I wasn’t discouraged. Quite the contrary. If my purpose inside the game had been a bit lofty up till now; finding answers, they had crystalized.


    I was getting even with Vinger Toth and if that meant going through his brother, the Alpha Prime, I would do it.


    This had become personal.