Digital

Such a simple thing, surely, to conjure a whisper of flame to hand. A thought, a wish, some elaborate hand gesture, or perhaps a coy whisper into cupped palms. I’d done it countless times before with little trouble or effort on my part. Yet this time nothing was transpiring. I noticed with a sinking feeling that a majority of my companions were eyeing me in an doubtful manner, and far worse, some had the hard glint of malice within the depths of their eyes, fingers yearning towards those incredible sharp implements of pain fasted about their waist, each of them more than capable of carving me up in seven different ways before I so much as blinked, each manner of doing so as painful and shamelessly flashy as the last. Enough of this foolishness, I chided myself. So thinking, I chafed my hands together as if bracing the other against a sudden chill. Focusing my concentration wholly on my widespread fingers, I slowly flicked each fingertip, as if casting the burden of water droplets from them. Annnnd….nothing. I cast a rather humble, sheepish grin at my now openly glaring companions. “Er….heh heh heh,” I ventured, upturning my palms and brining them level with each other to either side of my head in a gesture of genuine bafflement. Of course, the situation was far from humorous. In fact, it was swiftly blackening almost as swiftly as my companion’s already black moods. Things, in short, did not look good. After all, I was merely a humble Fire Mage, who had only just previously assured them that I would be a valuable asset indeed to their party, due to my unique gift. And after such shamelessly bravado, it only stands to reason that they would be vexed with me. “Is there a problem, sorcerer?” I winced and recoiled ever so subtly. That would be Axel, the leviathan sword-for-hire. While normally such brawn would have me snorting in open contempt, I quickly deduced that, while freelance warriors were a dime a dozen, a frequent favorite class of those with little imagination, that would not be wise, and would likely cause me to be ground into fish paste.

“Well,” I began with as much dignity as I could muster, flipping thorough my inventory with a deceptively indolent air, “No one spell is guaranteed to work every time,” by this point in time I held a rather musty tome in my hands, and was idly flipping musty, gold-leafed pages with a slender forefinger. “I mean, one can hardly say ‘Libra incinderae’ and expect….” To my everlasting shame, my words trailed off in a rather girlish shriek of alarm as the pages suddenly erupted in a snarling and swiftly towering inferno. A jewel adorned hand swept in an imperious manner of the book, and the flames died a sullen death indeed. “Don’t speak Latin in front of the books,” came the haughty tones of Lúthien, the other Fire-Mage. And a stupid Elf, at that. Her name was lackluster-and unoriginal. I mean, really. An enchantress named Enchantress? One has to wonder what in the nine hells her parents were thinking, they really must. My eyes narrowed in slim slits of hatred as she turned her back one more. Summoning a fireball to my hands, I hurled it with all my might at her retreating form. It was an unforgivable error on my part, as I was soon to discover-though the time for regret was long pass. With sullen flames kindled in her eyes, she absorbed, to my everlasting shock, the flames and sent them hurling towards my chest instead. To complicate matters further, she encircled the dry patch of earth that surrounded me to block all chances of reaching me in a vain attempt of rescue. And so, long after my (manly) screams of agony died on my lips, my fading vision was gifted with the cold glare of an offended Elf.

“Cy!” Raged Lúthien alias Ty, hurling a long since abandoned controller at my face, placing a wicked spin upon it with a deft flick of her wrist. “Ouch, shit!” I yelped as it struck me full in the nose. “Mind your fucking language,” muttered Aiden absently, fingers compressing the twin triggers of the controller with a merciless manner, eyes locked upon a green-armored figure racing along a long-rusted iron scaffolding. His mouth was set into a grim line of bloodlust and concentration alike. Then, with a smooth, practiced air, his thumb traveled down the length of the black controller, compressing a button swiftly, causing the controller to vibrate with a violent shudder as the missal raced towards its appointed target. The scaffolding collapsed in upon itself in a flash of white-hot heat. Aiden cackled madly as his target fell and broke on the pavement below. The kill ratio flashed up on the screen- 47 to 0. “Wow, dude,” commented Stephen, “You are the sUxx0r.” “Shut up,” growled the reed-thin, white-blond haired youth seated next to Aiden. “Did you have to kill me, Ty?” complained Cy. “You made me,” she growled. “I made you?” He echoed, incredulous. “That’s right, hotpants. You made me.” “Team killings?” Tsked Aiden, a disapproving glare on his face. “Tsk, tsk, children. Such dishonor.” “Not cool, man,” droned an agreeing voice from the couch. “And I never knew you thought I was hot. Thank you!” finished Cy with a lazy grin. “Please,” snorted Ty, a sentiment echoed by many. “You’re just jealous because I can kick your ass, any time, any day, and in any game.” “Yeah?” Cy demanded in his typical, superior “Is that a fact?” tone. “Yeah!” “All right, princess. Prove it, then.” “Princess? Princess my ass. Which is what you are, by the way.” “Enough smack-talking and ego-brusing, you two. Are you going to play or are you going to talk about it all day and bore us half to death?” This last from Brian.

It was a typical Friday at the Hippsman household. Fridays were devoted to one sole purpose-to host the rather large community of adolescent gamers. It was generally a BYOC occasion, but was not strictly limited to gaming platforms alone. No, the dim glow of laptops and personal computers provided a comforting backlight, the sounds of the ever-popular online games such as Everquest and World Of Warcraft, as well as the oh-so-coveted Guild Wars graced the spacious halls of the house, regardless of the fact that it gave all parents within a twelve mile radius a sudden, crippling migraine. What had begun as mere, innocuous, and open-ended invitation for Aiden to undergo the effort of making new friends had swiftly become a devastated wasteland of long empty soda cans, overturned chip and pretzel bowls, and a littering of tinfoil lunch packs of chips. When Mrs. Hippsman had encouraged Aiden to make new friends within his new hometown, she hadn’t dreamed he would gravitate to more people like him. She had, like most parents who have never felt the Call, and therefore could not understand the almost mindless at times devotion to games, had held out for the vague hope that there simply could not be that many gamers. And now she berated herself for her blatant ignorance. What faint glimmer of hope that had birthed in her heart with the arrival of Ty had now elected to curl up in a dark corner of her heart and whither and die. She was just as bad as the rest of them. Still, ever the glib mother, she allowed such Friday night indulgences.

“Fine. Name your game.” This from Ty, her voice as withering as the touch of winter’s frost on the first of spring’s blossom. “Soul Caliber.” This drew a collective sharp inhalation from the spectators, causing even those lost in a game of their own to set down their controllers in classic bloodlust and apprehension. This particular rivalry ran deep indeed between the pair. It could almost be considered cute, were it not for the murder in their eyes. Both were as fiercely devoted to the game as the other, and they played it like it was a religion. Perhaps to them, it was. Ty held the position of Platinum Edgemaster, while Cy was a mere Bronze Knight. On the arcade versions, her name appeared on the high score listing ten times more than his own. They had never once tied, but neither had truly fallen to the other. Not in the way it mattered, anyway. Their “deaths” always lacked certain finality, a feeling of undisputed supremacy. Perhaps this final match would settle the matter. Three hours and two minutes later, it had been decided, long after the rest had long since called their parents and returned home with calls of “Later,” and “See ya,” it was decided. Ty reigned over the master status, after well over 200 defeats and no ties. “All right, you two. Now that that’s settled, help me clean, you lazy bums,” yawned Aiden. He plugged in the Hoover. No sooner had it roared to life with deafening bestial strength, the light at the base glowing with a predator light, there came a resounding crack, and the lights sparked and extinguished. The Hoover coughed into silence.

“Did one of you…?” He began, only to notice snow on the screen. Not the black and white static, but snow. Swirling out of the television, settling onto the floor and gracing his face with their momentary chill. Curious despite himself, he reached forward as if to brush the snow from where it had gathered at the base of the tv. The surface of the screen rippled, like a troubled pond. Rippled..and then constricted, like the tug of water as it ebbed around your fingers as it met its demise down the drain. Before he had time to saying anything at all, he was jerked from his feet and into the tv itself. His final thought was- Mom always told me not to sit so close to the screen. I guess there was a grain of truth to that, after all.