Goddess Watch: Aelterna Online, #1

1

What do you have when everything’s taken from you?

My life changed forever the night I turned twenty-one. My parents, divorced but still on friendly terms, had taken me out for my first (legal) drink, and I’d gotten silly, sloppy drunk. We’d had a great time together, singing karaoke and playing trivia. My mother, a lifelong nonjudgmental teetotaler, had abstained and kindly volunteered to drive us home.

We had barely hit the freeway when our car was struck from behind by an automated tractor-trailer unit. My father, in the back seat, died instantly. The emergency responders were unable to extricate my mother from the wreckage before she bled out, mercifully unconscious from the impact. The emergency crews didn’t find me for almost ten minutes, and even then it was only pure chance. A rookie EMT had stumbled into the ditch to throw up, and when he tripped over my body, he’d screamed before fainting.

All this information was relayed to me much later. I was unconscious for weeks after the event, and when I was finally woken from my medical coma, the various agencies all came in turn to tell me their portion of the story. My own memory was completely gone. The last thing I remembered was my mother picking me up and telling me that my father would meet us at the pub. Her smile was bright and her voice was tinged with happiness and pride.

It was the best possible way to remember her.

For a while after the accident, I wished I had died too. Anything would be better than living as a freak. That passed, but I was left with a haunting, spiteful resentment. Was this any kind of life?

My injuries were too numerous to count. When the truck struck us, I was partially ejected from the car. My legs were immediately severed when the steel tsunami crushed the passenger side of the cabin. Some of the truck’s cargo had pinned me at the hips, which was the only thing that saved me from bleeding out instantly. My right arm was crushed; the surgeons had tried to save it via repeated operations, but ultimately the damage to the bone and muscle was too much. My left arm suffered enough nerve damage that I could barely lift it. Fine motor control was gone. I could clench a weak fist and that was about it.

The worst of it was my face. When they showed me the mirror after I was extubated, I screamed for so long that they needed to hit me with sedation immediately. My left eye was gone entirely, and my nose was a crater. What was left was a mass of staples and stitches. The plastic surgeon that consulted on my case took one look and shook her head.

The next three months were hell on me. I woke up in agony most nights; limbs I no longer had tried to tell me they were cramping up. The muscles I did have were torn and healed in odd ways, leaving me twisted up and often unable to find a comfortable position. Nerve damage led to difficulties swallowing, and after a bout of aspiration pneumonia I was fitted with a PEG tube. My food was delivered directly to my stomach via a hole in my abdomen. It was crazy, but I missed eating almost as much as I missed my legs. I don’t even want to talk about my hygiene. Going to the bathroom became a euphemism. Way too many nurses became intimately familiar with my toilet habits.

My self-pity consumed me. I missed my parents and mourned them, but it was my own life that I was really grieving. Then, once I got my head on a little straighter, I felt guilty for not mourning them properly, which sent me into another spiral of misery.

Of course, my parents’ insurance got me taken care of. The company that owned the truck paid their part as well, but it was just money. It wouldn’t bring back my family, or my body. Medical technology had advanced to the point that prosthetics were possible, but the cost was outlandish and the procedures still classified as experimental. According to the therapists that were a part of my daily life, whatever recovery I made would still leave me crippled, half-blind and unable to feed myself.

What a word that is: recovery. Nobody recovered from this. You might survive, but you might wish you hadn’t.

For the first while, my friends came in to visit, bringing me news of the outside world and what I was missing. I know they were trying their best. Their positivity was at first annoying, and then infuriating. I didn’t want to hear that God has a plan or that many people lived fulfilling lives with worse bodies than me. Eventually, they stopped coming to visit me, and I settled into an endless routine of sleeping, pointless physical therapy, and mental exhaustion.

I’m trying as hard as I can, you fucking sadist!

My physiotherapist, Spencer, was smiling as he exhorted me to resist the stretch band that he’d attached to my left wrist. He was dragging it back as I tried to rally my arm muscles to win the tug of war.

Come on, Daniel. I just want ten more good strong pulls, then we’ll get into the tub for a swim.

No thanks. I’d rather not drown today. My prior PT had left me in the sling that supported me in the water while he went for a break. The device had failed and I had fallen in. My nearly-useless arm had barely been able to keep my face out of the water; I almost drowned when my strength failed me. Since that event two weeks ago, I’d refused to get into the swim tank. I still had nightmares. He’d been fired, but it had done nothing to relieve me.

Spencer was different. When he worked with me, he was there the entire time, and I don’t mean just physically. He saw my weaknesses and what he claimed were my strengths. He refused to let me act like the worthless lump of meat I felt like. With pinpoint precision, he discovered my abilities and then goaded me into working on them. The end result was someone I loved to hate; a man that I would rather die than disappoint. In two short weeks I’d come to look forward to his torture sessions, even if I couldn’t see any improvement from them.

It felt good to have someone believe in me when I couldn’t believe in myself.

I forced myself to resist the band. I wasn’t able to do it very well, but apparently it was enough to satisfy my cruel PT. He let the band slip from my arm and clapped me on the shoulder. A jolt of pain ran through my body, but I refused to let Spencer see me wince. My pain frustrated me, but there was nothing that could be done about it. The idea of living with this much pain for the rest of my life was something I desperately tried not to think about.

Nice work, buddy. Let’s get you undressed. Spencer started pushing my chair towards the room I dreaded: the therapy pool.

Don’t do it. I can’t do it today. I’ll swim tomorrow. My heart was pounding and all I could see was the door with the ominous sign on it. Without arms I couldn’t reach for the wheels to stop him. I was helpless and started to hyperventilate. Water on my face. Water in my mouth, in my nose.

Relax, buddy. I won’t let you get hurt.

That was what the last guy said, was what I wanted to tell him, but my voice had failed me entirely. The memory of water coming up and over my head was the only thing I could think about. I closed my eyes and desperately prayed for a miracle.

I got one, sort of. Just as Spencer was pushing open the door, an unfamiliar voice called my name.

Daniel Descouteaux? She pronounced my last name wrong, like Dakota. Close enough.

Spencer spun me in place. I opened my eyes to see a woman carrying an attache case and holding a sheet of paper. She looked at it, then at me.

Yes, that’s me. Who are you? Three months of living like a piece of talking meat had stripped me of my desire for pleasantries and small talk.

I represent your parent’s insurance company. I’m here to legally inform you that your benefits will run out in two weeks.

For the second time in two minutes, panic flooded me. I needed those benefits. Living on my own was impossible, and I couldn’t afford someone to live with me full time and take care of my specialized needs.

The woman must have recognized my fear, or maybe she had a script. Either way, she continued on. Your insurance will no longer pay for ongoing hospital care, now that you’re past the initial acute stages of your disability. You will, however, be placed in an appropriate living situation that meets the required standards set out by the government. She shuffled in her case and pulled out a manila envelope. Do you need me to open this for you?

Behind me, Spencer spoke. I can help him if he needs it. Something in his voice told me he was biting back anger. Why?

The woman handed Spencer the envelope and left without saying goodbye. I jerked my head back and Spencer walked out in front of me.

Well, buddy, I guess our time together is coming to an end. His smile was forced.

Sounds like it. I tried not to show him my fear. What was going to happen to me? The hospital was my home, and I had long accepted that.

Spencer slowly pushed me back to my private room. When we got there, he silently used the lift to put me in my bed, and placed the bed control and the bell where I could use them. Then he turned to me and shook his head.

Daniel, I’m not going to sugarcoat this. The homes, the living arrangements she’s talking about? They’re shit. You’re going to get once a week therapy from some rookie who’s only looking to get their hours in, and the food is gonna suck. We both grinned at that; it’s all the same when it comes from a tube. The moment didn’t last. Spencer’s face hardened. But for you, it’s gonna be the worst. You’re not mobile, and you can’t perform most of the tasks of daily living without assistance.

Not much I can do about that.

No, I don’t mean… Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose. I wasn’t saying you’re not trying. What I mean is, it’s impossible. I hate using that word, but we can’t get you to the point where I’d feel safe having you live in one of those shitholes.

Something clicked in me. Spencer, the one person who never said anything negative, was telling me that life was about to get a lot worse for me. Moreover, he was admitting that despite all his enthusiasm, he didn’t see much of a future in my therapy.

The last person in my life to give a shit was telling me that all my fears and worries were about to come true. I was going to die in a shitty care home.

2

Intermission

S ir, we may have a candidate.

The boardroom was lit only by an array of sixteen screens, all of them showing different views of Aelterna. Some were direct feeds from players engaging in novel tasks, while others were overviews of areas of interest to the man seated at the hi-tech control desk. The man watching them all was blandly attractive, in a generic sort of way. His eyes were fixed on the screens flickering from one to the next.

Explain. His face didn’t change expression, but he turned his gaze from the screens.

Daniel Descouteaux. Twenty-one, male, severely crippled. Bilateral leg amputations, right arm amputation at the shoulder, left eye—

The man at the desk waved his hand dismissively. I assumed he’s crippled. What about family?

None, sir. No siblings. The accident that rendered him a candidate killed both his parents. They were both only children as well, and the surviving grandparent lives in the European Union.

So there’s nobody to talk him out of the experiment. What’s his current situation?

The aide shuffled some papers. Currently residing in Central West Hospital, rehab unit. However, the insurance that’s covering that stay is about to run out. He’s scheduled for placement in an assisted living facility in just under two weeks.

You mean a care home.

The aide nodded. Just so. Shall I extend the offer now?

The man at the desk sat in silence for a breath, then another. When he spoke, there was a cruel edge to his voice. No. Let him get a taste of what the rest of his life will be like. Give him a while in whatever facility he lands in, then contact him. Use Liara.

The aide drew in a sharp breath but he knew better than to ask questions. When the man at the desk turned back to the video feeds, the aide knew he’d been silently dismissed. He let the door close behind him as he left and pondered what kind of future lay ahead of Daniel Descouteaux.

3

The two weeks passed by like lightning. Spencer changed his focus, making me work on shifting my position using my arm. He warned me about bedsores and other hazards, and kept drilling the need for independence into me. I caught him looking at me once while I was doing rolling exercises. His eyes weren’t pitiful, but it was close.

During that time, I was informed that a bed had been found for me. The facility wasn’t even named. My new home was to be Assisted Housing Unit 989, room 14-27C. I had thought that I’d be relieved to learn about my next home, but it only made me more tense. Once again, fear of the unknown haunted me.

When moving day came, Spencer was there to pack me up. My computer, with its specialized interface, was the one thing of any value I had in the hospital. The rest of my possessions were in storage, paid for in perpetuity by the insurance company until such time as I needed them or they were deemed permanently unusable.

Look, Spencer… I didn’t know what I wanted to say, but as the hour drew closer, I wanted to offer him some relief. I’m gonna be fine. They can’t just let me die there, you know?

He shook his head. They will do everything they are legally required to do for you, Daniel. But once you’re there, you’ll see. There’s a huge gulf between the legal minimum and humane treatment. He sighed. I’m not trying to scare you, but I really want you to be OK. Here, let me put my contact info into your computer. You can call me anytime. I shouldn’t do this, but you’re not a client anymore. You’re… a friend.

We sat in silence until the nurse came to get me. Spencer put my computer case on my lap and wheeled me to the interfacility transport bay.

Remember what I said. Anytime, said Spencer as he pointed to my laptop.

Can we get a move on? The two men who were transporting me seemed impatient, so I clumsily waved goodbye to Spencer and they loaded me into the vehicle.

As soon as the doors shut, I was strapped down on a gurney. My arm was restrained as well. The medic explained that it was so I didn’t flail and cause a problem. I was completely unable to move. My computer was set on the floor, and we traveled to the facility.

The medics unloaded me and put my computer back on my gurney, but they didn’t remove the restraints. Hey, guys? Can you undo this? I can’t move.

Neither of them said anything. They didn’t even meet my eyes. I gave up when I realized that I wasn’t a person to them, just a number on a job sheet. Transport patient from hospital to care home: check. Their job was done. I couldn’t really blame them, but I really wished they’d undone my arm. One of them pressed a button on the wall and spoke into a grille. He glanced at me and then looked away. I was used to that. Not many people liked acknowledging cripples.

When they left, I realized I was alone. The room was barely heated and I shivered. From what I could see, this was basically the loading dock for the facility. It was dirty and the lights flickered. I waited for someone to come get me.

After an eternity, I heard a door open. Heavy footsteps walked up beside me. I turned my head to see who it was. A large woman with bags under her eyes stared down at me.

Are you Daniel Descouteaux? Mispronounced again.

Yes, I was just—

She ticked off something on a clipboard and moved to the head of the gurney without acknowledging me. With a jerk, we started moving. The doors opened automatically and we were in a bright hallway.

I tried to talk to the woman, but after a few attempts, I gave up. Even craning my neck I couldn’t see her expression, but I was sure it was disinterested at best. Once again, I was a line on a sheet, not a person.

We traveled in an elevator and got off on the fourteenth floor. I was rolled down to a desk, where a bracelet was attached to my wrist. My computer was taken off the gurney.

Excuse me, I need that. It’s got my life on it. I tried to smile.

No personal electronics allowed in the rooms. For your own protection, theft and such.

Do the doors not have locks?

The woman behind the desk stared at me as if I was an idiot. Your room isn’t private. You’re in a four-bed room with three other occupants. If we leave that computer in there and it gets stolen, we’re on the hook, so it stays back here and you can use it during open time.

I put aside the troubling news that I was sharing a room. I have a locking attachment for it. I got it so it could be locked to a hospital bed, so I’m sure we can make something work. I tried to smile, to let her know I wasn’t going to be a problem.

It didn’t change anything. It stays here. The nurse turned back to her station and I was pushed away.

Room 14-27C was partitioned by stained curtains hanging from the ceiling. It smelled of old smoke and piss. As we entered, the nurse called out. Stan, Dmitri, your new roommate’s here.

From inside the room I heard shuffling, and then the curtains parted. Two men appeared from two separate areas. One was ancient, with wispy white hair and a toothless grin. He wore a pair of pyjama pants and nothing else. The other was in a wheelchair and looked to be about forty. His legs ended above the knees and he was so obese he was almost round.

That’s Stan and that’s Dmitri, said the nurse, indicating the old man and the man in the wheelchair respectively. Your other roommate is Tamara. She’s in a vegetative state. She pointed at the last closed partition. Was Tamara young or old? I didn’t find out.

The nurse pulled the curtain aside and revealed my room, such as it was. A bed, a dresser and an IV pole was all there was in it. She called out to the hallway for help moving me from the gurney to the bed. The moment my arm was free I moved it as much as I could to try to relieve the numbness and pain of several hours of immobility.

Once I was in the bed, the nurse pointed at the wall. Callbell is there. Don’t ring it unless you need it.

I can’t reach it, I said. I demonstrated by reaching my arm as high as I could. The button remained two feet from me.

Not my problem. Get Stan to do it for you if you need. Someone will be by in a bit to hook up your feed and check on you. With that, the nurse turned, pulled the curtain, and walked out.

I lay on the bed, uncomfortable and extremely anxious. Was this what Spencer had meant? Uncaring staff and a shared room with strangers?

After a moment, the curtain slowly parted. Stan’s wrinkled face looked at me. His watery eyes met mine. Got a smoke?

I shook my head. No, I don’t smoke. Hey, could you give me a hand? I need the bed up a little bit, or my shoulders cramp up.

Stan’s expression changed to contempt. No smokes, no help. Nothing’s free. He turned and left me alone. I waited to see if the other occupant might show up, but he never did.

There was no clock visible from my bed. All I could see was ceiling tiles and the green curtains, stained with God knows what. It was hours before my nurse came to hook up my feed and check on me, and by then I’d run out of tears to cry.

I’d thought I’d lost everything, but there’s always more to lose.

4

Aweek passed. I had thought the hospital was tedious and boring. I was a fool. My days at Assisted Housing Unit 989 were scheduled down to the minute and there was no variation, ever. I was woken in the morning and fed my first meal. Then I was left in my bed until noon, when I was fed again, and wheeled to the common room for three hours. During this time I was allowed to have my computer, but