Load Custom Character

by Tyler R Lee

  Load Custom Character

  Tyler R Lee

  Copyright © 2019 Tyler R Lee

  All rights reserved.

  Acknowledgements

  My dear friend and incredibly talented artist Nicole Cerritelli (also known as Bored Barista), who was also the first person to read this story. Without her, this novel would not have been possible.

  Chapter 1

  “Oh! What a shot!” the announcer shouted as the ground erupted from the force of the blast, throwing rocks and grass into the air to rain onto the battlefield. “That could have ended the game right then and there if Amaterasu had been caught,” he continued to his broadcast colleague seated next to him, referring to the blaze orange clade samurai who just narrowly avoided the recent explosion. The samurai landed and regained his bearings, but the source of the blast, a man in a gold and black suit of metal, was flying right at him at high speed.

  “And it looks like Sonic Man isn’t about to give him a breather,” said the other announcer, who sounded equally as excited as his partner. He was right. The metal clad man beared down on Amaterasu, sending waves of sonic energy at him from the air as he closed the gap. Showing great agility as he jumped and dodged the incoming blasts, the samurai was clearly in a mode of retreat. Eventually, escape became unattainable as he was blown backwards from the force of one of the blasts exploding near his feet. His helmet fell to the ground, revealing the wolf head underneath.

  “Aaaaand he’s down! Amaterasu is down, and Sonic Man is wasting little time.” As the metal warrior moved closer through the air, the orange samurai replaced his helmet, unsheathed his sword with his clawed hands, and drove it into the ground, burying it almost to the hilt.

  “Uh oh. Surely he doesn’t think he has time for that technique,” one of the announcers questioned as Amaterasu gripped the handle of his sword, tightly. The blade began to glow orange, as if it were being heated at an incredible rate. Just before Sonic Man could reach him, flames erupted all around the sword and tore the ground around it asunder, catching the metallic man in the blast.

  “Oh, he nailed it! The Erupting Sword technique, right on target!”

  “Sonic Man didn’t even have a chance once he got too close. He thought he could beat Amaterasu to the punch but the fire-flinging samurai's timing was perfect.”

  Down and still feeling the effects from getting caught in the eruption, Sonic Man lay motionless as Amaterasu cautiously moved in closer. He unsheathed his sword, but then turned in alarm and deflected two green bolts of energy that were headed right for him. Before he could think, several more flew his way. Instead of using his sword to try and deflect them all, he jumped out of the way. The small explosions caused by the bolts sent the injured Sonic Man flying several more feet away. In the direction the bolts came from, a green and purple garbed archer in a matching cloak stood defiant and ready for battle.

  “Big mistake on the boys’ part. No one should ever forget about Artemis, and it looks like she’s recovered and ready for another round.”

  “No argument here. Turn your back on her and she’ll shoot you full of pulsing bolts of energy.”

  As the archer pulled back another bolt, she saw the blaze-orange samurai sprinting towards her, sword ready. She fired arrows bathed in energy his direction but he skillfully knocked them away with his katana, causing small explosions as they hit the ground around him. He closed the gap and leaped high into the air, bringing his sword down onto her waiting bow. Artemis began using her bow as a double-bladed weapon, and the two warriors clashed several times in close, both trying to get the upper hand against each other.

  “Look at these two go!”

  “Now this is the sort of action we all hope to see in the Our World Global Championship Finals!”

  As the archer and the samurai continued to fight, they made their way off the rocky hill Artemis had made her sniping perch. With each dodge or parry, they made their way down onto more level ground. Now patches of grass and shards of pebbles were flying with each missed or parried slash or stab.

  Before either fighter could gain an upper hand against the other, a concussive blast slammed into both, sending them flying off to the side. They rolled away from the other and got up to one knee. As they looked in the direction the blast originated, they saw Sonic Man standing, arm raised towards them, armor burned and charred in several areas. All three combatants stared each other down.

  “And Sonic Man is determined to not go down without a hell of a fight. This one could go on for quite some time, Jim.”

  “No complaints here, Ross.”

  ***

  From his computer screen in his bedroom, Peter, a young boy of sixteen, watched the stream of the Our World finals as the three top players in the entire world battled to see who would be crowned “the best.” Always a fan of the streams and videos he had seen from other players, he had only ever dreamed of playing Our World, himself. His family’s income was barely enough to sustain themselves and the virtual reality system for Our World, The Emerser, was costly. He had no way to pay for the system himself and his parents would certainly never purchase him something like that.

  Peter’s parents were not so supportive of his hobbies and interests, believing that he spent too much time in a “fantasy world” and not enough time in the real world. He loved books, comics, trading cards, movies, and of course, video games, anything that could take him away from the world he lived in and into a place where he was more, to a place where he was important, powerful, and capable of great things. He loved anything that could take him to a place where people cared about him, where he had friends, where he could be someone or something else.

  In the real world, he had been unable to find any of these things. The only friends he had were the few he talked to while playing games online.

  “Peter!” he heard his mother yell from downstairs, obviously agitated. “If you are late for school because of that computer, you can kiss that thing goodbye!” Peter looked at his clock in his only window sill. “Fifteen minutes until eight,” he scoffed aloud. “Plenty of time, but whatever.” He got up from his computer desk and grabbed his blue school bag. It would be best if he didn’t give his parents any excuse to take away his computer. He didn’t know how he would survive without it.

  Before he walked out of his bedroom door, he checked his appearance in the mirror hanging on his closet door. It was more out of habit than actually caring about his appearance. No one paid Peter any mind other than to give him grief. Certainly no one was going to compliment him on his appearance. Jeans, a T-shirt probably sporting a Star Wars logo, a 90s rock band, or the Spider-Man symbol, and an equally relevant hat when he didn’t feel like combing his hair was his look, and he didn’t care much to change it. “Good enough,” he thought aloud, and headed downstairs.

  Peter always noticed that his back and stomach muscles tensed when he knew he was going to be in close proximity with his parents. He acquainted it with preparing for an obnoxiously loud noise or someone about to jump out of nowhere and scare you; his guard was always up and he could never relax. If he could manage it, he would turn the corner sharply as he entered the kitchen and head out the front door without more than a “bye” from himself or his parents.

  “Damn snowflake, pansy-asses,” he heard his dad curse at the TV. “Whole country is going to hell.” Curious, Peter looked to the television set that his dad sat in front of. He saw a reporter saying something about a new proposal to allow other religious organizations other than Christian to use a local university’s “multi-faith” chapel. Below that story, streaming across the bottom of the screen, he also saw something about a state senator up for election being called out for sexual harassment against more than a fe
w of the woman who have worked for him over the years. His father’s response to this was an equally agitated, “And look at the liberal propaganda, making up anything to push their agenda.”

  “I’m pretty sure they have quite a bit of evidence against him,” Peter heard himself say. Idiot! he thought. Why!? Why, why, why!?

  His father turned a disapproving eye on him. “Proof? Yeah, I’m sure they have plenty of ‘proof,’” his father said as he maid air quotes for the last word, “for what they are trying to get us to believe. Don’t be so naive, son. Those liberal, bleeding heart people are what’s wrong with this world. Pushing us to ‘stop racism’ and be ‘accepting’ all while oppressing us.”

  Who the hell is “us?” Peter thought. But before he could ask, his mother chimed in. “Why don’t you hurry to school before you’re late, instead of wasting time talking about things that you aren’t old enough to even understand?” She was putting out lunch for herself and his father before they headed off to work, not even bothering to look at him while throwing thinly veiled insults.

  “Fine with me,” Peter answered and was out the door before he could be told off for his sass.

  Peter rubbed his temples in frustration as he made his way down the sidewalk to his high school just a few blocks away. Often, on his walks to school, he would wonder if perhaps he was adopted. He could never quite fathom how he had turned out the way he did with parents like that. His mother and father were both popular jocks from their high school days. Neither went very far after that, and both worked menial office jobs. Peter didn’t think there was anything wrong with that, but it was so different than what he wanted from life and how he was in high school. He wasn’t particularly good at any sport, nor did he care. As far as after high school, he wanted to go to college. For what, he wasn’t sure, but something creative.

  More and more, especially on his walks to school, Peter felt the entire world fell more and more within his parents way of thinking. Many a day he would pass protests in the street for either equality or keeping the status quo. Today, he made sure to keep his distance from a rally of people of color being confronted by local police officers. At this point, shouting was the worst thing happening, but Peter didn’t want to be close if tensions continued to build, as he had seen that they could.

  As he approached the main building for his high school, he saw several kids waiting outside for the bell to ring. Some were older than him, some were younger, some he recognized from his grade, none of them were what he would even consider a friend. In fact, a few of them Peter knew would make his day even worse if given the chance. Between his parents, what he had seen on the news, what he saw in the streets, and what he looked upon now that would imprison him for the next seven hours, all Peter could think was, “I hate this world.”

  As he walked up the sidewalk that led to one of the entrances to his high school, Peter felt a sharp sting on the side of his left ear. He saw a small shard of rock hit the ground near him as he grabbed his ear and looked toward the direction the missile had come from. The source was a boy Peter’s age, slightly larger, with what Peter could only describe as a wicked grin on his face. He grimaced at the rock thrower and turned to continue into the school when he felt his backpack yanked off of his right shoulder. The force spun him around to face another boy from his class. This one was of similar build to the other, also smiling at whatever grief he could cause Peter this morning.

  “We starting this early in the morning?” Peter said as he grabbed one of the straps on his bag in the other boy’s hand.

  “What if we are?” the other boy asked.

  “Give me my bag, Travis,” Peter said without any hint of playfulness in his voice.

  Before Travis could reply, Peter was shoved from behind face down into the grass, still wet from the morning dew. “Don’t be so stingy with your stuff, Pete,” he heard the boy who had thrown the rock say. It was Tucker, Travis’s twin brother.

  Fighting to keep tears from welling up in his eyes--not from pain, but from having to deal with this every single day--Peter slammed his fist into the ground and made to get up. Before he was fully on his feet, however, he saw the contents of his bag dumped in front of him as the first bell rang.

  “Later, Pete,” one of the boys said as they both laughed. “Try not to be late for class.”

  Peter just sat on the damp ground and stared in anger at the contents from his bag. As he started shoving things back inside, he heard, “here.” As he looked to the side, a girl he recognized from class was handing him a couple of gaming magazines, both with covers featuring Our World.

  “Thanks,” he said as he accepted them from her. He blushed, remembering that he had a small crush on this girl, and knowing that his reddened skin would show easily on his pale skin. Ariel was her name. She had raven hair, a little darker than his, and hers was long and wavy at the ends, and framed and complimented her deep honey complexion. He had always thought she was cute, but, of course, he had never said anything. She was always sitting by herself, reading. He probably found this most attractive about her. Peter loved to read as well, and the fact that she seemed to despise the people at this school as he did just made her look all the more beautiful. He quickly shook all this from his head when he realized he was staring at her, and shoved the magazines back into his bag.

  “I love Our World,” she said with a smile, which perked up Peter’s mood. However, before he could respond, he heard the second bell ring. “Better hurry,” she added as she grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door. “See you in class, Peter.”

  She knew his name. He was blushing again. And again, he shook his head and gathered his things before he was late enough for class for it to be a problem.

  ***

  Like most days in class, Peter found himself finished before everyone else, left to sit and be bored. Many days, he had a hard time paying attention because someone--Travis and Tucker, usually--kept throwing things at the back of his head. These things ranged from crumpled up pieces of paper, to lead from mechanical pencils, to full blown pencils at times. This time it was the pencils, and those actually hurt.

  “Knock it off,” Peter whispered through gritted teeth to whichever one was sitting behind him in this class. He didn’t care about them enough to try and tell them apart.

  “Turn around and make me,” he heard them reply, and he could tell they were grinning, knowing he wouldn’t do anything. Peter wasn’t afraid to fight, for the most part. He had been fighting and getting picked on since he was five years old. He just knew that it was never a fair fight. It was always two or even three on one. And it was almost always in front of everyone. What Peter hated the most was that it would end with everyone simply laughing at him for no better reason than getting the crap kicked out of him by a group of bullies. He hated it, and he hated them...all of them.

  As planned, Peter didn’t turn around, but tried to focus on the geography lesson being taught at the front of the class. However, one of the twins--or both--were determined to undermine that attempt. Peter felt another sting on the back of his neck, followed by, “come on, Pete, do something.” The statement was punctuated with a smack to the back of Peter’s head.

  Rage welled up in Peter as he tried hard not to cry from sheer anger. Today, it looked like there would be a fight. Peter knew this when he quickly grabbed one of the mechanical pencils from the ground, the one that had just struck him. He twirled it between his fingers until the teacher turned to the board. Then, Peter spun and whipped it hard at whichever twin was behind him.

  Whether from great aim or luck, the missile struck home and hit Tucker right in the eye. The teen threw his head back, grabbed his eye, and called out in pain before he could stifle it. Peter, however, was already turned back around, quite proud of himself, but wary of what would come next.

  “Problem, Tucker,” Mr. Balding, the geography teacher asked upon hearing the boy’s yelp.

  “No,” Tucker answered, gritti
ng his teeth and glaring at Peter.

  At that moment, the bell rang and Peter made it into the hall and to his locker before most were out of class. “Dammit,” he thought, aloud. “Wonder when it’ll get bad.”

  His question was answered when he turned and was promptly shoved into the lockers by one of the twins. He cringed in pain as one of the locker knobs dug into his back. “Think you’re fuckin’ funny, Pete?” Tucker asked. His right eye was red and a little puffy. Peter couldn’t hold back a smile. This got him shoved again.

  “I think so,” Peter responded, ever sarcastic in the face of his bullies. He would rather they didn’t have the satisfaction of thinking they scared him.

  Tucker grabbed the collar of Peter’s shirt with both hands and pushed him hard into the lockers, then got directly in his face. “What? Say it again, you little bitch.”

  “Jesus, not until you brush your teeth.” That comment got Peter tossed to the ground.

  However, Peter had been on the hallway floor a lot, and he knew what was coming. When Tucker’s foot came at his face, he grabbed it, stood up with it, and used the momentum to push his assailant to the ground. “Get up,” he yelled at Tucker as he noticed the hallway crowding with people. He may not win, but if it was just one then he would at least make them sorry they picked a fight with him.