Camelot Canham stopped counting his steps a long time ago. It wasn't because his steps had become shorter or longer, it was just that the steps no longer existed.
There was a silence in his life, in which the echo of the past sounded like a ghost. He was sitting in a wheelchair, which became his faithful companion, but could not replace what he had lost.
The wheels of the chair creaked as he turned to the window.
It began to rain outside the glass. It wasn't the usual rain that washes the dust off the streets and brings freshness. No, it was the rain, which seemed to be deliberately delayed, stretching the dampness in the air. Like a bad memory that you can't get rid of.
Every drop seemed to remind him that life was flowing by without leaving a trace. Camelot had no plan for the future. He lived in the present, shrouded in gray clouds and endless rain. At such moments, he remembered how he used to love walking in the rain, feeling its refreshing drops on himself.
The provincial town lived its life as always. Cars passed by like soulless machines, leaving a trail of exhaust fumes in their wake. People hurried about their business immersed in the hustle and bustle, unaware that for one person this ordinary view had long become a frozen picture.
Sitting in the hospital cafe, Camelot grinned at the life around him.
—It's your own fault. – He said softly, not knowing to whom exactly.
Memory helpfully threw up a rude voice from the past, "This is for sleeping with my wife." This was followed by a picture where an aggressive man hits Amelot, and crunches both of his legs.
Camelot blinked sharply and looked away from the window. He didn't scream then, because the shame for himself turned out to be stronger than the pain. Suddenly, the door to his room opened almost soundlessly.
—Mr. Canham. You look... more cheerful than usual today. – Said the doctor, looking at the tablet.
—Did you come to tell me that I'm going to walk again? – Camelot asked without hope.
The Doctor hesitated. It was worse than silence.
— Theoretically... yes.
— How do you mean "theoretically"? – Camelot repeated.
The Doctor exhaled.
— There is an experimental operation. Bone and tissue transplantation with complete regeneration of nerve connections.
—And?
— And the cost is… one hundred billion dollars.
There was an annoying silence in the room where Camelot was sitting in his wheelchair. He thought he had enough savings to put aside for University, but they weren't enough either. At that moment, he felt the impossibility of getting back on his feet.
— Unfortunately, I don't have that kind of money.
— What about the culprit who broke both your legs? Isn't he going to pay you the damages? – The doctor asked in perplexity.
— No, after he broke my legs...unfortunately, he disappeared and can no longer be found. I don't even remember what he looks like. –Amelot shook his head.
—It's very difficult for you, Mr. Kenham.
— Yes, unfortunately, I will not be able to accept such an expensive operation. – In order not to upset the doctor, he smiled through his teeth.
The doctor looked at the documents in his hands and patted Camelot on the shoulder.
— You have eight years. After that, the queue will move on to the next patient.
The guy went back to thinking about this news. For eight whole years, but Camelot really was like a hedgehog in a fog.
— And where do you think a person in a wheelchair will find that kind of money?
The Doctor hesitated, then said:
— Have you heard about the new game?
—I've heard about a lot of things. –Camelot replied. —None of this has brought my legs back.
—This one can. – The doctor said softly. —It's called "TheDa Vinci Legacy."
Camelot didn't answer the doctor, there was no point. The words "Da Vinci's Legacy" settled in my head like crumbs of glass.
Everyone has heard about full immersion, where your brain literally syncs with medieval realism, where Leonardo Da Vinci didn't die, but his ideas came to life, and now this game world looks like the Middle Ages of the future with lightsabers and mechanized magic that made people sick, and an economy in which virtual objects cost more than houses.
Still, he wasn't going to play.He knew all too well how stories ended where a man was promised a miracle.
That night, Camelot could not sleep, he was covered with thoughts in his head. The room was in semi-darkness, broken only by the flickering of an old screen. Camelot looked at the news, flipping through it without interest, until his gaze caught on the headline:
"Da Vinci's Legacy players complain about the phenomenon of false memories"
The article talked about the strange side effects. People claimed to remember events that did not happen in their real lives.Someone claimed to have lived in the game for years.
—What nonsense that is. –Camelot muttered.
The screen blinked for a second, but it was enough. Suddenly, everything blurred before the guy's eyes and the text about the phenomenon of false memories began to grow to an incredible size. Camelot tried to move, but his arms wouldn't move. Even the wheelchair stopped feeling under him, it was like sleep paralysis.
—That's it, then... I'm dying. –He managed.
The screen fell to the floor, shattering with a dry crack. The sound seemed far away, as if it were happening in another room. Then everything turned into fragments of memories:
— The pressure is dropping!
— Prepare the intensive care unit!
—He's losing consciousness!
Amelot was wheeled down the corridor. The ceiling lamps replaced each other, turning into an elongated line of light. He couldn't feel his whole body. Now it was not the usual absence of sensations, but emptiness, as if they had never existed.
It was too bright in the intensive care unit.
The white light hit his eyes, dissolving the shapes. The masks bent over him, but he couldn't make out the faces, they were white spots in his eyes.
—Can you hear me? Blink if you hear it.
Camelot wanted to blink with all his heart, but unfortunately he couldn't. It was as if his body had ceased to be his. The guy could hear his heart beating more and more slowly against his ribs until it stopped completely, all the lights went out and for a moment he was in the dark.
Suddenly, a white light appeared in front of him. It dazzled him like a blank canvas before the first stroke. He wanted to approach this canvas of light, but he felt like he was falling somewhere far away.
In this light, many pictures began to appear as visions from which rainbow arms began to come out to Camelot's soul, embracing him, making his soul multicolored.
[The blessing of ∆∆∆ and ∆∆∆ is received]
Somewhere in the distance, a quiet, almost tired voice sounded:
—Are you still here?
Camelot wanted to ask where "here" was. But the light was already cracking like old paint. In the next second, he inhaled sharply, choking on the dust and the smell of raw stone in space at that moment, the smells abruptly disappeared.
He was really lying on the cold floor and finally felt his legs. Camelot sat up, breathing heavily, and only then noticed the line in front of his eyes.
[The regression is complete.]
He swallowed.
— So… Did I die after all? – he whispered.
There was no answer, but Camelot felt a bright softness under his back. It was clearly not a stone, on the contrary, something expensive and too comfortable for a man who had just died. Was he pardoned?
He abruptly opened his eyes and inhaled new wonderful smells. Finally, it didn't smell like the hospital and ivs that Camelot was so used to, it smelled like a light scent of lavender and old wood.
He raised his slender hand and touched his hair, looking at it, he saw pure blonde hair. Strands of hair hung down to his shoulders and covered his ears.
—Did my hair turn blonde all of a sudden?
–Camelot whispered and jumped up from the soft bed to the nearest mirror.
There he saw a completely different person. A slim athletic body, a face without a single pimple and a strange purple shade of eyes. His face resembled a cunning but domineering fox that people avoid. Camelot was wearing a very comfortable corset, with a brown sleeve with purple buttons accentuating his eyes.
—What's that on the ceiling? – Looking in the mirror, the guy noticed.
Camelot turned around and looked at the large ceiling in the bedroom where he had woken up. The painting on it depicted a heavenly scene: an angel with a brush in his hand applied a stroke to the sun itself. Golden rays shimmered in the soft morning light with flowers on the ceiling.
It distracted him for a moment, but he looked back at his young body, at those hands without a single scar where there was no needle with a catheter.
—It's not my body. – he whispered.