Ready Player One

Author's Note: Every single chapter title alludes to a movie or a television series that I have watched and enjoyed immensely, and would whole-heartedly recommend to you all.

I have a p-word now, so if you feel like reading 8 advanced chapters for $6, or 5 advanced chapter for $4, then feel free to join. Link is in this fic's summary, or you can just search 'Archonstine' on patreon... whatever floats your boat!

Also, join my discord will ya? For movie and tv-show recommendations and character images. And also it's the one place where I ask you all for suggestions. The link is in this book's bio.

P.S, donate some power stones while you're at it. And maybe... write up a review?

MC (POV)

What is the ultimate meaning of life? Is it to continue and evolve endlessly in a hopeless quest of survival through selective reproduction? Is it perhaps, to maximize happiness and minimize suffering of oneself and others? Or, maybe, life doesn't have a predetermined purpose. And we as homo sapiens must create meanings and purposes through our various choices and actions.

But even that conclusion didn't satisfy me. Nothing could. Not after witnessing the tragedy that took place a week ago.

I turned my neck and looked on, as the casket containing the mangled remains of my once mother was lowered into the grave. I couldn't take my eyes off it, even as I heard light sobbing coming from the man besides me. My dear old dad.

His face, twisted into agony, tears threatening to spill out of his eyes, but every time they came close to doing so, his hand tightened around mine, and he sniffed heavily. His effort to remain strong for mine, his son's sake, was admirable, though unneeded.

The devastation he was feeling at the moment could be seen by all who were present, but not to its fullest extent. At least to everyone.

To me on the other hand…

[Name – Ambrose Stirling

Age – 42

Relationship Status – Father (locked)

Occupation: Film and Television Producer, Businessman, Politician

Affiliations: Stirling Star Productions, Clayton Studios, Producers Guild of America, Los Angeles City Council

Citizenship: American/British

Emotional State: Distraught, Anguished, Inconsolable]

I tightened my chubby little fist in his appendage, mentally sighing at the messed-up situation I was thrust into with no fucks given by absolutely anybody. Not that anyone here, as in, this world really knew the secret behind my unique existence.

And they'll never, ever, ever find out if I'll have it my way. Which I will. I don't care how unpredictably wild the roaring 80s were at this moment, I'm the fucking gamer. And that's it really. No other reason. Just my endless vanity and egotism shining through at the forefront of my mind.

"Rick, it's time."

"Kay." I sounded out, as I snapped back to reality with a light shake on my shoulder.

We walked back to the car, a sleek Cadillac, parked out front, as my father was bombarded with condolences along the way. A couple of minutes later, we were out on the road, both sitting silently in the backseat, as I waited for him to break the silence.

He didn't.

His face adopted a far-off look as he got lost in his internal torment.

"Oh Gina…"

He slumped back and rested his forehead on the window pane, as he looked out into the street.

"Dad?" I spoke in a trembling voice.

This time, it was his turn to snap back to reality at my subdued tone. "Yes?" He asked as he turned to me, his face contorting into a thin veneer of comfort, as he attempted to smile consolingly at me.

"How're you feeling?" I murmured in a hushed tone, my eyes widening as my face warping into the epitome of concern and childish compassion.

I suppose that was the breaking point.

He picked me up like a stuffed teddy bear and hugged me close to his chest. Sobs wracked his body, each one a poignant echo of his inner pain.

'Sigh, the things that I do for love' I thought as I allowed myself to be manhandled by my dad, feeling his heaving torso against my face, as darkness engulfed my vision.

Belatedly, I knew or I realized, that the only reason I wasn't undergoing an emotional meltdown coalesced with an existential crisis, or just lost my mind in general, was due to the Gamer's Mind skill. 

I had no idea where the fuck I was. I really didn't. Well, not completely that is. I knew the year was 1980. But that's where my previous life comes into context. See now, I distinctly remember being born sometime after the year 2000, and living to the ripe old age of 20 something.

It's not exactly a lot to go on. It's actually very little. But and this is just my hypothesis, somehow the process of reincarnation, or transmigration, however you want to see it, managed to scramble my memories. As in put them through a fucking blender.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I remember nothing, it's just that, a few days after being born, I tried my hardest to recall anything I could. Every time a memory came to the fore front of my mind, somehow, it became super hazy and all I could hear was static.

After my 1st birthday, the static lessened, and the haze became slightly more transparent.

I wasn't thrilled per se, but I still saw it as an absolute win. The only logical conclusion I could draw was that my baby brain just couldn't handle all the processed information in it's undeveloped network of neurons, thereby ensuring I recall it gradually with the undeniable growth of my mind and body.

Anyways, I couldn't remember any specific details from my past life, which practically ensured that I wouldn't discover where the fuck I came to be. It's all conjecture at this point really. For all I know, I've been isekai'ed into some alternate reality with a secret society of super naturals who will induct me into their world at the age of 11. Or I was reincarnated into the past. Which to be frank, was the far less frightening prospect of the two options. If I was truly in the past then at least, I would know what to expect in the future, the moment I gain complete control over my jumbled memories.

But somehow, the cynicism in me always found a fucking way to ruin my bouts of day dreaming.

What if this wasn't the past? What if this was a dream and I was in a fucking coma? Or maybe, I've actually been transmigrated into an alternate reality with a world ending event set to commence in a few years and all hope of survival resting on my fragile shoulders, courtesy of some bullshit prophecy made about a decade ago?

But that's where the gamer came in, I suppose. It is essentially the solution to all my predicaments, the panacea for the entirety of my challenges, the antidote to my ever-increasing conundrums, and so much fucking more.

And how do I know this, you ask? Well, as a toddler who awakened the game the day my mom died, I had nothing but time and opportunity for the coming months. Sure, my mother's death in a fiery car crash put a bummer to my journey of self-exploration for a few weeks but hey, I just think she would've wanted me to move the fuck on. And so, I did.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I was essentially cared for by this woman for 2 whole years of my life, the years where my dependency on the people around me was at an all-time high, and my mother rose to the challenge I suppose. Humans are fickle beings you know. Isolation is simply not a healthy state of mind for a human, much less a toddler who could hardly move from one place to another and definitely couldn't express himself properly.

So naturally, when my mother sought to make an emotional bond with me, I just couldn't resist. No matter how much I wanted to, I just could not.

For the first few months, she was essentially my therapist for all intents and purposes. I talked and talked about my previous life and sought her wise counsel repeatedly. Of course, with my underdeveloped vocal cords, all she heard was cute little babbles, but she nevertheless listened intently, and booped my nose every time she sensed my thoughts descending into melancholy.

Sigh, she will be missed. By me of course, but far more by my father. My pompous, sweet, loving father, who in all of his pretentiousness, decided to name me Richmond. Richmond Stirling, good god, I've never heard a more grandiose and frankly, conceited name in my life.

Richmond? Really dad? Of all the possible variations in which you could have arranged the alphabet in, RICHMOND?

Apparently, my mom had shared the sentiment, and thus dubbed me her little Ricky, or Rick for short.

That was the moment I truly acknowledged her as my mother. I could see it in her eyes. The like-mindedness we shared.

"RICKY!" Dad called out.

"COMING" I run across the room and down the hall. I eventually reach the stairs which I climb to get to the 3rd floor where my father's study is located.

Just as I reach the doors of his den…

[PING]

A new skill 'Sprinting' has been created due to you scampering around the house ever so often. This skill can be used to cover short to moderate distances at a higher speed than normal, depending on your physicality and level of said skill.

[Sprinting – Level 1]

Sigh.

You know the worst part is, that I can't toggle the ping off. That sound will forever be stuck in my head like a humbug that just won't quit. Or, maybe the option will be available to me further down the road? One can only hope.

I suppose I should focus on the positive aspect of it all though. Cynicism may have influenced the founding blocks of my thought process in general, but what is life, without a few scraps of optimism thrown in?

'Sprinting', if levelled up to suitably high peaks, may allow me to reach the speed of Usain Bolt himself one day, maybe even surpass him. Now won't that be something?

I open the door of my father's study, to find him before a bookshelf to my right, stacking tomes on the top shelf in the order of thickness. Upon hearing the sounds of the door opening, he looks over at me, before dusting his hands off one another.

"Hey kiddo." He smiled while approaching me.

"G-good afternoon pa." I said, adding a little stammer at the start. Sigh, the little things I do to pass off as an appropriately smart 2-year-old, it's practically routine by now.

He knelt down so as to appear at my eye level. "So, listen, I know this is a touchy subject, but it is unhealthy to keep it all bottled up inside. You have to talk to me buddy." He rubbed my shoulders with his palms, trying, and failing to maintain eye contact as I proceed to stare at the ground.

"I'm – I'm okay pa." I said, shaking my head, attempting to dismiss his concerned gaze.

I failed.

"Of course, you are, Ricky. You are a big strong boy, and you can take care of yourself." The only reason I didn't hold his patronizing tone against him was due to the fact that he loved me, and he cared about me. He continued, "But sometimes, - " and he promptly sat down on the carpeted floor, leaning against the wall and proceeded to seat me upon his lap, hugging me from the back. "we, as in even grown-ups may require help. I certainly do, and I know you think you don't, but it never hurts to give it a go now, does it?"

What the fuck? Is-is he implying what I think he's implying?! His next statement confirmed my fears.

"There is this, lovely lady I know. She's a doctor, you know? She helps people for a living. Now I know what you are thinking but no, she is NOT the scary one with needles and what not. Nope, all she wants to do, is talk. To me, and to you." He smiled wistfully, "I think it will go a long way to heal us, and stop the pain we both are feeling."

Therapy. My dear old dad is taking me to Therapy. Just as I'm about to refuse vehemently by throwing a tantrum, I look at him. I mean, really, look at him. He's haggard, his cheeks are slightly sunken, there are visible bags under his eyes, his big brown eyes, which radiate nothing but pain.

And all of a sudden, the words 'Ok pa' come flowing out of my lips.

Sigh, the things I do, for the ones I love.

I mean, I couldn't really begrudge him for this. He is probably one of the only fathers in the world, who can fathom the consequences of bad mental health. Sure, I'm not exactly traumatized, but from his perspective, his 2-year old son just lost his one and only mother, I can see how he would think therapy would help.

Ambrose Stirling (POV)

It's been a few days since the death of my dear Gina… and I've been moping all day ever since, finding some much-needed solace in my Wine Cellar. Nearly wiped out my collection of Hennessy Paradis Imperial. Guess I should put some Cognac on my upcoming shopping list.

But, I had to pull myself together, if not for mine, then at least for my son's sake, not to mention, I can only delay the production of 'Cause and Effect' for so long. The longer I put off my workload, the more inflated the production budget's gonna get. Not to mention the board meetings and the quarter 3 fiscal report, which I was supposed to go through 3 days ago.

"Sir? We're almost there."

"Noted." I replied to my driver. What was his name again? Brendon, Bennet, Baldwin?

Ah, who cares, I got more important things to worry about. Like my prodigal son for one. Now usually, kids who undergo a traumatic experience early on in their life do not start therapy until they reach 7 or 8 years of age. This is not only because kids who're younger do not possess the emotional maturity to comprehend the complexity of the loss of a family member, but also because of the limited vocabulary they're capable of articulating.

2-year olds for example, can barely speak 50 words in a disjoined manner, they don't start holding conversations and speak fluently without any grammatical errors until at least 3-4 years of age.

So, imagine our surprise when my son being 18 months old, asked me to switch the channel on the fucking television set, with all the correct words. He literally turned towards me and asked, "Can you please put on something different?"

Now, I didn't think much of it then, just called him an early bloomer and forgot about it. It was only when, me and Gina went to a pre-school to enroll him in, did we get a handle on how abnormal our child truly was.

His ability to enunciate complex words and speak fluently without any break perplexed nearly everyone in our house. Even my butler of 20 years told me he had never been more stumped before in his life.

Not to mention his uncanny ability to grasp and absorb information was absolutely crazy. For his age that is. We have never had to repeat ourselves twice when giving him any instructions, he never throws a tantrum, not even when Gina snatched his toy car once. He just shrugged, got up and walked up to the dining table.

I know my son is a genius in the making. There maybe a chance I'm wrong here, but if I'm not? I don't wanna take the risk.

And so, therapy. I talked with a child counsellor on the phone and she seemed mostly curious to meet my son. Sigh, I really hope he opens up a little though. I can't bear the thought of him remaining so closed up about his feelings.

"We have arrived Sir."

"Oh yes, thanks Ben – Brent – Be -" "It's Benjamin Sir" He said exasperatedly.

"Yes, I knew that." I spoke confidently, as I opened the door, hoping to escape the inelegance of it all. I will definitely remember his name from now on. I think.

"Have a good day Sir." He said, and just as I about to reciprocate the gesture, "And, sorry for your loss Sir, do take care of yourself.", and with those parting words, he drove off to park the car, leaving me standing around the entrance to the building.

"Thanks, Benjamin." I whispered into the wind, knowing he won't hear my words.

And with a sigh I walked off into the premises of my company, knowing I had a busy day ahead of me.