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Zooble’s eyes rip open, blinking hard. They don’t take time to observe their surroundings, to get a grasp of what’s going on, but instead opt for ripping off the headset that rests on their ears. They fling it against the wall, and the damned things bounces back onto the desk, onto the keyboards. They stand up, hurl the chair back and stand up, shaking and breathing rapidly.
The computer sits in front of them innocently, with a ‘Click to join game: The Amazing Digital Circus!’
The brightly coloured, blocky text can’t even begin to capture the horrors they faced in that hellhole.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” Zooble touches their face, and for the first time in their life, relieved to feel the bumps and acne that texture it. Real, human skin—not that rubbery cartoony shit.
Zooble—
Shit, no wait, not Zooble.
Jordan. Jordan Carter.
Zooble—Jordan—rubs their temples, sucking a sharp breath. Ow. A migraine plagues their mental state, but it’s dull, in the background. Considering…everything…a migraine doesn’t sound too bad.
They glance at the setup that made up the worst of…god, what was it? Five years? At the very least, five digital years.
Five digital years they’d never get back.
A desk sits, pushed against a bare wall with peeling paint, with nothing except a desktop, a keyboard, a mouse and the headset on it. No pencils or other office supplies populates it. The room isn’t much different. Wooden floorboards that aren’t flat against the ground, with weathering and dried maple leaves strewn across the setup. The air is so, so still, it’s as if one stray breath could disturb this ancient, fragile ecosystem.
Jordan turns and runs. They don’t spare a damn minute reminiscing, recollecting or mourning—they sprint. Out a door, down three flights of rickety stairs until their out of that building, that fucking and into…a city?
Not just any city, but Chicago, Illinois. Home.
It’s so, so twisted, the way that the bones of the city are the same ones that Jordan grew up with, but five years of the digital circus’s overt saturation seems to have dulled Jordan’s own eyes. This place, this home has gone from being a living, breathing entity, into a rigid skeleton.
Or maybe that was Jordan.
They stare up at the starless sky, breathing in the pollution and thanking whatever god that existed for this life, for this escape. Then, they pat their pockets, pull out their phone and struggle to turn it on.
9:00 PM, 8th August, 2025.
Wait.
That’s…not five years. That’s an hour.
What the fuck?
Jordan blinks, then bites their lip. Five digital years, one hour. Of course. Of course. Because nothing could ever be that easy. Every moment of that hellscape was less than a second in the real world.
And all that time they lost? They’re the only one who truly lost it. Well, that and the rest of the digital circus escapees.
Oh, god, the others.
Gangle? Pomni? Kinger? Ragatha? Even that motherfucking Jax? They’re probably across the damn world, miles and miles and miles away from Jordan.
Jordan’s eyes well up. They’d never see any of them ever again, would they? How would they possibly make it so? They’d never hear their voices, hear them laugh…
They’d never talk to Gangle again.
Jordan cheeks heat up, and they try to suppress the thought. They could deal with it another time, surely.
For now they have to get back…home.
So they open up Google Maps, type in an address that doesn’t feel familiar, and follow the directions. It’s night now, so they’re cautious about the people around them. It’s a feeling that infuriates them usually, but they’re grateful for it now. That goddamn circus…it stripped them of their humanity, and now that they had it back, they’re eternally grateful for the fear that courses through their body. Sure, humanity sucks, but dehumanisation is a thousand times worse.
Jordan shivers, goosebumps all over their body. They rub their palm over their forearm, and a small chuckle escapes their lips. It's just so human.
By the time they arrive at their bus stop, their bus is already there. They sprint toward it and board it at the very last minute. They tap their bus card on the allocated area, it accepts their payment and Jordan takes a seat next to an old man.
The bus is mostly empty, except for a handful of people—a mother and her teenage daughter, a woman and a crying baby in a pram, and the man next to her. They’re all so caught in their own world…Jordan can almost hear their thought processes, I wish my daughter would talk to me more, I wish this baby would stop crying, and Jordan almost cries at the thought. So caught in their own world they forget to appreciate the humanity in it.
Jordan gets off their stop, then navigates their way back to an apartment that feels so familiar and so alien at the same time. They pull out a key and shove it through the keyhole, and open the door to…another person.
“Jordan! There you are!” the woman—Cecil, they now remember—exclaims. She’s in her late twenties, rocking a teal wolfcut and a couple piercings. “I was getting worried, man.”
“I’m—I’m fine,” Jordan clutches their head. “Just had a rough time.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Cecil pats the sofa space next to her. Jordan shakes their head. Cecil sighs, but doesn’t push it. “Whatever you say dude. I’m here for you, though.”
“Thanks dude.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Cecil shrugs. “Oh, but I should remind you that you’ve got a shift tomorrow night, until 1 AM.”
“Shift…” Jordan wracks their brain. Shift—bar! “At Alenzo’s, right?”
Cecil chuckles. “I would hope so, considering that’s our place of work. I’ll be on the shift with you. Though, be warned: some big festival thing is going on tomorrow, so a bunch of people will be out and about and seeking alcohol.”
“Fun.”
“Right?” Cecil rolls her eyes, but then her face settles into a serious one again. “Hey, seriously, are you okay? You seem really…shaken up.”
Jordan trembles. Do I tell her? She won’t even begin to believe half of it. But… “There is…something, I guess.”
Jordan sits next to Cecil, the sofa squishing under their weight. “I met this girl—”
“Oooh!”
“--And I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.”
“Aww,” Cecil frowns. “Why so?”
Jordan struggles for an answer. “Well the…circumstances we met in are…one of a kind? And I doubt I’ll ever meet her again.”
Jordan takes a shaky breath. “And dude, you have no idea…this girl is unlike any other. Being around her is a thousand times different than anyone else I’ve ever been with. It’s like…nothing could ever quite destroy the bond we formed. She’s kind and smart and resilient, but dude, those words don’t even begin to cover her.”
Cecil whistles. “You’ve fallen. Hard. And this girl seems awesome. But if you doubt you’ll ever see her…there’s only two real options: hope you’ll find her again, or move on.”
Jordan deflates. “Both seem like the wrong choice.”
“That’s because there isn’t a right one,” Cecil interjects. “Attraction, love, whatever—there’s no right or wrong. You just kinda…float into what feels okay for you and try to stay in that space.”
Jordan manages to smile. “Geez, you’re good at this.”
Cecil shrugs. “Brutal breakup with an ex girlfriend. Became incredibly wise.”
Jordan laughs, pats Cecil’s back. “I see. Well, I’m going to sleep for twelve hours. Catch you later?”
“Sounds great. Good night, Jordan.”
“Good night, Cecil.”
Jordan steps into their room, the bathroom. The sight in front of them…damn. Shaved side, pink-purple highlights, dark skin adorned with a few tattoos, and their signature coke-zero brown eyes. Jordan shakily touches their skin, their lips, runs their hands through their hair. IT’s so, so human and Jordan loves it.
After five minutes of listless staring, they manage to wipe the makeup off their face, brush their teeth and change into pyjamas—Spongebob ones. Jordan would’ve thought they’d have trouble sleeping due to adrenaline, but nope—it’s a head-hit-pillow situation, and Jordan falls into a dreamless slumber.
— —
“How is this already turning into a shift I hate,” Cecil grumbles to Jordan as soon as another group of middle aged guys stumble into the bar.
“Keep your patience, Cece, we’ll be outta here in no time,” Jordan whispers back, eyeing the men as they sit on the barstools.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
“Hey, missus, I need two cosmopolitans, stat,” a guy snaps into their faces. Cecil’s face scrunches into her classic I’m-gonna-kill-this-guy-as-soon-as-my-shift-ends frown, but it disappears when she turns to him. Jordan turns away and tends to another guy.
It’s guy after guy after guy, drink after drink after drink, until Cecil taps them on the shoulder.
“Uh, Jordan, cute girl alert, ten o’ clock,” Cecil mumbles under her breath to Jordan’s ear. Their eyes drift to the direction that Cecil’s described and—sure enough, girl. And…wow, she is cute.
Brown skin, and darker eyes. She’s rocking a terracotta-red lip, and her dark wavy hair is tied back into ribbons of a similar colour. Her hair has it’s own body, cascading down her shoulders in front of her, tangling into her ribbons. She isn’t striking, but Jordan’s eyes are trained on her regardless.
“Wow. Cute girl indeed.” Jordan mutters. “What am I supposed to do with that information?”
“Up to you,” Cecil shrugs as she shakes up a drink. “But if you want my two cents—talk to her. You’re dead set on this girl who you’re sure you’ll never see again. But you gotta remember, you’re in the heart of Chicago! Men, women, gender-ambiguous people galore! You just have to let yourself see someone else. I’m not saying you have to go and talk to her, but at least take her drink order. And if you make conversation? It might do you some good.”
Jordan can’t really fault that kind of flawless logic.
“Hi, what can I get you?” Jordan smiles at the girl.
“Hi, could I get a Daiquiri, please?’ the girl says and—Jordan freezes. That demeanour, that high, wavering voice, that profoundly sad tone—they’d recognise it anywhere.
It’s Gangle. Jordan knows it.
“Uh—well—I—yeah, sure. Of course. Give me a second.” Jordan scrambles for an answer, heart hammering against their chest. Holy shit, that’s Gangle, no two ways about it. They’d know her anywhere, and—Jordan can’t believe, almost, and yet…
But it seems that Gangle hasn’t registered who Jordan, or well, Zooble is. She seems so…caught up, consumed in herself—it hasn’t even clicked who’s talking to her.
A desire boils and bubbles in Jordan’s chest—tell her. Tell her.
But it’s nowhere near that simple. Asking her, hey, are you part of the digital hell that we both barely survived? Also, will you go out with me? That wasn’t going to get them anywhere. No, they have to be careful about it.
“You waiting on someone? Jordan tests the waters. The girl—Gangle—looks up.
She blinks. “Uh, no. Just me, myself and I tonight.”
“Hopefully in a good way,” Jordan chuckles.
Gangle chuckles too, but it’s half-hearted. “Yeah, I’m not too sure about that.”
Jordan frowns. “Really?”
“I’m sure you have better things to do, though,” Gangle quickly interjects, anxiety lacing their tone.”
Jordan shakes their head. “Hardly. Cecil—coworker and friend—can handle the crowd. So, tell me: what’s on your mind?”
The girl sighs. “Where—where do I even start?”
“Wherever is causing you the most grief,” Jordan smiles.
“Okay,” Gangle sniffs. “I’m just…so lost. This huge thing happened to me, and now it’s over and…I’m questioning, like, everything.”
Jordan nods, encouraging Gangle to say more.
“And, aside from this huge thing that happened, I’m just…struggling with myself. This thing…I have people all around me—and someone special—who helped me through everything. But now…I’m probably never going to see them again, and I feel like I’ve lost a part of myself.”
She looks up at Jordan, almost tearfully. “How am I supposed to love myself when the biggest part of me is gone?”
Jordan just stares at Gangle, chest tight with sympathy and sadness. They’re so, so sure, this is Gangle in human form. Gangle is right in front of them, almost in tears and…Jordan is right, right there.
“Because,” Jordan starts. “The rest of you…still exists. It’s a part of you that’s real.”
The girl’s features twist—confusion.
Jordan continues. “And the only ‘you’ that you should care about is the real you.”
The girl’s eyes flash: fear, understanding—both?
Jordan manages to keep their voice calm as they say the words. It’s less a script—more like a repeat of a reality, in a whole new context. “You have to choose to love yourself, even if it doesn’t make sense.”
The girl gasps, eyes wide and hands over her mouth.
“It’s not natural, it’s intentional,” Jordan finishes, staring at Gangle right in her eyes, and god, they’re beautiful.
Gangle’s lip trembles. She eyes Jordan, eyes flicking all over their body.
“Z-Zooble?”
“Jordan, actually,” Jordan whispers. “But yeah, it’s me. Gangle? Is it really you?”
She nods, tears in her eyes. “It’s—It’s Lakshmi, actually.”
The name is so beautiful—perfect for her. “Lakshmi. I like that a whole lot more.”
A silence befalls them. Jordan isn’t sure if it’s awkward—more like awestruck. They look at each other—like, really look at each other. Lakshmi is so, so beautiful up close, Jordan keeps noticing new things about her. The mole near her ear. The single helix piercing in her right ear. The little twists she’s braided into random strands of her hair.
Jordan clears their throat. “You know, my shift ends in an hour. So if you aren’t doing anything…”
“It’s a date,” Lakshmi smiles so wide it carves out her cheeks—goddamn, she’s got dimples too.
“Sounds perfect,” Jordan grins, placing Lakshmi’s drink down in front of her. She’s about to pick up the glass but hesitates.
“Is something the—” Jordan starts, but Lakshmi leans forward, gently grabs Jordan’s shoulders until they’re barely two inches apart.
Lakshmi’s eyes are half lidded—nervous, but half-lidded nonetheless. Jordan realises—the pending space between them is a chance for them to back out, to say they aren’t okay with what’s going on. But Jordan is so, so okay with it, so much so that they’ve been dreaming about it since—they pull Lakshmi closer, closing the distance.
Lakshmi’s lips are soft and moist against Jordan’s own ones. It’s sort of clumsy, sort of sexy but entirely magical. Jordan relaxes under Lakshmi’s touch, and it’s—it’s like fireworks on the fourth of July: familiar, but still a surprising sort of spark.
Jordan is panting when they pull apart, despite how little time they spent actually kissing. The drink is still between them, and Jordan’s entire body is stretched out awkwardly to accommodate the counter between them.
Lakshmi blushes. “Couldn’t wait any longer. Was—was that okay?”
Warmth fills the smile that Jordan flashes Lakshmi. “More than okay.”
Lakshmi smiles cheekily, and she seems content—invigorated, even. Jordan knows they feel the same way—sort of like the dullness of a random night in Chicago has been shattered by something that’s sort of electrical, but so, so welcome. This—this is the only kind of life that Jordan ever wants to return to, and they have it, right in the palm of their hand.