July 20th, 2134

Rowan Black sat at the edge of the lake, fishing rod in hand, and watched the occasional fish swim by the surface. He hadn’t caught a single one yet. Fishing in real life wasn’t nearly as simple or exciting compared to gathering fish and other crafting materials in his favorite MMOs. He couldn’t level-up, improve his catch-rate, or activate an assortment of special gatherer abilities. So lame. The only plus was the graphics of reality.

His mother and father had taken him to the local nature reserve for a weekend camping trip after another horrid week at Westwind Highschool. Max and his gang had been getting worse. They'd picked on him during the breaks, stealing his notes and teasing him in class. And worse of all, the teachers hadn’t done a thing about it except for the occasional sad smile—as usual. Max’s father was on the school board and one of the largest donors funding the campus upgrades. The school was poor and desperately needed the money. Max and his snobbish, wealthy family moved into the area a few years back for some reason and were untouchable. Even a single afternoon detention for the pig-like boy had resulted in shouting commotion in the offices.

A cold breeze blew across the still waters, rustling the nearby pine trees and grass. A shiver rippled up Rowan’s arms and sides.

“Mmm! It’s getting cold,” his father called from behind.

He was still setting up the tent for the night, struggled with the extendable poles. Of course, he would struggle. He worked as a poorly paid chemical scientist for a major pharmaceutical company, often working late into the night analyzing compounds. He rarely ventured into the woods or exerted his body. Rowan couldn’t believe his father agreed to his mother’s camping idea. She’d thought this would be an excellent way to help Rowan get over the week and experience some family bonding—out in the damp, cold woods by this lake away from his video games. She was a marine biologist and often went on expeditions to nearby lakes including this one.

This wasn’t too bad of an idea, Rowan admitted. Staring out across the lake surface into the mountain ranges was indeed relaxing. Quite calming as his mother claimed.

But too bad his father insisted on setting up the tent all by himself. He had a tiny bit of an ego… although at least he wasn’t anywhere near as bad as Max and co. Rowan sighed and shook his head.

His mother always worried about his situation at school. She'd barged into the principal’s office five times to demand a stop to Max’s behavior. Every time she had left with moist eyes, a vice gripping Rowan’s chest at the memory. She didn’t deserve that. And neither did his father—even if he didn’t worry or take the situation as seriously as she did. His father always merely told him to be strong and be the better man. But every now and then, something dark would flash across his father’s eyes whenever Rowan mentioned school.

One afternoon, Rowan had returned home with blotchy, dark-purple bruises on his arms and chest. His mother had freaked out, falling into hysterics. And his father had stared at his injuries with a sustained, menacing look, still and silent like he had been holding something back in himself. Rowan could remember every line carved into his father’s face when he had made that look. He was a middle-aged man with deathly, pale, skull-like features that made the look all the more frightening. Rowan hadn’t seen that look again—he didn’t need to for it was carved deep into his memory.

His parents had complained to the school and threatened a lawsuit. Unfortunately, Max’s father had stepped in and countered with a warning to ruin the Black family with legal fees. That put an end to any talks of a lawsuit in a single sentence. The school hadn’t done anything as usual, though Max hadn’t assaulted him as severely since, only light trips and light punches.

And Rowan hadn’t found out why Max hated him the most. His father had somehow, someway kept up his cheery self soon after, acting as if he were a game’s NPC with a hard-coded unchanging mood and personality even if a city burned down around him.

“Row,” his father said. “You alright over there? Getting any bites?” The first pole was finally up, arching across the clearing and glinting under the evening sun.

Rowan took a breath before turning and did best to mask his boredom. He just wanted to stay home for the weekend and play War of the Ages, a real-time-strategy computer game. He had a knack for strategy when he was in the mood for it. "Yeah, I'm fine. No bites yet though." He forced his best smile—but only managed a sad upturn of his lips.

“Well keep trying!” His father chuckled, fumbling with the next pole. “I remember when I went fishing in high school. Boring but when one gets hooked it feels amazing to reel it in.”

Over twenty years ago. He probably couldn’t identify a poisonous mushroom if they walked by one. Only his mother could protect them from the dangers out here. Rowan sighed under his breath again. “It doesn’t look like they’re interested in the bait… they swim by my feet constantly.”

“Hmmm, that’s strange,” his mother said from the right. She was setting up the fire pit, lining a ring of small rocks around a shallow ditch. A stack of twigs and dried leaves piled in a neat pyramid. “Catfish love chicken liver. Check if your hook has any bait left.”

Rowan shrugged. “Alright.” He stood and reeled in his line for a good thirty seconds. He had made an adequate cast—after a few practice swings. He wasn’t underweight or scrawny like Max had called him. Quite fit in-fact, much fitter than Max. The snob was very chubby, stating it lightly.

Catching the end of the line, Rowan inspected two hooks spaced a foot apart. The two lumps of chicken had been nibbled into stringy bits. Rowan must’ve not felt the nibbles. The catfish were quite small if what he’d seen was indicative. A grimace tugged at his face. He turned to his mother. “I think these fish are too sma—”

Something gray moved within the trees.

“Too small?” his mother said. “There’s plenty of big ones if I recall right. Try casting your line out a bit further.”

“How far did you cast?” his father asked.

The thing moved through a gap between the branches. Was that fur?

It couldn’t be. The park ranger they had met at the gate said electric fences protected the reserve and they’d swept the area for bears, wolves, and other dangerous animals last week. Maybe it was another camper in a furry coat… or a couple of overgrown squirrels and badgers. Despite that, a fuzzy weight settled into Rowan’s belly, and another wave of goosebumps surged up his limbs.

His mom looked at him, her bronze eyebrow raised. “Did you hear us, Row?”

He swallowed. “Mom. Dad,” he said in a low voice. “There’s something in the woods. Grey and brown. There might be a few of them.” More patches of silver, gray, and brown appeared. They were getting close. There had to be at least a handful.

Rowan’s father gently put down the tent pole he hadn’t finished assembling and strode to their camping bags under a tree. “It shouldn’t be anything.” He rustled through a polymer box filled with supplies at lightning speed. “But just in case…”

Meanwhile, his mother inched closer to the forest line. She crouched like she was approaching a whale at the aquarium. Or a thief using a sneaking skill in a game.

Rowan shuffled over to his mother and steadied his breathing. Every step crunched small twigs and dry grass. Every drumming heartbeat echoed in his skull. He shouldn't react like this, really, but he couldn't help it after four years of torment at the hands of Max. Every corner was a threat. Every time Rowan didn't watch his back could lead to a nasty surprise.

“Rowan, Charles,” his mother whispered, “I think they’re Northern Grays. They’re bigger than usual.”

A rush of chill surged through his skin.

Northern Gray Wolves were dangerous. Notably dangerous according to the texts. They had emerged from a leftover, radiation-resistant strain after the early 21st-century nuclear wars while humanity rebuilt civilization in the southern hemisphere. It happened that they were also vicious, intelligent, highly resilient, and attacked in packs. Northern Grays had been a nasty surprise for colonists settling on the continent that had been known as North America. It’d been a slaughter for early settlers. Bad luck. They hadn’t believed in the need for weaponry.

Rowan’s father dropped what he was holding. His head whipped to him in an instant before turning to where Rowan’s mother was looking. A heartbeat later, his father ran to his mother’s bags a few trees down and began searching for what Rowan assumed a gun or animal stunner. His hands were a blur while they tore open pocket after pocket like he used a haste skill.

His mother tugged on his arm. “Stay back,” she said. Her eyes wavered.

He nodded and set his fishing rod on the ground before picking it up a moment later. It could work as a makeshift weapon. His chest thudded steadily as his pulse grew.

“Where’s the rifle?” his father asked.

Rowan’s mother palmed her face, fingers rubbing her eyes. She exhaled. “I think I left it in the car. I’m sorry. I didn’t think there’s anything out there. This is a reserve. There must be a hole in the fence.”

“Damm,” his father breathed, then picked up a knife and two more before beckoning. He didn’t appear to be as worried. Not at all.

Rowan slinked to the unfinished tent with his mother, her hand on his arm. Her warmth seeped into him. His father handed the over the hunting knives. They were far larger up close, shiny, toothy, engineered to kill a bear with minimal effort. A high-level melee weapon, Rowan dared to joke. His reflection glinted on the steel. His eye whites were reddening; it ridiculously contrasted his blue irises. The wolves must’ve spotted the colors from a hundred trees away.

Gingerly taking the blade and closing his fingers around the rubber grip, Rowan shook off his tremble and looked his father in the eye. “I don’t know how to fight with a kni—”

His mother interrupted. “We have to, Row. If we run it’ll activate their predator instinct, and they’ll all run at us.” She let go of his arm. “Stand big, make lots of noise, don’t lose eye contact, and stab them if they get on you. Like this.” She made stabbing motions in the air, large and forceful, not quick and small stabs like Rowan imagined. “Wave and rattle your fishing rod before they get too close. You can do it.”

His father nodded, copied her stabbing motions, and gave Rowan a look as if this was some kind of game or hockey technique they were showing. A macabre, life-threatening game. "Do that and slowly walk backward down the path toward the nearest ranger station. Don't run and hope the wolves get tired of us along the way. Understand?"

Rowan blinked. Threads of hysteria crept through his body. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t even make the school basketball team. Alright, he was fit, but not a jock or an athlete. There were at least a hundred guys stronger and fast than him in a school of one thousand. Rowan doubted few of them could take on a pack of wolves. He couldn’t even handle a backyard snake without getting bit in the calf last year. He hadn’t accomplished a single physical feat in his non-virtual life. All his accomplishments were in-game or on his report cards.

The trail was a mile long to the nearest ranger cabin and even longer to the car park. Not all the stations were occupied by rangers, thanks to budget cuts as Rowan's mother had mentioned earlier. The reserve rangers carried semi-automatic plasma-laser rifles that could take down several large bears in seconds.

But it was a mile! And it wasn't even guaranteed there'd be a ranger there. Rowan felt the world spin around him. No way in hell could he walk backward for a mile on a gamble while these overgrown wolves snapped at his feet. No fucking way.

“Careful of branches and roots,” his mother whispered. She stood straighter and spread her arms slightly.

Cold sweat ran down his neck as the beasts approached. Their bodies began to clear.

One. Two. Three.

Four freaking wolves.

Gods, they’d be boss monsters in one of his wilderness-themed games. Okay, maybe not boss monsters—mid-to-high-level elite monsters at a minimum.

With unusual confidence and authority, his father said, “Breathe and make lots of noise. They’re not that dangerous if you show strength and don’t run.” He nodded to Rowan.

Four more trailed behind. Eight wolves trotted through the trees in total—massive, aggressive, hulking canines. The doggy, fecal stench squeezed tightly at his stomach and airways.

The largest wolf’s head was level against Rowan’s chin. Its body spanned over two meters.

His legs threatened to collapse while his heart skipped many beats. He couldn’t do this. Why did they have to go on a damn camping trip? He could be at home, in his room, safely playing his assortment of computer games or playing golf on his cheap, low-functioning virtual reality set. Rowan had killed countless level five wolves in Crystal Hunter Online. Why did he have to do it again in real life?

The last wolf entered the clearing, its gray-brown paws trudging through the grass.

“BAH!” his father roared and lunged forward on the stop he stood, protective of Rowan and his mother. “Get back!” At the same time, he pushed back against Rowan and his mother, guiding to the trail one step at a time.

The head wolf paused for a second.

“Back!” Rowan’s mother snapped. “Get back!” She stomped her foot.

Three wolves barked in near unison. Their snarl rang in Rowan's ear. He kept tip-toeing and doing best to not lose footing on the uneven ground. They'd made ten meters now.

“AAHH!” his father yelled and slashed his knife.

The head wolf paused again. Its eyes narrowed. It bared its fangs and barked straight at Rowan as his heart kept skipping beats.

Feeling lightheaded, Rowan’s breathing morphed into short, quick gasps. The forest heaved around him. His steps faltered. He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t stand up to the wolves. Not eight of them. Not even one. Not even Max and his dumb gang of three.

The sky began to tip. He leaned against a mossy tree for support. It was the end of his pathetic life.

“Rowan!” his mother shrieked. Her body blurred as she twisted around to him.

In an instant, the lead wolf charged, maw gaping and dripping saliva.

“Don’t you dare!” His father jumped in the way and met the wolf head-on, tackling the canine with a wrestling move which Rowan had seen before on television. They tumbled along the path. The wolf gurgled and barked. Rowan’s father yelled and hammered and stabbed its chest, right where its heart should be. The foot-long knife sank into the wolf’s fur, a critical hit.

A pained howl blasted out of its drooling maw. The excruciating sound echoed through the forest and hammered against Rowan’s eardrums.

The other wolves charged, a rabid torrent of fur and stench.

“Rowan! Help!” his mother cried and dashed to his father’s side.

The leading wolf reached Rowan’s father before his mother.

But his father was already up, a crimson knife in his hand. Blood pooled and squirted out of the wolf’s chest as it whimpered, defeated, dying. Its glowing yellow eyes flickered to Rowan—pinning him in place.

Confusion, awe, fear, and panic all stormed through Rowan as he took in the scene before him. His father tackled the next wolf. His mother kicked at another, slashing its mouth and face back and forth. Their combined bodies blocked the path and kept the remaining five at bay. His parents were fearless—unlike him.

His mother screamed and jerked back, an arc of blood spraying the nearest leaves. Her hand darted to a wound on her left arm. The wolf took advantage, and its maw gripped around her leg. Her screams intensified as Rowan stared with wide eyes. He stood utterly frozen, fishing rod in hand and knife in the other. His auburn hair fluttered at the edge of his sight as his mother collapsed the ground, helped only by his struggling and now-bleeding father. He’d killed two wolves now, but the next had bit his hand. His parents would die at this rate, ripped to bits and eaten by these beasts.

No. No. No. This can’t be happening.

His heart thudded as two more wolves made it around and ravaged his parents. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t lose them. They were the only good he had in his life apart from his computer games. He couldn’t lose them dammit. Fuck this stupid camping trip!

It was all his fault. He’d stopped their retreat and almost collapsed onto a tree. All his fault. His parents’ screams filled the air, horrid like a nightmare.

A wave of adrenaline coursed through his body and his limbs moved on their own accord. Time seemed to slow. His left arm slashed through the air, and the fishing rod whipped the closest wolf’s hide.

The wolf stopped biting at his mother’s bloodied, ruined face and turned to Rowan. His wave of adrenaline dissipated in a single stutter of his heart. He raised his knife and prepared for the worst, glancing at his father. He’d gotten the other wolf off his mother just then but now bled profusely from wounds on his torso and legs. At least Rowan brought them some more time with his small attack, even if they were going to die along with him.

The wolf sprang at Rowan, soaring in slow motion. This was it.

As the wolf’s mass impacted Rowan, a beam of white light cut through the corner of his vision and sliced into a wolf atop his father. The plasma-laser disintegrated half of its head and hit the reflective metal of his father’s knife.

The plasma split into a spray of dimmer beams. One hit his mother’s side, and the another darted straight at Rowan’s forehead. Dead center between the brows.

The last thing he saw was a flood of white light.