The blinking icon persisted back in the real. This wasn’t his two o’clock alarm, it was a ‘something’s wrong’ warning. Peter opened his eyes, well, eye, to find his mother sitting on the lounge opposite. Watching him. “Did you have a good sleep?” Her eyebrow arched.

“Sorry Mum. I was reading this thing for school and I must have passed out. My head is really aching, have you got anything for it?” Maybe playing the sympathy card might tip the scales a bit.

It did. “Oh, my baby boy. I'm sorry. I thought you might just be reading again.” She jumped up and virtually ran to the bathroom medicine cabinet. She returned with a medicine cup and a tablet (medicinal, not electronic). She placed them on the table amongst his clutter and rushed into the kitchen for water to wash the medicine down. “You get those into you, you'll feel better soon.”

“Thanks Mum.” Peter took the drugs and lay back into the couch. “How was yoga?”

His mother's expression hardened into unreadability very briefly. Then she smiled, “It was good. The instructor says I have marvellous form. We finished early so I came straight home to see how you were doing.”

“That's great, Mum. And thank you. I'm sorry I'm not with it today. I don't feel good.”

“That's okay, honey. You take it easy, but don't let your studies slip. I know not all of that,” she waved a hand at the table, “is for school. Now, pack it up and take it to your room. I'm going to have a shower, check on the groceries, and start making dinner.”

Peter collected the assorted paraphernalia from the table and juggled it down to his room. He dropped it onto his desk with a sigh. He sorted the papers into a rough order of 'things to try', 'things that work' and 'school stuff to be ignored'. He had been lucky so far, remembering the midnight snack his dad had given him when he was unable to sleep back when Peter had been a kid: a warm glass of milk and half a banana. Combined it with what he had learned in science class about rodents, that most of them are lactose intolerant and don't actually like cheese – despite what the kids animations would have you believe. Peanut butter or pumpkin seeds were better baits in a trap and since he would have had to go back to the damn herbalist's shop to get pumpkin seeds, Peter had chosen the peanut butter sandwich. Throw in the willowbark tea and you have a potent potable.

Pottering around his room, Peter briefly wondered why dealing with Citizens was such a pain. Whatever, the machine behind the NPCs was probably programmed to be a jerk. Rosie and Jacob were ok, but “Bovrn”, that smith and his massive apprentice could take a long walk off a short pier. Actually, you know, Rosie never really answered my question. Maybe she wasn’t a computer, and was just a nice lady playing the game? I wonder...

“Mum,” he called out. “How long until dinner?”

“Peter! Inside voice! If you want to talk to me, come down the the kitchen!” The irony of being yelled at for yelling was so thick it had rust on it.

Peter flushed guiltily. He still forgot about living so close to his neighbours sometimes. The sound insulation between apartments was pretty good, but was never intended to dampen deliberate yelling from one end of the home to the other.

In the kitchen, he tried again. “Mum, I'm sorry. How long do you think it will be until dinner is ready?”

His mother straightened from over the pot she had been staring into while stirring it. “About the same as a piece of string. Twice the length from the middle to the end.”

“Muuum. I'm serious. Are we waiting until dad gets home, or just eating when it's ready?”

“We'll see. Your father hasn't deigned to inform me of when he intends to be home.” While his mother had said 'your father' you could hear 'his Lordship' in the tone. “How about you go and read or watch something for a bit? I don't want you getting underfoot in here.”

Feeling dismissed, Peter took a seat at the desk in his room. He did not want to be interrupted putting his “Rat Nap” plan into action, so he decided not to login until after dinner. Instead, he started re-reading MacBeth in the hopes of sparking some inspiration for his assignment.

The Bard did not have the desired effect. Instead, Peter began wondering what status effects the witches brew would have caused. Eye of newt and toe of frog, maybe some sort of regeneration potion? And all those men in armour, buncha jerks all trying to be king, Peter imagined himself in those days, me just trying to survive as some big bully in a tin can sat lording it up over the peasants and all I got was some sticks and leaves. Trying to overthrow the government one cup of tea at a time.

Peter realised he was not making much sense at all, but his exhausted brain had thrown out some ideas to check into. According to the internet, peasant weapons from the medieval times were basically repurposed tools. A smith's mallet became a warhammer. A pitchfork was obviously no gladiator’s trident, but it would still poke some inconvenient holes in an opponent from a distance. Peter had the sickle in his inventory, though he had been warned very clearly that it was not intended for use as a weapon. Against an armoured foe it would probably bounce off and or even break, but against a foxs’ pelt? Like the foxes he needed to take out for the quest? There was an idea. The chitinous skin of the bugs was likely too hard though. Pete was itching to play again now.

Instead, he wandered out into the kitchen again to find his mother staring out the window. It took him a moment to realise she was accessing something virtual and not just spacing out. “Muuum, I'm hungry. When's dinner?”

Eyes refocusing from what she had been doing in the digital realm, Peter's mum looked startled for a moment before regaining her composure. “Dinner's ready, we've just been waiting on your dad. I don't think he's going to make it home in time for dinner though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he's late and he hasn't called. He's probably having dinner at the office. Alright, I'll serve up.” Two plates of curried sausages and vegetables were placed on the table. “What would you like to drink? I'm having a cuppa.”

“Oh, tea, please. English Breakfast please.”

While his mother busied herself making tea, Peter dug into his food. He had eaten nothing all day and really was starving. His mother placed his cup in front of him and sat down to her dinner across from him.

“Mum, is dad avoiding me?” Peter asked suddenly.

Choking on her food his mother spluttered, “What? No! Why? Why would you even think such a thing?”

“Well, he's never home these days. And he didn't say much last night. And then I heard you both yelling about what he did say.” Peter kept his eyes on his plate.

“Oh honey, no. Your father cares for you very much. He's just... really busy with work.”

“Well, I know that's partly my fault too, you know. The way my implant mucked up and now we're poor and stuff. I'm the reason he has to work so much, so I wouldn't blame him. And now I'm getting in trouble at school too.”

Peter's mum got up from her place, came around the table and gathered him up in her arms. “Oh, my baby boy. It's not your fault. Come here.” Wracking sobs began to shake Peter's body. It was all too much. Tears began to drip onto his plate. They stayed that way until Peter relaxed and was able to hug his mother back. With a final squeeze she released him and returned to her seat.

Peter pushed his plate away, his appetite gone. “I'm sorry mum. I can't eat anymore.” He picked up his cup and returned to his bedroom. He wasn't even sure what had brought it on. He could still feel the hot, itchy eyelids and lump in his throat. Placing the cup carefully on the desk he slumped into the seat. Through a blurred eye he stared at the papers on his desk. His itch to return the The Age had become an ache. He was tired of this mess.

“Mum, I’mma to turn in.” he called out. Raising his voice hurt his head. “Can you say good night to dad for me?”

After a minute his mother leaned around the doorway. “Sure honey. Are you going to be alright? Did you want anything to help you sleep?”

Peter leaned back in his chair. “No thanks, Mum. I'm just going to finish my tea and turn out the light."

“That's alright, you get some sleep. Good night,” she turned and left, though Peter could hear her lingering in the hall.

“Good night,” he whispered. Getting up, he flipped off the light and crawled under the covers. There was another world waiting for him, one that wasn't backwards about inflicting agony on him, but he had a plan. He was done feeling helpless.