Corbin, along with the rest of the world, had had his eye on Chronicle since its announcement and wanted to play the game for fun every bit as much as he wanted the extra time and opportunities that it would provide him. At this point, the most hardcore players in game would had had nearly four years of playtime more than he had.
“Unacceptable,” Corbin thought. His mood soured and his excited quivering ceased. It was completely unacceptable for him to have missed out on so much time. “It’s like losing four years of my life for nothing.”
Despite sounding a bit dramatic to himself, Corbin wasn’t entirely wrong. Over the last half year, using standard time, most services had become available within the game world of Chronicle. As advertised, anyone in the game could watch full movies, read books, and even watch in-game live streamed content. Scores of businesses had transferred their operations into Chronicle for the same reason students studied there: eight times as much time just for being logged in.
When players step into and strap themselves into pods, they’re scanned then automatically fitted with biometric sensors which not only monitor the players’ conditions but allow for continuous fine tuning to ensure a seamless immersive experience. Then, the players accept that they’re ready to log in and are put into a sleep-like trance which they’ll remain in until they choose to leave or are ejected in the case of an emergency. All capsules are easily upgradable for long term use, should a player wish to remain in the game for more than the suggested maximum 12 real hours at a time. Upgrades include haptic electrodes which stimulate muscles, feeding tubes for nourishment, and a waste disposal tube for just that. There isn’t an upgrade for a standard pod which keeps the user washed, and the in-and-out tubes have earned a reputation for being a less than wholly pleasant experience to fit and remove.
Corbin worked for a construction group as a ‘construction apprentice.’ In short, he did all the jobs that needed doing but no one would volunteer for, and he received little pay for his trouble. The day was Friday, and he was taking a rare day off to receive and set-up his new, refurbished Chron pod.
Corbin checked to make sure he had a beef Pacquet brand food packet connected to his Pacquet brand Print-n-Grille and said the activation phrase, “Pack it!”
“What would you like me to cook for you? If you’d like a list of op—” the meal fabricator was cut off by Corbin.
“Make me roast beef on a biscuit,” Corbin demanded.
“Right away! You are currently low on Roa—”
“Just make it already,” snapped Corbin impatiently.
“Right away! Your roast beef on biscuit will be ready in five minutes. While you wait, check out this amazing deal for—”
“Print-n-Grille volume mute,” Corbin said, silencing the upcoming advertisement, as well as the upcoming alert which would tell him precisely when his food was ready to eat.
As Corbin waited for his food, he decided to feed his anticipation by browsing some websites for general information about Chronicle. He’d already checked various forums and wikis for information on classes, leveling guides, and exploits in the game but the information was sparse considering how much time players had had to update it.
In Chronicle, in-game copper, silver, gold, and platinum coins could be exchanged for real world currency. Both were about as tangible as the other, but to make the exchange you’d have to visit money changers in game or install third-party software on your ChronPod. These NPCs could typically be found in banks and act as the in-game faces of various large banking conglomerates. Because players have the ability to exchange in-game currency for credits and the other way around, those who made good money in game could earn a respectable living from the virtual world.
Before Corbin had gleaned any useful information, a delivery drone requested access into the apartment to drop off a parcel.
“Please come in!” Corbin yelled, ecstatically.
The drone wheeled its way into the apartment and, upon determining that the room was too cluttered for an easy delivery, opened its large, reusable shipping container and left the massive Chronicle pod right beyond the threshold before speeding off.
“Come on!” Corbin wailed before clearing a path and pushing the massive pod toward the closest universal utility port to plug in his brand-new hardware.
After plugging in the pod and before getting both legs in, Corbin remembered to grab his then-cold roast beef biscuit and devour it along with as much water as he could drink over a five second period. It was time for him to get in the game.
Corbin stripped down to his boxer briefs, climbed into the upright pod, and leaned back.
“Power on,” Corbin said with the welling excitement of a six-year-old on Christmas morning.
The pod whirred briefly as the lid automatically slid shut and the pods orientation leaned Corbin back at a 30-degree angle.
A dispassionate female voice filled the capsule. “Please place your hands on the acclimatization handles, if able. Since this is your first time using this Chronicle pod, you must allow a short diagnostic to take place. Please read over the terms of service while you wait.”
The pod began whirring once again after Corbin gripped the two handles in front of his hands, which set his body in the position that the pod was waiting for. A prompt appeared in front of Corbin’s face with an incredibly long end-user agreement that Corbin skimmed only briefly then accepted with a voice command.
The interior of the pod began to feel tighter as sturdy airbags inflated around him, lightly pinning sensors over the entirety of Corbin’s body. The experience was surprising, but once it was done the pressure turned out to be rather comfortable.
The pod began to revolve slowly in the manner of a concrete mixer as the diagnostic came to its end.
“To begin playing Chronicle, please say ‘engage,’” the voice stated, coolly.
“Engage!” Corbin happily obliged right before a puff of air carrying some familiar sweet scent which he couldn’t quite place encouraged him to close his eyes.
And then, about 10 seconds later, there he was… or rather wasn’t. Corbin was disembodied in a well-lit, empty space. There was nothing as far as the eye could see except for a meter-wide pedestal with the word ‘Create’ chiseled in its stone base.
“Create,” Corbin said, having no other method to interact.
Then, there before him, stood his carbon copy: a somewhat small height for the era—5’8”— man, with disheveled brown hair, brown eyes, and just enough even facial stubble to avoid ‘babyface’ comments at his work. He’d be easy to lose in a crowd.
“You may only have one avatar. If you wish to change your avatar, you must delete your existing one and will lose all progress. Your vitals have been scanned and appropriate statistics have been determined. You may now customize this avatar to your heart’s desire. Your avatar is the way in which all other players and game residents perceive you. When you have finished customizing your avatar, say or select ‘Finalize.’ If you choose not to customize your avatar, you will be awarded a large number of stat points that will automatically be distributed to your character based on your scanned vitals.”
To the sides of the pedestal where his carbon copy stood, Corbin could see two plinths. One was labeled ‘Customize’ and the other ‘Finalize.’ Corbin knew that if he selected ‘Customize’ he could spend hours, even days, customizing his character’s appearance and statistics down to the most minute details—but he was way more interested in the bonus stats he would receive from accepting his appearance and statistics as they were relegated by the AI.
“Finalize,” Corbin said.
“Please select a name for your avatar. The name you choose is how other players and game residents will address you. Names are not unique.”