Chapter 20: Performance

  Detroit, Michigan - 4847 Woodward Avenue

  Day 20 - 0847 Hours

  There were three news vans on our street.

  Apparently word had gotten out. I could see them from the living room window if I positioned my wheelchair just right, angled toward the glass, close enough to see but not so close that the glare made it impossible. Channel 4, Channel 7, and one with CNN logos. Satellite dishes pointed at the sky like they were praying for better signal. Reporters standing on our lawn. Our actual lawn. Mrs. Elmquist from next door was watching from her porch, arms crossed, probably wondering what kind of trouble we'd gotten into.

  "Adam, honey, maybe you should move back from the window."

  Mom's voice. Tired. She'd been up since five, trying to make the house look presentable. Like we weren't the kind of people who had medical bills stacked on the kitchen counter. Like we were the kind of family that belonged on television. What she really meant was: don't let them see you yet. Don't give them the shot they're waiting for.

  "They know I'm here," I said. "Doesn't matter if they see me."

  Dad was in the kitchen, on the phone with someone. His voice was low, controlled. The voice he used when he was trying not to lose his temper. Probably talking to a reporter. Or a lawyer. Or someone from the UN trying to coordinate this whole circus.

  The NIL payment had hit our account two days ago. Minus taxes, we'd end up with maybe half. Enough to cover some of the medical bills. Enough to buy some time.

  Not enough to make me feel like less of a fraud.

  A reporter knocked on the door. Mom flinched.

  "I'll get it," I said.

  I backed away from the window, turned the wheelchair toward the hallway. The apartment was small, a two-bedroom we'd converted so I could have the main floor. The living room, kitchen, and bathroom all accessible. The bedroom upstairs was Mom and Dad's now. My bed was a hospital bed in the corner of the living room, hidden behind a curtain when we had visitors.

  The hallway was narrow. I had to angle the chair carefully to avoid catching the wheels on the doorframe. The front door was standard height, but I'd had to have the threshold lowered last year. Small modifications. Small indignities. The kind of thing you stopped noticing after a while.

  I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  "Mr. Smith! Jennifer Caldwell, Channel 7 News. Do you have a moment to-"

  "The interview's at ten," I said. "With whoever the UN sent. That's it."

  "Just a few quick questions-"

  "No."

  I closed the door. Locked it. Sat in my wheelchair in the narrow hallway and tried to remember how to breathe.

  Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway. She used to look a lot different. Her face had become rather wan and pale, the product of years of stress. Today though she looked both excited and a bit hesitant. We had attention, again. We had reporters on the lawn asking questions she didn't know how to answer.

  "You okay?" she asked.

  "Yeah."

  I wasn't. But what else was I supposed to say?

  "You okay?" she asked.

  "Yeah."

  I wasn't. But what else was I supposed to say?

  The interview crew arrived at 9:30.

  Four people. Two carrying equipment cases, one with a lighting rig, one who looked like she was in charge. Professional. Efficient. They moved through our house like they'd done this a thousand times before. Probably had.

  "We'll set up in the living room," the woman in charge said. She had an earpiece, a tablet, and the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly what she was doing. "Natural light from the window, we'll supplement with the soft box. Adam, you'll sit here-" she gestured to the couch "-and Shane will sit across from you."

  "Shane?" I asked.

  "Shane McAvoy. He's the interviewer. He'll be here in twenty minutes. We need to get you prepped first."

  Prepped. Like I was a piece of equipment that needed calibration.

  The makeup artist was younger than I expected. Early thirties, maybe. Dark hair pulled back, kind eyes, hands that moved with practiced efficiency. She set up her kit on the coffee table, brushes, powders, things I didn't have names for.

  "Okay, Adam, I'm just going to even out your skin tone a bit. The lights can wash people out." She started working, her touch light and professional. "You have great bone structure. This'll be easy."

  I didn't know what to say to that.

  She worked in silence for a minute. Then: "I saw some of the footage. From The Forge. You were really brave."

  "I wasn't brave. I just didn't want to die."

  She smiled softly. "That's what brave people always say." She switched brushes, started working on my forehead. "My cousin has MS. She was diagnosed about five years ago."

  My chest tightened. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. She's doing pretty well, though. Relapsing-remitting type. The medications have come a long way." She paused, studying my face. "You seem to be doing well too. Your tremor's pretty mild. Are you relapsing-remitting?"

  "No."

  "Oh." She kept working, but I could feel her curiosity. "Primary progressive?"

  "Secondary progressive."

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  Her hands stilled. Just for a second. Then she kept going, but her voice was different. Careful. "Oh. I'm sorry. I just, you seem like you're doing really well. I wouldn't have guessed."

  "Yeah."

  I didn't know what else to say. Didn't know how to explain that three weeks ago I could barely lift my arm. That the tremor used to be so bad I couldn't hold a fork. That I'd spent years watching my body forget how to work.

  My hand did feel steadier I supposed. The tremor was still there, would always be there, but it was quieter. Less insistent. The fatigue that used to pin me to the bed for hours was manageable. Not gone. Just... less.

  Maybe it was adrenaline. But hopefully the interview would go smoothly at the very least.

  "All done," the makeup artist said. She stepped back, studying her work. "You look great. Very natural."

  "Thanks."

  She started packing up her kit. The crew was finishing the lighting setup. Dad was hovering near the kitchen, trying to stay out of the way. Mom was sitting in the corner, hands folded in her lap, watching everything with the kind of quiet anxiety that made my chest hurt.

  The door opened. A man walked in. Tall, handsome, maybe forty. Expensive suit. Confident stride. He smiled when he saw me.

  "Adam Smith. Shane McAvoy. Thanks for doing this."

  We shook hands. His grip was firm. Professional.

  "Let's get started," he said.

  They positioned us on opposite ends of the couch. Camera between us. Lights adjusted. Sound check. Shane had notes on a tablet but he wasn't looking at them. He was looking at me. Studying me. Trying to figure out what kind of story I was.

  "We'll start easy," he said. "Just tell me about your experience in The Forge. What it was like. How it felt."

  The camera's red light came on.

  "It felt real," I said. "The pain was real. The exhaustion was real. The people were real."

  "But it wasn't real. It was a simulation."

  "The simulation was real. The experience was real. That's what mattered."

  Shane nodded. Made a note. "You weren't authorized to enter The Forge. You broke in. Why?"

  "Because."

  "Because why?"

  He waited. Wanted me to elaborate. I didn't.

  "The Forge is controversial," he said. "Some people see it as the future of conflict resolution. Others see it as exploitation. Turning war into entertainment. What do you think?"

  "I don't think about it."

  "You don't have an opinion?"

  "I have an opinion. I just don't care about the larger implications."

  His eyebrows rose. "You don't care?"

  "No. I cared about walking. About being able to feed myself without spilling. About helping people who needed help. That's it."

  "But surely you understand that The Forge is bigger than your personal experience. It's changing how we think about warfare, about international relations..."

  "I understand that. I just don't care."

  Shane shifted. Recalibrating. "Tell me what it was like. The first time you walked in the simulation."

  That I could talk about.

  "It was like remembering something I'd forgotten. My body knew what to do. Knew how to move. How to balance. How to run." I paused. "I ran for an hour. Just ran. Because I could."

  "And the combat?"

  "Scary. Painful. Real."

  "You killed in the simulation."

  "I killed things that were trying to kill other people. Yeah."

  "How did that feel?"

  "Necessary."

  He made another note. I could see him building the narrative. Trying to figure out what angle would work. Hero or victim. Inspiration or cautionary tale.

  "You were discharged after just over two weeks," he said. "Unauthorized entry. You're facing potential prosecution. Was it worth it?"

  "Yes."

  "Even though you might go to prison?"

  "Yes."

  "Even though you're significantly in debt to pay back the cost of the attunement equipment?"

  "The debt's being paid. And yeah. Even with that. It was worth it."

  Shane leaned forward. His expression shifted. Became more serious. He wasn't getting much out of me so he shifted tactics.

  "Your sister. Emma Smith. She died three years ago in a terrorist attack in New York. Is that correct?"

  My chest tightened. I knew what was coming.

  The crowd. Too many people. Emma's smile as she saw me through them.

  The room tilted.

  My hand was shaking. The tremor was back. Worse than it had been in days.

  "Yes," I said. My voice sounded distant.

  "I'm sorry for your loss. That must have been incredibly difficult."

  I didn't respond. Couldn't.

  "You were there that day. In New York. With your sister."

  Concrete. Cold.

  Screaming...

  "Yes."

  "Some people might see a connection," Shane continued. His voice was gentle but insistent. Asshole knew he had me off balance and was pushing. "Between what happened to your sister and your decision to enter The Forge. A place where you could fight. Where you could protect people. Do you think your participation was about processing that loss? About trying to-"

  "No."

  My voice was flat. Hard. The tremor was spreading up my arm.

  "No?"

  "It wasn't about Emma. It wasn't about what happened. It wasn't about trying to fix something that can't be fixed."

  "But surely there's a connection-"

  "There's no connection." My hand was shaking so badly I had to grip the couch cushion. "Emma's dead. The Forge didn't change that. Didn't help me process it. Didn't give me closure."

  My body failing. The one moment it mattered most-

  If I'd been stronger-

  If I'd been different-

  "It just let me be normal for a little while," I said. "That's all."

  Shane was quiet. Studying me. The camera was still recording. Still watching. Still turning this into a story I didn't want to tell.

  "I think we're done," I said.

  "Adam, I just have a few more-"

  "We're done."

  I stood up. The tremor was bad enough that I had to steady myself on the arm of the couch. Mom was on her feet, moving toward me. Dad was in the doorway, his face tight with concern.

  Shane looked at his producer. She made a gesture. The camera's red light went off.

  "Thank you for your time," Shane said. Professional. Controlled. Like he hadn't just ripped open something that should have stayed closed.

  The crew packed up quickly. Efficient. They were gone in fifteen minutes.

  I sat in my room. Stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks in the plaster.

  My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

  Interview footage is already being edited. Headlines will start appearing in about two hours. Reinstatement approved regardless. Report to processing facility 0800 tomorrow. I'm sorry, I didn't know. - Elena

  Tomorrow. Back to The Forge.

  I should have felt relieved.

  Instead I just felt empty.

  The headlines started appearing at 4:47 PM.

  Dad showed me his phone. His face was grim.

  "Forge Participant Was Present During Sister's Death in Terror Attack"

  "Trauma-Driven? Adam Smith's Personal Loss May Explain Unauthorized Entry"

  "MS Patient Sought Revenge in Simulation After Losing Sister, Experts Suggest"

  I read them. All of them. Watched the narrative twist in real-time. Watched them take what I'd said, what I'd refused to say, and make it into something else. Made me into someone broken. Someone unstable. Someone whose motivations couldn't be trusted.

  They didn't know what happened. Didn't know about the fall. About the cop. About the specific way my body had failed at the exact wrong moment.

  But they'd made up a story anyway.

  Elena's PR plan. Her media interview requirement. Her way of controlling the narrative.

  It had backfired.

  My phone rang. Same unknown number. I answered.

  "Adam. Elena Vasquez."

  "I saw the headlines."

  "Yes. I'm sorry. The interview didn't go as planned."

  "You think?"

  She was quiet for a moment. "Matheson says you're still cleared for reinstatement. Tomorrow morning. The interview requirement has been satisfied, regardless of the outcome."

  "Great."

  "Adam..."

  "I'm going back," I said. "That was the deal. Interview for reinstatement. I did the interview. Now I'm going back."

  "I know. I just wanted to make sure you understood that the media narrative-"

  "I don't care about the media narrative. I don't care what they think. I don't care what story they're telling." My hand was shaking again. The tremor that had been quiet for days was back with a vengeance. "I just want to go back to The Forge."

  "Okay," Elena said. "Tomorrow. 8am."

  She hung up.

  I sat on my bed. Stared at my hands. Watched them shake.

  Tomorrow I'd walk again. Tomorrow I'd fight again. Tomorrow I'd be useful again.

  Tomorrow I'd be feel something other than the twisting in my gut and the shaking of my hands.

  The Forge wouldn't fix that. Wouldn't change it. Wouldn't make it better.

  But it would let me be someone else for a while.

  Someone whose body worked. Someone who could help people. Someone who mattered.

  Even if the world thought I was broken. Even if they thought I was unstable. Even if they thought I was seeking something I'd never wanted to seek.

  I'd made things worse. I knew that. The interview had twisted into something ugly. The narrative had escaped. Elena's plan had failed.

  But I was going back anyway.

  Because what else could I do?