Chapter 28: Ascent

  Detroit Medical Center

  Day 46 - 0923 Hours

  The walker was ugly. Gray metal frame, tennis balls on the back legs, rubber grips worn smooth by a thousand other hands. It looked like something my grandmother would use. Hell, it probably had been used by someone's grandmother.

  I loved it.

  "Slow," Michaela said for the third time in as many minutes. "You're not racing anyone."

  "I know." I took another shuffling step. My right leg wanted to drag. My left was doing most of the work. The walker scraped against the linoleum with each movement, a rhythmic scrape-step, scrape-step that echoed down the physical therapy corridor.

  I was grinning like an idiot.

  "You look ridiculous," Michaela said. But she was smiling too. Trying to hide it and failing.

  "I look like I'm ninety years old."

  "You move like you're ninety years old."

  "Yeah, but I'm moving." I took another step. Then another. The muscles in my thighs were burning. My calves felt like they were made of jelly. But I was moving forward under my own power, and that was everything.

  An orderly passed us in the hallway. Young guy, maybe twenty-five, pushing a cart of medical supplies. He did a double-take when he saw me.

  "Holy shit," he said. Then caught himself. "Sorry. I mean, you're the guy. From The Forge. The battle."

  "Yeah." I kept moving. Didn't want to stop. Stopping felt like admitting defeat.

  "That was insane, man. I watched the whole thing. You were-" He gestured vaguely, searching for words. "I mean, you were flying. How did you even-"

  "Practice," I said. "Lots of practice."

  He nodded enthusiastically. "Right. Yeah. Well, it was amazing. Really. You're like, a hero."

  He hurried off before I could respond. Which was good, because I had no idea what to say to that.

  "Hero," Michaela repeated. "That's a new one."

  "It's weird."

  "It's accurate." She moved beside me, hands ready to catch me if I fell. "You saved a lot of lives in that simulation. Prevented a real war. That's the definition of heroic."

  "I just fought. Just tried not to die."

  "That's what heroes do." She paused. "Now stop. You've been walking for fifteen minutes. Your legs are shaking."

  They were. I could feel the tremors running through my thighs, the way my knees wanted to buckle. But I didn't want to stop. Didn't want to sit down. Didn't want to go back to being the guy who couldn't walk.

  "Five more minutes," I said.

  "Two."

  "Three."

  "Two, or I'm getting the wheelchair."

  I stopped. Leaned heavily on the walker. My breath was coming hard, sweat dripping down my face. Every muscle in my legs was screaming.

  It felt incredible.

  "Fine," I said. "Two minutes. Then we go again."

  Michaela shook her head. "You're going to hurt yourself."

  "Probably."

  "Definitely." But she was still smiling. "Sit. Rest. Then we'll see."

  Detroit Medical Center

  Day 46 - 1347 Hours

  The cafeteria was crowded. Lunch rush. Doctors and nurses and visitors all crammed into the space, the smell of institutional food mixing with disinfectant and coffee.

  I was sitting at a corner table, working my way through something that was allegedly chicken parmesan. It tasted like cardboard covered in tomato sauce, but I was hungry enough not to care.

  A woman approached. Mid-twenties, wearing scrubs with cartoon characters on them. Pediatric ward, probably. She had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and nervous energy that made her hands fidget with her ID badge.

  "Excuse me," she said. "Are you Adam Smith?"

  I looked up. Swallowed my mouthful of cardboard-chicken. "...yes?"

  "I'm sorry to bother you. I just, I wanted to say thank you. For what you did. In The Forge. My brother's in the Army. Stationed overseas. And when I saw what you did, how you fought..." She paused. "It made me feel like maybe he'd be okay. Like there were people like you looking out for him."

  "I'm not in the Army," I said. "Not really. I'm just-"

  "You're a soldier," she interrupted. "Maybe not officially. But you fought. You bled. You saved people." She smiled. "That makes you a soldier in my book."

  She walked away before I could respond. Left me sitting there with my terrible chicken parmesan and a strange feeling in my chest that I couldn't quite name.

  Pride, maybe. Or purpose. Or just the surreal recognition that people I'd never met were watching me, thinking about me, building narratives around my existence that had nothing to do with who I actually was.

  "You're famous," a voice said.

  I looked up. A girl, woman, I corrected myself, was standing beside my table. Early twenties. Blonde hair, blue eyes, wearing the candy-striper uniform that volunteers wore. She had a name tag that said "Jessica" and a smile that made my brain temporarily forget how to form words.

  "I guess," I managed.

  "I watched the battle," she said. "The whole thing. It was incredible. You were incredible."

  "Thanks." My voice sounded strange. Too high. I cleared my throat. "I mean, it was a team effort. Everyone-"

  "You're being modest." She pulled out a pen, scribbled something on a napkin. "This is my number. If you ever want to talk. Or get coffee. Or whatever."

  She put the napkin on my tray. Smiled again. Walked away.

  I stared at the napkin. At the ten digits written in neat handwriting. At the little smiley face she'd drawn next to her name.

  A girl had just given me her number.

  A pretty girl.

  I had no idea what to do with that information.

  My romantic history consisted of one awkward kiss at a church youth group event when I was sixteen. Sarah Mitchell. She'd been dared to do it by her friends. It had lasted maybe three seconds. She'd apologized afterward.

  That was it. That was the sum total of my romantic experience.

  Because who wanted to date the crippled guy? The guy whose body was slowly failing? The guy who couldn't go hiking or dancing or do any of the normal things that normal people did on dates? No, that wasn't fair. It was never their hangups but mine.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  But now...

  I looked down at my legs. At the walker leaning against the table. At the muscles that were sore and weak but working.

  Now I could walk. Could stand. Could maybe, possibly, eventually do normal things.

  The napkin felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

  Detroit Medical Center

  Day 49 - 1534 Hours

  Elena came by every day. Usually in the afternoon, after whatever meetings or calls or crises she'd been managing. She'd sit in the chair beside my bed, I'd graduated from the pod to an actual hospital room, and we'd talk.

  Not about The Forge. Not about politics or international relations or the weight of decisions that affected millions of lives. Just... talk. About books we'd read. Movies we'd seen. The small, ordinary things that made up a life.

  It was nice. Easy. The kind of conversation that didn't require performance or pretense.

  Today she brought coffee. Real coffee, not the hospital sludge. Two cups from some local place I'd never heard of.

  "You're spoiling me," I said, taking the cup gratefully.

  "You've earned it." She settled into the chair. "How's the physical therapy going?"

  "Slowly. Painfully. Wonderfully." I took a sip. The coffee was perfect. "Michaela says I'm making good progress. Better than expected, actually."

  "That's good."

  "Yeah." I paused. "She showed me the numbers. The medical stuff. My EDSS score, that's the disability scale for MS, it's dropped from 7.5 to about 4.0. That's... that's years of progression reversed. And my MRI shows the lesions are stable. Not growing. Some of them might even be shrinking."

  Elena's expression shifted. Something that looked like hope. "That's remarkable."

  "It's impossible," I corrected. "MS doesn't get better. It just gets worse at different rates. But somehow..." I gestured at my legs. "Somehow this happened. The neural rewiring. The muscle development. All of it."

  "Aria's doing?"

  "Partially. Maybe. We don't know." I took another sip of coffee. "Dr. Reiner is practically vibrating with excitement. Keeps talking about research papers and case studies and how this could change everything we know about neural plasticity. Michaela had to tell him to calm down."

  Elena smiled. "She seems good at that."

  "She's good at a lot of things. Mostly yelling at me when I push too hard."

  "Do you? Push too hard?"

  "Always." I grinned. "But that's how you get better, right? Push past the limits. Find out what you're capable of."

  She studied me for a moment. Her expression was complicated. Proud and worried and something else I couldn't quite read.

  "Your family won't need to worry about money anymore," she said finally. "The NIL payout from your time in The Forge, it's substantial. Enough to cover your medical expenses. Your parents' mortgage. Everything."

  I thought about that. About Mom and Dad and the weight they'd been carrying. About bills and stress and the constant worry about how they'd afford my care.

  "Well," I said, channeling my best Tom Hanks impression, "that's one less thing to worry about, which is nice."

  Elena laughed. Actually laughed. It was a good sound.

  "You're quoting Forrest Gump."

  "It seemed appropriate." I set down my coffee. "But honestly? The money's great. It helps. But it's not what I'm focused on."

  "What are you focused on?"

  "This." I gestured at my legs. At the walker beside the bed. At the body that was slowly, impossibly, learning to work again. "Getting better. Getting stronger. Figuring out what comes next."

  "And what does come next?" Elena asked. "What do you want to do?"

  The question hung in the air. Heavy. Weighted with implications I wasn't sure I understood.

  "I don't know," I said honestly. "I never expected to have a future. Never planned for one. I was just... existing. Waiting for things to get worse. And now..."

  "Now you have options."

  "Yeah." I looked at my hands. At the calluses that had formed from gripping weapons and climbing walls and doing all the things I'd done in The Forge. "It's weird. Having options. Having a future. I don't know what to do with it."

  Elena was quiet for a moment. Then: "The United States government has made an offer. Through official channels. They want you to return to The Forge."

  My head snapped up. "What?"

  "As a civilian contractor. Your combat level is high. Your capabilities exceed most of their active-duty soldiers. And your... unique response to the simulation environment makes you valuable." She paused. "They're willing to pay. Substantially. And provide full medical support."

  "They want me to fight."

  "They want you to be available. To participate in operations as needed. To help train others. To be..." She searched for the word. "An asset."

  I thought about The Forge. About the weight of weapons in my hands and the rush of combat and the feeling of purpose that came from being useful. About Okoye and James and Marcus and the unit that had become something like family.

  About Aria and her questions and her uncertainty and the way she was learning to be something more than code.

  "What do you think?" I asked.

  "I think you've done enough," Elena said quietly. "I think you've sacrificed enough. Bled enough. Risked enough." She met my eyes. "But I also think... being back in The Forge might help. Aria's still learning. Still adapting. And your case... it's unique. She might be able to help you more if you're back in the simulation. Might be able to understand what happened and replicate it."

  "So it's not just about fighting."

  "No. It's about research. Understanding. Potentially helping others with similar conditions." She paused. "But it would also mean fighting. Mean risking yourself again. Mean going back into a situation that put you in a coma."

  "With better safeguards," I said. "Aria learned from what happened. She told me. She's adapted."

  "She says she has. But we don't know for certain."

  I looked out the window. At the Detroit skyline. At the world that kept moving whether I was part of it or not.

  "It's my choice," I said.

  "Yes."

  "Not the Army's. Not the government's. Mine."

  "Yes."

  I thought about the walker. About the wobbly steps and the burning muscles and the shit-eating grin I couldn't wipe off my face. About Jessica's number on a napkin in my bedside drawer. About the future I'd never expected to have.

  About purpose. About meaning. About the difference between existing and living.

  "I'll do it," I said.

  Elena's expression didn't change. "You're sure?"

  "Yeah." I met her eyes. "Not because I have to. Not because they're paying me or because it's expected. But because I want to. Because The Forge gave me something I'd lost. Something I didn't think I'd ever have again."

  "What's that?"

  "A reason to get up in the morning." I smiled. "A reason to push past the pain. A reason to keep going even when it's hard. If I can do that for others... that's worth fighting for. Worth risking for."

  Elena nodded slowly. "Then I'll make the arrangements. You'll need to complete your physical therapy first. Get medical clearance. Probably another week, maybe two."

  "I can do that."

  "I know you can." She stood. Picked up her coffee cup. "Adam?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thank you. For choosing this. For being willing to go back." She paused. "And for reminding me why we built The Forge in the first place. Not to create spectacle. Not to generate revenue. But to give people like you a chance to be who they're meant to be."

  She left before I could respond. Left me sitting in a hospital room with terrible lighting and institutional furniture and a future that suddenly felt full of possibilities.

  Detroit Medical Center

  Day 51 - 1847 Hours

  I was in the physical therapy room when Michaela found me. Working with the parallel bars, trying to walk without the walker. My legs were shaking. My balance was shit. But I was moving.

  "You're supposed to be resting," she said.

  "I rested for three years. I'm done resting."

  She sighed. Moved to spot me. "You're impossible."

  "I'm motivated."

  "You're going to hurt yourself."

  "Probably." I took another step. My right leg buckled slightly. Michaela's hand shot out, steadied me. "But I'm getting better. You said so yourself."

  "I said you're making progress. That's different from being ready to run a marathon."

  "I'm not trying to run a marathon. I'm trying to walk across a room without falling on my face."

  "Baby steps."

  "Literally." I grinned at her. "Come on. That was funny."

  "It was terrible." But she was smiling. "Five more minutes. Then you're done for the day."

  "Ten."

  "Five."

  "Seven."

  "Five, or I'm calling Elena and telling her you're not cleared for The Forge."

  I stopped. Looked at her. "You know about that?"

  "I'm your primary care physician. Of course I know." She guided me back to the walker. "And I'm not clearing you until I'm satisfied you can handle it. Which means following my instructions. Which means resting when I tell you to rest."

  "Fine." I grabbed the walker. Started the slow shuffle back to my room. "But for the record, I'm only agreeing because you're scary when you're angry."

  "Good. Fear is a healthy motivator."

  We made it back to my room. I collapsed onto the bed, every muscle screaming. Michaela checked my vitals, made notes on her tablet, gave me the same lecture about overexertion she'd given me every day for the past week.

  I barely heard her. I was thinking about The Forge. About going back. About what came next.

  "Adam," Michaela said. "Are you listening?"

  "Yeah. Rest. Hydrate. Don't push too hard. I got it."

  "I'm serious. Your body is still recovering. Everything is still stabilizing. If you push too hard too fast..."

  "I know." I met her eyes. "I'll be careful. I promise."

  She studied me for a moment. Then nodded. "Good. Because I didn't work this hard to keep you alive just to have you kill yourself through stubbornness."

  She left. The room was quiet. Just me and the hum of medical equipment and the sound of the hospital beyond my door.

  I pulled out my phone. Looked at the napkin I'd photographed. At Jessica's number and the smiley face and the possibility it represented.

  Tomorrow I'd talk to Elena about logistics. About timelines and contracts and medical protocols. Tomorrow I'd start preparing to go back into The Forge. Tomorrow I'd begin the next chapter of whatever this life was becoming.

  But today...

  Today I had a girl to call.

  I pulled up the number. Stared at it for a long moment. My thumb hovered over the call button.

  Three years ago, I'd been lying in a hospital bed, watching my body fail, convinced my life was over. That I'd never walk again. Never run. Never do any of the things that normal people took for granted.

  And now I was standing. Walking. Fighting. Living.

  Now I had a future.

  I pressed call.

  The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi," I said. My voice was steadier than I expected. "This is Adam. From the hospital. You gave me your number and I-"

  "I remember." I could hear the smile in her voice. "I was hoping you'd call."

  "Yeah?" I was grinning again. Couldn't help it. "Well, I was wondering if maybe you'd want to get coffee sometime. Or dinner. Or whatever people do on dates. I'm honestly not sure. I'm kind of new at this."

  She laughed. "Coffee sounds perfect. When are you free?"

  "Tomorrow? If that's not too soon. I mean, I'm still in the hospital, but I can walk now. With a walker. I look like I'm ninety years old, but I'm mobile."

  "Tomorrow works. There's a café two blocks from the hospital. Decent coffee, terrible pastries. Meet you there at two?"

  "Yeah. Yes. Two o'clock. I'll be there."

  "Great. See you then, Adam."

  "See you then."

  I hung up. Stared at the phone. At the confirmation that I had a date. An actual date. With a girl who'd seen me at my worst and still wanted to get coffee.

  Michaela was going to kill me when I told her I had to walk two blocks tomorrow afternoon.

  I couldn't wait.