There it was.
Flynn's Arcade stood on the corner of Culver Blvd, a
decrepit ruin of its former glory. The giant neon sign that was once a symbol
for good times, a burnt out husk. Lifeless windows and shuttered doors
completed the dismal portrait of abandonment.
Sam edged his bike forwards. This place still held
importance for him. Memories of happier days, love and fun had him smiling
through his helmet. But it was also a memorial for how those times had been cut
short, how neglect had withered love; how guilt had left him empty. The smile
gave way to his usual scowl.
Sam would not be here if he could help it.
The message on Alan’s pager came from Dad’s office at the
Arcade. From a phone which had been disconnected for the past twenty years.
Twirling the keys to the doors between his fingers, Sam wondered
for the umpteenth time what he was doing there, why he insisted on opening old
wounds. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that the past was just
that, he could not stop chasing ghosts.
Sighing in defeat, Sam unlocked the front doors. Dusty
darkness greeted him as he strode inside. Even through the black pitch Sam
easily navigated his way to the circuit box. Wiping the grime away, he flipped
the switches one by one bringing the old place back to life.
The overhead lights illuminated the plastic covered arcade
cabinets, lonesome without jumping kids. The second switch turned on the
cabinets flooding the floor with their theme music. Another rare smile appeared
on Sam’s face as he enjoyed the nostalgia. Asteroids, Battlezone, Centipede,
Crystal Castle, Millipede, Missile Command and Space Duel. Stunt Cycle.
Tempest, Warlords, Yar's Revenge, Galaga and Pole's Position. Donkey Kong,
Space Invaders and Pac Man. All old friends.
The distorted music blasting from frayed speakers had Sam
reminiscing the countless hours he had spent playing one game after another,
only going home when his Dad would close down for the night.
Dad.
Snapping out of his reprieve, Sam flipped the final switch.
The jukebox lit up, and the videogame music was drowned by Journey’s Separate
Ways.
Dad did love Journey.
Sam made his way to the office. The thick layer of dust on
all the plastic covered furniture betrayed no signs of anyone having been
there. The phone was broken and disconnected.
Sam fumed at himself. This was a stupid idea to begin with.
Ready to leave, something caught Sam’s eye. Right at the
back of the arcade, underneath an unlit neon sign, was the crown jewel of his
father’s arcade: Encom’s Tron. Sam made his way to the back, passing row after
row of arcade machines. Tron looked as fun as ever. Multi-coloured light cycles ran across the
screen trying
to entrap each other.
One for old times. Sam pushed a quarter
through the slot, only to have it clatter onto the floor. Bending down to pick
it up, he noticed deep scratches in the tiles; as if something heavy had been
dragged across the ground.
Running his hands across the sides of the
arcade machine, his fingers touched upon a switch. Puzzled, he flipped it.
The Tron machine swung forward on hinges revealing
a space behind the cabinet.
Sam ducked inside to find a small passageway.
Turning on his flashlight he descended a flight of stairs into the basement.
The machine swung closed behind him, cutting off the sound of music from the floor
above.
At the bottom of the stairs was a metal
door.
A sign boldly declared, “DANGER.
Electrical Sub-Room. No unauthorized access.”
Keys were dangling from the lock.
Sam paused a moment. He grabbed the handle and turned it.
Unlocked. He held his breath and pushed open the door.
A small, dank room, with electrical equipment and gadgets
cluttered everywhere.
His torch illuminated a chair and desk. Above it was a notice
board stuck with papers and photos. Childhood photos of him with his father.
Must be Dad’s workshop, Sam figured.
Sam scanned the pages, trying to make sense of the printed computer
codes and diagrams which inundated the board. “The Grid?” Sam muttered to
himself, reading the words repeated over and over.
The desk itself was concealed under a dense coating of
dust. Nobody had been here either.
Through the thick layer of grime Sam made out a digital
display on the desk; a timer of some sort, with blue numbers counting down to …
something.
Confused more than ever, Sam brushed his hand across the
surface wiping away the dust. The entire desk began to whir and chirp like a computer.
The surface of the desk flickered to life and revealed itself to be a screen.
The screen displayed a few boxes and a keyboard.
Sam typed in a few command prompts, trying to get access
into the system’s files, with no success.
A message on the screen piqued his interest. LaserControl.
Sam inputted a command activating it. A dialog box popped
onto the display: Aperture Clear? Yes/No.
Machinery began to hum and whine.
Sam paused, thought what the heck, and selected Yes.
The whine became a high pitched scream and a blinding flash
of light struck Sam from behind.
