Level 7-2

Level 7-2

4:30

The timer appeared in the upper right corner in the old yellow font, the same font it had used since Ninja Quest 3, the one with the little slash through the zero because the designers wanted everything to look futuristic even though the entire game was about a ninja in a haunted mountain temple.

He knew Level 7-2.

Of course he knew Level 7-2.

Everybody knew Level 7-2.

There were levels people complained about. There were levels people called unfair. There were levels people said had ruined their childhood. Level 7-2 was worse than that. Level 7-2 was famous. It was the level you got to when the game stopped being fun and started asking what kind of person you were.

It gave you four minutes and thirty seconds.

Not five.

Not enough.

Just enough to make you think enough was possible.

Plenty of time.

That's what everyone thought the first few times they played Level 7-2.

He cracked his knuckles, which was stupid because he was forty-eight years old and cracking your knuckles before playing a video game alone in your living room at 11:37 on a Tuesday was not exactly the warrior code.

Still.

He cracked them.

The level loaded.

The ninja dropped from the ceiling into the Moonlit Fortress.

He moved before the screen finished scrolling.

Jump, slash, wall-run, duck.

The first guard never had time to turn around.

+100

He smiled.

He had missed this.

Not the game exactly.

The feeling of being good at something with rules.

A man in a red mask jumped from the rafters. He threw two stars high, one low. The high ones were a trap. Everyone knew the high ones were a trap unless they were twelve years old and playing for the first time on the basement floor while their daughter sat beside them eating cereal from a plastic cup.

"Daddy, why don't ninjas just take the elevator?"

Because they're ninjas, Emma.

"But elevators are faster."

She had been five then.

Or six.

He knew exactly how many frames of animation the ninja had after a wall kick before losing momentum.

He couldn't remember whether Emma had been five or six.

She would lean her whole body left and right when he jumped, as if gravity could be persuaded by love.

3:58

He cleared the first spike pit.

Perfect.

The trick wasn't to look at the spikes.

The trick was to look where you wanted to land.

The flying monks came next.

Three of them.

White robes.

Brass masks.

Ridiculous hats.

He threw a smoke bomb before they appeared.

They materialized inside it already dead.

+600

Emma loved the smoke bombs.

She called them "sneak clouds."

She loved when he carried her upstairs after she fell asleep in the car.

She always pretended to be asleep.

If he stopped halfway up the stairs she'd whisper,

"Don't put me down yet."

His thumb hesitated.

The ninja clipped the edge of the wall instead of grabbing it.

He fell.

Not far.

Far enough.

He cursed.

Fifteen seconds.

Gone.

He never knew that was the last time she'd ask to be carried.

Nobody tells you.

Life never flashes LAST CHANCE across the screen.

3:21

The bamboo bridge collapsed exactly when it always collapsed.

Third plank.

Never the fourth.

The fourth was for amateurs.

The grappling hook fired.

He released at the top of the swing.

Perfect.

His thumbs remembered things his mind didn't have to explain.

Slide.

Jump.

Slash.

Dash.

The ninja became muscle memory.

He knew the hidden spring behind the dragon banner.

He knew the lantern pole was exactly one pixel wider than it looked.

He knew the Silver Ronin's third attack had six invincibility frames.

He couldn't remember the name of Emma's stuffed rabbit.

Mr. Bun?

Bun Bun?

Something else.

The memory refused to load.

3:00

The Silver Ronin appeared.

Online everyone called him Dad Killer.

Back when Ninja Quest 8 came out, thousands of middle-aged men reached this boss after the kids had gone to bed and spent hours getting destroyed by him while telling themselves they'd quit after one more run.

He had been one of them.

Emma had come downstairs in pink pajamas covered in little moons.

"You said a bad word."

"The game cheated."

"Games can't cheat."

He laughed then.

She hadn't.

The Ronin attacked.

High.

Low.

Pause.

Fake pause.

He parried too early.

Health dropped.

"Damn."

The word sounded much louder in an empty house.

2:41

The Ronin dissolved into ash.

MASTER PARRY.

The game loved telling you exactly when you'd done something right.

He wished fatherhood had been so clear.

2:12

The Moon Tower.

Forty-seven jumps if you knew the route.

Fifty-three if you played it safe.

He had no time for safe.

Halfway up, he reached the cracked wall.

Every player knew it.

Behind it waited the Phoenix Feather.

An extra life.

Insurance.

It cost about twenty-five seconds.

Twenty-five seconds was forever on a speedrun.

His thumb hovered.

Then he kept climbing.

He didn't have time for another life.

The thought lingered a moment longer than it should have.

Emma's middle school concert came back to him.

He'd made that one.

Barely.

He slipped into the auditorium during the applause after the first song, still wearing his work badge.

She looked at him.

She smiled.

Then something changed.

She had looked so much like herself that it had hurt.

Not younger.

More herself.

She had already done the math.

He'd missed the beginning.

Again.

He searched for the name of her tenth-grade English teacher.

No save file.

A bat hit him.

Impossible.

He never got hit by the bat.

1:49

He reached the Storm Gate two seconds behind pace.

Still recoverable.

Good enough had been one of his great sins.

The gate exploded.

Blue fire.

Falling platforms.

Lightning.

No room for hesitation.

1:22

Emma stood in the kitchen with car keys in her hand.

"Text me when you get there."

"I will."

"And when you leave."

"Dad."

"What?"

"I know."

He had been greedy.

Not for money.

Not even for success.

For one more meeting.

One more project.

One more level.

He'd always believed there would be another run.

1:00

One minute.

His heart pounded.

The hidden spring behind the dragon banner launched him over the twin assassins.

TRIPLE KILL.

Emma had texted him earlier that afternoon.

A picture.

Her and her husband standing in a room full of moving boxes.

First night in the new house.

He'd replied:

Looks great, kiddo.

Kiddo.

She owned a house.

She probably had opinions about interest rates.

There had once been a little girl who believed the moon followed their car because it liked them.

0:38

Final corridor.

No enemies.

That was the trick.

Everyone expected one last ambush.

The corridor was empty.

Just run.

The music disappeared.

Only drums remained.

At the end of the hallway the paper doors opened.

The Moon Shogun waited.

0:27

First attack.

Jump.

Second.

Parry.

Third.

Roll.

Two hits.

Never three.

Three was greed.

The Shogun staggered.

0:15

Three shadows.

Left fake.

Middle fake.

Right real.

CRITICAL STRIKE.

Emma at seven years old stood in the doorway after her bath.

"Can you read one more?"

"I can't tonight, Em. I have to finish something."

"You always have to finish something."

He thought there would be another bedtime story.

There always seemed to be plenty of time.

0:09

One pixel.

Him.

One pixel.

The Shogun.

The Shogun lifted his sword.

Final attack.

Unblockable, the forums all said.

He had never reached this moment before.

He didn't know.

He jumped.

The blade passed beneath him.

He countered.

0:03

White fire.

The music swelled.

LEVEL CLEAR.

NO CONTINUES.

PERFECT RUN.

S RANK.

He stared.

For thirty years he had imagined how this would feel.

His reflection floated in the black border of the television.

Gray at the temples.

Controller in his hands.

His phone buzzed.

Emma.

He picked it up.

A picture.

Emma in a hospital bed, exhausted and smiling.

Her husband beside her.

A tiny baby wrapped in a white blanket.

Meet Lucy.

He smiled.

Not because he had finally beaten Level 7-2.

Because there she was.

He typed:

Congratulations.

Deleted it.

She's beautiful.

Deleted that too.

Finally:

I love you. I'm so proud of you. Call me when you can.

He pressed send.

On the television the game waited.

SAVE REPLAY? YES / NO

His thumb moved automatically.

It stopped an inch above the button.

Lucy had Emma's mouth.

Or maybe every newborn looked like that.

He turned off the television.

The perfect run dissolved into black, unsaved.

He sat there for a long time, trying to understand how he had finally beaten Level 7-2 and still felt like he had run out of time.