Displaced - Book One of the Alternate Reality Series

Chapter 20

Eric, not Lana, opened his eyes, and found himself standing inside his 1950s L.A. apartment. He quickly narrowed them and looked around.

How odd. He was taking in familiar sights, but everything appeared different. After a moment, he realized why. He was taking them in with unfamiliar eyes.

Other than his first arrival, every other emergence occurred as Lana. It was from this vantage point that his brain grew accustomed to this reality. Now, his brain looked at the world from Eric Roberts' perspective, thereby altering reality's essence, and more than he anticipated.

His narrowed eyes normalized, then he smiled, the grin partly stemming from the unexpected occurrence, and partly from his neuropsychologist's brain wanting to analyze why it occurred. He decided against this. He arrived as Eric for a reason, and it took precedence over everything. It also slowly dissolved his cheery gesture.

Eric slowly walked towards his room, the apartment's warm air thickening with tension. The sensation was unfamiliar, as he mostly avoided conflict whenever possible, whereas tonight's goal was exactly that. Nonsensical though this was, the absurdity only applied to real space, and he wasn't in real space.

He entered his room, walked to his closet and opened it. There he found tonight's attire patiently waiting–black jeans, black hooded sweatshirt, black street shoes, black gloves, all of which would turn him into a night stalker.

Damn. Also unbecoming of me.

He pulled out the clothes, laid the items on the bed, and started undressing. Then as he donned the getup, he kept analyzing this situation, the effort proving troublesome. However, it wasn't so much gearing up to prowl the night or his violent aims, but questioning who he was.

Were these violent aims more indicative of the real Eric Roberts?

In real space, when he first met Chad, he wanted to strangle that kid, but he didn't. But had that same occurrence transpired in net space, might he have? Perhaps. And if so, which Eric Roberts version was more real, the one who suppressed his desires, or the one who let them flourish?

Eric's digital counterpart smirked while tying his shoelaces. And my biological self thinks that he's the true human.

Fully dressed, Eric stood and gabbed his gloves, then tucked them into his hooded sweatshirt's pocket. He started for the kitchen, and after entering, he continued to a maintenance closet.

Before emerging, he placed some home repair items in the closet, or at least that was their intended use. Tonight they would serve a different purpose–greeting gifts for the Crypt Keeper he planned to visit.

He opened the closet, and pulled out a length of black metal piping, a rod thick and heavy, with a one-inch diameter, and an eighteen-inch length. Undoubtedly, this piece of plumbing would fix the problem, only it wasn't quite ready yet.

Pipe in hand, he grabbed a roll of two-inch duct tape, and walked both items to a dinner table. He set down the pipe, peeled back a strip of tape, and bit off the cut. He then wrapped the tape around the pipe's base, and with the poor man's weapon ready, he donned his gloves to test the makeshift club.

He smiled. The weapon felt good, felt tightly locked inside his iron grip. He then recalled the last weapon he clutched–the knife that Lana toted in her purse. Remembering that she tested its sharpness against herself, he decided to follow suit.

Eric raised the pipe, then slapped it into his left palm. The club made a muffled snap, and likewise produced a light sting, but nothing to shed virtual tears over. So, he raised the club higher, and brought it down with additional force.