Full Restored. (A Short Story)

Mark never got why kids thought to would be cool to work at the arcade when they were older, it fucking sucked. The rows of game cabinets were interspersed with lucky dips vending machine and turn-coin sweet dispensers. It was the latter that caused Mark the real ball-ache. Sticky floors, sticky buttons, sticky screens, all smeared with the grease of popcorn, pebbledashed with the sugar coating of cheap sweets.

It was days like this, the rain trickling down the steamed windows, the blaring machines competed with the giddy shrieks of players, Mark resented everything. Every little thing made him angry, and the snot nosed brat who dropped her coke all over the floor, gawped at him, then ran off crying, made him hate the little cafe in the corner with every bristling hair on his body.

In that moment, his hatred of the cafe, for the drinks and droppages it plagued him with, had extended to the staff. As he saw the lanky teenager wobble two overfilled slushies across the counter, every bristling hair on his body hated her.

He caught himself on the verge of marching over, pointing out how stupid it was to fill the cups right to the top when the kids slopped it over the floor within five steps.

Glancing around, the giddy laughter, the grinning children, fistfuls of sweeties, crammed around the gaming cabinets, his anger felt out of place. The stack contrast it cast over him only made Mark feel worse. Mumbling a ‘fuck it’ under his breath, he sauntered towards the back, authorising himself a impromptu cigarette break. If Bob cared so much about this pile of germs and sugar, he wouldn’t take such long lunches. Mark knew he was supposed to wait for Bob to get back, but he knew that as unlikely as it was for the old fellow to stroll back in after just half an hour, it was even more unlikely he’d ever get sacked. Bob needed him, Mark understood machines, wires, hows things connected so the power would flow. He had no idea what the things he fixed did, but he just understood the current, where that loose wire must have come free from.

The swing door to the arcade floor bounced shut behind him, a pack of cigs rested on the table, the lighter ready, waiting for him. Snatching the pack up, he slipped out the side door into the alley way.

Leaning against the brickwork, he brought the firm filter to his lips, letting the flame of his lighter lick the tip of the cigarette as he inhaled.

As the nicotine rushed through his veins, easing the tension with each breath, Mark found his mind wandering to his latest project. Bob was always giving him projects, and Mark leapt at the chance to work on anything that got him off the arcade floor when the kids were in. The old man picked up battered game cabinets, artwork faded, panels missing, screens dead, and Mark took the backs off and got inside them.

The latest batch had been pretty worthless, a job lot from some clearance out west. Most of them had been cannibalised, parts taken out to fix other units, there were three he’d managed to fix up. That was enough, Bob had flipped two, kept the third and turned a profit, he was letting Mark go to town on the rest, hack and solder them, see if he could get any of them working.

It was like an itch, crawling under his skin, the desire to get back to it. Deep down, he knew that was why he resented the arcade floor so much, the swell of children; it kept him from working on the machines.

Amongst the mostly stripped out shells, Mark had found a black cabinet, the ghost of white writing illegible with the wear of years. The screen was cracked, the buttons had been popped off, but the motherboard was mainly intact.

It was his favourite sort of challenge, he had no clue what the game was, no idea what parts were missing, and until he connected a new screen, he couldn’t even test what was there. He’d set it to one side when the lot came in, hoping he’d get chance to get under the panelling.

The hot smoke seared his lip as he pulled on the cigarette, his emotions settling with each exhalation. Bob would be back soon, he told himself, he could get back to the machine then.

---

It was a long two hours before Bob got back, two hours of unsupervised children screaming, shouting, skidding around corners. Mark hated every second of it, each squeaking slide over the sticky flooring jarring through him. It was part of the deal they had with the shopping centre, kids over the age of seven could be left there while their parents shopped. He was quite sure that legally they should have more staff, but Bob was from another generation, and he wouldn’t change his ways until someone made him.

The thin, grey hair flopped with his lively gait as Bob appeared through the alarmed doorway, clutching a grease-stained paper bag. The desperation must have emanated from Mark, as the moment Bob caught his eye, he nodded towards the back, motioning Mark could take his break.

It was half one, Mark wasn’t exactly hungry anymore, and the fatty smell radiating from his boss only worsened the feeling. Retrieving his cigs, Mark slipped out the side door, letting his mind mull over the task ahead of him. A plan forming between the smokey ghosts of his exhalation.

---

The back panel was badly damaged, the lacquered wood falling away in damp, oranged flakes, the screws had long fallen out, their neat holes engorged by the rot.

A slow sense of calm had settled over Mark, a steady metronome of concentration ruled his thoughts. He sat on the floor, half ducked into the arcade cabinet, gripping his tiny screwdriver by it’s anti-static handle.

There was a tenderness in his approach, the way he carefully traced the connections, following the etched lines on the motherboard, trying to see where the circuit was broken. The interior of the cabinet was surprisingly also black. It was rare the manufacturers bothered with those kind of details, so many of them were exposed plastic, plywood and chipboard on the inside. Not this beauty though. Mark touched the smooth interior, feeling the fine lines in the wood. No, she was a work of art. In fact, he thought, his fingers brushing the shining finish, she could be the one he’d been looking for.

He quickly swallowed the thought, trying to fight the bubble of possibility forming in his stomach.

Mark was always more taken with the dark, unmarked cabinets. He’d never told Bob, but there was a reason he had such a strong compulsion to identify every cabinet game damaged beyond recognition. He was looking for a certain one.

Rumour had it, there had one been a few machines knocking about in the 80s, heard of, told of, but never directly seen. Mark had been obsessed when he first found out about Polybius, spending hours sifting through theories online. They all stank of crazy conspiracy nutjob, but still Mark couldn’t resist the notion there was something behind the old legend.

Looking at the parts, the shell he was currently working on was likely too old, the Polybius of urban legend was thought to have only been in arcades for a few years, firmly mid eighties. The sizes of the components, the circuit board layout, Mark was fairly certain the unit was a good decade too old. He had to be sure though.

---

“Mark? You still back here?”

Mark smacked his head on the side of the cabinet, shock jolting through him at the sound of Bob’s enquiring voice. His hand instinctively shot the back of his head, massaging the sore patch forming over his skull.

“Just finishing up, what time we on?”

“Closing time, come on.”

Bob was always like that, he’d keep Mark waiting for hours, but when he said go, Mark had to jump to it. Mark had accepted the hypocrisy a long time ago, Bob was the man in charge, of course his rules didn’t apply to him. The urge to finish testing the charge across the last set of wires was overwhelming, for Mark, it was like being asked to stop playing pass the parcel, with just a few layers of paper left.

“One sec, let me just…”

“You’ve got as long as it takes me to drop the shutters, then i’m setting the alarm whether you’re out of here or not, I’ve got Mags waiting for me tonight.”

Bob made the joke about setting the alarm and leaving him in there at least once a week, but for a moment, Mark contemplated calling his bluff. He couldn’t. As much as he would love to stay up all night, twiddling and tweaking until the circuit came to life with the giddy rush of power, he couldn’t. He had his own plans.

Tuesday’s, Mark met up with Callum. They’d grab a Dominoes and sit in the back of Callums local, sinking a few pints over the pizza. The pub had given up serving food years ago, not able to sell enough covers to justify a chef’s wage, and in a stroke of what Mark so often called genius, they’d let the regulars bring in take away.

---

The walk home from the pub always felt short, the warm swell of pizza in his stomach, the warm blush of beer on his cheeks. Callum had been in good form, he worked in the bookies down the road, and had some great picks for Thursday’s race. Mark hadn’t really had any interest in the dogs until he met Callum, but his passion was infectious, and Mark couldn’t deny the rush of getting lucky. Callum would put the bets on in the morning, and come Thursday, he’d slink down to the betting shop on his lunch, watch the dogs at the track on the extra large screen there. The routine had made a huge difference to Mark, the days didn’t blend together the same for just that tiny bit of variation.

Normally the walk home was filled with names and numbers, weighing up the various tips Callum had overheard, trying to figure out which dog to back. Not tonight.

Mark found his mind tracing connections, inspecting the old solder joints, turning the motherboard as he tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work. He had managed to forget about it in the pub, but the second he had stepped out into the night air, the thoughts had been clamouring for attention.

It could be that wire? What if the fibres got crushed in the bend? Or what about that repeater? It could just need replacing…

It swirled around his head in the fizzy foam of beer, until he found himself on his doorstep, hardly aware of the walk.

---

It was just after 4am when Mark woke in a rush of adrenaline. The searing shadow of shapes marked his vision in two symmetrical circles, as though he had been staring at lights. The thick black of the room didn’t ease the green ghosts obscuring his vision.

It wasn’t pitch black, it never got truly dark in the town, the faint glow of streetlight licked up the ceiling, creeping through the cracks in his curtain.

His heart pounded in his chest, his calf muscles twitching as though strained, his feet tingled.

Mark hadn’t had a nightmare in years, he’d had less than pleasant dreams, but nothing like this. As the normality of his room embraced him, he could feel the panicked terror, and the recollection of the dream that caused it slipping away.

Chasing after the memory, he seized it, determined to recall what it was that had crept up from his subconscious and terrified him. Pain sat heavy in his breathless chest, a familiar taste of iron crept up his throat as though he’d been running.

Then it was gone, like silk gentled pulled away, the dream left him. Only a vague, hazy impression remained.

White faces. Two of them laughing together under the hoods. Red. Purple…

The more he tried to push, the more his mind applied reason to that which had none, and the last lingering scent of the dream evaporated away from him.

---

The next morning, Mark couldn’t remember waking up. Somewhere in the small hours of daylight, awareness must have crept in, part of him wondered if he’d even gone back to sleep. He had been awake under the covers when his alarm went off, lost to thoughts of circuits and dabs of solder that may be hiding secrets from him.

---

Everything at work seemed louder, the tone slightly more grating. It wasn’t even that busy, a couple of kids sat atop motorbike controllers, swaying in unison as they raced neck and neck, a few shuffled around the penny pushers but that was it.

Most mornings, Bob got in around 10am, but today, the clock was pushing 11.45am, and there was still no sign of Marks greying boss.

Mark was getting agitated. He’d spent hours turning over possibilities to fix up the old machine in the back, but at this rate, he wouldn’t even get to try half of them today.

---

It was gone two by the time Bob got in, a nonchalant grin on his face. The problem was, and Mark had realised it a long time ago, he always did fine on his own. No matter how stressed or busy things got, he held the fort and Bob knew it.

Bob held him hostage with small talk for a good half an hour before he let him go into the back. Mark knew he couldn’t complain, not really, he had it cushy, just because he actually had to do his job sometimes.

Mark slipped through the staff room, his waiting pack of cigarettes going unseen on the table as he made a beeline for the cabinet game. He had left the back panel off, and something about the spill of circuit and wires made Mark think of disembowelment. The thing looked vulnerable, exposed.

He lost himself in the wiring, a few of his suspicions about the solder seemed well grounded, and as he removed the old tarnished metal, he found crushed and twisted wires.

Sat inside the cabinet, finalising his connections, Mark noticed faint lettering on the inside of the right panel.

May the dark wood of the dark tree
Bind these two for eternity
May they never be set free
To once again torment me
MCP 1976

As his fingers touched the ghostly letters, faded to nothing but a gleam in the light, he became aware of gentle indentation.

Turning the bulbed head of his spotlight from the circuit board to the wood panel, he could distinguish grooves pitting the entire interior of the cabinet.

Words, repeated over and over, varying in size, overlapping each other. The letters were hard to make out. Was it satisfaction? Or simulation? Or both? He couldn’t tell.

Mark had little interest in graffiti, he didn’t collect things for the appearance. He slipped the spindly legs of last of what he suspected were missing diode’s through the waiting holes on the circuit board. Cleaning the old solder had been the hardest part, the circuit board beneath shone, barely worn by the flow of current.

As far as Mark could tell, the circuits hadn’t been damaged, more dismantled. He resented the recent trend for cannibalisation, the hipsters loved their retro fashion, and they would turn up at these auctions and push the prices up. They didn’t have a clue what they were doing, they probably stripped out all these machines to get some bootleg copy of pacman running.

Mark loved the old games, the elegance of the design, the simplicity of the hardware, and how, under all the facade of the cabinet, regardless of what game data it ran, they were the same.

There was nothing Mark could do for the facade, but to him, that barely mattered. He carefully lifted the octopus of the motherboard out of the cabinet, her freed cabled trailing.

Gently connecting the wires to another unit was easy, he had no idea what controls the game would want, but all he needed was the screen, if he could get as far as the startup menu, he’d know what he was dealing with.

“Mark? Are you going ignore me and stay here all night?”

The volume of Bob’s voice cut through Mark considerable more than the unexpected sound. He started, jumping up from his squat, to find Bob stood right next to him. There was a long moment of slow recognition, the words settled like falling feathers, shifting through his mind before they drifted into reach.

“Huh..?”

“Closing up! Come on!”

Half dazed, Mark set down his tools, unplugged the soldering iron, and padded through the door Bob held open as though to emphasis the need to leave.

---

There was no pub tonight, a heavy lidded exhausted rested on Marks shoulders, sagging through his every step. He turned over the thought of the ready meal waiting in the fridge, weighing up how hungry he was against the urge to walk in and fall into bed.

---

The dim skeleton of illuminated clock numbers stretched out 4:04am as Mark clenched himself awake. Twisted in a tangle of sweat soaked sheets, fear hammered on his chest, demanding to be let in.

The tendril of sleep refused to relinquish their choking grip as, in the pale glow of street light through curtains, reality seemed more pliable.

A strong, squeezing ache filled his tense arms, his taut fingers half numb from the strength of his grip on the sheets. The pain shot through his right leg, searing through his right foot, stabbing heavy needles into his bone. It gave way as he attempted to stumble out of bed. As he tumbled forwards, his eyes closed. Two figures, white faces, one hooded in purple, the other in red. Smiling, clapping his back.

Fear crept up his throat like cold vomit.

Mark didn’t even try and go back to sleep. He got up, and pulling the cleaning products from under the sink set about making the bathroom sparkle. In the zombie haze of exhaustion, he felt the fear and anxiety wash away with every sparkling sweep of the cloth.

By the time Mark left for work, he felt considerably calmed, and his bathroom sparkled. It was the best way he’d found to deal with his anxiety. Something small, well with in him control, and the sense of satisfaction he felt stood between the harsh chemical scents, admiring the shine of porcelain and steel, always set him at ease.

---

Bob was already there by the time Mark arrived. It was always a surprise to get into the shutters raised, the lights flashing, and the inviting smell of bacon.

Bob never made it in this early without stopping for breakfast, the old chap greeted him with a greasy paper bag and a broad grin.

“Bacon sausage egg?”

Marks stomach gurgled at the sight of the noxious grease, yet his mouth was already watering at the meaty smell.

“Thanks!”

He nodded as he spoke, taking the bag and making his way towards the back room.

“If you want, you can get straight working in the back once you’ve eaten.”

Had Mark been more awake, Bob’s generosity might have been met with a broad grin of his own, but dark circles shadowed his eyes, and Mark simply raised the bag, a nod and a smile acknowledging his gratitude.

---

The lingering taste of egg yolk, salted with the sweet tinge of bacon and sausage, repeated on Mark. He had been so close to getting the machine running last night, he only had a few more connections to secure. Mark had fixed so many things, he had no way of knowing what the problem had been, or if he’d actually resolved it, until he connected the power. This would be his moment of truth.

The extension cabling snaked across the hard flooring of the back room, carrying the plug over, Mark plunged it into the socket.

The screen flickered into the life, the picture was slightly off centre, but there was light in the pixels.

Mark waited impatiently for the loading screen to appear.

It didn’t.

Nothing happened.

It was a bittersweet mixture of disappointment and relief. Mark loved working on projects, and as satisfying as it was to finish one, it meant it was over.

He was happy to puzzle this one out a few days longer.

He reached into the back of the cabinet, inspecting the circuit board trying to see what was wrong.

There had been a few components he didn’t know, and he’d left them in place. A circle, etched with a star sat at the centre of the board, Mark had assumed it was decorative, he had cleaned it up and soldered it back, but it occurred to him then, whatever it was may be integral to the game being able to run.

He reached in, touching the etched metal, feeling the grooves of the star under his fingertip.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for a new driver…”

The raspy voice whispering from nowhere seemed familiar to Mark.

It was the last thing he heard.

---

Later that morning, Bob went into the back room to check on him, only to find Mark gone, and a working arcade cabinet sat in the centre of the floor.

Words illuminated the start screen, inviting the player to begin.

“Death Race”

Oh no! I totally missed the deadline for this! I have had a bit of rubbish time this weekend, and it's gutting cos I had been looking forward to it for so long. I have a skull crushing double vision migraine and couldn't face opening my laptop to give this a quick proofread and post it last night to actually make the deadline for the contest. The contest was to write a post inspired by a 70s games, I decided in the end to go for Death Race, and try to come up with a story that would make the controversy and reactions the game got justified. It was much fun to write so it isn't the end of the world to miss the deadline and I know at least one person will be happy not to have the competition ;)

This was supposed to be an entry to @archdruid's contest about 70's games - check out all the entries under the tag #archdruid-contest

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