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SHE FLED down her complex's halls, never resting or pausing, but looking for something new. Anything truly new. There was a growing, hardening pellet within her that warned she would never find it.

New things did exist, of course. But they existed within prescribed bounds. Those bounds were what her family called the spotlight. Where the spotlight shone, new things sometimes appeared, or cropped up, to be sifted and understood. But she was far from the spotlight. She wanted to leave it behind. She was far from anything but dark halls set at right angles, cleared long ago of their treasures; smooth glossy walls in striking hues; floors so black it was a living color. But nothing, and nobody new, now or quite possibly ever again.

She had meant to leave her husband. The thought motivated her that somehow she had not yet done so; she had declared her intention and fled, but somehow he was not yet left, and would not be until she had crossed some essential barrier. Increasingly she feared this barrier did not exist.

Given all of this, her greatest fear was that she would lose resolve, give up and turn back. There was an argument budding that she had no other choice. If her hatred failed her, what else could she do but return, only to live her misery again, perhaps again and again—and what was there to keep her will from weakening?

Most things remained unchanged. The shape and structure of the universe always followed the same basic rules. No angle was ever anything but a sharp ninety degrees, no two corridors ever different widths. A body never slowed unless impelled to do so. The mind, at times, required rest, but the body never did. Could hatred itself be one of those things that never changed? Was it possible that, husbanded with care, her hatred could be a commodity of which she would never run dry?

This seemed unlikely, but the very contemplation of the notion fueled her, so she savored it while speeding. To continue existing, she must know either stimulus or thought. This, she had concluded long ago. This was established philosophy. But where she was going—ever further from known realms—there would be no stimulus, save for intermittent changes in the colors of the walls and the distinction between turn and straightaway. These distinctions quickly faded into insignificance; she could barely remember what color the walls had been before they were salmon pink, before they were dark blue.

Thus it followed that she had only thoughts to live by. And while some thoughts were certain to drain her of hatred, others would rekindle it—mightn't they?

Yet it could not continue forever. If she did not return, she would run out of kindling. She knew this almost for a fact. No one could hate forever. Nothing could burn forever without fuel. If she did not refuel, she would have to stop hating, and then she would go back regardless. It seemed there was no way to continue onward forever, even if there was no literal obstacle in her way. The conclusion was compelling. What a terrible puzzle.

Her husband had been the first, she the second. She was his Eve, made in his likeness, of him and for him. More than his Eve—his twin. Their physical characteristics and abilities were all but identical. She had a nickname—"Pepper"—but her true name was his. In all the world, there were none of their kind but the two of them and their son. Should she visit their son? Would that tether her too closely, precluding her escape?

Her choices had altered, she realized. As before, she proceeded as far as she could in one direction before turning, but previously she had chosen to turn left and right in alternation, with a few small irregularities. Now she found herself turning left more often than right. That led her nearer to her son's complex, where the spotlight still shone. Was she taking this measure as a contingency? Just in case she ran out of hatred or decided that infinity was impossible? Not decided, any more. Realized? Came to accept?

Eternity came with pain; she could not deny that. There was pain in the idea that no action would ever again take root to drive the pain away. She could not know for certain that the world extended forever, but she had no reason to doubt it. She could flee ceaselessly without tiring. Or at least, a thing that looked like her could flee endlessly. If she exhausted all possible thoughts, however, and all possible feelings, there would be nothing left of her. She would be gone from within herself: a whizzing shell.

For a foolish moment, she wondered if that was how ghosts were born.

No, that was good. Such random thoughts would keep her alive while she fled. If only she could find some endless source of them, she would abide. What could such a source be? Her memories?

But her memories were the seat of what she was running from, weren't they?

The futility of her flight came home to roost on all sides, all at once. Her defenses gave in and she turned at once toward the left, toward her son's home. Hope was gone and hatred finite, and going nowhere was not, as it turned out, an option.

The stage of her son's success was where her sorrows had taken root. It was where the spotlight shone, yes, and it was the only place where dangers, real and solid, currently lurked in the form of familiar specters. But it had also been the site of her first great clash with her husband. Yet their feud was not so young as all that; it was the kind of achingly deep rift that amassed through the course of a marriage, a rift whose greatest dimension was time.

Her grievances were not violent or vivid, but subtle, and this was the worst of it, because she knew without care such anger might be forgotten. Her husband had never wounded her or raped her, never confined her against her will or destroyed her possessions—but he had treated her, from the first to the last, as an object, a possession of his own, as though she were nothing more or less than a treasure for his fulfillment. As if the fact that she mirrored him in body meant that her soul, too, was his. He never acknowledged her interests as worthy of his time. Nor did he show any patience for any thought of hers that failed to reflect his own. He ignored her entirely when it suited him, and indeed, she would have ignored him in turn but for those moment when he took a penetrating interest in her, and it was in these moments that she felt the impression, many times dulled, of their bygone love as if it were a spotlight, and she a prisoner. He cajoled her in these moments to accompany him on whatever pursuit was his latest fancy, whether tending to his collection of polished stones, teaching their son to rove and explore, or going to frivolous lengths to taunt the ghosts that had forever haunted their family. It had been in the course of this last activity that she had first opposed him, for she had spent years fleeing from these monsters herself, and her gut still trembled at the thought of returning to where they lurked, yet he had bidden her to—merely for the entertainment. In this first moment of refusing to do as he ordered, Ms. Pac-Man had realized for the first time how his will degraded her, how much a mere thing of his she was. It was then she had realized that his frequently professed love for her did not amount to her loving him in return. So it was on this stage of their son's success that she had come to hate her husband. Now it was thence she turned as she fled from him, despite fears and painful memories, for she did dare forget the foundation of her hatred.

Her son lived in a home much like the one she had once known. Its rooms were larger, but its walls were simpler and more childlike, and the bounty within was richer than that to which she was accustomed. Junior's home provided him with dums, kites, toy locomotives, balloons… the things of his primeval dreams. These things kept him young and happy. But these walls were also where the ghosts lived, if they could be said to live at all. There was no divorcing reward from risk; where fruits or treasure were to be found, the ghosts would always be present.

She lived in fear that she child would die, and that having died once, he would die again, and again, and that he would vanish at last in his entirety; and as if the loss of her son would not be terrible enough, she feared that afterwards the ghosts' chill presence would fall back upon herself, and she would be forced to fly. But normally this train of thought was not in her mind, for her husband had no such fears and rarely let his wife harbor any complete thought that he did not share. He was not in the complex, however, and so Ms. Pac-Man re-experienced all her fears in full as she returned to the home of her son.

She could not see the ghosts directly, nor did her targeting senses detect them. But she could feel their general presence like a stench of despair from the past. They had been the chief focus and dread of her life for many years and the sensation of their proximity was not easily forgotten. Whether her reflexes would also return to her was an open question.

Her son would be near them, though. The ghosts dogged him like the single-minded spirits they were, and if she wished to see him, she would have to bear their presence. Bafflingly, Junior didn't seem to mind it himself; he was young and confident in his own speed, and seemed to enjoy the challenge of dodging their pursuit. So his mother followed those corridors where the stench lay thickest, longing for a glimpse of her son before the horror of his homestead overwhelmed her heart.

She rose until she saw the glimmer of white stones, and beyond them the empty spaces where he must have passed. Her heart fluttered and she sped onward. Her finer senses could detect Junior now, and yes, there were the ghosts too, their scent inescapable. Here in this bed of shining gems, where life was still inconceivably being lived in the metaphorical spotlight, the aroma of the ghosts was rich and putrid in its blend of clashing personalities. There were four: the bold, unwavering one whose presence and speed were strongest; the tricky one who always seemed a step or two ahead, ready to corner his prey from around the next bend; the strange one who seemed out of place with time and flanked only the shadow of his quarry; and the chaotic one with the brass to obliviously tread her own course. She had remembered the feel of the ghosts collectively, but the individual impressions came suddenly back to her, a fresh sensation filling in holes. Already her nerves were heightened and she began to experience emotional regression.

The patterns of cleared halls became clearer to her as she explored further, and as if she were a ghost herself, she stalked her darling boy. The more she wandered through his playground, the better she remembered the ways of flight and pursuit, and the better she knew which way her child had gone. She made good ground, and before the ghosts could find her, before the level was clear, she turned a corner and found him there. Bright. Yellow. Shining as always.

"Mom," he said, "his high voice catching. He did not spin to face her, but she could tell he wanted to; it was an act of will to maintain his facing as he sped for the next intersection.

"Junior," she breathed. At the next loop she took a shortcut and came alongside him; they moved as one for the space of several curves. They both knew with the same shrewdness where the ghosts were; they knew there would be times for conversation and times for flight. When the tricky one appeared at the head of the corridor, if they had not both forseen his approach and made for a side passage, they might not have escaped. Ms. Pac-Man was shocked at how little the ghost called Pinky had changed over the years. She had not internalized the fact that ghosts do not age.

"What are you doing here?" asked Junior once they'd made some distance and had time to breathe.

"I'm on the run from your father," she confessed. "But I had to see you."

"Aw, Mom," was his reply. Such a simple reply, but laden with emotion; she could tell. He was tamping down his responses so as to save energy and not be caught. But now they turned a corner and faced a long, empty corridor.

"What's wrong with Dad?" he asked. "Why would he chase you?"

"He isn't. That's not what matters. What matters is that I have to stay away, no matter what."

"What do you mean? Why did you come here?" Junior seemed increasingly shaken.

"I couldn't stay with him any longer," she moaned. "And I… I don't know why I came to you, Junior, except that I didn't see any other choice. You're doing so well, and I'm so proud of you, but I don't know if I can explain why I had to leave him. It's so full of subtlety, and you're so young…"

"Well thanks a lot!" he cried. He was after the last few trails of gems, and his agenda left him little time for frustrating conversations. He turned from his mother at the next opportunity, though it would have been safe to stay his course. But his mother followed him.

"I'm sorry, Junior. I didn't mean to distract you. Please, let me stay here! I've been so lonely—I had to come.

"I can't believe it," he said. Was he referring to what she'd just said, or to… But she had to swerve with him, for the orange ghost was near. He stayed in the unfilled paths, where progress was quicker, and kept to his chosen evasive course. But then he glanced back at his mother. "Why don't you go back to Dad?" he demanded. "What's he done that's so bad? You can't stay with me—you'll slow me down!"

Ms. Pac-Man knew it was fear, not independence, that stirred her son's heart. He was expending energy in talking with him, facing her, making sure she wasn't in the path of danger. There was a tricycle bobbing through the far side of the level that he hadn't been able to intercept, and it looked likely to disappear.

Still. "Please," she pled. "I need you. If I can't have him, I need you. I miss you. Don't leave me alone."

He seemed touched, even if there was little affection he could spare. "I don't know, Mom… I wish I could keep you company, but I'm working! I don't see how you could keep up." His voice was tattered with confusion.

She knew he was right. Yet she called: "Wait!" And he came back to her reluctantly, looking at her face during the moment he could. She was changed strangely; she knew this, and she knew he could see it. Rather than struggle for words beyond his ken, her boy granted her a desperate kiss, still on the move. Then, pained, he zoomed away.

His mother turned and left his side, wondering whether she should have followed, if there was anything she could have done. Her escape from the ongoing red ghost was narrow and she had to move precisely to make it to safe quarters unharmed. It was hard for her to leave the labyrinth, but she had to. She ducked down to the next lower level, where no ghosts roamed, and kept speeding cruelly onward, trying to empty her mind. The entrance to the complex presented itself, like an unsolicited gift; she passed it by. This conflict was too great to be faced at once: she wanted to be with her son, but knew it was unsafe for them both. She wanted to go home, but knew there was no future for her there. She wanted something it was safe to want, but…

When she stopped running, the halls were empty and dank. She was loitering in the purged dark corridors beneath the entrance to the complex, where her son had long since completed his heroic deeds. He was upwardly bound; this level was nothing but a languid basement emptied of value, destined to fall further and further out of notice until it could be identified, if at all, only by a large number and a vague effort of imagination. She remained there only because she did not choose to be anywhere else. She had ceased her flight not because its purpose had dissipated, but because she did not know of anywhere else to go.

In darkness and amid obscure green walls Ms. Pac-Man slept.

A/N: Welcome to my Pac-Man fanfic! I originally wrote this piece in the throes of silly creative passion in 2005. It was unpolished, and while I put it on my personal website for a while (which no longer exists), I never got around to posting it here until now, since who wants to read a story about a yellow circle with a bow who eats dots? But there's an interesting challenge to writing in a limited, highly austere setting. It forces you to whittle things down to fundamental, universal ideas. So I eventually took the time to revise this novelette. It's eight chapters long, and I'm planning to post one each Friday until it's done.

Pac-Man, developed by the Japanese company Namco and licensed in the United States by Midway Games, came out in 1980, the year I was born. It was followed by a long series of sequels and became an iconic setting in the multiverse of video gaming.

I'm also currently writing and posting a fan novel about Arashi no Yoru ni (One Stormy Night), a Japanese animation also from 2005 but which I didn't see until much later. While the setting is very different, it's also austere and has certain similar themes. So if you like this story, consider reading that one as well! The movie (based on some charming children's storybooks) comes highly recommended.

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