Fuck. I loathe Mikelas.
“Get the fuck out of my way, asshole. Keep your manshit in the Game.”
He makes an ugly sound, halfway between a grunt and a snarl.
“I don’t think so, Ash. You just assaulted me. I’m going to need some satisfaction, something to make me feel better.”
I feel the anger uncoil. I spit on the linoleum floor, dropping my hands into a combat stance, the weight of my blade comforting against my hip.
“Fuck your satisfaction. You want to make this a thing, you’ll bleed in the real. I already apologized, and I’ve got things to do.”
He tucks the glasses into a pocket of his expensive formfitting pants, then spreads his arms, crouching into an offensive pose.
“You don’t have anything to do except what I want, whore. I know what you used to do. What you used to be. You’re probably still doing it, aren’t you? Fucking your way up the ladder? That’s how you clinched today, isn’t it? Giving some dev a piece of that black ass?”
I force my expression neutral, not letting his words hit me visibly. They still hurt, a lot, but I’ll be damned if I’ll give him the pleasure.
“I don’t know what you think you know, but if you don’t get out of my way, you’re gonna regret it. Last warning.”
A hungry light enters his eyes, ugly and primal. He reaches toward his crotch, blatantly adjusting himself.
“I think it’s time I got a taste of what you’re selling. It’s only fair, right? Let me show you how that cunt should be treated, you fucking slut.” He laughs nastily. “And don’t worry about the recordings. I’ll make sure they don’t pop up on every chatboard.”
My lips peel back. That fucking scumbag would do it too, rape me and post the sensor logs from my glasses like some kind of obscene trophy. I’m sure he’d blur his face—the gummies enforce some laws out here—but everyone would know it was him. Wouldn’t be the first time either, from some of the deeper boards I’ve scanned. There’ve been a couple other local female Gamers on the ladder who’ve stopped playing unexpectedly, moved somewhere far away.
Not this time, Mikelas. You’re just another encounter.
I wait for him to make the first move, so confident in his aggression. Sure enough, he reaches for my arm, meaty hand darting for the wrist I offer slightly ahead of my body. I let him close on it, his palm pressing the thin material of the hapglove into my skin, then I shift my positioning ever so gently so his weight transfers to the front of his feet. Quickly, I cup my other hand behind his elbow and pivot. Hard.
His momentum, already moving forward, suddenly accelerates, and I drop my wrist to pull his head down, his fist still trapping me in an iron grip, only it’s an illusion, because his entire body is now mine to control. I take a step, more like a leap, and slam him face-first into the metal wall. His nose breaks, the sound like a branch snapping, and he collapses to his hands and knees, stunned, releasing me from his grasp. Grinning savagely, I walk around behind him, and then kick him in the crotch as hard as I can. He squeals and crumples to the ground in the fetal position, hands desperately covering his groin. Not enough muscles in the world to protect that particular weak spot.
“Stay out of the Brown, Mikelas. Next time it’s my steel. Fucking believe it. See you in the Game.”
I kick him one more time in the ribs for good measure, savoring the crunch, then steadily continue walking to the waypoint still floating in my glasses. Behind me, Mikelas’s snuffling moans fade into the distance. I doubt it’ll stop him permanently, but there’s always a chance. Once around the corner, though, I have to wait a few minutes for the tremors to subside. Part adrenaline, part fear, all unwanted. Fucking Mikelas. Fucking Ditchtown.
The last few deliveries go off without further incident, dented doors rattling open to accept my offerings, then slamming shut again, the wordless transactions giving me a chance to collect myself. After the last one, I make my way back to my room via a winding path, checking, as always, to make sure I wasn’t followed. The last thing I need is to have to move again because someone released my address on the boards. Mikelas knows I live in Ditchtown, same as him, and it looks like he’s narrowed down what megaspire I’m in, but he hasn’t pinpointed my current bolthole.
Apparently not for lack of trying, though. Dick.
No one’s lurking around, so I quickly unlock my door and step inside. After the three deadbolts thunk home, I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
Safe, at least as safe as it gets in this shitty place.
The motion-activated ceiling light comes on, illuminating the tiny three-by-five-meter rectangle I call home. Most of the back wall is taken up by my mattress, a small metal footlocker huddling along one side. Several hooks dot the walls alongside the bed, various articles of clothing hanging from them—mainly hoodies and workout clothes. No reason to own anything fancy. It’s not like I’m going ballroom dancing in the real anytime soon. The space between the bed and the door I keep empty for my katas—it’s not enough room to practice all of them, but it’s enough to practice most.
I sit down on the bed with a groan, leg muscles still sore, and start unlacing my boots. One foot slides free, then the other, and I fall back onto the mattress, wiggling slightly cramped toes inside thick socks. It feels good to finally get off my feet. I tap open my messages again, debating whether or not I feel up to it after the unpleasantness with Mikelas.
After some internal debate, I decide that I do. Something nice to balance out the bad, take my mind away from the dark places it’s all too easy to fall into.
Sometimes you have to force yourself to be happy, until you finally believe your own lies.
<<Hey. I’m free now if you wanna hang.>>
<<Sure. Usual spot?>>
<<brt.>>
I feel the irrational grin steal across my face, but I don’t care. No one can see it in here, not even the surveillance spheres. One of the perks of living in a glorified closet in the Brown instead of a bunkroom, and it’s worth every extra cred.
I reach over to the footlocker and punch in my security code. It pops open with a hiss, and I pull out a neatly folded hapsuit. It’s not the same as my Game suit back at Sarah’s, but it’s just as advanced, if in its own specialized way, and there’s only one person now I’ll wear it for. It only takes me a second to strip down naked and slide the suit on, a thin rectangular box resting on top of my mons amidst the baggy folds of fabric. I plug in the power cord to one of the wall outlets, then slide my glasses over the integrated haphood and sync everything up. Fabric tightens and smoothes, touching my body with the familiar hapsuit tingle. Last is a jammer cable from the footlocker to connect my glasses to the dataport next to the outlets.
The jammer cable, one of Jase’s, provides an additional layer of security—it’ll bounce my info through a couple million relays in case anyone decides to come sniffing around digitally, then hit them with a nasty shock once they’re good and lost. My personal life is going to stay mine, away from the gummies and boardshits, no matter how much it costs. The glasses go fully opaque, connection established, and I log in to my portal. It’s not the full three-dee of the immersion goggles, but it’s close enough.
I pilot my viewpoint over to the stuffed cat with its vanishing grin, and go through the ritual that accesses my private persona. Seconds later, I’m standing in a shadowed lobby, delicate black dress draping my shoulders, train stretching behind like a midnight tail, a small cat in profile on a thin chain around my neck. Muted conversations drift from tables that stretch away in endless rows if you know how to look at them a certain way, each one barely illuminated by a flickering candle in its center. I try to listen in, but, like always, the words hover tantalizingly just out of reach—hashed and salted into incomprehensibility. A gothic figure in jester’s motley with four arms materializes in front of me, face simultaneously the florid health of the incurably sick and a death’s head skull. It bows.