Everything.
A glowing treasure chest puffs into existence in front of me—our loot. As the highest-ranked player, I get first dibs on the after-action spoils, and in a five versus twenty match, playing as defenders, the spoils are very good indeed.
I shift over to our private channel.
“Hey. What do you think the odds are Steve has a golden X’er?”
“None.”
“That drone? Slend’s right, ze-fucking-ro. He’ll never even sniff a legendary ship.”
“Wanna pass it to him?”
“K.”
“Hahaha, you bet your ass. He’s prolly gonna have a heart attack.”
I tap my finger on a stack of top-tier crafting ingredients, one of the guaranteed rewards for winning as a defender, and the whole reason why we’re running this daily. They spiral down into my pocket, this facet’s version of a belt pouch. The twinkling gold spacefighter, limned in an aurora of pale orange light, drops back into the loot box. It’s a one in ten million drop for this specific encounter (modified by outnumbered odds and mission objectives, of course), but Wind and Slend follow my lead. It’s obvious when Steve opens the box, because his voice sounds like he’s found religion.
“That. That’s. That’s a golden. A golden X’er.”
“—at the shit ohmigod ohmigod pleeeeeeease dude pleeeeeeease pass it to me my friends will be so jea—”
Another thirty second mute for xXx420AshuraREALxXx.
“All yours if you want it, Steve. We’ve got plenty. Good work out there.”
“I. Thank you. Thank you. This is unbelievable. A golden X’er. I just. Thank you. Oh man, the guys at the office aren’t gonna believe this.”
Wind’s laughter echoes over our private link, loud and pure. Slend’s chuckles join her, and it’s a struggle to keep my voice from cracking.
“No problemo. Stay frosty, Steve.”
I drop us back to facet selection before I have to listen to xXx420AshuraREALxXx whine about how he really needed that ship and totally deserved the loot, despite all evidence to the contrary. Steve’s reaction to what, for us, is nothing more than a bauble was totally worth tryharding the encounter, and judging by the amount of donations popping up on the stream, most everyone watching seems to agree. It’s not featured creds, but my share will be enough to cover petro for Sarah and my food packets for the next few weeks. Better than losing.
I tap open the next daily facet, Wind and Slend my shadows, the streamers trailing in our wake.
Clancery facet. Escheria facet. Harlequin facet. Daily after daily after daily, each one testing a different skill, each one necessary to prep for the edges of endgame. Some give crafting ingredients, like our first mission in CCP, required to create the wards and weapons we need to survive the fringe. Others give hints of information, clues to the upcoming season and encounters, corners of a puzzle whose pieces aren’t even in the box yet. A few are simply for our personal pleasure, stomping out dens of boardshits, trashing their carefully hoarded gear, sending them crying back to Candyland, wilted digital dicks in hand.
Another sobbing boardshit disappears, winking out of existence from his supine position on the arena floor in the Duello facet, blood leaking across his body, and an alert appears in my vision. Time to go see Mom. Next to it, stats from my stream pop up, numbers slowly dropping over the past four hours. That’s not what the alert is about, though. View dropping is perfectly normal during dailies, and all the excitement happened early on in CCP. I sheathe my rapier, waving to Wind and Slend, both leaning against the wooden barrier surrounding the massive fighting pit, an axe at Slend’s waist, a barbed whip at Wind’s.
“Gotta go. Take care of the rest?”
“Gosh, finally. I was getting bored over here, Ash.”
Slend inclines her head, thumb running along the edge of her axe, following Wind down to the sandy floor. The duelists waiting on the other side actually flinch back when the two of them bare their teeth in a mockery of a smile.
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
I shut the stream down, putting out my standard message of thanks for watching, and log out to the real.
Darkness envelops me, the unlit interior of the hapsphere quickly broken by a rectangle of light—Sarah, alert as always. I walk over to the doorway.
“Nice trick with the fighter, Ash. Though I’m pretty sure I remember hearing you say you were going to take it easy today. Petro charge is gonna be a little pricey.”
I shrug.
“What can I say. Losing sucks. I’d rather win.”
“Hah, you and me both, girl. You and me both.” She hops inside, prying up a panel. “You coming back later?”
“Maybe. Depends how it goes with Mom.” Thinking of her brings up another thought, a newer, more recent wound. “You seen Kiro around?”
Sarah looks up from the cluster of microprocessors she’s working on.
“Not since your last run. Why, you want me to ask around?”
“Yeah. I’d appreciate it. He’s not answering his messages, and I’m worried he might be starting to roll with the wrong crowd.”
“K. I’ll hit up the other operators, see what turns up. If he’s used a sphere, I’ll find him.”
“Thanks, Sare.”
“Sure thing, hot stuff. See you around.”
“Cya.”
I change out of my suit and take a quick shower, the thin stream of water almost insignificant after the pounding excess available onboard Sawyer’s rig. It’s barely enough to bring me back to reality. I slip back into my camouflage.
Slide out of Sarah’s side door, less of a crowd gathered around the front this time. To be fair, today was only dailies, not a featured encounter, but there’s always a crowd for Ashura the Terrible. Only this crowd is a bit older, a bit more filled with swagger, rough edges clearly visible in the midday light of glowstrips.
I pull my hood over my head and set off for the Brown, cutting a path through the bustle of humanity. More Preachers out today in their pristine robes, their perfect teeth spitting out stained words. Fewer Hajj, those visible walking in tight groups, eyes wary. Undercurrents of fear, hate, and pain rumbling beneath it all like the first tremors of a petroquake, nothing shifting off the shelves just yet, but sharper jolts on their way.
Gonna be riots soon.
I swing by Johnny’s, grab some noodles, shake my head at his unspoken question. No word from Sawyer. Make my way through discontented corridors, the few tourists visible hidden behind anti-crowd fields, dispersion levels set to max. Won’t help them if there’s an actual riot, fields can only handle so much kinetic load, but at least it gives them the illusion of safety. A better reality would be to leave, but they’re not smart enough to realize they have that choice.
Thick mass of angry protestors chanting outside Southspire, demanding to know when service offices are going to reopen, help them find work, food, water. I shake my head. Gummies are more likely to send assault drones than aid. Salvation or starvation, no in betweens.
Pass back through to Highrise, its upper corridors quiet, but not the good quiet of sleeping or work. No, these corridors are the hot, dirty quiet of barricades behind doors, knives dripping in the dark, the static gloom before a superstorm crashes down like an orbital blast. I check my socials, see if there’s any local alerts.