“I appreciate that.” I slip my hand out from under his. “Gotta go. Food to deliver, creds to earn, you know how it is.”
I walk out of the door and exit the clinic, heading back into Highrise. A small symbol glares at me from a wall, one of the new anti-Hajj graffiti tags that have been popping up recently, the boardshits’ latest attempt at resurgence. I feel the black mood threatening to devour me, my own personal storm building over the last half a year.
Was any of it even worth it? All that we sacrificed? Sure, the world’s still here, but what was the point if the rot’s still eating it from below? I flick a rude gesture at the tag and make my way back to Johnny’s, passing the ubiquitous midday crowds, anger bubbling in the pit of my stomach. It feels like acid chewing me apart from the inside.
I push through the bead curtain covering Johnny’s entrance, and slide past the crowds of people waiting for one of the few seats to open up, loud waves of conversation bouncing off the walls. Behind the counter, Johnny shifts his woks, seemingly oblivious to it all, turning from time to time to shave off some meat or adjust a kebab. Jase waves at me from his spot tending tables, hands clearing off the remnants of a meal and ushering another pair of customers over. I wave back, but my heart’s not in it.
“Take the rest of the day off, Ash. Do something fun. Go live.”
Johnny’s voice seems to cut through the din straight to my ears, and I glare at him. Am I really that transparent? He tilts his head toward the door, and I sigh. I probably am. I head back into the Brown and let my feet drift, following my thoughts. Shabby printed clothes rub past my shoulders, colors in all hues of the rainbow, tourists pointing and jostling, some staring through tablets, most wearing glasses, but I feel like I’m alone, an unmoored ship in this sea of humanity, missing its anchor.
It’s an all too familiar feeling lately.
When I look up, I’m standing outside Sarah’s door, her sign turned to NOT CLOSED, crowds of people milling at my back. Some carry signs cheering on the current ladder leaders, others hold printed replicas of notable Game treasures, but I ignore them all. My gaze is trapped by the sign, by my memories, the weight of desires in my head, realities in my heart, who it is I really am. Who it is I want to be.
Life’s been a featureless blur since Wind dragged us all back on a stolen copter—too busy trying to find a cure for Kiro; rehabbing my mangled leg; making ends meet, one day at a time. Too busy to want to feel, because feeling means facing what happens after your world ends.
The SunJewel Warriors are gone, disappeared to the real… or dead. Saw the images of Brand’s funeral on my socials while I was still stuck in a bed at the clinic, another injury I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to heal. I couldn’t even be there for her at the very end. Couldn’t even leave a comment, lest the boardshits descend on her grieving family. The memory rises, unwanted.
Endgame. My first steps into a new world. The Gorger dead at my feet, my blade dripping blood, stinging pain in my side from the punch it landed, but victory. My victory. The few followers on my stream chattering about the improbability of my kill, posting to their friends.
A group sneaking out of the shadows, mocking voices, sneering faces, ready to claim the spoils of a fight they were too afraid to face.
“A newbie, all alone. Dunno how you took that Gorger down, but it’s ours now.”
My victory.
“Looks like she’s not moving. Sucks to be her.”
My encounter.
“Log out, bitch. Or we’ll hurt you. Find who you are in the real. Have some fun.”
Tired of running.
“Looks like she wants a fight. Your ass is ours, newbie.”
Shapes circling in, closer and closer, weapons bared, my eyes trying to track everything at once but everything moving so fast. Too fast.
Golden light, a presence at my back. Two figures instantly incinerated, their gear falling to the forest floor, the rest scrambling over each other in their haste to get away. Turn around on shaking legs, all of it too much to take.
“Hey. You doing okay, newbie?”
A smiling face, an outstretched hand, a long fall of auburn hair, like coils of banked flames.
“I’m the Devil’s Brand. Silly name, I know, but I came up with it as a kid to piss off my parents and it kind of stuck. You been in endgame long?”
No.
“It shows. You did pretty much everything wrong. Didn’t scout the encounter, didn’t check for gankers, didn’t bring consumables, no teammates—you were pretty terrible.”
Story of my life.
“Thing is, you still won. Since you took a tier-three encounter down, you’ve earned an endgame name—should keep you a little safer from the boardshits. Easiest way to spot a newbie, you’ve all still got Candyland names. What do you want to be known as?”
Ashura.
“You mean ‘Asura’? Jeez, you can’t even spell right. You really are terrible.”
Ashura the Terrible.
“Hah. I like it. Let me teach you about endgame, Ash…”
The memory fades. I wonder if anyone even remembers Ashura the Terrible anymore. The Game still exists, but leaderboards are always temporary.
What am I even doing here? What’s the point in caring? None of it lasts.
Something tugs at my sleeve, and I tamp down the familiar combat reflexes, the instinct to spin and slash. A small girl, half her dark hair in neat braids, the other half in frizzy poofs, smiles up at me, the fabric of my hoodie trapped in her dirty fingers.
“Can you sign this? I just need one more, and you’re the last. It’s for my room.”
I look down at an actual hard-copy printout, protected by a clear sleeve, of four knights on dragonback. Their armor gleams from a setting sun, fantastic swords held high above their impossible mounts, and identical grins stretch across their exposed faces. Silently, I nod and take the proffered marker, adding my sharp signature next to Brand’s looping curls, Wind’s airy swoops, Slend’s compact strokes. The girl smiles even wider, and clutches it to her chest.
“Thanks. You guys were the best. One of these days, I’m gonna beat your records. Bye!”
I watch her disappear into the swarming throngs of people, and try not to scream.
There’s always another encounter.
I gesture at the security camera, its gray lens a mirror of my thoughts. The door swings open almost immediately, Sarah beaming on the other side. She gathers me into a rough embrace as the door closes behind us, swiftly shutting off the noise of the crowd. After another squeeze, she leans slightly away, staring at my face.
“It’s good to see you, Ash. I didn’t know if you were ever going to come back.”
“There—” My voice catches, and I clear my throat. Damn ghosts. “There was some heavy shit, Sare. I didn’t know if I ever wanted to come back.” I think of the psych-secs, the endgame encounters, their beckoning depths in which I can lose myself forever, a dive I might never surface from if I don’t want. “I’m back now. Got a sphere for me?”
She tilts her head, examining me, then walks us down the corridor.
“For you, always, Ash.” Her arm tightens around my shoulder. “But hey, don’t feel like you have to jump right back in. We could always just hang out, get some drinks, talk, you know?”