I feel her hip rubbing against mine, but that’s all I feel. Ham’s face rises in front of me, and I shake it away angrily. He’s gone, and it’s up to me to find a way through my problems.
Story of my fucking life.
“Thanks, Sare, but I think I’ll go straight for the sphere. Is my gear still in my locker?”
“Of course. I’ll put you in B-3, she’s always been one of my steadiest.” She grabs my hand, and I halt in front of the locker room entrance, looking back at her. “It’s…” She shakes her head and turns away. “Never mind. Go get dressed, I’ll warm the sphere up.”
I know what she wants, and once upon a time it might have been something I wanted too, but those days are dead and gone. I shrug my way into my hapsuit, motions the tiniest bit ragged, hitching in places where some extra weight found its way to my thighs and hips, then run the molecular zipper up my back, tracing the familiar curve from ass to neck, feeling the familiar blandness replace my skin. I want to sink into the numbness, let it silence everything.
Grab my haphood from the shelf, its older style flexible weight comfortable in my palm, trying not to think about rigid gray hemispheres, tendrils waving like clutching hands. I pull the stretchy material over my face, attaching it to the suit, then pick up my immersion viewer. If I’m going to sink, I’m not planning on half-assing it. Pad down the hall to my assigned hapsphere, B-3 shining above the door in a gentle white glow. Push it open and head inside.
The hapsphere sits in the middle of the room, squat, elegant, deadly, open hatch beckoning me with seductive promise. I climb inside and slide my immersion viewer over my eyes and nose, one strap briefly catching on my missing chunk of ear. Sarah’s voice rattles in my head.
“Doing okay, Ash?”
“I’m fine. Let’s start this up.”
“You’re the boss, boss.”
We run through the preliminary setup routines, hands slapping wireframe pillars, feet jogging loosely across an endless plain, and I struggle to feel anything other than hate. Hate for the sphere, for the Game, for myself. How can I be this person again? Why should I be this person again? After all the death, how can I go on living like nothing has changed? What kind of monster am I? Wind and Slend both moved on, escaped from this endless treadmill. Why can’t I?
The forever plain offers no answers, and soon brakes to a halt, columns sinking back into the nothing that birthed them.
“Five by five across the board. Ready if you are.”
Will I ever be ready for anything again? Will I ever feel more than this empty shell?
“Put me in, Sare.”
“Sure thing, Ash. And here. We. Go.”
My portal appears, and I gesture past it, ignoring the ever-scrolling socials, the unread messages, the tattered remnants of my life. Perfect fields rise like magic, replacing the homey cavern, wildflowers waving under the noonday sun, a light breeze drifting through my hair, bringing me the scents of small living things and ruffling the grass on the surrounding hills. An ideal, sugar-coated world, where the heroes always win and no one ever dies.
This time I do scream, an explosion of sound across the pristine landscape. On and on it goes, my throat raw and burning, until at some point it must have stopped, because I’m crouching, fingers tangled in the immaculate grass like I can choke the very life from the ground itself.
The tuxedo-clad rabbit hops up, overlarge eyes shiny as always. It doffs a top hat and bows.
“Welcome to Candyland, Ashura the Terrible.”
I let go of the grass and stand, feeling old and tired. At least the rabbit remembers me, its familiar voice saccharine and content.
It stares at me silently, and I stare back, wanting so much. Wanting things to be different, to be the way they were. Wanting the SunJewel Warriors to ride forth once more… but things will never be the way they were, Brand will never return, Slend and Wind have left, I’ll never see Ham again, and all that’s left is to try to escape this reality for as long as possible, no matter the price.
I cock my fist and send it toward the rabbit, seeking the pain of endgame, the violence, the destruction, seeking to bury myself in a spiral that will only end one way, but I need something, anything to get me through the endless days.
The rabbit smiles faintly, then leans to the side, my hand whistling harmlessly past its floppy ear. It winks at me, and I gawk, mouth falling open.
Impossible.
The rabbit’s voice sounds again, deepening, darkening, and in that instant, I finally recognize it, a voice I haven’t heard in half a year, one I didn’t know was so important until I couldn’t hear it anymore.
My anchor.
“You’ll have to be quicker than that. Eat me, Ashley.”
It turns and leaps away, bounding amongst the perfectly green grass, heading deeper into Candyland, never once looking back. Haltingly at first, I stumble after it, away from endgame, my feet gradually moving faster and faster, absent friends at my side. The wind whips past my face, tears streaming from my eyes, and I realize I’ve found the smile I thought was gone forever.
Acknowledgments
There are a bunch of people I would like to thank for helping make this book a reality. What started out as an internal act of catharsis has, with the assistance of some amazingly talented folks, transformed into something that hopefully inspired and entertained you.
First and foremost, my family—Isabel, Olivia, and Remy. Love you all, and yes, we can go out for sushi. My agent, Rob, who isn’t just a tireless worker and promoter, but also a friend. I’m so glad you became a part of my life, and I’ll write you those football memoirs someday. I swear. Cynthia Manson, an invaluable help who took my first draft and found all the spots to make it something amazing. I’ll get that epic tale of Gilgamesh from you eventually, and it’ll be great. Tanya DePass is an awesome woman doing awesome things at I Need Diverse Games (@INeedDivGms on Twitter), and I’m so lucky to know her. If you don’t want the boardshits to win, check out what she does (and throw a couple bucks her way). Finally, I’d like to thank Edwin McRae for helping with the initial reads. Appreciate it greatly.
On the Tor side, this is my first time doing a book with them, and I couldn’t have asked for a better group—led, of course, by the legend himself, Tom Doherty, who is just as great in person as you would think. A big thanks to my first editor, Brendan Deneen, who believed in the story and helped polish it to a mirror finish. Sad to see you go, but I know you’ll keep being awesome. My second editor, Chris Morgan, was a joy to work with and did a great job shepherding us to the finish line. Hoping to do more with you in the future. My copy editor and production editor, Angus Johnston and Melanie Sanders, caught all the little mistakes that one never thinks are there, and I cannot thank you both enough for finding them. The art, by Vault49, is everything I hoped it would be, vibrant and stunning in a way that makes Ash leap off the cover.
And lastly, a special thanks to all the paste-gobbling, poop-socking, alt-right gatekeeping boardshits out there who remind us each and every day that there’s still plenty of work to be done cleaning up our misogynist, racist, sexist society. Chapter Eight’s for you.
Also by Chris Kluwe
Beautifully Unique Sparkleponies: On Myths, Morons, Free Speech, Football, and Assorted Absurdities
About the Author
