Back at the locker I quickly dress, throwing on a loose-fitting pair of black cargo pants over my underwear, the polymer fabric scratchy as always, then some gray socks. I lace up my tacboots—the ubiquitous footwear left over from the Water Wars that nearly every native of Ditchtown wears. A lightweight gray hoodie goes on top of my compression bra, a long-forgotten corp logo across its faded front.
Not that you really need the bra, I think sourly, catching my reflection in one of the mirrors. An oval face with high cheekbones, close-cropped brown hair with a streak of blue framing a nose just a little bit too long, brown eyes tilted slightly upward surrounded by browner skin. No one ethnic group claiming dominance, but everyone in evidence—“We’re all mongrels these days,” as Dad so laughingly put it back when he was still around, before Mom got sick. Thinking of him makes my jaw clench, and I force my teeth to stop grinding.
Under the hoodie’s thin shapelessness, my arms are chiseled muscle, legs and butt the same, six-pack abs hard enough to use as a washboard. Not for the first time, I think about getting an augmentation for my chest. Restore some of the burned-off fat with silicone or polymer, remake myself to look like one of the ’Net models. Not for the first time, I reject the idea. Anything that might change how my body moves or reacts inside the hapsuit just isn’t worth it. Besides, boobs are overrated, and none of those models would last a minute in endgame.
I know a lot of the guys who play Infinite Game flaunt their physical capabilities, muscles honed through countless hours in hapchambers and gyms bulging out of skintight clothes, but I’ve always felt like that would hang a target around my neck. Still too easy to be attacked simply for who I am; “put the uppity bitch in her place.” Recessions have never been good for women, and this one’s been going on for close to twenty years, so hoodie and workout pants it is. Camouflage through shapelessness. Getting called a dyke is just a fun bonus.
I throw on my AR shades, tinted lenses coming alive with information when they recognize my biometric signature, and a lightweight pair of hapgloves to access the glass. AR shades can be operated by eye movement alone, but hapgloves are much faster once you get accustomed to them. Their thin mesh, much more breathable than the suit, feels almost like a second skin.
I tap my fingers together in a quick rhythm to sync the gloves and glasses. The material covering my fingertips briefly stiffens, acknowledging the link, then drops back to neutral. Another series of finger twitches—electrical current turning the polymer in the gloves semisolid to provide the illusion of resistance, like typing on an invisible old-fashioned keyboard—sets my avatar to private mode, cutting off the deluge of friend requests, congratulations, and threats from the socials. Don’t really feel like talking to anyone right now.
Last, but most importantly, I strap a long sheath to the outside of my left hip, dull black matching my pants. A worn hilt with leather wrappings sticks out of the polymer covering, and I run a hand over it lightly, feeling the alternating ridges of oil-softened material glide past my fingertips. I check the draw, make sure nothing sticks. The blade slides out smooth as silk.
Normally, it’s not legal to carry larger weapons in Ditchtown, but I finagled an exception through the cultural heritage laws, one of the last remnants from before the Split. The fifty-centimeter, single-edged alloy blade is partly for protection—Ditchtown’s not like one of the dryburbs, with their hardened encryption secdrones watching all the time, and I’ve got more than my share of enemies—but mainly because it’s a part of who I am after so long in the Game. It’s nothing special, just a sharp piece of metal, but I’d rather leave a body part behind than be without it.
Armoring complete, I head toward Sarah’s lobby, where Kiro is no doubt waiting impatiently, working himself into an even bigger sulk, wondering why she won’t let him leave. I steel myself for the confrontation.
Arguing with my brother always sucks.
4
[Five Steaming Woks on a Four-Burner Stove]
Kiro paces in the small lobby, heavily muscled arms bulging through a thin gray shirt, tight polymer shorts stopping just above his knees, outlining almost comically oversized thighs. He stands a solid half meter taller than me, the top of my head not even reaching his acne-scarred chin, and he has a lot more of Mom’s coloring than I do. His petulant expression sours even further when he sees me step through the door, red-tinted hexagonal glasses riding up a pinched brow.
“Hey, bro.”
“Sis.”
He tries to grunt the word, but it’s still the awkwardly high pitch of my younger brother’s voice, desperately trying to conceal his youthfulness. I keep my smile hidden—revealing it would only make him angrier.
“Was waiting for you at my portal.”
“Didn’t want to talk. Can we go?”
“Only if we talk along the way. Let’s get some noodles. I’m starving.”
“…Whatever.”
Great. It’s going to be one of those conversations. I tap a message to Sarah, let her know she can unlock the lobby. The door clicks, and I pull it open, motioning with my arm.
“Ladies first,” I say, hoping he’ll complete our ancient joke, lose some of his sulk.
His mouth twists, and I’m suddenly afraid that he’s in too deep, too caught up in himself, slave to the awkward hormones that plague every teenager, insecurities driving entirely too many into the arms of the boardshits. I remember being seventeen, the tugging surges of giddiness and depression hitting on a daily basis. What if he doesn’t care about childhood memories anymore?
Finally, the ghost of a grin works its way to his lips.
“Age before beauty,” he replies, and my heart sings to see the familiar presence of my laughing younger brother, instead of the permanently angry young man whose metamorphosis he seems dedicated to.
We walk down the dingy hallway toward the lift bank in awkward silence, our footfalls slightly muted on the thinly carpeted floor. Hidden turrets filled with incapacitating gel track us from the ceiling, their jet-black domes disguised as cameras—Sarah knows that some of the people sending me threats over the socials would be more than happy to carry them out, and she’s had to “discourage” fanatics before. Kiro has no idea the turrets exist, has never had to worry about some things I’ve had to worry about. Must be nice having a dick.
“So what did you think about the encounter?”
“Intense.” His voice is low, distant.
“Endgame isn’t for everyone.” He flinches, and I wince. Shaming him wasn’t my intention.
“Hey, hey, I wasn’t knocking you.” I try to keep my voice soothing. “It takes everybody time to adjust. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Didn’t take you any time at all. I’ve seen the replays.”
Dammit. Of course he’s seen the replays. Everyone’s seen the replays of Ashura the Great, Ashura the Terrible, every second of my life in Infinite Game saved to solid-state memory for future consumption, constantly replayed late at night on highlight streams and broken down on after-action socials. I stab the old-fashioned analog control button for the lift with my finger—thirty-fourth floor utility room leading to the thirty-third floor skyways. Taking the front door after an encounter like we just experienced wouldn’t be wise.
“Yeah, I picked it up quick, but I wasn’t top tier right away. Even I had stuff to learn.”