by Damien Boyes
You loved it. Released from the limitations of your sluggish blood and guts, the mesh became a fucking paradise. When you were playing a game and magical flames rippled up your arms, the cold heat and the otherworldly sense of power was like something you’d never imagined, like a drug they’d immediately outlaw if it existed out in the physic. And when you kicked off the ground and pulled yourself into flight, you couldn’t believe why anyone would want to live in a world where none of it was possible.
You were happy, for a long time, and didn’t once regret renouncing your flesh—until that tragedy with one of your fans sparked a fire in you, and your brain began aching for something the mesh couldn’t give you: a family.
After ignoring the longing for as long as you could, and then actively hating it for a while, you realized it was the one thing you couldn’t escape from, so once again you pulled together everything you’d earned, bought yourself a skyn, and had it impregnated.
They based the baby off your old DNA, added a bunch of good filler to make the kid strong and smart, and when you finally pushed it out and the bot laid it on your chest, naked and squirming, you felt the toggle in your head flip from a single-player focus, where you and you alone controlled the storyline, to a two-player co-op. And when he instinctively grabbed your thumb and nuzzled down into your breast, you felt, for the first time in your life, the power of unconditional love. The mesh never gave you that.
You’re only here because of Rael, because if you don’t win he’ll die, and that will kill you, so ten wins it is. But you can’t just stay hidden here for the next ninety-nine hours. You need to do something.
Other than the palms swaying in the gentle breeze, there’s still no movement. You’ve already cleared the loot out of Buildings One, Two, and Three—snagged yourself a level-one helm and a small backpack with a single weapons hardpoint, a Phoenix MX-2 autoshotty, an AR comp, an SMG extended mag, a compass perq, another sixty seconds of safe-time, and a smoke grenade, but found nothing that’d let you shoot at range. There are a few bots hanging around, prowlers, the big cat-like hunter types with fangs and razor claws, but since you’re still in the safe-zone, their green eyes and running lights show they’re not threatening. You could try taking one out with the shotgun, they’d probably be carrying something worthwhile, but you’re not ready to call attention to yourself by starting a bot war. With only a pistol and a shotgun you’ll need to get right up close to engage, and if you’re out here banging on the bots you’d leave yourself exposed.
So, the options are stay here and keep waiting for someone to show, or get aggressive and find some action. Your two opponents are north of you, one probably in the courtyard watching the apartments, and the other already looted through buildings Four, Five and Six. The courtyard guy’s isolated. With you to the south and the other player to the north, he’s got eyes on either side of him, and since the beach has the most open area, he’s the obvious target. But the guy to the north will know that too …
You know immediately what you’re going to do. You can’t stay here. No one likes a camper, and a big part of winning this game is getting the audience on your side. The crowd wants action, and the more attention you draw, the more likely you are to earn sponsored drops—and apart from the boss runs, all the best loot is sponsored.
“Hey y’all, how ’bout a sick flank, come around from behind?” you ask the aud silently, and they respond with a cheer that vibrates your rithm. They want action, so give ’em some.
You push off the wall and crouch-run across the main road cutting between Buildings Three and Four, keeping low in case someone spots you, and hug the wall as you head away from the beach. The skyn is starting to feel less like a costume you’re wearing and more like you, and you push yourself to a sprint, see what your body can do. These skyns are above Human Standard to start, and between the muscle enhancers and the rithm upgrades and the powered armors available to loot, by the end of the game players can get downright supernatural.
You make it to the back side of the building, cut north along the rear wall, and your muscles ripple down your back as you hop the balcony railings one after the other.
The jungle’s close by on your right, and you keep an eye out for movement as you race through the narrow backyards of the first-floor apartments. Someone could have slipped around and positioned themselves in the trees, but you’re not expecting it, and when you hear the sharp smack of a Trident in burst mode echoing from the other side of the building, you know you made the right call. You put on speed and race to the north end of the complex, spin around the wall of Building Six, and inch your way to the corner looking out over the beach.
The shots came from the south, out closer to the water. You don’t know who found the Trident, but they’re hostile, whoever it is. If they’re already shooting they won’t want to duo up, which means they’re the priority target. The trick then is to get close enough that your shotgun can take them down before they spot you and punch you full of holes at range.
Good news is, you’re behind them.
And also, you’re just better. Don’t forget that—you’re a goddamned monster. This may be your first live game, but you’ve been fragging guys your whole life. A kill’s a kill, ain’t no different than a virt.
There’s not much protection out in the manicured paths of the rec area, nothing but trees and a couple thatched-roof walk-up bars—unless they’re swimming submerged through the connected series of pools. Even fewer places to hide out on the beach, just umbrellas and lounge chairs until the docks. The kill-feed didn’t ding though, so either the guy with the Trident missed or it wasn’t enough to kill.
You pause and scan the edges of the scenery for movement, searching for anything that doesn’t belong, then dart out of hiding, snake through a copse of trees, and go over a low hill into the rec area.
You duck behind a short trolley stacked with fluffy white towels and wait to see if anyone shoots at you. Unable to help yourself, you reach up and brush your fingers over the fancy stitching on the blue bird of the embroidered apartment logo and across the pillowy fabric. It’s hard to believe the detail of this place. The apartments are all decorated, made up with beds that’ll never be slept in and stocked with food that’ll never be eaten, the grounds are well-maintained, and the bars lined with bottles. It’s all real, but still it’s all an illusion, set-dressing for the one thing this place was designed for—reszos killing each other for sport.
It’s strange, all this happening in the real world and not running on a server somewhere—though nothing about this place is natural. The entire island is controlled by one man: Jefferson Wood, the reclusive billionaire who created Decimation Island. He’s the CEO and Game Director and lives here full time, on the small island off the north-west coast, where he monitors the game states and devises new hotspots and makes sure everything runs smoothly.
The island itself is completely AI controlled—the bots and the NPCs and everything else that isn’t a player. It’s as much a participant in the game as anyone else, and it’s also doing its best to kill you. You can’t forget that—even when you think you’re alone, the island is watching. It’s the most dangerous thing out here.
You pick yourself up and move from cover to cover as best as you can, keeping your footsteps light, and by the time you get back to Building Four and haven’t spotted anyone you wonder if you might have overplayed this, but then there’s another shot and the crash of bottles shattering.
Near one of the bars, just ahead, not more than forty feet away.
“Come on out, be-atch,” someone yells. A female voice, high-pitched and ragged with attitude—probably the one who’s been shooting. “You know how this ends, don’t make me waste ammo chasing you.”
There’s no response, neither verbal nor violent, and you wonder if maybe the guy staying quiet is a live game virgin, yipping out under the pressure of their first drop. Though no one who makes it to the live game can be underestimated. Could be they just
didn’t find a weapon that’ll stand up to the Trident and are doing their best to get away.
You creep up the path, staying low, with your shotgun loaded and level, ready to fire, and catch sight of the female player just ahead of you. You recognize her immediately. Should have known from her squawky voice. All the skyns are similar in build and height, no real difference in the performance between male and female, but by the shock of bright pink hair poking out from under her helmet you know you’re looking at lucyFurr. She’s a fixture on the live game circuit, with thousands of hours on her record, but she’s impulsive, never making the decimation more than once or twice in a row. She plays style over longevity. Take her pink hair. It’s a liability, makes her stand out—but that’s her schtick and it works for her. She’s always got a good audience, but you’d never partner with her. Neither of you would last very long, not the way she plays.
She’s got her back to you, and doesn’t have much in the way of protection—a helmet but no vest or other armor—and her gaze is fixed down the sights of her raised weapon as she stalks toward the shredded bar. You’re close enough to hear the artificial click as she thumbs her weapon to single fire before she squeezes a few rounds into the bar, hoping to get a lucky hit on the guy on the other side. More bottles explode and glass goes flying everywhere, but she doesn’t seem to hit anything else.
“That shitfucker’s hiding,” she says to the air, playing to her fans straight up out loud. She doesn’t think she’s in any danger, or doesn’t care who else hears. “Come out and let me kill you, why doncha?”
Something smashes off to the right, and when lucyFurr snaps her weapon at the sound the guy on the other side of the bar—male, sandy hair, with a backpack that looks full of gear, but no weapon—makes a run for it, racing in the other direction. He jumps over a row of recliners and zigzags toward the shelter of a nearby stand of palms, trying to avoid the bullets he knows will be coming.
He’s fast, but he won’t make it.
You shoot before she does, punch a crater through the dark grey DI jumpsuit and into lucyFurr’s back. A bright plume of blood mists the air and she screams as she’s thrown forward and bounces off the bar. She hits the ground hard and her weapon skitters across the concrete.
A sudden unexpected gut-punch staggers you, and you take a step back.
You just shot someone—for real put a massive hole in someone’s back—and now you’re about to kill them. You’ve done it a million times in your life, caused far more bloody squibs than this, but that was all virtual, and somehow the reality of it is shocking, almost unbearable.
You tighten your grip on the shotgun to keep your hands from shaking.
It’s a game. No different from a virt.
No one really dies here. You’re all reszo, the only lasting punishment for losing is you don’t get to keep the memory of your time on the island. Everything that happens here is property of the island, so when you lose, you return to your headspace as if you’d just loaded into the game and came instantly back. You get to find out how your run went by watching it secondhand, just like everyone else.
The only way you keep your memories is to win the Century, and no one’s ever done that. So, if you planning on coming out the other side of this intact, you better get used to killing, ‘cause that’s the only way through.
lucyFurr pushes up to her hands and knees—she isn’t dead, these skyns are hard to kill— and you fix the shotgun at her back and shoot again. She screams as a chunk of her shoulder blows off, but keeps fighting, rolls to her back with a pistol in her hand and rage in her eyes, and you put her lights out with a pop to the face that blasts a crater in her scowl. Her Cortex cracks with a blue-white flash through the gore, and just like that she’s out of the game.
The initial shock has crystalized to exhilaration, and the trilling of your audience mixes with the tang of blood and gunpowder and the adrenaline pumping through your skyn and sends a rush straight to your head.
Damn that feels good.
Maybe a little too good.
You glance up and to the right as the kill-feed updates.
AniK@ downs lucyFurr. 92 remain.
Your head jangles as you absorb lucy’s safe-time and the soft white photoo on your inner wrist spins up to show you’ve collected twenty-three minutes.
As you lower your weapon, the guy whose ass you just saved pops his head out from behind the tree and sees lucyFurr spread out on the ground.
“Yo,” he says, smirking. “So, you wanna group, or what?”
GAGE, FINSBURY
20:26:17 // 3-JUL-2059
“Everyone stay low,” I yell over the sudden confusion in the telecafe. If there’s more shooting I don’t want anyone to catch a stray round. The explosion was down the street, and no one in here was hurt, but we need to evacuate just the same. Smoke’s drifting past the window, could be a fire or who knows what else going on out there. If it’s a targeted attack we might be safer staying put, but if they’re shyfted-up reszos out on a spree, shooting up the street for kicks, they could go building to building assassinating people. We’re not safe here.
It’s hard to concentrate. My adrenaline-boosted thoughts slam against the neural governor with a jittering de-sync. I push back against it, try to keep calm, stay focused, but it feels like my head’s full of pudding. Deacon’s contained, but he’s still finding ways to make my life difficult.
I gather my wits, take a breath, and think next steps. First one’s obvious: evacuate the scene.
A waiter stands shocked in the aisle behind me, staring out the window as frightened people flee past.
“Hey,” I say to him, but he doesn’t hear me. I give him a shake and he snaps his head around. “This place have a back entrance?”
At first I don’t think he understands, but then he blinks and seems to come back to his senses.
“Into the alley,” he says.
“Get everyone out,” I say. “And don’t stop running until you’re clear. Got it?”
He nods, and I turn to tell the crowd to follow him, but they’re way ahead of me; people are already hurrying to the back of the cafe. Another burst of gunfire erupts outside and the press for the exit intensifies. The shots are quieter though, like they’ve moved away from us.
As the cafe empties I turn back to Connie. “What’s going on out there?”
She already has the answer for me. “SECNet reports three armed reszos just blasted their way into a building down the street. No identified fatalities, but a man has been shot and is bleeding heavily. Other injuries reported due to vehicle collisions and debris from the explosion.”
“ETA on first responders?”
“The Police Service AMP says five minutes for a lawbot drop, with a tactical response team not far behind,” Connie answers. “Fire and Emergency Services en route. Drones should be here any second. Everyone has been ordered to evacuate the scene.” She pauses. “But you’re not going to do that, are you?”
At least five minutes until help arrives and someone’s out there bleeding. He could be dead by then.
Dammit.
“Doesn’t look like it,” I say.
She doesn’t even pretend to be surprised. “The fighting has moved inside the building and the wounded man is to the south, on the sidewalk. Gunshots to the thigh and lower abdomen,” she says. “From the way he’s bleeding it’s likely a bullet nicked the femoral artery. A tourniquet above the wound—”
“I can handle that much,” I say, whipping my belt off and wrapping it around my fist. “Thanks for the help. See you at home?”
“I’ll be waiting,” she says and blows me a kiss as I run out the front door.
The sidewalks have cleared and the few cars that had drivers sit idle where their occupants abandoned them. Down the street the security gate surrounding a three-story brown-brick building is still smoldering, the front doors are wide open, and the deep whoop-whoop of a security klaxon pounds from inside.
Service dron
es arrive and take up a perimeter around the building, watching it from all angles, acting as scouts for the approaching lawbots. The drones ignore me as I sprint down the sidewalk, and once I’m south of the building entrance I cross the road and find the wounded man. He’s a black guy, probably in his mid-fifties, and he’s lying on the concrete, moaning shallowly in a pool of blood, fluttering in and out of consciousness. An umbrella and a bag of spilled curry containers lie beside him. A moment ago he was just grabbing take-out and now he’s barely alive.
One of the drones turns its attention to me. “Clear the area,” it orders, but I ignore it and kneel beside the wounded man.
“I got you,” I say as I gently check his wounds. His gut’s messed up, but probably won’t kill him in the next few minutes—the blood pouring from his leg will. His eyes snap open as I try to shift his leg, and his face contorts in pain. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, “but this is gonna hurt.”
He groans as I snake my belt around his thigh just above the bullet hole and pull it as tight as I can. The man’s eyes widen, then roll back in his head as he passes out—which is probably for the best. He can wake up in a hospital, full of painkillers.
There’s a wad of napkins in the take-out bag, and I press them against the hole in his leg, trying to staunch the bleeding as much as I can. Sirens wail in the distance, an ambulance by the sound of it. Shouldn’t be long now.
Another burst of gunfire clatters nearby, but it’s louder again. They’re back outside the building, off in the parking lot to the side. If my head were clearer, I wouldn’t think twice about heading into the building after them. There could be more people injured inside, people who need help, but I can’t risk it, not with my thoughts fogged up like a bathroom mirror. Besides, I have to move this guy. I don’t want him to end up a target again if the shooting comes back this way.
