by Jinx, Hondo
“Yeah, I’m a gamer,” Johnny said, rejecting Paul’s use of the past tense and latching onto a question that actually made sense. He had spent a good slice of his youth ignoring his mom’s warning that playing video games late at night in a basement would ruin his eyesight.
“Imagine a game that’s also a movie,” Paul said.
“And much more,” Annabelle said. “A fully immersive experience. An international obsession.”
“Not to mention the biggest gambling platform ever seen,” Paul said.
“All right,” Johnny said.
“You’ve heard of VR?”
“Sure. Some of my friends have VR gear.”
“Spoiler alert,” Paul said with a little smile. “VR gets better.”
“Way better,” Annabelle said. “The game-film thing I mentioned, it’s live-action, streaming 24/7, all over the globe.”
“Like a reality TV show?” Johnny asked.
“I don’t know if I’d exactly call it reality,” Paul said with a laugh, “but yeah, something like that. Only instead of simply watching, spectators plug into home rigs and connect to living characters full of biofeedback transmitter chips. They experience whatever the main character experiences. They can’t influence a character. They only receive. But they can see what he sees and feel whatever he feels.”
“If they stay in his point of view,” Annabelle said. “They can toggle between viewpoints. They can see the action through his eyes or the eyes of NPCs or go third-person and pivot into any of the various perspectives that stream from all angles. Of course, they can replay any given situation over and over from whichever angles they want.”
“That’s crazy,” Johnny blurted.
“No, it’s Vicarus,” Paul said.
“Meanwhile,” Annabelle said, “spectators gamble on everything the main character says or does, from getting laid to getting killed. Vicarus is literally the biggest thing in the world. For most people, it’s a one-stop replacement for entertainment, excitement, inebriation, and intimacy.”
“Wow,” Johnny said. “That sounds super fucked up.”
Paul’s laughter sounded defensive. “On the contrary, Vicarus is awesome. Here in the future, people have it rough. Thanks to pandemics, overpopulation, pollution, widespread poverty, food shortages, and technological advances, most people live miserable, lonely lives, quarantined in claustrophobic hive-style apartments. Vicarus offers an escape, a chance to really live.”
“Smile, Johnny,” Annabelle said. “You’re about to become a celebrity.”
Johnny’s brain pumped the brakes. This was all too much, too crazy—and, at the same time, the way Annabelle and Paul were presenting it, too matter of fact. “You guys are serious?”
They both nodded.
“And you made up this game?”
They barked laughter and shared an if only look.
“I wish,” Paul said. “We’re more like… content providers.”
“More precisely,” Annabelle said, “we’re prospectors. We spend most of our time reviewing obits, pitching scenarios, and submitting forms. Our interventions are strictly limited to public domain deaths. Basically, anything before 2037. Once per month, like other independent prospectors, we get to upload a single player.”
“Congratulations,” Paul said. “You’re August.”
“So you’re telling me that I’m a character in a show-game thing and creepers will be watching me night and day?”
Annabelle shook her head. “Not just watching you, Johnny. Your body, which is technically our body now, is full of nanites and biofeedback chips. Your subscribers will be living inside you.”
Johnny’s mind temporarily rejected the notion of someone owning him, which was easy because the idea of all those chips and nanites inside his body made Johnny feel like he was covered in mosquitos. He tried to shudder, but thanks to his restraints, the best he could do was clench his fists and grit his teeth.
Annabelle nodded. “Since your subscribers are passive but fully immersive participants, we don’t call them viewers or players. We call them riders.”
“A few hundred people already preordered you,” Paul said, sounding happy. “And thousands have bookmarked your profile. If you perform well, they will subscribe, too.”
“And that will build more buzz,” Annabelle said.
“Which will bring more riders.”
“And more money.”
“Which will allow us to expand advertising.”
“And the more subscriptions we get,” she said, “the more credits we’ll give you.”
“Credits?”
“Yes. Vicarus credits. Periodically, you’ll access an interface and convert credits into advantages.”
“Such as?”
She shrugged. “Vicarus has limitless configurations. We don’t even know what type of scenario you’ll be dropped into. The advantages could be skills, equipment, information, or even experiences. But rest assured, they will match your scenario.”
Something occurred to Johnny as he pondered the limitless dangers that might await him. “If you control stuff like that, why don’t you make me ten feet tall and bulletproof? And why not throw in a bazooka while you’re at it?”
Annabelle shook her head. “What would be the fun in that? A spoiled child never loves its mother, Johnny. No matter what people think, they don’t actually want shit handed to them. People want to earn their loot.”
“Don’t worry about credits and advantages,” Paul said. “You’ll figure that out soon enough.”
“Wait… when does this all start?”
“We’re going live any minute,” Paul said. “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”
“Don’t worry?” Johnny said. “You guys want to take my place?”
“Keep the riders happy,” Annabelle said. “Remember, they are living through you. You are the highlight of their days. They want nothing more than to leave reality and slide into your experiences. To be you. Most of them are stuck in shit jobs, living shit lives, surrounded by shit people, with no way out. Give them joy. Give them excitement. Give them life.”
Johnny blinked at her, trying to wrap his head around what she was saying.
“Our participants are primarily men in their late teens and early twenties,” Paul said. “They’ll be living vicariously through you. So do things they would want to do.”
“When in doubt,” Annabelle said, “do something. Anything is better than nothing. Your subscribers are up to their eyeballs in nothing. Some of them haven’t so much as gone outside in months. And who could blame them? The world is ugly now, and thanks to pollution and pandemics, we have to wear a hazmat suit every time we leave our homes.”
Paul nodded. “Pause to take in the beauty of your world. Draw your lungs full of fresh, clean air. Savor good smells, good food, everything.”
“The key to success is remembering your mission statement,” Annabelle said. “Make subscribers happy. Give them what they want.”
“What do they want?”
She cocked her head a little and gave him half a smile. “You tell me, Johnny. What do young men want? You were one, after all. What did you want?”
Johnny thought about that. He wanted what every other red-blooded young man wanted. He wanted to kick ass, get laid, and catch the occasional buzz. He wanted to travel and have fun and do exciting things.
On a deeper level, he guessed he also wanted to make a difference. To belong to a community. And he supposed he wanted respect. To be the best at something.
Also, even though he might not have admitted it to his friends, he wanted love. He’d never really been into one-night stands. Sure, he’d enjoyed a few, but what he really wanted someday was to meet a great girl, get married, make babies, and dedicate himself to becoming the best husband and father he could be.
Honestly, he had even been wondering if he might find those things with Haylie.
That was the truth. But it would sound hokey, confessing that no
w, so Johnny gave them an abbreviated version. “Men want to kick ass and get laid.”
“Exactly,” Paul said. “Keep that in mind. Always, always, always.”
Annabelle nodded. “Make that your mission statement. There’s no need to complicate things, especially when you’re new and trying to land subscribers. Keep it simple. Kick ass, get laid, repeat. From this moment forward, think of yourself as being in the business of wish fulfillment. When in doubt, fuck or fight.”
Johnny nodded, suddenly regretting his kick ass and get laid summation. That had been only partial truth, not an attempt at a mission statement.
“The more pleasure and excitement you provide,” Paul said, “the more money we’ll earn, and the more stuff we’ll be able to offer you.”
Annabelle forced a smile. “Wherever you end up, embrace it. Have a good time. Take risks. Be bold. Say things your subscribers wish they had the balls to say. Do things they ache to do, even if doing those things in real life would scare the shit out of them. Especially if it would scare the shit out of them. Crush your enemies. Fuck beautiful women. Power up.”
“But don’t forget to stop and smell the roses,” Paul said. “If you’re having fun, your patrons are having fun. Savor fruit. Sip fresh water. Pull your lungs full of fresh air. Your subscribers live on tofu and multivitamins. They’re cooped up in tiny pods that smell like swamp gas. Give them something to live for. You’re their eyes, their ears, their nose, their mouth.”
“And their dick, apparently,” Johnny said.
“Yes, you’re their dick, too,” Annabelle said. “So use that thing.”
“Early and often,” Paul chirped.
“Great,” Johnny said.
“And don’t just get off and go to sleep,” Annabelle said.
“Are you telling me to cuddle?”
“Yes,” she said. “Cuddling is key. Your subscribers are starved for more than fresh air, food, and sex. They yearn for meaningful relationships.”
Johnny nodded at that, secretly relieved. He wasn’t seventeen anymore. Without meaningful relationships, constant fucking and fighting would have gotten old quick.
“People in the 22nd century are lonely,” Paul explained. “They aren’t good at connecting. They don’t have much face-to-face interaction. Why bother when porn is fully immersive and you can just—”
A loud beep interrupted him.
Annabelle frowned. “All right. We’re coming online. Get your head in the game, Johnny. Remember, we didn’t bring you back from the dead to enlighten or educate the masses. You are here to entertain.”
“Oh, and there’s only one rule,” Paul hurried to add. “Never mention the game, or the producers will hurt you. Good luck. Do us proud. Make us a lot of money, buddy!”
The beep sounded again, this time twice in a row.
“Wait,” Johnny said. “How does this work? When I get there, I mean. How do I—”
Three deafening beeps sounded in rapid succession, and the room faded into a velvety darkness.
Chapter 3
For a second, Johnny was suspended in non-space. Everything was white.
Then a sultry female voice said, “Entering Fight Town.”
Bright pink text appeared in midair.
As Johnny’s eyes scanned the writing, the disembodied female voice read the stats aloud.
Fighter: Johnny Rockledge
Age: 21
Height: 6’0”
Weight: 191 pounds
Reach: 76 inches
Total Juice: 484
Total Juice minus Heart: 384
Agility: 50
Chin: 79
Endurance: 53
Heart: 100
Power: 73
Speed: 60
Strength: 69
For some reason, the heart stat glowed red, not pink.
Why was that? Was 100 maxed out?
And what was up with “Total Juice minus Heart”? Why include separate totals? What did that mean? What did any of this mean?
“Am I being dropped into a fighting game?” he asked the unseen woman.
There was no answer. Instead, the stats disappeared.
A glowing pink paragraph appeared. The woman read it aloud.
Cover story: Johnny Rockledge is from Livingston, a small, industrial river town four hours north of Fight Town. He is new in town, knows no one, and is hoping the opportunities afforded by a large city will provide a fresh start.
The words faded, taking the lovely voice and white nothingness with them.
The next thing Johnny knew, he was standing not in a ring but in front of a motel check-in counter, wearing a cheap suit he had never seen before. He held a hat in one hand and a battered suitcase in the other.
The cramped lobby was hot and smelled of baby oil and perfume.
The fiftyish woman on the other side of the counter reached out a leathery hand and offered a key. Her baggy eyes stared sullenly from a puffy, deeply tanned face framed in a mane of tawny hair. She reminded Johnny of a female version of the cowardly lion from The Wizard of Oz.
Her ears were a big part of that.
They were pointy and furry and looked completely real.
This puffy-faced motel manager had cat ears. Honest to goodness, no-shitting-around cat ears.
He blinked for a second, reminded himself this was a Vicarus simulation, and took the key.
“Rent’s due the first of the month,” the woman said, sounding far from cowardly. “You got a job?”
He shook his head.
“Well, I see there’s a new help wanted sign over at the diner.”
“For what?”
“How the hell do I know? I’m not hunting work, you are. Beggars can’t be choosers, boy. I don’t care if you wash dishes or turn tricks. If I don’t have thirty dollars by the first of the month, you’re out on your ass. There ain’t no free rides in Fight Town!”
So this place was Fight Town. Was that also the name of the Vicarus scenario?
Johnny nodded and turned to leave.
“Go out by the pool, you’ll see the steps,” the woman told him. “You’re on the second floor about halfway down the deck. Room 212.”
Johnny pushed through the door and went out into the bright heat of the concrete courtyard. A few bedraggled palms leaned beside an empty swimming pool surrounded on three sides by the dilapidated two-story motel.
He climbed the stairs and walked the balcony that fronted the second story until he found 212.
A housekeeping cart stood beside his open door.
Leaning in, Johnny almost collided with a black-haired young woman in a frilly, black-and-white French maid uniform.
Her long neck recoiled, and her large purple eyes bulged to either side of her cute little button nose. Atop her head, a pair of furry, round mouse ears twitched with surprise. “Oh, excuse me, sir.”
“Sorry. My fault. I should’ve knocked,” Johnny said, stepping back and reading the name tag pinned to her chest. “Millie.”
“I was just finishing up, sir. I’ll be out of your way in just a second.”
“No problem,” he said. “Take your time.”
As Millie put the finishing touches on his room, Johnny tried not to stare at her long, skinny tail. Other than the tail, ears, and oversized purple eyes, she looked like a human girl in bad need of a square meal or three.
Not wanting to freak her out, he put his back to the wall outside and hefted the suitcase, wondering what was inside. Not much, by the feel of it.
The hat in his other hand was a charcoal tweed half shell, one of those Irish flat caps worn by newsboys and thugs.
Was Johnny supposed to be a newsboy? A thug? What sort of a world was this?
Given the landlady’s mention of the help wanted sign, Johnny figured he should probably check the diner. Why else would she mention it during their opening interaction?
Unless Vicarus wasn’t scripted.
One way or the other, he had his mission statement
. Kick ass, get laid, cuddle, repeat—or something like that.
Whatever the case, he’d figure it out as he went along. He had no reason to trust Paul and Annabelle. Even if they had saved him, they’d done so to make money.
He would just have to make his own way in this world and roll with the punches.
Perhaps literally, given the name.
For now, other than furry ears and tails, it seemed oddly normal. Not like a game at all. Just like reality had shifted.
“Thank you, sir,” Millie said, slipping out of the room. She brushed a long, black lock from her pale face, and her cheeks blushed as pink as rose petals. “Have a great day,” she called as she pushed her cart down the balcony corridor, her skinny tail twitching along behind her.
“You, too,” he called after her, then slipped into the room.
Animal girls, then. He was in a world populated by animal girls.
And humans, too, apparently, given that neither of the women he’d met had freaked out at the sight of him.
Unless…
He quickly patted the top of his head and reached for his tailbone.
Good. Still human.
Pine-scented floor cleaner suffused the hot air of his little room.
The space was small but clean with beige carpet and matching curtains drawn to either side of the louvered blinds. Through their slats, he spied the motel manager dragging a lounge chair beside the empty pool, a pug at her heels.
So there were animals here, too. Pets, even.
Interesting.
An alarm clock ticked on the stubby nightstand beside the twin bed.
A shallow closet stood open beside a tiny bathroom with a claustrophobic shower stall, a blue porcelain toilet, and a tiny window overlooking a back alley complete with a big, red dumpster. A rectangle of white soap and a short drinking glass stood on the sink. The faucet dripped steadily.
Johnny dropped the suitcase on the bed, then tried the wall switches.
The overhead light worked, but the fan didn’t.
His pockets were empty.
Popping the suitcase, he found a shaving kit, another cheap suit, two pairs of socks and boxer shorts, a few white tank tops, a rumpled blue tie, and two manila envelopes.