SLAY

by Brittney Morris

  I’m so excited I almost forget to breathe. I know as a game mod, I’m not supposed to have a favorite player, but I do. I adjust my headset and begin typing.

  “It’s a Zama victory! Zama wins! Zama wins!” I smile as the crowd howls to the stars in her name. Zama pulls back her wolf-head hood and exposes her gorgeous black locs speckled with gold jewelry. She raises her fists into the air and begins her victory walk around the perimeter of the ring. PrestoBox is kneeling in the center, face turned downward. I hope Presto doesn’t feel too bad. I looked up their stats before the match and realized it’s Presto’s very first tournament. To lose 2200−2000 in the semifinals against a renowned champion is a feat to be proud of!

  I look back to Zama. Oh, she’s beautiful. Between her dreads, wrist bangles, abundant gold rings, and wolf pelt, I could walk the streets of Paris for miles and not find a look as striking as hers. I keep typing.

  “Zama will represent the Tundra region in the finals against the Desert champion. Both warriors will face off in the duel of the century on Saturday morning, eleven a.m. West Africa Time, so be sure to log on then. Until then, be conscious, and be well.”

  I immediately pull out my phone and text Emerald. Zama wins with the Hustle card!

  I glance at the clock. It’s one thirty in the morning already. The match ran long, and my math final is in a little over six hours. Even though it’s a three-hour final, I know I’ll ace it. I’m not worried. My chief concern is getting back to my flat in time to prepare for Anubis vs. Spade by eight thirty tonight, since my last class ends at seven. I pick up a few almonds from the bowl in the corner of my desk that I keep handy for snacking, toss them into my mouth, and navigate to chat. I type in A-N-U-B-I-S.

  He must be one of the oldest SLAYers in the game. That’s the only way he could’ve gotten the name Anubis. Everyone wants that name. There’s also a BetrAnubis, whose name Emerald wanted to flag because she thought it was disrespectful, but I insisted we leave it. The name “Anubis” is not owned by any one man. My SLAY name was almost Nubia, but I chose Cicada instead because I didn’t want Anubis coming after me thinking I was flirting with him. Emerald said that’s going to happen anyway because my character wears a gown. She goes through the same thing, even when she’s wearing her emerald-green horns.

  I don’t know much about Emerald even though we met three years ago when the game started, but I know she’s braver than I am, in almost every sense. When people pop up with questionable usernames, she’s not afraid to let them know, kindly—unless they keep with the tomfoolery, and then she’s not afraid to bring down the ban hammer. My official title is “mod,” short for “moderator,” but I avoid conflict whenever I can. To each their own.

  My teakettle begins to whistle behind me, and I slip off my goggles and stand up to get it. My VR gloves are impressively insulating, and waterproof, so any splashes from the hot water don’t burn my hands. This kettle is getting a funny smell to it, no matter how long I leave the lemon water inside. I even went to Monoprix and bought a huge bottle of lemon juice and tried boiling it full potency, which didn’t do anything for the kettle smell, but it made my little flat smell fresh and clean. It beats the scent of lavender laundry detergent that lingers here no matter what candles I light.

  My neighbors have rented out their flat, since they’re in London through the weekend on a business trip, and the current occupants are clearly tourists. I’ve heard them through the walls speaking mostly American English with some broken French sprinkled in, the word bonjour appearing every other word. We Parisians don’t say hello to each other that often. They also behave like they’re keenly aware they’re vacationing in the city of love. The woman was wearing a baby-pink tutu and a red bow with a blue blazer as if the only insight into French culture she’s ever had is from Madeline, and last night they were having the most enthusiastic sex I’ve ever heard—on the balcony! Right outside in the open! The man walked past me in the lobby yesterday evening when I left to get a snack while on study break. He looked at me and nodded and smiled. No marveling, no strange looks, no asking me how I’m getting along in this heat—you know, since so many white Parisian natives assume I’m from Africa. No surprise at my fluent French as I greeted the doorman, since I was born here in Paris. The Americans assume I’m supposed to be here, and I like that.

  Emerald told me about a year ago that she’s American, but I figured it out well before that when she said once that she was eating Easy Cheese on saltines for a snack. I had to google what the hell “Easy Cheese” was, but once I did, I realized only an American stomach could survive digesting cheese from a spray can, and due to the time difference, I know she’s somewhere on the West Coast—I’m assuming Southern California, since everyone on the West Coast seems to live there. California must be lovely with the sun always shining, always something to do, and so many people. More importantly, so many Black people. I imagine it’s like a real-life SLAY world, where everyone has special powers. Los Angeles is full of so many stars and starlets, so many incredible people of color. I want to go there one day. I want to talk to them, to know what it’s like to be famous.

  I look around my two-hundred-square-foot flat, at the pictures all over the wall behind the string of lights above my tiny mattress. I’m running out of wall space. My bald brown head is easy to find in all the photos, usually posing next to a friend who has come to visit for a couple of days, or fellow students at their graduation before they fly off somewhere exciting or home to their families. My university takes only two hundred students per year, and only 10 percent of those are native Parisians, leaving me here in Paris alone in the summer, or in Florence, Italy, with Mamma. Since she got sick, the amount of time I spend in Florence has slowly dwindled. More money for her treatment equals less money for my travel.

  But I have one photo of us together—me and Mamma—on my desk in a little pink frame she bought me last time I was there with her. I stare at it now, with both of us holding so many shopping bags, they’re crowding the shot. I’m wearing a grin from ear to ear, with my thick brown hair falling in waves over my shoulders, back when I used to wear it long and straighten it. She has striking black doe eyes, thick eyebrows I’ve always been jealous of, and thick, wavy hair a deep chocolate brown—well, had thick wavy hair a deep chocolate brown. Last time I visited, it was duller, much thinner, and her eyebrows had faded to gray. I could call her later today when she might be awake, but that’s hard to gauge, since her sleep has been unpredictable lately. Dr. Ricci insists she’s sleeping so much because chemo takes a lot out of her body, but I suspect she’s sleeping so much because it’s taking a lot out of her mind.

  I sigh and resolve to distract myself with maths. I’m studying for no reason except to make myself feel more prepared. I read and read until my eyes grow tired and dry, and I press my palms against them and yawn. My back and hips ache, and my neck is stiff from sitting too long.

  I sink back into my desk chair and take a couple sips of tea, which has long gone cold, and notice I have a new message from Emerald in WhatsApp. I’m thankful for the distraction.

  Emerald: Hey, tell me more about the duel. Did Presto have a fighting chance?

  Oh, did they! I can’t type fast enough to keep up with my brain.

  Me: Presto attacked with the Weave card in Round 2, RIGHT after Zama finished her Twist-Out power. Countering a natural hair card with a weave card? Petty AF. In round three, Zama used the Wobble card, which looks really funny when your opponent is wearing a cape. Presto just looked like a drunk guy at a toga party with that robe. Hey, why don’t we have a Bald card? Some of us are bald.

  I smile and wait for her to reply, those little dots popping up on my screen. I wish she could’ve seen the Weave card in action. It’s a rare one that functions just like the Twist-Out card in that you can wield long tendrils of hair, but it’s slightly less versatile—yes, that’s intentional—and deals twice as much damage—not intentional, but accurate in many cases.

 
; Emerald: We could totally have a Bald card! Nobody rocks bald like we do . Wanna write one up for the next tournament?

  Me: What would a Bald card even look like? Would a brown bowling ball roll out of the wall and attack?

  Emerald: WTF no. Idk, but I know you’ll come up with something good. Anyway, back to the fight. What else happened? Tell me everything.

  So I recount the rest of the fight—every move. Especially PrestoBox’s luck at being dealt an Innovation card. I designed that one. Since innovation takes whatever you have and makes it better, the Innovation card boosts whatever card you use with it by 20 percent. PrestoBox used it with a Shout card, which Emerald had to explain is something done in Southern churches in America. Anyway, the Shout card rattles the whole arena, shaking 25 percent of the opponent’s points right off the board. It was a devastating blow, but Zama stole them right back with the Hustle card and won the day. Now she’ll play either Anubis or Spade in the finals.

  Me: Who do you think will win the Desert?

  Anubis is from Kansas City, and Spade is from somewhere here in France. I know this because they both put their location in their profile, which Emerald and I urge players not to do every chance we get. For players’ protection, we encourage everyone to keep themselves anonymous.

  Emerald: Definitely Anubis. Have you seen the coin on that man? Over a million.

  I blink in surprise. Over a million? I put my phone down, turn back to my computer, and click on Anubis’s name in my “most recent” list. Sure enough, his SLAY coin count reads 1,305,200. That equates to months and months and months of game play, hundreds of duels won, and thousands of items sold. Curious, I check his inventory and realize he’s full up on armor. He must be forging it in the Desert somewhere and selling it to players in other regions. It makes sense. Sand lends itself to crafting, since it can easily be turned into metal, and the Desert provides few other resources on which characters could thrive. Harsh living conditions and abundant sand mean high barriers to entry, and low-cost manufacturing.

  Either that, or he’s got real-life friends who play, and they’ve all pooled their money into one character to boost their economy of scale. In-game merchants will usually offer deals on large numbers of items sold at a time, tossing in extra items for free. Carrying a lot of SLAY coins at once can also boost your in-game influence. People are a lot more likely to trade items with or do favors for a character who has a lot of SLAY coins to give away, or use to buy them things. I’ve seen that happen too.

  Emerald is typing again.

  Emerald: He could buy every single card in the game if he wants and study them.

  She’s right. Players can learn the cards one of three ways: using them in duels and learning as they go, trading cards with other players for resources and outfits, or buying access to the cards outright with SLAY coins. It’s why Emerald and I rarely battle anyone but each other. Since we have editing rights to all the cards, it wouldn’t be fair to other players. Most of them haven’t even seen all the cards, since they can cost anywhere from two hundred coins, for something common like the Innovation card, to half a million coins for something rare like the J’s card—the one with the big picture of glistening white shoes with gold wings on the sides. Basketball shoes have a cultlike following in the US, so Emerald insisted the card should have a similar following, and it’s a useful card too, boosting jumping ability by 70 percent.

  Me: But then why is Anubis in the tournament? What’s he playing for?

  The prize is 100,000 coins. What in the world does Anubis, Sir Rich AF, need another 100,000 coins for?

  Emerald: Maybe he’s just greedy? Maybe he’s trying to overthrow me because he doesn’t know how programming works? No idea. Can’t sleep. Wanna battle?

  My heart sinks as I look at the clock again. Merde, it’s already seven o’clock! Did I really study that long? I only have thirty minutes to make the forty-minute journey to class!

  Me: Can’t, sorry. I have to get to class. But I’ll be back online in time to officiate the desert semifinals tonight, promise!

  I hope she’s not too disappointed. There’s nothing I love more than battling Emerald, when I have the time. But I don’t even have time to wait for a reply. I put my computer to sleep, slip my denim vest with the cutoff sleeves off my chair, and slide into it. I grab my backpack and I’m out the door, down the stairs, and running through the streets of Paris to get to the train at Gare d’Austerlitz. I live in the thirteenth arrondissement, and my university is in the fifth arrondissement, so I have to sprint, with my schoolbag bouncing against my hip the whole way to the train, to make it on time. I can’t get Anubis out of my mind. I’ve never seen a balance that high. Maybe we need to start offering more purchase incentives? Or increase the price of upgrades?

  It feels strange to wield that kind of power from the comfort of my flat—to be able to change the economics of an entire virtual community with a little coding. Emerald addresses every SLAYer as a king or a queen. “We’re all royalty,” she always says. I guess if everyone in the game is royalty, that makes me and Emerald kind of like goddesses.

  I smile at that idea as I dart onto the train and spot an empty seat next to a slender older woman with a gorgeous red Louis Vuitton handbag. She doesn’t see me. She’s immersed in a book called Amour et Fantaisie with a gold-imprinted cover. I look around to see if anyone else is going to take the seat, and when I decide to take it for myself and let go of the pole, she looks up at me. At first I think she’s looking over her glasses to see me better—they might be reading glasses after all. But then she takes that gorgeous Louis Vuitton, slides it on over into the empty seat, stares up at me again, and turns her attention back to the book.

  I turn around so she can’t see my face flushing, hoping to keep up the illusion that I didn’t want the seat anyway, that I was just getting situated and now I’m on my phone not caring. The train lurches forward, and the inertia throws me backward against a middle-aged man in a suit, and I hurriedly apologize, “Excusez-moi. Vous allez bien?” and he looks up at me and nods with a smile and a courteous “Pas de problème! Votre français est parfait. D’où êtes-vous?” which translates literally to “I’m fine. Your French is perfect. Where are you from?” or, more loosely, “Where are you from, since obviously you’re not native to Paris?”

  My cheeks are burning, and my eyes are getting cloudy, and I wonder if everyone in America is as nice as that couple in my neighbor’s flat.

  Sometimes I think I relate more to tourists than native Parisians.

  “La putain de toundra,” I say.

  The fucking Tundra.

  4. A ZERO-SUM GAME

  * * *

  The keyboarding exam goes exactly the way I expect it to go. I finish in fifteen minutes and sit there slumped in my seat for the last forty-five minutes of class, staring at the computer desktop, unable to look at my phone, unable to ask Cicada how the turnout for the Desert Semifinals is looking. She was supposed to finish up renovations to the Desert arena before the duel, but I haven’t heard yet what she’s actually done. Harper glances over her shoulder at me, as if she’s trying to absorb exam answers via diffusion. I shake my head and try not to laugh. It’s keyboarding. We’re taking it as seniors because even the senior version is the easiest elective we could pick.

  The hardest question on the whole exam was Which finger is correctly used to operate the backspace key? and by “hardest,” I mean the only question on the exam to make me pause before marking my answer.

  Harper finally lets out a sigh and minimizes her screen, indicating that she’s done, just as the bell wails from the hall. I have no idea if she’s actually done, or if she just realized she was out of time and decided to quit.

  I ask her in the hallway on the way to lunch.

  “Oh, you know,” she says, her answer when she has no answer or just isn’t paying attention. She’s totally engrossed in something on her phone. “So, Kix,” she continues. I think she’s about to launch into th
at question about the dreadlocks again until she thankfully says, “I saw you finished in, like, five minutes.”

  I don’t know what she wants me to say to this, so I let her keep talking. I think that’s partially why we’ve been friends for so long—she fills the spaces I would otherwise leave silent.

  “I feel like these exams are getting unfair. I mean, how do you make the exams a hundred percent of our grade and then make them that brutal?”

  A voice chimes in with a laugh from behind us. “Did I just hear you say you think keyboarding is brutal?”

  We both turn to see Wyatt just before he throws his arms around both our shoulders. He smells like hair gel and way too much body spray, and I shove his hand off my shoulder.

  “Uh, yeah, I did,” says Harper, shoving his other hand off her shoulder and brushing her bangs off her forehead.

  “And you’ve got nerve to laugh at us,” she continues, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. “You’re in junior keyboarding. Wait till you’re a senior next year, and they’ll hit you with these weird-ass hard questions, and I won’t be able to hear you whine all the way from my dorm at Princeton.”

  “Doubt I will.” He shrugs, pulling his own phone from his pocket. “It’s just keyboarding. Let me know when they start asking C++ or Java questions. Then I might actually need to study. Maybe if you played more Legacy of Planets, you’d be as good with computers as I am. Oh, hey, Kiers, when are we doing that interview?”

  I cringe inside and consider pretending I didn’t hear him, but before I can even open my mouth to protest, he’s talking again.