3. Bright Lights and Harsh Noises

Sonnet calls. His voice is the first I hear the morning after Sunday’s marathon DXZ Gauntlet. I took the day off in advance. Ranzio’s next audio engineering breakthrough can wait 24 hours, I think. My head’s still pounding from last night. The old reliable coffee/aspirin/protein shake breakfast combo should start dealing with that anytime now, though my intestines’ll pay later. I’m in the bleed now, where a not-unpleasant feed of headlines covering last night’s tourney encompass my field of vision. My favorite: “Kingfish out of Water; Can’t Crack the Tough Shells.” I flick it into Sonnet’s DMs.

“Nice,” he says approvingly. His voice is gentle and bright.

“Yeah,” I respond, “maybe Edmondo’ll be a little more hands-off now.” Leading up to the Gauntlet, Edmondo mandated thrice-a-week check-ins where he’d make sure we were getting our training hours in and meeting projected milestones. Of course, we’ve never had any trouble meeting his standards. We’re all three professionals. That’s not the problem. The problem is Edmondo treating us like children. I don’t need to explain this to Sonnet. I think it irks him more than me.

“Edmondo, hands-off?” Sonnet scoffs. “We’ll see.” Well, no check-in notification yet this morning. So far, so good. Another ten minutes of automatic feed-sucking on both our ends before I hear another word. Sonnet clears his throat before speaking. Surprised his pop filters didn’t catch that. “Hello? Google?”

“Yeah?”

“I saw Barley logged on. Wanna meet up, the three of us? Not to grind any more Bank It!, just load up a social lobby and talk.”

“Sure,” I say, hoping my surprise doesn’t come through too much, “You got somewhere in mind?”

“Yeah.”

Sonnet’s chosen meeting place is a nightclub. Deep purples and greens splash the shadowed walls. Strobe lights dance across barstools and cushioned benches. We’re in a private instance, which renders the vibes slightly uncanny. A dry bar. A barren dance floor. Quiet, save some warbling midcentury EDM bouncing hollow off the walls. I feel the need to make conversation, to fill this space somehow.

“Interesting choice,” I say, my eyes following a strobe light beam as it swings across Sonnet’s collarbone. The beam is a solid, bisecting all in its path. Sonnet only locks eyes with me because he believes himself still living. He does not realize that his body is digitizing this very moment, his low-profile Adam’s apple losing definition first, the blue shockwave of the end pixelating his jaw next, then rising up to his eyes until they too lose their superficial essence, transmuted by the real essence behind them, the code that structures Naturata’s fundamental principles. I wait for the coins to fall, but he is empty, nothing inside his flat textures warped to three dimensions, a ghost like me.

Sonnet continues to stare, which should be impossible, except it’s happening. I remember now that he never was gone. A trick of the light. I go to rub my eyes, but my knuckles only smear against the cold plastic of my headset. Why would I try that anyway? Haven’t I spent enough hours in Naturata to know its boundaries?

“Google, you OK?” Sonnet’s voice is still soft, though I can hear some of that familiar edge scraping along the undertones. That snaps me out of it. I stand up straight, reorient my vision. He looks genuinely worried. Oh, and Barley’s here too. I groan. They’ve both got enough to bear already.

“Fine, just wiped from last night,” I say. It’s a harmless lie. Not even a lie, really. I’m sure there’s a connection, though I don’t feel like finding one.

“We should sit,” Barley says, and even though I know “we” means “you,” I’m glad to accept. My knees feel unglued at the joints. We walk a few steps to a U-shaped booth upholstered in turquoise velvet. In meatspace, my body slides into the headroom’s single chair and goes ragdoll. “So,” Barley starts, turning to Sonnet, “what’s going on?”

“I want to catch up with my teammates. What’s wrong with that?”

A nasty suspicion grows in the nape of my neck. “This isn’t for your rotcast, is it?” I’ve seen enough intimate moments exploited on stream. Sonnet doesn’t seem like that type of ‘caster, but then again, maybe I don’t know him that well. The thought takes me aback. Seems strange to think such a thing about someone I spend so much time around. I suppose I think of the Tough Shells as coworkers. They’re that, certainly. Nothing else, though? This train of thought will loop my brain in the wee hours of the morning, I predict.

“Google,” Sonnet says, the sincerity in his voice throwing me, “look me in the eye.”

I do. I take in his hazel irises mounded around unshifting dark pupils. The eyes are one area where Naturata’s immersion breaks. The simulation succeeds in so many areas, and yet it cannot convincingly recreate the turmoiled cosmos glistening in a scoop of jelly. Sonnet blinks, temporarily obscuring his round brown eyes. His rig’s got next-gen facerec, same as mine. When his lids open again, his pupils flick briefly to Barley, then back to me.

More important is what I don’t see. I don’t see saturated, haloed red circles blotting out Sonnet’s pupils. He’s not recording. Not through any above-board software, at least. I sigh. Could have looked before tossing out accusations. Gotta get my head in order. The urge to apologize flickers briefly in my head and dies before any words manage to form.

“How did you manage to get away?” I ask instead, “I thought you guys were always on.”

“First off, I’m not a rotcaster,” Sonnet retorts, “My stream only goes about sixteen hours a day. I don’t go for the rotter micro-niches. Sleepwatchers and all them. Second, I got away for a toilet break. Don’t stream those; there’s another micro-niche I don’t go for.”

“Your invitation is appreciated,” says Barley, giving me a look to make sure we’re on the same page, “We can all use a break.” She’s right. When I’m not at work or grinding Bank It!, I’m doomsuckling in the bleed, which is a form of escape that always leaves me feeling more trapped by the end.

“I used to come here all the time,” Sonnet says. He waves his hands at the nightclub edifice around us. “Best club in Chiang Rak. Either of you party?”

Barley and I shake our heads. “We don’t have this kind of place where I live,” she says.

“Same,” I add. Well, I’ve heard about raves a little farther south, but that’s a hike, and the floodstreets get sketchy at night. These are secondary considerations, of course. I can admit to myself that this is not my scene.

“You’re missing out, both of you. When I was seventeen, this place changed my life. I spent practically every weekend here for a couple years. Just dancing and dancing and getting in the flow. I’d still be dancing, if. . .” he falters. Neither Barley or I jump in to fill the void. I suddenly find myself staring at the table. “Well, I can still visit in here.”

“It’s not the same,” Barley says. I glare at her, but Sonnet seems unfazed.

“You’re right.” He stands up. “Come. I want to show you something.”

I stand, feeling steadier on my feet now. As Sonnet leads us toward the stage set at one end of the dancefloor, he talks.

“This place is aboveground, so people don’t start lining up until the sun’s gone down a few hours. I was always in the early crowds. I’d show up around twenty-three, maybe midnight. Then everyone would get in, and it’d be magic for hours that feel like minutes. All of us in our own worlds, until we’d get together at the end of the night.” Sonnet opens a door beside the stage. A gentle light pours in from the threshold, cutting through the nightclub’s haze. He gestures for me and Barley to follow.

We’re on a balcony deep and wide enough to hold maybe a hundred people. The whole place is aglow with predawn twilight. When, following Sonnet, I approach the rail, I see the throat of a river running parallel to us. The churning surface is tinted in the club’s neon green glow. Yet the sun slowly encroaches, gilding the chop.

“The Chao Phraya,” Sonnet says. The river’s name has a familiar ring. Perhaps he has mentioned it before, in passing.

“It’s stunning,” I say.

“Just wait.” Sonnet points to the horizon. On the other side of the river, the jagged finials of a ruined temple puncture the sky. As the sun rises behind our backs, the pitched roof of the temple’s central hall shimmers gold. “We’d come out here for each sunrise. All us stragglers, no matter how spent or out of our heads we were. And for the first time all night, we’d shut up.”

I imagine crashing ravers in silent reverie. I can almost see them with my eyes open, adrift and scattered along the deck. I wonder whether this ritual continues still, if I could ever partake in the flesh. In a way, I feel like I already have. Barley says it’s not the same. I have trouble seeing how it’s not.

“Do you practice, Sonnet?” Barley asks. Her words bring me back to the moment. For some stretch of time, I’d fallen out of counting the moments. Almost felt like there was just the one moment, going on forever.

“No. Tried for a while. Didn’t get much out of it,” Sonnet replies, and I realize this topic has been spurred by the sight of the temple. “You?”

“My family,” Barley says, nonchalant. Even she cannot maintain her edges here. This is a place of softness.

“Oh yeah?” Sonnet’s interest is piqued. Can’t blame him. Barley doesn’t usually give us much to work with. Any nugget of personal info is a prize. “Any of them serious?”

“Some. My mother was a burner.”

Sonnet’s posture shifts. His shoulders go up a bit, his neck stiffens. Though his eyes hold a static shape in Naturata, I suspect they widen in meatspace. Whatever a burner is, he knows and doesn’t like it. He rearranges himself quickly enough. Barley’s reply puts him in disarray for maybe three seconds, and then he’s back to playing cool and collected. There’s a little ripple in his jaw, like he’s swallowing the questions he wants to ask. We both know that’s not the way with Barley. Pry too hard and she’ll clap shut.

“My Mama was religious, you know,” I say, “maybe not the same, but—”

“You were right,” Sonnet cuts me off, likely because we’re moving out of small talk territory and not in the right direction, “when I invited you, you both expected this to be more than a social call, and you were right.” There it is. I don’t say anything, because I want to see where this is going. “I wanted this to be private, away from Ranzio-hosted training lobbies and big public tourneys. I stopped recording, even. It’s important. Look, I don’t want to sound paranoid, but I’ve been hearing things from my viewers, things I’ve seen echoed in bubbles across Naturata. I spend a lot of time in here, right, and I keep my ear out for anything interesting.”

“What is your point?” Barley, her typical self again.

“They’re saying MultiCo’s boosting security. Limiting join codes for Bank It! viewers, adding more ‘anti-exploit’ background processes, updating post-’84 protocols, maybe signing a fat new contract with Vaiiya.”

“More security. OK,” I say, not sure what it’s supposed to mean. Unless. . .

“Why would MultiCo beef up protection now, right before the season starts, unless they’re afraid of something?” His question borders on heresy, and his tone says he knows it. “Maybe it’s just caution, but what if it’s not? What if they know something we don’t? What if CNS is back?”

We’re quiet then. Barley looks thoughtful, maybe; I can never really tell. She talks first. “All good questions. Thank you for your insight, Sonnet.”

“Hey, just trying to give everyone a heads-up,” he says, “Let you know if I hear anything else.” Barley nods her head in a wide arc. Probably the only way her headset’ll register the motion.

My headset rumbles a ringtone behind my ears. I pull up the caller’s Registered User Number. It’s Edmondo’s rune. The others must be getting the same call. Barley looks to us.

“We should take this,” she says.

I groan before nodding to accept the call. He was bound to check in eventually. I prepare a summary of the past few days’ training in my head. In the three seconds spent transferring my digital body from Sonnet’s nightclub to the Ready Room, I summon logs from the last few scrimmages. We’ve been killing it. I look forward to wiping the smug look off Edmondo’s face as he looks for something to criticize. He usually keeps it short if we’re making good progress. Fine by me. I’d prefer to spend as little time as possible in that claustrophobic red infinity.

I port in a little disoriented. We’re not in the Ready Room, and Edmondo’s not alone.

“Hello, Tough Shells!” he exclaims, throwing his arms up. He’s sitting on the edge of a C-shaped executive desk framed by a large aquarium tank behind. He’s hunched, casual, not the Edmondo I know how to deal with. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Say hello to Angela.”

Angela is tall, platinum blonde, and terrifying. She’s uncanny valley gorgeous. When she smiles, it’s so effortlessly natural that I have a hard time remembering we’re all made up of little triangles in here. The airy flow of her gait, the fine details of her facerec—I’ve gotta ask what kind of rig she’s running.

Angela walks up, giving a light, casual wave of her hand as she approaches. I look to my right, where Barley and Sonnet must be as puzzled as I am. Barley shows it on her face. Sonnet only smiles.

“You’ve all been doing so well, we thought it prudent to polish your image in a way that suits your status, especially with the momentous nature of this season,” Edmondo says. He’s being friendly. It’s offputting. “Angela’s to be your public relations liaison.”

“So excited to begin,” she says, “I hear you’ve shown great potential in the games.”

“Thank you,” I say, earning an eye roll from Edmondo. There he is.

“Just so you know, I’m not much of a sports person, but I’ve done my research. Your performance in the DXZ Gauntlet was a complete blowout. The way you adapted on the fly in that last match—that is what the fans want to see. You’re strategic, yet engaging. Coordinated, yet flexible. Archetypical, too. We can play into that.”

“Quick learner” Sonnet remarks. “What do you mean by archetypical?”

“It’s obvious, right?” Angela sounds giddy, “First off, you cover all three classes. Compositions like triple-zephyr or triple-stalwart make for novel one-trick-ponies, but they don’t have your versatility. The Tough Shells are classic. Second, your temperaments match your playstyles. Sonnet, you’re the hotheaded diver. You play for clips, and we’ll use that. My marketing people will make sure your best plays infect the algorithm.”

She turns to Barley next. “And you, the brains-and-brawn mistress of death. The team captain. Right now, you’re underutilized. We need to get you in front of cameras. I want interviews. I want promos.”

“She doesn’t have any media training, you know,” Edmondo says, “none of them do.”

“Ah, we can see to that,” Angela waves a dismissive hand, keeping her eyes on Barley, “For you, love, I think it’s best if we keep the rough edges. You’re authentic. People love that.”

Barley snorts. Angela smiles even wider. And then there’s me.

“Google, Google, Google. Our tether to the diehards, not to mention our brand ambassador. We’ll develop a social profile for you, tailor it to the gamblers, the fantasy leaguers, the esoteric bloggers. Play up your prodigal trajectory. An engineering genius turned world-class contestant. Stories like yours validate the game as more than frivolity.” Angela pauses, scanning us all, and a suspicion buds in the back of my skull. I push it away. Shouldn’t jump to conclusions. “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Sonnet says, “Why now? We aren’t as far along as we ended up last season. Why put so much behind us before the season properly begins?”

Edmondo answers. “If you’re not pleased with our generous support, please take it up with Miss Calliope Cambria. She seems to think now is the time for a campaign.”

“And I happen to agree,” Angela says, practically rushing over Edmondo’s words, “Better to start now, before you’re in the global spotlight. Control the narrative right from the humble beginnings. We’ll begin with a focus on perseverance. You fell last season, but that didn’t drain an ounce of determination. Now you’re back and ready to fight for a place in the centenary finals.”

While Angela goes on, I’m scanning Ranzio’s employee databases for anyone under her name. Seven matches for “Angela,” but none in marketing or PR. Must not be a full-timer. I pull our contractor files, suppressing a sigh. This would be easier if I had her rune. She comes up private in our current meeting. I double-check Edmondo’s rune. That’s really him. Can’t be too insidious, then. Plenty of people have their reasons for privacy.

“Now comes the fun part.” Angela is still talking. “We’re going to fashion a proper identity for the Tough Shells. Something that connects with the fanbase. And Ranzio’s brand, of course. Would you do the honors, Edmondo?”

Edmondo produces a remote from his suit coat. To his left, a strip of ceiling perpendicular to his desk folds inward. A wardrobe-sized glass case begins to descend. They’re playing up the theatrics. I suspect this is being recorded. For what reason, I’m less sure; a request from Cambria? A presentation to show stockholders where their money’s going? Footage for a post-tournament documentary?

These thoughts skid like a first-time ice skater when I see what’s in the case. My walls of cynicism don’t erode, but a jolt of innocent joy manages to vault right over them.

Uniforms.

In the past, we’ve styled ourselves in cheap cosmetics, our unassuming pseudo-tactical outfits plastered across the back with Ranzio’s hypersimplified round “R” sigil. This is new, sleek, stunning. Bubbles of stormcloud amethyst break up glossy white lines. Silver accents glint along the joints and trim. Each uniform coheres with the others, and yet they’re each distinct. Where Sonnet’s top is a slim fit, Barley’s is padded into the shape language of a retrofuturist astronaut. And mine—high-collar vest over a baggy tee, baggy pants laced in belts and buckles serving no discernible purpose, and platformed combat boots. I mark the fashions as pure ‘30s cyberpunk techwear.

“What do you think?” Angela asks. I manage to thaw enough to answer. Better to give a good show if this is being recorded, after all.

“I like it.” Though there are many more thoughts in my head, this is the only consensus I can manage.

“Heavy on the Ranzio colors,” Sonnet remarks. Perhaps he does not appreciate the reminder that we are not our own.

And Barley says nothing. I imagine she thinks this is too much.

“You need to stand out,” says Angela, like she’s selling us an airboat, “When you’re on the world stage, facing teams like the High Notes or the Overdogs, we don’t want you to simply be the faceless opponents everyone’s rooting against.” She’s right. The High Notes are a band first and contestants second; the Overdogs are defined by their stunts.

I’m not thinking so much about what she’s saying right now, though. What I’m thinking about is the way she moves her lips and eyes. I am immersed in the crease of her cheeks and the laughter lines that come into being around her eyes when she gives each diplomatic smile. She is almost tangible, and this is the root of my suspicions. Angela is too perfectly human to be one.

“Keep up,” Sonnet says, near enough my ear to top the threshold of my voice chat settings. When he speaks again, he’s a couple meters away again. “Let’s see yours, Google.”

He and Barley have donned their uniforms. Mine alone remains sealed in the display. I open my HUD and tab over to my notifications. The gift is attributed to Ranzio Audio Electronics. I tap to accept and equip.

Nothing materially changes. I do not feel heavier or lighter. The fit does not feel snug or airy. Yet when I look down, I am transformed. It is something like being named. I’m not restrained by a virtual closet of cheap default-model recolors. I am different. I am singular.

“We’ll just have you sign this form, shoot a quick social loop, and the uniforms are yours.” Though Angela says it like it’s nothing, I can’t help but stiffen. My comfort zone isn’t in front of a camera. Maybe it’s an arbitrary resistance, considering I’ve already played in one World Tourney—the most widely-viewed event series on the planet—and I’m prepping for another. My stomach, never countered with reason, tightens until I get the urge to void it.

“This form says we’re bound to wear the uniform until our contract expires,” Barley says, plain and unaccusatory.

Edmondo confirms what Barley’s reading. “It’s boilerplate. Every sponsor uses similar language. You must have seen how other teams wear theirs in every public appearance surrounding the games.” I feel I should be upset, except the uniform is a dream come true and the least of my concerns. Contract or no contract, I’m wearing the uniform every moment I’m in Naturata. I quickly sign mine. If it becomes a sticking point with Barley and Sonnet later, I’ll tell them I signed before reading it.

“Huh.” Sonnet doesn’t sound upset either. Well, not violently so, at least. Maybe a little bummed. “You know, I always thought it was a pride thing. Wearing the uniforms. A sign of dedication to the game, like this is who you are.”

“Love that angle,” says Angela, “Let it mean what you want it to mean.”

I can picture Sonnet rolling his eyes in meatspace, though his digital eyes are difficult to read behind his new transparent purple visor. Sonnet and Barley both appear still. They must be reading through the form. Or making a hard decision. Over the next 30 seconds, Edmondo clears his throat several times and Angela clasps her hands in front of her dress, swaying gently in some unfelt breeze.

“I signed,” Sonnet says, after a long pause. “How about you guys?”

I nod. “Barley?” She doesn’t respond. I shoot Sonnet a wary look.

“Can I assume that my future with the Tough Shells is contingent on signing this document?” she finally asks. No one says anything, though Edmondo looks considerably less bored now. My brain is going to kill me if this keeps up. It has already sent my heart into a frenzy.

I glance furtively around the room, searching for five green things: the thin olive carpet reminiscent of astroturf; the trim of a bookcase; an entrepreneurial self-help piece on one of its shelves titled Plato’s Profits: Finding the Forms of Success; a rooftop garden on the condo tower across from Edmondo’s suite; a perpetually steaming mug on his desk. With that done, I try to pick out four distinct sounds. I tend to run out of grounding techniques quick in the bleed. Fewer senses to engage.

“Thank you,” Edmondo finally says, his lips pursing. “Now that’s done, you’ll be getting an invite to the studio. Angela will take it from here.”

Angela vanishes, presumably going ahead of us to the studio lobby.

“You asked, ‘why now?’” Edmondo says, straightening his tie with an expression that says he knows it’s completely unnecessary. “The answer is simple: last season, you were Miss Cambria’s pet project. This season, the company at large has taken an interest. Enjoy the attention, and recognize what it means for failure.”

Then we’re whisked away, peeling into a dimension of bright lights and harsh noises.

---

“Sometimes I don’t know how to talk to you,” Pops says. He takes my hand to scramble over a waist-high boulder slick from the stream running alongside us. “Feels like your generation lives in a different world.”

“Come on,” I protest, “it’s not that different. You’re not that old. You were born post-simulacrum.”

“Yeah, but it was different back then. Your gramma kept me off that shit. I went to school right here in the real world. I played my games on a flatscreen.”

I roll my eyes. If I tell him he’s being a typical breaker, he’ll either get on me for disrespect or say that’s what they called the older folks in his day too. Either way, I’ve heard it before and don’t need a replay. I close my eyes and focus on how the simmering May air wraps my skin like sheet plastic. Though the Gunpowder River is beautiful this time of year, I’m not here for the sights. Naturata can bring me to Gunpowder, the Thames, or the Nile with a thought. I am here for what bleeding cannot replicate. I am here to experience humidity and the cool touch of boulders. I am here to inhale pine.

“I’ve been getting this dream,” I tell Pops, “where I’m in the bleed playing Bank It!. I lock in the last cashout and the crowd goes wild like it’s the ‘70 championship game. I feel great. Everything’s great. Then I’m ported back to the Ready Room, so I take my headset off and go to the bathroom. I run the sink and splash my face. But I can’t feel it. I can’t feel the water. It’s like I’m still in there, bleeding, but there’s no headset to pull off. Just my fingers digging at my scalp, and I can’t feel that either.”

Pops claps my shoulder and gives a hearty chuckle. “Don’t need no interpretation for that one.”

“I don’t know. The thing is, after the shock, I liked it.”

Then we’re both silent, listening to the constant fizz of the river’s friction along the rocks. This is the closest I’ve gotten to asking Pops for help in years. I don’t like it. The driven, independent young professional I’ve cultivated in my head chips a little at the corner.

“Remember Su? From the greenblocks?” Pops asks, and I squint while I try to remember. My dad spent all his good years on those Trentila tenant farms. He had a good many friends from the greenblocks over while I was growing up. Su doesn’t ring any particular bells. I shake my head.

“Well, Su and me have been talking. She ain’t retired yet, but she’s spending less time in her block, letting her family pick up more of the load, so she’s got more time to hang at the grange house with the rest of us oldheads.” Pops catches my smirk. “Nah, it’s not like that. I bring it up because she got a daughter about your age. Rahmat. You were probably in co-op with her. Now she works Su’s block. Been putting solar in the autotractors, she says. Sounds bright.”

I don’t remember Rahmat either, though I see what he’s getting at now. “You think I need more friends.”

“Don’t you?”

“Maybe.” I stop myself from saying I have friends in Naturata, because that’ll rub him the wrong way, and it’s not quite right anyhow. I have friends in meatspace whom I know through Naturata. Except that’s not right either. Meatspace Quinn is not Naturata Google. I don’t truly know the extent to which Barley or Sonnet exists outside the bleed.

Even as I make these qualifications and distinctions, I have trouble seeing their value. I want to see what Pops sees in the facts of matter. I want to know why my body is so drawn to a world my mind has long vacated. When I boil it down, I don’t feel particularly unique. Who doesn’t want to resolve their contradictions?

“Gonna get hotter these next few weeks.” Pops wipes the hem of his collar against his brow. “Then hotter again after that. This is the nicest it’ll be ‘till October.”

So despite the way the heat hangs in the air and teases the energy out of my deep tissue, despite the buzz of mosquitoes and the gravelly rumble of a distant train that shakes the trees on its westward passage, I take the opportunity to appreciate where I am. When the grass turns gray and the competitive season starts in earnest, I will remember this as the time when things were cool and quiet.