15. Turin

It’s weird to see your life reduced down to a couple duffle bags, a backpack, and a hard-shell plastic PC carrier. Somehow, it’s less than I expected.

Once everything’s folded, all my clothes fit neatly into one bag. The other duffle I save for the old gadgets on my shelves, their value mainly sentimental. I stuff the backpack with stuff I might need during the trip: toiletries, snacks, a single change of clothes. I tuck a canister of pepper spray deep into one of the bag’s innermost pockets. For peace of mind, I guess. I look over the apartment I’ve made barren in the span of a couple hours. Then I turn to the bags gathered at the door. If Ranzio were to have me toss all this out, I’d be set back maybe three months’ salary. The computer and headset accounts for eighty percent of that, maybe more. All in all, it’s not much. Most of what I own is in there, not out here.

I don’t really sleep the night before my departure. Not that I don’t try. I start by laying down and closing my eyes. Simple enough. My brain just won’t stop chugging. Then I try a drowsycast, one with mellow chimes and a droning artificial voice. That goes on for a few hours. Nothing. I open my meditation app around four in the morning. I do everything it says. I tense my muscles one at a time, then release. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I try visualizing lush forests and serene oceans. No matter what I do, my mind ends up back in Century Stadium. Opponents tackle me in waves. My body pumps adrenaline, but it doesn’t matter. I’m never quick enough, never decisive enough. I see myself die again and again. I watch my tokens dwindle. This is my happy place. Usually it’s happier. Usually I’m the one doing the coining. Usually I can close the shutters when it’s time to rest. Not tonight.

There’s a knock on the door around seven-thirty. I don’t remember checking the clock past six, so it’s possible I managed a nap. I’m bleary-eyed, stiff-jointed, and in desperate need of deodorant. Also hungry. I could put some effort into freshening up before I answer the door, but I suspect they don’t want to wait. Me neither, actually.

I open the door to a man and woman, both taller than me. Both have their high-collar white coats zipped up all the way. Must not be used to the cold.

“Quinn Miller?” The woman taps the ID card pinned over her heart. It bears her face and her name: Gia Campe. Her English is accented, but perfectly clear. “We’re with Ranzio.” As if I didn’t already know. I nod. “The airfield’s not far—about fifteen kilometers. You have some time while the jet refuels, if you would like to prepare for the journey. Perhaps a shower—”

“I’m fine,” I say. I don’t like this in-betweenness. I can’t stand looking at my empty home. “Can we go?”

“Yes,” says Campe, “We will carry your bags.” When she says this, the man scoops up my duffels. Campe slips my backpack over one shoulder and double-grips my computer case.

“Careful with that,” I warn.

“Understood,” she says in a tone of deference. I’m a little surprised. I thought Edmondo would send the rudest people he could scrounge up. Maybe he wants to keep up appearances. After all, I am a VIP. I’m the one choosing to converge with my comrades in the city of our gracious sponsor, taking advantage of their state-of-the-art facilities for the last sprint of the World Tourney. That’s the story. Of course I’m in charge, as long as I don’t veer off course.

Before boarding, Campe has her partner sift through my bags. Standard procedure, she assures me. He finds the pepper spray, then slips it back into place at a nod from Campe. For some reason, that feels worse than throwing it away.

The plane is cozy. It’s like a luxury suite fit to the dimensions of a bus. Plenty of plush seating in the main cabin, a massive roundscreen, a drink cart like you see in old movies. In the back it looks like there’s a sleeping cabin and a small kitchen. Hard to feel trapped in a cell this nice.

The crew’s six in total: two pilots, a chef, an attendant, and the two uniforms who picked me up. Everyone gives me space. As the plane steers along the runway, I’m alone with Campe in the main cabin. We both buckle in. I pull my window curtain aside. The interior’s nice, but I want to see this more. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to leave the earth without leaving meatspace.

The engines roar. Despite their noise, we don’t move all that quickly. Not at first. I’m wondering if we’re ever going to lift off when the thrust presses me into my chair. The rest happens in a span of seconds. My seat rattles. The ground speeds into a blur, then clarifies again as the ride smoothes out and the pavement falls away.

I see everything I’ve ever known to be solid, and it steals my breath. It’s so small now. The places so neatly divided in my head collapse into each other. Distance smudges it together. The landscape peels and it’s all abstract. This is not how I’m used to seeing things. I’m used to periscoping, I think. The part that gets me is how little detail is lost. The world retains its depth, but now each shape casts its shadow on another. It’s engrossing to watch geometric gray carve through swaths of unshapely growth. To see the encroaching waterways, and to realize my home is a raft I was weighing down.

Soon, though, the alternating stripes of leaf-bare forest and human architecture vanish completely into a vast, unending ocean. I watch for a while longer, but it starts to get boring. It’s beautiful, sure, but not stimulating. I turn back to the interior, where the attendant asks me about food preferences while Campe watches intently. I ask her how long we’ve got. She says six hours.

“Help yourself to anything,” she adds, “There are bunks and lavatories in the back. There is something for you on the lower bunk. I am told it is a gift.”

I waste no time going to investigate. As Campe said, there’s a gift box on the bunk. It’s cardboard, similar to a shoebox but double the width, and the Ranzio logo’s printed all over it. I gently remove the lid.

It’s my uniform. It’s all there. The loose white t-shirt, the strap-covered pants, the collared purple vest. Even the platform boots. I’m impressed, and despite the circumstances, a little giddy. The Overdogs have meatspace uniforms. I’m certain Ranzio has their own cynical reasons for the gift, but for me, it’s a dream made material. I change in the lavatory and return to the main cabin.

“What do you think?” I ask Campe.

“Is it to your liking?” An obvious deflection. I smile. I’ve actually managed to make the scary woman guarding me uncomfortable.

“It is,” I say. It really is. I return to my seat and let the tailored fabrics cling to my flesh.

“We’re at cruising altitude. You’re free to roam the plane.”

I nod along, but the jet’s fancy features end up going unexplored, because I spend the next six hours mostly in my head. The Bank It! nightmare is over, though I’m not sure if what replaces it is an improvement. Now it’s all Pops or Rahmat. Replayed conversations and, worse, invented future ones. I find myself critical of comments I haven’t had the chance to make. And when I bat one scenario away, another leaps up. I know they’re only here to prick me with guilt and make me second-guess the decisions that have gotten me here. Knowing doesn’t help much. What would help is a lightshow or an orchestra playing at two-times speed. What would help is to dive into Naturata, to bleed and bleed.

---

Touching ground is just the beginning. Clamor echoes up the hatch. Edmondo wants to make this a show. Fine. I just want to find a headroom. Sooner I walk this gauntlet, sooner I can get to business.

The cameras assault me the moment I step off the ramp. I squint through the flash and keep walking. Campe guides me forward. Shutterbugs everywhere. Edmondo’s done everything short of rolling out a red carpet. There’s a whole lot of press, though I don’t spot any major outlets. Most of the people toting cameras and piloting film drones look to be internal. There’s at least one local journalism outfit present as well. I turn my head to give them a good angle. The rest I try to brush through. There’s a high-end sedan waiting for me on the other side. Campe clears the path and opens a door for me. I duck inside, quietly grateful. She slides into the passenger seat in front of me, and the car starts to move.

The cameras keep rolling. I watch my privacy die in the rearview. I’m no longer a strictly virtual phenomenon. Edmondo has shown the world I am flesh and blood. Taking a page from the Overdogs’ book, I guess. I can’t deny it works. A considerable chunk of the Bank It! audience goes feral for that meatspace connection. Maybe the concrete image of a body makes it all feel more real, even if that image is mediated through Naturata. The bottom line is Edmondo wanted this, and now the world knows what I look like.

I wonder if he’ll be there to greet me when we reach the Ranzio campus. That would be something. I don’t know what I’d do. Part of me says I’d throw a punch; a larger part says that’s just Google talking. I don’t know that Quinn is capable of following through. I’ve never been great at confrontations in this world. Can’t imagine I’d be good in a real fight either—I’ve built myself to Bank It! ideals. I’m fairly toned, and I’m fast, but there’s not much mass on me. 

The driver takes us onto a ribboned overpass, and we rise to meet Turin’s urban skyline. It looks like most contemporary cities I’ve seen online. There are more than private vehicles on the road. I see what look to be emergency vehicles as well, bearing the city of Turin’s seal. Interesting. I guess the old forms of government still cling on here. Can’t say the same back home or in a lot of other places. When MultiCo moves in, they don’t leave much room for the local powers-that-be.

The sky is dark on the outskirts, in sharp contrast to the city air clouded with smog and struck through with the colors of city lights. Steel-and-glass towers crowd together like blades of grass. Some of them actually have grass and other greenery cropping out from the metal in patches. One building stands out among the rest. It’s sat near a river, a broad brick pillar bearing a massive dome and topped with a ridiculous crocketed spire. If you include the spire’s height, the structure’s nearly as tall as some of the skyscrapers around it. A pretty big accomplishment, considering it looks like it was built a thousand years ago. I point at the building.

“Does Ranzio own that one?” I ask, hopeful.

“No,” says Campe, “The Ranzio campus is there, to the west.” She points at a collection of towers that resemble each other. The tallest ones are mostly transparent toward the top, baring their white bones. Some of the towers have covered bridges between them. I’ve seen images of my company’s HQ before, of course, but always in a vacuum. Harder to pick out when it’s a needle in a haystack.

Traffic doesn’t seem too dense. Our driver rarely stops. We pass by all kinds of vehicles I’ve never seen in person. The first few sports cars catch my eye. I wonder if any of them still run on gas. I also wonder if Turin’s got any form of public transit. I haven’t seen any kind of railroad yet. Maybe it’s underground. So many questions. I’ll have time to get answers over the next two weeks.

I’m not particularly tense as we head into the parking lot. Maybe I should be, but I’m more tired than anything. Plus, I don’t know what more Edmondo could do. He’s got me where he wants me. I know he won’t let me meet with Barley, at least not yet. He’ll wait until Sonnet’s plane comes in so he can shoot the whole in-the-flesh reunion for our media team. A perfect emotionally-loaded moment to mine for clips, really. Can’t blame him. Anyway, I’m tired, so I ask Campe if I can go directly to my room.

“I don’t see why not,” she says, “Your formal schedule does not begin until tomorrow.” Great. Time to get settled. I’ve got a lot of sleep to catch up on.

She leads me through a courtyard of meticulously-trimmed topiaries. I didn’t notice before, but the air is strange here. Despite the season, it’s not cold at all, and it sticks to the skin. I’m glad when we get back into the air conditioning.

My room’s on the fifth floor. It’s not drastically different from my apartment. The appliances are newer and the bed’s a size larger. Otherwise it’s typical for a studio setup. Campe stands by while I take it in. I open the door to the restroom. Big bathtub in there. Nice. I check the headroom next, opening the door across from the bed.

It’s a closet. I don’t mean it’s a tiny headroom, I mean it’s not a headroom at all. I couldn’t bleed in there if I tried, with all the shelves in the way. I’d be better off stumbling around by the bed. I groan.

“Your badge will grant access to the employee headrooms and mensa.” Campe must see I’m not following, because she hastily clarifies. “Ristorante, yes?”

“Ah,” I say. I am hungry, but I’m exhausted more than anything. Sleep first, eat later. “When do I get my badge?”

“Tomorrow. Mister D’Anzi wanted to present it in person.” I almost ask who that is. He’s always been Edmondo to me.

I’m not surprised. I’m just frustrated. “What am I supposed to do today?”

“I’ll arrange for meal deliveries to your room.”

“And how do I get into Naturata?”

Campe holds her palms up and shrugs. It’s the most expression I’ve seen from her.

“OK. Just do the meals then, I guess.” There’s a knock at the door. Campe’s partner with my bags. He must have taken a longer route from the airport. He sets the duffels just inside the doorway and lightly rests my backpack on top. At a nod from Campe, he goes out the way he came.

“Wait, where’s my computer gear?”

“Unfortunately, we have to hold that until tomorrow as well.”

“Right,” I say. I lie down. Campe takes that as a cue to leave. She leaves my room key on the nightstand.

I feel very little. Going to sleep doesn’t feel like going into anything. It feels like falling apart, like ending.

---

When I wake up, it’s still dark outside. Or it’s dark again? I hope not. My chronograph says it’s two in the morning. That’s set for standard net time, so in Turin it’s three. I wouldn’t have guessed that. In fact, I think I’ve lost my sense of time completely. My body can’t tell if it’s supposed to be night or day.

I can’t get back to sleep right away, so I pace the room. There’s a sticky note on the fridge. It just reads “FOOD.” Sure enough, there’s food inside. A plastic container full of pasta and some kind of congealed cream sauce. I devour it cold. Then I walk the room’s perimeter a few more times.

On the fifth or sixth round, I check the door. It opens. Makes me feel better, knowing they didn’t lock me in for the night. I slip my shoes on and walk down the hall. It’s bright with fluorescents. We came in from the left before, so I go right. The hall forks twice more. I keep straight until I get to the building’s end. There’s a large window, two elevators, and a stairwell. I take the elevator to the highest floor it reaches (sixty-two) and take the stairs three more levels to the roof access. Lucky for me someone left the door cracked ajar with a rubber stopper, because I don’t yet have a badge to key through the electronic lock.

The wind hits me. It’s cooler now than it was before. It’s also forceful and loud. A man sits on a patio chair and huffs a vape. He ignores me, so I ignore him and shuffle toward the edge with heavy feet.

From here I can see the whole campus. I lower my center of gravity because the shove of wind against my back elicits in me a sudden, deep, intense concern that the chest-high safety railing won’t hold. There’s something terrible about the wind. The volume and the sight of it lashing my clothes I expect. Naturata gets these details pretty spot-on. Nothing could prepare me for the hard caress of it though. Well, actually. It’s not unlike the hurricane thrill of hitching a train ride.

Rahmat will know soon enough, whether I’m the one to tell her or not. It should be me she finds out from. I stare across the campus to a taller tower situated on the north side, the purple smolder of its trademarked lettering made soft by smog, and then I look down at my phone. No service. I assume that’ll come tomorrow, along with everything else. For now, I can still write. I tap out and delete several variations of the same message. I start my first few drafts with an apology for my absence, but this is a tired format. My message history with Rahmat shows more than one message saying essentially the same thing. I haven’t been very available.

I don’t know what to say. None of the words in my head make sense on the screen. Eventually the sun cracks the horizon, and I have a dozen messy drafts. I close my notes and wish I could have slept instead. The sharpness of my feelings, usually dulled by the bleed, makes everything hurt. Since I’m not getting any solace, I might as well go back to my room and get ready for the day ahead.

Campe gets there first. She’s at my door with two coffees. I accept one. She waits outside. I find another uniform on my bed, identical to the one I wore yesterday, clean and folded. I shower and dress myself in Tough Shells livery.

“Are you satisfied?” she asks when I rejoin her in the hall. I’m taken off guard by the question before I realize she’s just asking about my stay.

“Sure,” I say.

“Follow me.” We go downstairs and take a brick path away from Ranzio’s ring of towers. A car waits for us. The same car we took yesterday.

“Wait, we’re gonna do this again? Didn’t they already break the news yesterday?”

“I follow orders.”

“Fine,” I grumble. Seems unnecessary. Then again, I’m not the expert. I take the same seat as before and the driver doubles back. Campe seems unbothered. Maybe I should follow her lead.

An unknown number rings my phone. I’m not sure how, considering I still don’t have a connection. Since this obviously isn’t a run-of-the-mill bot call, I pick up.

“Good morning, Google!” Angela cheers through my speaker.

“Hi, Angela.”

“You sound tired. Are you tired? Totally makes sense after that big trip! Don’t worry, I’m sure getting to see your team in the meatspace will bring the boost of energy you need!”

“Angela, what’s going on?” The driver’s still taking us farther from the towers.

“OK, so here’s how it’s going to work: in about ten minutes, your car is going to reach Ranzio HQ. Then you’ll be taken to the central courtyard, where you’ll reunite with the Tough Shells. Exciting, right?”

“But I was already at the headquarters.”

“Well, yes, but we don’t want to mess with continuity. This way, your fans online can watch you step off the plane and head right into the meeting. Like magic!”

I roll my eyes. I’m familiar with the idea of editing. “You don’t have to be like this, you know.”

She’s quiet for a second. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Really? Come on, you don’t have to act like everything’s still normal.” Campe stiffens in the seat ahead of me. I’m sure she’ll report everything she hears to whomever it is she reports to. I don’t care. “Angela, it’s not a secret we’re in trouble. After what happened with Barley—”

“What happened with Barley?”

“Yeah, what happened with Barley. I know this is your job, but you can be normal with me. Remember when we talked in that park? If you would just level with me, I’d appreciate it.”

“Google, I think you might be mixing things up. Nobody’s in trouble. Don’t worry—I get it. You’ve gone through some big events, and with the championship game coming up, you must have a lot on your mind.”

I slam my hand against the door. Campe’s head snaps back to watch me. I put my hands up and mouth sorry. Her lip twists, but she turns to face forward again. I bring the phone back to my ear and speak through grinding teeth.

“Are you being serious? Of course I’m going through a lot. Have you been paying attention?”

“Google, I want you to know we’re always here for you. If you’re struggling with your mental health, let me know, and I’ll make sure you get the resources you need.”

I take a deep breath and look out the window. Ranzio’s getting closer again. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Oh, nothing fancy. When you see the others, do whatever feels natural. Say ‘hi.’ Shake hands. A hug would be stellar. Then Edmondo will take you to the advanced headrooms and present your badges. From there, all you have to do is pick a room and hop into Naturata.”

“Great!” I mimic her tone, “And when do I get to meet you?”

“So, I’m actually not onsite at the moment, but we can totally link up online for a quick chat whenever you want!” She doesn’t miss a beat.

“Sounds good. Bye, Angela.” I hang up. We’re here.

The procession goes as Angela said it would. I’m led amidst the topiaries, Campe and another aide at my sides. I don’t see anyone else in the center of the green. The sun bears down hot, but I don’t sweat. My uniform is surprisingly breathable.

I see them when we break through the last labyrinthine walls of shrubbery. Barley to my left and Sonnet to my right. At least, I’m pretty sure. People are different in meatspace.

Sonnet greets me first. He waves from maybe thirty meters away. An aide pushes his wheelchair. I wave back. His slim-fitting top, seamlessly translated, makes him look thinner than I would have expected. Otherwise, he looks remarkably like his avatar. The uniform probably helps.

Barley is more surprising. She’s stocky, muscular, and a good three feet shorter than her avatar. The padding of her uniform only makes the difference clearer. It makes sense, given the intentionally intimidating stature of stalwart player models in-game, but I’m still recoiling from the dissonance. I don’t think of Barley as large strictly for her physicality. It’s everything about her. It’s the rumbling voice, the head-high posture, the unswerving will. Barley’s a person with gravitas. So it’s odd to see her smaller than me. She walks in the shadows of two Ranzio employees. Seeing her now, I don’t know how I’ve ever feared her. That’s probably shallow, but I’m not feeling particularly generous toward the team traitor and maybe-terrorist.

As Sonnet approaches, I notice he hasn’t so much as glanced at Barley. Jealousy twinges me.

“Google.” He leans forward and extends an arm. I shake his hand firmly. Angela will have to wait for her hug. I don’t think we’re there yet. Shit, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t even be talking to me if Barley hadn’t made herself a common enemy.

“Sonnet,” I say. He pushes his visor up onto his forehead, transparent amethyst sliding away to reveal hazel eyes. I wonder if he’s found a way to stay on stream even now, if one of the recorder drones orbiting the courtyard has a line to his rotcast.

What else is there to say, when a parasocial audience hangs on every word? Everything passing through my head would be better said behind closed doors. Still, we have to give them something. A nugget of real.

Barley is here. Later I’ll realize she must have staggered her approach on purpose to give Sonnet and I a moment (relatively) alone. Right now I think it’s funny the lumbering stalwart’s the last to the party, as is so often the case in-game. I look at her. I think I sneer.

“Sonnet. Google,” she turns to each of us as she says our names with a kind of reverence. Then, “It is an honor to meet you.”

“Is this really us meeting, Barley?” I ask. Have we ever met the real you? is what I want her to hear. So the cameras don’t get the wrong—or right—idea, I add, “We’ve met so many times already in the bleed, I mean.”

“No,” she says, “We have not.”

“You do seem different here,” I say.

Barley inclines her head. “And you.”

“How so?”

“She’s wrong. You look exactly the same.” Finally, Sonnet turns his head. “Tell me something, Barley. You ready to fight with us? You ready for the finals?”

“I am,” she says, “and in this game, there is no one else I would rather fight beside.”

At that, the Ranzio staff hem us in. Half the cameras fall out of orbit and into the hands of their operators. I guess they got what they were looking for. Barley said the right thing to end it. A cliche line tailor-made for loops set to violin. Great delivery too. I want to believe her. She really was a good captain, or at least an idea of her was. Maybe someday I’ll have time to properly mourn that idea.

The staff lead us inside. Sonnet trails me, and I trail Barley. Now that I get a better look at the two aides escorting her, I notice they stick out. In a sea of white-collar bodies, their broad shoulders and thick necks mark them as other. Either she coincidentally got assigned to Ranzio’s two biggest fitness nerds, or they’re security. They’re dressed in the same uniform type as everyone else around us, though, so I’m guessing Edmondo doesn’t want it to be obvious.

Speaking of Edmondo, he must be where we’re headed. The pack thins as Campe leads a core set of us apart and deeper into the building. Soon it’s just her, the Tough Shells, Sonnet’s aide, Barley’s guards, and a single shutterbug. We take a wide service elevator in the north tower up sixty-five floors. From there, we shuffle two-by-two past sunlit board rooms and closed doors marked with the faces of executives. Around many corners is another elevator, this one smaller and framed in shiny, spotless bronze. We have to cram to fit us all in. Staying nearest to the door, Campe thumbs the top button, which is marked “70.” The shutterbug stands in the back and keeps rolling. 

When the doors open, we are in a new building. At least, that’s what it looks like. The halls are wider, the floors covered in lush carpet rather than laminate, the ceiling vaulted and lit by ornate chandeliers. As we walk, I get a glimpse through a window, and I stumble. There are clouds below us. Campe helps me up and we continue winding through this palace in the sky. Eventually, we reach a set of double doors. She claps a metal door knocker fashioned into a wreath. The doors open into a long room bracketed with bookshelves. At the end of the room is a solid wood desk, and Edmondo behind it.

“Tough Shells! Come in, come in,” He waves us forward with white-gloved hands, “Welcome to my office. Please, do make yourselves at home.” Everyone else stands by while Sonnet wheels close and Barley and I take two leather seats. Barley’s guards linger closer than the rest. “Tell me,” Edmondo continues, “how was the travel?”

“I’m tired.” Sonnet yawns for effect. “Long day.”

“Of course! Rest assured, we have an excellent room set aside for you. After you’ve completed the tour, feel free to relax. Our humble grounds are home to several pools, gyms, and a spa. I encourage you to take full advantage of the facilities. We will need you all at your very best to defeat the Overdogs, yes?”

“I guess that’s true,” Sonnet says, “Sounds nice. Can’t wait to see my cell.”

Edmondo laughs, long and haughty. “You have always been the jovial one, haven’t you? Sonnet, the joy; Barley, the will; Google, the passion. Say, this long-awaited meeting of titans calls for celebration, wouldn’t you say?” Edmondo moves to retrieve a set of wine glasses. presses a button on his desk. When he stands, I see his white-and-silver pinstriped suit in all its glory. For some reason, I thought the persona I knew was an online-only indulgence. But no, he’s just like this. He twirls back into his seat with the glasses pinched between his fingers. “Angela, bring out that bottle.” A pneumatic hiss comes from one corner of the desk, and a bottle slides up into view. “Ah, here it is. A finely accelerated vintage from our friends at HB Ambrosia. ‘Drink Divine,’ they say, and I’m compelled to agree. Here, let us drink a toast to—”

“You got any Ospuze?” Sonnet asks, “I’d kill for an Ospuze. Need that ‘pep in my pop,’ you know?”

Edmondo calmly sets aside his bottle and bares his teeth. He’s got a smile that glitters.

“Cut,” he says to the shutterbug behind us, “You can go on to the headrooms. All of you. My Tough Shells and I will rejoin you presently. Now, if you’ll permit us a moment to converse in private. . .”

Campe’s the last one out. She waits for a final nod of confirmation from Edmondo before she shuts the door behind her. Then it’s down to the four of us. Edmondo sips his glass.

Sonnet rolls forward, though he doesn’t take a drink. “What, no toast?”

“What do you imagine your stunts accomplish?” Edmondo leans back and swirls his cup under his nose. “You must know this isn’t a part of your live show, boy. Mistakes can be erased. Your captain can provide testimony, should my own words fall on deaf ears.”

“I’ll say what I said the last time we talked,” Sonnet’s words are loaded with heat and saliva, “I don’t care where you put me. I don’t care how you threaten my career. If you fuck with my game, I’m gonna do my best to fuck with yours.”

Edmondo dabs his lip with a handkerchief. “And I will refrain from repeating my reply, because it is a shame to waste words.”

“Should probably get to the point, then. You kept us. Why?”

Edmondo leans forward and takes the glass meant for Sonnet. When he’s close, I can see the cracks. There’s the sag of old cosmetic surgery in need of an update, the thinning of hair you can see at the scalp’s borders, the wrinkles and veins he mostly covers with makeup but neglects just under the cuffs. His money’s done a solid job of making him near-immaculate, but still the signs of age creep in.

“I believe your captain is apprised of the most up-to-date information,” he says, “I would like to take a moment to put you all on the same footing.” He looks at Sonnet with an eyebrow up. “Unless you would prefer to tromp on in the dark. No? Well, then, I must first laud your Sunday night victory. Really, I should sing your praises.”

“You told us to fall,” I say. I’m tired of Sonnet doing all the talking for us. I hadn’t realized how naturally passivity comes to me here in meatspace.

“Quite right. And, of course, you rebelled. But these are bygones. I am willing to overlook many transgressions in light of our present circumstances.” Edmondo reclines and slides his loafers onto the desk. “Tough Shells, this desk is of your making. This office. One year ago precisely, I was six floors lower and in real danger of losing my window. My assignment was meant to be sabotage, I’m convinced. Truly, who would suspect that the liaison to our fledgling Bank It! team would remain capable of any upward mobility? Especially after last year’s underperformance. It’s not lost on me that I was chosen despite knowing little about your game, and resenting what information assailed me in public discourse. Yet I pressed on, I learned, and I molded you into products worthy of the Ranzio brand.

“All this to say, Tough Shells, Calliope Cambria is very pleased. By overtaking the Overdogs, you have stamped the Ranzio mark on the history of your game. Win or lose the championship, we will all emerge rich and famous at the birth of this new century.”

I frown. “What about the Vogues?”

“They shot for the Overdogs and missed. I should note, there were rumors of collusion between yourselves and the Vogues. Typical conspiracy drivel. These rumors have been swiftly dispelled following the Vogues’ disqualification.”

I don’t push, but I wonder. How is he managing to keep the Vogues quiet? They can’t be happy about losing their agreed-upon spot in the finals. Then again, things could have gone differently. Harrident could have ended me. Instead, they made sure we not only qualified, but won. They chose to sacrifice a slim shot at victory for a guarantee of the Overdogs being dethroned. Maybe that means something.

“I no longer wish to constrain you, Tough Shells,” Edmondo says as if he’d never stopped talking, “You may do your best in the game to come.”

“And after that?” Sonnet asks, “We’re still getting cut, yeah?”

“Too soon to say. Perhaps that will not be necessary.” He hunches toward Barley then, lifting the glass she’s left untouched. “With remedial courses and considerable oversight, we may even find a place for you, mighty captain.” She stares at him while he downs his third drink. I think he might go for mine when he’s done. Instead, he rolls his neck and stands up. “Well, I suppose we should keep to the itinerary, yes? The headrooms await.”

Despite the drinks, Edmondo’s steady on his feet. He takes us back down the elevators and through a below-ground tunnel. It’s the most direct route to the headroom cubicles, he explains. I wouldn’t have known we were on a basement level if the floor weren’t listed as such in the elevator. It’s well-maintained and brightly lit with fluorescent bars. We need only walk for maybe five minutes before Edmondo brings us to another elevator. We take that one up a few floors and into another set of sprawling corridors.

I am well past disoriented. At this point I’m completely lacking a sense of place as well as time. I float like a child’s balloon trailing myself. I feel the input lag of a bad connection. I don’t mind. It’s easier this way, watching across a gap as Edmondo reintroduces us to the cameras. When he presents my badge and affixes it to my vest, the chemical emotions brewing in my gut can’t rise to strike my brain. My body is a distant satellite. My head is already in the bleed.

Then, at last, the show is over. I am given a room, a cube-shaped pod five meters deep and wide, and a next-gen Volpe headset mounted by the door. I barely clock the actual computer tucked into an enclave to keep the play floor unobstructed, or the headset’s fresh plastic smell. Soon Naturata embraces me. I am home. My body and brain float down the bleed as one.

---

I am more myself with each passing day. Sleep helps, and food. With the Ranzio canteen a short walk away, I’m getting the most nutrition of my life. The company provides for everything. All I need to do each day is get from point A to point B and plug in. Other hands prepare my meals, make my bed, wash my clothes. It’s the ideal setting for a contestant. Sure, it takes some getting used to, but by the fourth day my routine is strong as ever.

At least twice a day, once before I bleed and once sometime after, I think about the loss of my autonomy. I try to feel upset. None of the expected emotions come naturally. Not fear or grief or righteous fury. When Campe helpfully guides me to the canteen and then my room after a long day in the bleed, selecting pathways that ensure I never run into another Tough Shell outside the game, I can’t say I feel a sense of wrongness.

The worst part of it all is the publicity parade. The word of the week is “hype,” Angela says. When I’m not doing promos for the finals, I’m talking up whatever product Angela’s decided to materialize in my hands. I don’t love it, but when the cameras flicker red, I bite my tongue and smile. This is the price. Ranzio invested in us on the front end. It’s their right to cash in. Now’s definitely the time for it. Doesn’t take a panel of marketing specialists to see that us Tough Shells are probably at the peak of our cultural currency. Right now we’re a comeback story, a David-and-Goliath story, a rags-to-riches story, sheened with the authenticity Angela’s so intent on producing. We’re the stuff of tropes.

The marketing’s not what I remember later. What I remember is the Bank It! sessions that go late into the night and bring my senses to the edge of anesthesia. We don’t talk much when we play, but we still fit together like gears in an old analog machine. The game flows around us, and the cash flows in.

One game in Monaco, on my fourth night in Turin, I approach critical mass. Barley steals a cashout in a demolished cathedral while Sonnet and I cover her flank. She makes the steal and becomes queen of the hill. The whole lobby is here to contest, but they are disorganized, chasing each other and spiraling the point rather than cutting through directly. They shoot and stab and frag and slam and rocket. They siren when they steal and clink when they coin.

They are people, but they are ants. I can see the simplicity of the algorithms rendered spatially in their predictable movement tech. I can feel emptiness hiding behind hyper-dense textures. This is how it goes each time I manage to crack the atmosphere and drift into the electric heavens. These encounters follow a pattern. First everything, then nothing. The only way to make a void deeper than void is to go in the opposite direction. To layer sensation and matter so thick you can’t breathe, then make a hundred folds. This is the way of black holes. This is the way of brainwashing.

I am back to myself before either Sonnet or Barley have noticed any change. I am left with a memory smaller than the moment, compacted to fit my sober brain. Even as a memory of a memory, it is enough. I’ve stopped trying to meditate completely. I don’t need it. Salvation’s in there, in the bleed. As I lie in bed in the hours that follow, I can think about nothing else. I want to go back. Without Ranzio’s midnight curfew, I would have never left.

Someone knocks on my door. Which shouldn’t be happening, because the sun’s not even out yet. Campe usually arrives around seven, seven-thirty. I check my chronograph. It’s just after four. I listen for a few seconds. Nothing. Maybe there wasn’t a knock. I’m up late. False sounds go with the territory, in league with the shadowy shapes that flit around the corners of my eyes. My door is locked. I have nothing to worry about.

Another knock. Definitely real this time. I’m already fully dressed because the sheets here scratch at my bare skin, so all I need to do is slip a pair of shoes on. Before I approach the door, I consider going for the pepper spray I’ve tucked into a desk drawer. But there’s a third set of knocks, the rap more frantic this time, and curiosity gets the better of me. I take a look through the peephole. It’s not Campe on the other side.

It’s Barley.

I hesitate. Letting her in could be a mistake. I have every reason not to. She very nearly torpedoed our success. Sonnet wouldn’t trust her. Last time I did, she lied to my face. I asked if she was hiding anything and she fed me a sob story about her past. She conveniently left out her extremist sympathies.

Ah, but I have so many questions. I unlatch the door.

“Hey, Barley,” I say, rubbing my eyes and half-expecting the image of her to smear away.

“Hello, Google. Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Why not? If Edmondo grumbles about the curfew breach, I’ll put it all on her.

Barley steps inside. “Thank you. I am glad you are awake.”

I’m not. “Why are you here?”

“To apologize and explain. My actions hurt you. There may have been another way. I am sorry it did not go that way.”

“Tell that to Sonnet.”

“He would not hear me.”

I slump onto the edge of my bed. “You know, you didn’t have to say anything.” Barley shakes her head. I don’t like the way she’s standing there looking down at me, so I beckon to the desk chair, and she sits. “Really,” I say, “why would you do that?”

“To speak truth. I do not know how you bear the lies.” Is she talking about Edmondo? That would make sense. He’d instructed us to help him with the “glitch” cover-up just before her interview. Maybe that was the last straw.

“Yeah, Edmondo sucks,” I say, “That doesn’t justify what you did.”

“He is a part.” Barley brushes her chopped dark hair away from her face. “I did not know it would be like this.”

I lie back, close my eyes, and let out a long sigh. If Barley thinks I’m about to comfort her, she’s mistaken. “Fine, so you just wanted to say something that felt honest, and you thought the best way to do that would be bringing up Ariad.”

“We have a platform. If not now—”

“Then never would be good.” I can’t believe I’m discussing this. This must be why she hasn’t tried opening up during practice. A conversation like this would not look great on playback. “Barley, you talked up a terrorist.”

“This is what you think?” She seems genuinely surprised. “My friend, I know you think deeply. You must know Naturata makes its own stories.”

“He killed people.”

“People die in war.”

“Pretty one-sided war.”

“If you believe Naturata.”

I sit up and look at her. “Alright, tell me your story then.”

“Before you know my story, you should know my name. I am Oyuun.”

“Oyuun,” I roll the name around in my mouth, “Oyuun, I’m Quinn.”

She smiles. The meatspace Barley—or Oyuun, I guess—is much more emotive than her Naturata counterpart. I can’t attribute that to the facerec on her rig anymore, now that we’re all running the same hardware, so it’s something else.

“Quinn,” she says, “I was not meant for this place as you are. I found my headset sifting through the refuse pits of Ulaanbaatar. I was born to soldiers who bleed red, not gold. For the people, Ariad is a hero. He—”

“Wait,” I stop her, “Are you sure it’s OK to, like. . .” I whirl a finger around the room.

“Yes.” If she felt safe talking here and not in the bleed, she must have checked already. Obvious in hindsight.

“OK, then.” I give her a thumbs-up.

“Ariad exists, no matter what you have heard. Ariad lives. He will lead us from the labyrinth. He is the one who leaves the thread.”

I can’t keep a straight face. “You know this sounds crazy.”

“The whole world is mad, Quinn. You must feel it. The rot.”

I force a laugh. “Everyone sees it. You’re not special. I doomsuckle all day sometimes. I see the massacres and the floods. You don’t have to tell me the world is shit.”

Oyuun slides her chair closer. “How does it make you feel?”

“Like I can’t do anything about it,” I throw my hands up, “Like I’m lucky, I guess, because I’m mostly fine.”

“There is the lie,” she says, “that makes itself true. Naturata shows you horror and says you can escape through itself alone.”

I shake my head to rattle my brain. I’m tired. It is far too late for a talk this heavy.

“Believe whatever you want. Just tell me one thing,” I say, because there is only one assurance I need, “Tell me you’re not involved with anything serious.”

Oyuun looks at me solemnly. “I am not.”

“That’s good,” I try to hide my exhale of relief between words, “Let’s keep it that way. Sonnet and a lot of other people on the net think CNS is making a comeback. You know what happened last time. Nobody got out alive.”

Oyuun nods. “I should not have bothered you.” She stands and faces the door.

“Hey,” I say to her back, “When I met you here, I said you seem different, and you said I did too.”

She turns her head but not her body. “I did not mean your appearance. Sonnet was right about that. I meant how you carry it. Here, you make yourself small. I know different. Good night, Quinn.”

“Yeah,” I say. When she closes the door behind her, she eases off the knob gently so it doesn’t make a sound.

What remains of night is too thin for sleep. Still, I find I am unable to leave the bed. Exhaustion weighs me down, among other things. The centenary lurches nearer every day. I am less than a paycheck’s distance from everything I’ve ever wanted. I should feel ecstatic all the time. Instead, I feel this. This weight, and a dread that will no longer be kept at bay. The dread of what comes after. The game is the only thing that makes sense. When I wake up each day, what motivates me is the work of becoming perfect. A dark hope has grown in me, and it is a hope for defeat. I don’t know what victors live for.

I send Rahmat the message, by the way, a collage of all my inadequate variations. She never responds.