Neon Grave

Chapter 9 Caster 1/2

Light drizzle gently darkened the Hellebore City market with a wet, navy gloss. Bright neon discolored Jessica's visage through every block of Cayde District until green letters rose above the rim of her hood. Visceral they read. Squatters stumbled outside the display windows. One bumbled right next to her, a pair of bloodshot eyes dimmed beneath greasy bangs. Up close, his neck tattoo failed to cover up the obvious brand of a Rager: a general prohibition sign.

"Hey, killer. Got a few spare tokens?" he sniffed. "I'm not asking a bunch. The next game will fix me. High score and all. I'm close to the high score. One more shot is all I need. A shot." She glanced at him and recalled everything he represented.

One day, somebody figured out how to create a fictional world, no hardware required. Eavision is a drug that lets you hallucinate virtual reality, making the real feel like a game; no screen and no UI. Pharmaceutics and video game industries partnered up to improved human motor function, meanwhile sent dopamine levels into overdrive. In other words, addiction. The profit margins were ludicrous until the Union declared a worldwide ban on the substance, years after the population had been milked. Many eSports players fell from grace. Many more tried to chase that high by earning the top spot in royale subscriptions; but, anyone who developed a dependence on Eavision became prone to bouts of rabid violence after losing a game. Hence, the term Rager defined and defamed anyone who perverted the meaning of gamer, who abused substances in the pursuit of a high score. Nothing happened to the corporations.

"You need to go home," Jess told him, almost believing it would make a difference, then proceeded into the arcade. His voice trailed off as she entered.

"The whole scene is home, you casual!"

Pink, neon thread lined the ceiling and meandered down the pillars of the Visc. Like a classic diner, the bar opposed the lounge; but the farther back it went, the narrower it got. On the other side of headsets and virtual plug-in machines humming every color of the LED, there was a corridor for private game rooms.

Whimsical, Jessica approached the counter and, with a single jive, signaled the bartender for a drink. For the next few seconds, she scanned the room in search of tails but, aside from forehead lozenges and a lone cowboy hat, caught no one remotely interesting. At the sound of a tap, she reached back and wrapped her fingers around a red glass.

"Was wondering when you'd reach out." The man sitting on the next stool shifted slightly. He adjusted his duster's collar, blue eyes peering straight ahead—at nothing and no one—but he was clearly speaking to Jessica. He had to the most average-looking man in the room, which might have raised some eyebrows. Just a coconut brown crew cut and a straight jawline carved his square features.

His name was Case: former cop turned journalist, wound up on Goliath's list of public enemies when he started snooping too close to the sun. After Jessica rescued him from the top of their headquarters, he became part of WON's Corporate Espionage and Counter-Terrorism unit, CECT, a human outfit whose unofficial mission was to investigate Azarean corporations and subsidiary networks.

"Case," Jess acknowledged, swirling the glass in her hand, "I don't have to tell you how serious it is."

"I know. When exactly did you go on a media purge?"

"97 days ago."

"Jeez. Where do I start, then?"

"Start with what happened."

"I don't need to explain the aftermath of 15 months ago—"

"How exactly is it related?"

"Okay." Case took a shot of whiskey and inhaled through his teeth. "The tension between the Union and the Old Conglomerates has... thickened. Genuine or not, the Azareans put forward several motions for affirmative action. They want to rebuild the bridges that Goliath burned. Their bright idea was to invite the High-risers into the fold, but everybody else saw that as the rich getting richer. So, the feds opted for a partnership with Valkyrie Industries, to help stimulate the old-world economy. But word got out that the middle class would lose access to automated conveniences, Azarean aversion to AI and all that. Those drones floating around 24/7? No one wants 'em gone. Plus, virtually everybody outside the TEN is afraid of falling under the thumb of Azarean corpos. You can imagine why."