https://amandabridgeman.com.au/.
CHAPTER ONE
My implant, working in concert with the arcade’s rec suite, mimics the sensations of fists striking flesh and bone. The pain reverberates back to my brain, but I don’t bruise, I don’t bleed, I certainly don’t break. And I don’t feel the crawling animal need to survive – or fear that I won’t – the way I would in real life. Fear I know firsthand.
Considering all that, beating the shit out of computer-generated thugs is only so satisfying, but I take what I can get.
The immersive generates my next wave of opponents, and anything goes. That’s the whole reason I chose this particular street combat scenario to complement the hours of martial arts training I’ve logged. When your life’s on the line, form and philosophy can hinder as much as help. Setting up kicks or chaining together moves burns time you may not have. With the arcade’s AI tweaking the level of difficulty each round, I have to draw on every technique I’ve picked up over the years.
The fear found in the arcade may be a simulation, but it’s still a good way to learn how to stay on your toes. Especially down here.
The abandoned warehouse has rows of cargo containers I can hide behind or otherwise use against my opponents, but I try not to resort to that if I can hold my own in the open area toward the center of the building. Ancient fluorescent lights buzz overhead, adding to the derelict ambiance.
Anticipation blazes bright and hot as the two gangbangers circle me. There’s a story mode about infiltrating a drug ring, but I’m just here for the realistic fight mechanics. The taller one on the left is the first to oblige. He steps forward, leaving his buddy to watch on. After a few more rounds, the AI will make it so they fight in teams, but for now I have the luxury of taking them on individually.
My opponent’s gaze sweeps over my avatar, and he smirks. He sees a petite woman – not far off from my true stature – and assumes he knows what he’s in for. But he’s wrong wrong wrong.
His eyes widen in surprise when I duck his first swing and follow up with a quick jab to his side. Whatever else, at least the game gets character reactions right. He throws a wild punch. I knock it aside, then catch him in the chin with an uppercut, driving into him with my shoulder. He sags to the floor.
His friend wastes no time and charges after me. I barely have a chance to reset when he wraps his arms around me in a bear hug. My implant hijacks my olfactory system, and all I can smell is his cheap cologne. I tell myself I can handle the swamping claustrophobia, the choking sense of being smothered.
It’s a lie, but a practiced one. One that allows me to kick out, my foot catching him in the knee. Lucky. He groans, and his grip loosens enough for me to slip out from underneath him. To land a solid punch along his temple. He falls, and I fall with him, pummeling him with my fists.
Anything to feel, to inflict pain tenfold, even if he’s not the true recipient of so much rage.
||| Level complete. |||
A harsh cry rips through me as I stagger to my feet. I give my opponent a kick in his soft belly for good measure. Dull, gnawing pain radiates up from my toes. Still worth it.
||| Would you like to continue? |||
I’m tempted, even though it’s a struggle to slow my breathing. But I have an appointment I’ve gotta keep.
I log out of the game. Gone is the industrial, early twenty-first century warehouse. In its place is a capsule-sized room scented with lilac, housing the latest cutting-edge tech for superimmersive simulations and games. The arcade provides a much-needed escape from everyday life in the domed city of New Worth, but some days I need the ritual more than others.
With sleepwalker precision, I pry myself out of the harness that lets me interact with the game’s augmented environment. The feedback mitts are next, and it takes a moment for the sensation to return to my hands as the data receptors embedded in my palms and fingertips disengage from the tech. My implant projects messages and alerts that arrived while I was at the arcade into my field of vision. I scan through them with a series of eye movements, trashing a reminder for Brita’s party tonight. As if I’d forget.
Rik pinged me while I was under. For a moment, I want nothing more than to reach out and have his consciousness brush against mine, a connection fostered by our implants. But I don’t dare. Not with the risk of emotional bleed from what I’ve tasked myself with this afternoon. He’ll have to wait.
With a hard blink, my implant’s ocular interface recedes into the background. I fit my day gloves over my hands, grab my bag, and exit the suite.
Kenzie, the jockey on call, gives me a nod. Feeds from all the recreation suite rentals scroll across his monitors, tracking account balances, vitals, and hardware performance. Although arcades in the Canopy are closer to my dorm, this is the one I grew up going to, only a few blocks away from my parents’ apartment in the Terrestrial District. The jockeys all know me and ensure I get the best functioning suites. They tend to do a better job cleaning up after the previous occupants, too, when I have a reservation on the books.
I drift toward the exit but hold off on joining the late afternoon crowds that always plague New Worth’s lower levels. I’m a few minutes ahead of schedule. Just as well. I try to shake off the brawl from
