The human player got out of the VR booth. Two locals congratulated him. One slapped his shoulder, the other went around in circles, hitting his ear repeatedly while laughing, as the ogre had done. The player thanked them, took a pineapple smoothie at the adjacent café, walked out in a daze, the chat on fire in his augmented reality interface.

“Choo choo ogres train.”

“Complete and utter riot.”

“Good job son, I knew you could do it." Tag | Mom

He took a quick look had his account balance and smiled. The tips and the ads had done great. He’d have to manage the money tomorrow. For now, his brain was fried.

He’d moved to the city to be closer to the official booths. You could play from home, but registered arcades were required for the Master League. An awkward solution to stream sniping. The booths limited access to the internet and curated what the audience could share. Officials were present to keep an eye on the players. The cost easily justified by the size of the industry. Entertainment was big these days, not that they were much else to do.

Weird, what the cities had become in the last decades. The last place where human competed. The last place with an economy. Limited spaces and access to the last available jobs drove up the price. Outside of them, on the farms, the food was free. Here, the grocery had to pay an exorbitant rent and a demented tax rate. In turn, one orange costed 15$.

Better live on the farms, free organic food, ecofriendly habitats, common rooms for entertainment and absolutely nothing to do. Humans had been turned into pets. The raving mad and the manic all moved to the cities. To compete. To toil. To fail or succeed. Talent and luck prevailed. He hoped he had both.

He took a slurp of his smoothie. Booted up his music, a construct of synthwave, dynamically generated from his favorite seeds. His device noticed the light rain and adapted to a cozy vibe.

Left, forward, forward, right. From the arcade to his apartment, the same pattern worked from both directions. The lobby of his tower had a retro look. Rough concrete. Exposed beams. A bit dark but he didn’t mind. It made for a nice contrast to the game, high in saturated colors. Above all, he loved the ceiling, far up, lost in the shade.

A narrow elevator took him to the twenty-second floor. He passed his unknown neighbors until the catchy tune of his apartment activated. The AI slid the door open, lifted the wooden blind, closed the door behind him. His den. He could touch both walls if he spread his arms, or the four corners if he laid on the floor and used his legs.

He threw the empty cardboard cup of his smoothie in his bin. Gave his clothes to the multi-appliance. Muffled water came from the washing cycle as he prepped for bed. He climbed the narrow ladder to his micro loft. Collapsed on the wool bedding. Looked at his window, his favorite one, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Great view too, blocked by the cliff wall of another tower, one sliver of vertical sky visible on the left.

He grinned as he drifted into sleep. Continental Final, here I come.

***

Revenue from his last game had broken his personal record. Nowhere near the amount he needed to live in this city, but enough to survive for a while. Or, and this was a big or, he could push his luck, invest in a live commentator for his stream. Had to decide quickly, the final was in two days.

Short notice, but the plan still made sense overall, at least in his head. Hiring a caster would ruin him but it would also increase his audience substantially. It might even turn him into a recognizable name.

It all depended on his performance at the final. Dying early would put him in the red. End of the road. Back to the farm with all the greens spaces, his wholesome family, homemade meals, and even his dog. A real life, in real time. Meh. Where was the glory? The joy of victory.

Nah, he wouldn’t die early. For sure. His first time in a Continental Final. Why worry? Twenty, no thirty players would die before him. Easy. That would let him break even on his investment. It would generate a small profit. Could rise to a huge amount if he survives until the end. Imagine if he made it to the last twenty survivors. All the dead players’ audiences would funnel to his stream. Lack of options. Great for business.

Go big or go home. He drained the rainbow milk from his cereal bowl, gave the dirty dish to his multi-appliance, pulled the site for freelancers. Filtered by casters. Forty-seven thousand three hundred and twenty-one results. That wouldn’t do. He added the game’s title as a keyword. Down to three thousand five hundred and forty-one. He sorted by price. Lowest to highest.

The first dozens of results were mostly kids with zero experience and amateurish thumbnails. He chose the best image out of the first hundred and started the demo. Never again. A voice blabbered about nonsenses, half broken by puberty. He cringed hard. Added a minimum price to the filter. Still terrible. Pained, he doubled the amount. Up to half teenagers, half adults.

Risky territory, great opportunities. He had played enough trader builds to know that the best deals hid in the murky edges.

Good thing he had nothing better to do with his time, like researching hours upon hours of streams from the other ninety-nine players at the final. Yep, that was a job for compressed time. He reached for his rig, put it on his head, adjusted the cold, copper electrodes. Squeezed the biggest one to the top of his neck. Reality glitched. His visuals faded to gray as the familiar metallic taste came and went. The interface materialized, fuzzy lines, soft edges. The resolution improved as the synchronisation icon rotated.

The boot up sequence of notes rang in his head in high definition, straight to his neurones. Using the rig for shopping seemed cheap but he needed the time. He’d have to ignore the safety recommendation again. Hopefully, he wouldn’t fall asleep in the machine this time.

He opened the casters list, time to browse it at hyperspeed. He selected one option, evaluated it as quickly as possible, then switched to the next choice. Whenever he got a good feeling about an icon, bio or nickname, he tried on the audio sample. Some of the wilder stuff threw him off but he continued. He sent a few messages explaining his current situation, his first shot at a final and a link to his public page.

He switched to replays after a while, not expecting a quick answer. The stretched time of his VR rig turned one minute from real life to one hundred forty-four virtual minutes. Plenty of time left until a reply came back.

He checked the list of qualified players. There were some decent celebrities in there.

Art Delvers. A team of four. Dedicated to dungeon exploration and boss raids. Their strategy was to disappear early in obscure biomes and emerge at the end of the game at max level with the best equipment. A great team, but not much of a worry for him. He wouldn’t even meet them unless he made to the end.

Sila, the Bird Spider. A solo star with an extremely complicated build. He had tried it a couple of time and had always ended up dead before the synergies came online. All about traps and ambushes. She shouldn’t be too bad for him, he usually played with high Perception.

Strings. Player killers. Their moto was to end the competition early. They alternated between a balanced group and a full-on stealth build. Either way, he should be able to spot them and run.

Juggs and Tower Well. Two crafter groups. They played it safe in the early game. Tried to transition to a high-level economy later on. He couldn’t do much about them. Not a direct threat to him but they could snowball while he ran errands all over the map.

The rest were newcomers, like him. There were multiple replays for every teams. He watched some but nothing hit him as particularly bad. Except maybe this one team of two players focused on Mobility. Same strategy, but they were two. They would level at a slower pace. They would still have an advantage if they caught him.

He dwelled a bit more, watched too many replays and went back to his messages. Nothing. Well, that was stretch time for you. He removed his rig, started coffee, folded in for a pee, took a shower, unfolded out of hos bathroom. He cooked some eggs, fresh from the farm, scrambled at low heat with too much butter. He salted them, put them on toasts. Ate them while he drank his coffee, listening to a great lo-fi seed, rain gently drumming on his window. He fazed out, daydreaming about strategies.

***

He checked his message while he took a shit. No way around it, caffeine summoned the throne.

“Thank you for your interest. I looked at your profile, I don’t think we’re a good match. You’re not female.”

“Radical my cockatoo, let’s do this. Ready when you arrr.”

“My master is too busy to read your proposal. You’ve been added to the queue.”

A perfect good shit ruined by an AI assistant. Not a bad idea actually. Maybe he should get one.

***

At the gym, body weight and some cardio. An audiobook to occupy his mind. A portal story about a grumpy old guy who die and wake up at the edge of the abyss. Average writing at best but the action scenes were good.

Replies came in at random through his training.

“I checked your profile. I can’t grasp your true self. It won’t work. Have a great life.”

“Can’t stand that game. It’s for losers.”

“Fantasy is over. Not interested.”

***

“Saw your text, not sure it’s worth my time. The funny part is that I’m a better player than you. I’m trying game casting for the moment. Let me know if you think you can handle me.”

He stopped mid slurp. Bit his noodles. The bottom half splashed in his bowl. He loved that ramen shop. That message though. Sounded crazy. Yet it could actually work.

He checked the sender’s profile. He’d seen her play a couple of time already. She was in a group of three, all about range and tactical positioning. They set up killing field and lured in their target. He hadn’t seen them in a while, maybe they had disbanded. That would explain the pivot to casting.

He replied, “Sounds great. I remember you, top ten in at least one final. Did your group disband?”

“Not relevant. I’m here for casting.”

“Ok. Sure. What would you charge for casting a final?”

“24k.”

“What? I saw your name listed for 5k.”

“And how did it go with the other account at that price? At 5k, I’m doing it for fun. I’ll have to prep a whole lot of content for the final.”

“I’ll make it worthwhile. I have 211k followers who’ll notice your stream if I cast it, and I’m high energy, very entertaining.”

“Well, that’s all and good but I don’t have anything close to that amount. Unless you’re willing to get paid after the game.”

“Sure, why not. But no free lunch. You’ll pay it all even if you don’t earn enough from that game.”

“Really? Let me think about it.”

“Don’t take too long, prospect. Plenty of other offers on the table. I got a unique package.”

Maybe she did. He picked up a noodle ball. Cold.

***

He went in for a dive. Stretched time through his VR rig. He messaged casters listed at a higher price. He tried up to 15k. Watched three hours of replays from his competitors. Logged off and went for a stroll.

Replies came in as walked by a screen wall. Weirdos. All of them. He sighed. Time to seize the day. He brought up his chat interface and send a text. “I’m in, here’s the code to join my stream. I’ll add you as a commentator. Send me your contract, I’ll send it back signed if the terms are reasonable.”