The first step outside PM was glorious. Slipping past the cover of the dual birches that guarded the entrance, Yeung-Sung almost looked fondly back. Out through the gap in the wall, he removed his coat in the young summer and took a filling breath.

Finally, I’ve done what needs to be done. Finally, I can be left alone.

However, he was far from alone. A dozen well-dressed coloners circled him, their phones out. They moved in measured steps, as if looking at each other for permission.

One tapped his screen and told him, “You’ve done it.”

He didn’t look very glad. “Tell us how.”

“And what will you do if I don’t?” Yeung-Sung asked, casually sliding through their formation.

He was proud of the stunned silence that followed, but the scraping of their shoes on the tarmac followed after a bit. Then a cough, which deepened the same voice from before said,

“We’ll fucking kill you.”

“Of course?” added one of her counterparts.

Steps ahead of them again, Yeung-Sung didn’t hear if there was another follow up to that. Stretching out his shoulders, he narrowed his eyes to keep the country back-road visible in the midday shine. Now…how do I get back onto the main road?

Reaching to his back pocket, he opened Airgead and smiled at his balance.

And where was that lane of shops?

The suited coloners called out again while he started down the curving path.

“Didn’t you hear us?” said the woman again. “We’re going to kill you.”

Yeung-Sung heard a crack of knuckles and looked back with a condescending smile.

“Right, sure you are…and by killing me lose the only chance you all have of not dying at the hands of GLI?”

They didn’t answer.

He shrugged, turning back. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” he huffed out into a laugh, stepping down the road’s decline.

It took a few turns for him to get back onto the main road -but he knew it was far more than necessary. The oversized pullover from the Market stuck to his neck as he waltzed through roads had no knowledge of. Before, he was too scared to stray from the main road -heading straight from his Apartment to the Wick- but now he bounced forward along the road, enjoying the sensation of wandering. Pockets of cool air burst over his forehead. His bones ached from the day but were sure that rest would come soon, and that it would be amazingly satisfying.

He’d stop at an intersection and pick a direction at random, hearing the coloners before panting in the distance. Perhaps he went in circles, not that it mattered. Maybe that’s even what he wanted; to go around and around and spin his body in the freedom of knowing that Jordan can be beaten, that even MEDB was not perfect.

I don’t even need the money, Yeung-Sung thought, checking his balance once more. But it feels wonderful to have it. A whole medal; proof of my achievement.

“Ow!” he yelled.

Yeung-Sung stalled his feet to rub his jaw. His mouth muscles burned. Massaging them, he tried to relax, to breathe out and think about nothing, but his imagination continually fed him images of what he now could do inside the colony, with this knowledge -this power! -This wealth! - and so he walked, oscillating in some mad tick-tock laughter past the ‘Joint Wick’ towards the Finers territory of the shops, and their shopkeepers.

And behind him, the suited coloners followed in single skulking line, like unbelieving disciples watching, waiting for another miracle that they could leap upon and use for themselves.

A chime squawked like a parrot as Yeung-Sung entered the furniture shop; Green Holiday. The dark shrubbery and peeled-bark drapery that lined the shopfront drew him in, but Yeung-Sung had no idea what kind of store it was until he entered. Still, the soft chestnut aesthetic continued on through the door, in the dulled and dusted bricks down to the smoothed over tiles. And filling every space was furniture.

Under a light that swayed in its wide-brimmed lampshade, the shopkeeper began to welcome his new customer until he noticed the colouring of his clothes.

He drew a smile back, saying, “PM never sends their designers to me. What’s this about?”

Smelling the mix of fabrics and stifled air, Yeung-Sung propped himself up against a foot locker.

“Don’t worry,” he said, shaking his head, “I’m not actually with them.” He pinched the fabric of his pullover in a tent over his chest. “This is borrowed.”

He surveyed the store; tables, desks, beds, closets and chest drawers. But he didn’t find what he was looking for.

“What’s new?” Yeung-Sung asked.

The shopkeeper rolled up thin-striped shirt, smelling -oddly- of coconut.

“Nothing here is new. Not for a while now.” He swivelled his chin, arcing his back. He stood well over Yeung-Sung. “I’m not allowed to order any more until I’ve sold some more of what I already have.”

With grace, he showed Yeung-Sung to around the front of the store.

The cheap stuff, no doubt.

In between brief descriptions, he asked, “Who are you shopping for, then? A farewell party?”

“No,” Yeung-Sung said, feeling around. “This won’t do. I’m looking for something more… extravagant.”

He barely knew the word, and yet it fell easily from his lips.

The owner of the furniture store hardened his blocky features further. “What?”

Sighing, Yeung-Sung opened Airgead and waved his balance at him.

“See?” he told him, “It shouldn’t be a problem.”

The shopkeepers immediate surprise was quickly matched by the coloners who had been chasing Yeung-Sung bursting in. Breathing heavy and glowing with sweat, the group stumbled forward, skirting up the curtains and denting the shrubbery.

Yeung-Sung groaned and moved in front to block the shopkeeper’s view.

“Ignore them, they’ve been following me all day. They want to know how I got it,” he said, shaking his phone idly.

The shopkeeper rolled up his sleeve further, then turned to Yeung-Sung to say, “Actually, how did you –”

Yeung-Sung walked deeper into the store, pulling at the shopkeeper’s starchy shirt. “Can you please show me some of your, um, more interesting stock?”

Yeung-Sung looked up at him, “Do you even want my money?”

Past a deceptive mound of clutter, the shopkeeper guided Yeung-Sung to a shaded section of the store.

“Really apologize for the mess,” he said, “I don’t get many coloners with -ehh- your kind of request.”

He waved a hand over the area. “A lot of what I sell is at a loss, but selling any of these so low,” he told Yeung-Sung, “Would just not be worth it.”

Over his shoulder, Yeung-Sung saw the suited coloners crowd up the tables of the showroom, giving themselves a breather.

The same woman from before caught his look, sneering. “Why would you spend your medals with them? Don’t you know what they do?”

“Get out!” shouted the shopkeepers, “Fucking argumentative pricks, I don’t need any Debaters in my store.”

So they’re Debaters; the Neo-Democritans…I suppose that makes sense, except I thought they were focused only on the politics of the colony, not the gameplay. Why would they care how I beat the Gauntlet?

The shopkeeper shielded Yeung-Sung from the standoff the two were having, letting him browse Tetris-block couches and tall poster beds. Then he found them; desks and chairs. Not the silly plastic ones that littered the crowded hubs of the Player’s Market, or the lavish but impractical ottomans that lay in the lobbies of the colony’s apartments, but the sturdy, oiled and polished thrones of mahogany and wood, like photosynthetic steeds.

Sliding the heel of his palm down the length of an ebony desk he exclaimed, “Oh! These are nice.”

He was about to search for a price tag when, schooling himself with a tap to the head, he brought out his phone and began scanning items.

[Ebony Work Desk

Dimensions: (W x H x D) 2342x1956x920 mm

Weight: 68lb

Cost: 5 minims ]

“That’s it?” said Yeung-Sung.

He went into a frenzy, scanning everything around him. Not a single item was over that mark, and most were under one -their price in micro-minimis.

I thought it would maybe be…100 minims? But this is, this…

On his knees, Yeung-Sung pulled open ornate drawers lined in felt. He traced his hands over the whirling carvings that ran under its top to connect with the legs. He wiped his thumb over the shining smoothness of it. It was even better than what he assumed it to be at first glance. And it was only 5 minims!

I only wanted a chair, he thought as he stood.

“I might as well get the desk,” Yeung-Sung muttered, imagining the fixture in his apartment.

About to get the shopkeeper’s attention he suddenly noticed how he regarded the Debaters, how tightly their stances pounced. He looked at his balance again, only now understanding how much it was worth.

“A-hem, mister?”

“Theodore,” finished the shopkeeper. His face flushing, he tore himself away from the Debaters -after a final warning gaze- to be escorted to the ebony table.

“Ahh, yes, a fine choice,” he said, “It would suit a man of your stature well.”

Did you just call me short?

Yeung-Sung bowed. “Thank you. Would you help me find a chair,” he asked, “One that would go well with it?”

Theodore stood up from fawning over the desk and pushed in his lower back, swiping a look across the ‘exclusive’ section until, satisfied, he relaxed.

“Yes, I have just the thing,” Theodore noted.

He waded through homely selections and grand wardrobes with one eye on his destination and one eye on the uneasy clump of Debaters. They were a mass of hair that clogged up a drain, or in this case, cut off Yeung-Sung’s exit.

“You’ll have to tell us now.”

Yeung-Sung swayed in a sarcastic nod. “Theodore,” he called out, “Do you have a delivery service?”

“Ehh-,” the shopkeeper responded, covering the desk, “No.”

He scooped up the dark wood chair once he finished, and rolled it around to wrap it. “No. Not really, I apologise.”

“Well,” Yeung-Sung said, tilting his head back at the Debaters, “How fortunate for me that you guys are here.”

He jerked his thumb back towards the desk. “Carry this back to my apartment,” Yeung-Sung challenged them, “and I might tell you.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”

The Debaters, looked at him and at each other, their teeth like ice cracking.