Play of Shadows

00.8 Dusk Flowers

Players did die in VR.

Ann remembered a time when the media kept a weekly tally of accidents, back when the industry was still finding its feet and VR companies could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare. Even then, cases of player deaths were rare. Improvements in technology – spurred by fierce competition for what shaped out to be a multi-billion-dollar business – brought fatalities down to near zero. The occasional exception was therefore all the more shocking and never treated lightly.

Especially when foul play was suspected.

A man had died during the tournament that sunk Ann's career. Derek Cardmon – a newbie player, barely scraped by in the rankings to compete. Ann had never formally met Mr. Cardmon. She had seen the smoking pod as soon as she'd woken up in hers – behind a police barricade, because she was both a suspect and in real danger of getting penned in by the mob of reporters and angry spectators who had flooded the scene.

Ann chewed meditatively on her cold breakfast of bread and berries. She hadn't thought of Derek Cardmon in a long time – tried hard not to think about him, if she were to be honest. The nightmares never really stopped. She still woke up with the smell of burning plastic in her nose in the middle of the night, the image of a man's remains, half-fused with a charred gaming pod, burned into her brain.

"What do you think?" Max asked. Tarah watched her warily from across the table, having finished her account of their shared instance. Her eyes darted from Ann's mask to her own clenched hands.

Ann swallowed, the bland bread turning bitter in her mouth. "They came to Lona to die."

Tarah's dancing partners had stories to tell. Scant few sentences each and most only half-remembered after a night of terror, to James' undisguised disgust, but enough to pick out common threads. The young nobles came from declining households. They sought to build relationships with Castle Lona on behalf of their noble houses, eager to prove themselves against better-favored siblings in internal struggles over titles and inheritance.

"But in reality, they were being shipped out for slaughter," Ann finished.

Even so, most could not put away their pride. Ann had heard not a few unsavory whispers about the Lord and Lady of Lona – and how they were not of noble blood at all.

She popped a berry in her mouth and chewed while the others discussed the merits of her theory and their own interpretations. K, who had been asleep with his head pillowed on his arms last Ann had noticed, slanted her a measuring look through his lashes.

"What?" Ann asked.

K closed his eyes and didn't answer, seemingly awfully pleased for no reason Ann could discern.

The others had exhausted the topic of its worth and were now picking at their breakfast in absentminded silence.

"Was it very scary?" Cilla asked, the question obviously long on her mind.

Tarah nodded a little too enthusiastically. "I was lucky Ann was with me," she said.

Ann glanced at her. Tarah smiled tentatively, and Ann smiled back.

"Oh, please. You walked out without a scratch. A mod even stepped in to help, like you didn't have it easy enough," James sneered. To Philip, he said, "I told you this would happen if we took two newbies in. The instance's been nerfed down to a joke!"

Tarah sat up, bristling. "Easy? I've got burns on my arms!"

She laid one of her arms on the table demonstratively. Cilla immediately crowded close and then hissed in alarm. There were indeed burns on the insides of Tarah's arms, long swatches of skin peeled pink and wet by fire, like a bruised fruit.