I trudged down the pavement that trailed away from work, just another body in the river of commuters flowing home. Above, drones zipped through the twilight between skyscrapers, their holographic banners advertising commercial-generic nutrient paste and the new season of some reality show. Their high-pitched whine was just part of the city's hum, sinking into the background with the low rumble of mag-lev traffic.
My path took me past the city park, where the spectral willow wept its holographic leaves over the polished benches. A few tourists were taking pictures of it; I just kept walking. Further down, the bass from a club doorway pulsed patterns of neon light across the sidewalk in time with a beat I couldn't be bothered to listen to. It was the same thing, same sights, everyday.
But I will say.
This day's anger, however, felt different. It was a sharp, unfamiliar heat in my gut, something real in a world of manufactured light. It followed me all the way from the coffee shop, a stubborn ember that refused to be smothered by the evening routine.
My thoughts drifted back to the game. Back to him.
"I don't believe in you."
Godspeed's words. The quiet certainty in his voice when he'd dismissed me. He saw the tired, cynical drone I presented to the world and assumed that was all there was. He saw the same apathy I saw in my own reflection.
He wasn't entirely wrong. But I didn't want him to be right, either.
Something had shifted. The confrontation with that woman wasn't purely about spilled coffee. It was about drawing a line. It was about finally, finally pushing back again against a world that had been pushing me around for as long as I could remember.
Push back. That was the goal.
My pace quickened, my worn work shoes slapping against the glowing sidewalk. I was no longer just wandering home. I was marching. But for what? The question hammered in my head with every step. I made a decision, fueled by fury and a jolt of caffeine, but what did it actually mean?
How do I confront this? How do I walk into that game, find that man, and prove him wrong? My old expectations for V.V. were dead. It wasn't a stress-relief tool anymore; it was just another source of frustration. But now, I was given the choice to turn it into something else. A training ground. A forge for my own person.
I had no idea how to even begin, though. What did 'getting stronger' even look like when I wasn't just chasing the next level-up ding? This required a different kind of effort. A focus I wasn't sure I had.
'Anger. Focused. Towards a plan.'
The thoughts circled, sharp and clear as I walked. This couldn't be the same aimless grind as before. This had to be deliberate. I had to face this new challenge head-on, with purpose. The trial he'd laid out wasn't a joke to be scoffed at anymore. It was the first real step.
That first step, after a forty-five-minute walk, led me to the entrance of the "Charlotte Grand Gated Apartment Community," a name far too ambitious for the building itself. It wasn't a slum, but the faded brick and spiderweb cracks in the pavement were a constant reminder that it wasn't first-class, either. It was a functional, forgettable structure—the architectural equivalent of a sigh.
I went through the motions, my body on autopilot while my mind was still turning over the plan. I swiped my key card at the main entrance, once in denial, a second time in acceptance, as the lock buzzed me in with a familiar rattle. I took the stairs two at a time, the ache in my legs a dull, distant complaint. I stopped in front of my door, the tarnished brass numbers reading '108', and flashed my phone over the keypad by the handle. A soft chirp, the click of the mag-lock disengaging, letting me in.
I stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. For a moment, I just stood there in the entryway, the world locked out. Then, I finally turned to face my apartment. I took one step forward, and felt the mask I wore all day finally crack and fall away. The polite, professional squint of my eyes relaxed, widening into a sharp, sneering appraisal of the space I called home.
The clock on my phone read 6:02 PM. It was May, and the last of the withering daylight filtered through the dusty window, illuminating the evidence of a life lived on autopilot. My work cardigan from yesterday was draped over the back of the only chair. An empty takeout container sat on the small dining table. A fine layer of dust coated every surface that wasn't in immediate use. I couldn't call this in front of me a mess; it was more of a…. Landscape— a landscape of pure, honest exhaustion.
"You're not someone dedicated enough to go through with it."
Godspeed's voice again, echoing not as a challenge this time, but as a simple statement of fact. A low, humorless laugh escaped my lips.
"Okay," I muttered to the empty room. "I see where he's coming from."
My hands moved automatically, unfastening the necktie while I shrugged off my blazer. My arm cocked back, ready to toss the crumpled clothes into the nearest corner, a well-worn path of least resistance. But I caught myself mid-throw.
'How the hell am I supposed to be dedicated in a virtual world when I can't even keep my shit together in this one?'
I lowered my arm.
'Okay. Step One— How do I stop my place from looking like a dump?'
Instead of the corner, I took the extra ten paces to the bathroom. The laundry basket was already overflowing, a cascade of clothes spilling onto the grimy tile. I shoved the blazer and tie in with the rest and pressed the pile down. With a grunt, I heaved the whole basket up, carried it out of the bathroom, and set it directly in front of the apartment door. A barricade. Something I'd have to deal with to leave. A problem for the weekend.
I stood there, hands on my hips. 'Not too bad,' I thought. 'Not too hard.'
That feeling vanished the moment I turned back to the living room and truly eyeballed it. It started with one thing, then another.
My eyes caught on a dark, circular object on the floorboards near the couch. A fossilized slice of pepperoni. I hadn't ordered pizza in a month.
Then there was the TV, which had been wobbling for weeks. I finally crouched down to see what was propping it up. Two pale, silicone discs. My silicone pads, the ones I used to keep my nipples from chafing against my bra. I'm propping my TV up with my nipple covers.
'Okayy….. I'm fucking gross.'
The final blow came from the kitchen. I went to grab a fork to stab at a leftover salad and found the cutlery drawer empty. I'd been eating with plastic sporks for two weeks, vaguely annoyed that I needed to buy more silverware. On a whim, I pulled open the dishwasher. Inside sat every single one of my missing plates and utensils. Clean. They'd been clean this whole time.
"Dumbass."
The word hung in the air, less an insult and more a diagnosis. A diagnosis I was suddenly tired of accepting.
'No.' The thought was a rebellion against my own self-pity. 'I can do this. I'm that BITCH.'
The confidence felt foreign, like a borrowed coat, but I pulled it on anyway. 'This is a small, simpleton's apartment. I deal with worse than this every single day at the call center.'
A dry chuckle escaped my lips. "Yeah. Much, much worse."
Right then, I decided to take account of this ill mess, and treat it.
The cheap, low-wedge work heels were kicked off and replaced with a pair of worn-out sandals. I rolled up the sleeves of my blouse, the fabric tightening around my biceps. Under the kitchen sink, I found my arsenal: a bottle of multi-surface cleaner, a duster, two raggedy sponges, and a handful of cleaning cloths.
"Perfect-o~~"
The first hour was a blur of motion. I started in the living room, grabbing the broom and dustbin from their post beside the fridge. I swept everything—dust, crumbs, the ancient pepperoni—into a pile and banished it. Then I faced the coffee table. It was a graveyard of half-eaten pastries that had turned into rocks and an army of mostly empty takeout cups. Wrapping my arms around the collection of wasted money, I tried to gather the trash in one go, hugging a cluster of cups to my chest.
Bad idea.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck–!" My mumbling quickly turned into wailing, as one SLIPPERY bastard of a cup kept wiggling in my grasp, Only for it to tip over…
And OUT comes dribbling down a cold, brown sludge that I hadn't finished.
Right down the table leg and onto the floorboards.
I groaned, my head dropping back. Of course. Just more mess, adding on to the rest of this damned place…
'Shut up,' I hissed at myself. 'Cleaning ain't ever easy. Complaining just makes it take longer.'
I grabbed the damp cloth and attacked the spill, then attacked the couch cushions equally aggressive, sending up a plume of dust that made me cough violently.
The bathroom was next. I scrubbed the sink and shower with a manic energy, throwing soap and water everywhere until the tile gleamed. The victory was short-lived; a film of soap scum now coated the mirror. I tried to wipe it with a dry cloth, a rookie mistake that smeared the mess into an opaque, streaky disaster. A mental list began to form: glass cleaner, more sponges, toothpaste—General essentials I'd been putting off buying.
Finally, I stood in the doorway of my bedroom, the last room I wanted to tackle. It wasn't as chaotic as the living room had been. 'Not too shabby,' I thought. 'But I can work on it.'
I started with the battlefield of shoes and heels scattered near the closet, pairing them up and arranging them in a neat line. While crouching, I saw it—a forgotten pile of clothes shoved deep under my bed. I dragged it out, not even bothering to see what was in it before adding it to the laundry barricade at the front door. The simple act of making-my-bed-but-not-wanting-to-in-the-morning was up next; I tucked the covers in with sharp, clean corners and fluffed the single, sad pillow. Nice. It was sad that the moment I'd let my ass fall onto it later tonight it would turn it ugly, but oh well. It's more of a metaphor for consistency, and structure. Or Whatever.
As I turned my head to the side, ready to spray down the spot on my nightstand where I let my retainers lay in their case—There.
Sitting on my nightstand where I'd left it, was the VR headset. The reason for all of this.
I checked the time. It was nearly 10 PM. A smirk touched my lips, genuine this time. "Look at what I can do when I try," I whispered, looking around at this simple, basic, yet honestly gratifying accomplishment. The smirk widened, a self-amused glint in my eyes. "Now the question is, how the hell do I try this?"
'Ok. I guess I'll pick you up.'
I grabbed the two plugs extended on the floor and clicked them into ports on either side of the visor. The two cables merged into a single adapter, which I then plugged into the large, black generator block sitting in the corner of my room. A small sticker on its side read, 'FOR RENT.' For those of us who couldn't afford the full-dive pods, this was the next best thing—a self-sufficient database that ran the whole virtual reality world. I had a fleeting thought that I'd have to return it in a month, but I pushed it away. One battle at a time.
I laid down on my newly-made bed, the extended covers a small but significant comfort. I held the headset in both hands, took a deep breath, and pulled it over my eyes.
Dark. And. Silent.
Then, a voice, disembodied and resonant, filled the void.
[--Welcome back {MOONSHINE}—to Virtuosa Valoria.--]
A pane of holographic light shimmered into existence before me, casting a soft blue glow in the blackness. Crisp, digital font laid out my existence in this world.
Name: MOONSHINE
Level: 63
Title(s): None
Class: Novice Adventurer
XP: [ 150 / 8,500 ]
Skills Nearing Level-Up:
Basic Swordsmanship [|||||||---] 7/10
Basic Scavenging/Harvesting [||||||----] 6/10
Basic Charisma [|||||-----] 5/10
At the bottom of the display were the navigational tabs, a list of everything I'd mostly ignored up until now.
[SKILLS] [STATS] [INVENTORY] [CURRENT QUESTS] [PREVIOUS JOBS] [TITLES] [EQUIPMENT]
I stared at the screen, at the raw data of my in-game self. It was a pathetic resume. But for the first time, I didn't see it as a mark of failure. No, this… I'm setting it as my starting point.
"Command: Close UI."
The panel shattered into motes of light and disappeared. In its place, the oppressive sun of the Caeloran Wastes bleached the world in shades of tan and brown. I was standing in the middle of the dusty main street of Avarnove, the same drab, sand-colored buildings lining the path. The same shoddy town.
I closed my eyes, the virtual heat warm on my face. I took a deep breath of the dry, synthesized air, held it, and let it out in a slow, steady stream.
I opened them again, my gaze sharp and clear.
"Alright," I asked the empty street. "Now what?"
My feet started moving before my brain had an answer. I began to walk, my heavy armor clanking softly with each step, heading toward the town center. The initial rush of purpose was already starting to fade, replaced by a familiar, aimless feeling. I was here to meet Godspeed, to confront him, but I had no idea how. What did proving him wrong even look like? And how was I supposed to find him?
'Maybe he's not even logged in,' a familiar, cynical voice whispered in my mind. 'That's probably why he said to meet in the morning.'
The thought sent a wave of frustration through me. I'd missed my chance. I could have logged in an hour before work, I suppose. A bitter scoff escaped my lips.
"Hell no," I muttered aloud, my voice a low growl. "I need my beauty sleep, dammit." I was complaining again, muttering to myself like some crazy person. The bitter, fed-up woman I was trying so desperately to push away was already clawing her way back to the surface.
"Hey."
The voice cut through my internal spiral, sharp and clear. It came from nearby. I stopped, my head snapping in its direction.
Leaning against the railing of the alehouse's porch, a crooked grin on his face and a posture that was far too relaxed, was him.
The first thing that hit me was the hair—a wild, unkempt mane of blood-red, messy in a way that seemed almost stylish, or at least not out of place in this world. It was pulled back from his face by a simple golden band, cascading all the way down to his waist.
He wore an unbuttoned vest, hanging at about rib height. His sleeves cut off above the elbow, revealing forearms, fists, and even his thumbs wrapped in what looked like once-white bandages, now stained with grime. Around his waist was a heavy, lopsided leather belt from which a small, unlit lantern hung. A faded scarf—Cloak? Shawl?---was draped over his head, sitting on his shoulders. His boots looked crazy old and thick, and probably stupidly heavy, but it was his silhouette that was most imposing—lean and toned, with the subtle but unmistakable air of someone much more menacing than that grin belied.
As he pushed himself off the railing, his radiant, golden-beige skin seemed to catch the harsh desert light. I saw a marking under his right eye—an intricate, cursive symbol that looked almost like a dragon—that seemed to glitter faintly.
And then his eyes met mine.
It wasn't my imagination. They were legitimately swirling. It wasn't just the color, a deep and unsettling dead-blood-red, but the very structure of them. The outline of his iris and pupil was jagged, chaotic, spinning slowly like a maelstrom. It might have been a skill, or a disease, or some other effect of the game I'd never seen before, but whatever it was, it was hypnotic.
He took a step closer, breaking the trance, and then another. He bent down slightly, bringing his face uncomfortably close to my visor. That foolish grin was still plastered on his face.
"Howdy."
His hand came up, his fingers reaching for the edge of my helm. My reaction was pure instinct. My gauntleted hand shot up, clamping around his wrist before he could make contact. I pushed his arm up and away.
"Too close."
He let out a short chuckle, not struggling in the slightest. He raised his free hand in a gesture of mock surrender. "Ah yeah; sorry, guy."
He stepped back, and I released his wrist. Without another word, he turned and started walking back toward the alehouse, giving a casual wave over his shoulder for me to follow.
For a second, I just stood there, my mind trying to catch up. 'Weirdo,' I thought. I glanced down, making sure my visor was still securely in place, a useless but comforting gesture. Then, with a grunt, I hiked up the pauldrons of my armor and followed him into the alehouse.