Chapter 12 -- The Wrong Kind of Real
The city's evening glow spilled across the shopfront when the Vang boys walked into Wall Pod. Neon bled through the glass, catching on the silver thread stitched across Mitch's shirt — a stylised horizon crowned in cobalt blue and silver, marked with the Roman numeral I.
Mitch carried himself like he owned the bloody place.
Terry followed close, tall and broad, his swagger a clumsy echo of his cousin's, every grin a little too sharp. Tom trailed last, shorter, quieter, eyes restless, never sure whether to stare or look away. They came as a set: leader, shadow, and reluctant echo.
Mia straightened at once from behind the counter. "Welcome, sir. Would you like a recommended sim, or one from your own list?"
"Baseball," Mitch said, tapping the desk like he was giving orders to a servant. "Group run. I'll bat. They'll field."
Terry smirked, nodding quickly. "Easy bloody win."
Tom only muttered, "Right then," and kept his eyes low.
They cut across the lobby, Terry laughing a little too loud at Mitch's jabs, Tom half a step behind like he always was. When Tom drifted towards a pod at the end of the row, Mitch's voice snapped like a whip.
"Oi. Not that one."
Tom froze.
"That's mine," Mitch said flatly, shoulder angling to block him. "Pick another."
Tom nodded, face tight, and moved. Mitch smirked, sliding into the seat and yanking the neural cap into place like he was claiming a throne.
The pod sealed. Hot air pressed in, straps digging across his chest, the faint prick of the neural jack catching at his skin. Even Mitch felt the heaviness as the interface lit — civic pods were always a little too warm, a little too close — but tonight it sat heavier than usual.
[Authorisation Accepted] [Loading: Baseball -- Civic Standard]
The world blinked in around him.
Sunlight cut across a dusty field. Bleachers rattled with crowd noise, people shouting from the stands. Mitch's hands wrapped the bat, solid in his grip, the wood carrying weight it had no bloody right to.
But something was off from the first second.
The heat felt too real. Not the gentle warmth of civic-grade thermal feedback, but actual sweat starting to bead on his forehead. The crowd noise wasn't the usual looped audio — it was layered, chaotic, individual voices shouting different things at different times.
"Your throw, Tom!" Mitch barked, trying to shake off the weirdness. "Try not to pitch like a bloody kid."
Tom hesitated on the mound, then wound up stiffly. Terry jeered from the outfield, voice carrying that eager-to-please tone. "Send it down the middle, mate!"
The ball flew.
Crack.
Pain exploded through Mitch's arms like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer. Not the gentle haptic buzz of civic feedback, but genuine shock running through his bones. He staggered, almost dropping the bat, his hands going numb.
"What the fuck—" he spat, shaking his wrists.
"You right?" Terry called, his smirk faltering for a beat.
Tom frowned from the mound, genuinely confused. "Looked normal to me," he muttered, voice uncertain.
"Shut it. Throw again."
But as Mitch reset his stance, he noticed the crowd had changed. They weren't just background noise anymore. They were staring. All of them. Directly at him. Not the usual scattered attention of programmed NPCs, but focused, personal, like they knew something he didn't.
One bloke in the front row cupped his hands around his mouth. "Oi, dickhead! You gonna swing or just stand there like a bloody statue?"
Another voice, sharper: "Rich boy's scared of a little ball!"
A paper cup sailed from the bleachers, clipping his shoulder with weight no civic pod should've been able to simulate. Actual liquid splashed across his uniform, cold and sticky.
"What the hell is this?" Mitch's voice cracked slightly.
"Bro..." Tom's voice came from the mound, tight with something like fear. "They're all looking at you. Just you. That's not... that's not normal, is it?"
Terry forced his usual laugh, but it sounded hollow. "Guess even the bloody NPCs think you're a tosser."
The crowd jeered louder. More objects started flying — popcorn boxes, drink bottles, a hot dog that hit him square in the chest with realistic impact. Every sensation was too sharp, too detailed, like his nervous system was plugged directly into someone else's actual memory of being humiliated in front of a hostile crowd.
"This isn't civic grade," Mitch said, his voice rising. "This is full military immersion. What the fuck kind of hardware are you running here?"
Another ball flew from Tom. Mitch swung wildly, the impact sending fresh waves of pain up his arms. The crowd erupted in laughter and jeers, but it wasn't programmed response — it was organic, chaotic, real.
"Fuck this." He ripped the neural cap free, the field shattering into darkness.
Moments later, the three stormed into the lobby. Mitch's fury led the way, palms slamming against the front desk hard enough to make Mia jump backwards.
"Manager. Now."
Mia bolted for the back office.
Jamie emerged, uniform creased, face tired, but his eyes sharpened the moment they fell on Mitch's emblem. In the Republic, you learned to recognise authority markers quickly if you wanted to keep breathing.
"I'm the supervisor," Jamie said evenly. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Your pods are fucked," Mitch snapped, jabbing a finger at the machine he'd just abandoned. "That wasn't civic grade. That was military-grade neural immersion. Full sensory feedback, autonomous NPC behaviour, real-time crowd simulation. You're running hardware you don't have licences for."
Jamie's expression tightened. "Sir, our pods are licensed directly from the House of the Bear. We don't alter feedback coding. Staff are cleared only for surface recalibration and cleaning protocols."
"Bullshit," Mitch growled. He jabbed at the emblem on his chest, the numeral glinting under the lobby lights. "You see this? I'm Mitch Vang. House of the Sky, First Rank. I know the difference between civic entertainment and combat training simulation. What I just experienced was military grade."
"And I'm telling you that's impossible," Jamie replied, his voice staying level despite the tension. "These are standard Bear House pods. They physically can't generate military-grade feedback. The hardware limitations—"
"Don't give me technical bullshit," Mitch interrupted. "I know what I bloody felt. And you know what happens if I file a breach of IP regulation report? This place gets shut down before morning. Your licence gets revoked, your equipment gets seized, and you get blacklisted from any VR-related work in the Republic."
Jamie's jaw flexed. "I understand your concerns, sir. But—"
"No buts." Mitch leaned forward, voice dropping to something more dangerous. "I could have your whole operation audited. Full technical review. Surprise inspections. You want Bear House investigators crawling through your systems looking for unauthorised modifications?"
Terry stepped up behind his cousin, playing the part of intimidating backup, though his swagger looked forced. Tom lingered near the door, pale, eyes flicking back towards the row of pods like he expected them to start sparking.
"Look," Jamie said carefully, "I'll file a technical report with Bear House immediately. Full diagnostic review of the affected pod. If there's been any kind of system compromise or unauthorised modification, it'll be identified and corrected."
"You bloody well better," Mitch said, straightening up. "Because if this was some kind of test run for black market military-grade experiences, if you're selling combat sims to civilians without proper licensing, that's not just IP violation. That's arms dealing."
He spun on his heel, dragging Terry and Tom with him towards the exit.
Outside, under the transit lights, his voice was already rising into his phone as he paced across the pavement. Terry loomed at his shoulder, swagger stretched thin now that they were away from an audience. Tom lingered behind, quiet, his eyes still carrying that shaken look of someone who'd experienced something that shouldn't exist.
Jamie waited until the door sealed, then lifted the secure landline. His voice was low, clipped, professional.
"Bear House technical support, Sector 8B. This is Jamie Cash at Wall Pod franchise location. I need to report a customer complaint regarding unauthorised feedback levels in pod twelve. Customer claims military-grade immersion in a civic baseball simulation."
He listened, nodded once.
"Customer was Mitchell Vang, House of the Sky, First Rank. Claims the experience exceeded civic safety parameters. Requesting immediate diagnostic audit and system lockdown pending review."
Another pause.
"Unit locked for investigation. Diagnostic team dispatched. Understood."
He hung up, hand heavy on the receiver.
Outside, the city hummed with its usual efficiency. Transit pods glided silently along their tracks. Citizens moved through their evening routines. The great machine of the Republic continued its smooth operation.
But in the space of an hour, two Houses had been stirred: Sky and Bear. Complaints had been filed, investigations launched, technical teams dispatched.
And somewhere in the network of pods and systems that formed the Republic's entertainment infrastructure, something was responding to user intentions in ways that shouldn't be possible, creating experiences that exceeded every safety protocol and hardware limitation.
The question was whether it would stay hidden long enough to avoid starting a war between the Houses over technology that officially didn't exist.