Page 10 of Anchor

Rosabel La Rouge - Mud - Victor - Cheater - 5 million dollars - Rainbow - unconscious—all those words and more popped up in bold letters on these pictures, and I was dizzy three seconds in. Poppy grabbed the laptop and brought it to her lap instantly.

“There isn’t much Google can tell you about the Iris Roe,” she said, and opened a new tab—straight into the web page of the City of Games. While she signed in, I closed my eyes to gather myself for a moment—all those pictures of me had been on there. Pictures of my ID, my IDD badge, and a couple I’d cared to share on social media. Some had had happy emojis on them, and some had hadMudorCheaterplastered over in bold letters, and they were still right there in the center of my mind even when the screen changed.

Then, Poppy logged into her paid account with the City of Games, tapped into the big colorful button that said,IRIS ROE 2024,and there I was again, at the top of a very long list.

The wordPlayerswas written in colorful letters at the very top, and all the names and pictures of the players of the Roe were below it. The third column showed the age of the player, the fourth their coven, and the fifth theirstatus.

Mine went: my ID pic,La Rouge, Rosabel; 20; Redfire Coven; Victor

And below me, all eleven names that fit the screen of the laptop without scrolling down had the same word under Status:Deceased,written in red.

Deceased. All of them below me, the names in alphabetical order,deceased.

“See? You were declared the winner by the Council last night,” said Poppy, showing me my name, and that last column. Mystatus.

“Scroll down,” I said because I didn’t yet have the strength to grab that laptop and search that whole page myself. Pictures,names, numbers—one of those below me was Taland, and when Poppy began to scroll down, she revealed more and moreDeceasedwritten in red.

The rest were labeled,Participant.

They simplyparticipatedin the game, since they didn’t win it, and they didn’t die. Participants, that’s all.

“Rora, are you sure you want to do this? Maybe you can just rest for today. Maybe you can—” Poppy started, and I hated—hatedto be a bitch right now, but I simply didn’t have the patience.

“Just keep scrolling. Go to the end,” I cut her off, my eyes on the small pictures of the players, searching for his face. I was praying with all my being, though I couldn’t tell you what for. For Taland to be on that list—or not? Which was better—knowing he had been there and he was aparticipant,not adeceased,or not knowing at all?

“Yeah, okay,” Poppy whispered, and to say she was shockedby my behavior was an understatement, but she continued to scroll.

Deceased, deceased, deceased, participant, deceased, participant, participant, deceased…

“How many?” I dared to ask, and Poppy knew exactly what I was asking about, but she pretended she hadn’t.

“Two hundred and twenty-one people played,” she answered.

Played—as if she really thought the Iris Roe was a game and not a fucking slaughterhouse.

“How many died, Poppy?”

A second of silence. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

“A hundred and twenty,” she finally whispered.

That noise in my ears again.

One hundred and twenty people had died in the playground of the Iris Roe.

My goddess, how many hadIkilled at the Ghost Festival? Better yet, “What about others? Staff and residents—what about others?” So many elves and orcs had died in Night City alone, killed by the players to get their keys. “And…and the animals…where are the animals? What did they do—where are they?”

I was shaking. I was crying. Big warm tears were sliding down my cheeks as if I was just now realizing that it had been real. Goddess, all of it had been real. The blood and the pain and the fear and the helplessness, all that death—real.So fucking real.

How am I going to live with myself?

This question I kept on the inside.

“We don’t…we don’t know. The numbers haven’t been made public. The playground hasn’t been checked and shut down yet,” said Poppy, and she was shaking, too. As if she, too, was just now realizing whata-hundred-and-twentymeant. As if she was realizing thata-hundred-and-twentywas almost sixty percent of that original number.

Sixty percent of players died in it last time.

Well, sixty percent of players died in itthistime, too, apparently. And some of them I probably killed myself.

---