Page 12 of Immortal Longings
One player is far larger than the rest, lumbering toward the biggest bag of the bunch and holding it to his chest. He has no difficulty bowling others out of his way; he takes a blade slash along the side of his arm and merely keeps going, running for one of the exits.
Anton rips his wristband off. Halfheartedly, they tell players not to invade each other. They’ve made it legal for the games—otherwise the players would do it anyway, and then the palace would get stuck either labeling every player a criminal or looking the other way for the sake of the people’s entertainment. But still, they have to do their diligence to establish a standard for the viewers. They warn that jumping is dangerous, that players should avoid it for their own health, because the palace caresso deeplyfor their health. They warn that the yaisu sickness can happen to anyone: the result of exiting and entering the same body one too many times in rapid succession. If a player is weak and gets flung back into their own body after repeated failed invasions, it’s a surefire way to burn up, their body taking sick and locking their qi in for certain death. The palace gets even more displeased if the nobility are invaded by the players. Prostitutes and gamblers can be thrown into the fray if their bodies are the ones doubled. If it is one of their own, however, the council gets involved, and the headache is so colossal that most players are wary about who they jump into for the sake of their own sanity.
Anton throws his wristband right into the player’s path. He slams into the new body so hard and so fast that he’s almost certain he has gone beyond notice, only then the outcries of protest start around him, and he figures his light flashed after all. A shame. Perhaps he should be grateful he didn’t bounce out from thejump, which the palace warns is the norm, which was what almost killed Otta and left her comatose in the hospital. But he already knew he was stronger than everyone else in this arena, in these damned twin cities.
“Better luck next time,” he shouts over his shoulder, scooping up the wristband in his path. He runs, wasting no time fighting or watching players tear into one another. When the spectators outside the arena dart back to avoid his path, Anton cuts a fast line through, hurrying into the nearest street, then taking another sharp turn.
He finds himself in a narrow alley lined with hair salons. The people here do not startle at his sudden appearance. After hours, they are either sweeping their floors or planted on tiny plastic chairs around a low table, blowing on their tea and watching their television screens in the corner. Any moment now, the live reports of the games will start, the news stations running whatever early surveillance footage they can get their hands on.
“Hey, catch.”
The shopkeeper turns at Anton’s call, frowning in puzzlement. On instinct he holds his arms out and catches the items that Anton tosses over. The young man’s purple eyes widen, realizing what he is holding. By then, Anton is already in, blinking fast to focus the new body’s poor vision, ducking quickly to escape the other player once he returns to consciousness.
Anton tears open the bag. His heart pounds hard, fingers rummaging through the coins in search of one stray chip. On the other side of the counter, the player starts to yell. Briefly, Anton pokes his head over the counter in concern, but it doesn’t seem like the player is looking his way.
“Which one of you did it? Which one of you has the nerve?”
The beefy player kicks his foot at the ground, drawing a shriek from an elderly lady nearby and then a click of her tongue in reproach. With no memory of what his body was doing in the time he was occupied, he cannot gauge where the intruder’s flash of light went unless someone else points it out. No one does.The other shopkeepers stare and stay quiet, knowing the games started with the stroke of midnight. Anton remains hidden behind the counter, his hand still prodding through the bag. It’s too late for the man to go back for a chip now. Any remaining bags will have been taken by those who stayed and fought. Even if they don’t need more than one chip, they want the coins each bag comes with. This player has been eliminated. He should be happy; he could never have been the victor anyway, and so he has been spared his life.
By the roar he makes before storming off, clearly he does not agree.
Anton finally finds the chip and breathes out a sigh of relief. The alley has gone back to its low conversation. When he brings the chip out, its metallic lines catch the light above him, looking out of place alongside the rough coins and the sack’s fraying burlap. He turns the wristband this way and that before realizing the slot runs vertical down the side. He presses the chip in.
The screen flashes white, before86appears in its place.
“All right,” Anton mutters aloud. He gathers up the rest of the bag. “Let’s play.”
The back door is stuck, sealed in by the mold and grit that has built up at the corners.
Calla plants a boot on the doorframe, then grips the knob tightly with both her hands. Her wristband passed the midnight countdown seconds ago. The other players will have started dispersing across San-Er. She tugs harder.
When the door finally opens, the motion is so vigorous that she stumbles a few steps, her coat rustling as she hits the wall.
“What’s this, then?” An old man turns over his shoulder to examine who just broke his back door, a cleaning rag in one hand and a pipe in the other. “Am I being robbed?”
“No, you’re being monopolized,” Calla says breathlessly, flashing a smile and hurrying in. She tugs the cleaning rag away from the shopkeeper and slides a large monetary note into his palm instead. “Take this. I only ask that you close shop for five minutes.”
Weapons are heavily regulated in San-Er. Which means there are only three shops in the twin cities selling them, intended exclusively for the palace guards—except in the twenty-four hours after the Daqun, when the shops will cater to the eighty-eight players of the games too, if they can show their wristband to make a single purchase. While the Daqun might be the first bloodbath, the three weapon shops across the cities will always be the next fight. Still, it’s common knowledge that these shops are often in collaboration with the Crescent Societies, distributing items on the black market when profits are low. If players really lose their one weapon midway through the games and reappear with another, the newscasters will abstain from commenting on the switch for the sake of palace decorum.
The old man holds her legal tender up to the light and grunts, then pulls the security gate down over the front of his shop. Other players will soon be coming from the front of the building, weaving in and out of the numerous hallways and corridors.
“Quick, quick,” Calla says, slapping her hand on the tabletop.
The shopkeeper narrows his faded-gray eyes, adjusting the cap on his head. “What’s your number?”
“Fifty-Seven.”
“Wristband?”
Calla shows him her wrist. The shopkeeper frowns.
“Hmm…”
“Hmm?” she mimics, an octave higher. “Comeon!”
The shopkeeper finally reaches into the drawers around the table. He continues moving at leisurely speed as he brings out the rare stock, one after the other. The games do not suit a mere dagger or a standard sword. They requirea flourish, a weapon that others will not know how to combat when taken by surprise.
“All my products guarantee good speed, deep cuts,” he says. “What sounds good to you? A Yanyue dao?” He brings out a curved blade mounted on a wooden pole, with a red sash flowing off its end. “We’ve got a replica of the mythical”—he grunts, bringing out a heavy matching sword and saber—“Yitian jian and Tulong dao. If you can handle wielding them both at once, that is, because I won’t have them parted. Or even…”
