OOOOOOOOOOOO
A persistent ache in his back accompanied with the inverted print of woodgrain on his cheek suggested that he had, in fact, slept on the floor last night. Though LM2 was equipped with both calendars and clocks, there was no way to coordinate those numbers with the amount of concurrent time in the real world, so Kakashi was never sure how long he'd been under. The only measurement, which was subjective at best, was how rotten he felt when he tried to stand up.
Last night was quite possibly the worst he'd ever experienced. His knees had buckled the minute he'd put any weight on them, and his arms had provided very little resistance when he tried to catch himself.
Unable to find enough energy to even roll over, he'd closed his eyes and hoped that he'd feel better in the morning.
His previous record was six weeks, and he had no doubt that this excursion had lasted much longer. His stomach growled in agreement.
When he'd first been hired, he'd followed the safety rules imposed on all assassins – only one mark per trip. Each person was then required to exit the game for a week to build back muscle strength and energy reserves for the next immersion. At that time, the jobs took little more than a week of real-world time, and so the degradation of his body had been minimal. His muscles had been shaky after every exit, but with the help of strategically placed chairs and tables – and one unfortunate potted plant – he'd been able to make it to the kitchen.
In short order, he'd proved to be one of the most accomplished assassins the organization had ever seen, and the boss, begrudgingly, began to assign him two marks per mission.
Then three.
And then five, eight, and so forth. This continued until the number of names he was given had reached a point of ridiculousness where he could not keep track of all the relevant information – name, location, and deadline – and neither could the organization.
To remedy the problem, the boss had sponsored his modification. The eye implant allowed him to access LM2's databases and, with a single name, acquire all the needed records for a successful mission. When the boss had outlined the abilities of the modification to him, he'd stared at her in disbelief, certain that the administrators at LM2 would never allow it.
All modifications had to be registered and approved with the central management of the game. Because of the simplicity of the game's coding, anyone with a basic background in programming could write-in specific additions to their character and upload them through the terminal connected to their berth. The designers had been concerned of an overload of coding swamping the servers, but had not wanted to constrict the players to a basic, 'human' existence within the game.
This consternation had led to a compromise that was affectionately known as the 'Cheap Genie' clause of the program. Every player received one wish, within reason and certain restrictions.
Using a modification to access other player's personal data probably fell under those restrictions.
The boss's tawny eyebrow arched at his confusion; her voice tinged with amusement as she answered his unspoken question. "Oh, we're not going to register your mod."
Any player entering the game from any access point was scanned for additional code. If they had an unregistered modification, they were automatically declined, and the code was erased in the scanning process. On the off chance that a player actually managed to smuggle an unregistered modification into the game, all exiting participants were scanned as well, with the same results.
Though most players entered through an access point hardwired to their berth, they almost always exited through whichever point was closest when they decided to stop playing.
If they decided to stop playing.
Kakashi forcefully shoved the ghosts to the back of his mind.
The assassins – it had been explained to him - were provided with non-standard, unregistered upgrades by their programmers and had to both access and depart from the exact same port. The organization's coders had over-ridden the scanning algorithms on each assassin's berth port.
"That being said." The boss had continued, steepling her hands in front of her face. "The eye mod is not the only one we will provide. As none of them will be registered, we are not limited by the game's clause. Is there anything else you want?"
During his last venture into the game, Kakashi had his first encounter with the hunters.
Dark muscle and sparse fur filled his vision the instant before a significant mass landed on his chest, throwing him backwards and snapping his head hard against the cement sidewalk. The massive claws raked at his torso as he'd scrambled backwards on butt and elbows in a desperate attempt to avoid the swings.
The hollow, black eyes, so much like those of a shark, rolled wildly as the hunter chased him down. His hand dropped onto the baseball bat he'd liberated from the previous target and had been knocked aside from the first attack.
A quick twist brought him onto his feet, hands gripping the bat close to the base. The blunt end smashed into the hunter's muzzle. The beast screamed, falling back and clawing at its face and shattered nose. Blood poured from its nostrils into a rapidly spreading pool at its feet.
In the moment of distraction, Kakashi'd brought the bat down on the back of the hunter's head where skull met spine. The beast started to spin towards him, neurons firing too slowly to inform the muscles that the brain had already died. The twisted and rotting body collapsed at his feet before disappearing in a breath of dust and pixels.
"Something to hide me from the hunters." He had no doubt that he would be able to take on any of the beats, but his job would be a lot easier if he could simply avoid them.
Bemusement crossed the boss' face. "Interesting…" She murmured. "Every other person has asked for weapons."
Kakashi cocked his head, thinking of the racks of knives in kitchens, the baseball bat he'd most recently used, pools, bathtubs, gardening tools, apartments above the second story…the list went on and on. He shrugged. "There are plenty of weapons in the game, whether they're intended to be or not. Your other assassins apparently have problems looking underneath the common use of an item or are simply lacking in imagination."
A snort greeted his proclamation.
"A weapon might make life easier." He conceded. "But it's certainly not on the top of my list."
The boss had inclined her head and made a brief note in the open ledger on her desk. "Go home. Rest. We'll have the eye mod done in a week." She waved her hand at him, but there wasn't any need. He could recognize a dismissal when he heard one.
After the modification, he rarely left the game. The organization's programmers provided him with slips of paper with the name of the new mark while he was still in LM2. He continued to complete the missions until he stopped receiving names, and then he emerged, usually for three or four days – long enough to restore body mass and rebuild some muscles – before diving back in.
He had a sneaking suspicion that the boss kept a close eye on exactly how long he'd been under and refused to provide any new marks until he came out.
The first time he'd entered the game after the implant, he'd stayed in for an entire month. At that point, it had been, by far, the longest he'd remained in the game.
Opening the lid of the berth was a serious struggle, and he'd had to swallow a bubble of panic that he was permanently stuck. With no friends and family, it would be a long time before anyone discovered him. He wriggled around, bracing his elbows on his hips, and using the strength of his legs and core to shove his arms upward. The lid swung ponderously, but he managed to reach the halfway point, and the weight of the lid, aided by gravity, helped swing it the rest of the way open.
The minute he'd rolled out of the berth, he'd collapsed to the floor, barely managing to claw his way across the worn floorboards to the fridge.
He'd never felt so miserably vulnerable in his life.
Now the floor bore two parallel scratches leading all the way from the kitchen to the living room. The living room was bare save for his berth, a pair of extension cords, a microwave, short chest of drawers and the fridge.
As he pulled himself into a sitting position by the rough lip of the berth to the soundtrack of his stomach rumbling in displeasure, he was never more grateful for the day he'd spent dragging his fridge from his kitchen to sit right next to the berth.
Fridge was perhaps a misnomer. The thing was a full-length freezer. All the missions he'd accomplished after his initial modification lasted longer than anything survived in the fridge. He'd made that mistake after the second mission.
He'd also been too hungry to notice the fine patina of blue-green mold that covered everything.
His third mission with his modification had been significantly delayed as he'd spent three days glued to the toilet.
A frozen dinner clanked into the microwave, and he punched a set of numbers with a shaking finger before leaning into the comforting hum of the machine. When his arm had stopped trembling, he tugged open one of the drawers and pulled out three energy bars. He ate so fast that he almost forgot to breathe.
A few hours and several plates of half-thawed food – he was not a very patient person – later, he managed to stand up and stagger to the bathroom. Unable to stand long enough to take a decent shower, he sank to the cold tiles and let the water pound across his shoulders.
Three days. He promised himself. People continued to waste away in the game, and every life he took was a life he saved from that horror. No one deserved to fade.
Only the people who had seen the process up close and personal could truly understand that.
OOOOOOOOO
Iruka hooked an arm over the door of his fridge as he unscrewed the cap of the milk and took a quick whiff. He coughed hard to cover the urge to gag, flipped on the garbage disposal and poured the milk – which was more chunks than liquid – down the drain. The empty jug clanged around the edges of the trashcan.
Rain hammered against the window. It had been drizzling most of the day, separated by staccato downpours. The worn jeans and plain, charcoal-colored t-shirt he'd hauled on that morning would provide little protection against the chilly drops. His coat was draped unceremoniously over the back of his desk chair. After shaking the dust off of it, and ignoring the layer of dust on everything else, he shrugged it on, buttoned the long coat, and turned up the stiff wool collar.
The deadbolt and security chain rattled slightly as he opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. The stairwell was narrow and carpeted in a thin runner that still had its original deep crimson color on the edges and in the deep creases of the stairs but was worn to a pale pinkish tan in the center. The steps creaked softly underfoot as he padded down to the ground level. The hallway on the first floor had two doors leading off of it, and he unlocked the one set into the side of the hall.
A warm, comforting aroma of coffee rolled out of the door, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. He leaned through the door jam. "Shizune-san? I'm headed down to the convenience store. Need anything?"
The dark-haired barista looked up from the thick book she had spread over her thigh. "Iruka-kun! Welcome back! How was the trip?"
Iruka forced his smile to remain steady and warm as his left shoulder rose and fell in a half-shrug. "Not one of the best." Prior to being hired as a messenger, the coffee shop had been his first stop every morning, without fail. The beverage was a vice that he'd attempted to give up several years ago, but the shop made a fantastic latte. When he'd started disappearing for days on end, Shizune had cornered him and demanded an explanation. He'd managed to splutter out something about business trips that he wasn't entirely sure she bought. But whether she believed his excuse or not, she never let on.
"Oh, sorry…" Her expression turned sympathetic, and the silence stretched, broken only by the smooth jazz that seemed to be the pre-requisite background music for any coffee shop.
"How's work going?" He turned the conversation in an attempt to break the awkwardness.
Shizune spread both hands, waving the book around in the gesture. "Can't complain. They've got me on a split shift, so I'm here for opening and closing. Busy in the mornings, but pretty boring when I get here at six. I think I've seen three people tonight." She paused to take a sip of the coffee mug sitting on the counter in front of her and made a face at it. "Lukewarm coffee."
Iruka let his face twist in a grimace of commiseration.
"You know, I would kill for an Icee. Would you mind?"
"Not at all. I'll be back in a little bit." Iruka waved over his shoulder as he stepped back into the hall, relocked the door, and headed for the second door at the end of the corridor. This entryway opened onto the street. The coffee shop sat on the northeast corner of Maple and Washington taking up the first floor of an old, turn-of-the-century stone building. The façade on the corner was rounded off around wide double doors, and the first floor, with its high ceilings, was almost completely composed of tall windows. The owner of the shop had installed green and rose striped awnings around the tops of the windows as well as soft yellow lights aimed at the wide expanse of glass. Even in the gloomy rain, the shop appeared to glow like a warm beacon in the surrounding dusk. The wide leather armchairs and low tables pushed up against the windows only served to enhance the feeling.
Halfway down the long edge of the building was a narrow doorway, slightly set back from the rest of the wall. When the stone goliath had been a house for the elite members of Greensboro - long before this small town had merged to become a run-down suburb of the bigger city of Lans - this door had been an entrance to the servant's quarters. The two doors that opened into the coffee shop and Iruka's apartment had originally been used by the servants to access the main house. A storage company owned the servant's quarters that occupied the back half of the building and had bricked up the door that led between the narrow hallway and their space. The coffee shop now inhabited the main dining room and ballroom, and Iruka's apartment was modified from the multitude of bedrooms that took up the upper floor. He suspected that the room he used as a living room had, in a previous life, actually been the master bedroom. The kitchen had originally consisted of a small, wood-burning stove, which had been used to heat water for morning coffee or tea. The coffee shop – who owned the apartment as well – had made a minor renovation to it in the means of adding a tiny, ancient stove and fridge. He'd purchased the microwave from one of the cheaper department stores downtown.
The rain had returned to a soft drizzle. Iruka tipped his head back and let the fine drops splatter across his face. A deep breath filled his lungs with the sweet scent of fresh, open air, and a light breeze toyed with the ends of his hair.
Any significant amount of time spent in the berth instigated a deep craving for the out of doors, and he ambled slowly in the direction of the Quick Stop gas station/convenience store. At this time of night, the small shops that lined Maple Street had long since closed and the sidewalk was deserted. Run-down, maybe, but the majority of the serious crimes and gang scenes played out in downtown Lans itself. Despite the weathered storefronts and flickering streetlights, Greensboro still had the feeling of a small town, albeit one with a little less money than the ritzier Stanton on the northern edge of the city, tucked up against the mountains.
Greensboro fell in the perfect compromise – while there was little in the way of police, no one here was wealthy enough to make random muggings worthwhile, and the shops, which were quaint in their own way, did not attract the sort of attention of the boutiques on Stanton's main street. The place was safe to walk about at night, but was not overrun by a crush of humanity at all hours of the day.
The tall streetlamp that hung over one corner of the parking lot of the Quick Stop sputtered to life as he crossed under it, and he turned to look up at it. The light almost never worked, but Iruka knew well what it illuminated.
The weather-beaten, peeling billboard had become almost a historic landmark as one of the original promotion posters for Life – Mark II.
A stylized golden-orange phoenix was emblazoned on a black background with the letters 'LM2' in bold font across the logo. Underneath the symbols was the phrase, 'Life, reinvented.'
Iruka's lip curled up in a disgusted sneer as he gazed at it. The doors to the convenience store wooshed open as he stepped onto the cement patio, but he paid them little attention, still ruminating on the evolution of LM2.
Psych games had taken the world by storm, causing almost more of a stir than the first motion control video games. The controllers were originally limited to a net of electrodes that slid on over the scalp and took the idea of motion control to a whole new level – allowing a player to control their avatar through the thoughts they would typically use to control the movements of their own body.
Gone were the days of frantic button mashing or frenetic controller waving. Most players sat in front of the screen, cross-legged on the floor, and fixated on their character, scarcely remembering to blink.
In the beginning, the net of sensors had a nasty tendency to char away hair and cause long-term scaring of the brain tissue directly below the application point. Besides the health issues, the games were mind-bogglingly expensive. Only the very rich or the middle class who were willing to go without eating for several months were ever able to afford them.
The Kasou Corporation had turned the world of psych gaming on its ear. The designers envisioned a program with no visual interface whatsoever, a method of completely immersing the player in the game. The berth was the solution for that.
The berth consisted of a side-mounted computer that connected to LM2's massive server, allowing the player to create and monitor their account and choose their entrance location in the sprawling, unnamed city. A coil of thick cable emerged from the base, ending in a four inch diameter cannon plug – a special connector unique to the Kasou berth that included a power line designed to carry the required voltage that was much higher than a normal wall socket and a thick, proprietary, network cable. Each berth required special installation, though the workers at Kasou installed around fifteen a day, even now, ten years out from the initial release.
The main section of the berth was a flattened, torpedo-shaped tube. The top section lifted open on thick hinges, revealing only a shaped cushion and a stiff, metal headband that was perfectly shaped to wrap around the back of the player's head and rest an electrode against either temple.
Kasou discovered that people were more receptive to mental inputs when in a state of sensory deprivation. The seal around the outside closed out all light and sound, and a series of scrubbers along the hinge kept the air from stagnating. The molded foam along the bottom was neither comfortable nor painful, rather giving the individual the feeling of being suspended and isolated from the world.
In the pseudo dream state the berth produced, the voltage signals from the electrodes could be fine tuned to a level that barely registered – reducing both health concerns and operating costs.
But the Kasou Corporation saw fit to take it a step farther. In the desire to create an affordable interface, they poured an exorbitant amount of funding into research to further lower the power requirements.
The solution was brilliant, really. And yet more dangerous than anyone could have imagined when LM2 was released close to a decade ago. The interface became nothing more than a mental suggestion – imprinting the image of the almost-featureless white city in the mind of the player. The buildings, their external appearance, their location, etc were all set by the original programmers, but the interiors were controlled by the mind of the person playing.
The game provided little more than a framework, and the gamer saw only what he wanted to see.
This held true even in the case of the people who recognized LM2 for the creeping poison it had become. The world appeared exactly as they envisioned it.
The brilliance of this solution was not the cost – though it became the first affordable psych game – or the relative safety the new interface design provided – though no studies had been published to demonstrate the danger of playing LM2 from the Kasou berth – but rather that it solved the oldest problem video games had ever encountered.
Unsatisfied customers.
This game, with no specific coding save the external layout, was quite literally everything to everybody.
The perfect world. Your perfect world.
Nothing was more addictive.
His hand clutched at the flimsy handles of the plastic bag that held little more than milk, bread and peanut butter – enough to tide him over until a real grocery run tomorrow. Shizune's Icee was slowly chilling his other hand, but he was so lost in his own thoughts that he scarcely gave it any notice.
Tens of berths installed everyday. Everyone knew at least one person who played; it was impossible not to. Almost everyone knew someone who had died playing the game. And yet it continued as more and more cattle lined up and allowed themselves to be led to the slaughter.
Even with all the messengers at their disposal, the organization could not save all of them.
I only come in if you people fail.
He had tried to block the assassin's words from his mind. He had tried to let them simply flow out of his memory like so much water under a bridge.
He knew, theoretically, how the organization worked. Messengers first, assassins second. Any person who could not be convinced to leave was killed.
But that process had never been laid out as plainly before his eyes as it was now. The assassin had not minced words.
His feet carried him to a deserted park and across the wood chips and shredded tire fragments to a pair of rusted metal swings that creaked back and forth in the slight wind. One groaned under his weight as he settled on it and picked up a rhythmic squeaking as he rolled from his heels to the balls of his feet and back, swinging slowly in the dark.
Fine sheets of frost began to form between his warm fingers and the plastic cup cradled in his hands. He stared at it, but his eyes focused somewhere in the mid-distance. Every time he failed - every time – he signed a death warrant for the customer he was unable to help.
These people were family, friends, and loved ones. The messages he delivered haunted him and chased him through his dreams on the occasion he was able to sleep, even if he had managed to save the recipient.
But now, with such blatant knowledge of what lay ahead…
He gripped the cup so tightly it almost cracked and whispered to the surrounding shadows. "I can't do this anymore."
OOOOOOOOOO
The soft, yet insistent beeping of his phone woke him, and he sprawled across the futon, stretching his hand towards the annoyance.
Though the number wasn't stored in his contacts, it had been burned into his memory over the last three years – his boss. Ever since she had recruited him as a messenger, he was invariably summoned for a debrief each time he emerged. The text message only listed a time, but she didn't need to specify anything else. It wasn't the first time he'd been in her office.
Hell, it wasn't even remotely the first time he'd been in the building.
He'd worked there for close to a year.
Although, in retrospect, he hadn't gotten much work done. For whatever reason, and through no fault of his own – he had remained in his cubicle, fixed to his computer, and isolated by a set of earbuds constantly playing celtic rock – his coworkers sought him out, parked themselves in his extra chair, and bent his ear for hours on end.
The stories were almost always about personal troubles, love gone wrong, struggles at work or at home, or, in the worst case, a woman who seemed to be trying to cope with acute depression without any external help. Iruka had provided recommendations because he just couldn't stay silent, not when these people were so obviously in pain.
People left his office smiling when they had entered practically in tears. It hadn't taken more than two people gushing to their friends about how much he had helped, and his coworkers had, for all intents and purposes, lined up outside his door.
The whole thing earned him a pseudo nickname of being the 'office psychologist.' His cubemate, who had a wicked sense of humor, had even dragged in a fainting couch and managed to stuff it diagonally into Iruka's cube. In order to get it in, he'd had to take out both chairs. Iruka wound up sitting on the raised arm of the couch all day.
The broad, stone steps rose to the small terrazzo surrounded by three skyscrapers. An obligatory fountain bubbled from the center. It was set several feet into the ground and shoot out intermittent spurts of water. The base of the pool was lit with three pairs of gold and blue lights, generating sparkles of color in the leaping jets of water. The sight was truly beautiful at night and quite calming during the daylight.
The Visual Recording Artist Industries took up the first two floors of the southern building on the square. The company's official role was to produce stock footage for advertisements. Half of the company's payroll, however, went to the employees hired to fight LM2. The assassins, messengers, even the programmers – who were listed on the public record as the web managers, the IT folks, and so forth.
As he passed under the steel and glass arch at the front of the building, Iruka remembered the first time he had ever been in his boss' office.
The knock sounded hesitant, even to his ears, and he pulled himself as straight as he could, willing confidence he didn't feel. He was about to get fired; he was sure of it. A voice beckoned him inside.
"You wanted to see me, Tsunade-sama?" His voice wobbled a little bit.
The woman held up her left hand as she sorted through a stack of paperwork. "Umino Iruka, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am." He fiddled with the zipper tab on his khaki jacket, wishing again that he'd worn something more professional.
"You work in the post-processing unit." The words were not really a question, so he stood silent.
"I've heard some interesting stories about your interactions with our other employees. Care to explain."
"I…I've been getting my work done, Tsunade-sama. Staying late when I need to."
The golden gaze pierced him with a lance of power, and he was stuck by the sudden realization of why exactly Tsunade was the head of VRA Industries. He'd only met her face to face this once, and with a single glace, she'd made him want to confess all his sins. Her head cocked to one side. "Have you tried just telling them to leave you alone?"
The question shocked him. "But…they need help."
A smile stretched slowly across her face. "You are something else, you know that?"
"You're not firing me?" The fidgeting stopped abruptly.
"Firing you?" The dangerous woman sat forward, chuckling softly. "God, no! I have a job for you."
He hoped she would clarify enough to wash away the confusion that was wrapping its silky threads around his brain."A different one?"
"Not particularly. Think of it as getting paid for what you spend most of your time doing anyway."
Iruka took a deep breath before rapping on the door with much more confidence than he'd had the first time. A voice beckoned him in.
OOOOOOOOOOOO
Background chapter of doom...
Hope it's not too painfully bad ^^