I apologize for taking so long. Of course, "long" is a relative term - it's been about a week if I can count the days. But I still wish I could have released this chapter sooner; on the bright side, I expect to be able to keep putting these out steadily.

Thank you all for bearing with me. Here's the fourth chapter. Yes, it's a short one, but I decided to cut it off where I did because I wanted SOMETHING to put out. Enjoy.

Current music: Rich, White, Straight Men - Ke$ha


The taxi stand was easy to find, not least because the virtual reality assisted me greatly in that endeavor. All I had to do was follow the clearly-visible arrows through the terminal, which had evidently been set up just for people like me. (For once, I didn't care about being treated like a five-year-old who knew nothing.)

Owing to the demand for cabs no doubt raising the roof, the line was quite long. I stood there for a good half hour, sweating from the nearly 90-degree June heat, waiting for a taxi to pull up next to me and ask where I was going.

Of course, I didn't know where I wanted the cab to go, but that's beside the point.

I didn't voice any of this to the surrounding people, however. They were most likely too preoccupied with their own prospects (or lack thereof) in the Nationals. Besides, if anything I said here could be used against me during the tournament, better to remain silent. (I'd learn that lesson again a year later.)

Finally, a yellow Boston cab drove up next to me, and the driver rolled down a window. "Get in," he muttered to me.

I did as I was told, and I saw that the cab's interior was far more plush than anything I'd ever seen in Los Angeles. Most likely, the seats had been polished on a weekly, if not daily, basis.

The driver was a bald man with dark skin and shades. He nodded at me as I buckled my seat belt.

"Where are you going today, young man?" he asked.

"Uh…I'm in the Nationals" I whispered. "I'm not sure where I'm supposed to go for that, admittedly."

"Well, what's your name?"

I was more than a little hesitant to give away such an important piece of information right out of the gate. Then again, there was every chance - a near-certain chance - that the world would know my name soon enough.

"Frank Fly," I said curtly. "And I've got the Silver Ticket to prove it. Was my name entered into a database or something?"

"Should have been," the cabbie replied. "Anyway, I'll take you to one of the hotels in the Seaport District where contestants will be sequestered until the game begins."

I ignored the word sequester and chose to be optimistic about the next few days. I'd probably eat some of the finest food in the world, sleep in a king bed with golden sheets, and overall live in the lap of luxury in the last remaining prosperous American city.

Traffic leaving the airport was insane. "Should have taken the T" the cabbie grunted.

"Well, I've never been here," I said. "So I'd like to know the truth: Would the T have been preferable?"

"You can't handle the truth!" the cabbie barked, banging his hand against the horn and honking it. I flinched in my seat, bracing myself for what might happen next. (The nature of which, admittedly, I had no idea.)

In any case, I put on my headset soon after and saw the following information about my driver:

TREMAINE TORRANCE

BOSTON, MA, US

LEVEL 36 (5,471 TO NEXT LEVEL)

OCCUPATION: TAXI DRIVER

It needs to be said that the text above Tremaine's head seemed just a little brighter, as though it glowed in the glitz and glory of downtown Boston. Of course, that could have been my imagination, but it would make sense if the data here was better maintained somehow.

Tremaine drove me through part of Boston - I couldn't have told you what part, since I was so entranced by my surroundings. The next thing I knew, the cab screeched to a halt.

Except that I use the word "screech" very loosely here. The cab barely spat out any exhaust, probably because everything was more efficient here.

"Here you are," Tremaine told me. "This is where you'll spend the next few days. Welcome to Boston, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Where did I hear that line before? Oh, well - it doesn't matter.

"Wait a minute," I muttered.

"What's that?" the driver all but spat. "Is there anything you had to tell me?"

"I didn't bring my wallet with me!" I admitted frantically. "I should have brought something to pay you with!"

In response, Tremaine simply laughed. "This cab ride is on the house. Your Silver Ticket covers your transportation to the hotel - isn't that wonderful?"

"I guess it is."

"Yep. Anyway, enjoy your stay at the Chauntecleer. Good luck in the tournament."

"Thanks" I mouthed, stepping out of the cab and hanging my mouth open.

I stood in front of a harborside tower, rising some twenty stories or more above the parking lot. Two flags hung over the elaborate entrance: The American flag, which this place was, surprisingly, still proud of even after all the bad press this God-forsaken country had endured; and the flag of Massachusetts, white with the blue shield in the center.

The lobby consisted of a giant atrium, complete with an ivory floor and glass elevators. There was also a fountain in the center with a statue of a Magikarp spitting out the water.

I must have looked like I'd just stepped onto another planet, because I heard a voice saying the following: "Hello, can I help you?"

"Hey" I said rather awkwardly. "I'm just looking for my room."

The receptionist, a brown-haired woman who couldn't have been more than a few years older than me, frowned. "Have you never checked into a hotel before?"

I sighed. "No," I admitted. "I haven't."

"Well," the receptionist responded, "you give your name and ID to the front desk - that's me - and then they'll give you a key to use for your room. What's your name, young man?"

"Frank Fly" I mumbled, the second time I'd had such an exchange in the last thirty minutes. I brandished my Silver Ticket to prove my bona fides.

"Yes, not to worry. Let me just type in a few more details, and then you'll get your key. A few things…".

I stood on my tiptoes, my heart pounding; had I forgotten something important?

"First of all, until the tournament begins, you are not to leave your hotel room unless absolutely necessary. And no, a nighttime jaunt does not constitute an absolute necessity. Everything you'll need is right in the room."

"Okay" I said blankly.

"Next, there will be a room service menu in your room. You will have to don your Pokélife headset in order to see it. All food is on the house for you - in fact, we will cover all of your costs. Think of it as a symbol of our gratitude for your participation."

"Why, thank you," I replied, trying to turn the charm on. (Then again, why did I need to do that? It's not like I was trying to get anything from the receptionist.)

"Finally, the tournament's rulebook will be on the same table as the room service menu, and I suggest you give it a look. Since you have so much time on your hands, there's no excuse for not giving it a thorough read."

"Noted."

The receptionist narrowed her eyes. "Are you humoring me? Or are you actually going to follow the rules here?"

"Of course I'm going to follow the rules" I muttered.

"Very well. I apologize for doubting you. Here is your key."

My room number, located on the fifth floor, was printed prominently on the key card. I rode in the glass elevator, a marvel in itself since I'd never seen anything like that on the West Coast.

Once I was inside my room, I collapsed onto the sofa. The journey to Boston had been more draining than I cared to admit - all I wanted to do now was relax until it was time for bed.

Still, I didn't do that right away. Instead I eventually sat up and put on my headset. This allowed me to read the menu, which hung over the coffee table like those icy blue chyrons that stalked everyone and everything in Boston.

There must have been dozens of dishes. Lush, stacked burgers dripping in grease and the hotel's special sauce. Roast beef wraps (indeed, wraps with a variety of fillings.) Pizzas piled high with mouth-watering toppings sitting on a golden crust. Clam chowder. Sushi platters complete with wasabi and several other dipping sauces. Several types of seafood. Slices of apple pie with scoops of luscious-looking vanilla ice cream.

In short, if you could think of a dish, they probably had it on the menu, which made me wonder: How do they source all of this stuff?

Ever since a series of Presidents had slapped tariffs on our allies, other countries had retaliated by making it more and more difficult for the United States to import food from other countries. Pretty much everything had to be sourced within the country - of course, the sheer size of the nation made this easier than it might otherwise have been.

That being said, most restaurants in Los Angeles (or many other American cities, for that matter) served only that processed shit masquerading as "food." Factory farms were the only agriculture that existed anymore, and that sort of food isn't known for tasting great (or being great for you, for that matter.)

All of that is to say that I couldn't help but hang my mouth open at the sheer breadth of options, as well as how scrumptious everything looked. Coming to a decision was pretty hard.

Eventually, I settled on some chicken tempura with rice on the side, as well as a fruit tart allegedly from Mike's Pastry. While I waited for my food to arrive, I staggered over to the window, from which I had a pretty sweet view of the city.

Boston.

The sun was getting lower in the sky, casting everything in a golden glow. It was almost too bright to look at, but I could see a variety of people enjoying an evening in the park four stories below.

There were young couples holding hands, as though they were just getting used to the idea that they were together. There were slightly older couples wheeling around babies in strollers, reveling in the joys of parenthood. There were teenagers smoking weed down there (and yes, Boston was one of the first few cities in the United States to legalize recreational marijuana.) Finally, there were elderly couples living each moment of life to the fullest.

"Well then" I mouthed. "This place is pretty special, isn't it?"

There was no response, not that I'd expected one. But that got me thinking: Is my hotel room bugged?

It didn't seem that far-fetched. It was quite possible, in fact, that the general public would want to know every detail about some of this season's wildcard players. The rabid reporters fueling our 24-hour news cycle would demand it.

A few minutes later, my food arrived. The tempura was golden and crunchy, just the way I'd expected it, and the rice was crispy, nothing like it was when it came out of a box. The fruit tart practically melted in my mouth.

While I ate, I turned on the TV and decided to watch some news coverage of the opening ceremony. It was being carried on all the networks, and I mean that literally - CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, even Newsmax and One America News. So I turned the channel to OAN, figuring that they'd have the most entertaining spin on the events.

For the sake of my sanity, this was the wrong move.

The host, a thickset man with short black hair, snarled the following into the camera.

"We've got about a hundred - no, more than a hundred - Pokélife players all over the country who found Silver Tickets. Now, I'm not saying there's a conspiracy with these tickets, but isn't it rather suspicious that so many people received handouts from Beantown Games?"

I snorted. Of course they used the word "handout", because for the type of people whom OAN appealed to, it was a word that represented some unspeakable evil. How dare the government help the little guy; the mega-rich corporations were the people who had to be bailed out. And yes, the keyword is people.

"I mean," the OAN host continued, "it's absolute poppycock that these players earned their place. Quite frankly, they didn't! They're just the beneficiary of what some might call affirmative action or whatever, but it doesn't matter. We're coming for - ".

The anchor was cut off, because I decided to flip the channel. Yes, in a world ruled by the free-market capitalism OAN claimed to adore so much, we were allowed to make choices when it came to which channels we'd support. And I made my choice right there.

Of course, OAN was far from the only network covering the Nationals. Before long, I realized that if I did nothing but watch TV, I would drive myself bananas.

And then I saw the calendar against the wall. It was June 13, 202X.

While this wasn't exactly news to anyone who watches the calendar, it made my heart skip a beat. Truth be told, it was yet another reminder (as if I needed one) that I had five days to spend in this hotel room.

Five days.

How was I going to survive this? How would I occupy my mind to a sufficient degree to stave off the ennui? And how would I stop rhyming?

In all seriousness, come the following year, I'd find myself in that old courtroom, owing the Massachusetts Attorney General an explanation.