My name is Puck Mallory and I am infatuated with gambling. I find it fascinating that people are willing to risk their lifeblood on simple games of chance just to watch the outcome, or maybe with the romantic notion of winning something big. I shouldn’t talk down on romantics. These days, throwing my life into the hands of fate and watching the cards flip is the only thing that jump-starts my heart.

I’m not a very lucky guy by nature, so I learned earlier than most that life doesn’t play fair. Life takes when it feels like it, doesn’t follow anybody’s rules or expectations, and spits you out with callous indifference.

I wiped the singular lock of blonde hair that had fallen over my forehead back up into its discolored, sandy-brown nest. I always joked that I started coming out as a blonde but the printer ran out of ink.

The man sitting across from me, some wave junkie trying desperately to score some hit money in a game of cards, dug at his forearm in agitation as the House played the river - a 3 of spades. I knew he had been bluffing. I had a gambler’s hunch naturally but that was never enough to place a stake on - not for me anyway. I’d designed a little tool of my own to help out in these sorts of situations. A neural-optical chip given to me by my employer for electronics and circuiting analysis that I tweaked with some additional features.

A translucent HUD displayed the information scanned from my opponent’s facial expressions.

Current Emotion: Frustrated

Physiological Status: Nervous, elevated heart rate

Pupil Display: Active

A tiny interface appeared in the bottom left corner of my vision. I could see the real-time feed of what the junkie had his eyes on. They flickered between my green eyes and his trembling cards. His best hand was pocket 4s.

“Place your final bets.” The robotic voice of the House said dispassionately.

I rolled back the loose sleeve of my white button-down shirt. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but I had just come from my office down the street and, well, dress-codes y’know?

My job was pretty simple but gave me a decent background in computer programming and electronics. I worked for an interstellar communications and resource acquisitions conglomerate called Ophelia Corporation - they run Pollux IV from its capital Cornell City. I tamper with their communications configurations, fix broken service AI, take endless calls about problems I pretend to know how to fix, and smile at the cute secretary every time she gets up to refill her coffee. Haven’t seen her pearly whites yet but I haven’t given up trying.

I’m good enough at my job to keep from getting fired. Turns out I have a knack for electronics - not that it ever interested me much. I clock in exactly fifty hours per week, do my deed, and pay is wired to my credit line twice a month. Clockwork.

I tossed in a yellow plated chip - 100 credits. It was all the man across from me had left. He couldn’t back down now or the next ante would take him out. All in.

Gambling, cards being my specific interest, gave me everything that a stable job couldn’t. The rush of facing off with another being in a battle of wits, grit, and a healthy dose of chance couldn’t be matched by anything else I’d experienced in my twenty-eight standard galactic years of life. This was a passion, beyond a reason to exist. A party of souls locked in a wager for bits and pieces of one another - and only one can come out the true victor. My blood pumped every time I heard the clatter of chips.

I left Palazio Solaire that night with 750 credits in pocket and another successful trial for my software. Long hours had gone into developing the piece of technology I would need to take on my next real opponent. Some sponsored fellow from the local mob that most people just called “The Organization.”

Palazio Solaire is decent enough training grounds - but not the place where the big game hunters go to prowl. Don’t let the name fool you, there’s nothing “palazio” about it. It’s full of deadbeats, wave addicts, street thugs, working girls, and ever-circling loan sharks. Perfect for a guy like me to hone my craft. Poker isn't just a game of luck, or mathematical acumen, or even cheap manual dexterity. It’s a game of reading people, manipulating their thoughts and emotions with your body language. There’s so much control there, so much potential.

In underground rings, establishments don’t have names - the locales change from week to week. It’s there that I can run the gambit with professional players looking for extra dough in the off-season, mob-backed hands, souped-up House AI, and a good mix of other unsavory folks that want to take advantage of the blind spot of wealth in Cornell City.

The prestige of the typical opponent and the high stakes situation of an “event” leaves little room for error come showtime. I could clean the pockets of every sap in Palazio Solaire even without my invention. That’s not the point. It’s a dry run for the main event; can’t afford any slip-ups.

My next match with the Org fellow was supposed to be the big win before I finally cashed out of my day job, grabbed that secretary by the ass, flipped off HR, and moved into a penthouse suite on the 35th floor of the Donovan Building. I would be set for life. All the right conditions were set, I just had to execute.

When I sat down a few days later in the shadowy backroom of a derelict warehouse I was feeling confident. I’d won my last two serious bouts against a couple of seasoned vets; I was finally starting to make a name for myself in various circles. That’s what had finally gotten me in the door with this higher stakes player.

I looked into the mismatched eyes of my foe, one was brown and the other a pale blue, and rubbed the silver credit coin I kept in my pocket for good luck. A matronly figure was inscribed on the face side, her hair all in piles atop a prim countenance. On the tail side, a bird of prey flapped its wings and clutched arrows and laurel in either talon. The model had been deprecated centuries ago but I never let it out of my sight.

The dapper gentleman acting as our House greeted us both cordially and assigned the blinds. Showtime.

After a few hands, the match was over. I had been in the lead by a considerable margin already, but I was declared the loser by disqualification.

How could I have known that my opponent also had a neural-optical chip? One that scanned for disturbed photons caused by electromagnetic waves, which included my precious little device.

These chips were fairly uncommon among the peasantry. Yeah, I got the base neural chip for my job with Ophelia, but it’s not like everyone walked around with these things. They were damned expensive to acquire and maintain.

My opponent, though, turned out to be a vet from the Yagolah Invasion - he needed the chip to detect enemy personnel cloaking devices. He’d kept it in because of the pain it would’ve been to remove. Go figure.

So that’s my life summed up in a few short thoughts. Sitting here on the pavement outside with a bag over my head, I don’t have much else to think about.

The Organization had spread tendrils of influence over dispensaries, local credit bureaus, law enforcement, and pretty much all planetside entertainment. Word on the street is they work as a legally deniable subsidiary of Ophelia Corp. Great crowd I picked a target on, I know.

They didn’t take too kindly to my attempts to alter the outcome of our friendly wager. Who knew a device that allows me to analyze facial expressions, pupil image reflections, and changes in physiological state would be considered “unsportsmanlike”? To be fair, that was never clarified in the rules. I don’t think they cared much about that technicality with millions of credits on the line.

“Get up.” A thickly accented voice ordered. It was accompanied by a swift kick between my shoulder blades.

“Words work just fine,” I muttered, standing in compliance.

“Shut your mouth.”

15% chance of escape

I always calculated the odds of a situation in my head. Whether they were worth a damn or not, having a concrete number just did something to placate me. Normally they wouldn’t kill me for something like this, I’d pay the pot and they’d break a few bones and I’d be good to go. This time was a little different.

Remember how I said this would be the final win before my glorious retirement? That’s not because I was on any kind of great winning streak painstakingly saving up my earnings. No, I lied about this one. The 2.3 million credits I had placed in the pot throughout the night? Yeah, I had maybe the 0.3 of that figure - on a good day. As soon as these gentlemen discovered that I owed far more than I could ever pay, they’d be merciful to put an extra hole in my head. More than likely they’d sell me off as a slave in a mining colony somewhere in the Erus belt. The 15% chance I gave myself were the odds of me being able to talk my way out before they figured it out.

We walked down what felt like the concrete ramp of an empty parking deck for several minutes before I was roughly shoved to my knees. Fluorescent light blinded my eyes as a burly bald man ripped the sack from my head.

Before me stood a man in a black and gray pinstriped suit. A hard grimace set along the contours of a square jaw matched the angry scar that ran from forehead to cheek. In his black-chromed mechanical right hand, he brandished a 237X Orion laser pistol.

I guess I had less time than I thought.

5% chance of escape

“We know you don’t have the money to settle your debt, Mallory.” The scarred cyborg strode forward, rubbing his pistol with a kerchief. His accent caught me off guard. It was about a century out of date and from an area of the galaxy humanity had abandoned following a crippling loss in the first Undu conflict. I wonder where he had picked it up.

There was a certain air about him that a fighter acquires through years of experience. You know that athletic bend, the swaggering walk, the coiled muscles always ready to strike. This isn’t someone you’d want to bump shoulders with in an alleyway.

He stopped about a foot in front of me. His shadow loomed over my frame and blocked the offensive streams of light shining from above. Eyes like flint glared down at me from among the folds of his weathered skin.

“Thanks, that was bothering me.” I nodded towards the ceiling.

“I assumed you were a bold character and figured you had at least half a brain to work as a Field Tech for Ophelia. Speaking with you now I realize you are just an idiot. A primitive like you should be put down.” Scar squatted down on his haunches to bring himself eye level with me. He dragged the rough metal of his hand across my cheek. “Primitive” was a slur that the genetically enhanced often used to refer to people born the old fashion way - with no changes to the family recipe. If my hands weren’t bound by plasma cuffs I just might’ve taken a swing on the cocky bastard.

“If you kill me how are you going to get your money.”

“You will pay us back - in death or life.” Scar said ominously as he rose to his feet. He began to pace in front of me, pistol waving as he spoke.

“There is a business opportunity that I feel would be of mutual benefit to us, Mallory. One that could result in tremendous profit for both parties.”

“Would it clear my debt?” I replied dryly.

The cyborg nodded. “Perhaps you are more intelligent than I estimated.”

“What is it then? Narcotics up my ass, wire you into an encrypted comms network, CreditLink heist?”

“No no no, nothing so base. This is a unique opportunity that stands to put our humble organization on the galactic playing field. And you…” He lunged at me suddenly and I winced in spite of myself, but he just grabbed me on the shoulder. “Will be our representative!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“LimeLight.” Scar smiled at me as if expecting me to be happy at the news.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

My vision erupted into a wave of stars and red hot pain as something impacted the back of my head.

“Hold your rotten tongue.” The bald enforcer snarled.

Scar waved him off. “LimeLight. A chance for prisoners, debtors, thrill-seekers, and gamblers to make it big doing what they do best. It’s a competition of sorts, run by trillionaires across the galaxy who like to get their rocks off watching the disparate members of every species face off in trials of combat, wit, and endurance. You win, you come out wealthier than your wildest dreams. You lose… well, at least you provided some entertainment for people infinitely superior to you.”

“What do you even gain from this? It’s not like I’ll win the pot.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic! I’m confident in your abilities.” The mobster’s face broke into a grin.

My expression didn’t change. “You get a commission for supplying bodies to this thing? Some kind of human trafficking gig?”

He let out a chuckle. “Ok, ok, you got me. There is a bounty for providing fit specimens to the competition to the tune of several million credits - depending on specimen quality. The patrons of this show are quite generous.”

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” I muttered from the pavement below, unable to rise with my hands and feet bound.

“Everyone has a choice, Mallory. Here is your alternative: my associate here rips your body to pieces and sells every scrap of you on the black market to settle your debt. That chip behind your eye should fetch a nice price.” Scarface shrugged.

“You have thirty seconds to decide.”

-----

That’s how I found myself waking in a dark cell aboard an unmarked space station orbiting the dark side of some system redacted from the public star charts. On the right side of my chamber was what you would expect in a prison: a cot, a sink, and a toilet. On the left side, and taking up almost half the open space in my quarters, was an open cylindrical coffin of sorts. Several wires and a set of straps dangled loosely from the metallic armrests on either side of the alien-looking machine. A helmet was fixed to the region where my head was designed to rest. A multitude of sensors, scanners, and holes that looked to be gas dispensers lined the back wall and open door of the chamber. Not the most ergonomic design.

As I examined the strange fixture, a slightly translucent screen projected from an optical device in the ceiling. It read:

Round 1

100,000 Contestants

Round Type: Free-For-All

Exit Nodes: 50,000

Enter the BIOS Virtualizer

Round starting in 15:00, 14:59, 14:58...

I stared at the screen, realization settling in. I was supposed to hop into that...thing. A virtualizer? What does that even mean?

The clock continued to tick down. I didn’t want to stay out here and find out what happened when it reached 0. I cautiously stepped inside the Virtualizer and closed the door behind me. The helmet above snapped over my head as the wires fastened themselves around my appendages. I felt pinpricks as some kind of tubes pierced my upper arm. I struggled for a moment before a sense of nothingness overcame me.

50% chance of survival