Eastern Siberia, 4:52 a.m.

Ivan Romanov had woke with sore eyes and a numb headache that he’d sworn was bad enough to count as a case of frostbite, and this was mid-summer, believe it or not, because such crap was expected in these moldy flats from the nineteen-hundreds; freezing in the summer, a death sentence starting from late-Autumn. As painful as it was, he had grown used to it here.

Here in north-west Siberia—the poorest of poor.

Everything was old from low-hanging wooden power lines to passing moss-covered roofs to this gas-powered bus struggling to get over each piss-filled pothole that rattled Ivan’s skull every hundred yards. Again, why was he here?

For credits. Yes, that was right. For easy tax-free credits.

He was riding the dawn bus every morning to save up for a house… and not because of his no-good uncle who had thrown him out onto the streets. Or for his crud-head parents who were rotting away in prison, likely dead or brain-dead by now. He didn’t need them. Screw them. He didn’t need anyone, including that crazy girl from North America. What was her name again?

It didn’t matter. Ivan didn’t need anyone.

No one but himself.

His crowded front teeth bit down onto his lip hard enough to draw blood as he glared at pedestrians taking their sweet time crossing the road, like they didn’t have jobs to get to as well. Shit-eaters. Every last one of them, including that hunched grandma and her bumbling kid stepping on his own shoe laces.

And what kid needs to get up at the crack of dawn? Terrible parenting. Get on the bus already and stop being useless.

Ivan ripped away his gaze before he punched the already-cracked glass. That was not his doing, honest. But it could have been from weeks earlier. His memory wasn’t great—not his fault.

An old man beckoned for attention and said in heavily accented Russian, “Is this seat taken?”

“Yes, it is. Don’t touch the bag,” Ivan grumbled, not meeting those depressing old eyes.

The man sneered and made a spitting expressing. “Rude little dick,” he said under his breath, walking to the back.

“I heard that, asshole. Say that to my face.”

“Heard what? I was only saying you are a rude little dick.”

“You want to take this to the sidewalk?!” Ivan kicked a metal bar.

“What? Are you joking? Look at yourself. Skinny bitch.”

A fat woman shouted, “Excuse me! There are other people on the bus!”

“Does it look like I care?” Ivan growled, “Piss off! Both of you!”

He hooked his tangled earphones wires from his pocket, stuffed the rubbers into his canals, and turned the volume up to maximum, just the way he liked his music. Death metal shrieked into his skull, drowning out monkey shouts, and mister bad driver didn’t care or even notice the ruckus. This was daily business here at this forgotten backwater town.

Your usual friendly banter.

The rest of the bus ride passed with Ivan’s boot heel stamping, his fingers jittering while every last bit of him was asking for another confrontation, verbal or violent or otherwise. He was ready to throw fists, needed to let the rage out on something, someone. The kid-like face of that punk Rowan Black appeared on the back of the seat in front, only for a second. A dickhead of a face that needed to be smashed, then ripped to pieces, then fed to Ivan’s pet hounds, which didn’t exist.

Dogs were expensive, don’t forget, and Ivan was saving credits. That was the goal here. He needed to focus—and work like a man, not a little bitch.

His breath fogged onto the window as the bus turned the sharp corner into the office block, and lurched to a stop. Two people stood. Back doors, rusty, squeaked open and let in frigid air. The driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror were tense and bloodshot—expecting trouble.

But Ivan wasn’t going to give trouble. Not today. He instead jerked his chin at the mirror, snatched his bag, and strode off like he owned the bus. And he probably had enough in his account to buy it and another. Everything here was cheap and old, all the unbranded canned food included, the re-processed gunk that looked like shit.

Actual brown shit.

He shook off a gag reflex, knuckles cracking, marching down the street with his head held high and his bag slung over his good left shoulder. His right leg was still weak from last year’s motorcycle accident. The memory brought pain. His joints ached with each lengthy stride, but he hardened his jaw and fought off a cringe.

Looking weak here was an invitation for trouble, even here at the wealthier part of town, wealthy only in comparison. The sidewalk stank of week-old vomit as usual, and the offices were pock-marked and crumbling at the corners as though this had been a battlefield in World War Three.

It likely had.

A two minute walk through a car-park and basketball court ended with Ivan standing in front of an unmarked building, the doors locked. Like everyday, he was early. He wasn’t taking any risks with this easy-going job trading unregulated cryptocurrencies. He had lucked-out, been given a life-line by an old friend of a friend of a friend from middle school of all people.

One his his co-workers, Garold, a fat middle-aged man, was prompt to arrive, a cup of coffee under his unkempt mustache. The white of his eyes were tinted with yellow. He grunted in hello. Only a grunt like every morning.

Ivan returned the greeting and asked, “Where did you get the coffee? You sure it’s clean?”

“New place by the library. Really clean. Really sexy lady at the counter too.”

“Did you ask for her phone number?” Ivan’s tone was half-mocking.

“No.” His gloved hand waved dismissively. “Far, far too young for myself. More suited for someone like you.”

“Pfft. I don’t need some bitch.”

Garold’s bushy eyebrows brushed against his wool beanie. “Didn’t you say you have a girlfriend… in that game you play. What was it? Anon Conoco—”

“Aeon Chronicles Online. The new virtual reality game. It’s in English.”

“Yes, yes, that game. You said you met a wonderful crazy girl a few years younger than yourself.”

“She’s not that wonderful.” Ivan spat on the sidewalk. “Thought she was someone she wasn’t. She was just using me. She found someone else more useful, younger.”

“Ah, unlucky. Yes, that happens. But they’re not all like that.”

“Not the first time it’s happened,” Ivan laughed. “I’m better off not caring about their nonesense. I need credits, not their nonsense.”

“Don’t say that.” Garold frowned in disapproval. “You will regret it when you are my age.”

“What? You regret something?”

Those eyes dipped pathetically. “Yes, and no. I only wish I could go back and change the way—”

“Save me the tears, grandpa.”

“Ivan.” Garold sighed. “I am only saying don’t let one bad experience, or even ten, make you bitter. You will regret it. I am speaking from man to man, old to young.”

“Alright. Alright. If you say so.” Ivan’s jaw shifted left and right. “Why do you care?”

“Well… I simply do. Do I need any other reason to care about my fellow worker? Hmm?” Garold took a long sip from his cup.

Ivan let his feet shift further apart. He licked blood off his lips, tasting iron, tasting sweet caffeine in the air. “I guess not. Anyway, how much did that coffee cost?”

“Zero point three credits. Cheap, eh?”

“What? Real?”

“I’m not lying. Get one yourself. But I think it’s a special just for today.”

Temptation made Ivan look down the street. “Where’s the library?”

“Ah… I think it’s on the same street you go to play that game.”

“The Quantumnet Cafe through the alley?”

He grunted. “Strange name for a room full of computers. Why is it called that?”

“How should I know?” Ivan grumbled, already walking past, nearly bumping shoulders rudely, not on purpose. He hadn’t tasted real freshly-brewed coffee since living with his uncle. Coffee was one of the few good things in life; food generally was. Some said the key to a happy life was good food.

He couldn’t disagree.

Not twenty steps down the sidewalk did he bump into his boss Vladimir’s strong elbow, which put Ivan off balance, stumbling. “Ah, boss. I didn’t see you.”

“It’s fine.” His tone was gruff, lower than usual, meaning business. “I was looking for you anyway. I have a few questions.” His body language became intimidating under his trench coat, and it was easy for someone like him to look intimidating: shaved head, bulky build, and square jaw. “Why did you turn off the security cameras last night?”

“Off?” Ivan said in confusion, “No. I didn’t know we had security cameras.”

Vladimir’s lips were grim. “Ivan… You were last in the office. I am giving you one chance. Do you understand?”

“I didn’t turn off the cameras,” Ivan barked, palms open to show he was telling the truth. He was telling the truth as far as he knew. He had never lied to him.

A slow exhale grumbled deep within Vladimir’s chest. He hand raised, index finger pointing at the center of Ivan’s chest. “You have until twelve to return the SSDs.”

“What? I didn’t steal anything. I don’t know what an SSD is!” The last of that came out as a hiss.

“Calm down.”

“I didn’t steal it,” Ivan said in a measured, colder voice, and when Vladimir wouldn’t believe him, his fist balled, shaking at his hip. “I didn’t steal anything. Someone must’ve broken in after!”

A minute of eye contact passed before Vladimir’s chin dipped. His expression darkened. “Did you forget to lock up?”

“No!” But Ivan couldn’t remember.

“Ivan. Your uncle told me of your condition—”

“You’ve been talking to me uncle?!”

“Yes, I have—”

“Why?”

Vladimir sighed. “Your behavior has been inconsistent at best, threatening at times. It is in my duty to keep the workplace safe. I have had some complaints about you.”

“Complaints? Who? I haven’t threatened anyone.” That was true. He had been on his best behavior these past months at work. The money was enough of a motivator.

Vladimir said less confidently, “Not verbally, but Milenka has felt you have been—”

“She’s been complaining? Her? She’s a bitch to me! She’s been shitty to me ever since I’ve been here!”

“That’s what I mean. Right there. She feels you are hostile toward her. She feels like you may snap at her any moment.”

“I am hostile, because she is hostile. She keeps talking shit.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“Not when you’re around. When we’re in the hall or in the kitchen, she doesn’t stop insulting my trading or my face or whatever she can think of insulting. I have complaints about her!”

“Ivan. Please calm down.” Vladimir’s arms crossed. “You need to work on your professionalism in the office. If she is really irritating you, and I don’t think she is—”

“You don’t believe me? I’ve never lied to you. I need this job! Why would I lie?”

“This isn’t only about your honesty anymore. This is about the way you behave in the office. I am very concerned for you.”

Then it pieced together. This was not about those SDDs, because they weren’t missing. This was Vladimir’s way of firing someone without actually firing them, instead cooking up a fake story to make Ivan look like a shit employee, a thief in the office. All because that bitch Milenka didn’t like him for whatever reason.

And Vladimir was taking her side in this.

Why? Did he want to fuck her? Was he already fucking her? His little pet? Or was it worse? Because of Ivan’s condition, a light case of schizophrenia, worsening these days thanks more and more and more crap landing his way. This was surely illegal, but this entire place was off the central government’s radar.

Ivan’s eye was twitching in a silent rage, his tongue tasting his bloody bottom lip like a snake’s. “What did you just say?”

“I asked,” Vladimir sneered, “have you been taking your pills? I don’t think you have.”

“I have,” Ivan answered above a whisper.

“I don’t believe you. You have been hearing voices, thinking it was Milenka.”

“Has anyone else said similar?”

“No.”

“Then why would it only be Milenka? She’s obviously pulling shit!”

“Please calm down. I’m not a doctor Ivan. All I can say is she has reported to me that your mood has been very unstable, frightening. I trust her word. She has been a good employee since before you started.”

“I haven’t?”

“You have, but…” Vladimir sighed. “I’m sorry, I can’t keep you on the team. I think you should take the next week off, and if you aren’t back on your pills by then, then you should not return. Do you understand?”

The camel’s back was broken. “I am on my pills, dickhead.”

“I’m trying to help you, Ivan.”

“You should see what I’d do to you and your illegal business when I’m off my pills. Fuck you.” He walked past, not looking back, earphones in. A blind rage was boiling in his head like one of Gabby’s bubbling cauldrons one wrong crafting material away from a funny explosion.

In a back alley, he let it all out on bags of trash. He kicked and punched until his toes and fists gave out, blood on his knuckles.

Fuck Vlad. Fuck it all.

Maybe it was better to just end it here, but he still had one last lifeline left: Aeon Chronicles Online and its real-money markets.