Jake mopped the 7/11 bathroom floor absentmindedly as he ran through strategies. The local tournament was tonight, an all-night caffeine-fueled orgy of tactical action. He’d practiced for this for three years, and there wasn’t much more he could do to prepare, but thinking of the game relaxed him.

Fantasy Tactics Online had some randomness, in the hit calculations and the order in which job spheres were unlocked, but randomness of that type was still fair. Everything in the game was one hundred percent fair, and tournament mode even more so.

That was probably what he loved about it.

That, and the fact that he could distract himself from the smeared fecal matter he had to clean up, and the ungrateful customers he had to deal with, and the hundreds of other unfair things that happened in his life.

He finished mopping, then spent the whole recommended twenty seconds scrubbing his soaped-up hands before washing them off.

He pulled the mop and bucket out of the bathroom and saw a man in a suit and tie impatiently staring at the checkout counter where Jake was supposed to be standing. “Come on man, I got places to be, people to sue. Maybe I’ll add you to the list if you don’t get your ass over here and let me pay for my shit. If I wasn’t such an upstanding citizen with such a deep respect for the law I would’ve walked right out with these corn chips.”

Jake left the bucket and walked to the counter and ran the corn chips over the scanner. The newspaper said he had five years left in this gig, tops, before a machine took over that duty. How long until machines could scrub away poop?

The machine had already processed the cost and was prompting the suit to pay.

“One thirty seven? Robbery.” The suit grinned. “Legal robbery, my favorite kind. And… hey kid, you all right? You on oxy?”

“Just tired.”

“Okay, but… look, if you are, I have a class-action lawsuit going you might want to join.”

“Trust me, I can’t afford oxy.”

“You will after the lawsuit!” The suit’s credit card finished processing and he did a two-finger cub scout salute. Probably didn’t know what it meant. “You take care. And call me if any of your friends are hooked! There’s lots of money in avenging ruined lives.”

Twenty-seven more minutes until his shift ended.

The clock slowed to a crawl, and he played out several common micro-skirmishes in his head. An archer versus a fire dragon — that one was simple, the archer would win as long as there was sufficient cover that didn’t burn. A geomancer versus a summoner who had called forth Fenrir — that one was more complex. The strategy would rely on the geomancer’s ability to manipulate the earth; if he could sneak around and take out the summoner while avoiding Fenrir, then he could win. But if his opponent was any good, he’d know the signs of earth manipulation… Jake would have to create decoy manipulations to disguise his true strategy. So he’d—

“Hey, kid. You already checked out?” The battlefield fell away and Jake was back in the 7/11, with his shift replacement shaking his arm. “Seriously, how many customers have you ignored because of your daydreaming?”

His shift replacement was a fifty-five-year-old man, struggling to support himself yet still full of pride. The old man’s thinning hair was combed neat and slick, and he always had a story of an almost-conquest from the day or week before. Never any actual dates, but he was always this close.

Jake knew that would be his fate in thirty years, but he tried not to think about it. His other friends were getting jobs, wives, children, while he continued in stasis. Twenty-five years old and the only exceptional thing about him was how good he was at Fantasy Tactics Online.

Then again, maybe this weekend would be his big break. It was the local tournament, an official tournament, one whose winner would go on to state. That was where the prize money and sponsorships started. If he won state and got to national, things could really start happening.

He clocked out and waved to the old man as he left. He realized as he got in his car that the dirty mop bucket was still sitting outside the bathroom, but that was no longer his problem. Not until he was yelled at the next day.

Besides, if he didn’t hurry then he’d be late for the tournament and it would all be for nothing.

It had been three years since the tournament had come to Eagleton, and in those in-between years he couldn’t justify the gas and hotel costs. He’d improved a lot in three years, especially in the last year where he’d focused solely on tournament play.

A horn honked and he swerved back into his lane. The car zoomed to pass him, and an obese man leaned out the passenger side window to yell obscenities as they passed.

Jake turned on the radio to drown out the yelling, and as static filled the car he remembered that the radio antenna had broken three days ago. He’d chosen to enter the tournament rather than fix it.

Five minutes later he showed up at his rundown apartment complex. Commute length was very important to him — any longer and he’d show up at work sweaty from his car’s lack of AC.

“Ya bring me a slurpee?” the grey-haired woman who lived downstairs sat on her porch rocker, patiently awaiting her chance to harass the neighbors as they came home. What a retirement. When he didn’t respond she stepped up the assault. “You’re never going to make friends if you don’t bring them slurpees. You’re going to grow old at that job. No 401k. All because you never learned how to network.”

“I’m taking the management track,” he mumbled as he passed. Which meant that, in ten years, he might have one or two sad-sack employees under him, if the robots didn’t destroy it all first. A 7/11 management track was a no-outlet cul-de-sac attached to a dead-end job. But what else was he to do? The old woman’s advice was one hundred percent aimed at getting herself free slurpees, not at getting him ahead, and the only way out of this place was moving to the big city, tripling his rent, and hoping for an unpaid internship.

At least in Fantasy Tactics Online, things were fair.

He opened the door to his apartment, flipped on the light. “Hello, friends!” he yelled. The cockroaches scattered. “It’s okay. You’d be bad friends anyways.”

Shower came first, and then changing clothes from his smelly 7/11 uniform into jeans and a Zelda t-shirt. He grabbed three Red Bulls from the fridge and tossed them in his backpack, along with a half dozen snack bars and an extra shirt. GameShop would provide the VR headset — a much better model than he had at home.

“Goodbye, friends,” he said as he walked out the door and flipped off the light. “Don’t mess with my food while I’m gone.”

Jake barreled down the highway, his mind already in tournament mode. They’d be doing a three-character scenario, locked down to level thirty and ten thousand AP, with only one rare class allowed on the team. He already had his classes selected and his point allocations worked out. There was nothing left to do but win.

Figuring these things out was what the last year had been about. He’d ignored every other scenario, ignored the open-world online play he’d used to love so much, and focused solely on what would bring him victory in the tournament.

Level 30, 10k AP, with an archer, a geomancer, and a rogue. It was a rare strategy; geomancers were notoriously difficult to fight against, but they were even more notoriously difficult to use. However, with the right point distribution, the rogue would be un-findable and the archer would be un-reachable.

The GameShop parking lot was crowded already.

He had an unbeatable strategy, but he found himself getting nervous anyways. Sweat rolled down the small of his back. He parked and wiped his brow. Hadn’t he just showered?

He would win.

His friends were there.

There was nothing to worry about… except for the fact that, if he lost, he’d face another three years of purgatory before getting another shot.

The asphalt simmered underfoot as he stepped out of the car.

When he stepped into the GameShop, the AC was a welcome relief. Even with the two dozen people crowded into the shop it was cooler than outside.

An even bigger relief was when Jake saw Todd’s trademark Goku’s Gym muscle shirt and buzzcut blonde hair from across the room. Todd had seen him as well and jaunted across the room with a big grin pasted across his face. “Hey maaaaaaaan!”

He went straight for the bear hug, which nearly choked Jake, both from the force of the squeeze and the miasma of weed that followed. Jake nearly coughed. “Hey man.”

“How’s my favorite nerd?”

“Dude, you’re at a Fantasy Tactics Online tournament. Wearing an anime shirt.”

“I’m only here to support you.”

“You’re playing.”

“Someone’s gotta take eighth place.”

“You qualified just the same as anyone else here.”

“Whatever, man.” Todd shrugged. “After this tourney’s done, you gotta come back to online play. We miss you… looting dungeons and seiging castles just isn’t the same without your squad.”

It was easy for him to say that. This was just a game to Todd. He was on track to take over his dad’s carpeting business and marry his high school sweetheart. He’d just lucked into life, and—

“Yo, man, you’re getting all tense on me. You gotta relax. You do best when you’re relaxed.”

Jake forced a smile. “Thanks, man. After this tournament, it’s back to online play. How far behind have I fallen?”

A snide voice cut into their conversation, a sharp whine. “Online play is the least of your worries. Why not think about how far behind you’ve fallen in life?”

Mike sauntered towards them, followed by Brendan and Eddy, his sycophantic followers. They all wore ridiculous pink polo shirts, each shirt with a starched and popped collar.

“Well, if it isn’t our stinky duo. Burnout McMuscleface and Mr. Slurpee.”

Brendan high-fived Mike. “Good one. Keep this up and you’ll be an even better politician than your dad.”

“You knew we would be here,” said Todd. “Don’t act like even more of an idiot than you actually are.”

Mike ignored the insult, ignored Todd entirely, and focused in on Jake. “You ready to lose again? Just like three years ago?”

Brendan grinned. “He’s spent three years practicing nothing but losing. I’d say he’s ready.”

“Don’t denigrate our friend, the human slurpee dispenser,” said Eddy, the other sycophant. “It’s a valuable service.”

“What do you think’s gonna replace him first? An immigrant or a machine?” Mike nodded to his followers, cue-ing their laughter.

Brendan was ready to pile on. “Either one would be good… they’d both do a better job for less money.”

Eddy cackled nervously. “Better learn to code, slurpee boy.”

“Ignore them,” said Todd. Despite his own advice, Todd’s fists were clenched tight.

“Careful, McMuscleface,” said Mike. “Brendan is one eighth Native American. Touch him and it’s a race crime.”

“You mean a hate crime?”

“Whatever.”

“You’re right, we should ignore them,” said Jake.

In Fantasy Tactics Online, everything was fair.

This was not Fantasy Tactics Online.

It was for the best that he didn’t have Todd’s muscles. Never mind the consequences, the jail time… beating down Mike and his friends would just feel so damn good. If he had Todd’s muscles, there would be blood on the floor.

He forced himself to look away.

His eyes landed straight on the most amazing sight he’d encountered in a good five years. Long dark slightly wavy hair, perfect golden-brown skin, skin-tight red gown that advertised her ample breasts and perfectly shaped ass. The medieval cosplay was technically modest, but it still left Jake with a raging boner.

The girl’s eyes flicked back and forth across the room, trying to take it all in. She was nervous about something. Was this her first tournament? Maybe she needed a mentor. He could help her.

Their eyes met and he stopped breathing.

She had a look of intense longing, of buried desperation. It was like this was her escape, her only chance out of a hellish situation.

He recognized that look.

Or was he just projecting?

One of her hands reached into an oversized burlap bag — it didn’t match her dress at all — and began to clutch at something. Her face changed again into frustration, another look he recognized. It was the face he made every time he’d wanted to talk to a cute girl but decided not to. Or was that projection again?

And yet with her, despite being so much more attractive than the single girls in this small town, she felt… approachable. He should go talk to her. He should—

Mike’s laugh snapped him out of his reverie. “God, you’re pathetic. Eye-raping the first girl you see, so much that she grabs her mace.”

Jake turned to Mike and got in his face, two inches away. Boners made him bold, apparently. Not bold enough to start throwing punches, but bold enough to tell the bully off. “We’re on my turf now. It doesn’t matter that your dad’s a senator, or that his friends run the newspaper. This is Fantasy Tactics Online, where things are fair. And whenever things are fair, you will lose.”

Brendan’s jaw dropped. “Whoa.”

Eddy looked around nervously. Todd started chuckling. “Dude. We just gotta keep hot girls around and you’re gonna start killing it.”

“I’m gonna kill it anyways,” said Jake. “I’ve studied for this for too long. This is a fair game, and when games are fair, I win.”

Mike smirked. “Cool story. Looks like the tournament’s about to start. I wonder if there’ll be any announcements.”

The GameShop employee started in on the opening spiel, laid down the ground rules. Eight participants, single-elimination. All as expected, but Mike’s warning had made him suspicious. What sort of announcement could he mean?

Then it happened.

The deathblow.

“We’ve made a slight adjustment to the rules. Instead of using level thirty characters with ten thousand AP, we’ll be using level ten characters with nine hundred AP. We’ll also be reducing the squad size from three to two.”

All the plans he’d made in the past year, all the contingency plans, every single calculation he’d done to ensure he would be unbeatable… completely gone.

Mike didn’t even try to hide his glee. “What a surprise, slurpee-boy. What a surprise.”