The pod was sleek and smooth, shaped sort of like a futuristic seed. A series of blue-green diodes on the capsule’s contour snapped to life, highlighting a ring around it. And like a seed, it split down the middle, the eggshell-white halves opening on some hidden mechanism, sprouting a human – well, at least a humanoid figure. He was a bit too thin and pale.

He stirred unsteadily as if awakening from a nightmare, or maybe just an intense dream. Then he was still.

“Just a bit more,” he muttered, barely audible.

John Patterson peeled himself off the forming-fitting foam padding. His skinny body tilted forwards, resting his face in his knees; the long bangs of dark hair followed like a curtain, shading the serious eyes.

He breathed deeply.

“Damn it!”

He coughed once, paused, and gave a voice command.

“Lights on.”

…

The light was brutal, pouring from the blazing August sun. It forced its way through the windows of the vehicle, and even his eyelids, lighting them a faint red. Despite the advanced climate control, John felt uncomfortable.

“At the side here.”

Whatever was programed into the car chirped its customary reply and pulled over to an empty sidewalk.

Similar to a creature long recessed in the caves, his emergence wasn’t pleasant. It was too warm outside, and the sunlight was too bright. But most of all, the streets, for a Monday noon, were too empty.

‘He had to pick today, didn’t he?’ John was sweating after seconds of exposure.

He slammed the door behind him and squinting under the brilliant light, he crossed the street without looking for traffic. The tired man checked an address on his phone and disappeared into a restaurant.

“Reservation? A name please.”

“Lupe.”

“This way, sir.”

Lupe had chosen one of the more expensive restaurants in town, close to the penthouse. His invitation to lunch had been odd: the two hadn't met in person for months. John was brought to a small booth in the back, empty: Lupe hadn't shown up yet. John browsed the menu lightly and checked his phone. He wasn't hungry. The waitress soon brought water which he didn't touch.

The guild war wasn’t going well. Hysterica was under pressure from all sides, and quickly losing territory. The fronts were severely undermanned and undersupplied. Morale was poor, exacerbated by the absence of their strongest, single player, Lupe.

‘It’s all falling apart.’

John finally sipped on the ice-cold water. But he didn’t need the coolness, rather a burn in the back of the throat.

He knew that Lupe was helping the guild, helping their dream in his own way. He knew a single player wasn’t that helpful in a battlefield, but Lupe’s lack of presence was frustrating.

Three minutes later there was motion in the aisle. Lupe sat down across from John.

"There you are," John said when he finally saw that familiar pale face.

Lupe didn't say anything. His jaw was locked tight, teeth grit – words wouldn't mean anything at this point.

He simply produced a short, stubby pistol from his jacket. The squat opening pointing directly into John's face was unreal. Matte black and cold, it was held by a thin wrist that looked like it would snap after a single shot.

John looked at it, stared at it, for so long that it seemed to distort in its absurdity – for less than half a second.

He immediately dashed from his seat. Lupe mustn't have expected it because the bullet discharged a split second too late, slamming into John's right hand and disfiguring a couple of fingers. Shrieks could be heard throughout the restaurant as nearby servers showered the floor with broken ceramics.

The sudden shot must have hurt Lupe too, as no further rounds dug themselves into John’s back.

John quickly turned a corner, clasping his crippled hand. He forced his way through the aisles and into the blinding sun. The street was still deserted, oddly so. His weak heart pounded; his lungs wheezed uncontrollably. This was insane! Few would be as bold as to attempt murder in broad daylight.

Behind him, the front door burst open as Lupe appeared on the sidewalk.

At that moment, John never felt more exposed. It was like being naked in public, except with the heinous stare of the barrel which never really cared about clothing. It peered through his aspirations, his dreams, and past, his love, through his entirety. John wasn’t a gamer anymore, not one of the best thieves in the world, not a man, or even a human – but a lamb, helpless before the physical laws of the real world, far more complicated that any game rules, that would blast that bullet forwards.

And that was terrifying.

So, he ran, not fast, but as fast a sickly man could. Desperation powered those sluggish limbs even as futility and despair assaulted the mind.

His pursuer was also slow, nervously fumbling the gun before shooting. Lupe seemed inexperienced with a firearm from both his handling and aim.

The first shot narrowly missed John's head, colliding with a lamppost and showering him in sparks.

The second, just moments later, nicked the side of his abdomen, drawing a straight red line.

The third lodged itself in his right elbow, shattering a bone or two.

The fourth chipped the sidewalk with a small puff of dust.

The fifth buried itself in the left shoulder, interrupting John's sprint.

The sixth fired half a second later and entered just above the knee, almost severing the leg.

John forcibly came to a halt, flipping violently, and slammed face first into the concrete. He was bleeding from the nose now, and half blinded by the dust and cruel sun.

‘It’s different…’

The game supposedly mimicked the human anatomy, perfectly replicating blood’s flow when the liquid exited the body. He had virtually bled innumerable times, but he knew that it was not like this. There was an uncontrollable and unfamiliar panic as the fluid spilled everywhere.

And that was sickening.

So, when John couldn't run, he crawled.

The seventh got lost in the pavement.

The eighth found its mark in the one good leg, near the waist.

The ninth went home in the heel, maiming the foot.

John collapsed with an animal-like groan. His limbs were on fire and his core was in tatters. Blood welled out of the numerous puncture wounds.

The entirety of the magazine had come one after another, relentless.

‘Is it so damn easy for you to move your index finger a few centimeters?’

Each round was like a nail in the coffin, further confirming certain death. Lupe had done so over and over, not bothering to say a word. Even if he never talked during in-game duels, surely he would have something to say now.

Did he even know what he was doing? Did the bastard know that real people die when they are shot? And what about that dream, the one that the four of them had shared? Did he forget about that too?

Of course, John couldn’t lie to himself about a self-imposed rhetorical question. He bit down on his tongue, partially unaware it was between his teeth, and it started bleeding too. Lupe, his friend of many years, was very deliberately killing him.

And that was infuriating.

So, when he couldn't crawl, he dragged himself.

The tenth through thirteenth pulls of the trigger were barely audible as Lupe realized his magazine was empty. He was breathing heavily now, as he inserted another magazine with jittery fingers and walked over.

Fourteen to eighteen came like lightning, direct hits to the upper back in rapid succession.

With a violent cough, John came to a halt and spun over, facing the merciless August sun. Nineteen and whatever numbers afterward came methodically, almost in slow-motion. John had lost count halfway through.

All he saw was a face drowned off by the overbearing sunlight. He thought he heard the rapid discharge of the weapon, followed a furious clicking of another emptied mag. Maybe trigger pulls number twenty-three to thirty-some? Then there was the distorted sound of the clash of metal on asphalt as Lupe threw the useless weapon away.

That left John alone with his wounds. Even if Lupe was there watching, John might as well have been in space. He shivered slightly.

What was so scary about such a death?

‘It’s the missed opportunities and the end of passions. It’s those who will be mutually missed.’

The guild war would be lost. Everything he had gained for ten years would be blown away in the wind; the game world which he loved will be gone. How much of that world was unexplored by the way? John had no idea and suddenly had the desperate urge to find out.

He and the four-man team, bar Kevin – Lupe and him too, apparently – would never reach the top. John’s brain sent the signals for a sad smile, unsure if the lips received them. ‘I guess Chelsea alone will have to accomplish what we three couldn’t.’ His thoughts that drifted to the arcane mage in her lilac robes, her eyes pulsing with energy. Then there was that smile that he held so dear. Why didn’t he ever furthered that bond?

And that was… what would that be?

But the blood had already left the brain. He coughed once, twitched a bit, and finally relaxed. The sunlight seemed to grow brighter and desaturated, finally ending as an unnatural white.

He let the warmth embrace him until he thought it was quite familiar.