Chapter 2: Into Viperstar

Madam Dana Kampion continued to stand still and silent for at least ten seconds, her gaze drilling into Miguel.

And Rishi kept the pistol levelled.

But then, Madam Kampion sighed with a slight shrug, and took one step back, turning to look at Bratislav. “Very well, kid,” she said. “Only cause I like you. Take your minute.”

With this, she turned and began to walk slowly away.

Glaring furiously at Miguel, Rishi slowly placed the weapon back into his blazer pocket and followed. Together with the remaining heavy, he crunched away across the gravel, stopping near the armored car.

Miguel watched them leave for a moment, and then turned his attention to Bratislav.

“Miguel,” he began earnestly.

"You look well, buddy,” said Miguel, with a sardonic smile that didn’t do much to mask his stress.

There was a fraction of a smile in response, a slight softening. “And how have you been, Miguel?”

“All right. Getting by.”

Bratislav sighed. “You can’t get by like this, Miguel. Dana Kampion’s people are real serious. What the hell were you thinking, stealing from them, even if you did give it away? You might call it small change, and it is to them, it’s true. But this is business now. You can’t steal from the Kampions.”

In response, Miguel gestured towards the city wall. “Those refugees down there – they’re real people. In a different life, that could have been us, you know? Growing up.”

Bratislav took a step forward, and looked down towards the refugee camp. There was just the smallest hint of his nose wrinkling, marring his otherwise youthful and handsome face. “They’re pathetic, that’s true,” he said. “But still. Someone has to mine the rock and cut the wood so that our city can build things. Right?”

Miguel scowled, scratching at his stubbly chin and glancing down once again, but did not respond.

“Miguel, you need to get yourself out of this, and fast. Dana Kampion may come across as cool and relaxed, but deep down she is psychopathic. People are tools to her, and if someone needs to be made an example of, she doesn’t hesitate.

“I guess.”

Bratislav shook his head. “Man. You’ve always been so talented. Your imagination is exceptional, always was. If you could just focus your thoughts for long enough to make a plan and see it through, you could actually make a success of your life.”

Miguel nodded. “I’ll do what it takes this time, Brat. I promise.”

Bratislav frowned. “So what are you going to say to her?”

“Maybe you could tell them I'm innocent, Brat? For old time’s sake?”

Bratislav shook his head sadly. "They're not fools, and they're not sloppy. Unlike you. You might have got away with siphoning off a cut when dealing with smalltime gangs back home, but not with this lot. Miguel, they're not threatening. They're actually going to kill you. I've seen it all too often."

Miguel clenched his teeth, and then sighed. His old companion could be trusted on this, he knew... but equally, Bratislav wasn't going to stick his neck out on Miguel’s behalf.

Why should he?

Miguel was also aware that his back and underarms were getting sweatier still, and his hands were trembling. Normally he prided himself on keeping calm, on having a steady hand.

Not today.

“So, uh... you got any suggestions, Brat?”

The young man licked his lips. It occurred to Miguel that despite their equal age, Bratislav could pass for five years younger than himself. Was that a reflection of his old friend’s luxurious lifestyle? The man wouldn’t look out of place if his face was projected onto an ad screen in downtown New Baravia.

He on the other hand, had been wearing the same clothes for a week, and it was longer still since he'd washed his hair, its messy spikes reflecting the fact that he had cut it himself with scissors rather than any particular style. Even the stubble was unintentional.

"Miguel, there's only one language they speak, and that's the language of money and power. If you promise to pay her back double what you took, I'll vouch for you. Hopefully that will be enough. It's the best I can do."

Miguel looked over to where the gang members were waiting. Dana Kampion was standing watching them, the predatory look back on her face. Rishi had been smoking a rolled-up leaf of shana weed, but it now appeared that the suited man had had enough waiting; he flung the small smoldering stub to the ground and began to walk closer.

"I don't have that kind of money," said Miguel quietly, looking sideways at Bratislav. A note of panic had now entered his deep voice. "Maybe it would be kinder to let them kill me now." As he spoke, his eyes were darting around looking for options as to what direction he could run in.

Bratislav frowned. "Miguel... come on. There’s only one way. You have to promise to put it right.”

“Okay. Very well.” He held his hands up, and then turned to face Dana Kampion and her thuggish gang members as they crunched over the ground and reached the pair once more.

"So," said Kampion, her voice steady and clear. "What have you got to offer me that might persuade me to let you keep your life?”

"An apology," said Miguel, and when the richly-dressed woman’s eyes narrowed, he added quickly, "and all of your money back, every buck, plus the same again to show I've learned the error of my ways. Double what I gave away to the refugees.”

As the others looked towards their boss to gauge her reaction, Dana Kampion stared at Miguel again for several seconds, then inclined her head a fraction. “And when?"

"Two months," said Miguel. "It'll be in your pocket, I swear. You have my word.”

“One month is what you have. After that my patience runs out." With this, Dana Kampion turned on her heel and began to walk away.

Rishi, however, took a step closer to Miguel, once again clutching at the weapon in his pocket. “You’d better do it,” he growled. “Fail to come up with the goods in the agreed time and there will be no more talking. We will throw you over that there edge, I promise." The man paused, pulling a pair of sunglasses from his blazer pocket. "I’m sure you’d love to meet those refugees yourself," he added.

Bratislav caught Miguel’s eye one last time, and then he, too, turned to follow his boss.

“Thanks man,” called out Miguel. “I won’t let you down.”

Reassuringly, the New Baravia municipal transit system looked much as Miguel remembered from his childhood.

He stepped through the paired doors of the nearest coach within the long vehicle, hurrying a little as they began to close behind him, and then moved to the center of the coach. Only about a fifth of the seats were taken, all by wealthy-looking citizens.

Naturally.

Because normal people like himself walked everywhere.

He sat down, placing his small dirty backpack between his feet, and looked at the screen in front of him, waiting for a further message from Demon Hunters.

Things had been really slow and unpromising at first.

The initial call with an operator from the show’s studio had been followed by a confusing application form with no further information attached. He hadn’t really given it his full attention, as he assumed the chances of being selected were tiny.

All the same, he had filled the thing in during the subsequent few days and sent it off. After that, silence – for over a week. During which time he had increasingly fretted about his debt and the immediate risk to his life.

But then the call came.

At that point, things had started to move really quickly. Smartly-dressed company goons had visited his residence, recorded and measured him, and provided tickets for this transit journey direct to the studio – the kind of travel option he had only taken three times in his life before. New Baravia’s public transit system was unarguably the preserve of the elite.

Now, he was moving rapidly along the streets of the city, and Miguel looked outside for a moment, observing the endless streets of unfamiliar neighborhoods, each with their regulation apartment blocks.

The city planners, in their wisdom, had devised a system where it didn’t matter which coach you got, as all of them went to every stop. The amount of time that they took to get there varied considerably. Fast but not exactly efficient, the coaches spiraled around the city in a helix shape, zipping from stop to stop along all of the main streets and squares, leaving the less desirable routes for the use of the city’s millions of pedestrians.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the screen in front of him flicker into life, and a message symbol displayed, showing both his name and the name of the game studio: Viperstar Games.

Miguel pulled the cable from his pocket and plugged one end in beside the screen, connecting the other to his ear. As he did so, an image appeared there of an androgynous and hairless face with medium-brown skin.

“Good morning, Miguel Rubio. Welcome,” it said. Its voice was neutral in both tone and expression, with a slightly artificial lilt. It certainly didn’t sound like the people from his neighborhood.

“Uh, thanks... I guess. You work for Viperstar?’

“I represent Viperstar, yes, and will guide you to your destination. And first, there are certain tasks that need to be completed to prepare you for the experience, and to give you a chance of success.”

Miguel noticed that the guide had said ‘a chance’ and not ‘a better chance’, or ‘the best chance’. He was sure that this was no accident.

“Go on then,” he murmured. “What do I need to know?”

“I will not provide information on the tasks themselves, Mr. Rubio,” said the guide. “That will be forthcoming at the start of each task. But there is the matter of equipment.”

“Go on.”

“If you’re going to be a demon hunter,” said the on-screen face, “then you’re going to need gear.”

Miguel grinned at this. “Okay. For sure. I’ll take a European sniper rifle and a set of Q-class light body armor."

“I have checked your central finance account, Mr. Rubio,” said the guide. ”The cost of the items that you refer to exceeds your total number of dollar-rubies."

"Umm... all right, then. What about a classic shotgun?”

"The cost of the item that you refer to exceeds your total number of dollar-rubies,” repeated the guide.

“What?” He frowned, scratching at his stubbly chin. "Can’t we get the equipment just to play the game? This is virtual, right? The gear doesn’t actually cost anything to you.”

“All equipment must be purchased with New Baravia currency, Mr. Rubio.”

Miguel pondered this for a moment. So. This wasn’t actually a great opportunity to become a techno-vision personality and rub shoulders with New Baravia’s most powerful.

It was more of a money-making scam.

At best.

No – he saw it now. They would be cannon fodder for much better-equipped players. Well, huh. The publikum had to get their kicks somehow.

He felt his teeth gripping together, and he leaned forward in his seat. “All right, if you say so,” he growled. “No gun and no body armor. What can I afford?“

“Please refer to the following list,” said the guide in its calm, sing-song voice. “You have credit of 3014 dollar-rubies. Each item has a price listed beside it.”

The guide was right – that was exactly how much he had. He also had to live on it until his next pay day, which was in around two months’ time. If he lived that long.

But there comes a point when you have to ask yourself – are you going all in?

He looked at the list, and then requested it be filtered according to prices within a range of 750–1500 drubes. He then saw the following:

Crossbow: 1400 dollar-rubies Iron chest-plate: 950 dollar-rubies Hunting knife, fine: 900 dollar-rubies Flint spear: 800 dollar-rubies Bronze helmet: 750 dollar-rubies Leather backpack: 750 dollar-rubies

“These items are all from the dark ages,” Miguel muttered.

“You will find all of the equipment fully functional,” the voice replied, “and effective against up to eighty per cent of threats.”

He growled softly to himself. He should have seen all of this coming. How the hell could he win a contest with this pile of garbage?