Bound behind the glass for all to see, Jochem was annoyed that nobody else noticed how suspicious this whole setup was. One of the first cons since the pandemic, and Riot had the balls to install 100 Deep VR pods for a Battle Royale? They were fast overtaking other game companies sure, but their future hit was never mentioned; A Runeterra MMO more anticipated than World of Warcraft, all the way back in 2003. This was a publicity stunt, he decided, no two ways about it. So then where’s the publicity for the MMO? Instead, the attention was on the technology, the spectacle of visual feeds from each contestant. But they never connected it back. Never promoted their future full release.

It was strange, firstly because it worked, secondly because it spawned only speculations about the future MMO, with no real data. Perhaps Riot was just that confident? Did they expect people to actually go out and buy one of these VR pods to play their MMO? Or rent them? Could this be the next step, an evolution in PC Bang culture?

Jochem was torn. On one hand, he would happily devour whatever Riot put out -and indeed was the first journalist to demand access to the con- but he had been jaded by all the recent industry scandals. Some of the dirty cogs of labour violations and sexism uncovered first hand. Still, he could feel himself getting clammy and giddy at the chance to play in an actual deep VR Pod!

But he had to try and not lose himself. He had to be on his guard. Think of as many pressing questions he could ask after his experience. They’d definitely give him an interview if he won, right? An unlikely scenario, though, given several of the other contestants and their e-sports careers. Well, maybe he could still glean useful info just by being in the zone. Jochem was told that there were several advancements within Bilgewater’s AI. Perhaps it reflected something of the deeper purpose behind this expensive stunt. A Freudian slip by an NPC.

Tap-tap-tap. His colleague at the con rapped their knuckles on his pod. Pointing toward his face, he made a swollen smile.

Look happy for the cameras? Jochem grunted, turning his cheek in the tight confine of the pod. Another who sees nothing wrong. It’ll get you in time, buddy. A healthy dose of skepticism is how you find good stories.

Beyond the pod, Jochem could hear a countdown start. With a steadying breath, he adjusted himself as the pod declined to lie him all the way back. As it did, a jarring shine caught his eyes and gave him a stabbing headache.

The searing white turned to a noonday sun, morphing then into a dark hood. A darker smile inside it. “Don’t just stand there! Hand it to me!”

Jochem flooded into the body of a servant. A corner of the pirate bay’s bustling market flashed into sight around him. No air to be breathed that didn’t feel like a dried sock.

“Boy! The Rum!”

Someone shoved Jochem forward. There was clinking at his ankles, and when he looked down, he stumbled over chains that led back into an open tent. Hefting his axe as a warning, the burly guard behind him gestured to the cup in Jochem’s hand. The message was clear, and luckily Jochem had built up an instinct of servitude over his working life.

“Yes, sir. Right away,” he said, handing it over with a bow.

The customer sipped away eagerly while Jochem leaned back against some barrels, gathering himself against the horrid humidity. Even the cask’s wood was warm to the touch. He’d never liked heat, and somehow this virtual heat was even worse. Aside from that, the crowd at every corner of his vision was never-ending. After the isolatory duration of COVID, seeing so many people packed together was a little dizzying.

“Mmm, very good,” the hooded customer said. He swirled the cup between his fingers, thinking. “Of course, I’m not about to make a decision right now.” He placed it down on the stall and turned away. “I might come back. Boy, I thank you for your service, slow as it was.”

“What an ass,” muttered Jochem, taking back the small cup, which still held a few drops in it. He sniffed it. Then, old sales habits kicking in it he leaned over the stall and yelled, “You can’t just leave without buying anything, sir! This is quality rum!”

“I agree.” A smooth voice. Jochem swivelled back to the tent to find who was likely his master. An intricate gold shawl fluttered around his arms, even in this dead heat. Taking out a hand, the rum dealing slave-master waved two fingers. A tiny gesture. But whether by sheer presence or magic, that’s all he needed to do to command the entire corner district to a halt, barricading the hooded customer.

“Come now,” said the slave master, “Let us negotiate your payment.” He stood by the entrance of the tent until two of his guards dragged in the customer, feet scrambling up a cloud of dust. Chuckling to himself, he stopped just as he was about to head in. “You too, Shuriman. I don’t recall permitting samples.”

Inside, Jochem stripped off all the customers clothes and possessions. Here, the tent was a lot cooler, bathed in dark orange from the draped fabric absorbing the light outside. Unhooded, the ‘customer’ was a lot less confident, trying to ignore the two guards laughing at his frail and pasty body from the corner. They had polished off the sample, but they were a bit too giddy. I guess it really is good quality rum. He’d exchange the odd glance with Jochem, with a mix of fear and revulsion. He looked like he’d sooner die than be pressed into slavery.

Nearby, the slave master sat in menacing silence. His prisoner’s possessions in a neat line at his feet. The robes and spices on his person didn’t interest him. Nor did his purse. Among his jewellery, though, there was one thing that stood out. A long bangle, golden, that would match his current attire. The slave-master twirled it for a moment, then beckoned the naked prisoner. “You didn’t mention you had such fine jewellery? Is this something you sell?”

The prisoner waddled up, covering skin with shaking skin. He nodded. The guards’ laughter roared in the background.

The slave master smiled at the humiliation, gently waving at them to stop. “Ahh, then it looks like we may be frequenting each other’s’ company. This is wonderful! Help me try it on, I’d like to see if it fits.”

Since there was nothing for him to do, Jochem crossed his arms and waited. He watched how the man was reduced to a servant and bit his lip at the display of power. Meanwhile the guards were bent over each other, laughing their lungs out. The prisoner backed away beside Jochem once the bangle was on.

The slave master rose, admiring himself. “Perfect!” he said, wiping a finger down the metal, “I’d ask you where you procure such fine material, but it doesn’t matter. Your business now belongs to me. I will allow you to keep half your earnings. The rest you pay to me.” He tore his eyes away from his new gift when the prisoner didn’t respond. “For protection, of course.”

“Protection, right,” the prisoner huffed. “Because I’m the one who needs protection.” He took back his clothes and started to dress himself.

What? This was a whole different demeanour. A whole different person, though nothing had changed except -there was an identical golden bangle on the prisoner’s arm too!

Jochem looked back; the guards heaped over in a pile, dark bile oozing from their mouths. Forward; his master was now the one shivering, teeth taut in pain as he tried desperately to get the bangle off.

“Save me the shock,” said the prisoner, more focused on tightening the midline of his robe than making eye-contact, “I’m obviously not some foreign merchant. You know where I’m from, who I represent, and that you have something of ours. On with it, let’s go. Or the pain gets worse.” Finishing by flicking his hood over his head, he finally looked back at the quivering slave-master. And sighed. “No, there’s no way to undo it. It’s magic, you idiot.”

Jochem backstepped slowly. The prisoner didn’t even seem to acknowledge him, and that was probably for the best. His RPG senses were telling him to get out, that this was a great tutorial for treating NPC’s with respect. All he had to do was quietly—

–Jochem’s chains rattled, snagged by one of the unconscious guards.

The slave master motioned, and with all his strength let out the word, “Please!”

The hooded man laughed. “He won’t help you. You must know that. You lost his trust when you enslaved him, dummy.” He snapped at Jochem. “Hey, Boy! We had a bad introduction but as you can see, it was purely business. Look, you seem sensible.” He looked down. “Probably pretty stealthy out of manacles. We could always use another spy. How about it?”

He gestured for Jochem to come back, and on instinct, he inched in his direction. Jochem leaned down and pulled the chain out from under the dead body as the hooded man applauded, turning his attention back to the slave master. The slave master who was now crying. Bulging red eyes. Tears sprinkling over a jaw struggling to keep the pain contained. Silent until the moment Jochem swung the guard’s axe through a dark hood.

As Jochem once again pored over the body of the prisoner, he heard the slave masters first breath, free of pain. A breath so raw yet complete, like hearing every ridge in his throat pop. It was almost a shame he had to silence him.

“You marvellous, beautiful, loyal Shuriman!” He crawled on his hands and knees at Jochem. “You shall be well rewarded for this, I swear it!”

Jochem stood, the other golden bracer in his hand. Watching the slave-master’s expression, he shrugged and put it on. “Yeah, unfortunately I’m not who I appear, either. In fact, I’m not even from this world.”

The slave master visibly gulped.

“But you seem well in the know,” said Jochem, “How about an interview?”

He allowed the master to scream for about half a second.