“Are you sure you don’t want some backup?” asked a voice from the neural comm. “You fail this again, I don’t think you can afford another respawn this month. Your body insurance will bury you.”

Terry ‘Hound’ Locke surveyed the Crimson Stone apartment complex from behind the tinted windshield of his combat car. He kept the driver’s window down, letting him take in the scents. Non-Player Characters, NPCs, ambled about on their day off. Players strode along with eyes fixed on their destination. Newbs gave off a sharper scent of sweat as they moved by Hound. Low ranking players faced a new world of struggles.

According to his intel, Hound’s target lurked here under the alias Lisa. He’d killed her three times already in the past several months. The fourth assassination would finish his contract and pay him a cool million on top of the individual mission payouts. Unfortunately, this time around hadn’t gone as smoothly as the last three. He’d been killed three times, and the respawn fees totaled over half a million dollars.

“If you guys come in with me, I’ll barely break even on the contract,” said Hound. “This last mission pays the highest.”

“Breaking even's better than going into the negative and ruining your credit, right? She knows you’re coming, even if she is under-prepared. Me and three others can steamroll whatever mercs she bought for protection.”

The easier the mission, the lower the payout, like any balanced video game. Contracts on the other hand, paid out for completing a set of missions within a fixed timeframe, but payouts only varied by number and type of missions, not difficulty. Hound made his living by taking on crazy hard missions that paid out greater than the contracts. But in order to get the best missions, he had to take on high risk contracts. If he failed to complete the contract in any way, he’d forfeit all previous mission payouts, and this was the fourth and final mission.

“I need this mission payout bad.” Between the mission and contract payouts, he would have enough money to quit gaming and follow his dream. He could transfer the in-game money to the real-world by purchasing post-tax tokens which converted to Martian credits. Then he could buy his ticket and escape the dust covered rock.

“Shit. Well you’re not kidding with a gamble like this. Best of luck to ya. We’re on standby if you change your mind.”

Hound terminated the neural comm connection and stepped up to the curb. His 2010 Camaro ZL1 represented the last generation of muscle cars before Earth moved away from fossil-fuel engines. Hound figured the developers put them into the game for the coolness factor. Though its simple black paint job could be a throwback to early stealth fighters with the weaponry and armor concealed beneath. Scanners could only detect unusual metal density. He gave the heavy metal door a push, smiling as it closed with a solid thud. The old whip looked odd alongside hover cars, but suited his low profile. Then again, Hound also carried a gunpowder pistol on his hip with an action that dated back to World War One. The rule of cool dominated game design.

With a few thoughts and eye gestures, Hound pulled up his Advanced Link Scanner. His ocular implant brought up the linkware program like a HUD.

Each player maintained a connection to the game’s hub world, the Plinth. The links showed as spectral graphs in Hound’s vision and the program could automatically find the link of his target. But, some players installed a Link-Scrambler to alter the connection’s frequencies, like changing an ancient graphic equalizer, throwing off the scanner. Using the data from his intel, Hound compared graphs from other locations the target frequented. Hundreds of graphs crowded his vision. He sighed. Fucking pointless.

Clearing the graphs, Hound tapped into police monitors covering the area. criminal players cut their links entirely during some operations, risking Experience Point loss while on a mission. Hound pulled up the all disconnected links over the last hour and compared them to the known frequencies of his target. His lips drew back revealing fangs. He found a match.

Hound stepped away from his Camaro, pausing to glance back before heading to the apartment complex with a forward lean to his gait. His altered limbs and elongated torso gave him the ability to pursue his prey on all fours when the need arose. The scents drifting out of the red and brown buildings flooded his long snout. Janitors cleaned the outside of the place with cheap chemicals, NPC families cooked weekend dinners, and at least one group of kids shared a smoke. The stone walls gave off an earthy smell while the plastic replicas above made Hound question their safe use as habitats. He pulled up his own Intermediate Link-Scrambler and made sure his link frequency was masked before entering the building. The large number of bodies in the building interfered with long-range scans, but once inside a short-range scan could make him.

Inside, Hound’s sensitive ears filtered out idle conversations. Footsteps of loitering NPCs echoed off the concrete floors and high ceilings. Players with the Link Wrangler Class put shady people on edge, but Hound’s reputation brought fear to those on both sides of the law. The Bounty Hunter occupation operated alongside the game's police, but anyone who could afford Hound could afford to bend the law their way. He gave no fucks about who paid his price so long as the Plinth sanctioned his missions.

Getting link wrangled meant getting locked in isolation on the Plinth for a set amount of time depending on the crime committed. To get repeatedly link wrangled like his contracts often had him do to people, meant no chance of making money. Essentially, Hound ended gaming careers for a living. He admitted it was a cruel job, but Cyberlinks was a hard game. And life is even harder. Heading to the northeast wing, he ran a few more scans. It looked like his target occupied the fourth floor.

Stepping out of the elevator, Hound caught sight of two plainclothes guards in front of the wing’s entrance. As he approached, they asked to see his apartment key. Hound gave them a key card with his ears sloped back. Reaching down as if to check his boots, Hound sprung forward on his bestial legs. He slammed one guard against the wall, knocking him out. Twisting around, he put two 10mm rounds in the chest of the other guard before the man could draw his weapon.

Pulling up his hacking program, Hound unlocked the entryway. Apartment doors lined either side of the hall. He selected a door at random to crack open. As the lock popped two armed men stepped out from further down the hall and opened fire. Shooting back, Hound slipped through the opened door. Shit. This was bad.

If Hound got killed on this mission again, it would be his fourth death this month. His body insurance company would jack up his rates astronomically. Hound popped out into the hallway and gunned down one of the guards as he made his way up the hall. He heard the other guard screaming for backup.

The door behind Hound opened and two mercenaries with rifles stepped into the hall. Oh fuck no. High-end alloy plates covered them head to toe, save for a tinted visor over their eyes. That visor was the only viable target his 10mm could penetrate while their rifle rounds would pass through his soft armor like nothing. He bolted a few meters ahead and shouldered through a fire exit onto an outside staircase.

Hound reached into his jacket for a grenade. Rifle fire struck the metal door frame and sent burning spall into his unprotected skin. He shielded his face, yanking the pin out with a long fang. Reaching down, he blindly chucked the grenade into the hall, hearing mercs scatter at the sound of metal clattering on the floor. One of them burst into the fire escape, knocking Hound down the stairs to the grated landing.

Shrapnel from the explosion struck the merc standing in the doorway. Hound rolled onto his back and aimed his weapon. The merc recovered and raised his rifle. They both snapped off a round. Hound’s shot punched right through the soldier’s faceplate, splattering the visor with blood and brains. A high-velocity bullet tore through Hound’s abdomen, spreading ripples of pain. He rolled over and clutched the wound as his opponent tumbled down the stairs, landing next to him.

Hound felt the full pain of the damage done to him. His active military status earned him special permission to disable the game’s Automated Pain Response System (APRS). While the APRS forced pre-scripted responses and restrictions, like wailing and falling over, instead of physical pain on most people, he had the ability to work through the agony instead. He saw and smelled the normally censored gore, like from the head shot. Sometimes that could be enough to trip the player’s trauma monitors, but active military already trained under the same conditions in their own virtuals.

Hand over his gut, Hound picked up his weapon and got to his feet. He pulled out a healing patch from his jacket and slapped it over the wound. According to the damage report on his Combat HUD the bullet missed his arteries and vital organs. The steel-frame 10mm in his hands felt heavier. Blood soaked his soft armored vest and leather jacket. Fuck. He glanced down. It looked as bad as it felt, but he could still win this fight.

A grenade flew through the doorway. Hound’s eyes widened. The grenade soared past him and over the railing to the ground below. He checked the other merc for a link signal. No, he was fighting a dumbass NPC. Hound pulled out a smaller concussion grenade and let the spoon land at his feet. The merc crept onto the stairway. Hound underhanded the cooked grenade. The little grenade let loose a short-range concussive blast with no shrapnel, sending a red mist out onto the courtyard below.

Hound crouched over the dead merc at the bottom of the stairs to examine his carbine. The trigger mechanism had a bio-lock built into it. Hound spent several precious seconds unlocking the weapon before shouldering it. It felt good. He reached back down and filled his jacket pockets with the dead guy’s magazines.

Shaking from adrenaline and blood loss, Hound took the steps one at a time with his new weapon trained on the doorway. Back in the hallway, approaching footsteps echoed from the central building. He pulled up his map and found the link feed of his target. She must be sending messages through her linkware. Doesn’t matter. She broadcasted her exact location to him.

His fangs bared, Hound sprinted down the hall. Room 438. He hacked into the door and moved through the apartment. A brown-haired woman sprang up from behind a counter, her rifle at the ready. Hound put two shots into her chest and a third through her head. She slumped to the ground. Dead, but still receiving a link signal.

Walking up to the corpse, Hound unfolded a headband shaped tool feared by all players. As a rank 3 Link Wrangler, he got access to an upgraded version of the delinker, the tool that intercepted the player’s link signal and forced them back to the Plinth. The signal still transmitted for a few minutes after death unless the brain was completely destroyed. He crouched and placed the pads over the woman’s temples. In a few seconds, he’d hit payday.

Light and noise exploded behind him. His reinforced ears saved him from the deafening blast, but not the shock. A full fireteam of soldiers stormed the apartment. Hound raced for cover behind the counter. Something hot drove itself through his spine, knocking him to the ground. Blackness took over. The familiar experience of death.

Hound appeared in a familiar room. His heart pumped on overdrive as he looked around. Gray and barren walls surrounded him. His apartment on the Plinth. He’d died and reappeared in the hubworld, a giant space station floating a good distance from the game’s planet.

A message popped up in his vision,

>>>>

Mission Failed

Assets Lost:

Custom Tanfoglio 10mm (estimated value $3,100)

Intermediate Link-Scrambler (estimated value $100,000)

Soft-Scale Body Armor (estimated value $25,000)

Body Replacement Cost: $1,112,000 (Current Funds: $532,350)

>>>>

Holy shit. How could he fuck up that badly? He stared down at his clawed hand. His customized body gave him an edge in his profession, but he couldn’t afford to bring it back. Beside him, a window covered the entire far wall of his apartment. Countless stars illuminated the room from their sea of black. An accurate depiction of nothing. He pulled up his Main Menu screen and logged out of Cyberlinks.

He opened his eyes in the real-world and looked down at the body of Alec Rye. Deprived of alterations and fantasy equipment. Clothed in a gray nylon shirt and khaki shorts. Sitting on a faux leather armchair next to a pedestal, was his real body. Reality affirmed itself with the dull ache from the neural band over his temples. A parody of his wrangler gear.

Pulling off the band, he set it on the pedestal and picked up the glass of water waiting for him. He downed it and moved across his sparse condo while performing a series of calisthenics. Stretching motions eased the tautness brought on by the all-nighter. He stopped when he reached the window spanning the entire west side of his condo. At the horizon, the sun set behind a series of red sand dunes. Alec stepped out onto the roof of the condominium and waited for the sky to turn dark.

The city lights flickered around him and Trestle City buzzed with evening air-traffic. When the last of the sunrays departed, he saw what he waited for. His gaze fixed on Earth, a small blue speck in the sky. It looked smaller tonight.