Suchi’s shoreline, The Slum’s monthly Seaside Extravaganza.

The Empire was showing the world its special charms. The migrant horde had been invited to the first Community Event since their arrival: a massive beach party!

Suchi lacked much, but, for a day by the sea, it offered generous portions of both sand and sun.

For kilometres, the players fanned out to crowd the coastline, attending competitions and other quirky spectacles. In the waters, the surrounding seas were churned a foamy white by their frolicking throng. On the sand, their thousand bronzing shades stood on display. They strolled about in bikinis and swim trunks, smelling of salt after a quick dip, holding popsicles whose dribbling melt ran down their fists. Everywhere, the air chimed in vibration. It danced along to the songs of local bands and the greatest song of people revelling in each other’s peaceful warmth.

Henry, amidst them—amidst his tournament-loving children—had been wandering alone, without his burdensome friends or a crazy date, without any particular goal or purpose.

Although sunny in-game, the evening for him had slipped into its darkest nocturn. After the day’s workshop, he’d given his students an order to rest up before tomorrow, to sleep, to check out the party if they wanted.

In the meantime, he’d joined his flock himself, transmogrified into a half-bald Australian geezer. He'd been walking around shirtless and wrinkled, his disguise completed by a bad accent and a bottomless mug of beer.

From stall to stall, he'd stumbled half-drunk. He'd sampled skewers of fried squid, baked scallops, raw sashimi – wouldn’t recommend the last, the place having poor hygiene standards. His tyrannical skills were tested by the ocean-themed carnival games like high-dive belly-flopping and underwater scavenger hunts.

It'd been fun enough.

Covertly, he’d also been eavesdropping on the tournament migrants, attempting to read the temperature on the plebian ground. The atmosphere amongst them was bright, the visitors happy, satisfied, excited. Some complained about the cursed heat, but such was Suchi.

Overall, this day that'd passed had been remarkably unremarkable. It’d gone without any miserable incidents, and he could only hope the remainder would play out so wonderfully dull and forgettable.

Tomorrow, the first major wave of ship-borne migrants arrived, this Starting Zone welcoming the larger over-levelled horde. Would that cause problems? Maybe. But he wouldn't interfere. Worst case scenario, Nerin would snipe any troublemakers with a rain of spears - the Goddess had been patrolling the skies ever since the Trading Post attacks.

Two more days of the workshop after tomorrow, three for the tournament, then Henry’d be done.

It was a strange feeling that, the thought of being done. A career spanning five long years, the entirety of his teens - finished.

He didn’t know if the reason lay in going through these more outward motions with Silver and the duelling, but the end seemed much more palpable to him than when he’d been tinkering towards it with only his inner circle aware. He supposed they, like Alex, had never much believed him. They would’ve accepted him back in an instant if he’d changed his mind, the months of pledging to quit this shit game forgotten in a laugh. Still would.

Continuing his aimless festival explorations, he bought some hand-crafted trinkets and took sixth place in a shark-filleting competition – higher would’ve attracted too many eyes.

He then set up a caricature-sketching booth just for an excuse to interview strangers. Each paid him with their own among the multiple reasons a person attends a tournament for duelling in a videogame – to cure boredom, to cheer for this or that pro-team, to see Saana’s Tyrant in his devilishly-handsome flesh.

He also tried to encourage his customers to waft about things outside the game. Jobs, hobbies, families, dreams, he wanted to absorb all the peculiarities that together provide the colour to an ordinary existence, to make some of them his own. With the ever-on-the-move pace of life in 2050, there was much new in the culture that confused him. He'd often joked about being old while still a teenager. However, listening to these strangers, it struck him that he’d really fallen hopelessly out of touch. Apparently, Blurm had lost its popularity, the once-beloved series cancelled after the fourth film tanked.

“Crikey,” said Henry, learning of this devastating news. “R.I.B.”

The customer sitting for their portrait nodded mournfully. “Rest In Blurm.”

Later, he haggled over a dinky sailboat being hawked to festival-goers by a local. The seller’s sales-pitch stank of urgency, the fellow an angler moored by the recent tightening on fishing quotas. Henry—one of Australia's foremost experts on the market for second-hand vessels—managed to scam the desperate guy for quadruple its worth.

Stealing off on his loot, he sailed the coastline to escape the thick of the swimmer-crammed beaches.

As his dinky ship scootered out into the bay’s open waters, it leapt and glided over the gentle ocean swells turning into the harbour’s distant mouth. Thousands of other boats were out, most chartered by tourists. Henry, giving the wind in his sails some magical help, zipped on past them. Warm-weathered laughs pursued him from drunks who found the sight of his little speeding crap-heap funny.

He got into a race with a stranger single-handing a three-crew yacht. After travelling too far, his opponent waved him away and shrank back towards the colour and noise of the festival. Not a word passed between them in that time, but enough was said.

A part of Henry’s heart longed to keep on sailing in this fashion, the sun to his back, the waves splashing his cheeks. He fantasised about aiming himself for the tiny island specks bobbing on the horizon, about shooting past them into the remoter blue beyond that demanded nothing of man except the struggle for him, alone, to survive its storms.

The shoreline was peopled for many kilometres. After an hour and a half, he pulled into a secluded inlet where only a couple dozen kids were partying. None of them would pay an old man any heed.

He beached his boat. Popped a tent.

In the cool shade, he compiled the day’s bizarre notes on ‘therapeutic’ duelling into a format readable to his shrink. He summarised common themes and made charts and data tables for the results of the various experiments he’d run. As always, some of the more sensitive information, he omitted; although unlikely due to Henry’s vetting, the shrink could turn spy or sell his information to the press - wouldn’t exactly be his first encounter with backstabbing.

Then, for a rather uncharacteristic shift, he dedicated some of this time in game to a project outside it for once. Working on his pony farm, he sketched a couple revolutionary designs. Nothing too extravagant.

The partying kids left eventually, rushing back to the city for a surprise concert from a real-life singer. Dozens of other boats out on the water sped past in the same direction, pulled by the irresistible tide.

Overhearing the artist’s name, Henry hadn’t recognised it.

This latest lash of ignorance reminded him of something Cathy’d mentioned at their first dinner. Another member of their schoolgroup had entered the music industry after moving back to their home country. Since Henry used to jam with them, he was thrilled they’d found professional work in the field, although they’d switched for some reason from playing violin to dancing.

As he recalled that conversation and spared this forgotten friend a proper thought, the change seemed inexplicable to him. He couldn’t reconcile the two images of the person, couldn’t grasp the hidden thread of life connecting their past and present.

Then again, when he compared himself between his school years and now, his own metamorphosis hadn’t exactly been predictable, had it? In just two years, he’d gone from too broke to afford basic medical care to one of the richest figures in his country, a billionaire before the hyperinflation. He’d learned a bit of love and a bit more of loss. Somewhere between these things, he’d conquered a planet.

So, in two more years, who could say what he’d be? He could be anything at all. He could even be happy.

Nerin dropped from the sky for a quick chat after seeing through his disguise. Her mood was foul, the goat-herd peeved by the extra work caused by him dumping millions of foreigners on her protectorate - a recipe for another blue-tinted catastrophe. For compensation, to prepare her for his inevitable return, she asked for clarification on some techniques from A Thousand Tools. Henry desired nothing more than to help her, to put his head and her abilities together to formulate the perfect counter. However, he'd—actually—retired, and that meant no longer involving himself in these virtual affairs, not on any side. Wu-wei. Sympathetic but unmoved, he offered to trade this info for the solution to three of her trials worth some IRL cash, knowing full-well she couldn't make the deal due to her Zone Guardian restrictions. She swore at him and flew off in a rage.

Once she’d left, with the beach to himself, he dug a covert bunker, stowed his boat and gear inside, pitched a hammock, and let his worried consciousness drift into the next 19-year lullaby.