An ice-cold drop of water fell on Francois’s neck. It had traveled the length of a rusty pipe of forgotten function, collecting flecks of black mold and grease on its journey, and now slid down the collar of Francois’s shirt as he tried to wipe away the itchy trail it left behind.

“Next,” said the man at the counter. The previous customer, a hunched trench coat and hat, slunk away to find a purchased room in the dank depths of the VR parlor.

Francois stepped forward. The man minding the counter ignored him. This was customary, and Francois used the time to see what new signs of decay had appeared since his last visit. The counter was the surest bet. A thousand words, epitaphs, and crude images spoke of a long history of illiteracy and knives. Like a cemetery for boredom and anger, it was always collecting new tally marks against human decency.

“ID,” said the man at the counter, after an appropriately disrespectful amount of time.

Francois slid his ID to the man, who ignored it. He would have known Francois’ information by now, but for the kind of man who coveted power by the crumb, no morsel was too small. He ran cracked nails through greasy hair, and took the time to pick out the dandruff that had collected under his fingernails.

“Room type?” he asked without lifting his gaze from a poster of a naked woman pinned to a nearby wall. She was part of the harem that cluttered every available surface, some members yellowed and wrinkled with age, some damp and succumbing to the mold that owned most of the building.

“Full immersion, max settings and CPU, fiber line, and the extra firewall,” said Francois, reciting his answers to each question he would be asked, in order.

The man at the counter scowled. The crumb of power that let him waste Francois’ time had been stolen, and he was hungry. Then he flashed Francois a grin of crusty teeth. “Looking to get your dick sucked huh?”

Francois didn’t answer. He’d been drawn into conversations with this man before. They were worth any cost to avoid.

“Price is 60 E-bits,” the man said, his bait failing to catch.

“60? It was 50 last time,” Francois said. This marked the second price increase of the year. It meant another chip in the fragile foundation of his finances.

“60 now.” The man conferred with the nude pin-up for confirmation.

Francois scanned his ID in the digital reader and paid the ferryman his toll. It’ll all be worth it, he thought. It’ll all pay off soon.

The man sighed and contemplated wasting more of Francois’ time, but this fish clearly wasn’t biting. He dropped a block of wood on the counter with a key attached.

“You’ll be in room five. CPU peaks are not guaranteed. Fiber clarity is not guaranteed. We do not accept responsibility for failures of the optional firewall.”

After reneging on each promise that Francois paid for, Francois was free to go.

Francois walked down a devil’s gallery of closed doors and sparse light. The faded graffiti spoke of previous incarnations of this building as a whore house and drug den. Puddles collected on the concrete floor, their contents dripped from cracks in the concrete ceiling. Francois’ neck continued to itch. From behind the locked doors, he heard cackles and moans, ugly laughs that would turn your blood cold on the streets. But down here? Down here is where they belonged.

At room five, he fought the key into the lock. The concrete room could have once been storage for toxic waste. It was bare, save for a rectangular yellow stain in the corner that marked where a mattress had once lain far too long. Whatever dreams of banality had been dreamt there, they still lingered in this room. The room’s only saving grace was the VR rig stationed in the center. Tentacle-like cords disappeared through an aperture in the ceiling, and the whole assembly hung like a fetus in utero, waiting for a soul to inhabit it.

Francois swallowed his revulsion at the cold, wet squish inside the gloves. The headset, thoroughly lubricated with a stranger’s perspiration, slid over his face with ease.

He settled into his rented rig, and let the information pour directly into his brain.

Jacksaw City was built around him in mere moments. Brick by beam, the sprawling city grew from the streets in great columns. Francois popped the collar of his duster against the frigid night air. It was a cold city, one that breathed ice down your neck. It tempted you with flights of fancy and games of chance down every dark alley and crowded speakeasy. The Streets was a game that pulled no punches and wasted no time throwing them, a brutal rogue-like with notoriously hands-off creators. Once you were in The Streets, you were on your own.

Francois was buzzing, though. He finally had a chance to make a name for himself, to get out of the dregs of being just another hitman in a world where they were a dime a dozen. Was he talented? Of course he was, he was alive. But you needed your name in mouths if you wanted to make it big in this town.

He checked his watch, a tiny screen projecting a hologram of information. Jacksaw City was strange like that—a dark gritty world, but with pockets of tech that stood out like a zit on a pretty face. He had the usual messages; contract offers, gang invites, quest reminders. But one stood out, marked with a High Priority indicator that cost real world currency to include on messages. He opened it.

55 55th street.

Bingo. Francois put feet to pavement and headed to the show.

Jacksaw City didn’t have any kind of fast travel. You paid a cab, you walked, or you owned a car. And if you owned a car, well, might as well put a bullseye on it. He passed entryways for speakeasies and pool halls. Enforcer class men hulked in front of their entrances and glared a challenge to any passerby. Jacksaw City liked to keep its secrets. All except for the whore houses. Their wares were displayed like a perfumed butcher shop, the ladies of places like Madam Keighley’s beckoned and called. Francois slowed as he passed—the call of the flesh was strong. The girls were mostly bots, but for a pretty penny you could get a real human to spend time with. It was tempting. Even at the precipice of greatness, it was tempting.

Francois marched on to his destination. The girls called after him like sirens.

Number 55 was a brownstone building with the façade of a dumb brute, the kind of guy who’d start a brawl over a parking spot because he knew he’d win. It was dark and broad, intact glass in short supply. Francois knocked on the door. A slider snapped open, and a single eye glared back.

“The hell you want?” demanded the eye.

“The name’s Kasper King. I’m expected,” said Francois, glancing over his shoulder.

“Oh yeah? You got an invite?”

Francois pulled up the notification and aimed it at the door. The NPC behind it read the file and growled. Doorman NPCs loved a good fight.

There was a series of clacks and the door opened just enough for Francois to slip inside. The one-eyed Doorman pointed to the staircase to the second floor. Francois began to ascend, noticing traces of disturbed dust and grit on the stairs. There were others here. He spotted a fresh mar on the wood at hip level. They were armed.

In case the invitation turned out to be an elaborate ambush, Francois checked his weapons. Two 9mm handguns at his hips, a masterwork magnum revolver at the small of his back, two hand grenades, and a switchblade. Nothing special, except for the magnum, but high-quality gear was damn hard to come by and even harder to keep. There was no inventory to keep it in, so precious long guns had to be carried in the open. Or hidden in painfully obvious bags.

After three flights of stairs, the old dump of an apartment building had had enough time to gussy up for a date. A red carpet ran like a river of blood from the steps down a dark hallway, an obvious last-minute attempt to appeal to someone’s refined tastes. The carpet led to a door flanked by the gentle light of two flickering lanterns. Francois knocked. No gruff NPCs now. A respectable gentleman opened the door and gave Francois a twice over. His eyebrows raised and he pursed his lips, looking relieved.

“May I help you, good sir?” the man asked.

“Here by invitation,” said Francois.

“Very good, sir. Please come this way,” said the man.

Francois followed the man into a vault of excess. A room as big as a dance hall held a raucous party, where only the wealthiest, most influential, and most violent were in attendance. Francois passed a dozen conspiracies in the making, and nearly twice as many double crosses. Upbeat swing music from the brass band shook the floors and the sense from Francois’ head.

He was brought to the head of the hall where, barricaded from the rest of the party like a cop’s roadblock, sat the host of the party. The table was strewn with meat and drink, piled high and untouched. He was flanked by beautiful women and loathsome bodyguards and was the center of the universe for both. The man himself was like a lion ready to pounce—powerful, ready, keen eyes surveying every interaction occurring under his roof with meticulous care. He wore a fine suit, likely worth more than everything Francois had ever owned in game or in real life. A diamond the size of a pinky nail studded his tie, accenting his symmetry. He was perfect. He was Don Perfect Frank.

Francois swallowed. Being in charge in this game meant a plethora of new abilities, but it also meant a target on your back. Following a Gang Leader, you’d expect a few bonuses to your abilities, and access to some special missions. Following a Boss got you incredible abilities, and access to rare equipment. Following a Don…well, no one was sure what that got you. Jacksaw City was ruthlessly hierarchical, you don’t get to stick yourself to a Don when there was a Boss with an opening. And you don’t get to stick to a Boss when there’s a Gang Leader that needs a new lacky. Down the ladder you went, kicked deeper and deeper into the gutter till you found someone smaller that you could kick instead. That’s how you found your place.

With a wave, Don Perfect Frank cancelled the party. All but a select few were ushered out with no warning, the band ceasing at once. The wheat and the chaff parted ways.

Francois glanced around at who remained. They were lined up for Perfect Frank’s inspection. He saw Tommy Two Guns fiddling with the ammo drums on his hips. Rabid Alice scratched at her face with her steel tipped nails, shuffling and anxious. Mason of 5th Street had even made an appearance, the not-so-gentle giant. There was Gonzo the Mad Bomber, a self-styled serial arsonist and explosives expert that brought down more buildings than a crooked mayor handing out permits. Bloody Shaw, Joe “The Siege” Murray, Diamond Sue, they were all here.

Maybe I’ve already made it, thought Francois. These are the biggest name in the killing business, and I’m among them. But then, so what if he was? He wasn’t looking to settle down. The sky was the limit and contemporaries were for suckers. Still, he felt a bit lacking when he compared the magnificent weapons some of these men and women were carrying to his own arsenal.

The servant who let Francois in stood before Perfect Frank and addressed them. “Ladies and Gentlemen.” His voice was nasally and pompous. “My employer, Don Perfect Frank, has a task he wishes to assign to you. A calling card has been left to him, one promising his death on this very night. Don Perfect Frank would find this most regrettable and seeks to reward whoever can help forgo such an unfortunate turn of events.” Don Perfect Frank made no move to address, or even acknowledge, those assembled.

“What’s the pay? I don’t do bodyguard work,” said a man in the lineup. Francois didn’t recognize him, just some trash that blew in with the wind.

The servant sniffed. “Don Perfect Frank is most generous. To whomever stops his assailant, he will bequeath unto them a small fortune in whatever denomination is most suitable. He will also offer a retainership for the individual as his bodyguard. He will also offer…this.”

Don Perfect Frank raised a glowing crystal orb from behind the table. There were gasps and whimpers at its pearlescent glow. It bathed the room in light, highlighting every crack and stain, on the floor and on their faces.

Chatter broke out immediately. “An Artifact Orb!” “I’ve never seen one.” “Is it real?” “How do we know it hasn’t been used already?” “Because it’s still glowing, numbskull.”

Don Perfect Frank held in his hand Francois’s ticket to easy street. Artifact Orbs weren’t like normal rewards of cash, diamonds, or drugs. An Artifact Orb was the price of admission for a meeting with Lance Poloskovitch, the creator of The Streets. You got a sit down with Lance to design an Artifact level piece of equipment just for you. It could be a weapon, armor, garment, car, anything your heart desired. It would be better than anything you could find in the game and was worth a fortune, in or out of The Streets.

The servant nodded at the amazement of unflappable killers. “Indeed, ladies and gentlemen. Don Perfect Frank is most generous.”

The servant collected a stack of folders on the table and began handing them out to those assembled with all the grave certainty of a death warrant. “Here is the information on the assassin, collected at great expense by Don Perfect Frank. Don Perfect Frank offers this valuable information to you at no cost. Don Perfect Frank is most generous.”

Francois heard some of the first people to open their folders chuckling and snickering. He opened his to find a holographic display of a young woman projected in front of him. She was long limbed and slender, hair hidden behind a hood, face hidden behind a black mask in the shape of a snarling dragon. She wore a long leather trench coat decorated in patches of black scales, a pair of massive pistols at her hips, and an M1 Garand rifle and double barrel shotgun slung across her back. The metal of each weapon was acid etched with dragon motifs, the wooden stocks of the shotgun and rifle carved to resemble snarling dragon mouths.

“The Black Dragon? Seriously? We need to protect you from a fairy tale? Should we check under your bed first?” one of the guns for hire laughed. His voice was tinny and scattered, like a smashed pane of glass.

“It’s no joke,” said Gonzo the Bomber. “They say The Black Dragon has killed more bosses than anyone or anything else. Each of those guns? Artifact. That coat? Artifact. The mask? Well, no one’s sure if that’s an artifact or not. But she’s a stone-cold killer, and she’s never been caught.”

The file was a tall tale in itself, a list of dead targets and rumored abilities. The stats of her weapons were unlike anything Francois had ever seen; damage, reload speed, range, crit chance—everything was leagues above anything Francois had even imagined.

“And by the end of tonight, they’ll say Blood Shaw skinned her alive,” said Shaw, idly twirling a butterfly knife.

The boasts and promises took off like a flock of scared pigeons around him, but Francois couldn’t take his eyes off the dossier. His one shot at the big time, and all he had to do was slay a dragon.

“She’s here,” said the servant. Francois didn’t know what signal he had received, but the servant’s gaze was firmly affixed to the windows overlooking the street. The room hushed. The show was about to begin.

Bloody Shaw swaggered to the window like a man collecting a prize. “Hey girlie,” he called to the night below. “It’s cold outside, why don’t you come—”

The glass shattered at the same instant that Shaw’s head exploded.

A breeze came through the window, and the hired killers blew around the room in a whirl of excitement. A man raced to the window, eager to see a legend before he died. “She’s gone!”

Don Perfect Frank smiled at the chaos, a mountain in the storm. Francois let the tide take him, and found himself in the stairwell with the other killers. A platoon’s worth of firepower was pointed down the stairs, ready to perforate a fairy tale.

“Steady…steady…” said a voice. Francois was pressed shoulder to shoulder, the smell of cigarettes and cheap booze gave him flashbacks to money well spent in the brothels.

What am I aiming at? thought Francois. There’s no one there. Do they think she’s gonna charge up the stairs into a hail of bullets? He forced his way out of the press, space freed up for another eager fan of dark staircases. Clear of the mass, he got a good view of it. Could have been a renaissance painting, so much imminent violence bound up. Guns over shoulders, at hips, in outstretched hands, a burning Molotov held overhead casting everyone in orange light like a diesel sunset.

“Steady…steady…”said the voice again.

He saw her then, calmly loading two sickly green shells into the breach of her shotgun, asking everyone to politely wait till she was ready. The Black Dragon in all her glory stood just behind the firing line, “Steady…” she soothed again, snapping the breech lock closed.

“Fire!” she barked. The hands of a killer are always eager to do their work and take orders from anyone willing to say what they wanted to hear. The stairs were shredded in moments. Francois stood in awe of her, standing and watching the puppet show as magazines and cylinders finally ran dry.

“Did we get her?” asked a man, fumbling to reload.

“No,” said the Dragon. She roared twice into the pile and blew some little ants away.

The spell broken, Francois pulled his pistols and began firing. She moved in a blur, a door opened and closed, she was gone. The big names whirled in a panic, too slow on the reload to pin her down. Several that had only been winged by her blast of buckshot staggered and collapsed, clutching their throats as poison damage-over-time drew a black subway map over their skin. Francois and the others still standing gave chase to the Dragon’s shadow.

Number 55 was rotting of bureaucratic malaise. Notices of eviction, past due rent, condemnation, and health code violations were plastered to almost every doorway, all part of the desperation of The Streets. Hallways branched off from at careless angles, and the few flickering fluorescent bulbs stuttered Francois’s vision, figures shifting in between moments of blackness. The swarm of killers began to split up to search the building, one shadow as good as another.

Francois found himself covering three schmucks with tommy guns, checking doorknobs to see if they could be opened, or if the doors were just window dressing.

Gunshots from elsewhere. Then shouting. They chased the echo for only a minute before it found them first. A door opened, a black shape erupted with gunfire before flipping into a corkscrew leap through another door. One of their number was cut down. She was there and gone before you could even squeeze the trigger. Francois and the remaining two schmucks flanked the door she disappeared into, unsure how to proceed.

“You first kid, we’ll cover you,” said the bigger one around a cigar.

“Me? You’ve got the street sweepers, get in there and sweep,” said Francois. He wasn’t interested in being a human shield.

The schmuck blew out a cloud of smoke, “You must not have heard me. I said, ‘you first kid, or I’ll ventilate you’.” He aimed the gun at Francois’s torso. There was no bluff there. It was a choice between a certain death from a nobody or a likely death from a legend.

Francois held the thug’s gaze and pulled one of his two pineapple hand grenades. He tossed it through the door. Inexhaustible dust fell from the ceiling, with a spray of splinters and cheap linoleum. Francois spun into the room, pistols raised, but there wasn’t even a shadow to shoot.

Gunfire from elsewhere in the building, then shouts reverberating down the halls like the ghosts of gunfights long past. The two schmucks took off, leaving Francois alone in a blasted ruin of a room.

“Are you still in here?” he asked the dust motes, but they kept their secrets. He didn’t see a way out. The holes in the walls went nowhere and there were certainly no windows in any of the rooms.

She came in here, he thought. I saw her with my own two eyes. But then what happened? His eyes snapped to the ceiling, expecting to see a black figure looming over him with a barrel full of buckshot. But there were only the remains of a swinging bulb.

More shouts from somewhere else. She wasn’t here anymore.

The attack on the Black Dragon was in total chaos. Bonds formed and broke on fragile concepts like proximity and momentum. Yet Francois was alone, too small and too weak to earn the attention of seasoned killers. If that’s all he had, he would work with it. He began to listen.

Gunshots and shouting to his left. The thud of an explosion to his right. Elsewhere in the building a tap dance of destruction from a tommy gun let loose to perform.

“Where are you?” he said aloud. This wasn’t fighting a dragon, this was fighting a nightmare. He began to wander the halls and listen, stepping over bodies with bullet wounds from every angle. There was no pattern to where the fighting was coming from, but the sounds were always the same. A short burst of pistol fire, or a pair of shotgun blasts, then a moment of silence, then a barrage of panicked shooting from every gun Jacksaw City had to offer. It was the anthem of ambushes.

A voice shouted from a hallway juncture, “She’s here! I got her!”

Then from around the corner, there she was. Black leather overcoat billowing behind her, eyes like icicles staring from behind a metal dragon mask, and a pair of shells being loaded into her recently depleted shotgun.

Francois would never get a chance like this again. Shoot her? No, people had been trying that all evening. Charge her with his knife? Ridiculous. He saw her steps begin to angle as she hugged a wall, then began to arc toward an open door.

One more try, Francois thought. He pulled the grenade and pin in a simultaneous motion. The Black Dragon turned into the doorway. His arm pinwheeled over his head as a boyhood pitching cricket was suddenly drafted back into active service. He released the grenade. The Black Dragon jumped, and flipping into a corkscrew, disappeared through the door. The grenade ricocheted off the barest visible lip of the doorframe and into the room, wicket.

The grenade shook the old bones of the building to splinters as a swarm of steel chips pockmarked the walls with a few more gouges of violence.

“I got her!” Francois shouted. “I got her, I got her! I blew her up! I got her!”

People came running from every direction, eager to see the slain dragon and the man who killed her. But when Francois entered the room, he found it empty as an honest cop’s wallet.

There were laughs around him as someone slapped him on the back

“Sure you did, kid, sure you did!” said a voice that scratched like a record. The crowd filed out and continued searching for their target.

“I saw what I saw,” said Francois to the empty room, “you came in here, and there ain’t no way out. So, where did you go?”

He searched all over for trap doors, false walls, any kind of hidey hole that she might have disappeared to, but she was gone.

“No, I won’t believe it,” said Francois. Gunshots had started in other parts of the building again. The Dragon was on the move. “I saw what you did…”

Francois felt his hopes slipping away as his imagination came up short on how to answer this riddle. The one idea he had didn’t make sense to him even as he thought it.

“I know what I saw.”

Francois broke into a sprint. He leapt into the air and twisted into a corkscrew, in as close an imitation to the Dragon as he could manage. The whole virtual world spun into a nauseous twist in his stomach. He prepared to collide with the grenade blasted wall in the room, but it never happened. Instead, he hit what was supposed to be the ground.

Francois stood up, and found himself standing over an infinite black abyss, every hallway and room of the grand old building was visible to him at once. He saw through walls, watched dozens of people patrolling and sweeping hallways. Francois waved to them, but they couldn’t see him.

“Where the fuck am I?” he asked aloud.

There was a barrage of gunfire. Francois turned and watched The Dragon charge down a clueless gang of thugs from behind. She turned into a room and leapt, corkscrewing as Francois had seen before. She passed through the boundary of the wall just as reinforcements came crashing into the room behind her. Seeing nothing, they moved on.

She immediately noticed Francois in her domain. They locked eyes. Her gaze was fearless, clear, and keen. Francois felt the imminence, the tension, like waiting for the rumble after the flash.

He drew on her, whipping out the big magnum and firing in a single motion. In all his days he’d never had a more perfect draw. She didn’t even flinch as the bullet collided with nothing, ricocheted with a whine. She began an idle walk, a summer stroll’s pace, orbiting Francois and almost disappearing into the black oblivion that existed between room and hallway assets. Francois fired again and again, some bullets bounced off invisible walls, some sped on into nothingness. He drew his switchblade and ran at her, getting all of two feet before tripping over an invisible barrier that came up to his knees. He got back to his feet and watched her leap into the air, grabbing onto nothing, and hoisted herself up onto some other level.

She continued to pace around above him, looking down with imperious curiosity. Francois fired relentlessly at the bottoms of her feet, but she was still protected by impenetrable sheets of code.

Hands out in front of him, Francois tried to navigate his way closer, like a vampire in a house of mirrors. “You’re screwed lady,” Francois shouted up at her. “I got your secret now, you’re a cheat! They’ll patch this bullshit up in no time and you’ll be pushing up daisies!”

Her step faltered and she snorted with laughter before recomposing herself.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, huh?! Oh yeah, laugh it up while you can, doll! I’m going right to the devs with this one!”

She suddenly dropped, grabbed nothing, and used it to propel herself at him in an acrobat’s tumble. Her coat flowed out behind her like a pair of leathery wings. She landed not two feet away. Francois reached for her throat, but his hands collided with nothing.

“Then what happens?” she asked him in a soft, smokey voice.

“Then you…disappear,” said Francois. She’d be gone, he realized, just gone. She’d hang it up. Stay a legend, unconquered and immortal. They’d tell stories about her and jump at shadows in her memory. And what would he get? An automated email saying his bug had been successfully reported. No glory, no respect. He’d be a snitch. She smiled, still fearless. She had his number.

“Catch me if you can,” she said. The Dragon dashed away from him, clipping into a hallway and wasting a pair of thugs, before clipping back into this black abyss that was her lair.

Oh, I’ll catch you, Francois thought to himself. I’ll catch you or die trying.

Step by step and inch by inch, he navigated the maze. Sometimes closer to her, sometimes farther, but always chasing.