A man enters Henrik’s. He is a tall guy with brown, curling hair flowing to his ears and a stylized visor that covers his eyes. He wears a bright violet sweater over his skin-tight jeans and a puffed waistcoat thrown over it. He looks around, like searching for something, and then pushes the visor up, revealing eye implants, polished orbs with lenses like blue sapphires, without any black in the middle.
“Hello, I understand we have been paired,” the man says.
A silly, warm feeling washes over Rachel’s body. It’s the cider and the attention, she realizes. She has been deprived of Whyte’s presence for so long, and having someone notice her feels intoxicating. Besides, this guy carries no obvious red flags: he seems normal enough, the eyes giving artsy vibes; maybe he is in the gaming business or a DJ.
“Hello, niche match.”
“Vic. May I ask what your initials stand for? I mean the C and R.” The man gives Rachel a knowing wink.
Vic sits down, and Henrik gives him a drink. Rachel is not a bit surprised about his question, for of course, the freaks will flock to pester the criminals in Narcodome, as they circle anyone famous. Vic is no worse than Artemisia’s fans in the simulations. The fans bring in some money and drool for the recorded seconds of bliss, and this Vic may give her a safe place to sleep in exchange for whatever is his kink. Rachel notices she has been staring and takes a sip from her glass.
“I got listed in the Narcodome. Saffron Murder,” Rachel says.
Vic raises an eyebrow and stares at the bottle rows with the universal look of a person whose attention is on something playing on his eyes only. Rachel is sure he checks Saffron Murder. After a short while, Vic focuses back on Rachel: “Nice work with Rubberhorse, girl. Pity you hadn’t made it to the betting list.”
“Are you a bet broker, then?” Rachel asks.
“Nah, I consider myself a pirate. I liberate and distribute the truth that the system tries to hide.”
“I see no data interface, Blackbeard.”
The self-proclaimed virtual warriors too often market their skills by sporting obvious, decorated data ports installed in their skulls. Rachel knows the show doesn’t mean skill, and pirating is such a cliché.
“Not that kind of pirate. I’m a victual brother: I supply people with the goods they crave.”
“And what is that, Vic?”
“The real stories from Narcodome, baby. People want to see what really happens on the streets behind the curated show that the corporations give. They pay for it. Are you interested?”
“Tell me more. I never followed the broadcasts.” Rachel sees no worth in trying to play the expert, as her interface shows a counter on her hours in Narcodome.
Vic’s lips curve into a genuine grin, an expert dwelling on his pet subject. “See, this is your avatar’s intro. It is short, but there will be more material when they get you into the camera doing something interesting. They didn’t get you and Rubberhorse recorded, but trust me, you wouldn’t have recognized it. Narcodome tweaks everything to serve the sponsors.”
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
The man summons a screen, and Rachel notices a clip of her avatar walking towards the metro, like she did today. Saffron has a shapelier bottom than Rachel has ever had, a proper milf-body, and she wears the tragic last night’s smoky eye look, hollowed cheeks, and a mass of wavy hair gathered into an untidy bun. Rachel stares at her edited self, admiring the quality.
“Spreading unauthorized recordings about Narcodome is illegal. There is a ton of surveillance gear out there to record raw material and hunt us pirates. It’s a major crime under corporate law, unlike forcing addicts to fight death matches,” Vic chuckles.
“So, you want to make me your star? Let me guess, you’re going to offer me some coins so I can feed my supposed addiction, and you can go on filming when I ultimately meet my gruesome death. No, Vic, that’s not how any of this will turn out. I’ve got more to offer, but you need to make it worth my while.” It’s the alcohol and attention deprivation talking, but Rachel doesn’t care. She needs Vic, and she needs fans if she is going to survive in Narcodome. To survive, whoever knows about Schuwalden Inc. and its Saffron Squad.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Vic’s question is emotionless, like the man has seen too many people offering sex in exchange for money or protection.
Rachel wonders how many times Vic has found a niche match and made this offer to the Narcodome newbies. She smiles, knowing she is far from a wet-behind-the-ears when it comes to recording anything. “A simulation recording, a ride ticket to my body when I live through this hell, and oh well, to my dying mind if that happens.”
“The external sets are too obvious and cumbersome to carry on the move, besides, PCRC will remove them. They regularly clean the unregulated equipment from the show.”
“I’m not talking about externals, dearest pirate. I carry an internal simulation rig. Full-on nervous recording capacity, the best you can get outside the main studios.”
“You gotta be kidding me. Have they added one more ex-pornstar in Narcodome?”
“That’s none of your problem. You still interested, Vic? About smuggling some smoking hot reality to the masses?”
He is interested. Rachel feels the calculation in implanted eyes when Vic stares at her, grinning like a maniac, giving her his full attention, and she basks in it.
“Yeah, baby. Can I get you a drink?“
They have drinks and afterwards pick up takeaway pirogs from a tiny kiosk when Vic walks Rachel to a cheap motel. The room is a little more than a tube, but her identification marks her as an unwanted guest in any better place.
“Show me some evidence,” Vic whispers greedily when they are inside. He takes out a small scanner, the lenses in his eyes light, connecting to whatever data the device sends.
Rachel peels out her jacket and shirt, only a black bra covering her breasts. The fake skin twists away when Rachel tugs out a set of thin cables from under her arm. Once they were white, but years have aged them to the color of ivory.
Vic takes a cable, noticing the logo and gold-colored metal before connecting it to the scanner. He lets out a slow, astonished whistle as he stands just behind Rachel, the short cable connecting them. Rachel can sense the breath on her skin.
“It is real. This opens new possibilities. My pretty baby, we’ll be rich. There is a guaranteed audience for sensory recordings from Narcodome. How did you sneak this in without the program finding out about your cyberware and sabotaging it?”
“It’s not in my public medical records.”
“Keep your secrets. Baby, now we must make you stay alive for long enough to become interesting.” Vic disconnects the scanner and packs the wires back inside Rachel’s arm. He takes more time than needed, handling the wires slowly and sensually.
Rachel waits for the fingers to wander to her skin, and they do. It has been ages since she has had sex with anyone outside the simulations, and Rachel tries to succumb to the unedited feelings her body sends, closing her eyes and thinking about Whyte, when Vic proceeds to caress her.
