The virtual space of the "Collective" pulsed with constellations of consciousness, generating a warm, soft light with their brilliance, the color of a wheat field ending somewhere in the boundless blue. The visual interface interpreted the data flow from machine codes to brain activity impulses in this way, filtering the image.
Connected consciousnesses in this ocean of light felt a soft warmth, touching each other with their logical connections, being neurons of a giant computational network. As in the human brain, from which the architecture was taken, each node belonged to one area or another, responsible, albeit unconsciously, as the processes occurred in the background, for processing certain signals.
This allowed not only the generation of a collective AI but also ensured synchronization, if necessary, of each intelligent participant with another element. Be it a machine or a sentient robot. A human or a felinid, they would be able to understand each other with half a thought. In essence, the USSR was one giant superorganism, built thanks to the achievements of Soviet science and the discovery of academician Sechenov - polymer.
Now, being in the cluster of the Aspect of Defense, where not only the general staff, CERBERUS, and other structures were gathered, but also every member of society responsible for its defense in one way or another, one begins to understand the full magnitude of this discovery. In the old days, it would have been impossible to gather all units of the Red Army, let alone the impossible, for the minds bent by their caps to understand the order correctly, without distorting it from their own perspective.
The idea of even privates participating in strategy development, in addition to the highest command staff, was unthinkable in the Old Era. It would have been enough if the generals didn't fight among themselves, and that would be something. I remember very well how heatedly the offensive in Germany was discussed, and I was then that very private who is an accessory to a rifle, whom women will still give birth to!
In short, I'm glad that everything is changing. Changes, when they are reasonable, are very good.
Having gathered the "I" of my soldiers into a single mighty bunch, having established a tactical network, and simultaneously realizing all their memories, I express our common opinion:
— "Argentum" for the immutability of the original plan. It is not in the army's interest for the Reapers to gain excessive initiative.
— CERBERUS supports, — the intelligence organization, represented by its marshal, hastened to support us. They have a good marshal. I can only say good things about Harper. A patriot, but within reasonable limits, without fanaticism. Not a xenophobe, which is a very important quality in the reality of a multi-species population. He started pulling the cart as a private and rose, changing his army epaulets for intelligence tabs. In a word, an authority who has earned respect from both career officers and outsiders.
— The Geth Consensus also supports, considering this decision the most optimal. We attach the results of our analysis and observation protocols, — the synthetics replied in many voices. The funniest thing is that they can talk normally, like normal sentient beings, but they somehow perversely like to emphasize their machine origin and collectivism, even though each program has become the core of true intelligence.
With their help, not only is reconnaissance carried out in Citadel Space, but the location of the Reaper fleet was calculated, albeit with a delay, which agitated all the military. It's not every day you find out they have billions of ships… Only one thing is pleasing: they are unlikely to activate all of them at once, saving resources, as any artificial intelligence does. It would be too much of an energy drain.
Therefore, attacking the sleeping machines was generally tempting, if not for their numbers. No matter how much the General Staff wanted it, events would unfold according to the "black scenario." Damn pies, they're just pissing themselves right now because the idea of a single strike won't work! Not with this many pennants. The prepared trap is simply not designed for this, and there is no hope for the Citadel's forces now. Everyone is busy with their own skins, not the common cause, though our efforts were not in vain.
At one time, the Coordination Council had planned for something like this, starting all these intrigues. I can understand the generals' anxiety. The hardest part is sitting in a trench and waiting for an air raid, when whether you survive or not depends not on you or your comrade, but on a damn bomb…
An anxious hum, like an air raid siren, spread through the network. In an instant, the collective consciousness shifted from a contemplative-passive state to a combat one. The neural network accelerated the passive flow of thoughts, taking some of the computational load from the brain, redistributing power, and reacting to the threat.
"Attention! This is the central information bureau!!! Without a declaration of war, a combined grouping of Geth and Collector fleets has attacked the Citadel! All citizens liable for military service are to report to mobilization points for equipment! Military knowledge bases are being loaded! Remain calm!!!" the message boomed like a death knell throughout the "Collective," instantly painting it a disturbing crimson.
"The question is removed from the agenda, as it has lost its relevance," the secretary reported the obvious.
"Fleets four, seven, and twenty-five – advance to the Citadel to provide assistance to allied forces!" came a message from the General Staff.
"I propose to send infantry units to the coordinates provided by Comrade Pastukhov. If we manage to activate the 'channel,' we will reinforce the Citadel garrison," I made a proposal.
"Accepted," the delegate from the General Staff informed me, and I disconnected from the meeting…
I myself return to my body. Although the meeting lasted only a minute in real time, in the network it stretched into an hour and a half, requiring the brain to take time to adjust to the normal flow of the world. From "Omega" to the Citadel, the group would take about six hours. If we make it, it will only be by the climax…
The "Normandy" was late for Ilos. The message about the attack on the Citadel arrived an hour before exiting the warp jump into the system. Upon exiting, an alert was received that the enemy had landed troops in the heart of Space, and security forces, along with the Soviet embassy guard, had engaged the Collectors and heretic Geth.
The Watch Fleet was also not doing well. By treaty, although Soviet ships were one-third of the force, they were all small tonnage and did not carry weapons capable of effectively hitting a Reaper. The ancient machine slowly and inexorably approached the Citadel, acting as a battering ram for the attackers.
The fleet forces were expected to reach the station in about forty minutes, which the ships had to hold out for…
Upon exiting the jump, the "Normandy" scanned the planet and, finding the Ghost's ship there, rushed to its location. Entering the atmosphere of the desert world, the cruiser and its escort launched landing shuttles to quickly disembark the infantry…
With the disembarkation, military transports began to enter the system, among which was the Skaven scout ship "Luch" (Ray), carrying the "Red Rays" artel-order. All its members were uniformly white and had been reborn at least dozens of times without losing their identity or becoming mere data archives.
The mechanized unit brought its ship dangerously close to the world's orbit, causing damage, but its crew and soldiers were completely indifferent to it. The scout immediately dropped its landing modules, which, like meteorites, rushed towards the world's surface, trying to catch up with the forces led by Shep.
The lieutenant colonel himself was already fighting his way into the depths of the ancient complex, breaking through a flimsy barrier meant only to delay. The renegade machines did not retreat, fighting to the end, but what were they against several dozen "Argentum" operatives? The Prothean complex was completely cleared in ten minutes.
Engineers, led by Liara and Javik, began working on reactivating the "channel." The Skaven engineering unit worked in emergency mode, trying to repair the enemy-damaged equipment using parts of their own cybernetic bodies, to the horror of the scientist and warrior of the fallen empire. Sometimes they joyfully integrated themselves into electrical circuits or assembled a missing unit from their own bodies, doing everything to help the Motherland.
And so, the ancient device was activated, and the first units set off. The first to be transported to the Citadel were the operatives of the detachment. Immediately engaging the Geth and Collector forces, striking them in the back.
Only a minute later, with a squeal and a hiss, two-meter-tall, armored rats in white armor began to fall out of the relay, already filled with patriotic fervor, eager to punish the enemies of the state. The artel-order, unfurling their red banners and singing "The Internationale," descended like a steel tide upon the machines and puppets, drawing attention to themselves and allowing the Red Army units to deploy into combat formations.
The gray shadows of the "Argentum" fighters brought death. They rushed towards the Presidium, where the most fierce battles raged. The garrison forces slowly retreated, ceding ground to the onslaught, preventing the enemy from massing their forces.
In this chaos, civilians ran and scurried, unexpectedly finding themselves not only in the middle of the battlefield but also between two fires. Citizens of the USSR, who had received clear instructions, tried to lead groups of residents of Space, driven mad by the shelling, but it was not easy to do in the thick of battle.
The machines and beetle-like humanoids didn't bother. They had orders to kill everyone, and they carried them out with horrifying meticulousness. This was done to divert more units to protect the population, preventing them from interfering with the plan.
The Ghost and Lebedev separated. The disgraced academic went about his business, and he was last seen heading towards the station's communication node. The fallen hero made his way to a hidden control panel, which was no secret to the USSR.
On the Ghost's path, parts of the embassy guard forces stood in his way, and he, living up to his reputation, almost broke through to his goal alone. If the "Argentum" operatives were reflections of the death-reaping Reaper, then their former commander, turned into a puppet of ancient machines, was death itself.
Former Colonel Kuznetsov drenched the streets and barricades with blood. Every movement of his brought either destruction or ended someone's life. Even heavy equipment was no obstacle to him, only a temporary hindrance.
His polymer crushers simply chipped away at the armor plates. Biotic power ground metal and bone into sand. The polymer, obedient to his will, revealed its destructive potential, becoming like magic. Polymer threads cut through spacesuits, pierced helmets. The dead did not fall lifeless but were transformed by polymer constructs into mobile firing points. Nanomachines transformed the sentient beings not connected to the "Collective" into husk-like creatures, further increasing the chaos.
Neither dead nor alive, the converted begged for death or showered more fortunate living beings with curses. Their numbers grew with every step forward of the Reaper warrior…
The commander of the Soviet fleet grouping gave the order to destroy the Reaper at any cost, trying to delay it until reinforcements arrived. However, the red squadron was in no hurry to carry out the order given by its command, merely feigning action, knowing the General Staff's real plan for this event. The captains were doing the same, idly bickering with colleagues from other countries.
The defensive fleet of Space reacted criminally sluggishly to the changing situation. The armada of attackers very successfully hit the command, creating confusion in which the squadrons of various races only hindered each other. With the explosion of the flagship, "Path of Destiny," the personnel of the Citadel ships became completely disoriented.
The Sovereign, sensing a breach in this, shifted the main vector of the breakthrough to their lines. Its main weapon struck with fatal force. Only dreadnoughts could withstand a direct hit, which was of no help in the absence of coordinated control.
All attempts by Red Fleet officers to restore order failed. Turians fought on their own and were not particularly eager to die for the Citadel. Salarians kept their forces behind others. Only the Asari fought properly alongside Soviet ships, but after the destruction of the flagship, panic engulfed the decks of their vessels…
Unlike the fleet specialists, Councilor Tevos was not panicking but was quite successfully wielding biotics, covering the Councilor from the USSR. The courses they had taken, which all prominent figures of the Republic were obliged to complete in case of an attempted takeover, yielded unexpected results. It was assumed that high-ranking Asari could hold out against communist kidnappers, but not provide cover for a Soviet warrior.
The Matron and the Wuffheadnar became a worthy tandem. The sentient dog, a former soldier of the Aspect of Protection, knew how to handle a weapon and had a number of awards that were not given to just anyone.
In contrast, councilors Spartus and Valern demonstratively did not touch weapons. If the Turian did so out of protest and lack of suitable weapons, then the Salarian was frightened by the suddenness of the attack and simply used his colleagues as a human shield…
Shep, along with his squad, fought his way through Collectors and Geth, trying to reach the Ghost and Lebedev. Realizing they couldn't catch up to both, the lieutenant colonel divided the squad into two parts, leaving the Nagas as a rear guard.
The multi-armed snakes took up defensive positions, freezing like statues. Today, they intended to repay a drop of valor for the life debt of their entire race to the Union. The first Geth did not have time to realize why it had ceased to function, falling as a broken heap of metal and microchips.
Another dozen met the same fate. Six swords and as many pistols provided such a density of attack that there was nothing surprising in the inglorious demise of the enemy. Although the snakes were not members of "Argentum," they moved surprisingly fast in their heavy armor. The two of them were quite enough to stop the attackers' advance in one of the directions…
The galaxy froze. The stakes were set. Each player made their move. Fate watched with anticipation as two forces clashed, trying to outwit and surpass each other. The prolonged hidden confrontation had escalated into an acute phase. It was time for horns and armies.
History turned a page. Whether it would be the last now depended on only a few sentient beings. They were already in the right places. The decks of cards in their sleeves were pre-marked. In the battle for survival, any means were good…
Bonus.
I thought for a long time about what to come up with, and decided to show my skill. Although, after all, it's already the hundredth chapter)))
I blew the dust off a draft written long ago and rewrote it with new skills. In fact, this is one of the works, the idea of which was put to a vote, but "The Chekist in the Body of Primarch Magnus" was chosen. So I decided to present this for your ознакомление, for variety.
Here there will only be elements of LITRPG, cyberpunk, dark fantasy, dystopia, magic, and adventure. Let's see if I managed to grow beyond a certain level. Therefore, I present this story for your judgment, comrades. Let it be called "Melody of Craft" for now. If you want, you'll find out why it has such a name.
So, for those who are interested or curious, happy reading. I have only one request: write a comment after reading. This is specifically a request, because sometimes you are silent, silent, and then suddenly…
Above the acidic haze of the factories, beyond the line of eternal smog, two moons shone. In their light, the high spires of castles shimmered, illuminating the grandeur of the residences of noble Families—those who could afford clean air and natural food.
Below, on the surface, where the gaze of noble rulers never descended, the radiance of the night luminaries looked like a dismal spot in the sky. Against the backdrop of acid clouds, this dim twilight was a faint reminder to people of the existence of moonlight, and sometimes the only source of light in typical cheap apartment boxes. Electricity, which still had to be paid for, was spent on other purposes by the inhabitants of the industrial slums. Every evening, most of them tried to escape this gray reality into the world of virtual dreams.
Into one of these cramped rooms, whose only merit was a fancy virtual capsule, a thin beam of sadly dim moonlight peeked through a small window. By the cold side of the machine, with her legs tucked up, sat a girl, too deeply lost in herself, and in her entire demeanor, disharmonizing with this room.
Although she looked pathetic now. Once long hair, natural, not nylon extensions, reaching her waist, the color of a pink sunrise, had been ruthlessly cut. Remnants of past splendor now stuck out awkwardly, clumsily trimmed, resulting in uneven lengths and obviously crooked strands.
The girl's skin and nails bore no traces of heavy metals and bad food, unlike the original inhabitants of this place. Her slender hands, which had known no physical exertion, were minimally cared for. And her figure clearly showed a passion for gymnastics and dancing—arts inaccessible to ordinary people.
Even dressed in a plastic bag of the cheapest jumpsuit, having last eaten the day before yesterday, utterly emaciated, morally crushed, she looked like an aristocrat. Something invisible, bestowed upon her by generations of ancestors and selection, multiplied by genetic engineering, set her apart from the crowd beyond her appearance. Simultaneously—a pathetic, ridiculous, almost crushed person, who held on to the remnants of her pride.
Only now, all this made no sense, and the girl was most banally trying to convince herself to get into a high-tech… coffin. They told her: she would have a brilliant future, but a chance had crossed out the flight of a little bird that had not yet begun. A fluke.
In a world where lineage is valued above all wealth, because it cannot be bought with any money, to be left without a family, without the protection of the Clan, overnight—is not just a tragedy for an individual heiress! For a minor heiress—it's a final sentence! You, possessing inaccessible accounts, abruptly turn from an equal into a bargaining chip. A commodity.
Yesterday you were a promising talent, and today, alas and alack, you are just a piece of meat with the necessary reproductive openings, plus a bonus in the form of ancestral inheritance. Nobody.
The most offensive thing is that if even one thing had happened differently in the chain of events, the girl would have found a safer way to buy time than the one she ultimately decided to implement. The alternative was completely unacceptable, otherwise she would not have dared to put her life on the line!
Of course, the girl had a choice. She could have accepted guardianship, staying in warmth, but as soon as she reached the age of majority, she would have been used for her intended purpose. The guardian himself or the offspring of a radiant lady who decided to shelter the orphan would have married the girl off, she somehow didn't care.
The outcome was predetermined. After the formalities, purely for decency's sake, the young woman would have been raped daily until conception. They would have let her carry it, give birth. Her life would have ended there. In the best case!
They wouldn't have killed her. Descendants of noble Families did not stoop to simple murder. After all, it might happen that your descendant will also be in trouble. Therefore, they got rid of unwanted or inconvenient, not particularly close relatives in many ways, but not directly. Indecent!
However, the most likely scenario was not her murder, but "light drugs," from which her brain would liquefy so much that she would wave at light bulbs and make indecent gestures at passing birds. The girl didn't know what was worse: to die or to exist as a vegetable, while simultaneously giving birth like a bioprinter?
She did not suffer from excessive naivety, knowing perfectly well how they got rid of unwanted people in castles, hiding behind norms of decency. The example of some of her friends and acquaintances, boys who were unlucky, was more than indicative…
If she had been born with the right shaped genitals, a male form factor, then marriage would have been a way out! In high society, there are many brides for marriage, but few worthy matches. Without family support, she is just a powerless incubator with a dowry. If it were a young man in her place, he would become a consort to his spouse.
She had studied this topic of relationships too well in her time. In the future, her match would be such a spouse. A prize breeding bull, who, besides marital duty, "spoils" young maids. A decorative accessory, who has neither respect, nor her own word, nor real power, in most cases. Her Family was too noble and rich to allow an equal union without having another heir. If she were in this hypothetical situation, her mind would be enough to outplay the conventions, especially since there were precedents.
She did not count on mythical love, even though her parents were an example of a successful union. She had enough intelligence to understand how much the Moons had aligned when a marriage of convenience grew into not just mutual respect, but into genuine infatuation. This is rare in high society.
The relationship of "goods, money, goods" is much more reliable and practical, and is regulated by a marriage contract. In her case, this contract would now be usurious. The girl rightly believed that if she ended up in another Family's castle and reached adulthood under its roof, her signature would be on it. To force a person to sign voluntarily, and she knew how to do it. There was no need to talk about others. They taught.
That's why she ran away, glad that she wasn't at the institute at the moment of the news, not wanting such a fate for herself. Although, because she had quarreled with her now deceased parents the day before, as a result of which her allowance was reduced to a purely symbolic amount, the prospect of ending up in a cozy cage did not outweigh the desire to survive and remain free.
If the girl were of legal age, there would be many options, not refined dead ends where death lurks behind warmth! Therefore, what remains is what remains. Although, hand on heart, she had one more option…
The second path a girl without family and education could take was the mistress exchange, which was also not a way out. If you discard pretty words and false decency, it's almost the same as working as a maid. You can immediately put a sign on yourself equal to a representative of the oldest profession and forget about high society.
Reputation is lost once, and it cannot be washed away. Eternal shame. After such a thing, an heiress of a Family could immediately tie a rope from her hair and hang herself! Although a boy, after working as an "entertainer," should also slit his throat with a family dagger. Those who sell themselves are not loved, especially at the top.
However, he could still exchange ancestral weapons for silver, selling his honor to another aristocrat, becoming his lackey, which is equivalent to working in a brothel. This was equivalent to admitting failure and a sign to others: a great Family has degenerated!
Only women were granted leniency, allowed to work as governesses, but with a maturity certificate in hand! Without education, you are a thing, and a stupid one at that. In this case, such employment is equivalent to guardianship, with all the consequences...
In a situation where only two options are obvious, and both are unacceptable, the heiress decided to choose a third, shifting her situation from social to business. She would bet on her health and life! This led her to the plastic coffin of the virtual capsule, but there was a nuance…
I was pulled out of my memories by a pre-emptively set alarm clock.
"Are you going to keep trembling?" I ask myself. Having calculated everything, I forgot about such a banal thing as my own claustrophobia!
It's funny, but after everything, I'm afraid to get into the virtual capsule and can't convince myself to do it for half an hour now.
"Well, so what! It's just a plastic coffin that can easily become real…" I almost bite my tongue from my traitorously chattering teeth. "If you had flown with your parents, you would have been swept away in the same way…"
The last thing I remembered was in vain! In addition to trembling, I wanted to cry in the most shameful way.
A sob escaped my chest, and my nose suddenly became wet. With a trembling hand, I wipe away the tears that have appeared, regretting that there is no such useful thing as a good handkerchief.
"I'll just lie down there now. I won't close the lid!" I could only squeeze out the last word with a hoarse voice.
I stand up, feeling a tremor throughout my body, along with a feverish heat. Not on the first try, I dial the combination on the panel, unlocking what trillions of people voluntarily lie in every day. With a quiet hiss, the capsule opens, beckoning with its air-conditioned air and warmth.
"I'll just lie down. I'm so tired…" I deceive my own mind… at least I try to do it.
The brilliant idea that would allow me to endure the cursed three years until I reached adulthood now doesn't seem so brilliant. "So what… Maybe I should compromise my pride?"
From anger at myself, my head cleared a little. I push away the sticky and unpleasant thought, making an effort.
"It's simple." My hand rests on the edge, and my legs swing my body over. Immediately, the automation pricks my wrists, connecting the life support system, which will kill me if I can't manage.
"It doesn't feel the same from the pages of textbooks. Did Elka, when she decided to have some fun in an arena like this, think she could die if she lost, or did she just want to tickle her nerves without thinking? She looked so awful in the coffin, with that stupid, madly happy smile on her face! At least she died without suffering... for a long time. One shot and the drug kills you in a couple of heartbeats, as the brochure says… I shouldn't have read the instructions. It would have been easier!" the thoughts flashed like lightning.
I close my eyes. It's easier that way. Not to see.
Wooden fingers press the button. The lid slowly closes. My heart is about to leap out of my chest.
A small electric jolt, and my eyes snap open, only for my mind to plunge into digital space…
Perhaps for some, the network looks like a more real reality, but not for those who have seen something more in this life than their neighboring factory district. Machine reality feels like a dream, and not a very healthy one at that. It's like you're dreaming of your everyday day, but you're lying in bed with a fever, unable to distinguish where the dream begins and where the delirium of consciousness ends.
It's done on purpose. The processing power, as well as the software capabilities, have long allowed for the creation of virtual reality almost indistinguishable from the real world, but such "worlds" are forbidden by law. The reason for this is the phenomenon of consciousness digitization, also known as "the breakdown" — the dream of fools and the poor for a better life, which turned into a trap for them, from which there was no escape…
For me, this viscous feeling of a nightmare was uncomfortable. The falseness was felt even while here, in the search engine. The space, where a soft gray light emanated from everywhere, simply couldn't be real. This falseness couldn't be overcome even by the feeling of cold and weightlessness, induced by the capsule, to add authenticity.
The brain, accustomed to real movements, upon sensing the wrongness, refused to believe, starting to search for flaws in the generation neural networks, which inevitably appeared when the "material" was repeatedly processed by algorithms. I specifically studied this to find such generation errors, so I didn't notice how I started analyzing.
Shaking my head, I focus on the goal. "Swimming" to the desired arena portal, I requested a gladiator contract, and while filling it out, I tried to remember everything I knew about the network…
When the first virtual reality capsules appeared, the first victims in the new reality also appeared. Some even sought this path intentionally, disappointed with our reality, but the corporations, on whose servers digitized people began to mass-settle, didn't like this.
If they were willing to tolerate one or two for the sake of studying the phenomenon, then not hundreds… They were demonstratively erased, executed, or simply played with the "broken ones" for the amusement of the crowd. The first gladiators were precisely digitized people, forced to kill each other.
"Freedom from the body does not mean freedom from capital. Pay or produce to sell, or the system will digest you. The rule of life."
Five hundred years have passed since those events, but virtual worlds operate by the same norms. This is a realm of dreams, which is only facilitated by the principles of capsule operation, immersing people in a controlled lucid dream.
There are a number of limitations to this, one of which is that there is almost no pain here. Pain contributes to the disconnection. It can also kill. A person will simply die from phantom pain shock, unable to distinguish real pain impulses from induced ones. It happened that a user convinced himself so much that avatar damage manifested on his real body! There is a whole paragraph about this in the history textbook, and to this day, I have only known this side of the world from there.
Aristocrats have nothing to do in virtual space. In the network, everyone is equal and everyone is mortal, otherwise the imaginary social elevator of the arenas will stop working, and another way to regulate the population of the slums will have to be found. And with abundant hormones in food, any blockades will cease to be effective, and physically — to face a rebellion from cornered people…
I remembered all this when I was proofreading the participation agreement, ticking the boxes of consent under the points I needed, not agreeing with everything I was entitled to, like everyone else. Another thing is that few people at the bottom know about this right and therefore use it.
Finishing, I press the "send" button, but instead of going to the avatar constructor, I received a document waiving claims from the Family in case of my death.
"It's very naive to think that everyone in the network is anonymous," I couldn't help but comment to myself. "If users can't find out who is hiding behind a digital name, it doesn't mean the administration can't. Alas, people tend to believe lies, especially if they sound like a fairy tale."
I sign the new contract without fear. Now, even when they find me, they won't be able to do anything to me. In legal status, until the contract expires, I am a gladiator, the property of the corporation, to put it bluntly, not an aristocrat. There will be no one willing to quarrel with magnates for my sake, and for reselling the contract, they will name such a price that the profit from my inheritance will be meager, not worth the effort. All that remains is to survive, and to do that, I will have to kill.
My virtual stomach twisted almost naturally. This is the most delicate moment of the plan, which makes my knees tremble and my hands shake. In my life, I've never even fought, and I've only seen meat fried or boiled on a plate! And right away, to kill?
"I won't kill, I'll remind myself, trying not to let my voice tremble. "The capsule and the crowd will kill. I'm just an actor on stage… I will be opposed not by people, but by pixels…"
Under the weight of these grim thoughts, I began to create my avatar. The choice, in principle, was not rich. They didn't let me change my gender "to avoid the wrong sensations," so the task was simplified. I chose the minimum possible height, with doll-like facial features to match — with a slight, childish asymmetry, hoping that it would be harder for someone to hit a teenage girl. And such an image evoked much less sexual interest, which was a plus. Although, in reality, only a contract with the necessary clauses marked would truly protect me from (at least from physical manifestations).
It should be easy to control a small body. In reality, my height is higher, and my figure is more feminine, but for gymnastics and dancing, such forms are more suitable. There are no gymnasts two meters tall and weighing over a hundred kilograms. More precisely, there are, but they won't win medals. It will be easier for the brain to find the center of gravity and maintain balance. Agility, sense of rhythm, and reaction — this is my only defense. So if I can give myself an advantage, why not do it…
I involuntarily recall Elka, with her "wallet" advantage. She loved thrills, so she "decided to have fun among the rabble." Of course, this is not approved in high society, but no one will say "stop." Having money, one can be almost immortal in the arenas, which is unsportsmanlike and reprehensible. The administration, which strictly monitors the balance, rarely agrees to such things, but they are quite amenable to such entertainment for the crowd once in a while.
My childhood friend, who became an acquaintance, was caught by the crowd in the form of gladiators and torn to pieces, very slowly. Among them, they say, were other aristocrats from impoverished Families who decided to take a risk. The law of the network, everyone is equal there. If someone stands out not by their skill, but by their money, they are killed when they cross the line. Neither her origin nor her purchased equipment helped her. Her avatar was destroyed, and the viewers did not vote for her. The result — a shot, with full awareness before it, that this was the end, to the measured beat of a countdown.
My situation is different, so if they find out who I am, the desire to kill will increase only slightly. It's easy to run into a maniac in a gladiator battle. It's a matter of luck.
With difficulty, I swallow the lump in my throat. The first arena is general for everyone. A hundred enter. Twenty leave. Combat time is fifteen minutes. If more survive, the remaining will be subjected to decimation, chosen randomly, and this will be done again and again until twenty remain. In such a scenario, no one will spare anyone.
It all sounds cold in my head, but I'm genuinely scared! I really want to live!
"And where did you voluntarily step?" I ask myself, so as not to simply burst into tears. My nerves are already on edge.
The realization that I have to "perform a number" in the arena at least once a day doesn't add optimism to the outcome. To be honest, I'll have to perform as much as possible, simply to buy food for my body and equipment for my avatar.
The sum for a fight seems large to a beggar, but it's not actually. Just a month ago, before all this, I could eat in the lyceum canteen for a larger sum, and I dare say that the dishes there were by no means restaurant quality, but the simplest food…
With a sigh, I choose a hairstyle and hair color for the avatar, long, but not like mine, but in the latest fashion, with a holographic effect. They were at least drawn by a real artist once.
Critically looking at the resulting doll-like teenage girl, albeit with a slightly angular but already formed figure, I feel complete disgust for this set of pixels and program code. Although it didn't turn out to be overtly vulgar, it's enough for someone who knows to hint at details.
Despite my efforts, I can't avoid sexual attention. Fights are watched not only to enjoy the spectacle of a virtual slaughter. Some gladiators, for an additional fee, can engage in complete debauchery, privately or not. It depends on the price. Boys in the lyceum bought famous ones a couple of times for a night or two, and once rented one in the flesh.
If an aristocrat demanded protection of honor for such a thing, then for a digital celebrity, it's only an honor. Although I won't do anything like that, since they're looking at me, it's foolish not to take advantage of it. The main thing is not to cross the line that can be justified for oneself by the stage image. Sometimes my costumes were too form-fitting on stage, so I was used to similar attention, though not as boisterous.
Mentally, I press the key, confirming my choice. My virtual body, from being abstract, elusive to consciousness, but perfectly felt, became an exact copy of the avatar.
"The proud aristocrat died, long live the girl Chili," I say to myself again, feeling my face involuntarily contort. Not the most successful digital name, the name of a type of bird, but let it be so. In my family's estate garden, there were a great many of them. At least a memory of the past… It's okay, in three years, I'll play the white grand piano again, listening to their singing!
"Attention. Your turn. Fight in five seconds," the system message boomed.
The first battle used to be a training session, but they stopped doing that about two hundred years ago, throwing new gladiators directly into the slaughter. Everyone knew what they were getting into. For the last ten years, the administration has become so lazy that they don't even allow farewell speeches, limiting themselves to automatic notifications. This is what managed to flash through my mind.
A second of disorientation, as if I stepped underwater in a swimming pool in the morning, and I'm already standing in my first arena. Symbolically, it was the ruins of an abandoned Family castle. I even knew where the reference for the model was taken from.
The roar of the crowd announced the start of the slaughter. My legs started running on their own. A few moments later, I heard a crystal chime and someone's screams. The interface kindly noted that there were three fewer of us.
Roughly guessing the layout of the castle, I intended to hide in the dungeon if possible, which had suffered the least from the ravages of time. Everyone will hunt others individually, as the conditions for creating alliances were not announced, and any attempt to form an alliance will be lethally suppressed. The administration of any arena does not suffer from a variety of punishments. Their imagination is far more perverted…
However, I didn't manage to reach it. My body suddenly jerked, as someone's hand flew past my face, while my mind took an criminally long time to figure out what that was.
"I'll kill you!!!" a female avatar shrieked in my ear, who lost her balance and tumbled ridiculously, without even grabbing my face.
"Judging by the motor skills and plasticity of movements, she's obese in reality," I note automatically, trying to get around the fallen woman and escape, but she grabs my leg and pulls.
The fall to the ground was soft. The first thing they teach in dance is how to fall correctly without breaking anything.
In the last moment, I manage to push the avatar away with my foot to avoid being under her. A roll. My legs automatically propel me to a vertical position. I manage to dodge the shrieking and snorting set of pixels again.
"I'll kill you!!!" she repeats, continuing to lunge furiously.
Dodging her was easy, but she's pushing me towards the spot where I appeared, which is bad. Regular viewers who decide to try themselves as gladiators might take a stroll over them, catching the completely inexperienced.
"I have to do something!" I decide, still managing to think. The woman doesn't move slowly, but not fast for me. I dodge another lunge with a jump back, putting the attacker in front of a tree. Her forehead rings loudly against the trunk.
Roaring even louder, she breaks off a branch and tries to hit me with the resulting club. I only avoided her because I fell backward like I was standing on a back bridge, letting the wooden stick pass.
I roll on the ground, getting covered in virtual dust, dodging random blows. Only because the avatar stumbled did I manage to get up.
"Pull yourself together, or you'll die!" I dodge a branch that whistled dangerously close, grabbing the woman's hand and pulling her as if in a dance. By inertia, she is pulled forward and slammed into the tree again, but…
The avatar jerks ridiculously, impaled on the remains of a branch she broke herself, which went right into her eye. A few moments of simulated agony, and she freezes, only to crumble to the ground in quickly melting cubes. A moment later, the counter of those remaining in the arena decreased by one.
I stare at the tree in disbelief… My mind went completely blank.
Someone's body knocks me down. The steel grip of fingers closes around my throat, and I helplessly look into the absolutely insane eyes of a man, covered in pink, censored blood. A smile of pleasure is frozen on his face.
I try to throw him off, feeling my lungs already burning from lack of air. My hands no longer obey, flailing randomly to find anything. Just as darkness begins to appear before my eyes, and the smile, full of pleasure in the process, becomes even wider, my fingers find a branch.
The blow was weak, but he didn't expect it. He recoiled, loosening his grip. I twisted away. I hit him again. And again. I only stopped when his avatar crumbled into pixels, and my heartbeats were deafening.
I look at the wooden stick, now painted pink, and want to throw it away, but my fingers are simply cramped. Finally, I manage to loosen my grip.
Suddenly, a system message chime rings in my head.
"A sweet little girl needs a hammer!" the note accompanying the notification read, and a candy-like, disproportionately large hammer appeared at my feet.
I stare at it with empty eyes, not understanding what's happening, when a sharp noise makes me grab the handle and swing without looking. The hammer knocks down a girl trying to sneak up on me from behind, who was too hasty and didn't strangle me, apparently, with a scarlet scarf that fell from her hands. Also, apparently, a gift from a viewer.
"Don't!" Tears are on her face. She tries to crawl away, forgetting about the scarf, looking at me in panic. I felt disgusted by her fear.
"And what would you have done yourself, auntie?" I ask her mockingly, starting to grimace inappropriately, imitating her childish plea.
My voice is hoarse and raw. My voice is raspy. My heart races in my chest. Before me lies what wanted to kill me. Why can't I bring the hammer down on her head?
If she hadn't lunged at me, but tried to run away… The avatar's head burst like a ripe fruit after the third blow, when I was already shaking. My mind understood everything, but refused to believe it. My body strove to survive and acted on instinct.
"Oh," I say affectedly, bringing my hand to my mouth to avoid vulgar vomiting. Another avatar crumbled into cubes…