me.
The score buzzer sounded, the final bell rang, the crowd cheered, and I screamed in panic as I fell back toward a very distant ground. Thankfully, someone flipped the switch and everything went quiet. I was safely on my feet in my Performance Pod, and not a pile of de-digitized soup on the arena’s floor. Respawns were never pleasant. Plus, the league made sure the higher up the rankings your team went, the more “intensity” a gameboard “death” inflicted on the players. It was unpleasant, but it did seem to help keep things more even, which made for better games, which made for more ticket sales. When you know you’re going to get a small lightning bolt shoved up your ass, it makes you not so eager to pull off sacrifice plays, even if it gives your team the edge. Thankfully the gamekeeper took pity on me and pulled the plug before I hit.
The crew unhooked me from the Virtual Sensor, the Performance Pod hissed open, and the sounds of the insane crowd flooded into my small sphere. My waving sent sections of girl-filled bleachers into writhing hysterics. How could I not love this sport? It always felt like it was designed just for me… I was going to miss it.
We lined up and gave the five dejected Brawlers a heartfelt “good game” hand clap. It was always so much easier to say that after a win. Especially, after a championship win. The coach, cheerleaders, and half the stadium flooded the field. Celebrations had begun: Championship hats were handed out to everyone, we foamed a few cans of beer, though I wasn’t allowed to drink any because I was not quite at the legal age to drink, and the Boom’s celebration blasted off.
I stood in the middle of the arena and lifted my hands in response to the chorus of my last name, “Rycard,” being chanted over and over. My jersey number was hoisted to the ceiling as the team’s theme song played before the trophy ceremony began. I knew that I would never have a moment like this again. I was leaving it all behind. People said I was crazy, but I was determined not to let my love of the game stop me. It was time to retire and enlist in the military.
“Rayce Rycard, ladies and gentleman,” Galy Gurtan said into the World Web One camera, “His last game as a Boomer. Retiring after five years at an age younger than most Laser Ballers are even allowed entrance into LBPL. They call him “Prodigy” for a reason, folks.
“Mr. Rycard, is it true that your decision to throw away this career that has made you, arguably, one of the most popular men on the planet, is in fact, a courting maneuver to get permission to marry your longtime girlfriend, Starshine Wyld? Rumor has it, her father, notorious militant aggressor, General Josef G. Wyld, will not allow you to be wed until you serve a term as a military officer?”
People were pushing all around, security held back the romping fans, and I moved in as close as I could to Galy’s microphone. She was trying to balance herself amidst the madness while maintaining the composure she so prided herself on. To most people it was innocuous, but I watched her face twitch with every Boom Fan that rubbed against her. She thought she was better than them, and she hated being touched by “the little people.” We had a long history. She spent her days as a talking head trying to discredit my performance at every turn. She often concocted stories about me using Performance Enhancing Drugs, said I bribed my way onto the team, and she had even implicated that I had ties to the mob. She treated her staff like crap, she used my career to springboard her own, and at no time had she ever said anything nice to me when the cameras were off. I had met a lot of two-faced people during my run as a Boomer, but she held the prize as the worst of them.
I wiped a bead of sweat and flicked it from dancing fingers. I laughed as she shuddered when the droplets landed on her tightly braided brown hair. “You know Galy… May I call you
The score buzzer sounded, the final bell rang, the crowd cheered, and I screamed in panic as I fell back toward a very distant ground. Thankfully, someone flipped the switch and everything went quiet. I was safely on my feet in my Performance Pod, and not a pile of de-digitized soup on the arena’s floor. Respawns were never pleasant. Plus, the league made sure the higher up the rankings your team went, the more “intensity” a gameboard “death” inflicted on the players. It was unpleasant, but it did seem to help keep things more even, which made for better games, which made for more ticket sales. When you know you’re going to get a small lightning bolt shoved up your ass, it makes you not so eager to pull off sacrifice plays, even if it gives your team the edge. Thankfully the gamekeeper took pity on me and pulled the plug before I hit.
The crew unhooked me from the Virtual Sensor, the Performance Pod hissed open, and the sounds of the insane crowd flooded into my small sphere. My waving sent sections of girl-filled bleachers into writhing hysterics. How could I not love this sport? It always felt like it was designed just for me… I was going to miss it.
We lined up and gave the five dejected Brawlers a heartfelt “good game” hand clap. It was always so much easier to say that after a win. Especially, after a championship win. The coach, cheerleaders, and half the stadium flooded the field. Celebrations had begun: Championship hats were handed out to everyone, we foamed a few cans of beer, though I wasn’t allowed to drink any because I was not quite at the legal age to drink, and the Boom’s celebration blasted off.
I stood in the middle of the arena and lifted my hands in response to the chorus of my last name, “Rycard,” being chanted over and over. My jersey number was hoisted to the ceiling as the team’s theme song played before the trophy ceremony began. I knew that I would never have a moment like this again. I was leaving it all behind. People said I was crazy, but I was determined not to let my love of the game stop me. It was time to retire and enlist in the military.
“Rayce Rycard, ladies and gentleman,” Galy Gurtan said into the World Web One camera, “His last game as a Boomer. Retiring after five years at an age younger than most Laser Ballers are even allowed entrance into LBPL. They call him “Prodigy” for a reason, folks.
“Mr. Rycard, is it true that your decision to throw away this career that has made you, arguably, one of the most popular men on the planet, is in fact, a courting maneuver to get permission to marry your longtime girlfriend, Starshine Wyld? Rumor has it, her father, notorious militant aggressor, General Josef G. Wyld, will not allow you to be wed until you serve a term as a military officer?”
People were pushing all around, security held back the romping fans, and I moved in as close as I could to Galy’s microphone. She was trying to balance herself amidst the madness while maintaining the composure she so prided herself on. To most people it was innocuous, but I watched her face twitch with every Boom Fan that rubbed against her. She thought she was better than them, and she hated being touched by “the little people.” We had a long history. She spent her days as a talking head trying to discredit my performance at every turn. She often concocted stories about me using Performance Enhancing Drugs, said I bribed my way onto the team, and she had even implicated that I had ties to the mob. She treated her staff like crap, she used my career to springboard her own, and at no time had she ever said anything nice to me when the cameras were off. I had met a lot of two-faced people during my run as a Boomer, but she held the prize as the worst of them.
I wiped a bead of sweat and flicked it from dancing fingers. I laughed as she shuddered when the droplets landed on her tightly braided brown hair. “You know Galy… May I call you
Similar Books
