01: Name of the Game

There is no perfect way to tell someone you love them. Especially if they aren’t expecting it. Nico’s telling himself it’s the message that matters most, that it’s the person behind it and not the packaging it comes in. He’s telling himself he doesn’t need to agonise over every word in every sentence, and that if Jalan somehow loves him back, it’ll all work out.

It isn’t working very well.

He’s been on the cusp for days now, and he can feel that they’re close - the right words are just a few connections away. Why does being in love have to be so damned infuriating? Nico can’t stop thinking about it, every second of every breath, the thoughts and feelings about as easy to ignore as a swollen cut on the inside of his cheek. He’s already thought through a dozen different tactics, ranging from over-dramatic and borderline insane displays of affection (one involving over eighty different firecrackers), all the way down to a simple “I love you” whispered in Jalan’s ear after sex. The thoughts bubble and boil in his stomach like a mother’s broth, a constant simmer of nervousness and excitement, always waiting for that split second where he loses focus, so they can railroad his thoughts once again.

It’s where his mind is now, while his eyes stare out a blurry rain-streaked window, the many lights and colours of Anchor City smudging into a formless neon splotch.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t understand,” Patricia Townie says, for the third time. She’s shuffling the bundle of papers scrunched in her paws, as if reorganising them in the exact right way can somehow change the outcome. Her voice shakes Nico from his trance and he blinks away the lovesick haze, a protective blanket of professional cynicism smothering his daydreams. He smiles at the papers. He’s seen it all before, their totems, the little acts and routines as they slowly work their way to an inevitable conclusion, it’s always the same. It isn’t her fault really, she’s just been given devastating news. Miss Townie is a heavy-set bear, with thick brown fur piled over fat piled over muscle, standard body type for a middle aged assembly-line worker, fit and powerful even if she doesn’t look it. As far as Nico’s aware, the only hardware in her body is a cheap Astrocorp liver filter, presumably installed a few years ago to help a fat, middle-aged assembly-line worker survive consuming enough alcohol to let her make peace with her life.

She’s also missing a leg. Nico’s been long desensitised to injury by now, but he still notices it; it’s impossible not to. It sends a pattern of alarm bells off in his brain, triggering those ancient evolutionary warnings hard-coded in his genes, lighting him up like a great big glowing sign that spells out W-R-O-N-G. The leg ends at her knee, an unsettling hat-like piece of beige mesh fabric pulled around the flat stump. Her bed’s a hospital rental, complete with small vita-screens and nurse bots to crowd the far side, rails on both sides, fancy. Patricia lives alone, and right now she obviously needs the equipment. It’s a large and bulky set-up though, very flash, and Nico wonders how she plans to pay for it. He feels a slight spike of guilt, but quickly quashes it.

After all, it’s his job to tell her the insurance isn’t paying out.

He forces himself to refocus on the large bear. She seems like a nice-enough woman, offered him tea when he first sat down. Though of course, that was before he delivered the news.

When Nico doesn’t say anything, she asks, “I’m not getting any money?” Her eyes are wide, shiny brown pools set into a too-large skull, blinking in the way people who are trying not to cry do. “But... but everyone said I’d be taken care of.”

Please don’t start. Nico thinks, jaw tight. I can’t take another one today. The criers are always exhausting, and they always run overtime, but Nico doesn’t get paid for overtime. That’s not his fault, either. It’s easier to resent them, certainly safer than feeling sorry.

It’s what Bryce told him, during his probation period: “pity’s a slippery slope, bud, so mind your fuckin’ footing.”

Nico gives the woman a grim look, nodding like he has a single hope of understanding. “I’m sorry, Miss Townie. As unfortunate as your incident was, our investigation has concluded it was ultimately avoidable. It’s been labelled as a section-three employee misconduct.” The spiel comes unbidden, after all, he’s said it (and variations of it) a hundred times before. More, probably. Technically he could leave right now, and he certainly wants to. It’s all in the paperwork, he’s already said everything she really needs to know. But clients need to vent, and more importantly, Northpoint doesn’t want her coming back with a misappropriation claim in three months’ time. Nico’s job is twofold; deliver the bad news, and make sure it sticks.

Protect the company, that’s the name of the game.

“My incident?” Patricia says, words a thin hiss. “I can’t work now, I can’t even walk. You know that, right? What am I supposed to do?” Nico gives her another of his best grim nods, eyes drifting back toward the window. He doesn’t want to hear this, he feels guilty enough without her begging.

It’s much easier to think about Jalan, to think about the man he’s in love with. The thought alone is terrifying, electrifying, insane.

Nico’s never been in a real relationship before, which is embarrassing for a twenty-five-year-old and (ostensibly) good-looking red panda. He’s had sex with a few people, but could never quite bridge that gap into love. How did other people take a casual thing and make it more? Other people always seem so... confident, so sure of themselves, but Nico always feels like an imposter in his own life. He and Jalan have something, of that much, he is sure. Something special, something real – if only he could find the right words to say it, to make Jalan see. I want you to be my boyfriend, because I love you seems immature, wrong, like something a kid would say.

“You’re not even listening to me,” snaps Patricia. Nico blinks, suddenly seeing her. She’s shaking her head, and she’s right of course. “You don’t care about me, god damn it, why don’t you care?”

Because I don’t want you dragging me down with you, he thinks.

He shows her his paws, a motion of surrender. “Really, I do, but this is the contract you agreed to, so unfortunately my paws are tied. Now, while I understand this is a regretful outcome, I--”

“I don’t want a lot.” She leans forward to interrupt him, fingers tight around her bed rail. Her knuckles are white, Nico can see it even through her thick brown fur. “I promise. I’m not a greedy person, I’m not some basic-bludger.”

Ah, yes, the bargaining. Nico knows that this too, is common. Patricia babbles on, oblivious. “They said I’d be looked after, everyone did! I just want to go back to work, my old job, nothing special and no special treatment, all I need is enough for a new leg. That’s it. That’s fair, isn’t it?” Nico silently tsks.

Cybernetic legs start at seventy-five-thousand points, and that’s for a cheap model. A company like Northpoint would fire three people and file ten lawsuits before paying that much out in one go.

You can’t win. Nico thinks. There is no winning against them. The sooner you accept a life on basic, the better. She’ll have to move, definitely outside the seawall, maybe to the very fringes of the city. Basic isn’t a lot, certainly not enough to live on, just something the Federal Corpos did to placate their more bleeding-heart-inclined buyers. Patricia seems like a nice lady, and while Nico wishes he could give her better news, that isn’t how the world works.

Everyone wants a better world, but eventually they grow up and realise there isn’t one coming. Nico resists the urge to sigh. Patricia looks so pitiful with her big wet eyes, her bulging waist, her missing leg. In this moment Nico hates her, he hates looking at her, and he hates that he has to do this to her.

“It wasn’t my fault!” She exclaims suddenly, smacking the papers on her lap. She looks at him, front teeth pinching her quivering bottom lip. “Have you ever worked on a factory floor, Mr. Mercier?”

He gives a polite smile. He feels like such a bastard. “Can’t say that I have, ma’am.” And thank god for that.

“They told me to, they made me do it. My super said Janine was sick again, that that was the only reason I was on sixty-seven, ‘cause I didn’t even want to be! But there was no choice, I either did it or he’d have fired me on the spot.”

“I understand.” Nico tries folding his paws in his lap, attempting to look sympathetic without actually inviting any of the associated emotion.

This is wrong, he thinks, immediately squashing the rebellious thought.

“Ma’am,” he says instead, raising a paw. “Our report states you were with Vector-Almanac for almost four years, and at the time of the incident, you were licensed as an orange-band operator only. Therefore, by working on a line cleared only for green-band operators, you wilfully violated Vector-Almanac policy, putting yourself in a position where injury was more likely to occur. This violates your contract with the Northpoint Claims department.”

“I told him I wasn’t cleared, Ferg said it didn’t matter!” She’s sniffing now, tears dotting her stack of papers like faded ink blots. “They told me it’d be okay. Said I’d be back before I knew it.” The report says she should have refused to work regardless, and that if that had led to her termination, that she should have sued for wrongful dismissal. Never mind the fact that the Vector-Almanac Conglomerate is one of the Big Five. You can’t sue the Big Five, it was suicide to even try.

But, that wasn’t Northpoint’s concern.

“I’m sorry.” Tenth time he’s said it, but it’s as sour as ever in his mouth. Northpoint would never pay out on a case like this. The only way Patricia Townie could have gotten a single point from them was if a piece of machinery that she was cleared to work on, that had been safe-tagged only one day prior, suddenly and randomly exploded. Even then, Nico imagined there was probably an ‘Act of God’ clause in there somewhere that could nullify it.

A shake runs through his arms. The work is sickening, vile, immoral - but it’s better than a life on basic. He looks at Patricia Townie again. Better than being you.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Patricia asks next, panting as tears began to roll down her face, branching lines staining her fur. “Anything at all? Everyone told me... told me not to worry. Said this was what insurance is for, that I’d be back to work in six months, tops. What about half? Only half the payment, then I could get a credit line with Halapac, I could--”

“No, unfortunately I don’t make the verdicts,” Nico lies. He wrote the report, and definitely made the verdict. “Not my department, I can’t help you.” He’s the only person to touch this case, but his job is to exploit the rules and refuse clients wherever possible. There’s no other option.

Or he would be the one fired. And better you than me.

Protect the company at all costs, that’s the name of the game. You don’t become one of the Big Five by giving out payments to cripples.

“But I’ve got nowhere to go. I won’t be able to pay my rent, my rates, hell, my hospital bill, I don’t have any family that can help. What am I meant to do?” Patricia’s sobbing now, and it’s ugly, and Nico again averts his eyes. He has to fight to stay in the moment, the apathy hitting like a wave. Switching off would be so much easier.

“They aren’t people, you can’t... can’t think of them that way.” That’s what Bryce said, years ago. At the time it seemed callous, but now Nico knows it’s true. “They’re like... cattle, or something, whatever. Chess pieces. This is a good gig, but only if you can shut down.” If Nico thinks of his clients like people, as living-breathing-walking-dreaming people just like him, the sheer weight of the guilt alone would crush him like a boulder.

“Those papers are your hard copy,” Nico hears himself say it, voice flat like a machine. “You’ll find a digital copy sent to you as well. Do you have any other questions I might answer, before we conclude the meeting?” Patricia Townie won’t look at him, she’s too busy sobbing uncontrollably into her two large paws. Nico wonders if he should tell Jalan about this. He’s never told the fox what he does for a living, but Jalan’s a good listener. It might make him feel better to vent.

Then again, it might not.

“Get out!” Patricia’s crying, choking. “Just, get out.” Her sobs devolve into a thick racking cough. Nico nods again, standing and gingerly manoeuvring back out of the boxy apartment. He closes the door as her cries devolve into howls of anguish. He knows the options she has. Her life is ruined. At least she didn’t threaten him.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

As he turns to walk toward the elevator, Nico pulls up his subtitle. It appears as a short, transparent blue bar across the lowest horizon of his vision. A small icon informs that his helper, Clancy, is listening. The corridor light flickers overhead, the spongy yellow carpet feeling wet beneath his shoes.

“Clancy,” Nico says, subvocalising so he isn’t just talking out loud like a crazy person. Clancy’s sensors are in his throat and eyes, the low-level AI can’t actually ‘hear’ him. “Blacklist Talgrad district, bear, Vector-Almanac, and suicide from my feed, in any configuration.”

There’s a pause, during which Nico hits the button to summon the elevator. It opens with a depressingly unenthusiastic ding a second later. Three dots swirling on the subtitle tell him Clancy’s carrying out the task.

“Done,” the harmonic male voice says, as the elevator doors close. The voice plays directly in Nico’s ears, and it sounds like it comes from all around, no shape to the cadence. “Your blacklist now has: Eighty. Five. items currently listed, doubles uncounted. The weather for tonight is a cool twelve-degrees with snow-showers, and your trip home should take fifty-seven minutes.” Nico nods, closing his eyes against the glaring yellow and purple holo-ads on the elevator walls.

A snow-shower is just rain with larger droplets. Apparently, a hundred or so years ago probably, Anchor City (then called Anchorage) had been a place of ice and snow. Snow still gathers here, in the upper bands of the atmosphere, but it melts the second it leaves the clouds, the bands of industrial heat and exhaust turning it into the fat kind of sleet rain the city was known for.

Nico still feels numb, the blanket of protective apathy swaddling him like a coat as he rests in the elevator.

He is going to tell Jalan about his feelings, tonight. His stomach turns at the thought, despite the fact he’s said it to himself every evening for the last ten days. They’d been fucking for nearly eight months now, and Nico finally feels ready to take it further.

But what if Jalan says no?

Can’t think like that. Nico tells himself. You just can’t. But why would a smart, interesting, kind man like Jalan have even a modicum of interest in some worthless insurance rep like Nico? He certainly doesn’t feel he’s very interesting. Jalan laughs at his jokes, tells him he’s sweet, but what if... what if he’s lying? Because he feels sorry for me, or, or...

But that doesn’t make sense. Jalan isn’t like that. At least Nico hopes. All he can do is share his feelings, and what will be, will be.

He opens his eyes with the elevator doors, stepping into the lobby, several news stories playing in amongst the multitude of ads projected on the walls. One is claiming there’d been another terrorist attack near the seawall, this time from the inside. Another flood is unlikely, but the last one was bad enough it’s still well seared into Anchor City’s collective memory. The seawall’s a symbol - of strength, of class, of everything those kind of groups claim they despise.

Nico’s always thought them naïve.

One of the ads is a premium billboard, which means Nico is unable to mute it as he passes by, heading out the front of the apartment complex and into the rain. Sound blares in his ears even though he’s outside (once the premi touches you, it plays out fully), red and yellow ticker-tape flashing like a subtitle in his vision.

THE NEO-ORTHODOX CHURCH WELCOMES YOU! JESUS SAVES! It reads. A voice is playing over the sound of trumpets, loud enough to make Nico and those around him wince, one man even squeezing his hot coffee all over his front, eliciting a string of sharp curses.

The voice speaks calmly, the tone soothing yet authoritative. “My fellow Americans, I welcome each and every one of you into the warm, loving embrace of our new saviour in Christ. Forget your fears of the tethers and the other side, forget the fake charlatans guiding you astray, forget your debts and your sin, your mistakes. I beg all of you who crave salvation to lift your arms in worship, and then reach down deep into your hearts and your pocketbooks. Anything can be forgiven, and eternal salvation is only an account away - any time, any place, for any one.” Nico rolls his eyes, only Neodox would have the money to splurge on a premium billboard. Religion’s as profitable a racket as insurance these days – Nico doesn’t even know what the Church stands for, just that he could have it for only forty-five points a month. He wonders what it would have been like to be born back during the twenty-sixties, when atheism was such a popular fad the Vatican had been annexed. He supposes that it comes in cycles. The ticker-tape continues to display words, and try as he might to resist, Nico can’t help but read them.

THE GOOD REVEREND LUTHER, NEO-PROPHET OF ANCHOR CITY. A picture of a handsome lion with piercing blue eyes appears, clutching a bible in one paw, a jewel-studded gold cross in the other. In the light of a hundred post-processing effects, the translucent visage is actually glowing.

Finally, mercifully, the ad ends.

Nico passes more ads on his walk to the magrail station, though thankfully none of them are premis. The streets are busy, members of the city itching to get home as quickly as possible, all trying to beat the crowds. Nico knows there’s no point, there are always crowds, even at two in the morning the platforms are full. He finds himself caught up in the rush anyway, pushing and shambling along with the herd, the urge to shave only five extra minutes off his commute too difficult to ignore. He runs up the station steps with the others, rain pelting them as they all set to waiting, practically arm-in-am with one another.

When the carriage arrives, it’s brutal. A modern melee, the keyboard-tapping hunter-gatherers of the day all fighting for their place aboard the magrail carriage, lest they be forced to bear the shame of waiting for the next (a whole seven minutes from now). They clutch smart-tablets and phones like shields, some with chromatic limbs or carbon-fibre masks, some even armed with guns, although these aren’t used in the ‘fight’. Magrails have no seats, to make more room for the crush, but Nico’s lucky as he pushes a smaller girl aside, snagging a place by the window. The doors ding close, forcing people out if they hadn’t made it on already. Nobody tries to keep them open – it’s a good way to lose an arm.

Nico stares out at the city as the rail takes off, the carriage worming through buildings and over factories, acrid smoke and rain buffeting the sides. Corpo VTOLS dance in the air between skyscrapers, each branded with various logos and sponsors, drifting like dragonflies slaved to a complex AI-determined flotsam. Some hyena teenager a row or two back from him playing with a toy, and he must be a tether, because he’s chucking it away before TK pulls it right back to his palm, as if it’s attached to an invisible string. He’s snickering at the glares, the way teenagers do.

Nico’s pretty sure the Neodox Church has something against tethers, some decree about using ‘the other side’ for personal gain being wrong or some such. Although, they’ll still sell one a subscription.

Stop it. He thinks, mentally smacking himself. You’re letting that stupid ad win, idiot. Instead, his gaze goes back outside, to a stunning view of the twelve-story concrete bulwark that is the Anchor City seawall. Built after the flood, obviously, it covers all of the central (read – rich) districts. Talgrad, Long Mile, Centro, Deakon, Eastwing, the ones that matter.  Soon enough the rail will pass through it, and Nico can start his thirty-minute hike home.

He lets himself drift back to Jalan. He’s tried examining all the romantic comedies he’d seen, and found himself drawing a mental blank. Unfortunately, being the sad boyfriend-less loser he was, Nico’s avoided them at all costs in the past, lest he start crying.

What was he even supposed to do with a boyfriend? He doesn’t get much time off, and Mother demands a fair chunk of his free time already. He and Jalan already have sex, so maybe they’ll just continue doing that while also saying ‘I love you babe’, or something. Nico thinks it would be nice, and he plays with the word, saying little pet names in his head as he pictures the slender orange fox curling up against him.

He’s still terrified of confessing. Maybe he’ll get laughed out of the room? Maybe Jalan will start crying, never want to see him again? Nico doesn’t want to risk a good thing, but he figures he has to. If someone had feelings about him, he’d want them to say so.

He gets off the rail at the fourth stop into Quarterside, the closest to his apartment sub-district. The rain lets up a little, but it still soaks his red and black fur, staining blots on his blazer that he can’t keep from comparing to Patricia’s tears.

Was there a way he could have helped? Was there something he could have done? The problem is any fraction of a point spent would be tied to his account, to his login. Likewise, if Nico gave her advice on how to sue for misappropriation, it would eventually be tracked back and labelled his fault anyway. If Northpoint was feeling particularly vengeful, they’d leverage their contract to make Nico pay out the amount she was owed himself.

No, Nico decides firmly, licking his lips. There is, was, nothing he could have done. Best just to forget Patricia Townie, just like all the others.

He crosses into his sub-district, stepping onto a bridge as the ground falls away to the side. The eastern half of Quarterside was once an active quarry, and after the land was successfully stripped, a giant pit was left behind. Rather than fill it in, the real estate corpos saw an opportunity to build ‘scrapers twice as tall as regular ones, cramming even more people into the same amount of surface area. The buildings in the pit are reinforced with extra support beams, cables, and other skeletal latticework running this way and that, a massive steel web strung between the structures.

Nico nearly trips face-first when he sees the wolf lounging over the edge of the bridge, his ass planted on the guardrail, feet pointing inward. It takes a second to realise the man must be a tether, but obviously one significantly more gifted than most.

According to census data, which Nico reads for work, five percent of the world's population are tethers. Unfortunately, for most that possess the ability, TK is nothing more than a gimmicky parlour trick. No Jedi mind wipes, no flying, really nothing exciting at all. Superpowers popped into existence sometime in the late 2040s, but just like the rest of the world, they turned out to be fucking boring. When it first appeared, the planet braced itself for a new wave of super-powered people, telekinetic mutants who would fight crime and each other so forth just like the movies. Instead they got Kyle, able to pop the cap on a Monster-branded beer from four feet away.

Amazing.

The wolf’s sitting lazily, legs crossed at the ankles, reclining out over empty space like it’s no big deal at all. This really is amazing, and Nico realises he’s staring. Light grey synth-fur covers the wolf’s arms, almost indistinguishable from the real thing, except for how it doesn’t retain water the same way as regular fur. He’s well-groomed too, his body long and powerful.

Licking his lips, Nico hits the button for his lift.

“Nice night for a walk,” the wolf says, cracking an eye and looking right at him. Nico freezes in place, voice cracking in his throat. The wolf chuckles. “I know what you’re thinking, besides being grateful the humidity broke. This?” And he gestures all around. Maybe as well as being a powerful tether, this wolf is also a hexadryne addict. He’s talking in the too-relaxed way hexers do. Dangerous combo. “This is society at its best? Jewel of the world, New Anchorage, sorry... Anchor City.” It’s a deliberate mistake, Nico realises, since no one who remembers a time when it was called Anchorage is still alive. The wolf lurches forward, sliding deftly off the rail and landing on the path, dusting his paws. “You’re one too, huh? A tether, I mean.”

Now Nico’s blushing, glancing away. He’s heard some tethers can sense others like them, can somehow see the invisible black umbilical that links them to the other side, but he’s never met someone who’s actually been able to do it. “I guess,” Nico says eventually, finally realising that this strangely alluring wolf is waiting for a response. “Not a very good one though.”

“It’s a matter of perspective. But, it explains why he likes you in particular,” the wolf replies cryptically. The only person Nico thinks the wolf could mean is Jalan, but surely Jalan doesn’t know any weird addict tethers. Could he? The wolf digs a paw into one pocket, comes out with a small purple hexagon. “So... Ya want it?”

Nico starts. “I’m... not really into...” He stops, swallows. Drugs.

“It’s better, for us. Here,” the wolf passes it over, and for some reason, Nico takes it. Doesn’t matter, he’ll throw it away later. The wolf is still talking, each sentence tumbling into the next. “There’s a revolution coming, dude. It’s callin’ everyone who’ll listen. Have you seen D.C.? Crazy scene. Now, we got no love for politicians, they’re just crooks with a sponsor and a corpo-paid judge backing em. Scum, the lot of ‘em, I know you agree.”

“I don’t even understand,” Nico says. The elevator that can take him to the bottom of the pit has arrived, but he’s too fascinated with the maybe-addict’s bizarre rant to notice.

The wolf meets his eyes, pale green eyes piercing in the wet night. “I’m tired of all this bullshit, y’know? The fuckin’ lies about fighting the communist plan, how we’re supposed to keep buying more shit we don’t need to own the libs. This is a country so terrified of socialism and common-god-damn-decency we haven’t had a real left-wing candidate in sixty years. We’re sick of it. Wolf supremacy, America-first, toss all that bullshit.” He scoffs. Nico has no idea what is going on, but the wolf has a certain electric cadence to him. There’s a kind of raw magnetism to his speech, even if it’s just nonsensical buzzwords strung together. Idealism is dangerous. As if he knows what Nico’s thinking, the wolf sighs. “Think about it, okay? Take this too, uh, here,” and he pulls a slim metal card from the air, proffering it like a magician. He leans, suspiciously close. “Don’t show it to anyone else, your eyes only.” He winks.

Nico takes it tentatively, stuffing the hex patch in his pocket so he could read what was etched on the card. A single word dominates the front, all-caps, sans-serif.

LEVIATHAN.

There’s an address on the back for some place in Eastwing, inside the seawall.

“What is this?” Nico asks.

“You listening? Revolution,” the wolf answers, turning away, paws pushing deep in his pockets. “I used to be like you, hell I practically used to be you. Used to think that only America’s way was right, that it is how it is, suck it up, best system we got so far. But now? He’s right, y’know, no gods or kings, only thing that rules is the holy dollar. You’ve seen it. We’re all slaves, slaves of debt and fast food and subscription services. The only solution is to burn it to the fucking ground. I’m sure you’ve heard about us on the feeds, and to be honest, I think you feel the same way.”

“Us?” Nico asks, glancing up. “Who’s us?”

The wolf is grinning back. “Name’s Alaska. My name, I mean, which I think is pretty funny.” Nico blinks, and the wolf turns and strolls away. He throws up a paw, calling over a shoulder. “See you ‘round Nico, we’ll be watching.”

What the hell? Nico thinks, slipping the blank card into a pocket. Later, he’ll realise he never told the wolf his name, and it will disturb him. Presently, he simply turns away to realise the elevator left without him. He hits the button again, waiting.

When he looks back, Alaska’s gone.

After taking the lift and walking the half-k home, Nico finally gets to close the apartment door, falling in a seat at the dining table, head in his paws.

“Nico?” A shrill voice calls from the master bedroom.

Oh, she’s awake.

“Nico, honey, is that you?” Mother. Nico stands stifling a groan, tugging off his blazer and hanging it on the chair, making his way down their narrow hallway, careful not to knock any of the frames on the wall with his arms. “Nico, c’mere, I’m stuck!” Her voice is chalk on a board.

“Hello, Mother.” Nico’s voice is tired as he steps into her bedroom, he’s glad she can’t see his expression. Mother is extremely obese, a size to put Patricia Townie to shame. Her stomach, thighs, and neck bulge like a fat cyst ready to pop, her patchy fur tough and bristly, varicose veins running beneath it like the world’s worst tapestry. If Patricia’s stump set off ancient warning bells, seeing Mother sets them on fire.

Maybe we could move in together. Nico’s thinking about Jalan, about that beautiful body, that thick cock, the fluffy tail and soft lips. I could hire a carer for Mother, maybe, if I got a promotion.

As always, Mother hangs in the centre of the room from a full-body sling, belly down. When in it, Nico has always thought she looks much like a bloated fly caught by a descending spider. Black taut straps secure her limbs and joints, and she’s dressed only in a loose-fitting undergarment, heavy plastic goggles hanging off her face. A cable juts from the top of the headset, going first into the console on the wall, then into a power socket on the floor. Her bed is an old mattress with no frame, piled high with blankets, though Nico hasn’t seen her use it in weeks.

His mother loves her HarperCon VR like a crack addict loves... well, crack. She doesn’t work anymore, and spends nearly all day in the harness, large patches of fur rubbed off near the straps from constant use.

Nico feels anger bubble in his gut. If she was asleep, he could have gone to Jalan right now. Instead he has to tend to her, rubbing cream and listening to her complaints, freeing her sagging body where it has tangled in the straps.

“Are the sores bad today?” He asks, fetching the rejuvacream from her dresser. The room stinks of sweat and old milk, jagged and sour. Nico goes to his knee at her backside, examining the strap nearest her left calf and tugging flaps of her free. A thick red welt protrudes from the edge, one he’s been working on for nearly two weeks. He wonders if she could walk, if she had to. Ruefully, Nico takes two fingerfuls of cream, and begins smearing them over the cyst. Mother speaks without removing her headset.

“I met the most wonderful sprite today!” She exclaims. “Oh, Nico, he could be a great daddy for you, we danced and laughed all through the crystalline hills. He even let me have a new gamut we found for my dresses, oh, I’m so pretty now, you should see!”

Nico often dreams of fire. Of a terrible, nightmarish hell-blaze overtaking the building, so severe no amount of emergency VTOLS and legally mandated fire suppression systems could stop it. He leaves his mother in the dream, immediately. He runs for his life, flames licking at his heels. He cries to the firefighters - “SAVE HER, DAMN YOU!”, screaming until his voice is raw, shaking a fist at the fire. But he knows they can’t, and he’s damn well glad of it.

Just a dream, though.

“That’s nice, Mother,” he says aloud, briefly looking to make sure she hasn’t soiled herself. That doesn’t happen often (Mother bought a bot she could call for that a few years back), but once or twice it had, and she hadn’t even noticed. He checks the device nodes stuck to her, the loops around her wrists and fingers; more sensory inputs, all in the name of increased control granularity for that game she loves so much. She certainly loves it more than she loves Nico, that’s without doubt.

Jalan would never do this to him, Nico knows. Jalan’s kind, but also self-sufficient. He’d never willingly degrade himself so much that he had to be cared for entirely by others, never become a burden. Mother was one of the few people to ever win a lawsuit case against a corpo, and that was only because she had help lying.

“Did you get my medicine?” Mother asks, head turning back even though she can’t see him. Nico curses silently, biting his lip.

Shit. Without the medication she gets severe indigestion, and later a migraine. The HarperCon VR wasn’t supposed to be used for more than ten hours straight, and this has to be Mother’s fourth day at least. She can’t get out of the harness without Nico, so it’s easy to tell how long she’s been in it.

“Nicooooooo,” she’s whining now and there’ll be no stopping her, her belly jiggling with each cry, like a piece of jelly in a bowl. “Nico don’t tell me you forgot, I provide so much and this is the repayment you give me? You want mummy to have her migraines? Do you?!” There’s anger in her voice. She isn’t mobile enough to strike out at him, but she can be hurtful in other ways.

Jalan would never do this to me.

“I got it, I got it!” He’s lying for the second time today, hoping she won’t take her headset off. She’s mostly blind IRL, but he still doesn’t need the risk. If she realises he forgot, they’ll be up all night with Mother sobbing and self-pitying, wailing and moaning until eventually he goes all the way back inside the seawall, to the only pharmacy that will still sell them the stuff. Nico climbs to his feet and runs to the kitchen. He tears through the pantry, eventually finding a small, out of date container of tic-tacs. He palms three of them without an iota of guilt, jogging back to her room.

“Mother, I have your medicine, ready?” He asks, speaking quickly. Hanging there, limbs splayed, his mother raises her head and opens her mouth expectantly. Nico drops the tic-tacs on her tongue, bending so he can rub her throat as she swallows, to help. A spike of revulsion reverberates down his spine.

She’s probably going to be awake for hours now, and no doubt she’ll want him to subtitle in so he can see whatever stupid fucking house she spent all day building. He sighs.

“Much better, I feel better already, thank you honey,” she says, burping.

Sorry, babe. Nico thinks, imagining Jalan’s disappointment as he saw Nico wasn’t there tonight. Tomorrow?

Tomorrow’s his full day off, the first in two weeks. Nico’s jaw tightens.

Tomorrow, he’ll do it. He’ll tell Jalan he loves him, and that he wants him and didn’t care what either of them does for a living. Jalan will either say he loves him back, or reject him. Nico’s ready.

Tomorrow he confesses, for better or worse.