Page 4 of Tapeworld Induction

Pain throbbed through his knee, distracting him from one pain with another.

He put his phone down and just stared at the wall above his desk for a while, trying not to think about anything. The white paint job was mostly seamless. But he could still tell where he’d done it.

Months ago, when he’d found out that his career as captain of the team was done and it was all over for him, he’d taken down the London Lazarus poster and ripped it to shreds, cursing his manager, his team, the fans, the ReSport itself. But it was a DM from his teammate that made him punch the wall.

We’re very sorry to have to do this… Maybe, when you get better, you could come back.

His knee stress syndrome was permanent. He was never going to “get better”, and they knew it.

Since his knee being fucked up wasn’t quite enough, Isaak’s angry outburst gave him a broken hand to round it off. His metacarpal had healed since then, but not perfectly. He fingered the lost knuckle of his left hand. It still bothered him.

The fresh memory served as warning. Shooting that man in the Tapeworld tonight, bot or AI or not, had triggered all of his anxieties. He shuffled uncomfortably in the chair, the hair on his skin rising up like the room was charged with static electricity. He searched desperately for peace of mind, but it was a feeling he had long-since forgotten how to access.

Eventually, he got up from the chair. He would take his worries somewhere else tonight.

2

The Rebel

Dylan

The faux-snakeskin jacket kept the worst of the wind from Dylan’s chest, but didn’t do much to save her legs from the night-time chill. Still, she had worn much less on much colder evenings. The weather had threatened to cancel their plans to go out, but the storm warning had been called off, and now a mix of excitement and apprehension did its best to keep her blood pumping despite the short dress she was wearing.

“I told her, ‘That’s not a fucking Picasso, that’s a Miró.’”

That was Talia. Dylan’s BFF with a heart of gold, and fashionista especialista. Fashion was art too, after all. And knowing Spanish painters from Catalan painters came with her job.

Dylan realised she’d been lost in her thoughts and it was her turn to speak.

“And then you quit?” she guessed, hoping her silence hadn’t gone on for too long.

“No…” Talia scrunched her face, annoyance mixed with an I-know-you-weren’t-paying attention look. She was wearing a men’s wool Chesterfield coat over a cropped black top, sheer black tights, and a green skirt, zippered up the middle. “It was hard enough buttering them up at the interview to get this job. The market’s—”

“Fucked, yeah,” Dylan completed. It was something they talked about often. Still, at least Talia’s job was in an area she was passionate about. Not that Dylan hated hers, but it was a dead-end.

“Just grateful I got a job, girl,” Talia said. “Anyway, they’ll just display both of the paintings. Goddess knows how much money they have.”

“Definitely sounds like they could afford to throw a bit more your way then,” Dylan offered.

She loved Talia, but she often felt like she was there just to prop her up like this. To listen and celebrate her successes, while Dylan’s own victories – and, if she was honest, frequent failures – were quickly glossed over. She took it as just part of how Talia was, but she couldn’t deny there was some resentment there.

Talia, now engrossed in the details of exactly how many ways Jab – the magazine she worked for – was fucking her, made to walk across the road.

It wasn’t a street they’d gone down before, and the lights of London’s night traffic played on Dylan’s eyes, making it difficult to see properly. Talia’s polyvinyl-booted foot stepped onto the dark, beaten tarmac just as Dylan noticed the white painted signs on the road indicating where traffic was coming from.

Talia was looking the wrong way.

“Talia!”

Dylan flung her hand forward and pulled hard on the Chesterfield coat. Talia freeze-framed in mid-air, and then swung back towards her as a driverless white auto-car swerved in front of them.

Dylan and Talia banged into each other in the commotion.

“Goddess, fuck—” Talia said, trying to settle herself, her bag on the floor, the coat half off her back.

Dylan tried to calm her breathing. Everything was out of place. She let out a nervous laugh. “I prefer ‘Dylan’ or ‘My best friend’, but ‘Goddess’ will do.”

Talia smiled. She pulled Dylan into a hug, her bracelets clinking behind Dylan’s back.