Page 49 of Tapeworld Induction

She nodded. “Okay, but I’m coming with you.”

He paused, looking like he was going to refuse.

She shook her head. “So it’s okay for you to go in and do it alone, and potentially get yourself killed, but having me there to help you is dangerous? Do I need to remind you about what we discussed earlier? I can kick ass.”

He laughed. “Fine. We’ll both tape in, but we need to do it from somewhere safe. I don’t want us both in my flat, vulnerable, in case something goes wrong.” He thought for a moment. “We should go somewhere we can have someone IRL keep an eye on us.”

“Someone that knows about Astrid and the tape? Do you know anyone else like that you can actually trust?”

Isaak sighed, looking a bit defeated. “Actually, I think I know just the guy.”

18

The Artist

Dylan

They moved on from the coffee shop and into the streets of Oldton. Their boots hit the pavement at speed, but accounting for Isaak’s limp.

The air felt crisp this evening. The sun was still visible in the sky, the clouds turning that purple colour Dylan was sure was due to pollution.

That fact kept her from fully enjoying the sight.

“So this guy, is he cool?” she asked.

“Yeah, he’s cool… We played in the Lazarus together.” Despite his answer, she noticed some apprehension in his tone.

She knew every player from when he was part of the team. “Wait, who are we going to see?”

“Sacha. He’s German. Broke through the Brexit wall to join us.”

Brexit again. The indelible mark on the souls of Britain and Europe still echoed, the actions of those wanting something better condemning them to something worse, forever. She thought about the psychic damage that it brought to the collective soul of the nation, and the poverty that had followed that vote. Content and ignorant, Dylan concluded.

“I know who he is!” she said. “He left at the same time as you.”

“Of course you do.” Isaak laughed. “Sorry, haven’t got used to the idea of you being a fan.”

Something about the way he said the word made her blush.

The large metal arches of the Oldton roundabout were still in place, the roads completely paved over now, the locale deemed “protected” by the Mayor of London.

Shops were dotted around it, equally spaced with the last spots for defunct fast-food joints and sustainable vegan versions of night-out habituals.

The sun set as they walked to Sacha’s place. The atmosphere got denser as the mimicry vapours poured out of the diverse array of chip shops and drunk sustenance places. Noise levels increased as tourists and locals, in a disproportionate ratio favouring the tourists, gathered around the authentic™️ eateries and pubs.

“I’ve seen some shit here, Isaak…” she started, reminiscing about her younger, wilder days.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

She pointed to a window, the promise of chilli sin carne stickered on. “One night me and Talia had Mexican at that place. Some guy she’d made out with earlier in the night was eating a burrito right off the table. He was beyond drunk. He was really fit, and he seemed okay before, but I don’t think she ever got over the embarrassment.”

“Goddess… And he was fit as well, you say?”

Oh. “I… I don’t know why I said that.”

Isaak held his hands up. “Nothing wrong with a fit guy.”

She stammered, trying to think of something to say. She’d been trying to impress him with some silly story, not trying to scare him away talking about fit, drunk guys.