“Give that here. You’re kidding! I haven’t done anything!”

Joey handed over his phone. The bright screen shone the bolded words of the title right into my eyes.

Caring & Collusion: An unlikely outcome for Oliver Matanor

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I paused before reading onwards.

“Joey, what the hell is this? There’s no way it’s a reputable news source. They put a four-sentence advertisement before the article.”

He shook his head and motioned back to his phone. “Bro. That’s Bartok and Babble. Their audience makes that Jill lady — the one who wrote the last articles about you — look like a single black dot in the middle of a giant painting. Read it! Read!”

“Ergh. Fine.”

I read.

‘Oliver Matanor’ is a name you all know. It’s hard to forget someone like him, someone who viciously murders Asterian Soldiers merely checking in on small-town happenings. It’s hard to forget someone who threatens and yells at reporters outside his home, those standing innocuously on the other side of the street while they do the job that puts food on their families’ tables.

Oliver Matanor is hard to forget, and his recent actions have made it even harder.

Shall we start with the allegations of collusion?

Would you be surprised to know that Oliver Matanor and Claire Pranutal (his former opponent in the unfortunate Battle for Bill’s Yard) have suddenly struck up a wonderful relationship? Would you be surprised to know that they now travel the length and width of the valiant nation of Asteroth, terrorising villagers and fraternising with vicious fringe nobles?

We are not surprised at all, because we know this:

Oliver Matanor is a stain on our beautiful game.

There have even been terrible reports saying that they bring along with them a helpless little NPC girl. From afar, this may look to be a caring relationship, one built on good intentions and a sense of charity, but that is far from the truth.

They take that poor little girl into deadly situations.

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I finished reading and looked back at Joey. He took the phone and passed it to Annette. Duri had found the article himself.

“You’re telling me that people pay for this shit? There is not a single truthful sentence in that article. It wouldn’t even take thirty seconds to debunk the whole thing. Are people that stupid?”

Duri nodded. “People are definitely that stupid. Just reading it is kind of making me hate you, though.”

“But what’s with the praise for Asteroth? They burnt down more than half of the town, and completely razed some others!”

Joey chuckled and grabbed the last slice of cake. “Bro, you’ve gotta get with the times a bit more. Asteroth doesn’t just exist inside your beginner zone. They’re like, one of the big ‘teams’ in the real game. Basically half of the world hates their guts, and the other half reckons they’re the bee’s knees. Guess which half these two are a part of.”

I snorted. “That’s fucking ridiculous. No one could look at what they did to those towns and actually think it was right, or even necessary.”

“Sounds like you’ll be a Herakon then…”

I assumed that was Asteroth’s main opposing force. Though if half the world couldn’t make up their mind on which was better, chances were they both did some pretty horrific shit.

Maybe that’ll be my goal next year. Stop people from doing horrific shit.

I’d already decided that I’d be taking the long way home after we finished up at Garters. Dealing with reporters was not on my menu tonight, especially considering the headache that I’d get from the flashing cameras. I was tired of going through the news cycle. I felt like an old bundle of shirts with stains that refused to come out, no matter how much detergent went in there with them.

“Well, I’d rather not let Bingus and Butthead have any sway over my life, so I’m going to erase that article from my brain. Those little shits will go mess with someone else’s life once they realise that they’ll get nothing from me.”

Annette looked uneasy. “I’m not sure that’s how it works with these guys…”

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Duri agreed. “Ya. They’re die hard. Once they smell blood, they latch on tighter and tighter until they’ve ripped off an arm or leg or both.”

“But there is no blood! I’m just playing the game and helping an NPC kid find a new place to live!”

A few people at nearby tables were looking over at us now that I’d raised my voice. I tried to tone it down.

“We’ve barely been in the game for a month. We have no allegiance to any country or team or whatever the fuck. Claire gave them some information, but now she hates them as much as I do and we’re just there to follow our quests. I can’t believe people make a living doing this. I’d struggle to sleep at night.”

Joey chuckled. “That’s a bit far, don’t you think? As your new friends say in their article, they’re just trying to put food on the table for their families. Gotta respect the grind, man.”

I shot him a look that said I was not in the mood for banter. I’d been having a completely pleasant evening until this, but now the lashings of food felt heavy and uncomfortable in my stomach. I filled a glass with water and downed it.

“Goddammit. Now that I can’t just jump in the Pod and run away from stuff like this, I won’t stop thinking about it. Cheers for telling me, Joey.”

It wasn’t his fault. I had no reason to be angry at him, but I needed to be angry at someone so I figured I may as well shoot the messenger. Bingus and Butthead weren’t around to take the bullet.

We hung around to have some tea and coffee, which I slurped at more aggressively than was required, then considered our next option. I wanted to do anything other than B&B related things. We couldn’t even go to Major Pods now without the risk of getting dragged into a photo opportunity with the big man himself. And the VIP room wasn’t as captivating when we didn’t have to sneak in anymore.

Duri went out the back to the kitchen. He hadn’t forgotten about his promise to wash the dishes.

Eventually, we settled on a nearby shopping strip — the one around the corner from Stanley’s. After Duri came back smelling of detergent and soy sauce, we left Garlic Garters and wandered over. Fairy lights hung from the scaffolding like vines. We passed a florist who’d hung at least a dozen pots from the metal bars, apparently deciding they were going to be there for good.

I agreed with her sentiment. Another quirk of our post-revolution world was that government projects took forever to get done. Construction robots were difficult to source, and people didn’t feel safe when a small white bot was carrying a five-hundred-kilogram steel beam across a walkway above their heads. It gave them the heebie-jeebies.

Joey ducked into a café that doubled as an art exhibition. The idea was that local artists could give the works to the café owner and have them hung on the walls with a little price tag in the corner. If someone came in, grabbed their cappuccino, and decided they fancied a painting, then off it went and another took its place. The artist got exposure and a sale, while the café owner got a rotating set of decorations and a pat on the back for doing a nice thing.

The rest of us found our way into a very hipster-looking trinkets and tricks store. I grumbled at the fact that we were back looking at Pod related gear — especially since everything was hand-crafted and therefore skyrocketed in price. I picked up a plastic panda that I swore I’d seen in Major Pods. I knew I’d get it for five or so krad across the street, but here it was forty-eight.

Maybe I should’ve just gone home. That article has me in a rough mood.

I didn’t even get round to telling everyone about my interesting times in Asteroth. I was worried that if I told them, I’d accidentally make it sound like I was doing the things that the article said I was doing. Lord Piliton — King Piliton — wasn’t exactly a fringe noble, now nor then, but there were definitely some things that would be hard to explain.

‘Ah yes! We did indeed take the little girl back to the house of the man with the slave pit and endless ambition. Did we do anything about that? No! Of course not! Percival made such lovely hash browns that I simply filled my knapsack and bid them good day!’

I just wanted to go home and rest.

When we finally left the store — all of us aghast at our inability to rationalise a single purchase — I decided to head home. The others were going to have something to drink at Stanley’s, but I was encouraged to rest. A kid who was recovering from a five-day hospital stay could usually get away with leaving the party early.

I pushed through a crowd of shoppers trying to cram themselves into the florist’s shopfront for a photo. Kids with skateboards and scooters whizzed by. It all seemed out of place, like the areas closest to me were in slow motion, but the rest of the world was fine.

Is it happening again? What’s wrong with me?

I walked on. I was conscious of my breathing, yet focusing on it made me more worried as I noticed the tiniest rasp or a hint of pain in my chest. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve called it heartburn from indigestion, but now I was on edge.

Do I call Mom? Or Dale? Anyone with a car would be nice.

I stood where the scaffolding ended and took a breather. After a moment, I snuck around the corner so that Annette, Duri and Joey wouldn’t spot me if they came this way. I didn’t feel like explaining my newest set of issues.

Because they are nothing. They aren’t issues, because they are nothing.

The first block was a struggle, the second was a mission. To make matters worse, the loud, thumping sound of a beaten-up car with a stereo more expensive than the thing itself rolled up beside me.

“Oliver Matanor!” It was a man’s voice. He said the ‘Mat’ in Matanor as though he had a personal issue with it. I kept walking, keeping my head down and ignoring what was probably a reporter with some serious Asterian sympathies.

Can’t believe that’s something I’ll be thinking about now. Which team of medieval pixels do you have undying support for? Which one would you bleed and die for if they asked?

My headache returned, and I hastily tried to return to nice thoughts.

“Oliver!”

I looked up, an expression like thunder on my face.

Only to be greeted by the drunkard who’d asked us for directions all those weeks ago. He grinned — seemingly a lot more in control of his emotions than he was back then. The lack of alcohol induced rage probably helped.

“What do you want?” I asked, immediately regretting it. If I’d said nothing, he might’ve gotten bored.

“Just to talk. You know. Hop in the car.”

I laughed. “Absolutely not. Why would you think that’s even a possibility? I’m going home.”

The car dragged along next to me, puttering in and out of gear as it barely held onto life. At the very least, he couldn’t jump out of the car without leaving it completely unattended.

Although it’s not like anyone would want to steal that piece of junk.

“I’ll follow you home. You know I will.”

“I’ll call the Peacers. Or I’ll just film you right now and send it to them. Drive forward a little so I can grab your numberplate.”

The man grinned and drove ahead about twenty metres. He stopped.

I considered turning and walking the other way or running down a side street and into a park where he couldn’t follow me. But my head hurt, and fast movement wasn’t sounding appetising.

When I passed his car, he was holding out several rectangular pieces of paper. The crest of one of the large banks in the area adorned the top left corner of each. There was some writing on each of them, and then a signature on a dotted line.

“Cheques. Good on you. What does that have to do with me?”

“Not just any cheques, boy. They’re for the guy that pushed over your mama’s Pod.”

I stopped mid-step and turned to him.

“Get in the car.”