Seventy-two percent.
Neon lights glinted and glared on Tim's phone as he fought for a good viewing angle. Beside him, the gibbering idiots Randal and McKenzie were snapping selfies and vloging with their fans. Tim was optimizing connection speeds. They were the American team and had survived the grueling finals of the Full-Dive MMBA. Tim's mind was elsewhere while they stood backstage, basking in the limelight of the award ceremony. Tim was uploading Yvonne.
The roar of the auditorium swelled again as the band-of-the-week finished their set with a flourish. The event announcer had taken over and was chatting up the audience in rapid-fire Japanese. Highlights of the finals flashed on mammoth monitors around the room, showcasing the incredible skills of the players. Tim's gaze drifted to his ranking, displayed in bold letters on the screen before him. Five players killed, one civilian, and zero shots fired. He rechecked his phone.
Seventy-six percent.
"Not bad, ol' man, you got MVP!" Tim nearly stumbled as Randal's meaty hand slapped him on the back. "So, whatcha goin' to do with your share of the winnin's?"
Tim's response came with a nonchalant shrug, "Already spent it. I secured thirty-six months on the Quantum Cloud thanks to Professor Reynolds' referral. And thanks to you, I can actually afford to get Yvonne uploaded. So, really, thank you. You too, Mac."
"Never mind that," McKenzie said dismissively, "Look over there. Someone seems a wee wittle bit pissed they lost."
Across the waiting room, Genzo Uchida, leader of the third-place team, stewed in a brooding silence. Blooms of thick red artificial fog had rolled in from the stage. The crimson fluorescence flashed on his face as bloodlust dripped from his deep-set glare. Tim could see the vein in Genzo's forehead twitch when their eyes met.
Genzo was short, stocky, and blessed with an unfortunate face. His violently bushy eyebrows looked like caterpillars humping every time he frowned, which was often. His uneven teeth were hidden behind a sneer so perpetual it was a surprise his lower lip didn't develop a tan.
Eighty-four percent.
"Mac, don't aggravate him," Tim said cautiously as he ran a hand through his short, sandy brown hair. The heightened publicity made him uneasy, threatening to unravel his already frayed nerves. Confrontation was the last thing he needed right now. The crowd's fervent roar swelled as he sensed a storm brewing, diverting the impending clash.
A well-dressed attendant came by and bowed deeply. He spoke quickly in Japanese, which Tim's fob translated a moment later. It appeared that his respite was over. Soon, he would be dragged into a deluge of interviews, press conferences, and executive meetings. All Tim could do was hope Yvonne ran correctly when she finished uploading.
Eighty-eight percent.
Tim's grey eyes swept across the amphitheater, absorbing the electric atmosphere. The foremost rows of the grand arena housed the SaiiGen Corporation's sync-dive stations, a testament to the evolving frontiers of technology. The remaining seats glimmered under the iridescent glow of neon sticks and the shimmering screens of smartphones. The stadium was a pulsating sea of fervent admirers and relentless media representatives.
"The honor of third place," the master of ceremonies declared with a flourish, his voice resonating in melodious Japanese, "is bestowed upon the wildcard entrants, the unsung heroes of the orange brigade, Warped Sunrise!" The crowd erupted, a tumultuous tide of standing ovations and ecstatic cheers. The triumphant roars reverberated through the arena as Takeuchi Yuma, Kinoshita Hayata, and Captain Uchida Genzo stepped into the spotlight. Draped in vibrant orange tees adorned with meticulously crafted emblems, they marched towards the podium, their strides filled with exhilaration.
Tim rechecked his phone—ninety-one percent.
"The runner-up, a testament to the prowess of the Eastern Region, the emerald warriors of Chiba, our cherished hometown pride," the announcer's voice crescendoed, teetering on the edge of suspense, "none other than the illustrious green team, Blender Frog!" A seismic wave of enthusiasm surged through the auditorium, releasing a torrent of fervor that sent every spectator to their feet. The ovation engulfed the arena in a symphony of elation, a harmonious blend of raucous cheers and ecstatic shrieks.
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Ninety-Six percent.
The air hung heavy with anticipation as the announcer finally roused himself to reclaim the stage. A pall of resignation draped his voice as he reluctantly resumed his role, the words weighted with a sense of surrender. "And now, the grand victors from the western realm, the triumphant champions from across the ocean, the unparalleled American ensemble known as Flesh Wound."
"Welcome, McKenzie Carter." A spotlight danced across the stage, illuminating the figure of McKenzie as she sauntered forward, a portrait of self-assuredness. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail that drifted like a cascade of molten gold against her pristine white shirt. A defiant emblem, a black knight's helmet, adorned her chest while studded leather cuffs embraced her wrists. Arriving at the podium, she unleashed a snap of bubblegum like a kiss at the crowd.
"And Timothy Nelson." At twenty four, Tim was the oldest competitor and would have fit in better at the reporter's table than at the winner's circle. He wore a logoed t-shirt with a brown leather jacket over it. Sneakers and blue jeans rounded off his ensemble. From his spot beside McKenzie, Tim waved to the crowd. The reaction was mixed. Light applause intermingled with the cries of hecklers.
"Welcome, Captain Randal Murphy." The announcer butchered his name. The spotlight shifted one final time, revealing the charismatic presence of Captain Randal Murphy. Randal strode across the stage like he owned the place. His tall, lean frame exuded an air of athleticism that seemed better suited to the basketball court than e-sports. Yet, his captaincy was no accident; Randal possessed a certain Southern charm. He smiled and waved, his bright white teeth glowing in the neon lights.
A brief ripple of applause fluttered through the audience, a restrained acknowledgment of the American victors, Flesh Wound. The controversy surrounding their victory was palpable. MOBO was just the last in a long line of VR FPSs. Form a squad, go out, and shoot the other team. The latest catch was that each game was procedurally generated. Every time you played should be a new experience; each level was randomly assembled. But it wasn't truly random, and that's where Tim came in.
If Tim had followed the typical trajectory of a player, he would have been swiftly eliminated by someone of Genzo's caliber in the first round. Playing part-time to fund his doctoral aspirations, Tim lacked the luxury of relying on lightning-quick reflexes or raw, unbridled talent like his younger peers. Instead, he harnessed the power of strategy, tapping into his deep well of intelligence and creativity.
While Randal and McKenzie displayed commendable skills, they were not the best. Tim, however, was their secret weapon. His uncanny knack for unearthing vulnerabilities within procedurally generated landscapes was extraordinary. Tim nerfed entire teams without taking a shot. As his exploits garnered both admiration and ire, the creators of MOBO felt compelled to quell the burgeoning controversy. A clandestine campaign was waged to discredit Tim's manipulation of their game's programming. However, social media thrived on sensationalism, and even the negative press fueled their flames.
The announcer momentarily stepped aside, returning with an oversized ceremonial prize check that towered beside him. A hushed stillness permeated the once-ebullient auditorium, its festive spirit now rendered fragile in the wake of the competition's outcome. Disappointment hung like a heavy shroud, casting a shadow over all but the exultant Americans. The show's finale, the new product announcement from the SaiiGen CEO, was the only thing the audience had to look forward to.
The phone in Tim's pocket vibrated.
The announcer's words faltered, his voice swallowed by an abrupt eruption of blinding purple radiance that surged from the depths of the floor. A cacophony of startled voices erupted while Tim's translation fob screamed incoherent static. The luminous torrent swelled, enveloping the stage in its ethereal grasp, its violet tendrils weaving a mesmerizing tapestry around the winners. Genzo's voice pierced the commotion, a desperate shout that sent the rival teams sprawling to the ground.
Tim's gaze locked on the unfolding spectacle, an insatiable curiosity gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. As the brilliant hues carved intricate rings of light, he couldn't help but marvel at the mastery behind this illusion. In eerie symmetry, secondary circles emerged, weaving a complex dance with the original, while enigmatic symbols sprouted along their periphery. Each glyph seemed to defy the boundaries of human comprehension. Interspersed within the concentric circles, three triangles converged in a trinity of mysterious geometry. The light, once confined, ascended from the middle, its rotation a celestial ballet that culminated in a searing flash. As the entire image pivoted, a sense of resonance echoed through Tim's mind, reminiscent of an ancient padlock engaging its final tumblers.
The radiant aura intensified in luminosity and blasted into an unparalleled crescendo, transcending the boundaries of mere purple to immerse itself in spectral dimensions far beyond human perception. Within the gleaming circle, the mechanism of this transcendent phenomenon clicked and shook the stage with deep bass reverberations. Genzo's shadow flickered amidst nine sequential flares of brilliance. The fabric of space quivered. A pop echoed. The light vanished, and Tim found himself in free fall.