I never knew a single letter could look so intimidating.

After blinking twice, I look back at the paper. My eyes aren't playing tricks on me. I've gotten a D in Accounting. My first one in years. How could I screw up this hard? I was expecting a C, at the very least.

“It’s only one of your grades,” Ms Harris gives me a sympathetic smile. “Besides, I’m sure your future is safe in your family’s hands.”

I groan as I shuffle back to my seat. It doesn't matter how many A's you get—one D just ruins your whole report card. Haven’t I suffered enough studying? Being good at it is one thing, but enjoying it is another. Honestly, the least the school board could have done was make the test slightly more feasible. 

In front to my left, Issac Lee is showing off his A to his friends like a badge of honour—Brianna, Jax, Brody and Daniel. Turns out all you have to do to get all of Class 2B’s attention (and the rest of the school) is beat the smartest kid in class (no points for guessing who).

“Good job,” I overhear Brianna Welsh say. She sounds awfully sweet for someone sitting just two feet from her goth boyfriend, Daniel. He rests his chin on his arm where a black bracelet with spikes hang loose around his wrist.

Issac beams. “Thanks.”

It must be fun for them, being included in the class dynamic.

A chime comes on the intercom to signal the end of the day—a tranquil resonance that completely clashes with my sour mood.

“Looks like that’s time,” Ms Harris says, glancing at her watch. “Alright, you may leave.”

Everyone seated around me already started packing their things ten minutes ago, so they began to stand up and stream through the door. I scoop up my highlighters and drop them into my pencil case. I know they’re already dry, but I’m not ready to throw them out just yet.

As Ms Harris compiles her notes in a black folder, Issac weaves his way through the desks to get to me in my peripheral vision. I bend over and pretend to grab something from my backpack, gritting my teeth. From under the desk, I notice Issac holding his study holopad, a newer model that dropped a few weeks ago. It’s bewildering why he doesn’t use cheaper paperback workbooks instead. Since Issac spends his breaks streaming the games he plays at school, he’s never struck me as the academic type. 

“Hey,” Isaac says. “How are our grades?”

“Fine.” I return to stacking my textbooks in my backpack, hoping Issac takes a hint. In my negligence, it hits me—my Accounting paper is still smack dab on my desk for the world to see. It doesn’t help that Ms Harris’ handwriting always takes up half the page.

“Oh. That’s good,” Issac says. “Well, if you need any help with schoolwork, come to me.”

SCREW. OFF.

“Thank you, Issac,” I say.

He nods and returns to his desk, and I throw my backpack around my shoulders and head for the front door through the main hallway. Something’s not adding up—Issac’s been slacking off, and yet, he’s been more consistent than me for the last year. 

The front entrance slides open when it detects me,  revealing a couple outside who are blocking my way. The guy’s face is obscured by that white headset I’ve seen a thousand times at this point. Although his girlfriend isn’t wearing it, she is donning a pair of headphones and watching his game on her holopad as he waves his hands in front of him.

“It’s so real,” The guy laughs. “This is unreal.”

“Just keep moving forward,” The girl giggles.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I need to go through.”

I shouldn’t have bothered, because they’re too engrossed in the game to notice. My nostrils flare, and I reach out to tap the girl on the shoulder. Just then, the guy makes a sweeping motion with his right hand, narrowly missing my face. I jerk back and accidentally hit the front door with a thump, cringing from the sound of my textbooks getting crushed. 

On either side of the entrance are two holograms showcasing the top-performing members from each clique. I’m tempted to walk through them to get to the courtyard, despite knowing passing through the school holograms can land you in detention. After checking no teachers are watching, I step through the hologram to the other side. Although it begins to flicker, it stabilizes and resumes its showcase of Issac with the trophy from his second win at the annual Playoffs two weeks prior.

As I make my way through the school courtyard, there are more students wearing headsets in the distance. A few groups are standing in circles causing a stir, while some of them lean motionless against the benches, fully immersed in their activities online. 

It’s been a common sight ever since the release of the world’s most successful video game.

…

Just as I’m about to go through the front door, my foot knocks into something leaning against the wall on accident. I groan and place my tennis racket upright.

When was the last time I practised? I wonder. It wouldn’t be surprising if I lost my skills entirely.

“Access denied.”

I sigh and blink away the moisture in my eyes. Thinking about my Accounting grade on the way home ruined my mood.

“Access granted.”

The front door slides open, and the automated voice greets me in a warm tone that’s oddly comforting to hear, especially at the end of the day.

At the far end of the living room, Mom is seated in front of the holoview with his legs crossed and a mug in his hand. As I approach him, he slips off his reading glasses and places his drink on the table in front.

“Michael,” Dad says. “Did you get your results?”

“Yeah,” I say, the grip around the bag strap getting tighter. I’m not dying to talk to him, not after what happened two nights ago.

Placing my backpack on the table next to Dad, I pull out the test papers I collected throughout the day, dreading the moment he sees the last one.

“B for English. C+ for Math and Science. B for Art,” Dad looks up, oblivious to my shoulders tensing. “And…D for Accounting.”

“Was it hard?” He asks.

“I could’ve done better.” I rattle off the best response I can think of to save face.

Dad nods, handing the papers back to me.

 “Well done for your other subjects, though.” 

I wasn’t expecting Dad to lecture me, but the restraint in his tone isn’t making me feel any better. As I begin to rush upstairs, Dad tries to break the tension in the air with some small talk. 

“Associates,” Dad points at the holoview. 

On the NHK World-Japan channel, a young male reporter clad in grey with a microphone stands in front of a rose-tinted skyscraper reflecting the morning rays into the lens. The building’s width is so extensive the frame can only fit the main entrance. Even then, it’s only a small segment to account for the monument sign to the reporter’s right. Kakushin Games, it reads.

Next to the reporter, a tall woman in her late 20s with flowy dark hair and bangs, tugging the collar of the white button-up part of her formal wear, I notice the white of a T-shirt peeking through the top. She maintains a neutral smile for the camera, but it’s obvious she’d rather be in something less formal. She’s not being subtle with her glances at Okawa either, almost like she’d instead be hanging out with him one-on-one. 

Meanwhile, another woman of roughly the same age and build stands a few feet behind the first, adjusting the dark spectacles resting on her nose. She’s used makeup to cover up her dark circles, but hints of black still pop from below her eyelids. As the layers of her white coat billow in the evening breeze, she assumes the same stance she’s carried for years—looking straight ahead with her hands in her pockets.

If someone didn’t recognise Aiko Tokoshima and Suki Hachiyo, they might never have guessed they’re two of the most powerful women in the world. 

“I’m Matsuki Okawa, and in light of CyberWorld’s 6th anniversary next month, we have arranged a special meeting with Kakushin’s founders,” Okawa says in Japanese as a translation of his words pops up. “Ms Tokoshima, thank you for taking the time to do this interview.” 

Tokoshima smiles. “No biggie.”

“Tell us, Tokoshima-sama,” Okawa says. “How does it feel to be behind one of the most successful tech products of all time?”

“What hasn’t already been said?” Tokoshima says. “Hachiyo-san and I knew we were destined to become video game developers since high school, but to see everything lead up to the C.R.G is rather humbling.”

“I LOVE AIKO!” Only after hearing the scream of a fan behind the camera, do I realise there must be a massive crowd off-screen. As Tokoshima laughs and waves to her fan off-screen, Okawa asks her, “Is there anything you want to say to your international fans?” Tokoshima nods, and talks about her product in English. From what I can tell, she’s just as fluent in English as she is in Japanese.

“Giving classes all over the world free headsets is a rather bold choice. Will this improve the youth’s digital literacy like you hope?”

“Well, that’s the main reason. But they’ll also be able to visit the simulation without interference from our regular players until 3:30 JST, where they’ll be given priority to watch me and Suki’s announcement.”

“I see,” Okawa says once Tokoshima finishes. “Now, what do you think of the rumours of a cyberattack at your next appearance?”

Taken aback by Okawa’s question, she becomes breathless, almost as if air has been stolen from her lungs.

“I—”

“The rumours are trifling,” Hachiyo says, stepping beside Tokoshima. I doubt she had plans to be interviewed since no superimposition is popping up to introduce her. “We understand everyone’s concerns, but we’ve already taken the necessary precautions,” Hachiyo says as Tokoshima steps out of frame, looking off-camera to address the crowd. “We’ll have C.R.D officers stationed on the outskirts of Yunon for protection to shut down any brewing cybercrimes.” Her poise remains unshaken. “That includes this building.”

“You sound rather dismissive, Ms Hachiyo,” Okawa says.

“And that’s about all the time we have,” Tokoshima laughs, placing her hands on Hachiyo’s shoulders. “The company can’t run itself, you know.”

“Yes, of course,” Okawa says. He offers Tokoshima his hand; she smiles and shakes it with both hands.

“I hope I said enough,” Tokoshima says, winking at Okawa. Her response is so unapologetically amorous I think Dad’s rolling his eyes. Meanwhile, my mouth has dropped in shock knowing she’s on national television.

“I—” Okawa stutters.

Before Okawa can finish, Tokoshima walks off-screen, waving at the crowd once more. He tries to shake Hachiyo’s hand, but she’s already heading inside the building too.

“That was—Ms Tokoshima and Ms Hachiyo,” Okawa stammers, still flustered. “We’ll be back after the ad break.”

Once the commercials start to roll, I reach out to grab the handrail at the stairs.

“Michael,” Dad’s voice stops me in my tracks.

“The letter on your desk,” He says. “I still think it’s a good offer.”

Sure enough, a familiar logo is sizing me up from my desk when I enter my room—the stencil of a horse in mid-air against a blue crest. Although I know many of my schoolmates would kill to be in my spot now, I’m not as elated to be receiving this letter.

Here goes nothing.

I tear open the letter and read the first paper that falls out—

August 20th, 2036

Oklahoma City

To: Adrian Leong, 

As a token of appreciation for your exceptional service to the country, Stallion Academy has extended an invitation to us, Dunflur High, for your son Michael Leong to be part of next year’s intake of students. We believe his enrollment will be beneficial for both him and the academy’s reputation, allowing to leave a legacy as outstanding as yours.

Please note that a timely submission of the application for administration.

From, 

Kamau Umar, Principal

To Dad, it’s supposed to be my big break. But it isn’t—at least not to me.

…

I was sitting across from Dad eating dinner when he got the phone call from Mr Umar. I think he must’ve been a veteran of the war too, because they spoke to each other with the reverence of old comrades.

“How can I help, Kumar?” Dad asked.

“I’ll cut straight to the chase,” Mr Umar said. “We want Michael to join Stallion next year.”

After I heard my name, my head shot up, and I stared at Dad. He didn’t take notice of the dread creeping up my face.

“Really?” Dad’s face lit up. “You’d do that?”

“Come on. It’s a small favour compared to what you’ve done for me,” Mr Umar said. “Just say the word, and he’s in.”

I appreciated Dad’s enthusiasm, but I also trusted he’d let me make the final decision. 

I was shocked at what he said next.

“He’ll go.”

“Great,” Mr Umar said. “I’ll send over a letter in the next few days. Take care.”

“You too, Kumar.” Dad hung up.

“How could you just do that?” I demanded once I was sure Mr Umar was off the line. Dad placed his phone on the table.

“I told you this might happen.” 

“You didn’t even give me a chance to say anything!”

“Calm down,” Dad rubbed his right eye with the back of his hand. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“What’s this about?” Mom came downstairs groggily, rudely awakened from her nap.

“Dad’s sending me to Stallion without asking me,” I grumbled. “Even though I said I didn’t want to go.”

“I told you Mr Umar and I were already in talks for your enrollment three weeks ago.”

“I don’t need your name to get where I want.”

Dad froze in place, and I think I had him under my control, for a moment. As I feared, he quickly broke free of the cell in his mind, and he was back to his aloof self.

“I thought that by teaching you what I learned, it’d make your life easier than mine,” Dad headed to the staircase. “Perhaps I made it too easy.”

“I feared something like this might happen ever since Kumar dialled,” Mom gives me a solemn look as Dad heads upstairs. 

“So Dad can do whatever he wants,” I said. “Based on his name alone?”

“Fang song yi dian,” She’s telling me to relax. “This is your opportunity to do great things,” Mom rubs my shoulder affectionately. “But you need to find your true calling first.”

…

AFTER I GAVE the Stallion application to Dad, I burnt through three assessment papers through the night, scoring no less than 96% for each. It wasn’t my intention to stay up until 4, believe me—but after my grades came back, I didn’t feel like doing anything else. Studying may be boring, but it’s predictably boring. Besides, it's nothing you can’t solve without a ball and a tennis racket. Two, if I’m feeling lucky.

At least that’s how it was, back then.

It was around three months ago when Dad and I used to play tennis in our driveway. I didn’t like how Dad was using brute strength to win match after match, so I’d started using two rackets at a time to stand a chance, much to Dad’s amusement. I may be ambidextrous, but my left hand’s always been weaker than my right. It was good for my skills, cognitive-wise. 

I think he thought it’d be more of a gimmick than an actual tactic, but it worked. My arms now covered a wider range that countered Dad’s brute force. It turned out to be even more exhilarating than using one racket, and I could still feel the effects of the rush long after we stopped playing.

I chugged from my water bottle as Dad stretched his legs, staring at the rest of our neighbourhood beyond the fence.

“Back to revision, huh?”

I shrugged, rubbing the droplets above my mouth on my sleeve. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Exactly. Sometimes you gotta shake things up. You know, be creative. What do fifteen-year-olds do for fun?” Dad said, his eyes meeting mine. “Games, books? Movies? Wait, that last one might be a little old school—”

“I’ll pass.”

“Well,” Dad said. “We should make this tennis gig a regular thing, at least,” His tone grew serious. “I saw that fire in your eyes waiting to be let out. You enjoyed it a lot.”

I stayed silent, but I knew deep down he was right. Once I knew I’d secured my victory with an iron fist, I’d felt as formidable as an eagle swooping down on its prey, my talons gouging into the animal’s shoulders as its squeals grew increasingly muffled as we soared into the sky.

The thought made me smile. 

I wiped the sweat off my brow and carried my rackets back into the house.

“I’ll think about it.”

…

Although it feels like gym weights are dragging my eyelids to the floor, I do my best to stay awake through History to take notes as Mr Sayles wraps up his lecture on World War 2.

“The Nazi Party’s actions were largely driven by Hitler himself, but one-sided dictatorships didn’t cut by the 70s,” Mr Sayles marks an “X” on his increasingly convoluted timeline. “Humans love advocating for change,” Mr Sayles' steely voice zaps me awake like a bolt of lightning. “Yet, when it finally happens, we become averse to its effects, whether from those who want change or try to stop it.

I’m not the only one nodding off to Mr Sayles’ lecture. In the seat one row behind to my right, Brittany Cruz’s eyes have practically morphed into slits while the holopad pen in her hand threatens to slip through her fingers.

“Now class,” Mr Sayles powering his holopad off. “You have the weekend to write any political power you want and its leader.”

“Mr Sayles?”

“Yes, Issac,” Mr Sayles points his pen at him.

“Can I write about the Apostles?” Issac places his hands in front of him defensively. “I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”

“Dude,” Brody says. “Why’d you bring them up?”

“What?” Issac says. “It’s a serious question.”

Mr Sayles’ expression dims. “Why them, specifically ?”

“It’d be easy to research Enoch,” Issac says. “Since he’s an ex-student.”

“Blevins,” Mr Sayles shakes his head. “He may have been too devout for my liking, but he is affiliated with the Church. Something about the First, I think,” He scratches his beard. “I suppose you could, as long as you keep your views neutral. I’ll do my part in placing aside my sentiments.”

“Thank you, sir.”

After class wraps up, I know I need to catch a wink before recess ends. However, it isn’t long before I’m stirred awake by Issac and his friends coming back to class.

“It’s almost time to collect the headsets, right?” Jax says.

“That’s what Ms Harris said,” Issac says. “She told me I need to see a contract, or something.”

“Dude, you gotta be careful,” Jax drops into his seat, resting his arm on the desk behind him. “I may only be fifteen, but contracts can ruin your life, man.” Issac smirks.

 “Oh? How would you know?”

“I mean, I’ve never signed one, but sure makes sense, doesn’t it? You go in thinking the form’s gonna turn your life around, and next thing you know, you’ve been out of the loop for the last few years.”

“Yeah, but I’m the class president after all. Things might go out of wack if I’m there to take a risk. If I can’t even sign a waiver, what kind of leader would I be?”

Please.

“Headset delivery.”

A uniformed deliveryman huffs as he wheels in a shelf of cardboard boxes. The symbol stencilled on their sides is unmistakable. Next to a fragile sticker is the Kakushin Games logo matching the one embroidered on the deliveryman’s shirt. He wipes his brow and pulls out a clipboard and a pen. Then, he turns to the shelf at points at the boxes with the pen, only looking down to mark some checkboxes. 

The deliveryman turns to the class while scratching his scraggly beard. His eyes drift over me and land on the brightest thing in the room. Next to Brody, Issac’s yellow pullover. The rest of my classmates are busy catching Z’s after suffering another one of Mr Sayles ramble-fests.

“Can I help you?” Issac asks, his tone genuine. “I’m the class rep.”

The deliveryman jerks his pen at the shelf. “There’s one missing.”

“Ohh. And?” 

“Look, I just spent the last two, maybe three hours bringing those over from HQ,” The deliveryman says. “Maybe it was another headset heist? Doesn’t make sense they’d only take one, though. Either way, I’m just the guy who delivers it. That’s an inventory thing. You don’t mind telling your teacher for me you guys are one short, do you?”

Stunned, Issac struggles to find his words.

“No. No, yeah, got it, dude. It’s fine,” He reaches into his backpack and takes his headset out. “I can use my own.”

“Thanks.” The deliveryman pushes the shelf against the wall and leaves,  tipping his hole-ridden hat at Issac.

“Jax, can you help me hand them out?”

“Yeah.”

I try getting comfortable by shifting my head on my arms so nearly all of my upper half is resting on my desk. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch a few winks before the next class.

 My eyes have nearly shut, but I’m nudged awake by a hand gently tapping my shoulder. 

“Michael?”

I glance up from my desk where Issac stands eagerly next to me. The light from the fluorescent tubes above bounces off the device in his right hand, giving the dark angular device an enticing glow. He’s tucked one of the boxes from earlier under his arms. 

“What?” I ask Isaac. He taps the box.

“Your C.R.G.”

“Oh. The Cognition…uh…”

“Cognitive Resonance Gear,” The term slips out of Issac’s mouth without a sweat. “You don’t play a lot of games, do you?”

“Sorry,” I take the box. “I guess I never really found the time to play CyberWorld.”

Issac laughs as I tear off the packaging tape on the box. “So you do know about it.”

I pull out the headset and look up with a frown. “I was with our class, watching you at the Playoffs.”

 Issac breaks eye contact and continues.

“Right. Anyway, we all have to start somewhere,” Issac remains undefeated by my cues for him to leave. He holds up his device—a round white face plate attached to a black carbon fibre ‘X’ with padding at the back. “It makes you feel like you’re really there, inside the game. As real as how we’re talking to each other now.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You could borrow my headset after school, if you want. It’s got tons of high-level weapons the school-issued one doesn’t,” Issac explains. “Maybe we could help you come up with a username.”

I’m not entirely opposed to the idea, but I can’t afford to get distracted. My schoolmates have served as a living example of how addicting the game can be. Once I get a taste, there may not be any going back.

My grades have held me from trying it for a long time, and I intend to keep it that way.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But no thanks.”

“Come on, man,” Issac says. “My uncle will be there t—”

“I SAID, I’M NOT INTERESTED!” 

Using my school-issued C.R.G, I smack Issac’s headset out of his hands. As Issac lurches back in shock, the two devices hurls at the floor, cracking the faceplates. The crash of machinery jolts three of my other classmates from their slumber, and they turn around to face me.

My hand stays in mid-air until I can put it down. By the time it drops to my waist, Jax is already squatting on the ground next to Issac, attempting to salvage the device’s remains in vain.

“Dude,” Jax looks up and mutters. “Not cool.”

Two of Isaac’s friends—Jax and Brody, have come over and bent down beside my desk to help him. They don’t bother to look at me at all, whether it’s because they’re concerned or scared. Or a mixture of both.

A heavy set of footsteps comes rushing through the hallway, and they stop at the foot of the door.

“What was that?” Ms Harris pants. “Is anyone hurt?”

As her eyes land on the monochromatic mess on the ground, Brody points at me and says, “Michael broke the  headsets.”

In response, Ms Harris shakes her head at me in disappointment.

“Michael, Issac,” Ms Harris says. “The office, now.”