I’ve never seen the Colosseum in real life. Never traveled anywhere that anyone in their right mind would want to go, really, for that matter.

So imagine my shock at seeing the exact replica of it here, in Gojira-X, but cyberpunk.

That was the best way to describe it. The place was metal instead of stone, plastered top-to-bottom with electronic billboards and hologram emitters, but it was absolutely the Colosseum.

I’d been raring to go before, but this added a whole new element to it. Me and the boys weren’t just going to rock some enemies up . . . we were going to do it in the actual Colosseum!

There was some comment about getting some Italian ladies after, but it was all lost in the roar of crowds as lions chewed up gladiators. All played out in the vid-screen of my mind, of course.

While the rest of the guys hooted and hollered it up, I got a notification. Doug was messaging me. I opened it up.

Hey man, listen. I’m doing my magic research but have a few things I need. You mind if I buy a lava lamp? Just 10 credits.

A lava lamp seemed like a weird request, but Nolan had said that some of these production schematics were weird so I approved the fund transfer. I imagined the dude using it as some sort of crystal ball and stifled a laugh, sobering quickly as I readjusted to my surroundings.

I wasn’t too wild about the actual arena. We got a good look at the thing while we stood in line in the lobby at the electronic ticker that read NOOBS SACRIFICE THEMSELVES HERE.

An awesome way to tell us where to go, by-the-way.

But looking up at the vid-screens that rode the ceilings of the place, seeing the actual place where we were going to fight, I couldn’t help but chew my lip a little.

It wasn’t just a dirt arena in which to spill our blood. The thing was full of spike pits, fire traps, ramps — all sorts of hazards that I hadn’t been expecting. And trash. So much trash. Piles of garbage all over the place, expertly bound into bales that we could use like sandbags but judging by the masses of flies that flew over the lumpy black sacks I couldn’t imagine they’d smell good.

Oh, and there were beasts. Eight barred gates ringed the battle arena, behind each of which stood some manner of angry behemoth. The one I could see best on the screen seemed to be the mix of a bear and a lion, but I was positive that there would be worse.

Did some matches end in no winner? Were these asshole NPC business managers entering their own ‘teams’ to try and make sure they’d keep the entirety of the entrance fees and any thrown loot besides?

It seemed likely.

“Hey, Poobah, what’re you looking at?” Blunt asked, following my eyes to the screen. After a moment he laughed. “Lion bear, eh? No sweat. We’ve got guns.”

I opened my mouth to say my fears about the other gates, but held my tongue. There was no reason to worry them right now. Especially since, looking around at the line, there were sixteen teams in the running.

No way we’d go first.

We’d just sit back, watch the screens wherever they put us, and see what was up from there. Make tactical plans based on the set-up, get a view of all of the gates and see what was hiding in them, and assess the situation.

It was a great plan. We were all led to the same underground rec room, screens all around the place, a blue-white smoke curling through the air as others who had them, smoked them.

I got another message from Doug. Sighing I opened it up to see what my new magic-user was up to.

Hey man, listen, I been chatting at this guy for a bit, getting us a good deal. The disco ball is gonna cost just 50, but then we take the purple loveseat for the same price. And he says he’ll throw in a vibrating bed for 10% off but we gotta buy the love oil gift basket. 300 credits total, man. Super good deal.

What the hell was he doing? I hovered on it, trying to figure out what sort of magical research might require all of it. Screw it. Approved. I’d let Doug set up his magic chamber using whatever he needed so long as it was cheap.

A few guys were playing a game of pool at the poshest pool table I’d ever seen. Carved from some tropical dark wood, slabbed with the levelest and hardest slate I’d ever slid my hands over. And the felt was like velvet.

A few others were over at a table playing cards, Texas Hold ‘Em by the look of things. I watched, enthralled, as players materialized gleaming golden coins out of their hands to add to the pot.

Looking down at my own, I willed that a single credit go to my outstretched palm. Boom. Done. The spiky-haired, angry-eyed visage of Goku stared back at me and I couldn’t help but grin. At least this AI had some idea as to what composed good pop culture.

Too bad it was trying to murder us all.

Or maybe that was me I thought, looking over Blunt and all the guys. Us. We were rearing to go, kick some ass and not bother with their names. I shook the thoughts out of my system and checked out the rest of our competition.

There was a stand-offish group covered in tats, checking everyone else out the same way we were. They were wearing the leather and metal of the Ringo-Dango Gang and I found myself hoping we’d tussle with them first and get them out of the way. The way they’d try to oust my apartment fellows, even if it was some assassination plan of that engineer by Deus Ex, it roiled my blood.

Over sitting on the green-pleather corner sofa, watching the entertainment vid-screen instead of the arena ones was a group of guys in mismatched skins and clothing who really didn’t look like a threat. To be honest, they didn’t even look like they knew what the hell they’d signed up for. It made me wonder how many of the people who’d died thus far had just done so because they were idiots.

Not here, not there, Dirk. Get it together.

I burst out laughing, hard, because I’d just used my character name while talking to myself and it felt outrageous.

“You guys don’t wanna mess with him,” Blunt said. “He’s loco crazy.”

Dragon smirked. “Dude, look at you. You’re the whitest dude here. I’m pretty sure that means you can’t say that.”

“Just got criticalled my intimidation. And I got a +1 to my triggering Dragon skill too.”

Some of the guys in the room laughed. It felt surreal, that feeling you got as a no-rank private the night of the assault on Christmas Town, real rounds flying overhead while artillery blasted pieces of rock and sand over your BDUs.

Half of us were going to be dead. I sighed. I came here for the level-ups and XPs without really thinking about the human component. And now I felt like a huge idiot. There were better ways to do this.

I had an idea. My laugh and the antics of my men had drawn everyone’s attention. It was time to capitalize on that.

“How many of you are real?” I asked.

All hands raised, everyone looking a bit weirded out. Nope, this wasn’t the way. But I was on the right track. I thought about Eric Joel and his weird inability to quite understand the game system. How it seemed to lose a lot of its meaning and function when I tried to explain it all to him.

“How many of you have cards loaded, or equipped, or locked, or whatever the heck you all wanna call it?”

Over the NPCs there came this dreamy look, soft-eyes imagining a better life. But the dudes watching the vid-screen raised their hands. I stepped closer, trying to get their measure.

“Who are you?”

One of them, a man with a goatee and a pretty bad-ass set of mismatched eyes, got off the sofa and stood in front of me.

“Dude, we’re Sigma Alpha Phi. Straight-up, toke-up, hizzup!”

I glared at him with my command face, an expression once described as a wooden plank with angry eyes and a down-turned mouth drawn on it. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Sigma Alpha Phi. University of Colorado Springs?” I asked.

“Whut whut!” his bros whooped behind him.

“Listen, guys, we might be matched up against each other in the coming battles. I don’t want that. I want to save every single real person in the precinct. And all of the others.” I paused, thinking of what to say next. These guys were listening, but they seemed out of it.

“Yo, dudes,” Turtle came in, flashing his hands into some strange configuration and then chest bumping with the man I’d been talking to. “Sigma Alpha Phi! Dudes, listen, this crap here ain’t no zipless piss off. What the hell are you all doing here?”

“We’re here for the tutorial, bro!” another guy answered, swinging up from the sofa. I slapped my hand over my mouth to make sure it wouldn’t say anything stupid. These guys here were so out of their element. When I asked the question, I was sure it’d be them but also some of the awesome looking fighter-types that I could then persuade to kick out of the contest before it was too late and head over to our compound-slash-apartment building.

Turtle put a hand on each of the man’s shoulders. “Bruh, listen, I just got thrice chills. This here ain’t a tutorial. You’re speaking gibberbobbles. Tell ya what, kick out of this competition right now, come see us. I’m sending the coordinates to your gaming rig.”

I still had my hand over my mouth, looking all the world like someone lost in thought. Or at least I hoped. And I was glad I did. Because not only was I totally not understanding what they were saying, I also was in awe of what slang word Turtle and the gang had come up with for the console.

Gaming rig. A good word. I couldn’t wait to use it.

“Oh crap, dude. Yeah we’ll totally bounce.” The lead guy stood still, looking a bit unfazed, then came back to us, his eyes wide in panic.

“They said we can’t leave!” he freaked. His wide eyes cast about as if to find some magical exit.

I started thinking about the situation, but it was just then that a guy walked in and started chatting us up. Rail-thin, poofy hair, dude looked like he’d last a second in the arena. He had on a purple tuxedo and a headset that almost certainly was broadcasting his words out to the audience.

“A. B. C. D,” he said, pointing at groups and yelling letters. Each time he did so every member affiliated with the group flared in red outline, the letter he’d said flaring over their heads.

We’d been the first ones he pointed at.

I thought about my plan to watch the arena and see what the other teams did before us. I thought about the fact that we’d been classified A. Then I listened to the dick finish up with the frat kids, labeling them ‘P’ and I just knew, a feeling deep in my guts, that Deus Ex was calling us up first. And labeling us strongest to weakest.

I wasn’t too worried about my time. But I was hella worried about the stoner frat kids we’d just tried to take under our wing.

Those idiots were going to die.