Last Light: Season One, Episode One of the sci-fi horror serial, The Sunset Chronicles by Paul Stephenson

Author:Paul Stephenson [Stephenson, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hollow Stone Press
Published: 2021-03-14T23:00:00+00:00

Interlude

Somewhere in REAL, Date unknown

The fields were stunning. Wheat, everywhere. Gleaming spires stood tall in the background. Children danced in and out of the fields beside an old tractor, gleaming red, its bonnet dotted with baskets of apples. Martin looked down at his most recent mod, chuffed to bits with its look. His skin had the reddish tint of the fair-skinned who worked out in the sun. Exactly as he wanted it. He held his arm up. The detail was staggering, right down to the freckles.

It bloody well should be; the amount of chits it had cost him. His balance was nigh on zero, but he wasn’t worried. He could always unboot, go work a real job for a bit. Out of the REAL, into the real. A year or so back you could work in-game, but there were too many workers, not enough bosses willing to pay. Too many people willing to do it for free. Fucking amateurs ruined everything. Not so much he’d walk away from the REAL, but between him and his friends, they talked about it. A lot.

Speaking of whom, he spied Cress in the field. Weird. Not like her to be here in Green Acres. She was more of a Noir girl. She looked out of place strolling through a wheat field in a black trench coat and dark sunglasses. People looked at her funny. Nobody would speak up, though. Not the done thing.

‘Kerr,’ she called, spotting him lounging in his cowboy boots and double denim on top of a hay bale.

‘Cress, what are you doing here?’ he asked, jumping down and brushing digital strands of hay from his arse.

‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ she whispered.

‘Private channel?’ he said.

She nodded, and reached out to take his hand.

As soon as her hand closed around his, the farmlands swirled, replaced with…

‘Wow, Cress, nice sex dungeon.’ They were in her private room, opulently and erotically laid out. A giant bed. Sex swing. Mirrors everywhere, and what wasn’t was plush velvets and leather. ‘But you know you’re not my type, and I know I’m not yours.’

‘Shut up,’ she said, real worry on her face. ‘We’re in big fucking trouble.’

‘So is anyone who gets lured in here,’ he said, picking up a dragon shaped dildo the size of his forearm.

She slapped him. ‘Quit fucking around,’ she shouted.

‘Hey,’ he said, stepping back. She might live a few thousand kilometres from him, but a slap still hurt. ‘What the fuck, Cress?’

‘People are dying, Kerr. All over the game. Tombs, JT. The twelve.’

‘The Twelve isn’t dead, Cress. Don’t be stupid.’ He’d spoken to the schizophrenic French teenager who went by the name of The Twelve a few hours ago.

‘No,’ Cress said. ‘They’re gone. I went to see them, and their Av is gone. Nothing there. Hollowed out. Data totally corrupted. Even trying to check on it, I thought it might get me, too.’

‘I spoke to them, like, three hours ago.’

‘I checked the logs, it was yesterday. Which was why I wanted to check in on you.

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